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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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[ERROR] No.25793396 [Reply] [Original] [4plebs] [archived.moe]

Ahhhhhh snaaaaaaaaap, writethread son!

The rules are simple, write a story/description based on an image posted in the thread. Then post your own image to keep things going!

The stories can be individual or connected, whatever you want.

>> No.25793407

I'll post a few pics to get things going.

>> No.25793414

Feel free to comment on stories and pretend to be like one of those ivory tower cool cats.

god they are so cool

>> No.25793422

Your piece can be as long as you want and as deep as you dare.

>> No.25793496

I'm afraid I'm going to write something, and someone's going to be like "Jesus fuck what the hell are you doing this is a 40K image you scrub stop making shit up"

>> No.25793545

Fa/tg/uys are pretty mellow, and writethreads don't attract that much attention. Give it a shot.

>> No.25793626

Is that the guy from Shadow of the Colossus?

>> No.25793678



>> No.25793688


there have been 40k stories in writethreads before, you'll be fine

>> No.25793750

The ivory tower. We'd been fighting all night just to clear the first room. The stone cold cats up stairs, the killers that looked down on the world, weighed and measured it, knew we were coming. Things were getting bloody quick. The tower corridors were cramped, no room for much fancy blade work. So it was the knife all the way. The grapple, the strangulation, and the bloody punctures that left men bleeding out on the white ivory steps.
They built this damn place out of dragons you know. The stone cold cats thought the great lizard worked better as a flight of stairs than a marvellous terror of the skies. They hunted down every last one of those terrible lizards to build this place. Along with all the other creatures they deemed unworthy. The elves had their forests burned down around them. Some of the womenfolk lived on in bondage somewhere in the tower.
We'll get to them if we can.
The men we're fighting don't have names any more. Don't have an identity. Scoured away by their masters. In their pressed white uniforms and alabaster great helms they even all looked alike. Halberds in hand, they couldn't coordinate together, got in each other's way and made the knife work almost easy. Poor bastards, even as we killed them we were still fighting for them.
The magic makes us faster, stronger, but it burns up our blood. It doesn't last forever. Half the guys are dropping from exhaustion as much as from the odd thrust or crushing blow of the halberdiers. Our strength was flagging.
It wasn't blood that came out of my mouth, or at least it wasn't blood any more. It was hot, burned my tongue, and let off a vicious stink. It glowed amber. When I spat a mouthful on one guard, it scorched his immaculate uniform right through. A tooth came out with it, nasty and rotted. My body is breaking down even as the magic pushes me on in an exhilarating rush.

>> No.25793761

I'm loving it, the euphoria. I'm dying even though I ain't been touched once by these mooks. It's a cocaine thrill.
I'm flying across ivory cobblestones, weaving through defence. The red looks richer on white cloth.
I'm hacking up more of what used to be blood, teeth slipping from my gums as it came up.
We're clearing the tower. By the gods the cats had butchered, the good and the evil, we were making it.
But there weren't many of us left when we reached the cannoniers with their iron-cast rifles, belching black-powder and lead. Black stained on white, they were less in number than their primitive cousins, but fought in tighter ranks and fired with deadly precision.
Only two of us lasted in time to get in amongst them. Up close they put up less of a fight.
We staggered on the verge of death, the last two.
The antechamber, the last guardian o the stone cold cats.
An arcanist in cold-iron chains, a green skinned fey. He weaved runes of power through the air and turned our own blood against us. I saw my cousin explode in a shower of hot molten amber. His blood burned out one of my eyes.
I staggered and leapt, carried past his protective wards. The tired old sage seemed pleased when my knife cut his thin neck. It was like slicing through air, a wisp of smoke broke from the wound and the ancient being was gone, collapsed into a pile of rags, chains and black bones.
The ones who judged waited in the room beyond but before I can even touch the door my knee buckles. It shatters on the hard ivory, but I'm too drawn out to scream. The skin of my hand looks ancient, I can see the skeleton within me moving against the thin flesh.
Almost gone, I coughed up a thin trail of slime from my toothless mouth.
I put all my disappearing weight against the door.
The cats would be within. The creatures that had ravaged this world, plundered it for its worth and smashed it apart for their own shrill amusement. The stone cold cats would die by my blade.
I pushed against the door.

>> No.25793769

The rattle of bones on ivory rang across an empty chamber. Four statues looked on from the corners of the room. Cold statues, unliving, wrought in the image of the short-furred Siamese. They did not blink, they did not breath. They looked onto the rag wrapped bones with no thoughts at all. They had never been more than stone.

>> No.25793793

And here's my image.

>> No.25793827


Really cool story. Love the fluff and the visceral imagery. The nature of the magic on the protagonist is really cool. The last image has a really nice amount of haunting. There is some weird word choice.

>> No.25793831

"No oil for blood!" their leader cried as I crashed into him and stabbed him with my sword. He crumpled instantly and gurgled intelligibly as black, viscous fluid gushed from the killing wound I had given him. Other protestors stood in horror and watched him die, afternoon light glinting in their dead, mechanical eyes. "Disperse them", I orderd my men, "strike down those who resist." They set into their grim work with the efficiency of men numbed to violence. I fished a rag from my pocket to clean the stinking petroleum off my blade and tried not to look.
They called us Peacekeepers, but in truth the only thing we kept was the blood flowing, nothing else mattered. It wasn't a prestigious, moral, or even a strictly legal job, but someone had to do it. The demon blood we pumped from the ground was the only thing that kept the Empire going, and if some former army captain had to lose his soul and self-respect then so be it.
My family back home hates me and calls me a butcherer, and I don't disagree. But if a small atrocity here translates into progress there, then it is worth it. At least that's what I tell myself at night trying to sleep.
The men had finished clearing the blockade, and the pump station was in our control again. The blood would flow, today.

>> No.25793861


Fucking awesome fluff and the images that come from it.

>> No.25793896

Let's have at least one landscape thing here too.

>> No.25793922

Thanks anon! It was a pretty quick work, but I'm reasonably satisfied with it. I started by wondering why the blood in the picture is black, and associated from there, it's a fun way to write.

>> No.25793954

Skinny Val had always been what the literate types called a nar-sti-cyst. What he was for Coll Meanie was a pussy tick sleeping with other men's wives.

And it wasn't like Coll to let a wop go and get his hands on a good Irish gel, but it wasn't like old Coll to do much dirty work either.

So he turned to a couple of up and coming corner boys. Black Larry had a mick ma and a nigger pa, but he ran shamrock green if you catch the meaning. His partner-in-less-than-legal-recreation was Two-Pop, called as such on his preferred method of dealing with a pimp.



Now Coll paid his bullies good dough. But only when the job was done. Black Larry and Two-Pop didn't have it easy. Skinny Val could slip through any trap the Irish or the feds would set for him.

But Larry and Pop didn't like it easy neither.

>> No.25793995






>> No.25794005

I'm pretty sure this was a stage in Soul Calibur III.

>> No.25794029


"Do you like to hurt people?"

Back to front, this is how you run the fastest. The calloused heel strikes the earth to provide stability for the entire foot to get into position. Then you shift weight to the front, springing yourself forward. There will be rocks that push against your skin, but they won't be able to cut you because you are strong. Run long enough in the sun then the soles will warm up and cook the remaining nerves, maybe even boil blood.

"Do you like to hurt people?"

Your hand grips a little girl's, but she isn't in your brain. You are strong and will not let go. She is safe so there is nothing to think about. You need to focus on the brush. That will be haven, as it always has been. Your soft hands grew callous on rough tree bark. Your soft feet grew callous on rough tree bark. You laid on the tree branch, strong and firm. It would never break.

"Do you like to hurt people?"

You sat in your hut with the other soldiers, smoking death and injecting poison into each others. The wood of the Kalashnikov is worn, soft. The Adidas are comfortable. A chicken walked in the hut, one that the other soldiers refused to see. It did not search for food but instead strutted to you. It pecked at your shoelaces, untying them. You shooed it away. Your eyes met one of its. Its eye is amber with a large black circle. As a chick it would be a black orb. It turned its head and looks at you with the eye of the other side. It asked you a question.

"Do you like to hurt people?"

>> No.25794033

They found Val comin' out of a speakeasy over Yancy street way. Deep Jewish neighbourhood. The tip off came from a kid who ran a card game out the back, what you might call a networking type, looking to making friends in unusual places.

They stepped light though. The Jew-Wolves weren't exactly friendly to out of towners. Least of all a schwartz like Larry or a right up cunt like Two-Pop. No coming in popping shots off through some old dry bastard's book-keeping store.

Now Val saw the two young thugs coming, but he wasn't exactly in the middle of wop country either and he had to play nice too. No drawing pistols like this was the OK Corral.

He tried slipping through the back alleys, but the boys liked to hunt, and this town was their forest. Larry had a length of weighted wire, Two-Pop had a nice little club.

Two-Pop had Val's measure, blew out the back of his leg with a sick crack.

Larry was on him with the strangulation. Damn near cut his head off.

They bundled him up nice and good in the big coat he had on, the sort you need to keep that New York chill out, and carried him 'tween 'em like he was a drunk they were helping home.

They took a trip by the harbour.

Skinny Val ain't sleepin' with no Irish broads no more. Maybe his corpse will catch the odd mermaid cunt, but mostly his pecker was getting tended to by the fish and the crabs.

And that's it for Valentino, who never hurt no body but put his prick where it had no business being. Goodbye Val, ya dumb wop bastard.

>> No.25794065


I like this, does a really good job defining the narrator and the world he lives in.

>> No.25794075

>> No.25794087


word, I usually start by having an image I want to create and then expand out from there

>> No.25794115

I like this, I don't know whether the used lingo is 'realistic', but it's consistent and gives a feeling of 1930s gangster talking.

>> No.25794117

>> No.25794137

>> No.25794143

Very evocative piece, I like this!

>> No.25794148


1 frontier world at the end of a star cluster. World not so much colonized as it was the last stop for anyone with nowhere else to go.

An implacable foe which cannibalized and twisted our dead, powered by an energy we couldn't begin to comprehend. Even after 20 years of fighting.

250 brave souls who took up arms. Ex-soldiers, mercenaries and corporate bodyguards. Even a a fire team sidetracked by deep space comms.

1 month of fighting.

3 survivors.

I remain now. I can never forget that world. Not the dryness of desert air, the metal-meat stench of the wraiths as they overran our positions. Not the fear of the scrum as I tried to line my sidearm for a mouthshot.

Or the sacrifice of my brethren. I cannot forget.

And neither will you.

(It's a cool picture to me. I couldn't let it slide.)

>> No.25794170


Thanks, I was inspired by Hotline Miami.

>> No.25794210


I really like the diction. you get across the personality of the narrator really well.

>> No.25794220

Had it been hours since the battle ended? Days? A week even? I didn't have much sense of time any longer. We had been doing a routine patrol of the village we were occupying when we were blindsided by an assault. The first shell landed down the street from where I stood on a corner and that set my ears to ringing. An instant later this village square was almost unrecognizable. Building walls were blown out, flames billowed and guttered and as I cradled my ringing head I could hear somewhere far off and below the panicked cries of the villagers mingled with the barking of my fellow soldiers.
I ground my teeth and forced myself to my feet, overcoming the initial stun of the attack and began to scan the chaos for an officer or an enemy. Anything to add order to the scene. I made it across the street, turned one more corner and then with a sudden burst of heat and sound all I knew was darkness.

I am awake now and I am alone. I do not know how long I was buried in the remains of this village. I do not know who attacked us or why. I am able to walk but it is painful and I cannot hear the gravel beneath my boots. I am afraid now that the shells have taken my hearing. I move forward and I hear... something. It is faint but I know I hear it. With a dry tongue I lick blood from my cracked lips and move froward coaxed by this faint sound. As I move it is becoming clearer. A gentle tinkling. This is music that I hear and while comforting it is completely unfamiliar to me.

As I pass by ruined buildings a clearing comes into view and the music, all that I hear, continues to wax and take shape. In this clearing I see it. Standing upright and defiant among the rubble sits a piano. I approach and the alien music is blaring now. It would would be deafening were I not surely already deaf. Never in my life had I heard a music like this. It floated, it struck it knew all the right places in my heart and in my head and so I touched the instrument and began to play.

>> No.25794242


My favorite piece in the board. I'm a sucker for two-bit hood tales.

>> No.25794306


"O'dwoll'o, what's happening?" Emily tried to say as they ran. She got no response. That look on his face was the one he had when he was given a direct order from her father. It was what his family had liked so much about him, why his station on the plantation had been so much better than any of the others: O'dwoll'o was a servant of unparalleled caliber, not because of his strength or his efficiency, but because he could be trusted.
They kept running, over hills, across plains, and through trees, and the plantation receded in the distance. Emily tried to look back, so that she would not lose the way home, but O'dwoll'o kept tugging her arm every time she tried. What was going on? The outside of the plantation was dangerous- she'd always been told so. What were they doing out here?
"Stop. O'dwoll'o, stop!"
"No yet, ma'am. No jus' yet."
She tried one last time to look back. Before another jerk from O'dwoll'o, she thought she saw a wisp of smoke coming from the docks. But there were no fireplaces there; the kitchens were on the other side of the fields...
Somewhere in her mind, it occurred to her that what was happening behind her might be more dangerous than anything else in Africa.
She did not try to stop O'dwoll'o again.

>> No.25794334


>the metal-meat stench of the wraiths

This is a really cool image

>> No.25794360

I'm finally doing it /tg/. I'm going to write heroic fantasy. But I need a map generator that will churn out a world that is fairly Hyborian in nature; ie it needs to be one big continent, with snowy northern lands full of pseudo-Vikings, warmer grasslands, jungles and deserts for negro tribes and pseduo-Egyptians, as well as mountain steppes for pseudo-Mongols. Any recommendations?

>> No.25794370

This ends in rape, doesn't it?

>> No.25794381


if you look up random map generator in google you'll get a hit. I just used the first one I came across

>> No.25794398

Ehh, I dunno. Although technically correct this piece feels a bit flat, it doesn't grip the reader you know? Perhaps start with the final part about alien music, and then flashback the starting part?

>> No.25794412

It was cold down here, in the heart of the glacier. An excavation was underway, a deep tunnel drilled into the ice-shelf's heart.

"We've found it sir," a nervous looking aide-de-camp handed him a folder stacked thick with paper.

"Found what?" McGinley's voice was like a dull razor on rock. The mission had been put together quickly, and quietly. Once another piece of the continent spanning ice had cracked off this whole thing had been set in motion. Supposedly in command of the operation, Colonel McGinley had only a dim idea about what the whole thing was about.

The aide gave him a look, just a flex of his eyes, but it put a dark thought in the back of McGinley's head.

"The object sir," the aid bit his lower lip and looked down the tunnel, toward the light and the chamber that had been constructed there.

McGinley took a hand rolled cigarette out from behind his ear and lit it up. He snatched the papers from the aides hand.

He'd find out what this was all about, even though his free hand strayed towards the butt of his pistol.

A science team, run by a well possessed older woman, operated on ice with cutting tools. Oluchi Omega, out of Cape Town. The world's foremost expert on extra-normal anomolies, whatever in Kentucky that meant.

Colonel McGinley liked the shape of her well enough, but the words she spoke made him feel like a cat in a scrapyard.

"Colonel!?" she seemed surprised and delighted.

"Object Dr Omega, what is?" he huffed on his cigarette.

An intern blew the smoke away with a can of pressurized air. He gave the young man a glare that promised a soon-to-be delivered boot.

"Ah yes, let me show you her," She took McGinley by the arm like they were a-courtin' and led him down to where the team were hacking with rotarised saws and burning with torches

>> No.25794424

I tried that with 'fantasy world generator' myself, but the outcome was too....islandy. I'll alter some parameters and see if that gets me what I want...

>> No.25794435 [DELETED] 


>With a dry tongue I lick blood from my cracked lips

I like this image.

>> No.25794452

The old man finished wiping his sword and took the oily cloth to his nose. As he expected, his brow frowned when the smell of dusty old cloth and oil assaulted his nostrils and tickled his nose hairs. Cautiously, he folded the cloth and wiped his hands on his tunic before reaching for the poppy cake on the table in front of him. He bit into it and tasted the sweet aroma of fresh, warm bread and the well-known smell of the ground poppy seeds which covered the top of the warm bun. It reminded him of days of youth when he alone bested thirteen men from the valley during a spring fair, just for a skin of cold wine and three poppy cakes, lovingly bundled up in a scarf by his future wife.

The same brown eyed woman who now sat on the opposite side of the small hand made table, gray from use and riddled with greasy spots and patches of charred wood from the searing hot kitchen pots. She was crying, sobbing, wailing and praying at the same time, as women often did when they were faced with the inevitable.

„Jesus, Jospeh, Maria, Holy Spirit, please protect them and return them to me. They are all I have, I beg of you Lord, take my life, take my tongue, take my eyes, but protect them from harm.“

And so she swayed back and forth, in the rhythm of her prayers and tears fully oblivious to the world around, wailing and moaning. The old man looked at her, picked the poppy seeds out of his thick moustache and stood up.


>> No.25794455

He approached the roughly squared dresser in the corner of the room and cupped some water with his hands from the shallow bowl on top to wash the weariness from his eyes. Then he turned to the smudged mirror fragment which hanged on the wall near him and readjusted his medals. Even when they rusted away and all the gold plating fell off he refused to stop wearing them. Even when the children from the valley called him the „bell-man“ because of the jingling sound he made when he walked. He fastened them in the morning and removed them at night, before bed. When asked about them he used to say:

„I wore them around for almost 50 years, I'll wear them for 10 more and then bury me with them.“

And that would end most of the discussions about his medals.

He fastened his sword and placed his hat on his head, as he was exiting the house, leaving the lamenting wife in her tears.

Two of his sons were standing there, leading three horses. The biggest, oldest one was his. A battered old thing, relieved from it's heavy plough stood and watched with it's heavy eyelids. It looked like it was about to collapse.

2/3 (I fucked up)

>> No.25794456


This. You definitely have an understanding of the emotions your character feels, you just need to find a way to get them across to the reader.

>> No.25794471

His sons, God bless them, stood both strong and tall, with heads full of dark hair, strong arms to wield the swords and good heads to know when to sheath it. He grabbed them both for their shoulders and kissed their foreheads.

As they mounted their horses, his wife, covered in black came out still sobbing. With her, her daughter-in-law, wife of his eldest son, sobbing and wailing as well.

„Oh my poor, poor sons.“ – She dropped the basket she's been carrying and started to kiss the old man's shoes.

„Please, please, if you ever loved me, have pity on me now. Have pity on my sons, let them stay, have pity on them.“

The old man's face didn't change and after a minute of silence his wife rose again, and collected the basket which she dropped.

Several bundles of bread, dried meat and onions came from the basket and distributed to the three men. As she put the skins of wine around her sons' neck she hugged each one and with a feverish tremble as she whispered to them:

„God will save you my son. I will pray for you. Come back to us.“

After the food got handed out, the three men solemnly and gloomily proceeded out of the homestead on their horses, leaving the women behind in tears and silent prayer, interrupted only by painful sobs.
And all but the old man, had their heads down and tears in their eyes.

>> No.25794472

'Her'. Usually science-types were weird, giving human signatures to pieces of rock.

The cigarette rolled out of his mouth when he realised she was speaking literally.

The object', a single piece of blue crystal. And it looked like a teenage girl. Veins ran through it, light running through those veins. The lids of its, her, eyes were closed, but even those had slender blue crystal lashes that seemed a moment away from fluttering open.

"God in heaven," he fumbled out a new cigarette. Oluchi lit it up with a blow torch.

"What shall we call her Colonel?" she asked, "The team suggested the Paleocene Girl. That seems to be her approximate age."

She was perfect and pulsating with life. McGinley could barely breathe.

"Sally," he said, as he looked on the spitting image of his long dead daughter, "Her name is Sally."

>> No.25794479

A grammatical question, is 'in the heart' or 'at the heart' correct?

>A science team run by a well possessed older woman
She's haunted by demons?

>> No.25794480

Yeah, was going for something kind of flat and vacant feeling in that scene but you're right. There needs to be some kind of contrast because as is there is not much that interesting going on and definitely not an initial hook.

>> No.25794502

The worst you'll get is everyone will just ignore your writing. Like what happened to me

>> No.25794526

Y-you are not alone

>> No.25794528

> well possessed

Of good bearing, statuesque, or just of a confident demeanour. I'm playin' with language here, trying to use less than usual terminology to try and conjure an image in yer head.

> A grammatical question, is 'in the heart' or 'at the heart' correct?

Both. I think. Grammar and me are infrequent associates.

>> No.25794561

Forgot to post.

>> No.25794599

*cricket sounds*

>> No.25794600


Beware the Tormentor, beloved. It is a prey greater than I have ever known. To conquer it is to conquer the world. You have the power to slay it, let my words give you respite. Enter the Crucible and follow the black marks for the Tormentor brands all that it claims. Your defiance will offend it. Know that it will find you, lured by the suffering you have endured as all Rohyn do. Hide among the rocks in the middle of the cliff to find the eye. With Last Whisper, blind it. Tormentor will be appalled by your audacity and staggered by pain. This will be your chance. Throw yourself from the cliff and strike at the creature's throat. A tide of blood will try and cast you aside but hold firm for your blade will be thirsty and will not let go. Stay fast and you will take its life, only then shall Realm Razer accept you as master.

>> No.25794608

"Well may we say God save the Queen, but nothing will save the Governor General."
With these words Gough Whitlam went down in history as a character with only two dimensions. For one side he is the democratically elected saviour of Australia, deposed by political machinations and a colonial mechanism both outdated and dysfunctional - for the other half he is a bitter and decrepit fool whose inability to even pass a budget through Parliament is evidence enough of his failings.
In either case, it goes without saying that what happened to Mr Whitlam was both surprising and unprecedented in all the short, dull history of Australia. But what, exactly, did happen?
Mr Gough Whitlam was the Prime Minister of Australia for a brief period of the mid 1900s. His election ended Conservative domination of the country that had been a fact of life since the end of the war, and was hoped to provide a breath of fresh air into a stagnant political climate. He began to implement reforms almost immediately - public transport, defence, education: all was overhauled before the New Blood.
He met stiff opposition. His power was secured by only a few seats, and his radical changes began to wear. Eventually his government became a minority one - he had enough seats to be in power, but not enough to control more than half the federal Senate. When he attempted to pass the budget for that year, he couldn't get enough votes in the Upper House and the country ground to a halt.
The Queen's representative in Australia, wary of a deadlock, stepped in. Using long-forgotten powers afforded to him, the Governor General dissolved Australian government subject to another election, and removed Mr Whitlam as Prime Minister after a brief meeting with him.
And so he uttered his famous words as the stalked down the stairs from the Governor General's office, and his legacy was secured.

>an attempt at brief informative writing. any questions i didn't answer?

>> No.25794633

I did post it late at night in a dying thread, so I might just repost later because I am dirty, dirty whore. I will have to write something else first, though.

>> No.25794657

I don't remember the Queen being a sexy vampirish looking chick at the time.

>> No.25794661


You have a weird overlap of omniscient narrator and a character being the narrator with some phrasing. You should create a firmer divide. Cool mystery.

>Veins ran through it, light running through those veins

Nice image

>> No.25794676


Nice drama but needs words that grab the reader.

>> No.25794717

I'd still use 'composed' instead, since you're going for a fantasy vibe the word 'possessed' is just too ambiguous.

>> No.25794719

Third person perspective can be tricky sometimes. Although I'll cop to the fact I blur the line between omniscient and character narration deliberately, because I don't like first person but I do like some of the things you can do in first person.

A personal style I'm struggling to develop.

>> No.25794723

What's your piece, anon? I can take a look.

>> No.25794729


Really awesome scenario and I love the old man character.

>> No.25794748

>I blur the line between omniscient and character narration deliberately
That is a bad idea, anon. Sure you could do that if you want to, but the end result will be just clunky.

>> No.25794753


It can be used really well if there is a reveal/implication that the narrator is a character in the story but trying to hide it. There are probably other ways to effectively blur the line.

I'm the same way with past and present tense.

>> No.25794759

You should read Taras Bulba.
One of my favorite books.
And, obviously it influenced this text

>> No.25794772

That's your opinion and you're free to have it.

>> No.25794792


You describe the government operation nicely without taking up too much time while getting across some nice character building.

>> No.25794806

I'm just warning you man, not trying to put you down.

>> No.25794807


I'll check it out.

>> No.25794836


I agree that he should definitely control it but the technique does have potential to create some neat stories and sentences.

>> No.25794877

>> No.25794935


A traveller and a merchant ride across the desert on the back of camels. To pass time, the merchant speaks to the traveller.

"Tell me, neighbor, what is the tallest mountain you have seen?"

The traveller scratched the back of his left thumb with the nail of his other.

"I would suppose the King's Throat."

The merchant smiled and laughed.

"The King's Throat? I'm shocked!"

The traveller smiles and looks at his reigns. He continues to scratch.

"Do not be offended, neighbor, not many people have been to King's Throat and was not prepared for the response. They say 'Vyral, I have hiked its peaks many times and no one could reach the top of the neighbors but I could climb it twice a day without a single lick of salt.'"

The traveller smiles but does not raise his head. He continues to scratch.

>> No.25794942

When the third arrow took the man in the chest and he kept staggering on, Quint spat.

"Hard old bastard don't quit."

The bandits stood framed by the flames of the farm house, dead all around. The old man came on blubbering through grief and bile. His sword was wet from a couple of their comrades too dumb to just stand back and let Quint do his job.

He drew a bead on the old man, meaning to put his last shaft between his eyes.

"No," the boss lowered the tip of the arrow. The boss was a bronze lion of a man, large framed with a mane of wild black hair. He wore no armour save large bronze armlets and heavy cord bands wrapped around his legs.

Quint thought he was half-mad at least. His weapon of choice was a long iron rod that he spun between his broad hands like a grandmother's switch.

"Ain't we being paid to do this old man?" Quint didn't have to ask, he'd been there when the town mayor had placed the gold on the table.

The boss looked on with that distant mad gaze of his. "The old man dies, but not like that."

Quint just shook his head as the boss marched up, swinging about his iron rod.

The old man corrected his flagging body, drawing up his sword. Quint was surprised to see strength come into the old man's arms. He faced down the boss, looking like a beat up mongrel dog squaring off against an immense black bear.

Quint figured the old man must have been someone back in his day. He moved well, even with three arrows sticking out of him. He stepped out of the path of the boss' first swing and checked aside the downward swoop of the follow up. He tried to close in on the boss but the iron staff and the boss' sheer physique was a chasm the old man couldn't seem to cross.

Quint hissed as the staff nearly clipped the side of the old bastard's head, and whistled when the sword came a handspan from cutting the boss, but the old man couldn't keep it up.

>> No.25794976


The old man's last attempt, a downward cut to the head, was flung back by the boss' staff, and the boss closed in with a crushing head. Before the old man could crumple the boss drew him up in a large bear hug.

Quint heard the cracking of bones and the last dying gasps of the old man.

The boss stepped away.

"Who was this old man anyway?" he asked, walking up beside the boss.

The boss was busy with his buckle. He got it loose and took a good long piss on the dead man's corpse.

"No idea, just felt like killing something," he said with a lazy grin for his friend.

>> No.25794978

This lacks resolution. Why is the King's Throat seldom seen? What is the significance of the scratching?

>> No.25794982


Sometimes, I have good ideas. Thanks for that.

>> No.25794997


The merchant looks towards the horizon.

"When they say this I say to them: 'Have you been to Khamynah?' This puzzles them so much! They have not travelled far and so know nothing of the great city. Have you been there, neighbor?"

The traveller now scratches the right with the left. He turns his head away from the merchant.

"Yes, I have seen Khamynah."

"Which gates have you seen?"

"I have seen Yohkho to Buu'ah."

"You are a wanderer greater than I, neighbor! Have you seen the great tower?"

The traveller looked back to his reigns.

"No I have not."

The merchant does not notice the lie.

>> No.25795011

That's fair, and appreciated, but like I said its something I'm working on. I'm hoping to develop it into something good eventually. If it doesn't pan out, eh, fair enough. It's never a bad thing to play around with style.

Right now I'm just experimenting. I've written four stories in this thread, trying to hit a different style with each.

>> No.25795053

It was from an older thread, but I guess I should link it after making this big a deal out of it

>> No.25795075


"Ah, neighbor, then you have missed the greatest sight of them all! Sih'mohn, it is the greatest tower with a spiraling peak that pierces the heavens like a drill grinding against the earth. Had you not said King's Throat I would impress you with its magnitude."

The traveller, who laid the foundation of Sih'mohn and completed its peak, looked to the horizon.

"Yes, King's Throat is mighty. I wish I had seen it sooner."

The merchant laughed.

"Many lives would be improved if they could witness true majesty!"

The merchant changed the subject to far-off lands and exotic spices. The sun disappeared behind the horizon as they talked of ancient treasures lost to time. They would complete their journey the next morning and find a new destination by noon.

>> No.25795098

Is English your first language?

>> No.25795119


Sorry, I didn't number my story. Wasn't sure how long it would be.

>> No.25795120

The Temple was once a grand building, but the walls were broken, the ceiling had collapsed in several places and all the windows had been broken out. Pillars lay about, fragmented and eroded, a testament to their age. A double row of stone benches created a central isle that was remarkably free of detritus. One of the two guards indicated the stone dais at the end of the double aisle.

“There’s two swords, crossed, that have been sunk in the stone. You stand like this,” he gestured, standing straight, “and you put your hands on the pommels like this.” He demonstrated, holding out his hands. He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment. “A word of advice: they’re devilishly cold. Make your ablutions, speak your vows, and then return.”

“What happens after that?” Nolan asked, wide-eyed and shivering. “After that, you’re free to go about your business. If you want to join the army, say the word and I’ll take you back to the High Cleric.”

“For the blessing, right?” Nolan asked, and the knight nodded. “Just so.”

The winds were howling through the shattered walls, moaning in the exposed rafters. There was no shelter. It was thin and biting and knifed through his clothes easily. The stumbling walk to the dais seemed to take an eternity. His mind was a whirl of confusing emotions. What if he refused to take his vows? He wanted to glance behind, but he knew what he’d see. The knights were there, watching him carefully. He could not leave without them. The wilderness outside of the church was unforgiving, he would die in under an hour. If he returned to them without speaking his vows, they would tear him apart, despite the tenuous friendship he’d managed to establish.

>> No.25795124

Some weird sentence structures, but otherwise entirely serviceable piece.
>And that would just be weird.
This had me laughing out loud, nice quip at the end!

>> No.25795134

He approached the dais, shaking and numb, fingers stiff and hands clenched into tight fists. The swords were two great broadswords, with long worked grips, and pommels encrusted in ice. The dais was carved in bas relief, a swirling, wavy pattern that he couldn’t discern in the uncertain light.

Without any prelude, the enormity of what he was going to do and where he was seemed to press down on him. This building was ancient and holy, perhaps the oldest building remaining on the Island. Consecrated and blessed by the Frozen Queen herself, venerated by the most violent race on the Island for six thousand years, and he intended to speak vows that would bind him to their race, bind him to their Goddess for the rest of his life. He wanted to stop, turn away, face the guards anyway, but it seemed his feet carried him onward.

The swords were beautiful, displaying craftsmanship the like of which he had never seen. As the son of a blacksmith, he'd seen many swords and knives and armors and ornamental work of varying degrees of skill, and nothing compared to them. The blades were wide and the color of pale milk, seemingly shimmering in the uncertain light. What they had told him before was true, then: The Borean Lady had fashioned them herself from the purest White Alloy and presented the pair of them to her blessed knights as a physical reminder of their vows.

His feet reached the dais and he glanced back at the two knights that lounged at the doorway, seemingly nonplussed. Turning back, he ascended the three short steps carved in the milk-white stone, he placed his hands on the pommels as he’d been directed.

>> No.25795147

Immediately he regretted it. The pommels were colder than stone, colder than ice, colder than the coldest freezing winter that howled down from the darkest void of night. It froze the bones in his hands, froze the blood in his veins, froze the flesh on his body, froze him seemingly to his soul. He couldn’t move if he wanted. He couldn’t think properly. His thoughts were sluggish, as if they had to fight through icy slush to make themselves known. He opened his mouth and took a breath, the air seared his throat and froze his lungs.

His vow tumbled from his numb lips, words low and frozen. He was vaguely and viscerally surprised that the words didn’t take tangible form, freezing in his teeth as he spoke them.

>> No.25795156

The front of the church was mostly intact, but as he spoke the vows, the ceiling collapsed in a rush. Nolan couldn’t have dodged or taken cover had he been given a chance, but the falling wood and stone never touched him. His head rocked back and the sky seemed to swirl madly. It was only later that he discovered he’d sank to his knees. He saw a face, then. A familiar face. Was it his mother? Was it one of his father’s ladyfriends? Was it one of his friends? He couldn’t place the memory, his ability to think had vanished, frozen over by the numbing cold that seemed to slice through his body. His body rocked back and forth. He shook. He babbled. The face moved closer, vague lines and contours resolving themselves into the form of a beautiful woman with eyes colder than ice, with a face smoother than newfallen snow. He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t do anything. His hands seemed nailed to the two swords. A fierce feeling of heat seemed to ignite in his chest and his body surged forward against the blades. She seemed to be saying something, then. He couldn’t hear it over the screaming wind, but he nodded, laughing, tears freezing to his face. He shouted something; he could not remember what it was. His hands seemed like they were no longer nailed to the swords, instead he gripped them to keep from falling over. Gripped them to keep from collapsing, gripped them as if his life depended on it, as if they were feeding him strength and keeping him alive.

>> No.25795162

I don't mean this as an insult, you just have a weird way of putting together a sentence. Your grammar is less than typical, you could say.

>> No.25795163

Yeah. Wrote that late at night while sidetracked by other shit and didn't bother to give it a proper proofreading, though. It is pretty bad, I know, but I just couldn't get the image of some alien lizard hiring a lady to wear him like a hat out of my head after that thread.
Thanks! Once that line popped into my head I knew I had to include it.

>> No.25795172


A very funny scenario with a good build and a hilarous punchline. Try having more psychic distance from the protagonist so you have more freedom to describe the scene and the characters.

>> No.25795191

I think some of it was due to what >>25795172 said. I think I was trying to narrate "in character" so to speak. Thanks, I’ll have to work on that.

>> No.25795340


Use more specific words. Focus on exactly what you want to create.

I really liked the part where you used the dialogue of the knight to describe the scene, use that more. See if you can make the characters the vessels of the scene's construction.

>> No.25795405


Really awesome character building all around. I really like the twists of the boss character.

>The bandits stood framed by the flames of the farm house, dead all around.

Awesome image. Simple and resonating.

>> No.25795407

writefagging delivered; here's an image in payment

>> No.25795514


There are two demons in our world, Dragon and Mistress. Dragon has long been dead but clings to life as his skin clings to him. With a glistening skull he brings his head close to Mistress and whispers shrieks into her ear. His words make her smile and slips her long fingers between his ribs and strokes his still heart with the tips of sharp nails. Thus instilled with life, Dragon spreads flayed wings and cackles, taking too the skies while Mistress waits for the coming feast.

>> No.25795570

Oooh. I like it.

>> No.25795608


Thanks. I love makin characters.

>> No.25795617


The action you have is real visceral.

>> No.25795749


>> No.25795766

“Human child-thing, why do cry?” The voice doesn't seem to have an origin, and Kallia looks around in surprise.

“Iral was.. was being mean to me. He- He called me a baby, threw my bear in the lake.” Kallia answered miserably. She liked her bear. Her father had given it to her, before he left.

“I have seen no bears enter the lake.” The voice simply observed, there was no hint of argument or dissension. If anything, it seemed to prompt her to continue. Kallia tried to stop crying, wiping away the tears on her cheek as she sniffled. She didn't know who was watching. If there was someone, she didn't want to look like a baby. Iral was wrong!

She noticed no source of the voice. What she did notice was a pair of odd bubbles on the surface of the lake; almost like eggs floating exactly in place.

“He's small. Fuzzy. Made of cloth, just a stuffed bear...” Kallia answered nervously, still uncertain who she was speaking to, but worried about the odd bubbles. They seemed to be moving closer, maybe.

“A cloth stuffed-bear. I believe I see it. Would you like me to retrieve him?” It was a simple, curious question. Kallia thought it odd. Of course she did. Why bother asking?

But hey, if whoever-it-was brought her bear back, she'd both have her bear and get to see them bring it. “Yes.”

“Very well.” There was no other response for a moment, and Kallia noticed the two eggs- eyes, she thought now, she was certain of it- had slipped beneath the water. Almost a minute passed in placid silence, staring uncertainly at the lake. Then the water broke, and she was alone no longer.

A massive head, bigger than her by itself, rose out of the water on an even more enormous neck. Higher and higher- Higher than her, taller than her mother's cottage, water running freely from its hairy mane- It loomed, closing in on her. Clasped in its jaw, pierced by many of the needle-like teeth, was a small waterlogged bear.

>> No.25795781

Her bear was the only reason Kallia didn't flee. Well, that and being frozen by terror. She gaped in horror at the monstrosity closing in, and barely reacted when it paused a yard from her face. She regained her senses, and almost broke into a run the same second.

“Is this your bear?” The creature didn't seem to speak, but she heard it anyway.

“Yes, may I- May I have it back?” Kallia wasn't certain why she asked. She wanted it, but she didn't wan to get any closer to the creature. On the other hand, she didn't want it to get any closer to her.

Neither happened. Instead, its jaw opened slightly, creating a distinct space between the massive curved-needle teeth. Summoning up all her courage, Kallia stepped into the edge of the lake, getting her feet wet, and grabbed her bear. She couldn't pull it straight back, hooked on the creature's teeth as it was, but the creature cooperated, lowering its head to assist her.

Bear in hand again, Kallia stepped back, feeling jumpy. She wanted to turn and run, now that she had her stuffed animal back, but the creature had just helped her. Mama always said to be polite to creatures that helped her.

“Thank you, uh... mister.” Kallia guessed. It occurred to her that unlike the normal times, she probably had less than half a chance to be right.

“I am not mister.” There was no offense in its 'voice'. Merely gentle correction.

“Err...” Kallia paused, sweating and trying to remember what mama always told her about being polite. For a fleeting moment, she wished she'd paid more attention. Then again, mama said silly things, like how she had to be polite to Iral too.

>> No.25795791

After some consideration, Kallia decided it didn't sound too bad to ask, “What are you?” Empty silence answered her, along with the thing's blank gaze. She got the impression that it might not know.

“Well, I have to- to get back. Thank you for, for pulling my bear out for me.” Kallia offered after a minute, taking a nervous step back from the river bank. The creature seemed to treat this like a signal, smoothly and swiftly pulling back from the lakeshore, retreating until its neck was submerged and only its eyes were visible above the dark water.

“Will you return, human-child?”

“Uh... maybe?” It seemed friendly enough, if strange. “I just have to get home, today. Mam'll want me to be there for dinner.” That was several hours from now, but a true excuse. Mama always told her not to lie. Thinking of her mother, and further lectures on proper behavior, Kallia abruptly realized she hadn't introduced herself, and felt momentarily regretful.

“I'm Kallia, by the way.” It felt awkward to say that right after she'd declared need to leave. But she still wanted to get away. Kallia backed slowly away to the edge of the forest, then turned to start walking.

“Goodbye, Kallia-human-child. Farewell.” The unnatural voice drifted out after her, a strangely friendly and pleasant creature to find in the Black Lake.

Maybe she *would* return.

>> No.25795892


Really cute story!

>> No.25795904

It was a cute picture.

Really, I felt like there was no creativity there. I was just writing exactly what was happening in the picture.

>> No.25795929

Some days, on the days when it isn’t raining, I climb up to the top of the hill and let Mr. Bear twist and turn in the wind. Unless the wind is coming from the Factory. Cos then we have to stay in too, the wind is worse than the rain.

Papa works up at the Factory. I like to think he’s looking down at the hill on those days, when it isn’t raining. Mama says that’s silly, but Mr. Bear tells me to watch. He says that if Papa works hard enough, we can move away from the hill and live somewhere else, somewhere with other kids and other Mama’s.

I don’t really remember Papa. He came down from the Factory once and gave me a present. Mama sold it to a tinker when he went back up. I cried a little and Mama called me names.

Someday, says Mr. Bear, Papa will come down from the Factory and take me somewhere nice, where there’s no smoke or stinging rain. Mama said there’s nowhere like that anymore, but I know she’s wrong cos I saw a picture once in a book.

It’s lonely. Mama doesn’t wanna talk to me anymore. And Papa’s working hard up at the Factory.
But I’ll always have Mr. Bear.

>> No.25796039


Yeah, but you honed in on the elements really nicely. If you are looking for ways to expand, try sitting down and trying to describe something in an engaging way. I find this useful to get me rollin.

>> No.25796183


I really like the character builidng.

>let Mr. Bear twist and turn in the wind

This is really fucking awesome.

>> No.25796686

On the shore of Inis Cillin there is a gateway. No man living can say for sure where it may lead. Perhaps it is Heaven, perhaps it is hell, or perhaps it takes folk to somewhere less defined, less tangible. Once, people came from far and wide to the isle to see the gateway. Priests prayed and danced around it, beseeching their gods to open the way. Scholars took scrapings of rock and pronounced it nothing but an ancient monument. Magicians came and studied it under moonlight, and left and never came back.

Eventually, a city was built by the shore, and the people lived on the strange fish that swim in those waters. Pilgrims still came from abroad to see the gateway, and hear the far-fetched stories the locals had made up about it. Who knows? Maybe one of those storytellers had the truth of it. The city at Inis Cillin prospered.

This happy state persisted for centuries, with generations of people living their entire lives in the shadow of the gateway. The made-up tales became disturbing and unwholesome. Less people came to see the gateway. And one night a fierce storm wracked the ocean and the fishermen and mariners stayed close to their fires and held their wives, needing warmth against the chill in their bones they could not explain.

When the first ship arrived after the storm, of Inis Cillin there was no sign; only rubble and burnt wood and a strange clear slime everywhere. The gateway was open now, a constant blue glow like no flame or oil-lamp the mariners had ever seen. This was all in the time of my father’s father, and none have dared venture to Inis Cillin since. These past three winters, the blue is visible even from here. The gateway is open, and the light is getting brighter.

>> No.25797198

Aaaaaand now my wallpaper of several years creeps me out. Well done.

>> No.25797333

anytime bro

>> No.25797371


There are some things in this world you shouldn’t know of, child, and some places you shouldn’t wander. Some are near, and some far, but each bear the same the markings. The tingle that dances on the top of your skin, the shudders which crawl done your spine are your warning, for then, you have strayed into their territory.

People will tell you that creatures from fairy tales don’t exist. Ghouls, witches, spirits and trolls are things which have passed into mere memory and now exist as something to frighten little ones like you near bedtime. They’ve done a marvellous job, but you can't conceal something forever.

That flicker behind you in the mirror, just as you go to look away? That grotesque face you think you saw in the darkness? That figure you saw dancing between lightening strikes? The faint, pale laugh you heard in the night as you tumbled from dream to dream? They're all real, child. Each and every one.

You see, they hide in the forgotten places of the world, but have been getting bolder. Once upon a time, they lived in ancient forested delves and in the green valleys. Now, they exist in the shadows, in the places man leaves behind, or forgets to look.

No. No, don't look around you now child and expect to see them. They're too smart for that. It's part of what makes them dangerous. They know who knows of them, and they just can't let a secret like that out.

And now that you know...

I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry.

>> No.25798180

2026. The Red Planet. The first manned mission to Mars. It was like Apollo 11 all over again, the world united in front of the screen, watching the feed from the Ares lander. Not quite live, a 25 minute delay thanks to the unforgiving gulf between worlds. So we were watching dead men. On a billion screens around the world, on televisions, computers, phones and iPieces, the view focussed on the shambolic mass whose gait could only be described as being between a skitter and a roll. Over the horizon it came, directly at the American team, panic in their voices.

“Carol, I love you, I love you,” were the last words of Major Donovan before it enveloped him and crushed the last camera.

We didn’t quite know it yet, but we had, in alien eyes, misbehaved. We weren’t allowed leave Mother Earth. The Mi-Go liked having us just where we were. They liked this world of ours, this teeming biomass that would one day be a very fine home indeed for their kind, if only they could clean out the human infection.

2028. Earth. The Mi-Go make themselves and their intentions known, seeding our atmosphere with a tailored fungal-infection, self-replicating and self-sustaining. 95% of the Earth’s population were compliant within the week. Once the Rot gets into you, higher brain function breaks down in less than 48 hours. The Rot had a strong crimson tint, colouring the sky and casting the world below in a bloody light.

2028. Earth. The Red Planet.

>> No.25799349

That, esecially the pained apology, is pants-shittingly scary. This is good stuff.

>> No.25800822


I like the fluff you created.

>> No.25801374


>> No.25802624 [DELETED] 

I still remember the moment I first laid eyes on the Lifetree. I shall never forget the feeling of awe that washed over me and I forgot all else, even the very boat that was taking me to my destination, as I stood up in an attempt to take in the sight before. I would have likely stayed in such reverie for hours had it not been for the amused, lilting reproach of my guide.

"I can’t very well take you to Ilshanavoi if you don’t sit down, nub ears."

>> No.25802642 [DELETED] 


I had devoted my whole life to learning the ways of the elves, their culture, their language, their customs, even living among them when they allowed me and it was all in preparation for this moment: they had finally allowed me entrance to the birthplace of their civilization – nay, their very race! As anyone who has visited any major elven settlement will know, they make their homes in massive trees able to contain an entire city’s worth of elves. What most do not know is that these trees are mere saplings, grown from seeds of the great Lifetree. In their tongue, it is known as Ilshanavoi, Mother of Us All. According to their legends, it is from that tree that not only their immense city trees originate, but also the very elves themselves are said to have sprung forth from her roots and branches. In fact, each individual tribe and subrace of elf traces their origin back to a specific locale on the Lifetree. Once I had learnt of the tree’s existence, I made it my life’s work to see it firsthand. I suffered much suspicion and even some ridicule from the people I sought to learn more about – and understandably so, for very few of us younger races sought to learn about the ever-enigmatic elves lest it was in order to do them harm. However, once they learned of my honorable intentions, they allowed me into their culture and after a long many years, into the Lifetree itself! Having visited a great many of their inland capitols, I had thought myself prepared for the trek to their island home.

How wrong I was.

>> No.25802681

I still remember the moment I first laid eyes on the Lifetree. I shall never forget the feeling of awe that washed over me and I forgot all else, even the very boat that was taking me to my destination, as I stood up in an attempt to take in the sight before. I would have likely stayed in such reverie for hours had it not been for the amused, lilting reproach of my guide.

"I can’t very well take you to Ilshanavoi if you don’t sit down, nub ears."

I had devoted my whole life to learning the ways of the elves, their culture, their language, their customs, even living among them when they allowed me and it was all in preparation for this moment: they had finally allowed me entrance to the birthplace of their civilization – nay, their very race! As anyone who has visited any major elven settlement will know, they make their homes in massive trees able to contain an entire city’s worth of elves. What most do not know is that these trees are mere saplings, grown from seeds of the great Lifetree. In their tongue, it is known as Ilshanavoi, Mother of Us All. According to their legends, it is from that tree that not only their immense city trees originate, but also the very elves themselves are said to have sprung forth from her roots and branches. In fact, each individual tribe and subrace of elf traces their origin back to a specific locale on the Lifetree. Once I had learnt of the tree’s existence, I made it my life’s work to see it firsthand. I suffered much suspicion and even some ridicule from the people I sought to learn more about – and understandably so, for very few of us younger races sought to learn about the ever-enigmatic elves lest it was to do them harm. However, once they learned of my honorable intentions, they allowed me into their culture and after a long many years, into the Lifetree itself! Having visited a great many of their inland capitols, I thought myself prepared for the trek to their island home.

How wrong I was.

>> No.25802699

My first clue to the sheer immensity of the Lifetree was the fact that their homeland shared its name. To the elves, there was no difference between Ilshanavoi the island and Ilshanavoi the tree. I had originally thought this to be a spiritual conceit, some sort of symbolism to enforce that the tree and the elves were inextricably tied to the earth, but as we crossed past the illusive barrier that hides their home from prying eyes, so too were my preconceptions dispelled. For Ilshanavoi did not grow upon the island, but rather the island grew around the tree! Massive roots larger than mountains plunged directly into the ocean, unhindered by the salty water. Grass and forests grew atop the Lifetree as if it was soil and great rivers and waterfalls traversed through grooves in its bark. But perhaps what struck me the most were the lights. All across the island, up the trunk, and even spread across those enormous branches that scraped the sky like the arms of a titan were lights so bright and numerous they could be seen from the shore. And the music! From the instant I set foot on the shore, beautiful, ancient melodies filled the air like fog, spreading and dissipating through all things. As the warmth their music provided filled my being to the core, I fancied for a moment that these may very well be among some of the first songs ever sung in our world, and was paralyzed with awe all over again. It was as if there was some sort of eternal festival that consumed every corner of the isle. It was not too long before I found out that this was precisely the case, that all elves at least once in their lifetime make a pilgrimage to Ilshanavoi and celebrate the life she has given unto the world.

>> No.25802713

From my understanding, it some arcane notion in the blood that calls them to these shores, some divine homing instinct instilled in every elf, such that one born in isolation or raised amongst us lesser races will still find their way to their ancestral home and partake in the Festival of Life. They also say that very same instinct is what drives them to sing, dance, and make merry in its presence, that it makes them anxious and stir-crazy. For their pilgrimage is not one of solemn sanctification like the Paladin’s Path, but rather one of primal passion, a validation of the bestial intuition that has directed their race since ancient times. I spent five years traversing that behemoth tree and not once did the festivities ever stop or even lessen in the slightest. Not only that, but I do not believe I even began to scratch the surface of the mysteries and beauties that land contained. I am utterly convinced that I could have easily spent a century more there – no doubt some elves do – and I still would not know everything there is to know about the Lifetree Ilshanavoi.

I am not sure I ever truly gained the respect of the elves. I learned their language, their culture, walked among their people and even lay with some of their women, but I would be unsurprised to learn they never saw me as anything more than an absurd joke or an amusing curiosity. Theirs is a difficult people to read. Regardless of their reasons, they allowed me access to their more precious of treasures, to the very heart and spirit of all that is Elf. And for that, I will always be grateful.

---From the journal of Thorkan, Orcish Scholar.

>> No.25802776

Sorry about the false start. I was trying to break it up to where it flowed right and 4chan would let me post it.

>> No.25804439

Don't die yet! I need you here to save some stories later.

>> No.25806544

Come on writefags, get in here!

>> No.25807262


But we're druuuuuunk.


My name is Mara O'Doole, private investigations. Fifty bucks a day, plus expenses. I mostly work divorces, following a wife or a husband to a seedy motel to get the evidence for a quick divorce. Sometimes it keeps me up nights. Mostly I get by alright.

Which explains a bit about my current client, I guess. And the games spread out all over my desk.

"So you're concerned that they've stopped playing this...Call of Cthulhu? Your friends?"

The thing sitting across from me - I had to look at it from the corners of my eyes, looking directly at it made my nose bleed - spoke something. Or at least, meaning entered my mind.

"Okay, your followers. But they don't know they're your followers." Another burst of psychic static. "You found all these other games? I've got to admit, it doesn't look good."

The entity came as close as it could to sobbing without making my eyes boil. I appreciated its attempts at subtlety. "Alright, I'll see about getting a photo of them playing one of these other games, but I have to warn you, you may prefer not to know the truth. Are you prepared for the consequences?"

Another psychic burst. Cities burning. Men being driven mad. Civilization dying in an ocean of blood.

You know, I thought, maybe it's time to throw my usual ethics out the window and warn those players. Or learn photoshop.

>> No.25807623

Top notch. 10/10, would be hired by and take SAN loss from.

>> No.25809766


>> No.25810615


Nice fluff

>> No.25811374

Let's hear your stories, /tg/!

>> No.25812697


>tfw you have a fuckton of write faggotry done but can't share it because it's written in your first language

Goddammit, I hate not having english as my first language.

>> No.25812738

What about translating it? You could start with some of the short snippets you've done.

>> No.25812801


I tried it, but it ended up sounding pretty terrible. Not that my writing is perfect in my first language, mind you, but it's certainly more... fluid. Still, I might try it again sometime.

>> No.25812832

What's your first language, out of curiosity? Some simply are harder to translate into English than others.

>> No.25812838


Brazilian portuguese. It's... quite different from english, yeah.

>> No.25812847 [DELETED] 

. . . motherfucker! I know who you are.

>> No.25812886

Good writing. Agree with >>25799349

Also, goosebumps were had.

Captchya: dedmmo was

>> No.25813082

God fuck, the shit you have to deal with as a Caretaker. Not only do the Amazons plan a coup every other month, no, your own citizens decide to jump into the light business and get busted by the professional sunlight circles. How did she ascend the Forge anyway? I thought the devils were driving a hard bargain for non-IOUs.

At least it's raining on Level 2. So, how am I going to clean up this mess? My Caretaker privileges are voided on other levels, I don't want to deal with my sister or Andro-id/gynous, and well, she's planning to blow herself up. The laser pointers marking her don't really help the situation. What did she do anyway, steal from one of the sun-OGs?

Well, looks like those guys aren't going to open fire, anyway so I'll just step into the scene and have a talk with her.

"S-Stay back! I have an armed grenade!"

Seriously, no shit. "No shit, girl. I am the Caretaker. I care. Deeply. And you happen to be under my care, but not really under my roof in Level 4."

"Then help me! I'm innocent!"

"Sure, sure, as innocent as a girl selling flowers. Listen-"

"Sir, please step away! This doesn't concern you!"

Uh, yes it does, she has citizenship in my level. "Gentlemen, please. I'm trying to disarm this situation here. Right now this girl here is holding a grenade with more shrapnel than we have bones in total, and guess what, those shrapnel are all faster and meaner than we are.


Yeah, only got so far. And it kind of falls apart towards the end.

>> No.25813237

The scene was tranquil, peaceful even. This was a holy place once, and somehow, even after centuries of nature's reclamation, it still held an aura of power, of magnificence. Where before stood pews is now a pool water, murky with algae and teeming with life, Where before, paint decorated the walls of the cathedral with breathtaking scenes, there was now only moss. Ferns grew in the corners, and vines hung from the ceiling. It was a wonder that any of the glass windows survived. And yet, they did -- and the ceiling stood, despite centuries of structural damage due to water and fauna. By all accounts, this cathedral should have collapsed upon itself long ago. But this was a holy place -- and powers were at work to preserve it.

>> No.25813393


>> No.25813705

>> No.25813769

Reminds me of a friend's LARP kit, so...

The war horn sounded as Gregor picked himself up from the dirt once more. Murmuring a grateful thanks to the healer, who simply nodding her head, he braced his shield and surveyed the battlefield.
How many deaths was that today? One by rogue, one through a trap, one back blocking a lightening bolt meant for the archer and this one... This one was the worst by far. The skin atop his chest itched as it remember the searing pain of poisoned claws tearing through it like rice paper. His party had left him there, burning his way to unconsciousness and the next life, only to be wretched back once again by a healer's skilled hands.
It was instinct born from years of fighting which forced him to raise his shield once more. A dull thud pounded through his arm as another arrow imbedded itself in the already chipped wood.
How long this battle had been raging for he couldn't tell. The sun was high, making the armour he wore feel as though he was dragging him to the earth once more. Like molten tar, dragging him further down and in. Perhaps he belonged there. Perhaps that was where he should stay.
Another arrow loosed, this one was deflected by his armour. Drawing in a breath, Gregor let loose a war-cry and charged the archer, yelling for the healer to fall back. Next to her, another soul the battle had claimed returned to it's body.
What was a necromancer, but a healer that came too late?
Shaking the thought from his head, Gregor charged, foam sword raised and wooden shield in hand.
That was when the 'archer' threw down his bow and drew a small bean bag from a pouch carefully hidden under a cloak.
Gregor was soon to learn the difference between necromancers and healers as he tore through ranks of those he had once called friends. A clambering, shining mess of what he once was, the knight cut down scores under the 'archer's careful eye.
Necromancers were better.
He made a mental note. Next time... there was always a next time.

>> No.25813791

That is nice. I honestly wish I could do dialogue that well. First person narration really helps towards the characterization here. I'd love to read more if you ever get round to it Anon.

>> No.25813832


The problem I have with this is that there's too much attachment to the balloon. I suppose I'm nitpicking, but balloons don't usually last long enough for kids to give them nicknames.

>> No.25813845


This is going to be a long one

Stojan is there, in the forest. Playing the piano. He has been playing it for hours. He can't stop. The major is still watching him, watching him with his cold, dead eyes.

The piano is out of tune. Its wood is rotten, and the fine hammers, that would usually take the role of little songbirds, only emit painful sounds.

Stojan wants to stop. His hands hurt and his fingers are numb. His head aches and cold sweat clinges to his back. He just wants it to stop, he just wants it to stop so badly.

But it doesn't stop. The Major is watching him.

Stojan has a beautiful wife and a dear little daugther. They are everything to him. They do not know that he is out here, in the forest, playing the old piano. They don't know that the Major is still standing behind him, with the same blank expression he always had. They don't know what happens if Stojan stops playing. Actually, Stojan does not know it, either.

Stojan is tired. So tired.

He and the major were in the same unit, back in the Kosovo. Stojan had just followed orders, just as every man. The Major didn't have to follow orders. He made them.

Stojan had done many things he was not proud of. And many more things he regrets to this day, as they haunt him in his sleep, whenever he lets his guard down.

There is a noise. The major is moving. Stojan can't see him, but he hears the sound of combat boots on the soft forest ground. He hears it, even though the piano is still whining, writhing in pain.

Then screams fill the air. They emanate from the major, from his personal tool. The accordion. The major used to play it during their travels from village to village, usually when he and his men were cramped inside an old truck. Even when playing, the major never changed his facial expression. Drago jokingly claimed the major suffered from a face palsy. The major didn't laugh. He wasn't angry, either. He just looked at Drago.
Drago threw himself onto a landmine three days later.

>> No.25813849


Now the accordion's shrill howls fly through the forest, rivalling the painful moaning of the piano. The major plays the old melody, as does Stojan. The Major doesn't stop. He doesn't have to. Stojan knows that he will stop sooner or later. He wants to stop, yet doesn't dare to.

From the corner of his eyes, Stojan sees Vasilije trodding towards them. His uniform is dirty as well, covered in mud and another, darker substance. Vasilije moves in a slow, broken way. He now stands next to the major.
There is a trumpet in his hands. Vasilije lifts it to his mouth, and a cacophony of pain bursts out. He joins in on the old melody. Just like in the old days.

In the old days, Stojan had met Vasilije, out in on of the villages. It was a small village, so small that it was not visible on any map. After they were done, it was not visible at all.

They took the locals and lined them up in a madman's domino row. With each bang, the row became shorter. There were men in the row, and old women. The young women were elsewhere. Stojan and his comrades were far away from home. Far away from their wives, if they had one. But eventually, even the young women were formed into a row that was accompanied by short, rhythmic bangs.

Then there were the children. They did not bother putting them into a row. While Stojan and some of his comrades formed all the rows and caused all the bangs, others had dug a large pit, that swallowed light. It also swallowed bodies. The smaller ones first. Then the older ones, those that weren't moving anymore.
As they threw more and more domino stones into the pit, Stojan had heard something crying. He blamed it on the wind that carried the smell of foul deeds.
The crying became muted when they covered the pit with earth.

>> No.25813859


Vasilije was there, with Stojan. He too had gathered the domino stones. Unlike Stojan, he didn't blame the wind. On a warm, sunny day in April, about ten years ago, Vasilije jumped down of a chair, with a rope attached to his neck.

The trumpet still played.

Stojan was still playing the piano, together with the accordion and the trumpet. He had been playing for hours, and darkness slowly began to consume the forest, turning the dead trees into dead bones, emerging from the ground as if it was the rotting carcass of an animal.

The major was still behind him. Stojan couldn't see him, but he heard the accordion, he felt his stare on his back. He looked at Vasilije. His face was identical to that of the major.

Stojan's fingers started bleeding. The grayish-white keys became red, but the blood soon started dripping through the smal slits between them. It was feeding on him. Stojan would just stop playing soon. Not because he wanted, but because he just could not play any more. The burning sensation brought tears to his eyes.

He wondered why the Major had choosen a piano. Stojan originally used to play on a keyboard. Back in the day, a keyboard was an amazing piece of technology. It was gifted to him when he, the major and Vasilije were asked to play for the great general, the defender of the homeland.

Stojan remembers how they played for him. They played the same melody that haunted the woods right now. The great general did not show any sort of appreciation. He just sat there, watched them, and drank from his cup. They played for what felt like hours, the only difference being that it was not the major who had stared on Stojan back then. The great general just kept staring and drinking, maybe vodka, maybe children's tears. Maybe blood.

>> No.25813867


As his movements became shaky and the melody began to sound like a dying animal, Stojan wondered why the major kept him here. He didn't betray him. He didn't talk when the forces of the westeners came with their tanks and jets and guns. He didn't talk when the police asked him about the great general and other "war criminals". He kept his silence, he did nothing wrong.

The major didn't care. The sound of the accordion came closer. He could feel his eyes on his neck, like the terrible sword of Damocles.

Even though Stojan didn't talk, others did. Eventually, they found the major, hiding somewhere in a mountain hut, away from public, but still a free man. They took him, beat him, tortured him. The people in the TV shows said the major kept a straight face. He also kept a straight face at court, where he was charged with mass-murder, even genocide. He didn't flinch. He scarcely even blinked.

Vasilije was also coming closer now. He smelled of wet earth and old wood. A red ring decorated his neck.
The major was now standing to the right of him, and Vasilije to his left. They stared into the distance, but even as Stojan tried to follow their eyes, he could not make out anything but thick, putrid darkness.

>> No.25813871


Out of the darkness, they emerged. All the dominos, some with blackish-red points on their forehead, others entirely covered with similar marks. There were smaller figures between them, crushed shapes. Dozens of them stepped out of the shadow. Did they form another row, waiting for the next loud bang? No. The dominos now formed a circle. A girl stood right before him. She was beautiful in her full nudity, were it not for the cuts and bruises that covered her entire body. Vasilije and the major did not notice all this, or they didn't care. They just kept on playing, as if to keep the darkness away. Their faces were empty and distant.

Stojan thought about his wife. About his daugther. Tears filled his eyes.
The piano stopped playing.

>Pic related. The major.

>> No.25813924

Clarius woke slowly, drowsily, his eyelids feeling as heavy as his armour. Red lights floated in front of him, a distant voice talking gently. He squinted, focussing on the source of the chatter.

“Are you awake, sir? Can you hear me?” The lights coalesced into eyes and sensors – a medical droid.
“I can you hear,” Clarius grunted back. “Where am I? The regiment..?”
“I am unaware of the status of your regiment. Salvage drones have accumulated 139 sets of power armour in various states of repair. Of course, these may not be from your regiment.” The droid didn’t stop working while he talked. Clarius could feel no pain, but he was aware of a certain amount of pulling and plucking from his chest.
“Please, sir, do not look down. Your armour took severe damage, and certain segments were driven inward toward your vital organs. I have taken the liberty of deactivating your sense of pain and disabling your armours neural interface so that you do not inadvertently complicate the surgery.”
Relaxing, Clarius took in the rest of the room, what little of it he could see over his surgeon’s shoulders. Shrouded in shadow, it looked like a typical triage tent – the medical droids could see perfectly well in darkness, and seeing their injuries would do no good to soldiers. Besides various medical and engineering equipment, all he could really see was another droid, well-armoured, with a strange facial configuration.
“You didn’t answer my question. Where am I?”
“This Forward Triage Camp 3, sir.” The droid cocked his head like a man shaving, and a sudden shortness of breath seized Clarius as it slowly pulled a long piece of shrapnel from next to his heart.
“That tells me nothing,” he gasped, struggling. “How far are we from the front?”

>> No.25813929

“Enough.” The other droid finally spoke, its eyes flashing in sequence. “Doctor, is he stable?”
“I believe so, sir.” The medic turned to face his colleague. “I merely have to seal him up, reactivate his pain sensors, and he should be ready for enhanced interrogation.”

Inside his armour, Clarius struggled in vain.

>> No.25813979

They had warned me. Told me that revenge wasn't our way. That humans adapt and move on, not cling onto the past the way the long-lived races of this world do. I couldn't take it. No after seeing our numbers dwindle, our settlements rot and the influence of the savages spread with each passing moment. At last, I stand before the resting place of the three primordials. My mind reaches out, joining with their dormant souls, one simple c
command sent with all my might: "Awaken".

Sorry, quick and dirty hackjob, but I really love this image.

>> No.25813992

>> No.25814266

"Where we goin mister robot?"


"This is a scary place."


As they trekked through the scrap swamp, the dense metallic overhang looming above, the girl was quiet. They had covered many miles, pools of still oil, strange, faintly clanking critters scurrying about in the underrust, synthesized cries in the distance, before she spoke.

"Were these things nice robots too?"

A note of sadness entered Sheriff bots voice.


"C-cuz it's dark and creepy?"


They walked in silence, navigating some particularly thick plated metaliage.

"I'm glad you're not dead. You're nice."


"It's kinda sad though."


She shook her head.

"S'not that. All these metally things were nice robots too, and now they're not. Less nice in the world."

Sheriff bot shook his head in return.



Sheriff bot pointed to a rustling pile of scrap, out of which popped a small, mouse like robot, which stared, startled, at the little girl and ally of JUSTICE! before scurrying off.


" 'Kay. Thanks Mr. Sheriff Bot."


>> No.25814381



Uh, yes it does, she has citizenship in my level. "Gentlemen, please. I'm trying to disarm this situation here. Right now this girl here is holding a grenade with more shrapnel than we have bones in total, and guess what, those shrapnel are all faster and meaner than we are. But our luck is, her hand's cramped and she's scared."

At least I sure do hope so. A mouthful of shrapnel would really mess my day up, as would some high caliber bullets through my brain. This is such a mess.

"Listen, girl. How about you put that safety pin back into the place you pulled it out from? Then we can all relax and talk sensibly."

Is she doing it? No? Then we'll just have to resort to some more drastic means. How did it go again? Shock her tendons with a chop, grab the grenade, kick her to the curb? Right, the fumble with the lever wasn't necerssary.

"Alright, gentlemen. I've got the grenade, without a pin. Could you hand it to me, please?"

One thing you really have to admit, those sun-OGs' grunts do have manners.

"Thank you. Now let's talk: what's the matter?"

"Thing is, our boss thinks that she stole from her."

Her? Last time I checked none of the sun-OGs where female. Wait a moment. Ah shit, she stole from my sister. That'd at least explain the fancy gear those grunts have.

"And what did she purloin, exactly?"

"Our boss wouldn't tell us."

Typical. Oh well. "How about this: You just take the girl's pouch and we're cool? I'll get her off the level and you'll never be seeing her again?"

C'mon, accept, I really don't want to deal with my sister right now. I still have errands to run and a family to feed, shit, I promised Pax to get some meat today.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible. Our boss wants the girl."

Some days, really, some day I really should just step down like Pax did.


Yeah, that's it.

>> No.25814386


>> No.25814681

Here's another pic to get things started again.

>> No.25814932

Could you post another one, nothing's coming to me.

>> No.25815239

Day late and a Dolar short, that is my life. Three months in the hell some people call Eastern Europe, where Jack Frost is as real as the chainsaw like teeth he uses to "nip off your toes". For three months I've tracked the Evert, fifteen souls this bastard has claimed, and each time it slips through my fingers, each time some quirk of fate takes it from me. It usually chooses urban locals to return to reality, poke it's foul head out of the depths, claim another victim.

Usually it leaves just as I arrive, but this time I got there first, only to be found by a patrol as it rises from the ashes, taunting me. I don't speak the local tongue and that doesn't help my case. I try explaining what I do, but either they don't believe or I'm not coming across clear.

As I'm trying to explain, on of their soldiers walks up to it and opens it's maw, ivory teeth bared, and reaches his hand down to touch, in his mind to play. I shout to him, try to stop him, but all I get for my troubles in the butt of a Kalashnikov against my skull, bringing back the bells and pain, making him spit into three.

His screams are all the validation they need now, but I'm still too late. Deep cords like laughter rumble out as it the bullets rain around it, not even marring it's surface.

>> No.25815434

>> No.25815584

Maybe its a future balloon, made out of future stuff.

>> No.25815699

I blame nanites

>> No.25815810

It even talks to her, just like nanomachines would.

>> No.25816048

I didn't know there were any pics of Nevada-tan.

>> No.25816853

Thran fell in prostration to her.
He wanted to tell her to run alongside him and the servant folk. Wanted to beg her to flee this place and leave the temple to the invaders. To shout and to cry and to cajole and to even threaten her with all manner of heretical lies about impending divine judgement until she left this lost place to the dark curs - these men twisted in mind and soul by the night - streaming up the mountain in an unstoppable wave that had already claimed so many lives that at least one more should be spared.
But he could not. In his heart he knew this was what was destined of her and what would happen no matter what. From the night become day by the shaft of light that had borne her, to this moment right now under the golden pagoda in honor to the Sun, past now-broken walls and atop the mount meant to show its glory to all over hundreds of miles. It all had come to be as it should and to lie in her way was what little protest he could allow himself.
"Well, Old Thran? How do I look?", she said, a smile in her voice as she bid him to rise with a touch.
Old Othran. Only she called him that, after all the lessons and all the lectures, and it was with tearfilled eyes that he looked up at her.
She stood before him in the crimson and white silks of the priestess bride that left parts of shoulder and hips bared, with her raven hair bound and adorned the regalia of her order and place as a wife to the eternal sun. Once worn around her neck, the vial of her blood hung at her hip, softly glowing in proof of her birthright. In her right hand she held three red-shafted arrows tipped by points of pitted grey metal. In her left was the bow so long safeguarded by their order. It held no mark and no decoration but for the golden bell tied to one end. That bow had been white once, when the very first priestess bride had held it, but it was stained red now.

>> No.25816886

She was beautiful then as she had never been beautiful before. No more the child he had thought her as, a daughter in all but blood, but a woman grown and dressed for the battle ahead.

"Beyond words, my lady."

She smiled at this and walked past him to face the black wave of men and their vehicles of war, even now breaking through the few protectors of the order and soldiers of the empire left to fruitlessly try to stem the tide. "Go now, Old Thran. I beg of you." she said without turning, hefting the bow and drawing an arrow.

"Born daughter of His fires." She let loose the first arrow.

"Raised priestess to His glory." She said to the flight of the second.

"Become bride at His side.", she released the third in a high arc that Old Thran lost in the glare of the Sun.

One. Two. Three.

Thrice did the bell ring to mark the loss of life, to honor the death of three men and the return of their souls to their father. Cleansed of worldy corruption.

She drew back her arm once more and born in a burst of fire and light came a new arrow to her hand. And when it had been strung and released another followed it, and then another, and another, and so many more were fired by her, faster and faster without relent, her movements quickly ceasing to be something his or any mortal eyes could follow and become nothing but a blur. And with every arrow came the ringing of the bell, becoming louder and faster until it was nothing but a single unceasing tone that hurt the ears.
The vial at her side had merely glowed with inner heat but now it burned. With a fire that grew stronger and stronger until it hurt the eyes to look upon it and with an increasing heat that could be felt even where he stood at the very edge to the steps down from the pagoda.

Her blood was burning and when Old Thran last glimpsed at her face before he ran with the others, he could see the fire in her eyes: The fire that gave the warmth that allowed life, and the fire that burned worlds to ash.

>> No.25816904

He and the servant folk left the temple mount, fleeing down the stairs with haste that sent some crashing down the steps in their hurried flight. His old legs ached and his eyes burned tears but he would run along them all the same for she had begged him to.

And as they left the golden pagoda behind them, the sounds of battle grew dimmer and the screams of dying men became indistinct.

The last to leave their hearing was the unbroken ringing of that golden bell...

>> No.25816977

>> No.25817268

Could I ask for a bit of writing (Just a paragraph is fine) on my warband for 40K?

They're an Iron Warriors warband, corrupted by the powers of Chaos. They at first used daemons but soon were worshiping the gods. They're called the Golden Gears.

>> No.25817565

The road to damnation is paved with good intentions and what had begun as the use of daemons and warp sorcery for information that could save worlds or combatants to turn the tide of wars, grew into worship of the Dark Gods themselves.

Once proud warriors of the Iron Warriors Space Marine chapter, sworn to the Emperor and honorbound to uphold His Imperium and the destiny of Mankind among the stars, the Golden Gears are now a scourge against all they once swore to defend.

>> No.25817737

Wonderful, thanks!

>> No.25818291

>> No.25821137


>> No.25821208


I like the dual images of past and present you got goin.

>> No.25821254


nice character building good action

>> No.25821640


You got a good understanding of the scenario you want to tell and I really like the trippy stuff you go into.

You use too many words.

>> No.25821834

"Angel, what is your wisdom?"
And I looked down at it's majestic form, flexing its wings as if to show me its strength.
"Fuck Elves," it had whispered to me before it fluttered away.
And so, we went to war.

>> No.25821907 [DELETED] 

Friedrich the AI. Dunno what spawned him in my head.

>> No.25822506


The only sound left is the grind and creak of his bones as he walks.

His body is protesting the movement- the lines and curves that had once been sharp and glossy black have faded, dulled by the assault of an eon of wind and rain and dust. The last laugh of the world he’d helped end.

As he hauls himself atop the small hill, his gaze falls on the massive cracked globe suspended in the sky. Debris still circles around it, a halo of ashes for the once-proud vessel that had brought his kind here. He goes to take another step and the creak of his bones rises into a loud crack; a cloud of dust erupts into the air as he falls to the earth.

He remembers when he first beheld the planet, spread out before him in a glowing disc as their ship descended. A beautiful offering to a worthy people, they’d said.

It should have been simple- the native populace had been evaluated, and their technology had been calculated to be meaningless in the face of such superior foes. He’d been one of the first to land and begin eliminating the pests from their new home. The world had held so much noise then- gunfire and explosions and screams loud enough that the ones aboard the ship had been able to hear them.

He’d watched the natives die in droves, walked over their soft corpses and driven his claws through their flesh. He’d known they were weak, unworthy of the loveliness of their planet.

What he hadn’t expected was that they were insane.

A thousand brilliant suns bursting in the air, a thousand towers of smoke that rent the earth and the sky and the massive black globe into pieces.

He struggles to get up, but his body refuses to comply, and soon enough he lies still. It has been so long since the world became still- he can’t recall the last survivor he’s seen. The increasing complaints of his ragged body have long been his only conversation. Soon they’ll be gone, too.

Soon there will be no noises left at all.

>> No.25822793



>> No.25824195


I like the idea of feeling no pain but feeling plucking in your chest. Awesome stuff.

>> No.25824229

Nice character building. I like the whole "revenge wasn't our way" and making humans feel really tribally.

>> No.25824265


Try to be more specific when saying stuff like "a note of sadness"

>> No.25824322

>> No.25824335


I like the description of jack frost having chainsaw teeth. Interesting way to describe it being really fucking cold.

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