A mighty hand etched in stones
No godliness could every lift the fate imprinted
A tree’s roots grow farther and farther into unmovable destiny
Thor will fight the mighty serpent, Odin: the wolf
The sun and moon overturned by hungering presuers
For the fanged ones starve the most
An immortal earthly lineage reunites
What prophetical runes stay unmarked?
All but two then five.

by @DepressedSoviet
Cold, distant, empty. These are the only feelings I have left ever since I was placed upon this throne, beaten and broken by the one who betrayed me, the one I loved most. I have watched silently from this throne for over ten thousand years since then, helplessly bearing witness to the destruction of everything I fought so dearly to create.
They claim to do it in my name, in my image, but they have desecrated everything I stood for. They preach about my love for them, while at the same time they enslave the poor and weak to a life of perpetual servitude. Those who speak out against this injustice are perceived as traitors to my will, and swiftly dealt with. Each death strikes a blow to the core of my being, saddening me beyond relief, and leaving me to wish I was capable of some form of action, some method of ending this tyranny.
But those in control would never have it. Even now, they continue to destroy their lessers so that I may live, slaughtering a thousand innocents every day simply to ensure this damnable throne maintains my life. I never wanted this, I never asked for this. All I wished, was an empire for my people, to show how great we could be, and how we could achieve anything when united to a single cause.
But these cowards have committed an even worse crime than the one who placed me upon this throne. They have destroyed the very entity they swore to uphold and protect. They have not only desecrated my creations, but my own soul as well. But despite this, I do not hate them. No, all I wish is to be able to correct them, guide them back to my original path, fix the broken course they have set my empire upon.
But my only manifestations of will are slowly being torn away, by the manipulative powers themselves, in an effort to deliver the finishing blow. I can only assume this depraved mockery of my empire is their doing, and that if I do not find a way to act, they will finally succeed in their eons-long plan to end my life.
And so here I sit, unable to do anything but watch as my entire life’s work dissolves in the mere blink of an eye. But still I have hope, that one day I will return. I will once again be able to stand, and lead the armies of my people against the antagonistic powers that have ruined my work. And when that day comes, I will be ready.

The ritual was the same every year; hang up the increasingly more delicate decorations, gather around the table, and listen to the wireless. The war had dragged on for so long that none of those gathered could remember what it was they were fighting for, and fewer of them cared, for as long as somebody was getting torn apart by bullets or ran through with a sword, you were fighting for your life. Some seven miles away, of course, the other side felt exactly the same. There was an inertia to it that nobody could challenge. The fact the other side fought back was all the justification required to carry on fighting them.

"Let us remember," the speaker on the wireless crackled into life, "what we shall do once victory is secured. Begin now. The countdown to the New Year will begin in twenty five seconds."

"I'll plant some vegetables," said one, standing upright and to attention, despite the screaming pain in his back and his trembling hands, "and I'll see my family again."

"I'm going to drink, and eat, and fornicate, and eat some more," said one, which raised a cheer from the other men, "and I'll keep doing it until I die, fat, old and happy."

"I'm going to see the lights in the city, I reckon," said one, his eyes bandaged shut, "and one of them new plays."

"I'm going to-"

"Countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six," began the wireless.

"Incoming," came a voice from outside the bunker.

"Five, four, three," said the wireless.

"Brace for impact."

"Two," said the wireless.

By @WiseDragonGirl
Many people were about in the hospital, even if it was January 1st. Holiday or not, there were always patients in need of care and for that reason there was always staff present. The doors of an elevator opened and a man stepped out. His blond hair was tied in a loose ponytail and the white doctors-coat hang open, revealing a dark-green T-shirt with a yellow owl on it. He held a paper cup filled with warm coffee and took a careful sip as he walked into the paediatrics department. Doctor Andy Bansing was on duty today, but judging by his smile he didn’t mind.

“Good morning everyone!” he said as he walked up to the nurses station.

“Good morning, doctor Bansing,” one of the nurses replied. “And happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year to you too, Tanya! Aren’t you glad to be doing an early shift now?”

She laughed sourly at the question and didn’t answer. No-one was particularly happy to come in early on a day like this, but there had to be a minimum staff present at all times. Why the doctor seemed this cheerful was a mystery to her. “Did you make any New Year resolutions this year?” she asked.

“Of course! I decided I won’t talk with people whose name is twelve characters long. Twelve is my unlucky number you know.”

“Not thirteen?”

“No, I have no issues with the number thirteen,” Andy told her with a grin. “But twelve, it has proven to be my unlucky number, so I will avoid it this year. That is my resolution.” He winked at her, grabbed the file she placed on the counter for him and walked away.

“Good luck with that!” Tanya called after him and returned to her work with a shake of her head.

The next day Andy worked again. He started with a round over the paediatrics department, but went down to the emergency care department when they paged him. He was called down there because a mother with a new-born baby were being brought in with an ambulance, she had gone into labour at side of the road at 37 weeks and she had delivered the baby inside the ambulance as it sped towards the hospital. The ambulance staff had called during the ride and after their call the emergency department had paged him. A good communication like this made sure everyone was ready when the ambulance would arrive.

After checking the baby it seemed the boy was in good health, but the mother was weakened. They were admitted to the maternity ward and he would go back the next day for a final check on the baby, unless a nurse would call him in before that.

After a job well done he returned to his department and walked up to the central nurses station when he noticed two of his colleagues standing there: doctor Timothy Green and the head of the department doctor Paul Newman. There were two nurses as well, Tanya had to work again and sat in front of the computer. A male nurse restocked his medicine cart, Andy had to take a moment to remember his name, but soon recalled it was Robert. A fairly new addition to the nurses, a month or three if he had to guess. He looked at his colleague Timothy again and chuckled to himself, but pulled a straight face when he reached the counter.

“Morning Andy,” Timothy said.

“Good morning,” Paul greeted him too.

Andy nodded once. “Morning, Paul,” he said.

Timothy frowned at Andy. “Andy?”

Andy looked at him, but didn’t say anything.

“What’s up with you this morning?”

Andy remained silent.

“You can at least answer my question!” Timothy said, who grew more impatient the longer the silence lasted.

Instead of answering, Andy looked at Tanya. “Maybe you can explain it,” he said to her.

Doctor Green looked at her too. “Do you know what his problem is?” he asked her.

“N-not really,” Tanya said, but when she saw how Andy pointed towards Timothy’s nametag she had to try her best not to laugh. “Oh, maybe I do,” she turned to the doctor. “You see, doctor,” she said as politely and respectful as she could, “doctor Bansing made a New Year’s resolution this year. He doesn’t want to talk with people whose names are twelve characters long, because it’s his unlucky number and he wants to avoid it.”

Both Paul and Timothy looked at the nurse first and then at Andy, who seemed to enjoy himself.

“Are you for real?” Timothy asked, but again Andy didn’t answer him. “You’re so childish,” he sighed as he walked away.

Andy grinned broadly. “Thank you, Tanya.”

Now Robert looked up from his cart. “If I may ask, doctor,” he began politely, “wasn’t your unlucky number six only two months ago? I recall someone asked you if you would join them and when he said it would be you, him and four others you declined because that would make six and that was your unlucky number.”

Andy laughed. “Oh, I remember that. The best thing about that was that he took my arm and said, very seriously, he understood!”

Everyone chuckled at that.

“I thought doctor Hellington was the one you enjoyed teasing,” Tanya said while she typed in some data in the computer.

“Oh, I teased him last year,” Andy replied immediately, “I can’t tease him two years straight.”

Paul chuckled. “I’ll go tell Eric the good news then.” There was a pause in which he started to looked more serious again and he looked straight at Andy. “But be honest with me, you counted Timothy’s name before deciding on your unlucky number, didn’t you?”

“Me?” Andy asked with an obvious feinted surprise and innocence as he put his hand on his chest. “You think I would do something like that?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You… might not be wrong with that assumption.” He ignored the two laughing nurses and kept his attention on Paul, who obviously had more to say about the matter.

“Are you really not going to talk to him for an entire year?” Paul continued. “I mean-”

“Of course not,” Andy interjected with a reassuring smile and a dismissive wave of his hand. “I still have to work with him professionally and I will. When the situation calls for it I’ll break my resolution. It’s not like I would be the first person ever to break their New Year’s resolution.” He chuckled at his own remark. “But I’m going to try and get through the day without breaking it, that’s my goal. It’ll be fun.”

“Don’t push it, okay? Eric could handle your teasing, Timothy is…”

“Way too serious,” Andy sighed. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to say that, but yes. Don’t push it.”

Andy straightened his back and saluted. “Yes Sir!”

“This is going to be a tiresome year if you begin it like this,” Paul sighed and started to walk away, leaving a grinning Andy at the desk.

Darkness.

At first, that’s all I can see. I am surrounded by an infinite void. I try to move, but I am formless. I try to yell, but I am voiceless. Is this death?

A light! In the distance! Small, but it’s there. It burns a dull red. Can I approach it? No… it approaches me. It grows closer, larger, deeper. Soon this dim light has all but enveloped me.

Suddenly, I am standing. I feel a cool breeze on my skin and my neck tingles. I am clad in armor under the light of the moon, sword and shield in hand. Am I to fight? I can see no enemy.

The light rises, taking the shape of desolate structures. I am encircled by the smoldering skeleton of what was once a city. Wait. Not just a city. My city.

The city I swore to protect.

Troy.

---

Agenor awoke, sitting up with a violent start. He gasped for air, struggling to discern his surroundings. His eyes adjusted to the dark and it took only a moment for him to regain his composure, his breath steadying. In the sheets beside him, his wife sighed but did not stir.
The tired young warrior swung his legs over the bed and stood up, stretching his limbs and releasing an unwelcome yawn. The room was black as pitch, illuminated by the moon alone. Thin drapes waved in a gentle breeze, and all was silent.
Agenor massaged his sore arms and walked through the floating drapes onto the balcony overlooking his street. His house sat on a hill on the inland side of the city, providing a clear view of almost all of Troy. To the west, and farther uphill, King Priam’s palace loomed in the darkness, its silhouette outlined by a thousand stars. Looking east, he could see the market district, the massive Scaean gate embedded in the city’s towering walls, and the ocean, glimmering faintly in the light of the moon.
The ancient city was quiet as a corpse, save the barking of a dog in the distance, but Agenor knew it wasn’t long before the sun would rise and the Trojans would awaken. Children, like his son, would run through tight alleys to the schoolhouse, merchants would wheel their wares to the market, and the pious would give their offerings at the temples to the gods. For himself and many others, he knew a far more difficult day awaited.
A floorboard creaked and Agenor spun around, his soldier’s instincts kicking into gear as he reached for a sword that wasn’t there. To his relief, he was met only by his wife, Calandra.
“It’s past your bedtime,” she said, a coy smile flashing across her face. Her brown hair tumbled down her shoulder like a waterfall, her green eyes sparkling in the dark.
“Calandra,” Agenor breathed, relaxing his composure. “I just… I needed…”
Agenor’s wife planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. He sighed and turned away, leaning over the balcony and gazing out across the sleeping city.
“They’re out there somewhere, the Greeks,” he said, lost in his thoughts. “Watching. Waiting. Come dawn they’ll be at our walls again.”
“As they have been for ten years,” Calandra said, a note of comforting confidence in her tone. “And come dusk, they’ll be fleeing back to their little boats.”
“Yet every day our men die and our supplies dwindle,” Agenor replied. “Meanwhile, the Greeks seem to have endless reinforcements out of Mycenae. I don’t know how long we can last.”
“What words are these from my husband? The only man to stand up to Achilles and live!” Calandra stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Agenor. “You sound like a man who has forgotten what he is fighting for.”
Agenor shook her off. “I know what I fight for,” he said. “The very day I became a man, I swore a vow to protect Troy and her people to my dying breath. I intend to.”
Calandra shrank back, somewhat deflated. She seemed to direct her next words to the ground: “Is that all, then?”
Agenor turned back and looked at her, admiring how even her dejected expression couldn’t detract from her breathtaking beauty.
“No…” he replied, taking her in his arms. “Of course not. I fight for you, my love, and for Kiril. Troy be damned, I will never let my family come to harm. I promise. You are my home.”

---

“Get up, Dad! Get up get up get up!”
Agenor felt himself wake, considerably less alert than he’d been after his dream. His eyes opened groggily and he found himself in his bedroom, enshrouded in brilliant sunlight. Outside, the silence of the night had turned to the unruly clamor of the morning as villagers’ voices mixed with the cries of the scavenging seagulls on the rooftops.
Calandra was nowhere to be seen. Instead, standing impatiently in the doorway was Agenor’s son Kiril, a spritely boy of eleven with his father’s sandy hair and his mother’s deep green eyes. Kiril was bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Get up, Dad, we have to go!”
Agenor hastily rose out of bed, his heart racing once again.
“What’s wrong, son?” he demanded, “Have the Greeks breached our walls?”
Instead of answering, Kiril dashed past his father and onto the balcony.
“Look at it! It’s so big!”
Agenor pushed through the drapes, now filled with a nauseous mixture of concern and confusion. The bright morning sun stung his eyes, and it took him a moment to follow Kiril’s gaze.
And there it was, towering above the buildings of Troy, above even the Scaean gate, which had opened upward to admit it. Agenor could hardly believe his eyes.
Standing proudly in the center of the market district was a giant wooden horse.
“Where did it come from, Dad?” Kiril asked, staring at the structure with enraptured eyes.
“I… I don’t know, Kiril. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Agenor wrenched his gaze from the massive mount and peered back into the house. “Where’s your mother?”
“She went into the market this morning. She told me to let you sleep,” Kiril answered.
Agenor took one last look at the horse, then stepped into his room and started getting dressed.
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
As soon as he was clothed, he gestured to Kiril and the pair walked down the stairs and out into the street.
It became immediately apparent that they were far from the first to have spotted the horse. All along the cobbled road, individuals and families were pouring out of their homes and walking west, toward the gate. All heads were turned in wonder toward the horse’s head, which peered menacingly over the rooftops. Agenor and Kiril followed the river of Trojans until the street opened up and they entered the market square.
On the ground, the market seemed indistinguishable from any other day. All along the edges of the plaza, merchants had set up their stalls, laden with exotic food, colorful jewelry, pungent incenses and all sorts of sundries from Troy’s inland neighbors. Despite the length and intensity of the war, Troy had never been fully encircled by the Greeks, allowing for a steady flow of goods and reinforcements. It was a small consolation that the city wouldn’t starve to death.
The mere presence of merchants was where the normalcy ended. The market was full of Trojan citizens, but shopping for goods was the last thing on their minds. Instead, all eyes were focused on the massive wooden beast casting its shadow on the plaza.
Up close, the horse was even more incredible. It was fashioned almost entirely from driftwood and weathered old planks, seemingly from the remains of scuttled ships. The head was exquisitely detailed, a wooden mane ran along its back, and ribs made of knotted old fir trees stretched across its rotund belly. Sandy wheels sat on the tiled ground in place of hooves. Agenor could scarcely believe his eyes.
His thoughts were interrupted by a rough hand landing on his shoulder.
“What a sight, eh Agenor?” The warrior turned around, greeted by several familiar faces. First was Hypanis, a grizzled old veteran with a scar on his cheek and a permanent smile. He was dressed in bronze armor, but held his helmet under his arm. Behind him stood Ripheus and Dimas, both younger men who had fought alongside Agenor in defense of the city. Hypanis gestured up to the horse, rambling in his excitement.
“Our sentries spotted it this morning in the Greek camp. It was the only thing there! The rest of camp was deserted. Saw it with my own eyes. Isn’t it a majestic creature?”
“Yes…” Agenor responded, still somewhat perplexed by the unexpected situation. “It’s remarkable. But why is it here? And where are the Greeks?”
“Sailed back to Mycenae!” Dimas interjected. “Gone in a single night!”
“The cowards finally gave in,” Ripheus added, grinning.
“The war is over, Agenor! Will you celebrate with us?” Hypanis demanded.
Before Agenor could respond, he recognized his wife emerging from the throng of citizens, followed by Coroebus, another Trojan warrior.
“Calandra!” he exclaimed, embracing her as she approached him. “What do you make of all this?”
“I can scarcely believe my eyes,” she murmured back, looking up at the horse and ruffling Kiril’s hair.
“I’ve seen bigger,” Coroebus joked. “Good to see you on this victorious morning, friends. Certainly this night will be one of celebration!”
“Indeed it shall!” roared Hypanis, who had apparently already begun his own celebration, the scent of wine hanging on his breath. “My doors are open to all tonight!”
Ripheus and Coroebus joined in the festive salute, but Dimas was less enthusiastic. He leaned over and spoke to Agenor in a hushed tone.
“I’m not so sure of our victory, friend. It’s not like the Greeks to simply up and retreat like this, nor to do so humbly. Menelaus is not so easily appeased. Capys said as much this morning on the beach; he thinks the horse is not to be trusted.”
Coroebus overheard, slipping in his own remark: “Ah, you sound like my wife. If I listened to her every time she expressed concern, we’d never have been married in the first place.”
This brought another roar of laughter to the group, and when it died down Hypanis firmly invited the group to his abode in the eastern quarter. Dimas declined, stating his intentions to keep his family close, which elicited a mocking snicker from Coroebus. Agenor looked to his wife, who nodded with a smile.
“Perhaps it’s truly over,” she said. “I’ll take Kiril home. You should enjoy yourself tonight.”
Agenor nodded and walked away with the other men, laughing along with the rest in the shadow of the wooden horse.

---

By nightfall, all of Troy was partaking in the celebrations. The streets were full of festive shouting and dancing, and children ran from temple to temple placing laurels on the altars to honor the dead. The succulent smell of diverse feasts permeated the night air; the entire city was awash in music and laughter.
Even as the moon rose in the sky and the festivities began to recede, Agenor and his comrades continued to enjoy each other's company. When the war began with Helen’s flight from Sparta, many of them had been mere children. They were raised in a city plagued by death and destruction. Fighting was all they had ever known.
Now, the greatest fleet ever assembled was sailing back to Greece in shameful defeat, and finally Troy could know peace. The sense of relief was overwhelming.
Hypanis had sent his servants away an hour before, and the four men sat alone in the dining hall, sharing drinks and stories of the war.
“And, I swear to the gods,” Coroebus was saying, wiping wine off his his chin, “The bastard left his sword and shield right there with his leggings and chased me all the way back to the walls!”
Agenor, Ripheus and Hypanis laughed rambunctiously, knocking back the dregs of wine and mead that remained in their chalices. Hypanis cleared his throat, turning to face Agenor.
“But the bravest thing I saw in this war, hell, in any war I’ve fought, was the way you faced down mighty Achilles.” He stared at Agenor for a moment, as if to assure his sincerity, before continuing.
“The Greeks had just broken through our lines on the beachhead. It was an utter rout. Every Trojan man who could run was headed for the Scaean gate like a cat fleeing a dog. The war might have ended that day. But you—” he pointed a thick finger at Agenor, “You turned around. You stepped forward and met Achilles, their champion, sword for sword. When I saw what you had done, when all of Troy saw you there, in your shining armor, we turned back around and fought like lions. You saved every one of us.”
Agenor shook his head humbly. “You’re too kind, Hypanis. Perhaps your memory is gilding in your old age.”
Hypanis guffawed and poured more wine into his cup. “Tell me, boy: what was going through your head that day? How in hell’s name did you muster up the stones to challenge the greatest warrior in the land?”
Agenor sat back in his seat, gazing thoughtfully at the candles on the chandelier above. “I was running in fear, like everyone else. I knew that if I tried to fight, I’d die. But then I thought of my family, and my vow to protect Troy, and I realized that living another thousand years would never wash away the shame of failure if I let either of them come to harm.”
Hypanis nodded. “I believe that. A beautiful family you’ve got, Agenor, and a beautiful city.”
Ripheus stood, raising his chalice toward the ceiling. “To Troy!” he shouted.
“To Troy!” Coroebus and Hypanis answered, followed by Agenor.
As they tilted their heads back to drink, the room shook with a deep rumble. Hypanis
lowered his chalice, gazing toward the door and the shuttered windows.
“What in Jupiter’s name was that?”
The room shook again, and in the silence of the room a new sound was suddenly perceivable from outside: thousands of screams.
Before any of them could move, the door burst open. Hypanis, having worn his armor the entire day, drew his sword instantly, and Agenor braced himself for a fight. Instead, it was Dimas who stumbled in, panting from exertion. Coroebus was the first to speak:
“Dimas! What the hell is going on out there?”
“It… was a trap. The damn Greeks…” Dimas struggled with each breath, “...were hiding in… that godforsaken horse.”
“Gods above,” Ripheus gasped.
“How many? Damn it, how many, boy?” Hypanis demanded.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dimas responded, his breath returning. “The entire army’s in the city. They’ve opened the gates. Their fleet was anchored at Tenedos, waiting till nightfall to strike.”
Hypanis let out a guttural curse and threw his chalace. He whipped around toward his comrades.
“Well, what are you waiting for? To the armory, men! Troy is burning!”
The four younger men followed Hypanis at breakneck speed through the narrow halls of
his home, finally arriving at the bottom of a dark set of stairs. Only one armor stand filled the room, its trophies already encasing Hypanis, but there were several extra weapons. Agenor and Ripheus grabbed swords off the wall, and Dimas and Coroebus armed themselves with javelins. Within a matter of moments they were on the street.
The scene was horrifying. In the dark, the city was an unrecognizable flurry of fire and death. All around buildings were burned to the ground, and the screams of the dying filled every corner of the city. Even as Agenor ran through the winding streets with his allies, the dreadful imagery of his nightmare pervaded his thoughts.
“Aeneas is assembling a force to defend the palace,” Dimas said, “That’s where the fighting is fiercest!”
“Then that’s where we’re headed, boys! To Aeneas!” Hypanis roared back. Dimas led the way, ducking through alleyways to avoid combat. They entered a small garden in between two houses, and Dimas turned to yell into one of the windows.
“Aeneas! I found them!”
The door opened and out stepped Aeneas, the fair-haired son of Anchises, armed to the teeth.
“Have you found reinforcements?” Ripheus asked, looking over his shoulder to the street to watch for attackers.
“You’re it,” Aeneas replied, and charged back out into the road. The rest followed.
They ran down the cobbled road and turned a corner, passing into shadow under a wide bridge, and suddenly Ripheus gestured for the others to stop. Around the opposite corner, a band of a dozen dark figures ran under the bridge, their armor clinking as they moved. The other party caught sight of Agenor and his company and halted. A moment passed in deadly silence, then the leader of the strangers called out:
“Hurry, men! What holds you? We’ve yet to take the city!”
Ripheus moved to draw his sword, but Coroebus frantically gestured for him to stop. He called back:
“We’ve just sacked the Temple. What are your orders?”
The Greeks approached at a walk. The leader replied nonchalantly, “We’re to move into the eastern quarter and--”
As soon as he was within reach, Coroebus thrust his javelin into his opponent’s neck, blood spraying in all directions. All at once the Trojan warriors lunged forward, cutting down their enemies. The Greeks hardly had time to react before half of their squad lay dead on the floor, and those remaining were little match for the battle-hardened defenders. Agenor bashed one back with his shield then cut across his leg, sending him to the ground where Dimas finished him off. The screams of the Greek invaders mixed seamlessly into the burning city.
When it was finished, the Trojans had not lost a man.
“Let’s move,” Aeneas insisted, “By now they’re sure to have reached Priam.”
“Wait!” Coroebus said. “The streets between here and the palace are crawling with Greeks. We got lucky this time… but we can get there without a fight.”
He knelt down and unclasped the Greek leader’s breastplate, then removed his own. He picked his opponent’s armor up off the corpse and strapped it over his chest, knocking it gently with his spear for effect.
“Let’s change our shields and adopt Greek emblems,” he said, a smug smile dimly visible in the shadow of the bridge. “We can sneak past without trouble.”
Aeneas looked impatient, but they all followed suit, stripping the dead of their armor and using it to replace their own. Hypanis gingerly placed his own pieces on the road near the edge of the bridge, apparently hoping to retrieve them later on. As soon as they were properly disguised, they continued their journey.
Coroebus’s cunning served them well. Agenor held his breath as they passed several regiments of Greek troops, pillaging buildings and setting fire to defenses. He could see Ripheus bristling with fury, but to his credit Agenor’s friend kept his sword arm in check. Occasionally the Trojan warriors could hear the clash of bronze, but otherwise it seemed that the ancient city of Troy had fallen in a single night.
They rounded another corner and Priam’s palace came into view before them. In the daylight, the palace was a sight to behold. Red stone rose seamlessly out of Troy’s central hill, with towers and battlements stretching to the sky. Now, the once majestic fortress was beginning to crumble. Fires sprouted from cracks in the hardened carapace, and one of the towers had already toppled onto the street below.
On the wide steps of the palace, it seemed that the battle for Troy had come to a head. At least a hundred stalwart Trojans stood between the invading army and the palace, facing off close to a thousand Greeks. The din of weapons colliding and men shouting was deafening.
A few blocks from the fighting, Aeneas came to a halt. The rest stopped with him, turning to listen as he spoke.
“It’s worse than I’d heard. At this rate, I’d say we’ve less than an hour before the palace falls.”
“Then we die fighting,” Hypanis shot back, his eyes steeled with determination in the light of the flames. Aeneas nodded.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But we’ve another duty still. My wife Creusa is rallying the survivors, women and children. If we get out of this alive, we need to evacuate the city. The sun has set on the Trojan empire.”
He looked to Agenor and Dimas. “You should find your families while there’s still time. We’ll join the defenders on the steps. When you’ve cleared your homes, meet me at the eastern gate. There are shipyards at Antandros that can send us off at dawn.”
Before Agenor could respond, there was a shout from down the street. The Trojan warriors turned to see a band of Greeks running toward them, weapons raised. Aeneas braced himself and turned to Agenor.
“There’s no more time! Gather your families and meet us at the eastern gate! Go!”
Agenor and Dimas vanished into an alleyway and sprinted at full speed as the clash of weapons rang out behind them. They leapt over debris and ducked under arches, narrowly navigating the dense maze of backstreets. A Greek patrol emerged from a doorway in front of them and Agenor barreled right through, raising his shield like the prow of a ship.
They managed to avoid direct engagement and finally Agenor spied the front of his abode in the southern quarter. It seemed mostly intact, but no light shone from within. He slowed his run and heard Dimas skidding to a halt behind him.
“I’m going down the street to find my kids,” Dimas said, picking his pace back up as he headed west down the road. Agenor nodded and turned back towards his house.
To his alarm, the front door was ajar. He wedged the tip of his sword in the crack and it creaked open, light spilling into the passageway. He took one last look down the street, then raised his weapons defensively and quietly trod into the house.
The scene was eerily silent and profoundly alarming. Immediately inside the entrance, an amphora lay shattered on the floor. Clothes were strewn about the dining room and one of the chairs was broken against the wall. Every drawer and chest was open, and most were empty. The Greeks had been here, and they’d been thorough. As he peered around a corner to assess the damage, he heard a creak from upstairs.
The intruder was still there.
As quietly as he could, Agenor paced towards the stairs. He walked up with immense caution; every step seemed to take hours. His sword arm was arched back, ready to strike, and he held his shield close.
As his room came into view, he could see the drapes billowing in the wind, lighting up the room with the radiance of the burning city. He walked towards the bed, then peered into the doorway of Kiril’s room.
His wife let out a scream and swung at him with an axe, which he caught in his shield. She struggled to pull it free, but he wrenched it away, dropping his equipment and grabbing her arms. She beat furiously at his chestpiece as he tried to calm her down.
“Calandra, my love, it’s me!” he insisted. “Everything’s alright! I’m here now!”
She stopped resisting and looked into his eyes, realization dawning on her.
“But… your armor,” she whimpered, her stance loosening.
Agenor looked down, suddenly remembering the Greek insignias. “We had to scavenge it to get through the city. It’s hell out there, Calandra. All is lost.” In the light of the flames, he noticed a cut on his wife’s face.
“Your cheek!” he exclaimed. “What happened?”
Calandra looked down and stepped to the side, pointing into Kiril’s room. Agenor looked inside, at first noticing nothing until his glance fell to the floor. A Greek soldier lay dead in a pool of his own blood, a large wound in his breast.
“I had to protect Kiril,” Calandra said. As she spoke, their son came out from his hiding place. At a loss for words, Agenor grabbed him and hugged him tightly.
Calandra was more practical. “We need to leave, now. Is there a way out of the city?”
Agenor let go of Kiril. “I’m not sure. Aeneas is gathering survivors, we’re to meet him and figure out a plan from there.”
His wife nodded, bending down to pry her axe from the Greek shield. “Then we should get moving.”
Agenor led the way down the stairs, his wife following with Kiril on one hand and her weapon in the other. As they emerged, Dimas came running towards them with his own wife and two young children.
“The Greeks are burning everything!” he called. “We’re running out of time!”
The seven of them took off down the street. The sky was growing brighter, but Agenor could tell from the sickening red tint of the air that it wasn’t the sun’s work. On both sides of the street, the houses they passed were deserted and dilapidated. The invaders had swept through once already, looting and pillaging. Blood trickled between the cracks in the cobbled road.
Agenor was exhausted, having gone a full day without sleep only to be met with combat and exertion. Calandra’s eyes burned with protective fury, but her stumbling gait betrayed her own weariness. Kiril was openly terrified.
As they drew near, the eastern wall seemed to rise above the rooftops and touch the sky. Agenor perceived a low rumble and quickly slowed his pace, holding an arm out to signal to his followers. They stopped to listen, soon recognizing a large mass of footfalls. Agenor motioned for the group to hide in the ruins but was too late. The approaching crowd rounded a corner and came into view.
At the head was Aeneas, holding his son with one hand and carrying his father on his shoulder. Behind him was Hypanis and his comrades, who seemed winded but unharmed, and at least a hundred other Trojan citizens. Children clung to their mothers, unsure of their future as their homes burned around them. The whole crowd was burdened with as many possessions as they could carry.
Coroebus ran up to Agenor and Dimas and hugged them. “Thank the gods. We weren’t sure you would make it.”
Dimas turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes widening. “I’m not sure we did.”
Coming from the west, illuminated by the rising sun, was the entire Greek army.
Their weapons glinted in the morning light as their boots thundered in rhythm, seeming to shake the very earth beneath them. Their armor shone green under a speckled coat of blood.
At the front, an armored figure lead the march. A tattered virescent cape flowed effortlessly behind him as he strode forward, sword in hand. His face was masked by a fearsome helmet.
Agenor sensed Aeneas approaching from behind him. The warrior gazed out across the rapidly narrowing space between the Trojan refugees and the Greek horde. He seemed to recognize the armored man.
“That’s Pyrrhus,” he exclaimed. “Son of Achilles. The bastard slew King Priam in cold blood.”
Pyrrhus, dread prince of the Greeks, closed the distance and stopped, the army coming to a rumbling halt behind him. He lifted his hand to his helmet and pulled it off, revealing a mane of red hair and a menacing smirk.
He called out to the dregs of the Trojan Empire:
“Is that proud Aeneas I see, fleeing his city with his tail between his legs?” He let out a hideous snicker. “Just as well. Too slow to save your king, and too cowardly to save your country. You’ll have the honor of dying by my sword.”
Aeneas reached for his sword, only to find it held in place by another’s hand. Agenor looked him in the eyes and shook his head.
“Go, Aeneas. Take your family and flee. Carry the gods of Troy to a new city, that one day our people may rise again.”
“And what of you, Agenor?” Calandra interjected. “Will you abandon your family?”
Agenor turned to his wife, his gaze solemn and sincere. “I was born to fight, my love, not to lead. That is Aeneas’s realm. This is the only way I can assure your safety.”
Calandra opened her mouth to argue but choked on her words. Instead she only shook her head, hugging Kiril close to her chest as tears rolled down her face. Agenor turned back towards the Greek army, ready to face them alone.
“What was that you’d said about living a thousand years, Agenor?” Hypanis said, arriving at Agenor’s side with sword in hand.
“It would never be worth breaking my vow, to city and family,” he replied. Ripheus joined them, then Coroebus and finally Dimas. The five men stood as one, their weapons shattering the morning light onto the street.
As Aeneas led the huddled mass through the eastern gate, the Greek army charged forward. Agenor met Pyrrhus sword for sword.

---

Darkness.

At first, that’s all I can see. I am surrounded by an infinite void. I try to move, but I am formless. I try to yell, but I am voiceless. Is this death?

---

---

---

A lone figure stood nearly motionless, her feet half buried into the soft white sand of the beach. The setting sun gleamed blindingly over the water and the waves were unusually calm; the biggest ripples were only from a cool breeze blowing past the woman’s soft face. Behind her, the grandiose skyline of Castalla stood proud, watching vigilantly over the coastline.

Her right hand gripped the hilt of the broadsword that she never parted with, and a smile curved on the woman’s lips, but her eyes sparkled with sadness. It was a beautiful sight—and her first ever visit to the island of Estark; it was a shame that war had to be the reason for her visiting this beautiful, quiet place. Here, the air was almost free of the putrid stench of warfare.

“I bet the sunsets over Lake Temerlin aren’t as pretty as this.”

The woman was pulled from her thoughts when a voice surprised her from behind. She spun around to see it was an older man clad in green robes—the leader of the Temple of Jashae at the opening ceremony that morning.

“Pardon the scare, Lady Calantha,” he offered with a respectful bow.

Cal shook her head and unconsciously brushed away some of the fine, golden locks that the sea breeze had blown in front of her face. She hadn’t been expecting anyone to visit her or seek her out that evening, but thankfully she had chosen to wear a decently formal suit and skirt upon leaving her hotel.

“Not to worry. You’re right—the sunsets back at home in Epiphany don’t quite measure up to this. That’s why I came down here to see the much-admired Castallan sunset.”

The monk smiled and moved slowly through the sand to stand next to her. They two watched as the last sliver of sun slipped underneath the far horizon.

“I was born here on Estark, you know,” the monk began. “And in my work as a monk of my savior Jashae, I am well-travelled. From the Innevic Mountains in Stathis to the north, to the Isles of Amberra in Andari to the south and just about everywhere in between. And yet the sunset here, in Castalla, has yet to find its equal in all of New Cadyma.”

“And so you watch the sun set here in your homeland once again before we attempt to make peace.” She paused for a moment and turned to her guest. “Your work must be painful, Aphelo Gautz. Especially now…”

A deep, dry laugh came from the old man and his wrinkled eyes squinted.

“Painful? Such is the command of Jashae. We must know suffering in this life in order to find eternal bliss in the next.”

“I’m well aware of what his command is.” Cal’s tone suddenly turned dry. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down.

“I apologize for bringing up a sore subject with you.” Gautz closed his eyes, feeling the hurt within the woman. “I lament the war just as much as you do, Lady Calantha. Truly, I do.”

Cal sighed deeply. As a typical Stathisian, she was not raised under religious circumstances. She didn’t even know about the existence of The Religion until she was a teenager, and the idea didn’t make much sense to her. She tried to do research on the topic in order to see how and why Jashae and his Religion had gained such popularity and fervency in Andari. The more she read, however, the more confused she became. Jashae, the supposed singular deity that was to end the polytheistic pantheons of ancient times, called for a life that was essentially full of suffering and hardships so that after death, we would know true happiness. Cal knew well enough that life wasn’t easy; why should she make it any more difficult so that her “afterlife” would be paradise? She felt as though she were putting a lot of faith in something she wasn’t even sure existed—a deity as well as an afterlife—at the expense of her own tangible livelihood. Most other Stathisians shared this same belief. On the other hand, the Andarians and followers of Jashae believed in the power of human conviction. After all, magic itself, the intentional altering of reality, something with which everyone was familiar, was the product of pure human visualization. To them, a religion did not seem farfetched.

“I just want this all to be over.”

“It will be. In two days, New Cadyma will know peace once again.”

---

---

The next morning, Lady Calantha Aymandensa, Prime Minister of Stathis, addressed the crowds that had gathered in the heart of Castalla, capital city of Estark, the neutral isle and center of New Cadyma. After her spoke the newly-elected President Euchello of Andari, as well as Aphelo Gautz and finally the Commandant of Estark. Their speeches were longer and a bit more formal than those given the day prior, and they all expressed their expectations for the upcoming summit and hope for an end to violence and an era of newfound harmony. Celebrations ensued shortly thereafter. It indeed looked as though things were looking up. The headlines were all over the newspapers: “Peace on the Horizon,” “New Hope for New Cadyma.”

That evening, the night before the summit, Cal found herself cooped up inside of her hotel room. She was afraid to wander out again that night for fear of getting discovered by the paparazzi and having to take extra efforts to be elusive. Instead she stood on her balcony, leaning onto the ornate stone railing and staring off into the darkened sky. The entire time she had been at Castalla, she couldn’t quite find the right emotion to be feeling. Obviously she was excited for the summit as everyone seemed to be sick of the bloodshed, but she couldn’t help but feel a little nervous about it all. Cal didn’t consider herself a skillful diplomat. Before becoming the Prime Minister, she was a warrior. Stathisians were known for their prowess in the arts of magic, but Cal was the best of the best, using her magic-conducting sword, Yahmi, she was a master of both combat and magic, also known as optikoylo, that is, visualization and realization. She and her comrades were responsible for defending her country from the onslaught of Andarian ambushes. She had seen the blood spilled firsthand. She had seen the death and carnage.

Cal held hopes that, after the summit, the decade-long Jashaean War would be written in the history books as a prime example of meaningless bloodshed that should never be repeated again. She would never forget hearing the voice of Andari’s previous President, Talgero Atsanse, declaring war on Stathis—his goal was to bring about the salvation of mankind by bringing about the ultimate form of suffering: war. The fervent Andarians were eager to back this mission, and in doing so, through the love of Jashae, even the infidels of Stathis could be saved.

Cal had never seen such brutal fighting. Suicidal ambushes were used most commonly by the Andarians. The screams “For Jashae!” will never fade from her mind. She would wake up every day wondering where the next attack was or which friend of hers was found dead.

The holy men of the Religion could not deny what Jashae’s commandments were, and for a while, they could not do much to stop the war. Finally, when the monk Gautz came to be the new Aphelo, he called for the end of the war, saying the Thirteen Elders would summon Jashae himself to prove that while suffering was necessary, meaningless bloodshed was not.

The followers of Jashae were conflicted, but when President Atsanse was mysteriously assassinated, the Andarians backed down from the fighting and plans for the peace summit were begun. At the summit, Jashae would be summoned and peace would be brought to New Cadyma. It was during this time that Cal, the war hero, was selected to be the next Prime Minister of Stathis.

Cal leaned forward over the balcony, placing a hand over her heart as she remembered the lives of her mother, father, husband, and son, all of whom were taken from her. She fought back the tears that stung at her eyes and the hand over her heart tightened into a fist. This was her chance to make it right for them. For all of Stathis. She knew what she had to do.

Knock, knock.

Due to her introspection and emotion, the knocking at her hotel door triggered her warrior’s instinct and caused her to jump around, immediately drawing Yahmi in front of her. Her hands shook, and she quickly realized there was no threat. Stifling a sob, she sheathed her sword and wiped her eyes with her arm before hurrying over to the door.

“Yes? What is it?” she asked quietly as she swung the door open to see Gautz yet again.

“Lady Calantha.” He smiled and bowed his head to her in respect.

“A-Aphelo Gautz. What are you doing here?”

“I wished to speak with you again before the summit.”

Cal moved aside so the old monk could step in.

“Talk? About what?”

“The summoning.”

“The summoning… of Jashae?”

“Yes. We know you, like most Stathisians, choose not to believe. We cannot persuade you. Even after the summoning, we will not ask you to become a follower. I am requesting on behalf of the Elders, however, that you assist in the ceremony.”

“Really? What could I possibly do to help as a nonbeliever?”

“Lady Calantha, your mastery of the arcane art of magic is above any other, therefore you have a will stronger than anyone. You see, while it may be powerful, a god requires worship in order to exist. It's the collective beliefs of millions that keep the deity in existence. As the worshippers fade, so does the god.”

“I’m aware. It’s that exactly that fact why we Stathisians remain nonbelievers, as we cannot be certain if the deity is a real divine being of perfection or just the realization of millions of the tiny spells, the beliefs of its followers. No product of man could ever be divine.”

Cal pursed her lips when the Aphelo didn’t reply.

“I-I apologize,” Cal sputtered. “You know the culture of my people. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Gautz shook his head.

“That’s okay, my child. I’m well aware of what your ideals are. Alas, we still need your help for the summoning.”

“What do I have to do?”

“All we need is your power, the optikoylo of a true Stathisian. The Elders will take care of the ceremony, but it is your powerful will and resolve that will drive the conjuration.”

“Understood, you need not say more.”

“Thank you, Lady Calantha. I speak for the Elders and all followers of Jashae when I say we look forward to your presence tomorrow at the summit.”

---

---

It was noon, and the sun shone bright in the cloudless sky above. The negotiation part of the summit was easier than Cal had anticipated—everyone seemed to want peace and little to no demands and compromises were made. The guards at the summit had requested Cal to part with Yahmi for the sake of the negotiations but all members of the summit agreed to let her bring it along, recognizing Cal wanted the peace more than anyone else as well as the emotional significance of her weapon. After the negotiations were concluded, in a grand parade, the Prime Minister, President, Commandant, Aphelo, and Thirteen Elders processed with drums and trumpets to the Court of Castalla—an arena reminiscent of a coliseum where the summoning of Jashae was to be held before the signing of the treaty to end the Jashaean War. Tens of thousands were gathered in the seats of the Court, all shouting and applauding.

“Ladies and gentlemen of New Cadyma; from Stathis of the north, Andari of the south, and Estark, heart of the continent, welcome!” Gautz addressed the cheering crowd using his own optikoylo to make sure his voice was heard in the ears of all the spectators.

“As part of the peace treaty ceremony, the Thirteen Elders of Jashae will conduct a special summoning of our god, so that we may better understand the Religion and put an end to senseless violence.”

More cheering ensued.

“Assisting us in the summoning of Jashae is none other than the Prime Minister of Stathis herself.”

Cal smiled weakly and waved to the crowd. The Thirteen Elders then set up the ritual. Beginning a chant, they grew an octagram into the dirt, eight assuming positions on the outer points, four on the inside perimeter, and one in the middle of the formation. As they chanted, the lines in the dirt began to glow weakly. Gautz and Cal stood to the side watching, when suddenly the Elder in the middle of the octagram turned to Cal and motioned to her. Gautz nodded to her and, reluctantly, she moved into the middle of the formation, gingerly stepping over the glowing lines.

The Elder reached forward and gently grabbed Cal’s hand.

“To you, oh Jashae, we offer the blood of Calantha, she who has suffered more than anyone.”

Cal blinked.

“Bl-blood?”

“Only a pinch.” The Elder smiled at her under his hood. He drew a small dagger from his cloak and made a small slice in Cal’s index finger, the blood slightly adhering to the blade. The Elder released her hand and held up the dagger.

“Accept our offering, great Jashae, as we summon thee to this place. We, all your loyal followers, beseech thee, appear before us!”

He took the dagger and drove the blade into the dirt, causing the ground enclosed within the octagram to erupt with a blinding light. This prompted the Elders to move away from the light, but not Cal, who was too stunned to move away.

“Now, Calantha!” Gautz shouted.

“Right!” She grabbed the hilt of Yahmi and ripped it from the sheath. She held the blade in front of her and shut her eyes.

Show yourself! She shouted within her mind.

Out of the light beneath her, a shadow burst forth from nowhere soaring into the sky and materializing into a long, snakelike dragon creature. Its scales were blood red and glinted in the sun as its powerful wings beat, sending its body winding around the Court several times to the awe of the spectators before it took a grasp on the edge of the outer wall and leaned its head forward into the stadium.

Its face was directly in front of Cal, its singular pale yellow eye focused on her, and its mouth forming a snarl. A hollow growl emanated deep from within its throat.

“I am Jashae.”

“I am Calantha Aymandensa the Prime Minister of Stathis.”

“Stathis… Nonbeliever.” A louder growl rumbled from Jashae’s throat.

Gautz noticed the tension and quickly walked over to where Cal was.

“Jashae my lord, I am Gautz, the Aphelo of your great Religion. We are here to receive your blessing so that we may end end the decade-long war.”

A different sounding kind of growl, which Cal could only assume was some sort of laugh, rumbled from the dragon and its gigantic eye blinked once.

“You fools… Have you not understood my commandments?”

“My lord—“

“It was thanks to your war that I grew more powerful than ever! I knew you humans were not fit to be proper followers… You saved so many souls, why would you end the suffering? Impudence!”

“Lord Jashae…”

“This is how I am repaid for saving your souls? Unforgivable sacrilege!”

Cal smirked.

“Jashae,” she called to him.

“Silence, nonbeliever!”

“When I fought at the battle in Epiphany. Forgotten ruins from the ancient times when humans worshipped multiple gods.”

“You…” Jashae lifted his head up.

Cal raised Yahmi and summoned her optikoylo so that all could hear her.

“Jashae once only had one worshipper, a man who lived where Stathis is today centuries ago! A wicked man with dreams of human suffering an chaos; and Jashae—a mere speck among the gods of old, conspired to slaughter his fellow deities and become worshipped by all the world, becoming all powerful with the human race slaves to his despicable doctrine!”

“Filthy deceitful bitch!” Jashae roared.

“I’ve been waiting years to do this. You took my parents. You took my husband. You took my son. I, Calantha of Stathis, master of optikoylo, will personally expunge you from this existence!”

Calling forth her most powerful visualization, one of ruthless retribution, she took Yahmi over her head and with a scream dove forward, driving the magical sword into the god’s eye. A blaze of brilliance exploded from the point of impact, putting for a moment even the sun to shame. The god’s serpentine body slowly disintegrated into sparkling luminescence, and with a loud crackling roar, the god’s head faded away in a shockwave that sent Cal flying backwards all the way until she hit the opposite wall like a ragdoll. Her body crumpled to the ground.

Through the haziness of her vision, Cal used the last of her strength to force her head up and watch the last of Jashae fade into oblivion as his memory of glory was slowly erased from the minds of his followers.

Yahmi lay at her side, slowly fading away as well.

“Mom… Dad… Jaskyl… Aumo… I’m coming home.”

by @PlatinumSkink
“I am invincible!” The great lord Dubhloach shouted out as he treaded out onto the city square from his cathedral, his minions walking lazily around him brandishing weapons and armor. In front of him dashed his deadly enemy, Lartius, who was drawing him outside. Mere moments ago, Lartius had attempted shooting down the great enemy from a distance with a bow, but missing he was forced to make a run for it. However, now, he had finally come within the lord's grasp.

“YOU'RE MINE!” Dubhloach shouted out, thrusting a hand forward, his dark cape and long black hair thrown forward by the quick movement, and his hand closed. Lartius froze mid-run, the tall dark-clad man in helmet and brown hair spinning around not of his own volition, caught by Dubhloach's mystical powers. His expression was alight with frustration and fear, for this was the end, while the lord grinned in victory under his dark facial hair.

I could only stare, wide-eyed, along with just a few others at varying edges of the plaza. We had all known the great lord Dubhloach had summoned his closest allies within the cathedral he had come out of for a great feast, mostly his companions and his puppets whose souls had been dominated by his dark magic on his way to glory. He had ruled over us with an iron fist for the last few years, our only hope that the hero Lartius would be able to end his reign. Yet, here he was, captured.

“Any last words, Lartius?” Dubhloach asked the hero, while the surrounding soldiers with bows stepped forward to aim for the lone man while the swordsmen stepped aside. Lartius made no noise, and instead the lord simply laughed. “Oh, silly me. You can't, can you? Because you're mine now. And yet, I find myself curious as to what your final grunting will sound like. Here, let me help you out, as a token of gratitude for all the entertainment you've provided me.”

Dubhloach waved his hand casually, and the magical grip seemed to let go of Lartius' face, yet kept his body frozen. It appeared Lartius was free to say whatever he wanted to now. I pressed myself against the wall, fearful of what this meant for the future of our town, one of my hands gripping my simple dress and the other resting on my chest as I watched with fright. But, contrary to what I would have believed, Lartius grinned. He still looked scared, but he grinned.

“FIRE!” His voice echoed. Almost immediately, a voice a bit further away somewhere to the west repeated the word. A third voice repeated it. And then... all similarities to joy drained from Dubhloach's face. Three rocks came flying, boulders flying through the air. They were enormous. Must have come from the catapults down by the wall, had Lartius' men commandeered them? Dubhloach turned and dashed for the cathedral, his soldiers confused and unfocused. But, the rocks were thrown so that they'd roll at the cathedral upon impact...

The rocks hit down. The ground itself shook as the heavy boulders planted themselves into the gravel of the plaza. Two somewhat off-mark, splashing some armored soldiers that got in their way, but the third landed right behind the lord. The round rock bounced a bit and rolled after him. He wouldn't escape. Dubhloach threw one final look back, and realized his fate.

At that moment, it felt like the dark lord turned his head and looked directly at me. My breathing had long been held watching the scene, but at that moment I felt a cold chill go through me, an unconventional flinch. Then, right after, the boulder hit Dubhloach in the back, squashing the man under its weight, killing him instantly.

The soldiers that had been under his spell and hadn't been crushed under boulders suddenly stumbled, dropping their weapons. They looked around in disbelief, as if this had to be a dream. Some of them had been under control for years. I could only imagine that similar reactions were happening with every controlled man and woman in the city. The newest addition to them, the hero Lartius, simply shook his limbs before grabbing his bow and lifting it into the air. He shouted with an air that left me in awe.

“THE DARK LORD DUBHLOACH... IS DEAD!”

And the city roared with cheers.

______________________

There was a huge celebration. I've never seen anything like it. People from all over threw together all the food we could muster and held the greatest of parties as soon as we had routed the few Dubhloach supporters that remained. Stands set up everywhere, people danced and sang, music sounded out and everyone was having a good time. I was still in shock over the scene which I had witnessed by accident on the plaza, but I had no time to be dazed! I had to serve people!

“Estella! Serve these to the men in the left corner!” Gordana told me from the kitchen where she was frenetically trying to prepare food to be consumed. Kenrick was standing taking orders at the counter, and the tavern was filled to the brim with people.

“Yes, ma'am!” I immediately replied, having just returned from serving a few other tables and already got a few more plates to serve.

“Not a second to rest, is there?” Pamela asked me, giving me a snide little grin from the side. I just smiled to her in turn and then took the food to the customers. It was a grand party, after all!

I wore a shorter green dress for the party, by brown hair tied into a single braid behind me as I wandered around, agitated. This was new for me, as for everyone else. During the last few years, everyone around had lived under the constant threat of domination by Dubhloach's powers. With it, he had taken the garrison, the army, the lords of the town and all connections had been under his control. There had been very few customers then, only regulars and hardly any tourists, but tonight, the place was filled to the brim.

I delivered the food to the cheering folks, before immediately having to rush back to collect the next plates.

“Good work, Estella!” Gordana told me, a smile on her lips as I got the next plates. While older, the woman known as Gordana still had the curves of youthful beauty, only some wrinkles and slight greying of her black hair giving away her age. It took me by surprise to see her smiling like that. She was the one who had taken in me and the other children who had lost their families, the closest thing we had to a mother now. Yet, despite that she raised us and put food on our plates, we never felt any love from her. She constantly scolded us for some reason or another, put us to work so that she could have some use of our existence. Of course, I had done all I could for her, because she supported us. I took up weaving to eventually find work to support her store from afar, helping her as a server until I could actually do that, all to make her happy.

… And today she was smiling. We were all grateful that she raised us, but the sheer happiness in her voice today. They were all happy that Dubhloach was gone, but... It was startling.

I nodded happily, and grabbed the next few plates to serve.

______________________

“Help me estimate the ingredients we're going to need tomorrow.” So Gordana had told me that night, and I complied. We looked through the pantry and basement. Yesterday had become an unexpected feast, and we could expect to get more customers than usually tomorrow as well. Unexpected parties took a heavy toll on the available resources, yet given how happy everyone had been, it was worth it.

I stood among the jars and counted the remaining resources while Gordana sat and handled some form of calculation on a paper when Pamela came in. She was a tall, young woman, our neighbor and apparently someone whose parents had known Gordana well. She had long, black hair, a kind look and sometimes looked in to see how it was all going with our family. She was a good friend, always kind and so. She was still wearing her brown tunic and pants that marked her as a town hunter, varying equipment in the pockets.

“I see you're pretty busy.” She commented with a smile. It struck me as somewhat odd that she'd arrive this late at night, but supposed it was somewhat of a special night. We could have needed help.

“We're handling!” I called out happily, keeping in mind to continue counting or draw Gordana's anger. I didn't see Gordana's reaction, I kept working.

“Only Estella helping you out?” Pamela asked, clearly not directed to me.

“She's the oldest. The rest of the kids needed the rest, and I can count on her.” Gordana said, and I felt privately proud that she felt so. She was being extremely kind compared to usually. I intended on giving her more reason to show I could be counted on. “We're doing fine, if you came to help. Thanks for the offer.” Gordana said to Pamela.

“No problem. Just had to check.” Pamela sounded as happy as ever, when she then spoke to me. “Estella? Is it true you were in the plaza at... when it happened?”

I could figure what she meant. I paused moving my hands to count, and looked back at her. There was something strained in her expression, but I couldn't place it.

“Yeah. I was. I was avoiding a few patrols of Dubhloach's troops on my way home from weaving-practice, just in case, which took me by the plaza.” I had told that story several times today, already. Each word was already prepared in my mind. “It was intense.” I could have continued on with the story, but out of fear Gordana would adress me not continuing I turned back to continue counting the losses.

“I can imagine. Frightening.” Pamela confirmed, and I heard her walking over to read over the papers.

“Watch it, there.” Gordana said in her threatening tone. “No matter who you are, can't have you reading my documents. Wouldn't do if you sold the secrets to some rival.”

“Of course.” Pamela stopped and grinned. I felt mildly awkward. Pamela wouldn't do that, but it just showed how Gordana really didn't feel that close to anyone. At least, I didn't think she did. It could be her just hiding it. Now when Dubhloach was gone, perhaps she'd brighten up. It was true that, unlike in the past... I twitched a little, remembering certain painful experiences, ones that wouldn't take place in a normal family, and a brief moment of discomfort surged through me. It... it would never become like that again.

There was a sound which I couldn't immediately identify. It was an impact, followed by some liquid stands and then a gurgle. I quickly turned my head, alarmed. Pamela stood with a knife meant for hunting purposes, and it was inserted into Gordana's throat. Gordana looked surprised, even as the blood leaked out where the knife pierced her, before her limbs flared up and she tried to get loose. Pamela let go of her immediately, and Gordana's fell onto the floor from her chair, limbs struggling until they fell lifeless. I felt cold. It felt unreal. In fear, I looked to Pamela.

Pamela looked horrified. She stared blankly at the bloodied knife and then down on the corpse. And then, she screamed.

______________________

“I wasn't controlling myself.” Pamela said, shivering, her arms clutching herself where she sat in chains. “I was having a normal, common conversation, like any day, when I was suddenly made to move. I grabbed the hunting knife in my pocket and stabbed her throat. It... it wasn't me. I wasn't in control.” So she said, her voice quivering, her eyes wide.

“... And so she says.” Connley said. He was a noble, with bright blonde hair and very black rich-looking clothes, and as far as I knew he was a lawyer. He'd been called in to speak about the incident. The room fell in silence, the many people sitting in the room staring at the murderer, all of them thinking the same thing. I had been brought in as a witness, and found myself having been seated right next to hero Lartius himself. He held a grim expression, looking at Pamela.

“You're all thinking it.” Mayor Herod asked. “Is it possible?” The middle-aged man with a bald head was sitting with an exhausted expression in robes with his hands clutched together, watching. He had been among those dominated by Dubhloach for the last couple of years, only regained control upon the dark lord's death. As for his question, it was immediately addressed.

“It's always possible.” Lartius answered in a strict tone. “Maybe Dubhloach faked his death? Maybe it was someone with similar powers? We don't know enough of the situation nor the powers their kind holds to come to a conclusion. That, or the lady over there is just faking it.”

“I'm not faking it!” Pamela cried out in distress. She was panicked, and Connley put a hand on her shoulder to calm her down.

“If she wished to blame Dubhloach's powers for a murder, then doing so the day after his death would hardly make sense. The deed was also done right in front of Estella over there, and she screamed right after. If she wished to commit a murder and get away with it, Pamela would have had many more intelligent ways to do it. She's a hunter, after all.” So Connley reasoned.

“If so, then who could have done so?” Herod asked, looking troubled.

“About that.” Connley said, lifting a paper and reading a bit of it. “According to Kenrick, one of the orphans whom the victim had picked up over the years, Gordana had been highly abusive to them over the years. This includes scolding, child labour along with physical and mental abuse.” He continued. Pamela's eyes darted to him in surprise. I felt myself tense up a bit. That... wasn't how I wanted Gordana to be remembered. I had cried... so much, last night. But Kenrick had told them about that. I could but acknowledge this with regret, now.

“So?” Herod asked, wanting him to get to the point.

“This was only known within the family itself. I propose that one of the children bore a grudge against Gordana, and used Pamela as a weapon to kill their abusive mother.” Connley finished.

“What?” I spoke out loud, feeling anger go through my veins. Attention drew to me. “Don't speak of what you know nothing about. It was getting better. Gordana was getting better to us. With Dubhloach gone, we might finally have been on our way to being a happy family...!” I felt the tears threaten to break out again. Lartius grabbed my shoulder, to calm me down, and I felt myself forced to breathe out and calm down.

“Do we know where the children were at the time of the attack?” Lartius asked.

“All the other children were sleeping in the same room, and they woke up following Pamela's scream. They're all each other's alibis. That leaves Estella, over there, who was helping her adoptive mother with counting the tavern’s goods.” Connley looked at me. I felt a cold shiver. It was a strictly professional look, but he was definitely accusing me of something unbelievable.

“So, you believe that following Dubhloach's death, Estella here somehow gained his powers and then used them to make Pamela kill her adoptive mother?” Lartius clarified.

“I'm stating the possibility.” Connley answered.

All eyes looked to me again. Pamela's frightened eyes also looked to me, her expression scared, though my own eyes were fixed on Connley. My eyes were wide and my mouth slightly open in disbelief. I had...?

“No.” I stated out loud, angered by the ridiculous claim, frowning. “That's ridiculous. Even though all that's happened, I loved my mother. I don't have such powers, and even if I did, I wouldn't-!” I started, my tone rising in volume as I got aggressive towards him.

“How would you know?” Connley asked me, making me flinch back a bit. “What if you're not in control of it? We don't know how they work. What if you have newly awakened powers that acted on the slightest bit of ill-will against your mother? Can you with all honesty say that you feel no anger towards what she did to you in the past?”

“I...” I glanced down into the table, feeling more unsure about myself. “I can't.” … No matter how much better she was getting, I still knew what she did was wrong. I felt anger towards how unfair that was. But... no, I don't have such powers.

“That still relies on the assumption that Estella here somehow gained Dubhloach's power.” Lartius said, apparently acting as my attorney. “Dubloach is the only person with unnatural powers we've ever known in our world. We know nothing about how such abilities develop.”

“Yet can she prove she does not have powers?” Connley asked, crossing his arms. I sat still, glaring at him. How could he look so professional yet sound so smug? Or... was that just how I heard him? I tried to do something. Anything unnatural. I tried to think that I wanted control of him, just because. Tried to move his muscles. Nothing.

“Naturally not.” Lartius declared. “Dubhloach's powers didn't show in any way, and we found nothing unnatural searching the remains of his body.”

“So it is.” Connley nodded a bit. “Now, I'd like to confirm the following. Dubhloach could take control of anyone he had direct line-of-sight to within a certain range, but after he had taken control the person controlled was now permanently controlled until Dubhloach intentionally let go of said person or died. Correct?” Connley stated, looking to Lartius.

“Correct.” Lartius acknowledged.

“So. From Pamela's own words, she was in control of herself until she attacked, and the person controlling her then immediately let go of her. The only one who could take control of her at that time, in a basement, I remind, was Estella. Unless you propose there was a fourth person peeking in with a hidden agenda or something.” Connley said.

There was a silence. I couldn't believe this. He then addressed me, personally.

“And, I seem to remember you for some reason being at the plaza at the time of Dubhloach's death. Is it possible that, just before his death, he did something to you?” Connley continued. I had nothing to say back. I was grief-struck, and not a quick thinker. I knew how ridiculous his claim was, yet what could I say to him? Part of his earlier theory included how it could have happened without me knowing about it, so I couldn't even deny it. But... fortunately, I didn't have to.

“Sir Connley. You've led us on a mildly curious way of thinking, but without any proof, we can't do anything.” Mayor Herod stated. He sighed briefly, and then continued.

“If we speak with such conjecture, then we might as well hypothesize that there was a new power-user whose power differs from Dubhloach's, who could take control of Pamela from a great distance. Until proven otherwise, the lady huntress is the physical murderess. We know so by the stories of both surviving girls, and she will be sentenced accordingly. I can't have criminals all over suddenly go 'but I was manipulated' in hopes of getting a reduced sentence. Estella is innocent until proven guilty. Dismissed.” And with that, he clapped his hand into the desk as if he just rendered the final verdict of a court of law.

I sat, staring blankly at the table while Pamela was being led away. Lartius put a hand on my shoulder, and said something about that I shouldn't worry. Yet, my own inability to reject the claims stood out to me. … Well, at least that was the end of it. Now I had to go rebuild my life.

______________________

I had been foolish. Oh, so foolish. I didn't get to know if it was Connley or any other person who was seated in that room, but word of Connley's argument ran through town.

We had to close Gordana's tavern. While a few of us could run the business, nobody wanted to come close to the place of her death. Because of some stories surrounding me, the other children were taken to other families, but I alone was old enough to live on my own. So, I got the entire building for myself, because nobody else wanted it. And... my life became a lot more difficult.

I used my capabilities as a weaver to make ends meet. But, every time I went out to obtain food to live or deliver my work to be sold, I had to hide myself. Pull a hood over my head, wear clothing I never usually was seen with, exit through the back door. I barred the windows and doors, to block out undesired people. Because, every so often someone started yelling at me, threw rocks at my windows, bludgeoned my door. They thought I had Dubhloach's powers. I didn't. How could I possibly?

At some point, a stray yellow-furred cat found himself into my house. I fed him, and he took a liking to me, and came back. I never learned what hole he found into my barred home, but I loved him. I named him Rollo, and made sure to have food for him at all times, before he became at least kind of tame. Guess he didn't mind me. He was the one pleasant presence in my life all of a sudden.

I couldn't move. I didn't have the money for that. As an apology or something, I didn't need to pay rent, and that was the only reason this was working. But, it was working. Kind of. Rollo was supporting my sanity. For now. But they were calling me a witch, and more things. I couldn't handle this for long...

______________________

I was weaving a tapestry on my weaving machine, sitting in the basement in silence as I worked on another work of debatable art with the means at my disposal. I had gotten a lot better since I started living here alone, and this was becoming something rather colorful. The request was for something that would brighten up the place, after all. It was a calm night, all I could ever ask for it.

A loud sound of wood breaking echoed from above. I knew it was my door. I bit my teeth together as I immediately left the half-done tapestry in the weaving machine and stand up. I wouldn't be able to hide in the basement. I tried going up the stairs as quietly as I could, trying to keep my senses alert as I arrived on the ground floor.

I pressed myself against the wall on the top of the basement stairs inside the kitchen. I heart heavy steps inside the tavern outside the kitchen. It sounded like it was only one. Then I could flee. He stopped. He probably listened for me. I kept silent and stayed in place. After a moment, the man stepped towards the door to the right of the kitchen. He was going upstairs. Perfect. Then I could run across the kitchen to the living area, grab my things, escape through the back door.

“Meow?”

My heart sank. He'd been waiting in the kitchen. I heard the man stop. Of course, if he investigated the kitchen only to find a cat, then it was fine. But... Rollo was looking at me and heading over, hungry for food and cuddles. The man started stepping towards the kitchen. I slowly started treading down the stairs. Rollo was following me. Ah, I should kick him away from me... But he was finding ways to press his soft fur against my leg in the staircase, in a highly awkward position, and I couldn’t do that.

The man appeared in the doorway of the stairs. He had a bag over his face with small holes to see through, so I couldn’t identify him. He held a woodsman’s axe in his right hand. So that was it. He was going to take the matter into his own hands and end my life, removing the possibility that I could become a greater threat. Desperate, I turned and ran down the stairs. I heard him come after me. Not much else I could do.

As soon as I entered the basement I shifted myself immediately to the left. The stairs turned to the left in the bottom to enter the room so he wouldn’t have seen where I went when I entered the room. I went immediately and hid on the left of the door and stayed still, He came down the stairs in a hurry, not paying attention to his left. At the right time, I thrust my entire weight at him just as he came through the door.

I could as well have tackled a wall. The large man easily absorbed my impact, before his hand grabbed me and roughly threw me down onto the floor. I landed on my back, gasping out in pain, and opening my eyes I saw him raising his axe to hit me. I raised my hands. It was all or nothing, now.

I didn’t want to die. The rumors had affected me, made me believe that perhaps I had such powers. I tried to will myself to control his muscles, to stop his limbs from moving, to stop him from killing me. Nothing. It felt like he was lifting his axe so exceedingly slowly, I was given so long to try to take control of him on. But… nothing. He never stopped moving. I finally gave up, my hands falling down at my sides, tears breaking out from my eyes…

“Proven innocent.” The man said, lowering the axe to his side, calming down.

“Eh?” I sounded out, confused.

“It was what was decided upon after the previous meeting, in private. If you had Dubhloach’s powers, you would have stopped me by now. My apologies for how I’ve handled you. I will now report my findings to Mayor Herod and Hero Lartius. You will be amply compensated, and we will openly speak the truth to the town about your innocence. We are truly sorry for all you’ve been through. I wish you good night.” He told me where I lay on the floor, before he turned and left, taking the axe with him. I lay there, staring after him.

“... Ah.” I breathed out, breathing heavily and leaned my head against the floor. My back still hurt from where he had thrown me down. The fool, someone could have been injured. What would have happened to him if I actually did have powers? … Then he likely had allies standing by to murder me, I realized.

“Meow.” And then suddenly Rollo appeared, intruding on my face where I lay, putting his paw and the rest of him on my right cheek.

“Ah, geesh…” I complained and lifted a hand to stroke the cat, who intently pursued the hand for more stroking. I sighed, staring at the cat that had just killed me in the scenario the man had actually been out to kill me. A little smirk came over my face. Rollo always did exactly what he wanted, never anything I wanted him to. I briefly thought that it’d be nice if I could make him sit and be quiet on command.

Rollo sat down, becoming quiet, staring at me. I blinked a little, confused. Was that… no, wait. No way.

“Stand?” I asked him. I tried to control the cat’s muscles directly to make him stand. No. That wasn’t it. But Rollo sat so nicely. It was…

Stand.

Rollo stood up on his four feline legs.

Meow.

“Meow!” Rollo let out, obediently. I suddenly realized that my senses had been amplified, and I could see myself… No, wait, that wasn’t it. I was picking up things from Rollo’s senses.

Release Rollo.

Immediately the cat recoiled, hissing at nothing, extremely confused and traumatized at what had just happened to him. I also lost the extra senses that I had felt in my mind.

Fuck.

Fortunately, it seemed my powers realized that was just an exclamation of despair at my situation. I sighed out, staring up at the ceiling. So, I did have those powers. I just hadn’t figured it out before now. Did that mean I did kill Gordana? Was Pamela innocent? I thought briefly about how my innocence had just been ‘proven’…

“Actually…” I asked Rollo, who looked confused for a cat, as I was sitting up. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just go through my life… never using this power again, ever?” I asked him with a smile, getting up to my feet. Rollo did not answer.

“C’mon. Let’s get you some food.” I said, moving towards the stairs, and by my tone Rollo understood that he was going to be fed and quickly got up the stairs ahead of me. Yeah. I would simply hide my powers, keep them to myself, no-one needed to ever know. Tomorrow everyone would have to apologize to me, and then I’d be accepted into town again, and nobody would know any better.

It would all work out.

by @Dark Wind



The last of the season’s leaves swirled around the Black Tree in a dying marigold trail. Marik watched their gentle dance, fragile as it was, peak as a fallen and broken circle ringing ‘round the oldest bark of the north. He looked over the numerous shoulders in front of him to catch the last light of day falling behind the clouding horizon. A quiet breeze rolled in. He shivered. The taste of the coming winter stabbed his tongue. It was going to be cold, he thought, very cold.

His commander – the commander of all the men gathered there upon the White Peak – stood tall with his back to them. The white wolf fur at the neck of his cloak brushed against the wind. There was a presence there, important and distinct. Marik knew himself to be of greater height, yet each time he watched the older man he always felt he was looking up a steep slope. Every man present remained quiet and watchful. The man turned to face them with his cloak billowing in the wind behind them. “This place,” he began, placing his hand upon the raised, eternally frozen stone that sat beneath the tree, “this place has stood since before my time, defended by the men, the fearsome wolves who have come before us and built our kingdom by the blood… by the blood on their fangs.” He traced his gloved hand over the stone carefully navigating the ridges of ancient markings, the markings Marik had long since been taught and knew by heart: mother, elder, and younger. “They say the ice of this stone has never melted. They say that it’s this ice that makes our bond as a pack. It shall never diminish. Not by sun, not by time, and not even by the strike of a sword, this ice shall never shatter, nor the stone beneath it.” He continued to speak, but a sudden elbow jab at Marik’s side distracted him from the speech.

“What is it Gael?” He turned to his youthful and restless friend, making sure his voice was a soft whisper.

“Do you really think that ice has never melted?”

“I’ve never seen it gone, so there’s that.”

“Yes, but how could anyone know? It’s not like they come up here every single day.”

“The Brothers of the Wolf do, they come here to pray.”

“And what if they’re lying?”

The commander’s head tilted their way, a momentary silence following. Then, he began again.

“You’ll have us both beaten bloody if you don’t shut your damned mouth. I don’t think it matters if they’re lying or not, this is ceremony. And besides, the commander has seen more winters than either of us put together. I think he’d know.”

“Mother’s tit. That’s what I say to that. If we’re to be the youngest Fangs sworn in by the oath, I’d like to know the whole truths.”

“You there,” the commander’s tone made Marik flinch, “have something to say do ya’?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Marik said under his breath.

Gael stepped out of rank. “I do, in fact. I’ve got lots to say. Why is it you’ve got us swearing the oath so soon? Twenty two winters is what the law says, yet the lot of us have only seen eighteen.”

It was a question Marik pondered upon himself. He wondered if they were special, if he was special, and that his talents and this group of men’s talents were a testament of greatness compared to the wolves that had come before them in recorded history. However, that answer rang hollow. The truth of the matter tasted bitter.

“Code is only broken when the greater words speak, and the Elder has spoken.” The commander said. “Does that satisfy your ever-hungry thirst for knowledge, Gael? Perhaps you’d like to know how to properly handle your sword, it might help you amongst the women.” A few chuckles sprang out amongst the men.

Marik hoped that’d quiet his friend down, but he knew better. “As a matter of fact it don’t, commander. You say that stone never melts. I say that’s a load of shit, and I can prove it with my sword, of which I know how to use quite well. Ain’t never seen ice that didn’t break under a good hit. Maybe it’s you’re getting a little too old to do it yourself.”

The old man sported a satisfied grin, quietly muttering. “There’s always one isn’t there?” An officer next to him nodded with a knowing smile. “So be it. Come on up and take a shot. It can’t hurt to be sure.”

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Gael lazily strutted to the front of the gathered men, walking right under the tree by the frozen stone. He unsheathed his blade. “I’ll make this quick.” The blade went up. “You’ll have to buy me a pint after this comm—“ the sword came down, and a deafening crack rippled through the air in time with a pale blue flash of light. Gael’s body flew through the air and smacked into the Black Tree. He grunted, slowly dragging himself up to his feet. For a brief moment there was shock amongst their band, but before long they laughed.

“Well, at least you’re in better shape than your sword.” They roared louder at the commander’s comment, and he was right. Gael’s sword lay in pieces on the ground. “Now get back into rank, the ceremony is to begin without delay.”

Gael nodded, shaking off his blurry sight, unsteadily making his way back to Marik. He could see the subtle form of a grin on Marik’s face. “Don’t you fuckin’ laugh or I’ll knock the shit out of ya’.”

“I’m not sure you could land the punch, you’re staggering more than a drunken barmaid.”

Gael looked at Marik, but then slowly grinned. “Elder’s cock, did you see that? That was bloody magic, that’s what that was.”

“Should’ve listened to me. Could’ve saved you the pain.”

“You knew, didn’t you, you son of a bitch.”

Marik shook his head. “I only trust in the Mother. My faith is with the pack.”

“Old Wolf be damned, that was a hell of a sight.”

“Hm, it was.”

“He never quite answered my first question though. Why is it you think we’re taking the oath now?”

Marik sighed. “Really want to know?”

“Don’t play coy you ass, you know I do.”

“Unrest.”

“Unrest? Is that all you got to say?”

Unrest indeed, if the rumors were true. Word spread from the southern villages of starved farmers and other peasants. Marik’d heard farmers were saying the wolves had horded and stole food, or the taxes were too high. All blame eventually fell on the Lunar Keep and it’s fabled Lunar Fangs resting atop the White Peak.

“I heard it there was a small uprising in a fisherman’s town. A few soldiers killed. They came back and it was a massacre.”

“I’m calling a ball of shit on that. Don’t sound like truth to me. The people love us.”

Perhaps they did, once. “Just telling you what I’ve heard. You can take it for what you want.”

“Well I told you what I’m taking it for, a bunch of shit.”

“Fine by me, it makes no difference. If food is short when the cold comes, things’ll change. That’s why we’re swearing the oath now, they need more men.”

“More men for what?”

“For war, friend, for war.”

Marik and Gael said nothing more to each other. The commander lit two standing torches on either side of the frozen stone and stepped behind it. A brother of the wolf stood by his side, the priest wearing standard uniform consisting of a full cloak made with a brown wolf pelt; the three markings of Mother, Elder, and Younger sewn across the front. His hair was shaven except down the middle. As for what he carried, there were two bags. One was filled with necklaces, and the other with wolf fangs. The only thing Marik remembered of the priest was that he looked grim.

“Line up before the stone, my brothers. Here, on the highest peak under the cold touch of our Mother, you shall become wolves.” The commander spoke and his men listened. “Here, the Elder shall look down upon you and smile with bared fangs, knowing, knowing that you are on the path. Not his path, but of your own, forged by your own hand, your own blade.” He swept his cloak’s cape to the side, revealing his scabbard. With a swift motion, the commander unsheathed his sword. “Come, my brothers, one by one you shall bend the knee and swear the oath. Then, you shall rise again, reborn as one of the night and you will fear no darkness for you will become what men fear when the sun is gone.”

The oath takers cried out their approval, and only Marik did not join them. In front of him, he watched his fellow brothers-to-be step forward before the stone and kneel. They proclaimed their loyalty and swore the oath, rising before the commander and the priest so the priest could endow them with the symbol of their status as a wolf amongst the Lunar Fangs. When Gael finished and rose to his knee, Marik could see his friend smiling over at him with immense pride. At last, Marik’s turn had come.

He stepped forward and knelt. The commander held his sword double-handed, close to his chest. With a sense of grave importance, he spoke. “Marik of Sorg, son of Meridia and Lorik, you have come forth to follow the wolf’s path with the Younger’s ferocity, the Elder’s watch, and the Mother’s protection. Speak the vow, and the light of the moon will guide your way.”

Marik breathed in. The silence broke only by the soft howling of the coming winds. He closed his eyes and hung his head. “For Mother’s kindness I shall honor her as a loyal son. For the Elder’s wisdom I shall heed his call, and for the Younger’s spirit I will forge my path through the worthiness of my own fangs.” He raised his head and opened his eyes. “Under the light of the moon I will run with the pack unyielding, no matter what beast or man, I will not abandon my brothers. The darkness will fear my blade as I bring the stab of truth and light. I swear my life now, to the pack, for I am not just a man, but a wolf… a wolf bound to Mother’s justice and the peace of all, a binding that I will carry forevermore in life and in death on the White Tundra beyond.” He finished the words he’d remembered as a child, dreaming to be a part of the fabled band of men, the heroes of yore. It did not feel as good as he had hoped.

The commander laid his sword on Marik’s shoulders and his head with deliberately slow motions. “Rise, Marik of Sorg, as a true wolf.”

Marik did so, and the priest took the commander’s place in front of him. The priest took one of the necklaces and placed it over Marik’s head. Slowly, he strung three wolf fangs onto it. “By the Younger’s spirit, you are imbued with power. By the Elder’s wisdom, you are imbued with vision. And, by the Mother’s kindness you are imbued with just cause.” He said. “Your bond however, is greater than mere words can offer. It is a bond of blood. Hold out your hand.” Marik did so, and the commander gave the priest his sword. Unlike the other men, Marik did not flinch when the sharp tip cut his palm. The priest purposefully smudged the blood over his hand, and then lifted Marik’s hand until he felt the heat of it over his own face. Just like the others, when he removed his palm, his bloody print marked his face. “And now, you are born anew.”

Roars of approval came from the men. Gael welcomed Marik with a tight embrace, smiling. “We’re Fangs now, brother, can you believe it?”

Marik found he couldn’t return that joy. He watched as the last few men swore their oaths. This was what he’d wanted since he was a boy, yet he didn’t feel pride or warmth. Instead, he looked out at the vast range of Northern mountains. The only thing he could feel was the cold, and he remembered then, that he thought it’d only be colder soon.



It was just three years prior he’d seen the commander limp, and bloody as the poor man face down on the mud-stained snow in front of him. Wasn’t a wolf, but it didn’t make much difference. A corpse was a corpse. Luckily for this man, it’d been quick. An arrow right through the throat; couldn’t have stayed alive very long. The commander went out screaming in agony, so much so he remembered drawing his sword to slit the commander’s throat.

The village around Marik burned as he sat there on a lonely rock. He rested as one of the buildings collapsed in a heap under the tireless assault of the flames. His blade lay at his feet, soaked in crimson. Several corpses littered the ground, either cut by the blade, shot down, or trampled by horses. Marik wiped the sweat off of his brow before he heard the yell.

“Watch out!”

His head jolted to the side, seeing a forgotten man coming towards him with a rusted battle-axe. He’d be dead if it weren’t for the sudden strike of an arrow impacting the rebel’s chest. His would be assassin crumpled to the ground in a pained groan, followed by an all too familiar gurgling death rattle. Marik slumped back down onto his rock in relief.

Gael came running up to him. “Lucky son of a bitch, if it weren’t for me you’d be dead right now.”

“Aye, that was a good shot.”

“Wasn’t it, though? See you’re admiring another of my works.” He pointed to the dead man with the arrow in his throat.

“Should’ve known that was you.”

“Yeah, should’ve, and you should’ve been standin’ rather than cockin’ around on a field of battle.”

“Was he the last?”

“Think so, fuckers didn’t stand a chance did they? Was good to come here under the cover of dark.”

“Surprised the new commander listened to me.” Marik looked around, noticing the darkness was beginning to lift with the sun slowly beginning to rise. They’d travelled in this direction under the advisement there were rebels hidden here storing weapons. Most were tired, but Marik believed it was best to hit a sleeping beast rather than a woken one.

“He’d of been a fool not to. The boys respect ya’ more than him.”

“Where is he anyway?”

“Little ways past the village I think, there was a runner amongst ‘em, a deserter if I heard right.”

“Deserter?”

“Couldn’t believe it either, what bastard could spit on our oath? I want to see him for myself and let him know why they call me Quickshot. Put two right into that fucker’s eyes, and maybe one in his cock. That’ll serve him right.”

Marik laughed without humor. “So this is Windwood…” He uttered the name of the small lakeside village. The trees around them were adorned in soft white, and the lake had a thick sheen of ice atop it.

“Thought it’d be nicer, myself. Looks like shit to me. Nothing can beat the city of Lunaris Point, nothing.”

Marik said nothing, he actually thought Windwood would be a nice place to live with the dawning sun glittering over the ice. He pulled his cloak further over him to stay warm before standing up and retrieving his sword from the ground. “Looks like they’ve got the deserter.” He nodded in the direction of the returning men and the single chained man lead at the vanguard.

“Is that? No, it fuckin’ can’t be…”

“What?”

But, Gael didn’t listen, his jaw agape wandering forward to catch a better look. “It is, I don’t believe it, that’s Aurin. Mother’s tit, that’s Aurin right there.”

Marik perked up at the name. Aurin of Heltemot, The Black Malice, Wielder of the Black Sword, The Great Wolf. He went by Gael’s side to watch. “Can’t be him, you’re imagining things.”

“Swear to Mother, I’m not. That’s him alright, only him wears a cloak as dark as that.”

“I don’t see a black sword on him.” But just as he said it, Aurin was shoved to his knees, and his sword—black as the midnight sky—tossed in front of him unceremoniously.

The new commander rounded up to the front and emptied a bag of things beside the deserter. A mandolin, a doll, and a piece of cloth with a scene stitched onto it Marik couldn’t make out. Aurin grimaced when the instrument fell hard on the ground, though it seemed the snow padded its descent.

Aurin was a favorite topic amongst bards throughout the north, and his tales of heroism in the War of Northern Independence and The Northern Rebellion were legendary. He was perhaps the most famous of all figures that Marik’d ever read about, and the reason he became a Fang. The legend had to be over forty winters old at this point, and the wrinkles of the man’s face spoke that truth. But, Marik thought he’d see more if he had the chance to meet the man, see an essence of greatness, a glowing aura like the stories always said. Instead, the man just looked tired.

Gael and Marik shared a look of silent awe. The new commander hopped off of his horse and stood over Aurin.

“To find our Kingdom’s greatest hero here is…” He couldn’t find the right words. “Living amongst rebels and, and helping them fight against his own kin.” The new commander wore a grave look on his face. “I’ve no happy words for this.”

Aurin scoffed. “Then don’t try to find them, there are none.”

“Traitor.” The new commander tasted the word. To Marik and Gael, the sound was harsh, unkind. Many of the men around seemed equally troubled as they were that the greatest of their pack had betrayed them. “Why?”

“A wolf bound to Mother’s justice and peace for all.”

“What was that?”

“You’re a cunt, and I’ve got no need answering to you or anyone else.”

It seemed that answer made the legend easier to hate for a few of the men, even Gael had forgotten his reverence. “Bleedin’ son of a whore, who does he think he is talkin’ to us like that. Filthy traitor.” He spat on the ground. “I say we cut his head here and be done with it.”

The new commander held up his hand. “No.”

“No? You heard him, sir, there’s no talking to this—“

“You heard me, Quickshot.”

Aurin chuckled. “Can he shoot an arrow as fast as his tongue speaks?”

“You shut your—“

“Gael!”

Gael quieted down, though mumbled in discontent to himself.

“We are bound by our oath and the code. A traitor is to be taken back to the Black Tree, and executed upon the frozen stone.” He paused and looked around. “So? Is there anyone here who volunteers for the task?”

When none answered, Marik stepped forward. “I’ll do it, sir.”

“Good man, you’re more wolf than most.”

Marik nodded in thanks. “Shall I take his stuff with me?” He motioned towards the things the new commander dumped onto the ground.

“Even if he is a traitor and a deserter, one final kindness seems in order for a hero. You have my permission.”

“Yes, sir.” Marik gathered the items and put them back into the bag before going to his horse and tying them on.

“I’ll go with him.” Gael cut in.

“I have need of you on the front, Quickshot.”

“Yes, but, I’ve been Marik’s friends for years and he’d be dead without me looking after his ass today.” He grinned over at Marik. “Say Aurin escapes and kills him, you’ll have lost a good soldier and gained a powerful enemy.”

“Hmm, yes, I suppose you’re right. Very well, you may go. I expect you back when this is all finished.”

“We will be, commander.”

The new commander gathered the troops while Marik and Gael took a third horse for their prisoner.

“Want to see him dead as I do, don’t ya’?” Gael asked.

Marik grabbed the reins of his horse and the other. “Just following the code, Gael, that’s it. A deserter cannot enter into the White Tundra, and only his blood can cleanse him of his wrongdoing.”

“Don’t tell me you like this bastard or feel bad for him.”

“No. But neither of us would be here if it weren’t for his stories.”

Gael kept quiet after that, and Marik gathered Aurin to his feet to lead him to the horse.

“I don’t suppose you can take these chains off of me?”

“Get on, I’ll help you up.”

“Worth a try.” Aurin smiled, but Marik didn’t see any emotion in his eyes. He helped him up on the horse and the three of them began to trot along. The fires of the late night’s battle had died off. Nothing but burnt wood and black smoke floated into the morning sky.

This would be a nice place to live, Marik still thought.



The path was long, and the path was cold. Winter had become increasingly harsh and unforgiving during their trip. Marik couldn’t see a thing in front of him as blizzard conditions engulfed them in a white walled haze of falling snow. He’d donned his heavy cloak and the only reason he hadn’t lost Gael or Aurin was because of the rope ties keeping them together, that and Aurin’s black cloak. The wind howled around him as they cut through a mountain pass, and the bite of the gusts were such that not even his gloves could protect his hands from the stabbing flurry.

“Elder’s cock, Marik! We have to get out of this bloody cold, I can’t see a fuckin’ thing.”

“He’s right, you know.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, so keep your mouth shut.”

“ As you wish, my lord.”

“Don’t call me, my lord.”

“Would you rather me call you… my queen? A little ugly to be a woman, but if these are your wishes.”

“You bas—let me cut the fucker now, Marik. At least let me beat on him awhile.”

Despite himself, Marik nearly found himself laughing in the cold. But, the crackling of his hand and the difficulty to bend his finger told him they needed to find shelter or die.

“No, you’re right, you’re both right. We need to get out of the storm. Has to be a cave somewhere on this pass.”

“There is.” The traitor said. “We’re not far from it either if my count is right.”

“Your count? What, you been countin’ the steps the horses have taken?”

“I have.”

“How much longer, Aurin?” Marik asked.

“I’d say a little over two hundred.”

“Load of shit.”

“You’ll see, should be on the right.”

Two hundred steps and then some later, Marik could make out the mouth of a cave on his right hand side. He was surprised and thankful to see it, but Gael had far more trouble when it came to believing.

“Fuck me, that’s… You sure we’re not carrying around some wizard or whatever the ploughin’ shit they call ‘em?”

“That’s not how magic works.”

“You hear him, Marik? Not how magic works, he says. He’s a damned wizard, we oughta’ toss him off and leave.”

“If he could do magic and get out of his bindings, don’t you think he’d have done it a long time before this when one of us wasn’t looking?”

“I still—“

“Enough, get inside.”

The caravan of three went into the cave. Marik found a suitable rock to post the horses to. But, venturing too far into the cave there was darkness and no light. So, he had Gael fetch sticks and whatever wood he could find for a fire. Aurin sat on the ground with his back against the wall, remaining quiet.

“You don’t know how to perform magic, do you?” Marik asked.

Aurin found the question funny. “Afraid I’ll make these bonds disappear? Fret not, young Marik, I am but a man.”

“There are men who can do it.”

“Yes, women too. I knew a rather talented sorceress once, I think if she wanted she could have done magic as strong as the kind done to the frozen stone.”

“Really? Who was she?”

“… Just some old hag who lived alone in one of the many woods around here.”

“Is she still alive?”

Aurin’s chains rattled as he fiddled with his hands behind his back. “No, she died a few years ago.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’ve never seen magic, well, except once.”

“You’ve got me sitting in suspense.”

“It was Gael. Not him doing it, but he caused it. Broke his sword trying to crack the stone.”

Aurin laughed. “And a great flash of light sent him flying, did it?”

“Yes, how’d you know?”

“Had an idiot friend just like yours.”

“He’s not an idiot.”

“No offense was meant, you can lower your guard.”

“Would you lower your guard on yourself?”

“Hm. No, I suppose not.”

Marik sat on the opposite wall, watching Aurin with care. “He’s deadly, you know. Can shoot an arrow quicker than a man can say a word, and accurate too.”

“Yes, yes, Quickshot they called him, and I’m the Black Malice and a host of other names that mean nothing. You should be happy you don’t have one, Marik.”

“Why’s that? They’re terms of respect for heroic deeds.”

“Heroic are they?” Aurin looked him in the eyes. “I rather think you’ve done your duty as a wolf well, Marik, for you have no name that I’ve heard.”

Marik didn’t answer as Gael returned to the cave carrying a bundle of sticks and even more in a sack on his back. He also threw down a rabbit.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Got lucky, saw it running into the storm right in front of me. So I took a shot, blind as I was. Probably not much meat, but it’s better than the shit rations they give us.”

Marik helped Gael light the fire, and the two of them started cutting off the skin and roasting the meat over the flame. When it was done, Marik cut the meat into a fair and even amount for the three of them.

“Hey, why should he get the same as us? I killed the damn thing.”

Rather than argue, he simply gave Gael more.

“That’s better. Stick for our own, not traitors.”

Marik tried to hand Aurin the meat, but the traitor rattled his chains. “Bit difficult to eat with my hands behind my back. Could always take these off, though, I don’t mean any harm.”

“Mother’s tit you don’t, don’t listen to him.”

“I’m not stupid, Gael. How’s this, I’ll feed it to you.”

“Can’t just bind me so my hands are in front of me?”

“You’re a war legend for a reason, I won’t be tricked.”

“Fine, so be it.”

Marik fed him the meat before sitting back down to enjoy his own, the three sitting there by the light of the fire while the storm continued to rage outside. After a while, Marik went to inspecting his sword and their rations for the journey ahead. Gael looked at his bow before putting it down.

“Why did you desert us?” He said to Aurin. Gael had asked Marik this question hundreds of times on their journey here, and each time Marik told him he didn’t know nor did he have any theories as to why. “You swore an oath, to all of us. We may not have been old enough to see you make it when you did, but you were making it to us just the same.”

“Oaths come and go, made and broken, again and again. Lived long enough to know that.”

“Answer me ya’ bastard.”

“My reasons are my own.”

Gael grunted in disgust. “No reasonin’ with a traitor. I’m goin’ to bed.”

Hours later, Gael lay asleep curled up by the fire under his cloak.

“You awake, Marik?”

“One of us has to be watching you.”

“Would you mind bringing that bag over to me?”

Marik felt too tired to argue, so he did it, bringing the bag over. But first, he looked over the things inside, taking note of the piece of cloth. A violet floral pattern encircled an old looking wolf howling by a black tree.

“Where did you get these things?” Marik handed the cloth over, and the doll as well, laying them on the floor so Aurin could see them.

“On my many travels.” Aurin seemed to linger on the cloth. “Are you familiar with the tale of the Elder and the Mother, the tale of the stone?”

Marik shook his head.

“I didn’t think you would, it’s not a tale they tell much anymore. As it goes, the Old Wolf and the Mother were lovers bound by fate. Their passion was without equal and it had no conditions. Their world was before ours, much, much before, during a time of chaos. It was they who created the north and the landmarks we know here. Old magic, the strongest sort. At least, that’s if you believe the old stories. It was a sort of paradise they’d made for each other. But it was lonely, just the two of them. So, they molded the beginnings of us, and they also had a son. The Younger. There were no hard winters then, just the soft fall of gentle snow and the glow of the sun on crystalline waters… the vibrant bloom of flowers.”

“Sounds like the beyond.”

“Yes, but it was better. None went hungry, and there were no wars.”

“What happened?”

“The Younger fell off his path, and lost his way. He found a lover, but the fateful pull of a hunter whom thought he had hit a deer robbed her of him. The Younger discovered the feeling of hatred, and revenge. He killed humans, and the blood tainted his fangs until the lust for it overtook him. Men fought against wolf, and all the Mother’s children were dying. The Old Wolf, the Elder as he’s called now, did what he could do to quell the fears of men. He swore an oath no father should have to take. To kill his own son.”

“Go on.” Marik said, enraptured.

“He met his son upon the highest peak of our lands. The White Peak. They fought for endless hours, ripping and tearing. The Elder didn’t have the heart to kill his own son, but when he saw the hate in his eyes he knew the Younger was lost and in a pain worse than dying. It was with mercy he struck the killing blow, ripping out his throat. And the Mother, the grief was far too much. She promised to watch over all as a guiding hand from beyond, and she passed on, taking the form of a black tree. And the Old Wolf made yet again, an oath no mortal could have done. His love was so much that he promised to remain attached to this realm until the Younger’s spirit was back on the path and they could both join her on the Tundra beyond. That’s him, howling in grief on this cloth, right before he became the frozen stone.”

Marik sat quietly, wondering over the story. It was the greatest tale of the Mother, Elder, and Younger he’d ever heard. He couldn’t find any strength to call Aurin a liar, for the words he had spoken sounded true. Great, and terrible. The saddest story he’d ever heard.

“Do you think the Elder is still with us, waiting to be free… After all this time?”

“It’s not for me to tell you what to believe, that’s just what’s on the cloth. You wanted to know what it was.”

Neither of them knew it then, but Gael was awake, his eyes open as had turned at some point away from the fire, just looking at one of the walls. He had heard the entire story.

“Your friend,” Marik started after the long silence, “the idiot. What happened to him?”

“He died.”

Marik glanced over at Gael and he frowned. He said no more and went to sleep when Gael’s turn to take watch came. A few hours later, the sun had risen and the storm had lifted. The three were out on the road again, and Gael didn’t seem to be in the mood to insult Aurin as he usually was. Back on the path between mountains, their horses trotted through the snow until the party reached the end coming towards the entrance of a forest.

The three wandered through, and despite the clear sky, Marik didn’t feel right. There were no birds singing, the wind was not blowing. An unusual winter day.

“Marik, watch out!” Gael cried.

A battle-axe flew through the air right past his face, embedding itself into the trunk of a tree. The horses kicked up and whinnied frantically. Marik nearly was thrown off. He regained balance, and hopped off of his horse, drawing his blade. The man who’d thrown the axe drew a horn.

“Shoot him!” Marik yelled.

Gael drew an arrow and released it. The man was dead instantly, but he was too late. That horn was blown, and they could hear the sound of other men nearby.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Should we run?”

“No, there’s too many, I can see them.”

There was a dozen, at least. Rebels armed and thirsty for a kill. Not even Gael had enough arrows to shoot them all down.

“Elder’s cock, Mother’s tit… Younger’s… shit, I don’t fuckin’ know!”

“I think you might want to consider unshackling me this time around.” Aurin chimed in.

Gael and Marik looked at him at the same time. The charging band of ruthless rebels came closer.

“You might want to consider faster.”

There wasn’t a worse time for Gael not to have an answer for Marik as the two debated silently between eachother, looking back and forth between their coming death and the oddly calm deserter on the horse.

“Fuck it!” Marik said. He went over to Aurin and unbound him. Right after he fetched Aurin’s sword that he’d kept, pulling out the black blade and handing it to him.

Aurin jumped off the horse and joined them in waiting for the rebels. They were almost there. Gael and Marik still watched him.

“You might want to shoot them, Quickshot. I’d rather not fight them all once they’re here. I’m not about to kill you.”

Gael went into action, drawing and killing two men immediately with blinding speed. A third and a fourth came not much long after. Rather than use his sword, Gael backed away so he could hit the rebels from a distance without hitting Aurin or Marik.

Aurin jumped into battle first. Marik had never seen anything like it. He may have joined the Fangs because of the legends, but he always thought they were embellished a little too much. Some called Aurin a demon on the battlefield. A whirlwind of chaos, rage, and hate. The look he saw in Aurin’s eyes as he slew three men was nothing short of hatred. His sword strokes were intended to kill, and kill painfully.

A striking spear caused Marik to jump into the fray. He dodged it narrowly. Another lunge nearly missed. He waited. Watching. When the next stroke came he dropped onto the snow and rolled over, slashing the man’s ankle and sending him to the ground unable to get up. Marik plunged his sword into the man’s back, finishing him off. He turned back to see that Gael had dropped two more, and Aurin had a field of bodies around him.

But, Aurin noticed a man had swept behind Gael without him noticing. Without another choice, he hurled the black sword into the man charging behind him. Gael jumped as he glanced down at the dead rebel.

“Well I’ll be fucked!”

Marik could see they now surrounded Aurin, the last three men left. With no weapon he was as good as dead. But Marik was swift, diving into the middle of them, parrying all three of their strokes. He’d stopped thinking some time ago. It was just them and him. A clean swipe slit one of their throats. He grabbed one of their arms and forced them to be stabbed by his own ally.

With that sword stuck, the last man struggled to pull it out. He met his end with an arrow in the head before Marik could kill him.

Gael walked over to Marik and Aurin. The three of them breathed heavily as their eyes explored the mess around them.

“That was fucking brilliant.” Gael said. “I’ve never seen a man use a sword like that. You had to have hit him from a I don’t know how far, but it was damned far.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Don’t mention it, he says. Saved my life, that’s what you did.” Gael grabbed Aurin’s hand and shook it. Marik watched him curiously, and Gael seemed to notice. “I thought he was a coward. I know a fighter when I see one. Don’t care if you’re a traitor, Aurin, or a deserter. I can at least be friendly now, from here on in.”

Aurin cracked a smile. “Works for me. This mean my hands won’t be bound anymore?”

“What do ya’ think?”

“I think we should get moving before anymore rebels show up.”

“Not a terrible idea.”

“And you can ride unshackled, but no sword. If you try to run, Gael will kill you with one shot.”

“Quickest death you’ll ever have.”

Now, Aurin was grinning. “Sounds fair to me.”



The candles burned, and the fires warmed. Clinks of glasses and laughter resounded high. After a long travel, the three found a tavern serving plenty of ale and playing plenty of music. Marik thought that it was rather pleasant being out of war-torn country and back in wolf territory. There were no rebels to fear up here, and despite the harsh flurries, he had good company.

He rested in his seat at a corner table, sipping from his mug watching men and women talk and laugh. As musicians played and bards sang, many were dancing. It was slightly strange he thought, watching them. This place seemed foreign. There was no war here, just everyday life. A divide between them and him, though he felt a small comfort here. Old familiarity perhaps.

Then, two ale mugs came crashing down, and there was Gael taking a seat with Aurin. The two roared with laughter sitting down. This was the second time he noticed the phenomenon with Aurin. As genuine as the laughter seemed, he saw something else there in his eyes.

“And then I smashed my sword down, and I flew into the damned tree!” Gael continued laughing. “Good thing I hit it from there than in back, would’ve fallen right off the cliff side. That’d be something, huh? The story of the flying fool.”

“Could be worse, you could be a quick shot.”

Gael nearly fell off his seat. He smacked Aurin on the arm. “And they say I’m quick with my tongue, you’re as sharp as your sword. Marik! Finish that damn thing and join us, you could use a forgotten night in your life.”

“I’ll be fine with this, thanks.”

“Ah, do what you want. Always too grim.”

“Oh, leave him alone. Marik can do what he likes, he saved my life back in those woods, like I saved yours. Where’d you learn those tricks?”

“Nobody taught ‘em. He’s the quiet one in the troop, but he thinks faster than anyone once things get nasty.”

“A good trait to have.”

“Aye, saved my own ass a few times too. I returned the favor when we first met you, though. So, it’s getting closer to even.”

“It’s a long way off still.”

“Elder’s cock it is, but enough of war talk and debts owed, we’re here to have fun. Look at these women, we’d be spitting on the Younger’s name if we didn’t show them some spirit.”

“You can go, I’ll be fine here.”

“Oh come on Marik, are ya’ swordshy?”

“Have it your way, I’m gonna’ have a dance with that blonde one over there.” He pointed. “If you ever change your mind, the dark haired barmaid has been smiling at ya’ all night.”

“I’ll think on it.”

“Think on it, he says! There’s no hope for this one Aurin, maybe you can get better luck than me.” And off Gael went, talking and quickly taking the laughing blonde out onto the floor, dancing happily.

“He might not be wrong. Could be good for you. I’ve always thought you should get some happiness wherever you can find it.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Not interested in girls?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“I can’t dance.”

Aurin chuckled.

“It’s not funny.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I did not mean offense my dear Marik.” Aurin mocked. “I shall not harm your honor henceforth.”

Marik let out a little laugh.

“Aha! He can laugh from time to time. Come now, dancing’s not so hard. No one really cares out there, and they definitely don’t if they’ve had a few rounds like Gael. Get out of that mind Marik, and just say hello to her. Ask her to dance, and that’ll be that.”

“And then you’ll try to leave.”

Aurin looked hurt. “You think I’d betray your trust now after this long a time?”

“You’ve deserted us, remember.”

“For—“

“For your own reasons, yes, you’ve said it many times. Maybe one day you’ll tell us.”

“Yes, maybe one day.” Aurin watched Marik’s eyes turn to the barmaid. “Go on.”

Marik took a long swig and marched off. It wasn’t so hard as he’d made it in his head. He felt ridiculous the way he strutted up to the bar, nerves overtaking him. She laughed though, and he simply asked her to dance. For a few minutes, dancing and twirling with the dark haired barmaid made the war disappear. There was just music, laughter, and her smile. She said her name was Lira. He said he’d remember the name and remember to come back one day.

When the dancing was done, he returned to the table with Gael. Aurin was still there, but holding his mandolin.

“Gonna’ play us a tune there, old man?”

“I think I might, my wife was the singer. I’m no good myself, not like her.”

“Is that hers then?” Marik asked.

“Aye, it is.” And Aurin walked to the tavern’s stage. He sat down on a stool and plucked the strings. The melody played, and it was slow, and gentle. Immediately, every patron’s eyes were drawn to him.

Marik had never heard music like this. He’d heard old songs paying tribute to fallen heroes, and quick-played strings magically causing legs to shift and the owners of those legs to dance without control of their minds. This was different. Aurin’s every pluck and strum was purposeful. What shocked him was when Aurin began to sing. It was the story of the Younger, but in a way he hadn’t heard it, much like the tale of the Old Wolf and the Mother’s love. Aurin sang of revenge, death, and the price of sorrow that is paid eternal as the Younger runs down a lost path down the same road, again and again without being free of misery. The way he saw it, the instrument and Aurin had become one. That mandolin was not a mere tool, for it cried with the outpouring of Aurin’s soul. And every listener there was bound to shed a tear, even the haunted soldiers who sat alone. When it was finished, Marik believed again, that he’d never heard a story so sad.

The three sat there in the later hours as the noise dimmed down and patrons were leaving. Sipping the last of their ale around the candle flame that was on its last breaths of wax.

“Where’d you get the doll?” Marik asked.

“Hm, a long story.”

“Well, then, how about how you became known as The Black Malice?” Gael said, hopefully.

“They’re related, I’m afraid.”

“We’ve been told that story, Gael.”

“Yeah, but not from him.”

“I’m rather familiar with it. Aurin riding in on a band of rebels, brandishing his black sword and running through them like water on paper. Cutting them down without being hit, like I was wind. A raging storm, a demon.”

“Yes!” Gael said.

Aurin picked up the doll from the bag beside him and inspected it for a long moment. “It was in the first year of the rebellion, and it was in the middle of winter.” He began. Marik and Gael leaned in. “Things weren’t going well. I know they probably told you the rebellion would end swift.”

There was no argument in either Gael or Marik’s eyes.

“They tried to end it quick, the highest officers of the Fangs. Their method was… to openly attack villages where the rebels were not hiding in. You see, it’s not hard to draw out an enemy when you’ve killed their family.”

“Mother’s tit…”

“Hm. Only thing is, that made them angrier, and more unified. More joined the cause. I was tasked to hunt down one particular band that’d been ambushing our supply caravans. We got them, but only a few. They lured us, and in turn, struck a town within kingdom territory… Burned it. Burned it all to the ground. They’d, ah,” Aurin’s hand shook. “They raped the women, murdered them, and the children. Eye for an eye it seems. Didn’t matter that there was a sorceress there, either. One person can’t fight a small army.”

“Sorceress?” Marik said.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest with you, Marik. The most powerful sorceress I’ve ever met wasn’t an old hag. She was my wife….” Aurin paused, and he stared off deep into a place no one could reach.

“What did they—“

“Nailed her to a tree and left her there.” Aurin said sharply. “Hung my daughter from the same tree.” He lifted his hand and with his fingers he played with the candleflame. “I wasn’t the only mourning husband, or father. So, a group of us went out and we did to them what they did to us. We didn’t play a part in the raids that were commanded, we didn’t think it was honorable to the code. But innocence doesn’t matter in war, and it never will. Slaughtered the people in the first village we could find. And the next one, and the next one, and the next one after that.” His hand was held into a fist now. “We nailed the women to trees like a road for when they returned there to see. And we hung the children all from one tree we could find, one tree for a whole village of kids.”

For the first time in his life, Gael didn’t have a remark. Marik looked down at his hands.

“I know they tell ya’ I made my sword from a black falling star in the sky. No. It was old magic. After the massacres, my blade turned black, and it has remained so ever since. I am cursed. Marked to walk the world as a symbol of hatred. I will never be able to enter the Tundra. Never be able to see my wife and daughter. And so it is deserved. I’ve earned my eternal suffering. I’m not a hero, not a savior, not any fucking damned thing from a bard’s tale. I’m just a killer. A murderer. Nothing more.” He said no more, and no one else did either.

Not long after the candlelight had died, the three decided not to stay at the tavern for the night. Rather, Marik and Aurin decided to get the journey done with quickly. As Marik unhitched his horse, he watched Aurin staring up at the night’s sky.

“You’ll see them again.” Marik said.

“It’s a nice thought, but that’s all.”

“You’re a damned hero, Aurin. Our own, our own kind betrayed you and spat on their oath. That’s not your fault.”

“And what about you?” Aurin cast a look on them. “Do you say that to yourselves? Gael talks the silence away when he can’t drink, and you, Marik, you don’t want anyone to see the blood on your hands.” When neither responded, he smiled sadly. “You’re both young, so young. In the end, a man always knows what’s right or what’s wrong. The difference between me, Marik, and you, is that you would’ve killed me before I laid a hand on an innocent. I broke the oath to the pack then, and the one to my wife promising I wouldn’t let war change me.”

“That’s not true, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

“Yes, you do.” Aurin said with such calm and reserve. Marik couldn’t find it in his heart to disagree.

“I’ve made my choice, let’s move on.”

Right as they were about to leave, three men in Fang cloaks approached them. One had a scar on his cheek. The scar-faced man stepped forward. “Are you The Black Malice?”

“Aye, that’s what some call me.”

“They also call you bloody traitorous filth.” One of the others spat.

“Hey, we’re just leaving. No need to start a fight.” Gael intervened.

“Ah? I heard you were laughing with this pile of shit. See, that makes ya’ a traitor too.” The scar-faced man said.

“And that scar makes you fuckin’ ugly, I bet even whores refuse to lie with—“ Gael took a fist to the face, sending him tumbling backwards.

Before he could react, Marik saw them draw their swords.

“Death to fuckin’ traitors!” The scar-faced man attacked. Aurin blocked the blow and entered into a duel.

Marik engaged one of the others, and Gael took the third. For each of them the fight was more difficult than their battle with the rebels, these were hardened wolves, the toughest warriors of the north. Thankfully, Marik hadn’t had much to drink so he had his wits about him. He grappled his foe and took him to the ground where he found an opening to sink his blade into his gut. The man groaned, but went limp atop him. Marik shoved him off in time to see Aurin cleave the scar-faced man’s head clean off. Gael’s man was dead, lying next to Gael. But, Marik thought, there was too much blood on the snow for one man.

“…No, no, Gael!” Marik hurried beside him. He took a quick look at the wound. “You’ll be fine, we’ll get you patched up, alright?”

Aurin said nothing, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts.

“Marik,” Gael coughed, “I’m not gonna’ be alright you damned idiot, fucker got me good.” He coughed again. “Got me fuckin’ good.”

“I’m going to get you out of here.” Marik tried to lift him up, but Gael groaned and smacked him.

“Stop touching me you fuckin’ tit. I’m dying… I’m dying.”

Marik searched Aurin for help. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Only wait.”

“See, listen to Aurin, knows what he’s talkin’ about even if he is a smart-tongued bastard.” Gael had the gall to still grin with bloodied teeth. “What are you crying for? Was gonna’ happen to one of us someday. Least I took the fucker with me, and hey, I’m gonna’,” he coughed, “I’m gonna’ die drunk. Better than what any man can ask for, right Aurin?”

“That’s right.” He smiled softly.

“Gonna’ go to the Tundra, and run crazy with the pack, and drink every damned thing they have.”

Marik laughed a broken laugh. “Save some, will ya’?”

“Fuck you, you don’t even like drinking.” He coughed with laughter. Then, Gael took Marik’s hand and held it firm. “You remember me, huh? Don’t let me be some ghost hanging on your shoulder unless… ‘less I’m telling you to stop being a swordshy fucker. Better come back here, when it’s all over. Talk to the barmaid.”

“I will.”

“Swear to,” this coughing spat lasted longer, “swear to me.”

“… I swear I’ll come back.”

“Watch his back while you can for me, Aurin?”

“I will.”

“Good, good…” Gael’s breath began to fade, and his strength too. Eventually he lay still in Marik’s arms. For the first, and last time in Quickshot’s life, he wasn’t quick enough.



The early darkness of morning was as black as the night he’d watched Gael’s pyre burning. With Aurin by his side, the two rode their horses forward in companionable silence until the end of the road began to slope upwards the grand mountain in front of them. The White Peak.

“We’re here.” Marik said.

“We are.”

Neither of them moved.

“Well, shouldn’t be longer now.” Aurin said and continued on.

“No, it shouldn’t.”

After an hour the two made it to the familiar opening of the path, leading out onto the mountainside facing the vast snow-capped range lit by the descending gleam of the moon and the infinite stars. There was the Black Tree, and the frozen stone, both sitting still as lonely as Marik and Aurin.

Aurin was the first to dismount, making his way towards the tree and sitting down against its trunk. Marik simply watched him there, not yet getting off his horse. Eventually Aurin turned his head.

“Are you going to join me or not?”

Pulled from his thoughts, Marik jumped down and sat down beside him.

“I’ve forgotten how beautiful this view is.” Aurin said.

“Yeah, it’s something.”

“When’s the last time you laid back and watched the sky?”

“I… I don’t remember.”

“That’s a shame, those little things are important. I still remember the last time. It was when I first met Skye, my wife.”

“When was that?”

“Twenty years now. See, she was just beginning to master her magic then. I was doing ordinary work, asking questions to find a local thief. Went to her house and knocked on the door because my eyes and ears claimed she'd have information. She told me to leave. I told her I just wanted to talk.”

“What’d she say?”

“Told me to ask my questions through the door. But, I wasn’t gonna’ have that. Just said I’d knock on the door until she opened it. She did, and I could tell why she didn’t want me in. Skye’d botched a spell, and it singed part of her hair off… She looked ridiculous.” Aurin smiled, looking a ways off. “After the questions, I thanked her, and asked where I could get my hair cut like she’d had it. Don’t ever say that to a woman if you’re not sure she has a sense of humor. Anyway, she laughed, and asked me if I’d like to take a walk that night. I’d never heard of taking a walk with a woman at night before, so I just had to go. We ended up walking down the river’s bend and sprawled out on the grass, listening to the water flow, and watching the stars. Was never happier in my life til’ that night.”

Marik sat quietly, watching those same stars, thinking about how many other people were doing the same thing at that moment, and how many people shared similar, simple memories.

“We don’t have to go through with this.” Marik said. “You can take your bag and go. Just leave the cloak, and leave the sword. Few will know your face.”

“You’d break your oath? Just like that?”

“Just like that. You’re family, and you don’t kill family.”

“The Old Wolf did, because he had to.”

“But I don’t have to.”

“That means a lot to me, Marik. After all that I’ve told you, after all that you know about me and what I’ve done.”

“It’s done, you can’t change any of that. Just like I can’t change that Gael’s dead.”

“No, no you can’t.”

“So, leave. Go. Make a new life somewhere.”

Aurin stood. “I’ve already made my choice.”

“After all of this, you expect me to kill you? I won’t do it.”

“Will you make an old man fall on his own sword?”

Marik looked down.

“I’ve lived long enough. I’ve also lived trying to undo my crimes, helping those I’d called my enemy. They ended up being a lot like you, a lot like me, a lot like my wife and my daughter.” Aurin went over to Marik and held out his hand. Marik took it, and Aurin helped him up. “We have lost the path, this pack of ours. But, I think, finally, you’ve shown me that we can find it again.” Aurin walked over to the stone and placed his hand upon it. “And the Younger returned to the path, knowing he could only light the way through sacrificing all that could make him happy for the sake of all. His blood was the price.”

“Sounds like one of your stories.”

“Perhaps it is. Perhaps it could be.” Aurin turned to Marik, and unsheathed the black sword, handing it to him. “Use this.”

“I won’t.” Marik recoiled.

“Not for your oath to the Pack. For me, do this for me.”

It was the first time he’d seen tears in Aurin’s eyes. Marik took the sword’s hilt. Aurin stepped forward and embraced him. His hug was warm, and tight, and long.

“Just by meeting you, Marik, this hasn’t been a wasted life.” He broke the embrace and turned towards the stone, getting down onto his knees and leaning his head forward.

Marik’s hands shook. He tried to wipe away the tears but they kept coming. Silently, he sobbed as he stepped forward. “I wish—“

“I do too. I do too.” Aurin closed his eyes. “Do it the warrior’s way.”

Marik went behind him on shaky legs. He held the sword with two hands, angling the blade down towards Aurin’s bent neck.

“Come, don’t make me—“

Blade met flesh, and Aurin passed in an instant. Marik wailed with despair as he fell onto his knees. Aurin’s body fell forward, bleeding out onto the frozen stone. And then, something curious happened. As the blood soaked over the ice, the ice began to melt. Marik wiped away at his face, his eyes widening in amazement. The black sword of hate began to be no more, the darkness of the blade lifting completely. Then, the tree itself changed to an ethereal shade of violet, and colored leaves began to sprout. The sun lifted, cresting on the mountaintops, rising on the sky. Dawn beamed through the heart of winter, and Marik felt warmth for the first time since the war began.

He burned Aurin’s body alongside his mandolin and the cloth, but he kept the doll. One must never forget what made the Younger lose his way. Marik managed to smile, remembering this moment that he watched the great blue sky. After a time, he got on his horse and left.

No Fang knows what happened to Marik, all that they’d ever found was his cloak by the Mother Tree. They did not know that he’d gone back to find Lira, and they did not know he found his own path where he lived in a nice place on a lake.

Huh.

I'll be honest, I'm not quite sure what kind of resolution is going on here. Well, I'm not really sure at all what's going on here, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing.

The insistent specificity of this piece actually adds to it, purely because I know that I'm missing something. "All but two then five" has to reference something important, even though I have no idea what it is. The Norse mythology is clear, and I can at least understand a few parts of it without having to seek reference: Odin and Thor, obviously, and the tree's roots might refer to Yggdrasil, but everything else is kind of blurry. Perhaps that's what you intended. I respect it.

My only other comment is that, in a story so short, you really need to watch for typos. I noted "presuers," unless that's another mythological reference that's somehow evading me. With so little content to peruse, just one typo is almost 2% of your story. It's kind of jarring.

But if your goal was to leave the reader curious about the situation, you have succeeded. I'd love to hear more.

Wow. Intense.

This reminds me of one of the 12 Labors contests, in which the protagonist had to be famous or esteemed for something they despised. I think, anyway. I've never attempted one of those because I'm a coward.

The first person POV is a good tool for reaching the audience. I sympathized with the narrator. His situation, dire as it is, seems futuristic or mythological given the description of his throne and the time that has passed while he ruled, which is always fun to imagine. I'm a sucker for specifics, but this story didn't really need them.

I kind of saw the whole thing as an analogy for religion; something that was created with the greatest of intentions by a powerful being, but manipulated and used to achieve terrible ends by terrible means. Perhaps that's digging a little too deep. In any case, the "resolution" was clear: right the wrongs that [the protagonist] has witnessed.

Well done.

Bravo.

I was skeptical on my first reading. Such a simple topic as the recitation of several New Year's Resolutions in a dismal setting seemed like it would fall flat in the short length you provided.

But, as it often happens, I was dead wrong.

I had to read the story twice to really enjoy it, but boy was it worth the wait. Your description of setting in the beginning was bare-bones but potent; each sentence was rigged with vivid imagery and universal themes. The dialogue, too, at first came across as bland, but it was the tiny details that saved it. The trembling hands yearning to plant a garden. The wounded eyes wanting only to see the world. Such details made me far more sympathetic to these undeveloped characters than I could have expected.

And, of course, the ending. On my first reading, I was like "meh, who cares," but the second time I had a diagnosable case of the feels. These tiny little characters, plain and unembellished, had such simple needs, simple desires in a war-torn world. And they'd never achieve them.

My hat's off to you. This may be my favorite entry.

It's nice to see some characterization, given the general progression of stories thus far. (Winky face). Your descriptions throughout the story were cute and exquisitely detailed, which should never go unappreciated in my book. Having specific details to work with (e.g. Dr. Bansing's ponytail, t-shirt and paper cup with coffee) helps me break by habit of using the same dozen or so character images in my head for every story I read. It's also just a good habit to get into, as it's characteristic of strong writing.

The adherence to the "resolution" theme was clear, and the content was playful, but the story fell kinda flat for me. Perhaps I'm too fond of twists and turns and suspense and action, though I certainly take my own predilections into account. Either way, it was a sweet slice-of-life piece, and probably a shoe-in for the "Superstition" bonus category.

Cheers!

Where to begin?

First of all, and what sticks out to me most: fantastic writing. Your dialogue is spot-on; I could hear the characters' voices in my head as I read each line. Your descriptions were vivid and specific. Even more, though, congratulations on raising such a magical and intricate world out of nothing. I respect the approach of minimal exposition and maximum references to subjects within the story's universe. That way, it's more natural and less jarring. The reader feels like they caught a glimpse of a parallel world. Your countries, concepts and leaders were imaginative and well-developed.

I appreciate your use of religion as one of the overlying themes, alongside war and loss. It was deftly handled in a way that mirrors the uneasy companionship between zealots and nonbelievers in the real world. It was more interesting still to see the god come to life, personified as the ambitious remnant of fallen pantheon.

And then the protagonist kills it. Ballsy.

Overall, a superb piece whose length didn't detract from its quality. This might be a winner.

The first thing that stood out to me about this story was the fantastic characterization. You took your time with the writing, meandering through Estella's personal life and blending it well with the developing intrigue. I felt I had a solid understanding of the peripheral characters as well; Gordana, Pamela, Lartius and the rest.

Your details and exposition were also deftly handled. My only negative comment is that I couldn't really bring myself to root for the protagonist. Hell, maybe I wasn't supposed to, but for some reason that connection just never formed.

Besides that, you've got a strong, original story here. I'd love to know more of the lore.

Actually, first I just want to know: how do you pronounce "Dubhloach?"

Perhaps I'm a little biased towards the last entry I read, but damn. This was probably the best written story here.

I was skeptical at first, for a few reasons. First, the length. Honestly, the longer the better, but that doesn't mean I wasn't a little reluctant to sit down and sample the whole thing. Nevertheless, you pulled it off. The arc of the story was clear and powerful.

The only other real reservation I had about this story is that it felt (at first, at least) really, really derivative of Game of Thrones. The books, not the show, but maybe both. Marik was the strong, silent young man inspiring loyalty from his brothers -- Jon Snow. The Pack felt a lot like the Night's Watch, wearing furs in the icy north, swearing their oaths before a giant tree. The shift of the rebellion from hated to revered was much like that of the Wildlings; Aurin could've been Mance Rayder, righteous turncloak. The themes, setting and language were just inextricably comparable to Game of Thrones.

That's where my criticism stops.

Your dialogue was spectacular. The character of Gael annoyed me at first, but the quick quips and realistic stutters you equipped him with made him a pleasure to read. I found myself waiting for his next line. The other characters each had their own way of speaking as well, something you deftly distinguished.

The arc of the story was really, really good. Following the party as they traveled along the roads was a stellar way of acquainting them with the reader, and the conclusion was satisfying and emotional.

Terrific work.

There wasn't a single entry this time around that I didn't really enjoy reading. It's fantastic to know my anticipation was well-warranted. Unfortunately, I still need to pick a favorite.

I can narrow it down to "34 Seconds," "A Reason to Go On" and "Of Oaths and War" without hating myself too much, but from there it gets hard.

After much consideration, I confidently cast my @vote in favor of "34 Seconds."

The stories were all fantastic, but "34 Seconds" was true to the brief implications of its title. The author skillfully packed a tiny piece with fragile yet explosive details that demanded an emotional response from the reader. Simply put, it accomplished its task magnificently and efficiently.

Alright. So it is north mythology. Odin fights Fenrir and Thor the midgards-snake whatever it was called, that’s Ragnarok. I actually don’t know a whole lot more about Ragnarok. Would I understand more about what you’ve written if I did? Unfortunately, the only reaction I can come up with at the moment was “Alright, then”. But good on you for contributing! Hope someone else can provide better feedback. Haha.

Shhhhhould I I associate the entry with your username? I was thinking of that or Warhammer, which it has a certain similarity to, buuuut it’s probably not. It’s probably your thing, or something I don’t know of. Hahaha.

Anyways. You surely conveyed the atmosphere of his helplessness here, leaving me wondering strange things like “how did he end up like that”, “who’s the one trying to twist everything” and “how would he get back, and if he does, how will it go”. Haha. Anyways. Yeah. Nicely written.

Whelp. Now I’m depressed. Oh, well. Let’s move on.

Well. That’s one incredibly inconvenient resolution. I mean, you have to confirm the length of every name before you talk with them, and when you’ve confirmed you can’t talk to someone, that someone might just be your boss and then you’re in a heap of trouble. Yeeeaaah.

… … … Okay. That was odd. You win the odd award. Doctors need to talk to a lot of people. Will he be able to keep track of which have twelve letters in their names? … EH! Nicely written. Um. Yeah, that’s about it. Hahaha.

... Ooof. A worthy piece of fiction celebrating one of our most well-known ancient works of fiction. Seeing things from the perspective of a minor character is a nice touch. It’s really well done. Excellently done. I know quality when I see it, I’d like to claim.

But ooough. Knowing pretty much exactly what’s going to happen sure put a damper on my mood. Can’t say I could enjoy it, for I was way too busy letting depression set in. Gah. Hahaha. Anyways. Excellent characterization of the family, the other soldiers were somewhat forgettable but good for making it feel more authentic and alive. All in all, very well done. It’s just too bad my stomach now feels uncomfortable from reading it. Hahahahaha. Oh, well.

Well. Wasn’t that an epic little tale. You sure managed to make us root for our main character. We know where she came from, and what she’s been through. This is but the final part of her story, after a much longer one. I can approve of that.

It does feel a little weird how this evil god managed to get such a following. It does make me wonder how he came to power, and if Gautz was aware of the evil nature of his god. Also, was he right? Is there an afterlife paradise in exchange for the suffering, or was that just made up for the sake of making his evil deeds forgivable in the eyes of his followers?

I dearly wanted there to be an epilogue. I wanted to know if her actions made the world better. I can guess, with the hints that were dropped, but that’s not the same as knowing. Also, it felt like she killed the god a little too easily for my taste, and he felt a little too open about his wicked nature for someone pulling a ruse, but eh, short story. Haha. All in all, very nice entry. It had a feeling of epicness to it. Well done.

Not entirely sure why she died, or if she had to. Oh, well.

Hoooo boy. Alright.

It’s nice. You take an impressive amount of time fleshing out what it means to be a fang, and the wolf symbolism is nice. Also, that tale about their beliefs and such is nothing short of amazing, their own little tale of mythology which they follow, I like it. I like how the tale is so simple, yet it leads such power within this society and can inspire such conviction. Your characters are pretty nice, too, and their dynamics is interesting.

Though, I question their choices to become friends with the traitor. Sure, reasons and all that, and had Aurin intended to beat them down and be on his way I get the impression he could have. Not to mention, they wouldn’t have needed to be branded traitors in the way that killed Gael. But, eh. Alright, then. I kind of wasn’t a fan of that premise. Sure, Aurin’s past has been really sad and that happening upon his death was nice and all, but… hah.

That was a really long journey back, huh. Several months. Eh, that’s just a detail. At the end of the story, I was conflicted about what I wanted to feel about this. On one hand, that’s sad and relieving and epic and yeah. On the other hand, haaaaaaaah… Should I sum it up to just not being of my taste? Oh, well. Very nicely written. Dramatic and stylish and very well fleshed out. The world’s impressive, the tale left me wondering if they’re foolish and then a bit of a lonely taste in my mouth. Oh, well.

Hm. What I wrote myself isn’t very much in the style I enjoy, either. Hmmm. Wonder what I’m doing. Eh, I’ll see.

he has no intention of keeping the resolution :) As Paul (who is the head of the department) correctly guessed, he had counted his colleagues name before deciding on the number. Teasing his colleague and having a little fun is the only reason he made it. He'll remember his resolution when it suits him (like when he decided his unlucky number was 6 because he didn't want to take an invitation) or wants to have a little fun, but I can promise he'll continue to do his job ^_^ And what can I say? Andy is a bit odd sometimes XD You won’t find many doctors wearing a green T-shirt with a yellow owl on it either.

But yay \o/ the odd reward! It's too bad that isn't a bonus category for this contest XD

Having Norwegian ancestry, I definitely need to visit Norse mythology more often simply because of the vast richness and somber quality of the content. And, of course, because so many fantasy writers have used it as a basis for inspiration.

On that note, there are things I got, and things I didn't because of my lack of knowledge on the subject matter. Fenrir and Odin, Thor... admittedly had to look up the World Serpent (forgive me). Definitely going to do much reading after this. Back on topic, I'm assuming this touches upon Ragnarok by title and a few of the words written here. "All but two, then five" -- God, I love that even though whatever the reference is eludes me. A few typos here. "every" I believe should be 'ever' and 'presuers' either 'pressures' or 'pursuers'. Keep these in mind for a short piece, it's easier to edit this than a long story.

I think there is an underlying of immense, deep content here, and this poem has the potential to be a hard hitting short poem that efficiently uses its wording. With this, however, I feel like considering how little a lot of your readers may have you may need to think over the wording so it does not come off as vague. For me, I quite like this, I can hear an old priest speaking the words, ominous and foreboding. A few touch-ups could make this really striking, but as it is, it is still solid, good work. Thanks for the read!

Easy to see where the theme comes into play, a bound man/god resolute in his resolution to shatter the bonds that bind him and end the devastation that others have created in his name when in fact that was not his word at all. There's a mythological feel here...

And that's where I immediately jump to the idea that this is God, tormented where he sits imprisoned and powerless, watching his children spill blood for his sake. Even Jesus could work in this concept as well. I feel that this is an interesting meditation on spiritual constructs.

My single desire was for this to be longer. I could not fully reach out to know our protagonist with a lack of specifics. I did want to know how he ended up there, why, and then how he'd plan to end this madness. Many questions without answers, just a resolution made without an end. Could be a epic story here.

Brevity is the soul of wit as they say. Well done, whomever you are. I've got a deep respect for writers who can efficiently structure short pieces with precise, quality wording that delivers the maximum punch. On top of all that, the title is fitting, and in those seconds you've written an excellent short that has a lot to say in such a short time. Hemingway-esque, one could say in terms of the short, terse writing.

We may not know the names of these characters, but we know they're soldiers. A long, hard war wearing thin on all of them. Yet, they are still people making resolutions on New Year's and the dialogue feels true and relatable. Ah, authentic as well, you can distinguish their voices without even knowing their pasts. Quite a feat. And then, interweaving the inevitable impact of an incoming shell or shells (or perhaps a bomb) with the countdown. Simple, yet effective, extremely effective. The fragility of humanness is all here, and the costs of war shown without the typical cliches.

Might be getting my vote here, this was superb.

Cute. I can't say there's a real sense of conflict here that I typically like seeing in my stories, an arc, perhaps. Not that short stories always need one in the typical sense, 34 Seconds proves that a thematic arc is as engaging as a character arc when done right. Love the specific details like the shirt, that's how you go about describing a characters clothes rather than getting too deep into it which is a mistake many writers make.

Characterization was good, for the most part. The dialogue line about the one guy being 'too serious' may have been a bit too on the nose, but at the same time I feel like that can be a realistic conversation two people may have behind someone else's back. So, consider me torn on that, because we as readers can tell the guy can't take a joke. It's either not a problem or a problem, dependent on the reader. For me, it's both. TAKE THAT AS YOU WILL, lmao.

Oh! It's a good practice to change completely boring and normal conversations. A lot of people are in the habit when they're writing the first time to do the 'good mornings' etc., but the resolution you've built up made a great twist on that whole entry line of a dialogue session. Nice work!

As a story, this was just a little flat in terms of conflict and stakes. They don't even have to be big stakes, and perhaps it's just because the ending is just 'there' rather than feeling like an ending, ya' know? I feel like you're missing out on a cheeky joke or a wink at the reader that would work with the style of this piece. So, verdict: cute, and I enjoyed that, and I had a bit of a laugh which in the end, is not a failure whatsoever. Solid writing, Dragon Girl!

I've read the Aeneid but once. Regardless of the single-read, I enjoyed it more than The Odyssey (when it comes to these classic epics). Really, it's a hell of a story full of life and tragedy, and certainly it lives up to the ideas of an epic. Also, I can definitely use more accurate historical and general historical fiction in my life. Always enjoyable to see how people weave their own stories and tales associated to the content.

You're in the running for my vote, so it goes without saying that I enjoyed the hell out of this. Your descriptive wording was crisp and clear, nothing overly distracting from the scene. So often we get into describing the picture with a conglomeration of parts that ends up confusing the reader rather than immersing them. Easily, you avoided that problem. Seeing Troy fall from the viewpoint of Agenor and having Aeneas sidelined was absolutely an excellent story choice. God, I almost feel as though you could create your own fully-fleshed out story for this. It's condensed, thus I feel we have some trouble getting on with all the characters, however the dialogue did have its strong enough moments where we got the picture of them. And, perhaps, it's true in form really to the tale of Troy in itself. We can only know so much about these grand figures.

Perhaps you didn't want to take too many creative liberties with their characteristics? Regardless, we got the important things like the foreboding of the horse and the concern about it contrasted with those who were too relieved by the idea of victory and peace to properly inspect that horse.

I think my favorite bit is the ending, and that's huge for me. Ending's have a habit of not feeling right often times, but Agenor meeting Pyrrhus sword for sword is simply... poetic, and epic, and resonates so well with the spirit of the whole story. Hmm, coming back to the dialogue, I do enjoy the tender word choice between husband and wife. That felt pretty real to me, and their archaic form of speaking also felt just right. Maybe I'm just greedy and I wanted more, but you probably had the proper balance on this end, or perhaps it's the difficulty of writing historical characters.

Alas, in the end, this was a worthy tribute to the tragedy of Troy. Smooth read, well done, and the call back of the dream towards the ending was nice. THOUGH, also a bit conflicted there, meeting Pyrrhus on the field of battle, or streets in this case, felt like the proper ending against that epilogue of sorts. Both are good endings, either way. Just my preference.

Well done.

I've discussed this personally with you already, so you know how I feel. This is some of the best writing I've seen you display publicly, and from an improvement standpoint you have made great strides forward, truly impressive strides. You've got some serious talent that's dormant and needs continuous nurturing so I'ma nurture it as much as I can. I implore your ass to keep writing, keep working and editing this story. I know it's meant to be a fully fleshed novel, because the world-building implies that there should be a far greater number of pages.

And that is, of course, the serious flaw in the piece. The brevity does not allow it to breathe. I feel like we all could relate to Calantha and her desire to end the war. She's endured considerable loss, and while she can smile and be pleasant company you've written her in a way that the reader understands an aura of loneliness about here, a sense of solemn duty. That's quality writing.

It is definitely a bit expository in certain areas, and perhaps there were moments where the prose became somewhat purple. Not often, I'll add, but I'll point out the beginning pieces. These are things I'm often guilty of and it's difficult learning writer's discipline (mostly you erase these through editing, anyway, so don't overthink as you write a first draft -- ALWAYS GET IT ALL OUT ON THE PAGE so you can see the sculpture inside of your block of ice before you begin cutting the chunks you didn't need). Anyway, the example would be when you said 'it was a beautiful sight'. On the nose, and it's telling rather than showing. Write a gorgeous scenery, and the reader shall know what they're witnessing is beautiful. The look in her eye as sadness -- GUILTY AF over here on my end, but this isn't as serious because well, fantasy novel writing has a different form of style and etiquette than something Cormac McCarthy, William Faulkner, Hemingway, Joyce, etc. would write. Still, I try to find slight ways to show that better, it's a hard task. Mostly, the good thing is, it can be done through dialogue, and you have good dialogue.

In the end, I don't know enough about Calantha other than some personality traits and the loss of her family. You did a good job with the amount you had here, but greater length would establish this world and the sense of adventure and difficulty she must go through before facing off against the false god. LOVE THAT IT'S A SNAKE DRAGON, ah, snake dragons, how I love you so. I'm imaging the moment of the novel where Calantha realizes her life must be cast aside to end this, and she embraces her duty, but we the audience, and her allies (perhaps a lover), do not.

Things to mull over, really. Anyway, because I'm rambling you should know I liked this. Solid job, friend, really solid job.

I hereby second the question brought up by our distinguished reviewer, Silver. How do you pronounce 'Dubhloach'?

Speaking of names, Estella, Gordana, Lartius... I loved them, all unique choices fitting for a fantasy read.

Perhaps this was a little too, melodramatic? Hm, maybe. Sometimes reactions felt a little exaggerated, but at the same time not so much. I love all things Braveheart, Titanic, and Gone With The Wind and melodrama are those films' MIDDLE NAMES. So, don't pay too much attention to this as a critique as much is it is an observation wondering how to portray things in a way that connects the readers better so that they're thinking the reactions are more in the line of how people react.

Like, when Gordana gets stabbed. That was brilliant. Everything about that scene felt right and horrifying and confusing and spilled out numerous questions that satisfied me as a reader going forward.

A note on action writing and tone: "The ground itself shook as the heavy boulders planted themselves into the gravel of the plaza."

This is meant to be intense, fast, bam-bam, shaking us as witnesses.

As a potentially better way to write it (I've added brackets for potential additions if you want Estella's first person view incorporated).

"The ground shook [beneath my feet], and heavy boulders smashed into the dirt. Upon impact, the gravel heaved into the air and like a volley of arrows, rained across the plaza."

Anyway, just a suggestion. Onward I go. I would like to know more of the lore surrounding Dubhloach and the nature of these dark powers. As it is, for the short story, you retain the air of mystery and foreboding around them which is an excellent decision. Always keep the reader in the dark and then sprinkle a few answers moving forward, and also add questions. I feel you successfully accomplished that with your ending's revelation.

In the end, I feel this suffers the same problems as 'A Reason To Go On'. Not long enough because there's a lot of tale to tell here. I could never quite become on the side of the protagonist or anyone else because we didn't spend enough time with them or learning their suffering. We are told that Estella suffers after the murder incident, but we never get to see it, and that's a place where more detail should be focused upon so we can sympathize with her. She's a simple server, not the highest person in the social order, so it must be even worse considering her upbringing that people treat her poorly.

But you've got my interest, and your writing always improves. There's a fascinating tale here about a girl who suddenly receives dark powers, and I wonder what she will do or not do with them, or even if she will be able to truly be incapable of using them.

So many questions have arisen! Good work, Platinum, I had fun with this.

This poem is, indeed, referencing the world-shaking events of Norse-mythology's Ragnarok. I believe it to be an almost alien resolve that no earthly nor godly being could ever overturn, created by something unknown, and thus this poem's entry into the resolution contest.

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A mighty hand etched in stones - A Reference to runes vikings used to carve into large stones, usually detailing prophecies and poems of the gods. The mighty hand represents the immovable power descending upon the Norse world. Thus, 'The immovable power foretold in writing'.

No godliness could ever lift the fate imprinted - The gods in Ragnarok are ultimately helpless beings, and this line says of such. Furthermore, it can be taken into context with the previous line as to say 'No god could erase/throw away the written prophecies' or 'no god could've lifted the stone'.

A tree’s roots grow farther and farther into unmovable destiny - Referencing Yggdrasil, or the world tree, with it's roots extending towards the dragon slumbering at it's base: soon-to-be destiny, per-say.

Thor will fight the mighty serpent, Odin: the wolf - Directly alluding to the battles fought by the gods in Ragnarok. Thor fights the world serpent, Odin fights Fenrir.

The sun and moon overturned by hungering pursuers - In Norse mythology, the sun and moon were two beings pulled in carts by galloping horses around the sky. To keep the horses running, the gods put two wolves in the sky to chase them. During Ragnarok, the wolves finally catch up to the horses and devour them, ending night and day.

For the fanged ones starve the most - The dragon, Fenrir, the wolves in the sky, the world serpent: they are all fanged beings that bring about the destruction of the Norse world. This line specifies such.

An immortal earthly lineage reunites - The surviving Norse gods, after Ragnarok, are foretold to gather back together to create a new world.

What prophetical runes stay unmarked? - Going back to the viking's tendencies to write destiny in stone, this line simply reads 'what else is there of middle-earth?', 'what else has Ragnarok to destroy?', or 'what else is written on the stones?'.

All but two then five. - Referencing the two humans left surviving after Ragnarok, as well as the gods accompanying them. Now, though it is specifically told that two humans survived, I could not find specifics about how many gods reunited after Ragnarok. Five was chosen due to it's stoic sound in the poem.

Really symbolic, really foreboding, and really engaging. right off the bat you get the reader to sympathize with your nameless character in a really unique way: through the loneliness of power. All of the actions you specify having happened to your character are very personal effects his people have made on him, and thus do not provide a sense of disconnection from this supposed country figure-head like what many other literary novels do. You feel bad for this monarch or god, you want him to succeed in reclaiming his real control and freedom. Nevermind that you do it in such a short amount of text. I will always applaud a writer able to make an impact in a paragraph or less. The final sentences are really what pull this all under the umbrella of resolutions, though. Here is this immortal being, dwelling in the thoughts, plans, and resolve to reclaim complete control, but the reader will never know when. Bonus points for that kind of mystery.

If there's anything to improve on, perhaps how the last sentences were introduced: The rest of the story did not feel like him getting empowered to reconquer his world, but instead him falling farther and farther into depression. It seemed abrupt to jolt in a sudden moment of confidence, but that's really it. Splendid job.

I like the setting and the way of counting down to everyone's new year's resolutions, really reminds me of wartales from World War Two. A very good and brief summary of events leading to this war-torn environment also helped feed the tone, and indeed did some of the survivor's resolutions allow the reader to relate. But really, that's where the reader-character connection ended.

With the way you ended your story with the threat of eliminating this quickly introduced team of characters, the pay-off of "Oh no they might die" was played down a lot due to this obvious lack of character development. With no prior knowledge to help me connect with the characters through sympathy or understanding, other than the suggested stereotypes and blindness of one soldier, the countdown and suspense of an oncoming bombardment were almost totally negated. Perhaps focusing on one character and telling their life story, or the relationships and stories of this whole group of characters, would've helped. But, again, without that emotional build-up, there's only a dry payoff.

But, as @Silver said, the tininess of these almost World War-like veterans does give a solemn tone to the short story. Your piece does have some great aspects, as said: The beginning description, the atmosphere, etc. Yet, again, what makes death the saddest is when you can see, personally, what had and could've been.

Great to have more lighthearted story mixed in within the bleak ones. Your story is most definitely based around character development and interactions, which is completely fine and can be done a number of entertaining ways. Andy is obviously a quirky character, liking to tease and mess with people. I wished you played with his interactions with the nurses more. That attitude and behavior, pared with a few other, more stoic personalities in the workplace, could've led to a good mixture of conversations and interactions. But, your story seems to only really be based on the joke "He only did it to mess with the new nurse", which was not a very satisfying conclusion. Other then that, you also have a whole scene about child-birth that could've been taken out entirely and wouldn't have affected the story a bit. It's just a little too flat and unfulfilling for my tastes.

That was great character development, great suspense, and great pay-off. Wonderful entry, and kudos to you for both historical accuracy and wonderful literary craft.

You introduce us to Agenor immediately, and you waste no time fleshing out his and his families characters. He is a humble warrior that wants to protect his family at all costs, his wife is beside him as strong as ever, and Kiril is both of his parents' driving force: much like in any actual nuclear family. All of the main characters are likeable, strong, and really give the reader the want to care for them. You introduce and describe yours characters in such a way that the reader can clearly see emotions and ambitions behind them, and they cling to those human characteristics throughout the story. Might I also add that most of this connection is done through dialogue, which is always a plus in my book.

Furthermore, the suspense of knowing what is most definitely about to happen is just right. The Trojan horse is going to breach the city, the troys are going to be defeated, and it will be a disaster: but knowing these characters you've just connected with will have to go through it gives the tale a whole new layer. I will also like to add that the decisions that Agenor and the others make are completely human, something rarely seen in very fantastical tales such as these. They want to evacuate the city instead of fight in glorious vain, they want the best for their families instead of themselves: It's a thought pattern that compliments the realism of your characters very nicely. You can also clearly see the resolution the Troys had for protecting their kin, a theme that rings throughout the writing. Last but not least, the ending is a bitter-sweet masterpiece and what was always subconsciously expected by the reader throughout the short story, but is a turn of events that pays-off wonderfully nonetheless. Amazing job.

'A Reason To Go On' is what I see as a fantasy adventure tossed into a spiced political mix and deep-fried. It's enjoyable, interesting, and keeps that whimsical air of fantasy around itself while tackling the heaviness of war and diplomatic ventures. The main character Cal is absolutely relatable and respectable. Though she has trudged through her past, a peace has come upon her in her political position and she will not let go of it. You describe the different political forces and their beliefs simply and quickly enough to keep the story moving forward, and I was never bored with the civic happenings. Overall, the build up to the god's summoning is terrific and a great example of sword-and-sorcery literature, but then it falls apart due to a sudden detail.

How Cal deals with, defeats, and dies because of Jashae's summoning is a thick layer of Dues Ex Machina where there shouldn't be. Suddenly Cal remembers ancient runes, Jashae's origin-story, and why she should defeat him in a convenient split-second of time. It's a jarring and unnatural resolution to this big build-up which almost ruins the story. Perhaps integrating some of these happenings and remembrances into the rest of the story would've helped, giving your reader a much more gradual step-up to this sudden moment of destruction. Otherwise, this story is great fantasy literature.

Though I did read Phantom Legacy and Of Oaths and Wars, I am not supplying a review for them merely because there is a lot to cover literary and writing-wise. They were both fantastic stories, had their individual improvements, and overall I loved them. I sincerely apologize to the authors of both entries, I will have to review your work another day. But, with further ado, My @vote for RPGC 13 is:

The original version of the story was a fair bit longer, and I struggled with trying to create a character that was fully fleshed out without it going off the rails in terms of length. The more I wrote, the more I wanted to cut out, and I ended up feeling far happier with it as an exercise in telling as much as I could with as little as possible, going for evoking a feeling rather than trying to tell a complete story. I'd decided that there'd be no real pay-off in terms of plot (a nod to the bonus category of “…That was anticlimactic.”), no reason for the war given, and so every time I started writing more things about the characters and trying to establish who they were and flesh out why they were fighting, it watered down the sense of bleakness.

In one version, the soldiers survived. In another, the soldiers died. If they survived, it wouldn't feel so bleak and pointless. If they die, it wouldn't matter because there was no personal connection. Neither felt as satisfying, to me at least, as to end it before finding out their fate. Making a resolution is an act of hope, after all. The bleakness probably did suggest a Bad End for the soldiers, but who knows.

It was a gamble, and I'm still not one hundred percent sure whether or not it was the right way to go. I think it would've been a more engaging narrative if it had gone down a route where an emotional connection was made with a character. It just ended up being, broadly, not that sort of short story.

Ah, yes. There's nothing more relieving than opening the first entry and not having a novel staring back at you. You know, I was big into Greek mythology, but I always regret never getting into Norse mythology. With that in mind, I'll have to judge your entry from that standpoint of relative ignorance. Let's see... Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Hhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmm. Interesting. Poetry is such an iffy topic to judge, you know. I like it, I mean, I like what I read. I like the overarching feeling of mightiness and inevitability... Unfortunately, I'm not quite sure what the deeper meaning to this is. Perhaps for my lack of knowledge of Norse mythology? Sigh, I hope not. Anyway, my absence of understanding *may* not be your fault, as I'm notoriously known for not understanding poetry, like at all. Seriously. Ask Dark Wind, he knows poetry escapes me. I’m bad at it, and I can’t analyze it well. Erm, anyways. Good. I want to appreciate it more, as short poems tend to be the most powerful, but I definitely feel like I'm missing something important.

Paging doctor @DepressedSoviet
I really liked this for some reason, perhaps because as I was brainstorming myself, an idea riding along a similar theme came to my mind. Your story must be told from the point of view of perhaps some kind of god-king, or, of course, is supposed to symbolize something. Faith? Justice? Perhaps. I feel like a few ideas could be applied. The idea of how we (humans) tend to deviate from the original intended plan of something is often painfully evident in our every day lives. You know, like the irony of how people extremely devout to peaceful religions (and not just the ones we first think of) can also be the most violent. But, I digress. Excellent entry, your writing style is quite mesmerizing and your entry was an enjoyable, quick, easy read (EASY IN A GOOD WAY!!!).

Ooooooooooh. Interesting. Very interesting indeed. A rather boldly written story, might I say. Somehow, you managed to wrap up some of the most powerful themes that come along with war into a nice little package. I'm actually quite impressed. When reading it at first, I kind of didn't think much of it, but the more I read it, the more powerful it becomes to me. It *kinda* reminds me of Vietnam War stories, how the people fighting really don't know why they are fighting, how they have big dreams for what they will do when they were done, and ultimately facing their untimely demise... Think Bubba from Forrest Gump. Anyway, very gracefully and subtly done!

I love a piece of… would you call this historical fiction? Well, the label isn’t as important. It’s always a joy to take a historical event that most people are familiar with from the outside, and create a story of someone experiencing it themselves, with extra bonus points for research and trying to adhere to accuracy. Some people would argue this lacks creativity, but I would say it’s quite the contrary. You gave life, you created personalities, you told a story—not just of the fall of Troy, something we could all do, but of Agenor, and we see it all through his eyes: a fresh, new perspective. Your writing/spelling/grammar and all that was flawless, and there were no lapses in immersion. Lovely. I really enjoyed your entry.

Is it obvious whether I wrote this or not? Ah, whatever. 'Twas me. Rereading what I had, I realize I didn't do half as bad as I originally thought I did. The narrative was definitely rushed, and I also discovered I had the due date marked one day too early. So, whoops. My only regret is not developing Cal's story just a little bit more and giving more insight into the origins of Jashae and maybe adding a bit more of a dimension to the lore of the world, but oh well. I'm just happy to have finished a contest for the first time in a while. Like a year maybe? Wow.

This one gave me a bit of a chill. At first, I had thought Dubhloach was using her body as some kind of vessel; where he worked his powers through her body, his will still intact, and she had no idea. But the ending was unsettling—the powers were hers? And on top of that, she decided not to say anything to anyone about it… And the story still begs the question, did Estella really want Gordana to die? Hrm. Quite an interesting little tale you’ve spun. I liked how you executed it, and your writing ability continues to impress me, along with your always-original ideas. All in all, an original story, a chilling end, and a great entry. Good job!

And now, dear Windy, I tackle your entry.

Your sword metaphor, though… Ugh, I’ve written with you so much and yet your sexually-insulting humorous undertones always make me giggle and facepalm. Fuck you.

Well, I just finished reading. Windy, I applaud you. Also, I hate you. You managed your time so much better than I did, and I envy your mind for being able to weave such tales so quickly. My biggest excuse for most of my story’s flaws stemmed from my time constraint, but in the shadow of your own story, my excuse doesn’t have much weight. All in all a solid story; you warned of possible errors for having rushed, but I only spotted like two and they were hardly noticeable. A definite storyline, though I wish Gael had gone out some other way than just to some disgruntled, unnamed stranger (and not even the scarred fella!), but I surely suspect you had a reason for that too, as you tend to do. At any rate, you wrote a really good one here, the ending was certainly somewhat unexpected and your development of both Marik and Aurin were thoughtful as well as thought-provoking. Ugh, I hate you.

Sorry for forgetting your entry. I definitely read it; can't believe I forgot to write a review on it. Hm. Whatever. I enjoyed your entry for its lightheartedness and unique and simple idea (there seemed to be a lot of people focusing on war... so yours definitely stood out!). Overall flawlessly written with enjoyable and realistic dialogue, attention to small narrative details, and honestly just an overall refreshing read. I give you the most points for coming up with this story because, like... were you the only one who actually made their "Resolutions" entry about a New Year's Resolution? I'm sure all of us considered that and were like "nah, let's be unique," but here you go. Your entry stands out unique against most of these violence/war related entries. Interesting. And ballsy. Kudos, friend.