Wowbanger's Writing Study

[wowbanger]

The large oaken door creaks as it swings slowly open. You peer inside comtemplating the wonders you will discover inside. A glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a roaring fire in the heath cast a warm glow around the room. Looking around you see many great book cases filled with dusty tomes and ancient scrolls. A great ormanmental writing desk sits at the far end, exotic woods inlaid with gold leaf. Atop the desk there lies many rolls of parchment, books, inkwells and quills. Suddenly from the corner of the room you hear a voice. Looking round you notice for the first time a young man perched on a stool in the far corner, book in his lap and a pipe in his hand.

"Come in, take the armchair by the fire, make yourself comfortable, have a glass of brandy and enjoy some of the fine tales written by my own fair hand."

[wowbanger]

Tale of the Week Entries

TotW 99: The New Year, "Undiscovered Country"

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The Undiscovered Country


Men had spoken of a land of great riches lost in the vast wildernesses of the Americas. A land where houses are covered turquoise and where even the poorest child wears great jewels drinks from golden cups. A land where a man could win great riches and undying fame if he were courageous and lucky enough to find it. Men had spoken of the Cities of Gold.

How had it come to this then?

A glorious expedition of 600 brave Spaniards seeking these Golden Cities reduced to a handful of leaderless men lost in the wilderness, desperately hiding in whatever cover they could find as arrows and spears rained overhead.

I was one of those desperate men hiding behind a large rock praying that the next arrow would miss me as I looked around at scene before me. I had joined this expedition on hearing the tales of riches to be won. However, it seemed as if it was doomed from the outset, facing tropical storms even before we made landfall. After landing things didn’t get any better as disease, starvation and ambushes by the native tribes all took their toll. It was after our leader’s death and as we retreated to our ships that this latest ambush occurred.

Men and horses lay around dead or wounded stuck with arrows fired from hidden natives. I fumbled with sweaty hands as I tried to load my musket. First the powder getting more on the ground than in the barrel, next the ball, down the barrel at the 2nd attempt, then ram it down. Finally I was ready to fire back. Looking around the edge of the rock, however, I couldn’t spot anyone. Then suddenly it seemed as if a horde of screaming natives had appeared out nowhere. I lifted my musket to the shoulder, picked a target, aimed and squeezed the trigger.

This would my last stand in this undiscovered country.

TotW 102a: "They're Burning Futures in the Mountains"

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They're Burning Futures in the Mountains

We could only look on as the fire destroyed our homes. Flames licking at the timbers and blazing though the thatch. The flames destroyed everything, our homes, our livelihoods, our futures. There was nothing we could do to save any of it; the red-coated soldiers that lit the fires guaranteed that fact.

Our landlord had decided he could make money using our land for sheep. Sheep, for Christ’s sake! We would lose everything for sheep. Instead we would be forced to leave the homes our ancestors had lived in for generations. Forced to travel across the mountains in the winter snow with our women, children, elderly and sick to take ship to America where those of us that had survived would have chance to make a new life. We would face starvation, disease, the highland winter, exhaustion and other great hardships so someone can make a few more pounds tending sheep. And so it is that we turn our backs on the past that was burning to ash and took the first steps towards an uncertain future in a far off land.

Is it any wonder why our women cry and the men’s heart burn with a fury as hot as the flames that destroyed our lives?

TotW 105a: "Against All Odds" WINNER

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Against All Odds

I was the last. Against all the odds I was the only man in that square that survived. Around me lay the bodies of both crusader and infidel alike. My companions, friends and brothers, everyone I held dear now lay in a crumpled mass around me as I knelt and wept for them. Why did I have to survive to bear the burden of grief alone?

I had joined the crusade to escape from the grief that gripped me after my wife died during child birth. Initially things went well; I joined with a company of knights heading towards Genoa where we could take ship to the holy lands. I got on well with the company commander (a Templar knight by the name of Raymond) and quickly made friends among my new companions. The voyage was good and we ran into few storms, although some of the men still suffered from terrible sea-sickness. The days and weeks of the journey were taken up with sword practices and playing dice with my new found friends, I actually won a healthy profit much to their annoyance.

Eventually, we landed at the crusader port of Acre and I amazed at the wonders of that city. The exotic goods on offer in the markets, the beautiful women, the buildings, the magnificent cathedral, all of it astounded me. We stayed but a few days in Acre before news arrived that our company was moving on to give battle to the infidel Turks, though I could have stayed in that fair city for an eternity.

After a few days marching through the baking heat of the desert we eventually sighted a smallish town flying an infidel banner proudly above the gates. Our commander quickly ordered us to make camp and prepare for a speedy assault at first light the next day. We set about lighting fires, preparing food and, perhaps most importantly, sharpening swords and making ladders to scale the town’s walls before settling down for some much needed rest.

Just before dawn broke the next morning we made our final preparations before the attack, checking the ladders, fitting our armours and all the little rituals that each man has before battle. Then we started to advance. At first things went well, we attacked from a small valley and as such were able to get close to the wall before the alarm was raised in the town. This meant that we were able to easily take the walls with little resistance. It was as we moved deeper into the town that things went badly wrong for the company.

Ambushed from the tiny side streets and alleys we were quickly surrounded and outnumbered. Although we fought well and slew many of our foes there was nothing we could do to hold against the numbers and fanaticism of the Arab soldiers. One by one my companions fell around me until, against all odds, I was the last left. I was prepared to accept my fate and die there with my friends, there was nothing left to live for anymore. However, Fate had other plans.

Behind me I heard a horn and the thunder of hooves. Looking round I saw the crusader heavy cavalry charging down the street to smash into the Turkish soldiers. Quickly throwing myself to the ground I watched as the horses pounded overhead and crashed into the enemy. Those who didn’t die in the charge turned and fled with the horsemen in hot pursuit.

I had survived against all the odds, but at what cost? Looking at the death and destruction around me I knelt amongst my fallen comrades and wept. I joined the Crusade to escape grief, instead I had just found more.

TotW 106a: "Lords of the Bow"

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Lord of the Bow

“Tell us the story of the dragon again,” screamed the children gathered around Brodir.

“Ok then,” agreed the elderly retired merchant. “settle yourselves down around the hearth and I will recount the tale of how Smaug the Magnificent destroyed Laketown and met his sorry end one fateful night.

The children each took their place seated on the fur rugs scattered around the fire and Brodir began to tell his tale.

“I happened to be visiting Laketown that autumn many seasons ago,” began the old man. “I had taken a boatload of our fine Dorwinion wine up the river to trade with the elves of Mirkwood. I heard around the town that there had recently been a great lot of excitement when the heir of the King Under the Mountain had arrived and had headed towards the Lonely Mountain to reclaim his throne. People remembered the old days when the river ran with gold, forgetting the small matter of the dragon that dwelt in the mountain.

“I remained a few days in the town until I had concluded my business when decided I would leave the following morning. That evening I made my boat ready to leave before heading back to inn by the docks where I had been staying.

By now the children were becoming restless and fidgety. They didn’t want to hear about business and trade; they were just waiting for the dragon.

“Come on, get to the dragon already,” whined one particularly impatient little boy.

“Learn to have some patience, little one,” chided Brodir to the youngster, “we are almost there. Now then, where was I. Oh yes, I remember. So I returned to my room in the inn and settled down for the night.”

“However, just after midnight I was awoken with a start by the town’s warning bell clanging loudly in the distance. Rushing to the window I looked out just in time to see the bell tower get destroyed in a great fireball. Initially I had little clue as to what was happening as townsfolk raced around in the streets below my window. I only discovered the cause of this great commotion when a townsman shouted “Curse those pesky dwarves, they’ve only gone and roused the dragon from his lair.” It was as this was shouted that another fireball consumed the bridge linking the town to the shore in a fiery inferno. Quickly I ran out and sprinted down to where my boat was moored on the docks knowing that the wooden structures of the town would mean the fires would quickly spread. Having reached the docks I loaded as many people as I could upon the boat and cast off, sailing to a safe distance before turning to seeing drama unfold.

“By this time large areas of the town were succumbing to the dragon fire, while the dragon himself circled overhead, lighting new fires in all quarters. Many people still remained trapped in the town trying to flee the flames, their cries for help audible even from our distance. There was one small company of men, however, that didn’t try to flee. Instead they stood fast and with their great bows sent volley after volley of arrows up into the night, aiming to bring down the great dragon overhead. Eventually though, the flames became too much for even those brave men, one by one fleeing to seek safety until only one remained, bravest of the brave.

“This single man kept firing his arrows up at the dragon only to have them bounce harmlessly off his great scales, until he had but one arrow left. This arrow he laid on his bow, took aim at the dragon’s heart, drew back to his ear, steadied, and then let fly. The arrow flew true embedding itself fully into the dragon’s chest. An almighty screech was let out by the beast as it fell out of the sky, crashing though the wooden floor to land with a great hiss of steam in the lake below.

“During the rest of that night and all the following morning I made many trips back and forth to the still burning town, recuing what few survivors there were until on last trip I found the man who had shot that fateful arrow, a true Lord of the Bow.”

Looking around when he’d finished his tale Brodir found that each and every child had drifted off to sleep, curled up on the rugs, dreaming no doubt of dragons and dragon fire.

TotW 107a: "Under Moonlit Skies"

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Under Moonlit Skies


I could only watch on in horror as the flames destroyed the many great ships moored in the harbour. Thick, dark smoke obscuring the near full moon above, its soft light replaced by the harsh red glow of the fiery inferno. The same smoke that filled my nostrils with the smell of burning and nearly threatened to choke me.

Clinging for my life upon a fallen mast, there was nothing I could do to help the stricken ships as I watched their crewmen fight the raging fires. Some ships, not yet alight, attempted to cut the mooring lines and move away in an attempt to escape to inferno that engulfed the harbour.

I could just about hear the cries for help above the roaring of the flames. Unfortunate sailors struggled to keep their heads above the water as their arms flailed and splashed in the flame red sea, seeking to attract the attention of the lone rowing boat out looking for survivors or find a piece of wreckage to cling onto, as I had been lucky enough to manage.

How had such a catastrophe happened? What had happened to cause the scene before me on such a calm, clear and bright moonlit night? Why was the Grand Fleet burning under moonlit skies? These answers I do not know as I cling for my life amongst the wreckage of the burning fleet.

TotW 108a: "Thunder in Paridise"

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The Valley of Death
Six hundred brave men gave a long loud cheer,
As on that day so bright and clear,
The sergeants took a collective breath,
'Forward the light brigade,
Charge for the guns' they said,
Though they knew not how poorly led,
As in they rode to the valley of death.

All around the horses fell,
As through they rode the Gates of Hell,
Troubled not by fear or dread,
Onward rode the brave six hundred,
All around the cannon thundered,
Just because someone had blundered,
Many brave men lay amongst the dead.

Finally they reached the Russian guns,
And those valiant English sons,
Began to swing, and slash, and hack,
In amongst the powder smoke,
Gunners reeling from the sabre stroke,
Right through the line they broke,
Before they turned to return back.

At last those lucky few,
Scarce more than one in two,
Had chance to catch their shortened breath,
Remembering their fallen friends,
Who had all met untimely ends,
Taking vows to make amends,
For those who lay in the Valley of Death.

Shower these men with honour and glory,
Forever remember their heroic story,
Those who refused to be afraid,
As they rode through the Valley of Hell,
Charging through the shot and shell,
As all around their comrades fell,
Honour the Light Brigade.

TotW 109a: "Heart of Darkness"

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Words



Words cannot begin to describe the emotions coursing through a person’s body when they lose someone so dear to them. Yet here I find myself, sat in the glorious sunshine of an English afternoon, trying to do just that. Trying to express the emotions of those affected by the tragedy of a young life so cruelly lost.

The initial shock when you’re woken early in the morning by someone telling you the news. The disbelief that such a brilliant young life could have ended in such tragedy. The regret that you would never have the chance to tell them how important they are to you or even to say goodbye. The helplessness as you watch their close family and people around you breakdown, knowing that there is nothing you do to make things better. The anger that nothing more could be done to save them and keep them safe. But most of all, there is the crushing pain and sadness that someone so special is gone forever.

Yet even this does not fully explain the emotions experienced by someone who is affected by such a tragedy. It is impossible to fully put these emotions into words, only those who have experienced tragedy such as this can ever truly understand the pain it causes.

RIP Elaine. You may be gone but you will not be forgotten.

TotW 110a: "The Sands of Time and Incomprehensible Decisions"

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The Sands of Time and Incomprehensible Decisions

Death strolled calmly down one of the many aisles that lay between the endless stacks of shelves. All around him could be heard a faint hiss as the sands of time trickled through the Lifetimers, each tiny grain of sand bringing someone’s end that tiny bit nearer. Every so often the hooded figure would stop to examine a timer; placing some back on the shelf for another day and secreting others away under his black cloak.

Suddenly the reverential silence was shattered, quite literally, by the sound of shattering glass in the next aisle. Death hurried around the corner (hurried is probably the wrong word here, Death never hurries for anyone or anything, strolled might work better).

Strewn across the floor lay shards of glass, broken metal and scattered sands of some soul’s life. In the middle of this destruction, blissfully oblivious of the devastation around it sat a small white kitten playing with a small ball of pink wool

OH DEAR, NOW WHAT SORT OF TROUBLE HAVE BEEN GETTING YOURSELF INTO, FLUFFLES, YOU KNOW YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN HERE Death said as he picked up the small bundle of fur in a bony hand as it stared back at him with its soft blue eyes.

“Meow,” was its only response

Death turned to his servant, Albert, who had poked his head through the door to see what the racket was. CAN YOU GO AND FETCH ME A DUST PAN AND BRUSH, SOME SUPER GLUE AND A MAGNIFYING GLASS PLEASE, I HAVE SOME IMPORTANT BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO.

While Albert shuffled off to find the items required by his master Death leant down and picked up the broken name plate and attempted to decipher the name; the two halves read ‘m Rankin’ and ‘Willia’. Once Albert had returned Death took the dust pan and brush and swept up the scattered remnants of the broken life and carefully carried them over to his large black writing desk, clearing a space upon its surface, depositing Fuffles alongside and thus began repairing the jigsaw of a life shattered to a thousand pieces.

TotW 111a: "Last Stand" WINNER

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The Stand of the Swiss

“Here we stand. Rome may have fallen, but your duty remains clear. While ever His Holiness Pope Clement remains in danger it is your honour bound task to defend with your lives. Now you are called upon to fulfil that duty and so I call on you, the finest soldiers in all Europe, to make your stand. Here we shall stand and here we shall fight and here we shall die if God so wills it. Such a fight we shall make that it will be remembered throughout history. Now go and do your duty.”

Those were the words that Captain Röist delivered to the 200 Swiss Guardsmen assembled in front of St. Peter’s Basilica that fateful day. Already bloodied, these men, arrayed in their gaudy uniforms and all wielding vicious halberds, were all that now stood between His Holiness and the armies of the ‘Holy’ Roman Emperor. The rest of Rome’s forces, some 5000 militia and 300 more Swiss, either lay dead or dying upon the city streets, stood guarding the last defences, the fortress of Castel Sant'Angelo, or else had betrayed the city, His Holiness and their honour by fleeing from their foes in a cowardly effort to save their own lives.

Once Captain Röist had finished his short speech, the small company of Guardsmen took up their positions in the square. Each and every man assembled there ready to sacrifice their lives in order to give the Pope time to escape to the fortress of Castel Sant'Angelo and so avoid capture and humiliation at the hands of these enemies of God.

They didn’t have long to wait before hundreds of Spanish soldiers began to pour out the streets opening onto the square. These Spaniards charged into the guardsmen, who began swinging away with their halberds. These great weapons caused grievous harm to the attacking Spaniards; hacking off limbs, splitting skulls and leaving gruesome wounds upon all they touched and causing the cobbled streets to run with blood. The ferocity of the defenders for a moment checked the Spanish attack, giving both sides time to catch their breath.

The respite didn’t last long though. The Spanish soon regrouped and attacked again with renewed vigour. Gradually, the sheer weight of numbers began to tell as one by one the Guardsmen were cut down. Inch by painful inch they were pushed back. Captain Röist fell, a sword embedded in his chest while his blood mingled with that of those he slain. Despite all this they still fought on.

They fought on until scarcely 2 score bloodied and wounded men were all that remained, standing upon the very steps of the Basilica. There they readied themselves for the final assault that would surely overwhelm them all, as looked out over the devastation caused upon the cobbled square. Mangled bodies lay all around, blood ran in rivers across the cobbles and the wounded and dying cried out in pain or prayed for someone to end their suffering. There, upon the very steps of Christendom, those final few readied themselves for one last stand that would go down in history; The Stand of the Swiss.

TotW 114:"Sacrifice"

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Sacrifice

The men of the forlorn hope nervously made their final preparations; ensuring their cartridges were dry, checking the flints were firmly secured and putting a final edge on their bayonets. These men would be the first to try and assault the breaches blasted into the walls of Badajoz. Those few men knew that many of them would not live to see the sun rise again in the morning but that was the sacrifice they were willing to make for a chance to their win fame and glory.

At appointed hour the order got passed around to begin to advance towards the walls. Led by their officers the men crawled and shuffled forward, trying to get as close to the mighty walls as they could before the alarm was raised and every gun in Badajoz was pointed at them. Unfortunately, this element of surprise was soon lost as one of the red-coated soldiers stumbled on a rock, alerting a sentry guarding the breach. When the red-coated men heard the cry of alarm from the Frenchman they jumped up and sprinted towards the breach, hoping against hope to reach it before the defending Frenchmen could take up positions on the walls.

They only made it half way across the open space before the battlements began to be lit up with gun flashes and the first screams of pain filled the night. Soon bales of burning hay and straw were thrown over the ramparts to light up the scene and make it easier for the French gunners to target their foes. Some of the red-coats stopped their charge and took aim at the heads that appeared over the ramparts, but their fire proved large ineffective and the remaining officers and sergeants quickly urged those men onwards to the breach. A few of the British soldiers reached the base of the breach and began to desperately scramble up the steep, broken rock. These men were quickly killed in a hail of gun fire and grenades thrown from the summit. More men quickly took their place but they met with a similar fate.

Within less than fifteen minutes from the order to advance the entire forlorn hope lay dead or dying in the ground below the walls. The moans of the wounded filled the night air along with the powder smoke that was slowly drifting away on the breeze. These men had made the ultimate sacrifice, now it was up to the rest of the army to ensure that it wasn’t in vain.

TotW 120: "Afterwards" Unfinished entry

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Afterwards

The weary trooper slid slowly out of the saddle. It had been a long day for the horseman, hunting down the fugitives of their broken foe through the hills and dales of this far flung land. Though he felt ready to collapse with exhaustion the young man reluctantly busied himself with tending to the horse that had given him such good service that fateful day. A day that had seen bloodshed and violence, sabres flashing and cannon roaring and that ended with the remnants of the Austrian army routing and the Emperor poised to march triumphantly into Vienna. A day that the young trooper had seen his friends and comrades shot down around him as he had experienced his first taste of battle in with which he had killed his first man, a young Austrian, little more than a boy, stabbed in the back as he fled for his life.
Once he had tended to his loyal mount the young man stumbled off towards a nearby campfire where his fellow cavalrymen were already feasting and drinking and toasting their success on the battlefield. Taking a seat by the fire, he grabbed a hunk of raw meat stuck it on the end of his long knife and proceeded to toast it over the flickering flames.

TotW 239: "In Search of a Worthy Foe"

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I can still remember

I can still remember a time I walked these fabled halls. A fresh faced youngster, looking up to the great story tellers that had been and gone and those still regaling the masses with their epic stories of adventure and daring. A young, novice writer with a dreams of fame and a tale to tell.

I can still remember that first thrill of posting a story, the joy of each new comment and rep and the ecstasy of each triumph.

I can still remember the anticipation as each new chapter was published, the agony of each defeat and each near missed and and the agonising over each sentence in the quest for renown.

I can still remember the trill of the fight as everyone sought to better each other and themselves and climb the Hall of Fame to sit at the top among the other other legendary story tellers and each moment of delight as that lofty goal inched closer with new victory.

I can still remember when I used to be someone here, someone people looked up to and someone who inspired others to take up the quill and tell their own tales. But alas, it did not last. In the wilderness I have wandered these last few years. Many things I have seen and done since last I walked these halls and many changes have happened since that day. Indeed even this place has changed since last I was here, new heroes born, new doors opened and old friends departed.

I can still remember when last I walked these halls. Well now I'm back with tales to tell.

Challenges
Vs. E.K

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Negotiations

“Parlay,” cried out the lone horseman as he rode up towards the solid, unbroken lines of the waiting spearmen. Chosen for his basic grasp of the Latin language, the solitary rider stared in horror at the scene of death before him. “I have come to negotiate the return of our wounded and slain warriors,” the rider continued in broken Latin. “Once our warriors are safely returned our armies shall leave this field in peace.”

“On whose authority have you come to negotiate?” responded the commander of the waiting spears.

“I speak on the authority of our great and noble leader and ruler, our glorious Khan.

After a few moments of hurried conversation the mail clad Italian again called out to the horseman, “We accept the terms of your negotiation, you may send 30 unarmed men to carry off your dead and dying soldiers. They have one hour from now to complete their task, after that our truce comes to an end.” With that the horseman turned his horse and rode swiftly back to tell his Khan of the result of his parley.

Within fifteen minutes a party of soldiers had begun searching through the bodies that lay strewn across the field, carrying the wounded back to their own lines and piling the dead into a great pyre ready to be burnt according to their pagan custom. The spearmen, content that the pagans weren’t plotting any surprises began to settle down and drop their guard.

Seeing this, the 30 brave men who had volunteered for this role plucked up the weapons of the fallen warriors and charged at the idle spearmen, screaming their war cries. Although heavily outnumbered those courageous few knew that they would gain great glory and riches if they could only disrupt the Christian’s formation long enough for their cavalry to smash them into pieces. Indeed before long the thunder of hundreds of hooves could be heard approaching from over the hill as the horsemen charged again, this time to glory.

[wowbanger]

AARs

Saoirse – The Irish Fight for Freedom

Ireland had been invaded. The Gaelic kings lay defeated, their land captured and the people reduced to little more than slaves. Now only one free kingdom remains. Isolated and alone, the Kingdom of Tir Eoghain stands as a last outpost for the Irish people, beset on all sides by enemies.

Can King Domnall Ua Néill resist the might of the Norman invaders and maintain his freedom? Can he fulfill his father's dream and drive them back to the sea and make himself the uncontested High King of Ireland? Or will he join the long list of fallen Irish Kings, a mere footnote in history?

Choice extracts

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Prologue

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The Irish people mourned the loss of their leader, while I mourned the loss of a father. I remember the moment that the news was delivered to the gates of Leafer as if it were yesterday. High King Brian Ua Néill lay dead on the battlefield, slain by the English before the walls of Doire, a commoner's arrow embedded in his chest and surrounded by the broken bodies of his soldiers and enemies.



His dream of a united Ireland sweeping the Norman invaders back to the sea died with him it seemed. For instead of electing a new High King to lead Ireland as I advised, the remaining Irish kings and lords remained divided. The major kings, Finghin MacCarthy and Conchobhair Ó Briain in the South and Art O’Rouke in the East of the country, let old grievances stand in the way of unity. There was no outstanding leader like my father that had the force character to force the other kings to follow him. Instead they each looked to the defence of their own lands leaving them vulnerable to being picked off one by one. This meant that I was also isolated in the mountains and bogs of the North West, forced to look to my own defences or risk losing the Kingdom of Tír Eoghain to these Norman adventurers.

A Lonesome Charge

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Aonghas fought like a man possessed that day. Riding with my knights, he led their charge through the gates, killing at least a dozen men in that fight. At that point he saw his usurper cousin with the archers near the town centre, who were readying their bows to unleash an arrowstorm that would surely kill or maim many of my men. He broke through the Scottish lines and charged down the street alone before any of our men could stop him.







He crashed his horse into the archers, knocking some flying and killing many of them. Even when the Scottish infantry arrived no one could harm him that day as he hacked and slashed his way through the rebellious infantry.







Eventually he cut a way through to Loed, hacking away at him, blind with rage. One of these blows landed with full force upon his head cleaving it in two despite his sturdy helmet.

Even after the death of their leader the Scottish soldiers fought on knowing they couldn’t expect any mercy. It took several more charges before the final resistance was finally broken and the town fell completely under our control.







In the aftermath of the fighting I went in search of Aonghas, wishing to congratulate him for his heroic action. Without his lonesome charge many more of my soldiers would have been feeding the carrion birds that evening. I asked one of his men if he had seen him since the fighting ended.

"'e were 'eadin' t'wards whorehouse wi' a jug of ale in 'is hand when I saw 'im last," came the drunken response. With that I decided it could wait until morning and headed off to the nearest inn before all the ale was drunk.

BAARC

BAARC II - A Lonesome Charge

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“Gather round, gather round, don’t be shy. Let me tell you the tale of how I, Aonghas mac Domhnaill, won back my lands single handed from that treacherous toad that had the gall to call himself a mac Domhnaill,” proclaimed the grizzly Scotsman, sat in front of the roaring fire, jug of ale in hand. The other occupants of the small, dingy inn crowded round, those who could pulling stools and benches closer while those less fortunate either took seats on the ground or were forced to stand at the back of the crowd. Many of these people had already heard this tale many times before, yet still they pushed closer, so great was the tale. And thus the tall muscular Scot began regaling his audience with his tale.

“Well” he began, “I may as begin at the beginning. I had been usurped. That traitorous knave, my cousin Loed,” as spoke the name he spat a wad of saliva into the flames, where it sizzled and hissed, “had betrayed me and declared himself Lord of Ile. Using English coin he had hired a band of beggars, thieves and tinkers, anyone who would sell themselves for the chink of a few copper pennies in his pocket. These desperate men, he used to seize control of the major towns and villages and hunt down anyone who opposed him. Many Scotsmen and women were cruelly slain in those dark days for openly supporting me in those dark days. Publically hung, a knife in the dark, burnt alive in their homes or simply beaten to death in the streets; it didn’t matter to Loed how they died or how many, just as long as the rest were cowed into submission.”.



Speaking of Loed’s atrocities had worked Aonghas into such a temper that he knocked his jug of ale flying across the small room in a fit of rage. He quickly shouted to the barmaid to provide a replacement before he continued.

“Unable to resist this wave of brutality by my cowardly cousin, I gathered what few supporters I could and fled into exile seeking aid to reclaim my Lordship. Having first journeyed though the Scottish Highlands, where the clans were waging a bloody war against the Norwegian Vikings, I turned instead to Ireland. It was as I was journeying among the local lords there that I first heard the name of Domnaill Ua Neill, the last of the independent Gaelic Kings, fighting the Norman invaders alone. After a lengthy meeting Domnaill agree to provide military support, in fact he went further than that and led the campaign personally. He was like that though; a noble man, he always had to be in charge and would stop at nothing to further hurt the English cause.”

“And so within a matter of weeks we had sailed back to Ile and reclaimed most of the isle, the last remaining men loyal to Loed were holed up behind the walls of the largest town in the Lordship. I rode with Domniall’s personal guards on the day of the assault. The gates had already been shattered by our ram, despite the best efforts of the defenders to burn it with flaming arrows”



“The first men through the broken gates were the men who had followed me into exile, just months earlier. These men were desperate to exact revenge upon the people that had caused them so much hurt.”





“Fuelled by an intense desire to exact my own vengeance on these traitorous knaves I spurred forward my horse, eager to spill the blood of my enemies. The rest of the Irish cavalry followed my lead but none could catch up with me. Inside the gates there was a savage melee ensuing between Loed’s men and our Scotch and Irish infantry. It was into this mass of men that I crashed my horse, barging a way through to attack the defending Scots.”



“I remember little of that fight at the gates. All I recall is a red mist that descended across my vision as I hacked and slashed my way through the enemies in front of me. In a brief moment of calm I looked up and saw, down the street in front of me, Loed directing a large force of archers to open fire on the scrum at the gates. I let out a roar of anger, smashed through the last remaining Scotsmen and charged off down the street towards him with only one thought in my mind; vengeance.”



“I crashed my horse into the leading ranks of the waiting archers, knocking several of them flying into the air as I sought to cleave a path through them to reach Loed. Ultimately there proved too many men between me and my foe and before long I was surrounded on all sides by men trying to gain fortune and favour by slaying me. None of them won their fame that day and many of those who tried met their end in that fight. Even when Loed’s infantry arrived to support the archers no one could harm me that day, it was as if the Almighty himself was watching over me. In all my sword claimed the lives of a score or more men in that fight and spilled the blood of many others who reeled away clutching at hideous wounds.





“Eventually the press of men in front of me eased as the cowardly enemy turned and fled for their miserable lives, frightened by both my rage and the rapidly arriving Irish who had finally secured the gate. Upon seeing the street ahead clear I looked up again, hunting for Loed who had retreated deeper into the town. I soon saw him, desperately trying to rally his fleeing troops. Turning my horse I quickly spurred it onwards, eyes focused on just one man, despite everything going on around.



“By the time my horse had closed the distance between us I was blind with fury. I swung my sword at him in wild haymaking sweeps as he desperately parried my blows. The ring of steel clashing on steel was loud in my ears, drowning out the dim of the rest of the fighting where the Irish infantry were eliminating any remaining resistance. Eventually Loed miss timed a parry and my sword bit deep into his arm, causing him to groan in pain and drop his blade. Unarmed and with a hand clasped to his arm in a vain attempt to stem the gushing stream of blood pulsing from the wound he looked up at me, his eyes full of cowardly fear.”

As he was describing the savage duel to his audience Aonghas had picked up the poker from the hearth of the fireplace and had begun swinging it an invisible foe. The ferocity of these swings had caused more than a few near misses and caused a large part of the crowd to take several steps backwards. After someone had calmed him down slightly, sat him back down, removed the poker from his grasp and got him another jug of ale, Aonghas continued his tale.

“So there he was, the man who had caused me so much hurt; blood soaked, a look of pleading in his eyes and sobbing like a baby.

““P...p...please, have mercy,” he whimpered at me. “We’re family; surely you wouldn’t kill your own family.”

““Mercy”, I laughed back at him. “Where was your mercy when you led your attack on this very town? Where was your mercy when your men hunting down my supporters like animals? Where was your mercy when you touched whole villages for harbouring one man?”
At each of these points I spurred my horse forward another step forcing him to shuffle backwards, tripping over the dead bodies of his soldiers.

“As for being family. You stopped being family the day you thought to usurp me. From that that moment on you had nothing more than a dirty, scheming, snivelling, little worm.”With that last word I swung my sword down in a huge arc, smashing it into his head, cleaving his helmet in two and embedding it deep into his skull. Loed’s body stood for but a moment before it crumpled down to the ground to lie among the broken bodies of his men.”

The crowd in the tavern gave a collective cheer at that point, causing much drink to be spilt and Aonghas was forced to wait a couple of minutes before he could continue.

“It was only after I had killed Loed that I felt the exhaustion of battle and the pain from the numerous small cuts and scratches that I had sustained in the course of the battle. I looked around to see how the Irish under Domnaill had fared in defeating the rest of the rebel army and saw that the final pocket of resistance had been surrounded and was being subjected to repeated cavalry charges, the number of defenders being whittled down further as each charge crashed home.



"It wasn't long before a cheer went up from the Irish, a cheer that showed that the last handful of desperate defenders had thrown down their weapons and surrendered. I had won back my homeland and gained vengeance against the man who would steal them from me.”

Once Aonghas had finished telling his story the barmaid called over the noise of the crowd, “Right, come on now, it’s late and I have to be away to my bed, so come on, everyone out.” The crowd slowly shuffled out of the tavern into the snow filled night still chattering excitedly about Aonghas’ lonesome charge.

[wowbanger]

Other Works

The 2011 Scriptorium All Japan Writing Competition

GOLD MEDALIST

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Haiku Style Poetry
Gold Medal Winner

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Oh lonely oak tree
Many sights you must have seen
Through the many years.

In white winter snow
And the summer's warming sun
You are always there.

Men may come and go
But forever you remain
Always stood alone.

Short Story

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The Red Robed General.


Kim Sun-Sin used to be a humble farmer who knew nothing of the ways of war. The Japanese invasion had changed all that. Now he was a guerrilla warrior fighting for the liberation of Korea. Skilful with a bow and armed with a dead samurai's katana, Sun-Sin had already made a useful addition to Gwak Jaeu's righteous army fighting in the reeds at the union of the Nakdong and Nam rivers.

Gwak Jaeu had raised the banner of resistance at a time when Korea was in crisis. In a matter of weeks the Japanese army had invaded, smashed the Korean army, captured the capital Seoul and forced the Royal family to flee northward towards Pyongyang. Fearing for his home and family Sun-Sin had been one of the first men to join with Jaeu after the regular forces abandoned the town of Uiryong. For the following few weeks Jaeu and his small band of fighters had waged a successful guerrilla campaign, ambushing scouting and foraging parties and launching lightning raids on the Japanese supply lines, Sun-Sin quickly gained the respect and admiration of the men though his feats of arms. Jaeu, always wearing his red cloak, dyed with the blood of maidens slaughtered by the Japanese, and riding on a white stallion, soon became known as a hero to the Koreans and as a thorn in the side of the Japanese.

Now though, things were different. Instead of unsuspecting patrols or forging parties the Japanese had dispatched 5000 men of the 6th Division to take Uiryong and the surrounding countryside before advancing northwards. Knowing he stood no chance in the open field against the Japanese samurai and arquebusiers with his ragtag band of farmers and peasants, Jaeu took up a position behind the river Nam hiding his men amongst the reeds. Sun-Sin, in command of a half dozen archers, was positioned closest to the river with orders to report back with news of any Japanese movements.

The Japanese arrived on the far bank late in the day. Not wanting to risk crossing the river in the dark they set up camp in a small village about half a mile from the river. As Sun-Sin continued to watch the Japanese on the far bank he spotted a number of Japanese soldiers down by the river bank that appeared to be measuring the depth of the river and marking the fordable points with stakes. Sending his quickest man to run back to Jaeu with the news while he and his men kept watch, Sun-Sin formulated a plan to foil the Japanese advance.

Waiting until the dead of night when the Japanese had left the banks he and his men crept silently down to the river. They quickly pulled the stakes out of the soft mud and moved them 50 yards downstream where the water was much more deep and treacherous before returning to their hidden positions among the reeds.

The Japanese forces attempted the ford the river just after dawn the next day hoping to continue their advance to Uiryong. However, as their forces came to the deepest parts of the river they ran into great trouble. Although the mounted samurai were able to cross with difficulty the infantry were not so lucky, many being washed away or drowned in the deep water.

Seeing the chaos amongst the Japanese ranks Jaeu ordered his men to attack the disordered enemy. Sun-Sin and the other archers opened fire, using their long composite bows to launch arrow after arrow into the mass of men crossing the river. Soon the river ran red with the blood of the dead and dying men. Meanwhile Jaeu led the rest of the guerrillas in a charge against the soldiers who had reached the near bank, hoping to drive them back into the river. This attack caught the Japanese totally unawares and initially drove the enemy back.

The Japanese general, seeing the disaster unfolding before him, commanded his arquebusiers to advance and fire across the river hoping to force the guerrilla forces to retreat in the face of their fire. Seeing this danger, Sun-Sin directed the archers’ fire towards the approaching gunners. The longer range and high fire rate of these arrows caused many causalities among the lightly armoured Japanese gunners. Indeed they had barely managed their first volley before the withering arrow fire caused the gunners to fall back toward the camp.

Now running low on arrows Sun-Sin drew his katana from its sheath and charged at the head of the archers into the melee at the river bank where the Japanese samurai were slowly gaining the upper hand. Their heavy armour and superior skill at arms were beginning to pay dividends against the lightly armed peasants of Jaeu’s force. The archers crashed into a flank of the Japanese soldiers on the bank, their impetus driving the samurai back several feet. In that fight Sun-Sin appeared untouchable, his blade flickering left and right, striking at the samurai in front of him, felling them like firewood.

By this point of the samurai that had made it across the river only a handful remained. These few men quickly succumbed to the mass of the guerrillas leaving them in command of the near bank and forcing the Japanese army to march many miles around to find another crossing. In all the Japanese left several hundred of their men dead or dying by the river, many of them drowned in the deep water. In comparison the Korean casualties numbered only a handful. Jaeu had won a great victory against overwhelming odds, a victory that would be celebrated in Korea and ensure his name would live on.

Revenge in the Clan Lands


Thanks to m_1512 for the image

My first Middle Earth fanfic tells a tale of war and revenge amongst the clans of Dunland.

Choice Extracts

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Prologue

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The clans of Dunland knew little of peace. When not warring with their neighbours, the Rohirrim, or hunting down the orc bands that came down from the mountains, they fought amongst themselves seeking supremacy over the other clans.

Grievances between the numerous clans ran deep and so the conflicts rumbled on down the generations. The outside world cared little for the wars that sundered the lands of the Dunlendings, for as long as the clans warred they posed little threat to the nearby kingdoms. The balance of power shifted constantly, no one clan being able to gain sufficient power to dominate the rest. Instead, the clans engaged in near constant raiding, striking at undefended villages, killing the inhabitants and carrying off everything of value.

However, early in the 31st century of the 3rd Age, something began to change the situation in Dunland. Cenewulf, leader of the Wulfs, the strongest clan in southern Dunland, made a pact with the treacherous wizard Saruman, keeper of Isengard. The wizard would help Cenewulf gain dominion over the many clans of Dunland and in return the Dunlending would provide men, supplies and slaves to support Saruman’s campaign against the men of Rohan and Gondor.

With the support of Isengard, Cenewulf was quickly able to subjugate or intimidate the southern clans. Orcs and uruks from the mountains, in the employ of the White Hand, now marching with the men of the Wulf. Any clans who resisted were quickly defeated and their people sent into slavery in the mines and pits of Isengard.

Finally, only a small handful of northern clans retained their freedom. United in a crude coalition these clans readied their soldiers to resist an inevitable invasion of their ancestral lands.

Critics Quill Review by m_1512

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Hello folks, I am back with yet another review. To do something different, I thought of putting this picture as the title itself. It is almost a title in itself, with the Main title and byline in red, and the author's name in yellow.

As a person who quite enjoyed the Lord of the Rings trilogy, I am glad to do this review. This one is not like other AARs of the good guys, men and elves or the bad guys, the orcs and uruk-hais. This is about Dunland, a faction not so well featured in the movies, but a refreshing change in the AAR section.

The story takes you to Dunland, a land of quarreling tribes.
This is going to be an interesting tale. This situation is somewhat similar to the Mongols before Genghis Khan. While the Mongols were incited to fight amongst themselves by the neighboring Chins, here it the Kingdom of Rohan.

On first glance, I had thought this story was about the Dunland people becoming powerful with the alliance of Saruman. I couldn't be more mistaken, this story is in fact about the remaining clans who oppose the evil alliance. Now after this wonderful prologue, let us move on to the critiques.


Critics:
In the first chapter, the story starts about Kade, a young son of a warrior. He is among the last few clans opposing the invaders. The style of writing is excellent, the language used brings the general feel of the setting. The plot looks promising, a young lad beaten by fate, soon to be a hero in the future.

The narrative and presentation is quite nice. Relaxing as a matter of fact, when combined with the font. The author has taken a good effort while writing. So far, it is a pleasant story with a compelling plot. As for the critic's angle, there are no spelling errors, or grammatical mistakes that could spoil it for you.

There are no pictures yet, apart from the starting one. But it is too early to tell, since only two chapters are completed. In my opinion, pictures are just an addition. They are like a cherry to the cake that is the story itself. Here, so far I have not felt any overwhelming need for a picture to clarify something, or to get a feel. The author has, by technique, given a picturesque tale in the two chapters. But of course, we all could do with some good pictures.


Concluding this review, I cannot wait to see the next chapter. I am sure the author would come up with few pictures or more twists and twirls in the tale, which are my favorite.


Best Wishes to the author for this interesting project.
To the readers,
Prepare to be thrilled!

Critics Quill Articles



Tale of the Week's official reporter and reviewer for the Critics Quill

The Critic's Quill: Issue 26

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Let me begin by saying that I have been a massive fan of the works of J.R.R.Tolkien for many long years, ever since I first read The Lord of the Rings when I was only 11, nigh on 10 years ago. I fell in love with the world Tolkien had created; tales of great quests and epic battles fuelling my young mind. Although this passion may have faded somewhat in recent years, the works of Tolkien still hold a special place in my heart. It is because of this love for the original stories that I had largely steered clear of fan written fiction (or fanfics for short) for fear it should ruin some of the magic created by Tolkien. Thus it was with more than a little trepidation that I responded to a plea by Inarus for feedback on his large collection of Tolkien inspired tales that lie hidden away in a sub forum of the Third Age Total War mod forum.

I need not have worried. From the very beginning I was gripped. Inarus has managed to capture an essence of the magic that first made me a fan of Tolkien those many years ago, while adding his own personal style and view to things, a remarkable achievement and one that I praise him for.

So without further ado lets take a closer examination of some of these fine tales.

Where better to start than with the first of Inarus' stories that I read. Entitled "The Mansion of the Dwarves", it follows the dwarves of Durin VII as they fight to reclaim the Mines of Moria from the goblin hordes. this short story both begins and ends with verses of poetry, the first by Tolkien himself, about the emptiness of Khazad-dûm, and the second by Inarus, in a matching style, once the dwarves have returned.

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge’s fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin’s halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still in sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

But after countless battles fought,

with Khazad steel so finely wrought,

after many years of darkness past,

the children of Durin returned at last,
to their vastest realm with countless tomb,
to the Dwarven halls of Khazad-dûm.

This I thought was a very good idea and, despite the author's claims of hating poetry and being pathetic at it, worked very well. The description of the battle against the goblins is well written, if a little short. In my opinion such a large and important event deserves more attention than the 10 or so lines written here, but then that's probably just me being blood thirsty and wanting to read more of the goblin slaughter and not a fault of the author.

The next two tales that I will look at here take the reader back through the ages to one of the greatest battles of the 1st Age, the Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad – the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Both these stories tell of epic duels that happened during that battle but that Tolkien only briefly told of. "Of Fingon and Gothmog" describes the fight between Fingon, the Elven High King, and the Lord of the Balrogs, Gothmog, while the second, "Of Glaurung and Azaghâl", tells of the duel between the dwarven King, Azaghâl, and the great dragon Glaurung. I have decided to review these two together despite them being separate stories because they both share a very similar style and form.

A strong opening is always important for a short story in my opinion and both these stories provide just that, an opening sentence that hits the reader and draws them into the story.

A wall of silver against a storm of flame, a stampede of dragons, scarlet tongues flickering across their teeth as hungrily they pursued the running flesh

These stories show a marked improvement in writing style from the previous story I reviewed. The use of imagery is what really sets these stories apart from the crowd and is prevalent throughout a lot of Inarus' work. The clever choice of words really enable the reader to picture the action and make it feel as if you are there, watching as the duels unfold.

He smashed to the bloody ground, pain stabbing through his flesh. A shadow hovered over him but nimbly he rolled aside and the fiery foot fell upon earth alone. Now Fingon struck, his sword stabbing deep into the Balrog’s foot, causing the creature to roar in fury

On very rare occasions the use of imagery doesn't work as the writer intended it to. For example, saying that Glaurung "let free a jet of dazzling orange" didn't quite work for me. Even just adding the word "flame" on the end would help the reader visualise it better. Luckily these instances are very rare and don't really affect the overall flow of the story.

I really enjoyed reading both these two stories, but if if I had to choose a favourite it would probably be "Of Glaurung and Azaghâl", though that is mainly because I much prefer dwarves to elves and not because I dislike the other story.

Inarus has written a large catalogue of stories and I could easily carry on reviewing them for a very long time, but the deadline is pressing and I have other things to do. Therefore, for now, I will leave it at that and urge you all to go and discover them for yourself.

The Critic's Quill: Issue 28

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Hidden in amongst the Mod forums there lies a glittering jewel of a story waiting to delight those who stumble upon it. The jewel I speak of is Borissomeone’s Tales of Thera, an epic story that has so delighted its readers for the past two years in Thera’s AAR forum. This fanfic was previously reviewed for the Critics Quill by ‘the boss’ Juvenal way back in Issue 15 fully a year and a half ago (find his review here). A lot has happened since then and now as his loyal readers eagerly await the finale I felt that it was high time to take another look at this long running story. It takes a lot of commitment and energy to keep on writing something for nearly two whole years and for that I commend Borissomeone.

The story follows the adventures of a small group of Romuli soldiers of the 5th Legion as they do battle against their foes and attempt to survive in the harsh world of Thera. What starts out as a simple assault on a small hill fort quickly develops into an epic tale of battle, intrigue, assassination, magic, love, lust, but most of all blood.

I came into this story knowing pretty much nothing about the Thera mod (I knew that it was a fantasy mod and that was about it) but despite this I was drawn into this story from the very beginning. The opening paragraph does a brilliant job of setting the scene and enticing the reader in, wanting them to read more.

The Great Torment had ended, crops grew again and the life giving rains fell, life was returning to the lands of the Romuli. A wind howled across the domain of the Romuli, the smell of rain thick in its breath, within the wind, another thing, a smell never forgotten by the empire of the Romuli, the smell of war. The wind howled throughout the land, gusting this way and that and wherever it went it sang the same song, war is coming time to sharpen your sword, time to drink blood, war is coming. The Great Torment had ended and so had the time of peace.

In my opinion where Borissomeone does best is in his descriptions of battles and fighting. His skilful use of words really succeed in creating the drama and excitement that enable this story to stand out from the crowd and have won Borissomeone a dedicated core of fans that have followed this story loyally for so long. Now, if I were to provide examples of every time this story has shown examples of this skill then this review would be far too long, so I’ll limit myself to just one.

Maximus found himself in a deadly dance as the assassins blade snaked in, the man kept twirling in his cloak, a wild dance of cloak and blade, the dark material obscuring his movements. Maximus saw the other men come around the corner, six against one time to end this, he thought. The next spin of the cloak and Maximus stepped in; the assassin who thought his style of swordsmanship was unusual enough to keep his adversary confused was surprised to find himself suddenly off balance as Maximus grabbed his cloak and halted his spinning dance of death, Maximus pulled the man towards him, as the man lost his balance and stumbled Maximus stabbed his gladius up and under the assassin’s chin, feeling his warm blood gush over his hand he yanked his blade free, quickly turning he ran back to his friends.

However, this story isn’t all about blood and gore. Borissomeone also manages to write in other aspects to his story such as love and humour that succeed in lightening the mood of the story and making it flow smoothly and therefore making it easier for the reader to read. I particularly enjoyed the occasional times that the writer uses a little play on words, such as when he describes a Romulii soldier called Hilarius as having a “funny name.” The best thing about these jokes and puns is that they don’t feel forced as is so often the case when people try to add humour into AARs and Fanfics.

My one small criticism is that on occasion the plot does seem to skip around a bit too much. This sometimes makes it more difficult to follow the storyline, especially if, like me, you are unfamiliar with the Thera mod. Fortunately, Borissomeone’s writing quickly and easily brings the reader up speed on any new characters or events without detracting from the flow of the story, so any confusion is usually kept to a minimum.

And so finally I would encourage anyone who hasn’t already to head down to the Thera forums and enjoy the delights that this story has to offer and can I just say, I am eagerly awaiting the surely magnificent conclusion to this marvellous story.

[Mega Tortas de Bodemloze]

Wow...Very very nice... Most impressive. I look forward to spending some time in here as well....+Rep

[wowbanger]

Ok, I have now added TotW 105 and the Prologue of my AAR. Hope you all enjoy reading my writing.

[wowbanger]

I have now brought all TotW entries up to date and added Revenge in the Clan Lands to post 4.

[wowbanger]

Many new updates to report today. TotW 109 is now up, there's a new extract from Saoirse, my first Critics Quill article and I found a picture of the study. Hope you all enjoy.

[E.K]

Nice pic

[Borissomeone]

Very nice work, I particularly enjoyed your Haiku. Have some rep for your fine efforts.

[Boustrophedon]

I agree! Very nice writing study you've got going here. +rep from me

[wowbanger]

Nice pic

Google Images for the win

Very nice work, I particularly enjoyed your Haiku. Have some rep for your fine efforts.

Thank you. The Haiku is also a particular favourite of mine, I sometimes go back and read it to cheer myself up under the oak tree's comforting branches. Some other people must have liked it to as it did win the Scriptorium competition. Not bad for something I thought up when I was supposed to be working hard at work

I agree! Very nice writing study you've got going here. +rep from me

Thanks to you also. Kind comments are always appreciated (as is rep ).


And in other news; Royal Wedding + May Day = 4 day weekend = I finally have chance to resume Saoirse. A new chapter should be coming tomorrow (its currently being written) and hopefully another sometime next week

[m_1512]

Very impressive...


I was getting aggrieved all day long. Oh, the story's coming just fine. What i wanted was some good either real or even fantasy pics based on history(to go with the story). But google kept showing me the most stupid results.


Where can i find such ones, like u put in a spoiler alert in TotW 110, or the first one in TotW 111??? Can someone please tell me???


Oh and have some REP for the impressive work

[E.K]

The previous TotW entries are in the Arcives sub forum

[Stívarðr Reynitré]

You are one of many true inspirations in these forums, sir.

[wowbanger]

You are one of many true inspirations in these forums, sir.

Aww, shucks

Its nice to be appreciated and I am also immensely honoured that you consider me a true inspiration.

Reading this comment has made me want to go write some more, which can only be a good thing considering how lax I have been of late. Now where did I leave my quill?

May I wish you good fortune in your writing endeavours and I only hope I can continue to inspire you.

[wowbanger]

I finally got round to updating my study with some of my more recent writings (TotW 114 and BAARC II) and a few more should be along shortly. Hope you all continue to enjoy my work.

EDIT. Got my challenge entry posted up now. E.K, time for you to step up to the plate (unless your chicken).

[Orontid]

All I can say is:

Seriously, your stories are awesome. All the more reason why I must surpass you!

[wowbanger]

Hi folks. I know its been a long time since I did any writing on these forums and for that I apologise, I'll just say I've had a bad few months in RL and leave it at that. Well anyway I hope to make my return to the writing community on TWC now and to start with I have posted the (unfinished) story that I would have entered into TotW 120 if I hadn't run out of time. Hope you enjoy.

[wowbanger]

Wow, it's dusty in here. Better get my feather duster out and do some spring cleaning.

Oh, and I added my entry for TotW 239 up above.