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| >> Campfire Creative >> Other >> Fantasy >> ID #1633206 |   |
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[Introduction]
  I, the Narrator (a devilishly hard person to please--I carry a pen of vengeance) will allow you to inhabit this world that your collective characters create. You have the free reign to be just about anyone you want to be. Your character will be able to do just about anything you want him/her/it to do. However, there are two rules. 1) In the end you will be battling the other characters--that I allow to live that long--for Supremacy: The War. Along the way you might have to fight other characters--to the death. You might even be hired as an assassin if I feel one is needed. I, the Narrator, will guide your character and place him/her/it in situations, sometimes with other characters and sometimes alone. You must write within the situation, but how you resolve it is mostly up to you. Write well, because it may cost you... 2) Your life. You exist because I am allowing it. Bore me and I will either kill you off myself or let another character bat you around before disposing of you. And since I control your death, I also control your life. If you are killed by an unworthy opponent, you will be granted a Narrator Rewrite (a resurrection)--and your character might come back with a slight twist! If you don't enjoy this experience, then you aren't very creative. This is a test in creativity. Just by participating, you are getting to experience my creativity. Bask in its warmth while you can, because I might have you slowly eaten alive by a swarm of Beels (a finger-sized insect coated with razor-sharp hairs that slice and dice before consumption). Those are the basic rules. Pretty simple. If you have questions you can email me, the Narrator. I will allow up to 10 characters to exist in this world at a time. If you are interested in fighting to stay alive and to eventually win Supremacy in The War, email me and I will give you one life to "write" wisely. |
 DanielHardin  I watch them gather and I am content. I have separated the light from the dark, the day from the night, the heavens from the earth, the living from the dead. I have done so in one day. I can feel them gathering. Like fresh shoots of grass, they are sprouting from the richened soil to beautify the valley, the plains and the desolate swaths of desert. They come not as I have created them but as they have created themselves. They are unique. And as they roam this land, the world spreads out before them. Their footsteps are the bringers of life, as well as the bringers of death. As they are born into this world they are limitless, but they will be guided by the winds of change. Here, an all powerful man stands the highest in a field of new grass and will be cut down the fastest. Don't overextend your power in this world; to do so is to bring unwanted attention, to stand out among the rest. If you do so, you will bring jealousy from the Narrator and the Narrator will cripple you. Instead of appearing all powerful, appear ordinary. Appear ordinary but carry a mighty pen. I'm looking out upon a world of many obstacles. When walking down a path, a hole may appear where one never was before. I watch farmers and looters and wizards and slaves and warriors and rich and poor. They all exist here. They are only limited by their capabilities to invent themselves, not by the rules of this world. When the new blades of grass grow in this world, they do so with a story. Their story is not a description of who they are and what they can do. Their story is a tale that weaves in facts to be enjoyed not just recited. I see a man who wakes up to find that his house is burning down around him. His story begins as he tries to survive. If he does survive, the next day he might wake to a new situation created by the Narrator, or he may be left alone to continue his journey unaltered. This is the world in which they live in. I have planted seeds. Now I will watch the grass grow. TColeG Two men walked down a cobbled street. One walked with the confident steps of a man running a familiar errand. The other trailed half a step, unsure of his surroundings in the purples and grays of a moonlit city at night. He was bald and, despite the night chill, sweated visibly. They skirted around a stilted lamplighter at work, giving him and his line of flickering orange a wide berth. The bald man was vaguely aware of a shape growing against the night sky. He said, “That’s the old cathedral?” The other replied, “That’s right.” The bald man said “It looks bigger up close.” The man smirked at this. He said, “Naturally.” The shape became a spire as they neared, and the bald man thought he saw fell statues looking down from the buttresses lining its sides. They climbed a few wide steps. The bald man noted a large archway with a wooden gate, but the man motioned otherwise and led him around to a smaller side door. A short dark corridor opened up to a main floor mazed by book cases. Moonlight gave just enough light to stave off the bald man’s claustrophobia among the high shelves. His guide navigated to where the altar should have been. Instead, there was a desk with a lit candle illuminating an orange face. The face set down an ink pen and looked at the two men. “This is an odd time to search for books.” The face said. “Yes, but my need is great tonight,” the bald man said. “It must be.” The face said. His gaze shifted to the other man. “Thank you, Rhys, wait in the back until we are done.” “Yes, Mister Auxilatrix.” Rhys replied. He nodded a farewell to the bald man and slid away from the candle light. The face said, “Now, Mister Covington, what can I do for you?” Covington peered around suspiciously. He said “Is it safe to speak in the open like this?” “We aren’t in the open, and it is safe.” Covington related his needs quickly, to the point, and with a guarded passion. Auxilatrix took a moment to measure the situation, then made an offer. Covington sighed, accepted. “I know you have an impressive stable, Mister Auxilatrix. Thank you.” Covington said. Auxilatrix’s eyes flashed in the candlelight. “It will be done tonight. And don’t thank me. This is a transaction. A heavy one.” he said. Auxilatrix went back to his writing. He spoke loudly. “Rhys? Mister Covington is ready to go.” Rhys appeared, patted Covington on the shoulder, and led him away. Auxilatrix continued to scribble until he heard the door groan shut behind Covington and Rhys. He set his pen down. “You know the location?” Auxilatrix said to the darkness. “Yes.” A man stepped to the edge of the candlelight. “Are you prepared?” Auxilatrix said. “As much as time permits.” “Forgive me, Russell. I know this is a rush job, but I would not have asked it of you if I didn’t think you could handle it,” Auxilatrix said. “No need to flatter, sir,” Russell said. “I wouldn’t flatter you, Scarborough. Simply a fact,” Auxilatrix replied. “Yes, sir. I had better be off, sir. Our window is closing,” Russell said. Auxilatrix picked up his pen and began writing again. “Yes, you had better.” Russell Scarborough stepped from view. “Oh and Scar?” Auxilatrix paused to address the stillness, “be careful.” Auxilatrix listened for the door as Scarborough left. He did not hear it, and began writing again. He never heard Scar leave. TSC- MIA Footsteps pattered up a cobbled road, a young messenger doing his duty, carrying a call from the Royal Palace to the House of Order. He cursed a little under his breath, as he had been delayed in his duties by his own negligence only. The boy wondered if he would be not reprimanded this time... *~*~* "I say, the days have begun to grow...Darker...Do you not see it?" "Of course I do. As a priest of Order, you think I wouldn't?" "Ah, but it has been so slow! It creeps along at an infuriatingly slow pace!" "Nary but us skilled ones can really see it." "Oh Lukain, you really are a modest one..." "About as much as you, Albert." The two aging priests shared a laugh, allowing themselves of this one small joy in their strict and orderly lives. These two men, Lukain Halifax and Albert Lylal, came upon the entrence to the House of Order, more or less a scholorly temple devoted to Philosophy. The House itself was a large building, built in the ancient style with towering collums and stone orafaces. The beautiful marble walls drew in the light of the sun and the limestone roof was ornately constructed. Nearby was a small tranquility garden, though it was only one of several scattered around the area. The House itself rested atop a medium sized hill adorned with a few trees and bushes, each exploding with green in the springtime air. Albert, the higher ranking of the two priests, sat down on one of the benches near to door into the House. His golden robes flowed all over himself, which bore much resemblence in color to his very short, crew cutted hair. His friend Lukain sat beside him, only his robes were silver and not gold. They sat and watched the trail wind down the hill. "...I wonder what is keeping the boy? He was due back from the Palace at least an hour prior..." came Lukain. Albert raised an eyebrow and leaned back, stretching out his legs. "Who, Duncan? You know that runt, always the slowpoke. Proboley got himself stuck in a nasty mess." "Messes are so very Chaotic...He really should pay more attention to his studies." "Ah, but he is but a Child," Albert argued. "Children are Chaos Incarnate; You can only mold them so much..." "Oh, there he is Albert!" Lukain pointed out, his long slender finger reaching out. Were he pointed a young boy, technically a man since he was seventeen of age, sprinted up the path, but not without pleanty of huffing and puffing. He wore a scroll around his neck. Albert smiled. darkpen He rised from his grave with a pounding headache turned around and saw the tombstone it had his name on it. He said "no I cant be dead I just cant." He turned around and saw a boney figure with a scyth. The figure said "you have been given on more chance to complete your mission and save the love of your life. You must find your killer and save if you dont you wil die again and be tormented forever." The figure disaperaed and then our hero saw a gun at his feet so he grabbed it and looked for his killer. A. T. Miller I laid against the muddy embankment, the roots that held it together digging into my back, the lower half of my body submerged in the murky bog. Comfort was not my first priority, however, as the troglodytes poured from their water-logged shanties. Never a sorrier bunch of addle-brained bafoons were these, and yet I, Ardon Cross, had been forced to steal from them for sustenance.Examining the spoils of my daylight sojourn into the food hut made my stomach turn. A few vaguely edible tubers and a kind of bread made from blackened grains was a feast compared to the unmentionable things I had taken to eating since my, ehem, vacation, from the glorious city of Dorn. Ah, Dorn, where a man of means could insert himself into all sorts of interesting trouble, was, well, frankly, a pile of dung in a sea of more dung, though a polished and shiny one. I was a man of means, or a means to an end, as it were. I would become Mean, and then I had the means. I spent the means, and then I become Mean again. Mean. That's not entirely accurate, but that's what they called me. And fools they were, because they had to know I would return. The threat of violence to my person was hardly a deterrent, even from the master of the city watch and his gaggle of cronies. I would slip in one night when everyone forgot about good old Cross and then Mister Mean would tuck them into their beds with his knives. In the shade, before I returned to that mucky waste, I fondled the only thing of value I had kept from that miserable city, a golden locket whose intricate engraving had been worn by the acid from my fingers over time. Inside, the faded image of a girl, my girl, my little Valena, kept me focused, kept me alive and sane. She was the only one who mattered. She was the only one who really knew me and did not flinch or run away. I lived for her, for my daughter- I growled at the softening that would surely weaken my heart and get me killed in this nightmare place. The trog cries were at a distance, and their foot falls plodded over decks and splashed into the muck far on the other side of the village. What they lacked in intelligence they more than made up in beastly senses. They would be upon me soon. "And my work here is done," I chuckled under my breath, creeping away in anonymity. Munching on a gritty root, I waded out into the denser brush, the palmettos slashing against my bare sides. I slathered more sickly brown-green goop over the skin and trudged onward. In the first week of my vacation I had quickly discovered that a brown leather vest over a bare chest was not quite bog 'couture'. I still had the scars from scratching as clouds of relentless insects tapped my veins dry. I was sick for a week or so after that, and then back on my feet. Now, I knew that a liberal coating of the stench-ridden slop through which I trudged on a daily basis upon my exposed flesh would save me from further suffering and illness. It allowed me to stalk the few roughly intelligent creatures who made the Swamp of Tears their home with little consequence. It was not exactly fair, for them or for me; though I was not to argue over desperation. I should not have been there in the first place, but my intellect and swift cunning, the silence of my boots across their wooden decks, allowed me to move where and when I chose. Too bad they had not saved me from the treachery of the Dorn's soldiers. Today, I had chosen to take advantage of the nocturnal nature of the trogs and make my breach into their stores in broad daylight. And, of course, they reacted as though I had just killed their shaman, chasing after me with crude spears and dullard cries of vengeance. In all fairness, Mean had killed their shaman weeks ago, when I first slipped into their village under the cover of night but had not yet realized that trogs were, in point of fact, nocturnal. A messy business that was, but successful in that Mean managed to steal the trog's private food stuff before his knife, my knife, plunged into the monster's belly. That stock held me over until this latest haul. I had made my home in a small crag of dirt and rock jutting up on the far side of the swamp, far enough away from the trogs that no random hunter would blunder into my living room or spot my camp fire from a distance. I did not use fire in the day time, and kept the scents from cooking to a minimum. This was a swamp, however, and by definition teamed with life of all kinds. Stay in one place long enough, and predators were bound to sniff you out eventually. I knew my time was running out, but I was certain there were at least a few days left. This was where I headed, and I would have blundered happily into my own living room to rest, my belly full as it had not been in days, when I happened upon a strange and yet familiar scent. It was funny how living in a pristine environment, the senses grew keener. In the city, I would have been slightly tipsy approaching my own nest and missed the key elements alerting me to danger. Now, with the palette clean, I had an entirely different relationship with those senses. A trog hunting party laid in wait, their pinkish-grey skin blending with the bark of the Cyprus trees, their rags and skins mixing well with the decaying walls of vegetation. Had it not been for their rancid body odor, I would have surely been on their evening menu. They were not a simple hunting pack out for a stroll in the swamp. While I had snuck into their village to forage for food, these had scoured the forest seeking me out, proving that their logic was not as primal as their guttural language and simple faces suggested. Finding me absent, they set up a crude ambush. Thrilled by the challenge, I diverted my approach, sinking into the muddy water like a crocodile on the prowl, floating ever so gently, my shiny fangs beneath the water's surface craving to sink into warm flesh. It could have been an hour or more that I savored the hunt, drawing hungrily toward the bank, easing out of the water so that not even a drip disturbed the silence. The trogs may as well have been a herd of elephants crouching in the underbrush for all the racket they made in wait. And they grumbled, too. I could not speak trog so well, but I picked up on a few words spoken in a broken form of the common tongue of the land. "Passer through, like knight-men," one suggested to another, stupidly. The other muttered a name or title, and then, "eats our food, kills our folk. Doesn't pay for kill or food. He's not coming?" "Not coming, Grub says," the first answered. "Got food, got out of swamp. Good for us. Go back to screaming wives and make babies, eat food," and they started to move just that suddenly. I was not to be robbed of my kill. I pounced at once and ended the closest trog before he understood his peril. The second figured it out, but too late to cry out. The third and fourth did nothing as their feeble minds attempted to grasp their situation. I had the third with a knife in the rib, but as the monster twisted in rage and agony, the fourth finally got it. And then I got it, right in the side of the chest with a wooden club. Let me tell you, there is nothing more sickening than the sound of your own bones crunching beneath the flesh, a dull pop that leaves you stunned and suddenly immobile from one position. In an instant of shock of pain, Mister Mean came the to surface and Cross vanished entirely. With a slice, Mean cut into the hand as the trog swung his club for a second pass. A finger went missing in the bracken, and greenish blood leaked from the wound. That only incensed Mean further, and he removed the club from the trog with a slick, sideward dash and thrust. Damn! My chest screamed out, but Mean had no time for cry-baby Cross. He dived and rolled, turned on his heels and let the back of the trog's knees have my blades. For a quick finish, Mean jabbed the double-bladed tip of a stiletto with my good arm into the apricot, that sweet spot just beneath the back of the skull where the neck bones meet, and stirred the trog's grey matter for him. It dropped like a stone, a three hundred pound stone, and crashed into what had been my sleeping quarters, crushing my cooking gear. "Green blooded bastard," Mister Mean shouted and stomped on the trog's head until it cracked under my boots. All of my anger and sense of betrayal came out in those hits. I am not that morbid in real life. Mister Mean is, but not me, not Cross. That was when Cross took over, and I packed up what remained of my travel gear. The trog village had lost several of its best hunters, but there were plenty left. I was now a monster among them, Mister Mean was a monster, that was, a clear hazard to their way of life that they would not suffer to live in their proximity. They would gather together and make war, and not even Mean would be able to handle them. "I'll leave this swamp, and damn the consequences!" I set my back to the camp and gore, tossed the sack of tubers and camping gear over my shoulder, winced as it slapped at my injury, and headed for higher ground. © Copyright 2010 DanielHardin, TColeG, TSC- MIA, darkpen, A. T. Miller, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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