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Thread: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

  1. #1
    knight of meh's Avatar Primicerius
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    Default Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

    Here are the submissions for the Short category. Please vote for your favourite one.

    Also, please bear in mind that anonymity is still required here. 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 punished with extreme prejudice by the resident knights and rightly so.

    The thread is for discussion of the articles at hand and voting, NOTHING ELSE.

    Fear - Entry #1
    Fear
    Fear

    I slowly wither away in this hell,
    While I fall into the deep clutches of fear
    I lie awake in this darkest night,
    As the dreadful shadow of Death draws near.

    We went behind the enemy’s lines,
    Into a land full of wet warmth and pain.
    Now the fear and anger has made me lose my mind,
    As I wonder what we had been expected to gain.

    It was a mission to take down their evil, corrupt government,
    To give the people the freedom they desired.
    We knew our mission, why we were sent,
    To save the sheep from the liars.

    The blood of my brothers ran across the city’s walls.
    We’d been betrayed by those we trusted with our lives.
    They didn’t deserve to take the fall.
    We were just following orders, thinking we’d survive.

    These monsters of people had expected our arrival.
    I witnessed me friends get gunned down left and right.
    And as it appears my affairs are final,
    I’m all that is left, without the will to fight.

    When, in that burning sun, they all perished,
    I survived only because in the battle, I fled
    I could see that my brothers’ deaths, the monsters relished,
    And now, for the moment, I am the only brother who is not dead.

    What did we do to get sent to this god-forsaken land?
    I now find myself praying for salvation.
    I am but one ravaged, broken man,
    And I know the outcome of my trip to this enemy nation.

    I look up, and see the dark clouds fill the sky,
    As I shiver from the new cold breeze.
    Maybe they won’t find the bushes where I lie,
    Maybe instead I will painlessly perish and freeze.

    I feel my anxiety rise with every second passing.
    My chest feels as though it will soon rip apart.
    I am alone with the monsters, wishing
    That I could stop the piercing pain in my heart.

    Finally, the cool, wet serenity of the grass-covered ground
    Calms the vicious pumping in my chest.
    I hear their boot-heavy steps as they begin to surround,
    And I know I will soon join the rest.

    I begin to accept my fate,
    A casualty of war alongside my best and most dedicated friends.
    I see their faces and let go of my hate.
    I take comfort in the knowledge I was loyal until the end.

    I see everyone I love, my family, my wife,
    And I finally begin to cry.
    Because this is the last day of life.
    This is the day I die.

    I will soon leave this land of Hell.
    Perhaps I will reach Heaven, or become a spectral ghost.
    These thoughts make me feel well,
    The idea that I’ll watch over those I love most.

    The enemy descends like animals upon the ground where I close my eyes.
    I will soon lose all I hold dear.
    As I empty my mind,
    I know my friend, the shadow of Death, draws near.


    The Ferry - Entry #2
    The Ferry
    The Ferry

    The lighter burst and the edge of a cigarette smouldered.
    A big mouth with full lips exhaled the smoke. His skin that was pale, like from lack of sunlight, stood in sharp contrast to the jet black, short hair. The well-rounded moustache crawled down pass the mouth but was not allowed to cross the chin. Another exhalation, the smoke went slowly upwards and was caught in the breeze. Margareta reached out her hand, got the cigarette from him and she asked:
    ”Do you really have time for this?”
    ”What?”
    ”A break? Like, right now. Ain't there many who are going across?”
    He glanced at his boat that tore some of the dock's moorings. There was a kind of amused superiority when he looked down the pier towards the beach.
    ”Well, I can't see anyone.” he said.
    ”OK, me neither, but you know... I assume it takes time to get across the river and in the meantime more people may show up?”
    He shrugged his shoulders in a relaxed manner and smiled.
    ”Time? Sometimes, sometimes not. Also, after all it's I who decide when I'll cross, no? People tend to show up in time for that... Yeah, something like that.”
    Margareta threw away the cigarette butt, a bit paradoxically dissatisfied with the man's work ethic. They stood so for a while, she kicked a bit at random against the rotten planks of the pier. The man seemed absorbed in himself, but not in an absent way. All of a sudden Margareta struck her forehead and gave up an irritated shout, which made him jump. She said:
    ”Damn it! Money! You're supposed to get a coin.”
    ”Oh, it's cool. We call it even on the cigarette. My name is Kharon by the way.”
    ”Margareta.” They shook hands. ”But you, well, I... do we have to leave quite yet?”
    On Kharon's black t-shirt she could read GET LOST crowning a big yellow Smiley.
    ”Naa, you can stay. Unless you are still in a hurry, about more people coming hehe, it's always nice with some company.”
    He smiled and tossed a little stone into the dark waters of Styx.



    The Philosopher's mind - Entry #3
    The Philosopher's mind


    Cursed be the blessed whore, that this life of mine should end, when so much yet to be explored. To think it all extinct while lucid nonetheless; to feel, to see, to taste, the cornucopia of sensations, only to recede back whence it came. Oh the horror, for such a Mind as I, which knows God more than any other Mind of man, can hardly bear the thought of everlasting bliss. There is but one retreat, here in my thoughts, where I find myself at home again. Here the Heraclitean phrase does give me comfort, as there is a single permanence, the permanence of change. ‘Tis in difference, this ephemerality, that man finds his ontology. As the resting pole in phenomena’s flight, I should know peace, since on the day I cast away this mortal coil, no further, no closer will I stand to the Divine.

    Still, life and death are not the same. Deus sive natura, out of which we grow, comes to behold itself. Each man is different yet all the same one with divinity. As nature gazes upon its own visage, what does it see? Only the few, the wise, can know themselves reflected in the mirror; most, much like feral beasts, simply see an other evermore opposed to them, trapped as they are in their immediacy. I am among the former, one who comprehends his Mind as the negation of its content, raised out of nature, from the soul, this feeble thing, unto the higher realms, all the while these basic, these anthropological states resume their lives. At no stage of Mind am I bereft of these, my humble origins, but to be caught in one exemplifies a tragedy, when one’s own content haunts in daylight as it would at night.

    Its strings within us, the external world can be a cunning foe. Is not the most pathetic amongst us all the one who seeks what he already owns? “Das Ding an sich!” the Prussian screams. Look! It makes sense! Surely there must be a thing behind the thing of Mind, lest it be all a Cartesian farce. What fools they are indeed. After all, can the eye taste the sweetness of the wine? Can the tongue see the patterns on a robe? Neither can the Mind grasp that which is not its own. Yes, this implicit thing so many desperately desire is within their reach; nay, can only be within their reach. Seek and ye shall find. The object does not attain to any higher purity. Without Mind, its determinations are ineffable. Hence, in Mind, the object finds itself complete; only here can it exist as object, its boundaries defined.

    But I digress. What, again, did I hope to gain from this minor inquiry of mine? Ah yes, peace. Peace is the thing I covet most. And how easy it would be to place my head, slowly, gently, into the fold of a creator. How easy it would be to deny my own existence, to tell myself I am already dead. Those are the views of thoughtless men, who seek some reality more holy than their present one. In truth, there’s nothing more real than matters of Mind. That, which by my experience asserted, forms the most perfect object, complete in and for itself. ‘Tis no illusion, ‘tis no dream, for even if it were, it’d still be real.

    Thus take joy in brevity! Don’t be Reason’s whore. Reach over and above, to see your Mind in action, our blessed gift from nature’s womb. Damn the wretched beasts of old; now’s the time to exalt the right. Let Spirit move with rapid force. Let it take the world by storm! Those few of us with farther vision will serve as scribes of Reason. We shall embrace the coming of the tide; let it inundate us. For peace we’ll find not by some hand divine, but only through our grasp thereof.
    Last edited by knight of meh; September 02, 2013 at 09:55 PM.

  2. #2
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Writing Competition -Short category voting thread

    Of war and fray, three views - Entry #4
    Of war and fray, three views

    Of war and fray, three views

    Battle gives birth
    to heroes, one said.
    The breaking of spears,
    the splintering of shields.
    When the hammer
    strikes, blow after blow.
    When kings fall, to
    axe and bow.

    Battles are fought in wars and
    feuds, the other spoke.
    Broken promisses,
    deceit and greed.
    Wars sow death,
    fear and spite,
    albeit the cause was
    ever so right.

    All is vain without
    warmth, love and peace;
    that what we should crave.
    Tales will then tell of those
    greater than the brave,
    abhorring violence
    and,
    making it ever cease.

    So spoke the third, he
    by many battle worn.
    Let kings fall and
    heroes be born,
    but may those sounds of
    metal and horn,
    never be heard by our
    children, yet unborn.




    Champions Lament - Entry #5
    Champions Lament

    Champions Lament

    saw once ago, days long in my past, young men resplended in byrny
    Who upon their backs and in fine colours brightly arrayed bore the grand shield,
    That which marked their proper place, and in hands cracked and flayed held spear
    Great and deadly. I would see these men, those who proudly bore a helm
    Of their father’s fathers, march to war as if they could never fail nor fall,
    Nor even that the will of fate might bring about the icy touch of death.

    As the days grew cold and lifeless, as the world seemed to embrace death
    I would watch these men go off to war and think to don my own byrny
    Once again. I would consider, perhaps, as those leaves would begin to fall
    That I might once again carry into battle my heart and my shield
    And take another blow, take another notch upon my helm
    Though many it bears yet already. And I would wish upon my spear

    That I might take another life, might write again the crimson runes upon my spear.
    For that is what all warriors dream, to be that emissary, the veritable Hand of Death.
    To see my sword arm yet again crash down upon another’s helm
    And rend the flesh, tear through and melt the links of the silver byrny
    And, triumphant and victorious, raise upon my back once more my shield
    With a whisper, the silent prayer to my friends and foes that fall

    For what a warrior would I be lacking honour towards those that fall?
    For those that bear upon their person a hauberk and a spear
    Are my brothers, friend or foe. And though I rend their flesh and split their shield
    My brothers they remain. For, you see, we all are destined to meet again in death,
    That universal truth. Upon the fields of Elysium or in Halls of Asgard, where none need the byrny
    For no hurts can ever take there and a man holds needless evermore his helm.

    And I would wish these things anew, I would play at them and polish my helm
    And think, “This time, this time!” But then my soaring hopes would fall
    And in my wood-wrought chest again would I fold and wrap and hide my byrny
    And on my back would rest no more my twilight shield
    And I would hold back my noble hopes for bloodied death
    And I would remember that no longer can my hands grasp a spear

    For, you see, were I to reach for a spear it would fall
    From my touch. Upon a skull would I rest my helm, upon bony back my shield
    For death here takes me yet already, though earned not whilst in my byrny.



    ROME - Entry #6
    - ROME -
    - ROME -

    I
    I pulled the toga overhead,
    to form a cowl and mark the dead,
    With water jugs attendants stood,
    to wash away the sacred blood.
    Eyes awide, with bated breath,
    crowds they stood and many felt,
    ancestors gaze upon their lives,
    as round the temple rang my voice;
    Procul, o procul este profani.


    The beast was led with nonchalance,
    with slack upon the rope,
    adorned with ceremonial sash,
    under the eyes of the gods.
    Stood restless before an altar,
    with wine poured on its head,
    The contractor did not falter,
    he stuck the beast down dead.
    One blow from a great hammer,
    relieved the crowd of dread.


    With instruments of copper,
    those attendants strode forth,
    they cut out the entrails,
    to place on a bronze bowl.
    The haruspex came forward,
    he took them in his hands,
    he offered up this sacrifice,
    then read divination.
    He cast his expert eye on,
    the liver and the blood,
    he shouted in a cry,
    that the omens were all good.




    II
    We stood in silence,
    breathing in the mist,
    we heard the tribal war-cries,
    we heard their druids hiss.
    The ground it shook as on they came,
    the thundered roars of men insane,
    There came the whistle, our pilum flew,
    they struck at once and skewered them through.
    But on behind came a great horde,
    led by a King, who drove them forward.
    They ran at us, we charged at them,
    their axes blocked, they were inflamed,
    as they swung from overhead,
    we pierced their sides and they fell dead.
    Back they fell and then they came,
    the day wore on, the battle same,
    until they made a bold mistake,
    their king he charged and then was dead.
    Confusion swept across the foe,
    the cries of war, now howls of woe,
    Towards the rivers, woods and bog,
    chased down by the fourth cohort.
    Another battle, another land,
    on this field the Romans stand.





    III
    The grain ships down in Portus,
    laden with their surplus,
    they wait along the quay,
    beneath the burning heat of day.
    Round merchants with fat purses,
    haggling through their curses,
    Agree to do a trade,
    take their goods and march away.
    In that salt smell of the sea,
    I dream one day I shall be free.


    Those crowded in the forum,
    stand about the stalls,
    they see the jewels,
    they smell the spice,
    those treasures of the world.
    Great heroes of the city,
    are held in an enthrall,
    in granite and in marble,
    and in those sketches on the wall.


    Here coins drip into empire,
    where old men step into the mire,
    with clients or the hidden blade,
    on fortunes path, they make their way,
    survivors of the cruellest game,
    survivors laden down with shame,
    in homes of incense and of slaves,
    they wind their creaking tortured way,
    towards their wealth, towards the grave.



    IV
    The senate of the people,
    full of weakness and of strife,
    full of withered purpled togas,
    spoke of blood upon the knife.
    Echoing through the shadows,
    speeches fell on deafened ears,
    dreams of temples and of marble,
    turned to nightmares then of wars.
    The power of their consuls,
    with greed within their eyes,
    was thrown into the world,
    on their lips they whispered lies.
    Bleeding through the taxes,
    to pay for rich-men’s fame,
    the people start to riot,
    the systems falls to flame.
    Out beyond the shadows,
    step the cloaks of Marian red,
    driving chaos from the city,
    driving senators from their beds.
    From the greed of foolish men,
    came the rule of their demise,
    as an Empire hove into view,
    and a Republic fell before their eyes.

    Last edited by knight of meh; September 02, 2013 at 09:37 PM.

  3. #3
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Writing Competition -Short category voting thread

    Hereditary Disorder - Entry #7
    Hereditary Disorder

    Hereditary Disorder

    A mighty Caesar mourns alone;
    He kneels in hollowed hill of stone,
    And pleads to frail ancestral bone
    Whose territ'ries are his to hone,
    Whose lives were followed by the moan
    Of slain assailants of their throne.

    The regent wanders out through rain
    And all is sodden, cold and plain,
    His mind glances that bloody stain.
    When next, he ponders must he feign
    To seal well trodden paths of pain;
    Forget who once was proud and vain?

    Recall the days and months before,
    For through that death they matter more;
    Famine stripped seas and pastures raw.
    Oh cruel persuasion of the poor
    Whose with'ring breath may launch a war.
    He marched on treason, quelled encore.

    Both soldier and insurgent strewn
    Across the forest, vale and dune
    Limbs, heads and lurid organs hewn.
    The gods abandoned one platoon;
    A prince fell from blest silver spoon,
    His son was skew'red 'neath the moon.

    So must his dynasty now fall,
    His empire crumble, foes enthral,
    Why now that somehow death would stall?
    He yearns for Minos’ eerie call
    As pity’s mumbled through his hall,
    The time comes now to end it all.



    An Athenian dream - Entry #8
    An Athenian dream

    An Athenian Dream


    In 338, Athens and Thebes met the armies of Macedon, at Chaeronea, and were defeated. Furious with the realization that Macedon has effectively subjugated Athens, an ambitious young Athenian merchant, named Straton, began secretly plotting against the Macedonians.

    Wasting little time, he headed a trade mission to Epirus, where he became close to the Molossian King, Alexander I. Straton had impressed the king, whom wished him to stay on in Epirus, and become a financial adviser to the court. Agreeing, he quickly caught the eye of Olympias, Philip's relatively neglected and estranged wife, whom had gone into exile in Epirus, to get away from Philip and his newer, younger wife. While in Epirus, Straton befriended Philip's son, Alexander, who also left Macedon. The two became close friends.

    Straton and Olympias became lovers, and he used her for his plot to kill Philip. She viewed it as mutually beneficial. A short while after, they accompanied King Alexander of Epirus to Macedon, for the king's marriage to Philip's daughter.



    Royal Palace
    Aegae, Macedon
    August, 336 BC



    Upon an immense bed swathed in silken linens, Olympias, was atop Straton, in a session that had gone on at great length, she rolled off, exhausted, catching her breath, as she laid beside the physically impressive and stunningly handsome young Athenian, unable to take her eyes off him.

    "By Aphrodite's divine authority, you must be her forbidden love child with Eros," Olympias said, playfully complimenting her lover.

    Straton laid there, his head resting atop his arm. Fool of a woman, if you only knew. "I'm expressing my artistic ability on an immaculate canvas, my love," he said, imploring her fragile emotions.

    She turned on her side, and rubbed her hand on his bare chest. "Will we return to Epirus, as planned?"

    He was gazing upon the mosaic of a battle scene above. Archers notching, chariots riding, phalanx's marching, in perfect unison. It is never that perfect. He turned to her. "We should focus on the present, my love. Philip still breathes."

    "It will all fall into place on the morrow, and Alexander will succeed him," she said, with an assuring, yet naive tone.

    Beautiful and conniving, yet blind. Your son is next. "For this to be flawless, we need to focus on fulfilling the assassination without error, my love. Perhaps it's my businessman side taking over, where little can be left to chance," he said, facetiously, cracking a perfect smile, which he knew she could not resist.

    They locked lips, and she rolled on top of him.



    The next day...


    "Join us in celebrating the unification of Alexander Molossus and Cleopatra, daughter of King Philip and Olympias of Epirus," hailed the court representative.

    Straton recruited one of Philip's bodyguards, Pausanias. Corrupting the man's mind with fictitious exaggerations that Philip planned to strip him of rights, and sell him into slavery. Pausanias was convinced that murdering Philip was the only way to prevent this course of action, and with little thought for what he would do after the act, he proceeded to assassinate Philip at the wedding ceremony, before an audience, as was Straton's intended scenario, so to prove that the Macedonian King was nothing more than a tyrant, murdered by his own man, for all to see.

    Knowing that Pausanias wouldn't escape Macedon, he had arranged for his own men to kill Pausanias, to ensure the impossibility of being linked to the assassination. It was not needed, as Pausanias was killed by Leonnatus, one of Philip's bodyguards.

    Straton had successfully orchestrated the assassination of Philip, which was a mighty blow to the strength of the Macedonians.

    Alexander III of Macedon, sitting with his commanders, welcomed Straton. "Straton, my friend. Any news of those responsible?"

    "My King," said Straton, with a humble bow. I will send you to your death, in Asia, you pompous wretch."As requested, my Asian contacts inform me that Darius was responsible. Dignitaries in his service had dealings with Pausanias, just weeks before the assassination took place. I have one with me," he continued, as two of his personal guards dragged in a Persian slave in his own service, dressed in fine clothes. "Tell the King what you have told me, filth. Keep in mind it is a grave crime to lie to a king!"

    The slave trembled, but said as he was ordered. "Y-your father had become a t-threat to His Excellency," the slave said, terrified, but in convincing character.

    Straton punched his slave, forcing him to the ground. "Wretched Persian filth!" You have done your job, and are a small sacrifice to pay for the greater good.

    Antipater was the first to stand. "You heard the filth, Persepolis must pay. Darius must pay!"

    Unified in response, Alexander's only route was without question. He and his commanders marched the Macedonian army to Persia. Straton lingered in Pella, for a short while, keeping Olympias company, before growing tired of her, and abandoning her in Macedon, to return to Athens, where he returned to managing his trade businesses, figuring the young Macedonian king would get himself killed in Asia, resulting in the collapse of the Macedonian hierarchy, and cause the collapse of its hegemony over Greece. He was mistaken, but not defeated...

    In 323, after hearing of Alexander's plans for further conquest, against his trade allies in the west, and fearing for his own enterprise, as well as the future of Athens, he finally orchestrated Alexander's assassination, leading to inevitable division in his high command.

    Athens took advantage of the dissension of the Macedonians, rebelling shortly thereafter, and he would become its primary financier, in what became known as the Lamian War...

    Following Athens' defeat, in 322, Straton's wealth was depleted on mercenaries, and the Macedonian confiscation of his trade fleets, slave force, and treasuries. He was rendered poor, and ultimately, he was quietly executed under orders from Antipater.




    The Hurricane before the Storm- Entry #9
    The Hurricane before the Storm

    Fear. Fear is a valuable commodity in war.


    And fear is exactly what King Henry V brought to that field in 1415. I am Jacques D’Anjou and this is my account of the fateful Battle of Agincourt. Many tales of battle are depicted in an air of transcendent glory, where the enemy are brutally crushed in a melee and victors pose gloriously on the bodies of their defeated foes, but this is not the case. I shall divulge the true horror of battle, the details of which are distant in the thoughts of the ignorant clerics and scholars who have no understanding of the visceral nature of war. Perhaps one of the least well known phases of a battle is that of the initial skirmish, it is here that the stage for the battle is set and the courage of the warriors is truly tested. The men had come to the field after days of preparation, in which they had attended to their weapons and armour, pouring hours of labour into their maintenance, quietly hoping that their aging blades and ruptured cuirasses will not fail them when it mattered most. Men were torn from their loved ones, who must also bear the burden of war; one that drives many wives to the brink of insanity, wistfully awaiting the return of their husbands, whether wielding their swords, or lying upon them.


    Physical and emotional exhaustion already bore heavily on the men and yet they had not even lifted a sword to the enemy. But all that was soon to change. On the morning of battle the men assembled on the field that, for many of them, would become their graves. I was positioned in the 2nd rank of the infantry line, roughly 100 men inward from the left flank. By this time negotiations with the English had failed and battle was inevitable. Despite our numerical superiority, fear was ripe in the ranks. No scholar will tell you of the stench that arises from a battlefield; let me tell you that even before the combat has been initiated, it is far from pleasant. The sweat of 20,000 men taints the air with a constant repugnant odour, which then mixes with the heaps of mud and manure that have been churned up by the thousands of armoured boots. This sickening embodiment of fear itself is then only exacerbated by countless men who urinate upon themselves, their dignity being all but a distant memory. Waiting in such an environment, hour upon hour is enough to make any man lose his nerve and many struggle endure.

    After hours of trepidation, the English war horn was blown and a collective sigh of relief was released along the French battle line, but this temporary reduction in tension was replaced with explicit terror as the English Army’s signature weapon was revealed in the most brutal way. The sound of a thousand dull thuds could be heard, as the English longbow men loosed their arrows. It was as if God himself had spat on us in disgust as the ferocious bodkin tipped shafts hailed towards us with a deathly howl. It was then that I realised that the first skirmish of a battle separates the brave from the cowardly. I stood beside a beast of a man, seemingly taller than even the highest watchtower. I had made the foolish assumption that he would be a valuable compatriot in the heat of the melee, but my opinion was quickly changed as an arrow pierced his neck armour and bored its way into his shoulder, wrenching apart skin and bone. I stared at him as he collapsed to the ground, tears rolling down from the underside of his helmet. He slumped in a pool of his own blood pining for his mother, his blood curdling with the congealed mud and the unpleasant smell of defecate emanating from his chaps. I pitied the young man, whose name I would never know, but I quietly praised the almighty God, for if I had had to rely on that man in the midst of battle, I would surely not be here today. Wave after wave of iron tipped missiles came crashing down upon us and it was clear that those who died quickly were the lucky ones. Those who survived the initial impact of the torturous weapons wailed in agony as their skin was torn asunder, their innards open to putrid atmosphere that enveloped them; but the effect of the arrows did not end here. Fear spread through the ranks like an infectious plague, paralysing many men’s faces in a state of perpetual dread. In that moment, I realised the battle was lost. The French battle horn was sounded and the order to march forward was given. We marched forward, clumsily tripping over the corpses of France’s children; we did not need to bury them, for the mud bath that was once a field would swallow them utterly, their existence drowned in the seas of time. We continued onward, exhausted, mere husks of the men we once were, to the English battle line, where our fates were inexorably sealed. And that is all I shall tell, for the outcome of the battle is known across the length and breadth of the land. But why was the outcome of the battle so? Supplies? No. Untested men? No. Poor leadership? No. These are all factors in the success of war, but from what I witnessed that day, the real enemy, was fear.



    Last edited by knight of meh; September 02, 2013 at 09:38 PM.

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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

    Sultanat al Mamalik - Entry #10
    Sultanat al Mamalik

    Sultanat al Mamalik

    Ptolemy took the crown off his head,
    Cleopatra veils, her puritiy saves.
    Aten renamed, all godlings are dead,
    It's Allah we praise in the reign of the slaves.

    March west, do not lust for the east,
    Ride the horses the desert can breed.
    Build one more masjid, recruit one more priest,
    Jihad is intended, on piety you feed.

    Hashishin are useful, devout and might,
    Slay nobles when able, kindle churches at night.
    If plauge strikes your city, it's a gift the lord bestows,
    Send the spy in, spread to thy foe and watch it grows.

    A battle ends when all are slain,
    He who was captured will not fight again.
    Execute, prisoners should lay to rot,
    Surely, it is death they sought.

    Nomad saracens will rain hellfire in tides,
    Obscenities in their mouth and murder in their eyes.
    Fight them in the night, form your own horde,
    Charge back and forth, let the spearman clash till he dies.


  5. #5
    ggggtotalwarrior's Avatar hey it geg
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

    I wasn't going to vote, but entry #6 was quite excellent. Voted.
    Rep me and I'll rep you back.

    UNDER THE PATRONAGE OF THE KING POSTER AKAR

  6. #6
    pacifism's Avatar see the day
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

    Voted. When does the voting session end, by the way?
    Read the latest TWC Content and check out the Wiki!
    ---
    Graham's Hierarchy of Disagreement

  7. #7
    ImperialAquila's Avatar Domesticus
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

    Voted.

  8. #8
    Indefinitely Banned
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

    Voted.

  9. #9

    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

    Voted

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