ToTW 120 - The revenge of Christmas a new beginning for ToTW.

[Hesus de bodemloze]

The revenge of Christmas a new beginning for ToTW.




5 Keywords :

- vessel
- saddle
- raw meat
- knife
- campfire


Quote of the day :

A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of coloured ribbon.

~ Napoleon Bonaparte ~

Rules and awards :

- 5 keywords that have to be used in the story
- Word limitation of minimum 200 but maximum 500 words, in a spoiler
- Deadline is the following Sunday (this is an exception competition deadline will be January 1)
- Minimum 3 submissions to start the competition
- If you are a contestant you are honour bound to not read other contestants' writings until you have submitted yours.

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Please vote for my story in ToTW.

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Awards

Each winning story will receive 1 point, if you compete in the MAARC competition this point will be combined with the ones you have won there.

6 points - bronze medal
12 points - silver medal
24 points - golden medal

[Nazgûl Killer]

What are you here for?

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

"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.

Written from a soldier's perspective of life.

[Darkan]

OK, here is my sumission. Cheers and good luck to all!

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.
...

[Robin de Bodemloze]

My attempt:

Calm before the storm

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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!

[Mizzycupcakez]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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?

[Jakeler]

499 words My attempt. Hope you enjoy.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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.

[Archimonday]

My Submission

Step One.

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I hear the thunder of the hooves, approaching swiftly up behind me. The battle around me blurs. All I can hear is those hooves, the beating of my own heart, and the desperate breathing of my body. I have one split second in time to decide my fate, and yet that second creeps by like eternity. The wound on my left arm goes numb, my eyes fix on the beast approaching me. The grip on my musket tightens, my knees, like instinct, adjust, weight shifted forward. The sun beats down upon my face like the heat of the previous nights camp fire. My shako is wet, now the vessel of my perspiration. The weight of my kit dissipates, my fatigue, forgotten. My eyes meet his. The terrified look in his eyes is hidden by the furious nature of his face, and the doubt of his following actions can be read. Decide,

Step one, dismount rider from saddle with high swing of rifle butt. Readjust grip. Step forward towards rider. Raise musket to counter sword, kick to push back attacker. Dodge horizontal slashes, thrust with bayonet. Embed bayonet in his flesh, twist, Withdraw. Grab attackers hand as it grips the raw meat of arm wound. Drop musket. Deliver blow to bayonet wound, draw knife from boot. Upward slash to slice attackers arm. Kick attacker to ground. Place knee firmly on attackers chest, block right hook, slice throat.

Breath. Step One.

[Juvenal]

500 words exactly! (excluding title)

The Last Leap

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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.

[Dark Storm]

My attempt

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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.

[gotrek]

First time having a shot at this....

Henri de Carrion-Nizas ( based on a true story)

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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....