Undead_Lives
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Here is where all of the stories will be stored for easy access and availability.
Topic is close because this thread is not meant for talking, just for storage.
Submitted by Vess:
In the chaos after the "Big Bang" all manner of matter and energy flew rampant. Among the energies that transcend our known dimensions is that of spirit. It to was scattered in the disarray. A small collection of this substance was franticly attempting to cling to something lest it be lost in the void.
With no reference to measure time it may have been years before the energy found substance, found matter, found the gem. This crystalline stone has properties beyond comprehension. The crystal absorbs electromagnetism and expels Psi, the essence of spirit. Thus the Krisalmun was born.
The spirit gifted with a perfect memory found it could create a psi vacuum that would cause the crystal to absorb more energy. And by the same token could force himself through to manifest in light heat or any other wave length. But rather than expel energy the Krisalmun preferred to consume it.
It was at this point that the krisalmun witnessed a miracle. It saw two asroides collide. This sparked a primitive fascination with opposing forces. The Krisalmun wanted to know more, know all. It began to cause or participate in these collisions by expelling quick bursts of heat. Learning to do this well gave him the ability to move.
Over the millennia he would learn many such gifts. Including the most powerful form of stored energy, the atom. The Krisalmun learned to split atoms and absorb the resulting explosion. and with this power He could rebuild the atom. The master of matter takes form. He builds him self a body, networked with crystal fibers to help distribute his energy.
The Krisalmun eventually found a planet and wished to learn from it. So as this rugged planet developed so did he. And even as life formed around him, he observed how cell battled cell. Life had conflicts as well. This kind of struggle would occupy the rest of his known existence. Observing battles, fighting them becoming an oracle to those needing guidance. His body appears only as he wills. And he wills his story to be known.
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Submitted by Hunter_Destruction:
END PART 1
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Submitted by Kem Rixen:
Rex Pete and the story that went nowhere and back again
The sun glistened on the leaves from the recently fallen rain, the leaves happened to be pilled, not in any particular fashion on a tree stump. The typical moment that starts any good story. From far down the road a man could be heard whistling, not any distinguishable tune. The whistling became louder as the man approached and it became easier to see him, he was almost three feet tall, and was wearing an Indiana Jones-like costume. He was on his way to a party, a costume party actually, where he would stumble into yet another clichéd moment.
But lets forget about him for a moment and focus on someone more interesting, Rex Pete, a man who recently discovered that tuna really weren't the chicken of the sea. He had discovered, what he called, the murderous Sea Chicken, which, in ancient times was said to rip ships in twain with its mighty wings. Up until this point the Sea Chicken was a think of myths, a mere fabrication, similar to that of the abominable snowman and the theory of gravity. This was an amazing discovered, dulled by the name, which, was wildly agreed to be a very poor name. Rex Pete was a man who had never been good at thinking up original names. In fact, if it hadn't been for his wife, he son would've been named Son, instead of Thomas, which is, of course, a much more respectable and reasonable name.
Rex Pete was currently located within an ancient Mayan temple, searching for the buried treasure of the notorious Blackbeard the pirate. Where Rex Pete got the unreasonable idea that the treasure was in a Mayan temple is a mystery unto itself, for it all started last Wednesday, or perhaps Thursday, either way, it doesn't matter the day. Rex Pete had walked out of his chrome colored apartment building onto the chrome colored street, wearing a very nice chrome colored suit. He walked down the chrome colored steps, past th e chrome colored plant, which seemed to be whithering actually. As he reached the bottom of the steps and started walking down the street, things ceased immediately to be chrome, for it was only where Rex Pete lived that things were required to be chrome. Rex Pete put up with it as the rent was very low for such a nice apartment, even if he did get a lot of strange looks in a chrome suit.
As he turned another corner, he saw a slip of paper fall out of an old lady's pocket, he dashed forwards to pick it up and give it to her, but when he looked up again, she was nowhere to be seen. He shrugged and looked at the paper, it was a map, a map that supposedly went to the treasure of the notorious Blackbeard the pirate, how the map ended up in that lady's pocket is a mystery unto itself. It was early Tuesday, or perhaps Wednesday, depending on when the previous account was....
The old lady had been driving her car down the street when she happened upon a car accident, when she got out of the car she saw a man getting out of the car, he was a tall man, about six feet tall and was wearing an Indiana Jones-like costume. He walked over to her and gave her a piece of paper, telling her, in an overly dramatic moment, that she would know when she needed it. The man began to walk away, he walked for days and nights, he enjoyed to whistle, so thats what he spent most of his time doing. He walked past a tree stump with leaves that glistened with the rain of newly fallen rain. In his travels he had heard of a party, a costume party, with his Indiana Jones costume he would fit in nicely. After an few uneventful hours he reached the costume party, he didn't have a ticket, but, with his good looks, he managed to coax them into letting him in.
Inside the party he met a beautiful women, it was love at first sight, they did everything together. They h ad children, and lived happily ever after, or they would've if he hadn't been thrown out of the costume party five minutes in for lewd gestures towards the female DJ.
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Submitted by IlidanStormrage:
Seas of Sorrow
Prologue
Enemies, Old and New
I
Shift.
Gerald’s eyes jerked open. A dim grey light from the early morning filled them slowly. His small tent shuttered as the wind hit it lightly. His face was damp with sweat, but he could remember no nightmare. The air was still too cool.
Shift.
He sat up slowly. Everything was as he left it; the lantern was on his left, a small journal on his right, and some food stocks in front of him.
Shift.
The tent door was still knotted shut with a bundle of Komako hair. The wood beams running across the top and down each side in the front and back still held.
Stop.
He crawled to the door, undoing the knot of Komako hair. Pulling it open, he stepped out into the cool, morning air. It was still dry, but at least cool. The rest of the camp was still sleeping. Light snores caught his ears, but he ignored them. It was the shape on the hill, shrouded in darkness, which required all his attention.
Had he been more awake, he would have brought some guards. At these early morning hours, though, he slowly approached the figure alone, with only a belt knife in hand. Slowly, he began to unsheathe it.
Stop. A ringing filled his head. He nearly collapsed. It felt as though a thousand hands pounded at his head. Everything began darkening.
Abruptly, it stopped. Light flooded back into his vision. “Come.. Back…” He stared with amazement as he looked ahead. Where a man had stood only minutes ago, nothing. Just the barren bleakness of the desert rolling ahead of him. He shook his head as he began hobbling back to his tent. Old age has sure got me, he thought to himself.
II
Shift.
Walter pulled his lips back abruptly.
“Is something wrong, my love?” Ilkya’s voice drummed in his ears as he lay there with his face pulled awkwardly back from hers.
“Nothing… it’s noth-”
Shift.
“ing.” He sat up, shaking lightly. The grey light filled his eyes as a… a darkness seemed to fade away. Only it wasn’t dark. “Everything’s fine my-”
Shift.
“-love. Everything’s fine..” It didn’t feel fine to him. His head throbbed, that darkness-that-was-not-darkness clearing again. He began to crawl toward the door.
“You aren’t leaving without me,” Ilkya toned in. She sat up, pulled her blouse down from the side of the tent and tied it on. Walter had already started to leave. “I said you won’t lea-”
“Shut up! You aren’t coming.. Not this-”
Stop.
He collapsed out of the tent as darkness grabbed him. Before he even hit the ground, though, it was clearing. Panting, he caught and pulled himself out. “Stay there Ilkya… I won’t lose you.” He stood up, broke into a run.
The soft sand padded under his feet. He tripped over a charred log, falling into a pile of gear and rations. What the hell is that doing out here? he thought to himself. He hopped back to his feet and began running again.
Stop. He felt as though was pushed, stumbling forward, feet slightly off the ground. His head felt like it was going to burst as that darkness-that-was-not-darkness filled his vision and just as quickly faded away. He skidded to a halt on the dry sand, shirt tattered on the rocks that scrapped his chest.
Lifting his head, he saw Gerald hobbling back to his tent. Old age has sure got him, Walter thought to himself. He turned his head at the sound of footsteps.
“You never run off like that again or.. Or..” Ilkya began sobbing as she wrapped her arms around Walter and lay her head on his shoulder. “Never do that again,” she said through her sobs.
“What is going on?” he said quietly to himself, hugging Ilkya back and lightly kissing her on the top of her head. “What in the name of God is going on?” He raised his head in the air as the light slowly filled the sky and the camp.
III
In his old age, Gerald did not even heard the tent flap open behind him. He sat, meditating, as the figure stepped up behind him. Just as the figures foot landed less than an arms reach behind Gerald, he noticed.
“Who are you?”
I have many names. I have many faces, the figure said, yet, it didn’t say. The words simply filled Gerald’s mind. But you can call me The Reaper.
Gerald sat, frozen. He was paralyzed with fear. The Reaper. A shape shifter, some said. A spirit, others. Sometimes, a demon. “You won’t kill me like you did my father. I won’t-”
You’re right, I won’t kill you. Not yet, at least. I have far too much use for you. But you will listen and obey. That darkness-that-was-not-darkness now gripped Gerald. His vision faded into nothingness as the figure manifested entirely in his mind. I am chief.
IV
In the small tent, the cool night air seemed to grip both Ilkya and Walter. Ilkya pushed herself ever tighter against Walter’s body as they lie on the small pad.
“What happened, just tell me!” she sobbed. Her eyes were red from tears, but she couldn’t stop. It ate at her mind.
“I don’t know.. I wish I did… please.. Stop crying… nothing will go wrong.. Nothing…” It hurt him to see her in such pain. He told her all he knew: Nothing. He had no idea what had happened. He only wanted her happy again. In their pain, they didn’t even see the figure walk into the tent and stand staring down at them.
But I know what happened. Ilkya screamed. The voice filled their heads. A voice like steel, and ice. Seizing his sword, Walter stood up, sword held in front of him, yet it quivered with his shaking hands..
“You get the hell away from her. You get out! Here me? GET OUT!” He lunged forward, slicing down…
And the figure simply… moved. Or maybe the world moved around it. I’m not here to hurt either of you. Not when I still need you. Both of you. As dark as the figure was, Walter could swear he saw a smile cross it’s face. Ilkya lay in the corner sobbing, muttering indiscernible words.
“Who… who are you?” Walter questioned, stuttering. Spirits, he was afraid.
Call me The Reaper.
V
The small, circular light bulb swung and flickered lightly in the gunslinger’s “office”. Dirty, steel walls stood around the room, some rusting from age. His desk was the only one, sitting in the middle of the room, made of some strange wood this world had not seen the likes of. Magazines, books, and papers scattered the room. A small replica of his guns served as a paperweight on his desk. On the left side of the room, a bookshelf laid broken and overturned.
He could still remember first coming to The Tower, bedraggled, worn, and near death. But now he was the highest gunslinger in The Tower, a man the world feared. What he had always wanted to be. He chuckled at the thought of the world trembling as they bowed before him, Robert Gunne, the Master Gunslinger, lord of the world.
His eagle eyes caught the ant as it crawled onto the desk. Smashing it, he snarled. Anger boiled as he thought of that priest who escaped - ESCAPED! Something no one else had ever done from The Tower! - and planned. He would have him back if it took him a lifetime. He would have him back if…
A knock came at the door. “Come in,” he told them, in his sandpaper voice. The man who walked in was tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was well built, with little fat on his body.
“Master Gunne, message has come.” The man handed him a small, plastic tube containing a rolled piece of paper.
“You are dismissed, gunslinger.” Gunne waved the man out. Pulling the cork out of the end of the plastic tube, he removed the letter and began reading it.
Robert Gunne,
The priest’s location has been tracked down. He is in a small town in the Korag. He has been here for years, now. How he has eluded us is a mystery to me, but he won’t any longer. Bring your best. We’ll have him before the winter’s end.
There was no signature on the letter, but Gunne needed none to know the letter came from Richard Erik, his master spy. Finally, the final word Gunne needed to confirm that he would have his revenge, his ever so sweet revenge.
Getting up, he slipped into his chaps, walked hastily to the door, and threw it open. The hallway held the same rusty, steel walls and flickering lights that his room held. Poorly cared for floors creaked under his steps. His boots clanked loudly as he walked toward the barracks.
At the end of the hallway stood a large door, which he shoved open as he drew his jacked around himself. Outside, snow blew in the heavy wind that plagued the area. The Tower was oddly named, for it was no tower. It was a large group of buildings left over from the Machine Wars. Thousands of gunslingers called the place home, though many were just bookkeepers and workers. Few ever became true gunslingers and left to do their part in the world. Few ever found out what their part in the world was.
Gunne came to a large, square building. He opened the two doors and stepped inside. It was much warmer inside, hundreds of beds lining the walls and running down the room. Men and women moved about, hauling boxes, changing sheets on beds, and arranging the building, among other things. Shortly after his entrance, though, activity stopped.
“All hail Robert Gunne, the Master Gunslinger!” The cheer echoed among the soldiers and workers, who pounded their chest in respect. A grim smile spread across Gunne’s face. He would have his revenge against that priest, and soon.
VI
The cliff-side city of Guardian’s Port rose hundreds of feet away from the narrow, golden shoreline that made it’s home on the western edge of Kamador. Wood and stone buildings towered up along and in the cliffs, walkways and ladders connecting them. Above the cliffs, the Borganian Wall rose, another of those few survivals from an age long past. Fields rolled for miles atop the cliff that the city sat on, trees dotting the unfarmed regions and mountains jutting from the land to the north.
The city was a bustle this day, the third day into the Week of Eternal Lights. Not many remembered what the festival stood for, but few even cared. Drinking, partying, fireworks, all a part of the festival. Men and women danced in the walkways and plazas throughout the city, many indecently. And at the end of it all, of course, came the Battle of the Bay: the reenactment of the battle long ago when the Gral battleships descended on the city, followed by days of fighting and battle.
It was, of course, only coincidence that that battle should happen at the end of the festival, that Bryna knew. Of the few houses and families that knew the truth of the holiday, she was part of one. Bryna was a young woman, looking about twenty, with dark blonde hair and deep blue eyes. She was well muscled for a women, having lived her life with her father - a tavern owner - and her two older brothers - sailors.
She walked to the window and looked out longingly. Outside, dancers tumbled and turned in the small plaza near her family’s in. The Golden Crane, they called it. It was an older building, wooden fronted with the “front floor” - being the cliff city it was, most from Guardian’s Port referred to the front line of rooms in a building as the front floor, with the floors going back into the cliff until you reached the back floor - but stone beyond. The inn was well kept, though, and drew hundreds of travelers each year. Yet, Bryna wanted more. She had always wanted to see the world, to go somewhere and be someone she knew she couldn’t as long as her family still had a say.
Turning, she took in her small room before heading back down to the commons. A picture hung on each wall - One of her father ahead, one of her mother to the left, one of her stillborn sister to the right, and one of the city behind her - as well as some low quality tapestries. Her bed was to the right of the window, intricately stitched quilt her mother had made her before she died tucked neatly around it. A small table and chair sat in the left corner, near the door, her writings scattered about it. She walked to the door on the wooden floor, opened it, and hastily ran down the stairs to the commons room.
She reached the commons room just as the door swung open. In it stood a tall man of middle age, with dark hair and a small black goatee. He caught her eyes almost immediately, but she could not put her finger on why. He wasn’t really attractive, at least not in her opinion, but something about him drew her. She continued toward the kitchen still staring at him. She noticed the rest of the people were staring, too. She headed towards the kitchen, turning away.
“Where’s the inn mistress?” She had almost made it into the kitchen as his voice piped up. Her cheeks flushed red as she tried to push down the blush, but could not. Slowly she turned to face him.
“That… would be me… my Lord,” she spoke, however slowly. Her cheeks began to clear of the reddening.
“I would like to speak with you. In private, if you don’t mind.” His voice was… dominating. That was the only way she could describe it. She could not say no.
“Come with me to the kitchen… my Lord.” She was trembling she noticed, and forced herself to stop. The man approached with haste, walking in long flowing strides, his stirrups jangling on the wooden floor. She turned and began heading into the kitchen.
The kitchen was large, and white. Most of the walls were marble - that was what the cliff was made of, mainly - but some were simple stone, painted white. Pots and pans hung about the large kitchen, stoves still cooking and maids clearing out as she walked in. Just as she reached the far wall, the man seized her by her shirt.
He stuffed a bag of coins down her bosom. She began to flush, but he spoke fast, not seeming to notice. “This should be enough money. I need you to find me a ship willing reach Settler’s Point within the month. I also need a room for tonight.”
She had no idea what to say. A man seizes her by her shirt, shoves money down it, and asks for a room and a ship? He was mad! “I don’t know how you expect me to have a sh-”
“Your father is one of the most powerful men in this city. Find me a bloody ship!” he interrupted with that dominating voice. “If you can’t, give me the bloody money back and I’ll find some other bloody flaming woman to do the job.”
She grabbed his arms. They felt so strong in her hands. “You can have my room tonight, and I’ll have your ship.” She was falling for him. God, but she had become weak by men! “In the name of God, I swear it.”
He almost looked repulsed. “Good,” was all he said. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his shoulder.
“What is your name?”
“Balasar.”
He walked out with that long stride. How had she become so infatuated with the man so fast?
VII
Miles of desert beached rolled north and south of the single city on Azuran. Single permanent city, that is. True, the De’An called the continent home, but they never settled in one place. A strange people they were. The city was not large, really, but it was spread out. Miles of city reached along the smooth shore, mostly clay and stone houses. The cost to bring wood here was too large for any but nobles, and what noble would call this place home? The city was all but ungoverned, the small Council watching over the city and keeping unrest down. For a city twice as large area wise as Talidad, it held only a third the people. This land was brutal, far too brutal for most people. Of course, the city being open to human and Gral alike, trade was a huge industry, as well as mining and archeology further inland. Fishing was a small industry, considering the coastal location of Settler’s Point, but still thrived.
The large marble palace that the Council called it’s own stood towering over the rest of the town. Brilliant stained glass windows and towers reflected sunlight down on the town, giving the palace its name: Bastion of Light. Hallways and corridors would go unused most of the time, only the Hall of Light and Council Quarters being used on a regular basis. Catacombs where the dead were laid to rest sprawled under the Bastion, and much of the city, too. Dead nobles, Councilmen, and warriors laid there honorable to rest as they took the final embrace.
“We cannot allow this intrusion into our city!” The High Chancellor’s voice echoed through the huge building. “The De’An come back to the city after nearly five hundred years and take up the abandoned buildings in the south. At the same time, the Gral come back, thousands of them, heading in land! I demand the Council see this and call for change!” Of course, no change would come. The city had been neutral for ages. They could not now tell the De’An and Gral to leave.
“Chancellor, the De’An and Gral are as welcome here as the people from Kamador and Turabi. If we change policy now, the De’An will unite again against us, and in our weakness, the Gral will hit us just as hard as they did so long ago back in Kamador.” Richard was a powerful man, rich and highly respected. He had blonde hair, a full mustache, and dark skin. Even for the son of De’An father and Kamadoran mother, he was still shorter than average. Large, grey eyes dominated his face above his mustache and beard.
“Councilor Richard, your word has as little right to be heard as a slaves.” The man who spoke was Torvan, a rich former Kamadoran lord, tall and dark haired and eyed. Richard was appalled. The old man was completely racist against the De’An, everyone knew it. And for him to say this!
“I swear to God Torvan, you bring race into this and I’ll bloody kill you! Do you hear me? Kill you!” Richard stormed out, doors to the Hall slamming shut behind him. He knew he had just given up his place as a Councilor. Time to find a new life.
As he came to his room, he collapsed. “You have forsaken me, God! Forsaken me!” Tears ran down his face, anger boiling up inside. He would live up to his threat.
Within two days, word of his departure had spread. A ship had taken him to God knows where.
*NOTE: Italics and such were removed from this story. If you wish to read it with them, please check out IlidanStormrage's original topic.
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Submitted by johnfn:
Untitled II
She drove down the road in her jeep, Fred.
She had nicknamed the jeep Fred because it
reminded her of someone she knew named
Fred. Steady, dependable, but sometimes it
would break down for no reason. Around the
car, yellow dandelions were sprouting up
all over the place like the sun peeking out
behind a green cloud. She glanced on the
other side of the road. Tulips were growing
haphazardly in the middle of the road, even
though they were purposefully planted. She
brought her attention back to the road and
the huge hulking metal contraptions of
noise and pollution that seemed to live on
it. Funny how something nature made - even
as small as a dandelion - seemed to radiate
perfection, whereas humans' constructions
seemed only capable to destroy.
The man pulled the string on his contraption. At first it seemed
dead. He pulled it a few more times and then it suddenly sprung
to life with a loud roar. It buzzed and it snarled and it hissed and
it rattled. He didn't particularly like his job, but whenever he
thought of quitting he remembered his family. He realized, for
the first time, that most likely if he wasn't around that they would
probably be homeless.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he focused his attention on the thing
that thrashed around in his hands as if it had a life of it's own. These
things must make the loudest noise. His boss had directed him to cut
down trees in that direction, which he had accompanied with a vague
gesture. He looked at the trees around him. They looked utterly random,
at least to him. He called the gesture up in his mind and tried to follow it,
but then almost ran into a marked tree. That was easy enough... He started
cutting it down, but something felt wrong. A pang of doubt ran through his mind.
His intuition, which his parents had told him a long time ago never to
doubt, was bothering him. Something wasn't quite right with this tree...
but he shoved his doubts aside and continued cutting.
Then several things happened at once. The saw hit a small but strong
metal spike inside the tree. The saw's blades were instantly grinded away,
and the strong forward momentum of the saw was rebounded back at him,
because of the spike. As all this happened, time stopped. The man
realized that someone had put a spike in the tree to protect it, probably
some crazy environmentalist. He realized how ironic this was, because now the
saw wasn't going to kill the tree, it was going to kill him. Then time
continued flowing, and his realization became reality.
Much deeper in
the forest, someone
pounded another
spike into a tree.
A pang of doubt
had ran through
his mind when
he heard the chainsaw
fire up. A friend had
assuaged his doubts,
however.
Maybe he was killing
people, but if he
didn't do it, the
loggers were
going to
kill them all.
Far away, in a house overlooking the forest, a man stepped outside on to his balcony. The forest with the sun setting behind it sure did look beautiful. Maybe he should paint a picture.
Topic is close because this thread is not meant for talking, just for storage.
Submitted by Vess:
In the chaos after the "Big Bang" all manner of matter and energy flew rampant. Among the energies that transcend our known dimensions is that of spirit. It to was scattered in the disarray. A small collection of this substance was franticly attempting to cling to something lest it be lost in the void.
With no reference to measure time it may have been years before the energy found substance, found matter, found the gem. This crystalline stone has properties beyond comprehension. The crystal absorbs electromagnetism and expels Psi, the essence of spirit. Thus the Krisalmun was born.
The spirit gifted with a perfect memory found it could create a psi vacuum that would cause the crystal to absorb more energy. And by the same token could force himself through to manifest in light heat or any other wave length. But rather than expel energy the Krisalmun preferred to consume it.
It was at this point that the krisalmun witnessed a miracle. It saw two asroides collide. This sparked a primitive fascination with opposing forces. The Krisalmun wanted to know more, know all. It began to cause or participate in these collisions by expelling quick bursts of heat. Learning to do this well gave him the ability to move.
Over the millennia he would learn many such gifts. Including the most powerful form of stored energy, the atom. The Krisalmun learned to split atoms and absorb the resulting explosion. and with this power He could rebuild the atom. The master of matter takes form. He builds him self a body, networked with crystal fibers to help distribute his energy.
The Krisalmun eventually found a planet and wished to learn from it. So as this rugged planet developed so did he. And even as life formed around him, he observed how cell battled cell. Life had conflicts as well. This kind of struggle would occupy the rest of his known existence. Observing battles, fighting them becoming an oracle to those needing guidance. His body appears only as he wills. And he wills his story to be known.
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Submitted by Hunter_Destruction:
END PART 1
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Submitted by Kem Rixen:
Rex Pete and the story that went nowhere and back again
The sun glistened on the leaves from the recently fallen rain, the leaves happened to be pilled, not in any particular fashion on a tree stump. The typical moment that starts any good story. From far down the road a man could be heard whistling, not any distinguishable tune. The whistling became louder as the man approached and it became easier to see him, he was almost three feet tall, and was wearing an Indiana Jones-like costume. He was on his way to a party, a costume party actually, where he would stumble into yet another clichéd moment.
But lets forget about him for a moment and focus on someone more interesting, Rex Pete, a man who recently discovered that tuna really weren't the chicken of the sea. He had discovered, what he called, the murderous Sea Chicken, which, in ancient times was said to rip ships in twain with its mighty wings. Up until this point the Sea Chicken was a think of myths, a mere fabrication, similar to that of the abominable snowman and the theory of gravity. This was an amazing discovered, dulled by the name, which, was wildly agreed to be a very poor name. Rex Pete was a man who had never been good at thinking up original names. In fact, if it hadn't been for his wife, he son would've been named Son, instead of Thomas, which is, of course, a much more respectable and reasonable name.
Rex Pete was currently located within an ancient Mayan temple, searching for the buried treasure of the notorious Blackbeard the pirate. Where Rex Pete got the unreasonable idea that the treasure was in a Mayan temple is a mystery unto itself, for it all started last Wednesday, or perhaps Thursday, either way, it doesn't matter the day. Rex Pete had walked out of his chrome colored apartment building onto the chrome colored street, wearing a very nice chrome colored suit. He walked down the chrome colored steps, past th e chrome colored plant, which seemed to be whithering actually. As he reached the bottom of the steps and started walking down the street, things ceased immediately to be chrome, for it was only where Rex Pete lived that things were required to be chrome. Rex Pete put up with it as the rent was very low for such a nice apartment, even if he did get a lot of strange looks in a chrome suit.
As he turned another corner, he saw a slip of paper fall out of an old lady's pocket, he dashed forwards to pick it up and give it to her, but when he looked up again, she was nowhere to be seen. He shrugged and looked at the paper, it was a map, a map that supposedly went to the treasure of the notorious Blackbeard the pirate, how the map ended up in that lady's pocket is a mystery unto itself. It was early Tuesday, or perhaps Wednesday, depending on when the previous account was....
The old lady had been driving her car down the street when she happened upon a car accident, when she got out of the car she saw a man getting out of the car, he was a tall man, about six feet tall and was wearing an Indiana Jones-like costume. He walked over to her and gave her a piece of paper, telling her, in an overly dramatic moment, that she would know when she needed it. The man began to walk away, he walked for days and nights, he enjoyed to whistle, so thats what he spent most of his time doing. He walked past a tree stump with leaves that glistened with the rain of newly fallen rain. In his travels he had heard of a party, a costume party, with his Indiana Jones costume he would fit in nicely. After an few uneventful hours he reached the costume party, he didn't have a ticket, but, with his good looks, he managed to coax them into letting him in.
Inside the party he met a beautiful women, it was love at first sight, they did everything together. They h ad children, and lived happily ever after, or they would've if he hadn't been thrown out of the costume party five minutes in for lewd gestures towards the female DJ.
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Submitted by IlidanStormrage:
Seas of Sorrow
Prologue
Enemies, Old and New
I
Shift.
Gerald’s eyes jerked open. A dim grey light from the early morning filled them slowly. His small tent shuttered as the wind hit it lightly. His face was damp with sweat, but he could remember no nightmare. The air was still too cool.
Shift.
He sat up slowly. Everything was as he left it; the lantern was on his left, a small journal on his right, and some food stocks in front of him.
Shift.
The tent door was still knotted shut with a bundle of Komako hair. The wood beams running across the top and down each side in the front and back still held.
Stop.
He crawled to the door, undoing the knot of Komako hair. Pulling it open, he stepped out into the cool, morning air. It was still dry, but at least cool. The rest of the camp was still sleeping. Light snores caught his ears, but he ignored them. It was the shape on the hill, shrouded in darkness, which required all his attention.
Had he been more awake, he would have brought some guards. At these early morning hours, though, he slowly approached the figure alone, with only a belt knife in hand. Slowly, he began to unsheathe it.
Stop. A ringing filled his head. He nearly collapsed. It felt as though a thousand hands pounded at his head. Everything began darkening.
Abruptly, it stopped. Light flooded back into his vision. “Come.. Back…” He stared with amazement as he looked ahead. Where a man had stood only minutes ago, nothing. Just the barren bleakness of the desert rolling ahead of him. He shook his head as he began hobbling back to his tent. Old age has sure got me, he thought to himself.
II
Shift.
Walter pulled his lips back abruptly.
“Is something wrong, my love?” Ilkya’s voice drummed in his ears as he lay there with his face pulled awkwardly back from hers.
“Nothing… it’s noth-”
Shift.
“ing.” He sat up, shaking lightly. The grey light filled his eyes as a… a darkness seemed to fade away. Only it wasn’t dark. “Everything’s fine my-”
Shift.
“-love. Everything’s fine..” It didn’t feel fine to him. His head throbbed, that darkness-that-was-not-darkness clearing again. He began to crawl toward the door.
“You aren’t leaving without me,” Ilkya toned in. She sat up, pulled her blouse down from the side of the tent and tied it on. Walter had already started to leave. “I said you won’t lea-”
“Shut up! You aren’t coming.. Not this-”
Stop.
He collapsed out of the tent as darkness grabbed him. Before he even hit the ground, though, it was clearing. Panting, he caught and pulled himself out. “Stay there Ilkya… I won’t lose you.” He stood up, broke into a run.
The soft sand padded under his feet. He tripped over a charred log, falling into a pile of gear and rations. What the hell is that doing out here? he thought to himself. He hopped back to his feet and began running again.
Stop. He felt as though was pushed, stumbling forward, feet slightly off the ground. His head felt like it was going to burst as that darkness-that-was-not-darkness filled his vision and just as quickly faded away. He skidded to a halt on the dry sand, shirt tattered on the rocks that scrapped his chest.
Lifting his head, he saw Gerald hobbling back to his tent. Old age has sure got him, Walter thought to himself. He turned his head at the sound of footsteps.
“You never run off like that again or.. Or..” Ilkya began sobbing as she wrapped her arms around Walter and lay her head on his shoulder. “Never do that again,” she said through her sobs.
“What is going on?” he said quietly to himself, hugging Ilkya back and lightly kissing her on the top of her head. “What in the name of God is going on?” He raised his head in the air as the light slowly filled the sky and the camp.
III
In his old age, Gerald did not even heard the tent flap open behind him. He sat, meditating, as the figure stepped up behind him. Just as the figures foot landed less than an arms reach behind Gerald, he noticed.
“Who are you?”
I have many names. I have many faces, the figure said, yet, it didn’t say. The words simply filled Gerald’s mind. But you can call me The Reaper.
Gerald sat, frozen. He was paralyzed with fear. The Reaper. A shape shifter, some said. A spirit, others. Sometimes, a demon. “You won’t kill me like you did my father. I won’t-”
You’re right, I won’t kill you. Not yet, at least. I have far too much use for you. But you will listen and obey. That darkness-that-was-not-darkness now gripped Gerald. His vision faded into nothingness as the figure manifested entirely in his mind. I am chief.
IV
In the small tent, the cool night air seemed to grip both Ilkya and Walter. Ilkya pushed herself ever tighter against Walter’s body as they lie on the small pad.
“What happened, just tell me!” she sobbed. Her eyes were red from tears, but she couldn’t stop. It ate at her mind.
“I don’t know.. I wish I did… please.. Stop crying… nothing will go wrong.. Nothing…” It hurt him to see her in such pain. He told her all he knew: Nothing. He had no idea what had happened. He only wanted her happy again. In their pain, they didn’t even see the figure walk into the tent and stand staring down at them.
But I know what happened. Ilkya screamed. The voice filled their heads. A voice like steel, and ice. Seizing his sword, Walter stood up, sword held in front of him, yet it quivered with his shaking hands..
“You get the hell away from her. You get out! Here me? GET OUT!” He lunged forward, slicing down…
And the figure simply… moved. Or maybe the world moved around it. I’m not here to hurt either of you. Not when I still need you. Both of you. As dark as the figure was, Walter could swear he saw a smile cross it’s face. Ilkya lay in the corner sobbing, muttering indiscernible words.
“Who… who are you?” Walter questioned, stuttering. Spirits, he was afraid.
Call me The Reaper.
V
The small, circular light bulb swung and flickered lightly in the gunslinger’s “office”. Dirty, steel walls stood around the room, some rusting from age. His desk was the only one, sitting in the middle of the room, made of some strange wood this world had not seen the likes of. Magazines, books, and papers scattered the room. A small replica of his guns served as a paperweight on his desk. On the left side of the room, a bookshelf laid broken and overturned.
He could still remember first coming to The Tower, bedraggled, worn, and near death. But now he was the highest gunslinger in The Tower, a man the world feared. What he had always wanted to be. He chuckled at the thought of the world trembling as they bowed before him, Robert Gunne, the Master Gunslinger, lord of the world.
His eagle eyes caught the ant as it crawled onto the desk. Smashing it, he snarled. Anger boiled as he thought of that priest who escaped - ESCAPED! Something no one else had ever done from The Tower! - and planned. He would have him back if it took him a lifetime. He would have him back if…
A knock came at the door. “Come in,” he told them, in his sandpaper voice. The man who walked in was tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was well built, with little fat on his body.
“Master Gunne, message has come.” The man handed him a small, plastic tube containing a rolled piece of paper.
“You are dismissed, gunslinger.” Gunne waved the man out. Pulling the cork out of the end of the plastic tube, he removed the letter and began reading it.
Robert Gunne,
The priest’s location has been tracked down. He is in a small town in the Korag. He has been here for years, now. How he has eluded us is a mystery to me, but he won’t any longer. Bring your best. We’ll have him before the winter’s end.
There was no signature on the letter, but Gunne needed none to know the letter came from Richard Erik, his master spy. Finally, the final word Gunne needed to confirm that he would have his revenge, his ever so sweet revenge.
Getting up, he slipped into his chaps, walked hastily to the door, and threw it open. The hallway held the same rusty, steel walls and flickering lights that his room held. Poorly cared for floors creaked under his steps. His boots clanked loudly as he walked toward the barracks.
At the end of the hallway stood a large door, which he shoved open as he drew his jacked around himself. Outside, snow blew in the heavy wind that plagued the area. The Tower was oddly named, for it was no tower. It was a large group of buildings left over from the Machine Wars. Thousands of gunslingers called the place home, though many were just bookkeepers and workers. Few ever became true gunslingers and left to do their part in the world. Few ever found out what their part in the world was.
Gunne came to a large, square building. He opened the two doors and stepped inside. It was much warmer inside, hundreds of beds lining the walls and running down the room. Men and women moved about, hauling boxes, changing sheets on beds, and arranging the building, among other things. Shortly after his entrance, though, activity stopped.
“All hail Robert Gunne, the Master Gunslinger!” The cheer echoed among the soldiers and workers, who pounded their chest in respect. A grim smile spread across Gunne’s face. He would have his revenge against that priest, and soon.
VI
The cliff-side city of Guardian’s Port rose hundreds of feet away from the narrow, golden shoreline that made it’s home on the western edge of Kamador. Wood and stone buildings towered up along and in the cliffs, walkways and ladders connecting them. Above the cliffs, the Borganian Wall rose, another of those few survivals from an age long past. Fields rolled for miles atop the cliff that the city sat on, trees dotting the unfarmed regions and mountains jutting from the land to the north.
The city was a bustle this day, the third day into the Week of Eternal Lights. Not many remembered what the festival stood for, but few even cared. Drinking, partying, fireworks, all a part of the festival. Men and women danced in the walkways and plazas throughout the city, many indecently. And at the end of it all, of course, came the Battle of the Bay: the reenactment of the battle long ago when the Gral battleships descended on the city, followed by days of fighting and battle.
It was, of course, only coincidence that that battle should happen at the end of the festival, that Bryna knew. Of the few houses and families that knew the truth of the holiday, she was part of one. Bryna was a young woman, looking about twenty, with dark blonde hair and deep blue eyes. She was well muscled for a women, having lived her life with her father - a tavern owner - and her two older brothers - sailors.
She walked to the window and looked out longingly. Outside, dancers tumbled and turned in the small plaza near her family’s in. The Golden Crane, they called it. It was an older building, wooden fronted with the “front floor” - being the cliff city it was, most from Guardian’s Port referred to the front line of rooms in a building as the front floor, with the floors going back into the cliff until you reached the back floor - but stone beyond. The inn was well kept, though, and drew hundreds of travelers each year. Yet, Bryna wanted more. She had always wanted to see the world, to go somewhere and be someone she knew she couldn’t as long as her family still had a say.
Turning, she took in her small room before heading back down to the commons. A picture hung on each wall - One of her father ahead, one of her mother to the left, one of her stillborn sister to the right, and one of the city behind her - as well as some low quality tapestries. Her bed was to the right of the window, intricately stitched quilt her mother had made her before she died tucked neatly around it. A small table and chair sat in the left corner, near the door, her writings scattered about it. She walked to the door on the wooden floor, opened it, and hastily ran down the stairs to the commons room.
She reached the commons room just as the door swung open. In it stood a tall man of middle age, with dark hair and a small black goatee. He caught her eyes almost immediately, but she could not put her finger on why. He wasn’t really attractive, at least not in her opinion, but something about him drew her. She continued toward the kitchen still staring at him. She noticed the rest of the people were staring, too. She headed towards the kitchen, turning away.
“Where’s the inn mistress?” She had almost made it into the kitchen as his voice piped up. Her cheeks flushed red as she tried to push down the blush, but could not. Slowly she turned to face him.
“That… would be me… my Lord,” she spoke, however slowly. Her cheeks began to clear of the reddening.
“I would like to speak with you. In private, if you don’t mind.” His voice was… dominating. That was the only way she could describe it. She could not say no.
“Come with me to the kitchen… my Lord.” She was trembling she noticed, and forced herself to stop. The man approached with haste, walking in long flowing strides, his stirrups jangling on the wooden floor. She turned and began heading into the kitchen.
The kitchen was large, and white. Most of the walls were marble - that was what the cliff was made of, mainly - but some were simple stone, painted white. Pots and pans hung about the large kitchen, stoves still cooking and maids clearing out as she walked in. Just as she reached the far wall, the man seized her by her shirt.
He stuffed a bag of coins down her bosom. She began to flush, but he spoke fast, not seeming to notice. “This should be enough money. I need you to find me a ship willing reach Settler’s Point within the month. I also need a room for tonight.”
She had no idea what to say. A man seizes her by her shirt, shoves money down it, and asks for a room and a ship? He was mad! “I don’t know how you expect me to have a sh-”
“Your father is one of the most powerful men in this city. Find me a bloody ship!” he interrupted with that dominating voice. “If you can’t, give me the bloody money back and I’ll find some other bloody flaming woman to do the job.”
She grabbed his arms. They felt so strong in her hands. “You can have my room tonight, and I’ll have your ship.” She was falling for him. God, but she had become weak by men! “In the name of God, I swear it.”
He almost looked repulsed. “Good,” was all he said. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his shoulder.
“What is your name?”
“Balasar.”
He walked out with that long stride. How had she become so infatuated with the man so fast?
VII
Miles of desert beached rolled north and south of the single city on Azuran. Single permanent city, that is. True, the De’An called the continent home, but they never settled in one place. A strange people they were. The city was not large, really, but it was spread out. Miles of city reached along the smooth shore, mostly clay and stone houses. The cost to bring wood here was too large for any but nobles, and what noble would call this place home? The city was all but ungoverned, the small Council watching over the city and keeping unrest down. For a city twice as large area wise as Talidad, it held only a third the people. This land was brutal, far too brutal for most people. Of course, the city being open to human and Gral alike, trade was a huge industry, as well as mining and archeology further inland. Fishing was a small industry, considering the coastal location of Settler’s Point, but still thrived.
The large marble palace that the Council called it’s own stood towering over the rest of the town. Brilliant stained glass windows and towers reflected sunlight down on the town, giving the palace its name: Bastion of Light. Hallways and corridors would go unused most of the time, only the Hall of Light and Council Quarters being used on a regular basis. Catacombs where the dead were laid to rest sprawled under the Bastion, and much of the city, too. Dead nobles, Councilmen, and warriors laid there honorable to rest as they took the final embrace.
“We cannot allow this intrusion into our city!” The High Chancellor’s voice echoed through the huge building. “The De’An come back to the city after nearly five hundred years and take up the abandoned buildings in the south. At the same time, the Gral come back, thousands of them, heading in land! I demand the Council see this and call for change!” Of course, no change would come. The city had been neutral for ages. They could not now tell the De’An and Gral to leave.
“Chancellor, the De’An and Gral are as welcome here as the people from Kamador and Turabi. If we change policy now, the De’An will unite again against us, and in our weakness, the Gral will hit us just as hard as they did so long ago back in Kamador.” Richard was a powerful man, rich and highly respected. He had blonde hair, a full mustache, and dark skin. Even for the son of De’An father and Kamadoran mother, he was still shorter than average. Large, grey eyes dominated his face above his mustache and beard.
“Councilor Richard, your word has as little right to be heard as a slaves.” The man who spoke was Torvan, a rich former Kamadoran lord, tall and dark haired and eyed. Richard was appalled. The old man was completely racist against the De’An, everyone knew it. And for him to say this!
“I swear to God Torvan, you bring race into this and I’ll bloody kill you! Do you hear me? Kill you!” Richard stormed out, doors to the Hall slamming shut behind him. He knew he had just given up his place as a Councilor. Time to find a new life.
As he came to his room, he collapsed. “You have forsaken me, God! Forsaken me!” Tears ran down his face, anger boiling up inside. He would live up to his threat.
Within two days, word of his departure had spread. A ship had taken him to God knows where.
*NOTE: Italics and such were removed from this story. If you wish to read it with them, please check out IlidanStormrage's original topic.
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Submitted by johnfn:
Untitled II
She drove down the road in her jeep, Fred.
She had nicknamed the jeep Fred because it
reminded her of someone she knew named
Fred. Steady, dependable, but sometimes it
would break down for no reason. Around the
car, yellow dandelions were sprouting up
all over the place like the sun peeking out
behind a green cloud. She glanced on the
other side of the road. Tulips were growing
haphazardly in the middle of the road, even
though they were purposefully planted. She
brought her attention back to the road and
the huge hulking metal contraptions of
noise and pollution that seemed to live on
it. Funny how something nature made - even
as small as a dandelion - seemed to radiate
perfection, whereas humans' constructions
seemed only capable to destroy.
The man pulled the string on his contraption. At first it seemed
dead. He pulled it a few more times and then it suddenly sprung
to life with a loud roar. It buzzed and it snarled and it hissed and
it rattled. He didn't particularly like his job, but whenever he
thought of quitting he remembered his family. He realized, for
the first time, that most likely if he wasn't around that they would
probably be homeless.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he focused his attention on the thing
that thrashed around in his hands as if it had a life of it's own. These
things must make the loudest noise. His boss had directed him to cut
down trees in that direction, which he had accompanied with a vague
gesture. He looked at the trees around him. They looked utterly random,
at least to him. He called the gesture up in his mind and tried to follow it,
but then almost ran into a marked tree. That was easy enough... He started
cutting it down, but something felt wrong. A pang of doubt ran through his mind.
His intuition, which his parents had told him a long time ago never to
doubt, was bothering him. Something wasn't quite right with this tree...
but he shoved his doubts aside and continued cutting.
Then several things happened at once. The saw hit a small but strong
metal spike inside the tree. The saw's blades were instantly grinded away,
and the strong forward momentum of the saw was rebounded back at him,
because of the spike. As all this happened, time stopped. The man
realized that someone had put a spike in the tree to protect it, probably
some crazy environmentalist. He realized how ironic this was, because now the
saw wasn't going to kill the tree, it was going to kill him. Then time
continued flowing, and his realization became reality.
Much deeper in
the forest, someone
pounded another
spike into a tree.
A pang of doubt
had ran through
his mind when
he heard the chainsaw
fire up. A friend had
assuaged his doubts,
however.
Maybe he was killing
people, but if he
didn't do it, the
loggers were
going to
kill them all.
Far away, in a house overlooking the forest, a man stepped outside on to his balcony. The forest with the sun setting behind it sure did look beautiful. Maybe he should paint a picture.
