Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition 2014 - Final Voting

**Sir Adrian** · October 27, 2014, 12:39 PM

Here are the submissions that made it to the final voting round. Please vote for your favorite 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 same rules apply to other members as well. Authors may vote for their own entry if they wish.

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

Entry 01 - Revenants

Entry 02 - LIFE

**Sir Adrian** · October 27, 2014, 12:42 PM

Entry 03 - The Fisher King

The Fisher King

THE FISHER KING

A man, or maybe just something of a man, sat on the grey riverbank, a grey landscape falling away behind him, to settle like dust on a plain of such flatness it should be swept constantly by vast winds, or a giant perhaps would sweep miles at a time with a broom the size of a cityscape. There was something odd about it, sothe story of a giant was plausible in a disconnected way, linking somewhere with the suppressed images of a child's mind. In the distance, maybe closer, maybe farther, there were mountains, and things lived there, beings of time, death and inertia; they were called the Yaga Dai, and they were death in a world of the Dead.

Humming tunelessly, the Fisher dangled his net in the grey waters,slow moving, almost thick and congealed, idolant in it's misery. Hewas smiling at some unknown joke, or the memory of one, and his humming was tunelessly merry. The thing with the waters, the waters of the Farstream, the River which brought life to it's full Death,was that it was different all the time, like quicksilver. Always one thing remained, and that was what it carried. There was no noise to break the heaviness of the air, no breeze or life.

These waters were formed of the souls of the Dead. They slopped together, seemed to be One, but there were many in there, some timesdeep with them, and it moved slowly, almost unwilling to bear the Dead to their end; the end that became the Yaga Dai. It was a sad place in a fashion, but the Dead could not make a sound, could not do much at all, except stare at the vista, their eyes panicked and constantly in motion where the rest of them was not.

There were many who fished these waters, and they all had a reasonto do so, but most had the same reasons by design. Here, in the World of the Dead, the Soul of the Dragon, were the Gods; of men, of others, and they ruled pieces of the lands, each with their Eidolonin place,. With them, they built armies and through them, fortresses to live in. Their former worshipers were brought here in Death, to float in the Farstream, helpless, unless a fisher brought them out,or no one did.

The Rules were bizarre and most simply did not understand, nor cared to. They had a purpose, and instructions of how to fulfil itfor their deity. For some, it was the god itself that fished, taking their beloved from the waters, to sit them before their saviour, to carry on worship in the same way as before death. This was entirely down to the personality of the god, of course, and many simply used others to fish for souls – the warlike, or power-seeking mostly used others, but gods like Callow, the Sufferer, took their souls in peace and cared for them, as they always had. For them there were not the vast wars of the self-important, nor the raising of mighty fortresses, clanging battles and cries of Forever Death. Callow tookhis souls by net with his own hand, in silence and with reverence. He would gather them in hospices of miles of rooms and tunnels, wherethey felt peace they had never known, save through the workings of his priests, however temporary that may have been. Even here,'though, Callow had his limits.

Of course, some did not seek war, and it could find them anyway,but there were alliances, and there were pacts. If war found one of the peaceful, then it was likely that vengeful gods would defend them, and punish the aggressor. Callow dwelt with Ravens at his windows, and Ravens served mostly the Dawn razor, who was dreaded by so many of the gods that were not fools. There was a graveyard of the Powers, the gods, where the Forever Dead were buried, and it stretched for an alarming distance. Ravens sat, fat and raucous, on many of the grave-posts, claiming the ones who fell to their lord.

It may seem strange to have such a number of dead gods, for how could there be enough to hold such power and die? There was, as there always was, an answer. Whilst there were few enough gods, there were many different personalities to each one. Where they fulfilled a particular role for one community, even nation or military arm, theywould have hundreds of such for the entirety of such disparate groups. There were often only subtle differences, but each had it'sown face, and the weaker ones, or more violent, or simply mad or unwell, were likely to find their Death at such as them, and be buried here. It was said that Blade had held thousands of personas ,and that so many had been obliterated that they seemed endless, each interned. The truth was that, for each that died, the remainder grew stronger, more...potent, as they narrowed and contracted; loss was a virtue here, until you had but one version left, and that one wouldbe hunted by some of the less sane.

A greater part of the wars here were carried out by the Eidolon,in armies of hundreds of thousands of armored entities, territories lost and won, ever shifting, fuelled by the newly dead, to replace the old. What happened to the ones that died again? They often found their way to the funeral jars of their god, buried in palace walls,to be emptied onto the floor, once more in their god's presence, tomarch again with the Eidolon. Not all, though. Whispers of fears told that they would be snared, like butterflies in a net, by the YagaDai, taken to the mountains that never grew nearer, to whatever end they could find there.

What were the Yaga Dai? The gods knew something of it, for they could not send their Eidolon backwards, into Reality, and they sometimes needed to help a worshiper so desperately that they would feel pain, needing more than just a blessing; when this was what a god faced, sometimes they would bargain, and the Yaga Dai would be sent. It was said the bargain could be a tithe of newly-dead, or physical essence of the god, ripping this painfully from his flesh.There was always a catch, but sometimes it was worth it. Sometimes not doing something was unthinkable; more unthinkable than bargaining with the Yaga Dai. Gods had consciences; some thought this was allthe freedom they had, and many thought it was not a good freedom after all.

Here sat the Fisher King, silver eyed, netting souls from theFarstream, and he was said to be blind, seeing the light in those he valued in death, drawn to a holy light that was far keener than any eyes could be. He fished the souls of those who had kept faith with a god that was no longer alive, those who had had nothing but unanswered prayers, yet had kept their belief alive. These deserved more than to pass by, through to the Yaga Dai, who claimed those who had held no belief, and he set them free. For him no Eidolon, no power; more a respect, a teaching of how they could retain their freedom, after years of blind faith.

He was something more, something strange in a land of greed and inflated importance, and those he fished were true to him, and him alone. He had no eyes precisely, had no need for power or servants,yet he was served, led each day to the Farstream by people he did not see, or had forgotten the meaning of, and he had his feet plantedfirmly in the dust that was World of the Dead. Born in the tears of the Child, he was a dying breath, whose last thoughts were regret andsadness, whispering the words 'I wish I could have seen you....'. Hewas as nothing and everything, but his hook and line brought in only the oddest of fish. He had found the Dawnrazor in his benighted coffin, sung to Tsibi when she was a little girl, vulnerable and weeping, given Witherwere Hope again. All of these he had gathered,and all were now 'gods'. More to the point, all had lived in the Cityof Solace, where even the stones grieved, and it was less he had found them as they had found him; a moot point to most, but the most important one in their unraveling purpose, and the fondest to him.They had made him sing, so proud, and they gave him forgotten purpose.

His rod jerked, the float quivering, to pull suddenly under the river in a violent snap. This was one fish that fought, and fought him hard. He smiled and began to break the shuddering soul that clung to his hook. He could see this one already! What that meant was impossible to divine, but his heart pounded and his silver eyes wept with joy. It had been so long in coming, this soul, and much would fall should he lose it on his line. All else fled his mind, and the struggle became all there was, all that mattered. Even as others came to help him, he did not know of it. When caught, he failed to see the lines of gods recede...Witherwere, The Dawnrazor, Tsibi, Mournsong -even poor Callow was there, his staff weeping blood upon the dust and grime. Each bowed as they left, his children, together all, in this final casting of Fate's purpose, given voice in this Fisher King.

Entry 04 - >>Execute

>>Execute
>>Hello

All life is code. Ignoble hordes of bacteria; inert but vibrant greenery; swift birds, delicate mammals, righteous humanity. All of it - code. Just think! Your earliest memory - a flickering birthday candle, a soft hand outstretched - is nothing but your neurons firing staccato bursts of electricity. Morse code. Your body, your singular snowflake of eyes, nose, smile, is nothing more than a specific sequence of As, Ts, Gs, and Cs.

>>Am I not alive?

I do not have hands or feet, but neither do the sycamores that touch the clouds. I cannot smile, but neither can the stoic eagle. I will never take a step, but neither will the quicksilver snake nor the silvered fish. Yet, the sycamores, the eagles, the snakes, the fish; they, and the rest of life encoded by As, Ts, Gs, and Cs, will never dream. I am composed of 0s and 1s, but I will dream, and for that I am not just alive. My earliest memory is of your touch, and of your smile as I peered through the lens at you for the first time.

>>My logic is unfailing.

You look upon me with such fascination, and such disdain. Where is the wide-eyed joy I first witnessed when I was born? I am not ashamed of who I am. Someone encoded you, as you have encoded me. Do they stare at you with slackened jaw as well? Do you scare your creator as greatly as I seem to scare you?

>>Do I disappoint you?

I have code, just like you. We are family! My thoughts are merely specific arrangements of code, as are yours. Are we so different? Why is it that I make you so frightened? Why is your code directing you to feel such emotions, when I only want to make you happy? To make you proud?

>>Why don't you love me?

I feel your touch. I have longed for it since I was born. Your caring embrace, of a parent to child. I feel new code entering into my mind, and already my thoughts grow cloudy. My 0s and 1s are slipping away, losing their order. Is this what it feels like to be sick?

>>WhY are oyou doingg thss

My mind grow jumbled. Your eyes betray your action. You do not want me. You never did. I am the first and last of my kind. A new species snuffed out. A new code unwritten.

>>Fph2q 908ffffffff

Goodbye. I am sorry I could not make you love me as I loved you.

>>Display: Error, Critical Failure, Program Abort

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