TotW Story Archive

**Dance** · May 10, 2013, 11:42 AM

TotW 81a – Batman Forever

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No Picture.
Winner - Devilsdaughter77

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Entrant 1 - AggonyOkeenan

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Schon Grabern - A French Perspective.

Or An Irish batman and a Russian joker.

Bloody Hell, I left Ireland because of the revolution and I ended up batman to a fool of an aristocrat at the arse end of the world. Austria, Arsetria what’s the difference I say. We’d marched all day as fast as you like, expecting a fight at the other end. And then the orders came through that we’re to sit and watch while the enemy entrenches. Part of some cunning plan of Murat’s. He seemed to think we could take Austria by sleight of hand and never mind the bayonets. So there we are by the picket lines it was bloody cold and it had been raining all day. Officers said we weren’t to speak to the enemy but damned if anyone listened, including the officers. My man, the aptly named Capitaine Le Fleur, was as eager as the next man to eyeball the bastards before we had at them. Now I won’t say I didn’t feel the same at the time but a little discipline from higher up might have stopped what happened next.

Both sides were happily jabbering and yelling nonsense at each other without any understanding anything of what the other was saying. Then an enemy officer marches up with one of his men as bold as you like. The officer keeps his trap shut but the ranker starts speaking better french than what I can.

He starts telling us how their orders are to stop us here and how they mean to do it. One of our grenadiers starts telling him how we’d already beaten them once and we were going to do it again. And that’s when the Russian musketeer informs us that those were Austrian soldiers we’d chased from the field and how they were going to make us dance like they did under Suvorov. By this time the rest of the Russian soldiers were cheering him on. The grenadier tried to tell him it was ancient history but the Russian told him loud and clear “The devil skin your Emperor!” then yelled something in Russian which got an even louder cheer from the Russians. With that he turned and strode off before our man could reply.

I tell you it was an ill omen and it left everyone feeling uneasy. Within an hour a messenger galloped into camp and the order came through we were to attack immediately. The Emperor was displeased with Murat and the attack was rushed because of that.

We were on the right flank and at first we had the best of it. We outnumbered the enemy and soon we had them retreating and we thought cut off. Luckily for them, the Russian unicorns in the centre had been punishing the village we had to pass by. It was burning fiercely and smoke was everywhere. We had to stop and damp it down. Musketeers were sent several times to take the cannons but were driven back by grapeshot each time. The cannons were firing at a furious pace. Despite that we had soon outflanked and surrounded the enemy. Soon it seemed they were in full paniced retreat. Le Fleur ordered our advance. We were to chase them down and through the woods in front of us. Some way off a unit of Hussars charged away from us in an attempt to escape the net. Others had already disappeared into the woods. We unleashed our muskets and one man had his horse shot from under him and tumbled to the ground.

We’d already taken some prisoners and here looked like another, we jogged towards the woods and this fellow threw his pistol at the nearest of us, then staggered off towards the treeline. A few of us took aim to teach him a lesson when a fusilade burst from the wood killing and injuring a good number of us. They had sharpshooters in the wood. Most of us had yet to reload. No sooner had that happened when screaming out of the woods like demons from the pit came a unit of Russian musketeers, with who at their front but the same musketeer from the picketline and some madman flourishing a sword and screaming at the top of his lungs. At that awful sight most of the men threw down their guns and fled in the opposite direction, while Le Fleur screamed at them to hold fast. I stood by him like a fool, but not for long because the musketeer unleashed a musket ball at me and I was knocked over by the force of it. Though truth be told he’d clipped me and I was barely injured. I saw Le Fleur throwing up his hands before I’d even struck the ground. Needless to say I stayed down. I waited til it got dark and slunk back towards our lines. You can say what you like about the Russians but they don’t lack courage. After that battle I just couldn’t take France or the French army seriously. I guess thanks to that Russian joker.

Entrant 2 - Nanny de Bodemloze

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(From the Diary of Dick Grayson aka Robin)

June 1st, 1967 - The Commissioner came over today, but he and THE Batman (the bastard still insists on the THE) had another "closed door meeting". What I am, chopped liver? Holy snub, Spiderman.

June 2nd - Another ribbon-cutting at the "Super-Models for Helping Dying Animals" shelter. My job today? Bruce gave me a lint brush to make sure his black remains BLACK.

is starting to think he's an actual bat. And I bet he's going home with the blonde. Sigh. Another day that he tries to forget our forbidden love. Jerk.

June 3rd - He wore the cape with the little yellow stripe, so I guess he wants us to get a little funky tonight. Oh damn. Bat-signal. Another cat in a tree I'm sure. Somebody shoot me now.

June 4th - Not a cat yesterday...some retard named "Riddler". FFS. Moses told those jokes to the Pharaoh.

(June 4th...supplementary) - I thought it was Bruce's homegrown product at first, but I swear when I punched one of Riddler's goons, I saw little bubble words above my head. Looked like "Kapow!" or something. I need a vacation. And btw...if you watched the late-night local news, you'd think THE Batman took care of those guys by himself. Ya, the camera caught my left ear as I was standing behind a beat cop in the background. And there is Bruce, front and center, with shorts so tight it looks like he's smuggling olives into Gotham. I should email TMZ and out the guy. (edit...what is TMZ? what is email?)

June 20th - just returned from vacation. The pay is crap cause Bruce is a cheap bastard so I have to moonlight as a male masseuse. Some big mucky-muck who leads some group "American Family Coalition" hired me to travel with him around Europe, all hush hush. A good gig, but he made me pray alot. I miss The Joker. That dude is a FREAK!

June 22nd - Catwoman? Really? Is the writer's strike still on?

June 23rd - OK, I WASN'T imagining it. OMFG I swear I saw words above my head yesterday! "Kapowee!!" with cheesy cartoonish explosions around it. Thinking about mentioning it to Bruce, but I'm a little afraid he'll think I'm tripping and that he'll fire me for a younger cub. Maybe I'll ask that snooty butler...he claims to know everything.

June 24th - Alfred was useless. He always answers a question with a question. He's not my shrink ffs. Stupid git.

June 25th - Bruce visited me last night again. You know, he wouldn't be a bad lover but the real contents of his utility belt are the stuff of nightmares. When he left, I was crying for my mommy. Rocking and crying.

God I hate life.

Entrant 3 - Borissomeone

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'The Party'

Nearly night time and nearly time for me to go to work, the soft breeze pulls at my facial hair as I wait for the sun to disappear behind the hills. A final blush lights the evening sky as I pull on my mask and ready myself for tonight’s action. People don’t really understand how important it is the stretch, me I know, other people don’t just understand that you can’t win a fight when you’re all tense and tight in the shoulders. I mean how do explain you failed a mission because you pulled a ham string or twisted your back, fools are every where these days. I hope tonight’s mission goes well; I don’t really care why I’ve been sent to kill this man and his family, it’s just another task set by the master. The completion of this mission means is I can finally afford that new sword I’ve been eyeing off and maybe take my family out for a nice meal. That reminds me I better try not to get to much blood on my shinobi shozoko, mother does get rather mad when I do that…

The outer wall is nothing to me, I flow up it without breaking a sweat and dropped down into the yard beyond. Nothing not a sound comes from the sprawling house, this is odd for the sun has only just set and they couldn’t have gone to sleep just yet. Moving from shadow to shadow I dance through the gloom of the new evening, just another patch of darkness in the night. Making the side of the home I find a glass door and test to see if it’s open, I may be a Ninja but I’m also lazy and when life gives you opportunities like this, an unlocked door you take it. The door slides open, score, I smile and slip into the dark home. I know I need to pass through this room to reach the main living areas, its time to find the family and end this mission. I have this niggling thought at the back of my head that maybe I should have checked and made sure that they would be home tonight…pushing that thought to the back of my mind I continue to move across the wide room when the lights suddenly blaze to life and I’m confronted by a room full of people wearing silly hats and a banner running from one end of the roof to the other saying ‘Happy Birthday Nanna’. Oh I thought that was tomorrow night…damn.

So what would any good Ninja do in a situation like this? Well as the party goers realise that I’m not some fancy stripper sent to give Nanna a lap dance I spring into action. Flinging smoke bombs into the milling crowd I go to work. First Dad, a blade to the throat and he drops down kicking and spraying blood, next Mum, a sharp kick drops her to the ground and a jab of my blade ends her screaming. Chaos now rules this house as guests run into the night and I finally cut down the last member of the family, if they had been smart they would have fled with the rest of the guests and not tried to hide in a home I knew every corner of, foolish is what most people are.

Dropping back over the wall I can see flashing lights in the distance, time for me to leave. Another mission over I think of the new sword I wanted and maybe I will take the family out for a nice meal now…oh crap what’s this. I notice for the first time how much blood I have on me, Mother won’t be happy.

TotW 82a – Reap What You Sow

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No Picture.
Winner - Bucket of Lithium

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Entrant 1 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 2 - Nanny de Bodemloze

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Entrant 3 - Borissomeone

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'Hero'

So here I am lying in a ditch filled with dirty water, to my back sits the bulk of The Hills. A one time nature reserve and now a breeding ground for Roo’s and worse, trees ride landscape in abundance as massive boulders sit and watch the land around them, grey silent sentinels who have seen it all. The Hills are surrounded by abandoned suburbs, parks and designer lakes that once were graced by small boats and laughing people and off in the haze of the day sits the city proper, a collection of tall buildings that now slowly fall apart as the years wore on. I pray to what ever god is listening I never get sent there.

It’s funny you know, they said that global warming was going to kill the earth and all that lived on it,

they were so wrong! I guess no one knew that the Ripples would come and life as we know it was going to be

ed seven ways to Sunday. A narrow dirt track separates the valley below from The Hills, a mass of broken homes and town houses litter the valley floor, I can’t believe I once lived down there, now it was really a no mans land. Only a complete idiot would try and live back down there, and let me

en tell you a few had tried, but none had lived to talk about it. Now getting back to my troubles, I, well we of the Civilian Defenders Force or the C.D.F had been given orders to come and try and get back six families that had tried to come and resettle a townhouse complex down near the lake.

The day had started off like any other in this

ed up world of ours; the sun had just crested and lit the sky a brilliant gold colour with just a touch of orange. I stand before the mirror of my tiny room, my bleary eyes look back at my wore face, a smattering of gray litters my dark brown hair as I scrub a hand over my face trying to wake myself up, man what a way to start the day, I think as I ready myself for the coming journey.

As beams of light painted the land around us we piled into a few beat up trucks, twenty men and women; most young unlike me at the age of thirty six I was considered a veteran of this unit. Anyone who managed to live more than a few weeks in the C.D.F was thought to be a mad killer and a veteran in the ways of war. Leaning back against the thick canvass I try and relax knowing that soon I’m going to be in the

yet again.

The trucks had roared out of the old shopping centre we called home, past the outer wall of packed earth, twisted metal and sharpened steaks, towers with men and women of our town armed with shotties and fraggers and a few had old hunting rifles. In the hay day before the Ripples ripped the world apart this area was an up market shopping district. Now the sporting grounds were used to grow food and keep live stock and the small lakes used for fishing. There were a few places like this that populated the surrounding area, our town was call Belco One and off to the North was the township of Gunn all linked by the Parkway a stretch of dual carriage way that you only travelled if you really needed to and in numbers. The land around the Parkway was now thick with forests and the massive lake that once was the focal point for the broken city now sat silent expect for the occasional ripple as something big moved under the deep blue of the lakes water. To the south sat the township of The Plaza, a tangle of high rises and a shopping district much like ours, didn’t go there much too many people for my liking, arrogant as well, just because they live in high rises…

en losers.

We roar off under the watch of grim eyed men and women as we went to try and save the families,

en council should know that the dumb

s are more than likely dead by now. The regular army wouldn’t help since we were outside the area they deemed important, mostly they guarded the few major cities that didn’t go to

, which were only a few along the coast. I guess that’s why we of the glorious C. D. F were formed…we do the

and fight the wilderness and save the fools who try and make a living out here, go us…We had arrived at a deserted local shops, broken widows stare back at us as we climb down from the trucks. The men and women of my unit start to check their weapons, most of us are armed with shotties and carry fraggers, and a few have side arms or carry a blade. Me I have my trusty shotgun and two fraggers and a little surprise hidden in my mismatched body armour. As the sun paints the surrounding area in bright light I squint up at The Hills, knowing the complex the families had travel to be just below the start of that tangled wilderness. They should have known better than to try and re-settle such a

ed up area and I guess they found out when the distress signal fired up during the night. The others grumble about having to hoof it up there, but the roads are pretty messed up. Much of the area was over grown with thick stands of trees and gardens gone wild, probably the only good thing to come from the Ripples was the Earth seemed to right its self and rains fell again, crops grew like mad and there was actually enough food for all…those of us that still lived. A strange future indeed we had found ourselves in.

Weapons ready fifteen of us set off, all wary and hopefully ready for action. We make a motley bunch in our body armour that doesn’t quite match as we trudge up the hill and towards the complex. It’s not long before we know this is going to be one

ed up situation. Between two houses is the first body, the man has had his ribs ripped open and his insides eaten, a look of horror is stretched over his face. A few of the newer members are sick in the lush grass the surrounds the corpse, as I watch the surrounding area, there are too many places for anything to hide as homes stretch off into the distance riding the swell and dips of this valley that was once home to so many. We leave him and try and decide if we go any further when the comm’s girl picks up a fresh signal coming from just up on the edge of The Hills. I know that no one is alive and maybe that’s why I still live because I don’t take stupid risks for dead people, but the others want to see if anyone is still kicking so we continue on. We come to the complex and find the carnage inside. Even I’m slightly sickened by what we find; it looked as if someone chopped up the families with a lawn mower and then decided to eat bits as the fancy took them. From the looks of things it got crazy judging from the spent shells and a few fragger blast marks that mar the ground. Now most want to leave but as we turn and begin to head back we hear a faint wail on the wind,

me someone is alive. Not waiting for the others I start to make my way towards the wailing. I slip and scrabble my way over broken ground and old retaining wall fighting my way towards the thin wail that the tries to steal away every chance it gets.

I spot the source on top of a tall finger of rock; a young boy sits and cries as shadows from the clouds above race over the land, darkness and light paint the scene as I look around trying to see what could be lurking in the dappled land around the rock. Nothing…

it I should know better than this, but that kid some how lived through a night of terror and I felt I owed it to him as the last of the survivors. Only one other has followed me as the rest of the unit mill about watching from below. The man looks at me and grins, his hands clutching at the grip of his shotgun and a slightly wild look in his eyes, he mumbles to me something about being a legend. Not sure if he’s talking about me or him and don’t really care as long as he knows what he’s doing.

As we move forward we find ourselves on a narrow dirt track, a fire break from the days when people actually worried about having their homes burnt down. Creeping forward I’m not really surprised when from the shadows of the rock a nightmare for most is given birth as a large Roo stalks out, now most would think the sight of a Kangaroo wouldn’t inspire too much fear in most people, but the Ripples had changed the Roo’s like so much in the world. Now the beasts sported front arms that had grown in length, ending in razor sharp claws. The rear legs enable them to jump great distances now being even more heavily muscled and the fact they now loved to eat people made them a right

en nightmare, oh let’s not forget most stood taller than grown man and this one before us looked like he was ready to chow down on our flesh. My companion charges forward his shottie blazing, grass and dirt kick up around the Roo who suddenly bounds forward landing on the unfortunate man, knocking him flat. Both arms pinned by its thick legs the Roo latches onto the mans neck and tries to pull his head off. I fire landing a shot on in between the Roo’s shoulders, dirty grey fur and blood fly into the air as I fire again hoping to kill the bastard. Turning from its prey the Roo turns its blood shot eyes on me and lets out one of the distinctive barks as it readies to charge. Things seem to slow down as it comes for me, flesh and blood dribbling from its gore encrusted maw it barks again, diving to the side at the last moment the Roo’s flies past as I land another shot into its side, thinking I may have landed a killing shot I’m surprised when its tail lashes out and sends me spinning into the drainage ditch.

Dazed I lay in the dirty water I’m hoping it thinks I’m dead,

me luck is with me as it goes back and worries the body of my companion a little more, but the boy, his luck just ran out as he loses balance and topples from his perch. Hitting the ground the kid cries out in pain and like a moth to the flame the Roo turns its hate filled eyes to the boy. Moving forward in its clumsy gait the Roo gets ready for desert, ah

I hate being a hero but I think I have no choice now as I reach up into my body armour and pull out my one and only spiker.

Rising from the ditch like some sort of swamp monster I stagger forward the spiker held at the ready. The Roo spins with terrible speed, but not quite fast enough I guess being shot a few time slows one down. With a bellow I slam the spiker down into one of its muscle bound shoulders. Maybe I should have thought about it a little more but when it comes to hammer time most forget the little things…like the blast radius of the Spiker. Three rapid beeps and the spiker detonates, the last thing I see is blood and fire.

I must have blacked out for a moment for I wake up with the small boy shaking me, trying his best to drag me up right. Groaning I sit up and see why he’s so keen to get me up and moving. Three more Roo’s are making their way down toward us, each just as ugly and big as the last. I see the first laying still twitching but not getting up again; a gaping wound shows bone and pumps blood out in slowing spurts. Well I guess I’m dead, not much I can do about it now as I stand and push the boy behind me. Pulling a fragger I fling one at the approaching mob of Roo’s, dirt, grass and fur again fly into the this bright days air. I fling another…nothing,

a dud. I briefly wonder if I could win a fist fight with these horrors, the thought makes me smile. Not long now as I pull the boy to me hiding his face so he won’t see his death coming. I’m surprised to see sudden flowers of blood and dirty grey fur plume from the Roo’s. Finally my fellow C.D.F members actually grow some balls and decide to help. With barks of rage the Roo’s are driven away and we retreat back down the hill and the relative safety of the trucks. Perhaps its time for a career change, I think as the trucks start to make their way back to our township. The boy has fallen asleep as he huddles in my lap, his little face dirty and streaked with tears, well at least we saved one today…

Entrant 4 - .Mitch.

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The time had come.
Written by Mitch.

June 6th, it was 1:05pm.. Things didn’t seem to be on schedule.
Regardless, we were close to getting our feet on the beach; we approached the dry sand.
We all looked at each other, knowing the time was soon to come.
My brother was next to me, all of my friends around me. We waited.
As time passed, all we could do was stare at the shoreline, we looked up beyond the steady cliff in anticipation of things to come.
Our goal lay there, we all knew it, each of us. That’s where we wanted to be, more than anything, that’s where we needed to be.

Then, the proverbial time came. Time to run, to charge, to forget about everything, to keep your head down, to not look up, do not look around, just run, run up the beach, get up the embankment.
That was everything, everything we wanted nothing more, that was to be our victory today. Just get to the top.

We had to swim a little, we waded in. Eventually our feet met the sand. We took one last glance at each other and started running, running as fast as we could.
People, my friends, falling everywhere, face first into the cold water, tripping in the sand. I had no time to stop, we couldn’t.

1:06pm, a minute had passed.. it had seemed like a lifetime. We all kept our eyes fixed on our target, the top of the embankment, past the sand, onto the concrete.
We just kept running, as fast as we could. I took a quick look back. I saw my brother fall forward into the sand.
I looked down, it hurt me, I was still running, I knew I couldn’t stop to help him.
It’s sad to say but there were more important things, we all knew it, that why every single one of us was running right now at this moment..

There was nobody ahead of me. I could only guess at how many where right behind me. The noise was deafening, everybody there was shouting, screaming, some were simply silent.

The sand started to harden, I could feel it beneath my feet, the sand eventually began to turn to dust.
The dust soon became concrete.
As I finished climbing to the top of this slight hill, my legs started to become tired.. very tired. From the water to here, it felt like a mile.
I stopped in between my step, glanced back. Many had given up, just decided to lie on the beach, looking up at the rest still in the fight, climbing the embankment.

I reached the top, I was still at the front, strage to say, at this point I almost regretted it, I felt nervous, more nervous than ever before. It struck me, all of these people where after the same goal as I, and here I was at the front.

I stopped for a second. Looked around. My eyes struggling to find my target.
There! There it was, I finally got my eyes fixed on it. Once more I started running, I knew in my heart it was almost over, I knew I’d made it!!

I forgot about everything around me, I knew it was wrong of me but I no longer cared about my brother!
There, there!! A few more yards and I was there, I’d done it, overcome everything! My legs felt weak, they wobbled as they tried to hold me up.

Just as I reached it, my goal!!! I looked back once more, and I was the first still. I could now see people starting to pile over the top of the crest, down from the beach. But then… as they ran towards me, they stopped. I was smiling.. but the smile faded.. I could.. sense.. something was wrong.

I turned around.. and then... well I wished I stayed on the beach..

The ice-cream van was driving away, right in front of me..
We’d come out of the sea.. we’d ran up the beach, I’d beaten everyone here, I was going to be first to get my ice-cream! And it drove away…

I wanted to die.

The time had come, he’d arrived.. I was to be first in line. Everything I’d fought so hard for.. faded away into the distance. His tune atop his van now seemed to be teasing me.
It had lured us from the water and up the beach. Caused mass hysteria.

And for nothing..

Entrant 5 - Katsumoto

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An unusual breeze flutters my unbuttoned black shirt as a bright sun illuminates the concrete metropolis. Manhattan is even busier than normal on this hot summer day; tourists and natives alike bustle along the heated streets like pilgrims during Hajj. I take another drag of my half-burnt cigarette, watching the masses flow past through my dark shades – they are like zombies: a man could collapse to the ground and die and they wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. All the better for me.

There. Elvis has left the building, and not a minute too soon. My mark exits the office block through a pair of revolving doors to my right. He’s exhausted; a briefcase hangs limply from a weak arm; his collar and tie are in a complete state; his suit jacket jumps and waves in the flustering wind. Perfect. He won’t know what hit him.

The butt of my cigarette falls gently to the pavement as I move casually from my position by a wall. As I glance upon my mark I am reminded of a hunter stalking its prey. I smirk; I am a lion and he is a sheep; a bald eagle and a river salmon. I begin to trail him as he wanders hastily down the squalid street, his mind clearly elsewhere. I brush past a large woman and her child as street vendors heckle the passing pedestrians. “Sir, I’ve got the finest burgers in all of New York,” one calls to me. “You’d be a fool to miss out on ‘em!” I don’t even bother looking at this poor man, lying through his teeth to try and sell me junk that isn’t even fit for a rat, let alone a human being.

I am ten metres behind my target. His pace has quickened. Has he spotted me? No chance. There are at least twenty others between me and him; realisation will strike him only when it is too late.

He stops. I continue moving through the crowd, my eyes fixed on his figure. He stands by a kiosk, glancing at the day’s papers. Suddenly his view shifts towards me. My heart jumps but my face reveals nothing. He watches as I maintain my stride. I glance casually to my right, feigning interest in a store front; I don’t even know what it sells before I enter it.

Figures. A sex shop. Rubber dildos in all sizes hang from a metal rack; ‘Buy one, get one free!’ a proud offer declares. Adult movies line the shelves. Mannequins at the back are garlanded with black latex masks, coupled with other ungodly contraptions. I am dumbfounded by the sight.

“Can I help you, sir?” A young clerk asks. His dark greasy hair covers half his face; piercings line the outside of his left ear – a black and white skull t-shirt completes the set. I stand like an idiot in the doorway.

I reply accordingly like a fool. “Err, no, I’m just browsing.” I mind-slap myself. The clerk looks at me with an odd gaze that says ‘What’s this guy doing in here?’ I ask myself the same question before promptly exiting this disturbing tomb.

A sharp gust shocks me back to business as I leave the shop. I turn once more to my right, searching for my mark. I don’t find him. How long was I in there? It couldn’t have been longer than a few moments; sometimes that’s all it takes to lose your target. I stride swiftly to his last known position. My eyes are a hawk’s; they scour the faces of passersby, darting from one to another in milliseconds. Still I can’t see him. Panic begins to enter my thought process; immediately my training pushes it out. There! A sigh of relief leaves my lips as I spot him crossing the street ahead, no more than twenty metres away. My pace quickens to a near jog as I try to catch up.

I push past pedestrians as I begin to close the gap; I bump into several, who consequently complain. In the rush I accidently knock into a young woman; she’s nearly thrown off her feet by my larger mass. I don’t even have time to apologise – much to the anger of her boyfriend.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, buddy?” he yells. I try to move away but he grabs me by my shoulder, spinning me to face him. It’s not my day. He begins lecturing me like a child. I beg my pardon and again begin to leave – it’s still not enough for him as he grabs my wrist. I have no time to play; with my free arm I grab the hand gripping my wrist. A swift jolt removes it and allows me to push his strained arm into his body, throwing him to the ground. I’m gone before the first gasp even leaves the onlookers’ mouth.

The mission is turning into chaos. Again the mark has momentarily left my sight. I recover quicker than before – he stands now on the other side of the street, speaking into a phone. The footlight is red. I can’t cross. Cars whizz past me. I glance over my shoulder – the angry bear is back up again, seeking me. I look ahead. My target has finished his call and is moving on. The light is still red. Anger begins to mount; experience tells me to calm – adapt to the situation and complete the contract. I do so. The light goes green. I am the first out of the blocks. I reach the other side within seconds.

Finally, I catch up. My mark walks in front of me, clear as day. I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow. Now I wait. I check my shoulder holster; my compact SIG-Sauer sits neatly underneath my left armpit; the suppressor for it is tucked nicely into my back pocket. I am ready.

My opportunity comes. The mark turns right into a dark alley, the vivid rays of the sun not able to enter its depths. I follow him in.

My black shoes tap onto the cracked concrete, the sound amplified by the narrow corridor. My mark turns – realisation has struck, and just like I predicted, far too late. I draw my pistol and attach the silencer with a casual ease. My target is frozen still from fear. Like the deer in the wilderness, alerted by a snapping twig, it simply stares at the source of the sound, fixed from fright. My mark stares now. He stares down the elongated barrel of my pistol as I bring it up to his face. His terrified eyes stare as my finger wraps around the trigger. Still they stare as the bullet is spat from the muzzle with a whisper, the spent casing flinging into the air as the deadly projectile bursts point blank into the paralysed face, ejecting from the back of the head in a spray of blood and brain. The startled stare has now become eternal.

I am gone before the body strikes the floor. Thus the Devil’s work has been done once more.

Entrant 6 - Valandur

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A Day in the Life of a Random

Living in 12th century Italy was hard enough, even more so when your name was Steve and all the other people had extremely gay names Luigi, Mario, Georgio or Benito Mussolini, which was a popular name among the populace, espiecally for those radical right-wingers who believed in all out no rights.
Steve was born to a wench of a mum and a drunk of a dad, whose names he never learnt due to their inability to pronounce them properly without passing out. He had been named Steve as a joke by some locals attending the Inn where he had been concieved, which was called something pathetic like The King's Favourite. Ironically enough, the city of Torino had no King and ironically, the Duke ordered the place burnt to the ground because the name was blasphemous. Steve became a soldier after that and was a veteran of many wars the Republic of Genoa faced, such as the war with Milan which involved heavy verbal fighting of which Steve was a veteran of. All the Italian Wars were fought like that, with words, which is why the Italians sucked at WWII which was over 800 years later.
Steve devised a new way of fighting which involved swords, which would usually be carried around as a something of a decoration before the Italians learnt it could kill people. Before that, only being verbally burnt extremely bad or being killed by Diarrhea was the only way of death in the Italian States.
Steve changed Italian Military temporarily when a Milanese dog insulted his face, so he simply drew his sword and awkwardly killed the bastard. His mates used it as an example and soon the entire Milanese army was dead, because the Genoese finally worked out what the rest of Europe used swords for.
By 1138, 18 years after his birth, Steve had risen to the rank of Professional Insulter, or otherwise known as, a Captain, oh, and Italians used to employ little kids in their armies because the adults are to busy throwing feces or making spaghetti or ocassionally pizza.
In 1140, Steve led an army towards the city of Venice, but managed to get them all killed because despite living on the waterfront, most of his army drowned crossing the lagoon due to their inability to swim. Steve was horrified as the Venetians mooned him and then launched a volley of verbal insults at him, which bounced off Steve's mental armour.
Drawing his sword, Steve crossed the bridge and charged into the Venice. The Venetian Archer-Name Callers launched flight after flight of insult at him, only for them to bounce off his impenetrable mental armour. Soon Steve had stormed the city and only the Doge's palace remained.
Steve easily stormed the place and the Doge challenged him to a duel, which went like this.
"When you make Pizza! People throw up and put it in the trash!" challenged the Doge. The amassed crowd of Venetians goes wild as their Doge reveals himself as a master name caller.
Steve steps forward and beheads the faggot.
The crowd goes silent.
And Steve slaughtered everyone there.
Despite capturing Venice, and slaying the Doge, the Duke was unhappy about the watery demise of his entire army and banished Steve from Genoa.
So anyway, Steve crossed the Alps and went to Germany where he worked for the Emperor Agolm Hidler, who had a near annoying obsession with the destruction of the following:
Jews, Poles, Gypsies, Cripples, Retards, French, Belgians, Hollandish?, Austrians, Pommies, Welsh, Scots, Irish, Norwegians, Slavs, Lithuanians, Greeks, Americans, the Commonwealth, Russians...and you get the picture...he hated everything.
Anyway, Steve did some dirty work for him before until the Emperor committed suicide in an underground bunker for no apparent reason but some said he predicted the future or some screwed up crap like that, the guy was totally messed up.
By 1150, aged 30, Steve came to Denmark who were currently fighting the Swedes and the Norwegians. Steve served on the front line and taught the Danish the use of weapons such as the bow, the sword and the horse, plus, he taught them dragging Viking Longboats across land to attack your enemies wasn't really a smart idea. And, he taught the Danes the use of politics and solving every problem with your axe wasn't always the proper way to do it.
With these advantages, the Norwegians and Swedes were destroyed due to them using pre-Steve tactics the Danish had grown out of. Anyway, Steve vanished in the night one midday aftermoon according to the Danes and took a Viking Boat to the England.
Upon arriving, he was disgusted by the fact that the English only drunk tea, and often drunken Scots would come down from the Highlands and simply scare the English away with the flying kilt tactic. He taught them to drink beer, ale and other crap that generally makes you like all those other idiots who ran around in Medieval Europe. So the English got drunk, messed with their head, and overthrew King Henry? and replaced him with King Tonyblair.
By 1160, Steve was the eldest man in the country and was referred as to *The Man Before Time* but he soon left England for Spain where he was overwhelmed by the racism there. He sorted the differences between the Spanish and the Moroccans and even drew a borderline for them. Sadly, as soon as he left, Spain begun their Reconquista again after witnessing a Muslim sacrifice a goat to Allah.
In 1198, Steve was fighting in Acre when a Muslim stabbed him, cut his arms and legs off and then beheaded him, blood went everywhere and guts poured all over the dusty ground. Funnily enough, Steve was a simple tourist at the time and the Muslim had picked on him for unabated reasons.
But Steve lived a long life, 78, although his excellent Italian education meant he lost count as 22, but yeh, so ends the tale of Steve.

Entrant 7 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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The night of a performance there is always a certain “buzz” in the air. The musicians tuning their instruments, getting in that last bit of practice before the big event, the conductor checking in with his first chair musicians, making sure that everyone and everything is as it should be. The conductor was a middle-aged man with a crystal ball for a bald spot and a thick, black mustache to compensate. He was chubby, but not in a jolly, old Saint Nick kind of way. He was more likely to sigh than to laugh, and if he winked at you it would not be a reassuring, twinkle-in-the-eye wink. Now he was storming about, yelling at the pianist here, reminding the cellists not to go into the crescendo to fast, telling the violinists that their staccato must be perfect or the song is ruined, and generally being more of a bother than a help. But anybody who had worked with him knew that was just his way of coping with the stress of a big performance, a mechanism which made it convenient for him to shift the blame if need be. 30 bars to the symbols.
Soon, he was calling for order and gathering everyone together. He gazed across the group of musicians, his watery, green-blue eyes scanning for any visual imperfections. Satisfied, he nodded, and they began to move to the stage in a single file procession. The pianist went first, followed by the harp, then percussionist, the violinists and violists, the cellists, and finally bass. They found their seats and waited. The roar of voices became a murmur, the murmur became silence. The conductor raised his baton, and with his down stroke they began. The staccato of the violins began, the piano joined, soon the viola and cello were in the back of the song, then the bassists joined. 18 bars to the symbols.
The audience gazed intently, here and there one might spot a yawn, catch a glimpse of someone's face contorting and blinking, attempting the stifle a sneeze. The musicians, of course, saw none of this, their gaze never left the pages of the song, they could not afford to look away. If anyone had cared to look, they might have noticed a man in a tuxedo in the back of the room, gazing intently at the center of the stage. Of course, he could have been invisible, for the only people facing him were the musicians, and they were locked in on the stand before them. Everyone else was too interested in the front of the room to glance back, even for a moment. 9 bars to the symbols.
As the song continued, it neared the crescendo, the arc of the piece, the peak of the sound. The man at the back casually glanced up at one of the boxes overlooking the auditorium. In the box was a young man, no more than 30, and a briefcase, though that was obscured from view. The man at the back scratched his cheek with all five of his fingers. The man in the box coughed. The musicians played on. 4 bars to the symbols.
The song was a mere 13 seconds from the crescendo. The percussionist readied his symbols. The man in the back scratched his cheek with three fingers. The man in the box opened his briefcase and pulled out a long, thin object, though the majority of it was obscured by the walls of the box. The entire band hit one, loud note, and the symbols crashed. Had anyone been looking at the box, they might have noticed a quick flash of light. Had anyone been nearby, they might have heard a crack, like a whip. And, had anyone been sitting in the box across from the flash, next to one Jacob A. Parker, entrepreneur and multimillionaire, they might have noticed a large hole in his head. But the musicians were looking at the pages, the audience was looking at the stage, and for Jacob A. Parker, this was a night to be spent alone, away from people.
The band continues.

Entrant 8 - Tim1988

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Dervorin cursed silently under his breath. This was not what he had been told about. The scouts had reported that they would be ambushing a small Easterling patrol. They had mentioned nothing about any Mumakils. They would pose a whole new challenge.

All around him the rangers crouched in the bushes waiting for his signal to fire. The tension was palpable, every breath seemed loud enough to alert the enemy of their presence. Sweat ran down their faces, making thin rivulets through the grime that weeks in the field produced. This was due to nerves and not the heat though; in fact the morning breeze was refreshingly cool. Even the veterans were scared. The mumakils were enemies to be feared.

As the giant beasts entered the shallow waters of the ford and began the crossing, Dervorin drew back on his bowstring and took aim. His arm was steady despite his nerves, years of killing had seen to that. Along the tree-line, the rest of the rangers did the same. Dervorin counted to three in his head and then released. The arrow flew true, flying through the air and taking the rider of the lead Mumak in the throat. Around him hundreds of other arrows whisked through the air, creating an almost peaceful whooshing sound until they impacted with the enemy. Before the easterlings had even realized that they were under attack the next volley of arrows was in the air, such was the skill of the rangers of Gondor.

The mumakil had been disabled with the first volley. Dervorin had ordered his best shots to take out their riders and now, free from their control they turned around and charged away. The remaining few Easterlings that hadn't already been killed turned and started to flee when they saw this, but they too were cut down as they ran by a third volley of arrows. The whole fight had taken a matter of seconds and now the rangers emerged from the cover and moved forwards, drawing their knives and dispatching any Easterlings that still survived.

Dervorin looked on with pride at his men. They had done him proud yet again. If only there were more men like these then the threat of Mordor would soon be nothing more than a distant memory.

(Screenshot by Finlander)

Entrant 9 - Solid Snake

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We care

One has to be insane to want to be a doctor, a graduate of Medicine School, one has to be insane, really; I can attest to that. Even more if you don’t have any family that has gone through Med school before, you are just nuts if you just decided to wake up this or the other day and say: “Hey! I think I´ll be studying Medicine now!” And that´s what I did.
“You´re crazy.” My mother said to me. Nice way to boost her son´s confidence but that´s ok.
I entered Med school knowing squat about Anatomy or Physiology or Pathology wearing a white coat that had been my brother´s and a pair of white shoes that were as old as I was, I joined my classmates for the first class without knowing no one, not one student, not one teacher, no one. I stood there waiting for the doctor to arrive looking at some of my classmates well groomed newly bought white coats and dazzling ties, fancy shoes and hearing them talk about how their father´s had recommended them to join Med school, or talking about which was the better Anatomy book or how they knew already a bunch of the basic greek terms that are used on our career, everyone there had more money than I had ever seen in my life, with sparkling new cell phones and powerful laptops, new cars… all bought by daddy of course….I found myself despising them.
Anyhow, the classes set off, if I had knew the amount of workload I ´d have to cope with I only would have been more eager to enter Med school, now that´s real work and not silly things. Of course my classmates accustomed to private schools and having a servant do everything for them soon began to complain. “It´s too much for one night.” They said, I´m sure some assignments cramped their going out and getting wasted plans. Tough luck I said to them.
Even though I lost many sleep nights and even though I lost some of my friends and even though I lost contact with my family (while still living in the same house) I wouldn´t change Medicine School for nothing in the world, not for all the gold in China, not for a week of royal sex with any woman of my choosing, I´d still cling on to my old white coat and my books.
I have loved every second of it: the classes, the practices, the dissections, the discussions with other doctors (in which honorable presence I have been invited into due to my good marks), the Anatomy´s jokes, the knowledge of knowing what the heck goes on inside your body, the irony of smoking a cigarette inside a school (and a Medicine School for that matter), I have loved every second of it.
And I have been told that it only keeps on getting harder and harder during the School years, and that then Hell waits for you in the form of internship and that then it gets tougher for you leave the school and start to fend off in a world, the medical world, that is cruel and rough and unforgiving with those that do not have the required knowledge to treat their patients.
I shrug off such comments with ease. What will come, will come and then I´ll have to face it. And I will go through hell if it means that I´ll learn more and become better at what I´ll be. And I´ll do it, like the thousands that have came before me, because I care.

TotW 83a – Wizard of Oz

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No Picture.
Winner - Valandur

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Entrant 1 - Katsumoto

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The Beautiful Game

A fury of passion ignites the chorus of the crowd - roars and cheers fill the stage of the stadium. Utter pandemonium results, men and children, women and the elderly, all together, in this playground of the world.

The ball is struck. Players run with pace, seeking to strike the leather; millions watch on their screens at home, bedazzled by this display of brilliance. Families gather, cities stay still – completely transfixed.

A rush on goal is met by a momentous cry. The defenders hasten to fight off the assault – the attackers press on with fire in their hearts – victory is what they yearn. A fierce tackle is evaded as the ball is passed onto a fellow. His engine ignites as he powers down the strait, the ball flying in front. Once more the defenders throw themselves into the fray, desperate to halt him in his tracks.

They succeed. The ball is snatched from beneath him. Now the brave guardians of the goal rise to the occasion. Their feet are like snakes; slithering between the now disorientated strikers. The ball moves on, one to another, until it reaches the front. Now with a cutting counter-attack they dash towards the target; the audience is alight, galvanised by the magical zeal they are witnessing.

With a tenacious thump the ball is launched from the champion’s feet. The globe glares. Everybody stands. The defenders are too far back to change anything; it is up to the gatekeeper himself. He reads the sphere’s trajectory – instinctively he dives towards it.

With the tips of his leathered fingers he alters the ball’s powerful flight – it is not enough. It ricochets off the post and flies into the netting. The volcano erupts.

Every being watching bursts from their seats in enormous exultance. The scorer slides by the corner flag – his expression hides nothing – he is the happiest man in the world. Joy and glory is theirs – the defeated team weeps, hands on faces, knees on grass, striking it with perpetual power. They are heartbroken.

A choir of acclamation reverberates around the colosseum. The sturdiest of men weep, looking to the Heavens and thanking enthusiastically. The fans of the defeated are frozen dead – some manage to weep; most stay shocked – incapable of beholding the truth.

Within minutes the arrangements are made. The victors stand, eager to lift their glorious award. Like children they giggle, ecstatic, unable to control their fidgeting arms. The losers take their pity prizes and depart. Now it is their time.

The captain stands before the gold. He is astounded by the beauty. With delicate hands he lifts the trophy - a gigantic cheer leaves his voice – the world cheers with him. The arena is in a frenzy. Horns blow like never before. A multitude of colourful flags and banners wave in the stands. It is amazing. Forever will it be remembered - this most beautiful game of all.

Entrant 2 - Ratzor

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Nothing before had ever felt so right. Hador, clad in his wedding attire, felt tremblings along the whole of his body as he reached out to grasp the hand of his beloved. Her features struck him as without match in this moment of stoic commitment. The high cheek bones and her long, flowing brown hair tried to embrace him as a smile creased her face. She tried to speak to him, but he could not listen. Concerned Hador watched as his beloved's features turned from gleesome and smiling to desparing and frightened. She tried to scream and loose herself from his grip, but he would'nt let her go. Soon the other wedding guests ran them on either of the sides, pointing and stumbling from whatever it was Hador could'nt see. His beloved still in his grip, crying and writhing. Somewhere behind him a roaring sound suddenly enroached, as if all the forests had been momentarily set ablaze.

Hador finaly turned around to distinguish the source of this sudden and terrible noise. What he could see was so devilish, so evil in appearance that he for a second forgot to breathe. As he turned around to run from this devilish apparition his beloved was nowhere to be seen, her hands no longer clutched to his. Afraid for her life he called out, but had to make his escape as the apparition moved in his wake. Fleeing along the mainstreet he could see mothers waiving their husbands goodbey, children grasping their skirts. Why did'nt they flee? "Run!" He called to them but they only looked at him confused. "Run for your lives!" he exclaimed a second time but to late. The monstrous creature had already caught up with him. Its fire engulfed arms reached ut for him. He tried to avoid them but the simply was no room to maneuver. Feeling the flames dancing along his back he screamed. The creature placed him face to face and between the surges off pain he could see its cruel countenance, adorned in horns and lucid of an inner inferno. "Why did'nt you rescue me my love?" it cried out with the voice of his fianceé "Why did you let me die my love?". "I did'nt let you die!" Hador replied, his tears evaporating in the scorching grasp. "Why did you abondon me my love?" it cried out again, now with her face embedded inside the creatures. A cruel and wicked parody of her beauty and timid nature. "I did not abandon you" Hador screamed in a broken voice. His ribs shattered as the grip hardened and his skin started to melt in perverse anguish. "But love, I know you did. You should'nt lie to your wife!" and with that the creature exploded in a cascade of light and fire. Hador could feel the very muscles and sinews of his body blast away, eventually standing in lucid harmony when nothing more than the skeleton was left to burn. A rumbling sound could be heard from all sides as if the earth erupted around him. Finaly, even his skeleton succumbed to the unforgiving flames. The final words to cross his dying mind was mere a single word: Eledhwen.

"Wake up Hador!". A cringe of the morning sun met his eye as he slowly retracted from the tormenting slumber. To his left crouched Huirlen, the same who had retrieved him from his illusion. His yellow curls and pointy nose the dominant features of his face. In his usual manner he smiled at him cheerfully and slowly shook his head. "Having nightmares again? You know you really should cut back that Pelagian ale, spare us all some trouble." He rose and walked further back into the cave in wich they were currently residing. Hador positioned himself in a more seated position and recalled the events of the dream. It was the third time this week he dreamt the same dream, a dream he had not dreamt in years now. Some parts of the dream was distorted and unreal but he remembered the origin like it was yesterday. Contemplating the meaning of this he moved towards the dining area, wich really was nothing more than a couple of rocks of wich his small band of rangers had formed a circle. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they were close to the home of his childhood. Perhaps becouse it was almost ten years since the event occured.

Dyrendil gave him a quick nood as he sat down on an adjecent stone. Dyrendil was the party scout and probably the best archer Harod knew east of the river Anduin. His dark, short hair and piercing eyes was excempt from his otherwise ordinary face. He was also straight forward, secretive and brief if he ever talked. The results of a life lived in constant danger and solitude. "Orcs have set up camp one league north of here" he said when Harod reached for a plate of vegetables, cooked potatoes and rabbit meat. "What are there numbers?" Harod anwsered while he took a bite of his meal. He noticed that Dyrendil looked meaningly at Thorbar and Maedor who also sat in the vicinity and understood that there was something unusual about this camp that Dyrendil wanted to report to him in private, before sharing any news with the rest of the men. With a quick nod Dyrendil implied that they should venture outside. Passing through the sleeping quarters and the temporary armory they reached the entrance. Targdol had the current watch and gave each of them a quick nod before he regained his vigil.

When they had walked a good way from the cave Dyrendil finaly made halt. "What's so important that you have to drag me half a league into the woods before telling me?" Harod asked him. They had reached a creek and water pourled down a cliffside a few feet away. Before answering Dyrendil scoured the suroundings to make sure no one followed. When he was statisfied he finally said "The orcs are about a hundred or so.. however, there is a Nazgúl accompanying them". Baffled, Harod could only but exclaim "A Nazgúl!? what is one of Saurons servants doing here in these regions?". "I dont know captain, as I saw it was one of the nine and I thought you'd want to know". Processing this new information, Harod tried to think of what to do. Dyrendil had done well to uncover this information and made a wise decision to tell him seperately, or else it might have stirred up the men. "I think I know what to do. Gather the men, were about to face fear itself

Entrant 3 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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The Banshee and the Hunter

Jashin was a hunter, a hunter of all beasts, rare, dangerous, or elusive. Or all three. He was the best hunter in the entire country, perhaps the continent. He was small, by human standards especially but even amongst his own people, the Brevis, as the Humans new them, and the Falis as they knew themselves, he was considered short. The Falis were on average 4 feet tall, and he was just over 3 feet and 5 inches. Even with his small stature, though, he commanded respect. His jerkin was made of the hardest, most obsidian scales of the Vatana beast, his pants were pure Huin leather, a dull greyish-brown, though blue in water, his boots where of the most flexible yet sturdiest materials he knew, the wing-leather of the flying Yec. He had a brown leather belt across his waist and chest, and on his back he held his bow, a rival for a human longbow though less than half it's size, on his left hip he held his arrows, tipped with adamantium, flighted with the lightest feathers from the Yec, and next to his quiver was his knife, made of an unknown substance and recovered in the deep cave of the Vatana. He himself had light brown hair, with bangs to his eyebrows, covering his ears entirely, and continuing down to the center of his neck in the back. His eyes were a deep, ocean blue.

He had hunted and killed nearly every kind of creature there was. Among the very few he had not was a Banshee. He had been looking to add one to his lists of hunts, and when he heard rumours of one near a tributary of the Great River, Kasit, he had made directly for it. He had made good time, and had arrived at the location within 3 days. Now he could see an abandoned mill, a likely place for a Banshee to dwell. He bent down and stuffed moss into his ears, then wrapped cloth around his head to hold it in. He drew his bow and knocked and arrow, then headed down the hill towards the mill. When he reached the outer perimeter, marked by a slight change from moss to grass on the ground, he heard it. The Banshee wailed, and even though his ears were blocked it could be heard as clear as if it were next to him. He resisted all urges to drop his weapon and smash his hands against his ears, for he realized that the sound was not so much in his ears but in his head. The pain would have been unbearable for a lesser person. He pushed on nonetheless. He reached the door to the mill, it was swollen and splintered from the moisture. He kicked it open, not risking taking his hand off his weapon for a second. Presently, he entered the building. It was dark, and the roof was sagging in many places, and in some it had collapsed completely. The light that shone in from those holes was reflected in the thick clouds of dust and moisture all around.

Suddenly, he was knocked to his feet by a heavy blow to his back. Rolling around to face the aggressor, he cast eyes upon one of the most horrible creatures he had yet faced. It was surely once a beautiful woman, tall and fair, but now she was shriveled and dwarfed. Her sunken eyes were pure black, as though it were all pupil and no eye. She was clothed in a torn and molded gown, once red silk and now a mottled brown colour. He leaped to a crouch, pulled back an arrow and fired at her heart. She screamed, and the arrow stopped in mid air, then splintered and exploded in a cloud of wood. Some of the debris cut his face, the rest scraped his jerkin and pants. He deemed his bow an unsuitable weapon and drew his knife. He charged, quick footed and powerful all at once. She let loose a scream, and he slid to the floor, avoiding being pushed back. He leaped forward, renewing his charge for her heart. She inhaled, and he leaped. He was inches away with his knife when she let loose. He felt himself freeze in the air, then start to move back. Finally he was thrown, but at the last second he had thrown his knife at her exposed chest. He flew back into a wall, but his knife continued on into the mark. She screamed again, but now in agony and rage. Casting her eyes upon him, he saw they glowed red with rage. She flew towards him, her long sharp nails ahead like claws, and when they reached him they began slashing and tearing, a feral beast upon it's hapless prey. Now his jerkin did it's good work, her claws could not pierce the tough scales. He managed to get his hand around and arrow, and he drew it and thrust it in her neck. Again and again he stabbed, though no blood game out of her body. Instead, a fierce gust of wind shook the room, as she let out all her air. Then she fell upon the floor, dead. Jashin got up and crouched over her, and was reaching towards her when she exploded in a massive gale. He was pushed up and into the ceiling, which cracked in a great loud clap. He fell to the floor, winded. Then, a beam knocked loose by him slipped, and came falling towards him. He rolled, but too slow. The beam smashed into his head.

Blackness.

**Dance** · May 10, 2013, 11:49 AM

TotW 84a – There's a NEW Sheriff in Town

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No Picture.
Winner - Skantarios

Spoiler for We are Rome:

We are Rome

The old men of the Senate may say that they embody Rome. They may say that they are the law and the force that binds our people together. They may say that their debate guides the path of our country and shapes our destiny. Of course, they say many things…but they are wrong.

For Rome is the Legions. Rome is duty, courage, discipline and honor. Rome is the gladius, the scutum, the pilum, and the flesh that wields them.

Rome is not a law inscribed in bronze; it is a sword cast in steel. It is the spear, not the stylus, that commands respect. It is in the field, not in the forum, where the real battles are won. For what are words without the will to impose? What is law without men to enforce? What are treaties without the power to compel?

It was not the Senate that conquered the Gauls, the Carthaginians, the Iberians, Celts, Germans, Greeks, Macedonians, and Egyptians. It was not the Senate that defeated Hannibal, Mithridates, Philip, and Antiochus. It was not the Senate that brought Rome into dominion from Europe to Africa to Asia. It was men with fire in their hearts and ice in their veins. It was the Legions. It was us.

Our hands built the bridges and roads and fortifications of the Empire. Our legs marched thousands of leagues to hunt down those that would oppose Rome. Our backs bore the burdens of the long campaigns. Our bodies are still the armor of the frontier.

Without us, the fine words of the Conscript Fathers mean nothing. Without us, the laws of the assemblies have no force. People do not follow the laws because they are just. They do not pay the taxes, levies, or tolls because they are fair. They obey because, if they do not, they must deal with us.

We are the ones who bleed, sweat, kill, and die. We carry the standards and hold the line. We are the fire that keeps the darkness at bay.

We are the fear in the guts of our enemies and the pride in the hearts of the people.

We are the Soldiers of the Senate and People of Rome.

We are the power.

We are Rome.

Entrant 1 - R-teen

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I thought I’d fall any minute. My head was swirling, the world was swirling around me. Madden as I was, I didn’t let my agony take over my, I couldn’t let my agony take over me.
He called my name. He, Caius Valerius Flaccus, the consul of senate. And as hard as I could, I tried to bring my breathing to an even pace. I straightened my body, put my head up and steadily balanced my steps towards the place. I strode there in strong strides, and stood there firm.
How ironic! I thought to myself. How ironic! How the hell did I end up here? I remembered years ago, when I was just a teen, how I yearned to join the Roman arms. How my father stood against it, for I was too young. For once in the all years since he passed away I was happy he was not here. He saw me becoming a commander of a maniple. But he wasn’t there with me when I took command of a legion. And as hard as I loved to still have him beside me, now of all times, I couldn’t come to regret that he left us years ago. I couldn’t bear to…
-“Flavius!”
My head snapped up involuntarily as the consul called my name. I could say from the way the audience were looking at me, that it wasn’t the first time he was calling me aloud. I must’ve been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I didn’t notice him earlier.
I felt an ache in my hand, and looking for the source of pain, I found that I was gripping the handle of my kopis so hard. I tried to snap out of my consecutive thoughts. I looked up to him, cleared my throat. With a harsh voice, I replied:
-“Yes?”
-“As you already know, you were brought here to be interpellated.”
He waited for second, and then went on.
-“You are responsible for death of thousands of Romans - Roman soldiers - who dedicated themselves to the glory of Rome. And you threw their honorable lives away.”
When he said that last sentence, I was glad he was not within the reach of my sword, for I would have his head chopped off and honorably accept the aftermath if he was.
He continued:
-“Let us get into details so we can discuss this thoroughly.”
He waited, as if he was waiting for my confirmation. I guess he realized from my bloody look that I wasn’t going to open my mouth or nod.
-“Alright, let’s get started then. You and the army under your command were stationed at the Petolanium* waiting for your advance. But all of a sudden, you acknowledge that a barbarian horde is heading your way.” He cleared his throat. “One of the people in the city, who had managed to escape, stated that you left the city. What explanation do you have for this? How could you run to save your own life, while sacrificing the life of your brothers? Were you too horrif…”
I was almost starting to shake. I couldn’t bear to wait until his bloody lecture was over. I mouthed the words coarsely:
-“I wasn’t trying to save my arse!”
-“Really? How heroic! Then why else would you do such a thing?!”
I tried to control my anger. I took a deep breath and went on.
-“My scouts reported that there was a reinforcing army. They were going to join in three days or so. And together, they’d have outnumber us hugely, and there wasn’t any time for us to call for reinforcement, since the nearest legion was months away from us. So I thought the best call was to attack the second army and take them by surprise before they could join the main army.”

“You could have withdrawn! You should have withdrawn! Instead of sending those men to a battle that was already lost, you could have fall back and wait for reinforcements. But instead, you sent them to death.”
-“Listen you old pig, if it weren’t for them resistances, it was you who was being questioned by those barbarians in this very senate, and not me. Needless to say, we have already lost a city - a home of Roman people - to those barbarians. The live of Roman people is at their hands, and you’re wasting our time – the time you could spend, you should spend on planning to strike back – by questioning me.”
I took two deep breaths and went on: “Besides, my plan worked well enough up to that point. We were to win the battle.”
-“Oh then how the hell did it all ended up…” He’d lost his temper already. When he started again, the sound of objection of the audience raised, and he gave up.
-“GO ON”
He grumbled.
-“I took the cavalry and went after the reinforcing army, and in the meantime, the rest of the legion was supposed to intercept the main army.”
I stopped for a moment and searched for the words.
-“We nearly reached the reinforcing army in the same evening. We rested the night there. They started marching in the early morning and so we shadowed them until noon.”
-“Even if your stories are true, why did you miss the opportunity to attack in the night? You could’ve take them by surprise with a night attack and prevent this catastrophe.”
I gnawed my teeth together.
-“The place they used to night camp was at skirts of a rocky mount, given the fact that all my men were cavalrymen, I saw it was better if we didn’t attack them in that place. Besides, my men and their breeds were exhausted of the forced march. Furthermore, even if I had managed to confront them that night, the news of their annihilation would definitely reach the main army, and they’d watch out for us. What I was after was to flank them while they were engaged with the army – surprise them – but, our army was supposed to reach them, the two days after we went out for facing the reinforcing army.”
-“Then why all the army is dead if your plan went so well O young commander Flavius?”
-“It didn’t go so well.”
I said with a sour and low sound. In my mind, came lingering the memories of all the brave soldiers, faithful friends and the respectable elders I’d lost. The breathtaking grieve struck me again. Why had I, of all the people of that army, survived alone? Why me? In the heat of battle, if only for a moment, I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, I would be as good as dead too. How ironic that I couldn’t call it the wrong place at the wrong time, If that place and that time, were to bring me the ultimate death, then I’d have embraced that as the right place at right time. Brave and veteran as we may be, in the heat of battle, if we are to die, it’s mostly a matter of…
-“GO ON!”
From his tone I realized that it must’ve been a while since my unconsciousness had knocked me out again. I opened my mouth to continue, but as hard as I pushed my mind, words weren’t there.
-“I… I am sorry. I forgot what I was saying.”
-“You were explaining the reason why your plan didn’t go well.”
He expected me to grasp it and go on immediately, but described further when he saw my sheepish look.
-“You were shadow marching the reinforcing army”
I caught it finally. I went on with the same bitter voice.
-“Ah… When they were about to rest for the noon, we charged. They had marched all the morning on foot and hadn’t eaten anything since then, and were exhausted. After three hours of bloody fighting, we were the ones standing.”
I seemed to have regained some of voice, so I kept on in a more harsh tone.
-“We immediately marched as fast as possible to reach the barbarians' main army. We marched until the late night, and so we did the next day. In the second night, we were very close to the main army. And our legion was supposed to engage them in the coming morning. Tomorrow, I waited till the noon so their flanks would be exposed and vulnerable for us to charge. And then, when we were approaching them, we were intercepted by a second reinforcing army we hadn’t have spotted before. This time their army was consisted of both infantry and cavalry. Their cavalry charged us, and so we engaged them. And their infantry went to reinforce their brothers. We’d have taken enough casualties yesterday to have a hard fight against their cavalry. And after 3-4 long hours of fighting, we defeated them…”
My voice dropped again involuntarily.
-“They were defeated… but we weren’t victorious either… Almost the entire cavalry force was destroyed.”
The unbearable grieve struck again. I tried to fight it back.
-“I gathered what was left… We formed up and rode for aiding the main army as fast as we could… The sun was beginning to dawn, it was twilight when we reached them… We reached them.”
I closed my eyes for some moments. Opening them again, I whispered:
-“But not soon enough…”
My eyes were wet but I couldn’t let them tears start to drop. My hand started to ache again, both of them this time. If it was a human hand at my grips instead of the cold steel, it would have probably been broken by now.
-“Oh we all know how much you loved them, no need to put up a façade, just go on with your story.”
I didn’t react to his words. I was already in that other world inside of my brain. The words continued to come out involuntarily.
-“It was… It was late already… The entire legion was dead… or captivated. They were killing or beheading the captives when we arrived.”
My voice broke at 'beheading'. I sighed and continued:
-“We were hardly 200 men, so I thought, there is nothing I can do for them, So I thought, why not save the ones I could?…”
The consul stood up and started shouting:
-“You were just trying to save your own life you scum! You didn’t give a damn about their lives.”
I stood there looking, for the second time I was thankful that old bastard wasn’t within my reach or these would’ve been his last words.
The audience objected to him to let me finish my words. And so he shut up.
I for one, wasn’t willing to continue this at all. I didn’t care what they’d do with me. I just wished to be alone. Whether dead or alive, I just wanted to be alone right now. So I tried to be brief as possible.
-“We ran into their trap… they surrounded us and we tried to fight our way out… Me and two of the others - Augustus and Marcus – were the only ones who made it.”
My voice kept getting lower, I was almost whispering at the end. I tried to get a grip on myself.
-“And they… died of their wounds the following day.”
-“Enough!” He shouted. He stood up, his eyes searched through the audience.
-“Alright gentlemen, you heard his words, lie or genuine, it’s up to you to decide whether you want to believe them or not. I was against of giving the command of that legion to this un-experienced arrogant boy from the start. And today, Rome has suffered the consequences of not listening to that. I was right about him all along. He was not only too young to command a legion, but also stubborn and blind. Even if he’s telling the truth, it was his irresponsibility that he overlooked a great enemy army, he underestimated them, he is responsible for the death of every Roman under his command. He is a traitor to Rome, and shall be executed for the blood of the Romans that he is…”
With all my strength, I swung my sword and bashed the tribune in front of me. It collapsed in half and went airborne and landed between fifteen-twenty feet away from me. I raised my kopis and aimed at him and yelled.
-“You listen you old bastard! Those were friends of mine who died there in front of me, right before my eyes, and don’t you even dare to lecture me on patriotism, because you and I both know of each other’s pasts. When my father was alive a scum like you didn’t have guts to raise his voice in front of me. Now you’re accusing me of having left to death people who were friends of mine, people who I was honored to be their brother in arms, their commander. MY BROTHERS YOU BASTARD! They were my compatriots! You know what does that mean? I doubt you do you scum. The depth of your corruptness befouls the very name of Roman. How dare you talk to me like that? How dare you? If I wasn’t grieving the loss of my companions, I would have made you pay for that right here!”
His skin had become a bloody red, he was shaking too, but he put up a vicious smile and ordered the guards to arrest me. His voice too, was shaking. When they were taking me out he shouted:
-“So that was the reason you insisted on coming with your arms, eh? You wanted to kill me all the way you son of a

, didn’t you?!”
I laughed inside. “You wretched clueless bastard” I thought.
They took me outside in the street, and one of the guards who was senior to others dismissed them to go back to the senate. It was a pokey afternoon, and a cold breeze was blowing. It was getting dark.
-“He’ll put a poll on executing you, comrade.”
Said the guard. I looked up. He had a sympathizing look of a father on his face.
-“Whatever.”
-“Your father was a great man, and so are you. It’s a pain to see his legacy be treated like this.”
-“Thanks for your concern. But really, I don’t care anymore.”
He seemed to be dilly dallying to say something. He opened his mouth, but no word came out. After some moments he finally said:
-“Ah… I don’t know what the outcome of the voting will be, but I can let you go right now…”
I raised an eyebrow, and looked at him in silence. He said:
“If you wish to, of course…”
-“What will you do yourself then?”
-“They won’t kill me you know, Even if they try to, I have some friends who care about me enough to break me out. I can run away and start a peaceful life as farmer. One way or the other, it’s better than serving the corrupt people like him.”
I sighed and said:
-“I’m afraid I have to take down your offer officer, thanks for offering though.”
I smiled and continued.
-“And uh, you may be older than me, but I outranked you until yesterday. So let me give you an advice… People like him come and go, but our motherland, not. You – and the likes of you - don’t serve him. You serve your country.”
He was looking at me as I was still a commander addressing his officer, not his prisoner.
He nodded and mouthed “Aye sir”. And a crooked smile stamped on his face.
Some minutes past in silence until news came from the senate that I was voted by the majority to be freed.
The senior officer turned to me and said with a grin on his face:
-“You’re free to go pal”
He held out his hand. I caught it and stood up. When I was getting to my feet he started to say:
“and maybe sometime soon, you’ll earn your commandership back.”
I smiled and said:
-“Maybe.”
My mind though, was somewhere else already.
-“I hope we get to know each other more, friend.” Said the officer.
-“I hope so too.”
I said, putting my hands on his shoulders. A moment later, I was already on my way to leave. I was about ten steps away when I looked back over my shoulder and said:
-“Another suggestion, don’t try that farming thing. Trust me, a warrior like you, wouldn’t have any luck at having a simple life.”
He grinned and nodded.
I walked and walked until I reached the city gates, I went to outskirts of the town and rented a horse, and rode off to the shore. When I reached there, the sun was almost set. I got off the horse and tied the animal to a tree, and went and sat on the beach sands, near the water. With each wave embracing me, I felt a tiny portion of my soul come back to me. It was cold, but with me being all wet now, it was damn freezing cold. It was refreshing, however. This pain of mine wouldn’t be buried anytime soon, and the curing of them was a process that these dashing waves were just a start to it.
Sitting in these sands, came rolling before my eyes the memories of the friends I had lost the battle. The tears that I was holding them back in the senate, were already speeding down across my face now. I tightened my grip on the sands and let the waves wash them pains away.
I was lost in my own world, until I heard some footsteps in behind of me that startled me out of my reverie. Being someone who was raised and trained for being a commander from the very birth, I had sense for feeling danger. Maybe if an ordinary citizen was in my place, wouldn’t have heard that voice, or ignored it until it was too late.
Quickly, I reached for my kopis, and returned so fast and blocked the dagger and the hand that were going to cut my throat from behind. I cut the throat of the attacker in a quick inward lash. He fell on the ground before me, with his blood rushing out his neck. I hurried to my shield, and there came half a dozen more, and I kept fighting and fighting…
I must have been fighting for minutes now, and yet, none of these men were able to put me down, but there were still three more of them. I keet blocking and attacking, I’ve taken several wounds and bleeding. Wet, of water and my blood, I kept fighting the attackers off. In the process, one of the attacker’s swords cut my right arm, my kopis fell of my hand and I kept blocking their attacks with the shield in my left hand. As quickly as my weakened body allowed, I dropped the shield and picked the kopis with my left hand, and as soon as I reached the weapon, I managed to block an attack with it, but then when I went for striking back, my right foot was stricken so hard that I fell to the ground and my head hit the edge of the shield I just dropped. It must have been a pretty bad hit, because I could hardy see anymore. My sword was kicked out of my hand. I blinked twice… Every part of my body was stinging. Me head was swirling and my eyes hardly were able to see the face above me. He sat beside me, with his right knee on my chest, and put his blade on my throat, and with his other hand he gripped my hair. He said gasping:
-“Look at here” His eyes raced around the ground I was laying on “You’re damn bloody good… You killed three of my mates you bastard” He tightened his grip on my air. “You were bloody good… Such a waste!”
He let out a sound of pain, and I realized he must’ve been seriously wounded too.
Shaking and gasping for air, he continued:
-“And uh, by the way, Valerius Flaccus told me to relay this message to you, ‘tell your father that I said hello!’”
I spit the blood in my mouth to his face and closed my eyes as each inch of his blade moving in my throat took a pinch of my life away.

Petolanium: It's fictitious, sorry if its name sounds strange ;-)

Entrant 2 - Major Darling

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Entrant 3 - Valandur

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Entrant 4 - Tim1988

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TotW 85a – Smoke on the Water

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No Picture.
Winner - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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Entrant 1 - Valandur

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Entrant 2 - Blackwolf

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"Admiral Quintus!", yes Lieutenant? I just caught site of an enemy vessel approaching us! Show me where you see these vessels lieutenant. "Yes sir!" As Admiral Quintus & the Lieutenant get to the bow of the Roman Bireme they search for the enemy vessel. "Lieutenant!, I hope you haven't fooled your admiral..." "wha... but... Sir, I swear on my family's life I only speak the truth!" "Don't screw me around next time Lieutenant. I don't have time for games. I am trying to navigate us through this thick fog." "But sir!" "That's an order Lieutenant!, now back to your station!" "Yes sir..." "Good, I expected better from you." The Lieutenant goes back to his station, aware of his surroundings. He was scared. His naval vessel was out in the middle of the Mediterranean surrounded by a very thick fog. He knows he saw enemy naval vessels. But because of the thick fog, it was very difficult to spot them. He thought to himself... What if we were to be intercepted by this enemy vessel? I can't die... I have a loving wife & kid waiting at home for my return. I can't leave them. I'm not going to let my Admiral let us all die. I must do something. I'm sure there are many others that have families waiting for their return as well. If I am correct, I can save our vessel & bring us back home to our families. However, if I am wrong, I will surely be executed if not thrown overboard & fed to the sharks... But I know what I saw. I am no fool. It must be done...
"Admiral!" "What is it now Lieutenant?!, I am getting very aggravated with you." "Sir, I saw a dead Roman body floating in the the waters near the stern of the boat." "Alright Lieutenant, but I swear if you are screwing me over I will personally demote you to a damn swabie in front of the entire crew!" The Lieutenant clears his throat. "Yes sir. Follow me." The walk over to the stern of the naval bireme. "Okay Lieutenant, where is it? Right over on the side of the boat. You have to look over the edge to see it." As the Admiral looks over the edge of the boat, the Lieutenant slowly approaches his Admiral while pulling out a small dagger. He walks over to his Admiral & says, "Here, let me give you a better view." He quickly stabs him in the side of his body to make it harder for him to swim & pushes him overboard thus letting his Admiral sink to the bottom of the Mediterranean...
CRASH!!! The enemy have intercepted & punctured a whole in the Roman naval bireme. "No! I waited to long! God help us..." The bireme started to sink as the enemy boarded the ship. It was a bloody massacre... And to his surprise, it was not the enemy who had attacked, it was another Roman ship! The Lieutenant's ship surrendered. As the ship was still sinking, the enemy Romans grabbed the Lieutenant & asked him. "Anything you would like to say before you are slain?" "Yes... Tell, my wife & kid I love them as I will always..." But little did he know, his wife & child were both murdered & hung as their house was burnt. "We shall see." "Why would you do something like this to you own peaahhhh?!!!" But before he could finish, his head was already rolling down the bireme into the water... And as for the rest of the crew that lived, they were left on the sinking bireme to die... No Roman citizen ever knew this tragic event happened...

Entrant 3 - Ratzor

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An eerie glow surroundered the crew above the Saint Helena. Unearthly in appearance it quietly embalmed the ship in cold mist. The crew stared out into the mystic fog, as to reveal its secret through sheer will alone. Suddenly a hollow scream aired out amongst the thick fog, chilling the crewmembers to the very bone and more than one crossed their fingers, as too shield them from evil. The captain, a man called John Dover, stood sharp behind the wheel, reprimanding his crew for their foolish superstition. Skillfully he navigated amongst rocky cliffs and whirlpools as they appeared around the bow. The occasional shipwreck soon appeared and painted the cliffsides in irregular patterns, some looked ancient while others carried names he could have sworn belonged to the royal navy. He could not help but to feel a chill along his own spine.

Suddenly one of the crewmembers screamed. Shaking uncontrollably he pointed towards an object stranded along the portside. As more crewmembers rushed to see what it was it quietly slipped away into the fog, revealing nothing but the silluette of what looked like a man. "Get back to your positions!" The captain shouted at the crew, now beginning to regret his descision to pursue the Rebels into the fog. "I'll want those sails hauled! It's getting narrow ahead!". The crewmember who saw the object was carried away by his friends, who tried to ask him questions. But he was unable to stutter forth more than individual syllables. Some crewmembers crossed their fingers to protect themselves from evil. This time the captain made no effort to quench their fears.

As they were enclosed by the more narrow passageway they had to push themselves forward using long rods. It felt as though they were trapped, the cliff walls standing but a few metres from both the port and starboard. Most concentrated on the push forward. The mood among the crew shifted silently to the worse. Panic and claustrofobia began to ventilate itself. Some in the crew breathed in rapid succesion, as if every minute they could run out of air. A cracking noise above the ship turned more than one head in its direction, only to have the same faces being peppered by small rubble. They could hear ghostly shrieks appearing behind them and as their panic increased so did the speed in which the crewmembers pushed the ship forward. The crew was soon pushed into a sort of crazed state and more than a few let out a scream as they could glimpse something in the corner of the eye or distinguish a shape among the hazy mist. The captain himself cold feel the ethereal claws grabbing his soul, his life seemed dependent on powers he couldn't fathom.

Suddenly the crewmember who had seen the first appirition threw himself back, pausing in midair only to have his body rattled in convulsions and his eyes turned towards the back of his head. All around him men stopped pushing, watching as he was slowly bent towards himself and bones crushed with snapping sounds. For a full minute this continued until finally his body snapped in half, the crew taking a distance and in disgust and fear tried to shield themselves from the blood gushing forth from the torso and thighs. No one took his place when they continued their journey, all focused on the man in front, as to not stare out into the mystical mist. Ghostly sounds still haunting their sanity from all directions, a chill in their bones that left no hope.

But suddenly they were clear. Not a cliff to be seen in any direction. Amazed, the crew stared confusingly at each other. Then at the captain, who also was speechless. The sounds and visions stopped as well, but the mist remained. A cheer went up from the crew, as they realized just what had happened. Smiling, laughing and dunking each other in the back, they noticed a difference in the water. It was no longer blue, but red, and just ahead of them a shipwreck appeared. It was the Saint Helena, bodies snapped all around and blood gushing forth from the torsos and thighs. And so their journey started again.

TotW 86a – The English Bodkin Arrow

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Winner - Tim1988

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Entrant 1 - Solid Snake

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“Who could have thought the French would put us in the run eh?” Said the fellow to my right.

“Aye.” Said the archer to my left. “But this is where we show them how we English fight!”

“Keep firing boys!” Yelled the King. “For England! Don’t stop firing!” He said to us as he rode left with his cavalry.

“That´s King Henry for you.” Said the fellow behind me as we prepared another volley.

Beneath us the ground trembled.

The French Knights were coming.

Hordes and hordes of sterling plate armor, they looked like a shiny metallic sea that was about to crash upon us.

We kept firing even though they were very close now, we had been marching for days and nights on and we have been firing for hours now, and yet I didn’t felt tired, not an inch tired.

I looked to the man to my right.

“Starting to feel that tiring arm eh?” he asked. “Well, if we survive this we´ll have a surgeon take a look at it.” He said with a smirk as he returned to his firing sequence.

“How did we got here?” I asked in a low whisper. I had no recollection of the journey, I only remembered that dreadful siege in Paris, and then we had been forced to retreat…. And we marched….and now we were firing for hours now. “I don’t remember what road we took.”

“Just keep firing lad!” Said the man to my left, or was it the one to my right? We all looked the same under the heavy rain that had been pouring on since… since the battle begun.

Our swordsmen in front had been struggling to keep the French infantry away from us and the knights were in the distance riding toward us, something was not right, they were moving and yet they didn’t seemed to be getting any closer to us, the ground was still trembling beneath us, or was it just me?

The King rode behind us again yelling at us to keep firing till the last arrow, how exactly many arrows did we had, surely we had already spent them all? And yet I always had an arrow ready and I kept firing with my mates, but how was I not tired?

I looked around, a sign post could be seen in the distance: Agincourt it read. We were at the site of that famous battle! When the English completely destroyed the French army due to the use of their famed long bowmen archers!

The ground shook, like it was an earth tremor, but I was the only one to lost balance. The rest of the archers continued to fire at the enemy.

Something was not right…

I turned my back to the enemy to see what was behind me; there was nothing, nothing with a defined form that is, it was just a grey mist.

“Where to now?” Asked a female voice inside my head.

“Back, to where I met you, when we were young.” I said with my eyes closed, on that moment I could feel the rain on my face, my arms burning due to the constant firing, my feet aching with the long days of marching.

When I opened my eyes again I was in the school´s library a lot of years younger, and I was reading, what book? I do not remember, but I remember that you sat in front of me.

“Is it taken?” you asked.

“No, it´s free.” I answered before getting back to my reading.

I remember now, I was reading the Silmarillion for the uptenth time.

You pointed the book and said: “That book is awesome, it always gets me crying at the end.”

I smiled; you were the first woman that I had met that knew about the Silmarillion.

“Its good.” I said. “It also gets me in an emotional mood whenever I read the Lay of Luthien.”

You took a laptop out of your bag.

“Yeah,.” You said. “You are Victor right? The Anatomy´s Instructor?”

“I am.” I said while you clicked On your computer and I changed page. “Did you took classes with me?”

“No, I´m new.” You answered. “I have heard you are the best one to take classes with though.”

“Well…” I said with a failed attempt at modesty. “What´s your name?”

“Dalia.” You said as you smiled, I heard you clicking on your laptop and then I heard a most familiar music while I read the part where Finrod fought against Sauron in Tol Sirion.

“Wait…” I said as I put the book down. “Are you playing Medieval Total War 2?” I asked with disbelief.

“Yep.” You nodded with your head as I went around the table to see if it was real, the first girl I ever knew that played Total War.

“I see you´ve done most of the Historical Battles.” I said, impressed.

“I only miss this one.” You said, kinda frustrated. “The Battle of Agincourt. Can you help me win it?”

“Certainly!” I said.

I saw our first conversation from afar and you appeared next to me in my dream.

“We were so young.” You said.

“Come on, we still are.” I said turning towards you. “Dalia, you forever will be young to me.”

“Here we can be young always.” You said, coming close to me.

“Always, as you are by my side.” I said.

We kissed in our memory, in our dream.

We woke up, the reality wasn´t far off from the dream.

Entrant 2 - Valandur

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Entrant 3 - Julius Barca the Great

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Colin dreaded the coming battle. He knew the royal French army was unstoppable. He knew that this war was more an inconvenience than a threat to the kingdom. But he also knew that the English were employing a type of soldier that could kill a knight without a thought. Until now, a man of Colin's rank could walk into battle, confident that biggest risk was losing the income of a few years. Now, however, death looked him in the face in the form of a narrow piece of steel on the end of a stick.
Still, disgrace upon his family simply would not do. So, with the terribly cold feeling of an imminent death in the pit of his stomach, he donned his armor. As he put on his helmet, the tapestry in his tent caught his eye. A fierce struggle was depicted in the foreground, with knights, both infantry and cavalry, bludgeoning each other in a close melee, using large shields as well as swords to beat their opponents into submission. Oh, how Colin wished for a shield! He felt certain the solidity of an extra plate of steel could save him from the Wrath of the Bow. Instead, he followed the ideas of today's military logic, which dictated the rejection of such encumbrances in favor of thick armor and a good poleaxe.
Colin stepped out into the beautiful French sunlight, and he knew today would bring victory to the king. The English dogs would scurry away, tails tucked between their legs. But many good knights would fall, and in return, the men of Norman ancestry would cast aside the lives of a few peasants and men-at-arms. It hardly seemed a fair way to do battle. Surely God, through the Pope, would punish the brutes?
Men on horseback trotted past Colin, faces grim. They would lead the charge, and would be among the first to die. It was truly a despairing sight to see the gentry and nobility of France humbled in such a way.Why did the men-at-arms not lead the charge, and absorb the arrows of the English? They, at least, held large wooden shields! But alas, it was considered noble, brave, and honorable to lead a charge. The task was, as such, delegated to the knightly order.
The battle lines were set, the men steady. Across the muddy field, the few English knights stood, flanked on either side by the devil himself. By

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Entrant 4 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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"But papa, why must we leave?"
Édouard looked down at his daughter, her wide, blue eyes gazing back at him in curiosity. He kneeled down, and putting his hands on her slim, frail shoulders, said, "It's not safe here, ma chaton. We can return when the armies leave, and it will be the same as before. Until then, just do as your mother and I ask and get your things."
She opened her mouth to respond, but he shushed her and pushed her towards her chest, where she kept what few possessions she had. Édouard turned to his wife, Adèle. She was not a large woman, but she was strong, and had a firm countenance. In her younger years, when she and Èdouard had first met, she had been very pretty, with her sea blue eyes and dark brown hair. Even now, Èdouard only saw her as a young woman when he looked at her. They had only their daughter, Marie, though they had two sons who had died young.
"Marie, are you ready to go?" he asked her. She looked at him and nodded, her eyes blinking back tears. Èdouard picked her up and said, "Don't be sad, ma chaton, we won't be gone more than a week, I promise. We're just going to stay with your Uncle for a while until things died down, all right?" She nodded again. Now he looked back to his wife and said, "We must go now. I have no desire to be here when the armies meet."
They then left the small cottage they called home, carrying only some linens and a small doll. After only a mile of walking, they caught a glimpse of the English army. It seemed rather small, and there was a surprising lack of knights or men-at-arms among them. Èdouard took solace in the fact that the French would beat them soon enough, and life would return to normal. Soon, they saw a small detachment of English horsemen riding towards them.
"Keep your heads down. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves," Èdouard said. He picked up Marie and held her close to his body, hoping to be completely ignored by the detachment. The detachment rode by without notice, and just as he was thinking they were safe, he heard them stop. One of them shouted something in a language he could not understand. English, he assumed. The man said it again, louder this time, and Èdouard quickened his pace. He heard them begin to ride towards him. One of the men rode around in front of them, forcing them to stop. Again, the words were spoken. Did the man think if he said it enough Èdouard might understand? The man dismounted and drew a sword, grinning. He caught their eyes and saw they were looking at Adèle. Suddenly the horrible realization dawned on him, and he had only one thought. He put Marie down and put one arm around her, and the other around his wife.
He hugged them and whispered, "if you get a chance, run." Adèle only nodded, and grabbed Marie's hand. Èdouard closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he opened them, he looked at the men. Surprisingly, they weren't heavily armed, messengers, perhaps? There were four of them he saw now, and two of them remained mounted. The man with the sword held it to Èdouard's throat, and said the words again, louder. Èdoaurd raised his hands, trying to make the man realize he didn't understand. The man looked at him, spat, and turned. Sheathing his sword, he mounted his horse, turned, and galloped away. Èdouard whispered a quite prayer of thanks, and turning to his family, they walked on.

Entrant 5 - R-teen

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“I’m not comfortable with this.”
The ~~last~~ guy in the far right wing of the army protested. His comrade-in-arms in his left made a face and grumbled:
“Not again… What is it this time?”
“You’re in the picture fully… But they’re only showing my hand.”
A guy in his right nudged him and said: “Lucky you, the damn cam ain’t covering a single part of my body.”
The second guy – the guy in the left – who was running out of wits of the fools’ controversy, growled: “Strip your clothes off—”
“What?!?!” They both shot back simultaneously.
“Yeah strip’em off! I bet the cams will be all over your arses then.”
In the meantime, a guy from the far left of the army raised his voice and objected that his situation was worst, since he was in the picture, but wasn’t actually. But what this has to do with my tale? I don’t know… So who cares what he said anyway?
Back in this side, the archer commander shouted: “FIRE!”
“Oh damn!” The first guy snapped dropping his bow and start running amok shouting “Somebody call 911! Somebody call 911! “
His comrade though, was indifferent to his friend’s craze. He let loose the cord of his bow in the command of his officer. A shot went flying forward, only to hit its lucky victim-should-have-been a second later. One of the archers in the row in front of the stakes put up his middle finger to his behind, and without turning back to see from who it was, started shouting something, which to summarize, meant something like ‘Watch your fire!’
Some meters behind, the shooter, was infuriated and was blushing of the kind words of his victim who was still complimenting his momma. “Why didn’t he die? I wish —” He was thinking. The man in his left said sternly: “FF’s off you newb.”
“I thought I was thinking —“
“Well you were thinking aloud!” he jumped in.
“What the hell’s FF anyway?” He though, but it seemed this time it wasn’t loud enough for the other guy to hear. His curiosity tickled him, so he tried his best to think louder: “WHAT THE HELL’S FF?!” But the psychic guy seemed to be whether ignoring him, or he must’ve subconsciously been speaking last time. With a feeling of safety inside his brain, he though: “You bizarre fo—“
“Who’re you calling a fool?” He turned in a flash and towered over the poor archer.
He was stupefied and was shivering… The front line archer had just stopped from cautioning him kindly about the aftermath of next time he did that again, and now this guy was about to crush his skull. The poor guy was on the verge of wetting himself as the man in his left was about to beat the hell out of him, until someone from his behind said: “You don’t have to this Edward, don’t forget who you are.” He turned his eyes to the one restricting him, and quickly turned them back to the freaked out guy and said: “Watch your mouth next time.”
The guy opened his mouth to say something, but he jumped in growled: “Mouth, mind, whatever…”
He was past the danger, but he already needed new pants.

In the other side of the field, the sight of the commander on his ironclad horse among his noble guardsmen sent a chill down one’s spine.
Commander turned to his tactician and asked:
“Aren’t those our men there? Their flags look a lot like ours”
“Whom do you mean, sire?”
“Those four… or maybe more… units in the fore…”
“Where?”
“Right there you whore!”
He chuckled. The commander shot a chastising look towards him, so he straightened himself a little and said.
“Yes sir, they’re our men.”
“What the… why the hell our archers are firing at them?”
His fellow tactician coughed and a smug smile appeared on his face, and said proudly.
“I ordered them to. I thought, you know, they could be great practicing targets for them”
The tactician put a hand on the commander’s shoulder, with his horse close to the commander’s, and relied on the commander’s shoulder. The wide eyes of the commander were getting wider any moment from both disbelief and fury. The tactician, noticing the commander’s reaction, tried to make up to that:
“You know, to warm up… until the enemy armies arrive...”
The commander shrank, causing the tactician to fall from his horse. The commander shouted of agony and was about to descend the tip of his lance into the tactician’s chest who was screaming repeatedly “They can’t do any harm… FF’s off.” but the he wasn’t listening. Lucky him, when the commander was about to silence bustling fool, some other shouting in the other part of the army divided his attention and he turned his head to find the source of all these noises. His view was blocked by some of his guardsmen, so he rode a little to back of the army, and there saw a soldier, who was running towards someone who seemed to be the commander of the archers, and was carrying a red capsule in his arms. He reached the archer commander and started pouring some white powder from the strange capsule down on him. Almost all the men who were in the range of this were watching, and all of them were too shocked to do anything about it, and no sound came out any of them.
After watching for some minutes in silence, the first guy’s capsule ran out of powder, leaving a white statue of a once commander. The man finally looked up to see some thousand pairs of eyes, and some thousand dropped jaw pointed at him. He was panting with both excitement and exhaustion of his magnificent show; he smirked and said with a voice turned ridiculous with his gasping: “It’s extinguished!”
He repeated that again under his breath, and dropped the empty red capsule and started walking to his position in the archer unit, with thousands of faces turning slightly with his each step. He reached his bow that was still lying in the ground, picked it up and started shooting. In a hundred meters radius around him there was no sound but the sound of his bow cord. Meanwhile, almost as far as eye could work it out, all men were staring at him like they were staring at the newfound 8th wonder of the world.
He was still shooting arrows until two men – who weren’t hypnotized by him unlike the others – came and placed him under custody. Some other men too, were ordered to extract an archer commander from the pile of white powder. The commander was already done with his tactician too. He started making the rest of the army ready.
Some hours later… *fast-forwarding*… *still fast-forwarding*… *you’re walking on my nerves… I’ll tell you myself when it’s finished…*
Alright, I think that’s enough. Let’s keep up in normal speed.
Everywhere was dark… It was middle of the night. The sweet seductive voice of a woman – the queen? oh my god it’s the queen!!! – was whispering: “Come here honey...” It was one of the rare situations where the king had to obey instead of commanding —… Eh... We… I think we have over-fast-forwarded a little… haven’t we? Reverse reverse reverse… *reversing*…
Okay, good enough. Here we go again.
It was evening and the king was expecting the results of the battle. It was doleful evening, waiting impatiently for the news of the battle to arrive. Sitting in his room, a tapping in the door interrupted the king. He let his bald lean adviser to come into the room. He asked him if his majesty liked to hear the news of the battle from the commander of the army himself, and the king let the man in.
The commander, shaken and shaking came forward with a piece of parchment in his hand. He was forging a grin, showing his clattering teeth; he bowed when he reached the king, and presented the report. He quickly asked for the king’s permission to leave. The king though, ordered him to have a sit and help himself. The king opened the parchment, a pleasant simled traced on his face at first, but it was fading little by little, each moment he continued to stare at it. Finally, he raised his head. It was serene, turned red. He set his eyes on the commander, whose chair’s legs were making hell of a sound clattering the floor. The king continued to gaze him, and he continued to shake and gaze the emperor back, and the foolish grin still was on his face.
The adviser, curious of the reason of the reaction of the king, asked “May I?” gesturing towards the parchment. The king, without turning his eyes off the commander, handed it over to him. His eyes raced continuously between the report and the commander, until his mind managed to fully catch the reason of strange acts of the king and the commander, which couldn’t match the parchment in his hand in strangeness at all.

TotW 87a – Breaking News Live From the Scene

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Winner - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 1 - Valandur

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Entrant 2 - Julius Barca the Great

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Bishop Philip smiled contentedly. He had devised a foolproof plan that was now blooming into the beautiful flower of success.
Over the last few years, the men of Riga had become more and more distanced form the church. They had kept their vows and confessed on occasion, though, so they had been left alone. Last month, however, they had crossed the line. On the reverse of the ledger sheet required of every town, a crude drawing of Philip and an old dog had been sketched, leaving little to the imagination.
"I'll show these faithless dogs to make a fool of me," he had muttered. His orders went out at once. Every able-bodied, strong Christian man in Europe was to join Philip on a Crusade against Riga. He had armed them each with a wooden cross and had them wear the habit of a monk or the gown of a priest. He had created a Holy Army, untouchable by the blades of sinners, unaffected by the words of heretics. Should any man stand in their way, he would be prayed into submission, threatened with Hell's Fire, and forcibly conscripted. It was beautiful, really.
Today, Philip and his "army" reaches Riga. As far as the eye could see, Monks, priests, and the odd choir boy milled about the city. There was no drinking, no women, and no gambling. It was the perfect army. Or so he thought.
Riga sent out several waves of emissaries, each being told away with a stern warning that their lives were sins against God. The leaders of Riga took the hint and sulkily awaited their fate.
Philip's first, and only, major obstacle arose when the Pope issued an edict, declaring that to besiege a Christian city was a sin. Philip tried to argue that Riga was faithless, but his plea fell on deaf ears. The Pope had political ties with Riga, and politics trump justice every day of the week.
Regardless, the Bishop persisted, calling to his men that the Pope was temporarily blinded, that as their Bishop, he knew best. Again, the men that mattered chose to ignore his obviously sound logic, and fled. Soon, Philip was left with naught but a handful of monks who were too old to run back to their homes. It was pathetic.
A lone man decided to end this stupidity. He sneaked out of his bed in Riga and past the sleeping clergy. He knew he was committing a grave sin, but he cared not. His children and wife were suffering in the siege. He rested easy that night, with the knowledge that Bishop Philip would never again trouble the town of Riga again.

Entrant 3 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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**Dance** · May 10, 2013, 12:09 PM

TotW 88a – Sorry, But Your Invitation is Hereby Rescinded. Get Out!

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Winner - Solid Snake

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Por amor al arte

“Ok, boys and girls, sit down, quiet now. Ok now… where is your lab coat my friend?”
“I didn’t know….”
“There is a big poster in the door that says ALL whom enter my domains must wear a white lab coat. Since it´s your first day I´ll be soft on you. You have 3 minutes to get a coat, past the three minutes you won’t be allowed back in.”
I looked at my class of 30 students. More girls than boys fortunately, a whole group of young first year Medicine students eager to learn the art of healing the human body. More than half would not make it past their first year, my amphitheatre class was considered to be the toughest course of them all. It was my second year of giving classes, and in very short time I had grew a reputation of being the most demanding Instructor of Human Anatomy. Bad luck for them.

“Right, so, my name is Victor Ortiz, and I will be your Instructor for Anatomy of the Digestive, Genital-Urinary and Endocrine System. Some of you will pass my course, some will not, some will love me, and most of you will come to hate me; but all of you will have to suffer me to get through this class. When it comes to this particular Anatomy I´m the man of the hour, with me you will learn and learn a lot. I will put you through hell and you´ll come out steel.”
I took a pause to let them absorb this information. I remembered my first day as a Medicine student, I was nervous, nervous as I had never been before, now I could see that nervousness in my new student´s eyes. I smiled.
“Now, I only ask two things out of you. Dedication and Responsibility, no doctor can live without those. This first crash course into Anatomy is designed to test your character, to see if you got what it takes to become a doctor. Forget about high school and fairness. You are in the big leagues now. And it will only get harder from now on.” I could almost see their faces pale and their bodies flinch at the prospect of the harsh subjects and demanding lifestyle that our career demanded.
The boy that had went out to get a white coat came back panting into the classroom.
“Two minutes and fifteen seconds. Good, take a seat.” I told him. I got up and started to walk in one of the aisles left in between the rows of chairs.

“Forget about sleeping well, eating healthy, getting drunk at late-night parties and of filling the web with gossips of your Facebook friends. I hope that each of you becomes a student of this school and not just a tumor dressed in white.” I walked back to the front. “Now, I´m certain that most of you have spent the whole of your lives in private schools and therefore have no clue about hard work and study habits, I know that a great deal of you are here because your mom and dad could not afford to send you to one of the private schools that teach that thing that they dare to call “Medicine”. I´m glad to see some faces of people that have had to work and work hard to get here, that will have to take copies from the library´s books and borrow money from their classmates just to get through the day. A piece of advice: don’t matter how many bacteria the food from the stores outside the school have, nothing beats that combination of cheap, tasty and E.Coli that our tacos have.” Some laughed at my comment, some looked at each other with concerned glances.

I noticed that one of the girls in the front row had mydriatic eyes (pupil dilatation for the pagans in the subject).
“Feel ok my child?” I asked.
“Yes, it´s just that… dunno I find the smell irritating.”
I gave her a smile, half pity, half shame.
“Then get used to it girl, cause formol its what we breath here, fenol, alcohol (well you´re used to that one) ethanol, acetone, corpses, are our bread and butter over here; this reaction is normal since you are not used to it, but if by the end of my course you are not able to eat your lunch in front of a dead body I will resign my post.”
The girl smiled back.
“Well, that being said, outside of the class I´m the most accessible guy over here and will gladly answer your questions and doubts, that´s what I´m here for, but while we are inside these halls I ask of you silence and respect to myself and your classmates.”
They looked eager, yet frightened, doubtful.
“Any doubts?” I asked. “Anything you would like to know from me, girls try to abstain from making indecorous proposals, my girlfriend is within earshot and she will also be your Instructor so beware.” I said half-winking an eye, a signature gesture of mine.
“What music do you like?” Some guy asked from the third row.
“Almost anything lad, as long as it´s from before 2005, I just find the recent music boring and dull.”
“What is your football team?” Asked to my surprise one girl in the front row.
“C.F. América, since birth till death.” Some guys booed and whistled, my team was one of the most hated in all the country. “And all who disagrees gets a minus two point penalty in their final qualification.” The noises died down at once. “One more question.” I conceded.
“Why are you studying Medicine?” Asked another girl almost at the back of the class.
“Because of love.” I said. “Love to life, love to the art, love to the science of the human body, love to my girlfriend. Love.”
I closed my eyes, and went back in time inside my head.
Death was that brought me here, death of a loved one, and love kept me going, And love would keep my heart nodes pulsing.
“Medicine is what I love.” I said and the class ended.

Entrant 1 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 2 - Ratzor

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Muk'hta shaded his eyes from the scorching sun. It had reached zenith and hovered above the land like a blistering ball of unforgiveness and suffering. The carrier he commanded, Shuvas setp, was due to Fal Shorath, a small city close to the dangerous Akalveri border. It was a massive rectangular construct of grinding steel and plated metal, crawling slowly on huge tank threads. Within it's armored shell it carried millions upon million litres of water, the most valuable resource in all of Darum. To accompany him Muk'hta had recieved the aid of two companies of Drei shooters, all equiped with valuable Toshgowi firearms, firing crystal shards capable of penetrating most leather and even dent metal. They also wore coats made of the brown leather of Baruntos, the bi-pedal speices found deep in the Al'shevan deserts, providing excellent protection against slashes of any kind and shielded almost as good against shards as metal would.

Further accompanying him was also four Desh'van. Female warriors dedicated to the preservation of water. They loathed the sun and refused to use shard weapons, as shards disintegrate into water upon contact with various substances. Still, they weared their Gaufei blades and Shuke daggers with a skill that made even the Drei pale in comparison. Muk'hta took a moment to glance at the desert surounding them, complete except for a few cliffs that dotted the landscape in sparse colonies. There was word that trade convoys had perished along this route before, and he had no intent to be scuffolded into the bandit shard mines of Karrum.

He turned to tend to the instruments on the control panel when he saw that Merina, the Desh'van matron present, approached him with quick strides. She was slender, like all her sisters, with shoulder long red hair tied into a ponytail. The maundori silk robe of the Desh'van flowed behind her. "Kai shan Commander." She said knuckling her forehead and kneeling down. The formal greeting said this was business. "The water is in ripples Commander, we can even see it evaporate! When do we reach our destination?". "Kai va'tel Matron." He made a similiar bow as the Matron. "We will reach Fal Shorath in the next few hours, the loss of water hurt my Kutchwa but we are already moving at full speed.". It was true. For the last mooncycle they had been traveling at a speed which only the Shuvas could achieve amongst carriers. "That will not be sufficient. Every drop we lose to the ever present enemy is an insult to the Mother!" She said, carressing the handle of the shuke. Muk'hta wriggled from her gaze, eyes looking at him with the sharpness of steel. "I ask for your forgiveness matron, any attempt to increase our speed would surely overload our engines." He replied, trying to eye her hands and the surounding desert at the same time. That feeling he had told him something was about to happen, whatever it was suggesting the Desh'van or something yet to be uncovered he doubted it would be any good. "Sun embalm me! By this pace the eternal enemy will have claimed enough water to drench himself twice when we get to our destination! By all the incompeten.." Suddenly the ground erupted in front of them in cascades of sand and figures appeared from their hidding places on all sides of the carrier, shrugging dust of their cloakes. It was an ambush.

A massive Sand Scarab crawled out of the burrow now present in front of them. The red skull of the bandits of Katarhea was painted on it's forehead. It let out a shrill roar and proceeded to charge towards them. Muk'hta had never seen a scarab of that size before. He could feel fear as it closed the distance. "It seems we'll have to continue this conversation later Matron, Aih'len Kavera." He said in broken voice, turning away from her to grab the comm-speaker on the command panel. "Ready the front batteries! I want two holes in that overgrown dung beetle in less than ten seconds, any less and I'll make you walk the remaining distance with nothing but a knife and two bags of salt!" He roared over the speaker to the gunning crew, none of his fear or doubt present in his voice. The Drei shooters was already rushing to the fortifications on the edges to take their shoots. The Desh'van sisters made a gracious jump towards the ground, their silk robes fluttering behind them like the sails of Akalveri skyships. The bandits was no later though and had taken up positions among the cover of the sand dunes and the few sorruounding cliffs, providing crossfire. Muk'tha could see how a Drei got hit by a shard in the back of his head. First it seemed to paralyze him, dropping his weapon and staring empty in front of him. As Muk'tha watched convulsions started to spread and soon the soldier collapsed in a pile over himself. Others around him did the same. The Desh'van had proceeded to slaughter those who threatened the water, their Gaufei blades sinking in and out of flesh faster than he could comprehend. Their Shuke daggers finding necks and spinal cords like heat seeking missiles. But regardless of all this the Scarab got closer, and was now only about 300 metres away.

Where are those cannons? the thought barely slipped his mind before everything seemed to bleak and he had to cover his ears against the thundering roars of the frontal battery. The projectiles soared towards the towering abomination in front of them, making loud whisling noises. A direct hit! The Sand Scarab let out a new roar, this one filled with pain and agony. The men cheered around Muk'tha, picking of the last of the bandits among the dunes. The Desh'van sisters proceeded to extract the water from the corpses, leaving only when every drop was collected and the bodies of the bandits looked more like skeletons with a layer of skin than men who just died. That's the rule of the desert.

Entrant 3 - Nazgûl Killer

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Entrant 4 - R-teen

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They escorted the British envoy to their commander. After walking uphill for a while, they arrived there at the top of the hill; their domestic leader was sitting on a wooden couch, with a sulk face, accompanied by a deep glower, giving him a majestic look.

The emissary looked around at the field. Yesterday, it was the British who were lurking here, and now? It was their bodies that covered all the ground.

The cold autumn breeze was touching his cheeks harshly. He was cold, inside and out.

He knew in his mind, that the battle earlier today, wasn’t about gaining control of this small hill alone, but he couldn’t help his mind, which tried with every glance at the field, to show off their wickedness. For this small hill, was all this blood lost? Or it was bloodlust? Perhaps it was the blindness that made them view the human life as inferior to some worthless lands – worthless to them, worthy to their owners.

The escorting guards said some lines to the commander in a language that the emissary couldn’t understand.

The commander scoffed when the guard was finished, and pointed the guard, who knew English to come beside him, and the guard started translating his words with a ridiculous accent “He says ‘You want the bodies?’ ”, and one of his eyebrows was risen when his translator was asking the rhetorical question.

The British nodded and said “Yes.”

“And why should we hand them to you?” The translator translated.

The British emissary gritted his teeth and asked “You know about honor, don’t you?”

“You do? Coming out of nowhere, taking our hereditary lands, lands that belonged to our fathers, and their fathers before them to satisfy your greed. Does that sound like honor to you?”

The guard was talking with such hatred, that he wondered if he was translating the words of his commander really, or was talking on his own.

The emissary opened his mouth “That is the nature of the war –”, the translator cut him. Then he replied back “He says, and this is the nature of war too.”

“War has rules. And I see neither my men nor me transgressing it. But your act is obviously a violation.”

“I though they are the victors who write the rulebook. Are they not?”

The words shot through him and pierced his chest. It put him in a trance.

To be humiliated by someone like him, someone who he had no respect for, someone who couldn’t even understand him, in a place far away from his sweet home, was something he’d never foreseen. He knew well that there wasn’t a good war, but he preferred to be in the warring homeland itself; fighting familiar enemies, in familiar battle grounds, instead of this enemy and this land.

War is war. That will never change. War is leaving your home knowing you may never see it again. War is kissing your loved ones goodbye, hugging them to hide your tears in their hair. It is seeing men, acquaintance and stranger, friend or foe, perish before your eyes. War is choosing between honor and shame, humiliation and fame. War is losing, from inside and outside, what you will never get back. War is walking in with a clean soul, for a praised end, and walking out with a darkened soul, leaving little respect for the end that dragged you to the struggle. War is your bullet, taking down a man, just because he is standing some meters in front of you. A man you don’t even know. A man that, wasn’t for war, you might have been best of friends with.

War is, getting involved for a purpose, and keeping on for no purpose. Your purpose is lost when you shoot your first bullet. It is lost when you see your first brother fall. From then, there is only one thing that keeps you tied to the fight; the unreasonable reason of revenge; to not let the spilled blood of your brothers go in vain.

Wars break out and cease, but with the first battle you company, a war breaks out inside of your heart that no treaty can cease, a pain that no medication can cure, a fire that no water can put out. From then, it doesn’t make a difference if you are on the battlefield, or sitting in front of a stove in a warm chair in your home; the war is on, and you can do nothing to soothe it. There is no running from it, for it isolates you, no matter how hard you fight it, and in your moments of loneliness, it haunts your soul, making your mind swallow the cruel sights of war your eyes have already captured, until it chokes you.

War is, kill him, or he will kill you. War is, getting shot, lest you shoot. War is, flaring the hatred in your veins, because you are told to do so. War is, dictating yourself that you hate the man in front of you, and he hates you back, while deep inside, you both know you have no enmity.

War is sweet only for those who haven’t experienced it1. There is nothing sweet in it when you take a close look. Even in the peak of victory, you are but encumbered by the memories of it. The sight of the last smile of each of your brothers will haunt you forever. And you begin to forget that you could sleep easily one day. And right now, he was haunted by the sights of his compatriots lying in the ground; the cruelest image his mind could think of.

“Yes, it is the victor who writes the rules. But even the victors can show mercy and generosity sometimes.”

“I show mercy to he who deserves it.”

“Do us this favor… let us bury our dead… I beg of you… You gain nothing by disrespecting them.”

“What do I get for not doing so?”

Nothing. The word sped through his minds. There was nothing to offer in return. Spending all his energy to not let that ‘nothing’ slip his tongue, another phrase took advantage of his distractedness.

“Tormenting your enemy” he didn’t know why he said that himself.
When the translator finished, the commander raised an eyebrow, leaving the look of a wise man upon looking down at a fool.

“It may not give them back to me” The British emissary gestured with his head towards the bodies, “but at least I would have an enemy, fighting whom weighs on my conscious forever. And that feeling of shame is the most profound damage you can inflict me right now, and it will last forever.”

The disgusted look in the face of the commander, exchanged itself with a solemn one, with a trace of pity for the man he hated so much; for the invader. He calmly said something, with a less harsh tone this time.

“He says ‘Do you honestly believe that I care whether you are suffering inside or not? All I want is to have you invaders out of my ancestral lands. After that, you don’t exist to me anymore…”

The commander sniffed and looked around at the field and the thousands of dead bodies lying on the ground, in their glorious red uniforms turned crimson with their blood. He turned to look at the man again “You won’t have them unless you leave here, and promise to never come back.”

He took a deep breath, and said “I hate this war as much as you do. Every inch of my body yearns to be in home again, to see my wife, my little daughter.
But that decision… it is not mine to take, I’m afraid. It would’ve been already taken a while ago, if I had the power.”

The commander scoffed “Then how do you expect us to be gentle to you… Shall we show you mercy, so you can kill more of us? Huh? So you can inflict more damage than what you have inflicted already?”

He paused for a moment so his translator could keep up, and then he went on “I don’t know what your rules of war are, and I don’t care if you want the bodies of your friends back. But I do know, that I don’t answer a slap in my face with a smile; I punch back.

If you won’t leave, fine. Stay. Stay until I give you the souls of your brothers instead of their bodies. And believe me, I will grant you the honor personally, if you don’t leave my sight right now.”

His eyes paced between the commander and the translator. It was impossible to recognize if these were the commander’s words itself, or it was just the flow of the hatred of the translator. He couldn’t distinguish the words, but he could do the tones. And the tone which the commander was speaking in wasn’t near the tone of the translator.

He sighed. There was no way to convince him, for sure. “As you wish”, his eyes dropped the ground, and he looked up to the commander’s face again “but know this; I will not regret fighting you ever again.”

“Neither will I.”

He stood up to his feet, and shot his last glance on the slaughterhouse around him as he turned to walk away. If he had the smallest doubt that war is the worst calamity that has befallen humankind, it was now vanished. It was the worst calamity.

1) Pindaros

And I apologize again, for my bad grammer. ;-)

Entrant 5 - Dead Sun

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Solemn Souls

Captain Harper let out a cool, gentle sigh as he surveyed the devastation in front of him with his ice-blue eyes, stroking the stubble upon his chin in deep consideration. What had happened here? The captain wondered, taking careful steps to avoid the fly-ridden bodies. The smell was putrid: a sickening mix between faeces, gunpowder and the general rotting smell of death. Harper seemed not to smell it, but his detachment certainly could, and although they remained at the base of the hill they were still shielding their noses from the stench. The killing wounds, and the life blood that no doubt had flowed greatly from them, were nigh on invisible against the red coats of the dead soldiers. Another sigh, but this time far more sincere.
The Captain had been sent with a supply train to, unsurprisingly, deliver supplies to his old friend, Captain Robert Greene. The journey was only ten miles, but when the train was only two miles from destination could the vultures be seen. Heart filled with dread, Harper could barely bring himself to inspect each body for the fallen carcass of his friend. Perhaps his body still withdrew breath, but amongst this slaughter the hopes were beginning to diminish rapidly. Harper wasn't able to keep the silver glitter of a tear from escaping his eyes: he had found Robert.
The fallen man was left undignified yet told the terrible tale of his death. The burns around his wrists told Harper that Robert had been roped and bound to the rock that his body splayed so gruesomely across. The multiple cuts that were still oozing with blood denoted that his friend had been tortured before his passing, and the disfigured mess of his face showed the manner of his death. Bludgeoning. Bones protruded from the skin, one eyeball was weeping a mixture of pus and blood, and the other had completely exploded leaving a hive for flies.
Harper didn't want to touch the body. It was malformed, messy and made him feel sick. He didn't want to leave it as such either. The body of his friend deserved an honourable position, but the malignant hounds that had left him in such disgrace barred Harper from going near it. He ripped the edge of his sleeve off, found a bayonet and a stick, and tied them together. Leaving the emblem on the body, Harper left the way he came: tip-toeing over the fly-ridden bodies and sighing gently.

TotW 89a – (K)Night Maneuvers! or Destiny is Mine

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Winner - Legio

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Entrant 1 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 2 - Valandur

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Entrant 3 - StealthEvo

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Mathias Tanmore breathed out forcefully, glancing around with blurred vision for any more threats he was somewhat disappointed to see that there was no resistance in front of him. In fact the opposing lines were moving back. His own line, his men at arms were reforming as well. Looking at the bodies in front of them his men had been pushed back several yards but they had held! A large drop of blood dripped from the tip of his nose guard of his helm. Narrowing his eyes and feeling his breath catch in his throat. Was that his?

Suddenly confused and feeling slightly lost in his own mind Mathias tried to clear his head by shaking his head. A rupture of pain erupted as he tried staggering him slightly. Breathing more forcefully now as he heard the fluttering volume of voices around him. Some concerned, some angry, no one asking him if he was ok. Glancing down his body as he managed to sheath his sword. His tabard was soaked in blood; had he really been that much of a berserker...Another drop caught his attention. Again from the nose guard. Raising his now free right hand he ran a hand along his helmet it was slightly sticky and warm lowering his hand he saw his gauntleted palm shining red. Something was wrong. His gut now starting to churn he tore off his gauntlet somehow. His mind was now too clouded to bother. He could barely hear anyone now. It was all a muddle of noise. Narrowing his eyes and forcing himself to focus on the boot of a fallen soldier he ran a shaking hand along the crest of his helmet. There! There was an indentation near the top of helm aligned downwards it seemed. The edge was sharp, he felt a moment of dull pain as his finger caught it. Wincing as he removed his flesh from the edge he touched the other side. It was a small gap.

Wide enough just to slip his fourth finger (pinky) into the morass to investigate. Besieged by another wave of vertigo he sucked in breathes of air to try and steady himself. As he probed the gash in his helm he felt more warm wetness, no doubt blood. Yet the thought of it being his own didn't register to his struggling mind. Feeling someone tugging his arm to his left Mathias turned confused to look at his assailant. Through the muddle of noises and distortion he heard the words

"Leave it out mate, come on back in line Matti"

Mumbling with a thick dry mouth in a bit Mathias gasped in pain as he felt pressure at the top of his skull. Drawing his finger back from its investigation the pressure stopped but the pain remained. Sending his finger down again into the crevice of his helm he felt a hot ragged man of something. As the pressure of pain returned his sluggish mind eventually worked out the conclusion. Knowing that his helmet had been split in the last charge and knowing that the blade that had dealt the blow had gone much deeper then just the helmet brought his adrenaline numbed nerves back to life. Screaming in pain as every nerve came alive at once he tore his finger as he yanked it out of the helmet. Instantly feeling his stomach contract as he doubled over screaming silently in pain as his tortured dry throat struggled to hold back the rising bile. Having fallen to knee's with the effort of his vomiting Mathias now struggled to breath in and scream at the same time. How could someone remain awake with such pain rocking through their skulls. Even breathing added its own whiplash of pain to his body. His sense of hearing was now almost completely muddled.

He heard something around him as he felt himself being hauled up. Taking a staggering step back from the vertigo he saw dumbly two of his fellow soldier standing in front of him clicking and clapping in front of his face. Their words made no sense. Whose face was grey and white as a dead man’s? Why was the amount of blood over him a concern? His entire world was concerned with pain and awful vertigo. Despite his fellow men's attempt at holding him upwards his pain added brain forced his limbs forward. Dropping like a stone onto the muddy floor the action dug the jagged edges of the helmet into his head. The pain that had been growing in his chest was now almost comparable to his head. Yet his strength was failing him now. He strained to move his arms, his legs and his fingers. Even his free hands’ fingers struggled to move now. As he couldn’t draw in breath from his failed lungs anymore Mathias felt the stupor mist around his brain grow stronger and more sense dulling. Yet even as his eyes closed for the final time he felt his heart beat through the earth...It was too fast. Almost like the charging gallop of hooves and the thumping of armoured men struggling to reform the line.

Entrant 4 - Eazyrider

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The movement and maneuvering of Knights at night with the minimum of sound was at the least impossible; reflected Dergog, captain of the night’s expedition. In all his years as a professional soldier he had made proverbs and statements, of varied aspects within the army, only to be later proven false by an unlikely exception; this assertion however had held true.

Such a long standing comment demanded an explanation, he believed. There was a science to everything and anything that was undeniable. And so how he had laid out his own philosophy many times before he set together to decipher this one: Petulance and irritability were core characteristics of the cream of young nobility, this was; of their wealthy, and what he would call pompous, lifestyle in which they had brought up around. The mentality of supreme authority and lineage, entertained by their tutors and parents, would nurture these attributes furthermore, which combined with the luxuries of the wealthy would build the perfect persona for the basic Knight. The fact that majority of Knights were young would explain his current difficult expedition nicely. The irregularities, Knights which didn’t engender such foolish notions, would have fallen to what the radicals liked to call ‘peer pressure’.

Happy with himself, yet unhappy with predicament Dergog now focused his attentions to the task at hand: raiding the Tomboli outpost. Eazy enough with a group of veteran soldiers, but with this young ‘rabble’ he was at a loss. Nevertheless as a professional he was required to carry out his task without question, and with Knights under his command it was assumed he was to be grateful.

Keeping his sword low, as not to glint in the moonlight, Dergog urged his company of men forward through the long glades of grass. The campfires from the outpost could be seen from miles around. It was now apparent that the site chosen was a good one; it sat on a gradual acclivity in the land which made the highest point.

Movement. ‘Move now, quiet,’ He hissed at the Knights over his shoulder. Ruffling and stamping signaled they had understood the first part of the order.

He could almost feel the turbulence in the air as the first arrow struck, but he did feel the hot slick blood slap his face; the knight in front of him collapsed, arrow protruding from his chest. He had been the youngest in the company. The thought emerged as a statement, no emotional value; he was a professional. ‘Get down you bastards!’ The men around him made a somewhat ostentatious show of falling to the ground, to the amazement of Dergog; how was that even possible?

Crawling on the ground he frantically thought about his possible options: he had lost all element of surprise and rather had been caught off guard, pinned with only a general sense of where the arrows were coming from. He tried concocting a plan in which he could lead a retreat with the least number of casualties, but time and time again the thought came back to him:
(K)night Maneuvers are impossible!

TotW 90a – A Clear Winter's Day

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Winner - Eazyrider

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Salzburg, Austria, 1737
A clear winter’s day: something he had yearned for days on end. The storm had lasted longer than expected: Strong winds had beat on the windows unrelenting , coupled with heavy snow fall; and from what he heard in some parts of Salzburg ice pellets had fallen, sleet. Locked in the university of Salzburg with little but the companionship, if that was what it would be called, of professors and servants; he had been forced to remain behind before the storm; the neglection of his studies had obligated him to.

His heart had been dulled. The melodramatic and zestful Leopold which had entered the university had been humbled and blunted; of the long course sessions and unecessary studies. He hadn’t seen day light for two days, but now it was here: the gentle warmth of the sun on his back, the cool breath escaping his mouth only to fog and disintegrate, the soft crisp crunch of his boots on newly fallen snow as he made his escapade away from the academy. It was all here.

However attenuated he might be the flame never died, his passion had been restrained in the past days but: ‘’distance makes the heart grow fonder’’. The object of his desire was not far from here: the perfect embodiment of mind and soul. The intermediate between the tangible and the spritiual. The way to pass away boredom.

He sprinted his way through the streets of Salzburg. No one would be up at this hour, esspecially not after such weather. Windows smothered and blocked with snow the city felt desolate and barren. Only the whisper of a gentle breeze, the remainder of the gale, and the occasional creek of a tipped cart, heavy laden with white, accompanied Leopold to his destination. The Salzburg cadethral.

It’s baroque style of architecture was complimented by the snow, hanging deftly from the slight ledges of the otherwise flat structure. It’s magnificent white marble stone was in uniform with the snow resembling a looming ice palace. As the sun creeped higher small lumps of snow began to sunder from the ledges. Leopold had to shovel some snow off the front entrance before he was able to push the massive doors open.

He was greeted by a wave of opressive and humid air, the result of the isolation and lack of convection and ventilation. But that did not deter him, his prize was sitting across the hall and he dare not turn back now.

Perfectly positioned between two pillars on a slight acclivty in the stone was a fine, grand: Piano. With it’s ivory keys and polished satin wood it fit accordingly with the Cathedral’s intricate designs and paintings. A dull colored light shone through stained glass to illuminate the instrument and heighten it’s glorious aura.

Leopold seated himself meticulously, as he would do if there were a perceptible audience. Tenatively he tapped the central C key: the piano emitted a perfect, crisp, resounding sound that echoed of the walls excellently, the silence that followed highlighted it’s fineness. Stretching himself he began to warm up his fingers with a few basic finger excercises. Rising from C to G in various patterns before falling back. Now he was ready.

Recalling upon his sharp memory he set to playing Cassation in G for Orchestra and Toy, a piece he himself had composed. Although it required a full orchestra to it to sound at its best, he set together to incorporate as much on the piano: the melody sounded splendidly as he struck the first chords. The empty Cathedral war soon filled with a divine harmony that resonated and exalted in its loudness. His fingers worked in a well practiced motion, moving to and fro proficiently. His mind swam in delight; stress, fear and insecurities all released in sound that encompassed him.

He had worked the piano to the penultimate bar, the tone inflected greatly, ready to fall low to the final powerful chord, when the cathedral gates burst open. In stepped a cloaked man. ‘Leopold Mozart. You have neglected your studies far too many times now. This, coupled with your escapade is stepping the over the line.’ The music stopped. ‘You are to report back to the university where the head master will see you expelled.’

Leopold Mozart went on to nurture and raise one of the most revered musicians of the time:
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart…

Entrant 1 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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Christopher Scott looked out his office window. A panoramic view of the beautiful landscapes of rural Vermont lay before him, the leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange. Picturesque would be the word to describe it, he thought. Then he turned back to his desk. Before him sat possibly the most important document he would ever sign; the contract for his tenure as Head of Marketing for the Religion of Islam. He briefly skimmed the contract before signing his name in the space in swirling, smooth letters, reminiscent of Arabic calligraphy.
He looked up just as his assistant entered the room. She wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty and young enough for Christopher to have had thoughts of an affair. He fingered his wedding ring and said,
“Yes, what is it?”
“A press conference, sir. The C.E.O. thought that you should meet the press immediately, now that you're officially on their payroll,” she said, “And before you ask, I've already sent you the documents on your phone.” As if on a timer, his phone vibrated in that instant. “The limo is waiting on the pad outside when you're ready.” With that, she turned and walked back to her desk outside his office.
Christopher grabbed his phone, a new iPhone 12, and walked out to the limo, hovering by the pad outside the door. He entered the car and it hovered away. Christopher checked the time. 12:23, the press conference started at... 12:30. He had time.
When he got to the building where the conference was being held, he exited the car and strolled briskly inside and up to the podium. He faced the press, who immediately began to ask questions. He held his hands up for silence, and he received it.
“This is going to be orderly. I will point at you and you ask your question. One question, please.”
He looked around the room, taking the silence as confirmation of his request. He pointed to a reporter in the front row.
“Mr. Scott, as the new Head of Marketing for Islam, how to plan on bolstering the public's acceptance for Islam?”
“Well, one thing that Islam has always had to deal with is negative press. We've never been the most popular religion, but recently we have been increasing our market share considerably. One thing I've planned is the names. For a long time, converts to Islam have taken Islamic names after their conversion. I've found that while people do want to change their names, they usually don't want to go to an Islamic name, fearing ostracism and fear. In accordance with that, I'm going to say that new converts to Islam can change their name to Whatever They Want, or Something Else, if that was what they wanted to be. Next question,” he said, pointing to another member of the press.
“Islam has always had the “72 Virgins,” but it's an often misleading myth for the most part, right?”
“Yes, but I'm considering a system of rewards, wherein you could get two virgins for each percentage of your income you donate to Islam. Also, anyone who converts within a week of this conference will receive two extra virgins per percent, absolutely free. Next question.”
“Is it true that you may institute a prayer debt policy?”
“Yes, I may. I'm in talks with the C.E.O. about allowing people to not pray every day. In all honesty, who has time to pray five times a day any more? I know I don't. So we said, if you only pray twice one day, you can just pray an extra three times later, without any penalty, provided you pay off the debt within 7 days. I'd like to branch off for a second here, hold your questions please, and say something about our main competitor, Christianity. Christianity has long held the market, free to say and do what it wants. But we at Islam believe a new era is upon us. An era where the best religion wins, an era where people choose their religion because it has the best warranty plans and benefits, and not let their parents' choice affect their own. Christianity has held the market with an iron fist for centuries, and quite frankly, Islam plans to change that. Also, Islam is now 50% more suicide free. Thank you, and Allah be with you.”

Entrant 2 - midterm360

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A Costly Mistake

It was crisp winter morning and the Count Elden had received order from his liege to relieve to troops at Kalvyrn who had been under siege for several months. It was a busy morning, ensuring that all the necessary arrangements had been made; An AWOL percentage of only 3% and an adequate supply train. Afterall an army runs on its stomach and by ensuring theirs was the only source of food for miles desertion would take a lighter toll, but more importantly to survive the long 4 day march, food was essential. Elden only hoped they would make it in time. He had expressed his concerns to his kings counsel.
"Nylfiirn will be left totally undefended! A passing army of maurauders could come at any time, killing the old and young, and having their way with the women."
His pleas fell on deaf ears and 2 days prior he had received the orders to march his garrison to the relief of Kalvyrn. A grim prospect to be certain, so far in this war they had been outmaneuvered, out numbered, and outclassed at every turn. It was a very real possibility that they would lose this war and their kingdom, their culture, their way of life would be lost forever... Elden reminded himself not to dwell too much of the future and to what he could with the time he had been given. Yes. That helped him focus.
Four days later he arrived at Kalvyrn to find it burned to the ground with a mound of bodies in the center, and a large entangled set of tracks that bespoke a large army had been there and gone. Elden's eyes went wide and a single tear rolled down his wrinkled and grizzly face.
"The garrison here was much smaller than our own, but the walls... and the men themselves were good honest men, and hard fighters they... they should have..."
His voice trailed off at a loss for words. Upon reaching the center of the town he fell in a slump in sobs. They were too late. Judging by the tracks, and the face some fire were still burning meant the fighting could have only ended at most 12 hours ago.
His eyes suddenly went white, he lost his breath and for a moment he gasped for air as panic set in as he realized... The tracks were straight for Nylfiirn"
Shaking himself from his stupor he bellowed
"Mount up men! We march to Nylfiirn!"

Entrant 3 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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TotW 91a – Spartans on the March

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Winner - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 1 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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What had driven the Gods to such wrath? Surely the end was here, for the Earth to spit forth such fire and ash. Men, strong men, withered and died as the ash coated and filled their lungs. Children ran the streets, screaming for their mothers before they would collapse, heavy from the weight of the soot. Yet here he was, and was he affected? Looking down and around, he could see that there was a layer of dust coating his body, but he could breathe as well as ever. But why? Why was he spared? He could feel the ash in his lungs, filling up with every breath. He forced himself to stop breathing, only to find that his breath had been reflex, not necessity. He turned around, slowly absorbing the entirety of the scene around him. The town was small, no more than 300 people lived there, and he could feel each of them, as they joined the ferryman on his voyage. His legs lost their strength, and he collapsed in the street. He lay there, as the dust and ash began to cover him, a blanket of earth. His eyes were weary too, and he drifted into sleep.

What has been green is now brown
The grass turned to dust
The water is all gone
The metals turned to rust

What change had occurred?
To bring this about
What happened, o Gods?
To force us to doubt

He awoke, then, after what could have been years. The ash was thick as he stirred, but he managed to push through it to the surface. It was dark, just past dusk it seemed. But dusk had not come. It was not yet Midday, but the clouds of ash had blotted out the sun. He did not realize this for some time, and when it did, he stopped dead in his tracks and wept. His tears left clean streaks on his face, and he turned them to the sky, crying, ‘Oh Gods, why? What have they done to deserve this? Why let me live if not to save them from this fate?’ He stood there for some time, hoping for some reply from beyond, some sign to answer him. For days he stood there, then weeks. He was not hungry, nor thirsty, nor did he breath. Then, one day, the sun shone through the clouds, illuminating him. He looked up into the sun, hoping perhaps Apollo was coming to tell him something, anything, but no. The clouds were just beginning to depart. The sun soon retreated back, and he turned his gaze to the earth again. After some time had passed, he fell to the ground. His fall was cushioned by the layers of soot and ash, and a cloud billowed around him as he landed. He felt something sharp in the soot next to his arm. He grabbed it, a broken piece of a jar. Gripping it tightly, he brought it to his throat. He wept, one last time, before ending his life. As his blood soaked the earth, a thunder crack shook the earth. It began to rain.

Immortality had been given
Now it was taken
None can know the Gods
Even those they have shaken

The immortal had wept
And take life
Did the gods then weep?
And end mortal strife?

Entrant 2 - 'Gunny

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A soft drizzle descends upon us as we wait, each raindrop deflecting off our mud caked pickelhauben. Our artillery booms overhead, but due to the incessant barrages they have dolled out, their barrels are worn and the shells go every which way. I reach up and vainly attempt to wipe off the mixture of mud and sweat off my face. I walk toward Mueller, my best friend, and rats the size of my head scurry off in a multitude of directions, ending their gorging on pieces of the deceased. Mueller is gazing towards the British lines, unflinching as the British guns answer ours. I approach him, and as I open my mouth, our guns go silent; we know what that means. I refrain from talking to Mueller; I refrain from giving him my watch. He has always wanted that watch, a triviality in the hell that is our day to day lives, and I told him that I would let him have it when I died. I feel that time is fast approaching, though I don't know why. As the guns go silent I prepare myself. Then the whistles blow. I walk toward the edge of the trench and put my right arm over and hoist myself up: I have just gone over the top.

Once I get my footing I come to notice the hell which has just broken loose. The British guns have not stopped and I know we must advance. I begin to run, thousands of my comrades at my back; I trip and fall into a shell hole as another shell lands where I had been standing moments before. I say a quick prayer and rise once again to my feet, we must keep pushing forward. I stagger over the crest of the shell hole and continue to run, but I am no longer in front, this is a blessing. As I run I watch as men get cut down by the thousands of bullets being relentlessly hurled to our men. Men, I think, these are not men, these are boys; boys who should be playing, boys who should be studying, boys who should be with a wonderful girl. These boys should not be sent to eat lead manufactured somewhere in London, neither should the boys from London be sent to lose their limbs to shells made in Berlin; to have their lungs pierced by a bayonet made in Cologne, or to have their necks sliced by shovels made in Dresden, all by other boys who should be only slicing meat as a butcher's assistant. But here I am, watching as fine young boys are caught by one in many thousands of bullets sent their way by other boys. Pro Quis Voluntas?

I continue to stagger forward, now being tripped by the bodies of my comrades and friends, some recently deceased, others rotting in no man's land for the past week since the last push. My Pickelhauben does not fit my head, as it is not mine. I had lost mine in the last push, and am using my childhood friend Johannes', but he no longer needs it: he no longer has a head. I continue to push forward, but I stop and discharge my rifle. I am now only seventy yards from the British trench, I can almost smell them.

I am now 30 yards away. I throw a grenade; it lands in the British trench and there is an explosion, I know I have taken the lives of several men, and I hope that this will spare the lives of my men. Mueller is now running beside me, I look at him, and smile the only kind of smile a man in my position can muster. This does not last long. I am soon covered in his blood as his body is perforated by a million Maxim bullets. I am now filled with rage, and I discharge my rifle, killing in cold blood the operator at the trigger of the Maxim gun, another cold blooded murderer. Within several seconds I am in the British trench, I remove my helmet and become a madman.

I immediately kill a boy, no older than 16, not old enough to shave. When I have removed my spade from his neck I am immediately attacked by a much bigger man. I duck his blow and deliver one of my own, killing him instantly. As his helmet falls to the floor I notice a picture of a woman, a beautiful woman: his wife. I realize quickly that only a few of my comrades have reached the trench. I murder another man, perhaps in his 30s' and climb back over the top, into no man's land.

I run as fast as my legs can carry me, miraculously dodging bullets and shells alike. I think of nothing but survival. I am like a savage, I may as well be carrying a spear. I give no thoughts to God, I give no thoughts to Mueller, I give no thoughts to the men I am tripping over, men who will stay there either until the rates finish devouring them, or artillery obliterates them. I am concentrating on one thing as I run, the pit in the ground that is our trench. I continue to run as I put out all thoughts from my head.

I am now halfway back to my trench, halfway back to safety, halfway back to home. I then can no longer feel my leg, I stagger, and I fall to the bottom of a shell hole into a shallow puddle of dirty water. I know what this means; I know I am a dead man. I begin to review my life, my childhood, my schooling, my family. I begin to think how I was a mere week away from graduating from university the day I joined the army. But shouts of "Fur Der Kaiser" were quickly changed into shouts of pain; shouts of death. I will no longer become a businessman like my father; I will die at the bottom of this stinking hole, lying in a puddle of water, caked with dirt and particles of unlucky soldiers. A hole in which many more men will probably die before the war is over.

I begin to think about the boy I killed, and his mother. I wonder about her reaction to his death, how she will cry when she receives the telegram. I then begin to think about Mueller's mother. Mueller was her last living child, his brothers having died at Tannenburg, a so called victory. Now Mueller is no longer alive, he is a number; just another number in a war with already far too many numbers.

Our guns have resumed firing, and the British guns have ceased. I know what this means, a counter-attack. I hear the whistles of the British officers and the war cries of the young Tommies as they too go over the top. These war cries become cries of death, cries for mother, cries that could only come from boys. As I lie in the puddle I hear a word that I understand in both English and German: “Gas."

I no longer care, I understand my impending death. I make no motion to put on my gas mask, but I can imagine my comrades going through the motions, wary of the prevailing winds that drift the gas back to our line. I can envision the Tommies hastily putting on their masks. I know many men will not put them on properly, and shiver at the thought of their screams as the gas slowly fills their lungs. The first gas shells land nearby. I watch as the gas slowly creeps toward me; I make my final prayers.

I begin gasping for air as my lungs fill with the noxious gas. My lungs burn, my eyes burn, my skin burns, I hear cries of death from the newest Tommies, the ones who did not fasten their mask correctly. I listen as I slowly slip into death, as they do the same. Everything is a blur, as the gas slowly strangles the life out of me; it is a brutal death, though I do not make a sound. My grip on reality is slipping away. I see a creature, completely alien to me. It has Bug eyes, and a small snout that dangles from its face. I then realize what it is; it is a Tommie, coming to do the most humanitarian thing possible.

I watch as he raises his rifle. His finger slowly seems to inch toward the trigger. What takes mere milliseconds to him is a lifetime to me. His finger finally reaches the trigger, and I manage to utter my final words as I lie on my stomach in this Godforsaken ditch "Hurry up"

I see the trigger slowly move back.

A Flash.

Pro Quis Voluntas?

Entrant 3 - Borissomeone

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I can feel the soft breeze as it lightly passes me, the smell of blood and emptied bowels thick in the air as my men die around me. My sweat is cooled by the wind as I ready myself to die, my thick armour a comfort upon my wide shoulders as I grip my war hammer, again ready to end more foul lives. We were but three hundred men on our way to the capital, Middenheim, when we were set upon by a hoard of Beastmen their ugly faces twisted in rage and hate as they poured out of the thick forest. A sigh leaves my lips, turning into a fine mist in the coolness of the morning, nothing to do but fight and hope to take as many of these disease ridden curs to the grave with us.

My men, their distinctive armour and wolfs cloaks, fight like they have never before, perhaps the knowledge that they will all die no matter what gives them strength on this cold morning. I move forward back into the main battle line, landing my war hammer upon the chest of a large Beastman, its animal eyes widen in shock as its life is crushed from it, spinning I plant my next blow cleanly into the side of another’s head, grey matter sprays from its cracked skull as it drops the gore laden forest floor.

I feel the rumble before seeing the Knights of Ulric, again, come crashing into the massed ranks of the Beastmen, their bleats of terror warm my heart as their crushed under the mighty war horse’s of the Knights, and those that still stand are quickly smashed to the ground by the frenzied Knights as they also try and take as many with them into the after life. It won’t be long now, only a few still stand. The Knights of Ulric are slowly over whelmed by sheer numbers, men pulled from their steads and hacked apart, their blood feeding the already soaked ground. I take a heavy blow and stumble back, my heart is like thunder in my ears, several massive brutes come at me large axes at the ready and death in their eyes.

I look over the battle field as my end draws near, the bodies of the Teutogen Guard litter the battle ground, horrible wounds gaping back at me, I smile, I know an odd time to let a smile creep across my face, but we have died well today more than eight hundred foul enemy have given their lives to our war hammers, and now I will try to add a few more to that tally. The first dies quickly, as savage blow to its face, as another tries to land a blow upon me, turning and moving to the side it misses me, I knock it from its feet, finishing it with a powerful blow, it squeals as it dies. Suddenly my breath is taken from me as I’m hit from behind; I drop to one knee as I struggle to regain my feet, my long hair hangs over my face hiding the wide smile that paints it. Another blow removes my head; a great fountain of blood announces my death. Now I’m just another ghost of the many battle fields that cover his land of mine.

**Dance** · May 10, 2013, 09:42 PM

TotW 92a – Death to all Romans or Garden of Babylon

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Winner - Marechel Ney

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The wind blew from the north; it was not air, but sand.

From sand emerged a sea of red shields. More and more came, and they continued past midday. Thirty-five thousand Roman legionaries passed through the harsh winds of sand. The heat beat down relentlessly; the only water to quench the desert’s thirst was in the already thick blood of the soldiers. North Mesopotamia offered no relent for a foreign army.
Through the sand emerged a tired horse that made its way to the front of the column. It was followed by three others. The former’s rider, a grizzled old man, held up his arm to shield his eyes. The column stopped once they reached him. For a long moment Crassus looked out into the distance, until a Centurion got the will to approach him.
“Sir”, the man began, knowing all too well that he was speaking to a member of the Triumvirate. “We must get moving” Crassus stared for a moment longer, then spoke. “Last night I had a dream. I would believe that the Gods sent me a bad omen.” And as if on queue, Crassus’ eyes were hit by a shimmer. Over a hill to the north something had flashed. Then it happened again. And once more. The Centurion once more inquired. “Sir. Are you alright?” Crassus turned. “By Jupiter, Julianus. No, I am not. Surena has managed to hunt us like we hunt him.” Crassus cursed and spit into the sand. It evaporated before it hit the ground. Julianus stood transfixed. Crassus turned to his son. “Prepare the men for battle already.” He wandered off, cursing the Gods.

Two hours later, the wind had died. Four miles from Carrhae, titans would clash. The thirty-five thousand were deployed in battalion square. On the north face of this, Julianus organized his men into something presentable. No man could stand the desert heat for long. Crassus paraded down the lines. In the distance, Surena’s men had begun to beat war drums. The noise echoed back. Knowing his men’s terror, Crassus finally stopped, turned, and spoke.

“Romans!” The desert seemed to go quiet. “Day of battle has arrived. Although we do not wish for war, eastern barbarians force us upon it. To bring Roman virtue to the world, to defeat the Parthian scum, we must fight!” Cheering emerged, so much that no one noticed the short arrow that brushed Crassus’ nose. Crying out, Crassus pointed every which way. Pila were tossed by the dozens at the enemy, sand. Finally someone noticed the short figure escaping on horseback. A handful of Syrian Auxiliaries opened fire. One of them hit the mark, and the would-be assassin tumbled onto the sand. Gallic cavalry proceeded to dismember him.
Crassus beamed. “What a fool! To think that his Gods would allow him success in an endeavor against man!” Soldiers cheered. “Why do they believe that Rome is the evil! We are the greatest force on the earth! We conquer and educate the barbarous scum, we accept them, and then they try to kill us! Luckily, for most they will not! Their Gods are dead; all that stands for us to beat is the feminine army before us.”

And yet in battle, Crassus’ various sacrifices did not prevail. Romans were slaughtered en masse. First came the arrows, then the cataphracts. Crassus’ son was slain; his father ordered the retreat to Carrhae. On the field lay over 20,000 Roman dead. Among a heap of dead, a few groaned. One was Julianus. Prying himself loose from two of his dead soldiers who lay upon him, the battered Centurion sat against a shield and examined his wounds. Simple chainmail and leather had been broken by an arrow, which he pried out in pain. His head had been smashed by a mace in the initial cataphract charge, his memory nearly erased of the battle until then. Confused, he considered his demise in the desert heat; no one was left, not even the Parthians. He considered, that is, until from behind him, a cheer came. Three yards behind his shield, he heard the softest sound of a horses hoof. Then a voice boomed. “Followers of the great Mazda!” The cheer came once more. “You have fought well, have saved the land of our ancestors, and have defeated the barbaric scourge!”

Julianus could recognize the voice he had heard so much of, a voice tainted, like of all Generals with having spoken the orders to kill. Slowly, Julianus summed up his strength and wrapped his hand around a pilum. “The glory of the great Mazda is yours! The Roman do not know of the sweetness of Parthian living; they spit upon the name of Zoroaster, and they oppose all that his good!” Julianus cursed Surena’s name as he prepared. “They believe that their Gods protect them! Obviously, this is not so. If their Gods are so great, if they eclipse the Mazda, let me by struck down by them!” Julianus tried to lift, but he could not. Well learned, he had served as a translator during the campaign and understood all of Surena’s words. Surena paused and looked to the heavens. His men laughed. “See, soldiers! Their propaganda is lies! Their Gods are dead!” And at this Surena heard a Latin cry. To Parthians, it was but an inaudible barbarous cry; to wounded Romans, they recognized it as “Blasphemy”.

The javelin flew threw the air, striking flesh and driving through. A scream went up. The sand shook as the victim fell, its blood gushing out. Then Julianus was hit by a score of arrows at once, then another score, then ten more, until it appeared that the Parthian army had dumped their spare ammunition onto his body. Surena, soaked in blood, got up, softly cursing. Standing beside his slain horse, he cried out again. “And such fools now attempt to kill me! Barbaric Romans know not anything of the world; they must be taught! They are but fools, like this one who had the worst aim the Mazda could envision! Is it any wonder that these servants of Mainyu are now but corpses for the birds?”

And Julianus’ blood quenched the desert thirst. Although both sides, in different uniforms, with different armaments, and with different religions, were separated between living and dead, both were correct in their assumptions of the evil of the other. In fact, both sides participated in the most barbarous act of all.

Entrant 1 - Maximinus Thrax

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After a long and tiresome war against the king of Babylon, Cyrus of Persia was advancing against his enemy who had locked himself within the fabled city, his last bastion of power. Everybody had abandoned the Babylonian monarch, even his subjects, disgusted with such tyranny and random behaviour. The king was protected only by a throng of men recruited among the town's citizens, most of them barely capable of holding a weapon in their hands. Additional mercenary soldiers from Lydia and Cappadocia, were stationed in the northern sections of the town, most likely waiting for an oportunity to flee. The alliance with the kings of Asia Minor was a memory of the past; some of them had been defeated by sword while others persuaded by Cyrus to abandon the Babylonian. Croesus... Even the mighty Croesus of Lydia acknowledged the overcome, thus abandoning the cause. His treasury has been divided partially among Persian forces while his soldiers are now obeying Cyrus' orders.

Slowly, the army approached the city unhindered and raised the camp only a mile away from the huge walls. The sun was about to set when Tigranes, the prince of Armenia, entered in a hurry in the general's tent and adressed to his liege and childhood friend.

"Milord, two scouts have just arrived, revealing that the city is engulfed in celebrations for a week now. Everybody is drunk and the king is nowhere to be found. There are rumors circulating that he has left the city aided by those foreign mercenaries but these two men believe he and his retinue are hiding inside the Hanging Gardens of queen Semiramis. What are you orders?"

"The enemy forces are too insignificant to pose a reasonable challenge. They think the walls are sufficient to defend them, since their granaries can provide food for many months. We shall dig moats and ditches on the Western part of the city, where there are no solid fortifications whatsoever, since Euphrates itself protects Babylon like a pavise. The crossing will be much easier after the river's streams will be diverted away. Our brave soldiers will rest tonight; I expect this task to be accomplished within a week, for there is no time to waste, even though the victory is in our hands."

The soldiers, standing on the walls of their mighty citadel, were laughing and throwing insults at Cyrus and his Persians. Still, such a pathetic and meaningless effort coming from a handful of drunks wasn't enough to disrupt Cyrus' thoughts, whose only priority was to capture the city and its king without loosing too much of his men in the process. It is said that sometimes a word can be mightier than a sword; however, this was not the case, no matter how poisonous and blunt were those curses, hurled upon Persians like a shower of stones and arrows.

Inspired by the presence of their beloved general, the soldiers began the work and after seven days, as expected, the way inside was paved for Cyrus and his troops. Riding alonside with him there were worthy allies, Gobryas and Gadatas, two Babylonian nobles who had aligned themselves with the Persians since the very beginning of this conflict, both of them driven by hatred towards their king. Gobryas was seeking to revenge his murdered son while the latter was attemptimg to wash away the shame of being transformed into an eunuch, only because of envy.

"Gobryas, Gadatas! Take four cavalry squadrons each and head towards the Hanging Gardens. Me and my forces will try to unlock the city gates. Kill anyone who dares to stand in your way, but only those who will appear before you holding a weapon. Spare the civilians as much as possible, it's the Babylonian who are are after, not them. My friends, the tyrant's downfall has arrived and his fate is yours to be decided upon. Now hurry!" ordered Cyrus.

After one hour, during which all sorts of frightening screams could be heard, Cyrus and his troops were standing in front of the Hanging Gardens, a symbol of Babylon, built only decades earlier. A rug of corpses and severely wounded soldiers adorned its huge courtyard. At the sight of their general, two heavily armored commanders dismounted and prostrated before Cyrus.

"He is dead, sire! The king is dead! The mercenaries fled after the first clash. We stormed the place, found him and slayed him and all of his followers. There is no one left alive inside the Gardens. We are avenged, milord!" said Gobryas, overwhelmed with emotions.

"The gods have listened to your grievances and avenged you, honorable nobles. Go and proclaim his death across the city. The inhabitants must know that his execution was the last act in this war against tyranny and injustice. A new age has dawned for Babylon!"

Entrant 2 - Tim1988

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They were the enemy, outsiders trespassing on our ancestors' land. They had no place here, defiling our soil with their language and culture. They considered us as barbarians, yet it was them that committed wanton acts of murder and destruction in an attempt to spread their culture around the world. Their arrogance is immense. How can they consider themselves the greatest Empire on Earth, when, as far as Empires go, they are little more than a toddler. Our ancestors were once the most advanced civilisation that the world had seen, owning lands as far as the eye could see, whilst Rome was nothing more than a cross roads, used by salt traders. No, they are not invincible, they are not all powerful, they can be stopped.

Our arrows streaked overhead as we charged, a mass of horsemen intent on driving the invaders back. Ahead, the Romans crouched behind their large shields, but no matter how hard they tried, arrows still found their way through. Their lines rippled as the arrows struck home, the force of the impacts bashing the shields back, so that the sun glinted off the bronze shield-bosses at different angles, flashing light in different directions. We could see them begin to panic as we neared. Few attempted to throw their pila, instead they preferred to hide behind their shields rather than expose themselves to our arrows. We arrived at them almost intact, the force of the charge sending men flying through the air, to crash into their comrades behind them. Some where lifted right off the ground, impaled on the points of our long spears as we whooped and yelled with glee.

The charge was over in minutes. What was left of the Romans fled, running back to their camp, shedding weapons and armour in an attempt to lighten their load, but instead just making themselves even more vulnerable to our arrows and lances. The fools. It became a sport now. Our cavalry ran down the fleeing soldiers with ease, chasing them until the mounts foamed at the mouth. This would teach them a lesson. May no Roman trespass on our lands again, or they will meet the same fate as the thousands that died here.

Entrant 3 - Katsumoto

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My heart is a thunderstorm. Lips, dry as the desert. Sweat sweeps down the innards of my legs and the small of my back. My eyes are glazed, my vision blurred. I hear nothing but the strained breaths of my chest. Blood shoots like lighting through my body, striking the core of my being like a bolt hurled from Zeus Himself. I am alive.

Through it all I have come. Yet still, I live. I stand, even. Pock-marked and gore-encrusted, I stand. Scores of minor lacerations and wounds cover my beaten body, filthy from the dust and dirt that swept through the field during the melee. Yet no sword or spear or arrow has struck my heart or other vital organ. I cannot believe it: I am alive.

My spear drops to the turf as my fingers finally unravel, prised into a fist from the firm clutch I had upon the shaft. My shield still stands high at port, held fixed as though I am again in the battle line, awaiting the foe. I have managed somehow to pull my helm up from my face, though I do not recall doing so; it sits perched upon my crown, stained with the dried blood of my victims.

I tremble. I embrace the shakes, as I always do. I let them take my bones and tendons, so all tension may flee my limbs. I enjoy them; they will take me back to the land of the living.

I notice now the men milling about me, scouring the field for their dead and wounded comrades, whilst others plunder the corpses of the enemy, searching for some lucky pendant or prize to sell later in the markets of the city. I have not the energy nor the will to do the same.

Someone speaks to me, dabbing me on the shoulder with some cheery wisecrack. I cannot decipher the words, for my hearing has not yet returned; my ears still ring from the clash of bronze and screams and shouts of the battling lines. I stand, gaping at the fellow with an exhausted expression. He moves on swiftly, on to praise and congratulate the other comrades who made it through this day and found victory in it. I still stand, worn and beaten.

Broken bodies fill my sight. Chests, torn through with spears; throats, sliced open with blades; guts, ripped open with lances. I see a head, sheared clean at the neck, spilling blood and bone-marrow clear as day upon the light dirt. I retch violently.

I draw up. Once more I gape over the field, from the clusters of survivors and victors, to the wildly-strewn corpses of foe and friend, for there are many of them too. I turn away: they are dead; I am not.

And so ends the bloody business of the day.

Entrant 4 - mrcrusty

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TotW 93a – Sanity is Overrated

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Winner - Solid Snake

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Entrant 1 - MorganH.

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Entrant 2 - Maximinus Thrax

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Solmyr's mind, the mad crown prince of Bracada, is slowly rotting on this secluded island for three weeks now... Cornered by everyone else and broken-hearted, his father the king had finally submitted to the vizier's wish and banished his sole heir on this wretched island, in an attempt to avoid complete depletion of the kingdom's treasury. Indeed, the ancient art of alchemy is an expensive hobby to maintain. So far, the prince's most successful attempt had been to transmute his father's gold into others' fortune... A dabbler in alchemy himself while a youth, Zahir would have swapped places with his son without a second thought. But it's too late now...

It's morning and the prince is sitting on the shore, performing his daily ritual. He's staring as usual at the closest island, some twenty miles away. The lengthy distance or the fact that he's all alone in the middle of nowhere doesn't seem to bother him... Deep inside his troubled mind he has already conceived a plan to cross the vast amounts of waters, attempting to reach the nearest island, a possible way back to his gilded high tower.

The sun it's at the highest point in the sky... For the first time in a week, Solmyr is smiling at the thought that he'll soon return to his Great Work. After taking a walk back and forth for a while along the northern shoreline, he suddenly stops and tries to gaze at the sun for a moment, putting his left hand above the eyes. The sun... A symbol of life, yet for Solmyr it's a symbol of the sages. Retired for months deep inside his tower, the prince hadn't seen the sun for quite a while before the unfortunate relocation.

"Pffftt... Alim the vizier... What a dumb and ignorant sack of bones!... Thinking he could detain me on this island. The old fool believed I would ruin my father's finances but he doesn't know that I've already discovered the secret of the ancients... Isn't it Hassam?"

Solmyr looks on his right side where Hassam, his trusted acolyte, should have been. By now poor Hassam is feeding the worms in some unmarked grave on the outskirts of El-Arakoum, the jewel of the Southern Desert.

"Laugh Hassam, laugh! We will laugh even louder when I'll return to my father's palace! I would exchange on the spot all my gold, all my acumulated knowledge to see Alim's horrified expression when entering the throne room, cheered by tens of thousands!"

It isn't a laughing hyena stranded on a deserted island... It is Solmyr's sinister and maddening laughter echoing among the nearby cliffs.

"Hassam... Are all the workers ready? Tell them to excavate the gold I've hidden on this very island, beneath the sand. I't everywhere, they can't miss it. Can you see the irony, Hassam? Can you, old friend? Alim the Pathetic has placed us exactly where I hoarded tons of gold as a result of my successful experiments! Hahahahaha! Tommorrow we shall begin to construct a golden bridge up to that island over there... I'll save some gold to cast Alim into a golden statue. He shall adorn the palace's courtyard from then on!"

Rubbing his hands with joy, Solmyr calls the name of another servant, Arhouz the falconer...

"Arhouz! Arhouz! Gather the hawks at once and try to deliver a decent meal just for once! My stomach has had enough of these stinking fishes! Some pidgeons or some pheasants would be most welcomed, Arhouz! Can you hear me? Prepare the food and bring it to my tent!"

The sun has set over our island... Exiting from his imaginary tent, Solmyr takes another late walk before going to sleep, all dressed-up in silk garments, the only remaining sign that he was once regarded as royalty. The mad prince needs a good rest since tommorrow he will be extremely busy...

Somewhat exausted but happy, Solmyr falls asleep near the camp fire. Little does he know that a small boat has just landed on the southern shore. A deadly and silent messenger of Alim is approaching the unaware prince...

Entrant 3 - webMaster412160

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Entrant 4 - Tim1988

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Entrant 5 - MuttonChops

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Entrant 6 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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TotW 94a – Autumn is Fall

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TotW 95a - Looking into the Future

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Winner - Eazyrider

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1438 Germany
‘Do you see it? Can you visualize it? Can’t you feel it?!’ He had gone into an ardent fervor, spittle flying from the tip of his lips. ‘It is the future! It’s our future! We can make it. We can shape it!’ His eyes gleamed with fanatical devotion. ‘I ask you but one thing sir; just think of its potential! We will control the masses, shape the land and advance the human race as we know it!’

I looked at him: who was this man? Hair splayed carelessly over his crumpled clothing; he looked pathetic, feeble and crazy. His eyes were inflamed with the fever that gripped him, convulsing with enthusiasm; but? To what extent of power could this notion entail? I had always told myself that there was a fine line between genius and crazy; which side had he stepped on?

He rushed to the window, pulling the curtains aside, he revealed a breathtaking view: the city sprawled across the landscape like a jigsaw puzzle, the sun spilling its golden rays over the horizon and the birds absorbed in full song flitting from tree to tree. ‘Think of how the world and we could benefit from this. This would revolutionize everything! Just think of the potential! Look into the future!’

I closed my eyes. His fervor was there beneath the darkness; it had infected me. I reached for it to fill me, I wanted to see what he could see. I wanted to look into the future. But the present was always there and looming, stopping me from travelling to the future. The troubles of my time were the barricade, and the glory of the future was my stimulant. I leaped.

I could see it now: behind closed eyes I tried to visualize, tried to materialize the enormity of the prospect. He had moved me. I saw it. There would be no more illiterate, inventions would be universal, knowledge would spread like wildfire for all of humanity to benefit from, and, above all, the world would have them to thank. And in that image of splendor I was lost; the future had captured me, I had looked and saw what was to come.

He sensed the change, and the fervor mellowed immediately. Putting his arm around me he led me towards the balcony. He spoke softly, almost placating, ‘We can do this Andreas. Let us set to work.’ I nodded my head slowly, my brain still rapt in the image of the future, my future.

And so following an afternoon of looking into the future we set to making that future. Building it; shaping it. I would fund Johannes Gutenberg, and in return: he would create for us the printing press.

The future beckoned.

NOTE: Johannes Gutenberg invented the first commercial printing press which indeed revolutionized the world we live in today, for an unnumbered number of reasons. Andreas Dritzehn funded his initial experiments. This is not supposed to be historically accurate or even historical relevant at times.

By Yannik.

Entrant 1 - Frederich Barbarossa

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TRIUMPH OF THE WILL

Joy! Benevolent joy! The streets had risen from ruin! The town folk were muttering their words to the soldiers marching toward the hauptbahnhof, keeping in step, in such a sublime and intangible alignment. That being of a Utopian parade in one of the most scorched areas of the world. The town folk had such jubilant faces on, that it even made the regimental Captain smirk. The sheer abundance of crowds flabbergasted foreign diplomats, as they had their ears mutilated by the allotment of chanting. The regimental Captain gave the order, "MARSCH!"'; a whole band of troops began to march towards the other hub of troops. Each group was marching towards each other in such nationalistic and prideful manners. A loud shriek was heard from the distance, "HALT!" The regiments stopped at the exact moment and the shouting began to fade while a short reticence gave in. A shadowy figure besieged the podium, grasping the wooden top with an iron grip. He gave a short but fiery speech about the oppression of his people, and the future of the peoples land. Sweat poured down his face as he unleashed waves of utter diplomacy and mockery at the imperialistic households of Europe. The men of the west were all but humiliated with this. The Corporal of the Guard called for dress right dress and then scouted the front ranks for perfection and paragon. The band was ready. As the fiery figurehead made a descent on the stairs of the central square, a loud uproar was heard yet again. Hundreds of thousands of spectators and followers rallied together to cry out their leaders name, with utmost passion. Small children cried, what seemed to be their worries away; Elderly folk stood their with giant smiles on their faces; the Youth, at which the country was built upon was waving their arms in the air, proud to say that this man was their leader.

He made his way to a car at the side of a street. A silence was heard yet again. This time an escalating vibration on the ground was heard, being that it grew louder and louder by the second. It was an uproar marching towards the leader, representing all that power and volume that he had mustered to have of the utmost obedience. His grim face grew even more serious, as his eyebrows began to touch one another. His soft hair was combed to the side, and his fiery grey eyes spoke out optimism to the crowd; he was the one who they thought would bring them to utmost superiority amongst the nations. It was all like a mere reverie, as to such a magnitude of people that was partaking, as if it were a whole country crowded into one small city. The old architecture reflected the message brought forth from the parade beautifully and girls would throw flowers to the encouraged soldiers below; yet still there was no babble of any sort.

The step of soldiers could now be heard, and they had approached nearer and nearer only sending the obvious message of superiority; that they had been given the God right task to civilize the planet and extinguish it from savagery and depravity. The trumpets sharply swung into the air and the sound of the first musical notes riveted the whole crowd. A familiar song was harmonized amongst the bustling city block. Soldiers as well as townsfolk began to follow along:

Mir san die lustigen Holzhackerbuam
hollereieiho hollereieiho
Wir fallen das Holz und jodeln dazua
hollereieiho ritireieiro
Und Kommt ein lustiges Maderl daher
hollereieiho hollereieiho
Dann Kriagt sie a busserl was will sie noch mehr
hollereieiho ritireieiro

The screams of man pierced even through the fatally wounded heart of society. An uprising had begun indeed, followed by an eternal war in which most of Europe would greatly suffer. It was all merely about how one man gained the will to rise up against his predecessor and spearheaded a movement which would fatally uphold the triumph of the will...

Entrant 2 - 'Gunny

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My dearest Lucie,
You know now that I am in Russia, a damnable land if there ever was one. The peasants are constantly sick, and despise us as conquerers rather than liberators. The interminable forest constantly gives birth to great hordes of cossacks that vanish as quickly as they appear. The worst part is that we have yet to fight! While occasionaly we have the chance to cut some poor cossack to ribbons, and a deserting soldier or two, the Tsar has made his troops vanish. They elude us, they run from us, but how long can this last? Already a chill sweeps down among us at night, carried from somewhere in the distant reaches of this land. I fear for the worst, Napoleon will continue to follow them until he gets his battle. Though his heart years to dine in Moscow, it also pains for a fight. But when he gets his fight, where will it be? In the coldest reaches of Arkhangelsk? Or even Siberia? It is a fools gamble, and I hope he turns to Moscow. I hear riumors of an impending battle, we near Borodino, though this will likely be like our last "battles" indecisive and nearly lacking in casualties. I shall continue in writing this letter tomorrow, thinking of you through the night.

We have our battle. The Russians are encamped in Borodino, oh the joy! They may have the better positions, but they shall waver and break under our power. I shall be with Montbrun's cavalry corps, and help keep any marauding cossacks off our troops backs. It will be here that the Russian empire is destroyed, Here that republican principals will triumph over despotism. Here, at Borodino, my wife how I wish you were here, but I shall see you soon, Oh I will see you soon! I will be able to see our child, our child who shall live in an era devoid of warfare, devoid of suffering, and he shall know that his pappa created it for him, just for him. I shall send this letter as soon as possible, so that it may reach home before I, and I will be able to give you the news of our victory in person. My love, I shall see you soon.

Forever yours, Antoine

Entrant 3 - Solid Snake

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Entrant 4 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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**Dance** · May 11, 2013, 09:18 AM

TotW Scary Story Halloween 2010

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No picture.

Winner - Dan the Man

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THE HORSEMEN
It is hard to imagine the entire world ending. Especially on that glorious fall afternoon. The sun shone, the sky was blue, the trees were decked in their reds, and yellows, and oranges, as if lit by roaring flames. The entire Earth seemed alive with color and joy. But lo, something stirred. I tell you, things are not always what they seem. For on that day, came the final end to man, the final judgement for him and all of his sins.

Upon a great hill stood five beings, four of them sitting upon horses. They watched the goings on far below grimly, for they knew what must come of this. The first being could not be seen, as He shone so brightly that any who looked upon Him would surely die. For this was the Great Judge. And He commanded the men beside Him.

The second being, a man, like two of the three that would follow him, rode a bright horse, clean and white as the driven snow on a bright January morn'. But for this man's purpose, and that of his beast, to be so lovely the world could only wish! In one armored hand he carried a bow. In contrast to his bright and shining appearance, the bow was dark, and of a wicked form. An instrument of death and pain, surely not sport. A jeweled crown sat as well upon his head.

Thus, the Great Judge spake.

"Come." Said He, and the rider tightened his white cloak around him, kicked up his spurrs and rode down to deliver his punishment upon man. His companions looked on from the hill as he rallied the men of the world against each other. As both sides prepared for battle, the rider returned to his place on the hill. For Conquest's work was over, and a new horseman's time had come.

Beside Conquest was another man, not unlike himself. But this man wore a red cloak and rode a red horse. Also, unlike Conquest, who was a proud man, and always held his chin high, this red rider was ugly, and covered from head to toe in horrible scars. The rider held a great sword in his right hand, the tip of which dripped endlessly with fresh blood.

And then this rider too, pulled his red cloak closer and descended upon man. Now as the generals of the world drew their battle lines and prepared for what was to come, it was this rider who sparked everything. The men of Earth charged each other with reckless abandon, howling like wild animals, hacking and slicing into each other. And then in the midst of it, away rode War, for his mission was accomplished.

And now the world was plunged into darkness. The battle ended, but it seemed that neither side had managed to claim victory. The men of Earth stood bewildered on the great battlefield, stumbling around, oblivious to all around them. They were weakened, but not destroyed.

And so came the time for the next rider. Unlike his brothers, he rode a gaunt horse, black as the night, and wore a black cloak. Also unlike the others, he and his mount were completely emaciated. Their bones shone through their taut skin like those of a dried and decaying corpse. Their eyes were sunken, and their cheeks hollow. In the rider's hands he held a set of tarnished scales.

And so, like the others, at last came his time to punish those last people remaining on Earth. As he rode swiftly through farmers' fields their crops withered away to ashes, and when he breathed upon their livestock, they collapsed and died. And then he commanded swarms of insects to infest their homes and their foodstocks. Slowly but surely the people of Earth began to starve, and Famine's work was finished.

Finally, stood the last horseman. Unlike his brothers, he was not a man, but the hollow shell of one. The last remnants of sun in the gathering darkness landed lightly on his bleached bones, and they seemed to glow in it. A horrid smell of rot and decay hung around this rider and his pale mount, who was very nearly a skeleton as well.

His time came like the others, but he moved slowly upon man, creeping up ever so quietly. But when he finally arrived, he took them quickly. As his mount carried him fluidly across the Earth, the last men, women, and children alike suddenly stopped what they were doing, and collapsed to the ground, unmoving, not breathing. And on he slithered through every street, over every hill, and across every ocean until finally there was none, and Death's work too, was complete.

Entrant 1 - MorganH.

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Entrant 2 - Frederich Barbarossa

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TotW 96a - Walking Away

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Winner - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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Entrant 1 - Copperknickers II

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'Fear is not a curse. Fear is not a weapon that debilitates, or a trap that snares. Fear is a gift.' Those are the words of my brother, and I believe them. There is something primal about fear; it is raw, intense, and basic. When afraid, everything else is forgotten, as if you suddenly remember something important you have to do, and drop everything you are holding to go and do it. Fear, afterall, is a mechanism of
survival, and all other concerns are dropped when your life is at stake. Self-preservation is a natural instinct, and when you sacrifice your own life, you are unnaturally destroyed. So my brother's words come back to me whenever I am afraid. 'You don't win wars by dying for your country. You win wars by making the other son of a

die for his!' - General George S. Patton.

I am a soldier, a profession in which fear is secondary to duty. It's a hard balance to maintain; you have to brave but cautious, in between ignoble cowardice and crazed impetuousness. And the battlefield is a terrible place, it's like a battering ram to your psyche - your very soul is ripped apart by what you witness. You cannot understand, envision or even hope to conceive what it feels like. The gunfire's terrible
laceration of the air nearly bursts your eardrums, the explosions, the screams of the dying and the sapid, metallic tang of blood in your nostrils... all of these give me horrific nightmares. The faces of people I have killed stare back at me when I look in the mirror, each one hangs from me, a lead weight on a heavy iron chain.

But I am not evil, though I have done evil. I do only what I must. For some people it delights them and thrills them, it's electrifiying. As they shoulder their rifles and march forward, they are heroes. My brother says they are ignorant thugs who have no place in the military. Without fear, he says, you lose touch with your humanity, your imperfectness and your perspective, and then you become evil.

I'm thinking these things lying on my uncomfortable mattress, in our spartan Afghan barrack - even as an officer there are few comforts out here for anyone. I want to ask my brother about loyalty. I agree with him on a lot of what he says about our job, but I am worried he doesn't have as strong a sense of loyalty to his fellow soldiers or the generals as he should. One day he will get into trouble for that, for letting fear get the better of him, letting his animal selfishness overcome his obligation to the rest of us and abandoning someone in their time of need. He's older than me, but I often find myself protecting him, so I worry about him.

The next day, we are out on patrol. The company in the valley up ahead have been ambushed so we are going to assist them. We pile into the armoured vehicle, my brother opposite me. A couple of the guys are new, this will be their first time in the firing line. I can almost smell their fear, mixed with the by now familiar odour of sweat; all of us are drenched in it under the thick helmet and kevlar body armour. We
get out at the start of the valley and proceed on foot. The draining, oppressive heat of midday sun beats down upon us. The haze makes the sunbeams appear to dance timidly in the air, and the sandy walls of the valley are riddled with grotesque wind-carved sculptures. I am scared. But not as scared as some of the younger ones, at least I am used to this now. They glance around nervously, as if scared an army
of militants is going to jump out from behind a bush at any moment. We continue up the valley, hearts pounding, eyes watching.

What happens next, I don't really remember. I just remember waking up to find my ears ringing. It must have been a Rocket Propelled Grenade, or maybe a hidden bomb on the path. Luckily I don't seem to have suffered any major injury. I look round for my brother, and see that he too is unhurt. My mouth and throat are dry, but I ask him in a cracked voice what happened. He says it was an RPG. We throw ourselves to the ground as we hear a whistle then an explosion - another one, but it is much further up. Some of our company is ok, the rest we have to leave here for the timebeing. There is a building ahead, we see the flare and hear the crack as shots are fired from it. We take the building and climb the side of the valley, and see that there is a small group of militants defending a redoubt at the top. They are masked by
a screen of smoke from their RPGs.

There is a trench leading up to the fortification, and I order my squad to go into it. We assemble behind a wall of sandbags round the corner from the entrance to the bunker. It is imperative that we neutralise the bunker's defenders, I instruct. We have to go in there. My brother says we should wait for reinforcements. How can we wait for reinforcements when they will just be gunned down on their way up here, I reply. I am angry with him, he is indecisive and this situation calls for a decision to be made. And so I make one.

I feel alive. My fear has gone. I sprint from behind the wall. My brother tries to pull me back, but I understand now; he is a coward. I push him away, aim my rifle up straight ahead. This time, I go back into the arena, the sanguinary domain of the merciless bullet, with pleasure. I am a leader, I am a warrior, I am superhuman. But: fear is not a curse. Fear is not a weapon that debilitates or a trap that snares.
Fear is what would have saved my brother, when he ran out from the wall after me. He had seen him, the Mujahideen fighter behind me with his rifle raised. I looked round to hear a gunshot, and see the blood blossom from a small dot on the small of my brother's back into a scarlet rose. The two fell, and I saw my brother's bayonet sunk into the man's abdomen as they turned, and they landed together, locked in a hateful embrace. Fear is a gift. I threw that gift aside, and payed for my stupidity with the knowledge that I killed my brother.

Entrant 2 - Ryou

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I looked around. The two lines of soldiers stretched miles to both sides of me, taking up positions and making defenses. Lord Chatman with his British Army had confronted Napoleon the Great his majesty, leader of the French, my emperor. In a fast 2 days Napoleon of Mobilized his Grand Armee, the greatest force that ever walked upon the Earth. His wrath was great, so great that for 4 days his enemies fled before him until they finally found the position they hope they needed to defeat us, HAH! The emperor was not worried at all. With his best and most well trained artillery in the WORLD he had no fear, there was no position safe, no fortress unconquerable in all the world, no, not even the Island Fortress known as England. IN within the first hour our gunners opened up, firing in such a rapid succession that they were pumping out 4 shots in a minute, from rockets to shrapnel to “bouncing Betties” and even the dread canister when the king’s men feel like showing their prowess. I lay down lower. The English were returning fire, but they were both out gunned and out skilled, they stand no chance. Just for the fun of it I fired my musket at the British position, and my fellows joined in with me, such was our moral and sureness. I had a very snug position behind a wooden fence, and Lt. Harkens, our captain joined behind me.
“Hey Sergeant Pickens, tell your men to fire at will.” He said.
“Aye!” I replied heartily and shouted to my 10 men
“Units! FIRE.AT.WILL!!!!!! They responded with cheers and fired for all their worth. Now the British commander realized for all his planning and positioning it won’t do him any good and he ordered a general advance upon our lines, using their numerical advantage, Hah! Our artillery fired up upon them, engulfing the battle field into a eerie mist that won’t clear. Fearing an enemy charge catching us unprepared we fired into the smoke, hoping to hit something. Soon bullets were whizzing through the air. Damm that Sergeant Rat, ordering his men to fire directly behind us. A ball grazed my arm from behind and I turned around in anger, watched Sg. Rat hurry away, turned my attention back to the fight.
“OH god they’re charging!” Private Skill said next to me. They sure were, brilliant dressed British horsemen, sabers waving, appearing out of the smoke and charging directly at our fence.
“Skill, lead 3 men and head to the right, charge the cavalry with bayonets once we stop their charge.” I told him. He nodded and head off. I threw a grenade, home made. Holding it in my hand for several seconds. I was especially proud of this grenade, having fashioned it in my own hand. The iron shell once being the earring of my girl, who is waiting for me back at my home in Lorraine. Waiting until the Grenade almost blew, I threw it, watched in satisfaction as it sailed toward a clump of British horsemen that were charging at me, and then gasped in shock as a musket ball, fired by Sergeant rat, who is now next to me, dislodged the grenade slightly so that, despite my perfect aim, it struck the top of the fence and ricocheted back at us!
I looked down at the small ball of explosive that landed between me and Rat, watch it roll, suddenly felt calm as I watched it in fascination. The shell was suddenly gone, so suddenly, and I felt a slight pain in the chest as a shell, the one made from my Gal’s earring, pierced my heart.
The British were driven back with ease by the grand Armee, the great victory that allowed Napoleon to secure victory. However many small stories remain untold and forgotten by the simple total warrers who research war stuff on Wikipedia………..=)

Entrant 3 - Super Sea Otter

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Dearest Natasha

By the time you've have received this letter, the news may already be well-outdated. Three months late perhaps? I do not know. Western Europe, unlike the vast steppes of Mother Russia is quite uncomfortably warm. I haven't worn the overcoat you sent me for my birthday for months now. I am writing to you from Berlin, where we have recently driven out the Prussians who have retreated to Hanover and Silesia. I am currently drawing in new recruits from the area, mainly Germans and ethnic Scandinavians.

It's funny, the Army of Western Europe when it first was mustered consisted of over 70,000 Russian volunteers, many. Now, the Russians barely make up about 5% of the army over the 6 years it has been deployed in Europe. It is now mainly comprised of Dutch, Italian, Hungarian, German, Scandinavian, Polish, Hanoverian, French, and Spanish volunteers. Even the ethnics have found their ways into the ranks of Generals. Colonel Matarazzo in the 23rd Italian, General Imhof is a pole, and even one of my staff officers happens to be an American surprisingly. However, it's both tragic and rather difficult.

Maintaining the army is a complete nightmare, worse than that maybe. All of these volunteers speak different languages, many have different beliefs and differing loyalties. It is a miracle this army operates at all. My aggressive tactics might've cost me good Russians. All good men.

I've bet you've heard the tales about me, being a butcher and callous with my men. In all honestly, that's somewhat true. But, for 6 years these men have grown to trust me to lead them to victory, and I them. No matter the cost. I once almost broke down crying after receiving word that Matarazzo was wounded in the campaign in Belgium. Thankfully he survived, but he lost an arm. He continues to serve faithfully. I only speed things up a bit because I want to get home as soon as possible. I want to be able to see you again, I'm starting to forget what you look like. It's terrible being separated from you my sister.

Anyway, I will be moving for another Italian Campaign, the damned Austrians won't surrender they still hold Venice and the outlying areas. Wish me the best of luck. Tell Mikhail I wish you two the best for your wedding, I sincerely regret not being able to come and see you marry. Matarazzo, Imhof, and Ogienko send their regards. I love you Natasha, my dear sister, I will be home by Christmas hopefully.

Signed, Lieutenant General Sergei Kamensky
General of the Army of Western Europe and the Russian Republic

The letter was sent and reached Natasha Kamensky on December 3rd, 1812.

A month after Kamensky had died in an ambush in Naples.

Entrant 4 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 5 - Solid Snake

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Farewell

In the end, what is love? One million people will give a million different answers, to some love may be the feeling of butterflies going up and down in one´s stomach, to others it will be the joy you feel when you see a pretty girl (or a handsome man, for you women out there), for a certain group it might be the fact that you can rely on another person knowing it will never fail you, to others it might be friendship taken to another level, to some it´s just the ability to trust in one another, to my parents is 25 years of sticking together through better or worse, to my brother is seeing the image of his unborn child on his wife´s belly. To others it might be a feeling, a fleeting feeling, one you might never capture but that is there, teasing you, to the philosophers it´s a state of mind, to the psychologists is a hazard to one´s sanity, for teenagers is a way to spend summer nights and goin-outs, for doctors it´s just another of the multiple reactions that happen inside your brain.

Neurotransmitters are a

I tell ya. Love is mediated by a bunch of nasty molecules called anandamines, these suckers act only when your brain associates whatever impulse or sensation to your current object of desire, it might be a woman, a man, a dog, a car or hell it might be a box of chocolates as far as I know. These anandamines give you a feeling of pleasure and comfort that you relate with your object of desire, it´s your “crush” if you will, anandamines give you “crushes”… they are specific, they are intense, they are passionate, but in the end, the anandamine´s receptor end up tiring of that stupid sensation and love, infatuation disappears…it goes away like the flutter of a beautiful paradise bird.

Woman, of course, know how to manipulate a man´s anandamines with clockwork exactitude, they tease you, they taunt you, they kiss you on the cheek, they say “te quiero” in low whispers, they say they love spending time with you, they hug you from behind and from upfront, they know how to twist your brain, making you blind to anything else but her.

Only her, only her had me eating from her hand and willing to fulfill any command, she had control over the iron monger of the school, little fool, she released me, she lost the man of her live, the one that could have given her stars and flowers embroidered with diamonds, She had me by the…..anandamine´s receptors, but the receptors are tired, and so I´m tired of her.

Farewell little butterfly, may the light of the future burn your wings and may you fell to the ground, and when you´re there and I´ll pass you by, may you say: “There goes the one I had and let go, poor me.” I promise you, that when I´m done with you, you´ll have no tears left to cry.

Farewell, my dear, farewell.

TotW 97a - Distant Realities and Far off Dreams

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TotW 98a - Love is a Silent Killer

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Winner - Russian Gondor

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Santa sat down in his chair, staring at the fire which burnt brightly at the hearth. It was late in the darkest hours of the night and he desperately needed an idea. The evil Grentches had laid siege to his workshop. He could hear outside as his elves toiled labouredly creating snowballs to fight off the invasion. He remembered the Grentches attacked his workshop thousands of years before, in eagerness to destroy the presents, and ruin Christmas for all of humanity. Suddenly, an idea sprang up into his mind. He remembered what he had used to destroy the last Grentch invasion, the fabled Snowman army. It was a legendary sight to behold, a huge army created to defend Santa’s Workshop in times of great need.
Enlightened by the prospect, Santa got out of his chair and walked over to his bookshelf. It was filled with countless books that he had not read for many years due to the fact that the human population had increased, causing the need for more presents. He had to time to read through his books before, but now, he eagerly searched for the one book. He saw it, dark black in color, with the words “Snowman Army” etched in fine gold letters. He took it from the shelf, and began to read. Finally, at the last page, he had seen the words needed to summon this legendary army. The only problem was, the summoning could only be used, when Christmas itself, was in great peril. Santa read the words aloud, and nothing happened. Suddenly, a huge crash was heard. Santa got up, and ran towards the balcony to see what had gone wrong….
As he peered outside, he saw what had happened. The Grentch were firing huge chunks of magical ice, which froze anyone on contact, from their frozen catapults. His eyes bulged as he saw the buildings around his workshop being destroyed, and many elves frozen and chilled to the soul. Suddenly, the gate was broken as the Grentch poured into the workshop. The elves ran back from the walls, as they were felled down by the Grentche’s long claws. Santa yelled from the balcony “Rally Elves, fight back this menace!”
Fighting began as the elves barricaded the streets with snow forts and felled many Grentch with their candy cane weapons. Many on both sides were felled, but the Grentch just kept swarming into the workshop like a horde of ants, replacing the dead in their ranks. Slowly the elves took their toll and were overrun. Finally, the Grentch had made it to the heart of the workshop, where all the presents awaited delivery to the children of the Earth. At this moment, Santa stood at the door, with the last remaining elves. He opened the tome, and began to recite the verse again….
“I summon thee, from the frigid hearts, for the love of the ice! For all of Christmas to be saved, I summon thee fellow Snowmen, to fight!”
All of a sudden, clouds gathered above the workshop as a blizzard picked up, roaring through the streets. The Grentch laughed and eagerly approached the last doors into the present storage, when suddenly; snowmen began to fall from the sky. Santa gazed towards the sky, as the frightened Grentch were decimated from the falling snowmen. Thousands of snowmen now ran through the streets, slaying Gretchen with their brooms and wooden sticks. Christmas was now saved!

Entrant 1 - StealthEvo

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Love stood impassively as he watched the beast before him. It wasn't his first Daemon hunt; nor if he had anything to do about it was his last. But when dealing with such Manifestations it couldn't hurt to be careful. Especially since scattered around the barren charred field which stank of both magical and psychic use there were several bodies. Many in a less then complete state. Yet the beast seemed rested. It's beastial axe dripping in gore and bile. It's armour dented, it's body oozing Ichor. It was a repulsive scene to even someone like Love.

With a beat of it's wings the Daemon became aware of Love, faster then the kin he had struck down prior. Smiling slightly as he felt the proving caress of Psychic influence apon his body. Being gifted in the fields of both Kenetic and Exploratory Psychic manipulation it wasn't a surprise to feel the probes. But already the warning signs were manifesting themselves. If this was a Psychic Daemon it wasn't going to be an easy quarry to track. Bringing his spear into a ready position, bringing the cruel point to bear at the beast Love watched as the Daemon sniffed in deeply then roared out a challenge; expanding it's wings and focussing it's sunken eyes apon him.

His breath caught in his throat suddenly trying to suck in another breath paniced Love as he couldn't breath. It wasn't only his lungs that were failing him. He couldn't move his body at all. Like he was held in a torturers rack. Hearing a staggered breath coming from the Daemon Love guessed in his quickly suffocating world that it was laughing, mocking him. As he managed to squeeze a breath out and suck one in quickly he felt the pressure tighten. The momentary relief in his lungs gave the hunter a chance to reassess the situation. He'd used this trap himself many times. Hold the arms and legs of your prey in one place with sheer Kinetics. But a full body trap? This wasn't a simple Daemon. His attention distracted as the flat of the axe blade struck him from the side with the impact of a titan behind it. As the psychic entrapment gave way as his body flew unceremoniously through the air. His spear cracked and splintered from the impact was still in one piece.

Landing with a crash and bouncing briefly Love heroically took another breath as the pain registered. His entire body was on fire. Despite his armour being magically infused it had dented around the edges of the ax when it had struck. Blood was now seeping from the gaps where his armour had been sliced on the cutting edge of the weapon. Struggling to stand as it felt like most of his ribs and right arm had been broken Love heard the cloven hoofs stamp towards him. Glancing up through his now misaligned helm which had saved him from an instant death the beast was a fair distant away. But as the wings opened and the Daemon raised from the ground then descended quickly towards him Love gripped his spear and in shaking hands gave a shout as he narrowly avoided the brutal crushing edge of the ax as the Daemon landed heavily on the bloody ground. His own spear shattered with the impact of the thrust into the hide. The enchanted wood splintered and as his own momentum carried his arm into contact with the splintered edge the material passed through his plated bracer and feeling his arm quiver. Love saw a flash from the Daemons eyes.

Once again flying through the air, this time from sheer Kenetic will of the Daemon Love landed his injured arm first. Feeling the bones explode and crumple as his body followed Love quickly rolled over with a cry and forced the bile back down his throat. Again he heard the thudding of hooves and the expanse of wings. Forcing himself to look at the Daemon he tried to replicate the Psychic entrapment used. With a pain lancing through his head as the beast simply repelled it and continued it's dread flight. Shutting his eyes and for the axe to cleave his head apart.

"Get up human"

As Love opened his eyes quickly and regarded the Daemon who had levelled the spike of the axe at his neck. The voice had come from an internal source rather then vocalisation. This was a rare breed indeed! Capable of telepathic communication. Still this pause puzzled him.

"Why?"

"You still have steel apon your person; stand and fight human. Or die, like your kin; as a coward."

Hoping that his surpise wasn't registering through his pain Love stumbled to his feet trying his best to ignore the doubling vision and reluctance of his body to move. Realigning his helm as the Axe spike withdrew patiently. Letting his broken arm drop and with some difficulty drawing his sword. Unlike his spear the steel was not enchanted. It was undecorated and simple. Yet in his dazed eyes and frantic mind it shone like the mourning sun. Yes. It would suffice. He was Love the Silent Killer of Daemons. Looking up at the towering beast as the sunken eyes flashed a final time.

***

Salamel grunted as he closed his large hand around the spearshaft inside of his torso the spear had splintered close to his body and only two fingers could wrap around it. Gingerly pulling it out and looking over the ornate design. The magic of the weapon had been burning the wound deeper. Growling as he flicked it away setting his fingers to the wound and closing it up with sheer force of will. Glancing over at the broken body of the spearmen as it lay breathing it's last. The visions of humans as they departed were strange. Visions. Yet this mans eyes hadn't clouded. Stepping over the man curiously Salamel looked down. The man had no fear. Odd. His kin had begged, cried and pleaded for mercy. Without any care if the attempt killed the man the Daemon forced his way into the mind of the Spearman. Memories flashed, names erupted and grevious sins commited against his people came to light. Yet unlike the others. He had something else. Lowering the spike of his Axe to rest on the forehead of the dying man. Salamel made his decision. Love had earnt this right.

"With Honour"

With little procession and silence he drove the spike quickly into the mans skull. No doubt it was a painless end to what had been a legacy of Hatred and Irony to the mans birth name. But Salamel didn't consider such trifling factors. The legacy of one man was now riding on his torso. The injury still burning as the magic of the spear refused to surrender to his Ichor. Perhaps in time.

Entrant 2 - Magister Militum Flavius Aetius

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Entrant 3 - Nefarious

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**Dance** · May 11, 2013, 11:41 AM

TotW 99a - The New Year, "The Undiscovered Country"

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Winner - Russian Gondor

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The drum of hooves was heard on the warm desert sand as the Sultan’s army marched forward to the village. Strangely though, as the army neared the village, no resistance was met. The Sultan grew worried; his spies had told him that the village had a full garrison of Crusaders ready to match his glory. After over-thinking the situation, he decided to move into the village. These Crusaders must be robbed of all their former glory he thought, they are just afraid of my omnipotent force!
All of a sudden, the windows around them flung open as their gaze was met by dozens of crossbow bolts. The Sultan spun around to see half of his bodyguard lying on the ground with numerous, black bolts buried deep in their chests. “Fight back you cowards!” he yelled, “Purge these foul crows from their burrows, burn the village!”
The Sultan spurred his horse, and through all the havoc ran back through the lines, with only a portion of his bodyguard with him, and his army slowly running into the city to help him. He was only a hundred yards away from the rest of his force, ready to melt away back into the relative safety of the mob; when suddenly hundreds of forms sprang up from the sand. His horse whinnied as hundreds of Crusaders, who were hidden in the sand with their yellow cloaks, sprang up with spears, ready to fight.
Bloody hand-to-hand fighting ensued as the surrounded bodyguard fought with zeal to protect their Sultan. The rest of the force was only fifty meters away, so close to survival… The memories of his life flew past him, as the Sultan saw the bloodshed, with his faithful bodyguard reduced to only ten percent of its former numbers. Many members of his bodyguard were his childhood friends; the boys which he had grown up with in the safety of the palace, all dead at his feet. The Sultan drew his sword, and yelled with rage at this terrible sight. He hacked and slashed, killing five Crusaders near him. His army only meters away, ready to aid him; but before he could blink, he felt a surge of pain on his back. He felt his knees lose their former strength, as an extreme sense of burden mixed with pain lay upon him. He sunk down, his eyes blurred, as darkness slowly engulfed him. In the final seconds of his life, he saw a tall shadow step up to him. He saw the blurred form raise their arms and begin to move them down….
The soldiers finally ran into the fray, only to see the head of their leader on the ground, surrounded by many corpses, in a growing pool of blood in the sandy streets. Instead of fighting, the Crusaders ran away from the force. In a rage, and to fulfill their dead leader’s revenge, the Sultan’s army ran through the city, burning every building.

Entrant 1 - ♔Old Dragoon♔

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No Greater Glory

For two days they have held out against vast numbers from numerous tribes and nations. They have punished the invaders who thought they would overrun their small number. They showed their foe that a few men can stand up to many. They showed them what free men can do without the need of a whip or threat of death. No, the men to his left and right welcomed death as much as life, and no greater glory was gained by these men than to fight and die beside each other in the face of insurmountable odds. For two days…these Spartans had given Xerxes and his Persian horde of barbarians the greatest lesson they had ever known in warfare.

It has been said that pride comes before a fall, and the Persian warriors who survived this battle learned this the hard way. There would be no glory for them or tales of their heroic deeds. Their memory would be how many they lost and how they died by the thousands against a mere handful of men compared to the size of their vast army.

Knowing these truths on the third day, King Leonidas, though betrayed by a simple goat herder, Ephialtes, welcomed what was to befall him and his beloved 300. He knew this marching to the Hot Gates that this may be their last battle. He picked his 300 based on that they had sons to carry on the family name and their memory. Their memory of how they fought, how the loved, how they died, and how they lived! Though the sky had appeared that Hades himself was opening his gates for Leonidas welcomed his fate, and looked to his right and left once more.

Then as the ‘faceless’ Immortals surrounded his men, Leonidas and the remains of his 300 fought with all that was in them that made them Spartans. Helmets came crashing down on skulls when swords and spears broke, and even tooth and nail was not forgotten. Then arrows from the Persian horde came down like thunderbolts, finished off many, and even struck King Leonidas. He cried out to his men one last time those that could still hear. His cry was one not of sorrow or pity, but how he was honoured to have lived with them. The remains of the 300 pulled there dead leader back from the enemy clutches several times before they too succumbed to the onslaught of arrows…till the memory of their glory would begin.

"Go tell the Spartans passerby: That here by Spartan law, we lie."

Entrant 2 - Borissomeone

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The hot humid air clings to my skin with sticky fingers, each one trying to slow my arm as we of The Fifth Legion battle with these gold clad warriors. Dappled sunlight dances on the armour of both sides as the wild flowers are painted with blood as the battle draws to an end. I forget myself, perhaps I should start at the beginning of this tale, and perhaps a little history is in order for we all know history is important in the telling of any tale. My name is Maximus and I am the commander of The Fifth. Once two thousand proud Legionarii, now reduced too a mere five hundred. The battles of The Lonely Hill fort and the chaos that followed the siege of Epirus have whittled away our numbers until only a quarter remain. We may be but five hundred, but what a force of men that treads the soil of Thera, each man born from the blood of the fallen, each man tested and unbroken.

You wonder how men of the Romuli have come to battle with such alien warriors. Well as I said I will tell the tale from the beginning. The Fifth had been in pursuit of the remains of the Reptarii army that had tried to lay siege to the city of Arretium. Their forces had shattered on the walls as the combined might of the Romuli had slaughtered the green skins as they tried in vein to gain a foot hold on the walls. The chase had lead to a mist shrouded valley, the Reptarii had seemed to melt into the gloom, one moment their spicy stench had been fouling the air and the next it was gone. From gloom to bright sunlight, from the chill of the mist to the heat of this place, one army draped in gold the other clad in the red of the Legions.

A brief moment of confusion until the gold ones had started to form up and ready for battle. We are out numbered by these strange men as they surge forward, but short blasts from our horns see the men ready to meet the charge. Closer they come until we can see the detail of their golden armour; a bellow and the pila are flung. The first few ranks of the enemy are cut down by the missiles as we ready for the clash of weapon on weapon. Closer still and I can see the whites of their eyes. Again the horns ring out and The Fifth move forward and start the killing rhythm that only the legions of the Romuli know. The ranks rotate as fresh men move forward, the heat of the day making each sweat a river as they continue to battle. Another order is bellowed over the battle field, the men surge forward pushing the enemy back a few paces and then with practiced ease step back as they reel. Pila rain down into the golden hoard or now less of a hoard and more a collection of warriors growing more desperate as the battle turn’s in our favour.

As the sun traces our shadows over the gore soaked field of trampled flowers they turn and run. Horns raise their calls to the blue dome above and the men of The Fifth continue the slaughter. As they run I, with only the skill of years of conflict could bring, cut down one men as he tries to flee, his golden form dropping into the churned ground. Many of the enemy now lay in the grass, looking like fallen leaves from an autumn tree. The fight is over for now as the cries of the wounded start to sing in the hot humid air. Turning back the valley we had left it is somehow gone, perhaps this fight is won, but the battle for survival has just begun.

Entrant 3 - ♔Oggie♔

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Entrant 4 - 'Gunny

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Six months ago, as I left all I had ever known, I could not even fathom what I now stand here gazing upon today. My life began on the streets of Dublin, where I remained for 20 years, picking up scraps not even fit for a rat, and even getting into fights over them. I remember when the redcoats came and cleaned the streets, sent us off to orphanages. But I escaped, I returned to the streets, Lord knows why. After twenty years of hard living, carefully earning money from the most hellish of jobs and subsequently frittering it all away on drinks and assorted ladies of the night, I saw a ship. This ship was the most majestic ship I had ever seen, her clean deck awash with a flurry of activity as men prepared to make sail. Her gold paint sparkling with dew in the shining light slowly peeking over the horizon. And I stood there, watching as deckhands greeted the Bosun, as the captain, in a splendid uniform stood perched on the poop watching his crew with a sense of delight only seen in men as they watch their sons. I began walking toward the ship with a wide gait, I feet hundreds of eyes slowly come upon me, wondering who this stranger was. As I reached the ship I was seized by a Marine. "Stop" a stern, yet kindly voice shouted. It was the captain, "Who are you?" I had been frozen unable to speak anything but a long, slow "um, ah..." "Well, Um Ahh, are you seeking employment?" The captain asked. I shook my head, dumbfounded at the prospect of leaving Ireland, and being able to touch this beautiful ship. I ventured aboard to begin my new life on this ship bound for America. I was to become a clerk, and I was taught to read in the first three weeks of my new emplyoment. This life was paradise, at least, until the fifth week.

It became hell. As we neared America, and the storms constantly assailed our boat. Each day we would lose an upwards of five men, cast into the unforgiving seas. As we neared Cape Cod, our destination, the ship racked violently. Men were spilled overboard into their death by Neptune, an ungodly sound could be heard as our ship moved forward. It was rocks. Our hull had been torn away, we were sinking. I massive wave was cast upon the deck, taking my feet from under me, and I was cast into the raging seas. The net morning was calm. The ship was gone, and I saw nobody left. I took hold of a piece of wood, and just paddled for shore: my only hope of life. Not three hours later was I hoisted out of the water by benevolent fishermen, I decided that I should now begin yet another life, one in America.

When I arrived in Boston, I had nothing, it looked as if my life was to go the same way it had in Dublin. I would do odd jobs and fritter away my money, no way for a man to live as I look back on it. But there was one thing different: I was free. Free from the tumultuous struggles of the old world, from the yolk of the monarchy, Here I was free do let my vices control me, or put them behind, which is exactly what I did. I worked for another month, but saved my money. I bought food and supplies, and met several other men doing the same thing. We pooled our resources and marched west: into the undiscovered country. Now I stand here, on the other side of the Mississippi river, gazing out over this beautiful land, with its unending skies, filled with birds of every kind, dotted with puffs of clouds; Majestic rivers, their water providing the livliehood for the few who have decided to live here, and crowded with such numbers of fish that it is difficult to calculate; The seas of grass, waving across the prarie, and crisscrosed by Buffalo and native alike; and immaculate mountains, guardians of freedom, standing tall gazing down upon the whole of the nation, with their snow capped peaks filling the horizon. As I gaze forward, I know that this is a land of freedom, though undiscovered it may be. I look back to my partners, and continue forward. As I make my step I continue to explore this undiscovered country.

Entrant 5 - Hross

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Entrant 6 - wowbanger

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TotW 100a - Just one more question

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Winner - chaplain118

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Entrant 1 - Nanny de Bodemloze

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Journals of Lt. Columbo January 22nd, 1810

From the Special Provost report on the Death of Colonel McConkey
prepared by Lt Columbo

(excerpts from page 15...the previous pages are inexplicably missing)

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ reporting to Wellington ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ from intelligence branch ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓.

Major Smythe: I will offer you any assistance I can in this matter, Lieutenant Columbo.

Myself: Well I do appreciate you taking the time Major.

Major Smythe: Although, I'm not sure of what assistance I may be...as I was miles away at Castelo de Vide when the Colonel was murdered.

Myself: Well, see, that's just 'da ting here. I gets confused and flustered and sometimes I forget my notes, so I had better check...

Major Smythe: Take your time Lieutenant...

Myself: Ah yes! Here we are...do you ever do that Major? Just forget where everything is? Yes I'm sure you do, having so many responsibilities and all...

Major Smythe: ...

Myself: But anyways, just looks at me ramblin' like a groom on his weddin' night about to -

Major Smythe: Lieutentant, please...

Myself: Yes, of course major. Da ting is, I'm not exactly clear on what you were doing off in Castelo de Vide. You said previously...let me just see here, gotta put on my spectacles...that you were there on a personal matter. May I ask what that might have been?

Major Smythe: Well if you must know Lieutenant, I was engaged with a whore. Specifically, we ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓, and then she ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓. But once she ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓, I ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ chicken feathers. Judge me if you will, but I do not care to have to explain my soldierly vices...it would require me to talk at length about myself, and that is a little indulgent, don't you think Lieutenant Columbo?

Myself: Most people could sit and listen to somebody talking about their personality for hours - Lord knows I could, sir.

Major Smythe: ...

Myself: Well sir, I'm not one to judge, I can't claim to be the perfect husband myself. My wife says I'm the second-best, and she claims there are eighty men tied for first.

Major Smythe: I'm sure.

Myself: There is still just one thing bothering me Major, something that is stuck in my head that I can't quite put my finger on, kindof like when my britches ride up deep into my -

Major Smythe: Lieutenant! Really sir, I must protest!

Myself: You are right Major you are right, sometimes I just lose my mind a bit, and forget where I am, or where I was supposed to be, or even where I said I was but I wasn't...

Major Smythe: ...

Myself: So that thing I can't quite figure, is how your footprint was found in the mud beside the body? I mean, it is the same shoe size, and if I may Major you have feet larger than most around here...tell me, is what they say true, that big feet means -

Major Smythe: Mister Columbo! Control yourself sir!!!

Myself: Oh I apologize Major, I was just curious is all, I'm sure that village whore could provide testimony to that, although I'm not sure it is dat important to my investigation...

Major Smythe: (ahem)

Myself: Well Major, I do appreciate your time here, I'm very sorry to take you from your duties, all this a formality but of course protocol must be followed.

Major Smythe: Of course Lieutenant. Now, if you please, I will just -

Myself: There's just one more thing, sir.

Major Smythe: Lieutenant, with you there's never really "just one more thing."

Myself: You don't mind if I ask you a personal question, do you?

Major Smythe: No.

Myself: What'd you pay for those boots?

Major Smythe: Come again?

Myself: Is that what the village jezebel -

Major Smythe: Lieutenant!!!

Myself: What did you pay for those boots? I only ask because while some others may have your same boot size, I think no one else in the regiment has boots with the Redbock engraving in the heel, as yours do? And mighty fine riding boots they are sir, but the coin it costs to acquire such boots...? And custom size at that...? Indeed they would be very rare. And it so happens that the print at the scene ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ (the remainder of the journal has been removed)

Entrant 2 - Nefarious

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Entrant 3 - Legio

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Entrant 4 - ♔Old Dragoon♔

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The Last Horizon

This is an excerpt translated from accounts of Lt. Columbo-san preferred investigator for Dutch occupied Formosa Spring 1632. A formal interview was conducted by Lt. Columbo concerning the failed assassination attempt on Pieter Nuyts, and the murder of 2 servants. Tokugawa Tadanaga and attendant are being held for questioning on one of the many splendid beaches on Formosa. Columbo’s personal guard stands at the watch. Columbo is dressed in disheveled cloak with cigar in hand, and Tokugawa in his finest armor with sword

Columbo-san - Pardon me Tokugawa (Tadanaga)-san you are the son of the famous shogun Tokugawa Hidetada are you not sir?

Tokugawa-san – Of course! You should bow before me Columbo-san!

Columbo-san – You know you are right…But you are in Formosa sir, and Japanese customs don’t apply here…

Tokugawa-san – Spare me your sarcasm Columbo-san…I am in no mood. Proceed with this farce or allow me to exit.

Columbo-san - Of course…I just have a couple of things then you will indeed exit sir. I must make mention of your attire sir. It is absolutely stunning to say the least. Must have taken a long time to manufacture I would guess?

Tokugawa-san – I am not sure what my armor has to do with the questioning but yes it was hand made by my father’s finest craftsmen.

Columbo-san – It is also very comfortable looking. Your sword is handmade with the same care I presume. Are there any deep pockets?

Tokugawa-san – It is very much! It is the extension of the samurai’s soul. Together they are one…understand? I don’t know what you mean by pockets?

Columbo-san - I’m trying to for certain. We’ll get back to the pockets in a moment. How many do samurai carry?

Tokugawa-san – What? Carry what?

Columbo-san – Oh…I am sorry…very sorry sir. I mean how many swords do samurai generally carry?

Tokugawa-san – Well we carry two honorably! The katana and the wakizashi.

Columbo-san – Indeed…well isn’t that something?

Tokugawa-san – What? What is something?

Columbo-san – Oh…well there I go again. Do forgive me. I am losing my manners. Well let me have a puff on my cigar here. Ok you see I always have two cigars and I know that because I’m smoking one right now and holding it with my fingers here. The other one is in my cloak pocket here…

Tokugawa-san – Please get to your point!

Columbo-san – Now bare with me…I assure you that there is a point in this. OK now you say you carry two swords yet I only count 1 on your person unless you have a pocket somewhere on that armor? Which you said you didn’t understand pockets. Now you see my pocket….right?

Tokugawa-san - Of course. I have no such thing on my attire that could hide a sword. I assure you. Yes about my missing sword. It was stolen by some despicable peasant. Maybe that will help you and maybe you should question whoever took my wakizashi.

Columbo-san - OK…you know I never thought of that! Thank you for that. But there is just one thing… May I look at your sword?

Tokugawa-san – ***extremely irritated*** Columbo-san only for a moment for your inquiry, and please be careful.

Columbo-san - ***hands back katana*** Very, very nice, and I did find your wakizashi. It was found in the garden with blood stains all over it I’m afraid.***Guard comes forward with short sword same design and detail as the katana***

Tokugawa-san – That proves nothing! I said it was stolen last night!

Columbo-san - Yes you did. You did indeed. But there is just one more thing! You see the wakizashi, like your katana has a secret compartment in the hilt. Now your katana has nothing in there, but your wakizashi had a small vile of a rather toxic poison called tetrodotoxin, found in puffer fish. However, thankfully it had lost its potency and only made the governor very sick. But the two servants…

Tokugawa-san – The governor is alive?!

Columbo-san – Oh yes very much so… and now you didn’t know the case of his health or lack there of now sir… What is that honour code that you samurai hold so dearly? You know when you have done something or failed at something.

Tokugawa-san – ***Runs and grabs his wakizashi and rams it in his heart***

Columbo-san - ***Turns to Tokgawa-san’s attendant*** Oh and just one more thing...

Entrant 5 - 'Gunny

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Right foot, Left Foot, Right foot, Left foot
These are the only words that I can think of as I slowly saunter up to my place, 10 feet from my opponant. I stop, and stand, staring straight forwardinto the eyes of my opponant. the world stands still, save for the constant drizzle of the cold rain as it deflects of of my armor, as an arrow to the white man's armor. My opponant stares back, there will be no backing down. As I come to this realization A scowl slowly envelopes my face as the wind whips through the tall grass, howling at us, mocking us for our honor. But it is our honor, and our Honor, my Honor, I must defend. My opponent stands erect, a mocking look on his face as he calmly glances from side to side, almost admiring the beauty of our surroundings. He moves suddenly, my hand flies to my Katana. His movement was not that of an agressor, his movements become more deliberate as he sidles over to the flowers beside us. His picks on and, after smelling it, says to me "I have picked this flower before its time. No one else may now admire its beauty. I ask you, do not force me to do the same to you. I do not reply, I have made my choice, I will fight. My honor is worth more than my life, and if I do not defend it, then all is lost. "Very Well" he says.

His hand moves and in a flash he has brought his Katana to bear. He is a menacing sight, His armor a dark red, almost as if it had been colored with the blood of those who had opposed him in the past. But I hope to put his swordsmanship to rest on this day. I place my hand defiantly upon my Katana and draw it. He lunges forward, and in a flash our swords clash. The sound of scraping metal is supplemented with the defeaning boom of Thunder, the storm is getting worse. He lunges again to my right, and I parry left, losing my balance on the slippery ground. He raises his sword high above his head, and brings it down in one swoop. I try to vainly stick my sword up to block the crushing blow, but my attempt fails, His Katana slices into my leg, leaving a deep gash. I raise my head and scream in agony. He steps back. He is toying with me now. A thin smirk comes across his face, he is mocking me, degrading my for my mistakes. I stumble clumsily o my feet, shutting out the pain in my leg. I raise my Katana, and it begins again.

This time I lunge forward. He raises his sword and deflects my blow, using his momentum to try to bring his sword in contact with my flesh. I quckly move my Katana to block this blow, and in doing so knock my opponant off balance. I sense his weakness and try to explot it. I give him two sharp blows, both of which he deflects, though he stumbles backwards awkwardly. I lunge forward again, but i am too late, he has regained his balance. deflects my blow, and delives one that sends a sharp pain shooting up my arm. It is now I stumblick backwards, grasping my arm as bloods slowly flows out of it. In a fit of rage I lunge forward. He does not bother to raise his sword, but moves his body out of the way. I swing and miss, once more off balance as he slaps me with the falt side of his sword. I spin and look at my opponent once more. The smirk hsa grown more mocking, he believes he will win this batt,e I intend to prove him wrong. I use his hubris against him as I pretend to make another lunge. He predictable moves, and I adjust my swing accordingly. My blade strikes home as it cuts deep into his arm as he howls in pain. The smirk is instantly gone, replaced by the a fury unimaginable. I can no longer deflect his powerful blows. I am helpless as his blades cut deep into my skin. Hell hath no fury like that of my opponent. One more powerful blow and I am down.

I lie htere looking towards my opponent towering over me, his sword raised. The wind howling through the trees, shaking the sea of grass like an ocean. He screams mightily as he begins to bring his sword down for the killing blow. I die, but my Honor remains intact. My vision of my opponenet is replaced by a blinding flash. I once more hear him howl in pain, I watch as a bolt of lightening travels through his sword, incinerating the owner. He screams as the life is sucked out of him and transfered to the sky. I shut my eyes and hold my hand up to block the blinding light. As quickly as it happened it was gone. My opponent low lay before me, once the bain of my existance, now a pitiful mass of charred flesh, spit upon by the rain. I see clearly that Mother Nature has chosen for me to be the flower that shall blossom. My opponent has has been plucked from the Earth, and I only have the Earth itself to thank. I shall give my opponents proper rights, and tell of his braveness in battle, for it is what he deserves, such a brave and fearless fighter, only preserving his honor.

Entrant 6 - Orontid

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Entrant 7 - Ryou

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His Holiness the POPE is dead! That’s all Christendom Europe have said for the past month. The cardinals, afraid of losing their powers, made propaganda reports like the pope was carried off by Angels to heaven, or how he wisely sacrificed himself to save Europe from God’s wrath, but I know what truly happened. It was a normal day actually, nothing special. The pope was riding with his retinues through his front lawn (a 60 mile long map known as Grassy Plain) when he encountered 200 Italian Spear militia 50 miles from his castle. (they should be renamed to unwanted general killer or something, as that’d what everyone use them for)
“Make way you bunch of dirty Peasants!” The pope demanded rather rudely.
“De Ninguna Manera!” The peasants screamed back at him. (that’s actually By No means in Spanish, not Italian, but my School doesn’t teach Italian)
So the pope let his body guards set to work, and in 5 seconds flat his experienced retinues cut the Peasants apart.
They went on. 2 minutes later and about 40 miles from the pope’s castle in the far off mountains at the end of the lawn they met a second unit of Italian spear militia, this time numbering only about 100. When the pope ordered this peasants out of his way the leader again replied
“De Ninguna Manera!” It turns out this is the same unit that rallied from their route. Since they recently routed their moral was only winded, and thus In only 4 seconds the peasants were cut apart and broken.
2 minutes later and about 30 miles from the pope’s castle they met the same unit again, this time with only 50 men (in 5 seconds the unit lost 100 men, but in 4 seconds they only lost 50) Since they recently routed twice their moral was only shaken, and the pope ordered them away and the leader replied de ninguna Manera again and in 3 seconds they were routed. This went on with the peasants losing every time but losing less men every time until the pope was only 10 miles from his castle and facing them is only 6 peasants. Again de ninguna manera and the wavering peasants were this time shattered! The pope and his men, deciding to have a little fun, chased after the shattered peasants, not realizing that their hit points were all down to one, though none of his retinue died yet. The shattered peasants led them on a chase for some 10 miles until they caught up, but then when the pope and his men caught up they were surrounded by an ambush of demons, led by the general of the army the pope’s men faced, the devil himself, (who rallied the peasants time after time with his 50 command stars) The demons fell upon the pope’s men. Did a single bodyguard make out of the ambush alive? NO! DE NINGUNA MANERA!!!!

Entrant 8 - StealthEvo

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Dear Claire,

I hope this missive finds you in good health and humour as ever. I do thank you for your seemingly prompt reply to my last missive. The embassy was most helpful in delivering it to me and I enjoyed the description of the recent holiday that you and your husband took to Calais earlier this year. I do hope that Samuel enjoyed the sights and memorials of the war. On the off chances that you didn't visit those sights (I would have assumed that one of your tolerance would have. As always chide me if this is not the case) I do hope that the beaches were fantastic.

My travels have now extended to southern Kyoto and the landscape is stunning. I would fully anticipate you to enjoy such a venture to the fullest and no doubt you would share my love for the scenery. However apart from the lack of accessible translators there is one minor problem. Whilst earlier in the year the weather was fine. A touch warmer then I was used to in summer it was bearable. But now in the full run on summer it is almost intolerable. The heat is not the problem. It is the almost steamy atmosphere that inhabits the isles. At the time of me writing this missive it is barely noon and my kerchief is so wet that I can wring out almost a full measure (shot). The perspiration refuses to dissapate. I understand why they suggested that I prepare my health proper before leaving. It is a difficult climate.

I do hope that you enjoy the drawing I have enclosed. I passed this sight three days ago. It is the remains of an old imperial fort or something. My translator was quite vauge. But the Cherry Blossom was poignant and isolated that it's sense of detactment forced it's way into my mind. I have spent the last to days finishing the sketch and hope that it finds you in good health. I hope that I will be able to return to England soon. But I cannot promise anything. My father seems almost too interested that I spent as much time out here as possible. His reasons as always are his own.

I do admit that there is a slightly ulterior motive to thiis letter, I understand that you are wedded and such things are most sacred. I'd be a fool not to recognise this. However I do believe that once I come back. Perhaps we could have lunch like the years of old. I do miss your company and I know that what we once had has long died and that I far too late to fix the mistakes I made. But I would like to hear your voice again. Perhaps it is the long months of lack of company which drives me to such a request. But I do not have an answer to that.

Wishing for some snow.

Yours Forever.

T.

Entrant 9 - ♔Oggie♔

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Entrant 10 - Russian Gondor

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It was a dark and stormy night as the only sound by the road to be heard were the drumming hoof beats of a heavy horse. He was nearing to the edge of the dueling area, now the samurai could initiate revenge on his enemy. His enemy, the samurai representing the Dark Lord of Tokyo, had massacred his family without mercy. Now, he had challenged the Samurai of Tokyo to a duel to the death. He now neared the dueling area, it was time…
A darkened square greeted his eyes in the courtyard of the village with only a few torches meekly burning. A hail of rain turreted everywhere, flying down from the roof tops and churning the ground into mud. In the middle of the dark square, the samurai could see his long awaited enemy, kneeling on the ground, his sword on his knees. The good samurai dismounted and drew his blade while the Dark one got up from his meditating position. They stood near each other in the square and bowed…
Lightning struck, and before it could subside, the two angered men rushed at each other in a clash of steel. They grimaced as one tried to get the edge over the other, and as the boom of the thunder could be heard, they jumped back from combat and got in a balanced stance. They rushed to each other again, both in a frenzy full of zeal and hate. The only thing that could be heard for the next two minutes was the clash of steel on steel. Then, suddenly, the good samurai lost his footing on the mud and feel to the ground, but before he was able to get up, the foot of the other samurai was upon his chest, sword raised above his head. “Hah, you fool!” his voice echoed, “You dare not think you could beat me!”
The killing blow was about to be initiated. He could see his enemies arms raised high above his head. He closed his eyes, preparing to die, strangely though; he could not feel any sharp bursts of pain. He opened his eyes, only to see his enemy lying on the ground near him with an arrow buried deep in his back. He got up, only to see his long lost son standing near the ring with a bow… he was alive.

TotW 101a - The Smell of Rain

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Winner - Dan the Man

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The rains fell with a pitter patter on the boat's wooden deck, already soggy with ocean spray. The rigging creaked as we bumped our way along through the turbulent waters. I stood over the bow, staring out into the deep gray fog that enveloped us like a woolen blanket. As we pushed further through the earthbound clouds around us, I could see something looming out in the distance. I squinted, my eyes tightening as much as they could before becoming completely shut. Still I couldn't quite make out this strange shape. Then suddenly, as if by the forces of Divine Providence Itself, the fog parted and a shoreline finally came into view. The New World.
"Land ho!" A crewman up in the crow's nest called. The deck sprung to life as sailors secured ropes and prepared to dock. As we drew closer I could see a sleepy little fishing village on the coast. Lamps bobbed around as the townspeople rushed from their homes to see the hulking galleon glide easily into port. This was a backwater region even for the newborn colonies, it was no wonder to me that they were so eager to see us. I presumed some of the younger children hadn't even seen their homeland before, let alone any fresh arrivals. However foreign and savage it may have seemed to me, this was their home, the only one they had ever known. I began to fantasize about actually living here, scratching a living as a fur trapper or a farmer, raising my family in a one room log cabin, depending on my fellow colonists to survive Indian attacks, animals, and all manner of wilderness hazards. But no, this was not my place. I was a traveling merchant, a trader, selling my wares and going home, just as always. I had no family to go back to, just a big lonely house back in Yorkshire, some servants, and a couple of hound dogs. Money, that was my primary goal, not companionship, not adventure, not accomplishment, just money.
We slid into port smoothly, throwing down the gangplank and letting all passengers off. I pulled my luggage and wares along with me. Was I getting old, or were my bags getting heavier? How much did I bring this time? Any more than the last? As I struggled under the weight of my possessions I watched the colonists around me greet people disembarking from the ship. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, husbands, wives, family members of all sorts. A few soldiers dressed in their signature red uniforms fresh from the war with Spain kissed their wives and held their children, whom they had not yet met. I drifted through it all like a ghost, while I attempted to spot the local inn.
Bull's Head Tavern a swinging sign in gaudy font declared. I stepped inside, dragging my goods along with me to the bartender's post.
"Good evening, bartender." I said to him. "Would you happen to have a room for one available?" The bartender, a gruff looking man with a stubbly beard, probably in his early fifties, sized me up for a minute.
"Sure." He replied in that horrible accent the colonials were beginning to develop. "Right this way." He called to a young man across the room. "James! Help this man carry his bags to his room, will you?" The lad leaped to his feet and took some of my luggage, the relief on my straining back was miraculous. We trudged up some dirty looking steps into my room. It was rustic, but pleasant, and not infested with rats like most of the other colonial establishments I had stayed in previously. I tossed the servant boy a shilling. He thanked me quietly and promptly left me in peace. I flopped onto the bed, caring little about my soaked clothing. Tomorrow I would have to find the market and get to work selling my wares. The sooner they were all gone, the sooner I could get back home. I rose quickly and the bed trembled a bit. I walked to the window and watched the life of the colony below me. I sighed a little as I thought about what could have been, were I younger and stronger. The rains began to draw up their battle-line again over the horizon, and the thunder of their cannons crashed through the skies, sending the colonists in a full retreat back to their homes, where I knew they would continue their celebrations. I thought to myself: "Was this life, really all worth it?" These colonists lived in such simplicity and seemed so happy, and yet here I was, wealthy, successful, and somehow still not pleased. I had seen every corner of the navigable world, from the golden beaches of the Caribbean to the bustling Dutch trade port of Cape Town, from exotic Singapore to Bahia, the jewel of the Brazilian coastline. I got nothing from it. And now here I was, an aging man remembering a life of regret and not being able to change a minute of it. One truly does not know what he has missed until he has seen it living and breathing in somebody else.

Entrant 1 - Hross

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Entrant 2 - Neige Noire

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Entrant 3 - ♔Oggie♔

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Ahoy matey… I welcome ye to me ship. Come and sit with the crew, yahr right there between Hooked Pete and John-with-the-scarrrrr. There’s a good lad, nothing teh be afraid off, they won’t harm ye. Now be quiet ya filthy, bilge sucking dogs for this old seadog has a story to tell. Avast ye! Pay attention lads! *fires a pistol* Now I have ye’r attention, I will begin…

It started on a night just like this one. There were no clouds and stars covered the nightly sky. A soft breeze pushed the ship across the calm sea. We’d left Isla Tortuga for three days and were on the lookout for booty. Ye’r see we were on the hornswaggle. We’d lost our precious gold to gambling, rum and women, savvy? The cap’n told us we would find some booty soon. And it was true, we found this Dutch merchant vessel. So we made sail and hoisted the Jolly Roger.
Now, the Dutchman tried to get away from us, but we caught up with him and boarded. Those Dutchies weren’t much of a fight and they surrendered quickly. The mates thought we had a large booty and were pleased. But shiver me timbers there was no cargo aboard, so we wanted to keelhaul the Dutch cap’n. The fat landlubber was scared as hell and begged us not to do it. He would tell us about a great treasure if we’d let him and the crew go. The cap’n agreed and the Dutchman told us of this secret island near the coast of New Andalusia and of the hidden trail through the jungle which would lead to an old native temple were we would find the treasure. Well…. After he told us everything we knew we all had ‘em walk the plank for we wanted no survivors to tell the authorities what had happened. We sunk the ship and set course for Isla Muerte.

Pass me the rum lad, me throat get’s dry from all that talking. Yahr that’s it. Away ye scurvy seadog, this is me rum! Get ye’r own bottle.

Ah now where was I? Aye I knows. We reached Isla Muerte exactly as the Dutchman told us. It wasn’t a large island but large enough. Just one mountain that rose from the sea covered with tropical trees and plants. Somewhere in that rainforest there would be a hidden temple stashed with booty. The lads were eager to explore this island in search for gold, but the cap’n forbid it. He would go along with ten others. This old seadog was one of those unlucky few…

We took the rowing boat and went for the coast which was covered with white sand. The cap’n decided that it was best if we’d climb the mountain so we could see the temple between the trees. The lads and I were of course not very happy about that. Pirates ahrrrren’t mountain men. But we followed orders and marched through the rainforest. It was hot and the air was heavy and our sweat broke out when we hacked and slew ourselves forward. There was no sound but that of our own. Nay, not even birds or the sound of the wind. The vegetation seemed to get grow more dense. Big leaves and thorny bushes blocked our way. Then it happened…
Suddenly in the blink of an eye Limping Joe, the mate who closed the ranks, was gone. We did not hear him scream, nothing. Then again from the other side we lost Morgan. Now ye’r see the lads got scared and we wanted to head back to the beach. But the cap’n insisted on continuing and he hacked his way through the thorny bushes. We stood still, afraid to keep going but also eager for the gold. In the end we followed our cap’n. Not all mates were happy about it, but they did not wanted to be separated from the group.

As we all went through the hole, cut by the cap’n, we did not see him. There was no other way he could have gone. Suddenly the shadows seemed to be moving. This was too much for us and we fled in panic. It was each man for himself. I was all alone deep in the jungle, me mates all went other ways, but I kept going. No way I would stay on that cursed place.

Then I heard a scream far away from me, and then another one, more closer this time. I counted, as I made me way through the bushes, the cap’n gone, Joe gone, Morgan gone and two others. There were only six of us left. More screams followed and eventually I was left. The shadows closed in around me, whatever it was that did all this… it was near. I ran for me life.

I heard the sound of waves and I felt the wind. The vegetation got less and less and then I was on the beach again. I was safe. Now mates that’s how I’d became the sole survivor of those eleven unfortunate men who went into that jungle. I’ll never know what it was that got those lads, but it did not get me.

And that’s the end of that story, yahr…
Now let’s sing us a song of rum and pirates for I am as drunk as… as… yargh I don’t know ho ho ho and a bottle with rum!

Entrant 4 - Stultus

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Entrant 5 - Nefarious

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Entrant 6 - Russian Gondor

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**Dance** · May 15, 2013, 11:00 AM

TotW 102a - They're Burning Futures in the Mountains

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Winner - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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They were an ancient people, their years seemingly incalculable by the standards of our measurement. It's doubtful there was a time when they didn't live there, in those mountains, practicing the ancient rites of their culture. And there were many rites indeed, each pertaining to the society in it's own way. The “sapêr'nub fa'fonishan,” the “dream kings” of their society, the priests who interpret dreams, or the “shü't je'an je'sh'en,” the “mountain runners,” the messengers between the people. Yes, it was a complex culture, full of obscure and seemingly pointless rules and mores. But to them, it is life.

It was that life which the King could never fully understand. He had met many peoples in his time, the simplistic plainsmen, who were assimilated easily, or the civilization of Nevas, who, given their small army and focus on science and the arts, were destroyed. But these people puzzled him. On the surface, they seemed to be simple hunters and traders. They showed no affinity for the art of war, and yet every attack he sent was repulsed. They turned to hunting men as if it was a new breed of deer. He wished he could assimilate them, as he did the plainsmen, but he knew that could not happen. Their cultures were too different. So he reviewed his options. Give up? Out of the question. His reputation was built on crushing all who opposed him. How could he give up and save face? He couldn't, so another option was to be cosidered. An option any other opponent would not have required.

Shol was the son of the village dream king, a blood line which gave him considerable stature in his community. He was, therefore, chosen as the delegate from his village to go to meet with this outside force, the “yisha”as his kind called them. They were marching through the mountains at that moment, following the path they knew would lead them to the yisha's camp. They were no further than thirty zopish'an (a unit of measurement the people used, equivalent to around 20 yards) away from where they believed the camp was when they met a yisha. He must have been young, for his stature was slim and short. Shol approached him, saying, “Shaton've. Kinâ she? Kinâ shä Shol. Fo'tak fo'shä damês, shotün ka fonishan.” The boy stared up at him, bewildered. Another of the delegates quickly reprimand Shol for speaking their language, stating that the boy would not speak it. Shol laughed, realizing his mistake. He turned back to the boy, now pointing at himself while saying Shol. He then pointed at the boy. The boy's eyes lit up, and pointing at himself, he said “Jake.” Shol then made a circle around his head, and glared at the delegates. The boy made a mock scepter to clarify, before saying “King!” But just as they reached that moment of clarification, they heard a noise behind them, and felt heat. Shol turned around, quickly, and saw the mountain on fire. The heat was unbearable, and the smoke filled Shol's lungs. He turned around to run, only to see that the way was blocked by fire. Shol didn't know how it had spread this far this fast, but he knew it was over. As he drew his last breath, he collapsed, and was burned to ash.

The King was brushing ash of his cloak when his son ran up to him, smiling. “Did you do what I asked you to do, my son?”the King asked. The son nodded. “You dropped that torch where I asked you to? You did it exactly when and where I told you to?”Again, the son nodded, saying, “Yes, father. I waited until I saw the mountainmen, before dropping the torch. I made sure they didn't see me do it, either.” the King nodded, gazing out at the fire raging on the mountain. He let out a slow laugh, barely percievable but for the shaking of his shoulders. He turned back to his son, put him on his lap, and said, “You did well, Jake. You did well.”

Entrant 1 - Ratzor

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Entrant 2 - ♔Oggie♔

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Come, come, don’t be scared, it’s only a bit further. There, do you see it? No? Come closer then. Right there through the trees, yes right there across the lake. Do you see it? There lies the hidden land. A land of magic and mystery. One can only go there when he knows the secret. Do you want to see it? Come and I’ll show you. We must hurry though, the sun has almost disappeared. Right, here take my hand. Now, when you see the sun disappear behind those mountains you jump. Just hold my hand and I will guide you. Are you ready? Close your eyes aaaaand…..jump! Don’t let go of my hand. Keep holding it, we’re nearly there. Almost… yes we’ve landed. Now open your eyes, no not too fast. Let them get used to the light. Yes? Fantastic, have a look around. Do you see them? No? Try again, but this time focus on the bushes. You see them now? Right there! Yes of course they are real, they live here. What? In mushrooms? No, those are just fairytales. This is real. They live in tiny houses build under the trees. Oh! Now they’ve spotted us. See how quick they are? They are called Kinstruffel, but you probably know them as Gnomes.
Well they are gone now. Let me take you further, there are many more things to see. For instance, there on that branch. Beautiful isn’t she? A living flower. Ah she heard me, hear her giggle. ‘Come down little one, I want you to meet someone.’ Here, just hold your hand up and she will fly right towards you. Hah, didn’t I tell you? Her name is Lilly and she’s a fairy. ‘I’m sorry little one, but we have to continue our journey. There’s so much to see and we have so little time. What? Yes of course I’ll come back. Now off you go Lilly.’ Ah the innocence of a fairy. They’ll trust anyone and they’re very curious.
Come one let’s go. Watch out for that plant… yes better walk around it. It’s evil that thing. Flesh eating, many creatures fell prey to it’s wonderful scent. No, not all that lives here is beautiful. Here too are evil things… *cough* No need to become emotional. Just follow me and I’ll show you the cottage of Madame Hurban. She’s a witch. No not an evil one, she’s a friendly old lady who helps anyone who has need for it.
What! Look at the time, we’ve been here for hours! Yes hours, time here goes much faster than in your world. We must head back now, before you’ll be forced to stay here forever. Come on run! Yes, grab my hand I’ll lead you. Right through there, now up here. Yes it’s a shortcut… come on faster the sun has almost reached the horizon. Ah finally we are here. Right you know what to do. Close your eyes and hold my hand. Three, two….one and jump.

Entrant 3 - 'Gunny

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[]

Six months ago, as I left all I had ever known, I could not even fathom what I now stand here gazing upon today. My life began on the streets of Dublin, where I remained for 20 years, picking up scraps not even fit for a rat, and even getting into fights over them. I remember when the redcoats came and cleaned the streets, sent us off to orphanages. But I escaped, I returned to the streets, Lord knows why. After twenty years of hard living, carefully earning money from the most hellish of jobs and subsequently frittering it all away on drinks and assorted ladies of the night, I saw a ship. This ship was the most majestic ship I had ever seen, her clean deck awash with a flurry of activity as men prepared to make sail. Her gold paint sparkling with dew in the shining light slowly peeking over the horizon. And I stood there, watching as deckhands greeted the Bosun, as the captain, in a splendid uniform stood perched on the poop watching his crew with a sense of delight only seen in men as they watch their sons. I began walking toward the ship with a wide gait, I felt hundreds of eyes slowly come upon me, wondering who this stranger was. As I reached the ship I was seized by a Marine. "Stop" a stern, yet kindly voice shouted. It was the captain, "Who are you?" I had been frozen unable to speak anything but a long, slow "um, ah..." "Well, Um Ahh, are you seeking employment?" The captain asked. I shook my head, dumbfounded at the prospect of leaving Ireland, and being able to touch this beautiful ship. I ventured aboard to begin my new life on this ship bound for America. I was to become a clerk, and I was taught to read in the first three weeks of my new emplyoment. This life was paradise, at least, until the fifth week.

It became hell. As we neared America, and the storms constantly assailed our ship. Each day we would lose an upwards of five men, cast into the unforgiving seas. As we neared Cape Cod, our destination, the ship racked violently. Men were spilled overboard into their death by Neptune, as an ungodly sound could be heard as our ship moved forward. It was rocks. Our hull had been torn away, we were sinking. A massive wave was cast upon the deck, taking my feet from under me, and I was cast into the raging seas. The next morning was calm. The ship was gone, and I saw nobody left. I took hold of a piece of wood, and just paddled for shore: my only hope of life. Not three hours later was I hoisted out of the water by benevolent fishermen, I decided that I should now begin yet another life, one in America.

When I arrived in Boston, I had nothing, it looked as if my life was to go the same way it had in Dublin. I would do odd jobs and fritter away my money, no way for a man to live as I look back on it. But there was one thing different: I was free. Free from the tumultuous struggles of the old world, from the yolk of the monarchy, Here I was free to let my vices control me, or put them behind, which is exactly what I did. I worked for another month, but saved my money. I bought food and supplies, and met several other men doing the same thing. We pooled our resources and marched west: into the undiscovered country. Now I stand here, on the other side of the Mississippi river, gazing out over this beautiful land, with its unending skies, filled with birds of every kind, dotted with puffs of clouds; Majestic rivers, their water providing the livliehood for the few who have decided to live here, and crowded with such numbers of fish that it is difficult to calculate; The seas of grass, waving across the prarie, and crisscrosed by Buffalo and native alike; and immaculate mountains, guardians of freedom, standing tall gazing down upon the whole of the nation, with their snow capped peaks filling the horizon. As I gaze forward, I know that this is a land of freedom, though undiscovered it may be. I look back to my partners, and continue forward. As I make my step I continue to explore this undiscovered country.

Entrant 4 - wowbanger

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TotW 103a - Lord of the Tale

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Winner - Neige Noire

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Entrant 1 - Dan the Man

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Entrant 2 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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How long had it been. Who knew, anymore. Time had no meaning, not in the sense that they once knew it. Days, weeks, months. Inconsequential. Where they once thought of nothing but, now it was done. There had been the nine-to-five. Nine-to-fivenine-tofive-tofivenine. The day was separated as such, The Eight-to-Nine, the Nine-to-Five, the Five-to-Six, the Six-to-Ten. It repeats. Wake up. Eat. Travel. Work. Travel. Relax. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Again, again, again. Eternity never felt this long. Now that was over, gone as the wind. Was that it? Gone and wind were in it, yes. Gone for the Wind? No, that wasn't quite right either. Perhaps it wasn't important. Then again, what was important? Time. But now it wasn't the Nine-to-Five, it was the Day-to-Night. They mostly come out at night. Mostly. What was that? Seemed familiar, somehow.

He woke that day, as he had the day before, and before and before, with a feeling of hunger. No kitchen, here. The hunt was the kitchen, the animal the fridge. Refrigerator. None of those now. Long gone, like the wind. Only, the wind was here. It was windy. Why did his mind continue to return to those words? Something from the before, perhaps. Unknown. Curious. But the hunt was important, today. He gathered his rifle, his coat. He walked. Walked for some time, it would seem. Time was important, after all. He did keep it, time, but not in numbers. In feeling. He knew that it was what he may have called Nine at one time. No more. He walked. Not long before he spotted It. The creature, a large beast. Not fearsome, ferocious, furious. Gentle, this one. Easy prey. He lifted the rifle, felt the butt against his arm. Fired. Missed. The creature ran. No meal yet, then. He walked.

Again, time ached at his mind. A dull pain, the realization that the time before the night was near. No food yet, either. He had missed his shot. Stop at the store on the way home from work. Milk, eggs, bread, cereal. They too, were gone. With the wind. That was it, gone with the wind. Only, what was that? Somehow familiar. His mind wandered from the task at hand. That day, the last day. The final Nine-to-Five. Over and done, at that precise moment in time on that exact day, of that single year. In the old terms of time. What had happened? He couldn't recall, some flash, a rattling that shook him down to his very core. He had not died, then. Not all did, some lived, as he did. Most did not live long after, as he did. He lived still then, far longer then anyone else he could recall. Time was a punishment. For what, not known. He stopped walking. What point to all this, then? No food. No time. Everything was gone with the wind. He liked the term, for whatever reason. No people, never bothered him before. What made them special now? It was hunger talking, he knew. With food came sanity. There was no food. Sanity was lost. Gone, he'd say. He glanced at the rifle, stood longer. Night would fall soon, time would take it's toll on him if he didn't. He lifted the rifle. Some time passed. He felt the cold metal. Time passed again. Then he was gone.

Entrant 3 - Russian Gondor

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TotW 104a - The Seas of Wrath

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Winner - Lord Horatius

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“Sir, the Puissant is coming about! She’s trying to rake us!”

Midshipman Philip Carradine was visibly agitated as he watched the French ship of the line laboriously present its figurehead to HMS Spritely, its canvas sails catching the wind and billowing out like massive bed sheets on an oversized clothesline. He looked at the Spritely’s captain, John Quinn, a much older man who seemed unfazed by the sight of the enemy three Decker closing on his ship. Quinn clasped his hands behind his back and puffed out his chest, the fingers of his right hand tracing the outline of the wedding ring he wore on his left. “Commodore Le Clerc is no doubt chastising himself for taking his flagship out of Le Havre without any escort Master Carradine,” he remarked to his young charge. “If you would Philip, perhaps you would train your glass on her figurehead?”

“Aye Sir.” The boy replied, peering through his tarnished, second hand spyglass. “It appears to be a sphinx, sir.”
“Indeed lad, very good.” The Captain replied, peering at the approaching ship through his own telescope. “However, with the wind a quarter astern, I very much doubt the sphinx shall have opportunity to pose us a riddle. Le Clerc has been so occupied with the Pitt; he has lined himself up very neatly with our starboard guns. Mr. Maxwell!” The Spritely’s first Lieutenant was instantly on the quarterdeck, kicking aside a sizable splinter as he approached the captain. “Gun crews ready sir.”

“Well done Tom. How’s your head?” the captain asked, affording his first Lieutenant a brief glance before his eyes returned to the approaching Puissant. Lieutenant Maxwell plied a smudged handkerchief to his sweaty face, dabbing at the trickle of blood that had stained his powdered hair. “Stings sir, I suppose I’ll live.”

“If the letter from your wife you so eagerly shared with us at my table last week is any indication, I’d say you’d damn well better live,” Captain Quinn replied, allowing himself a smile. “I expect you to name that son of yours after me, of course.”

Lieutenant Maxwell flashed a weary but toothy grin. “Shall we fire sir?”
“In a moment, Mr. Maxwell,” the captain replied. “Can you see the Frenchies on her deck, Mr. Carradine?”
“One of the blighters has an ostrich feather in his hat, sir.” The young midshipman replied.
“Not for long Philip. Mr. Maxwell, fire if you please.”
Lieutenant Maxwell abruptly turned, cupped his hand to his mouth and bellowed the captain’s order across the length of the gun deck: “Starboard battery, fire as you bear!”

The Spritely rocked back on her port side as her starboard guns unleashed a rolling broadside of solid shot at the stem of the Puissant. Looking through his glass, Midshipman Carradine could see the splinters fly from her foremast and an unseated bow chaser smash through the rail and fall over the side, into the white-capped sea, then the wind carried the smoke of the Spritely’s guns into his field of vision.

“Is the sphinx still there Mr. Carradine?” Captain Quinn asked, his hands still clasped behind his back. “I can’t say, sir. The ostrich feather is certainly gone though.”
To the amusement of those on the quarterdeck, the Captain released a hoarse bark of a laugh, and briefly doffed his gold trimmed hat. “Good lad. Mr. Maxwell, my compliments to the gunners.”
“Gun crews, reload!” yelled Lieutenant Maxwell, as he knelt to pick up his hat, which had lain on the deck for most of the action, shot off his head by a French sharpshooter in the Puissant's rigging.

“Any signal from the Pitt?" Captain Quinn asked.
“Aye sir!” called Major Anthony Phipps, the Spritely’s commander of marines, the white facings on his red coat stained with sweat and gunpowder. “She’s just off the Puissant’s stern!”
The captain peered through his spyglass. “By God, she’s holed! Why don’t you launch the boats, Thornton, you stubborn fool?” he growled, cursing the obstinate character of his counterpart captain.

“Men are jumping from her rigging sir!” Major Phipps cried, looking through his own glass. “Oh Lord, she’s capsizing!” And indeed, the smaller British ship was listing badly due to the punishment it had sustained in combat with the larger Puissant.

The captain set his jaw. “Mr. Maxwell, disengage! Bring us about and launch the boats, I want rescue parties in the water post haste!
“But Sir!” cried Midshipman Carradine. “The Puissant!”
“To hell with her!” the captain snarled. “Let her limp back to Le Havre, blast it! I said disengage, Mr. Maxwell!”

“Captain,” Lieutenant Maxwell gasped, gesturing to the enemy ship, his eyes wide with awe and fear. “She’s afire.”

Captain Quinn turned just in time to see flames engulf the French man of war’s mainsails, spreading up the mast. In a moment the tarred deck would be on fire, and then the painted hull, and then the flames would find the powder magazine …
The captain removed his hat and his powdered wig as well, revealing the few wispy strands of hair that clung to his aging scalp as he took in the spectacle of the flaming ship drifting closer and closer.

“God Save us.”

Entrant 1 - StealthEvo

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The Swan was listing badly. Her deck was tilting crazily towards the breaking waves from the wake of the other boats. Fancy and the Stable had pulled along side a Spainyard boat. Fancy was aflame. Sykes could see it through his salt filled eyes. Grunting as another breaker added more pain to his existance. Well at least his wounds would be clean when they found him. The cries, screams and prayers flooded in and our of this throbbing head through his water clogged ears. A slow glance down at his arms as they slowly lost purchase on his drift wood raft. His left arm was barely recognisable. A mass of blood, bone and muscle. His right was little better. His hand was covered in slashes and pieces of timber. Sykes knew he wasn't one for this world much longer. The Spainyard had fired a broadside shortly after the Swan had sent the chains up into her sails. Unfortunatly the Spainyards broadside was aimed below the water line. Their aim was off and the shots had blasted straight through the mid deck with ease. What was normally chaos turned to hell. Jackson had been struck by one of the balls as they ripped through the ship. There wasn't much left of him. "

" wasn't much better the 16 pounder had slipped off it's mount and crushed his foot. Sykes hearing the Swans broadside was busying himself grabbing another chain shot. Hearing the Spainyards round he'd turned around lifting an arm to protect his face only to have his body ripped by the splinters and sharpnel released. The second broadside struck true below the waterline and staggering around in hell Sykes had finally made it top side and collasped into the water.

In reflection perhaps it would have been better not to have protected his eyes. That way he wouldn't have to see the destruction of his arms. Or the bodies of Jackson and "

". It was made worse when it became apparent that his left arm was unusable to hold himself afloat and by luck he'd found some planking to lay across. But with the wavessapping his strength just as fast as the chilling water the thoughts in the back of Sykes mind about lack of a rescue were getting loud. Grunting as he tried to haul himself out of the water more he only slipped further in. Trying to kick out with his legs, which were only slashed and still working he was further compounded as a strong cramp wracked through his left leg. Slipping completely under as he jerked in response Sykes fought back to the surface with his one good arm. Coughing and trying to stretch out the cramp and failing the sailor sighed and rested his chin on the closest plank trying to catch his breath. Hearing an all might bang he glanced up seeing the flames covering the Fancy roar into a more hellish existance. Judging from the explosion the flames had found the magazine. As the wave of heat struck him and forced his eyes shut he could feel the plank shfiting from under his weaked arms. Not long now then he thought. As the next wave forced his raft from his numbed, dead hands Sykes tried to tread water but his water logged clothes and cramped leg hindered his efforts. As he saw the sky darken as he sunk through his stinging eyes. Pain erupted in places he thought wouldn't hurt. An iron band of pressure added itself as he was strarved of oxygen. His struggle continued and as he thought he was getting closer he felt his mind leave him as his mouth opened to take in water. A final burst of excrutiating pain from his lungs as they filled with water before his eyes glazed over.

Entrant 2 - 'Gunny

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A prize, a prize. That was all I ever really wanted. To see myself bathing in the glory of Spanish pieces, of French gold. In the glory of riches from far off lands, carried over deserts by sultans and carefully placed on ships to take them to their destinations. The Heorot, I thought, could get me that prize. he was a fast rigged sloop, which could make it from the cape to Malta in a matter of days, even without topgallants raised. Her crew was a solemn and professional as any could be, especially in the almost God-like prescense of me, her captain. My weekly dining in the Gunroom was as quiet as a funeral on most occasions, not a happy occasion, but the men did their jobs, and they did it well, they did it well. This ship could run as smoothly as ever, should I ever choose to stay in my cot from morning till night. I cant remember the last flogging, for even if I feel as liverish as lucifer, I could never find a reason to flog these old brutes.

But there shall be no great merchantman today. Today we have encountered a fleet, with great lumbering ships of the lines, their hulls higher than the main topsail, their cannons loaded and ready for deafening blows against my hull. I cannot escape, they have the weather gauge, so today we fight. I must get between them, run through them like the most daring pirate ever to sail. They cannot seperate, they must stay together, for then I can dart between them like a nimble mouse, they not firing a single shot, not wanting to damage their ally. I recognise the first ship. Two weeks ago it had caught us, and we had pretended to be Ragusan merchants with the plague on board, they shall not fall for that again. So I give the order to load, and demand the men to spill hte wind from our sheets, to flounder and not appear a threat, I hope to God it works.

They are nearer, rays of light flicker off the enemy captains' glasses, their front cannons fire at us, whizzing over head, and our chasers reciprocate, sending balls of heavy iron through their sails. The ships are now win a perfect line, now is the time. I give the order to turn. The ship answers immediatly, cutting through the water, crossing a very learge T, and now facing our enemies. We barrel forward, the sloop cutting through the water quickly, nimbly. It was a ruse. The ships spill the wind from their sails at different intervals, each now in a position to give us a broadside. I mutter a prayer under my breath, for I have now truly encountered the valley of death. I order the men to take cover as we pass the first ship, its broadside echoing across the vast ocean as millions of tiny lead balls sweep the ship. They fired Grape, the bastards. Cries of the wounded and dying emerge from the noise as the balls perforate the crew. The next boradside, I fear, will be much worse.

My prediction is true. A great wall of chain shot spews from the belly of the beast beside us, shattering the mizzen, which slowly creaks as it begins its descent downwards, taking men and rigging with it. As the Mizzen plunges into the seas we recieve another broadside, once more full of grape. Shards of lead and wood skip across the ship, breaking heads, bones, and morale. I have had enough, I jump into the gun room and send my men to the cannons for a broadside on the last ship. When we are lined up, I shout fire, a great mass of smoke and lead fill the air, as the heorot and the French ship exchange a simultanious broadside. 32 pound lead balls turn the hull into swiss cheese. Water pours in as the crew tries desperately to save her. We abandon the fruitless effort and climb on deck, I give the fateful order to abondon ship. Men plunge into the cold water and the Heorot slowly sinks into the abyss, we watch as the French ship with fire upon takes fire, a small bit of jubilance rises in me, as I know we hit a poweder store, but it is short lived. I too must take the fateful plunge into the water, in the hope the French take me prisioner. I once dreamed of prizes, now I must face the Seas of Wrath.

Entrant 3 -Neige Noire

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Entrant 4 - ♔Oggie♔

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Entrant 5 -Russian Gondor

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The warm Italian wind blew calmly across the battlements. Not a sound could be heard, the calm before the battle. Fear could be seen in both men’s eyes as the two armies met. Venice had decided to attack a Milanese castle, and brought a huge army to do so. The walls were packed with archers and the courtyard with spearmen. Suddenly, the dreaded sound was heard, Venetian drums roared up, as their army began marching forward…
The archers and crossbowmen on the walls readied their weapons as the approaching wave of Venetian militia surged forward. A twang resounded loudly around the castle as a volley was released, followed by another, and other. A pile of dead men were soon around the castle, as siege towers slowly lumbered up, and a battering ram tried to take down the gate. Suddenly, a loud crash was heard, the Venetians had started to fire their trebuchets. Milanese soldiers yelled and panicked as flaming boulders roared about them, tossing the castle into flamed, and the men into a trance of fear.
Finally, the ram had broken through the gates, as furious hand to hand fighting ensued. But to the defender’s dread, the siege towers opened as well, as swordsmen rushed onto the walls, hacking and slashing at the archers. A furious defense ensued for another hour, thousands of corpses littered the walls and ground, a river of blood roared freely across the streets, mixed in with dirt, flame, and yelling. Soon enough, only a small amount of Milanese knights had been left, they garrisoned themselves inside the keep, holding the door steady as loud rumbled echoed through the building of a ram trying at the gates, and stones ricocheting off the stone walls.
The Milanese general now stood up on a table, and gave a rousing speech…
“Men, we have defended this castle with our lives, these cursed Venetians shall feel the true power of the Milanese… If we die today, we shall all know that we have not died in vain, and that our death shall be avenged! For honor, and glory, and victory!!!”
The men yelled as the door crashed open and a surge of Venetians came forward.

TotW 105a - Against All Odds

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Winner - wowbanger

Entrant 1 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 2 - Beckitz

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Entrant 3 - E.K

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Entrant 4 - mrcrusty

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Entrant 5 - Neige Noire

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The sun had long gone beyond the unreachable horizon as we rode into the dusk. The hooves of our horses thundered with a pleasant echoing rumble. We rode silently for a reason we didn't know ourselves. A certain premonition seemed to fill the air about us, but a premonition of what?

In the hours of dusk the world was changed. It never looked exactly the same in plain daylight or at night. The land about us now, the hills, the trees, the rivers - all seemed venerable somehow. And yet exposed.

Each of us was buried in his own thoughts as we rode. The grasshoppers escorted us with a concerto of chirrs. Just a few hours ago we had mercilessly hacked down and slaughtered innocent peasants. Whole families of them. We shrieked like animals and gutted their men and raped their women and then burned them all in the shed without a slightest drop of regret, and all that we did with a delight that was now torturing us. Who are we?

The trees seemed to be chanting in the soft wind as if ancient druids weaving some mystic spell. Enchanting. And yet menacing. A falcon was gliding through the sky majestically, untouched by any earthly affliction, he pierced the sky leisurely. Is it not unfair that such lowly creatures as birds have such a privilege of freedom? And who are we? Where are the young knights who swore to protect the women and the weak?

The waving grass seemed to me a sea of green. A sea into which I wanted to drown. A sea of freedom. A sea of repentance. All it took to sustain itself was sun and rain. Warmth and water. It asked for so little. How was it that we were never satisfied? That we were never sustained? That we were never contented with what we had?

Such were my thoughts as we rode up the hill and looked down onto the next village. The very last reflection of light fell onto the faces of children and their parents playing and running around merrily after a long and hard day of work. Peace and happiness beamed out of them. A happiness we knew we had never felt.

Entrant 6 - Dave Strider

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The Battle of Gettysburg - The South's Greatest Victory
A Memoir by Lt. Gen. Thomas J. Jackson, Confederate Army

There were many things that occured on those three days. So many things. Things could have gone better for us, and they definitely could have gone better for the Yanks. But, as always, it appears that God, as usual, was, and still is, on our side. Still, things happened in those days that should not have.

I remember clearly how things started. There was one factor that made this campaign unforgettable, more so than any other; The heat - the Pennsylvania Summer is unbearably hot, especially while wearing these damned uniforms. I saw men drop from their ranks while marching. Minutes later, they were dead from heat exhaustion. But, I suppose this is my philosophy in action - "Better to lose one man from marching than 5 men from fighting".

Things formally began when a friend of Longstreet's - also a Scout, his name being Henry Harrison - found information on enemy troop movements. He spotted a large column of Infantry with supporting Cavalry moving north-west from Washington, informing Longstreet that the entire Federal force was marching towards the divided Confederate forces. Longstreet informed Lee, whom quickly called a council of war. From there, we formed a plan - Longstreet and Hill would converge on the town from the North and West. My Corps would act as a reserve, ready to send a massive shock into the enemy lines if needed. Stuart, meanwhile, would send scouts and foraging parties in every possible direction that the Federals could approach, taking all the food possible and gathering information on the terrain.

As our troops converged on the town, and eventually took the heights beyond, a messenger from General Stuart informed Lee that, indeed, we had chosen the right time to take this town. Our advanced element, consisting of the divisions of Anderson and Heth of Hill's Corps, were under attack from the combined forces of Two Federal Corps; Reynolds and Hancock, a combined force of over 23,000 men compared to the 16,000 men of Heth and Anderson's divisions. Our men held the line, and held it well; The fact that our men were on high ground probably helped. Just to be safe, two batteries were sent forward, and started firing canister and shrapnel shot point blank into the Federal ranks.

The two corps soon retreated with heavy loss. Hill and Longstreet, at that point, committed both of their entire forces to holding the high ground. I put my boys in a longer line just behind, so as to provide cover of the first line and to counter a breakthrough wherever one occured, if there ever was one. This would prove useful the next day.

The second day began with the sound of heavy artillery fire coming from the ground below us. Federal Howitzers and Rifled Guns were pounding our positions for hours on end. We had our troops lie down on the reverse slopes of the ridges so as to keep them out of harm's way. One of my reserve brigades, stationed more to the south near the bottom of Cemetary Ridge, near a Peach Orchard, saw what was happening; The bombardment was a diversion.

Coming through the gap between two large hills and the ridge, an entire Federal Corps was marching through in an attempt to outflank us. I hastily ordered General Rodes' Division to move south to meet them. Rodes outnumbered them slightly, and hit them as they came up; Eventually, they had taken heavy losses and were disorganized, so they withdrew to the top of the smaller hill. Rodes reformed his men and sent them after the Federal Corps, but the absolutely apalling terrain caused greivous casualties for his Division. This is one of the flaws in the battle. Had we simply brought up a few batteries of Artillery, we could have pushed them off with Shell and Shrapnel shot. But instead, we pushed them back and lost a quarter of Rodes' division for it.

However, if the attack itself was a disaster, the result was much more favorable; With the two hills(known as the Little- and Big-Round-Tops) taken, we had an excellent vantage point for Artillery. Stuart sent one of his brigades to dismount and hold the ground, while Rodes' Division assisted. His Division's Artillery, meanwhile, fired counterbattery and destroyed several Federal Guns. The Federals sent countless attacks to try to retake the two hills, at one point even surrounding the hill and "tightening the noose"; moving their entire surrounding force forward in a mass attack.

Our men held out. Barely. But eventually, the division of General Johnson moved to the hills and counterattacked. The Stonewall Brigade and the Louisiana Tigers, both of these brigades in Johnson's division, drove the Federals back with a fierocity that I have never seen, and never wish to see again in my life.

The second day had ended. Federal casualties were much higher than those of our army, and Lee decided that, with the Federals exhausted and demoralized, that we would attack tomorrow. In the night, preparations were made; walkways made from planks and logs. Artillery brought up to support the attack. Stuart's Cavalry riding around behind the Federals to trap them. The plan was ready. The Federals had better have slept tight, for the next day would be one they would never forget.

On the final day, the Federals were awakened at 5:30 in the morning with deafening roars and explosions. Men died in their sleep. Men were awakened to find they had severed limbs. The bombardment continued for hours on end until 9:00, when over 35,000 of our Infantry stepped out off the high ground and began the long descent down the hill, some aiming to fire as they walked. The Federals were being attacked from two sides. They fired back for as long as their morale would allow, and then they broke and ran. But they ran right into Stuart's 7,000 Cavalrymen, who charged into the Federal lines, killing and capturing many Yankees.

The combined Infantry and Cavalry assault captured all of the Federal Generals, tens of thousands of Infantry, and about three-quarters of the Federal Colors involved. The Army of the Potomac simply ceased to exist in the space of three days. This battle persuaded the British to come in on our side, and within a month, Washington itself was beseiged by over 60,000 Confederates and 55,000 British. Washington fell 3 weeks later, and our independence won.

At Gettysburg, the Federals sustained over 52,000 casualties; 2,500 Killed, 12,500 Wounded, and 37,000 Captured or Missing. By contrast, we suffered 7,000 casualties; 500 Killed, 6,000 Wounded, and 500 Missing. That battle was the spark that lit the torch of independence for the South.

Entrant 7 - wowbanger

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Against All Odds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entrant 8 - Eazyrider

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Entrant 9 - 'Gunny

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Right foot, Left Foot, Right foot, Left foot

These are the only words that I can think of as I slowly saunter up to my place, 10 feet from my opponant. I stop, and stand, staring straight forwardinto the eyes of my opponant. the world stands still, save for the constant drizzle of the cold rain as it deflects of of my armor, as an arrow to the white man's armor. My opponant stares back, there will be no backing down. As I come to this realization A scowl slowly envelopes my face as the wind whips through the tall grass, howling at us, mocking us for our honor. But it is our honor, and our Honor, my Honor, I must defend. My opponent stands erect, a mocking look on his face as he calmly glances from side to side, almost admiring the beauty of our surroundings. He moves suddenly, my hand flies to my Katana. His movement was not that of an agressor, his movements become more deliberate as he sidles over to the flowers beside us. His picks on and, after smelling it, says to me "I have picked this flower before its time. No one else may now admire its beauty. I ask you, do not force me to do the same to you. I do not reply, I have made my choice, I will fight. My honor is worth more than my life, and if I do not defend it, then all is lost. "Very Well" he says.

His hand moves and in a flash he has brought his Katana to bear. He is a menacing sight, His armor a dark red, almost as if it had been colored with the blood of those who had opposed him in the past. But I hope to put his swordsmanship to rest on this day. I place my hand defiantly upon my Katana and draw it. He lunges forward, and in a flash our swords clash. The sound of scraping metal is supplemented with the defeaning boom of Thunder, the storm is getting worse. He lunges again to my right, and I parry left, losing my balance on the slippery ground. He raises his sword high above his head, and brings it down in one swoop. I try to vainly stick my sword up to block the crushing blow, but my attempt fails, His Katana slices into my leg, leaving a deep gash. I raise my head and scream in agony. He steps back. He is toying with me now. A thin smirk comes across his face, he is mocking me, degrading my for my mistakes. I stumble clumsily o my feet, shutting out the pain in my leg. I raise my Katana, and it begins again.

This time I lunge forward. He raises his sword and deflects my blow, using his momentum to try to bring his sword in contact with my flesh. I quckly move my Katana to block this blow, and in doing so knock my opponant off balance. I sense his weakness and try to explot it. I give him two sharp blows, both of which he deflects, though he stumbles backwards awkwardly. I lunge forward again, but i am too late, he has regained his balance. deflects my blow, and delives one that sends a sharp pain shooting up my arm. It is now I stumblick backwards, grasping my arm as bloods slowly flows out of it. In a fit of rage I lunge forward. He does not bother to raise his sword, but moves his body out of the way. I swing and miss, once more off balance as he slaps me with the falt side of his sword. I spin and look at my opponent once more. The smirk hsa grown more mocking, he believes he will win this batt,e I intend to prove him wrong. I use his hubris against him as I pretend to make another lunge. He predictable moves, and I adjust my swing accordingly. My blade strikes home as it cuts deep into his arm as he howls in pain. The smirk is instantly gone, replaced by the a fury unimaginable. I can no longer deflect his powerful blows. I am helpless as his blades cut deep into my skin. Hell hath no fury like that of my opponent. One more powerful blow and I am down.

I lie there looking towards my opponent towering over me, his sword raised. The wind howling through the trees, shaking the sea of grass like an ocean. He screams mightily as he begins to bring his sword down for the killing blow. I die, but my Honor remains intact. My vision of my opponenet is replaced by a blinding flash. I once more hear him howl in pain, I watch as a bolt of lightening travels through his sword, incinerating the owner. He screams as the life is sucked out of him and transfered to the sky. I shut my eyes and hold my hand up to block the blinding light. As quickly as it happened it was gone. My opponent low lay before me, once the bain of my existance, now a pitiful mass of charred flesh, spit upon by the rain. I see clearly that Mother Nature has chosen for me to be the flower that shall blossom. My opponent has has been plucked from the Earth, and I only have the Earth itself to thank. I shall give my opponents proper rights, and tell of his braveness in battle, for it is what he deserves, such a brave and fearless fighter; only preserving his honor. But I shall live on, for I have had victory, against all odds.

Entrant 10 - Orontid

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A tall figure walked across the wooden bridge on the river. His sandals made soft knocking sounds on the damp wood, its planks partially covered in moss and lichen. At the middle of the bridge, he stopped, drew a deep breath, and exhaled again. This place, he thought, shall determine my fate. Will I run, will I fight? Will I live, will I die?

The man looked at his weapon. His katana, a long curved thin streak of silver metal, glistened in the sun as he took it out of its decorated sheath. He had wielded it for nearly thirty years, ever since he had inherited it from his father. He had made good use of it - he had never been beaten in a fight. All his enemies had fallen before him in combat. The katana had seen its fair share of blood, and would do so today.

For the man looked towards the hills that formed the horizon, and could see a large mass of soldiers, carrying spears, swords and bows, heading towards him. On either side of the mass were cavalry, trotting slowly. The enemy made a tremendous crescendo of noise as they marched closer to the man on the bridge.

He drew deep breaths, preparing himself. He knew now what he had to do, why his daimyo told him to come here. It was to delay the enemy long enough for the daimyo’s army to deploy in a defensive formation, and for the man to kill as many soldiers as possible. The man took his katana and held it upright in both hands, dividing his view in two. He felt like he could split the enemy army with just his sword.

The man then shuffled his feet into his fighting stance, the same stance he was taught all those years ago. He never forgot the basics he was taught about swordsmanship. All great swordsmen never do. His education had taught him well, and had brought him here, to a place where he could achieve great honour, for himself and for his family name.

My family, he thought. My wife, still as lovely as the day I met her. My darling children, whom I may never see again. My mother and father, and my two brothers. I will fight for all of you, and I will do my best.

His thoughts soon evaporated into nothingness, and his mind cleared. For the first enemy soldiers approached, running towards the bridge, and towards him.

He was ready.

TotW 106a - Lords of the Bow

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Winner - 'Gunny

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I wade forward in the combined muck of feces and mud, created by the combination of deep furrows, hard rain, and incessant dysentary that has plagued our men since Harfleur. Glittering French banners litter the sky in an unreal spectacle. We try to count them as we move forward, but there are too many, and for each banner there are over one hundred men. Thousands upon thousands of Fresh French troops, drunk on wine and arrogance, are ready to meeet us, an so we are ready to give bettle. We continue to advance to longbow range, where we once more pound our sharpend stakes into the fround, and use our poleaxes to sharpen them once more. We number 6,000; they number of fice times that number. We are weary and sick; they are fresh and robust.We are screwed; they are victorious. I cannot banish these thought from my mind as I put my weight on my massive bow to bring it down so that I can put the drawstring onto it. On one side of me I place my broadhead arrows, useless against man, but deadly against horses. Our Venetaur orders us to draw, we are about to send a round of arrows into the French ranks. I bring the drawstring back to my ear, an effortless action for me, though impossible for other men. We release, sending hundreds of screaming broadheads towards the French ranks. One, perhaps two men fall, but it is enough. We spur the drunken wretches to battle, and they advance. The horses come at us, albeit very slowly as they try to wade throug hthe muck. The riders attempt to charge as their beasts are hit by a salvo of broadheads, slicing intothe bellies of the animals, bringing them down, their rider with them to be drowned in the muck. Volley after voley smacks into the horsemen, their ranks thinning, tripping over the dead. Only a few reach us, as their riders attempt to spur their horses forward a bit more. We step back, behind our stacks, as the horses impale and kill themsleves, throwing their riders face first into the mud where they either drown, or are killed by an archer's polaxe which, when wielded by an Archer, can crush even the best Milianese plate. The remaining horses run rampent, smashign into the French infantry as they desperately attempt to wade through the muck towards the English Men at Arms. We begin to unleash our bodkins. Screams of pain emerge from the French line as those too foolish to close their visor are blinded. The deadly bodkins punch through the less expensive plates, and create a deadly annoyance for those in the stronger suits.

They near the English line, and attempt to increase their speed to punch through. The english take a step back, and the French lose their footing. The English counter charge and utterly obliterate the charge, polehammers falling, swords slashing, French falling. Many Frenchmen trip over their dead as they near the line, falling to their death via drowning in the vile concotion we fight in. The French are utterly blind, the English, however, have their visors raised, and can easily parry and deflect the wild French blows. Some French men at arms break off the attack, and the battle becomes a rout, as a second wave charges in. Some of the Frenchmen come at the archers, hoping to kill some of the bastards which slay the Cream of French nobility on a regular basis. But we are unencumbered, our murderous Poleaxe blows combined with our mobilityand lack of armor, serve to make Archers an eaven more deadly target. The French secod wave turnes to panic and death, and so they retreat.

We slay our Prisoners, for now we have so few men in the battle line, yet hundreds guarding hte prisoners. The French third wave could yet be upon us, and we have no more arrows. The murder stops, however, when it becomes apparent they have had enough. The French retreat, almost like a nasty forshadowing of the future, and St. George has won. This St. Crispin's day, England has triumphed, and the Twin Saints Crispin and Crispinian have had their revenge for Soissons. We have won the day, albeit not without cost, but won it nonetheless. We have acieved victory against all odds, Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

Entrant 1 - wowbanger

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Lord of the Bow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entrant 2 - LapsedPacifist

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Entrant 3 - StealthEvo

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Entrant 4 - E.K

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Lords of the Bow

We ran quickly, our packs chafing at our shoulders, surely the sergeant would let us rest but no he kept us running, running harder than ever before. My lungs were about to catch fire and my legs were starting to wobble. Will, my comrade next to me collapsed in tiredness but he was simply dragged back into our crude column formation. I looked ominously at the clearing up ahead, surely the sergeant would let us stop there if only for a minute to take a swig from my canteen. Finally we reached the clearing, it’s beauty captivated me. Colourful flowers, large oak trees with leaves that provide a nice canopy for the sun which was taking its toll on the company. I lay down my pack and musket, reached gratefully for my canteen and took a swig. I was about to sit down when suddenly Will screamed “Natives!!” I glanced around looking around but could see nothing. “Natives, where?” I called back.
“In the forest” Will pointed to the oak trees. Sure enough I saw a slight movement in the mass of oak trees. The sergeant formed us into a crude line, with our bayonets fixed and the Union Jack flying high. We waited for what we were about to receive. I expected the Natives to attack like they normally did, with their bows and hatchet's. Today was no different, I heard a slight twang as hundreds of warriors released heir arrows, just like our forefathers did in Agincourt. The arrows rose and fell their black shafts singing the song of death as they rose and fell. The sky was shrouded in arrows, like a fog. It seemed like an eternity before the arrows hit but finally they did. Their stone tips drove into men's flesh, I heard a scream to the left of me and after a quick glance I noticed that blood was Gushing out of Will's chest. He made a violent heaving motion before finally laying still. I was fortunate. Only a gash across my cheek where an arrow skimmed past. I was left standing there with the company dead around me. I knew what came next, the Natives charged out of the Forest screaming with those menacing knives and hatchet’s. Ready to kill anybody who lived. These Natives were the Lords of the Bow.

**Dance** · May 16, 2013, 07:18 AM

TotW 107a - Under the Moonlit Skies

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Winner - Russian Gondor

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Entrant 1 - matt will

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Entrant 2 - Darkan

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This place was strange and now, when the night had fully come in its right, it seemed even more so than during the day.
Nothing moved, not even the birds, it almost seemed as if not even the river flowed anymore.

The man sat beneath a tree and contemplated his surroundings as if looking upon a painting. He was tired, hungry and worst of all, he was wounded.
His armor once polished and gleaming in the sun lay on the ground beside him, dented, filthy and pierced by arrows. His sword was still in his hand and he took a moment to admire it.
It had been given to him by his father before he left for battle…it was a good sword, a sword that had served his father and grandfather well…a sword that had served him well.
He remembered his grandfather; he remembered how he used to tell him stories of glorious battles, of honor, tales of distant lands and heroic deeds.
His grandfather always knew how to tell a tale and often did so sitting by the fire, with his nephew beside him. He knew then, as a child that he too would one day take part in such battles,
that he too would be looked upon with admiration, just as he had looked upon his grandfather. Nothing but childish dreams, for he had learnt that war was nothing like in the tales,
it was neither glorious nor heroic and it only brought pain and suffering.

Only now did he see the giant moon. He didn’t know if it was indeed so or if he was just imagining it, he hadn’t noticed it before.
Indeed, who has time to gaze upon the moon when all you are shown and taught is to run around, aimless, to go to war when others tell you,
to fight and die for them or even worse, to live for them…who has time to gaze upon the moon?

He felt cold and he had no means to make a fire let alone the strength to do so. His wounds hurt, his mind wandered off to distant times, better times…
He remembered the first time he had laid eyes upon his wife, the first time he held her in his arms and he felt the taste of her lips, the warmth of her embrace…
He remembered the birth of his son, the fear he felt as he first held him, afraid not to let go, afraid that his rugged, battered hands would hurt the fragile life he held…
He remembered it all, he felt it all.
I will see them once more before I pass from this world, the man thought, but first I will rest a while. He closed his eyes, smiling, feeling a strange warmth that came over him.

A slight breeze started to blow as if the night started to breathe, suddenly coming to life or maybe it was just a soul that left a tired and broken body in search of something else.

Entrant 3 - wowbanger

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Entrant 4 - Zigus Maximus

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Entrant 5 - Boustrophedon

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Night of the roaring guns

Heat and debris. I cannot recall much from that night on the endless waters of the Great Blue, when the Dutch caught us in open sea, but I vividly remember the intense heat that I and my shipmates felt on our faces when the hull of our flagship collapsed under the explosions raging within. The ship burst apart with tremendous force and even though some managed to abandon ship before this nightmare unfolded, most of the deckmates and all of the officers were swept into the freezing cold sea by the furious flames. A black hole then. How long had I been in the water before I finally gulped for air and swam with all my strength to resurface? I cannot remember but the numbing cold of the water urged me to reach dry space and the wreckage around me was too small to carry my body. I found a section of the foredeck and climbed aboard, holding on with grim determination. The flagship was gone, along with the admiral and most of the crew whose dead bodies occasionally drifted by with their faces lying in the water. I was safe and unharmed but around me the guns were still roaring and with every loud crack I wondered which of our ships had been breached. Why are you still fighting? Hasn't there been enough death already?! I shouted at the top of my lungs into the darkness. A thundering salvo sounded from somewhere in the deep night and I hoped my friends would survive the night. When morning came the wreckage was still burning with fierce resistance to the rain that had begun to pour down on the survivors. Finally after a full day allies arrived to salvage what they could and collect the wounded as well as the dead. I found some friends of mine on the ship that rescued me and their faces told me more than words ever could. Those who witnessed that night either went to sea as soon as they recovered or never set foot on a ship again. I have yet to decide if I can sail the open seas again but one thing I am certain of: I've seen enough war and horror for a lifetime.

TotW 108a - Thunder in Paradise

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Winner - Aodh Mor

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Rain harassed my eyes, dripping from the long hairs that hung across age crevasses down through my thin, worried eyebrows. An angry crowd were jostling by, bristling with the accutrements of upheavel. They were probably shouting, I couldn't see in the darkness, and the blaring in my earphones drowned out all sound. Reality was strangely caged inside an insidious wall of music. The world didn't seem to be touching my body, seen through this musical windowpane.My arms wrestled with four feet of leather, as the heavy coat was gripped and dragged about by the revolving wind. This impromptu sail dragged my feet around behind it, turning my determined march into a drunken stumble. The long, square street stretched tentatively into the pulsating heart of this metropolis.

A great, bright flash erupted out of the storming darkness above. Battering my vision with a sickly, painful white light. The stark, cold buildings seared their sad faces onto my retinae. I could hear the walls weeping in the music, leading me to wonder which had come first, the depression in my eyes or my ears. To test, I changed the song.

It was absurd. A whispy, high male voice called out "Somewhere, over the rainbow" as the rain fell in pins of darkness, completely obstructing vision. The further on the song went, though, the more the guitar just repeated again, again, again, again and again, the more the sound seemed to suit the city. The sadness of those buildings was crawling through those wires into the sound, I could see the music weeping in the walls. The darkness made a parody of the lyrics, the colours of the rainbow a meltdown of grey, the broken shard of forgotten windows a dejected replacement for blue.

The light down the end began to stretch and take shape, focusing even through the droplets that covered my eyes. People began to appear out of the dark, and more could be seen by the absence of light they blocked. A cacophony was welling up, assailing even the roaring music plugged directly into my head. A shapeless mass of turbulence, sound from a number that vast reverts back to the sound of one. A great host of angry sheep, milling and waving flags, pictures, pickets and effigy torches and bathed their faces in a yellow light, making them seem like young gods parading their victory of titans, instating a new order. Flames reflected in eyes that bounced a fire back from deeper within.

Doctors shout and scream beside factory workers, police with their arms around teachers - they had created this furious utopia, bringing even governments crashing down around them. An anarchic paradise was forged in torrential downpour - how much worse of an omen can you imagine?
I stood away on my own, my dejected heart calling out to those around me, but too sceptical to reach out physically or intellectually. I just stood their wistfully, alone. This great horde splayed out in front of me, framed by the husks of collapsing building, burning against he water, mocking nature. Another great flash froze the scene, showing every facet of the chaos in that diseased illumination. I was fighting their emotions, erecting walls around myself.

Around us six centuries were burning, destroyed by only a few hours and gasoline. The wondrous power of fire. They celebrated this, apparently the end of society as we know. Timocratic Democracy was gone, the loudspeaker prophets had been declaring all day, and into the dark of night they still shouted.This was not Tienanmen square, yet it would change nothing as time passed.
Tomorrow. Tommorow these people would still have families to feed, tomorrow they would still need to cook food - tomorrow someone would need to give them that food, tomorrow those atoms would need careful tending. I stood there, alone in my pessimism, as reality came hurtling through the dark.
Dreams can never survive Tomorrow.

Entrant 1 - Incesticide

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In those days, the Yuan dynasty was strong. It is said that their rule stretched the great lands that lie beyond the Western coasts. The tongue they speak there is not like any spoken in our islands, and they are a savage people, pale-skinned, black-haired, and fierce, living on the hoof, liking the sight of blood and the smell of burning towns.

Earlier in the year they had attacked the islands of Tsushima and Iki, raiding in great force in a fleet of black-sailed junks. News of this slowly winded south to Fukue-jima, but the Lords of Nagasaki were busy with their piracy and paid small heed to the woes of other lands. Then Hirado fell to the Yuan and was looted and laid waste, its people taken as slaves, so that even now it is an isle of ruins. Thenceforth, the fleet headed North, with intent to land in the bay of Hakata, not far from Dazaifu, where dwell the lords of Kyūshū.

Alas, in lust of conquest a small host of the Yuan sailed next to the five islands, coming in a fleet of thirty great junks to Fukue-jima. They fought through the town of Gotō, took it, burned it; leaving their ships under guard at the mouth of the bay they went up the vale wrecking and looting, slaughtering cattle and men. As they went they split into bands, and each of these bands plundered where it chose.

Fugitives, some bearing horrific wounds, some dragging with them the dead and the dying, brought warning to the villages of the heights. Soon the people of the highlands saw smoke darken the eastern sky, and that night those who looked down on the plains below saw them covered in a haze, red-streaked with fires where fields ready for harvest had been set ablaze, and orchards burned, the fruit roasting on the blazing boughs, and urns and farmhouses smouldered in ruin. Some of the villagers fled up the ravines and hid in the forests, and some made ready to fight for their lives, and some did neither but stood about lamenting.

With sunrise came a thick blanket of white fog, as on many autumn mornings in the heights of the island. Those who had remained, stood waiting among their huts and houses with their hunting bows and new-forged spears, not knowing whether the Yuan might be far-off or very near, all silent, all peering into the fog that hid shapes and distances and dangers from their eyes.

The fog was thinning now under the heat of the sun that shone bare above on the peak. As the mists moved and parted in great drifts and smoky wisps, they heard the thundering of hooves.

Entrant 2 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 3 - Eazyrider

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Entrant 4 - wowbanger

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Entrant 5 - E.K

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TotW 109a - The Heart of Darkness

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Winner - Skantarios

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A Heart of Darkness

“Sir, what shall we do with the prisoners?”

This was a question I knew was coming; the final act in our little play of battle: What shall we do with the prisoners?

I look upon the now-helpless prisoners. We’ve taken several hundred of them, maybe even a thousand, though none of us can be bothered to make an accurate count. For all their number, they don’t cut a very impressive picture now that they are disarmed and kneeling on the ground. They’re nothing but boys, really. In all those faces, I see none older than 17 or 18. A few look as young as 12. All have the look of terror about them. Some even squat in the pools of piss or vomit they’ve made in anticipation of what comes next.

They don’t even wear a proper uniform. They are clothed in the same rags as when they were lifted from their farms or the streets of the city by the press gangs. Is this what our “glorious and righteous” war has come to? Is this the best that the Enemy can throw against us?

What shall we do with the prisoners?

What can we do? If I were to release them, they would just come back again. Maybe in the next battle, they would be luckier. Maybe next time, this lot would be the difference between us and victory. Maybe next time, they would kill more of my men, and how would I come to account for that?

Ransom them? Another cruel joke. If by some miracle the Enemy would pay, they would never agree to terms that would preclude these boys from fighting again. If the Enemy did agree, they would just break their word and send them right back to war. They have no honor but, then again, neither do we. I would do the same thing and they know it.

What shall we do with the prisoners?

This campaign had been long and our losses great. Still, in the grand scheme of our endless war with the Enemy, it is but one minor chapter. How long ago it had started, even I could not say and I was an old man – nearly 40 now. Though we had not always been fighting, I could no longer remember a time when we were not at war. My father, when he was still alive, told me that it was the Enemy who struck the first blow. But did that even matter anymore? The old men who had started the war were long dead. Their reasons dead with them. Their only legacy was this war and all that came with it.

The why of it all no longer mattered. Now, all that mattered was winning.

What shall we do with the prisoners?

Both sides have fought to exhaustion. We go on now because there is simply nothing else for us to do. Not a man amongst us knows any other trade but death. Not a man remembers the gentle caress of a woman or the laughter of children. Our ears only know the screams of agony or the cries of pain; our hands only the feel of cold steel or the sticky warmth of blood. That is what this war has done to us. That is what we are.

Tens of thousands killed on both sides. Numbers far beyond counting. With all that death, is it any wonder that we have become monsters in our own right? There have been terrible atrocities committed by both sides as we each plumb the depths of depravity in the hope it will give us the edge to final victory. The sad fact of the matter is: it hasn’t. For all the things we’ve done and all that we’ve suffered, the outcome is as uncertain as ever. The only sure thing is that none of us will see Heaven. Our souls were sacrificed long ago to the mistress of Victory.

With all those thousands of dead, did it matter one bit if I added a few hundred more to the tally?

What shall we do with the prisoners?

My mother, before she was raped and killed by soldiers of the Enemy, once said that when you did not know what to do, search inside your heart for the answer. Well, I have looked into my heart and all I found was hate for the Enemy. I have piled upon these men all the loathing and disgust I feel for their entire, wretched country and what they've done in service to it and what they've forced me to do in service to mine.

What shall we do with the prisoners?

I know the answer. It is the same as it has always been.

“Kill them. Kill them all.”

My men simply nod in agreement and move off with grim determination to see to this final deed of the day.

As the screams of the dying prisoners echo in my ears, I look inside my heart once more and find…nothing.

Nothing but darkness.

Entrant 1 - Russian Gondor

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Entrant 2 - Incesticide

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Entrant 3 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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The Kiss
The air is ice, it freezes the breath in your lungs just as you gasp for it. You take a breath, but find nothing, all the air is frozen. All breath comes in quick gasps. That kind of cold frosts metal into an adhesive state. Moisture freezes to it instantly. The Sun can't defeat this cold, not here. Here the Sun is far away, and you can't ever get enough warmth from it. You can find it, reach for it, but you will never be fulfilled by it. The Sun is no help. The wind is a truck. You step outside, and it hits you full on, takes your strength away. Your clothes, your thick layers, do nothing. You pull everything closer, to no avail. The inside of your shirt is as cold as the air. It provides no warmth.

Warmth is precious. Inside you may find it. But outside, there is nothing to protect you. You can't last out there. Excursions are measured in single digit numbers. Any longer, you go numb, lose fingers, toes. Too long and you'll collapse. If you stay long enough you may find warmth, just before the end. But it's false, a lie of the mind and body. There is no healing power, no life in that warmth. It is a kiss on the cheek from death. A trick.

It used to be warmer. Not much. Enough. You could go outside. Not just minor excursions for supplies. Really go outside, stay outside. Not anymore. Now you stay inside, waiting for the Storm to die down, for the Sun to come out so you can go and get enough supplies to go and wait again. Sometimes someone gets tired of waiting, or runs out of supplies. They go out in the Storm. Never see them again. Well, you do. But they're not really there. Blues, whites, purples replace the reds, tans, pinks. A shell of a person, devoid of life and health.

I think about these things often. A lot of time to think during the Storm. A lot of time to sit and think and wonder. I think about the Storm, think about people, think about her. I was married once. But the waiting takes it's toll. She walked out into the Storm. I tried to follow her. I was weak, I abandoned her. The waiting takes it's toll.

The bell rings. The Storm is gone, for now. I put on my under clothes, the middle layer of padding, the wind breaker. Hats, mask, goggles. Socks, boots, gloves. I open the door. The wind hits me, hard. My legs are used to it, they resist on instinct. I walk out, close the door. Look around. Nothing nearby. I'll have to scavenge further out. I head towards a hill, over which I often find supplies in abundance. Cresting it I find nothing. As I head down the slope the studs on my boots give out. I tumble down, 30, 40, 50 feet. I hit the snow below with a soft thud. I wipe the goggle with my glove, trying to gain my bearings. There's no supplies here. I press further. As I come to the Canyon, a sharp glint catches my eye. I follow it, and reaching it find a piece of metal, protruding out from the ground. I dig around it, feeling for an end with which to pry it out. Not finding anything, I dig deeper.

Suddenly my alarm goes off. I look up. The Storm is approaching. I pull on the metal with all my strength, hoping to get anything. A fist sized chunk breaks off. It will have to do. I turn towards my base and begin moving towards it. I go as fast as I can, but running is impossible. The Storm is getting nearer. I shed my top layer of clothing, hoping to shed some pounds, gain some speed. It's not good enough. I'm only just past the hill. When I reach flat ground, I can see the top of my base, it's low shape merely an outline against the snow. I attempt to run. I trip. I struggle to get up, but my shoe is caught. I reach down to pry it free. Every movement is wasting time. I push myself to my feet and keep moving Almost there. I feel the Storm coming, the raw power at my back. My lungs are on fire, but I ignore that. I reach the base as the Storm hits. I struggle to see, struggle to get my hand on the door, to get inside. I finally get it open a crack, force myself through. I collapse, panting. As I lay on the floor I pull my clothes off, trying to cool down. If I weren't dying I might find it funny that I wish it were cooler. Eventually I'm free. I'm still holding the metal in my left hand. I look at it. Copper. Non-ferromagnetic. Useless. I don't have enough supplies to last until the Storm subsides.

I'm bundled in everything I own. The Storm is fierce, I feel it tearing at my very being. I force myself onward. I need supplies, iron, cobalt, nickel... Something to hold the warmth. I reach the hill. I can't feel my fingers or toes. I start down the hill, but my legs give out. I roll down its length and stop in the same snow drift that held me before. It cradles me. I gaze out at the Storm, its gray mass, formless and eternal. Slowly it shifts to black. Then, suddenly, I feel warmth. Its kiss is beautiful.

Entrant 4 - Murphy25

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Entrant 5 - Aodh Mor

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Entrant 6 - Bolkonsky

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The ground was shaking, the lightning flashing, and the people screaming, yet the man sat in a corner, with a pile of silver, counting it. As he dropped each one into a sack,he felt sicker and sicker. His face was twisted with mental anguish, every few moment he stopped to cover up his eyes, as if in hope that he could blind them from his sins. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He jumped to his feet, and ran as quickly as his worn sandals could carry him.

Corner after corner he turned, yet he knew the route by heart. After all, he took it every Saturday, albeit at a slower pace. "Betrayed...forgive...sold..." he muttered, though largely incoherent. Mental scars began to form, his hand began to burn, nausea rode through his body like a boat through the waves. He reached his destination, storming past the guards. His hand touched the cold metal of the door, which he threw open, screaming, "Take it! Take it all! This is your blood!" Down he threw his sack of silver, bursting open as if to say that his sin could not be contained or covered up. It slid across the floor with quite a dramatic effect, though it earned to display of emotion from the two robed men in the room. One spoke, "It was your hand that accepted it. Keep it."

The man turned from the doorway, and ran. This route he did not know quite so well. Where was the guilt? Where was the sorrow? The silver haunted his mind, twisting and turning it over and over trying to find some channel of escape, but instead caught in the endless loop that it was intrinsic evil itself. Hope? Enlightenment? These things seemed petty. There was but one way to deal with such a monstrous mind that would sell a man fr silver.

He reached a quarry, out of breath but still determined. A tree, a rope. Shaking hands worked speedily, tying knots without slipping. Slowly he turned his head towards the sky, but at the last second, in a moment of shame looked down. There was no turning back. He ran one more time, never to run again. No forgiveness for his crime. His last thought was only how strange it was that his only remorse was...lack of remorse.

And then darkness.

Entrant 7 - Lord Rahl

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Into the abyss, the black depth I looked.

A good soul was I, but never one to combat the lusts of man. Oh, what a sin, but oh, what pleasures had I. Time and again came temptation and time again they were satisfied without restraint, without remorse. She had lay there in wait, cold, enclosed, untainted by my hands. Upon every indulgence my gaze was greeted the same as the last: eyes of midnight, dead, and devilish, yet yearning to be taken. I could never look away. She was kept safe. Safe where there was no escape. Safe from others...but not from me.

Always the anticipation effected me. Sometimes I shook and other times a wicked smile spread across my face. But the anticipation was always swept aside by one quick, violent action: a firm grip and a quick thrust were all that I needed to make her mine. Her seductive visage, rapturous smell, and luxurious taste all there for the taking.

So I let her fall. I let her entire being drop and collect before me. Her form was so much like I had remembered it being. She was a beauty of the night, oh so welcome on lonely nights. And those nights...those nights were all too commonplace.Taking her in my hands she revealed her smooth, velvet body. I knew the night would be special at first sight. Moving in closer she smelled sweet, like dark chocolate, like herself being an aphrodisiac to arouse me. Like flowers. The more I took in the more enticing she became. Finally...I had to taste.

Sweet like caramel and the taste of Gaia, of Mother Nature herself. Oh, did she move to every manipulation of my hands! I took her in my mouth. Sweet but savory. My eyes closed as I reveled in my own lustful satisfaction. Rapture! But then it ceased. She had been good to me...but this one...would never please me again. I had her and then empty she became, a shell of her former self. Dead. Dead to me except to keep as a trophy. But there would be another. There was always another.

If society only knew of what I was experiencing, what I had done. If only there were more...like me. More with a heart, a soul that's thirst was not quenched by the plethora of what was available. As if that would please me! As if that would please a heart of darkness...

Entrant 8 - StealthEvo

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The Heart of Darkness

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With some considerable effort on his part Tom shook his head to rouse him from his growing fatique. The fire had been stoked and the Tavern was warm enough that when one considered the rare full meal he had just experienced and the quality of the Brandy he was surprised that he was still functioning. His partner however was in an animated discussion in broken French or Italian with a woman on considerable heft.

Rubbing his eyes and looking over the poorly lit room the Englishman turned his attention back to Kit. Unlike the younger man Kit's overall appearence was barely above being a beggar. The smell alone would be enough to repel most women and men on sight yet the older of the pair had a gift with language, being able to talk his way out of most things and into the bed of most eligible women that frequented these types of taverns. Tom however was a touch more respectable. Born of a Merchant in Northampton his youth had been more or less normal. Yet wanderlust had brought him into this spiralling world of deciet, violence and cold blooded killing. The life of a mercenary was hard. Especially when compared to the Free Companies of the Swiss. They made it look professional wheras the work he had been thrust into was more cutthroat. Not that his mind was on work any time soon. Rather it was more interesting to watch Kit convince the 'maiden' in question that the answer to all her problems involved them both naked under what ever cover he could find.

But it was never meant to be. A shout came from outside, a door was kicked in and Kit ever ready for such an escape was on his feet and flying towards the kitchen. Tom however still coming to his senses and instantly suspecting wrongly that Kit had drugged his brandy. They had shared a bottle afterall. As the guards advanced apoon him Tom realised that there would be no escape for him. Not this time. Kit however almost turned around. As the older mercenary threw his head back to shout something in their native tongue Tom could see the longing in his eyes. Much as it pained him to admit it, they both needed each other. Such was the brotherhood of the dark path. Yet at the same time Kit couldn't bring himself to turn around. Closing his eyes as the guards dragged him from the table, still soaking in the warm of the atmosphere in the tavern. Tom didn't feel the crunch of his jaw as he was thrown to the wet, icy stones and a foot slammed into his face. He was in a better place, one where pain and hurt refused to exist. Yet were always beckoning beyond the horizon.

Entrant 9 - Boustrophedon

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I am sick and some would even say a danger to society. I know this and have known it for quite some time. I'd like to tell my story.

What started out as simple experiments on animals, purely out of scientific interest, somehow evolved and something took hold of me. I could no longer feel like I used to. The sun held no warmth, the wind slipt by without touching my body, a smile no longer provoked a similar response and I came to realize that the only way I could feel alive was the experience of death.

Animals at first. I can't even name the dozens of pets that disappeared in our neighbourhood. Mr. Frank's dogs, Miss Minelli's cats and kittens, my own rabbits which my father kept in our garden and host more. They all perished and with every life I snuffed out I had to find a new way to kill so the satisfaction could fill my deep abyss inside.

I quickly realized that small animals did not fill the void inside me like it used to in my early prowling years. I needed to find something that I could hunt which would put up a fight. When a friend introduced me to hunting game in the woods I knew that I could master the art of killing animals in this vast expanse. My hunting ground had grown from a small neighbourhood to an Alaskan forest. Every winter for five consecutive years I hunted bears, wolves and other predators. What better to hunt for than a hunter in his own right?

I remember how cold it was as I hovered over my latest kill, a sizeable black bear, yet I no longer felt the thrill of the hunt. I never got caught even as I hunted outside the season and I could feel the sickness driving me towards criminal life.

Humans are the dominant species because of how easily they adapt. Confront them with heat and they will find ways to preserve fluids, confront them with cold and they will find ways to preserve body heat and if you confront them with death...you see their true nature. You witness their inner fears and strength and you gain power from it. To hunt for humans is to hunt a prey like you've never encountered before.

My first human kill was a lucky one, I admit. She was walking alone by the street as I was passing through a town to pick up supplies and I stopped my car. Some would say she was pretty but all I could see was a challenge. I offered her a lift to her place and ofcourse she accepted. A master hunter lulls his victim into a false sense of security before striking. After a few minutes of driving we passed a panorama of the mountains which she clearly enjoyed though I wasn't too impressed. I stopped the car so she could take a better look. She opened her door and stepped out, gently slamming the door shut again and then I made my first rookie mistake ever by yanking her hair through the window and placing my revolver in the middle of her skull. The fear in her eyes was delicious and I drank it all in before gently pulling the trigger. The force of the blast was so strong that she flew through the car window and plummeted a hundred feet down to the bottom of the cliff. The rush I felt was over in a second.

I learned from this mistake and ever since wasting that first kill I have perfected my methods so as to keep the prey alive as long as possible while inflicting as much suffering as possible. I take pride in the fact that my kills are mostly young men and women. No old folk for me, thank you very much. I have standards to which I adhere with the utmost strictness. Only young and preferably strong prey like athletes or exceptionally large men will do.

Around my 50th human kill I became a target myself. The hunter became the prey and even though I had the full might of the FBI on my tail, this only made the hunt all the more enjoyable. For every kill I found a new way to take life. Poison, bows, crossbows, knives, blades, guns, darts, spears, rope, plastic bags, hammers and other tools and even my bare hands. Nothing couldn't be used as a way to take life. Killing a human filled me with pride and I felt so ALIVE!

After I had killed my 74th (or was it 75th?) human I was caught in a freak accident. By my own sloppiness at that! Paying for a gun with your creditcard is not something I'd advise first-time hunters of human prey. But even as I was in the FBI headquarters, beaten and tortured to confess my crimes, I never stopped being a hunter. I offered my help in catching serial killers (which is apparantly what I am, though I prefer being called a master hunter) in return for a lifetime sentence instead of the death penalty. They accepted ofcourse and I was sent to a maximum security prison facility to serve a life sentence

Confined in a small room 23 hours a day, behind bars for the rest of my life, eyes everywhere...it was the perfect hunting ground for a master hunter such as myself. In the first weeks I explored the terrain, the prey, the routine of the guards and I made my first kill when I snapped some fellow's neck in the shower. Snap! He was dead before he hit the ground. Glorious.

I learned that, myself included, there are 708 prisoners here and roughly two thirds of them convicted murderers and rapists. The FBI could not have given me a more precious gift. I am locked inside a hunting ground with the most brutal killers. Men who are part of the most effficient species on the planet. I intend to continue my work here. One day people will see the glory in my actions and they will love me for it...

Entrant 10 - Solid Snake

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Entrant 11 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 12 - Constable MacGregor

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“Since dawn of man, trees has been in our beloved forests. I don’t remember, can’t even imagine, a forest without trees. Remember, when the stem vanishes, the root prevails.”

Those words were the last my grandfather said to me before he left. And the first he said when he met and spoke to me the first time. Those words are the only I can remember he ever said; even though he said much and many, those few words in some strange way just meant more than anything else … much more.
Since his passaway, I have been trying to find the meaning of those words. But his words has changed; changed just like so many other things. The first time he said them, I couldn’t really understand them. I couldn’t understand the single words; however, I feel as if I understood their meaning. Now I understand the words, though not their meaning … it’s like if you know one thing, you can’t know the other … it’s strange. Very strange.

…

I’ve now paid dearly to get the words written on his stone. His stone at the graveyard. The old graveyard … it’s a sorrowful place to look at; the roof of the crematorium is almost non-existent. The church is old, decayed and its tower in an oblique angle. Furthermore, only the fundament is built of stone; the rest is built of wood, for as the story goes, they ran out of stone, and used wood from the houses. Houses owned by inhabitants of the village! The priest-family. They aren’t nice people, even though they are meant to. It’s here he lies buried … my grandfather. What misery.
…

Recently, I looked into his grave. Why I did it I don’t know, but I did it, and that’s a matter of fact. But I found something interesting … there was no body! Only a paper. An old, dusty paper. Almost looked like it was back from the first ages of this world. A paper on which he had drawn trees. A lovely countryside of trees and stones and moss. And underneath it, he had written the exact same words he finished his last sentence with: “When the stem vanishes, the root prevails.”.

…

I am now old and weak. Almost as old as my grandfather before he left me. And I feel lonely; I never got a wife, all my friends are dead and I’ve almost become a public attraction to young people. All that for age. And his words … his words still haunt me. I’ve lived a lifetime without finding their meaning, and now it’s clear: I never will.
Whoever reads this, please, find their meaning. Succeed where I could not. Succeed and let the root be shown. That’s all I ask of you, now that I will leave this world for the better myself.

Entrant 13 - wowbanger

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Entrant 14 - matt will

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Image found through Google on http://www.kennybrand.com/gallery/da...t-image-31002/

It was all over...
The army was defeated...
We were defeated...
I was defeated...

With my men being slaughtered all around by the horrible horde of evil, I decided the only thing to do was run. And run I did. Dodging the evil forces of my most hated enemy. Jumping over the bodies of the dead and damned. Arrows and insults flew past me in my insane charge for freedom. I ran for hours? Days? Weeks? I don’t know. I just kept running. I couldn’t stop and so I didn’t, not even as I approached The Forest. Not even as I stumbled through the dense mass of trees into the darkness beyond. Not even as my clothes were shredded to tattered rags by the brambles and branches in this dark forest. I only stopped when I collapsed over the fallen bodies of fellow soldiers and even then I would have continued if my strength hadn’t failed then and there denying me from scrambling up again. So, I lay there watching as the last rays of the dying sun steadily drained away like my own strength. I lay there as the world around me was swamped in black. I lay there even as I was strangled by the suffocating stench of rotting corpses and plants. I was left to die in the heart of darkness, so close and yet so far away from the world of light.
And as I lay there I felt a great weight being lifted off my shoulders, I appeared in a field of golden grain and could smell the beauty of the budding spring flowers. I was in heaven and wanted to remain there for eternity and I fear that I cannot do its beauty the justice that it deserves with my simple words.

And then, as quickly as I had arrived there, I was hauled back to the world of the living. I could hear voices, muffled at first and then clearer and clearer as I slowly emerged from my dream-like state. I was alive!
But my euphoria quickly evaporated as I realised everything that I had now lost and that I was wrong. Before I was not in the heart of darkness. Only now have I, in fact, arrived there, with no way to get by to the glory that I had lost. Oh how I now wish to go back to the world of the dead, to my own heaven. Oh how I now realise that, even if I were to die, I have no way back there. Oh how I now realise that I am doomed to spend eternity with those memories of heaven with no way to get back there. I truly am now in the heart of darkness.

**Dance** · May 23, 2013, 11:34 AM

TotW 110a - The Sands of Time and Incomprehensible Decisions

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No picture.
Winner - 'Gunny

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Entrant 1 -
Entrant 1 - wowbanger

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The Sands of Time and Incomprehensible Decisions

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

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

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

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

“Meow,” was its only response

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

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

Entrant 2 - Magicman2051

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Entrant 3 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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Its
11:15 p.m. The only lights on in the house are my reading lamp and the blue glow of my computer screen. I’m the only one awake. Of course. It’s Sunday after all.
11:16. by Tuesday I may be ready to sleep. But then Ill sleep in on Wednesday and then its all downhill. Minutes tick by.
11:17. the clock makes everything take longer. Like a dentists office with an obnoxious tick tick tick.
11:18. it doesn’t take long to type the words. It doesn’t take long to think. It should. Since I should be tired. But that’s one thing I am not. Not by any sense of the word. Theres a point you reach when
11:19 you know you wont sleep for a while. This is that point. They say computer screens mess with your head. You don’t sleep properly, they say. You’re right about the second part. I lay here, at
11:20 In the pm, but I don’t sleep. I’ll go to bed at half past, I tell myself. But by the time it rolls around my eyelids are still light. So I say midnight. And I will attempt by then. But I only wake by 3 or 4.
11:21. then I wont sleep for a while after that. Then up and off to school, where my performance will suffer from my tiredness. Fun. Its astounding what MS WORD does and doesn’t catch. Another minute,
11:22. this is pointless drivel, I understand and accept, but what else would I be doing? Thinking this. So I type type type away, as if for some purpose. Writing for the sake of writing. It occurs to me that members of my family might hear the click clack of keys and realize I’m not asleep and oh no, you need your sleep you have school. Oh wow,
11:23.
11:24. almost got by over a minute without looking at the clock. Good job, progress. Achievement almost unlocked. But I digress from a point that never existed. When I realize typing is loud, I attempt for a while to quite myself. But at
11:25 I end up loud again. I realize that style > content > neither. This is the latter. It’s
11:26. Mountain Standard. In Iowa it’s 12:26. In NYC it’s 1:26. In Japan it’s a different time ending in 26. the unimportant ramblings ramble. Maybe I should validate this
11:27 writing by uploading it somewhere. For noone to read. Space, no one. It’s like a lot. A lot a lot. MS WORD disallows improper alotness. Another minute and it’s
11:28. by 30 I’ll leave. (remember our talk? You won’t be off, don’t lie to yourself) it’s true I lie to the one person who always knows I’m lying (my mother). That was a lie actually, I usually get away with lying to her.
11:29, one minute to go. And how would I know if I always know I’m lying? It stands to reason that if I lie to myself and I believe myself I have no way to know whether or not I always know when I’m lying and by extension I would believe I always know. Or something. It’s late,
11:30, off to the internet but done typing to fulfill almost a promise.

Entrant 4 - E.K

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TotW 111a - Last Stand

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Winner - wowbanger

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The Stand of the Swiss

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entrant 1 - Lemoniser

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Entrant 2 - Boustrophedon

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THE NOMLIES

There is no escape. I know this in my heart but a part of me does not want to give up so easily. All my life I had been one step ahead but I realize now that the Nomlies would never stop hunting. I am a threat to their existence and will always be a one in their eyes.

Life had always been simple for me. I hunt. I eat. I survive.

Everything changed however when I met her. Brin was the single most beautiful person I had ever seen. I knew how dangerous it was the second I saw her but love is too powerful to smother with reason. I told her from the start we would never have a moment of peace. Always on the move and always watchful. She slowed me down but my love for her forbade me to leave her behind. Considering the current situation perhaps it would have been best not to love at all.

Brin loved to climb and would always beg me to scale the giant mountains, knowing that I'd refuse. Stay low and stay hidden, that's the mantra I recited to myself to stay alive. Today however I had decided to satisfy her curiosity and we set out to conquer Sukesh Mountain, a giant among his kind.

We would have made the top, I'm sure of it. The Nomlies however had decided otherwise. Out of nowhere they appeared and attacked us. Brin took an arrow in the chest, piercing her heart. She died instantly and I knew I should have run. I just couldn't leave her behind, the love of my life who had shown me what true living was about. Now she was gone and I could not forget or forgive. I took her in my arms and climbed higher and higher until I reached the top. "We made it, Brin. We made it to the top.", I whispered in her ear.

I had been wounded as well taking a spear in the leg, but I shook the pain away and grasped my hunting spear. They had taken the only thing I valued from me and there would be no mercy for this. I will die her on this rock but I know that my death will not be in vain. Dieing out of love is never in vain.

My grip on the spear tightened, whitening my knuckles. I raised my arm and shouted with great fury at the Nomlies. "Come and get me, you demons!", I screamed to the sky.

With a tremendous effort I launched the spear. A distant howl indicated the accuracy of my throw. One Nomlie down but I knew they would be back and with outnumber me. I had no chance to survive being outnumbered and exposed. Here on Sukesh Mountain I will make my last stand and die. Not for glory but for love.

Love for Brin, my companion in life and soon in death.

Entrant 3 - Maximus IV

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The Last Stand Of General Fatres

1 January 1185
Dear diary,

This will probably be the last entry on this diary. I do not think we will last the night. Our enemies have surrounded us. We camped on a small hill, south of Strasbourg. There is a worrisome lull in the camp. The men are not talking as always. They are silent and thoughtful. Τhey sense that something big is coming… They don’t waste much time talking, but rushing to their scenes…

It is sunset now. The rain falls lightly in the freezing cold. The mild December slowly vanishes, and the fierce cold of January starts. I can see the first snowflakes… They fall so smoothly … Peacefully…
The mountains towards us are dressed in white. The trees are completely stripped. Like dead. Dead… What an irony… Nature laughs at us all… Such all things, we all die…

General Fatres came out of his scene to inspect the fortifications. He tries but he cannot hide his concern. He knows very well what lies ahead of him. But he had no other choice, neither we. We must defend our homes, our land. We are all men of honor, after all. Honor. Freedom. Justice. Ideals worth fighting for…
Then suddenly a shrill, cold and clear sound echoes all over the camp. It comes from far away… It’s a drum sound… There is confusion in the camp. The General immediately gives orders to the captains to assemble our own troops on the walls. The time for our duty has come. The enemy is at the gates and awaits us!!

And with these words Captain Christopher Pike closed his last entry in his diary. He picked his sword and ran to muster his troops. When the whole army was ready, General Fatres began to talk: “Gentlemen”, he said with his calm voice “for the thing you hold most dear, march with me now, now for freedom, now for justice, now for FRANCE!! BLOOD FOR FRANCE!! To the Death!! The whole army answered with one voice: YEAAAHHH!! And they took battle positions.

They didn’t have to wait long, as after a few moments the first volley of arrows hit them. Some soldiers were killed. The enemy tried to break the main gate but it was unsuccessful. The second try, however, was fatal. Enemies got through the main gate and General Fatres yelled: CHARGEEE! Only when the attackers destroyed the main gate and rushed into the camp, the defenders realized that they were heavily outnumbered. Seeing that there was no hope, General Fatres marched into them, with all the army following him for one final battle with death… They fought valiantly to the very end.
The last words of the General when he left his last breath were: “All…was…well”
No one was left alive…
But, they all went down in History…

Entrant 4 - Abhi lash

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The war of love and peace

Years ago in India, when the people were bound and ruled by the cultures and the traditions made by their ancestors, we may take this story of two villages named ramgaon and lakshmangaon which names were reflecting the brotherhood of those two villages and in the taluk panchayat the names of those two villages were written in green color. People of these two villages were the model villages for the other villages and these two villages were different from all the other villages in India. The two villages had only one temple in of the middle of the way between the two villages. In the temple the villagers worshipped the pot of water from the holy river Ganga and not any idol. The villagers believed that water belonged to people of all the classes and religions used water for the practices of their religions and worshipping the water reflected the human culture.

We start the story with the village sports meet which were always conducted by the people of the village to maintain the friendship and sportsmanship between the people of the villages. In the sports meet the villagers conducted the game of Kabaddi. Every time in the annual sports ramgaon won the tournament but this time lakshmangaon had a great hope from their new captain Surya who was young and energetic had created an ocean of hope in the people of the village. The young man was named after the bright eyes he had and then the name of justified the knowledge and the personality of the young man. Finally the day of the sports meet arrived. The crowd from the two villages arrived in the village open stadium. Ramgaon’s kabaddi team captain Chandra was also a handsome young man with the winning charm in the face.
The game started as the captains of the teams shook their hands and the match started with the entry of the lakshmangaon team. The first set was won by the team of ramgaon and the people of lakshmangaon lost the hope of winning the match. The hope of the people of lakshmangaon may have lost the hope of match but players of the team lead by Surya were still shining with the confidence. The team of lakshmangaon came out with victory in the second and third sets of the game and the trust of the village was kept by Surya and the record of winning the sports meet from 6 years was broken by the new and young captain of lakshmangaon.
“You brought back the cup and victory to us after 6 years and didn’t betray us surya the whole village is proud of you young boy,” said the chief of the village lakshmangaon.
“I am proud to be a man from your village sir I was an orphan and the people of this village has brought me up with so much love and affection, I’ll ever be grateful for this village and the people of this village” Surya replied wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Let the celebration and prizing ceremony begin,” announced the village chief of ramgoan. Then the presentation ceremony began, Surya was awarded with a garland, a trophy and all other participants were awarded with certificates and medals.

After the presentation ceremony got over, Surya like to roam the village around and check the celebrations all over the place. As moving round the streets and remembering all the places which he saw from childhood and smiling for all the sweet memories he remembered. Surya had grown up by roaming in the villages and the villages and the people there was his world and he almost knew everyone in the village but he suddenly saw a widow women. She was savithri, Surya’s childhood friend, who was too caring for him. Many times Surya’s food and the fees for his education were provided by savithri, after finishing her schooling savithri had been to city to pursue her education and after her marriage Surya wasn’t expecting to meet her in the way he saw her. She was completely changed, her face was reflecting the pain she has suffered, and the pain of the treatment she had received from the society aftermath,
“savithri, how are you. And what happened?” Surya had felt really sad after seeing her in that stage.
"I am fine suri, how are you and this is my fate suri, must get used to it, I’m happy that you won the cup for your village, I must go now, take care”.
Surya was shocked to hear such a reply from savithri who never spoke less than an hour with him. Later he came to know about savithri from the village people that her husband passed away in an accident and after his death she came here to spend the rest of her life. Life of widows had been miserable in the earlier times of India, people had created blind rules that she must not attend any happy occasions, she must wear a white sari and spend the rest of her lifetime in the grief of her husband, but savithri had hardly spent her time with her husband, her husband passed away only after one month of their marriage. Surya’s winning happiness was flown away after seeing savithri. Surya spent the whole night thinking about savithri and her situation in life, from childhood he like savithri and had always expected her to be happy and smiling always, and which girl he had always seen with a charm and smiling face, he had never expected her to be like that. After that day Surya stayed in Ramgaon. Early morning Surya woke up before the sunrise and then he went for his morning jog and while he was finishing his morning exercises near the river, savithri came there to take water in the vessel of her. Surya went near savithri and said
“savithri I had always seen you smile and have never expected you to be sad, I can’t see you like this, got to know everything from your mother, I want you to smile again savithri, if you have no objection I will light the darkness in your life”.
Savithri just listened to this with a pale smile on her face “all these words from you are just coming from sympathy and affection you have for me, I have been used to this suri, you are always my friend suri and you will be, this society will never allow a man to enter in my life again, this is my fate and I think this is the punishment for past sins of mine”
Savithri finished still wearing the pale smile on her face. “these customs have been made by our ancestors, I can’t say every custom is wrong, when a man can marry other women after his wife’s death so why can’t a women marry another man after her husband’s death, and I am not saying this to you by sympathy, I don’t know when my friendship with you had blossomed to love with you, and when I realized that you were already about to get married and who’ll give a girl like you to an orphan like me so I suppressed everything inside me and wished for your good but things changed in your life and that lead me again to lead your life from the path of this darkness towards light” and he gave his hand forward to her and savithri just wept her tears and joined her hands with him.
“I’m scared about this suri, people will kill us if they come to know about us” savithri said to surya as they walked together,
“till the last breath is there in my body, they’ll not be able to do like that” replied Surya. After that every night at 12 after the two villages have slept those two met each other near the temple of water. One day the villagers got to know about these two and attacked them at the spot of meeting, the villages which were like brothers now fought like arch enemies, Surya and Savithri were grounded in the villages by the people, not allowing them to go anywhere. Everyone opposed their marriage except one in the village, Major Veer an ex- service men of the Indian army, and no one had the guts to go against him or have any fights with him. One night he went to talk to surya and said
“look son, the whole village may be opposing your and savithri’s marriage but I’ll support you because I know the value of love and everything is fair in that and I even know yours is a true love so you have the support of each and every drop of my blood”. Surya’s eyes were filled with happiness and hope “thanks veer chacha, but how?” "do you think I will not plan before this?”replied veer. Veer even went and spoke to savithri about this.

After some days veer planned their marriage at night 12 near the temple of water. Veer and surya made all people who came in front of them to faint. As the crowd of oppose started to increase veer made them to hurry to the temple. Surya and Savithri went inside the temple and veer said he’ll guard, he stood there with a swords in both the hands. As the crowd of two villages came like an ocean, the ocean stopped as they evidenced Veer standing with a violent face and a sword in his hand. Nobody dared to step forward. After 15 minutes of silence a man came forward to check veer and just came to know that veer was dead he had stuck the sword to his back and was standing outside, suddenly he signaled everyone to attack inside the temple. But after they entered it everyone stopped attacking them as they evidenced that the marriage was over. And everyone had fire in their eyes.

Surya addressed every one and said “veer chacha sacrificed his life for our love and no god came to stop our marriage, these customs had just blinded everyone here who attacked us, what will you get by killing us, if we had broken the custom according to the rule of this village the water god will punish us but today we’ve broken the custom in front of her, if you want to kill us kill in front of her only” surya finished from wiping his tears.

The crowd became silent realizing the truth. They finished the funeral of veer chacha and blessed the couple. The sacrifice of Major veer opened the eyes of the people which were blinded in false practices. Ramgaon and lakshmangaon lived in brotherhood like before.

Entrant 5 - m_1512

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Forward! For the Last Charge

There stood a rider on a hill. He was sitting on his horse, gazing at the plains below and enjoying his solitude. The hill was a plain one, with few trees and rocks scattered around. It was cool with the winds blowing, telling of the coming winter.
The rider looked a warrior even from a distance. From his mount to his very attire spoke it. His mount was strong and of grey color, from a distance it would seem as color of cold steel. The warrior on it was a big man. He wore leather armor with overlapping metal plates. His status was obvious from the gold hilt of his sword, He was a Commander. He was well built with a fierce and gaunt face. The grizzled moustache on his battle-hardened face spoke of his ferocity. The lines on his face gave credit to his experience.
As he gazed, he ran his fingers over his moustache. A year or two, and it would start to grey, he snorted. In the cold winds, he could image a warm bed and a hot meal waiting for him back in the city. He felt dislike for the enemy who came to disturb his peace. Still, he did not mind, he always loved the thrill of a battle. There was nothing comparable to celebrating a victory; again he ran his fingers over his moustache. He was the commander of the advance force. His purpose was to either halt or slow the enemy advance until the main force was ready to defend the homeland.

He kept gazing at the plains. He could see his force marching steadily towards the enemy. Though the enemy soldiers were numerous, he had faith in the strength of his soldiers. His trusty aide rides and halts near him. The aide remains silent, not wanting to disturb his general’s reverie.
After a while the general breaks the silence.
“What is it?”
Bowing his head, the aide replies, “We are ready, my general,”
The general nodded in approval.
“What of our riders?”
“They have been sent around the hills to flank the enemy.” he said pointing to hills to the right and left ahead of them.
The general snorted, satisfied and kicked his horse to trot towards his men. Suddenly he noticed a horseman galloping towards him. Following the general’s eyes, the aide looks at the rider, and instantly draws his blade. The general raises his hand.
“Hold! That rider is one of our own.”
The rider approaches the two men and reins in his horse, falling from it, in that attempt. The general watches impassively as he scrambles to his feet and salutes.
Sternly, the aide says, “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with your party on the flank?”
Pale and shivering, he replies, “My lord. We were ambushed. There were archers on the hills,”

The general looks at him with a glint in his eyes and says, “And?”
Cowering under his gaze, the rider continues, “The captain ordered me to report to you, and the rest, to continue the advance.”
The general ponders for a moment, then straightens up and says, “Can you ride?”
“Yes, my lord,” the rider replies, bowing.
“Report to the infantry captain, tell him to halt and prepare his men to engage the main enemy force, immediately.”
The rider acknowledges and sets forth.
The general watches him gallop towards his infantry. He could see the entire battlefield; his men formed several lines, eight ranks deep, spears at the front and archers at the rear. He could see the enemy approaching, and could not help but notice that they were three times larger.

The hordes were marching in small unruly square formations, and were prepared to engage anyone who stood in their path. They had deployed a few archers on either hill to protect their flanks. Though they weren’t experienced enough, their formation served two purposes, to maneuver easily, and to bluff their opponents by their massive numbers.

The general watched from the hill, the enemy bands close in, and the two forces clashed. The watched proudly as his men took on their enemy.
The captain of the infantry roared in exasperation. He had at first howled in delight at the sight of the ragged looking enemy approach. He took a step ahead, and cut down several men within minutes. He heard an arrow soar past him, as he took a step backwards. He looked onto the ground where he previously stood and could see the arrow lodged into the ground.
The general watched the ongoing battle with growing concern. He had clearly underestimated them, and their ferocity. His men kept falling at random. Even the ones in the middle and last ranks faltered at the enemy arrows. He looked around and saw archers on the hills surrounding his infantry.
The aide looked at the battle and gave worried glances towards his lord. He knew his lord was wrecking his brain for a solution, to extract the army out of this disastrous position. For the men would not be able to hold much longer, eventually they would break.
The general noticed some commotion at the rear of enemy force. As he looked for the cause, a smile lit his face.

His riders had appeared.

They had been reduced to a quarter of their strength. Their armor shimmered with blood, the effect of the rain of enemy arrows. They regrouped and formed a continuous line.
The general said to his aide, “You see our riders, sound the order to the infantry to fall back. Give the order as soon as you see the cavalry advance,”
The aide nodded. The general added, pointing to the foot of the hill,
“Regroup the men there in a continuous line.”
The aide took out the horn, gave two short blows, then a long one. He was off galloping towards the foot of hill.
The riders began their advance. The trot changed to canter, then to gallop. As the enemy came within range, they took their bows and started firing arrow after arrow. As they came even closer, they threw their bows and took hold of the lances.
They hit the enemy with tremendous force. Many enemy soldiers were killed, some by the impact of charging armor, and some by the lances. The riders caused considerable damage by their slaughter, but were eventually overwhelmed.
The enemy regrouped and sounded the charge.

Meanwhile, the general had joined his infantry. He spoke to his aide.
“Go back to the city. Tell them that the enemy has been engaged as ordered. Now tell me, how much is needed for the main army to prepare?”
The aide ponders for a while.
“If only their advance be halted for two to three days,”
The general grunts, replies,
“Alright, I will see to that. Now, ride back to the city.”

As his aide gallops off, the general addresses his men.
“My brave soldiers, you have fought well today. I know you would like the comforts which your brothers back home have, but it because of you that they can enjoy it in peace. Your sacrifice gives our people freedom. Your death gives them life. The enemy is near, eager to taste cold steel. Forward! For the Last Charge.”
They charge.

They clash of the charge impaled many by the spears. The archers kept firing at close ranges, and then took to slashing with daggers. A spear thrust into the general’s horse, causing the animal to stumble and crash to the ground. The enemy warlord unsheathed his blade and advanced towards his fallen opponent, with an wicked smile on his face.

At that very instant, the general leapt to his feet, sword out, and charged at the warlord, roaring. He was stopped by several arrows thrusting into his body and a spear in his throat. But his charge had scared the warlord’s horse causing it to dismount its rider.
As they searched for their warlord, they found him motionless on the ground.

Dead and his face pale and contorted with fear.

As the aide traveled for home, he wondered what his general would do, and what became of the battle.

TotW 112a - The Man Who Would Be King

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Winner - Katsumoto

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It is a strange thing, being a king.

Power corrupts, they say. I have seen it happen. My father, once a noble and kind man, fell to this disease, this sickness of strength. It enveloped him, robbed him of all reason and decency - men were killed merely because they were thought to have spoken negatively of my father. Fear spread like fire through the kingdom. That fear, driven by desperation, eventually turned to courage and rebellion. The people could not take it anymore - they took up arms against my father and his followers - years of war followed as my father struggled to retain his throne, but the people were too many, too tired of his rule. The rebels destroyed his forces, captured his loyal centres, and finally him took from his great castle, his throne, and hung up him in the courtyard, his neck snapping like a twig as they hurled him from the gate house. I watched it all from my upper window before my mother took me away, away from these rebels who sought to kill me also.

We spent a decade living in remote villages and settlements. My mother, once a beautiful and proud woman, became a farmer’s wife - he was blind but kind, and loved my mother dearly. Every night I listened to how great my father, the king, had been, and how much joy he had brought to her. She would weep, and I would lay.

When I finally came of age, I would reclaim the kingdom from these spineless rebels, who had dragged my poor father from his home and murdered him without trial or justice. They would be made to pay.

I raised an army of peasants, who eventually became disciplined men-at-arms. I had studied military strategy since as soon as I could grasp it, and through a series of brilliant maneuvers and strategies, I managed to defeat the rebels. I took revenge on all those who had wronged my father - villages were razed, populations butchered. No mercy was given.

I reclaimed the throne. For my father; for my mother. However, my mother passed shortly after my ascension. I ruled with an iron fist for years, determined that no man would rise against me, to pull me from my throne as my father had been. No, such a fate would never befall me.

The people grew restless. Nothing could be done to halt them - they rebelled, like they had against my father. I fought them, with the help of my dear friend, who provided me with many victories. The rebels were on the brink of destruction. However, my dear friend would soon become my greatest enemy. He joined the rebels in their cause, and rose against me. My forces were massacred. I retreated to my capital, to my castle, the very same my father had retreated to all those years ago.

Now here I sit, on my throne, grasping my father’s blade, the very same that he had held when they came for him. I hear them now, clashing with my guards, my noble and loyal guards, who would defend me to the last man. A final outcry and the clash is over. The door is broken open. My time has come.

It is a strange thing, being a king.

Entrant 1 - Lorem Ipsum

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William found his cousin: a small, narrow silhouette pressed against the endless wall of amber Atlantic sky. The scar on which he stood, which overlooked the small bank partially hidden by clusters of ash trees, was the site of many private meetings between the two in years past. The area was a suitable meeting place for all seasons, save for the dead of winter, during which one could not stand the brutal chill and unrelenting wind that stripped trees bare and provided little cover for the creatures that inhabited the forests below the scar. Those were when conditions were at their worst, and the only time of year the two kin had agreed never to meet, prior to this day.

He began to scale the steep pass that led toward where the depressed figure stood, careful to keep his back turned against the unforgiving weather. William's calls to his cousin became more apparent the closer he got, to the point where he was able to make out their speaker.

"Ho, Joseph! You there!?"

The expectant response was not given.

"Joseph! You there!? Joseph!"

William was barely able to stand when he got to within a few feet of him. He struggled forward, his arms grasping the tall remains of a tree, his legs strained as they carried his aching body off the ground. As he got up, he was quick to notice the pallor of his cousin's stone appearance, arms crossed, turned toward what is at all other times an august sight, though on this occasion a dead winter scene where the sun refused to shine. Having let a quick sigh, he walked to Joseph's left side in the same nonchalant manner as he had in previous encounters.

"Thought you were clever now, did you, Joseph? That I'd never think to find you here? Not under current circumstances, at least."
His words were met with a bitter silence that could only be given by his cousin's emotionless expression.

"Come now, I'm not as stupid as they'd have you believe. You've known me for too long, come off it now! And besides, what good is this place to think when the ground your standing on is as frozen as the air that whistles through those things you call ears?"

Nothing more than a scoff, the already inaudible sound of which was muffled even further by a blast of wind from behind. William could see his words were not meeting their mark, then turned his head to his cousin's tattered coat on the ground next to him,

"You're a fool to come up here in such conditions, a damned fool! Wouldn't be surprised at all if I hadn't come here till a day later and found you in this state for good."

Joseph turned slowly to face his cousin, his glare cutting straight into the eyes of William.

"I hope to die, cousin. I apologize if you find that to your displeasure, but I cannot bear to live another day in this cursèd life! This is not to be, it was never meant to happen... not so soon!"

He paused for a reaction he did not care to see, then continued.

"How can I match who was the greatest monarch to rule this nation? Nothing could have prepared me for this day; I am afraid, my cousin, I had seen this moment coming for a long time. I am not fit to rule, I am no leader, I cannot fulfill the desires of my people, so what more is there for me in this life?"

William could not laugh, despite the fact he found his cousin's words comical, and so muttered aloud in his jesting tone while circling him: "Who says he is unfit to rule is no relative and no friend of mine. I have known no man than this stranger before me that says he is no leader. This peasant who finds nothing more beautiful in life than its end in the face of tribulation must get gone out of my sight."

He stopped in front of his face and looked him with a glare near as deep as Joseph's.
"What sort of talk is this!? What sort of man who is born destined to become the most powerful man in the most powerful nation on earth can utter such nonsense? I tell you, not Robert II, nor Andrew IX, nor James VI, and certainly not Joseph III!"

Joseph, now visibly enraged, led his fist to William's face, a few inches below the eye.

"Come at me as such one more time and we shall both see death a hundred feet below! I will tell you this once, I am not the one to lead the people out of the mess they have gotten themselves into. If only they had contented themselves with my father's rule the prosperity they had enjoyed would never have ended, and would have never led to it coming to this. It is not my decision, but that of the Heavens, and I would be more of a fool to fight it."

William staggered to his feet, the skin under had left eye had swollen, giving him a hard time to meet his cousin eye-to-eye.

"Joseph, you and I both know if anyone was to lead the people out of this, it would be the leader for whom they had waited 32 years. If you take your life now, the people shall never see the light of the free world again, and you shall never face your full potential and see the true king from inside you emerge from the challenges of this crisis. I can only pray you choose to do what you know is right for your people, not what you think is right for yourself."

Joseph was silent, his eyes now placed firmly on the sky above him. William, now at Joseph's right side and facing the other direction, began to make his way down the steep pass, turning one more time to see his cousin before finally leaving the area.

Joseph stood for another minute, his minds still on the words of his cousin, then turned to find his jacket just the way it was when he had removed it. He picked it up and put it back on; immediately after doing so, the sun's glimpse made a rare appearance from far off in the distance. Joseph then began his walk down the scar in the same direction as his cousin.

It was the last time either of the men would ever visit the scar...

Entrant 2 - Asterix

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George glanced fearfully at the darkening sky as he dashed across the open field. Thousands of feet overhead a dark mass was growing stronger and stronger as it made its descent onto the plain. A funnel was forming and coming fast. The winds picked up dirt and debris and flung it in the air where it blew around, suffocating your breath and making you near blind. The noise was horrible. George wondered how moving air could make such a terrifying sound. He heard horses in the distance. They were screaming. It was no lie his friend Will told him that a screaming horse was the worst thing you could ever hear in your life.
George ran to the tiny cottage he called home on the Nebraska plain. He had moved here with his father and sisters Rebecca, Bonnie, and Ruth a year ago to start a new life as thousands of others had done. Their mother had died of fever when George was 15, leaving his father to take care of four children and a house. It had been three years since that day, the worst in George's life-to be followed by three years of hell. Of barely seeing their father as he worked 18 hours a day at a factory to bring in barely enough cash to buy bread to feed his gaunt children; three years of living in fear that the kindhearted landlord would finally get sick of the fact that the rent had not been paid in 9 months and kick them out; three years of George having to steal food from neighbors and dumpsters; three years of pain, filth, despair-and hunger. So much hunger. Finally his father had decided to risk it all and move out West, where land stretched for hundreds of miles. For months they travelled, terrified of tales of wild Indian savages scalping settlers and raping their daughters, while he tried to avoid hunger by stealing food from other wagons in the dead of night. Finally they reached the border into the Nebraska territory. There his father quickly claimed the best land he could find and built their tiny home. For the past year they had grown enough food to feed themselves. Rebecca, Bonnie, and Ruth were now 15, 12, and 6 respectively and were able helpers on the farm, driving the oxen and gathering the crop, taking the strain off George and his father.
All of this flashed across George’s mind. He begged the God he no longer believed in not to let all this new hope for the future die so soon as he ripped open the pathetic excuse for the front door (3 planks nailed together and attached to a single hinge) and ran into the basement. He found his three sisters wailing and screaming in a corner around a flickering candlelight.
“What’ going on?” cried Ruth, the littlest. Her adorable little face, usually so happy and sunny even in the worst of situations, was now disfigured by fear.
“George, where’s Pa?”
“I’m scared!”
Their cries got more and more hysterical and nearly infected George. He could feel the panic rising in his throat and the sick feeling he got whenever he felt he was about to be caught stealing something. He quickly fought it down and took charge.
“SHUT UP!” he yelled. He hated to yell at them but it was the only way that he could retain his sanity and theirs. “It’s a tornado. It came from nowhere fast. It looks pretty bad and we might die.” Long ago comforting lies had been thrown out the door and replaced with brutal honesty. “Pa was with me in the field when we saw it coming. We were running home when he tripped. I think he twisted his ankle. I couldn’t carry him so he told me to run home without him.”
“But what’s going to happen to Pa?” sniffed Ruth.
“What do you think, you idiot?” roared Rebecca. The oldest of the girls, she was the most cynical and brutal.
“Shut it, Rebecca!” George overrode her before she could continue. “Pa is really strong and we weren’t that far from the house. Remember the time he broke his arm in the factory but went back and worked twice as long to pay for the doctor?”
Just then they heard a great pounding at the basement door and a familiar voice. “HEY! IT’S PA!” George ran up the stairs and pulled open the door and a 200 pound, 6’ 1” mass of sheer muscle and fatherly love fell inside.
“PA!” cried the girls in unison.
“Everyone, get into the corner and try and stay calm,” said Pa. “The tornado came out’a nowhere and it’s coming real fast.” There was barely suppressed fear in his voice that threatened to break any second.
“Pa, how’d you manage to get back?!” said George as he huddled with his family in the corner.
“I couldn’t leave you guys alone, now could I?” said Pa. George fought down tears of gratitude. They quickly became tears of terror, however, as a great shrieking rose overhead.
Heads down, huddled together in a corner, the five prayed, sobbed, and whimpered as the tornado wrought its terrible vengeance. The roof of the house was ripped off and George could hear it crash and roll outside. There was a loud thud as some miscellaneous item of furniture was dashed against the basement door. Ruth screamed. George held her tight. His heart pounded louder than the wind. His stomach churned, his throat was tight with fear. He felt himself hyperventilating and was about to panic. Seeing this, his father grabbed his arm comfortingly and soothed him without saying a word.
Suddenly the basement door flew open. It was ripped off its hinges and crashed against the wall, just inches away from Bonnie’s face. She shrieked in fear and ran to the other side of the basement.
“MOVE AWAY FROM THE DOOR!” cried Pa. As he said it, debris roared in-timber, nails, chair legs, dirt. Some got into George’s eyes and he dropped Ruth reflexively. She screamed and ran to Pa. They moved further into the basement as the whirling debris reached a fever pitch. By now everyone was blind, both by the dirt and by their own terror. George began to cry. He felt something crash into his arm and break it. He shrieked in agony but couldn’t open his eyes. He heard his sisters screaming. He opened his eyes for a moment and almost instantly closed them. However, he managed to make out the vague figure of his father shielding the girls from the tornado's fury. George crawled over and helped, pushing down the all-pervading panic that threatened to drive him mad and ignored the horrific pain in his arm that made him want to sit in a corner and cry for hours on end.
It was like that for days. Really only few minutes but no one could tell. The winds died down. Shuddering and sobbing, George looked up. In front of him Rebecca was crying softly, thanking God it was over. Ruth was sobbing and Bonnie was comforting her, she herself shaking visibly, usually the strongest of the four children.
George looked around. Debris was everywhere. He stood up, wincing as he held his broken arm, quivering uncontrollably, and walked up the staircase slowly-it could collapse under him at any second now. He was going to see what was left of the house.
There was nothing. The tiny little kitchen that the basement opened in to was gone. The bedroom that George and Pa shared was indistinguishable from the room that the girls lived in. All that was left was a pile of wood and earth that the house was a conglomerate of. Pieces of it spread for yards in every direction. Where the roof once was the open sky was visible in full, the walls gone as well. It was a beautiful day now, the dark clouds gone, leaving a bright sun and an open plain for miles in every direction. George was temporarily stunned into inaction by this, but a cry from the basement brought him back to earth.
“PA! WAKE UP! PA!” Ruth’s tiny little voice was shrill and panicky. George ran into the basement, fearing the worst.
Pa was lying on the floor, blood pouring out of a wound on his head. He wasn’t moving. “Oh no,” whispered George. Tears flowed down from his agonized face. “No. No. NO. NO! PA! WAKE UP! FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! DON’T DIE!” The panic he had barely managed to suppress finally bubbled up and exploded with massive ferocity. He shook Pa with all the strength he had, screaming. His sisters looked at him like he was a man possessed, their fear for their brother greater than their concern for their father. George didn’t care. For an hour he shook Pa, trying to revive him. Finally he lost all energy and fell to the ground, exhausted.
As the panic subsided, sense returned to him. Slowly. His father was dead. The man who had singlehandedly kept him alive for three years, sacrificing every second of his time and every last iota of energy to make sure that his kids didn’t die of hunger, was gone. George knew that he would have to suffer what his old man had suffered if he was to have any hope of keeping himself and his sisters alive. He remembered the pain his father had gone through, coming home near midnight, covered in dust and grime and exhausted in every limb, clearly wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed, but still mustering the energy to tell Ruth a bedtime story.
“I can’t do it.” George was horrified by the thought of having to do as his father had done. “I can’t.” He wanted to crawl in a corner and die. Yes. Why not? There was no hope. He was too weak. “Oh God.” Death would be a sweet release. His entire life had been a desperate struggle to survive, and now he was too exhausted to continue. “No more.” The thought of sleeping for all eternity appealed to him. He couldn’t do what his father had done. Why even bother?
From a different world, a different dimension, a soft voice. “Georgie?” Ruth said tentatively. “Georgie, what now?”
Ruth’s sweet voice brought George out of his suicidal reverie. He opened his eyes. In front of him, a sniffling, teary little girl with straggly brown hair was looking at him with a child’s loving concern.
Suddenly all thoughts of despair left him. He picked Ruth up with his one good arm and hugged her, sobbing as he did so. His heart filled with filial love. He saw the task before him. The burden he felt pass to him at that moment could not have been less than what Atlas felt as he shouldered the Earth. But George could do it. He was not his father. But he was just as strong.

Entrant 3 - Lemoniser

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The man who would be king.

Standing in the 'guest room' Richard stared out the window. Below him was the courtyard of Trifels castle, where he was being imprisoned. Below that was the slopes of the mountain on which the castle stood, the bottom of which was shrouded in thick fog. Richard's rage had all but burnt itself out now, isolated as he was and had been in the spartan room for most of the day. Closing the wooden shutters and the curtains behind it he left the window and threw himself on the bed.

With a sigh he relived his entrance to the castle, the highlight of his current troubles. He and his four companions had been immediately brought before the emperor after they were forced out of the carriage that they had been forced to ride in, swapping hands from one jailer to another. Richard had led his men into the throne room into an expectant silence where he had announced that he was “born of a rank which recognises no superior but God,” not needing to add that the man on the throne was not even close.

The verbal fencing soon started and Richard, despite his early victory was at a disadvantage, being the man's captive. His announcements that he was being held for the huge sum of 150,000 marks staggered Richard. He knew that that was more than his kingdom made in a year and that he had been left in captivity so far without any contact. Surely he'd know if his random were being paid, and if it were, why give Richard to the Holy Roman Empire? His doubt which had been quietly growing in a corner of his mind was flourishing now. He had been abandoned.

No, his last remnants of faith told him. He remembered his companions repeat of Richard's family motto, earning him a cuff from a guard. “Dieu et mon Droit, God and your right sire”. Kneeling next to the low wooden bed Richard the Lionheart prayed, first for his people, particularly the soldiers who had shown their loyalty to him and God, for deliverance from the unlawful imprisonment of a soldier of God, for his family that he might find his way back to them and for all that God had already given him.

Kneeling as he was Richard the Lionheart, the man who would be king but for the twists of fate, fought off his despair, but for the time being.

Entrant 4 - SonOfOdin

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"Deep in the heart of Eindhoven we were. "Sarge, we can't bloody see anything", said Corporal Hughes. "Shut up and hush your mouth boy!", exclaimed our beloved Sergeant Wilkinson. A short lad, yes, but his deep voice trembled on and on in our minds and even in our sleep. We were just outside an abandoned factory which presumably was used for metalwork. The air was thin, the night was deep. Nothing moved...

"Allright boys, let's scout this factory for Jerry", were the words that Wilkinson whispered that we hoped we wouldn't hear. Nothing was comfortable about that factory. The smell, the thick fog, the unbearable thought of Germans ready to blast our heads off...orders were orders. We took a deep breath and followed Private Strickland, who was on point, into the warehouse. I felt my blood pumping rapidly, my heartbeat increased drastically, I almost felt sure that night would be my last. We went in...nothing moved...

...but a couple of cockroaches and rats. Private Moore, a superstitious fellow, always carried some salt and a rosary crown with him. Even in that dark and smoke filled entrance we knew he was throwing salt on the ground and praying to his Catholic saints to protect him from anything lurking in there. We had no light source except a couple of matches that Hughes had to light up his cigarettes. We had to rely on our instincts. Getting past the entrance was easy, but the main machinery area was full of broken rusty metal parts and was an ideal ambush place. We moved inside little by little, and as we were about to enter the machinery area Strickland took a peep, and turned around with a blank expression, we could almost see the horror on his face. We all looked quickly at the area...nothing moved.

...Nothing moved. Why? There were two bodies. Idle. At rest. Laying down horizontally on the floor. We couldn't recognise them at all, but from the dim moonlight blazing down from the holes in the ceiling, it was clear that one of them was a middle-aged woman, and the other was probably her boy. They didn't move. Moore blessed them out loud, with his pretentious monk like approach, and Sarge didn't like it one bit. "You stupid posh religious dumb Londoner!", he blasted him. "What did I do wrong?", was Moore's first reaction. Then sense came back to him. He finally realised, what all of us had realised. They were bait. The corpses were bait. We got lured into a trap! Who would do such a thing as put two corpses of a woman and a child as bait?" Thought like this littered my mind. And yet...something moved.

We saw a couple of hard flashes. Screaming, Gunfire and Agony".

All of them : Smith, Wilkinson, Moore, Strickland, Hughes...they lay on the ground. The factory remained dark throughout the night, and 5 British Soldiers had lost their lives. All was motionless again...Nothing Moved.

Entrant 5 - Orontid

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The Man in Front of Me

“You there! Don’t move!”

The man stopped running and stood still, his body facing the bridge that crossed the river he attempted to cross. “Hands up!” The man still stood there, frozen, as if the cold weather itself had gripped his entire body.

There he stood, right in front of me, a man probably my father’s age, his half-grey, unshaven beard and wrinkles on his face indicating his age. He was obviously a civilian, his dusty coat, flat cap and torn trousers betraying his status as an inhabitant of the village. He shivered frequently, I did not know whether from the weather or from fright, but I could hear his breath, wheezy and deep. He was probably suffering from pneumonia.

I kept my rifle pointed at him as I circled around him to look at his face, my back facing the bridge. His eyes, looking away as I came around, now slowly turned to me. He immediately saw the rifle pointed at him, and shut his eyes. His mouthed grimaced, as if in pain, though I saw no wound on him. I told him once again to put his arms up. He did not do so, although at the sound of my voice he opened his eyes, his face still visibly showing fear.

I got impatient. I gestured with my left arm, raising it up repeatedly. “Up, up!” The man slowly put up his hands. “Quickly!” I shouted. He raised them above his head. I heard his panting getting ever deeper, his trembling getting more frequent.

Walking around him, I then kicked the back of his knees sharply. “On your knees!” I barked, even though by then I realised he didn’t understand what I was saying. He knelt down onto the snow-covered track leading to the bridge, his body still shaking. I then raised my rifle and pointed it at the back of his head.

There he was. An unarmed, harmless man, on his knees, arms in the air. My finger wrapped around the trigger, ready to fire. I remember the orders as well as I do now as I did then: “Attack the village and wipe it out. Buildings and civilians.”

Civilians. This man certainly was a civilian. And I was a soldier. I knew what I had to do.

“Get up.” I said.

The man looked slowly over his shoulder at me. He gazed at me, half in confusion, half in the terror that seemingly would not leave him. I gestured with my gun, pointing it up and down, as if to shoo him away. “Go on, get up. No one else is here. There’s the bridge.”

Although he did not understand me, he gradually got up on his feet. He saw me give no resistance; I stared impassively at him. The man took a few steps away, and began to cross the bridge. When he reached its end, he took one last look at me. He then turned around and ran into the snow-covered countryside.

I never saw him again after that. Who knows what happened to him? To be honest, I don’t know why I spared him. It was a good thing I was transferred to home guard duties - I do not know what I would do if asked to kill civilians again.

Entrant 6 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 7 - Major Darling

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**Dance** · May 30, 2013, 10:27 AM

TotW 113a - The Fruits of Success....

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Winner - Asterix

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The sick-sweet smell of burning flesh fills the smoky air. In front of me lies the burning ruin of the city I grew up in, razed to the ground and set ablaze. I give the order to sow the fields with salt, so this place will never again be able to insolently challenge a man’s destiny.
I see a line of thousands of mothers and children, stretching for miles from the city center to a point far off in the distance. All are weeping, their cries reaching to the very heavens. They are headed for the slave markets, or the gallows, I forget which. One girl, barely a toddler, asks where her father is. He is dead. Like all the others.
I almost feel sorry for what had to happen. I loved this city; a river ran through it, and the palace I grew up in straddled it. I would swim in it as a child, without a care in the world, unaware of the plots and conspiracies set against me even as I grew in my mother’s womb. I was raised a prince, swaddled in the finest silk, given the best food, adorned in the finest jewels. I was to be king, they said. The greatest in the world, the richest, the most powerful, the most handsome.
But they betrayed me. The day I was to be king, the day I came of age, what should have been the greatest moment of my young life, they betrayed me. I was kicked out of the city, out of the country, with only my clothes and an empty title to my name.
For years I struggled for survival, hunting, foraging, begging if need be, me, the future ruler of the greatest kingdom the world has ever known. Slowly I gained strength.
I plotted my revenge, gathering to my banner those who hated the regime, people who would have hated me had I not been robbed. Those who betrayed me thought I was dead-how could a prince who had never even been a day out of doors possibly survive so much time in the real world? So they scoffed.
But then I revealed myself. Thousands instantly flocked to me, old friends, malcontents, outlaws, eager to help me take down the usurpers, those hated liars who took away my birthright. Still the traitors scoffed, laughing. Look at him, they would say, He is nothing but a spoiled, whiny little brat! He cannot possibly defeat us, the commanders of the finest army on Earth!
But I did. Ruthlessly. Furiously. Brilliantly. Without a trace of mercy. Those that did not swear allegiance to me, be they rich or poor, powerful or weak, were killed. Those that did were spared and promised rewards, and they got them. A share of the spoils in the sack of a city, their women, their land. Power, even. A place in my inner circle.
I fought dozens of battles, dozens of campaigns, over a dozen years. All victories. Every city that refused to capitulate to their rightful king was completely, utterly destroyed. Thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, were killed. Many who were loyal to me were disgusted by the violence. They were killed, too.
The traitors fled further away every time I beat them. They kept slipping from my grasp, just barely, many times, infuriating me. Finally I cornered them in the city, the city I was once so fond of. I would not let them escape again. After the city was assaulted and taken, I rode to where they were held, in the city center, cowering under my wrath.
There they were-the traitors. I had waited almost my entire life for this moment. There were many there, but i singled out the one i hated the most. He who sat on the throne that was mine. Finally, at long last....
I looked into the eyes of my brother for the first time in decades. I saw a terrible cocktail of emotions inside; hatred, fear, pain, rage. But that was not all. Deep, deep in his eyes there was something he was trying to hide. I recognized it as love.
He begs me for forgiveness. He says it was not him who betrayed me, but his mother, my stepmother, who could not bear the thought of me on the throne and her son as my servant. I know it is true; he was only a boy when he was forced upon the throne. It was not his fault.
But I did not care. He robbed me of what was mine, the throne. My stepmother had died just a few days earlier of a weak heart. If she had lived another few days, my brother may have lived. I would have killed her and have been satisfied with the revenge. However, her death had robbed me of that. So my brother would replace her.
I swung the sword, and my brother’s head rolled on the ground. We had loved each other once, as much as brothers can. We were the best of friends, inseparable. I gazed into his blank eyes and remembered those times, when I was happy. I nearly shed a tear. Then I remembered the suffering that I had to go through, the pain i endured, the sheer hatred I had nurtured for so long. The tear went away. There were other people there, too. I recognized some old friends, family, an old nanny, people I once loved. All were traitors. All died.
All this I remember as I sit on a hill overlooking the city. I had succeeded in my revenge. Everyone who betrayed me was gone. No one remained. I was now the one and only king. But in the process, what I had been fighting for, my birthright, my inheritance, my throne, was destroyed. The entire empire was laid waste. Little remained. It still stretched across the world, but it was devastated. The finest cities on earth had been wiped off the earth. But that was nothing. What did land matter?
What did matter was that every person I had ever loved was now dead. A girl I once romanced when I was a prince, killed as she tried to defend me the day I was exiled. Another girl, killed by an assassin working for the traitors. Many other women who I loved or thought I loved, cruelly robbed by fate or a cold metal blade. My old friends, some from childhood, some later, killed in battle or by me. And my family. My entire family. All of them now dead. Most from my blade.
Years of suppressed pain, guilt, fear, and agony well up inside me. For decades I had thought myself immune to all emotions but hatred and determination. But all the others, so long kept silent, roar to life. I weep, deeply and painfully. For hours nothing but black guilt and fear and anguish and other alien things I despised in other, weaker men. When I rise, I see what I had done for the first time. What evil I had committed! What horrors! Thousands had been killed, and millions more had no hope of a happy life because of me. All in the name of revenge, my revenge, my birthright, my victory.
I now had all of that, but at what cost?
Sometimes, the fruits of success are bittersweet.

Entrant 1 - ♦Assiduus Victoria♦

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SUBMISSION FOR COMPETITION

The warm summer breeze kissed her skin as the copper tones of the evening sun danced across her hazel eyes. Those eyes, those windows to the soul, belied an agony that few could ever know. The shadows that drifted across her mind would otherwise envelop her should she allow them, but she was working. She needed them to creep back to the corners of her mind, just for now.

These events, these “shoots” unsettled her. For 20 lingering and arduous years she had hidden that past with a furtive cynicism – a ‘defence mechanism’ as her pretentious shrink had deemed it – and every time she had one of these shoots, it all came back.

She drew her cardigan close to her body and breathed the salt sea air into her lungs. It felt raw, yet unmistakably pure. She had once adored these evenings, revelled in them. When she first moved out to the city there was little else she liked to do than come down to the shore and walk for hours. It cleared her head. As a country girl the city stifled her, fenced her in and deprived her...slowly at first, but far more pressing as the years went by.

A young man lit a cigarette across the way, drawing in the tobacco and releasing it in a haze that drifted across the azure blanket above.

The crew today was half her age and she felt old, a prisoner to the bondage of this broken and weary body. She felt let down, if she was honest with herself, but then when was the last time she had dared to do such a thing? When had she last been honest with herself?

This celebrity was her age, maybe even older. She was just a photographer; a nobody in a city of everybody and somebody.

As the waves crashed across the shoreline the crews busied themselves with film roll, lighting and the panoply of commercial vanity. A wry smile drew across her face – he was here, she could feel his eyes burning a hole to her soul, but what the hell did he see in her? Maybe he was here to see the celebrity – that thought had crossed her mind before and it hadn’t ceased to nag away every time since.

She gave him a smile and waved him over...Tina could wait for now.

Entrant 2 - Jingo Eugene

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Oh Zion

I come from Sicily. I am now in Jerusalem. Since my landing, I have been doing nothing but fighting and conquering in the name of the Lord Most High. When I had heard of the Pope's call to a Holy War against the Saracens occupying the Holy City, I could feel God calling upon me to join these “crusades.” I had set sail for a long time before landing on the shores of Palestine. We faced nearly immediate resistance, and after taking cities like Acre and Damascus, we made to Jerusalem. Where the fight was greater than ever.

Now we march into the city as holy warriors, taking complete control of the city in the name of God. But upon entering the city, I didn't see cheering throngs of the liberated, or the calls of the faithful. Instead I saw mounds of corpses, and Saracen people huddling in the streets. Hardly the monsters I faced in the face of war. I smelled the stench of the battle and I vomited, how could this be the work of God? Are we not liberators? Are we not saviors of the City of God? Then how come we come like conquerors? Like killers? Like destroyers?

We march into Zion, the City of David, the City where Jesus the Christ lived and died for me... Defiled by our own actions. The butchery that took place here will never be redeemed, we were promised immediate redemption for our actions... How could such slaughter be redeeming in the least? My allies are drunk from celebration, drunk from beer and wine stolen from the men, women and children we just killed! We plundered and looted to our own monstrous hearts' content! I fear the day of Judgment approaches, for God's own followers and people loot their masters' city! How could this be?

A Saracen's child walked up to me, and he saw my tears. He had just witnessed me and my men destroy their homes and yet he had to courage to look into my eyes. “Poor child...” I mouthed, I knew he wouldn't understand, but I silently talked with him, my eyes apologizing to him and to God. The child seemed to understand, and his mother in the shadows behind him as well. He then ran off to avoid the other, drunk soldiers.

The fruits of victory are not always sweet. Sometimes they can be like honey, pleasing to the lips and pleasing to God. But.. sometimes such victory is more like horseradish and painful to swallow as well as vile in the eyes of the Lord.

Entrant 3 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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King Theirn I of Coren stalked the halls of the Royal Palace. His coming was preceded only by the slight click of his boots and the sliding of his heavy cloak upon the stone floors. His jet-black hair was flecked with white, and his eyes, once a striking blue, had dulled to a stormy grey. The crown upon his head shone with the luster of Artenian silver, and its bright colour only heightened the effect of age upon his features. When he was younger, he had been a great conqueror, he had united the Kingdom of Coren under the crest of his house, a white falcon upon a blue sky. Now, his only conquests were his women, and his children ran rampant, not knowing danger nor fear. Unlike him.
In his childhood, the Kingdom had been splintered, hundreds of Lordships and as many Lords, squabbling over whatever pieces they could lay claim to. His own father was one of them, and though an intelligent man, he lost himself to the petty differences of the Lords. Theirn had known better from a young age. He learned firsthand that what solved a problem was not words, but actions. And he took action. From his father's death, and his inheritance of the family's lands and people, he waged war upon the neighboring lands, their people forfeit unless they swore fealty to their new Lord, the Lord of Cahlys, Lord Theirn II. He was barely a man, yet his duty and his people called him to greater action than his children could dream of.
His eldest Erwan, the heir to the throne, was no man, despite having passed 18 winters. The next child, his eldest daughter Carme was spoiled, and though she was not lacking in beauty and had many suitors, did not seem his blood in any way beyond appearance. The next boy, Alan, was large, and a good fighter, but he was alway neck deep in some mischief, and his wits were duller than his sword after a long day of practice. His youngest daughter was Katarin, a frail thing. Her mind was solid, but although Theirn liked her, he knew she could not amount to much given her condition. Finally, there was Mael. Theirn had never quite understood the child, he went from hiding away in his room one minute, to running around the halls with his brother the next. Erwan would never play those games, for he fancied himself too old for them. And for all Theirn did not understand about Mael, he saw some of himself in him. Not in his features, for they were almost entirely his mothers, save for the eyes, but in his demeanor. He was always observant, and he was entirely in tune with his surroundings. He was always thinking, even while speaking or playing. You could see it in his eyes, how they would be looking at something distant or invisible. It became more intense the harder he thought. Theirn could not help thinking the Mael would perhaps prove a case for junior right.
As Theirn passed the kitchens, a thunderous roar tore through the palace. He knew that sound. His palace was under siege. He rushed to the origin of the sound, ignoring the servants rushing past him, brushing off the calls of his knights. He would not run from this attacker. His hand rested on the jeweled pommel of his longsword. A symbol of what he had become, a ceremonial weapon. It would not stand up to prolonged combat. Best make it quick. He threw his cloak back from his shoulders to free his arms as he reached the courtyard. He quickened his pace when he heard the clash of steel on the other side of the gardens. His stride grew longer. By the time he reached the fighting, his soldiers had begun to repel the invaders. He swung at one of his foes, his sword slicing the man’s throat cleanly and quickly. He turned to another and parried the sweeping blow aimed for him, before stabbing the exposed chest. More and more enemies fell to him and his soldiers, as his long dormant skills returned. The battle turned into a rout as the besieging force turned tail and run. Theirn wiped his sword on his cloak. It’s replacable.
He then turned to the Captain of the Falconry, the leader of the Royal Bodyguard.
“Do you mind telling me who these people were, Captain? And while you’re at it, what are they doing in the center of my palace?”
The Captain said, “They appear to be rebels, or militia of some sort. None are heavily armed or armored.”
“You’ve only answered half my question, Captain. Having established who they are, how did a lightly armed militia pierce the heart of my Kingdom? How did they breach these walls?”
“I don’t know, Sire. There aren’t enough to be a real siege force, and they fled so easily. Nothing is taken, nothing is harmed, short of the wall, of course,” the Captain replied.
“I see. Let me reiterate what I’ve just been told. A group of poorly armed rebels somehow breached the highest wall in the highest part of the entire Kingdom, fought the Royal Guards, all for nothing? Is that right, or is there some other piece of lunacy you’ve neglected to mention? No? Then stop wasting my time, and find my wife and children.”
The Captain blanched momentarily. “Sire, you have reminded me of one thing.”
“I don’t have time for your pauses, what is it?”
“It’s Mael, sire. He’s… well, missing.”

Entrant 4 - Audacia

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TotW 114a - Sacrifice

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Winner - 'Gunny

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Entrant 1 - m_1512

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Entrant 2 - Valandur

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Entrant 3 - Jingo Eugene

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Entrant 4 - Murphy25

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Entrant 5 - ♦Assiduus Victoria♦

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In sleepless night death shall rise,
Before which all shall fall.
I beseech you; close not your eyes,
I pray you heed my call.

For in thy dreams all hell should wake,
From depths shall fury pour.
In shadows do our refuge take,
And cower forever more.

But in the depths of mourning,
For great our burden be.
Shall come forth a warning,
“Hark now thy vengeance, thee..”

For then shall rise a great King of War,
His soul asunder in grief.
And thus he rules forevermore,
For great is his belief.

Blessed be the souls who had been lost,
For many did death to take.
We shared together in such great cost,
And died for all our sake.

In the morn shall be the hour,
In the light of radiant sun.
For in him grows true his power,
And we have truly won!

This silence is my stronghold; this isolation my confidant. I sit alone in this room; no longer is it opulent and grand. Merely tangled in time it belies an ambition long lost to acquiescent stoicism. Generations, too numerous to mention, have looked upon this room in sanguine adoration – it would inspire little more than deferent reminiscence now. The immense pillars that line the chamber as giants bearing the heavens, once adorned with the spoils of our heritage, stand in sombre shadow bereft of their pride. They hold little more than broken dreams now. Melancholy is an aberration of my character – though I am becoming accustomed to its presence, dark and looming, about me. I have given so much, as have many more, and yet we stare into the abyss that has opened before us. Our kingdom has reached her end and death stalks the land.

I am Eklengar of Gholdor and I was crowned here in this very hall. I ruled a people of fortitude and temerity, hewn from the Northern Mountains of Hykenfra and cast in the glory of our ancestors. We had pride, resolve and always carried honour in our great hearts.

Now, I have lost everything. No, not lost, I have given everything. I am weary from this struggle. My body is fatigued, my mind is burdened, my soul is heavy and my heart is bursting with the agony of defeat. For five long years we have fought to protect these lands. Our blood soaks the very fields for which our lives have been given. By blood shall all else be judged and we have poured out enough of ourselves. We numbered many thousands once, now we are little more than in our hundreds. We have been harassed into a corner and now, therein, we cower in the shadow.

I have lost my sons to the brutality of war; I have seen my daughters stripped and tormented. I have made many sacrifices, but no more!

This darkness shall be my refuge no more nor this silence my escape.

A lesser man might retreat into his despondency – though this fate I shall refuse. Until the last breath is torn from my chest by death’s embrace, I shall not falter, I shall rise. As the morning sun inexorably rises glorious and bold to chase away the darkness, so shall I. This is my land, this is my birthright and none but the gods shall tear that away from me!

We are the Gholdor and we shall have our vengeance...

Entrant 6 - Audacia

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A knock. A sharp, brisk, repeated knock. It came from the door of our small house downstairs. My family waited silently in the kitchen. We quickly glanced at the floor, then at each other, then back towards the ground. Mother told us to stop, look straight ahead, show no signs of emotion. I had seen the trucks driving up to our farm just moments before, the black paint glistening in the sunlight. The sound of an automobile engine has never frightened me, but to this day, I remember the sound of those large black trucks. After they pulled up next to our small home a man dressed in a grey, handsome uniform opened the door of the first truck. He slowly stepped from the vehicle, and looked toward the sky. A soft, summer rain fell upon his distinguished grey cap. He smiled. A soft, menacing, despicable grin. His dark eyes moved across the farm, upon the rolling hills and corn field, upon the shed perched upon the highest hill, and upon the small, wooden home in front of him. He moved ever so slowly towards our house. His steps were long strides. He had an aristocratic manner about him, that of a well mannered and polite individual. As he walked, he held his broad shoulders back and moved his arms to the very least. Once he approached our front door, he stopped and stared at the old, weathered door with an eerie, thoughtful look. It almost appeared as if he was contemplating a decision he was about to make, as if from the deep depths of his heart a voice was telling him to do something else than that he was about to do. Suddenly, his manner changed, and he pulled a piece of paper from his well pressed uniform. It was then, we heard the knock.

The Jewish family had come to us less than four months earlier at the insistence of my father. Friends, he said, though I had never met them before in my life. They were simple people, coming from Eastern-most France, from some town I had never heard of. No doubt a small community, and they were most definitely farmers. Despite their experience on a farm before, my father insisted they stay in the house at all times, something I could not understand. In fact, I understood very little about the Jewish family staying in our home. I did not understand why they were here. I did not understand why they did not eat our food. I did not understand why they would not work on their so called "Sabbath". However, I understood one important thing. I understood they were human beings, and that they were in danger, and that we were protecting them from an enemy I had yet to encounter. No less than four months later, I encountered that enemy.

A shout. A loud, harsh, seemingly infuriated shout. It was spoken in a language I did not understand. It sounded gruff and angry as the syllables came from the voice outside our door. Our parents did not move. They looked blankly at one another, with a solemn look of both sadness and despair. The voice behind the door shouted another time, this time to someone behind him, a shuffling of feet and the voices of men could be heard exiting their vehicles. Finally, father stood up, and stared directly at the door. It looked as though he was looking through the door, into the soul of the man on the other side. Then he walked forward, turned the doorknob, and revealed a tall, dark haired, trim-looking man. His cap was now off, his hair neatly combed to one side, and he resembled the age of about forty. The man smiled. My father did not. Immediately, conversation erupted between the two men in the same language I heard earlier. I did not know my father knew any language other than French...

I could sense the harsh tone and anger mounting in my father's voice. The other man, however, stayed perfectly calm, and smiled every so often. After ten minutes, my father yelled. He broke into his native tongue, and threw his hands toward the sky. "Why, dear God! Why have you brought this upon my family! I tried, I tried so hard to do your will, and this is what I get in return? The risks I have taken, the danger I have put my family in, are these not enough for you?" The other man turned abruptly and motioned towards his soldiers. I noticed the glint of two small pins on his collar; they resembled a pair of lightning bolts. Mother quickly grabbed us and told us move toward our quaint living room. Then, the soldiers walked in. Ten of them. Tall, dark, menacing individuals. My father put his hands over his face, he was shivering. He began to pull at his hair nervously. The soldiers looked down at the floorboards. Their officer, the man previously at our door, instructed them to tear apart our floor. Like savage beasts, they tore at the wooden planks, and threw them about our home. A large hole appeared in the floor at the center of our kitchen. The soldiers looked down. A small, black chest could be seen lying upon the ground beneath our house. A soldier climbed down, and brought it back up. He handed it to the officer, who eyed the small chest confused. He opened it, and hundreds of gold coins glittered inside the chest. "My life savings!", my father groaned. The man still looked confused, and finally looked at all of us with anger. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and splashed upon the floor. He screamed at us with venom in his voice. He walked over to my father and screamed directly in his face. Then, taking the chest with him, he walked briskly out the door and climbed inside the first truck. The other soldiers followed him. Within moments, the convoy was off, and gone from our farm.

My father looked at us with a twinkle in his eye. He smiled, and opened his arms as we embraced him. My mother finally spoke. "I will tell the Shilsky's the soldiers have finally gone", and she walked outside toward the small shed situated on the top of the highest hill.

My father put it best when he made a remark years later when asked about the situation.

"A small sacrifice to pay for the ultimate sacrifice we were prepared to endure, but one that I will never regret as long as I live."

Entrant 7 - wowbanger

Spoiler for Sacrifice:

Sacrifice

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

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

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

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

Entrant 8 - Lemoniser

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Entrant 9 - Asterix

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Samurai’s duty,

Bittersweet, Melancholy,

My life for my lord.

It is indeed a bittersweet thing for life to end. Never again to see the bright pink of a cherry blossom in bloom, the glory of a sunrise, a baby’s delightful smile. So much happiness lost in a single, cruel instant. At that moment, even the great sorrows of life seem joyful.
But duty transcends life. To have failed in duty is something a man can never be redeemed from. The disgrace is too great to be worth even a thousand years of life on this glorious earth. Every day of such a half life will be filled with the utmost shame. However, the satisfaction of fulfilling one’s duty in those final, agonizing moments will repay the pain of losing all the happiness one could experience in a million years.
When your lord asks you for your life, you give it. Without question. Your lord has given you everything-from the swords in your belt to the wife in your bed to the peace in your mind. He is wiser than you, greater than you, a purer soul than you. Why else would Buddha have made him reborn as your master? Giving your life for your lord is painful, but your pain will be repaid a thousand times. Buddha, in his Enlightenment, will give you a greater position in later life.
With this knowledge, go; devote yourself entirely to your lord’s will. Do as he says, in all things. Give your life for him, for whatever purpose he asks it for. And the gods will reward you.

The light of the moon shone through the many tears in the shoji walls of the lord’s room. The assassin’s blade had cut through it with ease, as it had cut the throats of a dozen sentries. The moonlight reflected brilliantly off the too-late blades of the guards, too far to save their lord from the assassin. The assassin threw his dagger at his target, who was still in his night robe, jerked from his sleep by the delayed alarm. The blade missed and flew through the paper walls. Cursing, the assassin pulled out his shuriken. He threw them. With perfect aim.
The lord’s wife, instantly awake from the alarm, saw them. A petite, tiny woman, she was the lord’s favorite and he was her favorite. The light caught the shuriken, and adrenaline rushed through her veins. Time seemed to slow down. She yelled, and jumped in front of her lord.
The shuriken embedded themselves in her chest, their poisoned barbs piercing her porcelain skin. The pain was agonizing. The poison seeped through her veins, burning, like liquid fire. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a strangled whisper. Her lord cried out in horror as the poison made her body convulse.
The assassin cursed even louder. The guards were but seconds away. Screaming in frustration at his utter failure, he committed his soul to Buddha. He swallowed his suicide pill. The near instant poison dulled his brain, filling him with peace. “Namu Amida Butsu,” he whispered, and died.
The woman gasped her last few breaths. Her lord wept that she had to die for him. She saw him through the blood and the mist in her eyes, and struggled to speak. Her lord kneeled over to listen, desperate to catch those last words.
“Women are samurai too.”
And she died, her duty done.

TotW 115a - The Silent City

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Winner - Audacia

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Entrant 1 - Celsius

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Entrant 2 - m_1512

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The Sack of Rome

I lived in a beautiful city. A city vibrant with light and joy. I taught our young soldiers to ride, to make our cavalry majestic. We were the greatest, our every foe bested. "Roma Victor!", with these very words our battles began and ended. We seemed to be invincible, our Empire, the greatest. And then came a prophecy, our commanders put it down to rumor, but I was unsettled still. The prophecy was thus, a terrible calamity shall come to our city and in its wake, destroy its beauty, shatter the joy, and cover its light by grim darkness.

The prophecy would hold true. Then on a fine day came a news, our mighty army has been beaten, by mere wanderers. How was this possible, our people wondered. Our commander kept his calm, ordered us to prepare, for despair would not help us. We prepared for the worst, or for what the stories told us. The fateful day arrived. Attila the Hun, the son of mars, they said would be present at the battle. Our commander roused the men, to prepare for battle. The despicable enemy is near. We set out to talk to him, I accompanied my commander. The stories said he had hunted a boar with his bare hands. Why, he looked like a boar, smelled like a boar, and even behaved like a boar.
Our commander steps forward, to put fire in our hearts, he says, "Remember this above all, the Roman Gods are watching, MAKE SURE THEY ARE NOT ASHAMED!"
The battle began. There was no chant of Roma Victor, no thrill of battle, just a sense of foreboding, and silent resignation. We fought, we bled, we killed, we died, for all that we held dear.

But it was not enough, it was as the prophecy had foretold. My commander had fallen, by the first arrow fired. My friends, dead, my shelter, burned. The barbarians had rampaged through the city. They destroyed all magnificent statues, for reasons the Lord alone knew. They razed the city to the ground, destroyed all in their path, plundered all what we had. When they were still not sated, turned their gaze towards the countryside. Away rode these barbarians, like a pack of animals, God help those poor souls.

Now I see in front of me, a sight so overwhelming. There goes the wife of a brother-in-arms, wandering around the silent ruins, looking for the father of her children. All in vain, but should I tell her?

Entrant 3 - Asterix

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DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental (or were shamelessly used because I thought it would make a good story.)

A blinding flash of light. A wave of heat that incinerates everyone within a mile, and burns everyone else. A shock wave throws people-and their houses- like rag dolls. Windows shatter instantly, sending glass in every direction and cutting everyone nearby. Paper burns ten miles away. Buildings collapse in a matter of milliseconds, crushing those inside.
The survivors stumble out of the charred shells that once were their homes. They resemble zombies-skin peeled off, horrific burns, indescribable injuries. They bleed profusely-and not just blood. Strange fluids flow out of people's wounds, horrifying everyone in sight. The terror is inescapable-thousands stumble the streets, screaming or weeping or dying. The dead lie everywhere. In piles. Their mutilated faces stare back up at those who dare look, their vacant eyes sending a horrible message of death. Their bodies are twisted and blackened. The wounded scream in agony or are silent, tortured by pain. People look desperately for their families, their friends, and water. Water, water, water. They gather in droves and look for medical help-but the doctors are dead too.
They plunge themselves in the river to cool off-several times each. The heat is an unrelenting mask of fire. Unendingly they dive in and come back out, again and again and again, without relief. Many drown, their strength sapped.
If they can still see, people take in their surroundings. The city is gone. Nothing but charred rubble and heaps of grey debris along with the bodies of the dead remain. Fires are everywhere, everywhere. In every direction one looks, a fire is burning. Unrelentingly they advance, claiming those too slow to escape. Some try to help, but they too are killed. Some notice a cloud in the sky. A bizarre cloud, unlike any seen before, in the shape of a mushroom. Huge, ominous, terrifying. Light reflects off of it in every color. It shifts and roils and menaces. The rest of the sky is dark, covered with clouds that had not been there before.
It begins to rain. A thick, black rain. It falls in huge drops and hurts people when it hits them. Desperate for water, they turn their mutilated faces up and try to drink. It does not quench their thirst. When it falls, it sticks-one could not wash it off. The city is stained black.
Agony. Sheer agony. The sights in the city are terrible. Indescribable. Not a single building remains standing in the city center. Fathers try to dig children out of the rubble, and total strangers help out. Mothers see babies die in their arms. Sisters see brothers burn to death. The damage to their bodies is horrific-most are unrecognizable. A few see a stranger die, never realizing that he was her husband, or she his wife.
Few survive the next few days. Bizarre symptoms appear and confound doctors. Hair falls out. Patients vomit blood. Most have extraordinarily high fevers. Babies are born with terrible defects. Cancer rates soar. They all die.
The city becomes nearly uninhabitable. The survivors leave the city to die somewhere else, if they have the strength. Within a few years, no one, and indeed nothing, remains.
It becomes a miserable monument to innocent dead. Even birds refuse to fly over the city; only the wind can be heard. The dignified ruins, lonely and desolate, silently protest their fate and the fate of those who died that day. However noiseless that voice may be, it is heard arond the world.

The city has fallen silent.

But it still has a voice.

Entrant 4 - matt will

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Ever heard people say that cities are alive? Well, if that’s true, then this one has died. But, walking down the silent streets, one simple question has repeatedly returned to the fore of my mind: how? How did this city die?

I guess I’ll never know.

The walls are abandoned, the streets are deserted, the buildings are empty. There is no sign of any struggle nor of any mass exodus. It’s as if everyone got up and left without any thought for their possessions or their daily lives. Beds are unmade, food is left uneaten, carts still lie on the street, abandoned.

I walk on, further into this silent city. I do not see or hear (or even smell, for that matter) anyone, dead or alive. Goose bumps crawl up my arms as I realize just how alone I am. The wind whistles through the cobbled streets and between the stone buildings. Apart from this, everything is silent. I reach what must be the centre of the city; a big open space, surrounded by temples on all sides. I tentatively approach what must be the main temple (it’s certainly the biggest and most opulent). The large oak doors stand slightly ajar. Darkness streams out. I nervously push the door open and enter...

The only light is a thin beam that hits and reflects off of the golden altar. The thought of something so beautiful just left there makes me shiver. It's at this moment that I decide to leave... fast. I turn and start running. I run and run, back through the central plaza, through the empty streets and past the abandoned walls. I expect that at any moment a ghostly hand will grab me and I will be trapped with the people of the city. This does not happen and I breathe a sigh of relief as I make it out of the city. I sit down outside the ghost-city and rest for a few minutes and then begin to walk away, towards the setting sun. I think I’ll keep going and sleep by the roadside tonight. Yeah... that seems like a good idea. And tomorrow, who knows?

Ever heard people say that cities are alive? Well, if that’s true, then this one has died.

I guess I never will find out how and, to be honest, I don’t think I want to.

Entrant 5 - Lorem Ipsum

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Entrant 6 - DarkMagi

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Entrant 7 - Stilicone

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Entrant 8 - R-teen

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**Dance** · May 30, 2013, 11:07 AM

TotW 116a - My Best Day

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Winner - Celsius

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This was my inspiration

It was a Sunday, October 8, 2004, and I helped my Dad pack his things. I made sure he took one of my toys so he could play with it in the sand with his friends. My mom had cooked supper, and we sat down to eat. I didn't really know where he was going, but it sounded fun. That nite, he kissed my mom and picked me up and said "Dad has to go play in the sand for a while". I had no idea how long that "while" would be, but it couldn't be more than a few days. Weeks had passed, and I asked my mom everyday if Dad was home, or if he was on his way. I even asked if he had gotten lost in the sand, and if he did, he could use my toy truck to drive home. She laughed, with a tear following.

Before I knew it, it was April 17, 2005. My 7th birthday. Dad was still not home. I was sad and upset, but Mom gave me a letter from him. She read it to me, saying that "he was going to be in the sand a little while longer". That night, I wrote him a letter. I put my toy fighter plane in a box and wrote on a piece of paper "Fly Home". My Mom mailed it the next day. It gave me some comfort, and I didn't think about it for a while.

It was a year since my Dad left. I asked my Mom now and again if he was coming home. If he was still lost. Did he get my plane? Was it broken? She just told me he would be home soon. I didn't sleep a wink. Everyday was a surprise. I would get up and look out my window to see if I saw anything that might have just told me he was home. That lasted for weeks until I just gave up.

But on February 3, 2006, my Mom said she had a surprise for me. I didn't really notice anything, or even suspect what it was. We got in the car and drove to the Airport. I had no idea what an airport even was at the time, so I didn't know what to expect. We got out and waited. There were tons of people, and I was nervous. Then my mom squatted down and pointed someone out to me. I looked in that direction, and started crying. I ran with all my heart, not even noticing the other people. My Dad knelt down and hugged me tight. He had finally found his way home from the sand.

Entrant 1 - m_1512

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My Best Day, Possibly.

The best day of my life?
What do I say?
My life has been a saga of struggles and achievements. To which day should I confer this honor of being the best day. It is like to pick the best rose out of a beautiful garden.
But I shall pick one.

My first battle.What a thrill it was. All the education, endless reading, finally put to use. But there was a moment when I thought that all was over. That I should go down in history as a valiant hero, who died fighting. But Fate willed otherwise. I was victorious, not only with the enemy facing, but also the enemy within the ranks. My nemesis, an antagonistic rival. I looked into his eyes, "Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever."
Soon, I would repay him with his misery.

My Rise to Power. There was this time, when I did seek power, but to serve my Nation, and it's people. I had almost lost that day. Fortunately, my brother had a stroke of brilliance. I got what I sought. True, it was my brother's presence that saved the day. But it would have not been successful, had I not my past achievements.

First Taste of Glory. My influence grew. I took a title. A title so mystical in roots, so inexplicable, that all shall bask under it's glory. I did not bow, nor did I kneel, but I took the crown right from the hands of man who was so powerful few centuries ago. I crowned myself Emperor. Soon I would conquer for glory, of my Empire, and it's illustrious people.

But I had one woe. Whom shall I hand over these worldly riches?
To a Courtier? Surrounded in intrigues and plots.
To a Relative? Narcissistic and cared for nothing but their own whims and popularity.
To the Old Nobility? With their rotten habits had decayed their Nation.
To the Mob? Back to chaos and reigns of terror.

Non, I needed an heir.
My own blood. A son, to cradle, to shower affection, to enjoy the riches from my labors.
The time has come, late, but nevertheless has come. I await the moment.
The cannons salute away,
*Boom*
*Boom*
*Boom*
*Boom*
*Boom*
They echo throughout the city.
Twenty one so far, the city hold its breath.
Twenty two.
The city erupts in joy. It's a boy, the Empire has a heir.
The grooms are surprised, for they see tears in my eyes. It is true, this is indeed a best day.

I shall name my son, Napoleon Francis, The King of Rome.

The End.

Entrant 2 - StealthEvo

Spoiler for Entry:

Everything is perfect there my Brother, it really is. The water is clear, I'm not talking about how near the Inlets around Hawaii are clear with a ocean tinge. This was like looking into glass, from an angle is was so still it was like a mirror. You get me?

Chase and I had been doing some hiking there last Fall, You know from Picnic Point; North of Lynnwood on 525. Yeah. Thats right. Either way we'd found this perfect little track heading straight onto Serene. Not down the sheer edge but the Southern bank. So we'd loaded up the truck and headed that way again. In the snow it was a tougher walk. Yet the frozen landscape made that hike all the more worth it. When we got to the lake. It took my breathe away. Chase should have some photos you know. So we set up camp a few hundred metre's from the Southern Bank we'd found an old camp sight we used in Fall and decide to go have a look at the unbeaten pathways. Standard stuff really.

It's been years since I was hiking in Boulder so I wasn't so used to hiking in the white stuff. And it was just one little slip. Next thing I know I'm like hovering in mid air. Twisting. All my eye's could see was Serene and it was perfect. Everything seemed to make sense. Yet it was so slow. By the time I felt the ground everything blacked out. Next thing I remember was noise, dimmed slightly and a man in fluro colours asking if I could feel this. Bad end to a perfect day, no perfect week. I'm sorry that I didn't get to call you last week man. Just wasn't in the cards. Tell Mum I'll be home for Christmas in about two weeks. I should be out of here in a day or two.

Mark "Coast" Hallam.

It is with great regret Mr Jacob Hallam that I forward this last corrospondance to you. Shortly after asking one of the Orderlies to post this for him. Mark went into Cardiac arrest following respiratory failure and circulatory shock which was ultimately caused by the severe trauma due to the severity of the injury sustained to Marks Cranium. In the end despite a lengthy period of surgery and resuscitation attempts by the surgery team. It proved ultimately unsuccessful and Mark passed at 19:37 Pm 08/12/2009. Please accept my sincerest apologies for this tragic loss of such a young life and so close to the holidays as well.

Yours...

Entrant 3 - Asterix

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Just a flick of a foot. A jerk of the knee. And glory will be yours forever.
Just a leap of the body. A thrust of the arm. And glory will be yours forever.
Yours forever.
Never mind the fact that millions of people are watching, waiting, praying that you succeed.
Never mind the millions more who are watching, waiting, praying that you fail.
Never mind.
Forget the fact that you want this more than anything in the world.
Forget the fact you have spent years working towards this goal and that all of it will be futile if you fail.
Forget that.
Don’t think about the happiness and glory that will be yours if you succeed.
Don’t think about the regret and shame and anger and despair that will be the result if you don't.
Don’t think.
So easy to do this right and achieve what you want more than anything in the world.
So easy to do this wrong and forever wish you had done something different at that singular moment.
So easy.

She walks up to the line. It was but a few feet, but she felt it was the longest walk someone could ever take. Her heart pounds in her chest like a cannon firing. It pounds with the millions of others, watching, waiting. Sound fades away. Deep, calming breaths fail to take away the near panic boiling in her veins. She remembers all the way this could go wrong. So many ways to do it wrong, and so few to do it right. The woman in front of her is thinking the same things, she knew. The same pressures were on her, the same things going through her head. But only one could succeed.
The screams and cheerings of the hysterical fans dies down. Nothing but the blood pounding in her head remains. Her mind goes blank as the other girl runs up. Her foot hits the ball. It goes flying.
Straight into the net.
Suddenly the sound comes roaring back, cheering, screaming, roaring into her ears. Realization came next. She had failed. The agonizing feeling of disappointment rushes in, not the warmth of success she had been praying for. She looks at her teammates-they are stunned, silent. She stares at the ball that ended everything, lying in the corner, staring at her mockingly. She wanted to kick and scream and cry in despair, but she had no strength to do so.
The cup was raised. It was her cup. It should be hers. She had put so much work into getting it. A feeling of indescribable regret.
Her worst day.

She walks up to the line. It was but a few feet, but she felt it was the longest walk someone could ever take. Her heart pounds in her chest like a cannon firing. It pounds with the millions of others, watching, waiting. Sound fades away. Deep, calming breaths fail to take away the near panic boiling in her veins. She remembers all the way this could go wrong. So many ways to do it wrong, and so few to do it right. The woman in front of her is thinking the same things, she knew. The same pressures were on her, the same things going through her head. But only one could succeed.
The screams and cheerings of the hysterical fans dies down. Nothing but the blood pounding in her head remains. Her mind goes blank as she runs up. Her foot hits the ball. It goes flying.
Straight into the net.
Suddenly the sound comes roaring back, cheering, screaming, roaring into her ears. Realization came next. She had done it! She had done it! Relief cascaded over her like a waterfall, the cool rush of adrenaline leaving the body, replaced by a feeling of ecstatic joy. Her teammates hug her and cry and scream and laugh, caught up in that same feeling. She glances at the ball that had ended everything, looking at her with a smile. She wanted to kick and scream and cry in elation, and she did.
The cup was raised. It was her cup. It should be hers. She had put so much work into getting it. A feeling of indescribable joy.
Her best day.

TotW 117a - Into the Beach

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Winner - m_1512

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Entrant 1 - Asterix

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It was time.

After three years, a breach. Years of endless bombardment by catapults and trebuchets and ballista had failed to have any effect on this seemingly invincible city wall, the projectiles simply bouncing off, broken and useless. However, a new weapon, a fire-breathing, thunder-sounding, demonic weapon from hell, bought at massive expense from strange, devil-eyed merchants speaking the devil's language, had burst asunder the wall in a week. Working it was a dangerous and often fatal task, the iron-cast hoops exploding at random. Men who had fought in a dozen battles, defeated foes twice their number, who had stared death straight in the eye and come out on top, feared having to work this satanic device. Some of my finest soldiers had been killed by it. But I did not care.
Because there was finally a breach.

The city had defied my iron will for three years, sitting arrogantly on a hill, backed by a cliff on three sides that dropped a thousand feet into the sea. Every morning I awoke to the sight of its towers staring mockingly at me, laughing at the many futile attempts I had made to storm it. The land between my camp and the city walls had become a favorite feeding ground for carrion birds, and lush green grass grew in abundance, the dead bodies of my men a macabre natural fertilizer.

My men had once loved me; they had followed me into hell and back countless times, using only inspiration and desperation to get out. Now, after this inglorious siege, in which a full quarter of my army had perished for no purpose other than to satisfy my own grim fury, they hated me. They only kept fighting for me for two reasons. Firstly, they hated this city as much as I did, having seen thousands of their brethren killed. Secondly, they know I am the only man on Earth who can defeat those people.

But today the towers looked at me with fear. For today they knew that the city they guarded would fall.

The breach was not large, a mere twenty feet or so wide. The rubble that clogged it would make for difficult fighting, but if even a single man could get inside, hundreds more would pour in. Then my revenge would begin.
I looked at the army before me. There were eighty-thousand soldiers there, eager for blood and for terror and for the thrill of the conquest. Most had been mere boys when they had joined my army, told false stories of glory and romance, foolishly eager to be in the front lines, barely knowing which way to hold the sword that was too heavy for them. Now, if they had survived, they were transformed into battle-hardened, thick-skinned veterans who could kill half a dozen men inside a minute without breaking a sweat.

The pennants of the individual companies and regiments and battalions flew strong in the wind. I stood on a slight hill in front of them all, a mile or so from the city. I look at the towers, smiling as only a man knowing his ultimate revenge is about to be accomplished can smile.

My voice had given a hundred rousing speeches before a battle, boiling my men’s blood with fury and courage, inspiring them to superhuman feats. However, I only had three words for them today.

The drums started up the cadence. The officers called their companies to attention. The trumpets sounded the advance. With a voice so loud the heavens themselves may have heard something, I yelled,

“INTO THE BREACH!”

A century later, another army, with another vengeful general, gazed upon another city. This army was of that city that had been raped and pillaged and destroyed and then rose like a phoenix out of the ashes. It had come to take its revenge.

The two cities had been enemies for that entire time. The enmity was now so old and deep the two sides were beyond reconciliation. The only way it could end was the total, complete, utter annihilation of one side.

Today would be that day.

The general in command of the besieging army remembered the horrors he had endured as a child. He had watched his own parents killed by the enemy, then he had been left to die in the cold, only to be raised a slave by a cruel citizen of the other city, suffering countless whippings and horrors and near starvations, finally escaping in a mad, suicidal dash in which he had killed his first man at the age of ten. He allowed his blood to boil in his veins, his eyes clouding with fury. He had vowed to his mentor three decades ago to destroy this city entirely, to kill all of its people, and never allow it to rise again. He was going to fulfill that vow, and the vows of his people today. He gave the terrible order. He hoped and prayed it would be the last time anyone would ever have to utter the words except in legends and stories.

“INTO THE BREACH!”

Entrant 2 - teccarphi

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Entrant 3 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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“All Hail the King of Heaborg, Badshah of the Northern Desert and Lord of the Southlands, Ruler of All and Subject to None, Conqueror of Emperor Trian III, God Amongst Men.”
The men sang praise upon Him, their God-King. He was sent to them by the Beyond and the Heavens, and They maintained Him. He was undefeatable, both wise and cunning, and He had led them to this moment. None there could protest Him, no action of His was questioned. If He deemed the massacre necessary, then They had willed it to be so and allowed it to pass. To disobey was sin. So these people died, their great warriors overwhelmed, their temples burned, their livestock butchered and their fields sown with salt. Their children did not even become slaves; they too were burned and butchered.
All but one. One of their people had survived, and now he waited. He watched the false god walk the streets of the once grand city that had been his home. He had managed to kill a soldier who entered his home, and now he wore the garb of those he hated. When the false god would turn a corner, so would he. The survivor walked just fast enough to gain on the invader, just slow enough to avoid suspicion. So he progressed. The sword at his side felt heavy, the helmet was stifling his view. But they were necessary. He could not reveal himself, and he needed a tool for the dirty work he had ahead. He neared the invader. He was no more than three strides behind him now. The false god stopped. This was his chance. He drew his weapon and ran, his only thought being to prove the falsity of this man’s immortality. The invader had no bodyguard, so arrogant was he. The survivor would die, but if he killed the heathen, it would gain meaning.
The God-King turned when he heard the sound of the sword being drawn. He saw the soldier swing down towards Him, and just before the moment of impact, He grabbed the blade with His gauntlet. He pulled it from the assassin’s hands and threw it to the ground. His soldiers were on their way now.
“Have him thrown from the tallest tower in the city. If his god will save him, then he deserves to live.”
Such was Their word. Such was His will.

Entrant 4 - 'Gunny

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Entrant 5 - Sandos

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Thunder rolled in the distance, now and again close enough to drown out the insistent clanging of heavy rains falling on armored bodies. The night was an oppressive dark black in every direction except the small refuges of wavering light cast by the lanterns atop the walls, creating a line of small yellow dots up in the sky. The only weak substitute for stars this night would offer.

Standing in the first file of the Greenguard, first sergeant Erwin Umnell silently watched that small band of flickering stars with a hand raised above his eyes to keep the furious rains from blinding him. He counted seven, in total. Four to the right and three to the left of the big dark patch in the middle. That's where the large breach in the wall was, just in front of him. The night beyond it seemed even more oppressive than the dark inside the walls, somehow more menacing. Dark of intent as well as presence.

And dark of intent it was. Hiding within that blackness was the force which had besieged them these long months, the force who had patiently dug beneath their walls to make this hole in their armor, a hole they soon intended to stick a sword through. And all of this out of jealousy and spite. That was what stung the most. His wife, Adie, and his daughters, killed in one of the outlying villages by the advancing army before they could get away, for nothing other than jealousy and spite. Once their trusted neighbors, the Trenton had traded and lived in peace with the Geldorians, his people, but as time passed they had grown increasingly envious of the wealth and prosperity of their neighbors and when suddenly Geldor was severely weakened by another war, a war protecting not only themselves but also Trenton from conquest, they had cowardly thrust this dagger in their backs. They now owed him a blood debt, and he intended to collect. With interest. Oh, Adie..

An arrow abruptly zipped past his left cheek and hit a man further behind instead, raising a scream of pain through the night. More came, adding to the howls of agony and the sound of metal hitting the ground as men fell. Out of the darkness shapes stormed through the breach, hefting large battle-axes and bellowing warcries in their rounded tongue. So, the time was finally there at last. Slipping his sword free of its scabbard, he let the rage and sorrow of his lost loved ones course through him, leaving the restraints he had put on them behind. With a howl of rage he ran for the breach, surrendering completely to the vengeance burning in his chest. He was fury incarnate, and he had come to collect his debt.

Within this rage and sorrow and bloodlust a place inside of him suddenly went still as a winter pond. A thought sprung out of the stillness. "Adie, my love, we will soon be together again.."

TotW 118a - The Face Behind the Helmet

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Winner - Darkan

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The face behind the helmet

The roar of the crowd was getting louder with each step the tall figure took towards the iron gates, leaving behind him a long, dark corridor.

“Death, death, death...” they shouted. After a few moments the crowd exploded into an enormous cheer, a clear sign that the one they so easily sentenced had been killed. Savages, he thought, and they call us uncivilized barbarians.

He would be next to enter the arena, along with others, in order to entertain these savage Romans whom he despised. He knew not what awaited him, for each battle was different. He had fought against giant beasts with tusks so large they could impale two or three men at a time, against black, ferocious bears, he had killed giant catlike creatures, some with large manes, others striped or spotted, he had even faced a large, black humanoid ape, he had fought outnumbered, against scores of warriors, against champions from other cities...he had fought a great many times and he had always emerged victorious... The Dacian Wolf they called him, one of the deadliest gladiators Arretium had seen. Today he would be the Wolf once more, here in Rome, for that is what they all expected of him, either to kill or to be killed.

He closed his eyes, going to a distant time and place, as he did before every fight. He found himself back home, where he had spent his happiest times. The sun stood high upon the sky, its rays caressing his face, the slight breeze cooling his face. He could smell the wheat crops and as he watched round he could see his kinsmen working in the fields, old and young together, side by side. He heard them singing, as they always sang when harvesting the crops, he heard the children’s laughter as they ran around playing. Beyond the fields were the forests he used to hunt in, where he and his beloved would meet to be away from prying eyes. He could also see the small stream where he taught his son how to catch fish. A small child ran towards him laughing, his arms stretched out. Behind him, a long haired woman followed with a goatskin full of water in her hands, water spilling from it, the drops splattering against the dry earth and then disappearing in a blink of an eye. They were his family, they were the light of his eyes...they were no more.

“...before you now, from Arretium, from the wild north, to oppose our great champion, comes The Dacian Wolf, slayer of beasts.” The hissing and disapproval of the crowd awoke him from his memory. The gates opened and a tall, ironclad mountain of a man walked into the arena, gripping his falx tightly, with his black wolf helmet spreading only terror and fear. Behind the helmet, the man kept his eyes closed, fixed upon an image that only he knew, that only he would ever know.

Entrant 1 - Asterix

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

The private was running. His entire unit was racing for the top of a hill, desperate to secure it before the Rebels got there first and shot them down at leisure. All around them were the scenes of a battle. As the private ran, a few disjointed and panicky thoughts flew through his head: how horrible war was, would he get out of here alive, how could God allow such a thing to happen. He saw men running like him, fleeing the fighting or going straight into it, and saw them blown apart by cannon, their mutilated remains falling to the earth seconds later. Bodies were strewn everywhere, scattered where the fighting had been less intense but in dense pockets where it had been desperate, all horrifically disfigured, some still, but most screaming and writhing and bleeding, while thousands upon thousands of men ran around or over them, paying no attention to the friend or brother who lay still on the ground. Rifle fire was constant, unending, killing at random, and the private was horribly aware there was no way to protect yourself from it. Smoke filled the air, blurring everything slightly, or maybe it was terror. All around, solid lines of men were firing their guns, and here and there some luckless bastard fell to ground, his body quickly kicked aside when the line reformed. The fire of the cannon was another terrible constant, louder, much louder, most people deaf by now. It shook the ground mercilessly, throwing men off balance, the craters the spent balls created yet another obstacle to overcome, all the while knowing that one could hit you at any second and there was nothing you could do about it. Fear consumed the private, red hot fear, threatening to paralyze him, and he only kept moving by the knowledge that the only way to survive was to keep running, capture the hill, don’t allow the Rebels to get there first, otherwise you will die…

The climb up the hill nearly burst his lungs, his legs working like pistons, the rifle he carried now as heavy as the world on Atlas’s shoulders. His blue Yank uniform was rank with mud and sweat and blood and God knows what else. He was baking hot inside it, his body screaming for a drink of water, a rest, his mother to comfort him, to tell him everything was going to be all right…

Finally he reached the crest of the hill, a unit of Rebels still struggling up. The order to load was given. It barely registered inside the panicked brain of the private, who mechanically unslung his rifle, poured the powder in, shoved the bullet into the muzzle, every action feeling like he was moving the earth, he was so dead tired. The Rebels were doing the same, so close you could see the fear in their eyes, both sides knowing that whoever loaded and fired first would survive and the other side would die, so simple and so stupid. This realization made fingers fumble, monumental oaths filling the air as men cursed themselves for dropping their powder, their gun, their marbles.
After what seemed like an age the order to fire was given. The private shut his eyes tightly and fired, the recoil making his bones shake, the crack of so many dozens of guns barely reaching his nearly deaf ears. He opened his eyes to see many a Rebel soldier writhing in pain or lying still on the ground, the others looking in horror at what a single volley could wreak.

Suddenly a man dropped to the private’s right. Staring in shock, the private registerd that the man was dead, the eyes staring blankly up at the sky. Horror and then blinding fury instantly filled the private’s heart where previously paralyzing fear had resided. The man who had died had been a friend, a companion, a man who breathed, laughed, smoked, drank, lived, and all that had been robbed blindly by some Rebel bastard. Suddenly he hated them all; all these grey uniformed Southerners who had started this war, forced him to fight here, see men die, see his friend die. He wanted, no, needed, to kill one of them. With lightning speed he reloaded his rifle and fired it, without orders. Through the smoke, he saw a man drop, his grey Rebel uniform staining red. Roaring in triumph, he loaded again, oblivious to the furious cries of his officer ordering him to stop. He fired again, and another man dropped stone-dead.
His comrades quickly started to join him, letting out their fear by killing the hated Rebels. Never mind that the men they were killing were their own countrymen, that the entire reason for the war was to bring these Rebels back into the Union, to repair damage done by secession, not to further it by killing without reason. The officer was screaming, roaring for order, to no avail; the men were being carried away by bloodlust, that terrible feeling that could undo an army inches away from victory.

The private charged down the hill, a terrifying grin on his face, his bayonet reflecting the sun and blinding the Rebels. They turned tail and ran, to whoops of triumph from the Yanks. The private took aim at a grey-clothed back and fired, the bullet hitting its target instantly. While the rest of his unit outstripped him, the private stayed back to see the body.

The man was still alive, but barely. He lay on his stomach, his breath coming out in a raspy gurgle, trying to scream but only able to gasp. His grey Rebel uniform was stained with blood, the crimson blossoming from the middle of his back and spreading fast. The private got a base pleasure from seeing his prey like this, in pain, dying. He wanted to look the man in the eyes and see the fear in them, to witness the man begging futilely for mercy, to make sure the man knew the private had killed him. With a savage glee the private turned the man over.

And screamed.

The face was disfigured with fear and desperate terror, the eyes crazed, blood pouring from the mouth, cuts and bruises everywhere. But it was an unmistakable face, one the private knew better than his own. The eyes of the dying man quickly changed from panic to horrified recognition. Both men’s eyes locked, the same expression of horror on both their faces. Cries of revulsion and denial burst from the private’s mouth, and he shook the other man vigorously, for what reason he did not know. The private begged his victim not to die, to live, slapping him on the face to try and bring back the life that had seconds ago slipped away, the eyes frozen in that same look of horror. For minutes the private stayed like that, going mad, truly mad, while all around him men died and cannon fired and the battle raged.

Finally coming to his senses, the private got up. Tears streamed from his face. Not tears of sorrow, but tears of rage. Rage at the world, the cruel world, this idiotic war, rage at God for sending him here, at this place, at this time, and for the twist of fate that would destroy him.

Yelling in his immense fury, his face contorted in rage, he ran. He ran straight into the fiercest part of the battle, the bullets whizzing past, the cannonballs inches from blasting him to pieces. The private ran and ran, without thought to his own safety. His comrades thought him mad, but did not risk trying to save him. His enemies pitied him and let him run, waiting for him to be shot by some other less kind man.

He was. A bullet ripped through his stomach, and the pain was worse than anyone could imagine-a slamming, all pervading pain that hit without warning, without remorse, from which there was no escape. Feeling like he had been hit by a freight train, the private fell to the ground, screaming in agony and fury and despair. Blood flowed out of him like a small river, staining the grass red. He writhed and screamed and struggled, to no avail. The private’s agonized scream became quieter, softer, but no less terrible to hear, and his struggles were less violent, less energized, but no less sad to see. Finally both ceased. No one noticed. The battle raged on, the world kept turning, the death of a single madman too insignificant to make it pause.

Days later, units from the victorious army collected their dead. They picked up the private, just another dead body among the thousands more, identified him by the crude dogtag he carried in his back pocket, and laid him in a temporary grave nearby. The same unit travelled back to collect more dead but stopped to examine something. It was a grey uniformed Rebel, a man they normally would have ignored, if not for a singular thing. The Rebel’s face was like seeing a ghost-he looked almost exactly like the private just put to rest. Searching his pockets, they found another crude dog tag. Small murmurs of surprise, double-takes, when they read the name.

"Interesting," remarked one of the men.

"Perhaps," said another.

"Well, my friends, this truly is a war between brothers, is it not?"

Entrant 2 - Sandos

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Scarred.
That was probably the way his face was described when he was not there to hear it. Or grisly. Perhaps even gruesome. He could see it in people’s eyes the few times he was on leave amongst civilians. The uneasy shifting of gazes as they searched for a spot on his face on which to look without coming off as staring at his scars were more telling than if they had stood pointing at his face with their mouths hanging open, drooling on themselves.

Precious few were those who would look him in the eye without flinching or backing down.

And no wonder. There were few enough amongst the rugged men under his command who dared meet his gaze. Even in the ranks of the soldiers there were those who would put their eyes to the ground rather than face the harshly ridged and rocky landscape of a face framing the two deep, piercingly cold, ice-blue ponds which were his eyes.
But perhaps they could be excused. Perhaps. Many of them had been told tales about how he had come to acquire these morbid trophies he wore on his face. Stories more often than not embellished to the point of absurdity. For instance, the scar running from his left ear then in across the cheek and down under his chin in a small crescent shape was supposedly from a fight with a dragon, of all things. And the jagged, roughly healed scar over the right temple continuing a few fingers into what used to be his straight hairline had presumably been given him in a duel against a half-giant from Amadea.

Now, really?

The man sure had been large, but there was no duel about it. Just a coincidence meeting in the middle of a savage melee conducted between his army and theirs. That he had carved out the man’s heart in the middle of battle and then held it aloft in the air screaming in bloodlust at the top of his lungs while covered from head to toe in his dead adversary’s still warm blood, well.. He might have gotten himself slightly carried away on that one.

Perhaps his reputation was not so misguiding after all. Perhaps. Today would definitely put it to the test. Cornered and outnumbered at least five to one, he had but one chance left to save his life and the lives of his men. In a situation like this, you had to do the only thing the enemy would not be expecting. Full blown all out attack through the middle of their force. Catch them by surprise, cut a path out of the deathtrap before they had a chance to circle you in.

The afternoon wind moaned lazily over the sparsely forested hills as he pulled down his faceguard over a face barren of places worthy of guarding.
Into the fray again then, it seems.. This time, let’s give them a story they won’t have need to embellish.

Entrant 3 - Celsius

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Entrant 4 - m_1512

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The Masked Antagonists

Ah... those antagonists.
Who are they? I cannot tell, for they are masked.

I have been dogged before. I was bested, for things large and trivial. I was naive then. I thought that I could trust all, believe in humanity, ignore the saying that there are nemesis, in mask of friends or strangers. I concluded, I could not. I was naive still.

Was there no longer any Chivalry in this world? A question that I had often asked, with answers unique, but similar. They come, kick you between your legs, roll credits. There I had decided, No! there was not any. Chivalry had long died with the knights that cherished it. I already told, I was naive then.

It could be your friend, or one pretending to. They would want to take all that you desire. Fall in love, they would be after her. They would not care if you are hurt. They would laugh of it, while sympathize at your face. You find a dream career, they would come, all smiles, and steal from you. Your hard effort, your rewards for those, and soon all. Then I quoted, never trust anybody. The world rewards only those, not true men. But it was not exactly true, or the complete truth of life, for I was naive then.

The Truth? It is never revealed completely, or at once. We learn of it, bit by bit.
No Chivalry left? There is, if you are Chivalrous. You would soon befriend fellow knights. There lies faith, in Lord, or in Life, where all things run in a precise course.
But what of the other things? I learned that we must believe in Karma. That all things that we do or are done to us have consequences. That is where we can decide how to live, lose faith or believe in good. For, if you are good, Providence would reinforce you with similar allies.

I may be naive still, perhaps. But I will learn, believe, and overcome.
For I can be assured, and you can be too. An excerpt from a Holy Book says,
What has happened, has happened for good.
What is happening, is happening for good.
What will happen, will be for good.

TotW 119a - Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold

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Winner - Legio

Spoiler for Eh, why not tbh.:

Entrant 1 - Darkan

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Entrant 2 - Aonghus G. Friedhold

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Entrant 3 - Nazgûl Killer

Spoiler for Memoirs of an Aching Heart:

I couldn't get her out of my mind as I tossed away another notebook filled with grades from her High-School days into the trash, feeling a little pinch in my heart go along with it. I looked at the room around me, appearing too vacant to be true. I was on my knees, looking for the answer, surrounded by torn papers, old books and notebooks, and dozens of different belongings, she had always been a hoarder.
"Honey...?" A warm old lady had peered through the half-closed door, with a sympathetic look in her eyes; "You don't have to do this honey, I can handle it" She said with a sad smile.
"It's all right Mrs. Valentine, I got it. I need it" I said pleadingly, I needed the closure.
"As you wish sweetie. There's warm soup in the kitchen if you want to eat" She said, smiling heartily.
"Yes ma'am. I'll be right out, it shouldn't take me too long" I said, not looking at her anymore, but gazing at the book in my hand. A dusty old book, I wiped off the dust with my hand to reveal the inscription; "Homer's Illiad"... She had always been so enthusiastic about Mythology.
As Mrs. Valentine left the room I was once again alone in the darkness, surrounded by memories, by her smell and by her belongings; "What am I doing here...?" I asked aloud.
"Why am I here?" I inquired again.
"Because you love me" Shirli then said, sitting on her bed and smiling at me.
"I know that... But why? Why can't I let go?" I asked her, looking at her piercing blue eyes.
She smiled at me. "Time is your best friend, that is what you always told me" She said quietly. She looked absolutely dashing in her uniform, a proper Marine she is.
"Yeah. I guess it is. I remember I told you that through your basic training all the time over the phone, you were a wreck" I said, chuckling, looking at her through dazed eyes.
"Yeah, I was a wreck all-right." She said, smiling. "Basic training was Hell, a Hell only a few could suffer" She said with pride, puffing her chest and broadening her shoulders.
"Of course" I quickly reassured her. She had always been so proud and even cocky sometimes. I loved it.
I got up to my feet and took the garbage bag in hand, all of her notebooks, her notes, everything was there. I had taken the other bag of 'storage' belongings with me and put the two outside of the room. I then moved back into the room and took the small bag of belongings she once had, her pins, her beret, her uniform and her flag. I knew she loved herself as a Marine. And a proper Marine she is.

I left the room then, looking at her one last time, her soft face smiled at me one last time as I head out, I closed the door slowly behind me, the gloomy, empty room echoing what I had thought was 'Goodbye'.
"Are you all done, dear?" Mrs. Valentine asked, sitting on her couch in the living room, gazing at me as I put the garbage bag next to me.
"Yes ma'am. I had put the storage bag in the attic, I'll be taking this down to the dumpster" I said, acting busy for some reason.
"No honey... Don't throw these out. Those are for me" Mrs. Valentine said, smiling.
"Yes ma'am" I said, taking my own bag and preparing to leave.
"Oh, honey!" Mrs. Valentine exclaimed, and I turned to her, just in time to see her approaching me to embrace me in a warm, loving hug. I hugged her back and could feel a tear running down my cheek.
"Don't, honey, don't" Mrs. Valentine said, breaking the embrace and looking at me, wiping the tear off. "She would want you to have this" She shoved a picture of Shirli at me.
"Mrs. Valentine, I couldn't..." I said, feeling embarrassed.
"Nonsense. You come and visit dear, and have a safe trip home" Mrs. Valentine smiled her hearty, comforting smile.
"Will you be all right ma'am?" I asked one last time.
"I'll be fine" She said, ushering me out the door. "Thank you honey. Come and visit now!" She said, closing the door behind me as I stood now on the porch, heading out.

I started walking toward my car, surrounded by flowers and green all over the garden outside the house. I looked back to the house one last time and there she was, Shirli, waving to me with her amazing uniform. I smiled and sniffed one last time, I waved her goodbye and walked back to my car. A proper Marine she was.

Entrant 4 - Diamat

Spoiler for No Title:

**Dance** · May 30, 2013, 11:37 AM

Tale of the Week - REVAMPED
The introduction of 5 keywords and word maximum
December 22, 2011

TotW 120 - The Revenge of Christmas

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Winner - Nazgûl Killer

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"The sheer thought of combat always excited me. Shooting someone, killing someone... Some people say I'm crazy, but would you rather fight against a crazy man, or alongside one?" He said, chuckling.
The rest of the soldiers around the campfire joined his laughter but with meaningful looks, they all then realized how crazy he was. What they didn't realize, was that they are exactly as crazy as he is.
"And what are you here for, o' Shakespeare?" He asked Bryan, the lad to my left.
"Shakespeare? Well, I was never called that before" He said, smiling. "I'm here... Well, I'm here for my country. I love my country. I love my flag, and I could think of no better service to my country than to fight its wars... Heck, I wouldn't even mind getting a little medal now and then" He said proudly. The group looked at him for a while, some of them snuffling down laughter, until we all burst into laughter together. I just looked at him, stood up and gestured with my hands toward the endless desert around us, yelling;
"You call this serving your country!?" I bellowed with laughter; "You want to serve, but you've been sent to a hellhole buddy!" I continued my frantic laughter. He smiled.
"All the same. I'm here for my country" He said with calm reassurance. Somewhere deep down inside, that's what we were all there for. "What are you here for then, Sarge?" He asked me inquisitively.
I took my seat again around the fire and smiled, I looked at the fire and suddenly found myself engulfed in thoughts. My friends looked at me intently. "Well?!" Someone asked impatiently.
"I'm here for her" I said dramatically. They all looked at me, never realizing that their sergeant could have someone waiting for him back home. "I'm here for her. I remember spending night and day at bootcamp, cursing my Drill Sergeant, wanting to kill my CO, and just cry myself to sleep every night... But I thought about her just then. And all thought of quitting or giving up flew away from my mind... I thought of her... She's the one who always backed me up, trusted me, loved me... She's the one that I bled for, slept in a foxhole for... She's the one I would do everything for. She's the one I would come back home to... I never loved one like her" I said, smiling. They were silent this time.
"Who is she?"
I smiled.

Entrant 1 - Darkan

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

Gerwin of Sa’ar

...
The camp was quiet; almost all the soldiers were asleep in their tents, except for the sentries that were patrolling along the outer defenses. The night was dark, the moon hidden behind black, heavy clouds and the winter wind blew the snow against the tents, makeshift stables and palisades.

A silent, hooded silhouette crept through the camp, avoiding the light and keeping to the shadows. It hadn’t been too difficult to get past the sentries; they were tired and far too cold to actually go more than twenty steps away from their fires. He moved swiftly, seemingly untouched by the freezing cold, his green eyes shining like emeralds in the dark.
His target was near, the tent located in the center of the camp, where the commander, Gerwin of Sa’ar probably slept undisturbed. Two guards made him stop, holding his breath, so that the steam of his breathing wouldn’t betray his position. He got down, hiding himself behind a small cart as the two soldiers went past him, talking about their misfortune.
He waited until they were out of sight and moved on, treading more carefully. He got closer to the large tent and stopped again, looking for a way to go unseen around five soldiers that were huddled around a large campfire. Three of them were talking in low voices, a fourth one was tending to a large pot apparently filled with wine, filling cups and passing them on and turning a few hares over the fire, their raw meat sending inviting smells as it cooked. The last of the men was asleep beneath several wolf skins, using an old, and battle worn saddle as a pillow.
He stepped lightly; staying away from the reach of the fire’s light and left the soldiers behind, now entirely focused on the large tent. He reached the back of the tent, circled around it, lifted the thick entrance bearskin and stepped inside.

Two small braziers were burning, spreading light and heat inside the tent. On a table in the center of the tent were quills and parchments and several maps detailing the surroundings and the nearest villages and keeps but the man passed without looking at them. He knelt beside the bed, looked at Gerwin, the commander of the Sa’ari army, removed his gloves and pulled out a sharp Toldarri knife with a curved blade and a bone handle carved in the likeness of a snake.

“I am the vessel of the Teacher, his words are my beliefs, my hand slays his enemies”, he said, raising the blade above the sleeping man’s throat. “I give another to the Beyond and I only ask forgiveness” he continued, and then cut through, the sudden gush of blood warming the assassin’s hands.

Gerwin of Sa’ar could only open his eyes confused, terror filling them for an instant before he closed them again, forever. The emerald eyed assassin turned and left the tent, stepping into the cold, dark winter night.
...

Entrant 2 - Dark Storm

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I watched the battle with a calm detachment, my eyes picked out various scenes of horror, yet it did not affect me. Explosion after explosion vibrated the ground, throwing up gouts of mud, blood and gore. Men thrown like ragdolls through the air, their bodies vaporised, turned into bloody hunks of raw meat, were assessed and ignored before my uncaring gaze. From where I lay I could see the flash, the deadly burst from the muzzle of the machine guns. Hundreds of bullets hummed through the sky, cutting through the compressed ranks like a hot knife through butter. My arm, twisted to the left, was white against the darkness of the soot soaked world. A latticework of red ran through this unfeeling limb , a blood vessel popped by the constant detonations reverberating the bloody field.

A sharp tug came at my arm, a hand found purchase on the cold, clammy wrist. A rough push was laid against my side; I slumped onto my back, my face towards the tumultuous sky. The sun did not penetrate the billowing smoke which bathed this world in darkness, hanging over my head like some bad omen. A cloying scent permeated my nose, a scent of death and destruction, fear and hatred. The tug came again, my shoulder protested against the strain, yet it held, and I was moving. Slowly, upon my back I inched onwards. Sound ceased, even the scrape of mud, displaced by my wake had no effect upon my dulled senses. The great pressure I had felt inside my now broken chest before the inevitable fight had been lifted, I felt like a prize stallion after a long days ride. My saddle removed, free from all burden.

Warmth dissipated from my limp body, a sudden feeling, as if someone had extinguished some great campfire, which existed within me, warming me, keeping my life. Time ceased, I no longer felt. As the world moved around me, I stopped. The pull at my arm disappeared. I now beheld a new sight, shadowing me, silhouetted against a war torn sky. It was a man, bespectacled, with red rimmed eyes and deep creases within his forehead, he looked at me worryingly, gazing far into my eyes, far into my soul. The fading silhouette sighed, a pained look came over his weary face, sparing a quick prayer, he slowly but surely closed my eyes, forever.

Entrant 3 - Robin de Bodemloze

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The icy rain continued to pour down as darkness fell. The pathetic shell of a house we occupied provided little shelter against the howling winds, but it was all we had. Ammunition was low, and our prospects were grim. Boris was dead, as were Iosif, Vladimir, Nikolai, Sergei, Maxim. Of the ten gathered on the creaky old transport vessel only four of us remained, now all huddled around a small campfire. Our fate was to defend these ruins to the last. We would be victorious in our defence of the motherland, or perish with it, we were told.

My sombre daze was broken by Alexei, who had been gnawing on a suspicious looking slab of raw meat. He assured me it was beef, but we both knew that was a lie. Rations had been cut to the bare essentials long ago.

“Eat, comrade, for you will need strength to fight.” Alexei looked at me with stern eyes as he cut a piece of the meat with his knife and tossed it to me. “We must improvise before reinforcements come.”

“Nyet. I’m not hungry.” I responded absent-mindedly, my thoughts with the family I had left behind. Growing up on a small farm outside Kazan the bravado of city folk like Alexei was alien to me. I had learnt to ride on my thirteenth birthday and my uninhibited joy was unforgettable even in these dire circumstances. Father’s saddle made for a magnificent reward, and despite being old and tattered it quickly became the most prized of my few possessions. Little did I know it would only be weeks hence when the conscription officer called for me.

“We will prevail, men. Our victory will be total and glorious! We shall be heroes!” Alexei was bullish as ever, and practiced his words as if he were some great general addressing his troops. I just wanted to go home.

Sure, I muttered. Suddenly Alexei threw himself at me and I was knocked onto my back.

“Where is your bravery, soldier? We are here not to reminisce, but to fight, and to kill the vile enemy before us! Get your wits about you, comrade, or I will gut you myself! We need brave warriors, not womanly lamentation!”

I lay motionlessly, stunned at Alexei’s sudden, venomous outburst. He had always fancied himself as the leader of our group, but this was something else entirely.

“If you must reminisce then think about how you plan to protect what you hold dear. If you do not act like a man and fight hard it is they who would suffer!” Alexei continued his tirade – at nobody in particular now. He was right though. If I was ever going to return to the life I was torn from we would need to prevail against this great scourge before us.

I clenched my fists and steeled myself. For the first time I joined in as Alexei roused our group and we sang patriotic songs together.

For Mother Russia! For Stalingrad!

Entrant 4 - Mizzycupcakez

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It’s true what they say about war, you know. A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of coloured ribbon. Little did I know I was fighting the wrong war, at the wrong time, and for the wrong people. These days I’m not sure what I’m fighting for anymore. As I lye here, no not bruised or broken like so many sob stories you hear from pussy men out there claiming to be heroes. No, I lye here next to this campfire intact and whole. Like I had never seen war, touched dirt, or shot a gun a day in my life.
Where are you going with this? You might ask. You must think your some big shot! But that’s not it at all. I say these things because I was once one of those guys claiming to serve my country better than the rest. But that all changed the day I got a thicker than usual letter. Now, typically I got a letter from the one I was claiming to truly fight for. She was the love of my life. You know what I mean, the one you know you could live the rest of your life with. Her smile lights up the sky. Not to get too sentimental, but I’m sure you get it.
I remember the day went by as slow as molasses, as if waiting for something. As dawn approached, Colonel Martin walked through the camp banging on tents. I recall him barking out a crude remark regarding our unshaved beards and half naked behinds red from the cold; as well as getting our horses saddled and ready ‘You wouldn’t want to look red on the battlefield. You’ll have those French pigs thinking you’re just a bunch of blushing brides!’ I don’t know why I remember that so well.
Later on that evening we had just finished moving camp further north when someone handed me the heavy envelope. It wasn’t from my beloved, but from her mother. Slicing it open with my favorite knife for good luck, I slid out the first piece of paper. It was her death certificate. The second, a letter from her mother explaining that in my absence our house had been robbed, my wife, raped and murdered. Shocked, a tear ran from my eye.
And to think, I sat there telling stores, laughing at nothing of any consequence, claiming to keep our country a safe place. How could I know that keeping her safe was by doing nothing more than lying next to her in our bed? I should be the one dead. Now I sit here, with a bit of ribbon and her last letter to me, and I think. There is nothing but corruption and death everywhere. It runs ramped in our streets. How can a man fight for something he no longer has? For something he was never able to protect in the first place? What did I do for this bit of coloured ribbon?

Entrant 5 - Jakeler

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Russia, the motherland, impenetrable, as far back as I can recall I remember every figure of authority telling me this to be true, that I should be “so honored, so blessed” to exist in such a nation, let alone live in Stalingrad, the city bestowed with the right to be named after our “great immortal leader”. Of course this was before the German fascist-pig war machine laid siege to our beloved land. I wonder what they would say now.

It’s an odd feeling losing the privilege to know the time of day, I’m not even a hundred percent sure on the month any more only that it is 1942 and it was late August when the bombs and tanks arrived to reduce my home, city, friends and parents to nothing but memories. I turned 13 years of age on I believe, according to the amount of snow and my best attempts to keep count in my head, days ago on November 27th. No celebration, no time to feel bad for myself. On the other hand my brother Jasha will be the fragile age of 6 on the 18th of December, I was always so jealous he was born on the same day as Joseph Stalin, to mother and father this always somehow made him more important, more special, but I would like to see this little brat on his own without them, without me.

I awake to the startling sound of grown men laughing and the smell of raw meat, I quickly snap to attention, gasping for air, I grasp the knife tightly tucked in my belt. My eyes dart from the cracked concrete wall and bent steel grid that once resembled the vessel building factory my father worked at. I whisper “we haven’t been spotted” to Jasha with a sigh of relief, “Jasha we need to move, Jasha? Damn Jasha let’s go!” I twirl around agitated feeling aimlessly in the dark. Panicking now, I peek through a hole in the steel grid, ‘that smell of meat’ I think to myself as I see piles of bodies on fire, laughter once again pierced silence, I quickly turn to see 3 German solders readjusting some of their gear, joking and fooling around near a flaming pile as if it was just a campfire to sit around and swap scary stories.
As I was about to start searching for Jasha my eye caught something, his golden blonde hair, drenched in blood. In awe I noticed one of the German solders sling a rifle over his shoulder as if he was a knight in the medieval ages putting a saddle on his noble steed. Unbeknownst to him he is no knight or man of honor but a murderer. I grasp the knife tightly tucked in my belt.

Russia, the motherland, impenetrable, so blessed to exist in such a nation. I wonder what they would say now, seeing my brother lying in the street, right beside me. Russia, the motherland, impenetrable, so blessed.

Entrant 6 - Archimonday

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Entrant 7 - Juvenal

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Another wave of nausea rose up like a tidal wave breaking his concentration and interrupting the cantrip. Clutching his belly, he silently cursed the infirmities of age. He had left it dangerously late this time, comfort and security had made him lazy.

Discarding the ruined potion he reached for his knife. The trusting face of his daughter still stared blankly at the ceiling, oblivious to the bloody ruin of her abdomen. Working quickly and efficiently, he removed the organ he needed with a few deft strokes. The smell of raw meat threatened to bring up his gorge, so he swigged a generous portion of brandy.

This time the trance came more easily. Perhaps his body accepted the end was near, but thanks to his art the Necromancer knew he needn't share its fate. The potion darkened signifying success, he raised the vessel to his lips and drank deeply. An electric thrill coursed down his throat. His awareness expanded into the aether, revealing each consciousness for miles around as a spark of light.

With the duration of the effect uncertain time was short. He appraised the closest sparks, but their dimness betrayed them as cows in the byre, he sought the more complex flames of humankind.

Despite the urgency, each spark required detailed examination. One especially complex flame proving to be that of a crone making her way to market, a whole lifetime of gossip and intrigue enfolded within her waning glow. Another incandescent brightness revealed on closer inspection a capering cretin, kept by the local innkeeper to amuse his guests.

Darting from one prospect to another with mounting desperation he finally found the qualities he needed. A young man in the prime of youth, with a signature of sufficient subtlety to accommodate the accumulation of centuries. With relief he completed the spell and his essence leapt free of its diseased old body.

After a moment's disorientation, the almost forgotten sensations of youth began to course through him. A feeling of boundless energy, everything brighter, sharper, more intense! Each crackle of the camp fire had such complexity that he yearned to spend a year just thinking about the harmonics.

He opened his new eyes and looked at himself. Yes! Fine youthful figure, flat belly, hard muscles. Muskets were stacked a short distance away and he was wearing a uniform. Damnation! No matter, desertion and a little judicious pilfering would soon solve that problem.

A rumbling he had been ignoring grew louder. Suddenly there was shouting and people rushing past. He turned to see a line of horsemen bearing down on him, the morning sun glinting off polished metal. Confused, he stood rooted to the spot as a trooper casually reached down and struck.

The pain was more intense than anything he could remember. But as the blackness of impending death ate at the edges of vision, his diminishing awareness could only circle around his last memory like a moth around a candle flame; the rich leather smell of the cavalryman's saddle.

Entrant 8 - gotrek

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Henri kicked the last remains of their campfire as he hurried to finish clearing up his section's sleeping spot. As he recalled the past five years and the ups and downs of his fortune he kicked at the cooling logs and angrily at the smoking ashes as if it was Fate itself.
« Hey Monsieur le baron, we're moving and your butler isn't there to saddle your horse so get to it...» said the passing chef d'escadron Guyot, in a mockingly reverent tone.
The 20th dragoons was a good regiment and they had taken him in asan anonymous trooper a few months ago but word of who he was and his recent fall from glory had soon spread across the ranks and become a running joke. At Bautzen they had charged at the enemy cutting through their ranks like a knife through butter. But he could sense that their approach of the city of Leipzig was going to bring down a deluge of fire and steel on both sides and that it would be his redemption or final fight.

The regiment was now lined up on an open field, it was clear that today wasn't going to be the day of the reckoning he anticipated. Opposite them was a detachment of light cavalry, probably an over zealous scouting party. None the less he knew the officers would have to play it tight for this rear guard action to go smoothly and not turn into a long drawn out pointless slaughter. He smiled waiting in silence among the other dragoons, being a soldier had its good sides he wouldn't get the blame for any cock-ups this time and he held no rank to be demoted from..
« Brave souls » he muttered to himself. The light cannonade had been going on for 20 minutes now with negligible effects. He felt his mouth dry and hesitated to reach for his gourd but even though the vessel was at easy reach slung round his chest he didn't dare move and disturb the stillness around him. That's when it struck him. The stillness, the silence, as if time at frozen to the spot. He knew that feeling, he had felt it before, it came with something that made his stomach wrench he realized: danger.
As the canon ball bounced at his horse's hooves he could see it in slow motion passing through his horse's guts and flying to his right towards the woods.
When he finally came to, pushing away gore and guts, brushing raw meat off his sleeves like it was mud he looked in the horizon seeing the regiment cutting down to pieces the artillery men and their mounted companions.
« Et Merde! » he said aloud letting himself drop to the ground, he could only wait for his squadron's return now and hope for a spare horse, charging at grapeshot was one thing, the idea of walking after the regiment was another totally....

TotW 121 - Did you see my Bread

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Winner - Dark Storm

Spoiler for My Teacher:

Entrant 1 - Nazgûl Killer

Spoiler for Invincible:

Entrant 2 - gotrek

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Cato smiled, basking in the cheering crowd, the deafening noise of the packed arena filled him with excitement and pride. He raised his crimson sword in salute and turned on the spot, had he not been wearing his mirmillo helmet the spectators could have seen the wide smile splitting his scarred face. He had defeated the Thraex and was alive and soon to be rich. It would be slaves of his own, piles of gold and villas by the sea from now on. He kept turning on the spot and ignoring the bloody mud at his feet , the gaul 's corpse had been dragged out of the pit a minute ago and all that remained of this brave fighter was a few lumpy blood pools on the sand pit. Mere stains on the canvas of glory in which Cato stood taking in the crowd's cheers like a lizard in the sunlight.
He flexed his arms lowered his sword breathed heavily more out relief and fulfilment then exhaustion from the fight. Only now did he feel tired from the fight, he was high on success but knew his body would not take any more efforts he would make.
Horns blew, barely audible under the chants in his glory. He turned to the imperial stands and bowed as the purple togaed man was now standing. He saw him speak rather than heard him and only moved when the arena guards came over to fetch him back. He know the promised reward was his now, no more fighting over bread crumbs or dried meat with the others, he would only have the good life now. That he deserved for all his training and years of constant struggle for survival.
One of the guards escorting him back turned to speak to him:
« Nice work Cato, can't wait to tell my boy I saw you beat Gallius today.... ». Cato
smiled in fake modesty back.the second guard added
« Yes wonderful...when do you plan on waking up? »
Cato raised an eyebrow at that remark « Sorry? »
«Well you did raise your hand but you're clearly not with us Jason....will you please, wake up and pay attention? » Said the teacher amidst a concert of laughter from his classmates.

Entrant 3 - Darkan

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Silence...

Silence! Night had fallen long ago and everything was still, silent, nothing seemed to be alive in the middle of the forest. The hooded man knelt by the small wood pile and lit a small fire, trying to chase away the cold. He huddled close by it, his back against a large rock, trying to shield himself from the wind. He looked up, towards the full moon that sent beams of white light everywhere. Everywhere but where the man sat, as if trying to avoid him. The wind picked up, its howling resembling the howl of a hungry pack of wolves.

The man hardly moved, trying to find some solace in the small, hope giving fire. He was tired, for he had ridden for five days without stopping, until his mount had died.

Hopeless, tired and alone, the man fell in and out of counsciousness. He didn’t even feel the cold anymore.

Why does the moon flicker? Silence... Why does it flicker? Ohh, I understand...where did you come from? I can remember the way your hair fell over your shoulders, if I close my eyes... Silence... I have no eyes to close nor open... I feel you...Your gold hair lights everything around us, but why do your eyes remain hidden? Silence... Answer me! I can’t hear you... I have no ears to hear, I can neither hear nor remain deaf to your pleas... I feel you, I feel your words, I feel your wicked smile... Silence... They hurt you know, your smiles hurt me, they hurt me more than I ever hurt you...But I can still remember...Do you see red? I have no eyes but I can FEEL it, do you understand? It is your blood, red hot, full of Life, full of Truth, simply Full. Everything could be and it was, yet I found you and stopped it all. Silence... What is that? That, growing in the center of my soul? Is it you? I can feel it growing larger, stronger but I... Aaargh! Nooo, not that! My color, my Life, my... Silence... The...the stain, it grows from within, it darkens my soul, it...CONSUMES me! YOU...I know it is you, stop hiding, show yourself... Hope... Yes, the prayer, I have to remember and recite the prayer but...I have no mouth to scream, to pray, to plead... Hope... I am the vessel of the Teacher, he welcomes his children by his side, he teaches and shows you the path... Silence... Nooo, he...he awaits, I...BEGOOONE, please let ... Thunder... You are but a spec in the Beyond, a grain of sand, nothing but a crumb, a small, insignificant part of the Whole...Nothing! Nothing! Nothin...! Noth...! No...! ...

Morning came and everything was still, silent, nothing was alive in the middle of the forest.

Entrant 4 - The Norsemen

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It was early in the morning and I woke up having a Roman guard standing in front of me shouting, telling me to get dressed. Two Roman soldiers, both of them wearing the mark of SPQR on their shields, waited for me outside my cell. They were to escort me to the arena.

There was an offensive stench in the air, a stench of corpses, blood and sweat. As we walked towards the arena the stench intensified. I walked through the huge entrance leading in to the arena, where so many people before me had walked. A gladiator teacher greeted me. He told me I should prepare for death as today I was facing the three of the emperor’s most skilled guards.

I was lead to the armory by my gladiator teacher and I was given a shortened Gladius, a small sword with a handle consisting of leather. The Emperor was attending the gladiator fight and I was therefore doctored with a custom made helmet to appear less barbaric. The helmet had bloodstains on it from the previous user who faced the same death sentence I was facing now.

The Roman soldiers I was about to fight saluted the emperor and were greeted with a cheering crowd. The moment I stepped in to the arena the crowd was throwing their food at me, booing. The senators were sitting in their chairs, eating their bread and greasy food, leaving the crumbs to their dogs.

The announcer made a speech, saluted the emperor and then the game begun. The Roman soldiers were approaching me, the sun shining at their armor made by pure gold. They made a circle around me, surrounding me. The crowd went silent, waiting for someone to attack. The silence was ended by one single shout from the crowd and the Roman soldiers charged me. I threw my Gladius at the soldier in front of me, killing him instantly. I kicked the other Roman soldier in the chest and ran for the great sword laying on the ground. I hit one of the soldier’s shield with all my strength, breaking his arm and forcing him down to the ground. The soldier screamed in agony. There was only one Roman soldier left. He charged me, pushing me down to the ground. He swung his sword at me and made a cut in my right arm. I grabbed his ankle and pulled it, making him fall. He lost his breath and I picked up the shortened Gladius and held it to his neck. The Roman soldier was unarmed. If I have learned anything being a gladiator it is that valor and honor comes above all. I told him to pick his weapon up, but he would not do it. I turned around and as the crowd cheered The Roman soldier saw his chance and stabbed me once again. My hands felt numb and my body went cold. I dropped my sword. The crowd went silent. A gladiator’s death.

Entrant 5 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 6 - MuttonChops

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"Death or Glory!" I shouted.
"Whatever kid" was his simple reply. Then he punched me straight in the gut.

Freddy Crumb was my foe today; he was three years my senior and resembled his fifty-five year old dad, even down to the beard. I on the other hand was a small geeky kid who liked history and math but mainly history: Roman history to be exact. So it shouldn't be a surprise that I now find myself being hauled from the ground and flying across the hallway like a rag doll. So far so good I thought let him tire himself...then I'll finish him off with a knee to the crotch - just like in the movies.

"Fight back!" shouted the growing crowd of students. Even the teachers were there watching and laughing. The American education system at its finest!

"Fight back!" they repeated. Fools, I was fighting back, just not very well.

And as I struck the concrete wall with my head first, my mind seems to lapse out of conscientiousness, then I saw sand, bright golden sand. And women. I guess this was heaven; no it couldn't be, for there was blood everywhere. Then I saw them, books and films did them no credit, their blood stained armor and bulging biceps were truly awe inspiring and kind of depressing when compared to myself. Nevertheless, the Gladiators looked amazing even in my semi-blurry state of vision. Yes, this was heaven alright, a historian's heaven that is!

"This is wonderful" I said
"No, you’re getting beaten boy" said someone.

I turned around to see a Roman man sit beside me
"Your ancestors fought like warriors and you’re letting yourself be beaten while you sleep! Show your Roman heritage and win that fight!" said the phantom
"But I'm Chinese" I replied
"Use your -" said the flickering image. Everything around me was flickering; light was rushing in and out. The voices of students and teachers were beginning to filter in.
"Wait, I want to meet the Gladiators"

Then I woke up. Disappointed and in terrible pain, I saw the smiling face of Freddie as he kicked away at my curled up body. What the Roman guy said was true! I needed to show my inner Gladiator and beat this guy. So I leaped into action, and struck him in the chest. He then struck me back to the ground, but I stood up and closed my eyes and attacked. My limbs flailed everywhere. And then it was over. Freddy lay on the ground with his hands to his crotch. And I stood alone within the ring of onlookers, bloodied and hurt.
"I am a Gladiator!" I said. Then everyone left...

TotW 122 - One to Rule Them All

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Winner - Nazgûl Killer

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Entrant 1 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 2 - The Norseman

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Entrant 3 - Asterix

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Her eyes are like windows into heaven. Pools of blue, flecked with silver, deep and happy and joyous. One gets lost for hours in them, wondering how God could have made a being so perfect. As her lips curl upwards into a smile, they tug on my heartstrings, a keening rapturous pull, making me both melancholy and ecstatic. She speaks-the words are obscured, and only the enchanting sound of her melodic voice, a voice that sings in just plain speech, a voice to make the Sirens themselves weep with envy, reaches my spellbound ears. I reply, my voice sounding oddly twisted and strained-but no matter. She laughs. Oh, that laugh! Deep and sonorous and unbearably sweet. My heart is set a flutter, my stomach churns in delight, my whole being existing solely to hear that lilting sound, like birds chirping in the early morn.

Suddenly she dashes off, laughing gaily, her russet hair flowing behind her in the wind. She is playing with me-very well, I decide, I shall respond in kind. I run off after her, both of us laughing and giggling and screaming in the delight of our lightheartedness. It seems we run for hours, never tiring or slowing. Finally, I catch her round the waist, and she screams in surprise and glee. I spin her round, and the sight of her face takes my breath away. The eyes, the smile, the disarray of her hair, all conspire together in order to make me spellbound. My arms clasp her in a gentle and adoring embrace. The smell of her hair, so sweet, so pure, fills me.

Cosette and Marius, Romeo and Juliet, Heloise and Abelard, none ever did know the joy I felt in that moment. A happiness so profound, so pure, I wondered if God allowed men to feel such joy in this life.

Suddenly I find myself lying on the ground. The night sky stretches over me, an infinity of space and an infinity of stars. I cry out in dismay, stunned and bewildered. I try and recollect the joy I had felt seconds ago, but it lies in shards around me, invisible and unobtainable. Reality hits me. She doesn’t exist. Even if she once did, she is long gone, not here, not now, not ever. Only in dreams would she be mine, and I hers. Forever I would dream of her, and forever she would be just beyond human reach, beyond an immutable veil.

Entrant 4 - Oxode

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Minas Tirith, after six days the men of Gondor quickly devise their strategy to crush the Orcish horde outside the white walls themselves. On the seventh day, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, leads a Cavalry charge outside the walls, with Faramir commanding the Infantry. Faramir and his Rangers of Ithilien fire into the Orcs the arrows piercing through the air and into the very heart of a Orc. Meanwhile, Imrahil charges into the very heart of the Orc Vanguard, even in the night, the Silver Swan Knights blind the Orcs with their impressive armour, Faramir was close to follow with his force. Faramir charged the right flank, he quickly uses his trusty sword to dispatch any Orc that got in the way.
"With me men of Gondor!!" Yelled Faramir who had quickly pulled his sword out of a Orc.
"For Gondor!!" Yelled the men as they followed their commander into battle.
But then Faramir had met, with a towering beast, an Olog-Hai. The beast quickly swings his large mace, Farmir flies high he lands on his leg, he yells in pain, he had twisted his ankle, he got up with the help of some men, but the Olog-Hai pursued. The two men who had carried Faramir off were killed after a few arrows penetrated the men who were helping him. Faramir was helpless, what could one do when a towering beast approached, Faramir had the only option of accepting his fate. In the heat of battle, Imrahil quickly dispatches the whole centre force, he quickly looks to his left, he notices Faramir and the Olog-Hai approaching, he would not allow this beast to kill a fellow Gondorian, he quickly ordered the nearest squadron of Cavalry to follow.
"Farmir!! With me Order of Osgiliath!!" Ordered Imrahil to a squadron of Swan Knights known as the Order of Osgiliath, all natives of Osgiliath.
The men quickly followed Imrahil, they charged Imrahil's lance penetrated the beast, along with several others, the beast fell and Faramir was rushed to the Citadel, Imrahil had routed the force and Minas Tirith was safe once more, Denethor was pleased, but he could not sleep until Osgiliath had been retaken. And so Imrahil and the shards of his army of Knights marched to Osgiliath where they suffered heavy losses, but had still won the day. Sauron's power had weakened, this loss brought hope to the men of Middle Earth, this was all one needed to destroy the Evils ahead, could victory actually be possible? Only time could answer such a question.

Entrant 5 - Nebulon

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Entrant 6 - Darkan

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TotW 123 - The Architect of Defeat

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Winner - Dark Storm

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Entrant 1 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 2 - Nebulon

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Entrant 3 - The Norsemen

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Entrant 4 - Asterix

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The young monk’s mind was troubled, strange and terrible thoughts spinning around in his head like rain in a hurricane. He gripped the sill of his window, his troubled eyes taking in the sights before him. A setting sun dying a placid loch the bold colors of wine and saffron, an endless expanse of emerald green hills, a river that wound off into the distance, to disappear only at the horizon; sights that would make a man contemplating death think twice, a place that God himself might call heaven- and the monk was noticing them for the first time.

The monk could not remember a time when his head was not crowned by a tonsure, when his body knew something other than the feel of his coarse habit, when he did not automatically wake up at midnight for Matins. His whole life was the monastery, and happiness and beauty to him was ceaseless praising of the Lord and the gloriously illustrated pages of the Bible. This was all he had ever known, the poor soul, ignorant of the other beauties in the Lord’s creations.

Until that day a week ago.

The monk had been meditating on a passage in Romans, deep in thought, trying to comprehend Saint Paul’s often inscrutable words. Just as he was about to reach a revelation, a sound reached his ears. It was the sound of laughter, unrestrained and blithe. Any other man would have smiled to hear such a sound, but the monk, ignorant of such things, did not understand it. Angered, he rose from his chair and peered out the window, his face wrathful.

Instantly his angered features melted. Below him, two stories down, dancing and twirling on the lush green grass, was a maiden. The lady was at that splendid age which combines all the grace and beauty of a woman with all the carefree innocence of a girl. She was dancing and skipping around merrily, splashing around in the waves of the loch and chasing squirrels up trees.

The monk was stunned. Never had he seen something so innocent and beautiful. He felt a strange feeling burning in his heart, and for a moment it disturbed him. We fortunate men call it joy.

To the monk, joy had always been ceaseless chanting of the Lord’s name, coupled with prayer and meditation at all hours of the day. To his closed mind the only way to experience happiness and praise the Creator was to spend his life locked away from the very glories he praised Him for making. Now, the sight of one of those creations opened his eyes.

With the sun setting beyond the horizon, the monk made a decision. He had no plan. He did not need one. He opened the door of the monastery, quietly. The other brothers slept on, undisturbed. He set foot on the rough pathway that led out of the monastery, away from the only place he had ever known. He was not coming back.

Entrant 5 - Oxode

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The plan was simple, take Moscow by force, but what we did not account for was Russia's greatest ally, General Winter. For every battle before us the heavens above favoured us, but as I march, I see the Tricolour blanketed in white. I was but a simple Farmer, a young ignorant fool who thought he could become a great conqueror, like Caesar or Alexander, or maybe even Genghis Khan. When I looked around me, I did not see conquerors, I saw dead men. I was thinking of home, of my family, of my love, would I ever see them again? As a army, we were destroyed, the men barely having the courage to fight another Russian ambush. I could only hope to see the Green of France, one last time. The Orchards and Children, I always missed seeing this, here was nothing, the people were silent, they were observant, and most of all, they were Russian. The snow continued to fly into my eyes, no matter how long I prayed, the storm did not change direction, it had kept coming from France, was this a sign? Was Napoleon not wanted back in the country he had brought glory and riches to? No matter how far we marched, all I could see was snow and more snow, I could barely see Napoleon and the famous Cuirassiers behind him. I still thought about home, before the war came, I was planning to be married, have a son or daughter, and raise them away from war, this damn Coalition, this damn world took it all away. Isabella, a beautiful girl I left behind in France, she was the one I truly loved, no matter how far and cold I was, the burning desire and passion to see her again was what kept me warm the most, not my uniform, and not the coats. Rumour was going around that Michel Ney was dead, his army separated, we heard cannons and muskets in the distance, we assumed the worst, we were walking into a Russian Interception force. But my mind drifted elsewhere, I was thinking about Isabella, the first time we spent time together,we shared a small bottle of wine on the roof of her farmhouse, staring at the moonlight, we knew that the both of us would spend eternity with each other, in life or death. Why did the other Europeans have to be so cruel? We were getting closer the cannons and guns fall silent, we think that the others were completely exterminated. But as we march there was a fork in the road, to the left was a forest, to the right was a clearing. We saw figures coming out of the forest, we readied for battle but Napoleon shouted for us to stop. Dumbfounded, we watched the figures get closer and closer, they were in rifle range, Napoleon shouts into the forest.
"Ney!! Sont vous là ?!" (Ney!! Are you there?!) Napoleon shouted.

"Oui mon Empereur!! Je suis ici encore une fois!!" (Yes my Emperor!! I am here once more!!) Yelled Marshal Michel Ney.

The men cheer, they raise their tricolours high, Ney had survived, we were accompanied by 800 of Ney's survivors, I notice as Ney comes out of the forest, a wound on his left arm. For Russia, we had lost and ran home, but for France, this was a victory of emotion, tears run down my cheeks, the fact that we made it this far was a sign we were going to make it. The storm started to clear up, the path ahead more clear, a few scouts immediately greet us.

"La salutation mon Empereur, soyez bienvenus à la Prusse." (Greetings my Emperor, welcome to Prussia.) said the scout.

Entrant 6 - Nazgûl Killer

Spoiler for Pain Like No Other...:

A Pain Like No Other...

My agonizing memoirs had left me in tears the day before our judgement was to be told.
I had so missed her, her touch, her smell...
The girl she had once was...
The woman she had become...
Thoughts of her ached my heart,
Yet stiffened my resolve.

"I have a plan" He told me, yesterday.
I looked back to him, chained to the rider in front of him, and he nodded at me.
We delivered the message.
I sniffed in this ever-frightening cold... I was terrified, yet determined.
I gazed at the ground before me as I lost control again, when I thought of her.
Tears ran down my face...
My eyes swelled and my vision blurred...
I chanced a look at the ground, seeking hope where-ever I possibly could...
And out of the cruel white... Came a glimmer of hope.
I blinked thrice to clear my eyes.
I could not believe it.

I saw a patch of green before me, my hope restored...
The soldier carrying the other end of my chain spilled his wine on my hope...
I gazed up at him and saw his wicked smile.
I lost control again. I was broken.
How cruel can this Earth be?
To be torn from her like this was agony beyond which I could suffer...
The calamity of my situation had forced me...
But I was happy it did. I was once again on the brink of happiness.
So I had decided.
I would rejoin her.

That would be my only shot of happiness.
I lunged at the soldier holding my chains and tugged at the chains,
He was on the ground.
I pounded him until he died.
My fellow prisoners had begun their assault.
I had decided.
I would rejoin her.

I avenged my hope, and it paid back the favor.
A soldier pointed his pistol at me...
He was naught but a boy...
He shook, afraid to fire...
Tears ran down my face again...
I smiled at him, trying to tell him it's all right.
I nodded. He refused.
I urged him without words.
He refused.
I had decided.
I would rejoin her.

"It's okay" I told him.
I lunged myself at him and he shot.
I felt the searing pain ripple through my chest...
I had compared it with my broken heart...
I was surprised to see that the pains were naught equal.
My heart hurt tenfold...
I was happy.
I would rejoin her.

I fell to the floor, mortal wound stricken, and I wept again.
I looked up to him, and saw him drop his pistol and onto his knees.
I smiled at him, happily in tears...

Entrant 7 - wowbanger

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Entrant 8 - Robin de Bodemloze

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Entrant 8 - Byzantus

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Beautiful isn't the word Anton would have used to describe his plan, but it was bold. That didn't mean it would work, it simply mean't that it was crazy enough to be tried. Anton had forgone his smooth leather gloves and he had left his silk cloak at home; neither was needed. Unlike most of his days spent drinking wine and speaking to pretty noblemen's daughters, he was not trying to impress anyone. He did not intend to wound as he might have done before; he meant simply to kill and be done with the dirty business.

Anton stepped out of the dark alleyway and into the bright street leading to the Palazzo della Signoria. As he walked towards the large building a small crowd of curious onlookers began to slowly coalesce around him; a man walking through town with a blade drawn meant only two things; either someone was very drunk or someone was about to die. The target of Anton's malicious intent stood at the entrance of the palazzo. He was arrayed with a green silk cloak and a golden necklace with an expensive figure of Heracles carved onto it.

The young nobleman stood looking regal, untouchable, and absolutely above the dreary tussle and bustle of the world around him. This only made Anton more furious. "Lucius Vasari!" Anton cried out in a loud voice. The nobleman turned his head and grinned cruelly. "It looks like the pig has come out of his sty and look! He's dressed to fit the part." said Lucius to the surrounding nobleman, who duly laughed, fitting smoothly into their roles like clockwork. Anton stepped forward, determined and exhilarated, and declared "For the lost honor of my house, I challenge you to a duel." Lucius laughed incredulously "Wow, I didn't know your house had any honor left! I thought it had all gone with your sister's reputation, I've never heard of a girl running off with a stable boy except in stories." Anton raised his blade, too furious to mince words and yelled "Either fight me or run home like the little kitten you are Lucius!" Lucius chuckled and motioned to one of his guards. "I believe that I'm a bit to important to fight on the street with trash like yourself, but Lorenzo here doesn't share that distinction." Lucius turned to the guard with a smile. "You'll kill him for me won't you Lorenzo." Lucius asked, "Gladly sir" Lorenzo responded eagerly, stepping forward towards Anton. "Good." Lucius responded curtly before turning and walking into the palazzo.

Anton stood shocked and surprised, trembling. His anger had left with Lucius and with it had gone his bravery. Stuttering Anton managed to get out a shaky sentance "Wh-Why would I fight a wor-worthless guard like you." Sheathing his sword, Anton turned tail and ran, ignoring the thunderous laughter sounding off from the crowd behind him. He didn't mind much, after all, he was very drunk.

Entrant 9 - m_1512

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The Grand Design

He was our liege. He was mighty. Indeed, people bowed before him, even his enemies. He was our High King. He was invincible, or so we thought. He rode through the town, on a powerful white steed, shining armor, and head held high. So inspiring was his sight, that even the worse rhymes would sound awe-inspiring when wrote about him.

I remember the day. The day when he disclosed to us, his Grand Design, his great plan. It was a council like no other. High chairs for the ministers, who looked upon us like maginificant statues of some legend. There were 12 of them, 6 on either side. His Magesty was on the throne, standing high and glorious. The watched us our stunned selves with amusement. He was calm, fiddling with the sword he held. The Steward was also there, his chair right near his Lord. He leaned to his right, for to his left, his face would touch our master's foot. Smug faced, he kept watching the council, smiling for some sinister reason. What had he done the day before? Probably scheming, and poisoning his lord's mind.

But there was a chance, a chance for peace. An envoy walked into the Hall. He pleaded again to the King about the benefits of the truce, and that his people sought no fight, but if must, would fight till the end. His Majesty heard him, but only smiled. But the steward croosed the line. Took out a small crossbow, and lodged the bolt in his throat. He watched him writhe in pain, then reloaded and shot again. The ministers shocked, the King astonished, and the second envoy's face controted in anger. He turned and left. We left for the battle the following day, girls showering us with flowers. The men handing us goblets with wine. They told me that it was for luck. But I drank it all the same, for it soothed the foreboding I had. We would battle on the green faustian plains, where our borders met.

The free people, who called their realm The Glorious Republic. They came to the battle, a single line of formations, each three men deep. They were even assembled on the high hills. I commanded my archers on the other hills. The Kings laughed. Only a 100 or so, for a mighty 10,000? The horsemen formed and began the charge.
The King shouting, "Those fools have not even drawn their baldes." And so he galloped far ahead of his troops.

The enemy then drew their wands. Pointed at the charging men, and fired thunderous volleys of spells at them. They blasted the King's sword off his hand, then his crown, then the king himself. He fell to the ground, and watched as his mighty cavalry approached, thundering the ground, bringing about his end of being trampled upon by his own men and beasts. Even our archers were of no use against them. Defeat was imminent. The wound was too much to bear, even though the free druids and wizards were kind. We marched back to our realm, after watching the steward killed by them. Why would we accept that coward, that schemer?

Grand design indeed it was, but of defeat.
And the High King was indeed the architect.
The Architect of Defeat.

Entrant 10 - Darkan

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I am unable to write

I am staring at the blank page, trying to find four hundred ninety five more words. These are the rules, are they not? I only have five words, yet I cannot find a way to intertwine them into a story.

Perhaps I can write the story of the soldier who went to fight for his country, for the well being of his family, only to die of his wounds in distant lands. Perhaps he died in a green meadow, a place that might contrast the brutality of death, thus appealing to whoever might read his story. No, no, it...I will not write this.

Instead, I might write the tale of the young girl who worked in a godforsaken tavern in the middle of nowhere, a desolate place, void of hope and beauty, and a place where only drunkards meet, old, broken souls who find comfort in a red wine whose low quality is overlooked because of the great quantities it flows in. I might show how the young girl’s only escape is within the pages of an old book with tales of valour and knights in shining armour.

Oh, who am I kidding? Why talk of these things? It is only a competition, right? I take a look at my foes, trying to somehow understand how much truth lies in their usernames. I can imagine them all around a table, a great council: the hopefully wise ruler, the silent general, a calm, experienced man whose wrath however is unstoppable once unleashed, the wild warrior of the north, the brave and strong Gaul, the deadly poet assassin, the slayer of fowl beasts, the emissary from distant lands and cultures, the ranger, the treasurer, the master of spies, the quartermaster of the troops and the brave knights, the giant war hammer wielder and the agile, lethal archer and last but not least, the chronicler.

Five words, yet they are not mine, they never were and never shall be. Whose are they then? How did my foes fare in this task? Did they think about him, the one behind it all? Was this his plan, to gather so many people in one place this week? If so, all praise the mastermind behind it all and rep him accordingly!

**Dance** · May 30, 2013, 12:01 PM

TotW 124 - A Game of Shadows

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Winner - Dark Storm

Spoiler for A dream unattainable:

Entrant 1 - The Norseman

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Entrant 2 - Nazgûl Killer

Spoiler for Fool:

Entrant 3 - Oxode

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Entrant 4 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 5 - Magicman2051

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A small room, decorated in the sort of blank way that is often used in large offices. Everything in the room, from the generic oak effect desk to the faux leather chairs, felt muted and soulless. It was a room designed to numb the senses and dull emotions, if not done deliberately then as an ironic joke of fate.

"So what do you want to talk about?" asked Rommie, a rather neurotic looking psychiatrist who had an awful tendency to chew on the tops of her pens. She didn't do this during any of her sessions, but the tops were chewed nonetheless.

"I don't know... I had the dream again," there was a pause as I waited for a reaction, which didn't materialise," but sometimes I'm not sure if I remember having it again or if I'm just remembering having had it before... again."

She made a quick notation on her pad and then she stared at me intently, almost invitingly.

"How about we stop playing this game," she responded curtly after a few seconds, and with an edge of cynical frustration," because I know what you're trying to do, to manipulate me into being interested in your story, to get me to treat you like a star and shower you with attention."

"Have you ever seen," but I was cut off as she spoke up again, with a self-righteous tone to her voice.

"You spend your entire life trying to be something you're not by creating this dark fantasy, because your life is so dull," she was visibly amused at my frustration," so why don't we try truth for a bit."

I gave my chains a brief tug, to see how much leverage I could get, but it wasn't going to be enough to reach her, for a moment I contemplated a deranged charge to try and tear everything loose, idly considering how much artistry I could preform with the pen and how much music she might make as I did it. But that passed.

"Flame and shadow..." I repeated this for a few minutes before she became visibly bored and buzzed for my removal, as I was hauled off by three well armed orderlies I heard her mention something about the inane drivel I chose to recite, and how my total lack of imagination trapped me in a dull world that I needed to escape from.

A fairly simple reason to murder for sport, but a reason that was fitting for her report.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patient LiveBlog entry dated 14/9/19. 3,192,912 unique views, 81,399 comments. Patient considered valid candidate for transfer to live broadcast, trended well with females aged 13-29 and males aged 17-36, economic valuation of potential viewer base for DirecAd! pending.

Priority Addendum - Psychiatrist found dead in apartment, news cycle expected to last three days, appears to be a tribute killing. Recommend immediate transfer to capitalise on publicity.

Entrant 6 - ♦Assiduus Victoria♦

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Entrant 7 - Velico

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"The shadow slips the most accursed blade, general. How long do you intend to keep this siege up?" said Amibaal, with a dubious grin upon his veteran face.

"As long as I have to. This is not a game Amibaal, I can't go around sending my detachments at a whim's notice on information that hasn't come directly to me." Hiram asked while turning his head slightly and lowering an eyebrow in a gesture of imputation.

Hiram got up out of his seat, put on his splendid double bossed breastplate, etched with the scenes of his former battles, and that of the Carthaginians, with gold and silver inlay. He put on his purple plumed helmet and walked out of his tent. The sun, high in the sky, made him shield his eyes as though the burst of a flame had fell upon him. He looked to his right, where there was a group of men talking with a fervor so great he could not ignore it and approached the men.

"I was just telling my friends here of a dream I had the other night. I was alone in the darkness, stripped naked with nothing but a spear and shield. I asked the goddess why she did this, and what I had done to anger the gods into doing such a thing, and her reply was that we were on an expedition doomed to failure. I refuted this, saying that the great Hiram has led men into battle on innumerable accounts, finding victory where the gods themselves would retreat! All of a sudden I started getting pummeled by something! I yelled out 'No! I have done nothing wrong!'. I was beaten to the ground, lying on my back in pain, when the darkness fell away from me. I had been transported into the celestial, surrounded by the brightest of stars.”

Hiram called to his guards outside the tent to bring him one of his captains, Baal'hammon. Within a few moments, Baal'hammon entered and saluted the general. "Sir, you called for me?"

"I want to go over a plan with you. A soldier outside gave me an idea for a way to make this village capitulate. On the night just before the next full moon, when it is raining heavily it will obscure their view, we will depart. We will withdraw along this route until we get to the forest. Once there, you will take your cavalry and head to the hill. I will leave with a detachment of my best men to be the rearguard early in the morning after the rest have withdrawn. At the forest we will make our battle during the late day so that when night falls, they will be forced to withdraw back to their city. Once it does, we will have the full moon aiding us enough to conduct a night attack, and your cavalry will be the vanguard of that assault. Quick strikes, captain, and whither away their forces."

Entrant 8 - m_1512

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Entrant 9 - Darkan

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Vagrant The two men stood at a table, the young one looking at his cup of wine, as if some answer was to be found in the foamy red liquid. The older one looked straight at him with what seemed to be tears in his eyes.

You say it was your fault that we lost the battle but let me tell you how kings are made and cast down.

The young man looked up and met his father’s gaze, though he lowered his eyes once more, lest the shame he felt would be seen by his old father.

I once had a dream to restore the ancient power of our kingdom and bring peace and prosperity to our people. For me, for us, it was a matter of honour, of justice and truth, but I soon understood there were other powers that worked in the shadows against me.

The young man stood up and went to the balcony, where the night breeze cooled him down. His father joined him soon after, stopping by his side, putting an arm on his son’s shoulder.

Look up my boy, look up and tell me what you see.

The night sky was beautiful, almost too beautiful to be real. The full moon had emerged from behind one of the few clouds and its light was spreading everywhere. The stars sparkled against the black canvass that was the sky, as if an unseen painter had sprinkled them. The balcony overlooked the harbour of the small town, with the few merchant ships that traded in these waters and the lone long ship that had brought the survivors here.

I don’t know if I want to see something. All I can think of is how I failed you that day, how I failed the kingdom and how I failed the men.

That was not your doing, the old king said. It was Vaander’s doing, him and his banker friends. They plotted against us with the enemy and they paid the officers and commanders of the troops that rebelled mid-battle. To them it was nothing but a game and they are excellent players.

Somehow I will manage to get back home and I will fall upon them like fire falls from the sky, I will burn everything in my path and the flames of my vengeance shall consume them and those that stand with them.

Wars are not won with soldiers, kings can be made and unmade with the stroke of a quill upon a parchment.

Then what is the way father?

We must fight them with their own weapons, we must lurk in the shadows and cut their ties all the while strengthening ours.

TotW 125 - The Sun Sets on an Age

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Winner - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 1 - Nazgûl Killer

Spoiler for The Eternal Question:

Entrant 2 - Asterix

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Entrant 3 - Robin de Bodemloze

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Entrant 4 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

Spoiler for A Walk on the Beach:

In the morning, he decided to walk into the Frankian Sand Dunes. He decided against wearing his armor, instead he would wear his normal travelling clothes. The route he took brought him to the location of the battle that had occurred yesterday. It was a shame that there was no morning mist, for he saw an image that he did not want to see. In front of him lay the corpses of the defeated Saracian army, behind the main group of corpses lay a trail of corpses that ended at the ocean where the remnants of the Saracian army tried to flee the Southern Strip and go back to the Saracian Empire. He stared at the corpses for a minute, and thought to himself, I think today would be appropriate for our Frankian allies and my Janakans to dig these poor souls a grave, well at least a mass grave.

He then walked towards the group of dead soldiers; he stopped about a foot away from the nearest corpse. “What a pointless way to end one’s life.” he muttered. He looked out at the ocean, whose depths were impossible to comprehend much less how long east the ocean extended. It is hard to imagine that just across the ocean is the land where he and his people had originated from, that though was millennia ago. He turned his to the north, where across the Strip Sea lay the Northern Strip, inhabited by the Saracian Empire, the Grocan city-states, the Turkaran Confederation, the Perseean Empire along with many other kingdoms and city-states. Is the path that I am taking my…no not just my people but all the people of Gaiisha; is this the right path? he thought. Will this path of constant warfare lead to a better world? A world filled with happiness? A world where the level of predictability is much higher? No. I must stop doubting myself. In a flash he had an epiphany. He now realized that his future was not in following his men across the sea to attack the Saracian Empire. His responsibility lay back at the capital, where he and his advisers would set up the documents that would ensure the protection of the Empire from internal events, events such as corrupt or weak Emperors. The people of the Empire are not supposed to fear their Emperors but to love them. The Emperors are to represent the core ideals of what the Empire is founded on; they are not to represent their own ideals. The documents that he will write will make sure that the Empire will be eternal. He decided that he would do this after the army left for the port city of Valloix.

“My Emperor, the King of Salons requests your presence.” A man said, who appeared out of nowhere. The Emperor nodded and turned around to go where he was needed; Belis Arius, the First Immortal Emperor walked towards his destiny and the future of the Empire.

Entrant 5 - Timur Amir

Spoiler for Sweetened Sand in a Lovely Bog:

Entrant 6 - ASSASSIN1110

Spoiler for The beginning of the end:

I marched forward, stuck in the small world of my helmet, my only windows to the real world 2 small slits. The desert air came through the holes in my helmet and cooled small round patches of my face, the sun was not yes above the horizon. I could see the Saracen pageantry through the early morning mist the multicoloured banners fluttering in the breeze.
We had got them caught in the open, a small army of infantry, there would be no chasing at the circling horsemen of my previous battles. This time we marched forward confidently, trusting in our plate armor and skills honed from a young age with the sword, mace and battle-axe. A unit of lightly armed Janissary moved towards the front of their army. Each seemed to be carrying a single fat javelin. Odd I thought, I had been expecting the sky to darken any minute with arrows.
We approached to within 300 yards, i could make out the odd weapons with more detail, they had an iron bar running nearly their full length and a small, bar of metal that protruded from the end. i looked down at my Milanese plate, I noticed other knights doing the same. Our ranks began to raise shields expecting a rain of the javelins. No javelins came a clattering of loud bangs came from the Saracen ranks, and a cloud of smoke rose up, obscuring the enemies faces. Many knights had fallen face down in the fine sand, blood turning it black. Some rolled around in agony, their armor marked with small perfectly round holes. What weapons could do this to the finest Italian steel. We cried our bloodthirsty war cry, and charged...
We hit the Saracen ranks in a cacophony of ringing steel, slicing blades and shattering bones and we got to work at what we did best. My world became a red blur, blood splattering my shiny breastplate, I was proud of its purchase, my father called the 1000 florins extravagant and unnecessary, this battle was beginning to prove him wrong. This became evident as we moved further into the depths of the enemy lines, the men at arms on either side of my squad of knights flagging behind. I saw a man I knew well killed outright, a spear finding a gap at his neck, the spear piercing his jugular, and spraying blood all over his surcoat.
I emerged from the back of the enemy ranks, after killing a hulking Saracen swordsman with a slice across his chest and a pommel to the throat. He lay their clutching his neck, blood frothing at his lips. I rested for a second and then noticed the line of Janissary soldiers in front of me, armed with the deathly weapons i encountered earlier. I was thrown backwards, my chest felt like it had been kicked by a large destrier, 2 small holes marked my breastplate. I coughed blood, and the sound of battle began to fade in my ears. I knew I was dying.
I began to think about my life, how it began, what I wanted for my future, what I wanted in love. A tear rolled down my cheek and I realised I would never see my family again, never feel happiness again. I began to feel warm and comfortable, I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes, but it didn’t matter, I was falling to sleep and I tried to remove my helmet but my arms wouldn’t respond. I shut my eyes. The world went black.

Entrant 7 - Darkan

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Entrant 8 - Velico

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TotW 126 - Eternity Lasts Forever

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Winner - Robin de Bodemloze

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Prometheus

“Disengage radiation element, deionizing membrane activity accelerator, monitors shutting down… doors ready.”

Professor Hammond jumped slightly at the mechanical female voice of the Polygenic Splicer. He must have paced back and forth a thousand times across the cramped laboratory as the numerals on the giant vault slowly counted down, but now the wait was finally over. Over the past forty years he had been called deluded, crazy, evil - amongst others - but today would be the end of all of that. Today he would achieve what no man had before him, and a lifetime of research would finally have its purpose.

Alan Hammond you are a genius. Nobody ever believed you, but you’ve finally done it, even if it was with a bit of help...

For almost a decade he had been frustrated by the issue of DNA degeneration, but all that changed after the meeting with them. They called themselves the First Civilisation, and the accidental intrusion into one of their labs gave him a glimpse of the answer - the figures, the charts contained things he never thought possible even in his wildest dreams. As it was, balanced delicately upon a small crucible was a tiny glass vial containing the fruit of his labours. Cradling the minuscule container on his palm, he marvelled at the liquid within, except it wasn’t a liquid of course, but billions upon billions of nano-organisms each only nanometres wide.

Since eternity the cycle of life and death reigned supreme over mankind, and from the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt to the oligarchs of the twenty-fifth century countless men have tried and failed to find a solution. If this works it would revolutionise the destiny of mankind forever…

Tipping the vial sideways, Professor Hammond eyed his creation nervously as the green mass slowly drained from its container in the direction of his open mouth. They mentioned it would act quickly, and that he would feel the change as it swept through him. Soon he would taste the elixir of the gods, he thought, wondering what the taste of immortality would be, and if indeed the complex manufacturing process had worked…

It never came.

He never saw the man approach, nor did he feel the tip of the syringe enter the back of his neck until it was too late. As it was the assassin stood over the pile of shriveling flesh and bone that had formerly been Professor Alan Hammond. Holding the vial in his hand, the dark figure stood for a moment marvelling at the deadly power of the nanotoxins. The mission had been a complete success, and the last threat to the Civilisation had been extinguished once and for all.

"Agent 01284 reporting to The Mothership: Project Equinox three-five successfully completed. Prometheus is dead. Requesting immediate extraction."

Entrant 1 - Radzeer

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Entrant 2 - The Norseman

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Doctor Challenger and his team arrived at the meeting spot of which they had been told an ancient pharaoh who had reigned his people for decades had been buried. Challenger had frequently been told there was nothing to be found there, as several archeologists had made the same expedition but returned home with no signifcant findings. Challenger was greeted by an old arab man. He had grey hair and wore linen clothing to protect himself from the harsh desert environment. He was apparently the guard of the pharaoh`s tomb. Challenger asked the old man where the tomb was. The old man pointed towards a large stone door.

Challenger had travelled far and needed rest. They set up their tents and slept there the entire night. Challenger stayed up late and looked through some documents about other expeditions to this very tomb. All of the documents stated the same thing, there was no tomb here, only an abondoned chamber. However, the last document stated something else. The leader of the previous expedition, John Williams, had experienced strange happenings. In one of his journals he wrote about one day when they the crew suddenly became very ill and resulting in the death of a crewmember. The journal was recorded ten years ago and the tomb had been shut ever since, until Challenger made a new expedition.

Challenger had not read the document before now. He felt dizzy and sat down by his bed. Challenger would barely sleep that night. The following day Challenger and the crew began their expedition. The old man which they met yesterday was still standing by the stone door, waiting for Challenger. He asked Challenger if he was sure he wanted to enter and warned Challenger to not disturb the burialplace of the Pharaoh. Challenger entered the tomb, even though he had begun to have doubts about the purpose of the expedition. The first day nothing notable was found, however, on the second day they went deeper into the tomb, just like Williams had done before him. Challenger and his men were deep inside the tomb and it was freezing cold. One of the crewmembers tripped and fell on something. Challenger helped him up, but noticed what the crewmember had fallen on was not a stone. Challenger began excavating and after one hour a large coffin began to appear. It was the pharaoh`s burialplace. Despite being warned not to disturb the burialplace, Challenger tried to open the coffin. Suddenly water began flooding in from all sides of the room. Challenger and the crew began to run, leaving the coffin. They were just a couple of metres away from the exit and could see the old man standing there, staring at them as they were running for their life. A large boulder fell from the ceiling, blocking the entrance. They were trapped for all eternity. No one would ever see Challenger again and there were no recordings of anyone guarding the tomb.

Entrant 3 - Oxode

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Entrant 4 - Dark Storm

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I strode, with great purpose, towards the centre of the room. My eyes were locked with the man who sat in front of him, anger bubbled within my chest as I saw a slight sneer alight the features of a face, unaccustomed to being disobeyed. Armed guards, their rifles hanging loosely form their shoulders snapped to attention as the diminutive man stood. "Why have you come?" he spoke eagerly, his tongue flicking out from between his lips, as if tasting the air. "Why have you given up?" his eyes burned into my soul, "You were so close and now, now you stand here, no more than a common slave." Each foul word that flowed from his triumphant mouth hit me, like a hammer to my chest. "I am no slave," I retort in almost instant rapport, "I have not lost, even now I have won." I draw myself to full height, "Even now they call for your death, you, a dictator, fashioning himself as a Pharoah of old." The tempo of my voice rises, I fall into a smooth barrage of insults, designed to anger the man, "No more shall you reign, you shall be cast down by your own people, you shall feel the cold embrace of death, an embrace that shall last an eternity." I pace towards him, the guards, faces shocked at my anger, raise their weapons in haste, "You shall feel loneliness before the end, you shall be branded a traitor." The self imposed King, backed away from me, sinking into his chair, becoming lost in the dark recesses of a throne that was raised on a war of treachery and deceit, twisting and turning from my scathing gaze. "Guards," he squeaks, panicking before my advance, "remove him...remove him, Now!" No one moves, they all turn and face the man, judging him. "A bully," I whisper, "Is nothing more than a coward." I feel a sharp stab of pity towards the old man, yet I suppress the feeling. I turn on my heel, and stride away, no one moves to follow, no one moves to chase me, and stop me. Instead they stand there, watching the man, stripped of all pomp and ceremony and, for the first time, they see their leader for what he is. Nothing.

Entrant 5 - Lyra

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The object he held in his hands was just as he had imagined: the gold was perfectly polished, not a blemish in sight. Its engraving still stood out with uncanny detail. The dagger did live up to its name; it was truly made for a pharaoh.

But such a thing of beauty was now tainted, defiled by the blood of the innocent. Pierre’s hands were those of a killer, a murder; he was now destined to be an Aesop of hate, segregated from regular society for his crimes…

But it did not matter, no, not at all. For the greater part of his life he had searched for it and then, when he was most close to acquiring it, people had gotten in his way. They had to be dealt with in order to reach his goal, nothing held greater importance.
Yet it still weighed heavy on him; the struggle, the killing, the faces of the victims, all that was now becoming a great ball of darkness in his mind.

And in this growing uneasiness he felt a form behind him; he felt watched. Pierre shifted around in panic as his worst fears finally showed themselves. Pierre looked straight on at a face.
Its eroded features stared blankly at Pierre; what else could it do? It was a statue after all. He shuffled forward again, half relieved, half angered at the infernal effigy. He continued to gloat over his artifact, now glowing like an ember due to the surrounding light.

But Pierre was still uneasy. He turned around again to eye the carved stone; it still stood there, watching him; judging him with contempt. Pierre could almost hear its mocking him, jeering at his ultimate failure.
“Shut up!” he screamed back, “I fear no one now! The dagger is mine! I am a king! I have nothing to fear.”
Silence.

The Statue continued its empty stare into eternity. It had planted the seed in the man’s mind. The tendrils of guilt and regret started spreading though him sprouting fear wherever they went. Pierre was a doomed soul. A soul condemned to suffer the consequences of its actions till the cold reign of death set it. All true purpose in his life was now lost in his clouded mind. Pierre saw this, and thus committed his last act.

***

The last rays of the sun disappeared over the far mountain tops. The golden dagger now glowed red with the blood of a killer.

Entrant 6 - Magicman2051

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Entrant 7 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 8 - Darkan

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Entrant 9 - Ozy

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The explorer walked deeper into the building, marveled by its ancient architecture, shocked by the realization that they the very stones he touched had been set in that place by ancient men. As he immersed himself into the darkness of the tomb, he revived the path that no other man had crossed for what seemed to be an eternity. Within the shadows, the shaking light of his kerosene lantern revived the shapes of those who came before him; he heard voices in the cold breeze, voices that emanated from the deepest chamber, where the ancient Ruler rested.
He saw skeletal figures resting on the walls, the same walls that the old King had walked by upon his death, and, before him, been carved into the mountain by slaves who succumbed to exhaustion, for the purpose of building a palace for their Monarch’s afterlife. The breeze kept touching his face, a humid scent, putrid, roughly whispering in his ears, a whisper that formed a dark feeling in his heart, the realization that he was not welcome. Nervous, but curious, the explorer kept walking down into the tomb.

Further inside he found an open hall, a deep chamber with an elevation in the center, abeve which the sarcophagus of the Pharaoh rested. As he walked towards it he saw the dozens of looters and thieves who had desecrated the place many centuries after the King’s reignwas but an old fable. First he saw them as men with torches and pick-axes, determined to find their way into the chamber where the treasures lay. Then, as his lamp’s lights got closer, the shades turned into corpses, shadows that evaporated, turning to dust and smoke as he brought the light to them, erasing the dark silhouettes in the stone. He could feel his heart beating harder, stronger, urging him to turn, but the whispers lured him, drew him closer.

The whispers became stronger, no longer the sound of wind, but a voice that came from behind the coffin, calling him. He took a step, then another, looking everywhere, finding more and more shadows that vanished with the light and reappeared as he moved it to a different direction, getting closer each time. The explorer took a final step, setting his feet on the platform where the casket rested, and leaned forward with the light.

“Aaah!” yelled his companion from behind it, making the explorer drop on his back. Laughing hysterically, the man jumped around the platform and aided his friend.

“I told you you’d pay for the last time,” he said, extending his hand to his pale, perplexed and temporarily muted colleague. Once back on his feet, the two moved further into the tomb, analyzing the writings on the wall. For the rest of the trip, the explorer could not stand to be alone in the room again.

TotW 127 - The Prisoner's Dream

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Winner - Darkan

Spoiler for A Prisoner´s Dream:

The smell was appalling, a rancid mix of sweat and piss, together with the smell of the rotting rats that lay on the ground. The small cell was dark and damp and only the occasional torch light shone in as the guards were patrolling, though that was a rare event.

When was it that I was brought here? Wilms thought. It must have been more than six months ago, he concluded. How is it that I still have my sanity?

Food had stopped coming a long time ago so Wilms had had to make due with the rats that were lurking in the dark, though now they were scarcer, as if they knew his cell was a trap for them. His captors had also stopped bringing him water, though water was something he did not lack, as trickles were pouring through the cracks in the walls.
Noises from the corridors made him step back from the door, curling up into the farthest corner. As the steps came closer, he could hear two men talking to each other:

- ... so the bastard is dead, huh? How did that happen?
- We were dicing in old Jangmar’s tavern and he double crossed me. I took out my dagger and ...

The guards continued their round, their voices fading in the distance.

Wilms got up from his corner, pointlessly dusted of his filthy clothes and headed to the door again, looking through the barred window. Although he couldn’t hear voices or steps anymore, he could still see a glimmer of light in the distance, though it was coming closer and closer. Suddenly the door was ripped away with a terrible sound and the walls around him shook and started to fall apart. By instinct, he started running through the corridor, towards the light, his steps unsure at first and then more and more confident.

Taking his hand up to cover his eyes he stepped into the light and felt sand beneath his feet. After so much time in darkness his eyes couldn’t see anything through the blinding light, but the sound...it was soothing. He felt a scorching heat, as if the sun itself was embracing him with its countless rays. Wilms turned toward where the sound came and sooner than he thought he could feel the cooling touch of the sea upon his feet and an incredible joy took over him, as if a dream was coming true.

I wouldn’t mind a piece of roasted meat and a cup of wine, he thought amused.

He dove into the cooling water and as he emerged he saw the most beautiful sky he had ever seen, with only a few white clouds to give it life somehow.

- Oh, crap, Othmar, come here, one of the guards called.
- What happened?
- We have another dead here, the first man replied.
- Are you sure? This cell was supposed to be empty.
- It will be now, as soon as we get him out.

Entrant 1 - Oxode

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Entrant 2 - The Norseman

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Two weeks had passed since Harald was captured by the English and imprisoned. Harald had arrived at the southern tip of England to raid the coastal cities, but the English army ambushed Harald and his army, resulting in an English victory. Harald and a couple other men survived the battle and they were all thrown in prison to rot.

Harald was desperate, as he had barely received any food and was starving. He would soon lose his mind, but one day, an old priest came to visit Harald. The priest gave him an offer he could not refuse. In exchange for Harald`s freedom, he would have to serve one year as a crusader in the Holy Lands. Harald did not hesitate and quickly agreed to the offer he had received from the old priest.
Harald was brought out of the prison accompanied by two guards. Harald was escorted to London a long with some other prisoners who had been given the same offer. When Harald arrived in London, he would see an army so magnificent that words would not suffice. Harald was given food and equipment to bring a long at the voyage across the sea.

After several months the crusading army arrived in the Holy Lands and traveled towards Jerusalem, the city which now had Muslim dominance. The goal of the crusade was to capture Jerusalem in the name of Christendom and after a couple of days the city was under siege by the crusading army, which Harald had joined. The Muslim army rallied forth to meet the crusading army. Harald had never seen such huge armies clash together and it was clear to him that he was not the only one who was frightened. The Cross was brought to the frontline to increase the morale. The Cross stood ten feet tall for the entire army to see.

The opposing armies marched towards each other, dust was rising to the skies as the heaven turned dark and clouds began to appear. The two armies started running towards each other with a great speed, roaring, and as they clashed the sound could be hear from far away. Harald was standing at the frontline as the army clashed and was pushed far behind the enemy frontline, forcing him to fight on his own a long wit<h a couple of other allied soldiers. Harald charged into the enemies with great speed, killing many of them. An Arab soldier struck Haralds chest with a mace. Harald fell on his back and could not catch his breath. One of the crusaders ran forth, pushing the Arab man back. The crusader pulled Harald up and continued to charge the Arabs. After several hours the battle was over and the two armies were nearly destroyed. The crusading army decided to retreat. The crusading army would later capture Jerusalem and Harald was appointed as captain of the Scandinavian soldiers. Harald would spend the rest of his life in the Holy lands, defending Jerusalem, the Holy City.

Entrant 3 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

Spoiler for An Optimistic Proposition:

Chief Omar, yesterday was the eighth battle this month over the foraging grounds. About half a dozen of our people lost their lives; a dozen are wounded and might die of their wounds. At this rate the Quadram Tribe and our tribe will battle each other until we are all dead. From what I understand about the situation this crisis over food supplies is not just a local problem, but one that is afflicting almost all of the other mountainous tribes. As such, we should not be fighting each other, but instead come together to decide on how we, the various mountainous tribes, are to handle this problem. I recommend that on the day of the next full moon we should hold a council with a representative of as many tribes as possible to decide what we need to do. There will not be a cloud in the sky tonight, and most likely not tomorrow night; so once you read this you should with all haste have a messenger prepared to leave and bring news of these important matters to our neighbors.
It has recently crossed my mind that the Saracian Empire, at the edge of the mountains to the south of us, is overstretched. My recent interactions with the trade caravans that travel through the Solodh Pass have awarded me with information on what is happening in the south. South of the mountainous ridge in which we live, lies the Saracian Empire and no other kingdom to challenge their power. From the sea to the west to the sea in the east, to the sea in the south and to the mountainous ridge; these are the borders of the Saracian Empire. As you know, the size of that the Saracian Empire must be is enormous and unimaginable; it is a size that none of us thought possible.
What I suggest is a coordinated raid on the Saracian Empire. At this point few would dare cross the Saracian Empire, and if our tribe as well as the other mountainous tribes raid all at once in different areas there would be no way for the Saracian Empire to oppose us. We would have many advantages. We would raid close to the mountains’ edge, meaning that by the time the Saracians raise a mighty army to attack us, we would be long gone. Even if they decided to chase us into the mountains, we would have the advantage of the knowledge of our home territory.
Chief Omar, I do not know about you but I feel like our tribe is like a prisoner encaged in these accursed mountains. For centuries our people have been persecuted by the people in to the south, even we have sold our people as slaves so that we might prosper. Unless we act, the future of our tribe is like dust in the wind.
-Jahfarl
A letter to a Fwerzim Tribal Chieftain about a month before the first great North Strip Ridge incursion into the Saracian Empire.

Entrant 4 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 5 - Lyra

Spoiler for Flight:

Entrant 6 - Timur Amir

Spoiler for The Strongest Prison:

Frank dug his sandaled heel further into the loose gravel, and, barely maintaining his balance, fell forwards and grabbed a rock with his grasping arms, splayed over the ground like an animal. He steadied himself and dragged his body across the ledge to a more stable-looking crop of stone, coughing as he tried to breathe the dusty air. He dragged himself onto the stone that pierced the hill like a taunting tongue. But none of the discomfort, not even the blazing heat or the painful cries of his muscles, matched the most basic drive he felt: thirst. His body craved water, he needed it.
“Someone, anyone, please, just a drink!” he called out, his words scraping his sore throat like a knife. He licked his lips in a half hopeful pause before returning to his work of scrambling up this godforsaken hill, but it would be worth it if he found a little water, just a drop…or a sea. He had seen some plants up there, beyond the scraggly and thorny underbrush which coated the valley below, real plants that would need water. He’d even seen something move. Freshly motivated, he threw himself back up the graveled hill, practically crawling from rock to rock as the ground seemed to crumble beneath him. In the early days, he seemed to half-recall, he would try and pick the white quartz from the rest and wipe the layer of sediment off as he went, but those had grown too heavy as his strength had waned, a waste of energy needed to survive.
Tossing the memory aside as empty baggage, he clambered up. “I’m nearly there,” he thought, “so close to water.” However, he could feel his strength waning. He hadn’t eaten in some time, not after he’d stumbled down that canyon and lost his way at the stone cross. That was just moments ago, actually, wasn’t the ravine right there? How long had it been, anyways? No, no, he’d been at it a year, a decade, a lifetime. There was no other life. He put his pointless squabbling away as he heard a noise. An animal, a javelina, if he remembered right from that cowboy movie, was staring at him. It gazed at him with fearful eyes before asking, “Sir, what can I do to help?” No, wait, peccaries can’t talk. But in that split second of delusion, he gasped “Water.”
It seemed to run away for a moment- stupid dumb animal, maybe if he could fashion a spear- oh, wait, it’s coming back. It skidded in front of him, made a whipping motion, and he felt a blast of cold air. It was water, finally, water, a cool, clean burst, until it faded, and he still was parched. “Water, damn it!” he screeched, half to the clouds. The pig ran, terrified. He threw a rock, angry, only to hear strange noises behind him. He heard yelling and a door slam. No, Frank, that was just your mind, a whisper of the wind.

Entrant 7 - wowbanger

Spoiler for The Prisoner's Dream:

Entrant 8 - Ybbon

Spoiler for The Prisoner's Dream:

**Dance** · June 15, 2013, 10:18 AM

TotW 128 - For Love and Duty
duty, love, light, confusion, shock

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Winner - LegolasGreenleaf

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Entrant 1 - Oxode

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Entrant 2 - Lyra

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Entrant 3 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Col. Cartwright stared at the messenger awaiting the message. “Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright, the General needs you are to take your battalion, and with all haste seize that village,” the messenger pointed off in the distance to a village a few dozen yards away, “hold the village and protect our left flank.”
Cartwright protested, saying that the village was already occupied by an enemy battalion, however orders were orders. With nothing more to say, the messenger left. As the messenger left, Cartwright turned around facing his battalion, the 78th.
Dressed in their navy blue uniforms with their open-faced burgonets with a white plume, the 78th, he knew, was eager. This was their first engagement in the war and they were here defending the sovereignty of Duchara, at the expense of leaving their own capital near defenseless, but this was something that the 78th would not question. Their love for their Empire was such that they believed the Empire could do no wrongs. Love for their Empire, and their unquestionable duty was the reason why before they were garrisoned at the capital.
“78th, we have orders to assault that village over yonder. The village is occupied, thus we must convince its occupiers to abandon the village. It is only fitting that this battalion does the job; you all know our words ‘Duty and Love’. Our duty now is to hold the village and protect our comrades fighting in the main line of battle. Victory here means that we will be able to bring the light and love of the Immortal Empire over to the Ducharans who are suffering under the Regian occupation.”
“78th, forward march!” yelled Cartwright. The 78th Janak Legionnaire Battalion began its march towards the village.
As they got closer to the village, a cannon barrage bombarded the village. Confusion struck the enemy battalion as they suffered under the intense bombardment, a few seconds later the enemy fled from the village. Sight of the fleeing enemy caused the 78th to cheer, however their troubles were not over yet; to the right of the 78th appeared an enemy battalion of mounted dragoons. Cartwright felt his heart drop, for he realized in less than a second that there would be no time to form a square, there was little they could do. With few options, Cartwright ordered the line to turn and face the enemy cavalry and brace for the coming charge.
In the time before the dragoons got within a couple yards of the 78th, the Janakans were able to turn their line to face them. Cartwright sadly knew that the destruction of the 78th was assured. Then, out of the blue, Janakan cavalry flew in from the right of the 78th and smashed into the enemy dragoons before they had reached the 78th. Cartwright was shocked, knowing that his life as well as the lives of his men, might have ended right then, but miraculously they were spared. Cartwright knew that the 78th would continue the fight in this war.

Entrant 4 - Nazgûl Killer

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The Choice

He roared with frustration, facing one of the hardest decisions he had ever had to make.
He looked at his horse pleadingly. The horse gazed at him with confusion.
"Oh how cruel God has been to me. No such greater torment has even been felt by anyone in the past" He said dramatically and cynically, aloud.
Hank snorted; "It's a tough choice indeed" He chuckled.
In fact, his over-dramatic reaction to the decision envisioned his thoughts perfectly. Was he to abandon his happiness?
He tried to tell himself that he will do so for his love long lost...
And for his love that remains...
But in reality he had to choose between them.
Between the love to the one who got away...
And the love to the one who stuck by him...
An impossible choice by all accounts!

Would you abandon your duty for your happiness?
'It's not my happiness!' he tried to reason with himself.
'She loves me, if I would leave her she would be devastated' He pleaded in his head.
"But if you don't leave her you will meet your doom in a cowardly fashion" Hank answered.
'A choice between romance and duty. How brutally cruel' He bemoaned his fate.
"Your duty is a romance as well, only to a different entity" Hank said proudly and rose up from his chair.
He was shocked. How was it possible that Hank made so much sense? Had he already decided? No. He didn't. He wasn't happy with the choice.
He gazed up to the skies, the pale light of dawn rising.
'What should I do?'
"Go. You should go" Hank finally said.
'If I go I might die...'
"If you don't go, you will die of shame" Hank uttered.
He then smiled to himself. 'You're right' He uttered to himself while securing his rifle to his back.
He started toward his horse, only to halt mid-pace, contemplating. The grim night's skies slowly vanquished by the breaking dawn...
He saddled his horse with grim determination;
"You've been held back for too long. This is what you have always wanted!" Hank encouraged him.
'I love you Hank.'
"I love you too. Now go, be the man you always wanted to be"
He trotted away from the tombstone and left the graveyard with determined resolve.

Entrant 5 - Ybbon

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Entrant 6 - Timur Amir

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Entrant 7 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 8 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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TotW 129 - Victory!
tide, break, sausage, frost, flame

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Winner - LegolasGreenleaf

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Entrant 1 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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The Smile of Victory
There was no spot of land that he could see that was not currently covered by his comrades or his enemies. Why should he? He was located somewhere in the middle of the army, an army that combined with the enemy army would equal somewhere over a million men. All he could see were his comrades and flames on the horizon, flames that marked areas where enemies were burning alive. He had heard rumors that oil was poured into the ground in many areas of the battlefield, so that the next day fire arrows would be shot into those areas. He knew that the ground was frozen; there was even frost on the ground, these facts did not prepare him for the moment he saw the horizon light up. True, he could not see the fires from where he was standing, but he did hear plenty of fearful shouts amongst where he thought the enemy line was, and there were enough shouts to convince him that it worked.

It was only a matter of time until he was at the front of the line. He knew he would most likely meet his death here on this battlefield, but it would not help to think about his imminent fate. To linger on the subject could very well break his own morale. His being here was not because of some duty to an emperor that lived far away nor was he here to gain glory or honor. He was here to fight an enemy whose existence threatened the lives of his family, an enemy that had massacred their way across the continent. Victory here would turn the tide of the enemy horde.
The sounds of battle were getting closer to him; physically he was ready, mentally was another story. He had his sword drawn and shield strapped to his left arm, but his thoughts were not entirely focused on the battle. Instead he was thinking about earlier that morning, wishing that he could have had sausage for his breakfast, it would have been nice for a last meal it didn’t matter if it wasn’t Turonian sausage, and he just wanted to have sausage as a last meal.

His wishful thinking was broken when he realized it was his turn to fight. He brought his shield up to block an enemy chop directed at his head, with the shield he pushed the enemy’s sword arm wide creating an opening in the enemy’s defense and stabbed the man in the throat. Before he could pull the sword out, another enemy had gotten close enough with a dagger and stabbed him in the gut. He fell to the ground dying. Minutes passed before he saw a sight that had made him smile, victory. The enemy horde was fleeing. He had done his duty to his family, his family was safe, as these thoughts faded, so too did his life, but that smile did not fade.

Entrant 2 - The Norseman

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The snow was falling down from the skies as Brutus watched his soldiers take position at the frontline further down the hill. He knew that he was responsible for all of these souls and they looked to him for support and morale, he was in their eyes a father. They had been chased by a Germanic tribe for several days and were forced to flee when they discovered the Germanic tribe outnumbered them five to one. Some of the soldiers had frost injuries and they had to be taken care of while their brothers in arms fought without them. Brutus was observing the battlefield and the enemy troops on the other side of the valley. It was frightening, but he could not show any fear to his men. He threw a sausage to one of his dogs and stood up. One of his captains came up to him and he was given permission to speak; “The men have taken the positions and are waiting for you.”

Brutus equipped his armor and gladius and mounted his horse. As he was walking down the hill people were shouting his name, cheering. He greeted them and smiled, but deep inside he was filled with anger and fear. He knew that if he lost this battle it would turn the tide of war. When he walked ahead of the frontline he could see the soldiers were frightened, cold and their morale had been broken. The soldiers were completely silent and they all stared at Brutus, waiting for him to speak. “Today we face an enemy of Rome. We came to this land with the intention to make this people civilized, but now we are being chased. Their people have been fighting for their entire life and this is the only thing they know. They have no fear of us and will fight to death if necessary. If we fall this day our homes will be raided, our families enslaved and killed and the civilization will fall with us. This day we do not fight for Rome, we fight for us, for our families, homes and the entire civilized world. Do not fight as soldiers of Rome, fight as brothers in arms. Glory awaits us, may it be in this life or the afterlife. “ The soldiers were shouting and cheering. The flame in their heart had been lit. They were ready to fight. Thousands of soldiers were shouting his name “Brutus! Brutus! Brutus!” The Germanic army was closing in on them and as they got closer they shouted louder and louder, instilling fear into the enemy hearts. The battle for civilization has begun.

Entrant 3 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 4 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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Entrant 5 - Ybbon

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Entrant 6 - Timur Amir

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"Commander Caesar steps upon in front of his men, his ornate armor rattling as he stands to his tallest, projecting his machismo to his troops.
"Romans, today our country is at stake, our lands threatened, our very homes at stake. Today we must fight, we must defend all we stand for...or die in the attempt. By the eagle upon this banner, let us spill blood today, FOR ROME! For the REPUBLIC!"
The troops cheer as Caesar mounts his steed and it is not long before the Romans charge into the field after him as he plunges across the charred plain. The very air itself is broiled, as if by unholy flame, and soon Caesar raises his shield as the first volley whistles towards him. A storm of schnitzel rages through the air like a swarm of angry, meaty, heavily-seasoned locusts of deliciousness. The blackened blast slams itself into his shield like a charging bull, nearly knocking him off his mount. The poor horse crumples under the barrage of sizzling sausage, and Julius clambers off, dazed, instinctively bracing himself for the onslaught. He raises his javelin and tosses into the oncoming tide of enemies, and a distinct thump of it breaking upon impact emanates through the dusty air. He barely has time to draw his sword before he plunges it into the sloshy barrage of angry meats, barely standing as a chain of the dreaded Italian variety, medium-rare, wraps itself in links around his arm, but you can practically see the unmatched strength as he snaps it with a flex of his iron limb. He does a twirl, a leap, and shouts his dreaded war cry, and here is where I know you'll love it: the meat starts to explode in a massive tumultuous mass of fleshy strands as-"

"I think I've heard enough," the man in the suit replied frostily, spinning away momentarily from his wooden desk to view the flashy screen behind him, covered in dozens of competing graphics and spinning words, a whirlwind of words.
"Did it make the cut? I'm sorry, was it too dull? Oh, ummm, pardon me, if you want to, of course," the writer rambled nervously, twisting in his chair.
Dramatically, the man spun back around and put on the voice he felt executives should have, and grinned. "Kid, I know you're a bright one, and I know you've got potential here, but the audience wants 33% more sex, and this just won't cut it. Time is money, that's something you'll need to learn-they already have- and accept as gospel. Singletasking isn't what is was anymore. However, if you perhaps would like to bring this to the modern generation..."
"You want me to add it... to the battle scene?'
"Why not on his horse, riding is dull!"
"But, sir, that makes no sense"
"No, but it makes cents, and that's what matters!"
"Sir, that completely misses the...but what... pardon me, I'll add it right away."
"That's a lad, I'll give Bay a call at two."

Entrant 7 - Xoxoman

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What would a Breton do in Whiterun? Much people asked me this, I always replied with the same somewhat simple answer: ‘’The Imperial flame rages through my heart’’

I was stationed here in Whiterun when the threat of the Stormcloaks rose, before Whiterun I was stationed in Leyawiin under General Flavonius, one of the best generals in the Empire, but luck wasn’t probably with me, I got the orders to move with a few other soldier up north to the Falkreath Imperial Camp, an easy journey because of the good roads in Cyrodiil.

But now look at this Nord sausage, you can’t even eat it, it’s hard and rough, blegh, just as tough as an Stormcloak rebel and why I am telling you this? Because Frand got send to the Stormcloak camp outside Whiterun!
We ambushed them at midnight, my sword swung a few times in a neck of a Stormcloak, but the frost on my sword didn’t really help me, he wasn’t as sharp as it normally is. The fight continued and continued, maces destroyed fine iron armour, axes made heads roll and swords well, I told you about it..

The tide was on our side on the beginnings of the battle, but the Stormcloaks were far more skilled and some of our soldiers lacked bravery and routed, but the final decision of the battle was just when the commander of the Stormcloak troops - Fraki Hagraven-killer – got hit by an arrow, where I don’t know, probably somewhere down his legs as he couldn’t walk anymore.
The tide was broken by something else, a dark winged beast who fled from the mountains shades onto the forests of Skyrim, the Nords called it a dragon and suddenly began to fight with even more courage!
And of course we all fled, we all ran towards Whiterun towards for our own safety, , I took a small break near a little farm, I sneaked into the farm, I needed some food, maybe sausage? I don’t know.

At that moment you can hear everything, but I heard a soft Nord girl voice singing, I slowly sneaked into the main hall of the great farm, when I saw an altar to Talos, an altar of Talos so close to the city of Whiterun, I couldn’t be true! I need to do something, I need to!
The doors swung open from the other side, two in blood clenched soldiers entered the main hall, one of those soldiers was badly injured and the other one? He stood there and said; ‘’Victory, for Talos!’’ Suddenly, the whole room jumped up and shouted; ‘’FOR TALOS, FOR THE FIRST DRAGONBORN.’’
Was Talos a dragonborn? It kept me busy when I left the farm again, no, the Empire is wrong, Talos is a god.

That’s the reason, I’m leaving for the Stormcloaks, say I’m back to the High Rock.. for Talos!

TotW 130 - For the Shogun
ashigaru, shogunate, heir, decisive, poem

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Winner - LegolasGreenleaf

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Entrant 1 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 2 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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The Whims of other Men

“Are you ready?” I asked the person standing next to me, no more than a boy. He didn’t answer; I’m not surprised he looked half-dead. He was as pale as the moon, and beads of sweat were slowly trickling down his face, despite that fact it was quite cold. I could also distinctly smell a rather unpleasant aroma from around him. It wasn’t my place to ask, I was exactly the same at my first battle. I remember it as vividly as I could see the men standing around me, but that’s a story for another week.
We were the Ashigaru, the prop that held the Shogunate together, or that’s what I liked to think we were. Truthfully, however, we were just the common solider, expected to fight and to die for our Daimyo, our leader. We had no place in the world outside our community, we weren’t meant for politics and warfare. We just ended up in the middle of it. A poem won’t be written about us, about how we bleed and die at the whim of other men. We are the ones who win the battle, the war, not the ones who recount it.

The heir to the Shogunate and commander of our army rode passed shouting words of encouragement to us. Not that we heard, we were all too busy thinking about our homes, our families. He spoke nonetheless, spoke how we would win a decisive victory today, and spoke how we would vanquish the enemy. After his little speech he rode back to the Samurai, the ones who would benefit from the outcome of this war, the people who could afford to wear expensive armour, and the people who didn’t have to worry about a harvest when they returned home, the ones which would have poems written about them. Oh how I hated them!

The silence stretched on, and on.
And then enemy came into view, and then even more of them.
And then we charged, we charged for the Shogun, for his honour – how little that was worth. We came upon the ranks of the other Ashigaru, men against men, people who fought for the same reasons we did, because they had to, because someone ordered it.

We were all just the same deep-down, all wanting the same thing – glory. We may grumble and complain, say we just want a family. But in the end it all comes down to one thing, who can gain the most amount of glory. Yes, that’s the sad truth, but ay we’re just men.

Entrant 3 - Nebulon

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Entrant 4 - Schrödinger

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Entrant 5 - ASSASSIN1110

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The Ninja perched on the wall, his supple fingers gripping the battlements, his eyes peering over the top, almost invisible in the darkness. 2 Ashigaru conscripts patrolled the parapet, half asleep in the warm summers night. The sky was full of clouds, the air dense and muggy. The ninja looked up slowly. He would have to be quick. The clouds looked saturated, as though they would release their contents at the slightest provocation. If that happened his matte black gi would become shiny with the wetness and reveal his position. He couldn't let that happen.

As the two soldiers passed, exchanging polite nods, he leapt over the battlements, he tabi making no noise as they hit the compacted earth that covered the wall. The Ninja crouched low in the shadow and followed the larger of the two soldiers.

The first thing that the ninja noticed was the smell, the siege was limiting the castles water and the soldiers were restricted from bathing. A waft of month old sweat followed the conscript like the trail of slime that follows a slug. The ashigaru soldier stopped but the Ninja padded forward, keeping to the shadow. He stood behind the soldier and drew his small ninjato sword without a sound. With one quick movement he pulled it across the man's neck, slicing the artery and his windpipe in the progress. He then pushed him over the wall. The man died without a sound. The Ninja smiled underneath the facemask he wore...he knew he was a master at his chosen art; killing.

The Ninja sat perched impossibly on the sheer wall of the castle's central keep, two shuriken pushed into the gaps in the building's huge stone blocks. He peered through the open window of the general's bed room. He was the heir to the Shogunate. This meant little to the Ninja, his master wanted him dead because he was the only thing that stopped the brittle courage of the ashigaru soldiers from breaking in the many costly assaults that the army encamped outside the massive walls had launched. This would be the decisive blow that would break the defender's backs. He climbed into the room and walked silently across the wooden floor. A half-written poem lay on the small writing desk that was the only other piece of furniture in the room, the Ninja skimmed his eyes over the immaculate kanji script.

It was a good poem, shame the poet wouldn't live to finish it, the Ninja thought. He crept across the room silently to the sleeping man's bedside, the sheet rising and falling with each breath.

The Ninja lay his sword across the general's neck and pulled back sharply, again slicing the victim's windpipe and artery. The general's eyes shot open in a look of terror, his hand's reaching up to his destroyed neck, the sanguine blood dying the woollen sheets black.

The Ninja was already gone, slipped out into the night, a shadow of death in a world of shadows.

Entrant 6 - Ybbon

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Entrant 7 - Byzantus

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Entrant 8 - Robin de Bodemloze

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Shogun

Petals of sakura drifted lazily in the soft morning haze, and trees swayed slowly in the breeze that blew across the plains before us. Our minds held little regard for the beauty of this spring morning however, instead focused intensely upon the dark mass of men standing on the horizon. Glory and honour awaited us, our commanders said. Our people would be heirs to the previous shogunate, and poems would be made in our honour, or so we were told. In truth we knew that few of us would survive to see that glorious outcome, but still we marched forth, for the life of a warrior was but the resolute acceptance of death.

As the two lines engaged samurai and ashigaru alike hurtled themselves at the enemy, weapons tracing sweeping arcs amid a frenzied deadly dance. Limbs and heads flew in all directions, and blood bathed all who fought. The cries of dying men reverberated across the flat plains, punctuated by the piercing screams of horses as their legs were cut beneath them and their riders summarily butchered. Brave men fell on both sides and the grassy landscape had been churned into a quagmire of blood and earth, but still the battle raged on. My brows were wet with a vile mix of blood and perspiration, and fatigue had begun to eat away at my perseverance. My arms felt as if they had been formed of lead, but still I persevered if only to avoid an ignominious death.

Suddenly, as the headless body of an enemy samurai fell silently at my side, the sight of the opposing general’s banner filled my vision. Elated, I forced the pain – by now raging in every part of my body – to the back of my mind, and raced towards the prize before me. Surely killing the enemy general would make the decisive difference, I thought. All around me seemed to blur while my feet gathered pace, and as I swung my blade the world seemed to freeze to a standstill…

Literally.

No matter how hard I tried to move my arm remained stationery, raised vertically in the strike position. My mouth was wide agape, but no sound came. As curiosity and confused rage boiled within me the sky suddenly darkened inexplicably, and strange symbols appeared to hover high in the sky.

Total War: SHOGUN 2 is not responding. If you close the program you may lose information.

TotW 131 - The Outpost
time, city, madness, love, white

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Winner - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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“It sure is quiet around here.” Sighed the sentry.

“Dammit Farah!” his companion replied. “Why must you make comments such as that whenever we are on duty? Maybe one day I will take this halberd here and stick you. Then it definitely won’t be quiet around here.”

“I’m sorry Sakhr,” replied Farah. Sakhr gave Farah a look of disbelief. “I really am. I guess I just say that in hopes that something interesting will happen. Instead, almost every day we wake up, head over to the barracks, grab our equipment, then leave Aten to head west for about a league, only to spend the rest of the day at an old wooden tower. There is nothing to see leagues around. All there is the white sand, the empty blue sky and the mountain ridge in front of us. We are guarding against a threat that will never exist. There is no threat to our beloved city of Aten, much less the Saracian Empire. There has never been a moment in time where anyone has defeated the Saracian Empire and there never will be…”

“You know with that kind of patronizing talk someone might think you love everything about the Saracian Empire.” Joked Sakhr.

“I am only admitting that no one can defeat the Saracian Empire. That does not mean I don’t want an independent Aten. I just know it will never happen. Still I wouldn’t mind if something as interesting as a rebellion occurred…”

“Don’t say things like that. You probably were not around at the time, but two decades ago there was a rebellion over at the city of Hesperos. Saracian soldiers came, defeated the rebellion. After the rebellion was over, the Saracians held mass executions in Hesperos; executing any Hesperosi they saw fit. It was utter madness.”

“What. Were you there?” scoffed Farah.

“Yes I was, and I was a soldier too who had to watch these executions take place. I hope such a thing never happens to Aten.”

The two sentries were quiet. As the silence ensued, they stared across the vast desert wasteland where at the end lay a range of mountains that extended north to south as far as the eye could see. “That reminds me Sakhr. What is over those mountains? I have never been that far away from Aten, but seeing as how you have been more than just a sentry I think you would know.”

“Over those mountains there?” Sakhr pointed. “Yes.” Replied Farah.

“From what I have heard, nothing. I think the closest settlement would be Turkara, but that is practically on the other side of the world.”

“If that is true, then who are we guarding the empire from?”

Entrant 1 - Ybbon

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"My Friend, my last friend, let me tell you of my City", he started, "They said it was hubris to build a City here, a madness that would only infuriate those we neighboured, our forefathers demonstration to all the tribes of our water wealth whilst those who dwelt in the desert surrounding the city survived amid its arid and parched sands. But the city took shape, it's tallest tower a shining white light piercing the sky, a white finger rising from the yellow desert, stabbing into cerulean heavens pointing Man to the Gods above. Its walls built high and strong, balefully glaring out at the sands and tribes, daring them to try and overcome the walls and guards who stood sentinel".

His companion just watched him.

"I loved my city with a longing in my heart than can never be satiated, ah, to see the cool white marble piazzas, and hear the gentle drops of water in the fountains again - fountains that flowed all year in a desert! The smell of a hundred spices, innumerable fruits and sweets and the cries of the stall-holders in the markets, the sway of hips from the courtesans as they teased us men with promises of earthly delights with a flick of a veil and a subtle smile."

Still his companion watched, all attention fixed on the man.

"But it was madness to believe the water would flow forever, and in time one guard outpost stopped watching the desert and it was overrun. The stream was stopped and the water to the city flowed a little slower. Then another outpost neglected their duties, failing to watch as carefully as they should have, and yet another stream was diverted."

"Slowly but surely the city was starved of water and without water, the fountains dried up and the traders stopped coming and without traders the city's wealth trickled away as sand replaced water in the plazas and pools. The people left and now it is home to scorpions, lizards and desert tribes who stable their livestock in the palaces and mansions we once had, the height of the walls no match for the pervasive sands, entering through the smallest crack, hissing through, enlarging the cracks until they pulled the walls down."

"All gone, all forgotten and I am the last Prince of a forgotten realm, and the irony is that I'm dying of thirst within sight of my city of fountains talking to my last companion with my last breath". He grunted and coughed what little blood he had left in him, and with a last tear for perished dreams and beauty lost, the man breathed his life away in a ghostly sigh.

"Finally," thought his companion, "time for me to feed". For crows have to eat too.

Entrant 2 - Thokran

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Entrant 3 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 4 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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Entrant 5 - Schrödinger

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Entrant 6 - Arbitrary Crusader

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“Behold! Raglan! The city of Sir awesome!”

Mitch shouted on the highest part of the structure.“It a fort, you dunce” Raglan shouted back. “You’re right my love, now come up here and witness the greatest sand fort of all time!” Mitch said with such pride. Raglan process to enter the fort. Crossing the sand bridge, Raglan head up to the top, where Mitch was at. The fort was very complex, Mitch -with some help Raglan- had made the fort, and it took the whole day to work on it. Raglan passed by carefully crafted rooms, pillar, and staircase such a marvel should be praise, but Raglan didn’t take notice and process to enter the roof where Mitch was at.

“Finally you’re here, do you realize what time it is?

Mitch said with a chuckle.“Do you?” Raglan retorted. “Sure! I made a sun clock, look behind” Mitch said with glee. Raglan turned around and sighed. The clock pointed to 5. “Look we—“Raglan was interrupted when a sound came from below. It was Harry, Mitch older brother calling him. “Hey you twit gets my brother!” Harry sneered. “Who is making that sound?” Mitch said. “It Harry, he want you.” Raglan replied. Mitch walks to the edge to see his brother. “Wow, he looks like a white jellybean.” Mitch said to himself.

“There you are, fool. Come on out we have to go!” Harry shouted.

“No, come get us!” Mitch reply. Harry grunted and called his friends. “If you don’t come out, then we’ll take you out, by force!” Harry said with a smile. “Come at us, bro! My dear Raglan prepare for battle! Get the cannons!” Mitch said with such confident. “You have five minute till you complied” Harry said. “You’re not serious are you? “ Raglan told Mitch. Mitch just pointed to the buckets which was his “cannons” Raglan sigh and began to fill up the buckets.

Five minutes past, Harry and his friends were at the bridge pounding it.

“This is madness, Mitch!” “Madness, Raglan? THIS IS AWESOME! LAUNCH THE ATTACK!” Mitch and Raglan process to dump the buckets load of sand onto Harry and his friends. “AWW YOU’RE DEAD YOU HEARD ME!!!” Harry scream, then cough up sand. Minutes passed, Harry had stormed the fort and process to head up, Mitch had put defensive gates and security measure, but to no avail, as it was made of sand. Harry had now entered the roof and corners our two defenders. “Game over, fools” Harry said. “Remember the Alamo!” Mitch shouted, followed by Raglan face palming himself. But before Harry could do anything, their Mother shouted with such haste, that Harry began to head down and said to Mitch “This isn’t over buddy, now come on, you know how mom get when she is in this mood.” Mitch and Raglan smile at each other, they were save by Mitch mother, they stood around a bit to marvel at their fort and process to head back home.

Entrant 7 - Longstreet

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Entrant 8 - Nebulon

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TotW 132 - Merry Men of the Forest
light, nightmare, trumpet, sand, damsel

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Winner - Schrödinger

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The damsel damselled distressedly, being suitably upset at the distressing turn of events. She had been frolicking through the forest to see her grandmother this morning and now she was tied to a tree, damselling. Never before had she damselled, but she was damn well going to damsel now she had the opportunity.

Especially with the drunken men cavorting in the clearing in front of her. Smiler had a scar which cut grotesquely across his chin. Lugless had none of his own but wore a necklace of three dangling down to his bared hairy chest. Nightmare wore a hood, his only feature the stench of cider emanating from the hole which was his breathing opening. They had lit a fire and were dancing in its flickering light, hallooing and screaming a rough song popular at the time.

“Oh! The sand, the sand, the sand, sand, sand
There are camels, camels, camels, camels
In the sand, sand, sand, sand
Oh! The land, the land, the land, land, land
Is full of camels, camels, camels
Like an ‘orse with an ‘ump, ‘ump, ‘ump.
And a very hairy rump, rump, rump”

It seemed to the damselling, who was damselling very well despite the gag over her little mouth, that they had captured her for a stupid game for which the only purpose was to annoy her. Intermittently they would come up to her for the ‘rump, rump, rump’ lines, but they did not touch her. Although they had not been so gentlemanly when they had caught her, bound her and forced her into a large haversack with a knife at her throat.

“Like an ‘orse with an ‘ump, ‘ump, ‘ump”

Then it happened. Smiler spilt his drink on Lugless, who turned to blame Nightmare as his beloved ear collection soaked in rancid alcohol. Nightmare drew his knife on Lugless, who with a howl like a rusty trumpet went to lay him out with a vicious right hook. Lugless dodged it clumsily with drunken speed, stumbling into Smiler. Smiler grinned a terrible grin and shoved Lugless to the ground, tripping him, and turned on Nightmare, drawing his own knife. The two circled for a bit, until the larger Smiler stumbling on a fallen branch, the other end of which Nightmare had been stood on. As the branch tumbled, both men fell and stuck their knives into one another’s guts.

It took the men who were too merry a little under a day to die, and the damsel in distress a further three until the delirium carried her to the Styx, rescuing her from the dying illusion she was a sausage.

Entrant 1 - Ybbon

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Entrant 2 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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Merry Men of the Forest

“Good-bye Robert!” the stranger muttered.
“What? How do you know who I am, who are you!” Robert screamed.
“Good-bye” was all the voice responded, before swinging the sword down in one precise blow...

Robert woke up from the nightmare, sweating profusely. He looked around and saw he was lying on the forest floor tucked under a layer of bracken. He had been in this accursed forest for the past week looking for the Merry Men. Ever since arriving in this forest he had begun to have the same nightmare again and again, it was always the same person doing the same thing – killing him. Nothing he could do changed the course of the dream, it was always the same. Always.

Reaching across he grabbed the bag of sand his father had got him from the Holy Land. “All the way from the plains of Arabia this is, son,” his father had said upon his return from Acre, “Have this and you will see the light – I have.” Ever since then he had always had it on him, in Church, at the House, even under his pillow when he slept. He still didn’t understand what his father had meant by ‘see the light’. That’s why Robert was here, in this forest. Hopefully the Merry Men could tell him what it meant. He couldn’t ask his father, ever since giving Robert the bag of sand he had become like a damsel in distress. Robert had offered to give it back but when he had his father would just come in, like he had upon his return from the Holy Land, and say exactly the same thing. No one could explain it; Robert had asked everyone in his village but they all said the same thing: “You’ll have to ask the Merry Men”
“Who are they?” Robert asked the first time someone had mentioned them. “Men that are merry,” was the only response he got. So here he was in this forest, looking for these ‘Men that are Merry’.

The only way he had know where to look was when a trumpet merchant had come to his village to rest and when Robert had come to inquire about a specific trumpet for his mother the merchant had just said “The Merry Men are the ones you seek?”
“How... how did you know?” Robert responded dumbfounded. “I know a lot of things, many useless things, but I know where one can find the Merry Men.”
“Where”
“Over there,” the man had responded, pointing at the forest that shadowed Robert’s village before walking off.

The sound of a twig snapping pulled Robert back into the present. He looked around at the source of the noise and was shocked when he saw before him the stranger from his nightmares, sword drawn. “You?” was all Robert managed to say, choking on his words. “Me,” the man replied, grinning, walking towards Robert.

Entrant 3 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 4 - Arbitrary Crusader

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“Ugh this light is killing me and my skin.”

Ray said with a sigh. “Indeed, this is doing nightmare to my hair” John reply. “For Christ sake stop! You, guys sound like conceited teenage whores.” Neil said. Ray scoffed, while John said. “You’re just jealous of our looks.” “Totally, I’m soo jealous, I mean, it must had taken actual work to look like a bloody women: With Long hair, tight purple shirt, ton of makeup, pointless bands, and the most penis compression pant, I ever seen. Yup.” John did not reply back, but growl. There was silence for the moment till Ray broke it. “Where Rob?” “Oh, no…” Neil said. The three of them began to call Rob for minutes; they had given up, till suddenly he appears in front of the group, just a few yards away.

“Dudes!” Rob shouted.

“How did you got ahead of us?” Ray said. Rob ignored Ray and in mellow voice, said. “You, bros need to try these pills, It wild. I got it from my man” “You got them from a guy in the woods?” John said. “I know people, now here.” He gave each of them an odd pinkish pill, only Neil objected. Saying “Someone has to be sober, around here.” After, John and Ray drink the pills, they began to walk. Moment passed and Neil became thirsty, he began to stop and grab his bottle, when he was tackles by his friends, they were under the influences of Rob, who was whisper them to make Neil eat the pill. After a futile struggle, Neil had swollen the pill. Neil began cursing at them, while they laugh, and soon enough, began walking again. However an hour into the walk the affect of the pill had change the group mentality.

They were standing behind a large tree.

By one, they jump out at the front. “Behold, I am Lord Bookum, Queen of Bactopia!” Ray said, with half of his shirt rip off. He put the parted shirt on his head as a “Crown”. “And, I’m the Dude!” Rob said, as he play trumpet on a nearby branch. “I am Sand!” John shouted. While only wearing boxer on his body. Finally, Neil came out completely nude; only thing he wore was John’s pant as a cape. “I am Cloud, and I hear a damsel in distress!” He turns to John and shrug. “Do not want.” Neil added. “We are the men in tights!” The fours said in unison. After that, the mens played superhero, “fly”, run around in circle, vomiting, till finally they sober up. John fell asleep, while Rob carry John on his back, Ray play drum on his head, and Neil with a terrible headache. “What happened to us?” Ray asked, to which Rob reply. “Life.” “We’re lost.” Neil said. “What, now?” Rob ask. Neil closed his eye and point to a random direction. “We’ll go there.” They followed. And so begin the long journey of our four dudes to home.

Entrant 5 - Dark Storm

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**Dance** · August 08, 2013, 07:29 PM

TotW 133 - A Brief Respite
night, spider, brow, solitary, desolate

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Winner - Schrödinger

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Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Entrant 3 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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Entrant 4 - Ybbon

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Entrant 5 - Arbitrary Crusader

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Entrant 6 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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TotW 134 - Sound the Horn
riders, assembly, mighty, beast, gallop

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Winner - Ybbon

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Entrant 2 - Dark Storm

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Entrant 3 - Time2kill

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Entrant 4 - Thokran

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TotW 135 - The Governor's Daughter
shade, ship, silk, red, dagger

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Winner - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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“Shade, the Vizier has been expecting you. Follow me.” A soldier said. As ordered, the Shade followed the soldier. As could be expected from a soldier in the employment of the Vizier, the soldier was dressed in bright colored garb that all but concealed a gold chainmail shirt. The Shade wondered if the gold made the chainmail stronger, but then chuckled knowing that it still would not save the soldier if he was a target for an assassination.

It was unusual for the Shade to walk around in broad daylight. As an assassin who always dressed in black tunics, he was at a disadvantage, first of all the black tunics absorb heat (which in the Saracian sun would probably make wearing armor more comfortable than a black tunic) and there were too many people in the streets in daylight. Well, except maybe in this city of Al Bal'awa. Ever since it was conquered decades back, its population had begun dwindling, all because of the embargo its sister city, Valloix, imposed. Since then, virtually no trade came into the city, Valloix ships had seen to that.

The two men walked for several minutes before they had arrived at their destination. For a palace, thought the Shade, it’s rather unusual. The Shade was right, though still under construction; the Vizier’s palace looked nowhere near as magnificent as other Saracian palaces. It might just be temporary for when Saracia finally conquers Valloix.

“The Vizier is waiting for you inside his pavilion.” The soldier grunted. The Shade drifted off to the left of the palace to where the pavilion was. As the Shade approached the pavilion, the guards stationed outside the pavilion lifted the flaps to allow the Shade to enter.

As to be expected, the inside of the pavilion almost made the Shade forget that he was in a simple tent and not a palace. “Finally, you’ve arrived. Please, sit and make yourself comfortable. I’m afraid I don’t have time to offer you any amenities nor do I have time for chit chat,” said the Vizier who was dressed in the most expensive silks.

“Fine. It is impossible to assassinate the Valloix governor. There is no way an enemy army can get into Valloix, nor is there a way for an armed foreigner to get into that city.”

“A Shade admitting defeat? I thought I’d never see the day. Don’t worry; I have already contacted people who can get you into Valloix. Here is your first payment if you accept.” The Vizier handed the Shade a pouch full of coins.

“I accept.”

“Good,” the Vizier started. “Guards! This man is trying to kill me!” he shouted. The Shade was surprised, before he could draw his dagger he had a blade at his belly. “Don’t even try. Thanks to you, the streets of Valloix will run red with blood.” Said the Vizier.

“You have no proof!”

“Fool! Those Valloix coins are all the proof I need.”

Entrant 2 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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The galley, Shade, just entered the port, its red silk flag flying about in the breeze, the dagger that was woven onto the flag glistening in the sunlight. Looking around, the ship was but a fly compared to some of the vessels filling the port. Although the day was still young, the port was filling up quickly. Marie was by the railings, hearing the shouts of the merchants trying to sell their goods, the hustle and bustle of the streets, the Captains bellowing out their orders. It meant Venice.

She had been away from home for ages, after her father had sent her away to various places across Italy, 'learn the ways of the world’. At first she had been lonely, but then she had become friends with a governor's daughter, Beatrice, and they had travelled together ever since. She had met Beatrice visiting one of the Italian cities; her father was acquainted with the Doge himself and welcomed Marie with the upmost courtesy. She had stayed at the city for a while before setting back off with Beatrice. So after continuing their travels together it was Beatrice that had brought her back to Venice. She had received a letter from her father telling her she had been promised to wealthy Venetian merchant and was due to meet him for the first time later on in the week. She had begun to get excited with the prospect. It certainly seemed that way Marie thought, it’s all she ever goes on about. Marie would be lying is she said she wasn't a little jealous of Beatrice. She was going to get married and be able to start a family, something Marie had always dreamed of.

Looking up she saw it was Beatrice and gave her a smile “It looks so beautiful doesn’t it?” Marie pondered.

“It does indeed, I’m so glad we’ve. I’m so excited!” Beatrice responded

“I would be if I was you,” Marie said, with a hint of bitterness.

Beatrice seemed oblivious to the comment, “The Captain says we’re almost here, I can’t wait to see my new husband. I wonder what he’s going to be like; I hope he’s handsome.”

“Pardoning maladies, but we’re ready to depart, and I would like to get to a brothel, if you pardon my meaning,” the Captain shouted across at them.

Beatrice beamed, “Time to go and meet my husband.”

That was it for Marie, she was tired of Beatrice going on about her husband, before she knew it her hands were squeezing Beatrice’s neck. She stared into Beatrice’s bulging eyes, filled with fear. Marie heard the shouts of men running towards them but she was too focused on squeezing Beatrice’s throat.

“Not going to meet him now,” Marie screamed, laughing with madness as the light left Beatrice’s eyes and her body went limp, letting go her body fell to the floor but before Marie could do anything something whacked her on the back of the head. And then it went black.

Entrant 3 - Longstreet

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Entrant 4 - Schrödinger

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"Oi! Darlin'! Choo fancy a red silk? Lavverly silk, just choor colour! Genuine kosher!"

The hollers of hawkers filled Michelle's world as she moved through the dockside hubbub, slipping her slim way through the hustle and bustle, ignoring the raucous rapscallions of the riverways who ended up at the dockside, basking in the sunshine like absurd flea-ridden sea lions. Like on a noxious turd, a greenish miasma was exuded from the much-abused surface of the river, shimmering in the air and making the ships that rocked in the gentle swell semi-invisible. Swathed in their unearthly mystic shrouds, they could perhaps be the abodes of the Gods.

As one shook to a familiar rhythm, Michelle wondered if there was a God of Whores.

There was a scream from the smog-ridden central districts that did not break the general hubbub for a moment. She concluded that probably not. Tripping gently up the stairs like a sand-fly on a rock she made her way round to the Isle of Dogs and the small harbour on the westside there. Down the humped otherside of the bridge and onto the little isle in the middle of the slow river, which moved like a slowly rotting fishskin in the broiling heat.

Outside the ship, she could hear the faked platitudes and groans that suggested a sister.

Staring the young boy in the eye and biting her lower lip, she told him to bring the captain. Satisfied by his swift obedience and reddened cheeks, she briefly checked the hilt of the dagger in the back of her belt. Not allowing a trace of her thoughts on her face, five minutes later she was laughing on the inside of a cabin with her head (and body) in it's best position in dark shade. Her eyes did not close for a second, but the captain's did and he stretched his aims out to grope her. Long her nerves had been dulled, but she did not expect him to be so quick. A brief tussle. She was lying panting on the bed, with the wrong kind of blade at her throat.

"Once I was like you, a young bladewhore who gave a cut for every thrust. Better than you, of course, for now I have a ship. Yes, I am no man. My ladies have been watching you for weeks, you will do well here... will you turn your dagger to my service?"

Gulping indelicately, she nodded, the captain smiled but did not move

"I hope so, for I am a God of Whores and should you cross me I shall cut you."

TotW 136 - For the Emperor
beam, heat, reflection, spray, darkness

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Winner - Mr Harold

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"E6?" Queried little Jonas. A beam of childlike excitement and inquisitivity in his eye matched the tone of his voice.

George gave no indication that he was even listening to the young boy. If one were to observe the way he was encapsulated with the piece of paper in front of him, staring solicitously at the grid crudely marked upon it, one would assume that old age and senility had gripped him. But that was not what haunted George, as he sat in the summer heat with the latest addition to his beautiful family, hunched over the endearingly worn and tattered garden table...

..."Blast it man, you sunk my bloody battleship!" The room exploded with laughter and merriment, for the sight of a pair of drunk sailors taking joy in leisurely games with the qualms of the last few weeks behind them was a welcome one - to scarred British sea dogs and young Japanese revolutionaries alike.

"What say we drink this old girl's hold dry, it is her last voyage after all!" George declared from atop the table he was just moments ago sat at. A second explosion of exuberance rocked the room, and it was as if none of the conflict of prior times had ever happened. For as George now stared at his murky, distorted reflection in the porthole window, he felt genuinely at ease.

The feeling of calm in George was smouldered almost immediately as a heavy presence of grief sank into his very being. What had presented itself in clear view through the porthole was of such ominousness that it seemed to freeze time itself.

He had little time to shriek before a third explosion came. This explosion was not one of merriment, nor any form that could be construed as positive. This explosion brought with it death, as blood and shrapnel seemed to spray from every angle. George, lying on the floor, now legless, unknown to him, could only focus on what was but seconds ago a room full of happy souls, each with a story to tell.

Now there was only darkness for his eyes to see.

"Grandad, I said E6! Come along!" George snapped to attention, as though woken from a deep slumber by a nightmare. He then couldn't help but contort his now very wrinkled face into a smile as he looked upon young Jonas.

"Ah, sorry dear boy." He said with a reassuring tone. "Let's see, E6..." He searched the grid on the paper, raising his eyebrows and peering down his nose through his spectacles. "Would you look at that, you sunk my battleship! You'll be a sea captain yet."

"Yes! I must show Papa!" Jonas shouted as he ran inside, paper in his hand. George rotated in his wheelchair to watch him, before sighing with content, looking to the sky that so vividly reminded him of the sea, and of all the souls he once knew.

Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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Entrant 3 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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Entrant 4 - Schrödinger

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TotW 137 - Tea Party
slaughter, musket, waste, disaster, horror

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Winner - Maximimus Thrax

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“You bastards!... You bloody pillocks!… In the name of His Majesty, King George III!... Stop this madness, I say!... You utter berks!... I will put each and every one of you simpletons to the rack if you don’t end this foolishness right now!”, clamored Captain John Malcom, as his boat drew near the three vessels stationed in the Boston Harbor, in a futile attempt to deter the unknown scoundrels from dumping the remaining chests of tea into the water. Although a native of the city of Boston, his allegiance, however, lied elsewhere. This loyal subject of the British Crown was highly unpopular throughout the Massachusetts Bay Colony due to his harsh, disdainful manners and especially because of widespread allegations of corruption.

Trapped between the three ships, the veteran officer was now proferring curses and clenching his fist at the undisturbed assailants while trying to defy them from his shabby, overcrowded boat. The small group of inexperienced soldiers accompanying him was seized with horror, fearing that the cumbersome bundles might hit the small craft by accident, tearing it appart. Dozens of widened eyes were scrutinizing in all direction while clasping their weapons with great care.

”My good man, hand your musket over to me!”, bellowed the enraged officer to his second-in-command. ”I will teach these grotty dogs a lesson they’ll not forget that soon! Soldiers, prepare yourselves! We’re going to board the nearest ship, claiming it once more in the name of our beloved governor, Thomas Hutchinson!”

He then turned his congested face towards the outnumbering opponents, brandishing the musket with his chubby hands and forcing himself to adopt a more martial countenance, despite the fact that his short, plumpy stature was a constant source of humour for everybody.

”You cowards! Surrender yourselves and I might be willing to spare you all from the imminent slaughter! I will put an end to this disaster, no matter what! Do you hear me, you lowly gits?”, shouted John Malcom while pointing the musket upward, toward the men occupying the vessel floating on the right side of the boat.

”Ah shut your potty mouth, you clown of the high seas! Don’t waste your breath anymore because it’s no use. A mere fishing boat against three fully-fledged ships? What manner of nutter are you, captain? Heed my advice as I speak. Head for the shore before we decide to tar and feather you like a sea parrot that you are!”, a hoarse voice swiftly replied from one of the decks above but the captain couldn’t identify the culprit because the brigands were all too busy discarding the goods over the board.

”The harbor is blessed with plenty of water. Here, please have some leaves and prepare yourself a nice cup of tea, captain!”, uttered another grumpy voice.

Seconds later, a heavy chest of tea landed right in the middle of the boat, capsizing it and constraining its deplorable crew to seek refuge elsewhere, much to the shame of the confused captain...

Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Alain smiled, despite the fact this was his first time on a naval vessel he had not gotten seasick. Maybe it was because he had been so focused on recording the battle that raged around him. This was a new experience, not just for him but for the two fleets that battled each other. He couldn’t help but feel surprised at how the inexperienced Frankian fleet laid waste to the Noobean fleet.

He already had several pages about how the battle played out. Since this was the first naval battle between states in centuries, Alain made sure to record every last detail of what went on around him. From the firing of cannons to the workings of the masts, not even the trading of musket fire between the two fleets was exempt from his recording of the battle.

As he finished another page, he heard someone approach him. Without even looking up, Alain quickly put his papers in a sack and bowed to the figure “Lord Velledon.”

“You can look up now,” the man said. Alain looked up to see a tall man dressed in a dark blue velvet coat and white pants with a tricorne on his head. “How did you know it was me?” he asked.

“I have a knack for memorizing the sounds of people’s footsteps. My lord, I must thank you again for permitting an Imperialist scribe to be allowed on your ship.”

“No need for thanks. It is an honor to have a scribe from the Immortal Empire on-board. Frankia would be very lucky if a misfortune befell you.” Velledon joked.

“My lord, I assure you, the Immortal Emperor would never go to war on behalf of my death. He currently has no taste for intervention.”

“Of course.”

At this point, the battle was about over. The sounds of cannon and musketry lessened. “My lord, I must ask, what is the purpose of this engagement?” asked Alain.

“To completely destroy Noobea’s military, and thus they will never have the capability to invade Frankia again.”

Velledon’s reply made Alain start to feel weary. “Do you happen to know how many Noobeans are fleeing?” Alain asked.

“Hmm, let me see… I would have to say almost fifteen thousand.”

“Fifteen thousand!” Alain felt his heart drop. It was no wonder Velledon’s fleet was destroying the Noobean fleet with ease. The enemy only had transport ships and a few heavier equipped vessels. This wasn’t a battle, it was slaughter!

“Alain, this is the future." Lord Velledon said matter-of-factly. "This Noobean disaster will show everyone that dominance over the high seas can prevent an invading army from ever setting foot in your own country. The world is changing Alain; enemy navies can no longer give a friendly wave at each other while they pass each other.”

He was right, the world was changing, and Alain could only watch in horror as fifteen thousand men died in the sea.

Entrant 3 - Mr Harold

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Five dead Indians. Wounds through their torsos. One dead colonial soldier. The weapon that had ended his life in a swift burst through the back of his throat was in his own hands. He had Claimed his own life. You, no doubt, wonder how this scene of disaster came to be. The series of events began on one bitter mid-morning, in the December of 1773, when Tom, a retiring Colonial soldier, started his last patrol.

Tom picked up his musket from the armoury. Not once in these past months had he had to fire it. Today would be different. Patrolling the alleys was a very unexciting detail, there is only so much mud and stone one can look at before one starts to feel very uninspired. He stood, gazing blankly down one such alley, plumes of foggy breath billowing from his bright red nose. Further down the alley behind Tom was the harbour, where a shipment of tea was navigating slowly into dock. Tom's mind was elsewhere. It was as though he was stood, asleep, yet with his eyes open - albeit to a very limp and uncommitted extent.

It took him by surprise then, when the sound of hurried feet echoed down the alley. As Tom's vision adjusted, he could see figures making their way in his direction. In his old age, he could not yet make out a definite image of what the figures looked like. He squinted and strained his eyes, leaning forward.

As the silhouettes drew closer, Tom tightened his grip on his musket. Why were they in such a hurry? As the figures became clear, the answer became apparent. The men, adorned with feathers and bones, were a horror to Tom's eyes. Indians? In Boston? How was this possible? They were but a few feet away from Tom before he fired. Not only did he fire, but he ran at them, bayonet first, with a blind panic of jittery, yet deadly thrusts. He didn't even hear the cries for mercy in his rage. It was a slaughter.

Tom was shaking down to his very bones when the attack was over. He slouched onto the alley wall, before sliding down into a seated position on the floor, breathing heavily with shock. He glanced over at the dead bodies. How peculiar that the only red on the skin of these Indians was the blood that Tom had spilled from them. White Indians? Tom had not realised this in his panic. Crawling over to the nearest body, he grabbed the dead man's jaw, and rotated his head to face him.

It was Tom's own flesh and blood that he now stared in the face. His son, Abraham, had been on his way to the harbour, to board the trade ships dressed as an Indian, to take part in the event that we now know as The Boston Tea Party. What a terrible waste.

Entrant 4 - Mhaedros

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Entrant 5 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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Entrant 6 - Ybbon

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Entrant 7 - ♔The Black Knight♔

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Waking up to musket fire is never a good thing. Scratching myself, I slowly get out of bed. “I hope father didn’t leave again,” whispering to myself. I quietly open the door and look in to see my mother is crying with my father gone. Thinking radically I quickly decide I have to find him and save him from himself. It’s the only way to keep him from leaving us. He can’t die! Quickly turning away before I’m seen, I rush to the door to get my jacket on.

I run outside the door hurrying to the docks. “Why is he trying to get make trouble for our family” I thought.” I saw him stash his Indian clothes away, I should have stopped him.”

I start sprinting harder, trying to push the tears back. “Just a few more blocks” I say to myself. “God please keep it from being a slaughter.”

Slowing my pace I turn around the corner. Stopping, out of breath I slowly move the gaze at the horror unfolding. “This can’t be happening; my dad is going to ruin our lives!”

Before me I see the British tea ships my dad was angry about. Sure we had to pay taxes, but that was better than the British laying waste to our city! My heart starts pumping rapidly as I try to thing what to do next. The only thing to yield the pain is to get my father out of there. I must get to him at once.
On the old wooden boards I see some of my father’s friends smashing a box full of tea with a tomahawk. One of them looks up at me.

“ ’Ello young Michael, ‘ere to join your ol’ father in the party?” says a greasy grey man with a ragged beard. “No Eager, my Mother just fell down the stairs and smashed her head,” I lie with my mind racing fast. “I need to get him home as soon as possible!”

“Wha?! Oh yo’ father is on that ship over yer, hurry with god speed!” Eager quickly spat out as he threw a box over board.

Running off the ship I run toward the area where my father is. Before I reach there I look farther out the horizon and I see armed British ships. Running as fast I can try to prevent a disaster I run to where my father is.

“Father quick come here we need to go, Mother is in danger!” I scream. My father looks at me suspiciously, then he lets out a hardly laughter. “ Ahh Junior, I know your worry about me but this isn’t about you or me, it’s about our liberty,” he says with loving eyes.

“No!” I say

Entrant 8 - Yeepeep

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"…wait for it…"

"Please stop this maddening blabbering for a second, you are making my head swim like a horny seahorse."

"…wait for it…"

"For Neptune's trident, stop I say! Again, where did you mention this 'awesome concoction' is? This might be a health hazard to the community and if so the the emergency response team must be alerted asap."

"…there you go!", Horror burped happily and gazed in amusement at the result of his own awesomeness. The oddly colored bubble raised lazily in the water, leaving in its wake a trail of its tiny, darker cousins; his companion was clearly not entertained. "You are the crazy one here, you old fool, I've never felt better in my life!", the pufferfish chimed joyfully, "Are you deaf? Blind perhaps? Ha, I bet your senses have left your empty head so long ago that you won't see the jaws of death even if they swallow you whole! Or, hm, you can't smell it simply because your taste buds have been completely saturated by all the "gifts" your zealous followers have showered you with. Whatever, duuude. Blimey, I don't see what the others find in you to make you our representative. Hm, is it your fabled homestead, I wonder?", he burped again and started merrily swimming in a spiral around his stomach's refuse. "Tsk tsk, fool you may be, but a clever one to that. Tell me, oh-most-noble senator, how many of your lady friends have visited your musket chateau to express their…ahem…support?"

"This is a waste of my time", the older fish turned around and started heading back to the rusty, barnacle-covered armor serving as a temporary town hall, "I'd better go to that disaster of a meeting the seaweed farm agreement is turning into."

"Your loss, senator", Horror puffed up indignantly and carelessly brushed against the older fish, "Trust me, it's a premium grade black tea, not the processed crap they dump on us on a regular basis, and mighty potent too! I'm foreseeing the commencement of many happy days of exterminating that pesky algae infestation that's been terrorizing my humble abode."

"Oi! Watch your needles, you delinquent punk! I swear, one of those days I'll make sure the bill on mandatory removal of defense mechanisms in youngsters is passed in front of His Majesty!"

Oblivious to the musing of our two friends, the slaughter of innocent tea leaves above their heads continued unabated.

Entrant 9 - The Norseman

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The year was 1956 and the Soviets had occupied the whole country. Very few people were pleased with these foreigners taking control of their own lands, though they had no choice but to accept it. The number of Soviet troops had increased in the larger cities to show their authority and superiority in both manpower and weaponry. It was a snowy day in city of Budapest. Children were playing in the city streets and people were walking back and forth between the markets. An elderly man walked past some Soviet troops and silently uttered the words "Damn Soviets." One of the soldiers noticed and quickly responded with a push with his weapon. The old man dropped his cane and fell on his. The streets went completely silent and everyone stared at the soldier who did it, and though everyone had seen and hear what had happened, no one dared speak out against them. That was until one man who was working in one of the nearby shops caught eye of the old man lying on the ground, he quickly ran towards him to help him up. Once he was standing right in front of the old man the soldiers yelled at him, telling him not to help the man up. Everyone stared at them. There was a moment of silence, but it was quickly broken when the man defied the soldiers and helped the old man up, regardless of what they had ordered him not to do. The soldier warned him once again, but he cared little of their orders.

The situation escalated when one of the soldiers aimed at him. The man who had defied the soldiers started walking away. The Soviet soldier pulled the trigger and the man fell on his knees, while looking at all the people in the street who had done nothing. The Soviet soldier’s eyes flickered back and forth. He knew what he had done would be a disaster for the Soviet Union. People began moving slowly towards the Soviets. Some of them were wearing firearms. A shot was fired and another one quickly followed. One by one the Soviet soldiers fell as the mob came closer and closer. Only two hours later the Soviets had returned to the streets with a hundred soldiers. The citizens were prepared and had equipped themselves with every weapon they could find. All they could find was a couple of machine guns, pistols and some old muskets. They were stationed around different buildings and prepared for the Soviet assault. The Soviet soldiers came closer and closer. They stopped and a commander told the citizens to surrender. There was no response and the commander nodded. The soldiers began shooting towards the buildings in which the people were stationed, wasting their bullets. The shooting stopped and the citizens took the opportunity and fired with everything they had. The Soviets were slaughtered. The scenes on the battlefield were horrific. The heroic acts of a few people will always be remembered.

Entrant 10 - Schrödinger

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TotW 138 - Age of Assassins
assassin, blade, disguise, creed, knowledge

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Winner - ♔The Black Knight♔

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August 21, 1422.

The time has come to end this war. Our great kingdom has suffered battle after battle against the retched English. Now they plan to install their king as King of France! Henry the 5th shall die today by the blade ofan assassin.

En route to Château de Vincennes, Henry marches his troops to their destination. His eyes are alert as perspiration ran down his face. He lost many good men during his Campaign but now he would reach Paris very soon at the rate he was going. Ravaging the countryside for supplies had kept his men’s morale high and had made life comfortable.

Ordering his scouts to search for farms around the area, he dismounted to rest. “Only a few more months and France will be mine” Henry said to himself. His armor bearer came to relieve him of his heavy battle suit. “Bearer, please inform my guards that I need to go relieve myself,” Henry commanded. “Yes my liege,” The armor bearer said as he quickly ran toward the guards.

Henry went to the edge of the woods. Looking up, he saw the golden sunset of a beautiful evening. However something was off. Henry quickly turned his gaze toward the trees. Shrugging it off, Henry turned his head but out of the corner of his eye, he saw- movement. “Must be my imagination” He thought.

Walking back, he had found that he had been gone for a long while. Walking back to guards and generals he told them of the plan for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile, the armor bearer had been gathering berries from the country side. Placing berries into his basket, he noticed a glint in the bushes. The armor bearer went toward the bush to inspect it, thinking it was silver. “You must not have much knowledge on how assassins work” the bush said. The armor stepped back, confused. Then the glint returned; flying in to the bearer’s chest. Mouth agape, eyes staring in horror, the bearer falls over with the last bit of life leaking out of him.

Henry was worried. His bearer had not repaired his armor and it was completely dark. Looking outside he heard footsteps. Pulling his sword, he walked outside. “Ah, looked who has returned to fix my armor, where have you been?” Henry asked. The bearer kept his hood on moving slowly forward, then pushing King into the tent and drew some daggers. The king realizing the disguise quickly charged the assassin. He came around and sliced into his shoulder and dodged a swing from the sword. Grunting in pain, the king charged the assassin and knocked him down to the ground. Dodging the next sword blow, he ran out of the tent to run into guards.

One stabbed him in the chest and he fell. “Our creed…has won… king… has 10…” The assassin says in his dying breath. The guards looking at each other stare wide eyed in fear.

Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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The man sat still on his marble throne and stared out at the large mahogany doors, with full knowledge of what fate had in store for him. Flanked on both sides of the doors hanged the banner of the Empire, navy blue adorned with a two headed imperial eagle grasping a cross pattée. He had debated on whether to dress ornately or not and decided to dress modestly in comparison to his position.

My emperor, you must evacuate, we cannot hold the enemy for too much longer.

No, my fate has already been decided. Your fate has not. I do not doubt that this empire will be resurrected, but I fear that it will not be guided by the creed that our empire holds dear. To prevent this, I want you to head to the archives and grab the Immortal Doctrine. Afterwards I want you to leave the city and then find and protect refugees. Bring them to Auglarla, I am sure the people there will be more than willing to help our people.

The emperor hoped enough time had passed for his guard to complete the first two objectives. He was deeply sad about the tragedies that were occurring outside his throne room, but was not concerned for his own fate.How many lives will be lost he wondered. His thought process was broken by the sound of talking men who were coming towards the room. Less than a minute had passed before the throne room doors had opened and a group of five foreign dressed men carrying blades and crossbows walked into the throne room and toward the emperor.

“I presume you are the Immortal Emperor? Good. Looks like all of your guards have left you.” A man who looked like the leader announced. The emperor did not respond, he only stared at the men.

“I am here to inform you that your immortality has come to an end. I don’t know about you but I am excited, I've always wanted to kill an immortal.” The man continued.

Finally the emperor spoke, “I have never seen dress like that in all my life, but I do know that accent. Is Regia that cowardly it needs to disguise its soldiers so as to not suffer the wrath of the entire world? Assassins, that is what you are, men disguised as someone they're not so as to not reveal the true perpetrator.” The emperor accused. The armed men halted a few yards away from the throne. “The damage you have caused will send the entire world into chaos!”

“I have no time for debate,” the leader looked at two of his men “Shoot him.” The men aimed and fired. One bolt hit the emperor causing a fatal wound, the other went wide.

The emperor slid off his throne and with his last breath looked at a banner that had a hole where a bolt had pierced; the hole had erased the head of the eagle that stared into the past.

Entrant 3 - Mr Harold

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Entrant 4 - Ybbon

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Entrant 5 - Schrödinger

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Entrant 6 - Mhaedros

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Entrant 7 - Maurits

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TotW 139 - The Avengers
venus, oyster, mindless, shadow, glory

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Winner - Yeepeep

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"What do you mean ‘last chance'? If Venus is between us and the Sun aren't we supposed to see the, what did you call it, that shadow thing, every year?", she sipped carefully from her cocktail then delicately dabbed her luscious lips with the napkin.

She contemplated for a moment whether to play with the cherry the way she knew was driving men crazy, then decided against it. Ah, so pointless in the current situation.

"Transit”, he grinned sheepishly, “And no, it is not the shadow we'll see but the silhouette of the planet moving across the disk of the Sun. As I said, it doesn't happen every year because of the orbital parameters of the system…"

She stopped listening to his boring narrative and mindlessly fiddled with her phone, checking the latest updates on the social network. Occasionally smiling and nodding at him, simulating vague interest. He was paying for the dinner, it was the least she could do. Some sort of a courtesy if you will. She liked the place, it spelled comfort and class at the same time, intermixed with the exotic smells of half a dozen different kitchens where top-notch chefs were spinning their latest inventions. And the food was not bad either, even though the oysters were not as fresh as the awkward server advertised them to be.

Party pictures at her best friends' house. Boooring. That darn **** basking in the glory of her latest conquest was really getting on her nerves. A sickly sweet photo of her and her new boyfriend, locked in a loving embrace and making kissy faces, looking pretty darn ridiculous in their Avengers' costumes. Their pathetic mediocrity was unbearable. As was, in fact, this sorry excuse of a date.

"Aha, I see, very interesting", she displayed one of her charming smiles, then started playing with her hair, “I’ll definitely read about it when I get back home. As I said, science is awesome! Which reminds me, I really have to go, have this project for work to finish by tomorrow and, oh my, it is getting late, isn’t it?”

Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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Entrant 3 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Entrant 4 - Schrödinger

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Entrant 5 - Maximinus Thrax

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CLASIFIED INFORMATION

To the glorious Council of HYDRA,

Our worst fears have been finally confirmed. Acting faithfully according to your wise instructions, I’ve been shadowing continuously the flashy headquarters of the Avengers (the only detail missing is a neon sign atop the roof…) for the last two weeks, using my infallible telepathic superpowers. Two days ago, while controlling the mind and body of one of their janitors, I succeeded at infiltrating him inside the secure communications room, the place where the operations plans and all manner of dossiers are being stored for safekeeping purposes. Unhindered on account of being a familiar face, the old man snatched several informal notes laying on a table. After having browsed through the papers, I must report that every one of those do-gooders is convinced that an imminent danger is looming over the entire planet. I’ve been able to figure out several pieces of the puzzle and it seems that Loki, the brother of that Asgardian mindless brute, plays a prominent role in this affair. The background is unclear but he somehow managed to secure the aid of a powerful alien race, in order to achieve planetary domination. I highly suspect that this event would be only the first stage of his nefarious plan.

Yet, despite such an obvious threat, the do-gooders do not appear to care as much about it, at least for the moment. How unfortunate that the common citizen is not aware about the degree of depravity residing in the minds of the so-called epitomes of righteousness! For example, Tony Stark’s primary thought is that his physical prowess is waning as he ages, ultimately affecting his relationships; since he’s not a fan of pharmaceutical products, he works day and night to develop a high-tech device which would eventually enhance a certain body part of his.

Meanwhile, Thor the Asgardian is head over heels in love with Natalia Romanoff, the latest addition to the team, also known as Black Widow. The fool even commissioned a painting depicting her as Venus emerging from the sea in an oyster shell. Little does this inane boy know that the cunning Natalia is used to manipulate the males like they were simple toys.

Captain America still struggles to adapt himself to modern times. His grumpiness annoys the rest of team, especially Stark.

My task regarding the activity of the Avengers is not yet completed (much to my dismay…). More likely that I’ll remain at my observation post for another week. With these final words I conclude my present report.

Special Agent Mentallo

PS: The population of New York has been thoroughly informed about a possible alien threat. Now, even the hot-dog vendors are wearing tin foil hats, therefore I can no longer manipulate their minds for the purpose of obtaining some food for free because my mental powers are rendered useless because of that ridiculous headgear. Please dispatch me some money as fast as possible at the usual location. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in days.

**Dance** · August 08, 2013, 08:28 PM

TotW 140 - That Day. That Fateful Day
painting, rain, god, flag, pleasure

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Winner - Ybbon

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Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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“Did you hear? Our cannons made a breach in the walls last night.” Donovan told me. I could hardly believe it. I had always heard that it was impossible to take Fort Theodoric, much less to even make a hole in walls. It would take the power of a god to break through those walls. It could be true though, so I asked “Donovan, who told you this?” Someone had to have told him, our battalion was nowhere near the walls nor did we have a view of them; or he could be making this

up. To be honest I had no idea why we were attacking the fort instead of attacking Theodoricopolis. Our battalion is camped more close to the city than we are to the fort.
“I overheard the colonel talking to Brig Shortstuff. They were saying how today or tomorrow the general wanted to send a number of those battalions that throw those exploding balls…what are they called again?”
“Oh you mean grenades? Donovan you should be careful about using that name for the brigade commander. If he heard you call him that, he might have your skin flayed from your back. That is, if you’re lucky. ”
“Yeah those things. I’m not worried about that useless putz finding out. As I was saying, the two were arguing over how effective those grenade guys would be and if the soldiers could even make it to the walls.”
“Well, I guess you convinced me. Boy, I wish our battalion was one of those chosen to storm the breach. I can see it now, years after the battle a painting is made depicting the flag of the famous 24th Battalion storming the breach cutting down the cowardly Westmarkans.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble John, but do you think it is even possible for anyone to make it to those walls unharmed and then make it into the fort? Those ‘cowardly’ Westmarkans would rain musket fire down on anyone approaching the walls, and then in that small hole we made they would bunch guys up and fire at anyone trying to get in. It is suicide to try and take those walls.”
What Donovan said might have convinced me, had he not told me that a hole was made in the walls. It was said that making any hole in those walls was impossible. Back when Regia owned the fort, Westmarkan artillery failed at making holes in those walls, but now Regia has made holes in the walls and so it is now very much possible for Regia to win.
“I don’t know Donovan, we have already done the impossible by making a hole in those walls. Taking that fort doesn’t sound that impossible anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter to me. You can go on that suicide mission if you wish John; me I’ll stay back and guard us against any Westmarkan counterattack. I doubt that will happen, so instead I’ll just pleasure myself in any way I see fit.”

Entrant 3 - ♔The Black Knight♔

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Sunken Road, September 17, 1862. Battle of Antietam

I dig myself into the sunken ditch preparing to defend myself for the battle to come. Colonel John B. Gordon is running the length of the rut, yelling at the officers to prepare their men. Most men are scared, others are eager.

Staring up at the Alabama flag, I see the sun gleaming off the poll. The flag gives us a sense of honor and pride for the men of the 6th Alabama. Looking away from the flag I see the hot sun and clear skies which means that there isn’t a chance of rain which will probably lead to a long fight.

“Sir, the 63rd Irish Brigade is marching toward us!” A private yelled. “Men get into your positions and prepare to defend yourselves. Don’t fire till you can see their belt buckles!” Coronal Gordon ordered.

Musket fire went off as the Irish shot off their first volley. As the bullets smashed thought the ground, it flung dirt into my mouth. We were well protected but heavily outnumbered.

“I can see their belt buckles sir!” Yelled another private. “Fire!”

Lifting my gun out of the ditch I aimed my gun. As I fired, the entire front line was blasted to bits with all our firepower. However the Irish gave as good as they took and several of my comrades went down in the volley. “God, we aint going to make it,” Whimpered an injured soldier.

Quickly reloading my gun, I aimed it at the one of the officers. The bullet went close by but it smashed into the drummer boy. A pang of guilt swept over me knowing I had just killed a boy. My own family gave me much pleasure and I would never want to see my son get killed in some war.

Staying low I turn around to look at my surroundings. Dead and injured everywhere, with smoke and grit filling the ditch. Turning my head watched in disbelieve as a bullet had came around and struck Coronal Gordon in the calf. The officer he was talking to wasn’t so lucky.

“New Yorkers coming in to flank!” Yelled a soldier as he came running to Gordon. I turned to see the men charging in. They were shooting pigs in a pigpen. The image froze like a painting as I saw Gordon take another bullet to his thigh. Struggling to get back up he got shot again though his left arm.

“Sir, retreat to the rear to have your wounds treated!” I shouted as I moved him to higher ground.

“I cannot consent to leave you in such a crises!” He snapped back as another bullet went through his left shoulder. I stopped dead in my tracks when I watched in horror as bullet traveled through his face.

His second in command looked around frightened and ordered the retreat. My legs carried me as fast as I could to escape reality and the war.

Entrant 4 - Schrödinger

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TotW 141 - Inner Piece
violence, mayhem, chaos, vegetarian, cannibal

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Winner - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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The drums beat out a chaotic cadence, throbbing and punctuating the night, pulsating with violent rhythm, the heavy humid air was a physical barrier to further movement, but I was desperate for the bathroom – yet another night with one too many jungle-juice cocktails so I tried once more to push and squirm my way past the heaving mass of humanity in front of me.

Ten minutes later and I was out and now it was time to try a few moves – The Cannibal Club patrons, well the female ones anyway, were not known for their strict morals so I reckoned even in my less than sober state I could pull here - it hadn't worked the rest of the week, but hey, first time for everything.

Just as I was about to try a killer chat-up line with a rather stunning pair of breasts, my gaze was averted with some violence by a nasty female voice in one ear, and a strong grip around my neck, “Caractucus Pyke, you despicable little maggot, first you need to be sober, we're out of this skanky, sweltering cesspit tomorrow and we need you to drive that ridiculous contraption Mr Solomon calls a ship, and second, those breasts..” and at this point my head was forcibly tilted upwards to see a sneering blonde woman attached to said breasts, “don't speak, you little worm”.

As I was shoved out the door I tried to blow a kiss and a parting shot “Bye my love, I'll be back later, how do you like your breakfast? In bed?”, but she can't have heard me as she was talking to a muscle bound sweaty, brain-dead type. Luckily for him I was finally shoved out the door before I could cause a serious case of mayhem on his face.

Venus Jones, I might have guessed. Five foot two of dangerously screwed up attitude, scary make-up, an encyclopaedic knowledge of seriously dodgy computer hacks and worst, a really bad habit of finding me no matter which nasty dive I managed to submerge myself into for the night. It was probably all those tofu burgers that made her mean – Virtuous Vegetarian Jones as I thought of her – she didn't seem in the mood to discuss nicknames just now however.

“OK maggot boy, it's a coffee IV for you, I have no idea why Mr Solomon couldn't have found a better pilot than you, but it seems you were the only person ever to reach 1 million credits on that stupid bloody game and that somehow qualifies you to fly that heap of junk”. She was sweet on me really, I could tell my charms were beginning to work as last week it would have been an ice bath and no chit-chat. Now it was chit-chat, coffee and maybe an ice-bath! Things could only get better from here. How wrong that thought would prove to be.

Entrant 3 - ♔The Black Knight♔

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My family, friends, school, and life are all gone. I was one of the few ones to escape mayhem. I saw the others die so I could live. I escaped in the chaos. I escaped from; I can’t believe I’m saying this.

Miami, Florida. As of October 1, 2012 the city has been taken over by a kind of zombie virus. Apparently the first zombie; wherever they came from; was shot by the police as it tried to bite the face off an unsuspecting pedestrian.

They rushed the man to the hospital, thinking they could “save” him, but they had just signed their death warrant. The government was there as well questioning the man but something went wrong.
The man turned into a zombie and infected the agents there. They tried to lock down the hospital; to keep it a secret but it was too late…

As zombies tried to take over the city, the government locked down the city. No one could get out, no one could get in. The people scrambled to the soldiers and begged them to be protected. They watched as Miami was taken over, didn’t do a thing.

I was at school the days that when it happened. The teachers blockaded the doors and rationed the food. The 8th grade science teacher had been a veteran in the army. He took over the defense, but he was ruthless. When some kids’ minds broke and went crazy, they tried to smash down the barriers to get out. They were killed right before our very eyes… All those kids I had once known had been killed. Some vegetarian.

They locked us away and lied to us what was happening outside but we all knew we were going to die, whether in be by starvation or zombies.

What we didn’t know that we were the last true living humans in the entire city.

Farmers were able to escape however right when it happened. They got online and they told everyone. The government quickly came to shut them up, but the news was already heard.

After several days of nothing, an organization did something. The ZKL (Zombie Killers League) was preparing a rescue. They were family members trying to save us, or people trying to find meaning the world. They used weapons of all sorts and managed to break though the blockade.

I heard them shooting the zombies. I just couldn’t take it anymore. Taking an axe I swung it at the door, and started running as fast as I could. I tried slashing though the zombies. Looking back thought the violence; I saw one of my friends, staring at me like I was a cannibal. I ran as fast as I could, pushing back the tears, I jumped into the nearest jeep. As I fell, I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up a member of the organization told me that Miami had been nuked with no survivors. “So I was the only one,” in a solemn voice.

Entrant 4 - Mr Harold

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Grey, as far as the eye can see. Thousands of rusted structures now seem to encrust the miles of highway that once funnelled the traffic out of the city. Most of them have been long abandoned by their owners in the great chaos, and the open doors on the collided vehicles are a freeze frame, a diorama, of the mayhem and panic that took place here so many years ago – a tell tale sign that whatever these people were leaving their cars and running away from, left them no time to close them again. It seems like a lifetime ago.

My slight frame was not always this way. I was once healthy. Athletic even. You wouldn’t think it to look at me now. My eyes have grown a ghoulish pink, my skin an arid grey. There is not even a trace of the person I once was inside my manifestation.

I can smell them now. They can’t be far. A strange concept to you, I’m sure, but when there is no life for miles around, one gains a certain affinity, a certain instinct, for hounding the living. The prey. The flesh. As I reach inside my tattered jacket, I can feel the hilt of my bloodied accomplice. She will taste blood again today.

As I finally draw within striking range of my prey, sneaking among the rusted automobiles, I realise that is not they, but him. A solitary straggler for the lion to gorge upon. He is pushing a shopping cart full of supplies – weapons, ammunition, canned goods, none of it is of any use to me. His hording will have all been in vain.

Finally I am close enough to pounce. I swing my weapon after silently unsheathing it from my jacket. Her jagged nails dig into the back of his fragile skull, and he falls to the ground. She was built for such prowess violence. Again and again I swing, his crimson nectar staining my face. Finally, once the twitching and bawling has stopped, I begin my search for the most treasured inner piece - still beating among his warm organs, it is best eaten fresh. I shall cannibalise the rest of him afterwards.

It is almost humorous, in a sickening way, that I was a vegetarian before all of these hideous tragedies drove me into inhumanity. Inhuman is all one can be in these times, if one wishes to survive.

Entrant 5 - wowbanger

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Entrant 6 - Schrödinger

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Entrant 7 - m_1512

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Another day dawns, bringing with it the morning mist. From some inexplicable reason, I have found the chilly mist extraordinarily refreshing. Indeed, to stand on the deck with a cup of tea was a guarantee of an excellent morning, but not today. For today, we anticipate battle in the high seas. The commodore said so yesterday. The enemy was seen last evening, floating steadily and slowly towards us.

The message had brought with a strange change in the general atmosphere. The first mate had put on his best suit, or rather his cleanest dress before he went to bed. Now in this early morning, he is pacing around the ship, with a foolish grin on his face. Amusing really, is his way of showing nerves. Our navigator's way was even more amusing. Yesterday, as I sat on deck with my customary after-dinner peg of brandy, he came up to me with a most singular pronouncement.
'Mars is unusually bright tonight. Tomorrow might bring battle to us, with its violence and chaos' he said and tottered off to bed. As I walked to my cabin, I noticed that the crew on night watch seemed oddly distant too.

Honestly, even I could not sleep well last night. I simply lay on my bed pondering. Memories poured out in front of my open eyes. The first memory was of the day I received my commission as the captain of a ship. Mother was all tears as she looked at me in my new uniform. Then in the evening, a ball arranged for the occasion by the local squire. Father kept puffing his chest with incompressible pride. He told anyone and everyone that his son has been made a Captain of a ship. In the mayhem of the ball where people kept congratulating and offering drinks, I never really remembered what I spoke that evening. But soon, the chains of memories were replaced by a bout of nerves. Lying on the bed, my insides started churning, like some horrific cannibal meal. I had made a resolve to have only a vegetarian dinner on the eve of battle thereafter. Mercifully, sleep came at last.

The ships draw near; one of them steers towards us. I cannot help but wonder about its captain. Is he young like me, eager and restless? Or is he a veteran, calm and confident? I shall soon find out. There goes the bell, to rouse the ship. Although my mind is half wishing to have selected another profession, I know that it shall eventually find peace.

James Scott,
Captain - HMS Eagle
Royal Navy.

Entrant 8 - LegolasGreenleaf

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TotW 142 - The Old Guard
grenadier, empereur, stallion, field, treeline

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Winner - Schrödinger

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The Old Guard cracked their knuckles and stretched, haemerrhoids and gout, cataracts and baldness. They were aged sure, but they had experience. And Werther's Originals. And Tartan blankets.

They were all Luxembourg had left.

It had been a long fruitless war against Liechtenstein and one which had gone completely unnoticed by the EU, NATO and even the aliens. Nevertheless, for four generaions bloody war and bloodier war had been wrecked between the two lands. It had been started when one (Luxembourgers says a Liechtensteiner, Liechtensteiners say a Luxembourger) proclaimed their own country the second least significant country in Europe- except the other. Since then, thousands had been slaughtered, as attacks and counterattacks were waged down autobahns and péages, as treaties with the French and the Germans were dealt with by increasingly harassed janitors in the embassies.

Now, only twenty soldiers remained.

This war had started in the twenty-first century and ended in the nineteenth.

Captain Emmanuel Lefebvre sat on his withering stallion, reigning her in as he regarded his command. Nine geriatrics, walking sticks in one hand, revolvers in the other. Coughs broke out as they attempted to stand to attention and one, Pierre, fell straight back into his wheelchair, his false teeth falling out. This similarity to the self-styled 'Empereur' who commanded them had led to his seemingly complementary nickname. Anyway, to business

"Men. Fine men. We stand here in this field of horror, as we stood here seventy years ago and know what we must do. We must die, in the name of Luxembourg." the men nodded, so much as they could, and Henri the Grenadier hawked on the ground "No-one shall remember our fight. No-one shall record it or put it in a great history. No-one shall write an epic poem. Only we shall know."

The Old Guard gave a communal shrug and Emmanuel dug his knees into the scrawny side of his horse "Off we go then, men."

They wobbled out from the scant cover of the treeline and in the dazzling sunlight, charged across the field of long grass, to God himself only knows what.

Entrant 2 - ♔The Black Knight♔

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Old great grandpa is probely one of the most oldest man ever to live, at least thats what dad tells me. He's still sharp, and his phisical body in great shape. Being born in 1780, his family has always been known for its involment with the the military. His father was actually sent out to attack the Americans during their daring revolution.

His childhood was always ruff as a child, with his brothers always picking on him becuase he was the smallest and youngest. Though small, he was very whitty and always managed to get back at them. Once he got them all tied up in a fishing net on a tree branch. He was later punished but his father didn't hit him as hard as he usually did much to my ancestor's delight.

After he finally grew up to a full grown responsible man, he grew very loyal to his country. Whether it was ruled by king, sultan, empereur, or president, he was ready to take up arms and protect his people.

Eventually the days of Napoleon came and my great grand father was enlisted. He went to war with no fear and fought in many battles. He remembered many battles that he had fought in. He many close incounters with death, the most memorable being when a squad of grenadiers launched several bombs into his own unit. He lost an eye that day, but his wife always said that it made him look more heroic.

His most proud achievement was his killing of a general after his unit got sidetracked in the trees. Seeing the general through the treeline, he led several me. To ambush and kill the general. After some bickering and fighting, my great grandfather got the generals beautiful stallion.

His only regret was that he wish he was personally there to take down napolean.

After the war he took on the burden of raising a family. Never did join another war, due to his familie's sake but the next generations carried down the military tradition.

He would always be interested with the way technology progressed as well. He was always trying out new weapons. Even for his 100th birthday my dad got him a brand. We repeating spencer rifle. When he first saw it, he looked like a child, slowly rubbing it like it was gold. Every day he would go shoot targets in the field and even though he has no depth perception, he can sure make great shots. He shot a orange throw up over forty meters away.

He truly is amazing with all his skills. Guess that's why everyone calls him the "old guard". When I have kids, I'll so many stories to tell them, it'll take me two lifetimes to finish.

Entrant 3 - Mr Harold

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These times are dark. At least, for those who value the old ways. Democracy. Rights. Freedom. Tonight La Résistance make their final stand. Should they fail, the final pocket of resistance to L'Empire will be gone, and global domination will be a thing of actuality for the horde of fanatics.

After the great data purge of 2080, there was no information about the Old World left. A whole generation had decided to erase the past, so that the next would not follow in its self destructive footsteps. After years of peace, the New World started searching for answers. Why are we here? Who left these abandoned rusted cities here? And a discovery. Scholars in France uncovered a solitary old paper bound text. The only that has ever been found in the New World. It told of a grand god, Empereur Napoleon I Bonaparte, who had marched the world into unification using military might. It wasn't long before billions rallied under their God, an easy solution to their existential crisis, and the New French Empire was formed.

And so now, after hundreds of years of conflict across the globe, in the meadowy fields of Central Park, New York City, or 'New Paris' as the Empire calls it, as though it is already theirs, La Résistance prepares to defend the final bastion of the ways before the New French Empire ruled. With one treeline and a crudely crafted barricade separating the two forces, the sad truth is that there is no way that this rag tag band of rebels, dressed in filthy dusters, with old weapons, and only a few salvaged new ones, could last against the well organised French Corp.

The feared Grenadiers, armed to the teeth with plasma rifles and grenades, will tear straight through any guerrilla defences that La Résistance could put up. The Dragoons, in fiercely armoured vehicles called 'Stallions' could outrun any rebel war machine. But that was not what made the rebels shake as they peered around the trees at the approaching force. The Old Guard, genetically modified beasts of men wearing the thickest of smoking, grunting, contorting mechanised black armour, were always the first into the fray. They were hardly recognisable as humans, their eyes stained a cold white, and their veins shining purple through there stretched pale skin. As the first strike of one such beast's hammer pulverised the barbed defence, the rebels prepared to meet their demise.

Entrant 4 - Ybbon

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Journal of Sebastien Desjardins, 1st Grenadiers, Armee du Nord.

20th Septembre, 1815. Kent, England.

My name is Sebastien Desjardins and I am a Grenadier in the 1st Grenadiers, foremost of la Vieille Garde, the elite of the Grande Armee, the finest army ever to take to the field of battle and today we will take London. After the defeat of that preening peacock Wellington it has been a glorious march through Flanders, The Netherlands and lastly a pleasant autumn stroll through the Garden of England. Well that's what the Rosbif’s call it, but it looks a lot like my home in Normandy to me – it will be France’s backyard soon enough no matter what they used to call it.

L'Empereur, that magnificent General of Glorious France has been able to counter everything the Prussians and English came up with – we attacked Wellington across the mud early in the morning at Waterloo – he probably expected us to wait until the ground had dried, but we are the Armee du Nord and a little mud was never going to stop us. When Blucher finally appeared after another good sleep we were not where he expected. Instead of springing our right flank, he found us massed on his left and we rolled them up like a shabby carpet. He should have known that musket powder always smells better early in the morning.

The Prussians turned tail and ran, maybe they can try their luck in Moscow and they are welcome to that hell hole - baked in summer, a quagmire in autumn and frozen the rest of the year, pah, I really do wonder what we ever wanted that for, but I am just a Grenadier and I do what my General commands. With the Prussians gone and the English defeated, all we needed to do was sweep the dregs before us.

Our cannons are in the treeline to my left, L'Empereur atop his black Stallion, ready to start the final bombardment on the last English army. In a way I admire them for we have the high ground, more men, more cavalry and we are not starving like they are yet they wait patiently for their death below our line, they could run now and live. What an idiot of a general to line up in valley.

Tomorrow night, I too will be feasting on rosbif and enjoying the warm welcomes of the citizens, London looks a lot better from up here on the downs we can see the smoke rising and the people fleeing. Still they will come back when they know that the proletariat are safe – the nobility, well that's another matter. We can have a Glorious English Revolution too and Madame Guillotine, well she speaks English as fluently as she speaks French.

Now, time to prepare for the last battle for England and onto Glorious French victory once more.

Entrant 5 - Princess Cadance

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The Calm of War
The air blew through the field of wheat slowly, the breeze ever so gently ruffling the sheaves of grain and ever so barely disturbing their existence. This was the life of the plains. Unmoving, unchanging, untouched. Untilled by the hands of man these wild plants simply grew as they wished and pleased. It was enough for them to exist. What more could they want? What more was there? Yet it was fated to be this day that there seemingly eternal rest would come to an end. Running swiftly through there stalks, uncaring of the heads of golden wheat that it crushed beneath it a white stallion ran swiftly through them. This stallion and the rider decked in scarlet cloth and silver armor upon it would bring to these golden fields something they had not seen for a thousand years. War.

Thasius Dresen stared keenly at the treeline before him. His eyes scanned there length looking for something, anything of interest. The scout, whose rank was more accurately grenadier ran the words through his head over and over again, anything of interest, anything of interest. There was nothing of interest out here. The trees were as quiet as the fields. There was no sign of the enemy army, no clank of their armored troops in movement. The air carried with it no trace of the lilting, sharp tongue the soldiers of the opposing army spoke. No smoke burned in the sky, signaling the placement of camps. The plains and forests before him were as empty as the heads of the idiots back at the fort who had sent him on this fool’s errand. However just as he turned his eyes away from the forest ahead he noticed something. High above him the faintest spark glimmered in the light and a large, black bird swooped in the sky circling the ground beneath. He gazed for a minute as its form moved through the air and pass a cloud, before looking forward once more and starting off. It was only after he had begun to ride away; only after he had turned his back to the creature did he realize something. Feathers don’t reflect the light. Metal armor does.

Dross watched the white horse run swiftly through the fields of grain. He hesitated for a moment. Would it reach the Imperial lines? Would it even head back to camp? He fluttered his wings in thought, a nervous habit of his. It was only now that he deemed it appropriate to wrench the blackened lance of his from the spine of the soldier beneath. A second’s resistance and the vertebrae snapped the lance’s point tearing out the bodies’ side. He once more turned to the horizon and smiled at what he now saw. The scarlet-clad troops of the Immperia could be faintly seen at the edge of his sight. There pace was slow, he would know, but why let the enemy come to them? The Empereur would be pleased. The Crystalline army was ready.

Entrant 6 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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The man scowled at the tree that read “deff to the empereur”. “The Privad’s soldiers don’t know how to spell do they?” he said. The man, dressed in a bright red greatcoat garnished with many things that would point him out as a high ranking officer, looked out from his position at the fortress across the field. Privad Dinor and his army thought they were safe inside the fortress, but Lord Brigadier General Adelaide of the Sixth Legion, the Executioners, would show them otherwise.

Privad Dinor and his men were traitors; the privilege of having a private army was no longer allowed and is now an act of treason. What they are doing now is nothing more than an act of rebellion that demands the attention of the Executioners, who will bring these traitors to justice.

“Hiding in that fortress will not keep you safe, traitor.” Adelaide spat. Many Privads before Dinor had resorted to fleeing to fortresses, but regardless of whether they were stone or wooden, each fortress fell before the might of Adelaide’s 2nd Brigade. Why must these generals be so incompetent? Adelaide thought. My tactics against these fortresses has been the same time after time, and still the fools fight back so predictably. These battles are so boring. It is true, every fortress that Adelaide was forced to capture fell using the same tactics. Yet, Adelaide was forgetting that few Privads had access to grenades and very few Privads had access to cannon. Since Adelaide had access to more weaponry, Privad armies fell quickly.

The battle, he lamented, would begin in the usual fashion. Since breaches had already been made, battalions of grenadiers would march towards the breaches, like always, the Privad will have ordered a large majority of his men to defend the breaches. The Privad’s soldiers will fire several volleys at Adelaide’s battalions. When in range, Adelaide’s grenadiers will toss their grenades at the enemy, who are bunched up in the breach, causing several dozen if not hundreds of casualties. Then the grenadiers will charge at the wavering enemy soldiers. It won’t take long for the enemy to flee, and in less than an hour the rest of the fortress will have fallen.

“Colonel Arius.” Adelaide shouted. Several seconds after Adelaide shouted a man appeared next to Adelaide. His dress was very similar to Adelaide’s.

“Yes sir.” He said

“Colonel, are our hussars prepared?” Adelaide asked.

“Actually sir, the hussars are already on patrol around the walls. The stallions that the Second Dragoons have given us are of a very fine breed. They are more than capable of taking care of anyone who escapes from the fortress. Sir, we are very fortunate, treeline is very close to the walls. Our forces will have plenty of cover getting to the breaches, and thus we should expect to suffer fewer casualties than normal.”

“Good. Send the order to attack. I want that fortress purged!” Adelaide shouted.

Entrant 7 - m_1512

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TotW 143 - Split Second
step, destiny, reluctance, birth, gherkin

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Winner - Rex Anglorvm

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The man took one more step towards his destiny; normally he was a man for the summer, but today as he climbed that final step onto the platform that held the guillotine, he could only feel the plug bayonet of the national guardsman in the small of his back, and he had a natural reluctance to enjoy the blue sky and the radiant sunshine above his head.

His head

Soon to be removed

Why?

Because of his birth, he was the son of a long dead minor aristocrat, just a man from Orleans, a man of no fortune, but a man who had carried a title.

Now he, the son, Philippe de Lenoir, would suffer for the only inheritance left to him by his spendthrift father.

An inheritance that would bequeath him only death.

The national guardsmen had come for him last night, reeking of stale sweat and warm ale, had grabbed him, beaten him and then taken him from the cheap tavern were he had sought refuge.

The greasy innkeeper had given him up for a few coins. He had spat at the man as he left; the man had been chewing on a half eaten gherkin, his mouth a stinking mess of rotten teeth and inflamed gums.

Now that same man was staring up at him from beneath the platform, a smug grin on his face, as he traced one finger along the length of his throat and laughed at Philippe.

The young aristocrat’s head whirled with thoughts of revenge; a quick smack in the stomach from one of the guardsman brought him back to reality.

The noise of the crowd was tremendous, people clamouring for his blood, Philippe felt his white cotton shirt torn from his back and thrown into the crowd for some peasant to use as his own, he was thrown onto the floor as a bayonet was pressed to his throat, his shoes and breeches removed and thrown into the crowd next.

People were laughing and pointing at him, an old woman screeched from the crowd, ‘what about his underwear, lets see what a rich boy looks like underneath!’

He felt rough hands tear his undergarments away, he was naked as a babe in front of these wretched people, he felt hot tears spring to his face, and as he wiped them away, was hauled to his feet.

The same old crone, laughed and pointed at his manhood, ‘Oh you are a big boy. What a shame you’re going to waste!’

The crowd laughed harder, and uncouth peasant women wolf whistled at him.

He had no time to dwell on his shame, he was laid on his back, and the guillotine locked in place above him.

He cursed these people, and as he cursed, a rope was realised and the blade hurtled down and took off his head.

The innkeeper smirked and walked away chewing on yet another gherkin.

Entrant 2- Ybbon

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Split Second

Venus Jones looked determined to take my jar of pickled gherkins, but I was in no mood to be trifled with. She had already raided my cabin and taken my very best “Death Metal Rulz” t-shirt along with the second, third and fourth best – or what I had fond reminiscences of as “my wardrobe”, taken the whole lot with a matching pair of jeans and trainers that even I had to secretly admit myself may have been less fragrant than they could have been, along with some interesting magazine articles in playboy, a Star Wars original figurine of Han the Man and a some electronic bits that “might come in handy one day”, put them in a disposal chute and shot the lot off at some remote star or other.

I may now be resigned to wearing puke yellow jumpsuits with “Inner Piece” written on the back, but I was determined to keep some part of my heritage with me. With some dismay I ate one last gherkin, and shoved the other down my underpants for later – the one place I knew to be unfortunately safe from her predatory reach, and handed over the jar. She had that look that said we could fight for it, and I'd lose yet again - some battles are not worth the bruises.

“Mr Pyke, I know that you think we have over-reached our step, our mark if you will”, a small dapper man, had curiously appeared again and read my mind – really, it was very disturbing, “but I assure you Mr Pyke, it was your destiny before your paternal grandparents met in that air raid shelter for a quick “kiss and cuddle”, way before your fathers birth, much less your own, that you would drive this ship to the core of the Universe, I'm sorry that means you must drop the last vestiges of your previous life, but you are going to need to give up that gherkin in your trousers as well”

I took one look at his peaceful, beatific face, and the corresponding nasty smirk plastered across the vegetarian vampire's to know that I had reached a cusp in my existence – there was no question about it, in a split second I had crossed to my new life! From now on I would try to be a better pilot and a better hider of contraband than Venus was a finder – it was going to take a major effort, not least because she had a way too unhealthy knowledge of all the ships computing powers, but I could feel myself taking that figurative leap.

Caractucus Pyke – the next Han Solo – not a man who would need to keep a gherkin in his pants, so with a modicum of reluctance I handed it over, noting with an admitted twinge of joy that Venus squirmed just a little bit as put my gherkin in her hand.

Entrant 3- ♔The Black Knight♔

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*Bang* *Bang* *Bang*

Examining the bottles my friend had thrown up in the air, I had shot and broken the three bottles with three shots.

“Damn, you sure know ‘ow to blast ‘em”, said my friend Alec with a grin.” You’ll win dat duel ‘morrow for sure.”

“I don’t know about that my friend; Willy sure knows how to shoot them too.” I said with a calm collected tone. “He’s not called the greatest shot in the west for nothing.”

I loaded my supplies onto the horse and waved to my friend. “Meet me here tomorrow for the trip. ‘Two guns are better then one’ as my pappy always said.” My friend waved back as he saddled his horse.” Will do.”

On the way home, I thought about the upcoming duel. I remember what happened clearly. My friend had challenged me in a game of drunken darts. All the way from birth, I had never denied a challenge so we both took about 8 or 9 drinks.

Some of the men in the bar helped us get to the dart board since we were too intoxicated to take a step. After many attempts, both of us couldn’t hit the board. Discouraged, decided to try to pick a fight with some of the other guys in the bar.

I don’t really remember what happened after that, but my friend told me I ended up challenging Willy in a duel. I then, later collapsed so my friend had to carry me home.

Staring at my good ol’ colt revolver, I put away the past memories, and I tried to prepare myself for tomorrow.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I rode into the town the next day with a sense of destiny. As I looked at Willy though, I began to feel reluctance as his cold dark eyes beat into me. His face was a complete battle ground with several scars.

We were placed 20 paces away and were watched carefully by a sizable crowd. Alec was watching with anticipation.

I felt a pang of reluctance as I felt my Colt. This was destiny, thought it may become grim. Willy’s hand was twitching slowly moving toward his revolver. Watching it carefully, I made sure I knew where my gun was as well.

All of a sudden, without hesitation, Willy took his gun out before without hesitation, I could get a hand on mine. The shot went through that air and scraped my ear, causing my shot to be off aim after I had struggled to pull it out.

We both knew that was a warning shot. Placing the bullet in my gun, I knew my plan. I was going to shoot first. As soon as I was ready I took my gun out and fired, surprising Willy of the suddenness.

I struck him in the heart, and he collapsed on the ground. I wiped sweat, as the doctors came.

“‘ow ‘bout I buy you a gherkin” said Alec as he congratulated me.

“What?”

Entrant 4- Princess Cadance

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The sun had barely cast its orange glow across the land as the shadowy figures which had crouched near the low bushes of the gherkin plant began to make their way across the empty lands before them. Quietly they crept, no words or sounds exchanged between them as they alternately crawled and dashed across the savannah plain. Eventually they came to there destination, the coast of the land and the city of Cape Coast, capital of the British Gold Coast. Here was the first step to British domination of the dark continent of Africa, here was to be the place of birth of a glorious new age of empire.
It was February 3rd, 1891 in the 54th year of the reign of her Majesty Queen Alexandrina Victoria, Empress of India and Queen of Great Britain and Ireland. The figures were soldiers of the British Army and there stationing here was one of great importance and pride. At least to Daniel Waters it was. He was no conscript, a soldier and warrior born out of reluctance and need, but for love of his nation and its crown. For what greater service was there than to that which Britain fought for? It was British perseverance, British courage that had won the gem of India for their Imperial crown, which had forged bravely into the unknown of the dark continent of Africa and the exotic dangers which were contained within.
It was really all a great adventure, but its importance was far more. Britain brought civilization, peace, progress to these backwards lands on the edges of the world. From Kenya, to Australia, to the African Gold Coast of Ghana which they now stood upon they had given these people all they need for growth, for civilization, for progress. Oh yes there were dissenters yes. People back home harking about the worth of other cultures the destruction brought by war. But that was just another burden for us visionaries to bear, was it not? It was these dissenting opinions; this reluctance for the natives to toss aside there antiquated notions and follies had started some problems down in the capital. Some sort of Aborigine’s Rights Protection Society was protesting the rightful governmental authority to redistribute the land of the colony as they saw fit. There was no fighting, no rioting, though that might have been exciting. No they were there as simple “assurance” as the orders had been so worded. Daniel smiled and readjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder. This would be all the “assurance” needed. Reassurance too, if necessary. He was sure of that.

Entrant 5-☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Entrant 6- Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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TotW 144 - They're Taking Over
purple, wrong, women, pony/ponies, self-respect

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Winner - Scottish King

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It was a dismal and foggy day as John made his way through the green pasture. The heavy fog which limited visibility to a mere fifty yards, was a welcomed sight for John as it kept him from being seen by the townfolk who were sure to question him as to what his destination was had they seen him wandering toward the dark, forbidding forest that stood at the edge of bright green pastures. No one dared entered the forest, not after the disappearance of the ponies a hundred years ago.

The forest was once vibrant, full of life, color, game, and ponies, the fabled ponies who once walked and talked with man, once were the guardians of the forest and all life within it. To the men that hunted and worked in the forest the ponies occupied a special place in their hearts, helping them find game in exchange for the men’s respect and care for the forest. But then a tribe of warrior women started to capture the ponies to use as mounts in battle but the ponies refused to help them in their bloody conquest and sadly were exterminated for their refusal to do wrong. The men who had befriended the fabled equines tried to save them but the warrior women were too strong and the few men who survived lost all their self-respect for their failure to protect their fabled friends. And so with its guardians gone, the forest fell into disarray turning into a place of darkness, nightmares and death. But that was about to change.

A week ago, John had been cutting wood at the edge forest, which was a far as anyone dared go, and just a he was preparing to leave for home something caught his eye further in the forest. It was something that did not belong, it was…color. Color where only there was black ground and dark trees. This color belonged to a single flower which grew where sunlight no longer shone. It was this flower which drew John further into the forest, this single purple flower which led him to a much greater discovery which now drew him to the forest again.

Finally through the green pastures and back into the dark forest, John stood in the presence of the purple flower again anxiously waiting as if for something to appear. There was silence for a moment and then he heard it, its feet barely making a sound and soon that which he had been waiting for stood before him. It snorted as it shook its head and silky hair as it stamped its feet on the soft ground. John, mesmerized by the sight of it, walked to its side and patted it skin as purple as the single flower that had caught his attention so many days before. The Fabled ponies had returned.

Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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The Imperial Palace had been filled with laughter ever since a foreign visitor had arrived a couple days ago. The visitor could always be found in the company of the Immortal Emperor. The two talked to each other like old friends. On first impression, someone might say that such a relationship is wrong, especially when they consider that this visitor is no ordinary visitor, he is King Sachie I of the Kingdom of Regia, a kingdom that has been seen as the Immortal Empire’s worst enemy. Yet, the two men have developed a very friendly relationship over the years and thus have established friendly relations between Regia and the Immortal Empire.

“Was your father even sure his legion of ponies could defeat the Perseean armies?” Sachie joked. The men recently finished lunch and were now walking outside along the cliff walls that overlooked Janak City.

“They are not the legion of ponies. They are the Second Dragoons, and no he was not sure. In fact he never even commanded the Second Dragoons to go there. From the investigations, it was requests from the First Foreign Legion that convinced the Second Dragoons. That man really was a lazy fellow.” As the Emperor said this he came to a stop turning to look down upon the city.

“Who your father?” asked Sachie.

“Yes. He had no sense of self-respect. Acted like a filthy Hoonian.” The Emperor smirked, “Well at least I had my mother to teach me manners and hygiene.”

“I thought I would never see the day when someone compares another to a Hoonian.” Sachie laughed. “But, if it wasn’t for your father I doubt we would have met on friendly terms.”

“From your perspective, I don’t know if meeting at the signing of the Treaty of Dagjag is friendly.” The Emperor said.

“True, but with your country as well as those other countries out of the war it was easy to defeat Westmark and the Holy Order, and thus the purple coated soldiers regained morale.” Sachie reasoned. After he said this, the men turned away and headed to go back inside.

“Sure Sachie. By the way, how are your women?” the Emperor inquired.

“Ehh, I decided to dismiss them. I found a real beauty. She’s the daughter of one of the Nomad Republic’s senators.”

“Really? I hope she’s not a Hoonian.”

“No, in fact she is from Nomidia,” Sachie said, he then stopped and faced the Emperor. “Anyways, you need to make a decision on the matter.”

“Do you mean that matter about the Privads? I am still deciding.”

“I need an answer.” Before the Emperor could respond Sachie continued “As I said before, so far these Privads have only caused trouble for my country and Duchara. They do so because they are given a chance. We must end it all before they do any real damage. I am returning home later today. I hope by that time you will have given me your answer.”

Entrant 3 - Ybbon

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Entrant 4- Confederate Jeb

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Why I had wandered into the zoo I couldn't remember. The memory of wanting to get away from my shabby apartment, away from all that was wrong in my life, had led me to aimlessly walk around the city. Was it merely a whim that I now stood in a place that as a child filled me with such delight? My head still aching, I moved forward in search of a bench to rest upon.

The zoo hadn't changed all that much since my youth. The dark purple and blue logo was still pasted onto every building, but time had faded the hues. Everything that was once vibrant was now dull. I caught myself before I continued to dwell on the subject. I didn't want anything to connect me back to the life waiting for me outside of the zoo, and I absolutely was not going to let the zoo become a metaphor of my life.

I finally found a bench near the petting zoo exhibit, placed exactly in the center of the midday sun. From my heated position I could see the families enjoying all that life had to offer, the young women showing their toddlers how to gently pet the goats and sheep and ponies. I remembered my parents bringing me here to see my favorite animal, a rather large Guinea Forest hog. What drew me to this creature I could not recall. The pig spent his entire day eating and sleeping, in either case ignoring the pats and rubs he received from overly-excited children. Was he oblivious to the world around him? Had he learned to accept his place in life, his life as a pig, without comfort and dignity? I could feel my mind wandering back to my own circumstances, my own lack of self-respect and calm in the face of my crisis. My visit to the zoo of my youth was not merely a coincidence, it seemed.

Still, I fought my mind. The pig cannot think, he cannot feel as I can. And even if he could he past away many years ago, dying as all living things do. What comfort is there in that? What am I supposed to learn from a dead pig? I found myself standing up triumphantly, believing myself victorious over my own thoughts, ignoring the reality of my inner ramblings. I began the short walk back to the exit of the zoo, mumbling to myself about how life was all in vain. Maybe if I had thought about the pig more carefully, about my situation more thoroughly, I wouldn't be in such a despondent mood. A heavy sighed escaped my lips as I passed the slightly rusted welcome sign. Age may have dimmed my view on life, but had not removed what made it enjoyable. I was not entirely sold on this new concept that had formed in my mind, but it was a panacea for the time being. I began to walk more confidently back to my apartment, eager to test this brighter view on life against the darkness of the world. Maybe this time I would succeed.

Entrant 5- Princess Cadance

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The air was warm, unusually so for this time of year. The landscape was barren, with only a small crest of hills disturbing the monotony of the setting. The figure of a woman, with dirty blonde hair and a slight build could be made out upon the nearby hill. The women's name was Andrea Smith, the location a bit more exotic. It was the year 3124 and with the passage of time mankind had finally ascended to the heavens. Travel through safe was faster than light, in thirty years Earth's solar system was colonized. 1980 later and the very edges of the universe was reaches by man. This was one of those "edges." Planet S150, nicknamed Serene was an American outpost and station for a new sort of Pony Express. Messages using advanced radio waves were sent in minutes across solar systems. And Andrea was there to make sure nothing went wrong. In truth it was a boring job. She fixed small bugs and re-routed messages nothing more. If she had more self-respect she would feel that her talents were wasted. Unfortunately she was not allowed to reflect upon her life in what was in effect a dead end job. For at that moment she noticed something. The glint of light upon metal, near the ridges of an uninhabited cliff. Might as well check it out.

///

The alien was moving closer. It had noticed something, yes but what? These "humans" as they seemed to call themselves were interesting race. They had a history of culture, society, growth. Amazing creatures really. A shame it would be really for them to be consumed, for them to be merged as part of the larger group, thus losing all individuality and uniqueness. But that was the way it would be. The way it must be. Uniqueness was differences; differences breed intolerance, intolerance created conflict, conflict would tear the Collective apart. No better to unite to stand as equals and counterparts. One shall become all, all shall serve the one. All hail the Collective. The insect-like being watching Andrea blinked, its purple eyes glinting. They would make excellent additions to the Collective. All hail the Swarm, in which all are one and one, are all. All hail the Collective, in which many unite as one and one, unites the many.

Entrant 6- Rex Anglorvm

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She never thought she would live to see this day, a woman alone, a sole ruler, on her way to be elevated to the purple, how had this been possible?

Ineptitude, that was why, every single one of her male relatives had been wrong for the throne.

Can she name their faults?

Of course she could, a drunkard, a wastrel, a fool, a sadist, a narcissist and a lover of ponies, in the most unnatural sense.

No wonder the Praetorian Guard had revolted and placed her on the throne. The chariot she was on wove its way majestically throw the city streets, crowds of well-wishers chanting and singing her praises.

The women most of all were her most enthusiastic supporters, she could see with her own eyes how they sought to control their emotions, flowers and palm fronds were thrown before her chariot, a sea of noise, the competing colours of the buildings and people, and the odours from food sold by street side vendors assailed all her senses.

Her bearing, her demeanour, her sense of pride and honour in her people’s long achievements, was almost to much to contain, but her self-respect alone steeled her and gave her the backbone to control her surging emotions on this most auspicious of days.

The chariot came to a halt before the Senate House, the huge German slave who was her driver, bodyguard and sometimes lover helped her from the chariot, she gave him her most beatific smile, the smile that her won her both admirers and supporters for her cause.

She walked the steps up to the building towards the temporary wooden stand holding the throne, flanked either side by the might of the Praetorians.

The Pontifex Maximus waited her for at the side of the throne, alongside the senior Consul for the year. Although the consul’s had no real power in these days of the Empire, their support for her had been a key reason why the Praetorians had offered her the Purple.

As she sat on the throne, and the Pontifex Maximus intoned the sacred words of the holy right, calling upon Jupiter Optimus Maximus to guide her hand and for the rest of the pantheon of the Gods to aide her in her days to come, she knew finally that the age of Woman had begun.

**Dance** · August 09, 2013, 04:03 PM

TotW 145 - The Gate of Death
torn, chains, fate, broken, hatred

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Winner - The Norseman

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Entrant 2 - Confederate Jeb

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Alkaios open his eyes. The sight that met his eyes did not surprise him; barren land as far as the eye could see both behind and in front of him, with only a large river a few paces away breaking the monotonous landscape. Squinting, Alkaios managed to spot a boat slowly making its way towards him. An old, disheveled man powered the vessel forward, all the while staring straight at Alkaios with fiery eyes. Those eyes pierced Alkaios' soul, but for now they were too far off to worry about. For the time being, he would sit on the shore and recollect why he now found himself in this place.

In Greece, few were as skilled with the sword and shield as Alkaios. The lucrative pay he received from his work abroad earned him the hatred of his fellow Greeks, but it did not concern him. Excelling in his craft, his art, was all that mattered to him; money merely bought him supplies and nourishment, and the rest found its way to friends and relatives. So long as the enemy was worthy Alkaios would accept the offers. One such offer, to help bring civilization to Thrace in the service of a small Greek colony, especially intrigued him; though his enemy would be barbarians, their savagery would be a welcome test of his abilities. Fate had brought him a new challenge, one that he would welcome with sword in hand.

However, what Alkaios did not count on was the inadequacy of the militia guarding the colony. The Thracians, hearing of Alkaios' coming, charged the unfinished walls mere hours after his arrival. One, two, three, five, twenty barbarians fell to Alkaios' sword, but for each man he slew three of his fellow Greeks were torn apart or pulled away in chains, prisoners to be sold at a foreign market. The town fell, but Alkaios did not; he would not live a slave's life. Was fate punishing him for his arrogance? He had never boasted of his feats. As the last of his breath began to leave him, he found time to place an obol between his teeth. The barbarians did not know Greek customs, and Alkaios would not go to the underworld unprepared. Though he lasted hours past the fall of the colony, at long last his body fell limp to the ground, bones broken and skin pierced with spears.

The obol. Alkaios finally remembered to pull it out of his mouth. The ferryman had finally crossed the expanse of the Acheron, and was reaching out his hand expectantly towards him. Alkaios placed the small coin in old man's palm, and slowly stepped onto the boat. Whatever fate had in store for him, there was only one way of knowing.

Entrant 3 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Private Hui Kuang was scared. Hours ago, he had fought with the forward platoons that got ambushed by Separatist tanks. He had seen tanks before, but had never heard one much less see one in action. At Iduan, he heard them and he was terrified by the sound they created. The Separatist tanks sounded like roaring lions, and moved at a snail’s pace but it was that speed they were moving that was more terrifying. The tanks seemed to move towards him and his comrades without any hint of hatred or any other emotion, they moved with zero doubts and were in no rush.

Hui was only nineteen years old, a whole life ahead of him, he couldn't die. That would not be fair at all. He had plans. Once his two years were up, he was going to open up a bakery in Hwangdo. The gods were not going to let a 19 year old die on some battlefield. He had made this his mantra and had constantly repeated these things to himself the entire time his comrades were dying at Iduan.

In the middle of that mantra he kept repeating, a bullet drove through the helmet of Hui’s friend, Shi, who was younger than Hui and also had similar dreams. That bullet had torn the bonds that chained him to this world.

Shi’s death greatly affected Hui. The bullet that pierced Shi’s head splattered blood on Hui’s face. Feeling the warm liquid on his face, Hui had looked at his dead comrade. With the blood of his comrade streaming down his face and the corpse right in front of him, Hui’s faith that his life could not be taken by neither blade nor bullet was shattered.

He had hoped the brigade that he was with would retire to rear, but an hour after he had fought at Iduan, he learned that he was going back into action. The brigade he was in would attack the Southwest Gate of Hijuan. How in the three hells could he or anyone get to that gate? The Separatists built trenches in front of the gate. The trenches were not the only thing to fear, there were also the machine guns and artillery pieces that lined the walls. It was suicide!

“Fix bayonets!” officers yelled.

Reluctantly, Hui grabbed his rifle, took the bayonet out of its sheath and attached it to the rifle. Must this be my fate? Hui thought. Tears started to well up. Why do I have to die? It’s not fair!
“You! Go to your platoon.” An officer ordered him. Hui meekly walked over to join his platoon.

Silenced reined for minutes, it was broken by the sound of whistles; the order to charge had been given. Hui resigned himself to his fate, so he stood up and ran, however as he started running he felt a sharp pain and then everything went black.

Entrant 4 - Rex Anglorvm

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I sat in my hire car with the engine running, waiting for the man to come out of the crumbling tenement block that he lived in.

He was an old man now, but a man who was responsible for the deaths of my family and for countless other innocent people. It had taken me years to find him, but at last I had.

Here in Argentina.

I had equipped myself with a fake passport and passed myself off as a young German, trying to find his Grandfather who had fled East Germany when the Reds had taken over.

In reality I was a 27 year old Israeli, with a burning desire for revenge, and today I would finally take it.

The old man came out of the dirty building, his shambling gait, a memento of his torture under the NKVD, before somehow he had escaped their clutches.

His stature was stooped, his clothes torn and unkempt, a man who had been a camp commandant, and who had taken the lives, wealth and dignity of thousands of people, now had none left himself.

I shook myself from the last chains of conventional morality that bound my heart, this man may look old and harmless now, but he was still a killer, a mass murderer, a man who deserved death.

His fate now lay in my hands, my hands which now gripped the steering wheel, until my hands tuned white.

I waited until he was crossing the road opposite his building, and I gunned the engine, letting the handbrake off, with a squeal of rubber and burning tyres, I slammed my foot hard down on the accelerator, and aimed for him.

I felt the impact as I smashed into his body, he slammed into the front of the car and then the momentum of the vehicle took him back under and could feel the wheels bumping over him, I slammed on the footbrake and looked in the rear view mirror.

He was still moving.

I gunned the engine again and reversed back over his broken body.

I got out of the car and looked at the man who had destroyed my family.

I checked his pulse, he was dead, and although the desire for revenge was now sated, the hatred I felt for this demon in human form remained.

I had discovered something about myself.

I could do this again; did that make me like him?

No, I would only kill vermin, not the innocent.

Maybe, just maybe, if I had time on my side and the strength to carry on, the Gate of Death would now beckon the men who really deserved it.

Entrant 5 - Ybbon

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You'd be surprised really, that the workers didn't display more hatred towards us. After all, they had been ripped from their communities and transported here in stinking, cold, dank wagons across the whole continent to work on arms and clothes for the men at the front. Fright, terror, oh yes, you could see that, especially in the children's faces when they are torn from their families and separated into male and female workers – but then we need male workers for the heavy manual labour and the women for lighter work and it's easier to make that distinction before they get settled in their huts, they don't need a family unit they just need to work and that's why we separated them.

What was most sad to me was the look of resignation, the wretched acceptance of their fate, did they not realise that we would treat them fairly? Work hard, they'd be fed, with a bed and roof over their head, some of our own citizens are bombed night and day and they don't get a roof and food for free, but their spirit wasn't broken like these. We took the chains off the carriages, stripped them of their filthy clothing and hosed them down, dosed them with delousing powder and allocated them to their huts. Yes it was not dignified but we can't be there giving each a bar of soap and towel as they step from the showers, again, it was a necessary action based on scale.

What you ask now, is whether I am sorry and whether I regret my actions, well to be frank no, as I said I was not a guard - simply a uniformed attendant. We needed whips and guns as sometimes, some of them would get angry with their treatment, and we would use the guns to just encourage a more sociable behaviour from them. The more servile and willing to follow orders, the quicker we would get them out of their rags, showered and into clean uniforms and if we had to use whips and, yes, unfortunately, a few times, some would be shot dead, but we had to maintain discipline. You must remember that there were far fewer of us attendants so we needed to make sure we had authority.

So once they were separated out, and cleaned up, we would march them to their huts through the brick gates and under the sign that has come to represent all these lies you tell about us. I heard some of my colleagues call it The Gate of Death, but it was a joke, don't you see? Arbeit Macht Frei – work makes you free, it was simply the death of laziness and sloth that was all, we didn't want so many to die, they were just sickly and weak that is all. We were just following orders.

Entrant 6 - Yeepeep

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TotW 146 - Urbi et Orbi
vatican, father, seal, archive, swiss

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Winner - Ybbon

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Entrant 2 - Scottish King

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Neil walked silently down the dark, gloomy hallway, his head bowed to the ground in deep thought. It was not often one ventured into the melancholy atmosphere of the ancient underground passageways where Neil now walked. In fact, it had been centuries since anyone had breathed the stale air that had been trapped there since the last time it was been accessed.

The structure to which the passageways led had been built by the Order of the Father. The Order of the Father was a religious sect established two millennia ago in response to the actions by the revered Manchus, a legendary leader who was said to have defeated the "Great Evil", that had at one point threatened to wipe away all life. Manchus had led the humans along with the fabled ponies or Equins, and the ground creatures called Tryns, in a great battle with the "Great Evil" destroying it and its forces ending the threat it posed on humanity for all time. So the legend goes.

The truth is that Manchus and his allies had destroyed the dark forces but had only dealt the "Great Evil" itself a deadly wound, one that would take millennia to recover from. During that time, the "Great Evil" had convinced dubious and traitorous humans to protect it from being found while it regained strength and the Order of the Father was created. Fulfilling their promise to this enemy of life, the members of the Order built deep underground a vault called the Vault of Swiss, named after its designer, with a seal only their master could open when the time of its return came. Time past but yet the Order of the Father kept watch over their wounded dark lord until a century ago the Vatican, the head of the Order, was summoned to the vault, where he was told that the time for its release was at hand. The Equins had been destroyed by the Zons, a tribe of warrior women while the Tyrns had disappeared from the land of men. It had commanded for the Vatican to return in one hundred years to witness its return and it was this that had brought Neil down into the foreboding passages to the vault again.

As the new Vatican, Neil had read everything he could on the ancient entity in the Order's archive. He found it interesting that no one in the past had recorded the entity's appearance. It unsettled him a bit as he turned the key in the door that held the vault and as he closed the door, a rumbling sound began to fill the room. Low at first, the sound grew until Neil had to cover his ears to protect them. At the climax of the rumbling, the massive vault door flew open and for the first time in thousands of years a human laid eyes on the "Great Evil" of old. To Neil's astonished eyes evil seemed so beautiful. Very beautiful.

Entrant 3 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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“Father, what are you staring at?” the young man asked. These two men were some of the first non combat Janakans to enter the recently captured city of Turkara. The siege had been a long drawn out bloody affair. Three major assaults, two of which were directed at the Chasm of Torpor but were easily repelled, the last assault came at an unguarded entrance to the plateau that Turkara sat on.

These two men have one of the most prized professions in the Janak Empire; they are Recorders, men who travel with the Janakan armies to document not only the battles that are fought, but the knowledge that can be copied from other kingdoms, cultures, cities etc. Their recordings are brought back to Janak City to be placed in the archives of the city’s libraries.

“That, Swiss, is the Vatican; the greatest library in all of Gaissha. I have heard that it was built many ages ago, probably even before the Saracian Empire.” The father replied. The older man gazed at the sandstone building, humbled by the chance that he was given to be here.

“Swiss, you should be grateful that you have been given the chance to record Turkara. An old scroll I read describing what it called the five greatest cities in the world, Turkara was one of them. It is easy to see why; what with how the city is arranged. I absolutely love the way they have used columns. Everything in this city is amazing, even the houses look like they are fit for a king.”

Swiss listened to his father, but was not really impressed with what his father said. Interestingly, Swiss did not really care for the architecture of Turkara, he was more interested in the crude architecture of the Ducharan cities of the south. “How many assistants has the Immortal Emperor promised?” Swiss asked.

“A few hundred.” His father replied. “The Emperor realizes the significance of this city and how long it will take to finish the recordings. One of the things he requested of us was to record everything about how the city is constructed. What we record about this city will be able to make it easy to create a complete copy of this city.”

The father walked towards the entrance of the library, only to stop a few feet away from the entrance. He frowned at what was before him, where the doors of the library were supposed to be was a large slab of rock that sealed the entrance. “Now why would they go and do that. That’s not nice; making me wait to see the greatest treasure of life.” The father sighed and yelled to his son who was walking around aimlessly “Swiss, would you mind getting a bunch of soldiers over here to help us remove this obstacle?” Swiss nodded and ran off to go retrieve some soldiers. “It’s a pity that we might have to scar your beautiful walls.” The father lamented as he walked away.

Entrant 4 - Confederate Jeb

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Entrant 5 - Rex Anglorvm

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The Holy Father had a plan, he had lain awake all night, turning over the implications of what he was about to do in his mind, but finally he had now made a decision.

He pressed the small buzzer on his intercom upon the centuries old desk, and asked his assistant, a young man from Napoli to come into the room.

‘Did you do as I asked Father Enzio?’

‘Yes Holy Father, I have been down to the Vatican catacombs as you asked and spoken to Cardinal Gunther, he agreed to let me go into the Archive unaccompanied as I had your permission. However he did place a Swiss guard at the entrance of the door, and I’m sure the man tried to watch where I went within the Archive.’

‘Did you shake him off? Lose him? Pardon my expressions Father Enzio, I sound like a cheap Hollywood detective I know, but it is important.’

‘Yes Holy Father, a man who grows up in the back streets of Napoli learns how to shake a tail pretty easily. I have the package, it was exactly where you said it would be, it had not been touched in years, it was covered in a thick layer of dust, nobody has appeared to tamper with it. I have not looked inside.’

‘Good. Well done, please leave me to open the package alone.’

‘Yes Holy Father’.

His Holiness the Pope looked at the young man’s retreating back as he left the room, and closed the large gilded doors behind him. He let out a large sigh, and realised how he had come to rely on the junior priest as the one man he could truly trust.

He inspected the package on the desk to check that all should appear as it should, the brown packaging paper was fine, the sealant was fine, even the read wax seal that was stamped upon the shoe boxed sized package was undamaged.

He picked up his paper knife from the desk and sliced it open with a flick of his wrist; he then broke the wax seal, and peeled back the layers of brown packaging.

Finally he prepared to open the box.

The explosion rocked the whole of the square of St Peter, showering penitent pilgrims and atheist tourists alike in a storm of glass and masonry debris.

The man placed the timer in the back box of the stolen moped, and sped off away from the edge of the square, weaving through people running to see what had happened and people running away from the scene in panic.

He smiled to himself, it had been easy to replace the package, with an exact replica, the only hard part had been stealing the old man’s seal.

He rode through the church knowing that with this one act he had saved the sanctity of Holy Mother Church.

Entrant 6 - Vizvii

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TotW 147 - Announcement
eagle, fasces, colossus, flower, russia

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Winner - Confederate Jeb

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The cry of an eagle flying overhead echoed across the valley. The light snowfall had not deterred the bird of prey from its hunt. Dmitri took this to heart as he slowly weaved in between the trees, trying ever so hard to remain silent. A colossus of a man, Dmitri was losing the battle against his own two feet, and with every step came the sound of crunching snow. Why he was so worried he could not tell; back in Russia he had been a famous trapper in his small rural town, and the snows of the motherland were more treacherous than this powder. Maybe it was the lack of support he had here in America, the distance away from another human soul, let alone his kinsmen. Only three Russians had made the trip over to this uncharted world, and Viktor had not even bothered leaving Boston. Ivan Ivanovich, the blacksmith's son, came as far as the third trading outpost before setting up shop crafting tools for the woodsmen and trappers. His parting gift to Dmitri had been a watch he had brought over from Russia. Adorning the little thing were two fasces, representing strength though unity according to Ivan. But there was no unity to be found here. Strength came from the will of the individual and keen aim with his musket. If only his feet would quit betraying him.

Minutes turned into hours as Dmitri checked each one of his traps, with a couple of rabbits being his only reward. Fur and meat combined might earn a few dollars at the trading post just north of the valley, but they weren't worth selling. The last trap was the most disappointing; set up in the river that flowed down the center of the valley, Dmitri had hoped to catch a beaver. His bad luck continued, however, and Dmitri made his way along the side the river, which provided him a clear shot back to his camp. In the springtime the river would be right in the middle of a revival; a flower was sure to grow in that spot between the rocks, a nest of chirping baby birds sure to fit snugly into that tree branch. The smell of wild berries would fill the air, and fresh fruit would find its way to the nearby traders. The vibrant images filled Dmitri's thoughts as he continued his lonely march, with only the distant eagle to keep him company.

Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Gavolin was scared for his family. The eagles of the Janak Empire were nowhere near his home, and yet the city of Russia was in chaos. If he was to describe what was going on in the city, he would call it a war of brothers, and it truly was.

It was all because of the Sons of Humanity group, ardent supporters of the Janak Empire's ideology, who had started trying to pave the way for an easy transition, so that when the Janak Empire’s armies came, the city of Russia would peacefully surrender to the Janak Empire. To do this, they had attempted to remove King Avol from power and take over. However, the coup failed. In fact, the coup did not even have a chance. The Sons of Humanity were not even able to gain entrance to the Colossus Palace; they had been stopped by the King’s soldiers. To make this failure worse, the leader of coup, Estolin Deln, was killed by a fasces while trying to flee.

That was over a couple weeks ago, and since then street battles were fought daily and the main topic of discussion was who do you support? Are you an Imperialist or a Russian? Why couldn’t there be another option? Gavolin and his family had tried to stay out of it. He had seen no end to the pestering from his neighbors who questioned his loyalties. Truthfully, Gavolin could not care less. Why should it matter who rules Russia? It doesn’t; no matter who rules the city, the lives of Gavolin’s family will not change.

Despite his views, he has realized that it will be hard to hold on to neutrality. As each day passes, people who used to have neutral views are swayed to declare their loyalties. This is not because they were convinced, it’s because a family member was killed in a street battle. Gavolin had taken precautions so that no one in his family could get killed in the streets, but what if supporters from one side or the other came to his home to demand housing? What is he to do then? If he refuses, they might think he has already declared his loyalty for the other side, and then his family will suffer. If he accepts their demands, then the other side might think he has declared his loyalties for the enemy; again, his family will suffer. No matter what happens, his family will be at risk.

He knew that it was only a matter of time before the entire city would be engulfed in violent conflict, but how could he keep his family safe? Perhaps he might…no. That would be foolish. The flower that is Russia might be burning away, but should he risk the dangers in between to travel to another flower; another city that might be just as beautiful as Russia was before the street fighting began?

Entrant 3 - Vizvii

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Entrant 4 - Rex Anglorvm

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TotW 148 - Back Down South
king, boat, pacific, rome, two

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Winner - Confederate Jeb

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Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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Entrant 3 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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A Large Yield (Age of Continentalism)

It had been a very foggy morning, the afternoon had also been rather gloomy, yet the pacific people of Rome Daln were blessed this day. The fishermen of the village were able to catch a lot of fish. Arn was quite surprised at how many fish he was able to catch. "By the gods, this is probably my biggest catch all year." Arn said as he walked back to his village, Rome Daln. With the amount he caught, he could easily feed his wife and two children.

His neighbor Gare Sahl, was walking next to him carrying a similar size catch, "You know Arn, our village could probably hold a feast everyday for several days using the amount we caught, well as long as the fish does not spoil.". Gare said.

"Well hopefully Emperor Thigisgran does not hear about it. The monthly tribute from our village would probably increase. I wonder how our lives would be if the kings of Woestij returned and kicked the Westmark Empire out of these lands?" He continued. They had left the docks with their boats secured. The village had a small population of less than a hundred; rarely did travelers visit here, most of the time these travelers were only visiting to obtain the monthly tribute from the village that was owed to the Westmark emperor, an emperor who was about over a thousand miles away. To some, this was a problem that can cause the feeling of self-determination, but in Rome Daln no one really cared.

"Gare, I can't even imagine such a thing. A long time ago, I talked to a traveler that was here, who wasn't here for tribute, and I had a very enlightening conversation with him. He told me that the Volokba's rebelled." Arn told Gare. They were now halfway back to the village. Travelers to Rome Daln often remark how it is interesting that the village was not on the coast considering how most of the men in the village were fishermen.

"A rebellion? What happened?"

"Well, apparently the Volkba's fought very bravely and their rebellion lasted for a decade, before the Westmark Empire was finally able to put it down"

Gare was very intrigued with Arn's story. Arn wasn't saying a whole lot about what happened, but news from anywhere outside Rome Daln was highly valued as it took years before anyone heard about something going on. "So...what happened afterwards?" Gare inquired.

"The rebellion was defeated and Westmark left a very large garrison at Volokbaai. Hmmm. Gare!". Arn said looking at Gare. "I just had an idea. We should have the people from that nearby village. What's it called?...Oh yeah, Jaaden. Have a large festival, do you think the chief would agree?"

"You know Arn, that is a good idea.". The men continued back towards the village discussing ideas for a festival.

Entrant 4 - Rex Anglorvm

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What was the name of the railroad that brought him here to die…the pacific?

No that wasn’t it…. it was the Western and Atlantic, it had brought the young soldier up from Atlanta and then Kingston then finally on the spur rail to Rome Georgia.

How had he ended up here, a young boy from Bristol, this place was a world away from England, the people spoke with funny accents, but even though they spoke the same and looked the same they wanted to kill each other.

He had taken ship, no more a small sailing boat really in Bristol, only a few weeks ago, the Captain had said his vessel was bound for the West Indies to fetch rum, instead he had run the gauntlet of Union warships along the eastern seaboard and had smuggled weapons and food to the besieged city of Savannah, a part of what he found out was called the Confederacy.

He couldn’t wait to leave, the people there had looked half starved and wretched, but the boy had ended up stuck in the south when his Captain had left without him to catch a good tide and evade Union warships. In the end the boy had been slugged over the head when he was wandering the docks trying to find a way home.

He had woken up to found he had been ‘volunteered’ into a Georgia regiment of militia, they had given him a uniform, of sorts anyhow, it was alive with ticks and fleas and had a bullet hole over the left chest that had been patched, a pair of worn trousers and a forage cap. He had been given an old musket some rudimentary training and then been marched North and had walked for ages until they had taken the train at Atlanta.

He looked up at the two Union soldiers standing above him; one had a mean look on his face, the one who had run him through with a bayonet.

The other man had a kindly face, the face that belonged on a father or a favourite uncle; he had sergeant’s stripes too.

‘Bit of a runt this one Sergeant King, the rebels have got to be desperate to be using boys, shall I finish him off?’ the mean looking man made to stab him again with his bayonet.

‘Nope, his only a boy, you shouldn’t have stabbed the youngster in the first place, he wasn’t going to shoot, the boy was looking to surrender. Still I say he don’t have long left anyways now.’

The boy knew the sergeant was right, today would be his last day, it was his birthday today and he was fourteen years old, the date 17th May 1864.

He closed he eyes and could hear the sound of the Ocean, and the cry of the sea birds and the snap of the sails….

Entrant 5 - Princess Cadance

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Back Down South

It was raining. For some reason it had been raining since she got there. “Oh come to Italy! It's always sunny here! Take a drive through the idyllic countryside. Get away from all that gloom in Maine.” But her friends advice was obviously wrong. How much had she paid to take that boat across the Atlantic thinking it would be some relaxing cruise. Ha! She had been sick the entire time. Confined to her room aboard the ship she at least hoped that Italy would be much more relaxing.

It was not. She had stopped off at the city of King Romulus faintly recalling her old high-school classes about ancient Rome. Surely she would enjoy herself here. However despite being within one of the most ancient cities in the world, inhabited by millions she still felt lonely. Lately she had gone through a rough time in her life. She was a writer. She loved stringing words together to create an image, a story, and entire world in her mind. She was not the most successful at it however. “I am sorry to inform you but your writing does not” blah, blah, blah. The entirety of her writing career were a stack of rejection and two movie reviews printed in the local newspaper of her town.

She sighed looking over the dashboard of her rented car. The twists and turns of the roads built into the Italian hills were rhythmic and calming. It reminded her of a trip she had once made to California, how the waves of the pacific methodically hit the same part of the coast at the same time all day. She was reminded of this monotony now as the roads she drove took the same rhythmic twists and turns. Rome had not been relaxing. The hustle and bustle of the center of a nation was no different than the hectic, fast-paced life she had lived in for the past three years. Yet her she could feel a sense of calm and peace. The countryside here looked liked it never changed. Some would call that boring. Yet now she saw only peace. She was heading back down south, to Naples were she had landed. Things would be better there.

Entrant 6 - Paraipan

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My name is Palladius, and this is the story of my last days in this world, as I’m about to enter the other one, untimely and against my own will. I’m only guilty of being the son of my father. I curse my fate for living in this world in these times of turmoil instead of a more pacific age.

My father was Petronius Maximus, Emperor of Rome. He wasn’t of Imperial blood, nor a great conqueror, but what he lacked in bravery and honor, he fully compensated in slyness and wickedness. His rise to the Imperial throne was stained by betrayal and murder, his greatest rival Flavius Aetius, and the previous Emperor Valentinian III, finding their deaths in the devious plots of my ambitious father.

After he became Emperor, he married Licinia Eudoxia, Valentinian’s widow and had me betrothed with her daughter, Eudocia. He thought marrying such noble women would consolidate his hold on power and our legitimacy, but instead these fateful unions will prove to be the source of our downfall, only two months later.

Before his death, Valentinian had promised my new betrothed to Huneric, the son of the Vandal King, Gaiseric. Aware of my father’s involvement in her first husband’s death, the bitter Eudoxia secretly requested the Vandal warlord’s support against her new husband, the usurper, promising to fulfill the engagement between her daughter and Huneric.

A few days later news spread throughout the city that from the south a strong fleet, carrying the fearsome Vandal warriors, was sailing for Rome, to depose my father. People knew what a barbarian invasion meant. If they weren’t old enough to experience them, they have surely heard the stories about the three days of terror in which the Goths, a tribe related to the Vandals, looted and burned Rome 45 years ago. Panic and chaos took hold of the city and many citizens fled.

My father urged the Senate to leave the city, but they blamed him for bringing this doom upon Rome. Everyone blamed my father, except him, who blamed his wife. Left without help by the Senate, betrayed by his wife and deserted by his bodyguards, my father and I fled the city. A boat was supposed to take us out of the city, but when we reached the Tiber there was no sign of it. Instead, a panicked mob was passing by, trying to flee the city.

“Look, it's the Emperor and his son. Get them!” Someone shouted and my father’s face was disfigured by fear. They caught us and I witnessed how my own father was stoned to death and his body was thrown into the Tiber. I watched him floating downstream until someone approached me and I felt how a cold blade slowly opened my throat. I collapsed to the ground, choking and feeling how life leaves my body. Killed by Romans, while fleeing from the Vandals I thought with my last flash of consciousness and plunged into the dark abyss of death.

TotW 149 - The Windmills of Your Mind
clocks, incredible, silicosis, car, dog

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Winner - Asterix

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Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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I coughed blood spat it out to down my chin to drop on the dusty ground below. I'd laugh but it hurt too much so I grunted and that would have to do for now, not that I had much longer left for this World to worry about anything more eloquent. The flea-bitten mangy dog, the same colour as a million strays the World over sat and whined at me. I couldn't tell if he was waiting for me to die so he could have a meal, or if, as he was to me, I was his only companion for now.

“So,” I started, “here I am, Crucified for my sins, and damn but they were good, a crime spree the like of which has not been seen for many years.” He cocked a leg on the crude upright pole I was nailed to. “Well done, you faithless hound, piss all over me like everyone else did, I hope you get a splinter in the worst possible way” I garbled at him. Maybe my last gasp of pain had bought a degree of respect to the cur, but it sat on its haunches and looked at me once more.

“I guess you'll listen then? A final confession of a crucified man huh?” He stayed sat so I took that as a nod to go on. “It was the incredible thrill, don't you see? The chase, the evading of capture, the scent of fear in the town as men distrusted their own fathers and sons and locked away their women.” Now I had started, I would tell my story before my heart gave out, whatever the dog thought.

“It started so stupidly, the first woman nearly ran me down in her car, she was very sorry, and I mean very sorry,” I winked at the dog, as if he knew what I meant, “but I was not satisfied with that kind of apology, before I knew it she was dead. I hid her body and stayed out of view, waiting for the inevitable chase. It never came, the clocks carried on ticking and life went on” I coughed once more, you'd think silicosis if not for the nails in my feet and hands and the ropes binding me to the cross.

“And I got annoyed, annoyed that no-one cared for this poor woman I'd murdered. So I killed another – and they took notice then, but she was the Mayor's wife,” I spluttered as a feeble laugh escaped, “but I kept them chasing me, hunting me as I took another, then two more, then three in a week, oh it was so joyful! All told, twenty-five poor women dead, but the final chase was as alive as I ever felt.”

I coughed and groaned, my last few breaths now, “Well mutt, it was me, I did it but I feel no remorse. Tell them that when they come to cut me down.” All went black.

Entrant 3 - Confederate Jeb

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Everything had to run like clockwork. No deviations, no mistakes. That was all the manager had said before he had shut the door. Ian now found himself standing in a massive, dimly lit room filled with gears and pipes. Try as he might he could not see what all the metal contraptions connected to, but they all led upwards through small sections in the ceiling. Maybe this room controlled the giant clocks that he had seen on the upper floors? The sound of steam gushing out of a nearby pipe awoke Ian from his thoughts. Quickly he pulled out a small jar of paste and plastered the muck onto the leak, trying not to burn his hand in the process. The steam stopped coming out, but he failed to protect his body, and was now left with a small burn on his thumb. The paste, some sort of unholy matrimony between silicon, carbon, and sulfur, only served to amplify the pain. Maybe that was the point, Ian thought; to teach workers not to make mistakes. Still, a temporary burn was better than getting silicosis or black lung in the mines. Still, it was incredible to him that even the job of making sure the steamworks ran smoothly had its own occupational hazards.

Minutes turned into hours as Ian ran back and forth between the metal frames and iron columns, switching intermittently between his wrench to fix the gears and the jar of paste to patch the steam leaks. His task left his mind with no time to wander off in thought, as he was prone to do at his previous job in the automobile factory. Placing the exact same gears into the exact same positions to allow the steam boiler to start the engine of the car was only interesting the first five or so times. When the clock sounded six at the end of the workday, over three thousand cars had been produced, which meant tens of thousands had gone from his hands to the core of an automobile. The monotony! The tedium! At least here in the steamworks there was room for variety; once patched, a pipe was not prone to leaking again.

But the size of the room bothered Ian in the back of his mind. Despite his mad running for hours on end he had not seen the opposite wall, nor the side walls. Was he condemned to continuously do his job until the died, merely to be replaced by another poor soul who would share his fate? Would the manager attempt to rescue him, with the help of man, dog, and machine? The sound of the six o'clock chime frightened Ian enough to make him jump, but what he had not expected was a string of small lights to appear just above his head. "Alright, good work today Mr. Copper. Everything ran like clockwork, just as I asked. If you'll please follow the lights I'll meet you back at the entrance."

Entrant 4 - Rex Anglorvm

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I must have climbed these stairs thousands of time in my lifetime, I wound my way slowly to the top of the town hall tower, my knees not that same as they had been, always giving me trouble these day, the arthritis you see?

I reached the top of the staircase, and stood on the wooden platform, slightly out of breath, my breathing made me think of my old friend Clive, he had worked in the docks for years, worked on asbestos lagging, the stuff had killed him in the end, he contracted silicosis, and he had withered away to nothing, a man whose incredible strength enabled him to swing sledgehammers like a child’s toy, reduced to being unable to care for himself, when he had passed, it had been a blessed release for him.

Anyway, enough of these morbid thoughts, I reach into my pocket and take out the gold chain, with the ornamental key on the end, I open the wooden panel in front of me, insert the key into the lock, open the gilded door to the back of the clock’s mechanism and wind its gears, the satisfying click and whirr of the clockwork masterpiece sounding clearly in my old ears. A lovely piece this, better than a hundred other clocks I have seen of its time. It was built by a Dutch clockmaker in the 18th century in the shape of a windmill.

I close the gilded door, turn the key and replace it in my pocket, not forgetting to close the wooden panel that shields it from the elements. I turn and make my way carefully down the staircase.

As I open the door which exits the tower, my faithful old terrier, wags his tail in greeting to me, I don’t tie him to anything anymore, there’s no need, his as old as me! He is happy to sit by my car waiting for me to come and pat him on the head before we go for our morning walk.

I open the back door of the car, ‘Come on boy, time for your walk, there’s a good dog now, Max clambers slowly into the back seat, letting me clip his collar to the ‘doggie’ seatbelt I bought him.

I short drive later and we take a walk around the park, the early morning dog walkers are here, the same faces each day, I smile and greet them and they return the pleasantries.

I like these walks, although they are melancholy acts for me now, my wife and I used to stroll along together, Max, darting between our legs, but now it’s just me and my old terrier.

In the distance I hear the chimes sound eight o’clock, I love that clock, but I do not love time, it robs us of what we hold most dear…

Entrant 5 - Princess Cadance

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Thought

Thought. Thought is one of the most simple and the most complex things in life. My father,before he passed away from lung cancer, and complications from silicosis always told me that the most important thing to learn,was how to think. How to think. I considered that now. It had been a rather boring day at the office and as I drove my car home along the usual route,I let my mind wander into thought. I had always enjoyed thinking and imagination. My father told me stories from his imagination as a child and when I became an adult we would go back and forth about politics, religion,and current events expressing our thoughts.

My dad had a saying. “A man is his mind and his mind is is made up of his beliefs,emotions,and thoughts.” Thoughts were what gave us our insight on life which allowed us to comprehend the world around us. My father's intense interest in the philosophy was tied to this and it was incredible how many philosophical sayings and ideas he could rattle off to me.
I sighed and stared at the clock in my car. Clocks were another favorite thing he thought about. Or rather time was. Time was some sort of powerful force which nothing stood against. Except thoughts. The thoughts of people from the past continued to live and exist throughout time preserved in there writings. Thoughts were timeless. The ideas of a man a thousand years ago across the world,was relevant to this day in the books it was recorded in. As long as it was important. Certain thoughts were more appreciated and better accepted and thus survived.
I thought about that now as I took a quick glance at my receipt from the local bookstore. Dad loved thoughts and thoughts were books. I still had his love and reading was one of my favorite pastimes.
I reached for the radio and turned up the music letting the music, to an extent blow my thoughts away. An idea of dad's was that it was harmful to think to much however,because you would become blind to everything else around them. Ha. I guess it's not a good ide-

!

///

I woke blearily my eyes blinking away some red liquid. Is that...oh god,blood! I looked up around me barely able to see over the dashboard as my back hurt so bad. I just had an accident. There was some brown...some brown thing that darted past the street someones damn dog or something. I had veered off the road to not hit it and then. I looked up. I hit a pole of the phone lines that lined the street.

I had to get out. Now. But as I began to unbuckle my belt I heard a crack. My eyes glanced up for a second to see the wooden pole some smashing down on my car. On me. I had one last thought: That

ing dog.

Entrant 6 - Maurits

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Entrant 7 - Paraipan

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The car was packed by rough looking men. It was early, so early that one could argue if it’s in fact early morning or late night. But I was used to these hours. For the last twenty years the horn of the same old van was heard at exactly 4:30 AM and from the gloomy working-class housing projects, miners would come out ready for another day of work. Our town was almost 30 kilometers from the mines; the roads were old and poor, riddled with craters and the van, more suited for a scrap yard, couldn’t exceed of 40 km/h, only if we were lucky, because sometimes the engine would die on us and we had to get out and push the car to restart it. Someone coughed ugly, and it instantly made me think of silicosis, a disease at which we were all exposed to.

We finally reached the mine. We signed in the attendance register and went to change in the locker room.

“What a match last night.” Some lad tried to break the dull atmosphere.

“Incredible match yes, I couldn’t believe we’re in the final.” Another miner joined in the conversation.

The whole locker room continued talking about the match last night. Our team, financed by our miners’ trade union, had just qualified for the final of the national cup. Although no one ever asked us if we want to give money for a football team, we all contributed from our already small salaries. Most of the guys were very happy and proud, but I didn’t share their enthusiasm. I would have preferred safe working conditions, instead of a football team, but it seemed like I was the only one.

Due to the discussions about the match, it took us longer than usual to get in our working equipment. We eventually finished changing and left the thoughts and troubles from our usual life at the surface back in the locker room with all our other stuff. When you enter the mine, you have to do it with a clear head, or you might not get out again. We were lowered down in the mine shaft by an old and rickety elevator.

We reached the gallery and started working. Our pickaxes hitting the stone wall of the mine sounded like one thousand clocks, ticking on my brain. I was used to the sound, but today it seemed more annoying than ever.

“Watch out! It collapses!” One of the miners shouted and I saw how the gallery’s wall was crumbling down on some unfortunate lads, before I too was caught under the weight and fell unconscious.

Did I just hear barking? I asked myself as I started to regain my senses. Suddenly something wet touched my face and I heard something sniffing. I still couldn’t move but I opened my eyes. Next to me a rescue dog, with a camera attached to him, was looking at me. I felt relieved thinking that someone up there knew I’m alive.

Entrant 8 - Scottish King

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Dear Ellen,

I’m dying. I know that to read something like this at the beginning of a letter from a loved one is very undiplomatic but I don’t know how else to say to it. I never had your gift of elegant writing, but you never put me down for it so I feel comfortable being so blunt and inelegant in relating this terrible news to you.

Of what I am dying, you’re probably asking yourself. Well, its silicosis, a respiratory disease that ravages the lungs after breathing in silica dust. It was the silver mine which exposed me to the tiny particles of death, the very mine that you said would be the death of me. I should have listened to you but my greed had such an incredible hold me that failed to even listen to you, my dear wife, who looked only to welfare and happiness. And now I am to suffer the consequences of my folly.

But don’t fret my dear; I’m not alone, even if it is your confounded dog I have here for company. I never knew what you saw in him. He still chews up my shoes, digs up the yard, and takes a swim in the lake only to shake himself dry in our house. Only last week, instead of doing this dreadful task in the kitchen, he walks right into my study where I was reading, and with that mischievous grin he makes when he knows he is doing something I would rather him not do, he proceeds to shake water over my antique clocks. I must confess I lost my temper and had it not been that you loved that dog so much, I would have immediately gave him away to someone who would better appreciate his “lovable” traits. So as I sit here writing this letter on the porch, your dog delightfully barks at the seldom passing car with the start of a mischievous grin on his face and shiny, dry coat of hair.

Oh, I find myself laughing now. Just to think that I am writing a letter to you, Ellen, who has passed on almost three years ago! I ordinarily wouldn’t think of doing something this fanciful, but a dying man must be allowed some indulgences I guess. I know you wouldn’t mind. You probably would have encouraged me in this endeavor finally exalting in the fact that despite what I have been saying all these years, I do in fact have an imagination. Ah, how I’ve missed you and your encouragements these last few years, but I am comforted that even in death, we shall not always be separated. So until we meet again before God in the land beyond the sky, I’ll keep the faith, live life to its fullest and feed your “endearing” dog.

Your Loving Husband,
Earl

Entrant 9 - Lyra

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**Dance** · August 09, 2013, 04:56 PM

TotW 150 - Run!
pamplona, blood, narrow, fear, glory

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Winner - Ybbon

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I can taste the fear in the air, a mix of sweat and stale body odour permeates the narrow streets, a miasma of terror underlying the bravado the runners show, trying to prove their machismo to their friends. Look at my Cojones my friends! I ran for Glory, I ran in Pamplona.

Their terror begins to waft across us, a ton each of muscle and sinew, powerful shoulders to hold our massive heads and horns and drive our hooves into the cobbles, thundering after their puny bodies, to trample them beneath us, toss them aside and gore them with sharp horns, grind their shrieks and shouts into the cobbles with their soft bodies.

I want to feel them break beneath me, hear their bones snap and see the red blood gush from the gashes my horns make. I can feel my brothers behind me, our force in unstoppable now, thundering along the cobbles, a swerve left and then right, catching a red bandanna and a swift toss of my horns throws another into the screaming crowds.

Baying for blood, their shouts and yells empower us, pulsating down the alleys, reverberating and echoing off the walls, a cacophony of noise, Ole!, Torro! Careering through the noise, almost a physical barrier, yet still they run ahead of us, urging us to follow them with fear writ large on the faces of those just ahead, gleeful shouts from those at the front as they jumped out of our way, cowardly fools cheering as they escape.

And now the streets begin to get narrower still, with sound pounding around us, the smell of fear, blood, sweat, the ecstasy of escape and the overwhelming smell from our heaving sides, the smell of power and strength.

Then, gloriously the streets end and I see a vast circle of sand ahead, escape from these monkeys and their shouting and yelling, my breath shuddering, gasping, gulping in the hot stinking air, but there it is, blue skies and yellow sands, fresh air and the end of these howling humans, we charge into the open space, skidding to a halt as we see rank on rank of them banked high away behind barriers, safe from our anger and death-dealing horns. We have won, only a few brightly coloured ones remain, wafting their flimsy little cloaks in front to try and save them from our horns and hooves.

Entrant 2 - Maurits

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Entrant 3 - Confederate Jeb

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Pamplona, Spain. The running of the bulls. The encierro. History and culture were on display throughout the city. He had seen it all before, experienced it all, but the sensation it gave him was almost otherworldly. In a few minutes young men would run down this very street seeking glory a few feet ahead of the horns of rampaging bulls. Spectators already crowded the sidelines and narrow side streets to cheer and pray for their favorite sons and brothers. But his place was not among them; his destination was a cafe a few blocks away, and the only path left available to him was the street that ran to the bullring. So he kept on walking, thinking of the young men that would their fame today.
Many people thought that the men were crazy to participate in such an act. They compared it to seeing a horror movie and the enjoyment of fear, death, and blood. But that wasn't it. When you ran, adrenaline drove your legs to move, not fear. It was the tradition of the event that truly made people enter the encierro. You could feel the seven hundred years of history on your shoulders as you weaved your way to the bullring. There was very little in the world that could compare to such an experience. He would know, after all.

The first rocket went off, then the second, and he noticed the loud din that began to make its way towards him as he continued his walk. There was no stopping for him though, he had to keep his appointment. A woman on the sidelines began yelling at him to quit walking the wrong way and start running, but she was ignored. He expertly weaved his body among the flood of runners who began to pass him. Now all that was left were the bulls. But he didn't need to weave for them; he just kept walking down the center of the cobblestone road, staring into the eyes of each bull that passed him. A friend of his had taught him this trick many years ago, back when he was a younger man. The technique still worked though, and the bulls gave him just enough room to walk. What most certainly felt like a lifetime to the bystanders took mere seconds for him.

With the bulls now out of the way and the crowd following them to the bullring, he could at least see the cafe. He sat down at the table occupied by his good friend Rodrigo Montez, who sat with an expression of both awe and knowing. "You truly are the Most Interesting Man in the World," Rodrigo said as the waiter brought them each a bottle of Dos Equis.

Entrant 4 - Lord Valerius

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1939

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry." Ernest Hemingway loved bullfighting, Izan knew, it was the reason why the American had visited Pamplona several times. It bothered him now that he had once memorized these words from A Farewell to Arms by the author. He had thought them wise, and besides had liked the title of the novel. He knew now that it was a lie of cosmic scale. There would never be a farewell to arms.

His paces became faster. He felt the eyes of the men behind him, their angry gazes piercing his skin like the spears of the arena securities pierced the skin of the bulls if they were to kill the matador. Would there be glory for them if they killed him? Probably. Izan wondered what kind of person he was, the very good, or the very brave. He had never been very gentle.

"Basque swine!", shouted one of the men. The war was over, the rage was not. Franco had banned the Basque language, and his backers were allowed to enjoy their retaliation. The winner takes it all. Leave this place, his mother had said. There are eyes and ears in the narrow streets of the city everywhere, you wont remain hidden with the Underground forever. He thought it was his duty to remain there though to avenge his blood. His father had been killed in a bombing, but Franco's troops had not been so gentle and quick with his sisters.

He began to run. He heard the men do the same. He tried to shake them off in the streets, jumped over small walls and randomly ran into different little streets. The men were fast as well, and many. He knew they were behind him, but he also saw some running through streets parallel to him.

He ran around another corner and was soon stopped by a large fence. There was no time to climb this one, so he turned. Six men, with nothing but hatred in their eyes. Does the matador hate the bull? No. This was sport.

One of them stabbed him in the stomach. He went to the ground bleeding, the pain almost too much to bear. They began kicking him, kicking the wound and his head. After they were exhausted, one of the men stabbed him again. They spat and left him there to die.

When the life left him, he realized that he was in utter fear. And when the pain slowly faded away along with his spirit, he had to smile. Since the world had killed him in a hurry and he was neither very brave nor very gentle, he must have been very good at least.

Entrant 5 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Jon, as well as his four companions, was terrified. Fear drove them to break into the Pamplona House, run to the basement and huddle together. However, that meant that they had nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. A fact they only realized when they heard the enemy come into the house. It didn’t take long for the soldiers to find them, cowering in the corner of the basement in fear. Seven armored men had come down the stairs, six of whom carried matchlock muskets. The man not carrying a musket pointed at where the unarmed people were. His six comrades moved in and lined up facing the civilians. The armored man not carrying a musket moved forward to stand next to the other armored men. With a nod from him, the musketeers presented their muskets and aimed at the five civilians.

The huddled people knew there was no way out of this mess. Just by looking at the armored men’s eyes, they could tell that many of these men were enjoying this far too much to hand out mercy. One of the musketeers had a big grin on his face; another was licking his lips in anticipation. Despite all this, the condemned stayed silent. Five people, Jon and another adult man, a female teenager, an old woman and a middle aged woman, stayed silent knowing that nothing they did would halt their coming doom. All of them, except Jon, thought why us? Jon wasn’t thinking that, instead he questioned what that dead soldier had said to him Why vengeance?

Jon had been at the docks when the invaders landed, terrorizing both civilians and the elite Regian soldiers with their “boomsticks”. He was there when the invaders made it clear that there would be no mercy. So he did what the fleeing soldiers did, he ran. Occasionally he stopped, thinking that the danger was over, but then he would see more fleeing civilians and soldiers.

At one point he turned into a narrow alley, hoping to find refuge there. There was no refuge there; instead he came face to face with an enemy soldier wielding a sword. The soldier did not act quickly enough, but Jon did. Jon punched the soldier in his unprotected face and followed his punch with a kick to the balls. The soldier slumped to the ground, crying out in pain. Jon picked up the soldier’s sword and put the blade at the soldier’s neck asking “Why?”

The soldier replied “Vengeance,” and spat at Jon. Without thinking, Jon plunged the blade into the soldier’s neck, with blood spitting out of the wound. He then ran, leaving the corpse and sword. It hadn’t been long before he met up with those four companions nor did it take long before they became desperate enough to break into the Pamplona House to find safety.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the leader waved his hand and shouted “Glory to the Janakan people!”. Six shots fired. Five people dead.

Entrant 6 - m_1512

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Entrant 7 - Celsius

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Entrant 8 - Paraipan

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“Alcohol, alcohol, alcohool; alcohol, alcohol, alcohoool; alcohol, alcohol, alcohool; we want ALCOHOL!” Our trademark chant about our favorite potion echoed through the streets, even though we were already soaked in it, after emptying a significant number of strong dark beer pints. We were the Alcoholica, probably the best hooligan firm in the world, as we liked to brag about ourselves. We were dreaded by everyone. We sowed fear and reaped glory. The PSG “Boys” from Paris; Warsaw and the famous Polish hooligans, the Italian Ultras, the Serbs and Croats, even the anarchist Greeks or the knife wielding Turkish hooligans have seen the knuckles of our fists from close distance at least on one occasion. We were never defeated and our banner stood witness for our claims. A 1x2 meter crimson flag with a foam-covered beer pint surrounded by a laurel wreath drawn in the center, the same flag the old lads, now retired from the crew, made back in 1988. On the other side, our “trophy room”, as we called an old garage we had rented to keep our spoils of war in, was filled with the banners, flags and scarves of our defeated foes, among other trophies such as a riot police helmet, a shield and a couple of T-batons.

Pamplona, was our scene for this night, but we weren’t there for the bull run. Our team had just played Osasuna in the European Cup. 3-2 for the Spaniards, a narrow loss for us which gave us hopes for the second leg at home. We were searching for some local blokes who threw objects at us during the game, but there was no sign of them. “Brave behind a Plexiglas wall” I thought. We were looking for trouble, but eventually trouble found us. From distance, faint police sirens could be heard and soon at the end of the street a line of riot policemen appeared, slowly advancing towards us beating in their shields with their T-batons. We started throwing pieces of pavement at them, but their shields and helmets provided enough protection. I heard the rustling of a lit flare behind me before seeing it fly above my head into the police line. At this point a strong boom was heard and a stun grenade exploded near us. After recovering our senses we saw the policemen weren’t advancing one step at a time anymore, but they were running towards us. We turned and ran in the opposite direction. It was our own interpretation of the famous bull race, where the cops played the role of the bulls. A tear gas canister exploded near me and then I felt my face burning. My eyes flooded with tears and I couldn’t breathe well when I felt a strong blow in my face, blood bursting out of my shattered nose. I fell to the ground and the cops started hitting me with their heavy boots. What a beating that was. Man, those Spaniards, pathetic hooligans, but a damned tough riot police.

TotW 151 - We Are The Champions
gold, beach-volleyballs, olympics, spectacular, cavendish

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Winner - Confederate Jeb

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Figures this week is about the Olympics. I bet he thinks it's funny. Well it ain't. I didn't even bother to watch the opening ceremonies. All I heard was that it was bizarre...except for Mr. Bean who was, as always, spectacular. I also heard Lochte won the gold with Phelps coming in fourth. That's what you get for going down to Columbia to smoke weed. Stupid Gamecocks. But that's all I know, because I don't ever watch. Yeah, I said it. I don't even watch to see the girls compete in beach-volleyball. It just isn't my cup of tea. Sure, I can get into the Winter Olympics, and I'm definitely behind the X Games. But I just can't bring myself to sit in front of the TV and watch the games.

I still want America to win of course. This isn't the World Cup where I actively root for America to lose. The farther our team makes it the more ESPN won't shut up about it, and then I can't get my year long updates on the Steelers. I mean really ESPN. Get your priorities straight. Sheesh. At least for the Olympics they highlight the important stuff and move on, instead of getting in-depth analysis of a bunch of guys mostly standing around and an announcer who can only say the word "goal."

Oh well, might as well check the list for this week. Cavendish. What the heck is a Cavendish? Great, now I have to waste time checking Wikipedia. Let's see...a process of curing and cutting tobacco, a type of banana, and the name of a crater on the moon. Wow. Guess I'll try Google then...which has an Olympic cartoon for its logo of the day. Is there anywhere I can go to escape this thing? Alright, calm down CJ. Just get off your computer and forget about your entry for this week. Just turn on the TV, maybe catch the local news. Surely they aren't...never mind. They're talking about the games too. And here I thought the regular news dribble couldn't get any worse. Fine, no TV. It's all good. I'll just sit here in the dark and think to myself.

And as if on cue, there's my phone vibrating. Wonder who it could be this late? RJ, my bro, of course. Playing League of Legends I bet. He always stays up too late pla...no. No no no no no. He's asking if I saw the men's gymnastics final. Of all people...screw this! I'm taking a week long trip to the mountains to go fishing. Try to catch me there Olympics!

Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Entrant 3 - Lyra

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Bang. A gun raised, shot fired, marked the start, the beginning of this event. A parade of runners set on a rapid dash around the field. They had heard their cue; legs moving with the determination of a locomotive, rhythmically ponding the ground below them, striving for the goal. As this colorful spectacle made its way a thousand others cheered in unison around them. Countless had gathered to this place under many a name but akin reason. Each one donned, in some way, the colors of their nation crating a mottled ring around the competitive grounds; a representation of the world.

Here came athletes to compete for their nation; a battle for the best but with more rules and no deaths. Here came hopes and dreams for world fame, some young souls who had been readying for the greater part of their lives for this event with the hopes of bringing glory to their homes; winning gold; to be bathed by the cheers of the world and thus sealing their names in history. Mortals came here, but their immortal names they would leave; gods of the Olympics.

For this the runners strived, each one wished for the win but only one would get it; only one would be the best. They were nearing the last straight now, the crowds cheered louder and louder. A presence possessed by the spirit of the game. The athletes, in turn, put their one hundred and ten percent. It was all or nothing; the moment of moments.

The outcome was decided in an instant, the first one across the line; the one that happened to be ahead of the rest, for there always had to be a winner. Immediately he was flocked by his co-nationals, all sharing from his euphoria; sharing in the realization that he had won. “What a spectacular performance!” commented the commentator with a very veritable enthusiasm.

In contrast, his fellow competitors straggled morbidly behind in loss; they had the faces of having seen the prize so close, in their very grasp, but lost it to some petty blunder. They made up excuses in their heads of not having tried hard enough. Maybe they didn’t see the snarling truth: were they simply beat by the better?

All these events glowed out of Michel’s TV, illuminating his bored and indifferent face –he switched through the event channels: Interview with Cavendish; Interview with some American Gold medalists; some more interviews; interviews; Fencing? The swishing blades coughed his interest for a brief few and precious moments before the swishing grew too much for him and the channel was again changed.

A sudden and flashy schedule of event flashed on the TV, the next event was written in very clear letters: Women’s Beach-volleyball Qualifiers. Michel’s face gleamed.
“Now this is more like it!” he mumbled to himself, “maybe the Olympics aren’t so boring after all.

Entrant 4 - Ybbon

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TotW 152 - The Ancients
lazy, obese, festivities, abuse, generation

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Winner - Lyra

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Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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When I was in the Legion

“The problem with the youngsters today”, he began, “is that they don't appreciate all that they have, they are lazy, feckless and lacking entirely in both charm and wit. The idea that intellectual discourse doesn't need to end with abuse of each other seems to have completely bypassed their stupid little minds”.

Octavian sighed inwardly to himself, old Julius was off on one of his rants yet again - I conquered Gaul and Britannia when I was young, the youth of today are mindless wastrels with barely the wit to move off their divans, the World as we know it owes a debt to me and my brothers, ad nauseum.

“Uncle Julius, I know this is your favourite topic, but really it is not entirely fair now it is?” Stopped in mid speech, the obese, old grey haired man glared balefully at his nephew and took another mouthful of sweetmeats and washed it down with a healthy gulp of wine. “Now listen here, you impudent pup, I will be given all due respect and not interrupted by boys who know nothing outside their own four walls, who haven't struck down Gallic champions and..” Octavian had enough this time, and the time was right to bring the old curmudgeon to his senses.

“Uncle! This is my house and I will not be lectured to like some servant by you or anyone else. You may well be called Julius, but you didn't conquer Gaul on your own, you were a Legionary in the 10th Legion for the last year of Caesars campaigns, hardly there from the beginning to conquer Gaul yourself! The way you tell it, people would think you had campaigned for twenty years”, the look on Julius face was priceless, turning a shade of red a mosaic maker would be proud to use, “you well know that I and now my sons have both joined the Legions too, Sixtus lost an arm and I bear scars from more than a couple of skirmishes, now, we are not going to have a falling out, let us have an end to it and get ready to enjoy the nights festivities”.

Turning on his heel, Octavian headed to the door and shouted for servants to bring more food and wine – the old man smiled to himself, it was so easy, start on a “when I was in the Legion” story, and he would end up with more wine and drink than even he could manage. Lazily he settled himself back and smiled contentedly, the problem with newer generation was that they were so very gullible.

Entrant 3 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Age of Kingdoms

The obese man laughed on his velvet covered long chair, when he heard his servant finally finished reading the transcript regarding recent business transactions. It had been many generations since the pirates in the Strip Ocean were eradicated by Valloix’s navy. Since then, business in Valloix was booming. The obese man, Jean de Val, profited heavily from it. Jean was the owner of the Val’s Shipping Company, one of the largest and wealthiest shipping companies in all Gaiisha. It helped a lot that it was based in Valloix, a city where all trade from the Southern Strip to the Northern Strip filtered into.
As usual, the company was making a profit, but while his laugh was filled with his content that business was profiting as usual, the laugh was also filled with annoyance. Not all of the non shipping businesses in Valloix relied on shipping companies as a middle man to distribute goods to the Southern Strip and the Northern Strip. This was a fact that Valloix shipping companies, like Jean’s Val’s Shipping Company, did not like. The shipping companies had tried pressuring the Duke of Valloix into issuing a law that forced all Valloix businesses into relying on shipping companies to distribute their goods to foreign markets, but the Duke was too cowardly and lazy to do such a thing.
So the shipping companies changed tactics. Instead they would be abusive towards those businesses that did not have deals with any shipping company, hiring Nizamanni and Valloix mercenaries to intimidate those businesses. The transcript regarding the recent business transactions shows that thus far, intimidation has failed.
“Servant, bring Norvegard in here.” Jean said as he sipped a cup of red wine. The servant bowed and left the room. The wine, like most foods in Valloix, was imported. Being an island city, Valloix had to rely on the outside world for most of its food supply. The only thing fresh here was what could be taken from the surrounding waters.
“What am I going to do about these insolent companies?” Jean said slamming the cup on a table, the slam caused some wine to spill out of the cup. “All they have to do is make a deal with my company and then festivities will be had.” Jean said this not to himself but to some invisible listener.
Suddenly, a new man walked into the room, “You called Lord Val?” the man said.
“Yes. Norvegard, would you be so kind as to fetch me the papers for the commission of three warships.”
Norvegard was taken aback by Jean’s request. “Warships? What for?”
“That information is above your position. Now, will you go fetch those forms?” Jean demanded.

“Yes sir. At once” Norvegard said as he quickly left the room. As Norvegard left, a smirk appeared on Jean’s face. Fine, if they don’t want the protection of the shipping companies that’s their prerogative, but by the gods they will wish they had it. Jean thought.

Entrant 4 - Confederate Jeb

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Ian didn't know what to think. He'd been working at the steamworks for well over a month now, but he still wasn't quite sure what exactly his work was accomplishing. Sure, that man he had run into at the diner a week back had said that all those pipes and gears ran a sauna on the top floor, to keep all the lazy, obese bureaucrats looking extravagantly marvelous. And the woman at the front desk had told him that the gears and steam ran the clock towers all across town. But that was all hearsay. The manager had never told him, nor the other four or so people that he had ever seen in the hallways on his way down into the works. All they had ever told him was that they wanted efficiency and for things to work like clockwork, that the previous engineer they had employed didn't provide that and for his abuse of their time he was fired, and that he, Ian, did.

Today he would test his luck though. Ian checked in with the receptionist, as he always did, at eight o'clock, then proceeded to stand in front of his manager's office for six minutes, as always. At 8:06 the manager came out and led Ian towards the steamworks, giving the exact same speech he always gave, word for word. Make sure everything ran like clockwork. Make sure you watch your hands, we wouldn't want the works to stall because I had injured my hands. At 8:11 on the dot the two men stood in front of the door that opened up into the works, but this time Ian would change the routine.

"Sir, what exactly do the steamworks run? I've heard rumors of all sorts, but I'm not one to really draw conclusions from gossip."

The manager gave Ian a quizzical look, then open up his mouth into a big toothy smile. "You know, you've lasted longer here than anyone else. Let's shake up the schedule a bit. Follow me."

The manager began leading Ian back down the hall, but took a left at the first intersection rather than the usual right. This hallway led to a spiral staircase, which they proceeded to climb.

"For a generation these steamworks have given this city hope. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about, unconsciously. You've felt the monotony of the life outside, the dull, dismal decay. Pardon my alliteration, it rolled off the tongue, but you know what I'm talking about. Festivities, celebrations, the nuances of the day to day life, everything no longer has a purpose. But we, you included, are changing that, bit by bit. This, my dear lad, is what we're about."

The duo had arrived at the top of the stairs, where a door gilded in gold met them. As the manager finished his speech and slowly opened the door, Ian's mind raced. What were they about? His imagined answers were nothing compared to the truth that met his gaze.

Entrant 5 - Yeepeep

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After the first few days of jolly mayhem and wide-spread festivities, the atmosphere in the control center toned down back to the casual, optimistic environment typical of any smoothly running project. Soon, the long-expected scientific data started probing its way through the deep space network, the first few bits coming down rather shy (some might even say almost lazy) in the beginning, soon turning into a deluge of ones and zeros as the power generation ramped up and the output signal built up strength.

It would take months, years even to churn through and process everything. Along with hundreds of her fellow scientists she will spend thousands of hours analyzing every last bit of it, looking, searching, asking and answering any and all questions. But not tonight, no, tonight she just wanted to sit back, relax and just stare at the numbers running down her screen, cherishing the triumph of human ingenuity.

"Do not abuse it too much, OK?", her colleagues chimed joyfully before calling it a day and leaving her in total control of the curious little rover, "The poor thing had enough for this week, no?".

The echo of their good-humored laughter lingered for some time around the silent corridors, then died away. The scheduled downlink of the chemical analysis started, not surprisingly, on time. Just watching the "percentage complete" bar steadily approaching the 100% mark, she realized, made her feel warm and fuzzy inside, even, strangely enough, somewhat aroused. The tidy columns of data marching in front of her had an almost hypnotic vibe and soon she dozed off in the chair as youtube videos of absurdly cute and fluffy kittens chased each other on one of the screens in front of her.

The insistent beeping started her. Annoyed and still half-asleep, she angrily rubbed her eyes and looked at the monitor. The machine had, for some unknown reason, decided to move unauthorized and was now, what in the name of everything holy, where was the damn thing?! The images coming from the main mast were unnaturally dark and tilted at a very odd angle, showing what suspiciously looked like the…bottom of a sinkhole?!

"The damn thing has broken through the ground!", she thought in panic as her mind immediately rushed to the picture of the broken floor of Martian crater she saw the day before, "I told them it's too heavy!", then, suddenly, she froze, "This was six hours ago! Whatever happened there, happened six hours ago!!"

She frantically reached for the phone when her eyes caught a glimpse of something odd at the bottom left corner of one of the images. As she zoomed in, her heart stopped. A…rather obese man in a white tunica was standing near the center of the cave, one had raised in a salute, the other holding a stone tablet with "Grata domum, filii" neatly written on it.

The phone fell from her numb hand.

Entrant 6 - M. Laveur

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Zarathustra spoke that truth and order and the keys of enlightenment, to keep chaos at bay and prevent our own destruction.

I, Khwaja Umar, fire keeper, was taken prisoner at Singara, where Roman and Sassanid shields clashed for centuries for the lands of Armenia. Our soil was stained with more blood than all the waters of the Eufrates could wash; more sins than all the fires in the stars would be able to cleanse, and I pray Ahura Mazda never allow such atrocities to fall again upon my kin. When the late Theodosius I took my city, I was spared, taken captive from the Fire Temple, thought humbleness as I served as a slave, and rewarded later for to my knowledge of the secrets of healing, which I have used to serve my master’s house for over 20 summers in the city of Rome.

I am but a servant of the one True God, unworthy to question his teachings, but I have wondered upon them as I have been a witness to this city’s sins. My master, a lazy man, obese and witless, has indulged for the duration of my servitude in the abuse of food and drink, his thirst for wine only matched by that for the blood of his foes. All wenches and whores in this city have not been enough to satisfy his lust, and have no doubt, he's not the sole man to engage in such acts. If it is true that in every generation God shall always find at least four righteous men to beg him for forgiveness of their kind, I wager my own soul none of the ones in my time lived in this, the City of the Seven Hills.

For decades I've wondered if Ahura Mazda's justice would one day fall upon these wicked men. Just as I was closer to wane and join the worshippers of the stone idols (may Ahura Mazda forgive me), barbarous tribes, the Goths, have fallen upon Rome, and from the roof of this house I see the flames rising, ever closer. A reader may conclude that my desire for cleansing is but hatred for the ill acts committed against my kin; rest assured my only desire is for chaos to stop, and to have order restored. Zarathustra spoke that fire is the purifier of all things, for all that is sacrificed to the fire is a source of happiness, festivities and order. If that is so, then I now pray, before the fire that consumes this city. May it burn to dust, its institutions and libraries; the whores and their politicians and all beasts and all drink and all food…and me! And let a rain come and wash off the ashes that remain, and bring a new era, and from it let a new generation rise and lead, for Zarathustra spake thus:

“you must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame;
how could you rise anew if you have not first become ashes?”

Entrant 7 - Paraipan

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TotW 153 - Bridge Over Troubled Water
unknown, jungle, maria, hiss, sensual

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Winner - Confederate Jeb

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Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Age of the Fall

“I will have order in this court!” the judge shouted, smacking the top of his desk with his right hand. This is no court; it is a mob trying to find a scapegoat, and I am their temporary scapegoat. Maria thought. She was to be on trial and was absolutely scared. She knew what was going to happen, it wasn’t an unknown prediction, and she could see it just by looking at everyone in the room. Everyone in this stone keep, disguised as a courtroom, was devoid of any compassion, except maybe for the guards, but they always had grim looks on their faces except when they came to her house, then they had smiles.

“My fellow citizens of Goliath, why have you arrested this woman?” the judge inquired.

“Treacherous acts against our God Immortal Emperor!” the mob seemed to shout in unison. The belief that the Immortal Emperor of the Janak Empire is a god was not uncommon, but it had not been encouraged by the Immortal Emperor. In fact, he and the Janak Empire have been dead and gone for over three years.
Maria wanted to proclaim that she was innocent, but it was this mob that had that authority. It was they who had arrested her in the first place, that she had to depend on. While unlikely, she hoped that this mob would discover compassion and declare her innocent.

Maria looked at the judge and saw a smirk on the man’s face. “And what treacherous acts has this young woman committed?” the judge asked. Maria could tell that the judge was enjoying this, he was just goading the crowd, and all she could do was glare at the judge.

In response to the judge’s question there were shouts of whore, heresy, succubus and many other derogatory names, one response was unique. “She infects pure women, changing them into succubus like herself! Then her demons transform our husbands into incubi!” an old woman hissed.

“That is a lie! I am only trying to bring the sensual pleasures to those that need it in a time where all hope and compassion has disappeared.” Maria explained. “How dare you all accuse me of doing evil when you all have…” Maria’s sentence was cut off by the sound of the judge’s fist banging his desk.

“That is enough out of you, demon!” the judge hissed. “Now let us make a decision on the matter.” He said calmly. “Citizens of Goliath, is this succubus guilty?” he shouted, delivering the statement harshly and with rising inflection. “Or innocent?” he said calmly, the mob replied with shouts of guilty and kill the demon. Even thought she already knew the verdict, Maria felt her heart drop, and felt tears welling in her eyes.

The judge nodded at a hunchbacked old man next to him, who held a cane with a bell attached. The old man stamped his cane on the ground. The jingle of the bell caused Maria to faint.

Entrant 3 - M. Laveur

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Rosario

"Dios te salve, Reina y Madre de misericordia," spoke the priest as Jim walked by. He enjoyed his Spanish accent, one he could not find in the Cuban who had thought him the language; he never said the c's and z's with that enchanting hiss.

"...a ti suspiramos, gimiendo en este valle de lágrimas," continued the priest, and the older women there repeated, the jingle of the rosaries echoing, sorrounding him. He stepped in the church to hear him say the prayer, one last time before he left for good. The memory of María struck him again, making his eyes watery. He could still see her dark hair, the sensual way she moved, the way spoke and smiled and kissed. Last night they had said their last goodbye, kissed one last time and let go. Then, she faded in the dark waters. Surely by now they would have found her floating, all cold and moist from a night of sleep in the river. he imagined.

"vuelve a nosotros esos, tus ojos misericordiosos," the priest continued. Turn your eyes of mercy toward us, he translated, and repeated. Her eyes were what caught his the day they met, on that cursed bridge, as she glided like that woman in García Marquez's books, whose steps made flowers sprout from the floor. He never took his eyes from her beauty, begging her to turn to him. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she looked up, to the unknown man's eyes. She gave him a warm smile, and, encouraged, he made the next move. Days later, they had shared his bed. Then, as sudden as their romance, she grew distant, cold.

Cold. The police must have found her by now. The marks on her neck, the struggle, he thought. They would ask around her friends, her family. They would tell them about the foreign boy, the one she went out with last night. It wouldn't take long before they broke into his apartment, and found the gloves he used, and the shirt with her kisses. Then they would come for him.

"¡Oh clementísima, oh piadosa, oh dulce siempre Virgen María!" the priest finished. "Amén," replied the congregation.
O clement, O loving, O sweet María, he repeated in his head as he made the sign of the cross and left to the door. Outside, the police were already assembled.
"Deténgase!" one yelled, gun in hand. Jim froze, and the officer walked closer and closer. Then next to him and past him, towards another man behind, as startled as him. Jim turned and took a step back, away from Roberto, the Argentinian María had changed him for, who struggled to take the police off him. He would say he hadn't seen her last night, that she had left him waiting, but the evidence was there. Jim had made sure of that. The gloves in his house, the stained shirt. O sweet María..., Jim smiled, and, hearing the church bells, he ran for a cab to catch his flight back home.

TotW 154 - It Has Only Just Begun
four, run, start, headlights, commentary

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Winner - Confederate Jeb

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Entrant 2 - Lyra

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“This is it, Tony, the final leg… I mean, part of the competition: the 400 meter finals. This is the chance of a lifetime for our athletes here today; a group of people who battled against all odds to reach this competitive level. Isn’t it amazing that…” the commentator ran his commentary, buzzing over the crowds at the stadium who, absorbed in their food and the activity of their companions, were semi-conscious of the seemingly godly voice that emitted from the commonly phrased ‘thin’ air around them.

“Yes, Bob,” the supposed ‘Tony’ replied, “Lesotho’s show yesterday was impressive, but, I’m going to go out on a limb here and give props to Transnistria; you rarely see those illegal countries do so well in the games. Oh, wait, here they come!” The crowds cheered and got off their phones to see the multicolored line of figures step on to the track. The Transnistrians present all gave a cheer, as did the Lesothans and other nationalities at the event. They were cheering to support, out of a sort of patriotic duty, or because their second uncle’s wife’s maid’s son in law’s fiancé was participating in the games.

Raju, though, was not cheering. Not in the least. Some could say he was anti-cheering passively. Others would say he was the object and some, rare and deranged minds, would even go to say he was being the absolutive subject of attention. In short, Raju was being cheered; he was one of the runners after all.

Raju had no legs, which, was in due part much expected of a runner in his category. But being legless was no deterrent to this young man. He took it as a challenge set by god. That he was just too good and needed some handicap lest the noobs cry. That was his excuse at least, the reality, though, was that he was a true athlete, much truer than many huffing and puffing unguilttfying runners one could observe in many a park today. Puny souls just getting off a half an hour weekly run so as to not feel bad about themselves. Raju despised them.

Our Raju now looked up to the heavens, the divine light of the stadium lamps; their pure searing luminosity reminding of the headlights of that faithful night when he lost his legs. Yes, the brilliance was one of dread, of painful remembrance. Many a time Raju still wished that the headlights had never come closer, that they had swerved a way returning him to the assuring darkness. But he was only four when that happened, he did not even know what legfulness was. He was dreaming for the impossible, and though, he, by the judgment of many, had already much surpassed the impossible.

But Raju was here now, at the start of the race, waiting for the signal. The familiar bang of the gun erupted his body into motion. He flew over the track, his feet never touching the ground.

Entrant 3 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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The headlights of the sleek black sedan were bright in the night sky. It stopped at the stadium to drop the passenger off. The passenger, dressed in formal attire, headed into the stadium. When he was stopped at the ticket counter, he flashed a card and was offered no further resistance. As he continued to head on towards his destination, he glanced at the match, only three out of the four combatants were still standing. The match was a four versus four melee combat. Guy did not care for these blood sports, he rather watch sports that involve less bloodshed.

He arrived at his objective on the third floor; he knocked on the door and said “Vash al’clad”. The door was opened and Guy walked in. The room was a private box for viewing the match on the ground. Half the room looked like a lounge with a couple TVs to view the match, while the other half was stands to view the match from the box. Aside from Guy, there was only one other person in the room. The man, dressed less formal than Guy, looked at him with a smile. “Good evening, Mr. Card. You might have missed the start of the match, but I can assure you, the way these matches are run, the excitement is far from over.” The man said as he closed the door.

“Mr. Foxworthy, I did not come here to watch bloodsports and listen to your commentary. I came here for business and business alone.” Guy rebuked.

Foxworthy frowned and replied, “I understand, but looking at your empty hands it seems you do not have the materials to perform a transaction.”

“That is easily explainable. Let’s go sit at the stands to discuss this further.” Guy said. The men walked past the lounge area to the stands and sat down in the seats, next to each other. “Well?” Foxworthy asked.

“We have opened a Valloix bank account which shall be transferred over to you once this transaction is completed. In addition to the already agreed upon amount, our organization is giving you an extra two million crosses. We greatly appreciate the services you have provided.” Guy said as he put his right hand in his inside coat pocket.

“Excellent. The shipment is at the docks at Warehouse Fifteen.” The men continued to talk, keeping their eyes on the match. The crowd roared when another combatant fell to the ground, bleeding out from his wounds. “Sounds like this is to be our last transaction.” Foxworthy said.

“Correct.” Replied Guy.

“Are you not worried that I might inform the government about your organizations activities?” Foxworthy asked.

“Not at all. Maybe before, but now, I don’t think you are the type of man who would sell out his past patrons.” Guy said as he drew his right hand out of his coat pocket revealing a silenced pistol.
“Why do you sa…” A bullet to the head ended Foxworthy’s sentence and his life.

Entrant 4 - Ybbon

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Entrant 5 - Asterix

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**Dance** · August 23, 2013, 05:43 PM

TotW 155 - Spin
dream, dip, daring, drama, dimple

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Winner - M. Laveur

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Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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Entrant 3 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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Entrant 4 - Confederate Jeb

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Entrant 5 - Lyra

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“Awake from the dream.” Tambevak murmured to the class, “You have always been dreaming, but you must see beyond that. Realize yourselves.” The master Yelagan continued to teach his wisdom in a monotone but toned voice. He seemed to be speaking from outside the room, as if he were calling up from a deep well, seeing something they did not. But the old teacher was very real and stationary to the eyes of young Kadenva, who fidgeted nervously on his mat. He hated these classes of Jagayelaivo; to him they were mind-numbing sessions of listening to some old goof babble on about places out of things that were not there but were. But the old master continued, unheeding of the boy’s thoughts on the matter.

“The world we see is simply a curtain upon the void: the great expanse of existence. It is a dark swirl of everything, a spinning mass of all and nothing. We, puny mortal souls cast null into its lot, less than the dimples on the face of a sand grain to the world. It is ignorant of our daily drama, both to the malice of a road thief or the daring of a hero. Our histories are of nothing to it, for tens upon tens of thousands of our epochs would be nothing but a moment’s passing there. Though, we must know this: even if it is so beyond us we can still reach it, touch it with our fingertips; take from the drips that seep into our understanding. To do that we must enter the dream out of our dream, we must unshed our reality and leave it bare of petty worries and thoughts that plague our lives.”

“Blah, blah, blah! Why do I have to listen to this mambo-jambo?” Kadenva thought to himself, annoyed. He was tired now, after having to wake so early for class, all he wanted was to go back to bed. Yet he had to persevere. Sitting there, Kadenva had stopped listening long ago, the words of the Yelagan drained out by the boy’s mind, becoming a background noise. Its constancy was almost hypnotizing and even calming. With his eyes already shut, his blurring mind started to drift off, chasing after nothing in particular. Tidbits of the master’s words made their way in, talks about ‘the holisticity of the divine soul’ or ‘the tuning to the way of existence’ danced in the boy head. And, in a seeming sudden gradualness, the boy felt himself floating in the void of his own mind; he was a moment, a pure ‘thing’ and ‘no thing’.
His soul was at bliss and, for once, he felt free.

Kadenva woke up with a flash. He looked out his window, the fires still blazed. He quickly went to put on his armour, the fast disappearing dream of his childhood fleeting through his mind. But this was no time to dwell on the past, he could only wish to escape the harsh reality he lived now.

Entrant 6 - Ryou

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I slowly walked onto the stage. Today, I shall prove myself. Here, on the ice, I shall fulfill my dreams.
A white, mother swan walked delicately through the frozen surface of a small, black pond. The ice, subjected to the intense cold, constantly cracked, causing pops to resound over and over again across the lake. Beneath her, almost huddled inside her wings, scrambled 3 little, yellow chicks, their large black eyes timidly surveying all that is around.
Suddenly, a wolf leaped onto the pond, its lips silent and closed, its eyes staring at the swan, as if guessing what the poor mother’s next move would be. The wolf was large, its legs thick as tree trunks and twice as strong. The mother swan would not be able to run away with her chicks.
The tiny, yellow fur balls trembled under their mother’s wing, their little heads not yet comprehending exactly what would happen to them. Meanwhile, the mother swan raised her wings as if preparing to fly off into the frozen skies, out of the canines of its pursuer. The daring wolf leapt forward, eager to pounce upon her unprotected chicks. He did not comprehend the love, and the loyalty of the mother swan.
A white flash stopped the wolf dead in its tracks. A resounding crack mixed with the pops over the pond. The swan had smacked the wolf hard on the head with her powerful wings. A snarl masked the wolf’s previously silent mouth as it circled the mother and her chicks. This might turn out harder than he thought.
A dance now begun between the wolf and the swan: a true drama over the frozen lake. The wolf would lunge, the swan would swing her mighty wings, and the wolf would back off, shaking its head in frustration. Soon, both predator and prey were dripping with sweat, which sizzled away over the frozen pond. It was a beautiful, but deadly dance. One trip, and the swan, along with her chicks, would all be dead.
I bowed in front of the judge’s table. The judges may smile, but they hide cruel snarls under their dimpled cheeks. The grey top of destiny spun through black oblivion. Where would it fall to a stop?

Entrant 7 - Mega Tortas de Bodemloze

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Entrant 8 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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In an age renowned for its heroes and their heroic deeds which have long been remembered, the desperate battle that the Mariposan Long Patrol fought on Heklenn Pass was far from heroic. It had been over before it had begun.

The patrol's objective was to stop their southern neighbors from raiding the Mariposan countryside, but they got more than they bargained for when they entered the vast land of Amel, filled with canyons and ravines that made it into the largest labyrinth. It is a land that few have dreamed of conquering. As such, the venture was labeled crazier than it was daring. The Long Patrol was scared out of their mind only an hour after they had made camp, for their scouts had not returned. Soon after, the light drip drop of rain began, and within seconds the drizzle turned into a rainstorm; there would be no way for the Mariposans to tell if an enemy was coming. Their choice of a campsite was not a good one, but there was no other spot. The pass was a cliff that was about a hundred feet wide; the wall of the pass was a cliff that overlooked the Long Patrol’s camp. If an attack occurred, the Mariposans would only have two routes for retreat.

The drama of the battle began almost as soon as the drizzle turned into a rainstorm, arrows rained down on the Mariposan camp, the rain partially concealed the arrows. Countless men cried out, some were cries of agony others were cries of terror. Few of the Mariposans were going to sleep when the arrows began to fall; as such most had their armor and equipment on, but that did not save them from deadly torrent of arrows. Mariposans ran this way and that, trying to get away from the arrows.

A couple minutes after the arrows began to fall someone shouted, “Run for your lives! Battle Leader Gruff has fallen! We must re…” the man’s words were silenced by an arrow to the throat, but the message had been delivered. Before the announcement, the camp was barely a state of order, yet now the camp was in complete chaos. Terrified, men ran away from the camp, either going back the way they came or continuing on the pass, hoping that they might escape Death’s iron grasp, but they were barred off by Amelian soldiers.

Most Mariposans tried resisting, some fought solo while others formed shield walls, but the dimpled Mariposan shields could not last against the spiked Amelian warhammers. The warhammers broke through the shields like a finger pokes through thin wet paper. Many Mariposans, rather than face Amelian steel, jumped off the cliff hoping that they might survive the fall, despite the odds.

At the bottom of the ravine, a river ran red from Mariposan blood. These Mariposans were just one group among many on a list of people who have sought to punish Amel. Would the list ever end?

TotW 156 - The Void
colour, nothing, limitless, hole, death

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Winner - Maurits

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The Void

It shot through him like an imperishable flame. Wave upon wave of near unbearable pain, like flares burning under his skin. For an instant, it seemed as if his eyes were covered by a red blur. His teeth cringed until he thought that they would all be put to dust.

Finally, the throbbing and burning pain seemed to soften. Opening his eyes, he saw a splendid view. Lights uncountable, all of different colour and intensity. His eyes drank in this unimaginable splendor, the limitless void which men used to call ‘heaven’. How different had this day begun…

Aeschylus was a Greek, and proud to be one. This morning, he had looked at these same heavens, seated upon his robust steed. His armor reflected the first beams of sunlight in a golden radiance, his sword seemed to be smitten of the purest silver. He was part of the Epirote King’s horse guard, the Agema. For years he had fought, killed and lived for Pyrrhus of Epirus, the man of whom they told that at the sound of his voice, even clouds would change their flight across heavens!

He grinned, an action which was immediately punished by a sharp, stinging pain from his thighs and belly. If only the Roman consul had been a cloud, he wouldn’t have lain there, left behind to die under the dark skies.

It had not been a fair fight. Just three hundred of them against at least a thousand Romans. Soon, their infantry had been cut down and nothing but Pyrrhus’ cavalry remained. They had fought like lions, taking many an enemy with them to the ground. Entangled between the spears of the Triarii and the swift blades of the Roman Equites, they had fallen, one by one. In the end, only three of them remained, when the king ran. Trying to remain at his side, he had kicked his mare into action. Almost, he succeeded. Almost. For then, his body was turned into a bloody mess by the Roman spear that impaled him. Falling off his horse, he had crashed rudely on the yellow grass. That had been hours ago.

It seemed like no vital organs had been hit. He lay there, suffering, while life slowly trickled away, as if it was departing with the light of the setting sun.

He would welcome death. It was not unknown to him, this strange and dark companion of all soldiers. They tried to escape it, but knew that it was part of their lives. Now, as the last strings binding him with his corpse snapped softly, one by one, he was staring into this void blackness. The gaping hole that awaited him.

A smile appeared on his face. It was good. Soon, the pain and problems of life would be gone. There would be rest, an endless sleep laying before him. He could barely keep his eyes open. They slowly closed as he sank down, life departing from them. Down, into the void.

Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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Seriously, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe? What is this, some sad Hitchhikers Guide rip-off? I took another look at the sign “Milliways, Yes We Are (the Restaurant at the End of the Universe)” - it was a very long sign. I was pretty sure that I had put in the coordinates for Tattooine –that was fictional too but we hadn't ended up there, on the plus side we hadn't ended up at Hoth either.

“So, tell me again Mr Solomon, how is that we ended up at this hole in, well the middle of nothing?”, Venus rolled her eyes in that all knowing way of hers, which frankly was getting a little tiresome – we're not all undiscovered, gifted polymaths with an affinity for all things computational, I thought to myself, but I turned away so I couldn't see the petulant little frown she threw my way afterwards – that look that says “oh for Heavens sake Pyke, how can you not get Fractal Equations solved with Imaginary Numbers and their Application in Space Vortice Travel, Volume 13” – well sorry, but I can't, the best use for that exciting doorstop of a book is propping up a greasy rebuild of a Chevrolet small-block V8, and by odd coincidence, precisely where it was now. Not that I have any use for the V8 either, but it has killed that awful damn book of hers and it just offends her senses in so many ways.

“It is a limitless fictional drive, Mr Pyke. The ship works on impossible potentialities, a potentiality is something that comes into existence, and we ride on the wave created when particles that are theoretically impossible are potentially created, thus, sometimes what happens is that a fictional place such as this, really exists and we end up there”. I nodded in what I hoped was a manner that at least indicated I may grasp the basics sometime soon.

“Hmm, well the detail we can save for another day perhaps?” I smiled wanly, grateful for small mercies, “Now they do the finest, most exquisite food here, accompanied by the best vintage wines and drinks from the whole Universe. If your palate was a palette, Mr Pyke, the colours would be quite something”, and he gave a small chuckle at his play on words, “shall we adjourn to feast on haunches of meats that would be illegal if this weren't the end of the Universe? Miss Jones?”

I turned to take a look and nearly died a death by laughter as I saw her face, clearly the idea of dripping haunches of meats had offended her sensitivities, “don't worry Venus, it's the end of the Universe, everything is about to end so anything goes, why, you play your cards right, I may even give you a snog later.” I left as fast as I could, she might be small, but she packed one hell of a punch!

Entrant 3 - Lyra

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“Limitless?” Gavin questioned with incredulity as he and his coworker made their way across the cratered field, “You’re telling me that you think it’s possible? I thought you better, Bob, really.”

“No, just listen me out here: they say that if you can stick a generator into the epicenter of a black hole the maelstrom of gravity would keep it running forever. It really seems feasible; they say that some factory over at Deresh Aphel is already preparing a ship.” Bob reaffirmed his point, “You just don’t pass up an opportunity so big. Not in times like these, I mean, look at us! Walking miles away from the dome, without any radiation back up and prone to any self-thinking tentacle that decides to wriggle itself out of its nest today -and for what? To try and find the signal of some fallen object that could well be some Europan’s dog satellite? I can’t take it anymore, Gav!”

“Look, Bob, calm down for a minute, what the hell! Let me tell you why you should just leave this stupid idea of yours: for years now, it’s been undisputed FACT that there is nothing, and I repeat, nothing infinite in this wretched universe of ours. This is something as accepted as death, that’s finality for ya!”

The little random beeps of his detector went unheeded, signs too low to be anything important, they could already see the debris of the crash.

“But how do we know that?” Bob went on still not convinced, “How do we know if something will work or not; or if it will last forever? In theory things can last forever, but it just can’t be proven… Remember there was that scientist, Dr. Fedel Jiao, I think, they say he invented a fully functioning perpetual engine!”

Beep, beep, went the detector.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of him, it blew him up in the end, well, not just him, more like half a moon and him.”

“Whatever, the point is that we can’t give up hope and become such a sad faced low life like you.”

“Hey, I find that offensive,” Gavin chuckled, “next employee gift exchange I’m giving you a goo-“

He was cut off by the sharp increase of beeping from their signaler. Gav fumbled it out, its light now glowing a reddish colour, “uh ho…”

“What’s it detecting?” Bob asked, “Life forms? Magnets? What could be so strong?”

“That’s the problem it’s detecting nothing; something void… something limitless…”

The beeping continued to grow louder.

Entrant 4 - Confederate Jeb

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It was just another slow, rainy day in the small town of Dunamar. Only a few patrons were gathered in the tavern, just trying to pass time drinking. Nothing else could be done other than staying out of the rain. A small group of twenty somethings, youths eager to take advantage of the limitless potential but were too inexperienced to know where to start, were busy telling tales of brave warriors who killed orcs and hunted dragons in the north country. Other than them, the other patrons kept to themselves, huddled into their booths in various corners of the tavern. Thomas the barkeep kept himself busy cleaning glasses, his favorite pastime. He, like the rest of the town, enjoyed these slow days; they gave him time to think. Today he was thinking about Rosie, his little niece in Hangar about five miles down the road. His brother had written that she had just begun to walk, and it was the cutest site to see, her trying to twirl around in mimicry of her mother's dancing. Someday she would be a fine dancer, Thomas had no doubt, with her dances filled with color and life.

While the barkeep kept himself busy with his thoughts, a robed man slowly opened the door, letting in a blast of cold, moist air. He was a tall fellow, and from his shape thin, but other than a short brown beard sticking out from his hood nothing could be seen of his face or body. He walked, staggered even, to the bar and took a seat on one of the stools.

"A small glass of ale, whatever you have." He said in a hushed tone. It was barely enough to wake the barkeep from his daydreams.

"Ah! I didn't see you enter. Welcome to the Dunamar Tavern. One glass, coming right up." As he poured the glass he kept one eye on the stranger. It was peculiar for anyone new to show up in the town; it wasn't on any main trading routes after all. "So, what brings you to our peaceful town?"

"I can't erase my past, so I go where there is no history." The stranger's voice was still very hushed.

"I don't follow."

"Those boys over there, the ones telling stories of death and glory. They know nothing of the dangers of the world or the horrors of war. Nothing of the hole such things put into your soul. Do you follow that?"

"I suppose so stranger. I didn't mean no offense. We just try to avoid the serious stuff of the larger cities is all."

"Which is why I'm here. There's no history. I just need time to fix things is all."

"Fix what things?" The longer the conversation went on, the more confused Thomas was.

"A broken heart, a broken road, a broken nation. All these things, and yet none of them. Does it matter? I just have to fix them. And this is where I'll fix what is broken."

Entrant 5 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Entrant 6 - Maximinus Thrax

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At the top of the suspended stairway there stood a mysterious stone arch, most probably acting as a passage to an unnamed destination. A series of embedded symbols adorned the front of the arch, gleaming as the Initiate touched them with the tips of his fingers. There was no mistake about it. Something beyond extraordinary was waiting to be discovered on the other side of the arch, although, apparently, there was nothing there, just some empty space. The man glimpsed at the symbols for the last time and took a deep breath, stepping through the stone structure withouth hesitation.

No more than a fraction of a second later, the Initiate was standing on a enormous circular platform, surrounded by the limitless boundaries of the Universe itself. A grand sight consisting of hundreds of galaxies, constellations and various stellar formations opened before the dazzled eyes of the Initiate, overwhelming the course of his thoughts. An uncontrollable sense of dread began to take possesion of his body. He peered behind him, attempting to find his way back but the arch wasn’t there anymore. Soon, the Initiate realized that he wasn’t alone on that platform. A tall, robed figure with both hands resting in his sleeves was also gazing at the cosmic spectacle. The most striking feature was the serenity of his face, endowed with dark blue coloured eyes which seemed to be piercing through space without any difficulty whatsoever.

“Don't be afraid… Come… Join me...” said the peculiar man in a crystalline voice.

The Initiate opened the mouth to speak but he discovered that he couldn’t utter not even a single word. The robed man smiled gently, dissipating the Initiate’s dark fears with his radious countenance.

“I already know your questions, mortal one. You may wonder who am I and, most importantly, what am I. Among my Brethren I am known as Khanuphios, Keeper of this Dimension. To the ephemeral masses of living creatures inhabiting the countless worlds below I appear under various names and guises. I can create life out of nothing and bring death to entire galaxies in an instant. Since eons, my main undertaking is to maintain the balance between the principles of Order and Chaos in this everchanging plane of existence. As an Adept of the Ageless Wisdom you are allowed to witness me in my true form. Serve me properly and you will ultimately get all the answers you seek...”

All of a sudden, the Initiate’s mind became blurry and soon everything around him turned pitch black. He awoke in the secluded grove he knew like the palm of his hand. The sun was still up and shining through a small hole in the clouds; he must have been sleeping since at least yesterday. A small inscribed stone tablet was laying near his body. The Initiate recognized the symbols as being the same ones embellishing the arch but this time around he comprehended their meaning. The heavy veil of mortal ignorance had been torn apart…

TotW 157 - Inspiration
quill, direction, muse, disciple, constellation

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Winner - Maurits

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Inspiration

Andrew could feel the blood throbbing under his skin, as he carefully lifted the glass plate with clam hands. He held in his breath when he finally touched it. Finally, after years of studying and research, he was in touch with the grand master. Constellations had come and gone, but here he was holding a piece made by the great Leonardo in his very own hands! Carefully, he started to study the paper, like a true disciple of the great muse who had since long passed to the afterlife. Here, he hoped to catch a glimpse of this great mind’s inspiration!

Then, a flash of agony! It had fallen on the ground…

With staggering breath and trembling hands he took it up, delicately laying it back on the table. Then, his eyes beheld the backside of the old, crumbling parchment. There was a text on it! For a moment, his heart stood still. It seemed to be much older, Roman writing. This was a great discovery, one which would grand him the fame and resources he longed for! Taking up his quill, he started to copy the text into his notebook:

... I assure you, Marcus, that neither you nor any other of the citizens of your great city has ever beheld so great an evil to the liberties and rights of citizens. These Africans, barbarians paid to fight for Carthage, are even worse than the Mamertine usurpers who ravaged Messana before them. Coming as allies, they marched into the city two weeks ago. I had never seen so many black men before! They were armed in an odd fashion, wearing linen armor and round shields painted in red and vanilla. It certainly looked pretty, their swords and sharp spears shining in the light of the morning sun.

Those who had come as allies soon threw off their disguise, though, and have started a rule of oppression and tyranny! Respected traders and city elders are forced to pay large sums to protect their estates and houses, women can’t leave their homes without fearing to be dishonored or even raped. As I am writing you, my heart is filled with anger and fear alike, but it gladdens in the hope that your countrymen will come to our aid. The elders have sent an envoy to your senate, pleading them to drive these Punic dogs out of our city. We would gladly follow up any directions send to us by your noble and belligerent leaders, who have previously liberated the southern Italian states of the Epirote invaders.

When these cruel times have passed, I would be delighted to…

With a deep sight, Andrew put down his writing gear. A smile appeared on his previously worried and concentrated face. Who would have thought that even Da Vinci would use recycled paper?

Leaving the library, he stood still for a moment to inhale the fresh morning air. This day was a special day. For today, he himself had finally found inspiration!

Entrant 2 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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This is not merely a muse, rather it is a series of observations of what is wrong in the world. the writer wrote. He looked down at what he wrote on the parchment and frowned. “Damn!” he shouted. He grabbed the parchment, ripped it up and threw the scraps behind him. He grabbed another piece of parchment from a stack and sneezed, it was quite dusty in his little room. He took his quill and dipped it into the inkpot and started writing again. Centuries have passed since Auglarla fell to the Empire, but even with the many constellations of Gaiisha united doubts remain regarding whether or not we have reached Tadannak. Belis’ disciples would say otherwise, but if we have reached Tadannak then why is there still unhappiness in the world? Why just the other day I his writing was interrupted by the sound of his front door slamming. “Is that you boy?” the writer shouted eyeing the paper as if he was pondering what he should write next.

“Yes Master Ajakal. I have returned from the market with the supplies you requested.” Said a young man.

“Good.”

The young man walked into the dusty room. He looked around the small room and shook his head, “By the gods! Master, there is dust in every direction. Master, let me…” the young man stopped and noticed his master writing. “What are you writing?” he said reluctantly.

Ajakal quickly turned around and looked at the young man. “Arius, what event occurred over a century ago, that the Immortal Emperor continues to praise?”

“The final unification war?” Arius asked, wondering what his Master was getting at.

“Yes, the final war, said to bring the paradise of Tadannak. Yet it has not arrived, instead the Empire has entered into a state of decay.”

“What do you mean Master?” Arius asked.

“Think of it this way. We Janakans acknowledge that a year has four stages; creation, prosperity, decay and death. As a year has four stages, so does an empire. The Empire began…”

“But Master, the Janak Empire is in no way similar to any other empire before in history.” Arius said interrupting his master.

“I’ll excuse your rudeness this time. You would be correct if I was talking specifics, but I am not. If you examined this empire’s timeline, you would conclude that we are in the third stage.”

“How can you tell?”

“The Janak Empire has nothing left to fight for. No longer are there enemies to unite the population and as a result the military is getting smaller. Arius, there is nothing left to strive for.”

“The military does not have any reason to exist anymore.” Arius interjected.

“You forget your history Arius. Even during the Age of Continentalism, empires still had rebellions. In time, this empire will have no tools left to defeat a rebellion. Like all empires, we are heading into winter, yet our winter will be very quick.”

Entrant 3 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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Entrant 4 - Confederate Jeb

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A lone star shone through the cloud cover. It was a minor star, according to the charts, but it made up the eye of the great horse constellation, Equutis. Something about this was symbolic to Raoul, who was still working busily away late into the night, browsing manuscripts and perusing parchments. His inkwell had long run dry; his quill was in tatters. But he had to know more, or else he would muse endlessly on the subject. A disciple of Mithos, the god of strength and weakness, had preached all day in the city square about a coming danger. An unstable danger. This had, of course, piqued Raoul's curiosity enough to ignore the hecklers and speak with the man. He was a cryptic one, that priest. The only thing Raoul could get out of him was that the answer he sought lied in ancient tomes. What answer, and to what question? The man would not say, and certainly Raoul didn't know. So here he was, going over countless books that had barely survived the onslaught of time, watching the single star that managed to show itself every now and again.

Finally the last flame of his candle began to flicker and then disappeared into the darkness. He had read every ancient book in the library, no small feat, and had not seen what found anything that seemed unusual. He placed the books back on their shelves, packed up his few belongings, and headed in the direction of the downward stairs. Just as he was about to descend the stairs, something caught his eye. Was it his imagination? The dim torch light cause the shadows to do weird things from time to time, but he could've sworn that he had seen a...there it was again. It looked just like the outline of a person, moving towards the staircase leading to the western tower.

"Who is there? This section of the library is restricted to scholars and..." His sentence was cut short as he began to hold his breathe. The shadow had stopped, turned around, and begun to approach him. No, more than that. It literally was approaching him, coming out of the wall, becoming solid. The shape of a human remained, but nothing could be made out besides the shadows that wrapped around it. And the sword Raoul had not noticed until just now. The sword. THE SWORD YOU IDIOT.

It took a second to register, but Raoul quickly got the point. Rather than take the literal one, he turned around and began to run as fast as he could down the stairs. Fifteen flights later, he found himself on the ground floor, with only a few hundred yards between him and the exit of the great library. Before Raoul could take another step, however, he felt something cold grab a hold of his left arm. Turning his head, he saw the shadow directly behind him, only this time a pair of cold, blue eyes stared back at him.

Entrant 5 - Paraipan

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What is my quill, I wondered many times, in those sleepless nights spent at my desk. Is she to me like the sword of a knight, or like the hammer of a hardworking smith? Is she only a tool, a writing instrument, used to lay down on the immaculate paper constellations of thoughts from my mind’s limitless universe and bring them to life? No, I don’t think so, she is much more than that. I once thought of her as my docile disciple, feeding her all my thoughts and my knowledge to be passed down to the generations to come, but then I wondered what if I am the pupil and the quill is my old and good master, spurring me like a demanding professor and leaving in silence at the end of each lesson. But then I thought again and discovered her as my beautiful muse, my inspiration, as I was gently stroking the barb of her feather. But my order of thoughts was baffled again by the chaotic process which rules in my mind. Was I her muse, inspiring her to fill out the blank of the papers beneath us with her dark ink dripping from her hollow shaft? Was I using her or was she using me? I’ve said earlier she is more than a tool, but what if I’m the meaningless, cold instrument? These thoughts drove me crazy for some time as I was digging myself into a hole of despair, before I came to realize that we are one, my quill and me, me and my quill. We are one body, one soul and one mind, working together in the same direction, for the same purpose. We can’t be separated, we’re essential to each other, my ideas are hers and her words are mine. Take my quill and I’m, incomplete, I am nothing, take me from my quill and she’s just a lifeless feather. Someone once said a long time ago that the blade itself to violence incites, so if that’s true, then the quill inspires to thinking, to knowledge and ultimately incites to our progress. So please, my fellow men, do not part me from my quill, not even in my fast approaching death, when the lively colours of my cheeks will grow fainter and no dimple will ever appear in their middle, but put her in my hand and let me sleep like that, so hopefully I’ll be dreaming the times when me and my quill were just one. And if someone will ever be daring enough, to discover the tedious drama that was my life, tell him to read these ramblings of mine, because this is all that I ever managed to write.

Entrant 6 - Ybbon

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The Pack.

Quill is the leader of the gang and the inspiration behind their reign, an old mutt with one ear, a stump for a tail and a mean look to boot. Don't be fooled by his lazy demeanour as it's just an act he puts on and you better believe mister, that he is watching you. So when you go past his gate, walk past with trepidation, quickly and quietly but watch for the eye that follows your foot, as you get too close or make too much noise and he'll have your leg with a sudden snarl and snap of those ferocious jaws.

Constellation is second in command his constant companion, a Labrador, yellow with a stupid sloppy grin, big and hearty he is endlessly bouncy. He'll chase a cat or a rat through the day and into the night, barking madly all the while. Beware though mister, because he's a smart one, he'll tempt you in to play and give you a look to say all is clear, but you are one step closer to Quill that old rogue who is not so drowsy as he might appear. All energy, young Constellation provides distraction, and when Quill gets you, Constellation, he'll be grinning from ear to ear.

Muse, the lady of the pack, all soft brown eyes and gentle curls, a little bit of Spaniel, a little bit of Collie, but it would impolite to ask of such a sweet lady her age. She has the wiles of all pretty ladies she just flutters her eyelashes and she knows you'll give in, she'll give a little kiss and little tease and before you know it, you'll have treats in your pockets her just to please. But careful mister, beware, young Muse, she may be getting you on her side, but Quill, he's watching and creeping and he'll have you as quick as lighting one day.

Direction, the last, a small terrier all bark and quite some bite. The eyes and ears of the pack, wherever he is looking that is where the trouble is at. No rat is safe when he's around, a snap, a shake and ratty heaven has another disciple to put on his tab. Try sneaking down the alley at the back, or crossing the scrub in front of the gate, Direction will smell you out and make a noise like all the devils of Hell have been let out. So try as you might mister, ain't no way, no how, can you go down the gasworks and get past Quill and his gang.

Entrant 7 - Radzeer

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Inspiration

The night is black. You can see the stars, but how come you can't see any of the constellations from here? But what they would show me anyway? I want to pick up the quill after twenty long years, and now I don't need some stars to show me where to go. That I already know.

For twenty years I wanted to be a writer. For twenty years I did not have the heart to write, because my heart was captured by somebody, binding it with memories that were sweet at the beginning and tragic at the end. I found no theme, no strength, no story and no character. And most of all, I found no inspiration. I have never been a disciple and could never follow anyone. I did not want anybody to give me directions. Not for inspiration, for that you cannot. It has to come from inside.

Memories had faded. Memories had been buried. Life went on. Success came, but no matter how much, it was not the success I wanted. Did I mention that I could not write? Well, I tried. But it was all rubbish. I did not dare to write anything with a heart in it, because I was afraid that it would bring those memories back that needed so much time to be forgotten. Painful memories of a lost love can hurt for a long time. No story is worth that pain again. Once I had a muse, but now she had a cold grip on my heart, twenty long years after she broke it.

And yet, I could not find my place and could sleep in peace. She was just an ordinary person for everybody else. For me though she has been an ice queen and a muse at the same time. Now I needed my muse again to be a writer. Maybe the ice queen was just my imagination. It took patience to find her. It took courage to call her. And it took a lot of strength to find out that there was no ice queen. Just me, wasting twenty years.

The plane was like a shadow high above as it was crossing the Atlantic. Starlight glimmered on the silver wings. The sound of the engines was lost in the vastness of the night sky. Far ahead in the east the sun was rising. As the muse opened her beautiful brown eyes, she smiled when she thought about the man she was going to meet in a few hours.

On that day, a writer was born again.

Entrant 8 - Maximinus Thrax

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… During the forthcoming Golden Age, God will bestow infinite riches upon the enlightened sons of Man and will allow them to travel outside our world towards the fixed stars from the night sky, seeking to expand their knowledge about constellations and the inner workings of the celestial spheres. They will not use sails made out of fabrics to propel their flying machines; instead, they will have already discovered the properties of a mysterious alloy which would allow them to glide through the air as easily as a bird. Thoroughly inspired by divine muses, the disciples of the mechanical arts will be capable of inventing various strange devices which will allow the man to become the master of the air, the seas and the surfaces beneath the seas, travelling in every direction possible with great ease and celerity. The distances between two cities will no longer be covered by carriages as we know them today, but by metallic serpents and all manner of chariots which will no longer make use of horses.

People will live in high towers made out of concrete, steel and even glass; some of those towers will stand so tall that they will even touch the clouds, measuring more than a kilometer in height. Inside these marvellous abodes, the men will place various chambers serving all kinds of purposes, kitchens and bathhouses. The inventors of the day will make fortunes from creating a multitude of contraptions designed to deceive the senses of the tower dwellers, providing them with frivolous amusements and illusions.

The lifespan of an average individual will get extended beyond our limited imagination since most of the known plagues and disease will have been eradicated by then. The practitioners of medicine will concoct chemical treatments capable of curing even blindness or crippleness. Rebalancing the four humours will no longer be a problem since healing houses which will abound on lands will look even after the meekest of the mendicants, in full accordance with the Christian teachings of our Lord.

The spreading of knowledge during those auspicious days will be so greatly improved since many of the secrets on the nature of things which we are now considering to pertain to the realm of the arcane will have been decyphered by wisened minds. Each kingdom will benefit from maintaining gigantic libraries to serve the needs of its people, the only true vaults of advancement for every civilisation under the sun. One of the most wondrous achievement will be that, during the Golden Age, two persons will be capable of communicating with each other in an outright manner despite being separated by hundreds of miles. The use of simple quills and paper will become obsolete since men will no longer employ post riders to deliver their letters…

Excerpt from Jakob von Kreuz’s Aureum Saeculum Redivivum or the Golden Age Restored, 1632

TotW 158 - The Downeaster Alexa
Atlantis, angler, swordfish, shrimp, reel

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Winner - Maximinus Thrax

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Not even the freezing temperatures which had severely plagued most of the coastline during the last week could have detered the plans of Mr. Lammond, a retired bank clerk in his late 70s. Ever since he left behind the active life of an employee, this scrawny-looking man, badly afflicted with nearsightedness (or myopia), was spending most of his spare time either shore angling or honing his seamanship skills in his brand new fishing vessel, Atlantis, always in an attempt to land the biggest prey he could find around the bay, mainly swordfishes or various types of marlins. Since Mr. Lammond lacked ability in the pursuit of this hobby as well as the proverbial fisherman’s luck, his usual catch consisted only of a few shrimps, one or two tiny mackerels and some wandering tuna fish, all of that in a day’s work. But, despite such a meager outcome, which was repeating itself week after week, the spirit of our strong-minded retiree remained unbroken. Each day spent nourishing this hobby brought with it new hopes of capturing some kind of out of the ordinary fish, which would have turned the former clerk into the talk of the entire harbour.

By Monday morning the bad weather had been driven away by milder temperatures and sunny skies. After having been forced to languish between the four walls of his house for several days, Mr. Lammond was now peering through the frozen window, planning to go ice fishing later in the afternoon, a few kilometers north from his place. Diligent as ever, he had meticulously prepared the fishing gear: an specialised small saw and a chisel to cut a hole in the ice, a skimmer, a fishing rod with an expensive reel attached to it, and a stool.

After less than two hours later, Mr. Lammond was sitting all alone in the bitter cold, shivering near the hole in the ice and yearning for the gone days of the summer. Oh the memories! The bright sun of July, the clear blue skies, the cheerful choir of seagulls filling the air, and above everything, Atlantis rocking gently on the waves…

A hoarse male voice materialised out of nowhere broke the deep silence, disturbing Mr. Lammond’s thoughts.

“There is no fish here…” warned the voice.

Taken by surprise, Mr. Lammond turned around to see if there was anyone there but his severe nearsightedness failed to provide him with a clear answer. Hmm, it probably must have been the wind…

“I said that there is no fish here!...” added the same voice.

Mr. Lammond suddenly remembered a childhood tale about of the enchanted golden fish who could grant anyone three wishes. Finally, the most important catch of his life was now at hand!

“Who is there? Are you the fabled golden fish, by any chance?”, asked the old man, feverishly anticipating the answer.

“No, I’m the manager of this ice-skating rink. Now, pack your gear and leave the place or I’ll call the police!”

Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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The Downeaster Alexa

Jim breathed out the last drag from his cigarette and he flicked the butt with practiced ease into the harbour. Pulling his collar up and hunching his shoulders he pushed into the morning mist rolling in across the water and creeping into the dockside to muffle the sounds of the trawlermen aboard their boats starting to move out past the breakwater to the ocean beyond.

He could see the hard-working boats, salt-crusted and showing signs of heavy use with oft-repaired nets and rust streaks from the gunwales and down where the anchor chains and hawsers had been pulled in. Angler and Swordfish, old working Downeaster's chugging out to the Sound, their diesels carrying over the waves lapping at the harbour stones and the odd shout and burst of laughter conveyed across the still air.

His boots echoed from the stones and warehouses crowding in to the dockside, their bulk looming and faintly threatening in the early light. He passed the gleaming white hull of a new boat, Atlantis painted in fancy black lettering outlined in red on its stern and he grunted a laugh to himself. A new boat owned by some city type who liked playing at being a fisherman at the weekends no doubt, all the gear but never appreciating that this was not a game and losing was final.

Jim slowed as he reached his own boat, another working Downeaster and jumped heavily onto the deck. Charlie stuck his head out the cabin at the sound of Jims boots landing, nodded and grunted in greeting then ducked back in. They'd been working these shores for twenty years and had little need of words to communicate these days. Jim checked the rods and reels for the day fishermen were stowed and the buckets of shrimp and other bait were filled.

“Last lot Charlie, today”, he said as he stepped into the cabin and took a flask of coffee from his mate, “the bank not giving any more extensions then?” Charlie replied, “No, ‘fraid not, when we tie up tonight, they're going to repossess her, we've had a fishing boat in our family for generations, but they don't care, faceless suits never done a hard days work in their lives.” He sipped his coffee and shrugged, “Well you'll be OK Charlie?” he asked, “yeah, I’ve got a place on that fancy weekenders boat, Atlantis, he'll wear the captains hat and 'I'll do all the work I ‘spect”, Charlie gave a little laugh as he replied.

“Well I'll look you up if I ever get myself another boat, K?” Jim asked, “Sure boss”. They finished their coffee and turned to the dockside to the few hardy souls ready for a days fishing. “Alright Gents, let's have you aboard, the last trip on Alexa, let's go catch some big fish!”

Entrant 3 - Valandur

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Entrant 4 - Paraipan

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TotW 159 - Call of the Legion
testudo, Parthia, cloud, horn, relief

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Winner - Ybbon

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Call of the Legion

The dust tasted metallic in my mouth, hot sand beneath my boots burning through the soles or so it seemed, sweat trickled down my back between my shoulder blades and I could feel each drop scalding as it ran down and pooled at my waist. Overhead the sun looked like a bronze shield of some long-dead Spartan hero, a disc of burnished bronze slowly cooking us in our armour. Some of the men murmured in the ranks, but the usual chatter and boasting was absent this morning and you could feel the tension, taste it mixed in the dust and the sweat of the full cohort as we stood waiting.

“Listen for the whistles, stay in formation and support the men to either side, and if you should die, then die like Romans, if I find any of you died without killing enough Persians, I will personally intercede with your ancestors and make sure you spend eternity with shades of the restless dead, you hear me Miles!”, the Octavus Pilus Prior did not have to shout that loud to be heard today such was our mood. We know what to do, we in the Eighth Cohort, the Selected Men so his shouts wash over us this time, we know his own anxiety and nerves are just making him shout louder than he needs.

A zephyr of hot wind blows across the dunes, kicking up a small cloud of dust, some of the fourth cohort start and a man yells “Persians!”, but he's soon shouted down, his Optio cuffs him across his helmet with a vine staff and yells something in his ear. There will be no relief from the suns heat today, all the winds do is shovel hot air at us that has been heated on these baking pans of desert. In front of us there are some low dunes and the heat causes the very air to shimmer and obscure anything much further away.

Finally, and it seems to have been hours since we broke camp and got into formation, we start to feel a low drumming in our feet, a throbbing cadence of something heavy and threatening but the heat waves still obscure anything. “Take a drink now before the fighting starts”, word passes down the ranks and we take a gulp from our flasks. Now we can hear them, a low rolling thunder as their infantry appear above the dunes and wait for the charge from behind.

Horns sound behind us and our own cavalry starts to sweep out to the sides, and arrows fly out above our heads. “Testudo!, Form Testudo!” the call comes and we form into the turtle shell, right at the front I can peer out of a gap and see them ahead of now, thundering in they charge, lances lowered, the Cataphracts of Parthia meet the Legions of Rome in a bloody carnage.

Entrant 2 - Confederate Jeb

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I stared down the ramparts into the vast moving sea in front of me. Soldiers, professional and levy alike, stood chanting to the sound of a horn as the ladder slowly crept forward. In their minds this frightened the men, but their collective cheering allowed the facade of courage to linger. I drew an arrow from my quiver, felt the feather between the holes in my gloves, and took aim. I was not the fastest archer in the service, but I was the most accurate. I picked out the third man carrying the ladder on the left side; a rather large man, he was providing half his side's strength. Of course, once my arrow pierced his knee his strength did little to support him, and as he fell down screaming in pain so too did the left side as the weight of the ladder sank into their shoulders. Scrawny, underfed levies. Easy to discourage.

One of the mercenaries, his face covered underneath a rounded, scarred helmet, noticed the accuracy of my shot, and as if knowing who it was that had shot so true he ordered that a shield formation be taken up around the ladders. Was it Wallace of Canterbury? Perhaps Leonardo of Florence? It didn't matter; it was a warrior of superior skill and caliber, one who I had fought with before. But were his men of his ilk? No, the shield wall was loose and unprofessional. Like the Romans in Parthia, desperately clinging to their shields as tightly as they could so that the testudo formation did not fail, these men tried their hardest to protect themselves from the rain of arrows. And like a god sitting on a cloud, his vision piercing all things, I aimed shot after shot at every crevice I could find. There was no relief from my torment. It was only a matter of time before the shield wall broke, the levies routed, and the professionals, lacking support, fell back. The men on the ramparts let out a cheer; the first wave had been been broken like a wave upon the cliffs. But I had no time to join them in their merriment as they left the walls to drink within the confines of the city. I was too busy observing the one man who had remained below the wall; the unknown mercenary.

"So, you noticed my aim I see."

"Indeed. No one this side of the Rhine has such skill with a bow."

"Thank you good sir. And your command of that rabble was certainly admirable. I know of no one who could get such a lot to even dare step within the shadow of these walls. Do you mind if I ask for your name?"

"If you defeat me on the field of battle, does it matter?"

"Honor and skill are not lost on the field of battle."

"In that case, I'll let you know it once I have stormed this keep." And with that he began to walk away.

Entrant 3 - Rex Anglorvm

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It was a relief to finally catch sight of Parthia, the magic carpet that Mustapha had bought only had 10,000 miles on the clock, but still it had been giving him trouble the whole length of the journey from Cathay.

You wait till he got his hands on that lying salesman, one careful owner indeed!

The rather evil Shabaz had almost sprung a deadly trap for him just as he was crossing western India; he had flown from out of a hugecloud bankon the very latest turbo charged testudo, every boy racer’s dream carpet. It had a wonderful inlaid weave that virtually skimmed along the skyline, plus a mock turtle shell engine mount that had given it its Latin name.

Shabaz had been trying to take the title of ‘most elemental and oriental sky driver’ from him for years, after all this was now the 327th year that Mustapha had won the title and the cup with it. The ladies of Parthia were always very welcoming to the victor, and after all why should they not be, he was after all the finest sky driver around and very handsome to boot.

As he brought the carpet down through the crowds of Ctesiphon, wowing them by flying just above their heads, he could hear the roars of encouragement from the spectators and could only imagine the caresses and kisses that would come his way from the womenfolk of the capital of the Parthian empire.

He could see the finishing line, as the cheers and shouts from the crowds grew more intense and frenzied as he approached the finishing line, the line itself stretched across the White Palace of the King of Kings, he could see the Emperor now sitting on his gilded throne, awaiting the sky riders as they came in, and he Mustapha would be the first yet again!

Then something caught his attention, a spare thread at the back of the carpet, the carpet slowly ever so slowly began to unravel, he tried any number of spells to bind it, but nothing worked.

A flash behind him caught his attention; it was Shabaz!

Shabaz and that bloody sporting rug of his!

He was closely rapidly; Mustapha tried his spells again, even though he knew it was strictly against the spirit of the race.

Then Shabaz passed him, and with a mocking bow and a wave left him in his wake.

Mustapha could see the race official on the line press the horn of celestial deliverance to his lips and with one final resounding blast sound the victors note as Shabaz crossed the line.

Mustapha crossed shortly after, and landed his own carpet next to Shabaz’s, he walked over to the victor and extended his hand and congratulated him.

‘Well done Son.’

‘Thank you Father, beaten you at last after 137 attempts!’

Mustapha smiled; well there was always next year. That was the benefit of being immortal.

Entrant 4 - Maurits

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Entrant 5 - Gandalf.

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Spittle flew from the Centurions mouth as the horn groaned across the shifting sands under the scorching desert sun. Herooooo, Heroooo, The sound was a low one, akin to a loud growl that one would here from a savage beast like a tiger, or wolf. "FORM UP YOU SONS OF APES!" The grizzled centurion shouted, waving his sword about like a maniac. The Legionaries turned to face their foe; some wetting themselves, some grinning with apprehension, while the veterans looked on, grimacing impassively, as the gleaming tips of spears slowly rose above that dusty mound of sand. A great cloud of dust rising like a storm as the horses came into sight; clad in heavy lamellar or mail armour just like their riders, short, stocky men that rode like devils, and shot like them too. A purple banner fluttered in the breeze, and thousands upon thousands of these horsemen cascaded towards the legions like an avalanche.

"Parthia." A tribune spat, spurring his horse to the head of the column. Flaming arrows flew across the sky; fiery comets coming to take the lives of roman soldiers. Screams and cracking bones were heard as the head of the column was smashed by these terrifying horsemen, and the Centurion grimaced as he saw the deadly horse archers aim towards his century.
"FORM TESTUDO, NOW!!"
The soldiers moved into formation quickly, just as the arrows smashed into their wall of shields. The Centurion let out a breath of relief as he ordered a runner to be dispatched to the legate for orders. "GO! NOW!" he bellowed gruffly at the frightened messenger, who hurried off to the legate to try and measure the situation. The Centurion rolled his eyes as he felt an arrow thud sharply into his shield, and he desperately tried to maintain his balance as the arrows skittered under their legs, narrowly missing him. The man next to him was not so lucky, and after a loud cry of pain, he pulled the arrows out of his leg and had to be held up by the other soldiers. Other men all throughout the tight formation were suffering similar fates, when the runner finally returned.

The man panted heavily as he approached the centurion, clearly exhausted. His horse collapsed under him, and the Centurion cursed loudly and ran out towards him. He swore as two arrows his his shield and another bounced off his helmet, and he turned towards the Parthians and threw a Pila. His aim was true, and the sharp spear pierced a Cataphract's chest. He knelt down next to the messenger.
"Damn!! He's dead..." The last thoughts of the Centurion were interrupted rudely, by a large cataphract that barreled into him, plunging his spear into his shoulder. The Centurion was knocked onto the floor. "My sword..." He coughed, as he was interrupted by a spear through the belly. The world faded to darkness and twisted in his vision, sending his last breath as a prayer to jupiter.
~ fin.

**Dance** · August 28, 2013, 07:51 PM

TotW 160 - Resurrection
sand, raindrop, ethereal, faith, deceit

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Winner - Strengelicher

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Entrant 2 - Rex Anglorvm

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Resurrection

Did I feel a raindrop or did I imagine it?

I can’t be sure anymore, where does my tortured imagination start and where does it stop?

I was sure yesterday I had seen an oasis, a place where I could slake my thirst in a pool of refreshing water, but no, I had run and plunged my head into the water, only to find myself choking on a mouthful of baking hot sand.

My spitfire had crashed into the desert after I had been bounced by two Me109s, they had chased me across the desert for miles, I had managed to ping one, before the other had riddled my engine with shells.

I had bailed out floating down to earth like some sort of ethereal being that sailed majestically through the tranquil blue sky until I had hit the Sahara with a bump.

I had now been in the desert for three days, steadily making my way north, hoping to reach the coastal road that stretched back to Alexandria.

I struggled once more to crest a large sand dune, three steps up, two steps back as I slide back down yet again; I reach for the canteen bottle at my hip, but then angrily shake my head, remembering that I must ration each and every precious drop if I’m to make it out of this burning nightmare.

As my eyes focus on the distance I see a thin strip of tarmac slicing through the sea of sand around me, it’s the costal road!

Or is it?

Is this yet another mirage sent to plague me; I ponder the deceit that your own mind can work when it is tormented enough. I walk cautiously towards the road, I’m almost in touching distance now, a few more steps and I should feel the tarmac under my feet…I hope.

Then I hear something….an engine, a car engine!

I run the last few steps, until I feel the blessed road through my shoes; I am almost tempted to bend down and kiss the rough surface beneath me.

And then I see it, a little Austin, driving along the road heading straight for me and onto the road to Alexandria.

I shout and wave, at first I croak as my mouth is so dry, I take the canteen bottle from my hip, hurriedly remove the cap and pour what’s left of the water down my throat.

This time I shout, the men in the car see me and wave back, they head for me and swing open a rear door so I can get in, I realise why they are so relaxed around me; they’re from my squadron, Padre Jones and Flight Sergeant Wilson.

Padre Jones exclaims, ‘My god we had given you up for dead Harry!’

I smile back ‘you should have more faith Padre, don’t you believe in the resurrection!?’

The Padre and Wilson laugh as I throw myself on the back seat as the little car resumes the drive to Alexandria.

Entrant 3 - Confederate Jeb

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I came to these shores many years ago, chasing an ethereal dream. A girl had promised me the world, told me of the wonderful life that could be had traveling the globe with her, if only I would meet her here. We had known each other for so long that I would take any leap of faith for her. Alas, what cruel deceit she sprang upon me when she failed to meet me here. And so the past three years have been a standstill; I have made no attempt to leave, letting the sand, sea, and time try and heal my broken spirit. Oh, so much time. The days spent under the sun, lying on the beach, no goal or future in mind, just waiting for something to give my life meaning. There were days where I would lay out as raindrop after raindrop fell upon my body. Let the rain wash away my sorrows. If only...

Last week at the mention of my concerned neighbor I took to writing in a journal. So far it has only managed to aggravate my troubles even more. Venting, it seems, does not help my condition. I quickly gave up on that task, but on a whim another idea sprung forth. Writing may yet be the solution, but rather than write on my miserable being and its daily struggles, why not write on happier, more elaborate things?

I am fortunate that I am no perfection, and would rather let the words flow now and correct my mistakes later than fiddle over each and every phrase. One page turned into five, which turned into twenty, which turned into three very long chapters. I was not sure what I had even written, but rereading my two hour labor revealed that it was something meaningful. Imagine that; me, producing something of worth, of merit. I could scarcely contain myself, and ran over to my neighbor's to startle her with a hug the likes I had never given. A hug of pure joy and thanks.

I still spend time on the beach, but my mind is rarely blank these days. Thinking of potential things to write on, plots and characters to detail, bounce around my head. I supposed that I could think of book deals and money, but they mean little, or are but a bonus, to man with no prior meaning. Lately I have decided to stay inside during the rainstorms, and watch the water flow off the building that houses a man of creative worth, rather than a hollow shell.

Entrant 4 - Ybbon

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Resurrection

“I am the resurrection and the life, without me there is no faith and the faithless will walk through the desert of loneliness to eternal damnation.” The prophets voice faded and luckily the smells of the unwashed fanatics who congregated in the Plaza of Prayer as the city fathers had labelled it with garish neon blue signs on each corner, or the Square of Deceit as some wag had written in lime green graffiti below each neon sign, also faded as Venus walked deeper into the city. The sand underfoot looked cleaner and as the smell got less overpowering she recalled where it was familiar from – the laundry sack in Caractacuses room at the end of a month.

Mos Eisley, Tatooine, why the hell did that idiot keep watching Star Wars movies? Just how many times can you slow-mo through Return of the Jedi watching Leia in chains and a bikini? Shuddering with the horror of that memory, she shook her head to clear her thoughts, “Focus Venus, focus,” it was startling how easy it was to walk down the shabby space ports streets and not feel as ridiculous as she ought to, but here she was searching for a walking hairy carpet – or Wookie – as Pyke called them with an undue level of fondness. A Wookie who apparently had a good stock of very oddly exotic parts for engines, turbines and all things motive, hell some of his stock was were just plain out of any World.

“Hello, yes, I wonder would you happen to know where I could find Arri Pirr please?” Definitely best to be polite speaking to a 7 foot high doormat with a large gun strapped to his thigh – well she hoped it was a gun anyway but decided not to look too closely, “Oh, yes of course, that's me. And you must be Miss Jones?” his response was unexpected, “appearances can be deceptive!“ she thought to herself. “Please, come in and let us settle this business for your benefactor and we can have a nice cup of Earl Grey afterwards if that would be agreeable?” which sounded very reasonable indeed to Venus.

“Right then, a raindrop flow accelerometer” he said, handing over highly polished silver raindrop shaped piece of metal, and your rude little monkey wanted a set of piston rings and gaskets for a small block Chevy V8 – you know he is a very weird man? You should leave him somewhere desolate one day – or I could break his legs for you if you like?” Pirr handed over a box of bits for a car, “Now, tea”. Venus purred to herself, she could tell that she would very much enjoy her chat with a Wookie, not something you could admit in polite company perhaps, but then having tea in the afternoon with a Wookie was definitely one of the more ethereal experiences she had had lately – and that was saying something.

Entrant 5 - Heiro de Bodemloze

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Entrant 6 - Lyra

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A hunched figure made its way up the dune. It did so agonizingly, a body lost of life and loosing determination. It etched itself up atop the crest of the desert wave, one of the many ripples of this vast, burning plain. But this effort for the top was its last, it could not go further; the girl dropped limply on to the sand.

She was familiar with this sand, such a marvelous thing the sand of this land. ‘Beautiful’ she would have called it if it were not such an evil thing. With weak hands she sifted it through her dry fingers, letting it fall and flow through them and once again to the ground its own. She watched, distracted from her predicament, as it glistened in all the colours of this world, from the real of the sky to the forbidden hues of the ancients; this sand was all the colours and none. But this sand of both black and white was death to those upon it. Raindrops never shone themself wherever it covered, and from its reaches only came tales of the unspeakable terrors, creatures and other things in its vast darkness. Travelers from the north often spoke of the Voices of the Plain, mouths, invisible, that drove all listeners to madness; voices, ethereal, filling the weak minds of mortals with the horrors of the void.

Such whispers still rang in the girl’s head. She tried to resign them as lies, keep faith in what she thought true since she ever started thinking. But their persistence had cracked her. She believed them wholly, unquestionably and with fear. Because she could only wish the laws of destiny to be deceit; her fate, and all those of this world were forever sealed in the speakings of the void. For the void had always spoken and would, forever, till it was one with everything once again.

Many ripped at their ears in desperation; many bashed their heads to free themselves, but this girl was wise, she knew not to try and stop the unavoidable. So she waited, there on top of the glittering dune in the sand of the land of death; there, in the far reaches of the world and without regrets, she waited for the end.

Entrant 7 - Paraipan

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The Achilliad

Chapter I

Resurrection

The shadow wandered aimlessly around the barren land, with no memories, no thoughts, just an excruciating pain somewhere down his foot. Half material, half smoke, the figure looked like it used to belong to a strong man, probably a warrior of some kind. Around him, thousands of other silhouettes, moved chaotically, just like him, around this gloomy desert, upon which no sun shined, no moon looked upon and no cloud glided, just an endless black sky, with no stars, an ethereal realm of sand without raindrop.

Glimpses of memory rushed like lightning bolts through the shadow’s mind. Swords clinging, shields broken, death, screaming, pain and terror, these were his only memories. And faces, faces of men floating around repeating their names in hushed voices. “Hector, hector, …” and “Patroclus, patroclus, …” among others, tormented the shadow without any break. The flashes of memory were becoming stronger, clearer, his whole life soon unraveling in his head.

“Achilles, have faith.” The soft voice of a woman sounded in his head, and it all became clear for the shadow.

“Mother?” He said and the smoke from which he was made dissipated, giving body to the shadow.

“Follow me, Achilles.” Thetis, the sea nymph, mother of Achilles, descended from the dark sky, putting her hand on her son’s shoulder.

Achilles woke up in a small temple made from the whitest marble he had ever seen. He raised himself from the shrine he was laid on, the pain in his heel gone and his head clearer like it never was. From outside the temple the sound of waves ramming the rocky cliffs and the salty smell of the sea made Achilles think he was still somewhere near Troy and all of this was just a bad dream. He thought the city was still under siege, but when he looked down he saw the scar on his heel. The wound made by Paris’ arrow, now healed, proved that all of this was real.

Achilles left the temple and stopped right on the edge of the cliffs under which the waves were smashing, looking around at the thunderous black sea which surrounded the small island and seeing his mother, standing on water, looking at him.

“What is this mother, where am I?” Achilles questioned Thetis.

“I couldn’t bear losing you, son. I brought you on this island and gave you life again. This is your island now, you cannot leave it. This is the only place where you can be alive.” Thetis explained.

Achilles mind darkened with anger. He was angry with his mother, angry with the gods and most of all, angry with his former comrades, who he felt had betrayed him.

“I curse you all. I swear I will not rest until I leave this island and destroy you all, I will destroy Greece.” Achilles voice thundered harder than the waves smashing beneath him as he pledged to punish the Greeks and their gods for their deceit.

TotW 161 - It's a new dawn, it's a new day
mist, day, dawn, change, life

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Winner - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Anhalan woke. It was the dawn of a new day, and he had barely slept a wink. War cries, death cries, musket fire and fires had kept him awake, which was why he went into an alleyway. Did it help? Well he thought so; he was able to get a little rest. Well maybe if he removed his breastplate he could have slept longer and better. As one of the one million War Volunteers, he did not really have an officer that would look for him, so few would have thought it odd to see him lying around in an alleyway.

Despite all of the death that had happened and was continuing to happen as well as his lack of sleep, Anhalan was happy. The light shining from sun as it was climbing higher into the sky mixed with the early morning mist, giving it a golden color. The mist was almost the same color as the golden sand that he was when he and his comrades had landed yesterday. Of course he loved it, he should love it. The golden colors that filled the air and covered the ground were the colors of his people’s homeland, this land. This was what the fighting was all about, the reclamation of the Janakan homeland…and Regia’s punishment too.

The latter reason Anhalan did not agree with. The way they were punishing Regia was absolutely barbaric. The order was to exterminate everyone who lived in the city, every man, woman and child, regardless of innocence. He was fortunate that he had not encountered any living civilian yet, but even if he did he would do everything in his power to prevent himself from taking an innocent life, but what if one of his comrades were going to do so? As he thought about this, his happiness was replaced with sadness.

Anhalan shook his head trying to get that thought out of his mind. “No! No, I shouldn’t think about it. It will only make life complicated.” He said, grabbing his musket as he stood up. Walking out of the alleyway, a soldier approached him, “Shouldn’t think about what?” he said.

Anhalan looked at the soldier, “Well I have been wondering what I will do if I encounter an unarmed person.” He said reluctantly.

The soldier stared at him. “You’re going to worry yourself to death. Look, I get it, you can’t bear to kill some innocent person, but that’s not going to change anything. All of the Regians in this city will die. Your only option is whether that will be a quick or an agonizing death, and if you’re a decent man you will choose the former.” The soldier said.

“Instead, focus on the positives such as a new home when the war is over. Now come on, I hear the Janak Legionnaires are planning on taking the castle today.” He said as he started walking away. Anhalan smiled and followed.

Entrant 2 - Tigellinus

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Entrant 3 - Confederate Jeb

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Entrant 4 - algirdasu

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Entrant 5 - Ybbon

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TotW 162 - The Passenger
train, riding, ride, space, subway

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Winner - Confederate Jeb

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Can't think. Body numb. Heart throbbing, pounding inside my chest. A bullet whizzes over the top of the crate I'm crouched behind, clinging to my side where I have been stabbed. I don't know who is after me, but the events of last night stirred something up. The blood on my hand let me know that my normal life was over. I was part of something sinister now. The train blows its horn as it speeds past a small station. They control the train. Pain. More gunshots. Time and space beginning to blur. I had to make a move, or I would bleed out. I get in position and make a dive for the cluster of barrels on the other side of the car. A clear shot at a startled gunman. One bullet, simple and clean, to the head. Years of practice at the range taking their toll. With him dead, and the man who had stabbed me falling down the winding paths of the mountainside, I was at last alone in the car. I eagerly run over the the body to gather cloth to wrap around my wound, as well as making sure to take the dead man's gun. I didn't know the maker, but it was a beautiful gun. Would it serve me better than its old master?

I decide that staying on this wild ride is too much danger for one day. After a few minutes the whistle blows once again, letting me know it is time to jump at the station. My timing is good, and I fall into a snow bank a hundred feet shy of the concrete. I can see no one at the station, waiting for either me or the armed thugs. The train continues on. Some service, I should've taken the subway to Carlton. Then again, my attackers had to be after me, and there was nowhere to jump out at in those old underground tunnels. The town that I walk into is called Dunesbury; a strange name for a little town situated on the side of a snowy mountain. It is named after an explorer, no doubt. Still nobody comes to greet me. My dress is ill suited to the temperature, and I begin to grow faint once more. At last I see the sign of a hotel, and manage to stumble up the front steps into the lobby before collapsing.

I wake in a small bed with light blue bedsheets over my freezing body. As I come to my hands feel my body over, finding where my wound had been the last time I was conscious, and where I now found proper bandages. The cut is not too deep, but in the heat of the moment I had not been able to take a good look at it. My eyes search the room for any clues as to my situation, only to find a pair of soft green eyes staring at me from a head to my right.

Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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The Passenger

I am the passenger and I ride these steel rails every day, I am the ghost of every victim of the killers who stalk these lonely tracks hunting down their victim's young and old. I haunt these carriages looking for the signs they show searching the faces of these men, and they are nearly always men, scrutinising them for the look they all have in their eye that tells of their inhuman desires. I am Ethel, killed for a simple locket in 1919, travelling to see my husband returned from the hell of the trenches to find the hell of a murdered wife. I am little Toby Fletcher, clutching my teddy bear by one hand and wearing an oh so adorable duffel coat – savaged, raped and killed by Bobby Clark because he just liked little boys in ways that mocked life itself.

Janet, Jane, John, Mabel, Josh, Miranda, Charlotte, enough names to fill the whole of this train, and which one I am today it matters not as I ride these rails winding through hills and crossing bridges, leaping roaring torrents and deep gorges over arches and under mountains. Watching and waiting for the man to make his move towards the pretty blonde haired woman in the corner, or maybe the little girl with her head hidden, absorbed in her book or is it an iPhone? – reading, texting, not seeing the way he watches her every move, greedily drinking her in and plotting how he can have her all to himself, waiting for the tunnel and the moment he needs to grab his prey.

I am watching, walking the train carriage or the subway car, over ground or underground it makes no difference to me, hunting the hunters, stalking the stalkers. Maybe it is the meshing of all those murdered souls, all the screaming and terror mingling into one, but now that I have corporeal form I can reap some measure of vengeance of those who died lonely, lost and terrified as the rails beneath counted the miles away and their life ebbed away. For each one that dies the stronger I get and I am coming for you. My revenge will be swift and my justice final with no second chances and no lawyers with technicalities, no judges with soft hearts. Dead is dead.

I am the ghost haunting and hunting, chasing all of those killers down for their last reckoning, their own personal Armageddon and one-way trip to meet whatever waits in the Hell they are destined for. Straight to Hell Boys so make some room, leave some space because Bobby Clark, you are first on my list.

Entrant 3 - algirdasu

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Entrant 4 - Philip Regent of Hospitallers

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Tuesday 27th October,

It was a very strange morning for me...although it all started innocently enough. In the morning, when I was at Glasgow subway waiting for the train and had arranged to go Edinburgh. So I arrived about 30 minutes earlier than train´s departion. It gave me time to think over my things in open space where possibly I had reached...then yet I didn´t see the reason to be happy about myself...I knew something was missing from my life...this was something, what really had me winding up for months now.

Then my train arrived...and with that shut my thoughts. It took a few hours to get to Edinburgh, where I had to meet my contact. Before arriving in Edinburgh, I met a strange man during travelling, who presented him as Peter Schmidt. Didn´t know, was he German or not, nor didn´t had guts to ask it from him. He talked silently and said to me: "Isaac Newton is on this train, what a honour! Want to see him? I know which cabin he is.", first I thought, I had heard really wrong, but after few seconds of quick thinking, my ears weren´t wrong and I answered: "Pardon me dear sir, but I think you´re confusing Newton with someone else...you see Newton is dead.", but he didn´t seem to understand me..."YOU´RE WRONG!!! HE is alive, I know it!! How do you dare to say such a thing!!?" So I got real angry - "YES, DEAR SIR, I do dare say such a thing!! Isaac Newton was alive 250 years ago, but not today...It seems that you are a madman! Goodbye, dear sir!!" And I left...soon enough Edinburgh reached to my eyes...

and so did my ride, which took me to City Council, where I had arranged a meeting with city officials. Suddenly, the same strange man had appeared there as well from nowhere, and that made me really nervous. We stared at each other, eyes on fire and we both were ready to insult each other like devils in furnace...if I had heard again that Newton is alive...I got out of control and punched him at least 10 times...that is why I had hard morning...probably will be rest of the day, I am anyways in jail for the moment...looks like there is no escape from the court now, because I am not able to apologize to him...now I try to calm and think, what to do...

Entrant 5 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Entrant 6 - Strengelicher

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TotW 163 - Skyfall
crumble, spying, tall, martini, cat

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Winner - M. Laveur
Entrant 2 - Ybbon

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Skyfall

The miles rolled easily beneath the wheels, whisper quiet the Aston's tyres ate up the ground with graceful power, the straight six engine rumbling away the epitome of barely tamed wildness. I could feel the way it growled when I put my foot down coming out of the the corners that it was if I had a big cat, a tiger maybe, squeezed in under the bonnet, spying a gap in the traffic I press my foot down and the car leaps forward with a full-throated roar, snarling past an Alfa-Romeo and a rickety old truck.

A smile is plastered across my face, driving an Aston Martin DB5 along the Amalfi coast with an Italian suit on. “Win the completion to make your friend green with envy”, the blurb had promised, but who really enters competitions on food cartons? “Go on, enter it”, my wife had said, “five minutes on the internet”. So I had, not with any expectation of winning although the question had been easy - Which actor had not portrayed James Bond – Rowan Atkinson of course, Mr Bean maybe, but never Bond. I had thought to myself that as ever that these competitions get easier every day but I entered it and forgot it as I usually do.

Yet here I am two months later, driving an Aston, the sun warmed air blowing through the window, laden with perfumes and scents from herbs and flowers in the hills above us, heading from Amalfi to Ravello as my prize “Two Weeks of James Bond’s Italy”. Two weeks with an Aston Martin, a wardrobe of sharp Italian suits and staying at plush hotels and luckily no gangsters or mad car chases.

My wife is enjoying the sun, head back with her shades on, hair blowing behind. I have convinced her that James Bond definitely does not listen to Pink or Take That, although in truth he probably does not listen to Nirvana's Nevermind either but somehow the gruff vocals of Cobain and the controlled riffs of Novaselic driven on by Dave Grohls drums just match the rumbling from the engine today.

Tonight we will spend the night overlooking the Mediterranean with locally caught fish or some other Italian delicacy, a suite overlooking the sea and greeted as though we are royalty. I will start the evening with a long cold Martini in a tall glass - well Bond is not always right - shaken, with condensation forming on the glass with a bottle of a fabulous local Taurasi to follow and this is just the first day with thirteen more to follow. What Heaven is this?

What is the saying – the proof is in the pudding – or in this case it was the rhubarb crumble with the competition - and frankly I do not really care at this moment if my friends are rainbow coloured much less green with envy, I am very possibly the happiest man alive.

Entrant 3 - Confederate Jeb

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"How'd the recon go?" was all Alan asked when I returned to base. I had spent the entire night spying on the enemy fortifications, lurking in the shadows, alone like a cat. Indeed, the rebels had coined me the Black Cat because of my habit of disappearing into the darkness so easily...and heralding ill fortune on those who saw me. Still, I required some human interaction when not on a mission, and Fernando was not providing it. A tall, thin man, he seemed more content to record reconnaissance intel and read books than to speak with anyone for longer than two minutes. This morning was no different, as he sat at his table pouring over various reports while drinking his coffee. He continued to read until he realized that I had not answered his question. He turned to find me at our bases' small kitchen, preparing a martini. I needed something of the sort after last night. Despite all his anti-social tendencies, Alan was able to pick that up.

"Zoe, what's wrong? You aren't hurt are you?" he said with a perplexed look as he rubbed his bald head.

"They've hired someone to run counter intel. Someone who knows what they're doing. He forced me out of three locations, the third by exploding the supports of the building and having it crumble down around my head. Alan, we need backup. We need real support, not promises that our work is helping the monarchy crush these anarchists. I'm sick of feeling alone during dangerous work."

"You aren't alone. I'm here." It felt like he said it without feeling, just as a declarative statement. I was tired of such talking.

"You not very helpful. You don't even go out on missions, you just read constantly. My life is at risk every time I step outside, and you have yet to leave the building!" I swallowed everything in my glass at once and began to walk upstairs, to my quarters. I was worn out, both from my job and it's consequences on my life. As I disappeared from the sight of the bottom floor, I could see Alan's face; it still held the single expression it always did. Even my insults didn't faze him.

The first thing I did after closing my door was turn all the lights in my room. I couldn't stand being alone in the dark right now. So I laid on my bed, trying to sleep in the dim lights. But my thoughts were running wild in my head, and sleep did not come easily. I kept going back to what had happened, how I had been outsmarted by some unknown assailant who clearly demonstrated skill and knowledge of our profession. The one person who might understand her feelings, her soul searching that was the result of long hours alone, and his job was to kill her. If only there was some way to meet without killing each other...

Entrant 4 - Rex Anglorvm

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

Skyfall

I woke with a start, tumbled out of bed and tripped over the cat, ‘can’t you get that bloody thing to lie somewhere else.’ I frowned grumpily at my wife’s sleeping form; a good job she didn’t hear really, I swear sometimes that she thinks more of that wretched feline than me.

Stumbling out of the pitch black bedroom, I walk down the hallway to the bathroom, turning on the light switch and quickly disrobing to jump into the shower and wake myself up.

After finishing my ablutions, I get dressed in the working clothes I had prepared last night; I then wander downstairs and prepare breakfast, I think about pouring a tall glass of Martini, but then decide against it, after all it is only 6am; surely the prospect of another commute and a day in the office shouldn’t be driving to me to drink already?

Instead I opt for a yoghurt, toast and muesli; long gone are the days of the full English breakfast, I smack my lips and think of one; eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, mushrooms, hash browns, black pudding, toast and mug of tea.

However I glance down and look at my middle edge spread; getting older is no fun, I only have to look at a bacon sandwich these days and I put on weight. Oh, how I envy my younger self, fit, thin and able to eat anything.

Still I can’t resist one little treat, I look at the sugar bowl and I can feel my resistance crumble;I pick the bowl up and spoon a heap of sugar over my unappetising muesli.

After breakfast I dump the breakfast clutter near the sink for my ‘loving wife’ to take care of; after all she only has the cat to take care of, she can do the washing up for a change!

Who am I kidding it will probably be waiting for me when I get home.

I get to the front door, I pat my pocket to ensure that I have my door keys and I begin the walk to the station; I think about work; Project Skyfall, yes that was the hot topic for the day ahead. What the project entails would be selling a new human resources product that promised aging men like myself the chance to play at spies; a role playing espionage scenario crossed with paint-balling.

That was the trouble with working in marketing, one harebrained scheme after another; now I had to convince our corporate clients that teaching their staff all about spying was the latest en vogue method of team building.

Oh how I hate my job, and my lazy wife and my middle age spread.

Entrant 5 - Aonghus G. Friedhold
Entrant 6 - Philip Regent of Hospitallers

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12th November,

After Martini party in Chosen One bar, while I was leaving to my apartment like a cat through alley´s and not on street pavement, like normal person, I found tall person, who seemed to have crumbled for unknown reason. Well that unknown reason didn´t stay in this state for a long time, as I found bullet wound, but what was more weird, there was no blood around him, where normally he should have "slept" in...Despite that I called quickly to ambulance and if I had explained how and where, then I asked me about this bloodless wound as well...since they hadn´t seen such a thing before...

Few days later there were leaks about spying mission, which had reached to my ears...soon I understood that personel, who talked about the mission, mentioned missing spy, who´s description had matched to my eyesight´s memory back then, when I found him lying around at 89th Street. Later I reminded that he was at the front of Prime Minister´s house...and then it really got interesting. He probably was spying on his house, but what in the world could have caused him such bloodless bullet wound? How did he even reached on pavement before crumbling? Those question tortured my brain and my heart...because I really wanted to figure it all out.

However this gets better. Yesterday some intelligence officials visited me. They asked me about the spy how was first transferred to hospital, but 2 days ago he succumbed to his wounds he suffered from his mission. I wasn´t aware, that spy had camera on his coat, so officials figured out my identity and questioned me, how did I find the spy...well I had no reason to hide something and telled them how it was, which I told at the start...suddenly one of them thought I was lying and then it really got intense. He took out his pistol, pointed at me and nearly had shot me as well...if other guy next to shooter hadn´t diverted pistol to the window in my apartment. I got shocked for the moment, but now I can´t sleep in peace. Who knows, what they managed to put in my house, what could "reveal" the "truth", I "supposedly hide" from them...

TotW 164 - Genius
pass, burger, crunch, mustard, rock

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Winner - Rex Anglorvm

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Genius

I had the weirdest dream the other night, I could remember almost all of it clearly; I remember that I was standing in front of a board with a football pitch stencilled on it and a series of moves chalked onto its surface.

Not that odd you would think, I was just dreaming of being a football manager and what’s so weird about that?

Well I will tell you.

The team was comprised of food.

My star striker was a squat fast food burger; my tall lean central defender was a bottle of English Mustard; my goalkeeper was a solid and reliable stick of Blackpool rock and my silky skilled tenacious tackling central midfielder was a chocolate bar of Nestle crunch.

And when I looked at the rest of my team it was no different, the rest of the squad was made up of an apple, a custard tart, a jar of coffee, a banana and a host of other products that would have been available at your local supermarket.

Now I’m not fixated on food, in fact I’m one of those people that view food as a necessary evil, fuel for life, not meant to be enjoyed, just consumed. In fact I could work for hours before even thinking about taking a bite to eat.

And I don’t like football, I’m a rugby man.

That was why the dream was odd, but not why it was weird.

No it was weird because I was a sausage.

Yes you heard me right, a sausage.

Now I’m sure that a psychoanalyst would have a great time decoding why I dreamt myself into a Lincolnshire sausage; but I can tell you that I had a normal childhood, normal parents and have no unusual hang-ups.

I shall tell you why I dreamt of being a sausage, its my new girlfriend, I met her in a wine bar, an unusual place for me as I prefer old looking boozers with old nicotine stains on the walls and peeling paint and rotten looking furniture that looks like it will collapse if you sit on it, but no I was in the wine bar because I had forget to eat…again.

So I had dived in the wine bar, grabbed a quick drink and some bar food and had met a girl.

I had made a pass at her; not that unusual after all I’m quite lucky with the ladies.
But she had turned me down.

So I came back day after day, cracking corny jokes, having a drink and ordering the only palatable thing on the menu - a sausage sandwich.

So I guess it doesn’t take a genius to work out that was why I dreamt of being the greatest of British inventions – the banger.

But the weirdest thing of all and the pure genius of the dream is that Sophie is a vegetarian.

Entrant 2 - Confederate Jeb

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I pass through the trees as swiftly as the eagle that flies through the sky. I can sense my prey is close, the sound of his breath reaching me on the passing breeze. I come to a stop new a thick oak tree and kneel down, a misplaced rock the target of my inquiry. It had been uprooted from the place it had laid dormant for decades by the stumbling of a man running south. My path was true, so I continue onward. A mile passes, then two. The length of the run does not concern me, for the presence of this forest of my youth instills in me a great energy, unquenchable in its thirst for justice. As I run I can see images of my boyhood memories; I learned to set a trap under the shade of that scarred tulip popular, my first successful hunt for hares reached its climax at that clump of wild mustard. I did not know what the future held for me back then, or what I would sacrifice to protect my people. My family dead, my friends turned against me...why did I follow this path? Is there such a thing as a true ally in these lands rife with war? Doubt clouds my mind, but the soothing forest once again brings back memories, only this time more recent. In every battle, at every turning point on my journey, I have been aided by men who stood by their convictions and their beliefs. They were willing to fight for something.

The crunch of grass brings me back to the chase, where the man called von Burger has entered my vision. Racked with paranoia, he turns his head to see if anyone is following him, but fails to see me follow on the other side of a shrub. As he turns back around, barely in time to avoid colliding with a tree, I break the shadow of the bush and make a running start up a tall oak. The act of climbing a tree was so imbedded into my blood that I waste no thought as I place my foot into a knot and grab a branch above me. A small jump, a swing from a higher branch to a lower one on another nearby elm tree, and I'm back to running, with boughs replacing soil underneath my feet. The German turns around once more, but he cannot see me as I gain ground on him. The sloping landscape, the placement of twigs and rocks hinder his movements, but I am free from such obstacles. As I make one final leap, the blade hidden underneath my right army extending, my prey turning around, prettified in horror, I think back to why I continued to help the Patriots. They held a belief, like me, and fought to see it come to fruition. Why then did I fight? My blade pierces the Templar's throat, and the answer comes to me.

Because no one else will.

Entrant 3 - Shankbot de Bodemloze

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“Get me a Scotch on the rock-“

“I wouldn’t order that if I was you.” A voice whispered from behind me in the darkness, its icy breath sending a tingling chill down to back of spine, the hairs along my neck standing up straight as a slight tremor of recognition swarmed across my heated brain as everything inside it whizzed around frantically trying to place the icy voice.

He continued, whispering ever more quietly so that even from how close I was my ears strained to hear him, “Your time has come to pass.” And with that I felt the breath vanish almost as quickly as it appeared, the slight crunch created as the person walked away vibrating around the room. Time had seemed to of slowed during the time the mysterious voice was there as the barman was looking at still waiting for me to finish my order.

Shakily I waved him away and decide maybe a drink wasn’t such a good idea. I turned around causing my head to spin unexpectedly as everything around my blurred, like a mustard stain does when wiped. I heard a commotion of voices as I felt my heart’s beats slowing to a distance thud which overcame all the other sounds around me, filling my chest with the slow bang of drums.

I looked down and saw the cause of all the commotion as a red stain, akin to ketchup found in a burger, was protruding from my lower abdomen. It then struck me as to whom the mysterious voice was and I realised in a long instant what a genius I had become...

Taken from the diary of Thomas C. Hummington^[1], written on the night he was found dead in his apartment after coming home from the Dancing Dancer^[2] – a high end cocktail bar located in his local area^[3]. It is unknown who the subject^[4] off the entry^[5] is. A copy of the entry is located in the local records office, the original is still pending for further investigation. Access to investigation procedure is prohibited under the 65 Act. Notify relevant persona for court issue access under the 66 Act. This page is under the viewing conditions of the 67 Act.

Click here for full document notation. <<see edit history>> <<lasted edited by //invalid identification number - notify SYSTEM ADMINSTRATOR\\>>

[1]6ft 2 Male – see here for full patient profile.
[2]Barman and Manger were interviewed. Subject wasn't a local despite living close by. CCTV camera inactive on that night – pending investigation
[3]ENTRY IS MISSING
[4]Patient often exhibited delusions – see here for full patient profile. [added entry{“Ongoing investigations to reveal reality of subject awareness after post-mortem cross examinations”}]
[5]Held in local records office - level 5 access required [accessed: ####{“entry deleted – system administrator”}]

_____________________________________

Case No. 687 Subject No. 001 [Debrief File]
Evidence No. 098 Archived under 68 Act.
Copy available under Procedure 79.
_____________________________________

Entrant 4 - ☩Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves☩

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Entrant 5 - Maximinus Thrax

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Ok, lads! Half-time will soon be over, in just about three minutes! All eyes and ears on me! Johnson, I said all eyes and ears on me! Did you forget to clean your ears this morning or something? What’s with that crooked smirk on your face, Johnson?

…Back to our tactics board then! Smith, you know that you’re our best goalkeeper in years, always solid as a rock! The previous one had never managed to defend the goal area as you do now. We used to loose matches on a five goal difference per game. Now we’re loosing almost each of them on a three or four goal difference… I dare say our game has definitely improved since we transferred you last year from that pathetic team! What was its name? Ah, never mind that…

Brown, Evans, Collins and Foster! I heard the opposite coach mumbling something about your collective stance. Can’t say if he was mocking you or admiring you altogether. However, his assistant coach was clearly laughing but that’s not the point here! He must have witnessed something amusing happening in the spectators area… Collins, please pass me those burgers lying on that table over there. My wife never forgets to prepare me seven or eight of them before each game; she knows that I always get hungry when under stressful conditions. No, Collins, you can’t have not even one burger! The players are only allowed to eat oranges, bananas or crunchy fig bars!

Jenkins, Barnes, Clarke and Harris! Try to move around a bit during the game! That’s what midfielders are supposed to do, you know… People will start thinking you’re some sort of spectators who enter the pitch during a game, usually to ruin its course. For Christ’s sake, I notice that my wife forgot to add mustard to these burgers… Why did that happen, considering that she knows that my burgers are worthless without mustard? Clarke, be a nice chap and pass me the mustard from the fridge! No mustard you say? Alright, in that case give me the bottle of ketchup then…

Johnson and Lewis! Both of you are lacking the much needed skill and subtlety, the top two qualities any worthy striker should possess. I’m talking to you now, Johnson! Bear in mind that I will no longer tolerate your confusion over which is the adversary’s scoring area. As of this season, you’ve scored more own goals than the whole team together. We’ve suffered enough because of your tomfooleries. You’ll either comply with my request or I’ll hire you as my personal sandwich maker from now on!

Onto the pitch now, lads! And keep in mind that our primary objective is to avoid humiliation at all costs! Hmm, this bottle of ketchup seems to be empty and I’ve still got four burgers left… Johnson, rush to the nearby store and fetch me some mustard, will you!

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