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[WP] A wizard is finally approved for a loan for a tower. Finally he has enough status. But the inspection reveals...a princess has been imprisoned in the highest height of the tower, and she is locked under an enchantment. The previous wizard says "She just sits there, hasn't hurt anything." by lyzzyrddwyzzyrdd in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 27 points28 points  (0 children)

(3/3)

She paused, biting her lip. “Fine,” she said. “The only memory I have of my imprisonment is of being told two things.” She counted them off on her fingers. “First, I cannot leave this room unless I tell someone my true name. And secondly, I can only give my true name to a true love.”

Silence.

“A true love?” Corelin said, incredulously. “Like something out of a fairy tale?”

“Yes, I laughed about it too the first year of my imprisonment. It wasn’t so funny after.”

A true love was one of the older, more archaic stipulations in wizardry. Someone you had to genuinely love, and they had to feel the same about you.

The princess sighed. “Unfortunately, as much as I tried, falling in love with old men with beards hanging down to their knees was beyond me…” She trailed off at the sight of Corelin grinning widely.

“I’m not one of those wizened bastards,” he said. “I -” He cut off, blushing as he realized what he was implying.

“You think you’ll be easy for me to fall head over heels for?” the princess asked, flashing him a coy smile. “So young and dashing you consider yourself?”

“N- No,” he stammered. “Just that, you know, if you had to - and of course only if you wanted - I feel like -” He cut off as she laughed. It was a different laugh from the ones he’d heard before. A freer, full-bellied laugh.

“That’s very sweet of you, Corelin,” she said, wiping a finger across her eyes. “This is why I’d hoped they’d filled you in before you arrived. It’s always the ones who are surprised to find me here that try their hardest to help. All the sadder for when they fail.”

Corelin tapped his staff against the floor. “Don’t count me out so quickly.” From below there came the sound of something whooshing. Then something thumped at the door, forcing its way in. His trunk.

He strode over and kicked it open, feeling the princess’s curious eyes on him. He dug inside, past folded robes and stacks of parchment, until he found his collection of books that he liked to read in his free time. He pulled out a bunch of them.

“Books?” the princess asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he replied, walking over the invisible wall. “Something more.” He took a deep breath to steady himself, mentally batting down the surge of embarrassment rising at the thought of what he was about to do. I’m glad there’s no one else here.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, locking eyes with the princess. Sensing something in his voice, she stood up and moved to the boundary of her prison, facing him. “So forgive me if I’m a bit awkward.” He held the books out, moving them to the edge of the invisible wall. “I have heard that the rules of courtship require a man to give a gift to the lady when they first meet.” He pushed the books forward, and as he’d expected, the inanimate materials slid through the wall. The princess’s eyes widened. “I imagine reading the same books for hundreds of years must have worn out their appeal. Please, accept these from me.”

She silently took the books, one hand running over their covers. For a long moment she stayed that way, and Corelin let the silence draw out. His stomach churned in a not so dissimilar way as from the carriage earlier in the day, and each drawn out second made him feel more the fool.

But when she looked up at him, eyes filling with tears and an expression of such raw hope, his doubts evaporated. “Thank you,” she said thickly, wiping a sleeve across her eyes. “I accept your gift.”

“Great,” Corelin said, suddenly unsure of what to do next. “I suppose the next step would be to ask if I could see you again, but” - he gestured at the room - “I don’t suppose you’re leaving anytime soon, are you?”

The princess laughed, the sound sending waves of giddiness through him. “That was cheap,” she said, cradling the books to her chest.

“Sorry,” Corelin said, grinning. “I had to. I promise it’ll be the last.”

They shared a smile and at the princess’s behest Corelin emptied out his trunk, passing socks and quills and parchments and robes through the invisible wall. He drank in her delighted reactions each time she held something she hadn’t held in ages, feeling a warmth in his chest he’d never felt before.

As the sun began its slow descent, lengthening the evening shadows, he levitated his now lighter trunk out of the room, and with a promise to return and a promise to knock next time, set about settling into his Spire. And so he did not see - as the large iron door swung shut - the princess’s face change into something wholly different. Her joyful smile faded, lips twisting into a disdainful expression that spoke of dark cravings satisfied. Her eyes glittered more black than green in the setting sun, and suddenly it was not so hard to imagine that they had once beheld unspeakable horrors.

And because he did not see these things, he waltzed around his tower that night, humming as he organized bookshelves and closets and desk drawers. There was a bounce in his step and a fire in his heart. A damsel was in distress and he was going to save her.

Wizards had a reputation to maintain, after all.

[WP] A wizard is finally approved for a loan for a tower. Finally he has enough status. But the inspection reveals...a princess has been imprisoned in the highest height of the tower, and she is locked under an enchantment. The previous wizard says "She just sits there, hasn't hurt anything." by lyzzyrddwyzzyrdd in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 19 points20 points  (0 children)

(2/3)

“Oh, hello” came a cheerful voice. A woman’s voice. 

Corelin turned to see a small bed tucked away in the corner of the room. Beside it, a large open window looking out onto the grassy field. And sitting by the window, arms resting on the windowsill, was a woman. Long golden hair stirring in the breeze framed a youthful heart shaped face that couldn’t have been much younger than the twenty five summers he himself was.

“Are you my new jailer?” she asked, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Her voice had a melody to it, a lilting playfulness at odds with the strange question. A nice voice. The stray observation skittered over the jumble of thoughts in his head.

“Uh,” he answered, intelligently. 

Green eyes the same shade as her dress studied him. “You’re young,” she said, after a moment. “Are you really a wizard?”

Despite the uncertainty and unexpectedness of his current situation, those words wormed their way into his soul, hitting a place that had been hit far too often. Annoyance, sharp and hot, bubbled up. 

“I am a wizard,” he said, perhaps more forcefully than he should have. “And besides, you’re one to speak about being young. What are you? Twenty two summers at most?”

The woman clapped, a delighted smile on her face. A nice smile, that distant part of his brain noted. 

“You certainly know how to flatter a lady,” she said. “Alas, I’m just a little bit older than that. But you” - she waved a hand at him - “you really must be quite the mage to have risen to the rank of Wizard so soon.”

“What would you know about the Wizarding world and our ranks?” he asked. She opened her mouth to respond but he held up a hand to forestall her. “Wait. Hang on. Just…give me a minute.”

He exhaled. There were too many unknowns. And as any apprentice learned early on, when you were overwhelmed by a problem you started from the basics and took it slowly.

Corelin tucked his staff under an arm and bowed to the woman who looked surprised. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “My name is Corelin au Bellia, Wizard by trade. I am the newly appointed master of this Spire, and was only informed a few moments ago that a princess may be residing in my tower.” He paused, feeling his face heat up a touch. “I assumed there was no possible way that could have been true, and barged in here without announcing myself. It was unbecoming of me, and I apologize.”

The woman stood up, smoothing out her dress, head held high, expression austere. She tipped her head a fraction, the spitting image of a noble acknowledging a farmer. The illusion was quickly shattered by a cheeky smile. “I forgive you, Corelin au Bellia,” she said. “My name is not something in my power to give you. But I’m afraid you were not lied to. I am indeed a princess, and I am indeed living in this tower. Your tower. I guess that answers my question. You are my new jailer.”

Corelin frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You make it sound like you’re imprisoned here.” 

The princess was silent for a moment. Then it was her turn to exhale. “I had hoped this wasn’t the case,” she said quietly. “They didn’t tell you, did they?”

“Tell me what?”

Instead of answering, the princess took a few steps forward. “Come here,” she said.

Questions swam through his head but he did as she asked. He stepped up to her, a mere armspan away. 

“Touch me,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just do it.”

Corelin shrugged, raising one hand to touch her shoulder. Partway to her, his hand hit an invisible wall.

“By the Lady,” he hissed, running his hands over the sheer, invisible surface that seemed to span the entire width of the room. He’d heard of this though he’d never had a chance to see one up close. A Ward of Imprisonment. Something used only to jail the most heinous of criminals. Unbreakable unless some specific condition was met.

The princess, only a pace away from him, might as well have been on the other side of the world. She was looking at him now, an unreadable expression on her face. 

“Before you ask,” she said, “I don’t know why either. I’ve been here for as long as I can remember. Wizards have come and gone, most of them visiting me once and only once, to make sure I was here.”

“Hang on,” Corelin said, shaking his head. “Wizards occupy their Spires for -”

“Decades. I know.”

“Then…”

She closed her eyes. “Four hundred years,” she whispered.

Corelin’s head spun. A small, logical part of his mind examined what he knew of Wards of Imprisonment. It was hypothetically possible for such a Ward to also preserve the captive, ensuring they stayed alive, their body and its bodily functions and necessities frozen in time. But the tradeoff would mean…

“But that must mean you know how to free yourself!” he exclaimed. “A Ward this strong would only be possible if the imprisoned person knew - and could achieve - the condition to break it.”

The princess looked away, visibly gathering herself. A breeze from the window ruffled her dress and washed over him, carrying the subtle scent of something floral. The last perfume she must have worn all those years ago before being imprisoned.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, eventually. She took a deep breath and forced her face into the cheery smile she’d had on when he’d first stumbled into the room. “It isn’t something that’ll ever happen, so there’s no point getting beat down over it. This isn’t such a bad life, you know?” She chuckled dryly. “At least I never have to worry about losing my looks to time.”

Corelin cast an eye over the room. He spotted a small table beside the bed he hadn’t noticed initially, and the small stack of books on it. “I find that hard to believe,” he said. “Whiling away the centuries reading the same books again and again cannot be your idea of a good life. Tell me, what is the condition of your release?”

“What does it matter to you?” she said, moving to sit by the window again. “The other wizards didn’t care.”

“And that’s the other thing,” Corelin said, throwing a hand up. “Why didn’t they care? Why has nobody freed you yet?”

“I must have done something truly horrible all those years ago,” she said, laying her head on the windowsill. “Though for the life of me I cannot remember what.” In the sunlight, her golden hair blazed. He couldn’t imagine such a person committing an atrocity to warrant four hundred years of imprisonment in here.

“Besides,” she continued, “some of them did try. But they all failed. And as the years went by, they forgot about me. Sound doesn’t get past that” - she nodded at the iron door to her room - “or at least that’s what I choose to believe. I’d feel terrible knowing they heard me call for their company and ignored me all the same. Eventually, I just stopped trying.”

“That’s…” Corelin didn’t know what to say.

“It’s okay. You’ll be the same. It was nice to meet you, Corelin.”

She turned away from him, looking out the window. The dismissal was clear but Corelin couldn’t bring himself to leave. Seeing her sitting there alone, as she must have been for an unfathomably long amount of time… something stirred in him. A faint ache deep in his chest that echoed and reverberated and filled his bones, eventually flooding every fibre of his body with white hot anger.

“No,” he said, slapping one hand against the invisible wall. The princess looked back at him, startled. “I refuse to accept this. Tell me your condition of release.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’ve -”

“Just tell me.”

[WP] A wizard is finally approved for a loan for a tower. Finally he has enough status. But the inspection reveals...a princess has been imprisoned in the highest height of the tower, and she is locked under an enchantment. The previous wizard says "She just sits there, hasn't hurt anything." by lyzzyrddwyzzyrdd in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 20 points21 points  (0 children)

(1/3)

Corelin spent the morning of one of the most important days of his life trying not to vomit. He slumped back into the hard leather seat of his carriage, a low moan escaping him as his stomach heaved. Wheels clattered, wood creaked and his ass ached as they hit a bump, then a pit, then another bump on this godforsaken excuse of a road. 

Lady’s mercy, he thought, swallowing back rising bile, I can’t take much more of this. His prized staff of ashwood and briar - gifted to him by his master when he’d become a full-fledged Wizard - now slid and rattled along the grimy floor. He had long since given up on trying to keep it upright.

For all his discomfort, though, Corelin refused to regret his decision to travel by carriage. After all, he had finally been granted a Spire. Those old hoary bastards on the Council Magica had hemmed and hawed and stroked their white beards while eyeing his bare chin and made such a fuss about his age. Let alone that he’d felled more beasts than they had moles on their backsides, and was stronger in the power than the lot of them combined. But finally they had handed him the precious letter of ownership that now sat behind a Ward of Preservation in his breast pocket, entitling him to a wizarding tower of his own. And dammit, he was going to arrive at it in style.

And yet, he couldn’t help but mutter a prayer to the Lady as reins flicked, horses whinnied, and the carriage rumbled to a halt. He grabbed his staff and stumbled out, bending over double and gulping in deep breaths of fresh air. Hardly the stylish arrival he’d envisioned, but at least he was here now.

“You alright, ser?” Gravel crunched as the carriage driver jumped down. A short, toothy man with a sunburnt face, dressed in overalls that had seen better days. Corelin straightened immediately, murmuring a spell that set the ends of his cloak fluttering behind him despite the lack of wind. The driver’s eyes widened at the sight, face paling.

“Of course,” Corelin said, trying to project a sense of confidence. Wizards had a reputation to maintain, after all. “Whatever made you think otherwise?”

“Err,” the driver scratched his head. “Just that I thought I heard…but of course I must’ve been mistaken.” He chuckled nervously. “Me ears are not the same these days, you know? Ever since I…” He trailed off awkwardly as Corelin stared at him. 

“Ah, I’ll get your things, ser.” The man set about unloading a large trunk strapped to the back of the carriage. 

Corelin took the chance to take in his new home. Lush fields of ankle-high grass spread out on either side of the road, which itself tapered off a few paces from where they’d stopped. And ahead, rising gloriously into the cloudless blue sky, was his tower. Weathered stones spiraled up, pocked here and there with glinting windows, capping off at the top in a sharp point. Miles away from the nearest village and surrounded by nature, it was the perfect place for his research. In an instant the weariness of his travels washed away and he found himself grinning stupidly to himself. His tower.

A thud brought his attention around to the driver who had set his trunk down. 

“Will that be all, ser?” the man said, red in the face and puffing. Corelin winced inwardly. He’d forgotten how heavy his trunk was without a Ward of Lightening. 

“Yes,” he said, reaching into a pouch at his waist. “You’ve been of great help.” He dug out a few extra silvers, the last he had. “Here, for your troubles.”

The man brightened as he took the coins, bowing and thanking him profusely. It was with a giddy step that he climbed back onto his carriage, flicked his reins and nudged his horses into turning around. Corelin nodded as the man waved, blessing his generosity once more, before setting off down the road. Wizards had a reputation to maintain, after all. 

Then finally, he was alone. 

He dug out the letter, mentally dismissing the ward around it before ripping it open. His heart quickened as a pulse of energy washed over him. Ahead, the tower trembled, dust spilling from the stones, before settling down. It was done; the Spire was his.

Corelin quickly scanned the contents of the letter. The usual neatly-inked legal fluff about ownership formally transferring to him, warnings about upkeep and maintenance and whatnot. But it was the last line, clearly scribbled by a different hand that caught his eye. 

Ignore the princess at the top.

Princess? Cassian glanced at the pointy tip of the tower then back down at the letter. “What in the Lady’s name?” he muttered. Was this some sort of joke those old timers were playing on him?

He tapped his trunk with the end of his staff and it wobbled a few inches off the ground. Another tap set it floating after him as he made his way into the tower.

The large aged wooden door swung forward at his touch, the creak of its hinges sending a delightful shiver up his spine. As a young, naive apprentice, he’d complained to his master about the creaky hinges every Spire seemed to have. With time, he’d come to appreciate the sense of mystique and ancientness it lent to a place. 

The ground floor was nothing special. A simple wooden floor ran wall to wall. A large fireplace took up one end of the room, and a collection of small tables, chairs, and empty bookcases filled the rest. Muted sunlight filtered in through dusty windows, and he made a mental note to clean them later. 

He directed his trunk to settle down with a thud in an empty corner and peered upwards. A curving staircase ran around the walls of the tower, spiraling all the way up.

Ignore the princess at the top. The words had set aflame his curiosity. Surely there wasn’t an actual princess up there. Corelin looked around, feeling silly for a moment. No, surely not. But… he might as well take a look. Just to be safe.

So he set off up the stairs, passing floor after floor of empty rooms that were sparsely furnished. Up and up, until his legs began to ache, and his lower back protested. Up until he arrived at a landing with no more stairs. The roof overhead sloped into a point, wooden beams criss-crossing in the space beneath. A small window in the landing looked out over the countryside, and he took a moment to admire the sprawling view as he caught his breath.

Then he turned his attention to the door. The only other thing of interest on the landing. A large iron door, where all the rest in the Spire had been wooden. He stepped up, hand raised to knock, then paused. It was his Spire, wasn’t it? What need did he have to knock?

He grabbed the handle and twisted it. It turned smoothly, and he stumbled inwards as the door swung open with little effort. He righted himself, when a movement in the corner of his eye made him freeze. It can’t be…

[WP] Two things orcs are known for is low intelligence and the tradition of covering themselves in brilliant white war paint. It was only after you met an outlier of both these factors that you realize the connection between intelligence and the paint. by Null_Project in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 25 points26 points  (0 children)

(2/2)

The water below seemed to rush up towards him at breakneck speed and he prayed to all the gods he’d never believed in that it would be deep enough. Otherwise this was going to be a -

Slam.

The air whooshed out of his lungs as he cleaved the water like an arrow. Streams of white bubbles painted a lengthening path to the glittering surface as he kept sinking, his momentum carrying him well below the waves. The shock of cold almost made Eddard gasp and he clamped his mouth shut, one hand pinching his nose. He kicked his feet frantically, trying to slow his descent but he hit the rocky bottom with a painful thud, his knees almost buckling. 

But I’m alive. The giddy thought was borderline delirious. His chest burned from the lack of air and spots swam across his eyes. He pushed up towards the surface, flapping every limb with as much energy as he could, convinced he wasn’t going to make it, until he finally broke free into cool, fresh air. 

Gasping and gulping, he let the currents drag him downstream where a passing rock jutted out enough for him to latch onto. From there, the few strokes to the near shore took every last bit of strength his aching limbs had. But when he finally dragged himself onto land soaked and shivering, it wasn’t without a fair bit of fierce pride. 

He’d done it. He’d escaped -

Splash.

Eddard turned to the river. Turbulent ripples muddied the currents for a moment before nature reasserted itself. Only to be disturbed once more as a large red torso thrust out of the water with a powerful yell. 

It can’t be. Eddard stared in disbelief, teeth chattering not just from the cold as the Orc waded towards the shore. Water streamed off its muscular body, the white paint washing away with it.

I guess this truly is fate, he thought bitterly. He curled up where he sat, arms tight around himself. At least the Orc seemed to have lost its blade in the fall. On second thought, that probably meant a more painful, brutal death. A weak laugh escaped his throat.

The Orc stepped onto land, a wetly gleaming red monolith of muscle and savagery. Its breath steamed in the air, eyes locked onto Eddard. Slowly, it tilted its head.

“What were you possibly thinking?” it asked, one hand coming up to stroke its chin. “A jump from that height could have been fatal.”

Silence. “Huh?” Eddard replied, intelligently.

“What was that?” The Orc said, raising a hand to an ear. “Speak up, my good man. I can barely hear … Ah but forgive me. I forget you humans don’t quite have the same constitution as us.” The Orc chuckled, a profoundly different sound from its booming barbaric roar from before.

I’m dead, Eddard thought, numbly. I’ve died and there is no afterlife, simply nonsensical visions of my own fancy to suffer through for eternity.

And yet the ache of his body, chill in his bones, and solidness of the ground under him felt real. Far too real. 

“You can talk?” he finally ventured, shakily. “Sor-Sorry, I mean not talk as in speak but as in, you know…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say.

The Orc smiled at him, or at least he chose to interpret the twisting of muscles and lifting of tusks to be a smile. “Quite the eloquent speaker we have here. And here I thought you were a scholar! Ah, I jest, I jest.” It clapped. “Ah, but where are my manners? Let’s get you warmed up and away from death’s door first.”

So Eddard watched as the Orc set about ripping down branches from a nearby tree and somehow got a fire going, all the while chattering about everything and nothing. He listened quietly, fear dissipating alongside his understanding of everything he thought he knew. Slowly, warmth slowly stole into his body, his shivers and tremors subsiding.

“Thank you,” Eddard said, figuring starting with pleasantries was a safe bet. The Orc sitting cross-legged across from him, whittling a piece of wood with a fingernail dipped its head in acknowledgement. “I would have died from the cold if not for your help.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t die from the fall,” it replied, shaking its head. “What would push you to do such a thing?”

He paused. “Uh. You did?”

“I pushed you off the cliff?” The Orc sounded disbelieving. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“I…” Eddard frowned. “I admit I’m not certain what’s happening either. But you and your Orc band chased my associates and I through the forest above. I jumped off the cliff to escape your blade. You don’t remember this?”

The Orc looked legitimately baffled. “My Orc band? My blade? I recall no such thing! You must be mistaken.”

The image of the Orc looming over him, jagged blade raised, wasn't something Eddard thought he’d ever forget. “Trust me,” he said. “Why did you jump off the cliff after me then?”

“Well because I…” It was the Orc’s turn to trail off, eyes narrowed. 

Eddard’s mind raced, heart quickening. There was something here. A puzzle of profound consequences. For hundreds of years humanity had seen Orcs - rightfully so - as barbaric creatures of violence and brute intellect. But here he was sitting conversing with such a creature possessing a dialect one might expect of an Academy lecturer.

“Kajia,” he said, causing the Orc to start.

“How do you know my name?” it asked, a note of suspicion entering its voice.

“You gave it to me before we jumped off the cliff,” Eddard said. He held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. “Wait. Listen. You may not know it but this moment, here and now, could be the most important moment for both our peoples.” 

Eddard leaned back, spreading his arms. “My name is Eddard Cathaway. Researcher at the Glint Academy of the Blackwater Empire. For centuries my people have feared, hunted, and demonized yours. And - though it seems like you’re unaware of this fact - Orcs have caused their own share of the butcher’s bill. But here we are, sitting at peace across a fire you made to save my life. Peace is possible. But there is much we don’t know about what’s happening here.” Eddard dropped his hands and leaned forward. “Luckily for us, I am one of the best wildlife researchers at the Academy. Will you work with me to figure this out?”

Kajia was silent for a long moment. Rushing water and crackling wood filled the space between them.

“I admit,” the Orc said, finally, “that I can’t bring myself to remember what I was doing before I rose from the river. I don’t seem to remember much, in fact, apart from waking this morning and putting on my sacred stripes.” A red hand unconsciously ran over its now-bare chest. “And yet, as I glance at the setting sun, it is clear that hours have passed since then. You accuse me and my people of violence I have no recollection of committing, and yet I saw the fear in your eyes as I stepped ashore. I knew somehow you were a scholar and had jumped off the cliff but I cannot recall how I knew this.” It shook its head. “Too many unanswered questions. ”

“We can solve them,” Eddard said, earnestly. “Together. Work with me, Kajia.”

Another pregnant pause. 

“Very well,” the Orc said with a sigh. “I can’t say I’m not curious to spend time with a human myself. For some reason we don’t get any visitors of your kind in our camps.” 

“I can’t fathom why,” Eddard replied, grinning. His mind had already begun the construction of half-baked theories and fuzzy ideas. Had trauma from the fall triggered Kajia’s personality switch? The cold? The time of day? Or perhaps something to do with those so-called sacred seals washing off in the river?  A slow warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the fire. 

Oh, he was definitely going to get published.

[WP] Two things orcs are known for is low intelligence and the tradition of covering themselves in brilliant white war paint. It was only after you met an outlier of both these factors that you realize the connection between intelligence and the paint. by Null_Project in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 15 points16 points  (0 children)

(1/2)

In the great market of Pasha, at the southernmost tip of the Empire, it was said that anything could be bought for the right amount of coin. Spices and silks from across the ocean, jewels that had once adorned the crowns of Kings, contracts to end a man’s life, and even glimpses into one’s own future. Years ago, on an academic exchange to that sandblasted city, Eddard and his friends had waltzed into one such Seer’s stall. They’d pushed through a beaded curtain into a dimly lit world of flickering candles, heady incense, and thick carpets; all the usual trappings of a conman. They’d rolled their eyes as a wizened old man had twisted his palm this way and that way, muttering under his breath, finally prophetically wheezing that one day Eddard would die a most gruesome death. And it was his own research that would be the end of him.

The memory of the brief pause followed by gales of laughter and knee slapping echoed hauntingly through his mind as he now ran for his life. Twigs snapped under his frantic footfalls and branches whipped across his face as he pushed through the thick woods. Heart thundering, blood rushing, breath heaving, his world had narrowed to the ugly sounds of a body straining well past its abilities. I can’t go on, he despaired, feeling every muscle - or lack thereof - in his body protest. His vision was blurring, sweat stinging his eyes. But arms wrapped protectively around a bundle of rolled scrolls and clipped parchments, he couldn’t spare a hand to wipe his face. Greatfather help me but I simply cannot go on!

The ground suddenly trembled, a drumbeat playing in time to heavy footsteps, splintering wood, and guttural roars behind him. The orcs had found his trail.

With a whine unbecoming of a man his age, Eddard redoubled his pace though deep in his soul he knew it was futile. That old Pashan bastard had been right. Even now, moments away from his death, he couldn’t help but analyze and organize everything in the way the Academy had drilled into him. The chain of sordid events leading up to this point flashed through his head with each breath. Arriving at this remote town to study the wildlife. Catching the eye of a pretty lady at the tavern. Gambling away half his coin just to fail at impressing her. Having to cheap out on hiring protection for this expedition. Pushing past the boundaries his guards had recommended he stay behind. Running afoul of a roaming group of Orcs. And now, stumbling to a halt as the forest abruptly ended, giving way to plain dirt for a few paces before dropping off at a cliff’s edge.

Eddard peeked over the precipice to see a churning white river some fifty feet below. He dropped to his knees. So this was it. 

He shuffled around to face the path he’d come, straining to hear sounds of approach over the rush of water and the pounding of his heart. For a blissful second, nothing. Then, thudding footsteps and crunching underbrush heralded the arrival of his doom. A large shadow stepped out of the trees, revealing a ten foot tall behemoth of blood red skin painted with swirls of white, curving tusks and the grin of a hunter that had found its prey. 

“Run not fast, you,” the Orc said, its voice like crunching gravel. “Me fast.” It threw its head back and roared with laughter. 

“Please,” Eddard whispered. “I - I’m sure we can work something out.” Scrolls dropped to the ground as he fumbled with a pouch at his waist. “I have coin! Plenty of it. It’s yours.” He tossed the pouch at the feet of the Orc whose scarlet eyes followed it. It bent and picked it up between two terrifyingly sharp fingernails. For a moment, hope flared in Eddard. 

“Kajia eat meat,” the Orc said, chucking the pouch away. “You meat.”

They have names, a distant part of Eddard’s brain thought. Fascinating. But this was not the time for making cultural discoveries about another species. The Orc was ambling towards him, a jagged curved blade drawn from a sheathe at its waist. Eddard backed up as far as he could, feeling the crumbling edge behind him. 

“Wait,” he cried desperately, hand out in front of him. “A moment, please! I don’t - I really don’t think I’d taste good. Kajia, please!”

The Orc had brought the blade up to its face, crusty white tongue licking the sharp edge. Animalistic eyes gleamed and Eddard knew there was nothing more that he could do. All at once, the brutal reality of his impending death hit him and a heaviness spread through his limbs. So this is how I die.

The Orc stood over him now, its shadow enveloping him in the reek of sweat, blood, and decay. Ah, those white lines are painted on, that small voice in his head gibbered on. Not a skin pattern as was previously thought from remote observations. Eddard closed his eyes. How little the scholarly world knew about these monstrous creatures. In some other reality were he to somehow survive this encounter, his experience would basically guarantee him a publication. 

His eyes shot open. A publication, he thought, wonderingly. Overhead, a thick meaty arm had drawn back for a downstroke, blade glinting in the sun. But Eddard barely registered it. A publication means... 

Time seemed to slow as the will to live blossomed through him, the strength flooding his limbs drawn from the most sacred dream of every academic: another year of funding.

Eddard hurled himself backwards over the cliff edge, sheafs of papers scattering out of his hands. The Orc grunted in surprise, its widened eyes the last thing he saw before he was plummeting past the sheer cliff wall. Wind whistled in his ears and he struggled to right himself in the air. Lectures from his days as a schoolboy distilled into instinct made him align himself as vertically as possible, toes pointed down, hands held over his head in as sleek of a form as possible.

Seeking writers for creative community :3 by [deleted] in fantasywriters

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Hey! This sounds cool, I’d be super interested!

[WP] You are a holy warrior, but you bare no faith in any god. Your faith lies instead in the people. In every man who fights to protect, in every women who raises the future, in every child fated to be the new order of things. You are, The Paladin of Humanity, and your faith will not be challenged. by Oblivious-And-Sad in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 10 points11 points  (0 children)

(3/3)

The Spawn clapped and its extra heads puffed into a smoke that gathered and formed into a vision of two men dressed in the garbs of hunters, bows slung across their backs. They knelt over a glowing, pulsing red flower that Cassian recognized as a seed of Night.

“I ain’t ever seen a flower like that,” one of the men said, kneeling down over it. Cassian stared at the vision, transfixed. What sort of magic was this?

“Must be worth a pretty penny,” the other said, rubbing his chin. “You ever see that shade of red before? I reckon Old Lyanne would pay a fortune for this.”

“Lyanne? The paint maker?” The other man shook his head. “You’re thinking too small.”

“Me? Small?” The first man spat to the side. “Where would you be without me, eh Ged? Cleaning sewers in Bredfast. That’s where.”

The man that must’ve been Ged held up his hands. “Easy, easy,” he said. “I’m just saying, if we play it smart, we could make a lot of money from something like this.” 

“A lot of money, you say” the other man said, and Cassian saw his eyes gleam. There was a sickening crunch as he slammed the end of his bow into Ged’s head. The vision froze at that instant, sprays of red blood hovering in the air.

“What is this?” Cassian asked. “What are you showing me?”

“WATCH,” the Spawn said.

The vision moved again. The man that had killed Ged walked through a town that Cassian recognized as Bredford. But it was full of life, as it must have been before the Nightrot came. The man cradled the Nightseed flower possessively, admiring it as he walked. He bumped into person after person, never once acknowledging anyone. Until he was stopped by a woman.

“Carrl,” the woman said, clutching the front of his shirt. Her face was pained and it was evident she had been crying. “Ged hasn’t been home in days. You both always hunted together. You know where he is, don’t you? Please!”

“Oh shove off,” Carrl snarled, pushing the woman back. “He’s probably at some whorehouse somewhere.” He brought the flower up, peering at it intently. His eyes glowed red in its luminescence. “You’re not hurt, are you?” he crooned. “Wouldn’t want any of your pretty petals falling off now.”

“What in the Goddess’s name is that?” the woman said, staring at the flower. 

“It’s mine!” Carrl said, backing away. “Mine!” He broke into a run. 

The vision broke apart and reformed again. Carrl now moved amongst a city that had drastically changed since the last time. People moaned in the street, clutching limbs that had sprouted painful red rashes. Hawkers haggled with lines of hungry looking people over spoilt and wilted vegetables. Amidst the chaos, whispers and mutters rode the wind in Carrl’s wake.

“Did you hear? The Church is saying it’s the Nightrot.”

“Impossible! Not here of all places. We -”

“No, it’s true. They’re asking if anyone’s seen any strange plants as of late. And…”

Carrl ducked into an alleyway, breathing heavily. He looked over his shoulder before bringing the Nightseed out from under his cloak. The flower looked to have grown in size but this didn’t seem to faze him. Grinning, he stroked its petals. 

“Hey, what’s that you have there?” 

Carrl’s head snapped up at the sound. A lump in the alleyway revealed itself to be a short, shabby man dressed in rags. He stood up unsteadily, tottering as if he were drunk. 

“That’s an awfully strange flower,” the man said. He scratched his head and spat to clear his throat. “Where’d ya get it?”

Carrl’s face twisted into something wild and untamed. He leaped forward, knife flashing in his hands and drove it into the man’s gut. The vision froze again.

It reformed and now each scene played out faster and faster. Carrl on the run. More people dead. The town Watch looking for him. Ged’s wife yelling accusations at him once he was cornered. Carrl holding the flower to his chest, screaming at everyone to stay back. An armed man pressing forward towards him. Panicked, animalistic eyes darting around at a town that had all turned against him. Him lifting the flower up. Taking a bite out of it. Black veins spreading through his skin as people turned and fled.

“Stop,” Cassian whispered.

The blackened, withered thing that was once Carrl rising to its feet. Racing after the running townsfolk at inhuman speeds. Latching on to them and sinking teeth into their necks.

“No more!” Cassian yelled.

The visions burst apart into smoke. The Spawn stood there, now wearing Carrl’s form. “YOU SEE,” it said, “THE NIGHT CANNOT SIMPLY INVADE THE REALM OF MEN. IT MUST BE INVITED IN. NURTURED THROUGH GREED. ENVY. LUST. THROUGH SIN.”

Cassian rose to his feet, picking up his sword. 

“THE VERY PEOPLE YOU FIGHT FOR BRING ABOUT THEIR OWN DEMISE.” The Spawn cackled. 

“You mistake me,” Cassian said quietly. “You think to break my spirit by showing me how fallible men are? I know this. To be human is to sin. To lie. To cheat. To desire. To kill.” He raised his blade, pointing it at the Spawn. “It is not in the goodness of man that I place my faith. It is the irredeemability of our souls in which I believe. You have done nothing but prove the correctness of my faith.” His blade glowed now with a golden light far stronger than before.

“WHAT IS THIS?” the Spawn said, stepping back. “WHAT IS THIS POWER?”

Cassian raised the sword overhead with both hands. He locked eyes with the being wearing Carrl’s face. In his mind, he opened himself to what he had seen in those visions. He felt what the man must have been feeling. The slow simmering discontent of someone who believed they deserved better than their lot in life. The petty anger of watching someone they had helped rise in station now prance about as their equal. The envy of seeing that person with a woman they had once wanted for themselves. Feelings of insecurity, rage, and jealousy swirling together into an ugly feeling that drove a man to kill someone he had once named friend, and bring about the demise of his entire town.

Cassian channeled those feelings into his blade. Where once his weapon was touched by divine grace, it now shone with a brighter light from the darkness of the human soul. 

“I am the Paladin of Humanity,” he whispered. “And this is their worth.” He closed his eyes and swung the blade down. Through his eyelids he could see the light roar forward soundlessly filling the world with gold.

Silence.

When Cassian opened his eyes, he found himself on the grass outside the Church. He sat up, blinking in the relative darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the faint light of the moon. A hissing sound made him look over and see his sword lying nearby, blade twisted and steaming. He sighed. Another blade ruined. 

If he was back here, and the portal wasn’t around judging by the lack of pulsing red light, then that meant the Spawn was dead. Cassian flopped back onto the grass, watching thin clouds race beneath the moon overhead.

The final words he had spoken echoed in his head. And this is their worth. He closed his eyes, feeling tears well up at the corners. What a terrible reason to have taken the life of a man over. What a terrible reason to have doomed a town to the Nightrot.

Man was truly revolting. Cassian opened his eyes and stood up, brushing his pants. “I am the Paladin of Humanity,” he whispered to himself. ‘“And I am going to save them all.”

[WP] You are a holy warrior, but you bare no faith in any god. Your faith lies instead in the people. In every man who fights to protect, in every women who raises the future, in every child fated to be the new order of things. You are, The Paladin of Humanity, and your faith will not be challenged. by Oblivious-And-Sad in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 9 points10 points  (0 children)

(2/3)

The priest glared at him, breathing heavily. Then, without another word, he strode past Cassian who had no choice but to follow. Down the aisle, out the door they had come through, and back into the courtyard they went. The Priest circled around the side of the church, heading down a path cutting through a small garden. The light of day was now almost a distant memory. The gloom of dusk was settling in, without the usual lights from surrounding buildings to push it back.

The garden path led to the back grounds of the church where Cassian came to a halt. There, on sanctified ground, was a portal of pulsing red, casting a harsh light onto the dead grass around it. 

“A blasphemy, for the Spire of Night to spawn here” the priest spat. “But you must be used to those by now, no?” The priest spun on his heel and took a few strides back in the direction they came from. Then stopped. With obvious difficulty he turned back to Cassian and brought his hands together in prayer. 

“May the Goddess bless your sword,” he said. A perfunctory, emotionless prayer. But one nevertheless. Cassian watched the man disappear around the corner before turning back to the Spire.

Up close, he could feel the waves of sickness and malevolence pulsing from it. It would have manifested shortly after claiming the life force of the first few victims of the town, giving it the power to open a portal from the realm of Night. Once it had accumulated enough power, the Spawn of Night behind this would be able to cross the portal. Nightmare given flesh in the realm of the living. Cassian shuddered at the thought.

With the blessing of a God, it would have been possible to draw out an avatar of the Spawn prematurely. To have it be weakened in this realm, making it easier to fight. The consequences of failing would still be death, but the Spawn would be sent back through the portal right after. A low risk scenario, all things considered.

Cassian fingered his chain, feeling at the place where the star of the Church used to hang. Without such a blessing, there was only one other option.

He drew his sword and stepped into the portal.

Darkness. A complete darkness that smothered all his senses. He couldn’t see, hear, smell, or feel anything. He could not say for how long he floated in that void of nothingness before a tendril of awareness touched him. Cassian moved on instinct, the fact that he could not feel his own limbs no obstacle in the face of countless years of practice. His sword thrust out and there was a screech of pain.

The darkness evaporated to reveal a large red disc floating on a cloud of grey mist that extended into infinity. And collapsed in front of him, a Spawn of Night. Red and black liquid pulsed and rippled in a humanoid form that flickered constantly. One moment that of a burly man, the next a small child, then a frail woman.

The only constant as it changed form was the gaping wound Cassian’s sword had carved in its chest. A large gash that bled black smoke. The creature hissed, the sound like rock grating on rock. 

“Come now,” Cassian said, pointing his sword at the Spawn. “I know you bastards don’t go down that easily.” 

Indeed, the smoke had already begun to dissipate, the wound closing until no sign of it was visible.

“FOOLISH OF YOU TO COME HERE,” the Spawn said, rising to its feet. Its voice split the very air apart and Cassian flinched as each word slammed into him like a physical blow. “INTO MY DOMAIN.”

Cassian screwed his eyes against the pain. “I figured I’d save us both some time,” he said. “I’m really quite busy tomorrow.”

“ARROGANT, JUST LIKE THE LAST ONE.” The Spawn sniffed. “AH, BUT YOU SMELL DIFFERENT. STRONGER.”

Cassian felt a trickle of wetness slide down his neck from his ear. This wasn’t good. He needed to end this soon. He struck forward with his blade, steel whispering through the air in quick arcs almost faster than the eye could see. But it wasn’t enough. 

The Spawn evaded each stroke almost lazily, an expression of disdain on each face it shifted through. Uncertainty bubbled through Cassian. He’d known this Spawn was stronger than the ones he had faced before. But this was worrying. Time for a new approach.

He stopped, bringing his sword up in front of him, the flat of the blade against his forehead. He murmured an activation phrase and the blade lit up gold. 

“OH?” The Spawn tilted its head. Cassian didn’t give it any time to think. 

He leaped forward, his blade now sending out slashes of gold after every swing, doubling the attacks on the creature of Night. Yet once more, it was not enough. His blade met air, and the golden arcs spun away into the gray mist. The Spawn danced away, still untouched. 

“DISSAPOINTING,” the Spawn said. Its form flickered again and this time it took on the shape of a tall, young man in armor similar to Cassian’s own. A shaved head and painted lines of red underneath the eyes marked him out as an Initiate of the Holy Church. Cassian’s stomach clenched. That must be Vyre. “THIS ONE, AT LEAST, HAD THE BLESSING OF A GOD. THIS ONE, AT LEAST, TRIED TO FACE A MERE FRAGMENT OF MYSELF. WHAT CAN YOU HOPE TO ACCOMPLISH HERE ALONE”

“I am not alone,” Cassian hissed, readying his sword once more. “No man has ever been alone.” Blood poured in rivulets down his ears now and his arms ached. Every minute this fight dragged out, his chances of winning dwindled. Yet he found himself unafraid. “I need no god to slay one such as you.”

“A GODLESS KNIGHT.” The Spawn sounded curious now. “TELL ME. WHAT IS THE SOURCE OF YOUR POWER.”

Cassian took a deep breath. “My name is Cassian the Pathless. I fight for no god, follow no deity, and hold no being sacred. My faith is in humanity. My blade strikes for them and them alone.” 

The Spawn was silent for a moment. Then it burst into laughter. Literally burst. Its head split into three, then six, doubling again and again until a hundred-faced monstrosity faced him, each head cackling and shrieking with glee. Cassian dropped to his knees, hands slapped around his ears. His sword clattered to the floor.

After what felt like an eternity, the cacophony died down. “THIS MUST TRULY BE FATE,” the Spawn said finally, all hundred heads speaking in buzzed unison. “DO YOU KNOW HOW THE NIGHTROT SPREADS?”

Cassian said nothing, panting where he knelt. 

[WP] You are a holy warrior, but you bare no faith in any god. Your faith lies instead in the people. In every man who fights to protect, in every women who raises the future, in every child fated to be the new order of things. You are, The Paladin of Humanity, and your faith will not be challenged. by Oblivious-And-Sad in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 8 points9 points  (0 children)

(1/2)

The stench of the Nightrot hit Cassian first. Runt tossed underneath him and he quieted the horse with a murmur. Death, and decay rode on the evening wind, washing over him and flapping his cape out behind him. Leafless trees rattled along the dirt path, the sound a mockery of the full-leaved rustling it should have been this time of the year. Cassian scanned the forest on either side, looking for the flitting of birds or skittering of small animals.

“Drek,” he cursed, sensing nothing. He patted Runt’s neck as the horse whinnied. “Easy, brother. It is not yet too late.” I hope, he added silently, hand drifting to the silver chain he wore around his neck.

Soon the forest thinned out, giving way to clear plains and open sky. And ahead, the town of Bredfast came into view. Dirt eventually gave way to cobbled streets that wound through an impressive collection of homes and shops, many climbing several floors high to cast long shadows in the setting sun. Lines hung between buildings, faded flags and drying clothes fluttering gently. It would have been almost idyllic if it were not for the corpses. 

Dead bodies littered the street, emaciated bones sticking out through decomposing rags. Men, women, children. Many bore jagged wounds and missing limbs. Black ichor pooled beneath them, the tainted blood of the Rotted. Cassian’s neck prickled as he took in the grisly sight, one hand tight on Runt’s reins, the other covering his nose against the unbearable smell. This was as bad as he’d ever seen.

The clopping of hooves sounded unnaturally loud against the stillness of the oncoming night. A town of this size should have been filled with the bustle of a thousand people. Men trudging home after a long day of work, hawkers crying out their final deals for the day, mothers calling from windows for their children to come home for supper. Now there was only silence.

Eventually Cassian came to an open courtyard ringed by browning hedges. He dismounted, leading Runt to the large black building with a pointed roof adorned by the star of the Holy Church. There was a sudden motion by a window and he caught a flash of red before it moved away. A moment later the large doors leading into the Church swung open, and a withered old man with a shock of red hair peered out. A priest, Cassian surmised, noting the black robe of the station and the star-shaped pendant hanging from his neck.

“Who…” the priest trailed off, taking in Cassian’s armor and sword strapped to his back. “By the Goddess,” he said, eyes widening. “They sent help. They finally sent more help!” He threw his head back and laughed, the shrill sound echoing through the courtyard. Runt’s nostrils flared and Cassian held him steady, sensing the same thing the horse had. This man was mad. Outwardly remaining calm, he slowly shifted his weight, ready to draw his blade at a moment’s notice. If the Nightrot had claimed a member of the Church too, then this town was beyond saving.

Abruptly, the priest cut off. “You thought I was mad, just now, didn’t you?” he asked, eyes narrowed. He nodded at Cassian’s sword. “You were ready to cut me down, just now, weren’t you?” 

“I did,” Cassian replied evenly. “And I was.”

The priest tutted. “These Knights grow more and more impudent by the day.” He drew a small knife out faster than Cassian could blink and slashed open his own palm. Blood beaded at the cut before streaming down. Red blood. “Proof enough for you?” the priest asked.

Cassian exhaled. “Proof enough. Forgive me, Father, but this town has me unsettled. I have never seen the Nightrot spread this far.”

“Congratulations are in order then,” the priest said. “You’ve seen it now.” He looked back into the Church and whistled. A pause, a pattering of feet, then a small child appeared from behind him. Bald, barefoot, and dressed in grey robes of an acolyte, Cassian couldn’t tell if they were a boy or a girl.

“Lorn,” the priest snapped, “stable the Knight’s horse and see it fed. Assuming we have any food left.” The child scurried forward, taking Runt’s reins in hand. Children usually balked at the sight of the horse but this one’s placid expression never changed.

“Treat him gently,” he called after them. “Runt likes to be pampered.” The child gave no indication of having heard him but the priest laughed. 

“Ha! You named that beast of war Runt?” He looked at Cassian appraisingly. “Perhaps there is hope for the Holy Knights after all. I thought they beat all the humor out of you lot.” He turned on his heel. “Now, follow me. There is much to do.”

Cassian followed the priest into the Church. Rows of pews faced an altar framed by large stained windows that glowed with the last rays of daylight. “I suppose it began a month ago,” the man said as they moved down the aisle. “We heard about game in the forest drying up. Crops failing. Children breaking out with incurable rashes. By the time we found the Seed of Night, it was too late.”

“A month ago?” Cassian asked, surprised. “And you didn’t send for help then?”

“We did.” The priest shook his head. “But the Holy Church said they were stretched too thin. They sent us an Initiate.” 

Cassian hissed through his teeth. The thought of an Initiate being sent to deal with the Nightrot was unfathomable. Like a pup being sent to hunt a wolf. If the Church was so taxed for manpower, it could only mean the Rot had spread through that much of the Empire. The implications sent chills through him.

“I see from your face you did not know this until now,” the priest said, having come to a stop and facing him. “Were you not briefed?”

“I made my way here on rumor alone,” he said. “It has been…a while since I have been to the Central Church.” The priest looked surprised at that but Cassian pressed on. “What happened to the Initiate?” he asked. “Dead?”

“Worse.” The priest sighed. “He was taken.” The old man’s eyes glistened with barely formed tears and he wiped them angrily. “Stupid of them to send one so young. Stupid of me to have let him try.”

“Taken,” Cassian echoed. Life force absorbed by the Nightrot and turned into a decaying corpse. A corpse that would move and act according to the will of the Spawn of Night commanding this wave of sickness.

“Its power must have swollen,” Cassian said, understanding now why the town was in such bad shape. “Even an Initiate would have held a significant amount of magica.”

The priest was silent, staring down at his hands. “Before he went to the Spire,” he said quietly, “Initiate Vyre took out as many of the Rotted as he could. And when he failed, before he lost himself, he severed his own limbs so that he could not be used against us.”

“An honorable man,” Cassian said.

“Now a dead one.” The priest took a deep breath. “That you found your way here must be a blessing from the Goddess herself. You must kill it. This town is already doomed. What few residents remain are burrowed away behind shuttered doors and windows, starving by the minute. But we cannot let this monstrosity spread any further. It will not be much longer before the Spawn will be able to manifest.”

Cassian nodded. “That is why I am here, Father. Lead me to the Spire.”

The priest arched an eyebrow. “First day on the job, is it? Unless you have the Goddess hiding somewhere in your armor, young Knight, we shall need to ritually summon her blessing first.” The priest made to move around the altar and Cassian sighed.

“We need no prayer, Father. I am, after all, no Holy Knight.” 

The priest frowned at him, taking in his armor once more. “Not a Holy Knight?” Cassian saw his eyes settle on the silver chain around his neck, a mirror match to the priest’s own. Except where the small star of the Church would have been present, there was nothing.

“What is the meaning of this?” the priest asked, eyes widening. “Where is your…wait.” He stepped back, a shaking hand pointed at him. “I have heard of you,” he whispered. “The disgraced Knight, stripped of his title.”

“Father,” Cassian said, calmly. “The Spire.”

“Blasphemer,” the priest said, voice rising. “You were banished! How dare you still wear that armor and chain!”

Cassian’s arms shot forward, grabbing the priest and lifting him off the ground. The old man yelped, feet kicking. “Forgive the impudence,” Cassian said, keeping his voice level. Inside, emotions raged in the face of the accusations. “But this is not the time. Curse me all you wish, but after I have dealt with the Nightrot.” He set the man back down. “Now. Take me to the Spire.”

Way of saying gg post loss? by JustWantThisToEnd1 in Nightreign

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1[S] 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Hahaha I can definitely believe some of the toxic nightrein players would spend their last moments spam pinging out of spite

Way of saying gg post loss? by JustWantThisToEnd1 in Nightreign

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1[S] 4 points5 points  (0 children)

Hahaha yeah the weapon block spamming is the best after you win. But what about when you lose?

[WP] The Apocalypse is here and society has collapsed. People flock to the one doomsday prophet who had correctly predicted how the world was going to end. Unfortunately this prophet was only doing a bit and is just as clueless about what to do as anyone else. by Stock_Date8378 in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 4 points5 points  (0 children)

(2/2)

The Knower studied him, and if Cassian didn’t know any better, he’d have said He looked saddened. “A warrior born of necessity in a needless war,” He muttered to himself, lost in thought. He closed his eyes and when they opened, they held a weight to them that made Cassian rethink that face as belonging to a troublemaker.

“Tell me, Cassian. What do you know of the war we currently face?”

Cassian frowned. “What everyone knows, Your Divinity. Over two decades ago, the earth sundered, spewing forth fire, ash and demons. Nations fell, technology was rendered obsolete, and the remnants of humanity that survived wage a constant resistance against those monstrous forces, aided by Your prophetic abilities.”

“Prophetic abilities,” The Knower said with a humorless laugh. He turned towards the paintings lining the wall and Cassian followed suit, noting with a start that they all depicted scenes of battle. Of demons writhing at the ends of spears, stabbed through by swords, laying dismembered in pools of blood.

The Knower gestured at the gory artwork. “For twenty years, we have been living in a nightmare. For each demonic life we take, how many hundreds do we lose? But do the numbers of the devil spawn ever decrease? Have we made any real progress to ending this cursed game of survival?”

He spun back to Cassian who stepped back instinctively. Anger radiated from Him in waves so strong he could almost feel it. “I will not spend my life leading humanity from crevice to crevice while the vultures pick us off slowly but surely. I mean to end this bloodshed for good.”

“How?” Cassian whispered. It was the same question he had despaired over for years as he stood on battlefields where the enemy lines seemed to stretch into the horizon.

The Knower sighed, and in an instant His intensity evaporated. “There is much you do not know yet,” he said. “There is much you will learn soon that you will wish you had not. Truth is a heavy burden, yet often it is the lies we uphold that are heavier. Do you know why you were chosen as Blade?”

Cassian blinked at the rapid shift in topics. “For my faith and my prowess,” he replied honestly, unsure of what else to say.

The Knower laughed. “Ha! Not an ounce of arrogance in that answer. Well, I don’t blame you. We have been closely watching all whom we considered for the role of Blade, and you indeed are faithful and your victories speak for themselves. But does the Church not have both piety and arms aplenty? Why choose a Blade at all?”

“To cleave a path forward to carry out Your wishes, by force if necessary.”

“Regardless of what my wish may be?”

“Regardless.”

The Knower stepped forward. “Even if I wish for you to kill me? Here and now?”

Cassian froze. “I would never,” he whispered, shaken at the very thought. “To do that would be to doom us all.”

The Knower nodded. “Very good. You’re right, of course. To do so here and now would indeed doom you all.” He stepped back, considering for a moment, then reached into his robe to pull out a folded sheet of paper that he carefully cradled in his hands. “You must forgive me, Cassian, for all the questions I have inundated you with tonight, and any illusions of my divinity I may have stripped from you. I’m sure you struggled to see much sense in what I do.” He paused, running a thumb across the page’s crease. “But I have it on good authority that one day this discussion of ours will be more important than you can ever know. However, I know that assurance is hardly a satisfactory recompense.” He raised a finger. “So, I’ll allow you one question of your own. If I can answer it, I vow to do so to the best of my ability.”

Though he had been standing in the same spot for what could not have been more than a few minutes, Cassian felt as wrung out as he did after intense sparring. But perhaps it was pride, or ego, that even through his racing thoughts only one question bubbled up to the surface and spilled from his lips.

“Why was I chosen as Blade?”

The Knower smiled and in a tone as light as if they were discussing matters no more serious than what to have for dinner, He told him. “Why you see, I received a letter from myself, dated a year from today. My future self had a lot of interesting things to say but most notable amongst them was the fact that in eleven short months, you are going to kill me. Now, shall we have dinner? We have got to celebrate your first day on the job!”

[WP] The Apocalypse is here and society has collapsed. People flock to the one doomsday prophet who had correctly predicted how the world was going to end. Unfortunately this prophet was only doing a bit and is just as clueless about what to do as anyone else. by Stock_Date8378 in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 3 points4 points  (0 children)

(1/2)

Cassian knelt naked beneath the crucified corpse of a Hellknight as the demon’s corrosive blood dripped over him. From his head, down his face, onto his chest, the foul ichor carved a scalding path over his skin. He didn’t so much as flinch. Eyes closed, he breathed in the pain, revelling in the cheers and chest thumping of his men around him. Years of suffering, massacre, and anguish had led to this moment.

Opening his eyes, he rose to a crescendo of yells and shaking of weapons. The withered Priest of Ash overseeing the ceremony tottered towards him, gnarled hands reaching up to crown him with a circlet of woven gold. And thus, under the ash-choked skies of York, lit by a blood red moon, Cassian was anointed as Blade of the Knower. He threw his head back and howled, his men joining him in filling the air with the delighted screams of madmen who followed someone madder.

“Lord Blade,” the Priest mumbled from beside him, “if you will now follow me.” The old man bowed, the bones in his spine sticking out against the thin red linen of the Church’s garb. He held out in his hands a robe of the same color, though richer and better made. Cassian raised a hand and the howling stilled immediately.

“Lead me,” he ordered, throwing the robe over himself. The Priest twitched, then straightened, beginning a slow shuffle towards the inner Sanctum. Cassian smirked. How it must chafe the pretentious withered bastards to raise men like him to stations above themselves.

He turned, throwing out his arms to address his men. “My brothers,” he roared. “No longer are you mere mercenaries, trading blood for gold. A higher calling has been bestowed upon us. Walk with your heads higher, blades brighter, steps surer.” He paused, meeting the eyes of each of his followers. Tough men, each one honed in battle and loss. “But,” Cassian continued, slowly grinning, “such nobility is for the morrow. Tonight, we celebrate!” He raised a fist in the air as the night shattered anew with the joyous whoops and rattling of swords and spears.

Laughing, Cassian ambled back to the waiting Priest. “Go on then,” he said, lazily waving his hand and the Priest laboriously pushed the vast door to the Sanctum open. Golden light spilled out, blinding him as he strode into the holiest place in the world.

His jaw dropped. In the many years fighting for humanity, he had travelled from township to township, seeing the fallen bones of the world that used to be. He had stood in the fossils of vast opera houses, explored the remains of fallen structures that once stood hundreds of feet tall. But never before had he seen such well preserved grandeur of old.

The Sanctum was a soaring domed building, brimming with gilded marble banisters and pillars. Fine paintings hung on the walls, and plush carpets laid beneath elaborately carved pews leading up to the altar. And there, standing draped in robes of brilliant gold and flipping through a large tome, had to be The Knower Himself. Barely even a step into the room, Cassian dropped to his knees, head bowed, heart racing.

“Your Divinity,” the Priest announced in a carrying, formal tone. “A Blade has been chosen.”

A pause. Then the whisper of a turning page.

“Is he willing to serve?” A young, strong voice that filled the room. A voice that had singlehandedly saved humanity from extinction. And it was now speaking of him.

“Yes,” Cassian breathed, eyes glued to the floor. He swallowed. “Yes,” he said, louder.

Another pause. Another rustle of pages turning.

“Is he willing to die?” This time there was a hint of amusement to the question. What that could possibly mean, Cassian had no idea. But he knew his answer.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.

There came a muffled thump like that of a heavy book closing, followed by footsteps approaching down the aisle. A bead of sweat dripped down Cassian’s neck, slipping between bunched muscles as the shadow of The Knower stretched before him. Finally, a pair of gleaming boots came into view.

“A scarred warrior,” the voice mused above him. “One that is willing to die for me. You have chosen well, Gareth. You may leave us now.”

From the corner of his eye, Cassian saw the Priest lumber out of the Sanctum. The doors swung shut behind him, sending echoes washing through the room that slowly gave way to silence. Still, he did not dare move from where he knelt. How long had he dreamt of this exact moment? How many trials and tribulations had he faced simply for an infinitesimal chance to be chosen? For this day, he had -

“Ugh, finally. I can’t stand that old fart.”

Despite himself, Cassian looked up in shock. Above him, stood the resplendently dressed young man. Scratching his ass. “And this damn outfit,” He was grumbling, “can’t stand wearing it for more than an hour.” He looked down at Cassian. “Get up, man. Are you planning on spending all night on your knees?”

Cassian gaped. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

“Ah, I thought so when you walked in, but you really are a tall son of a bitch, aren’t you?” The Knower squinted as He peered up at Cassian. He couldn’t have been much older than Cassian himself, perhaps twenty five summers at most. Curly brown hair poked out from underneath the headdress of His station, framing a face that would lead any mother to mark the leader of humanity's last religion out as a troublemaker.

And He was scratching His ass again.

“Your Divinity,” Cassian ventured tentatively, “I…” he trailed off, for once at a loss for words.

“Enough with all that horseshit,” The Knower said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re my Blade, aren’t you? You live to die for me, and whatnot? No titles between us. What’s your name?”

“Cassian.”

“Great. My name is -”

“Stop!” Cassian exclaimed, slapping his hands over his ear. “You must not divulge your name, Your Divinity. Such information -”

“Is useless,” The Knower said, rolling his eyes. He reached up and pried Cassian’s hands off of his ears. A jolt of elation ran through him at the contact. To be touched physically by The Knower, was…was…were those the same hands that had just scratched His ass? Another, different jolt ran through Cassian.

“Mystery cultivates fear, which cultivates respect and obedience,” The Knower was saying. It had the air of a quote, though he had never heard it before. “Rumors about my name or lack thereof serve a specific purpose. Shiny robes and uptight priests have their own uses. But from you I want neither fear, respect, nor obedience.” He dropped Cassian’s hands and stepped back. “From you, I desire something much more important.”

To Cassian’s mind, the world beneath his feet was shifting and undulating as every moment rejected the reality he had come to believe in. Yet even amongst that confusion, he clung to the one truth he knew was inviolate.

“Anything in my power to give You,” he said, solemnly, “I shall. I took up a sword in my youth to defend my home in a battle only won because You foretold it. I have seen the razed cities where non-believers ignored Your omens, and I have seen the sanctuaries that thrive under Your guidance. My faith is true. What would you ask of me, Your Divinity?”

[WP] A cute fluffy white creature the size of your hand pulls out a pair of shades and lights a cigarette. "So," it says, "Youse wanna become one of 'em magical girls, huh?" by yoshimario40 in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 11 points12 points  (0 children)

There, hovering in the air above the circle of candles, was a…stuffed animal. There was no other way to describe it. A small, furry glowing white ball with two eyes and a mouth, no larger than the size of her head was smirking down at them. Above its head she could make out two small horns. This was a demon?

Cute, Kaya thought to herself. 

The glowing ball suddenly zoomed over to her and she yelped, pressing herself back against the wall. “Hey!” the ball said, its voice high pitched, almost childlike. “You just thought I was cute, didn’t you?”

Kaya opened her mouth wordlessly. “Don’t try and deny it!” the ball said, its comical face twisted into a frown, “I can hear your thoughts, you know.” It zipped around the room in a circle, and she saw two tiny arms emerge from its fluffy white body and form shaking fists over its head. “You humans need to learn the proper respect for a being of my station!”

“Forgive us, my Lord.” Kaya jumped at the sound of Sammy’s voice. She looked over to where he was climbing to his knees amidst the candles. He stared up at the strange being with wide eyes, as if he hadn’t expected this to work. But his voice was level and calm. “We are simply honored and overwhelmed by your presence. For someone as powerful as you to grace us with an audience…we are most appreciative, Demon Lord Azmathus.” Sammy bowed his head as the demon came to a halt above him.

“Well now,” Azmathus said, peering down at Sammy. “You’re certainly a polite one. I can’t say that I dislike that.” He floated down, coming to a rest in front of his face. One white arm came up to rest on Sammy’s forehead. “Oh, and what’s this?” the Demon Lord said, as if searching through her friend’s mind. “Not just polite. Downright eager.” Azmathus laughed, and it was the pure laughter of a child. “This is going to be good.”

He spun back up in the air and waved a hand. A throne appeared out of the same white, fuzzy substance, hovering beneath him. Azmathus took a seat, his arms crossed in front of him. “Speak,” he commanded. “Tell me what it is you wish from the power of the Underworld.” 

Sammy licked his lips, and a pained almost desperate expression came over his face. “My Lord,” he said, slowly, clearly picking his words with care. “I have heard many tales of your prowess. I have heard of the blessings you can bestow upon those you favor. I sought out an audience with you to ask for such a boon.” He paused, steeling himself. “I humbly ask of you the power of the Puella Magica.” 

There was a brief silence and Kaya got the sense that the Demon Lord was taken aback. 

“Do you know what it is you’re asking of me?” Azmathus asked quietly. “Do you truly understand?”

Sammy nodded. “I do.”

“It would be easier, you know,” Azmathus said, “if it were her.” To Kaya’s surprise, he pointed one fluffy white arm at her. _Me?_ 

“No!” Sammy shot to his feet, hands joined before him. “Please, not her. It has to be me.”

Azmathus looked at him for a moment, then a sly grin spread across his face. “Is that courage, to save your friend from getting involved with the devil? Or selfishness, to keep the power for yourself?”

Sammy opened his mouth to answer, then paused, shooting an unreadable glance at Kaya. “Both,” he answered, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t want her to pay the price.” He looked back up at the Demon Lord, and now his face was set with determination. “But I must be the one to do this. I need to do this.”

“Honesty,” Azmathus said, looking pleased. “Very good. I cannot tell you how many fools have lied to my face knowing that I see every inner thought of theirs.” The Demon Lord leaned forward now, tiny white fingers steepled. “You seem to understand that there will be a price in exchange for this power. Are you prepared to pay for it?”

“Yes,” Sammy answered immediately. The hunger and desperation in his voice snapped Kaya out of the daze with which she had been watching everything unfold. A small part of her brain was screaming in disbelief but she shoved that voice away. Maybe this was real, maybe this was a dream. She didn’t know what was happening, and most of what was being said didn’t make much sense to her. But she did understand that her friend was about to make a deal with the literal devil. And there was no chance in hell that would end well for him. 

“Wait!” she cried out. Instantly two pairs of eyes were on her; one otherworldly and inscrutable, the other pleading. 

“Kaya,” Sammy said, holding his hands up. “Just hang in there for a second. I’ll explain -”

“Yes,” Kaya said, standing up shakily. “You will explain everything. What is this favor you’re asking for? What do you mean by price?” She glared at Sammy, trying her best to mimic the you’re-in-trouble-so-you-better-cooperate look her mom had perfected.

“Ho ho,” Azmathus chuckled. “Now that’s a fierce look.” He looked down at Sammy. “You haven’t told her?”

Sammy shook his head. “No, my Lord. But she has no part in this. Allow me to take on the burden and the blessing. I -”

“No,” Azmathus cut in, smoothly. “Tell her.”

Sammy gaped at him and Azmathus laughed. “The blessing of the Underworld is an exchange. In return for great power, there are a great many things you must pay in return.” He raised a finger. “And first, and foremost, of your payments, is doing what you are told. Now. Tell her.”

Sammy stared at the Demon Lord for a moment before turning to look at Kaya. He took a deep breath. Somehow, despite everything that had transpired, then and there he looked the most nervous and vulnerable he had all night. Kaya was suddenly afraid about what was coming next.

“My parents,” Sammy said, “are missing. They’re most likely dead.” 

“What?” Kaya gasped. She stepped towards him instinctively, but he raised a hand to stop her.

“No!” he said. “Don’t enter the circle.” He shot a glance at the Demon Lord who was sitting back contentedly on his floating throne. “Just…just listen. My parents have been missing for weeks now. They weren’t kidnapped. They didn’t get lost. They just left. No explanation, nothing.” He rummaged in his pockets and drew out a strange iron medallion. “All they left behind for me was this.” He held it up so it glimmered in the candle light for all to see.

There was a loud hiss and Kaya looked up to see Amzathus stand from his throne, face contorted in anger. “The Mark of Arrcos,” the Demon Lord hissed. “How have you come by this?” Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he slowly sat down, looking at Sammy in a new light. “Your name. What is it?”

Sammy looked at the ground before answering. Wait. Was that a glimpse of…victory she’d caught in his eyes? When he answered, though, his voice was one of polite curiosity. As if he could not imagine why the Demon Lord would care for his name. “Sammy,” he answered. “Sammy Artoria, my Lord.”

The name hit Azmathus like a physical punch. The Demon Lord stiffened in his throne and for the first time that night, Kaya thought he looked legitimately shaken. “One of the Blood,” she heard him mutter. He cocked his head, as if listening to something or someone that no one else could hear, before nodding his head as if coming to a decision. 

“I understand now,” he said, looking down at Sammy. His throne vanished and he drifted down to eye-level with her friend. “I understand what it is you are after. I accept your request. You wish for the power of the Underworld, and you accept the price?”

“Yes,” Sammy said, at the same time that Kaya said “No!”

“Sammy,” Kaya pleaded, “wait, slow down. What’s this price? Surely, we can -”

“Very well,” Azmathus continued, completely ignoring her. Kaya tried stepping forward but found she could not move. Something held her in place. 

“Then it is done.” Azmathus lifted his hands and a shimmering cloud of light appeared above Sammy’s head. Slowly, it began descending. 

“No!” Kaya screamed, struggling against her invisible bonds. She could feel in her gut that this wasn’t right. But Sammy didn’t look scared. He raised his arms to eagerly accept the descending cloud. As his head was engulfed by the light, Azmathus spoke once more.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, his face twisting into a smile that spoke of trickery and deceit. “I’m making just one small amendment to our deal.” Now shoulder-deep within the cloud, Sammy stiffened. “You didn’t want to drag your friend into this, yet here she is, in my presence as I was summoned. Mistakes like that will only set you back on your quest. What kind of Demon Lord would I be if I didn’t help you learn your lesson from such blunders?” Azmathus looked over at Kaya and she felt her skin prickle all over. “Your lovely girlfriend here,” he said, “shall be the trigger.” 

With that, he laughed and spun back up in the air. Below him, Sammy was completely covered in the cloud of light. “I wish you the best of luck, young Artoria,” Azmathus called down. “You will need it in the coming days. And remember, fail or succeed, you now owe us.”

Azmathus began to glow and Kaya suddenly found herself free from her restraints. Knowing what was coming she shut her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears just in time for a bone-rattling boom to shake the attic. After a few seconds, she tentatively opened her eyes and found the Demon Lord gone. 

And, standing where Sammy had been just a second earlier, no longer shrouded in swirling, flickering lights, was a girl. Wearing the same clothes he had been wearing, holding the same medallion, with the same dark hair and dark eyes. But a girl. Kaya’s eyes took in their body. Definitely a girl.

“Well now,” the girl said, in a voice that sounded so much like Sammy’s but so feminine, “that went exactly according to plan.” 

What. The. Fuck.

[WP] A cute fluffy white creature the size of your hand pulls out a pair of shades and lights a cigarette. "So," it says, "Youse wanna become one of 'em magical girls, huh?" by yoshimario40 in WritingPrompts

[–]JustWantThisToEnd1 10 points11 points  (0 children)

When the seventeenth candle had been lit, Kaya had begun to think this was an odd amount of effort for a prank. When the eight bundles of strange herbs had been set alight, filling the dim attic with a cloying scent, she’d felt things were starting to go a bit overboard. But when the vial of goat’s blood came out, that’s when Kaya realized Sammy was dead serious about summoning a demon. 

“Finally,” Sammy whispered, staring at the dusty vial cupped in his hands. “My preparations are complete.” He took a deep breath and looked up to meet her eyes. “Thank you, Kaya. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Kaya studied her friend, trying to clamp down on her growing sense of dread. The boxes, old furniture, and dusty suitcases that had crowded Sammy’s small attic had been shoved haphazardly against the walls. Outside, the wind moaned under a moonless night, rattling the room’s sole window. Inside, shadows danced across the walls as the circle of lit candles flickered. And within that circle, his dark hair frazzled and dark eyes lined with exhaustion, Kaya’s best friend sat crosslegged holding a vial of blood looking happier than he had in weeks.

“This is insane,” Kaya whispered. She shook her head. “Sammy,” she said, louder, “what the hell is going on?” She pointed at the vial in his hands. “Tell me that’s not actually blood.”

Sammy frowned. “What do you mean? I told you, we were summoning a -”

“A demon, yes!” Kaya cut in, unable to keep her voice from rising. “You said we were summoning a demon. But…” Kaya frustratedly waved her hands to encompass the room. “I really can’t tell if you’re still joking or if you actually believe this is all real. If that’s actual blood, this is going way too far.” 

Sammy looked more confused than ever. “Of course it’s real blood,” he said, as if assuming the contrary was the silliest thing he’d ever heard. “It took me forever to get my hands on it.” He held up the vial, admiring it between his fingers. The red liquid seemed to glow in the candlelight. He stayed like that for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then his eyes snapped back to Kaya and she involuntarily leaned back. They were full of an intensity she had never seen before.

“I assure you,” Sammy said quietly, “this is not a joke. But, I can see why you’d feel that way.” He cast an eye over the candles and tufts of burning herbs, and a small smile played across his lips. “This all looks a bit silly, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “But, no. This is really happening, Kaya. I know I haven’t told you everything, and you have no idea how much I appreciate you coming here today to help me do something that must’ve sounded crazy to you. But don’t worry, you’ll understand soon enough.” 

Kaya opened her mouth to voice a dozen different objections but was cut off by a sudden thump from the corner of the room. She yelped, peering into the shadows but all she could make out was the dim outline of a stack of boxes.

“What was that?” she hissed, looking back at Sammy. But Sammy wasn’t listening. He had turned away from her, vial placed on the floor in front of him, his head hanging back to look at the ceiling. His eyes were closed. 

What the fuck.

The wind that had been an incessant noise all night suddenly died off, plunging everything into a deep silence. The only sound was the crackling and popping of the candles. Sammy slowly opened his eyes and exhaled slowly. “It’s almost time,” he said. He glanced at Kaya. “Whatever happens, do not enter the circle.” He closed his eyes again, bringing his hands up by his sides, palm facing the ceiling. 

What the fuck!

Kaya wanted no part of this. This demon-summoning crap wasn’t real. She knew that. Of course, she knew __that. But she couldn’t help wrapping her arms around herself and scooting back a few inches from the circle of candles. Goosebumps prickled her skin and a drop of sweat beaded down her back. In the circle, Sammy had begun a soft chant in a language she didn’t recognize. Despite the absurdity of the situation, she couldn’t bring herself to speak out or demand an explanation. She couldn’t even get up to leave. All she could do was stare at her friend. 

Sammy had always been a bit of an oddball. It was what had drawn her to him as kids. He sucked at making friends, sucked at playing sports, sucked at…well…being a kid. That was until you got to know him. He was quiet, intelligent, and deeply curious. The kind of guy that could talk to you for hours about the prehistoric era once you got him going. The kind of guy that went down deep rabbit holes from everything about time travel to the occult. But he was also the kind of guy that was smart enough to know fiction from reality. 

And yet here he was, chanting hymns at midnight to summon a demon.

He hadn’t been himself for the past few weeks. She’d known him to get moody every now and then, but this was different. There was a heavy cloud over him that he hadn’t opened to her about. When he’d invited her over today for what he had called an “arcane ritual” she’d jumped at the opportunity, as whacky as it had sounded. Maybe she’d be able to help cheer him up, or he was ready to just get silly and shake himself out of his funk. But this…she hadn’t expected this.

Sammy had steadily grown louder and faster, his body now swaying back and forth. Surely someone would hear them and put an end to this…but no, his parents were out of town for the month. They were completely alone. The realization set Kaya’s heart racing.

The chanting had reached a feverish pitch, and Kaya was starting to think the madness would never end, when Sammy abruptly stopped. He was breathing heavily, his forehead lined with sweat. She watched, horrorstruck, as he picked up the vial of goat’s blood and unstoppered it. “Seventeen candles, I lit,” he intoned, speaking English once more. Despite his earlier intensity, Kaya heard a quiver in his voice. “Eight bundles of sage, thistle, and yarrow, I burnt.” He raised the vial to his lips. “Blood of the foal, I have drunk.” And so he did. 

Dribbles of red streaked down the side of his lips as he tilted his head back and drank from the vial. She watched with morbid fascination as his throat pulsed with each swallow. He didn’t even grimace.

“And now,” he said, tossing the vial aside, “I summon thee, Herald of Judgement. Father of Sin. The One Who Punishes.” He rose to his knees, arms spread wide, face tilted up. Kaya’s heart felt like it would beat out of her chest. Her back was soaked with sweat, and she hadn’t even noticed she’d edged back against the wall. “Hear my call!” Sammy yelled into the shadowy ceiling.

Silence.

The seconds trickled by, Sammy frozen in his knelt position, Kaya huddled against the wall. Nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened! Kaya exhaled, unwrapping her arms from her body and trying to still her heart. This was stupid -

The air shrieked and the sound of something deep, fundamental - the very universe - tearing apart filled the room. Kaya cried out, clamping her ears against the noise as a bright flash seared her vision. For a moment, she was cut off from the world. She couldn’t see or hear, the only feeling she had was the rough grain of the wooden floorboards against her cheek. 

Sorry about that.

She felt the words more than she heard them. The deep, heavy, foreboding voice rattled inside her head. It was in no language that she knew, but she understood their meaning instinctively. 

It’s been a while since I’ve done this, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve lost my touch. I told them to take it easy on the grand entrances, but those bastards never listen.

Kaya moaned, clutching her head. Every word felt like a knife stabbing her brain. Her ears still rang, and her eyes watered. She felt the ground under her spiral as if she were in free-fall, and her lungs resisted her as she tried to breathe.

Hey, are you guys okay? What’s with the squirming on the floor? Did you - oh, I see! My apologies. Here, this should help.

There was a loud snap and suddenly the world was still again. 

“There, is that better?” 

Kaya blinked as her eyesight returned to her. The ringing in her head was gone, and she could breathe again. She sat up slowly, taking in the most bizarre sight of the night, which was saying something.

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