2015 November Vignette

[Christoph]

Time for November's Vignette! The November-est of all months!

Your character suffers a major defeat or setback. What conflict leads to this defeat, how does he/she react to it, and how does it affect his or her afterwards?

Vignettes are due by 11:59 PM EST on December 1st.

[K-Zu-Ziro]

"Age renders you unsympathetic. You leave home for the first time. Your childhood home was the last time you felt you belonged. Since then, you've lived with strangers. Or alone. Or in a new home with a wonderful family. The new home is as home as home could be. The new home lacks nothing, it doesn't want for love or satisfaction. You've changed. You have aged into an awareness that robs you of a sense of home. Nothing can ever lull you with the lukewarm comfort of the only bed you've ever known. You can launch a dream into space, but it's a dream you dreamt when the stars were as much thirteen as you were. Out of breath, you were so happy to be home. Now you've an anxious heart guided away with the perfection of hope in the white spots in her poolish eyes. You know that for all the terror in your nightmares you ought to find a spring of motivation in her."

Mux Drik slid the handwritten note back into the shoe-box with the rest of his mementos. K-Zu-Ziro's anticlimactic demise was fresh in his mind. For a thousand years he had been an aspect of the biological nightmare's reign of murderous gluttony. Freedom from the insectoid's brain prison had come too late for his whimpering humanity. Beansprout Mechanical (master biologist of the future's Utopian people) had provided Mux with a new body and a new life. Ziro's defeat was to be the former diplomat's second chance at life. Pseudo youth unending, a generous gift of the world's new order, could never make him a boy again. Complicit or not, the fading lights of his past would tarnish the joy taken in the life of their eyes.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

It wasn't the nightmare. Even though that was pretty bad too; wading through an endless sea of corpses, carrying a friend only to find him dead. Of course variations of that are a constant nightly companion to Victor Valentine. No, not the nightmare. It wasn't his injuries either, although the wounds on his broken ribs and the cuts on his body must have kept him in excruciating pain. It wasn't even the urge to finish his mission; the drive to settle the score that put him in bandages to begin with.

No.

What woke the sleeping warrior was the weight he could not seem to shake off. He was very familiar with it, this weight of camaraderie. And each time he felt that loss, he promised never to lift that weight again. But much like every other time, the choice was not his. The weight found its way back onto him. To clarify, it was not a metaphorical weight.

"GET THE HELL OFF'A ME ALREADY!" Victor roared, waking from his slumber and tossing off the little girl who was sitting on his chest. Without missing a beat, Eliza landed on her feet and took a deep bow, eliciting a slow applause from the boy sitting in a nearby chair. His eyes were shut behind the thick glasses he wore.

"You've been out for days," an old lady said from behind a thick cloud of smoke. Allah Nova sat under an open window, where the twilight of the day was slowly passing. Even in the shadow of the light, her exhaustion was clear. Victor had been out for days, and his landlady stayed by his side, and awake, the whole time. And even now, her tired eyes remained fixed on her idiot tenant.

"I guess I lost, huh?" Victor asked, looking around the room after sitting up.

"I wouldn't call it a loss," the boy spoke, standing and moving to Victor's side, "you managed to protect me, and break that bastard's weird sword. . ."

"Yeah, it's not clear where he got it yet, but he obviously has a benefactor," a gruff voice came from the doorway. Victor turned to see a leather-clad officer leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"Am I the only one who didn't know there was a party in my bedroom?" Victor asked, closing he eyes and breathing a heavy sigh.

"We managed to recover what was left of his blade," the officer continued, "we've never seen magic like it before. It's something intelligent, something with a mind of its own. It is almost like a leech, giving the user's body it's power, but ultimately it's design is to take over."

"So it was a two-on-one fight to begin with," the boy in the glasses sighed, "if only I wasn't holding you back. . ."

"Yes thank you," a new voice chimed in under closed eyes. Sarah sat in a chair across the room from Alla, in her signature pink dress. The elder sister of the boy in glasses, whose ferocity was matched only by the innocent face which hide it. "You saved my baby brother. . . But he was there because of you to begin with," her eyes opened ever-so slightly, a deadly ferocity emanating from them, "will only a pound of flesh suffice as amends?"

"Hey now," Victor cut in breaking into a sweat, "I've been trying to get rid of him and the orange-eyed brat for years now. . . and he saved me there, in my time of need. So don't sell him too short. Besides, something like this is way over the heads of a simple odd-jobs office like ours. It's a matter for the proper authorities."

"Well!" the officer chimed in, "I never thought I'd see the day where you elected to keep your nose out of our business! Although we don't really have anyone to who can deal with this now, I'm sure we'll get it sorted soon enough." As the officer stopped, a single set of footsteps sounded from outside the Jack-of-all-trade's bedroom. "Well," the officer continued, "I'm sure someone as injured as you wouldn't be reckless enough to go snooping around the eastern docks. Watch out for him."

The group in Victor's bedroom sat silently, the implications clear. As though expecting this moment, Alla stood, motioning for the rest to join her. "Let's let him sleep."

"I'll stay," Sarah sighed, "someone needs to look after this fool of a man."

The rest of the group left after the landlady and the red-eyed man fell back to sleep.

The crash of thunder woke him from his slumber.

"You weren't moving, so I thought you were going to die. Are you ok? Do you know who I am?"

"... You are... A flat chested woman, right?" He asked, but before he could do or say anything else, her fist found its place in his face and the blow nearly muffled the crash of thunder.

"Why are you here?" Victor asked, as though he wasn't bleeding from his nose.

"Anthony asked me to take care of you." She replied, massaging her fist, and then picking up her trusty halberd.

"Why is a caregiver holding a halberd?" Victor asked, getting frustrated.

"Anthony asked me to do it." She replied with a smile, "He said to make sure you're completely rested and to stop you from going out."

"Stop what?" Victor asked, as he started to get nervous, "my breathing? And speaking of which, where are Eliza and Anthony?"

"Well," she started reluctantly, as the heavy raindrops could be heard showering the streets, "They're out on a bit of business."

"Doing what?" he pressed.

"Oh, don't worry about it. The patient should just rest. Now, let's read some bedtime stories." She said with a smile as she took out an old leather book.

"Hey, what are you hiding?" Victor asked again, sitting up, but as he finished, the halberd came down in front of his face, piercing the bed he sat on. Sarah moved like lightning, hovering above the man like death.

"Didn't I tell you not to move?" she asked, her voice steady and cold, "What are you going to do if your wound reopens, you bastard?" Victor sat back, smiling a weak terrified smile.

A knock on the door ended their little quarrel. Sarah opened the door to find a soaking wet blacksmith standing before her. The blacksmiths short hair and smoldered skin tone betrayed her feminine features. And though the rain dampened her face, it did not hide her tears.. "I'm so sorry," she coughed.

"If you're looking for Victor he's-" but she was cut off.

"He's right here," Victor called out in a sing-song voice, "come-on in, I thought I'd be seeing you."

They sat on a couch in his living room, with the blacksmith across from them. Victor, covered in bandages sat hunched, moving as little as he could. Sarah was on his left, allowing the man to work. A pouch sat between them on a small coffee table, it's mouth slightly open, revealing it's golden contents.

"Here to tell me the truth, this time? There wasn't any point in trying to fool me with that story you told to begin with. What was that thing he used? Who created that monstrous weapon?"

His questions hit the mark and the lady blacksmith winced.

"It was. . . It was made by following a scroll my father had made. A weapon with artificial intelligence. The magic used is black, and it calls for sacrificing the soul of a living being and. . . binding it to a blade. It takes control of the wielder's body, and fights through it. As it fights, and the more blood it spills, the soul bound to the blade compiles everything it observes and learns from it. It is, literally, a living sword. And there is only one person, in this whole world who could forge something like that. . . I. . . I beg you. Please stop my brother. That bastard Alder Whiteman is using him; planning to use his work to turn this work into a sea of fire."

"So, in a way, I was used to add to that sword's experience. I was given this job, not with the intent that I would find the sword and stop it's wielder, but that it would taste my blood and learn something from me." Victor spoke, his eyes sharp and his words unyielding, "so Alder asked that Richard, who already possessed a grudge against me, to do it. No. . . Richard probably did that himself." Victor leaned back, resting his arm on the back of the couch. "And here you are, come to ask me to do something about all this. Your face looks like something out of a bad novella."

"I'm sorry," the blacksmith said, "but I don't have anything else to tell you. But if he's discovered to have played a part in that man's schemes to overthrow the Salvaran government, he won't be let off! My brother will surely be killed!"

"Even now, you're worried about big brother," Victor replied, leaning forward and resting his face on his hand. "such a good little sister. Your brother is making weapons to facilitate mass murder and you can look at him and pretend not to know?"

"Victor!" Sarah interrupted. But the blacksmith stirred to speak.

"My father used to say, 'all a sword is meant to do, is kill people. No matter how you make it, you can't decide on whom it will be used.' Those words were seared into us both. All that my brother knows how to do is forge swords. He's an idiot who can't do anything else. . . He dedicated his whole life to surpassing our father. All of his time went into honing his skills. Then he looked to magic to improve his results even further. It was around then that he started to meet with unsavory-looking people. I learned later they told him they could give his blade the added advantage he wanted, but never told him how. But even so, I didn't intervene. I thought that everything would be fine as long as we kept making swords. That's what we did. . ." Pain flooded her face, but she continued, "I know that they are just tools of murder. . . Weapons. . . for killing people," the blacksmith's fists shook, as tears welled in her eyes, "even so. . . It still hurts that this is happening. That blade that my brother poured his very soul into. . . Is being used for such wicked purposes. . . It was frustrating. . .But there was nothing I could do." Teardrops fell unto her clenched fists, but she continued. "This has become too big for me to stop, alone." Victor's eyes narrowed as he watched the girls face and listened to her words. "I can't tell right from wrong, anymore. I don't know what to do. . . I watched it all and I didn't do a thing to stop him... And now it's too late and I don't know what to do!" she cried as the tears poured from her eyes.

"I don't know what to do either.," Victor began, holding the pouch of gold, "You led me to the wolves and now you want me to go and stop your brother. I'm pretty messed up and one of my best friends was done in by this whole mess. It hurts so bad I can't even think straight. Here!" Victor tossed the pouch back to the blacksmith, "take your compensation, I don't need your money. Go home," he looked away from the girl as he spoke, "this has become too irritating, and I don't want any more trouble.

"I'm relieved." Sarah said, after the girl had gone, "I was wondering if you'd go with those injuries. You'll die if you go there in this condition."

"Yup..." he sighed, while he lay in bed.

"Although I feel sorry for that girl, there's nothing we can do." she continued.

Victor rolled over, away from Anthony's sister, "yup..."

"Victor?"

"What?"

"Please don't do anything reckless. If you're gone, Anthony and Eliza will be at a loss." she said.

"Yup..."

"You've always been mischievous before but you're old enough to behave now, right?"

"Shut up! God dammit! I'm not going anywhere!! Just go buy me some rum!" He yelled in frustration, "The bottle you bought before was white rum! Don't make the kind of mistake only a mother makes!"

"Yeah, yeah, I understand." she said, as Victor lay back down on his back and sighed. The door to the odd-jobs office closed while the wounded man laid in bed.

"Sorry." he whispered.

As the girl walked home alone, the cold streets of Archen had never seemed colder. Another pedestrian bumped into her, making her drop the bag of gold, he yelled a few insults and kept going. She simply apologized and bent down to pick up the commission she offered the jack-of-all-trades. But then she noticed the slip of paper that had been hidden in the bag.

Meet me at the smithy
-Jack-of-all-Trades was all it said.

"Ugh, I don't want to be mischievous at this age either..." Victor groaned as he walked out of his bedroom to look for clothes. He took a few steps and saw a package on his desk. A freshly folded set of clothes and a large pink umbrella. A folded note lay on his clothes, which the drifter picked up to read.

This is my favorite umbrella, please give it back to me later. Victor scratched his head and sighed, "Tch! what an un-cute woman..."

The pink umbrella stood out on the gray streets of Archen. The drifter walked slowly in the rain and the somber atmosphere. A familiar pink dress walked towards him, covered by a large black umbrella. The two passed each other and kept walking, neither looking at the other. Anna walked for a little, then stopped and turned to watch the drifter depart. For a moment she said nothing.

"What a stupid man." she whispered.

Victor walked through the slowly disbursing crowd, sporting his trademark apathetic stare.

"What a pain in the ass. . ." Victor muttered as he cleaned the inside of his ear with the pinky of his free hand "but I guess growing up is a pain too."

OOC:
For more, please await the next chapter of Victor Valentine's Story!

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

Outer Telgradia, an alternate timeline. Four years ago.

All around him, explosions rang out across the concrete parapet that churned the air into a stomach wrenching humidity.

A small cohort of the elite Telgradian Royal Guard stood strategically at points around the perimeter, dressed, as if being the sole bearers of their people's legacy; in the relics of their people. They were swathed in age old tunics and clothes salvaged from the forests before the trees had been burned to ash. Above the sound of the Jal Shey portals, and the shrieking, a voice cried out from above. It carried itself across the wind to Atlas, who stood defiantly atop a bloodstained rock formation that bore the smears of Telgradian and Jal Shey corpses alike.

He looked up, his painted white face full of malice as he gripped tightly on the hilt of his sword, Enpera. The voice belonged to a faceless Jal Shey warrior, one smothered in a black robe that covered his entire body. He was levitating at least ten feet in the air. Atlas watched helplessly as the man’s emotionless gaze bore down on him, tearing into his already waning soul.

"Don't you see, Telgradian, that there's no one left to fight? Nothing left to die for? We have taken all of it away, dragged everything out from under your feet as you struggle to hold on to everything you hold dear." His voice was deep throated, bellowing, a mixture of hatred and sadist delight. The words themselves were empowering the Telgradian's tormentor, and all the while their meaning whittling away what was left of Atlas's morale. "You will soon be left with nothing. Even if you survive, we will disappear, and you will have no one to hate, no one to exact your revenge upon. You will be fighting shadows, hating phantoms, wrestling with memories."

The Jal Shey were in the process of collapsing all of the captured surviving colonies and settlements of the Telgradian people, in an attempt to wipe its civilisation's history from existence. The whole of the Telgradian realm had become obsolete now that Temperance had failed to secure the Khaian throne from the King, and such a people becoming synonymous with anyone other than Temperance, their master, was an outcome that the Jal Shey could not let be. The treacherous beasts had warped in and ordered the extermination of any life forms they encountered.

When the Jal Shey were finished, the great city of Garah along with the rest of the Telgradian civilization would never have existed, and only the nation of the Jal Shey would take form in the wake of the genocide. Nothing else would be allowed to survive.

The entire truth was being destroyed and rewritten in Temperance’s favour, and the only people left to fight, to attempt to survive, were a rogue band of Telgradians, dragged together, and living as fugitives from their own people. How could the truth be saved if its fabrication was accepted without question by other people? To Atlas's left, his old friend Riisa wrapped his cloak around himself majestically, and ran out to tackle another band of weaker Jal Shey with his mythical no-dachi style Kurai sword, bearing his pearl white teeth in rage.

The black-robed warrior danced upon the murky concrete with great fluidity, drawing his thin sword as he turned, disembowelling one of the cloaked beasts on the backswing. He made no sound, but simply swooped left to right, seemingly anticipating the clumsy, slow motions of the servants of Temperance, who had great trouble fighting at close combat with any degree of fluency. With two strokes he severed the head of one of the demons, and then drove his blade point into the heart of the other, who fell, choking to the ground, blood spattering upon Riisa's face with what could only be seen as satisfaction in the swordsman’s countenance.

The last of the weaker wave of the Jal Shey scrambled as fast as their legs could take them back towards their white portals, having wiped out the small Telgradian company. Atlas saw his own future drifting away before his eyes as the stronger Jal Shey cohorts moved in, securing the area and scrabbling for any sign of life they could brutally murder or mutilate on their master's behalf, and he knew it was already too late. None of this had ever happened. There had never been a Telgradia, as far as anyone was concerned. A shattered colony outpost, identical to hundreds of others across the continent, marked the hollow shell of this, and, suddenly, there was no one left to save.

[Vendredi]

“I trusted you,” she said.

The grimace on his face was real. Then it smoothed over into a grin, which was fake. He wiped the sweat-plastered hair away from his eyes. “Who told you to?”

She stared at him until he backed down, until he dropped his eyes and turned away from her hooded figure to stare at stray bricks in the alley instead.

“I trusted you,” Hellebore repeated. He could hear her teeth grit.



Quick as a fox.

He ran away in the middle of the night, as he was wont to do when trouble and pressures and failure mounted up into twenty tons of obligations that he could no longer face and no longer carry. I won’t be missed, he reassured himself, refusing to look at the small town that he was leaving behind. Hellebore’s still there. She’ll find a way. They’ll be alright.

There was no pit of uncertainty in his chest. There was no hint of hesitation in his mind. He refused to acknowledge those thoughts, those feelings, those unspoken cries and broken whispers of maybes. His legs moved across the uneven grounds, ignoring the black tar that streaked the rocks and the burn marks that plagued the trees, unwilling to look back at the city gates where rows of pikes held the shrunken heads of those who had crossed that man’s law.

One of those heads were fresh.

Fii knew its owner. The owner was a child.

His fists gripped the strap of his travelsack harshly, and his feet struck the ground harder. Failure happened. It pervaded. It defined. It burnt. He hadn’t meant to go there with a companion -- the child followed Fii of his own accord. I want to free my people, the child had said, and there was such conviction in his eyes that Fii would not say no. It’s going to be dangerous, Fii had warned, but done nothing more. Keep him safe, Hellebore had said, the hour before they set off.

But a child was a child was a child, and there were some places a child should not set foot in. The bowels of a corrupt warlord’s stronghold was one such place. Now, the child was dead, and Fii was alone, and the town’s people were still not free, and Hellebore was still there.

Soft as a shadow, Fii thought. Something was caught in his throat. In his chest. His eyes gleamed in the dark as he darted into the trees.



“Oh, it’s you,” she said through the thin opening of a mostly closed door.

He stood at the fringe of the doorway, dragging his roughened knapsack across his shoulders, an apologetic smile wryly spreading across his face. The orange hue of a new sunrise peeked in behind him, lighting the heavy bruises that ran up his bared arms and one side of his face.

“I’ve got the evidence,” he murmured. “The one we were looking for with… with that kid. From the stronghold.”

She gave him one long, steady look. “Good. And you’re not dead.” Then she pulled the door open wide and stepped aside. “Come in, won’t you?”

“Thanks,” he said, relieved.

[Hawl]

OOC Note: Perhaps Canon

Some Time Ago.

“Wake up, buddy.”

It was unbelievably bright on the dead plains, the sun of mid summer’s day oppressive in its shine and heat. Ugly brown grass clearly hadn’t gotten water in days, and in patches gave way to bare dirt. There was a soft buzzing of seven year locusts, and the dry wind as it rustled dead branches of the only tree around. It was a common location for people to stop and spend the night, the top of a small hill with a nice view of the surrounding countryside. Rocks arranged in a prebuilt fire pit, one larger one with the sigil of the Corone Rangers carved into it.

“I said wake the fuck up, buddy.”

The slap was loud, the girl gasped as consciousness came flooding back to her. She tasted the copper in her mouth before the pain. Massive hands handled her roughly, lifting the small girl and setting her on her feet. She managed to remain standing, eyes watering and blurring everything in front of her. She recognized the man sitting in front of her, but and vaguely could make out the face of the man standing next to him with a wide grin on his face. Around them were more men, wearing the same uniform as the standing, grinning man.

“B-Bernard? Bernard are you okay? Da-” The last name died in her mouth as she began to stumble. She knew Bernard didn't like being called that. There was a hand motion from the smiling man, and someone behind the girl grabbed her long hair and yanking her upright. She screamed.

“There we go, Bernie-boy.” The smiling man turned to Bernard, looking down on him. The sigil of the Corone Rangers emblazoned on one arm.The smiling man was massive, muscles moving like mountain under his uniform as he knelt down and used one heavy hand to adjust Bernard’s face to the small girl. “She ain’t as tough as you must’ve hoped, huh?”

Bernard was silent, staring up at the smiling man. Bernard’s frame was tense and powerful, but rounded by age. The poncho he wore was similar to the small girl’s, with the same earnest but amateur stitching. He didn’t say anything as he glowered.

“Call me Uncle Richie, buddy.” He kept smiling at the small girl as she wiped the tears from her eyes. The man holding her lowered the pressure on her hair slightly, letting the girl stand. She could see the shine of a lacquered wood club in one of his hands as Richie took a step back from Bernard. “Sorry you got caught up in this here, I have to talk to my friend Bobby-boy here.

“What?” Rob blinked, the first sign of emotion that wasn’t subdued rage. He began to move and stand, but stopped at Richie’s hand telling him to stop.

“Well it’s been some time, Bernie-boy,” Richie kept grinning. “I know it’s been. A couple mutual friends of mine’ve been telling me you haven’t been taking your medication.”

“I don’t do that anymore.” Rob’s voice was iron, and his eyes trailed to the struggling girl. She squirmed, helpless against the man holding her. He, and all of Richie’s men, wore masks, cheap ones you could buy at any market store with splitting grins painted on.

“Course you do, Bernie-boy, everyone does.” Richie laughed. It sounded hollow. “And you were a good customer of ours, you shared the happy little blue pills with a lot of mutual friends.”

“I stopped.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you got back on the horse, can’t keep lying in the mud.” The men around them tittered as Richie removed removed a small pouch from his bag, opening it and shaking the contents out. Small rocks, no bigger than the girl’s thumbnail, tumbled into his hand. They glowed sickly as Richie rolled them around in his hand. Bernard stared, licking his lips at the small fortune of the happy little blue pills.

“I won’t.”

“Really, are you sure, Bernie-boy?” Richie knelt down holding them within Bernard’s grasp. The powerful man could still see the small girl struggling beyond Richie.

“Fuck you.”

Richie sighed and raised his other hand, giving an obvious signal. The only sound was the wooden club hitting the small girl with a meaty thud. She didn’t cry out, the air driven from her lungs. The club was brought back smoothly, a second heavy sound as a rib snapped.

“STOP!” Bernard tried to stand, but Richie’s massive hand pushed him back. The powerful man fell back as he was caught off balance. Richie was smiling, his outstretched arm with the pills still offered. “Just… Just don’t hit her again.”

“Take it, Bernie-boy.” Bernard did.

“Again.” And Bernard did.

“Again.” And Bernard did.

“Again.“ And Bernard did.

“Again.” And Bernard did.

*******

“Well then, that was easy, wasn’t it Bernie-boy?” Richie was standing over Bernard’s body. The powerful man managed to keep sitting upright. Richie brought a leg back, kicking the sitting man and sending him sprawling. “Doesn’t it feel so much better this way?”

“Bernard!” The small girl struggled in her captor’s tight grip. Her scalp tore as she struggled, clumps of nearly white hair coming off in pieces.

“But we got a second part to this game, Bernie-boy, got a question for you that those happy little pills’ll be perfect to help you with,” Richie’s voice was rougher than any the small girl had heard before, and she could feel his eyes crawl over her like a physical thing. She felt dirty, soiled just from the attention on her. The girl squirmed, trying to get away but her gaze never left Richie’s.

“You see, I want you to tell me…” Richie’s voice almost drawled as he drew the thick blade at his side. It was more butcher’s knife than sword. He made a signal,and one of his masked men came up,. The masked man grabbed Bernard’s arm, pulling it out so the heavy muscle flexed. He drew the heavy blade across it, cutting into the flesh. “I need a bit of flesh to go along with the gold. So I want you to choose between this famous arm.”

“Or…” Richie cut again, digging it deeper into the arm. The small girl gasped as Bernard didn’t even seem to feel the deep cut. The powerful man’s gaze seemed to glaze over as Richie took a few powerful steps towards the girl. He grabbed and tore her poncho and the shirt underneath. Her bare skin was pale, and goosebumps rose as Richie put the blade across her chest. “Or maybe just a small piece of her.”

“Mrgh…” Bernard’s voice was slurred, only just now noticing the blood dripping from his arm. He looked at it in a daze, looking back up at Richie with something on his face.The small girl couldn’t recognize it. He swayed, getting a foot under him.

“I’m taking both if you stand, Bernard!” Richie screamed, a boot kicking into the cut on Bernard’s arm. The powerful man screamed. Richie repositioned the sword against the small girl’s chest.

“Tick tock, Bernie-boy.”

Bernard looked away, then down, clutching at the cut on his arm. His face looked wet. His head shook slightly, and Richie understood. His smile widened, and his the flesh of his gums was visible. The small girl also understood.

“Can’t say I’m surprised, Bernie-boy. I was hoping to have something a bit meatier, but coward’s flesh isn’t worth much.”

The blade cut smoothly, the small chunk of flesh falling to the dry earth with its dead grass.

She didn’t scream, even though she was alone on that hill with Richie, his men, and Bernard.

[Christoph]

K-Zu-Ziro:
I liked the first couple sentences of your opening dialogue, but it did drag on a bit and lose its luster. The first paragraph was a neat idea, but maybe you tried too hard to make it fancy or deep. A lot of it didn’t quite work. You also didn’t show much on the page, just hinting at things that had already happened. I would have rather read about what happened to Ku-Zu-Ziro that led up to Mux Drik writing that letter. Flash fiction is an acceptable format, but you need to be exceedingly efficient and make sure plenty of things actually happen with the words you use.

Good For Nothing Captain:
My first thought while reading: what wasn’t the nightmare? It may have worked better to just say that it wasn’t the nightmare that woke him. You already have a tension-building question in “what woke him”. No need to add needless questions that don’t add tension. You also got quite wordy, shuffling around the point rather than decisively attacking it. You also tend to bounce back and forth between a conversational, casual writing style and attempts at more serious prose, which made it difficult to establish a consistent tone.

You had some clarity issues, especially when your character woke up for the second time. You’d said that Sarah had stayed behind to watch him, and he wakes up because a woman made the loud noise, but the reactions of the two made it seem like it wasn’t Sarah. Very oddly written.

I’m not sure I agree with starting the story after the defeat, as you didn’t show what led up to it or how it unfolded, meaning you missed a large chunk of the prompt.

Shinsou Vaan Osirus
The little speech by the hovering Jal Shey warrior in paragraph four was almost fantastic. The order of the sentences and the wording in some of them made it lose a little punch, but if it was just the thought that counted, you nailed it. The “The Jal Shey were in the process of collapsing all” sentence lacked the impact it truly deserved. Instead, I hate to say, that whole paragraph, and the few that followed, read more like newspaper article or textbook entry. You had a great start, but I really wanted to feel the struggle unfold, to feel competing emotions of hope and despair. That said, at least you technically started the story as the defeat occurred, rather than after the fact.

Vendredi
Interesting use of a ‘cold open’, though you could have done a little more to get me interested, perhaps describe the characters or the setting more, or given more context. It sounded like the name Hellebore was supposed to be significant when you first dropped it, but without context it didn’t mean anything.

You used many nice turns of phrase that were both clever and rhythmically smooth, but often made the mistake of tucking them into overly bloated sentences for no reason. Your style was probably the most refined out of all the entries, though you still had some issues – they were mostly nitpicky things. Message me anytime if you’d like more detail. You also play the pronoun game in the third section.

My main gripe is your narrative itself. You started well after the failure occurred and then told the reader what had happened after the fact. That’s not nearly as engaging as showing the events unfold on the page. Also, I liked the story more when Fii was running from his problems. I feel like that’s a less overdone, more human reaction. Granted, it might have been totally out of character for him, but that’s not something you established in the story, so I can’t know.

Hawl
Good setting descriptions, especially in the opening paragraph. You drew me into the environment. “Rob blinked, the first sign of emotion that wasn’t subdued rage.” – Odd line, since you hadn’t mentioned Rob until then. Also, the masks detail should have been mentioned much earlier.

I got about halfway through the story when I stopped and went, “Hell, this story got DARK.” You found your tone and hit it excellently. It would have made me feel sick to read it if I wasn’t so desensitized these days, so for that, I salute you.

My main gripes, other than some sloppy prose here and there, are that the characters could have used a little more fleshing out, and the ending fell a little flat. The emotional reactions of the characters to the terrible situation didn’t resonate as well as I’d hoped. Also, more description of the drug’s effects. Him getting forced to take it again had more impact than most anything else, so I would have liked more focus on that, honestly.

*

First Place: Hawl
Second Place: Vendredi

EXP Awarded by those who know what they’re doing!

[Rayleigh]

Rewards:

Ziro receives 150 EXP.
Captain receives 200 EXP.
Shin receives 100 EXP.
Vend receives 320 EXP and 150 GP.
Hawl receives 200 EXP and 200 GP.

Congratulations!

All GP and EXP have been added!