I am looking for complete stories with conflict and resolution. The deadline is December 31st at 11:59 PM EST.Quote:
Is your character in the proverbial Nice List or Naughty List? What action or choice tipped the scale one way or the other?
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I am looking for complete stories with conflict and resolution. The deadline is December 31st at 11:59 PM EST.Quote:
Is your character in the proverbial Nice List or Naughty List? What action or choice tipped the scale one way or the other?
"You're a bad man, Tobias Stalt."
Crashing thunder shook the sky as he turned to glance toward the voice. Rainwater and fresh blood drooled off his blade as the torrent assailed him, but Tobias seemed indifferent. Her face twisted as her tears were stolen by the storm. "I looked up to you."
Behind him, the frail form of a man shuddered. Crimson sloshed from a gaping wound, and the cold kissed him as the heavens ushered him home. "You followed me." His words came like a decree, not as a question. "You should not have done that, Lora."
Radasanth towered over them, home to thousands, but the two were in a world of their own. "My mother loves you," Lora spoke with venom, her words accusing. Tobias sighed. "You gave us money. You kept the tavern alive when we were going to be in the streets." The girl dared to take a step forward. Silky auburn tresses fell from her hood as she peeled it away. "Is this how you did it?"
"Business is business."
"This isn't business," she pointed to the corpse, "this is murder."
Tobias did not turn to look at his work. He did not offer her words of condolence, excuses, or even justification. Instead, the Mercenary pointed. "Go home."
"You're not my father!" she cried out. Tobias watched her quietly. "As much as she loves you, my mother would never be alright with this lifestyle, Tobias. You have to know that. Men like you make enemies. Men like you don't make homes, they tear them apart!" She gulped down a sob between yells. "My father... he took a contracts to make money for us."
Lora's voice became soft. "Mother... she always thought he would come back. And he did, the first time." Lora stepped closer to him, but Tobias did not move. "After he came back, everything was different. He was always watching his back. He looked over his shoulder at every meal, as if he expected someone to come after him. Every time he left the house, I wondered if he would come back safely."
"Then, one day, he stopped." His jaw clenched, and Tobias felt his heart freeze. The ice in his chest felt colder than all the warmth Jara and Lora had ever given him. "He stopped coming home. A man came back to the tavern with word that he had been killed. Line of duty, maybe. We never heard how it happened."
Tobias knew, though.
"Go back, Lora," he spoke more forcefully now. "Go to your mother and take care of her. Forget what you saw. I won't ever come to your home again."
"Tobias, stop!" Lora screamed, now in his face. Her fists slammed against his chest and her eyes shut tightly. "I don't want you to leave. I want you to stop this!" He stared down, for the first time stunned and uncertain of himself. "Are you too stupid to understand how I feel?"
The Witch Hunter felt his heart break. For all his effort, he had never been able to make Lora see him as a father figure, or a friend. "Damn it, Tobi..." she sulked, and she stared up into his amber eyes. "I know you did it for mom, and for me, but I don't understand why."
He could tell her right now. Tobias could give her solace about the death of her father. He could explain how for all this time, he lived with the guilt of taking a father from his daughter. How he kept them out of the streets because he felt responsible. How the Imperials had paid to have a rebel cut down, and how it was just business.
But Lora would never understand that. Lora would hate him forever. He felt it wrenching at the ice floes that were his veins, and the fear of losing his dearest friends forever became a very real sensation. For the first time since Salvar, Tobias Stalt felt something.
It felt like an abyss.
The blade clattered to the cobbles. Tobias wrapped Lora in his arms and buried his face in her hair. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't do it."
"Yes you can, Tobias," she crooned. Her voice was smooth in his ear. "I'm here for you. I can help you. My mother doesn't have to know anything."
Oh, Lora. No.
"I can help you bear the burdens, Tobi. I can keep your secrets."
You don't want that life. I don't want it for you.
"I would do anything for you, Tobias. You have done so much for me. Anything I can give you is yours. All you need to do is ask me."
All I've ever done is take.
Her soft lips moved to his cheek. She kissed the rough skin there gently, and her fingers ran across his face. "I've always dreamed of the chance for you to see me as more than a little girl."
Tobias pushed her away, gently. She pulled herself close again. "No," she grunted hoarsely. "You won't just brush me aside. I won't let you. Not now. I can't go back to you just acting like I'm a child. I can't keep watching you flirt backwards and forwards with my mother, all the while pretending like I don't feel anything."
"You want someone better than me, Lora." He pointed back to the body. Her eyes followed and then fluttered away quickly. "That's the future with me. Do you want that? Are you willing to pretend like I'm going to get better? I'm not like you anymore," he told her. "I'm not like anyone. I can't give you the life you deserve."
"I'm offering you the chance to get better," she pulled his face closer, and she stared into his eyes. "I'm offering myself, at your side. Run away with me. Leave all of this behind. You never have to kill anyone again."
"You're still so naive," he told her with a sad smile. He barely felt the sting from her slap. The anger in her expression did not mask the hurt in her eyes. "I'm not saying so to be cruel," Tobias whispered. "It's fact. You can't run from who you are."
"Fine," she muttered. "Fine. We won't run. I'll accept that you won't stop. I'll watch you come back to the tavern every day, knowing what you did. I'll smile at you, just to be nice, and I won't tell mother. But I'll know."
Tobias stared into her defiant eyes and lifted a hand to her cheek. She gasped at his touch, but quickly swallowed her surprise. "Lora, I've always thought the world of you," he told her. "I'd do anything for you, but I've had so many girls. So many women. I can't add you to a list. You mean more to me than that."
And I'll always be the man who killed your father.
Lora shook her head. She smiled brightly. "The fact that you feel that way gives me hope, Tobi," she said happily. "I'll be a good wife to you someday, I promise. I'll convince you yet."
Tobias laughed. "Fine." He scooped his dagger off the wet street and slid it safely away. "But for fuck's sake, lets get you dried off. Your mother will kill me if I let you catch cold."
He slipped an arm around her and she hugged his waist, and together they walked away.
Behind them, a man lay dead. Forgotten.
William Jacobson was a man who drank so he could do his job and did his job so he could drink. As a street sweeper in Scara City, his wages were poor, but sometimes he found interesting items or learned interesting things. If handed off to the right person, some of it was worth enough money for him to briefly upgrade to something better than the horse-water he usually drank. He’d passed on a really juicy tidbit recently, and when he got paid for it, he’d be rolling in enough coin to drink whiskey for a year.
Shame about that other guy, though. That was his last thought as night became morning, when he finally stumbled out of the bar.
He had no idea how long he’d been out when he crawled back to consciousness. His wrists and ankles chafed from how tightly they were bound into a sturdy wooden chair, his head throbbed from the hangover, and his whole body was one hugely dull ache. Voices swam through his head, though he couldn’t look up to see who was speaking.
“Could you have chosen any…re remote, Alydia?” The first voice, male, took the same tone as William’s boss after a long shift: exhausted and annoyed.
“I could have, … but then we’d be doing this … . I didn’t feel like waiting.” The second voice was satin over steel, and definitely a woman’s. She spoke with an accent that William couldn’t place, but he wasn’t good with accents. “Dex?”
“The doctor says he’ll recover. If he’s lucky, he’ll keep ...” A slip of paper rustled, changing hands between man and woman. “I found it, but it wasn’t easy. Are we ready to do this, or are we letting the princess sleep all day?”
Princess?
A hand lashed across his face sharply, startling the half-conscious man enough that he knocked over the chair. His eyes snapped open, looking wildly around. Light barely trickled into the deep cave he found himself in. There was what looked like a massive skeletal hand peeking out from a huge boulder. And three people stood around him. One, a huge man who looked like he had more muscles than brains, grabbed his toppled chair and pulled him upright to face the other two. The other man looked ordinary to the sweeper. He was of average height, a little pudgy, and had no remarkable features.
The final figure was a woman, and even though William could barely see, she was striking. One icy eye glowered at him through knife-sharp, night-black elven features. The other one was hidden behind a huge hat brim, and when she turned to address him, her crimson coat flowed around her like a river of blood.
“William Martel Jacobson. Age thirty-five. Residence: Third floor, Unit C, Eighth Street, Outer District, Scara City. Second shift sanitation in Scara City. Parents deceased, seven and three years ago. Two brothers, one sister, not in contact. One ex-wife, divorced for reasons of financial instability due to alcoholism. One twelve year-old son, James William Jacobson. Support given erratically and in small amounts. Contact nearly non-existent.”
Sweat popped out of pores all over William’s close-shaven head. How did this woman know so much about him and his family? What was going on?
“Lady…”
“William Martel Jacobson. Do you have any idea why you’re here?”
William dug deep into his liquor-soaked brain. Why would one of the dark knife-ears be beating him up? “That airship conspiracy I passed along to your government? Lady, I just found out about it, I didn –“
“Right reason. Wrong side.” Her tone stopped her captive’s words cold. “What you learned was none of your business, but if you’d simply let it go, gone about your labors, and forgotten about it, you would have slipped beneath our notice. Instead, you assaulted a man for the evidence, left him for dead, and tried to alert the Alerian government.” She held up the papers in a gloved hand, the plans he’d taken from the man’s body and the letter he’d scrawled to let them know how to reward him.
William coughed, fighting not to vomit as his stomach sank. The woman’s face curled in disgust as his breath hit her and stepped soundlessly back.
“Lissen, lady, I was stupid, it was wrong, but you got the letter, the guy’ll reco- AAGH!”
A whip cracked across his face, stinging brutally, and the woman coiled it back up while William tried to breathe, agonized tears running down his face.
“I abhor violence, William Martel Jacobson. The world would be a better place without it. We’re thieves, my people and I, which explains this… how did you put it? This plot. As a thief, I have very strict rules to ensure that no one gets hurt and there’s no unnecessary bloodshed. The first rule states that if you hurt or kill one of my people, we are at war. You nearly killed one of my people, Mr. Jacobson. You might not have known who I am, or that he was one of mine, or even what you were doing.”
Her cold eyes sliced through him, and her hand clenched on the grip of her whip, but she did not strike out at him again.
“Come, Lore. There is much to do and we’re wasting time.” She turned toward the cave entrance, coat rustling softly.
Panic rushed through William’s blood, and he fought against his bonds hard enough to nearly topple his chair again. “Wait! Stop, you black-blooded whore! You stay the fuck away from my family! You stay the fuck away from my son!”
The elf turned her head a little to glance at him over her shoulder, throwing a curly black lock into place with lethal grace. “I have no interest in your spawn, rivvil. He doesn’t know anything. Vim.” She turned to the entrance once more.
“Sing our guest a lullaby.” The elf started walking away once more.
“And then?” An unmerciful baritone sounded from behind William; the burly man from earlier who had set him upright once more.
“And then help him start a garden.”
She left with the unremarkable man, and the burly one got to work. In a deep cave many miles from civilization, William’s terrified screams for help fell only on the ears of rabbits and birds.
“Twenty? Your husband play, too? Raise eighty, and make it a man’s bet.”
Long, thin fingers dropped an immaculate column of golden coin on the felt table as a roar of laughter came from multiple spots around him. The smoky bar was filled with a string of men who looked on through various states of intoxication. The game, “crowns”, was made from simple rules with deep strategy, and the two men left at the table each huddled behind several stacks of coins. The air hung heavy with a stench of stale ale, old whiskey and spilled wine, mixed with cigar smoke.
The sizable bet caught the large Stephen by surprise, and he did all he could to disguise his shock. On a set of queens in his hand, he felt confident, but this was now –three months pay- that lay before him. His heart beat harder, and above the cuffs of his fine sleeves Storm could tell the tension through pulsing veins on the back of Stephen’s hands.
You’re good, but too fat for your own damned good. Maybe lay off the cheesecake and you would lose the tell, tubby.
Storm sat frozen, his grey, stony eyes peering down from behind a terrible hand. This man was nervous; Stephen had likely set him on Kings or better. Creaks from about the small tavern warned of men gathering, all to look more closely at the more sizable bet. They had all lost small fortunes already; each peering closely at the table to inspect which man would walk home with their week’s pay. A few glares had grown menacing with the liquid courage delivered from five too many drinks.
“You don’t have Kings, or you’d have played slower. I don’t think you’ve got the balls to play this heavy on a shit hand.” Stephen spoke slowly, with such deliberation that his thick black beard barely moved.
It was an obvious ploy; the bettor was simply trying to catch a reaction from the mage. Would he blush, bluster, or push back at these guesses? Correct the man? Speak in a pitch that was off kilter? Storm didn’t bite, instead simply remaining stoic as his glare held no emotion, waiting his opponent’s action.
“Next hand, I suppose…” the large man gestured, laying his cards face down before him. He glowered as Storm stood to pull the twenty coins towards him, and spoke with a frustrated fire.
“What did you have?! I bet you’re fulla shit; I just can’t afford you. Let’s see you beat Queens, you sorry bastard!” He flipped his cards for all to see his terrific hand, abandoned. His voice spoke of sportsmanship, but his eyes carried a deliberate fury.
“You fold, you don’t get to see. That’s not the game.” Storm collected his coins and pushed his cards in for the dealer to mix when a third man, who had approached the table, boldly turned over an eight and ten. A roar erupted from the room, as the local champion Stephen had been bested.
“My hand, we split it!” Stephen lunged, violently jumping the table and thrusting a meaty right hand over the coins Storm looked to pull in.
Wrong move, fatso.
Storm Veritas didn’t speak; his own pulse barely elevated as he operated. He rolled his wrist to grab the back of the big fool’s hand, torqueing the wrist and twisting him off the table with zero effort. The man fell to his knees, to the shock of every patron in the room. In a flash, his titanium dagger was up and dancing with his free hand, sliding effortlessly below the jawline. He released the hand and turned away, the man falling in a silent heap.
“He tried to rob me…” the wizard glared about the room now, catching the eyes of the six or seven men who had begun to approach with fury. “Don’t let any of you fools make the same mistake.”
Quickly and calmly, Storm collected the coins from the table as the tavern erupted in medical bedlam. Men rushed to the side of large, lumbering Stephen as hands pressed to the fatal wound across his throat. It was futile, of course, but the gesture was kind enough. It wasn’t more than five or six second before two heavy handfuls were collected in a satchel under the traveler’s arm.
One drunken fool took an angry swing at Storm. It was a heavy right hand that the monster dodged with ease, returning a left-handed blast of electricity to the man’s chest that sent him twenty-five feet across the room. He was long dead before he crashed into an abandoned table, knocking three chairs that had been upturned on the tabletop into a landslide of crafted pine. The otherwise unpleasant odors were completely overwhelmed by the new arrival of the unmistakable scent of burnt flesh. None of the men about the room would ever forget the smell.
Silence was restored as horror had enveloped the room. Six sets of eyes were locked on the big winner.
“Either no one else dies, or all of you do. Take your fucking pick!”
As Storm left, he wondered if the room knew he was going to take the money home that night, win or lose. Of course, he’d have isolated Stephen as the big dope left had the bluff been called, but these things get messy. Either way, his night’s work was done.
Gambling was never really a gamble for a villain.
“Please.” the girl whispered, eyes bright and watery. “Please, let us go.”
The girl was a bare waif, and the man beside her was a skeleton of a man. They were both dirty, bloody, emancipated, shivering cold, and pathetic. They cowered before Hellebore, as though she was some hellsent devil intent on collecting their souls.
Perhaps she was. In her cloak and cowl, with her third eye open upon her forehead, Hellebore certainly looked devilish in the darkness of the night. Her lips were thin as she surveyed and judged the pair. She could see the knife -- still wet -- hidden behind the man’s back, and the gold in the girl’s pockets. She could see these as clearly as she saw the bleeding corpse of a young woman laying three alleys away. Her third eye granted her that much.
“No,” Hellebore said, with the heavy finality of a judge and executioner both.
The moon could not find its way into the thin alley, but the winds could. The chill autumn winds bellowed its way in, and the girl and man shivered as though one. Behind them, shadows rippled and wavered.
“Please,” the girl whispered.
But Hellebore was ice and stone and steel, and nothing that bent easily to words. She turned her third eye towards the girl, and watched the girl scramble back in fear.
Suddenly, the man’s eyes flashed once, twice, and he lunged forward with a growl. The knife in his hand was clearly visible, and the blade of the knife came at Hellebore’s neck.
Fii bursted out from the shadows, knocking down the knife-wielding man from the side. The girl screamed. The man cried out in pain as the knife dropped from his fingers and his face met the muddy ground. Fii ducked in to swipe the knife before the man could reach for it again. The man shuddered and tried to sit up, only to fall into the ground again as Fii kicked him. Behind them, the girl sobbed.
Yes, Hellebore thought, considering the scene in front of her. She hadn’t moved an inch. Even whipped dogs fight back when pushed too hard..
“A life for a life,” she said, when the man in front of her had given up. Fii was sitting on the man for good measure. “One of you given over to the authorities, to pay for the life you’ve taken.”
She watched as both their faces ashen, because authorities was synonymous with death in this city, and they hanged little thieves and little murderers with the same rope that they used to hang the older ones, and the girl was only a child. Even Fii looked queasy and green where he sat.
“One of you, or both of you,” Hellebore repeated. “Choose, or I will choose for you.”
“Me,” the man rasped through the girl’s sobs. His face was strained with the agony of a hard choice. “Take me. I did it.”
When the morning came, there was an additional body hanging from the hangman’s noose in the city square. Hellebore watched from the streets, hood hiding her face and her cloak wrapped tightly against her form.
“That was cruel,” Fii’s voice came from behind. “Unnecessarily cruel.”
Cruel? Nice? She smiled thinly, eyes hard. She was neither. She was right.
“Tell that to woman dead at his knife.”
On winter's eve cold snow glistened, all hands warming around the fire, and to the rooftops all did listen throughout all of Ettermire. T'was not with hope, or joyful cheer, their faces all upturned, but sinking dread and outright fear of a half-elf who was spurned. It was years ago, they like to say, on a night much the same, when it was that he first learned to whom he would lay blame. T'was not of humans, or fair-skinned folk, that he began to tire, but those dark of skin and sharp of ear that truly earned his ire. He was locked away, and there he stayed, 'till sprung free by another, but 'ere long he did return under night's black cover.
Darkness cloaked, for moonlight choked, on the smog of industry, and perched on edge of grit-stained ledge, was the one of prophecy. A wicked grin spread above his chin, but he did not come for fear, though. Mercifully, he sought to free; this city needs a hero. Worked to death and breathing fumes, these people had no lives; from that fate the dark bastards freed, a blessing in disguise. So trod he then upon tiled roof, his footfalls all a-patter, to nearby chimney, so finally, their peaceful sleep he'd shatter. Though most belched smoke this one was clean, so into it he slid. Found he then much soot within, descending with a skid.
Blackened now from head to toe, the half-elf spied his hated foe. Eyes a-flutter as slumber passed, the dark bastard rose now from his bed, the hero still was much too fast, and with eagle's shriek drop-kicked his head. Dagger drawn as he rose from the fall, the half-elf was wary of a trick. To their skyward relics he'd send them all, as they cried 'arch-heretic,' and with a pair of sticks, covered in shit, he'd skewer them through their eyeballs and snap the sticks off so he could- no, no, a calming breath would be what's best.
"Why are you rhyming?"
"Aha! I stab you through the chest! And now your blood is on my vest."
"...what's wrong with you?"
"Shut up, you should've rhymed with vest. I stab again!"
"Oh gods, my chest!"
"With malignant glee the knife kept falling, but in the house a voice was calling. The hero grinned, and with each stab, his blackened garb became less drab. Covered now in brightest red, he violently hacked off the head, but as his trophy hit the floor a woman burst in through the door. At her dark skin he slowly rose, then-
"You maniac!"
"Damnit, woman, now I'm off-track. If you'll just stand- Shit, come back! I chase that bitch into the hall. She's at the stairs and going down, so o'er the rail as I yell 'Cacaawww!' and elbow drop her to the ground."
"...s-somebody help!"
"She calls for help as my grip tightens, and flails uselessly, but she will learn as her eyes darken that I'm the hero of this story. She stares now at my face in fear, and I slowly lick my lips, for two dark elves is a buffet, and I'm really quite fam-ished."
"The half-elf then bore her upstairs and gazed upon his enemies, and the lovely sounds as he cut them up were, to him, a symphony. A burlap bag sufficed to drag their pieces to the fireplace, but by that time blood within had soaked through to the floor, and came a banging from below at one of the doors. Up to the roof the hero went now, crawling at a quick pace, and black and crimson he emerged onto the cracked tiles of the poor. Into the night he skittered then to skies that were more clear, but vowed he then he would return, each and every year.
So it was, that on that night, the half-elf earned his infamy, but even then his reputation is only in its infancy. Return he will to maim and kill with his sweet karate, so he is known, and feared by all, as Ettermire's most naughty.
Tobias Stalt
You set a great scene with your opening paragraphs, painting a good picture with the environment and hitting with some quick emotional impact. You also played the pronoun game in your first full paragraph, referring to “her” – I think it would have worked better to just tell me who she was, give me a reason to care right away.
Overall, your writing was solid. I found one typo, but everything else was clean. You used some excellent descriptions, and for the most part did not use too many. Good job, there. Some instances of describing dialogue fell a tad flat, such as “Lora spoke with venom, her words accusing.” I get the idea of what you were going for there, but perhaps relying on body language instead or in addition to tone could have helped. I’m just nitpicking at this point.
Dialogue was, stylistically, well-written, though you did stumble with redundant dialogue in their conversation. However, the emotions felt all over the place. You shifted a lot on how Lora was reacting to discovering Tobias’... night job, as well as with how you presented their relationship (starting more paternal and then shifting to Lora wanting to jump his bones all of a sudden); you didn’t sell me on the transitions, so it felt jarring and a little creepy instead of dramatic. The fact that he killed her father was an interesting tragedy that I wished you’d focused on more.
Alydia Ettermire
I enjoyed your opening. It established a classic character type effectively and drew me into the story. Good use of foreshadowing as well.The first few lines of dialogue (as William woke up) threw me off, though – perhaps adding that he only caught bits and pieces of what they said would have cleared things up.
Plenty of good descriptions here, though you missed some opportunities in that department. For instance, with the “accent that William couldn’t place” line, I would have liked to see you describe how the accent sounded – you were already off to a great start with the sweet “satin over steel” bit. A few of your literary devices felt overwritten or unnecessary, but never to an unbearable degree.
Overall, your entry had lot of great stuff going on – clean mechanics, solid, unique dialogue between characters, good use of action as accents to the dialogue. I would have loved it if you had shown the street sweeper taking the plans from the other guy on-page, then progressed with the rest of the story. It would have made for a more compelling narrative arc. Of course, that’s less the difference between good and bad and more the difference between good and awesome. Good is good, and yours was good. So... good job!
Storm Veritas
I do enjoy a good card game, and Storm’s cold demeanor and darkly humorous internal monologue makes it a treat to read. Nice job establishing the setting just enough to provide a back drop, without letting it distract from the story’s focus, even as it remained in the periphery.
My main complaint is that the conflict felt rather meaningless. None of the men at the bar posed any threat to Storm, and since you established that he would have just stolen the money had he lost, the battle of wits didn’t matter either.
Crow
Your approach to the prompt was interesting, perhaps the only entry I would interpret toward the “Nice List”, but in a harsh way. It was a nice switch-up, because you definitely began making me think it was just a typical villain doing villain stuff. I almost mentally checked out until I realized what was actually going on. Thus, Hellebore actually showed mercy to those who may not deserve it.
Watch out for adjective overloading. Using a bunch of adjectives is not a proper substitute for literary technique. Other than that, your writing was clean and easy enough to read. The story itself could have used more weight, more challenge or more emphasis placed on Hellebore’s choices.
Ebivoulya
Most of your rhyming verse was surprisingly great, though you dropped the ball in a few places. Trying to rhyme “lives” with “disguise” rustled my jimmies! The third paragraph also got a little bit sloppy toward the second half. I loved the transition when you revealed that Ebi had actually been narrating everything aloud in verse.
I can’t lie; your entry made my whole day. Were I judging based solely on which entry was the cleverest in delivery or made me laugh the most, you would have won for sure. As it stands, your clever delivery did not make up for the overly linear narrative and lack of real conflict. I would have enjoyed seeing you expand on the idea a bit more, maybe having Ebivoulya continue his poetic narration while hiding from guards (thus giving away his position).
*
Deciding first place was quite difficult, it coming down to Tobias Stalt and Alydia Ettermire. Both entries were excellent in different ways. In the end, Tobias had a more dynamic narrative as the conversation between the two characters rapidly evolved, but some of the transitions didn’t land effectively. On the flip side, Alydia’s story was more straight-forward, but a tighter narrative with excellent dialogue.
First Place: Alydia Ettermire, by an inch.
Second Place: Tobias Stalt
Third Place: Ebivoulya
Rewards for December Vignette:
Alydia Ettermire receives 800 EXP and 200 GP.
Tobias Stalt receives 720 EXP and 150 GP.
Ebivoulya receives 250 EXP.
Storm Veritas receives 600 EXP.
Crow receives 100 EXP.
Congratulations!
All rewards have been added!