Writing Comp

[Generalno1]

This is for the entries for the writing Competition. It will include Poems, stories, essays. etc, as before, All entries should be submitted before the 21st, and not more than 1 entry per person, This one will be interesting..

[r]

I've just started mine - it is going to take in everything from Ayleids to the game of darts.

[Kestral]

I submit my work in progress. Ironic, though, since I advocated for a non-ES restricted competition.

[The Raven]

I submit my work in progress. Ironic, though, since I advocated for a non-ES restricted competition.

That's unfair, since it was created PRE-Anniversary contest, and not specifically made for the anniversary. That makes r able to select one of his great WIP stories (that Dragon Break story ending, I'm still bloody waiting for it) and submit it.

It should be made SPECIFICALLY for the anniversary, imo.

[Kestral]

I submit my work in progress. Ironic, though, since I advocated for a non-ES restricted competition.

That's unfair, since it was created PRE-Anniversary contest, and not specifically made for the anniversary. That makes r able to select one of his great WIP stories (that Dragon Break story ending, I'm still bloody waiting for it) and submit it.

It should be made SPECIFICALLY for the anniversary, imo.

Whoever said it couldn't be pre-anniversary? For that matter, what advantage do you have if you make it pre-anniversary?

[The Raven]

Whoever said it couldn't be pre-anniversary? For that matter, what advantage do you have if you make it pre-anniversary?

...touché.
But you're still a cheater ;]

[Andere]

I believe all stories are aptly considered and fairly judged, no matter when conceived.

Looking forward to it.

[r]

Just seen the date - I really need to get on with mine...

[Drethelis]

Does the literature have to be about ES?

[Arch-Mage Matt]

Does the literature have to be about ES?

No.

[Spiney]

I've started writing a series (before the comp started) but do you think it would be better to write a stand-alone piece for the Competition?

[Generalno1]

Come on guys, i said all questions in the intro thread, it'll be annoying to collect entries.
And it can be anything, though a stand alone piece might be good, but Kessie submitted a series for his

[Hadrianus]

Here is mine its not rough anymore, i just checkid it for spelling and grammar problems, it appears to be immaculate

Spoiler:

The Black Sacrament

I am besotted, consumed in the need for retribution; he had destroyed my heart, crippling my sanity, he will soon feel the pain I feel. He has driven me to this….

The basement feels darker than usual, surely due to my trepidation. It feels as though the walls are accusing me of preparing this malevolent rite. I had just finished setting out the wax candles around me in a semi-circle before my mind began to switch, what if I get caught? What if something goes wrong?

No, nothing really matters anymore; I've already gone to the trouble of obtaining an effigy, a skull, which I stole from a shelf in the Mages Guild, so I'm going to finish this. I'm going to finish him.

I sullenly place the empty skull between the semi-circle of wax stumps, my stomach twists into a sickening movement as I swallow back acidic bile, leaving a burning sensation at the back of my throat.

It is then I get an uneasy feeling that someone has entered the room under the cloak of unreality, I straighten my posture as if making a first impression for the unknown observer, and the seriousness of what I'm doing dawns on me.

I flick a match to life, penetrating the darkness of which my eyes had become accustomed to in the previous three hours. They narrow at the abrupt intrusion, and I resist the urge to close them completely, and curl up into a ball.

I manage to light the first candle before a cold shift in the air snuffs out the match, I involuntarily gasp, freezing dead-still in an attempt to remain composed. I pick up the first lit candle with trembling hands and ignite the other nine stumps.

The flickers of fire sing a silent keen of madness in my head, illuminating the skull from different angles. My eyes catch on the blackness of the empty sockets punctured into the skull, the blackness that appears to be slowly creeping out towards me, reaching for me, beckoning me to continue the ritual, trying to sever the last strand of humanity in me.

My stomach churns audibly, twisting beneath my skin in agonizing self-hatred.

I bring the dormant knife waiting beside me to hand, and begin to rub a flower of nightshade over the blade. I accidentally inflict a shallow cut on my index finger. The poison from the nightshade stings my hand, but I suppress the pain, for it is nothing in contrast to the mental suffering he has caused me.

I lift the skull to my lap and begin carving the required glyph into the back. I take from my pocket a small piece of parchment containing the ritual words, and break the deafening silence of the crowded basement as I begin to chant the evocation.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear." I swallow back more bile as the need to vomit magnifies.

I fall silent. My ears twitch at the sound of a distant, elongated drum ominously vibrating in the claustrophobic atmosphere of my basement. The skull slowly rises from the ground and ceases its ascension at head height, I stand up quickly and wait for what is to come next.

The vacant sockets in the skull begin to fill with what appears to be Dunmeri-red eyes, then everything around starts to swirl in towards the area of the skull. Darkness gathers to make layers upon layers of obscured nothingness, manifesting into a shrouded body. My notion proves correct as a face becomes visible, it is Dunmer.

"Who do you wish dead madam?" The voice circles like a predator sizing up its prey, and the bluntly un-romanticized statement penetrates my conscience. My upper torso lunges forward in reflex as I vomit; spilling my acids between the spectre and myself.

"Regret?" The Dunmer inquires after calmly observing my cretinous act.

"No!" I gasp, bile dripping down my chin. I straighten to meet his eyes, "Primo Antonius, I wish him dead."

The Dunmer stares back at me for a while, his expression not betraying anything save a slight acknowledgment. "It is done."

"What do you mean?" I reply reluctantly.

"He is already dead madam, therefore you may withhold your payment."

My mind tips over, as my mental-universe crumbles.

"….Wh-what...." I desperately stutter.

"He died but five days ago, by the brotherhood in fact, an uncanny coincidence." He muses.

I am stupefied, my mouth twitches uncontrollably as it tries to shape words, but clamps down shut in a hopeless whimper as I give up.

"Good day madam." The shrouded man collapses into himself and disappears, leaving just the skull to fall to the ground lifeless once again, shattering sharply upon the floor.

I am left staring at the de-animated remnant, broken uselessly, reduced from nothing to something lesser; a scattering of fragmented death. Now he will never know my pain, he was meant to die by my terms, but now he is lost forever. And I am completely abandoned to the mercy of myself.

My mind closes over. I pick up a lit candle and rise from my bloody knees, proceeding upstairs with a single intention. I arrive in the dining area, placing the radiant candle on the table, I set my eyes upon the wine rack, picking out my favourite vintage - Surilie Brothers - I unscrew the lid and take a whisk from the hefty bottle. Endulging in the spoils of upper-class luxuries.

I pause before hurling the opened bottle across the room, watching the thin trailing of wine swirl through the air, it smashes into fragments against the wall, releasing a liquid burst, then splatting to the floor.

I lose myself in a frenzy as I pick out every bottle and heave it with all the strength a middle aged woman can muster into the walls and furnishings around me. Once all the bottles are destroyed. I steadily spin around, gauging the mess, the once immaculate room, now glossy and sparkling with wine and pieces of glass, is ready.

Taking a seat at the dining table, I retrieve the candle. After taking a long hard stare at the tiny flame, I throw it across the room, immolating the flammable substance coating my surroundings. The flames rise up and surround me. I flinch at the sudden heat.

I forcefully kill off the last remaining scraps of reality in my mind, surrendering to my fate. The flames dance morbidly around me, grinning as they close in. The heat becomes too intense and my skin yields as it begins to bloom into dark reds and browns. A scream escapes my mouth, but it isn't me, for my mind is already lost.

I sit back in my outer-body, listening to the screeching dirge of my physical agony.

My body writhes and shreeks on the ground, combining with the bubble and crack of my flesh to produce an elegy of abysmal despair.

Betrayed, is my love.

Forlorn, is my screams.

For no-one can hear them.

I don't exist. Anymore.

[r]

Here's mine, then.

Spoiler:

Morrowind - Clothing, Ale and Lute Census
A report by Erris Spires, Wandering Minstrel


I've always wondered what the difference between 'treble' and 'triple' might be. I myself am a firm believer that 'triple' is three of something, such as three shots of whisky in a glass, and 'treble' is three times something, such as the treble 20 on a dartboard. It is a rule in our favourite watering hole, the Foaming Flask Inn in the Imperial City, that anybody managing a treble treble 20, that is, the mythical score of one hundred and eighty, is given a drink on the house. Myself and melodeon maverick Ancius Carro both managed this feat one night - red hot lutist Mercator Paulus, player of the racket Emie Caranne and drum-banger Avalg, who thankfully never indulges in traditional Argonian music, not being so lucky. After sufficient drink we decided, for some reason, that taking our music to Vvardenfell might be a good idea.

I should introduce the tools of our trade to those not familiar with them - the melodeon is a squeezebox, a relative of the accordion and the racket is a very long pipe wrapped around itself in a complex pattern to make it shorter but much wider, and obviously makes a very deep, er, racket. I stick with the fiddle and the humble human voice myself - I cannot make any sort of racket on a racket and I find the keys of the melodeon to feel far too like something from the control booth of a Dwarven forge to be playable. We all met via advertisements placed in the back of the Black Horse Courier - the first advert in that section has been 'A Able Accordionist' for as long as I can remember...

Seyda Neen is where we arrived first, and being a harbour town is the only place where it might be acceptable to play a sea shanty. It is also a town devoid of any proper drinking establishments, the top floor of a shop not counting. So, we set up outside the Tradehouse and started playing (the set did indeed include a sea shanty) and raised enough money to be able to afford the Silt Strider fare to Balmora. The journey to Balmora, particularly on a foggy day, is particularly bleak by Silt Strider, involving a wade up the rather barren Odai river (having crossed a lava flow first, which is supposedly dormant but was full of enough boiling mud to suggest otherwise). Luckily, there is a fiddle tune for all occasions, this one needing a slow air from the wilds of Skyrim, taught to me by a Nord piper in Bruma once. So, if you ever hear traditional Nordic music being played by a Silt Strider skipper in Vvardenfell, you have me to hold responsible for it.

Balmora is an extremely pleasant town, one of the most friendly places in Vvardenfell provided one avoids the more seedy areas (these are anywhere along the south wall - there's obviously something about the prevalence of sunlight there that gets to people). Ancius and Mercator decided to humour a rather shady-looking Dunmer chap, who we later discovered went under the even shadier-sounding moniker of Fast Eddie, and bought a liquor of an indeterminate nature off him that made them slightly less performance-ready than they usually were. Never before have I heard the West Weald Hornpipe, a very simple tune, played so badly. Anyway, after about an hour or so of trawling the town's public houses, we eventually stood in the corner of the Eight Plates for a few hours playing, earning a princely 100 drakes each. Since Balmora is at the heart of the Hlaalu district, and therefore quite open-minded and liberal, the populace (mostly Dunmer natives and Imperial, Nord and Orc fighters from the Legion fort down the road) did seem to enjoy us. One chap asked Avalg where he could hear more music like ours, and was instructed to go to any pub in Cyrodiil on any night of the week... I also managed to use the intoxicating power of a lute ayre to seduce a stunning Bosmer girl from the Mages' Guild. Classy, I know... Mercator managed to get into a fight with two Bretons, snap a string on his lute, lose the money he had been paid for the performance and end up getting chased down Market Street by a local nobleman, a record that even I haven't managed to top after too many bottles of Tamika's West Weald Wine.

Playing mostly in Imperial towns may have seemed a bit of a cop-out, especially as we moved about half a mile to Moonmoth Legion Fort the next evening, but eventually we ended up in Ebonheart, the fishing village of Hla Oad being totally devoid of pretty much everything, apart from for some reason a travelling merchant selling fine silk shirts - Ancius is a trader by trade back in the City and discreetly identified them as stolen very quickly, hinting that we might wish to go out there. Our de facto uniform of checked shirts and breeches for the gents and Colovian frocks for the female element also seemed to serve us well enough. Getting to Hla Oad involved a rather eventful climb over the Odai plateau and through the swamplands but Avalg, being a percussionist, proved adept enough with blunt instruments to fight off any wildlife that fancied an early lunch. The ferry to Ebonheart also managed to liven up the day by having a rudder that seemed to owe quite a lot to Nordic steel mill engineering, meaning we careered across the Sea Of Ghosts in a very ungraceful series of sharp bends.

Ebonheart is Imperial through and through, the Six Fishes Inn being the sort of place we ended up pretty much every night in Cyrodiil. There was a definite class divide in the town, the inn being attended by rich councillors from the Council Chambers and salt-of-the-earth fishermen, who thankfully all seemed to be well-versed enough in Imperial music to sing along to the inevitable sea shanties, turning the standard "Way-ey, haul 'er away!" refrain into a rousing battle cry. I have to say that that night we sounded brilliant - myself and Ancius were tremendously tight, trading tunes off each other, letting each other take the lead, the vocals echoed nicely around the stone-clad tavern and Mercator, Emie and Avalg proved a solid and dependable rhythm section. The freshly gushing Cyrodiilic ale on tap was also a welcome reprise from the liquors available in Balmora, which remain something of an acquired taste. We somehow managed to meet Duke Vedam Dren, the duke (obviously) of Vvardenfell. His quarters were surprisingly accessible and poorly-guarded, and he gave us the customary speech about welcoming us to the great province. It didn't seem that great to me - what I had seen of it was predominantly brown.

For the next three nights we played around Vivec, which was something of a cultural eye-opener. The Imperialised and Hlaalu folk were receptive to our rackets (but never once a racket solo, I promise), the Redoran people were simply glad to have something to do since most of them lived in Ald-Ruhn, the most remote and worst of the four major cities of Vvardenfell. The Telvanni canton's drinking establishments, however, didn't seem to care much for Imperial folk music and at one point we beat a hasty retreat, having stripped down a set of tunes that normally nudges the fifteen-minute mark down to about three. By the time we'd collected our fee and left, a wizened old Dunmer had commenced banging a guarskin drum in some strange polyrhythm - different tastes, I suppose. One spectacularly drunken Nord in this inn (which was unusual in itself - House Telvanni seems to be almost entirely Dunmer) let us know exactly what he thought of us very loudly - "Di yae ken I could sing better in ma wee bath?"

It has to be said, though, that Vivec is a marvellous city. We visited the St. Delyn Canton, with its great Craftsmens' Hall, where we decked ourselves out in new clothes, and Ancius bought himself a concertina, which is yet another squeezebox instrument, and Mercator decided he wanted to take up the mandola and bought one of those as well. Impressively, he had his chops up sufficiently to lead us through a few tunes on it that night, and spent his earnings on what is colloquially known over there as a 'fat lute' - no, I don't know either. On one particularly clear morning, whilst busking outside the Temple, we were offered a simply remarkable view down the grand central canal across all seven of the great city's cantons, lit stunningly by the sun rising behind the Palace. With the sound of the city's ancient waterfalls echoing through the canals, it was an awe-inspiring sight.

The Hole In The Wall in Sadrith Mora should actually be called 'The Clique' - it's the sort of pub where someone will tell you not to stand at that part of the bar because 'that's where Cathnalian stands and he'll be here in a minute', and if you disagree with them (or are not from Sadrith Mora) they will invite you outside for a spot of pugilism. It even seemed to have the Dunmer equivalent of the same man who seems to be in every single Imperial City tavern - the man in the pink linens who regales far-from-interesting stories and refers to his betrothed as 'the wife'. We should have known that the night would not end well. For the first few songs we were treated with nothing but mild indifference, but as the songs went on and the horrible Dunmer liqueurs began to flow more freely, the crowd became a little more rowdy. There were no drunken Nords shouting unintelligibly this time, but when someone threw a pint pot made from very thick glass at us (ably deflected by Avalg and his big drum thing) we decided to flee with our tails firmly between our legs, on the first ship that would get us as close to Cyrodiil as we could manage. It was nice to end up back in Anvil, another town that can appreciate the beauty of a sea shanty.

So, on our adventure we learned one crucial lesson - despite the Septim Dynasty's attempts at colonisation in the Grey Isle, the Dunmer are not ready for Imperial culture quite yet.

[Woolymammoth]

I'll submit this, I guess, since Dark Lord bugged me to do so. It's the first chapter. I didn't know about the competition until today, and this was written, ah, 7 months ago? Anyhow, enjoy. I'll be posting more of the fanfiction work shortly.

Spoiler:

The Burning Shadow

“Men know their doom, but not their hour…” -Emperor Uriel Septim VII


Prologue:

Chapter 1: In the Eyes of Darkness

Streaks of faint brightness slid their way across the floorboards, hiding into the desolate corners. The house looked like any other of the city, but it was more than just that. Everyone thought Claud was just a retired merchant, but what they did not know did not hurt them. The house lead into the usual den-room, where a wrapping left turn would take you to a basement; it wasn't really a basement.

The house looked like a usual thing, cabinets and paintings on the walls, along with certain multi-cultural textures. A desk sat in the main room, where to the far back a black-haired Imperial was stuck checking his papers. He wore a green vest-jacket with ivory strings, which collared in the back. He looked as a merchant; he even sounded like one too. After all, he used to be one. Nowadays, he earned more pay with his new occupation, which often was recalled as a scholar. People respected him, never bothered the man. That was just the way he wanted it.

A Redguard approached from the basement, eying the merchant suspiciously. His dark, smooth hair contrasted the wall’s rusty white color well, and his dark Raga skin followed suit. A bladed crossbow hung nervously tied about his back, boasting its wicked and curved blades to all that came through the household. The faint window light melted into the dark leather which veiled his skin.

"Any word from Renal?"

Claud looked back at the assassin. It really hadn't occurred to him. Renal hadn’t shown up in several days. He had just recently come back from Morrowind, the obvious warzone for any of their type.

"No, he left last week. I'm sorry for not being here last night for your arrival. You just got in late, and I was already upstairs. This week has been quite a busy one, that new listener filling us with his usual complaining...”

Jamaal eased his brow back, and relaxed his facial muscles. The brotherhood was such a burden at some moments. Even the lesser of the evils would turn up dead, blood painted on the stone of Dunmeri buildings and Imperial buildings alike. He then responded to Claud, who now held his hand onto his forehead.

"It will be fine, he just has to learn the ropes. He was appointed quite quickly..."

Claud gazed back at Jamaal, now being alarmed with thought. He had been so hazy; it was as if his energy was kicking in, finally filling his body and washing his mind.

"It is good to stay out of Morrowind. You know how the Tong is. You want to stay out of their territory. Renal should be back in a week or two, no worries. You've been sleeping all day, and you traveled all of yesterday. Go to the tavern and relax. Tell Shaleez to go with you. He has been stressed out more than me lately, staying up the length of the night reading his little books..."

Claud now looked a bit repressive, and Jamaal was relieved. Even though he usually didn’t consume alcohol, he would have probably gotten a small drink, even if the man hadn’t suggested it. The Imperial took the papers and straightened them, refocusing himself.

"I'll be there in some time. Take these septims. For now, I have business to attend to."

The basement door creaked, and a small Argonian voice came with it. He was a mostly orange scaled figure, with a light green line streaking down his odd face. His screeching lizard voice came out in a wild fashion. He had just awoken from his deep slumber as well, and his eyes lit up. A big grin latched onto his face.

"Jamaal!"

Then the lizard eyed Claud suspiciously, seeing the table cluttered in different things, the shiny septims atop it.

"Well then, to the tavern. Andrel is already there!"

Jamaal let out a breath of air, eying his old friend with a smile. Shaleez often showed urgency after staying up all night reading and sleeping late, but his studies paid off. He even passed knowledge to the different members. It was often that the members would discuss scholarly things, making them look more like the Imperial Mages Guild than anything close to the Dark Brotherhood. In a quick moment, Jamaal nodded his head at Claud in a silent "Thank you", and the two were off.

The gleaming sunlight shot down in contrast against Jamaal’s dark eyes, as his hands reassured his eyes immediate safety from the lustrous sunlight. The duo made their way into the cold streets. A gathered crowd stood around the doors of a nearby tavern, which were guarded by Legion soldiers. The crowd shook in a sounding despair, as the legion watch pulled their fake, serious masks from their heads. Jamaal made his way into the commoners, who seemed to be in panic. There was not usually this much commotion in the district square. Luckily, Claud lived on one of the pathways. Jamaal pushed his way along, and approached the legion soldier.

"What's going on here, sir?"

The legion soldier stood up tall, his fake mask grasped in seriousness. He tightened his chin up, the words hitting into the air like artillery fire.

"An Altmer was murdered a few hours ago…a few of the citizens saw a man in blue robes walk by him just before he fell over and…died…”

The guard paused, saddening his face at his sight of failure to the citizens. He took a stare into the sky momentarily, and then resumed speaking.

“We tried to catch him… but the damn university is touring the districts. They all wore blue robes. We couldn't catch him."

Andrel was dead. Shaleez’s knowledgeable companion had now fallen to a certain death at the hands of an unknown figure. Jamaal now began to wonder if anyone else would be targeted by these killers. It was unlikely Andrel had died at the hands of personal reasoning.

A thousand thoughts scurried their way across Jamaal’s mind as specks of sand moving across windy beaches. Perhaps if he would have shown up a day earlier, he could have prevented death from taking its hold, or at least have uncovered death’s clutches. The most important speck of sand latched into the earth, not withering away into the distant wind: the killers had known he wasn’t going to be there. The only thing he questioned was the probability of it all. The last of thoughts hit Jamaal, the worst of them all.

Is Renal dead too?

Shaleez, now looking into the sky, shouted, shoving Jamaal into the crowd. An arrow flew beneath his head.

"Shaleez, run!"

[Jakarius321]

Hm, why not. Here's a short poem I rattled together.

Spoiler:

They

They congregate in darkness
To deliver Death his fill
They shape it and craft it
Bend it to their will
Though they hide not in shadows
As they fear no blade nor name
The silent stalkers whisper words
Extinguishing life's flame

As the new day dawns around them
The shadow is their friend
They bleed into the canvas
Of an otherwise perfect world

But come the dark
The living dark
The hunt begins again
The shadows converge
And they emerge
And Death begins to dine

It might not be a story, it might have taken 15 minutes to write, but hey this is a fun comp!

[Kestral]

Consider the first part of my series as my entry.

[Veck]

Right, here's mine. It's really cheesy and badly written, I know, but I wanted to participate, and I just couldn't hold back with the references. I might carry on with it, if anyone shows any interest in it whatsoever.

Spoiler:

The young boy sniffed as he examined the rather fishy stick of food his grandfather had handed him. The old man laughed when he saw the boy's inquisitiveness.

"'Tis an old recipe I learned back in the day," the old man explained, his husky voice cutting through the silence like a daedric knife through a sweetroll. "I used to have a grand profession, greeting newcomers to towns and telling them ancient fables."

The boy's eyes lit up as he heard this. "Can you tell me a story gwampa?" he asked quietly.

A look of embarassment crossed the boy's face when the old man let out another heaving chuckle at his request. "Of course, dear boy!" he smiled, "Been a while since I told a good story to anyone. Gather round, and I'll tell ye the story of a great warrior! Gilles de Alcaire!"

Gilles de Alcaire- A tale of 1337 h4x0ring

There are many tales of great fighters in the history of Tamriel, but few of these are about the Bretons. Well known for their docile nature and magical preferences, the denizens of High Rock rarely produce great swordsmen or warlords worthy of song. But there are of course those who elevate themselves above all others and carve their name in blood across the land. Gilles of Alcaire was one of these.

Born to a wealthy family, Gilles's father made his living through an enchanted chest he had discovered in a nearby cave. Every three days his father, a grizzled mage, would battle his way through the goblins that infested the cavern to reach this glorious chest, and would find it filled with jewels, armour and weapons, which he would sell to the nearby stores. From an early age Gilles was shown to be a very charismatic and brave boy, and his intelligence surpassed most children of his age. But this meant nothing to his family, for the boy showed no skill in harnessing magic.

"No, no, no!" his father would shout at him, just a boy, as he failed to cast a spell once again. "You need to concentrate! Feel the magicka flowing through your veins, and focus it! Anyone can cast a fireball!"

But no matter how many times Gilles tried, not one spell ever manifested itself in his mind. This persisted until his sixteenth birthday. By this time, he had grown into a grand and handsome man, skilled in swordplay and speechcraft. But his father was disgusted and shamed by his son's lack of magical ability, and he threw him out into the wilderness of Alcaire.

Bewildered and shocked by his newfound poverty, Gilles wandered across the plains of his land, eventually finding work in a Fighter's Guild near Orsinium. This guild hall was let by an Orc known as Barg-gro-Shaddok.

"Huhu, look at the high and mighty Breton over there," Barg whispered to an enormous Nord. "I swear, they're letting anyone into the guild these days. I bet with the way things are going, a combat novice could get from Associate to Master in a few weeks!" The Nord, not one to string a sentence together unless absolutely necessary, returned Barg's comment with an amused grunt.

"Alright ladies!" the disillusioned Orc called out to the new recruits, Gilles included. "You may think that our Guild is all about smashing the scary monster's head in and getting paid, but it's never that simple! There's a lot of tedious paperwork and strategy involved in every mission! 'He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious.' Sun-gro-Tzu said that, and I think he knows a bit more about combat than all of you, because he invented it!"

The Orc veteran smirked as he eyed the new recruits. "You will not survive if you don't use your mind. This job is about using your mind to win, not just running like a madman into a mine full of trolls and trying to kill them all! Now, for your first assignment, I need you to run into a mine full of trolls and kill one."

Two days later, Gilles found himself standing outside the mentioned cave with five other warriors. He looked around him at his comrades in arms. They were all unsympathetic looking Nords, Orcs, Imperials, warrior races, all clearly well trained in combat and fearless. He wondered to himself how he could stand alongside these men far greater than him, but this idle thought was soon dismissed when the charge was initiated. It was a few seconds later when our Breton hero first understood the horrors of war.

The trolls were huge. Gilles had always heard tales of these hulking, three eyed monsters, but never before had he seen one in the gruesome flesh. Its hairy skin covered in slime and blood, it knocked him to the ground before he had the chance to draw his sword. Just as it lifted its claw and prepared to strike a killing blow, an arrow from one of the recruits pierced its abdomen, causing it to unleash a bloodcurdling roar that covered our hero in its boiling saliva, and to leap off his struggling form to charge at the assailant. One by one, the warriors charged at the beast, and all were quickly torn to pieces by its titanic strength. Soon, just two fighters remained, Gilles and the hulking Nord that Barg had spoken to earlier.

"Hunh," the Nord grunted through his Dwemer visor as he looked at the bloodshed. The troll turned to face him, all three of its eyes bloodshot with rage. Gilles took this opportunity to grab his sword and scramble into the corner of the room. He watched in amazement as these two mighty foes began their charges.

Wht happened next could only be described as horrible. The Nord, though powerful and fearless, found his hammer blows against the Troll useless. All the shock appeared to be absorbed by its thick hide, a defense which he unfortunately did not possess. After a short amount of time, he found his energy wasted, and the Troll bore down on him for a final blow. The Nord collapsed to the floor, partially clipping through a nearby rock. The troll, unaware of Gilles' prescence, tirned away from the dead and shuffled towards its corner.

The terrified Breton glanced around at the corpses of his former comrades. Five young warriors, potential heroes and saviours of Tamriel had been laid to waste by one deadly monster. Any other man would have used every bit of strength remaining to run for dear life back to civilisation, away from this horror. But our hero refused to let the troll out of his sight. He felt drawn towards it, as if it was his duty to battle it here. The creature glanced around when it heard the Breton unsheath his sword, but by then it was too late.

Gilles was lightning fast in both mind and body. Keeping the words of Barg in his head, he attacked only when necessary, strafing when the Troll retaliated and watching its every move to understand its mindset and recognise its strategy. His sword, while only Steel, cut with the force and determination of the Breton and was just capable of penetrating the hide of the green beast. After a long and tiring fight, Gilles stood over the corpse of his vanquished foe.

Barg-gro-Shaddok was astonished when he saw any of the recruits return alive at all, let alone the leather-clad Breton he had ridiculed earlier. After collecting the bounty for the troll, Gilles announced that he did not like the pointless death and horror behind the Guild, and that he had no desire to continue working with them. The strange figure then turned his back to the astonished Orc, wrapped himself around his cloak and walked over to the nearby town, the evening sunset brilliantly flashing orange streaks across his skin.

[The Raven]

Veck, ffs. Sun gro-Tzu ... I love it ;D
Might post mine by tomorrow...

[Arch-Mage Matt]

So I found a solution to my lengthy writing problem, I cut it in thirds, this is part one. Although this would be not as exciting as I'd like, remember it's just the start of a story. Please don't be vicious...

Note that is never made clear in the story, but it is set in midevil times.

Spoiler:

Time: A Story of Magic, Chapter One: I Teach the Bully a Lesson

I sat in the room, wondering when I would be freed from Mrs. Ednessing’s horrid teaching. To pass the time, I started to daydream.

I thought about my eyes turning bright purple over night, and having the power to lift items with my mind, like my father.

I imagined my eyes turning silver, and me having the power to summon gusts of wind to blow my foes away.

But I imagine you need some explaining before I really blow your mind.

See, where I live, The Northern Kingdom of Nervell, everyone possesses a… special ability.

You see, we’re all magic. We all have our own magic ability, each one powerful in its own way. The only way to tell that we have powers from looking at us is by seeing our eyes, which reflect our power. Like, a water mage’s eyes would be blue, or sea green. A nature mage’s eyes would be light green, or brown. A telekinesis mage (someone who can move things with their mind, like my father)’s eyes would be purple. I hope you get the idea.
Most mages develop early, one even burped fire when he was a baby, I hear. But some… like me… don’t show powers for a long time, or ever. I’m fourteen, and haven’t shown that I have a single ounce of magic in me. It’d be easy to tell if my eyes were fiery red, but no. My eyes are evergreen. Nobody really knows what that means, since no one’s eyes are the same color. So that means I don’t get trained as a mage in my class, but I get put in “remedial magic courses” where they train us history so we can be scholars. Some choose not to so they can be the few soldiers in the Northern Kingdom. But I chose classes, and got stuck with Mrs. Ednessing, who is eighty years old and a scholar, meaning she has no powers.

“Mr. Grove?” Mrs. Ednessing said slowly. My name was Theodore Grove, by the way. Friends called me ‘Theo’. I was average enough, maybe a bit taller than someone my age, with longish curly light brown hair, going just past my ears. “Are you listening to me? Maybe you’d like to repeat to the class what I just said about Gunter Horn?” Since I had no idea who Gunter Horn was, or what kind of strange name was Gunter, I looked down and mumbled “No, Mrs. Ednessing.” She scowled at me. “I suspected so, Mr. Grove. Now, back to actual work... does anyone know why we are at war with the Southern Kingdom?” Everyone made themselves smaller by cowering behind their desks, so Mrs. Ednessing wouldn’t pick them. But one girl, with pink eyes, huge glasses, and big dark-red pigtails raised her hand and said “I know, Mrs. Ednessing!” The old lady smiled. “Ah, yes, of course you do, Abigail. Please, tell the class.”
Abigail Fleming, the know-it-all-but-knows-nothing-about-her-powers, explained “Three hundred years ago, The land of Nervell decided that they would split up into four kingdoms, north, south, east, and west so they could manage their land better. The decided rulers of these new Kingdoms would be Gunter Horn in the north, Jay Savage in the south, Delilah Rhodes in the west, and Oscar Green to the east.”
“The North and the South,” she explained, “Grew much more powerful than the east and the west. To farther the power of the Southern Kingdom, in desperation to finally win the power struggle with The North Kingdom, Jay Savage ordered his men to scout out remote part of the continent. That’s when he discovered the secret of Magic. It is said that it was an orb made by the gods, hidden away in a cave, and when used it would give an entire land the power of magic. But it could only be used on a full moon, which was two days away from the time he found it.”

Mrs. Ednessing nodded. “Yes, it was also said that a magical witch appeared and told this all to Savage’s men. That's purely a myth, though. To this day, no one knows exactly how they found out about the Orb. By then –“ Abigail raised her hand. “Mrs. Ednessing! I wasn’t done!” Mrs. Ednessing nodded and let her continue.

“By then, Gunter’s spies told him about this, and he went over to the Southern Kingdom himself. He had a royal dinner with Jay, and in the middle of the meal, he sneaked out of the dining hall and broke into Jay’s royal quarters, where the Magic Orb was lying unprotected. He stole it, then hastily made his retreat to The Northern Kingdom. Jay sent soldiers after it, but they were kept at bay. Then, at the full moon, Gunter shone the orb over his palace, and everyone in the Northern Kingdom gained Magic abilities. Ever since, the powerless Southern Kingdom has been at war with us. The Magic Thieves.”

Mrs. Ednessing smiled. “Aah. Wonderful, Abigail, dear. You are correct. But, as you know, Gunter was not the ‘bad guy’. He acquired the Orb to help his Kingdom flourish.” To me, that sounded like a pretty lame excuse. Gunter was a greedy thief, simple as that. It might have been a bad way to think about the founder of our Kingdom, but it’s how I think.

Mrs. Ednessing went on. “Now, class, let’s delve into the amazing subject of the Northern Kingdom’s supply of grain…”
Later that day, it was nearing the end of class. Mrs. Ednessing gave us a five minute brake to “refresh our young, eager minds” as she put it. I was sitting in the corner, talking to my friend, Henry. Since he was in the class with me, Henry was also a defect. His eyes, however were, unique. They actually changed color to match whoever he looked at. When he looked at me, his eyes were evergreen. When he looked at Mrs. Ednessing, his eyes turned a misty gray. When he looked at Abigail, his eyes turned pink (which was fun to laugh at). We talked to each other for a while. He was fixed on the subject of gaining his magic, which was his lifelong dream. “I’m telling ya’, man.” He said, “I know my powers are gonna kick in soon. I can feel it. Really! I can. It’ll just be a matter of time before I’m out of here. I-“ Before he could continue, he looked up behind me. His eyes turned dark red. I knew what that meant. I turned around and looked, and it was none other than the classroom bully, Cory Reed. “See ya later, Theo.” Said my faithful pal, and he slipped away.
“So, Grove. Here we are again.” He then laughed cruelly. You see, Cory and me usually had this meeting every break time. He’d come up to me, I’d crack a joke about him, and he’d punch me a few times. I grimaced, and said “Yep. Cory, I see your still looking the same. Like… Mrs. Ednessing, yeah.”

Cory smiled a ghoulish smile. “So funny, Grove.” He got close to me, and wound up for a punch. I cowered. “No!” I screamed. I threw up my hands, took a step back, and waited for a punch to come. It didn’t. I looked up. “Cory…?” He wasn’t there. “Er… Cory? Where are you?” I looked around. He wasn’t there. I gingerly edged towards the wall, looking for him. “Where’d he go?” I thought. At this point, Henry came up to me. “Dude? What happened to Cory? Did ya scare him off?” He chuckled. “No, Henry,” I said. “I don’t know what happened. He came close to me… then…” I started to finish my sentence, but suddenly, where Cory vanished, the air distorted, and turned slightly green. Then, with a ‘Whomp!’ Cory himself appeared out of thin air and landed on his butt. He wildly looked around. He pointed at me. “You! Aaah! Get away!” He then got up and ran out of the classroom. Mrs. Ednessing got up from her seat when she heard Cory slam the door shut. “What is going on here?” She demanded. I mumbled “I… I don’t know.”

The class dismissed and I walked out with Henry. He didn’t know what to make of what happened either. “Man, I think you just got your powers.” He said. “You’re so lucky! I’d give anything to get my powers… anything.” He looked at me with a longing expression on his face. All I could do is shrug and say “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t feel like anything happened.”

Later, at home, I was with my dad. He was about fifty, a pretty short guy with an ‘extended belly’. He had graying, slightly balding brown hair. I lived alone with him, in a fairly big house. Unlike me, as I mentioned earlier, he is a powerful magic user. He can lift things with his mind… including people, and swords. That’s why he serves front-line in the military.
Anyway, when he isn’t doing that, he has a full time job of my dad. And, like usual dads, they ask you how was school today. This time, however, I didn’t know what to tell him. “Um… dad, it was… interesting.” He smiled. “Oh? Well, if you don’t want to tell me, it’s fine.”
He then walked away, but then our magic mirror glowed. Magic Mirrors serve as our communication, if someone is talking into one side, they can reach anyone else who owns another.
My dad touched the mirror. “Hello?” The face of our school secretary appeared. “Hello, Walter Grove? The school needs you and Theodore down here immediately for a meeting. Goodbye.” My dad turned towards me. “I’ll ask again… how was your day at school?”

In the school’s office, there sat Mrs. Ednessing in front of me and my dad, and Cory Reed and his parents. “Well, Mr. Grove. May I call you Walter?” My dad looked at me nervously. “Yeah… yes, …?”
Mrs. Ednessing smiled. “Lucile. Lucile Ednessing.” Ugh. Teachers should not have first names, it makes them sound… human.
My dad spoke up, and finally asked the question that was on both of our minds. “So, why has Theo been called down here today, Lucile?”
Mrs. Ednessing sighed. “Well, for you to hear this, you will need to hear Mr. Cory Reed’s story.”
Cory shifted uncomfortably. “W-well, I was sitting down during break, minding my own business,” Cory’s mom grabbed his shoulders. “Cory!” She hissed. Cory looked down. “Ok, I was picking on Theo… and right in the middle of it, I poofed off into some odd place.” Mrs. Ednessing nodded. “What kind of place, Cory?” “A very scary place, it was all off. Houses were rearranged, I could swear I saw Abigail Fleming, but as an old woman. I mean, who else has pink eyes? I was about to go up to her, when it seemed the whole world shook and I appeared back in the classroom. It’s true.” I was shocked. What had happened? Did I do the unthinkable? Did I… use my powers, for the first time ever?

Mrs. Ednessing nodded. “Yes. Quite peculiar. You see, Walter, I think Theo discovered his powers. Powerful powers, if I might add.” My dad looked at Cory’s parents. “I’m sorry for what my son did. I hope I can make up for it.” Cory’s mom smiled kindly. “No, the least we can do is forget about the whole thing, since we just found Cory here,” She squeezed Cory’s shoulders sternly, “Was picking on your son for a while. Consider them even, now.” It was odd logic, but I guess it was for the better. With that, Cory and his parents were dismissed.
“So, Lucile,” My dad said, “What’ll happen to Theo?” “Well,” said Mrs. Ednessing, “He will not be going to my classes anymore.” My mouth dropped. I was being expelled? “He will not be going to my class anymore, because he is being moved to advanced magic class. We believe that Theo has the power to control time itself.”

To Be Continued...

[The Tom]

I made a DeviantArt account! Now it's going to need some new art, but first-

Swedes and Americans?

Couple of sweary bits but we're all mature.

[Spiney]

I was going to submit my short story that I need to do for my Advanced English assessment. But unfortunately I haven't even started it. So here's some prose of the top of my head.

Spoiler:

The Tank Poem

I am a tank. Life is hard.
Crushing skulls and eating lard.
I am larger than life and I wield a big knife.
Out in the field my best friend is my shield.
It is the dividing line between me and the divine.

EDIT: By tank I mean MMORPG Tank.

[The Raven]

I made a DeviantArt account! Now it's going to need some new art, but first-

Swedes and Americans?

Couple of sweary bits but we're all mature.

We need to make a DA account for it

[The Tom]

I only made one because I was going to anyway and thought I might as well start now.