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Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Wed Jul 22, 2015 1:23 am
Author: silverfields2
9: Avlis Writing of a Fortnight: Meet n’ Greet
It’s another glass of wine.
Another glass to fog my mind.
I smile at you across the room
And hope you think I’m pretty.

Even then, I just don’t care.
I run my fingers through my hair.
I know full well what you want.
I know what you’ll pay for.

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Wed Jul 22, 2015 2:51 am
Author: Hamlet
Tales of Future-Past
Meet & Greet

"Hey, Rudoc. Give me the stew, if you please."

"Aye aye, Brigadier. Morbid tale, that, and a cold day outside. You need the heat!"

The pallid elf served, the orc-blood was next at the Sentinels' canteen queue. She opted for bread, ham and a pale ale instead.

"Aha!" The gnarled Ganoom behind the bar paused, butter knife in hand, and glared to the left of the towering Deputy. "There's no cheese soup!" he gesticulated toward a heavily armored trio cramped in the doorway, - two seasoned Dwergan women and a pimply-faced human male. "There's meat boiled, meat cured, fresh loaf and cheese wheel, but no cheese soup! Don't you rascals dare ask for the cheese soup!"

Out of breath, Rudoc returned his attention to Edwina. "Begging your pardon, Deputy. Those gunmages have been pushing my patience. The old General Marshal Anifail, may he rest in peace, wouldn't have had any of that! Ah well. Here's your ham sammich."

The orc-blood held the Ganoom in her gaze for a while. Slowly and deliberately she folded her arms onto the bar plot, leveling her face with his. "Ssay... Waz dere ever a time when you offered ze ssoup?"

Red as beets, Rudoc the Sentinels chef stabbed the knife in the ham and retreated in the kitchen. "NEXT!" he yelled.

The Sentinels still loitering at the canteen door staggered forward, nearly pushed by a very pregnant Avariel elf with a halberd. Once inside, the young girl planted her weapon at the wall rack and excitedly greeted the kitchen help, - a Lupin and a graying Ganoom. Both met her warmly, all the while evading each other's eyes.

The skinny Brigadier motioned his sidekick over to the corner table. As the morning shift poured in, the various rank and file stopped by to salute the Brigadier and invariably picked a seat elsewhere. He picked at his stew, disregarding the lot.

"There was, you know? Not in this time line, but there was."

"What's dat?"

"Cheese soup. With carrots, celery, cream, laurel leaf and even a glass of Tyeduan wine thrown in the pot."


"There was even a time line in which the men and women in this room would talk to me ... you know, other than when they absolutely must." The Brigadier chuckled some. "Ironically, in that same timeline I remained female, wed an Archmage of the Ebony and saw him sentenced for crimes against the city. But the Sentinels never lost faith in me."

A polite silence drew long. The orc-blood swallowed hard and dabbed at her lower lip with a napkin. "We do believe in you, Brigadier. If you be a man or a woman."

"Maybe you do." Pale fingers rapped against the bowl rim. "Never you mind."

"People fear what zey do not know." Done with her meal, the orc-blood proceeded to gather her braids in a top knot, the accent to her helmet. Out of the blue, she turned her attention to the hallway. "Methinkz you are needed outzide. My Pzionic focuz readz a tenzion."

All was quiet at the Headquarters entry hall, and it grew even more quiet as the Brigadier strode in. A circle of Sentinels surrounded Andrinor's dark stone statue, maintained in pristine condition with the infamous inscription at its base clearly legible. The voice that read the inscription, now, might as well have come from a crypt, an insane asylum or a merger of the two.

"In An-drinor we trusssssssssst. Eve-ry-one elsssssssssse we in-vessssssssss-ti-ga-te. Ah, hah, haa."

Oblivious to the fact that he was held at swordpoint, gunpoint and then some, a wretch of an elf sat cross-legged on the floor. Clad in naught but a hideous grin, drooling off the split corner of his mouth, he fixed his red eyes on the Brigadier. The red-garbed Githzerai standing next to him raised gangly index finger in the air, pointing.

"Ahh. Sage. We lost the way to the tea house."

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Sat Aug 08, 2015 1:16 am
Author: tindertwiggy
[[[A joint effort with RK57957, working title "Latanyaless"]]]

In the center of a very great forest stood the well-traveled and bustling hamlet Zvidureth. And in the center of Zvidureth, were you to ask any mage of the Red Order (for Red mages always occupied the center of their consideration), sat the high-peaked and well-timbered Red Manor. It was not so much a residence as a great collection of rooms put to eccentric and eclectic use. The largest room, just inside the door, was given wholly to commerce. Its steady trade of magical goods and accoutrements was administrated with an unyielding mithral fist, for the sales-golem, poor and forgotten project that he was, was possessed of only a single arm. A few paces away an afterthought of a booth sold coffee, black and hot, which a trickling stream of customers drank in well-cushioned chairs. A silent room behind this served as a shrine to Andrinor, the god of magic who by all accounts wilfully ignored veneration. From a deeper doorway floated the bubbling testament of the apprentices' well-practiced alchemies, or at rarer times the cacophonies of a more poorly-practiced sort.

It is a room on the second floor that had the look of an office, were an office to be woefully forgotten, which concerns us, for in the center of this room sat Sam. Papers and parchments cluttered the place in great leaning piles. A large ledger laid open upon the desk and was the target of the mage's intense consideration. His fingers tapped out a soft percussion, "tap tap tippity tap, tippity tap tap tip" as his eyes roved the ledger. The sound of approaching footsteps broke Sam's rhythm and he looked up. A second mage stood in the office doorway, dressed in red robes and purple hair.

"Kassha, thank the gods," cried Sam, "Tell me you brought Pinchy."

"That little shit shell? No I left him in Visimontium dealing with the Mark 2, it was making funny noises again."

Sam's look of hope darkened, his eyes returning to the ledger and its arcane accounts.

"Vorin be damned what are these piles of parchment precariously perched in front of you Sammy?" Kassha asked, pushing one such aside in a search for buried treasures.

"Sales accounts from the merchants. Bills from the manor's creditors. Reports from the order. Did you know Artorius sent three memos and four requests just last month? And I only made it a fifth-way through the first stack." Sam held up a fistful of old letters newly opened.

Kassha continued to rummage, his eyes lighting up as a stack of papers slipped from the desk to reveal a large and open-topped skull. Kassha thrust his fingers into, their scrabble audible from the skull's interior. A slow look of horror filled his face. "Why is the skull empty?" He shouted. "Where are the jellybeans?" He paused to sniff, "And what is that smell? Has Gann been in?" He swiveled around trying to find the source of the smell.

Sam selected a letter from a nearby pile and held it up to Kassha, watching the other mage through ledger-blurred eyes. "A three month old bill from 'Goiblesteins Exotics and Hard to Find Things.' Sixty thousand gold for the delivery of a dozen cockatrice eggs, marked down to forty thousand because, and I quote, 'A few eggs broken in transit.' Someone was kind enough to put the entire delivery over there in the corner."

Sam placed the proffered but untaken bill back amidst the piles and leaned back in his chair, his gaze listless as it took in the mess. "I have no doubt that somewhere in this mess you will find an unpaid and long overdue bill from whatever confectionery Latanya had delivering the jelly beans, which would go far in explaining our current empty-skulled situation. Her absence has finally caught up to us. I am quite sure that sooner rather than later all official activities in the manor are going to grind to a halt for want of," Sam eyed the piles with mistrust, "bookkeeping."

"So hire a bookkeeper," suggested Kassha.

"I was hoping Pinchy would do it for free."

Kassha shook his head. "Not a chance."

"Can we bribe him?" Sam asked.

"It's more of a personal matter than a pay matter, jaa?"

"He's still angry about the poetry critique?"

Kassha tapped his nose.

"But orange -does- only rhyme with frond when said underwater." Sam protested.

Kassha looked at Sam.

"I am not apologizing to the thin-shelled prick." Sam remarked.

Kassha's gaze pointedly moved to the piles of papers.

Sam frowned, "Who else can we saddle with this mess? There's probably some stuff here we don't want known outside the order. How about Gann?"

"Sammy that is a wonderful idea! Particularly if the solution is a shovel and a very large fire."

"Yeah, not Gann." Sam admitted.

"Arglebargle?" Asked Kassha.

"He's been artificing rather heavily lately. I am afraid we'd lose him amidst the piles, only to find a year from now the room suddenly empty save for some indecipherable notes on paper golems," Sam sighed. "How about Jonatan?"

"Worth a try, I'll write him." Kassha took a random paper off the desk, turning it over to write a message upon the back, and began searching the desk for a quill and ink.

"Wait, did that paper have something important on it?" Asked Sam.

"In the grand scheme of things probably not." Kassha replied, still searching. "Ah! The ink bottle is dry."

Kassha opened a large pouch at his belt to produce a rather ornate scribing set, the accoutrements of which he unpacked and balanced precariously upon the piles covering the desk. Pulling up a chair, he set to carefully writing the note to Jonatan, balancing the teetering piles and his set up the entire time with slow motions and shifts of his weight against the desk.

"Should we mention this to Artorius?" asked Sam.

"Sammy, Artorius was elected precisely because we thought him the candidate most likely to leave everything and everyone well enough alone, and also the candidate most likely to divine the times he was actually needed. If he isn't here me must be doing his job."

"Yes, the 'fuck off' mandate, but we might actually need him to replace our missing Latanya with someone to take care of this mess."

Sam watched a pile teeter, the open ink bottle atop it leaning precariously before a gentle shift by Kassha sent it slowly teetering back the other way.

"Done." Said Kassha, blowing on across the paper to dry it.

They both stared at the letter until it dried, reading over the words.

Magus Jonatan,

You have been assigned the un-enviable task of getting the Manor's finances back in order. You will coordinate with Magus Valorian and myself as needed. Preferably you coordinate with Magus Valorian first. May Vorin have mercy on you. Don't screw it up.

Magus K. Firehart,
Great Mage of Arms
Red Order of the Flames

"You know", Kassha started, "this could end rather badly."

He folded the letter up and handed it to Sammy like one would hand off a viper. "Normally Lat would handle a letter like this, but since she's not here and I only deal with external threats I think you should do the honors."

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon Aug 10, 2015 7:37 am
Author: Brayon
[[[Part of the Tag-Team of Tindertwiggy & RK57957]]]

Latanyaless… A Story Continuation

Jonatan Shadowbreath, the half-nymph sorcerer of the Red Order of the Flame was not having a good day. He surveyed the surrounding mess of an office, wondering which god, or goddess, he needed to curse for drawing this lot. His black panther familiar, made a low grumbling sound, & put a paw over his nose about a stench coming from the corner. After a moment, he walks as far away that he can, & flops on his side against the wall. “Traitor!” Jon yells over to Eros, as he once again turned back to the office. Sighing to himself, Jon steps into the office, “Why can’t I be back on the beach?” he asks himself.

Earlier that morning a barefoot Jon walks along the shore of the Eridanus river. Dipping his toes in the water, letting the coolness of it flow over his feet on this warm summer day. His cloak, & shirt has been shed, as he sits down on the bank wearing nothing but short pants. His lean, nearly hairless body, gleaming in the afternoon sun from sweat, or from traces of his mother’s Nymph heritage. Eros, is behind him stalking a rabbit, near the tree line. Creeping silently, ready to pounce when a screech goes out across the beach clearing.

“The nine hells, is that?” Jon swore as he jumped to his feet and quickly cast a premonition spell. Above him circled a hawk with a golden radiance around it. Tucked between its talons was a letter. It headed down towards him. “A celestial hawk, eh? Who’d be sending me a message this way?” It approached Jon, and released the letter into his hand before disappearing in a shower of light. “Huh, a modified sending spell. I wonder who’s work is that.”

He flips the Letter over looking at who it is from, & using a spit of lightning opens the seal on it. He reads it over a few times, as he takes a deep breath. He flips it over looking at the invoice on the other side, “huh, the Bill from Jade’s for last months meeting refreshments. No wonder she hid the caramel syrup.” Grabbing his gear, he calls out to Eros, who in a huff as the rabbit got away trots over to him. “Seems we’re needed at the Red Manor in Zvidureth. Magi Fireheart, & Valorian want me to get the finances in order.” At the mention of the names, Eros grumbles, & sends him a telepathic message. “Yes, I’m wondering why they didn’t ask Pinchy, but he’s probuly busy in Visimontium.” With an utter of a spell, from a scroll he has, Jon & Eros teleport to just outside the Village of Zvidureth.

Walking along the East road into town, he turns sharpely across from the Leaf & Stone, making his way across the practice field. He waves at some of the locals, & members of the Le’Nofaythen who are practicing behind the barracks. Making sure not to get poked, he makes his way into the building, Eros falling along behind him. He smiles as he passes the merchants in the lobby, as he makes his way down to the private areas of the Manor. Reaching the Baths, he showers, drys, & dons his order robes, as he heads back upstairs, wondering if he will run into the two Great Mages. He’s stop, & buys a mug of Famous Jade’s Coffee, before heading upstairs to the meeting area, & office.

“They’re not here, huh… Guess they had other business to attend too,” Jon says as he walks from the stairs to the office. He smiles as he opens the door, & promptly shuts it again. “Oh, my.”

After reopening the door, Jon stands there for a good twenty minutes taking it all in. He finally spies the cockatrice eggs in the corner, & the obvious source of the stench. “Oh, brother…”

“Alright Jon, where are you going to start? Well, first thing will be to get rid of those eggs.” He reaches them, as one of them hatches, a well shaped ball lighting ended the threat, but cooked the others, only to serve to make the smell worse. Ruffling trough the desk, Jon finds the key to the scroll case, where he uses a summoning spell to summon a Gelatinous Cube, & quickly tosses the rotted, cooked, stinky eggs into it. He ends the spell, hoping it’s not sentient enough to remember who he was.

Calling the vortex magic to him, & forming it with words of Magya, Jon cast Prestidigitation, & quickly sets about cleaning the dirt, dust, & freshen the air of the rotted eggs. “There we go Eros, got the smell removed.” He chuckles boyishly, as he hears Eros’ reply in his head, & starts about his next task.

For the next several hours, Jon starts the long tedious practice of going through the ledgers. Placing them in chronological order first, Duplicates, & Final Notices. He makes a list of who gets what funds, making sure Jade’s gets priority, & promptly falls asleep half way through out of sheer boredom.

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Tue Sep 08, 2015 2:01 am
Author: silverfields2
3. Avlis Art of the Week: Washed up on the Shore

Looked for unicorns
I found nothing but glass ghosts
And translucent crabs

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Tue Sep 08, 2015 4:55 am
Author: LadyAwesome
{{Stories of the red Mannor continued}}

It had been some time since she had returned to this place, breathing in the scent off coffee. Not quite home yet but close enough. Her studies had directed her to travel places, which she never expected. Ever since she was a child she tended to hide, she never went far, unless of course it was to watch a certain young man running around the place like a lunatic, a magical lunatic none the less.

Her boots made clicking noises on the floor boards and she smiles warmly to Jade and everyone else in the entrance before making her way up the stairs. She starts coughing before even reaching the top, he thought going to the events before her departure.... she shakes the thoughts from her head. No point in thinking about that.

Her gloved hand opens the door to the large office and leans against the door, some silken blonde hair falls over her face, her eyes scanning noticing how the office had been attempted to be cleaned and Jonatan asleep at the desk. She shakes her head and sneezes again, her hand covering her face. She didn't really want to wake the moron, she only put up with him because she had to. "Lighting him on fire could..... No Pia..... Stop. You are not crazy you are in control, you are not crazy you are in control....." getting frustrated with herself she decided now would be a good time to clean the place properly, the sheen of the wood glistened when she was done. Pia contemplated if anyone else cleaned Gann's robes while she was gone, probably not, that must be next on the list.
She eyed the files afterwards......
then she looked at Jon.......
She slowly walked closer and tried to ignore the panther who was probably growling at her, she didn't want to listen, closer she made it to the pile of papers.....
"Jon. Wake up." She boots him in the shin and leaves a coffee behind before walking out the door.

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Tue Sep 08, 2015 8:42 am
Author: Plethora
The still sea lies unbroken..
not even the breeze disturbs its shores...
The three heads rising, soft silver hair.. strung with seaweed, and coral..

~~~perfect skin~~~
Eyes of the deepest
blue.. green.. gray..

identical they watch the M'Chekian coast in the dusk...
... and for one moment, their perfect lips break the surface....
and utter a single word
....Before sinking into the ocean again, without a ripple...


Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Tue Sep 08, 2015 6:25 pm
Author: Hamlet
Tales of Future-Past
Washed up on the Shore

"Grrr! Sshoo! Sshoo!" Deputy Edwina waved her fists at the circling gulls, all but foaming at the mouth. Those were sea gulls, very much out of place in a mountain lake thousands of miles away from any sea shore. Yet there they were, thriving generation after thriving generation, the uncontested scavengers of Visimontium.

"Psionic sense not helping?" The scrawny Brigadier reached out to man the oars, grinning. The orc-blood grunted in response, precariously leaning overboard to grab some lake grass. Much to the elf's relief, both Edwina and the small boat were upright soon enough.

After thoroughly scrubbing her shoulder-pad clean from the gull's "gift", the orc-blood took back to the oars but kept her eyes on the sky.

The Brigadier relaxed against the sacks stacked at the bow. Arms folded under his head, his icy gaze roamed the early spring clouds.

"I'm sorry," he said, the grin still lingering at the corners of his mouth.

"What for?"

"The gulls. In this and other timelines, one young Lieutenant took pity on a gull tangled in some fishing nets down Ferrell. Then he took the gull and her nest with him, all the way here."

"Sso... Dat wazn't you?"

"You know me, Ed." A small shrug." I have no love for wildlife, nor wildlife has any love for me."

"Who den?"

"Selash nic'Arianrhod," the Brigadier responded, straight-faced.

"What kind ov a name iz dat!?"

"Mmh... nic'Arianrhod stands for Daughter of the Silver Moon. It was the name of his bride. She came from Tairis'nàdur beyond the sky. They moved there, eventually, to start a family."


"As for Selash... No clue." The elf Brigadier let out a choke-laugh. "He was Nanshin. A leaf mage. The cutest son of a b-... redhead, too."

"Be you into redheadz?" Finally the orc-blood allowed herself a toothy grin, pausing at the oars. The boat swung gently in a wide circle, bringing a single ripple amidst Coldshadow lake's still waters. The ridge's cliffs reflection remained otherwise immaculate. Far to the east, a pale rainbow danced at the base of the murmuring falls.

The elf propped himself on his elbows, looking up at his companion. "Not particularly." He smirked. "Although I bet you couldn't imagine whom I wed in another timeline."

"Nuh-uh. But I bet you be willing to tell," Edwina twirled one of her black braids 'round her finger, mimicking a coy expression.

"Grandmaster Hebrin of the Order of the Dragon."

Uproarious laughter shook the boat, as both Sentinels bent over double laughing. At this, one of the oars found itself flung in the air and, as gravity would have it, finished its trajectory smacking the skinny Brigadier right out of the boat. Startled, the Deputy jumped in the water, the boat capsizing in the process. The two splashed about for a while, then burst out laughing again. From the spilled sacks, turnips and carrots bobbed up to the surface, joined by droves of bubbles.

Much later, with their vessel docked under the city wall, the morning boat patrol huddled under a rothe wool blanket.

Still snickering, or maybe shivering, the Deputy prompted: "What are ze oddss?"

"One in a million." The Brigadier paused, then winked. "Happens every month."

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Wed Sep 09, 2015 12:26 am
Author: silverfields2
2. Avlis Art of the Week: Dinner with the Enemy
I’ve set you a fine table.
Please sit down when ever you are able.
You see, this tea you’ve given me,
I’ve spilled it on my sable.
No, please, not to worry;
Please try my curry.
Oh, so sorry that you tipped it;
Never mind the dogs will get it.
I’ll pour some wine -
It will be fine -
Our maids are use to washing linens.
Sorry to see you must leave so soon;
The turtle soup just touched your spoon.
I hope you did not go away hungry.

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon Feb 08, 2016 2:00 pm
Author: Dirigible
I stumbled on an old pair of short drabbles, thought I'd share it here. It also makes an excellent writing topic if anyone else wants to get their creative juices flowing and join in.

Seven sins.

Gann Eider & Lust

Gallows Thrice-spat was late.

Gann wetted his lips and tried not to make a sound as he shifted his legs awkwardly. Cramp was setting in and the damn roof was slippery. He lay looking down into an alley, filthy, filled with street refuse and no different to any other in the slums. He was waiting. And the person he was waiting for.... Well, he wasn’t here yet. He could stay a bit longer.

They made a good team, the two of them. Gann was so unremarkable looking, such a scrawny thing, he could move through a crowd with nary a notice when he wanted. And he, hmm, he had a... look that would normally be a disadvantage to a thief’s profession. Russet curls, fell in front of his face. Sharp white teeth smiling over thin lips. A darting pink tongue. Intense yellow eyes and ruddy skin that almost felt feverish to the touch it was so warm. Gann knew that heat, brushing against him, their hands locked as they play fought over the latest pickings. A dip here, a cut purse there, Gann’s playmate had a way of meeting his marks in the eye as he did it.

Gann was nothing of the sort, keeping dark hours and fumbled picks, goose fat and a hatred of rust. If he left muddy tracks, he didn’t care. He’d be long gone by the time any awoke. And if the worst came to the worst? He could slip out, shuddering into the fleabitten form of a dog. Nobody noticed the strays that wander through the streets, half starved, no different than the people and waifs.

When Gann first met his accomplice, he stood confused by the prickling of his neck and heady rhythm beating in his chest. He felt other things, stirrings he’d not given heed to, behaviours watched but never indulged. Sailors drunkenly weaving up from the wharfs, roughly caressing the women that would wait for them. A stolen glance of a merchant’s daughter, closeted away in her family’s home, undressing with an open window. A silent cry for another’s touch. The not-long-to-be-stranger smiled his sharp little smile, like a glinting dirk. He looked Gann in the eye and stepped forward, a hand outstretched in greeting. Gann’s stomach lurches and he stumbles. The red headed stranger gives him a sympathetic look and a brief pat on the back before he turns away. With the sudden lightening of his belt, Gann realises his coin purse has been slit. He’s shocked. He’s never been collected from before. It’s a sour experience. Hurling himself after the redhead, they run a merry dance and five streets down he’s still chasing him, bile in his throat, sucking at the air. Only this is his patch they’re in now, and he knows it well. The stranger takes a slow turn into a dark alley. He has him.

Later they’d laugh about it, the knife drawn and knocked across the cobbles. A savage courtship of a blackened eye and bruised ribs. Of falling into the mud and shit of the street until they were just flailing helplessly. Of course he’d be the one to find it funny. When a sudden peal of laughter had emerged from the filth caked stranger, Gann snorted and chuckled out his reply almost madly. As they picked themselves out of the muck Gann felt awkward, with his heart in his throat and a pounding in his blood. Easily solved though. They’d gone to pilfer some moonshine from the tanner’s workshop and thrown themselves in one of the city’s fountains. Cold water and harsh spirits mixing as they slopped about. Gann has no further memory of this night until he’d awoken groggily the next day with an arm around him in the red head’s rented attic.

Shaking his head from such revelries, Gann crouches on the roof still, peering down to the street with a frown. The dark of the night is fading, the false dawn warning of the true one. Pulling up a hood, he dangles his legs over the edge of the gutter and lowers himself hand over hand down to the ground below. His mind turns over their plans. Of becoming ravens, or running away to the bird cage, a heist across the planes. All of these things were possible. But now he was late, now he hasn’t come. He haunts the red head’s usual drinking holes and finds nothing. The attic space empty. His things gone. Nothing but a faint lingering of brimstone.

Years later he stands, a different person, a full member of the red order of flames. He stands in their tower, a mirror in front of him, his face relaxes and features slip and shift fluidly. his usual stubble covered face becoming sharper, no longer his own. Burning eyes and a smile like a dagger glints back from the glass. A finger raises to touch this strange yet familar sight. He can’t forget those few nights even now.

Skrike Lastbreath & Wrath

Berserker. The word was always spoken in fear and awe amongst the orcs. One who could cleave through friend and foe alike whilst taken with their fits of devastating fury. The tribe’s shaman Dakar the wizened, would feed the chosen mead laced with lichen and fungi, brewed in his tent when the moons were full and the skyspirits shrieked overhead. They begin with feasting before battle, all slowly getting drunker, the ice shards of fear washed away in a haze of comradeship, boasting and cheer. But the chosen. They would be given the godsmead, just before the marching orders were given. Then when they were at the height of their fury, they would be unleashed, shock troops storming through an enemy’s line. The young gnoll had seen it all before, he’d recited the tales of the greatest heroes caught in that madness himself, the great and terrible deeds they had performed. Frijon the unnamed, murderer of his whole clan, children and all, Krag the Sundered who stood hip deep in his foes gore, fighting till his hammer broke. Sversak the maiden, who fought a giant amongst the broken glaciers of Gress’varbarden with naught but her shield, battering it to death and breaking her arm in the process. Beserkers did not pass from this world without being noticed in tales. Most said they were god-touched, Vina, the young gnoll’s master, would shrug and merely ask him the price he was willing to play lest his name slip from the lips of the living. Only when one was forgotten would one truly die.

Now it was his turn. Their camp was light by the light of torches, under the frigid sky above. Soon they would fight. The lights of the human town ahead were small and dim. Tomorrow they would shine no more. The gnoll nodded at his master as he passed her, joining the small line for the godsbrew. Some of the other orc youths jostled him, sneering at him. They would never let him forget he was merely a slave raised up from battle fodder. He set his jaw and held his place, a few snapping bites and punches kept his place at the rear. At last his turn came, the shaman’s shaking hands held the horn full of mead before him. Kneeling so Dakar could bless him, he heard the ritual words invoking the winds to carry him swiftly, the sky women to smile on his blades and hearth fires to give him strength. Then he felt his head pulled backwards by someone behind him and Dakar poured the battle mead down his throat. Struggling to swallow it quickly enough, he choked and thrashed, but the warrior behind held firm. Dakar smiled grimly then, his teeth rotten and brown, speaking quietly so few could hear. “Now dog, you shall prove your worth to this tribe. Do not let Vina’s lessons be for nothing.” The gnoll pushed himself to his feet, standing a good head above the orcs. Gnolls were rarely treated as equal to the tribe, if he failed, he would be returned to the rest of his clan, fit only as beasts on leashes in battle. As he strengthened his resolve, the room started to humm, blurring and shifting, the figures around him becoming darker blotches on this wavering background. Vina was suddenly by his side, clapping a hand on his arm guiding him to the lines. The night was cold and the winds howled across the tundra, they seemed to be screaming of things to come. The stars above wheeled and danced, jagged and cold. He blinked, but his vision did not clear. He could hear the words of the battle master, telling them where to throw themselves, but it barely registered. He merely followed those in front of him to take their places. The orcs around him were working themselves up now, bashing their axes and clubs on their shields. Vina strapped his shield to his arm wordlessly and and took her place in the rear. It was her job to note those who lived and died today, recording their valour in the tribes songs. The clanging cacophony of steel on steel became a drum roll and harsh orcish voices, cried out with curses and boasts. The gnoll joined in, his stomach twisting, howling his own rough war songs along the rest. Word spread down the line, the humans were manning the walls, this was their time. The line broke into a hoard of figures, feet pounding the hard frozen ground. Skrike whooped and yelped as he ran, quickly outpacing most of the short legged orcs. The human’s walls were merely logs, driven into the ground and fallen into disrepair.They offered no real resistance. Arrows buzzed through the air,he could almost see the trails they left behind, the disturbed air lit up. He raised his shield high and followed the strings of sound, waspish biting echoing in his ears. Though his shield shook from the odd glancing arrow, none found his flesh. He couldn’t remember why he was here, why was he was running, waving his hatchet? Then in front of him he saw the pale face of a man upon a feeble barricade, notching another arrow. He leapt, instinct taking over, scrabbling up the barricade, his axe biting into the human’s shoulder, a red gush on impact. Even in this light, it seemed to glow. Even in this cold he could taste it’s warmth in the air. The stars above no longer danced, they shook jarringly. Something hit him from behind and he stumbled, hearing metal on metal, the roar of fighting and the whimpers of the dead. His vision narrowed and he screamed to his very last breath, a dervish, a shrieker, a carrion eater gone mad. A beserker.

They had to hold him down he was told. It took four warriors to pin him after the battle was over. They had found him, hacking away at the corpses that surrounded him, bloodied and steaming. As they returned to the camp, he felt numb, wearied and sore. All the wounds he had seemingly shrugged off came to haunt him. Yet as they drew near to a huge roaring fire, all that saw him clapped him on the shoulders, drinks were pressed into their hands. They moved to the front of the fire and his master vaulted onto a table shouting for silence. The mirth and chatter died down. She spoke of the battle, of those who fell first, that they might be honoured, she called on the sky maiden’s to take them. She spoke heartily of the living, of particular individual’s prowess, warmly smilling at each of those mentioned. Then taking the gnoll’s arm, she held it high roaring out her words, “This whelp has proved himself! No longer is this dog unnamed. I am Vina Viper-tounged, war bellower of the Grushrak tribe, in service to Ragnar Krumdel, Overlord of the frigid north, and I call this one, Skrike Last-breath, for he screamed curses and fought our foes until he could not!” The tribe leapt up as one, slopping drinks with horns upraised. “Skrike Lastbreath” they chanted. The gnoll grinned toothily and raised his horn back at them.

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon Feb 08, 2016 4:46 pm
Author: Wyll
Good stuff, Dirigible. Keep it coming, eh?

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon Feb 08, 2016 9:12 pm
Author: silverfields2
For January

Morning with its dull aches and
shakes. Hold up a cup of dark,
black coffee and a bowl of
hot oatmeal and tell it it
can't come in no matter
how hard it knocks until I
am good and ready for it.

Sorry Beethoven
Are there devils in recordings - demons in the disks?
Voices and faces saved upon the chips.
Electronic switches on and off and on and off again.
You can never die my star-men; we’ve got you on the net.

As long as the lighting runs through our electric web,
Here you linger ever dreaming, the ghosts in our machines.
You can never die my star-men, we’ve got you in the cloud.
Preserved, conserved, reserved for generations now.

American Politics (For VIchan)
We are all actors on the TV screen.
We want to make your policy.
See how pretty we dance for you.
See how, we survive for you.
We will eat the snakes in the jello pit,
And stand before the Russian parliament.
We will make The Big Bad Wolf disappear.
It was just a game to choose a mate in;
Find a needle in a haystack in;
We know how to run the world.
The military is no problem.
On our private email we’ve got the solution;
Sorting out the resolution.
This is reality.
This is reality.
Go America!

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon Feb 08, 2016 11:50 pm
Author: tindertwiggy
Requesting a Jankan soup song.

*rabble rabble rabble*

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Wed Mar 02, 2016 12:40 am
Author: silverfields2
For February

Where is the comfort in the cell of my soul?
Where is the shelter from the war in my brain?
There is my ship caught on the shoal.
There are the rags ripped from the main.

A sound place for towers - a wreak for a boat.
Though winds and sea try, rocks just won’t float.
The wet wood on shore is poor for a fire.
Forced by the storm to climb to the spire.

Four sailors made the beach safe and sound.
One sailor lost by a fall from the wall.
Three gained the door and entered the hall.
Only I left from the ship run aground.

It started out wrong with horrible visions;
Apparitions of wraiths haunted and pale.
This stack of stones, drowned shades imprisons.
The maimed and the shattered from the force of a gale.

Am I dead or alive - I’m not even certain;
This storm doesn’t end, this rain is a curtain.
I cower and cry and live in my hell;
No hope for a rescue from my storm battered cell.

Lost on the rocks way out at sea,
I join the ghosts of eternity.

Inspired by Throrfinnn and the Spirt-kin Plot
You bring the light, I’ll bring the dark.
The lizard in the looking glass has a beating heart.
I gave it breath, you took it away;
The mirror is a reflection that doesn’t stay the same.
I’ve got my game face on; letting the dice roll in my hand.
Will the wheel end on sacrifice, betrayal or a dance?

When the mirror shatters, there are multiple illusions;
In each piece a flame flickering in unison.
The dark is that much darker now.
I'm holding on a flower and the flower is you.

Standing in the tempest, beaten by the storm.
Petals falling from my fists, riding the wind.
Some other people have the wood of the world;
Some other people have a mountain’s heart;
All I've got is my faith in the face of the void.
I've fallen from the clouds and my wings are gone.

When the mirror shatters there are multiple illusions;
The bioluminescence reflected in the pieces;
The dark is that much darker now.
I'm striking like lightning, and my power comes from you.

I’ve put things in the washer
That weren’t meant to be
And there it’s gently rocking
Suds and soap and bubbles Wheee!

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Sat Apr 09, 2016 3:10 am
Author: silverfields2
For March

Trace the bark under my finger tips; this
    tree is too rough to kiss. Wake to silver
    fields of snow; brown grass by the wind laid low.

Here the mark where the wind came down to hunt;
    wing-tips brushed and two legs hopped. The snow that
    falls, falls like rain, and then no marks remain.


I got drunk to fix my shoulder
Now I’m dead
Are you sober?

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Wed May 04, 2016 2:21 am
Author: silverfields2
Poison in my heart
Poison in my lungs
Rolling from my teeth
Rolling from my tongue
Rolling from the ghost of me
Dripping into you
I can change you
Just spend an hour with me
I can change you
Feel the vapor rolling out of me
First your eyes
Then your mouth
I can give it all to you
The poison in my blood
Dripping into you
Drop by drop


I SCREAM my beautiful words of POETRY
into the OH SO Beautiful spring morning
shaking the redbuds and pear blossoms
until I am too hoarse to talk
and the goose in the yard
hisses and
the ponies hunger
and I dance
like a fairy


Yellow stars scattered
Across the deep spring green grass
My favorite flower

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon May 30, 2016 3:25 am
Author: silverfields2
I slay a thousand echoes of a sunset
with my mind.

The blue herons fly away with summer.

The pond lies glass smooth with the memory
of the moon.

It is I who am in the grave, though I
stood by to watch you drown.

The time was not right to save you then and
still not right to save you now.

Silently, I wrap bandages around
my hand, soaking up the blood of my past
lives where the knife went in repeatedly.

This is a strange cycle but I will keep
fighting until the end.

Just like you did.


I’ve water for a pillow and no place to lay my head.
I float like a piece of wood and sink like a piece of lead.
All I am is dreaming and I’m dreaming that I’m dead.

Everything will be alright, because the kids will save the world.
Everything will be alright, because the kids will save the world.

My past is what has made me, going back 100 years.
I’ve polished all the rockets and oiled all the gears.
I’ve swallowed all my pride and swallowed all my tears.

Everything will be alright, because the kids will save the world
Everything will be alright, because the kids will save the world.

Oh! to be young and mean and green -
Oh! to have all the hope and none of the vanished dreams.

But, everything will be alright, because the kids will save the world.
Oh! Everything will be alright, because the kids will save the world.
Yes, everything’s alright, because the kids will save the world.


Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon Jul 04, 2016 9:56 pm
Author: silverfields2
Saturday morning
Country road markers - brown bags
With Golden Arches


Out evening riding
Seventeen year cicadas
Hanging like new fruit


New house, new window
Too tall hay stands taunting me
I want to cut it


There comes a time when
I must truly stop and breathe
Or risk going mad.


I wasn't born with a functioning crystal ball.
If I crush all your petals, will I extract all your beauty?
I spent all night in the pouring rain.
The morning came and I brought you your crown.
What you didn't know killed you.
I had laced your sheets with venom.
Of all my sins, I'll not be known as a breaker of oaths.
You tried to steal my voice.
I was the roar of falling water.
I would not be silenced.


P!nk - Just Give Me A Reason ft. Nate Ruess

What would happen if every day I stopped myself of all assumptions?
What would happen if every morning I could start again learning what the world means?
Every minute rebuilding our relationships.
It’s the never ending dream.
It won’t matter what you did yesterday.
It doesn’t mater what you do tomorrow.
Every moment is a new one.
Every moment we say sorry and I love you.
We could leave.
We could leave.
We could never have to deal with someone else’s expectations.
Or we could decide, to be a partner, better then the day before.
It’s not easy.
It’s alway hard.
How much do you change me?
Every day you are a stranger.
Every day you rearrange me.
It’s so hard.
It’s so hard.
But I would not be me, if it were not for you.
This is true.
Down to the microscopic level this is true.

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Fri Aug 05, 2016 1:17 pm
Author: silverfields2

The Bearded Dragon
Teaches sun salutations
I am a student


Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Sat Sep 03, 2016 8:17 pm
Author: silverfields2
I have decided to self-censure the third poem I wrote last month because it may contain content that may offend. I don't mind sharing it if you want a private PM. Here are the other two for August.


It wasn't exactly what you wanted
But you thought it just might do.
When the moonlight and fairy dust united
The element we were looking for shone right through.

If all our wanderings were accidents
I'm glad to have had the chance with you.
I've even stopped dropping hints
The days we've got left are few.

I know, it wasn't exactly what you wanted
But I know we made do.
It was hard when the element we wanted
Was the flower that we grew.

I'm sure all our wanderings were accidents
But I took my chance on you.
Fate gave us ropes for our descent.
Faith inspired the map we drew.

When the river bent upon it's back within the garden
And snow melted leaving dew;
All that was left to us was the grace to pardon
All the faces that we knew.

Even if all our wanderings were accidents
We still knew what we had to do.
When the rain came down in torrents
We held each other's hands and faced the wind that blew.

It wasn't exactly what you wanted
But there is nothing left to prove.
Even when we left this space as haunted
Our mountains never moved.


Toads and crickets hop
Heavy air threatening storms
Never releasing


Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Fri Oct 07, 2016 2:16 am
Author: silverfields2
I'm going to bite your head off and chew
lustily, crunching your skull bones to a
pasty pulp and sucking the juices of
your brain into my mouth. This is because
my self-control withered and slithered off -
a snakeskin caught in the dry summer grass
of my incessant pain that I know you
don't really care about because you've got
your own. I am sorry. I am sorry
we both have a wake of turkey vultures
swirling off of a fresh and glittering
in the summer-sun carcass of a car-
killed-doe who wandered too close to the road
and made a bad guess. I am sorry we
have that snarling wolf in our right knee that
is slowing us down again and thwarting us
from ever attaining our ever fast
fading and slipping dreams. I am sorry
that there is that constant burning in our
lower right gut that might not be there at this
moment but we don't know when it will be
back to make us feel like we are just a sack
of water sloshing about and all stuck
inside. I am sorry and the guilt of
your impending decapitation is
already eating a hole in my heart
and making me weep. How about I just
retreat into the distant silence of
my space until this all goes away and
I can rise again like a rabble of
tiny miniature butterflies rising
out of the mud beside the water trough?


Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon Nov 07, 2016 1:43 pm
Author: silverfields2

The month of October was clouded with
Blazing sunrises and sunsets; yellow
Leaves and the movement of does. I did not
Manage to write any October down.


Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2016 5:18 am
Author: silverfields2
Fourteen contrails fill the morning sky;
All those people passing by.
Me, my feet, firmly rooted on the ground;
They cannot see me if they look down.

Can you pay me for my rain?
It falls softly on the fields of grain.
Can you pay me for my rain?
See the hay go green again.
Can you pay me for my rain?
It's all I have to give you.

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Wed Jan 04, 2017 1:09 am
Author: silverfields2
Silver she-wolf running with the ruby
red heart. Ice-fire flickers in the hall.
Sprout leaf-veined wings to catch the wind and fly
away in fairy fire. Waking from
the snow dream into the sunlight chasm.

Memories are now as long as winter
shadows stretching across the yard in an
all day afternoon. I still race to catch
up to my elders burning toward the
twilight sky casting long silhouettes home.

The drifting snowflakes
Wander beyond the window
Choosing where to land.

Re: Writing of the Fortnight

PostPosted: Tue Feb 07, 2017 2:29 pm
Author: silverfields2
Prompt: Eternity. Someone facing the heat-death of the Universe

The end times are nigh,
hours of deserved damnation.
Whether it is nobler of one's mind
to go into eternity with
a damned soul or a clean heart,
we boldly go
where no body has gone before.
From cosmic dust all things came
and to cosmic dust all things return.
We cannot be saved from this
even by a tiny blue police box.
Start saving now.
Limited time offer.
No money back guarantees.
The dice have been tossed.

Prompt: The wisdom of moonlight

The Wisdom of Moonlight

Moonlight- silent as the winds; voice of sweet caresses or howl of fiends.
Moonlit clouds chase 'cross the sky; lovers’ lips are dripping lies.
Sunlight in pale reflection, easier to give misdirection.
Raindrops fall like strings of diamonds, falling to the call of sirens.
Love lives in moonlight, as does deceit; cold treachery to passion’s heat.
Lock the doors 'gainst night's thieves; open windows- lovers please.
Secrets kept and secrets given, exchanges made when moon has risen.
Silver light so ancient, old; all the stories never told.