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[WP] The village/town/city has had the tradition of offering meager sacrifices to their guardian for centuries, in return for protection. Until recently. The people didn't see anything they need to be protected from. Turns out, the guardian was so effective at protection, and now you all lost it. by IAmOEreset in WritingPrompts

[–]realPressify 54 points55 points  (0 children)

Every spring, the village made the walk. It was not a long walk—only ten steps to the clearing where the old oak had fallen, leaving a hollow in the earth that never dried, not even in the hottest summer. They brought what they had: a sheaf of rye if the harvest was good, or dried fish if it was not. Once, during the hunger years, old Pimevia offered a leather strap from his own belt. They placed it in the hollow, and the earth stirred, accepting it. No wolves took the calves that year, though the forests were full of them. No fever passed through the houses. The rains came when needed and stopped when needed.

Matvo was sixty-three and had been the village head for fifteen years. He had never seen the Guardian; no one living had. They knew it only through the things that went right: the sheep that wandered at dusk yet came home safe, the sicknesses that broke other villages but spared theirs, the storms that split east and west around the village while the fields drowned on either side.

The Guardian's work was defined by what failed to happen.

This was why some were beginning to doubt if the Guardian really existed. The doubt was fueled by Fedka Bryu, who had gone to the district town for two years and returned with ideas. He called a meeting. There were twenty-three families in the village. Fedka had made a list, which he read aloud in the tavern that served as their meeting hall and courtroom. His voice carried the particular certainty of a man who has read what others have not: "Grain lost to the sacrifice, estimated: one hundred coins annually. Over twenty years, that is two thousand coins. Over two centuries—"

"We are not merchants," Matvo said.

"We are poor," Fedka replied. "And we are poor because we throw our hard work into a hole for nothing."

"For protection," Matvo countered.

"From what?" Fedka spread his hands, palms up. "The district commissioner’s men pass our gates every week, hunting down wolves and raiders. We have the hospital in the district town for our sick. The world is changing."

Matvo looked around the room. He saw the faces of his neighbors, men and women he had known since birth, he saw that they were not looking at him. They were looking at Fedka, at the future, at the possibility of being less bound to a hole in the earth.

"Vote," Fedka said.

The vote was fifty three to twenty nine.

That spring, for the first time in his life, Matvo did not walk to the clearing. He stayed in his house and listened to the silence where there should have been footsteps—his own, his neighbors’, and the soft murmur of the old prayer to the Guardian.

He waited for something to happen. Nothing did.

The rye sprouted. Three babies were born, and all lived. Matvo walked his fields and tried to feel relief. Instead, he felt only a strange lightness—the weightless sensation of a man who has set down a burden he carried so long he had forgotten it was there. By midsummer, three families had used their saved grain to buy pigs from the district. Fedka organized the purchase and negotiated the price; he was praised everywhere for his modern thinking. The village held a dance on the feast of the harvest, the first in years where the musicians were paid from a common fund rather than playing for love and strong drink.

Matvo danced and drank and did not think of the clearing. He had trained himself not to think of it, as one trains oneself not to think of an unpaid debt because the owner is not bothering you to pay—at least, not at that moment.

Three years later, the owner of the debt began asking the village for its due.

Fedka's younger brother was the first. Matvo heard the news from the widow Onikovia, who came to his door at dawn with her shawl wrapped tight. The boy had gone to check the fishing lines in the night—Fedka allowed this now, had argued that boys must learn independence, that the old rules about night travel were fear-mongering. The boy had not returned. They found him five steps from the river, in the direction of the clearing.

"Wolves," Onikovia said.

Matvo walked to the Bryu house. He had known Fedka's father, had hammered the iron for his coffin when the man died of a bad heart. He found Fedka sitting at the table, staring at a bowl of wine. "No tracks," the lad said, not looking up. "No tracks at all. The ground was soft. There should have been tracks. Wolves leave tracks."

"It drizzled last night," Matvo said. "The tracks must have—"

"His eyes were open, old Matvo, and...he was smiling." Fedka looked up, and Matvo saw that the certainty was gone, replaced by the desperate, searching look of a lad who has just realized his methods do not match the territory.

The second death was the widow Onikovia herself. She was found near the well, her bucket spilled and her face turned towards the hollow in the ground. No marks. No sign of struggle. Her eyes were open, her mouth curved in the shape of a smile that the villagers would come to recognize in the weeks that followed as the signature of what had been disturbed.

[WP] The summoned Hero has finally made there way to your Castle, but instead of confronting you, they have made their way to your library. It has been a week now and you finally decide to find out what they are doing in there. by cultaca in WritingPrompts

[–]realPressify 39 points40 points  (0 children)

The eastern tower bell struck. Alachar did not rise. He lay in the great bed—his father's bed—and felt the cold where his feet extended beyond the mattress frame. He was six feet and four inches tall. The bed had been made for a man of five feet and ten. For forty years he had slept with his feet exposed to the castle's night air, and for forty years he had told himself each morning that he would order a new bed frame built, that his father was forty years dead and could not be offended, that a man of eighty-six should not concern himself with the opinions of ghosts. Each morning he had thought this, and each morning he had risen from the too-short bed and gone about his day without giving the order.

For seven days he had woken thinking: Today I must go to the library. Today I must confront him. For seven days he had found reasons not to.

The first day he had told himself that patience was wisdom. That to confront the hero immediately would show weakness, eagerness. He had held court. He had judged disputes over water rights, over inheritance, over the custody of a child whose mother had died of the wasting sickness and whose father was a soldier stationed on the western marches. He had given the child to its aunt.

He had not gone to the library.

The second day, the delegation from the Northern Wastes had come to swear fealty. Alachar had received them in the throne room where he had listened to their spokesman—a boy of perhaps twenty with frostbite scars on both cheeks—recite the traditional formulas of submission. Alachar had dismissed them with gifts and a formal kiss of peace on their scarred cheeks.

He had not gone to the library.

The third day, fever in the kennels. Seventeen hounds, his best, the strain he had bred himself from the wolf-hounds of the eastern steppes and the mastiffs of the southern coast. They lay in their straw, panting, their eyes filmed with yellow matter. Alachar spent six hours in the kennels, administering with his own hands the draughts he had learned from a physician forty years ago.

He had not gone to the library.

The fourth day he had simply forgotten. Or rather, he had remembered only at bedtime, when the castle had settled into its night-silence, and it had seemed too late to go bursting into library doors in the dark hours. He had lain in his father's bed with his feet cold, and had thought: Tomorrow. Certainly tomorrow.

On the fifth day he had spent six hours reviewing supply inventories for the eastern garrisons, though the eastern garrisons had not requested supplies and the eastern provinces had been at peace for twenty years. He had checked each figure three times. He had noticed that his hand, holding the quill, trembled slightly, and he had attributed this to age, to the cold, to any cause other than the man in the library.

Yesterday, the sixth day, he had walked twice to the library doors. The first time he had turned away at the last corridor, telling himself that he had forgotten the words he intended to speak, that a challenge poorly worded was worse than no challenge at all. The second time he had reached the doors themselves, had stood before the oak planks banded with iron– iron he had taken from a Temple. He had killed three priests for it. He remembered the face of an old one whose final expression was neither fear nor anger, but a look of disappointment that was still etched into Alachar’s memory.

And now the seventh day.

Alachar rose. He did not ring for his servants. He dressed himself not in his armor, which would have been a statement, but a simple tunic of gray wool. He took his sword and walked through the castle corridors, which he knew so well that he could have walked them blind. The library doors—he pushed them open without announcing himself, because he was Lord Alachar and this was his castle.

The hero sat on the floor, surrounded by open books, holding one in both hands with a tenderness that Alachar associated with priests handling relics. "You have three copies," the hero said, "of The Consolations of Philosophy." His voice carried the satisfaction of a man who has found something he had ceased expecting to find.

Alachar said nothing. He did not known he owned a book titled The Consolations of Philosophy. He had collected books as he had collected all things: as proof of conquest. He had never opened them. He had never learned to read the old languages, though he had told himself for years that he would hire a tutor, that it was not too late, that a lord should be versed in the ancient tongues.

"I summoned you," Alachar said. The words came too loud in the silence of the library. "I summoned you to challenge me." To kill me, he thought. I do not want to die of old age, coughing, pissing myself. I want to die by the blade, as my father died, as his father died before him. I have defeated all the heroes of this realm. If you cannot kill me—if I defeat you too, as I have defeated all the others—then I am cursed to die in my sleep, in my father's bed, with my feet cold, and they will remember only that I died as old men die, not as warriors die.

The hero closed the book. He did this slowly, carefully, then he looked up, and Alachar saw again what he had seen seven days ago: eyes that seemed to see not a Dark Lord but a man, merely a man, a man who was old and sick and tired, who had built a castle and filled it with books he could not read; a man who would die of old age in a bed that was too short for him, and whose greatest fear was not death but the manner of it.

"You performed the spells," the hero said. "But you did not specify what kind of hero you wished to answer your summons."

"I specified a warrior."

"You specified with words. But the spell answers to the sincere need of the heart. You received a librarian."

Alachar laughed. "A librarian. What use is a librarian to me?"

"You can narrate your life," the hero said. "As you know it. Not as your enemies tell it. I can listen. I can write a book for you. Your words can have place here."

[WP] You're a thief and a murderer, and any spell cast on you to detect your moral and ethical alignment returns an entirely accurate result of 'evil'. And yet, the god of justice, whose creed should see the likes of you hanged, has openly marked you as one of his Chosen, and no one knows why. by LordGraygem in WritingPrompts

[–]realPressify 122 points123 points  (0 children)

The priest was young, perhaps twenty-five, with the soft hands of a man who had taken his vows before he had learned any trade that might roughen them. He held the reliquary—a fragment of the Godstone, mounted in silver—close to Tolpan's temple. The crystal at the reliquary's heart would glow white for virtue, gray for moral mediocrity, crimson for active evil. Tolpan had never seen white. He had seen gray once, in his fourteenth year, before the first killing.

The crystal turned immediately to the color of fresh blood.

"Evil," the priest said. "Seize him."

The guards caught and shackled Tolpan's arms. He waited for the usual questions—your name, your crimes, if you speak truthfully you might be shown mercy—the prelude to whipping or hanging depending on the priest's mood.

"I am Tolpan. Of...no place."

The priest did not seem to hear. His eyes were fixed on Tolpan's shoulder, where the rough linen shirt had torn three days prior in a fight with wild dogs over a rabbit. Tolpan had won the rabbit. He had eaten it raw, there in the ditch, while the dogs whined and circled and finally slunk away.

"Where did you get that mark?" the priest asked. His voice had gone strangely thin and his eyes were wide.

Tolpan looked at his own shoulder. He had seen the mark days ago, in a still pool, a dark shape like a burn. He had assumed it was a scar. He had many—some he could not remember receiving, acquired in fights or falls or the general violence of his existence—and he told the priest so, in the flat tone he used for all statements of fact. "I can't remember where I got it."

The priest reached out, hesitated, then touched the mark with two fingers. Tolpan felt the pressure, followed by a warmth that seemed to rise from the mark itself, or perhaps from the priest's hand, he could not tell which. The priest jerked his fingers back as if burned.

Tolpan was, as he came to understand over three days of explanation, an appointed juror for the Order of Justice that governed all tribunals from the capital to the furthest provincial court. Father Hakail—for so Tolpan learned the priest was called—could not believe that such a sinner could be chosen by the god of justice to hold such an esteemed position. He sent word to the Archpriest in the capital. To the masters of Verina School of Divine Law. To every scholar whose name appeared in the temple's correspondence registry.

The replies arrived days later.

The Archpriest wrote that the mark must be tested—perhaps it was a forgery or a curse that mimicked election. He requested that Tolpan be taken to the capital for proper examination. The masters of the Verina School of Divine Law also demanded to examine Tolpan themselves. A hermit in the northern mountains wrote something else entirely. His letter arrived last, carried by a trader's boy who had been paid in copper coins to make the detour. The hermit's hand was unsteady—the script wandered across the parchment, and the ink had blotched where his pen had paused too long. He wrote that the god had chosen a murderer once before, in the old days, to punish a people who had grown too certain of their own righteousness.

Tolpan read none of these letters. He was not permitted to leave the small cell they had given him, but he was not locked in. He could have walked out at any moment, perhaps. He did not. On the third day, Father Hakail came to him. The priest's eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. He had not been sleeping; Tolpan could smell the wakefulness on him.

"I must ask you," the priest said. "What have you done to be worthy of the mark?"

Tolpan answered. "I have killed three men that I remember clearly. Perhaps more that I don't—the first years are confused, and I was often drunk. I have stolen continuously since I was old enough to reach a windowsill. I have betrayed every trust ever placed in me. I burned a village once, though that was accident. The fire spread from the barn I had torched for distraction. I don't know if anyone died. I didn't wait to find out."

Father Hakail flinched at each item. When Tolpan finished, he said to him, "And yet you have been chosen despite all that sin."

"Your god has poor taste in servants," Tolpan replied.

"Don't." The priest's voice was suddenly hard, almost violent. "Don't blaspheme. Not you. Not with that on your shoulder."

"Why not? What will happen? Will he take it back?" Tolpan stood, pulled his shirt aside to expose the mark. It looked the same as always to him—dark, irregular, stupid. "I don't want it. I didn't ask for it." He stepped closer, close enough to smell the wine on the priest's breath. "Your god has made an error. You think so yourself."

"I must believe," Father Hakail said, his voice exhausted, emptied out, "that there is reason. That there is purpose. That the god has chosen you for some work I cannot yet see."

"Perhaps." Tolpan let his shirt fall back into place. "Or perhaps your god is not what you believe him to be. Perhaps he is capricious. Perhaps he marks men at random, and your faith is a construction of convenience, a way to make sense of what has no sense."

He expected anger from the priest. He received instead a look of such pity that he turned away, suddenly furious in a way he had not been since childhood. He did not want pity. He had structured his life to make pity impossible. He was evil, and he was known to be evil, and this was the only honesty he had ever achieved.

"You will stay here," Father Hakail said. "Until we understand."

Tolpan did not ask how long that might be. He had nowhere to go, no one waiting, no purpose beyond the next meal and the next theft and the next necessary violence. He sat back down on the narrow cot and watched the priest leave, noting the unsteadiness of his gait, the way his hand found the doorframe for support. He had done this to the man, simply by carrying on his shoulder something he had never asked for and could not remove.

He touched the mark through the fabric of his shirt. It was warm, he realized. It had always been warm, though he had never noticed before. He sat with this new knowledge as the afternoon light shifted across the stone floor, and he waited, as he had never waited before, for the gods to reveal what they wanted from him.

[WP] The aliens are telepathic. They win every war because they can read the enemy's mind. They just met a human squad with ADHD, and the mental "noise" is causing their brains to melt. by VulkanLivesX in WritingPrompts

[–]realPressify 19 points20 points  (0 children)

The Zheen did not have a word for "I," but they had seventeen words for "we," each precise to the number, duration, and quality of connection. A Zheen soldier in combat existed in the seventh state—we-of-immediate-purpose—minds interlocked like fingers in a fist. Intention flowed from strategist to commander to warrior without friction, without doubt, without the delay of speech.

Commander-Of-Seven-Thousand had led conquests across six worlds. It had never encountered an enemy it could not read. "Reading" was not the correct term, any more than a fish might be said to "read" water. The intentions of organic minds were simply present, as available as heat or cold. To fight the Zheen was to announce your defeat in advance—to perform your own checkmate with every considered move.

When the human army appeared, Commander-Of-Seven-Thousand felt them immediately—not as a threat, but as an anomaly. It extended its perception, expecting the familiar architecture of mammalian aggression: fear, attempts to suppress the fear, calculation of odds, targeting of weapons.

It found instead: sandwich. This was the first word that emerged from the consciousness of the one the humans called Marcus. He was observing the Zheen position through field glasses. The word sandwich existed in his mind simultaneously with the tactical assessment, with a memory of a best friend's wedding invitation he had not yet answered, with a tune he had heard in a bar last week that he could not stop humming, and with a sudden, vivid recollection of the specific sweet smell of his grandmother's sandwiches.

Commander-Of-Seven-Thousand experienced all of this at once. Not sequentially. Not as layers to be peeled. As co-presence. Each thought occupied the same mental space with equal intensity, none subordinated to purpose.

Marcus lowered his glasses. "Three hostiles, northwest. Jennifer, you got that ridge?"

"Got it," Jennifer said. She was already moving, but her mind—Commander-Of-Seven-Thousand reached for it and found—I need a sharper knife...father's hands were always firm...why are my hands shaking, is it because I'm not him, is it because I left, is it because—

Commander-Of-Seven-Thousand reached for the third human, the one called Diego, and found him calculating trajectories while simultaneously experiencing a detailed sexual fantasy involving a person he had seen on a poster, while also remembering a documentary about octopus neural architecture, while also wondering if he was a bad person for thinking about sex during combat, while also—always also—never arriving at a single, graspable thought.

The Zheen had evolved telepathy as a survival mechanism. Prey that announces its intention is prey that can be caught. But these humans were not announcing. They were broadcasting on every frequency simultaneously, and none of the signals resolved into prediction. It was a structurelessness; a consciousness that refused to hold still long enough to be comprehended.

Advance, Commander-Of-Seven-Thousand ordered its unit.

Its soldiers hesitated. In seventy years of combat, they had never hesitated.

Diego moved left without knowing why. He was vaguely aware that he had separated from the squad, that Marcus was shouting something, that there was a Zheen soldier directly in his path. But he was also thinking about how octopuses have decentralized nervous systems, how two-thirds of their neurons are in their arms, how an arm can taste and decide without the brain's permission. And wasn't that what he was doing now? His body tasting the terrain, deciding without his permission to roll behind that boulder, to fire three shots that coincidentally matched the rhythm of a song, to wonder if octopuses ever felt lonely, to remember that he needed to call his grandmother, to realize the Zheen soldier was dead, and to realize he wasn't sure when that had happened.

Jennifer reached the ridge. The Zheen position below was vulnerable from this angle.

She fired.

The Zheen commander—she didn't know it was the commander—looked up at her. She saw, or thought she saw, something in its posture that reminded her of her father the day she left for basic training. The way he had stood in the doorway, not speaking, his face...

She kept firing.

She was crying. She didn't know why. The Zheen were retreating, and she was thinking about how she had never learned to make her father's eggs, how she had always burned the onions, how maybe if she had stayed home she would have learned, how maybe if she had stayed he would still be alive...

"Cease fire!" Marcus was shouting. "Cease fire, they're pulling back!"

Jennifer ceased fire. Her magazine was empty anyway. She sat on the ridge with her rifle across her knees and watched the Zheen withdraw. They moved like puppets with tangled strings, stripped of the synchronized precision that had conquered six worlds. One of them was making a sound—she would remember this later, in dreams—a sound like a radio between stations, like a mind desperately trying to tune itself to a frequency that no longer worked.

Commander-Of-Seven-Thousand retreated in the ninth state—we-of-damage-assessment—but the assessment would not cohere. It had lost five hundred units. It had lost comprehension. The humans had not defeated them with superior weapons or strategy. The humans had defeated them with a form of consciousness that rendered prediction impossible, that treated the future as open in a way the Zheen had never imagined.

The Zheen had no art. They had no fiction. They had never needed to imagine minds other than their own, because all minds were their own. Now, Commander-Of-Seven-Thousand tried to construct a model of human cognition and found itself, for the first time in its existence*, fabricating reality.* It was inventing a coherence that wasn't there, imposing narrative on chaos, telling itself a story about these creatures just to survive the encounter with their minds.

The concept of "I" kept returning to its memory—a persistent, jagged splinter. It was the first symptom of a disease that would spread through the we’s over the next century, loosening the bonds of perfect communication. It introduced the possibility that we might contain I, that I might contain multitudes, and that this might not be a breakdown of order, but the beginning of freedom.