Whispearheads Mountain [Solo Quest]

[Petoux]

Whispearheads Mountain

Betrayal


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That which causes us trials shall yield us triumph,
and that which makes our hearts ache shall fill us with gladness.
For the only true happiness is to learn, to advance and to improve.
None of this could happen without rejecting error, ignorance and imperfection.
We must pass out of the darkness to reach the light.


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Following the death of the local governor of the village, and the fall of their old, centralized government, the insurgents had fled into the mountain massifs of the northern hemisphere, and occupied a fastness in a range of peaks, called the Whispearheads by the locals of Raiaera. The air was thin, for the altitude was very great. Dawn was coming up, and the mountains loomed as stern, misty steeples of pale green ice that reflected sun glare. The angel birds dropped from their altitude, out of the sky’s dark blue mantle, trailing golden fire from the sun’s rising. In the frugal habitations and villages in the foothills, the townsfolk, born into a culture of myth and superstition, saw the fiery marks in the dawn sky as an omen. Many fell to wailing and lamenting, or hurried to their village thanes. The religious faith of these, strong in the capital and the major cities, was distilled here into a more potent brew. These where impoverished backwaters, where the anachronistic beliefs of the society were heightened by the subsistence lifestyle and poor education. The FBM had already struggled to contain this primitive zealotry during its preparation for occupation of Menstin. As the streaks of fire crossed the sky, they found themselves hard-pressed to control the mounting agitation in the villages. The angel birds set down, their wings came to rest on a plateau of dry, white lava-rock five thousand meters below the caps of the highest peaks where the rebel fastness lay. They whirled up tiny clouds of pumice grit from their wings as they crunched in, but the real source was the dragon Kill Roy that landed. The sky was white, and the peaks where white against them, and white cloud softened the air. A series of precipitous rifts and ice canyons dropped away behind the plateau, wreathed in smoke-cloud, and the lower peaks gleamed in the rising light. Into view came the shade of a group, it was Sara and her comrades. Chilly air and weapons ready, they came to martial order, and disembarked from their HQ upon the path to force this place into compliance.

Their mental connection held strong by Drac the inquisitor eagle yet disturbed somehow every few minutes, with the word “Samus” chattered again, like a sigh upon the mountain wind. The elf came with trusted temporary companions forming a strong group, consisting of Loki and Haley, the wolfs, Drac the eagle, Belcar the chipmunk, Feather and Cloud the angel birds, Nightfall the black stallion, and Kill Roy the newest member of the group a black dragon. There where 8 more unfamiliar faces among them, 8 men of the FBM that had joined in hope of earning good favor with the leader and some glory along the way. All grouped around, showing deference to the elf. As the others of the seated members had advised her, Sara had followed her gut and appointed John her tempoary proxy-commander, to serve when matters of state drew her apart from FBM business. John was popular, but Jubal, as sergeant of the warrior unit, felt slighted. There was no rule that stated the sergeant automatically followed in seniority. The sequencing was simply a numerical distinction, but there was a given order to things, and Jubal felt aggrieved. He had told the elf so, several times, but the elf remembered Rakasha the white seeker's words

“If you trust John, make it John. Never compromise. Jubal’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.”
“Let’s do this, and quickly."


Kill Roy towered over them in his size, dwarfing them as a ogre dwarfs and gnome. His massive form a weapon in it self able to shrug off attacks with its scaly skin and his fiery breath a missile weapon to recon with, and his claws and tail a unstoppable force in close quarters.

“Lead off to the bridges and clear the way”

The leader said, commanding Kill Roy to lead on the pressing assault, pausing a little, now was a moment of gentle diplomacy.

“Jubal, I want you to follow Kill Roy in as the weight of the first strike.”

Jubal nodded, evidently pleased to be given the honor of leading the spear tip with Kill Roy. The scowl of displeasure he had been wearing for weeks now lifted for a moment. The others smiled as they understood and knew that he was offering Jubal some measure of glory to reassure him he was not forgotten. They began to move ahead towards the natural rock bridges and causeways that linked the plateau to the higher terrain. The lowest villages had been brought to compliance with ease, all there was to do was to offer them protection from the divine guardians and they had been more than welcome to give fealty to their new lord. For it was quite easy to see that the lords of Menstin and Marsh had little troops and cared less for the villages and their survival, when they had enough with their cities. The enemy had withdrawn to the highest point, a fortress of old. They wanted this fortress, for if all failed with the plan on taking Menstin then they would be in need of the insurance of falling back to this place for protection and survival. Sara was not to go ahead and assault the city in an attempt to over throne the government without a backup plan. With the villages in compliance they would provide the backbone of their protection if it came to that. The enemy was well armed, every time normal soldiers of the cities had attempted to take them on, they had been pushed back or killed by massive rain of volley fire from bows. But the FBM came in small numbers and their arrows where the least of their concern, for Drac was able to guide arrows, mostly used to make arrows hit their target when it evaded them, but now would be used to guide them away from their target. Their guide leading them off up the trail path had a conversation with the soon to be king.

“They are well armed, sir, every time the army has pushed to take the rock bridges, and they’ve killed then with heavy volley fire. I don’t think they have much in the way of numerical weight, but they have the advantage of position. It’s a slaughter ground, sir, and they have the cross-draw on us. We understand the villager’s are militia and is led by an invincible called Rykus or Ryker. We-“
“We’ll take it from here; I don’t need to know the name of the enemy before I kill him.”
“Just like that? six times for several weeks the army has been here, slogging it out, the body toll like you wouldn’t believe, and you-“
“Where FBM, you’re relived.”

[Petoux]

The elf walked out across the plateau in the biting wind, between the companions that had joined her.

The “Emperor” of Menstin had most likely come to global power on the basis of malignant whispers of invincible warriors, the warriors of the FBM however would not be gulled and unmanned by such simple tools. Some of the men around him where standing still, listening to the mutter in their minds. The large form of Kill Roy approached the rock bridges, arches of granite and lava that linked the plateau to the fierce verticality of the peaks. These where natural spans left behind by the action of ancient glaciers, and there where corpses strewn about, some where frozen solid by the freezing cold while reduced to desiccated mummies by the altitude. The scout had not been lying, hundreds of army troopers had been cut down in the various attempts to storm the high fortresses. The field of fire had been so intense, by appearance that their comrades had not been able even to retrieve their bodies. Sara gave the order to advance ... The lumbering form of Kill Roy began to crunch out across the rock bridges, dislodging white bone and rotten tunics with his immense clawed feet. Arrow fire greeted him immediately, blistering down from invisible positions up in the crags. The arrow shots spanked and whined of the scaly armor of Kill Roy and those that came dangerously close to harming him was guided away by Drac. The black dragon kept walking into it, shrugging it away like men walking into a gale wind. What had kept the military at bay for all this time, and cost them dearly, merely tickled the dragon. This would be over quickly realized the group. Halfway across the dragon began to give back what he had taken, bringing his fiery breath to bear, forming several exploding fire bolts unloaded with its deadly cargo of burning and blazing fires across the abyss. Hidden positions and fortifications exploded in a blaze of fire and Kill Roy was smiling, enjoying it, harboring the sound of screaming men as they where burning to death beneath his flaming attacks. Tangled bodies tumbled away into the chasm below in flurries of rock and ice, with flames upon their cloths. “Samus” began his worrying again.

“Samus. That’s the only name you’ll hear. Samus. It means the end and the death. Samus. I am Samus. Samus is all around you. Samus is the man beside you. Samus will gnaw upon your bones. Look out! Samus is here!”

“Advance!” Shouted someone in a battle cry like voice “and please Drac, shut that bastard up!”

[Petoux]

Beyond the rock-bridges, the insurgents had raised shield walls of stone and metal. They had covered the gully approaches to their fortress; they had the advantage of the sheer drop and un-scalable ice all around. They had faith and their god on their side. They had held off the army for so many times. They had no chance whatsoever. Nothing they did even delayed the advance of the FBM. Shrugging off arrows and magic attacks sent at them, lead by the dragon for cover they wrenched their way through the shield walls, and blasted down any obstacles, pushing the barricades with its mighty body and claws. The group pushed on behind Kill Roy, firing their bows and magic into the rising smoke of the dragon’s fiery blaze. The fortress itself had been built into the mountain peak. Some sections of roof and battlement were visible from outside, but most of the structure lay within, thickly armored by hundreds of meters of rock. They poured in through the fortified gate. Someone rose up in an assault from the mountain face on their wind walker boots, and settled like a white bird on the exposed roof, sending exploding arrows into it, ripping it apart to gain entry and drop in from above. The explosions ripped out the interior chambers of the fortress, opening them to the air, and sending rafts of dislodged ice and rock crashing down into the gorge. The interior was a maze of wet-black rock tunnels and old tile work, through witch the wind funneled so sharply it seemed to be hyperventilating. The bodies of the slain lay everywhere, slumped and twisted, sprawled and broken. Steeping over them, the vampire pitied them. Their culture had deceived them into this resistance, and the resistance had brought down the wrath of the FBM elite on their heads. They had all but invited the catastrophic doom.

Terrible human screams echoed down the windy rock tunnels, punctuated by the door-slam bangs of magic at work, swords clashing and arrow heads hitting metal. The leader hadn’t even bothered to keep a tally of his kills. There was little glory in this, just duty. A surgical strike by the FBM martial instruments, arrow fire pinked off his armor, and he turned, without really thinking, and shot down his assailants with his bow. Two desperate men in mail shirts disintegrated under his fire and spattered across a wall as the arrow exploded inside them. He couldn’t understand why they were still fighting. If they’d ventured a surrender, he would have accepted it. He ordered his men in different directions, and they moved up past him into the next series of chambers. As he followed one of them, a body on the floor at his feet stirred and moaned. The insurgent, smeared in his own blood and gravely wounded, looked up at the dead born with glassy eyes. He whispered something. He knelt down and cradled his enemy’s head in one hand, asking him what he said.

“Bless me…” the man whispered
“I can’t”
“Please, say a prayer and commend me to the gods”
“I cant, there are no gods”
“Please… the other world will shun me if I die without a prayer”
“I’m sorry.”... “You’re dying, that’s all there is.”
“help me…” the man gasped
“of course”

And the marksman let his blade flip from its wrist band, from his hand holding onto his head, allowing it to pierce through his neck into his nerve cells disconnecting all connection between body and mind, and backed up as the blade retracted into its holder again, in a mercy stroke, he was killed. He gently set the mans lifeless body down on the ground, and pulled a torn jacked from a dead soldier next to him over his head. The next chamber was vast and irregular. Melt water trickled down from the black ceiling and formed spurs of glistening mineral, like silver whiskers, on the rocks it ran over. A pool had been cut in the center of the chamber floor to collect the melt water, probably as one of the fortress’s primary water reserves. The squad he had sent on had come to a halt around its lip. He stepped up forward to join them and saw that a great number of bottles had been set around the pool, many of them in the path of the tricking feed from above. At first, he assumed that they where there to collect the water, but there where other items too: coins, brooches, strange doll-like figures of clay and the head bones of small mammals and lizards. The spattering water fell across them, and had evidently done so for some time, for the he could see that many of the bottles and other items where gleaming and distorted with mineral deposits. On the overhand of rock above the pool, ancient, eroded script had been chiseled. The famed assassin couldn’t read the words, and realized he didn’t want to. There were symbols there that made him feel curiously uneasy. He came to the conclusion that it was a fane, for the locals believe in spirits and these where offerings.

The assault lasted sixty-eight minutes, start to finish, by the end, the fastness was a smoking ruin, many sections of it blown wide to the fierce sunlight and mountain air. Not a single FBM member lost, not a single insurgent had survived.

........

“How many?” asked Sara
“They’re still counting bodies, fair lady” Drac responded
“As it stands, one hundred and seventy-two insurgents are KIA, none surrendered or have wounds that will allow them to live.”
"These men where not soldiers, they barely could wield the blade, or bow, but their tactical advantage against soldiers fighting by the standards of war they where unmatched, it aches to see them butchered like this, this was not a fight, this was a slaughter, there was no honor in this, no glory, just duty."

In the course of the assault, their fanatic zealot ways had driven them on to desperate means, and their determination set, but they where no better than with a sword than a farmer harvesting grain. Something in the region of thirty melt water fanes had been discovered in the labyrinthine fortress, pools surrounded by offerings, Sara ordered them all expunged.

“they where guarding the last outpost of their faith.” Said Loki
“I suppose so.” She replied
“You don’t like it, do you?” the wolf asked, in a manner of statement.
“I hate to see men die for no reason, I hate to see men give their lives like this, for nothing. For a belief in nothing, it sickens me. This is what you were once, zealots, spiritualists, believers in lies we made up our selves. I will show us and the words the path of out that madness. “
“So be of good humor that we’ve taken it, and, though we spill their blood, be phlegmatic that we’re at last bringing truth to our lost brothers here.”
“I feel sorry for them, they must be so scared.”
“of us?”
“Yes, of course, but that not what I mean scared of the truth we bring. We’re trying to teach them that there are no greater forces at work in the world, even beyond it where the divine came from, that the only thing at work here is light and human will. No wonder they cling to their gods and spirits. We’re removing every last crutch of their ignorance. They felt safe until we came. Safe in the custody of the spirits that they believed watched over them. They found comfort and felt safe in the ideal that there was an afterlife, an other world for them after their deaths. They though they would be immortal, beyond flesh.”
“Now they have met the truth in the last resort way, their eyes opened, in death. It’s a hard lesson, but they’ll be better for it in the long run, their deaths will open the eyes of others.”
“I just empathize, I suppose. Their lives were comforted by mysteries, and we’ve taken that comfort away. All we can show them is a hard and unforgiving reality in which their lives are brief and without higher purpose.”
“Speaking of higher purpose, you should signal back to HQ that we're done, and they can start setting up our barracks here. There’s also some patrons that request permission to move into the new location.”
“Grant it. I’ll belay the message to them and give the good news.”
“At least that voice shut up."

[Petoux]

Descending to Jubal they found themselves to a massive stone well in the very basement of the fortress, deep in the heart of the mountain. They gained access to it via a corroded iron gate built into a niche in the dark stone. The dank chamber beyond the gate was a natural, vertical split in the mountain rock, a slanting cavern that overlooked a deep fault where only blackness could be detected. A pier of old stone steps arced out over the abyss, which dropped away into the very bottom of the mountain. Melt water sprinkled down the glistening walls of the well. The wind whined through invisible fissures and cracks acting as vents. Jubal was alone at the edge of the drop. As the marksman and his group approached, he wondered where the rest of the men that was with him had gone. Sara called out to him and he turned to look around and responded with a voice, sounding kind.

“I’ve fond something wonderful.”
“what?”
“see, see the words?”

Sara approached closer and looked towards where he was pointing. All she saw was water streaming down a calcified buttress of rock.

“No, what words?”
“There! There!”
“I see only water, falling water”
“Yes! Yes! It’s written in the water! In the falling water! There and gone, there and gone, you see? It makes words and they stream away, but the words come back.”
“Jubal? Are you well? I’m concerned that-“
“Look, Sara! Look at the words! Cant you hear the water speaking?”
“Speaking?”
“Drip, drip, drop. One name. Samus. That’s the only name you’ll hear.”
“Samus?”
“Samus. It means the end and the death. I’m…”

The FBM leader looked odd and said quietly

“Restrain him.”

They nodded in union, they stepped forward, and Jubal laughed.

“What are you doing? Are you threatening me? For goodness sake! Can't you see? Samus is all around you!”
“Where are the others, Jubal?” Sara snapped at him “where’s the rest of the men you came with?”
“They didn’t see it either,” he said and glanced towards the edge of the precipice. “They couldn’t see, I suppose. It’s so clear to me. Samus is the man beside you”

Sara nodded to the others and they moved towards Jubal.

“Let’s go.”

She said kindly, and Jubals hand held crossbow came up very suddenly. There was no warning, he shot Loki right in the throat, piercing the side of it, dragging gore and muscle tissue with it out through the side of his neck. Sara’s tempoary companion and comrade fell on his face, and Haley, Belcar and Drac lunged forward, and the hand held crossbow fired again, and the other hand came up and fired as well. Punching into their hides, feathers and soft fur, throwing them onto the backs and he turned to the elf, looking him in the eyes, and it was not Jubal’s eyes to be seen, but something different.

“I’m Samus," he said, chuckling, “look out! Samus is here.”

[Petoux]

Unthinkable.

Time had slowed to a pinprick point on which it seemed all the gravity in the cosmos was pressing. Sara felt lead-heavy, slow, out of joint, unable to frame a lucid response, or even begin to deal with what she was seeing. Was this fear? Was she testing it now, after all? Was this how terror cowed a lesser woman? Loki’s throat and neck deformed ring of bloody carapace armour, lay dying at his feet. Beside him sprawled Healey and Drac, his battle-brothers, shot point-blank through the chest’s, if not close to death then fatally damaged and would reach the destination of death soon. Before her stood Jubal, with his hand held crossbows in his hands. This was madness. This could not be, FBM had never turned upon its own. This could not be… A member of his dojo, had murdered his own kind, every law of fraternity and honor that Sara understood and trusted had just been torn as easily as a cobweb. The insanity of this crime would echo forever in her head.

“Jubal? What have you done?”
“Not Jubal. Samus. I am Samus. Samus is all around you. Samus is the man beside you.”

His voice had a catch to it, a dry giggle. The elf knew he was about to fire again. The rest of her comrades quite as aghast as herself, stumbled forward, but none raised their weapons. Even in the stark light of what Jubal had just done, not one of them could break the sworn code of the mercenary clan and fire upon one of their own. The elf knew she certainly couldn’t. She threw her bow aside and leapt at Jubal. Xavyer Jubal, the sergeant of the warrior division, and one of the finest file officers in the dojo, had already begun to fire. Bolts screeched out across the chamber and struck into the hesitating members of Sara’s most valued comrades. 2 more fell to the fire, this time it was Cloud and Feather. The marksman smashed into Jubal, and staggered him backwards, trying to pin his arms. Jubal trashed, sudden fury in his limbs as he shouted

“Samus! It means the end and the death! Samus will gnaw upon your bones!”


They crashed against a rock wall together with numbing force, splintering stone from the heavy armor that Jubal was wearing. Jubal would not relinquish his grip on the murder weapon. The elf drove him backwards against the rock, the drizzle of melt water spraying down across them both, as the elf shouted his name, hoping to bring him back from whatever had taken him. Sara threw a punch that would have decapitated a baby’s head, her fist cracked against Jubal’s helm and she repeated the action, driving her fist four or five times against his face and chest. The strong armor, withheld the blows from damaging him but the sheer impact with the helm caused damage none the less from, like an unstoppable force hitting an unmovable object, and the effect was, they switch momentum. Another punch, her full weight behind it, and Jubal stumbled. Each stroke of Sara’s first resounded like a smith’s hammer in the echoing chamber. As Jubal stumbled, the elf grabbed his hand held crossbows and tore them out of his hands. Hurling the weapons away across the deep stone well, but Jubal was not yet done. He seized the FBM leader and slammed her sideways into the rock wall. Small stone fragments already lose from the battle, flew out from the jarring impact. Jubal slammed her again against the stone, swinging the elfs body into the rock, like a man swinging a heavy sack. Pain flared through her head and she tasted blood in her mouth. The assassin tried to pull away, but Jubal was throwing punches that ploughed into her head and bounced the back of her off the wall repeatedly. Cloud behind them had survived the initial shots, because of Feather had made a force barrier around her in the last moment, and the female angel bird had not been sitting idle by. Creating healing crystals and endurance crystals and broken them in close proximity to her comrades, they had been healed a little by the time and Loki and Haley was up again, from their once heavy wounds. Feather was however not exhausted, for the endurance crystals kept her going, replenishing her lost strength. The wolfs where upon them, shouting and howling, trying to pin Jubals limb’s with their claws and bites to separate them. They where strong, but they could not separate Jubal from Sara. Jubal lashed out with a free fist and knocked of them clean off their feet and away from him. But they where upon him again within a moments breath and clung to his limbs like a human cloths, trying to pull him down, but he hoisted them up and twisted, throwing them off him. Such strength was the elfs though.

“Look out! Samus is here!”

Such unthinkable strength that could shrug off them like target dummies in a practice cage. Jubal turned away from Sara letting hier go as Loki came about again who where about to launch him self at the traitor FBM to tackle him. His lancing right hand met the wolf’s head on, Jubal struck with an open hand, fingers extended, and those fingers drove clean in through the wolfs barely healed wound in the throat, as surely as any spear tip. Blood squirted out from the wolf’s throat, through the weak fur armor, Jubal ripped his hand out, and the wolf fell, trying to stand up but failing, choking and gurgling, blood pumping in profuse, pulsing surges from his ruptured throat. Beyond any thought of reason now, the elf hurled himself at Jubal, but the berserk’ing form of Jubal turned and smacked her away with a mighty back-hand slap. The power of the blow was stupendous, far beyond anything a mortal man should have been able to wield. The force was so great that the armor of Jubal’s gauntlet fractured, as did the plating of the FBM leader shoulder, witch took the brunt. The elf blackened out for a split-second, then was aware that she was flying. Jubal had struck him so hard that she was sailing across the stone well and out over the abyssal fault. The elf struck the arching pier of stone steps. She almost bounced off it, but she managed to grab on, her fingers gouging the ancient stone, her feet swinging above the drop. Melt water poured down in a thin rain across her, making the steps slick and oily with mineral wash. Her fingers began to slide and snarled in frustrated rage. Fury pulled her up, fury and an intense passion that she would not fail. Not in this, not in the face of this terrible wrong. The assassin hauled herself upright on to the pier, with a little aid of her boots. It was narrow, no wider than a single path where men could not pass if they met. The gulf, black as the outer void, yawned below her. Her limbs where shaking with effort. Sara saw Jubal, he was charging forward across the cavern to the foot of the steps, drawing his combat blade, the sword glowed as it powered into life with its ancient magic that was imbued into it. Sara let one of her daggers spring to life as she needed a means to defend herself. Falling melt water hissed and sparked as it touched the active metal of the sword in Jubal’s hand. Jubal bounded up the steps to meet her, slashing with his sword. He was raving still, in a voice that was in no way his own any longer. He struck wildly at his former leader, who was forced back a few steps by the brutality of the charge. Sparks flashed and the blades struck one another like the tolling of a discordant bell. Height was not an advantage in this fight, as she saw Jubal, a larger being than herself had to hunch low to maintain his guard and furious assault. Sara’s weapons where not dueling weapons, medium length and double edged, it where made for stabbing, for battlefield onslaught. It had no reach compare to Jubal’s sword, but the frenzied man used his sword more like an axe, hacking away, forcing the elf on the back foot defending herself from the blows. Their blades cut falling water as they scythed, sizzling and billowing steam into the air. The elf prided herself on maintaining a masterful discipline and practice of her weapons, she knew Jubal was a master with daggers, axes and hand held crossbows but no slouch with the sword.

Except today, Jubal had discarded all his skill or had forgotten it in the flush of madness that had engulfed his mind. He attacked the marksman like a maniac, in a frenzy of savage cuts and blows. Sara was likewise forced to dispense with much of her skill in an effort to block and parry. Three times, had she managed to drive Jubal back down the pier a few steps, but always Jubal retaliated and forced her higher up the arch. Once the elf had to leap to avoid a low slice, and barely regained her footing as she landed. In the silver downpour, the steps were treacherous, and it was as much a fight to keep balance as to resist the constant assault. Though the elf had the advantage here, as she was more skilled in balance, it was no match a winning edge. It ended suddenly, like a jolt; Jubal passed the FBM’s leader’s guard and sunk the full edge of Jubal’s blade into her body plate.

“Samus is here!”

He cried in delight, but his blade, flaring with magic power, was wedged fast.

“Samus is done!”

The elf replied, and drove her other hand in a powerful fist, as the blade under her wrist came out adding to the momentum of striking power punching clean through the armor at Jubal’s exposed chest, and the tip of the blade emerged through Jubal’s back. He wavered, letting go of his own weapon, which remained transfixed through Sara’s shoulder guard. With half-open, shuddering hands he reached at the elfs face, not violently, but gently, as if imploring some mercy or even aid. Water splashed off them and streamed down their plating.

“Samus…”

He gasped. The assassin wrenched her wrist blade out. He staggered and swayed, the blood leaking out of the gash in his chest plate, diluting as soon as it appeared and mixing with the drizzle, covering his chest plate and thick armour with a pink stain washed away by the melt water. He toppled backwards, crashing over and over down the steps in a windmill of heavy, loose limbs. Five meters from the base of the pier, his headlong career bounced him half off the steps, and came to a halt, legs dangling, partly hanging over the chasm, gradually sliding backwards under his own weight. Sara heard the slow squeal of armour scraping against slick stone. She leapt down the flight to reach Jubal’s side. She got there just moments before he slid away into oblivion, grabbing Jubal by the edge of his left shoulder plate and slowly began to heave him back onto the pier. It was almost impossible, he seemed to weight a billion tons. In desperation to not let her old friend and comrade fall to oblivion, Sara pulled Jubal’s sword free from his shoulder, blood oozed from the wound, half clogged by the feathers of his armour beneath his iron breastplate taken from the FBM vault before they had left. The FBM leader raised Jubal’s sword and stabbed it down, spearing Jubals right shoulder to the steps. So pinned, his slide was arrested, taking hold of his lower body she hauled his body back onto the pier. Panting, Sara pushed away her blood soaked hair and spat out a mouthful of blood. Slowly the elf started to heal her wounds, to stop the bleedings, but exhaustion got the best of her and she passed out, the last she saw was her comrades looking awfully wounded and concerned, almost panicked.

It took many days before Sara’s last words where spoke, for she did not speak them before she woke up, the second she woke up she came up off the bed to fast opening her wounds again, as her words came soft yet aggressively, finished off with sadness.

“Betrayal.”


Kill Roy and Nightfall had found them down there and brought them back, through the sheer effort of Feather who had non stopped created healing and endurance crystals in order to keep them alive long enough for them to reach the safety of professional healers. They lived, for now, but barely, through the sheer luck of fate had their lives not been taken this time. It puts things in perspective for the young elf, how easily one could fade away. Patrons and other members of the FBM had recovered what was left behind in the fortress as well as attempted to bring what could be used to fill the coffers of the dojo, but little did that matter to the elf, Jubal's corpse had been brought back and Sara had a big reality check, that there lies a possibility of betrayal, at every door step.



This thread is FINALLY done and ready to be judged for both experience and gold. Thank you.

[Knave]

Mood ~ Lackadaisical or loamy considering all this. (Lolcat)

Read to the music of Nothing by Deal With It.

I’m not entirely certain why you included the poem, but above it I’d appreciate that you credit the source rather than simply including it. Also, I’d like to suggest that you write your own when you feel it necessary to include such things. It’s one of those exercises involving the path less travelled.

Story ~ 2 /10 There are key tenants to a story, the means by which an entertaining fiction is laid on the table and those willing to buy come forward. It finds first the introduction, and then the path by which it meets its goals, and grows into the clothing, the bra, the beard, and maturity. This did not happen; I received little if any kind of witness to the birth of this story. I knew only the present, and little if not none of the past. The future as wrapped up in your final post two years later leaves me without much to go on as to the end of this battle except that our “heroes” won the day.

From the beginning, I sensed the concept of something awesome, the flesh was not there, but the bones of some great thing seemed to be on the verge of being formed. This is where it came up short first, this story struck me as an attempt at sheer awesome circumnavigating the explanations of each character’s involvement. Every scene was intended to be one of rising action, regardless of whether it was rising, and while I sensed some nihilistic philosophy, it did not come off as a coherent set of ideas, so where points could have been one for an expositive tale on metaphysics, there are none.

In concept, this seemed to be a remake of Minas Tirith’s great battle, but it fell short for one reason because it had not established anything more than cardboard pretenses. Introductions and gradual increases of action allow for a story to part from reality. Gradually immersing a reader into the fiction without immediately making them ask the illusion-dispersing question of “why?” is the primary point. No character here, no reason given, is given sufficient backstory.

In progression, this story stated its plan, and proceeded with it calling up names of great weapons of war and scenes of carnage, but couldn’t deliver the impact, something to touch on in creativity, but given that the story seems to be one in the attempt to impress, I might state so here as well.

Continuity ~ 2 /10 I get it, these are the Outlands, a place in Althanas which allows for the insertion of new worlds, peoples, and places. So I won’t judge based on Althanas’ winding, and insane canon. Instead, I’ll judge the depth of the world you’ve built.

In terms of substance, I have a place, some weather, a rebellion, and not much else. There is not much mention of the past to give me any idea where this story is coming from, not much which might tell me why any of this is happening, but that there are people in those hills and they must go.

As far as your character, I reiterate, I know nothing.

Setting ~ 3 /10I haven’t really touched on this, but throughout, including your most recent post, the idea of events happening at places is present. Except that, most of these places are largely without definition, in addition to your narration changing people and places mid paragraph. Initially, there was a good setup going with a nice language, which passed over what might have been minor details, but quickly turned into a constant stride.

Early on, you set the colors of the landscape, and do not particularly detail what the landscape is beyond a snowy land. In detail, not much received more than a cursory narrative touch announcing its being there somewhere, most sounds are voices, and the racing pace of the narrative keeps track with events that could have had more depth.

While there are other words, I did look for sensation. “Cold” is used once, “frozen” is used once, “wet” is used once, and continuing the trend is “soaked,” and breaking that trend is “wind” at seven times and “ice” at five. My main point here is that adjectives to describe the setting are in the minority.

Also, never attempt to use “spanked” in a serious situation.

Creativity ~ 2 /10 There was potential in this story for the kind of read, which allows for all sorts of epic styled action, philosophical dialogue, unspeakable evil, and profound revelation. However, I was not kidding about your stride throughout most of this thread, anything that might have been spectacular was done in the style of an exposition, a report rather than a vision.

What I perceived to be an atheistic stance on cult worship where for once it was the non-believers doing some serious persecution, I was left hanging because no statements of depth were made. I would strongly urge you to explore the fields of the mind where death and enlightenment might lie, go find some miserable place and describe not only its appearance, but also the sensation it conveys with the present fact of its history.

If not that, at least describe portions of things as they happen in real time, include some audio, give me the smell of some poor bastard shitting himself, and tell a reader a story that arouses in them some kind of astonishment.

The age old show don’t tell is a staple I can never get enough of, and find to be more true every day. You state facts, paths of logic and reason, but you do not often portray enough pictures for any of it to mean much. No issues of location, land formation, or surrounding wilderness are made in any way but that they are there. To a lesser extent including your latter post.

Originally, I had no problem with the idea of making the landscape and sky white, but now that I look at it: this leaves an empty landscape. It is like when the universe collapses in a toon and existence is revealed as just that. A stark, empty existence. Only this isn’t used to suggest any kind of idea of reality, I just don’t see anything but people pacing in the snow. A sensation of vastness could have been created, but it was nothing more than a featureless entrance.

The inclusion of this whispering narration could have been introduced much earlier, Petoux, and it should have been given how much earlier it was alluded to and how it was written to be the dominating thought in the minds of multiple people. That said, it could do with a bit of descriptive flare. Is it a deceptive susurrus pounding in the backdrop of the mind like the faint beating of the heart or the screaming claxon announcing death and doom?

Character ~ 2 /10 The enemies presented are cardboard cutouts, featureless but for a few actions taken to give the more central characters something to do. As evidenced in your own narration, they lived to die. Whatever beliefs they have were mentioned in passing, and while they could have received the kind of detail, which would have made even the most evil of wretches a sympathetic lamb of slaughter, there is little said for them, but that they chose their end, and that they would meet it.

The FBM came off as a crack time of monstrous assassins, militants armed with more weaponry than compassion, but for a single conversation that mourned the dead while the dead were still living. In their first seen and onward I thought of them as more akin to Vikings in the way they awarded positions in battle and the concern for respect over a judgment handed down from a superior. Nodding, smiling, grim, and aside from a few silent. This was all before they went to war and shifted into being soldiers. I still knew nothing about them.

It was a very short thread, and no character was dynamic enough to get the spotlight, even when the narration was trained specifically on Sara…whose name comes up six times in the first three posts. I lump these all together, because I do not feel that the characters distinguish themselves enough to stand alone. Not even your main.

For what it’s worth, Sara came off as the biggest fool of all, reeling at the idea of betrayal, and her monologue on the rousing of peaceful people from their dreams came off as simple and naïve. Particularly stating that the people now had their delusions dispelled, but the fact was that she was just killing them.

No one here is an attractive character to me, a man who would shed tears for the most wicked if they might have made themselves understood.

Interaction ~ 1 /10 This is probably why. Gestures used are minimal, when not nonexistent. Changes of tone and interaction are few and far between with quotations of dialogue hanging in the air to give the idea of fast conversation. The problem is that most of these conversations occur out of battle, with nothing to suggest a need for this. In this way, interaction came up short because it came of rushed, and not in the sense of the stories flow.

There are two solutions, and neither is particularly easy, the one is to add to dialogue some accompanying effect of movement, sound, scenery, or gesture. The other is to create a kind of dialogue that moves people without need for sweet, sweet garnishing.

Strategy ~ 3/10 There are a lot of decisions being made, quite a few of actual heft from the choice between John and Jubal and whether or not to kill the prisoners. The problem is that none of these things was explored in a way beyond the characters simply doing things.

Sara’s dislike for the death of the rebels did not stop her from killing them, or fulfilling her orders. As mentioned before, her actions and thoughts all speak of naivety, especially when she goes to save the man who she was only seconds ago trying to kill and who had just betrayed his comrades.

Clarity ~ 3 /10 First paragraph, you transition from a recap introduction to a present scene, and here I would always consider starting a new paragraph, I somehow suspect I will have to touch on this subject again. No wait, the transition continues from villagers to angels and dragons, breaking a paragraph up between subjects are standard form. Now bowing to standard form is not required for understanding, but it is used for a reason: simple clarity.

While it’s not mandatory that the speaker be introduced alongside his speech, I cannot for any reason fathom why this line is broke, but still manages not to include the speakers intonations or actions.


… a punch that would have decapitated a baby’s head…

You, sir, need to work on your metaphors, a good bit of reading would be William Burke’s on the Sublime, it may take some reading, but it should give you some idea of why such a metaphor might make the reader cringe in a way that is less amazed and more disgusted. I applaud your desire to make use of it, but more often than once I can still see a need for practice, in the future please consider the tone, and the logic to these things. Fingers alone do not snarl.

Mechanics ~ 1 /10 I need to tell you something, Petoux, editing allows for me to give a reasonable review of your abilities. That said, I would also suggest you acquire a spell checker, and please write out every number.

Also, I want to go into detail on a problem I see in your latest post, and one which is present from two years ago.

The English verb “to be” is conjugated in the past participle as “was” and “were.” The first being in relation to the first and third person singular, the latter being in relation with the second person “you,” and the plural forms “you,” “they,” and “we.” At no point does “where” fit into this situation.

Additionally, the possessive apostrophe attached to the end of a name or person indicates ownership. This was dropped several times throughout the thread, but is used in your final post. And dropped again.

That said, I could not go three sentences without smashing into a serious issue that my cold, unfeeling word processor could easily find.

Wildcard ~ 2 /10 Welcome to the finish line, it might have taken two years, but at the very least, looking back, I can tell you’re a better man than when you started. Of course, two years have passed.

A total of 20. For experience, you’ll receive 120. For gold, you’ll receive 60.

In parting, I wonder why you did not bother editing, and still asked for my full attention. Applying myself to your latest post the best I could, my final statement is that your final post while a year advanced in time and skill still could not redeem or make up for the previous four posts.

[Silence Sei]

Exp-GP Begrudgingly Added.