farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Mar 13, 2014 4:19:36 GMT
[So the idea is this. You can post stories about your characters here... But from alternate dimensions or timelines. They can be anywhere in time or space, as if they had lived their whole lives in this time or reality. I'm definitely looking for some 'backwards in time' stories here. Post away!]
Peter opened his eye, a cold breath flying from his mouth. The sky was slate grey above him, with plumes of smoke drifting across it. No sounds of fighting. No screams of men and horses, wordless shrieks of death or pain. All he could hear was the buzzing of flies, cawing of crows, and the moans of the dying men. As for what he felt, he felt half like dying himself- he was surrounded by the bodies of friend and foe, and his left leg ached with a dull pain. Cold, too- he had landed in the mud, churned up by the cavalry and mixed with the lifeblood of scores of soldiers. Looking down, he saw a crossbow bolt stuck in his thigh- he thanked Jesus it wasn't an arrow. His boiled leather greaves had partially stopped the projectile, so that it was sticking out slightly. He gritted his teeth and gave it a sharp tug, causing it to rip free. Grunting, he lifted himself from the mud with a loud SCHWORK. He was glad now that he only had light armor- leather and chainmail weighed less than half as much as full plate. Other knights may have liked to ride horses and wear the thickest armor, but when they fell in the mud with the rest, they weren't like to get up again.
Holding his thigh with a gloved hand, he looked around wearily. His longsword was gone, and his dagger. Fires burned here and there, from the pitch and tar flung by the trebuchets. Much to his grief, the artillery hadn't belonged to his side... His squire had his leg crushed by one of the barrels during the charge, and the flame burst on him first- his screams had been louder than any other on the battlefield, or at least it had seemed so to Sir Thrushwood. The boy would have made a fine knight, if he had lived past four-and-ten. Peter roamed the battlefield, now a graveyard, and soon found a knight that had what he needed. The man had heavy plate and a greathelm- one that had been crushed in by some mace or hammer. Blood had spread from the helm's visor in an insidious, grotesque pattern.
Peter relieved the fallen warrior of his sword and dagger, and lifted a shield off of a nearby axman. A round, solid thing of wood and steel painted with a green quail on a crimson field. Not very close to Peter's own arms- an orange Thrush on black and brown checkers- but it would serve him well until he made it back to his tower. His dear Issabelle awaited him there, and their young boy Karl. It would be good to see them both again, after the long year of his absence...
He left the battlefield behind. The war had torn this country apart- brother fought brother, men died like animals, and the rivers ran red with the blood of the brave and the stupid. Peter had lost much in this war- though what had plagued him most was the loss of his right eye. During his second battle on the campaign, some stray arrow had hit him at just the right angle... Through his eye and out of the very edge of his face. He'd thought he would die there, but it was a clean shot, and he'd learned later that the field surgeons had drawn out the arrow (and the eye) with no great difficulty. He wore a patch now, and feared what his wife and son would think.
Days passed. He trekked through wood and dale, across moors and fields. He supped on roots and berries, and drank from what streams and rivers that weren't ripe with war-dead. He had managed to stop the bleeding in his leg, and (praise God) there was no infection. He slept beneath the trees, or in little caves, or, if need be, under the open stars. He was unmolested throughout his journey, though he could often feel eyes on him as he walked through the wood- human wolves, human crows- but none so bold as to challenge a mean, thick, bearded, and fierce looking knight such as himself. He even considered the missing eye and advantage, as it no doubt made him look even more dangerous- few survived such an injury. And so, he journeyed onward, through rain and sunshine, hard winds and cool breezes. And one day, on a warm summer's eve, he arrived. The journey had taken him weeks, and he'd grown to look quite the barbarian along the way- hopefully, his wife and son would still recognize him. He looked up at the squat, wide tower, a simple banner hanging from its roof. He could smell food cooking on the air, and hear the melodious songs of his Issabelle, and the laughter of his Karl. They were safe, unharmed, untouched...
He strode to the door, and, without knocking, entered.
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Post by nebulaflare on Mar 13, 2014 13:14:16 GMT
Rosie Thorns took another long draw of her cigarette, drinking in the bittersweet smoke. She tilted her head back, letting the smoke run down the back of her throat and through her nose. She opened her eyes, allowing the miracle drugs to work their magic, intoxicating her senses into euphoria. She sighed with contentment.
“We did good this week,” Rosie said, reaching for the glass of whiskey on the table. She wore a simple teal tank top, beige cargo pants and black combat boots. She loved the boots – pilfered off from some sucker who claimed to be a top ranked soldier. The drunkard didn’t stand much of a chance when he tried to force himself onto Rosie. She had left him bleeding and crying in some back alley.
To Rosie, the boots symbolized power. It showed everyone in the room who was in charge. Being a drug dealer on the streets of New London wasn’t easy – even less so for a woman. Twice her boys tried to overthrow her, and both times she had to remind them who was put in charge.
“We got stakes in Eldersquare through Runtside. Might be able to push the Hallows off our territory,” Rosie said, taking a swig of whiskey. Rosie knew most of the guys weren’t really listening, as they were too busy enjoying the fruits of their labor. Thick wisps of smoke climbed from their cigarettes, stretched out like thin spider webs in the air, catching their misery and pain. Darth and Kyle were lazily playing a game of poker – or blackjack, whichever. It was a game of cards, and Rosie was a bit too out of it to pay much attention. Jewel slept on the cot in the corner. She would have a late shift, but would always bring in a lot of credits. She was good at what she did, enticing men for her drug sales. Rosie was too proud to use such tactics, but that didn’t mean she abhorred them.
“Thorns sweetie, you’re gonna finish all the whiskey,” a strong tattooed arm snaked around her shoulder. Rosie smiled. Jack Skinner, her dearly beloved, and partner in crime. She reached over and entwined her fingers into his hand.
“Not my fault you’re too slow, Skinner,” she said. She tilted her head up, looking into his fierce beautiful eyes. “Did you get the load?”
“Yep,” he said, leaning over and pecking a kiss on Rosie’s lips. “Might wanna avoid Tale Avenue tonight. Car crash on my way back. Cops are gonna flock there soon.”
Rosie nodded. “Not a loss, didn’t give much credits anyway,” she sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. It would be a bit longer before sundown, when business would begin. Then another night of drugs and crime. If they did well, perhaps she and Skinner would go to the dance club this weekend. It never hurt to make a few new friends for business.
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Post by tuiee on Mar 20, 2014 23:40:38 GMT
The sun shone brightly upon Earth's glittering blue surface. Marshmallow clouds, whiter than teeth, traced ambling paths across the sky, their amorphous shapes perpetually shifting in form. A rainbow of colors streaked throgh the air, marking the passage of a flock of birds.
It was the height of the twenty first century - the year 2068, and mankind was on the verge of its greatest innovation: the ability to send manned ships into the universe by harnessing bluespace technology. A new age of human prosperity was about to be birthed.
"And I'm going to watch it happen!"
Anderson Crusoe leaned out of the door of his ship - a blue, retro police box, suspended above the earth by unseen forces - and shouted his words at the nearby flock. The startled creatures fled from his craft in a flurry of squawks and feathers. The grinning man reached out as far as he could, one arm hooked around the frame of his door and the other extended into the open air. A quick glance down revealed a sprawling Earth city, with ants for cars and pedestrians being no larger than specks of dust.
Crusoe turned from the view and strode back into the room behind him. It was impossibly large, as the exterior of his box seemed to be merely a few feet square. Set into the center of the room was a large, octagonal console, its metallic panels covered in gleaming lights and a menagerie of levers. Rising from the center of the odd machine was a tube in which hundreds of tiny, multi-colored orbs bounced around, guided by nonexistant currents. They gave off a host of shimmering beams, lending an air of whimsy to the room as the ambient color changed from crimson, to lavender, to rich azure.
Set into one side of the controls was a large display, upon which a clock displayed the current time. Anderson stopped at the screen, his smile growing to nigh-inhuman proportions, and began to mutter a countdown to himself.
"Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven -" he reached down, lifted a floor panel, and withdrew a striped green party hat from the clutter of items within. "Six. Five. Four...."
Affixing the hat to his head, he quickly ran back to the door, never breaking his count. "Three. Twooooo."
With a triumphant shout, he burst through the exit. "One! Happy Bluespace Day!"
The scenery outside of his craft had shifted. Where there had once been blue skies and open spaces, the interior of a cramped workspace now resided. The whir of machinery and a soft hum of voices filled the room. Its occupants, a gaggle of men and women in white lab coats, looked up from what they were doing and stared in bemusement at the box that had seemingly materialized out of thin air.
One man shoved a pair of glasses further up the bridge of his nose and stepped forward, struggling to formulate a sentence in spite of his surprise.
“E-e-excuse me…?” he asked, the words tumbling out in a stunted jumble.
“Hello, there! I’m the Doctor!” Crusoe gave a flamboyant bow and clapped his hands together. “Now, where’s the bluespace drive, eh? Let me give her a looksie.” He shuffled forward and gave the room a cursory glance. It was a science lab, filled with beeping computers and archaic machines. Hundreds of scraps of paper littered every available surface, and interspersed amongst the clutter was an array of tools - wrenches, screwdrivers, welders, and soldering irons.
Nothing in sight even remotely resembled a bluespace engine.
The Doctor furrowed his brow, held up a finger to shush the scientists, (who had now recovered from their momentary stupor and were beginning to advance on him with questions and queries of every kind,) and retreated back into his ship.
Once inside, he consulted the clock once more. That’s odd… the quantum chronometer must be off…
Pensively scratching his chin, he pressed a few buttons and flipped a switch. I’ll have to recalibrate it and come back at the right time. Oh, I do hope I didn’t startle the little scientist fellows too much.
The lighting of the control room flashed through every color in the rainbow in lightning fast sequence, before shifting into a spectrum that the human eye cannot perceive and bathing every surface in inexplicably beautiful and incomprehensible tones. A rhythmic whooshing noise swept through the frame of the box while the people in the room outside gazed in amazement as it faded from their view.
The man with the glasses lunged forward, desperately yelling, “No! Come back!”
His outstretched hand brushed the surface of the ship, and in that instant, something inconceivable happened. The TARDIS, as the ship was called, was breaching the fabric of reality and passing into bluespace at the exact time that the man’s fingers made contact with it. In that impossible moment, his realspace form met the dimension of bluespace, bringing together two forces that were never meant to intersect. The TARDIS shuddered as the ship’s bluespace engine was promptly ejected by the craft’s collision failsafes, its bulky form knocking over the bespectacled man and embedding itself in the far wall after crashing through the room at a ludicrous speed.
The crowd of scientists rushed to the machine, keeping well away from the green sparks that sputtered periodically from within its cracked casing. One individual asked, “Is that what I think it is?”
Another person answered, “It’s an… it’s an engine. My God, look at the design… it has some kind of bluespace coil there, see? Just like we theorized we’d need…” The group approached the engine, a collective sense of curiosity driving them forward.
It seemed the Doctor had his date correct, after all. |
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farcry11
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God Emperor of Pleb Kind
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Post by farcry11 on Mar 27, 2014 4:03:05 GMT
Dean pulled his hat down over his eyes to keep out the rays of the setting sun, leaning forward as his horse ambled in to the small, dusty town of Cado Mills. It was a quaint place- a dusty collection of buildings, which included a saloon, a general store, and a gun shop. Aside from that, there were some houses, a well, and some pens for livestock. He came through here every once in a while, but today he was here on business.
He'd picked up the bounty of an escaped convict, Rosita Thornton, convicted of five counts of murder- one of her victims being a Texas Ranger sent to hunt her down. She'd weaseled her way out of prison and was running with her old gang again- or so he heard. There were plenty of rumors and stories flying around about her; she was practically a living legend at this point, and not to be treated carelessly. That's why he'd come prepared.
A Winchester was slung across his back, and he had a Colt revolver on either hip- six bullets each. From what he'd gathered, she would have all of her gang with her- about ten men in total. He'd have to make his shots count. As he cantered up to the saloon and tied his horse to the post outside, he prayed quietly. Placing himself squarely in the street, about twenty feet away from the saloon door, he called out.
"Rosie Thorns! I know you're in there, girl! Come on out and we can settle this, you an' me!"
The saloon went quiet. The bounty hunter waited, his hands on their respective guns as his long coat flapped idly in the dry Texas breeze. After about a minute, Rosita swaggered out of the saloon, followed by all of her lackeys. Some of the rumors had been true, at least- the young bandit was a pretty little thing, red dyed hair trussed up in some kind of elaborate do'. She dressed almost exactly like a man, to boot- and a cruel smile was etched on her face. She gave him an incredulous once-over, practically sneering. One of her men spat out a wad of tobacco, before she began to speak.
"You look like a lawman, boy. They send you to track me down?"
"No, marm, I'm just here for the bounty. Got a big ol' price tag on your pretty little head, about 500 genuine American dollars, in cash," Dean replied, slowly fingering the handles of his revolvers. "You come over here and let me truss you up, and ain't nobody going to get hurt."
The woman scoffed, then yelled something in Spanish. All of her men pulled their guns and took aim. Dean swore, drawing his Colts even as the men drew their own armaments, and began to run. He dashed down the dusty promenade of the town as bullets tore in to the hard, cracked dirt behind him. Diving in to the open doorway of the general store across the way from the saloon, he held his breath as bullets crashed through the windows and crunched in to the wooden walls. Looking around the corner, out in to the streets, he saw that a few of the men were reloading. He took aim and fired, his shot taking a man through the heart. He cocked back the hammer and fired again, this time at a big, bald brute with a shotgun. The bullet tore in to the bandit's stomach and he keeled over, his weapon tumbling out of his hands.
Taking cover again, Dean thought to himself: Two down, nine more to go. He'd save Rosita for last, to see if she could be reasoned with after her gangmates had all been slain. Peeking around the door once more, he cursed as a bullet whizzed past his head. Before he pulled back, he saw the remaining eight gang members had started to advance across the street, while Rosita remained at the doorway of the saloon. Praying, Dean jumped out in to the doorway, firing at the group if men with both his guns. He managed to get four shots off, two from each gun, before being forced to take cover once more. He noted that each bullet had caught it's mark- only four men left to contend with. He had six bullets left in total, two in one gun and four in the other- ample provisions.
Leaping out again, he managed to fire twice with his first Colt. One bullet caught a man in the groin, and the other in the middle of his chest. They both went down like sacks of bricks. He threw the revolver to the side, empty now, before screaming as his shoulder flashed in pain. Blood poured from his wound as he flung himself backwards over a table covered in ciggarete cartons. Knocking the table over, he took cover as the remaining two gang members entered the shop. Dean looked around- the owner of the shop wasn't here, likely in the saloon with the rest of the townsfolk- it was just him and the bandits. He listened closely to their footsteps, their yelled threats, trying to triangulate their positions.
He pushed his Colt up against the table and fired, relishing the pained scream that followed. He'd guessed the man's position right. He heard the other bandit rush over to his friend, and promptly rolled out of cover, firing twice in the man's direction. One bullet took him in the leg, and the other in his side. He collapsed heavily on his partner's limp body. Finishing off the wounded man with a single shot and discarding his now empty Colt, Dean strode out of the general store, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder. Looking across the street, he saw Rosita staring back at him, rage plain on her face. He yanked the Winchester off his back and she drew her pistol.
He fired once, she twice. One bullet took him in his other shoulder, and the other flew in to the wall behind him. He screamed his pain and dived to the side, behind the railing on the general store's porch. It was covered entirely with wood, so he wouldn't be at risk. He heard Rosita screaming as well, meaning his bullet must have found some part of it's mark. Peering around the corner, he saw her gripping her leg, blood streaming between her fingers. Her gun lay discarded in the street beside her. Dean ran from his cover towards the wounded woman, kicking her gun away as soon as she reached for it. He pointed his Winchester at her face with progressively weakening arms, blood streaming from both of his shoulders in slow rivulets. Rosita stared up at the bounty hunter with sullen anger, and he countered the stare with a cocksure, albeit grim, look of satisfaction.
"Should've just given up," he said curtly, as he booted her in the face, knocking her unconscious.
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Post by Rusty Shackleford on Apr 11, 2014 2:45:37 GMT
July 3rd, 1863
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Union field hospital
Janet hurriedly carried the bucket of water between rows of wounded men. They cried out in agony as she passed; most, if not all, were suffering from grievious wounds, waiting for treatment that would be a long time in coming. The bucket was heavy, and Janet walked with an awkward gait as she struggled to keep it from tipping over and spilling the valuable contents over blood-soaked earth. Still, water sloshed over the sides; the bucket might be only half full by the time she would get to the surgery tent. Dying men, in want of a drink, reached out for her as she passed, trying their best to get her attention. But this water was not for them. Janet had already learned to tune out the wails and pleas of wounded men. Otherwise she would have gone insane by now. She passed them without even a wayward glance. One soldier managed to grab a hold of a pleat in her dress; his other hand was preoccupied with holding his entrails within his abdominal cavity. Janet paid no mind, and carried on at her current pace, even as the piece of fabric was torn off and left behind in the hand of the dying soldier.
At the end of the row was the surgery tent. Janet slipped inside, setting the bucket down on packed earth. She watched with a strange mix of mute curiosity and gut-wrenching disgust as the surgeon, a German named Henkel, performed an amputation on a young soldier. Two other nurses handed him tools as he called for them. The tools were nothing more than repurposed silverware at this point, since the medical supplies were quickly running out. They were using things like sharpened kitchen knives in place of scalpels, a pair of fish hooks being used as a tenaculum, a carpenter's saw being used to cut through bone. The patient, a boy, who couldn't be any older than 16, lay on the wooden table at the center of the tent. He screamed as Henkel sawed through the bone of his upper thigh, having already cut away the necrotic flesh. He was bleeding out rapidly, and Janet knew that despite the surgeon's best efforts, the boy would most likely be dead very soon. She shuddered as she realized how casually she had disregarded the thought as a simple fact, something to be merely accepted. She had long since grown used to the sight of blood, but suddenly she felt like vomiting.
Her first thought was to get some fresh air. She rushed out of the tent, but remembered that such a thing as fresh air did not exist in this place. Everywhere, the stench of death hung low in the hot, muggy air, a sickly-sweet scent emanating from the corpses scattered all over the ground, as their flesh festered in the harsh, unrelenting sun. Regardless, Janet felt the need to keep walking. She passed rows upon rows of men lying prone. Near the surgery tent, most lay on filthy cots, already covered with the blood and bodily fluids of the men before them. But further away, cots were in short supply, so wounded men were placed on the ground. Some had blankets beneath them, others lay on the bare patches of dirt, as the precious red ichor in their veins flowed freely into the earth. The further she walked, the quieter it became. The wails of the dying faded into the silence of the dead. Soon she could only hear the sounds of the ongoing battle, as the Rebel infantry slammed against the Union lines, and artillery pounded both sides.
Janet strolled amongst the rows of dead soldiers, glancing at the faces twisted in the agony of their final moments. She stopped before a body that caught her attention. It was one of a rather rotund man, made even fatter by the bloating of his dead flesh in the harsh summer sun. Stepping closer, Janet saw maggots crawling in and out of a circular wound in the man's gut, no doubt dealt by a musket ball. She watched the slimy, writhing worms for a moment before glancing at the man's face; her breath caught in her throat as she noticed he was staring straight at her with yellow, glazed eyeballs. She stood absolutely still for a moment, wondering if the man had died like that. Then he blinked at her and smiled; as he did, a few maggots fell out of his mouth. Janet fell to her knees, retching. The skimpy meal she had eaten in the morning poured out onto the ground, dust and bile mixing together. Almost immediately, she leapt to her feet, and bolted back in the direction of the surgery tent, leaving the not-quite-dead man behind her.
She reached the tent just in time to see the corpse of Henkel's young patient be thrown onto a horse-drawn carriage, to be ferried elsewhere for burial. Henkel himself came out, looking grim. He had not slept in days; there was simply no time, as the casualties kept mounting, day after day without cease. He glanced in Janet's direction, and solemnly shook his head at her as she approached, but said nothing. The other two nurses rushed from the tent, helping the nearest soldier to his feet, ushering him inside. Henkel followed suit, with Janet on his heels. The other nurses had laid the soldier on the wooden table, and Janet watched him grimace from the intense pain of having a musket ball lodged in his chest. The surgeon washed the blood off of his tools using the bucket Janet had brought earlier, and poured a shot of whiskey for the soldier, which he quickly downed. One of the nurses gave him a piece of wood to bite down on as Henkel poured some of the whiskey over his hands and tools, as a form of crude sterilization. As he made the first incision, Janet noticed that the sounds of battle had grown uncomfortably close. She could hear the frightful whoops and shouts of the Rebel soldiers and cavalry as they charged again and again, being driven back each time by vollies of fire from Union muskets and cannons. For a moment, she was curious as to exactly how many men were dying during this costly engagement, with all the lead being thrown back and forth between the opposing sides. It was only for a single moment she thought this, for in the very next one she found herself being thrown off of her feet. Everything went black.
She awoke to find herself lying on the dusty earth, spread-eagled, staring straight up at the sky. There was a deafening ringing in her ears, and a moment of confusion as she attempted to recall the events of the moments prior. She lay on the ground until the ringing abated, and she could hear the muskets and the cannons and the cries of the dying once more. Supporting herself on her elbows, she sat up and looked a few yards ahead. The surgery tent was gone, and a smoking crater had taken its place. Gingerly climbing to her feet, she made her way towards it, and saw that the other occupants were dead. The only thing left of the poor German was his disembodied head, lying close by the severed arm of one of the nurses. Looking around, she noticed some of the soldiers in the nearby cots were also dead, killed by pieces of shrapnel thrown up by the blast. A feeling of dread passed over her, and she frantically checked herself over, looking for wounds. Miraculously, she seemed practically unharmed. She sat down cross-legged in the dust, unsure of what to do, now that the surgeon was dead. The tools were destroyed along with him, so she could be of no help to the other soldiers.
After a while, a cavalry officer rode up behind her. As he dismounted his horse, she glanced up at him; he was an older gentlemen, with a well-trimmed white beard, and a clean blue uniform, the buttons polished to a shine. She could immediately tell that he was one of the reinforcements advancing from the rear, for none of the front line troops had uniforms as clean as that. He offered a hand to help her to her feet. She stared at him for a moment before accepting it. "S'cuse me, miss, but what are ya doin' all the way up here, near the front, just a-sittin' down like that?" The surgeon's dead, she told him. The medical equipment is gone. There's nothing to be done about it. "Well, you're a nurse, aren't ya?" Yessir, she said, that I am. "Well, reckon ya can perform a surgery? We're runnin' low on doctors to be treatin' all the wounded." Well, she said, I suppose I've seen Henkel do it enough times, that maybe I could. "Well, alright then, it's settled. Come on, get on mah horse, I'll be takin' you to over where we need ya." The cavalry officer mounted first, then extended his hand to help Janet up behind him. He kicked the horse's sides, and it started at a gallop towards a farmhouse on a hill.
As they approached, she saw it was surrounded by activity, as wounded men were unloaded from wooden carts, and laid down on fresh cots, brought to the front lines by the Union reinforcements. The cavalry officer helped her dismount, before galloping off in the direction of the front lines. Janet made her way into the farmhouse in a daze, weaving in and out between soldiers. Sunlight streamed into the main room through a large hole in the roof, and a few nurses rushed between cots, tending to as many men as the could. One of the nurses noticed her. "You's a surgeon, or jus' another nurse?" she asked. I can do surgery, Janet said. "Oh, thank tha lord almighty. The dyin' keep pourin' in like nobody's bus'ness." The nurse led her to what could have been a dining room, but now served as an operating room. There was already a man on the table, and he looked up as Janet and the nurse entered. He was tall, and had messy dark brown hair, the same shade as his eyes. He immediately struck her as unusual. He wasn't wailing, or grimacing, or whispering prayers to a god that would never hear them. He simply stared at her, with an expression that could almost be described as puzzled. Janet looked at his right arm; it was torn up all to hell, probably caused by a glancing hit from a charge of grapeshot. The soldier had used the sash of his canteen as a makeshift tourniquet, which had probably kept him from bleeding out while he waited for a doctor.
She looked at his face again, but this time he didn't seem puzzled. She recognized the look in his eyes as one of resignation. He didn't expect to survive. The realization shocked Janet out of her daze. She moved up alongside the soldier, preparing to amputate the arm. What's your name, she asked. "Bellard, ma'am," he answered. "Erec Bellard, Corporal." Well, Erec, she said, I'm Janet, and I'm going to do what I can for you. He once again gave her a puzzled look, as if to say, what's the point? I'm dead anyway. But after seeing the look in the man's eyes, Janet was determined not to let him die. One of the nurses gave Erec a shot of whiskey, which he downed in a single gulp. He turned back to Janet, and gave her an almost imperceptible smile as the numbing effects of the strong drink started to take effect. Janet spoke again. Erec, she said, you'll get through this. You have my word. You'll get through this, and I'll help you. With that, she began the operation.
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Apr 25, 2014 7:08:13 GMT
(bump)
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gollee
Lore Master 
I write things
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Post by gollee on May 6, 2014 20:23:11 GMT
Due to the fact that Inis literally can only show up in techy or magicky universes due to her appearance... Here is Inis and Gollee in their original state.
The sound of clashing weapons, and the hum of taut bowstrings echoed through the ancient woodland, followed by the choking smell of smoke, and a spreading inferno. Trees older than even the most venerable of living races crack and fall as flames consume them.
Two shapes flitted through the twisting trunks of the forest, moving swiftly towards the firestorm. The sound of weapons peters out as they dash through the trees; in its place are screams and cries of agony.
The figures pause at the edge of the fire, and the smaller of the two calls out a single word, illuminating the two of them with a bright green flash. The taller of the two is male, wearing light chain mail armour, with a full face helm, carved into the shape of a hawk; across his back is an ornate metal bow, glimmering in the ethereal green light. The other is a woman, wearing hardened leather, her face is uncovered, with long blue hair flowing down her back; she has a long wooden spear in her left hand, and her right hand is raised towards the flames.
The green light blinks out as suddenly as it appeared, leaving the two standing in the brightening red light of the fire. Loud creaks and groans emanate from around the pair and a long wave of ancient roots flow over the fire, the enchanted roots dampening every spark, leaving a clear path for the two figures.
They sprint across the smothered blaze, leaping over smouldering trunks and fallen branches. As they round a particularly thick copse a small settlement is revealed.
The settlement is in ruins, the graceful wooden buildings ablaze, the screams of those trapped within slowly fading. Bodies litter a ground awash with blood. Scattered around the village, there were people in rough leather garments, snatching valuables from the corpses. As the two of them watched, a woman staggered out of one of the burning houses, where three of the bandits waited. The woman gasped as one of the bandits shoved her back towards the flames. She fell on her side as the three thugs drew various weapons and closed in around her.
A high pitched thrum echoed across the devastated glade, and one of the bandits dropped to his knees, a long arrow bursting bloodily from his chest. A clear voice called across the settlement, “Sentinels, Strike!” As the two figures watched, half a dozen armoured fighters poured out of the forest, long spears and elegant swords carving gruesome wounds as they tore through the bandits; shards of metal flew as the wafer-thin blades shattered the axes and swords of the unfortunate brigands.
The group of warriors paused for a moment as the last bandit in sight fell, leaving another dozen bodies in the bloody mud; a long hiss echoed between the blazing houses, and the air around the fighters wavered.
An explosion rippled through the ranks of the Sentinels, scattering them like debris, several died immediately, whole limbs blown away by the immense fireball. A wave of heat pricked the skin of those surviving as a roiling creature of flame emerged from one of the houses, bodies disintegrating as it glided past them.
The three remaining fighters clambered to their feet, dashing towards the creature, long blades slicing gashes through its infernal flesh. It was to no avail, the creature laid about itself with its arms, one of the Sentinels ignited with a horrible scream, while another had their brain dashed out against the wall in bloody fashion.
The last Sentinel charged again, easily scooping up the blade of one of her fallen companions. Weaving a shield of enchanted steel, she leapt around the elemental, slashing and cutting into its hide. With an agonised roar, the creature swung at her, knocking her out of the fight. She flew over ten metres before slamming into the ground, where she didn’t move again.
The two figures darted forwards, a constant hum reflected a volley of arrows launched at preternatural speeds. The elemental roared in fury as it turned away from the injured Sentinel towards the new distraction. Another seething fireball arced towards the two figures, but they parted effortlessly, and it soared past them. The woman’s figure shimmered for a moment as she applied her mind just so. The shimmering intensified, and the woman faded towards translucency. Every survivor in the glade could feel the magical energy being drawn in as she raised her arms.
The elemental charged forward, icy arrows digging gaps into it’s form, it swiped at the man, but missed as he danced backwards, drawing his bow back for another shot. It roared again and gave chase, fixated on destroying the painful nuisance. The woman shouted an incantation and thorny vines emerged from the ground, wrapping around the elemental. It bated at the weeds, searing them with intense heat. The creature charged at the man again, smashing through a smouldering ruin, sending blazing splinters flying across the glade. The man raised his arm to shield his eyes from the splinters, hissing in annoyance.
The elemental roared in triumph as it charged again, but its yell was drowned out by an ear-splitting crack of lightning as the sky disgorged a massive shard of light.
The shard arced downwards, the woman’s hands guiding its path towards the elemental. The entire glade was illuminated in the stark white light of the star shard. The elemental gave a guttural yell of terror and swung its arms towards the shard, blasting it with an immense amount of power.
The shard struck the elemental with full force, transfixing it for a moment, before disappearing, the elemental weaved backwards and forwards, crushing another building before it began to fade; within moments the fire died, leaving only a crystallised residue.
With the elemental slain, the two of them heard more bandits fleeing into the forest, snapping twigs and startling animals as they sprinted from the village. The man darted away, disappearing into the forest in pursuit. The woman hurried over to the fallen Sentinel.
The Sentinel was lying in the ruins of a building, her weapons lost in her short flight; an immense carbonised area across her torso showed where the elemental’s blow had landed. The woman knelt down quickly, holding her hands over the stricken Sentinel.
The Sentinel’s eyes opened a fraction, as the woman crouched next to her, her mouth moved slightly, “Druid…Thank the Goddess…” The druid put a finger to her lips and her forehead creased with concentration. A green glow filled her palms, and she placed them against the wound. The Sentinel hissed in pain, but stayed silent as flesh began to regenerate, a low glimmer of light swirled about the two of them as new skin flowed over the injury,
The green light was extinguished as the last of the injury healed. The druid helped the Sentinel stand up carefully, keeping a cautious eye on her as they stepped out of the ruined house. The druid asked quietly, her voice barely audible, “What happened here?” The Sentinel grunted, crouching down to collect her silvered blade, “Raiders, with a powerful mage, this is the third settlement they have destroyed in the past month.” The druid frowned slightly, waving her hand over a slaughtered villager, greenery flowed from the scorched earth, covering the body, a low green glow glittered around the mound. “Why were the druids not informed? This is out of the Sentinels’ expertise.” The Sentinel didn't respond, only shrugging as the plants parted, revealing a weak, but very much alive elf.
The two of them continued the walk around the village, each time they approached a corpse, plant life would flow over it, restoring what was lost. Each such resurrection put greater and greater strain on the druid, and by the end, she was shaking with exhaustion. The bodies of the raiders, and the bodies too damaged for such magic to work, were laid in a line in the village centre, while the surviving villagers gathered what belongings they could.
The man emerged from the forest; a short sword at his waist glistening with fresh blood, his mouth was set in a grim line. “I found their encampment, they took prisoners.” He turned to the Sentinel, “By the Goddess! Foolish girl! What did you think you were doing? Ordering your forces to attack an elemental of that size!” He snapped, drawing his short sword and wiping blood from it with a dirty rag. The Sentinel glared at him, stepping closer, “Maybe if you had intervened sooner, we wouldn’t have had to. There were people dying, hunter, doesn’t that matter to you?” The hunter paused, then said quietly, “Of course it matters, but if you had used the skills you were trained in, you would have known about the elemental, you would have known about the pair of us ready to enter the village.” The druid growled loudly, an inordinately loud noise, echoing off the ruins, the other two cut off their argument immediately, “Gollee, we need to destroy that camp. We need to set an example. We cannot do that if you are going to fight with our allies. That goes for you too, Kayla.” The Sentinel blinked as her name was spoken, “How did you…? Nevermind… I will provide whatever assistance I can to deal with these raiders.” Gollee glared at his sister, and then spoke to Kayla, “It would be best for you to help these villagers relocate, Inis and I can deal with these raiders.” Kayla nodded, and walked into the centre of the village, leaving the two of them alone.
Gollee sighed and slipped his sword back into his belt. “Are you going to need a rest first?” He asked Inis quietly, she nodded slightly, before sitting down on a broken roofing strut. “I should be fine in an hour or so…How far is this camp?” Gollee shrugged, sitting down next to her, “At least two hours walk, though we could go faster if necessary. We will need to move quickly, or they will relocate.” Inis nodded, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples.
An hour later, the two of them slipped back into the forest, moving gracefully through the trees in the direction Gollee indicated. As they travelled, they came across more bodies, both elven, and raider. The elven bodies all had cut throats, with a signature twist at the end of the cut. The raiders were killed in a variety of ways, some had deep wounds in their backs, others had arrows between their shoulder blades.
Gollee slowed as they began to hear shouting and the sounds of horses. “Here…” He whispered to Inis, indicating through a line of trees; movement was visible through the hanging leaves. Inis could see another elemental, this one was of the element of water, she smiled slightly.
She nodded to Gollee, and he drew his bow back, aiming at a mounted man, wearing fine silk clothes. A loud hum echoed across the camp, and the man fell backwards, an arrow appearing in his throat. The elemental gave a roar of rage as it was banished, it’s link to the world severed. Cries of alarm filled the glade and swords were drawn from scabbards, electing a chorus of screams and cries from a group of chained prisoners, both elven and human. Another scream went up as a flash of silver dashed out of the glade opposite Gollee and Inis. Slashing silver blades cut down a dozen raiders before they began to close on the attacker. Inis and Gollee burst out of their copse to see Kayla being tackled to the ground by half a dozen raiders, her swords knocked out of her hands as they struggled to restrain her.
Gollee unleashed a volley at Kayla, almost carelessly, the enchanted arrows arcing towards the unfortunate raiders restraining her. One of them gave a yell of fear before an arrow took him through the eye. Within two seconds, the other five raiders fell dead around her, either killed by the pinpoint volley, or by Kayla herself as she snatched up her swords. The three of them flew through a dance of death as they sprinted through the camp; Kayla’s lashing blades racking up dozens of kills as she cleared the area around the prisoners. Gollee’s arrows cut down the bandits that attempted to flee, razor sharp arrows puncturing lungs and hearts as each shaft found its mark. Inis shifted effortlessly between a half dozen forms, slashing at screaming raiders with claws, paws and talons as she cut them down.
A group of archers formed up across from the three of them, launching volley after volley at them, Kayla’s blades caught the arrows before they could touch her, Inis’ resistant hide simply shattered the arrows on contact, while Gollee returned fire, matching them shot for shot, destroying every arrow they fired at him.
The entire skirmish took only a few minutes, once the last raider had fallen, the glade was silent as their blood soaked into the already sodden soil. Kayla struck the restraints off of the prisoners, marshalling the freed humans and elves into a group to return to the closest village. Inis searched through the dead, looking for any that might be redeemable. Gollee flipped each body, searching for his expended arrows.
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Mr. Majestic
Developer 
Majestic is the name, majestic is the game.
Posts: 485
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Post by Mr. Majestic on May 13, 2014 14:11:02 GMT
A refreshing morning light flooded the room as the butler tugged the thick curtains apart. Three more butlers entered the room, one pushing a tray adorned with all sorts of treats. The other brought forth a bowl of the clearest and sweetest water, the third, held expensive silk garments with only the finest stitching.
"You are addressing the kingdoms today, sire" said Drayke. The royal master turned in his bed, the great gold colored covers shifting slightly. "Sire, this could be a great opportunity for our Nanos Trasion Kingdom, the traders in this land could use the goods offered by the seven kings. And we will be able to show them our superiority as the greatest kingdom."
With that, the king got up, he produced a crown from a golden chest, encrusted with precious gems and stones, a magnificent crown. It was gold with a rather impressive crimson diamond in the center, masterfully crafted and with diamonds and other precious things inserted. This was the royal crown. The king ate, drank, and dressed himself. Patting each butler on the head and passing them each a treat.
He stepped out to greet his subjects, as was the usual thing Sunday morning routine. They were all gathered in their best clothes at the pavilion, big enough to contain this sea of people.
The announcer spoke out proudly and professionally: "All hail, our almighty and powerful, loving ruler. King of Nanos Trasion, The Great King Ian!"
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