Writers??

[Clavis]

I'm like in the mood to play around and write horribly, with but a little skill and stuff like that.


Violence it's sweet song filled the air, danced along the halls and corridors as hungry flames licked at wood, and flesh uncaring in it's hunger. Through the smoke and scream torn air he moved draped in armor splattered with fresh crimson, his heavy axe gripped in one massive fist. Eyes filled with delight and pleasure danced from within his skeletal face, his thin lips peeled away from bloodstained teeth in a viscous smile. Yet there to was a seething anger as one armored boot rose upwards and smashed itself into the heavy wood of  door. The splintering only adding to the sounds of steel upon steel, as though called for from some abysmal pit a series of deep booms echoed from deep within the mansion. Shaking the already weakening structure, causing the towering thickly muscled body to turn.

A flicker of motion as sleek form, garbed in black slipped free of the shadows, the spray of bright claret a wonderous fountain as crystalline blade flashed across the armored mans throat. Death came swift as delight filled eyes bulged wide, as heavy axe clattered to the floor. Both thick hands snapped upwards gripping in vain upon his neck, shock, and denial warred upon the warriors face. Touched the breath that tried to form words. Knees struck the floor as warrior stared into the liquid pools of darkest night, stared and was answered.

Absently spinning the pair of night black blades the killer tilted his head slowly as he gazed down at the dying behemoth, and winked one emotionless eye. Offering a pat upon the shoulder, before gently pushing the bulky man aside, the killer padded out of the room, before glancing down the halls.



edited : yeah should really put on my glasses don't know how it got put here....

[RogueGunslinger]

Fun!


Thump, thump, thump; the deep bass noise thundered with each blow of the elf's calloused hands against the taut hide of his drum. All around bright orange sparks danced on the warm gusts of wind that blew about the camp, and the elves dance with them. The fire roared, stoked with large piles of timber and dung. Waves of heat poured from the fire-pit tanning the bare skin of the bunch as they flung their arms about, stomping violently in a circle with he beat. Shouts and cries pierced the night, hoots and hollers echoed off of the canyons to the north.

A pair in the center moved as well, but their movements were more controlled. A combative dance of precision and skill, sharp blades whirring incredibly close to each-other as they parried, slashed and dodged to the sound of the drums around them. They started slowly, building with the tempo of the drumming, and as they progressed sweat began to sheen on their bodies, reflecting the fiery-orange glow from the bonfire nearby. As the drums grew in frequency and intensity they traded blows, each mirroring each-others movements perfectly, their movement growing more and more rapid. Finally the two struck their final blows, falling together to the sand in a crescendo of silence proceeding one last thunderous BOOM of the drums around them.

[Clavis]

Deep and savage the dance grew greater sweat soaked forms danced within the glow of flames. The steps wild and primal falling in time with the steady boom of the drums. Spears leaped and danced as wooden shafts clacked as they met, slender forms twisted leaping and spinning light as leaves upon whira's breath. Golden tanned skin rippled with each movement of sinuous muscle, the sound of flutes drifted slipping in and out in a call to the primal side of elven dancers.

Cries rent the air prelude to the song as suddenly leaping forms sailed through the flames passionate embrace. Twin staves spun in elven hands, each end embraced by krath's semblance. Spinning and leaping the towering male danced oblivious to the hot coals beneath his bare feet. leaping high he landed lightly back bending arching to the sky, an exhalation upon one fiery end sent sweet fire high into the sky chasing away the foul darkness that pressed so heavily.

[Malifaxis]

The crazed flames a'whirl in a cavorting dance over a league away, the boulders sat silent and watched.  As hard as the deep stones of the Shield Wall, the remaining Malarn kept a constant vigil on the dancers, watching the feeble, reedy elven forms as they twisted in celebration.  Hard eyes, brown as sandstone but black in the night, remained unblinking in the still night, observing the distant dance.  The chuff-whuffing of a night hunting braxat caused the air to shiver around the watchman, the beast's huge, stunted nose seeking out the dim trace of dwarven scent.  Moving slowly, the bulky stump's hand grabbed a punctured leather pouch from his hip, squeezing it over his chest and letting fall a few more drops of braxat urine, masking whatever scent he gave off. 

As the flames climbed higher, and a dim shriek of several elven voices filled the air, the Malarn scout let out a single word via the Way.  "Go," was all that was said to the mind of his kinsmen, and just as it should be, the dwarf saw nothing as he watched for the next several minutes, eyes straining at the darkness around the fires and the dancers.  After the long mind silence, a single word returned. 

"Done."

The two kank and one inix stolen from the vast herd would not be missed, and would help feed the Malarn for months to come.  His kinsmen returned home, and Wayed their thanks for his effort and stoic vigil.

He did not respond.  His body remained motionless until dawn, eyes silently watching with patience akin to the very stones he sat upon.

[Potaje]

Wind whips about unseen hair, her formless being clings deftly to the night sky itself as she passes over the valley. Some faint sound, like the soft kiss of a flute mingled with the beating of a heart's drumming draws her attention to an orange flickering light some distance away very far below. Intrigued, her formless being moves across the sky with not greater effort than to think – That is where I wish to go- and whira carries her there with as little effort.

Night cloaks the valley thickly, yet the twin moons cast their approval upon the celebration, abating the sands that the tribe below may have their time. The central fire is huge and lush she notices hovering just beyond the boundaries of its caress, finding both delight and amusement in the unfolding scene below as long lanky figures, graceful in form twist, stomp, twirl and coalesce in dance and music.  Unable to resist the enthusiasm, the near orgasmic blend of movement and music as the two move quicker and faster, like the building of a climax, she lets lose a soft whisper of words. Words that spill from her lips, heard and forgotten just a quickly by any that would not know to understand their meanings and purpose, words that seem to gather in their breath the very winds about the air and dance out from all around towards the celebration and for a time, she dances with them, dances the flames of the fire with her very words, with the winds to caress, lick and shudder those flames about in rhythm with the music.

Somewhere is the distant edge of the camp, near a gathered herd of beasts, something moves; almost as unseen as she, but of a different sort. Though lost to the ecstasy of the moment, only a brief hint glints at the corner of her breed eyes before they close tight a a shudder of joy from the dancing of the flames wracks her body. The moment passes, and lifting with but a thought, higher into the false dawn sky, so does she.

[askaran]

Large eyes, their obsidian depths clouded with age sweeped over the barren landscape around them. The reddish-brown sand, the bare wind-ravaged rocks standing tall and alone, reaching for the red sky like the skeletal fingers of giants and the ocassional small and shrivelled plant, struggling to survive in the barren waste where. As he walked, he did so leisurely, his stride confident though his pace was slow, as if he were walking through the flowery gardens of some silk-clad pitwalker, his mind at peace.

Seventy-five years. Seventy five years, four mates and seven children. As he walked he remembered. He remembered when he rode proud atop the back of Kank, it's carapace bare, spear in hand and fiery hair tied back in a warriors knot, it's long tail flying loose and free in the wind . He remembered how his skin had come to gather so many wrinkles, how it's surface had become like leather and how the pale scars that criss-cross his hide came to be. He remembered the countless times he stalked a dangerous beast, wether it be the Hulking Braxat or Stealthy Anakore, braving tooth and claw and talon to feed those under his care or when he rode against more dangerous foes, Elves with their dancing spears. Dwarves with their strong arms and solid footing and other humans, who chanted and cursed and screamed in his native Bendune. He remembered it all, and regretting none of it as he strode to his death...

(I know I can't write english:P)

[FantasyWriter]

Sitting tribal-style atop the balcony, he took in a long, deep breath.  The dark crimson sun began to emerge from the far horizon of the plains, bathing the the fields to the east in orange and red as it peeked out from over the Wall.  The pleasant warmth of the sun and scents of the small garden he'd so enjoyed cultivating with his own hands filled his senses with life.  He glanced over at the pfafna and remembered how hard it'd been to keep alive out of the perfect conditions beneath the pymlithe stands.  The house would profit greatly from his attempts, and he appreciated their simplistic beauty.  He breathed in again. He closed his eyes, exhaled.  An effortless gesture now, he raised the shield around his mind, envisioning a tangled mass of thorny vines ever-growing and weaving in and out of one another to fill every point of entry.

As their routine had been for years now, his second began poking and prodding at his defense, each attack fiercer than the one before.  His attempts were strong, but not strong enough.  There never would be.  The last three stabs grew weaker each in turn and then ceased.  I wonder what he will think when I don't return the practice today. Shade and Profits, my friend... my son.  The vines began to withdraw from around his mind and assembled into a knot at it's center.  Then, his eyes still closed, he saw individual tendrils began reaching out through the balcony and down the edges of the two story building, briefly touching other sparks, barely candles against the bright beacons he avoided, until he found the one he was looking for.  Peering briefly into her mind, he searched for the smaller spark inside of her, still tiny but full of life and the beginnings of cogent thought. Then, reluctantly, the tendril withdrew with the others, and again surround his mind in a nearly impregnable shield.

It's time. He looked at his hands, four runes, one inked in red on each finger of either hand. Kindness. Strength. Faithfulness. Family. He slid the silver ring over the rune, 'Family' pulling it off, and placed it around the scroll he had sealed with it less than an hour before.  Reaching for the low table at his side, he took the candle and tilted it over the scroll to secure the ring in place with wax. He pushed up from the floor and started into the apartment behind him, reaching for the hood of his old, travel-worn cloak and pulled it up up over his head.  As he stepped into the hallway, he placed the scroll and key to the door in the hand of the female dwarf waiting outside.  "Stay here until just before nightfall as if I were still inside. Give the scroll to Minnie, through other slaves only, no Family, no employees. You know who I trust."  She blinked once, the corners of her lips turning down nearly imperceptibly.  He let his hand rest her shoulder for a moment and offered a soft smile from beneath his cloak before turning down the hallway and lowering the hood to cover his face with its shadow.

[Clavis]

Bright blue eyes gazed out of the slits of the shadows of black hood, and featureless mask watching waiting with infinite patience. Whira's gentle kiss stirred the black leather oiled to prevent the creak to give warning to her mark. A mark that even now staggered through the streets. Even from atop her perch she could smell the reek of spice, and flame upon him. The cloying scent of a kuraci whore wafted up, upon the breeze. Adding, fueling the hunger that ignited within her loins, a shiver a thrill of desire of need coursed through her body, as she watched him fall, yet again.

'yes this, this is what it means to be alive. to know that one holds the power of life and death over another. To know with the gentle carress of a knifes sweet tip that you can take a life' she thought as her thin lips curled up in a warm, predatory smile. Slowly and carefully she slipped the slim obsidian dirk from her wrist sheath. Like a phantom she begin to move, watching though never truely looking at the drunken roundear pushing to his feet.

Drov's hand moved with the fluidness of the shadows that wrapped her, slid upon feet that whispered soundlessly upon cobblestones. Ever closer she moved, death giving life and form. A creature of light and darkness, of desire, and need. Six simple steps, was all it took. Six long strides, and a thrust, the dirk slid in effortlessly as her mark turned. The night black blade seemed to pour beneath his breastbone, puncturing daiphram before piercing the heart.

Without a word or sound she turned and slipped off into the night, the tainted blade once more within it's sheath. Sorrow toyed with her, played within her head. A deep yearning for a challenge for something more worthy of her talents then killing drunken filth in His Ivory.

[Bebop]

Sitting tribal-style atop the balcony, he took in a long, deep breath.  The dark crimson sun began to emerge from the far horizon of the plains, bathing the the fields to the east in orange and red as it peeked out from over the Wall.  The pleasant warmth of the sun and scents of the small garden he'd so enjoyed cultivating with his own hands filled his senses with life.  He glanced over at the pfafna and remembered how hard it'd been to keep alive out of the perfect conditions beneath the pymlithe stands.  The house would profit greatly from his attempts, and he appreciated their simplistic beauty.  He breathed in again. He closed his eyes, exhaled.  An effortless gesture now, he raised the shield around his mind, envisioning a tangled mass of thorny vines ever-growing and weaving in and out of one another to fill every point of entry.

As their routine had been for years now, his second began poking and prodding at his defense, each attack fiercer than the one before.  His attempts were strong, but not strong enough.  There never would be.  The last three stabs grew weaker each in turn and then ceased.  I wonder what he will think when I don't return the practice today. Shade and Profits, my friend... my son.  The vines began to withdraw from around his mind and assembled into a knot at it's center.  Then, his eyes still closed, he saw individual tendrils began reaching out through the balcony and down the edges of the two story building, briefly touching other sparks, barely candles against the bright beacons he avoided, until he found the one he was looking for.  Peering briefly into her mind, he searched for the smaller spark inside of her, still tiny but full of life and the beginnings of cogent thought. Then, reluctantly, the tendril withdrew with the others, and again surround his mind in a nearly impregnable shield.

It's time. He looked at his hands, four runes, one inked in red on each finger of either hand. Kindness. Strength. Faithfulness. Family. He slid the silver ring over the rune, 'Family' pulling it off, and placed it around the scroll he had sealed with it less than an hour before.  Reaching for the low table at his side, he took the candle and tilted it over the scroll to secure the ring in place with wax. He pushed up from the floor and started into the apartment behind him, reaching for the hood of his old, travel-worn cloak and pulled it up up over his head.  As he stepped into the hallway, he placed the scroll and key to the door in the hand of the female dwarf waiting outside.  "Stay here until just before nightfall as if I were still inside. Give the scroll to Minnie, through other slaves only, no Family, no employees. You know who I trust."  She blinked once, the corners of her lips turning down nearly imperceptibly.  He let his hand rest her shoulder for a moment and offered a soft smile from beneath his cloak before turning down the hallway and lowering the hood to cover his face with its shadow.

Wrote this really quick at lunch:

Noe hung on a shoulder against the dark corner of an alley and could feel him approach before she saw him.  With his head bowed and a weary leather cloak draped over his broad frame she might not have known him for more than a commoner.  She pressed off the wall and straightened up with the defeated impulse to bow.  She remained silent, waiting for him speak as her brown eyes flickered up at his cowled face trying to read any emotion to be found there.  Finding little indication of feeling on his countenance her gaze found his hands, their fingers bare of its silvery birthright as her mind timidly probed for his.  Her bottom lip stiffened at the tattooed finger and its band of untanned flesh instead of the gleam of metal.  This corridor of the commoner's warrens was silent and shady, the kind of place an unsuspecting lush might stagger into and never stagger out of.  "Ain't no place for a noble Lord," she thought.

"We should go," he said.

Noe took a deep breath and idly fingered the hilt of a dagger at her hip while her lips pressed into a displeased line.  Finally her round, brown eyes lifted again to his face and she demanded.  "Let me go, I don't gotta be a part of the rest of this."

"No," he responded instantly, "I still have need of you and you of me."

"You promised..." she began.

He grabbed her layered sandcloth mantle and encased a fistful of it in his meaty hand.  "I still have need of you."  The corners of Noe's lips twitched.  She felt his mind reach out like tendrils of vine constricting around her brains.  She tried to twist away mentally from his control but her irises dilated and she found no respite from the feeling of his presence.

"I-I can't," she stammered with her eyes glazing over into something like despondence, "It's gone to far, this ain't no manner of ... of protection."  He had ensnared her mind long ago with the promise of training, and now he had locked her memories away.  She didn't remember life before him, sometimes she thought she loved him and she didn't need to recall.

His gaze fixed down on the young woman sternly.   "I haven't the time for doubt!  How many years have I trained you and still you haven't found acceptance."  He could feel her guilt sting both of their minds as he bore disappointment down onto her mind like it was a tangible thing.  He could see her swallow hard and he knew she could feel the agonizing pressure, the weight of his disapproval.

"We're mind bugs," is all she could choke out almost silently as though that conclusion resolved the matter and validated her feelings.  "It ain't never gonna be different."

Accompanying the force of his mind his fist shoved her more roughly against the alley wall as he stared down at her with unyielding intensity, his voice growing hoarse in its shushed fervor, "That we are, Noe. But..."  he reached into her cloak and jerked the crystalline dagger free, "You have to decide... are you going to be a dung beetle?"  He suddenly chucked the dagger into the wall behind her, straight through the fat form of a scuttling cockroach.  With wide-eyes Noe watched the insect split in half and the ichor shed over the blade with bits of decrepit adobe scattering away.  The pieces of roach slid from the knife edge and splattered onto the already squalid ground.  "Or a dujat," he growled.

He could feel her break and emotions of concession as her indignant will fell away.  The vines in their heads relaxed but his remained entangled with her's forming a shielded aggregation of their minds.  There was something akin to affection that he could detect in her as he kept his own thoughts carefully guarded from her fledgling grasps.  His hand relaxed, he wheeled her shoulder around and pulled up her hood over her head with a smirk.  "Let's go."

He looked down to one of his tattooed fingers and read the rune, kindness.  A pariah he may now be but he would not face the life of an outlaw alone or subject himself to death without a calculated run.  He could have let the girl die when he discovered her slowly forming abilities, wasn't that mercy?.  Kindness had become such an ambivalent concept now.

[LoD]

Are we supposed to follow the story, or just add whatever.  I'm a little confused.

-LoD

[Clavis]

either works, you can always tie in later into one of the others, or someone else can tie one of them into yours. It's for fun, and to see if others will link one into the next, creating a large picture or not.

[WarriorPoet]

The crib stank of a thousand men's sweat and this latest one's ass.

It was sweltering inside the thin sancloth walls, and the scratchy rags that made up the pallet stuck to her flesh. She made no move to make herself more comfortable, though. She merely lay staring at the wall, waiting for him to leave. A great stinking brute, he must have come from a tannery of some sort. Nothing else would explain the stench of him that offended even her nostrils, that had been befouled by many a rank odor.

Still, he hurriedly dressed and was gone. She was thankful for that, as well as the clatter of obsidian that she scooped off the pallet and counted. Twenty three. Not the agreed upon twenty five. Son of a bitch!

Ten to Jibb, the spotty old fuck that rented the cribs. Five more to Dalf, for standing nearby with his cudgel and making sure the tricks didn't beat her too badly. A little beating was alright, but too much of it with not enough coin paid and Dalf would come stumping in, tiny for even a dwarf but with a boiling rage in him. That left eight.

Eight. Eight coins for a swallow of water and, maybe, a mouthful of meat. Not enough.

Maybe she'd pull another, though. Sometimes the saltyard boys would come through this late in the day. She doubted it, though.

So she just lay there, staring at the roof of the tent,  griit chafing in every crease,  the moisture of the rutting long since parched away by the heat.

Eight more would be enough.

[Kronibas]

He left the whore's den and stepped back into the Labyrinth, where the shadows swallowed and kept him in their belly until he reached another, similarly-rancid yet more secluded corner of the allies.  Sighing inwardly as he sunk into the further reaches of the rubble-fiddled shelter, he reveled in the pleasure of touching humanity again, however fleetingly, as he withdrew a dwarf's small, still-warm head -- partially bashed in with the cudgel he had previously wielded -- and whispered sweetly into its bloodslick ear.

The decapitated head groaned hollow, arcane words as its jaw convulsed in a disembodied attempt at the language of living death.  The ragged man listened, eyes vacantly set on the entrance some twenty cords away as he fumbled with his ember box and a small tube of thodeliv.

Taking a languid drag from the tube, the man grinned with satisfied relish as the head moaned the words of the whore in the language of undeath; her next customer had came already, and this pleased him.  For a while, he sat in the darkness, where the very shadows themselves seem to cringe away from his presence, until the novelty had worn off.  He would have the girl again -- in life and in death.

Sputtering bored gibberish, he chunked the head, which was still echoing the whore's feigned pleasure at the hands of salt grebbers, against the wall before uttering a few words and stepping into the swirling vortex.

In the darkness of the cavern as the vortex behind him silently closed, he surveyed his harem, all two dozen of them.  Mostly, they were human, but there were a few elves and even a dwarf lass from one of his wilder nights.  One croaked hoarsely, lifting a near-skeletal hand at his approach, and reflected once again upon the whore.

Oh, how she must have raged at being shortchanged.

But fear not, he thought.  She will have her two crowns all-too-soon.  And plenty more, at that.

[Malifaxis]

Jus a 'ard day's work, so far.  Some breed'd come at Yaris, all looped on red dust, and tried ta bite her a bit too deep this mornin.  Round noon there was that drunken half giant wha passed out half across the entry to the cribs, woke up after a few impolite pokes.  Em outta towner elves, all richy an laughin wit 'em bright colors, just knowed they was up to somethin when that Kadian came in nah too long after.  Didn' ask no questions, seen 'em types cause quite a ruckus... the kinda ruckus I -aint- gettin paid ta deal wit.

Dalf glanced down at his gnarled, small hand and turned it over, the burn marks where he'd concealed tattoos of a nature not at all welcome here about faded and worn enough to cause an almost camouflaged dappling when combined with his sandstone brown skin.  He held it up to the wall, laughed.  Then turned and looked over the small, rickety balcony.  One league down was the plaza, across the way the Red's Retreat.  Good place for business, regularly patrolled enough that the harassments evened out with the lack of trouble.  Dalf turned and strolled up the walkway, old bone planks groaning against stone supports.  Some soft words here, a few moans there, mingling with the every day street sounds.  Girls came, girls left, customers came, customers left, Lord Templar Jerine came around for his donations, one taking from Dalf, and one giving to a girl of his choice.

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You are hungry.

Damn bastard must 'ave a legion of 'is own bastards 'ese days, much's he comes aroun.  Been doin it fer years upon, from wha Jibb says.  Suppose it wouldn' really get borin.

A door opened up down the walkway, and a brown and grey mottled cloaked man limped his way free.  Dalf glanced up and along, saw him, turned his gaze back to the plaza.

That 'rinther from earlier... fuck 'e stinks, kin smell'm from here.  Walks like a mul, so damn heavy, and that limp w...

Your world goes black.

You dream of sudden shock.

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Before Drov's Castle       [N]
Colors and pain and emotions are all a distant whirl as you glide through
the formless, scentless dark grey land.  Upon the horizon rests a massive,
multi-spired black castle.  A massive drawbridge of bone closes the hungry
maw of the place.  Around the spires, small, swift wing things spiral in
tight, hunting arcs, and the entire area is lit by a directionless lighter-grey
haze which more succeeds at lengthening and preserving shadows than
providing any actual illumination.  It's pretty durn spooky.
A massive, multi-spired black castle sits here spookily, surrounded by vicious merch-bats.


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You aren't hungry anymore.

Someone whispers into your ear, in 'rinthi-accented sirihish, five simple words:
    "I'm not done with you."

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Your eyes flutter open.

Everything hurt.  His whole body hurt.  His brain was unable to find the focus to even scream, all he could hear was those damnable words, of that damnable whore.  He could smell the nearness of the witch who'd remade him, who'd turned him into a curse, but he couldn't draw the breath needed to scream.  He tried to move his eyes... and couldn't... but his mouth engaged, and began to spew those lusty cries, those false laughs he's heard a thousand times, and those gutteral, weak human grunts of pleasure that belted out so common from those salter boys.

Eventually, it was made plain to poor Dalf what had happened, when he was tossed aside, and he bounced.  Just once.  He bounced, and he rolled, and it was then that the terror truly set in to that animate yet dead face.  Five more words from the cursed figure twisted a hole out of nothingness, to nothingness, and Dalf swore he heard laughter as the demon disappeared.

And then nothing.  And Dalf laid there, staring at the slowly sinking sky, unable to scream for help.  Unable to scream.  In the ruins.

And he wasn't even hungry.

After eighteen hours of constantly watching the hubbub of the 'rinth pass by, both night and daytime, hope struck deep within Dalf as a large rat came and sniffed at him for several minutes, before turning away.

The whore chose that moment to scream, as she was knifed in an alley somewhere southside, and the perfect timing gave Dalf a simple moment of simple pleasure, right before everything faded to black as the curse crumbled.