Vignette Contest: March 2009

[Sorahn]

That's right! Vignettes are back! After a long dry spell, the monthly vignette contest has returned in full force by much popular demand.

What are vignettes you ask? They're (quite) short stories written in one post that relate to the given prompt. Everyone can post their entry in this thread and at the end of March the top three will be selected for prizes! But even if you don't win a prize, there's still exp in it for you just for posting.

Here's the rules:

1) One submission per character. Multiple accounts by the same author are allowed.
2) Please make your posts during the duration of time allotted (which is during the month of March). Editing your posts is permitted so long as they are edited within the contest's time frame.
3) The moderator judging the monthly vignette contest will post a vignette at the end, but will not be eligible for a prize.
4) Only on-topic vignettes will be considered for the prize. The topics are meant to be broad enough that no character should be particularly limited.
5) PCs must be involved in all vignettes. How "canonical" you choose to have the events of the vignette is up to you.
6) All participants receive 5% of the EXP they need to reach the next level. The top three finishers get 100, 75 and 50 GP respectively.

Without further ado, here's this month's prompt:


Your character is caught in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

This could be on Althanas or on Earth, in any time period you want. Does your character seek out other survivors? Are there any other survivors? Are they the shuffle-shuffle-moan style zombies or the fast, agile buggers? That's all up to you! Your character can even be one of the zombies!

You've got until the end of March!

[Rahegalhoff]

The Abyss, the bottom of Althanas. Rahegalhoff never knew there could be a place as bad as the abyss. It was perpetually dark and gloomy, and filled with horrifying things his mind had become numb to since his entry into The Abyss. He was seeking a legendary fortress, written about only in bard song, a place in The Abyss known as Pandemonium Fortress. It was said there was a substance known as Pandemonium there. A metal born from the torment and suffering of those that fell into the abyss.

Rahegalhoff didn’t fall into the Abyss, so much as stumble into the abyss. It was his original intent to come here, and he walked through the portal calmly and of his own volition, but no one walks into the abyss, all fall, and for Rahegalhoff, it was the transition itself that made him fall.

He walked along the dark and twisting path, trying his best to ignore the things crawling upon the walls. He stopped paying them any heed, when he turned and looked into the myriad eyes of something that may or may not have been a roach. It had eyes all across its back, and insect like legs, but there were also tentacles down there. It hissed at him and clacked it’s mandibles at him. But then a large red thing that was either a demon claw or a crab pincher grabbed it and dragged it into the abyss.

He heard a tiny voice up ahead, screaming in agony. That wasn’t uncommon, the abyss was filled with screaming, all of it in agony and torment. But it normally, it seemed like the blowing of wind, as though the wind itself was screaming as it whistled through the cracks and crevices of The Abyss.

On the wall was a fairy, in a steel cage. She was on fire, burning alive. She battered herself against the bars, and rolled on the lantern’s surface. She burned to ashes and reformed instantaneously each second, forever regenerating herself, forever burning.
“WHY CAN’T I DIE?!” she cried, and then continued on screaming in agony.

Rahegalhoff shuddered, and wondered what sort of an entity would do that to a fairy.

“Help me!” screamed a woman in the wall. Her arms reached for him, but she was trapped in the wall.
She wasn’t the only one. Rahegalhoff was surrounded by the living dead, begging for release from their torments. They were safely trapped, stuck in the wall, in cages, or held back by others. Each of them begging for release from their torments.

A new voice rose in terror to join the rest, a living man, horrified by what he was seeing. He fled the room, and in an effort to find release, leaped off the bridge that spanned the two sides of The Abyss, plunging into its murky depths.

(OOC: To be continued in the thread “Search for Pandemonium Fortress”)

[Karuka]

"Hey, sleepy. You should really be awake for this."

Karuka opened her eyes and sat up, shaking her head. Kneeling at her side was a blond man whose lips were twisted in a wry grin. She'd seen this man before, several times...but only in cryptic dreams. "Langer. So this is a..."

"No. Not in the way you'd understand it. And exactly in the way you'd understand it, too. It's a little tricky...but that's how I like it. Now come on." He extended a hand to her, helping her up from the big cushion she'd woken upon. What exactly was happening was something Karuka couldn't afford to understand...but it also was something she absolutely could not afford to forgo.

The bare stone room crumbled into dust and blew away, the central light within fading into darkness. The scene that replaced it made Karuka's blood run cold. Wraiths streamed through the war-blackened skies, zombies tore through Elves and men, though the latter fought desperately.

"Ragnarok...you brought me back to Ragnarok." That had been the worst day of her life. She'd been forced to realize that her gods were dead, gone. It had been the first day she'd been truly alone, and nothing had happened to change that ever since that day that Damon Kaosi had destroyed the universe and unleashed the end of time.

"No." A soft but firm voice came from behind her, but Karuka couldn't believe it. She just shook her head and grabbed her spear, heading into the fray. Langer followed her.

"Look around, Karuka! LOOK! Where are you?" Behind her, a frustrated Langer battered and slapped at the zombies like they were mere mosquitoes.

Karuka looked around, between smacking around zombies. The ruins of once-proud buildings rose gracefully, a merger of ground and sky. There was only one place that did that. "Raiaera. Eluriand."

"Raiaera. On Althanas. Althanas is not Midgard. You've known that for years."

Forgetting the zombies, the wraiths, the hell which had unfurled around her, Karuka turned back to the blond man who looked down at her with calm blue eyes, as though none of it existed for him. "Althanas isn't your world, Karuka." He vanished.

She turned back to the zombies, gripping her...mop. Her staff had been replaced by a dingy mop, and the zombies were still swarming her, bottomless wells of boundless hunger.

Karuka sat up abruptly, and promptly fell off the hard slat the boat called a "bunk." She sat up, rubbing her head, and then stood up, feeling the rocking of the ship beneath her. It had all been a horrible memory...and a terrible dream.

Wandering out into the fresh air, Karuka leaned onto the railing, trying to clear her head. Ragnarok was how Earth would be destroyed. Not Althanas. And she had definitely still been on Althanas in that memory.

The last time she'd seen zombies, she'd struggled to find a group of survivors, had thrown grenades and fought with them until the world had crumbled around her. She had known she was going to die, but fate had intervened, had righted the universe. But the undead legions had only been the third worst thing about that day...

And if it hadn't been Ragnarok, the day the gods themselves had perished...what did that mean for her?


~*~*~

Loki sat up, out of mortal sight. It was tiring to be a truth teller after all his experience in making lies, but Thor was a clumsy oaf, Odin was too busy, and the girl's father? What had he expected but bitterness from a confused teenager? Maybe if he'd actually watched her grow up...but that was a different matter. Here and now, someone was glaring holes into the back of his head.

"What?!" he addressed the hooded figure behind him. "I'm giving her a nudge in the right direction in her head, not screwing with things on your world."

"You're giving her hints of what's to come," muttered the mysterious figure with a hint of a growl. "That changes history in and of itself. Imagine what it would be like if the Celts knew the Romans were attacking and had set up ahead of time, rather than having the tribes split as they were. That's the kind of danger information represents."

"How is taking her back to her past and letting her get a look at it from the perspective of Althanas history showing her things to come?" The Nordic god ran a hand over his head, frustrated. Karuka wasn't even really this guy's business, she'd been his from the day she'd squirmed out into the world. "Besides, she's screwed with Althanas history just by coming over from Earth in the first place. I don't see you sending her ragged butt home."

"That's because I knew it had to happen. This isn't some game you can play with me where you question my ability to read time. I know what the flow looks like, I know the consequences of changing that flow. And I will punt you back to your world if you don't close the link down, now."

"You're fussing at me and not watching, TW." Loki pointed to the young woman whose moonlit features stared pensively toward Dheathain. "The dream is over. And it's something she had to get a second look at. Because if she hadn't...her journey ahead would have killed her. And how much would that screw up your time line?"

A derisive snort left the other man's lips. "What you did was extremely dangerous, Loki. You already know my feelings about you messing with her. Don't push it any further. Next time I won't even talk, I'll get to forcing you right back into the portal you jumped from."

"Next time is the most important time, you know that." The day of reckoning was coming. He just wondered if it wasn't coming all too soon.


((OOC: the mystery figure is not mine, but he is used with permission.))

[Yari Rafanas]

Althanas.

It was a world without limits. Heroes were born and bred from every village; Men and women of destiny rose from the ashes of war and strife; warriors from the stars and children from other worlds and dimensions littered the landscape. All of them carried their own story, changed every locale to their liking, and took with them the freedom triumph over every challenge that lay before them. The evils of the world, equally diverse in their nature, had always been kept in balance. However, this magnificent place had finally been undone. It had been conquered by an unstoppable force indifferent to what was good and what was evil, feeling only hunger and granted immortality.

Every home, castle, and cave had been turned in on itself. Every man, elf, and dwarf choked on the most vile of disease, a dark cloud of rot and smoke. It seeped into every crack in the wall, dug into the vary roots of the forests, and slowly crushed the souls and willpower of those who opposed. Life turned to death, and the those who lost to this force were slave to instinct—doomed to an eternity as just another body in an army of zombies.

A few remained alive...

“Yari!” shouted an attractive young woman garbed in blacks. She held in her arms the body of an much older, yet beautiful woman, “She's dying...”

The young king of thieves turned to Shempi, the girl bearing such horrible news, the most solemn of looks having replaced his typically arrogant visage. Tears hung under his eyes as he looked to her—this girl of his dreams holding the only woman he had ever considered a mother—Ruby. Of these two, they were the only close friends Yari had yet to lose to this infection spreading across the world, yet poor health and exhaustion had led the three of them to a small farm house at the edges of Radasanth. They had hoped to find refuge in the city, but it had been burned and remained nothing more than a birthing ground for the undead army that pursued them. The house they were in was boarded up tightly, but they had been followed. Muffled moans broke through the walls from outside and the shuffling of dead feet were accompanied by the clawing at the only entrance to the home. It was louder now—a clamor that could only reveal thousands of walking corpses yearning to feast on the trio of survivors.

“Yari...” Shempi sniffled, “I'm sorry.”

The two lovers broke down into tears as they held each other tightly. Ruby lay quiet on the floor, lifeless.

“I'm not going to let them get you!” he cried into Shempi's hair and kissed her cheek. “I'm going out there... and I am going to kill every... last... one.

“No!” she bawled, “No I don't want you to go!”

“Love... I have to go. For you. And you have to run away, for me. When I clear a path, you have to run. You have to find a way to get back to your home... this cannot have reached there. I promise I will be right behind you.”

She only nodded, unable to speak, paralyzed by sadness.

“I love you, Shempi-babe,” spoke the bandit as he stood and faced the doorway. “You and I will live forever...”

And in a heartbeat, Yari Rafanas exploded into battle. The front door to the house shattered, wood splintering and becoming deadly shrapnel to the foes that waited outside. Some impaled, other stunned, but most managed to fall back enough to give Yari room to stand his ground. A flash of light, and the most magnificent spear to have ever graced the arena's of Althanas was produced into Yari's hands. It hummed with energy and glowed brightly, a stark contrast to the cloudy sky and the muddied flesh of the army before him. He twirled it courageously into the limbs and heads of every mutilated corpse before him. A mixture of blood, magic, and cries of pain flung into the air...

One after another, the zombies fell to the King of Thieves. Each strike of his weapon produced a wave of destructive energy that leveled dozens of his foes. But with each enemy shattered, two rose to replace them. Body after body filed into the ranks and pressed harder towards the lone warrior. He had managed to make it only 10 feet from the door before his weapon's requiem left him exhausted. Cold and clammy hands pulled him down to the ground and he cried out to his love in the other room. “Run!” he screamed, barely audible over the mumbling roar of he undead, “Run!”

The weight of the army was upon him, but to his surprise, he did not hear his flesh being torn from his bones or the disgusting slurp of the mindless cannibals feasting on his form. It was until he saw their vacant eyes directed towards the house behind him that he realized it all. These zombies carried not a spec of interest for the powerful thief—they only craved the meal inside the home. In this moment of clarification, Yari found new strength and clawed at the bodies as they trampled over him, begging them not to go any further, pulling at their legs and kicking wildly, but his struggle was for nothing. The sheer amount of numbers overwhelmed him, pushing him aside into the mud where he remained neglected.

Hours passed. The plague had moved on, leaving nothing in the house—not a shred of evidence that Shempi and Ruby had even existed. The bandit king sat alone in a puddle of mud and mangled bodies left from his final stand. This loneliness was accompanied by the fierce realization that this was his punishment for a lifetime of arrogance and greed. No, not one lifetime, but two. In a fit of selfishness and blatant misuse of power, Yari Rafanas had torn himself from the afterlife years before, free to roam Althanas for the second chance so few deserved. Resurrected. Undead in the eyes of all others His sins and greed were now his punishment. His tears were shared with nobody. He was left alone to wallow in all that he had failed to protect, gaining nothing after two lifes spent on taking everything.

((OOC: Non-canon.))

[Wings of Endymion]

Through the barren heaps of ash and ruin they sped, three fleeting shadows amongst the silent desolation of what had once been a city bustling with life. The twilight sun brought into sharp focus the stark grey outline of the remnants of tall buildings, breaking up the crimson skies tainted with the fiery blood of a blighted, dying world. Windborne dust slowly eroded the bodies of decomposed flesh and bleached white bone that littered the land, both those that had died living and those that had suffered a far worse fate.

A pair of bleak eyes watched them from a safe distance, tired and troubled with exertion. The Nipponese samurai Yoshi Sanada lay slumped against what had once been the battlements of a mighty fortress, long since overrun by the plague of undeath that had cursed the world. Nine others clustered around him in the shelter of the shattered stone, the only living souls in the vicinity if not the whole of the southern continent. The mighty roar of their target, a spectral manifestation of the dark gods themselves, reached the young man's ears. He winced in pain, blood trickling anew from the head wound along his hairline, as his mind relived the vivid vermilion eyes that could pierce all they cast themselves upon with the curse of living death.

Yoshi's right hand was clasped around the scabbard of the large nodachi that was his favoured weapon, the long crescent blade extending like a symbol of defiance into the slowly darkening heavens above. His left was wrapped protectively around the waist of one Hitomi Alatariel, the half-elven priestess's long golden hair cascading down her pale cheeks and obscuring her face from view as she slumped listlessly upon the makeshift pillow that was Yoshi's shoulder. Perched precariously upon the dank slabs of stone above them both, hawkish blue eyes peering off into the distance as she mindlessly fingered the string of her bow, Hitomi's younger twin sister Kendal kept watch for the small band.

They were ten strong in total, not including the three who forged ahead towards their goal and the one who watched their back, waiting for the opportune moment. Opposite Yoshi sat Hector Leitdorf, knight of the Order of the Aurora, along with his two subordinates. Hector met the samurai’s solemn gaze and smiled wearily, but could not quite disguise the dull veil over the his brown eyes, the despondent set of the arms that grasped his heavy bastard sword and the creaking rust that choked his mail. The Tudor siblings that accompanied him looked no better for the battles they had been through; fair-faced prodigal older brother Eliot sat polishing his fencing sabre, an uncharacteristically grim expression clouding his features, while flame-haired younger sister Elaine was curled up in a tight ball at Hector's feet, eyes half open and glazed as she fought against slumber.

Slightly further along was the remainder of their band, huddled in the cover of the grand archway that had once led into the fortress's keep but now precipitated a fifteen-foot drop onto treacherous rocky rubble below. The ivory-armoured figure of Kohei of Satsuma stood guard at the very edge, propped up against the stone by the slender spear that was his weapon. Sprawled out in the lee of the dank battlement was the burly frame of Kou Jui "Jack" Lan, snoring mightily as the muscular warrior took full advantage of the lull in fighting. Even the mage Hyun Kimang was too tired for his customary sharp wit, barely able to muster the energy to sit upright as he too sought shelter from the tainted wind.

The final member of the group was the enigmatic girl Yui, last avatar of Isha, Goddess of Light. She sat in the midst of them all but by herself, quietly hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes were lost in the far distance, focused on some intangible reality far beyond any of their ken. Yui was by far the youngest of what was by any standards a youthful gathering, but she had not complained once during the long hard journey through lands infested by undeath to their current place of rest. Her silent, thoughtful features hid a destiny greater than all others, for she was their last hope for restoring normality to a world poised on the brink of death.

The ripple of sudden explosions sounded in the distance, and all present reacted instinctively as the constant threat of battle weighed heavily on their souls. Long weeks of living on the boundary between life and death had taken their toll on the band of warriors, and it was only the knowledge of what would happen should they fail their appointed task that spurred their weary bodies into action once more.

As if on cue, the black-clad figure of Ai Kurokage arrived before them, bearing with her fresh news.

***

The altar of the dark gods loomed over them, so close to hand and yet so far out of reach. The legions of darkness were alert to their approach now, and Ingwe's impressive display of pyromancy in carving a swathe clear only served to alert more of the shambling zombies to their presence.

Even now her old friend led them ever onwards, swiftly and surely guiding them through the undulating mass of bodies that sought to bar their way. His twin tanto streaked fiery silver as they wove their delicate dance around him, seamlessly searing a path towards their goal as if they were the first beams of dawn piercing the night. Only rarely did Misaki have to step in to finish off a zombie that he had missed with her short daggers, and that in turn left Yuka free to concentrate on her footing and on not losing hold of the valuable artefact, the pearl-white broach that she even now clasped in her right hand, that they had been bidden to place as close to the altar as they could manage.

A brief lull in the fighting, and suddenly the threesome broke free of the encircling hordes, emerging out onto the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking a mile-wide desolate rift where some powerful spell had torn the city and the very land it had been built on asunder. Yuka nearly knocked Ingwe from the precipice as she sought to maintain her footing, and only his sturdy dependable presence saved her from toppling over into the abyssal depths below. She thanked him with a glance, reassuring Misaki's concerned look from beyond him with a brief smile.

If I were a wind, she whispered to herself, remembering the enigmatic words of the archangel Aska, then Misaki would be one as well, and together we would be free to seek the opposite horizon. Her eyes slipped back from her close friend and confidant to her other close friend and confidant, twinkling with irrepressible delight as she noted the pale expression he wore at the heights upon which he stood. Then Ingwe would be fire, encouraging us onwards and gaining strength from us at the same time. Yuka's right hand protectively clutched the broach upon which so many of their hopes rested, even as Ingwe regrouped and mastered his instinctive fears, bookishly replacing his spectacles to the bridge of his nose. Her thoughts then turned questioning, wondering, and Thomas...? Where would he fit into this analogy...?

Only the dire urgency of their situation, impressed upon her by a fresh spate of rotten breeze and the echo of an angry roar in the distance, reluctantly diverted her from that particular train of thought.

Thinking them cornered, the undead horde loomed about them menacingly, moaning and leering in discordant unison. The rift before the three warriors represented more than a physical barrier to their passage; it was symbolic of a definite point of no return. It was obvious to them all - pensive Ingwe, bright Yuka, quick-witted Misaki - that there would be no return for them on this path.

It was a wonder then that their eyes, and Ingwe's in particular, were so clear and free of doubt.

He will honour his pledge, will he not? he asked of her, heedless of the web of foes that strangled them from behind. You trust him, and I trust you.

He will, she nodded in reply, with a conviction born from more than pure hope. I trust him, and I trust you.

She grinned at him cheekily, and a faint wisp of a return smile danced on his lips in return.

A brief hand gesture, and all three leapt blindly off the edge.

[Flames of Hyperion]

"Why are you doing this?"

Yoshi's voice was a mixture of caution and distrust, his feelings towards his erstwhile best friend abundantly clear. Thomas had betrayed and abandoned them all once, a long time ago amidst the burning pyres of the Academy in Nippon, and the honour-bound half-dragon was not one to easily forgive and forget.

"Simple," the psi-mage's sibilant tones resounded in nonchalant reply, his apparition flickering in and out of existence in tune with the bruising winds that swept the land. Hands folded calmly in front of his body, his face nearly lost under the cowl of the dark hooded robe he wore, Thomas Motokaji radiated power and arrogance in equal measure even though he was not actually present in person. A sardonic smile danced about the set of his chin as he paused before continuing, clearly enjoying the discomfort of his former classmates.

"I have no love for Ingwe," he finally explained, perhaps slightly disappointed at the lack of reaction he had been able to provoke. The way he said Ingwe's name, however, was enough to send shivers down Yoshi's spine. "But I have no wish to see the overworld under the control of anybody but myself. The dark gods themselves, come to sow death and destruction upon the world? Pah!"

Still Yoshi remained impassive and silent, eyes smouldering with fresh anger at the psi-mage's words. Thomas saw this and smirked in turn, but was not so obtuse to realise that he needed their help as much as they needed his. Although his next words meant little to the warriors who had battled against his nefarious schemes time and again in the past, they were just enough to dispel any doubts as to the honesty of his aid.

"Not to mention that she's with him."

A brief pause as honour fought necessity deep within Yoshi's soul. In the end, however, he too knew that there was little choice in the matter. The beast within flared with anger, but the need of the many won out over the objections of the few.

"Very well," he capitulated reluctantly. "Get ready."

Thomas's apparition bowed a sarcastic bow, elegant and graceful in its overblown acidity, then raised its arms majestically and began to chant. His light tenor formed a drastic counterpoint to the low rumble of devastation and undeath around them, but it was quickly ignored by those present as just another background noise.

In the meantime Yoshi had turned to face the remaining warriors, clustered about him expectantly. As he gazed upon their youthful faces, exhausted by their exploits so far but not shirking from further duty, he was struck by how funny it was that the fate of the world lay on the shoulders of the fourteen - no, fifteen - young men and women that night. Perhaps if the Conclave were not so opposed to Ingwe's plan...

But then it had been so daring that even they, his closest friends, had hesitated. And it rested almost entirely on a complete uncertainty... the words of Yui, the ten-year-old girl who had travelled with them this far into the lands of death. Ingwe had seen something in her that had made him trust her, and although the Conclave had been reluctant, Yoshi trusted Ingwe.

"Do you still want to do this?" Yoshi asked, his voice understanding. Dark compassionate eyes scanned the crowd once more, seeking any sign of hesitation. To his surprise - or perhaps not... - there was none.

"This is what we signed up for," Hector answered wryly, shifting his weight from one armoured foot to the other. As the only one amongst them who could match Yoshi in sheer martial skill, he had established himself as effective second-in-command; the unequivocal support of he and his two knights was essential. Yoshi relaxed slightly at his words. "I'm with you."

"As are we," Kohei continued, as Yoshi's gaze found him next. The ivory-clad spearman didn't have to turn to meet the eyes of those he stood with - burly Jack, cunning Hyun, silent Ai - to know that they too felt the same. "How could we ever abandon the world to this fate, without a fight?"

"We have the power to do something, so we must," Hyun added from behind him, tossing back his flowing raven-black hair to reveal sharp features and sloe eyes.

"Such power does not necessarily bind us to this particular duty," Yoshi pointed out, unnecessarily. As leader, it was his job to probe for any weakness, any indecision or irresolution that would jeopardise their mission as a whole. But the next words, spoken in a barely-audible voice that would have convinced a heretic of his redemption, settled the matter entirely.

"How could we ever abandon Yuka or Ingwe to their fate?"

Yoshi turned slowly to face Kendal, taking in her words and allowing them to settle in his mind, before once again casting his gaze across the assembled warriors. Convinced that there wasn't the barest hint of hesitation to be seen, he nodded at long last, satisfied.

There was, however, one last matter to deal with.

"Are you confident that this plan will succeed?"

His words this time were directed towards Yui, who had remained aloof from the conversation, still hugging her knees to her chest as she huddled on the cold stone. When addressed, however, she slowly rose to her feet, dusting off her tattered frock childishly. Her reply was a simple, solemn nod, a gesture that somehow seemed far too mature for a girl her age.

"Take me to them," she spoke, lilting voice echoing about the ravaged vicinity all too loudly.

Before Yoshi could reply, Thomas's chanting ceased, and a sudden flash blinded the gathered band.

***

Her long fine hair danced with her every movement, individual strands cavorting in the wind with minds of their own. Yuka was fighting with her shortsword now, the melee too close for her staff-bow to be truly effective. Her slender frame wove a delicate rhythmic step alongside her companions: the four flying daggers of her good friend Misaki, half circus sideshow and half telekinetic masterpiece, and the fiery crimson trails that Ingwe's magic carved amongst the advancing hordes. A skillful combination of sword and sorcery was all that kept their foes at bay, the flash of steel and the song of magic melding in harmonious unison from three separate minds. The faint echo of a falcon's cry haunted the blazing skies above, but only the grimly relentless shuffle of undead feet greeted their weary eyes around them.

The quality of their opponents had taken a decided turn for the better, Ingwe noted detachedly as his swords carved yet another cadaver into three. Like a man possessed he fought to protect his friends, but these were no longer the mindless, puppet-like zombies that sought to wear them down by sheer force of numbers alone. No, his mind whispered in a world apart from the senseless slaughter that was reality. This bunch are actually thinking for themselves, identifying weak points in our formation and seeking to exploit them. From a macabre, suicidal point of view, it was almost progress.

The treacherous wind threatened to blind him for one critical instant, flinging dust and ash into his eyes as a muscular hulk of a zombie attempted to take off his head with a powerful swipe of its clawed forearms. Only instinct and reflex saved him as he twisted out of the way, looking up as a flash of silver darted across his vision and buried itself in the chest of his foe. The abomination's grimace, of befuddlement rather than of pain, was cut short as Ingwe's next stroke carved limb from torso.

"Back!" he gasped, barely nodding his thanks to the young woman who had saved him. Misaki nodded shortly in acknowledgement, retrieving the dagger with her mind before launching it again towards the mass of zombies that herded them. Her features were slightly daintier than Yuka's, product of her sheltered upbringing, but they were no less beautiful. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she guided four whirling blades with deadly precision, taking slow steps in retreat towards the desolate schoolyard to their rear.

"Back, now! Get inside!" Ingwe ordered again, more urgently this time. Misaki obeyed, breaking out into a sprint with Ingwe close on her heels. Bright shafts of light covered their retreat towards the archway that had once been the entrance to the school, Yuka loosing her magical arrows as fast as she could. Each struck home, straight and true, but for all the effect they had upon the army that faced them, she might have been throwing pebbles at them instead.

"Inside!" Ingwe practically screamed, gesticulating madly. The ashen look of fear and exhaustion upon Yuka's face as she darted within gave him the last shred of courage he needed, and he turned at bay at the top of the low flight of stairs, his flanks protected by the solid stone as he dared his foes to approach. Whether it was the promise of eternal death that burnt deep within his eyes or the glint of holy flame that threatened to singe those who approached his twin blades, his brave action seemed to have its desired effect. Momentarily the hordes stayed their advance and cowered before his gaze, an endless mob of living dead halted by the sheer boldness of his action.

Then the wall behind him erupted in an explosion of splintered stone. Three gigantic shadows more ominous than any storm cloud cast themselves against his back, and Ingwe's heart sank. The young man closed his eyes, breathing a soft word of power.

When he opened them again, his aura flared with the brilliance of a thousand flames, enveloping him in a fiery mantle that seemed to sprout protective wings around his two companions. Misaki had been knocked against the far wall, winded and whimpering in pain; Yuka glared angrily at the newest of their foes, three behemothic undead that had once been giant-folk from the western mountains, brandishing her staff in a futile gesture of defiance. But as the warmth of Ingwe's spirit reached their tired souls, movement swift and decisive blinded their eyes.

Bellowing a battlecry to the bloody heavens above, trailing streaks of blazing anger in his wake, Ingwe leapt forth. This time, not even the will of the gods could stand in his way.


***

He regained consciousness amongst piles of uneven rubble, in a location that he vaguely recognised as the rooftop of the school that they had been fighting in. Flickers of lightning darted like serpentine tongues in the blood-streaked skies above, mocking him mercilessly with their relentless energy as they greeted his exhausted awakening. Vaguely he felt Yuka to his right and Misaki to his left, supporting his battered frame as they dragged him clear of the staircase behind him.

"Yuka," Misaki spoke, quietly and urgently. A nod from the older woman acknowledged the unspoken request, and Ingwe felt his body being lowered hastily, if not unkindly, to the cold stone. Muffled explosions behind him, combined with the sudden cessation of the low moans that had dogged their steps upwards, told him that she had blown the staircase that had brought them to the rooftop. "We're safe... for now."

For as long as they need to bring up the next wave... Ingwe thought to himself, knowing that the dark hordes they faced would not hesitate to climb the bodies of their dead comrades if necessary. Such is the evil will that guides them...

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he attempted to force his body upright, ignoring the protestations of his two companions and the wracking cough that brought up fresh waves of bright crimson liquid from the depths of his lungs. He didn't need Yuka's frantic hands on his back to tell him that he was in bad shape indeed, nor did he require Misaki's soundless words begging him to lie down and rest for a moment to confirm that his strength was rapidly ebbing away. His vision wavered weakly and began to glaze over, all semblance of hope seeping away like his lifeforce as it was leeched away by every polluted breath he took. In the not so distance, he vaguely heard the dark gods laugh as they sensed his fears, a low rumbling sound that caused the ground to quake and all that were tainted by it to tremble in instinctive fear.

"Ingwe..."

The whispered words barely reached his ears, drifting in and out of his mind like some intransient breeze. The voice was vaguely familiar, but...

"J'han!"

Yuka. It was Yuka's voice that spoke to him, trying to rouse him from his stupor. He had to... he...

"Please... don't give up..."

Give up? He?

Faintly he felt her spells flowing through his body, calm and soothing as they sought to relieve his pain. But deeper inside, beyond the realm of anything that external magic could hope to touch, he sensed a single spark, silent remnant of the flames that had sustained him against his foes not so long ago. Now they were a mere ashen shadow of what they had once been, flickering weakly in the presence of beings far more potent than he. And yet...

Ingwe reached out towards the spark, desperately extending his fingers towards the puissant power that would be essential to any further effort he could make. An eternity later, they made contact... and the fire within flared once more like a phoenix reborn.

As if under the influence of a power other than his own, almost like a marionette on strings, Ingwe's body lurched upright as the strength began to flow once more into his soul. The gasps of shock and concern from his companions turned almost instantaneously to awe, not at the fire that burnt anew in his eyes and gave his pale features an almost ethereal look, but at the magics that began to effect the immediate vicinity.

The air shimmered suddenly, phasing in and out of existence as if a thousand mirages had invaded the surrounding wasteland. Gradually they began to coalesce into distinct forms; the crescent silver of a long blade, the glimmering metal of shining chain mail, a long lightning-blue tuft of horsehair worn upon an ivory helmet. It did not take long for the three warriors to recognise their comrades as they emerged from the distinct embrace of a teleportation spell, eyes united in hard and unyielding anger. Yoshi and the Alatariel sisters to their right, Hector and his knights to the left, the Academy Four behind them and the young avatar Yui in front, each and every person radiating defiance towards the dark being looming over them.

"You alright, Ingwe?" Hector called, noting the blood and grime that stained the young man's garments.

"You're late!" Misaki cried in reply, relieved and angry in equal measure. Wry grins abounded all around, but to Ingwe's eyes the brightest star of all was the brief smile of joy that lit up Yuka's face.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked of his friends, his voice low and strained but not yet extinguished.

"We're in this together," Yoshi replied in a similar tone, his teeth grit resolutely. "Until whatever end may befall us."

See? a voice whispered in Ingwe's mind, gentle and calm and teasingly knowing. You're not alone, J'han. Not anymore.

Ingwe allowed his eyes to wander slightly to meet Yuka's, searching for a truth there that he had never quite been able to find. She met them equally, a faint smile touching her lips, before looking away to face their final foe. The three-eyed manifestation of death and destruction leered angrily at the intrepid band of warriors that dared to defy it.

All around him his friends readied for the final showdown, spells whispered on parched lips and trembling hands unsteadily grasping the hafts of cold steel. Fear brewed in the depths of their hearts, but it was their courage that won out in the end, gifting them the presence and fortitude to face the overwhelming terror to their fore. The dark gods sensed their defiance and bellowed their displeasure to the ravaged skies. Shadow and brimstone descended upon them with all the fury of a thousand apocalypses as the incarnation of evil loomed over them, deadly intent unmistakable in its hungry leer.

A brief flicker of divine light pierced the drowning shadows, and then all was darkness again.

[Visla Eraclaire]

((Non-Canon))

A leather bound book lies among the scattered refuse, ground into the muddy soil by the shambling gait of the relentless horde, now long gone. The town lies ruined and nameless, bereft of life or undeath. Even the scrawled ink on the few remaining pages of this tattered tome has begun to fade, and when the steady rain finally washes it away, there will be no testament to the events that occurred.


Day Ten

I am resigned to the fact that these words will serve only as an epitaph. My journal has been, to this point, something for me to remember by, a basin for the thoughts which overflow from the fountain of my memory. Soon, that font will run dry and so, today the basin will have to hold much.

Though the likelihood of anyone finding this is extraordinarily low, I can think of no better way to spend my last moments. Even now, I hear the clawing and gnawing of the beasts from outside. I can do nothing against them. Their very nature consumes the shadow which is my primary defense. My attempts to siphon energy from them have met with complete failure. Though they appear weakened, they quickly recover. Meanwhile, whatever essence sustains them is an anathema to life.

It would seem my theories have come to nothing. Not all life is one currency. Not everything can be exchanged fairly. I would dismiss such talk as madness, had I not seen them myself, but they are truly dead. Whatever energy sustains them is truly different, death itself, I dare to say.

I wonder what will interest you when you find this. If you want to know where they came from, the answer is here. The first ones came from among the old and sick. A new disease, studied with due care at the university. I am an outsider and one ignorant of medicine, a detractor of it, even, and so I can tell you little else.

Why didn’t we run when they first came? Hubris, at first. The locals would not flee their homes. We travelers were adventurers, by and large. Even I will confess that, while I would not label myself as such, I was intrigued by the creatures more than I was frightened. After all, this is a world of beasts and they seemed no different.

They are different. I have heard tales of the undead from far off lands and read books. Perhaps you have too. Do not believe them. Do not distance yourself and reduce them to a sterile taxonomy. A scratch from them is death, and the mightiest blows are lucky to stagger them. I saw them walk through torrents of flame. I saw them tear through the strongest metals in their way.

Do not let their slothful motions fool you. They are neither slow of thought or lacking in guile. Once our pride was tarnished, once more than half their numbers were not the sick, but our fallen fighters, we saw this for the war it was.

A horde advances, mercilessly, relentlessly, to its doom. That’s what the organizers said. We laid traps, hid among rooftops, rained destruction down on them. One would fall, maybe a handful. Then the eyes would be upon us. Hundreds of eyes, all aware, all knowing exactly what we had done to kill their rotting comrades.

They are not a petty rabble. They are one, ever growing.

For all my bold, knowing words, I must confess. They are a bane only to the unwary. A proper arrangement might have saved us. We were all too human and yet still not human enough. We showed all our vanity, our pride at conquest over whatever beast might beset us. We showed none of our terror till it was too late.

I hope the one who finds this is a triumphant hero. Pity us, we wretched who have more pride than might. And should my plan fail and you come upon a plain looking girl with a ring around her neck, shambling along with their mass, slay her.

A burned out building nearby still reeks more of kerosene than carrion. A pile of charred bones lies in a corner, picked over for whatever ashen meat once clung to them. A loop of silver on a broken chain sits, soot-stained amongst the ashes.

[Last of the Saratu]

A touch of humor...

"Young Master Dragon?" the innkeep stammered, a metal mug clanging noisily on the oaken floor as it fell from the shocked man's shaking hands. Tossing his towel over his shoulder and keeping his eyes on the door, the portly man stumbled backward groping for the bar. "Rasmus Dragon!?" he ventured again, his voice raising slightly in pitch.

From the kitchen behind him, a young boy dressed in tattered clothes and a dirty white apron entered the common room. "Rasmus Bartholomew Dragon at your service, ma'am," he announced with a cheeky glance at the flustered innkeep. Poking fun at the man with polite insults such as this pleased Rasmus to no end. "What seems to be the problem?" His boss mumbled some unintelligible phrase and so Rasmus was forced to step forward and look around his employer to the door of the establishment. That was when he saw them.

Hordes of undead, each vaguely resembling a cruel mockery of the villagers who had died in the war so far this month. Each shambling forward on legs that didn't quite work and reaching out into the air before them as if drawn by some unseen force. And at their center, the largest creature that young Rasmus had ever seen.

"What is that?" the young dishwasher yelped as he leapt into the arms of his boss. "Where'd they come from?" he whispered into the innkeep's ear.

Luckily, this display of unconventional fear was enough to shake the burly innkeep from his shell-shocked episode upon seeing the undead. "Rasmus!" he shouted at the top of the boy's head, his pudgy fingers clawing at the smaller boys arms locked behind his neck. "Ger'off me!"

Leaping unceremoniously from his employer's neck, the dishwasher exclaimed, "Rasmus B. Dragon on the ground, sir!" The formal title with the appropriate gender distinction threw the old man for a moment, but the eerie moans of the zombies just outside his door soon warranted his undivided attention.

"Fend them off while I shore up the place," the man shouted to his workers. Reluctantly, all the help grabbed makeshift weapons from wherever they could find them and raced outside to hold off the undead mob. Rasmus, the eternal thinker, ran to the store room and began rolling a huge barrel of mead into the common room. By the time anyone noticed what the lad was doing, it was too late. With a mighty heave, the young boy launched the barrel through the open door, bowling over scores of undead fiends as it gathered speed. Propelled forward by some force, destiny, or divine intervention, the barrel only halted when a spiked foot clamped down on it.

As mead drenched nearby zombie villagers, their reptilian leader roared a death threat to the skies. With spikes dripping in ale and splinters lodged in his scales, Raelyn marched forward with renewed vigor, intent on ending the pitiful lives of these last few men and women.

Undead wails were joined by the death cries of many as the zombies broke through their last lines of defense, their leader crashing through to seize the first victim. As rotting flesh accosted his nostrils, Rasmus Dragon recoiled in horror. "I don't wanna die!" he pleaded to the heavens.

But the gods were unmerciful and their horrendous zombie-fest continued unabated. Eventually, the entirety of the village would bow in undead fealty to their Saratu King... Raelyn the Redead. And that, unfortunately, is the tale of Rasmus Bartholomew Dragon.

[the Tainted]

(I spent hours on a story for this, and then my computer crashed, and I completely lost it. It's the last day, and I know I can't rewrite it again, so I'm just going to write a little stylized story)


The hands were coming. She never suspected it in the dream, despite the fact that she had had it so many times; it was always a surprise when the green fingers ripped up through the spongy floorboards, groping blindly at the air.

It would change then and she could see it from the outside as though she were cloaked in a shield, viewing the world from a transparent bubble. Strange, distached images flew by her: houses gutted like flesh, a woman sobbing over a dead body before it reached up and strangled her, the stumbling forms of the undead staggering forward...none of it making any sense...just images in a long, never-ending stream.

She could see the first ones to discover it, their surprise as their friends, their fmaily, their lovers came back, stumbling mindlessly forward, arms outstretched as though searching only for the comfort of an embrace. She could see the children too, bodies weridly distorted, eyes unseeing, still holding their mangled teddy bears in one hand, the other clawing at the air.

In the dream the colours seemed brighter, the darkness darker, the scent of fear sharper.

And she could see him, him as he was before, gazing down at her face, smiling, laughing, slowly leaning down to kiss her mouth. And she could see him as he was after, face blurred like melted wax, eyes only black pits, wasted flesh stretched tight over knife bones. How could she hurt him, she would scream at herself, scream at the memory, trying to change the dream, change it so she didn't stab him....

And he lurched back and called her name, slowly as though the recollection of who she was was only coming to him through a haze. He looked down at himself, at what he was, and looked at her and she knew, knew before he even moved what he was going to do. The knife pierced his flesh almost joyfully, almost like it had been waiting for this moment, and the sound of his death seemed to drown out her own voice even....

Not him, never him.

******

It was her own scream that woke her.

Moonlight trickled in through the window of the inn, painted across her blankets. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and she could taste the salt of her own tears on her lips.

She lifted her head, naught but a black silhouette against the window. No one heard her when she whispered his name to the night air.

"Danny."

[Falling With Style]

Last minute, woot.

Well, this was bad.

A strange feeling was resonating out of her spell, and Alcyone knew she'd broken something. Couldn't tell exactly what yet, but currently it looked like one or more of the laws of physics.

Entropy in the system was increasing.

A plume of dust fell from the masonry above her - the tower was coming apart. First the orrery, now this - and what was that feeling in her bones?

Ten minutes earlier...

Alcyone stood on the only patch of clear floor in her tower Diagrams and calculations were scrawled in chalk on the walls and floor. Even more, scribbled on parchment, littered her work bench. After all, she was working on a transportation spell - she'd clean this mess up afterwards from across the room. Then, perhaps, she could get to work on the mouse problem.

This wasn't the standard wizarding shtick of teleportation - most any pointy-hatted type could pull that off with a decent bit of training - but Alcyone was different. She was an astromancer, and had more style than that. Her profession didn't ignore the laws of physics, it subverted them.

A large brass orrery sat before her on the table, each of its planets aligned roughly with their corresponding positions in the celestial sphere. She noted the presence of a few large comets incoming, but they wouldn't arrive for another few weeks. There wouldn't be any sudden bursts of energy, thus, to mess with her experiment.

Alcyone retrieved a mouse from its cage. She'd captured the little beast yesterday as it tried to make off with a crust of bread that had somehow escaped her cleaning.

She set the little creature down on one platform of a set of scales hanging from the ceiling. A large brass ring, covered in runes, hung suspended between each arm.

Here goes.

Alcyone drew in the missing piece of her last equation - the equals sign.

=

The spacetime equation sprang to life, glowing a faint red. As Alcyone watched, its color shifted up the spectrum, through yellow, green and blue, finally settling on a bright violet. The glow spread to other diagrams and sigils, and before long, the entire room lit up in an alien pallor.

The mouse, understandably freaked, sought a way off its little platform. Its instinct to run fought its instinct not to jump off the platform, and finally the creature went tharn - reduced to a quivering, transfixed state incapable of anything but fear alone.

The glow rose in intensity, reflecting in Alcyone's hungry eye. As she watched, the mouse appeared to distort, as if viewed through a funhouse mirror.

The light coming off the little creature - it's being twisted. Ah, there it goes! Any second now, it will appear on the other platform!

The mouse returned, winking into existence on the other platform.

Alcyone punched the air. She'd done it! By Jupiter, she'd - wait a second.

The mouse wasn't all right. It had lost some fur, and as she watched, one of its eyes clouded over.

What?! This can't be - it's decaying! There shouldn't be this much entropy in the system-

A loud crash brought her to her senses. The orrery before her had self-destructed in a clockwork fashion, spraying gears everywhere. The iron ball of Mercury rusted over and turned to dust.

Whuh oh. Everything was decaying. The mouse had already lost most of its skin, chittering madly to itself. A tick on its collar fell off and burst in a few droplets of blood.

This was bad. Alcyone knew she'd broken something, and entropy in the system was increasing. Now, even the tower was coming apart around her. First the orrery then the mouse, now this - and what was that feeling in her bones?

Oh, no. No, no no.

"No," she whispered, her rust-colored eye wide in stark terror. Her hair already looked and felt like dried pine needles.

I have to stop this. I can't let further disorder seep out of this and corrupt Althanas.

She grabbed for a pencil, but it rotted away, turning to sawdust. Likewise, the parchment fell apart at her touch.

Alcyone's jaw trembled as she looked at her hands. Always her skin had been sallow, but now, the veins stood out under ashen-colored parchment. Where her heartbeat should have been thundering in her throat, it was now slowing to a crawl.

The mouse's skull had split open, exposing its brain. And for some reason, she had a strange desire for it...

I'm becoming a creature of decay. I can't let this begin!

She'd bring the whole tower down - that would certainly obliterate her runes, and would, perhaps, destroy her as well.

The wizard placed a hand on the wall, and concentrated.

Good-bye, Althanas. A tear rolled out of her eye.

The tower rumbled, buckled, and finally collapsed upon itself in an explosion of rubble.

Everything was silent...

...until a hand lifted itself from the rubble, followed by a head with a rust-colored eye, and there came a voice:

"Brains?"

[Sorahn]

Terribly sorry this took me so long. Anywho, this turned out to be much better than I expected, despite the topic proving to be somewhat of a downer. But there were lots of great entries that I really enjoyed reading. So without further ado, here are the winners!

1st: Yari Rafanas
2nd: Visla Eraclaire
3rd: Flames of Hyperion

Rahegalhoff receives 100 exp
Karuka receives 500 exp
Yari Rafanas receives 550 exp and 100 gp
Wings of Endymion receives 100 exp
Flames of Hyperion receives 150 exp and 50 gp
Visla Eraclaire receives 150 exp and 75 gp
Last of the Saratu receives 200 exp
The Tainted receives 100 exp
Falling with Style receives 100 exp

Congratulations guys and thanks to everyone who posted. April’s contest is already up, so get to writing!


~*~

Sorahn stood proudly atop the pile of smoldering ruins where the mighty Citadel once stood. His snow-white fur, though matted with dirt, still bore sharp contrast to the blackened sky, like a beacon in the dark. He was lit with an orange glow by the fires which engulfed the once great city of Corone.

Below him, the horrible moans and clawing of unnatural creatures seeking more flesh to consume. They were the face of decay: flesh falling from bone and organs exposed from behind torn skin. They clawed and climbed their way up the remains of the tall columns and proud statues that had comprised the hallowed halls of the Citadel. Not graceful in their movements, but ever determined, consumed by the will to consume.

Sorahn had watched this plague spread. One-by-one, men fell, replaced by grotesque images of their former selves. Human, elf, dwarf, and every manner of race on Althanas were slowly replaced by death itself. Cities burned, walls collapsed, and the mightiest nations turned to rubble.

He wasn’t sure what had happened. He suspected the reign of N’Jal was finally at hand, or that perhaps the boundary between this world and the anti-firmament had collapsed. It didn’t matter. Life was ending, and he knew his death was at hand. The only question that remained was when… and how.

His mind flashed to Rehnahlia; his love. He remembered how he used to run his fingers through her hair, her intoxicating scent, and how warm she felt. He remembered how she looked the night the undead finally overtook the Red Hand. He remembered how hard he fought, and the one that made it through. He remembered how her hair began to fall out, how her skin began to tear, and the look in her eye as the plague began to consume her. He remembered how, with hands shaking, he plunged his spear into her chest, eyes shut, screaming until his voice gave out.

He looked down at his hands. They had never stopped shaking.

He shifted his gaze to the horde of undead that crawled up the mound of ruins. His eyes narrowed. A black spear appeared in his hand, surrounded by a cloud of dark smoke. As soon as the first beast had crested the final stone step to the top, a flash of black metal sent its head flying in the opposite direction, and its body fell limply back down the hill, only to be crawled over by hundreds more.

Sorahn spun and sliced as they began to come from all directions. He cut them all down, each with a precise strike of his blade. They crawled up the mound of rubble like ants, and flowed back down like water. He moved quickly, spinning and stabbing with all of his skill to keep up with the steady flow of rotting flesh that came at him from all directions.

He clenched his teeth as he fought harder. His muscles were strong and toned, but he knew his strength would fade quickly. With a flick of his wrist, a shockwave shook the ground, sending the zombies flying away in all directions. Some even blew apart by the sheer force of the impact.

With another wave of his hand, black flames rose and swirled around him. Obeying his commands, the fire flowed like liquid and engulfed the surrounding zombies in flames. Horrible, in-human cries of pain filled his ears as hundreds of undead were reduced to ash, but hundreds more took their place.

He looked out and saw more undead flowing into the city. Sorahn must have been the last living flesh for miles. He smiled slightly.

When the next wave began to close around him, he once again took up his spear and fought until his muscles ached. He had been fighting for hours and his strength was waning. Each flick of the spear caused burning protest from his arms.

Finally, weakness conquered him, and the spear fell from his hands, disappearing in another puff of smoke. He looked up to the black sky and began to laugh. His lungs burned and his body shook. He fell to his knees, still laughing a twisted, insane laugh, and raised his arms wide, as the undead mass of rotting flesh fell over him.

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added!

Rahegalhoff is now level 1