Post/Author/DateTime	Post
Terjon of the Blue Rose 04-22-08, 01:10 PM	Alrighty folks it's time for another challenge. Since I started these things, back with challenge one (http://forums.gleemax.com/showthread.php?t=973468) they have been continuing to grow more and more popular. As such I'm hoping for some more great responses, such as we saw in challenges two and three (http://forums.gleemax.com/showthread.php?t=981274) and in challenge four (http://forums.gleemax.com/showthread.php?t=1000542). By now most of you know how these work. Still we're working on establishing rules and want as many responses as possible so we'll go over things once again. The basic concept is that you are get a little bit of inspiration from which you draw up a character. Be as creative as you like and remember, there is no "wrong" response. This is a creative endeavor and all creations are appreciated. Each challenge will give some information, from which the competitors take the inspiration for creating their characters. What this inspiration is varies between challenges. All submissions must be original. You may take inspiration from any source you want, but if you're describing Spiderman, you're not going to win. It is allowed to create more than one character for each challenge. This is, after all, about creativity. There will be no posting of responses to your own challenges. We want everyone coming up with their own ideas, not trying to match what you did. The winner of each challenge gets to create, and judge, the next challenge. Your characters will be judged by criteria set by the challenger, in this case the glorious, talented, and humble Terjon of the Blue Rose. If while creating a challenge you do not wish to be the judge or sole judge make sure you set critieria and establish how judging will be performed in the OP. If the winner does not respond, or at least indicate an intention of response, within a week of judging 2nd place will take his place and so on. If, after judging is complete you want to start a challenge of your own, you should feel free to contact the winner and request the honor of posting the next challenge. (As a general rule of courtesy those of us who have already started a challenge should be willing to let you.) Try not to start a new challenge until judging is complete on the current one. This both helps avoid confusion and prevents people's attentions from being split, promoting better works. If anyone has any additions or changes they would like to see made to these rules please don't hesitate to bring that issue up. These are still a work in progress. I'll be judging based on the following. Originality Personality Background Story potential While some posters use closeness to the original concept as part of the judging criteria I have chosen not to. How is it that one mistake can so ruin a man's life? I was a child when I experienced my greatest failure and still it haunts me. I am tossed aside, a useless, broken tool because I was foolish as a youth. There is no choice for me any more. Or rather there is but one choice. I can choose a life of service and duty; struggling, forever in vain, to regain their approval. So too, could I run and hide, lost forever in my own shame. But I will bear this shame no longer. I will tear down those who would never forgive me. I will show them their own weakness and what a strong, proud man I have become. I will show them that they are not better. And when I have crushed them with a strength they refused to see in me they will know what they lost in turning their backs on me. You're challenge is to tell me who this man is and how he came to be. Silverswordmaster wrote of a monk who vowed to continue chasing the demons he had failed to exorcise at the age of seven and regain his honor. Drackthor gave us a child who chose to give his life to a vampire after being spoken to by a dark, mysterious figure; now bound for an eternity of servitude. Elliott20 created the b@stard champion of a would be emperor, who raised his father to the greatest heights, and yet was still unable to receive that man's love. VampyresThrenody told the story of a honored young man, blinded by love, who failed in his duty and lost his future. Heliomance recited the tale of an unwary scout, who lost his life, and found another way to exist. Anearysm submitted a tiefling, good by action if not birth, who dared to love a noble. Mad__Jack's epic was about a terrified little boy, grown into angry and silent man, who bore unfair blame for something he could not have stopped. Aaarrrgh bent our ears (eyes) with a bard who learned to harness the power of his music to influence the emotion of others and who was himself influenced through his hate. Mystrich taught a lesson about responsibility with a man who refused to accept such for his own mistakes, and so was bound to repeat them. Mattybee showed us the slippery slope of innocence and hubris with a fiendbinder who doesn't think what they do is wrong. Mistress_of_Mockery allowed us a chance to watch a simple half-elf guardsman's rise through the orcish clans to become an eye of Gruumsh and great leader amongst Gruumsh's chosen people. If you have time look through the former challenge threads. They are great for, if nothing else, inspiration.
Silverswordmaster 04-22-08, 07:26 PM	My Name is Heart Sh'liara, age 19, and I'm a monk. At least, I used to be Heart Sh'liara, but now I am a lost, abandond child named nothing more but Lost. For years I have struggled in my life, fallen from the ranks of the monks. My adopted father, the great one, and the elder himself, gave me a quest, a simple exorcisim of demons from our plane. I was 7 years old, my first test as a young monk. I went out with two of my temples treasures, The Fists of the gods and my fathers exorcisim/prayer beads. I walked hard and swiftly to the village, to fight a simple battle, and I was tricked, a fool in my own right. I watched in terror as they came upon me, not demons, but children, little girls my age, their bodys lip and dead, their necks broken. I begain to back up, afraid, as a large shadow stepped forwards, and a simple word hissed from the shadow. "Fear..." I turned and ran, and the little girls attacked me, ripping the Fists of the of the Gods from my hands, and the Exorcisim beads from my neck. I returned to the temple, bloody and brused, failed in my mission. I lost the beads, and the Fists of the Gods, one of the five holy relics. My father dissowned me, the other monks turn away from me, I no longer was welcome in my home, and I had to leave. To this day, it haunts me. For twelve years I have lived in the forests, honing my skills and my connection with nature. That demon... that shadowy mist... I will find and destroy them. My heart is set, and my fists are strong, my Chi is strong, and my will is unbreakable. I have the power of the natural world behind me. I will reclame my name, my old name, I will reclame my home, and my position as a monk. I will return to my home and prove to my father that he can be proud of his son, adopted or not, yet again!
Drackthor 04-22-08, 11:54 PM	My name? A luxury not afforded me. Few things are. Memories are my payment, a sparse recompence. Upon the age of 16, I was like many of my colleagues, brash, rebellious, naive. Then a man came. He was draped in dark robes, inscribed with unknown runes, and carrying tomes that radiated an aura of evil. Every one in our village around my age found the man fascinating, but he only spoke with a few of us. He spoke of dark things. Demons and Devils, Ghouls and Ghasts. That is, until the town guardsmen found out he spoke of such things. They raided his room at our town's tavern while he was out. When he returned, they were still rifling through his possesions. With screams and shouts, he killed them, all of them. Blood ran from the threshold of his room down the hallways, soon, adventurers resting in the tavern came upon him. They slew eachother, the entire group of adventurers died in the struggle, but they succeeded in their task. I was filled with rage. I sulked and muttered that the man was gone, until my parents heard my talk. We soon were tangled in a fierce, heated argument. I stormed off that day, not sure what I would do. I ran, I ran for what felt like infinity. Eventually I collapsed, entirely devoid of strength. It was a late hour of the night, and unknown monsters howled in the distance. Be it a combination of my exhaustion, and the ungodly hour of the night, I fell into a deep sleep. When I finally awoke, I was in a stone room, lying upon a luxurious bed. It felt surreal, like a dream. Into the room swept a shadow, or what seemed like one. This man was gaunt, pale, deathly. Two small fangs jutted from his mouth, laying against his lower lip. I knew what he was in an instant. The man had spoken of such creatures. What stood before me was a Vampire, A Child of the Night. Many would be scared, and yet, foolishly, I was not. I looked upon his lifeless eyes, devoid of that divine spark that every living creature holds in the core of that window to it's soul. My legs carried me, almost as if they had minds of their own. Words broke the silence, and, to my shock, they slipped from my own mouth. I begged this abomination, this vile creature of the night, to make me like him. What a damned fool I was. He came upon me in a flash, gripping my shoulders and biting into my neck. The pain seared like a branding iron upon my very soul, and it soon grew too much, and I fell unconscious once more, the room melding into darkness. I came to, later, and I was revolted. My hands were pale, clammy. My skin had gone from a healthy tint into a lifeless grey. And deep within my core, I could feel it. I could feel the innocence had left me, and that life would never be the same. And deeper still, I could feel it; My soul was screaming for this to stop. The vampire arrived once again, and he told me I was his, now. That my very will was his thrall. At first I tried to fight it, but there was no use. Every inch of me was now no longer mine. Every day is no longer a new day, no, every day is the same day. The same Hell.
elliott20 04-23-08, 10:22 AM	I remember the first time that I finally understood the meaning of that look in his eyes. I knew that my father, the proud warlord of Jiang Ling, hated me. We were hunting in the woods, and I just shot down a stag with my bow. Excited, I rode my horse to the stag and finished it off with my dagger. I turned to my father, wanting to see his reaction to my first kill ever. His eyes turned cold and silent. The icy stare from him, it was as if he was saying to me, "Not my son". I didn't understood what that meant for a while, until I started using my powers to hear the rumors around the palace. Rumor was, I am not his son. I am my mother's son, but not his. The proof? it lies within my eyes. My mother and father both have serene olive green eyes. Mine are the color of dark, aged wine, a hew of burgundy. My eyes betray my heritage, and some say my humanity. Some say that my mother laid with the demon and conceived me. And my father was forced to raise me by this demon. Some say my father was the one who laid with the devil, and my mother was something entirely from a different world. Some say that my parents have sinned in their life, and my birth was their just punishment. (Father was quick to have those blasphemers' heads on pikes) Regardless of my origins, my heritage is crystal clear: I am not human. I am something of a bastard. But I was given a father, and sometimes, a mother. (I didn't get to see mother much. Father always kept her in the tower of Jor. I can't understand why.) Ever since that faithful day I killed the stag, father began to train me like he trained his men. He hired the best teachers in his kingdom to teach me all about war, about magic, about the history of humanity, about death, about strategy... everything. He would teach me himself the art of the sword. It was the only time I have ever seen his smile on his face. It was the only approval I could receive from him. He lavished his love upon my half-brothers and half sisters. But for me? He wanted a champion. I lived a childhood where my only sanctuary was battle, where that was my only place to find my father's praises and love. I served him loyally, killing and killing. For 20 years I slayed for him, and I maimed for him. In those brief moments of victory, I can see a him finding happiness, for he knows that he has vanquished another foe. But those moments were fleeting. His triumph often quickly turns to disgust when he saw my work. He would praise me for my good work, but then walk away without ever looking at me in the eye. I knew he hated me. I never understood any of it...except one thing... "not my son". All I ever wanted was for him to love me. That is all. Except, all I can hear was, "not my son". For 20 years, I killed. Then one day, I killed no more. As my father's last foe laid burning at my feet, his body scorched by the eldrich flames of my blade, I knew. I knew that I have slain my father's last opponent. My father would now be... an emperor. He had finally destroyed all those who opposed him in his road to ascension. Deep down, I feared what may come. My fear was correct, as my father now saw no more use for me. He no longer wanted me in the palace. He no longer wanted to speak with me. I did not understand why. I could not. I was his right hand. I was his fury, his sword that smote the wicked! Where is my reward? Where is my honor? Where is my father? I never discovered the answer to that. Shortly there after, my father sent his assassins to kill me. they tried to poison my food but thanks to the eldrich blood within me, I was preserved. I felt betrayed. I knew that my father hated me. But I never knew he would kill me in cold blood. Years and years all spent killing for him... and for what? to be cast aside like some dirty rag?! I killed those assassins, and gladly drank of their blood. I rode to the palace, cut down the guards, and slew my siblings. Those weaklings, years of studying at a desk and living in the lap of luxury has made them soft. They knew nothing of battle. Then, in a terrible moment, I slew my father with my sword. If only he had loved me like a son...
Terjon of the Blue Rose 04-23-08, 10:54 AM	Wow, responses come both quickly and with quality. If we continue to get responses of this quality I think we may well have the best challenge yet on our hands. PS: I've noted noone has yet to use the whole of the inspiration, Elliott20 came closest but changed the mistake to make it someone elses. No penalties are being assigned but it's interesting to see which parts everyone is focusing on. Like I said I'm not using closeness to original concept so keep at it guys.
Neveroth 04-23-08, 11:30 AM	Drackthor, please be so kind and remove the bold formatting. Your post is very uncomfortable to read this way.
Drackthor 04-23-08, 11:56 AM	Drackthor, please be so kind and remove the bold formatting. Your post is very uncomfortable to read this way. Done. But that's odd, because I find posts much easier to read when bolded like that. :tongue:
elliott20 04-23-08, 05:01 PM	hmmm... what if I were to change mine so that he feels he IS responsible for not being human? that is, he feels it was his mistake for not being born a full human.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 04-23-08, 08:31 PM	Well I'm not going to play editor or make suggestions in this thread. If you choose to make a change make it because you want it there. As I said there have been no penalties applied so changes will only help if they make the story better as a whole. As a side note to all posters if anyone does to decide to make edits make sure to put in a post noting it. Otherwise I may miss it completely.
VampyresThrenody 04-24-08, 10:53 AM	The Fall of Tristan Canost, Knight of Cabal It all started with a single mistake. A single, unfortunate and foolish mistake. On that day it was the eighth of Marn and I had been given an honorable, age-old duty. I had established myself as one of the best recruits the Knights of Cabal had gained in years. They told me I would be the next Uranin; that I could become one of the greatest and perhaps eventually grace the Hall of Lords. All that disappeared forever with a stupid, childish desire. I had been tasked with guarding the Orb of Kara’shek which was only taken out of its secret location once every thirty years. The Orb was required to remake the seals on Raiel’s Tomb and to confirm the appointment of the Grand Minister who was chosen every thirty years on this day. The room the orb was kept in was a small, contained area with no furniture and simple a pedestal where the artifact was placed. The red, pulsing sphere contained the life energies of seven thousand heroes each of whom had sacrificed their lives in order to seal the beast Raiel into the depths of Kara’Shek. I had been chosen by Uranin himself for the duty of watching over the Orb until the Temple Guard came to retrieve it for the ceremony. However, the honor of that duty was not occurring to me at that moment. You see, this day also happened to be Corrella’s birthday and I had forgotten to get her a gift. I had been so busy with other matters that it simply had not occurred to me. She was going to meet me right after the ceremony and I would have no time between now and then to get her a gift. What kind of man does not get his girl a gift on her birthday? I was heart-broken, knowing that she would be very sad and possibly angry with me. Of course, now that I think back on it, she wouldn’t have been that upset. I was simply too in love to see past my own nose. So I came up with a solution. You see, the building where the Orb is kept is beneath the Royal Tullier Knight Academy. No one had tried to steal the orb in…well, never really. The duty of standing guard was considered an honor only in that the fact that you were chosen for an important duty. But the duty itself wasn’t really important. The orb would be fine by itself for just a half hour. No one ever went down to that area of the building. Or so I thought. Now that I look back, I have no idea how I ever thought any of that..what a foolish child I was back then. And that was it. I left the orb and went to the market outside to find a gift. I bought a small, jade necklace made in a design from the Orkern Empire to the far West of us. It was a rare item to see since the empire rarely traded over the dangerous waters of the Devil Seas. I still have that necklace now, I’ve kept it all these years. I’m not sure why I still have it. Perhaps as a token of the mistakes of that day. I returned to the room after having been gone but forty minutes. And it was gone. The pedestal lay on its side, broken in twain. The moment I stepped into the room I panicked. I could hear the Guard coming down the hall. I am proud to say now that my first thought was not to cover up what had happened, but rather to run straight to the Guard and raise the alarm. But by then it was too late. I was publicly humiliated, Uranin himself scorned me. I was thrown out of the Knights and my face branded with the sign of a traitor. Raiel is now free and the land is thick with war against the beast and his minions. I spent the last year mourning the loss of my life, my family, my honor and Corrella. Corrella on that day spat on my face and told me never to look at her again. But now I realize what must be done. Even if it costs me my life, I must find a way to put that creature back in its cage. If it takes my eternal soul to fix it then that is what I will do. Best part about all that? took me 5 minutes to write and think up ^^
Heliomance 04-24-08, 04:37 PM	Heh. Strange, isn't it, the things your mind remembers. I can remember every detail of that day. I can remember what I had for breakfast - the remains of a pair of deer I'd hunted down the day before. Some men have their lives changed in childhood, some not till they grow old. Some never encounter such an event, and in a way I think them lucky. In other ways, not so much. As for myself, my life was changed when I was a young adult, barely six score years of age. I suppose I have no-one to blame but myself... and if I'm honest with myself, that's what rankles the most. It was the Great War of Grisnor that did it for me. I'm sure you all know the details - the undead nations to the south, the Free Souls as they call themselves, were marching north towards the bastion of Life, Grisnor. Well, I'd enlisted in the army, and I and an old friend of mine were acting as scouts. Well, after a lifetime living in the forests of home, I was good enough at being inconspicuous. Now you may ask what I was doing in an army fighting on the side of Lord Grisnor, when he hates elves so much, but I figured he wouldn't be that picky what with his kingdom being in so much trouble and all. Besides, it was a war, and I was hotblooded and eager at the time. No more though. Actually, I've met Grisnor, and between you and me, he was less of an awe-inspiring god and more of an objectionable pain in the - no, that's irrelevant. Where was I? Ah yes, scouting. I was some distance ahead of the main unit - and we were an advance unit, even further ahead of the bulk of the army. After a while, I noticed that the ground I was walking over was somewhat bumpy. Strange. You'd have thought I'd put two and two together, seeing as we were fighing an army of undead, but no. I turn to my friend and point it out to him. Then what do I do? I get out my sword and stab one of the lumps, to see what's underneath it. I know. Stupid, right? Idiotic. I called myself all that and more soon after. Well, as my sword slides into the lump of turf, I hear a muffled "ouch". Then the ground starts to heave. The two of us have gone from being in the middle of an empty stretch of plain to being surrounded by zombies and skeletons. What do you do in that situation? We were too far away for the army to help. Scouts are supposed to be able to avoid trouble. I don't rightly remember much of what happened after that. They did something to us, made us black out. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in a tent, Darenal beside me. Who's Darenal? He's my friend, the one who was scouting with me. Didn't I already tell you about that? No? My mistake. Anyway, we wake up at about the same time. The first thing I notice is that Darenal looks very pale. Bloodless, almost. The second thing I notice is that I'm not breathing. I'll be honest with you - I panicked. I had a full-blown panic attack right there. Gasping for breath, clawing at the ground, and all for nothing. No matter how I inflated my chest, sucked air into my lungs, my body wasn't getting any of it. I felt like I was suffocating. I panicked like that for a good hour and a half. When I finally managed to calm myself down, convince my body that I didn't need to breathe, I found that Darenal had carried me a fair distance. We were leaving the camp of the enemy, the undead. They'd turned us into their kind - "freed" us as they refer to it. I don't think I ever actually thanked Darenal for what he did that day. It was my fault that he was like he was, that I was like I was, but still he carried me out of that camp with me thrashing and gasping for breath. I really need to do that some time. Once I calmed down and could walk by myself, I thought about what had happened. We started running, wanting to get back to our camp rather than being exposed in the open. While we ran, I thought. I'd heard the stories of course - that the Free Souls had their own thoughts, that they weren't controlled by a necromancer - but like everyone else, I hadn't believed them. But it's true. The Souls aren't malicious, not really. They just think that being undead is much better than being alive. They hold this conviction with an evangelical fervour that puts the cultists of Lashanda to shame. And they want to go and show the world how much better it is. Not that that comforted me much, naturally. All I could think was "I'm dead. I'm really dead. I'm dead, and I haven't stopped moving." The mind has strange ways of coping, at times. My reverie was interrupted by the flickering ligts of the camp, some time later. We slowed from our dead run. Looking back, I wonder that didn't seem stranger. We'd just run flat out for half an hour or more, wihout effort. I don't know. Everything was so strange that day, it was just something else on the list. We had no idea what to do abou our situation. We were welcomed back into the camp with surprise - they hadn't expected us to come back alive. Well we'd only been dead for about three hours, we still looked the same. A little pale - well, very pale - but still alive. We decided we'd pretend nothing had happened for as long as we could. Stupid idea, really. We got found out in a week. We begged for lenience, swore by the Lords and Ladies that we were no traitors. We were put on probation, demoted to the ranks, and watched carefully. We'd had a week to get used to being dead, and I was slowly coming to see that maybe the Free Souls were right. Undeath did have its advantages. I didn't need to sleep, didn't need to eat, didn't need to breathe. Of course, I didn't breathe a word of this to the commander. I really didn't want him to think I enjoyed being a "corrupted perversion of life". His words. The army weren't about to spend thousands of gold in diamonds to bring two troopers back to life, but neither were they going to turn down willing manpower. After all, we were heavily outnumbered, and Grisnor was besieged. So we abided. And I resolved to prove that even a corrupted perversion of life has value, has worth. They refuse to believe in the strength of the undead, so I shall show it to them. I can work around the clock, I do not tire. I need no rest. I will prove I can be trusted, and I will prove that I am strong. And maybe others will choose for themselves the path the Free Souls offer.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 04-25-08, 06:19 AM	Two more top notch additions. Competition is heating up but don't be afraid to enter. Concellation prizes will be compliments from The Great and Mighty Terjon of the Blue Rose so everybody wins at least one major prize.:P
Anearysm 04-25-08, 08:13 PM	I pray that Pelor will forgive me for being born. I was abandoned as an infant, and I often wish that I could have stayed that way. Unfortunately for both of us, a cleric of Pelor found me lying on the ground, then took me to the church and raised me as if I was his son. I think that there is irony in that; one such as myself being raised in a holy place by a holy man. The clergy of Pelor taught me more than anyone would ever want to know about religion. I easily mastered several orisons by the age of eight, which was no small feat. I could have been one of the greatest clerics of Pelor, never knowing of my parents nor my heritage. I could be living a happy life in the service of good right now, had I not wanted to become a wizard. The followers of Pelor, being the charitable people that they were, paid for my magical education. I studied eagerly, and after ten years I was able to cast powerful and complicated spells at the relatively young age of eighteen. It was at that age that I learned of my true nature. I thought that my family was just poor, unable to feed another mouth. That was what the clerics told me. Lots of children are abandoned because of that, they told me. But one day I learned a spell that would give me the answers. I thought that there was no harm in knowing for certain. I was dead wrong. I learned that both of my parents were Tieflings, the descendants of demons. They were not interested in raising a little brat, so I was dumped in the mud in the middle of nowhere. I am the spawn of evil. I should have known it earlier, really. I could speak the language of demons, Infernal, with relative ease. My first spell was called Darkness, which people of my kind could cast naturally. My teeth were unnaturally pointy, and only after researching it I learned that not everybody could see in the darkness. I spent a long time alone trying to come to terms with my heritage. I never left my room for weeks, not even coming out to eat. My friends in the chapel believed that I was merely fasting, so nobody suspected a thing. I was even contemplating suicide at one point. I knew that I would be killed anyway if my heritage was discovered. That was when she came. She was Felicia, the daughter of a noble and a fellow wizard. She noticed my absence at the academy and found out why through magical means. She comforted me through that part of my life. She told me that my heritage didn't matter, that I was good at heart, and that was enough. If it weren't for her, I would probably not be alive to tell you my autobiography. We remained great friends. I loved her more than anything else. Five years after I nearly killed myself, we decided to get married. It was the happiest day of our lives (or at least mine) when we got engaged. The wedding was going to be at the same chapel that I was raised, and still lived in. On the night before when the wedding was supposed to be, the chapel was set on fire. I knew that Tieflings could not be harmed by the elements, and so I rescued those who I could from the blaze. Eventually, the chapel caved in, and so most of my childhood friends lay dead. The survivors and I believed that we could get shelter at Felicia's father's castle. When we made it to the castle, they were allowed in, but I was told to wait outside. When the last of them was in and the gate was shut, the guards attacked me. I had to kill them, or they would kill me. I still have nightmares of that night. I remember vividly their screams of agony as I, acting on what must have been my tiefling instincts, cut them down with my magic. I remember a sort of perverse joy at watching them fall. After the battle, one of them was lying by the gate, missing an arm from my magical onslaught. He called me a monster. All at once I was eighteen again, holding a dagger in front of me, wondering whether I was fit to live. I staggered out into the wilderness, dripping with tears and covered in blood. I believed that I was a monster. I had made my way to a waterfall by dawn, and spent the next several days of my life there. I would stand by this waterfall and wonder whether anybody would notice if I threw myself off of it. It wasn't as if anyone would miss me, the only people that I could call a family were dead. Well, except for Felicia. Once again, she prevented me from killing myself. I used the same spell that ruined my life to learn that Felicia's father personally set the chapel alight. He would not have his own daughter marry a monster such as myself. His guards knew of his plot, and that was why they attacked me. Felicia was told by her father that I had died in the fire, and she mourned my "passing". The other clergy could have sworn that I was among them. They believed that I had come back in a spiritual form and saved them. After all, no human could walk through fire to aid them as I did. They would never know that the same man who sheltered them was also the one who was responsible for the deaths of their fellows. But I know. And Pelor knows. With him as my witness, I swear that I will punish that man. He will regret what he has done to the only people that I have ever been able to call a family. I can only hope that I may ever see Felicia again.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 04-26-08, 01:49 AM	Another nice addition. You people have no intention of making judging easy for me then, do you? Good.:cool:
Mad_Jack 04-26-08, 06:37 AM	Disclaimer : I hadn't planned to write a minor novel, but it was 4 am when I started and that's usually when I end up writing epic sagas..... "The Silent One"... Senjen Brook, NE ranger Fourteen years. That's how long it has been since any in the village spoke my name, or that I spoke to them at all. Fourteen years have I been silent, and ten of those have I wandered the vale and the forest beyond, fending for myself. Thriving on my own after they turned their backs to me and cast me out. Not with clubs or strong hands upon my shoulders, but with silence. With cold stares and half-heard whispers born of the knowledge that I would indeed hear them. Never would they lower themselves to banish me for my crime, but they thought not twice of lowering me so that I might banish myself and trouble their consciences no more. For it is indeed in their consciences that the true crime took place - that they judged me for the crime of being a child too small to know better. It was in my fifth year that the raiders came. My father and oldest brother worked the fields to the north of the village that day, and my mother and sisters sat in front of Mother Darbet's cottage and shelled peas while my brother Sarn cleaned the house. He was being punished that day for breaking Mother Darbet's window, and was not allowed to accompany the men to the fields as the rest of the boys of ten seasons did. (He was *always* being punished for something, and seemed to prefer me as his victim above all others, as I was to blame for his loss of our mother's dotage upon him as the youngest child.) I sat at my mother's feet and played in the dirt more frequently than I helped her shell the peas. The sun was dropping in the sky, slowly tinting the blue sky with gold when the first cloud of dust rose over the trees that ran along the trade road until it turned to skirt our village before the river bridge. (Of all the horrors of that day, I can most clearly remember the image of that magical sky that exists only in the brief hours before the sun truly begins to paint the sky red as it sets.) No one bothered to look up to see who it was that rode so thunderously into our midst - riders came at all hours of the day and sometimes at night, always rushing along on whatever their business was and we never asked what that business might be, as it wasn't ours and thus not our concern. We were farmers and craftsmen before the trade guilds built the roadhouse that made our village one stop among many on the trade road, and we were farmers and craftsmen yet. The travellers on the road held no great interest for us. And so we were taken by surprise when the thunderous sounds of hoofbeats surged towards us rather than slowing to a stop at the roadhouse. I heard a long high scream shatter the everyday noise of the village, pitching up into a banshee wail before it cut off abruptly with a wet gurgle. The sounds of shouting, angry men were all around us, and the stink of leather and horses assaulted my nose as I looked around in confusion. Mother screamed and dropped her basket of peas. My sisters began to cry. Suddenly, Mother shouted something at me... But I couldn't hear her - my senses were overwhelmed by the sight of an enormous black horse stamping it's hooves furiously into the dirt before me, my eyes barely at the top of it's foreleg. Atop the horse, like some furious god sitting astride a mountain, sat a man easily a forearm's length taller than my father (who to me was a giant with his head scraping the clouds). The horse surged forward, and I was nearly trampled as my mother pulled me to her tightly, taking the brunt of the horse's impact which threw us both to the ground. The man on the horse, helmed and bearded, clad in dark armor with bright studs and vicious spikes, yelled something at my mother in a language which hurt my ears before turning and violently spurring his huge horse off in another direction. I remember the sensation of Mother wrenching me up from the ground by my arm, then I have a sense of running, being half-dragged, as she gathered my two sisters and I and fled toward our own cottage, at the opposite end of the lane from Mother Darbet's. As we fled in blind panic toward our cottage Mother held little Mirren in her arms and clasped the hand of Madden, who at twelve was nearly old enough to birth children of her own, while Sarn gripped my hand fiercely and nearly ripped my arm from my shoulder as he dragged me stumbling toward home. Nearly every cottage we passed held scenes of indescribeable bloodshed and horror as the raiders crashed their huge black horses through the doors of our homes, riding them right into the cottages themselves in order to drag the occupants screaming and thrashing in unholy terror from the safety of the dwellings that held what had previously been their lives. A horse thundered past, nearly running Mother down, then another, and yet a third thundered past, dragging the torn body of Smith by a rope round it's neck. Near to the raider's goliath of a horse, Smith's body looked even frailer than ever - no hewed-from-stone hard-muscled blacksmith was he, despite the name. Smith had been the scribe who kept the books for the roadhouse, and who taught us village children our letters and figures. As I reeled from the sight and fled again towards home, I suddenly giggled, bizarrely struck by the thought that today I wouldn't have to listen to that snotty brat Sabrah, who was legendary for preening and showing off the bright red apple that Smith bestowed upon the best student of the day, which she was awarded with sickening regularity. My surreal musings were interrupted by the sight of Feldan, the village glazier, our neighbor, being hurled bodily through the large window he'd so lovingly crafted for the front of his cottage. Mother hurried us into the kitchen of our own cottage and overturned the table for us to cower behind. We could smell the sharp smoke of our village being set aflame as black wisps drifted slowly in through the shattered front door. Though it had been no more than a single bell since the beginning of the apocalypse our village had become, it seemed like we'd run for bells on end. We huddled, shaking and tearful, behind our table for an eternity that was in truth no more than fifteen minutes. The tattered form of Feldan, our neighbor, lay facedown in the lane outside, blood slowly dripping from a horrific wound in his temple. We began to catch our wind as we curled together in a tight ball of shattered souls, minds blasted into numbness by the enormity of what we had witnessed. Minutes ticked slowly by, every second a thousand years of torture as we listened to the sounds of our friends and neighbors dying and the only world we'd ever known being burned to ash, praying to any gods that might choose to listen that no one returned to our cottage to finish ravaging it. As time passed, we became aware of a low moaning coming from the lane. It was Feldan! Alive! His head weakly turned back and forth as though the strength to stand up might be found lying somewhere in the dirt next to him. Again he moaned, louder this time, more clearly against the falling noise now that the raiders had dismounted to search for survivors and loot. We willed him to silence, but still the dreadful noise issued from his lips, until, with a last turn of his head, his one undamaged eye swivelled towards us and locked fully, horribly, onto my face as I peered out from under Mother's arm. Slowly he began to reach out his arm towards us, beseeching our help, and groaned all the louder. Half mad from shock, he didn't recognize the danger he was drawing ever closer to putting us in. Mother tried frantically to gain his attention, gesturing wildly for him to be quiet, but he seemed fixated on me, as though gaining my acknowledgement would mean his salvation. Louder and louder yet he called out, finding the strength somehow to call our names. Indecision clouded Mother's face for nearly a hundred beats of my thundering heart before she arrived at a decision. She stared deeply into each of our eyes in turn until she was sure that she had our fullest attention and told us to stay hidden. She drew the small yet sharp work-knife she always carried tucked into the pocket of her apron and quietly began to slip away towards the door. I threw my arms around her leg and gripped it with all my strength, terrified that she was never going to return. I cried like I had when I was Mirren's age, sobbing and begging her not to leave us. She pried me loose from her leg and handed me to Sarn, telling us once again to keep hidden. And then she was gone. Sarn clapped his hand over my mouth as I screamed for Mother, fighting him fiercely to break free and call her back or run to her side and cling to her forever. With a blend of quickness and stealth she hurriedly crept toward the front door, then darted her head out into the light to glance both left and right. Seeing no one, she darted out into the lane and knelt beside Feldan. I thought she meant to check his wounds, or to grab him under the shoulders, as she had done to me so often when she twirled me around through the air pretending I was a bird, and drag him to safety in our kitchen. But she hesitated for but a brief second before a steely look arose in her eyes and she drew the sharp blade across Feldan's throat, spraying bright red blood upon her dress. She never saw the mailed fist that crashed into her head from behind, sending her sprawling in the bloody dirt. The raiders surrounded her, laughing and saying things in their harsh tongue. I struggled mightily against my brother, trying to break free to run to my mother's aid, but he held me fast. I lost sight of her briefly, but then I saw the raiders standing around her, as one of them held a knife to her throat. I remember little of the next half a bell beyond vague images of them doing things to her I was too little to understand, my mind pushed beyond the limits of understanding. Through all of it, Sarn held me fast, hand clamped tightly over my mouth as I wailed in silent hysteria. The raiders dispersed, wandering off to tear apart any remaining homes in their search for coins and plunder. Though I know that I could see my mother lying there, my mind yet to this day refuses to hold an image of her thus. Suddenly, Sarn pulled me and my sisters even closer, ducking our heads down nearly to the ground. A raider, tall and bloodthirty-looking, was standing in our kitchen, pushing broken pottery around with the point of his sword. After a few minutes, he climbed the short, steep staircase that led up to the room where I and my brothers slept. Sarn's grip on me relaxed just the slightest bit, and with a strength born of unimaginable anguish I lunged forward, slipping through his grasp. I ran over to the doorway, and stopped as though blocked by an invisible, impenetrable wall. My mind refused to acknowledge what my eyes saw, but I can clearly remember something inievitably building inside me and clawing it's way up my throat, which croaked out a single word in a small, tattered voice... "Mama?" With that one tiny little word, more enormous than mountains, I had sealed our doom. A hand nearly the size of my head grabbed hold of me by the shirt collar and dragged me from the doorway. I heard Mirren cry and Madden scream as the rest of my siblings were pulled from under the table and roughly thrown out into the street next to me. One of the raiders strode forward and slammed the back of his mailed glove into my face hard enough that it drove two teeth from my head. And that is where my memory ends. I do not recall what happened to my sisters, nor do I know how my eldest brother died in the fight to reclaim our village. All that I do know is this... Sarn told my father and everyone else that I was responsible for their deaths. Although no one in the village accused me of that responsibility, I knew in my heart that everyone left in the village felt that it was my fault that my family had died. In the following year, we rebuilt the village and the roadhouse, and tried to return to some sense of normalcy. I grew up a quiet child, saying little other than when I fought bitterly with Sarn. I had few acquaintances and no true friends, as my father's and Sarn's coldness towards me gradually seeped out of our cottage and into the other villagers. At the age of twelve, things finally came to a head. After his latest round of harrassment, Sarn recieved a beating from me that left him bedridden for days. And my father, a bitter, broken man who had for so long kept his feelings toward me bottled up, finally flew into a drunken rage and yelled at me in the village square, telling me in certain terms that he cursed to the darkest depths of the Hells the day I had learned to speak, and never wished to hear a single word escape my lips ever again. Before I could reply, his fist cracked across the side of my head, as the raider's had done seven years earlier, and he roared, "SILENCE!!!!!! You are DEAD! As dead to me as your mother and the brother and sisters that YOU MURDERED, you sniveling, whimpering COWARD! Never speak to me again - you are no son of mine, MURDERER!" "But...Father..." With a murderous roar, my father threw himself at me. I remember nothing but pain. It took three men to pull him off of me. That was the last time I spoke a clear word to anyone in the village. My father had fractured my jaw in several places, and I was never able to speak again without a slight slurring in my words after that, but that had so very little to do with my eternal silence. In the moment when my father hit me, he had become inextricably linked in my mind to the raider who had knocked me senseless. Who had killed my mother. Killed my sisters and brother. Who had ruined everything. I would not speak. Not to him, not to anyone. I would never again let a word pass my lips. I would be strong. For the next four years, I slept in the stables of the roadhouse, mucking them out for a few coins and a bit of food, and wandered far and wide in the wooded areas far outside the village. I hunted and trapped and learned to track. If on occasion a bandit or fugitive from the city found their way into my traps, I failed to mention it to anyone. And not a single coherent word was heard from my mouth, responding when necessary only with a mumbled "mmrmm" or "nnnn". None of the villagers would speak to me in civil fashion without dire necessity, and I was shunned by all but those who delighted in torturing me by taunting me with my sins. In my sixteenth year, I took up my few possessions, strung my bow, and walked out of the village rarely to return except to trade for supplies. I was five when the raiders came to my village. I was twelve when my father struck me, and I stopped speaking. I was sixteen when I left my village, and I have spent ten years in the wilderness. Ten years in silence, with nothing but hate to make me strong. And now, in my twenty-sixth summer, in those few brief magical hours before the sun truly begins to paint the sky red, the hoofprints before me in in the dirt of the hills near the village bear a terrifying familiarity, unsettling me to the very depths of my soul. I know these tracks. Raiders. I could warn the village. I could. But they passed judgement on me. They called me a murderer. A coward. A murderer? Perhaps. I'm about to let all those people down below die. But a coward? No, I'm going to be strong this time. I won't say a word.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 04-26-08, 07:40 AM	A novel it may be but well worth the time given to it. Excellent work.
Master_Vega 04-26-08, 10:27 AM	Holy crap! These posts are behemoths! I thought I'd drop by this thread and start reading what the competition has written already before I leave for work, but it seems that is an impossibility. :P Later today, though, I'll get around to it...
Mad_Jack 04-27-08, 04:01 AM	Holy crap! These posts are behemoths! Heh... That post above was the end result of me *actively* editing it for length as I came up with it - the Cliff's Notes version of a character backstory....:D (I should go back some day and actually type out all the dialogue...)
Anearysm 04-27-08, 12:07 PM	As a side note to all posters if anyone does to decide to make edits make sure to put in a post noting it. I just made some random tweaks hardly worth noting. OCD. I'll probably keep doing so until the deadline because of the same aforementioned disorder. blech.
Aaarrrgh 04-27-08, 02:18 PM	I told my father I did not want to be a warrior, but a musician. I was twelve at the time, and he never accepted it. He called me weak, and a disgrace. Two months later I made my second mistake: I ran away. My young mind was so set to the goal of being a musician, that I felt I could not stay in the house of my unsupporting father. I was such a fool. Still, you could call me lucky. The first person I met was Deira Moonwarden, a young bard who was glad to get some company on the road. She taught me how a simple tune can contain more power than the sharpest sword, and how inspiration can turn the tides of battle. We spoke much of the future, but never of the past. The pain of my fathers rejection still burned too strong in me. After two years, she felt I needed another teacher, and brought me to the bard's guild, where she let me meet some of the greatest bards known in these lands: Marcus of the Oak, Leila the Harpist, Gran Oldwood... That day I made my third mistake: I asked Xar Darkeye to be my teacher. He was older than most of the other bards, and the tunes from his flute touched my heart in a way I could not understand. He accepted me, and I stayed with him for four years. Xar taught me that the greatest power of a bard comes from emotion, both my own and the emotions of people around me. He was vastly different from the happy, care-free Deira, and he taught me how to use anger, fear and sorrow to reach my goals. And although I knew in my heart it was wrong, I started to change the flame in my heart from shame to hate. My father became the image of all that was wrong in my life. The life of a bard probably wasn't for me after all, but my fathers rejection had pushed me over the edge. If he had bought me a flute when I was twelve, I would probably have been happy, and tired of music after a few weeks, as children do. But he had made me choose a life I did not want! Two weeks ago, master Xar smiled at me, and said he could not teach me more. Now, he said, was the time for me to take care of my own life. And I will. I will start with the part that feels most important: the past. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed. I would probably know nothing of the power I have today. The power of mind over matter. So, father, who is the weak one now?
Mystrich 04-29-08, 02:57 AM	It had been an accident, but it had sparked my life. My sword had pierced through my father's chest, but it had been too dark to see. They all blamed me, I held the weapon, I was covered in blood. It looked obvious, but it wasn't my fault. But I ran at the first scream, and faster at the second. Covered in blood, I could go no where without suspicion, and I fell to my knees. I sat there, until I felt a cloak drape on my shoulders, and me led to carriage. The man seemed to be introducing himself, but I was completely lost that night, and the next few days. What I was thinking about was my return. How could I return without everyone casting glances, everyone eying me like a fiend. And so, I stayed with the man, an elderly cleric, I soon learned, who allowed me to stay without asking too many questions, although we were not far from my village, and he quickly seemed to piece together who I was. He tried consoling me, only for me to loose his voice in my own thoughts again, but I did open, and he offered to train me under Pelor, perhaps as a chance for atonement. I studied, I prayed, and I stayed faithful, but I knew people still would see me as a murderer. I soon learned of the Sun God's own ill will towards me, as day and night prayers failed to grant me the miracles my tutor could perform. He continued to only answer me with "In time," after I asked again and again why I was not being granted the favor of Pelor despite my dedication. I demanded an answer, although he continued to only tell me "In time," until I demanded to know more. He kept his gentle voice, but he seemed saddened by what I made him say, "Atonement comes to only those who want it." I asked what that meant, and when he didn't answer, I repeated it, again and again, until I seemed to break his will, and he explained. "You must be sorry for what you did before you are forgiven." I looked at him with fury, hatred, and almost wonderment, not knowing how I could be not sorry. I had worked hard to try to regain my reputation, how could I have not been sorry. It seemed to click then. My life's true destiny. If people thought I wasn't sorry, then the people truly would see me as a monster. I couldn't. I was already hated, I couldn't let it happen again. And so, that night, I again killed a man. After his body fell away from me, I felt like running again. Was every action going to ruin me in life? But I had nothing more to run from this time. The people already knew me as a killer, except now I wasn't sorry at all. Perhaps he was right about the first murder as well. But I had killed two men now, and the conditions of the first would be overshadowed by the conditions of the second. I couldn't leave anymore, and perhaps I didn't want to. I now knew I could stop the suspicion. Stop their looks. Stop their thoughts of me being evil. And my decision came naturally next, I could, and I would stop them.
LadyLindis 04-29-08, 01:49 PM	Amazing posts everone. Mad_Jack, that was...I mean wow... I'm lucky if I'm verbally coherent at 4am, and you write mini novles. :P I don't envy Terjon, having to chose between these entries. ^^
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-02-08, 07:10 AM	Alrighty people. One more week. I'm setting the deadline for next Friday. Submissions Saturday or later will only receive compliments where appropriate and be considered ineligeble for judging. Please, somebody, make the judging even more difficult than it already is.... I have almost reached the point of being able to officially use indecision as an excuse.;)
Drackthor 05-04-08, 05:09 PM	Please, somebody, make the judging even more difficult than it already is.... I have almost reached the point of being able to officially use indecision as an excuse.;) Now do it...blindfolded!
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-04-08, 06:42 PM	*Puts on blindfold* *Touches screen* *Scrolls 1d20 seconds* We have a winner. Good suggestion Drackthor. That actually wound up making things much easier. :P :P :P
Heliomance 05-04-08, 08:17 PM	While standing on one leg and singing the Star Spangled Banner.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-05-08, 11:21 AM	Great. Now I've got a concussion. I'm going to have to re-read every last entry and rejudge things since I can't remember who the random pick winner was.:P
Drackthor 05-07-08, 01:21 AM	Great. Now I've got a concussion. I'm going to have to re-read every last entry and rejudge things since I can't remember who the random pick winner was.:P Remember, gotta re-read them blindfolded! :P
Mattybee 05-07-08, 10:42 AM	It was just a book left lying there on the table. It didn't have a name written in it or any identifying marks, so I took it. And in taking it - and what I did with it - I failed the entire academy. All because of a stupid book. There was a time when I was a bright pupil at the academy. Not the brightest pupil ever, but I was eager, hard-working, and showed quite a bit of magical aptitude. They didn't think I'd become the next Elminster, but I was certainly going to become a respectable wizard. I studied diligently for classes, I made sure that all my work was done, and I tried to be a good student. And then I found that god-damned book. Nobody said anything when it went missing from that table. I kept perusing the book, always under the cover of candlelight, when nobody else was around. It didn't seem like the book belonged to anyone else, but it seemed best to read it when nobody was really paying attention. After all, it *could* have been someone else's, and I could have been in trouble. At first, it seemed innocent enough. Different ways of going about casting spells, different phrasing you could use. It helped me in my classes, and taught me things that my teachers simply weren't getting across. I didn't know why someone would leave that lying around, but it helped me quite a bit. The more and more I read it, the more and more the book asked of certain things for spells that I hadn't heard of. A few drops of my own blood as a component. A circle in the ground for some protective spells. These were things my teachers hadn't gone over, and they seemed a little weird - but they worked, so who was I to question? Clearly the book was written by someone who knew better than a lowly apprentice. And that was the problem. It was written by someone who knew better. A lot better. I found a spell in there as I flipped through the page. It seemed almost like a textbook in that the things it had taught me applied here, too; a drop of blood, a circle in the ground, certain runes. It had the words for me to speak, and it had everything laid out perfectly for me. It didn't seem like a harmful spell; it'd bring a creature to me to serve me, and it would do as I asked. It brought a creature, but not one to serve me. It seemed like hours that I spent preparing the area for the spell. I thought I knew what I was doing - don't all teenagers? - and I thought I would be able to deal with this; after all, even if I wasn't totally sure, the book had never been wrong before. When I finished uttering the words for it, there was... a creature in the circle. A bony, blue-skinned creature, with wings bursting out of its back. Its arms seemed too long for its body, its hands too big for its arms. A vrock, though I couldn't have told you that at the time; to me it was just horror personified. And it wreaked havoc, after thanking me for bringing it. I'd rather not describe the whole scene, and I don't even know if I can. Students - several students - dead from the thing's massive claws. A few teachers dead, too. It was awful, and all I could do was hide in a corner. I don't know why it didn't kill me; maybe out of some sort of twisted gratitude? The fallout from what had happened was awful. They didn't remove me from the school, but they might as well have. Even though they understood that I hadn't done it on purpose, the teachers, the other students - nobody trusted me. Even though I could have graduated very highly in the class, it wouldn't have mattered; I would always be known as the one who caused the Night of Slaughter. I left the school, and even my parents didn't trust me. Oh, they understood that it wasn't my fault - or pretended to - but they never fully trusted me again. Nobody did; or at least nobody who'd heard about what happened. I was the demon-caller. I was bad luck. I was evil. It was many years before I figured out what I had done wrong. Not in what I had done, in having so many people die from that fiend; I knew that was wrong instantly. But the years of research, the hours upon hours of studying what exactly had happened showed me. What I had done wasn't evil in and of itself; it was merely uncontrolled. I don't know if that book was some sort of demonic artifact left in this world, or whether it was just sheer coincidence that I stumbled upon it. While I mourn those who fell fighting off that vrock, I know better now. I can control vrocks, and succubi, and all manner of demons. I don't think it's necessarily evil that I do so, for after all, I do not use their powers for evil ends. I get a supreme sense of irony out of using fiends to fight evil. But I will go back to where I first learned everything, and I will show them. I will show them what talent they lost with their scorn. I will show them my strength, and I will show them. I am not ashamed of what I am, or what I can do. It is them who should be ashamed for the way they treated a youth, as if he were a pariah for what was a mistake. I am a fiendbinder, and they will know the strength of demons harnessed for good.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-07-08, 11:40 AM	Who here does a good Mr. Burns impression. I think I need one for that last entry. Ekssselllent. :plotting:
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-07-08, 11:46 AM	PS I am quickly running out of unique ways to say "wrote about".:rolleyes: Any suggestions just in case?:P :D :P
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-07-08, 03:49 PM	My name was Jonny. At least I think. That life is behind me now. Far behind. Now I am called Drakk by my people, High Priest of the One-Eyed. If someone told you that one does not simply go from being a lowly soft soldier to a hardened follower of our king then they’d be right. It wasn’t simple at all. My memories are fading, for the best I believe, but the least I could do is tell you what happened. How long ago was it? I’m not sure anymore. I am greying and wise now, but I was young and foolish then. Foolish enough, at least, to believe them. They told me that my people were savages. Does this look like a savage place to you? They were just scared. And rightfully so. My people are in every way superior to them. Stronger, tougher, with an innate connection to the wild nature that surrounds us. They tried to resist it. They were weak and soft and tried to tame the wild itself. And I was one of them. It was dark that night, I’m sure. It always is. I remember the rain pattering against their weak shelters. There houses and farms were no match for my people’s fire. The wild rain and the screams of the sky calmed me then, as they still do now. The faeries took me into the realm of dreams. I wonder, had the faeries not taken me, how horrible my life would be now. It was my job. My duty, they said, to raise the alarm should I see a savage. That’s what they call us. Savages. Ironic, no? They brutally murder us – our women, our children. Four or five of them, as if some kind of coming of crazed ritual, will come to our villages and slay as many as they can. Who are the real savages? But I didn’t see a savage, for I was sleeping. Yet they still blamed me. ‘Don’t sleep on the job!’ they’d yell. After a long day, however, of working without much rest that is what you want to do. My people came and killed them. It was vengeance of a sort, for all the orcs they’d slain on their petty ‘adventures’. But my people were tired, like me. The weak ones were better equipped. They were armed with the finest in armor and weaponry while my people fought with stone, bone, and wood. They slaughtered my people. They called them savage raiders and they spit on their carcasses. Proper burial wasn’t given; a simple burning of the bodies was all. The few, worthless warriors they’d lost had been given the most beautiful of funerals. It sickened me. And then, of all things, they blamed me! Me! They said that it was my fault they lost so many soldiers. Did they ever even think about how many of my people were murdered? All they cared about was themselves. ‘Why didn’t you raise the alarm?’ they’d ask. They were angry at me for nothing. They told me to pull my act together. So I did. In these few moments I finally saw what these people were really like. Blaming me for their incompetence, how dare they? I was stripped of my position on the city guard and they were going to send me to jail. How absurd. All this for sleeping? I could have proved myself to them. I could have done the time and killed hundreds of the so-called savages of the north. But why? I would be just another one of them, struggling to prove myself in their worthless society. So I left – ran away. With nothing but my spear and my wits I took to the wild. I relied on the generous gifts of the One-Eyed to survive. I saw something in his, my, people that none of the weak ones could see. Behind their mask of savage rage were misunderstood men and women. I was cold and lost, alone in the forests. I swore to never return to my village; I was left out there to die. But I didn’t. They found me, guided by Gruumsh, and took me in. They showed me their world. And it was so much more beautiful than mine. The nature of their ways, survival of the fittest, was inspiring. They’d fight for anything and only the strongest would survive. I survived. I fought my way through their ranks, embracing their primal society. I was one of them. And I loved it. With each passing day I became more like the savages I once feared. I became a warrior. With every hour the hatred of the weak grew inside of me. I vowed to slay them. All of them. Once and for all. And my people cheered. They wilfully followed me into battle, with the guidance of Gruumsh. We fought them and slaughtered them. We gave their warriors honourable burials. We took their metals and their weapons. We were stronger now. To them I was nothing less than immortal. My battle scars rivalled those of our strongest warriors and I outlived my peers that passed of old age or illness. I had been gifted by their gods and I intended to use that gift to exterminate the filthy pests that I once lived among. Our shaman-chief, Rawk, grew jealous. He was weak and petty - like them. He falsely claimed that he followed the guidance of Gruumsh. He challenged me for leadership of the tribe. We fought brutally. Blood was spilt and hate built, but with Gruumsh’ will, I came out on top. I triumphed, as I always would. I would destroy the weak ones. All it took was one more ritual to prove I was strong enough. In utter devotion to my lord, I brutally ripped my eye right out of the socket with a savage grin. After reading the competition, definitely expect a major edification from me sometime between now and Friday. Actually, I have Friday off. Woohoo.
Anearysm 05-07-08, 07:26 PM	PS I am quickly running out of unique ways to say "wrote about".:rolleyes: Any suggestions just in case?:P :D :P I haven't seen you use "wrote about" yet :P *Contributed *Devised *Spun the tale of *Composed *typed up *Added *Scribed *Inscribed
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-07-08, 09:10 PM	More entries hoorah! And to make matters better the quality continues to remain top notch. Excellent entry Mistress_of_Mockery. After reading the competition, definitely expect a major edification from me sometime between now and Friday. Actually, I have Friday off. Woohoo. Edification? You plan to enlighten this group? You sure don't set mild goals do you? No wonder your initials are MoM. :P :angelhide :P PS Anearysm, not only did you forget wove an image of :P but I opened your sig box too.:evillaugh :P
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-07-08, 09:17 PM	Edification? You plan to enlighten this group? You sure don't set mild goals do you? No wonder your initials are MoM. :P :angelhide :P Of course I plan to edify them. Mild goals are for losers :P So that's why people keep calling me that (joking, of course) :P
Heliomance 05-08-08, 02:07 PM	Looking at the bit about outliving the orcs, I'd guess MoM's tale is about an elf rather than a human.
Mattybee 05-08-08, 02:54 PM	Looking at the bit about outliving the orcs, I'd guess MoM's tale is about an elf rather than a human. Humans outlive orcs too, don't they?
Heliomance 05-08-08, 03:21 PM	Not by that much, I don't think.
Anearysm 05-08-08, 06:54 PM	I opened your sig box too.:evillaugh :P :ahem:
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-08-08, 07:16 PM	Looking at the bit about outliving the orcs, I'd guess MoM's tale is about an elf rather than a human. Humans outlive orcs too, don't they? Strong orcs outlive orcs. Besides, I don't think race was really critical to the story. If it had been intended as an elf I think that would have been explicitly pointed out. Of course if MoM wants me to adjust the description I have no issue.
Aaarrrgh 05-08-08, 08:05 PM	I just noticed that Mystrich and myself have written submissions without being mentioned in the list in the OP. I'm guessing this is an innocent mistake, but I thought I'd better point it out.
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-08-08, 10:12 PM	Strong orcs outlive orcs. True dat, dawg. Tiny nitpick though, Gruumsh is spelt with two u's, props if you can pronounce it. Jonny was originally a half-elf (existing character of mine, but he was only a first level ranger before the DM had to stop due to some things to clear up) but I left the race out for your own interpretation.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-08-08, 11:22 PM	True dat, dawg. Tiny nitpick though, Gruumsh is spelt with two u's, props if you can pronounce it. Jonny was originally a half-elf (existing character of mine, but he was only a first level ranger before the DM had to stop due to some things to clear up) but I left the race out for your own interpretation. groo-umsh spelled not spelt
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-08-08, 11:37 PM	I just noticed that Mystrich and myself have written submissions without being mentioned in the list in the OP. I'm guessing this is an innocent mistake, but I thought I'd better point it out. :bigeyes: Completely innocent... :angelhide I swear... :tantrum: Stop looking at me like that! Actually I just got distracted by Master Vega. He's been PMing back and forth with me about a potential PbP game.
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-09-08, 06:04 AM	groo-umsh spelled not spelt Spelt -verb a pt. and pp. of spell. (source (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Spelt)) (God knows if I know what pt. or pp. are.) EDIT: Oh wait. Past tense and present tense, methinks. Bah, I didn't come here to learn how to spell :P
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-09-08, 06:31 AM	Spelt -verb a pt. and pp. of spell. (source (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Spelt)) (God knows if I know what pt. or pp. are.) EDIT: Oh wait. Past tense and present tense, methinks. Bah, I didn't come here to learn how to spell :P Past tense and past participle. :P
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-09-08, 06:33 AM	Past tense and past participle. :P Psh. This is the internet. There'll be people who spell/use grammar worse than me.
Heliomance 05-09-08, 06:34 AM	olol lrn2gramer noob :P
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-09-08, 06:35 AM	olol lrn2gramer noob :P :P
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-09-08, 06:36 AM	Psh. This is the internet. There'll be people who spell/use grammar worse than me. :plotting: Worse then I.... Truce then?
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-09-08, 06:37 AM	:plotting: Worse then I.... Truce then? NEVAR! ... Okay, maybe :shifty:
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-09-08, 06:41 AM	:bravo: :bravo: :bravo: Now just sign this in triplicate.:ton: and initial here. :ton: And as a last measure we'll just have you sign away your first born here. :tie: :ton: :tie: There now. That wasn't so bad.:devil:
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-09-08, 06:45 AM	what kind of ideas? other basic concepts? plenty of those floating around, even a few threads dedicated to the concept already. Pelor made capital letters for a reason. :P
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-09-08, 03:13 PM	Jumping threads?:rant: Dirty pool, my friend.:duel: Don't make me get proffesional help.:fett:
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-09-08, 07:17 PM	Jumping threads?:rant: Dirty pool, my friend.:duel: Don't make me get proffesional (maybe) help.:fett: I coulda posted it there, but that would just spread things out all over the place and whatnot. I don't think we want that... ... Or do we? :shifty: I got professional help too :cloud9: ... Wait... :surrender ... Nope... Just gimme a minute here... :whatsthis Okay, so I hired a lazy guy. Quality underlings are hard to find nowadays. Duel on, Terjon :duel:
Master_Vega 05-09-08, 10:59 PM	:bigeyes: Completely innocent... :angelhide I swear... :tantrum: Stop looking at me like that! Actually I just got distracted by Master Vega. He's been PMing back and forth with me about a potential PbP game. :ahem: Oho! Blaming it on me, eh (darn my Canadian former-boss!)? I see how it is. :nonono: :P Anyhow, I have decided not to make an entry in this thread... partially because I just can't think of anything to write, but mostly because I have to think of plots for two different games (one that's admittedly just a time-killer, but I'm hoping to give some extra life to.) Great work, everyone. I don't think my entry would hold a candle to most of these.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-11-08, 01:13 PM	Character Challenge V now closed. Judjing will be in progress over the next few days while I re-read the submissions and determine our winners.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-14-08, 08:58 AM	Alrighty folks. It's been a long, hard fought battle and we've had some great submissions. After reading through all the entries (I won't say how many times) the onerous :rolleyes: duty of determining a victor falls to me. Of course without a Terjon of the Blue Rose entry I couldn't even determine first place without reading everything :devil: but say lah vee (c'est la vie in case MoM reads this). . . . :dice: In First Place we find Mad_Jack. Not only did his character feel like a true to life human being but the beauty with which he crafted that character's background stood out even in this sea of wonder. He will recieve his choice of a suit of Demonic Armor or a suit of Celestial Armor as well as his choice of a Nine Lives Stealer or a Holy Avenger. In Second, though I am loathe to give a prize to an adversarial creature such as she, is Mistress_of_Mockery. Our dear MoM truly made me believe that a creature other than an orc could become an Eye of Gruumsh. She will in return receive her choice of an Amulet of the Sphere (Sphere of Annihilation not included), a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People +2 (grants permanent charisma bonus but shifts your alignment one step towards evil; disappears after one use) or up to 5 eternal wands of her choosing (total spell levels not to exceed 7). In Third Place, though most certainly not last, we find Elliott20. You just barely managed to squeak out of a 3-way tie with Anearysm and Mattybee, but I made a tough call and gave you the win. Your story was amongst our most original and helped set the pace for one of the best Char Dev Challenges yet. You get a grab bag of 250 random and unsorted Quall's Feather Tokens. Ladies and gentlemen this competition has brought out some great talent. I hope to see everyone of you in the next challenge... but beware, I will be entering as competition next time.:evillaugh
Mad_Jack 05-16-08, 09:09 AM	In First Place we find Mad_Jack. Aww, shucks...:blush: To be honest, I almost forgot to check in to see who won, lol... (Yeah, Jack, real rockstar move there, bud... don't bother to show up to collect your award, lol) He will recieve his choice of a suit of Demonic Armor or a suit of Celestial Armor as well as his choice of a Nine Lives Stealer or a Holy Avenger. Um, I don't suppose I could trade those in for a cash prize, could I? lol...:D Am I responsible for coming up with the next challenge now? If somebody else would like that honor, feel free to claim it... If not, I'll have to take some time to think about it...:plotting:
Heliomance 05-16-08, 01:15 PM	MoM: Take a wand of Limited Wish, wish repeatedly for money until you have amassed enough to buy an eternal Wand of Wish. Then use that to grant yourself stat bonuses, Amulets of the Sphere, etc.
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-16-08, 03:47 PM	Second place. Not bad for my first try. There's always room to do better though. Rawr. :duel: MoM: Take a wand of Limited Wish, wish repeatedly for money until you have amassed enough to buy an eternal Wand of Wish. Then use that to grant yourself stat bonuses, Amulets of the Sphere, etc. Clever. By the by, congrats Mad Jack and Elliot (and everyone else), nice entries.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 05-16-08, 11:56 PM	MoM: Take a wand of Limited Wish, wish repeatedly for money until you have amassed enough to buy an eternal Wand of Wish. Then use that to grant yourself stat bonuses, Amulets of the Sphere, etc. Eternal wands max at level 3 spells. Nice try though.
Mistress_of_Mockery 05-17-08, 07:59 AM	Eternal wands max at level 3 spells. Nice try though. Fine. I'll take Scorching Ray, Fly, Magic Missile, Detect Evil, and Message.
elliott20 05-19-08, 04:30 PM	w00t! I got ranked!