Special Vignette: Challenge Mode

[Zook Murnig]

While perusing Tumblr for my latest batch of posts to the official blog, I came across an interesting writing exercise (http://mooderino.tumblr.com/post/76251154597/lifting-characters-off-the-page) to get to know your character, and I thought I'd share it with the community.

So, here's the challenge: Come up with a scenario as described in the article, whether it's your own creation or borrowed in part or in whole from another work, and put your character front and center in the action. Work through the situation with your character, and challenge your character as much as you can. As the article states, the only person you're writing to please here is yourself, so don't worry about impressing anyone. Just write.

Since this is not a standard Vignette contest, and since I'd like this to be a low-pressure as possible, there will be no rewards given for this Vignette. I will be reading each, however, and commenting on your characterization, so feedback and advice will be your reward. You can do this as often as you want on whatever character(s) you want, and I encourage you to do so. As well, I encourage other members of staff to participate in the commentary, but keep the focus on characterization and only comment on other problems if they inhibit either understanding or effectiveness of the writing.

[Whispers of Abyssion]

I hereby usurp first reply to get us started! This is an excerpt from an upcoming thread, perhaps not as polished as I'd like (only proofread twice). I invite all and sundry to tear into it... and bonus kudos if you can guess the scene that inspired it!

A bucket of piss in his face woke him from blessed sleep, bringing him spluttering and retching back to the realm of the living. Rough hands tore the hempen hood from his shoulders, scorching burns across cheeks and brow. Accompanied by a burst of ugly laughter, a steel-tipped boot slammed into the back of his thigh just above the knee. His shins hit the dirt first, jagged rocks tearing into cotton robe and wiry muscle alike, followed closely by his face. The stench of sewage and raw waste, mingled with his own blood, seeped into his broken nostrils. His hands, tied tautly behind his back, could only watch on in powerless paralysis.

The jeers and heckles died down suddenly, as if somebody had simply thrown a blanket over the audience. He used the unexpected reprieve to open his eyes. Dim light, swaying slightly in tune with the remnant echoes, showed him only the imprint of his face in crimson-tinted mud.

“Now what do we have here?”

The same rough hands that had torn the hood from his shoulders now grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head backwards, nearly tearing his scalp from his skull. Blinking mud and sweat and tears from his eyes, biting down on his lips to stifle the surprise and the hurt, he found himself face to face with the young and immaculately groomed King Dragon of Ninedrake’s nebulous native underworld.

“Is this the rat who’s been scurrying itty-bitty through my sewers?” His Common, cultured and cultivated, bore little trace of any accent. His slight frame perched comfortably on a battered wooden stool, and gold encrusted fingers emphasised his words by playing imaginary tunes in the damp cellar air. “I wonder what tales he has to…”

“Serpent.”

“I beg your pardon?” Eyes of onyx flashed angrily, and the cultured tenor took on an adamantine edge. Obviously the King Dragon did not respond well to interruptions.

“Generally they call me serpent,” Touma ground out through the chafing, constricted confines of his parched throat. “Not rat.”

The King Dragon’s irritation melted away in the face of bemusement and a modicum of respect. Most men in Touma’s position would by now be wetting their breeches in terror. “And I am called Yi Cai, Master Serpent. Perhaps you would like to regale us then with the tale of how you came to be slithering through our town without our permission?”

Harsh laughter swelled again from the assembled audience. Ten… twenty… possibly even thirty strong, trained fighters all. Grimly he tried the bonds upon his wrist, but they budged nary a smidgen. He could not feel the weight of the sword at his waist, or the ivory rod he usually kept tucked into the breast of his robes. They must have picked him clean while unconscious. He stood no chance of escape on his own, and even if he did, he dared not leave without his accoutrements.

No, he had to talk his way…

The crude boot to his ribs interrupted his deliberations. This time, not even he could prevent the gasp of pain from leaving his lips.

“I would speak quickly if I were you, Master Serpent.” Yi Cai steepled his fingers in front of his chest and peered encouragingly at his captive. “There are plenty here who would be happy to rip out that forked tongue of yours.”

As if on cue a second figure stepped out alongside him. Through the haze that dimmed his vision, Touma could just about make out flowing black hair and the point of a needle glimmering in the lantern-light, long and thin and disturbingly threatening. His eyes widened, ever so slightly.

The King Dragon noted his fear and prompted, “Your tale?”

Touma knew that he was trapped. If he lied, they would torture him until he told the truth. If he told the truth, they would torture him anyways to make sure that he wasn’t hiding anything. So he smiled with all of the strength he could muster and informed Yi Cai, in fluent sing-song Cathayan, that his sister had particularly commended the lowly Serpent’s love-making skills over the King Dragon’s.

Almost imperceptibly Yi Cai flinched. But his eyes never once deviated from Touma’s. With a resigned sigh, he motioned forward the woman at his side.

Strong meaty hands pinioned Touma’s shoulders from behind as she approached. Entering the light, he saw that she wore more needles upon her person in addition to the one held between her slender, calloused fingers. Many more needles, in fact, including those holding back her hair and those binding the folds of her form-hugging cerulean robes.

Introducing herself with only a predatory curl of her lips, she slammed Touma’s head backwards with an open-palmed blow to his forehead. Stars flickered before his eyes as his spine reeled and contorted. Before he could recover, the same palm grabbed him by the throat to twist his head upwards, and the needle jabbed downwards and out of sight. All this she did with her eyes closed, as though she could sense every nuance of the world about her without having to rely on such a mundane sense as sight.

A heartbeat later, electric lances of frozen pain stabbed at the centre of Touma’s chest. His windpipe spasmed, choking on his own phlegm.

“I imagine that an erudite person such as yourself would know all about pressure points, no? Including what might happen then if I let just a little bit of my power run down my needle?”

Blood thundered through Touma’s mind, explosive light and colour patterns blinding the back of his eyelids. Barely could he even understand her stilted conversational Common, though her voice sounded silky and actually quite delicious in his ears.

“For example, I am right now not only choking you but also paralysing your lungs and stopping your heart. Interesting effect, no?”

With every passing moment, tenuous reality slipped from his grasp. No longer could he feel the hands propping up his shoulders, or taste her jasmine perfume tinting the rich pools of blood in his mouth, or bask in the stony chill reflecting their distaste and amusement back at him from all directions. Oblivion beckoned, cold and black and oh so welcoming…

A sharp word in guttural Cathayan commanded him back to life. Wearily he obeyed, lungs heaving for breath as simultaneously his chest fought to expel all traces of his last meal – whenever that had been – from his stomach.

“Just like that I could burst your heart. Explode your brain. Rob you of your sight, or even your manhood should I so desire. So it would be a good idea to play along, no?”

She smiled conspiratorially just for him as she stepped back, revealing once more Yi Cai’s dispassionate mien. Somehow the agony had actually cleared Touma’s vision, such that now he could make out the filthy stone of the cold cell, the locked hatch up in one corner, and the flight of straw-strewn steps that presumably led to freedom. Dried fluid caked his lips, his mouth, his chin, his throat; fresh blood still drooled from his nose, metallic and sickening. His thoughts wrestled for clarity, trying to keep him committed to the only course of action that would see him out of this torture chamber alive. Nails dug for purchase in the flesh of his palms; he had to stay strong, he had to stay silent.

“Perhaps now you would be more willing to talk?” Yi Cai was saying, fingers still steepled in front of him. Deliberately he crossed his legs as well, and the shadows of the lantern light morphed his sharp features into something out of an ogre’s nightmare. “What do you know about the Fragment?”

Unable to reply as his body continued to rebel against any semblance of control, Touma could only glare at his captor in unbridled hate.

“Nothing,” he snarled at last, the lie sweet bliss balming his wounded pride. To his surprise, he even managed to gather enough saliva upon his tongue to spit insolently at Yi Cai’s feet. Trepidation ran through the ranks of fighters as they sensed the satisfaction the Serpent gained from resisting still.

The faintest of smiles ghosted about the King Dragon’s lips as he regarded his prey, savouring the moment. Many defied him, some more than most. The longer they held out, the more pleasure he derived from the experience. But they all broke in the end. All of them.

“Zhen Ji,” he gestured again to the needle woman, settling back to peer expectantly at Touma. How long would this filthy Nipponese ronin last, he who held such vital information regarding the prize all of Ninedrakes sought?

She bobbed her head in respectful acknowledgement of his command, long black hair trailing like a veil behind her. As she stepped back into the feeble light, her features even held some semblance of sorrow for him. She had seen it all before, both the defiant and the broken. Not one escaped the carrion worms waiting once the King Dragon finished with them.

“Do not make it more difficult for yourself, no?” Her fingers, toughened by her choice of profession, reached down to caress his blood-caked cheeks. Never once did she open her eyes to meet his angry gaze. “We wouldn’t want to spoil such handsome features, no?”

He told her that he knew the perfect brothel for her. In far-western Salvar, operated by a devil spawned from the deepest pits of the Great Nether, famed for the way in which he would…

Heartlessly the needle stabbed between his ribs on his left side. Breathless, excruciating agony flooded his mind, until at last he blacked out.

But not for long.

“Master Serpent?”

Insistent hands slapped at his cheeks through the blood-tinted fog. Convulsions wracked his upper torso, a reaction both to the extreme pain and to the wet chill caused by the contents of yet another chamber pot. He stank, of blood and excrement and bile, and he could sense his nose wrinkling distastefully.

“Ah, Master Serpent.”

Rough hands steadied his face and forced open his eyes. The King Dragon peered into them curiously, gauging the level of Touma’s discomfort. A small frown furrowed his brow when he realised that the Serpent intended to deny him still.

“You seem intent on making this difficult for me. Commendable, indeed.” Yi Cai smiled mirthlessly, cold and cruel, and his dark eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. “Unfortunately, even I do not really have the time to listen to lies and deceptions for hours on end. So I intend to allow Zhen Ji here to step up her interrogations. Do not worry, we will get to the bottom of your story yet.”

Somebody in the crowd behind him sighed. A sigh of sorrow, and yet, of strange excitement and expectation.

“Zhen Ji?”

This time the needle slipped in behind Touma’s ear. His skull went numb, contracting to a single point of blinding whiteness that dominated his concentration. Try as he might, he could not think of anything else. The truth, the voices whispered. Tell them the truth…

“So brave, so stubborn. I think I might fall for you, no?” she crooned into his ear. “What do you say, you and I, after this is all done and dealt with, no?”

She wasn’t finished. Jiggling the needle for better position, she sent a second and then a third piercing into the back of his neck. His body went into paralysis once more, ice flowing like death through his veins, agony igniting in his head. Without meaning to, he began to weep tears of silent agony.

“Now, pray tell.” Yi Cai’s voice echoed authoritatively through the confines of his skull, shattering all resistance it encountered. “Who are you, what are you doing here, and what do you know about the Fragment?”

Touma bit his tongue in a desperate bid to stay silent. Blood seeped upon his grit teeth, coppery and rich. The needles dug deeper into skin and bone, their icy pressure increasing.

“Your name?”

“Nnnggh!”

“Why are you in Ninedrakes?”

“Arrrr… scou… scouting…”

“Again, your name?”

“Ka… ka…”

“Your name!”

“Kaburagi!” he gasped, broken.

“Why are you in Ninedrakes?”

“S… Scouting! Shibata!”

Yi Cai’s eyes narrowed. He’d expected Master Serpent to be The Man he sought, not an operative of his hated Nipponese rivals. But his disappointment almost immediately dissipated, as his keen mind deciphered the unexpected opportunity he had just been handed on a silver platter. The Shibata-gumi, backed by powerful mercantile interests in their inviolate homeland, had encroached too far and for too long upon his territory. Perhaps now he had a chance for revenge… perhaps…

“The Fragment?” he asked, just to be sure, his voice as cold as the will flowing through Zhen Ji’s needles and into his captive’s body. For all the tattered robes he wore, the man named Kaburagi might as well have been naked before the King Dragon’s scrutiny. “What do you know of the Fragment?”

“NOTHING!” The anguished, blurted scream reverberated in the small cellar. Some of the King Dragon’s men cringed from the sound, eardrums aching. “Nothing at all. I beg you, I’ll do anything… anything…”

Deep heaving breaths, punctuated by tearful sobs, wracked Touma’s body as Zhen Ji eased her touch. One pale, bony hand wiped the worst of the bloody tears from beneath his eyes, making sure he saw the blooded needle she still gripped between fore and index fingers. If the Serpent had any strength left, he might have recoiled. Instead his gaze fixated upon it in frozen horror, his mouth too dry to even to spit any more.

“I’ll do anything… anything… take you there… hidden hideout… lead you in… if I die they’ll change it… please… no more no more no more…”

Yi Cai glanced in pity at the blubbering husk of a man. As always at this stage of an interrogation, the pleasure that had suffused him earlier slipped away from his grasp. Would that he could have spent more time with a man of Kaburagi’s stature, for Zhen Ji could make a strong man dance beneath her needles for hours, even days. What pleasure he could have enjoyed then!

But for now time was of the essence. And thus they’d had to speed things up somewhat.

He turned to his henchwoman one last time, crossing his legs as he sat back down upon the stool and steepled his fingers before him. Pallid cheeks flushed in ecstasy, she didn’t acknowledge his attention until he coughed gently to clear his throat. She had even given up the pretence of blindness, dancing brown pupils dilated in sheer exhilaration.

“Make sure he’s telling the truth,” he ordered. Zhen Ji licked her lips sensuously, unable to contain the tremors of rapture shuddering through her slender shoulders. Once again the shadows carved terrifying caricatures from Yi Cai’s features as he added sternly, “But keep him alive. He might still have some use yet.”

And so she did.

For four hours more they interrogated the Serpent in front of their captive audience, jabbing and probing and forcing him in and out of consciousness. At least, for four hours that he knew about. Beyond that, they could have tortured him for all eternity and he would not have remembered anything.

But he could not add anything pertinent to the information he’d already given them.

Not even when they finally let him be, collapsed in a senseless heap upon the cold stone of the cellar floor, with only the creaking lantern – its wick burning low now – for company.

Which was just as well, really, since the words Touma had spoken were exactly the lie he had wanted to tell.

[Otto]

Several figures lounged around the campfire. It crackled lazily within a bed of small stones, the light from it and its myriad kin painting the dull walls of numerous little tents. A stink filled the air; a smell of shallow privies, unwashed men, sour wounds and burnt meat. It also carried a distant babble of subdued chatter, and the odd thump and clang of some menial task being performed.

Otto watched a young man approach the fire. He wore a travel-stained crimson tabard, and carried a cast iron pot in both hands. A large basket was slung in the crook of his elbow.

"Sarge says we'll split away with Second Company tomorrow morn," said one of the soldiers. His eyes were two gleaming points in a mask of grime.

A few of the other men nodded. They looked up as the newcomer approached, and held up their wooden bowls. The youth went slowly around the circle, doling out bread from the basket and filling each dish from the pot. Otto vaguely wondered why it was always the male camp followers who did the chores around the soldiers' section, but further thought was curtailed as the lad ladled out steaming brown stew into his bowl.

"Where to?" asked another.

The first speaker shrugged. "Just some village in the sticks, I think. We'll be taking carts and looking for supplies."

Otto ate, and listened, but didn't speak. No one spoke to the rookie.



* * *


Corone's Comb Mountains were... pleasant.

Words like 'majestic', 'beautiful', and 'terrifying' - they might apply to such fearsome peaks as the Jagged Mountains to the north, but the the gentle, almost hill-like crests and valleys of that border between Radasanthia and the south were a place of modest tranquility. Grasses blanketed the slopes, and here and there were small shrubs and bushes brilliant with flowers. Bees droned placidly about, buffeted by a cool, caressing wind. Soldiers' heavy boots crushed the stalks, and put fractures in the massive silence.

The air was pure crystal. Otto happily let it all wash over him.

Part of the chorus of stamping feet detached, and headed towards him. Otto looked up at the approaching man: Private Gavin, a scarred veteran of unknown battles, part of Otto's own company, but someone the orc had traded few words with.

The man nodded at Otto. "Bastard," he said, by way of greeting. It was something one of the other soldiers had noted about Otto's surname, that it was one given to illegitimate fruit among some parts of Corone. Though archaic, the moniker had stuck.

"Hail," he replied.

Gavin matched the orc's pace. "Know anything about where we're headed?" he asked.

"Irinham?" Otto shook his head. "No."

"Brass are saying it's been fortified by the Ixians." They walked on, mulling this over. "I heard this'll be your first fray," Gavin added after the pause. Otto nodded, and the other fellow flashed him a small grin. "Don't worry. The others mightn't act much like they care, but we'll have your back. It's always the same."

"What is?" said Otto.

"I used to be in the same boat as you," Gavin replied, with a little gesture to the rest of the marching company. "Just some rookie left out in the cold. But all you need is a chance to prove yourself. You stand beside us and pull through tomorrow, well, you'll be one of us, and all these men your brothers. So don't you worry."

And then he slapped Otto on the back. For the rest of that day, and even through the chill night, the orc carried a bit of that moment's warmth in his chest.



* * *


Otto stood over the elf. The villager still lay sprawled on the dirt from where he had fallen off the palisade, and his thick black hair was sodden with blood. It had probably only just stopped trickling from the vicious gash in his neck, where a well-aimed bolt had ripped the flesh.

"Oi! Bastard!"

Otto turned away from those dead eyes to see Gavin striding towards him. The buildings on either side of the road were already starting to blaze, and screams could be heard over towards the northern forest.

Gavin put a hand on the orc's shoulder. "Come with me," he said. Without waiting for a reply, Gavin began to steer the recruit along the open streets and through a thickening haze of smoke. They were heading south, away from the village centre, but still within the confines of the palisade. Once or twice they passed houses from which came the sound of heavy-handed ransacking. Another one emitted muffled, pleading screams.

Gavin pushed them both onwards.

After about a minute, they came to a small timber yard against the wall. Scarlet-clad soldiers surrounded a central, open space, and each one held a weapon in their hand. After he noticed them, Otto saw the prisoners.

There were about ten, hemmed in by the soldiers and on their knees in the dirt. There was a mix, of humans and elves, of men and women, of young and old. Their faces were as blank as those of their guards, and their eyes were downcast to the earth.

Gavin gave the orc a little push, and let go. "Sarge!" he yelled out, while Otto tottered forward uncertainly. One of the soldiers broke his vigil and walked calmly over, until he was a few paces from the pair.

The sergeant glanced between them. "Big 'un, isn't he?" he remarked to Gavin. Then to Otto: "Weapon out, private."

Otto fumbled with his belt until he managed to extract a hammer.

The sergeant spoke while Otto did this. "Gavin tells me you've not seen any action 'til today. But in the CAF, everyone pulls their weight." He turned his head towards the prisoners. "Captain Jeffreys has ordered that all Ixian conspirators are to be executed."

Otto watched the sergeant, a nonplussed expression scrawled across his face. The NCO waited expectantly for a few seconds.

At last, he sighed. "Kill them."

Otto looked at the stricken group. "Sarge?"

"Kill them."

Otto hesitated. "I..." he stuttered.

Gavin sidled up to him, and whispered in his ear, "Look, captain's ordered them dead, so if you don't do it, someone else will. This is your chance, matey."

The orc looked at him helplessly. "But - "

"Private!" growled the sergeant. "Disobeyance of an order given by a superior officer is insubordination, which carries the maximum penalty of death. You have five seconds to step lively!"

There were more soldiers behind Otto now; he heard their boots crunch across the dirt, and the whisper of steel being drawn.

"Five!"

Otto looked to the prisoners. The closest one to him was a woman, maybe thirty, or perhaps just aged beyond her years by a life of hard work under the sun. Her dress was torn, and she was missing the shoe on her left foot. She raised her head to see what all the noise was about, and fixed her brown eyes upon the orc.

"Four!"

She must have noticed Otto's hesitation. Her expression shifted from a pale, resigned mask, to something that wrung Otto's insides dry.

"Three!"

She stared at him, hopefully.

"Two!"

And then, behind him, he heard the soldiers draw closer...

"One!"



* * *


Irinham was already some way behind them. They might have seen it during the day, but the massive column of smoke would be visible at night for miles and miles around. It was like a giant, skyward river, with a legion of smaller tributaries winding their way together until it formed one giant, glowing pillar holding up the dome.

Private Gavin rode with his squad in the back of one of the wagons. It had been piled high with loot from Irinham, mostly foodstuffs that would keep for the journey back to Radasanth - grain and flour, cured meats, even a few prized jars of pickles. There had also been a great quantity of ale and wine liberated from the settlement, but the officers were keeping a close eye on that.

Gavin excused himself from the others, and crawled across heavy sacks towards the back of the cart. He stared at the distant, undulating cloud for a while, then sighed.

"Don't you worry," he said. "You're one of us, now."

Gavin slapped the other figure on the back, who sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the cart, then worked his way back towards the front.

Otto watched Irinham fade away.

[Oliver]

The weather was strange. For some reason, it compelled one Oliver Midwinter to madness. Though cold, dark, and wet, he trudged through the puddles and lanes determined. Voices gibbered in the wind. Eyes stared in the shadows. Wings beat in the heavens above, veiled by storm and subterfuge. Somebody, somewhere, did not want the sorcerer to sleep.

“Are you okay kid?” a merchant shouted across the road.

Oliver looked up from the sanctuary of his hood, beamed a half-arsed smile, and nodded. He moved on, quick to leave company behind, quick to find peace and quiet. By the time he turned the third corner, he found it. By the time he turned a fourth, civilisation found him right back.

“Going somewhere, kid?” The large, bulbous eyes of a frog…thing, undid all Oliver’s secrets. Oliver nodded slowly. He pulled back his hood, unable to resist the man’s charm. “Come to the market…it’s…wondrous.”

Behind the man, and his strange, partisan bedfellows, Oliver saw lights. They cast strange, almost-fire glows across the street’s shop fronts. Lanterns danced, without strings, and with gusto overhead. Birds fluttered to and from gaping sleeves, and fire breathers gouged flames of every colour imaginable over wooed crowds.

“Yes.” The man with the skull’s tone was so dry Oliver felt moisture dredge from his bones. “Come.”

The party of five all made to turn. Clad in robes richer than governments and prettier than maidens, they crossed the threshold of mundane and magical. The barrier surrounding the market weakened when they did, and the sound of the carnival washed over Oliver. It was a wave of brief, intense nausea. It was what bottled happiness would feel like, if ever somebody cracked that particular mystery.

“Okay,” he said softly. He followed the group hands limp by his side. His white hair danced in a breeze as he too entered the market.

Corone’s drab landscape vanished immediately. The street came to life. Dank stone became jade lined edifice to architecture’s secrets. Above every door, a glowing number backlit by souls called customers inside. Oliver could have studied each of the hundred portals for an age, but it all entered his mind at once. He did what came naturally to everyone first crossing the market: he dropped his jaw, and stared.

“He is young. Young is he. Come with us. Us with come.” The third member of the party had a maddening mask. Its eyes swirled, its strange top purposeless. He twitched as he spoke, and swung a censer that burnt with cinnamon and cordovan incense. Its black, hellish framework reminded Oliver of a warlock’s brazier.

“What…what is this place?” The young sorcerer managed to ask. The sway the place held over him weakened as his doubt took hold. He should not be here. The market should not be there. He held out a hand, as though he could pull away an illusion and be back in the dark midnight air.

“This, child, is the Molyneux Market.” The fourth member of the party, a man with many hands, and a pallid, porcelain face boomed. His voice was thunderous. He gestured wide with four arms, and tried to smile. It came across as a grimace. “Magical practitioner’ world over come. People sell. People buy. Spells are flung.”

“Quite often, but not too often enough, people die.” The final member was a hooded man, tall, dark, and brooding. Oliver did not need to ask him his profession, because he smelt of it. He reeked of it so strongly he wondered how the others could stomach it.

“How do you buy things?” It was a natural question, but Oliver felt foolish asking it.

The party moved on, and Oliver followed. The crowd began to thicken as they encroached on the main hub of trade. Like a bazaar in any town, stalls, corner vendors, and match stick girls teethed with temptation. Artefacts that buzzed, wands that hummed, and creatures that cawed piled high on every worktop. Every type of wizard imaginable and every type beyond milled back and forth around Oliver as he wandered blind through the unknown.

“That…,” the frog said eerily, “is up to the buyer.”

In the blink of an eye, the party vanished. Oliver blinked. He could not be sure, if they had simply vanished into the swirl of people, or if they had literally vanished from the face of Althanas. He pouted.

“Well, that’s not very helpful.” He rested his hands on his hips and tapped his hobnail on the glistening cobble. It was pristine. It was devoid of shit, shame, and slime.

He now stood at the centre of the market, a crossroad leading in all four directions of the compass. On the four corners, tall, waif like spirits stood vigil. Oliver recognised them from his lessons with Patel, his mentor. He derived a conclusion, and finally realised what he was doing here, what the voices he heard were, and what he had to do.

“This is the Carnival of Souls…,” he said aloud, to clarify in his mind. “This is where a wizard both comes of age,” he trailed off to smile maddeningly. “This is where a sorcerer finds his centre.”

Unbeknownst to Oliver Midwinter, as he dove into the crowd to explore, bargain, and bounce through an adventure, there were several other unwitting members to his ascension into adulthood.

[BlackGhostofSeaside]

Please send any messages you have to my account BLUEGhostofSeaside and not this one. This honestly was just a pure test - following the quote from this post: "What have I become?" xD

Blood.

Crimson red, delicious blood.

Slash!

Two bodies… A man… a woman… They fell. Blood rose. The fresh color of a red rose. It fell to his face,

Crash!

Glass. Yes, it was glass. Broken shards flew everywhere as…

Slice!

A child. It was a child…

Stab. Gurgle….

More death. More blood.

Gash…

“What am I doing?” He silently whispered, the words barely coming out in a hush.

Splash…

“People… Innocent people…”

A pool of red. A wooden house. Wallpapers of red… A silent night… A cursed night…

“Why am I here?”

A large moon. A red moon. A moon like the blood.

“Why am I doing this?”

One last person. Turn around. Slash!

…

…

…

“Who am I?”



Covered in thick, red blood, a teenage boy was hunkered deliriously over a large puddle of red liquid. The liquid reflected the featured of a pale skin, curly brown hair, and blood shot eyes. Green eyes. The eyes of a sorrowful man, a frightened child, a murderous villain, a carefree boy, a present from Satan himself...

Another man entered the room, a fat man. He too carried weapons similar to the broadsword, drenched from a vacantly recent blood bath, that hung from the boy’s violently shaking hand. “Nice work, kid.” The man chuckled from behind, “You eliminated the entire dog-on family! Now we can search for their treasures!” He exited the room laughing.

But the boy stayed where he was, not moving a muscle. Even more so, the already blood soaked boy began to fall into the puddle. It felt slow, painful, and crude to the exile as the questions came over him again and again.

“Who am I?”

Splash!

“What am I?”

Thud.

“What am I doing?”

Clank.

“Why am I doing this?”

Silence…

“Who am I?”

…

“What have I become?”