Christoph's Manor of Music -- Challenge #1

[Christoph]

Welcome to Christoph’s Manor of Music, home to the only musical contest on Althanas! The object of this challenge is to channel the tone, mood, and style of music into your writing. The rules are simple. I provide a link to a particular piece of music and you write a short scene or excerpt of no more than 1,500 words that you believe truly captures the essence of the song.

This contest will close on the 31st and the winner is rewarded with four sexy Fate Points, with two points going to the runner up.

The first song!

Good luck!

[MaxBlade]

She screamed in rage and fury, and pain! She was a mad beast, confined to white walls, and an operating table. Natural Birth! What the **** was she thinking?! She couldn’t feel her legs, her body was permeated with sweat, and she was tired as her mother in laws worn out jokes. Oh, how she hated her mother in law! She remembered the nights of uninterrupted bliss, as her husband lovingly made love to her. No, she did not think on that particular day, [ “Hey maybe I might get pregnant, and it will hurt worse then burning in hell! “Ahhhhhh!” She moaned, and beat the bed with both fists! She wanted to rip someone’s head off! “How you doing honey?” Her husband (Bob) asked cautiously, she screamed in outrage, “How would you like me to pull your bottom lip over your head! Dammit! Ohhh!”

“I would like you to breathe Miss.” This was the doctor, and he was stupid enough to try and say this nicely, she aimed a kick at where she approximated his face to be. There was a holler at the other end. She slowly scraped her teeth together, angry she couldn’t see his face over this humungous stomach of hers! “I want to kill someone!” She shouted for her 17th time. All the doctors and her husband backed away at this moment, as she writhed in the bed like a frustrated snake. Her arms flailing wildly, then a contraction! She screamed higher then Mariah Carrey ever could, and she gulped in large amounts of air, deciding on taking the doctors advice.

Bob saw a man nurse with his hands crossed in front of his crotch area, and he could see that he had an erection. The emotion was all ready flowing freely in the room so this pissed Bob off. “This kind of shit turns you on does it?” The poor nurse, looked embarrassed. Bob ran and jumped on the man, fist flying wildly. The doctor picked up the walkie-talkie from the bedside table. “Security pronto!” All the women in the room screamed, and then the mother screamed again, in oh so much pain. “I want it out of me!” Blood was splattered on the floor; the sound of crunching could be heard coming from the floor. Then police came rushing in, and everyone started talking at once. The doctor was coaxing the mother on, “Come on, you got it!” It had taken five hours! He wasn’t giving up now, not for anything in the world! Everyone was trying to pull Bob off the man, the mother was screaming. No one knew what was happening, the room in unshackled chaos, it seemed as if the devil had walked through the door. The doctor shouted two words. “It’s Over!” Everyone in the room stopped, the police grabbing their chance to knock out Bob, the nurse lying there on the floor already knocked out. Blood spilling out the side of his mouth, his pants having an unusually large bulge in the center. Everyone waited anxiously for the news, you could hear a pin drop, the mother had surprisingly stopped making noise all together. The doctor said, two more words. “Their Dead.”

[Mathias]

Sayke stumbled through the smoke that rose up from the inferno that had become Eluriand. Blood dripped from a concussion he had suffered as a piece of an archway fell upon him earlier, while he tried to direct some of his brethren from their home. His eyes were rimmed with tears and it was rather hard for him to see through the haze that his vision had degenerated into. All around him, he heard the roaring of what he knew would be his funeral pyre, topped by the shrill lullaby of people being slaughtered. He gripped the steel in his hand tightly, tripping over debris as he marched onward. One of the shuffling undead came at him, raising out its arms for a death-ridden embrace, and the half elf raised his blade with some of his remaining strength, striking a blow to its head.

The split skull of the rotten creature spewed out a small spray of gore, washing the already drenched knight in a new coat of oozing crimson. But he moved on, looking for the fray of undead that would be the death of him - the hideous end to his life, with which he would stake and crucify with the glory of his sacrifice. As he emerged through a thick patch of smoke from a smoldering pile of rubble, he was greeted with the sight of several of his elven kin making their last stand against a tide of zombies, skeletons, and other assorted abominations. All around them, in this small square, were buildings of gold, silver, mahogany, redwood, and general splendor, being eaten away by the flames that engulfed the rest of the city.

In the center of the empty street they were held up on a small fortification. Pieces of wagons, carts, stalls, and whatever they could get their hands on had been erected in a pentagonal deck, raised up and with a small wooden archer's tower in the middle of it, to stave of the endless waves of enemies that flooded the burning metropolis. Sayke made haste as best he could, limping along with as much speed as his arrow-shot leg could maintain. "Brother!" called out one of the soldiers, greeting him with an outstretched hand.

It had been one of the first times that one of his pure-blooded brethren had said that to him. For that moment, the alienation that the half elf had suffered throughout his days as a member of the Tel Aglarim, a half-breed knight in a land of pure pedigree... it was washed away and he felt an unparalleled camaraderie with them. "Aye!" he answered, sheathing his sword before taking the man's hand. He was pulled up onto the small deck that they had fashioned together.

"How good are you with a bow, friend?" asked the man, whom Sayke now had a better view of. He was clad in green iron chainmail, but it had been blackened and reddened by the blood of his foes and allies. He was out of breath, as if no matter how much he could take in, it was never enough. His face was obscured by his helmet, black warpaint, grime, and gore, and he hardly looked Elven at all.

"Good enough," Sayke said with a grin. A longbow was thrust into his hands, along with a quiver which he quickly slung over one shoulder. He was directed to the tower in the center of the structure with a gloved hand, and he merely nodded, climbing up onto it. He was helped up by the only other archer left in the group, who helped him situate himself. From his vantage point, he could see farther down each of the lanes that opened up into the square.

"Xem'zund's forces approach!" yelled someone from down below. The western avenue was suddenly filled from end to end with a large wave of the arch-necromancer's horrific walking corpses, marching towards the elves' small bastion like a gaping maw that opened straight into Hell itself.

Sayke knocked an arrow and let it fly, striking true on one of the front lines. As fast as he could, he repeated that process, knowing that it would do very little. From what he could see, half of the oncoming crowd was made up of very recently deceased people - some he had probably tried to save. Former friends, relatives, and colleagues made up the ranks of the ghouls that now descended upon them, and Sayke wept in his heart for his kin. He understood and knew, very well, what they were enduring, putting their arrows and swords into the heads and hearts of those that they had known and loved their entire long lives.

The wave met with the thin wall around their structure and within moments they turned it over, trampling it underfoot. They hit the deck with a hard force that shocked the entire thing. Sayke felt a rumble beneath his foot, and he knew it would not last long. Some of the more mobile of the undead climbed up onto the higher ground, being hacked away at and cut down as best as the elven soldiers could manage. The man who had called Sayke 'brother,' was quickly overwhelmed and caught beneath several zombies. Mere moments later, the rest of them succumbed. The tower began to waver as the undead crashed against it, and the other archer lost his balance, tripping and falling over the edge into the welcoming arms of the horde.

Throwing down his bow, Sayke unsheathed his blade and looked out into his death. He took a deep breath, and calmed himself for a moment, closing his eyes. In his mind, he saw nothing and felt nothing but the heat of the blaze, and in his heart, it set off a spark. With a guttural roar, he took one giant leap into the crowd, knowing he would be swallowed whole by the mouth of evil itself. But the last solace he was able to take was that he could kill some of them, with his very last breath.

[Mikeavelli]

OOC: Wow, all these entries are really, REALLY dark, aren't they?

Screams in every direction, flames rising high into the night, the streets of Maien-Tor were filled with Chaos. 'Hopper knew it well, he'd seen the stresses in the city building up to a breaking point, he'd spent his time tightening the winch himself these past few days, but was still unprepared for what was to happen.

Beside him was Mistress Jykhra, unreadable behind that porcelin mask she'd worn since he first met her and the Guiding Hand. Her voice was a celestial chorus, singing out orders and commands, rallying her outmatched followers by force of personality alone.

Across central square of Maien-Tor, in the shadow of the now-shattered Imperial Keep, was the man architect of this madness, Lord Maximillian Klein. He strode through the chaos like a man possessed, ancestral armor gleaming in the mix of flame and starlight, sword cutting men down without his feet missing a step. His goal, unerringly, was the Guiding Hand, and Mistress Jykhra.

When he drew close, 'Hopper step up between them, swords raised, but she pulled him back, "You've seen it too, mercenary. He's the one we've been tracking all this time, he's the fiend, the demon in a mans skin we've been trying to stop all this time, and he's too strong for you to fight. This battle is mine."

She stepped forwards, drawing her sword for the first time this fight, and at once he saw why she kept it hidden. The blade was shining bright, casting light like the rising sun across the battlefield, she shouted to Maximillian, "Demon! I know your plans, what you've done, enslaving the minds of men to your will! You'll not succeed, I've been sent here to stop you!"

She cast off her mask, it shattered on the bloodstained ground, and stood before them all in her full glory, shining feathered wings sprouting from her back, her face a mixture of holy beauty, and righteous fury.

Maximillian, and the entire battlefield, were visibly taken aback. Everyone stood still, the sounds of fighting slowly ceased until, for a moment, the battlefield was quiet as the grave. Only then did the mighty Lord show his retort. He threw off his helmet, showing a clear face that was changing by the moment, his skin took on a soft silverish glow, stunningly similar to Jykhra's own. Finally, two identical feathered wings burst from his back, through his armor, "You're Wrong, if you think you can trick me by wearing the skin of the blessed. You'd tear down this society, force the men of Maien-tor to descend into anarchy, tear down the bonds of civilization until naught but beasts remain. I stand to oppose you, to build up the strength of men, and lead them into a glorious golden age!"

"LIES!" Jykhra screamed, "What you call a golden age would be devoid of freedom, of choice, of all the things that make humans whole! You're nothing more than a mockery of goodness, a pretender trying to trick me into abandoning my mission!"

"You've decided to keep up your charade until the very end. So be it." Maximillian raised his sword in front of his face, an honorable salute to his dishonorable foe, and leapt into battle.

When Jykhra joined in, no mortal eyes saw clearly what happened that night. A generation later, the story was that two shooting stars came down from the heavens, one made from silver, the other gold, and they chased themselves across the skies of Maien-Tor until they finally crashed in the courtyard. only when it was over could they see the devastation, the courtyard strong enough to support a thousand men was shattered so fully that no stone lay beside another, and the Imperial fortress was a shattered wreck that held only one man.

A dark man who only wore the skin of a human, the hidden architect behind the fall of two angels, and the doom of Maien-Tor. He smiled, feeling a rare moment of true joy, and then he too was gone.

[Shadowed]

“You are sentenced to death by hanging.”

The words hung ominously before me in the air, cavorting about in maniacal glee; the flickering of candles cast shadows upon the courtroom, adding their own intrepid voices to the proclamation, a pall of condemnation twisting madly about my person. A shocked murmur rose from the viewing stands, even as I hung my head in shame. And yet, to the surprise of all those gazing upon me, a smile traced itself along my face, deep within the fallow heart of shadows.

A hope rose through the very depths of my soul, bringing a stuttered laugh to my pale lips. I stood, flinging back my head to unearth the bellow of glee which could no longer be restrained – protocol be damned, and to hell with honor! This fate of which I am bound may control my body to its haunted end, yet no mark of death may deter the flight of disdain for those who cast me into this pit!

My amusement spread to fill the room with bewilderment, as shown by the murmuring of the cultured and powerful, who stood aghast at my seeming disenchantment with the sentence cast. Their horror at what madness had propelled me to spit at the warped face of death, their knowledge of how, unbeknownst to my comrades and peers, a cross insanity somehow grasped my mind into this unthinkable act of defiance. Oh, how the crimson tongues of flame cast about with glee, sharing in my utter contempt! How wonderful the frivolous dance of shadows at my behest, mimicking my pose in their exhortations upon the dismal walls of this veritable prison!

“Silence! Silence, all of you! This court will not be dishonored by your voices!” The judge shouted above the crowd. “Remove him to the gallows!”

Yet still my laughter rang from the far corners, omnipresent in its victorious calls. I was shackled about with cold iron braces, forced into the deepening chill of the winter air, yet still my body shook with glee! The last vestiges of camaraderie from the candlelight faded to the barest of whispers upon my back; the shadows expanded across the courtyard before me, engulfing the world in shades of black and grey. Hallowed be this night, for though it be of devils and ill-begotten fate, it also hearkens the dawn of delight in my soul!

With a grimness of step and purpose, the hangman affixed his lash about my neck, flinching visibly in the sheer force of my exultations – “Come!” I shouted, “Come and look, all ye who would despair! Know that though I be condemned, my soul cannot be diminished!” The crying of ravens be my only response, save for the tangible horror of the onlookers. The executioner readied himself – he seemed reluctant to interrupt my speech, for it was as if God himself did share in my glee.

“Behold the flickering light of the moon upon this night! Behold the wicked shadows laughing with me! Though I be damned to a thousand torments, know that in this dark and dreadful night I cannot find the will to answer such a charge, save with my tears of laughter!” The ravens’ cry grew louder in my ears, even as the distant cry of a wolf split the chill night in twain. “Victory of the spirit, even in death! Let no man force thy will! Fare thee well!”

With a final motion, I fell, the noose tightening about my neck. Try as I might, I cannot control the flutter of my legs as I seek firm ground; it is to no avail, for within seconds my spirit fled my mortal tomb, to rise victoriously through the night, the laughter of the ravens my last regard.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Well, I went for a slightly different interpretation... something slightly less gothic. Not sure how well it turned out, but here goes...

Somewhere in the eastern isles…

The air nipped with all the ferocity of a frigid winter’s eve. Barren mountains in the near distance were shrouded in heavy mist, nature’s thick grey shawl for the vast expanses of tall bamboo groves and hard thin earth. What remained of the day hung low behind the western horizon, a few last rays of crimson light filtering through the fog to illuminate the little village in the valley below.

It was a pitiful sight. High thatched roofs designed to weather heavy snowfall rested precariously upon hemp-lashed timbers, the heavy clay-clad walls somehow managing to retain what little heat could be mustered within. A few ragged enclosures cordoned off fallow vegetable patches, as bare and as lifeless as the terraced paddies carved meagrely from the hillside. The muddy paths between the houses, however, were alive and heaving… in terror.

The harsh, merciless months of the cold season affected both noble and commoner alike, and this far north of the capital and the Imperial court, law and order were hard to come by. One man’s hard-earned harvest was another’s free feast, and the local daimyo had been too busy sparring with his neighbour behind the shogun’s back to concern himself with such trivial matters as establishing his authority. In such lands, chaos and disorder thrived, and there was always the odd band of looters or bandits ready to take advantage of the nearest settlement. In such times, the local populace could only cower in their homes and pray for their lives, for there was little they could do to fight the ruthless desperation of those willing to spill blood for what they wanted.

Blades rose towards the stars glinting silver and came back up again dripping crimson. Screams of the fearful innocent abruptly cut off by brutal death, the bandits slowly making their way towards the centre of the village and killing at their leisure. Those villagers who could flee, fled; those who were too slow or tarried for some other reason, died.

Here an elderly man stumbled upon the rocky ground and fell, his fearful shout silenced seconds later by cold steel. There a young mother gathered her brood about her, desperately trying to keep them quiet as she cowered against the cold comfort of a farmhouse as yet untouched by the attackers. In a corner of the village a brave young man brandished pitchfork and kama sickle against the swords and spears of his foes; in one last act of defiance he brought low no less than two, before the faint whistle of barbed arrows signified his end. It seemed as if the village was doomed, as if its population was destined for annihilation…

Until now.

“Cease!”

So clear was the voice in the crisp cold air, so authoritative the word that echoed about the village square. Swords paused in mid-stroke, spears held high for the finishing blow forgotten as all turned to locate the source of the order. Villagers cowered beneath bandit blade as burly battle-hardened men used to living wild and free glared at the impudent one who would dare order them about.

“I order you again, cease now or forever regret your deeds!”

As one the assembled eyes went to the very top of the highest roof in the village, as high as the gently flickering lights mounted in braziers and upon torches could reach. They saw him now, the young warrior in silvery lamellar scale and white leather, calmly brandishing a cross-shaped jumonji yari spear in his left hand. His other hand was held high, upright, as if in signal. The tuft of ivory horsehair sprouting from his helmet crackled almost electrically as he stared them back with hawkish brown eyes, waiting to see if they would obey his order.

He was not alone.

To his right stood a burly tanned fighter, naked even in the frosty cold except for a dark green loincloth and matching hachimaki headband. His body was muscular and powerful, and he lightly held in one hand a massive bisento that must have weighed nearly twenty kilograms between six-foot-long wooden pole and heavy curved blade. The expression he wore was one of unrestrained, unadulterated fury, glowering down upon the bandits like a gargoyle.

Beyond him, mingling delicately with the shadows of the oncoming night, was a slender figure clad in red-streaked black. Her exquisite features were mostly hidden by the facemask she wore, but her eyes were like cold hard jewels amongst the velvety darkness. Mercilessly they scanned the gaggle of bandits below, and indeed, no mercy would they ever show to such scum of the earth, for she was a kusa-no-mono, one of the feared shinobi of the night, and leniency towards her foes was a foreign concept to her mind.

A stiletto-thin man on the warrior’s left completed the foursome on the rooftop. Raven-black shoulder-length hair framed a long face accentuated by a strong nose; narrow eyes stared out intelligently from beneath bushy eyebrows. Alone of the band his expression remained cool and impassive, almost bored, but the hands hidden deep within the folds of his flowing deep blue robes had long been primed for magic.

But still there was no response from the bandits below.

“One last time…” the warrior began again, and then stopped as the unruly mob broke out into raucous laughter. These were strong, tough men used to scraping a living by the edge of a notched blade and the sinew of their sword arm. For a mere boy barely beyond puberty to stand tall and challenge them so was not only unheard of, it bordered upon preposterous. No wonder they gave voice to their ridicule.

“I would run if I were you, little one!” their leader boomed in response, drawing steel in the shape of a masterfully forged katana. “Back to the bedding of your master, where you belong!”

The man was big of body and grizzled of beard, swathed in heavy furs over his armour and clad in worn straw. He had once been a respectable bushi in the service of a good master, renowned across the lands for his skill with the blade. But time and fate had not been kind. Now, in his waning years, he led his little band of looters and pillagers from one village to the next like moths drawn to a series of faintly flickering flames. It was a sign of how far he had fallen that he cared nought for the death and devastation he sowed in his wake.

“Shoot him!” was the next order that left his grotesquely bearded mouth, and the nearest archer was only too happy to obey, nocking and loosing a crudely-forged arrow from his man-height daikyu.

Swift and sure the shaft flew towards its target, unerring and true upon its single-minded journey. Like a thunderbolt its keening flight split the night, the high-pitched whistle of its passing a death-knell to all who heard it.

But at the last possible moment, the warrior’s spear batted it from the air, and what splinters of it remained landed with a dull thud amongst the dry thatch at their feet.

With a short sigh of breath, the warrior resigned himself to the task at hand. His hand wavered for but an instant longer; then, with decisive finality, it fell.

Screams from below as the shinobi appeared amongst the bandits in the square; within a second she had cleared a modicum of room in the courtyard and had disappeared once again. Into this space the warrior and the fighter jumped; the former landed lightly with all the grace of a hunting tiger, the latter with enough force to set the ground shaking for miles about him. As four wooden puppets popped into existence alongside the mage above and prepared to unleash their devastation, the warrior pointed his spear towards the leader of the bandits, brazier flames dancing crimson along its glinting facets.

With an almighty roar, the outlaws sounded their challenge and charged their foes.

Not one of them would survive the night.

[Christoph]

This contest is closed! Thank you to everyone who entered. The winner and runner up will be announced shortly.

[Christoph]

The results are in!

First place: Flames of Hyperion. Whether by accident or design, you captured the more subtle aspects of this piece of music. Dies Irae means “Day of Wrath” in Latin, but the nature of this movement of Mozart’s Requiem did lend itself to the wrath of evil, but rather idea of righteous wrath that was so popular back in those days. In addition, you fit the tempo of the music with your pacing pretty decently and your writing was clear and easy to follow. I wouldn’t say that it was amazing, but it was quite good and deserving of the first place reward of 4 Fate Points.

Second place: Shadowed. You seemed to portray the theme of righteous wrath in a more ironic way. I felt that your entry wasn’t as clearly developed as Hyperion’s. You displayed a nice vocabulary, though I sometimes got the impression that you were just misusing the synonym function on MS Word. Nonetheless, I enjoyed your entry, and you are now 2 Fate Points richer.

Congratulations to the winners and thank you to all who entered! Stay tuned for the next Musical Challenge!