SpiritOfWrath WRITING THREAD!

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Spoiler

So here. A second posted attempt. This story is named Mirth, and it is small short story, just 14 pages. (I know, right?)

Fun fact, I finished this, and was horrified at the sadness of the ending. But I finished (though I am still needing to edit). And I didn’t even mean for the irony of the title… it just sorta happened. I had no idea what I would do after Berin turned to Wrath, so most of that period was intuitive.

Ok. Here we go. First bit. I will be accepting criticism, and *hopefully* it isn’t too bad. But I’m still not sure how much to put on one post, so here goes.

Spoiler

Berin bowed theatrically, waiting as the clapping and the laughter died down.

         Perhaps a story next?

         Berin waited a mite for drama, then spoke in a loud, jovial voice. “This is a respectable inn. I will trust you, my gracious patrons, to choose the tale I will tell tonight.”

         A variety of voices called out, but one rang out clearer than the rest, a cold voice in a concourse of drunken discord. “The telling of the Great Servants.”

         Searching out the crowd, Berin easily identified the speaker, briefly locking eyes with her. She was a pale lady in dark robes. A Servant of Intellect, it seemed. A rare visitor to the bars. They were simply not the type.

         I’m guessing she’s who you sent.

         Not me. It was Intellect who chose her. But yes, she is the one trying to find you.

         The crowd quickly quieted, except for the occasional shouted suggestion. Berin reached out a tentative influence, heightening their curiosity.

         “Very well then. The telling of the Great Servants. A fairly recent story, but to help you to understand it, I must give greater context.” 

         Berin began to strum a quiet tune on his small lute.

         “Before the world was physical, the four Great Souls gathered together to grant substance to the world. These souls were as such: The Soul of Rage, the Soul of Madness, the Soul of Intellect, and lastly, the Soul of Mirth. The souls, though they disagreed on many things, decided to make… this.”

         Snorting, Mirth commented. It was more that Madness randomly started creating, and, desperate not to miss out on anything, we followed.

         Well, yes, but I don’t want to upset their image of how the world works.

         “Madness, the first to take action, created the wind and the beasts. Rage, the second, hated the creations. He never agreed to the deal they had made. So he created fire, to destroy Madness's… children. But the wind, something Rage could not see or predict, protected the creations. Intellect, the next to act, created nature, the plants and the cliffs, this earth which we walk upon. A home, so their efforts would not waste away. And, as a safeguard, he created ice, as he foresaw the dangerous consequences of the fire. Mirth watched, then placed her influence on all their creations. She made the beasts playful, the wind melodious, flame warming, nature beautiful, and, at the last, manipulated ice into snow. Finally, the humans were created, children of all four Souls. The Souls departed then, to watch their creations.”

         Berin fell silent here, playing a skittish melody, which slowly became more and more senseless, until it reached a discord. He heightened the crowd’s discontent. With this, he continued. “Madness was not content to stay away from the world she had a hand in creating. She returned, and began to communicate with individuals. These individuals were the first of what became the Great Servants, granted the power of wind manipulation. At the beginning, they were both revered and hated for their skills. But, they were generally respected. They had the power to destroy, and nothing garners respect like that.”

A pause, then, in a darker tone, Berin continued. “Eventually, Madness’s communication took its toll. The Servants began to go insane, reduced to mere beasts. Any town that was previously graced with their presence was soon decimated. Luckily, they did not seem to harbor any further malice for humankind, and disappeared into the forests. Humankind was safe, for a time.”

         He changed his tune to a happy one, and pulled away the discontent for a peaceful feeling, but it again degenerated into another tune, louder, marking the notes more often. He made the crowd slightly angry. “However, the people began to hate the monsters that had attacked them. Warriors began to hunt them, with an irrational Rage. These were the second of the Great Servants. They, on their hunts, began to embody irregular powers, this time of fire. Heat. When the hunts stopped, they became restless, and eventually embarked on a crusade, attempting to purge the world of those they deemed unworthy.”

         He stared at the servant of Intellect, meeting her eyes.

         “Intellect, quick to respond, began to nurture his own servants, to fight back these new crusaders. The servants were granted the ability to manipulate ice. These servants, driven to continually learn, became battle monks, quickly absorbing many varieties of different fighting techniques. With their manipulation of ice, they were the perfect match for the Servants of Rage. They, with a more comprehensive understanding of combat, soon beat back the forces of Rage.”

         “However, in the following peace, they grew soft. Intellect’s soldiers turned into scholars. They couldn’t resist the temptation of knowledge. And while this happened, Rage was recruiting the same way he had always. So the soldiers of Rage began to outnumber those of Intellect. And this is how we got to where we are today.” 

         Berin silenced his lute, then bowed again, signaling the end of the tale. “Now, my friends, I must give my voice a small rest. That will be all for tonight.” He sat, put aside his lute, and pulled a tin out his tattered jacket.

         Finally, he let the anger wane, and placed instead joy, pity, and respect.

         Isn’t that kind of cheating?

         I need to eat, you know. It’s not like I have a constant supply of emotion to sustain me.

         I’m just sad you never mentioned my servant. I feel betrayed.

         Well, if you want me to talk about myself, you should go recruiting. I’m not going to go out and say, hey, I’m the only servant of Mirth!

         You know why I am careful. I need to make sure I’m not creating a monster. Berin, you yourself just outlined the destruction caused by poor choices… Besides, you are going to have to mention that when you get to the University.

         Berin sighed, replying quietly. Don’t remind me.

         He stood, walking to the cloaked woman. He put up a cloud of self consciousness and guilt to make any eavesdroppers depart. The Servant of Intellect stared at him, an emotionless expression on her face. “You are Berin, I presume?” 

         “Yes. And you, m’lady?”

         “I am Ista, Servant of Intellect.”

         “Yes. I could tell, as your stare nearly froze me stiff.” He said this in a mock solemn voice. She ignored it.

         “May I have a demonstration of your abilities?” 

         “Why, you just had one. But, alas, I was holding myself back so as to not alarm those in the tavern.” Grinning, Berin twisted her emotions, making her overly giddy, then ashamed. Her eyes widened, and he could see clear confusion on her face. The strength of the emotion was enough to fuel him from the exertion. However, she quickly tamed her emotions and then stayed in control.

         “And you can replicate that on a bigger scale?”

         “Why are you asking me that? Of all people, one of you should know best how the Servants' powers work.”

         She frowned, but nodded. “I have a coach waiting outside. We will stop at each township on the way to keep you supplied.”

         Berin nodded, then followed her out to the coach, which strangely did not have any horses to pull it. He entered after her, and readied for departure. Inside the coach were black leather seats, a heavy fur coat draped over the one closest to the door.

         Madness would hate that coat, Mirth noted.

         It is a mite cruel to the animals, isn’t it?

         The coach started to move, quickly accelerating. Berin sat uncomfortably as the coach jolted against the rocks.

         “How does the coach move?” Berin asked curious. He had heard of the inventions of the Servants of Intellect, but only rumors.

         “A small explosive reaction is contained within the coach, which is used to turn the wheels faster than any horse could run.  It took decades to discover, and even now we are only able to make a few of these.”

         Berin hesitated. If these were so rare, they must be more desperate than he thought. The armies of Rage must be getting stronger. Nodding, he turned away and looked out the side of the coach as the land passed by.

 

Old texts thing
 

So this is my repurposed writing thread.

B4 it was devoted only to Mirth (the novella from which I take the Great Spirits RP as well as Ista for TLT)

But now imma dedicate it to all my writing.

That said, I am still open to pms for the full Mirth short story.

Edited January 9 by SpiritOfWrath

[AltonicKeys he/him]

Ooo, this is really interesting! The classic opening of how the world came to be is always a fun one. "The sadness of the ending" is quite the hook, and I'm pretty excited to see where this goes. Good luck!

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Cool! I may honestly change the ending (the reason the ending was so sad was that it wasn’t really believable that the perspective character would be happy at the end, but I thought up a way to fix that)

Another thing. I realized after I posted this that the short story has a good amount of violence (no gore though) so I may need to just provide a link to the doc. But for now, imma post snippets until I get to the “wow that’s violent” part. (Also, does anyone know how to paste whilst keeping the italics?)

Fair warning, this does contain some short (like, a single line) disturbing things, I’ll just edit that out whilst I try to figure that out.

Spoiler

Three days later, they had entered the mountains. Ista told him they were nearly there. They stopped in a small town for the night. Berin took a post entertaining the patrons of the inn. During the entertainment, he noticed a man in the crowd. The man had a disheveled look, and barely seemed to notice the spectacle. Once he finished, he approached the man. 

         “Hello. May I ask your name?”

         “Anders. I… I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted. My son isn’t well. We recently lost…” The man began to tear, then composed himself. “We lost my younger son. And I think he blames himself.”

         “Is there anything I can do? Perhaps I can entertain him. Play a ballad.”

         The father hesitated, then said, “Thank you. But… why?” 

         “I have a certain aversion to pain. It comes with the job. Now let’s go.”

         Go tell Intellect to pass the message that I’m taking a small errand.

         Fine.

         Berin laughed internally. You realize you’re the reason we’re doing this.

         “Here we are.” The man turned at a small passage in the woods. The trees cleared to reveal a small cabin. A young man stood out front, staring at the space behind them. The man laughed quickly as he saw them, not making eye contact. He had a distinct stench to him. Not a pleasant one.

         “Kino? This man is here to help cheer you up. He’s a bard.”

         “Hello Kino.” Berin hesitated. This man… was likely a Servant of Madness. He turned to the father. “Sir… I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do here. He has the Madness.”

         Anders gasped. Before he could say anything, Kino spoke up, now behind his father. “What are yous saying? Whispering behind my back, you are.” The man twitched slightly. As he opened his mouth, Berin saw red stains on his teeth. He was far gone. And… When did he get behind his father? Looking back to the spot where Kino was before, he saw the body of a squirrel, *edit*

         The father trembled, fear in his eyes. “Kino…”

         “Kino? Kino! The name is an INSULT! A reminder of my human origins, yes? All yous need to take from the nature, yes? Humans are dirt! Lower… they have no hope of survival.” He began to laugh hysterically, rising into the air. Anders backed away, but was caught by the air. He lifted up, wind suspending him. 

         Before the situation could escalate, Berin hit Kino with as much shame as he could muster. Kino stopped, eyes wide. He struggled, and let his father go. However, he soon recovered. Snarling, he darted to Berin, biting at him. They fell, Berin struggling to push Kino away. 

         Ista appeared in the distance. She raised a hand, and chilled Kino. Outraged, he called the wind, swirling it, making it go faster and faster. Kino gave Ista an unseen shove. She stumbled, then screamed as her arms were pulled outwards, nearly tearing. Kino broke free. Before he could do anything, though, Berin tackled him, and Ista, now free, pulled out a long rod she had strapped to her back. Kino shoved Berin off of him. Pointing the rod at Kino, a loud boom pierced the air around Ista, and *edit? It ain’t too bad* Kino. Shocked, he lifted a hand to his wound, then licked the blood. He stared at Ista, now gasping on the floor. Hissing, he ran away, into the woods.

         “No more detours,” Berin promised. Ista gave a weak laugh. The two, shocked, stood, and walked over to Anders, now weeping on the dirt. Berin put a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure to tell the father, or even if he should change his emotions. He didn’t want the father looking back on this moment to beat himself up for being happy. Ista and Berin shared a look, then walked away, back to the inn. However, when they got there, Ista stopped in front of the door. 

         “We only have two hours left in the coach. We should go now. I don’t want Kino to come back for revenge.” Berin nodded, and turned towards the coach. He entered, exhausted. Ista entered on the other side. Addressing the reinsman, “Straight to the destination, sir.” 

         Nodding, the reinsman fiddled with a mechanism next to him, and the coach accelerated. “Straight away, miss.”

 

 

         At their destination, Berin opened the coach door, stepping out in front of a large, embellished gate. Behind it, a large courtyard stretched, where some Servants of Intellect stood training with similar devices to the rod Ista had used. Others were training in physical combat, and still others with their powers. Around the courtyard was a large stone building, almost like a palace. The building had two ground floors, it appeared, but also a variety of towers. Three were significantly taller than the others. A web of bridges interconnected the towers. Each to tower had a large amount of arrow slits, as well as long spikes reaching out from their sides. The entire thing gave a sloppy, last minute effect. And it likely was, the spikes and arrow slits additions in the face of war.

         Directly behind the gate, three cloaked Servants stood. One cut to the left, pulling on a wheel. The gate slowly began to open.

         “We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow, Ista,” the one in the middle said. She had, not an unreadable expression, but simply an emotionless expression.

         “We ran into a complication, Lady Ronasi. A Servant of Madness assaulted us.”

         “Yes, I know.” The women turned, and left them. Once the gate was open, the Servant who was idling before now bowed. “Allow me to show you to your quarters, Servant of Mirth.”

         Nodding, Berin followed the man, entering the large building. They passed a large amount of rooms. Some of them held scholars. However, most of them were of people sparring. The war was taking a toll on them. Berin shook his head at the nature of the war. Their Rage was overpowering.

         One specific room he passed was the dining hall, repurposed as a hospital. The room was not full, but Berin knew that they had many more wounded on the field.

         The man turned at a door, opening it and showing Berin into the room. The room held extravagant decorations, a tapestry on one side, with an ornamented desk underneath the tapestry. On the other side, a large bed stood, also extravagant. On one of the walls between, a door stood. He supposed it was the washroom.

         “If you ever forget where it is, the doors are numbered and ordered. Just remember the number, and you’ll eventually find it.”

         “Thanks.” Berin nodded to the man.

         “Before you get too comfortable, there is a feast of important figures in the courtyard celebrating your arrival.… everywhere else is taken.” The man nodded, then turned away, striding down the hall.

         Berin shrugged, then followed the man back where he came from.

         I think you’ll need to make a speech. 

         I do too.

         He arrived at the courtyard, which was now filled with a large table, food already set. At the front of the table, Lady Ronasi sat, an emotionless expression on her face. At his arrival, she motioned to a chair a few down from where she sat. It was one of the only empty ones. Taking his seat, she nodded, then spoke in a loud voice. 

         “We are here to celebrate the arrival of our…” she grimaced, then forced the next word out. “Salvation… in the form of the sole Servant of Mirth. Berin, by name, will help lead us to victory against the armies of Rage, using his Attunement to inspire us and confuse the enemy. He will now speak.” She stared at him, a small smirk on her face. She knew that he hadn’t been told.

         He stood, then addressed them. “Thank you, Ronasi, for that introduction.” Casting his eyes over the crowd, he adopted a serious look. “I will not lie to you. You are desperately outnumbered. The hordes of Rage have ten for every one of your soldiers.” He twisted their emotions, giving them a touch of despair. However, as he continued talking, he started to twist them back, then towards hope. “But we are more disciplined. We have better fighters, better technique, and better weapons.” He paused. “Their Attunement gives them the manipulation of fire. But your Attunement gives you the manipulation of ice. You were made to match them. Usually, the powers would cancel. But they come to us in your home in the mountains. An endless supply of cold.” He gave them more hope, then took down their fear. “No matter how it may seem, we can beat them. You were each chosen specifically by Intellect, the smartest one any of us know, for this task.”

         Looking back through the small crowd, he stopped. Looking down at his food, he dug in, scarfing down as much as he could. That had left him tired; these people didn’t have much emotion for him to feed on, and his artificial emotion was useless to sustain him. Since he was being subtle with his manipulation, no confusion showed, so he couldn’t use that.

         Well, we showed her, Mirth said. Try blindsiding us!

         Berin quietly laughed. I don’t think she was expecting that.

         Lady Ronasi was, in fact, surprised. He didn’t see it on her face, but he was able to use that complimentary to the food. At least one person here had emotion. Ronasi addressed him. “Thank you, Berin, for that. Now we will- “ 

         She cut off as she noticed a number of the Servants looking behind her, towards the university. She turned to see a Servant behind her, running out of one of the doors. “Lady Ronasi! Servants of Rage are attacking! They are here, Lady Ronasi.” Behind him, Berin saw fire erupt in the distance.

         Quick to alert, Ronasi, started barking orders out to the people at the feast, who dashed into the building. Soon Ronasi was the only one left.

         “We never expected them to take such a risk… I hope you’re ready, Berin, because this might decide the end of the war.”

         Berin nodded, then got up, bringing his plate with him. He was able to get some energy from the panic, but he would need a lot for what was coming. 

         I likewise hope you’re ready, Berin. Otherwise we are going to have trouble.

         I think we are going to have trouble no matter my preparation, Berin mused, eating while walking quickly to where he had seen fire. Once he had finished his food, he dashed over. 

Ok! I found a solution: I found it with the Aether of Night thread. 
(as long as it’s ok, mods) 

Post here and I’ll PM u the link.

@AltonicKeys, you posted. Are you interested?

Edited October 9, 2024 by SpiritOfWrath
Put it in quote instead of hidden. Also typo.

[AltonicKeys he/him]

On 9/29/2024 at 11:19 AM, SpiritOfWrath said:

@AltonicKeys, you posted. Are you interested?

I am very interested!

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Here is the Illuminated!

Future sci-fi Cold War-ish setting with DRAGONS! I have more, but I wanted to end this portion DRAMATICALLY!

This one will be full length novel. (I most definitely won’t post it all, tho)

Spoiler

I understand you and yours go by the name “Hamikyn.” Recently, I have received a report from one of my head scientists on the blood structure of our Illuminated population. The details are irrelevant, but it is apparent that we need much more of this blood. However, it is not viable we take from our own population, for obvious reasons. So, I give you and any of your men full permission to bring in Illuminated from the enclosed list of countries. I will pay a hefty sum for every Illuminated delivered, and will be accepting them at the address enclosed along with the list.

-  Director Kintlen

 

 

 

 

 

Dint, in the standard uniform of the guard, marched to the edge of camp. Some eleven other men marched with him, and one of those men was glowing a soft white, the light visible only to Dint and that man. Dint glowed in a similar manner.

He hadn’t spoken to the other Illuminated, as the two had stayed in separate divisions of the camp. Keeping the man in the corner of his eye, Dint studied him as they marched. The man, like the others in the small group, held a long rifle in his hands, a pistol at his side. The rifles were nothing like the new inventions that those in Gorin had created. Yeristi did not have very many scientists, and they had obtained these weapons only because of the alliances of PPUNG and HNPAD competing for the favor of Ciclintan countries.

Eventually, they arrived at the scene of battle, where two large dragons tore through their defenses. They were each the size of four horses, and had a network interlocking scales across their bodies. Their skin was completely covered, but a slight glow under the scales was just barely visible. They had two horns as a crown on their heads, thick and heavy. The horns turned upwards, making a ninety degree angle in the middle. As one opened its mouth, Dint saw, with dread, that the flesh and tongue were armored, making this particular dragon of the wyvern variety. 

A dragon raised a claw, and Dint felt himself launched towards the scene of battle, his weapon falling out of his hands. He fell some seven yards from the dragons, a more fortunate fate than that of the others, who fell directly on top of the dragons. Dint watched as they died. One, however, managed to pull out a pistol, launching a bullet at an eye. The dragon roared, reared, and fell still. A second soldier attempted a similar feat, but missed, the bullet striking the underbelly and bouncing away, ineffective. 

Dint shot at the remaining dragon with his newly unholstered pistol. He similarly missed, the pistol useless for any ranged precision. The dragon did not even notice the shot as it continued to feast.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dint saw his friend, posted here from before the dragon attacks, take aim with his rifle. He squeezed the trigger, and the second dragon roared, reared, and jumped away, one eye closed. The bullet had not reached the brain, as the angle of approach was just slightly off.

Angered, the dragon looked to the sky, then brought its head down diagonally in a spray of jet black liquid. Dint’s friend ducked into cover just a second to late, some small droplets of the liquid falling into his eyes.

Dint shook his head, then looked back to the dragon. It had an eye missing, and was likely in a large amount of pain. Dint might be able to slip to the other side unnoticed. He scanned the field before him. Seeing a long rifle at a point behind the dragon, he set off, dashing towards the weapon. After picking it up, he dashed again to the other side of the dragon. Throughout this period, the dragon was thrashing, tearing at the defenses.

Dint took aim, waiting for the beast to still. Once the dragon paused, for just a fraction of a second, Dint pulled the trigger.

 

Edited November 2, 2024 by SpiritOfWrath

[BlueWildRye he/him]

AWESOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

On 11/2/2024 at 2:26 PM, BlueWildRye said:

AWESOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME

Thanksey!!!!

I’ll post more, but I wanna write more of the story first, cuz after that it is subject to plot changes.

But in the meantime, have some keteks!

Spoiler

Ended honor, through expectations, realizes deadly violence; realizing expectations through honorable ends.

Flames of anger, given anger, results in resulting anger, giving angers of flame.

Candy is sweet, and fills my tummy; my filling, and sweets, are candy.

 

Edited December 13, 2024 by Ookla the Dragonslayer

[BenKenobi7333 He/Him/Mandalorian]

That’s super cool @SpiritOfWrath

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Thanks!

I have something, but it is waaaay later in the story.

Spoiler

Kintlen looked to the ambassador. He tapped his finger on his desk, then leaned back. His eyes never left the corrupt man.

"What are we going to do, Director? The people are outraged at what we are doing!" The ambassador looked at Kintlen, as if searching for an answer.

Kintlen smiled, and closed his eyes. He grinned after a while. "I wish for you to draft a chart for me. A chart of our technological contributions to Ciclinto over the years. I wish for you change it, though."

The ambassador cut in. "Raise them? I don't know what that would do..."

Kintlen gave a smug laugh, his eyes still closed. "So shortsighted, my friend ambassador. No. We would lower them. Significantly. Take a third of what we have."

A frown. "Why?"

Kintlen sat up, and he opened his eyes. "Do you know the value of an empty promise? Because we will, with the release of the chart, release a new policy. A promise. We will commit to "raising" our donations to what they are now."

The ambassador cocked his head, still confused.

"Do you know the story of the vacant chest?"

With a shake of the head, Kintlen took this as an opportunity to continue. "It is an obscure story. And, truth be told, not very realistic. But the messages it tells… well, they are precious. Long ago, in the days we were still prey to the dragons, there ruled a king. His country was undergoing a time of crisis, and the people were calling for solutions. And, under the stress, the king promised more than he was able to give. It was empty, but it consoled them. His advisors, though, were not happy with this desicions. So unhappy that one of them decided to create a demonstration. This is where it parts from reality. If any of my advisors wasted resources to do this..."

He shrugged. "I would fire them, and then wonder why I had ever hired them. But back to this story. The one commissioned five chests to be brought to him, as well as a particularly radical collection of people. A bloodthirsty knight, a devout priest, and a rich merchant. He also asked for a sword, a book of prayers, a child's toy, and piles of gold. Lastly, he brought his own daughter. He placed each of these items inside one of the chests - though he left one vacant - and presented them to the king, bringing the persons as well."

Kintlen grinned yet again. "He looked to the king, and then opened the chests. He called the knight and asked which of the chests drove the hearts of men. The knight chose the sword, saying 'I've participated in many wars. I've been the deciding factor in a few. And nothing commands obedience like the sword held to the throat of an enemy.' The advisor thanked him, and the knight was excused. He turned to the priest, asking her the same. The priest chose the book of prayers. 'Nothing turns the hearts of men more than forgiveness.' The advisor thanked her, and she was excused. He turned to the merchant, asking him the same. The merchant chose the money. 'I've not met one that cannot be... convinced... be them priest or be them soldier.' The advisor thanked him, and he was excused."

Kintlen paused, then continued. "This is the best part. The advisor turned to his daughter and asked her the same. He was obviously expecting her to choose the toy, but she didn't. She chose the vacant chest. When questioned, she explained. 'The other things seem... they are a part of it, but they all contribute. I like toys, but life comes first, you know? I don't think it's anything like greed, or piety, or power, or contentment deciding one's decisions. But it's the opposite. Rather than seeking after them, they seek to keep what they have or might have had. A fear of becoming less, whether or not they are less than what they are now, or what they will be. One is afraid of death because they become less able to do anything. They seek power because they believe that if they didn't, they would be worth less, and they seek money for power. They are pious because if they weren't, they would judge themselves worth less. And they seek happiness because they believe if they don't be as happy as they could be, they wasted time. Were less than what they could have been.' The advisor was stunned. He had no idea his daughter was this wise, and it thwarted his entire demonstration. You see, he wanted to show that empty chests, promises, are worthless. But when the child chose it, and gave a reason why, it stopped his entire argument."

Kintlen leaned back again. "There are two lessons to this story. One, that empty promises can contain much more power than people merit them to. And two, an understanding of what drives people. With these, you can understand the effect of this specific promise I make. The people don't actually want to support Ciclinto any further; they are just afraid to be less of the good people we tell them they are. And so, by "tripling" the amount of donations, we satisfy them. They don't care how much we give, only that we give more."

 

Edited November 22, 2024 by SpiritOfWrath
Flopping semicolon

[Keke They/he]

These are awesome! You got good skills spirit!

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Thanks! Here is another Kintlen scene - here he is heavily manipulating the protagonist.

Spoiler

Dint saluted and walked off for the track. As he reached the track, he broke into a run, counting his laps carefully. At around the tenth lap, though, he saw another man, waiting patiently near the track. The man wore a tidy black jacket, and a white shirt underneath it. He had upon his head small spectacle, and cleanly combed black hair topped his figure. He wore dark brown pants, with leather shoes.

Dint stopped when he neared the man.

The general sneered at him. “You were slow, Yeran scum. But I need to hand you over to him.”

“That’s quite enough, Marn. You are dismissed.” Marn scowled, but he left the two standing in front of the track.

“I’m Kintlen. It is a pleasure to meet you. Sorry about Marn, he strongly believes in the importance of the mental component of basic training.” Kintlen gave him a lopsided grin, contrasting to his official outfit. He extended a hand.

Dint stuttered a small amount while he took the hand. “Director Kintlen?”

Kintlen laughed. “Yes, I am that man. I wanted to see how our newest soldier and object of charity was doing!”

Don’t found himself smiling. “The general is a bit strict, but,” he shrugged, “it is an army. Other than that, I’m glad to be safe, and that Pyk can get the help he needs.

Kintlen nodded, and started walking slowly. “Yes, well, it was the least we could do. Walk with me, please.”

Dint did so, keeping pace.

“Do you know our goal, Dint?”

Dint frowned. “No, sir.”

Kintlen laughed. “No need to call me sir. You are the representative for a foreign nation; you are to be respected, not the other way around.” He paused. “Dint, how many weapons were we able to afford your country?”

Dint creased his brow. “Not many. And no higher tech weapons.”

“This is what I wish to get rid of. I can’t help you to the fullest of our excess technology, the border complicates things. Borders are petty things, really. An excuse, so that we can justify standing aside while our fellow human beings suffer. We were able to get rid of them here. Form the Pact for the Peace. But there are still so many countries outside of civilization, outside of our help. Ciclinto, and, even though they are our enemies, the Hundred Nations. I wish for our borders to fall, for us to be United under one banner.”

Dint paused. “Ruled by you, sir?”

Kintlen shook his head. “I don’t have complete control now, and I don’t want complete control then. There will be a council, someone from every country. A democratic approach.”

Dint nodded. “That sounds nice. An ideal. But how would you ever unite us with the Hundred Nations? They would never agree.”

Kintlen gave a sad smile. “And therein lies our problem. But I have hope. For them to have power, they must have supporters. And if they have supporters, they must have some vestige of humanity.”

Dint hesitated, not sure if that hashed completely. But it was, like he said, an ideal. To be sought after. “But what about the Hamikyn? They actively attacked me. They would be a weapon against this unity.”

Kintlen gestured in a noncommittal way. “The Hamikyn… they did attack you. But we cannot do anything about them yet. They can always flee to Ciclinto, if it starts to get bad here. We must wait until we are strong, and quash their organization. But do not worry about them, they wouldn’t dare attack you. Unless,” he adopted a far off look, “unless you implicate them. Do not bother them, and they won’t bother you.”

Dint looked down. “But they attacked us for some reason. And they seemed to only care about the Illuminated in our group.”

Kintlen shrugged. “There are always theories - false ones, understand - that the blood of the Illuminated can compare in functionality to the blood of the dragons.” He paused. “But if so, I think Illuminated would be able to do more than glow in the dark for each other. Don’t worry; you are under our protection. They wouldn’t try to kill you, if you kept your mouth shut.”

 

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Here is my revised first bit:

Spoiler

Dint, in the standard uniform of the Dragon Guard - a matte grey with a simple red dragon pattern printed on the back - marched to the edge of camp with some eleven other soldiers. One of those men was glowing a soft white, the light visible only to Dint and that woman. Dint glowed in a similar manner. 

Dint hadn’t spoken to the other Illuminated very much, as the two had stayed in separate divisions of the camp. But from what he could tell, she wasn’t very amiable, just… solemn. Tired, almost. As if she had worn through life multiple times over already.

Keeping the woman in the corner of his eye, Dint studied her as they marched. The woman, like the others in the small group, held a long rifle in her hands, a pistol at her side. 

The rifles were nothing like the new inventions that those in Gorin had created. Yeristi did not have very many scientists, and they had obtained these weapons only because of the alliances of the Pact for the Peace of the United Nations of Gorin and the Hundred Nations Treaty of Armed Defense, competing for the favor of Ciclintan countries.

The camp that they were marching through was relatively disordered. Yes, it was more organized than what one may find in non-militaristic settlements, but that was a whole lot of words with very little effect. Very little had any modicum of organization in Yeristi.

Eventually, they arrived at the scene of battle, where two large dragons tore through their defenses, which were walls of stone and steel, with small holes between them; these were intended to let humans through and bar dragons. 

These dragons were each the size of four horses, slightly above the average for their kind. Their massive build projected strength and majesty - there was a regal quality to them that Dint couldn’t seem to shake.

As if to prove this point, they each had a crown of ivory upon their head. There were, best Dint could count through the raging movements of the beast, some four protrusions of these crowns, arcing upwards like the points of a monarch’s own headpiece. This ivory was a dirty yellow color, though Dint knew that the actual color, under the grime and dirt that caked it, was a pristine white that reflected the like rather pleasingly. Dragon ivory was a rather sought after material, though it was, as the general and undisputed consensus, a secondary material compared to others found within the dragons’ bodies.

Multiple shots rang out, flashes of steel striking the network of interlocking scales across the bodies of both of the dragons. The scales were rather large, and they were perfectly shaped, not a single defect in the pattern visible; not even a scratch on a single one of them, even after the bullets deflected off of the scales. However, a very slight glow emanated underneath these scales, shining dimly underneath the scales.

To finish off their imposing air, both had a pair of large wings that were tucked against their bodies, the bones running through them somehow having both a skeletal and a muscly appearance, scarred leather stretched between the bones.

One of the dragons roared, showing a throat filled with smaller scales. The lizard was a wyvern, then. The throat was protected… so it would take more than a shot down the mouth to kill it.

The other dragon raised a claw, and Dint felt himself launched towards the scene of battle, his weapon falling out of his hands. He fell some seven meters from the dragons, a more fortunate fate than that of most of the others, who fell directly on top of the dragons. The ground he fell on, like most of the ground around him, was a sandy soil that grated against his skin as he slammed against it. He spat out some of this sand as he stood unsteadily, a pang running through his side where his handgun had dug into him. Those less fortunate than him were met immediately with claws, while others only slightly more fortunate fell only slightly farther from the dragon, able to get their bearings.

They died quickly. One, however, managed to pull out a pistol, launching a bullet at an eye. The dragon roared, reared, and fell still, its body falling against the ground and crushing a few soldiers underneath it. A second soldier attempted a similar feat, but missed, the bullet striking the underbelly and bouncing away, ineffective. This dragon impaled the soldier with a claw, then raised the claw to its mouth and bit down quickly. The soldier didn’t even get a chance to scream. 

Dint stood there, paralyzed, as he watched the slaughter. His hands, however, knew what to do. They found their way to his weapon, pulling it up and towards the beast. Steadying his aim, he shot. The bullet flew towards the dragon and struck its scales, nowhere near the target. The weapon wasn’t meant for long ranged precision. The dragon hollered, and it turned quickly in his direction.

However, in the corner of his eyes, Dint saw a familiar soldier behind a layer of fortifications, aiming a distractingly decorated rifle. His friend. Pyk steadied his aim, then squeezed the trigger, and the second dragon roared, reared, and jumped away, one eye closed. The bullet had not reached the brain, as the angle of approach was just slightly off. Thankfully, the dragon seemed to have forgotten Dint. 

 

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Ok, beginning of chpter 5!

And guys. No matter what you think,

Kintlen is not a good person, he's horrible and we hate him.

So there.

Spoiler

Dint was perpetually tired, now. It was, undeniably, the training that General Marn had been putting him under.

It was getting better, though not because he was getting stronger. He was getting stronger, but it was mostly better because Marn - who insisted on solely being called General - had been growing more and more inconsistent. Some days he flat out refused to train Dint, days which he got blessed rest. Others, however, Marn only doubled down on the training that was slowly getting more and more intense.

That didn’t really matter, as Dint tended to be unable to complete training on regular days anyways. Marn didn’t seem to pay much heed to that.

  And so, he was tired. He hadn’t collapsed like the first time; the doctors had firmly admonished him when he came too. But he was tired.

Because of this, he didn’t particularly fight back when a grubby hand pressed a wet rag to his mouth. His eyes once again forced themselves shut as he lost consciousness.

After a time, he felt his body be dragged along the ground by a figure, which he was able to blearily identify as Marn. Dint guessed - after some time and effort - that it made sense, but he had hoped that Marn would not take that step. From his estimation, the man was in actuality a good general. 

As he slowly came to, feeling the gag in his mouth, he assessed the situation through the exhausted lens he was forced to peer through.

Marn was not thinking clearly; that much was obvious. He was bound, and was being carried by his arms. Marn would have done this to prevent any signs of struggle in obvious places. Things like blood were the first thing Marn would have thought of. Dint frowned, however, at the obvious mud and scuff-marks that they were leaving on the ground.

But what was more glaring was that he had regained his awareness much too quickly. Most chemicals used for this purpose lasted for quite a long time, but he can’t have been unconscious for too long, else he would be dead already. And… Marn wasn’t exactly being inconspicuous. Dint was surprised that no one had noticed them.

Eventually, someone did notice them. At this point, Marn pulled a handgun, threatening the passerby, who looked to be a scout, a secure report tucked under her arm. The scout stammered, and Marn snarled, pulling the trigger. 

Dint registered this hazily. There was no silencer… that was loud… someone must have heard that. In fact, Dint did see a blurry figure at the very end of the hallway. Following them quietly. 

They eventually, after another killing, reached a door, through which Marn tossed Dint. Marn raised the gun, and a buzzing filled Dint’s tired ears. Marn convulsed, hands grabbing him and setting him on the ground. Kintlen quickly undid the bonds on Dint’s arms, taking off the gag. He quietly mused to himself as he took in the room Dint was in. “A janitorial closet? Really?” Looking at Dint, “Hey. You don’t look so good. You okay?”

Dint groaned and nodded slowly, his body aching. “Just… a bit shaken, that’s all.”

“Well, if it pleases you to know this, Marn will be getting a trial. And I will make sure that he gets what is owed him.”

Dint hesitates. “Do you need me to testify?” His head ached horribly. 

Kintlen nodded. “Don’t worry, though, the trial is to take place in two days.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dint got to his feet, the now familiar headache pounding against him.

Kintlen sighed. “To be honest, I suspected something about Marn before this, but I never thought he’d snap like that.”

Dint thanked Kintlen once again, and then found his way on unsteady legs towards the cafeteria.

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Spoiler

The Constant was tired. After a time surpassing that of many, many lives, his too strong body felt… tired. Hollowed, as if the man was taken out, leaving merely a frame behind.

Decisions had been becoming harder. With so much power, he could do virtually anything. But… what if what he chose to do was wrong? His choices had led to the destruction of a people, the deaths of those he loved. 

And so, he watched. Any decision made, he felt, was a step in the wrong direction.

And so, he watched. It was a dull thing, but he had decided long ago that dullness was much better than death.

And so, he watched. He needed no food, no drink. His body would sustain him, as it had for so long.

And so, he watched.

How many years had it been?

The answer was plain and simple. Not enough. He wondered, absently, if this simplicity was the solution to so many problems. Too often, people get tangled in their own nets of philosophy such that they forget the light. Light is simple, why should truth be any different?

He stopped himself before he could make any further decisions. Decisions were dangerous. Only by the utter lack of them could he avoid failing the world.

 He wondered if any of the slight decisions he had already made - internal decisions not requiring to be acted upon. He didn’t believe so, but how could he trust himself to make that inference? He had decided to trust the Executioner, and that had led to death. There was no one left, now. A nation of immortals, brought to pass by him, and brought to its knees by him.

It didn’t matter, anyways. It was, in a way, narcissistic to mourn the nation. But they had been a part of him, each one of them, and he felt as if each of his children had been wrenched from him. He couldn’t feel them, not like they could feel him, but it hurt regardless.

How many years had it been?

A voice sounded. “Hello? Sir? You done with your tantrum?”

Strange. He ignored the voice. It could not trust him.

“I know you’re alive, sir. You’ve got a heartbeat.”

He continued to disregard it. How did he even know the voice was addressing him?

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Sir?”

He, for the first since the collapse, opened his eyes.

Beginning of a story.

[Guest Ψιτιsτηε Βεsτ]

10 minutes ago, SpiritOfWrath said:

  Hide contents

The Constant was tired. After a time surpassing that of many, many lives, his too strong body felt… tired. Hollowed, as if the man was taken out, leaving merely a frame behind.

Decisions had been becoming harder. With so much power, he could do virtually anything. But… what if what he chose to do was wrong? His choices had led to the destruction of a people, the deaths of those he loved. 

And so, he watched. Any decision made, he felt, was a step in the wrong direction.

And so, he watched. It was a dull thing, but he had decided long ago that dullness was much better than death.

And so, he watched. He needed no food, no drink. His body would sustain him, as it had for so long.

And so, he watched.

How many years had it been?

The answer was plain and simple. Not enough. He wondered, absently, if this simplicity was the solution to so many problems. Too often, people get tangled in their own nets of philosophy such that they forget the light. Light is simple, why should truth be any different?

He stopped himself before he could make any further decisions. Decisions were dangerous. Only by the utter lack of them could he avoid failing the world.

 He wondered if any of the slight decisions he had already made - internal decisions not requiring to be acted upon. He didn’t believe so, but how could he trust himself to make that inference? He had decided to trust the Executioner, and that had led to death. There was no one left, now. A nation of immortals, brought to pass by him, and brought to its knees by him.

It didn’t matter, anyways. It was, in a way, narcissistic to mourn the nation. But they had been a part of him, each one of them, and he felt as if each of his children had been wrenched from him. He couldn’t feel them, not like they could feel him, but it hurt regardless.

How many years had it been?

A voice sounded. “Hello? Sir? You done with your tantrum?”

Strange. He ignored the voice. It could not trust him.

“I know you’re alive, sir. You’ve got a heartbeat.”

He continued to disregard it. How did he even know the voice was addressing him?

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Sir?”

He, for the first since the collapse, opened his eyes.

Beginning of a story.

*sazed* 

 

No this is really good!

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

12 minutes ago, ɴɪɢʜʈ said:

*sazed* 

 

No this is really good!

Thanks!

*sazed vibes is right*

CRAP

I SAW

I SAW

MONSTERS

(no, that was a song reference. I really saw a typo.)

Edited January 23, 2025 by SpiritOfWrath

[Through the living jeff he/him(straight)]

Woah

Im supposed to be planning an essay

but this is cooler 

should look in about me’s more

On 1/22/2025 at 5:42 PM, SpiritOfWrath said:

  Hide contents

The Constant was tired. After a time surpassing that of many, many lives, his too strong body felt… tired. Hollowed, as if the man was taken out, leaving merely a frame behind.

Decisions had been becoming harder. With so much power, he could do virtually anything. But… what if what he chose to do was wrong? His choices had led to the destruction of a people, the deaths of those he loved. 

And so, he watched. Any decision made, he felt, was a step in the wrong direction.

And so, he watched. It was a dull thing, but he had decided long ago that dullness was much better than death.

And so, he watched. He needed no food, no drink. His body would sustain him, as it had for so long.

And so, he watched.

How many years had it been?

The answer was plain and simple. Not enough. He wondered, absently, if this simplicity was the solution to so many problems. Too often, people get tangled in their own nets of philosophy such that they forget the light. Light is simple, why should truth be any different?

He stopped himself before he could make any further decisions. Decisions were dangerous. Only by the utter lack of them could he avoid failing the world.

 He wondered if any of the slight decisions he had already made - internal decisions not requiring to be acted upon. He didn’t believe so, but how could he trust himself to make that inference? He had decided to trust the Executioner, and that had led to death. There was no one left, now. A nation of immortals, brought to pass by him, and brought to its knees by him.

It didn’t matter, anyways. It was, in a way, narcissistic to mourn the nation. But they had been a part of him, each one of them, and he felt as if each of his children had been wrenched from him. He couldn’t feel them, not like they could feel him, but it hurt regardless.

How many years had it been?

A voice sounded. “Hello? Sir? You done with your tantrum?”

Strange. He ignored the voice. It could not trust him.

“I know you’re alive, sir. You’ve got a heartbeat.”

He continued to disregard it. How did he even know the voice was addressing him?

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Sir?”

He, for the first since the collapse, opened his eyes.

Beginning of a story.

WOAH(again)

generally, ill write that much and then just stop

[Keke They/he]

1 hour ago, DAVEY said:

generally, ill write that much and then just stop

REAL

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Yall

I was looking through old writing projects,

and i found this short good thing!

Spoiler

A pair of dull thuds rang through the cavern, and the half-elf heard a soft groan from one of the other prisoners. She stepped forwards with the others, eyes darting about before settling at her feet.

The cavern was almost unbelievably large, spanning for some miles to the base of the large mountain. Wooden structures were placed in order to support the immense weight - the tunnel was not entirely natural. Rather, it had been painstakingly hollowed by the elven mystics, in order to reach the center.

She was tugged forwards, the chains on her hands chafing against her skin. Stumbling, she fell into place in line.

Two sets of armored guards watched the line, though they didn’t give it much thought. And neither should they - she doubted any one of these prisoners would, even if they could, give a passing thought to resistance. She didn’t even have a name - it had always been some variation of “girl,” “half-elf,” and a profanity mixed in somewhere.

Her bare foot stepped on dirty moss, poking into the calluses as she walked. The moss was stained a dark red, a fact she found amusing. Maybe one of the prisoners did try resistance.

Again, two dull thuds rang through the cavern, filling her ear. This time, however, she heard a light clink of metal as chains were unlocked. She was closer then. Good.

Behind her, she heard frantic running accompanying the marching of the prisoners. An elf, bringing an urgent message, she supposed.

Such things were not important to her. Nothing was important to her, not anymore. She just hoped it would be a swift ending.

Before long, more armored guards emerged from the recesses of the cavern. They formed rank behind her, something she could dimly hear.

The line started to speed up, the metallic thuds occurring more and more often. Maybe they were panicking.

Just as she got within clear sight of the elven priests, and the pit, she heard screams from behind her. Sounds of battle. Steel against steel, eleven magic starting and ending unsuccessfully.

A cry ran through the cavern as more and more elven guards poured out towards the growing fight. A single word, one she supposed she should recognize. 

“Goblins!” She didn’t take up the cry, instead searching the eddies of her mind for what she knew about them. She thought, maybe, that she had heard tell of them once… but the actual words eluded her.

She did hope they shared the elf’s attitude towards half-elves. Prolonging this would be decidedly dreadful.

The half-elf in front of her, a man trembling with fear, was released from his chains and led forward slowly. The elven priests struck their staves of mythril against the stone, then turned, kneeling towards the pit. Two armored guards grabbed ahold of the man, marching him towards them, and promptly threw him in the pit.

She inspected the pit as the guards undid her chains. Nearing it, the stone crumbled away into nothingness, revealing a starry realm which housed… something. She was never quite sure what, as none of the elves talked to her long enough to say. She was absolutely certain, however, that it was something that would kill her.

She stepped forwards almost eagerly, feeling metal gauntlets take hold of her arms as the dual peals of the priests sounded.

Behind her, a murmur. A whisper, a gasp. Then silence.

But not before the whistling. Two arrows, making just a whisper of noise, struck the guards pushing her forwards in the neck. No matter. She stepped forwards in an almost daze.

The priests, however, were dead. Arrows through their eyes.

She was running now, closing the distance to the pit. A force, however, shoved her to the ground, sharp pain between her shoulders bringing a grunt from her. Forced onto her knees, she looked downwards curiously at the arrow in her chest. At least they did it right. She slid sideways, willing herself to die.

But she didn’t. Inwardly cursing the goblins, she struggled to lift an arm, hoping to move the arrow just enough to hit a major artery.

A booted foot stepped in front of her, and she heard a gravelly voice. “Sorry, m’lady. We still have use for your soul yet.”

She felt a hand on her shoulder as the goblin squatted, revealing the face of a… a dwarf?

“P-please,” she coughed.

He shook his head. “No, m’lady.” He closed his eyes, and she felt her soul leaving her body. Then… nothing.

Except, she realized, there was something. There was her. She was alive, without body. 

Thoughts swirling, she drew them within herself and let out a soundless scream of frustration.

 

 

 

 

Lady Aren of Desmond, unfortunately orphaned, was growing decidedly tired of their condescension.

“My lady! I am sorry, but I absolutely cannot, under any circumstance, allow you to continue. It’s not safe, not with your…”

Her minder, a balding man who had taken charge of her after the death of her parents, fumbled for words as he tried to find a way to say what he wanted without delivering insult.

“With my what, Sir Liar?” She turned to him, eyes furious. The name, of course, was false, but it was what she had called him when she was unable to pronounce his real name. It always seemed to anger him.

He stiffened as she said it, looking at a point behind her, as if she wasn’t worth his glare. “I believe you know by now, my lady, how to pronounce my name. And for your safety, I must warn you of the danger of walking into woods in which the spirits do not respect you.”

She hesitated slightly, looking out to the trees. Tight brush obscured the path she had chosen, but she knew it by heart. Her hand clenched around the small doll under her cloak, but she found it within herself to calm down. Pushing her chin up in defiance, she looked into his distracted eyes. “They respect me! I have proof!”

Sir Leire of Desmond sighed, demeanor shifting rapidly. Sometimes Aren thought he did this simply to amuse her, his anger feigned. “My lady, pure luck does not constitute the respect of spirits. The beast simply did not see you.” He looked at her, eyes steely. “In fact, I’d be surprised if the spirits even knew you existed, with the way they ignore your calls.”

She stuck out her tongue and dashed away, ducking towards the trees. There was someone she simply had to visit. After her parents’ death, the other elves refused to acknowledge the hermit, so Aren took it upon herself to do so. At least, that was what she told the hermit. Really, she thought, it was because of all he had taught her. It would be ungrateful not to stop by from time to time.

And besides, she found it fun to put Sir Liar into such a twist. 

Puffing, the older elf ran after her, unable to prevent her from entering the brush. She pushed away the leaves and other that concealed her path, dashing through the woods gleefully. The air filled with the sharp sound of broken branches and crackling leaves and she wove around trees placed rather haphazardly in the middle of her path. As she ran, however, she tripped on a root. Twisting as she fell, Aren landed face up on the dirty ground.

This was not becoming of a Lady at all, she reprimanded herself. Especially not the Lady of Desmond. Picking herself up, she scoffed at the air and brushed herself off, raising her eyes.

Raising them, unfortunately, to stare right into the eyes of a humongous wolf. At least, that’s what she thought it was - it met most of the requirements. Most of them.

It was a hulking beast, easily larger than a horse. Its head was eye level with her, and it slunk silently through the wood. It was also, however, profusely bleeding, wounds open all over its body. They didn’t seem to bother it, even as the ground was drenched in what Aren was sure to be too much of its life-juices. She wasn’t entirely sure it was blood, as the liquid was a dark-green, giving off a sharp and unpleasant smell. As the wind - a gentle breeze, twisted towards her, she felt her skin tingle. She had to squint as if through smoke, though it proved to be even more unpleasant.

And then there were the wings. Large and powerful, one of them was fully intact, tucked against its side. The other, however, was barely more than a skeletal outline, the green ooze staining visible bones.

As Aren pulled herself up, she heard Sir Leirepush through the bramble, emerging at her side. He took a sharp breath. “Aren… You need to step away… slowly…”

His voice was quiet as if he could prevent the beast from hearing him. Indeed, the beast stayed where it was, unknowing. She stepped back… only to trip on the same root as she had before. Screaming, she fell once again on her back, and the beast pounced, stepping over her and dripping the ooze onto her flesh. Aren vaguely heard Sir Leire run, pushing through the trees and stumbling away.

As Aren looked into the beast’s eyes, exerting all she could not to writhe in pain, she finally recognized it. A fully grown Dire Wolf. Formidable even before reaching full size, the beast grew until its body could no longer sustain it, lacerations and slit arteries permeating the body. Half the body would rot, and the other half would simply open. They did not live long, after this happened.

But they were still capable of killing her multiple times over. Aren was confused, then, why this one was sparing her a quick death. Perhaps it wanted to see her succumb to the acid, die a slow and painful death. It was certainly holding her down.

As a haze, she saw her cloak rustle, and her small doll pushed out, standing defiantly while raising a hand to the wolf. A bright light rose from the hand, and Aren saw it pushed back, leaving her free to stand… something she definitely did not feel like doing just now. The wolf snarled, but then turned away.

Aren, she decided, was most definitely hallucinating. That, or she was dead. Could the dead feel this much pain? She didn’t know. As she deliberated this strange question, she felt the pain fade just slightly. Looking down, for she now found herself capable of this, she saw her small doll pulling the acid off of her. Once it was done, the doll stepped over to her head and spoke frankly. “Lady Aren, the beast will be back. You need to get up.”

She groaned. “Am I even able to do that?”

She was most definitely hallucinating. Probably as the dire wolf ate through her flesh. She had heard somewhere that they liked to play with their food - maybe this was something of a paralytic and hallucinogenic, on top of the acid.

The doll gave her a look that, Aren decided, was definitely a glare. Even though it was incapable of facial expressions. “Yes, you can walk. It will be painful, as your legs are severely wounded, but you are close enough to the hermit’s shack to hobble your way over.”

Hazily, she pulled herself up, looking down at her legs. They were covered in her own blood, but the wounds didn’t seem to be too deep. “Am I hallucinating? Am I dead?”

The doll ignored her, instead stepping into the wood in the general direction of the shack. Aren, she decided, had no choice but to follow. As her stomach moved towards her throat, she took steps, foot after foot. Multiple times she collapsed, only to be sharply reprimanded by the doll. “Lady Aren! A true lady would be up on her feet by now. It’s just a little pain.”

Aren gritted her teeth. “Yes, I got that, Lady.” It seemed that her doll had retained its personality it had when she would play pretend with it - it was starting to grate. 

Behind her, the forest rustled, and she heard a loud howl. “Quick, Lady Aren. Just through here!”

It jumped nimbly over a branch that blocked the road, while Aren was left to go around. She stumbled, pain flaring, off her small path, the crunch of the forest irritating the headache that she had acquired somewhere along the way. She was, however, able to make her way around, now within ten yards of the hermit’s shack. Her doll was, presumably, within. Hobbling, she made her way over, heart and head pounding on sync. It was rather unpleasant.

With each broken branch, each leaf shifting in the wind, she looked over her shoulder, dreading that the wolf was upon her.

When she was within five feet of the shack, the beast finally emerged, sporting yet more wounds. She looked blankly back at it as her unsteady feet planted themselves into the ground. Frozen, she closed her eyes and awaited what seemed certain death.

A death, she noted, that never came. Shaking slightly, she opened her eyes. The wolf lay dead at her feet. To her right, the small hermit stood, brandishing his staff. She opened her mouth to speak, but her legs, quite unfortunately, chose that time to fail, buckling beneath her and landing her head, unfortunately, on a stone.

Some time later, she awoke to find the doll, Lady, sitting beside her head. “Mister hermit sir?” She sniffed at her own words. Apparently, Lady did not approve of Aren’s friend. “The Lady Aren of Desmond has woken.”

Aren blinked blearily, looking around. She was in the shack, on a small heap of blankets. Thankfully, she thought, her wounds were covered. She didn’t want to confront those just yet. 

“Good. She needs to be getting back, now. It’s been quite a while.”

Aren nodded, then looked to the hermit. “My legs? They are…”

“They are fine. Lady,” he gestured to the doll, “was able to clean your wounds of the acid, so it was just a matter of healing. Something I find myself quite proficient with.”

She looked at him dumbly, then looked down to her covered legs. “Good.” She couldn’t find much else to say.

The hermit nodded. She still didn’t know his name - he had never elected to share it. The shack in which they stood, or sat, was small, the singular room serving the purpose of sleeping quarters, kitchen, and dining all in one. For such a small space, it seemed the hermit was willing to get the most of it.

Lady stood, glaring again at Aren. “Time to go, then, my lady.”

Aren nodded, stepping out of the small cot, stepping towards the door. “How do I know there aren’t more?”

The hermit chuckled. “Dire wolves aren’t like normal wolves - don’t you remember? If they are lucky enough to reach adulthood, it means they’ve killed all others in their pack.”

Aren’s stomach twisted. “Where do they come from, then? Shouldn’t they have died out?”

The hermit shook his head. “No. They come straight from the Dragon Conclave.” He rolled his eyes. “They do more to harm us accidentally than our sworn enemies do intentionally.”

Aren laughed, but it was weak. She pushed the door open with a final note of goodbye, then stepped into the wilderness.

It took quite a while to get back, something which Lady was keen to tell her. As they exited the wood, reaching the place Aren and sir Leire had picniced, Lady admonished her on this. “Look! You took so long, even faithful sir Leire isn’t waiting. You better hurry yourself up, or you’ll be back after dark.”

Aren rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Lady. I think, since we are in the open, it is time to hide yourself.”

The two had been speaking silently for some time. Lady, Aren found, absolutely refused to explain her inexplicable sapience. Aren was beginning to think that she didn’t know the answer either.

At Aren’s commas, Lady crawled into her cloak and fell limp into the small pocket sir Leire had stitched for her. Telling herself that Lady was fine, Aren again trudged towards the castle which, with her emergence from the brush, was now clearly visible.

And, clearly ablaze. Aren stopped, dumbstruck, to look forward to the castle. It seemed as if whatever could catch… did catch. And then some. A fact, silent in the back of her mind, wormed its way forward. The Dragon Conclave… they controlled the fire spirits, didn’t they? Aren felt a twisting in her gust as she started to run, hurrying towards burning stones. The walls had crumbled, leaving precious little defense behind. Somewhere in her charge, she crumpled to the floor, kneeling and hugging herself. There was nothing left. The keep was gone, and they… they were dead. Sir Leire. The… the drunk, singing on the walls, who she would giggle at as they passed on their way to picnic. Even… even the regent, ever eager to rule in her stead. She supposed that she had been intended to learn from him, but… she never had. It had just been her, Leire, and her delusions of what a Lady of Desmond would be.

Her parents had died when she was very young. She remembered the moment well, but had fought to push it to the recesses of her mind. It was not a pleasant experience.

It was all she experienced, now. Dreadful memories, twisted out of proportion by her grief. A woman, young, arriving at the castle. She simply… she killed them. No question, no reason. A gust of wind, finding its way into their lungs, ripping them apart from the inside out. 

They died, and then the woman turned to Aren. She remembered, grimly, the wind stirring as she obediently shut her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as she focused all her effort on this task. The woman, having killed the guards, stepped up to Aren, placing a hand on her cheek. Muttering near incomprehensible words, she brushed Aren’s tears away even as she pulled a knife with her other hand.

And behind her, sir Leire, the old man, charging the woman with his own blade in hand. She didn’t notice him until too late. Sir Leire had saved her life, that day. And now… now he is gone.

“Lady?” Aren called, barely more than a mumble. The doll crawled, silently, from her pocket. She didn’t speak - Aren did not wish for her to speak. Instead, she went to her knees, clutching at the doll, finally allowing her too tired soul to sob.