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

  1. #1
    Vađarholmr's Avatar Archivum Scriptorium
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    Default Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Long Category Voting Thread

    Here are the submissions for the Long 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.



    Glow of the Neon - Entry #1

    I opened my panicked eyes and yelled into the darkness of my bedroom, frantically scrambling myself into a sitting position. I breathed hard. The nightmare had felt so real that even now the world around me didn't quite feel familiar: it felt foreign, as though I was in somebody else's bedroom. The after-effect, I realized, was fading slowly: complete and utter blackness still surrounded me, but I no longer felt as fearful and frantic as I had before. In fact, I felt like taking a pee right now and then. As a matter of a very painful fact, I felt a burning urge to nearly run into the toilet.

    I drew up from the bed, restraining my tired body from running, and began to tiptoe my way towards the bathroom. I accidentally hit a pair of ear buds on my worktable as I passed by, leaving them quivering on the edge of falling. I knew they'd drop soon. A few seconds later I was at the door to my bathroom, dizzily trying to get a hold of the handle. The blackness was still complete, all around me: I didn't think it was necessary to turn on the lights. That would waste energy and precious time.

    I opened the door and walked past the washing machine into a narrow room. I knew the toilet was there, as well as the washbasin and the murt, plus the old personal office of my cat. I walked past them and sat heavily onto the toilet seat, beginning to urinate with relief. Before I had finished, I heard two frighteningly sudden and sharp noises from my room. The ear buds, I thought.

    I finished my business in the toilet room and stood up, walking past the washing machine and out into the small, narrow corridor that separated my room from the bathroom. I couldn't see anything, but I had a rough idea of where my room was. I instinctively walked over to it, but suddenly stopped. A bolt of fear ran up my spine. I could see that just slightly ahead, surrounded by total blackness, the door stood closed. A very faint light illuminated the handle, as if something had just touched it and the glow had remained there. I remained still like an old, withered oak in windless weather, suddenly worried and anxious. I did not have the courage to look around, so I held my gaze strictly at the handle. And slowly, as if to embrace it, I reached out to bend it down.

    The door opened without the smallest rustle, falling inwards into the crushing blackness and vanishing from my view. An eerie silence surrounded me as I stepped in, desperately trying to convince myself that nothing had happened. It was the nightmare, wasn't it? That was messing up my memories. I had shut the door, but forgot about it later. Even so, I felt it necessary to convince myself that it had been just my imagination. I reached my hand to where I knew I would find the switch, right next to the door and above the worktable, but my fumbling hand met only a patch of cold cement and some cut-off wires hanging out from a hole. Something - or someone - had ripped the whole switch out of the wall.

    Absolute and sudden panic filled my mind. I kneeled down on the floor and began a blind search for the ear buds, but they were nowhere to be found. Panting, I leaned against my worktable to regain balance, but just then I felt a creeping chill coming from deeper in my room. And this time I knew I hadn't left my window open.

    My most primal sense, the will to survive, kindled itself ablaze. I staggered out of the room, never turning my back to the thing that was following me, frantic hands fumbling on the walls in search of a switch. But the further away I managed to retreat from my room, the further out the freezing coldness seemed to pursue me: and slowly a deep, guttural, absolutely monstrous laughter rose up from the black nothingness that engulfed my room. I could hear that the freezing chill in my room had suddenly evolved into a whirling tempest, and even as the laughter began to come closer, a neon-like glow started to appear around the edges of my room's door. I had had enough. I turned and ran towards the kitchen where the monster couldn't have had the chance to touch the switches. I heard swift, heavy clanking behind me, bone-chilling wind running before it: I felt like falling down in desperation and weeping, just giving up; but then, surprisingly, my hands clasped around something smooth and plastic. The clanking became faster, louder, and out of the utter blackness an eerie neon-like glow was leaping towards me. It caught my attention fully and without question: I could only stare as the glow slowed down nimbly, approaching me ominously, and then suddenly leapt forth with a cry.

    But even as I felt its foul breath on my chest, its nails tearing in my flesh, I pushed the switch with all my might. A sudden flash of light erupted from everywhere around me, and strangely yet logically, we both screamed in unison. When I dared to finally open my eyes, I could see the havoc the monster had caused in my body. Deep, bloody lanes carved into my torso, almost running down to my crotch, combined with the shock the beast had caused. I began to sob; mainly out of mental stress and anxiety, secondly out of the horrible pain I felt.

    And that's how they found me, sobbing and weeping on my kitchen floor, terribly wounded and unable to move. By the time they brought me to the hospital I had almost ran out of blood, even with the additional blood bags they had with them. They said that they thought I was going to die, and honestly, for a long while, I had truly hoped for that. But after several surgical operations and used blood bags, when I began to feel a little better, I finally heard the one question that would wreck me completely.

    "What happened to you?"

    I began to weep. The doctor hesitated and gave her partner a meaningful look. Then he took a gruff position, looking at me with the cold, steely eyes of a professional surgeon.

    "You'll have to be operated yet again." My sobs loudened. I was truly broken.

    They pumped me full of anaesthetic and did what they had to. In time - several months later - they finally had proven their words true. The ultimate price for my life, in the end, had been something I thought was worse than death. I was heavily traumatized and I needed help in order to perform some basic tasks in life. I took up writing, as the therapists said I needed something productive to do, but I had never had the inventiveness to become a real author. My life began to dumb down, day by day until each day, each week, each month was like trying to struggle your way through a bog.

    Ten years after the incident all the therapists and psychologists had given up on me. I had never told anyone about what had happened on that day. Now's the 25st of November, the year is 2022 and I am thirty-five years old. Ten years ago my life had changed completely, and now, ten years later, it has become unbearable. I have written my story here for all to see, for all to judge, as I record my thoughts here for the last time.

    I feel strangely calm at the prospect of killing myself. My caretaker, a sweet lady who always smiles kindly at me when she is here, never asking questions about my past incident, is buying some groceries right now. I could kill myself right now: a sharp knife from the kitchen would do excellently. I realize, though, that although she has asked a good bunch of questions about me, I have never really returned the favour. Her name is something that I don't remember at all. I must ask her when she comes.

    Oh, and one more thing. My house... I tried to return in there, but they told me the whole place had been hammered down like a cardhouse some months after my incident. Apparently they were going to build a park there.

    I wondered, though. What had happened to me in there? Had someone else met that... thing? Or was it dead?

    Whatever the answer to my questions are, one thing is sure: it won't happen again. And I don't want to gloss over the possibilities. It's my past.


    Eporedorix Rome’s Bane, King of All Gauls - Entry #2
    Eporedorix Rome’s Bane, King of All Gauls

    (Note: this story is from a campaign of mine, which has a soldier unit at normal size i.e. Roman infantry/Greek Hoplites have 80 men per unit, spear war-bands have 120 men, cavalry (except generals) have 54 horses, and so forth.)

    Gather around to hear the tale of Eporedorix, King of All Gauls.

    In the days when northern Italy wasn’t Roman there was a warrior-prince, named Eporedorix. Eporedorix wasn’t the best administrator, had average influence, but was a promising commander. He was stationed between Patavium and Medolanium. Before the Julii could take Segesta (a small coastal village that tips the balance between the control of Northern Italy), Eporedorix took it, then marched forth to find an army to destroy. After finding a small force and destroying it, he got more than what he bargained for a retreated to the Po River valley. Segesta’s small garrison was no match for the 600-man Roman army, led by the Julii leader himself. Eporedorix witnessed the siege and capture of his first victory, and in his impotent rage, swore revenge upon all of Rome.

    In several years’ time, Eporedorix gathered an army of shields and swords and spears and horses (in order of numbers). He had fought large groups of bandits with small forces for practice. When Eporedorix felt ready, he marched against the three-citied Julii faction of the Romans. Segesta was the first to fall back into Celtic hands, along with the Julii leader. Pre-occupied with a new, larger army marching to Segesta, Eporedorix sent his finest captain to capture Arretium and the rest of his army to fight the new army and new faction leader. Eporedorix, now a formidable commander, had defeated the army, but not destroyed it, and the new faction leader escaped. The Romans had a few reinforcements at Arretium and sallied forth. The Siege of Arretium became one of Rome’s biggest failures, resulting in a famous battle marked in the 250’s B.C., even though Eporedorix wasn’t a part of it. It was this battle that was commonly cited as the mark of the Julii’s downfall.

    Elsewhere in Gaul, the Britons and Germans were enemies with Gaul, but Britannia did not fight and the Germans attacked sporadically. The Spanish constantly attacked Numanthia, but Gaul somehow managed to win each time.

    Now Eporedorix became Lord of All Gauls, and had plenty of money to spend for an even larger army, courtesy to his profitable Roman cities. In a few years, his four cities in Italy pumped out nearly 1,000 individual swordsmen (not quite a stack). When the Julii requested peace, Eporedorix sent the diplomat packing and searched of ways to hire assassins. Finally, he was ready. Eporedorix marched to Ariminum, the last Julii city, with over 1,000 Cisalpine. The siege was long and bloody, but Eporedorix came out on top. The Julii were vanquished. Only a single army of bandits could claim to be the Romans Who Wore Red, and they were quickly decimated for trying to make something of it.

    Eporedorix’s name, with his new epithet “Rome’s-Bane”, was being used as a boogeyman to frighten children and alarm the Senators. After conquering the Julii the Senate armies marched to block his route to Rome, but did not aggressively engage the Gauls. Eporedorix ordered his cities to make swordsmen and sent hundreds of War Dogs repeatedly to soften up the Army of the Senate. In three-and-a-half years, Eporedorix Rome’s Bane, King of All Gauls, marched to Rome with 1200 swordsmen, 480 chosen swordsmen, 108 cavalry, and 120 spearmen. But will it stand against the seasoned Principes and Triarii and Generals of Rome itself?

    The Senate Army and The Gaulish Army met at the northern Tiber River Ford. Eporedorix led the infantry to cross one ford, and the cavalry to cross the other ford (two on the same battle map) to flank the Romans. No sooner had the Gaul infantry cross the Tiber the Romans Hastati charged. The Gauls countered charged to prevent requiring a pile of body-bags from Roman pila. The armies met right in front of the Tiber. Thus the Battle of the Tiber had begun.

    The Romans’ Hastati and a few Principes surrounded the entrance/exit to their side of the Tiber, but the Gauls had more men yet less experienced. Most of the swordsmen fought, 3-4 started a war cry, and the chosen swordsmen were immediate (and only) reserves. The battle was a dead stalemate.

    Eporedorix charged.

    With not even 45 men, the King of All the Gauls waded through the most dangerous army in all of Italy. He passed the Hastati and Principes engaging the swordsmen, smashing them as he went. Eporedorix charged into a Hastati unit unwilling to engage his men. Getting a tougher fight than he bargained for (he was used to a rout in a few seconds when he charged Hastati); he wheeled back, dodging the generals, and charged back into the infantry battle.

    The infantry battle had no clear victor at that point. The Gauls had more men, but even now a few over-exerted men already fled the field, with less than 20 men in the group. The Romans were pushed back but showed no sign of fleeing. When Eporedorix Rome’s-Bane charged, the result was nearly instantaneous. The center of the Roman line, was failing. So the Romans immediately sent their reserves to reinforce the lines, leaving only a few Principes and their six generals waiting in reserve. Now every man that couldn’t fight was doing a war cry, the only thing keeping them from a rout. The Gaulish light cavalry now charged a general and the infantry, causing massive casualties, mostly the Gaulish side.

    The Gauls crawled on. The men were weakened, the Romans courageous and with reserves. But not all was lost. The chosen swordsmen were ready to engage.

    The Gauls crawled on. The men were weakened, the Romans hesitant and tired, but had reserves. Soon, a Hastati fled. Then, another cohort. And a third.

    The Senate Generals charged. They pushed the Gauls back, back to the ford entrance. The hundreds of bodyguards and remaining Triarii and Principes found new will to fight. They pushed the Gauls back, back into the Tiber itself. Defeat was in the air, but Eporedorix saw his Segesta, his very first victory as a boy, nearly 15 years ago, burning as it changed into Roman hands. Eporedorix could see it before him, oblivious to the battle around him in his flashback, and he remembered his vow. His forces rallied, and every Gaul pushed his way to fight the Romans.

    A Roman General fell. Then another. Then two more. The Senate leader, the Pontifex Maximus, fell on the Tiber. The remaining general and what men were left (now just a few hundred) took their leave, and left the field with as much speed as they could. With exhausted infantry and only 40 remaining cavalry, Eporedorix was unable to chase them down to stab their backs. But there was no song that night, for our dead were too numerous for reckoning, for it was a victory at great cost. The Battle of the Tiber had ended, with maybe 2,000 Romans and Gauls dead.

    Eporedorix Rome’s-Bane, King of All the Gauls, had an army too weakened to continue. He sent his men north to be retrained. It took a year-and-a-half for everyone to be ready again. Meanwhile, in previous years, orders in four of five Italian cities to make more swordsmen created a new army. With over 3,000 men, Eporedorix Rome’s-Bane was ready to conquer the Eternal City.

    From the time he spent to recover his forces, the Senate recovered and enlarged their army as well. Eporedorix sent a few groups of swordsmen as a lure (which over half the Senate army promptly fell for and followed south, away from Rome.). Eporedorix Rome’s-Bane, King of All the Gauls, now the greatest general in the world at the time, sent three or spies in Rome (he was determine to capture the city before the Senate realized their mistake) and besieged the city. When the spies controlled the both of Eporedorix’s armies, being too vast to be put in one army, attacked.

    Eporedorix’s army had himself, half a dozen chosen swordsmen groups, a dozen swordsmen groups, and an extremely small barbarian cavalry group, totaling 1,300 men, in his army. The second army had a dozen swordsmen groups, totaling 960 men. Each army attacked a different gate. Eporedorix’s forces easily broke through, having fewer defenders to face, while the second army had more difficulty. Eporedorix and his men became a wave of men and a horde of steel. Eporedorix, so excited of reaching Rome and having half his vow fulfilled, often charged alone, with none but his bodyguards laboring to keep up with their king’s vigor. When Eporedorix nearly reached the city square, he received news that the second army had completely routed. Disheartened but angry, he sent all his men into the square, over-powered its occupants, and then marched outside the square to catch any Romans routing or marching to recapture Rome’s main square. After several failed attacks, the entire Eternal City was at the mercy of the Gauls. Eporedorix did what he did to nearly all of the cities he conquered; he allowed anyone who disagreed with his right to rule to leave the city unharmed. His benevolence inspired many to stay.

    Now only the Scipii city and Brutii cities remain in Italy, the only things stopping Eporedorix from claiming both victory and his vow fulfilled. He sent all his spies into the cities, and saw they both had a thousand men for either faction in Italy. The Gaulish treasury was nearly bankrupt, and Eporedorix’s hair is now gray. The Scipii once besieged Rome, but the defenders outnumbered the besiegers. There were two swordsmen for every Principes/Hastati, not counting the chosen swordsmen. The Equites were no match for Eporedorix’s bodyguards and his legendary tactical skill against the Romans. One swordsmen group would charge, then war cry when they got close to his human target, and another actually combated the infantry. The two mutually supported each other to cause a mass rout.

    There are still a thousand men for each faction in Italy. The Brutii are marching to Rome, but the Scipii are playing defensive. The Spanish had taken Gaulish holding in Spain and Narbo Martius is in their sights. But the Gauls are ready and willing to fight on, to the end, to their death.
    Last edited by StealthFox; September 05, 2013 at 07:47 PM.
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  2. #2
    Vađarholmr's Avatar Archivum Scriptorium
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Long Category Voting Thread

    Total War: Of Gods and Men - Entry #3


    Total War: Of Gods and Men
    A fictitious tale set in the Roman Era Timeline

    The Beginning

    Act 1: The Humble

    He sat in his tent, alone. That was how he always liked it before any big event in his life. And tomorrow would possibly be the biggest in his life. He was Antonius Martinus Spectus, average height and build and an average head of average sandy blonde hair. Even his face was average, as a women he had an interest in once told him, “Your face reminds me….of nothing”. The only thing not average about him was his mind. He had graduated top of his class, excelled in every field of study including weaponry, siege warfare, battle tactics and economy. He showed an unusual aptitude with the gladius, and this being the weapon of the Legion, was quickly promoted through the ranks to Centurion. He was, of course, a native of the burgeoning nation of Rome and currently the newest General of the Roman Army in a long list of short-lived braggarts and now retired successors. Permanently retired that is.
    The barbarian nations had rallied across the map after news got around of the defeat of the newly minted 4th Legion by a particularly large and vicious collection of eastern barbarian tribes. What was the leader’s named? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. He had only yesterday been granted this new title. He was totally unprepared and wishing fervently that he had taken that post in Sardinia last year.
    His old mentor, Avernicus Aspacious, always said to defeat your enemy you must understand his motives and thought process. And what were the motives behind this enemy? Antonius couldn’t honestly blame them for hating his people. The arrogant and foolish commander of the 4th had brashly attacked these people to advance his own “honor” and agenda. He had cruelly slaughtered the family of the man now leading the opposition, (Ah, that was his name, Brashnae), and soon after had fallen into an impressively laid ambush by the same man and doomed his entire legion. Not one had been heard from since. No, Antonius could not truly despise his enemy this night, as he understood them all too well. But this only hindered his resolve, not strengthened it as this reasoning was supposed to have done.
    Plans back in Rome were hastily being drawn up to re-form the 4th, (it was being hotly debated whether a rescue mission should be organized to recover the Manticore Standard), while Antonius was on the frontlines in Northern Italy, two miles from the River Po with the 2nd and 3rd legions. The Barbarian troops outnumbered his three to one, and more were arriving every day. There would be no reserves coming from Rome in the foreseeable future. The 1st legion was stuck in southern Italy, putting down a new revolt by the ever unruly tribes there and the Council had flatly refused to allow the city guard to join Antonius. A mere two hundred men, but men he would have given his own hide for at this moment.
    He gaze strayed to a small shrine to Ares, the Greek god of war, which his last predecessor had set up. It was disgraceful for a Roman citizen, and a General no less, to acknowledge any gods besides their own but Antonius found it hard to find fault even here. The man had no doubt prayed the night before he had been cut down. It hadn’t done him much good, but Antonius was briefly tempted to try anyways. His thoughts went back to his childhood and prayers before bedtime. The heavy smell of incense drifted along with hazy dreams of battles between gods and men. Had they been dreams? A few things he remembered so vividly…..
    His shook his head. There was no time for nostalgia and flights of fancy. This was reality and he could really be dead by tomorrow evening along with all of his men. He had never been a man of religion anyway. A logical thinker, he excelled at strategy and calculations, which he had better put to good use now. He bent over the table in front of him and started arranging the figures as best he could and sending runners to his many subordinates. Gods could not help him. They never had, they never would.



    Act 2: The Hidden


    “He doesn’t pay you tribute. He doesn’t even believe in you! Why take such an interest in this man? There are many others to observe who could benefit you more”. A shadowy figure wavered in the darkest corner of the General’s tent, unnoticed by the man planning at the center.
    “Are there so many with his convictions, with his character?” A second voice close to the first spoke with a decided lack of interest. “We have discussed this all before. Antonius has the capacity for great things. He will be my champion.”
    The second voice gave a start at this last statement. “And I have told you repeatedly to watch what you say out loud. Hermes’ spies are everywhere and you could be destroyed for voicing such careless musings. We all know what happened to Apollo and he only helped another”
    A pair of eyes shifted momentarily from his intense interest in the General to the first speaker. “It was not the end of the world for him. Some might call it a blessing. Besides, times are changing. There is a new world before us, brother. Don’t be caught sleeping when it shifts.”
    The first figure became more agitated with each word and seemed to be ready to launch into an intense retort. Before he could the second figure cut him off preemptively, while moving back to his vigil of the General. “But rest easy, it is not yet time for action. I am merely an observer for now, as we have always been. I will only say, be ready.”
    This did not seem to calm the other, but he knew his brother well enough than to continue this futile argument. He would be ready, but to do what, Kronos only knew.


    Act 3: The Arrogant

    Bursting through the tent, Brashnae hurled his spear into the corner and took a large gulp of wine from his oversized goblet that he always had close at hand. He was an enormous behemoth of a man, taller than two average Gauls put together. His girth was equally impressive, easily equalling that of three lesser men. His hair was a deep brown and cut short to accommodate the band he had placed on his head to differentiate himself from the other Chieftains. He was an important man, after all. Things were going splendidly. His power grew with each day and with it victory was closer at hand. The idea that he could lose never occurred to him, it was only a matter of time.
    “ACULLION!!!” he bellowed in his best authoritative voice, (he had been practicing it a lot lately and he was quite pleased with the sound of it).
    “Yes, Brashnae”.
    He had been sitting in the middle of the tent but had somehow still gone unnoticed. Some might say it was because of the wine, but most knew not to underestimate the young advisor. Of average height he was quite slim, for a Gaul, and his jet black hair had unusual streaks of white throughout. Emerald green eyes glittered cunningly behind finely sculpted brows.
    “Have you heard they are calling me King, now?” He gave a slight pause, as if allowing him to repair his mistake by adding the title. Acullion had never called his childhood friend by anything but his first name. As much as Brashnae had changed, nothing would change that. So he ignored the hint.
    “You should be reviewing the strategy for tomorrow and perhaps drinking a little less wine?” Acullion motioned for him to set the goblet down and come over to the map table.
    “You can handle MY strategy well enough”, he put heavy emphasis on the word to remind his “friend” who owned everything here. He was really becoming insufferable lately. Was he jealous of his success or just oblivious to his rising status? Sometimes he wondered why he bothered to keep him as a friend at all. Then his gaze settled on the aforementioned strategy map and he bit back his further reprimand. They had used to be the best of friends, he didn’t understand what had changed, but there would be time to resolve that later. “I’m going out for now. Inform my chieftains what they must do.”
    Acullion raised an eyebrow in a cautionary expression that Brashnae knew all too well. Before his advisor could speak, he scooped up his new silver bear cloak, just given to him as tribute that morning, and swept out of the tent.
    Left behind, a long-suffering sigh escaped Acullion’s lips. He massaged his temples slowly wishing for the wine he knew he could not have. Brashnae was growing increasingly difficult and reckless. The power was seemingly going to his head and his friend was at a loss as to how he could set him straight again. To betray his oldest comrade never crossed his mind, but he was afraid that none of them would be around much longer if he failed to make him see reason. His reverie was cut-off by the chieftains entering the command tent, one by one, till all ten were present. None of them were pleased to see that Brashnae, as his custom had become lately, would not be present at the meeting but they all held their tongues. All knew who was responsible for their recent successes and all knew who held the real power, even if he refused to take it for his own.
    Acullion smiled briefly. They were simple men, but they were courageous and brave. He banished his gloomy thoughts and got down to business.
    “We will be facing nearly fifteen thousand men tomorrow, our scouts inform me. Most are infantry but there is some cavalry and some ranged. We don’t know the exact numbers of each.”
    “They will be fifteen thousand corpses, of all types, tomorrow”, shouts echoed these sentiments made by Gamph, the Chieftain of Mentae who was largely considered to be insane, but no one questioned his prowess on the field of battle. He was quite a large man, as in fat, but there was ample muscle still beneath. His eyes sat a bit too far apart and he always seemed to be looking off into the distance, smiling slightly. This didn’t help the rumors that he was insane. Acullion knew most of it was an act and was glad to have him here, but he couldn’t afford stupidity.
    “They are fewer in men but do not underestimate the Romans. They have won against larger numbers in the past with fewer men. If we wish to win we must work together and stick to the plan”.
    An old, gnarled Chieftain, the oldest warrior alive that any of them knew, raised his hands in open disbelief. “Ye can’t be suggestin that they could trounce us, could ye?” Chieftain Molrai had command of the largest tribe of them all. He brought nearly five thousand men and women, at least one-fourth of which were his own children. He practiced polygamy, you see, and had married a girl from every conquest he had ever made, not to mention the many girls from his own tribe. It was rumored that at least half of his army was related to him in some way. There were a few laughs around the tent at the thought that they could lose, echoing the ancient chieftains’ thoughts.
    “I’m sure you did not live so long by assuming victory and making rash judgements, Molrai.” Molrai snorted noncommittally. Acullion had expected this kind of overconfidence and he needed to be sure they would all work in unison. If they did not, he feared the worst. Unbeknownst to these men assembled, his father, Macius Plebius Acinditi, had been a deserter from the 1st Legion and had taught him much about the Roman’s ways. He knew more than anyone here how deadly they could be.
    But these thoughts would do little to inspire caution in these men. They were not afraid to die and death only meant more glory. No, the only way to make them listen would be to appeal to the one thing more important to them than glory, which was greed. “Chieftans….great riches and wealth await us if we can win here tomorrow. If we win here, the spoils of Rome can be ours for the taking. Who knows what can come after that?” He could see the fires of avarice and desire kindle in each hungry face, nearly setting the tent aglow with its force of strength. “But to achieve this, we must work together and win the field totally. We must route the Romans and press on before they can receive aid or fortify their position.” Nods all around showed him that he had their attention, at least for the moment. “Now listen carefully, for each man has a role to play in this battle.”


    The Quickening


    Act 1: The Imprudent

    Getae and Brumhild looked across at each other from the backs of the horses. They didn’t like this one bit. They didn’t like horses and they didn’t like Sarmatians or riding behind them like women. Marcomir had ordered it though, and so his shield men had obeyed, albeit grudgingly. They noticed several times that they were going far off course, but the saddle-brains in front of them would not listen to their warnings. They both spoke halting common, in thick Germanic accents, which had always been good enough to communicate with others before, but these horse lovers obviously had never bothered to learn it, as they only received puzzled stares. The fools were yelling some grating , discordant mess behind them as well, most likely alerting half of the Roman Empire to their position and putting the brothers on edge. They agreed to keep watch of the brush on each of their own sides and they began to constantly dart glances into the shadows of the morning mist and jumping at every rustle and hint of movement. “Don’t be foolish Brumhild”, Getae pretended to assure his brother, secretly needing to assure himself, “Be a man. What would pa say, if he saw you know? Come, don’t be so scared you can’t even speak to me?” Getae looked over in irritation at his younger brother, who often ignored him when he was trying to act brave, he saw only an empty horse. Looking around in confusion, he saw Brumhild and his Sarmatian lying on the path of trampled plants they had just passed through. What in the name of- His thoughts were cut short as his vision went dark. There was no transition, no moment of realization of what was happening, or even a moment of confusion, only darkness.
    Aldis’ second in command, Meldi, rode along in silence, his men close behind him and their leader not far ahead. With two men to a horse the going was quite slow and they had been riding all night. They should be nearing their destination, but the tall growth they rode through made it difficult to see their headings and bearings. He was unused to this type of terrain and he growled a question to the Fulkir warrior behind him. There was no response and he realized he had spoken in his native tongue. He repeated the question in his stilted common he had laboriously tried to learn but there was still no answer. Did he think he was too good to speak to a Sarmatian? Somewhere back in the line he heard some riders chanting an old raiding song. He looked to Aldis to see if he heard it too. They had been counseled to keep complete silence. Aldis caught his eye and shrugged. “Let them sing. This place unnerves them. They needed the encouragement and we are miles away from the silly, slow Roman position.” Meldi was not so sure, but he dared not contradict his Horse Lord. The Fulkir behind him said something but the fool must have been speaking Germanic or some such nonsense as he could understand none of it. His speech became more insistent and he began to shift uneasily behind in the saddle. If the stump legs did not sit still he would knock them both off of the horse. A violent motion him made him start in surprise as the warrior behind him clutched at his shoulders and fell to the side, dragging him to the ground with him. He slammed hard into the chilly dirt, managing to twist slightly so his passenger took the brunt of the fall. He wasn’t going to break a rib because of this tree chopper. He had to admit he was amazed at his strength though, as the man made not even a gasp of pain as he crunched into a large stone embedded in the ground. As he was ready to spring to his feet and angrily berate the foolish man, chaos erupted around him. Steel flashed on all sides and cries of anguish filled the air. He noticed his German had a large shaft protruding from the side of his neck and he was most decidedly dead. No wonder he had made no sound. Meldi searched frantically for Aldis but could only see blood spraying and swords reaching greedily for his life. He wildly fended off two blows from an attacker he could barely see and ducked under his horse, just as three more bolts magically appeared in the animal’s side. The horse cried out in terror and pain and whipped around in agony, catching a warrior with its hoof that had been closing in on Meldi. One last favor from his favorite steed, the animal he had cared for from a foal. He would miss that horse dearly. Heat boiled through his veins, white hot rage at this unexpected turn of events. He looked around again for something to strike out at, someone to unleash his fury upon. Before he could advance a step, something crashed into his head spinning him sideways in the grass and ending any more emotion he might have felt. That was how quickly the Sarmatians met their end.

    Act 2: The Lucky
    The camp began moving in the early fog of pre-dawn. Antonius was overseeing the loading of his personal wagon and urging all within earshot for speed and relative silence. Sound carried easily in the still morning air and he wanted to give nothing more away of his position. He was well rested but his spirits were not renewed. He wished only for an end to this conflict, but he knew suing for peace this early without a victory would only appear as more weakness on Rome in his enemies’ eyes and on him in the eyes of Rome. He felt a vast discomfort at the events laid out before him and a deep doubt in the righteousness of his cause. He let none of this show on his face however and tied the last rigging harness himself. Looking over the camp- his camp, he saw with typical Roman efficiency and discipline the military machine of Rome was ready to move.
    He had planned to meet the barbarians at the river crossing, where an old Roman fort was still in relatively stable condition. Scouts arriving in the middle of the night had confirmed his fears though and put an end to that idea. The horde was not advancing. It held its position at the edge of the great forest and only grew stronger as each day passed while his army grew weaker. He could not delay any longer.
    Giving the signal for a quiet advance the lines began moving forward without a single groan of protest or complaint. Antonius was proud of his men, proud at least to be part of such an elite and well-trained force. His mission may threaten to bow him, but his men gave him the strength to walk straight and tall again.
    Two hours of uneventful marching and the sun was just peaking over the horizon. There was still plenty of time before they reached their destination, but Antonius demanded a continued forced march and absolute silence. Some strange feeling kept pulling his gaze to the north though he could not figure out why. His neck was beginning to cramp when he suddenly noticed birds leaving the trees in large clusters to the north. It was far enough away where he never would have taken notice if not for the strange insistence he felt to keep looking there. What was this? It was obviously a large force, but of whom or what? Holding his hand up for a change in direction, the column altered its march slightly to the north and prepared to intercept the disturbance.
    Two scouts reported back shortly. A small band of about five hundred Sarmatians were making their way steadily west, each traveling with a Germanic warrior in tow. He could make no sense of it, but it did not bode well for the Romans. Were the scouts sure that they were Sarmatians? Yes, many of them were singing war chants and it was definitely the savage Sarmatian dialect. The Germans on the back, well, every Roman knew a German when he saw one. Whatever the Sarmatians were doing, as part of his enemy’s force or an independent army, they were well out of their territory and deep in Roman land. His duty was clear and this opportunity was perfect to assure minimal losses with maximum results. He gave a quick signal for six columns wide to spread out across the enemy’s path, with the furthest most left and right wings advancing faster and forming something of a horseshoe shape. He had created this formation himself years ago and drilled the men in it for the last two weeks, but had never dreamed he would use it so soon.
    The Sarmatian mounts soon drew abreast of the Roman soldiers furthest out. Antonius let them advance a few hundred more paces, to have them deep among the ranks of the front line hastate. Signaling for the archers to shoot first, as was practiced, they let two volleys fly before sounding the attack trumpet. Silent shafts flew into their targets. With such a concentrated area, aim was not even necessary. Most of the Sarmatians and Germans did not even have time to react as many of their comrades slumped forward or dropped from their horses. Then the horn blared and pila[1] flew from every direction. Hundreds were dead in the first few seconds. . A single scorpion[2] fired into the ranks of the Sarmatians, lifting a horse off of its feet and sending it crashing into a man near the front lines. Their projectiles spent, the Romans rushed in to finish off those unfortunate enough to have survived that long. Three riders near the back of the line broke through the Roman assault and took off at a mad dash heading back east. A small pocket of Germanic resistance held out in the middle for a few minutes, but was quickly overcome by sheer numbers. In minutes the force was annihilated and the army set about reclaiming arrows, securing loot and setting itself back into order. Prisoners were sent back to the baggage train. Antonius’ advisor stated in exasperation that they were at war; they had no capacity to take care of prisoners. “Then make the capacity”, was all he said. He would not become the barbarian. Prisoners would be granted quarter, humanity would be respected no matter what side it was on. Antonius smiled grimly. Maybe their cause was not so doomed after all. Vivat Roma.[3]





    Act 3: The Helpful

    Tyr stretched slowly while an enormous yawn burst forth from him. Some shepherds in a nearby field heard the sound worried bad weather was incoming. Goodness, he was tired! This interacting with humans was much tougher than he ever thought it could be. The boy was so set on his thoughts and goals, it took nearly an hour to make him see the birds and discover the threat. Forcing him to keep turning his head to look north took all of his energy and he was just thankful Antonius had finally gotten the hint. It would be so much easier to simply talk to him, but it was too dangerous to go that route yet. He rested easily on the top of a tree, watching the Roman Legions slowly reassemble and begin making its way east again. He hadn’t expected thanks, and he knew he couldn’t make himself known yet, but he still couldn’t shake the disappointment from working so hard and having no one appreciate him.
    “I appreciate you”. Whoa! How long had Artemis been sitting there? A lithe female form reclined on the treetop near to Tyr. He must be even more tired than he thought if he was projecting his thoughts unknowingly. Sneaking up on him on the other hand, well, she had always been good at that. He studied her beautiful face and delicate form. They were both about the same height, with the same chin-length, curly, golden blonde hair. She had full lips and a tiny nose with a little bump on the end. Everything about her was delicate and tiny. You’d think she was fragile, but you would be mistaken. The two of them and his brother were constant companions when they were younger, when the world was still fresh and new. The fun they had created and the games they had played never seemed to end and their minds were always open to each other. It was a shame that he had to guard his thoughts around her now. And she felt the door close, shutting her out.
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” Artemis looked down at the army below. She toyed with the leaves, making them swirl around her hands in a merry dance. “I’m worried about you. You spend far too much time observing these humans. I’m concerned for your safety, for what you are thinking of doing…..and what you may have already done…” She let the last bit trail away, the leaves falling as her hands fell to her lap. She refused to meet his gaze as she was afraid of what she may see there.
    “Hah, have you been talking with brother again? Don’t be silly Artemis. I know my place and I know Kronos’ “rules” about interacting with the humans. I merely find them fascinating. If you are worried about my crossing Kronos, you needn’t be. You know I am much too intelligent to do that”. She turned to look at him finally. Their eyes spoke to each other with more than words could convey, in a way humans could never understand[4]. ‘I know you think you are too intelligent to get caught’ her eyes said. ‘The same way you have been watching them, I have been watching you’, they said. Words that they dared not speak allowed, as the east wind was blowing strongly and would certainly pick up on their conversation. ‘Be careful, and know that I am here for you’ with a final glance she slid down the tree and was lost in the canopy below.
    He sighed in frustration. No matter what she said he simply couldn’t trust her. Zeus was her father and was undoubtedly keeping tabs on her, not to mention the fact that she had sided with the council to uphold these ridiculous new “rules”, that none of the younger generation could interact with the humans. Sure, the elders all said they wouldn’t either, but Tyr had seen that broken too many times to try keeping count. It was unfair and unjust and he didn’t see the reasoning behind it. So he might alter someone’s fate, so what? What was the point of having all this power if he could not use it to help the humans that he favored? What was the point of living forever if your name is never known? He chopped the air with his open hand. A great wind followed after and threatened to knock over anyone in its path. The shepherds below shook their heads in consternation. Nothing good could come from strange omens like these. Tyr stood up slowly, not enjoying the lightheaded feeling he was getting from the exhaustion setting in. He had to be more careful in the future, around others like him and around the world at large. There were always dangers in this world to look out for, even for a being as powerful as Tyr. He made sure he was still in the other dimension[5], where he could not be seen by the humans and kept a close eye on the progress below. He hoped they wouldn’t get into any more trouble soon. He didn’t know if he was physically able do anything, as tired as he was, even if he was willing to risk it again.


    [1] A medium sized throwing javelin that was designed to bend and break upon impact, so that enemies could not reuse them.

    [2] A mechanical device use to hurl large bolts into enemy lines.

    [3] Long Live Rome

    [4] Beings like Artemis and Tyr, which we will refer to as, “Others” from now on are certainly not human. There are many legends surrounding where they came from, most of them being created by the humans. Others can communicate merely by looking into each other’s eyes and conveying thoughts. Some who are very close can communicate over distance. Most Others can tell when another is lying and most that are not close create a “wall” to shield their mind from intruders spying on their thoughts.

    [5] There are three dimensions known on Earth. The first is where everything can interact with everything else on the same plane. This is where humans and animals are always. The second is a hidden dimension where others like Tyr can observe without being noticed. Interacting with the first dimension while in the second takes an extreme amount of concentration and energy and their natural powers are severely limited. The third dimension is known to them but has never been known to be accessed and is something of a mystery.



    The March - Entry #4

    They had been street urchins in Athos, the Great City, Dentin and his younger brother, Marcus, prior to the Emperor raising his Great Army. They were, along with the many other beggar boys, picked off the thin streets of the Black Alley Markets and given a sword and a shield. Dentin’s scrawny, pale arms could barely lift the weapon, and the ragged, ill-fitting leather “armor” he’d been given provided little mobility in his torso. They didn’t even put in the effort of telling us how to use a sword, he thought bitterly.

    Despite this, Dentin was glad to be in the Emperor’s service. It was the first time in his life he’d ever found regular food and a warm tent in which to sleep. At night, he shared a tent with his brother, Vilicus, another orphan boy from the Black Alley, Selericus, a Noble from the Scorched Bay in the Empire’s southernmost provinces, and Belrik, their unit’s Commander.

    Belrik was one of the few men in the Emperor’s newly created army that had any fighting experience. In reality Belrik wasn’t a Commander, he was a Northern Mercenary, a former Barbarian who hailed from one of the tribes they were being sent to annihilate.

    “He has no honor to anyone but himself. He would betray his own people, his own Gods from those damn mountains for the Emperor’s gold and lands.” Selericus would complain, “I don’t trust him.” Selericus had a habit of placing little trust in anyone. The tall, handsome knight was always alone, sitting with his back against a tree between marches. His dark eyes seemed to observe the actions of every soldier who passed. The only reason Dentin like him was because he was more generous in his actions towards the young orphans than many of the other nobles who Dentin had encountered

    “Why do you distrust him?” Dentin asked, “Why do you distrust everyone?” Dentin had not been given the education or the wealth of Selericus’ family, and sometimes had trouble understanding him complex words.
    “Because he’s one of them and because this army was raised in days. Emperor Tycerus decreed the raising of an Imperial Army to be recruited from the lowest and untrained men of Athos. None of them are prepared” There was contempt in his voice, but it was directed towards the Emperor, not Qentin. They continued marching towards the next campsite, where the scouts and head of the army had already arrived. “He believes he can defeat the Northern Rebellion, his own nephew’s rebellion, using an army of untrained peasants led by Mercenaries liked Belrik. The Northerners are hard men, from freezing in those mountains for centuries. They know how to fight, and wouldn’t be past slaughtering young boys like your brother. ”

    Dentin suddenly felt uneasy. Fear set in as the words repeated themselves in his head. He saw the scene in his head, a muscular, tall savage covered in blue war paint grabbing his brother’s pale, skinny body and slicing the head off with the sword in his other hand. Marcus’ dark green eyes were still open as the blood ran across his face, turning his brown hair a bright purple color.

    Selericus must’ve seen the horror on Dentin’s face at his words, and his voice suddenly became much softer, no longer the bitter sneer it had been just moments before. “I didn’t mean that, boy. You and your brother will be safe, I promise you.” Selericus gave Dentin a lopsided smile, the first time Dentin had ever seen any expression on his face other than suspicion, contempt or anger.

    Finally, after what seemed like years of marching, they reached the army’s new camp site. It was now their third week of marching, so Dentin already knew what had to be done. Night was falling, and there would be no rest. I hate setting up camp. I hate it almost as much as the marching, Dentin thought miserably. The aching pain in his legs and feet from the day’s march would have to wait to be attended to, in addition to the arch in his back from bearing the weight of his oversized leather chainmail. It didn’t matter, though, because he would soon have food in his body and a nice, warm place to sleep. His brother would not have to worry about starvation.

    They were still hundreds of miles from where the lands of Northmen, according to reports their general, Denecio, had sent to his top lieutenants in his army. Selericus has read the report by the fire the previous night, as he was the only person there who could read the Athosian script. They were still in the South, but it was colder outside the newly-erect tent than it had been the previous several nights. They were going further North with each passing day, and the weather was catching up to their marches. Dentin was shivering as Belrik started the fire.

    When the wood finally sparked and lit, Dentin joined the others around the fire. There were 8 of them at this one camp, and dozens at the surrounding camps. In total there were several thousand in the other camps that made up the army. At their campfire sat tiny Marcus, only 11 years, but looking more like 8, Belrik, and three other orphan boys whose names Dentin never remembered. Selericus sat further away, leaning against a tall Oak tree.
    Dentin couldn’t help but stare at Belrik’s lined, scarred face, which always made him feel immense dread. It was not the claw marks across Belrik’s face or even his huge, muscular arms that scared Dentin, but his eyes. They were two huge black pupils now, burning in the fire’s light. They look like an animal’s eyes, Dentin thought.

    Suddenly, a long, high pitched howl roared through the night. Dentin suddenly shivered in fear, only to notice all the other boys doing the same. It was cold and dark, and now deadly animals may descend on their camp. It was a frightening thought.
    Dentin had heard of the Great Wolves that roamed outside of Athos from boys on the street, double the size of the dogs that roamed in Black Alley, howling to the moon before they descended upon travelers. Dentin tried to reassure himself that these tales were false, but he still could not convince himself.
    “Do the wolves unnerve you, boy?” Belrik asked, ignoring all the others and staring directly at Dentin. His animal eyes felt like they were peering into Dentin’s mind, knowing he was afraid.

    “No…” Dentin began to say, but the fear in his voice betrayed him. He was terrified.

    “I know you are boy, so I’ll give you some advice. The Wolves are animals, just like you and me. They howl to their mother, Mora, daughter of the Creator who was sentenced to eternity in the sky. Their patronage to their mother is nothing you have to fear.”

    Suddenly, Selericus interrupted, “They howl to their mother, a being who defied the Creator himself with the first Wolf’s birth. Only a true monster of a man would thing there is nothing to fear from Mora! There are gods no man bows to, and she is one.”

    “You believe you know the ways of the world, Southernman, but you have much to learn. Mora is a god, like any other, and she created her children different from your villainous Silus and that Filik that is worshipped in The Pass. She did not try to take what us Northmen rightfully received from the Creator himself!”

    “You defend the Mother of the Wolves, who created the animals that have preyed on you Northern people for years! Yet you dare speak ill of the Southern father, Silus, who was the favored son of the Creator?” Selericus’ voice echoed through the woods, his anger vibrating through the trees. It was the first time Dentin had seen him so full of range. Yet another first for Selericus today, Dentin thought.

    “There are much worse things than wolves in these woods for you. Things you southerners would not dare defy.”

    “Aye, there are. The same ill-bred mongrels you Northerners spent years cowering from in your Mountains.” Another howl roared through the silence as Selericus finished speaking. Only then did Qentin build up the courage to look out into the trees that surrounded their camp. He had never realized how dark the forest got at night; the potential for animals and Northerners to attack their camp was limitless. The thought made him turn towards Marcus, whose pale, thin face always seemed even weaker in the light of the fire.

    “Are you alright, brother?” Dentin asked the sickly boy, softly. He could see that Marcus had just had the same thought he had. The sudden feeling of dread this night was different from previous nights on the march north. It was a deep, biting paranoia that had been spawned from Belrik’s threats.

    “No.” Marcus responded, as he stood up from his spot near the fire and wandered towards their tent. Something was wrong, and Dentin was not the only person who felt it. He followed his little brother into the tent, just as Belrik resumed his verbal spar with Selericus. Dentin did not care for their religious differences, as the Southern Gods had done very little to help him and his brother in their short lives in the Black Alley, and he felt that his brother’s well-being was much more important at the moment.

    “What is wrong?” He asked as he folded open their tent’s door, hoping he could reassure his brother that nothing was wrong. Even when I know my words will be lies.

    “I don’t know, Dent, but I know something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.” For the first time in his life, Marcus looked older than his age, losing the naivety of a child.

    “Everything’s fine, Marcus, because we are here together, like it’s always been. It’s just like the Black Alleys, but we’ll have food, and the Emperor promises Northern land for any man that fights for him against the Northerners. We’ll have land, food and we’ll never have to beg in the streets again.” Belrik’s voice grew louder outside the tent, nearly entering incomprehensible screams of hatred towards the Southern Gods.

    “You’re right, Dent, if we’re together, we’ll be fine.” Marcus suddenly looked much more relaxed, as they reentered the camp.

    “You will learn what pains truly is Southerner!” Belrik shouted just as they approached the fire. His black, animal eyes were burning in the fire’s light.

    “Are you threatening me, savage?” Selericus said as he suddenly stood from his position against the tree, drawing his sword.

    “Yes, because the game is over, and I can finally end this lie. I would never serve you disgusting Southerners.” Belrik screamed, as Dentin began to back away from the muscular Northerner. The howls of wolves erupted through the forest. “Not a single Son of the Mountain would ever truly betray our Gods for your Silus, Filik or Herak!”

    Selericus charged Belrik, swinging his long sword in a wild rage, it’s steel gleaming in the fire’s light. His swing was countered by Belrik’s axe and a punch to the face. Selericus fell onto the tree where he had previously sat. His eyes were wide with fear, and blood was spewing from a gash that ran from his left eyebrow to his right cheek.

    “You Northern savage!” Selericus screamed as he leapt from his feet once more, slowly approaching the enormous brute that he had begrudgingly called his commander only minutes before. Dentin was paralyzed with fear, standing right between the two.

    Dentin turned to where Belrik stood, only to see a monster forming before his own eyes. Belrik was shakng violently, with his eyes enlarging and his pupils dilating. His already monstrous arms were expanding, his legs were curving irregularly, and dark, thick hair was pouring out of his skin to cover the areas of his body that were not already covered. His teeth morphed into fangs, and his monstrous black eyes stared right at Dentin. The Werewolves were no myth, they were real.

    Dentin ran in fear towards the tents as the werewolves descended upon the camp. He saw the orphan boy Vilicus getting torn to pieces by three of the black and grey monsters, but none were as large as Belrik, who was toying with Selericus.

    “You are a monster. You are a godless monster!” Selericus screamed once again as he charged towards the 10 foot tall beast. He swung his longsword once again, only for Belrik to grab him by the throat. The werewolf was squeezing so tightly that it’s claws were penetrating Selericus’ skin, and blood was pouring from his neck. Selericus continued to swing his sword while he gasped for air, giving Belrik a few minor cuts, but doing little to ease the grip around his neck.

    “You will lose this war….” Selericus gasped, while the grip around his throat tightened. His eyes suddenly turned from Belrik to Dentin, who was cowering behind the tent. He mouthed one word with his last moments of life, “Run.”
    There was a sickening crunch as the werewolf ripped Selericus’ throat from his body. Selericus’ lifeless body slumped to the ground as Belrik joined the other wolves in dining on Vilicus’ corpse. It took all the strength that Dentin had to avoid crying out in horror. He fell to the ground in a silent cry, only to remember his brother.

    He slid into the tent, finding his brother crying in the corner. “They’re all going to die Dent,” the little boy cried, “the whole army. We are going to die.”

    “Be quiet.” Dentin whispered angrily. “We’ll be fine, you just have to trust me and follow what I do. Can you do that?”

    “Yes.”

    “Then let’s go.” Dentin slid out of the tent followed by his brother. He heard the commotion from the surrounding camps. Men were dying in this forest tonight. There had to be hundreds of werewolves descending upon the entire army this very night. If Dentin could get to the horses, he and his brother might live.

    They silently slid behind the feast on their comrade’s corpses towards the fleeing horses of likely dead Commanders. Dentin managed to silently leap onto the furthest horse, but his brother slipped off the side of the other, making a loud squeal as he fell. Three wolves immediately ran towards them, being led by Belrik himself.

    Belrik ran forward on all four legs, leaping teeth-first into Dentin’s horse. Dentin fell to the ground, his head slamming against hard roots of a tree. He felt dazed as he stood facing Belrik, slowly lifting his rusted sword from his leather belt. He motioned for his brother to get behind him, feeling a new-found strength as he lifted the weapon behind his head. He was ready to fight.

    Belrik used a clawed hand to motion for the other wolves to stand back as he slowly approached Dentin, standing on two feet. Belrik ran towards Dentin, with his clawed hands attempting to grab Dentin in the same matter they had grabbed Selericus.

    Dentin was ready for it, quickly evading Belrik’s grasp and sliding under his legs, slashing the rusted metal between Belrik’s legs. The enormous beast howled in pain, but still turned towards Dentin for another attack. This time Belrik weakly attempted to claw Dentin as he ran backwards, but only managed to brush his face. Dentin wildly swung the sword, slicing Belrik’s arms.

    Now is the time to press the attack, Dentin thought as he leapt forward, kicking the wolf in the knee while slicing its face. Blood was seeping from all the cuts on Belrik’s body as his legs collapsed under him from the force of Dentin’s furious blows. With one last slash, he ended Belrik’s life, with the black blood of the monster searing out of its throat.

    Pain shot through Dentin’s deep cuts on his face and back, but he prepared to face the other wolves, knowing it would likely be the last action of his life. The wolves, surprisingly, backed away from him, and sprang at where Marcus stood.

    “No!” Dentin screamed as the largest of the remaining werewolves took a chunk of meat from Marcus’ neck. Dentin began to swing the sword, only to get knocked to the forest’s hard ground by the other werewolf, which began biting and clawing his left arm. Pain shot through Dentin as the creature bit deep into his flesh.

    No.

    He quickly stabbed the sword directly into the wolf’s eye, opening the beast’s jaws from his bloody arm. He quickly sliced at the beast’s throat, killing it. He turned to where his brother had been, but he saw neither his brother, nor the remaining wolf. They were gone. The sounds of men dying echoed through the forest as he leapt onto the horse that had been his brother’s. All he thought of was his vision earlier that day, where he had seen his brother die by a Northerner’s sword, and he knew Marcus was gone.

    He was bleeding profusely, and his arm had been gnawed to the bone. He didn’t know if he would survive this trek, or if he would even escape the forest unseen by the werewolves, but he had to try. He turned the horse southwards, his vision fading as he guided the horse out of the forest.

    I have to make it, to warn the Emperor of the Wolves. Or else the sacrifice of Selericus and Marcus was worthless. Or else the war is lost before it has even begun.
    Last edited by StealthFox; September 05, 2013 at 07:48 PM.
    {I cook weird stuff}-{Patronised by the fearsome Chloe}
    „[...] ţví ađ međ lögum skal land vort byggja en eigi međ ólögum eyđa.“
    (The Frosta-thing law, 1260)

    Is acher in gaíth innocht,
    fu-fuasna fairggae findfolt:
    ní ágor réimm mora minn
    dond láechraid lainn ua Lothlind.

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

    No title - Entry #5

    When will they finally get it?!“ Marcus Varius said. „Don´t know. Teutones are not all that quick-witted.“ Titus Atilus answered. Two days of permanent attacks without any effect. The roman fortifications still stand-the dead bodies of teutones massed in front of it. „I don´t care. My gladius is still sharp and it waits for more teutones flesh to cut through.“ Titus added. „Stand to attention!!“ Optio Sextus Gallus barks. Every legionnaire jumped up and stood still within a second – eyes straight. Centurio Tiberius Lupus Aulus marched up to a desk to hold his speech like the mornings before. Within a second the whole camp was silent.
    Listen up men! I know you are tired- the last two days were quite anxious. But don´t forget who stands in front of us. Teutones! Teutones! People without any manners, without any discipline, without any creed in the gods. They killed your brother in arms three years ago at Arausio. Brave men who gave their lifes for Rome. Their death shouldn´t be in vain! Honor them by standing your ground and by killing any teutoni who dares to attack us- the great army of Rome. And remember: YOU are the only ones who stand between your families,your homes and that barbarian horde! If you fall they will kill your children, rape your women and burn your homes. Don´t let them do that! Draw your swords,string your bows and whatever happened- hold the line!“ The men lifted their weapons while bawling making noise by smashing their swords against their shields- it would give you the creeps.
    Before anyone couldn realized what happened the sound of the tubae animated the air. Anybody knew what that means. „We are under attack!! Battle positions!“ Optio Gallus shouted. With incredible presence of mind every single soldier knew what to do and sprinted to the walls immediatelly –thank the gods for the roman militairy drill and discipline.
    Marcus Varius looked over the wall and saw the barbarians bounding forward like wild dogs, making a noise like a thousand rushing torrents, their yells and screams rending the air.
    Arcos tendite!“ resounded it in the camp. „Loose!!“ The buzzing sound of the arrows have to fill the hearts of the enemys with terror. Oddly enough any noise disapered for the time until the arrow hit the barbarians- there was absolutly silence... Then as fast and loud as a thunder the air filled with screams of men hit by arrows both killed and wounded. But the storm of arrows didn´t stop them. „Loose!!“ - another volley was released killing more attackers.
    Paratum habite! Pila!!“ Optio Gallus barked, „Wait- wait- one second.... Fire!!!“ The legionaires stood up and threw their pila as wide and strong as they can.The two meter long and ten pounds heavy javelins flew through the air. Marcus can´t see if he hits somebody but there are so many barbarians that it´s nearly impossible to miss.
    But the teutones didn´t stop- they were still running towards the walls. „Come on you hairy barbarians ! I´ll send you to hell ! And you are the first one!“ Titus shouted and swinged his gladius on the first enemy that reached the top of the wall. Blood splashes -the teutoni fell down groan with pain. Beneath Titus legionaires were stabing and striking upon the enemy killing one after the other.
    Within a second the air was filled with battle sounds- officers blaring commands, soldiers fighting, arrows flying through the air. Marcus was stabbing the first enemy who faced him, killing him by a hit into the breast. Now his training payed well ! It seemed that there wasn´t any chance for the enemy to win this battle.
    Marcus raised his scutum blocking the strike of an axe. The impact was so heavy that the edge of the axe cut through the shield and binded to it. By a heavy push of his opponent Marcus became unbalanced, fell down- dropping his shield and his sword. Time suddenly seemed to slow down even the battle noise seemed drawn out, distant.The attacker jumped over the wall. Now Marcus could see him: a nearly two meters big, black-bearded and muscle-bounded man.It was a supernatural appearance.Scared Marcus flurryly fumbled for his sword but he couldn´t find it. The giant marched towards- closer and closer. „Well, that was it...“ Marcus thought. „Now I will meet my ancestors....“ He was lifted by the muscleman and was sure of dying.The barbarian screamed with laughter confident of victory. Wearily Marcus right hand moved downwards and there he felt something-he felt his pugio!In a flash he drew it and piled it into the face of the giant.Instantly the muscleman felt silent and dropped Marcus. He survived, his arms and face drenched in blood.
    All at once he was helped up from behind- it was Titus asking „Can I give you a hand?“
    Marcus was still full of adrenaline and answered: „Of course.Thanks my friend“. He picked up his sword and his shield. „Let´s teach them some respect!“ Titus shouted and started to storm upon the next attacker. The poor old chap couldn´t realise what happened to him such fast was Titus´ attack. The gladius cut through the flesh of the barbarian as easy as through butter. Rivers of blood ran out of the wound. „Who´s next?“ Titus roared.
    Suddenly he groaned loudly. Like a bolt out of the blue an arrow brought him to his knees. He was hit into his left leg. Marcus didn´t know how bad it was to be wounded by an arrow but after the cry it must be huge pain. Although heavily wounded Titus raised again stabbing the next man down. „Titus! Fall back!“Marcus shouted . Titus turned his head around „No! We mustn´t ! The order is to hold the line!“ What happened then was too fast and too sudden that Marcus could realize it instantly: Out of nowhere another hostile jumped infront of Titus. A blood fountain splashed over Marcus face. Marcus only saw the beheaded body of his friend falling down to earth. „TITUS!!!NOOOOO!!!!“ Marcus throw his shield away picking up another sword- he went berserk. He hacked the killer into pieces turned to the next one and cut of his arm. Revenge was the only thing Marcus could think of. His swords whirled through the air cutting down one hostile after the other. In his blood rage he didn´t know pain, he didn´t know exhaustion he didn´t know mercy. One barbarian felt on his knees begging for mercy but Marcus cut of his head and stabbed the other sword through the stomach.
    With no enemy in his circle he run to the dead body of Titus and felt to his knees. He closed his eyes for amanment and mouthed the brief words of prayer that his father had taught him to say at the passing of a fellow soldier in battle.
    Suddenly everything went black …..


    Storms of War - Entry #7
    Chapter One


    With trembling hands Varius Aquilinus held his shield high, defending himself from the incoming volley that would have sealed his fate if he hadn't. After lowering his shield for a moment to see the chaos awaiting him a stray crudely constructed arrow dove between the helmet slit of the roman legionnaire beside him. The arrow must have come from afar, finding its target within both strong winds and torrential waters from the shadowy skies above, and through the maze of potential lucky skulls. To think of the journey that single arrow had gone through would be of a ponderer's thoughts. From its creation, likely within the Helvetti tribal camps up north, to its journey into the Italian entrance of the mountainous Alps, ending with embedding itself into a twenty-two year old yet one-year veteran's head. However, the journey mustn't have been terribly difficult when the entirety of the roman cohort are in the midst of a thin mountainous pass and surrounded by Helvetti tribesmen. Walled by the grand structures of nature the two armies were bottled. Why the lad next to Varius, his friend Felix Gallus, was chosen to perish instead of Varius himself would torment him until death.

    Of course he wasn't thinking of his friend right now. Instead his attention was turned towards the raging horde of armed warriors ahead. It had all happened so fast. One moment the enemy was routed, retreating from the mountain pass they came from with their dead littering the entrance to northern Italia. The next moment Varius and the hastati unit he's a part of found themselves locked in a slaughter with a hidden horde, pushed by both the roman cohort behind and by the Helvetti barbarians in front.

    Another arrow ends a soldier's life near Varius as the cohort pushed forward, this time in front of him. Now four rows from contact his chest heaves with quicker breaths. Varius hadn't meant to walk forward as he had been standing very still, but the men behind pushed. He found himself forced to walk over the dead soldier in front, also with an arrow embedded in his skull. He hoped he'd be blessed with a death so quick and soon. Varius threw a look behind him, speedily scanning the battalion of armored Romans. Horatious was no where to be found. When Varius looked ahead again the next soldier in front of him fell. Men roared and screamed all about the bloody mountain pass, though whether they were screams of pain or roars of challenge Varius wasn't sure. They were but a low hum to his ears, a sound deafened by his very own breathing and inner thoughts.

    Three rows from contact. Thunder booms across the dark sky as blood splashes Varius's left side of his helm and cheek. This time a javelin struck the soldier next to him, through Cicero Julius, a strong man of twenty years. It didn't kill him though. No, it was the trampling of roman caligae boots which marched into his place that cracked Cicero's skull under the helm, blood pooling and mixing with the redness that already stained the mud. Varius hoped that those in front wouldn't fall in such a way, though truly he hoped they wouldn't fall at all. Then as if the gods conspired against him his fear was granted. The roman in front of Varius fell backwards, gargling blood and still alive. The fact that a blade became lodged in the dying man's throat an entire two rows away from combat absolutely terrified Varius, but that didn't stop him from being pushed into position. He nearly slipped on the ground muddled by reddened rainwater whilst trying to avoid stepping on his dying comrade. Not wanting to fall and share a similar fate he obliged the terrible circumstance, stepping on the soldier. He shook at the cracking of the shoulder-bone, then the crushing of ribs, and he could have sworn the boy screamed for his mother. Varius hoped he was dead now.

    Two rows from contact. The yells of men wishing each other dead came back for but a moment before becoming further outclassed by shrieks of terror, which Varius found himself reluctantly a part of. Once more he steps onto a dying warrior, though this time it was of the enemy. He wouldn't have realized this if it wasn't for him looking down to ensure he wouldn't slip into the brown-reddened muck of the slimy ground. Seeing the live blue eyes of the wildly bearded Helvettian, Varius quickly brings down his gladius into the bearded one's skull, puncturing bone and brain. After yanking out his sword which became stained even more red by the man's entrails than before, Varius mechanically presses on, bringing up his shield just in time to catch and thwart the destiny of two arrows.

    Varius steps over the stabbed barbarian, only to be forced to fall back by a body crashing backwards from in front of him. Holding his shield out he catches the falling roman's corpse as Varius's left foot stomps on the bleeding skull of his kill. Grunting with heavy breaths Varius pushes the corpse back in front, only to knock the living roman soldier ahead into a Helvettian spear. Now he was at the front.

    Varius no longer darted his eyes about at the chaos of the slaughter but only at the men waiting to kill or be killed in front of him. Their faces were muddied red and angry, wishing the death of Varius and his brethren. Suddenly his vision around those in front became blurry, his hearing halting, the heavy burden of weight by his waterlogged shield and drenched segmented laminar armor dissipating. His hands, arms, and legs felt numb, yet within his blood-filled body he felt a burning sensation that coursed through his limbs. The sensation of the longing to live which would not be denied.

    Varius threw himself forward whilst the Helvetti warrior did his best to remove the two roman corpses stuck on his bloody and intestine-hanging spear. Arcing his weapon hand around the bodies, Varius's blade sliced at the barbarian's neck, releasing a mist of red which dissolved into the stormy air. The dead enemy fell to the side and another warrior took his place. Varius saw only the body of the new foe and his sword, nothing more for nothing else mattered. Bringing up his shield, Varius blocked aside the swinging blade before sending forth his own gladius, puncturing the bare stomach of his enemy and then, while yanking the blade free, tearing the warrior's belly from hip to hip. The dying man fell to his knees instantly, doing his best to stop his own intestines from reaching the bloody ground. After bashing the entrails-spilling barbarian aside with his shield Varius caught the sight of his next enemy.

    The roar of a ferocious bear blasted through the crazed Helvettian's mouth like the battle trumpet sounding a charge as he waved his blade above his head in a circular motion, building momentum. As Varius bashed away the tribesman's brother, he spotted the maddened foe just in time. The gladius locked with the longsword mere inches from Varius's left neck side, and though the force of the parry nearly broke Varius's sword-arm, it destroyed the barbarian's chances at vengeance. With all his might Varius forced the locked blades to rest on the top of his scuta shield. The beardless warrior, now at an awkward position, could do nothing to stop the roman's elbow from crashing into his jaw. The stunned warrior stepped as far back as he could, disarmed and clutching his face. By the time he was able to react it was too late, as the gladius that killed his brother was now in his neck.

    Varius did his best to wretch the blade free, but his enemy held firmly onto the weapon as well. It took three mighty pulls to chuck free the blade which ripped apart the barbarian's throat. Varius saw only dark then, his eyes sprayed with blood. Blinded he continued to slash about, his weapon becoming his eyes as he was able to visualize the cutting and stabbing of flesh from slash to thrust. He continued attacking, screaming after every swing until...



    With shocking breaths Varius awoke from the nightmare of the slaughter, about to swing an invisible blade at a hidden enemy. The blonde haired roman's troubled mind took a moment to separate the surroundings of the mountainous path of slaughter from long ago, to the goat-skin tent he attempted to sleep in now. With a deep breath he sat up, his legs crossing. After rubbing his darkened eyes he glanced towards the entrance to the tent. No light shone under the shelter from which seven men slept. Varius sighed. Still dark.

    Suddenly a fiery light glowed through the slit of the tent's entrance for a short time before the flap was flung open. The glow of the torch nearly blinded Varius and almost woke his brethren who slept near him. Cursing, the roman who entered the tent quickly ran out, returning without the bright light. Though dark, Varius still knew who the intruder was simply from the manner of the way he cursed. Horatious's segmented armor shook and clanked together as he crouched near Varius. The armored roman merely stared at Varius's dark silhouette for a moment before sighing and standing.

    “Put on your tunic and come outside.”

    Varius did as Horatious commanded, rising from his bedroll and throwing on his red dyed wool tunic before strapping his sandals. Horatious awaited him outside, retrieving the torch from its stand and pacing back and forth. When Varius emerged he was greeted with the smell of roasting elk and the sight of many tents within the Roman fort, lit by blazing torches and braziers. Next to the light bushel alongside his sleeping abode was the palisade wall which enclosed the entire fort. The wall seemed higher up today.

    Horatious nodded his head down the path which cut through the mid-belly of the fort, passing by many tents and guardsmen, to a small campfire site. They walked together.

    “What was it tonight?” Horatious's rough voice seemed drowned out.
    “The Mountain Slaughter.” At the mention of the terrible event long passed, Horatious turned his head to face Varius's at his side, his green eyes looking at Varius's brown. “What coincidence, that had been on my mind since morning.” A roman soldier waking at a brass horn's guard call emerged from a nearby tent, who briefly saluted the two before walking the path in the opposite direction. Horatious nodded at the fellow roman as he passed by. “How well do you remember the battle?” Varius asked after clearing his throat. Horatious answered quickly whilst looking forward. “As if it were yesterday. I don't think anyone can forget the near slaughtering of an entire legion. How the hell we survived that I still don't know.”

    Horatious stopped walking, as well as Varius. They were now halfway to their destination as a cart stacked with three dead bearded and nearly naked men strolled by them, hauled by two Romans and a centurion leading the way. “What in Pollux is this?” Horatious's voice halted the Romans. At the sight of the centurion Horatious nearly gasped, immediately standing straight and saluting. The centurion held up his palm, setting Horatious at ease. He still spoke with an authoritative voice. “Enemy scouts. Our patrol ran the barbarians down before the scum could get away.” Varius tilted his head to the side, noticing deep cuts at the corpses' necks and shoulders. “Alright, come on. Bodies won't burn themselves. Move it!” At the centurion's command the two bored legionnaires continued pushing the cart down the path. “Lets hope the patrol didn't miss any of them.” Horatious spoke gravely.

    They continued their walk, passing by a group of Romans that Varius recognized but cared not for. Horatious interrupted the silence. “We were at the front of the slaughter, remember? I was right behind you, being pushed by the poor lads behind me.” Varius nodded, “Like you said, no one could forget the slaughter in those mountains.”

    Horatious sat on one of the logs by the campfire. “Lucky we were in the front though, the men at the middle got the worst of it. All they could do was stand and get pelted by arrows and javelins.” Varius snorted lightly as he sat opposite to Horatious. “Yeah, lucky.”

    A silence befell the two, with Horatious idly looking into the campfire's flames and Varius watching guards exit the side-gate of the fort. Horatious threw wood into the fire then looked up at Varius.
    “You know what else I was remembering today?” He spoke with a smile.
    “What?” Asked Varius, still watching the gate.
    “Remember when we would sneak into Decimus Herminius's farm and mess with him?” Initiated Horatious, instantly earning the attention of his childhood friend.

    Varius found himself smiling for the first time today. He didn't remember much of his childhood which seemed so long ago, but he did remember the times spent with Horatious. He remembered the days they'd run to the market as errands for their families, and he remembered the times where they'd just sit around in the cities writing graffiti on the benches or simply watching people go about their days.
    “Yes I remember. We'd write on his walls and he would try to chase us down the entire farm with his pig.” chuckled Varius, much to Horatious's laughter.
    “Then he'd yell,” Spoke Horatious, barely in control of himself, “Horatious et Varius! Utrumque vestrum Deos damnare! Horatious and Varius! Gods damn you both!” The two men nearly cried so filled with mirth, remembering the skinny old man's maddened long-nosed face and gigantic eyes as well as the muddied pig's anxious squeals. The group of sitting Romans Varius and Horatious had passed by stared at the laughing friends. Horatious, catching sight of the watchers and finally bringing his laughter to control, noticed. “Publius is eying your back.”

    Not turning around, Varius continued his laughter before speaking. “So what? Just let me know if he pulls a knife.” Horatious scratched his beardless chin, still eying the watchful Publius. “You know what you did was stupid, right?” asked Horatious. Varius sighed, looking again at the gate. Two of the guards were conversing, though Varius could not hear of what. Another four were standing guard at the inside entrance to the fort. Two patrolled side by side across from them, in silence. One guard was asleep.
    “Varius?”
    “What did I do wrong Horatious? I fought back. Not my fault the fool has a hot temper.” Varius stared into his disapproving friend, who nodded his head side to side.
    “That's just it Varius, you know he's hotheaded and you incited his anger. Publius believes strongly in Rome and its army, and insulting him didn't change anything did it?” Horatious warmly looked at Varius, who faced away again. “You're lucky I was there to calm things down before the centurion came by, you both would've been flogged...”

    Varius still eyed the gate. “Or worse... you could have gotten yourself beat.” At those words Varius's attention returned to his friend. “Beat? By Publius? I'd sooner get downed by the training dummy than that bastard! That 'soldier' still has trouble finding the end of his own sword.” Horatious again was subject to his loud laughter. “You're right, you're right! I keep forgetting your prowess with the blade. You'd always knock me down when we were young and played 'Roman Soldier', remember that?”
    Varius found himself smiling again. “Hah, yes I remember.”
    Horatious tossed another log into the fire. “You'd throw me around the entire hill, up against the old willow just east here. I never stood a chance, and I was a head taller than you! Then you would make me run around the whole damned forest, chasing you while you were dodging my branch and I would barely get a hit in. Damn good swordsman you were, still are.”

    Varius grinned. “Well, lets not leave you out in the dark here you brave slow midget.”
    “Ugh not this again.” Horatious stopped laughing.
    “Yes, this again. You may not think you're a hero Horatious, but the fact is you are. How many times have you saved my life? Go on, count.” Horatious's eyes rolled and he sighed, glancing up at the star-lit sky. “Three.”
    “Nope. Four.” Corrected Varius.
    “What? The mountain slaughter, the rickety bridge, and that lunatic in Arretium. Only three.” Said Horatious as he counted out the numerous 'heroic feats' with his fingers.
    “And the fight with Publius. Damn bastard had me pinned.” Horatious grinned at Varius's words. “Shut it.” Varius commanded as the rock he tossed pelted Horatious in the shoulder, once again causing an eruption of laughter. “Didn't expect him to lunge at me so quick.”

    Eventually the laughter faded between the two, and silence reigned for a moment until Horatious interrupted it once more. “Funny how back then we played roman soldiers, and now we are soldiers of Rome.” Varius's gaze returned to the guarded gate, now only seeing three men posted there. One still slept. “How the hell did we end up here, Horatious?” Horatious sighed, his head shaking. “We were young, and foolish. Thought the life of a soldier would be a life of adventure and heroics.” With a sad smile Horatious looked down at the dark dirt, brightened for a moment by lightning.

    “You know,” started Varius. “We don't have to live this way.”
    Horatious looked up, his brows furrowed. “Looks like one of us is still young and foolish.”
    “We can just go through the gate, sneak by when the guards aren't looking, make our way east, back to where we were before all of this!” Varius spoke excitedly.
    “And what, live the life of wanted men for desertion? Don't forget the punishment for that either, it doesn't end well.”
    “Doesn't the chance of escaping this hell warrant an attempt?” Varius's speech was lower, but quickened. “Don't you want to get out of here?”
    Horatious shook his head. “It's just not an option Varius. Listen brother, we need only wait ten years. Just ten more. Then we will be done and can return to our family farms and live in peace.”

    Varius snorted, smiling angrily. “Yeah, just ten more. We may not even need to wait ten more if we walk into another mountain slaughter, or if the battle ahead kills us. Oh, and lets not forget that if the 'great divine Rome' may still need our 'undying loyalty' they can call on us for five more years of death and suffering. I can't wait fifteen damn years Horatious.” Varius arose from his seat, as did Horatious.
    “Varius...” He whispered with fear of what his younger friend may do. Varius raised his hands. “I'm not going to escape without you, Horatious. But this is not the life I want. I'm going to get some sleep. Don't want to be tired when I get my throat pierced tomorrow by a javelin.” And with a harsh voice Varius stormed off. Horatious sighed as he sat back down, looking into the flames as the boom of thunder resounded in the sky. The rain washed out the fire.

    CHAPTER TWO


    The blare of trumpets woke Varius, but the sounds of men yelling hurried him to suit up in his battle-gear. Mechanically Varius strapped on his military caligae boots, and after wrapping his brown scarf about his neck he dressed himself in his segmented armor. The armor displayed various dents and dark stains. It had been a gift from Lucius Mamilius Carus, the general who promoted Varius after witnessing his exploits in battle. He equipped the segmented armor carefully over his aged and dirtied woolen tunic.

    After retrieving his gladius, scutum shield, and pila, Varius exited the tent to the sight of many roman soldiers running toward their respective rallying point. Centurions stood just outside the fort next to their standard bearers, organizing the positioning of the army. They yelled orders to the soldiers exiting the fort, hurrying them. A thunderous crack resounded in the distance and the gloomy clouds brightened for a short moment before receding into darkness.

    With a sigh Varius jogged down the path of the fort that cut through the midsection, then turned left towards the exit. Ahead of the fort's gate a centurion holding a torch directed Varius to his unit, where a familiar roman waved at him and called his name. Horatious was at the very center of his unit's ranks. Varius responded with his own wave before pacing towards his friend, but was halted by a booming voice just at the most left flank of his unit.

    “Soldiers of Rome,” General Servius Iuventius Luscinia's voice roared, as commanding as the crack of a whip. “On this day we shall achieve victory over the foul beast-loving Gauls.” A crack of thunder interrupted the cheers of Romans, silencing them. “Fret not my warriors, the gods themselves tremble at the might of Rome's finest legion, Legio VIII Italica Mamilias. The thunder you hear are not bad omens to us, but instead a warning to our enemies of what is coming!” Another set of cheers silenced by the enemy's bad omens. “We will hack them to pieces with roman blades, and then trample them under roman heels! We will make them regret invading Italia!” This time the cheers went uninterrupted, as if the gods had grown tired of discouraging the Romans. Varius would have laughed if he wasn't heading into battle.

    “But, before we leave to victory, we must deal with scum even worse than the Gauls.” At those words two centurions emerged from the fort, dragging a severely battered roman. “Traitors are those who betray our trust. They kill with their deceit and refusal to honor their pacts. This man, Publius Quintus Aurelius, is a traitor!” The roman army watched and booed Publius as he was paraded in front of the entire legion. Varius stared at the severely bruised man in awe.

    “Publius the Traitor,” Servius pressed on, assigning a dis-honorary title, “Was caught running from the fort grounds last night by our patrols. I will not stand for desertion within my legion!” At those words Varius's mind pondered unimportant questions. Publius, a deserter? Just yesterday he had been preaching Rome's brilliance, what made him change his mind? Why did he desert?

    “You there, approach me.” Varius's stomach twisted and threatened to melt as the general's finger signaled Varius out of his unit. Instantly he trudged out of position to Servius who stood next to the two centurions holding Publius still. Varius had never been so close to this general as to see the gaunt ugly face that commanded his legion. His rough visage and inclined brows made Servius seem furious at every moment, but now being so close to the terrible hound-looking face Varius felt fearful for his own well-being.

    “The punishment for desertion is death.” Servius announced, as he handed a wooden club to Varius. Varius accepted the club, his hands shaking. Servius coldly turned his head towards the centurions. “Make sure the fool can't run.” he commanded. At his orders one of the centurions let go of the traitor and unsheathed his blade. With rapid speed he held one of Publius's legs and thrusted the weapon into the back of his foot, just above the heel. Publius screamed once, then again as the same centurion moved onto the other foot. The soldier who held him let go, moving backwards a few steps. Publius fell forwards, and though his hands caught the ground before landing, his feet cracked and buckled. After a short screech of pain his breaths sped rapidly.
    “Turn the bastard over.” The centurion did as commanded. After sheathing his blade he roughly kicked Publius over, his feet twisting and letting out more sounds of bone being crushed as well as shouts of agony. Varius loomed over him with the weapon that would seal his fate. He stared at Publius, whose face was bruised and red. The dark
    skies above him thundered most horribly, Publius began to cry.

    “Well? Get on with it soldier.”

    Varius brought the cudgel down on Publius's reddened cheeks. Varius's eyes were shut, but he could still see his blows from the sounds of bone breaking and skin shredding at the club's smashes and splinters. One wasn't enough, he was screaming. Varius brought the club down again, still with his eyes closed. Though he did not miss, he must have grazed the skull as the man still drew breath. The gods' thunder boomed brutally as Varius opened his eyes to the sight of a face twitching and gushing red. Publius involuntarily raised his shaking hands slowly as Varius lifted the cudgel above his head as high as his arms would reach.

    Many times had Varius seen death, and many times he had dealt death, but never has a kill sent a shiver so cold down his spine as to freeze his soul.

    Varius dropped the cudgel next to the dead Publius, a body with an unrecognizable bloody stump of a head. He looked at the man who he had just fought yesterday with the intent of seeing him beaten. Varius couldn't feel the heavy winds against his body.

    “Pick up the cudgel, soldier. We're not done yet” Confused, Varius looked ahead at the sound of wheels crushing rocks under its path. About five carts were being wheeled out, including the bloodied cart used last night to deliver the three barbarian corpses to their incendiary end. They contained contained many wooden clubs.

    “Romans, insubordination means death. Centurions of the traitor's cohort, I command you to issue decimation within your ranks. Let it be known that deserters will not be tolerated in Servius Iuventius Luscinia's legion!” Varius looked about as the centurions from his own cohort picked out men to be put to death for Publius's traitorous act. They all went the same, pleading for aid from the gods or doing their best to escape from the many Romans who held them. Varius looked to his own centurion who pointed towards the middle of his unit's ranks. Once again his stomach sunk. Varius clutched his club tightly, his eyes fixated on the soldiers who went into the unit to restrain Horatious.

    But Horatious was not selected by the centurion. The man next to him was chosen instead. Once the panicked men were tied to various posts and the roman legion outfitted with wooden clubs, the most brutal butchery Varius would ever witness commenced. During the decimation's executions Horatious gripped Varius's shoulder and turned him about.
    “In the chaos of the coming battle we leave. Let us slip away during the fight and go in hiding so they think us dead. Then, after the battle, we meet at the old willow east here.” Varius silently nodded, his hands still shaking. For several minutes he acted the part of executioner along with most of the cohort. After the decimation the roman soldiers were reorganized and marched off, leaving the bodies of the traitors to be tended to by the carrion birds. The rain washed the blood away.

    CHAPTER THREE

    The chanting of hidden barbarians was unsettling. The sounds came from the forest in front of the Romans, which semi-circularly surrounded the deployed army. Lightning danced about the sky as a downpour of rain began its fall. Romans shuffled about their defensive position on the open plain, eying the forest ahead. The chants grew louder as the thunder became deafening. Varius peered about the soon-to-be battlefield.

    Being surrounded by woods would've been a treacherous position if it wasn't for the Gallic mercenaries Rome had payed off that were hiding in the forested flanks of the army. They were to wait until the main forces had clashed, then they would emerge to ambush the hostile Gauls. With enough Roman gold one can buy anything. Thought Varius.

    Varius's position in the army was with his unit on the left flank of the manipular formation, only a block of infantry away from battle. Glancing back, Horatious still was at the most center of the unit. He had told Varius that when the battle became chaotic he needed escape into the forest and they'd meet at The Old Willow on the hill east of their fort, south-east here. Varius's plan was to wait until the allied barbarians came to flank the enemy, slipping away whilst the carnage ensued. Varius wondered how Horatious would escape.

    Suddenly General Servius rode by Varius on his gray horse, maneuvering towards the front and facing his legion. Varius was sure that he delivered a wonderfully heroic and surely powerful speech as loud as he could, but between the thundering and the chanting he hadn't heard a single word. General Servius once again rode past Varius, this time retreating to the onager catapults behind the roman army. Varius looked back at the mechanical sounds of the onagers' winches being handled by the engineers. After they set the huge boulders in the onagers' pouches alight, they struck the spoke and fired.

    The large burning stones sparked through the dark sky and into the forest ahead. Varius counted at least eight fiery boulders slamming into the enemy's hidden position. The chanting hadn't halted, and the screams of the wounded were heard only for a brief moment before dissipating. Once again another eight stones of flame streaked through the sky to crash into the wooded lands, which was quickly becoming a grand spectacle of fire and terrible singing. Varius's nose itched at the smell of burning wood, accompanied by the sight of thousands of barbarians emerging from the fire engulfed forest. The Gauls howled maniacally as they charged, holding their shields out against the roman arrows that hunted them. Most at the front met their end to the volley. Those armed with cheap shields didn't fare well, as they became pinned to their arms and legs by the arrows. The warriors without shields fared worse, unable to stop the wave after wave of iron biting into their flesh. The fortunate died instantly, the arrows embedding into their skulls or hearts. The unfortunate would have their legs pelted and pinned to the ground, leaving them at the mercy of either more arrows fired by the Romans or the trampling warriors behind them. Yet they still charged with the goal of delivering the Romans to their gods and away from their lands.

    The roman army charged forth once the enemy had crossed half the plain. They too roared their battle-cry, wishing curses and death over the Gallic warriors that opposed them. Varius ran with his soldiers, counting his position to be three columns from the left and four rows from the front of his unit. He would need to be as far left as he could go once the flanking allies came.

    A hundred feet from the enemy the front line aimed their pila, and once the enemy were in range, the Romans sent their javelins. Nearly the first and second line of barbarians fell at the organized pila toss, slowing them. The Romans however did not slow. They crashed into the enemy like a herd of angered bulls, nullifying their charge and effectively holding the line. The sounds of war returned to Varius, from the roars of the living to the screams of the dying. Blade clanged against blade, shield, and skin alike. Arrows still flew overhead, finding their incidental marks, and the onagers' engineers hadn't stopped working. Booming thunder and flashes of lightning became a minutely occurrence. Varius's dizzy head was knocked back into sense by the sudden movement of his halted unit.

    The centurion had spotted a hidden enemy maneuvering to the left flank of the battle-line, so Varius's group responded. First Varius was moving left, then wheeling to his right to face the charging barbarians. Varius held his pilum in his palm and arched his aim, prepared to charge whilst throwing it. He picked out his target and roared with the rest of his men ready to do battle.

    Varius would never throw his pilum.

    Out of the woods came the Gallic horse-riding mercenaries, paid with roman gold. Hearing the screams of soldiers Varius looked to his left to see his own brethren being charged by the heavily armored cavalry, which in mere seconds enveloped his entire unit. Trying to count the enemy was pointless, there simply couldn't be a high enough number. Varius's decision to run was instinctive. The horses dug deep into the unit's ranks as Varius turned to find the traitors embedding the chests of Romans with spears and the war-horses sending others flying. The thick formation turned loose as Romans were butchered from the frontal barbarian charge and trampled by the cavalry on their left flank. A stray horse-rider slammed into the turning Varius, who nearly fell whilst stumbling backwards. The fire-bearded Gaul cavalryman lodged his spear into a roman soldier's throat, only to be yanked off his horse by angry Romans who gripped and pulled his very own spear. Varius circled the soldiers who repeatedly stabbed the dying Gaul, and he ran. He was close to the back of his unit, all he'd need to do now is turn right into the forest and run as fast as he could.

    Varius heard a familiar voice a midst all the chaos, calling his name. By the time he tried to turn around it was too late. A cudgel slammed the back of Varius's head.

    CHAPTER FOUR

    His brown eyes fluttered open first, struggling against the blinding fiery lit sky. He heard nothing, and for a blurred moment he saw nothing. Unknowingly he raised his hands, doing his best to cover his eyes from the blazing setting sun. It wasn't until his vision cleared that he felt the fear of death, which surged the numbness of his body into sensation once more. Varius struggled to get up.

    Death lay everywhere. To his right was a roman clutching an arrow deep in his stomach. To his left was seven others, all still as if made of stone. One's neck was open, still seeping blood, and the others Varius couldn't tell, he had risen too fast. Instinctively he stopped himself from falling by grasping hold of the tree next to him. Varius looked about the open plains with eyes widened. He saw remnants of the roman army bunched together, forced against impossible odds. Most lay on the field, though if the majority were dead or just dying Varius's dizzy head couldn't ascertain. Gallic warriors rode and ran about, sticking their blades in unfinished business and singing with joy. Varius looked again at the dead near him, dragged a good distance from the battlefield. They were heavily bloodied, one with a gash across his belly and another with a blade-sized hole in his neck. One had his arms and war-sandals drenched in reddened mud. He couldn't stay here, he needed to find Horatious.

    Varius turned slowly, the back of his head still stinging. He didn't spend any time searching for his shield or helmet, instead running deep into the trees.

    “The Old Willow,” muttered Varius. “East of the fort, past the river, on the hill. The sun sets, so I'm east.” Varius needn't stop to gather his bearings.

    Varius's memories mapped out his path through the woods. He saw Horatious and himself ruffling through piles of snapped off branches. He found his hiding hole when they'd play 'The Hunter and the Prey' long ago. Varius wheeled left at a terribly assembled wooden hut, and continued his jog. His heart threatened to bludgeon out of his chest while his head throbbed and rang.

    “Come on, hit me I dare you.”
    “Damn you, stop moving!” With ragged breaths his friend spoke.
    Varius tripped on a branch. His head swam and vibrated with pain.
    “Varius, are you alright?”
    He spat out blood, struggling to get up.
    “I'm fine, just bleeding a little.”
    “Well that's what you get for running away, idiot! Stop fleeing and fight me!”
    Once up, Varius turned around to see the awkwardly shaped root from long ago. Not far now.


    Varius had nearly collapsed headfirst into The Old Willow. His hands gripped the trunk of the ancient tree, its branches empty and flora felled. With desperate breathing he searched around the tree and hill. His eyes traversed the land around, looking over the rolling grassy hillsides of Fall. The setting sun's burning orange glow enveloped his tears which dropped so suddenly. Varius's hands released hold of the trunk, and his body fell to the side. Hunching himself Varius lay, his dripping eyes feeling as if set aflame.

    Years seemed to go by as his body refused to get up. It wasn't until the sounds of men yelling orders did Varius arise. He walked around the tree slowly, using its trunk to hold him steady. Looking down the hill he saw a band of ten-fifteen warriors, yelling in an unknown language. They marched up the hill whilst unsheathing their blades and laughing at the lone Roman.

    Varius took hold of his gladius, and after raising it from his scabbard he charged. He sprinted down the hill, no longer with the urge to flee from the terrors of war. Comfortably, he met his fate.
    Last edited by StealthFox; September 05, 2013 at 07:45 PM.
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Long Category Voting Thread

    The Siege of Pyke - Entry #6

    Spoiler for Disclaimer
    I do not own the rights to the world, or most characters used in this story. Many of the characters, houses, item materials, and place names used were originally created and are owned by George R.R. Martin.

    The characters I created; Harren the Red, Sigmund Surehands, Skywald the Bowman, Thorin Greenbane, Dagon Deathward, Redwul Stonetree, Adylmon Rowan, Toddric Sarsfield, Ryam Grandison, Wendyl Wynch, Aeron Botley, and Rufus Botley were created by me solely for this story.

    The entirety of the story is my personal interpretation of the Siege of Pyke, a battle in the Greyjoy Rebellion, mentioned as a past event in 'A Song of Ice and Fire', and in no way affects the current storyline of the novel or television series'.

    FanFiction.net does not list works by George R.R. Martin as restricted for use of fan fiction.

    I hope all readers enjoy this tale of bloodshed, brutality, and a little chivalry.

    It is quite a lengthy read, however I assure you it is worth it, as the intensity never stops!



    The Siege of Pyke

    Spoiler for Characters
    The Ironborn Prince Maron Greyjoy, second son of King Balon I Greyjoy.

    Harren the Red, the fiercest Ironborn warrior in living memory. He is over seven feet tall, with limbs as thick as tree trunks. He wields a great war maul, with a red weirwood shaft and Valyrian steel headpiece.

    Sigmund Surehands, Harren's first mate, and second-in-command during raids. Earned his nickname from heavy drinking, prior and during battle.

    Redwul Stonetree, an accomplished master-at-arms of Pyke.

    Thorwin Greenbane, one of Harren's reavers. He is an avid fan of the Ironborn ax-throwing game, the finger dance.

    Skywald the Bowman, one of Harren's reavers. He uses a weirwood recurve bow.


    Six years after Robert's Rebellion (282-83 AL), in 289 AL, Balon Greyjoy, Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands, declared himself King of the Iron Islands, independent of the Seven Kingdoms, ruled by now-King Robert I Baratheon. The Greyjoys swiftly struck at the Westerlands, under House Lannister, by burning the Lannister fleet, at Lannisport, and winning a decisive victory.

    King Robert issued a royal decree for the Lords of Westeros to call their banners in response.

    Stannis Baratheon led the Royal fleet to defeat the Iron Fleet, off the coast of Fair Isle, while simultaneously, the Greyjoys lost the battle of Seagard, which resulted in the death of Prince Rodrik Greyjoy, and as such, the Ironborn were called back to the Islands to defend from the impending counterattack.

    Robert and some of his men recall the most significant battle...



    The Red Keep, King's Landing
    298 AL



    "That was a battle, Selmy. Gods that was a battle," said Robert, as he pulled a flask of ale up to his mouth, taking a large gulp.

    "Aye, Your Grace," said a humbled Ser Barristan Selmy.

    "That giant of a man," Robert said, wincing. "What was his name," he continued, snapping his fingers trying to recollect the name. "The one with legs like a tree stump and boulders on his arms," Robert said laughing.

    Ser Jaime sighed, and looked over to Barristan.

    Robert waved his hand around, trying to think of the name. "Uh, the one with the large maul, uh..." Robert said, failing to recall the man's name.

    "I believe his name was Harren," said Jaime, seemingly flustered.

    "Yes!" Robert exclaimed. "That's the one. Harren the Red they called him. By the Gods that man was the bane of the Warrior, himself," Robert said, heartily. "Would you not say so, Ser Barristan?"

    "Indeed, Your Grace. In living memory, he was the fiercest of the Ironborn I've ever come across."

    Robert looked right at Jaime. "That monstrous son of a we could crush The Mountain with a single blow, as massive as he was."

    "I'm sure he could have, Your Grace," Jaime said in a humbly sarcastic tone. He recalled his disdain for this warrior - the warrior who almost bested him, had it not been for the interference of Eddard Stark, which surely saved his life.

    "Gods I oft ponder how he attained such magnificent strength. Blessed by whatever sy water god they believed in. He could wave that maul around with one arm, like it was a war club," Robert continued, looking up from Barristan to Jaime, and back. "He took down a dozen knights from Lordsport to the courtyard, including two of your brothers," he said to Barristan.

    "Perhaps they were ill-suited to face the man in single combat," Jaime sniped.

    "Had it not been for Lord Eddard, you would be plotting about the Seven right now," Robert said, deliberately mocking him.

    Jaime's head twitched. He was trying to contain his anger, attempting to ignore Robert's relentless goading.

    Barristan forced a cough, attempting to break the tension. "Indeed, Your Grace. I had never seen a man fight with as much fervor, such intense fearlessness. That man could certainly stand his ground."

    "Aye, Barristan. He could..."



    NINE YEARS EARLIER...
    PYKE, IRON ISLANDS



    The water rushed up against the rocks of the ancient island of Pyke, the last bastion of Ironborn strength left, in the rebellion. Parts of the island were as stranded and untouched as always, but on the west of the island, at Lordsport, the armies of the Iron Throne had landed.

    Rodrik Greyjoy laid lifeless at the base of the walls of Seagard, the sieges of both Wyks were over - both islands having already submitted to armies of the Iron Throne. One island remained—the capital of the Islands—Pyke. The last remnants of the Greyjoy army were gathered in defense of the island. The battle for Lordsport had gone terribly wrong, with the Botley army all but destroyed.

    Over ten thousand soldiers loyal to King Robert had landed on the island, already, with hundreds of knights at the head of the immense army, with one goal now in mind - to take Pyke, which will force the Greyjoys to bend the knee.

    Thousands of soldiers poured off the innumerable amount of ships, and flooded into the streets in every direction. Lord Aeron Botley was killed early into the fighting, followed by his son and heir, Rufus. The Botley army was scattered, and what remnants remained gathered with the Greyjoy men, in the eastern portion of the town, that had fallen under the command of Harren the Red, the fearsome Ironborn raider and war captain, following the death of Ser Wendyl Wynch, son of Lord Waldon Wynch.

    Harren had himself killed a dozen knights in Lordsport, including Ser Ryam Grandison of the Kingsguard, and another fifty soldiers. His men were as fierce as defenders as they ever were raiders - which was a telltale sign of their fighting prowess and skill in combat.

    The remnants of the defenders began to cluster on the eastern side of Lordsport, as a rider rode down the hill, from Pyke, making haste. He arrived at the Greyjoy lines, and searched for the commander.

    "Ser Wendyl Wynch!" shouted the rider, looking around at all the men, trying to find the man.

    "Dead," said one of the reavers, who was pouring wine into his hair, to wet his head—a savage abnormality.

    "Who has taken command, reaver?" asked the rider.

    "Who the fk are you? Get a sword and get into the fight," the reaver said, menacingly.

    "I was dispatched by Prince Maron to retrieve what remained of the defending force here, and then to fall back to Pyke Castle. I have brought horses for the men."

    Another reaver scoffed. "Retreat?" he said, turning to the rest of the men there, who cracked smiles, in their boldness. "Retreat from these flower-sting dandies? You're out of your mind. Go back and hide behind your high walls!"

    "That's a royal order, reaver. Prince Maron Greyjoy is tasked by his father with the defense of this island, and," the rider said, looking around at what was left of the able-bodied fighters, "you're dooming yourselves!"

    The reavers just laughed, no longer willing to cooperate verbally, as lawless a bunch as they were.

    Just as the laughter dies down, some horsemen ride to the group of men, from within the town. At their lead was Harren the Red. Harren had a white cloak tied poorly around his neck, it blew with the wind, during his ride. He dismounted with a quick swing of the leg, this massive man, nearly the height of the rider whom sat atop a horse.

    "H-harren," said the rider, forcing a cough, to hide his nervousness. "Prince Maron wishes you and your reavers to return to the castle for its defense."

    Harren looked around the rider, seeing the horses brought down, and noticing no reinforcements, he was stern-faced and grim. "Does the Prince not know? We're winning a battle down here," he said, his grimacing facial expression turns to a wicked smile.

    A bursting roar of laughter is heard from his reavers and the remainder of assorted soldiers.

    "Where'd you get that fancy cloak, Red? It looks some pretty on you," said Thorwin Greenbane, one of Harren's reavers, as hilarity ensued.

    Harren's smile never faded. "I took it off a fancy knight. Some fancy he was, with all that useless amount of armor they wear," he said, as he unwraps the knight's helmet from the back of his destrier.

    "And this!" he says aloud. "This is his helmet, for which I have paid the iron price!"

    The crowd erupted in congratulatory grunts and hoots.

    Harren threw the helmet to the famous Ironborn archer, Skywald the Bowman, who held it, noticing the difference in it from most other helms. It had three spiny fins protruding from the top, and was a very fine steel. Between two of the fins, the killing blow was evident. The helm was crushed right in, the spiny fins forcibly separated, from where Harren's war maul had clearly connected with it. There was a gigantic indent in the helm, deforming it. Clearly, if the soldier's head was inside it at the time, his skull would have been split right open by blow.

    Skywald observed it for a few moments, then tried it on in turn. It had been a tight fit, as it was mangled and deformed, but it fit enough for him and the others to jest about it. "Ser Skywald of Orkmont, at your service, Your Grace!"

    Forcing a faulty bow in mockery of the enemy, Harren roars with laughter, his voice deep as a well.

    "I do believe this was one of their Kingsguard," he said. "The fool led the charge down the ship ramps, and he came right at me. Clearly, this fool thought he was better than he was."

    Slinging his massive red weirwood-shafted maul over his shoulder with one arm, a maul so heavy the average man wouldn't be able to lift it with two hands, he tore the white cloak off his back, and threw it to one of his men, as he walked to get a drink.

    A thrall poured him a large tankard, as Harren took a bowl of water, and washed drying blood off his bare hands, then held the bowl up, and dipped his face inside to wash it off, as well, taking a mouthful of water. He took his face back out, and jerked his head back, his long, dirty blond hair swinging behind him. He spit the water back in the bow, and handed it to the next reaver. "Fall back to Pyke, the Prince says?"

    "Yes, my—"

    "Lord? King?" Harren laughed fanatically, before it slowly died down. He looked around at his men. He looked to the Botleys, the Wynches, the Stonetrees and the Hylands. Merkans, Bruntons, Gryms, and Tryssons. All were loyal, all were Ironborn. "We'll fall back to Pyke, as I suppose my force has dwindled a bit," he said, breaking a grim smile, and putting his head down in reflection for a moment.

    He looked up. "I suppose when all is said and done, from Pyke we might enact thrice the casualties, as opposed to scrapping among the rubble of ol' Lordsport."

    He stood up. "We ride for Pyke Castle. All able," he said, knowing full well those left behind would be spared by the enemy. They had all earned their place at the sea table of the Drowned God, yet their time would not be now.

    His reavers and the scattered men of a multitude of Ironborn houses did as they heard, without hesitation, all believing fully in the man. They all prepared their belongings and trophies, and proceeded up the hill to the horses.

    "Take those ones," Harren directed some of his men to the nearby group of horses.

    "Whose are those?" the rider asked, referring to the idle horses tied to posts nearby.

    "Botley men—though I suppose they won't be needing them now," he said with a harsh smile.

    The rider shook his head at the carelessness of this man, but Harren paid it no never mind.

    "What of the wounded?" the rider asked.

    "What of them?" Harren replied. "This Stormking's will is weak. When you win a battle, you take thralls or you finish them off. You don't release them—for you will face the men another day. The wounded are the safest ones of our lot," he said, as he fixed his helm.

    "We best make haste for the castle, or the enemy outriders will be upon us," the rider said, turning his horse, and turning back.

    "Don't worry about that, you whiny ct. They have yet to establish proper horse. Go, ride back to the castle. We know our way," Harren said, his tone indicating he had had enough of the rider's wanton bickering.

    The rider proceeded to ride off up the hill, back to the castle. The Ironborn who remained, under the command of Harren the Red, began to move out, most by Botley horse, others would take the horses provided. It was clear now that Lordsport had fallen to Robert and his men, but the Ironborn were not yet finished with the war... The formidable castle of Pyke would be the last stand, now.

    After a relatively lengthy ride from Lordsport to the castle, near two hundred and fifty men, bloodied and bruised—yet vigilant, under the command of Harren the Red arrived at the gatehouse, with two hundred able-bodied Ironborn fighters, prepared to join the defense of the castle.

    Prince Maron Greyjoy, who held command of the defense of the Island, on his father's behalf, looked down from a central bastion at the riders—he exchanged looks with Harren. He made for the courtyard to receive their arrival.

    As the riders entered through the opened portcullis, they were received by a dozen Greyjoy men, who were charged with manning the gate from the ground level. The courtyard had scarcely been busy, as the clear loss of men in the rebellion had added up, inevitably leading to this climactic chapter of the story. The end was near for the Greyjoys, but none here would admit to it.

    There was still a good number of widowed salt wives, who remained inside the castle, waiting for husbands who would never return. Instead, these salt wives were now acting in the capacity whores to keep what soldiers remained company, during the final days of the war.

    As the men entered, they broke up respectively to different areas of the courtyard, much of it supplied, yet unoccupied, to dismount and endure some needed and overdue relief. Harren had entered and stopped at the entrance to the courtyard, dismounting.

    "Skin!" he yelled, as he removed his helm.

    A beautiful salt wife with long, straight, sandy red hair, and a fair complexion with scattered freckles, and deep ocean blue eyes, wearing a simple white dress, and holding a transparent blue shawl that she held in both hands around her back, concealing her chest, had overheard the gigantic warrior's demand, and turned to the other girls, smiling and winking, as she backed away from them, towards the giant man, as they all knew who this famous warrior was. She swayed her hips, walking towards him, trying to catch his attention.

    She was just before him, now. "Hi, big—" she had been cut off, as he grabbed her by the side of the head and threw her a few feet over, into the mucky filth of the trodden, muddy road. She was dumbfounded and stunned by his boldness, her jaw dropped, as she was beyond surprised.

    Harren just looked at her, as he was handed a skin of wine. He pulled the cap out, with his teeth and put the bottom up, chugging the entire skin. Clearly, the woman misinterpreted his intentions.

    She was helped up by Thorwin, who slung the filthy woman over his shoulder and carried her off to a nearby stable. "I could use a drain," he said, carelessly.

    Paying no never mind to it, Harren threw his war maul to two oncoming thralls, knocking them both down. The two men then got up, exerting their strength to lift the giant maul, to place it off to the side of the courtyard, at a resting area prepared for the new arrivals.

    Maron Greyjoy came down, in full mailed-leather armor—the dark gold kraken sigil emblazoned upon a dark brown mail-fitted breastplate—simple armor to a knight of the Kingsguard, but astounding and mobile armor for an Ironborn. He was flanked by three men-at-arms.

    "Harren the Red—the only giant and scariest bastard I ever met," said Maron, as he motioned to punch Harren in the stomach, breaking a smirk.

    Harren had burst into laughter. "Fear the kraken, knights of Westeros," he said, jokingly.

    Harren put his hand on Maron's shoulder. "I was not at Seagard, but had I been, woe to the Lord of it," he said, in reference to the death of Maron's older brother, Rodrik, during the Battle of Seagard—slain by Lord Jason Mallister.

    "What is dead may never die," Maron said, quoting the infamous Ironborn saying, taking in a deep breath, proud of his family and their position. "My father is impressed with your victories," he said, changing the subject. "The raid on Barrowton was flawless. Banefort, Faircastle, Umbridge," he continued. "He said he's never seen such reaving voracity."

    "I have an insatiable hunger for success," said Harren, with a humble smirk. "Alas, would you care to have a few barrels of whatever makeshift ale remains? During war, most men want to wet their cks—but me? I prefer the pleasure of a belly full of wine and paying the iron price where I can, by killing as many fancy knights as I can find. Of course, if time allots it, we can wet our cks as well," he said, as both men broke out laughing. "I'm sure the Stormking has had enough bloodshed for one day," he said, putting his arm around Maron, as the two walked through the stalls of the courtyard.



    MEANWHILE, AT LORDSPORT


    "Fetch me another flagon, fool." Robert said to his cup bearer.

    The king's armor had become quite tight in recent years, due to his overindulgence in the finer sides of being a king...

    After his breastplate was removed, and the chain mail, followed by his leggings, the king's body could breathe. He slipped into comfortable clothing, in the royal tent, and convened with his military council.

    His longtime friend, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sat to his left. Next to Lord Eddard, was Robert's brother Stannis, Lord of Dragonstone, and admiral of the Royal Fleet. At the end of that side of the table, Ser Brynden Tully, the Vale commander, sent on behalf of Lord-Hand Jon Arryn. Across from Brynden, the other knight on the council, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, and veteran of many wars. Next to Barristan was the Lord of Seagard, and Riverlands representative of Hoster Tully, Jason Mallister. Lastly, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, and chief financier of the crown of Westeros.

    Finally, the sweaty glutton Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, and former adversary-turned-loyal bannerman of the new monarchy had arrived, seating himself opposite Robert.

    "Not one," Robert said, angrily, but seemingly careless of Lord Mace's lack of punctuality. "Not one swing of my hammer. I should have led the charge off those boats, as I led at the Trident. But no, I sit behind you lot, and by the time I reach the battle, it's over."

    "We should be thankful," said Ned, daydreaming at a fixed spot on the barren table, then looking up to Robert. "Thankful something hadn't happened to you, yet, and will not. Your son isn't ready to lead, Your Grace."

    Robert just let out a disheveled grunt, clearly disappointed by not being able to participate in the fighting.

    "We should consider our next steps, Your Grace," Tywin said, with an assuring tone.

    "Next steps... The siege, My Lord," Robert replied. "Those Greyjoy sts must still be pulling the grass out of their arses, after the leveling we just gave them."

    "Barristan, what would you say on the matter?"

    Barristan cleared his throat. "I would recommend clearing out the rest of the island, as the majority of the defensive force remaining will likely hold up in the castle, Your Grace."

    Robert shook is head, looking to Stannis. "And you, brother?"

    Stannis looks at Ned, and to Tywin, then Robert. "I agree with Ser Barristan. I say we bleed them out of Pyke, and clean up the rest of the island. There are still plenty of Lords who have not sworn fealty, yet, Your Grace."

    "To hell with that. We will march on the castle as soon as the siege engines can be positioned," he declared, overlooking the insight of his council, as usual. "The motion has already been set in place, and those bloody engines have been dismantled and hauled up those stony hills all day. The maesters provided will oversee the assembly and positioning and they will all be in place and ready within days," he said, realizing the surprised look on the faces of his council.

    "Every day Balon Greyjoy sits atop that withered chair and calls himself king is another day I am insulted," he bellowed, continuing,
    "and I will not have him spend a few more weeks claiming himself a king, as he seemingly refers to himself!"

    "Over my bloody body, My Lords!"

    "The plans are in place, and we strike in less than three days, at dawn. I will not waste another bloody minute in taking that godsforsaken rock fort!"

    "The casualty report, Ser Barristan," Stannis asked, replacing his brother's incessant rants, before he could break his own pause and continue.

    "We estimate nearly two thousand dead, and similar wounded, in Lordsport alone," said Barristan. "The flames seem not to be out fully, yet, My Lord. The casualties are still coming in."

    "The Ironborn numbers?" Ned asked, inquiringly.

    "Not near enough," Tywin snapped, boldly.

    Ser Barristan ignored the comment, and continued, "A similar match in dead, and perhaps a third as much that wounded and captured."

    "It would seem they would rather death than surrender," Mace remarked.

    "So it seems," said Tywin, uninterested.

    Robert stroked his beard, and received another flagon of wine from his cup bearer. "The commanders?"

    "Lord Aeron Botley's body has been recovered from the rubble, and his son, Rufus, we also believe has been killed. The Botley army has for the most part melted away. Some fled east to Pyke castle—whilst others continued fighting, but the remnants are being rounded up now."

    Robert nodded. "Like fking cockroaches, these Greyjoys."

    Ned spoke up. "Ser Barristan. Have I heard it right that one of your brothers is dead?"

    "Aye, My Lord. Ser Ryam Grandison's body has been recovered. He was killed in the heat of battle," said a disappointed Barristan. "He was a good brother and lad, strong and true."

    Brynden clinched his jaw. "Aye, it was The Red that got him, too, as I saw it from afar."

    "Which Greyjoy ct would that be?" Robert asked.

    "Harren the Red," responded Brynden. "The fiercest son of a bh I've ever come across," he said plainly. "I have seen a lot of suns set, but never have I come across a man more menacing in combat than that one."

    Robert looked intrigued, seemingly uninterested in the death of one of his own Kingsguard, but rather the mysteriousness surrounding this Ironborn warrior.

    "Now this is the same Harren who hit Barrowton, prior to the burning of the Lannister fleet?" Ned asked, curiously.

    "The same," replied Brynden. "Him and his reavers hit Banefort and a few other ports as well."

    Tywin took a deep breath, but showed little emotion, despite the fact his lands suffered the most from this rebellion.

    "And where is he now?" Robert demanded.

    "Fled to Pyke Castle—last our scouts noted," said Brynden. "It's hard to miss a man of that stature... He took over two hundred men with him, as well. Many his own reavers, I assume."

    "So he's hold up with the Greyjoy cts?"

    "Yes, Your Grace," replied Brynden.

    Tywin coughed, interrupting the discussion with his own notion. "Perhaps we should settle this once and for all, and resolve the rest of this matter with champions. I will put Ser Gregor Clegane to the task—"

    "That man's very presence insults this council," Ned snapped back, looking to Tywin.

    "That knight is one of my top commanders, Lord Eddard, and if you do not approve of it, you are more than capable of vacating your seat for a councilor with the intention of ending this rebellion as swiftly as possible—"

    "Enough!" Robert bellowed. "By the Gods keep order. I demand it. The enemy is in that fking castle laughing at us."

    "Those laughs will disappear soon, I imagine," remarked Mace.

    "Keep it shut!" Robert replied scornfully.

    "I will not risk the independence of these islands on that gargantuan over there, I assure you," he continued, having referred to the monstrous Ser Gregor Clegane. "No. We will strike them hard and swift. We will besiege Pyke, ending this rebellion there, and I will hear no more about it. Council dismissed," said Robert, looking to his cup bearer.

    "It's empty. You have one fking job. Gods forbid you ever have a job of any true worth in your life," he said to the trembling cup bearer.

    Robert kept quiet for a moment, reflecting to himself, as his cup was filled. "Now get out the lot of you," he said quietly, though enough for them to hear.



    PYKE CASTLE


    The sun had disappeared in the far west, and the castle was a lit with torches all around. Each islet connected by massive bridges, some more weathered than others. They were lined row after row with torches. The stars shined clear in a cloudless sky, and there was an eerie silence in the night, despite the hustle and bustle of the defenders, making preparations for the siege.

    Harren's men had made camp in the courtyard, with the majority of the Greyjoy defenders.

    He was granted a luxurious guest room, in the Great Keep, with a large balcony overlooking the southern sea, and in the west, the courtyard and Ironborn encampment could be seen.

    Finishing off, Harren pulled out and threw the girl forward into the massive pile of duck feather-filled silken pillows, and climbed off the bed. He stretched his arms back and rolled his shoulders. He went over to the wine table, and poured himself a tankard of potato wine—all that seemed to be left in their stores. He took a deep breath, and as he put the tankard to his mouth and began downing it, a hard knock was heard at his chamber door.

    He finished the tankard, and burped aloud. "Who the fk has a death wish tonight?"

    "Prince Maron Greyjoy is here to see you, Captain," a guard replied.

    "Send him in," Harren said, as he poured himself another full tankard of wine, coughing to clear his throat.

    The door opened, and in Maron came, without retinue. The doors were shut behind him, as he walked up to Harren, glancing over to the bed, to see the three women lying there, two kissing and one catching her breath, all naked as can be...

    "It seems you're busy and I came at a bad time, Captain," he said, with a grin on his face.

    "Nah, I was finished..." Harren trailed off, as he downed another tankard of wine, "...For now," he finished, as he picked up the pitcher to fill his tankard with the last cup of wine.

    Maron noticed the wine dried up in the pitcher, when Harren finished pouring. "It seems our stocks have run low..."

    "So it seems," Harren replied. "I gave ten barrels to my men. They fight better with full bellies—" he burped again.

    "Come, old friend. Let's talk on the balcony," the Prince said, leading his naked friend onto the balcony. There was a chill in the air, and the aroma of sea salt was as fresh as can be to an Islander's nostrils.

    Harren leaned on the edge of the balcony railing, with his tankard in hand. Maron stood beside him, leaning his back and elbows on the balcony, facing into the room.

    Maron glanced between Harren's legs. "I thought the horses were kept in the stables," he said, jesting.

    "My father says we will dine in the watery halls before bending the knee to the Stormking," he continued.

    Harren just looked out, turning to look at the encampment, much of it having died down by this time, as preparations will begin early for the siege.

    "When I was in Slaver's Bay we confiscated a fishing vessel that had a full load of giant lobsters," Harren said, then taking a mouthful of wine, and swallowing it. "We dined that night on the deck of the ship. We cooked those lobsters, and between the lot of us, we finished the entire ship load. They had to be the best fking lobsters I had ever had..."

    "...I wonder, will the Drowned God's table offer the same course?" He cracked a hard smile. "I hope so."

    Maron looked slightly unimpressed, but quickly concealed his expression. "You don't fear death, in any form, do you my friend?"

    "About as much as I fear one of these wenches drawing a dagger on me in my sleep," he said, letting out a muffled laugh. He finished another small sip, poured the last of the wine off the balcony, and tossed the tankard into the sea. He watched it go down, and even Maron glanced over the side momentarily. "What is dead may never die, brother."

    "What is dead may never die," Maron reaffirmed.

    "A drink for the Drowned God. For on the morrow, there won't be a single seat unoccupied at his table," Harran said. Maron did not reply. "I liked that tankard," he said, looking to Maron, another quick smile appearing, as he ran his hand threw his long, dirty blond hair.

    "Well, there isn't an Islander that doesn't know your name, nor a knight in the Kingdoms that doesn't tremble at the sight of you. I seldom imagine you'll ever be forgotten, my friend," Maron said, looking off into the sea.

    "I imagine so, however, I could give two sts what anyone thinks of me—"

    "Harren, when are you coming back to bed?" A voice uttered from behind.

    Harren turned, and Maron looked on attentively. "Come here, woman," he said.

    The woman walked over, swaying her hips side to side. It was the same girl he had discarded earlier in the day, passing her aside for a skin of wine.

    "Three goes isn't enough for you?" continued Harren, as a smirk appeared on Maron's face.

    "Not when it's the most savage brute around. I'll take the night as much for granted as I can," she replied.

    "So tell me," he continued, as he pulled her close, placing her under one arm. "Does your husband know of your adulterous ways?"

    "He's long gone. I heard from a dock hand that he was killed at Seagard. He's no longer a husband of mine."

    Harren sniggered coldly. "And how many men have you bedded, since mourning his death?"

    "As many as nights since, I can say," she said, boastfully.

    Looking over the side of the balcony, to a protruding walkway below, Harren licked his lips, looking over to Maron, he grinned.

    Out of nowhere he grabbed the woman by the throat, and heaved her in the air, tossing her over the railing like the tankard, except this time, there was a walkway to receive the fall. The woman screamed, but it was soon over. She fell against the stone walkway, landing upon her back. There was a loud landing of bones cracking upon stone. The woman laid lifeless, a small line of blood having immediately descended out of her mouth, in the form of red drool. Her eyes remained open, but she was certainly dead.

    Harren and Maron both looked over. Two Greyjoy sentries ran to the body, and then looked up to the balcony, seeing the two figures above looking down. They had both returned to their stations, recognizing the chambers that the balcony belonged to.

    "Well, one less mouth to feed when the time comes about," said Harren, as coldly as he often does.

    "Indeed..." Maron replied, seemingly at ease by the savagery.

    Harren put his hand on Maron's back and the two walked inside. "On the morrow, I will join the men at the front. I will stay there until the siege commences. We do not need division in the ranks, and special treatment—though I appreciate the hospitality of your father, old friend."



    THE NEXT MORNING...


    Harren exited through the chamber door and proceeded down the hall, flanked from behind by two Greyjoy guards.

    As he descended the northwestern spiraling staircase, and proceeded to the great hall. There, he stood in the empty hall, with but a few Greyjoy guards remaining. As he turned, heading out to the large stone bridge separating the courtyard and great keep, he came across a boy, no more than around his tenth name day. The boy bumped into him, as he tried cutting across and he flew back, just laying there, looking up at the gigantic warrior looking down at him.

    Harren knelt down, reached in and grabbed the boy's shirt, picking him up by it, and standing him on his feed. Now, crouching a little further in, he looked the boy in the eyes. "What is your name?"

    "Theon," the boy replied, with little fear in his eyes.

    "Do you know who I am, Theon?"

    "Yes," replied Theon, confident in his answer, and strikingly non-intimidated. "All of the Iron Islands knows you."

    Harren smiled. "And do you fear me, boy?"

    "No," the boy replied, as quickly as the confident word could be uttered.

    "You have the look of your brothers. Surely you are legitimate," he said, turning his head around to four Greyjoy guards following him to the bridge. "I wonder if these sons of bhes are as confident as you," he said coldly.

    "I knew your brother, Rodrik. He was a great warrior. Your brother Maron is quickly following in his footsteps. I would expect the same from you, one day."

    "I will be a great warrior, Captain Harren. I will lead raids and capture thralls and have a dozen salt wives," said Theon, enthusiastically.

    Harren guffawed. "I'd take you on my crew. I'll give you another couple years. I first reaved on my eleventh name day. My father told me it is the most important rite of passage for an Ironborn and I would have to agree."

    "Will you be fighting with my brother, when the siege begins?"

    "Either I dine with your father by weeks end in celebration, or I dine with the Drowned God," said Harren, as he tightened the fastening of one of his bracers.

    Harren let out a deep chuckle, and grabbed Theon on the top of his head, and messed up his hair, as he continued on his way, followed by his Greyjoy escort.

    Theon just looked on, in awe.

    The men mounted up their horses, already prepared on the bridge head. They rode out to the encampment to convene with the men.

    The Greyjoy encampment was lively with routine preparations. There were no drills that morning, as the siege was so soon upon them, and they must focus their energy on it.

    Harren rode out, shortly after dawn, and having broken his fast already, alone in his room, he would now take full command of his reavers.

    Arriving at the camp, Harren was intercepted by Dagon Deathward, Pyke Castle's Captain of the Guard.

    "Is makeshift rabble all we have left?" said Dagon, with his deep, brutish voice.

    "I don't recall seeing you at Lordsport, yesterday?" Harren replied.

    "Bah, the ol' Balon put his stock into ol' Lord Aeron..."

    "That old man couldn't lead a fart out of his bowels," said Harren, as he fastened his boots.

    "What's the situation?"

    "The Stormking has begun moving his siege engines into place, overnight. Even the big ones. They spent the entire night hauling them up, with our own men providing the labor. They set up all around the perimeter, a few hundred meters out, out of range of our archers. They're moving like ants to get this done."

    "So we should be planning on a siege this week," replied Harren, undeterred.

    "Two days, if I would have my guess."

    "Skywald will handle the archers, when the time comes about. That man's the best archer on the Islands, and could fire an arrow over the hill and I'd guess he'd get it within thirty feet of that king."

    "Your reavers are guests, Harren. Prince Maron is tasked with command of the defense, by King Balon."

    "Balon nor Maron were at Lordsport yesterday, Dagon. If the Prince was tasked with the defense, then I'm sure he would have been present, not that Wynch knight you sent, who had no bloody idea what he was doing."

    "Ser Wendyl was the finest knight on Pyke—"

    "He was a fool. A fool who foolishly charged forth and got himself killed. That's all he was, and now he's cleaning the Drowned God's chamber pots."

    Dagon was about to speak, when another voice intervened. "He's right, Dagon," said Maron, as he walked up behind them, dressed in full armor.

    "My father's decision to prevent adequate reinforcements at Lordsport was a blunder. He put too much stock in Lord Aeron, and it cost us the beachhead, and the port," he continued. "We will not make the same mistake again."

    "Captain Harren, we welcome the insight of your men."

    Ignoring Dagon now, Harren spoke, without looking directly at either. "Skywald will position the archers, Sigmund will man the gatehouse and the immediate area around it, and Thorwin will command a floating force on the southern side, from the southern tower to the gatehouse.

    I will be present here in the south side, as it is the greatest concentration for the enemy, and the likeliest breach attempt will be made here, rather than them foregoing added exposure charging in the stretched northern section.

    My reavers will henceforth take up position here, while your men take the north of the wall."


    "Perhaps we can discuss this at counc—"

    "There needn't be a council, Dagon," Harren snapped back. "Host your own. But my men know their roles, and that's all there is to it."

    Dagon looked furious with his old friend, but refused to utter a word, as few would be so bold to cross Harren the Red. Dagon just looked to Maron. "Is this the right of it?"

    "Yes, it is," Maron replied, believing in Harren's strategy.

    "Right then," Dagon said, as he turned away to keep to his own affairs.

    Sigmund Surehands, Harren's first mate and lieutenant approached them.

    "You son of a bh," he said coldly. "We were pinching our as cheeks in the nip last night, while you fancied yourself a fine chamber in the royal palace," he said, sarcastically.

    "The benefits of slaying fifty men in a single battle, Sig. Fear not, for one day you will know the feeling," Harren snapped back sharply.

    Sigmund belted out a suffocated laugh, it seemed so deep. "You cruel bd," he said, cheerfully.

    The two men locked hands and pulled in, banging each other on their backs with their fists.

    "Ready for a battle?" asked Sigmund.

    "This is the war," replied Harren. "This is what will go down in the old Maester books of the Citadel. This tale will make all those Greenlander knights' pretty little wives moist at the thought of our brute strength and ferocity. They will yearn at the thought of us brutes, as their lovers never return home."

    "Optimistic are we?" Sigmund affronted.

    "Fancy word for a raider, no?" Harren replied facetiously.

    "We should stay at less fancy places in our travels then," japed Sigmund.

    "Surrounded by the finest, am I not?" Maron interceded.

    The three of them walked up the steps to the top of the wall, the fog still thick as a stone wall itself, right in front of them. Greyjoy men walked the wall, dozens of them, waiting. Waiting for an inevitable battle to come...

    Maron extended his monocular and looked out, seeing in the distance the siege teams working away.

    "Here," he said to Harren, handing him the monocular.

    Harren extended it, and put it to his eye. "I imagine they're out of range of our trebuchets?"

    "They are assembling from afar, then they will move into place when the siege is ready, preventing an early assault from our siege weapons," said Maron. "We can do nothing but wait..."



    ROYAL ENCAMPMENT
    Two days later...



    "Aside from the wall, you know anything else of their defense plans?"

    "Fk ya'self, ya pompous flower-sniffin' st," the man replied.

    A fist came crashing down, across his face forcing a spew of bloody saliva out of his mouth. The man spit up two teeth onto the ground.

    "Is that the best ya can do, ya nance?" The man said boldly, as he chuckled.

    A clear uppercut caught the man under the chin, nearly knocking him out, but he was shaken by two guards, slapped, and cold ice water was poured on him, to keep him awake.

    "That's enough!" A voice firmly growled.

    Robert walked into the tent, flanked by his Kingsguard.

    Ser Adylmon Rowan of the Kingsguard had led the interrogation, but turned up nothing.

    "Aside from the southern wall being a weak spot, he won't speak anymore, Your Grace. That seems to be our breach point," said Adylmon.

    "Get him out of my sight," Robert said, waving him away.

    Two Baratheon men had unbound the man, and dragged him away.

    Robert walked out of the interrogation tent with Ser Barristan at his side. Ser Adylmon Rowan and Ser Toddric Sarsfield followed just behind him.

    Walking to his tent, present were his war council. Lord Eddard, Lord Tywin, Lord Stannis, all were present.

    "You all know your roles. And I will not have another word of doubt about it. It ends tomorrow," said Robert, as he sits down.

    "Stannis," he says, as he beckons his brother to speak.

    "We strike before the fog breaks, on the morrow. The trebuchets will focus on the southern side, as intended. Once there is a breach, we will fall in and overwhelm them. They will not be able to neglect the rest of their wall, as we will send in ladders up and down the wall, and so they will have to spread their forces leaving no one area too well protected," Stannis explained.

    "And the range?" Eddard asked, inquiringly.

    "Maester Gyrwyn has set the ranges himself. The bombardment will be sporadic at first, and will switch to the weak spot, when the enemy least expects it," replied Stannis.

    Some of the lords stirred, but none dared speak out.

    "Get your men prepared," Robert said sternly, as he downed yet another chalice of fine wine.

    "We strike at dawn."



    PYKE CASTLE
    Dawn of the third day...




    (Source: Obsidianportal.com)


    Harren had gotten up early, and walked the battlements alone, and now, he stood on the top of the wall, looking into the thick fog, which they hoped would lift. Beside him, Skywald tested his bow's malleability.

    "Ready for this, brother?"

    "Our defining moments," Harren reaffirmed, hitting his friend on the back, and walking to the gatehouse, to visit Sigmund.

    "Harren," a voice bellowed, in a grunting fashion, clearly identifiable.

    "Redwul Stonetree," Harren said, turning around. "By the God arisen from the tides, himself. Your still breathing?"

    "Breathing and yearning for a good fight. It has been too long," Redwul replied.

    "Where have you been. You've missed the war, old friend," Harren joked.

    "As long as I'm here for the end of it, and can bury my hatchet in some mainland dandies, then that's what matters."

    "Well said, old friend, well said."

    "Your father would have given his life twice over to be apart of this."

    "Alas, perhaps we will join the many warriors before us, by days end," Harren responded, in an eerily serious tone.

    Just then, a sentry signaled down below, and voices were heard from the gatehouse, nearby. Scouts were returning and the portcullis was raised, and the scouts atop horseback entered through the gatehouse, and into the courtyard. Their report was in.

    Maron Greyjoy could be seen talking to the scouts, and then proceeded to walk off with Dagon Deathward.

    Redwul Stonetree followed the two of them, and Harren just awaited news he already felt he knew. He descended down the battlements to receive news.

    The scouts mounted up, riding in separate directions down the walls, they were tasked with informing the sectional commanders.

    The scout stopped at Harren. "Captain Harren, the siege will commence shortly, we are almost certain," he spoke, before galloping off down to inform the men further on.

    Harren signaled for his thralls, as he prepared to equip his weaponry.

    Skywald stood on the wall, with archers of all houses of the Islands, but primarily bearing the sigil of the kraken of Greyjoy.

    Thorwin led a unit of horse, with many of Harren's reavers, but also some other assorted Islanders, and they could do nothing but wait to ride.

    Sigmund stood on the top of the gatehouse, and waited, watching out into the thick fog, which slowly receded, but not quick enough. The armies of the Iron Throne could not be seen.

    It was a waiting game. The defenders were silent as as stagnant air. Only the wind could be heard blowing against the standards on the tower flagpoles. The gusting was relentless, and the fog was lifting. The skies were still grey as can be, and it was murky morning. It would be the last day that many on the island would experience a morning's light.

    Harren had equipped his dual shortswords, fastened in their crossed sheathes. His immense roundshield was fastened on his back, and he held his great war maul in two hands before him, on its side. He firmly gripped it, and loosened his grip, gripping it harder the next squeeze.

    Yells could be heard along the defensive perimeter—as the last preparations were made. All the men were in place, with their positions to be defended to the death.

    Moments had seemed hours, but then the bombardment began, as predicted.

    It was so silent now, that the defenders could hear in the distance the faintest howls of their foe. It wasn't long before the silence, second to only the giant boulders ranging in size from a watermelon to a horse were projected from the varying sized trebuchets, still concealed by the fog, and seemingly unknown to the suspecting, yet blind defenders.

    With Maesters provided from Oldtown, who specialized in siege engineering and mathematics, the precision of the engines were near perfect.

    The initial barrage was in flight, and the Ironborn defenders could do nothing but look on, and wait for it.

    Out of the wall of fog, projectiles smashed against the ancient stone walls of Pyke Castle. The smashing sounds were enormous, and the Ironborn archers and others took cover behind the formidable walls—but each projectile, regardless of size, made its presence known with the loud collisions and explosive shards dislodged off the wall, with each successful collision.

    Harren, as with most of the Ironborn defenders on the ground, kept right up next to the wall, most of which were beneath protruding stone roofs, which would prevent falling debris from hitting them. This was a custom, and very important addition to the castle's outer wall.

    Up top, along the wall, Greyjoy men were taking cover, some behind crenellations, yet the crenellations were soon not as safe to hide behind, as several were struck dead on, and the defenders behind them were turned to nothing more than unrecognizable fusions of bone and flesh. Limbs were flying off the top of the wall, down below, as stone chunks from the wall were dotting the inner courtyard, and the screams of the wounded could be heard as clear as the impacts of the projectiles striking the walls. They could not retaliate until the enemy approached.

    Maron stood atop, in the southern-most tower, his monocular always in hand. More fearless than he originally thought he could be, he kept his position, despite the fact that the only defense for the towers above, was the reinforced ironwood coned roofs, which would not stop a good sized projectile. Every bombardment was a chance taken, but Maron holding his position up there kept the morale of the men high.

    The soldiers dwindled slightly in number, most finding above adequate protection, enough to survive. And for the better portion of nearly two hours, the bombardment pounded against the walls, relentlessly, as if King Robert planned to take the wall down shard by shard...



    THE ROYAL ENCAMPMENT


    Ser Cortnay Penrose approached Robert, as Robert sat openly watching, as the fog lifted almost completely, the walls could be seen taking a pounding from where he was positioned to watch.

    "Your Grace, shall we proceed to the second phase of the siege?"

    Robert was resting upright, in a straight posture. It was a rare way for him to sit, as he often preferred lazily slouching, for what courts he did conduct himself. He ignored Ser Cortnay at first.

    After several moments, and the knight waiting for a response, Robert spoke. "Continue the bombardment, to cover the approach, but move the ladders forward... And the siege towers. We will engage them."

    "Understood, Your Grace," Ser Cortnay responded, bowing, and withdrawing to make the arrangements.

    Some of the court couriers were also given dispatch to inform the varying lords to send in their stocks, with the second phase commencing.

    With the orders given, the few siege towers that had been assembled over the past few days were pushed forward, and the long ladders were lifted by their crews, and the march began towards the wall. The trebuchets continued to pound the castle walls. In many spots, the wall had been severely damaged, though the incredible fortitude of the stone had held it from collapsing in any one area.

    Ser Cortnay returned to the walls, and issued the order to continue fire.

    Stannis oversaw the larges of the trebuchets and so, with Robert's wishes, explained by Ser Cortnay, Stannis decided it was time to slowly turn the trebuchets to focus on the southern wall.

    "Maester Gyrwyn," Stannis said sharply.

    "Yes, My Lord?"

    "Initiate the rotation to target the tower in strategy."

    "It will be done, My Lord."



    PYKE CASTLE


    The walls were relentlessly pounded, in what seemed to be the frequency of a hard rain, with a collision in what seemed to be every few seconds. The wall had taken a thrashing for over two hours, and the Greyjoys had lost dozens of men.

    Maron remained vigilant in the tower, and noticed the approach. As was the plan, he ordered the signaling of the troops, to inform them of the approach. An archer fired a flaming arrow into the air over the courtyard, from the tower top.

    The Ironborn defenders were now aware that the assault was coming. Now, the real battle would begin.

    Dagon Deathward could be seen riding out to the trebuchets, where the siege teams were idled and waiting.

    Near immediately, they went into action loading the weapons with the perfectly prepared projectiles. They loaded and launched at will, blindly into the field of the oncoming assault.

    "Let's show them the wrath of the Ironborn, boys!"

    The random voice was not familiar to Harren, but he took charge of the immediate area.

    "Archers, to your positions," he demanded. "Skywald, you better drop a hundred before they even touch the wall!"

    Skywald joined the Greyjoy archers that were running up the stairs to the battlements. He did not reply, but Harren knew he could rely on him.

    The attackers charged forward. The archers drew their first volley, and launched it deep into the attacking lines. Despite the bombardment, the archers continued to draw volleys, as the projectiles hit all around them, some striking clear into the crenallations where the archers were.

    Harren ran up to the battlements, and looked through a crenellation at the soldiers coming. He identified the strong points of the assault and continued to coordinate where his defense would have to be. Just over a half dozen siege towers were assembled for the assault.

    The large projectiles were noticeably shifting down the battlements, towards the southern tower.

    Harren figured this would happen. The archers loosed at will now, and Skywald was by far the most accurate shot. Where he selected his strikes on which foe he aimed for, he would hit with precision aim, having dropped a dozen attackers already.

    As the towers drew nearer, and two siege towers approached, the archers continued to relentlessly assault them, but near to no avail. Even with lit arrows, the thick furs that shielded the wooden frame were coated in a nonflammable alchemist concoction and protected them from going a lit. He noticed this strategy used before, in Essos. Harren commanded his reavers above up top, as he knew the siege towers would dock, and to bolster the strength of the Greyjoy spear and ax men, as they prepared to engage in melee.

    The first tower reached within range, and the trapdoor slowly dropped onto the wall, with iron latches collapsing down over the battlement, to lock the bridge in place, the men were Lannisters in this tower, and their maroon armor clearly identifiable. The archers launched one last volley into the tower, striking several Lannister men down, a few having tumbled off the bridge, to the rocky ground below. Harren was at the front of the bridge, with a dozen of his reavers to meet the Lannister force.

    He was the first to take a swing, connecting with a Lannister soldier, collapsing his breastplate into him, instantly, and sending him flying to the ground below. The other reavers used primarily ax and shield and engaged actively against them.

    In the distance, an Ironborn trebuchet connected with a siege tower, collapsing one corner, and causing a bend, and cracks, as the side slowly fell over, due to the lack of support. The tower eventually collapsed over, the top half snapping off, sending the men inside straight to the ground, in a cage of collapsing wood.

    Enemy archers had come within fifty meters of the wall, having proceeded forth with walled trolleys, to protect them while they returned fire against the Ironborn archers, in relative protection.

    Maron joined his men on the main battlements, as another tower connected to the wall, and dropped its bridge, as Tyrell men stormed out to engage the Greyjoy host.

    Maron was heavy into the fighting, with his men, and none had noticed a tower lined up near the southern most tower, as several Tyrell men ascended up the ladder and slid into the tower, going to the top with the intent to remove the Greyjoy standard.

    "Bd, bd, bd!" Maron exclaimed, as he hacked away at a Tyrell soldier, whom he shoved to the floor of the battlements. His hatchet having connected several times to the base of the man's neck, in the opening of the armor. He hacked away at the soldier, only to be jumped on by another that had come across the bridge. The two wrestled on the battlement floor, trying to gain the upper hand over one another, Maron had dropped his hatchet and held the mans arm, to keep his drawn dagger away.

    A spear was thrust into the back of the Tyrell soldier and Maron threw him aside, grabbing his hatchet and burying it into the exposed Tyrell's breastplate, in a slanted gap on the chest. A spurt of blood exploded out of the opening.

    Redwul reached down, and helped the Prince to his feet. "My Prince," he said, heartily.

    "Thank the Drowned God, Redwul," Maron said exhausted.

    The Greyjoy men had now crossed the bridge of the tower, and held the soldiers at the staircase in the tower, having gained the superior position. But down the wall some ways, other Tyrell men had ascended ladders and overwhelmed a group of exposed archers, butchering them.

    Maron noticed also, turning around, that the Greyjoy standard had been taken down, tossed into the courtyard, and the Tyrell standard was being raised. Fearing morale drop, and loss of the tower, he acted quickly.

    "Go, Redwul, take care of those frs, and I'll handle the tower."

    Redwul withdrew his spear, shield in his offhand, he proceeded with a small contingent of troops to deal with them.

    Maron charged to the ladder that was being used, and two Tyrell men charged them and were quickly beaten, and tossed off the battlements. Maron proceeded inside with two Greyjoy soldiers at is side, and two others knocked the ladder down.

    Inside the tower, Maron engaged an unsuspecting Tyrell soldier, who was withdrawing his spear out of a Greyjoy soldier. Maron shoved the soldier forward, as the soldier hit head first into the wall, his helm detaching from his head, Maron took his hatchet and buried it into the man's exposed skull.

    The two Greyjoy men proceeded up the stairs to remove the Tyrell standard, having now been fully flown.

    As they engaged upstairs, Maron was unable to withdraw his hatchet, so he drew his sword, and proceeded up the steps.

    The tower had come under heavy fire from the attacking trebuchets, and was being focused in fire, slowly, but surely the tower was going down, as it began to wobble, abnormally, and fissures grew in the walls, and the tower quickly began to deteriorate in steadiness.

    Up top, there were four Tyrell men, one having been taken down by the Greyjoy soldiers, but the two defenders were quickly overwhelmed by the other Tyrell soldiers. Maron surprised them, burying his sword into one of their bellies, he threw the man down the steps, and connected sword to sword with another one, quickly parrying several strikes, he took his sword in two hands, one on the end of the blade, and he swung the hand guard to connect with the soldier's neck, and slid the blade across his throat, with both hands, forcing out a spray of fresh blood, slitting the soldier's throat deeply as the soldier dropped back to the floor. The third soldier charged at him, and Maron sidestepped him, using the soldier's momentum to throw him into a tower top crenellation.

    From behind he buried his sword into the man's back, having thrust it deeper in, he drew a dagger from his belt, and put it to the soldier's throat, and slit his throat to finish him off.

    The soldier dropped down, and Maron sheathed his weapons, as he proceeded to grab the Tyrell standard, and heave it off the tower, to the courtyard below. The men below cheered, but he heard footsteps on the stairs...

    Two more Tyrell soldiers proceeded up, and Maron drew his sword to confront them. The tower shook, disconnecting from the battlements itself, and cracking all over, Maron had lost his footing and fell to the floor. The two Tyrell soldiers stumbled on the stairs, but all of them regained their composure, and as Maron proceeded to swing his sword at the first soldier, the tower let out an immense cracking sound, as three large projectiles collided with the center of it, the tower leaned forward, disconnected fully from the wall itself, it fell forward, and Maron fell into the two Tyrell soldiers, as the tower collapsed outwards, smashing against the rocky ground below.

    The stones all came apart, and crushed all inside the tower.

    From the wall nearby, the Greyjoy soldiers watched as the tower had fallen, their Prince inside it. The tower broke apart into a stony rubble, and they certainly feared their Prince killed.

    As it collapsed, dozens of soldiers lining the base of the wall below poured into the courtyard. At its front, Thoros of Myr, the red priest, with his sword a lit, followed by Jorah Mormont, the lord of Bear Island. Behind them, Starks, Lannisters, Tyrells, Tully, and Frey men poured into the opening, as was planned. Hundreds of soldiers charged for the breach, from the attacking side, and were confronted by dozens of Greyjoy men, and some elite reavers.

    Nearby, Harren had descended down the tower, by this point, his men having put the tower to the torch, after fighting off the Lannisters.

    Harren proceeded with dozens of his reavers at his side to meet the attacking force at the breach.

    Riding by him, Thorwin Greenbane and his unit of horse charged forth to confront the foe.

    The battle had seemingly changed now, as the breach was the main point of entry for the attackers, and as such, the defenders were forced to charge forward, attempting to contain the leak.

    At the gatehouse, a large battering ram, with an iron stag's head had arrived at the gate. The defenders threw rocks at the men below, but those pushing the ram were protected by a cured hide roof, curving over them, making the rocks and arrows bounce off, while they pounded the large wooden doors, backed by an iron portcullis. The doors began to crack, as the blows were seemingly constant.

    Sigmund knew that to use hot oil would render the possibility of fire destroying the outer door, and risk spreading into the gatehouse, so he refused the request, by the Greyjoy men.

    The defenders had seemingly won the battle on the battlements—though it seemed only to be a distraction for the intention of a wall breach, gained at the south end.

    As the first attackers poured in, Thoros of Myr slashed his way threw several Greyjoy soldiers, his sword doused in lit wildfire. The remnants of the wildfire solution splashed off the sword with every strike causing a burst of fire onto each soldier he swung at.

    Lord Jorah followed quickly behind Thoros, and engaged in melee with the first soldier he came across. Dozens upon dozens followed quickly in suit, and within minutes, hundreds of soldiers were engaged in fighting.

    Harren arrived with his reavers, and they met a large contingent of disengaged fighters, who sought to confront them.

    Harren charged in, both hands on his great maul, he brought it down in precision connection with the first soldier's helm—a Lannister soldier—the connection causing an inordinate flow of blood from the man's mangled skull, as his head practically exploded from every orifice with blood, and he dropped the the dirt as quickly as the blow had landed.

    Harren then took the maul in one hand, and let out an enormous war cry as he jabbed the next soldier from a distance with the head of his maul, sending the soldier back to the dirt, utterly winded.

    He two-handed swung left and connected with an engaged soldier, breaking his back with the swing, and then just as easily, he swung right, his mighty swing connecting with the leg of another engaged soldier, smashing out the knee, and causing the soldier to blurt out obscenities in agony, and collapse to the dirt, as he was impaled by a reaver's spear.

    Another soldier charged at Harren, spear in two hands. Harren grabbed the head of the spear, just past the blade, and heaved the soldier forward, using the soldier's own momentum, Harren took his maul by the neck of the head, and jabbed the soldier, the collision meeting the combined momentum of both the soldier and Harren's forward force, smashing in the soldier's visor with such force, it crushed in the visor and snapped the soldier's neck straight back, dropping him instantly, and lifeless.

    Harren continued on fighting, with his reavers by his side, as Thorwin dismounts off his horse and swings his mighty war ax at his first grounded foe, striking him in the stomach, blowing past the chain mail that protected him, he spun around and ripped the ax head out of the soldier, exposing a large opening in the man's stomach, causing blood and intestines to spew out slow and consistently, as the soldier reached down with both hands to hold it in, dropping to his knees, Thorwin kicked the man in the head, causing him to fall back, exposing his ripped open stomach and the squirting of blood from numerous exits.

    Up on the wall above, Skywald had begun to run down the wall, to help at the breach, but was confronted by men still using ladders.

    As the first soldier—bearing the brown armor of a Stark, with a dire wolf sigil—leaped through the crenellations and charged at him, Skywald drew a single arrow and fired it into the man's face—as the Stark men used only a simple helm, with an open face—the arrow struck the man in the eye, and he dropped his sword, dropping to his knees in sheer pain, Skywald kicked him aside, the man rolled off the battlement, into the courtyard below. Another climbed up, and was just at the crenellation opening, when Skywald notched another arrow, drew, and released, striking the man in the neck, causing him to fall forward into him, Skywald used the man's falling momentum to throw him forward, off the battlements, into the courtyard below.

    A third soldier took an overarm slash down at Skywald, missing him by an inch past his left shoulder, Skywald turned and put his left shoulder into the sword, ejecting it from the man's grasp, as he wedged it against a crenellation. Turning, he drew a throwing dagger from his chest strap and stuck it right into the man's neck, causing the soldier to grab at the dagger impaling his neck, and he fell in and onto the battlements, and rolling in agony, coughing up blood, and choking.

    Paying no never mind to an already dead man, Skywald charged to the ladder, notching another arrow, drew it, and released it, from above, into the soldier's exposed neck, the arrow going deep into the soldier's chest, causing him to released his grip on the ladder, falling right back, his feet kicking the next soldier below him, causing that soldier also to drop.

    Blindsided, a Baratheon soldier appeared from the nearby tower doorway, and charged at Skywald, but his peripheral vision caught movement, no time to notch, he drew a dagger, and jabbed the man in the chest, as the man tried to swing an ax at him. He guided the man, with the dagger firmly in his chest, and spun him around to the crenellation, using the man's weight and momentum, Skywald too used his left leg to boost himself against the Baratheon soldier, and the combined motion of both men was enough force to send the ladder back, the next soldier having nearly been up top, fell back, with the ladder, and two others on it, and it collapsed on top of them, as they all dropped, losing their handling.

    The Baratheon soldier bent over the side of the ladder, nearly off his feet, Skywald lifted the man's feet and flipped him off the battlements, before continuing down the wall to help his comrades.

    Sigmund, seeing the breach, ordered most his men in the gatehouse to proceed down the wall, cleaning up any men still left climbing, and those at the bottom to head over to the breach, to reinforce the defenders already engaged. He would in turn, keep a handful of men to hold the gatehouse, against the attackers, who relentlessly battered still, away at the gate, having made it through the wooden doors and now assaulted the closed portcullis.

    Sigmund took a spear from nearby and threw it below at an exposed attacker, striking him right through the upper chest, avoiding the brunt of the breastplate's protection.

    At the breach, Thorwin swung his ax around, striking three attackers, in a line. "Come on you flower fks!"

    Harren two-handed smashed his maul into a downed Tyrell soldier, crushing in his breastplate, as his ribs snapped in impaling him, internally, as the soldier instantly coughed up blood, and began to choke.

    North of the gatehouse, Redwul Stonetree commanded a steady group of defenders, as they continued battling a flanking army of Arryn men, trying to get in from an assumed defenseless part of the wall.

    Having already killed two dozen men, the old Redwul, in his sixties, has proven his worth as not only a commander, but also a mighty warrior. His force had dwindled since the fighting began, and the Arryn soldiers seemed to be innumerable, coming over in troves, despite every two killed, three more seemed to appear.

    Redwul brought his massive ax down on an Arryn soldier, splitting his torso, between shoulder and neck, down six inches into his chest. With a mighty kick, he shoved the dead soldier back, off the battlements, and freeing his ax, he turned in time to react to another soldier charging at him, the spearhead hitting Redwul's armor in the hip—though double chain mail prevented impalement—Redwul quickly returned a full swing from the right distance, as the man was near a meter away with his spear tip stuck in Redwul's mail, he had connected with the soldier's neck dead on, severing his head, and sending it flying into the courtyard—the soldier dropping like a rag doll to the battlements.

    Redwul's men continued to defend verse a greater number of attackers, for the time being...

    Skywald had passed through the middle south tower, and as he proceeded through the tower, just past the tower, Greyjoy soldiers were engaged with Lannister soldiers climbing the ladders, and the battlements were nearly lost, with the overflow of enemy troops.

    He notched an arrow and fired it into a Lannister soldier's back, and notching another, he repeated the shot to a second Lannister soldier. Moving forward in attack, he notched a third, and this time, the soldier was running at him, he shot it straight through the eye slit, in the helm, notching a fourth arrow, he loosed it in the same fashion upon another Lannister soldier, dropping him as well, and he continued to empty his quiver on soldiers climbing over, in an attempt to alleviate the overabundance of enemy soldiers overwhelming his comrades on the battlement, while casually retrieving some of his arrows, to prevent himself from using up his arsenal.

    Down below, Harren reached in, grabbing a helpless Lannister soldier by the head, as he was already knelt, he snapped the soldier's neck, throwing the man's torso down to the ground.

    Then, as other soldiers were hesitant to move in on him, as he had killed dozens already at the breach, a knight of the Kingsguard stepped forth, shoving a Stark soldier to the ground, and causing the others to back away, the Kingsguard approached Harren, his two-handed claymore drawn, and up in both hands.

    Harren held his maul in one hand, and half-circled the Kingsguard, who stood in a ready stance, following Harren's movement.

    Harren let out a roaring laugh. "I took one of your brethren at Lordsport a few days ago. Are you looking to the same fate?"

    The Kingsguard dropped his pose, and half-circled Harren, as well. "You must be Harren the Red... I am Ser Adylmon Rowan of the Kingsguard," he said, with a stern monotone. "And my brother will be avenged today, you savage mongrel."

    Harren belted out in increasing laughter. "You know me, yet I do not know you. To me, your nothing more than a fancy pk behind a fancy mask, as was your brother. Perhaps I will keep your helm as a trophy as well."

    The knight charged forth and took a swipe down at the immense Ironborn, who parried with a his maul shaft.

    Ser Adylmon took a swing now, and as such, his attack was parried with the maul shaft.

    After several interchangeable attacks, and each one parried, Ser Adylmon had begun to show signs of wear.

    His misstep during one of his lunges was read, and Harren drew him too close for the claymore to be adequately swung, and he butted the knight in the helm with the pommel of his maul, sending him to the dirt.

    Ser Adylmon was quick to recover, despite the embarrassment in front of the observing soldiers.

    Taking a couple more swings, and foolishly wearing himself further, Ser Adylmon's attacks grew sloppy, and Harren waited for that moment, for the opportune lunge.

    Finally, Ser Adylmon made another attempt to charge right towards the lightly armed (in comparison) Harren, and his sword was easily deflected past the warrior, who got the knight close, grabbing him in the neck, shoving his head back, exposing it, he squeezed the knight's throat, putting his maul behind the knight's back, pulling him close and keeping him in place—his sharp and uncut nails splitting the man's neck, until his fingers broke right through the throat—his immense strength rightfully accommodating his firm grip, he pulled out the man's throat, tongue, tissue, and muscle, he drew it all out, as the Kingsguard was silent, his vocal cords ruptured, an explosion of blood, cartilage, and muscle hung out, as the knight dropped to the ground, in silent pain, his life slowly slipping away, he was enveloped with tremulous shakes, as he clung to sifts of survival.

    Harren let out a bloodthirsty war cry, and the other soldiers shook, as they subconsciously stepped back, away from the monster of a man.

    A knight pushed through the cowardly soldiers, and came forth to confront Harren. The man—bearing the sigil of the twin towers of House Frey—he charged at the monstrous warrior, his sword raised.

    Harren, aiming to make a clear example, did not toy with this one, he slowly lifted his maul, in his right hand, by the neck of it, and easily deflected the overhand strike, letting the soldier slip past him, but quickly releasing his maul midair, and then grabbing it by head, in his left hand, and the end of the shaft in his right, he brought it down, jabbing the knight in the back of the legs, forcing him to collapse to the ground, his sword released and had fallen several feet away from him.

    The man, wailed in pain, as Harren turned to look at the petrified soldiers looking on, he took his maul rightfully, head in the right hand, he swung a monstrous motion, the maul overhead—his right hand sliding down the shaft to meet his left—he connected the head of his giant maul with the back of the knight's helmet, crushing it completely, following through with his signature war cry, and forcing a pool of blood to erupt from the ear holes of the helm.

    The knight's left leg twitched, but he was dead as can be.

    As he turned to face the soldiers around him, his reavers charged forth—the lot of the soldiers slightly stunned and unresponsive—the reavers made quick work of them, and the fight continued.

    Harren was attacked from behind, but turned in time to swing his maul and connect with the side of the soldier's helm, forcing the man's head a hard jerk, snapping his neck, and dropping him in turn.

    Back up on the wall, Skywald, with the arrival of several other soldiers coming up to relieve the battlements of the foe, was able to push the enemy back off the wall, and with the help of several Greyjoy soldiers, they were able to rid the wall of most attackers, whilst taking fire through the crenellations, by other archers, they set two docked towers alight.

    Skywald hid behind one crenellation, waiting to see a volley pass through, or over the openings, and pecking the wall behind him, he notched and drew, spinning around, he fired and hit an archer n the chest, notching another before they could react, he fired a second arrow, striking a second archer, before ducking behind the crenellation next to him, for cover. Repeating this maneuver several times, Skywald was able to kill a dozen archers, with his methodical maneuvering, forcing them to break for the wall, for cover.

    As two Greyjoy men ran for the tower, the attackers had taken the battlements north of the middle tower, and began pouring through the tower doorway. The first Greyjoy soldier was impaled with a Lannister spear, the second Greyjoy having buried his ax into the neck of the Lannister soldier, but he himself also receiving a spear from the second soldier. Bending to one knee, Skywald loosed a drawn arrow, striking the second soldier in the neck, forcing him back into the tower doorway. His quiver was now noticeably depleting.

    At the gatehouse, the rock frame of the portcullis had begun to give way, from the constant ramming. There were noticeable dents in the iron gate, and ladders lining both walls aligned with the gatehouse were climbed with little resistance. With less than a dozen men left at the gatehouse, Sigmund called for all men on the ground to seal the doors of the adjacent towers, from the bottom, and ascend for a last stand in the upper level of the gatehouse. Sigmund finished the last of his horn of wine, and went into a berserk frenzy.

    Two Arryn men barged through the side doorway of the upper gatehouse, from an undefended battlement and the first was met with dual war axes between the neck and shoulders. He dropped, and Sigmund grabbed the other soldier's sword handle, ripping it out of his hand, before he could act, and removing his helm, he took the soldier by his long hair and smashed his head into a stone pillar, repeatedly, splitting his head open, killing him.

    Two more came in and he threw one to the ground, and grabbed the other pushing his head back and punching him in the throat, the man dropped, gasping for air.

    He took the soldier's spear and kicked the first soldier back down to the ground, as he attempted to rise up. He then thrust his spear into the back of the fallen soldier, then with his knee, he snapped the spear in two—using the broken spear, he approached the soldier gasping for air, and stabbed him in the throat with it, multiple times. "That'll open your airway, boy!"

    A soldier entered, spear in hand charging forth to him, but Sigmund grabbed it and deflected it by, charging the man, lifting him up by the waist and slamming him head first into the ground—the strength of the man to lift such weight with mail—he pulled the man's neck back, and jerked it suddenly, snapping it.

    From behind, Sigmund turned, noticing a Greyjoy soldier coming through the door, he nodded. But behind him, a man leaped over the crenellations onto the battlement and he pulled the Greyjoy's cape, forcing him back, dagger drawn, he slit the Greyjoy soldier's throat.

    Sigmund drew one of his axes out of the dead Arryn soldier, only to have the brute of a soldier, bearing the sigil of a black fish, with a blue Arryn falcon below it, the two men met ax against sword, forcing each other's strikes low, Sigmund headbutted the helm-less soldier—whom he figured a knight, based on his personal sigil—he charged forth, tackling the grey-haired knight to the ground.

    The grey-haired knight used Sigmund's charging momentum and launched him over, flipping him. The two got up and the grey-haired knight charged at him, punching Sigmund in the face, with a mailed glove, he broke his nose.

    Sigmund stumbled back, wiping the blood off his face, onto his sleeve, he blocked the next punch and slammed his elbow into the knight's stomach causing him to grasp, slightly. The knight put Sigmund in a headlock, and ran his head into a crenellation, repeated times. Eventually pulling himself away from the constant motion, Sigmund scooped his arm under the knight's right leg, and threw his weight down, in a roll, flipping the knight nearly off the battlements. The knight quickly gained his composure, and climbed back up, having only his legs gone over, the two men came back to blows, each striking the other several times.

    The grey-haired knight charged and lifted Sigmund into the air, slamming him onto his back. The two of them reached for an arrowhead nearby, rolling back and forth for it.

    The grey-haired knight headbutted Sigmund, who was underneath, and propelled himself out to the arrowhead, grabbing it, he turned back, slicing Sigmund across the face. Sigmund grabbed the grey-haired knight by the throat, locking one of his arms in, and his other hand grabbed the knight's wrist to keep the arrowhead away—both men bleeding profusely, and exhausted—rumbled for control.

    Down below, the last Greyjoy soldier was put down by two Arryn men, as they finished him, one jabbing with spear, the other—his sword.

    The men looked on, with other Arryn soldiers arriving, and they began cheering on their commander. "Come on Blackfish!"

    Sigmund grunted and gasped, as he tried to overpower the Blackfish, who slowly brought the arrowhead in, overpowering the mighty warrior.

    Slowly, Sigmund's strength waned, and the Blackfish drew closer to his throat with the arrowhead, eventually getting it there, he stuck it in, slowly, Sigmund let out a bloodcurdling grunt. His strength gave way, and the Blackfish stuck the arrowhead deep into Sigmund's head, it entered under his tongue, and proceeded to the brain, with a furious jerk forward, the duel was over. Sigmund Surehands was dead, and the gatehouse lost.

    North of the gatehouse, the isolated Redwul Stonetree and what men of his remained were being quickly overwhelmed. The old man's age had finally crept up on him, as he sweltered inside the immense amounts of armor.

    From behind, an ax connected with his back, but the two layers of chainmail prevented entry, only knocking him to the ground. The soldier jumped on top of him, and drew a dagger to finish him off. With all his energy, Redwul rolled over, causing the soldier to lose his balance and fall off.

    Taking a nearby hatchet, Redwul came over and down on the soldier's neck, burying it deep in, permitting only a slightly uttered gasp.

    He struggled to raise himself up, and he was hit by two arrows, neither impaling him, one just catching inside his tunic.

    Reaching down, he drew a simple, one-handed ax up, and charged at several Arryn men, he was able to parry and strike dead two, with a move on each, but the third sidestepped him, and whacked him in the head with the shaft of his spear, sending the old master-at-arms of Pyke crashing to the ground. Completely out of breath and utterly exhausted, Redwul rolled onto his back—the last of his men having a sword withdrawn from his chest, nearby—it was over. The soldier stood over him, and aimed the spear over his face, delivering the killing blow through his mouth.

    Back at the breach, the battle was intense—it was the last stand left in the battle for the courtyard of Pyke Castle. The Greyjoy men's numbers sorely depleted, only the most capable fighters remaining.

    Skywald had drawn his last arrow, from his quiver, and aimed it down, off the battlement, he fired it right into the side of the neck of one of the attacking soldier's.

    The last of the Greyjoy men overwhelmed on the walls, Skywald was charged from both sides, and he drew a throwing knife and threw it at one of the soldier's, striking him in the cheer, before grabbing an arrow from the neck of a fallen foe, he jumped off the battlement onto a wooden roof cover below, rolling off it, onto the ground, he got back up. He was charged by a stray soldier, and he notched his arrow, drew it, and fired, striking the soldier through directly in his right eye, the arrow would have been too deep to withdraw, he tossed his bow down, and drew two of the three remaining throwing knives at his disposal, he threw one at another oncoming soldier, striking him in the groin and then he finished him with the second knife.

    A knight approached him, bearing a personal sigil, he drew his sword, shield in offhand, and speedily approached Skywald. Skywald tossed his last knife, which was blocked with the knight's shield, and so, his last remaining defense, he threw off his quiver, and drew a slung flanged mace, from his back, dodging a shield bash, he parried the sword, with his mace.

    Thorwin buried his ax into the heavy armor of a Lannister soldier, and it had gotten seemingly fused with the bones of the soldier, and he couldn't pry it out. As such, a spear impaled his stomach, from the side. He grabbed the spear, pulled it further in, his other hand on the soldier's throat, and he snapped the back of the spear off, taking the tipped end, he thrust it into the soldier's throat, with a loud war cry.

    Three more spears were quickly put threw his back, and the mighty Thorwin Greenbane dropped to the ground.

    Another knight of the Kingsguard approached Harren, removing his helm, he threw it to the ground, his blond hair swaying in gust of the wind coming up off the nearby cliff.

    "Now you can see who your fighting, pirate," said the knight. "I am Ser Toddric Sarsfield—"

    "Of the Kingsguard?" Harren abruptly interrupted, laughing maniacally. "And how much did your father pay for your knighting?"

    "Pure merit, filth. Pure merit," replied the bold Ser Toddric.

    "And this will be your defining moment, will it? This is what you will have next to your name in the history books?"

    "Your reign of banditry will end here, cur."

    "Such hostile words. Certainly your sword speaks louder than your arrogance, I hope," replied Harren, as he tightened the grip on his maul.

    The knight proceeded forward, his sword meeting the head of the Harren's maul, waved around with one hand. It was, so far, the best fighter he had faced yet, on Pyke. The two met clashing blows swiftly and with perfect cohesion.

    The knight made relentless swipes, left, right, left, right, giving no sign of letting up on the giant warrior's backing up, step by step.

    After nearly a minute of intense blows and parries, Ser Toddric made his fatal error, when he swiped down, and miscalculated Harren's step, who easily dodged the attack, and locked the sword to the ground with the bottom of his foot, taking his maul by the head, he smashed the sword in two, and kicked the knight back—the knight having stumbled over himself—fell to the ground, what was left of his sword, he had dropped. Harren dropped his maul, and grabbed the dual shortswords—still sheathed behind his back—and waited for the knight to pick up a new sword.

    Ser Toddric grabbed for the claymore of a fallen soldier, and lunged forward striking blow after blow, of which Harren evaded with fine reaction.

    Ser Toddric again came too close to him, and Harren drew both swords, crossing them in front of him, to block the claymore strike, he twisted his arms, causing Ser Toddric to lose his composure, he spun, until the two were back to back, and he flipped the short swords around in his hands, and jabbed them with ultimate force into his opponent's back, sending them straight through his the openings in his plate, where mail substituted. Ser Toddric let out a lasting gasp, as Harren released the swords, still inside his back, Ser Toddric stumbled forward. Harren returned to retrieve his maul.

    Ser Toddric gasped and blood bubbled at his lips, pouring in a small line out of his mouth, he whispered. "Help me..."

    The men around did nothing, as Harren picked up his maul, in one hand, he walked over to the Kingsguard and, with sure step, he spun around, gripping his maul in both hands, and delivered a mighty blow with his maul, right to the right side of Ser Toddric's head—exploding it, as if it were a melon with a mallet—and the shards of skull fragments and brain matter, with the other assorted facial mess hitting soldiers in its pathway.

    The body limp and headless, dropped to the dirt, the swords left in the back.

    The battle continued, intensifying, as soldier after soldier, knight after knight was eliminated, creating a kaleidoscope of assorted sigils and colored tunics all over the courtyard.

    Of the nearly 1,500 defenders, all but a few dozen remained.

    Skywald was forced up the steps by the knight affronting him. A Lannister soldier descended from atop the stairs, and instead of being caught between the two, Skywald charged up, dodging a sword swipe, he launched an uppercut with the mace, right into the soldier's groin, grabbing him and tossing him headfirst off the battlements, into the courtyard below. At the top, another soldier tried to spear him, but he dodged the jab, and broke the spear with the mace, and delivered a facial blow to the soldier, knocking him back onto his rear. He jumped on top of him and wailed on his face with the mace, repeatedly.

    The knight finally made it up the steps and came for him, and Skywald continued to parry strike after strike, as he was backed up, along the wall.

    Dagon Deathward mounted up on horseback, and rode for the gatehouse of the entry to the inner yard of Pyke Castle, fleeing the remainder of the force left behind.

    Ser Jaime Lannister impaled a Greyjoy soldier with his sword, drawing it back, he hit him with the hilt of his sword, sending him down to the ground, and moving onto the next. The next Greyjoy soldier—who had likely defeated a few dozen others in this battle—was outdone in two short parries and a strike, and Jaime finished him, by severing his head.

    Finally, he aimed to confront Harren.

    Skywald, near the edge, and watched by hundreds below, had no choice but to fight the knight in front of him, and so he crossed sword and mace, for several strikes, eventually losing grip of the mace, after several quick strikes, from the knight, including the final one, which severed his hand, when the blade struck it against the stone of the battlements. Blood gushed out, with an unforgiving flow out of his wrist, and he put his back against the crenellation, looking out at what Ironborn remained fighting, he took a swallow, a deep breath, and looked to the floor of the battlement, breaking a smirk. "What is dead may never die," he said under his breath, smiling.

    The knight stuck him through the side, just behind his arm, right through his chest, the tip coming out the other end, his mouth filled with blood, and his teeth reddened by it. The knight withdrew the sword, and Skywald fell off the side of the battlement, onto the rubble of the collapsed south tower.

    Wasting no time, Jaime began strike upon strike, which were parried and deflected, with relative ease by the brutish Ironborn warrior.

    Overly confident in his own strength and skill, Jaime quickly grew careless with his strikes, believing himself invulnerable, he slipped up, and put his sword too close, within grabbing range, and without drawing it back quickly, Harren grabbed it, and pulled him forward, striking him in the shoulder with his maul, and punching him in the helm with his free fist, Jaime went down to one knee, but retained control of his sword, once released by Harren.

    Jaime shook his head, as he had not yet been handled with such relative easy, as he felt he had been by this man.

    He continued a fury of attacks, again slipping up, and this time, Harren jabbed him in the knee, with his maul, and then the chest, dropping him to his knees, and kicking him in the head, sending him to the ground, his sword fallen out of his grasp, Harren approached with the killing blow, his maul swinging down, when a sword came out of nowhere, with just enough force to redirect the falling blow to the ground beside Jaime. The thunderous collision sure would have been Jaime's end, had it struck him.

    Harren was disheveled, slightly, by the abrupt interruption.

    The man behind the sword was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, whom separated Jaime and Harren, as Jaime remained still, embarrassed, and rather foregoing death than insult.

    "You interfere with a duel? What cowardice, you impudent wretch," Harren declared, angrily.

    Ser Barristan Selmy grabbed the wounded Jaime, and dragged him away, with the assistance of Ser Lymond Vikary.

    "Not today, Captain," Ned responded, identifying the Ironborn by his proper title.

    The Ironborn warrior was furious and openly attacked Lord Eddard. Several soldiers intervened, knowing that none could defeat him alone, and he went into a frenzy swinging his maul like a madman.

    He rounded it and struck a Lannister soldier in the head, sending him flipping over—a killing blow—and around the other way, where his maul connected with a Stark soldier, and after putting down a few others, a lone Stark soldier struck the giant Ironborn through the leg with a spear.

    Harren stretched out his arm, grabbing the soldier, and pulling him close, he pulled him right down on top of himself, gripping the soldier's helm tightly, snapping his neck with a wicked jerk.

    As he raised himself up, throwing the soldier off him, two crossbowmen fired, striking him twice in the chest. Still, the mighty Ironborn warrior picked himself up, on one knee, he began to raise himself up onto his two feet, and was struck again, twice more, by two more crossbow bolts, forcing him to spit out some blood, accumulated in his mouth.

    Eddard stood back, his sword tip dropped to the ground, he watched the man fight all odds.

    With four bolts in his chest, and a spear in his leg, Harren used his strength to propel himself up to his feet, bending over, he snapped the spear in his leg, tossing the broken shaft to the ground.

    From behind, a soldier approached him, and the mighty warrior turned, grabbing the soldier, he threw him a dozen feet away, as a couple others attempted to move in, he deflected some more attacks, catching a spear straight up his arm, splitting it open, he grabbed the soldier by the breastplate, and tossed him down to the dirt, as he was impaled through the back by a spear, which cleared through his chest, and he let out a roaring yell, dropping to one knee, the spear being driven further in, until he was fully on his knees, and his torso wobbled forward, spitting out a mouthful of blood, the line of drool seemingly gushed out, and the mighty war captain fell forward, as the spear tip was stuck in the ground, he was held up by the spear, slowly the weight of his body pushed forward, pushing the spear back out, until he was a foot away from the ground, crouched on his knees, the last jerks of livelihood causing him to twitch, slightly, until he was still.

    In what would have been a celebratory victory, in any other ending, there was not a sound emitted by any present.

    Further away, men celebrated, and cheers were heard, but those present here felt they had little to celebrate, and they began walking back to the battlements.

    Two Lannister men approached Harren's maul, nearby, and reached down for it, but Eddard intervened. "No. Leave it," he said, believing in the purity of fallen warrior and his honor.

    The two Lannister men moved towards Eddard, but several Stark soldiers stepped beside him.

    Jaime Lannister spoke out. "You heard Lord Stark. Leave it," he reaffirmed. The two Lannister soldiers turned and walked away.

    Eddard looked to an injured Jaime, and then away. He began walking back to the battlements.

    The Greyjoys had been defeated, and the majority of what army they had left, obliterated.



    THE GATEHOUSE


    At the gatehouse, King Robert and his escort approached, with a contingent of several hundred soldiers, and two Kingsguard, flanking him one on each side.

    As he walked through the gatehouse, Robert beheld the carnage first hand. Hundreds of corpses littered the courtyard, whereas half as many were in front.

    He ordered his escort to remain outside the gatehouse, as he went in alone, followed at a short distance by two Kingsguard. The full brunt of the battle had now been felt, and he took a deep breath, looking around the immense courtyard, at the hundreds upon thousands of bodies laid about.

    "By the Gods," Robert said under his breath, taking in the gruesome scenery.

    At the gatehouse, Ser Brynden Tully approached, and greeted Robert. "Pyke is yours, Your Grace."

    Robert looked upon the man, battered and bloody. "Ser Brynden, you look like st."

    "No, I feel great, Your Grace," Brynden replied, facetiously.



    AFTERMATH


    King Robert chose now to starve the Greyjoy host out of the formidably impenetrable islets composing the majority of the castle.

    With a standing force of a couple hundred men remaining, in the castle, Balon knew the war was lost, and swore fealty to King Robert, shortly after the battle, and his only surviving son, Theon, was made a ward of House Stark, in Winterfell.

    Shortly after the battle, Dagon Deathward was reported drowned, after he had taken a fall from a rope bridge, in the inner castle.

    Harren the Red was proclaimed a hero by the Ironborn, and his legend would endure, forever...
    Last edited by StealthFox; September 05, 2013 at 07:46 PM.
    {I cook weird stuff}-{Patronised by the fearsome Chloe}
    „[...] ţví ađ međ lögum skal land vort byggja en eigi međ ólögum eyđa.“
    (The Frosta-thing law, 1260)

    Is acher in gaíth innocht,
    fu-fuasna fairggae findfolt:
    ní ágor réimm mora minn
    dond láechraid lainn ua Lothlind.

  5. #5
    Vađarholmr's Avatar Archivum Scriptorium
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Long Category Voting Thread

    Eumenes - Entry #8

    A haze of dust swept across the plain of Gabiene casting a pall over the terrain; the bushes and shrubs, the rocks and the ruins of men, their bodies broken and scattered like flotsam.
    Eumenes’ eyes gazed listlessly over the battlefield. Once again he had emerged victorious against his foe and yet, once again, the ultimate victory had eluded him as had his arch rival Antigonos.
    News brought to him at the battle’s conclusion by a runner only soured the near victory even more. By incompetence or collusion one of his officers had lost the majority of the army’s baggage train, including the spoils of war and the families of the silver shields, veterans of Alexander the Great’s war of conquest.

    In the distance something caught his eye as the ochre haze thinned for a moment.
    The rise sloped out of the mist like an island from water, atop which a large outcropping, a stone sculpture of a mountain in miniature form loomed out at him and the greyed-out half-forms of the dead almost seemed to move in that miasma.

    It was there that he and Antigonos met in a crush of horses and men, and it was there that he had failed to win this running war.

    The champing snort of a horse broke his empty stare and he looked up to see one of his officers rein his horse in before him.
    “General, the last of Antigonos’ rearguard has fled the field. We have won.”
    “A hollow victory, Leocharis,” Eumenes said.
    “We’ve rallied the troops. Awaiting your order to strike out for camp.” Eumenes nodded and watched as Leocharis set off in a spray of sand for the column of troops winding its way across the plain behind him. He took a quick swig of water from a skin, swilled it around his mouth and spat it out, clearing some of the hellish dust from his throat. A small, doubtful voice whispered to him, setting fears in his mind even as Leocharis’ words of victory echoed away.

    The delegation did not take long in coming. Eumenes had not even shirked the weight of his armour before the commanders of the silver shields requested admittance.

    Antigenes, the senior of the two, stared at him with tired eyes. The man’s chin and cheeks were a mess of stubble, “General, the men are restless– they need to know what you intend to do about their families.”
    “And the rest of the baggage,” The other man said. Teutamas had aged more gracefully than his superior, and though the man was almost sixty his hair and beard were flecked sable with colour. Some of this vitality he transferred into outspoken opposition against Eumenes and while Antigenes tempered this, the loss of the baggage train was ammunition the man would surely use.
    “The men are always restless. Are they mutinous?”
    “No,” Antigenes said with stung pride in his voice.
    “It would not take much.” Teutamas remarked.
    “Then reassure them. That is your duty as their commanders.”
    “Our families and pay are gone– everything we’ve suffered over the years is ceasing to have a purpose; our families and the rewards the men were granted by Alexander were the only tenable link we have to his dream...” Teutamas trailed off, “without these things what do we have? What do we, who have sworn so many years of our lives to this enterprise have to show?”
    “You have your honour, unlike many in this age, and you have not lost everything.” Teutamas grunted.
    “The silver shields will not see it that way. Honour is all very well but it holds little for some men.”
    “Men like you.” Eumenes snapped.
    Teutamas scoffed. “What right do you have to question me, or the men of the silver shields?”

    Eumenes rose from his seat. “What right have I! I watched our King die; my friends turn against each other – against me!” With deliberate calm he turned to Antigenes. “Leave, now.” Ever the professional, Antigenes’ face contorted in spite, but he just saluted and barked an order for Teutamas to follow. The younger officer looked as if he might stay and say something more but he left.

    Eumenes pinched the bridge of his nose and kneaded the tension knotted skin, trying to scrub the furrow lines from his brow.When he opened his eyes he was alone.

    For a moment he let his full weight rest on the map table in front of him, his skin, taut with tiredness, grated at the flesh beneath so much that he could feel the furrows and creases that had developed over the years. The weathered general remembered standing in tents like this years and decades before, with Alexander and the rest of his companions– many of them were dead now, and most that lived were his enemy.

    The turmoil following Alexander’s death had done much to unmask the true character of his former friends. The day’s battle had seen the motives of yet another come to light.
    This betrayal was something that he might not be able to recover from. All his long years of campaigning, of fighting, his successes and achievements were unravelling, threatening to come apart and scatter before the wind gusting over the Iranian plateau.

    That wind drew him outside. Its calming embrace a temptation he couldn’t deny. Already the sun was setting and the drop in temperature tugged at his senses.
    An odd thought struck him as he began walking the camp, speaking with the men and making sure the watches were set. When he had been a youth, growing up in Cardia and later as he spent his adolescence at court in Macedon the cold climates had never bothered him and as Alexander’s expedition had trekked further from those chill mountains the heat had sapped him of his energy. But, having spent so many years on campaign across Anatolia, Syria and Persia he had developed a tolerance for the dry heat common of these lands, and now he complained bitterly of the cold.

    More than anything he would see this war with Antigonos finished, so that he could settle down, maybe near those far-off snow-capped mountains, and live what days the gods granted him in peace with his wife. War had been his companion too long now– it was time he bade it farewell.
    Not that Antigonos and the others would let me rest. Being condemned to death had a way of limiting one’s options.

    Reaching the confines of the camp he was about to start back when something caught his eye. The gently meandering rises seemed to sway in the twilight settling across the dusty plain. On one such rise, a mountain amongst the shallow ground, stood a lone tree shading under its canopy a few scrub-like bushes, in the failing light it appeared the only pasture within miles of the camp and all around was nothing but a lonely and desolate scattering of dust. But even amongst the desert plains it still clung to life, stubbornly refusing to give ground while still sheltering the hope that one day it would once more be part of something greater, something whole.

    He squinted, his eyes trying to find the outlines of life in this place that seemed absent of almost anything but rock and sand, beyond the palisade and the lines of sentries to the horizon in the distance. Eumenes’ mind soon wandered beyond the limits of this day.

    Stubbornly he clung to Alexander’s dream and a responsibility borne of the weight of leading men into battle. To have asked what he had off them, to have gained their trust and grudging respect, only to betray them was something he could not do– not in good conscience. He had made a promise: to remain loyal to the House of Philip and Alexander. His desires of flight and obscurity would have to wait for now.

    “General,” the voice startled Eumenes. He turned to find Leocharis and one of the Greek mercenaries walking towards him. A few steps behind them marched Antigenes. “There is a dispatch waiting for you. Antigenes was awaiting you at your tent, asking to speak with you.” The note of irritation in Leocharis’ voice was not lost on Eumenes, and he almost smiled. The young officer was far too protective of him. Without breaking stride he marched past them in the direction of his tent.
    “I should congratulate you commander, the silver shields fought well today, Alexander would have been proud.” It was a fairly obvious stab at Antigenes’ loyalty, but Eumenes did not think the old veteran a particularly duplicitous man. Finding no hint of shock or sadness in the old man’s features he carried on, “I am sorry I did not have a chance to say so earlier.”
    “Thank you, General.” The grey-haired veteran croaked, “That’s not why I wanted to speak to you.”

    The darkening air seemed to fill with a viscous tension. The muffled grinding crunch of their boots on the grains of sand slowed to a deliberate pace, as if they were all preparing to take action. A stillness dawned that seemed to draw in the night air and make shadows grow.
    “Then why?”
    “I want to know what you intend to do.”
    “I haven’t decided yet.”
    “When then? The men won’t stand for it.”

    Eumenes suspected the word ‘sir’ or ‘general’ was omitted to goad him into overreacting and steered well clear of that conversational pitfall, he’d spent long enough around diplomats at courts across the world to be fooled by any soldier’s ploys. Instead he countered with his own “Is that a threat?”

    The veteran gaped for a moment, a fish out of water, but Eumenes did not give him the chance to respond, “Even if I wanted to I can’t give you the assurances you seek. That’s why I can’t answer you.”

    Neither of them spoke for a time and they walked in silence.Finally the veteran said, “I am sorry, General. I meant no disrespect.”
    “Of course you did,” Eumenes said lightly, “we often do not see eye-to-eye, and I know most of the Macedonians in the army have little but disdain for being led by a Greek.”

    What Antigenes said next surprised him. “I follow you in spite of that. You are the only man who truly cares for Alexander’s dream and you are a competent commander, a good leader; I’ll follow you to death, if that is what the Argead needs of us.”
    Eumenes smiled. “Thank you. I’m honoured by your faith in me.”
    “I babble like an old fool. I fear for my family,” the gruff veteran added awkwardly.

    Speechless by the mere admittance of concern the silver shield felt for his family, Eumenes recognized their confrontation now for what it was: a plea. This scarred man, well into his sixties, an unwavering spirit on the battlefields had made of him a simple plea: to know the fate awaiting his wife and children. It was a humbling moment and Eumenes could for once find no ready or easy answer, no quip to alleviate this man’s dark mood and the thought of trying rung hollow.
    “We will do all we can to secure the families captured by Antigonos and return them safely to you...I expect he will send a delegation to negotiate with us soon.” Eumenes considered what to say next, “The price will be heavy no doubt, but if it can be paid my friend, then we will pay it.” The answer seemed to satisfy the old officer. “Now, get some rest, you and the silver shields have earned it,” Eumenes said.

    As they continued through the camp’s outskirts Leocharis related news from around the army. Most seemed quite trivial and Eumenes was beginning to question its relevance until he realized that Leocharis’ guard had dropped back and fixedly bored his gaze into Antigenes back. A shroud seemed to have lifted from before his eyes, the veil of a drunken man’s vision, receding to reveal the truth. Eumenes swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. His victory now turned into the bitterest of defeats and he eyed Antigenes with fear. Leocharis’ was here to guard against Antigenes.

    Paranoia brooded at the back of his mind, seeping into and confusing his thoughts, hinting at what lay in due course for him in a thousand illusory realities. He arose from his melancholy as though incited by the gods themselves, a lightning bolt of a warning crackling through his skull.

    The dusty scrape of a boot ground at his senses and his hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. Figures moved forward to intercept them cloaked in blue-grey shadow and highlighted by the last orange glimmer of twilight, with them the wicked silvered smiles of drawn weapons. Both groups stopped and Eumenes recognized the men as silver shields, and at their head was Teutamas.
    “Antigenes, I have a way to bring our families back to us, without the need of the good general here, and for his capture we have been promised fine rewards.”

    Eumenes watched the event unfold before him like a tragedy on stage. The grim line of Antigenes’ mouth wavered. Leocharis spat a retort at the treachery, while Teutamas deluded himself and those around him with clever rhetoric for his actions.

    Gold and spoils could be won back, food and water bartered for, but family, that was something irreplaceable. Alexander himself had gone to the ends of the earth and not found that. Eumenes could well understand the rawness of the fire burning in Antigenes’ eyes; the anguish this man felt at being faced by the choice before him. He nodded sadly. Whatever Antigenes’ decision it was with the Gods now. Eumenes drew his sword, just in time to see the first of Teutamas’ men rush at him – thinking to take him unaware.

    Before the thought of the action fully formed in his mind Eumenes’ arm struck up, his sword parrying his opponent’s in a quicksilver flash, twisting his wrist he reversed the cut. A spray of crimson lashed across his blade and his first opponent was down.

    Another half-dozen silver shields closed in around Eumenes and his group, Teutamas shouting at them; all Eumenes could hear was the thump of his heart and the pulsing beat of blood fired by the thought of their betrayal. He stepped forward with only one target in mind.

    Another silver shield intercepted him. Eumenes stood his ground, until he was close enough that Eumenes could make out the single rivulet of sweat trickling down the man’s temple, like water running over the cracked earth of a parched riverbed. A blur of movement flashed past his periphery. Steel glinted. With a roar Antigenes slammed his sword up and under the charging silver shield’s ribcage. An explosive outrush of breath left the man as his lungs emptied of air and the surprise in his eyes wilted. Eumenes didn’t even stop to thank him. Only one veteran stood between him and his target now. Just one more body.

    The Fates, it seemed, still smiled on him and a vision fought its way through the blood-drunken fury: of Teutamas lying dead at his feet and with it the loyalty of the silver shields restored. This disaster could yet be averted, turned into yet another victory. His reverie was broken by the sound of a blade’s edge scything through the air, and that brilliant revelation was silenced, replaced by the clarity of a perfect awareness of his surroundings. Eumenes intercepted the strike at the last moment. Turning the blade aside he lunged at the silver shield, the tip of Eumenes’ sword glancing off the burnished scales of his enemies’ armour.

    Eumenes managed to draw the soldier in close and smashed a lazy thrust aside, before stepping in and kicking out with his trailing leg. The silver shield cried out in pain and fell heavily. The glee-borne grin that snatched at his face failed on seeing Leocharis, off to his right, pressed hard; wounded and outnumbered. Eumenes pushed forward in a mad dash taking a second to despatch the injured silver shield before charging headlong at Teutamas. His opponent dropped his weight, tugged sharply at the leather strap over his shoulder. The shield seemed to appear from nowhere and sunlight rippled off the silver surface. The 16-pointed Argead star blazed as a real one. Eumenes jarred to a halt and swept laterally with his sword, transferring all his momentum into the blow.

    The instant of surprise in his opponent’s eyes was quashed by decades of experience and Teutamas raised his shield just in time to ward off the strike. A crashing ring drowned out the sounds around their duel and with it his focus settled on Teutamas. The disadvantage of being shieldless could not deter him, fear of wounding nor death would stall him, and he unleashed a flurry of blows against Teutamas, but at each turn they were met with unflinching resolve and they hammered against the shield’s polished surface, cruelly carving at the Argead star. Breath rasped along his throat and drew a cold ache from his chest to his tongue. The trembling tug of fatigue ground at his tired limbs. Eumenes relented for just a moment. The pause reversed the flow of the fight and he found himself desperately parrying.Each movement coming a little slower– it was only a matter of time before his aching limbs gave way under the pressure of Teutamas’ assault.

    Sensing victory his opponent surged forward. Eumenes feigned exhaustion– waited like a wounded animal. Still the blade came on. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill. He twisted aside, parried and flicked the blade around. Teutamas’ arm dangled before his sword; easy prey.
    A ray of silver flashed past as Teutamas’ shield glanced off his shoulder. Eumenes staggered and his blade went awry; instead of severing Teutamas’ arm the forward-curved blade dragged along the flesh of his forearm and grazed off. Adrenaline spurred Eumenes onto the offensive again, his sword hacking and stabbing, Teutamas giving ground, the man’s sword-arm hung uselessly at his side speckling crimson flecks upon the sand with every jerking movement. Grasping his ivory-handled sword overhead Eumenes swung the blade with all his strength. The shield was raised just in time, but the blow hammered down so hard it forced Teutamas to one knee; his shield arm faltered causing the rim to carve a crescent-shaped scar in the dirt. He had won.

    Pain flared along his spine before blossoming with explosive force inside his skull. His vision blanked out only to return in a swirling whorl of dust and sand spiralling towards him before it all stopped with a painfully sudden crash. The sound of his sword clattering numbly to the ground and the silence that followed told him exactly what had happened. He scrambled for the blade. Eumenes had not even made it half the distance when a booted foot stamped down on his hand. Teutamas snarled at him; blood-drenched arm gripped tightly in hand. The kick that followed sent him reel.
    “So this is the great Eumenes of Cardia,” Teutamas said, grimacing through the pain.

    Defeat drove all reserve of energy from him so that when they dragged him past Teutamas who stood pallid from shock, biting back the pain of his wounds, Eumenes could not even find the will to speak. As he was marched away Eumenes knew this would be his final defeat.


    A broad gash of sunlight cut through the flaps of the ransacked shell of his tent. The only thing of any note that remained was the map table and the fluttering sheet of papyrus showing the enormity of Alexander’s world. Footsteps approached. An imposing silhouette cut a swathe of darkness out the sunlight striking through the entrance. This spectral shape moved.
    “Wait here,” a gruff voice said.

    In the ochre half-light the scarred and pitted face of the man looked more like rock than flesh; the ridges of his eyebrows over a cold, hard eye while the empty pit of his left eye appeared as a shadowed crater. Eumenes could almost feel something there, in that emptiness, the chill gaze of Hades peering at him.
    “It is a sad thing to see a general so humbled,” the man said.
    “Afraid it might happen to you one day, Antigonos.”
    Antigonos shook his head. “Lost none of your bite have you, Eumenes.”

    Confronted by his archenemy within striking distance Eumenes couldn’t help but feel powerless. The battle at Gabiene came to mind. The accursed fog of sand and dust kicked up, clinging to every sweat-drenched pore and in the midst of the confusion seeing Antigonos at the frontlines. Had Eumenes been able to kill him...the gods taunted him.
    “Speak your piece Antigonos and leave me to my solitude,” Eumenes growled. “Or kill me if that’s what you came to do.”

    Any sign or mirth or amusement left Antigonos’ features and for a moment he thought he would be run through then and there. Without preamble Antigonos said simply, “Vey well, I’ve come to make you an offer: formally surrender your forces and relinquish claim as the Argead’s royal general. Do this and I will consider sparing your life.”

    Eumenes foundered at the bluntness of the proposal and scoffed at the very idea of stooping to the level of those who had betrayed Alexander and his line. Before he could speak however Antigonos swept out of the tent. It was the smallest thing. But, not having voiced his refusal to Antigonos’ terms the smallest sliver of doubt beckoned his attention, and Eumenes wavered in uncertainty at the offer.

    The night brought only troubled sleep and Eumenes sat for hours staring at the map by the light of the single candle he was given, its glow wavering, its flame flickering in the cold night breeze. His contemplation of Antigonos offer swirled around his head like a maelstrom until his arguments and opinions were so battered, so turned around he could not make sense of them. For all that the temptation to accept forced itself upon him and he could not deny his want to accept Antigonos’ terms. As his eyes wandered the map though the memories of the expedition with Alexander stirred in him and he found some comfort. While dreaming of those glorious days, those terrible days and all the mundane ones between, Eumenes slipped into a troubled sleep.

    Hunger woke him hours later. Deprived of a sense of anything beyond the confines of his tent he found judging time difficult. Eumenes peeled himself off the map and found his head spinning and with a nauseous swirl he let his head rest on the table until his eyes adjusted and the urge to retch faded. The hours passed by with painful lethargy and his dizzying thoughts brought up the smallest insecurities and mistakes; one of these– his blindness to the magnitude of holding the empire together and securing Alexander’s sons’ succession plagued him the most and shrouded in its umbra all others.

    When Antigonos appeared time seemed to collapse in on itself and Eumenes wondered suddenly where it had gone, what hourglass had cracked and spilt that time so wastefully, casting it into the myriad sands of the earth. It was as if some spectre had drifted seamlessly through the aether and now stood before him where a moment ago Antigonos had not existed.

    To cover his shock Eumenes went to stand. A tremor coursed through his leg almost sending him to his knees, but he recovered his balance and stood – unsteadily – before his captor.
    “A final chance Eumenes. Submit, and I will spare your life. I could use someone like you. Of all the others you have so far been the worthiest opponent– you the presumptuous little Greek. But only if you turn your back on that...that half-barbarian son of Alexander’s and join me!” It was a passionate speech delivered with hurried bluster and Antigonos’ trademark candour.
    “I-” Eumenes voice quavered. His insides sinking into the chill void of oblivion, like some sinkhole had opened beneath his feet and whether he fell or not hinged on the next words he uttered. He almost said ‘yes’. Anything now to stop the tortuous hunger and thirst he was subjected to. Through the maddening cacophony of his survival instinct a more rational voice cut through, and as he looked into Antigonos’ eye he knew the man would kill him anyway: even if he should join his rival, death would just visit him later. Political necessity.
    “Come on! What price does your loyalty have?” Antigonos pleaded.
    “I can’t.”
    A crack like wood splitting ventured the tense atmosphere and Eumenes could see the vigour with which Antigonos now clenched his jaw.
    “Then I make a new offer: the same terms. But not for your life. Instead I offer you a quick death– a soldier’s death instead of this...lingering.”

    With the failing light Antigonos left him and the void returned, coiling around him until the tremble in his limbs turned to an irrepressible shudder as the death sentence he had just been delivered took hold. His exhausted body finally relented and he fell into a broken sleep haunted by the knowledge that all his struggles and his loyalty to the Argead had brought him to this juncture and the feverish dreamscapes of his nightmares still clung to him even as he awoke the next morning. His world shimmered and blurred as he moved, his eyes stung and his throat burned. The solace he once found in the memory of his friends and family did little but bring tears to his eyes: of shame and sadness, of anger and a sorrow born of betrayal and failure. Until he could take the torment no more and he pounded his fists against the floor until the tears stopped falling, and the small task drained him of what little energy he had. Through the groggy veil of tears then he could see the balled fists and grasping handprints etched ephemerally into the earth.

    The hours wore on and the sun rose higher into the sky. At its zenith Antigonos entered with a cup but still no food– apparently he was to die of starvation not thirst. “Do you have an answer for me?” Antigonos said as he placed the cup on the floor between them. Eumenes snatched the cup up, making no pretence at dignity in front of his captor now and gulped the cool water down until his thirst was sated but the cramps in his stomach only seemed aggravated by this unfilling morsel.
    “Why is it so important to you...that I legitimise you? What difference could it make at this juncture! I’m beaten– kill me and you can move on.”
    Antigonos sneered. “This is pointless. Your loyalty makes little difference now.”
    “I can’t give you what seek and it has never been within my power to do so. I won’t betray the Argead, even if it would ease my suffering.”
    For a moment the general’s craggy features softened and the ghost of a smile breathed some humanity into his otherwise golem-like features. Then he shook his head and muttered
    “You Greeks, you truly bow to no one.”

    Antigonos was called out then. His departure was missed while Eumenes absorbed the man’s last words to him at once a praise and a stinging reminder that even after all this time no one accepted him– yet another cause of the betrayal he had suffered. His eyes were drawn to the map and he sought out the roads he had travelled and the places they had led to: those conquered and those discovered, of all the wondrous sights and experiences beside the hardships endured. It was a single road that he had spent most of his life following. The thought was a sobering one but in travelling that road he had come to see things that few had. He couldn’t regret the decisions he had made only the fact that he could no longer defend the Argead. A tear snaked down through the patchwork of stubble dotting his face at the thought of Alexander’s son and successor, the boy he was sworn to protect, defenceless now, as the image of his own wife and child were summoned. That he would never hold them again was a pain that outstripped all the others. As exhaustion claimed him his sadness gave way to fonder memories, but his reverie was all too short and all too sweet.

    The tent flaps ruffled and Antigonos entered flanked by a pair of guards. At a nod from Antigonos the guards approached and took hold of him. As they dragged him from the tent Antigonos couldn’t meet his eyes. The pitted, empty socket stared past him while his one good eye flicked down, avoiding Eumenes. The guards’ grip relaxed as they stepped outside into the dawn, just now breaching the horizon to wash the first hint of colour into the landscape. He blinked. The atmosphere still looked otherworldly to him. None of this seemed real. It was the little discomforts that reminded him of the reality he faced; the grime covering his skin; the growling ache in his stomach; the unlit pyre looming in the distance.

    A great procession of cloaked soldiers awaited him but otherwise the camp was lifeless. An army had waited here a few days ago and in the breeze an empty pot clattered over a fire pit. Terror threatened to overwhelm him. From dread or starvation his knees buckled and his thighs cramped, an illogical voice screamed at Eumenes to throw himself at Antigonos’ mercy even as his body sought to bring him to his knees; cast off his loyalty, dignity, anything for one last chance at life. It made no sense; he knew it didn’t. But there it was. The two guards forced Eumenes to his knees before the pyre.
    “Do you have any last words?” Antigonos’ voice rumbled with the authority of a god over a mortal man. Eumenes shook his head, staring defiantly at his enemy, biting his trembling lip. Iron hands gripped him fast. The note of a sword drawn sang discordantly in the still atmosphere. Not even the horses whinnied, or pawed at the earth. Hairs pricked up on the back of his neck.
    “Spare the boy at least!” Eumenes cried. Hoping one last act might save something his loyalty had sought to ward.
    Antigonos smiled sadly. “I could no more spare him than I could spare you, Eumenes.”
    There was a whistling, quiet enough that he almost missed it and then darkness claimed him.


    The Magic Lamp - Entry #9


    The Magic Lamp

    A light breeze sweeps gently over cool sands, blurring the faded glimmer of the Moon’s light. A small djinn, made of gravel and dead shrubbery, stirs up in a tiny whirlwind, but dissipates as quickly as it was formed, scattering back into the sands. The city is quiet. The stumble of an alley cat is heard in the distance, and the soft tinkling of shop bells sets a muted rhythm to the night. Moonlight seeps through the curtains of the bazaar, casting grey shadows behind draperies of red, yellow, and azure. Every stand sits emptied, their shopkeepers safeguarding their wares from the night’s vagrants. The only light comes from a nearby caravanserai, where weary travelers take rest after a long journey. The tired whinny of their horses are followed by the pungent smell of animal dung, dulled by an even fouler smell coming from the market center. The market is dead. Pieces of metal shine against the dirt street: a spearhead buried in the ground, spikes broken off a shattered cudgel. An abandoned palanquin rests in the middle of the crossway. A shapeless mass lies beside it, unmoving; the smell of dried blood and decay. Street rats scurry back and forth around the corpse. In a shadowy corner, a small figure hides from the peering moonlight, with thin hands clasping a golden lamp.

    The figure eyed the lamp hungrily, carefully rotating it with both hands. The street was quiet enough for him to hear his own haggard breathing as it fogged his reflection in the cold metal, but he could still make out the image his boyish teeth chattering to form a grin. He finally got it. He had heard them talking about it earlier, when he was tailing the caravan. A magic lamp, one of the soldiers had called it, capable of granting any wish you could desire. A cursed bottle, another soldier warned, used by Magi to summon terrible Djinns. Wild superstitions, as the boy had dismissed, after all, why would a powerful spirit ever obey a mortal? There was one thing they said that did catch the boy’s attention however. Without a doubt, agreed the soldiers, this vessel is valuable beyond the rarest of sapphires. Beyond the rarest of sapphires, the boy mused. The thought of it cracked an even wider grin on his face. His reflection in the lamp grinned back, nakedly revealing missing teeth. The boy caught his breath and quickly tried to snuff out the image. He rubbed at the lamp feverishly, as though he could smudge out the crooked face with the oils from his unkempt fingers. A pain tugged on his gut that finally stopped him and instead forced the boy to clutch his stomach. A loud growl echoed through the silent street. It felt like his stomach was going to fall through his body, yet the boy did not wince. With heavy breaths, he held the lamp up to his face again. His eyes were unmoving as he stared at it longingly. He finally got it. With some spit he wiped the occlusion off its surface and peered into his distorted reflection, his own skeletal face stared back. He studied the visage, keeping calm. “I am Abar,” he whispered to himself, “and with you, I will never go hungry again.”

    His eyes strayed up, surveying the carnage left over in the dark street. By now, more rats had discovered the corpse and joined in the fray. Abar watched the rats fight amongst themselves, remembering a very different fight that happened earlier in the same spot. He wondered to himself if he should feel remorseful for the soldier, whose death distracted the crowd long enough for Abar to sneak into the palanquin. Most likely the son of another farmer suffering from the drought, brought on to guard the caravan of a rich effendi. When the mob couldn’t capture the effendi, they turned to stoning his guard. That which is not given must be taken they shouted. A life for a life – that was the way of the desert. Abar quietly pitied the soldier, but a feeling of hatred suddenly swelled up inside him. Why would they attack a guard, who was innocent to their frustrations? His mother had always told him that the taking of a life is a sin – surely they knew that they would be condemned to the Abyss for committing murder? A violent cough overtook Abar, followed by another jolt of pain from his stomach. An unsettling feeling of guilt pressed on him; he used the death of the guard to steal the lamp. Abar wondered if that meant that he too was condemned to the Abyss. “That which is not given must be taken” he whispered aloud. Abar patted his depressed stomach and concluded that there was nothing that a boy like him could have done for the guard. But with this lamp, Abar thought to himself, even he could be as rich as an effendi. Everyone would have to listen to him – no, he would be above the problems of mere commoners, and he would be able to eat whatever he wanted! Even still, he sighed, the lamp would do nothing to cure his ails this night. Abar’s ears peaked up as he heard the sound of sandals pattering on gravel; a hooded figure walked by. Another lecher headed for a brothel. Instinctively, Abar thought to beg for food, but quickly caught the idea in his throat, choosing instead to scuffle further into the shadows. He tore off a sleeve from his tunic and wrapped it around his lamp to conceal it. Abar remembered a time when he did ask for charity from passersby; if he was lucky they would spit on him, or maybe even beat him, but most of the time he was treated as if he wasn’t even there. As if he was already dead. Abar had since learned that he was better off scrounging on his own.

    He gathered himself to walk in the opposite direction, hugging the shadows underneath the colored canopies. He had become accustomed to living off scraps left over in the bazaar, but the growing unrest from the drought had made food all the scarcer to find. Abar touched the bevel of his ribs under his rags and wondered if he could survive going another night without anything to eat. Rows upon rows of market stands stretched into the darkness ahead of him. The first time he tried to walk the bazaar in its entirety he had quickly found himself hopelessly lost in the maze of vendors. He was missing for a week before his father had finally found him. It was the first time he understood hunger. Ironic now that the bazaar had turned out to be the best place for a boy like him to find food.

    It didn’t take long before he came upon a rat lying dead in the street, dimly visible. Abar had never eaten rat before. He looked down at it, stretching a shaky finger to prod it, and noticed that the rat’s entrails had been freshly ripped out. But more to Abar’s surprise, the pasty moonlight had unveiled a web of thin blue veins protruding from his bony arm. When had I become this skinny? Abar thought to himself. The rat meanwhile, continued to lay there, looking so plump and juicy. With the drought and the riots, if anything was eating well recently, it was the rats. Rats – feeding on human flesh, Abar recalled, stone-faced. He set the lamp down, still bundled in torn linen, as he knelt next to the rat and stared at it quietly, jaws clenched. If he was already condemned for thieving, what does it matter now if he consumes human flesh?

    A growl reverberated through the street, prompting Abar to look up. This time it wasn’t his stomach. Angry yellow eyes leered at him from the night’s shadows. A pack of street dogs stepped into view, barring wet teeth, snarling. Abar suddenly felt really foolish; food doesn’t simply fall from the night sky, of course the rat was another’s bounty. As he made to stand up he realized that the dogs had already surrounded him. The thought passed through Abar’s head – is this how I die? He made a quick decision, to sprint away and pray that he could outrun them. As he motioned to run however, his foot caught a snag and threw his whole body to the ground. Abar felt the wind knocked out of him as his body went numb. Ears ringing, he cursed his frailty for dooming him like this. As his vision blurred he could barely make out the rapid pattering of someone’s sandals, and the faded sound of yelling. Then everything went black, darker than a night with no moon.

    -----

    It was his nose that eventually woke him up. The smell of bread. It had been so long, Abar doubted that he could even remember what bread smells like. When his eyelids did peel apart, he was surprised to find a loaf of bread staring back in his face. Abar wondered if this was one of those “mirages” he had heard about from tailing soldiers who had been on campaign, and haltingly reached out his hand. When it connected with solid bread, a sudden surge of energy flowed through Abar, and he threw himself at his prey. Tears wet his face as he gorged himself on the bread. Through choked breaths, Abar accepted that he must have made it to Paradise after all.

    “A mighty appetite, effendi!” a voice called out.

    Abar had not yet taken in his surroundings, and became crestfallen as he realized he had awoken in the same place where the dogs had attacked him – although daylight had changed his surroundings considerably. He sat in the shade of a tall sandstone house, at the end of the bazaar. The dead rat was still there, just a few paces away from him, almost unrecognizable from the blanket of roaches that now writhed on top of it. A small fountain nearby pouted the sound of rushing water, making Abar suddenly very thirsty. He was not dead. Abar tried to recollect what had happened the previous night. He was sure the dogs would have ripped him limb from limb if someone hadn’t come and rescued him, but what would anyone have to gain from saving him? Abar looked at the bread in his hands. The way of the desert – a life for a life. Nothing is free, he reminded himself.

    “Your bread is yet but half-finished!” the voice rang again.

    Abar turned to the source of the voice, and saw a young man seated on the steps nearby. He wore a tattered green coat with golden fetters, the uniform of the imperial cavalry corps, but from his dirtied complexion and ripped outfit, Abar could tell that it has been a while since this youth saw service – perhaps a deserter, or just another street vagrant that stripped the coat off a dead cavalryman. The youth was holding onto a tall stick, which he used to stand himself up and walk over. Abar noticed a slight haggle in his steps, and realized the youth was a cripple.

    “It’s a good thing I found you effendi, those dogs would have suffered a particularly bony snack last night if I didn’t.” the young
    man chuckled as he hobbled over.

    It dawned on Abar that he must be in some kind of trap. As the man approached, Abar anxiously snatched up the remaining bread and shuffled backwards. He had heard faint mention before of slavers from the outlands who kidnapped boys his age, although this man looked far too ragged to be a slaver – more likely a hired thug. Abar looked around to see if there were others with him; brigands were well known to work in groups. Not watching where he was going however, Abar stumbled over something on the ground, but managed to catch himself before falling down this time. Cursing again, Abar looked down. It was the lamp, wrapped in his rags, still sitting on the ground where he had left it earlier.

    As if reading his mind, the young man spoke up. “Ah yes, you tripped over that last night during your little scrape with the dogs” Abar maintained a wary silence, darting his eyes around for the best direction to flee. “Might I ask what it is?” The man approached, making his way to reach for the lamp. Abar reacted, hastily snatching up the lamp as quick as he could, turning to run, but the polished metal slipped through his clumsy bundle and fell to the ground with a soft thud. Frozen with a dumb look on his face, Abar could not decide if he was more shocked to have dropped his precious lamp, or to have had it revealed.
    The young man, mouth open, quickly collected himself and squatted down to inspect it. He showed a boyish fascination with the lamp, looking at it from every angle but making sure not to touch it. “What is this?” he said, with one hand rubbing a chin that gave only the faintest hints of a scraggly beard.

    “I-It’s nothing,” Abar’s held a defensive posture, his body was still sore from the previous night, but he would not show vulnerability. Slaver or not, he would not let this footpad take what was his. “A family trinket.” He lied under his breath.
    The young man raised an eyebrow to Abar while straightening up. “I do not believe that. What family would leave one as young as you out alone with an item such as this? You will have to try harder than that, effendi.”

    Abar bent down to pick up the lamp again, which was thankfully undamaged. The day’s pedestrians passed by without a glance in his direction. Shop peddlers could be heard in the distance touting off their wares. Abar realized he was still safe as long as there were people nearby. “Leave me be, brigand, before I call out against you.” he hissed, keeping his gaze on the ground.

    Yet the young man only pressed closer, looming over the boy at twice his height. “You may call me Raab,” he said with confident eyes. “And we both know you dare not bring attention to yourself.” Noticing the way the boy backed up however, the young man’s expression softened. “Don’t worry effendi, I’m not looking to harm you.”

    Abar swallowed dry spit, and nearly fell over again. The brigand was right, others would be just as suspicious about his lamp. Irritated by Raab’s persistence, he lashed out. “This is mine, I found it. I will choose what I wish to do with it. A-A thousand deaths for all thieves!”

    Raab tilted his head and pursed his lips in a smile. “But how was it that you came to possess such a treasure?”

    “That’s none of your busi –”

    “In your other hand, what do you carry?” interrupted Raab. He pointed at the remaining bread in Abar’s hand. “You were food for the dogs last night, effendi. Yet here you stand before me.” He turned his finger to Abar. “A life for a life. And I saved yours doubly. You are indebted to me.” he said with a glint in his eye.

    The shade had lifted to allow the sun to beat a heavy drop of sweat down Abar’s temple. The brigand knew about the lamp, he knew about the dogs, and he even knew to give Abar bread. It is blasphemy to break the debt of a life-saving bond. A life for a life – that was the way of the desert. Abar felt an uneasy heat quell up inside of him. “It belonged to an effendi – a real effendi. I stole it from his caravan.” Abar admitted begrudgingly.
    Raab nodded as if he already knew. “And you planned to sell it.” Abar nodded in silence. “I’m curious as to how you intended to find a buyer.”

    It occurred to Abar that he had not actually thought that far, it had been enough for him to have managed to swipe the lamp. He tried to maintain his confidence, but he felt his face betray him, reddening as blood rushed to his head. “The shop owners in the bazaar-”

    “Would take your hand for a thief, and pay you nothing – or maybe worse… ‘A thousand deaths for all thieves’ I hear it’s said” Raab gave a wry smile. Abar felt a terrible sinking feeling in his empty stomach. Nearby, the bronze coats of the roaches glinted under the sun as they continued to fight over the rat carcass. When Abar continued to stay silent, Raab spoke up, “We must return this lamp, effendi.”

    “We?” cried Abar. “You would just report me to the guards!”

    “Guards?” Raab laughed. “Forget about what guards may do. What happens to oath breakers in the afterlife, effendi?”

    The man would not stop mocking him. If Abar really became an effendi he would not have to put up with the prattle of this street thug, but if he was an effendi he would not have had to steal the lamp either. Abar felt his face reddening even more as be became increasingly mad at himself. “S-Stop calling me that!” Abar screamed through halted breaths. “I-I have nothing! No riches. And now you would even take this lamp from me.” Abar fell to his knees, holding back tears.

    “That is where you are wrong again, effendi.” replied Raab calmly. “The boy I see before me is rich. Rich with new life. And that is something I could not take away from anyone.” He knelt down and forced Abar to see him face to face. Looking him straight in the eye Raab cracked a wide crooked grin lined with missing teeth. For some reason Raab felt warm and familiar to Abar. “Come, come!” Raab spoke up. “We will make our way to the Vizier’s palace to return this lamp to its rightful owner.” He pushed himself up with his stick and turned, already knowing Abar to follow.

    Abar sat still, making sure to give no signs that he almost cried. The rat carcass was bare now, its bones baked naked white under the sun. He suddenly remembered that he was very thirsty. He made a quick run to the fountain for a drink before following after Raab. Abar noted that since the drought began it had been incredibly uncommon for any water to flow through the fountains. Even still, the water tasted bittersweet when matched with his fate. At least he would not be hanged an oath-breaker.

    -----

    The Vizier’s palace sat at the center, an isolated acropolis looming above the rest of the city. On some nights Abar would make his way up to the rooftops of the bazaar to see the gilded dome of the palace glitter in the moonlight; he could even make out the fires burning at the top of the four cardinal spires. The palace was made by the old shahs, or so the soldiers had said. Abar found it interesting that he spent most of his time in the past following soldiers and listening to their tales. Now that he was bound to this life-debt, things he once took for granted in his past suddenly seemed more important. Yet even now he still follows a soldier, at least in uniform. Though he could not trust what this deserter’s intentions were, he no longer had a choice. In a way Abar found some relief in being powerless to someone else’s decisions, he no longer had to fear the responsibility of his own mistakes.

    The parched ground cracked beneath him with every step, throwing off his footing every once in a while, but Abar continued to sulk forward. He felt pain from his skinny knees as they quivered with every step, while his calloused feet no longer told him how they felt. In front of him, Raab marched with a lighthearted grace, hardly using his walking stick. Abar noted with a bit of envy that the ground remained firm for Raab’s steps, in fact, his curled boots didn’t even seem to make sound as he walked. It had been hours since they had left the bazaar, and though he was hungry, Abar preserved the remaining piece of bread in his tunic to save for when he really needed it. The golden lamp had become more of a curse than a boon, and its weight threatened to force it out of his grasp again, only this time it might well take Abar’s arms with it.
    The sun had begun to set when Raab finally motioned to stop. He turned to look at Abar, “Do you know where we are effendi?” he asked.
    Abar had been staring hard at the ground all day, in a vain search for a worm to serve as his next meal. He did not look up when he replied, “No.”

    “Look above you.” Raab directed with his stick.
    Abar looked up. The wind forced his eyes to squint but what he saw took his breath away. He was standing beneath a gigantic arch. It was taller than anything he had ever seen. Twice as tall as the minaret Abar’s seen in the bazaar. The arch stood at the top of a small hill, with its stacks of polished sandstone glowing a blinding orange to greet the setting sun. As the sun continued to go down however, deep shadows cut into the arch, and Abar could make out numerous cracks and holes dotting the structure. The shadows of other half-destroyed ruins also deepened, revealing them from their cover of dirt and grass.

    As if reading Abar’s mind, Raab spoke up, “We’re in the old city. The center of the ancient Empire. Known in legend to have enslaved the Djinns and used their power conquer half the world, and then to build colossal wonders such as this to commemorate its victories.” Raab reached his arms out in front of him, as if to measure the size of the arch he stood beneath. He was panting in wonder. Abar had heard as much from the soldiers he tailed, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer size of the monument. For some reason standing beside it instilled a sense of pride in Abar. His father had once told him that he carried the blood of the ancient Empire in his veins. The memory brought out a faint tear from the corner of his eye, but Abar made sure to wipe it away before Raab turned to look at him.

    “We shall rest here tonight effendi.” Raab decided, “There is a small pond nearby, you should use it to clean yourself.” He pointed down the hill, before himself departing.

    “W-wait! Where are you going?” Abar called out.

    “You’re a grown effendi aren’t you? Surely you do not need me to wash you as well!” Raab shouted back mockingly.

    Abar fumed. The brigand was still mocking him. Maybe he should steal those boots of his when he sleeps, just to teach him a lesson, but Abar quickly threw off the idea, as such thoughts were what got him into this mess in the first place. Being angry soon became too tiresome of an activity. The sun had all but set by now. The melodic chirps of crickets welcomed Abar as he made his way down the hill and parted the tall reeds, discovering the small pond hidden behind them. He made sure to set the lamp down on dry ground, before slowly taking off his tunic. Abar winced as the linen stubbornly tugged onto his dry scaly skin, peeling off chunks of it as the tunic came off. His bare body was purpled with bruises while his extruding ribs cut deep shadows into his chest. Despite this Abar felt pleased to see his stomach develop a small bloat, assuming it to be the bread he had eaten days before. His haggard breathing was matched by the soft croaking of unseen frogs, and he noted that he would need to catch one to eat before he left. Abar waded into the water and began washing himself. The pond was shallow but Abar had become accustomed to low water from cleaning himself in market fountains – the few times they had flowed during the drought. He was careful not to scrub too hard, as his patchy skin kept painfully rubbing off. Abar recalled a time when he used to complain about how his mother would scrub too hard. He quickly brushed off the memory.

    When he finished cleaning himself he made his way back to dry ground. He shook his head around vigorously in the same way he saw dogs do after coming out of the bazaar fountains. His hair sprayed water everywhere. It was even kind of fun. He reached for his tunic, but instead he was distracted by yellow blotches that had formed on his stomach. A short rustle from behind caught his attention however, prompting him to turn around. The lamp was gone.

    A feeling of dread slowly overtook Abar as he stared at the empty ground in front of him. With a mad fervor he leapt into the tall reeds, following the sound of the rustle. Whoever stole his lamp could not have made it far. Abar surprised himself at how fast he could move in the heat of the moment. Insects that he would once consider food were now hindrances that darted into his eyes, and Abar could not count how many times the sharp reed leaves cut into his bare body, but he had to get the lamp back. It had been his only hope. What would the brigand do to him if he lost the lamp? – Probably end up selling him as a slave after all. Abar heard something cry out in the darkness ahead of him. He turned to the direction of the sound, running forward, preparing to pounce.

    Abar parted the reeds to a small moonlit clearing and saw a small figure laying on the ground. A boy even younger than Abar was curled in a fetal position, panting meekly while clutching the lamp, which was almost the size of his whole body. Abar saw the drum of a broken stone column on the ground half covered in grass, and pieced together that the boy had tripped over it during the pursuit. Abar felt his face contort into a devilish grin. Maybe someone is watching out for me after all, thought Abar as he stepped forward. He was finally bigger than his opponent. Abar felt a great sense of power. A thousand deaths for all thieves, thought Abar. As he got closer however, Abar slowed to a halt and his grin gave way to gape. The shriveled figure before him had translucent skin that barely stretched enough to cover his scalp, which was itself poorly patched with hair. A tattered cloth failed to cover a stomach that was far more bloated than Abar’s. For some reason Abar no longer felt that the bloat was a sign of being full. When the boy’s eyes opened and saw Abar, he gave a panicked expression. He left the lamp on the ground and scuttled backwards until his back hit the column. But Abar could no longer bring himself to harm the pitiful thing, he could only stare. The full moon reflected brightly into the boy’s wide frightful eyes. It was the second full moon that Abar had seen since he had been left alone, after his father died on campaign and his mother fell to the drought. The memory chilled his bones, but Abar remained expressionless, even as he felt tears wet his face.

    “I am the same as you.” Abar found himself saying. No response. Abar wondered what the boy could be thinking; probably asking himself if he could escape. What should I do? Abar asked himself. Should I let him go? An idea suddenly came to him, and he reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out the remaining piece of bread. A life for a life, thought Abar, as he reached out a thin arm to hand it to the boy. The boy stared back at him but gave no reaction save for the drool that began collecting at the edge of his mouth. Abar decided to lightly toss the bread at him. It landed on the ground between them, collecting dirt. The boy looked at the bread, and back to Abar before apprehensively crawling forward to pick up the bread. He slowly brought the bread to his face and began nibbling on it.

    Now you are in debt to me, thought Abar. The boy however, only gave him a look. A look that saw Abar as a fool. The boy slowly extended a finger pointing to the blotches on Abar’s naked stomach. With wide eyes and a soft voice he sounded out “P-la-gue.” Then with an inhuman trill of glee the boy hopped on all fours and quickly dashed back into the thick of the reeds. He was out of sight before Abar could even make a sound. A hush of silence took him as the boy’s trill echoed in Abar’s ears.

    A voice eventually broke the silence. “You did well, effendi.”

    Abar turned to the voice, Raab stepped out from the shadow of a broken column. Abar looked down in thought. “He broke the bond.”

    “There is no bond,” Raab replied. “None, at least, that you can wish upon him. Let the afterlife decide his fate. You sacrificed to save his life.”

    Abar still felt unsettled. “What he said –”

    Raab rapped on a stone ruin with his stick. “Don’t mind that. We have a journey ahead of us yet effendi, and you will need your rest, come.”

    The full moon gave light to their path. Even though he did not eat, Abar no longer felt his stomach aching that night. A faint smile brushed his lips as he followed Raab back up to the arch.

    -----

    The next morning Abar finally made it to the heart of the city, the Citizen’s plaza. More people than he had ever seen in his life were passing about on the plaza, going about their daily routines.

    “A place of high culture and learning,” interjected Raab, again as though he could read Abar’s thoughts. “The greatest madrasas in the land are located here. Scholars from across the world pilgrimage here.” Of course, Abar had heard it all before, students from lower schools wouldn’t shut up about it when passing through the bazaar. Raab paid no mind to Abar’s lack of attention, inhaling heavily he continued “And above it all is –”

    The Vizier’s Palace, finished Abar, blocking out the rest of what Raab was saying. It loomed over the plaza like a mountain of solid limestone; its spires were even taller up close, reaching above the clouds; its dome was blinding in the morning sunlight, prompting Abar to bring a hand up to his eyes. The violent cough came back to him however, forcing the hand back down to cover his mouth as he wretched a bloody spittle into his palm. His cough had gotten worse ever since his stomach stopped aching, almost as though the ache had simply moved, every hour he felt it more and more in his head. Dizzily, Abar put the back of his hand up to his forehead, and felt an unusual heat.

    Where should we go now? thought Abar.

    “We could probably find something if we head towards the Palace gates, effendi.” said Raab, sounding a bit more tired than usual.
    As they cut through the plaza, Abar saw all kinds of people mixed together. They walked past artisans carrying their heavy tools, and cavalrymen trotting by on barded horses, as well as people who wore strange clothing and spoke in tongues Abar had never heard before. He even saw a number of palanquins riding on the shoulders of dozens of servants, carrying effendis that seemed far wealthier than the one he stole from. There were also the lower people, quiet thieves who tried to make themselves unnoticeable, and loud beggars who only managed to go unnoticed. Abar hugged the lamp a little closer to his chest, being careful not to lose either it, or who he was following, to the bustling crowd. Raab was not as much of the standout he used to be. Abar could tell that the journey had taken strains on him as well. His upbeat march was now a slow-paced haggle, and he was ever more reliant on his stick to stand himself up. Abar felt a tout of concern for him, even as he himself hacked out another patch of blood.

    The gates to the palace were as colossal as the arch Abar had stood under. Two gargantuan blood-red doors lined with brass bosses, and a large gilded lock to keep it all sealed. There was no way he could pass through here. The feeling of hopelessness slowly dawned on Abar. He retched blood again, stumbling to keep his footing. All feeling in his body began to numb. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Even Raab showed signs of defeat, limping towards the wall, only to sit down with his back against it.
    “I may need to rest for a while, effendi.”

    Abar was not ready to call an end yet, even as the sweltering heat of the sun hazed his vision. He paced up and down the wall. It seemed to stretch on forever on both sides. The sun had reached its zenith when Abar finally came upon a tiny crack in the limestone, just large enough for a small boy to fit through. Abar did not even think to thank his luck, he immediately began squeezing himself through it. The rough stone cut deep gnashes into Abar’s chest and face, but he no longer cared, he became numb to the pain. When he finally got across, Abar could not help but collapse on the ground, barely catching himself with his wavering arms, dropping his bundled lamp. He spat blood on the green lawn of the palace courtyard. But it was not over, Abar picked up the lamp again, and raised himself up, staggering towards the nearest building.

    The door was left open. Abar entered into a darkly lit room, in its center was a desk that stood a head taller than he did.

    “H-hello?” Abar called out as he made his way towards the desk.

    A voice responded “Yes? Who is it?”

    “I-I’m Abar.” he croaked, “A-am I in the right place?”

    A patterned kufi peaked over the edge of the desk, resting on bushy eyebrows and followed by a thin face. “Well you’ve reached my office. I’m the palace scribe.”

    “I-I wish to return this.” said Abar meekly, shakily lifting up the bundled lamp with both arms. “I-It does not belong to me.”

    The scribe gave a bored look as the lamp was raised onto the table. Raising a bushy brow, he ripped apart the cloth bundle, and inspected the lamp. After a short moment he piped up, “Worthless,” tossing the lamp at Abar’s feet, “Are you here to insult me?”
    The words cut like a knife into Abar’s heart. He stood frozen. Even though time passed at the same pace, every instant became sharper. He felt a bone in his body break with every clang of the lamp as it cracked on the stone floor. Abar’s head screamed in pain and confusion.

    “W-What d-do you mean. This –” he sputtered. “V-Valuable beyond s-sapphires…”

    “That piece of ? Hmph.” the scribe scoffed “No more valuable than the rags it was wrapped in.”

    “B-But it belonged to an e-effendi –”

    “– he probably used it as a piss pot.”

    Abar could not believe what he was hearing. Every point in his body was on fire.

    “T-The guards! They spoke of Djinns…”

    “Ho! Of course…the ‘Djinns that were sealed away by the old shahs.’” The scribe’s face looked thoroughly humored. “But everyone knows that rubbing the lamp releases the Djinn, leaving the lamp worthless.”

    “R-Rubbing?!” Abar stammered. He had remembered rubbing the lamp to block out his visage, the night the dogs attacked.
    “Oh yes indeed” said the scribe, “Now away with you, street pest, before I call for the guards.”

    Abar was delirious. He picked up the pieces of the lamp and carried them off with him out onto the courtyard. His head felt incredibly heavy as he made his way through the crack in the wall, back towards the gate to find Raab. With each step his pace slowed and his eyesight gradually blurred. He was positive of what he heard the soldiers say, the lamp was without a doubt beyond the rarest of sapphires. If this meant that the lamp possessed a Djinn, he must have unwittingly released it the night the dogs attacked, yet the only thing that appeared to him that night was…Raab. Why had Raab helped him all this time? A life for a life. The life-saving bond. It all made sense. When he rubbed the lamp that night and freed Raab from his imprisonment, Raab owed him a debt. The lamp was worthless now because Raab had been the treasure the whole time. Abar felt his body go into violent convulsions, yet against it all he let out a hoot and laughed at the sky.

    The laughter slowly turned to sobs, as Abar felt his legs give out from beneath him. It had been so long since he had a meal. Abar lifted his tunic to reveal a significantly more bloated stomach. The yellow blotches that lined it had turned black, and spewed bits of pus. Abar continued to drag himself along the side of the wall. The crawl eventually became a writhe. And before long he stopped moving entirely.

    On the edge of the plaza, in front of the palace, at the center of the city, the starving creature laid motionless, unnoticed by the citizens who continued to pass by going about their business. Abar felt tears stream down his face for the last time. All he ever wanted was to make his father proud, to be a good soldier like him. When his father died, he promised he would be strong and take care of his mother. But instead his mother saved all of her rations for him, starving herself. Abar could not even take care of himself when he was alone. Instead he disgraced their sacrifice by turning to thievery. He could not even perform the deed of returning the lamp. Abar thought of the city around him, the massive structures society had achieved without him. He thought of the boy he gave bread to, who looked at him a fool. He thought of the corpse of the soldier in the bazaar, whose death served only as a distraction.

    Abar looked up, “Raab?”

    “Yes?” replied Raab, looking down at Abar.

    “Am I still going to the Abyss?” Abar sounded fearful.

    Raab was silent for a moment. “I do not know, Abar.”

    Abar thought back to the rioters who proclaimed that that which is not given must be taken. They took the life of the guard, when the life of the effendi was not given. “Back at the fountain,” said Abar, “you told me that my life, my new life, was something you could not take from me.”

    “As it is also something I cannot give to you” replied Raab.

    Abar smiled faintly.

    “Would you grant me one wish?” asked Abar, as he lost all feeling of his body.

    “Of course.” said Raab, with a knowing sadness in his gaze.

    Abar closed his eyes, “Can you allow me to die, Raab?”

    “Yes, Abar.” Raab gave a warm smile in return, “I can do that,” as he slowly faded into nothing.

    [/fieldset2]


    A Soldier's Life in the 1st Legion - Entry #10

    A Soldier's Life in the 1st Legion





    Chapter 1 – Get off my boot !
    ( 272 – 270 B.C. )

    ( from the facebook page: Travian https://www.facebook.com/traviannews )


    His name was Titus Tacitus, a Roman officer in Aulus Julius Agrippa's army.


    He was an officer of a unit of Roman Cavalry. Titus and Agrippa were good friends


    growing up in the same neighborhood. Agrippa was part of the house of Julia and was


    charged by the Senate to once and for all remove the Etruscan league from Italy.


    Agrippa recruited a standing army of 2,000 infantry and cavalry and marched onto


    the regions of Ariminum and Velathri. After taking all of Italy, Agrippa sent Titus to


    destroy the remaining Etruscans who were hiding in the region of Cosentia. The


    following year after finally destroying what was left in Cosentia, Titus rejoined


    the ranks of Agrippa's army. The Senate now had eyes on the Corsica & Sardinia Islands


    and tasked Agrippa with taking both. The army then built transport ships to sail to the


    islands.



    Chapter 2 – Corsica et Sardinia
    ( 269 – 267 B.C. )

    ( from the fan facebook page: Glory of Rome https://www.facebook.com/gloryofromegame )



    Now the 2,000 man army having reached the shores of Alalia began their plans of


    conquering the region. Agrippa finally met the Etruscan army on the battlefield.


    After a bloody battle, Titus and his men rested to replenish their ranks. The following


    year they sailed to Karalis which had been recently conquered by the Etruscans.



    Titus knew this would be a very bloody siege and urged Agrippa to send a



    scout to sabotage the enemy's gates. Agrippa agreed to this tactic and sent in a scout to



    sabotage the enemy's gatehouse. With the gatehouse destroyed, Titus led the men into


    the city, capturing vital checkpoints before finally capturing the enemies last stand point.


    Agrippa announced that the Senate was very pleased with the capturing of Corsica &



    Sardinia but news had reached them that the Syracuse faction had taken over all of


    Sicily and now was the time to strike. With Carthage out of the way, Agrippa declared


    the Syracuse faction an enemy of Rome. The time to unite Magna Graecia under Roman


    rule was now !




    Chapter 3 – Monsters
    ( 265 – 263 B.C. )

    (courtesy of imageshack photos: http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/17/qpkq.jpg/ )



    Chapter 3 starts off with Titus recounting the still battered army marching through


    the region of Lilybaeum now occupied by the Syracuse faction. As the army marched



    they came upon a small band of mercenaries native to Sicily. These men were only loyal



    to the man with the biggest purse, so for a considerable amount of coin, they joined


    Agrippa's army. Even though with these men the army became whole again, Titus could


    not believe these men were being payed double to that of a true Roman! The


    mercenaries recruited were comprised of Peltasts, Tarantine Cavalry and the famous


    Thureos Spears. The Syracuse in the region of Lilybaeum were soundly beaten by


    Agrippa's army, which suffered only minor casualties. The night after the battle the Romans



    drank the strong Carthaginian wine, boasting of their Heroic Victory over the Syracuse


    army. As Titus was celebrating , he overheard a group of Sicilian mercenaries talking of


    creatures the Syracuse came to possess after beating the Carthaginians in Lilybaeum.


    The group of mercenary men told Titus how these creatures stood 15ft feet tall, shook


    the very ground they stood on , had rough gray skin and horns protruding from their


    face, creatures which could only be described as monsters. Titus immediately requested


    an audience with Agrippa to warn him of these creatures the Sicilians spoke of.


    Agrippa, worried but thankful, assured Titus there were steps that could be taken to



    confirm this rumor. The Commander then called in a cloaked figure who revealed



    themselves to be a beautiful red haired woman. Titus looking upon her, fell deeply in love



    and she with him. Agrippa introduced her as Terentia Prisca, a spy Rome embedded into


    the army before declaring war on Syracuse, to scout and detect enemy movements.


    Commander Agrippa sent Terentia to confirm whether or not the Syracuse indeed


    possessed these “Monsters”. All night Titus waited for Terentia's return from the enemy


    camp, unsure of her safety. The following morning Terentia finally returned to report


    that the Syracuse indeed possessed these creatures known correctly as “Elephants”.


    Terentia reported they were clumsy creatures and their weakness lay in their nerves.


    Commander Agrippa now in possession of the information, devised a plan as the army




    marched into Syracusae for the final battle for Sicily. The battle was bloody with many


    casualties on both sides, but eventually the Romans routed the Syracuse, winning the



    day. After the battle, Commander Agrippa announced the army's numerous victories had


    gained Rome more “Imperium” and the Senate, as a result, raised a new army under the



    Commander known as Quintus Junius Brutus, a Roman general from the House of Junia.


    The Senate commanded the now 2 armies to march north into the province of Cisalpina


    overrun with Celts and to seize the regions for the glory of Rome. Terentia needed


    elsewhere, bid Titus farewell as they kissed one last time. As Terentia left, their eyes



    locked knowing this may be the last time they saw each other.



    Chapter 4 – Celts...Celts everywhere
    ( 262 – 260 B.C. )

    ( courtesy of imageshack photos: http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/546/21x3.jpg/ )



    Titus recounted having finally landed on the eastern side of Cisalpina, in the region of


    Patavium. The year before Commander Brutus sailed his army to the western side of


    Cisalpina, landing in the region of Genua. The plan was to sandwhich the Celts in and


    capture the outlying regions and then crush the region capital in Medhlan. With the army


    needing fresh troops, Agrippa recruited local mercenaries including the Celtic warriors,


    skirmishers and Light Horse. Titus recounted having to face a massive horde in Patavium,



    the mighty Veneti tribe. The battle for Patavium began and the Romans were winning


    over the massive Celtic force which numbered in the thousands. During the battle,


    Commander Agrippa's unit were cut off and surrounded by the enemy. Seeing this, Titus



    swung the Roman cavalry around the enemy's flank, effectively routing the enemy from


    the field and winning the day. The battlefield lay strewn with the many Celtic dead, rode


    down by Titus's Cavalry. The following morning Commander Agrippa announced the


    victory of Brutus's army over the Ligurian tribe in Genua. Both Commanders Brutus


    and Agrippa, planned to re-group and replenish the ranks of men lost in their previous


    battles before marching on the province capital Medhlan. With the Senate rushing


    Agrippa, he hastily began the siege of the capital city with very few siege weapons



    available. With Brutus's army reinforcing, Agrippa stormed the city walls suffering



    many casualties before finally taking the city. Agrippa announced that the men needed to



    rest up as they were now headed for the province of Provincia.



    Chapter 5 – Champions[/B]
    ( 259 – 258 B.C. )


    (from the page on facebook: Travian https://www.facebook.com/traviannews )



    Titus recounted Commander Agrippa announcing that since there was a surplus of


    new recruits, the Senate felt that they needed extra training. They sent a Champion,


    known as “Caius Capito”, to train the new recruits as well as the veterans. As the months


    went on, both armies trained and gained more and more experience through the


    Champion Caius. As both armies finally reached the borders into Provincia, they set up


    camp outside of the first region. Agrippa called a meeting with all of the officers in both


    armies. The plan was to send Caius into the enemy's regions and to sabotage key


    buildings and to rally the slaves inhabiting the regions. The plan was successful and


    Caius managed to throw both regions into chaos with slave revolts. Commander


    Agrippa ordered Brutus's army to march on to Tolosa and that he would take the capital


    city of Massalia. As they approached the city of Massalia, Titus remembered thinking


    that the city was more Greek than barbarian which struck him as odd. The siege was a


    minor battle and the Massilians, having been weakened by Caius's tactics , did not put


    up much resistance. With Brutus's victory in Tolosa, Provincia was now under Roman


    rule. Agrippa announced to the entire army that the Senate was so pleased with the


    taking of the provinces of Cisalpina and Provincia, that the “Imperium” increased once


    again and they issued 2 more armies that were to be led by the House of Cornelia. The


    Commanders of these armies were father and son respectively by the names of


    Appius Cornelius Scipio” and “ Decimus Cornelius Scipio”. Now with 4 armies, the


    Senate,with its eyes on the resources in the Iberian Peninsula, declared war on the tribes


    of Iberia !



    Chapter 6 – Diplomatic Takeover
    ( 257 – 253 B.C. )

    ( from the fan page: Travian https://www.facebook.com/traviannews )




    Commander Agrippa held a meeting with all 4 generals and their officers to plan


    the invasion of the mysterious Iberia. Agrippa first tasked Appius Scipio with taking


    the province of Tarraconensis with this son Decimus Scipio taking the province of


    Lusitania. Agrippa then assigned Brutus the taking of Baetica. Finally Agrippa would be


    in charge of taking the province of Cartaginensis. The Commander warned them to all


    avoid the Carthaginians and their client state, Nova Carthago, in the regions of Qart


    Hadasht and Gadira. Agrippa then brought in four men in robes and assigned each one to an



    army. These men were sent by the Senate to spread the Roman culture around and ease


    the capture of each settlement. With the plan set in stone, the four massive armies set out on



    their missions. The diplomats moved ahead of each army spreading Roman propaganda


    in order to cause confusion and unrest. Titus recalled the first enemy tribe they


    encountered, the Arevaci. Instead of fighting them on open ground, they used guerilla


    type warfare. Titus told of how this type of fighting went on for many many months


    until finally they were marching through a valley and were suddenly ambushed by a


    large Iberian force. The Arevaci had called their allies, the Edetani, to destroy them


    once and for all. The battle that ensued was nothing less than bloody. The Commander


    was seperated and shot off his horse, wounded. Titus took control of the army and

    flanked the Iberian infantry on their sides , sending both armies into a massive rout.


    After the battle, Titus searched frantically for Commander Agrippa, eventually finding him alive.



    With both the Arevaci and Edetani destroyed, Agrippa went on to take both Numantia



    and Arse. Titus recounted after taking both regions, instead of angry and riotous, the


    population was very loyal and welcoming. Titus knew this was largely due to the


    Roman diplomats sent months before the armies' invasion of the regions. After


    Agrippa recovered from his wounds, he announced that similar victories were achieved


    in Tarraconensis and Lusitania. Before Agrippa stepped down, a messenger brought bad


    news that Quintus Junius Brutus's army had been ambushed and completely annihilated


    the year before in Kartuba, by Nova Carthago, Carthage's client state! Titus could not


    believe what he had heard ; the men he had known in that army were all gone!


    With the grim news, Agrippa held a council with the remaining commanders and


    officers. The Senate was outraged by this and as such declared Nova Carthago and


    Carthage enemies of Rome ! Titus recounted Commander Agrippa tasked Appius and


    Decimus to march directly south and besiege the city of Qart Hadasht. Agrippa would


    take his army further south and reclaim the lost standard of Brutus's army and recapture


    the province of Baetica. Titus recounted as the army was replenished, that they set out to


    recapture the lost standard and finally deal with Nova Carthago's prescence in Iberia.



    Chapter 7 – Qart Hadasht !
    ( 252 – 249 B.C. )



    ( courtesy of imageshack photos: http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/24/79tk.jpg/ )





    Titus recounted having finally reached the region of Kartuba, the army of Nova



    Carthago was nowhere to be found. With minimal garrison forces, the region


    surrendered without a fight. Agrippa not wanting to waste anytime, set out for Gadira to


    finally destroy the forces of Nova Carthago. After many months of marching, they


    finally caught up to the enemy army. The battle that ensued was very bloody, with both


    sides suffering heavy losses. The battle finally ended in the Roman's favor, with


    them capturing 150 of the enemy's troops. Commander Agrippa immediately had


    them all enslaved to do Rome's bidding. With Nova Carthago removed from Iberia, the province of



    Baetica was finally under Roman control. Titus noticed many men he had marched with


    at the beginning of their campaigns were all gone and warned Agrippa that he needed


    fresh Roman troops. Heeding his friend's wise words, Agrippa agreed and spent the


    next year recruiting fresh Roman troops. The following year, with the army fully


    replenished, Agrippa marched his army north to rejoin the Scipio's siege on Qart


    Hadasht. Upon arriving finally , Titus recounted looking on the city of Qart Hadasht


    besieged by 2 mighty Roman armies; it was quite a sight to behold. With all 3 armies


    numbering around 10,000 men, Agrippa finally commanded they storm the city,



    taking no prisoners! Titus recounted as many Romans reached the walls, they were cut


    down by the Carthaginian's rain of arrows and stones. The Romans finally took the


    walls, pushing into the inner city. The enemy made them pay for each street they took



    with hundreds of dead Romans. Finally, with the town square surrounded, the



    Carthaginians surrendered. For the treachery and annihilation of a Roman army,


    Agrippa had every last man that was captured that day executed and had the city of Qart


    Hadasht purged of its Phoenician population; The war for Iberia was finally done !


    Agrippa announced to all of the armies that they finally were going home. To get home


    as fast as possible, Agrippa had the armies build transport ships to sail directly for


    Rome. On their way home they encountered a small island still in Carthage's control.


    After hearing of the utter annihilation of the city of Qart Hadasht, the garrison of


    Ibossim surrendered without a fight; Cartaginensis was now completely under Roman


    rule.



    Chapter 8 – Civil War!?
    ( 248 – 246 B.C. )


    ( from fan page: glory of rome: https://www.facebook.com/gloryofromegame/photos_stream )




    Upon returning to Rome, Titus finally met with Terentia and they wed that same



    year. Terentia told Titus the following year that the Senate had tasked her to



    assassinate his beloved friend, Commander Aulus Julius Agrippa, stating that he had



    become too powerful and had too much influence with the people. Titus informed his


    friend of this treachery by the Senate. Agrippa met with this army and told them in order


    to free the Roman citizens, they must destroy the Senate and become an empire.


    Agrippa then declared war on the Senate; Rome was now in a civil war ! Agrippa having


    much influence in Sicily, marched south to raise new armies to his cause. The Senate


    catching wind of this, sent the armies of Appius Cornelius Scipio and Decimus


    Cornelius Scipio to intercept Agrippa in Cosentia. Terentia learned of this plan and


    warned Titus and Agrippa of the Senate's plan. Knowing they would never make it to


    Sicily, Agrippa told his men that they must make their stand against the Senate's army


    here and now. Agrippa knew, with the enemy's force numbering well over 8,000 to his


    scarce 2500, there would be no victory that day but only death. Agrippa approached


    Titus the night before the battle and told him to leave with Terentia and live far away


    from war. With a heavy heart Titus agreed to his Commander's final order and left with


    his love Terentia; “I'll never forget you, Sir” , he said before finally leaving the camp.


    The day of the battle came and Agrippa rode to the front of his army looking to his men;


    Today we stand against the Senate and their treachery. Today we fight to end the


    tyranny of the Senate. Romans, brave brothers, follow me once more into battle” he


    said. The men roared with cheers and yelling! As the vast enemy army approached,


    Agrippa looked toward them on his horse and then slowly turned to his men and


    roared ""FOR BLOOD,FOR GLORY, FOR ROME !!!"






    ( http://personal.stthomas.edu/seip389...st2/index.html )

    Last edited by StealthFox; September 05, 2013 at 07:42 PM.
    {I cook weird stuff}-{Patronised by the fearsome Chloe}
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    (The Frosta-thing law, 1260)

    Is acher in gaíth innocht,
    fu-fuasna fairggae findfolt:
    ní ágor réimm mora minn
    dond láechraid lainn ua Lothlind.

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

    Friends, Romans...Brothers - Entry #11

    CHAPTER 1 - Flavius

    The night was so calm and serene now. Too peaceful, really, Flavius thought. One could find it hard to believe that the blood and fire we went through just hours ago was real. It may be dark, and quiet, but they are still out there. If only-

    He winced in pain as Marcus grasped his shoulder suddenly. Marcus may have meant no harm, but that didn’t make the wound from the arrow any less painful.

    “Sorry mate,” he said quickly, “easy to forget that. You came out luckier than most today.”

    “Did I?” Flavius wasn’t so sure. Their situation seemed more than hopeless now. The lucky ones died first, died quickly. “This armor definitely didn’t help that in any way,” he griped instead.

    “Oh it didn’t help ye, that what ye think? What if it saved ye from another arrow, or one of them stupid javelins? Maybe when it knocked ye to your feet you were spared some more gruesome fate an instant later.”

    “I can’t tell if you’re just trying to find the bright side to it all, or if you’re just being a smart ass again.”

    “That sounds like a good enough answer, I’ll take it.” Marcus gave his shoulder another little nudge as he said it. “Still though, you’re less hurt than most and that counts for something. But don’t get too comfortable, word has it we might try to escape this hellish forest soon, under cover of night.”

    Oh well that’s a real damned relief, Flavius thought, with a bitter mix of anguish and anger. It had been worse than hell for a long while now. How long he could not remember exactly. Two days, maybe three. When they set out into the forest, none could have imagined the horror that lie in wait. The sounds and sights and smells of battle weren’t even that bad really, not to the seasoned veterans at least. What had done in most men was pure fear. Through fog and rain, through this mysterious forest against an equally mysterious yet utterly savage enemy, it all made for the most frightening experience any of them had ever known. Even the famous discipline of the legions of Rome was at its breaking point here. Fear has aided the death of more men these past few days than any strong sword arm.


    Flavius had made it this far though. Whether that was something to boast of or not, he was not certain. The fighting earlier was intense and had nearly claimed his life. His cohort was of minimal strength, yet still one of the strongest that remained. Their century, of the strongest still, but of his contubernium, only he and Marcus remained.

    The fighting had claimed most of his equipment too. His helmet he threw down after the Germans charged his cohort for the fifth time, through cover of thick forest and even thicker rainfall. Not being able to see the flanks was the least of his worries, the fog and rain made sure of that regardless of his helm, but the thing was wet and heavy and dented from stopping the blow of a large club. How his head did not ache from that, Flavius could not fathom. Must be the fear at work there too.

    The rain had ruined his shield, or at least it sowed the seeds for its ruin. It was warped a bit now, but a warped shield is better than no shield. His pilum were spent long ago, and his gladius was not even his own. His caligae were torn in a few places, but that wouldn’t stop the mud and rain from hurting his feet anyways. All that remained mostly intact was his armor, which had barely stopped an arrow that hit his right shoulder at a queer angle. That and he still had his own life. But does that matter now? Being alive after so many of my brothers have fallen?

    Brothers. His thoughts lingered on that word. Flavius has a brother – or perhaps had a brother. A twin he shared his mother’s womb with. Their mother was no one noteworthy though, she was no whore they were told, but not highborn either. She had died giving birth, and their father only was able to raise them for a few years before it became too much for him. He left to join the legion, or so he claimed, leaving Flavius and his brother Saturius to fend for themselves. His father had given him a small dagger, nothing special he said, but one that belonged to his own father before him. Saturius was given some special coin, which he never liked anyways. He was always too stubborn, and he had spent that coin the next day for a few loaves of bread. The coin must have had some significance to buy that much bread alone, but they would never know its true value now. Saturius never forgave father for leaving them though, he was always furious about it. Flavius didn’t think rage was a way to deal with that though, and didn’t mind as much.

    It hadn’t been easy, but he and his brother managed to scrape by. One day though, Saturius was caught stealing a loaf of bread, and only escaped a likely death due to the fact that the one who caught him liked how well and fast he could run. That man told Saturius he could be a truly great warrior one day, if he wanted. And Saturius, stubborn and headstrong as he was, liked the sound of that. If he knew that stranger would take him away that day, never to return, he might have wanted different. No, even then, he would have done it…stubborn ass he was, nothing would have made him have a second thought about leaving me behind. Besides, Flavius had done well without him from that day on despite that. The first nights alone were hard, but once he fell in with camp followers of a passing legion, he knew he had found a truer home. And look where I am now.

    Those thoughts were flushed away as Marcus returned. “We’re moving.”

    “Already? It can’t be much past midnight though.”

    “Like it matters? Die with the sun or the moon looking down on ye, but you’re dead all the same. Come on now.”

    Flavius grunted his disapproval as he stood up, but quickly saw that they were indeed preparing to move out. A night march was where they were placing their hope for life. Flavius didn’t like it one bit. We don’t know the first damned thing about this forest, and now we are to march through it at night and somehow escape?

    He took his place in formation next to Marcus, near the head of the column. It was hard enough to see even with a few torches lighting the area, though those would soon be snuffed out. Just like us, he thought. The legion eagle was close by. It was perhaps the last one of the three legions they started with. He could tell the man bearing it was cold and scared, the way he slumped slightly, and the blank stare evident on his face. Everyone was scared though, this man was no different from the rest, except that he was a bigger target for archers.

    Flavius quickly realized how exhausted he was when they started marching. How would he fight in this condition? How could any of them? Nighttime as it was, they all knew there would still be fighting, and they were certain not to win some great victory after so many had already fallen. Well, when I die today, I hope the Gods make it quick.

    CHAPTER 2 - Saturius

    “Ay, you’ve survived this long, but that isn’t much to boast of with the way we’ve been hitting these Romans.” Thoran’s voice sounded of scorn and displeasure when he said that. “And you still haven’t killed a man while I was around to see it. So to me, you haven’t killed a man, and you are no true warrior yet.”

    “But I have killed a man! Many men! It must be over a score by now!” Saturius argued, though he knew it was in vain. Did he really have to kill in Thoran’s sight to be taken seriously?

    “And how many truly fought back, eh? We’ve been screwing the Romans with every possible weapon and tactic. I am not one for it, but Arminius is definitely getting the better of them, so I won’t argue it now. We’ve got the Romans scared, so they fight scared. Like scared little girls. And I didn’t rescue you from that dung heap Roman town to come here and sass me and act like some stupid wench, you’re here to become a warrior, perhaps even die as one. Unless dying a boy suits your liking better. I have half a mind to think it does, boy.”

    Saturius opened his mouth to respond, but he held his tongue. No use with him, he thought, his methods of teaching have always made little sense anyhow. He couldn’t even remember why he had wanted to please Thoran now, to gain his favor. He wasn’t his father, all he did was take him from the streets and bring him here to train as a warrior and forester. He had killed plenty a wild animal when hunting, and even a couple thieves at nighttime in Thoran’s home village. But apparently none of that was enough proof that he had become at least somewhat of a warrior. I am confident in my abilities, why should I care what he thinks now? “Just leave me to finish this.”

    “You’re no mason either, that dirt wall won’t protect you or anyone from a rabid hare. Good thing for you the Romans are worse than that.” Thoran turned and walked away as he said that. About bloody time he left.

    Saturius went to concentrating on finishing the last bit of the earthen wall they were building near the road. The area was perfect to draw the Romans into an area they were more comfortable in, only to find the terrain less suitable than they wanted, and infested with German spears and arrows. We’ve slaughtered so many though, it would be madness to even try at this rate.

    The first day was the worst, for the Romans that is. The German tribesmen had surrounded them; rained javelins and arrows down upon them, and crashed into their flanks with many a brutal charge. Saturius had been part of many of those charges. He had seen the thickest fighting then, less on the second day as the Romans were running more than fighting. And now as the third approached, they were building some crappy wall on the edge of the road. It was no architectural masterpiece that’s for sure, and the Romans knew how to build impressive works, but even if it was a masterful wall, he knew the Romans wouldn’t care to glance at it anyways. Thoran was right about one thing; the Romans were frightened. He had seen it in the eyes of one he killed today. The man seemed almost relieved that Saturius had plunged his blade into his chest.


    The man’s face seemed so familiar to him. It had taken Saturius a while to really recognize it, but now he realized it reminded him of his father. It was unlikely it was his father though, he would have been dead long ago or look much older than this man did. But he and his brother Flavius had the same look as their father. What if it was Flavius?

    No, I would have known my own brother if I saw him. Or at least I would know who is not my own brother. Why would Flavius be in the legion anyways? They had been together in that Roman city for a good amount of time, suffering together after their father had left them. He still hated him for that. Flavius surely didn’t forget what father did, especially if he left us to join the legion. There’s no way Flavius would follow in his footsteps.

    The air smelled of rain again, but no more rain came now. It was nearly dawn, and Saturius had gotten little sleep since dusk. He needed to finish his part of the wall soon so he could get just a little rest before the next day. It was likely they would finish off the Romans today, and he did not want to be too exhausted to miss taking part in the final fight.

    It couldn’t have been more than half of an hour that had passed when Saturius heard the scouts returning and speaking to the chieftains. Arminius was surely among them. They spoke for a time, and as they parted, many more men stirred from their places, and he heard more voices picking up down the line. Something was happening.

    Saturius gathered himself and stood up as a man came down the line, awaking all others. When he passed Saturius, he nodded approval for being up and ready, and whispered “Prepare to fight soon, they’re marching this way.”

    So the Romans had attempted marching under cover of night. One could hardly blame them, and with the horrible fog and torrential rainstorms that had plagued movement and visibility in the past fighting, it was doubtful that marching in darkness would seem that difficult to them by now anyway.

    Saturius was as ready as he could be. Exhausted and without sleep, but ready nonetheless. Thoran returned to his side just then. “Appears we will be here along the wall for now,” he stammered as he thrust a couple javelins into Saturius’ arms. “Hope you remember how to throw these.”

    “I know you throw the pointy end first,” Saturius replied, the disdain in his voice apparent. The grimace on his face betrayed his anger at Thoran more than his tone though.

    “You’ll never kill a man if that’s truly that attitude you take to heart here. You’ll never be a man that way either.”

    Maybe I should stick this spear up your arse instead? That should prove I know damn well what I am doing. Since the days leading up to the first battle, Thoran had become a worse being to be around. Nothing pleased him and everything set him off. Saturius counted it a miracle he had contained his rage towards him up to this point. You’re lucky today old man. Lucky I have Romans to kill instead of you.

    But Thoran was also staying right next to him this time. When Saturius did indeed kill a few men today, perhaps Thoran would be around this time to witness it. There could be no excuses this time.

    Chapter 3 – Flavius

    Just as he had predicted, the man bearing the eagle had fallen first. Two more that had taken up the eagle after him fell soon after as well. And now Marcus was carrying the damned thing. Marcus survived though, for now. Longer than the others did at least.

    Their march had not gone well up to this point. Flavius never really expected it to go well anyways, but so much happened they couldn’t have predicted even so. The terrain was less open than they had hoped, and the barbarians had met them at the foot of the hill with all their force. Not that it would take much now to destroy this legion.

    But now they were taking fire from their flank, by barbarians behind a small earthen wall just large enough to reach shoulder height. The Centurion was now calling for them to storm this wall, for what good it would do.

    Flavius knew there was no choice though, if he didn’t die here, he would die charging that wall, or perhaps defending against a counterattack if they should manage to take it. There was no leaving this field alive today.

    “COME ON YOU DOGS, CHARGE THE WALL! GET THERE NOW, AND IF ANY OF YOU DIE WITHOUT A BLOODIED SWORD I’LL SHOVE IT UP YOUR OWN ARSE!”

    Their Centurion’s words seemed oddly inspiring even then. Desperate though this charge was, perhaps they would do considerable damage. Marcus was first to break into a run behind their Centurion, bearing the eagle high above his head. Flavius had to follow now.

    They burst forward as quickly as their exhausted bodies and worn feet would carry them. Certainly even that much must have taken the barbarians aback some, seeing these Romans charge this furiously despite all they had been through. Glorious as it felt though, the charge was just as bad as any man could expect. Javelins and arrows rained down upon them as they ran, killing and incapacitating most men before they would ever reach the wall. Their Centurion took a javelin through his chest halfway there, and two more arrows through his skull as he fell.

    Marcus and Flavius still stood though, and broke upon the wall together, with a few other men close behind. The barbarians guarding the wall were slow to their melee weapons, and the first few were easily felled, but many more were still around them, much more ready for combat than these first few.

    “Die you filthy barbarian bastard!” Marcus screamed as he lunged forward at one German, bashing another aside with the eagle. He caught the first right under the right collar bone, the bright red liquid streaming down his gladius almost instantly. The second was knocked on his feet from the force of the eagle hitting him across the temple. Four more barbarians moved in swiftly to take their place.

    Flavius moved in his direction to assist him, but then three more barbarians ran between them rapidly to cut him off. Two were wielding one-handed axes without a shield in the other arm, and another seemed to be using his javelin as a short spear. Flavius had some momentum though, and ran right into the closest axe-man with his shield braced hard against his body, sending the man crashing into the ground. Flavius almost followed him down, but barely managed to keep his footing in the muddy ground. He quickly regained his footing just in time to strafe out of the way of the man with the javelin, thrusting the point just past his ear. Flavius kicked the man hard in the abdomen, sending him reeling backwards for a moment, just enough time to brace his shield again and run him straight into the ground, and thrust his gladius through the man’s chest.

    The second axe-man was soon on him though, and Flavius had rolled onto his back with his shield held high to block the first two blows. The third cracked the upper part of his shield, the part that had warped the worst from the rain days before. Flavius bashed the shield at the man’s face with what little force he could muster while on his back, but it was just enough to free a moment and the room he needed to slash his gladius at the man’s ankles. The cut sent the man stumbling backwards as he screamed in pain, and he tripped over his comrade as he was regaining his footing, sending them both onto their backs now. Flavius was quick to stand as well, and thrust his gladius into each man’s chest as they were grounded.

    Flavius looked up only to see more Germans, most of whom were busy overwhelming other Romans. He looked in the direction he last saw Marcus.

    Marcus had lost his sword and was fighting with just the eagle in hand, but to no avail. He tried thrusting the end of it at one German, only to have it parried with ease. Marcus had managed to kill at least five before that though, judging by the bodies around him, and the last one near him he was about to kill.

    A javelin soared through the air just then, hitting Marcus directly in his back. The impact barely seemed to jar him, but it stopped him dead in his tracks even so. The barbarian who threw it was no more than ten meters away, and another beside him was now walking up to Marcus, sword in hand. Marcus was able to turn and see his attacker face to face, but his strength sapped and weapon gone, he was helpless against this man.

    Flavius broke into a run to help him. “Marcus! MARCUS!” he shouted, tripping over a body on his way towards him. When Flavius rose, he saw the German grab Marcus by the hair, and open his throat from ear to ear. The eagle fell from his hands and into the muddy earth.

    Too filled with rage and too exhausted to cry out again, Flavius took to flight, running straight at the German who just killed his friend, a bloodlust in his eyes that even the famed German berserkers might envy. With just a gladius in hand, such a charge was foolish. So is the thought I’ll live to see tomorrow, he thought.

    Flavius was so fast that the man scarce had time to turn around and look before Flavius leapt at him, thrusting his gladius into his belly, and crashing down with him upon the earth. Flavius loosed his grip on his weapon and left it stuck where it was, proceeding to beat the man across the face with the eagle that lay just nearby. Flavius beat his face in over and over, until you couldn’t recognize it once belonged to a man.

    It had all happened so quickly, that Flavius nearly forgot about the second man nearby, until he heard him scream in the same agonized whelp he had when he called to Marcus. “Thoran!”

    Chapter 4 – Saturius

    The Roman sat there over Thoran, bashing his face in with the eagle itself, as if to insult him even further after burying that blade into his gut. “Thoran, no!”

    Saturius sprinted headlong at the Roman, who looked up just in time to see him running straight for him. He managed to stand in time to meet the charge, but he was unarmed now and had no way to break the charge. Saturius tumbled over the fallen man and regained his footing instantly, but realized that moment that in his rage he had left his sword on the ground a ways back where he had thrown the javelin. Now he was unarmed too.

    The Roman stood up as well, and for a moment they stared at each other, a hard look in their eyes, with blood and sweat trickling down their faces and clothing soiled by mud and water. Saturius charged first, meaning to tackle the Roman again, but this time to recover from the fall in the direction of Thoran, where he could at least pick up the man’s sword. Despite his hatred towards him for the way Thoran had treated him the past week, he still had some love for the man as his mentor, and only real friend for most of his life.

    He charged as he intended, but the Roman dodged to the side with such speed that it took Saturius by surprise and he tripped over himself instead. The Roman took back his gladius from the gut of the dead man, poised to strike down on Saturius in an instant.

    Saturius thankfully landed face-up and saw this, and was able to just barely dodge the downward thrust of the sword, and proceed to sweep the Roman from his feet by kicking at his knees. It bought just enough time for him to pickup Thoran’s sword, and even the playing field.

    He caught a quick glimpse of the battle as he stood though. Everywhere, the Romans were dead or dying. He noticed one Roman, likely an officer by the mail and helm he wore, killing himself just moments before four Germans caught up to him. What few Romans remained alive now were routing back beyond the earthen wall. All save for this one Roman before Saturius now. He knows he will die, and he doesn’t fear it now, Saturius thought. Brave, but it wouldn’t stop him from killing the bastard Roman.

    Saturius took the first steps, with a careful but powerful lunge right at the Roman. The blow he parried easily, but he knew the Roman would have to get in close to make us of his short stabbing sword. And Saturius was pretty good with his long sword. He could easily keep him at just enough of a distance to stay safe from that gladius.

    He sprang forward again with a powerful thrust, and the Roman jumped back again, parrying, but he followed with another sideways cut. The Roman parried that too, and the next. Their swords clanged against another blow after blow. Saturius only felt stronger with each.

    But the Roman was not a bad swordsman either. He met each attack with a swift parry, despite looking too exhausted to manage even that. Left, right, backslash, thrust, upswings, downswings, Saturius always attacking but the Roman always parrying.

    Breathless, Saturius stopped his attack for a brief moment. “You’re not half bad, Roman,” he said, in clear Latin. The Roman likely didn’t expect that from a barbarian scumbag such as himself. Even so, he took a slow deep breath, and just smiled back. He looks like father too, Saturius noted. A lot like that man I killed, only younger.

    Saturius pressed the attack again. Their swords rang and scraped one another as they continued their little dance. The Roman indeed could not outreach his longsword to attack him instead, but he was doing so well on the defensive that Saturius starting having his doubts about his supposed advantage.

    He stopped his attack for a moment to look around again. He had wondered why he was still fighting this one Roman alone, why no other had come up to help him. As luck would have it, it seemed most others were chasing routed Romans themselves, or yelling taunts at them, or finishing off the wounded that lay near the wall. A few seemed to just be watching his little duel, which was seemingly the only real fight going on anymore.

    Saturius had let his mind wander for a moment too long, and in an instant the Roman had come at him, blade whirling, and a downward slash that hit against his own sword with enough force to bring it down for an moment and make him stumble. The next instant the Roman let loose another quick clash at him that caught him across his chest, from collar bone to breastbone.

    He let out a fierce, short howl. Sharp as the pain was from the cut, it was hardly enough to stop him from fighting now. The Roman had thought him nearly defeated though, and let his guard down for a moment as well. Saturius took that moment to shove him down onto the ground. He aimed a stab at his chest, but the Roman threw out a quick uppercut that threw off his aim and instead he thrust his sword just below his right shoulder.

    He followed the thrust through, and soon lay atop the Roman as he gasped for air. The wound was enough to see to it that he bled out. Saturius was almost content with letting the bastard bleed to death. Slowly and painfully. He looked at the Roman now though, face to face, noticing again how much he looked like that man he killed the other day. How much he looked like his father. For a moment, that doubt lingered over him as he looked into the man’s eyes more sharply.

    And then the Roman produced a dagger, likely hidden under his tunic or belt. He thrust the dagger with his left hand upward, into the side of Saturius’ neck, in an instant. Saturius could only gasp, and clutched hard onto the Roman’s shoulders, in a vain attempt to shake him violently. Only the strength to do so would not come to him. His neck burned intensely, air caught in the back of his throat and would not move. He gasped again, only to have warm sticky blood begin to fill his throat. He coughed up the blood, only to have more take its place, and then he knew he was a dead man. Saturius let out one final gasp, which turned into a faint yell, as he tried shaking the Roman’s head and twisting his sword around more. But he stopped hearing suddenly, stopped trying to breathe. He saw the dagger as the Roman pulled it from his neck. He thought he recognized it, and now the man below him, and who he was, and…

    Sleep came upon him more heavily than ever now though, and he shut his eyes to rest.



    Flavius


    Exhausted, Flavius struggled to push the dead barbarian off of him. The way he had looked at him when he shoved the dagger into his neck was surreal. Flavius had seen many men die before, and killed many as well. But the man he just killed had seemed…different, somehow. Perhaps it was because that was the last man he would ever kill. He looked at the sword buried under his right shoulder, and he knew he had little time.

    So much for a quick death, he thought solemnly. He turned his head lightly to survey the scene around him. The Romans were gone, all dead, dying or routed. The barbarians were coming towards him now, seeing his fighting done. And hopefully to kill me quickly.

    As they walked towards him, he turned his head back to the man he just killed. His face looked much like his own, he noticed. Much like his own, as well as their father’s. He even looked the same age as Flavius. Could that really be...?

    Two barbarians towered over him now, a fierce look in their eyes. One knelt by the man he had killed, looking at the knife wound at his neck. He looked down at Flavius now, with a blank stare, void of any emotion.

    Flavius did not want to look at him any longer. “Kill me, you ugly bastard, kill me or leave me be.” Likely the Germans wouldn’t understand his Latin, but they looked at each other for a moment, before one turned down his spear and thrust it downwards over his breast. Flavius could only let out a small smile, thanking the gods for granting him this mostly quick death.


    untitled - Entry #12

    It was in the last three months of World War II. Germany, after the failure of Battle of Bulge, was practically defeated by the Allies and Soviets. But there was still a light at the end of the tunnel for Hitler. He had a plan to win the war and soon, he will put it into practice.
    A hundred scientists worked days and night to finish a mighty machine called "Die Zeitmaschine" literally meaning The Time Machine・ Its purpose was to send Hitler and hisstaff back into '33 for them to go through Word War II again and fix their pre-war and wartime mistakes. Hitler thought that by using it, he will win World War II and crush the Allies and Soviets forever.
    Research on the project began in '36, when two hundred sixty-four scientists working for SS gathered in an underground complex to see if time travel was possible. In 1938, when they found out that you could travel back in time , Hitler asked them to build a time machine to send him and his staff back in time in case WW2 would fail. Construction started in 1942.
    Now, 23rd February 1945, Hitler was supervising the last construction phase of the Zeitmaschine. Now, the ultimate weapon of the Nazi regime was almost ready and its shape and outer appearance was finalized. Only the code that regulated time machine's function and minor luxury items had to be added.
    The Zeitmaschine looked like a train in a tube. The tube's course was circular, so that the "train" could reach a high enough speed before starting the time travel procedure. The ones inside could not feel any sort of movement except seeing the tunnel's inner walls through the transparent glass-like material that was above their heads. Inside the machine, there was a big control panel to set the date you wanted to travel to. There was also a fridge with food and water supplies, because no one could ever say in what time Hitler and his associates will reach '33.
    But Hitler did not know that one of his friends, namely Fegelein, wanted to send him into the age of Louis XIV The Sun King.
    Fegelein was preparing this plot for two months and on 24th February 1945, he adressed one of the hundred scientists:
    "Hey, Franz, let's talk a little."
    "Ok, Fegelein."
    "Well, I heard you're one of the coders for Die Zeitmaschine. Can you do something for me?"
    "Yes, just say what you want."
    "I want you to change the dates for the machine so that 1933 will mean 1664."
    "Why?"
    "JUST DO IT! I'll give you money for that. 2000 Reichsmarks!!"
    "Ok, ok, I'll just do it."
    "Perfect! Oh God, how much I wanted this day to come! Now my plans are complete! Now I can become Fuehrer!!! Just imagine: 'Heil Fegelin'! It sounds amazing!! Thank you, Franz. Here are your Reichsmarks."
    "No, I should thank you."
    "Shut up and do it."
    "Ok."
    Franz changed the code so that 1933 meant 1664. Not a single man in Hitler's cabinet knew what ahppened. Oh, and Hitler did not want to take Fegelein with him. He was too unsuitable for the plan.
    The launching day came closer and closer, and Hitler became more impatient as time was passing.
    Finally, the day of the launch, 4th March 1945 came and everyone was nervous to try the new Wunderwaffe. They all scrambled to their places in the machine: Hitler, Goring, Eva Braun, Ribbentrop, Himmler, Goebbles and Speer. When everything was ready, the controller, Hitler, pushed a button to initialize the procedure and the machine started to move inside the tunnel, inreasing it's speed every second until it stabilized. No one could feel the speed of movement of the train-like machine, but if you looked through the glass-like windows above your head, you could see how fast the machine was.
    When the speed was stable, and not rising, everyone said a prayer for everything to go right and then Hitler wrote the year they wanted to return to: 1933. Yes, 1933! In fact, instead of moving them back in time with 12 years, it will send them 2 and a half centuries ago! (and in France).
    Fegelein assisted the procedure. He smiled and told hmself "What a good leader I will be!!・
    The Zeitmaschine started then to travel back in time. The residents of the "Time Train" waited 2 days before they could get to the desired time. (or not)
    The sound the time flow made was discrete and it could only be heard as a hum by the people who have the beats hearing. The ones in the machine did not hear a thing.
    The machine was flowing back in time, and the atmosphere inside it was sleepy.
    Suddenly, after 2 days of silence, a great thunder was heard, accompanied by a rapid roll of the train sideways to the left. The one inside could only get into a drawer-like furniture piece and wait for the end of the roll.
    The rolling stopped after tewo minutes. The Zeitmaschine crashed into French countryside. Hitler and his cabinet members were too dizzy to say anything, and they fell asleep.
    Meanwhile, in '45 England, at radio:
    "This is London calling. Here is a news flash. The German radio has just announced that Hitler is dead. I repeat that, the German radio has just announced that Hitler is dead. "
    The people were shocked and the only thing the newly-instituded Fuehrer could do was to sign an armistice at Potsdam to stop the bloodshed.
    While the radio in Germany announced that Hitler is dead. In France, peasants were gathering around the strange thing of witchcraft the Zeitmaschine was.
    When everyone inside woke up, they could hear what seemed to be a man's voice saying: "BURN THE WITCHES!!"
    Hitler then said: "Let's burn you, idiot! I'm the Fuehrer, no one has ever burned nor will anyone burn me! Understood?"
    The peasant didn't hear anything. Instead, they came with ropes and nails and wood to burn the "Nazi witches" alive.
    When Hitler got out, he was shocked: "This is not mein Germany! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?" The cabinet members inside were stunned to hear suchthings and so, they got out one by one. When no one was left inside, the French peasants ran towards the Nazi witches to tie them with ropes and carry them to the burning site. They also sent an emissary to the Sun King to come and see the witches.
    The nazis were tied up and ready to be transported in no time. All they said was a quiet "Scheisse!"followed by complete silence, 'cause they knew that they would all die in the next 2 hours. The village they were brought to was one near Paris, so the King was able to come quckly. Such a great capture was not to be neglected.
    At the burning site, which was an improvised circle with thick poles in the ground arranged in a circle and with wood around the poles. The nazis were tied up to the poles and the people then waited for the king to show up. He came shortly. There was no non-nervous nazi. No one was crying though.
    The king, after he came, said:
    "Who are you? Witches?"
    "No, king, said Hitler, I am the Fuehrer of Germany and they..."
    "Fuehrer? Quel Fuehrer? I have not heard such nonsense in my whole life. BURN THE WITCHES!"
    The wood around the poles was set ablaze by a peasant. The end was quick, though, as the nazis burnt quickly.
    And so the peasants cheered that the Earth was less full of witches, and the king organized a "fete" at the palace for a week.
    And so our story end, with Hitler and his associates never knowing who betrayed them: the code or someone in their antourage?
    Last edited by Vađarholmr; September 05, 2013 at 03:32 AM.
    {I cook weird stuff}-{Patronised by the fearsome Chloe}
    „[...] ţví ađ međ lögum skal land vort byggja en eigi međ ólögum eyđa.“
    (The Frosta-thing law, 1260)

    Is acher in gaíth innocht,
    fu-fuasna fairggae findfolt:
    ní ágor réimm mora minn
    dond láechraid lainn ua Lothlind.

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

    On beer bellies, vampires and dreams - Entry #13


    On beer bellies, vampires, and dreams
    Something rather bizarre happened to me the other day and I thought you’d find it amusing.

    Now, at this point it’s important to note the tone of this post from here on out – it’s written with my tongue very much in my cheek. Take it as read that this isn’t to be taken too seriously, I certainly didn’t at the time.

    So…

    The other night I was at Dany’s (my favorite bar), celebrating, firstly the presence of a friend from out of town, and secondly, having eaten the best steak I’ve found in Beirut to date, at Cru.

    I was looking forward to having three margaritas too many and was hanging up my coat when two women approached me.

    To cut to the chase, they were shooting a commercial to be aired on Russian TV and asked me if I was interested in modeling. Remember, this is all tongue in cheek.

    Now, let me preface this … I’ve done a few shoots, but never on a commercial basis. My time in front of the camera has always been a favor to a friend who needs to flesh out (pardon the expression) their portfolio, or an informal shoot for my university department’s prospectus, that kind of thing. All very fun, not too serious, paid for in beer. I’ve always felt I had a face for radio. In any case, I’ve never really been in front of the camera before.

    Also, there’s the issue of my body. Technically I am member of a gym. Technically. The head instructor stated that I must lead, and I quote, “a very sedentary lifestyle” when I first joined. He was right too... I’m writer by trade after all, too many glasses of wine and packs of cigarettes in front of my laptop. Suffice it to say that I frequently receive the old ‘pat on the stomach and “ahhh” routine’ from my female friends.

    Plus, Russian TV? Really? But then again, this is Beirut, strange things happen in this town.

    Anyway, the prospect of making a little extra margarita money is always welcome and, let’s face it, it was flattering… at least it would be so long as I didn’t have to get down to my imitation CK briefs... So I signed up and exchanged numbers.

    The following evening I received an SMS telling me where they when. Not a problem, I knew the area and got there in good time, allowing for the fact I anticipated walking around in circles for a while.

    What I found that night looked like the digs for local squatters. Broken windows, the door swinging in the wind and water running in rivers due to the driving rain. After convincing myself that the building was in fact empty, all the lights are off, I stuck my head into the nearest dukan (a corner shop to the non-Arabs out there) and asked for directions. Sure enough that’s the place, the guy even told me the right floor. Confidence goes up.

    Right, OK. Out comes the phone, on goes the torch and in I go. It’s at this point out an observation is necessary for the non-Lebanese reading this: Time and again you’ll get invited to someone’s house or to an office and you’ll often walk through a rundown neighborhood, electricity wires hanging off buildings, litter on the streets, ripped up roads, overflowing skips, etc., only to walk into said office or home to find a beautifully appointed / decorated interior; So at this point I wasn’t overly concerned… well, sort of… this was an upmarket part of Beirut and this was the only building of its kind…

    I head up a few flights of stairs, get to the right floor and there’s nothing, it’s absolutely pitch black. Guided by my trusty phone light I head off down a long corridor, doors on each side, no signs anywhere and all a bit post-apocalyptic.

    At this point I was reminded of those clichéd horror films the Scary Movie franchise made fun of. You know … the one where some girl (probably wearing next to nothing) gets lured to a deserted building and is found the following day in a plastic sack on the side of the road? Yeah. Well. I’m a big guy, but that just means they’d need a bigger sack… Given that I’d recently watched Let the Right One In, a Swedish movie about the undead, disembodiment and, strangely, the growing love between a weird little boy and his vampire girlfriend, I was beginning to think that I really shouldn’t have kicked the cat that morning.

    Anyway, finally I reach the right door and lo and behold, there’s the name of the production company! I might actually get the chance to start that ridiculously convoluted Japanese novel that’s been on my shelf for a while… Then “bang!” on come the lights and I’m blinking frantically, half expecting to hear shouts of “Achtung! Achtung!” followed by sporadic bursts of gunfire.

    Eventually I can see again and five minutes later, as I’m still stood knocking on the door and my phone calls go unanswered, fears of twelve-year-old vampires flood back into my mind.

    Finally the door opens and I’m led (through a very nicely decorated office I might add) to the audition room. There are the two women from the previous night. Perhaps my mother won’t be receiving a phone call after all.

    Now, a friend has subsequently told me that this is completely normal, but I stood there talking about myself (which despite having a blog is something I rarely do at length) to camera. And being told to smile. Hard. All the time. For around ten minutes. I’m a surly sod from time to time and obviously the muscles weren’t in order as I was soon in pain.

    Eventually we get to the meat of the casting: the “acting” part. Heh. Right. So here’s what they got me to “do”… Keep in mind that I’m the only one there … Imagination is required…

    So, I walk through a city full of people, I’m carrying a Chinese lantern in front of me, the type you light and float into the sky. This lantern represents all my hopes and dreams. I look around, all the people have such a lantern and are carrying them like they are the most precious things in the world. Hesitantly, I have to float my lantern into the sky, following my dreams wherever they may go. Of course, I have to grin like an idiot at the same time. Oh, and there’s a little boy. And his lantern is bigger than mine, because apparently as you age, your dreams wither on the stalk and die (OK, that’s my interpretation of her fraught lantern-dream analogy, but still). He releases his lantern, we both stare as they float away, yadda, yadda, yadda, roll credits.

    Of course, I’m grinning all the way through. “Follow my hand with your eyes, it represents the lantern, I want to feel the love, the passion”, “Think of your dreams, you’re a successful businessman”, “The little boy is so happy, he’s not worried!”

    And did I mention this was an advert for chocolate…? The mind boggles.

    I very much doubt that I’ll be receiving a call as a result of my debut (I really was awful). But if there’s anyone out there who’s doing an advert for something like insurance, or the importance of checking yourself for lumps on a regular basis, I can do a really serious face. Just don’t ask me to grin like a lunatic for thirty minutes on cue. Especially if there are lanterns involved. Or small Swedish vampire girls. Or if I’m in my undies.
    Last edited by StealthFox; September 05, 2013 at 07:45 PM.
    {I cook weird stuff}-{Patronised by the fearsome Chloe}
    „[...] ţví ađ međ lögum skal land vort byggja en eigi međ ólögum eyđa.“
    (The Frosta-thing law, 1260)

    Is acher in gaíth innocht,
    fu-fuasna fairggae findfolt:
    ní ágor réimm mora minn
    dond láechraid lainn ua Lothlind.

  8. #8

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

    Entry #13

  9. #9

    Icon7 Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Long Category Voting Thread

    Entry #13

  10. #10
    Maiar93's Avatar Primicerius
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Long Category Voting Thread

    So many great entries. I personally loved #11, it was such an amazing story! Only thing I felt was lacking was its length; the characters didn't have enough time, I felt, to become important to the reader. It was an 'awesome story', however.
    Predictor of AAR Plot Points and a wannabe forum ninja

  11. #11
    StealthFox's Avatar Consensus Achieved
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    Default Re: Summer 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Long Category Voting Thread

    It was just brought to my attention that there was a slight mix up in entry numbering. Please be aware that Entry #7 comes before Entry #6 in the thread. If you like Entry #7 you will still vote for it in the poll and likewise with Entry #6.

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