View Poll Results: Please vote for your favorite entry.

Voters
19. You may not vote on this poll
    The results in this poll are hidden.
  • Entry #1

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #2

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #3

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #4

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #5

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #6

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #7

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #8

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #9

    The results are hidden 0%
  • Entry #10

    The results are hidden 0%
Results 1 to 9 of 9

Thread: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

  1. #1
    StealthFox's Avatar Consensus Achieved
    Content Emeritus Administrator Emeritus

    Join Date
    Nov 2010
    Location
    GA
    Posts
    8,170

    Default Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

    Here are the submissions for the long fiction category. Please vote for your favorite one.

    Also, bear in mind, anonymity is still required. Authors of any works below may not declare what submission may be theirs, or in any other way ruin the anonymity of theirs or another member's submission. Those found to be doing so here or anywhere else will be rightly and sneakily punished (You were warned when you submitted to this competition that if you screw up you will be publicly flogged and embarrassed). This thread is for discussion of the articles at hand and voting, NOTHING ELSE.


    Also please note one or more entries were originally submitted to the Non Fiction category, which did not have enough entries to stand on its own so its entries are instead merged into long and short fiction voting, at the author's permission as well.


    The People of the Pillars: Broken Torch - Entry #1
    The People of the Pillars - Broken Torch
    The People of the Pillars - Broken Torch

    In Those days

    ”You shall not touch my people!”
    Rednans voice rang out over the night steppe. The voice trembled as from ice within his soul but the burning torch made his skin retract on the scorched arms and hands.
    Somewhere at the boundaries of the circle, in the pitch black that surrounded the flickering light sphere the torch's fire created in the night, the Enemy was moving. Alone but terrifying. Rednan felt the Enemy's stare burn into his heart. Only because the torch lightened up and destroyed the darkness he himself found the slightest courage to stand firm. Rejecting the dark the torch gave his fellow kinsfolk, a great people, chance to find cover and leave him here alone, at the frontline where shadow and flame clashed.
    But if he would have no courage the torch would not let him leave his post, however he would try. It was the blessing and curse of the torch.

    His burned arms trembled in a pain he hardly was aware of any more.
    It existed as a slightly dull ache and he knew it would fester and devour him with time but right now it could hardly be felt and he kept it at that level. He strained himself to not lose this, almost, pain free feeling.
    Pathetic, as it was impossible to get rid of it. The torch granted that, as long as the Enemy roved around the people.
    It was the People of the Pillars he protected, though that name was given by later folk in these lands. In these days they did not know what they would later accomplish before they would disapper.
    Right now he stood upon a pillar, the first but not the last to be erected to guard the nights, built by simple, stable pieces of rock that put him high into the air and made the light reign over a vast land.
    ”You shall leave us this night!” Rednan swore, neigh commanded, the Enemy in the dark, and knew It heard him, reviled and cursed him but much more the torch that kept It from the people. The people whose heavy vapours of fear, hate, love and belief lay suffocating over the open steppe and lured, or forced, It's presence.
    It hated the torch.

    The man who held the towering torch was simply a tool. When the morning arrived and the torch faded to the first rays of the sun his body would be embalmed and be put next to the others whom had fulfilled their duty. Yes, the Enemy knew. Rednan knew and somehow the torch seemed to understand, as it always tried to restrain the heat from the flames.
    But never man nor woman from the People of the Pillars stood two nights in the same place and every night the Enemy moved in the gloom around the Pillarpeople's great camp when the sun went down behind the horizon and the moon was hidden among clouds. As it had since It had found them in their need.

    "Moon, oh moon, why can't we you see?
    Moon, oh moon, when dire our need be
    Moon, oh moon, dark and shadow we fear
    Moon, oh moon, the night peace they tear
    Moon, oh moon, sun's brother, People's friend
    Moon, oh moon, harsh away the darkness send
    Panion, mother of the stars, wake up thy son
    Panion of the stars, do not forget or shun
    Panion mother, what have we done?"

    Rednan chanted and hoped it would be heard by the disc behind the heavy clouds. A single star would given hope but nowhere on the sky's heavy dome a single glance was to be seen.
    ”Please Panion, do not forget us. Please...?”
    It was to be a long battle his people would fight. Rednan knew what would come, who would be the victor. He felt it would come long after his passing and his grandchildrens as well, if they were lucky. But one night the torch would no longer be litt and the night of the steppe would lie dark as only the lifeless can... lifeless beside from It. From the Enemy, who also would wander away.
    The turpitude of the Enemy suddenly tore the silence apart behind the lights edge. A fool who had not left the fields or the river or the temple in time. Her poor scream echoed.
    Rednan's tears evaporated on his chin. At the loud scream the flames of the torch rose in challenge, Rednan thanked it silently with cracked, bloody lips while he realized that the last of his hair on his body was lost and only ash covered his head and shoulders.
    The torch would not let the Enemy come close to the people whom sought safety in the camp. It would keep himself up there on the pillar, whatever remained of him when the night ended.
    His slowly boiling, chaotic mind prayed for a short night. The Enemy promised that with its presence it would not be so.
    Rednan continued with his dry, cracked chant while the tongue thickened in his mouth.

    Generations

    Only Master Interpreter Hajion rode forth to kneel in front of the North Pillar. However he was not alone at this place and behind him twenty thousand men and women kneeled. Their light and heavy armours resonated loudly over the steppe. Their weapons were put in front of them in a motion that brought their painted faces towards the dust of the ground. Formal grim and cool they lay where they were while Hajion unmounted and placed himself in front of the North Pillar. It was a majestic pillar massive in size and scope. It was high as many men upon each other and built in a material the Pelans, his folk, never grasped; dense as stone but possible to mold like clay, if one knew how to handle it.

    The People of the Pillars had known.
    The People of the Pillars had been the predecessors in this land and had been gone long now, lost in the oblivion of uncertainty.
    The sun stood high in the sky and the wind from the west was soft, barely able to keep life into the dust the army had pulled up. Midsummer had come and the days were long and hot but normally peaceful, since the people of the Pillarland moved at dusk and dawn in order to escape the frying summer heat. But not today. The warmth that made them all sweat created an unnatural, solemn atmosphere.

    The Master Interpreter fell on his knee. The sound from his orange cap must have been hard to hear, but it broke sharply against the silence that besieged the field with its disciplined army waiting.
    ”Oh, shield of the Pillars People, hear their heirs prayer!” Haijon's voice was strong and enchanting and seemed to rise towards the sky, not losing its power. Among the soldiers Interpretors were spread out and repeated the words of the Master so that all would hear.
    ”We seek the strength of the Torch that protected those who once lived in this land, that we may be granted luck in our own struggles to live here. Now foreigners have reached our land, strangers without regard or reverence for the Pillars. We pray for the strength to drive them out. We pray for the support from the protector of the People!”
    Hajion sang a short chant for protection granted by the Torch and ended with a ”Panion” that all the army had waited for and joined in.

    Panion was the name of the first sunray of the morning and symbolized that you put faith in the Torch and the power of the Pillarpeople, sacred knowledge gain from the scriptures. The host cried and sang while they slowly but coordinately turned and marched away from the region of the Northern Pillar.
    Hajion stood where he was, looking at the soldiers leaving, his fingers played with his long grey beard and his forehead was shirred. He had taken the soldiers here and now the commanders took over for the tactical decisions. He himself had no real power over the nation, mostly because it did not fell under his official mandate as Interpreter, that is Interpreter of the predecessor's lore.
    ”Hajion master, shall we not leave?”
    Hajions prime servant stood behind him and held forth a full water bag. The young man with the fair lines in his face and the innocent eyes had an appreciated intuition for his learning master's needs.
    Hajion thanked him and took the bag but rejected the thought for leaving. Instead he sent his liege to set up a small camp for the night, which forced the young man to first go after the soldiers, get the gasket by the horses behind the hills and then walk back again.
    The Master Interpreter felt a bit of sympathy for his servant and mumbled something about getting rid of the ridiculous dogma that forbade mounts close to the Pillars, with the exception of the Interpreters own of course. Though while a good thought it would not come to pass. The dogma was barley a hundred years old and had no real reason behind it but had fallen to the romantic and ceremonial in taste and the Interpreter Guild had enacted it. Now the powerful conservative phalanx would never, ever remove it. Bah!
    ”I tell Marion 'Talafeon' that we will remain, master”, the servant said and then trudged away over the dusty plain.

    Hajion sighed. Marion 'Talafeon' was the highest ranking marshal as well as a renowned warrior. His strength was great and his talent with the bayonet was feared by many. However, Marion was not only a worthy warrior, he was also highly regarded in the National Administration of the Pelans.
    A knowledgeable, witty and too cynical management member for the Interpreter Guild's taste, since it often resulted in him not paying the old guild the reverence they normally ”suffered” from.
    Still Marion indeed had thanked Hajion just before they had reached the region of the North Pillar.
    ”It is important for my soldiers. Their moral always improve when they feel under the predecessors and the Torch's warding hand... and what is good for my men and women is good for me.”
    ”And for the Pillarland, I might presume?” Hajion had added with a scorn. Marion's selfish goals the marshal seldom cared to hide but since it so far had been true that the warriors and the realms interests had been the same it had been fondly accepted.
    ”Certainly Master Interpreter! But I would like you to make it a short ceremony. I have reports that the pink skinned intruders dirty corpses rove close to the Northeast Pillars region and it make me furious...”
    Hajion did not get the chance to drop an ironic comment on Marion's fresh zeal before the marshal went on:
    ”Northeast Pillar territory contain many of the fattest pastures when the winter comes, never shall it lay under the hooves of the enemy!
    Marions problem, to Hajion, was the man's rigidity but he knew that his son knew his field as well as he knew his own science.
    Still, or that was why, he had not mentioned anything about the suspicions he felt and the bad omens he had hesitated in front. Perhaps they concerned himself, or his son or even the whole of the Pillarland. It was about more than the pink intruders in any case. Yet he did not dare to go out and blow the night horn (an old expression inspired by the Pillarpeoples habit to warn for the coming on the night). His gaze ended up at the pillar with its carved, beautiful, imagery. About happy people. About change. About darkness. About something terrible.
    ”By the Torch, what happened to you...?”
    Perhaps it was foolish, too many times his ideas had been rejected by the Interpreters. Influential opponents and rivals would use another mistake of his. So he hesitated, watching the host disappear behind the edge of the hill as perfect lines of ants. Yet he did not dare, caring for his reputation, to go out with what he feared to the Pelans. The nights grew darker again, fast. It was unnatural. Because the summer was reigning.
    ”By the Torch” he thought for himself once more.

    Seven weeks

    The tired and wounded roars of the agitated cow echoed through the night. From his spot uphill, behind the cover of a dirt wall covering a fresh bunker, the keen eyes of Marion darted over the scenery. He lay hidden five hundred steps north of the cow, that was halfway digged into the ground, with its back flogged badly and bloody.
    Closer to the animal flies and midges swarm could be heard, even closer the insects eating and the cow's great eyes would be seen, but to Marion Talafeon it was just a dark shadow in a circle from the plain's only visible open fire.
    The only light on the steppe as heavy, dark clouds filled the night sky, dragged along by a steady wind from the east. They promised rain and Danilo, the Rust River, behind them grew bigger each hour from distant bad weather. Marion had chosen it to cover his and his soldiers back, as a natural moat. Due to the weather it was no suitable night for a hunt, but it was the only one he had.

    Seen from above the cow was in the middle of a tight ditch circle and after two hundred steps there was another, greater ditch circle. By the second ditch four elongated piles of dirt was built, pointing against the cow.
    Two hundred steps from the second ditch there came a trench circle and just outside the trench a third and last ditch. For anyone who come close during the day it would look very strange, but it was dark, hopefully to dark to see, since as the summer had turned against them and the sun abandoned the sky early.

    Two shadows, dressed in grey uniforms and dull dirty cuirasses, in the trench crawling over the steppe on Marions right, were uneasy. One of them, Carpenter from Pine Creek, in a grey cap trembled and said with a dark voice:
    ”Do he know what he's doing?”
    His companion Olin responded in haste, creating a small variation in the low sounds of the night:
    ”Shut it, the marshal knows what he's up to. Remember how he even managed to win at South Pillar's Gate for crying out loud. Right, that was against the pink invaders, but you know how bloody many they were!” Olin's voice grew louder, adding: ”If your to afraid you can just...”
    A sudden movement in the shadows made them jump high.
    ”...Quiet soliders. It can hear us if we're unlucky...” the strangers voice broke in, hoarse and strained in the dark from further back in the trenches. Carpenter and Olin at his side turned their heads towards the woman. All six pupils were large and if it wouldn't been for the dry throaths and jerky movements it could almost been natural due to the night.
    ”Now com'on Ynn, ehm, I mean Ranker” Carpenter said with a low but fierce voice to the Ranker who crawled up to them. She sat down next to them while Carpenter pulled of his cap and said:
    ”If it really is the Enemy that is back, I mean that just can't be true, it must be some mass hallucination or a revolution. By Bernai! The Enemy is what we tell our children to behave and eat their vegetables for crying out loud. Since we came to this realm there never been any proof. Five hundred years of nothing. Nothing! Look at it, all we have is a lost peoples writings and pictures. Look at us, fighting a tale. The darkness that have come over us now, the lost armies and the destroyed settlements in the west, I bet you it's only some of those invading barbarians we kicked out or something, some other barbarians from the wastes in the west, fooling all of us. You saw the destroyed villages too, by Bernai, it can't be a single creature that did all that. There is no bloody Enemy.”

    Ynn and Olin said nothing and Carpenter continued:
    ”But if it is true, I mean only if, then we can't fight it like this. We're six, Ranker, against some kind of demon. It's crazy! We have to do it like the old people did, hey I mean they knew what was going on and all, they had – we need – Marion should get a Torch, by Parion! A Torch! Holy Light! Like the Interpreters speak about. Then we could go whip that night beast into oblivion I tell you!”
    Olin in a hasty voice growled:
    ”Shut it Carp! A Torch? You stupid cowardly bastard, the old people got killed by the Enemy, what good did their fancy 'magic' Torches do to them?”
    ”Olin, quiet down or I'll tie you next to the cow” Ynn hissed between her teeths and then pushed impatiently at Carpenter. She said:
    ”Listen to Olin, the Torches and the old ones were gone just as our ancestors came here, you know that. But Marions father is an Interpreter and still not even Marion is dumb enough to dream about some magic artefact from ancient history coming to save us. Marion Talafeon is our captain and he say he got a plan; we all freely swore to back him up...”
    They heard the cow cry in the night.
    Ynn's jaw, shaking as it couldn't find more arguments, shut tight. She gave them another tala-cake each even if she knew them talking probably was an effect of the tala and crawled back. It took her into the dark north-east. Then east past marshal Marions tense back and out into the left trench seen from the north. The trench was a big circle on the long slope from the steppe towards the Danilo river. She meet her two stationed soldiers who were, somewhat ecstatic, going trough their gear again.
    A very little fire well hidden in a buried oven and some flares were the most important part of the equipment; one of the soldiers were all over it while the other polished their swords and muskets.
    They all expected the earth to soon tremble under the Enemy's approach even if no one ever encountered more than tales of It, and the bitter tala-cake strained their senses. They had not slept for a day and a night, digging, building, carrying barrels, steel, wood and oil, staying awake thanks to tala and coffee.
    ”We are the bait in this trap, you know that? The Ranker is a bastard” Carpenter murmured, waving his sabre in the dark in east trench. ”We need Torch Light to face the Enemy.”
    ”Do not worry about that” Olin responded. ”We'll give It light all right.”

    The Final Hour

    Suddenly the wind eased so that the night became utterly still, but not quiet because there were distant rumble from thunder. The cow bellowed.
    ”A storm would destroy everything,. We would miss It coming” Marion sighted. He moved his tall body, strong as a slender mountain lion, through the bunker opening to get a better view. His legs took him up in front of the bunker so he stood inside the circle of the trench.
    The steppe was all nothing beside the fire in the centre of the trench circle and the distant rim of the blue shaded horizon in the west. He made an evaluation.
    Perhaps he had misjudged everything? Perhaps It was not in these part on the realm at all? If so it was dumb to only allow so few soldiers to join him and force the others away. Perhaps the legends claiming It could and would find anybody in the night not protected by light were untrue so that they and the cow would not work as bait? Or, perhaps everybody gone crazy and there was no Enemy at all?
    The cow was silent and the grass sounded soft in an increased wind.
    Had Marion seen himself from the outside had he considered him speeded and disjointed where he wiggled in a circle but he felt sharp and calm. Perhaps he should call it and hurry back to his army he sent up the valleys, past the Danilo river? It suddenly felt embarrassing that he, the renowned Talafeon, had fallen victim to an outburst of some children tales superstition. Either way it was wrong to risk his soldiers like this!
    ”Ranker Ynn!” he shouted. ”We will go home, this is just dumb.”
    A distant flash made the night slightly brighter and then it was apparent that next to the cow a mighty black shape towered.
    Every vein till the core of his bone froze to ice. It was something there, It was there, only five hundred steps away in the middle of the circle. It was huge, and it had been all dead quiet. How on Earth could it? What was it...? Suddenly the marshal who was renowned for taking head in charges was all out of power, his legs trembled under him.
    ”What? What did you say Marshal?”
    Ynns voice broke the momentum, she cried from his left and he just had the time to respond ”Fire! It is here! Fire!” before there was a terrible rumble. The Enemy acted directly it seemed and the moment later there was a big thud when the foe landed. ”Fire” he screamed. ”Fire!” First now Marions senses awoke but with a great force he flew trough the air.
    There was a horrible scream of pain throughout the night.

    ”I told you so” laughed Carpenter when he heard the marshal's order of retreat.
    ”To be honest that's quite all right with me...” Olin confirmed while rising, then Marion shouted something else and strange bounces echoed.
    ”What the...” Olin asked and Marion yelled ”Fire” twice, then came the horrible scream of pain from the other western trench. After that all went silent. Olin said; ”Broken Torch Carp', It's here! Fire, the fire!”
    If he actually said it out loud or not he could not say, Olin just fell and crawled at the floor towards the oven. He butted head with Carpenter who came with the same goal and they fell apart cursing. Then Carpenter was back, pulled a flare and lightened it in the oven, crawled up at the trench's outside wall and tossed his flare into the ditch at it's rim. The ditch was filled with thick oil and wood that quickly burst into flames.
    Carpenter shouted in triumph ”One up, Olin! Let's get the bastard!”
    The fire spread around the trench-circle like an outer wall, lightening up the gloom of night.
    Then came the sounds of someone running and panting from within the circle. Olin and Carpenter could distinguish the silhouette of a person sprinting towards them when there came a greater sound of feet and something black tossed the person into the air with a frightened shout. A disturbing yell of pain and the sound of meat and bone breaking followed. Pale faced the two men took off without thinking, Carpenter south along the trench and Olin north towards Marions bunker.

    Carpenter kept low and in good pace but didn't really knew what he was doing. From his point in the trench there could be no more than a thousand steps across, and now it had turned into a cage of fire. By the gods and forefathers accursed, why had he ignited the oil?
    Close to the southernmost point he halted and sat down, leaning against the sandy wall with the fire crackling above. After a few breaths it struck him that in the light of the fire he possibly could be spotted and changed side so he had his back inwards. While it felt somewhat safer he also could not get rid of the feeling that now he would no longer see anything coming his way.
    ”No!” he yelled and then covered his mouth. In the corner of his eye he had seen a red, frog-like snake coming with a fanged mouth towards him. Then it was gone of course, as a child of the paranoia the tala-cookie could cause minds after hours and hours of use. But, had the Enemy heard him?
    Deep breaths during what could been hours or seconds. Then when he had control of his breath he no longer could control his curiosity or fear. Slowly he looked over the edge into the 'court-yard'.
    While he could see the fire wall and the four man-made dirt piles but no other people – and not It. Where could it be? After all, it had to be a demon of some kind but...
    ”Where are you?” he mumbled to himself and then with a hiss: ”The trap!”
    Already the wall of fire were weakened, or at least it seemed so as he knew it couldn't last to long. Two hundred steps from the centre there was the second ditch with new oil. The plan had been to lure or force the monster into that new fence where the dirt piles were placed, and after that into the third. They had to catch it while the fire lasted. But first he had to find It and then in the right moment...
    Carpenter tried to rise but was dizzy with nausea. He sat down, untied the cuirasses and dropped it. With shaking fingers he pulled out a tala-cake and swallowed it almost whole. Again he rised, looking in both directions. Still no signs. Then he heard a barrage of gun fire directly from the north and ran off west, to his right.

    “Reload!” Ynn tossed the muskets at Olin, who were just finished with reloading one as he gave her in return. They sat in Marion's bunker and had just on pure instinct emtied everything they found ready in the bunker trough the southern opening, as the big black creature had appeared and crashed into it.
    “Did we hit anything? Ranker? Did we hit It?”
    Ynn didn't answer, just lay low close to the opening, looking and listening. She had a good name as a sharp shooter but this time the same question as Olin asked pondered inside her. Everything outside was either darkness or shadows caused by the fires. She heard sounds, but not from the beast of prey she felt stalked close by.
    “Ranker? Where is It? Has It gone?” Olin wined and continued with the next rifle. He loaded it the wrong way twice.
    “I can't hear, be quiet” Ynn said and then looked up as sand fell into her face. Now she heard it, as a heavy beast on soft palms were switching feet.
    “It's on top of us. Get out!”
    The bunker floor came collapsing down upon them. They darted out to the left and ran, believing to hear some kind of roar in the general turmoil. Their lead was not far, they could hear the thumps of the pursuer. Ynn turner her head once and could spot a massive shadow in pursuit, it seemed fast.
    Olin who ran first took a bad step and flew in a spin trough the air to the ground.
    “Watch where you are running gods damn it!” Carpenter swore and rose up, he had been hiding in the trench gloom. Olin panted and called out: “My arm! You goat-doer! I think I broke my arm!”
    “Pick up Olin, Carp!” Ynn commanded and jumped over them, turning around aiming her musket behind and over them. Carpenter pulled up his friend to get behind her but when the three of them stood clustered the shadow came in a great leap towards the soldiers. Ynn's weapon boomed into the night and the shadow lost it's course in the air, falling and rolling past them.
    “Inwards! Run inwards!” Carpenter said.
    Ynn reloaded while the men hurried towards the second ditch. The sky now added to the sounds of the night even more, the thunder was heard much closer.
    The shadow came over them but once more Ynn honoured her reputation, with an odd sound the Enemy's unclear silhouette backed off and the Ranker ran after her soldiers with smoke rising from the musket.

    The Last Minutes

    “We have no flare” Olin noted.
    “We have no flare!” repeated Carpenter as Ynn came up to them. Ynn got the same despair for a moment until Olin remembered them that at the dirt piles there were additional ovens with flares. They ran against the western pile as it was closest and they found them.
    Then Ynn fired into the night again.
    “Where is it?” Carpenter begged.
    “It- it was not It” Ynn mumbled, reloading. “Bloody tala-cakes, think I got the shakes by now. I was sure I saw it but it was not it. Curse, curse, can't have that now...”
    “We must lure it here before we ignite, Ranker” Carpenter answered like he had not listened, while to only thing he could picture himself was the sight of the red snake and it made him quiver.
    “Then we must spread out too” she concluded and each held their burning flare while soft rain started to fall on them.
    They looked around but if the Enemy were anywhere close they missed it. “Who goes where? It can be anywhere. It's big right? How can it hide? We need to get it inside the second circle...”
    Without further ado Olin then ran south screaming as loud as he could but used no words. Ynn cheered and ran north waving and screaming while Carpenter held his place adding to the choir: “Com'on you bastard. Here we are! Come and get me. Don't you dare?”
    Then it struck him that It would go for Olin. The man bleed and was slower due to his wound, and they had let him go south. Somehow he knew the snake... the Enemy would be down that direction. “Oh, this is so bloody dumb....” he hissed and went after Olin.

    Ynn saw Carpenter take off south and hoped there was a good reason, she could hardly see Olin but it looked like he was doing what he was supposed to. Where was It?
    Once more her ear sharp saved her. Over the distant thunder came the sound of fast movement trough the grass behind her. She jumped aside but was hit by a terrible force and sent trough the air. Nothing got her though, she hit the ground hard on the shoulder, mouth filled with dirt. Aching she turned over and the great beast suddenly took a vague form, for splits of seconds it was like a great, awful bear that came down upon her. The sound of gun fire made her open her eyes again, next to her head were two impact holes and the air smelled of something rotten, but she was alive.
    As fast as she managed she crawled to her feet just to face Marion Talafeon with a musket and a gun in his hands:
    “You hit It Ynn, twice. It want you for that, what an awesome beast.”
    “Marshal! You're alive! We thought, I mean, and then we tried to get It into the trap” she gasped but he stopped her while putting on his bayonet:
    “The trap is my idea. We shall have It's head Ranker, I shall have it. Oh no, It can not match me! We shall force it into the centre and then we shall lighten up the day in ways It never faced before! It's after those other two now. Ignite the fire! It's inside the second ring now, ignite the fire Ranker! I will get It!”
    The bright cold in the eyes of the marshal looked trough her and he ran away. Ynn took up the flare and closed the second part of the trap.

    ”Broken Torch! It went after the Ranker” Carpenter thought and stopped, listening carefully. There was the sound of gun fire and then silence. Better to get hold on Olin then than be here alone. After just a few steps he stopped, looking around.
    The insight crushed his chest, there was the obvious sound of something walking trough the grass in the dark just outside his range of sight, then a hasty shadow against the outer wall of fire, something that almost resembled heavy purrs from a cat. It circled him, he turned around on the spot, trying to catch It.
    ”Why did I volunteer for this crap? Oh gods, my family...”
    Carpenters scream echoed into the night.

    The rain became heavier but now the second ring burst into fire, with greater flames so it suddenly was possible to see all, if also clad in shadows of the dancing flames.
    Marion Talafeon looked down at the body of his soldier. Carpenter was it? The world still spun, he shook his head. He couldn't recall right now, no matter, It was close.
    He just had to lure It closer in, and then it would be completed. It was a grand foe, he had seen It, but he would take the Enemy down. He knew it now, it was his fate. The greatest warrior of this time against the bane of old old. Then they had tried their Torches, pitiful. But now...
    Across some hundred steps of space the Enemy's vast silhouette stood looking at him, coming without haste from the direction Olin ought to had been.
    ”Good” Marion considered, ”that bought me some distance.”
    He could not see it clearly, but It was big and It was his. The inner, third ditch were just twenty-five step from the centre and thus a good bit away from them both. He had to run and he had to make It follow but also ignite the inner fire wall so it all worked out. He began to laugh, it was so easy.
    The sound of his laugh caused the Enemy to stop and shrink, like it crouched to a sprint. Marion took off. He ran as fast as he could, great steps in a breakneck speed but the Enemy's silhouette leaped over the yard against him, to cut off the way.
    Reaching the ditch the Enemy was over him, tackled him so that he flew into the air but just as with Ynn It was not there to catch him up. The rain had made the ground slippery, making the beast slide while trying to stop. But the flare was gone. Marion swore, jumped upon his feet and ran towards the cow and the dead fire by it.
    He plunged his naked hand into the scorching ashes pulling up still burning coal and kept running to the ditch on the other side of the cow, tossing the coal into the oil. Flames burst up, these the very fatest and hottest of them all. With the smile of victory he turned around facing the Enemy as it moved agitated towards him. He walked defiantly towards the Enemy pulled the rifle from his shoulder. But beside some distant thunder it came no sound..
    The trap did not work. The plan had failed.
    Marion's smile died utterly, still he went forward facing It, with the bayonet unbowed.
    Then it came - the thunder of doom.

    Ynn limped towards the inner ditch when she saw it blaze and from it went oiled ropes towards the four dirt piles pointing at the centre Into each two great cannons were buried, aiming at the centre and after a few moments when the fuses had caught fire they all went off causing a great roar and deafening rumble.
    From the inner circle came a terrible bellow, It was the Enemy's cry, she knew it, but it was consumed into the thunder that now came in over them. Flashes stroke near them and at centre nothing stood any more.
    ”Marshal, you did it, you did it!” Ynn tried to say but just managed only to pray silently. She sat down, feeling the rain shower her from blood and dirt. ”You did it.”
    From nowhere Olin came up beside her, his arm hanging and with some new bad scars over his face, but alive. They looked at each other, smiled but said nothing. Ynn arose again, walking north towards the supply wagon that stood behind the crushed bunker. She had to change into something warm and was just about to tell Olin to do the same when she heard him say: ”Oh, oh no.”
    Through the dying flame wall of the inner circle the dark mass of the Enemy came. Flames licked it badly. Still tall in stature it staggered and stopped outside, standing like a black cliff in front of the fire. Ynn pulled Olin's jacket and they backed off but It saw them and started to move again. Slowly, faltering, but without hesitation.
    ”We won't let it take us alive Olin, we won't let it take us alive. There, the river, it's just over there.”
    They limped closer and closer to Danilo across the burned out ditch but the Enemy came closer and closer, no matter the sounds of painful strain It emitted. They crawled over the trench and the last ditch and with just a few steps to the river brink they turned and looked straight into the black enigma that was their death.
    ”May the abyss take you” Olin said as it lifted a great front arm, or leg, to fall down upon them.

    ”Shoot it! Shoot it” an unfamiliar order came. A barrage of muskets was heard and the great beast with a cry fell in an arch over them, tumbling over the bank and into the river.
    A company of soldiers, who finally had disobeyed Marion's orders when gun shot echoed, ran forward, helping the two survivors up and covered them with blankets.
    ”What was that? The Enemy? We could not get a clear view” they asked exalted.
    The Ranker among them and some of his soldiers speed on looking down the river brink. In the light of a flash they could see something big, and motionless, that was swallowed by and sucked away by the river.



    The Exile who would be King: A Medieval Tale - Entry #2

    The Exile who would be King: A Medieval Tale
    The Exile who would be King
    ~~~A Medieval Tale~~~~
    Chapter 1
    It was a bleak day on the coast as he landed. He was never a man who loved the sea too much, after all his homeland was near the tall mountain peaks among dense woods. He was used to wake with the sounds of the forest fauna in his ear not the constant bash of the sea on stones and wood, or the unusual cry of the gulls up in the sky. Yet it was not his call, he did not thought of it as his choice, it was destiny which made him take this road. A cruel fate that had him torn away from what he loved and sent away into unfamiliar lands.
    He walked the sandy beach with a quick pace, sparing only a glance at the hundreds of men unloading provisions from the rowboats and clambering on the beach with weapons of all sorts. He saw many swords, though not all were familiar to him. Some were the regular long and strait swords which he saw and used when growing up in his hometown. Some however were strange and curved down the middle, and some were straight to a point before bending like a scythe. Bows were curved in strange shapes as well, axes were carved into unusual shapes as well. The mercenary company commander had one such axe. It had it's blades rotated so that the blade was parallel to the ground when held up straight. It also had three blades instead of one. Queer weapons for a queer army he thought. He would have never believed such weapons existed if he remained in his hometown. Yet weapons were weapons and in the hand of soldiers they would do their job just as well. The camp was a disorganized array of tents along a small green field just a few feet away from the water. He hired a few men who did not belong from the company to be his personal guard. They were men from the same mountainous lands as him. They were in the city where he went in exile before him for years. The prospect of helping him and returning back with him to their homeland thrilled them, yet thrill alone was nothing without coin. They set his personal tent close to the water but not in the middle of the company's tents. Truth be told he saw all these mercenaries from the company as strangers. He didn't knew them and they spoke half a dozen different languages. Some did speak his language but he was not fond of what had to say. He walked past the guards who were preparing a camp fire in front of his tent.
    He entered his tent and sat down inside thinking of how his future is about to change in the following weeks. No sooner had he closed his eyes to contemplate his fate than he heard a runner calling for him at the entrance of the tent. He rose to see what had happened.
    Runner: The Commander asks for you in his tent. Some men have come to greet the company. He expected to meet them farther inland but nevertheless he followed the runner to the Company Commander's tent. It was large, bright orange and very ornate with the shapes of wild animals and leaves of autumn colors scattered all over the tent.
    He entered the tent to find 6 men sitting at a similarly ornate table. The two at the head of the table were the leader of the mercenary commander, a tall man with a thick beard (MC), and his second in command a smaller man, but more muscular and with brownish skin. The others were well known faces although older. They all stood up when he entered.
    MM: It was about time you arrived. We'd thought you grew afraid to come back
    EC:Either that or you found yourself a nice wench and forgot about your ambitions.
    They were all old friends, now important people in the land he was shunned from. The first one was a friend from his own town, he now became the land's Master Merchant (MM) overseeing all the king's financial exploits. The second one, much taller than the rest was a friend who became lord of a castle right next to the land's border (BL). The third one was the smallest of all of them yet he was the exile's best friend. He was born in the same mountainous land but his ancestry was from the one bordering the sea in the great plains, yet for all that he gained renown as a good fighter and became the commander of a small army made out of exiles (EC) who have made a home in the land he was forced to flee from in exile. The last one was the man he knew the least, yet he was a friend and he would entrust his life to him. Last time he saw him he was a ranger patrolling the woods around the land, yet now he rose to command the ranger army (RC) .
    Exile: I thought we were to meet farther on the plains army and all...
    BL: If you really want we could go back and wait for you there.
    EC: We thought you might have difficulties finding the army. We brought only a few men with us to scout ahead while the rest are still forming up at the border in the shadow of the mountains.
    RC: You seem to have quite an army gathering for you. You'll be sitting the throne soon enough by the looks of it.
    Soon, but before that must come the battles. And battles will decide his fate not the numbers of men. Still fate wants him to win, that's why it gave him so many men and such loyal friends.
    Exile: I will. And I'll reward all of you for your friendship and help. Even more so if you will remain loyal.
    BL: You'll have the throne, the land and the biggest army, I doubt anyone will be disloyal to you.
    Exile: I will repair the kingdom once I take the throne. It is about time someone did. People rule and command only for personal gain. Corruption is king in our land and because of that the people have lost hope and have become decadent. I will put an end to that. I will forge a new kingdom on the ashes of the old and decadent one, a just and fair kingdom.
    MM: A new kingdom... Strong words. No coruption, a just realm... Strong promises. We all hoped for a new king, and prepared for one, that's why we're here. LONG LIVE THE NEW KING!!
    BL, EC, RC: LONG LIVE THE NEW KING!!
    Exile: Aye, all well and good, but first we need to take the kingdom. What of the rest of the land?
    EC: Some castle holders and lords will help the old king, but too few. The rest are just... waiting... doing nothing.
    Exile: Waiting...
    MC: What of this Old King's army?
    EC: Mobilized or mobilizing. Word reached him of an exile who wants to claim his lands back so he thought these men would suffice . Anyway they will be ready for us when we reach Codrite Castle with all our forces.
    MC: How many?
    EC: 20 000 men,archers and horses probably. Though they might be less.
    MC: HA! My own 11 000 could take care of them alone. One man of mine is worth 10 of you mountain folk.
    He did not share the mercenary commander's optimism though.
    Exile: How many have you gathered for me?
    BL: I brought my 5 000 border guards, we have the exiled army of another 3 000, more 2 000 men from the surrounding area...
    RC: And all the rangers I could find. They should be 4 000 skilled rangers at your service amassing.
    Exile: Who's commanding the enemy?
    The master merchant leaned forward and looked the exile in his eyes.
    MM: Your old enemy, the usurper that took your place and castle....

    Chapter 2


    The road was the same day in and day out. They rode all day and at sunset they’d set up a hasty camp, sleep and then move again. They travelled through the plains for two weeks. The jurney itself would have taken only 5 days, perhaps 3 if one travelled quick, but the large company was sluggish. He travelled besides his old friends close to the middle of the column. They talked about they're old adventures as well as the new adventures his friends had since he left them for his exile. They had they're full share of adventures after he left, mainly because they gotten to know each other because of him before the exile. The talked turned from adventures to politics and then to the current state of the realm, but all the while his mind remained at the task ahead. He would have so much to do, to change and to create. Memories faded back into his mind.
    The old castle which he was supposed to rule was beautiful. It was seated on a hill at the entrance to a shallow valley. The valley itself was surrounded by shallow mountain peaks, but behind them not that distant you could see the tall peaks, covered with snow even in the middle of the summer. The forests were thick and full of life. There were more deer in the lands surrounding the castle that there were people in the castle. There were no wolves in the woods but sometimes bears might be spotted near the small lake north of the castle or walking in the crystal clear waters of the many streams which crossed the woods farther away form the castle. The land itself was beautiful when he left it and fled in exile.
    The place where he had to seek refuge was by contrast bleak. It was surrounded by a sun scorched land. Grain was cultivated on that land but not near the city. The city itself was surrounded by shrubs and weeds. There were no threes except for those planted in the city. The seasons were different too, there was the long and harsh summer when the sun shinned everyday with great heat. There were summers when not even a cloud was seen on the sky. The head of those days drove people to the city's fountains. They were large and ornate things, carved out of white marble. Some had animals carved into them whilst others had plants or people carved while fighting brave battles. And then there were the winters. They were more similar to autumn or spring back in his homeland. It would rain for days without end but it never snowed. The city itself had never seen snow from what he heard. It was a huge city, bigger than Crown City where the king had his seat in his lost homeland. The city had to be large to host all the different people who lived or had business there. The city of Osmuall as it was called in his language, was the capital of a burgeoning empire that stretched on an island bigger than the continent where he came. Its people have fought wars to extend over to the other continents but were beaten. Some battles were even fought on the plains, the empire threatening to engulf his own land, but all that was in the past. When he was shunned from his homeland he joined the other thousands of exiles who came to this very city.
    He found a place at the barracks training new recruits, recruits who after training were given the title of warriors and were free to chose their fate. Some joined the royal army, others found their place as guards, but most joined the ranks of mercenary companies. That was how he met his new friend, the commander of the mercenary company with which he arrived back. It was him that eventually explained that things never happen without a purpose. The commander belonged to a foreign, exotic religion which preached above all else a purpose for everything that happened. Before his exile he never really was interested in religion, but now he found comfort in these foreign teachings , and the deeper he delved into them, the more he felt that his exile was something more than mere misfortune. After five years in exile, he understood what was needed of him. He was the one who would save the kingdom and return it to its long lost glory. The fact that the company commander supported him and that his old friends agreed to rise in revolt with him only strenghtened his resolve and belief of his destiny. The ships were the hardest to find, as they needed to be able to transport so many men and their weapons but with money everything was possible it seemed. He didn’t have that much money himself but he received chests full of golden coins from his old friend, the new Master Merchant. Things went perfectly with all the preparations it seemed so he had no more doubts about his destiny when he left the docks of Osmuall to face the sea and change history. Yet still fights lay ahead...
    They arrived to meet the rest of the army at sundown just as the plains turned to hills before the mountains. Not far before them lay the great vale that would take them to his homeland. It was narrow and a perfect place for an ambush, but the one who was supposed to hold it against enemies was the Border Lord himself who was on their side. They met the captains in a large tent prepared for the new king himself. The talk was short however. He considered it sufficient to learn their names, promise them rewards for loyalty when he sat the throne and tell them to prepare the men as tomorrow they will march through the vale and to war.

    Chapter 3


    Three days later they were on the far side of the vale, and three days after that they reached the outskirts of the land which was once his. They made camp on one of the mountain’s slopes overlooking the land and the enemy forces. The enemy forces were all gathered around the castle. He saw regular soldiers, archers and knights as well. Good men fighting for the wrong cause he thought. They were doomed however as he had more men than him and far better trained. He learned some tactics during his exile, but that did not make him a good commander. If the tales were true than his old enemy was just as incompetent as a leader, never having fought a battle with his army. Instead he was a good warrior so the exile knew that he could not kill him in single combat so he would have to count on his army to defeat him. As much as he wanted to lead his men he concluded that the best course of action would be to let the captains and commanders do the job they knew all too well how to do. These men were destined to be army leaders whilst he was destined to be the saviour of the realm. The men would have fought better for a king they knew and saw at the head of the army. But it was to risky that way. One traitor or enemy soldier hidden in his ranks with a bow or crossbow would have ended all their careful planning and doom the realm. He met his captains and council members in his own tent on the eve of the battle. That much he could still do. The mercenary company would be led by it’s own commander and captains, while the regular troops would be led by a supreme captain which they can choose among themselves. His old friend, the leader of the exile’s army would lead his men on a direct assault on the castle while the others push back and defeat the enemy army in their camp. The border commander would take most the knights from his army and use them to guard the king. While he could not be on the front line he would at least be present on the battlefield. The rest of the knights and riders would be used to charge the enemy on the flanks The battle was to take place late in the afternoon, when the enemy was not likely to expect it. The Rangers themselves would use the woods to their advantage, attacking the enemy from behind after the main attack started. With the battle’s main plan layed out, the exile gave them leave to go and prepare. He spent the rest of the day in his tent contemplating his decisions. Right or wrong there was no turning back now, the dice are cast and fate will now run its course.
    The attack started as planned. A rain of arrows fell on the enemy’s camp as the men armored with swords, pikes, spears, axes and whatever close range weapons they had marched steadily. The enemy struggled to form ranks but by the time they got to their positions it was too late. The enemy got overrun and steel clashed against steel among the enemy tents. In some places the enemy managed to push back the attack but that was when the riders came in from the unprotected flanks and killed any opposition in their charge. It was a surprise attack as the usurper expected the attack to come the next day and be at least heralded by trumpets or riders asking for their surrender. The guards he posted were killed silently by the Rangers who were clearing the way for the main attack. The enemy would have sent the knights and the mounted warriors against the attackers but they were already in combat struggling to form up in the tight places between the tents whilst the rangers were winning a swift victory. The Usurper placed all his mounted forces in the back of the camp in order to both keep it safe from the first attack and to ensure his men had room to gain speed as they charged on the attacker's ranks. Unfortunately his strategy failed thanks to the surprise attack. Slowly the enemy was losing ground in the camps but the way to the castle was still blocked by enemy forces and the hastly built ram could not reach the gates. The exile, seeing how the battle is almost won led the men that guarded him into a charge against the enemy to clear the road to the castle. He lead the charge across the battlefield seeing how both foe and friend dispersed form the charging horses as he made his way to the enemy on the slope leading to the castle gates. He lost half his men in the assault, some being impaled on spear or pulled down from their horses and killed. He sufered a wound himself to his left hand to a stray arrow fired by one of his own men, but the charge was successful, the way for the ram being cleared as men ran in retreat to the lower camps to regroup. There was no glimpse of the usurper as the lighting attack found him still preparing for battle inside the castle. The ram knocked the gate open in minutes and his men rushed inside killing the defenders. The exile had the arrow pulled out of his hand and joined the attack with his fellow men. By the time he entered the castle’s yard the battle was almost won with a few men still trying to fend off the attackers on the walls. The battle around the castle still raged on as he met with the Ranger Commander in the yard. The Border Lord joined them shortly declaring that the castle is taken and only a few still oppose them in the camps. The talk was interrupted as the Exile Commander joined them from inside the castle.
    EC: The castle is cleared. The usurper himself is gravely wounded and alone in the main hall with my guards. I thought you might want to see him face to face.
    They left the guards outside as the three of them entered the great hall. As the exile entered and close the door behind him he found the usurper dead on the high chair on the far side of the hall. Before he could take a closer look the felt a stab of pain in his left side. He looked and saw blood and an arrow shoved in him. As he turned he saw the ranger commander bow in hand and the Exile Commander heading to him with sword in hand. He pushed the Exile to the ground and put the point of the sword at his neck. The room was silent and empy except for the dead usurper, the exile, and his three old friends so the words echoed on the walls.
    EC: You’re alone now, no guards to guide you anymore and nobody to see you die. The men will hear that you died in single combat with the usurper. But they will care little as they have the rest of the war to fight..
    Exile: War.. Why...?
    BL: We said we wanted a new king, but that doesn't necessarily mean you. All that talk of a new just kingdom and destiny is a child’s dream. Yet we needed those mercenaries for our rebellion and none of us could have travelled to get them without rousing suspicion.
    RC: So we had to bring you with them back here. The Old King heard how an exile is coming to take a castle back so he sent only a token force here. If he heard there was full scale rebellion he would have brought all the armies here instead of leaving them scattered across the kingdom.
    BL: A shame that their contract expired so soon, but the Master Merchant is already negotiating with the mercenaries to join him, and the New King will put them to good use.
    Exile: New... king...? The wound was making it hard for him to speak.
    EC: We have another THRUE king we support. And while you were fighting the rallied army here, he was silently marching his own army from the north on the capital. The realm will have a new king in the next weeks, but it won’t be you...
    He lowered the point of the sword to his chest and stabbed him. The steel was cold and the pain sharp. As death crept his fingers on the exile only one last word crept from his dying lips.. "Betrayal..."


    The Colmar Misunderstanding - Entry #3
    The Colmar Misunderstanding The Colmar Misunderstanding

    It’s kind of ironic, the big planet corporations and governments spend billions, trillions of credits ensuring we all live happy fulfilled lives, or at least those with votes and money to spend. Yet the truly wealthy still need more. The Dobriskey System, one of the central systems, with trade runs going every which way bringing in trillions on trillions of tax revenue. Natural resources they hadn't even started to tap into. Oh yes, the president of Dobriskey was a very wealthy man – so what had he been doing slumming in Colmar? He could buy it with his own personal wealth many times over.

    Well, now he's dead and the newsfeeds and netizen commentators are calling it the “The Colmar Incident” – yet more irony, because incident hardly covers the loss of two entire fleets and innumerable other ships from the Apostle Class star cruisers down to battered, ancient planet hoppers. Not to mention the wiping of all life from parts of the Dobriskey system and a number of planetoids and other small “spin-worlds” thrown out of their orbit or spiked. All told, the current death totals is estimated at eleven trillion and they call it an incident.

    Tees Killen, that's me - the lead investigator attached to the Colmar System for the Federated Planets Treaty Organisation, though who I'm supposed to be leading is something they haven't shared yet. ”T” – yeah original nickname I know - the boss said, “T, just go find evidence that shows the Ward Brothers Consortium engineered this whole incident to justify them removing Dobriskey”. Yeah, the FPTO really wants an unbiased investigation here. So here I am, an old-fashioned gumshoe in a new-fangled universe, world weary and cynical, but somehow I know that Philip Marlowe never had the dames bossing him around – still I carried a bigger gun so some things even out I guess.

    Colmar, yeah that one you have heard all the bad stories about - an armpit of a spin-world, indeed one of the oldest spin-worlds where an asteroid with right “rugby-ball” shape is put into orbit around some planet and spun along its longitudinal axis. Then they hollow it out and the resulting orbital asteroid is then fitted out to be habitable inside. Some lucky citizens from somewhere overcrowded for Worlds like Colmar, or the rich for the really good Spins, are given keys to a shiny new profitable asteroid. Only someone forgot to put Colmar anywhere useful. Oh they thought so when it was spun up. It was put in orbit above an inhospitable ice world with massive glaciers and with water being a valuable commodity in the Spins and outer colonies it looked like a no-brainer – until they found the glaciers had thick layers of rock dust and volcanic ashes that made the cost of recovering the water too expensive compared to pretty much anywhere else and the water shippers moved out taking their money and workers with them.

    So with no profits Colmar didn't turn out to be the money spinner the owners wanted, but they still had to cover their costs – the banks always get their money - and took the easy way to make back money. If it is unethical, illegal, dangerous, toxic or anything you want kept from prying eyes and enquiring minds, then Colmar is the place for you. The brothels cater for every depravity known, and quite a few that were previously unknown. You want to gene splice an endangered species into your own DNA? No problem. Want to get some exotic, banned poisons for your own needs, Colmar can do that, want some exotic drug? Yeah we can do that too. Want to have sex with a three breasted, blue hermaphrodite – no problem. Those tales you've heard? They probably don't even approximate to the truth down here.

    Colmar will make you feel alive, frequently dead unless you know how to keep your guns ready and be willing to use them without having awkward moments of ethical debate in your mind. But this was my beat and I breathed in its sweet, savoury, pungent spicy life, a heady brew of toxins, bad beer, worse food and a liberal dosing of danger to give it all an aromatic piquancy that was too rich for many. Well that was my opinion, they probably just got scared of looking over both shoulders, straight ahead and behind all at the same time – Amir Smith, my predecessor as lead investigator lost the knack shortly before he lost his life. Shame, good man, bit dull at times but that made me lead – or so they claim anyway.

    Colmar certainly was a strange destination for the President of Dobriskey. The facts that everyone is sure of is that he was on Colmar and he died messily inside a Ward Brothers franchise hotel. Dobriskey claimed they sanctioned their Presidents death, a few hothead Dobriskey Starfleet types took it in their head to avenge their Presidents death. One thing led to another and Ward Brothers vastly superior fleet destroyed Dobriskey’s. As the fighting took place in Dobriskey space the Ward Fleet decided to chastise Dobriskey by burning their inner planets to a crisp. Up until then, it was a local disagreement, but the loss of life (so they said, more like the huge loss in revenue, mean the FPTO couldn't get a splinter up its collective ass anymore so they intervened with massive force.

    The Ward Brothers fleet was no match for the FPTO fleets, so the Ward Brothers Fleet of old star cruisers and planet hoppers was wiped out by the latest in FPTO naval technology - the loss of a star cruiser or two was an acceptable attrition rate. And now here we are, with the FPTO fleet and every other band-wagon jumping trade federation parked in the Ward Brothers home system waiting to carry out their own chastisement and pick all the nicest juiciest planets and contracts for themselves as a little reward for their efforts in supporting the winners. Some things never change and the corporate vultures circle when they smell death.

    In the interest of “transparency” my job is to show the Ward Brothers to be complicit in his death and therein lies a major problem, because the more I look, the less guilty they look. Sam Spade would not be fooled either. Either they are guilty and they're just making themselves look so guilty I’d think they were set up, or they've been well and truly stitched up. They were probably hoping for some corporate paper pushing investigator to trace a load of papers instead of a real detective wearing out shoe leather following real leads.

    Looks like some penny-pincher hired the wrong people to cover up the crime. The report said he died messily in the Ward Brothers Hilton, but hotel would be a generous description indeed of the establishment Mr President died in – oh they may have left the body at his suite in the Ward Brothers Hilton, but he definitely did not die there. I’d checked it out and the sim created by the local cops. It was messy alright, blood up all the walls and bits of gore dripping from the light fittings – the sim even kept in the retching of the first cop on the scene – but I’d seen worse.

    The blood spatter, broken windows and rifled drawers made to look like a robbery gone wrong but it was too gory a scene, the drawers were rifled too perfectly, everything that could be broken was broken – it just didn't fit. Someone carefully went through the room and then added a hefty dose of artistic license like they wanted judging on some murder-flic. Even the laziest alcoholic hack reporter would know that finding a dead body in a hotel room hardly made the owners complicit. And so we had yet another Colmar Misunderstanding as we locals called it - an off-worlder makes a final misjudged misadventure in the darker depths of our happy little asteroid and gets shipped home in a neat package – or maybe just dropped out of an airlock.

    It had cost me a few thousand credits, a couple of intimidations and rather more favours called in that I wished I’d not burnt - I had been saving them for my retirement - but now I stood outside the Purple Dragon Massage Parlour and knew I had my real murder scene. Even for Colmar, the Purple Dragon had a bad reputation and that is saying something. A more disreputable, seedier and dangerous place you couldn't hope to find. Now I'm not saying the Ward Brothers are angels, far from it, but even they would stay clear of a place like the Purple Dragon. Anyone with any brains not in a chemical haze would stay clear of the Purple Dragon unless they had business or worked there.

    I was staying concealed in plain sight. Dressed like an off-Worlder with money to burn and no scruples, I was casing the place from over the road in a street parlour – looking like I was just losing the last vestiges of my morals before entering the place to lose the last of my credits too.

    Their security bots had cased me already and marked me as a potential customer. Mr Wang was heading my way now, mincing over in his improbably high purple boots and fishnets, purring at me in a false mixed accent, part Chinese, part Mexican and parts unknown. “Hi, you look like discerning hombre - you want girl? boy? both? young or old? I have all of that and everything in between. Hells, I can give you all that in same room at once, come Amigo, let me show you a real brothel. You want president special? That cost extra and could be bad for you soul” He laughed a weird strangled castrato - Colmar really did have everything, even that which had been outlawed centuries ago.

    Looks like my hunch was right, yeah like that was a surprise – when in doubt, suspect the worst and you'd be right more often than not - they'd even taking to boasting about it – someone very high and very rich was protecting the Purple Dragon and I'd need every ounce of my Colmar bred smarts to stay alive now. “Lead on Senor McDuff, I have some credits I shouldn't have, just aching to get spent quick before someone comes looking.”

    I was committed now, I just hoped I could continue to stay one step ahead – if they could kill a President with impunity, a smart-aleck private dick was not going to cause them to lose sleep – but I had one thing in my favour – I was born on Colmar and nothing would surprise or scare me here.


    Crossing the Street - Entry #4
    Crossing the Street
    Crossing the Street


    Chapter One:

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    It was the usual sweltering circumstance for the month of August in the beautiful township. People always envisaged the long expected monsoon to be uninterrupted, so as to deliver them from the affliction caused by the tropical heat. But it was not to be; the secret pact between sun and the rain held out .Heat would once again exert its position as the master of the early August days, just to remind people of the order of things.
    The golden yellowish morning haze bounced off the roads, trees and dwellings, all lost in a putrid air of humidity. People endured the suffocation in different ways, some with their kerchiefs wound around their visage, and some with their slumped heads towards the ground.

    The architect himself was perspiring incessantly, with beads of salty sudor marching over his forehead. He made his way across the familiar left bend of the main street, flanked by neatly pruned green grass. Everyday he made it a point to walk from his house to his car pool, which would take him to his office.
    In the distance he could see the grocery shop, intertwined within the tall Eucalyptus trees of pale complexioned barks, marked by abstract auburn strips. He had always been fascinated by those trees. At the first glance they may seem out of place in such a tropical area, but ultimately caught up in the flow of time, they rather succeeded in enunciating the aesthetics of the neighborhood.

    In any case, strangely the traffic today seemed to be of greater intensity. Letting off a sigh of weariness blended with relief, he could see the shop diagonally across. His car was waiting just a little way from there. But there was something else that caught his attention.

    There was an old man standing awkwardly with his walking stick, not too far away beside the shop. His demeanor was slightly bent, almost as if carrying the weight of age, significantly lowering his actual height. His close cropped hair was strikingly white, without any bald patch. The wrinkles of his pale face, gifted by the passage of time, seemed to line like dykes cut across an irrigation field. They twitched and fretted along with his contrastingly clear, sharp eyes. For a moment those eyes seemed to gaze intently at the architect, before continuing on with their busy motion.
    It was pretty obvious to the architect that the old man wanted to cross the street. But what was more striking was the rudeness of the daily morning “chatterboxes” surrounding the shop. They didn’t even seem to notice the existence of the old man, let alone help him cross the street.
    “What has the world come to?” he thought to himself.
    But despite his frank intention of helping the man out, the compulsion of going to office in time, did not allow him so. Softly clenching his fist, he cut across the street and continued on his way, without looking at the man. For some reason he could not shrug off a weak thread of shame sparingly bound to him.

    Unable to hold his constraint, he looked back after a while. A light gale began to emanate across the street, perhaps soothing the spirits of many a wayfarer. The old man’s posture was as it was, but his plain grey clothes got caught up in the breeze, fluttering away as if in a dance of joy.


    Chapter Two:

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The next day turned out to be partly cloudy. A positive sign nevertheless, but it was as humid as the day before. This time a bisque effervescence shrouded all over the air, inconspicuously acting as the agent of heat. The slumped heads were less this time, but the buzzing traffic was the same.

    The architect was once again engaged in his familiar “morning walk”, around the familiar lush callow bend. He took slow steady steps, lost in his own thoughts, some reluctantly related to the trials and tribulations of his job. Yesterday, he had been mildly reprimanded by his boss, over some unavoidable incident, for which he was very little to blame. But that is how things are done; after all he was a professional.
    Grown bitter with the order of things, his soul searched for the opening that pervaded cold composure; that bypassed curt reasoning. It was like, his senses wanted to break through the chains of the illusion that allowed mundane stratifications and daily drudgery. Instead he endeavored to wander through the reality of “tangerine trees and marmalade skies*”.

    Eyeing the familiar group of Eucalyptus trees, his thoughts drifted instinctively to yesterday.
    “The old man must have crossed the road by now” he thought, the presumed inevitability of his presumption, putting a wry smile on his face.
    But as if by some blunder of nature, part of his rumination seemed to coalesce into reality. In the distance, consumed by the light creamy blush, he could make out the similar bent figure, standing by the other side of the street, aided by the similarly forlorn stick. This time dressed in shallow tawny clothes, the prominent whiteness of the old man’s hair stood out in the kaleidoscopic frame of green, grey and bisque.
    The surrealism of the situation overwhelmed the architect to some degree. He stopped short of his walk quite involuntarily; a shadow of doubt hovering in his mind. At first he observed the old man, making sure if he wanted any help. Like almost in some telekinetic response, the old man started to fidget his head around the cardinal directions, making it fairly obvious that he wanted to cross the street.

    The tedious process started in the architect’s mind. He started to walk again, his keen eyes searching for any other person who might help the old fellow, before he could intrude; but there was none. He slackened his pace with delitescence, his senses pushing on the verge, his legs shaking imperceptibly to cross the street, his arms prepared to escort the old man; but alas his focus was lost in a whirl. For a moment, seemingly an invisible but instigating force drove him on, as he made past the old man in a blur. There was no doubt about his willingness to help, but perhaps the hesitation lied with his intrinsic ability, his adamant weakness.

    Today he didn’t notice the similar soft gush of wind waving in the street, for he never even looked back. There was that blush of searing fever that encompassed his head; he knew the thread of shame was now tightly wound around him. The irrationally logical excuses formulated by his weak side were all being eviscerated by the inherent congestion that filled his senses.

    He went home silently and after that made his way to his office; before time.


    Chapter Three:

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The new morning brought new hope. There was a slight chill in the air, carrying on the effect of the light drizzle in the dawn. The sweet wholesome fragrance of the moist ground cover filled the air. Ironically, the obscurity of the grayish-black sky lightened up the spirits of most of the township inhabitants.

    The architect was sitting by his light blue shaded porch. The lucid shimmer of the wet leaves, the variant hues of green, violet and chrome glazed by the miniscule beads of the dawn rain and the fresh air undeceived by the contriving heat, all seemed to conspire to soothe his spirits. The bitterness steadily subsided, instead filled by an expected strange calmness, like the lull “after” the storm. The clarity of the matter echoed throughout his soul. He knew the time for “realization” had come, as he double checked his watch.

    He once again made his way through the bend, with his soul illuminated, and his senses fluttering in anticipation. His stare searched for the old man, through the lingering grayness of the air. For a moment his vision failed him; but as if the very wind whispered in his ears and he saw the image of the old man standing in the distance. He could vividly make out the old man’s stark white clothes caught up in the play of the shadow and the breeze.
    He took steady steps, the calmness fervently reciprocated off his disposition. Now he could make out the wrinkle lined face, and the ubiquitous black umbrella, instead of the walking stick; all the while the old man’s melancholic eyes meeting his own. Today the traffic was lighter than usual with even the grocery shop being desolate. The architect made his way with measured briskness across the street, directly towards the old figure.
    He could see the benevolent stare; nigh he could feel it. There was no scope for faltering now.
    Finally he came face to face.
    “Sir would you like to cross the street?” the architect spoke out in an orderly fashion befitting his position, but disguising his apparent premonition.
    The old man gave him that idiosyncratic look, but his toothless aperture slowly coalesced into a subtle beam, as the cords of his wrinkles seemed to unfasten. The pale visage emanated a blushful serenity. Without a word and quite unpretentiously, the old man caught a firm hold of the architect’s right elbow. Mildly daunted, the architect started moving forward as gently as he could.

    Finally, the odd pair made it across the street as if in some kind of a solemn procession. Like a natural gimmick it seemed, a light drizzle started once again. The old man letting go of the architect’s hand, briskly opened up his umbrella with sudden dexterity. He finally turned towards the architect, and awkwardly peeking from underneath the umbrella, nodded his head slightly in show of appreciation; his eyes exuding that curious but worldly gleam. The uptight wrinkles were bound once again, as he turned away. The architect watched the figure of the old man slowly disappear in the vagueness of the light shower.

    He felt that unabashed contentment, beginning to reverberate through his spirit. The deep intimate joy consumed him; he alone felt it, he alone savored it. He realized he wasn’t weak by nature, he wasn’t weak by circumstance. It was all just an illusion of weakness.

    “Sir!” a voice seemed to wake him up from his dream. He indifferently turned around to see the grocery shopkeeper, calling out from the other side of the street. He was standing in front of his shop.
    “What?” the architect asked curtly.
    “Sir is something wrong?” inquired the shopkeeper, seemingly with genuine concern.
    “What…what are you talking about”? he stared quizzically.
    The shopkeeper replied “Sir you seemed to be preoccupied with something. A while ago a scooter narrowly missed you, as you were crossing the street by yourself.”

    The architect could feel the wrinkles in his face.


    Redemption - Entry #5
    Redemption
    Damian looked up, the tall oaks around him stretched to match the monstrosities that were the mountains. A drop of sweat dropped from his chin and landed on the neck of his mount. His hair was soaked with sweat, as well was the thin linen shirt he wore beneath his leather, mail and plate. It is too hot for armor today, he thought as they exited the deep forest and grassy plains emerged before them. Wild horses and great bulls grazed there, no hedges limited their freedom. Damian paused for a moment to admire the beauty of it, freedom, sweetness without obligations and requirements.

    The battle beneath the walls of Jerusalem was still burned to his memory. He remembered the pale faces of his lord and his sons, the blood had vanished, escaping through the gaping holes in neck, chest and gut. With his own hands he had dug the graves, lay them to rest and with the spade he had clapped the earth covering their bodies. They would like that, he had thought as he rode from the city with Richard Lionheart, the King of England. The lone survivor of the men who had followed Lord Robert to war, to the crusades, Damian was determined to bring the news to the widowed and the fatherless.

    Beside him rode Sir Thomas, sturdy and silent as always. The former Templar had left his white tunic and his red cross emblazoned cloak at Jerusalem. “They are no longer mine to bear,” he had said with the face of a relieved, though oddly sad, man. “I now have more pressing and darker burdens.” The knight had promised to follow Damian as far as Switzerland, his home, but here they were in the middle of France and still together.

    “Old Lionheart made a mistake,” the knight said as he broke the silence that surrounded them in the place of the ancient forests. After attacking a series of castles and strongholds on his way through Europe King Richard had finally lost, his whole army scattered across the lands.

    “He had no choice,” Damian answered. “The Throne is in heavy debt and the commoners suffer at home from taxation so the coffers in London do not stay scraped. He needed the money, especially after we paid the German lords ransom for Lionheart. War is a costly affair, you know this, so don’t blame the King.” Damian continued grumpily. As they had to go around the mountainous home of the Swiss, Sir Thomas had become less and less pleasant company. Without the prospect of seeing his long lost home and family, the knight had faded to a state where he sat on his horse, answering bluntly at Damian’s failed attempts at making conversation and at night he would make his provisional bed without a word.

    During the attack they had been lucky to end up together as they retreated. As they assaulted the holdfast in the thick forest, they were placed on different sides of the wooden castle. Whilst the rams hammered at the gates, a hostile army had crept up on the unknowing English army and launched an attack from behind. Damian had caught a glimpse of the King falling off his mount, at which point the whole army routed. Cursing himself at his lack of honor, Damian had followed in the footsteps of the men-at-arms, peasants and archers who were seeking a safe rescue from what quickly turned into hell on earth.

    The following night Damian stumbled upon Sir Thomas, the former Templar, and together they made first for Switzerland, but then had to change course into Italy and across the Pyrenees into France. Without the ability to travel the roads as two knights clad in English colors would quickly raise suspicion, even amongst the smallfolk. So they rode in the wild, choosing areas that were sparsely populated when given the option. Damian would not even think about how they would reach Normandy without getting taken by the French. He had not dared thinking it, not suspecting they would reach as far as they had. But now, the thought crept into his mind as he waggled back and forth in his saddle.

    Damian could see to the west the sun setting, leaving beautiful red velvet behind as it descended behind the mountains. They found an opening in the mountain, fitting for making camp. The crack began at seven feet and the breadth slowly lowered as the crack got thinner and thinner until it disappeared completely. As usual Damian left to gather some wood for a fire and Thomas began unloading the horses and leaving out their sleeping places. As Damian began plucking wood from the ground he heard the knight dropping his armor hard to the ground.

    When Damian returned, his arms filled with bundles of firewood, Thomas was vanished. The young knight quickly removed the straps of his armor and let it fall, the chainmail soon following. Clad in leather and a light linen tunic only Damian suddenly heard the clang of metal on rock. That was the shoe of a knight’s armor, Damian thought. He looked inwards, listening for more noises. He heard some grunting and quickly followed into the darkness that was where he had thought the cave ended.

    Damian scrambled over the sharp stones and felt his hands sticky with his own blood. He felt his eyes getting used to the darkness, soon being able to make out the contours of the ground before him. Not long after, Damian found Thomas, sitting at the ground on his knees in the middle of something that reminded Damian slightly of a room. The light from the moon was oddly shining through a hole just over the knight’s head and directly down at him. As Damian drew closer, he could see Sir Thomas was holding something in his hands.
    “What are you doing, Thomas, walking off on your own at night? I was beginning to get worried about you,” Damian said, standing stupidly behind him and feeling like a nanny on her way to collect the children for bed.

    “There is nothing to worry about,” the knight said, as if in a trance. “At least not what you are worrying about. England, the castle, home, all those things you talk about, they are written all over your face, even blind men can see you are worried and seeking redemption. We live our lives as fools, do we not? We go on, fight our daily battles and go satisfied to bed every night. We forget our true purpose, the very reason we walk this earth. Brave men talk boldly of destiny, some even of making their own destiny. Only God can give true redemption, Damian.”

    “Aye, I know. I go to church, Thomas, every day. I know the things the priests say, but I also know it is darn hard to live up to.”

    “Damian, you are young, you are brave, you are knowledgeable and cunning. Yet you know nothing, Damian,” Thomas said, turning slowly towards the younger.

    “What do you mean, Thomas? You are tired, we should go to bed.”

    “Damian, this . . . this is the Holy Grail. From legends of King Arthur, Sir Lancelot and Sir Galahad.” Thomas held the cup he was holding up to the light, Damian could see inscriptions and miniature paintings emblazoned on it and he could feel it.

    Damian felt redemption.
    Last edited by Hader; September 14, 2012 at 01:16 PM.

  2. #2
    StealthFox's Avatar Consensus Achieved
    Content Emeritus Administrator Emeritus

    Join Date
    Nov 2010
    Location
    GA
    Posts
    8,170

    Default Re: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction

    Scars - Entry #6
    Scars
    Scars

    I have many; some can be seen upon my body, others go deeper, they sit in the furthest recesses of my mind, waiting to be picked open once more, never really healing, never really closing, and always waiting for a memory, a scent or a sound to trigger them back into action.

    I am an old man now, in my lifetime I have seen many things, things that have gladdened my heart, whilst others have made me question mans’ humanity and the existence of any omnipotent being.

    But like all old men I meander away from the subject I wish to talk about, its about one memory, a distant summer ago, a time when I was strong of body and full of the vigour of youth.

    A letter with a small card inside had fallen through my letterbox; I had picked it up from the hallway floor and meant to leave it on the small table that held my telephone; ready to open in the evening when I returned from work.

    Something had made me look at the small stencilled wording embossed on the top of the letter.

    On His Majesty’s Service

    I froze, it couldn’t be could it? My hands shook as I opened up the letter, the letter opened easily, and I pulled the card out of the letter willing it to be wrong.

    It was my call-up

    I had been lucky I had avoided conscription as I was in an essential service, I was a train engineer, but last year I had been promoted to depot supervisor.

    I hadn’t realised I was not exempt anymore!

    I could appeal I suppose, but that would make me look a coward, no I would report as it said to my local conscription centre.


    {-------------------------------------}

    I scrambled down the cargo netting on the side of the destroyer, one hand on the rope-work and the other holding onto my Lee-Enfield. I landed in the landing craft with a thump; the small craft was bucking and moving around wildly in the heavy seas of the channel.

    The engine started up, and we pulled away from the large destroyer; I was glad the boat was moving; at last we were heading for land, for Normandy….and the Germans.

    I had had twelve weeks of training, and had then been told that I made an ‘excellent combat infantryman for a railway driver’, I felt a bit queasy as the landing craft made its way through the heavy swell I could hear the large guns of the ships pounding the beach ahead of us, as we got closer the sound of small arms could be heard, the familiar sounds of British arms, and an unfamiliar crack-crack that old hands told me was the sound of MG42s.

    I gripped my rifle with both hands; I would soon be on that beach ‘Gold’ beach, as it had been called.

    The sounds of gunfire intensified and the landing craft slowed and the front ramp dropped into the surf, ‘OUT NOW, MOVE IT!,’ our sergeant shouted at us to get us moving, I ran out into a storm of sound and metal, I ran straight up that beach, forgetting to zigzag until my right foot caught on something and I tripped over, just as I did a burst of machine gun fire went over my prone form, my trip had saved my life.

    I wondered what I had tripped over; I looked to my left and saw that a body had made me fall. I gingerly rolled the body over and saw a face, well half a face really, that I recognised, Foster, that was his name, a private from C platoon, half his face shot away, he was two years younger than me, nineteen years old. Dead.

    I think I realised then just how lucky I had been, I could so easily have copped it on that beach, running like an idiot straight into the mouth of an MG42.

    I decided that if I was going to make it off that beach I would need to stick to my training.

    Throughout my trip I had somehow managed to hang onto to my rifle, I edged myself out from behind Foster’s corpse and crawled my way slowly up the beach.

    Fate had been kind to me so far and it dealt me another break, when I peered up and noticed that the piece of beach in front of me was consisted of only entrenched positions and not the heavy concrete bunkers that lined the rest of the beach.

    I saw my first Germans

    A young man stood hunched over an MG42, his colleague feeding the steel black monster with an ammunition belt. They were focussed entirely on a small group of men in my right, I was as yet unnoticed, and I sighted my rifle and tried to steady my nerves.

    My heart was beating like a hammer on a blacksmith’s anvil, but I breathed in and held my breathe. I looked down the sights and aimed at the gunner’s torso, I squeezed the trigger, and the men whipped away disappearing from my sight, his colleague’s head snapped to were I was, his lips moving in a German insult no doubt, he dropped the belt feed and grabbed for the MG42, as he laid his hands on the weapon, I sighted and squeezed again, this time I had shot to the head; the man again went from my sights, and the small group of soldiers, rushed for the now open position and after a brief flurry of shots they beckoned me forward.

    I went forward at the crouch, although it seemed that opposition was fairly light now, as when I took a look around, our lads seemed to be in control of the majority of the beach.

    I reached the men who had been pinned down, they patted me on the back and shoulders and congratulated me on my sharp shooting; my eyes turned to the Germans I had killed, the first face looked at me with dark accusing eyes, a young man no older than me, I swallowed a guilty lump back down my throat; I then looked at the other man, he had the kind of face that belonged on a kindly old Grandfather, he looked quite peaceful laying there, his gaze locked on the sky, the tell-tale sign of a bullet entry in the forehead the only giveaway that something was not quite right.

    That was my introduction to warfare; a memory that has stayed with me ever since, a memory that is made starker still now that when I look in a mirror I see a kindly Grandfather’s face staring back at me.


    Don't Keep Your Day Job - Entry #7
    Don't Keep Your Day Job I can't remember how many hours I had been staring at my computer screen. Or perhaps I had fallen asleep. All that mattered was that it was one in the morning and I still hadn't managed to type a single word. Writer's block, the bane of my existence. Oh well, it couldn't be helped. I slowly stood up and began to stretch my tired limbs out, then grabbed my coat and headed out the door of my office. Everyone else was long gone, the building technically shut down at seven, but I was high enough up in management that I could practically live here. The only sound that reached my ear was my heavy footsteps as I took a right after the third door, then a left after the following five. I arrived at the break room thirsty for something, anything, that could wet my dry throat. As long as it gave me time to think about something other than my writing.

    I found an unopened water bottle in the fridge, left there by some intern who had but a fleeting moment of spare time. He wouldn't miss it; he probably wouldn't make it back to the break room for another week. I tried to take my time in order to drag out my break as long as possible, but after the third sip I had had enough and began to gulp it down as quickly as I could to ease my thirst. Just as I held the bottle completely upright to my mouth, and the last drop left the container, I heard a familiar voice.

    "Maybe you should keep your own drinks here. It seems like every night you're raiding someone else's stash from the fridge." I turned to see a tall, thin man, or creature rather, dressed in a slightly worn but still stylish suit that appeared custom fit for the being.

    "Oh, hey Slender. I thought I told you to start knocking on doors?"

    "I don't actually use doors, remember?"

    "Guess not. Anyway, how was your day?"

    "The same as yours; boring, uneventful, and unproductive."

    "Who says my day was any of those things?"

    "Your blank computer monitor." He had me there. "Moonlighting as a writer just isn't working out for you. Maybe you would blend in better if you tried being a detective."

    "A detective pretending to be a detective. Why didn't I think of that." I said with a shrug. I couldn't tell what was going on in Slender's mind, what with him not actually having a face and all, but since we were on good terms I knew he was really just trying to help. We had met about three years ago, when I had just become involved in all the conspiracy detective thing. I thought it was all a joke, but I needed a paycheck and they didn't care what my background was. The less the knew the better, my boss had said. My first job was to go out to a plant owned by a client and see if someone was tampering with his machinery. I was told I would be meeting my partner there, someone who "knew the business better than anyone." Nobody had told me that the plant was for all purposes abandoned, or that not a single light worked in that pit of darkness. I spent half the night slowly creeping through the corridors of that massive plant, silently panicking at every noise, before I turned a corner and found myself face to face with a ten foot tall monster. I'm not going to lie, I'm fairly certain that I wet my pants there. But somehow he calmed me down, told me that he had been waiting for me. When I asked why he didn't just walk up to me he said he wasn't very good at approaching people when they were looking at him. It made sense, in hindsight.

    We didn't find anything unusual going on at the plant that night, but that was the night I knew I had gotten myself involved in something serious. The job I had taken was for a supernatural detective, making sure all manner of creatures didn't cause anyone any harm. It turned out that a select few of those creatures were on "our side," again the words of my boss, and the Slender Man happened to be one. Go figure. It took me a year to get adjusted to all the stuff we did, all the bizarre creatures we met, and all the tactics I had to study. I had to learn to not acknowledge the monsters when others no in the know were around, as apparently they only can be seen by certain people at certain times...or something. I'm still foggy on that one. I had to find a cover job, or jobs in my case, as my first gig as a plumber didn't go so well. So here I was, a monster detective who could use his pistol and his mind equally, working as a writer for a newspaper company and having a casual conversation with a ten foot tall creature that specialized in stalking people. And it was only Tuesday.

    "Something on your mind Wallace? You haven't said anything for the past five minutes."

    "Sorry, I forgot that my monologues happen in real time."

    "It gets the best of us. But you should really look for a better cover job. One that pays you more too. It's not like you can just exchange the creature coins they give you for your work for human currency."

    "Alright alright, I'll look for work tomorrow. Or in the morning, I forgot it was so late. So since you're here, I assume we have a job?"

    "It's the Rake. He was sighted down at the docks, and apparently someone approached him. You know what happens next I'm sure."

    "What's the kill count stand at right now?" I asked as I walked over to the far wall and moved the water cooler over just slightly and pulled out my key.

    "Seven, including one detective."

    I placed my key into a small crack in the wall, and gave it a small turn. A click was heard, followed by a panel opening up, revealing my gear. I slowly picked up my revolver, freshly polished yesterday, and placed it and a couple reloads worth of ammunition into my suit's inside pocket. "Well then, we have no time to waste. Time to end our little stalemate."

    I'm almost certain I saw Slender smile. Tonight was going to be interesting.


    Baptism by Fire - Entry #8
    Baptism by Fire
    Baptism by Fire
    (Historical fantasy)

    That valley was full of mud and a thick, smelly fog was rising from those moors. It was the shortest, unexpected way to Lord Cerwyn’s fortress, that lying, treacherous bastard. At least that’s what sergeant Smithy told us.
    “Boys, we’ll teach that so-called Lord a lesson” laughed Smithy with his rough, drunkard voice. “Yeah, right, d’you think this whelp of a King is good enough to lead us to victory?!” said old Halleck, a veteran of a hundred battles. “We never saw this boy-king before…his father the late King, God rest his soul, kept him hidden behind those tall walls at York…”, “by the Devil”, said Garth, a mid-age mercenary, cutting old Halleck’s words, “who knows what kind of mad man leads us to death and damnation”…”Aaahhh, who the cares, as long as we get paid in the end!” said Smithy almost annoyed by all the chatter…”You are all paid soldiers of the King and you’ll act as ones, you bastards!!!”…”Not me, I don’t do it for gold” I said. “What for then, lad?!” asked Garth. “Well, I lost everything dear to me, my newborn child, my wife and my parents…I got nothing to lose”, I confessed.” I hope I’ll die today, at least that will do some good…”, the bitter thought hit me.
    “I wonder why have the Great Lords remained so far behind?...I asked…trying to change the subject. ”Why, little greenhorn, this poor of a King marched us, like Hell was itching our feet, for the last two days, or were you pissing your pants all the way…and missed all the fun?! Answered amused old Halleck. “The Grand Army of the Lords is not so far behind us, ‘tis only this damned fog that cuts our sight and hearing…” said Garth, looking at me with his one good eye, while the other was filled with a round piece of iron, having a painted eye on it.
    “All them Lords of the Kingdom came to spit in the face of that worm of a knight that accused our King, as weakling as he might be, of being a bastard and not worthy of wearing the crown…” snored Smithy. “Eleven Lords, with twice our numbers army and we are well ahead and maybe ridding into an ambush as we speak.”…”Yeah, lord Gray, lord Bolton, the baron Farnan, Counts Redding and Hartless…they’re not that stupid…let the boy-king break his neck and then take all glory for themselves”, laughed Garth.
    This was an endless march, my hands were numb and the heavy shield that I was carrying seemed heavier than ever. The spear’s handle was wet and slippery and my half-helmet was falling over my eyes…well that, I guess, was a sorry sight of a royal soldier…but after two days of restless march, who wouldn’t look like that…not to mention the fear…you do not get used to the fear…that was the most tiresome of all. At that point, I had no thought of living…it was my first battle and I did not intended to see it to the end, all hope was lost for me. The pain of seeing my family slaughtered under my eyes, was a nightmare that haunted me night and day, an endless Hell.
    “Not far now…I reckon Cerwyn is praying all his gods to save him” said Smithy, “we’ll come over him like a storm from Heavens”…”well that was brave Smithy…you old rooster…let us see you when the fighting starts, and then we’ll talk”…grinned Halleck.
    Suddenly, somewhere on our right, a warhorn broke through the fog. “, here comes our traitor…had no patience waiting for us in his little castle…took the fight outside!” bellowed Garth…”Brace yourself boy!” told me Halleck with a worried look on his grim, full of scars, face.
    Orders began to pour from the captains. Muffled voices filled the valley, trying to put order into the ranks. “Smithy !!!...take your boys and cover the center of the line…go now…!!! cried, through the visor of his feathered helmet, a horseman all covered in iron.
    After we got to our place I heard old Halleck saying…”What the ?!...is this a joke?...where is the enemy coming from?...they don’t even know…look at them running around like mice in a barrel.” “He, he, he… that’s what you get when you follow a dumb of a King”, said Garth…”Shut up you stupid runts…this is treason you’ve been talking all morning…stop that or you won’t have to fear Cerwyn anymore!!!” cried Smithy.
    The tension was rising, as the enemy wasn’t showing any sign, as they were toying with us…with our nerves. All around me soldiers were swearing, between teeth, stumping the mud with impatience…I was thinking,” better start the damn slaughter already”, this silence was harder to bear then anything. My feet started shaking all of a sudden, I was sweating heavy and my chain tunic was smothering me.” Wake up!!! Greenhorn…here they come”…bellowed Halleck…I soon realized that my feet weren’t only shaking because of fear…there was also heavy cavalry coming straight to us.
    “Just do what we do and you’ll stay alive, lad” smiled at me for the first time Garth. “Alive…If he only knew…”. I put my shield between those of Halleck and Garth, fixed it in the cold mud, gripped my long spear and pointed its tip towards the ridding storm ahead. Dark riders at first, black silhouettes, bringers of death, closer and closer, their hooves shaking the earth…that is a sight I’ll never forget. “Well, I’ll be damned…aren’t those the flags of our lords allies?!” shouted, almost amused Halleck. ”No matter, we’ll stay our ground…friend or foe…they shall die by our spears!!!” cried Smithy…”Steady, steady boys….”. They charged without a second thought, as if we were the real enemy…but then again, ”maybe we were their real enemy”, I thought with horror. The mud was deep and hanged to everything, the heavy horses lost their momentum and their charge was a lot weaker then I expected. One knight charged directly at me…I crouched beneath my tower shield and kept my spear high…I felt a hard hit towards the tip and then a heavy weight over my shield. I was caught under it, pressed under the mud by the dead weight of the war horse…a hand like made of iron dragged me from down under…”Well done lad…first kill…right to the neck…”, grinned Garth. By then, the valley was filled with horse’s whinnying, steel against steel clashing. Our rows moved in perfect order, slaughtering the turncoat cavalry. After a few minutes, everything went silent. A bloodied knight, ridding on his white stallion, was now leading the army. “Who the hell is that? asked Halleck…”Why, it’s our whelp of a King”, said proudly Smithy. “He don’t look like much of a whelp, no more…” Garth spoke in awe.
    The moment of rest was gone. The infantry of the enemy charged, screaming. The Hell broke loose. Swords, maces, spears and shields were clashing and bashing, wounded cried, cowards wept for their mothers and our king’s cavalry trampled everything beneath. The enemy was twice our numbers and soon we began to retreat. “No retreat!!!” cried the captains…”Stand your ground men!!!” bellowed the sergeants. I was keeping close to my protectors, Garth and Halleck, back to back, keeping our shields between us and the enemy. I was fighting, but that was not for me anymore, but for those men around me and for their families that, maybe, were waiting for them at home. ”Right, as if we could run anywhere, ehh?”…cried Halleck…”We are completely surrounded, there is no retreat anyway…” said Garth, but there was no despair in his voice, only cold steel. I kept hacking with my sword and felt it slashing through chains and bones. I soon forgot about fear and cold, even the death-wish that tormented my mind every second was by now forgotten. I only felt sweat and the heat of the battle. When I turned left, I saw Garth barely standing on his feet, with an axe stuck into his shoulder…”Don’t mind me boy…stay alive…” those were his last words as a spear went through his chest. Those words stayed with me since then. I tried to avenge his death, but the foe was a hulk clad in dark iron. “What nightmare are you from?!” I shouted in despair and charged him with all my strength. Old Halleck was there too. We both struck him, but he just kept fending our hits and attack at the same time. A cry of death beside me and I saw Halleck pierced by a sword from back to front… he died in an instant. Now they were two against me…a greenhorn…two heavy blows over my shield and it had gone into bits. I was lying into the mud, my arm broken…I wasn’t hearing anything but my heartbeat…the battle was gone…somewhere far away…but the danger was creeping out for me…I saw the heavy axe of the dark foe rising through the mists…I was waiting for that moment for a long time…I was ready to embrace death, my salvation… a shadow, an angel suddenly came over an beheaded the enemy knight. I had but a second to raise and look at my savior, the knight was on a white horse and wore a thin golden crown over his helmet.
    I was looking for a weapon, any weapon…a voice kept telling me “stay alive…stay alive…”. I heard a heavy thump coming from our right flank. “We are doomed!!!” they cried, but instead of our foes, Lord Cerwyn was striking the real turncoats with his heavy cavalry.
    It soon turned into a rout. I forgot about the pain and run after any enemy in sight. A madness crept inside my head. I wanted blood, I craved for revenge. I killed any foe that was standing in my way, until there were none left.
    A heavy darkness then came over me and I felt down, senseless. When I woke, the sky was clear and the sun was shining bright. “They planned it all along…the Eleven Great Lords wanted to kill the King that day”…some captains said. “God save King Henry !!!” everyone shouted. “ Indeed, God save King Henry, for He saved me…”.

    The End




    -Originally a NON FICTION entry-
    The Roman Ideal in Imperial Governance - Entry #9
    The Roman Ideal in Imperial Governance
    The Roman Ideal in Imperial Governance

    The success of the Roman imperial model relied upon a strong ethos of responsibility among the ruling class, the absorption of regional practices into a regionally acceptable culture that reconciled local customs with Roman political control, and the desire to manage the provinces fairly. These factors contributed to the development of a broad imperial culture. This imperial culture encompassed such traditional values as pietas and virtus in an extended way. Where imperial officials failed to provide avenues for cultural meshing, develop the will to rule without corruption, or carry out the functions of their offices, regions would often descend into states of near rebellion or low productivity. Provincial magistrates did not always act justly or fairly, but as an ideal the stress placed upon fair rule and justice demonstrates the type of behavior Romans valued. The failure of regional rebellious groups and strong regional liberation movements illustrates that these Roman values bonded the empire. Rome’s enemies gained strength and momentum when Roman administration fractured into corrupt or unjust practices and brought pronounced prosperity to the regions under benevolent and fair leaders. Therefore, the Roman ideals and culture complement the historical reality. Where Roman governors practice just administration, fairness, and cultural syncretism, Roman rule remains largely uncontested. When subject peoples are treated poorly, problems arise.
    The dutiful way in which the aristocratic ruling class carried out their responsibilities demonstrates the binding nature of imperial administration. Just as emperors and city officials oversaw the daily operations of Rome, provincial officials strove to administer Roman law and government abroad. Pliny’s account of the law courts in Rome reveal that men of Senatorial rank held vital responsibilities within the city despite the presence of the emperor. These duties may not have always been particularly thrilling, but the tone of the letter expresses a resignation to the fact that men of his rank must perform the necessary tasks for the good of the empire as a whole[1]. Pliny’s chief complaint lies in his opinion that the quality of blossoming imperial officials is in decline. Ignoring the interjection of his own bias, the letter reveals a concern for the future of urban administration. In a different letter, Pliny gives an account of the way in which a high profile court case proceeded. In this case, Pliny details the delicate manner in which a politically sensitive case reached a conclusion. With the reality of bloodshed and civil unrest only several missteps away, particularly in Rome where the emperor could directly oversee events, conscientious urban magistrates had to act with great care. If they overextended their authority, the emperor could overrule, humiliate, and possibly punish them. Their reassignment to the provinces could also mean that they could face the same problems as those they are currently prosecuting. Pliny praised a middle route. Corrupt officials should be prosecuted, but their punishments should be moderate, not excessive. Since the tribunal’s pronouncements were subject to the approval of the emperor, he would then be responsible for any redaction to make the penalty more severe. This political move ensured that among peers, aristocrats acknowledged that certain practices were unjust, but were not forced to hand down verdicts that they could not live with themselves. The magistrates behaved prudently in their prosecution, always careful to ensure that their actions did not disrupt the emperor’s designs, their own futures, and that justice was dispensed[2]. Such deliberate actions could not originate from individuals who did not place a high value upon their work.
    A different account of aristocratic habits appears in Petronius’ works. Written in a blatantly sardonic fashion, Petronius’ interpretation of aristocratic values delivers an entertaining story regarding a wealthy freedman by the name of Trimalchio. Tramalchio indulges in various sorts of posh behavior one might incorrectly associate with upper class pastimes. At least, this is Petronius’ view. The perspective of the work more clearly shows how upper class Romans might respond to ridiculously excessive behavior. Trimlachio comes across as a blundering freedman that tries too hard to fit into an elite circle that distinguishes itself by its actions and behaviors, not merely by wealth. The dinner guests can barely contain themselves from breaking into laughter at the antics of Trimalchio[3]. Trimalchio’s actions depict a false reality, the way in which Rome’s elite do not act. The story reinforces two prevailing attitudes of the Roman elite. Those outside the ruling class do not have any business attempting to take on the traditional responsibilities of the Senate. This clear jab at the role of freedmen in the imperial system stresses the importance of nobilitas and gravitas. Merely dressing oneself in the trappings of the ruling class does not make one suitable to take on any duties, because one lacks the refinement and qualities necessary to carry out the functions of government well. The implication further reveals the nature of Romanitas and the values of imperial culture. The story stresses a second point regarding aristocratic values. The dinner guests find the excessive feast repugnant. The ruling class views ostentatious displays of wealth and status as a vice. Clearly the nature of administration in Rome itself remained at a high standard, but what of the provinces?
    Tacitus’ account of the provincial governor Agricola provides insight into the Roman frame of mind regarding provincial administration. Agricola represents the ideal governor through his just pronouncements, military skill, and ability to apply Roman order on the uncivilized frontier. Tacitus describes the qualities governors should possess and criticizes those he considers ineffective[4]. Provincial governors should be energetic, willing to take necessary risks, and calculating, but this was not always how governors chose to behave. Tacitus conveys the story of Bouddica, a Briton queen who stirred her people into rebellion due to improper Roman management of the provinces. Her complaints include Roman disregard for regional religious customs and unfair or downright corrupt systems of tax collection. According to Tacitus, the rebellion could have been averted if the governor had taken the time to adequately address these complaints. The barbarians come across as tragic figures, driven to futile rebellion by wholly insufferable conditions[5]. Interestingly, Tacitus blames inept governors for the disturbances of the peace. Eventually Agricola assumes the governorship and corrects previous errors. When examining the merits of Tacitus’ narrative it must be remembered that he shared familial ties with Agricola. This bias probably colored Tacitus’ portrayal of Agricola as the savior of the province. The important elements to glean from Tacitus’s works are the universal values he described to make a province well administered.
    The values illustrated by Tacitus, Petronius, and the direct testimony of Pliny indicate that not only did a common imperial culture exist, but it extended across time, geography, and literature. Roman magistrates and officials should exercise proper judgment, rule conscientiously, and display the proper decorum. These shared values of the ruling class existed in theory and in reality and extended from the top of the political hierarchy to the lowest orders. Marcus Aurelius’ philosophy details specific values and outlooks that promote political responsibility and an ethos of duty. The emperor reveals that he considers human duties expansive, covering multiple aspects and layers of society. At a most basic level, all humanity has the duty to act as humans should, and behave rationally. Man should not shirk from the duties for which it is uniquely gifted. Marcus Aurelius describes the duties of different members and levels of society as they apply to himself, culminating with passages regarding his own responsibilities. His writing provides a rare glimpse into an emperor’s psyche which reveals that Marcus Aurelius had strong convictions and a great desire to accept his fate with dignity and execute his duties responsibly, to the best of his ability, and with enthusiasm[6]. His actions directly correspond to his philosophical prose in that he did not shirk from his duties as emperor, but rather that he carried them out with vigor for many years. This behavior is consistent with the value of pietas, and the effect it had on government officials.
    Provincial culture stresses the importance of uniform application of Roman policies in the regions outside of Italy. The interaction between Roman government officials, native populations, and the actions of the military more formally defines the common imperial culture that extended across social classes and regions. Roman officials sought to reconcile Roman culture with native customs in order to make the Roman presence and political domination more agreeable to the subject people. This policy worked well, despite a few flaws, in uniting the provinces under a common Roman banner. Governors employed various techniques to gain the goodwill of the provinces. The cascade of letters addressed to the Emperor Trajan from the governor Pliny indicates the level of concern Pliny showed when running the province in Asia Minor. One of the issues revolved around Christians, a sect that posed civil problems to Rome due to their monotheistic religious beliefs. Refusal to sacrifice to the gods and show due respect to the emperor created a question of the Christian’s loyalties. In the meantime, accusers attempting to capitalize on this circumstance took to charging Christians with crimes. This practice cluttered the courts of the province and eventually reached the ears of the governor, who then appealed to the emperor for advice. The response shows temperance and forethought on the part of the Emperor Trajan and his lieutenant Pliny. In order to avoid a frenzy of prosecutions that would result in wide scale execution, property confiscations, and a general grumbling about the events occurring in the province, the ruling powers settled upon a solution that allowed punishment only for self-proclaimed Christians. In this way, the for-profit prosecution that had so often plagued Rome under emperors such as Tiberius and Claudius could not take place, but the dangerous exercises of the Christians could be legally addressed[7].
    Religious policies sought to respect local custom of religion and unite polytheistic peoples in a pantheistic Roman cult. By worshipping the same gods, or close to the same gods with only several minor differences, the people of the provinces stretching from the corners of Britain to the deserts of Egypt shared a common cultural practice in observance to the gods. The imperial cult factored into this arrangement. Roman treatment of religion often played a central part in the reception of Roman rule in the provinces. The treatment of the Jews in particular demonstrates Roman tolerance and willingness to work with subject peoples in order to reach a mutual peace. Of course, this peace did not last, but the letter of Philo regarding a meeting with Gaius Caligula reveals that Augustus had taken special consideration of the Jews that lasted until Caligula began to rescind those dispensations and offend the Jews’ religious practices. Augustus’ establishment of respect and tolerance for the Jewish people contributed to a peaceful arrangement that lasted more than half a century until it was disrupted by an occasion of mismanagement[8]. The proliferation of the imperial cult and its synthesis into eastern traditions served as an easy transition to direct Roman administration. The administration of Egypt shows a Roman willingness to adopt and adapt local customs for the benefit of the subject people. The subject people, in this case Egyptians, therefore came to view Roman rule as something not so foreign, but rather something familiar and understandable. This is a much easier system to live under. An interesting example of this process taking place occurs in the reading of and subsequent inscription of a letter from the emperor Claudius to the Egyptian prefect Lucius Aemilius Rectus. Rectus insists upon referring to Claudius as a god, despite Claudius’ own insistence in the letter that he is not a god. Romans would not officially recognize living emperors as deified entities, reserving that right for deceased emperors. Claudius reaffirms this Roman habit in the subtlest of terms, but then acquiesces to Egyptian requests to honor the Claudian tribe with religious rites[9]. Claudius’ actions seem to validate Marcus Aurelius’ statements regarding the nature and practices of the collective human population. Claudius did indeed regard the Egyptian people as part of a single living being. The Empire, in fact, was a complete entity formed of various dependent parts, and this understanding motivated provincial management[10]. One last religious consideration involved the Romanization of foreign cults and the amalgamation of religious rites across the empire. Minucius describes the movement of religious ideas from one corner of the empire to the other, from the Gallic adaptation of Mercury to the cult of Ceres in Greece[11]. All of these cults bonded people of the provinces to inherently Roman religious practices, and thus a common Roman culture. The religious flavor differed from province to province, but the same general feeling and behavior towards religion remained constant.
    Despite attempts at cohesion and uniting peoples under the banner of Roman management, some conflicts occurred which indicate that the Romans did not always succeed in their goals of syncretism and fairness. The Jewish and British revolts serve as examples to illustrate the failings of Roman cultural osmosis. Tacitus describes the descent of Britain into revolt as a slow process of self-realization on the part of the Britons to the servile nature of their condition under Roman governors[12]. The Britons, however, do not receive blame for their actions. Tacitus explains the revolt as an inevitable outcome resulting from the indifferent attitudes of indolent governors. He hoists the blame upon Romans, not the native peoples. This interesting analysis underscores the virtues and vices of management. Of course native peoples will revolt if the governor administers his province poorly. This comes as no surprise to Tacitus. The Britons revolted because they felt insulted, exploited and that their traditional way of life received no respect. Roman writers had been warning themselves and their colleagues about the dangers of allowing the traditional problems of management including taxes, native pride, and disregard for local custom to remain unaddressed. Boudicca’s speech outlines the main complaints of the Britons. She decried the servility of the British people, how the Romans exploited them through forced labor and through unjust taxation, and noted the differences between Roman and British gods, claiming that the British gods would deliver them victory over their Roman masters. Revolts such as those in Britain result from this failure to rule well[13]. The revolt in Britain could have been avoided, according to Tacitus, and extant literature seems to indicate that Tacitus was correct. In the prefecture of Egypt, Tiberius Julius Alexander faced some of the same problems. Upon assuming the prefecture, various petitioners presented Alexander with complaints regarding taxation policies and the practice of tax farming. Alexander, choosing to take more of an active interest in the grumblings of the people of the province, addressed these concerns quickly and efficiently. In an edict, Alexander listed the complaints and then informed the people how he intended to deal with these administrative abuses. He worked out methods of ending the abuses by abolishing old, corrupt practices. He outlined that nobody will be compelled into service by tax farming, reformed the courts by disallowing persons to be tried twice for the same crime under a different prefect, and granted tax dispensations to various religious cults[14]. Tiberius did what a series of governors in Britain failed to do. By paying attention to the concerns of the subject people, Tiberius helped to cement Roman rule in Egypt by providing opportunities for Roman and Egyptian religious practices to mix more freely, removing a burdensome, unpopular and humiliating practice and working out solutions to judicial misconduct. This comparison of the application of Roman values across vast geographic distances reaffirms the existence of a developing, common imperial culture.


    Roman imperial culture can best be defined as disjointed but culturally similar entities working towards the same common goal of Roman political dominion. Loose cultural similarities bound the denizens of the provinces with the Roman people in a social and political marriage. The imperial culture was dependent upon the ability of Roman officials to apply the values of just Roman rule in their governance of the provinces and in urban Italy itself. The subject peoples of the provinces united under the umbrella of Roman administration when the Romans proved themselves to be worthy rulers. Provincial magistrates worked to bring their provinces into the sphere of this imperial culture. If they forsook their duties or put forth minimal effort in governing, their provinces slowly slid into civil discontent.

    Works Cited
    Marcus Aurelius, Meditations. New York: Walter Black Publishing, 1945.


    Pliny, The Letters of the Younger Pliny. New York: Penguin Group, 1969.


    Petronius, The Satyricon. New York: Penguin Books, 1959.

    Tiberius Julius Alexander. “The Temple of Hibis” in Selected Readings: The Empire, edited by



    Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold. Columbia University Press, 1990. Volume II of Roman Civilization.

    Minucius Felix. “Octavius” in Selected Readings: The Empire, edited by Naphtali Lewis and



    Meyer Reinhold. Columbia University Press, 1990. Volume II of Roman Civilization.

    Claudius. “Letter of Claudius to the Alexandrians” in Selected Readings: The Empire, edited by



    Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold. Columbia University Press, 1990. Volume II of Roman Civilization.

    Philo. “Embassy to Gaius” in Selected Readings: The Empire, edited by Naphtali Lewis and


    Meyer Reinhold. Columbia University Press, 1990. Volume II of Roman Civilization.

    Pliny the Younger. “Pliny to the Emperor Trajan” in Selected Readings: The Empire, edited by



    Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold. Columbia University Press, 1990. Volume II of

    Roman Civilization.
    Tacitus, Agricola. Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press, 1894.

    This work is the sole intellectual property of the original author and has been registered in collegiate databases.

    [1] Pliny, The Letters of the Younger Pliny (New York: Penguin Group, 1969), Book two, paragraph fourteen.



    [2] Pliny, The Letters of the Younger Pliny (New York: Penguin Group, 1969), Book two, paragraph eleven.



    [3] Petronius, The Satyricon (New York: Penguin Books), Dinner with Trimalchio, paragraph 37.



    [4] Tacitus, Agricola (Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press, 1894), Book one, paragraph eight.



    [5] Tacitus, Agricola (Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press, 1894), Book one, paragraph seventeen.



    [6] Marcus Aurelius, Meditations (New York: Walter Black Publishing), Book five, paragraph one.



    [7] Pliny the Younger. “Pliny to the Emperor Trajan,” in Selected Readings: The Empire, ed. Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold, vol. 2 of Roman Civilization. Pages 551-553.



    [8] Philo. “Embassy to Gaius,” in Selected Readings: The Empire, ed. Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold, vol. 2 of Roman Civilization. Pages 314-315.



    [9] Claudius. “Letter of Claudius to the Alexandrians,” in Selected Readings: The Empire, ed. Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold, vol. 2 of Roman Civilization. Pages 285-286.



    [10] Marcus Aurelius, Meditations (New York: Walter Black Publishing), Book four, paragraph forty.



    [11] Minucius Felix. “Octavius,” in Selected Readings: The Empire, ed. Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold, vol. 2 of Roman Civilization. Page 542.



    [12] Tacitus, Agricola (Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press, 1894), Book one, paragraph fourteen.



    [13] Tacitus, Agricola (Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press, 1894), Book one, paragraph fifteen.



    [14] Tiberius Julius Alexander. “The Temple of Hibis,” in Selected Readings: The Empire, ed. Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold, vol. 2 of Roman Civilization. Page 295.


    -Originally a NON FICTION entry-
    The Post Justinian Period and It's Legacy - Entry #10
    The Post Justinian Period and It's Legacy

    Subject of this elaboration is the time between the reconquest of Justinian and the period thereafter.

    an elaboration to honor the achievement of the Ῥωμαῖοι.
    At the end of the eighth century, many islands were left to themselves. The withdrawal of the Romans, and its reasons cannot be reconstructed in some cases. What remained for the posterity are the impressive castles, beautiful churches and basilicas, unique mosaics and wall paintings. Once again the tale of the Mare Nostrum was told.
    Ευχαριστώ πολύ!

    To give a small view about the military organisation I take 3 examples, Malta, cyprus and Mallorca. All islands were visited by myself.




    Chapter 1 - about byzantine Cyprus
    περίπου Κύπρος



    Chapter 2 - about byzantine Malta
    περίπου τη Μάλτα



    Chapter 3 - about byzantine Majorca
    περίπου Μαγιόρκα


    Chapter 4 - East Roman Troops - the Numerus
    περίπου ρωμαϊκά στρατεύματα - ο αριθμός

    ____________________________________________________________


    Chapter 1 - about byzantine Cyprus
    περίπου Κύπρος


    Cyprus - map created by the author
    Introduction
    Without any significant extent to address the previous time I start this elaboration regarding the history of Cyprus and his Government with the period of Justinian - which is is already the subject of the present work.

    In the year 535/536 AD. We read about a regulation to a man called Bonus - his character Questor Iustinianus - known from the Novella XLI, which explains that the Questor has both military and administrative supervision1 of the provinces of Scythia, Moesia, Caria, the Cyclades, and the territory of Cyprus.2

    As already supposed by George Hill3 at that time - this bold collection of different provinces has probably a simply reason. The roman authority had tried to relieve certain provinces which had been subjected to constant military incursions - and therefore inevitably suffered from a chronic lack of money and lack of recruits. In the opposite case, we see the Cyclades and in a higher degree Cyprus, doutbless a rich island. Such reductions of troops resulted not only in the regrouping of administrative levels but, more practically, by the dislocation of forces - for example, from one of the presental armies to Egypt.4

    It is difficult to reconstruct why these troops were not sent to the front in the north. But here human causes may be the reason. It is not difficult to to understand that a Magistri Militum had no interest to transfer expensive troops under the leadership of another Magister.

    In this act of restructuring, we see yet another step towards to the famous Theme order, even before they became visible in Italy. The principle of strict separation of military and civil administration was soaked again - albeit only for certain regions.
    The Byzantine cities of importance at that time were listed by Hierocles5, in 535 AD.

    1. Constantia metropolis
    2. Tamassus
    3. Citium Amathus
    4. Curium
    5. Paphos
    6. Arsinoe
    7. Soli
    8. Lapethos
    9. Kirboia
    10. Chytri
    11. Carpasia
    12. Kerynia
    13. Tremithus
    14. Leukosia6
    This list is basically also confirmed by Georgius Cyprius - an author who lived in the time of Phocas.7

    ____________________________________________________________
    1 ibid [...]annonas militum tam comitantensium quam limitatensium[...]
    2 ibid [...]quinque provincias, id est Scythiam et Mysiam et Cariam et omnes Cycladas insulas et Cyprum totam[…]; also supported by the entries of Ioannes Lydus , de magistr. II 29
    3 Gergoe Hill, A History of Cyprus Vol I, p. 258
    4 my new work, when officially released is a professional try to reconstruct a Notitia Dignitatum of the sixth century. Hereby many sources will be given.
    5 Byzantine geographer of the sixth century and the attributed author of the Synecdemus or Synekdemos; see also August Burckhardt: Hieroclis Synecdemus. Teubner Verlag, Leipzig 1893; as well Ernst Honigmann: Le Synekdèmos d'Hiéroklès et l'opuscule géographique de Georges de Chypre. Editions de l'Institut de Philologie et d'Histoire Orientales et Slaves, Brüssel 1939
    6 the latter two were inlcuded in a later manuscript - a feature which shouldn't be overrated. Perhaps he had forgotten the two cities initially - plain and simple.
    7 Heinrich Gelzer: Georgii Cyprii Descriptio Orbis Romani (1890), p. 56; Here, however, without the cities Kirboia and Leukousia. But we have to admit that some authors haven't known all significant cities.
    Fortified cities and Kastra
    • Λευκωσία

    To the future capital of Cyprus - Nicosia - is to say that it always reappear under different names. The name Leukosia has already been mentioned and it seems that it was valid in the sixth and seventh century as well.1
    Leukosia must be mentioned in the list of fortified cities because it is practically proven that there were before Roman walls before the medieval walls were built.2

    • Αμαθούς

    Probably one the most significant military settlement on the island was Amathus - probably the seat of the Dux. This we learn from the biography of the Bishop of Alexandria Ioannes.3
    French-Cypriot excavations brought in 1980 the Market Square, the basilica and the remains of walls to light - apparently still completely intact in early Byzantine times.

    • Νέα Πάφος

    Paphos, or better said Nea Paphos, occupies a special position on Cyprus. Basically, if you want to believe the old school - the city has been reduced has been to an insignificant city after the numerous earthquakes in the fourth century. However, this conviction today can no longer survive. Modern excavations brought forth some brilliant mosaics whose creation can be determined in each case to the fifth century.4

    But in any case - Paphos was for sure a city were ruins stood beside beautiful Villas. The excavations have shown that not all buildings were repaired.5 A typical image of late antiquity which does not mean that the city has had no influence per se. We should also mention the mosaics of the Basilica Chrysopolitissa - at least some of them come from the sixth century.
    Because of the numerous earthquakes the city wall was probably not repaired anymore. To compensate the loss of the protection a kastron was built there in the late sixth century
    6. An almost unique action on the island. At least according to the current state of research all the other fortresses belong to a much later period. What is very surprising at first considering - since we find many byzantine castles on islands which were much smaller such as Mallorca and especially Malta. But this may be because of Cyprus had no significant external enemies until the early seventh century, - and on the other hand there was a dense network of fortified towns along the cypriotic coast - much denser than it was the case in Mallorca or any other island. Only when the threat has been obvious one came to the decision to protect Nea Paphos. Reasons for a possible thread was the Sasanian occupation of Roman Syria and Egypt - some time later the Arabian campaigns of course.

    • Κωνσταντία

    Constantia, there is now not much to say - but this town seems to have preserved something like the status of capital until the arrival of the Arabs
    Theophanes sets value on it to tell us that it was primarily the city of Constantia which was sacked and plundered by the Arabs - in addition to the rest of Cyprus - which is mentioned in passing.7
    If the city ever again purchased the status it has had before is hard to say.
    It was probably never completely destroyed. Most likely it is arguably the city lost more and more its importance - in the same way as Leukosia gained importance. In any case Leukosia has been mentioned by Hierocles - even if only in a later document.8
    But we can expect that Constantia in the first third of the seventh century was still an important city. Which is clear due to a passage by Ιωάννης ο Ελεήμων - again returning to Cyprus after Alexandria fell to the Sasanians. In Cyprus, he mediated in 616 AD. in the town of Constantia with a certain Aspagourius over the opening of the city.
    Aspagourius was probably a general sent by Constantinople - he had perhaps the task of either to secure Cyprus or to use Cyprus as a base for a military operation to Egypt or Syria. In any case he would have to use the resources of the country which probably met with incomprehension of the population.9


    ____________________________________________________________
    1 additional information by George Hill: A History of Cyprus, Vol I, pp. 263-265
    2 as described by Est. De Lusignan (Chorogr. Folio 16 und 31). The source reports that coins of Conatsntine and Hellena were found during the Roman walls were pulled down.
    3 Symeon Metaphrastes : Vita Sanctorum Mensis Januaris : Joannis Alexandriae Archiepiscopi cognomine Eleemosynarii, caput primum II [...] Νήσου τὴν ἀρχὴν [...]
    4 the Villa of Thesseus, located in the northern wing of the Villa; The Achilleus Mosaic Rooms 39-40
    5 Führer der Paphos Mosaiken, cultural Foundation Bank of Cyprus, ISBN 9963-42-012-5
    6 Saranda Kolones at Paphos, a workshop was established in the ruins of the castle of Saranda Kolones during the thirteenth century and continued to operate until the fourteenth century; also A. H. S. Megaw, in RDAC (1976): 117–46.; furthermore Angeliki E. Laiou The Economic History of Byzantium: From the Seventh through the Fifteenth Century, p. 604
    7 Theophanes (the Confessor), edition Harry Turtledove: The Chronicle of Theophanes: An English Translation of Anni Mundi 6095-6305, p. 43
    8 Gergoe Hill, A History of Cyprus Vol I, pp. 264-265
    9 H. Delehaye, Une Vie inedite de Saint Jean l'Aumonier, [...] στρατηγὸς ἐπὶ Κωνσταντίναν [...] Κύπρον [...], S. 25 See also secondary literature by Walter E. Kaegi: Heraclius, Emperor of Byzantium, p. 93


    Pahphos - The Achilleus Mosaic (mid to late 5th century)
    photo made by the author
    ἄρχων (Archon) or Δούκας - the Dux
    That the island of Cyprus was probably ruled by a Dux - under different names, is generally accepted. As mentioned above, the farther of the Holy Ioannes was Archon of the island.1
    Another text based on the same source mentiones Ioannes as Son ofCyprus`archon, called 'Epiphanius.2
    Supported is all this by another arabian text which mentioned a Urkun3 (=Archon?)(ارشون)

    ____________________________________________________________
    1 St. Leontius of Neapolis: Vita S. Joannis Eleemosynarii (Life of St. John the Almsgiver ). PG 93:1613-1660.
    2 Dionysios Pyrros, Panthektē Vol. 2 Νοεμβρίου […] υιός τοϋ Κύπρου άρχοντος, 'Επιφανίου καλουμένου [...] , p. 191
    3 Also confirmed by Abu al-Abbas Ahmad Bin Jab Al-Baladhuri, Philip Khuri Hitti: The Origins of the Islamic State (Kitab Futuh al-Buldan), Chapter XIII to the first invasion of Cyprus, know the details of an Urkun who led the negotiations with the Cypriots.


    Pahphos - Saranda Kolones - castle of the fourty columns (early 7th century). The castle was rebuild and enlarged in the 12th century.
    photo made by the author

    Back to top
    ____________________________________________________________

    Chapter 2 - about byzantine Malta
    περίπου τη Μάλτα

    An identitiy sustaining part of Malta is a passage from the Bible.

    ΠΡΑΞΕΙΣ 28 : 1
    Καὶ διασωθέντες τότε ἐπέγνωμεν ὅτι Μελίτηνη ἠ νῆσος καλεῖται.

    Actus Apostolorum 28 : 1
    et cum evasissemus tunc cognovimus quia Militene insula vocatur barbari vero praestabant non modicam humanitatem nobis

    Acts 28:1
    When we were safely on shore, we learned that the island was called Malta.

    Apostelgeschichte 28:1
    Und als wir gerettet waren, da erfuhren wir, daß die Insel Melite heiße.



    A mosaic about St Paul's rescue on Malta, inspired by a fresco in the Vatican by Nicolò Circignani and given to Malta by Pope Benedict XVI.
    Introduction
    Malta, initially a small and possibly insignificant island. But as we shall see, these pearl of the Mediterranean has its right to exist in the list of important Byzantine outpost. The domination of New Rome lasted over 300 years and thus represents a longer period than the occupation of the Arabs or any other country.

    The role of Malta became in any case clearly important for the Romans when Africa as totally lost. Only then they were aware of the importance of this small island as a bulwark against the Arabs. But the previous time is also noteworthy.

    I would like now to anticipate that the research about Malta lasted far longer than for any other island. Extensive researches and excavations carried out only since the 70s of the last century. Sure, there were other excavations over a century ago, but these never reached the dimensions to get an overall and sufficient picture of the Byzantine era. Malta never had a Chronicler of its own - and an extensive puzzling has begun by including Latin, Greek and Arabian sources.

    Our story of byzantine Malta begins when it was first time mentioned in 533 - in the words of Procopius […] And setting sail quickly they touched at the islands of Gaulus and Melita […]1
    It may be doubted that Malta was occupied here. Perhaps there was also at first no reason for an occupation.
    In any case, the island was part of the Empire in 544 AD.2

    ____________________________________________________________
    1 Procopius BV III. 14, 16 […] Γαῦλο te kai Μελίτη ταῖς νήσοις […]
    2 Procopius, BG, II.24.28.
    Fortified cities and Kastra
    • Gaulos

    Gaulos. During the Middle Ages, a citadel was built here known as Gran Castello. Apparently, this facility was built on the ruins of the Acropolis, in the suburb of Rabat. About the dimensions and extent of the Roman city nothing accurat can be said yet - at least to my knowledge. Also a wall must have been here because the city actually lies on a plateau which is open on all sides.1


    • Μελίτη

    That the ancient capital Melite was still the center of the identical named island during the sixth and seventh centuries emerges from the archaeological finds relating amphorae and ceramics in general.2

    ____________________________________________________________
    1 reconstruction of the topography of the city is given in A. Claridge, The Roman Occupation of Malta and Gozo 1971, fig.16.
    2 […] al tardo VI-VII sec.: sigillata Africana delle forme H91 e 91D, 105 e 109, anfore LRA 5, variant tarde delle LRA 1, LRA 2 di piccolo dimensioni.[…]
    ἄρχων (Archon) or Δούκας - the Dux
    A specific indication of a military commander with a rank of a Dux is received during the reign of Herakleios - in 637 AD. The year when he sent his son to exile - to the island Gaudomelete - after a intended conspiration. The local Dux was ordered to amputate one of his legs - so that an escape is from the island was basically not possible anymore.1
    That the word Gaulos is standing prior to Melete - regarding the mixed byzantine word of Gaudomelete - shows that the main seat of the Dux was probably the smaller island of Gozo. At least it is worth to consider that during futher researches.

    Besides the above mentioned information that Malta was ruled by a Dux there is still another interesting source.
    A seal, which is said to come from the eighth or ninth century
    bears the name of Nicetas droungarios and Archon of Malta.2

    Despite any doubts regarding the date it seems clear now that there was indeed a garrison serving under the δρουγγάριος και αρχων - suggesting a troop strength of about 1,000 men. All other numerical examples up to 3000 men are in my opinion possible as well after north africa was completely lost.

    That the island was occupied by soldiers much earlier is indirectly revealed in a letter dated to October 598 - written by Gregory the Great to the bishop of Syracuse Ioannes.3

    ____________________________________________________________
    1 Πατριάρχης Νικηφόρος Α΄ (Nicephorus, Saint Patriarch of Constantinople)[...] Θεόδωρον δὲ πρὸς τὴν νῆσον τὴν Γαυδομελέτεν [...] ἐπιτρέψας ἐχεἴσε δουχι [...] , p.29 line 11
    2Gustave Léon Schlumberger, “Sceaux byzantins inédits,” Revue des études grecques 13 (1900), p. 492 n. 203
    3 Monumenta Germaniae historica. Epistolarum (1887-1939) IX 25 […] Quae adversus Lucillum Melitae […] … […] ab honoris sui et ipsos milites gradu deiciat et in monasteriis […]




    Malta and Gozo - map created by the author

    Back to top
    ____________________________________________________________

    Chapter 3 - about byzantine Majorca
    περίπου Μαγιόρκα



    Mallorca - map created by the author


    Due to an ongoing research the chapter 3 must be delayed to another moment. The forum of Ages of Darkness offers many elaborations and you will find the part about Mallorca somewhere in the future there.
    Just let me say that Mallorca had a busy byzantine history. Even lead seals of a Dux and other high officials were found. 1

    The upper shown map shows the attested kastra and the possible headquarters of the Dux.

    ____________________________________________________________
    1 Nueva luz sobre los siglos oscuros de Baleares y Pitiusas G. ROSSELLÓ BORDOY [...] Σεργιω δουκι
    [...]

    Back to top

    ____________________________________________________________



    Chapter 4 - East Roman Troops - the Numerus
    περίπου ρωμαϊκά στρατεύματα - ο αριθμός



    Ambrosian Iliad (Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosia Cod. F. 205 Inf.) probably dating between 493 and 508 and produced in Constantinople


    The intention to start the last small chapter with a group called Numerus should be completet by the term Milites. In Spain, for example, we learn from the tales of Isiodore that Roman Milites were garrisoned there. This implies indirectly that the Romans were indeed able to recruit regular soldiers and/or transferred regular Stratiotai to the west. This conjecture is supported by some recently findings of eastern styled armament in Cartagena, Spain.

    But the wording of Isiodore - concerning the Milites - should not be overrated in general. For him it was just another word for regular Roman soldiers.

    The technical and conventional name of all Roman troops was the Arithmos.
    The name Katalogos can be found in some novelles of Justinians .1
    Furthermore "Telos" which is rarely used by Procopius.2
    Agathias is using the term Tagma, but he is rotating sometimes the words and used Taxis as well.

    Some words to the confusion with the Bandon and Arithmos or Bandum and Numerus.
    Beside the fact that a bandon was just a banner and not a unit - at least in the 5th and early-mid 6th century, (gr.: semeion) we see in the novels that all greek terms (Tagma, Katalogoi, Arithmoi etc.) were translated in latin as Numerus. A Bandon, in the meaning of a unit serving under a banner is, according my knowledge, firstly mentioned in the Strategikon of Maurice.
    Also the theory - recited like a mantra - that the bandon was per se a sub-unit of the Numerus is not true and not attested by any source. At least not until the 7th century. I have written recently an extensive elaboration that the Bandum was a unit composed by cavalry - and the units declared as Numerus were infantry. This is suggested several times in the so called Strategikon of Maurice.3

    The mental mistake some people are making is that they look at a specific Roman troop - called Legion - as the only true Roman unit. But we must keep in mind that many terms were completely outdated, even if most of them were still valid officially.4

    The commander of a Roman Numerus was a tribunus or praepositus.
    About its real strength, which varies between 250 and 508, I have given more than enough sources in the Thread about the evolution of the Legion.5
    But obviously there was not really a noteworthy difference between the 4th and 6th century concerning the basic strength of units.
    Finally let me say that we have always to differ between old units - now called Numerus - and new deployed Numeri. It is doubtless correct that an old Numerus, which is actually a Legion, is still numbering 1000 or even 2000 during the reign of Anastasius or Justinian.

    Back to top
    ____________________________________________________________
    1 Nov Iust. C II 2 and C III 3
    2 Procop. BG 23,3
    3 Please check our numerous elaborations in the main forum of Ages of Darkness. The elaborations are marked as Historiae-threads.
    4 Cod Iust XII 35,14
    [...]comitatensibus legionibus[...]
    ...from the reign of Arcadius et Honorius. However, since those terms were included into the Codex it shows that they were still valid.
    Cod Iust XII 42,1
    [...]tribunorum cohortium [...]
    ...from the reign of Constantinus, but also integrated into the Codex of the sixth century.
    Nov Iust CIII caput 3 §1
    [...]Et ille quidem praeerit militibus et limitaneis et foederatis [...]
    Cod Iust I 27 2 §8
    [...]ut extra comitatenses milites per castra milites limitanei constituantur[...]
    And all those terms were valid far into the reign of Heraclius and even beyond.
    The official generic term for all military units was since the 5th century (even in the Notitia Dignitatum!) the Numerus. This term became absolutely official in the codex as well.
    Cod Iust I 27 2 §8
    [...]unius numeri limitaneorum[...]; so, one can say that the Numerus was the general term for all Roman units - and terms like Legion, Cohors etc were the specific classification - which became irrelevant somewhere in history. I believe that many units were became quite similar in equipment and training.
    5 Please check te elaborations in the main forum of Ages of Darkness. The elaboration the evolution of the Legion is marked as Historiae-thread.



    Ashburnham Pentateuch, 6th or 7th Century
    Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des Manuscrits, NAL 2334, folio 68r.

    Back to top
    Last edited by Hader; September 14, 2012 at 01:18 PM.

  3. #3

    Default Re: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

    I have voted, although I feel bad for those who put so much work into their Non-Ficition entries.. Maybe the winner of the originally Non-fiction entries could get some rep if he doesn't win/run up?

  4. #4
    Diamat's Avatar VELUTI SI DEUS DARETUR
    Join Date
    Apr 2010
    Location
    My Mind
    Posts
    10,742

    Default Re: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

    Yeah, last time I wrote a piece on North Korea for the non-fiction category, and there also weren't enough submissions. Luckily I managed to gain enough votes to get me at least some rep. Hopefully these entrants will have some luck too.

  5. #5
    Shankbot de Bodemloze's Avatar From the Writers Study!
    Citizen

    Join Date
    Dec 2011
    Location
    Midlands, UK
    Posts
    14,834
    Blog Entries
    2

    Default Re: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

    Voted, good luck everyone. The non-fiction works were great as well.
    THE WRITERS' STUDY | THE TRIBUNAL | THE CURIA | GUIDE FOR NEW MEMBERS



    PROUD PATRON OF JUNAIDI83, VETERAAN & CAILLAGH
    UNDER THE PATRONAGE OF MEGA TORTAS DE BODEMLOZE

  6. #6

    Default Re: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

    Voted! Good luck to everyone .

    |Of, the esteemed House: DE BODEMLOZE|



  7. #7
    Ybbon's Avatar The Way of the Buffalo
    Administrator Emeritus

    Join Date
    Apr 2009
    Location
    locally
    Posts
    7,234

    Default Re: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

    Tough choice, but voted.

  8. #8
    Rex Anglorvm's Avatar Wrinkly Wordsmith
    Join Date
    Jul 2008
    Location
    Workaholicville
    Posts
    1,467

    Default Re: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

    Voted

  9. #9

    Default Re: Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition Long Fiction Voting Thread

    Voted.

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •