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[WP] You're the most powerful being in existence, a master chronomancer able to pass through and bend time with less effort than it takes to breath. Your might is so great that some go mad at the thought of it. With all this power you have one desire: to be the best janitor this school has ever seen
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Hey, have you heard? About the seven mysteries of Arcania High School?
*That sounds interesting, what mysteries does this place have?*
​
**The first mystery** : The murderous ghost of the kitchen. At 12 midnight, there is a ghost in the kitchen. You can hear "Chop, Chop, Chop" as soon as you go near the door. It sounds just as though someone was chopping through human flesh. Sometimes you can even hear the wails of the the tortured souls.
*The children need good food, and so I cook for them at night. I know my singing is bad, but "wails of the tortured souls??" Maybe I should stop singing while I cook. Or maybe just put a sound barrier around the kitchen. WAIT, why was a student in school at 12 anyway. Can't focus on just cooking anymore can I.*
​
**The second mystery :** The stealing fairy. Anything on the ground is fair game. If you drop something and don't pick it up immediately, don't expect to get it back. It shall be stolen and added to the fairy's horde.
*I do NOT steal stuff. Sure, if you drop something I teleport it into your bags, but I'm just trying to keep you guys from losing your stuff. And I DON'T have a horde, not that you guys could have anything to tempt me anyway .*
​
**The third mystery :** The invisible cleaner. Have you noticed we have a tradition of knocking before entering into empty rooms? There is a reason, we have an invisible cleaner. He cleans the rooms, and makes them great, but he hates us kids. The ones who see him lose something, people say it's the most precious thing one can have.
*I clean dirty rooms. How is that a bad thing. Sure, if you interrupt me, I SLIGHTLY panic, and end up casting a memory loss spell by instinct, but I'm sure I haven't stolen any precious memories.....*
​
**The fourth mystery :** The tree of peace. You see that huge oak tree in the courtyard? Never fight there. Those who fight under the tree shall never be seen again, and their souls provide nourishment to the tree.
*The bully's tried to mess with MY students. How DARE they attack MY students in this school. But now that I think about it, throwing them into a random time era for punching someone might not have been the best of ideas.*
​
**The fifth mystery :** The otherworld portal. At exactly 9:15 at night, the portal to the otherworld open backstage in the auditorium. Those who walk through are never seen again.
*Oh shit, I totally forgot how I automated a portal to 1918 so that the fresh air could sweep through the room preparing it for the assembly next day. Now I need to go and find kids who've gone to that time period.*
​
**The sixth mystery :** The wishing mirror. The third floor boys bathroom mirror can grant wishes. You need to stand in front of the mirror, and you should be the only one in the bathroom. You need to say your wish out loud, and it shall then come true.
*Some kids deserve it. Those with the best wishes, they deserve these wishes. I love the sight of their faces when they get what they truly need. Some wishes though, almost make me reconsider helping these kids...*
​
**The seventh mystery :** The magician janitor. They say we have a janitor, one who keeps this school safe. You see, the missing wizard Ja'far "the Timeless" was once a student of this school. I don't believe this though, with his power I'm sure he has much better things to do.
*Wait what? Someone actually made such a good guess? I need to make people forget about this rumor. It'll be bad if this gets out. The country will make me work again. Sorry kid.* ***\*Cast Memory Wipe\****
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Again? Really? That's the third time this month. I this school is so full its almost impossible for me to clean without some kid stumbling into the room. What? Try using my powers to keep the kids from seeing? Already tried that, literally drove the entire school mad, not just the school even, the entire literal planet! Had to go all the way back the beginning to fix that one. Yeah, that beginning, let be there light and all. Have you tried living through the 9th century? Big pain in the butt if you ask me, can't even get a good meal. Anyway, when I do manage to get things clean, I can't even do that good of a job because everyone goes mad just seeing how clean it is, so I can only ever use like 5% of my power, if even that. Which just stinks ya know, all I want is to help these kids and make everything perfect for them, I didn't have that growing up, things were hard. Least I can do is make sure things look nice. Maybe I'll get the hang of it eventually, and when everything's just right, maybe I can have my own kid grow up here. Yeah, that sure would be nice.
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[WP] Every hundred years a young maiden is sacrificed to the great dragon. The dragon is disgusted by this practice and is not sure how it got started, so every hundred years it rescues the sacrifice, inadvertently making it appear as though the girl was eaten
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Marion tumbled across the cave floor, head over heals. She was momentarily disorientated before picking herself up and turning to face the Great Dragon. Silhouetted by the early morning sun, it stood motionless, blocking the entrance.
“Stay away” she hissed. Marion pulled a knife out from the folds of her dress, brandishing it before her. “I'm warning you” she advanced forwards. “Besides you will be disappointed, I'm not even a virgin.”
The Great Dragon made a noise that sounded between a snarl and a grunt. Marion tensed, tightening her grip around the knife. The dragon was laughing at her, a deep throaty laugh that reverberated echoed around her.
“Why should I care?” the dragon boomed back. “What you do beneath the sheets is your business.”
Marion staggered backwards, she had not expected it speak in her own tongue.
“You are free to go, if you please.” The dragon shifted its mighty tail, leaving enough space for two carts to pass by. “Perhaps, you might prefer to rest here a while first, it's a long walk back down to the village.”
“You're not going to hurt me?” Marion still held the knife in front of her, but her voice lacked its previous conviction.
“Hurt you? I just saved you.” The Great Dragon had lowered its tone, though its voice still rumbled through the cave.
“But I am a sacrifice, for you...”
“I know” the dragon sighed, emitting a small puff of smoke. “Every maiden has told me the same thing. And each time I ask them, what would I want with a virgin? I am a dragon I have no interest in humans.”
The dragon let out another sigh, dropping its heavy head onto the ground. Despite its intimidating size, it looked harmless slumped on the floor. On closer inspection, Marion noticed how his scales seemed to shimmer, each one a different colour; bronze, gold, copper, silver...
“But why the sacrifice? And why did you bring me here?”
“Do you know the story of Baru the Virgin?”
“Yes” Marion nodded. “Everyone knows how Baru sacrificed herself for the village.”
“They know the story that the elders tell them. Baru was pregnant when she came to me. The father had abandoned her and she couldn't tell her parents. She asked that I take her unborn child as my apprentice. I had no use for a human child, but I was moved by her tears. I offered to bring her to my cave where she could to stay to until her baby was born.”
“I hadn't heard that version before.” Marion had no reason to believe the dragon, but he had no reason to lie to her.
“Baru gave birth to a boy. In his fifth year she told me they couldn't stay here any longer, he needed to be around his own kind. I gave her as much gold as she could carry and wished them luck. I don't know what happened to them afterwards, but I often think of them. The elders must have gotten the wrong impression, because every hundred years they tie some poor young woman to a post in the middle of the forest, where the wolves and bears can get her. I tell myself that I am not going to intervene, but I always have to swoop in and be the hero. Though honestly I'm afraid what the villagers might do otherwise. I, offer each women gold and shelter for as long as they like. They stay awhile, before leaving for the capital to start a new life.”
Marion looked around the cave, admiring the treasures that lined its walls. Just a handful would be enough for her to live beyond her wildest dreams. She could live as lady wherever she pleased. Maybe even marry a prince... Her mind drifted to Gerard and the night they had spent in each other's embrace. Her heart skipped a beat, and she knew that she couldn't leave him.
Marion had agreed that it would be best to spend the night in the cave and return to the village the next day. The Great Dragon insisted that she take as much gold as she could carry. Marion slept soundly, wrapped in finely woven rug she found amongst the dragon's treasures. She dreamt of the life her and Gerard would live together...
She was woken by a rustling sound. Groggily she opened one eye to see what dared enter the dragon's lair. She could make out a shadow slinking through the darkness. Marion let out a gasp.
“Shh... Marion, it's me.”
“Gerard!” Marion cried out.
“Shh” Gerard repeated. He moved closer and Marion could see his face illuminated in the moonlight. He swept her into his arms, and she buried her face into his shoulder. “I've come to rescue you.”
“I knew you would” Marion whispered back. “ But I'm alright. The dragon...”
“Hush Marion. Don't worry.” Marion noticed for the first time the sword in hand.
“Gerard, please don't hurt him!”
Marion's cry disturbed the Great Dragon. His body began to stir, his eyelids fluttering.
“Get behind me!” Gerard yelled, pushing Marion back.
“No” Marion cried, grabbing at Gerard, too late to stop him.
In one swift movement Gerard plunged the sword into the Great Dragon's fleshy underbelly. Bright crimson blood bubbled out, hissing as it disintegrated the sword. The Dragon let out a thunderous roar, snapping his head around. He snatched Gerard in his great jaws, biting him in half.
Marion screamed and dropped to her knees. The blood of her new found friend and her lover pooling in front of her.
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“Rawwwrrrr!! I am big bad dragon! Who have you brought forth for me this day!?”
“S-she’s right here.”
“Rawwrrrrr!! Then step aside as I DEVOUR HER! Rawwwrrr!!”
The dragon paused as the girl shivered.
“But no looksies… Rawwwrrr!!!”
The crowd scattered and the dragon was left alone with the girl.
They did make up and hair and had tea, but no devouring.
“Go back to your people.”
“I can’t, they’ll know I wasn’t sacrificed.”
“Oh, I have a plan for that.”
The dragon lifted a his index claw and the tip of it glowed and he touched it to her nose.
Nothing happened.
“My friend is a plastic surgeon. He can change your face for you.”
The dragon opened a filing cabinet.
“Also, I have new I.D.’s for you. Paperwork paperwork paperwork. It’s all that really matters nowadays.”
He peered down from his glasses and shuffled through some documents.
“You are definitely a…” shifting through papers, “a… Mmmmartha? Or no. Janice!”
“I prefer Martha.”
“Martha it is then! Ruben! Tengo trabajo para ti!”
A Mexican dragon appeared.
The dragon turned to the girl, “He’s fantastic, I assure you.” He smiled to her. “Ruben! Esto es Martha. Hacer su nuevo.”
“Si senor.”
The Mexican dragon lead the girl away and the girl looked back to the dragon.
“I’ll have your paperwork ready by the time you’re done!”
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Warning! The writing switches between first person (italics) for thoughts and journal entries and third person (normal) for actions and dialogue throughout the story. Sorry if it’s confusing, the story just turned out that way.
​
BOOKS OF MONSTERS AND MEN
Book One: The Book of the Foothills
​
\-------------------- Prologue (pt.1): Stellaria --------------------
**The Great Kingdom of Stellaria was the largest of the Kingdoms in its prime, over 200 years ago. It ruled over almost half of Corunda, the westernmost of the large continents. However, their military might was so great that they were never attacked, and so the 48th King grew complacent and started ordering to hike taxes and stop the welfare programs that kept the Kingdom as one of the best places in the world to live.**
**Because the Kingdom was becoming a worse and worse place to live, and because the military was beginning to treat the soldiers worse, parts of Stellaria began declaring sovereignty and taking their armies with them, reducing the power and influence of Stellaria. Eventually, it was just another small country that stretched along the foothills of the Argenterra mountains. They were still making much money due to the large veins of silver in the valleys.**
**However, even that was not meant to last. The silver ran out, and Orcs began to settle in the mountains. Eventually, the King of Stellaria ordered to wipe out the Orcs, but the Orcs retaliated and massacred the troops. With no military left, the Kingdom could not stop a rebellion, and when it came the King was killed and the Kingdom of Stellaria became the Republic of the Foothills.**
​
\-------------------- Prologue (pt.2): Orcs --------------------
**Even now, in the foothills that used to be Stellaria, minstrels and bards still speak of the terror of the Orc Clans. Naturally a warring species, Orcs have the brute force enough to rip a man’s head off and toughness enough to keep fighting with deep wounds. However, most aren’t particularly smart and will die from blood loss if you can prolong a fight. The problem with that is not getting killed.**
**It’s said that one in every thousand Orcs will have talent as a strategist and rise as the head of a tribe. Since there’s only one Lord in every thousand Orcs, tribes can sometimes, albeit rarely, become thousands strong as the Lords kill each other and take over their tribes. Even less commonly, an Orc in a tribe will learn magic from someone or something, and they become a Mage. The Mages serve under the Lord as personal guards if they can use defense spells, or assassins if they can attack. The best of the Mages learn support magic, and if they are sent to battle they will be guarded at all costs, healing the Orcs at the front or making them even stronger foes.**
**And one in every hundred Lords will rise to lord over other Lords instead of killing them, and a Clan is born. Clans almost never gather in one place, instead they have the smartest Orcs under the King that give orders and gather intelligence. A Clan is to be avoided at all costs, for angering the King will result in a Rampage, which is certain death for you and everyone in the surrounding areas.**
​
\-------------------- Chapter 1: Sins --------------------
*My mother was an archer defending the Fortress of Ivy, and she bled out from her wounds when her tower was hit by a trebuchet. I couldn’t save her. My father was in the heavy cavalry, and he was stabbed through the leg when he had to leave his armor and run. I couldn’t save him. My brother was a messenger, and he was hit by an arrow running a message to the leader. I couldn’t save him. My sister was a healer, and she got caught out in the open. I couldn’t save her. What was I? I was a coward. I had hidden in the cellar when I heard the alarm, and when I came out all my family was dead.*
*I swore never to let that happen again. I learned first aid from the healers, I learned survival tactics from hunters, I learned medicine and potion making from a witch on my travels. I went from place to place, healing everyone I came across. Every time I heard of a war going on, I went straight to the front lines and started saving those who were still alive. And every time I saved someone, I made another mark in my book. I had told myself that I could atone for my sins by healing 500 people for each person I let die during the raid, a total of 2,000. It’s been just over 3 years now since I started, and I have made 2,000 marks in my book, saving about 1.7 people per day on average.*
*Last year, I heard a bard in a tavern singing of the Savior of All, a mysterious man healing everyone in his path, regardless of right or wrong. The bard sang of the battles that ended in a truce thanks to this man, and of the nobles he had saved the beloved of. I knew in my heart that they were singing of me as a wonderful, fearless man, but I didn’t deserve it. I was atoning for killing my family, not saving people as a good person. But now, I’ve completed my mission. I’m going to go into the mountains to disappear for a while, since I’ve made enough impact on the world as it is. Maybe I’ll find something about myself up there.*
​
\-------------------- Chapter 2: Argenterra --------------------
*I’m going to the mountains today. I have nobody to say goodbye to, and nobody knows who I am, so as soon as the sun rises I’ll set out. I’ve packed up all my supplies, along with a few bottles of stamina potion and the “Compound Bow” I got from the tinkerer along my travels. It’s so much smaller than a longbow, and yet it’s more powerful and accurate, so I can hunt or defend myself if I need to. I’m lucky that I have the spell Create Arrows that I learned to make splints, since I’ll need a lot of them if I want to live up there.*
As the sun rose over the plains behind him, the man set out on his journey. He had chosen a day in early summer, since it wouldn’t be too hot in the foothills, but he hadn’t anticipated that it would rain deep in the mountains and raise the river. Luckily there was a spot where the river became very wide and only about 6 inches deep, but he still had to be careful. Once he was on the other side, the climb began. He followed the river upstream, seeing beautiful cascades and pristine pools of water that he purified with magic, and as he ascended he eventually got to a dilapidated keep from the Kingdom of Stellaria. He set up camp there for 2 days, since he knew how the air was thinner in the mountains and he could get sick if he didn’t wait.
*I’ve reached my first waypoint, the Gate to the Mountains. It’s an old keep from hundreds of years ago, back when the Kingdom of Stellaria was still in its prime. Most of it is destroyed by now, but the eastern side has been shored up by travelers using it as a waypoint, so it’s safe to camp there. I have my sleeping bag set up on a part that I cleared of rocks and covered with a few layers of leaves, and I’m cooking up some grouse I shot earlier. Apparently they taste like rooster but more gamy, which is fine for me. After I eat them, I’ll go to sleep. In 2 days I’ll continue my journey to Lake Aurum.*
The lake the man was looking for was about to be a battleground for Orcs and Humans. The kingdom on the other side of the mountains was marching their soldiers up the mountain to attack, and they were going to arrive the day that the man was. But he didn’t know that, so he continued upwards towards where the massacre would be.
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Character limit is broken, If yoy like it I have more coming soon
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A Moment of Duality
W.E.B. Dubois once told me that all Black souls have a duality – one side that is American, and another side that is Black American. Well he did not tell me, per se, I read it in a book. But the book spoke to me, so I consider that to be Dubois speaking to me. In fact, his words resonate so strongly within me that I see his words all around me, even in places you would least expect.
Take, for example, the emergency room at City Hospital. The name is a bit of a misnomer as the hospital does not really serve the city – as a whole – just certain parts of the city, the parts of the city most try to avoid, or otherwise drive through with the doors locked. We call those parts the wild 100’s, which originally derived their name from the street blocks that are labelled in the hundreds, but you can call it by whatever word or phrase that suits you – Section 8, underserved, impoverished, or just plain Black.
And there is a reason we call it ‘wild’, which can be found in the hospital’s emergency room as it sees every bit of the wildness. We have diabetics whose sugar spikes more than the stock market, hypertensives that would rather lose a foot than a dollar on medications, and of course, the trauma patients. You can write a book on every trauma patient that comes into the emergency room and weave a tale of healthcare disparity, political stagnation, and lack of economic opportunity. But in this squalor of society, one home grown boy, who is now a man, has chosen to establish his line of work: Dr. Erik Wilson.
He grew up not too far from City Hospital and vowed to make a difference. And he did, first academically and then professionally. He worked his way through school, all the while supporting both his family and his higher education prospects by obtaining scholarships to attend a school reserved for monied east coast elites. Once out east, he flourished even more, completing medical school, and becoming a trauma surgeon. He then began his clinical practice in an affluent neighborhood close to where he went to college, mentoring other students while building his practice. But there was a limit to how much he could build, as there is a limit to the amount of trauma seen in areas of affluence in this country. There are only so many housewives who hit their heads while drinking overpriced wine to go around.
Dr. Wilson needed more – so he thought about going home, like the prodigal son. But he never felt lost, though he felt concerned about returning home and entangling with aspects of his childhood neighborhood. He let his concern linger, but eventually, being a risk prone surgeon, he returned home. And, as is typical of his nature, he succeeded. He succeeded so much that his success became the hospital’s success, and City Hospital became a renown trauma center.
Which may not come as a surprise to you, but to me, and everybody in these parts, is a near miracle. City Hospital was known as a place you go to die, and if you have some sort of trauma, this is the place you go to in order to die quickly. Well that was the perception, but now we know this is the place to go if you have trauma – and want to get better. And long after we figured it out, all the media outlets and rating agencies figured it out and gave the hospital a variety of national accolades – like that matters. The same patients come to the emergency room and that will never change, no matter how the perception changes.
And Dr. Wilson knows that the most. Throughout the rise of the trauma division, he remained his meticulous, steadfast self; and by staying grounded, he only accelerated the stellar rise. Overtime he did develop different mannerisms, probably the most unique of which includes taking time for small talk, a habit he has long detested, seeing it as nothing more than an excuse to waste time. But with his name being known, and his reputation preceding him, such conversations became inevitable.
As in the case when a trauma patient who arrived around two o’clock in the morning with five gun shot wounds in the posterior hip, claiming to have been walking home from church when two strangers randomly approached him and open fired without asking questions. An odd story, no doubt, that becomes even more odd when you realize the context – well less odd, depending on your perspective. Leaving church at two in the morning is the typical story for gang members who are shot in their normal course of business – which they shameless tell emergency room providers to receive care without disclosing the nature of their business. As for five bullets in one specific region of the body – well, you do not get shot in the ass repeatedly unless you are in the game deep – ass deep. So that part is not as odd to me, as it might be to you, given how often we see gang violence around these parts. What strikes me as most odd is the patient’s request to speak to Dr. Wilson specifically.
This patient is named Tyrone Wilson, and his story is about as opposite as Dr. Wilson’s story as stories can get – diametrically opposite. Tyrone grew up in the same neighborhood as Dr. Wilson, though Tyrone was ten years younger. And growing up, Tyrone enjoyed school and possessed a similar academic bent as Dr. Wilson. But when it came time to apply for colleges, Tyrone did not have the same scholarship opportunities as Dr. Wilson since the state’s budget changed over the course of the decade leaving less funds for scholarships, leaving less opportunity for Tyrone.
So, whereas Dr. Wilson saw opportunity in the scholarships granted, Tyrone saw failure in the scholarships rejected, and internalized the failure as a testament of self-worth, particularly when he piled the scholarship rejection letters next to the college admission letters.
As the saying goes, money is the root of all evils, and Tyrone needed money for college so he entertained one of the biggest evils in his neighborhood, drug dealing. Smart, diligent with numbers, and applying the same meticulous work ethic to his new-found illicit trade as he did towards the academic disciplines, he quickly grew successful. Too successful.
As his income grew, so did the attention he garnered, and soon police agents arrested him at school after an anonymous tip told the police they would find drugs in his backpack. The repercussions drummed on like a college marching band: withdrawal of college admissions, expulsion from school, and three years of probation with a high likelihood of jail on the next offense.
Tyrone was devastated, but that is how it goes in the wild 100’s. The margin of error is razor thin and forces can conspire with or against you without you even knowing. The state funding went one way for Dr. Wilson and another way for Tyrone. And consequently, Dr. Wilson avoided an environment that Tyrone eventually acclimated into.
And over the years, Tyrone had his ups and downs as he navigated the volatility of street drug dealing. His recent dilemma, the one with the gunshot wounds, came from a business dispute over who had the right to conduct business in a certain area. And it would be a bit too callous to say that Tyrone ended up on the wrong end of that discussion. But here we are, now firmly situated in the emergency room, where Tyrone has been waiting for Dr. Wilson. Who, after a few hours, enters the patient room, closing the door behind him.
“Hello, my name is Dr. Wilson, how can I help you?”, Dr. Wilson announces in the same practiced tone he gives to all new patients, a tone balancing trust and authority.
“What it do my brother!”, Tyrone exclaims with a forced sense of enthusiasm that appears artificial to Dr. Wilson.
“One of the techs mentioned that you would like to speak with me – I’m happy to talk, but I’m afraid I only have a few minutes to – “
“Man why do you talk like them white folks”, Tyrone deliberately interrupts, contorting his face in a patronizing disgust to make the effects of his words seem more pronounced. “They don’t care about you. You like OJ – once they run you out, you won’t be shit to them.”
Dr. Wilson is visibly shook but maintains his professional calm. Instinctively he finds an excuse to leave.
“Thank you for your time, sir”, he says preparing to exit, “I understand you are to have the bullets removed shortly. Good luck.” As Dr. Wilson turns his back to Tyrone to exit through the now opened door, Tyrone makes one last remark.
“What, they don’t let the brother do the actual work. I guess you’re just the face hanging on these banners, but you don’t run anything.”
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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(my first try at a prompt. Hopefully I'll get more in the groove down the way. :) )
Garish color and loud advertisements were the pulse of the Hive, the very lifeblood of the undercity. Jack had gotten used to them in the last six or so years - he couldn't sleep anymore without the washed-out pink glow of the less-than-reliable LED-neon strips that flickered through a poorly animated dancing girl that was the best part of the view outside of the armored window of his flat. It got into your head, made your heart quicken - the buzz and tilt of it all, like the best jazz high or stim mellow. Electric and bright.
Each day he tread the same path on the six block walk to his clinic. Down past Harry's place, where the street mage invariably had some sort of new illusion or mindscape for sale, down past the crystalline flowers of Margot's little artificery, through the bustle of the downmarket and up the alley to the faded red cross and tiny windows that marked his unassuming little office.
He'd been asked a million times by classmates from old Misk-U why he bothered in the downturn instead of working more upmarket - he certainly had the skills. At first it was principle, right? He thought it through as he did most days, in the mechanical process of opening. He'd save the ones that needed saving, reach out to the once that couldn't afford the platinum service and posh surroundings of the up. Down in the neon was where healing hands mattered, right?
So six years. Six years of patching together street toughs and working on demihumans, six years of watching patients drift into gangs and drugs and brainwaves and illusions, six years of gunshots and terror and eating the worst synthmeat and scraping by and making it all hang on by his fingernails. Six years of secondhand tools and picking up the skills of a tech just so he could keep his instruments working and the scanners up, and afford the occasional healing scroll or potion to tend to the worst.
Yet.
He couldn’t leave. He loved the grimy streets and flickering neon, and the people – and he admitted that to himself when nobody was looking, despite how he groused when they were. Good people didn’t need money to be genuine, and there was just a something about how it all went together that kept him going. The way mothers smiled when he patched up their kids, or that night that Grimtooth brought in his mate and he managed to save the husband of one of the best couplings he knew. What was a missed meal next to hope, after all? And he loved that hope. He really did.
Today, Cherry was in his waiting room – another test, another antibiotic, and another careful warding spell. She thanked him, her luminous elven eyes tired but hopeful – and he took that along with a handful of creds as his payment. As she was gathering her things? He slipped a few back into her bag – he could make do. After that, it was a steady flow – just one after another. Small wounds, tiny hurts, a gunshot or two, a stabbing. A couple of pox cures, a concerning fever – he needed more of that wraithbone, but heavens knew where he’d find that. A problem for tomorrow’s Jack, right?
The sun fell, the LEDstrips came on – and the streets turned garish and bright. The door beeped as another patient came in; he called, washing up, “Be right there!” That last one was a bit of a bleed-
The blow came hard and sudden, and he saw stars, falling over. “Where is it, human? Where’s the stuff?”
Too dazed to answer, he struggled to focus on the human.. no. No. Half-human. Half.. something scaled? Everything swam in and out of blurry – he worried about a concussion. His thoughts floated.
“Where’s the STUFF, man?”
The … half-human tore through his cabinets, cursing and snarling and dumping supplies in the floor. Jack licked dry lips, croaked out – “Look – med cabinet. On the right. Just.. take what you want and go.” He struggled to stand. Didn’t quite make it. Concerning.
The thief tore into that cabinet – snarled. “Worthless. Fucking -worthless-.” Jack felt the boot hit his ribs more than saw it; he went sprawling. “This is everything? What’s even the point?” A flick of a hand set a lance of fire into the pile of supplies on the floor – another flame jetted into the bed. “Stupid … where’s the cash?”
Jack stared at his treatment room. Burning. It was burning – he had to stop that. He had to –
Rough hands dragged him up. His head rocked. He swayed, would have fallen except a hand had the front of his shirt. Why.. why was he outside? What? There was fire – he had to –
He saw the flames flickering orange behind the half-human that dragged him into the alley. “Where’s the cash, doc. Now.”
Jack saw eyes, near the alley – heard the whisper of shoes on concrete as the street-urchin ran, full tilt. He couldn’t blame the kid. Who’d want to be in the middle of this? He spit a tooth – “s’ no cash. Just got a little. Front poc.. pocke’” His jaw wasn’t working right. How come everything was spinning?
He felt hands at his waist, digging through pockets – the handful of credits he’d taken *tink*ing off the concrete after they bounced off his chest, flung by his attacker. “What do you take me for, doc? You’re a doctor – where’s the real money?”
“Thas’ all – thas’ all there is –“
He heard, rather than saw, the whine of the lighning-pistol charging. Suddenly, there were dozens of shadows at the end of the alley, and he could see the glint of blades and felt the tingle of readied spells, the tension that wandered through the weave when a street mage was in attack mode. And he heard one of them growl. “Take his head. Leave the rest.”
He woke up some time later – how long exactly, Jack didn’t know. He was in a bed, though – not the cleanest, and not his. The lights were wrong and the smells were more gym sweat than the fake, cloying gardenia smell he used to keep the scent of antiseptic at bay. His everything hurt. His vision wasn’t too great – blurry in fits and starts; he felt, rather than really saw, the hulking form next to him. He started away from it, instinctive – and a massive hand came to rest on his arm.
“Easy doc. We’ve got you. Me an’ Hamish. The gang’s takin’ care of your shop – it’s a mess, but we got you.”
Uncomprehending, Jack tried to focus. “Grim?”
“Yah. No worries, Doc. Berke what broke the place is dead – and the gang’s decided one of us is gonna stick around from here on out. The westsiders are cleanin’ up your place – and I think the red light crew’s grabbin’ new gear for your clinic. Right now? You rest up. One of your buds is comin’ down from the upside to get a look at you – “
“That’s too much – “
“Shut it, doc. You’ve been puttin’ us together for years. That makes you one of us – and we take care of our own. ‘Sides, that upsider heard you were in trouble and dropped everything. Some berke named Charles – says you went to school together. We’re givin’ him a full escort. The whole gang’s on it – he’ll get here. And he’ll get home. And so will you. Just this once? You let us take care of you.”
|
A Moment of Duality
W.E.B. Dubois once told me that all Black souls have a duality – one side that is American, and another side that is Black American. Well he did not tell me, per se, I read it in a book. But the book spoke to me, so I consider that to be Dubois speaking to me. In fact, his words resonate so strongly within me that I see his words all around me, even in places you would least expect.
Take, for example, the emergency room at City Hospital. The name is a bit of a misnomer as the hospital does not really serve the city – as a whole – just certain parts of the city, the parts of the city most try to avoid, or otherwise drive through with the doors locked. We call those parts the wild 100’s, which originally derived their name from the street blocks that are labelled in the hundreds, but you can call it by whatever word or phrase that suits you – Section 8, underserved, impoverished, or just plain Black.
And there is a reason we call it ‘wild’, which can be found in the hospital’s emergency room as it sees every bit of the wildness. We have diabetics whose sugar spikes more than the stock market, hypertensives that would rather lose a foot than a dollar on medications, and of course, the trauma patients. You can write a book on every trauma patient that comes into the emergency room and weave a tale of healthcare disparity, political stagnation, and lack of economic opportunity. But in this squalor of society, one home grown boy, who is now a man, has chosen to establish his line of work: Dr. Erik Wilson.
He grew up not too far from City Hospital and vowed to make a difference. And he did, first academically and then professionally. He worked his way through school, all the while supporting both his family and his higher education prospects by obtaining scholarships to attend a school reserved for monied east coast elites. Once out east, he flourished even more, completing medical school, and becoming a trauma surgeon. He then began his clinical practice in an affluent neighborhood close to where he went to college, mentoring other students while building his practice. But there was a limit to how much he could build, as there is a limit to the amount of trauma seen in areas of affluence in this country. There are only so many housewives who hit their heads while drinking overpriced wine to go around.
Dr. Wilson needed more – so he thought about going home, like the prodigal son. But he never felt lost, though he felt concerned about returning home and entangling with aspects of his childhood neighborhood. He let his concern linger, but eventually, being a risk prone surgeon, he returned home. And, as is typical of his nature, he succeeded. He succeeded so much that his success became the hospital’s success, and City Hospital became a renown trauma center.
Which may not come as a surprise to you, but to me, and everybody in these parts, is a near miracle. City Hospital was known as a place you go to die, and if you have some sort of trauma, this is the place you go to in order to die quickly. Well that was the perception, but now we know this is the place to go if you have trauma – and want to get better. And long after we figured it out, all the media outlets and rating agencies figured it out and gave the hospital a variety of national accolades – like that matters. The same patients come to the emergency room and that will never change, no matter how the perception changes.
And Dr. Wilson knows that the most. Throughout the rise of the trauma division, he remained his meticulous, steadfast self; and by staying grounded, he only accelerated the stellar rise. Overtime he did develop different mannerisms, probably the most unique of which includes taking time for small talk, a habit he has long detested, seeing it as nothing more than an excuse to waste time. But with his name being known, and his reputation preceding him, such conversations became inevitable.
As in the case when a trauma patient who arrived around two o’clock in the morning with five gun shot wounds in the posterior hip, claiming to have been walking home from church when two strangers randomly approached him and open fired without asking questions. An odd story, no doubt, that becomes even more odd when you realize the context – well less odd, depending on your perspective. Leaving church at two in the morning is the typical story for gang members who are shot in their normal course of business – which they shameless tell emergency room providers to receive care without disclosing the nature of their business. As for five bullets in one specific region of the body – well, you do not get shot in the ass repeatedly unless you are in the game deep – ass deep. So that part is not as odd to me, as it might be to you, given how often we see gang violence around these parts. What strikes me as most odd is the patient’s request to speak to Dr. Wilson specifically.
This patient is named Tyrone Wilson, and his story is about as opposite as Dr. Wilson’s story as stories can get – diametrically opposite. Tyrone grew up in the same neighborhood as Dr. Wilson, though Tyrone was ten years younger. And growing up, Tyrone enjoyed school and possessed a similar academic bent as Dr. Wilson. But when it came time to apply for colleges, Tyrone did not have the same scholarship opportunities as Dr. Wilson since the state’s budget changed over the course of the decade leaving less funds for scholarships, leaving less opportunity for Tyrone.
So, whereas Dr. Wilson saw opportunity in the scholarships granted, Tyrone saw failure in the scholarships rejected, and internalized the failure as a testament of self-worth, particularly when he piled the scholarship rejection letters next to the college admission letters.
As the saying goes, money is the root of all evils, and Tyrone needed money for college so he entertained one of the biggest evils in his neighborhood, drug dealing. Smart, diligent with numbers, and applying the same meticulous work ethic to his new-found illicit trade as he did towards the academic disciplines, he quickly grew successful. Too successful.
As his income grew, so did the attention he garnered, and soon police agents arrested him at school after an anonymous tip told the police they would find drugs in his backpack. The repercussions drummed on like a college marching band: withdrawal of college admissions, expulsion from school, and three years of probation with a high likelihood of jail on the next offense.
Tyrone was devastated, but that is how it goes in the wild 100’s. The margin of error is razor thin and forces can conspire with or against you without you even knowing. The state funding went one way for Dr. Wilson and another way for Tyrone. And consequently, Dr. Wilson avoided an environment that Tyrone eventually acclimated into.
And over the years, Tyrone had his ups and downs as he navigated the volatility of street drug dealing. His recent dilemma, the one with the gunshot wounds, came from a business dispute over who had the right to conduct business in a certain area. And it would be a bit too callous to say that Tyrone ended up on the wrong end of that discussion. But here we are, now firmly situated in the emergency room, where Tyrone has been waiting for Dr. Wilson. Who, after a few hours, enters the patient room, closing the door behind him.
“Hello, my name is Dr. Wilson, how can I help you?”, Dr. Wilson announces in the same practiced tone he gives to all new patients, a tone balancing trust and authority.
“What it do my brother!”, Tyrone exclaims with a forced sense of enthusiasm that appears artificial to Dr. Wilson.
“One of the techs mentioned that you would like to speak with me – I’m happy to talk, but I’m afraid I only have a few minutes to – “
“Man why do you talk like them white folks”, Tyrone deliberately interrupts, contorting his face in a patronizing disgust to make the effects of his words seem more pronounced. “They don’t care about you. You like OJ – once they run you out, you won’t be shit to them.”
Dr. Wilson is visibly shook but maintains his professional calm. Instinctively he finds an excuse to leave.
“Thank you for your time, sir”, he says preparing to exit, “I understand you are to have the bullets removed shortly. Good luck.” As Dr. Wilson turns his back to Tyrone to exit through the now opened door, Tyrone makes one last remark.
“What, they don’t let the brother do the actual work. I guess you’re just the face hanging on these banners, but you don’t run anything.”
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
I don't know enough about orc culture to know what they would consider a slight versus a an act of war and how they would respond to each accordingly.
But...
I have this image of the doctor waiting in line for breakfast at a chain fast food place and while he's waiting, they switch to the lunch menu. He politely requests a breakfast item. They decline due to company policy.
Suddenly there are 12 orcs behind the doctor, and the staff quickly make the breakfast item for the doctor just so he'll leave
In the parking lot, he tries to have the talk with the orcs again.
"Not everything is worth y'all coming out for."
|
\[Poem\]
**Of different Blood**
​
A war is never short or easy, it’s seldom fair or good,
And enemies are dark and crazy, and made of maddest blood.
I have sworn to help the helpless and save who can be saved,
But could there be a monster lurking that we ourselves have raised?
\--
Of all the blood between my fingers I never seen it bad,
I’ve never seen it dark or ugly, I’ve never seen it mad.
And so, I saved whose life is sacred, so I saved them all,
For me there was no monster here, there only was a call.
\--
A call for help from everyone, a call for it to end,
A call for peace in every heart, for freedom in this land.
But I myself was just a man, just a single being,
Too many wars have I been fighting, too many I’ve been seeing.
\--
Until we lost this final battle, until we fought enough,
Until the others showed their mettle, until they were too tough.
And here I lay among my brothers, my sisters and my land,
Here I see this final dawn and wonder where all went.
\--
“Hurry, hurry, help him now! He is one of us!”,
I can hear them scream and scurry, controvert and cuss.
“He? This human? Are you mad? He is just the same,
Just another evil meatbag by another name!”
\--
And then they tried to save my life, just as I saved theirs,
“Could this be the end of all? After all these years?”
A tear it runs down on my cheek, and I can share a smile,
This will be my final moment, the place where I will die.
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
(my first try at a prompt. Hopefully I'll get more in the groove down the way. :) )
Garish color and loud advertisements were the pulse of the Hive, the very lifeblood of the undercity. Jack had gotten used to them in the last six or so years - he couldn't sleep anymore without the washed-out pink glow of the less-than-reliable LED-neon strips that flickered through a poorly animated dancing girl that was the best part of the view outside of the armored window of his flat. It got into your head, made your heart quicken - the buzz and tilt of it all, like the best jazz high or stim mellow. Electric and bright.
Each day he tread the same path on the six block walk to his clinic. Down past Harry's place, where the street mage invariably had some sort of new illusion or mindscape for sale, down past the crystalline flowers of Margot's little artificery, through the bustle of the downmarket and up the alley to the faded red cross and tiny windows that marked his unassuming little office.
He'd been asked a million times by classmates from old Misk-U why he bothered in the downturn instead of working more upmarket - he certainly had the skills. At first it was principle, right? He thought it through as he did most days, in the mechanical process of opening. He'd save the ones that needed saving, reach out to the once that couldn't afford the platinum service and posh surroundings of the up. Down in the neon was where healing hands mattered, right?
So six years. Six years of patching together street toughs and working on demihumans, six years of watching patients drift into gangs and drugs and brainwaves and illusions, six years of gunshots and terror and eating the worst synthmeat and scraping by and making it all hang on by his fingernails. Six years of secondhand tools and picking up the skills of a tech just so he could keep his instruments working and the scanners up, and afford the occasional healing scroll or potion to tend to the worst.
Yet.
He couldn’t leave. He loved the grimy streets and flickering neon, and the people – and he admitted that to himself when nobody was looking, despite how he groused when they were. Good people didn’t need money to be genuine, and there was just a something about how it all went together that kept him going. The way mothers smiled when he patched up their kids, or that night that Grimtooth brought in his mate and he managed to save the husband of one of the best couplings he knew. What was a missed meal next to hope, after all? And he loved that hope. He really did.
Today, Cherry was in his waiting room – another test, another antibiotic, and another careful warding spell. She thanked him, her luminous elven eyes tired but hopeful – and he took that along with a handful of creds as his payment. As she was gathering her things? He slipped a few back into her bag – he could make do. After that, it was a steady flow – just one after another. Small wounds, tiny hurts, a gunshot or two, a stabbing. A couple of pox cures, a concerning fever – he needed more of that wraithbone, but heavens knew where he’d find that. A problem for tomorrow’s Jack, right?
The sun fell, the LEDstrips came on – and the streets turned garish and bright. The door beeped as another patient came in; he called, washing up, “Be right there!” That last one was a bit of a bleed-
The blow came hard and sudden, and he saw stars, falling over. “Where is it, human? Where’s the stuff?”
Too dazed to answer, he struggled to focus on the human.. no. No. Half-human. Half.. something scaled? Everything swam in and out of blurry – he worried about a concussion. His thoughts floated.
“Where’s the STUFF, man?”
The … half-human tore through his cabinets, cursing and snarling and dumping supplies in the floor. Jack licked dry lips, croaked out – “Look – med cabinet. On the right. Just.. take what you want and go.” He struggled to stand. Didn’t quite make it. Concerning.
The thief tore into that cabinet – snarled. “Worthless. Fucking -worthless-.” Jack felt the boot hit his ribs more than saw it; he went sprawling. “This is everything? What’s even the point?” A flick of a hand set a lance of fire into the pile of supplies on the floor – another flame jetted into the bed. “Stupid … where’s the cash?”
Jack stared at his treatment room. Burning. It was burning – he had to stop that. He had to –
Rough hands dragged him up. His head rocked. He swayed, would have fallen except a hand had the front of his shirt. Why.. why was he outside? What? There was fire – he had to –
He saw the flames flickering orange behind the half-human that dragged him into the alley. “Where’s the cash, doc. Now.”
Jack saw eyes, near the alley – heard the whisper of shoes on concrete as the street-urchin ran, full tilt. He couldn’t blame the kid. Who’d want to be in the middle of this? He spit a tooth – “s’ no cash. Just got a little. Front poc.. pocke’” His jaw wasn’t working right. How come everything was spinning?
He felt hands at his waist, digging through pockets – the handful of credits he’d taken *tink*ing off the concrete after they bounced off his chest, flung by his attacker. “What do you take me for, doc? You’re a doctor – where’s the real money?”
“Thas’ all – thas’ all there is –“
He heard, rather than saw, the whine of the lighning-pistol charging. Suddenly, there were dozens of shadows at the end of the alley, and he could see the glint of blades and felt the tingle of readied spells, the tension that wandered through the weave when a street mage was in attack mode. And he heard one of them growl. “Take his head. Leave the rest.”
He woke up some time later – how long exactly, Jack didn’t know. He was in a bed, though – not the cleanest, and not his. The lights were wrong and the smells were more gym sweat than the fake, cloying gardenia smell he used to keep the scent of antiseptic at bay. His everything hurt. His vision wasn’t too great – blurry in fits and starts; he felt, rather than really saw, the hulking form next to him. He started away from it, instinctive – and a massive hand came to rest on his arm.
“Easy doc. We’ve got you. Me an’ Hamish. The gang’s takin’ care of your shop – it’s a mess, but we got you.”
Uncomprehending, Jack tried to focus. “Grim?”
“Yah. No worries, Doc. Berke what broke the place is dead – and the gang’s decided one of us is gonna stick around from here on out. The westsiders are cleanin’ up your place – and I think the red light crew’s grabbin’ new gear for your clinic. Right now? You rest up. One of your buds is comin’ down from the upside to get a look at you – “
“That’s too much – “
“Shut it, doc. You’ve been puttin’ us together for years. That makes you one of us – and we take care of our own. ‘Sides, that upsider heard you were in trouble and dropped everything. Some berke named Charles – says you went to school together. We’re givin’ him a full escort. The whole gang’s on it – he’ll get here. And he’ll get home. And so will you. Just this once? You let us take care of you.”
|
\[Poem\]
**Of different Blood**
​
A war is never short or easy, it’s seldom fair or good,
And enemies are dark and crazy, and made of maddest blood.
I have sworn to help the helpless and save who can be saved,
But could there be a monster lurking that we ourselves have raised?
\--
Of all the blood between my fingers I never seen it bad,
I’ve never seen it dark or ugly, I’ve never seen it mad.
And so, I saved whose life is sacred, so I saved them all,
For me there was no monster here, there only was a call.
\--
A call for help from everyone, a call for it to end,
A call for peace in every heart, for freedom in this land.
But I myself was just a man, just a single being,
Too many wars have I been fighting, too many I’ve been seeing.
\--
Until we lost this final battle, until we fought enough,
Until the others showed their mettle, until they were too tough.
And here I lay among my brothers, my sisters and my land,
Here I see this final dawn and wonder where all went.
\--
“Hurry, hurry, help him now! He is one of us!”,
I can hear them scream and scurry, controvert and cuss.
“He? This human? Are you mad? He is just the same,
Just another evil meatbag by another name!”
\--
And then they tried to save my life, just as I saved theirs,
“Could this be the end of all? After all these years?”
A tear it runs down on my cheek, and I can share a smile,
This will be my final moment, the place where I will die.
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
I don't know enough about orc culture to know what they would consider a slight versus a an act of war and how they would respond to each accordingly.
But...
I have this image of the doctor waiting in line for breakfast at a chain fast food place and while he's waiting, they switch to the lunch menu. He politely requests a breakfast item. They decline due to company policy.
Suddenly there are 12 orcs behind the doctor, and the staff quickly make the breakfast item for the doctor just so he'll leave
In the parking lot, he tries to have the talk with the orcs again.
"Not everything is worth y'all coming out for."
|
[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
(my first try at a prompt. Hopefully I'll get more in the groove down the way. :) )
Garish color and loud advertisements were the pulse of the Hive, the very lifeblood of the undercity. Jack had gotten used to them in the last six or so years - he couldn't sleep anymore without the washed-out pink glow of the less-than-reliable LED-neon strips that flickered through a poorly animated dancing girl that was the best part of the view outside of the armored window of his flat. It got into your head, made your heart quicken - the buzz and tilt of it all, like the best jazz high or stim mellow. Electric and bright.
Each day he tread the same path on the six block walk to his clinic. Down past Harry's place, where the street mage invariably had some sort of new illusion or mindscape for sale, down past the crystalline flowers of Margot's little artificery, through the bustle of the downmarket and up the alley to the faded red cross and tiny windows that marked his unassuming little office.
He'd been asked a million times by classmates from old Misk-U why he bothered in the downturn instead of working more upmarket - he certainly had the skills. At first it was principle, right? He thought it through as he did most days, in the mechanical process of opening. He'd save the ones that needed saving, reach out to the once that couldn't afford the platinum service and posh surroundings of the up. Down in the neon was where healing hands mattered, right?
So six years. Six years of patching together street toughs and working on demihumans, six years of watching patients drift into gangs and drugs and brainwaves and illusions, six years of gunshots and terror and eating the worst synthmeat and scraping by and making it all hang on by his fingernails. Six years of secondhand tools and picking up the skills of a tech just so he could keep his instruments working and the scanners up, and afford the occasional healing scroll or potion to tend to the worst.
Yet.
He couldn’t leave. He loved the grimy streets and flickering neon, and the people – and he admitted that to himself when nobody was looking, despite how he groused when they were. Good people didn’t need money to be genuine, and there was just a something about how it all went together that kept him going. The way mothers smiled when he patched up their kids, or that night that Grimtooth brought in his mate and he managed to save the husband of one of the best couplings he knew. What was a missed meal next to hope, after all? And he loved that hope. He really did.
Today, Cherry was in his waiting room – another test, another antibiotic, and another careful warding spell. She thanked him, her luminous elven eyes tired but hopeful – and he took that along with a handful of creds as his payment. As she was gathering her things? He slipped a few back into her bag – he could make do. After that, it was a steady flow – just one after another. Small wounds, tiny hurts, a gunshot or two, a stabbing. A couple of pox cures, a concerning fever – he needed more of that wraithbone, but heavens knew where he’d find that. A problem for tomorrow’s Jack, right?
The sun fell, the LEDstrips came on – and the streets turned garish and bright. The door beeped as another patient came in; he called, washing up, “Be right there!” That last one was a bit of a bleed-
The blow came hard and sudden, and he saw stars, falling over. “Where is it, human? Where’s the stuff?”
Too dazed to answer, he struggled to focus on the human.. no. No. Half-human. Half.. something scaled? Everything swam in and out of blurry – he worried about a concussion. His thoughts floated.
“Where’s the STUFF, man?”
The … half-human tore through his cabinets, cursing and snarling and dumping supplies in the floor. Jack licked dry lips, croaked out – “Look – med cabinet. On the right. Just.. take what you want and go.” He struggled to stand. Didn’t quite make it. Concerning.
The thief tore into that cabinet – snarled. “Worthless. Fucking -worthless-.” Jack felt the boot hit his ribs more than saw it; he went sprawling. “This is everything? What’s even the point?” A flick of a hand set a lance of fire into the pile of supplies on the floor – another flame jetted into the bed. “Stupid … where’s the cash?”
Jack stared at his treatment room. Burning. It was burning – he had to stop that. He had to –
Rough hands dragged him up. His head rocked. He swayed, would have fallen except a hand had the front of his shirt. Why.. why was he outside? What? There was fire – he had to –
He saw the flames flickering orange behind the half-human that dragged him into the alley. “Where’s the cash, doc. Now.”
Jack saw eyes, near the alley – heard the whisper of shoes on concrete as the street-urchin ran, full tilt. He couldn’t blame the kid. Who’d want to be in the middle of this? He spit a tooth – “s’ no cash. Just got a little. Front poc.. pocke’” His jaw wasn’t working right. How come everything was spinning?
He felt hands at his waist, digging through pockets – the handful of credits he’d taken *tink*ing off the concrete after they bounced off his chest, flung by his attacker. “What do you take me for, doc? You’re a doctor – where’s the real money?”
“Thas’ all – thas’ all there is –“
He heard, rather than saw, the whine of the lighning-pistol charging. Suddenly, there were dozens of shadows at the end of the alley, and he could see the glint of blades and felt the tingle of readied spells, the tension that wandered through the weave when a street mage was in attack mode. And he heard one of them growl. “Take his head. Leave the rest.”
He woke up some time later – how long exactly, Jack didn’t know. He was in a bed, though – not the cleanest, and not his. The lights were wrong and the smells were more gym sweat than the fake, cloying gardenia smell he used to keep the scent of antiseptic at bay. His everything hurt. His vision wasn’t too great – blurry in fits and starts; he felt, rather than really saw, the hulking form next to him. He started away from it, instinctive – and a massive hand came to rest on his arm.
“Easy doc. We’ve got you. Me an’ Hamish. The gang’s takin’ care of your shop – it’s a mess, but we got you.”
Uncomprehending, Jack tried to focus. “Grim?”
“Yah. No worries, Doc. Berke what broke the place is dead – and the gang’s decided one of us is gonna stick around from here on out. The westsiders are cleanin’ up your place – and I think the red light crew’s grabbin’ new gear for your clinic. Right now? You rest up. One of your buds is comin’ down from the upside to get a look at you – “
“That’s too much – “
“Shut it, doc. You’ve been puttin’ us together for years. That makes you one of us – and we take care of our own. ‘Sides, that upsider heard you were in trouble and dropped everything. Some berke named Charles – says you went to school together. We’re givin’ him a full escort. The whole gang’s on it – he’ll get here. And he’ll get home. And so will you. Just this once? You let us take care of you.”
|
[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
He sank to his knees in defeat. All around him the screams of the dying. The city's defences had fallen and the elves descended on the population with ferocity bourne of vengeance. The sun was hidden behind thick plumes of greasy smoke. The wounded had stopped arriving from the front lines. The defences had long since become a rout with many of the defenders fleeing from the city as the elves advanced. Many more stayed and died on elvish spears and dwarven axes, knowing that this was their last dying hope to save humanity.
Ahead of him the city burned. The jewel of the kingdom had fallen, he saw it all from the elevated veiws from the Grand Marshals staging ground. He watched the ripples of chaos and destruction flowing from the breaches ino the city. He saw as the main gate fell to the onslaught from the trebuchets. Once the Fey had gained a foothold on the Kings Avenue, their conquest of the city was all but assured.
That's where they found him, surrounded by his dead and dying comrades. They came strolling from the streets and alleyways at the southern entrance to the staging grounds. Drunk on slaughter and their bloodlust not yet satiated, the dawves and elves fell on the last of the humans, finding little or no resistance and blades slid across throats. All he could do now was weep for the fall of man and wait for them to get to him.
A tall elf with a finer set of armor than his kin saw me and sauntered over. I couldn't understand the words he spoke in that musical language of his, but the way he grinned his intention was clear. I had seen that same grin on a hundred sadistic bastards just like him both human and elf. The battle surgeon hung his head and listened as the sword was drawn, the creak of leather as sword arm is raised high, waiting for the killing blow.
Elven mithril clattered on stone sending up sparks. He lifts his gaze to the shocked expression on the face of the elf before him. It was a mask of rage and disbelief. His hands clutch at the arrow that impales. Its as long as a lance and thick as the hilt of a sword. The elven officer crumples to the floor without a sound and the fey army turns their attention to the archer.
A warhorn blasts twice and a cacophony of smaller horns call out in reply. The thunder of drums accompanies the horns and I hear the guttural Roar of the Orcish warcry. The thunder gets louder and the ground begins to shake as a flood of orc warriors charge accords the staging grounds. The Fey leave off their slaughter and try to quickly form up lines. They are barely able to get their shields up before the first of the wrag riders smash into their lines, their momentum crushing all opposition as the riders set about them with their massive cleavers.
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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I honestly thought I was retiring when I moved to Orsunder. The Orcish homeland was known for its vibrant landscapes and easy going weather (in some parts, most parts were quite harsh) so it made for easy retirement. Unfortunately for me I can’t predict political downfalls nor could I predict the capitulation of the Oraunderi government. The political turmoil in Orsunder led to a civil war in which several powerful warlords voted for control of Orsunder. Oddly enough An elvish invasion did manage to unit several of the warlords to fight against a now common enemy. I found myself, in what I thought was gonna be a beautiful retirement estate, but now was a field hospital for the various orcish raiding parties that roamed the countryside. About 2 months into the Oraunderi civil war/Elven invasion, I had treated well over 300 orcs, many leaving with toothy grins on their faces. I never thought any of them remembered me until my home became the target of a few hungry, and bored Elvish soldiers. They had decided that what was mine, was theirs, and they would take it, no matter how much I protested. As I pleaded with the elvish captain to lower his rifle and leave my home peacefully, I noticed a peculiar rumbling coming from just outside the walls of my estate. I never would have guessed what is was. Hundreds of orcs were marching on my estate with blood and hunger in their eyes. “You betta leave the good docta alone or you’ll suffa my blade elf!” The apparent commander of the orcs spoke with a booming voice. The elven soldiers began panicking to get into position to *attempt* to repel the seemingly massive horde of orcs. It wasn’t long until they broke rank and fled from my estate. “You guys came?”
“You ‘elped us doc, ‘course we’re gonna ‘elp you”
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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It was a gloomy day for Darwin both figuratively and literally. You see, Darwin had been getting caught up in some shifty business with the local mad wizard.
“Three days shall be your reprieve,
for thine payment to retrieve.
For if my rules thou wilt not follow, Scorpions tale you shall swallow... or I’ll turn you into a newt or something.”
The mere thought of being turned into a new to or swallowing a scorpions tail made Darwin’s skin crawl. “What was it that old coot wanted” Darwin said to himself, “A sentiment of kinship” called the wizard from across the study. “You wish for me to give you kinship?” The old mage poked his head out from behind a messy stack of parchments “correct!”, “I’m not sure if I can do that”. The wizard leered at the man, his ancient eyes burning with a fury Darwin hadn’t seen from him before. “Then I guess your hands will do” said the wizard as he began to approach Darwin. “M-my what?!” Darwin’s heart began to race, 190/80. “I-I’m sure we could work this out some other way! We don’t wish for this situation to get out of hand now do we?” “Very poor choice of words” and the wizard leapt for the Doctor, but before he knew it Darwin was already halfway down the stairs leading up the tower. It seems his own legs had a better sense for danger than he.
Down the hill, across the courtyard, over the stone fence, and across the field Darwin tan for dear life. How could he live without his hands?! What would he do, he might as well be running down the tracks from a speeding train. Darwin peered back between breaths, seeing that crazed loon who calls himself a Wizard sprinting on all fours like some sort of beast. He most definitely was mad, which only made Darwin believe more in the wizards sentiment about actually taking his hands.
Darwin burst through the bush line and made his way down the trail,”just keep running, don’t stop! Never stop! If you stop you’l-“ *thunk* Darwin’s face was met with the jarring sensation of running into a metal plated wall. “Woah! Who goes there!” Shouted a course yet authoritative tone. “What are yo- Darwin? Why are you running blindly through the forest?” Between breaths Darwin was able to utter “Wizard. Debt. Hands. Help!” The wizard appeared in the glade of trees not soon after Darwin found sanctuary behind the Huntress Ork. “Your hands Boy! Gimme gimme”. “A hand you say?” Said the Orc. “Yes, now HAND it over!”, “Are you seriously making puns!” Darwin shrieked. The old man was about to speak until he coiled back as a whole troop of Orcs joined them in the glade. “Please don’t take this mans hands good sage, for they are the reason we are still alive today” said one of the taller Orcs. “I need payment!” The wizard shouted. “Then take mine” said the Orc shielding Darwin. “Rivala no! How will you hunt?” “For you, I’d lay down my life! You’ve saved countless numbers of my brothers and sisters. It would be an honor!” Rivala said with a great roar. Darwin has known this woman for nearly 3 years, and he’d know a promise she’d keep when she made it. “No take my hands” one Orc said “No mine!”, called another. Soon the opening in the trees and further out was filled with the shouts and cries of Orc warriors screaming about dismemberment and sacrifice.
The wizard raised his hand and silence filled the forest “Well it seems like I’ve gotten what I came for” he said. He produced a jar from his robe and began to wave if back and forth threw the air as if to catch something floating there. “What is he doing?” Said Rivala “I haven’t the faintest idea” Replied Darwin. After a few moments of the wizard dashing and bounding with his empty jar he sealed it with a rather large cork. “This is all I need, some kinship! Looks like you came in rather HANDY after all Doctor!” “I... umm really?” said the warily. The wizard only replied with a yellow grin and a more than unsettling wink and like that, he was gone in a poof of grey smoke.
“Looks like things are settled then?” Rivala said “I guess so.” Darwin replied. “So... would you wish to join us for the evening meal... HANDsom?”
“...”
“Oh come on! That was good!”
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Ganymede, the medic, wished desperately for the self-control to quiet his heaving chest, the better to hide from the ambush that had wiped out his unit.
He'd tried to tell them. A year earlier, with a different unit, he'd seen almost exactly the same thing: two ambush parties collapsing on his unit like a pincer, from tree stands on either side of the road. Everyone but him had died that day, and ever since, he'd been "Ganymede the Cursed."
The road from Raldos to Leranith contained just such a spot for an ambush, and indeed it had happened again. The damnable elves fell upon his unit like hyenas to a lion's kill after the lions had their fill.
Suddenly his leg flared with pain, blotting everything else out, and he shrieked loudly enough to wake the dead. Falling backward, he saw the throwing spear protruding from his right shin.
He dimly realized someone had picked him up, accompanied by a familiar scent, but he couldn't make his brain work well enough to place the scent, or see who had picked him up. At that point, his senses failed completely and he drifted though lightless void.
​
An indeterminate time later, Ganymede woke up. Opening his eyes and levering himself to a sitting position he realized he was in a medic tent of some kind. The noise of his awakening, however, drew...
"Ganymede! You've woken up! Thank the Spirits!"
"Wait...Janthil?" Ganymede recognized the voice of an Orc whom he'd saved a few days ago. "How did I end up with you?"
"You saved my life, and have done so for many of my compatriots. Did you think we'd be so callous as to abandon you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When an Orc's life is saved, he swears a blood oath to the one who saved it. You've saved tens of my people at LEAST. We are your family, and all of us are here."
Ganymede tried to process that thought. "But that means..."
"It's unusual for a human to lead an Orc pack, but not unheard of, given the skill your people have with medicine. We'll fight and die with you till this war is over!"
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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"No, I don't have a writ of ownership, but I have both the backing of the town's notables as well as the company of these men here," Gregor Trunch looked up to Cutter Riverbeck when he made his proclamation. The man was Human with an average stature that had shrunk some with age. He had a full head of hair that had gone to shades of white and off-grey with age, like a dirty snowbank that reflected his heart when he either eyed Riverbank's chest or the distant stockades of the camp at her backside. His right hand instinctively covered his scarred left hand, the padding of his thumb rubbing into the patch of skin between the thumb and index. He felt brave enough to speak boldly as his retinue included his usual bodyguards along with several Minotaur mercenaries, one of whom lingered on his flank. The Minotaur had a stout frame and pure black fur with dark eyes that had flecks of red. He simply looked at Cutter Riverbeck with a neutral expression. Tambor Manywounds was present because he was being paid.
Galda Riverbeck crossed her arms over her chest. She had been taken by surprise by the host of guards and mercenaries that the scheming Trunch had brought with him. She had a worn a simple blue shift while walking to the nearby stream to fetch water when the little runt in front of her stepped from behind a tree. He had been followed with his immediate bodyguards, two Humans with fair skin and dull looks. The Minotaur followed at a soft whistle, their presence made her swallow back a cold draft that had plunged into her spine.
"We claimed this hill first," Galda said, "I have refugees, orphans that I am caring for. There must be other ways to earn gold."
"Yes," Gregor said, "But only one hill contains the most profitable veins, and I aim to have it." He gestured to Tambor and said, "We shall give them an hour, Captain. Allow them to gather their things and leave the hill. I'm sure the people of Beyfalls will be merciful to your cadre of camp followers, harlots, and *bastards."* The Human hissed.
"There are also orphans in the camp," Galda said, "People that are scares and just wish to live in peace. The Great War is over, but you're still look to settle scores," She shook her head and added, "Some of them are pure Elves. Those sick and desperate people will never be welcomed in a Human town."
"They should have considered that before participating in a war against us Humans," Gregor retorted, "Now you better use that hour up wisely."
"I won't yield a single inch of that camp, Trunch," Galda said and turned her piercing glare towards the Minotaur, "Are you prepared to kill a woman defending the lives of the young and oppressed."
"She isn't dying today," Several black arrows hit the ground near the party. Tambor called out for his men to come to arms. Minotaur rushed from their position with halbards or muskets in hand to meet a marching of iron and leather that was heading in their direction. Punctuating the steps was the wail of a war horn. Galda looked, her eyes widening in surprise at what she beheld. "I know you," She said.
Marching upon the ground were several ranks of Orcs whose skin was often covered in the scars of life and war. There were suture marks, blemishes and bruises on arms and faces. There were tattoos of harsh black or red lines on shoulders or arms. There were females with hairs in braid or shaved alongside their brothers in battle. Orcish weapons ranged from the scimitar and axe to the crossbow, longbow, and even a musket or two. Traveling along with the fighters, Galda could pick out one or two robed Orcs whose eyes glowed with simmering arcane energy. They more than doubled the size of the Minotaurs that Trunch had brought wit him. From within the Orc ranks, one of the taller warriors emerged and strode to where Galda Riverbeck was standing. She recalled seeing those black hairs and soft yellow eyes looking up in withheld pain as she worked over him during those chaotic days of the Great War. In those days, the Orcs had fought alongside Humans against the Elves over the region that they stood. The Orc's presence was a surprise to Trunch, who inwardly wondered why an Orc would hope defend a camp that contained the very Humans who would cavort with their previous mutual enemy. When the Orc stood next to Galda he nodded to Tambor and said in a deep voice and dire tone, "Manywounds."
The Minotaur returned his nod, "Hephaestor, I heard your people were moving the Borderlands." The Minotaur narrowed his eyes. Altogether, the region that all parties stood upon was originally Minotaur land. The only reason Orcs, Humans, and refugees stood on it now was the likes of both Human and Elven monarchies dumping their exiles into the buffer state between their realms. Still, the Minotaur appeared more attentive and respectful to his potential opponent over his employer.
"I shan't tell you your business, Tambor, but I will say that every member of this band accepts *the Cutter* as a member of our band. We are here to fight for her," Hephaestor Battleborn said, noting her title as a *Cutter,* or field surgeon.
Tambor gestured with his muzzle at his furtive employer, "We've been paid good coin to see this job through, Warlord. Why should I order my men to stand down?"
"We out number your Minotaur by at least two-to-one," Hephaestor countered.
Trunch had began to interrupt, trying to insert himself into the conversation when Tambor first glared at the Human before looking back at the grimacing Battleborn, "A two-to-one fight with a Minotaur is even in our eyes." The Minotaur said, "How serious are you seeing this through?"
Hephaestor showed his resolve by raising his right hand in the air while his left drew a curved knife from his belt. Without hesitation, and his yellow eyes staring directly into the polished onyx color of the Minotaur, he opened his hand with the bladed edge and allowed dark blood to pour upon the ground. Galda Riverbeck gasped and reached for the Orc, however he shook his head and noted: "I want to show the Minotaur how committed I am to seeing this fight if it comes to a fight." Mindful of Galda's protestations and their location possibly being in sight of the innocent, Hephaestor added, "If there is a fight, that is."
Tambor watched as the blood pooled in Hephaestor's wound with droplets of dark red blood spilling to the ground with a distinctive patter. The Minotaur turned his head and uttered a command in his native language. The Minotaur began to stand down at once.
"What is this?" Gregor asked, "Some stupid greenskin opens his hand up and you turn coward on me?" He asked.
Tambor took the insult, but his lips tightened, and Galda could see that the indignant and disrespectful Gregor Trunch was crossing a line with both tone and words. The Minotaur pointed out, "That Orc has shown his blood bond with the Cutter. That means he, and probably his band," His eyes flicked over the Warriors who were armed and shifting their weight anxious for a fight, "are willing to fight for the cause of defending the surgeon and the camp. What good is coin if you cannot spend it?"
"What good are mercenaries if they tuck tale at the first battle?" Gregor replied. His hand slapped the Minotaur upon his chain hauberk, "Now you draw and mo-" The Minotaur raised his fist and protested further interaction made by Trunch by hammering Gregor over his head. The motion was smooth, it took a moment's delay before Gregor's eyes rolled back into his head and he tipped backwards with blood pooling in his ears and lips. Tambor looked at the Cutter and her compatriots, he nodded at the Orc before turning on Gregor's former guardsmen.
"You can either draw and face my company, or you can run off. What do you want?" Neither bodyguard wished to face a bull Minotaur or his companions. They immediately turned upon whatever road they had come from and fled back.
"Was that really necessary?" Riverbeck asked, she gestured over the fallen Trunch. A few Orcs chuckled at the display of violence. Trunch's boots that continued to twtich despite being clearly dead or knocked unconscious by the attack.
"He would have just found others and made trouble," Tambor said before walking away. and nodding at his fellow Minotaur who followed suit.
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Lost traveler lays on my floor,
pleads for help and nothing more,
shifting eyes in far off town,
lack of trust all around,
a cleansing herb and nothing more,
green warrior out the door...
​
Red of face, red of blood,
fleeing horrid rains and floods,
twirls his spear all around,
injured, sick, honor bound,
a week in bed, a little more
angry warrior out the door...
​
Scaly hide, broken face,
running away in some twisted race,
two feet tall yet much to say,
about that which took tail away,
long cast spell, not much more,
sneaky warrior out the door...
​
Almost a bull, somewhat polite,
almost a bit erudite,
bits of metal in his muscle,
quiet about apparent tussle,
operation, no needed more,
bulky warrior out the door...
​
Word of warning by familiar hand,
warning of attack so great and grand,
monsters planning retribution,
attacking is the found solution,
a word of warning and nothing more,
I find myself running out the door...
​
A close by hole, or rather a cave,
greeted by those I had chosen to save,
the orc grinned and raised his flagon,
to the alliance, under a dragon,
a home with friends and nothing more,
I bowed to the beast and walked in the door...
​
Please give me criticism I have no idea what I'm doing
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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6th day, 3rd Moon of Solaria, 5th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
We've captured some greenskins - Sgt. Winters wants them alive. "Alive" he says, after he'd been using the last few POWs for swordsmanship practice. The beasts don't even get the luxury of being properly slaughtered. I've mended their wounds as best as I can, but I've no doubt they'll sustain more. The men have been voicing murderous thoughts, and not quietly. "Alive" doesn't mean "unharmed".
30th day, 4th Moon of Nyx, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Another settlement razed. We lost Marco and Davies in the process - good riddance. Their unsanctioned "interrogations" meant I'd had to dip into my healroot supplies. Sgt. Winters has admitted that the greenskins make good beasts of burden, but doesn't see the need to feed or care for them. "Cutter," he says, "the men are starting to talk". They can talk all they want, I'm the bloody reason half of them can even talk in the first place.
1st day, 1st Moon of Avis, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Winters is dead. Nothing to do about it. I thought I was making headway, but that plan's gone to shit. I'll have to do something drastic. They might say I've got "Greenfever" now, but after tonight... well. Mar'tuk swore that the men won't be harmed - I think. His accent is atrocious. Kill them if you have to, I say. Whatever gets the women and children free.
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heavy footsteps. Jangling metal. My executioner, or my torturer? I've asked the same question for so long, always with the same disappointing answer. There's a different quality this time around though, and for a moment I dare to hope. The door squeals open on its hinges and light stabs in - or at least tries to.
I blink.
A small army has assembled outside my cell.
"Kah'tar."
The word is murmured by many deep voices, carried gently with reverence. My eyes strain, and I see - I see my work. My early, slipshod stapling. The stitching, lit by candlelight. The broken bottle that had sailed past me while I'd struggled to keep them out of the tent-
"Ahn Kah'tar."
Smiling hurts, but I'm used to pain by now.
"I see your accent is as bad as ever, Mar'tuk. It's 'Anne', not 'Ahn'."
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
They found the human puking in an alley.
Thorveig stood and watched him from across the way. The vomiting drunk hadn’t seen them yet, and probably wouldn’t any time soon. The buildings cast long shadows this far from the torchlight, and the full moon overhead added little. The drunk continued to wretch to the point of dry heaves.
To Thorveig’s left stood his son, Ragnar. He was slightly smaller than his father, but still broad and muscled. His hair was cut in a warrior’s stripe, plaited down his scalp. His hand rested idly on a sheathed dagger at his hip.
Ragnar pursed his lips and blew a quick burst of air around his tusks. In a hunter’s silent cant, it was a simple question: ‘Him?’
Thorveig responded with a small, sharp nod and a burst of air from his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
From behind them came a rapid cluck-cluck of a tongue. Ragnar glanced back to their third member, Grimnar. His shorn scalp was blackened with warpaint in a vicious triangle. He crouched behind them in between the buildings, and he gripped his dagger instead of resting his hand on it. His eyes betrayed his impatience. ‘Get on with it,’ they said. ‘I am eager to be gone from here.’ Ragnar looked back at Thorveig, who nodded once more. Across the street, the drunk had stopped wretching, and was crawling on his hands and knees towards the bottle that had rolled away.
The drunk crawled pathetically towards the bottle in the street. It glinted in the center of his bleary and tunneled vision, dancing back and forth in the moonlight as he padded towards it like a newborn. Just a little bit closer. The bottle was still about half full; that could keep him unconscious until tomorrow night if he finished it all. He reached out a trembling hand, but another was faster than he and grabbed the bottle. He started to whimper. He felt a pair of hands grasp him and lift him to his feet. He flinched away and covered his face.
“Oh, beggin your pardon,” the drunk slurred. “I’m gone home, really, just get my bottle and step on,” he pleaded with whoever was accosting him. The hands grabbing him were strong, stronger than he was on his best day. And he was far, far from his best days.
“Kurkusan,” The voice was iron in velvet, strong enough to pierce through the drunk’s fogged mind but not so loud as to attract attention. The drunk quit squeezing his eyes shut and lowered his hands from his face. Through his tears he saw a face he’d thought-he’d hoped-he’d never see again. Stern brow under a chieftain’s crest of hair, strong jaw with long tusks glinting.
“Thorveig…?” he slurred once more. His eyes drifted down and he shrugged his way out of the orc’s grip. The drunk leaned down, fumbling at the leather vest Thorveig was wearing. He staggered as he opened the vest, exposing a hideous scar that ran from the center of Thorveig’s chest and down towards his left hip. Thorveig opened his arms, fully vulnerable to the drunk’s inebriated ministrations. Ragnar stood to the side with the drunk’s bottle. His face was emotionless, but tiny flicks of his eyes and a subtle twitch of his ears showed his bewilderment to his father.
The drunk ran his fingers along Thorveig’s scar, examining. The trembling seemed to have left his fingers for a moment. He slurred again, inquisitive instead of fearful.
“S’ healing, then?” The alcohol made a mockery of enunciation. He stumbled back and looked Thorveig in the eye.
“Sit pain you at all? How’ur,” he paused to burp. “The muscles on that side. Mobility?” he swayed in front of the chieftain.
Thorveig gently grasped the drunk by his shoulders and smiled softly. “I am well, Kurkusan.”
At the sound of the name, the drunk’s face crumpled into anguish. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. His voice became thick.
“Don’ call me that.” He feebly tried to push the massive orc away. “Thass not me. Not. Me. ‘Nymore.”
“I call you by your name, the name of your people, Kurkusan,” Thorveig replied.
The drunk said nothing, crestfallen.
“Kurkusan, you are not well,” Thorveig continued.
“Come, brother. Let us help you.”
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Florence's knees hurt. they always hurt these days. This was a hot one. Why do they always pick the hottest days to do their killing? She harrumphed.
There was no more time for her aches and pains or harrumphs. The first clash had happened. The rest of the day was the whirlwind of triage. Who to save. Who was past saving and had earned something to dull the pain as they crossed from this world to the next.
She snuck more into those draughts than the church would allow. Old magic. Forbidden to women and yet so much a part of her they would have to burn her alive before they could burn it from here. Out here on the fronts she hoped to go unnoticed. The men had taken to calling her Lucky Flo, the Orcs though. They had another word for her: Brother.
Oh, she'd argued with Kilrik, the massive greenskin sergeant who'd translated what they were calling her. He'd replied, "Jakka Flo no woman. Jakka Flo bleeds battle not children." And that was that.
In less than a year from that battle the inquisition came for her. Somehow they'd gotten one of her draughts. When her screams rang out over the camp as the witch finders sought to drive her power from her the men hid in their tents and spoke softly about what a shame it was for dear Flo.
Not so for the Orcs. The churchmen had only one cleric among them and though he called upon his angels to protect him and soldiers of the faith cut them deeply the Orcs fought with a ferocity few ever lived to tell about.
After the killing was done some of the men came round and stood with their Flo. They set put across the black wastes and that's how our land became the Queendom of Jakka Flo.
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
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[poem] The Gardener
/
I built them from my masters' foes, those toppled monuments to war;
Slinking low behind their kin as shadows do.
Mended made - but not whole.
Chains across and dragging down those many hands that still swing axe and flame.
Weights upon their hearts.
Weakness stitched to strength.
Grief to violence.
And though my fingers have grown thin and calloused with these long effortful years, they still remember.
They mock death with their paleness.
And they do not shake.
I have watched the seasons pass across the lands of my masters from atop these walls, and now at last the ocean swells again.
A blood-flecked wave glitters on the twilit hills to the east.
The strong and proud and cruel, wrath unspoiled by the deftness of my wicked mercies.
But around their ankles my shadows swim thickly.
This tide will break.
This ocean will run dry.
I will make my masters' gates a garden, and I will dig no graves.
I will build monuments to war.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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(my first try at a prompt. Hopefully I'll get more in the groove down the way. :) )
Garish color and loud advertisements were the pulse of the Hive, the very lifeblood of the undercity. Jack had gotten used to them in the last six or so years - he couldn't sleep anymore without the washed-out pink glow of the less-than-reliable LED-neon strips that flickered through a poorly animated dancing girl that was the best part of the view outside of the armored window of his flat. It got into your head, made your heart quicken - the buzz and tilt of it all, like the best jazz high or stim mellow. Electric and bright.
Each day he tread the same path on the six block walk to his clinic. Down past Harry's place, where the street mage invariably had some sort of new illusion or mindscape for sale, down past the crystalline flowers of Margot's little artificery, through the bustle of the downmarket and up the alley to the faded red cross and tiny windows that marked his unassuming little office.
He'd been asked a million times by classmates from old Misk-U why he bothered in the downturn instead of working more upmarket - he certainly had the skills. At first it was principle, right? He thought it through as he did most days, in the mechanical process of opening. He'd save the ones that needed saving, reach out to the once that couldn't afford the platinum service and posh surroundings of the up. Down in the neon was where healing hands mattered, right?
So six years. Six years of patching together street toughs and working on demihumans, six years of watching patients drift into gangs and drugs and brainwaves and illusions, six years of gunshots and terror and eating the worst synthmeat and scraping by and making it all hang on by his fingernails. Six years of secondhand tools and picking up the skills of a tech just so he could keep his instruments working and the scanners up, and afford the occasional healing scroll or potion to tend to the worst.
Yet.
He couldn’t leave. He loved the grimy streets and flickering neon, and the people – and he admitted that to himself when nobody was looking, despite how he groused when they were. Good people didn’t need money to be genuine, and there was just a something about how it all went together that kept him going. The way mothers smiled when he patched up their kids, or that night that Grimtooth brought in his mate and he managed to save the husband of one of the best couplings he knew. What was a missed meal next to hope, after all? And he loved that hope. He really did.
Today, Cherry was in his waiting room – another test, another antibiotic, and another careful warding spell. She thanked him, her luminous elven eyes tired but hopeful – and he took that along with a handful of creds as his payment. As she was gathering her things? He slipped a few back into her bag – he could make do. After that, it was a steady flow – just one after another. Small wounds, tiny hurts, a gunshot or two, a stabbing. A couple of pox cures, a concerning fever – he needed more of that wraithbone, but heavens knew where he’d find that. A problem for tomorrow’s Jack, right?
The sun fell, the LEDstrips came on – and the streets turned garish and bright. The door beeped as another patient came in; he called, washing up, “Be right there!” That last one was a bit of a bleed-
The blow came hard and sudden, and he saw stars, falling over. “Where is it, human? Where’s the stuff?”
Too dazed to answer, he struggled to focus on the human.. no. No. Half-human. Half.. something scaled? Everything swam in and out of blurry – he worried about a concussion. His thoughts floated.
“Where’s the STUFF, man?”
The … half-human tore through his cabinets, cursing and snarling and dumping supplies in the floor. Jack licked dry lips, croaked out – “Look – med cabinet. On the right. Just.. take what you want and go.” He struggled to stand. Didn’t quite make it. Concerning.
The thief tore into that cabinet – snarled. “Worthless. Fucking -worthless-.” Jack felt the boot hit his ribs more than saw it; he went sprawling. “This is everything? What’s even the point?” A flick of a hand set a lance of fire into the pile of supplies on the floor – another flame jetted into the bed. “Stupid … where’s the cash?”
Jack stared at his treatment room. Burning. It was burning – he had to stop that. He had to –
Rough hands dragged him up. His head rocked. He swayed, would have fallen except a hand had the front of his shirt. Why.. why was he outside? What? There was fire – he had to –
He saw the flames flickering orange behind the half-human that dragged him into the alley. “Where’s the cash, doc. Now.”
Jack saw eyes, near the alley – heard the whisper of shoes on concrete as the street-urchin ran, full tilt. He couldn’t blame the kid. Who’d want to be in the middle of this? He spit a tooth – “s’ no cash. Just got a little. Front poc.. pocke’” His jaw wasn’t working right. How come everything was spinning?
He felt hands at his waist, digging through pockets – the handful of credits he’d taken *tink*ing off the concrete after they bounced off his chest, flung by his attacker. “What do you take me for, doc? You’re a doctor – where’s the real money?”
“Thas’ all – thas’ all there is –“
He heard, rather than saw, the whine of the lighning-pistol charging. Suddenly, there were dozens of shadows at the end of the alley, and he could see the glint of blades and felt the tingle of readied spells, the tension that wandered through the weave when a street mage was in attack mode. And he heard one of them growl. “Take his head. Leave the rest.”
He woke up some time later – how long exactly, Jack didn’t know. He was in a bed, though – not the cleanest, and not his. The lights were wrong and the smells were more gym sweat than the fake, cloying gardenia smell he used to keep the scent of antiseptic at bay. His everything hurt. His vision wasn’t too great – blurry in fits and starts; he felt, rather than really saw, the hulking form next to him. He started away from it, instinctive – and a massive hand came to rest on his arm.
“Easy doc. We’ve got you. Me an’ Hamish. The gang’s takin’ care of your shop – it’s a mess, but we got you.”
Uncomprehending, Jack tried to focus. “Grim?”
“Yah. No worries, Doc. Berke what broke the place is dead – and the gang’s decided one of us is gonna stick around from here on out. The westsiders are cleanin’ up your place – and I think the red light crew’s grabbin’ new gear for your clinic. Right now? You rest up. One of your buds is comin’ down from the upside to get a look at you – “
“That’s too much – “
“Shut it, doc. You’ve been puttin’ us together for years. That makes you one of us – and we take care of our own. ‘Sides, that upsider heard you were in trouble and dropped everything. Some berke named Charles – says you went to school together. We’re givin’ him a full escort. The whole gang’s on it – he’ll get here. And he’ll get home. And so will you. Just this once? You let us take care of you.”
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I don't know enough about orc culture to know what they would consider a slight versus a an act of war and how they would respond to each accordingly.
But...
I have this image of the doctor waiting in line for breakfast at a chain fast food place and while he's waiting, they switch to the lunch menu. He politely requests a breakfast item. They decline due to company policy.
Suddenly there are 12 orcs behind the doctor, and the staff quickly make the breakfast item for the doctor just so he'll leave
In the parking lot, he tries to have the talk with the orcs again.
"Not everything is worth y'all coming out for."
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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I honestly thought I was retiring when I moved to Orsunder. The Orcish homeland was known for its vibrant landscapes and easy going weather (in some parts, most parts were quite harsh) so it made for easy retirement. Unfortunately for me I can’t predict political downfalls nor could I predict the capitulation of the Oraunderi government. The political turmoil in Orsunder led to a civil war in which several powerful warlords voted for control of Orsunder. Oddly enough An elvish invasion did manage to unit several of the warlords to fight against a now common enemy. I found myself, in what I thought was gonna be a beautiful retirement estate, but now was a field hospital for the various orcish raiding parties that roamed the countryside. About 2 months into the Oraunderi civil war/Elven invasion, I had treated well over 300 orcs, many leaving with toothy grins on their faces. I never thought any of them remembered me until my home became the target of a few hungry, and bored Elvish soldiers. They had decided that what was mine, was theirs, and they would take it, no matter how much I protested. As I pleaded with the elvish captain to lower his rifle and leave my home peacefully, I noticed a peculiar rumbling coming from just outside the walls of my estate. I never would have guessed what is was. Hundreds of orcs were marching on my estate with blood and hunger in their eyes. “You betta leave the good docta alone or you’ll suffa my blade elf!” The apparent commander of the orcs spoke with a booming voice. The elven soldiers began panicking to get into position to *attempt* to repel the seemingly massive horde of orcs. It wasn’t long until they broke rank and fled from my estate. “You guys came?”
“You ‘elped us doc, ‘course we’re gonna ‘elp you”
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The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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It was a gloomy day for Darwin both figuratively and literally. You see, Darwin had been getting caught up in some shifty business with the local mad wizard.
“Three days shall be your reprieve,
for thine payment to retrieve.
For if my rules thou wilt not follow, Scorpions tale you shall swallow... or I’ll turn you into a newt or something.”
The mere thought of being turned into a new to or swallowing a scorpions tail made Darwin’s skin crawl. “What was it that old coot wanted” Darwin said to himself, “A sentiment of kinship” called the wizard from across the study. “You wish for me to give you kinship?” The old mage poked his head out from behind a messy stack of parchments “correct!”, “I’m not sure if I can do that”. The wizard leered at the man, his ancient eyes burning with a fury Darwin hadn’t seen from him before. “Then I guess your hands will do” said the wizard as he began to approach Darwin. “M-my what?!” Darwin’s heart began to race, 190/80. “I-I’m sure we could work this out some other way! We don’t wish for this situation to get out of hand now do we?” “Very poor choice of words” and the wizard leapt for the Doctor, but before he knew it Darwin was already halfway down the stairs leading up the tower. It seems his own legs had a better sense for danger than he.
Down the hill, across the courtyard, over the stone fence, and across the field Darwin tan for dear life. How could he live without his hands?! What would he do, he might as well be running down the tracks from a speeding train. Darwin peered back between breaths, seeing that crazed loon who calls himself a Wizard sprinting on all fours like some sort of beast. He most definitely was mad, which only made Darwin believe more in the wizards sentiment about actually taking his hands.
Darwin burst through the bush line and made his way down the trail,”just keep running, don’t stop! Never stop! If you stop you’l-“ *thunk* Darwin’s face was met with the jarring sensation of running into a metal plated wall. “Woah! Who goes there!” Shouted a course yet authoritative tone. “What are yo- Darwin? Why are you running blindly through the forest?” Between breaths Darwin was able to utter “Wizard. Debt. Hands. Help!” The wizard appeared in the glade of trees not soon after Darwin found sanctuary behind the Huntress Ork. “Your hands Boy! Gimme gimme”. “A hand you say?” Said the Orc. “Yes, now HAND it over!”, “Are you seriously making puns!” Darwin shrieked. The old man was about to speak until he coiled back as a whole troop of Orcs joined them in the glade. “Please don’t take this mans hands good sage, for they are the reason we are still alive today” said one of the taller Orcs. “I need payment!” The wizard shouted. “Then take mine” said the Orc shielding Darwin. “Rivala no! How will you hunt?” “For you, I’d lay down my life! You’ve saved countless numbers of my brothers and sisters. It would be an honor!” Rivala said with a great roar. Darwin has known this woman for nearly 3 years, and he’d know a promise she’d keep when she made it. “No take my hands” one Orc said “No mine!”, called another. Soon the opening in the trees and further out was filled with the shouts and cries of Orc warriors screaming about dismemberment and sacrifice.
The wizard raised his hand and silence filled the forest “Well it seems like I’ve gotten what I came for” he said. He produced a jar from his robe and began to wave if back and forth threw the air as if to catch something floating there. “What is he doing?” Said Rivala “I haven’t the faintest idea” Replied Darwin. After a few moments of the wizard dashing and bounding with his empty jar he sealed it with a rather large cork. “This is all I need, some kinship! Looks like you came in rather HANDY after all Doctor!” “I... umm really?” said the warily. The wizard only replied with a yellow grin and a more than unsettling wink and like that, he was gone in a poof of grey smoke.
“Looks like things are settled then?” Rivala said “I guess so.” Darwin replied. “So... would you wish to join us for the evening meal... HANDsom?”
“...”
“Oh come on! That was good!”
|
The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Ganymede, the medic, wished desperately for the self-control to quiet his heaving chest, the better to hide from the ambush that had wiped out his unit.
He'd tried to tell them. A year earlier, with a different unit, he'd seen almost exactly the same thing: two ambush parties collapsing on his unit like a pincer, from tree stands on either side of the road. Everyone but him had died that day, and ever since, he'd been "Ganymede the Cursed."
The road from Raldos to Leranith contained just such a spot for an ambush, and indeed it had happened again. The damnable elves fell upon his unit like hyenas to a lion's kill after the lions had their fill.
Suddenly his leg flared with pain, blotting everything else out, and he shrieked loudly enough to wake the dead. Falling backward, he saw the throwing spear protruding from his right shin.
He dimly realized someone had picked him up, accompanied by a familiar scent, but he couldn't make his brain work well enough to place the scent, or see who had picked him up. At that point, his senses failed completely and he drifted though lightless void.
​
An indeterminate time later, Ganymede woke up. Opening his eyes and levering himself to a sitting position he realized he was in a medic tent of some kind. The noise of his awakening, however, drew...
"Ganymede! You've woken up! Thank the Spirits!"
"Wait...Janthil?" Ganymede recognized the voice of an Orc whom he'd saved a few days ago. "How did I end up with you?"
"You saved my life, and have done so for many of my compatriots. Did you think we'd be so callous as to abandon you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When an Orc's life is saved, he swears a blood oath to the one who saved it. You've saved tens of my people at LEAST. We are your family, and all of us are here."
Ganymede tried to process that thought. "But that means..."
"It's unusual for a human to lead an Orc pack, but not unheard of, given the skill your people have with medicine. We'll fight and die with you till this war is over!"
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The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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"No, I don't have a writ of ownership, but I have both the backing of the town's notables as well as the company of these men here," Gregor Trunch looked up to Cutter Riverbeck when he made his proclamation. The man was Human with an average stature that had shrunk some with age. He had a full head of hair that had gone to shades of white and off-grey with age, like a dirty snowbank that reflected his heart when he either eyed Riverbank's chest or the distant stockades of the camp at her backside. His right hand instinctively covered his scarred left hand, the padding of his thumb rubbing into the patch of skin between the thumb and index. He felt brave enough to speak boldly as his retinue included his usual bodyguards along with several Minotaur mercenaries, one of whom lingered on his flank. The Minotaur had a stout frame and pure black fur with dark eyes that had flecks of red. He simply looked at Cutter Riverbeck with a neutral expression. Tambor Manywounds was present because he was being paid.
Galda Riverbeck crossed her arms over her chest. She had been taken by surprise by the host of guards and mercenaries that the scheming Trunch had brought with him. She had a worn a simple blue shift while walking to the nearby stream to fetch water when the little runt in front of her stepped from behind a tree. He had been followed with his immediate bodyguards, two Humans with fair skin and dull looks. The Minotaur followed at a soft whistle, their presence made her swallow back a cold draft that had plunged into her spine.
"We claimed this hill first," Galda said, "I have refugees, orphans that I am caring for. There must be other ways to earn gold."
"Yes," Gregor said, "But only one hill contains the most profitable veins, and I aim to have it." He gestured to Tambor and said, "We shall give them an hour, Captain. Allow them to gather their things and leave the hill. I'm sure the people of Beyfalls will be merciful to your cadre of camp followers, harlots, and *bastards."* The Human hissed.
"There are also orphans in the camp," Galda said, "People that are scares and just wish to live in peace. The Great War is over, but you're still look to settle scores," She shook her head and added, "Some of them are pure Elves. Those sick and desperate people will never be welcomed in a Human town."
"They should have considered that before participating in a war against us Humans," Gregor retorted, "Now you better use that hour up wisely."
"I won't yield a single inch of that camp, Trunch," Galda said and turned her piercing glare towards the Minotaur, "Are you prepared to kill a woman defending the lives of the young and oppressed."
"She isn't dying today," Several black arrows hit the ground near the party. Tambor called out for his men to come to arms. Minotaur rushed from their position with halbards or muskets in hand to meet a marching of iron and leather that was heading in their direction. Punctuating the steps was the wail of a war horn. Galda looked, her eyes widening in surprise at what she beheld. "I know you," She said.
Marching upon the ground were several ranks of Orcs whose skin was often covered in the scars of life and war. There were suture marks, blemishes and bruises on arms and faces. There were tattoos of harsh black or red lines on shoulders or arms. There were females with hairs in braid or shaved alongside their brothers in battle. Orcish weapons ranged from the scimitar and axe to the crossbow, longbow, and even a musket or two. Traveling along with the fighters, Galda could pick out one or two robed Orcs whose eyes glowed with simmering arcane energy. They more than doubled the size of the Minotaurs that Trunch had brought wit him. From within the Orc ranks, one of the taller warriors emerged and strode to where Galda Riverbeck was standing. She recalled seeing those black hairs and soft yellow eyes looking up in withheld pain as she worked over him during those chaotic days of the Great War. In those days, the Orcs had fought alongside Humans against the Elves over the region that they stood. The Orc's presence was a surprise to Trunch, who inwardly wondered why an Orc would hope defend a camp that contained the very Humans who would cavort with their previous mutual enemy. When the Orc stood next to Galda he nodded to Tambor and said in a deep voice and dire tone, "Manywounds."
The Minotaur returned his nod, "Hephaestor, I heard your people were moving the Borderlands." The Minotaur narrowed his eyes. Altogether, the region that all parties stood upon was originally Minotaur land. The only reason Orcs, Humans, and refugees stood on it now was the likes of both Human and Elven monarchies dumping their exiles into the buffer state between their realms. Still, the Minotaur appeared more attentive and respectful to his potential opponent over his employer.
"I shan't tell you your business, Tambor, but I will say that every member of this band accepts *the Cutter* as a member of our band. We are here to fight for her," Hephaestor Battleborn said, noting her title as a *Cutter,* or field surgeon.
Tambor gestured with his muzzle at his furtive employer, "We've been paid good coin to see this job through, Warlord. Why should I order my men to stand down?"
"We out number your Minotaur by at least two-to-one," Hephaestor countered.
Trunch had began to interrupt, trying to insert himself into the conversation when Tambor first glared at the Human before looking back at the grimacing Battleborn, "A two-to-one fight with a Minotaur is even in our eyes." The Minotaur said, "How serious are you seeing this through?"
Hephaestor showed his resolve by raising his right hand in the air while his left drew a curved knife from his belt. Without hesitation, and his yellow eyes staring directly into the polished onyx color of the Minotaur, he opened his hand with the bladed edge and allowed dark blood to pour upon the ground. Galda Riverbeck gasped and reached for the Orc, however he shook his head and noted: "I want to show the Minotaur how committed I am to seeing this fight if it comes to a fight." Mindful of Galda's protestations and their location possibly being in sight of the innocent, Hephaestor added, "If there is a fight, that is."
Tambor watched as the blood pooled in Hephaestor's wound with droplets of dark red blood spilling to the ground with a distinctive patter. The Minotaur turned his head and uttered a command in his native language. The Minotaur began to stand down at once.
"What is this?" Gregor asked, "Some stupid greenskin opens his hand up and you turn coward on me?" He asked.
Tambor took the insult, but his lips tightened, and Galda could see that the indignant and disrespectful Gregor Trunch was crossing a line with both tone and words. The Minotaur pointed out, "That Orc has shown his blood bond with the Cutter. That means he, and probably his band," His eyes flicked over the Warriors who were armed and shifting their weight anxious for a fight, "are willing to fight for the cause of defending the surgeon and the camp. What good is coin if you cannot spend it?"
"What good are mercenaries if they tuck tale at the first battle?" Gregor replied. His hand slapped the Minotaur upon his chain hauberk, "Now you draw and mo-" The Minotaur raised his fist and protested further interaction made by Trunch by hammering Gregor over his head. The motion was smooth, it took a moment's delay before Gregor's eyes rolled back into his head and he tipped backwards with blood pooling in his ears and lips. Tambor looked at the Cutter and her compatriots, he nodded at the Orc before turning on Gregor's former guardsmen.
"You can either draw and face my company, or you can run off. What do you want?" Neither bodyguard wished to face a bull Minotaur or his companions. They immediately turned upon whatever road they had come from and fled back.
"Was that really necessary?" Riverbeck asked, she gestured over the fallen Trunch. A few Orcs chuckled at the display of violence. Trunch's boots that continued to twtich despite being clearly dead or knocked unconscious by the attack.
"He would have just found others and made trouble," Tambor said before walking away. and nodding at his fellow Minotaur who followed suit.
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The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
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|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Lost traveler lays on my floor,
pleads for help and nothing more,
shifting eyes in far off town,
lack of trust all around,
a cleansing herb and nothing more,
green warrior out the door...
​
Red of face, red of blood,
fleeing horrid rains and floods,
twirls his spear all around,
injured, sick, honor bound,
a week in bed, a little more
angry warrior out the door...
​
Scaly hide, broken face,
running away in some twisted race,
two feet tall yet much to say,
about that which took tail away,
long cast spell, not much more,
sneaky warrior out the door...
​
Almost a bull, somewhat polite,
almost a bit erudite,
bits of metal in his muscle,
quiet about apparent tussle,
operation, no needed more,
bulky warrior out the door...
​
Word of warning by familiar hand,
warning of attack so great and grand,
monsters planning retribution,
attacking is the found solution,
a word of warning and nothing more,
I find myself running out the door...
​
A close by hole, or rather a cave,
greeted by those I had chosen to save,
the orc grinned and raised his flagon,
to the alliance, under a dragon,
a home with friends and nothing more,
I bowed to the beast and walked in the door...
​
Please give me criticism I have no idea what I'm doing
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The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
6th day, 3rd Moon of Solaria, 5th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
We've captured some greenskins - Sgt. Winters wants them alive. "Alive" he says, after he'd been using the last few POWs for swordsmanship practice. The beasts don't even get the luxury of being properly slaughtered. I've mended their wounds as best as I can, but I've no doubt they'll sustain more. The men have been voicing murderous thoughts, and not quietly. "Alive" doesn't mean "unharmed".
30th day, 4th Moon of Nyx, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Another settlement razed. We lost Marco and Davies in the process - good riddance. Their unsanctioned "interrogations" meant I'd had to dip into my healroot supplies. Sgt. Winters has admitted that the greenskins make good beasts of burden, but doesn't see the need to feed or care for them. "Cutter," he says, "the men are starting to talk". They can talk all they want, I'm the bloody reason half of them can even talk in the first place.
1st day, 1st Moon of Avis, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Winters is dead. Nothing to do about it. I thought I was making headway, but that plan's gone to shit. I'll have to do something drastic. They might say I've got "Greenfever" now, but after tonight... well. Mar'tuk swore that the men won't be harmed - I think. His accent is atrocious. Kill them if you have to, I say. Whatever gets the women and children free.
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heavy footsteps. Jangling metal. My executioner, or my torturer? I've asked the same question for so long, always with the same disappointing answer. There's a different quality this time around though, and for a moment I dare to hope. The door squeals open on its hinges and light stabs in - or at least tries to.
I blink.
A small army has assembled outside my cell.
"Kah'tar."
The word is murmured by many deep voices, carried gently with reverence. My eyes strain, and I see - I see my work. My early, slipshod stapling. The stitching, lit by candlelight. The broken bottle that had sailed past me while I'd struggled to keep them out of the tent-
"Ahn Kah'tar."
Smiling hurts, but I'm used to pain by now.
"I see your accent is as bad as ever, Mar'tuk. It's 'Anne', not 'Ahn'."
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The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
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|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
They found the human puking in an alley.
Thorveig stood and watched him from across the way. The vomiting drunk hadn’t seen them yet, and probably wouldn’t any time soon. The buildings cast long shadows this far from the torchlight, and the full moon overhead added little. The drunk continued to wretch to the point of dry heaves.
To Thorveig’s left stood his son, Ragnar. He was slightly smaller than his father, but still broad and muscled. His hair was cut in a warrior’s stripe, plaited down his scalp. His hand rested idly on a sheathed dagger at his hip.
Ragnar pursed his lips and blew a quick burst of air around his tusks. In a hunter’s silent cant, it was a simple question: ‘Him?’
Thorveig responded with a small, sharp nod and a burst of air from his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
From behind them came a rapid cluck-cluck of a tongue. Ragnar glanced back to their third member, Grimnar. His shorn scalp was blackened with warpaint in a vicious triangle. He crouched behind them in between the buildings, and he gripped his dagger instead of resting his hand on it. His eyes betrayed his impatience. ‘Get on with it,’ they said. ‘I am eager to be gone from here.’ Ragnar looked back at Thorveig, who nodded once more. Across the street, the drunk had stopped wretching, and was crawling on his hands and knees towards the bottle that had rolled away.
The drunk crawled pathetically towards the bottle in the street. It glinted in the center of his bleary and tunneled vision, dancing back and forth in the moonlight as he padded towards it like a newborn. Just a little bit closer. The bottle was still about half full; that could keep him unconscious until tomorrow night if he finished it all. He reached out a trembling hand, but another was faster than he and grabbed the bottle. He started to whimper. He felt a pair of hands grasp him and lift him to his feet. He flinched away and covered his face.
“Oh, beggin your pardon,” the drunk slurred. “I’m gone home, really, just get my bottle and step on,” he pleaded with whoever was accosting him. The hands grabbing him were strong, stronger than he was on his best day. And he was far, far from his best days.
“Kurkusan,” The voice was iron in velvet, strong enough to pierce through the drunk’s fogged mind but not so loud as to attract attention. The drunk quit squeezing his eyes shut and lowered his hands from his face. Through his tears he saw a face he’d thought-he’d hoped-he’d never see again. Stern brow under a chieftain’s crest of hair, strong jaw with long tusks glinting.
“Thorveig…?” he slurred once more. His eyes drifted down and he shrugged his way out of the orc’s grip. The drunk leaned down, fumbling at the leather vest Thorveig was wearing. He staggered as he opened the vest, exposing a hideous scar that ran from the center of Thorveig’s chest and down towards his left hip. Thorveig opened his arms, fully vulnerable to the drunk’s inebriated ministrations. Ragnar stood to the side with the drunk’s bottle. His face was emotionless, but tiny flicks of his eyes and a subtle twitch of his ears showed his bewilderment to his father.
The drunk ran his fingers along Thorveig’s scar, examining. The trembling seemed to have left his fingers for a moment. He slurred again, inquisitive instead of fearful.
“S’ healing, then?” The alcohol made a mockery of enunciation. He stumbled back and looked Thorveig in the eye.
“Sit pain you at all? How’ur,” he paused to burp. “The muscles on that side. Mobility?” he swayed in front of the chieftain.
Thorveig gently grasped the drunk by his shoulders and smiled softly. “I am well, Kurkusan.”
At the sound of the name, the drunk’s face crumpled into anguish. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. His voice became thick.
“Don’ call me that.” He feebly tried to push the massive orc away. “Thass not me. Not. Me. ‘Nymore.”
“I call you by your name, the name of your people, Kurkusan,” Thorveig replied.
The drunk said nothing, crestfallen.
“Kurkusan, you are not well,” Thorveig continued.
“Come, brother. Let us help you.”
|
The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Florence's knees hurt. they always hurt these days. This was a hot one. Why do they always pick the hottest days to do their killing? She harrumphed.
There was no more time for her aches and pains or harrumphs. The first clash had happened. The rest of the day was the whirlwind of triage. Who to save. Who was past saving and had earned something to dull the pain as they crossed from this world to the next.
She snuck more into those draughts than the church would allow. Old magic. Forbidden to women and yet so much a part of her they would have to burn her alive before they could burn it from here. Out here on the fronts she hoped to go unnoticed. The men had taken to calling her Lucky Flo, the Orcs though. They had another word for her: Brother.
Oh, she'd argued with Kilrik, the massive greenskin sergeant who'd translated what they were calling her. He'd replied, "Jakka Flo no woman. Jakka Flo bleeds battle not children." And that was that.
In less than a year from that battle the inquisition came for her. Somehow they'd gotten one of her draughts. When her screams rang out over the camp as the witch finders sought to drive her power from her the men hid in their tents and spoke softly about what a shame it was for dear Flo.
Not so for the Orcs. The churchmen had only one cleric among them and though he called upon his angels to protect him and soldiers of the faith cut them deeply the Orcs fought with a ferocity few ever lived to tell about.
After the killing was done some of the men came round and stood with their Flo. They set put across the black wastes and that's how our land became the Queendom of Jakka Flo.
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The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
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The orcs live long and are hard to kill. Not that many generations ago the old prejudices might've held true - the orcs had numbers and strength and endurance but they weren't smart or fast. They were fearless and quick to anger and to throw themselves into combat. .
Well, those prejudices might not be all wrong, even now. But they're not all right by a long shot. Here's one most folk don't know though; they are slow to grow and replace their number. That's something *he* found out. Who's he you ask? The surgeon. The surgeon is a man like you or I. But he's also one of them. I mean, not bodily, obviously. But *tribally* I guess you'd call it. The surgeon knows, knows a lot about them orcs. And how, you ask? How does a man of healing, and an educated man at that, come to throw his lot in with the near-beasts as some would call them.
The answer is simpler than you might first expect. The surgeon was a good student by all accounts, from a rich family in the capital, educated in the Citadel, the most prestigious institution of our time, may be of all time. Educated *to a point*. This time in our history was full of change, religious, political, medical and scientific. Expanding population and exploration led us to discover a new land. A land with untapped resources but unimaginable chaos and terror. The emerging use of robust experimentation - observation, repetition and standardisation were framed as challenges to the religious dogma and by extension the ruling elite. Since we were newly at war with this terror from a far away land the people sided with the theocrats. To quash any possibilities of insurrection, those opposed to or associated with organisations that openly opposed the oppressive restrictions
TBC
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
They found the human puking in an alley.
Thorveig stood and watched him from across the way. The vomiting drunk hadn’t seen them yet, and probably wouldn’t any time soon. The buildings cast long shadows this far from the torchlight, and the full moon overhead added little. The drunk continued to wretch to the point of dry heaves.
To Thorveig’s left stood his son, Ragnar. He was slightly smaller than his father, but still broad and muscled. His hair was cut in a warrior’s stripe, plaited down his scalp. His hand rested idly on a sheathed dagger at his hip.
Ragnar pursed his lips and blew a quick burst of air around his tusks. In a hunter’s silent cant, it was a simple question: ‘Him?’
Thorveig responded with a small, sharp nod and a burst of air from his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
From behind them came a rapid cluck-cluck of a tongue. Ragnar glanced back to their third member, Grimnar. His shorn scalp was blackened with warpaint in a vicious triangle. He crouched behind them in between the buildings, and he gripped his dagger instead of resting his hand on it. His eyes betrayed his impatience. ‘Get on with it,’ they said. ‘I am eager to be gone from here.’ Ragnar looked back at Thorveig, who nodded once more. Across the street, the drunk had stopped wretching, and was crawling on his hands and knees towards the bottle that had rolled away.
The drunk crawled pathetically towards the bottle in the street. It glinted in the center of his bleary and tunneled vision, dancing back and forth in the moonlight as he padded towards it like a newborn. Just a little bit closer. The bottle was still about half full; that could keep him unconscious until tomorrow night if he finished it all. He reached out a trembling hand, but another was faster than he and grabbed the bottle. He started to whimper. He felt a pair of hands grasp him and lift him to his feet. He flinched away and covered his face.
“Oh, beggin your pardon,” the drunk slurred. “I’m gone home, really, just get my bottle and step on,” he pleaded with whoever was accosting him. The hands grabbing him were strong, stronger than he was on his best day. And he was far, far from his best days.
“Kurkusan,” The voice was iron in velvet, strong enough to pierce through the drunk’s fogged mind but not so loud as to attract attention. The drunk quit squeezing his eyes shut and lowered his hands from his face. Through his tears he saw a face he’d thought-he’d hoped-he’d never see again. Stern brow under a chieftain’s crest of hair, strong jaw with long tusks glinting.
“Thorveig…?” he slurred once more. His eyes drifted down and he shrugged his way out of the orc’s grip. The drunk leaned down, fumbling at the leather vest Thorveig was wearing. He staggered as he opened the vest, exposing a hideous scar that ran from the center of Thorveig’s chest and down towards his left hip. Thorveig opened his arms, fully vulnerable to the drunk’s inebriated ministrations. Ragnar stood to the side with the drunk’s bottle. His face was emotionless, but tiny flicks of his eyes and a subtle twitch of his ears showed his bewilderment to his father.
The drunk ran his fingers along Thorveig’s scar, examining. The trembling seemed to have left his fingers for a moment. He slurred again, inquisitive instead of fearful.
“S’ healing, then?” The alcohol made a mockery of enunciation. He stumbled back and looked Thorveig in the eye.
“Sit pain you at all? How’ur,” he paused to burp. “The muscles on that side. Mobility?” he swayed in front of the chieftain.
Thorveig gently grasped the drunk by his shoulders and smiled softly. “I am well, Kurkusan.”
At the sound of the name, the drunk’s face crumpled into anguish. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. His voice became thick.
“Don’ call me that.” He feebly tried to push the massive orc away. “Thass not me. Not. Me. ‘Nymore.”
“I call you by your name, the name of your people, Kurkusan,” Thorveig replied.
The drunk said nothing, crestfallen.
“Kurkusan, you are not well,” Thorveig continued.
“Come, brother. Let us help you.”
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I honestly thought I was retiring when I moved to Orsunder. The Orcish homeland was known for its vibrant landscapes and easy going weather (in some parts, most parts were quite harsh) so it made for easy retirement. Unfortunately for me I can’t predict political downfalls nor could I predict the capitulation of the Oraunderi government. The political turmoil in Orsunder led to a civil war in which several powerful warlords voted for control of Orsunder. Oddly enough An elvish invasion did manage to unit several of the warlords to fight against a now common enemy. I found myself, in what I thought was gonna be a beautiful retirement estate, but now was a field hospital for the various orcish raiding parties that roamed the countryside. About 2 months into the Oraunderi civil war/Elven invasion, I had treated well over 300 orcs, many leaving with toothy grins on their faces. I never thought any of them remembered me until my home became the target of a few hungry, and bored Elvish soldiers. They had decided that what was mine, was theirs, and they would take it, no matter how much I protested. As I pleaded with the elvish captain to lower his rifle and leave my home peacefully, I noticed a peculiar rumbling coming from just outside the walls of my estate. I never would have guessed what is was. Hundreds of orcs were marching on my estate with blood and hunger in their eyes. “You betta leave the good docta alone or you’ll suffa my blade elf!” The apparent commander of the orcs spoke with a booming voice. The elven soldiers began panicking to get into position to *attempt* to repel the seemingly massive horde of orcs. It wasn’t long until they broke rank and fled from my estate. “You guys came?”
“You ‘elped us doc, ‘course we’re gonna ‘elp you”
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
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I honestly thought I was retiring when I moved to Orsunder. The Orcish homeland was known for its vibrant landscapes and easy going weather (in some parts, most parts were quite harsh) so it made for easy retirement. Unfortunately for me I can’t predict political downfalls nor could I predict the capitulation of the Oraunderi government. The political turmoil in Orsunder led to a civil war in which several powerful warlords voted for control of Orsunder. Oddly enough An elvish invasion did manage to unit several of the warlords to fight against a now common enemy. I found myself, in what I thought was gonna be a beautiful retirement estate, but now was a field hospital for the various orcish raiding parties that roamed the countryside. About 2 months into the Oraunderi civil war/Elven invasion, I had treated well over 300 orcs, many leaving with toothy grins on their faces. I never thought any of them remembered me until my home became the target of a few hungry, and bored Elvish soldiers. They had decided that what was mine, was theirs, and they would take it, no matter how much I protested. As I pleaded with the elvish captain to lower his rifle and leave my home peacefully, I noticed a peculiar rumbling coming from just outside the walls of my estate. I never would have guessed what is was. Hundreds of orcs were marching on my estate with blood and hunger in their eyes. “You betta leave the good docta alone or you’ll suffa my blade elf!” The apparent commander of the orcs spoke with a booming voice. The elven soldiers began panicking to get into position to *attempt* to repel the seemingly massive horde of orcs. It wasn’t long until they broke rank and fled from my estate. “You guys came?”
“You ‘elped us doc, ‘course we’re gonna ‘elp you”
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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They found the human puking in an alley.
Thorveig stood and watched him from across the way. The vomiting drunk hadn’t seen them yet, and probably wouldn’t any time soon. The buildings cast long shadows this far from the torchlight, and the full moon overhead added little. The drunk continued to wretch to the point of dry heaves.
To Thorveig’s left stood his son, Ragnar. He was slightly smaller than his father, but still broad and muscled. His hair was cut in a warrior’s stripe, plaited down his scalp. His hand rested idly on a sheathed dagger at his hip.
Ragnar pursed his lips and blew a quick burst of air around his tusks. In a hunter’s silent cant, it was a simple question: ‘Him?’
Thorveig responded with a small, sharp nod and a burst of air from his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
From behind them came a rapid cluck-cluck of a tongue. Ragnar glanced back to their third member, Grimnar. His shorn scalp was blackened with warpaint in a vicious triangle. He crouched behind them in between the buildings, and he gripped his dagger instead of resting his hand on it. His eyes betrayed his impatience. ‘Get on with it,’ they said. ‘I am eager to be gone from here.’ Ragnar looked back at Thorveig, who nodded once more. Across the street, the drunk had stopped wretching, and was crawling on his hands and knees towards the bottle that had rolled away.
The drunk crawled pathetically towards the bottle in the street. It glinted in the center of his bleary and tunneled vision, dancing back and forth in the moonlight as he padded towards it like a newborn. Just a little bit closer. The bottle was still about half full; that could keep him unconscious until tomorrow night if he finished it all. He reached out a trembling hand, but another was faster than he and grabbed the bottle. He started to whimper. He felt a pair of hands grasp him and lift him to his feet. He flinched away and covered his face.
“Oh, beggin your pardon,” the drunk slurred. “I’m gone home, really, just get my bottle and step on,” he pleaded with whoever was accosting him. The hands grabbing him were strong, stronger than he was on his best day. And he was far, far from his best days.
“Kurkusan,” The voice was iron in velvet, strong enough to pierce through the drunk’s fogged mind but not so loud as to attract attention. The drunk quit squeezing his eyes shut and lowered his hands from his face. Through his tears he saw a face he’d thought-he’d hoped-he’d never see again. Stern brow under a chieftain’s crest of hair, strong jaw with long tusks glinting.
“Thorveig…?” he slurred once more. His eyes drifted down and he shrugged his way out of the orc’s grip. The drunk leaned down, fumbling at the leather vest Thorveig was wearing. He staggered as he opened the vest, exposing a hideous scar that ran from the center of Thorveig’s chest and down towards his left hip. Thorveig opened his arms, fully vulnerable to the drunk’s inebriated ministrations. Ragnar stood to the side with the drunk’s bottle. His face was emotionless, but tiny flicks of his eyes and a subtle twitch of his ears showed his bewilderment to his father.
The drunk ran his fingers along Thorveig’s scar, examining. The trembling seemed to have left his fingers for a moment. He slurred again, inquisitive instead of fearful.
“S’ healing, then?” The alcohol made a mockery of enunciation. He stumbled back and looked Thorveig in the eye.
“Sit pain you at all? How’ur,” he paused to burp. “The muscles on that side. Mobility?” he swayed in front of the chieftain.
Thorveig gently grasped the drunk by his shoulders and smiled softly. “I am well, Kurkusan.”
At the sound of the name, the drunk’s face crumpled into anguish. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. His voice became thick.
“Don’ call me that.” He feebly tried to push the massive orc away. “Thass not me. Not. Me. ‘Nymore.”
“I call you by your name, the name of your people, Kurkusan,” Thorveig replied.
The drunk said nothing, crestfallen.
“Kurkusan, you are not well,” Thorveig continued.
“Come, brother. Let us help you.”
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It was a gloomy day for Darwin both figuratively and literally. You see, Darwin had been getting caught up in some shifty business with the local mad wizard.
“Three days shall be your reprieve,
for thine payment to retrieve.
For if my rules thou wilt not follow, Scorpions tale you shall swallow... or I’ll turn you into a newt or something.”
The mere thought of being turned into a new to or swallowing a scorpions tail made Darwin’s skin crawl. “What was it that old coot wanted” Darwin said to himself, “A sentiment of kinship” called the wizard from across the study. “You wish for me to give you kinship?” The old mage poked his head out from behind a messy stack of parchments “correct!”, “I’m not sure if I can do that”. The wizard leered at the man, his ancient eyes burning with a fury Darwin hadn’t seen from him before. “Then I guess your hands will do” said the wizard as he began to approach Darwin. “M-my what?!” Darwin’s heart began to race, 190/80. “I-I’m sure we could work this out some other way! We don’t wish for this situation to get out of hand now do we?” “Very poor choice of words” and the wizard leapt for the Doctor, but before he knew it Darwin was already halfway down the stairs leading up the tower. It seems his own legs had a better sense for danger than he.
Down the hill, across the courtyard, over the stone fence, and across the field Darwin tan for dear life. How could he live without his hands?! What would he do, he might as well be running down the tracks from a speeding train. Darwin peered back between breaths, seeing that crazed loon who calls himself a Wizard sprinting on all fours like some sort of beast. He most definitely was mad, which only made Darwin believe more in the wizards sentiment about actually taking his hands.
Darwin burst through the bush line and made his way down the trail,”just keep running, don’t stop! Never stop! If you stop you’l-“ *thunk* Darwin’s face was met with the jarring sensation of running into a metal plated wall. “Woah! Who goes there!” Shouted a course yet authoritative tone. “What are yo- Darwin? Why are you running blindly through the forest?” Between breaths Darwin was able to utter “Wizard. Debt. Hands. Help!” The wizard appeared in the glade of trees not soon after Darwin found sanctuary behind the Huntress Ork. “Your hands Boy! Gimme gimme”. “A hand you say?” Said the Orc. “Yes, now HAND it over!”, “Are you seriously making puns!” Darwin shrieked. The old man was about to speak until he coiled back as a whole troop of Orcs joined them in the glade. “Please don’t take this mans hands good sage, for they are the reason we are still alive today” said one of the taller Orcs. “I need payment!” The wizard shouted. “Then take mine” said the Orc shielding Darwin. “Rivala no! How will you hunt?” “For you, I’d lay down my life! You’ve saved countless numbers of my brothers and sisters. It would be an honor!” Rivala said with a great roar. Darwin has known this woman for nearly 3 years, and he’d know a promise she’d keep when she made it. “No take my hands” one Orc said “No mine!”, called another. Soon the opening in the trees and further out was filled with the shouts and cries of Orc warriors screaming about dismemberment and sacrifice.
The wizard raised his hand and silence filled the forest “Well it seems like I’ve gotten what I came for” he said. He produced a jar from his robe and began to wave if back and forth threw the air as if to catch something floating there. “What is he doing?” Said Rivala “I haven’t the faintest idea” Replied Darwin. After a few moments of the wizard dashing and bounding with his empty jar he sealed it with a rather large cork. “This is all I need, some kinship! Looks like you came in rather HANDY after all Doctor!” “I... umm really?” said the warily. The wizard only replied with a yellow grin and a more than unsettling wink and like that, he was gone in a poof of grey smoke.
“Looks like things are settled then?” Rivala said “I guess so.” Darwin replied. “So... would you wish to join us for the evening meal... HANDsom?”
“...”
“Oh come on! That was good!”
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
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It was a gloomy day for Darwin both figuratively and literally. You see, Darwin had been getting caught up in some shifty business with the local mad wizard.
“Three days shall be your reprieve,
for thine payment to retrieve.
For if my rules thou wilt not follow, Scorpions tale you shall swallow... or I’ll turn you into a newt or something.”
The mere thought of being turned into a new to or swallowing a scorpions tail made Darwin’s skin crawl. “What was it that old coot wanted” Darwin said to himself, “A sentiment of kinship” called the wizard from across the study. “You wish for me to give you kinship?” The old mage poked his head out from behind a messy stack of parchments “correct!”, “I’m not sure if I can do that”. The wizard leered at the man, his ancient eyes burning with a fury Darwin hadn’t seen from him before. “Then I guess your hands will do” said the wizard as he began to approach Darwin. “M-my what?!” Darwin’s heart began to race, 190/80. “I-I’m sure we could work this out some other way! We don’t wish for this situation to get out of hand now do we?” “Very poor choice of words” and the wizard leapt for the Doctor, but before he knew it Darwin was already halfway down the stairs leading up the tower. It seems his own legs had a better sense for danger than he.
Down the hill, across the courtyard, over the stone fence, and across the field Darwin tan for dear life. How could he live without his hands?! What would he do, he might as well be running down the tracks from a speeding train. Darwin peered back between breaths, seeing that crazed loon who calls himself a Wizard sprinting on all fours like some sort of beast. He most definitely was mad, which only made Darwin believe more in the wizards sentiment about actually taking his hands.
Darwin burst through the bush line and made his way down the trail,”just keep running, don’t stop! Never stop! If you stop you’l-“ *thunk* Darwin’s face was met with the jarring sensation of running into a metal plated wall. “Woah! Who goes there!” Shouted a course yet authoritative tone. “What are yo- Darwin? Why are you running blindly through the forest?” Between breaths Darwin was able to utter “Wizard. Debt. Hands. Help!” The wizard appeared in the glade of trees not soon after Darwin found sanctuary behind the Huntress Ork. “Your hands Boy! Gimme gimme”. “A hand you say?” Said the Orc. “Yes, now HAND it over!”, “Are you seriously making puns!” Darwin shrieked. The old man was about to speak until he coiled back as a whole troop of Orcs joined them in the glade. “Please don’t take this mans hands good sage, for they are the reason we are still alive today” said one of the taller Orcs. “I need payment!” The wizard shouted. “Then take mine” said the Orc shielding Darwin. “Rivala no! How will you hunt?” “For you, I’d lay down my life! You’ve saved countless numbers of my brothers and sisters. It would be an honor!” Rivala said with a great roar. Darwin has known this woman for nearly 3 years, and he’d know a promise she’d keep when she made it. “No take my hands” one Orc said “No mine!”, called another. Soon the opening in the trees and further out was filled with the shouts and cries of Orc warriors screaming about dismemberment and sacrifice.
The wizard raised his hand and silence filled the forest “Well it seems like I’ve gotten what I came for” he said. He produced a jar from his robe and began to wave if back and forth threw the air as if to catch something floating there. “What is he doing?” Said Rivala “I haven’t the faintest idea” Replied Darwin. After a few moments of the wizard dashing and bounding with his empty jar he sealed it with a rather large cork. “This is all I need, some kinship! Looks like you came in rather HANDY after all Doctor!” “I... umm really?” said the warily. The wizard only replied with a yellow grin and a more than unsettling wink and like that, he was gone in a poof of grey smoke.
“Looks like things are settled then?” Rivala said “I guess so.” Darwin replied. “So... would you wish to join us for the evening meal... HANDsom?”
“...”
“Oh come on! That was good!”
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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"No, I don't have a writ of ownership, but I have both the backing of the town's notables as well as the company of these men here," Gregor Trunch looked up to Cutter Riverbeck when he made his proclamation. The man was Human with an average stature that had shrunk some with age. He had a full head of hair that had gone to shades of white and off-grey with age, like a dirty snowbank that reflected his heart when he either eyed Riverbank's chest or the distant stockades of the camp at her backside. His right hand instinctively covered his scarred left hand, the padding of his thumb rubbing into the patch of skin between the thumb and index. He felt brave enough to speak boldly as his retinue included his usual bodyguards along with several Minotaur mercenaries, one of whom lingered on his flank. The Minotaur had a stout frame and pure black fur with dark eyes that had flecks of red. He simply looked at Cutter Riverbeck with a neutral expression. Tambor Manywounds was present because he was being paid.
Galda Riverbeck crossed her arms over her chest. She had been taken by surprise by the host of guards and mercenaries that the scheming Trunch had brought with him. She had a worn a simple blue shift while walking to the nearby stream to fetch water when the little runt in front of her stepped from behind a tree. He had been followed with his immediate bodyguards, two Humans with fair skin and dull looks. The Minotaur followed at a soft whistle, their presence made her swallow back a cold draft that had plunged into her spine.
"We claimed this hill first," Galda said, "I have refugees, orphans that I am caring for. There must be other ways to earn gold."
"Yes," Gregor said, "But only one hill contains the most profitable veins, and I aim to have it." He gestured to Tambor and said, "We shall give them an hour, Captain. Allow them to gather their things and leave the hill. I'm sure the people of Beyfalls will be merciful to your cadre of camp followers, harlots, and *bastards."* The Human hissed.
"There are also orphans in the camp," Galda said, "People that are scares and just wish to live in peace. The Great War is over, but you're still look to settle scores," She shook her head and added, "Some of them are pure Elves. Those sick and desperate people will never be welcomed in a Human town."
"They should have considered that before participating in a war against us Humans," Gregor retorted, "Now you better use that hour up wisely."
"I won't yield a single inch of that camp, Trunch," Galda said and turned her piercing glare towards the Minotaur, "Are you prepared to kill a woman defending the lives of the young and oppressed."
"She isn't dying today," Several black arrows hit the ground near the party. Tambor called out for his men to come to arms. Minotaur rushed from their position with halbards or muskets in hand to meet a marching of iron and leather that was heading in their direction. Punctuating the steps was the wail of a war horn. Galda looked, her eyes widening in surprise at what she beheld. "I know you," She said.
Marching upon the ground were several ranks of Orcs whose skin was often covered in the scars of life and war. There were suture marks, blemishes and bruises on arms and faces. There were tattoos of harsh black or red lines on shoulders or arms. There were females with hairs in braid or shaved alongside their brothers in battle. Orcish weapons ranged from the scimitar and axe to the crossbow, longbow, and even a musket or two. Traveling along with the fighters, Galda could pick out one or two robed Orcs whose eyes glowed with simmering arcane energy. They more than doubled the size of the Minotaurs that Trunch had brought wit him. From within the Orc ranks, one of the taller warriors emerged and strode to where Galda Riverbeck was standing. She recalled seeing those black hairs and soft yellow eyes looking up in withheld pain as she worked over him during those chaotic days of the Great War. In those days, the Orcs had fought alongside Humans against the Elves over the region that they stood. The Orc's presence was a surprise to Trunch, who inwardly wondered why an Orc would hope defend a camp that contained the very Humans who would cavort with their previous mutual enemy. When the Orc stood next to Galda he nodded to Tambor and said in a deep voice and dire tone, "Manywounds."
The Minotaur returned his nod, "Hephaestor, I heard your people were moving the Borderlands." The Minotaur narrowed his eyes. Altogether, the region that all parties stood upon was originally Minotaur land. The only reason Orcs, Humans, and refugees stood on it now was the likes of both Human and Elven monarchies dumping their exiles into the buffer state between their realms. Still, the Minotaur appeared more attentive and respectful to his potential opponent over his employer.
"I shan't tell you your business, Tambor, but I will say that every member of this band accepts *the Cutter* as a member of our band. We are here to fight for her," Hephaestor Battleborn said, noting her title as a *Cutter,* or field surgeon.
Tambor gestured with his muzzle at his furtive employer, "We've been paid good coin to see this job through, Warlord. Why should I order my men to stand down?"
"We out number your Minotaur by at least two-to-one," Hephaestor countered.
Trunch had began to interrupt, trying to insert himself into the conversation when Tambor first glared at the Human before looking back at the grimacing Battleborn, "A two-to-one fight with a Minotaur is even in our eyes." The Minotaur said, "How serious are you seeing this through?"
Hephaestor showed his resolve by raising his right hand in the air while his left drew a curved knife from his belt. Without hesitation, and his yellow eyes staring directly into the polished onyx color of the Minotaur, he opened his hand with the bladed edge and allowed dark blood to pour upon the ground. Galda Riverbeck gasped and reached for the Orc, however he shook his head and noted: "I want to show the Minotaur how committed I am to seeing this fight if it comes to a fight." Mindful of Galda's protestations and their location possibly being in sight of the innocent, Hephaestor added, "If there is a fight, that is."
Tambor watched as the blood pooled in Hephaestor's wound with droplets of dark red blood spilling to the ground with a distinctive patter. The Minotaur turned his head and uttered a command in his native language. The Minotaur began to stand down at once.
"What is this?" Gregor asked, "Some stupid greenskin opens his hand up and you turn coward on me?" He asked.
Tambor took the insult, but his lips tightened, and Galda could see that the indignant and disrespectful Gregor Trunch was crossing a line with both tone and words. The Minotaur pointed out, "That Orc has shown his blood bond with the Cutter. That means he, and probably his band," His eyes flicked over the Warriors who were armed and shifting their weight anxious for a fight, "are willing to fight for the cause of defending the surgeon and the camp. What good is coin if you cannot spend it?"
"What good are mercenaries if they tuck tale at the first battle?" Gregor replied. His hand slapped the Minotaur upon his chain hauberk, "Now you draw and mo-" The Minotaur raised his fist and protested further interaction made by Trunch by hammering Gregor over his head. The motion was smooth, it took a moment's delay before Gregor's eyes rolled back into his head and he tipped backwards with blood pooling in his ears and lips. Tambor looked at the Cutter and her compatriots, he nodded at the Orc before turning on Gregor's former guardsmen.
"You can either draw and face my company, or you can run off. What do you want?" Neither bodyguard wished to face a bull Minotaur or his companions. They immediately turned upon whatever road they had come from and fled back.
"Was that really necessary?" Riverbeck asked, she gestured over the fallen Trunch. A few Orcs chuckled at the display of violence. Trunch's boots that continued to twtich despite being clearly dead or knocked unconscious by the attack.
"He would have just found others and made trouble," Tambor said before walking away. and nodding at his fellow Minotaur who followed suit.
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Ganymede, the medic, wished desperately for the self-control to quiet his heaving chest, the better to hide from the ambush that had wiped out his unit.
He'd tried to tell them. A year earlier, with a different unit, he'd seen almost exactly the same thing: two ambush parties collapsing on his unit like a pincer, from tree stands on either side of the road. Everyone but him had died that day, and ever since, he'd been "Ganymede the Cursed."
The road from Raldos to Leranith contained just such a spot for an ambush, and indeed it had happened again. The damnable elves fell upon his unit like hyenas to a lion's kill after the lions had their fill.
Suddenly his leg flared with pain, blotting everything else out, and he shrieked loudly enough to wake the dead. Falling backward, he saw the throwing spear protruding from his right shin.
He dimly realized someone had picked him up, accompanied by a familiar scent, but he couldn't make his brain work well enough to place the scent, or see who had picked him up. At that point, his senses failed completely and he drifted though lightless void.
​
An indeterminate time later, Ganymede woke up. Opening his eyes and levering himself to a sitting position he realized he was in a medic tent of some kind. The noise of his awakening, however, drew...
"Ganymede! You've woken up! Thank the Spirits!"
"Wait...Janthil?" Ganymede recognized the voice of an Orc whom he'd saved a few days ago. "How did I end up with you?"
"You saved my life, and have done so for many of my compatriots. Did you think we'd be so callous as to abandon you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When an Orc's life is saved, he swears a blood oath to the one who saved it. You've saved tens of my people at LEAST. We are your family, and all of us are here."
Ganymede tried to process that thought. "But that means..."
"It's unusual for a human to lead an Orc pack, but not unheard of, given the skill your people have with medicine. We'll fight and die with you till this war is over!"
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
6th day, 3rd Moon of Solaria, 5th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
We've captured some greenskins - Sgt. Winters wants them alive. "Alive" he says, after he'd been using the last few POWs for swordsmanship practice. The beasts don't even get the luxury of being properly slaughtered. I've mended their wounds as best as I can, but I've no doubt they'll sustain more. The men have been voicing murderous thoughts, and not quietly. "Alive" doesn't mean "unharmed".
30th day, 4th Moon of Nyx, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Another settlement razed. We lost Marco and Davies in the process - good riddance. Their unsanctioned "interrogations" meant I'd had to dip into my healroot supplies. Sgt. Winters has admitted that the greenskins make good beasts of burden, but doesn't see the need to feed or care for them. "Cutter," he says, "the men are starting to talk". They can talk all they want, I'm the bloody reason half of them can even talk in the first place.
1st day, 1st Moon of Avis, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Winters is dead. Nothing to do about it. I thought I was making headway, but that plan's gone to shit. I'll have to do something drastic. They might say I've got "Greenfever" now, but after tonight... well. Mar'tuk swore that the men won't be harmed - I think. His accent is atrocious. Kill them if you have to, I say. Whatever gets the women and children free.
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heavy footsteps. Jangling metal. My executioner, or my torturer? I've asked the same question for so long, always with the same disappointing answer. There's a different quality this time around though, and for a moment I dare to hope. The door squeals open on its hinges and light stabs in - or at least tries to.
I blink.
A small army has assembled outside my cell.
"Kah'tar."
The word is murmured by many deep voices, carried gently with reverence. My eyes strain, and I see - I see my work. My early, slipshod stapling. The stitching, lit by candlelight. The broken bottle that had sailed past me while I'd struggled to keep them out of the tent-
"Ahn Kah'tar."
Smiling hurts, but I'm used to pain by now.
"I see your accent is as bad as ever, Mar'tuk. It's 'Anne', not 'Ahn'."
|
Ganymede, the medic, wished desperately for the self-control to quiet his heaving chest, the better to hide from the ambush that had wiped out his unit.
He'd tried to tell them. A year earlier, with a different unit, he'd seen almost exactly the same thing: two ambush parties collapsing on his unit like a pincer, from tree stands on either side of the road. Everyone but him had died that day, and ever since, he'd been "Ganymede the Cursed."
The road from Raldos to Leranith contained just such a spot for an ambush, and indeed it had happened again. The damnable elves fell upon his unit like hyenas to a lion's kill after the lions had their fill.
Suddenly his leg flared with pain, blotting everything else out, and he shrieked loudly enough to wake the dead. Falling backward, he saw the throwing spear protruding from his right shin.
He dimly realized someone had picked him up, accompanied by a familiar scent, but he couldn't make his brain work well enough to place the scent, or see who had picked him up. At that point, his senses failed completely and he drifted though lightless void.
​
An indeterminate time later, Ganymede woke up. Opening his eyes and levering himself to a sitting position he realized he was in a medic tent of some kind. The noise of his awakening, however, drew...
"Ganymede! You've woken up! Thank the Spirits!"
"Wait...Janthil?" Ganymede recognized the voice of an Orc whom he'd saved a few days ago. "How did I end up with you?"
"You saved my life, and have done so for many of my compatriots. Did you think we'd be so callous as to abandon you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When an Orc's life is saved, he swears a blood oath to the one who saved it. You've saved tens of my people at LEAST. We are your family, and all of us are here."
Ganymede tried to process that thought. "But that means..."
"It's unusual for a human to lead an Orc pack, but not unheard of, given the skill your people have with medicine. We'll fight and die with you till this war is over!"
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
They found the human puking in an alley.
Thorveig stood and watched him from across the way. The vomiting drunk hadn’t seen them yet, and probably wouldn’t any time soon. The buildings cast long shadows this far from the torchlight, and the full moon overhead added little. The drunk continued to wretch to the point of dry heaves.
To Thorveig’s left stood his son, Ragnar. He was slightly smaller than his father, but still broad and muscled. His hair was cut in a warrior’s stripe, plaited down his scalp. His hand rested idly on a sheathed dagger at his hip.
Ragnar pursed his lips and blew a quick burst of air around his tusks. In a hunter’s silent cant, it was a simple question: ‘Him?’
Thorveig responded with a small, sharp nod and a burst of air from his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
From behind them came a rapid cluck-cluck of a tongue. Ragnar glanced back to their third member, Grimnar. His shorn scalp was blackened with warpaint in a vicious triangle. He crouched behind them in between the buildings, and he gripped his dagger instead of resting his hand on it. His eyes betrayed his impatience. ‘Get on with it,’ they said. ‘I am eager to be gone from here.’ Ragnar looked back at Thorveig, who nodded once more. Across the street, the drunk had stopped wretching, and was crawling on his hands and knees towards the bottle that had rolled away.
The drunk crawled pathetically towards the bottle in the street. It glinted in the center of his bleary and tunneled vision, dancing back and forth in the moonlight as he padded towards it like a newborn. Just a little bit closer. The bottle was still about half full; that could keep him unconscious until tomorrow night if he finished it all. He reached out a trembling hand, but another was faster than he and grabbed the bottle. He started to whimper. He felt a pair of hands grasp him and lift him to his feet. He flinched away and covered his face.
“Oh, beggin your pardon,” the drunk slurred. “I’m gone home, really, just get my bottle and step on,” he pleaded with whoever was accosting him. The hands grabbing him were strong, stronger than he was on his best day. And he was far, far from his best days.
“Kurkusan,” The voice was iron in velvet, strong enough to pierce through the drunk’s fogged mind but not so loud as to attract attention. The drunk quit squeezing his eyes shut and lowered his hands from his face. Through his tears he saw a face he’d thought-he’d hoped-he’d never see again. Stern brow under a chieftain’s crest of hair, strong jaw with long tusks glinting.
“Thorveig…?” he slurred once more. His eyes drifted down and he shrugged his way out of the orc’s grip. The drunk leaned down, fumbling at the leather vest Thorveig was wearing. He staggered as he opened the vest, exposing a hideous scar that ran from the center of Thorveig’s chest and down towards his left hip. Thorveig opened his arms, fully vulnerable to the drunk’s inebriated ministrations. Ragnar stood to the side with the drunk’s bottle. His face was emotionless, but tiny flicks of his eyes and a subtle twitch of his ears showed his bewilderment to his father.
The drunk ran his fingers along Thorveig’s scar, examining. The trembling seemed to have left his fingers for a moment. He slurred again, inquisitive instead of fearful.
“S’ healing, then?” The alcohol made a mockery of enunciation. He stumbled back and looked Thorveig in the eye.
“Sit pain you at all? How’ur,” he paused to burp. “The muscles on that side. Mobility?” he swayed in front of the chieftain.
Thorveig gently grasped the drunk by his shoulders and smiled softly. “I am well, Kurkusan.”
At the sound of the name, the drunk’s face crumpled into anguish. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. His voice became thick.
“Don’ call me that.” He feebly tried to push the massive orc away. “Thass not me. Not. Me. ‘Nymore.”
“I call you by your name, the name of your people, Kurkusan,” Thorveig replied.
The drunk said nothing, crestfallen.
“Kurkusan, you are not well,” Thorveig continued.
“Come, brother. Let us help you.”
|
Ganymede, the medic, wished desperately for the self-control to quiet his heaving chest, the better to hide from the ambush that had wiped out his unit.
He'd tried to tell them. A year earlier, with a different unit, he'd seen almost exactly the same thing: two ambush parties collapsing on his unit like a pincer, from tree stands on either side of the road. Everyone but him had died that day, and ever since, he'd been "Ganymede the Cursed."
The road from Raldos to Leranith contained just such a spot for an ambush, and indeed it had happened again. The damnable elves fell upon his unit like hyenas to a lion's kill after the lions had their fill.
Suddenly his leg flared with pain, blotting everything else out, and he shrieked loudly enough to wake the dead. Falling backward, he saw the throwing spear protruding from his right shin.
He dimly realized someone had picked him up, accompanied by a familiar scent, but he couldn't make his brain work well enough to place the scent, or see who had picked him up. At that point, his senses failed completely and he drifted though lightless void.
​
An indeterminate time later, Ganymede woke up. Opening his eyes and levering himself to a sitting position he realized he was in a medic tent of some kind. The noise of his awakening, however, drew...
"Ganymede! You've woken up! Thank the Spirits!"
"Wait...Janthil?" Ganymede recognized the voice of an Orc whom he'd saved a few days ago. "How did I end up with you?"
"You saved my life, and have done so for many of my compatriots. Did you think we'd be so callous as to abandon you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When an Orc's life is saved, he swears a blood oath to the one who saved it. You've saved tens of my people at LEAST. We are your family, and all of us are here."
Ganymede tried to process that thought. "But that means..."
"It's unusual for a human to lead an Orc pack, but not unheard of, given the skill your people have with medicine. We'll fight and die with you till this war is over!"
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
Florence's knees hurt. they always hurt these days. This was a hot one. Why do they always pick the hottest days to do their killing? She harrumphed.
There was no more time for her aches and pains or harrumphs. The first clash had happened. The rest of the day was the whirlwind of triage. Who to save. Who was past saving and had earned something to dull the pain as they crossed from this world to the next.
She snuck more into those draughts than the church would allow. Old magic. Forbidden to women and yet so much a part of her they would have to burn her alive before they could burn it from here. Out here on the fronts she hoped to go unnoticed. The men had taken to calling her Lucky Flo, the Orcs though. They had another word for her: Brother.
Oh, she'd argued with Kilrik, the massive greenskin sergeant who'd translated what they were calling her. He'd replied, "Jakka Flo no woman. Jakka Flo bleeds battle not children." And that was that.
In less than a year from that battle the inquisition came for her. Somehow they'd gotten one of her draughts. When her screams rang out over the camp as the witch finders sought to drive her power from her the men hid in their tents and spoke softly about what a shame it was for dear Flo.
Not so for the Orcs. The churchmen had only one cleric among them and though he called upon his angels to protect him and soldiers of the faith cut them deeply the Orcs fought with a ferocity few ever lived to tell about.
After the killing was done some of the men came round and stood with their Flo. They set put across the black wastes and that's how our land became the Queendom of Jakka Flo.
|
Ganymede, the medic, wished desperately for the self-control to quiet his heaving chest, the better to hide from the ambush that had wiped out his unit.
He'd tried to tell them. A year earlier, with a different unit, he'd seen almost exactly the same thing: two ambush parties collapsing on his unit like a pincer, from tree stands on either side of the road. Everyone but him had died that day, and ever since, he'd been "Ganymede the Cursed."
The road from Raldos to Leranith contained just such a spot for an ambush, and indeed it had happened again. The damnable elves fell upon his unit like hyenas to a lion's kill after the lions had their fill.
Suddenly his leg flared with pain, blotting everything else out, and he shrieked loudly enough to wake the dead. Falling backward, he saw the throwing spear protruding from his right shin.
He dimly realized someone had picked him up, accompanied by a familiar scent, but he couldn't make his brain work well enough to place the scent, or see who had picked him up. At that point, his senses failed completely and he drifted though lightless void.
​
An indeterminate time later, Ganymede woke up. Opening his eyes and levering himself to a sitting position he realized he was in a medic tent of some kind. The noise of his awakening, however, drew...
"Ganymede! You've woken up! Thank the Spirits!"
"Wait...Janthil?" Ganymede recognized the voice of an Orc whom he'd saved a few days ago. "How did I end up with you?"
"You saved my life, and have done so for many of my compatriots. Did you think we'd be so callous as to abandon you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When an Orc's life is saved, he swears a blood oath to the one who saved it. You've saved tens of my people at LEAST. We are your family, and all of us are here."
Ganymede tried to process that thought. "But that means..."
"It's unusual for a human to lead an Orc pack, but not unheard of, given the skill your people have with medicine. We'll fight and die with you till this war is over!"
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
|
Ganymede, the medic, wished desperately for the self-control to quiet his heaving chest, the better to hide from the ambush that had wiped out his unit.
He'd tried to tell them. A year earlier, with a different unit, he'd seen almost exactly the same thing: two ambush parties collapsing on his unit like a pincer, from tree stands on either side of the road. Everyone but him had died that day, and ever since, he'd been "Ganymede the Cursed."
The road from Raldos to Leranith contained just such a spot for an ambush, and indeed it had happened again. The damnable elves fell upon his unit like hyenas to a lion's kill after the lions had their fill.
Suddenly his leg flared with pain, blotting everything else out, and he shrieked loudly enough to wake the dead. Falling backward, he saw the throwing spear protruding from his right shin.
He dimly realized someone had picked him up, accompanied by a familiar scent, but he couldn't make his brain work well enough to place the scent, or see who had picked him up. At that point, his senses failed completely and he drifted though lightless void.
​
An indeterminate time later, Ganymede woke up. Opening his eyes and levering himself to a sitting position he realized he was in a medic tent of some kind. The noise of his awakening, however, drew...
"Ganymede! You've woken up! Thank the Spirits!"
"Wait...Janthil?" Ganymede recognized the voice of an Orc whom he'd saved a few days ago. "How did I end up with you?"
"You saved my life, and have done so for many of my compatriots. Did you think we'd be so callous as to abandon you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When an Orc's life is saved, he swears a blood oath to the one who saved it. You've saved tens of my people at LEAST. We are your family, and all of us are here."
Ganymede tried to process that thought. "But that means..."
"It's unusual for a human to lead an Orc pack, but not unheard of, given the skill your people have with medicine. We'll fight and die with you till this war is over!"
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
They found the human puking in an alley.
Thorveig stood and watched him from across the way. The vomiting drunk hadn’t seen them yet, and probably wouldn’t any time soon. The buildings cast long shadows this far from the torchlight, and the full moon overhead added little. The drunk continued to wretch to the point of dry heaves.
To Thorveig’s left stood his son, Ragnar. He was slightly smaller than his father, but still broad and muscled. His hair was cut in a warrior’s stripe, plaited down his scalp. His hand rested idly on a sheathed dagger at his hip.
Ragnar pursed his lips and blew a quick burst of air around his tusks. In a hunter’s silent cant, it was a simple question: ‘Him?’
Thorveig responded with a small, sharp nod and a burst of air from his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
From behind them came a rapid cluck-cluck of a tongue. Ragnar glanced back to their third member, Grimnar. His shorn scalp was blackened with warpaint in a vicious triangle. He crouched behind them in between the buildings, and he gripped his dagger instead of resting his hand on it. His eyes betrayed his impatience. ‘Get on with it,’ they said. ‘I am eager to be gone from here.’ Ragnar looked back at Thorveig, who nodded once more. Across the street, the drunk had stopped wretching, and was crawling on his hands and knees towards the bottle that had rolled away.
The drunk crawled pathetically towards the bottle in the street. It glinted in the center of his bleary and tunneled vision, dancing back and forth in the moonlight as he padded towards it like a newborn. Just a little bit closer. The bottle was still about half full; that could keep him unconscious until tomorrow night if he finished it all. He reached out a trembling hand, but another was faster than he and grabbed the bottle. He started to whimper. He felt a pair of hands grasp him and lift him to his feet. He flinched away and covered his face.
“Oh, beggin your pardon,” the drunk slurred. “I’m gone home, really, just get my bottle and step on,” he pleaded with whoever was accosting him. The hands grabbing him were strong, stronger than he was on his best day. And he was far, far from his best days.
“Kurkusan,” The voice was iron in velvet, strong enough to pierce through the drunk’s fogged mind but not so loud as to attract attention. The drunk quit squeezing his eyes shut and lowered his hands from his face. Through his tears he saw a face he’d thought-he’d hoped-he’d never see again. Stern brow under a chieftain’s crest of hair, strong jaw with long tusks glinting.
“Thorveig…?” he slurred once more. His eyes drifted down and he shrugged his way out of the orc’s grip. The drunk leaned down, fumbling at the leather vest Thorveig was wearing. He staggered as he opened the vest, exposing a hideous scar that ran from the center of Thorveig’s chest and down towards his left hip. Thorveig opened his arms, fully vulnerable to the drunk’s inebriated ministrations. Ragnar stood to the side with the drunk’s bottle. His face was emotionless, but tiny flicks of his eyes and a subtle twitch of his ears showed his bewilderment to his father.
The drunk ran his fingers along Thorveig’s scar, examining. The trembling seemed to have left his fingers for a moment. He slurred again, inquisitive instead of fearful.
“S’ healing, then?” The alcohol made a mockery of enunciation. He stumbled back and looked Thorveig in the eye.
“Sit pain you at all? How’ur,” he paused to burp. “The muscles on that side. Mobility?” he swayed in front of the chieftain.
Thorveig gently grasped the drunk by his shoulders and smiled softly. “I am well, Kurkusan.”
At the sound of the name, the drunk’s face crumpled into anguish. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. His voice became thick.
“Don’ call me that.” He feebly tried to push the massive orc away. “Thass not me. Not. Me. ‘Nymore.”
“I call you by your name, the name of your people, Kurkusan,” Thorveig replied.
The drunk said nothing, crestfallen.
“Kurkusan, you are not well,” Thorveig continued.
“Come, brother. Let us help you.”
|
"No, I don't have a writ of ownership, but I have both the backing of the town's notables as well as the company of these men here," Gregor Trunch looked up to Cutter Riverbeck when he made his proclamation. The man was Human with an average stature that had shrunk some with age. He had a full head of hair that had gone to shades of white and off-grey with age, like a dirty snowbank that reflected his heart when he either eyed Riverbank's chest or the distant stockades of the camp at her backside. His right hand instinctively covered his scarred left hand, the padding of his thumb rubbing into the patch of skin between the thumb and index. He felt brave enough to speak boldly as his retinue included his usual bodyguards along with several Minotaur mercenaries, one of whom lingered on his flank. The Minotaur had a stout frame and pure black fur with dark eyes that had flecks of red. He simply looked at Cutter Riverbeck with a neutral expression. Tambor Manywounds was present because he was being paid.
Galda Riverbeck crossed her arms over her chest. She had been taken by surprise by the host of guards and mercenaries that the scheming Trunch had brought with him. She had a worn a simple blue shift while walking to the nearby stream to fetch water when the little runt in front of her stepped from behind a tree. He had been followed with his immediate bodyguards, two Humans with fair skin and dull looks. The Minotaur followed at a soft whistle, their presence made her swallow back a cold draft that had plunged into her spine.
"We claimed this hill first," Galda said, "I have refugees, orphans that I am caring for. There must be other ways to earn gold."
"Yes," Gregor said, "But only one hill contains the most profitable veins, and I aim to have it." He gestured to Tambor and said, "We shall give them an hour, Captain. Allow them to gather their things and leave the hill. I'm sure the people of Beyfalls will be merciful to your cadre of camp followers, harlots, and *bastards."* The Human hissed.
"There are also orphans in the camp," Galda said, "People that are scares and just wish to live in peace. The Great War is over, but you're still look to settle scores," She shook her head and added, "Some of them are pure Elves. Those sick and desperate people will never be welcomed in a Human town."
"They should have considered that before participating in a war against us Humans," Gregor retorted, "Now you better use that hour up wisely."
"I won't yield a single inch of that camp, Trunch," Galda said and turned her piercing glare towards the Minotaur, "Are you prepared to kill a woman defending the lives of the young and oppressed."
"She isn't dying today," Several black arrows hit the ground near the party. Tambor called out for his men to come to arms. Minotaur rushed from their position with halbards or muskets in hand to meet a marching of iron and leather that was heading in their direction. Punctuating the steps was the wail of a war horn. Galda looked, her eyes widening in surprise at what she beheld. "I know you," She said.
Marching upon the ground were several ranks of Orcs whose skin was often covered in the scars of life and war. There were suture marks, blemishes and bruises on arms and faces. There were tattoos of harsh black or red lines on shoulders or arms. There were females with hairs in braid or shaved alongside their brothers in battle. Orcish weapons ranged from the scimitar and axe to the crossbow, longbow, and even a musket or two. Traveling along with the fighters, Galda could pick out one or two robed Orcs whose eyes glowed with simmering arcane energy. They more than doubled the size of the Minotaurs that Trunch had brought wit him. From within the Orc ranks, one of the taller warriors emerged and strode to where Galda Riverbeck was standing. She recalled seeing those black hairs and soft yellow eyes looking up in withheld pain as she worked over him during those chaotic days of the Great War. In those days, the Orcs had fought alongside Humans against the Elves over the region that they stood. The Orc's presence was a surprise to Trunch, who inwardly wondered why an Orc would hope defend a camp that contained the very Humans who would cavort with their previous mutual enemy. When the Orc stood next to Galda he nodded to Tambor and said in a deep voice and dire tone, "Manywounds."
The Minotaur returned his nod, "Hephaestor, I heard your people were moving the Borderlands." The Minotaur narrowed his eyes. Altogether, the region that all parties stood upon was originally Minotaur land. The only reason Orcs, Humans, and refugees stood on it now was the likes of both Human and Elven monarchies dumping their exiles into the buffer state between their realms. Still, the Minotaur appeared more attentive and respectful to his potential opponent over his employer.
"I shan't tell you your business, Tambor, but I will say that every member of this band accepts *the Cutter* as a member of our band. We are here to fight for her," Hephaestor Battleborn said, noting her title as a *Cutter,* or field surgeon.
Tambor gestured with his muzzle at his furtive employer, "We've been paid good coin to see this job through, Warlord. Why should I order my men to stand down?"
"We out number your Minotaur by at least two-to-one," Hephaestor countered.
Trunch had began to interrupt, trying to insert himself into the conversation when Tambor first glared at the Human before looking back at the grimacing Battleborn, "A two-to-one fight with a Minotaur is even in our eyes." The Minotaur said, "How serious are you seeing this through?"
Hephaestor showed his resolve by raising his right hand in the air while his left drew a curved knife from his belt. Without hesitation, and his yellow eyes staring directly into the polished onyx color of the Minotaur, he opened his hand with the bladed edge and allowed dark blood to pour upon the ground. Galda Riverbeck gasped and reached for the Orc, however he shook his head and noted: "I want to show the Minotaur how committed I am to seeing this fight if it comes to a fight." Mindful of Galda's protestations and their location possibly being in sight of the innocent, Hephaestor added, "If there is a fight, that is."
Tambor watched as the blood pooled in Hephaestor's wound with droplets of dark red blood spilling to the ground with a distinctive patter. The Minotaur turned his head and uttered a command in his native language. The Minotaur began to stand down at once.
"What is this?" Gregor asked, "Some stupid greenskin opens his hand up and you turn coward on me?" He asked.
Tambor took the insult, but his lips tightened, and Galda could see that the indignant and disrespectful Gregor Trunch was crossing a line with both tone and words. The Minotaur pointed out, "That Orc has shown his blood bond with the Cutter. That means he, and probably his band," His eyes flicked over the Warriors who were armed and shifting their weight anxious for a fight, "are willing to fight for the cause of defending the surgeon and the camp. What good is coin if you cannot spend it?"
"What good are mercenaries if they tuck tale at the first battle?" Gregor replied. His hand slapped the Minotaur upon his chain hauberk, "Now you draw and mo-" The Minotaur raised his fist and protested further interaction made by Trunch by hammering Gregor over his head. The motion was smooth, it took a moment's delay before Gregor's eyes rolled back into his head and he tipped backwards with blood pooling in his ears and lips. Tambor looked at the Cutter and her compatriots, he nodded at the Orc before turning on Gregor's former guardsmen.
"You can either draw and face my company, or you can run off. What do you want?" Neither bodyguard wished to face a bull Minotaur or his companions. They immediately turned upon whatever road they had come from and fled back.
"Was that really necessary?" Riverbeck asked, she gestured over the fallen Trunch. A few Orcs chuckled at the display of violence. Trunch's boots that continued to twtich despite being clearly dead or knocked unconscious by the attack.
"He would have just found others and made trouble," Tambor said before walking away. and nodding at his fellow Minotaur who followed suit.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
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"No, I don't have a writ of ownership, but I have both the backing of the town's notables as well as the company of these men here," Gregor Trunch looked up to Cutter Riverbeck when he made his proclamation. The man was Human with an average stature that had shrunk some with age. He had a full head of hair that had gone to shades of white and off-grey with age, like a dirty snowbank that reflected his heart when he either eyed Riverbank's chest or the distant stockades of the camp at her backside. His right hand instinctively covered his scarred left hand, the padding of his thumb rubbing into the patch of skin between the thumb and index. He felt brave enough to speak boldly as his retinue included his usual bodyguards along with several Minotaur mercenaries, one of whom lingered on his flank. The Minotaur had a stout frame and pure black fur with dark eyes that had flecks of red. He simply looked at Cutter Riverbeck with a neutral expression. Tambor Manywounds was present because he was being paid.
Galda Riverbeck crossed her arms over her chest. She had been taken by surprise by the host of guards and mercenaries that the scheming Trunch had brought with him. She had a worn a simple blue shift while walking to the nearby stream to fetch water when the little runt in front of her stepped from behind a tree. He had been followed with his immediate bodyguards, two Humans with fair skin and dull looks. The Minotaur followed at a soft whistle, their presence made her swallow back a cold draft that had plunged into her spine.
"We claimed this hill first," Galda said, "I have refugees, orphans that I am caring for. There must be other ways to earn gold."
"Yes," Gregor said, "But only one hill contains the most profitable veins, and I aim to have it." He gestured to Tambor and said, "We shall give them an hour, Captain. Allow them to gather their things and leave the hill. I'm sure the people of Beyfalls will be merciful to your cadre of camp followers, harlots, and *bastards."* The Human hissed.
"There are also orphans in the camp," Galda said, "People that are scares and just wish to live in peace. The Great War is over, but you're still look to settle scores," She shook her head and added, "Some of them are pure Elves. Those sick and desperate people will never be welcomed in a Human town."
"They should have considered that before participating in a war against us Humans," Gregor retorted, "Now you better use that hour up wisely."
"I won't yield a single inch of that camp, Trunch," Galda said and turned her piercing glare towards the Minotaur, "Are you prepared to kill a woman defending the lives of the young and oppressed."
"She isn't dying today," Several black arrows hit the ground near the party. Tambor called out for his men to come to arms. Minotaur rushed from their position with halbards or muskets in hand to meet a marching of iron and leather that was heading in their direction. Punctuating the steps was the wail of a war horn. Galda looked, her eyes widening in surprise at what she beheld. "I know you," She said.
Marching upon the ground were several ranks of Orcs whose skin was often covered in the scars of life and war. There were suture marks, blemishes and bruises on arms and faces. There were tattoos of harsh black or red lines on shoulders or arms. There were females with hairs in braid or shaved alongside their brothers in battle. Orcish weapons ranged from the scimitar and axe to the crossbow, longbow, and even a musket or two. Traveling along with the fighters, Galda could pick out one or two robed Orcs whose eyes glowed with simmering arcane energy. They more than doubled the size of the Minotaurs that Trunch had brought wit him. From within the Orc ranks, one of the taller warriors emerged and strode to where Galda Riverbeck was standing. She recalled seeing those black hairs and soft yellow eyes looking up in withheld pain as she worked over him during those chaotic days of the Great War. In those days, the Orcs had fought alongside Humans against the Elves over the region that they stood. The Orc's presence was a surprise to Trunch, who inwardly wondered why an Orc would hope defend a camp that contained the very Humans who would cavort with their previous mutual enemy. When the Orc stood next to Galda he nodded to Tambor and said in a deep voice and dire tone, "Manywounds."
The Minotaur returned his nod, "Hephaestor, I heard your people were moving the Borderlands." The Minotaur narrowed his eyes. Altogether, the region that all parties stood upon was originally Minotaur land. The only reason Orcs, Humans, and refugees stood on it now was the likes of both Human and Elven monarchies dumping their exiles into the buffer state between their realms. Still, the Minotaur appeared more attentive and respectful to his potential opponent over his employer.
"I shan't tell you your business, Tambor, but I will say that every member of this band accepts *the Cutter* as a member of our band. We are here to fight for her," Hephaestor Battleborn said, noting her title as a *Cutter,* or field surgeon.
Tambor gestured with his muzzle at his furtive employer, "We've been paid good coin to see this job through, Warlord. Why should I order my men to stand down?"
"We out number your Minotaur by at least two-to-one," Hephaestor countered.
Trunch had began to interrupt, trying to insert himself into the conversation when Tambor first glared at the Human before looking back at the grimacing Battleborn, "A two-to-one fight with a Minotaur is even in our eyes." The Minotaur said, "How serious are you seeing this through?"
Hephaestor showed his resolve by raising his right hand in the air while his left drew a curved knife from his belt. Without hesitation, and his yellow eyes staring directly into the polished onyx color of the Minotaur, he opened his hand with the bladed edge and allowed dark blood to pour upon the ground. Galda Riverbeck gasped and reached for the Orc, however he shook his head and noted: "I want to show the Minotaur how committed I am to seeing this fight if it comes to a fight." Mindful of Galda's protestations and their location possibly being in sight of the innocent, Hephaestor added, "If there is a fight, that is."
Tambor watched as the blood pooled in Hephaestor's wound with droplets of dark red blood spilling to the ground with a distinctive patter. The Minotaur turned his head and uttered a command in his native language. The Minotaur began to stand down at once.
"What is this?" Gregor asked, "Some stupid greenskin opens his hand up and you turn coward on me?" He asked.
Tambor took the insult, but his lips tightened, and Galda could see that the indignant and disrespectful Gregor Trunch was crossing a line with both tone and words. The Minotaur pointed out, "That Orc has shown his blood bond with the Cutter. That means he, and probably his band," His eyes flicked over the Warriors who were armed and shifting their weight anxious for a fight, "are willing to fight for the cause of defending the surgeon and the camp. What good is coin if you cannot spend it?"
"What good are mercenaries if they tuck tale at the first battle?" Gregor replied. His hand slapped the Minotaur upon his chain hauberk, "Now you draw and mo-" The Minotaur raised his fist and protested further interaction made by Trunch by hammering Gregor over his head. The motion was smooth, it took a moment's delay before Gregor's eyes rolled back into his head and he tipped backwards with blood pooling in his ears and lips. Tambor looked at the Cutter and her compatriots, he nodded at the Orc before turning on Gregor's former guardsmen.
"You can either draw and face my company, or you can run off. What do you want?" Neither bodyguard wished to face a bull Minotaur or his companions. They immediately turned upon whatever road they had come from and fled back.
"Was that really necessary?" Riverbeck asked, she gestured over the fallen Trunch. A few Orcs chuckled at the display of violence. Trunch's boots that continued to twtich despite being clearly dead or knocked unconscious by the attack.
"He would have just found others and made trouble," Tambor said before walking away. and nodding at his fellow Minotaur who followed suit.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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6th day, 3rd Moon of Solaria, 5th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
We've captured some greenskins - Sgt. Winters wants them alive. "Alive" he says, after he'd been using the last few POWs for swordsmanship practice. The beasts don't even get the luxury of being properly slaughtered. I've mended their wounds as best as I can, but I've no doubt they'll sustain more. The men have been voicing murderous thoughts, and not quietly. "Alive" doesn't mean "unharmed".
30th day, 4th Moon of Nyx, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Another settlement razed. We lost Marco and Davies in the process - good riddance. Their unsanctioned "interrogations" meant I'd had to dip into my healroot supplies. Sgt. Winters has admitted that the greenskins make good beasts of burden, but doesn't see the need to feed or care for them. "Cutter," he says, "the men are starting to talk". They can talk all they want, I'm the bloody reason half of them can even talk in the first place.
1st day, 1st Moon of Avis, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Winters is dead. Nothing to do about it. I thought I was making headway, but that plan's gone to shit. I'll have to do something drastic. They might say I've got "Greenfever" now, but after tonight... well. Mar'tuk swore that the men won't be harmed - I think. His accent is atrocious. Kill them if you have to, I say. Whatever gets the women and children free.
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heavy footsteps. Jangling metal. My executioner, or my torturer? I've asked the same question for so long, always with the same disappointing answer. There's a different quality this time around though, and for a moment I dare to hope. The door squeals open on its hinges and light stabs in - or at least tries to.
I blink.
A small army has assembled outside my cell.
"Kah'tar."
The word is murmured by many deep voices, carried gently with reverence. My eyes strain, and I see - I see my work. My early, slipshod stapling. The stitching, lit by candlelight. The broken bottle that had sailed past me while I'd struggled to keep them out of the tent-
"Ahn Kah'tar."
Smiling hurts, but I'm used to pain by now.
"I see your accent is as bad as ever, Mar'tuk. It's 'Anne', not 'Ahn'."
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Lost traveler lays on my floor,
pleads for help and nothing more,
shifting eyes in far off town,
lack of trust all around,
a cleansing herb and nothing more,
green warrior out the door...
​
Red of face, red of blood,
fleeing horrid rains and floods,
twirls his spear all around,
injured, sick, honor bound,
a week in bed, a little more
angry warrior out the door...
​
Scaly hide, broken face,
running away in some twisted race,
two feet tall yet much to say,
about that which took tail away,
long cast spell, not much more,
sneaky warrior out the door...
​
Almost a bull, somewhat polite,
almost a bit erudite,
bits of metal in his muscle,
quiet about apparent tussle,
operation, no needed more,
bulky warrior out the door...
​
Word of warning by familiar hand,
warning of attack so great and grand,
monsters planning retribution,
attacking is the found solution,
a word of warning and nothing more,
I find myself running out the door...
​
A close by hole, or rather a cave,
greeted by those I had chosen to save,
the orc grinned and raised his flagon,
to the alliance, under a dragon,
a home with friends and nothing more,
I bowed to the beast and walked in the door...
​
Please give me criticism I have no idea what I'm doing
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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They found the human puking in an alley.
Thorveig stood and watched him from across the way. The vomiting drunk hadn’t seen them yet, and probably wouldn’t any time soon. The buildings cast long shadows this far from the torchlight, and the full moon overhead added little. The drunk continued to wretch to the point of dry heaves.
To Thorveig’s left stood his son, Ragnar. He was slightly smaller than his father, but still broad and muscled. His hair was cut in a warrior’s stripe, plaited down his scalp. His hand rested idly on a sheathed dagger at his hip.
Ragnar pursed his lips and blew a quick burst of air around his tusks. In a hunter’s silent cant, it was a simple question: ‘Him?’
Thorveig responded with a small, sharp nod and a burst of air from his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
From behind them came a rapid cluck-cluck of a tongue. Ragnar glanced back to their third member, Grimnar. His shorn scalp was blackened with warpaint in a vicious triangle. He crouched behind them in between the buildings, and he gripped his dagger instead of resting his hand on it. His eyes betrayed his impatience. ‘Get on with it,’ they said. ‘I am eager to be gone from here.’ Ragnar looked back at Thorveig, who nodded once more. Across the street, the drunk had stopped wretching, and was crawling on his hands and knees towards the bottle that had rolled away.
The drunk crawled pathetically towards the bottle in the street. It glinted in the center of his bleary and tunneled vision, dancing back and forth in the moonlight as he padded towards it like a newborn. Just a little bit closer. The bottle was still about half full; that could keep him unconscious until tomorrow night if he finished it all. He reached out a trembling hand, but another was faster than he and grabbed the bottle. He started to whimper. He felt a pair of hands grasp him and lift him to his feet. He flinched away and covered his face.
“Oh, beggin your pardon,” the drunk slurred. “I’m gone home, really, just get my bottle and step on,” he pleaded with whoever was accosting him. The hands grabbing him were strong, stronger than he was on his best day. And he was far, far from his best days.
“Kurkusan,” The voice was iron in velvet, strong enough to pierce through the drunk’s fogged mind but not so loud as to attract attention. The drunk quit squeezing his eyes shut and lowered his hands from his face. Through his tears he saw a face he’d thought-he’d hoped-he’d never see again. Stern brow under a chieftain’s crest of hair, strong jaw with long tusks glinting.
“Thorveig…?” he slurred once more. His eyes drifted down and he shrugged his way out of the orc’s grip. The drunk leaned down, fumbling at the leather vest Thorveig was wearing. He staggered as he opened the vest, exposing a hideous scar that ran from the center of Thorveig’s chest and down towards his left hip. Thorveig opened his arms, fully vulnerable to the drunk’s inebriated ministrations. Ragnar stood to the side with the drunk’s bottle. His face was emotionless, but tiny flicks of his eyes and a subtle twitch of his ears showed his bewilderment to his father.
The drunk ran his fingers along Thorveig’s scar, examining. The trembling seemed to have left his fingers for a moment. He slurred again, inquisitive instead of fearful.
“S’ healing, then?” The alcohol made a mockery of enunciation. He stumbled back and looked Thorveig in the eye.
“Sit pain you at all? How’ur,” he paused to burp. “The muscles on that side. Mobility?” he swayed in front of the chieftain.
Thorveig gently grasped the drunk by his shoulders and smiled softly. “I am well, Kurkusan.”
At the sound of the name, the drunk’s face crumpled into anguish. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. His voice became thick.
“Don’ call me that.” He feebly tried to push the massive orc away. “Thass not me. Not. Me. ‘Nymore.”
“I call you by your name, the name of your people, Kurkusan,” Thorveig replied.
The drunk said nothing, crestfallen.
“Kurkusan, you are not well,” Thorveig continued.
“Come, brother. Let us help you.”
|
Lost traveler lays on my floor,
pleads for help and nothing more,
shifting eyes in far off town,
lack of trust all around,
a cleansing herb and nothing more,
green warrior out the door...
​
Red of face, red of blood,
fleeing horrid rains and floods,
twirls his spear all around,
injured, sick, honor bound,
a week in bed, a little more
angry warrior out the door...
​
Scaly hide, broken face,
running away in some twisted race,
two feet tall yet much to say,
about that which took tail away,
long cast spell, not much more,
sneaky warrior out the door...
​
Almost a bull, somewhat polite,
almost a bit erudite,
bits of metal in his muscle,
quiet about apparent tussle,
operation, no needed more,
bulky warrior out the door...
​
Word of warning by familiar hand,
warning of attack so great and grand,
monsters planning retribution,
attacking is the found solution,
a word of warning and nothing more,
I find myself running out the door...
​
A close by hole, or rather a cave,
greeted by those I had chosen to save,
the orc grinned and raised his flagon,
to the alliance, under a dragon,
a home with friends and nothing more,
I bowed to the beast and walked in the door...
​
Please give me criticism I have no idea what I'm doing
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
Florence's knees hurt. they always hurt these days. This was a hot one. Why do they always pick the hottest days to do their killing? She harrumphed.
There was no more time for her aches and pains or harrumphs. The first clash had happened. The rest of the day was the whirlwind of triage. Who to save. Who was past saving and had earned something to dull the pain as they crossed from this world to the next.
She snuck more into those draughts than the church would allow. Old magic. Forbidden to women and yet so much a part of her they would have to burn her alive before they could burn it from here. Out here on the fronts she hoped to go unnoticed. The men had taken to calling her Lucky Flo, the Orcs though. They had another word for her: Brother.
Oh, she'd argued with Kilrik, the massive greenskin sergeant who'd translated what they were calling her. He'd replied, "Jakka Flo no woman. Jakka Flo bleeds battle not children." And that was that.
In less than a year from that battle the inquisition came for her. Somehow they'd gotten one of her draughts. When her screams rang out over the camp as the witch finders sought to drive her power from her the men hid in their tents and spoke softly about what a shame it was for dear Flo.
Not so for the Orcs. The churchmen had only one cleric among them and though he called upon his angels to protect him and soldiers of the faith cut them deeply the Orcs fought with a ferocity few ever lived to tell about.
After the killing was done some of the men came round and stood with their Flo. They set put across the black wastes and that's how our land became the Queendom of Jakka Flo.
|
Lost traveler lays on my floor,
pleads for help and nothing more,
shifting eyes in far off town,
lack of trust all around,
a cleansing herb and nothing more,
green warrior out the door...
​
Red of face, red of blood,
fleeing horrid rains and floods,
twirls his spear all around,
injured, sick, honor bound,
a week in bed, a little more
angry warrior out the door...
​
Scaly hide, broken face,
running away in some twisted race,
two feet tall yet much to say,
about that which took tail away,
long cast spell, not much more,
sneaky warrior out the door...
​
Almost a bull, somewhat polite,
almost a bit erudite,
bits of metal in his muscle,
quiet about apparent tussle,
operation, no needed more,
bulky warrior out the door...
​
Word of warning by familiar hand,
warning of attack so great and grand,
monsters planning retribution,
attacking is the found solution,
a word of warning and nothing more,
I find myself running out the door...
​
A close by hole, or rather a cave,
greeted by those I had chosen to save,
the orc grinned and raised his flagon,
to the alliance, under a dragon,
a home with friends and nothing more,
I bowed to the beast and walked in the door...
​
Please give me criticism I have no idea what I'm doing
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
|
Lost traveler lays on my floor,
pleads for help and nothing more,
shifting eyes in far off town,
lack of trust all around,
a cleansing herb and nothing more,
green warrior out the door...
​
Red of face, red of blood,
fleeing horrid rains and floods,
twirls his spear all around,
injured, sick, honor bound,
a week in bed, a little more
angry warrior out the door...
​
Scaly hide, broken face,
running away in some twisted race,
two feet tall yet much to say,
about that which took tail away,
long cast spell, not much more,
sneaky warrior out the door...
​
Almost a bull, somewhat polite,
almost a bit erudite,
bits of metal in his muscle,
quiet about apparent tussle,
operation, no needed more,
bulky warrior out the door...
​
Word of warning by familiar hand,
warning of attack so great and grand,
monsters planning retribution,
attacking is the found solution,
a word of warning and nothing more,
I find myself running out the door...
​
A close by hole, or rather a cave,
greeted by those I had chosen to save,
the orc grinned and raised his flagon,
to the alliance, under a dragon,
a home with friends and nothing more,
I bowed to the beast and walked in the door...
​
Please give me criticism I have no idea what I'm doing
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
They found the human puking in an alley.
Thorveig stood and watched him from across the way. The vomiting drunk hadn’t seen them yet, and probably wouldn’t any time soon. The buildings cast long shadows this far from the torchlight, and the full moon overhead added little. The drunk continued to wretch to the point of dry heaves.
To Thorveig’s left stood his son, Ragnar. He was slightly smaller than his father, but still broad and muscled. His hair was cut in a warrior’s stripe, plaited down his scalp. His hand rested idly on a sheathed dagger at his hip.
Ragnar pursed his lips and blew a quick burst of air around his tusks. In a hunter’s silent cant, it was a simple question: ‘Him?’
Thorveig responded with a small, sharp nod and a burst of air from his nostrils. ‘Yes.’
From behind them came a rapid cluck-cluck of a tongue. Ragnar glanced back to their third member, Grimnar. His shorn scalp was blackened with warpaint in a vicious triangle. He crouched behind them in between the buildings, and he gripped his dagger instead of resting his hand on it. His eyes betrayed his impatience. ‘Get on with it,’ they said. ‘I am eager to be gone from here.’ Ragnar looked back at Thorveig, who nodded once more. Across the street, the drunk had stopped wretching, and was crawling on his hands and knees towards the bottle that had rolled away.
The drunk crawled pathetically towards the bottle in the street. It glinted in the center of his bleary and tunneled vision, dancing back and forth in the moonlight as he padded towards it like a newborn. Just a little bit closer. The bottle was still about half full; that could keep him unconscious until tomorrow night if he finished it all. He reached out a trembling hand, but another was faster than he and grabbed the bottle. He started to whimper. He felt a pair of hands grasp him and lift him to his feet. He flinched away and covered his face.
“Oh, beggin your pardon,” the drunk slurred. “I’m gone home, really, just get my bottle and step on,” he pleaded with whoever was accosting him. The hands grabbing him were strong, stronger than he was on his best day. And he was far, far from his best days.
“Kurkusan,” The voice was iron in velvet, strong enough to pierce through the drunk’s fogged mind but not so loud as to attract attention. The drunk quit squeezing his eyes shut and lowered his hands from his face. Through his tears he saw a face he’d thought-he’d hoped-he’d never see again. Stern brow under a chieftain’s crest of hair, strong jaw with long tusks glinting.
“Thorveig…?” he slurred once more. His eyes drifted down and he shrugged his way out of the orc’s grip. The drunk leaned down, fumbling at the leather vest Thorveig was wearing. He staggered as he opened the vest, exposing a hideous scar that ran from the center of Thorveig’s chest and down towards his left hip. Thorveig opened his arms, fully vulnerable to the drunk’s inebriated ministrations. Ragnar stood to the side with the drunk’s bottle. His face was emotionless, but tiny flicks of his eyes and a subtle twitch of his ears showed his bewilderment to his father.
The drunk ran his fingers along Thorveig’s scar, examining. The trembling seemed to have left his fingers for a moment. He slurred again, inquisitive instead of fearful.
“S’ healing, then?” The alcohol made a mockery of enunciation. He stumbled back and looked Thorveig in the eye.
“Sit pain you at all? How’ur,” he paused to burp. “The muscles on that side. Mobility?” he swayed in front of the chieftain.
Thorveig gently grasped the drunk by his shoulders and smiled softly. “I am well, Kurkusan.”
At the sound of the name, the drunk’s face crumpled into anguish. Tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. His voice became thick.
“Don’ call me that.” He feebly tried to push the massive orc away. “Thass not me. Not. Me. ‘Nymore.”
“I call you by your name, the name of your people, Kurkusan,” Thorveig replied.
The drunk said nothing, crestfallen.
“Kurkusan, you are not well,” Thorveig continued.
“Come, brother. Let us help you.”
|
6th day, 3rd Moon of Solaria, 5th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
We've captured some greenskins - Sgt. Winters wants them alive. "Alive" he says, after he'd been using the last few POWs for swordsmanship practice. The beasts don't even get the luxury of being properly slaughtered. I've mended their wounds as best as I can, but I've no doubt they'll sustain more. The men have been voicing murderous thoughts, and not quietly. "Alive" doesn't mean "unharmed".
30th day, 4th Moon of Nyx, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Another settlement razed. We lost Marco and Davies in the process - good riddance. Their unsanctioned "interrogations" meant I'd had to dip into my healroot supplies. Sgt. Winters has admitted that the greenskins make good beasts of burden, but doesn't see the need to feed or care for them. "Cutter," he says, "the men are starting to talk". They can talk all they want, I'm the bloody reason half of them can even talk in the first place.
1st day, 1st Moon of Avis, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Winters is dead. Nothing to do about it. I thought I was making headway, but that plan's gone to shit. I'll have to do something drastic. They might say I've got "Greenfever" now, but after tonight... well. Mar'tuk swore that the men won't be harmed - I think. His accent is atrocious. Kill them if you have to, I say. Whatever gets the women and children free.
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heavy footsteps. Jangling metal. My executioner, or my torturer? I've asked the same question for so long, always with the same disappointing answer. There's a different quality this time around though, and for a moment I dare to hope. The door squeals open on its hinges and light stabs in - or at least tries to.
I blink.
A small army has assembled outside my cell.
"Kah'tar."
The word is murmured by many deep voices, carried gently with reverence. My eyes strain, and I see - I see my work. My early, slipshod stapling. The stitching, lit by candlelight. The broken bottle that had sailed past me while I'd struggled to keep them out of the tent-
"Ahn Kah'tar."
Smiling hurts, but I'm used to pain by now.
"I see your accent is as bad as ever, Mar'tuk. It's 'Anne', not 'Ahn'."
|
|
[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
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6th day, 3rd Moon of Solaria, 5th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
We've captured some greenskins - Sgt. Winters wants them alive. "Alive" he says, after he'd been using the last few POWs for swordsmanship practice. The beasts don't even get the luxury of being properly slaughtered. I've mended their wounds as best as I can, but I've no doubt they'll sustain more. The men have been voicing murderous thoughts, and not quietly. "Alive" doesn't mean "unharmed".
30th day, 4th Moon of Nyx, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Another settlement razed. We lost Marco and Davies in the process - good riddance. Their unsanctioned "interrogations" meant I'd had to dip into my healroot supplies. Sgt. Winters has admitted that the greenskins make good beasts of burden, but doesn't see the need to feed or care for them. "Cutter," he says, "the men are starting to talk". They can talk all they want, I'm the bloody reason half of them can even talk in the first place.
1st day, 1st Moon of Avis, 6th Year of the Southern Subjugation Campaign
Winters is dead. Nothing to do about it. I thought I was making headway, but that plan's gone to shit. I'll have to do something drastic. They might say I've got "Greenfever" now, but after tonight... well. Mar'tuk swore that the men won't be harmed - I think. His accent is atrocious. Kill them if you have to, I say. Whatever gets the women and children free.
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Heavy footsteps. Jangling metal. My executioner, or my torturer? I've asked the same question for so long, always with the same disappointing answer. There's a different quality this time around though, and for a moment I dare to hope. The door squeals open on its hinges and light stabs in - or at least tries to.
I blink.
A small army has assembled outside my cell.
"Kah'tar."
The word is murmured by many deep voices, carried gently with reverence. My eyes strain, and I see - I see my work. My early, slipshod stapling. The stitching, lit by candlelight. The broken bottle that had sailed past me while I'd struggled to keep them out of the tent-
"Ahn Kah'tar."
Smiling hurts, but I'm used to pain by now.
"I see your accent is as bad as ever, Mar'tuk. It's 'Anne', not 'Ahn'."
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
|
Florence's knees hurt. they always hurt these days. This was a hot one. Why do they always pick the hottest days to do their killing? She harrumphed.
There was no more time for her aches and pains or harrumphs. The first clash had happened. The rest of the day was the whirlwind of triage. Who to save. Who was past saving and had earned something to dull the pain as they crossed from this world to the next.
She snuck more into those draughts than the church would allow. Old magic. Forbidden to women and yet so much a part of her they would have to burn her alive before they could burn it from here. Out here on the fronts she hoped to go unnoticed. The men had taken to calling her Lucky Flo, the Orcs though. They had another word for her: Brother.
Oh, she'd argued with Kilrik, the massive greenskin sergeant who'd translated what they were calling her. He'd replied, "Jakka Flo no woman. Jakka Flo bleeds battle not children." And that was that.
In less than a year from that battle the inquisition came for her. Somehow they'd gotten one of her draughts. When her screams rang out over the camp as the witch finders sought to drive her power from her the men hid in their tents and spoke softly about what a shame it was for dear Flo.
Not so for the Orcs. The churchmen had only one cleric among them and though he called upon his angels to protect him and soldiers of the faith cut them deeply the Orcs fought with a ferocity few ever lived to tell about.
After the killing was done some of the men came round and stood with their Flo. They set put across the black wastes and that's how our land became the Queendom of Jakka Flo.
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
|
It seemed so long ago, and honestly it had been. Near 17 years, through 3 war, comprising a half dozen campaigns each and only the gods know how many battles. But that was a life time ago that all lead to today and a new world.
A young man-at-arms like my father before me. My mother though, she had been a seamstress and had made sure I could do a straight, tight stitch for tending to both my clothes and my hide. Everyone knew I had good hands for it too. It had been a rough battle and the mace to my knee had not left me very mobile. That was when Lord Burrough had come for me, slapped me in an apprentice surgeons robe and had me taken over to our mercenaries. They were Orcs. Mostly filthy and smelled horrid but they were promised "medical aid" as part of their contract. With so many of our own injured as well I guess his lordship intended to uphold the contract in technicalities. Pain killers, booze, some salves and tons of needle and thread. "Stitch their wounds son. Save a few if you can it will look better that way." "Save a few" these fuckers had fought at our side, were thrown out front to absorb the worst of it, I'd do my damnedest. I saved all I could and gave to much "pain killer" to those who could not be saved so at least they could die easy. The warband leader died but most of his band didn't that day. His son, Gur'ton, gave me one of his father's teeth as thanks that day. Made no sense at all at the time.
We marched on but the real surgeons had determined I could not walk further, well I could not march to the pace of the Army. So, his lordship stuck me with the surgeons and tasked them with teaching me all they could before the next battle so I could better tend any Orc survivors and so the actual surgeons would not need to. I was amazed how well I took to it, so were the surgeons.
That was basically how that entire campaign went. Learn and practice what I learned patching up the Orcs. When the campaign came to an end the surgeons actually recommended I be sent to the halls of medicine to learn how to be a proper surgeon and it was actually approved. Sort of. I did not get the 6-10 years of training many surgeons did, 2 years, that was it. Forget the fancy journaling, forget the fancy language instructions and the history of X or Y, nope. I was to be an emergency field surgeon for treating mercenaries, non-humans, peasants and other such bottom levels of any given war campaign. A chop and stitch doc. I learned more than they intended though, herbs, tonics even some toxins that could be used for good as well as bad. Mostly though, I learned the body. How to patch it up, how to get things out and how to put things back. Thus it didn't surprise when after only 2 years I got pulled and sent back out on campaign. I was straight up encamped with the mercenaries. Human, Orc, who and whatever. I was their stitch. I got more gifts over the years too. Campaign after campaign. The humans were usually shits about getting patched up but the Orcs. When the patching was done the number of teeth I was given turned into a belt of it's own hanging on me alongside my other gear. Became useful as hell to. I'd long lost count the number of times I had some young, hurt, scared Orc come into my surgery on the edge of panic. I'd just shove that belt of teeth in his face and they would seemed stunned. They'd look at it, look at me, smile and lay down so I could get to work.
Heck over so many years I even learned the main Orcish dialect and three sub-dialects. This really raised my status with the lords as well as I could help translate in negotiations and, as I knew I would be camping with them anyway, I could always promise to be the surgeon marching with them and even be in their camp. Both the Orcs and the lords always loved that. Truth be told, the Orcs were better company. Among the lords and even the other surgeons I always remained an outsider, never fully accepted. Among the Orcs, my belt of teeth moved all but warchiefs themselves out of my way and I was always summoned if there was partying or celebration to be made. Shit that even led to me helping deliver Orc babies. Nowhere in any of the briefings had anyone ever mentioned the fact that larger Orc warbands were commonly comprised of both genders. The young and pregnant commonly dealt with camp duties while the strong and hardy dealt with the fighting. Oh lord and talk about equality. It was not just the Orc men who would lay claim to "companionship". Once I had become a surgeon I don't think I suffered any injuries greater than nights celebrating with one Orc warband or another when I would be claimed by some lady mountain of muscle who would be to drunk to remember to be gentle with the "stitch" that couldn't run away. Hell one broke my nose and gave me 2 black eyes with her cleavage not to mention nearly crushing my pelvis.
Honestly though, that was part of what felt wrong with this campaign. At least for me. No Orcs. We marched out 24,000 strong. 6,000 of them mercenaries, but no Orcs. A decent force for reinforcing one of the border Dukes who was under siege from a neighboring kingdom but with no Orcs it felt wrong somehow. Sure enough it was.
We came upon the enemy easily enough, our knights and cavalry more than up to the task of countering theirs. The infantry formed and the battle ranks met. Now Orcs, launch them into or around a flank or even right down the middle and they were out for blood. Their gods rewarded them for glorious deaths and even more for a glorious life of many battles and uncountable kills before death. These human mercenaries though. The first sign that they were in trouble and they broke and withdrew from the field. They did not even fall back to camp though, they split wide and away from battle showing they wanted no more of it. There went our left flank. The nobles chose to pull back in order and reform. Normally smart. The next morning though, the mercs banner flew in the enemy ranks. Overnight they had sold out and switched forces. To put it simply the next day was bad and we were forced back to and trapped holding in our camp on an island between the bridges over the great river Tollana. Water was not an issue but after 3 weeks food started to run short. It was on more than 1 dark night I found myself rubbing my fingers from tooth to tooth like prayer beads wishing to whatever might be listening that I was with the warbands where ever they might be.
After 3 weeks and being reduced to barely 3,000 men the nobles finally made terms. The nobles would be taken as honored prisoners to be ransomed home and to ensure the proper surrender of the Duchy the enemy had laid claim and siege to. The common men who could walk and fight, were put to work as slave labor. The men who could not walk, were executed on the spot by our own mercenaries turned enemy. Me, I was, am a field surgeon. Not a proper noble surgeon but a field surgeon at any rate. I was sent to tend to the new slave labor force. If someone was injured and I could stitch or patch them up enough to keep working they lived. If not, their heads would be caved in with a chunk of wood. Over the next 6 weeks I saw around 400 of my former comrades die this way. 6 weeks of living in a huge, flat pit under guard being marched out each day to work and then brought back to sleep through the dark with no fire and maybe 1 meal through the day. I was treated better than the common grunts but it was still a horrid living.
But that ended yesterday.
We knew something was up when the guard force was stripped nearly in half and everyone looked nervous. The sounds of battle in the distance told us something was happening. Had the enemy turned on the mercs? Had a new force from home come to punish the enemy and drive them from the Duchy. We waited to see if the archers on guard would fire trying to kill us all before some kind of rescue or if anyone would even come. Then we hear a new fight, closer to us and I could hear...a dream? Orcish, many tongues but all vaguely familiar. The guards rand from the towers but we still had no way out. That is until the gates opened and I heard someone bellow "stycha?"
After so many years I still recognized Gur'ton with ease. He was bigger, stronger and had lost an eye somewhere but looked fit and well as a warchief in his own right. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough it almost knocked me over and he nearly snatched me off the ground catching me in response.
"So a relief force came and hired you on. Good news."
"Hahaha, no stycha, shamans hear your prayers."
"What?"
"You pray on teeth of departed. Their souls ride from afterlife to shaman's ears. Save our son that not a son. Warbands join together and come get you take you home."
"Warbands? Not just yours?"
HAHAHA, you funy Stycha. I not have enough warriors do this but all heard, all from you got teeth. You ever see 30,000 Orc warrior descend on dumb tin cans hahaha? Come, all will want see you live."
"What about these men Gur'ton?"
"Men, hmmm, fine they run home or follow and get steel. They get chance or run like rabbits. No care. Now come, you need meet sons."
"It will be an honor to meet your sons Gur'ton."
"HAHAHAHA, not my sons Stycha, yours."
"Say what?"
So now we march back West, back to my old kingdom. The enemy forces were crushed with gleeful delight by my family, saving the Duchy and the hostage nobles. The rescued nobles offered great rewards if the Orcs would safely escort them home. I'm done though. I was never given time for wife and family by the nobles but now, it turns out I have more family than I could have dreamed. I think I'll talk to the warchiefs in camp tonight. Maybe start looking for some brains among each group and start training a new, valued position for each warband. The stychers.
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Sixty centimeters by twenty centimeters. These numbers defined her. Defined him. The sun shone with a soft light as fluffy white clouds passed slowly overhead. A swallow-tail kite flew above, gliding on the breeze as it sunned itself leisurely. The oak tree's many branches extended their leaves, catching the light rays to produce vivid jade hues, capturing the attention of the critters who called the tree home. Stretching a hand out, he could feel the cool air brush his fingertips. A perfect day if there ever was one. The soil was a rich brown. The type of color you just knew meant it was full of nutrients and would be perfect for growing.
The lull of the quiet morning was broken only by the constant chink of the shovel into the rich soil. The pile of disturbed earth growing on the side of that hole. A few crumbs of dirt landed on the pine box. Pink paint covered the hewn wood. Where the edges of the boards met one another, the paint had sealed the space, making sure no air entered. Not that air was needed.
Sixty centimeters by twenty centimeters. These numbers defined her. Defined him. With nothing more than a deep sigh and a heave out of the hole the workman was finished. He thanked the man, took his tools, and moved some distance away. A soft whistling tune floated through the air from his lips, melting in with the soft chirping of the nearby fowl.
Slow and steady movements brought the box from the edge of the hole into its shallow center. A few brushes with the backs of his hand dusted the remaining soil off the lid, leaving the box unsullied. Lily. A sweet name, he thought. Tears soon fell down his cheeks, his nose becoming red. On his knees he stared at the box, the pink paint, the stenciled letters. Movement behind him came closer, but he didn’t care. No, he no longer wanted to care. About anything. Hands soon landed on his back, soft and gentle.
No words came from the mysterious persons, only more hands. Small and large, rough and smooth, all gently touched him, letting him know he was not alone. But he was. He was defined by this box. With pink paint and stenciled letters, his life lay in a shallow pit. He could not gather the strength to look up for some time. When he did, the sky was still calm, but the clouds were pink and red hues, purple streaks crossed the sky. The birds no longer sang and the critters were calm. All had settled in their nests with their loved ones. But he couldn’t climb in the hole. He couldn’t be with his loved one.
He looked around and all he saw were the solemn faces of his many comrades. Friends and family he had made in, what once was, the darkest time of his life. No longer though. The shadow of misery was cast anew. Under the shade of a strong, healthy oak in a quiet meadow. With but a gesture all turned and walked with him. The soft sounds of dirt and metal arose from the worker’s duty. The pink was covered by brown, a little at a time, before none remained. Only a small stone to mark the spot and the disturbed patch of weeds. A name, no number.
He walked, head hung low, only to pass another stone. Another name, with numbers representing a lifetime of memories. Violet. And Lily. Defined by a few numbers, he left the quiet meadow.
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r/FoodforThoth
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Doctor Algor sat alone, pensively in his private study. For a great many years, Dr Algor served as a field surgeon with the Emperor’s elite First Battalion, and never spent much time in his own home. Why would he? The First Battalion was justly famed for it’s lightning-quick movement and uncanny ability to pop up damn near anywhere within and along the periphery of the Empire. Just as this famed slice of the Imperial Army was known for being made of the finest fighting Orcs to be found, the battalion was famous for the impossible feats of heroism and life-saving surgeries performed by Doctor Algor. Because of his skill, compassion and track record, there was never a human in the Empire that the Orcs respected more than the Doctor. Of course, nobody would dare say that out loud and risk the Emperor hearing it.
Decades ago, Dr Algor received the Gilded Cross, the highest medal of valor, for his role in the Battle of T’nairth. Soldier after soldier were mowed down by a fantastic killing engine that belched black smoke and swung multiple razor-sharp blades with terrifying force and speed. With little but distilled alcohol, a needle and buckhorn leather sinew, the Doctor sewed up gashing wounds, reattached severed limbs, and even removed arrowheads from the Emperor’s best soldiers. Had it not been for the bravery and skill of Doctor Algor, surely the battle would have been lost and half the battalion would have died.
But this was long, long ago. Unlike Orcs, humans age and slow down as their bodies slowly fall apart. While Orcs certainly do show age with gray hair and stiff joints, one cannot tell by watching them on the battlefield; they fight as strong and with nearly the same stamina at 100 as they do at 20. Doctor Algor eventually was forced to retire, as a seventy year old human simply cannot keep up with any Orc, except for maybe a child. Now though, Doctor Algor, who was now eighty years of age, had to face the single scariest battle of his life: the end.
A few months ago, the Doctor had complained to another physician about pains and swollen lumps in his neck. The other physician, Doctor Montor, knew what it was right away: wasting disease. There is no cure, and it will kill within a year. Recognizing that the end was coming soon, Doctor Algor began to become melancholy and withdrawn. Until a pounding knock came at the door.
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
The Doctor struggled to sit up straight and raise his voice enough to be heard. “Who-who is there?” he asked.
**BAM!**
**BAM!**
**BAM!**
“Alright, just come in and spare an old man the labor of getting the door,” he shouted. Moments later, the door creaked open, and standing in the doorway was an enormous Orc in full battle gear. He was at least seven feet tall, carried his lance in his left hand, and a broadsword in a scabbard on his belt. Draped across his fine steel armor was a tunic bearing the Imperial Colors and the seal of the First Battalion. Doctor Alcor squinted, but his vision was so poor now that he could not discern who this was. “Who are you?” he asked. “I am old and can barely see you.”
The Orc stepped into the house. “Great Doctor,” he said in a snarling, growl of a voice, “It is I, Golgar the Mighty.”
The Doctor’s spirits were immediately raised. “Golgar, my dear friend! How good it is to see you!”
“It is not just I,” replied Golgar. He motioned outside, where three hundred Orcs stood waiting, in full imperial battle gear. “You are ill, Doctor,” Golgar said with sympathy.
“Yes, my friend,” replied the dying doctor. “I have the wasting disease, and there is nothing to be done. Very soon I will go to meet my ancestors.”
“Can you stand, Doctor?” asked Golgar.
“Barely.” Doctor Algor struggled to stand, but lost his balance and fell back into his upholstered chair while coughing viciously. Seeing how weak the Doctor had become, Golgar was moved with compassion and walked up to the Doctor, and reached out his enormous warty hand.
“Come Doctor, it is time.” Golgar carefully picked up the frail old man and walked towards the door.
“Time – for – what?” Doctor Algor asked, barely able to catch his breath between words.
“It is time to move beyond this world and to the next.” As Golgar spoke, they emerged out of the house and into the brilliant September sunlight. Before Doctor Algor’s unbelieving eyes was the most spectacular of sights: on either side of them stood hundreds of Orcs, all who he recognized as soldiers that he had helped heal. Eglethorp, Y’artan, Fregar, Olix and the others – they were all there! The Doctor squinted in the light, seeing the brilliantly dyed banners of the color bearers billowing gently and the blistering sunlight gleaming off their immaculate steel armor.
“What – is – this, Golgar?” Doctor Algor asked, wheezing.
“It is something special, something earned. Throughout your life Doctor, you served the Empire and the First Battalion. You worked unceasingly to save us; we are your blood brothers. You have earned the right to be escorted to the afterlife by our battalion. It is an honor that no human has ever been afforded.”
Beside himself, Doctor Algor smiled as a few tears of joy streaked down his cheek. Egelthorp and Y’artan stepped from the crowd, carrying a steel litter with a sumptuous red velvet cushion. Golgar set the Doctor carefully in the seat, and it was hoisted upon Y’artan and Egelthorp’s shoulders. Golgar the Mighty stepped before the litter and began walking. As the bearers of the litter began to move, hundreds of Orcs pulled their swords from their scabbards and stood at attention.
“HAIL THE VICTORIOUS DEAD!” Golgar shouted as loud as possible.
The Orcs stamped their feet three times and yelled “HAIL!” in unison.
“HAIL THE EMPIRE!” Golgar yelled again.
“HAIL!” replied the mass of Orcs.
“HAIL DOCTOR ALCOR, BLOOD-BROTHER OF THE FIRST BATTALION!” Golgar screamed again.
“HAIL!” came the unified reply. As he was carried under the hot sun, Doctor Alcor began to feel lightheaded and woozy. He tried to pay full attention but found it increasingly difficult.
“MAY DOCTOR ALCOR FIND THE HALLS OF HIS ANCESTORS, AND MAY THE FAITHFUL DEAD GUARDIANS OF THE EMPIRE ESCORT ALCOR THROUGHOUT THE AFTERLIFE!”
“HAIL! HAIL! HAIL!” came the reply.
“ALL HAIL DOCTOR ALCOR!” Golgar yelled, somehow even louder than a scream.
Each and every Orc who was not in the procession stomped their feet unceasingly in perfect unison. “HAIL! HAIL! HAIL DOCTOR ALCOR! ALCOR! ALCOR! ALCOR! ALCOR!”
As the host of Orcs shouted his name, Doctor Alcor could feel his spirit begin to pull from his body. The light of the Sun and the army of Orcs faded away, and awaiting to escort him the the Halls of his Ancestors stood the spirits of thousands of Orcs.
In a single unified voice, the spirits of thousands of Orcs all yelled: “HAIL!”
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Sixty centimeters by twenty centimeters. These numbers defined her. Defined him. The sun shone with a soft light as fluffy white clouds passed slowly overhead. A swallow-tail kite flew above, gliding on the breeze as it sunned itself leisurely. The oak tree's many branches extended their leaves, catching the light rays to produce vivid jade hues, capturing the attention of the critters who called the tree home. Stretching a hand out, he could feel the cool air brush his fingertips. A perfect day if there ever was one. The soil was a rich brown. The type of color you just knew meant it was full of nutrients and would be perfect for growing.
The lull of the quiet morning was broken only by the constant chink of the shovel into the rich soil. The pile of disturbed earth growing on the side of that hole. A few crumbs of dirt landed on the pine box. Pink paint covered the hewn wood. Where the edges of the boards met one another, the paint had sealed the space, making sure no air entered. Not that air was needed.
Sixty centimeters by twenty centimeters. These numbers defined her. Defined him. With nothing more than a deep sigh and a heave out of the hole the workman was finished. He thanked the man, took his tools, and moved some distance away. A soft whistling tune floated through the air from his lips, melting in with the soft chirping of the nearby fowl.
Slow and steady movements brought the box from the edge of the hole into its shallow center. A few brushes with the backs of his hand dusted the remaining soil off the lid, leaving the box unsullied. Lily. A sweet name, he thought. Tears soon fell down his cheeks, his nose becoming red. On his knees he stared at the box, the pink paint, the stenciled letters. Movement behind him came closer, but he didn’t care. No, he no longer wanted to care. About anything. Hands soon landed on his back, soft and gentle.
No words came from the mysterious persons, only more hands. Small and large, rough and smooth, all gently touched him, letting him know he was not alone. But he was. He was defined by this box. With pink paint and stenciled letters, his life lay in a shallow pit. He could not gather the strength to look up for some time. When he did, the sky was still calm, but the clouds were pink and red hues, purple streaks crossed the sky. The birds no longer sang and the critters were calm. All had settled in their nests with their loved ones. But he couldn’t climb in the hole. He couldn’t be with his loved one.
He looked around and all he saw were the solemn faces of his many comrades. Friends and family he had made in, what once was, the darkest time of his life. No longer though. The shadow of misery was cast anew. Under the shade of a strong, healthy oak in a quiet meadow. With but a gesture all turned and walked with him. The soft sounds of dirt and metal arose from the worker’s duty. The pink was covered by brown, a little at a time, before none remained. Only a small stone to mark the spot and the disturbed patch of weeds. A name, no number.
He walked, head hung low, only to pass another stone. Another name, with numbers representing a lifetime of memories. Violet. And Lily. Defined by a few numbers, he left the quiet meadow.
\------
r/FoodforThoth
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Doctor Algor sat alone, pensively in his private study. For a great many years, Dr Algor served as a field surgeon with the Emperor’s elite First Battalion, and never spent much time in his own home. Why would he? The First Battalion was justly famed for it’s lightning-quick movement and uncanny ability to pop up damn near anywhere within and along the periphery of the Empire. Just as this famed slice of the Imperial Army was known for being made of the finest fighting Orcs to be found, the battalion was famous for the impossible feats of heroism and life-saving surgeries performed by Doctor Algor. Because of his skill, compassion and track record, there was never a human in the Empire that the Orcs respected more than the Doctor. Of course, nobody would dare say that out loud and risk the Emperor hearing it.
Decades ago, Dr Algor received the Gilded Cross, the highest medal of valor, for his role in the Battle of T’nairth. Soldier after soldier were mowed down by a fantastic killing engine that belched black smoke and swung multiple razor-sharp blades with terrifying force and speed. With little but distilled alcohol, a needle and buckhorn leather sinew, the Doctor sewed up gashing wounds, reattached severed limbs, and even removed arrowheads from the Emperor’s best soldiers. Had it not been for the bravery and skill of Doctor Algor, surely the battle would have been lost and half the battalion would have died.
But this was long, long ago. Unlike Orcs, humans age and slow down as their bodies slowly fall apart. While Orcs certainly do show age with gray hair and stiff joints, one cannot tell by watching them on the battlefield; they fight as strong and with nearly the same stamina at 100 as they do at 20. Doctor Algor eventually was forced to retire, as a seventy year old human simply cannot keep up with any Orc, except for maybe a child. Now though, Doctor Algor, who was now eighty years of age, had to face the single scariest battle of his life: the end.
A few months ago, the Doctor had complained to another physician about pains and swollen lumps in his neck. The other physician, Doctor Montor, knew what it was right away: wasting disease. There is no cure, and it will kill within a year. Recognizing that the end was coming soon, Doctor Algor began to become melancholy and withdrawn. Until a pounding knock came at the door.
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
The Doctor struggled to sit up straight and raise his voice enough to be heard. “Who-who is there?” he asked.
**BAM!**
**BAM!**
**BAM!**
“Alright, just come in and spare an old man the labor of getting the door,” he shouted. Moments later, the door creaked open, and standing in the doorway was an enormous Orc in full battle gear. He was at least seven feet tall, carried his lance in his left hand, and a broadsword in a scabbard on his belt. Draped across his fine steel armor was a tunic bearing the Imperial Colors and the seal of the First Battalion. Doctor Alcor squinted, but his vision was so poor now that he could not discern who this was. “Who are you?” he asked. “I am old and can barely see you.”
The Orc stepped into the house. “Great Doctor,” he said in a snarling, growl of a voice, “It is I, Golgar the Mighty.”
The Doctor’s spirits were immediately raised. “Golgar, my dear friend! How good it is to see you!”
“It is not just I,” replied Golgar. He motioned outside, where three hundred Orcs stood waiting, in full imperial battle gear. “You are ill, Doctor,” Golgar said with sympathy.
“Yes, my friend,” replied the dying doctor. “I have the wasting disease, and there is nothing to be done. Very soon I will go to meet my ancestors.”
“Can you stand, Doctor?” asked Golgar.
“Barely.” Doctor Algor struggled to stand, but lost his balance and fell back into his upholstered chair while coughing viciously. Seeing how weak the Doctor had become, Golgar was moved with compassion and walked up to the Doctor, and reached out his enormous warty hand.
“Come Doctor, it is time.” Golgar carefully picked up the frail old man and walked towards the door.
“Time – for – what?” Doctor Algor asked, barely able to catch his breath between words.
“It is time to move beyond this world and to the next.” As Golgar spoke, they emerged out of the house and into the brilliant September sunlight. Before Doctor Algor’s unbelieving eyes was the most spectacular of sights: on either side of them stood hundreds of Orcs, all who he recognized as soldiers that he had helped heal. Eglethorp, Y’artan, Fregar, Olix and the others – they were all there! The Doctor squinted in the light, seeing the brilliantly dyed banners of the color bearers billowing gently and the blistering sunlight gleaming off their immaculate steel armor.
“What – is – this, Golgar?” Doctor Algor asked, wheezing.
“It is something special, something earned. Throughout your life Doctor, you served the Empire and the First Battalion. You worked unceasingly to save us; we are your blood brothers. You have earned the right to be escorted to the afterlife by our battalion. It is an honor that no human has ever been afforded.”
Beside himself, Doctor Algor smiled as a few tears of joy streaked down his cheek. Egelthorp and Y’artan stepped from the crowd, carrying a steel litter with a sumptuous red velvet cushion. Golgar set the Doctor carefully in the seat, and it was hoisted upon Y’artan and Egelthorp’s shoulders. Golgar the Mighty stepped before the litter and began walking. As the bearers of the litter began to move, hundreds of Orcs pulled their swords from their scabbards and stood at attention.
“HAIL THE VICTORIOUS DEAD!” Golgar shouted as loud as possible.
The Orcs stamped their feet three times and yelled “HAIL!” in unison.
“HAIL THE EMPIRE!” Golgar yelled again.
“HAIL!” replied the mass of Orcs.
“HAIL DOCTOR ALCOR, BLOOD-BROTHER OF THE FIRST BATTALION!” Golgar screamed again.
“HAIL!” came the unified reply. As he was carried under the hot sun, Doctor Alcor began to feel lightheaded and woozy. He tried to pay full attention but found it increasingly difficult.
“MAY DOCTOR ALCOR FIND THE HALLS OF HIS ANCESTORS, AND MAY THE FAITHFUL DEAD GUARDIANS OF THE EMPIRE ESCORT ALCOR THROUGHOUT THE AFTERLIFE!”
“HAIL! HAIL! HAIL!” came the reply.
“ALL HAIL DOCTOR ALCOR!” Golgar yelled, somehow even louder than a scream.
Each and every Orc who was not in the procession stomped their feet unceasingly in perfect unison. “HAIL! HAIL! HAIL DOCTOR ALCOR! ALCOR! ALCOR! ALCOR! ALCOR!”
As the host of Orcs shouted his name, Doctor Alcor could feel his spirit begin to pull from his body. The light of the Sun and the army of Orcs faded away, and awaiting to escort him the the Halls of his Ancestors stood the spirits of thousands of Orcs.
In a single unified voice, the spirits of thousands of Orcs all yelled: “HAIL!”
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"I am the Healer of Wynn! When I donned this mantle of responsibility, I made an oath. "*Protect thy Patients and do no Harm*". I have lived by this oath, and if needed, I will die by it!" A man dark hair, edged with gray shouted in defiance. His garb, a white robe with a symbol of a moon over a red sun, marked him as one of the few that had completed the ten years of training it took to earn said robe. Yet, this white robe was stained in blood up to the man's elbows, though none of it belonged to the man himself.
Instead, it came from the numerous injured soldiers behind him that were trying to leave as this single healer stood before a warband of fifty, armed with nothing more than a staff in one hand and an unused splint in the other.
The fleeing injured behind him had been abandoned by their army in the face of the Tarakan army that had been gaining ground since this battle started. While the other medics had long since fled with the main bulk of the army, this one healer opted to remain behind, refusing to abandon any of the injured, even if said decision might cost him his life.
A chorus of laughter came from the Tarakan warband at the healer's resolve in the face of such overwhelming odds, yet eventually it tittered out as one of the soldiers, garbed in black armor with a helmet decorated by metal wings of an eagle approached.
"Healer of Wynn, how do you assume to defend these injured men when you yourself have stated to do no harm? This defiance, while admirable, will mean nothing but another body to add to the pyre." The soldier stated with a mocking tone, "Just walk away. Living beyond this battle will save more people in the long term than dying for these paltry few behind you."
"You're right. I could save more in the long term," The helmeted soldier's posture started to become more relaxed at this declaration, "but that would also mean that I would be breaking my oath to protect my patients!" The healer shouted as he brandished his staff in a defensive posture. "I won't harm you, yet it doesn't mean that I can't block your attacks. So come, army of cutthroats, butchers, and murderers! I may be a simple healer, but I will hold the line!"
Immediately upon stating this, the armored man brandished his sword while looking ready to charge. The rest of the war band followed his actions, waiting for their leader's signal. "Avoid destroying his head! I plan to mount it on a pike when we're through!" A roar from the war band answered the leader's command.
Just as the warband was to charge, a javelin flew over the shoulder of the healer at a speed no human could replicate before slamming into the chestplate of the leader. The force behind the javelin was so great, that even after it penetrated the warrior, it carried him off his feet and made him slam into two of the soldiers behind him.
Following this, a single, inhuman cry echoed across the battlefield, "***Uldra Jakul!***"
Of the soldier on the battlefield that could understand orcish, the words roughly translated as "*Defend the Brother*", something which none of them could understand.
And, as if opening a floodgate, many more cries of Uldra Jakul sounded from numerous voices that surrounded the battlefield. None of the war band understood why and how, in the next moment, they were completely surrounded by a sea of heavily-muscled, green-skinned orcs. Each and every single one of these orcs looked ready for murder.
With a smile of relief and happiness, the healer finally answered what was on the minds of all the Tarakan soldiers, "As I have said before, I'm sworn to do no harm! That said, my blood-brothers hold no such reservations!"
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[WP] A field surgeon in a fantasy world has performed life saving surgery on many an orc war band before, unwittingly becoming blood brothers with most of his patients. In his darkest days, his extended family comes to offer their hands.
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Geron nodded at the orc and attempted to squeeze passed his massive frame to get into the building.
The orc smiled and stepped aside, letting him enter.
Geron gave a quick thanks before rushing to the clerk’s desk.
“Hi, Geron. You’ve really got a way with the orcs, doc. I’ve been watching people push their way through all day without Anen budging an inch. The orcs take their guarding seriously,” Cavan said as he approached the desk. He peered passed Geron where Anen had likely gone back to half-blocking the entryway.
“Well, they’re a serious people.” Especially with debts, and although Geron often explained he only did his job, many of the orcs in the unit felt indebted for his treatments, treating him with a kindness they often reserved only for their own. “Any letters for me, Cavan?” Geron asked, although he already knew there would be. His son always sent a letter to arrive at the beginning of the month.
“Hold on, let me check. I’m pretty sure I saw one,” Cavan said, heading back to check the mail slots. He peered around a shelf before pulling one out. “Here we are! Oh, not from your son this time.”
Confused, Geron took the letter and stepped aside for the person now waiting behind him after managing to make it passed Anen.
Cavan was likely right. The letter in his hands was white and pristine, nothing like the usual mess Sabin always sent. Realizing he had no letter opener, Geron looked back to ask Cavan for one, only to see he was busy helping the other soldier.
He reluctantly tore the letter open with his teeth, though he always hated the taste of paper.
But that taste was forgotten a moment later as his mouth went dry. The letter was from Aelle, an old orcish soldier Geron had once saved who had long since transferred to a desk job back in Intelligence. The letter spoke of Aelle’s regret for reaching out with bad news, but he had felt a duty to inform Geron of such an important matter. Sabin was in danger.
He was stuck defending Bicros on the Eastern Front, and the line had fallen back. By the time this letter had arrived, the city had already been surrounded and cut off.
Geron dropped the letter to the ground and soon followed it as his legs gave.
Cavan noticed and let out a shout of concern, asking Geron questions that, for the life of him, he couldn’t make out. The ringing in his ears was deafening. The room was spinning, his chest tight.
Geron was lifted into the air and made to look at a familiar face.
Anen had picked him up off the ground.
“Look at me, doctor. Look at me,” he said, shaking Geron a little when he failed to comply. “You’re alright. You’re safe. What troubles you?”
Geron stared at him in silence for a moment, too overwhelmed to speak.
“My son,” he finally said.
Anen kept his gaze on him, his look prompting for more information.
“My son isn’t safe. He might be dead already. I… I don’t even know,” Geron continued. The words kept coming, unable to stop once he started. “He’s trapped in Bicros without support and the Fethvulli are sieging the city. I can’t help him, I can’t even go to him. He’s practically alone out there.”
“No,” Anen said, placing Geron back on the floor. “You are blood brother to the orcish, doctor. You have done much for my people. He is your son, blood of my blood, and orcs are never alone. We will save him, brother. Come, we must speak with the others.”
***
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The old surgeon sat at his wooden desk, tapping his finger away at the paper. It was a notice that he noted, from Duke Walton.
Gallen crumbled the paper, but unraveled it and attempted to straighten it out with his forearm. He pictured the fat Duke indulging in ale and sweets as his sticky fingers signed off on the notice, the notice of eviction.
Who was the Duke to cast away such a skilled and respected surgeon, that spent his few spurts of free time operating on the poor. Gallen swallowed the nasty thoughts and washed it away with a swig of strong whiskey. He held his feathered pen in hand, which shook uncontrollably.
This issue, of course, was not to blame on his pure anger, though it did nothing to help it. It was his age that was getting the best of him. The once steady hand that saved many lives on and off the battlefield was not as sharp as it once was. Gallen's mind, however, failed to falter in the older years, which caused quite a bit of internal conflict that may have been taken out on a young baker or two, but nothing too serious, and the outburst was hopefully forgiven from the generous tip during his next visit.
A loud bang at the door snapped Gallen back to his reality. He got to his shaky legs and swung the door open. Standing before him was an adolescent orc, who'd already shaped himself into a strong human.
Gallen sized the orc up and down. "Can I help you?" he asked.
The orc held a paper out to him. Gallen hesitated to grab it, fearful of another piece of paper condemning him to a life of turmoil.
He grabbed it and examined the sloppy words. Words of an orc, Gallen quickly realized.
"My father, Gorlo, sent me," the orc said. "You saved his life long ago, do you remember?"
Gallen did much more than remembering. He felt the hot blood of the orc ooze out of his neck, spraying all over his forearms. The surgeon held the mighty orc down, screaming for supplies. His assistant ran over, and Gallen patched up the mortal wound by stitching it shut and quickly searing it together.
"I do," Gallen said softly. "This letter is unclear and signed by many. What exactly is this?"
Gallen knew an orc expressed themselves more in physical prowess, not ink and paper, so he tried his best to understand what the vague message was for, though that proved difficult because the theme of an orc's writing usually followed that of distastefulness more than the message they wanted to be conveyed.
"It's an invitation," the young orc said. "To your new home. We've heard about your troubles. And my father wants to make things right, as it is customary between blood brothers bound by combat."
*Blood brothers?* Gallen puzzled.
The orc brought Gallen to an old farmstead. A group of shirtless orcs hammered away at fresh wood, forming, to what Gallen thought, to be a home.
The largest orc strutted over, his large neck scar clearly visible.
"Brother," Gorlo said as he hugged the old surgeon. "We've heard about the workings of the nasty Duke. How a man could be so cruel is unheard of with us orcs. But we know there are good man, such as yourself."
"This is all for me?" Gallen said with his jaw hanging low. He awed at the large home being constructed, which had to of been four times the size of his cramped cottage back in town.
"It is," the orc said as he wrapped his arm around the surgeon's shoulder. "This is free land as well, out of reach from the greasy claws of the Duke. It should be done by month's end. We do have a camp set up, so you'll have a good place to rest your head until it is done."
Tears birthed from Gallen's eyes as he went in for another hug.
"Thank you," the surgeon said. "Thank you so much."
r/AJHWriting
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[WP] Write a laid-back, rather mundane story about a person going about their day in a world where magical abilities and other similar phenomena are commonplace.
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“Maggie? We’re just reviewing last night’s homework. You should have already taken notes.”
Alexandra looked over to the girl in the class that her teacher had spoken to, realizing that she actually didn’t recognize her. Thinking back, she remembered that Jessica had been gossiping with some other girls at the lunch table about a girl named Maggie, how she had been absent for a while and had only just now come back to school.
Maggie was, in fact, completely zoned out. Letting her mental feelers out a bit, since she usually kept them tightly constrained while at school, Alexandra’s eyes widened at what she felt.
“Maggie? What are you writing?” Ms. Turner asked, walking a few paces toward the teenager. “*Maggie?*”
“What?” Maggie asked, suddenly looking up, startled. Giggles echoed through the class.
“Anything you’d like to share with the class?” the teacher asked, walking over to Maggie’s side.
Maggie went slightly pale, promptly shutting the notebook. “No. Sorry.”
“You do understand that it is quite insulting to me to be doing homework from other classes when I’m trying to teach, right?” Ms. Turner asked. She pulled the notebook from Maggie’s hands and opened it.
“I’m not–I just, I’m sorry,” Maggie said, leaning forward anxiously as her teacher started to read what she’d been writing. “Please, give it back.”
“Creative writing. You don’t think the rest of the class would appreciate hearing some of this?” Ms. Turner asked with a stiff smile, prompting the blood to drain from Maggie’s face.
“What is your problem?” Alexandra suddenly spoke up loudly.
Ms. Turner glanced to Alexandra. “Excuse me?”
“What is with teachers getting off on humiliating students?” she asked. “Is it entertaining to you?”
The teacher glared at her, tensing. “You’re being extremely rude,” Ms. Turner said. “I’d like an apology. Right now.”
“From me?” Alexandra exclaimed. “You’re the one who should apologize. Why are you being such a bitch?”
Ms. Turner put the notebook down on Maggie’s desk with a slap and the girl quickly snatched it up and put it back in her backpack as the rest of the class smothered grins and incredulous laughter. “Gather your things,” the teacher spoke tersely, pointing to Alexandra’s backpack. “Down to the office. Now.”
Alexandra rolled her eyes but did as she was told. As she left the room, she completely let down her mental walls, looking to Maggie and meeting her gaze. And just as Maggie’s eyes widened in astonishment, Alexandra exited the classroom.
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[Poem]
Flashes of green and purple in the sky,
A tunnel of dark fumes shooting upwards into the sky,
Dark cloaked shadows surrounding a pentagram of fire,
I walked along the street, head down, mind in the clouds.
Another day at work, another day wasted.
Crossing paths with dark mages drinking steamy potion in cafés,
Jumping out of the way before getting liquified by a catapult launched by drakiers.
The day couldn't get any more boring.
Wishing for something, something I didn't know I could have,
I wished on the thousands of three-leaf shamrocks,
Expecting it to actually do something, to actually make life just a bit more,
Mundane.
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[WP] Write a laid-back, rather mundane story about a person going about their day in a world where magical abilities and other similar phenomena are commonplace.
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The alarm clock buzzed to life as Edora groaned and shifted under the blankets. It was warm and comfortable and much like humans, she believed early mornings would kill her.
Rolling out of bed she pushed herself out and turned off the alarm. Muttering a simple prestidigitation spell her bed made itself as she slogged her way to the shower and got ready for another day at the news office.
Pulling her hair back she slowly heated it to quickly dry her hair and moved to the kitchen for some breakfast. Making eggs and toast she ate heartedly and then gathered her items to head to work.
The hustle and bustle of the street was pushing in and she slid into a coffee shop where she could get something akin to fuel for the morning.
Smiling at the barista she waited in line as the other races and folk of the world got their morning joe and snacks to make their day start a bit easier and she too ended up getting her vanilla latte. Dodging a pair of pixies as they bickered over a scone and stepped onto the tram for her commute to work.
She got off at the station and nodded a greeting to the orc security officer who glowered at everyone but returned her nod politely. Yawning as she threw away her empty cup she walked into the Expanse Column and waved to her centaur coworker and nodded to her editor in cheif, a gnome who walked around making sure everything was going well.
Sliding into her desk she opened her inbox to see what needed to be done for the day.
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[Poem]
Flashes of green and purple in the sky,
A tunnel of dark fumes shooting upwards into the sky,
Dark cloaked shadows surrounding a pentagram of fire,
I walked along the street, head down, mind in the clouds.
Another day at work, another day wasted.
Crossing paths with dark mages drinking steamy potion in cafés,
Jumping out of the way before getting liquified by a catapult launched by drakiers.
The day couldn't get any more boring.
Wishing for something, something I didn't know I could have,
I wished on the thousands of three-leaf shamrocks,
Expecting it to actually do something, to actually make life just a bit more,
Mundane.
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[WP] After a sudden car accident, you go to heaven, a giant hotel filled with different generations of families. After meeting up with your distant ancestors and other guests, you begin waiting for your parents to arrive....It has been 10,000 years now, and you're starting to have some questions.
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It was a bit awkward at first, I have to admit. I mean, meeting so many people for the first time who lived in such different time periods and were only connected to me by that ever thinning strand of DNA. And through the monitors in every room they got to watch me go through my life while I was unaware.
Trust me, you don't know 'embarrassment' until your great great great grand uncle starts discussing your porn preferences with you.
You get used to it though.
I call everyone by their first name here, because going by the familial ties we share is just a damn mouthful.
It's been nice here, I have to admit. Everything I've needed just pops into existence, no worrying about money for rent or anything. No sickness or injury.
There is only one Hotel, I've learned, as every single human is connected in some way. There is technically no 'outside' that we residents have access to, but everything you need can be found here.
The Heaven Haven Hotel is ever growing, on the first floor are the oldest ancestors of the human race.
Not 'Adam' and 'Eve' surprisingly, I thought since Heaven was real they would be too. I guess that's just what happens when the Holy Book is human edited.
I've spent a lot of time meeting and getting to know everyone here, and I've seen my fair share of new arrival. Everyone stays around the same age I'd estimate just from how we all look. If they die before that age, then they come here and grow up gradually. Seeing my infant niece in the foyer kind of broke my heart. I can't wait until my sister comes here to see what a lovely woman she grew into.
Time is kind of a weird concept to me now. We don't need to sleep, but we still can if we want to. The brilliant light outside only dims in your room when you want it to.
So it took me a long time to realize that the people I was really looking forward to seeing again have yet to make their appearance. Where were my parents? They should have showed up a long time ago, right?
*Everyone* ever born ends up in the Hotel. If they've been a bad sort in their life, they go through a program that shows them the errors of their ways before they get dropped off here.
I didn't have to go through the program, and no one will tell me what it entails. Adolf went a bit pale when I asked him about it one day and clammed up. Whatever it is, it's got to be really effective.
I decided to ask the Manager, putting in a request to see Them at Their earliest convenience.
I was in the middle of a rather competitive tennis match with Kayla (great x5 grandmother, I think) when his assistant came to find me.
Gabriel was a harried looking blond man with a tie that was never straight. I wonder if the Manager makes him wear the tie, or if that's just an aesthetic choice? Seems a bit unfair, as all of the residents wear only the most comfortable clothes. It's been a few decades at least since I've worn anything but pajamas.
"Miss Heather, the Manager can see you now." He said respectfully.
Kayla and I dropped our racquets, and they immediately disappeared. I waved to her and followed Gabriel out to the elevator, which appeared whenever and wherever we needed it.
Gabriel started flipping through a sheaf of papers when we stepped onto it, pulling a red pen out of nowhere and baring down on the clipboard that was suddenly holding the papers. He started writing furiously and I pointedly did not try to read it. That would be rude.
The elevator dinged pleasantly as we arrived at the floor that held the Manager's office and Gabriel scurried off ahead of me, opening the Manager's door for me as if it was an afterthought.
The Manager was magnificent in their chair. I could not describe them to you in words you could understand.
They glanced up at me with a kind smile. "Heather, what can I do for you?"
I was not nervous in Their Divine Presence, as the Manager has never been anything but kind in our few brief interactions. "I was wondering about my parents actually." I admitted to Them. "It's been a while, and everyone else in my family has shown up but them."
"Ah. Yes, your parents May and Michael. They've actually opted out of staying at the Hotel in favor of helping me run my outreach program for particularly wayward souls." The Manager explained. "They'll be in once the entirety of humanity has run its course and everyone has passed the program requirements."
Of course! The outreach program that helped people like Adolf and Josef!
My parents were both teachers during my life, mom was qualified for grades kindergarten to 5th, and dad could handle high school to certain specialty college programs. They were strict with my sister and I growing up, but never unkind. If anyone could change a soul it was them.
I smiled at the Manager, and They smiled back. Hell may not exist, but my parents' students were probably wishing it did.
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"Aw, they'll be here soon, I'm sure!" The receptionist's honeyed voice had grown a little tiresome to hear. I just gave her a weak grin and nodded.
The souls came by once a year. The dropoff had just happened and once again, mom and dad were missing. I'd kinda just assumed at this point, they must be immortal. Maybe gods. Maybe God. Who knows? I'd stopped caring but I still had to ask.
I'd made a life for myself here. Or... well not a life but a place. I'd met people, almost everyone it seemed, even if I knew that was impossible, and I'd made friends. Friends with my best friend's grown great granddaughter, she was a hoot and older than me, which had been weird at first but I got over it. Friends with, ironically, the grandfather of the boy who bullied me in school. Everyone I knew, I was able to trace the steps removed back to me and it did make me laugh a bit.
So no parents but who needed 'em?
...apparently I did because when I returned to my room that night to find a note on my pillow saying *Meet me by the fountain at 1:30 AM. I have news about your parents* I sprinted down there, hours early, and waited. I dismissed the questions of any who gave me odd looks after realizing I'd not abandoned my post at the fountain for three hours but I stayed. I stayed until the allocated hour and didn't budge.
"You know." The voice made me jump and I whirled to find a young woman standing beside me. "The idea of a meetup place is to avoid suspicion. Otherwise, I'd have just knocked."
"Oh." I felt foolish but the feeling didn't last long. "You said-"
"Yes yes! Goodness. I can't believe I'm about to tell you this. You. You, who rushed to a meeting spot 6 hours early are about to learn about the Conspiracy of Heaven."
"The what now?"
She glared at my interruption. "Lotta 'paranoid' folks back home were shunned for their beliefs in something greater, something our religious, scientific, and political leaders alike wouldn't tell us. So the Conspiracy of Heaven was formed. We weren't your classic beatniks with long hair and dumb, wide eyes. No, we had resources. And it wasn't long before we dug stuff up."
I just kinda blankly stared, waiting for it to make sense. She was annoyed with my disinterest but really, she'd come about my *parents*. Why did I care about some mortal conspiracy?
Apparently this CoH group had spread to be a worldwide organization. They'd had hackers and espionage and field agents. They'd uncovered massive scandals, some real Illuminati shit, the kind of thing that would honestly have fascinated me when I was alive. Or recently dead. Or 100 years dead. By now I'd kinda heard crazier.
"One of our agents had to seduce the son of the current president." Her voice dropped. "A child was the result. But of course, a field agent couldn't raise a boy and she wasn't ready to quit her job, so the child was placed with other agents within our community until his untimely death a day after his 18th birthday."
"They're here?"
"I'm sorry?"
"My parents. All of them I guess. Adopted, biological, they're here."
"Oh yes."
"Then why haven't they..."
This... this did leave me cold. Somehow the notion that my parents had died and simply hadn't *found* me, hadn't *looked*, that left me colder than did some fantasy of them being gods.
"The fight isn't over. There's a reason it's called the Conspiracy of Heaven." She launched on to explain about their crusade against God.
"Wait," I interrupted after internalizing almost nothing that she'd said. "So you're telling me, the family that raised me, mom and dad, they died and just didn't find me because, what, they were still fighting against the heavenly bellhop himself? Or-" I blinked fiercely and swiped my eyes. "Or is it because, as agents who were just put in charge of raising me, it was all a charade and they just... don't want to find me."
Her lips grew tight and for a moment, I knew, it was the second. It was the second and my little afterlife was about to grow all the darker.
Then her eyes softened. "The first. God they talked about you all the time. They can't wait to see you."
My heart skipped and the mucus that had built in my throat suddenly came loose as my nose began to run and my eyes teared up.
"I can see them?"
Her face grew serious. "Hopefully. Something went wrong with their latest mission. In fact, a lot of somethings have been going wrong. We need help because a lot of our best agents have gone missing. We need help."
I nodded and swiped my eyes. "Just tell me what you want."
"It's dangerous-"
"I've enjoyed placid safety for millennia. I'm ready for some danger." If it meant I got to see mom and dad again... "I need to apologize."
"Apologize?"
"I was-God I was driving home too fast. It's so stupid, seems so dumb now, but Sarah, they'll remember her, she said she'd go out with me." I laughed but it caught in my throat. "And I shared everything with them. I knew they'd be so excited for me so I sped home and there was this dumptruck and I just want to apologize."
Her face crumpled a bit at this and she put a hand on my shoulder. "It'll be alright, kid. You can do that once you help me rescue them. Sound good?"
I nodded. "What do you need me to do?"
She grinned grimly. "New meeting place for a new briefing. Don't be early this time?"
\---
I met up with Agent Lacey at the pool that evening, waiting for the kid to meet us. She looked agitated.
"And you said he'd come?"
"Positive," I said. "He was crying by the end, completely eager."
"What did you tell him?"
Here I hesitated. He'd been so crushed at the idea that his adopted parents might have just seen him as another job that I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell him. A lie had been easier and more productive but Agent Lacey still had a twinge of sympathy for him. A soft spot.
"What I had to. Do you know what he looks like?"
"Not like me?" she asked, her grey eyes conflicted.
"Actually he does have your eyes. Otherwise he's a spitting image of that first son of the president's." I grinned and she rolled her eyes.
"Never again."
"You say that every time."
Then we trailed to silence as we heard footsteps echo through the room. A moment later, the boy arrived, face eager and ready for what we had to throw at him.
Lacey was all business, you never would have guessed her connection to the kid, and I had to keep it together.
Fighting God was no place for some spots and twinges of sympathy. Too much depended on it. We were gonna keep fighting or burn in hell for eternity and I wasn't yet ready to be crisped. This might not go well, I had no way of knowing, but I knew we had to try.
And I knew when we *did* rescue the agents that had adopted this kid, they might just wish for the hell we'd rescued them from.
___
Find more stories at [r/SamaraWrites](https://www.reddit.com/r/SamaraWrites/)
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[WP] You and your party were sent by the king to kill a Necromancer has taken refuge at the edge of the kingdom, along with an army of undead warriors; but when you find him you discover he's not interested in taking over the kingdom, and is focused on fighting of the creatures of the nearby wastes.
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"So, his Royal Highness hired you to kill me? Ah, how easily mortals forget."
The ancient Lich had been sat at a table, glancing at a myriad of maps and documents, when our party broke in. Now it sat back in its chair, one good eye fixed upon the party, while where the other eye should be, a mess of scarred and rotten flesh glowed with a faint magical aura.
A paladin of the Eternal Light, silver accented armour shined to a gleam, was the first of the party to react. Drawing a sword glowing with holy light, they charged across the room.
"I don't care what you have to say, die worm!"
The Lich sighed and snapped its fingers, suspending the paladin in a magic stasis. It then turned to the rest of the party, rising from its seat, its bad eye now pulsating with a deep red aura.
"Everything I did, I did for the Realm! You call me a worm, but by the grace of King Samuel the fourth, I was given a chance for redemption. For ninety years I have fought, my army-"
The paladin, struggling against the magic field, shouted at the Lich.
"Fought? You've been gathering a army to overthrow the Kingdom for ninety years, we are here to stop you from letting your Darkness overrun us!"
The Lich paused, the red aura fading away, before answering.
"MY Darkness? How quick to forget... I came here as the Kingdoms shield, a living army at my command. For twenty years they fought, and fell. Buried. My requests for reinforcements denied. 'We can't afford to send more men, make do with what you have.' 'Why would you need more men, the darkness hasn't broken your line?' The Darkness was infinite, my men were not. After thirty years almost all of them were dead, the few still breathing old men, past their prime. The Darkness kept encroaching, so I fell back onto my past transgressions, raising the fallen to fight on. And now, sixty years later, here you are, ready to destroy me, and unleash the Darkness."
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The necromancer had no known name, title, or pseudonym. There was little information about him, and what we did know didn't help a lot: he was (or had been, lich status was still unkown) a human male, who lived in a small town at the borders of the duchy of Galonia, a frontier between the kingdom of Nakaria and the Great Wastes of the East, where only a handful of nomads dared to reside. The town had been sacked, presumably by such nomads, as was usual, but this raid had been particularly ferocious, and so the necromancer was the only survivor. After that, he had moved to the Heartlands to study the arcane arts, showing remarkable curiosity for the forbidden sects. This had granted him a spot in the Inquisition's watch list, however he ran away with several tomes related to necromancy before any punitive action could be taken. His registered name was also found to be false, taken from a rather obscure tale of a knight who tried to tame the Wastes.
Given this, we could only ascertain what we already suspected; he had grown resentful at the kingdom for failing to protect his home and was planning to use an undead horde to take matters into his own hands, and possibly attempting to control the Wastes' wild magics. That's where my team came in: we were not the best, nor the most famous, but we had one great strength in our versatility. We would not be able to handle any encounter beyond a horde of around 60 undead, but between all 7 of us we could overcome any possible obstacle with relative ease. Lockpicking, offensive magic, healing magic, trap laying and disarming, pathfinding... You name it, someone here knows how to do it.
This left something to be desired in terms of combat. A more fighting-oriented team could easily defeat any army the necromancer could have mustered, but they may fall to any sneakier tactics. We were the best compromise between both possibilities, and thus the crown's best hope. And so we began our journey to the necromancer's suspected base.
We arrived after weeks of travel. And the things we saw were nothing like what we expected.
The necromancer had made camp near a strange crater, small in diameter but seemingly endless in it's depth. From it spewed all manner of strange creatures; bat-like beasts with horns and long, slim tails; mangled bodies held together by a slimy crimson substance; strange mockeries of farm animals, modified to be made as deadly as possible; and all throughout the crater, one could see the same vibrant crimson substance giving life to these abominations.
The necromancer used his undead to fight these creatures, raising them afterwards to fight on his side. After slaying his way to the crater, he hummed a strange tune and uttered a strange chant, and the crimson substance receded to the bottomless depths from whence it came.
"I assume you want some explanations." He said, turning to face us. We could see he was not yet a lich; in fact, he still looked very much human.
"We want to take you to the High Inquisitor's court. Dead or alive, your choice." I replied. Strange as those creatures were, he had just beaten them back, and they seemed no threat to the Royal Armies.
The necromancer chuckled. "Ah yes, the Inquisition. So blind in their illusion of purity, they would doom us all to maintain it." He saw our confusion, and pointed towards the now sealed crater. "Those were the Hateful. That's what I call them anyway. They were made by your precious Inquisitors, though not on purpose to be fair."
"You would accuse the Inquisition itself if such heresy?! You really are delusional."
"Heresy? *Heresy?*" His chuckle turned to a maniacal laugh. "Heresy, really? Oh that's rich. Let me enlighten you my friend, since you too seem to be blind to their hypocrisy; what exactly *is* heresy? Have you ever had it explained? Have they ever laid out their reasons for refusing to let us study such potentially powerful sects of the arcane? No, heresy is simply what they call the knowledge they want no one else to have. And the Hateful are the proof of their failure, because your oh so precious Inquisition decided to meddle in interdimensional travel and pocket realities, so that they could rid themselves of 'heresy'. And all this power, all this knowledge, bundled together in a place outside reality, with unkown rules and unknown effects on it's residents? What did they expect?"
"Wait, residents?" Surely he didn't mean-
"Yes, your High Hypocrites threw people into pocket realities. And over time, these people gathered all the power and knowledge the Inquisition threw at them, and fused into a single being. A single force. The Hateful. And I honestly don't know wether to fight them or join them in tearing the kingdom apart!"
He was visibly angered, but made an effort to calm himself down. "No. They won't stop at the kingdom. They would see this entire world burned to the ground. I can't have that." He turned around and began walking to his tent. "So go ahead, kill me or whatever it is you want to do. The hordes won't get you. Go live with your Inquisition and keep pretending these things don't exist. Or..." He turned his head. A bit overly dramatic, but whatever. "... you could help me fight these things. Who knows, maybe even convince your Inquisitors to get their heads out of the sand and do something right for once."
I turned to the rest of the team. They all seemed to agree.
"Alright, your monologue convinced us. We'll help you fight these things, and we'll spread the word to the people. If push comes to shove, we'll stand up for you in any trials."
He smiled. "Great. Let's get to work then."
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[WP] Since you were born, whenever you did something big or special you would always see an 'achievement' pop up in the corner of your vision. As you go about your day, you see the achievement: "Apocalypse Starter" in the corner of your vision.
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All my life I had seen achievements pop up whenever I did random things, either for the first time or for a set number of times. I remember seeing the "Heartbreaker" achievement after my fifth break-up and began to wonder what all was possible. I never wanted to do them all, just pondered the extent of my effect of the world.
So there I was, sitting at home on my couch watching Netflix and chilling on my phone, as you do. It was raining, I may or may not have been in a state of intoxication due to what may or may not be illicit substances. It doesn't matter, actually it might in order to get the achievement. Either way, I've taken a bit of a twizzler rope and I hit the next episode on my tv. That's when I hear it.
*BlllllLLLingGG*
"Apocalypse Starter".
I freeze as the sounds of sirens echo in from outside and warring messages began to blow up my phone. What did I do?
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[Poem]
The Death Mask of Cthulhu.
Out of my dark dreams, my writhing insanity,
A vision of death with sordid depravity.
It perverts the perception of all time and space,
A herald of doom with cephalapodic face.
A leviathan terror rising from the deep
Where it lay for lost aeons in nightmarish sleep.
Now clawing its way back to night and corruption,
Declaring this earth to be ripe for destruction.
It'll summon the Old Ones with its wickedest magick
And raise up its young from their slumber pelagic.
It'll bring death and enslavement to all and sunder,
But Earth's destruction will send R'lyeh back under.
So this cycle of restless biding restarted
Passed on through dreams this prophecy of horror imparted
To the unknowing few chosen as martyrs,
We dreaming earth-born apocalypse-starters.
And the prophecy assured when waking that morn,
My once peaceful sanctuary ravaged and torn,
My achievement envisioned, a message of fear,
My sanity afflicted and all I hold dear
Polluted, defaced, overshadowed by the hulk
With octopus face, dripping claws, a shambling bulk,
Now mounted on my wall, forever in my view,
Permanently fixed, the death mask of Cthulhu.
[Edit: Fixed formatting]
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[WP] It hasn't stopped raining for 10 years, everything is flooded. Humanity is hosting the annual meeting to discuss survival plans when a mysterious old man enters the room. "Sorry, for being late" - he says. Everyone looks out the window. The rain has stopped.
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**Do you remember what the Sun sounds like?**
It's quiet, like nothing at all.
I had forgotten what it was like with no rain. No thunder, nor the rushing roar of water in our streets...
...until *he* arrived.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. When he scraped his boots on the mat, clouds of dust arose from his feet.
Can you believe it? When was the last time you saw *dust?*
His face was cracked, and though he was old - older even than my father - the cracks were not just from age. Wrinkles ran like dry valleys from his brow to his eyes, down to his cracked, waterless lips.
“Father Tant, we’re glad you made it,” the Chief said.
But the other Citizens only stared.
Father Tant bowed his head, muttering more apologies and avoiding all eye contact. His hat was dry, as if it had been hanging over a fire for the last hour. He shuffled to the back of the House, where I was. I stood up to give the old man my seat.
“Thank you,” he nodded and groaned as he sat.
That’s when I thought I had gone deaf. Other citizens, too, were tugging at their ears and looking around for the source of sudden silence.
I looked out the window, and I could not believe mine own eyes.
I know you won’t believe me, but what I’m about to say is true.
The rain had stopped.
The waterways were *empty.* You could see where the waterline had stained the buildings with rust. You could see the old roads, cracked and *dry*.
But nobody said anything. They started the Meeting, as if nothing had happened at all.
“There is only one item on the agenda today,” the Chief announced. "The Wet Farmers are demanding a new motion. First, we discuss. Then, we vote. Is all understood?"
While she spoke, the old man next to me kept smacking his lips.
“Are you alright?” I whispered to him.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, pardon me, son. Would you mind bringing me a glass of water? Quickly, now, as quick as you can.”
I did as he bade. I had to leave the Gathering House, for all the water appeared to have gone. Only a few streets over, the streets were again full of water. And the rain was back, steadily *tinking* against the tin rooves.
I know what you’re thinking. *That's impossible.* But I swear by the Gods, it was so.
With a canteen full of rainwater, I sprinted back to the Gathering House. I did not want to miss the meeting.
The Chief was arguing with the Farming Leaders. The Farming Leaders wanted to make an offering to the Gods. They wanted to make a sacrifice. *One child* for a season of dryness.
This, they believed, would satisfy the Gods. One season, and they could grow a bounty.
The Chief, with red anger, did not agree.
I poured the water into a glass and gave it to the old man. Father Tant took the glass, and in one swift motion, he tossed it back into his mouth. But before the water could reach his lips… it disappeared.
He held the empty glass up - as dry as if it had never held water at all - and said, “One more time, please.”
I filled it again. This time he tossed it back the moment I finished pouring. Again, the water did not reach his lips.
He sighed and handed me back the glass.
“Thank you, anyway, for trying.”
The arguing at the front of the Gathering House erupted into shouting. The Wet Farmers were leading the mob of Citizens, drowning out the Chief's appeals to reason.
"Help me up," the Old Man said to me. And I gave him my arm. The moment he his fingers grasped my arm, I felt an overwhelming parchedness in my mouth.
He waded into the crowd, his boots scuffing up more clouds of dust. One by one, the people turned to regard him, unconsciously stepping out of his way. The shouting began to weaken, to fade to silence, made all the more deafening by the lack of rain.
Father Tant nodded at the Chief. She nodded back, relief shining in her eyes.
“A sacrifice?” Tant's voice was harsh and dry and grating on the ear. “Are we really so desperate?”
“Of course we’re desperate!” someone shouted. “Every year, half our crops rot and turn to mush.”
“No! That is desire speaking. But do not mistake *desire* for *desperation*. I made that mistake once. Ten years ago, this land rarely saw rain. The sun was brutal and our life was *hard*. I thought I was desperate, then. So I made a sacrifice of my own. And I prayed that the Gods might grant us rain.”
A question flitted through my mind, though I dared not ask it. *What did you sacrifice, old man?*
“Be grateful for what you have, you fools. And do not ask for more. Because the Gods are not your friends.”
“But we could have more!" Someone shouted. "One sacrifice is all it takes, right? Was your prayer not answered?”
“Yes, it was.” Father Tant said, “And the Gods are laughing still.”
***
*Damn, thanks for the kind response.*
[Here's my subreddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/PSHoffman/) if you want to read more assorted stories.
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"I have come to deliver a message!" the old man declared.
The mayor glanced up, briefly tearing his eyes away from his meeting notes. "Could you - could you hang on a second? We're discussing some important agricultural mandates..."
"No. This cannot wait a moment longer. The gods of rain and snow, sun and darkness, have looked upon your community with favor. You are among the few surviving pockets of humanity, and you have done well. Though there have been moments of strife and violence, you have remained civilized."
The gathered crowd of 200-or-so stared at the old man blankly.
"As a reward for your efforts, the great flood has dissipated from this area. May the gods continue to smile upon you."
The old man began to leave when the local accountant stood up and pointed a finger at him.
"Hang on a minute. The second he walks in here, the rain stops. How do we know he's not one of these 'gods' wearing a human coat?"
Someone else chimed in.
"Don't be ridiculous. It has to be pure coincidence. Who the hell *is* this guy and how do we know he's not just senile?"
The accountant fired back. "There's no doubt this is supernatural. What kind of natural order just up-and-decides to rain for ten years straight and cuts it off in an instant?"
The mayor banged a gavel on the podium. "Let's settle down, please," he said weakly. The fervor in the room continued to grow.
"I say we take this guy in for questioning," a woman yelled from the front of the room. The crowd murmured a chorus of agreement.
And so the interrogation began. The old man was put up in the former bed and breakfast and forced to remain there for three days as the local government pondered its options. Nearly everyone in town paid a visit to the old man and asked him a question - most, some variant of "why?" The man gave no firm answer, and more often than not remained entirely silent.
By the time the questioning ceased, the town's frenzy had reached a fever pitch. The mayor entered the old man's room and issued an ultimatum.
"I'm sorry, old man, but you just can't stay. I can't keep things under control as long as you're here. And unfortunately, if you come back I'm going to have to take more extreme measures."
The old man nodded and picked up his briefcase.
As he made his way towards the edge of town, a crowd - consisting of nearly the town's entire population - followed him. All was quiet save for the sound of gentle footsteps. Then, without warning, a rock sailed over the crowd and hit the old man squarely in the head. As if a dam had burst, more and more rocks came careening down on the man, and he feebly lifted his briefcase in an attempt to shield himself.
"STOP!" he bellowed, with a force that shook the earth. "You have proven yourselves unworthy of the gods' mercy, and in your insolence, you have brought your own damnation."
The man gave a quick whistle and disappeared in a flash. Nothing else happened. Everyone went home.
Then, about a week later, it began to drizzle. It transitioned as the month continued to a soaking rain, then the following month, a hard, steady downpour.
By the beginning of the harvest season, it was raining harder and faster than it ever had before. The subsequent harvest was pitiful. Many people left the town in search of a place that would be more habitable and were never heard from again.
The old man settled on a hill overlooking the town that rejected him. He had no need for food; what godly messenger does?
He sat in solitude, watching the humans and waiting for the day he would decide to give them another chance.
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[WP] It hasn't stopped raining for 10 years, everything is flooded. Humanity is hosting the annual meeting to discuss survival plans when a mysterious old man enters the room. "Sorry, for being late" - he says. Everyone looks out the window. The rain has stopped.
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**Do you remember what the Sun sounds like?**
It's quiet, like nothing at all.
I had forgotten what it was like with no rain. No thunder, nor the rushing roar of water in our streets...
...until *he* arrived.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. When he scraped his boots on the mat, clouds of dust arose from his feet.
Can you believe it? When was the last time you saw *dust?*
His face was cracked, and though he was old - older even than my father - the cracks were not just from age. Wrinkles ran like dry valleys from his brow to his eyes, down to his cracked, waterless lips.
“Father Tant, we’re glad you made it,” the Chief said.
But the other Citizens only stared.
Father Tant bowed his head, muttering more apologies and avoiding all eye contact. His hat was dry, as if it had been hanging over a fire for the last hour. He shuffled to the back of the House, where I was. I stood up to give the old man my seat.
“Thank you,” he nodded and groaned as he sat.
That’s when I thought I had gone deaf. Other citizens, too, were tugging at their ears and looking around for the source of sudden silence.
I looked out the window, and I could not believe mine own eyes.
I know you won’t believe me, but what I’m about to say is true.
The rain had stopped.
The waterways were *empty.* You could see where the waterline had stained the buildings with rust. You could see the old roads, cracked and *dry*.
But nobody said anything. They started the Meeting, as if nothing had happened at all.
“There is only one item on the agenda today,” the Chief announced. "The Wet Farmers are demanding a new motion. First, we discuss. Then, we vote. Is all understood?"
While she spoke, the old man next to me kept smacking his lips.
“Are you alright?” I whispered to him.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, pardon me, son. Would you mind bringing me a glass of water? Quickly, now, as quick as you can.”
I did as he bade. I had to leave the Gathering House, for all the water appeared to have gone. Only a few streets over, the streets were again full of water. And the rain was back, steadily *tinking* against the tin rooves.
I know what you’re thinking. *That's impossible.* But I swear by the Gods, it was so.
With a canteen full of rainwater, I sprinted back to the Gathering House. I did not want to miss the meeting.
The Chief was arguing with the Farming Leaders. The Farming Leaders wanted to make an offering to the Gods. They wanted to make a sacrifice. *One child* for a season of dryness.
This, they believed, would satisfy the Gods. One season, and they could grow a bounty.
The Chief, with red anger, did not agree.
I poured the water into a glass and gave it to the old man. Father Tant took the glass, and in one swift motion, he tossed it back into his mouth. But before the water could reach his lips… it disappeared.
He held the empty glass up - as dry as if it had never held water at all - and said, “One more time, please.”
I filled it again. This time he tossed it back the moment I finished pouring. Again, the water did not reach his lips.
He sighed and handed me back the glass.
“Thank you, anyway, for trying.”
The arguing at the front of the Gathering House erupted into shouting. The Wet Farmers were leading the mob of Citizens, drowning out the Chief's appeals to reason.
"Help me up," the Old Man said to me. And I gave him my arm. The moment he his fingers grasped my arm, I felt an overwhelming parchedness in my mouth.
He waded into the crowd, his boots scuffing up more clouds of dust. One by one, the people turned to regard him, unconsciously stepping out of his way. The shouting began to weaken, to fade to silence, made all the more deafening by the lack of rain.
Father Tant nodded at the Chief. She nodded back, relief shining in her eyes.
“A sacrifice?” Tant's voice was harsh and dry and grating on the ear. “Are we really so desperate?”
“Of course we’re desperate!” someone shouted. “Every year, half our crops rot and turn to mush.”
“No! That is desire speaking. But do not mistake *desire* for *desperation*. I made that mistake once. Ten years ago, this land rarely saw rain. The sun was brutal and our life was *hard*. I thought I was desperate, then. So I made a sacrifice of my own. And I prayed that the Gods might grant us rain.”
A question flitted through my mind, though I dared not ask it. *What did you sacrifice, old man?*
“Be grateful for what you have, you fools. And do not ask for more. Because the Gods are not your friends.”
“But we could have more!" Someone shouted. "One sacrifice is all it takes, right? Was your prayer not answered?”
“Yes, it was.” Father Tant said, “And the Gods are laughing still.”
***
*Damn, thanks for the kind response.*
[Here's my subreddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/PSHoffman/) if you want to read more assorted stories.
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"Sorry for being late," the old man in tattered clothes said as he mumbled under his heavy breathing, "I think I've fucked it up."
Everyone's eyes were fixed at the odd character who had crashed their meeting unannounced. The men and women – all important figures of all walks of life – would glance at each other occasionally, as they collectively glared at the unknown old man. When the chairman was about to relieve the tension in the room by actually addressing the cause...
The old man snapped his dainty crinkled fingers.
"Wha–Step away from the man, everyone!" a rather intimidatingly large man in a black suit stepped out of the shadows and produced a gun pointed at the old man.
The room deteriorated into chaos. The more rational ones simply stepped away from the old man, clearly used to following security instructions. But some of the people in the room began to panic. Shrieking and yelping as they fell down on top of each other trying to safe themselves from a helpless looking old man.
But the old man didn't budge. He raised his arms and his eyes grew as large as the moon. Drops of sweat began to drench his tattered clothings, as if the never-ending rain outside had moved inside the room.
"I mean no harm!" the old man shouted.
"W-Well don't just stand there, acting as if you belong here! Explain yourself!" the Chairman snapped back at him in a hostile tone.
As everyone in the room – including the old man – swallowed their anxiety, the old man walked over to one of the curtained windows. He slowly approached it and nervously indicated his intent to the chairman and his security lead. When they nodded cautiously, the old man pulled the curtain in one sweep.
"There's... no rain," said one of the woman nearest to the window.
Soon murmurs and gasps were heard all across the room. They began to approach the windows and pulled down the curtains themselves.
The soaked trees and bushes in the distance were simply moist. The sky was clear and birds could be seen flying over the horizon. Some of the people were so awed by the sight that it warranted some documentation with their phones.
"Who are... you, sir?" the Chairman asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh I'm just an old man who has a thing or two with the weather–"
"No, I meant who the hell are you?" the Chairman's fist struck the heavy mahogany desk in front of him and continued, "don't fuck with me. We had that rain for over 10 fucking years! Now it's just... gone. With one snap of an old man's fingers!"
"This shouldn't even be possible, the weather satellites picked up nothing. It's as if all the clouds, the winds just became normal. Like before the rain started 10 years ago!" a scientist-looking woman said out loud as she displayed her findings on the large screen in front of the room.
"That's absurd!" said a politician, which simply aroused everyone's disbelief further.
"So? Explain."
"Ah yes, well... let's just call me Father Weather. I was tasked with a few things to keep an eye on, like well... the weather."
"... right?" the crowd said in unison.
"Right! So, I don't know what happened. But I think I fell asleep. For a while, that is. But since I lived alone I didn't even think anyone noticed, though clearly–"
"Clearly you've fucked up big time, old man."
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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I stood up and did a short bow as she entered. “Thank you for meeting with me, your highness. I know it is unusual, the morning of the duel.”
Princess Marguerite, in a glimmering silver dress, her blond hair pulled up, gracefully walked to the table and took a seat. "It has been an enjoyable week. You are… different from the others,” she looked down, gathering her thoughts. “You don’t seem to desire my kingdom the way so many do.”
“How many of them were in love with you?”
She hesitated. “Maybe one in 10.”
"And how many have you killed?"
“I’ve lost track. I’ve been doing this for, oh, 14 years now.”
“And yet you look like you haven’t seen your 20th birthday. I knew it was foolish of me to do this. I have no hope of besting you at the sword. But I had this longing to get to know you.”
“Do you feel you have? You have been so… attentive. So unlike my previous suitors. Often they spend the week talking a lot about themselves – trying to impress me with their honors or riches I suppose. But you – I know so little about you,” she looked down, almost shyly.
It was true I had revealed little about myself.
“And now our week is up. I wish I had more time to get to know you better,” I said. "Fourteen years? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Well… I suppose I can tell you. You see, my father earned the vengeance of a witch, when he had her husband killed. She cursed my parents – they were newly married at the time. She said they would have no sons. But she also offered a blessing. That their one daughter would be eternally young, if she never married and never had children. Growing up, knowing this, it seemed in my best interest to perfect my skills at the sword. I determined long ago I would never marry.”
“Why the duels? Why not just, well, not marry?”
The princess laughed. “Clearly you’re not from a royal house. Everyone expects a princess to marry. No one outside the king, queen, and myself know about the curse. I’ve only told you because, well… “ She let the sentence trail off.
“You called it a blessing… but is it, really? Forced to kill off innocent men, for desiring a life with you – at least some of them out of sincere love for you. To never feel the weight of a baby in your arms, a child of your own. To never feel the warmth of your love’s arms around you. It seems to me a lonely life.”
Her ice blue eyes flashed and she stood up at those words. “You presume too much.”
I quickly stood up and followed her, grabbing her by the arm to turn her around, much to her displeasure.
“I’m truly sorry – I didn’t mean for our last, well almost last, meeting to be like this. Please don’t leave in anger. I spoke out of turn.”
Her cheeks were vibrantly red, her eyes dewy with tears. She was the most radiantly beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
Without realizing it, I was gripping her hand. We were leaning in together, and I kissed her lightly on the lips, then again, with more force. She returned the kiss, but after a few moments pulled away, slowly, looking at me.
“I’m the one who is truly sorry,” she said, turning away, and left the room.
An hour later we met again, in the Great Hall where the court had gathered to watch the event. This time she was in her leather armor. She had no need of more, as no swordsman had ever touched her.
Unlike her, I wore layers of linen as padding under chainmail. Although I had portrayed my resignation to her earlier, I had no intention of dying this day.
Another thing I hadn’t revealed to her was how many years I’d spent building my own swordsmanship skills.
She waited for me to approach. I did so hesitantly, not wishing to give anything away. I offered a feint, which she pushed away, moving in confidently. She went on the attack, more and more, as I just barely managed to ward off her blows. She used a lot of energy while I bided my time.
Almost an hour later, she seemed to be tiring. Then I began to push forward. It was her turn to ward off my blows.
At one point we came together, our swords between us, and I said, “We could be done with this. Marry me.”
She nearly snarled, then laughed as we pulled away. Despite her resolve, I could sense she was feeling worn out.
As we continued sparring, I asked, “By the way, what crime had the husband committed?”
“What?”
“The witch. Her husband. The reason for the curse.”
“I wish you would not talk about this just now.”
“But my curiosity must be satisfied. If not now, then when?”
She gritted her teeth. “I do not know. Presumably some horrible offense. He was the husband of a witch, after all.”
“So you don’t know. It could have been stealing loaves of bread to feed his child, as far as you know.”
“I doubt that. My father wouldn’t order a man killed for such a minor offense.”
“Of course. Royalty always rule justly.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“Do something about it.”
She attempted to. After I’d wound her up, she put on some energy for an attack. But she was spent. I took my advantage and struck the sword from her hand. In a moment my sword was at her neck, gently pressing. A single drop of blood rolled down her slim neck.
“Again…. Will you marry me?”
So now, merely a month later, I rule the kingdom. You see, there was another part of the curse that the king never knew about. That once his daughter married, he would be dead within a week. And so it came to pass. Just as my mother had planned this future for me, long ago, when she was a young widow with a son to raise.
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\[Poem\]
**My frivolous Heart**
​
I traveled far and traveled wide to find eternal beauty,
Her hair so long and fair and bright, but her heart so gloomy.
Many tried to court this girl, this woman of perfection,
But all she offered them instead was just a stern expression.
\--
Raised by blade and made of blood she offered me her hand,
If I will fight her to the death, until her knee she’ll bend.
I saw it in her shaded eyes that she would never yield,
And still I took my sword in hand and grabbed my trusty shield.
\--
“Onward now, step for and fight!”, and she would follow through,
And until the final light, this fight knew just us two.
She fought like none I’d seen before, and I could feel her wrath,
Her heart was tired of the fight, tired of this path.
\--
“Easy now, the fight should end! Do not waste your life!”,
But she would never understand a world that’s without strife.
And so, she tried to strike me down, but failed and fell to ground,
“Stop it here and do not frown.”, but she did make no sound.
\--
“We will fight again tomorrow and every coming day,
Until it’s you here on the ground, until it’s you I’ll slay!”,
And so, it was that I had found the most eternal beauty,
The most eternal love of all and my eternal duty.
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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"What do you think you are doing?"
"Why setting up a chess board your highness. What does it look like?"
She honestly looked as confused as the murmuring crowd gathered around the arena. Everyone looked either confused or entertained, like I was some great fool.
"This is a duel to the death."
"Yes I know." as I continued setting up the pieces "But if you will allow me a moment I will explain."
"Is this another stupid 'this does not make sense as one of us will die and then there is no chance and will never be a chance for marriage' bullshit attempt? You know I've heard them before right?"
"Oh I'm sure you have. Mine is different though, I promise you. You are the greatest swordsperson in all the lands, my life is finished, it was not the gamble to be taken. If I take up the blade, I die, simple enough. So, why not give a dying man his last moments?"
"Very well, but it had best entertain the crowd."
"Alright then, I'll raise my voice to be heard. You are the greatest there is with a sword, none can dispute it, and by coming to court you, and by spending the whole week instead of fleeing into the night, I technically agreed to your terms. The thing is, you can change the terms. That is also allowed. You see, I'm decent with a blade but my real strength resides in my tactical and strategic skills."
"What?"
"I'm getting there. Give me but a few more moments please."
"Fine, but lets hear it."
"Yes my love. You enjoyed the Muden wine I brought. best in the shield lands. You love the Mesiran silk shirt I brought you, I can see it peeking out the edges of your armor. And the way your eyes lit up when I gave you the Binsadan wind steed. I had hoped he would warm your heart."
"I've received many gifts."
"Yes but, I saved the greatest for today."
"Oh and what is that?"
"Safety, prosperity and adventure. For you and the people you love."
"What do you mean?"
"You are the princess but cannot inherit. You have 3 older siblings and 2 of them are male to boot. But you love your kingdom and the people. You would die for them which is why you set up this duel at the end of a week for any challenger." I smile as I look from her to her father, a messenger whispering in his ear and a worried look crossing his face. "AND I SEE MY LORD, MY HOPE TO BE FATHER-IN-LAW THAT MY OTHER 'GIFT' IS IN SIGHT." She nervously glanced at her father then back to me as some of his lordships knights and champions began to leave the arena.
"You see, how could I have brought such gifts together from such far distant realms?"
"You're a guilder's son. With no actual noble title to your name."
"Very true, though I do have a name, even a last name some know and respect, Vragsson." She looked confused, damn it. "You see, my mother is the Caeleight, ruler and leader of the guilders of Caelcorwynn. My father, her husband, is Rudi Vragsson, the lord of Baerghos." That registered and set her back a step.
"A Vragsson! Then you're"
"A SON OF THE HORDE? Yes. My parents third child but do do me the courtesy of letting me finish now please. I am a son of the Horde, the greatest mercantile and mercenary alliance ever known. Cemented with the marriage of my parents. Your kingdom elevates those with skills like yours because you and your neighbors are constantly on the defensive against villainous hordes from out of the mountains to the East and West as well as from the wastelands beyond the Eastern mountains as well as to the North of them. Your people fight to survive as do most of the neighboring realms."
"Yes so, get to your point."
"Yes my lady. Your people need aid, as do your neighbors. So I present you with options as my final gift. First, sheath your sword, give me a kiss and unite our peoples and interests. Second, order me to leave, to get out and never return. I'll return to the port, board my ship and go meet the fleet that has been spotted, commanded by my sister by the way, and we shall leave, never to return. Third, sit and duel me upon the chess board, my strength. Win and I shall leave loose and we shall marry and again, unite our people and interests."
"And if I decline all of those?"
"Then the fourth option, we duel with blades and you kill me. I will then be unable to meet my sister and you should be ready for battle. Most likely she has at least 1,000 Goblin cannon fodder under her command along with several hundred Orcs and Gnolls. those are just extras though. Her main force would be about 1600 veteran mercenary infantry that includes elite housecarls, berserkers, pikemen and "standard" type grunts. She should have 600 to 800 horse and knights but she will have to establish a beach head before being able to unload their horses so if she assaults straight into the docks they will probably join the infantry in the initial assault. Add to that her usual 600 to 1,000 archers and I think you will have your hands quite full. I mean it is a minor force of maybe 4 to 6 thousand but the core is experienced and hardened. It should be a good challenge. Of course that is as long as my brother is still butchering Goblins in Talinie. If his contract is over he will have joined her just to see if I died and if so that would be another 5 to 8 thousand troops but half his force were new recruits so not so much of a threat."
"Why would you do this?" I honestly can't tell if she is curious, impressed or disgusted behind her helmet. Her voice gives me no clue. Not good.
"Because you are amazing. You are beautiful, and talented in so many ways other than the sword. You have a warm heart that leaves me in disbelief you would even allow such a bloody ritual to take place for your hand. You also love your people so much it leaves me in amazement of your qualities of being a noble without taking on the "noble indifference" I have seen so often."
"But how could you get your family to go along?"
"Mother sees the market possibility of a new trading center in a kingdom in the middle of a new region. Father sees the contract possibilities of so many kingdoms in need of military aid. I'm a strategist. I convinced them the gamble was worth the possible long term pay off."
"That covers the safety and prosperity. What about the adventure you mentioned as part of the final gift?" I smiled, now I knew there was a possibility.
"You would be my wife. You would be family. If you wished it I could stay here with you and open a new mercenaries training hall or, we could start a new mob of the Horde. I take care of strategy while you handle the battles. We can stay right here or take the battles to your enemies. Why we could marry then lead my sister's force against the barbarians of Rzhlev before they can raid you next month during the harvest. We can burn their ports and shipyards. Loot their settlements and split the bounty between us. Well between "us" and my sister anyway."
"But if you die here today your siblings attack?"
"Yes. So it is best for your people to kiss me, duel me at chess or banish me. Especially as it is my sister. She is not known for...gentilities."
As she slid her helmet off I could see the thought, confliction and stress all washing over her face. She seemed to sit opposite me without thought or planning. Her mind raced as I could see her calculating everything that had just been laid before her. Her father, no, the entire assembled crowd were growing more and more nervous by the moment. Especially as she absent mindedly fingered her sword hilt for a moment. She finally turned to look at me again.
"I want white, you take black."
"As you wish my love."
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I made sure that every single sword in town has been bought out and currently hidden in a cave somewhere in the southern isles. My rouges have scoured every house, camp, and hovel in the city for any type of sword or sword-like object. Of course, getting the swords in the castle is going to be harder, and the sword that she carries in her scabbard the hardest. My network of rouges has been working day in and day out for this but, now I have the ultimate test. To get that sword away from her.
The princess has been spending a few hours getting ready in the powder room as a result it is customary that I wait in the study with her butler. He stares at me up and down as I am not as strapping as the last few lads she fought. He gave me a look of pity,
"So, nice weather out there," I said, with my winning smile
The weather was cloudy and humid but, I was grasping at straws at this point. Even her butler looks intimidating. The butler just sniffed and looked towards his stack of books. Just a single stack of books among the walls of books among the shelves and piles on desks. There are also numerous anatomical diagrams on the wall and a single strange skull that was placed on the desk as some strange souvenir.
"What is that?" I ask pointing at the skull on the desk.
The butler looked at me and then looked at the skull.
"This is the skull of the first man circa 46,000 years ago. It was gifted to the princess by a biologist from the Americas."
"What happened to him?"
"He died in battle."
"With whom?"
"The princess."
"Oh."
The courting sword fights have occasionally been public events. I have seen the princess do her famous fatality finish where she disembowels her opponents in a single swipe of her rapier. While a man from any class could date her if he wants to try, she also insists on having them fight her to the death within a week after the first date. Knowing this she is still sought after and known as irresistible by most men. With an almost extreme radiance, she steps in and it was well worth the wait. She was wearing a satin dress that conforms to her curves with her long black hair cascading down to her wasp-like waist. She smiled at me to acknowledge my presence. I noticed that her sword isn't in its usual place. Could it be that Pierre succeeded?
"We'll be out for a few Alfred." The princess calls out she leads me towards the front door
We were walking out when... a waif-like teenaged boy wearing a green smock was running in a weird manner almost as if he was sidestepping at a sonic pace. His grunting matching his speed. before we realize it he threw his boomerang straight towards my head. Before I could think the princess takes out her rapier and deflects the thing towards a nearby barrel, tells me to hop into the carriage. I plopped in along with her and she orders the thing to start moving. With the horses moving at top speed across town the boy effortlessly catches up to us. Shooting a chain towards the wheel in order to drag him towards us. He throws a spherical, black bomb inside of the carriage. I immediately take it and throw it in a nondescript direction. The princess on the other hand starts climbing to the top of the carriage rapier. In hand.
"Who is this guy!?"
"How about you tell me, Rohan?"
"What?"
"Did you think that you were get away with stealing every sword in the city without a few people getting mad at you!?"
More than a few people, a whole squadron of different characters started roaming after the carriage. An 8-foot tall behemoth dressed in black with short black spikey hair and a strange tattoo, a man who's similarly muscular but, shorter with longer blonde hair wearing strange foreign clothing. Along with several men and women with black robes turning into fierce monsters running through the city. Tonight the princess and I will fight together, tomorrow she will have me.
\*\*I'll probably expand on this because this is fun.\*\*
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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The final day of courting with the Princess of the land was always a duel. The duel had become so popular in the land that the King had turned it into an event. Everyone would travel to the dueling grounds outside the palace and town to watch as a poor man was run through for their arrogance or stupidity.
Now I'm not much of a poet but when I heard of the event I fell in love. So of course I informed my fellow companions of my new love and they whole heartedly supported my pursuit. So we planned it out and travelled to the princess so I could declare my love to her.
When my parties wagon rolled into the town and we told the locals of my interest in courting the Princess, we received mockery and a few pitying looks. But I wasn't deterred.
Once I presented myself to the Princess I almost decided to not go through with my plan. Her beauty if anything was understated in the tales. Her grace almost divine and her voice could sooth any raging beast.
The Princess accepted my courting proposal and for a week I wooed her. Several times I had to remind myself of the end goal. Several times I wished to just run away. But I stayed. And finally the day came. The town and people of the Palace gathered at the dueling fields to watch me die.
"I have to say, I did enjoy this week." The Princess said to me as she gave a few practice swings in the air with her sword. I smiled a little, "I don't suppose that means you'll spare me?"
She gave a bubbling laugh, "Oh no my dear ex-suitor."
She started to gracefully circle me, "I've been waiting all week for this day."
I smirked a little and got into a stance with my sword, "Well I hate to keep a lady waiting."
With a fiendish smile she engaged. To compare my skill to hers would be to compare a peasants gold to a kings.
Quickly I felt her blade slip past my defenses and slash across my chest, arms, and legs.
After a minute of being methodically turned to ribbons she backed away from me.
I was breathing hard while she seemed no worse for wear.
we both stabbed our blades into the ground and took a moment to breath
"I'm surprised your still alive." she commented.
I laughed heartily and looked up to the crowd before looking back at her. "Well Princess I pride myself on my uh... stamina."
She chuckled, "Most men I fight only have one round in them."
I couldn't help a snicker, "Princess I'm one of a kind."
I lifted my blade and got back into a defensive stance. Beckoning her to me with a finger I gave her a smirk. "Well I'm ready for round two."
The crowd seemed amused at our banter and I would have taken a moment to enjoy it but the Princess was quick to reengage me. the crowd watched with dark amusement as the Princess covered my body in more and more cuts. I could hear a few comments as I fought off not only the Princess but the blackness that was threatening to overtake me.
After another minute the Princess backed away her hands, face, and clothes covered in blood but none of it her own. "Still there?"
I planted my sword back into the ground and held up a hand to acknowledge her as my breath come in ragged breaths.
She smiled, "Well you've set a new record."
I couldn't help a hacking up blood as I let out a painful chuckle. "Not the first time I've done that."
"I do have to ask, why did you think you would win?" she said as she picked up her bloody blade.
"I'll have you know I'm winning Princess. I've got you where I want you." I looked up with a bloody smile on my face and took a defensive stance again, feeling my arms and legs shriek in painful protest.
The Princess's smile vanished as she picked up her blade. "Is that so?"
I looked up to the crowd again and saw my friends faces of encouragement.
Looking back at the Princess I gave a sincere smile. "Why yes Princess I've won."
I don't remember dying. Just sudden blackness then feeling a pull as I woke up seeing my friends looking down at me. Besides them a priest.
"Holy hell man she ripped you apart." said one of them, the rogue of our party.
I shook off the feelings of the resurrection spell and stood up. "I know man that was the most painful experience of my life."
The rest of my party parted as I gathered my clothes and put them on. "How much did we make by the way?" I say as I meet back up with them at the wagon.
The warlock smiled evilly, "They had pathetic security that were barely taking their jobs seriously. We stole well over a few thousands gold from them."
I smiled as I got into the cart, "Finally, I've earned myself a nice score."
As ranger started guiding the wagon out of the city, located well away from the Princess's palace, the rogue took a second to look at me. "Was it just me or did it seem like you actually liked the girl?"
I waved his words, "No way my friend, we're thieving adventures, she's a Princess."
He shrugged, "Well she certainly seemed to like you."
As we headed down the road off to our next adventure I thought that sentence over in my head.
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I made sure that every single sword in town has been bought out and currently hidden in a cave somewhere in the southern isles. My rouges have scoured every house, camp, and hovel in the city for any type of sword or sword-like object. Of course, getting the swords in the castle is going to be harder, and the sword that she carries in her scabbard the hardest. My network of rouges has been working day in and day out for this but, now I have the ultimate test. To get that sword away from her.
The princess has been spending a few hours getting ready in the powder room as a result it is customary that I wait in the study with her butler. He stares at me up and down as I am not as strapping as the last few lads she fought. He gave me a look of pity,
"So, nice weather out there," I said, with my winning smile
The weather was cloudy and humid but, I was grasping at straws at this point. Even her butler looks intimidating. The butler just sniffed and looked towards his stack of books. Just a single stack of books among the walls of books among the shelves and piles on desks. There are also numerous anatomical diagrams on the wall and a single strange skull that was placed on the desk as some strange souvenir.
"What is that?" I ask pointing at the skull on the desk.
The butler looked at me and then looked at the skull.
"This is the skull of the first man circa 46,000 years ago. It was gifted to the princess by a biologist from the Americas."
"What happened to him?"
"He died in battle."
"With whom?"
"The princess."
"Oh."
The courting sword fights have occasionally been public events. I have seen the princess do her famous fatality finish where she disembowels her opponents in a single swipe of her rapier. While a man from any class could date her if he wants to try, she also insists on having them fight her to the death within a week after the first date. Knowing this she is still sought after and known as irresistible by most men. With an almost extreme radiance, she steps in and it was well worth the wait. She was wearing a satin dress that conforms to her curves with her long black hair cascading down to her wasp-like waist. She smiled at me to acknowledge my presence. I noticed that her sword isn't in its usual place. Could it be that Pierre succeeded?
"We'll be out for a few Alfred." The princess calls out she leads me towards the front door
We were walking out when... a waif-like teenaged boy wearing a green smock was running in a weird manner almost as if he was sidestepping at a sonic pace. His grunting matching his speed. before we realize it he threw his boomerang straight towards my head. Before I could think the princess takes out her rapier and deflects the thing towards a nearby barrel, tells me to hop into the carriage. I plopped in along with her and she orders the thing to start moving. With the horses moving at top speed across town the boy effortlessly catches up to us. Shooting a chain towards the wheel in order to drag him towards us. He throws a spherical, black bomb inside of the carriage. I immediately take it and throw it in a nondescript direction. The princess on the other hand starts climbing to the top of the carriage rapier. In hand.
"Who is this guy!?"
"How about you tell me, Rohan?"
"What?"
"Did you think that you were get away with stealing every sword in the city without a few people getting mad at you!?"
More than a few people, a whole squadron of different characters started roaming after the carriage. An 8-foot tall behemoth dressed in black with short black spikey hair and a strange tattoo, a man who's similarly muscular but, shorter with longer blonde hair wearing strange foreign clothing. Along with several men and women with black robes turning into fierce monsters running through the city. Tonight the princess and I will fight together, tomorrow she will have me.
\*\*I'll probably expand on this because this is fun.\*\*
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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She didn’t cry out. That’s what I remember most; she simply looked down at my rapier, thrust with a clean riposte, stabbed almost supernaturally good, just under her second rib, the tip just barely touching her heart.
She looked up at me: “But why?”
I stared her down. “The duel is to the death, Princess,” I hissed, my face a rictus of rage that only she could see, “and I had no intention of marrying you. Not after you killed three of my brothers in their attempt to court you.”
Blood crept out the corner of her mouth. Her heart was weakening, I could feel the beat stutter through my sword as I slowly pushed forward.
“I...am the best. They...knew the arrangement-“
I twisted the blade slightly. Her breath caught, and her heart jumped.
“You were never the best. There are people, who fight far better than you, who I learned from, that didn't need to advertise their mastery. A true master doesn't need to be hailed the best like a common whore. The arrangement you set, to dissuade those who would bother to woo you for themselves, never applied to my brothers. They were here to ask for your hand, true, but not for them. For my people. We were about to be invaded. We needed the resources and help of your kingdom to survive. After your king deemed us expendable, they believed the only way to get the help they needed was through you. Nobody expected you to kill them, even after they had thrown down their weapons, in cold blood.”
The princess blinked haggardly. She knew she didn’t have long, and she knew her opponent was excellent. With the blade still inside her and my body hiding the stance, the spectators thought we were merely locked. But still, she had to know.
“What...happened?”
My face, calmed from my now certain victory, regarded her with an icy stare.
“We lost. My family were tortured and killed. My mother and sisters raped, and left broken, naked, in pieces. My people? Much the same. But I alone, on the way here to plead for your help, was spared.”
Her eyes fluttered, gaze lowered. The trauma and blood loss of the preceding battle was getting to her. I tightened my grip on my sword and adjusted my thrust. The agony that must have caused shot through her face, her eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. The spectators were quiet, now more confused than anything.
“They didn’t stop there. My people, innocents, sold into slavery. Killed by the thousands. My lands, salted, pillaged, burned. But I alone survived. So here I am. The last of my family. And here you are, the very last of yours.”
I looked into her eyes.
“It seems fair recompense, does it not?”
I knew from the start I wasn’t to survive this, but it gave me grim satisfaction that the princess, her barren father, and their entire dynasty would end by my hand, just as my family met their end by hers.
With a single stroke, I buried my blade to the hilt through her torso and twisted. The tip flashed silver from her back, with a gush of blood that began to stain the back of her armored form.
As the spectators began to scream, and the guards rushed to my position in the arena, polearms ready to skewer me for my actions, I found myself surprised.
The sword had glided through her heart exceptionally smoothly.
Like there was nothing there to cut.
—-
Boy, that got dark quickly, huh?
|
I made sure that every single sword in town has been bought out and currently hidden in a cave somewhere in the southern isles. My rouges have scoured every house, camp, and hovel in the city for any type of sword or sword-like object. Of course, getting the swords in the castle is going to be harder, and the sword that she carries in her scabbard the hardest. My network of rouges has been working day in and day out for this but, now I have the ultimate test. To get that sword away from her.
The princess has been spending a few hours getting ready in the powder room as a result it is customary that I wait in the study with her butler. He stares at me up and down as I am not as strapping as the last few lads she fought. He gave me a look of pity,
"So, nice weather out there," I said, with my winning smile
The weather was cloudy and humid but, I was grasping at straws at this point. Even her butler looks intimidating. The butler just sniffed and looked towards his stack of books. Just a single stack of books among the walls of books among the shelves and piles on desks. There are also numerous anatomical diagrams on the wall and a single strange skull that was placed on the desk as some strange souvenir.
"What is that?" I ask pointing at the skull on the desk.
The butler looked at me and then looked at the skull.
"This is the skull of the first man circa 46,000 years ago. It was gifted to the princess by a biologist from the Americas."
"What happened to him?"
"He died in battle."
"With whom?"
"The princess."
"Oh."
The courting sword fights have occasionally been public events. I have seen the princess do her famous fatality finish where she disembowels her opponents in a single swipe of her rapier. While a man from any class could date her if he wants to try, she also insists on having them fight her to the death within a week after the first date. Knowing this she is still sought after and known as irresistible by most men. With an almost extreme radiance, she steps in and it was well worth the wait. She was wearing a satin dress that conforms to her curves with her long black hair cascading down to her wasp-like waist. She smiled at me to acknowledge my presence. I noticed that her sword isn't in its usual place. Could it be that Pierre succeeded?
"We'll be out for a few Alfred." The princess calls out she leads me towards the front door
We were walking out when... a waif-like teenaged boy wearing a green smock was running in a weird manner almost as if he was sidestepping at a sonic pace. His grunting matching his speed. before we realize it he threw his boomerang straight towards my head. Before I could think the princess takes out her rapier and deflects the thing towards a nearby barrel, tells me to hop into the carriage. I plopped in along with her and she orders the thing to start moving. With the horses moving at top speed across town the boy effortlessly catches up to us. Shooting a chain towards the wheel in order to drag him towards us. He throws a spherical, black bomb inside of the carriage. I immediately take it and throw it in a nondescript direction. The princess on the other hand starts climbing to the top of the carriage rapier. In hand.
"Who is this guy!?"
"How about you tell me, Rohan?"
"What?"
"Did you think that you were get away with stealing every sword in the city without a few people getting mad at you!?"
More than a few people, a whole squadron of different characters started roaming after the carriage. An 8-foot tall behemoth dressed in black with short black spikey hair and a strange tattoo, a man who's similarly muscular but, shorter with longer blonde hair wearing strange foreign clothing. Along with several men and women with black robes turning into fierce monsters running through the city. Tonight the princess and I will fight together, tomorrow she will have me.
\*\*I'll probably expand on this because this is fun.\*\*
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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The banners were raised and the trumpets rang out for all the townsfolk to hear: A courting duel would commence this day. I sat in my tent, my squires busying themselves worriedly around me, listening to the bustle outside, as spectators filled the royal jousting yard. The air was positively full of bubbling energy, bursting with possibility and wonder.
My squires, on the other hand, somehow didn't get the same vibe. They helped me don my armor miserably, and a couple of them seemed on the verge of tears already.
"Don't worry, Kimpkins," I said to one of the younger, more fretful of them. "I'm not worried, why are all of you?" I slid my arms up and through the breastplate, as my longest companion, Squire Marjorie, tightened it into place with a bored sigh.
After a morning preparing, calming the nerves of squires who were certain I was walking into my death, I tossed my hair over my shoulders, took my helmet from Marjorie, and strode out onto the field to meet my foe.
Princess Ellarin was beautiful, black-haired and lithe, and also the biggest bitch I'd ever met. In our week together, she was snide, sarcastic, and glib, and I was instantly smitten. Now, bitchiness is not a one-note flavor, and while it takes a refined pallet to appreciate all the nuance and richness, those who deride it altogether miss out on a symphony of personality flavor.
See, the fact was, Princess Ellarin was a lot of things. She was witty, headstrong, a poet, skilled soprano, fluent in Italian, Spanish, and German, not to mention a world-class archer and the finest swordswoman in the land. But one couldn't get around the fact that she was also, mostly, a big old bitch. But one just has to think about it for a second to see there's more than that.
After all, the law of the kingdom, written by witch's blood into stone tablets so they can't be overturned or broken, dictates that the princess shall only marry the suitor who bests her in deathly combat. Which means on one hand, that she has had to kill every suitor she didn't want to marry, which is very fraying on the nerves, but also that her future spouse would have to be someone who was capable of defeating her. Besting her in a trial of strength and skill, physically overpowering her, and on top of that, humiliating her in the process. For it would only be because of a better knight's mercy that she would live that day, and the knowledge of that imminent indignity would be enough to sour anyone's disposition.
As we faced each other on the battlefield, we removed our helmets, and I met her beautiful, vicious eyes one more time before the trial would commence.
"Princess Ellarin," I said warmly, the morning air lighting my words with positivity and joy.
Her stone-cold face turned up slightly, into a fair-set expression of begrudging approval. "Lady Peth," she said levelly, her words full of poison and tricks, "I almost hope I don't kill you this day."
I bow low at the compliment, which annoys her, to my delight. "My princess, fear not. I have it on good authority you can't kill me."
She snorted, and the crowd roared with excitement at the challenge. "What makes you so sure?"
It was then that I reached beneath my armor, and pulled out a talismen, a small token with a glowing red gemstone in the center, fixed on a golden chain and slung securely around my neck. She needed only lay eyes on it for a moment, when her face fell, and she let out a shocked gasp.
"The Amulet of Thu'Ra'Ra."
"Yes," I said, turning to the crowd to ham up the reveal. "I climbed Mount Bortunai, bested the Six Trials of Elmered, Slayed the Mighty Dragon, and claimed the amulet of legend." I turned back to Ellarin, and lowered my voice. "You know, the amulet of invincibility."
She narrowed her eyes, and her mouth cracked into a knowing smile. "I'm a better swordswoman than you," she reminded me, once again turning to the crowd to really rile them up. "Even with the amulet keeping you safe, you could never land a blow on me."
"I guess this is going to be a long fight then."
And a long fight it was. Ellarin more than lived up to her reputation, her skill and dexterity proving a powerful foe. And yet, not a cruel one. With the talisman keeping me alive, there was no reason for her to worry for me. She could let her full power and skill shine, planting what would be a dozen killing blows. We fought all day, the battle taking us all around the palace grounds, with a gaggle of townspeople looking on, desperate to see which would win out: the unkillable knight, or the undefeatable princess.
The poor folks are still waiting for an answer, I'm afraid. After three days and three nights of exhausting combat, the princess and I decided to call a time-out, and went to have some tea, before resuming for another two days, only to break again in order to re-set the ruined battleyard. See, the witch's blood dictates the battle must continue until a clear victor is determined, but Ellarin never wanted her love to be a matter of one winner and one loser. And I may not be the greatest swordswoman in the world, but what she has in strength, I matched her in wit (and the luck to buy a legendary immortality charm off a trader at the dock markets.)
Nowadays, the townsfolk are resigned to the stalemate, and since our wedding many assumed that we'd stop the trial. But witch's blood is a powerful magic. So every so often, she'll reach for a nearby spoon, and I'll pick up a pencil or a hairbrush, and we'll continue the sparring we've been bound to, comfortable in the knowledge that neither can defeat the other, neither at the other's mercy. And, as witch's blood always get's it's due, we know that one day we will reach our end as equals as well, and, after her reign has spanned decades, and our hair is long and grey, I'll remove the amulet, and we'll face each other once again, no armor, no tricks. Just two women, matched in mind and in heart, ready to each fall on her own sword. Refusing, in death and in life, to believe the myth that a woman's heart may be fought for and won. And on that day, the townsfolk will get their answer: that any battle fought in the name of love, if that love be endlessly strong and endlessly true, will surely end in a draw.
|
I made sure that every single sword in town has been bought out and currently hidden in a cave somewhere in the southern isles. My rouges have scoured every house, camp, and hovel in the city for any type of sword or sword-like object. Of course, getting the swords in the castle is going to be harder, and the sword that she carries in her scabbard the hardest. My network of rouges has been working day in and day out for this but, now I have the ultimate test. To get that sword away from her.
The princess has been spending a few hours getting ready in the powder room as a result it is customary that I wait in the study with her butler. He stares at me up and down as I am not as strapping as the last few lads she fought. He gave me a look of pity,
"So, nice weather out there," I said, with my winning smile
The weather was cloudy and humid but, I was grasping at straws at this point. Even her butler looks intimidating. The butler just sniffed and looked towards his stack of books. Just a single stack of books among the walls of books among the shelves and piles on desks. There are also numerous anatomical diagrams on the wall and a single strange skull that was placed on the desk as some strange souvenir.
"What is that?" I ask pointing at the skull on the desk.
The butler looked at me and then looked at the skull.
"This is the skull of the first man circa 46,000 years ago. It was gifted to the princess by a biologist from the Americas."
"What happened to him?"
"He died in battle."
"With whom?"
"The princess."
"Oh."
The courting sword fights have occasionally been public events. I have seen the princess do her famous fatality finish where she disembowels her opponents in a single swipe of her rapier. While a man from any class could date her if he wants to try, she also insists on having them fight her to the death within a week after the first date. Knowing this she is still sought after and known as irresistible by most men. With an almost extreme radiance, she steps in and it was well worth the wait. She was wearing a satin dress that conforms to her curves with her long black hair cascading down to her wasp-like waist. She smiled at me to acknowledge my presence. I noticed that her sword isn't in its usual place. Could it be that Pierre succeeded?
"We'll be out for a few Alfred." The princess calls out she leads me towards the front door
We were walking out when... a waif-like teenaged boy wearing a green smock was running in a weird manner almost as if he was sidestepping at a sonic pace. His grunting matching his speed. before we realize it he threw his boomerang straight towards my head. Before I could think the princess takes out her rapier and deflects the thing towards a nearby barrel, tells me to hop into the carriage. I plopped in along with her and she orders the thing to start moving. With the horses moving at top speed across town the boy effortlessly catches up to us. Shooting a chain towards the wheel in order to drag him towards us. He throws a spherical, black bomb inside of the carriage. I immediately take it and throw it in a nondescript direction. The princess on the other hand starts climbing to the top of the carriage rapier. In hand.
"Who is this guy!?"
"How about you tell me, Rohan?"
"What?"
"Did you think that you were get away with stealing every sword in the city without a few people getting mad at you!?"
More than a few people, a whole squadron of different characters started roaming after the carriage. An 8-foot tall behemoth dressed in black with short black spikey hair and a strange tattoo, a man who's similarly muscular but, shorter with longer blonde hair wearing strange foreign clothing. Along with several men and women with black robes turning into fierce monsters running through the city. Tonight the princess and I will fight together, tomorrow she will have me.
\*\*I'll probably expand on this because this is fun.\*\*
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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"What do you think you are doing?"
"Why setting up a chess board your highness. What does it look like?"
She honestly looked as confused as the murmuring crowd gathered around the arena. Everyone looked either confused or entertained, like I was some great fool.
"This is a duel to the death."
"Yes I know." as I continued setting up the pieces "But if you will allow me a moment I will explain."
"Is this another stupid 'this does not make sense as one of us will die and then there is no chance and will never be a chance for marriage' bullshit attempt? You know I've heard them before right?"
"Oh I'm sure you have. Mine is different though, I promise you. You are the greatest swordsperson in all the lands, my life is finished, it was not the gamble to be taken. If I take up the blade, I die, simple enough. So, why not give a dying man his last moments?"
"Very well, but it had best entertain the crowd."
"Alright then, I'll raise my voice to be heard. You are the greatest there is with a sword, none can dispute it, and by coming to court you, and by spending the whole week instead of fleeing into the night, I technically agreed to your terms. The thing is, you can change the terms. That is also allowed. You see, I'm decent with a blade but my real strength resides in my tactical and strategic skills."
"What?"
"I'm getting there. Give me but a few more moments please."
"Fine, but lets hear it."
"Yes my love. You enjoyed the Muden wine I brought. best in the shield lands. You love the Mesiran silk shirt I brought you, I can see it peeking out the edges of your armor. And the way your eyes lit up when I gave you the Binsadan wind steed. I had hoped he would warm your heart."
"I've received many gifts."
"Yes but, I saved the greatest for today."
"Oh and what is that?"
"Safety, prosperity and adventure. For you and the people you love."
"What do you mean?"
"You are the princess but cannot inherit. You have 3 older siblings and 2 of them are male to boot. But you love your kingdom and the people. You would die for them which is why you set up this duel at the end of a week for any challenger." I smile as I look from her to her father, a messenger whispering in his ear and a worried look crossing his face. "AND I SEE MY LORD, MY HOPE TO BE FATHER-IN-LAW THAT MY OTHER 'GIFT' IS IN SIGHT." She nervously glanced at her father then back to me as some of his lordships knights and champions began to leave the arena.
"You see, how could I have brought such gifts together from such far distant realms?"
"You're a guilder's son. With no actual noble title to your name."
"Very true, though I do have a name, even a last name some know and respect, Vragsson." She looked confused, damn it. "You see, my mother is the Caeleight, ruler and leader of the guilders of Caelcorwynn. My father, her husband, is Rudi Vragsson, the lord of Baerghos." That registered and set her back a step.
"A Vragsson! Then you're"
"A SON OF THE HORDE? Yes. My parents third child but do do me the courtesy of letting me finish now please. I am a son of the Horde, the greatest mercantile and mercenary alliance ever known. Cemented with the marriage of my parents. Your kingdom elevates those with skills like yours because you and your neighbors are constantly on the defensive against villainous hordes from out of the mountains to the East and West as well as from the wastelands beyond the Eastern mountains as well as to the North of them. Your people fight to survive as do most of the neighboring realms."
"Yes so, get to your point."
"Yes my lady. Your people need aid, as do your neighbors. So I present you with options as my final gift. First, sheath your sword, give me a kiss and unite our peoples and interests. Second, order me to leave, to get out and never return. I'll return to the port, board my ship and go meet the fleet that has been spotted, commanded by my sister by the way, and we shall leave, never to return. Third, sit and duel me upon the chess board, my strength. Win and I shall leave loose and we shall marry and again, unite our people and interests."
"And if I decline all of those?"
"Then the fourth option, we duel with blades and you kill me. I will then be unable to meet my sister and you should be ready for battle. Most likely she has at least 1,000 Goblin cannon fodder under her command along with several hundred Orcs and Gnolls. those are just extras though. Her main force would be about 1600 veteran mercenary infantry that includes elite housecarls, berserkers, pikemen and "standard" type grunts. She should have 600 to 800 horse and knights but she will have to establish a beach head before being able to unload their horses so if she assaults straight into the docks they will probably join the infantry in the initial assault. Add to that her usual 600 to 1,000 archers and I think you will have your hands quite full. I mean it is a minor force of maybe 4 to 6 thousand but the core is experienced and hardened. It should be a good challenge. Of course that is as long as my brother is still butchering Goblins in Talinie. If his contract is over he will have joined her just to see if I died and if so that would be another 5 to 8 thousand troops but half his force were new recruits so not so much of a threat."
"Why would you do this?" I honestly can't tell if she is curious, impressed or disgusted behind her helmet. Her voice gives me no clue. Not good.
"Because you are amazing. You are beautiful, and talented in so many ways other than the sword. You have a warm heart that leaves me in disbelief you would even allow such a bloody ritual to take place for your hand. You also love your people so much it leaves me in amazement of your qualities of being a noble without taking on the "noble indifference" I have seen so often."
"But how could you get your family to go along?"
"Mother sees the market possibility of a new trading center in a kingdom in the middle of a new region. Father sees the contract possibilities of so many kingdoms in need of military aid. I'm a strategist. I convinced them the gamble was worth the possible long term pay off."
"That covers the safety and prosperity. What about the adventure you mentioned as part of the final gift?" I smiled, now I knew there was a possibility.
"You would be my wife. You would be family. If you wished it I could stay here with you and open a new mercenaries training hall or, we could start a new mob of the Horde. I take care of strategy while you handle the battles. We can stay right here or take the battles to your enemies. Why we could marry then lead my sister's force against the barbarians of Rzhlev before they can raid you next month during the harvest. We can burn their ports and shipyards. Loot their settlements and split the bounty between us. Well between "us" and my sister anyway."
"But if you die here today your siblings attack?"
"Yes. So it is best for your people to kiss me, duel me at chess or banish me. Especially as it is my sister. She is not known for...gentilities."
As she slid her helmet off I could see the thought, confliction and stress all washing over her face. She seemed to sit opposite me without thought or planning. Her mind raced as I could see her calculating everything that had just been laid before her. Her father, no, the entire assembled crowd were growing more and more nervous by the moment. Especially as she absent mindedly fingered her sword hilt for a moment. She finally turned to look at me again.
"I want white, you take black."
"As you wish my love."
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“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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The final day of courting with the Princess of the land was always a duel. The duel had become so popular in the land that the King had turned it into an event. Everyone would travel to the dueling grounds outside the palace and town to watch as a poor man was run through for their arrogance or stupidity.
Now I'm not much of a poet but when I heard of the event I fell in love. So of course I informed my fellow companions of my new love and they whole heartedly supported my pursuit. So we planned it out and travelled to the princess so I could declare my love to her.
When my parties wagon rolled into the town and we told the locals of my interest in courting the Princess, we received mockery and a few pitying looks. But I wasn't deterred.
Once I presented myself to the Princess I almost decided to not go through with my plan. Her beauty if anything was understated in the tales. Her grace almost divine and her voice could sooth any raging beast.
The Princess accepted my courting proposal and for a week I wooed her. Several times I had to remind myself of the end goal. Several times I wished to just run away. But I stayed. And finally the day came. The town and people of the Palace gathered at the dueling fields to watch me die.
"I have to say, I did enjoy this week." The Princess said to me as she gave a few practice swings in the air with her sword. I smiled a little, "I don't suppose that means you'll spare me?"
She gave a bubbling laugh, "Oh no my dear ex-suitor."
She started to gracefully circle me, "I've been waiting all week for this day."
I smirked a little and got into a stance with my sword, "Well I hate to keep a lady waiting."
With a fiendish smile she engaged. To compare my skill to hers would be to compare a peasants gold to a kings.
Quickly I felt her blade slip past my defenses and slash across my chest, arms, and legs.
After a minute of being methodically turned to ribbons she backed away from me.
I was breathing hard while she seemed no worse for wear.
we both stabbed our blades into the ground and took a moment to breath
"I'm surprised your still alive." she commented.
I laughed heartily and looked up to the crowd before looking back at her. "Well Princess I pride myself on my uh... stamina."
She chuckled, "Most men I fight only have one round in them."
I couldn't help a snicker, "Princess I'm one of a kind."
I lifted my blade and got back into a defensive stance. Beckoning her to me with a finger I gave her a smirk. "Well I'm ready for round two."
The crowd seemed amused at our banter and I would have taken a moment to enjoy it but the Princess was quick to reengage me. the crowd watched with dark amusement as the Princess covered my body in more and more cuts. I could hear a few comments as I fought off not only the Princess but the blackness that was threatening to overtake me.
After another minute the Princess backed away her hands, face, and clothes covered in blood but none of it her own. "Still there?"
I planted my sword back into the ground and held up a hand to acknowledge her as my breath come in ragged breaths.
She smiled, "Well you've set a new record."
I couldn't help a hacking up blood as I let out a painful chuckle. "Not the first time I've done that."
"I do have to ask, why did you think you would win?" she said as she picked up her bloody blade.
"I'll have you know I'm winning Princess. I've got you where I want you." I looked up with a bloody smile on my face and took a defensive stance again, feeling my arms and legs shriek in painful protest.
The Princess's smile vanished as she picked up her blade. "Is that so?"
I looked up to the crowd again and saw my friends faces of encouragement.
Looking back at the Princess I gave a sincere smile. "Why yes Princess I've won."
I don't remember dying. Just sudden blackness then feeling a pull as I woke up seeing my friends looking down at me. Besides them a priest.
"Holy hell man she ripped you apart." said one of them, the rogue of our party.
I shook off the feelings of the resurrection spell and stood up. "I know man that was the most painful experience of my life."
The rest of my party parted as I gathered my clothes and put them on. "How much did we make by the way?" I say as I meet back up with them at the wagon.
The warlock smiled evilly, "They had pathetic security that were barely taking their jobs seriously. We stole well over a few thousands gold from them."
I smiled as I got into the cart, "Finally, I've earned myself a nice score."
As ranger started guiding the wagon out of the city, located well away from the Princess's palace, the rogue took a second to look at me. "Was it just me or did it seem like you actually liked the girl?"
I waved his words, "No way my friend, we're thieving adventures, she's a Princess."
He shrugged, "Well she certainly seemed to like you."
As we headed down the road off to our next adventure I thought that sentence over in my head.
|
“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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She didn’t cry out. That’s what I remember most; she simply looked down at my rapier, thrust with a clean riposte, stabbed almost supernaturally good, just under her second rib, the tip just barely touching her heart.
She looked up at me: “But why?”
I stared her down. “The duel is to the death, Princess,” I hissed, my face a rictus of rage that only she could see, “and I had no intention of marrying you. Not after you killed three of my brothers in their attempt to court you.”
Blood crept out the corner of her mouth. Her heart was weakening, I could feel the beat stutter through my sword as I slowly pushed forward.
“I...am the best. They...knew the arrangement-“
I twisted the blade slightly. Her breath caught, and her heart jumped.
“You were never the best. There are people, who fight far better than you, who I learned from, that didn't need to advertise their mastery. A true master doesn't need to be hailed the best like a common whore. The arrangement you set, to dissuade those who would bother to woo you for themselves, never applied to my brothers. They were here to ask for your hand, true, but not for them. For my people. We were about to be invaded. We needed the resources and help of your kingdom to survive. After your king deemed us expendable, they believed the only way to get the help they needed was through you. Nobody expected you to kill them, even after they had thrown down their weapons, in cold blood.”
The princess blinked haggardly. She knew she didn’t have long, and she knew her opponent was excellent. With the blade still inside her and my body hiding the stance, the spectators thought we were merely locked. But still, she had to know.
“What...happened?”
My face, calmed from my now certain victory, regarded her with an icy stare.
“We lost. My family were tortured and killed. My mother and sisters raped, and left broken, naked, in pieces. My people? Much the same. But I alone, on the way here to plead for your help, was spared.”
Her eyes fluttered, gaze lowered. The trauma and blood loss of the preceding battle was getting to her. I tightened my grip on my sword and adjusted my thrust. The agony that must have caused shot through her face, her eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. The spectators were quiet, now more confused than anything.
“They didn’t stop there. My people, innocents, sold into slavery. Killed by the thousands. My lands, salted, pillaged, burned. But I alone survived. So here I am. The last of my family. And here you are, the very last of yours.”
I looked into her eyes.
“It seems fair recompense, does it not?”
I knew from the start I wasn’t to survive this, but it gave me grim satisfaction that the princess, her barren father, and their entire dynasty would end by my hand, just as my family met their end by hers.
With a single stroke, I buried my blade to the hilt through her torso and twisted. The tip flashed silver from her back, with a gush of blood that began to stain the back of her armored form.
As the spectators began to scream, and the guards rushed to my position in the arena, polearms ready to skewer me for my actions, I found myself surprised.
The sword had glided through her heart exceptionally smoothly.
Like there was nothing there to cut.
—-
Boy, that got dark quickly, huh?
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“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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The banners were raised and the trumpets rang out for all the townsfolk to hear: A courting duel would commence this day. I sat in my tent, my squires busying themselves worriedly around me, listening to the bustle outside, as spectators filled the royal jousting yard. The air was positively full of bubbling energy, bursting with possibility and wonder.
My squires, on the other hand, somehow didn't get the same vibe. They helped me don my armor miserably, and a couple of them seemed on the verge of tears already.
"Don't worry, Kimpkins," I said to one of the younger, more fretful of them. "I'm not worried, why are all of you?" I slid my arms up and through the breastplate, as my longest companion, Squire Marjorie, tightened it into place with a bored sigh.
After a morning preparing, calming the nerves of squires who were certain I was walking into my death, I tossed my hair over my shoulders, took my helmet from Marjorie, and strode out onto the field to meet my foe.
Princess Ellarin was beautiful, black-haired and lithe, and also the biggest bitch I'd ever met. In our week together, she was snide, sarcastic, and glib, and I was instantly smitten. Now, bitchiness is not a one-note flavor, and while it takes a refined pallet to appreciate all the nuance and richness, those who deride it altogether miss out on a symphony of personality flavor.
See, the fact was, Princess Ellarin was a lot of things. She was witty, headstrong, a poet, skilled soprano, fluent in Italian, Spanish, and German, not to mention a world-class archer and the finest swordswoman in the land. But one couldn't get around the fact that she was also, mostly, a big old bitch. But one just has to think about it for a second to see there's more than that.
After all, the law of the kingdom, written by witch's blood into stone tablets so they can't be overturned or broken, dictates that the princess shall only marry the suitor who bests her in deathly combat. Which means on one hand, that she has had to kill every suitor she didn't want to marry, which is very fraying on the nerves, but also that her future spouse would have to be someone who was capable of defeating her. Besting her in a trial of strength and skill, physically overpowering her, and on top of that, humiliating her in the process. For it would only be because of a better knight's mercy that she would live that day, and the knowledge of that imminent indignity would be enough to sour anyone's disposition.
As we faced each other on the battlefield, we removed our helmets, and I met her beautiful, vicious eyes one more time before the trial would commence.
"Princess Ellarin," I said warmly, the morning air lighting my words with positivity and joy.
Her stone-cold face turned up slightly, into a fair-set expression of begrudging approval. "Lady Peth," she said levelly, her words full of poison and tricks, "I almost hope I don't kill you this day."
I bow low at the compliment, which annoys her, to my delight. "My princess, fear not. I have it on good authority you can't kill me."
She snorted, and the crowd roared with excitement at the challenge. "What makes you so sure?"
It was then that I reached beneath my armor, and pulled out a talismen, a small token with a glowing red gemstone in the center, fixed on a golden chain and slung securely around my neck. She needed only lay eyes on it for a moment, when her face fell, and she let out a shocked gasp.
"The Amulet of Thu'Ra'Ra."
"Yes," I said, turning to the crowd to ham up the reveal. "I climbed Mount Bortunai, bested the Six Trials of Elmered, Slayed the Mighty Dragon, and claimed the amulet of legend." I turned back to Ellarin, and lowered my voice. "You know, the amulet of invincibility."
She narrowed her eyes, and her mouth cracked into a knowing smile. "I'm a better swordswoman than you," she reminded me, once again turning to the crowd to really rile them up. "Even with the amulet keeping you safe, you could never land a blow on me."
"I guess this is going to be a long fight then."
And a long fight it was. Ellarin more than lived up to her reputation, her skill and dexterity proving a powerful foe. And yet, not a cruel one. With the talisman keeping me alive, there was no reason for her to worry for me. She could let her full power and skill shine, planting what would be a dozen killing blows. We fought all day, the battle taking us all around the palace grounds, with a gaggle of townspeople looking on, desperate to see which would win out: the unkillable knight, or the undefeatable princess.
The poor folks are still waiting for an answer, I'm afraid. After three days and three nights of exhausting combat, the princess and I decided to call a time-out, and went to have some tea, before resuming for another two days, only to break again in order to re-set the ruined battleyard. See, the witch's blood dictates the battle must continue until a clear victor is determined, but Ellarin never wanted her love to be a matter of one winner and one loser. And I may not be the greatest swordswoman in the world, but what she has in strength, I matched her in wit (and the luck to buy a legendary immortality charm off a trader at the dock markets.)
Nowadays, the townsfolk are resigned to the stalemate, and since our wedding many assumed that we'd stop the trial. But witch's blood is a powerful magic. So every so often, she'll reach for a nearby spoon, and I'll pick up a pencil or a hairbrush, and we'll continue the sparring we've been bound to, comfortable in the knowledge that neither can defeat the other, neither at the other's mercy. And, as witch's blood always get's it's due, we know that one day we will reach our end as equals as well, and, after her reign has spanned decades, and our hair is long and grey, I'll remove the amulet, and we'll face each other once again, no armor, no tricks. Just two women, matched in mind and in heart, ready to each fall on her own sword. Refusing, in death and in life, to believe the myth that a woman's heart may be fought for and won. And on that day, the townsfolk will get their answer: that any battle fought in the name of love, if that love be endlessly strong and endlessly true, will surely end in a draw.
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“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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Many princes of the land had come to try their hand against the princess. None of them would succeed. She had more control over her sword than anyone Id seen. I had something they didnt though. I was the only girl there. No one knew it though. I kept my hood up and my hair short. I didnt have a chance when it came down to swords but I hoped everything would be ok regardless. One night I decided to go for a walk. I couldn't sleep there were a thousand things on my mind. The full moon and gleaming stars helped calmed my nerves. Then I saw her. She sat on a park bench. She looked so upset. I had to go over there. I walked to her and asked if I could sit,
"Do you know who I am." I decided to pretend I didnt,
"A beautiful Girl." I smiled at her and she gave a shy smile back. I sat down and we got to talking.
"I cant really explain it exactly. I'm expected to get engaged soon but every option I'm presented is unappealing. I told my dad I'm only marrying someone who could match my skill because no one can and I dont want to be stuck with a guy. I dont want a guy.... If you know what I mean. " A silence fell between us. I fell in love as I gazed into her eyes. Maybe on the day of the fight shed recognize me. Maybe she wouldn't. One thing was for sure. I was falling for her laugh and I was entranced by her eyes and if she didnt recognize me my life wouldn't be as grand as it could be because I knew right then that she was it.
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“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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I shook my head. "See thats the part that makes no sence to me. If i'm here to court you why would we fight to the death? If you win I die, if I win you die. Ether way the courtship was a waist of time."
"Oh wow." She said shocked. "That is really dumb." She pauses and turned to her father. "Why do we do the death fights? Would you rather me dead than with a man?"
He laughed shaking his head he responded, "I knew any man who willing fought you in a death match wasn't proper husband material, and I also knew no one stood a chance to your skill. The fight was a test to see if they had the brains to not do it."
We ended up having 25 children only losing 8 to disitery and 6 to scarlet fever.
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“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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They never suspect a lesbian in disguise, do they?
“You’re... you’re a...?”
“Indeed, my fair lady.” A wink. A nod. A flip of my luxurious chocolate locks. Though this may sound narcissistic, as gorgeous as I appear in dresses and skirts, I looked far more alluring in my chainmail. Princess Lara, like many, was unprepared for this.
So many are.
The sword and shield clattered in her grip. “Stop trifling with me! Where is he? Where’s my true suitor? The one I spent a week with!”
“Right here, darling. Though it’s rather rude that you don’t recognize me outside of my skirts and jewels.”
Even through the sheen of her faceguard, I could see her lip tremble.
“You were... a servant girl?”
“Your handmaiden, actually. We shared many pleasantries together, some of which I know you enjoyed deeply.”
Her helmet practically steamed. “Nonsense! Where is the man I shared many a meal with!”
“Oh, him? That was my steward. The man couldn’t hold a sword to spare his life, honestly. Surely, that’s not the man you were hoping to spend the rest of your life with? We had such fun together...”
“Quiet! How can I believe you? You’re not my handmaiden! You couldn’t possib—“
My chest plate dropped to the grass. Though especially complicated to adorn, I find that my fingers are skillfully nimble. Lara liked that best about me, after all. Stabbing my sword into the ground, I lifted my undershirt to reveal a trail of darkened flesh.
“A token of your kindness, your majesty.” I smiled, tapping the lovebites she had left from the night before. From all around the people gasped. Royal guards flushed with embarrassment, and from afar I heard many a handmaiden cry as the queen fainted with dramatic flourish.
And though Lara’s mouth gaped with bashfulness, I did not cease in dismantling my knightly armor.
“Diana! For God’s sake, what are you doing?” She stammered, unable to comprehend the act.
“Why,” I said, “I am preparing to fight you as we fought in the last few nights.” At that, more gasps reigned in from the crowd. Shouting ensued after the King dropped in a faint, who had to be escorted out with the Queen. “But, in all honesty, it would be a great detriment to you if I were to fight with all my noble gear. That would put you at what I fear to be a great disadvantage. After all, I highly doubt you are as skilled as I in hand-to-hand combat.”
This, of course, was a bold-faced lie. I was skilled with a blade, sure, but I was no match for Princess Lara. Even after years of training, she would slaughter me in mere seconds. No, this act of undressing was part of a different ruse.
She flushed again, but this time with rage. “Silence, you bigoted fool!”
“Well, that’s not very ladylike.”
“What am I even to make of this trial? Suppose you could best me: what would our houses gain from matrimony? We cannot bear children together! Our family name would be desolate!”
I chuckled, tossing a boot in her direction. “To adopt one into royalty is not as uncommon as you would think. And to answer your question, our matrimony would bring our houses an alliance, one detrimental to future warfare. We discussed this briefly in your quarters, when you mistook me for a handmaiden—“
“Who dared to give you the title or honor of a prince befitting to challenge me in combat?”
The corner of my mouth rose slightly. “My father always wanted a son, but he was troubled with daughters instead. Eventually, he thought it best to make due with what he had. As the oldest, he thought it best to present me to you.”
With a final flick of my wrist, the rest of my armor clattered to the ground. Many around stared with awe and disgust. ‘What is worse about this trial of words’, I wondered: ‘a princess undressing, or a princess standing with the rights and privileges of a prince?’
The people couldn’t seem to make up their minds. But Princess Lara had. Her eyes were glued on all of the marks she’d left over my body. Her sword trembled pathetically in her hand as I watched her eyes trace the outline of my breasts. She dropped to her knees, defeated before the battle had truly begun.
No one ever expects a strip-tease during a trial of combat. Pragmatically speaking, it’s a foreign counter to any combat of the sort.
“I... surrender.” The words dropped from her mouth in defeat. Her eyes burned with hatred, but also with a sort of lust. I was not the stranger she had expected to win her hand, and I certainly was not the worst suitor she had been presented with.
With a hand extended her way, I inquired loudly, so that all around might hear: “So you accept my offer of matrimony?”
Princess Lara nodded, feebly removing her own helmet as she accepted my hand.
“An unexpected battle, but a battle well fought,” she whispered to me, watching the crowd around us light up in excitement.
A wink. “Only because you let me win, Princess.”
|
“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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"So, uh, we'll have to fight to the death?"
The princess shrugged. "Yeah."
"Okay, so... thing is, I'll definitely lose," I admit. "I'm not exactly a fighter, and I'm honestly still not sure why I'm here."
"My father said that you could be worthy of me," she replies, nonchalantly stoking the flame before us. Her chambers are cozy and modest, despite her status. "I doubt it, however. The only worthy man in the world can best me at swordplay. And as you already admitted, you certainly can't."
"Right, but... when you do find that worthy guy, what do you envision your life being like after he wins?"
"We will live in splendor and sexual bliss."
"You mean, after he wins."
"Correct."
I frown at her remark. "You mean, after he wins a fight, to the DEATH."
"Yes, as we've already discussed." She casts me a derisive glance. "You're not very bright, are you?"
I ignore her remark, for the time being. "I'm sorry, I just want to make sure we're on the same page here - after this mysterious suitor wins, a fight to the death, you envision a life with him?"
"Yes, why is this so hard to grasp for you?" She levels the poker she was stoking the fireplace with at my eye with a sneer. "Perhaps I should end this now, to put you out of your misery."
I pinch the bridge of my nose in irritation. "Princess, if you fight to the death and lose, what happens?"
"You die, fool."
"Right. And then?"
"And then you are buried with the rest of your idiot ancestors."
"Right. So, if you lose a fight to the death with your suitor, how would you then live a life with him, if you are dead?"
She hesitates for a moment, before coming back with a snappy answer. "Well... if I were going to be killed, then the fight would be ended, you foolish man."
"So then he wouldn't have won."
"What?"
"By law, you only win a fight to the death when your opponent is dead. Your opponent cannot forfeit. If you accept a forfeiture, you are executed as a coward. So how do you expect to marry a man that has either killed you, or been executed for sparing you?"
"Uh..." She finally lowers the poker, and I release a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. "I just assumed... that the rules would not apply to me. After all, I am royalty..."
"Then it wouldn't be a real fight to the death, would it?"
"No... No, I suppose it would not."
"So? What will you do now?"
She stares at me for a moment, as if contemplating something. "I suppose I will follow a... different human tradition." The dragon princess stands, her wings twitching restlessly as she stretches. "The 'shotgun wedding'."
"Wait, what?"
And that's how I went from taking a nap in a field, to being kidnapped by the head of a local family of dragons with a human- obsessed daughter, to being married to a dragon, all within one day.
No, I don't understand it, either.
|
“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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"We must duel to the death, you say?"
"Yes." She grins challengingly. "I so enjoy this part. The wooing is always fun, sure, but I've trained for this all my life. I'm the greatest swordman of the country. This is what I live for."
"Well, very well." I pull out two decks. "I like to play green blue. I'm assuming you like to play red, so I made you one just in case you don't have a deck, although I side boarded you white, in case you maybe like red/white?"
"I'm sorry, what? What are you doing? Where's your sword?"
"Oh! I don't swordfight like yourself. I dual in this. Our life totals are twenty each. Here's your spin down."
"What? I'm not going to play a GAME for my HAND!?"
"No no no, we're dueling. I mean, we can draft a set instead, if you want? Or we could play some EDH? I promise you have a good deck though. It's even got some foils in there! And very pretty lands! Original Zen lands! Let's duel!"
She stood there, befuddled. No one had prepared her for this. They were dueling though, and it was to the death... So tradition would be accepted... "But... I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PLAY CARDS!!"
"Oh, no worries, I'll teach you, come, sit down. So this is a land card..."
It was a lovely ceremony.
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“Princess, there is one last contestant who wishes to face you in trial!”
The princess looked up, carelessly tossing aside the bloodied rag she had been using to clean her blade. Behind her, a wooden cart dragging away the remains of the previous combatant. She gave the stranger a curious look, then shrugged it off, slowly striding up to him. Perhaps it was the long, dark robe, or the ragged fiber mask, certainly astray from the usual broad, shiny, heavy, and often restricting regalia worn by most nobles and princes with whom she had fought before. No, this man seemed humbler, almost frightened. This did not worry her, however; if the man’s attire was offsetting it was as much indicative of an untrained peasant or forest dweller. So she stepped up to him, raising her saber to a ready position.
“Draw thy blade, sir, and if thou taketh from me this blade and cut from my neck this stone thou shalt receive my inheritance and in marriage my service.”
The stranger reached deep into his cloak and pulled from it a worn, ragged straw doll, with eyes of dried berry and long, messily braided vine as hair. He spoke in a deep, but soft voice, which seemed at its sound to enact a brief flash of excitement in the princesses eye.
“Princess, I desire naught to fight...”
She looked at the doll for a moment, then cast it aside, and quickly thrust her blade to the stranger’s neck, barely breaking skin.
(Part two comin by tomorrow sometime >:3)
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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The final day of courting with the Princess of the land was always a duel. The duel had become so popular in the land that the King had turned it into an event. Everyone would travel to the dueling grounds outside the palace and town to watch as a poor man was run through for their arrogance or stupidity.
Now I'm not much of a poet but when I heard of the event I fell in love. So of course I informed my fellow companions of my new love and they whole heartedly supported my pursuit. So we planned it out and travelled to the princess so I could declare my love to her.
When my parties wagon rolled into the town and we told the locals of my interest in courting the Princess, we received mockery and a few pitying looks. But I wasn't deterred.
Once I presented myself to the Princess I almost decided to not go through with my plan. Her beauty if anything was understated in the tales. Her grace almost divine and her voice could sooth any raging beast.
The Princess accepted my courting proposal and for a week I wooed her. Several times I had to remind myself of the end goal. Several times I wished to just run away. But I stayed. And finally the day came. The town and people of the Palace gathered at the dueling fields to watch me die.
"I have to say, I did enjoy this week." The Princess said to me as she gave a few practice swings in the air with her sword. I smiled a little, "I don't suppose that means you'll spare me?"
She gave a bubbling laugh, "Oh no my dear ex-suitor."
She started to gracefully circle me, "I've been waiting all week for this day."
I smirked a little and got into a stance with my sword, "Well I hate to keep a lady waiting."
With a fiendish smile she engaged. To compare my skill to hers would be to compare a peasants gold to a kings.
Quickly I felt her blade slip past my defenses and slash across my chest, arms, and legs.
After a minute of being methodically turned to ribbons she backed away from me.
I was breathing hard while she seemed no worse for wear.
we both stabbed our blades into the ground and took a moment to breath
"I'm surprised your still alive." she commented.
I laughed heartily and looked up to the crowd before looking back at her. "Well Princess I pride myself on my uh... stamina."
She chuckled, "Most men I fight only have one round in them."
I couldn't help a snicker, "Princess I'm one of a kind."
I lifted my blade and got back into a defensive stance. Beckoning her to me with a finger I gave her a smirk. "Well I'm ready for round two."
The crowd seemed amused at our banter and I would have taken a moment to enjoy it but the Princess was quick to reengage me. the crowd watched with dark amusement as the Princess covered my body in more and more cuts. I could hear a few comments as I fought off not only the Princess but the blackness that was threatening to overtake me.
After another minute the Princess backed away her hands, face, and clothes covered in blood but none of it her own. "Still there?"
I planted my sword back into the ground and held up a hand to acknowledge her as my breath come in ragged breaths.
She smiled, "Well you've set a new record."
I couldn't help a hacking up blood as I let out a painful chuckle. "Not the first time I've done that."
"I do have to ask, why did you think you would win?" she said as she picked up her bloody blade.
"I'll have you know I'm winning Princess. I've got you where I want you." I looked up with a bloody smile on my face and took a defensive stance again, feeling my arms and legs shriek in painful protest.
The Princess's smile vanished as she picked up her blade. "Is that so?"
I looked up to the crowd again and saw my friends faces of encouragement.
Looking back at the Princess I gave a sincere smile. "Why yes Princess I've won."
I don't remember dying. Just sudden blackness then feeling a pull as I woke up seeing my friends looking down at me. Besides them a priest.
"Holy hell man she ripped you apart." said one of them, the rogue of our party.
I shook off the feelings of the resurrection spell and stood up. "I know man that was the most painful experience of my life."
The rest of my party parted as I gathered my clothes and put them on. "How much did we make by the way?" I say as I meet back up with them at the wagon.
The warlock smiled evilly, "They had pathetic security that were barely taking their jobs seriously. We stole well over a few thousands gold from them."
I smiled as I got into the cart, "Finally, I've earned myself a nice score."
As ranger started guiding the wagon out of the city, located well away from the Princess's palace, the rogue took a second to look at me. "Was it just me or did it seem like you actually liked the girl?"
I waved his words, "No way my friend, we're thieving adventures, she's a Princess."
He shrugged, "Well she certainly seemed to like you."
As we headed down the road off to our next adventure I thought that sentence over in my head.
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"What do you think you are doing?"
"Why setting up a chess board your highness. What does it look like?"
She honestly looked as confused as the murmuring crowd gathered around the arena. Everyone looked either confused or entertained, like I was some great fool.
"This is a duel to the death."
"Yes I know." as I continued setting up the pieces "But if you will allow me a moment I will explain."
"Is this another stupid 'this does not make sense as one of us will die and then there is no chance and will never be a chance for marriage' bullshit attempt? You know I've heard them before right?"
"Oh I'm sure you have. Mine is different though, I promise you. You are the greatest swordsperson in all the lands, my life is finished, it was not the gamble to be taken. If I take up the blade, I die, simple enough. So, why not give a dying man his last moments?"
"Very well, but it had best entertain the crowd."
"Alright then, I'll raise my voice to be heard. You are the greatest there is with a sword, none can dispute it, and by coming to court you, and by spending the whole week instead of fleeing into the night, I technically agreed to your terms. The thing is, you can change the terms. That is also allowed. You see, I'm decent with a blade but my real strength resides in my tactical and strategic skills."
"What?"
"I'm getting there. Give me but a few more moments please."
"Fine, but lets hear it."
"Yes my love. You enjoyed the Muden wine I brought. best in the shield lands. You love the Mesiran silk shirt I brought you, I can see it peeking out the edges of your armor. And the way your eyes lit up when I gave you the Binsadan wind steed. I had hoped he would warm your heart."
"I've received many gifts."
"Yes but, I saved the greatest for today."
"Oh and what is that?"
"Safety, prosperity and adventure. For you and the people you love."
"What do you mean?"
"You are the princess but cannot inherit. You have 3 older siblings and 2 of them are male to boot. But you love your kingdom and the people. You would die for them which is why you set up this duel at the end of a week for any challenger." I smile as I look from her to her father, a messenger whispering in his ear and a worried look crossing his face. "AND I SEE MY LORD, MY HOPE TO BE FATHER-IN-LAW THAT MY OTHER 'GIFT' IS IN SIGHT." She nervously glanced at her father then back to me as some of his lordships knights and champions began to leave the arena.
"You see, how could I have brought such gifts together from such far distant realms?"
"You're a guilder's son. With no actual noble title to your name."
"Very true, though I do have a name, even a last name some know and respect, Vragsson." She looked confused, damn it. "You see, my mother is the Caeleight, ruler and leader of the guilders of Caelcorwynn. My father, her husband, is Rudi Vragsson, the lord of Baerghos." That registered and set her back a step.
"A Vragsson! Then you're"
"A SON OF THE HORDE? Yes. My parents third child but do do me the courtesy of letting me finish now please. I am a son of the Horde, the greatest mercantile and mercenary alliance ever known. Cemented with the marriage of my parents. Your kingdom elevates those with skills like yours because you and your neighbors are constantly on the defensive against villainous hordes from out of the mountains to the East and West as well as from the wastelands beyond the Eastern mountains as well as to the North of them. Your people fight to survive as do most of the neighboring realms."
"Yes so, get to your point."
"Yes my lady. Your people need aid, as do your neighbors. So I present you with options as my final gift. First, sheath your sword, give me a kiss and unite our peoples and interests. Second, order me to leave, to get out and never return. I'll return to the port, board my ship and go meet the fleet that has been spotted, commanded by my sister by the way, and we shall leave, never to return. Third, sit and duel me upon the chess board, my strength. Win and I shall leave loose and we shall marry and again, unite our people and interests."
"And if I decline all of those?"
"Then the fourth option, we duel with blades and you kill me. I will then be unable to meet my sister and you should be ready for battle. Most likely she has at least 1,000 Goblin cannon fodder under her command along with several hundred Orcs and Gnolls. those are just extras though. Her main force would be about 1600 veteran mercenary infantry that includes elite housecarls, berserkers, pikemen and "standard" type grunts. She should have 600 to 800 horse and knights but she will have to establish a beach head before being able to unload their horses so if she assaults straight into the docks they will probably join the infantry in the initial assault. Add to that her usual 600 to 1,000 archers and I think you will have your hands quite full. I mean it is a minor force of maybe 4 to 6 thousand but the core is experienced and hardened. It should be a good challenge. Of course that is as long as my brother is still butchering Goblins in Talinie. If his contract is over he will have joined her just to see if I died and if so that would be another 5 to 8 thousand troops but half his force were new recruits so not so much of a threat."
"Why would you do this?" I honestly can't tell if she is curious, impressed or disgusted behind her helmet. Her voice gives me no clue. Not good.
"Because you are amazing. You are beautiful, and talented in so many ways other than the sword. You have a warm heart that leaves me in disbelief you would even allow such a bloody ritual to take place for your hand. You also love your people so much it leaves me in amazement of your qualities of being a noble without taking on the "noble indifference" I have seen so often."
"But how could you get your family to go along?"
"Mother sees the market possibility of a new trading center in a kingdom in the middle of a new region. Father sees the contract possibilities of so many kingdoms in need of military aid. I'm a strategist. I convinced them the gamble was worth the possible long term pay off."
"That covers the safety and prosperity. What about the adventure you mentioned as part of the final gift?" I smiled, now I knew there was a possibility.
"You would be my wife. You would be family. If you wished it I could stay here with you and open a new mercenaries training hall or, we could start a new mob of the Horde. I take care of strategy while you handle the battles. We can stay right here or take the battles to your enemies. Why we could marry then lead my sister's force against the barbarians of Rzhlev before they can raid you next month during the harvest. We can burn their ports and shipyards. Loot their settlements and split the bounty between us. Well between "us" and my sister anyway."
"But if you die here today your siblings attack?"
"Yes. So it is best for your people to kiss me, duel me at chess or banish me. Especially as it is my sister. She is not known for...gentilities."
As she slid her helmet off I could see the thought, confliction and stress all washing over her face. She seemed to sit opposite me without thought or planning. Her mind raced as I could see her calculating everything that had just been laid before her. Her father, no, the entire assembled crowd were growing more and more nervous by the moment. Especially as she absent mindedly fingered her sword hilt for a moment. She finally turned to look at me again.
"I want white, you take black."
"As you wish my love."
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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She didn’t cry out. That’s what I remember most; she simply looked down at my rapier, thrust with a clean riposte, stabbed almost supernaturally good, just under her second rib, the tip just barely touching her heart.
She looked up at me: “But why?”
I stared her down. “The duel is to the death, Princess,” I hissed, my face a rictus of rage that only she could see, “and I had no intention of marrying you. Not after you killed three of my brothers in their attempt to court you.”
Blood crept out the corner of her mouth. Her heart was weakening, I could feel the beat stutter through my sword as I slowly pushed forward.
“I...am the best. They...knew the arrangement-“
I twisted the blade slightly. Her breath caught, and her heart jumped.
“You were never the best. There are people, who fight far better than you, who I learned from, that didn't need to advertise their mastery. A true master doesn't need to be hailed the best like a common whore. The arrangement you set, to dissuade those who would bother to woo you for themselves, never applied to my brothers. They were here to ask for your hand, true, but not for them. For my people. We were about to be invaded. We needed the resources and help of your kingdom to survive. After your king deemed us expendable, they believed the only way to get the help they needed was through you. Nobody expected you to kill them, even after they had thrown down their weapons, in cold blood.”
The princess blinked haggardly. She knew she didn’t have long, and she knew her opponent was excellent. With the blade still inside her and my body hiding the stance, the spectators thought we were merely locked. But still, she had to know.
“What...happened?”
My face, calmed from my now certain victory, regarded her with an icy stare.
“We lost. My family were tortured and killed. My mother and sisters raped, and left broken, naked, in pieces. My people? Much the same. But I alone, on the way here to plead for your help, was spared.”
Her eyes fluttered, gaze lowered. The trauma and blood loss of the preceding battle was getting to her. I tightened my grip on my sword and adjusted my thrust. The agony that must have caused shot through her face, her eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. The spectators were quiet, now more confused than anything.
“They didn’t stop there. My people, innocents, sold into slavery. Killed by the thousands. My lands, salted, pillaged, burned. But I alone survived. So here I am. The last of my family. And here you are, the very last of yours.”
I looked into her eyes.
“It seems fair recompense, does it not?”
I knew from the start I wasn’t to survive this, but it gave me grim satisfaction that the princess, her barren father, and their entire dynasty would end by my hand, just as my family met their end by hers.
With a single stroke, I buried my blade to the hilt through her torso and twisted. The tip flashed silver from her back, with a gush of blood that began to stain the back of her armored form.
As the spectators began to scream, and the guards rushed to my position in the arena, polearms ready to skewer me for my actions, I found myself surprised.
The sword had glided through her heart exceptionally smoothly.
Like there was nothing there to cut.
—-
Boy, that got dark quickly, huh?
|
"What do you think you are doing?"
"Why setting up a chess board your highness. What does it look like?"
She honestly looked as confused as the murmuring crowd gathered around the arena. Everyone looked either confused or entertained, like I was some great fool.
"This is a duel to the death."
"Yes I know." as I continued setting up the pieces "But if you will allow me a moment I will explain."
"Is this another stupid 'this does not make sense as one of us will die and then there is no chance and will never be a chance for marriage' bullshit attempt? You know I've heard them before right?"
"Oh I'm sure you have. Mine is different though, I promise you. You are the greatest swordsperson in all the lands, my life is finished, it was not the gamble to be taken. If I take up the blade, I die, simple enough. So, why not give a dying man his last moments?"
"Very well, but it had best entertain the crowd."
"Alright then, I'll raise my voice to be heard. You are the greatest there is with a sword, none can dispute it, and by coming to court you, and by spending the whole week instead of fleeing into the night, I technically agreed to your terms. The thing is, you can change the terms. That is also allowed. You see, I'm decent with a blade but my real strength resides in my tactical and strategic skills."
"What?"
"I'm getting there. Give me but a few more moments please."
"Fine, but lets hear it."
"Yes my love. You enjoyed the Muden wine I brought. best in the shield lands. You love the Mesiran silk shirt I brought you, I can see it peeking out the edges of your armor. And the way your eyes lit up when I gave you the Binsadan wind steed. I had hoped he would warm your heart."
"I've received many gifts."
"Yes but, I saved the greatest for today."
"Oh and what is that?"
"Safety, prosperity and adventure. For you and the people you love."
"What do you mean?"
"You are the princess but cannot inherit. You have 3 older siblings and 2 of them are male to boot. But you love your kingdom and the people. You would die for them which is why you set up this duel at the end of a week for any challenger." I smile as I look from her to her father, a messenger whispering in his ear and a worried look crossing his face. "AND I SEE MY LORD, MY HOPE TO BE FATHER-IN-LAW THAT MY OTHER 'GIFT' IS IN SIGHT." She nervously glanced at her father then back to me as some of his lordships knights and champions began to leave the arena.
"You see, how could I have brought such gifts together from such far distant realms?"
"You're a guilder's son. With no actual noble title to your name."
"Very true, though I do have a name, even a last name some know and respect, Vragsson." She looked confused, damn it. "You see, my mother is the Caeleight, ruler and leader of the guilders of Caelcorwynn. My father, her husband, is Rudi Vragsson, the lord of Baerghos." That registered and set her back a step.
"A Vragsson! Then you're"
"A SON OF THE HORDE? Yes. My parents third child but do do me the courtesy of letting me finish now please. I am a son of the Horde, the greatest mercantile and mercenary alliance ever known. Cemented with the marriage of my parents. Your kingdom elevates those with skills like yours because you and your neighbors are constantly on the defensive against villainous hordes from out of the mountains to the East and West as well as from the wastelands beyond the Eastern mountains as well as to the North of them. Your people fight to survive as do most of the neighboring realms."
"Yes so, get to your point."
"Yes my lady. Your people need aid, as do your neighbors. So I present you with options as my final gift. First, sheath your sword, give me a kiss and unite our peoples and interests. Second, order me to leave, to get out and never return. I'll return to the port, board my ship and go meet the fleet that has been spotted, commanded by my sister by the way, and we shall leave, never to return. Third, sit and duel me upon the chess board, my strength. Win and I shall leave loose and we shall marry and again, unite our people and interests."
"And if I decline all of those?"
"Then the fourth option, we duel with blades and you kill me. I will then be unable to meet my sister and you should be ready for battle. Most likely she has at least 1,000 Goblin cannon fodder under her command along with several hundred Orcs and Gnolls. those are just extras though. Her main force would be about 1600 veteran mercenary infantry that includes elite housecarls, berserkers, pikemen and "standard" type grunts. She should have 600 to 800 horse and knights but she will have to establish a beach head before being able to unload their horses so if she assaults straight into the docks they will probably join the infantry in the initial assault. Add to that her usual 600 to 1,000 archers and I think you will have your hands quite full. I mean it is a minor force of maybe 4 to 6 thousand but the core is experienced and hardened. It should be a good challenge. Of course that is as long as my brother is still butchering Goblins in Talinie. If his contract is over he will have joined her just to see if I died and if so that would be another 5 to 8 thousand troops but half his force were new recruits so not so much of a threat."
"Why would you do this?" I honestly can't tell if she is curious, impressed or disgusted behind her helmet. Her voice gives me no clue. Not good.
"Because you are amazing. You are beautiful, and talented in so many ways other than the sword. You have a warm heart that leaves me in disbelief you would even allow such a bloody ritual to take place for your hand. You also love your people so much it leaves me in amazement of your qualities of being a noble without taking on the "noble indifference" I have seen so often."
"But how could you get your family to go along?"
"Mother sees the market possibility of a new trading center in a kingdom in the middle of a new region. Father sees the contract possibilities of so many kingdoms in need of military aid. I'm a strategist. I convinced them the gamble was worth the possible long term pay off."
"That covers the safety and prosperity. What about the adventure you mentioned as part of the final gift?" I smiled, now I knew there was a possibility.
"You would be my wife. You would be family. If you wished it I could stay here with you and open a new mercenaries training hall or, we could start a new mob of the Horde. I take care of strategy while you handle the battles. We can stay right here or take the battles to your enemies. Why we could marry then lead my sister's force against the barbarians of Rzhlev before they can raid you next month during the harvest. We can burn their ports and shipyards. Loot their settlements and split the bounty between us. Well between "us" and my sister anyway."
"But if you die here today your siblings attack?"
"Yes. So it is best for your people to kiss me, duel me at chess or banish me. Especially as it is my sister. She is not known for...gentilities."
As she slid her helmet off I could see the thought, confliction and stress all washing over her face. She seemed to sit opposite me without thought or planning. Her mind raced as I could see her calculating everything that had just been laid before her. Her father, no, the entire assembled crowd were growing more and more nervous by the moment. Especially as she absent mindedly fingered her sword hilt for a moment. She finally turned to look at me again.
"I want white, you take black."
"As you wish my love."
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[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
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The banners were raised and the trumpets rang out for all the townsfolk to hear: A courting duel would commence this day. I sat in my tent, my squires busying themselves worriedly around me, listening to the bustle outside, as spectators filled the royal jousting yard. The air was positively full of bubbling energy, bursting with possibility and wonder.
My squires, on the other hand, somehow didn't get the same vibe. They helped me don my armor miserably, and a couple of them seemed on the verge of tears already.
"Don't worry, Kimpkins," I said to one of the younger, more fretful of them. "I'm not worried, why are all of you?" I slid my arms up and through the breastplate, as my longest companion, Squire Marjorie, tightened it into place with a bored sigh.
After a morning preparing, calming the nerves of squires who were certain I was walking into my death, I tossed my hair over my shoulders, took my helmet from Marjorie, and strode out onto the field to meet my foe.
Princess Ellarin was beautiful, black-haired and lithe, and also the biggest bitch I'd ever met. In our week together, she was snide, sarcastic, and glib, and I was instantly smitten. Now, bitchiness is not a one-note flavor, and while it takes a refined pallet to appreciate all the nuance and richness, those who deride it altogether miss out on a symphony of personality flavor.
See, the fact was, Princess Ellarin was a lot of things. She was witty, headstrong, a poet, skilled soprano, fluent in Italian, Spanish, and German, not to mention a world-class archer and the finest swordswoman in the land. But one couldn't get around the fact that she was also, mostly, a big old bitch. But one just has to think about it for a second to see there's more than that.
After all, the law of the kingdom, written by witch's blood into stone tablets so they can't be overturned or broken, dictates that the princess shall only marry the suitor who bests her in deathly combat. Which means on one hand, that she has had to kill every suitor she didn't want to marry, which is very fraying on the nerves, but also that her future spouse would have to be someone who was capable of defeating her. Besting her in a trial of strength and skill, physically overpowering her, and on top of that, humiliating her in the process. For it would only be because of a better knight's mercy that she would live that day, and the knowledge of that imminent indignity would be enough to sour anyone's disposition.
As we faced each other on the battlefield, we removed our helmets, and I met her beautiful, vicious eyes one more time before the trial would commence.
"Princess Ellarin," I said warmly, the morning air lighting my words with positivity and joy.
Her stone-cold face turned up slightly, into a fair-set expression of begrudging approval. "Lady Peth," she said levelly, her words full of poison and tricks, "I almost hope I don't kill you this day."
I bow low at the compliment, which annoys her, to my delight. "My princess, fear not. I have it on good authority you can't kill me."
She snorted, and the crowd roared with excitement at the challenge. "What makes you so sure?"
It was then that I reached beneath my armor, and pulled out a talismen, a small token with a glowing red gemstone in the center, fixed on a golden chain and slung securely around my neck. She needed only lay eyes on it for a moment, when her face fell, and she let out a shocked gasp.
"The Amulet of Thu'Ra'Ra."
"Yes," I said, turning to the crowd to ham up the reveal. "I climbed Mount Bortunai, bested the Six Trials of Elmered, Slayed the Mighty Dragon, and claimed the amulet of legend." I turned back to Ellarin, and lowered my voice. "You know, the amulet of invincibility."
She narrowed her eyes, and her mouth cracked into a knowing smile. "I'm a better swordswoman than you," she reminded me, once again turning to the crowd to really rile them up. "Even with the amulet keeping you safe, you could never land a blow on me."
"I guess this is going to be a long fight then."
And a long fight it was. Ellarin more than lived up to her reputation, her skill and dexterity proving a powerful foe. And yet, not a cruel one. With the talisman keeping me alive, there was no reason for her to worry for me. She could let her full power and skill shine, planting what would be a dozen killing blows. We fought all day, the battle taking us all around the palace grounds, with a gaggle of townspeople looking on, desperate to see which would win out: the unkillable knight, or the undefeatable princess.
The poor folks are still waiting for an answer, I'm afraid. After three days and three nights of exhausting combat, the princess and I decided to call a time-out, and went to have some tea, before resuming for another two days, only to break again in order to re-set the ruined battleyard. See, the witch's blood dictates the battle must continue until a clear victor is determined, but Ellarin never wanted her love to be a matter of one winner and one loser. And I may not be the greatest swordswoman in the world, but what she has in strength, I matched her in wit (and the luck to buy a legendary immortality charm off a trader at the dock markets.)
Nowadays, the townsfolk are resigned to the stalemate, and since our wedding many assumed that we'd stop the trial. But witch's blood is a powerful magic. So every so often, she'll reach for a nearby spoon, and I'll pick up a pencil or a hairbrush, and we'll continue the sparring we've been bound to, comfortable in the knowledge that neither can defeat the other, neither at the other's mercy. And, as witch's blood always get's it's due, we know that one day we will reach our end as equals as well, and, after her reign has spanned decades, and our hair is long and grey, I'll remove the amulet, and we'll face each other once again, no armor, no tricks. Just two women, matched in mind and in heart, ready to each fall on her own sword. Refusing, in death and in life, to believe the myth that a woman's heart may be fought for and won. And on that day, the townsfolk will get their answer: that any battle fought in the name of love, if that love be endlessly strong and endlessly true, will surely end in a draw.
|
"What do you think you are doing?"
"Why setting up a chess board your highness. What does it look like?"
She honestly looked as confused as the murmuring crowd gathered around the arena. Everyone looked either confused or entertained, like I was some great fool.
"This is a duel to the death."
"Yes I know." as I continued setting up the pieces "But if you will allow me a moment I will explain."
"Is this another stupid 'this does not make sense as one of us will die and then there is no chance and will never be a chance for marriage' bullshit attempt? You know I've heard them before right?"
"Oh I'm sure you have. Mine is different though, I promise you. You are the greatest swordsperson in all the lands, my life is finished, it was not the gamble to be taken. If I take up the blade, I die, simple enough. So, why not give a dying man his last moments?"
"Very well, but it had best entertain the crowd."
"Alright then, I'll raise my voice to be heard. You are the greatest there is with a sword, none can dispute it, and by coming to court you, and by spending the whole week instead of fleeing into the night, I technically agreed to your terms. The thing is, you can change the terms. That is also allowed. You see, I'm decent with a blade but my real strength resides in my tactical and strategic skills."
"What?"
"I'm getting there. Give me but a few more moments please."
"Fine, but lets hear it."
"Yes my love. You enjoyed the Muden wine I brought. best in the shield lands. You love the Mesiran silk shirt I brought you, I can see it peeking out the edges of your armor. And the way your eyes lit up when I gave you the Binsadan wind steed. I had hoped he would warm your heart."
"I've received many gifts."
"Yes but, I saved the greatest for today."
"Oh and what is that?"
"Safety, prosperity and adventure. For you and the people you love."
"What do you mean?"
"You are the princess but cannot inherit. You have 3 older siblings and 2 of them are male to boot. But you love your kingdom and the people. You would die for them which is why you set up this duel at the end of a week for any challenger." I smile as I look from her to her father, a messenger whispering in his ear and a worried look crossing his face. "AND I SEE MY LORD, MY HOPE TO BE FATHER-IN-LAW THAT MY OTHER 'GIFT' IS IN SIGHT." She nervously glanced at her father then back to me as some of his lordships knights and champions began to leave the arena.
"You see, how could I have brought such gifts together from such far distant realms?"
"You're a guilder's son. With no actual noble title to your name."
"Very true, though I do have a name, even a last name some know and respect, Vragsson." She looked confused, damn it. "You see, my mother is the Caeleight, ruler and leader of the guilders of Caelcorwynn. My father, her husband, is Rudi Vragsson, the lord of Baerghos." That registered and set her back a step.
"A Vragsson! Then you're"
"A SON OF THE HORDE? Yes. My parents third child but do do me the courtesy of letting me finish now please. I am a son of the Horde, the greatest mercantile and mercenary alliance ever known. Cemented with the marriage of my parents. Your kingdom elevates those with skills like yours because you and your neighbors are constantly on the defensive against villainous hordes from out of the mountains to the East and West as well as from the wastelands beyond the Eastern mountains as well as to the North of them. Your people fight to survive as do most of the neighboring realms."
"Yes so, get to your point."
"Yes my lady. Your people need aid, as do your neighbors. So I present you with options as my final gift. First, sheath your sword, give me a kiss and unite our peoples and interests. Second, order me to leave, to get out and never return. I'll return to the port, board my ship and go meet the fleet that has been spotted, commanded by my sister by the way, and we shall leave, never to return. Third, sit and duel me upon the chess board, my strength. Win and I shall leave loose and we shall marry and again, unite our people and interests."
"And if I decline all of those?"
"Then the fourth option, we duel with blades and you kill me. I will then be unable to meet my sister and you should be ready for battle. Most likely she has at least 1,000 Goblin cannon fodder under her command along with several hundred Orcs and Gnolls. those are just extras though. Her main force would be about 1600 veteran mercenary infantry that includes elite housecarls, berserkers, pikemen and "standard" type grunts. She should have 600 to 800 horse and knights but she will have to establish a beach head before being able to unload their horses so if she assaults straight into the docks they will probably join the infantry in the initial assault. Add to that her usual 600 to 1,000 archers and I think you will have your hands quite full. I mean it is a minor force of maybe 4 to 6 thousand but the core is experienced and hardened. It should be a good challenge. Of course that is as long as my brother is still butchering Goblins in Talinie. If his contract is over he will have joined her just to see if I died and if so that would be another 5 to 8 thousand troops but half his force were new recruits so not so much of a threat."
"Why would you do this?" I honestly can't tell if she is curious, impressed or disgusted behind her helmet. Her voice gives me no clue. Not good.
"Because you are amazing. You are beautiful, and talented in so many ways other than the sword. You have a warm heart that leaves me in disbelief you would even allow such a bloody ritual to take place for your hand. You also love your people so much it leaves me in amazement of your qualities of being a noble without taking on the "noble indifference" I have seen so often."
"But how could you get your family to go along?"
"Mother sees the market possibility of a new trading center in a kingdom in the middle of a new region. Father sees the contract possibilities of so many kingdoms in need of military aid. I'm a strategist. I convinced them the gamble was worth the possible long term pay off."
"That covers the safety and prosperity. What about the adventure you mentioned as part of the final gift?" I smiled, now I knew there was a possibility.
"You would be my wife. You would be family. If you wished it I could stay here with you and open a new mercenaries training hall or, we could start a new mob of the Horde. I take care of strategy while you handle the battles. We can stay right here or take the battles to your enemies. Why we could marry then lead my sister's force against the barbarians of Rzhlev before they can raid you next month during the harvest. We can burn their ports and shipyards. Loot their settlements and split the bounty between us. Well between "us" and my sister anyway."
"But if you die here today your siblings attack?"
"Yes. So it is best for your people to kiss me, duel me at chess or banish me. Especially as it is my sister. She is not known for...gentilities."
As she slid her helmet off I could see the thought, confliction and stress all washing over her face. She seemed to sit opposite me without thought or planning. Her mind raced as I could see her calculating everything that had just been laid before her. Her father, no, the entire assembled crowd were growing more and more nervous by the moment. Especially as she absent mindedly fingered her sword hilt for a moment. She finally turned to look at me again.
"I want white, you take black."
"As you wish my love."
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
They never suspect a lesbian in disguise, do they?
“You’re... you’re a...?”
“Indeed, my fair lady.” A wink. A nod. A flip of my luxurious chocolate locks. Though this may sound narcissistic, as gorgeous as I appear in dresses and skirts, I looked far more alluring in my chainmail. Princess Lara, like many, was unprepared for this.
So many are.
The sword and shield clattered in her grip. “Stop trifling with me! Where is he? Where’s my true suitor? The one I spent a week with!”
“Right here, darling. Though it’s rather rude that you don’t recognize me outside of my skirts and jewels.”
Even through the sheen of her faceguard, I could see her lip tremble.
“You were... a servant girl?”
“Your handmaiden, actually. We shared many pleasantries together, some of which I know you enjoyed deeply.”
Her helmet practically steamed. “Nonsense! Where is the man I shared many a meal with!”
“Oh, him? That was my steward. The man couldn’t hold a sword to spare his life, honestly. Surely, that’s not the man you were hoping to spend the rest of your life with? We had such fun together...”
“Quiet! How can I believe you? You’re not my handmaiden! You couldn’t possib—“
My chest plate dropped to the grass. Though especially complicated to adorn, I find that my fingers are skillfully nimble. Lara liked that best about me, after all. Stabbing my sword into the ground, I lifted my undershirt to reveal a trail of darkened flesh.
“A token of your kindness, your majesty.” I smiled, tapping the lovebites she had left from the night before. From all around the people gasped. Royal guards flushed with embarrassment, and from afar I heard many a handmaiden cry as the queen fainted with dramatic flourish.
And though Lara’s mouth gaped with bashfulness, I did not cease in dismantling my knightly armor.
“Diana! For God’s sake, what are you doing?” She stammered, unable to comprehend the act.
“Why,” I said, “I am preparing to fight you as we fought in the last few nights.” At that, more gasps reigned in from the crowd. Shouting ensued after the King dropped in a faint, who had to be escorted out with the Queen. “But, in all honesty, it would be a great detriment to you if I were to fight with all my noble gear. That would put you at what I fear to be a great disadvantage. After all, I highly doubt you are as skilled as I in hand-to-hand combat.”
This, of course, was a bold-faced lie. I was skilled with a blade, sure, but I was no match for Princess Lara. Even after years of training, she would slaughter me in mere seconds. No, this act of undressing was part of a different ruse.
She flushed again, but this time with rage. “Silence, you bigoted fool!”
“Well, that’s not very ladylike.”
“What am I even to make of this trial? Suppose you could best me: what would our houses gain from matrimony? We cannot bear children together! Our family name would be desolate!”
I chuckled, tossing a boot in her direction. “To adopt one into royalty is not as uncommon as you would think. And to answer your question, our matrimony would bring our houses an alliance, one detrimental to future warfare. We discussed this briefly in your quarters, when you mistook me for a handmaiden—“
“Who dared to give you the title or honor of a prince befitting to challenge me in combat?”
The corner of my mouth rose slightly. “My father always wanted a son, but he was troubled with daughters instead. Eventually, he thought it best to make due with what he had. As the oldest, he thought it best to present me to you.”
With a final flick of my wrist, the rest of my armor clattered to the ground. Many around stared with awe and disgust. ‘What is worse about this trial of words’, I wondered: ‘a princess undressing, or a princess standing with the rights and privileges of a prince?’
The people couldn’t seem to make up their minds. But Princess Lara had. Her eyes were glued on all of the marks she’d left over my body. Her sword trembled pathetically in her hand as I watched her eyes trace the outline of my breasts. She dropped to her knees, defeated before the battle had truly begun.
No one ever expects a strip-tease during a trial of combat. Pragmatically speaking, it’s a foreign counter to any combat of the sort.
“I... surrender.” The words dropped from her mouth in defeat. Her eyes burned with hatred, but also with a sort of lust. I was not the stranger she had expected to win her hand, and I certainly was not the worst suitor she had been presented with.
With a hand extended her way, I inquired loudly, so that all around might hear: “So you accept my offer of matrimony?”
Princess Lara nodded, feebly removing her own helmet as she accepted my hand.
“An unexpected battle, but a battle well fought,” she whispered to me, watching the crowd around us light up in excitement.
A wink. “Only because you let me win, Princess.”
|
Many princes of the land had come to try their hand against the princess. None of them would succeed. She had more control over her sword than anyone Id seen. I had something they didnt though. I was the only girl there. No one knew it though. I kept my hood up and my hair short. I didnt have a chance when it came down to swords but I hoped everything would be ok regardless. One night I decided to go for a walk. I couldn't sleep there were a thousand things on my mind. The full moon and gleaming stars helped calmed my nerves. Then I saw her. She sat on a park bench. She looked so upset. I had to go over there. I walked to her and asked if I could sit,
"Do you know who I am." I decided to pretend I didnt,
"A beautiful Girl." I smiled at her and she gave a shy smile back. I sat down and we got to talking.
"I cant really explain it exactly. I'm expected to get engaged soon but every option I'm presented is unappealing. I told my dad I'm only marrying someone who could match my skill because no one can and I dont want to be stuck with a guy. I dont want a guy.... If you know what I mean. " A silence fell between us. I fell in love as I gazed into her eyes. Maybe on the day of the fight shed recognize me. Maybe she wouldn't. One thing was for sure. I was falling for her laugh and I was entranced by her eyes and if she didnt recognize me my life wouldn't be as grand as it could be because I knew right then that she was it.
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"So, uh, we'll have to fight to the death?"
The princess shrugged. "Yeah."
"Okay, so... thing is, I'll definitely lose," I admit. "I'm not exactly a fighter, and I'm honestly still not sure why I'm here."
"My father said that you could be worthy of me," she replies, nonchalantly stoking the flame before us. Her chambers are cozy and modest, despite her status. "I doubt it, however. The only worthy man in the world can best me at swordplay. And as you already admitted, you certainly can't."
"Right, but... when you do find that worthy guy, what do you envision your life being like after he wins?"
"We will live in splendor and sexual bliss."
"You mean, after he wins."
"Correct."
I frown at her remark. "You mean, after he wins a fight, to the DEATH."
"Yes, as we've already discussed." She casts me a derisive glance. "You're not very bright, are you?"
I ignore her remark, for the time being. "I'm sorry, I just want to make sure we're on the same page here - after this mysterious suitor wins, a fight to the death, you envision a life with him?"
"Yes, why is this so hard to grasp for you?" She levels the poker she was stoking the fireplace with at my eye with a sneer. "Perhaps I should end this now, to put you out of your misery."
I pinch the bridge of my nose in irritation. "Princess, if you fight to the death and lose, what happens?"
"You die, fool."
"Right. And then?"
"And then you are buried with the rest of your idiot ancestors."
"Right. So, if you lose a fight to the death with your suitor, how would you then live a life with him, if you are dead?"
She hesitates for a moment, before coming back with a snappy answer. "Well... if I were going to be killed, then the fight would be ended, you foolish man."
"So then he wouldn't have won."
"What?"
"By law, you only win a fight to the death when your opponent is dead. Your opponent cannot forfeit. If you accept a forfeiture, you are executed as a coward. So how do you expect to marry a man that has either killed you, or been executed for sparing you?"
"Uh..." She finally lowers the poker, and I release a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. "I just assumed... that the rules would not apply to me. After all, I am royalty..."
"Then it wouldn't be a real fight to the death, would it?"
"No... No, I suppose it would not."
"So? What will you do now?"
She stares at me for a moment, as if contemplating something. "I suppose I will follow a... different human tradition." The dragon princess stands, her wings twitching restlessly as she stretches. "The 'shotgun wedding'."
"Wait, what?"
And that's how I went from taking a nap in a field, to being kidnapped by the head of a local family of dragons with a human- obsessed daughter, to being married to a dragon, all within one day.
No, I don't understand it, either.
|
Many princes of the land had come to try their hand against the princess. None of them would succeed. She had more control over her sword than anyone Id seen. I had something they didnt though. I was the only girl there. No one knew it though. I kept my hood up and my hair short. I didnt have a chance when it came down to swords but I hoped everything would be ok regardless. One night I decided to go for a walk. I couldn't sleep there were a thousand things on my mind. The full moon and gleaming stars helped calmed my nerves. Then I saw her. She sat on a park bench. She looked so upset. I had to go over there. I walked to her and asked if I could sit,
"Do you know who I am." I decided to pretend I didnt,
"A beautiful Girl." I smiled at her and she gave a shy smile back. I sat down and we got to talking.
"I cant really explain it exactly. I'm expected to get engaged soon but every option I'm presented is unappealing. I told my dad I'm only marrying someone who could match my skill because no one can and I dont want to be stuck with a guy. I dont want a guy.... If you know what I mean. " A silence fell between us. I fell in love as I gazed into her eyes. Maybe on the day of the fight shed recognize me. Maybe she wouldn't. One thing was for sure. I was falling for her laugh and I was entranced by her eyes and if she didnt recognize me my life wouldn't be as grand as it could be because I knew right then that she was it.
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
They never suspect a lesbian in disguise, do they?
“You’re... you’re a...?”
“Indeed, my fair lady.” A wink. A nod. A flip of my luxurious chocolate locks. Though this may sound narcissistic, as gorgeous as I appear in dresses and skirts, I looked far more alluring in my chainmail. Princess Lara, like many, was unprepared for this.
So many are.
The sword and shield clattered in her grip. “Stop trifling with me! Where is he? Where’s my true suitor? The one I spent a week with!”
“Right here, darling. Though it’s rather rude that you don’t recognize me outside of my skirts and jewels.”
Even through the sheen of her faceguard, I could see her lip tremble.
“You were... a servant girl?”
“Your handmaiden, actually. We shared many pleasantries together, some of which I know you enjoyed deeply.”
Her helmet practically steamed. “Nonsense! Where is the man I shared many a meal with!”
“Oh, him? That was my steward. The man couldn’t hold a sword to spare his life, honestly. Surely, that’s not the man you were hoping to spend the rest of your life with? We had such fun together...”
“Quiet! How can I believe you? You’re not my handmaiden! You couldn’t possib—“
My chest plate dropped to the grass. Though especially complicated to adorn, I find that my fingers are skillfully nimble. Lara liked that best about me, after all. Stabbing my sword into the ground, I lifted my undershirt to reveal a trail of darkened flesh.
“A token of your kindness, your majesty.” I smiled, tapping the lovebites she had left from the night before. From all around the people gasped. Royal guards flushed with embarrassment, and from afar I heard many a handmaiden cry as the queen fainted with dramatic flourish.
And though Lara’s mouth gaped with bashfulness, I did not cease in dismantling my knightly armor.
“Diana! For God’s sake, what are you doing?” She stammered, unable to comprehend the act.
“Why,” I said, “I am preparing to fight you as we fought in the last few nights.” At that, more gasps reigned in from the crowd. Shouting ensued after the King dropped in a faint, who had to be escorted out with the Queen. “But, in all honesty, it would be a great detriment to you if I were to fight with all my noble gear. That would put you at what I fear to be a great disadvantage. After all, I highly doubt you are as skilled as I in hand-to-hand combat.”
This, of course, was a bold-faced lie. I was skilled with a blade, sure, but I was no match for Princess Lara. Even after years of training, she would slaughter me in mere seconds. No, this act of undressing was part of a different ruse.
She flushed again, but this time with rage. “Silence, you bigoted fool!”
“Well, that’s not very ladylike.”
“What am I even to make of this trial? Suppose you could best me: what would our houses gain from matrimony? We cannot bear children together! Our family name would be desolate!”
I chuckled, tossing a boot in her direction. “To adopt one into royalty is not as uncommon as you would think. And to answer your question, our matrimony would bring our houses an alliance, one detrimental to future warfare. We discussed this briefly in your quarters, when you mistook me for a handmaiden—“
“Who dared to give you the title or honor of a prince befitting to challenge me in combat?”
The corner of my mouth rose slightly. “My father always wanted a son, but he was troubled with daughters instead. Eventually, he thought it best to make due with what he had. As the oldest, he thought it best to present me to you.”
With a final flick of my wrist, the rest of my armor clattered to the ground. Many around stared with awe and disgust. ‘What is worse about this trial of words’, I wondered: ‘a princess undressing, or a princess standing with the rights and privileges of a prince?’
The people couldn’t seem to make up their minds. But Princess Lara had. Her eyes were glued on all of the marks she’d left over my body. Her sword trembled pathetically in her hand as I watched her eyes trace the outline of my breasts. She dropped to her knees, defeated before the battle had truly begun.
No one ever expects a strip-tease during a trial of combat. Pragmatically speaking, it’s a foreign counter to any combat of the sort.
“I... surrender.” The words dropped from her mouth in defeat. Her eyes burned with hatred, but also with a sort of lust. I was not the stranger she had expected to win her hand, and I certainly was not the worst suitor she had been presented with.
With a hand extended her way, I inquired loudly, so that all around might hear: “So you accept my offer of matrimony?”
Princess Lara nodded, feebly removing her own helmet as she accepted my hand.
“An unexpected battle, but a battle well fought,” she whispered to me, watching the crowd around us light up in excitement.
A wink. “Only because you let me win, Princess.”
|
I shook my head. "See thats the part that makes no sence to me. If i'm here to court you why would we fight to the death? If you win I die, if I win you die. Ether way the courtship was a waist of time."
"Oh wow." She said shocked. "That is really dumb." She pauses and turned to her father. "Why do we do the death fights? Would you rather me dead than with a man?"
He laughed shaking his head he responded, "I knew any man who willing fought you in a death match wasn't proper husband material, and I also knew no one stood a chance to your skill. The fight was a test to see if they had the brains to not do it."
We ended up having 25 children only losing 8 to disitery and 6 to scarlet fever.
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"So, uh, we'll have to fight to the death?"
The princess shrugged. "Yeah."
"Okay, so... thing is, I'll definitely lose," I admit. "I'm not exactly a fighter, and I'm honestly still not sure why I'm here."
"My father said that you could be worthy of me," she replies, nonchalantly stoking the flame before us. Her chambers are cozy and modest, despite her status. "I doubt it, however. The only worthy man in the world can best me at swordplay. And as you already admitted, you certainly can't."
"Right, but... when you do find that worthy guy, what do you envision your life being like after he wins?"
"We will live in splendor and sexual bliss."
"You mean, after he wins."
"Correct."
I frown at her remark. "You mean, after he wins a fight, to the DEATH."
"Yes, as we've already discussed." She casts me a derisive glance. "You're not very bright, are you?"
I ignore her remark, for the time being. "I'm sorry, I just want to make sure we're on the same page here - after this mysterious suitor wins, a fight to the death, you envision a life with him?"
"Yes, why is this so hard to grasp for you?" She levels the poker she was stoking the fireplace with at my eye with a sneer. "Perhaps I should end this now, to put you out of your misery."
I pinch the bridge of my nose in irritation. "Princess, if you fight to the death and lose, what happens?"
"You die, fool."
"Right. And then?"
"And then you are buried with the rest of your idiot ancestors."
"Right. So, if you lose a fight to the death with your suitor, how would you then live a life with him, if you are dead?"
She hesitates for a moment, before coming back with a snappy answer. "Well... if I were going to be killed, then the fight would be ended, you foolish man."
"So then he wouldn't have won."
"What?"
"By law, you only win a fight to the death when your opponent is dead. Your opponent cannot forfeit. If you accept a forfeiture, you are executed as a coward. So how do you expect to marry a man that has either killed you, or been executed for sparing you?"
"Uh..." She finally lowers the poker, and I release a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. "I just assumed... that the rules would not apply to me. After all, I am royalty..."
"Then it wouldn't be a real fight to the death, would it?"
"No... No, I suppose it would not."
"So? What will you do now?"
She stares at me for a moment, as if contemplating something. "I suppose I will follow a... different human tradition." The dragon princess stands, her wings twitching restlessly as she stretches. "The 'shotgun wedding'."
"Wait, what?"
And that's how I went from taking a nap in a field, to being kidnapped by the head of a local family of dragons with a human- obsessed daughter, to being married to a dragon, all within one day.
No, I don't understand it, either.
|
I shook my head. "See thats the part that makes no sence to me. If i'm here to court you why would we fight to the death? If you win I die, if I win you die. Ether way the courtship was a waist of time."
"Oh wow." She said shocked. "That is really dumb." She pauses and turned to her father. "Why do we do the death fights? Would you rather me dead than with a man?"
He laughed shaking his head he responded, "I knew any man who willing fought you in a death match wasn't proper husband material, and I also knew no one stood a chance to your skill. The fight was a test to see if they had the brains to not do it."
We ended up having 25 children only losing 8 to disitery and 6 to scarlet fever.
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"So, uh, we'll have to fight to the death?"
The princess shrugged. "Yeah."
"Okay, so... thing is, I'll definitely lose," I admit. "I'm not exactly a fighter, and I'm honestly still not sure why I'm here."
"My father said that you could be worthy of me," she replies, nonchalantly stoking the flame before us. Her chambers are cozy and modest, despite her status. "I doubt it, however. The only worthy man in the world can best me at swordplay. And as you already admitted, you certainly can't."
"Right, but... when you do find that worthy guy, what do you envision your life being like after he wins?"
"We will live in splendor and sexual bliss."
"You mean, after he wins."
"Correct."
I frown at her remark. "You mean, after he wins a fight, to the DEATH."
"Yes, as we've already discussed." She casts me a derisive glance. "You're not very bright, are you?"
I ignore her remark, for the time being. "I'm sorry, I just want to make sure we're on the same page here - after this mysterious suitor wins, a fight to the death, you envision a life with him?"
"Yes, why is this so hard to grasp for you?" She levels the poker she was stoking the fireplace with at my eye with a sneer. "Perhaps I should end this now, to put you out of your misery."
I pinch the bridge of my nose in irritation. "Princess, if you fight to the death and lose, what happens?"
"You die, fool."
"Right. And then?"
"And then you are buried with the rest of your idiot ancestors."
"Right. So, if you lose a fight to the death with your suitor, how would you then live a life with him, if you are dead?"
She hesitates for a moment, before coming back with a snappy answer. "Well... if I were going to be killed, then the fight would be ended, you foolish man."
"So then he wouldn't have won."
"What?"
"By law, you only win a fight to the death when your opponent is dead. Your opponent cannot forfeit. If you accept a forfeiture, you are executed as a coward. So how do you expect to marry a man that has either killed you, or been executed for sparing you?"
"Uh..." She finally lowers the poker, and I release a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. "I just assumed... that the rules would not apply to me. After all, I am royalty..."
"Then it wouldn't be a real fight to the death, would it?"
"No... No, I suppose it would not."
"So? What will you do now?"
She stares at me for a moment, as if contemplating something. "I suppose I will follow a... different human tradition." The dragon princess stands, her wings twitching restlessly as she stretches. "The 'shotgun wedding'."
"Wait, what?"
And that's how I went from taking a nap in a field, to being kidnapped by the head of a local family of dragons with a human- obsessed daughter, to being married to a dragon, all within one day.
No, I don't understand it, either.
|
They never suspect a lesbian in disguise, do they?
“You’re... you’re a...?”
“Indeed, my fair lady.” A wink. A nod. A flip of my luxurious chocolate locks. Though this may sound narcissistic, as gorgeous as I appear in dresses and skirts, I looked far more alluring in my chainmail. Princess Lara, like many, was unprepared for this.
So many are.
The sword and shield clattered in her grip. “Stop trifling with me! Where is he? Where’s my true suitor? The one I spent a week with!”
“Right here, darling. Though it’s rather rude that you don’t recognize me outside of my skirts and jewels.”
Even through the sheen of her faceguard, I could see her lip tremble.
“You were... a servant girl?”
“Your handmaiden, actually. We shared many pleasantries together, some of which I know you enjoyed deeply.”
Her helmet practically steamed. “Nonsense! Where is the man I shared many a meal with!”
“Oh, him? That was my steward. The man couldn’t hold a sword to spare his life, honestly. Surely, that’s not the man you were hoping to spend the rest of your life with? We had such fun together...”
“Quiet! How can I believe you? You’re not my handmaiden! You couldn’t possib—“
My chest plate dropped to the grass. Though especially complicated to adorn, I find that my fingers are skillfully nimble. Lara liked that best about me, after all. Stabbing my sword into the ground, I lifted my undershirt to reveal a trail of darkened flesh.
“A token of your kindness, your majesty.” I smiled, tapping the lovebites she had left from the night before. From all around the people gasped. Royal guards flushed with embarrassment, and from afar I heard many a handmaiden cry as the queen fainted with dramatic flourish.
And though Lara’s mouth gaped with bashfulness, I did not cease in dismantling my knightly armor.
“Diana! For God’s sake, what are you doing?” She stammered, unable to comprehend the act.
“Why,” I said, “I am preparing to fight you as we fought in the last few nights.” At that, more gasps reigned in from the crowd. Shouting ensued after the King dropped in a faint, who had to be escorted out with the Queen. “But, in all honesty, it would be a great detriment to you if I were to fight with all my noble gear. That would put you at what I fear to be a great disadvantage. After all, I highly doubt you are as skilled as I in hand-to-hand combat.”
This, of course, was a bold-faced lie. I was skilled with a blade, sure, but I was no match for Princess Lara. Even after years of training, she would slaughter me in mere seconds. No, this act of undressing was part of a different ruse.
She flushed again, but this time with rage. “Silence, you bigoted fool!”
“Well, that’s not very ladylike.”
“What am I even to make of this trial? Suppose you could best me: what would our houses gain from matrimony? We cannot bear children together! Our family name would be desolate!”
I chuckled, tossing a boot in her direction. “To adopt one into royalty is not as uncommon as you would think. And to answer your question, our matrimony would bring our houses an alliance, one detrimental to future warfare. We discussed this briefly in your quarters, when you mistook me for a handmaiden—“
“Who dared to give you the title or honor of a prince befitting to challenge me in combat?”
The corner of my mouth rose slightly. “My father always wanted a son, but he was troubled with daughters instead. Eventually, he thought it best to make due with what he had. As the oldest, he thought it best to present me to you.”
With a final flick of my wrist, the rest of my armor clattered to the ground. Many around stared with awe and disgust. ‘What is worse about this trial of words’, I wondered: ‘a princess undressing, or a princess standing with the rights and privileges of a prince?’
The people couldn’t seem to make up their minds. But Princess Lara had. Her eyes were glued on all of the marks she’d left over my body. Her sword trembled pathetically in her hand as I watched her eyes trace the outline of my breasts. She dropped to her knees, defeated before the battle had truly begun.
No one ever expects a strip-tease during a trial of combat. Pragmatically speaking, it’s a foreign counter to any combat of the sort.
“I... surrender.” The words dropped from her mouth in defeat. Her eyes burned with hatred, but also with a sort of lust. I was not the stranger she had expected to win her hand, and I certainly was not the worst suitor she had been presented with.
With a hand extended her way, I inquired loudly, so that all around might hear: “So you accept my offer of matrimony?”
Princess Lara nodded, feebly removing her own helmet as she accepted my hand.
“An unexpected battle, but a battle well fought,” she whispered to me, watching the crowd around us light up in excitement.
A wink. “Only because you let me win, Princess.”
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"So, uh, we'll have to fight to the death?"
The princess shrugged. "Yeah."
"Okay, so... thing is, I'll definitely lose," I admit. "I'm not exactly a fighter, and I'm honestly still not sure why I'm here."
"My father said that you could be worthy of me," she replies, nonchalantly stoking the flame before us. Her chambers are cozy and modest, despite her status. "I doubt it, however. The only worthy man in the world can best me at swordplay. And as you already admitted, you certainly can't."
"Right, but... when you do find that worthy guy, what do you envision your life being like after he wins?"
"We will live in splendor and sexual bliss."
"You mean, after he wins."
"Correct."
I frown at her remark. "You mean, after he wins a fight, to the DEATH."
"Yes, as we've already discussed." She casts me a derisive glance. "You're not very bright, are you?"
I ignore her remark, for the time being. "I'm sorry, I just want to make sure we're on the same page here - after this mysterious suitor wins, a fight to the death, you envision a life with him?"
"Yes, why is this so hard to grasp for you?" She levels the poker she was stoking the fireplace with at my eye with a sneer. "Perhaps I should end this now, to put you out of your misery."
I pinch the bridge of my nose in irritation. "Princess, if you fight to the death and lose, what happens?"
"You die, fool."
"Right. And then?"
"And then you are buried with the rest of your idiot ancestors."
"Right. So, if you lose a fight to the death with your suitor, how would you then live a life with him, if you are dead?"
She hesitates for a moment, before coming back with a snappy answer. "Well... if I were going to be killed, then the fight would be ended, you foolish man."
"So then he wouldn't have won."
"What?"
"By law, you only win a fight to the death when your opponent is dead. Your opponent cannot forfeit. If you accept a forfeiture, you are executed as a coward. So how do you expect to marry a man that has either killed you, or been executed for sparing you?"
"Uh..." She finally lowers the poker, and I release a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. "I just assumed... that the rules would not apply to me. After all, I am royalty..."
"Then it wouldn't be a real fight to the death, would it?"
"No... No, I suppose it would not."
"So? What will you do now?"
She stares at me for a moment, as if contemplating something. "I suppose I will follow a... different human tradition." The dragon princess stands, her wings twitching restlessly as she stretches. "The 'shotgun wedding'."
"Wait, what?"
And that's how I went from taking a nap in a field, to being kidnapped by the head of a local family of dragons with a human- obsessed daughter, to being married to a dragon, all within one day.
No, I don't understand it, either.
|
So it had come to this. She pulled out her sword and I knew there was only one way I could win.
See, I'm not a swordfighter, or an expert of precision with any kind of weapon. I can really only wield two weapons to any deadly effect.
First up, the most versatile farming tool on Earth - the machete. I carry one with a stainless-steel blade as often as I can, and it's come in handy many times. I've won many a-fight with it. But it isn't a great weapon against even a novice swordfighter, much less the best in the land. This means I'm going to have to rely on the only ranged weapon I know how to use.
Grenades.
Just... lots of grenades, doesn't matter which kind. Out of a standalone or rifle-mounted launcher, rocket propelled (didn't have any of these, unfortunately), or just plain hand grenades. I *know* grenades.
Expecting a dramatic fight, I calculated that I needed to stand between 10 and 15 feet away from her at all times, so I readied my first explosive: A classic M26 hand grenade, manufactured in 1961 as Vietnam was ramping up.
But that dramatic fight I was expecting, I did not get, for she made the mistake of wearing a light jacket with pockets, and I threw the live grenade into a front pocket. She dropped the sword and fumbled with the coat, getting it off just before it ceremoniously exploded. She tried to reclaim her weapon, but I had her at machete-point by them and she simply surrendered.
​
And that, kids, is how I proposed to your mother.
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"We must duel to the death, you say?"
"Yes." She grins challengingly. "I so enjoy this part. The wooing is always fun, sure, but I've trained for this all my life. I'm the greatest swordman of the country. This is what I live for."
"Well, very well." I pull out two decks. "I like to play green blue. I'm assuming you like to play red, so I made you one just in case you don't have a deck, although I side boarded you white, in case you maybe like red/white?"
"I'm sorry, what? What are you doing? Where's your sword?"
"Oh! I don't swordfight like yourself. I dual in this. Our life totals are twenty each. Here's your spin down."
"What? I'm not going to play a GAME for my HAND!?"
"No no no, we're dueling. I mean, we can draft a set instead, if you want? Or we could play some EDH? I promise you have a good deck though. It's even got some foils in there! And very pretty lands! Original Zen lands! Let's duel!"
She stood there, befuddled. No one had prepared her for this. They were dueling though, and it was to the death... So tradition would be accepted... "But... I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PLAY CARDS!!"
"Oh, no worries, I'll teach you, come, sit down. So this is a land card..."
It was a lovely ceremony.
|
So it had come to this. She pulled out her sword and I knew there was only one way I could win.
See, I'm not a swordfighter, or an expert of precision with any kind of weapon. I can really only wield two weapons to any deadly effect.
First up, the most versatile farming tool on Earth - the machete. I carry one with a stainless-steel blade as often as I can, and it's come in handy many times. I've won many a-fight with it. But it isn't a great weapon against even a novice swordfighter, much less the best in the land. This means I'm going to have to rely on the only ranged weapon I know how to use.
Grenades.
Just... lots of grenades, doesn't matter which kind. Out of a standalone or rifle-mounted launcher, rocket propelled (didn't have any of these, unfortunately), or just plain hand grenades. I *know* grenades.
Expecting a dramatic fight, I calculated that I needed to stand between 10 and 15 feet away from her at all times, so I readied my first explosive: A classic M26 hand grenade, manufactured in 1961 as Vietnam was ramping up.
But that dramatic fight I was expecting, I did not get, for she made the mistake of wearing a light jacket with pockets, and I threw the live grenade into a front pocket. She dropped the sword and fumbled with the coat, getting it off just before it ceremoniously exploded. She tried to reclaim her weapon, but I had her at machete-point by them and she simply surrendered.
​
And that, kids, is how I proposed to your mother.
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
I’ve spent a week with my king’s daughter, a woman so skilled with blades that no man has ever beaten her in single combat.
I’ve fallen for her, like a fool drawn to the rattle of a snake. She’s smart, skilled, beautiful, and funny. She’s kind to the lowest servant, yet fierce in her protection of them.
And I’ve gone and asked her to go on a date with me.
And she said yes.
Now after so long, I face the trial that all her dates have: Her. In single combat, I must defeat her or be thrown as mince meat to the canines.
Dozens of men have tried, women too, and none had been successful. I would be the first, or I would die.
There is no audience, this event is not public. It is simply her and I, as her father sits above in his throne.
She stands ready before me, though my eyes refuse to focus. My pulse is quick, and breath shallow. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out because I have a plan that may end in my death.
Breathe. Now or never.
With all the unearned confidence I could muster I step towards the center of the room, below her father. She follows, but I arrive first and with a loud clang of metal on stone I drop my sword.
The princess stops, stunned. The king looks down at me with a neutral expression. Not dead yet.
“Princess, you and I both know the rules of this engagement. We fight, we die, and should I be victorious we will wed when I spare you.”
I gulp nervously but continue.
“Well I know when I am bested. I haven’t a clue how to fight, I’m the son of a poet. What hubris must I have to believe myself a better fighter? I am not so arrogant to believe myself better than those who have studied under masters of their craft.”
She looks at me for a long second and I almost think I see her mouth part, but whatever words she’s chosen have died upon her lips.
“So it is forfeit then?” Asks the king gruffly.
Part two. My plan was working.
“I apologize my King, but I believe forfeit or not it is your daughter who should decide what happens next.”
“I am your king, answer my question.”
“You are my King, and that itself deserves my respect. But right now, sir, it’s your daughter who deserves it more. Yes, I forfeit. I leave my life and my future in the hands of a woman I love, and who I hope loves me.”
The room is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear the soft thum thum thumming of my heart in my ears, can feel it pounding in my ribcage. The air tastes sour and I can’t help but look between her eyes, staring straight at me, and the floor.
The soft thud of her rapier onto carpeted stone drawls me back to reality. She walks casually before me and the king, turning to face her father.
“Father, arrange for an early spring wedding.”
|
So it had come to this. She pulled out her sword and I knew there was only one way I could win.
See, I'm not a swordfighter, or an expert of precision with any kind of weapon. I can really only wield two weapons to any deadly effect.
First up, the most versatile farming tool on Earth - the machete. I carry one with a stainless-steel blade as often as I can, and it's come in handy many times. I've won many a-fight with it. But it isn't a great weapon against even a novice swordfighter, much less the best in the land. This means I'm going to have to rely on the only ranged weapon I know how to use.
Grenades.
Just... lots of grenades, doesn't matter which kind. Out of a standalone or rifle-mounted launcher, rocket propelled (didn't have any of these, unfortunately), or just plain hand grenades. I *know* grenades.
Expecting a dramatic fight, I calculated that I needed to stand between 10 and 15 feet away from her at all times, so I readied my first explosive: A classic M26 hand grenade, manufactured in 1961 as Vietnam was ramping up.
But that dramatic fight I was expecting, I did not get, for she made the mistake of wearing a light jacket with pockets, and I threw the live grenade into a front pocket. She dropped the sword and fumbled with the coat, getting it off just before it ceremoniously exploded. She tried to reclaim her weapon, but I had her at machete-point by them and she simply surrendered.
​
And that, kids, is how I proposed to your mother.
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"So, uh, we'll have to fight to the death?"
The princess shrugged. "Yeah."
"Okay, so... thing is, I'll definitely lose," I admit. "I'm not exactly a fighter, and I'm honestly still not sure why I'm here."
"My father said that you could be worthy of me," she replies, nonchalantly stoking the flame before us. Her chambers are cozy and modest, despite her status. "I doubt it, however. The only worthy man in the world can best me at swordplay. And as you already admitted, you certainly can't."
"Right, but... when you do find that worthy guy, what do you envision your life being like after he wins?"
"We will live in splendor and sexual bliss."
"You mean, after he wins."
"Correct."
I frown at her remark. "You mean, after he wins a fight, to the DEATH."
"Yes, as we've already discussed." She casts me a derisive glance. "You're not very bright, are you?"
I ignore her remark, for the time being. "I'm sorry, I just want to make sure we're on the same page here - after this mysterious suitor wins, a fight to the death, you envision a life with him?"
"Yes, why is this so hard to grasp for you?" She levels the poker she was stoking the fireplace with at my eye with a sneer. "Perhaps I should end this now, to put you out of your misery."
I pinch the bridge of my nose in irritation. "Princess, if you fight to the death and lose, what happens?"
"You die, fool."
"Right. And then?"
"And then you are buried with the rest of your idiot ancestors."
"Right. So, if you lose a fight to the death with your suitor, how would you then live a life with him, if you are dead?"
She hesitates for a moment, before coming back with a snappy answer. "Well... if I were going to be killed, then the fight would be ended, you foolish man."
"So then he wouldn't have won."
"What?"
"By law, you only win a fight to the death when your opponent is dead. Your opponent cannot forfeit. If you accept a forfeiture, you are executed as a coward. So how do you expect to marry a man that has either killed you, or been executed for sparing you?"
"Uh..." She finally lowers the poker, and I release a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. "I just assumed... that the rules would not apply to me. After all, I am royalty..."
"Then it wouldn't be a real fight to the death, would it?"
"No... No, I suppose it would not."
"So? What will you do now?"
She stares at me for a moment, as if contemplating something. "I suppose I will follow a... different human tradition." The dragon princess stands, her wings twitching restlessly as she stretches. "The 'shotgun wedding'."
"Wait, what?"
And that's how I went from taking a nap in a field, to being kidnapped by the head of a local family of dragons with a human- obsessed daughter, to being married to a dragon, all within one day.
No, I don't understand it, either.
|
"Please don't" he whimpered.
She stood over him, a plain look on her face.
"You just need to get to know me better, one week is hardly enough time......."
She raised her sword, arcing it high above her head, the soft clink of armor making the only sound.
A whisper, "I thought......you said.....is this really how it ends?"
Thunk. The sword lodged perfectly between his ears.
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*"Pathetic"* thought Paul, as the whimpering mans corpse was dragged away. "*Not only did he try and impress her without an ounce of real swordplay, facing failure he shamed himself with that begging display"*
All around Paul the lords and nobles of the realm (*his future realm, he liked to think),* slowly began to wake from their daze. It was an intimate affair, with the 100 or so guests lining a circle above the small arena. Servants and waiters scurried around, already refilling the drinks of the more pale faced patrons. As the rush of the combat passed through them, quiet conversation seeped into the timid space.
"Must she always be so brutal" whined a particularly bleached noblewomen
"It's the only way to keep the more unworthy away" her husband replied
"This one seemed the proper gentleman though, he was so polite when he made his announcement"
"They always do, until our princess weans the truth out of them" he said knowingly
Paul smiled to himself "*Oh that's right my announcement, should I lead with some bravado or something more chivalrous. What would they respect more? After all once I win her over, I'll have to do the same to everyone here".* Knowing he'd only decide once he started, Paul meandered his way to the north side of the circle, where a little jut led just into the square proper.
"Did you know he was a prince in name only? Not even from a real noble house!" gossiped one women as Paul passed by
"Oh so a son one of that new class, the merchant turned noble? Must have thought his money could win her over" bellowed a larger man with a laugh
"Oh not our princess no, she'll wait for one of the right stock, I hear this next fellow is from the greatest house east of the Penbrook. Maybe he's the one!'
"Not bloody likely, the one from the greatest house west of it got it in the head like all the others"
Again Paul smiled. He'd heard conversations like this his whole journey to the kingdom. The mystery princess, the one who couldn't be won by charm, wit, wealth, power and piety. One week is all you had to win her over and if she didn't want you by the end, well, you might as well run. The penalty of her denial was one more date with the princess, except this one was with swords, and only one of you was eating desert afterward.
For not only was the princess a beautiful, intelligent, and benevolent ruler, she was also the greatest swordsman (*or rather swordswomen)* in the world.
"*Fools"* Thought Paul as he entered the circle outcrop "*The so called secret of the princesses desire is obvious enough for one that has the strength to see it. Anyone paying attention to my departed predecessor would understand" .*
As Paul raised his hand, the crowd slowly fell silent, and when not a breath could be heard, he moved it over his heart and began to speak "*Chivalrous it is".*
While he touted his pure and noble intentions, the princess herself reentered the circle below. Covered in chain-mail, hair recently washed of blood, she made eye contact with Paul. An unwavering, unsettling stare of judgement.
While Paul continued to preach, only one thought crossed through his mind.
"*This is the women who I am to win. No. This is the women I aim to tame"*
\*---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\*
All I got so far, need a quick break.
Do me a favor and rip it to shreds below
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"Er, look, can't we talk about this?" I asked as the rapier swished within a hair's breadth of making making me say that a couple of octaves higher. "I mean, I'm really good in bed. I go to sleep really quickly."
"Hah," she yelled, ignoring my feeble attempt at humour. "No man will take me. I vow it with every ounce of my being."
"Crap," I said, ducking, weaving, parrying and then running in the opposite direction as I felt the light gusts of wind from her blade which was seemingly everywhere. Normally, my motto is 'can't win them all,' but in this case just surviving would be nice. Preferably with everything attached.
Frankly, if someone had mentioned to me the bit about the swordplay, I'd probably have given this one a miss. I mean, I have my talents. I'm sort of OK at playing the piano, have a decent party trick using a coin and three cups and am a half-decent conversationalist. But this swordplay thing just wasn't, well, my thing. All I wanted was a bit of an easy life and when I heard a princess was up for grabs and no-one was particularly interested, I thought I'd give it a go. What could I lose? Quite a lot it turned out.
"Look, I admit I'm not one for reading the smallprint," I said. "But couldn't you have at least mentioned this death-by-having-my-family-jewels-cut-off thing at the beginning? It would have been the polite thing to do."
"Don't you tell me what to do," she screamed, frothing at the mouth. A very pretty mouth in normal circumstances but right now... "I'll run you through like a suckling pig."
At that point, her blade nicked my cheek and the pain caused me to howl.
"That's how I like my men," she mocked. "Squealing like the little piggies you are."
"How about a nice game of cards?" I suggested, the sword tracing fast, figure-of-eight patterns in the air. "Or can I cook you something? A nice meal? Just so we can sit down and chat?"
"All. Men. Are. Pigs!" she screamed, thrusting forward.
She expertly flicked the sword out of my hand, cut a 'S' pattern into my chest and instantly, my clean, white shirt filled with blood. My only clean shirt as it happened which was made me die inside a little and probably a prelude to me actually dying a lot. And then the pain hit instantly causing my eyes to fill with tears. I gasped and went down on one knee.
"Please," I begged.
"You'll have to beg better than that," she replied. "The last two at least got down on both knees."
"And what happened to them?" I asked.
She pointed to the notches on the bedpost. I'd wondered why they were there if she hadn't ever, you know.... All was explained. Looks like I'd be notch number ummm... 23. 23? That was a lot of bodies. I gave it my last shot.
"I know a great card trick," I said.
"I hate card tricks," she replied.
"Do you have three cups?" I asked.
"They can put them on your tombstone," she said.
"Then there is nothing more I can say," I said. "At least make it quick. For the sake of my little old mother. Martha."
"Martha?" she asked.
"Martha," I replied.
"My mother's name was Martha," she said. And looked me quizzically in the eye.
"That's a coincidence," I said. "My Martha died years ago. She taught me everything I know."
"Mine too," she replied. "Like how to hate men and run them through with rapiers."
"Oh crap," I said. Not the best last words but oh well. Can't win them all.
|
"Please don't" he whimpered.
She stood over him, a plain look on her face.
"You just need to get to know me better, one week is hardly enough time......."
She raised her sword, arcing it high above her head, the soft clink of armor making the only sound.
A whisper, "I thought......you said.....is this really how it ends?"
Thunk. The sword lodged perfectly between his ears.
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*"Pathetic"* thought Paul, as the whimpering mans corpse was dragged away. "*Not only did he try and impress her without an ounce of real swordplay, facing failure he shamed himself with that begging display"*
All around Paul the lords and nobles of the realm (*his future realm, he liked to think),* slowly began to wake from their daze. It was an intimate affair, with the 100 or so guests lining a circle above the small arena. Servants and waiters scurried around, already refilling the drinks of the more pale faced patrons. As the rush of the combat passed through them, quiet conversation seeped into the timid space.
"Must she always be so brutal" whined a particularly bleached noblewomen
"It's the only way to keep the more unworthy away" her husband replied
"This one seemed the proper gentleman though, he was so polite when he made his announcement"
"They always do, until our princess weans the truth out of them" he said knowingly
Paul smiled to himself "*Oh that's right my announcement, should I lead with some bravado or something more chivalrous. What would they respect more? After all once I win her over, I'll have to do the same to everyone here".* Knowing he'd only decide once he started, Paul meandered his way to the north side of the circle, where a little jut led just into the square proper.
"Did you know he was a prince in name only? Not even from a real noble house!" gossiped one women as Paul passed by
"Oh so a son one of that new class, the merchant turned noble? Must have thought his money could win her over" bellowed a larger man with a laugh
"Oh not our princess no, she'll wait for one of the right stock, I hear this next fellow is from the greatest house east of the Penbrook. Maybe he's the one!'
"Not bloody likely, the one from the greatest house west of it got it in the head like all the others"
Again Paul smiled. He'd heard conversations like this his whole journey to the kingdom. The mystery princess, the one who couldn't be won by charm, wit, wealth, power and piety. One week is all you had to win her over and if she didn't want you by the end, well, you might as well run. The penalty of her denial was one more date with the princess, except this one was with swords, and only one of you was eating desert afterward.
For not only was the princess a beautiful, intelligent, and benevolent ruler, she was also the greatest swordsman (*or rather swordswomen)* in the world.
"*Fools"* Thought Paul as he entered the circle outcrop "*The so called secret of the princesses desire is obvious enough for one that has the strength to see it. Anyone paying attention to my departed predecessor would understand" .*
As Paul raised his hand, the crowd slowly fell silent, and when not a breath could be heard, he moved it over his heart and began to speak "*Chivalrous it is".*
While he touted his pure and noble intentions, the princess herself reentered the circle below. Covered in chain-mail, hair recently washed of blood, she made eye contact with Paul. An unwavering, unsettling stare of judgement.
While Paul continued to preach, only one thought crossed through his mind.
"*This is the women who I am to win. No. This is the women I aim to tame"*
\*---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\*
All I got so far, need a quick break.
Do me a favor and rip it to shreds below
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"We must duel to the death, you say?"
"Yes." She grins challengingly. "I so enjoy this part. The wooing is always fun, sure, but I've trained for this all my life. I'm the greatest swordman of the country. This is what I live for."
"Well, very well." I pull out two decks. "I like to play green blue. I'm assuming you like to play red, so I made you one just in case you don't have a deck, although I side boarded you white, in case you maybe like red/white?"
"I'm sorry, what? What are you doing? Where's your sword?"
"Oh! I don't swordfight like yourself. I dual in this. Our life totals are twenty each. Here's your spin down."
"What? I'm not going to play a GAME for my HAND!?"
"No no no, we're dueling. I mean, we can draft a set instead, if you want? Or we could play some EDH? I promise you have a good deck though. It's even got some foils in there! And very pretty lands! Original Zen lands! Let's duel!"
She stood there, befuddled. No one had prepared her for this. They were dueling though, and it was to the death... So tradition would be accepted... "But... I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PLAY CARDS!!"
"Oh, no worries, I'll teach you, come, sit down. So this is a land card..."
It was a lovely ceremony.
|
"Please don't" he whimpered.
She stood over him, a plain look on her face.
"You just need to get to know me better, one week is hardly enough time......."
She raised her sword, arcing it high above her head, the soft clink of armor making the only sound.
A whisper, "I thought......you said.....is this really how it ends?"
Thunk. The sword lodged perfectly between his ears.
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*"Pathetic"* thought Paul, as the whimpering mans corpse was dragged away. "*Not only did he try and impress her without an ounce of real swordplay, facing failure he shamed himself with that begging display"*
All around Paul the lords and nobles of the realm (*his future realm, he liked to think),* slowly began to wake from their daze. It was an intimate affair, with the 100 or so guests lining a circle above the small arena. Servants and waiters scurried around, already refilling the drinks of the more pale faced patrons. As the rush of the combat passed through them, quiet conversation seeped into the timid space.
"Must she always be so brutal" whined a particularly bleached noblewomen
"It's the only way to keep the more unworthy away" her husband replied
"This one seemed the proper gentleman though, he was so polite when he made his announcement"
"They always do, until our princess weans the truth out of them" he said knowingly
Paul smiled to himself "*Oh that's right my announcement, should I lead with some bravado or something more chivalrous. What would they respect more? After all once I win her over, I'll have to do the same to everyone here".* Knowing he'd only decide once he started, Paul meandered his way to the north side of the circle, where a little jut led just into the square proper.
"Did you know he was a prince in name only? Not even from a real noble house!" gossiped one women as Paul passed by
"Oh so a son one of that new class, the merchant turned noble? Must have thought his money could win her over" bellowed a larger man with a laugh
"Oh not our princess no, she'll wait for one of the right stock, I hear this next fellow is from the greatest house east of the Penbrook. Maybe he's the one!'
"Not bloody likely, the one from the greatest house west of it got it in the head like all the others"
Again Paul smiled. He'd heard conversations like this his whole journey to the kingdom. The mystery princess, the one who couldn't be won by charm, wit, wealth, power and piety. One week is all you had to win her over and if she didn't want you by the end, well, you might as well run. The penalty of her denial was one more date with the princess, except this one was with swords, and only one of you was eating desert afterward.
For not only was the princess a beautiful, intelligent, and benevolent ruler, she was also the greatest swordsman (*or rather swordswomen)* in the world.
"*Fools"* Thought Paul as he entered the circle outcrop "*The so called secret of the princesses desire is obvious enough for one that has the strength to see it. Anyone paying attention to my departed predecessor would understand" .*
As Paul raised his hand, the crowd slowly fell silent, and when not a breath could be heard, he moved it over his heart and began to speak "*Chivalrous it is".*
While he touted his pure and noble intentions, the princess herself reentered the circle below. Covered in chain-mail, hair recently washed of blood, she made eye contact with Paul. An unwavering, unsettling stare of judgement.
While Paul continued to preach, only one thought crossed through his mind.
"*This is the women who I am to win. No. This is the women I aim to tame"*
\*---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\*
All I got so far, need a quick break.
Do me a favor and rip it to shreds below
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
I’ve spent a week with my king’s daughter, a woman so skilled with blades that no man has ever beaten her in single combat.
I’ve fallen for her, like a fool drawn to the rattle of a snake. She’s smart, skilled, beautiful, and funny. She’s kind to the lowest servant, yet fierce in her protection of them.
And I’ve gone and asked her to go on a date with me.
And she said yes.
Now after so long, I face the trial that all her dates have: Her. In single combat, I must defeat her or be thrown as mince meat to the canines.
Dozens of men have tried, women too, and none had been successful. I would be the first, or I would die.
There is no audience, this event is not public. It is simply her and I, as her father sits above in his throne.
She stands ready before me, though my eyes refuse to focus. My pulse is quick, and breath shallow. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out because I have a plan that may end in my death.
Breathe. Now or never.
With all the unearned confidence I could muster I step towards the center of the room, below her father. She follows, but I arrive first and with a loud clang of metal on stone I drop my sword.
The princess stops, stunned. The king looks down at me with a neutral expression. Not dead yet.
“Princess, you and I both know the rules of this engagement. We fight, we die, and should I be victorious we will wed when I spare you.”
I gulp nervously but continue.
“Well I know when I am bested. I haven’t a clue how to fight, I’m the son of a poet. What hubris must I have to believe myself a better fighter? I am not so arrogant to believe myself better than those who have studied under masters of their craft.”
She looks at me for a long second and I almost think I see her mouth part, but whatever words she’s chosen have died upon her lips.
“So it is forfeit then?” Asks the king gruffly.
Part two. My plan was working.
“I apologize my King, but I believe forfeit or not it is your daughter who should decide what happens next.”
“I am your king, answer my question.”
“You are my King, and that itself deserves my respect. But right now, sir, it’s your daughter who deserves it more. Yes, I forfeit. I leave my life and my future in the hands of a woman I love, and who I hope loves me.”
The room is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear the soft thum thum thumming of my heart in my ears, can feel it pounding in my ribcage. The air tastes sour and I can’t help but look between her eyes, staring straight at me, and the floor.
The soft thud of her rapier onto carpeted stone drawls me back to reality. She walks casually before me and the king, turning to face her father.
“Father, arrange for an early spring wedding.”
|
"Please don't" he whimpered.
She stood over him, a plain look on her face.
"You just need to get to know me better, one week is hardly enough time......."
She raised her sword, arcing it high above her head, the soft clink of armor making the only sound.
A whisper, "I thought......you said.....is this really how it ends?"
Thunk. The sword lodged perfectly between his ears.
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*"Pathetic"* thought Paul, as the whimpering mans corpse was dragged away. "*Not only did he try and impress her without an ounce of real swordplay, facing failure he shamed himself with that begging display"*
All around Paul the lords and nobles of the realm (*his future realm, he liked to think),* slowly began to wake from their daze. It was an intimate affair, with the 100 or so guests lining a circle above the small arena. Servants and waiters scurried around, already refilling the drinks of the more pale faced patrons. As the rush of the combat passed through them, quiet conversation seeped into the timid space.
"Must she always be so brutal" whined a particularly bleached noblewomen
"It's the only way to keep the more unworthy away" her husband replied
"This one seemed the proper gentleman though, he was so polite when he made his announcement"
"They always do, until our princess weans the truth out of them" he said knowingly
Paul smiled to himself "*Oh that's right my announcement, should I lead with some bravado or something more chivalrous. What would they respect more? After all once I win her over, I'll have to do the same to everyone here".* Knowing he'd only decide once he started, Paul meandered his way to the north side of the circle, where a little jut led just into the square proper.
"Did you know he was a prince in name only? Not even from a real noble house!" gossiped one women as Paul passed by
"Oh so a son one of that new class, the merchant turned noble? Must have thought his money could win her over" bellowed a larger man with a laugh
"Oh not our princess no, she'll wait for one of the right stock, I hear this next fellow is from the greatest house east of the Penbrook. Maybe he's the one!'
"Not bloody likely, the one from the greatest house west of it got it in the head like all the others"
Again Paul smiled. He'd heard conversations like this his whole journey to the kingdom. The mystery princess, the one who couldn't be won by charm, wit, wealth, power and piety. One week is all you had to win her over and if she didn't want you by the end, well, you might as well run. The penalty of her denial was one more date with the princess, except this one was with swords, and only one of you was eating desert afterward.
For not only was the princess a beautiful, intelligent, and benevolent ruler, she was also the greatest swordsman (*or rather swordswomen)* in the world.
"*Fools"* Thought Paul as he entered the circle outcrop "*The so called secret of the princesses desire is obvious enough for one that has the strength to see it. Anyone paying attention to my departed predecessor would understand" .*
As Paul raised his hand, the crowd slowly fell silent, and when not a breath could be heard, he moved it over his heart and began to speak "*Chivalrous it is".*
While he touted his pure and noble intentions, the princess herself reentered the circle below. Covered in chain-mail, hair recently washed of blood, she made eye contact with Paul. An unwavering, unsettling stare of judgement.
While Paul continued to preach, only one thought crossed through his mind.
"*This is the women who I am to win. No. This is the women I aim to tame"*
\*---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\*
All I got so far, need a quick break.
Do me a favor and rip it to shreds below
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
"We must duel to the death, you say?"
"Yes." She grins challengingly. "I so enjoy this part. The wooing is always fun, sure, but I've trained for this all my life. I'm the greatest swordman of the country. This is what I live for."
"Well, very well." I pull out two decks. "I like to play green blue. I'm assuming you like to play red, so I made you one just in case you don't have a deck, although I side boarded you white, in case you maybe like red/white?"
"I'm sorry, what? What are you doing? Where's your sword?"
"Oh! I don't swordfight like yourself. I dual in this. Our life totals are twenty each. Here's your spin down."
"What? I'm not going to play a GAME for my HAND!?"
"No no no, we're dueling. I mean, we can draft a set instead, if you want? Or we could play some EDH? I promise you have a good deck though. It's even got some foils in there! And very pretty lands! Original Zen lands! Let's duel!"
She stood there, befuddled. No one had prepared her for this. They were dueling though, and it was to the death... So tradition would be accepted... "But... I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PLAY CARDS!!"
"Oh, no worries, I'll teach you, come, sit down. So this is a land card..."
It was a lovely ceremony.
|
"Er, look, can't we talk about this?" I asked as the rapier swished within a hair's breadth of making making me say that a couple of octaves higher. "I mean, I'm really good in bed. I go to sleep really quickly."
"Hah," she yelled, ignoring my feeble attempt at humour. "No man will take me. I vow it with every ounce of my being."
"Crap," I said, ducking, weaving, parrying and then running in the opposite direction as I felt the light gusts of wind from her blade which was seemingly everywhere. Normally, my motto is 'can't win them all,' but in this case just surviving would be nice. Preferably with everything attached.
Frankly, if someone had mentioned to me the bit about the swordplay, I'd probably have given this one a miss. I mean, I have my talents. I'm sort of OK at playing the piano, have a decent party trick using a coin and three cups and am a half-decent conversationalist. But this swordplay thing just wasn't, well, my thing. All I wanted was a bit of an easy life and when I heard a princess was up for grabs and no-one was particularly interested, I thought I'd give it a go. What could I lose? Quite a lot it turned out.
"Look, I admit I'm not one for reading the smallprint," I said. "But couldn't you have at least mentioned this death-by-having-my-family-jewels-cut-off thing at the beginning? It would have been the polite thing to do."
"Don't you tell me what to do," she screamed, frothing at the mouth. A very pretty mouth in normal circumstances but right now... "I'll run you through like a suckling pig."
At that point, her blade nicked my cheek and the pain caused me to howl.
"That's how I like my men," she mocked. "Squealing like the little piggies you are."
"How about a nice game of cards?" I suggested, the sword tracing fast, figure-of-eight patterns in the air. "Or can I cook you something? A nice meal? Just so we can sit down and chat?"
"All. Men. Are. Pigs!" she screamed, thrusting forward.
She expertly flicked the sword out of my hand, cut a 'S' pattern into my chest and instantly, my clean, white shirt filled with blood. My only clean shirt as it happened which was made me die inside a little and probably a prelude to me actually dying a lot. And then the pain hit instantly causing my eyes to fill with tears. I gasped and went down on one knee.
"Please," I begged.
"You'll have to beg better than that," she replied. "The last two at least got down on both knees."
"And what happened to them?" I asked.
She pointed to the notches on the bedpost. I'd wondered why they were there if she hadn't ever, you know.... All was explained. Looks like I'd be notch number ummm... 23. 23? That was a lot of bodies. I gave it my last shot.
"I know a great card trick," I said.
"I hate card tricks," she replied.
"Do you have three cups?" I asked.
"They can put them on your tombstone," she said.
"Then there is nothing more I can say," I said. "At least make it quick. For the sake of my little old mother. Martha."
"Martha?" she asked.
"Martha," I replied.
"My mother's name was Martha," she said. And looked me quizzically in the eye.
"That's a coincidence," I said. "My Martha died years ago. She taught me everything I know."
"Mine too," she replied. "Like how to hate men and run them through with rapiers."
"Oh crap," I said. Not the best last words but oh well. Can't win them all.
|
|
[WP] You’ve traveled a great distance to finally court the princess. Many others have tried and failed. Why? At the end of a week with her, you must duel her to the death. She is the greatest sword fighter in the land, so your only hope is to convince her to call off the fight.
|
I’ve spent a week with my king’s daughter, a woman so skilled with blades that no man has ever beaten her in single combat.
I’ve fallen for her, like a fool drawn to the rattle of a snake. She’s smart, skilled, beautiful, and funny. She’s kind to the lowest servant, yet fierce in her protection of them.
And I’ve gone and asked her to go on a date with me.
And she said yes.
Now after so long, I face the trial that all her dates have: Her. In single combat, I must defeat her or be thrown as mince meat to the canines.
Dozens of men have tried, women too, and none had been successful. I would be the first, or I would die.
There is no audience, this event is not public. It is simply her and I, as her father sits above in his throne.
She stands ready before me, though my eyes refuse to focus. My pulse is quick, and breath shallow. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out because I have a plan that may end in my death.
Breathe. Now or never.
With all the unearned confidence I could muster I step towards the center of the room, below her father. She follows, but I arrive first and with a loud clang of metal on stone I drop my sword.
The princess stops, stunned. The king looks down at me with a neutral expression. Not dead yet.
“Princess, you and I both know the rules of this engagement. We fight, we die, and should I be victorious we will wed when I spare you.”
I gulp nervously but continue.
“Well I know when I am bested. I haven’t a clue how to fight, I’m the son of a poet. What hubris must I have to believe myself a better fighter? I am not so arrogant to believe myself better than those who have studied under masters of their craft.”
She looks at me for a long second and I almost think I see her mouth part, but whatever words she’s chosen have died upon her lips.
“So it is forfeit then?” Asks the king gruffly.
Part two. My plan was working.
“I apologize my King, but I believe forfeit or not it is your daughter who should decide what happens next.”
“I am your king, answer my question.”
“You are my King, and that itself deserves my respect. But right now, sir, it’s your daughter who deserves it more. Yes, I forfeit. I leave my life and my future in the hands of a woman I love, and who I hope loves me.”
The room is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear the soft thum thum thumming of my heart in my ears, can feel it pounding in my ribcage. The air tastes sour and I can’t help but look between her eyes, staring straight at me, and the floor.
The soft thud of her rapier onto carpeted stone drawls me back to reality. She walks casually before me and the king, turning to face her father.
“Father, arrange for an early spring wedding.”
|
"Er, look, can't we talk about this?" I asked as the rapier swished within a hair's breadth of making making me say that a couple of octaves higher. "I mean, I'm really good in bed. I go to sleep really quickly."
"Hah," she yelled, ignoring my feeble attempt at humour. "No man will take me. I vow it with every ounce of my being."
"Crap," I said, ducking, weaving, parrying and then running in the opposite direction as I felt the light gusts of wind from her blade which was seemingly everywhere. Normally, my motto is 'can't win them all,' but in this case just surviving would be nice. Preferably with everything attached.
Frankly, if someone had mentioned to me the bit about the swordplay, I'd probably have given this one a miss. I mean, I have my talents. I'm sort of OK at playing the piano, have a decent party trick using a coin and three cups and am a half-decent conversationalist. But this swordplay thing just wasn't, well, my thing. All I wanted was a bit of an easy life and when I heard a princess was up for grabs and no-one was particularly interested, I thought I'd give it a go. What could I lose? Quite a lot it turned out.
"Look, I admit I'm not one for reading the smallprint," I said. "But couldn't you have at least mentioned this death-by-having-my-family-jewels-cut-off thing at the beginning? It would have been the polite thing to do."
"Don't you tell me what to do," she screamed, frothing at the mouth. A very pretty mouth in normal circumstances but right now... "I'll run you through like a suckling pig."
At that point, her blade nicked my cheek and the pain caused me to howl.
"That's how I like my men," she mocked. "Squealing like the little piggies you are."
"How about a nice game of cards?" I suggested, the sword tracing fast, figure-of-eight patterns in the air. "Or can I cook you something? A nice meal? Just so we can sit down and chat?"
"All. Men. Are. Pigs!" she screamed, thrusting forward.
She expertly flicked the sword out of my hand, cut a 'S' pattern into my chest and instantly, my clean, white shirt filled with blood. My only clean shirt as it happened which was made me die inside a little and probably a prelude to me actually dying a lot. And then the pain hit instantly causing my eyes to fill with tears. I gasped and went down on one knee.
"Please," I begged.
"You'll have to beg better than that," she replied. "The last two at least got down on both knees."
"And what happened to them?" I asked.
She pointed to the notches on the bedpost. I'd wondered why they were there if she hadn't ever, you know.... All was explained. Looks like I'd be notch number ummm... 23. 23? That was a lot of bodies. I gave it my last shot.
"I know a great card trick," I said.
"I hate card tricks," she replied.
"Do you have three cups?" I asked.
"They can put them on your tombstone," she said.
"Then there is nothing more I can say," I said. "At least make it quick. For the sake of my little old mother. Martha."
"Martha?" she asked.
"Martha," I replied.
"My mother's name was Martha," she said. And looked me quizzically in the eye.
"That's a coincidence," I said. "My Martha died years ago. She taught me everything I know."
"Mine too," she replied. "Like how to hate men and run them through with rapiers."
"Oh crap," I said. Not the best last words but oh well. Can't win them all.
|
|
[WP] You’re the ancient Dread-Lord and you hear a knock on the door of your lair. It’s a contingent of townsfolk seeking an audience. Turns out that the so-called “heroes” supposedly setting out to save the kingdom from you are actually assholes murdering and plundering across the land.
|
For years the icy cave was undisturbed save for the howling wind that echoed through its chambers. Time stood still for the Amemnon, the one they called the corruptor. For decades he remained trapped in the same place since his fall, pinned to the wall of runes by the holy sword Grandegelm. The passing years did little to dull the burning pain of the sword, which remained lodged in the corruptor’s chest.
For lifetimes there was only the wind and the soft golden glow of the sword. Amemnon opened his eyes, which were nothing more than dark voids that consumed what little light reached them. He was stirred by a crackling within the cave. At first he thought that it may be a falling rock or icicle. After ages of imprisonment he knew the sounds of the cave like they were an extension of his own body. There were three loose rock formations he was aware of that could be the source of the sounds. As the crackles continued he could discern that they were too uniform. They were footsteps.
Who would it be? Perhaps it was a descendant of one of the ancient heroes. He expected an unrefined human coming down to gloat or remind him of his failures. They were always the same, drunk on their own self-righteousness. The footsteps grew louder.
“Who approaches? Name yourself!” Amemnon’s low and guttural voice echoed through the chamber. It had been too long since he spoke and the words were hard to form.
A cloaked figure stepped through the swirls of frost that prowled the cavern floor.
“Whose seed are you?” Amemnon growled. “Perhaps you are Lucander’s, maybe Artorus?” He rattled a few more names related to the heroes that imprisoned him.
The figure stepped into the soft glow of the sword and removed its cowl. It was a plain human girl who was covered in dirt and blemishes. Amemnon’s black orbs grew with surprise; the common human bore no resemblance to any of the heroes he could remember.
“I’m no one.” The girl replied.
“Why are you here, no one?” Amemnon questioned, wheezing under the burning pain of the sword.
“I was told that you were the world’s greatest evil. That you twist people into demons.” The girl's voice hinted of more curiosity than blame.
Amemnon sighed. “So they say.”
“I want to know why. Why did you corrupt them? Why did you change them?” She asked.
Amemnon chuckled. “You human are dishonest creatures. You pretend to be something on the outside, but what you are on the inside is often something completely different. What I changed them into was always already there. I was only helping them peel away their mask, to become what they truly are so that they could attain what they desired. I untangled them from the lies they wrapped themselves in.”
The girl continued listen.
“But, I was wrong. I thought I could decouple humans from their lies. But the lies you tell yourself are essential to your being. When I change a human into what they truly are, they become what you call a ‘monster.’”
There was a moment of silence in the cave. The girl stepped closer. “Amemnon, what is evil?” she asked.
Amenmon pondered for a moment. “I would say it is what you do each other to preserve your lies. By unravelling your masks I believed I could improve you. That once what you truly were inside was laid bare, that those who were truly wicked would be revealed and purged. But you humans rejected my world." With that said, he peered down at the glowing sword. "As you can see, this is the price of my efforts.”
“I had three brothers.” The girl then drew a pouch from her cloak. “They are all dead now, slaved to the mines for these lifeless rocks.” She dumped the pouch on the icy floor, revealing an array of glimmering gemstones.
“I see humans haven’t changed.” Amemnon sneered.
“The one who took my brothers shares the bloodline of the heroes that put you here.” The girl reached out touching the pommel of the holy blade. “I wonder… if you showed them all what he really was inside… " Her voice grew more intense as she spoke. "Would they continue to love him? Would they continue to kneel as his feet despite the kingdom he has built on our broken backs?”
Amemnon grinned. Finally, after all these years… a human that understands.
“If you want to find out, then you know what to do.”
Without hesitation the girl stepped forward. Placing both hands on the hilt of the holy blade, she closed her eyes, took one deep breath, and pulled with all her might.
|
Long and Gothic architecture. Red and tattered drapes and carpets. The lack of natural light aside from the green flames inhabiting the lanterns and torches. This is what he saw every day as he waited for these hero’s of legend, destined to bring an end to his corrupt and powerful dark influence that plagued green forests into dense and purple death traps with megafauna with razor sharp teeth and a murderous appetite, and towns into deserted ghosts of their former glory with corpses lining the streets from the sheer toxicity of the air....to be honest he was growing impatient. He had done all he wanted and had killed more than he needed just by sitting at his throne, that’s how powerful he had became with his discovery of immortality. Of course he could still be killed by regular means, he had no reason so fear old age or sickness.
*tap tap tap*
He tapped his skeleton finger on the armrest of his throne.
“By the gods...if I have to wait another month for these buffoons, I’ll go into town and personally cut the heads off any big time politicians or noble. Maybe that will get their attention-“
There was a loud knock on the large doors at the top of the castle. He groaned as the hero wouldn’t knock on the villains door like some Jehovah Witness. He grudge across every floor as his minions would laze and mess around out of boredom, they had seen the sorry state of their leader but they didn’t care. Free shelter and free food to just sit around and laze all day was a dream come true.
As he walked into the main entrance, he opened the door to see a group of towns people wielding torches and large bags. They were scared, nervous and wet as the surroundings of the castle were dark, wet and highly dangerous with their own predatory creatures.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure? You all came here to take matters into your own hands I presume....but no weapons? Are you underestimating me?”
He spoke in a low and intimidating tone, the towns people recoiled in fear. He always enjoyed that part. An elderly man, presumably the chief, came forward with one of the large bags
“N-no you misunderstand DreadLord Atticus Redblood- we- we-“
“Spit it out damn you! Before I turn you all inside out with the flick of a wrist!”
The man yelps and begins to tear up in fear.
“The hero’s are murdering and plundering any settlement or village the come across!”
“Excuse me what-“
“-Please, we’ll give you supplies-“
“Wait-“
“grains-“
“Human- wait a moment-“
“land, money- anything! Save us from these false prophets!”
The crowd began weeping and pleading as Atticus stood slack jawed in pure awe.
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[WP] Everyone has demons inside them, amplified incarnations of their flaws. Most are tormented by them, some make pacts that allow them to be summoned, and a select few have even made friends with them.
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My demons know me best. They've been with me through everything, created by my flaws and helping me with them.
Taris is my demon of spite, birthed when my high school boyfriend cheated on me with my 'best friend'. He's the oldest of my demons and whispered in my ear ideas on how to get retribution. Some of his ideas were a little extreme, but his rage on my behalf was appreciated.
Thanks to Taris no one takes advantage of my kindness anymore.
Rinnuth is my demon of vanity. She was born not long after Taris when my self esteem was at its lowest, after my ex claimed he cheated because Veronica took better care of herself. She and Taris worked together a lot, because I first started listening to her suggestions out of spite.
Thanks to Rinnuth I never skip a gym day, and while I don't always look my very best, no one can call me a slob. Her tips always come in handy when I need them.
Mordred is a bit younger, but no less powerful for it. He was born from my first paycheck, my demon of greed. I took one look at that small number on the paper and felt him form in my mind. He knows what I deserve.
Thanks to Mordred I quit that job and applied myself to a program I'd been considering which would give me the skills to earn more. His advice is invaluable when it comes time to negotiate salary.
Ozzen is my last demon so far, my reaper. My fear of death. I barely survived a car crash at 23, and should have never let my friend drive. She'd had far too much alcohol.
Ozzen keeps me alert and stops me from making decisions that could lead to my death with his murmuring about how every day could be my last. But he also helped me step out of my comfort zone. If every day could be the last one, why *not* do things that make me happy? Why *not* take a few chances.
I've been deep sea diving, sky diving, mountain climbing, and so many other things I would never have tried before Ozzen.
So many people fear their demons and ignore their advice out of that fear of them. But I know the secret of success, the secret of true happiness. I've befriended my demons and let them out to play.
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"Richard!" the mother bellowed from the kitchen downstairs. "Come down here and help me set the table!"
"Uh... Uhn..."
A shameful sound escaped from Richard's lips. A moment of clarity, a couple gathered breaths, and a sigh of guilt and frustration. Then the boy snapped his laptop shut and the darkness swallowed the lurid scenes of copulation.
Lust's form dissolved and slunk back into the half-empty Vaseline bottle.
And Richard sat still for a couple of seconds... A vapid look on his young visage.
"BOY! YOUR MOTHER SAID TO COME DOWN!"
The booming voice of the boy's father made him flinch. But Wrath seeped out from the space between the fingers of Richard's now clenched fists and he wrapped around the boy in a gentle and warm embrace. The embers of anger slightly grew brighter behind his dark and empty eyes... Unnoticed by most while the bruises around them still showed more prominent.
Richard stood and did up his pants then went to open his bedroom door. But before he could get to it the door swung open, and beyond it was Linda, his older sister. A look of concern was shown clearly on her face.
"You don't have to. I'll help mom out. It's better if dad doesn't see you."
She timidly touched the side of Richard's face, where the swelling was at its worst.
"I'll talk to him Rich... It's not your fault. He shouldn't compare us at \~ "
A large emerald snake slithered up from the floor and wrapped itself around Linda's neck. It looked at her with a hungry expression. Richard looked away with shame as his sister gingerly withdrew her gentle hand from his face. A pained smile formed on Linda's lips.
"I don't blame you Rich." she said.
Then Linda went off to the kitchen, as the emerald snake looked pointedly back at the boy. Envy smirked at Richard as it disappeared down the stairs while "carried" by his sister.
Richard slowly shut the door then walked to face his bedroom mirror. The boy then considered the figure in front of him and what he saw was swine. Gluttony laughed from somewhere in his room, then it made mocking pig noises. The sound of a candy wrapper being torn whispered from inside Richard's closet.
The dull look on Richard's face returned when just moments before it was flush with the colors of anger and shame. Now his face just reflected acceptance.
He opened his closet to change into outside clothes, quickly left his room, then quietly snuck into his parent's bedroom. The boy looked around with darting eyes, and when he didn't find what he wanted, he whispered for Greed to fetch him his father's stash.
A box fell from the top of a drawer startling Richard, but he relaxed as soon as he saw a purple imp creep out from under the box. The creature had a satisfied grin on its ugly face as it opened the container to reveal a large stack of cash. A mix of very old and newer bills. Richard took some of the money as the imp scuttled into his pocket, the rest he returned to the box, and the box he returned to the top of the drawer. The words RICHARD COLLEGE written haphazardly on the box barely registering to the boy as he hurriedly ran away from the scene of his crime.
. . .
After spending the money he stole from his father on toys, gadgets, and games he's never had before, Richard never felt so empty. Despite a whole day outside spending everything he had on stuff that he thought he wanted, the boy found no pleasure on the once coveted plastic, glass, and metal electronic things.
With only a few pennies left in his pockets, Richard found himself walking near the docks... His languid steps echoing faintly against the pier's wooden planks. He found himself staring at the ocean, the lights of the distant streets not reaching the shadowy forms of the nearby harbored boats and yachts.
The stars were missing from the sky... as always. These days, only fog and spotlights littered the evenings' canvas.
The wind blew softly and brought with it the smell of sea and garbage and shit. It played with Richard's dry and curly locks.
A small and pink hummingbird landed on the boy's shoulder.
"Hey Sloth... Thanks for making my life sound interesting."
The bird gently pecked Richard's ear.
The boy smiled...
Then he jumped into the dark and cold waters.
And finally, the bird finished narrating a story...
A story which Richard will no longer hear.
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[WP] You are a driver for Getaway. A ride share app like Uber or Lyft just for criminals. Tell your tales.
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The *ding* of the app goes off about halfway through my 3rd cup of coffee of the evening. 11:30 PM. Someone has plans for the witching hour, and there's room for one more. No details, though. Always troubling, the no detail jobs; either they didn't know enough to put the particulars into the app, or they know enough to know that the details would scare everyone off. Either way, the risk is elevated.
Fuck it. I didn't take this gig to *not* do crimes, after all.
The clients are waiting on the corner at the listed address... all five of them. As I roll up to them, they seem a mix of eager, nervous and young. Mostly young. The oldest, or at least the biggest, looks like he still needs a fake ID to get alcohol.
"The fuck is this supposed to be?" One of them yells, looking over my ride. In it's past life it was a bog standard yellow cab, and if you didn't know where to look it still looks like one. Everything inside the body has been upgraded, especially the divider between me and the backseat; the simple plastic screen has been swapped out for inch thick lexan, same stuff they use to make the windscreens on armored fighting vehicles. If one of my clients wants to gank me, they'll need a 50 cal to do it. "Are we doing crimes, or driving Miss Daisy?"
"If you wanted a Lamborghini, you should have used Getaway Prime." I say back. "And by the way, you probably should have used Getaway XL for a crew this size. Were you planning on sitting in each other's laps, or do you need to make a different call?"
"Fuck you, man! Let us sit up front!" Another one barks.
"Hard no, kid." I say, keeping one hand where they can see it, while the other moves towards the center console. "No one sits up front but YellowBandit12 and candidates for Mrs. YellowBandit12, and none of you are my type. Ditch two and we can proceed."
"Fuck this, man, let us in or we give you one star!" The first one says.
"Oof, that's harsh kid." I say.
"If you don't like it, maybe you should be a real gangster instead of a gig-economy bitch!"
"You're right. I should start doing real gangster shit. Like blowing children away with a 45 if they don't give me 5 stars and a $100 tip in ten seconds."
"Yeah, bitch! ...what?"
"Did I stutter?" I say, pulling my 1911A1 out of the center console. The laser sight isn't really needed at this range, but the bright green dot projected on the biggest child's chest really drives home the gravity of the situation. His accomplices don't wait to see how it shakes out, choosing the better part of valor; one of them tries to do a little serpentine maneuver on his way to cover and trips over his own feet in the process. "5 stars. $100. Ten. Nine. Eight..."
"Alright, alright! Fuck!" He says, fumbling with his cell phone. A small *ding* from my own phone confirms that it's all settled up. "Great doing business with you, kid. Oh, it occurs to me that with your crew gone, the seating problem is resolved. Wanna do the job now?"
"No... no thank you. I'm going to go home now." He says, sounding uncertain. "Can... can I go now?"
"What?" I ask, before remembering that I still have a loaded weapon pointed straight into his ribcage. "Right, off you go, kiddo. Be careful out there. The streets can get a bit dangerous at night."
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The request had come in like any other. A notification on his phone, just a simple icon accompanied by a single vibration. Like the others he had the option to accept or decline the client, and like other rideshare apps everyone had ratings. After several lucrative and successful jobs he had been receiving an influx of requests. When he received this one it had stood out as interesting; it paid well and was a lower profile target downtown, unlike some of the banks and museums some of these amateurs wanted to roll.
Now he sat in his car, listening to the rain colliding with the windshield, looking around the dimly lit city street. This late at night he knew that there wouldn’t be many people walking, even in this affluent of a neighborhood.
*Damn.* Carmen thought. *This rain is really going to make this more difficult.* He thought about some of the routes he had considered beforehand and whether any of them might be flooded from the storm.
Before he could get too far into his thoughts three men, wearing all black and covering their faces with ski masks, ran out of the front of the brownstone. He popped the trunk of the car and without saying anything the crew threw two large bags into the trunk. The doors slammed as the men jumped into the car.
“Go, go, go!” Said the masked man in the passenger seat.
He took off quickly, cautious not to squeal the wheels in the fresh rain. As he accelerated towards the intersection, two black SUV’s with their high beams blaring, swerved around the corner ahead of them, coming right towards Carmen’s car.
“Oh shit!” Shouted one of the men in the back.
*Who has private security that shows up this fast?* Was the prominent question racing through Carmen’s mind. *Who the hell did these guys just steal from?* But before he could think any more he had to swerve to avoid the oncoming collision. Up, onto the sidewalk the stolen sedan went, jostling the four of them inside. It was enough to dodge the SUVs, the wide city sidewalks giving him space to maneuver around.
Brake lights illuminated his rear view mirror as he watched both vehicles perform u-turns that could not have been done by anyone without professional training. He knew that these were not people that were going to be evaded easily, and were also probably not the type to ask questions first. He felt the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through him as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.
All hopes of a stealthy getaway were abandoned. Skidding around the corner he could see their pursuers attempting to keep up in their bulkier vehicles, slipping on the freshly wet pavement. The corners were giving him desperately needed and increasing space. He pushed the stolen car to its limit through the route that he knew would have the least police and most turns. Through some of the neighborhoods near where he grew up and used to race at night. Over what felt like miles of inner city streets he managed to lose the tail, and eventually ended up at the designated drop.
“You’ve got some wild driving skills, man.” Said the masked thief in the passenger seat as they came to a stop.
“Who the fuck did you steal from? Almost no one has private security that shows up that fast.”
“What, you mean those guys?”
Pointing at the street corner ahead of them, almost on cue, two black SUV’s turned around the corner and parked along the sidewalk a hundred feet away from where they sat.
“What, what the hell is this?!” Yelled Carmen, his hands shaking from the aftermath of the adrenaline and now fresh rage.
“This? This was a test. One that I have to say, you did extremely well in. Don’t give me that look, we’re still going to pay you, and even giving you a bonus! I actually lost a bet with one of those drivers, we thought the rain would totally fuck you up. But well done, man.”
His stomach churned, and the rage was slightly subsided by the thought of a bonus, but what was this a test for? Surely this man must be some kind of sociopath to think that after that kind of a deceit he would be willing to work for him again.
“Look, I can see you’re pissed, but this other job needed another, proven driver. And your cut is going to be high six figures. So, what do you say? Are you up for the *real* job now?”
That, well that was intriguing.
“...Let’s hear it.”
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[WP] An Immortal being is trapped in a body that has been/is being zombified.
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“Arise, my servant! Arise!”
A deep voice rang out across the cosmos. Shi-Fong opened his eyes. It was not the first time a mortal had attempted to contact him, but it had been centuries. He frowned. Mortals often sought the gods for their guidance. But this one tugged with an insistence. Before he could decide on a punishment for this audacity, he was flung through the Divine Gates. His soul tumbled through the ether as he was thrust into the Mortal Realm.
“Ugh…”
An odd sensation filled his form, or rather, his body. It had been millennia since he had one. He let out a groan. His vocal cords were damaged. No, they were rotten. It was a mild annoyance. How was he to chastise the mortal if he could not speak?
“A failure? Shit… shit!”
A greasy-haired individual paced back and forth outside an intricate diagram. A ritual circle, Shi-Fong idly noted. Around him were dozens of men and women. Some looked recently deceased, fear and anguish clear on their faces. Others were partially decomposed. Mortal magic had come a long way since the era when he had been worshiped. He studied the arrangement, the wording, the pattern. None of it suggested it had the power to drag a god into the Mortal Realm. Even a forgotten god such as Shi-Fong should have been well beyond mortal means.
‘Curious,’ he thought.
He let out another groan in contemplation. But the one that had bound him was not listening.
“One? Only one?!” The man shouted. “Useless! That old bastard’s notes were useless!”
By now, Shi-Fong’s blunted senses were beginning to detect the smells in the room. There was smoke in the air and a heavy cloud of incense, no doubt components of the ritual. There was also a distinct aura of resentment and agony creeping across the floor. The unwilling participants of this bizarre ritual cried out. They cursed the one who had sacrificed them in such a manner. But from the look of it, the man either did not notice or did not care. Necromancers were often like this, even in his time.
“Dammit!” The man continued to curse. “They’re coming for me…”
Wild eyes snapped to Shi-Fong.
“You! Go out there! Attack the interlopers! Slow them down so I may escape!”
There was a faint tug within his form. The body that bound him moved on the necromancer’s command. Still intrigued by this strange occurrence, Shi-Fong allowed the command to take hold. His legs were heavy as they shuffled across the cavern. The muscles were atrophied from death. The focal points within the body had almost completely eroded. It would take some time to repair it if he was to remain in this realm.
“Richard! I’m detecting undead up ahead!”
As Shi-Fong wandered through the necromancer’s lair, a female voice rang out.
“Numbers?” A deep male voice.
“Only one,” the woman replied.
“Careful, could be a trap,” another male said.
Shi-Fong continued to shamble forward as three armored individuals burst into the room.
“Divine Flames!”
A man dressed in blue and silver robes waved a cane. Light crashed down onto Shi-Fong. While a part of him writhed in agony, another part drank deeply. It tasted sweet and comforting. Even as he collapsed to the floor, he savored the sensation.
‘Odd. This is Helaine’s domain. How did I get here?’
As he pondered, the three people approached him.
“That’s it?” A man in armor prodded Shi-Fong with the tip of his blade.
A woman kneeled by him, squinting at him. Shi-Fong could not have moved even if he wanted to. The necromantic energies moving his body had been purged by Helaine’s light. If he wanted to go anywhere, he would need to fix this body first.
“I’m not sensing anything anymore,” she said.
“That was… a bit disappointing,” the robed man said.
The armored one huffed.
“Whatever. We’ve still got to catch up to Zephros. He should be up ahead. Doubt he got far if he sent this thing after us.”
“Got it!” The woman said as she stood and drew a pair of daggers.
They rushed off, leaving Shi-Fong to his thoughts. The mortal realm had changed, that much he knew. Gods who had lost their followings were relegated to more administrative tasks. His duties in the Divine Realm only required him to observe a small cluster of islands. A few times a year, he would guide a soul to the proper destination in the afterlife. That was it. He frowned. Or rather, he tried to frown.
‘How… do I get out of here?’ He wondered.
He could no longer sense the necromancer’s chains. They had disappeared after that divine spell. But that purifying light had not sent him back to the Divine Realm. He reached out but could not sense the Divine Gates either.
‘This may be a problem.’
(1/2)
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Dear diary,
It's been a long time since I last had the chance to write you. After a night out to the bar with those friends I made in the shipyards, things kind of went off the rails. There was a greaser type who kept trying to step in between Fred and his girl. You know Fred, he's a good guy, a stand up guy even but a bit of a pacifist. Well, I got a bit liquored up and just had enough of this guy, so when he invited himself to out table, I told him he better kick rocks. Evidently he felt pretty strongly about staying the course, so I lightened him up by a tooth or two. That fucking decade though and the cliques, you couldn't swing on a guy without six more coming up out of the damn woodwork. Next thing I know, I'm getting slammed to the pavement outside and wouldn't ya' know it, it's raining. I got off a swing or two but they started tuning me up pretty good, until the splashing and repeated blows pretty much knocked off all the make up. One of the guys was rude enough to puke which promptly washed into my face, I can still smell that, sour beer and onions. The gagging broke the silence though and pretty soon they were getting ready to run me out of town, not that I needed much convincing. So, I made my way for the swamp and then through valleys up to the Shenandoah to lay low until the memory died off. It always does sooner or later. Then one night as I'm laying there under the stars, there's just fuckin' daylight, right now, in a hurry. Three new suns just bloomed on earth to the East. That was the start. I don't think I'm ready to dive into that yet, I know I've seen war a few dozen times but, this is different. I don't know if the mortals are going to make it this time. After the dust settled, I made my way down, mud caked on my face, hoping to pass for homeless rather than a walking corpse. The first few towns I hit were totally deserted, that was a bit of a relief if I'm being selfish. I broke into a drug store for some new make up and their stash of morphine, it had been a while since I had a good time. So, I got all pretty, hoping to find some people and see what the hell happened. I was roughly headed for the capitol but got shot by some crazies somewhere north of there. Bullets, as it turns out, aren't real easy to shake off. I managed to crawl into a root cellar before they could get too close. It fuckin' hurt. I mean bad, worse than the rack or any of those crazy torture devices. One little piece of lead to the chest and I'm gaspin' like a carp, pukin' up blood and shaking in fits. The dope fiend in me didn't want to waste the morphine at first but, I was going to let them know where I was at if I screamed. So, I jammed half the stash, better to be unconscious either way. I started comin' to and the world is throbbing. No, not me, I've got a knot of blood clots and scar tissue forming in my lung, sure,but the world is literally bouncing up and down. Then it hit me, the sky. I wasn't in the cellar anymore. I looked around and boy was I in for a treat. I was in a cart drawn by two ox that looked like they'd been boiled alive. There was someone driving the cart, too! He took me to his bar and kinda nursed me a bit, said I'd have to work off the debt for him saving my life. Right, good luck with that buddy. The strange thing though, he didn't care how I looked. Come to find out, there's been some kinda atomic war and there's lots of folks who look pretty messed up now. I guess a lot of 'em are living a long time, too! So, for right now, I'm gonna bartend to this fool Moriarty, I'll out live him easy and the regulars make it almost worthwhile. This one new guy, Jim, he seems real solid, like he sees me as person. I like to rag on him, greet him with "Hey there smooth skin", it gets a mixed reaction but, I know he can see we're more than ghouls and smooths, we're humans livin' through a fucked up war. And war, war never changes.
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[WP] After you untimely death in a car accident your girlfriend brings your soul back into the mortal realm and traps it in a crystal after a few days you want to convince her to let you go back to afterlife
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It's not that the afterlife was particularly good. We mostly sat around campfires and chanted our hymns in praise of the God. And life in a crystal wasn't necessarily bad. I didn't hunger, get bored, or have to work for a living. My partner could even visit me inside the crystal she had sucked me back into. She would cast her soul into it, she'd appear right next to me and we'd spend the day together exploring the limits of our imaginations.
It wasn't a bad existence. But it was a prison. *You've got to let me go*, I told her. And she'd break down crying out there. For a blessed few hours at a time she could forget that I was already dead. Right up until her magic ran out and her soul was torn back out of the crystal. She'd cast her soul into the crystal and then we'd start all over again.
*You've got to let me go*, I told her. She screamed at me then, the kind of fury only a magic user could wield, the kind that shook your soul. "When do I get to be happy?!" she yelled. "I did everything we talked about! Everything right! I helped the people around me with my magic. I cured the sick, I conjured food when the villages starved, I found those guilty of terrible crimes. I even warred for the Empire when they called! And I did all that instead of spending time with you, because it was the right thing to do. So why don't I get to be happy?! Didn't I earn it? No, I won't accept that after all this time in service of others, you, the one thing that mattered to me is taken away for no reason at all."
*We had our time together*, I told her. And I showed her my memories of her. And they were wonderful, vivid, joyful things of endless love. She loved me back as much, I felt it beyond a knowing, beyond a belief, beyond anything, her love was my absolute. If the sun were not to rise tomorrow, I would not miss it as much as I'd miss her.
*But this crystal is a prison*, I told her. "How could that be?" she protested. "In the crystal you can do anything we can imagine, and anything twice over from my magic." And we walked through fire together. We became stone and stood untouched by time. We breathed in stars. We danced with the fairies, argued with the God, dined with the devils and more. She showed me all these things because they were possible in the crystal when we were together.
*It is not a prison for me. It is a prison for you*, I told her. I showed her what I saw - not a memory, not an imagination, but a vision of the future. Where she came back to the crystal day in and day out until her life was spent along with her magic. She'd never find happiness again. Never raise a family, never run for mayor, never sing to the spirits of old. All those things she longed for, she would give up just to spend time with a crystal and me. Sometimes a good thing could end in tragedy, but that didn't mean that she'd never find a good thing again.
*You do deserve to be happy, and I would have been there with you if I could. It wasn't right. It wasn't anybody's fault either. It just... didn't turn out that way.* "It's not fair", she cried as we hugged for the longest time. "Will you dance with me, a last dance?" she begged. But I shook my head. *If you're here for a dance you're here for an hour. And if you're here for an hour you're here forever.*
*You are the love of my life, but if you're in here with me I will never be happy.* She waved her hand then, almost dismissively, and turned away to hide her tears as the magic released me. And I wondered what would happen to her, I worried about the future. But as the crystal begins to deteriorate into sparkling dust, she looked at me one last time. In her eyes I see the same strength that had always been there - not magic, not will, just endless love. And I know then, just as I knew the first time I met her, that everything would be alright.
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The sensation was intense, like being squished into an airtight box. To tight to move, to tight to breath. It was like trying to gasp for air without ever getting a respite. I could vaguely hear a voice though it. A voice that seemed strangely familiar.
"Please," I breath, "Please let me go."
"Daria? Is that you?" the voice asks, oblivious. I tried to move, to simply allow some air to reach my lungs, but nothing budged. "Oh Daria!" the voice starts to cry.
"Please," I manage, trying to convey some urgency, "Please."
"But I brought you back!" the voice cries, "Why would you want to leave? Oh Daria, please don't leave me! Please don't leave me again." If I had any lungs, they would have burst. If I had needed air to be sentient, I would have been long gone. Instead I am trapped gulping for air that does not exist.
"I ... can't ... breath!" I wheeze helplessly, "Please! ... Peggy!" Either she does not hear me or she chooses to ignore me because instead I feel the sensation of being lifted and clutched. No warmth or give to the hug. Just simply being pressed close to her without any respite of air. And she keeps crying, just holding onto me and crying.
"Never ... never again ... never," she coos softly.
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[WP] You are the last person on Earth after a 20 year nuclear war. Several aliens keep trying to convince you to let them abduct you.
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I sat looking at my options. Literally hundreds of them. Representatives from dozens of planets all vying for the chance to abduct me. I get to listen to each delegation present their pitch and narrow it down, until finally I decide. I don’t have any way to tell who is lying and who is telling the truth, nor do I have the option to tell them all to buzz off. It’s all very civilized.
These are the groups that made it past the first couple of rounds. The ones that tried to convince me to give my body and life up for science were the first to go. Those that remained all either promised they had other humans, were physiologically similar enough to humans I could theoretically live among them or had some other offer that seemed enticing.
I was important enough to choose my fate. As possibly the last known survivor of the human race that still resided on Earth, and as someone that had survived, somehow a twenty year nuclear war, I could wind up either a slave, or a billionaire, and I had very little in the way of help choosing.
I looked at the group of techno-wizard bipedal lizard-like aliens to my left that had offered to move my brain into a grown body of their species. Surprisingly, their sexual biology worked similar to humans, but they were not a DNA based society. Besides, the idea of being part of another net-driven society after watching one literally bomb itself to oblivion didn’t interest me.
“I’m sorry, but while your offer was tempting, and your people, especially your females, lovely, I just don’t think it would work,” I told their leader, a friendly soft spoken female whom I actually liked.. “under other circumstances, I would not be averse to possibly working with you later, and I would be interested in a friendship with you personally, even if I can’t pronounce your name.”
She smiled and withdrew. “I understand. I will leave you some devices capable of communicating with us, as well as my personal net-address,” She smiled sadly. “I wish you luck. I wish I could offer you some advice, but I cannot. I hope to hear from you, even if I suspect I will not.”
I thanked her and turned to the greys. “I’m sorry, but you have quite the reputation and history on my planet. I simply do not feel I can trust you.” The leader of the greys blinked, then made a motion and his/her people departed. One after another, I dismissed them until there were three groups remaining.
The first was a race that of shape shifters whose natural forms resembled the traditional “Slime monster” of rpgs who promised me an island of my own on their world with as much flora and fauna that could survive under a double dome, medical care, a crewed space vessel, and help finding other humans in the galaxy in return for frequent blood samples.
The second race resembled humans very closely except for the light scales down their body. They promised me nothing more than a cure and a home on their world. They were dna based, and I knew from experience their food would not kill me.
The third claimed they had a few humans on one of their worlds. They closely resembled vampiric, bipedal cats and they claimed they found human blood a delicacy but that humans were treated like royalty on their world.
They actually offered me two options. The first me my selection from a handful of human women or their own species, a palace complete with anything I could want including servants, and a cure, in exchange for a pint of blood every two weeks. Their other option was a night with a specially trained female called a Peace Bringer, where I could do whatever I wanted with her and in the end of the night she would kill me in a way that was both painless and comforting, in exchange complete ownership of my body.
I debated about ten more minutes. I then went to the leader of the slimes and waited as she took the form of a lovely dark haired human. “I thank you for your offer, but it is not right for me.”
She stepped forward and hugged me human style. “Farewell,” she whispered.
I turned to the second race, but I did not have to say anything. “I can read your eyes, human,” the leader said, his English accented but the sorrow coming through. “I hope your choice brings you comfort.” He nodded and then crossed his arms in the salute of his people.
I turned to the vampiric cats. “Please bring me to your Peace Bringer.”
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The aliens are trying to abduct me so I pulled the all powerful move and pull out my handy dandy vacuum and point it at them and say DIE MOTHERFUCKERS and blast them until they are dead I am the one and only leader of Earth and nobody stands in my way the other aliens from their planet did not like that and decided to blow up earth but I had already took the aliens spaceship and was heading to theirs to become the leader. I got their planet and decided to take over the galaxy. Unlock the rest of the story with a 4.99 purchase through EA
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[WP] Your merchant company has grown tremendously since you started trading with the demons, who have a surprising interest in literature. Since then you've been pen pals with numerous high-ranking devils, and have formed a rather unusual book club.
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The footstep landed on the fourth step leading up to my register. That single footstep was the first moment Cardinal, my overweight cat, noticed the man. My wife got me that cat for my fourtieth birthday. She died a few months after. Now, I'm balding, fourty-two, penniless, and I have an obese cat that I don't feed, somehow doesn't die, and keeps gaining weight. Cardinal, the gift we could never afford, made me aware of this man in my shop. His tail twitched.
The man I now stared at was just over five feet tall, stocky, peg legged, and had on mismatched gloves, one white, the other black. How he made no noise walking into a decrepit book store with a wood floor on a peg leg, that is a question I still can’t figure out, thirty years later.
“I’d like to buy your cat.”
His question caught me off guard. Never in my life did anyone express any interest in the future of my feline counterpart. His voice registered so high on the octave scale, my glasses shook as if to suggest they were about to explode.
"Come again." I said.
"I'd like," he now was irritated, "to buy," a small gesture with his black glove, "your cat."
"Yeah I heard the first time. I heard you even though you sound like the melting witch from that fabled scene in the Wizard of Oz." I took a breath to make sure I wasn't speaking too fast. "I sell books here. Not cats. Get out."
"I think you misunderstood." The visitor's voice shifted to a rumble. It was now low like a motorcycle engine. "The cat is coming with me."
"Took you long enough to find me. I think I must have eaten fourteen hundred humans waiting on you chap."
This last bit of exchange took me by surprise. This last voice I just heard sounded Northern Irish. The voice came from the direction where Cardinal sat. I could not spot anyone else in the store.
The stunted man took no notice of new voice that entered the conversation. "Like I said, the cat is coming with me. I'll be glad to pay. Handsomely. You see this cat is worth quite a bit of money." The voice this time was normal.
"Who in the hell do you think you are trying to buy my cat? Our with ya!"
The short man, planted his feet into the ground.
"Unmovable", I thought. Why does this guy want this cat?
He had the audacity to ask for a glass of wine and said it would be best if we started negotiating right then.
"While you're drinking your Cabernet, and figuring out how much I cost, you mind passing me the prereleases you just got? I think Martin's Winds of Winter finally came out."
It was that Irish voice again. It was definitely my cat. My cat was talking to us.
"What did he just… what is this cat!?
The short man inhaled a small bit of air, and began to explain. "I want to pay you money for that cat. That cat is a demon."
"A leeee...mon? Spanish for lemon?"
"No. It's a demon." He waved to the back, pointing at the wine. I scurried off and brought it back, this time without hesitation. "Thank you for the wine. I recently had surgery on my vocal chords. They throw my voice all over the place when my throat is dry." He took a sip, and his voice turned into one of a Cambridge Scholar. "This cat. He is a demon, who has a surprising interest in literature. I would like to trade for him."
"You want to give me money in exchange for this cat?"
"Yes."
"You would like me to trade my demon, who just happens to have a 'surprising' interest in literature?"
"That is correct." The glass now empty he tapped the rim indicating a necessary refill. Although he was the one drinking, I felt drunk. "This store is a portal location. The cat, being here," he gestured to the shop, " is blocking the next demon from coming into our world. I am going to take this cat and give you triple your annual salary."
My heart nearly stopped.
"Next week another demon will come into your store. On that day, my cousin Cheffrey will send a book to you via USPS, you will read that book, and upon completing the read, you will learn his address and will send the new animal via FedEx to his address. It'll be our little "book club." You get a demon, we send a book. You read that book, send us a demon, and we reward you greatly for the demon. This process will repeat. Over the next few years, you will see approximately 22 animals come through here."
Impalpable. There are no words. Speechless. I rocked on my heels and couldn't find the next thing to say.
He slid to me a bundle of money and scooped up Cardinal into his arms.
"But my wife gave him to me!"
"Unfortunately, that's not true. She found the door from whence he came. Pedantic here, or Cardinal as you call him, he...he… ate your wife."
My breath disappeared from my soul.
The man had the audacity to show me a grin and say, "Sorry 'bout that chap!" He turned and began to walk out.
As the man was leaving, I managed to sheepishly get out the next words, "What are they for? These animals?"
"A cafe of course! A cat cafe!"
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The merchant business is always slow that is until the tall man in the suit walked in.
He told me that my shop would never go anywhere unless I let him helpe all's I had to do was sign my name on a paper simple enough I thought he was going to take my shop.no....he did much worse.
Ever since I signed that paper strange people would walk through my door.they always wore suits and never smiled when a regaler looking person walks in it weirds me out now.They usually buy books lots and lots of books I have all these sculptures and cool looking toys but,no books even the kids.
Then one day a man walked in the shop but when he walked in a woman stabbed him multiple times in the chest and no one flinched.I was horrified a man came up to me and asked what was wrong when I told him he simply said " demons" a proceed to check out maze runner.After a few months it got normal and I had started to grow find of some of the higher ranking demons like kirchaka, zimtue, and futuue. I had set up a book club every one lived me and then one day they invited me to a party everyone would be there even Lucifer himself.
When I got there made sure to keep my secret mine I didn't need anyone knowing what I was really doing there.then he came up to me Lucifer he told me he knew what I was a about to do but I beat him to the punch as he dropped to his knees a bleed out on the floor.while he finished dying I pulled out my katanas both had been possesd by demons and held more power than a full infinity gauntlet.I then massacered the party goers.
It's just the life of a demon Hunter.
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[WP] When Humanity left the Sol system, they discovered they were the most advanced race in the galaxy. As time passed, Humanity became the advanced precursor race of the galaxy. Tell the story of the species that came after us.
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We all arrived in the stars in the same way. We all have scattered memories of you, my friends, arriving on our worlds and teaching us in our primitive times. Memories preserved through song, writing and art. Memories of you, how the corners of your mouths turned upwards, showing your teeth, but we did not feel threatened, only comforted.
Then you left us, and we carried on, time passed, and we forgot you. You became folklore to all of us. Stories told to our young, but not believed by the elders.
When each of us achieved space travel, we found the proof that you were real. Sprawling facilities, stores of your knowledge, always on the nearest moon to our worlds. Your wisdom, passed on to us. A statue was always in these facilities, two of you, holding hands, helping whatever species was on the planet below up off the ground, the corners of your mouths turned upwards. Oh my friends, once we had translated your language, your strange yet beautiful language, we were ready to head to the stars
My friends, with your first gift we developed and grew, with your second gift, we ascended, we found each other, the species you helped to flourish. We shared our stories, always the same, achingly familiar but distant memories.
Over time we solved your puzzle my friends, we understand now that only by combining knowledge from your archives, by coming together could we find the answer.
Oh my friends, we found one, final facility, your entire history in one place, except the statue here was different. Still the two of you holding hands, but this time your arms outstretched, welcoming us as friends, as equals. Two of your words carved into the base.
"Remember Us"
Oh my friends, your blue and green, but overgrown world is beautiful, I think we would have liked it, were you still here.
Oh my friends, I hope you would have been proud of us, we have come together, many species from many worlds to share your knowledge your wisdom and your love.
We cannot accept that you are gone we WILL NOT accept you are gone. Such a beautiful, compassionate people who showed only love for us all cannot go into the night.
Oh my friends, it was so long ago. We cannot remember you fully, to do so would be like asking a newborn to know their entire family upon seeing them for the first time. We were too young.
Oh my friends, we will keep looking for you, never stopping our search. And when we find you.
We hope.
We pray.
That you remember us.
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We are not the first, not by a million years. They built and created and expanded, until they stopped. We wouldn't make the same mistake. Upon this desert world we look up at the eroded tower, only one word remains engraved on it with what appears to be a crude stone tool:" liberty". Ironic, for liberty was their downfall. Liberty with advancement of technology, culture, and spirit. We came here looking for their remains as we did on countless other worlds. Each and every one looked the same, obliterated.
It wasn't war that ended them, nor inner conflict that ate society from within. But rather they were flawed in nature. They sought to advance and conquer, better the lives of their species. We are much wiser.
We are the second sons of an uncaring universe, the upgrade upon the prototypes, we are not like them. The resemblance is there yes, yet any comparison would be utterly wrong for the simple fact that while they ascended the bounds of mind and mortality, they only found despair. Despair and a killing silence.
We know what bounds not to cross, which roads are forbidden. Only because they made the wrong choices.
Entering the tower we see a pile of ash and writings on the wall. The fact we understand their language means there is a connection, but the sands of time have killed any strings that might have been attached between us. the presence of their mind is overwhelming here. Where in all other planets it was the shadow of a feeling, here, we are clearly in the midst of one of them. The ash on the floor parts and forms nonsensical sentences about salvation and dread. I spit on the floor and leave, truly pathetic.
They became voids shaped like gods, holes carved out of the divine. They ascended, but at what cost?
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[WP] When Humanity left the Sol system, they discovered they were the most advanced race in the galaxy. As time passed, Humanity became the advanced precursor race of the galaxy. Tell the story of the species that came after us.
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We all arrived in the stars in the same way. We all have scattered memories of you, my friends, arriving on our worlds and teaching us in our primitive times. Memories preserved through song, writing and art. Memories of you, how the corners of your mouths turned upwards, showing your teeth, but we did not feel threatened, only comforted.
Then you left us, and we carried on, time passed, and we forgot you. You became folklore to all of us. Stories told to our young, but not believed by the elders.
When each of us achieved space travel, we found the proof that you were real. Sprawling facilities, stores of your knowledge, always on the nearest moon to our worlds. Your wisdom, passed on to us. A statue was always in these facilities, two of you, holding hands, helping whatever species was on the planet below up off the ground, the corners of your mouths turned upwards. Oh my friends, once we had translated your language, your strange yet beautiful language, we were ready to head to the stars
My friends, with your first gift we developed and grew, with your second gift, we ascended, we found each other, the species you helped to flourish. We shared our stories, always the same, achingly familiar but distant memories.
Over time we solved your puzzle my friends, we understand now that only by combining knowledge from your archives, by coming together could we find the answer.
Oh my friends, we found one, final facility, your entire history in one place, except the statue here was different. Still the two of you holding hands, but this time your arms outstretched, welcoming us as friends, as equals. Two of your words carved into the base.
"Remember Us"
Oh my friends, your blue and green, but overgrown world is beautiful, I think we would have liked it, were you still here.
Oh my friends, I hope you would have been proud of us, we have come together, many species from many worlds to share your knowledge your wisdom and your love.
We cannot accept that you are gone we WILL NOT accept you are gone. Such a beautiful, compassionate people who showed only love for us all cannot go into the night.
Oh my friends, it was so long ago. We cannot remember you fully, to do so would be like asking a newborn to know their entire family upon seeing them for the first time. We were too young.
Oh my friends, we will keep looking for you, never stopping our search. And when we find you.
We hope.
We pray.
That you remember us.
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They stood around the opening in the hill, more a lone mountain really. In the vast sweeps of the rolling dunes it alone stood tall. Kik, The leader of the expedition, stood at the entrance. The wind blew sand down on them like clouds that forgot to float. But the wind itself seemed to be scared of this place, because it never moved a leaf on their heads since they had reached the opening.
When it was discovered a century ago, it was assumed to be a natural phenomenon, albeit a strange one. However, a decade before, the theory of strange moving blocks under the ground had been completely disproven. 5 years ago, the college had decided to make the first expedition to this hell-scape with no place to plant your roots at night.
That expedition had discovered the unnatural nature of the mountain, yet made no further progress due to poor planning. The nutrients needed in the boxes had been underestimated, and no one had been prepared for the boxes to dry out so fast either, unfortunately this left the expedition members with no way to take in what little nutrients they had brought.
There had been accusations of greed and haste thrown between the administration of the college and the professors. On more than one occasion fights had broken out including a particularly surprising one between the college president and the expedition leader. This has quickly turned into a brawl encompassing most of the campus, now known as ‘The Wilted day’. No blame was ever officially laid, but that didn’t matter in the end, five of the expedition had died including one of the leading geologists of the age.
This time they had been prepared or at least as much as possible. They had come in the coolest and what passed for wettest months here. Within a week the hollow under the sand had been found on imaging scanners. It had taken two more weeks to slowly dig to the hollow and make it accessible. Less than a month was left on their itinerary, still all previous plans were thrown out and only the hollow mattered. It was as if they there was some collective pull to uncover this mystery.
Kik stared into the darkness of the tunnel, at last, he took a step forward and then another. Each step being easier than the last. The others followed as closely as they could. Each facing an innate fear of the underground, but none wanted to be left out of whatever lay undiscovered at the heart of this mountain. However, Kik continued to speed up until he was running as fast as his old stalks would carry him. At times his light disappearing around a corner, and the pursuers, not being crazed, would slow down a bit to avoid the walls or missing a turn.
Even Kik didn’t understand what he was doing. The only thing on his mind was finding the source. The source of what, he didn’t know, but each step brought him closer.
Those who had their minds about them noted that they were headed upwards, also noting they could be at this for hours. They tried to make the need to slow down and save their energy clear, unfortunately, the only one who seemed to know the way was out of his mind, and possessed of much greater stamina than he had any right to.
That was until he didn’t. There was a shout and everyone stopped. Word was passed to the back Kik had collapsed from exhaustion. The expedition now moved slowly to surround the great researcher and the medic checking them. It wasn’t till the all stood watching that they realized they must be in a large room. The most junior members were sent out to investigate each with one of the precious lights. The rest of the lights were used to illuminate the one who had brought them this far, as if this puny light could give him the energy he needed, though it did help the medic attempt to load Kik with carbohydrates in an I.V.
The scouts sent around the walls had only found each other, but the ones sent out forward had found, something. They couldn’t explain it and soon Shik the second in command had to make a decision. When the medic confirmed that Kik would be fine if moved and, in fact, better off outside, Shik split the group. He stayed with those who had knowledge bases outside of their original geology mission.
It soon became apparent that the scouts had found a force field of some sort. When pushed it didn’t move, only an unnatural warmth showed there to be anything at all. They tried to put various things through but organic and non-organic material. They tried solids and liquids. When water was thrown as far up the field as they could manage it showed a perfect dome as it ran off the ineffable façade.
They had all but given up and were getting ready to head back to the sunlight and a much needed recharge when one of the workers, being bored, struck the field
thump. thump thump. thump thumpity thump. thump thump.
The field resonated and repeated the first three beats. Could the device behind the wall react to music? They tried a number of beats but nothing happened. One of the less musically inclined pointed out that it could have just been counting. That was quickly ruled out ,but it gave an idea to two other undergrads. One with a biology background and the other working on a minor in mathematics.
They both suggested that they should try five as the next number in the sequence. The leaders were busy asking why when the bored worker struck again. Striking in a one, two, three, five beat. Nothing happened again and the worker punched the barrier. It responded with the sequence up to five. Soon they had completed the sequence up to 21 and that’s when things got strange.
In the dark of the cave no one had gotten a good look at the thing in the center of the field. Now, it lit with a green light that swept around the cave several times before abruptly disappearing. All was quiet for a minute. Or would have been if it had not been for the hum the machine now made. Several of the group fled back toward the sun, and everyone else was frozen in their own personal thoughts.
Another light came on, this time a blue like the sky above them, it must be said this had quite the calming effect on those who remained. The sense of calm was important because soon a figure stepped out of the light. It stood on two stems and had appendages not unlike those watching it. But its head was attached to the body by an odd thin bit and its eyes were closer together. The most disturbing thing was the orifice at the bottom of the head, especially after it opened to show two rows of teeth.
Eater
They shook and rattled over each other. A few, in hysterics, began shouting that it was the end of the world. The figure just stood still moving its head as if it was trying to catch something it just couldn’t quite hear.
After a while the figure spoke but not with its mouth. The hologram made the sounds like they did, including vibrating membranes and the rustle of body part that the figure certainly lacked.
“Hello,” it rustled happily. “I have learned your basic language. If you give me a month with your radio signal I should be able to communicate clearly.”
Shik stepped forward and said. “We don’t have a month. What can you tell us now?”
The hologram looked thoughtful, at least they thought so. “I can tell you my people were one of the first species in the galaxy. They were lonely so they created me and my siblings. We were spread out across the planets the seeded, so each new species would not have to wonder if it was alone.”
“Can you give us your technology? Then we could meet your people.”
“Oh no, I’m afraid that is impossible on both counts. My people, as you say, are surely long gone and even if they weren’t I am not the one who contains all of the technological information. Speaking of which, I should warn you that any attempts to lower this barrier to study me will activate my self destruct. I would not appreciate that.”
“So what are you here for and who can give us the technology?”
“I am here to assure you you are not alone and to teach of my masters. My–brother, is on another planet in this system. Should you reach him, you will receive the technology to reach the other stars, probably.”
Unfortunately, for the inhabitants of the planet the last probably didn’t really translate. Although this was a good thing as well. The discovery of the artifact was soon news around the world. A new effort was put into leaving the planet behind. Soon they were space born and beginning their journey to fulfill their progenitor’s wishes. Comforted to know they were not the only ones in this cold unforgiving galaxy.
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[WP] "Everyone has some kind of hidden talent, show us what yours is." ............ "Now listen to me very carefully, never show anyone that you do that ever again."
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Everyone in the world has a hidden talent, this is something that has been a fact of life for as long as society has existed. Each individual's talent is unique in it's own way, with it being as much of a part of who they are as the hair on their head or the color of their eyes. Some people choose to show their talent to the world, making it an integral part of their day to day life. Others prefer to keep their talent hidden, be it out of shame, fear, or simply out of reservation.
Regardless of whether they display their talents openly or not, those with powerful talents are often seen as pillars of society. The most influential people in the world, be it as celebrities, politicians, or even heroes, all possess talents that are far more powerful than that of most others. When a person reaches the age of thirteen, a surveyor is sent out to assess the strength and potential of their talent. It is at that moment when that person's position in society as well as the opportunities open to them are determined.
For as long as I can remember, I dreamed of the day when I would get to meet with a surveyor and show my ability to them and the world. I wished, more than anything else, to someday become an officially licensed hero and use my power for good. However, out of all the ways I had imagined this day going, I had never thought it would go like this.
"Listen to me very carefully Brandon, never show anyone else this talent ever again".
The surveyor looked at me with a guarded expression from across the dining room table of my family's house as he folded his hands in front of him. His words cut their way into my chest, slicing through my dreams of being a hero as though they were paper. Between us, the bird that was once lying still chirped, hopping around on the wooden surface of the table in confusion. I looked behind me for a moment, seeing the concern on the faces of my parents.
"but...why?" I asked, my voice cracking a little. I could feel a stinging in the back of my eyes as tears threatened to break through what little composure I had left. This... this just wasn't fair. "Is, is my talent that bad?".
"No" said the surveyor, pausing for a moment as though he were carefully choosing his words. "In all the years I have held this position, I have seen both strong and weak talents alike. Yours is, without question, the most powerful ability I have yet witnessed".
"Then why?!" I asked again, frustrated. "Many other people with powerful talents show them off! Why should I treat mine any different?!".
"Because you have the power to breathe life back into the world" said the surveyor gently. "Your power is unlike any other in recorded history Brandon. If people discover what you can do they will stop at nothing to take it for themselves. The moment your talent is revealed people won't even see you as a person anymore. They'll think of you as nothing more than a means to eternal life".
I could feel tears running down the sides of my face as the surveyor stood up and began to make his way towards the front door.
"I'll fudge the paperwork, but beyond that it is up to you Brandon to hide your powers" said the surveyor, opening the front door. "I wish you the best".
As I heard the door shut, I wiped away the tears from my eyes. I stared at the bird that now sat on the table, it's eyes looking around the room.
Screw what he thinks. If I have to hide my power, then so be it, but no matter what he or anyone says, nothing will stop me from following my dream.
I will become a hero.
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"Everyone has some kind of hidden talent, show us what yours is." The technician said, everyone had a power, some people manipulated small things, some people had the ability to flood their system with enough adrenaline to slow time to a crawl except for themselves. I knew what my power was, I had used it before. I merely motioned my outstretched hand for their pen. As they handed it to me, it was engulfed in a red liquid, what appeared to be blood before it broke down and was gone.
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I held out both hands, replicating the pen in both hands before handing back both to the technician who appeared a little stunned before raising an eyebrow. "Got it, item replication. Not terribly great, but not bad either." He said, before I raised my hand, reaching behind onto my belt, holding the winchester knife it held. I stood before the technician, holding the knife, before slamming it between my ribs, and I felt myself slowly start losing blood before I fell to the floor passing out for a small amount of time. As I awoke, I pushed myself off the floor, putting the knife back in place after wiping it off on my jeans. I looked at the technician who was horrified at what had just happened, before looking down at the papers. "And immortality, definitely a huge difference, that puts you on a special list." He gasped out, looking like a fish out of water trying to haplessly gulp in air.
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"Except, that isn't all." I said, before the blood red liquid formed over me, changing my clothing into a pair of slacks, a rope belt, and a red leather jacket. The major difference however, was I now looked exactly like the technician, even he recognized that, before I changed myself back, leaving the clothing as is. "Ah. I am just going to give you a bit of advice, I am not going to mark down that on the list. Listen carefully, never show anyone that again."
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"I don't care, I can't be killed. Period. It isn't possible. I have my own objectives in this long life of mine." I spoke softly, before turning towards him to elaborate. "Some will call me a villain, some a hero. I will unite humanity, even if it means turning their war like tendencies against me. I will be the eternal martyr if I have to be, so that humanity can quell their war like tendencies." I said, before the blood seeped from my hand onto the floor, creating a wormhole that I leapt through, into the fresh air of a cliff by an ocean side. I sat down, it could wait a few years, it would give them time to gather their strength to face me. I simply kicked my legs, knowing what would come in the following years. No death other than my own, and only injuries that could be healed by them. Unless they were truthfully wicked and evil, then I would smite them into the ground with my power.
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\~Criticism is welcomed, just please be constructive.
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[WP] "Everyone has some kind of hidden talent, show us what yours is." ............ "Now listen to me very carefully, never show anyone that you do that ever again."
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“Never again! You hear me?” He shouted out with a finger wagging in my face. His breathing labored as his face slowly regained its color. He began coughing as he tried to regain his composure.
“But dad!” I pleaded with him as tears started to cascade down my cheeks.
“You asked me to show you what the talent was! How was I supposed to know you would be so mad!” I continued.
He furrowed his brows as he fell back into his seat at the dining room table. He took a deep breath and tried to collect his thoughts for a minute.
He started to form a sentence but was at a loss for words.
“I…well you see… OK sweetie, here’s the issue I have…The thing is…”
“Take your time dad. I can answer whatever you need me to. I promise I won’t use my talent anymore.” I said as I wiped the tears away.
He looked into my bloodshot eyes and gave me a reassuring smile.
“Sweetie, your talent isn’t like many of the other talents. What you did is very dangerous. The immense power you have in that talent is something you should not take lightly. I personally never saw something that strong before.” He said.
My eyes widened slightly as I was taken aback at his declaration.
“Re-really dad? It’s that powerful? What’s yours and moms power then?”
He glanced around quickly before he leaned in towards me.
He snapped his fingers and a small fireball emerged from his hand. It slowly floated around him as he motioned his hand around his head. He stretched his fingers out to the point you could see the webbing in between each digit. The fire slowly expanded from what was about the size of a ping-pong ball to the size of a soccer ball.
I giggled with excitement as I slowly moved my hand towards the fireball. He quickly caught the fireball with both hands and blew on it, extinguishing the fire.
“You know fire is hot, why would you touch it? I call it Mustang hands after someone I idolized” he said to me as I retracted my hand and placed it back on my lap.
“Your mom’s ability is to slow down time. It why she always has good reaction time and it feels like her mom senses are always tingling. She calls hers Perfect Reaction.” He said as he got up from his chair.
He made his way to the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. He also grabbed a popsicle from the freezer and made his way back to me. He handed me the popsicle as he opened his water bottle.
“Dad, you hands are shaking…did I hurt you when I did my talent?” I said as I noticed his hand was trembling a little bit when he tried opening the bottle.
He sighed and looked once again with a serious state at me.
“Yes, I won’t lie, your talent really did a number on me. I want you to make sure that you never use that again ok?” he said as he rubbed his chest.
I nodded as I was trying to finish my popsicle.
“Promise me, no matter what. Not to anyone, not your friends, your mom, whoever you date, your teachers, nobody. Got it?” he said as he raised his pinky to me.
I wrapped my pinky around his as we took the solemn vow of a pinky swear. I finished the last bit of my popsicle in silence before I spoke.
“I did use it before though dad. The cat clawed at me and made me bleed on my hand last year. So, I used my power and didn’t know it was so strong. Melvin didn’t move after a bit so I let him rest. Then when you all came home you told me he passed away in his sleep.” I said as my eyes welled up once again.
“It’s ok. It’s ok. You didn’t know. But now you do. Your power is very strong and they always say ‘with great power comes great responsibility.’ So now you have to make sure you don’t abuse it. Melvin is gone there is nothing that will change it. Your power isn’t like others, remember? It’s for self-defense and only if you have no further options.” he said as he gave me a hug.
“I’ll make sure to not use it again recklessly. I see now how much trouble it can cause to others.”
“OK. I won’t tell your mom. Now get ready for bed. You have school tomorrow.” He said as he broke the hug off.
I nodded as I threw away the popsicle and began making my way upstairs.
“Dad. By the way, I call mine ‘A breathtaking sight'. In case you wanted to know.” I said at the top of the banister.
“You don’t know how fitting of a name it is. Now off to bed” he said as he made his way to his bedroom.
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"Well..." I coughed after the experience. "I mean, it would have been great if it worked."
I was lying on the ground, looking up in the sky. Still dizzy, still trying to see his face that was blurred.
"Has it? Has it worked ever?" He asked and I felt anger in his voice. For what reason he was mad I do not know. I had not harmed him. But I could just feel his anger in some way. He tried pretending that he isn't angry, but I knew. I kind of always know these things.
"No..." I admitted. "Truth be told? I never tried. I just always had this feeling, you know?"
"So you "kind of suspected" that you can fly? Is that what you are saying? Had a hunch you can fly?" Still angry. He was taking off his shirt, folding it and putting it under my head. Can't say it felt comfortable, but I did not mind.
"I guess." I said and fell silent. "I mean... Yes? I kind of always felt that... That I'd just, you know, rise up? That I'd just go up and up and go with the birds and clouds..."
He kneeled down next to me. His hands were dirty. People were shouting all around me. They were screaming. But I had not harmed them. I think I have done something stupid. I always do something stupid. He softly took my head in his arms.
"You will, buddy, you will. I promise you. You will fly. Just not now. Not now, buddy, but you will. Hold on now. Just hold on. Don't talk. Ambulance is coming, just... Just don't talk and think good things."
And I thought good things. I always try to do what I'm told. I don't always manage. I always make a mistake. That is why angels don't like me. That is what my mom said. I tried to think good things.
"Have you seen an angel?" I asked, but it was hard. I felt that my mouth was full of warm water.
"I have buddy, just don't talk. I've seen plenty, buddy. And I'll show them to you, just hold on. We'll go see all the angels, I'll introduce you. And you'll never show anyone this trick of yours ever again. Just bare with me now. They are already coming, I can hear the sirens, hold on."
I heard them too. That is not how I expected angels to sound like. It's strange. He said they are coming, but the sound got really quiet and disappeared. Everything kind of disappeared. I don't know why. But I don't know much. I've never had.
[Literary Nobody](https://www.reddit.com/r/LiteraryNobody/)
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[deleted]
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[WP] Touch a person once and no one will recognize them. Touch them again and the effect wears off. Celebrities and politicians seek you out, for you are Anon, and you can give the gift of anonymity to anyone — if the price is right.
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This is my first time writing something I hope you all like it.
Kathren's legs ached as she ran, her heart pounding and her lungs burning. They had found her again. Behind her she heard shouting and cursing as men chased her down the dirty streets and alleyways of the latest city she called home.
It had been like this since she had turned 15, When she had first accidentally used her power on her friend Kate at her own birthday party. Hugging her in thanks for the necklace she had been given.
"Kathren! Who is that and where is Kate?" Her mother yelled in alarm as she had come into the room carrying Kathen’s birthday cake.
"What are you talking about mother? She's right here." Kathren said, as she grabs Kate’s hand.
Her mother hesitated with a look of confusion on her face for a long moment.
"I'm Sorry, Kate, My dear for a moment you looked like someone else entirely." Her mother said as she placed the cake on the table.
That had been the first time Kathren had used her power over the coming months her and Kate had come to realize what was happening even going so far as to record it on their cell phones and putting the videos on youtube.
This had been a very big mistake.
As she ran, she thought back on some of the attempts that had been made to catch her anger fueling her weary limbs. She was so tired of Running again and again no matter where she went they found her sooner or later. She slowed as she moved closer to the city center now as there were larger groups of people to hide in. Whomever it had been chasing her for all these years seemed to be afraid of causing another messy scene.
As she looked around she saw a tech shop that sold tvs, laptops and other household electronics, and on some of the tvs a show was playing that she remembered from her childhood before one of the "recruitment" attempts had ended in the death of her family and best friend Kate. America’s Most wanted was playing and Kathren suddenly had an idea. It was a bad idea she was sure but she was so tired of running city to city, state to state.
Kathren knew using her power was easy, controlling it not so much. But she could with effort make someone look exactly how she wanted them to look. She had long since learned to change her own appearance as well but it took time and effort to maintain so she rarely did it unless she was being actively chased.
Looking at the tv screens again Kathren’s hand reached up to touch the necklace that Kate had given her so many years ago. As she turned away from them and focused her will to change her own appearance and moved towards the nearest library hoping that their internet did not block access to the world's most wanted lists. A spring entered her step and a cold smile came over her face. This may end badly but these people would regret forcing her into changing their appearances.
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He didn't take his eyes off mine.
A glowing neon flow collapsed in through the window of the cheap and minute bar. the buzzing and bright sign sat loosely outside. "Lucifer's brew". An ironic place to meet The Devil for a deal, but it was his idea. It was the size of a large caravan, with 3 circular seating areas adjacent to each other lining a large, parallel window - cushioned with dirty, torn leather and a lingering smell of urine. Behind them, furthest from the window, a long bar stood with sloppy painting which looked to be wet and peeling simultaneously, its greasy countertop warmly illuminated by a dangling glowing orange light.
His eyes were glossy and plastic. His features exaggerated. The colours of his clothes just too bold. If your eyes gazed upon him long enough, you could see the shimmering and flickering of his existence, as if effort was put it to stabilize himself in a plane he was not used to. He looked moments away from flickering out, like a broken halogen bulb. Or, possibly more frightening of a hypothesis, exploding into a monstrous form, ready to rip and tear the fabric of our reality away like a young child does to a present's wrapping paper on Christmas morning.
"So, what do you think?" said The Devil. The idea he proposed was an interesting one, unlike the ones before. The ability to wipe someone off the face of the earth. They remained in tact, however any perception previously placed upon them wiped from the minds of all. Mystical, I though. And, the real cherry on top, there was no foreseeable way he could manipulate me into something that would backfire. The ability was priceless and perfect. Perhaps he was having a good day.
"I accept"
I spoke with confidence. A shudder flowed throughout my body, as if the world shook its head in agreement and confirmed the deal. The unbreakable deal.
The Devils head tilted slightly and a large smile stretched across his face, revealing a set of sharp and savage teeth. His eyes no longer plastic but vibrant and wide. His features were still. His existence stable and constant, as unchanging as rock. Slammed upon the table, caressed by neon red light, was a large piece of rope, tied tightly and systematically into a noose.
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