Welcome back everyone!
I was going to do a fancy-schmancy screenshot thing with all of the submissions in it.
Aaand then I checked the RPGC Entry box.
Which is super-super, seriously, super-duper cool. However it does cramp my style a bit. So instead, we’re gonna run this thread in the usual way, with hiders. You should also be glad because now you don’t need to see the hideous purple desktop and minecraft icons anymore.
As always, mention @vote when you cast your vote. This thread is to serve as both the discussion and the voting thread so it really helps us to streamline the result process. Please do leave constructive feedback for the authors—every little bit helps.
Now, onto the entries so that Aria can quit awkwardly rambling over here!
Reminder: Cast your votes by midnight on Thursday, April 7th. Results will be posted on Friday, April 8th.
I was going to do a fancy-schmancy screenshot thing with all of the submissions in it.
Aaand then I checked the RPGC Entry box.
Which is super-super, seriously, super-duper cool. However it does cramp my style a bit. So instead, we’re gonna run this thread in the usual way, with hiders. You should also be glad because now you don’t need to see the hideous purple desktop and minecraft icons anymore.
As always, mention @vote when you cast your vote. This thread is to serve as both the discussion and the voting thread so it really helps us to streamline the result process. Please do leave constructive feedback for the authors—every little bit helps.
Now, onto the entries so that Aria can quit awkwardly rambling over here!
He has a name – it’s Grey, after the little tufts of fur at his chest. However, out of all my animals (two dogs, two gerbils, two rats, and a hamster) he was the only cat and so that is what we always called him: Cat. We did it so often that nowadays we tend to forget his name is even Grey; instead it’s “God damnit, Cat, get off the counter!” and “Hey, Cat, it’s time to come inside.” He even responds to it sometimes (but he never does what we tell him to do, the little shit).
That’s why, when I couldn’t find him around my house on a particular day, I called the simple word out while flipping chairs over to make sure he wasn’t resting on them and clawing under beds to see if I could feel even a wisp of his silken threads. After twenty minutes of frantically searching, I gave up – him going missing around the house wasn’t that rare, he was great at finding his seclusion from the dogs (one which didn’t like him and the other that liked him too much). Instead, I flopped onto the couch and played some television, being too indulgent on the volume button and too harsh on my ear drums.
Perhaps it was because he and I were on the same wavelength, because we had a connection, a deep bond created between pet and owner that cannot be understood by someone who has never owned one. Or maybe it’s because my cat’s a little wimp and was breaking his vocal chords just to get my attention. Either way, I heard him. The yowling was almost imperceptible, but I heard a slight hedging of it that prompted me to press the pause button on the TV. I didn’t hear it again and, in a fright, I ran out into the backyard and roved my eyes hurriedly over the covered pool top (one of my biggest fears was of him drowning in it). It was only when I was slightly near the fence that he yowled again, loudly enough, and I saw a blur of black through the cracks of the fence. I sighed in relief.
“Cat! You little –.” I tried to peek over the fence, but it was too tall. “What the hell.”
It was only when I retried a foot stool that I was able to slightly see him over the edge of the fence. I coughed in exasperation as he brushed against the bottom of the fence, as if he could feel the warmth of my leg through the brown wood. He meowed again, before attempting to climb the fence and failing painfully.
I grappled for my phone out of my pocket and dialed my friend who lived nearby on my phone. She picked up on the first ring and agreed to come and hoist him over the fence before I hung up on her. Cat looked so desperate and worried that I couldn’t help but take a picture of him on my phone and send it to my dad and mom. I added a simple comment to the end of it: Who says that cats aren’t loyal?
When my friend and her brother arrived, on bikes and with smiles on their faces, it took us approximately ten minutes to figure out how to pick the fat ass Cat up and then another five of her standing on her toes in order to reach the edge of the fence and me attempting to get a good grip around his middle. In the end, he jumped off my shoulder and onto the safe grass of the backyard before hurrying inside. I don’t think he ventured outside at all that day.
Stupid Cat.
That’s why, when I couldn’t find him around my house on a particular day, I called the simple word out while flipping chairs over to make sure he wasn’t resting on them and clawing under beds to see if I could feel even a wisp of his silken threads. After twenty minutes of frantically searching, I gave up – him going missing around the house wasn’t that rare, he was great at finding his seclusion from the dogs (one which didn’t like him and the other that liked him too much). Instead, I flopped onto the couch and played some television, being too indulgent on the volume button and too harsh on my ear drums.
Perhaps it was because he and I were on the same wavelength, because we had a connection, a deep bond created between pet and owner that cannot be understood by someone who has never owned one. Or maybe it’s because my cat’s a little wimp and was breaking his vocal chords just to get my attention. Either way, I heard him. The yowling was almost imperceptible, but I heard a slight hedging of it that prompted me to press the pause button on the TV. I didn’t hear it again and, in a fright, I ran out into the backyard and roved my eyes hurriedly over the covered pool top (one of my biggest fears was of him drowning in it). It was only when I was slightly near the fence that he yowled again, loudly enough, and I saw a blur of black through the cracks of the fence. I sighed in relief.
“Cat! You little –.” I tried to peek over the fence, but it was too tall. “What the hell.”
It was only when I retried a foot stool that I was able to slightly see him over the edge of the fence. I coughed in exasperation as he brushed against the bottom of the fence, as if he could feel the warmth of my leg through the brown wood. He meowed again, before attempting to climb the fence and failing painfully.
I grappled for my phone out of my pocket and dialed my friend who lived nearby on my phone. She picked up on the first ring and agreed to come and hoist him over the fence before I hung up on her. Cat looked so desperate and worried that I couldn’t help but take a picture of him on my phone and send it to my dad and mom. I added a simple comment to the end of it: Who says that cats aren’t loyal?
When my friend and her brother arrived, on bikes and with smiles on their faces, it took us approximately ten minutes to figure out how to pick the fat ass Cat up and then another five of her standing on her toes in order to reach the edge of the fence and me attempting to get a good grip around his middle. In the end, he jumped off my shoulder and onto the safe grass of the backyard before hurrying inside. I don’t think he ventured outside at all that day.
Stupid Cat.
By @WiseDragonGirl
The Netherlands, the province Friesland, or Fryslân as the Frisian people call it. Siebe Wiersma stands casually on the ice on a pair of dark-blue ice-skates. He wears a blue thermo-suit with black bands going across the chest and a black woollen hat covers most of his hay-blond hair. The blue sky is devoid of clouds and the winter sun shines down on the frozen waterway. Minus ten degrees Celsius make it a cold day and the days before have been equally cold, but that is all good news, because now the ice is thick enough for the sixteen thousand participants of the famous Eleven city tour. He can’t help but smile as he looks at the other ice-skaters. The last tour he has witnessed was as a boy of six, standing in a meadow at the side of a frozen waterway with his grandfather. And now as a young man of twenty-five he will actually fulfil his dream and participate. The cold wind on his cheeks doesn’t bother him and his smile seems etched on his face for ever. Excitement and enthusiasm fill his heart as he smoothly glides towards his starting location and he puts a pair of sunglasses on. His group is next to start, with the massive amount of participants it is necessary to let groups of one thousand people start every fifteen minutes. Spectators cheer them on as the all the ice-skaters gather. The joy and enthusiasm everyone shares is almost tangible and Siebe is elated to be part of it. All the spectators wear thick clothes to keep themselves warm, but some are dressed in orange, the national colour, or red-white-blue, the colours of the national flag, accompanied with festive hats and flags. A nervous feeling bubbles up in Siebe’s stomach, this is not his the first competition he has ever participated in, but it is the biggest. His aim is not to win, but simply to finish, which is something not every participant can. Of course it will be even better if he can win and he promises himself to give it everything he has to complete the tour with the best time he can. This is the reason why he has trained long-distance ice-skating for all those years after all. He gets ready and when the start-shot is given the nervousness vanishes and the earlier excitement returns. He pushes off against the ice to begin his almost two-hundred kilometer long Alvestêdetocht.
a small note about the title: Alvestêdetocht is the Frisian word for the Dutch word Elfstedentocht, which translates to Eleven City Tour in English. It’s an official ice-skating competition on natural ice going through eleven cities of the province Friesland. Hence the name. It’s a well-known and big thing in the Netherlands. Sadly the last one was in 1997 because the ice didn’t get thick enough in the winters since then.
Another fun fact: Frisian (Fries in Dutch or Frysk in Frisian) is the second official language of the Netherlands, even though only people in Friesland (one of the twelve provinces of the Netherlands) actually speak it.
Another fun fact: Frisian (Fries in Dutch or Frysk in Frisian) is the second official language of the Netherlands, even though only people in Friesland (one of the twelve provinces of the Netherlands) actually speak it.
The Netherlands, the province Friesland, or Fryslân as the Frisian people call it. Siebe Wiersma stands casually on the ice on a pair of dark-blue ice-skates. He wears a blue thermo-suit with black bands going across the chest and a black woollen hat covers most of his hay-blond hair. The blue sky is devoid of clouds and the winter sun shines down on the frozen waterway. Minus ten degrees Celsius make it a cold day and the days before have been equally cold, but that is all good news, because now the ice is thick enough for the sixteen thousand participants of the famous Eleven city tour. He can’t help but smile as he looks at the other ice-skaters. The last tour he has witnessed was as a boy of six, standing in a meadow at the side of a frozen waterway with his grandfather. And now as a young man of twenty-five he will actually fulfil his dream and participate. The cold wind on his cheeks doesn’t bother him and his smile seems etched on his face for ever. Excitement and enthusiasm fill his heart as he smoothly glides towards his starting location and he puts a pair of sunglasses on. His group is next to start, with the massive amount of participants it is necessary to let groups of one thousand people start every fifteen minutes. Spectators cheer them on as the all the ice-skaters gather. The joy and enthusiasm everyone shares is almost tangible and Siebe is elated to be part of it. All the spectators wear thick clothes to keep themselves warm, but some are dressed in orange, the national colour, or red-white-blue, the colours of the national flag, accompanied with festive hats and flags. A nervous feeling bubbles up in Siebe’s stomach, this is not his the first competition he has ever participated in, but it is the biggest. His aim is not to win, but simply to finish, which is something not every participant can. Of course it will be even better if he can win and he promises himself to give it everything he has to complete the tour with the best time he can. This is the reason why he has trained long-distance ice-skating for all those years after all. He gets ready and when the start-shot is given the nervousness vanishes and the earlier excitement returns. He pushes off against the ice to begin his almost two-hundred kilometer long Alvestêdetocht.
“Rob, it’s been a full day. You should go.” Carrie stood in the observatory doorway, exhaustion on her face.
“Look, Carrie, I said you can go ahead. I’ll finish up here, close up and I’ll leave on my own.” Rob barely looked up from his monitor, clicking away furiously at god-knows-what.
“Rob, I did go ahead. But you’re still here a day later and you’re still wasting time on that project.” Rob mumbled something indifferently. Carrie tried again.
“Rob, you’re not going to find anything by staring at the monitor like that-”
“That’s where you’re wrong Carrie!” Rob gestured for Carrie to come over with a grin. With a sigh of someone at their wits end, Carrie walked over as Rob pointed with a pencil at circles on a grid.
“See, look here. The gamma radiation levels spike here, here and here, exactly on the star clusters NGC 6345 and NGC 3215. I think that our initial hypothesis was just off the mark in that we thought it should have been concentrated on one cluster when in fact there are two sources interfering with our readings.”
Carrie looked unimpressed. “Two sources. Really Rob. You need sleep and real food-”
“I’m not done yet.” Rob interrupted. “You see, we hypothesized that an alien species would have fully colonized the surrounding star cluster before moving on, but would it be out of the question that they would have taken a chance and launched a scouting party to some faraway clusters as well?” Rob looked up at Carrie. His face was glowing like a child who had gotten an A on his homework, and yet at the same time it betrayed the hours and days of work that had been lost to the pen and paper.
Carrie rubbed her face. “Rob, you- ugh.” Carrie stood up and looked away, wondering how to speak her mind without breaking the poor space cadet’s heart. She hadn’t wanted to come back. She had hoped that Rob had already left, driven home and was sleeping the all-nighters away when she called. It would have been so much easier if his roommate hadn’t picked up the phone and said Rob was still missing. Then she wouldn’t have had to drive sixty miles in the summer heat to check to see if Rob was even still breathing.
Rob turned his chair towards Carrie, his smile replaced with a look of guilt. “Look, I really think I’m on to something here. If I could just get a few more data points-”
“GOD-DAMMIT ROB!” Rob flinched at the volume of Carrie’s voice. She turned to look at him with a hurricane rage. “I’ve had it with your stupid theories and your dumb optimism and your…your… we spent TEN MONTHS staring at monitors for HOURS seeing ABSOLUTE JACK SHIT how the HELL do you STILL. BELIEVE. IN FUCKING. ALIENS!!”
She towered over Rob, who was doing his best to look anywhere but forward. There was silence between them as Carrie’s voice ricocheted off the metal walls of the observatory.
As the last echoes faded to nothing, Rob spoke. “Two days.” His eyes were fixed on his feet, refusing to look up. “I just need two more days and I’ll have everything I need.”
Carrie’s face contorted to a look of disbelief, then to defeat. “Fine. Two days. If this place isn’t locked up by then I’m going to throw you out myself. Are we clear?”
“Yes. We are.”
Two days passed.
Rob put the last box of equipment down on the asphalt where Carrie quickly picked it up and deposited it into the back seat of her car.
“Did you forget anything?” She called to Rob. Rob shook his head and walked back to the observatory doors. He heard Carrie shut the car door behind him. His hand reached halfway to the handle when he stopped. He swallowed dryly and lowered it again. Muscle memory. He reached into his pocket where he took out a key.
For the longest time he found himself unable to move. He should put the key into the lock but his hand wouldn’t move. His eyes watched the peeling paint of the door, the chrome metal handle, the black jagged keyhole, the orange dusty path, and the key. His hand was shaking, he saw. His breathing became unsteady and he told himself to raise his hand for the key but his mind refused. Tears started to well up in his eyes as he stood there, not moving but wanting so badly to leave. To go…somewhere else. Somewhere not here. Anywhere but here.
“Rob?”
Through watery eyes he looked Carrie, who was standing just behind him. “Rob are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m…” He trailed off and fell silent. “I’m…I’m scared…”
“Scared? Scared of what?”
Rob didn’t look up. “I…I…” He sniffed, “I can’t go back Carrie…I don’t want to go back…”
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Rob.” Carrie spoke gently. “It’s finished Rob. You have to let this one go. I know it’s hard, but you can’t stay here forever. You know that.”
Rob gave something like a nod. She stood with him for a little longer, then Carrie let go. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”
She walked back. Rob took a deep breath and slowly his hand raised up and put the key into the lock. He closed his eyes and locked the doors, and the aliens along with it.
“Look, Carrie, I said you can go ahead. I’ll finish up here, close up and I’ll leave on my own.” Rob barely looked up from his monitor, clicking away furiously at god-knows-what.
“Rob, I did go ahead. But you’re still here a day later and you’re still wasting time on that project.” Rob mumbled something indifferently. Carrie tried again.
“Rob, you’re not going to find anything by staring at the monitor like that-”
“That’s where you’re wrong Carrie!” Rob gestured for Carrie to come over with a grin. With a sigh of someone at their wits end, Carrie walked over as Rob pointed with a pencil at circles on a grid.
“See, look here. The gamma radiation levels spike here, here and here, exactly on the star clusters NGC 6345 and NGC 3215. I think that our initial hypothesis was just off the mark in that we thought it should have been concentrated on one cluster when in fact there are two sources interfering with our readings.”
Carrie looked unimpressed. “Two sources. Really Rob. You need sleep and real food-”
“I’m not done yet.” Rob interrupted. “You see, we hypothesized that an alien species would have fully colonized the surrounding star cluster before moving on, but would it be out of the question that they would have taken a chance and launched a scouting party to some faraway clusters as well?” Rob looked up at Carrie. His face was glowing like a child who had gotten an A on his homework, and yet at the same time it betrayed the hours and days of work that had been lost to the pen and paper.
Carrie rubbed her face. “Rob, you- ugh.” Carrie stood up and looked away, wondering how to speak her mind without breaking the poor space cadet’s heart. She hadn’t wanted to come back. She had hoped that Rob had already left, driven home and was sleeping the all-nighters away when she called. It would have been so much easier if his roommate hadn’t picked up the phone and said Rob was still missing. Then she wouldn’t have had to drive sixty miles in the summer heat to check to see if Rob was even still breathing.
Rob turned his chair towards Carrie, his smile replaced with a look of guilt. “Look, I really think I’m on to something here. If I could just get a few more data points-”
“GOD-DAMMIT ROB!” Rob flinched at the volume of Carrie’s voice. She turned to look at him with a hurricane rage. “I’ve had it with your stupid theories and your dumb optimism and your…your… we spent TEN MONTHS staring at monitors for HOURS seeing ABSOLUTE JACK SHIT how the HELL do you STILL. BELIEVE. IN FUCKING. ALIENS!!”
She towered over Rob, who was doing his best to look anywhere but forward. There was silence between them as Carrie’s voice ricocheted off the metal walls of the observatory.
As the last echoes faded to nothing, Rob spoke. “Two days.” His eyes were fixed on his feet, refusing to look up. “I just need two more days and I’ll have everything I need.”
Carrie’s face contorted to a look of disbelief, then to defeat. “Fine. Two days. If this place isn’t locked up by then I’m going to throw you out myself. Are we clear?”
“Yes. We are.”
Two days passed.
Rob put the last box of equipment down on the asphalt where Carrie quickly picked it up and deposited it into the back seat of her car.
“Did you forget anything?” She called to Rob. Rob shook his head and walked back to the observatory doors. He heard Carrie shut the car door behind him. His hand reached halfway to the handle when he stopped. He swallowed dryly and lowered it again. Muscle memory. He reached into his pocket where he took out a key.
For the longest time he found himself unable to move. He should put the key into the lock but his hand wouldn’t move. His eyes watched the peeling paint of the door, the chrome metal handle, the black jagged keyhole, the orange dusty path, and the key. His hand was shaking, he saw. His breathing became unsteady and he told himself to raise his hand for the key but his mind refused. Tears started to well up in his eyes as he stood there, not moving but wanting so badly to leave. To go…somewhere else. Somewhere not here. Anywhere but here.
“Rob?”
Through watery eyes he looked Carrie, who was standing just behind him. “Rob are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m…” He trailed off and fell silent. “I’m…I’m scared…”
“Scared? Scared of what?”
Rob didn’t look up. “I…I…” He sniffed, “I can’t go back Carrie…I don’t want to go back…”
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Rob.” Carrie spoke gently. “It’s finished Rob. You have to let this one go. I know it’s hard, but you can’t stay here forever. You know that.”
Rob gave something like a nod. She stood with him for a little longer, then Carrie let go. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”
She walked back. Rob took a deep breath and slowly his hand raised up and put the key into the lock. He closed his eyes and locked the doors, and the aliens along with it.
By @WrongEndOfTheRainbow
(Note that the entry was rendered as an image for stylistic purposes; if you cannot read this or cannot see the image, please make contact with one of the contest staff and they will provide you a text transcript.)
(Note that the entry was rendered as an image for stylistic purposes; if you cannot read this or cannot see the image, please make contact with one of the contest staff and they will provide you a text transcript.)
By @PlatinumSkink
In the top of the sky, there floats a soaring castle. The sun behind it shines in twilight, blazing orange light into the shadows of the scene. Its structures stand constructed in solid rock, with the architecture of an unknown advanced civilization present in its many pointy towers and clear vegetation taking over the building. Nary a living soul can be seen in its magnificent presence, it stands alone, on a cliff floating in the sky, right in front of the orange red of the twilight sun.
Below it, after quite a margin of sky, are the dragons. Scaly and enormous beasts with large wings, demonically aware eyes and puffs of fire coming from their mouths. There are dragons who's bodies glow red as crimson, blue dragons whose bodies look as deep as the ocean, yellow dragons shining with their very presence and more. However, they're all seemingly the same in their actions. They're calm, standing on the ground, glaring down at the scene below them. They're judging it with their own eyes.
In front of the giant dragons are buildings. They're square, boring buildings that all have the colour of solid dirt, and most likely the same composition. They're grey blocks with holes to make windows and doors, looking unsteady and fragile in their build. They're standing in a half-circle, all facing inwards towards a plaza composed of rocks and space as its base, and before all the buildings stand their inhabitants.
They're frightened, common men and women. In their hands are small swords, pitchforks and torches, with which they intended to stand up for their lands. They're numerous, they'd have been a dangerous enemy. However, they all stand in a half-circle in front of their homes. They're wide-eyed, staring in confusion and fear at the scene in the middle of the plaza, where an odd scene is taking place. It is the same scene which the dragons above are watching.
In the middle of the plaza of rock and twilight, two warriors rush at one another from opposite sides. The one to the left is clad from head to toe in white armour, a white cape of light waving triumphantly behind him, both arms wielding a great white claymore which shines with power. The one to the right is wrapped from head to toe in dark armour, a mantle of shadow seeping ominously from him, his hands swinging a pure black blade of darkness at his adversary.
The entire scene centred around this clash in the middle. The people and the buildings formed a half-circle around the point where the two individuals would clash, and straight above this in the twilight sky the castle would be floating, right above them. The dragons to the left and right would be looking down diagonally at the point, gauging the two men for themselves. The two men were both gushing with powerful energy, yet the absolute middle of everything was strangely devoid of anything.
Sitting in front of the scene are children. They're not sitting in the plaza, rather, they're sitting outside the scene looking in. They're sitting in darkness, the lighting very different from the twilight of the scene they're watching, and they're wrapped in blankets. Their eyes are wide with awe at the scene before them, all silently and diligently watching. They're amazed, for the sight before them is definitely more amazing than anything they could ever have imagined seeing before, an impression having been made in their young minds as they watch the scene from their darkness.
All that above is the image created inside the mind of a young man sitting on a train, leaning forward over the laptop which is placed on a little wooden table from the chair in front him, the environment soaring passed the windows and he was simply spending his time by attempting to describe the image which had taken shape inside his mind. Yes. The image has taken shape. All he has to do now, is attempt to recreate it using his talents as an artist.
... Of course, given the young man's lack of artistic talents and lack of time to draw, this was not an unexpected result. That may, because of that, not have been the most effective way to share the image in his mind. However, if other people has read through the description above, they will have their own image of the scene he has attempted to paint. To attempt transfer an image from one mind to another is never simple, and the result is never perfect. But, people should never stop trying due to limitations. The freedom of trying to convey what is their snapshot of imagination is one of the best freedoms in life, after all.
In the top of the sky, there floats a soaring castle. The sun behind it shines in twilight, blazing orange light into the shadows of the scene. Its structures stand constructed in solid rock, with the architecture of an unknown advanced civilization present in its many pointy towers and clear vegetation taking over the building. Nary a living soul can be seen in its magnificent presence, it stands alone, on a cliff floating in the sky, right in front of the orange red of the twilight sun.
Below it, after quite a margin of sky, are the dragons. Scaly and enormous beasts with large wings, demonically aware eyes and puffs of fire coming from their mouths. There are dragons who's bodies glow red as crimson, blue dragons whose bodies look as deep as the ocean, yellow dragons shining with their very presence and more. However, they're all seemingly the same in their actions. They're calm, standing on the ground, glaring down at the scene below them. They're judging it with their own eyes.
In front of the giant dragons are buildings. They're square, boring buildings that all have the colour of solid dirt, and most likely the same composition. They're grey blocks with holes to make windows and doors, looking unsteady and fragile in their build. They're standing in a half-circle, all facing inwards towards a plaza composed of rocks and space as its base, and before all the buildings stand their inhabitants.
They're frightened, common men and women. In their hands are small swords, pitchforks and torches, with which they intended to stand up for their lands. They're numerous, they'd have been a dangerous enemy. However, they all stand in a half-circle in front of their homes. They're wide-eyed, staring in confusion and fear at the scene in the middle of the plaza, where an odd scene is taking place. It is the same scene which the dragons above are watching.
In the middle of the plaza of rock and twilight, two warriors rush at one another from opposite sides. The one to the left is clad from head to toe in white armour, a white cape of light waving triumphantly behind him, both arms wielding a great white claymore which shines with power. The one to the right is wrapped from head to toe in dark armour, a mantle of shadow seeping ominously from him, his hands swinging a pure black blade of darkness at his adversary.
The entire scene centred around this clash in the middle. The people and the buildings formed a half-circle around the point where the two individuals would clash, and straight above this in the twilight sky the castle would be floating, right above them. The dragons to the left and right would be looking down diagonally at the point, gauging the two men for themselves. The two men were both gushing with powerful energy, yet the absolute middle of everything was strangely devoid of anything.
Sitting in front of the scene are children. They're not sitting in the plaza, rather, they're sitting outside the scene looking in. They're sitting in darkness, the lighting very different from the twilight of the scene they're watching, and they're wrapped in blankets. Their eyes are wide with awe at the scene before them, all silently and diligently watching. They're amazed, for the sight before them is definitely more amazing than anything they could ever have imagined seeing before, an impression having been made in their young minds as they watch the scene from their darkness.
All that above is the image created inside the mind of a young man sitting on a train, leaning forward over the laptop which is placed on a little wooden table from the chair in front him, the environment soaring passed the windows and he was simply spending his time by attempting to describe the image which had taken shape inside his mind. Yes. The image has taken shape. All he has to do now, is attempt to recreate it using his talents as an artist.
... Of course, given the young man's lack of artistic talents and lack of time to draw, this was not an unexpected result. That may, because of that, not have been the most effective way to share the image in his mind. However, if other people has read through the description above, they will have their own image of the scene he has attempted to paint. To attempt transfer an image from one mind to another is never simple, and the result is never perfect. But, people should never stop trying due to limitations. The freedom of trying to convey what is their snapshot of imagination is one of the best freedoms in life, after all.
By [@KnightOfDoom]
In the English language there is only one word for “Love”. However, this single syllable word can mean everything to certain individuals, and nothing to others. For Kamala, this word is not simply a word. It takes the form of a person. A person forever entwined in her own story. A story that began with war and bloodshed. It encompassed her. It drove her to be the passionate woman she was. She was constantly fighting and battling. Until a soft breeze came along. The breeze brought along a man of great eloquence and grace, who brought his own burden. For Kyran, it was death that consumed his childhood, taking everyone he held too close to him. He lived a life of isolation and mystery. To him, love is a strange concept, something unable to be put into words even with the many languages he knew.
It didn’t take long for this strange duo to become entangled with each other. Every word, every action. It came naturally to them. Even more than the emotion, they had made the decision to accept each other. Through the good and bad, they would do everything together.
However
Kamala and Kyran both know that everything ends. Both know how everything ends. But, they continue to cling on to the timid love that pulled them out of the depths of their own ruin. They will cling as hard as they can to that branch until the wind breaks it. For they refuse to break it with their own power. Even if it means that they must suffer the wrath of the wind themselves.
Kamala enjoyed the warmth of being in Kyran’s arms. The early spring breeze gently swept her auburn hair to the side. Kyran kept a tight hold over the smaller female, always looking around just in case. However, Kamala reached back to wrap her arms around his neck. The raven haired male brought his attention back to his love. She pushed herself up to connect their lips. At first he was a bit surprised, but then he slowly relaxed. She was the only one who could make him lower his guard. Their lips moved against each other, fighting over dominance. Sometimes his rough, chapped lips presided over hers and other times her passionate, softer lips won over. They parted for breath, unaware of the beauty around them. For there was a greater beauty right in front of them. After a tender silent moment, they reconnected going even further. Their tongues explored each others mouths as they had done many other times. But even this action couldn’t display the love they felt consuming them. Finally pulling away, Kamala simply laid her head on Kyran’s shoulder. He gave her a squeeze in response, resting his chin on her shoulder. Both had their eyes closed, not wanting to move.
They felt whole, complete.
While the present may be perfect, the future is still unpredictable. If only a moment could last forever.
In the English language there is only one word for “Love”. However, this single syllable word can mean everything to certain individuals, and nothing to others. For Kamala, this word is not simply a word. It takes the form of a person. A person forever entwined in her own story. A story that began with war and bloodshed. It encompassed her. It drove her to be the passionate woman she was. She was constantly fighting and battling. Until a soft breeze came along. The breeze brought along a man of great eloquence and grace, who brought his own burden. For Kyran, it was death that consumed his childhood, taking everyone he held too close to him. He lived a life of isolation and mystery. To him, love is a strange concept, something unable to be put into words even with the many languages he knew.
It didn’t take long for this strange duo to become entangled with each other. Every word, every action. It came naturally to them. Even more than the emotion, they had made the decision to accept each other. Through the good and bad, they would do everything together.
However
Kamala and Kyran both know that everything ends. Both know how everything ends. But, they continue to cling on to the timid love that pulled them out of the depths of their own ruin. They will cling as hard as they can to that branch until the wind breaks it. For they refuse to break it with their own power. Even if it means that they must suffer the wrath of the wind themselves.
Kamala enjoyed the warmth of being in Kyran’s arms. The early spring breeze gently swept her auburn hair to the side. Kyran kept a tight hold over the smaller female, always looking around just in case. However, Kamala reached back to wrap her arms around his neck. The raven haired male brought his attention back to his love. She pushed herself up to connect their lips. At first he was a bit surprised, but then he slowly relaxed. She was the only one who could make him lower his guard. Their lips moved against each other, fighting over dominance. Sometimes his rough, chapped lips presided over hers and other times her passionate, softer lips won over. They parted for breath, unaware of the beauty around them. For there was a greater beauty right in front of them. After a tender silent moment, they reconnected going even further. Their tongues explored each others mouths as they had done many other times. But even this action couldn’t display the love they felt consuming them. Finally pulling away, Kamala simply laid her head on Kyran’s shoulder. He gave her a squeeze in response, resting his chin on her shoulder. Both had their eyes closed, not wanting to move.
They felt whole, complete.
While the present may be perfect, the future is still unpredictable. If only a moment could last forever.
By @Dark Wind
Burn the scars away, this dripping ash
Rains monochrome tears on colored verses;
Words sung in crooned rehearsals
Of wished time reversals,
never to come
Still in stillness of the wanted was
She wandered through the endless gray
Poisoned by golden sunlight
Of tainted azure seas accompanied
By orchestral doves, singing
The blues.
The raven temptress plays
Out of tune, whirlwind tempests
Soothed by her paper wrapped instrument,
Of a death cloak
Reaper of the smoking wisps
Death, death, bring sweet death
In pleasant kiss upon these cuts
With a firebrand, the dancing blazes
Touch, and scorch the haunts
Of wretched pale chalkboards
Bleeding from her father’s fury,
Un-cleaned; mother lost
In a Devil’s den promising
Phantom pleasures
Staring faces, she can’t embrace them
Pull up the sleeves to erase her self-hatred
But no blanket can heal the hues
That darkened spectrum, of faded
Blacks and blues; they’re tattooed,
Permanent moons of her cosmic abuse
Yet she missed him and her; the ruined glue
Of a house collapsed -- divided in two
But no forgiveness comes for those who used
A home of three with plenty of tools
Yet she always asks,
“Why was I the one who was screwed?”
One, two, three, inhalations
And walking traffic continues
Back in line as her dying muse
Coughs a crimson friend, the end,
Amiable Elysium but Hades
Is welcome too.
No more shells,
There are none left to break
On these decaying shores
Rotten pendulum, she paints it
With hollow rage
Knock, knock, knock on the door
Checked out, no one’s home
In quietness where she wonders
If her book will be buried,
The girl hopes it is
So she can become the pendulum
And swing, with the freedom
Of nothingness
Back and forth
Back and forth
Back and forth
Burn the scars away, this dripping ash
Rains monochrome tears on colored verses;
Words sung in crooned rehearsals
Of wished time reversals,
never to come
Still in stillness of the wanted was
She wandered through the endless gray
Poisoned by golden sunlight
Of tainted azure seas accompanied
By orchestral doves, singing
The blues.
The raven temptress plays
Out of tune, whirlwind tempests
Soothed by her paper wrapped instrument,
Of a death cloak
Reaper of the smoking wisps
Death, death, bring sweet death
In pleasant kiss upon these cuts
With a firebrand, the dancing blazes
Touch, and scorch the haunts
Of wretched pale chalkboards
Bleeding from her father’s fury,
Un-cleaned; mother lost
In a Devil’s den promising
Phantom pleasures
Staring faces, she can’t embrace them
Pull up the sleeves to erase her self-hatred
But no blanket can heal the hues
That darkened spectrum, of faded
Blacks and blues; they’re tattooed,
Permanent moons of her cosmic abuse
Yet she missed him and her; the ruined glue
Of a house collapsed -- divided in two
But no forgiveness comes for those who used
A home of three with plenty of tools
Yet she always asks,
“Why was I the one who was screwed?”
One, two, three, inhalations
And walking traffic continues
Back in line as her dying muse
Coughs a crimson friend, the end,
Amiable Elysium but Hades
Is welcome too.
No more shells,
There are none left to break
On these decaying shores
Rotten pendulum, she paints it
With hollow rage
Knock, knock, knock on the door
Checked out, no one’s home
In quietness where she wonders
If her book will be buried,
The girl hopes it is
So she can become the pendulum
And swing, with the freedom
Of nothingness
Back and forth
Back and forth
Back and forth
"All hail Romulus Augustus." his bodyguards shouted at once as they escorted him out from the grounds of the palace and into the streets of Ravenna. There was not a soul in public to receive him. A fearful quiet stifled the apartments and markets, cast in the twilight of the rising moon. The people were shut behind their doors, hiding in their homes. They knew that Odoacer was waiting outside the walls, at the head of many legions of vengeful German soldiers, looking to replace unpaid wages with what plunder the Roman capital could provide.
The Emperor could only walk and brood. The people called him 'Augustulus' - little Augustus - because his fifteen years of life made him a child among the men who ruled his Empire in his name. In some ways he seemed younger than his years. Manhood hadn't begun to accelerate in him, so he was still small, more a tall boy than a young man. On hot summer days his youthful complexion tended to blush, a problem increased by the thick jewel-encrusted robes his dignity required. A dislike of the summer sun was part of the reason he had waited until dark to go out today.
But he had been patient despite his age. The frustrations of the boy pay for the career of the man, and the crown promised the Augustus a noble future. Now that promise seemed shattered. His father, the General Orestes, who had been the Emperor's protector and regent, was killed by Odoacer in a failed attempt to bring down the rebel. Now it was his Uncle Paulus who commanded the Empire in his name; an Empire limited to a single city on the east coast of Italy.
At no point in his life had the young Augustus felt so small. Despite the protective presence of his tall German bodyguards, and the tonsured priests and educated men who made up his retinue, the Augustus saw the brooding square brickwork of Ravenna in the same way he might have seen a cemetery when he was a young child. The buildings were old, not cared for since the time of Aetius a generation past, with bricks and paint weathered by the salty air of the brackish swamp beyond the walls. The architecture seemed to lean inward, to remind him that he was trapped, and that there was no way out. There was only victory, or else he would soon find himself delivered before the throne of God.
"My Lord, it is not necessary for you to be out in the darkness if you do not wish." his uncle Paulus said. Thin and wiry, with a weak jaw and a sharp look about his eyes, his Uncle seemed to read people without looking at them. Was it so obvious the Emperor was feeling timid?
"I have no skill at arms, so I cannot fight." the Augustus said in a pubescent voice. "I am no master of policy, so I cannot climb the ramparts and persuade the rebels to surrender. But I also cannot sit in one room and stare at the same walls until it is my time to die."
"Use the plural. The royal we." Paulus replied. "You are the summation of Rome. Your skill at arms is me, and the soldiers in my command. Your skill at policy is these priests and men of letters you have gathered around you. Remember that Attila was not turned back by Honorius Augustus. He was turned back first by Duke Aetius and his armies, and then by the Bishop of Rome."
Augustulus sunk. It was not lost on him that he was being lectured by a soldier on how to be an Emperor. He wore a jeweled robe, and jeweled sandals, and the heavy diadem on his head was worth the wealth of Rome itself, but all it did was weigh him down like fetters do for a slave.
"Imagine if Julius Caesar did nothing for himself." Augustulus complained, trying in spite of his fear to produce the otherwordly greatness his office expected. He could still feel his voice shaking.
"Julius Caesar is a man from distant history." Paulus replied.
Augustulus said nothing. He noticed another thing that reminded him how different his place in the world was from that of the first Caesar. Only the coins bore his stamp. When they passed a church, it was one remembered for being built in the time of Duke Aetius. The Emperor Honorius was not honored by the common memory. When they passed a bath, it was one rejuvenated by the Vandal General Stilicho, and the old Emperor was again forgotten.
"We will see, and we will be seen." the Augustus said. "That is our command." If I die tomorrow, he thought, it will not be a forgotten man.
"There aren't any people about the town to see you, now it is late. Is your command to wait on the wall until morning comes?" Paulus said. His tone was respectful, but his words might have proscribed him in a different age.
"We wish to see the walls before we retire for the night." the Augustus said. "Tomorrow we will return, and watch our servant Paulus defeat the rebels before the city."
"Will you fight on those walls, my lord?" Paulus asked.
"If battle becomes so dire the walls become the battleground, we will retire to the palace and prepare it for what comes next." the Augustus found the air of command distracting. He felt inflated, and though the harpies of his mind continued to claw at his self-confidence, the firmness he had effected with his speech gave him a taste of confidence. It was a flavor he liked.
That confidence wavered with the sight of a little graffiti. Painted on the rust-red brickwork of the city wall was spelled 'RICIMIR'. That name, the great German General who had puppeted the Empire until his death, reminded Augustulus that it wasn't only weak Emperors who were dominated by their supposed subordinates. Ricimer had dominated as great a man as Majorian, and left that Emperor bleeding dead in the streets like a rowdy dog put down by its master.
He climbed the carved stairs carefully, sandwiched between two armed bodyguards. These men, tall Germans just like the enemies in the field, wore heavy ringmail and thick open-faced helms, and they carried long rounded shields. When they came to the top of the wall, Augustulus saw how the common soldiers of the city were dressed. They had no armor except for helmets and small roundshields. These men were locals, some levied from the countryside, and others paid wages to defend their own city. They were a tired and unhealthy looking lot. When he passed, they hailed him and stood to attention, but they looked so wretched that he felt obliged to relieve them by walking quickly so they could sink back into their miserable watch.
Up here, with the city below and nothing but crackling torches and their muffled footstep coming from the wall, the sound of the night was ignited by the millions of creatures living in the swamps surrounding the city. It was the sound of toads and locusts, all singing to a late-summer moon. Out of that bog rose the smell of stale waters, rot, and the putrid stench of too much life. This had been made the capital of the West two generations ago, chosen precisely for the swamps that surrounded it. Though the city of Ravenna made a poor base from which to launch a defense of the Italian peninsula, it itself was easily defended. But when Augustulus saw from the walls the enemy camp, like a city of lanterns the size of Rome herself on the horizon, his heart sank. If he were to order every person in the city to take up arms, from the old women to the newborn infants, they wouldn't number half of what Odoacer commanded. Augustulus thought bitterly that many of those men camped on the other side of the swamp were those who had followed his father out to battle only weeks before. How many good Italian legions had joined the rebels not out of cowardice, but rather an utmost loyalty to loot? He felt helpless and useless again. The air went out of him, and he found himself leaning against the crenals.
"This must be what Hector saw, looking out from the walls of Troy." Paulus said. His voice was calm and slow, and he did not sound frightened. He seemed to be inspired.
"That is a bad omen." Augustulus shivered. His eyes were fixed on the dancing fires of the enemy horizon. "These are not the walls of Troy to contain us ten years."
"Odoacer is not Achilles." Paulus stood up straight. He looked up at the guards and waved his hand. "Leave us." Emotionless, the soldiers left Augustulus alone on their portion of the wall. Paulus continued. "You must prepare yourself, my lord, for whatever happens to you. We can defeat the rebels, but if we do not, then you should remember the only thing you can decide is how history records your reaction. Don't die dishonorably."
"That's what I can do." Augustulus complained, and his body seemed to deflate. "Die in such a way that impresses historians. Is that the dignity of the Emperor now?"
"You will come into your dignity if we survive, but you must hold together until then." Paulus said. Augustulus said nothing. It would have been silent if not for nature.
It was Paulus who broke the quiet. He looked out at the distant enemy an inhaled deeply. "Odoacer is about my age. Your father and I were at the Catalaunian Plains. Both of us rode as companions of King Attila. I wonder if Odoacer was on the other side, in Aetius' ranks? I would like that to be true. It would be poetic; the man who fought for Rome so long ago now turns to fight and depose an Emperor who is the son of Attila's personal secretary."
"That makes him sound like a hero." Augustulus muttered. "I am no barbarian, and neither are you."
"Because simplicity is not the rule of our age. Nobody fights for Rome anymore, or for the Barbarians. We fight for ourselves wherever we may find our own cause."
"What is our cause?" Augustulus asked.
Paulus smiled. "My cause is the Emperor. And your cause... well, I suppose you are the last man in this country who's cause is Rome."
The Augustus stood silent and pondered that thought. He looked out across the field where the battle would be fought. If his cause was Rome, he would have to look beyond the coming siege, and he did. He imagined himself reigning for decades. What would that be like? He would have to make plans. What was it that his predecessors had which allowed them to conquer the world, and how would he walk in their footsteps to retake the provinces? He would need to reunite the east. He had no idea how any of it could be done, but in thinking about it, he felt committed to the cause. After all, why must this enemy be fatal? In the thousand year history of Rome, many heroes had saved themselves from the brink. Though he could not save himself, he had a retinue of capable men, and through their power his Empire would be rescued.
The Augustus held onto this thought, and his dreams for the future. He nurtured it against doubt as they returned through the quiet city. His eyes were downcast. He stared at the cobblestones below his feet and thought about all he could do once these trifling inconveniences were out of the way. When he returned to the palace it were these hopeful thoughts, like the dim glow of a campfire in the all-swallowing gloom of night, that allowed him to go to sleep.
The Emperor could only walk and brood. The people called him 'Augustulus' - little Augustus - because his fifteen years of life made him a child among the men who ruled his Empire in his name. In some ways he seemed younger than his years. Manhood hadn't begun to accelerate in him, so he was still small, more a tall boy than a young man. On hot summer days his youthful complexion tended to blush, a problem increased by the thick jewel-encrusted robes his dignity required. A dislike of the summer sun was part of the reason he had waited until dark to go out today.
But he had been patient despite his age. The frustrations of the boy pay for the career of the man, and the crown promised the Augustus a noble future. Now that promise seemed shattered. His father, the General Orestes, who had been the Emperor's protector and regent, was killed by Odoacer in a failed attempt to bring down the rebel. Now it was his Uncle Paulus who commanded the Empire in his name; an Empire limited to a single city on the east coast of Italy.
At no point in his life had the young Augustus felt so small. Despite the protective presence of his tall German bodyguards, and the tonsured priests and educated men who made up his retinue, the Augustus saw the brooding square brickwork of Ravenna in the same way he might have seen a cemetery when he was a young child. The buildings were old, not cared for since the time of Aetius a generation past, with bricks and paint weathered by the salty air of the brackish swamp beyond the walls. The architecture seemed to lean inward, to remind him that he was trapped, and that there was no way out. There was only victory, or else he would soon find himself delivered before the throne of God.
"My Lord, it is not necessary for you to be out in the darkness if you do not wish." his uncle Paulus said. Thin and wiry, with a weak jaw and a sharp look about his eyes, his Uncle seemed to read people without looking at them. Was it so obvious the Emperor was feeling timid?
"I have no skill at arms, so I cannot fight." the Augustus said in a pubescent voice. "I am no master of policy, so I cannot climb the ramparts and persuade the rebels to surrender. But I also cannot sit in one room and stare at the same walls until it is my time to die."
"Use the plural. The royal we." Paulus replied. "You are the summation of Rome. Your skill at arms is me, and the soldiers in my command. Your skill at policy is these priests and men of letters you have gathered around you. Remember that Attila was not turned back by Honorius Augustus. He was turned back first by Duke Aetius and his armies, and then by the Bishop of Rome."
Augustulus sunk. It was not lost on him that he was being lectured by a soldier on how to be an Emperor. He wore a jeweled robe, and jeweled sandals, and the heavy diadem on his head was worth the wealth of Rome itself, but all it did was weigh him down like fetters do for a slave.
"Imagine if Julius Caesar did nothing for himself." Augustulus complained, trying in spite of his fear to produce the otherwordly greatness his office expected. He could still feel his voice shaking.
"Julius Caesar is a man from distant history." Paulus replied.
Augustulus said nothing. He noticed another thing that reminded him how different his place in the world was from that of the first Caesar. Only the coins bore his stamp. When they passed a church, it was one remembered for being built in the time of Duke Aetius. The Emperor Honorius was not honored by the common memory. When they passed a bath, it was one rejuvenated by the Vandal General Stilicho, and the old Emperor was again forgotten.
"We will see, and we will be seen." the Augustus said. "That is our command." If I die tomorrow, he thought, it will not be a forgotten man.
"There aren't any people about the town to see you, now it is late. Is your command to wait on the wall until morning comes?" Paulus said. His tone was respectful, but his words might have proscribed him in a different age.
"We wish to see the walls before we retire for the night." the Augustus said. "Tomorrow we will return, and watch our servant Paulus defeat the rebels before the city."
"Will you fight on those walls, my lord?" Paulus asked.
"If battle becomes so dire the walls become the battleground, we will retire to the palace and prepare it for what comes next." the Augustus found the air of command distracting. He felt inflated, and though the harpies of his mind continued to claw at his self-confidence, the firmness he had effected with his speech gave him a taste of confidence. It was a flavor he liked.
That confidence wavered with the sight of a little graffiti. Painted on the rust-red brickwork of the city wall was spelled 'RICIMIR'. That name, the great German General who had puppeted the Empire until his death, reminded Augustulus that it wasn't only weak Emperors who were dominated by their supposed subordinates. Ricimer had dominated as great a man as Majorian, and left that Emperor bleeding dead in the streets like a rowdy dog put down by its master.
He climbed the carved stairs carefully, sandwiched between two armed bodyguards. These men, tall Germans just like the enemies in the field, wore heavy ringmail and thick open-faced helms, and they carried long rounded shields. When they came to the top of the wall, Augustulus saw how the common soldiers of the city were dressed. They had no armor except for helmets and small roundshields. These men were locals, some levied from the countryside, and others paid wages to defend their own city. They were a tired and unhealthy looking lot. When he passed, they hailed him and stood to attention, but they looked so wretched that he felt obliged to relieve them by walking quickly so they could sink back into their miserable watch.
Up here, with the city below and nothing but crackling torches and their muffled footstep coming from the wall, the sound of the night was ignited by the millions of creatures living in the swamps surrounding the city. It was the sound of toads and locusts, all singing to a late-summer moon. Out of that bog rose the smell of stale waters, rot, and the putrid stench of too much life. This had been made the capital of the West two generations ago, chosen precisely for the swamps that surrounded it. Though the city of Ravenna made a poor base from which to launch a defense of the Italian peninsula, it itself was easily defended. But when Augustulus saw from the walls the enemy camp, like a city of lanterns the size of Rome herself on the horizon, his heart sank. If he were to order every person in the city to take up arms, from the old women to the newborn infants, they wouldn't number half of what Odoacer commanded. Augustulus thought bitterly that many of those men camped on the other side of the swamp were those who had followed his father out to battle only weeks before. How many good Italian legions had joined the rebels not out of cowardice, but rather an utmost loyalty to loot? He felt helpless and useless again. The air went out of him, and he found himself leaning against the crenals.
"This must be what Hector saw, looking out from the walls of Troy." Paulus said. His voice was calm and slow, and he did not sound frightened. He seemed to be inspired.
"That is a bad omen." Augustulus shivered. His eyes were fixed on the dancing fires of the enemy horizon. "These are not the walls of Troy to contain us ten years."
"Odoacer is not Achilles." Paulus stood up straight. He looked up at the guards and waved his hand. "Leave us." Emotionless, the soldiers left Augustulus alone on their portion of the wall. Paulus continued. "You must prepare yourself, my lord, for whatever happens to you. We can defeat the rebels, but if we do not, then you should remember the only thing you can decide is how history records your reaction. Don't die dishonorably."
"That's what I can do." Augustulus complained, and his body seemed to deflate. "Die in such a way that impresses historians. Is that the dignity of the Emperor now?"
"You will come into your dignity if we survive, but you must hold together until then." Paulus said. Augustulus said nothing. It would have been silent if not for nature.
It was Paulus who broke the quiet. He looked out at the distant enemy an inhaled deeply. "Odoacer is about my age. Your father and I were at the Catalaunian Plains. Both of us rode as companions of King Attila. I wonder if Odoacer was on the other side, in Aetius' ranks? I would like that to be true. It would be poetic; the man who fought for Rome so long ago now turns to fight and depose an Emperor who is the son of Attila's personal secretary."
"That makes him sound like a hero." Augustulus muttered. "I am no barbarian, and neither are you."
"Because simplicity is not the rule of our age. Nobody fights for Rome anymore, or for the Barbarians. We fight for ourselves wherever we may find our own cause."
"What is our cause?" Augustulus asked.
Paulus smiled. "My cause is the Emperor. And your cause... well, I suppose you are the last man in this country who's cause is Rome."
The Augustus stood silent and pondered that thought. He looked out across the field where the battle would be fought. If his cause was Rome, he would have to look beyond the coming siege, and he did. He imagined himself reigning for decades. What would that be like? He would have to make plans. What was it that his predecessors had which allowed them to conquer the world, and how would he walk in their footsteps to retake the provinces? He would need to reunite the east. He had no idea how any of it could be done, but in thinking about it, he felt committed to the cause. After all, why must this enemy be fatal? In the thousand year history of Rome, many heroes had saved themselves from the brink. Though he could not save himself, he had a retinue of capable men, and through their power his Empire would be rescued.
The Augustus held onto this thought, and his dreams for the future. He nurtured it against doubt as they returned through the quiet city. His eyes were downcast. He stared at the cobblestones below his feet and thought about all he could do once these trifling inconveniences were out of the way. When he returned to the palace it were these hopeful thoughts, like the dim glow of a campfire in the all-swallowing gloom of night, that allowed him to go to sleep.
Reminder: Cast your votes by midnight on Thursday, April 7th. Results will be posted on Friday, April 8th.
3x Thank
Talking about mine, I'd like to add that except for the age of the main character, none of the numbers are made up. In case anyone wondered. 
