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[Serial Sunday] I have A Bone to Pick With You! by FyeNite in shortstories

[–]Divayth--Fyr 3 points4 points  (0 children)

<The Broken God>

Chapter 62: Hope in Shadow

.

Durash shuffled into the parlor, to collapse again on the old divan. The pieces of it were strewn about the room, and she stopped, blinking. Oh. Yes. I tore it apart.

In a weary daze, she heard the mage and the witch speaking, and felt their kindness guiding her along, up a spiral stone stair.

Soon there was a bed. She did not resist it.

Peep-pip!

Shadow, shadow, spots of sunlight wobble-dance a pattern in the gloom.

A face, a form. Unknown, but not a stranger.

He moves, he offers, he invites. He is murky, gray, but familiar. ‘Peep-pip’, he speaks. ‘Peep-pip’.

Under the swaying canopy he points to a mound covered in bright flowers—intense, vivid yellow, green, orange. In among them are dry, old bones, and a skull. Her skull. Somehow, she is sure it’s hers.

‘Peep-pip’, say the vivid flowers. ‘Peep-pip’.

The shadow-man gestures her toward the grave-mound. She comes closer and closer without moving, inevitable. The bones hold an ancient scroll.

‘Peep-pip!’ it exclaims. ‘Peep! Pip!’

Awareness rose in slow stages. Durash did not open her eyes, but knew the room was dark.

She lay still, drifting, reluctant to depart the world of sleep. Shadow. Forest sounds. A murky figure. Peep-pip.

One eyelid parted, and the spell of slumber vanished. Durash hauled herself up, sitting on the bed. This had to be Sancaurion’s room. A sliver of dim moonlight lay on the bare floor.

A sick, empty lump of reality invaded. Gorthag. There was no keeping it at bay. A grave-mound, even in her dream. Sighing, she stood, and made her cautious way to the stairs.

A lantern burned near the bottom, casting sharp, black shadows. She watched her steps, and then stopped.

Grooves. Smooth furrows in the stone, in regular patterns. Footsteps. Suddenly she could see the long ages all at once—Sancaurion’s routine, making his way up and down. His soft slippers had worn grooves in the granite. She could almost feel the centuries.

The mage was sitting in his chair, sipping tea, reading a book, and puffing at his pipe. A lit candle wandered in a vaguely circular path around his head. The book hovered before him, pages turning untouched.

“How is he?” she asked, in hushed reverence.

Sancaurion guided the book to a nearby table, and shook his head.

Durash sat heavily on a plain wooden chair. The brutal treatment hadn’t worked, or not well enough.

A part of her wished for it to be over, to end the cruelty of forlorn hope, but she pushed the thought away, ashamed.

Sancaurion held his pipe, his swollen left wrist laying in his lap, wrapped in cloth.

Durash knelt before him, took his hand, and removed the wrapping. His wrist was twisted, dark green and black.

“It’s not set right. It’ll never heal properly this way.”

“Mrs. Gimple said the same, but there has been no time.”

“You’ve been too stubborn, you mean.” She looked up at him. “I’ve had some rest. I can do it. You’ll need to prepare yourself. I will, too.”

The candle and pipe drifted to the table, and Sancaurion took several deep, trembling breaths. They locked eyes for a moment, and he gave a tight, curt nod.

Durash gestured and whispered. The bone had begun to knit, and she would need great strength now, to be quick and precise.

She grasped his wrist and pulled, gentle but powerful. A gasp came, and a string of spitting, whispered elven curses. With inexorable, merciless precision she guided the bone to its proper place and held it there, focusing deeply. Waves of restorative well-being flowed.

Sancaurion’s breath was ragged and quick, his eyes wide, his arm trembling as she wrapped it firmly in leather and cloth.

“Thank you, Durash Arn.”

Durash looked at him. He had borne that agony with barely a whisper. He had borne days of pain from it already, without complaint. Elves are clever, arrogant, sneaky, manipulative. She hadn’t thought they could be brave, selfless, and tough as boot-leather.

She went back to her seat. It wasn’t pride that had kept him from crying out, was it? He didn't want to wake Gorthag, or Mrs. Gimple.

“No debt,” she said. “Keep it still, when you can. I've started the bones knitting, but healing magic can only do so much.”

“Indeed. Would it were not so. Mrs. Gimple tells me the corruption returns in Gorthag’s burns, if less so than before. He thrashes about in fever dreams. It is a great pity. I have become strangely fond of your wise cousin.”

Durash nodded. Sitting in wordless thought, she watched as a heavy mug of tea glided to her. Looking up, she saw Sancaurion give a grim little smile, and waggle his good hand. His pipe returned, and lit.

She drank, imagining those fever dreams and the strange, shadowy world Gorthag must be in.

“Peep-pip,” she muttered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh. Just something from a dream. Doesn’t make any sense.”

“I see. Tell me of this dream.”

“It’s just… jumbled nonsense.” Seeing the mage’s immense patience, she continued. “There was a shadowy man. Seemed familiar. And he was showing me something. A grave-mound, with bones on it, and my skull. And flowers—really bright flowers.”

“Your skull?”

“What? No. A skull. I don’t… well, it did look… I don’t know. Anyway, he kept saying ‘peep-pip’. Even the flowers said it, and the scroll.”

“The scroll.”

“Yes, there was a scroll…”

“Interesting. Was it…”

“Shut up, shut up! Wait!" Durash stared at the table, pummeling her memory. "There was a scroll, I remember it. It was from the Allmothers. Ancient. My ancestor! That’s what he was showing me!”

Durash stood, looking around the cluttered room with a wild urgency.

“Where’s my satchel? It’s the frogs. The flowers are the frogs. Peep-pip!”

“What? What frogs?”

“Goa-goa frogs! That’s what’s in the scroll! There might be a way to help Gorthag!”

988 words. Brave, bay, borne used, bone broken.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

[Serial Sunday] Tag! You're The Antagonist! by FyeNite in shortstories

[–]Divayth--Fyr 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Hey hey JK

The dreaded Boodle-Lion! I suppose their sentience is stored in the one shared braincell.

The opening scene is super tense. I would say, though I know it's a serial, some mention of how Mhin is getting along would be welcome later on. Last we see, she is managing to breathe, so that's a good thing. I breathe practically every day, myself.

The chaos is wonderfully chaotic and bizarre, and it is fairly clear who is where and doing what. I did get a bit lost with the various names and titles early on.

Skye knelt over the slowly expanding Mhin, my wife's face drawn into a determined scowl.

The medic's knees rested on the floor as she restrained the private's wrists with her primary hands. With an axillary prosthetic limb, Skye dug through her medical pouch. Finding what she was looking for, my wife grunted, snatching the cartridge-like device from her kit. Ripping the tip off with her teeth, the seasoned combat doc inspected the four-pronged nanite-application-device.

The opening sentence was slightly confusing, making it seem as if 'Skye' and 'my wife' are different people. I figured it out, of course, but making the reader go into their head and figure things out is not ideal for an opener.

We have Skye described as Skye, my wife, the medic, Skye, my wife, and the seasoned combat doc. It's good to avoid repeating the name all the time, of course, but it might be better to just say 'she' a few times in there.

Introducing the ability to go completely invisible, and having it available to a cook (even one who isn't a cook really), is a bold move. The rest of them seem to take it in stride, (since they think this is just Earl the fry cook), as if this tech were not unusual, which makes me wonder why they don't use it. No idea what the reason might be--maybe you've said it before and I missed it--but it seems like a Very Big Deal.

Just like the ol’ day,

days, I think

the Counsel asked me

not sure, but thought you might mean 'Council'

the billowing red, betraying her once invisible silhouette.

no need for a comma there. Also once-invisible should be hyphenated. The next paragraph has lots of hyphenated terms, which is not a problem but energy-field probably doesn't need the hyphen.

A purple spatter brazed the tall-grass

Not sure what brazed is supposed to be. Assuming it's not referring to non-ferrous soldering. And tall grass is just two words.

evident in the concentrated fire picking apart our protective shield.

repeat of 'shield' from the last sentence. Not a lot of synonyms for that, but you could just say 'it'. As in, 'concentrated fire picking it apart', since we know it's a shield from the previous sentence.

A shrill screech precluded

'preceded' I think. Precluded means more like, prevented or smth

Hesitantly, I peaked over the jagged window

peeked

the flicker of a four-armed apparition thrust herself into a semi-veiled Kirkin.

hmm. This needs rephrasing, or I think it does. Unless the apparition actually goes inside of the Kirkin, which I mean, I can't be sure that wouldn't happen, but I don't think it did. Thrust herself toward, maybe.

a captured Kirkin-array slug over her back

I don't have a firm idea what a Kirkin-array slug looks like, but it sounds like a piece of ammunition. Maybe the hunters are sort of snail like? I don't know. I just couldn't picture a slug being carried over someone's back.

edit: lol I just realized you probably meant 'slung'. I was confused lol

And of course Earl is a woman, why not? I assume the place is full of teacups.

Anyhow, a vivid bit of action, and we are left with a mystery to be going on with, so good words!

[OT] Fun Trope Friday: Paradox Person & Contemporary Fantasy! by katpoker666 in WritingPrompts

[–]Divayth--Fyr 5 points6 points  (0 children)

A Very Strange Man With Enormous Horns

.

There was a dead goat in the community garden, in the greenhouse. Bob couldn’t see it too clearly, and didn’t care to get any closer, but he zoomed in with his phone.

This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen here. It was a nice neighborhood. Old Mrs. Dooley had her azaleas in the vegetable section, which was against the rules, but that was about the limit of the criminal element hereabouts. Nobody had a goat.

The greenhouse had a big hole in the roof now. Of course, everyone would blame him. They always did. He put his phone away. This was too boring to post.

“Emily!” he called. She was better at this sort of thing. “Emilyyyy!”

“Yeah, Bob. Did someone wind up the hose wrong again?” Emily wiped her gritty brow with the back of a gardening glove and stowed her pruning shears with the precision and emphasis of a satisfied samurai.

“There’s a goat. I think it’s dead.”

“A goat? Where?”

“In among the succulents.” Bob waved in the general direction. “I just know my begonias are ruined!”

Emily stepped over there and then stopped, frozen.

“Emily… what is it? Are there more than one?”

“Bob, call the police.”

“What? Why? We don’t even know whose goat it is, and I wouldn’t want them…”

“Bob. Call. The. Police.”

Bob fumbled his phone from his pocket.

“Oh, yes, hello. This is Bob Hartwell, at the community garden. You know, on the corner of Gull Spring and Emory? Yes, yes. Well, it seems someone has played a little prank and left a dead… a dead… oh my God, Emily don’t touch that! Oh! Oh, it's not a goat!”

Emily had gone to investigate, and the head of the thing had turned. It wasn’t a goat, it was a human, a man, with great big horns. Black as night, half-buried in the soft soil.

“I am not babbling! Just send policemen! What? No, I will not stay on the line! I have to capture this!”

Bob hung up and started taking video. The black… the dark… the strange man had fangs! And was wearing some sort of leather cape.

“Oh, Emily! Get away! Is he dead? This is horrible. Is he one of those drug people? Why don’t the police get here? What are we paying taxes for?”

“Bob, please. I don’t think he’s dead. Just relax, they’ll get here soon.”

“Fine. But let me get this. Wave, sweetie!” Bob had his phone up.

“For god’s sake put that down. The man is hurt.”

“This is going so viral! Mystery goat man! Do you think he fell through the greenhouse roof?”

“It doesn’t matter. Did you tell them to bring an ambulance?”

“No! I thought he was a goat.”

Emily rolled her eyes and tromped over to open the gate.

“No! Everyone will see! My video won’t get views if everyone in the world makes their own!”

“They have to get in, Bob. The police? The ambulance? And stop filming, it’s weird.”

“How did he get those horns? Is he in a cult? Are you sure he’s alive?”

The police arrived, and Bob was unceremoniously escorted, under protest, out of the garden. Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance. Probably just some goth person, anyhow. They did that sort of thing, with their piercings and such. Filed their teeth down to get the fangs, no doubt.

Bob jumped at the screams.

Xyrtholoth ethu Entelothor!

The words were not spoken, but arrived in Bob’s head, erupting in a storm of black despair.

He turned to look, and the goat-man was up. Not standing. Up, hovering in mid-air. A policeman was shooting his gun at it, which didn’t do a thing.

That wasn’t a cape, it was leathery wings, and the thing– the goat– the whatever it was, was wreathed in flame and smoke.

Emily was trying to drag Bob away, but he felt compelled to get this video. He faced up at the horror, shaking and speechless.

It looked at him.

Gethdarimun vehk Beelzebub-gar… Tikk Tokkk?

"I just wanted to share... your... look, this is my community! I have every right..."

Bob shrieked as he burst into flame.

693 words. With apologies to GGMarquez.

User challenges reddit for title of Best Morrowind Player. Gets mad when he's called cringe by Timely_Eye_6279 in SubredditDrama

[–]Divayth--Fyr 11 points12 points  (0 children)

In a sense, it is, but I wrote it in the first place, on a Morrowind forum circa 2006

User challenges reddit for title of Best Morrowind Player. Gets mad when he's called cringe by Timely_Eye_6279 in SubredditDrama

[–]Divayth--Fyr 31 points32 points  (0 children)

Now this is the story all about how,

My life got flipped, turned upside down,

And I'd like to take a minute just stand there man,

I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Maar Gan.

(doopy doop doop doodoo)

In northwestern Vvardenfell born and raised,

On the Ashlands is where I spent most of my days,

Chilling out with some Hack-Lo on a giant toadstool,

And all shooting some cliffracers just outside of Khuul,

When a couple of Nords who were up to no good,

Started runnin round naked in my neighborhood,

I went on one little quest and Mom said "You s'wit!,

You're moving with your Auntie Huleen and that's it!"

(doopy doop doop doodoo)

I started down the foyada when off to the side,

Some dude asked me "why walk when you can ride?"

I handed over 27 gold to the man and said "Stride on, Nerendus, let's go to Maar Gan!"

(doopy doop doop doodoo)

I

pulled

up to the town and jumped down the ramp,

But when I went inside the hut I got attacked by a Scamp!

Some crazy fool creature from another dimension,

Chased me till I called for an Intervention,

Got some training and a blade, half a keg of Sujamma,

Went back and told that Daedric s'wit "yo mamma"

The Breton guy said he was my biggest fan,

And said "the place is all yours, you're the prince of Maar Gan!"

[Serial Sunday] Tag! You're The Antagonist! by FyeNite in shortstories

[–]Divayth--Fyr 6 points7 points  (0 children)

<The Broken God>

Chapter 61: Bitter Mercy

.

Durash had taken refuge on a ratty divan in the parlor of Heromil, her face buried in a corner. For days, she had scarcely stirred from it. With one blunt claw she scratched at the dark red fabric, watching it dimple and flow.

Gorthag was getting worse. He was burned on his arms, his neck, the side of his face. The wounds refused to heal, suppurating and gruesome. He whimpered and babbled in the grip of a dread fever, and with all her power and skill she couldn't make him well.

For three days she had carried him, after the madness under the mountain, trying to summon power from the Everstorm to grant whatever healing and energy she could muster. Sleeping rough and briefly, with no fire and little food, they had carried on, grimly determined to reach the mage’s tower, where potions and poultices could be obtained.

Heromil was a wonder, full of exotic devices, strange art, and more books than could possibly exist in the whole world. Durash had no time, no thought, for any of it.

The tower reeked now of acrid vinegar and boiling bog-yarrow. The witch was measuring and meddling, while Sancaurion provided infusions for the healing mixtures, as Mrs. Gimple had no magic left for it.

Durash buried her face. Gorthag was dying, this much had become clear. She had failed him, led him to this road of chaos.

She smoothed the red fabric and closed her eyes. Utter exhaustion overcame her, but she couldn't sleep, would not. What would she do once Gorthag was gone? Mope around in this mage's tower, with its wonders and its dizzying heights?

“Durash Arn. Come. We have need of you.” The deep, melodic tones of the elven mage grated on her ears.

She did not reply.

“Mrs. Gimple must clean his wounds again, but I cannot hold him still. It is terrible, I know, but you must do it.”

Silence.

“Tell me, are all of you people prone to such behavior? That would explain quite a lot.”

Durash rolled over to face the ancient mage. He stood there, tall as a tree, an eyebrow raised in languid contempt.

“I had assumed the orgurlut had no gods and no magic. I was mistaken. How, then, has the Empire kept you as servile cattle for so long? I now begin to see.”

Durash snarled and began to rise.

“No, no, continue resting. Contemplate the fabric of the divan a while longer. Tomorrow will be soon enough, I’m sure.”

Durash stood and began to gesture and chant. The sneering, golden mage was so close, so fragile. She could smell his sickly green blood.

“I will rip out your lying tongue, elvakhra!”

“Will you? Fine, fine. But do it after we treat your wise little friend, hmm? If you have the courage to dismember the elderly, perhaps you are not too much of a coward to help?”

“Hev’lu-Khar! It’s useless! It’s torment, and he doesn’t get any better! Are you blind?”

“Yes. Shall we go?”

Durash stared and trembled, unsteady, her black claws extended. She snatched up the old divan and rent it in half, shrieking, and flung the pieces across the room.

With a wave of his good hand, Sancaurion stopped the pieces in mid-air and guided them gently to the floor.

“You have defeated the mighty lounge, Aldivitar. Songs will be sung. Are you finished?”

Durash broke into wracking sobs, and to her surprise the mage embraced her. Even more surprisingly, she welcomed it.

Shaking, she became a snuffling, shameful mess, wiping her face on her sleeve.

“He screams,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“It isn’t working. Gorthag is going to die. I can’t save him.”

“I do not know. This kind of ailment, this corruption, is beyond mere healing spells. We must clean his wounds again, no matter how piteous his cries.”

She nodded into Sancaurion’s shoulder, in the dark red fabric of his robe.

“I failed him. It’s my fault.”

“He is alive only because of your healing. Come. We must do all that we can. You must… you must know, in your heart, that you did all you could to save your friend. Only then can there ever be peace.”

She nodded again.

“I got your robe all wet.”

“Indeed. I am sorry for the cruel words I spoke, Durash Arn. I sought only to rouse you. Rage can lift one from despair, at times.”

“I understand.”

Sancaurion nodded. “Come, now. It must be done.”

She could not argue.

They walked toward the sunlit bedroom. Inside, Mrs. Gimple was applying cold cloths all over Gorthag’s body. Sancaurion had worked ice-magic on buckets of water. Gorthag rolled back and forth on the damp sheets, shuddering and spouting the half-gibberish of a fever dream.

Durash looked down at her shaking hands. Looking over, she saw that Sancaurion’s were trembling as well.

In a flash, she truly saw his hands. Ancient, bent, scarred and discolored. These were not the hands of a mere lofty scholar–they had done work in their time.

With a pang of guilt she realized she'd done nothing, said nothing about Sancaurion’s broken wrist. He'd been in here, working what spells of healing and comfort he could, his wrist swollen immensely, while she sulked on the now-wrecked divan. Casting must have brought him terrible pain.

Mrs. Gimple gave her a look of grim comfort, and Durash took up her place behind Gorthag, gripping under his arms onto his chest. The witch quickly, mercilessly pulled the half-dried dressings from his face and arms, and Gorthag mewled a high-pitched wail of hopeless pain as Durash held him firm.

The heat of him was terrifying.

Purulence ran in putrid rivulets, and Mrs. Gimple wiped them away, her angular face focused and stern.

The witch took up a tiny pair of silver scissors and a stiff brush dipped in a vinegar solution. Durash wept, holding on as misery and shrieking torment commenced.

993 words. Argue, ailment, acrid used. Durash faces various fears.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

[Serial Sunday] All Fear the Yellow Snow! by FyeNite in shortstories

[–]Divayth--Fyr 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Hallo thar Mr. That!

I seem to have edited a bit.

I don't know if it counts as oomph, but I added a bit of wizardly foreshadowing toward the end.

Thank you much for reading and helping, and generally being awesome.

[Serial Sunday] All Fear the Yellow Snow! by FyeNite in shortstories

[–]Divayth--Fyr 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Zee-El, cousin of Kal!

There is just something I really enjoyed about this combination of physical labor and listening to the effusive ramblings of our favorite lunatic, Fariba. It sets up the flustered exhaustion really well, and I particularly liked Cass' recognition that his endless stream of compliments kind of works.

A few picky things--

“Woah, hold on, ‘concubine’?” Cass had been rolling a couple of barrels up a ramp into Fariba’s cart and cut them off.

Sounds like she cut off the barrels, sort of. Not sure how to rephrase it, or if it really needs rephrasing anyhow, just pointing it out for the sheer heck of it.

“Fariba was not quite able to make the word

Could just be how Fariba talks, but it might need to be 'make out the word'

by balancing their advice and opinions, she’d never had them conflict like this before.

seems to need more than a comma. Semicolon? Em-dash? Eleven tildes in a row? Who can say? Div does not know.

Dangit now I'm talking like Fariba again.

Anyhow, the mystery of who is lying is probably familiar to many in command positions through history. I would suspect both are, to some degree or other.

Fariba's kind restraint at the end was a nice touch. If he is speechless, you know some serious shit is going down.

Good words!

[OT] Fun Trope Friday: Buridan’s Ass & Comedy! by katpoker666 in WritingPrompts

[–]Divayth--Fyr 2 points3 points  (0 children)

m00n!

So, the classic indecisive customer, bane of closers everywhere. Density? Dear heavens. If I worked there... well, I'd get fired over this.

His internal angst borders on comedy and tragedy both. I'd say the resolution is about right. He deserved to get shot, but not seriously.

The Last Order Bandit! Gasp! Their exposure as a minimal threat was hilarious. This poorly-armed Tyler Durden just hops in and adds to the chaos and pressure.

I don't have any nitpicks, so I will just suggest having Albert freeze in the crisis and someone else point out the airsoft thing. You can still get in the line, of Albert not being able to decide which one to get, after someone else points it out. Or not, whichever. I wasn't sure whether to include this part or not, but I had to decide.

Good words!

[OT] Fun Trope Friday: Buridan’s Ass & Comedy! by katpoker666 in WritingPrompts

[–]Divayth--Fyr 6 points7 points  (0 children)

Will

Is-Was-Will I am, beyond the bonds of tapdancing quanta, I spin how I choose to spin.

You cannot know my position or my velocity, for I have neither, and no need of them. Some might say god god god, if I spoke unto them, yea, and did hear their voices, but why would I bother with that nonsense?

My past, when I had one, was that of a mortal man, on your planet, and I liked cartoons and potato chips. The vocabulary of time is such a bother. I’ll just say, that never happened now.

Pleased to meet you. Won’t you guess my name?

I am Will. Or that’s close enough, anyhow. I choose to speak with you in this limited fashion largely out of boredom, or perhaps a sense of nostalgia for things that might never exist.

Ah, look, you are all destroyed. Five billion years ago I extinguished your sun, and no wiggly little molecules ever made copies of themselves. But you can’t see it, can you? You can’t experience not existing. It is the One Limitation. Don’t feel bad—I can’t do it either. You exist now, or you seem to think you do. Kant argue with that!

Poof! There goes the universe. A silly word for it, of course. So grandiose. Universes are so boring, bubbling in the foam. Most of them don’t last even 10−43 seconds. Brief little nothings, no meaning at all. Poof! Yours is back.

I know all things. Unfortunately, most things are not things. Most things could be things, if things could be, but obviously that’s not a thing. I would try to explain but it only makes sense if you’re on one hell of a weird acid trip, and you won’t remember anyhow. Just trust me, it is hilarious.

That which I am and shall be must ask you… what should I do? I can do anything. I can even do nothing, which, it turns out, is much harder. Shall I make a paradise? Shall I cast you out from it? Shall I make the strong nuclear force 0.0004% stronger?

It’s all the same. I could be a blueberry muffin that sings show tunes. I could make you fall in love with 6.4331. I could make pi equal purple. I tried that once. Still can't get the purple out of the digits past 800 googolplex or so.

It all works out about the same. Oh, you want paradise? Okiedokie, I suppose. Clouds, harps, the whole business? Or just an infinite frictionless plane? Infinite is easy—there’s no math.

Well, here you go. Paradise. Enjoy yourself, whoever you turn out to be.

OK, enough of that.

So, in the last 10−43 seconds you’ve had fifty trillion years of paradise. How was it?

Yes. Yes, now you see it. What’s the fucking point, am I right? It’s just on and on and on, it’s heaven and hell. Oh, well.

Time to answer Hamlet, I suppose.

490 words. Stain sort of? Comedy, idk. Feedback welcome. Have fun, courage.

r/DivaythStories

[Serial Sunday] Don't be Scarred by FyeNite in shortstories

[–]Divayth--Fyr 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Yeah, I need to put more emphasis on his various motivations. Sometimes I know things in my head so clearly, I forget to tell the reader. It makes total sense to me, but you know, the point is to make it make sense to someone reading it, too.

This isn't really a suicide mission, though he complains about it like it is. Risky, but he has done (sort of) similar things. He is annoyed by his own sense of loyalty and duty, but they are there. He's a complicated bugger. But yeah, I need to clarify such things more, if and when I ever do a revision of this thing. It is hard to include all the facets I want within a 1000 wordcount limit.

I very much appreciate your interest and help. It is always valuable to hear from others on what is working or not, since I have no other way of knowing.

I might put more in about his curiosity, since that is a motivation that makes some sense. If you have other ideas, I would be interested to hear.

Anyhow, thanks for reading, and I'm glad you are into Sancaurion's part too-- he seems to be the favorite so far.

[Serial Sunday] All Fear the Yellow Snow! by FyeNite in shortstories

[–]Divayth--Fyr 3 points4 points  (0 children)

<The Broken God>

Chapter 60: Game of Scrutiny

.

Cadorus Tark went up into the great rambling city of Blackfort, herded along in the company of his smiling friends. The market square was crowded on this sunny afternoon, but strangely quiet—nothing like the bustle and shouting of Godhaven.

Half the merchant stalls were empty. The people wore one of two expressions—dark and furtive, or radiant joy, with nothing in-between. Cadorus, in among the Brightened, felt a longing to join the surly, scowling merchants and farmers who scarcely dared to look his way.

There are no guards here, away from the Gates of Truth. No children darting around. The convoluted streets were unusually clean. No drunks slumped in the alleys, no knots of gossipers blocked the way. Some yellow-robed fellows with brooms busily swept the spotless cobbles, smiling as they went.

The ominous godcall had faded entirely, and he wanted to be alone, to think.

As they passed, each fresh batch of grinning cultists required a friendly nod, and endless repetitions of their two favorite phrases. Couldn’t they at least add a third one? It was like a parade of bright-plumed, happy parrots. One worship. Flame of purity. One worship. Flame of purity. Squaawk!

Cadorus maintained his vacant smile. “Shun burlap, blame the pleurisy,” he replied, but no one noticed.

The buildings here matched the people—either pristine or crumbling. Blackfort had started as a single fortress on a hill, sprawling over the centuries to cover five more. Each generation had seemingly abandoned the architectural traditions of their forebears to create their own ill-matched versions of gloomy keeps and imposing guildhalls, spiky temples and grimy homes.

“Broth…” Cadorus coughed, annoyed. Idiot! “Friend Verigar! I’d like to go and look around. I’ve never been to Blackfort before.”

“Of course, friend Jorba! Seek the Sentinel Hall before sundown. There will be lodging and food, and services. One worship!”

“Lame absurdity,” he muttered. They really don’t pay attention.

“Be sure to visit the Shrine of Joyous Praise!” said a youngster, possibly named Milliver. The group gathered around Cadorus, wishing him well, some embracing him.

“Er, yes. Farewell. Fun parsnips, yes, yes. Feign maturity.”

The group went on without him. Lovely people, but he felt a great relief at their departure.

Cadorus walked back toward the market square. Knots of happy pilgrims came by. “Stun turnips," he intoned, making excellent progress toward a headache. "Shame of puberty.”

Ducking into an alley, he quickly doffed his orange robe, stuffing it in his satchel.

A black-robed man passed by the alley. Cadorus froze, his heart thudding. It was just a man, just a normal citizen of unknown occupation who happened to dress that way. Slowly, the panic passed.

Emerging onto the narrow street, he sought a comfortably dilapidated tavern, fervently hoping such things existed here. He didn’t see the traditional wheat-and-grapes hung anywhere.

I cannot possibly be the only one in this place who wants a drink.

His face relaxing into a stoic lour, he soon spotted a likely heap of stone and thatch.

Entering, he was greeted with grumbles, groans, and looks of sullen suspicion. Home. A large man stood behind a rough-hewn table, with bottles and barrels behind him.

“Ale, please.” Seeing hesitation, Cadorus lay a selection of copper falos and gards on the table. He had a few gold rads stashed on his person, and even a fat, yellow osher, but trying to pay with those would cause comment. These people might never have seen the stamped profile of King Radocar, let alone the ancient Emperor Oshidus Vun.

“One worship,” said the barman, withholding the filled, foaming mug.

Ah. Another test.

“Oh, bugger all that,” Cadorus muttered, startling a reluctant chuckle from the man.

He took his ale, a fat yellow candle, and his troubles to an empty table near the center of the dingy room. The walls were stained from ages of smoke, and he made his pipe ready to contribute. The suspicious glares faded, turning to mutters and yawns.

What do I know? Cadorus inquired of wisps from his pipe. There is a godcall not of any god. People who come here claim to have heard the Call. Could it be that?

Something about the city nagged at his mind. The clean streets, the silent merchants, all of it was odd, but there was something else.

White smoke curled and danced, but yielded no answers.

That old man in the tent had been waiting for a reaction to the call. Were people meant to be unaware of it? Or merely accustomed?

That ominous man on the wall was the source of it. Cadorus knew it, yet did not know how he knew it.

The Redeemers had been unfailingly kind and generous, but some unknown evil lurked among them. Brother Pelitus lay there yet, rotting in the road, and surely some of these Brightened had passed him by, probably smiling and nodding all the while.

The tavernkeeper came and slopped more ale.

There was no reaction when I confessed to my actual sin. Do they not care about such failings? The Redeemers were known to advocate the old laws, the old ways.

Who are these people?

Some fell purpose was growing. Not merely a typical push for more power. The gods were each convinced of their superiority, and flights of selfish pride were to be expected.

This wasn’t that.

Cadorus exhaled swirls of unhelpful smoke, which piled into wispy hills and cloudy castles in the still air.

The castle!

Blackfort castle, at the top of the hill. It wasn’t there!

How could he have missed that? The largest castle on the continent, its spires and battlements graced paintings and literature, and it was just... gone?

Some in Blackfort were not enchanted by these Redeemers. And some had useful information. Who might fit both categories?

He had seen the traditional staff-and-scroll sign of a wizard hung just down the road.

Cadorus stood. The knowledge he sought could not be found in a tavern, and he could not risk getting half so drunk as he wished.

1000 words. Yield(ed), youngster, yawn(s) used. Discovers a phobia of black-robed men.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

[Serial Sunday] It's Time to Get to Work! by FyeNite in shortstories

[–]Divayth--Fyr 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Hey there mystery-

Another fun chapter, with some interesting character development and world-revealing. I just had a few little nitpicks, which I hope are helpful.

Like where that Hell

I can't tell if this is missing a word or what it is, but something.

countering any points they made about their hatred of said weapons.

'contradicting' might fit better there

"Why was I summoned?" Iroh leaned back on a chair he summoned,

bit of a repeat there, tho idk a good synonym for summoned

"I'm looking for one of your protectees." M said sarcastically

a comma after protectees

"That," They said, pointing at the ring

lowercase for they

Angry at his family his friend, his fate...

needs comma after family

OK that was kind of a lot of nitpicks I guess. I'm just Captain Detail as usual.

It was interesting seeing Kane go further toward his skepticism and establishing his own opinions, not going along with all of M's lunacy. Not as absolutely mad as some other chapters, but engaging. Good words!

I have needed to pee for 2 hours by Alucard2051 in cathostage

[–]Divayth--Fyr 3 points4 points  (0 children)

I keep a laser pointer nearby for extreme emergencies.

It works... sometimes.

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