[h3]THE ENTRIES!![/h3]

[hider=But Here It Was]
[@PlatinumSkink]

The sky was orange with blowing dust. The heat caused light to deteriorate. A big, glaring sun gazed over the surface of the planet. The plains of the hills were beige with sand or brown with dirt. In the midst of this spectacle, grey pyramids stood among dusty grey roads. They were signs of civilization, machines standing abandoned by signs and displays, all empty and worn out. Pyramid buildings had collapsed fully or partly, leaving the death of a city in its wake. Nowhere a soul was present to be seen. The city was entirely deserted.

The hills were dead, the roads were empty, not a inch of green or blue to be seen. The orange sky gazed down mercilessly. Not even wind was present to stir some motion into the dust. This was a bleak place, indeed.

In an instant a bang could be heard above the desolate landscape. In the midst of the blazing hot sky, a sphere of bright smoke had appeared from the centre of the blast. It had been a small item which fell from the skies which had exploded, sending a ripple of movement through the area. At first, it was only the blast. Then, small pieces of the explosive. And then came the smoke.

The smoke carried along the air and spread, but instead of eventually fading it seemed to continue on, intent on engulfing all in the area. It covered everything, between all the buildings over all the hills as far up as the atmosphere of the planet would allow. For a moment, white was all one could see. Then, it started fading. 

Starting with the origin, the smoke faded into nothingness. And when it faded... the skies shone blue. The air which the smoke touched transformed, where it once felt desolate and hot it now looked calm and free, the blue light brightening up the scene. The wall of white smoke continued its journey, leaving behind this area of still quite desolate landscape, but now the skies were blue.

Then, a rain came. As far as could be seen the droplets of liquid fell straight from the blue cloud-less skies. They dripped and spatted against the grey pyramid buildings of the city, the landscape becoming very loud with the rain splashing against every exposed surface. This continued for a good number of minutes, soaking the dead hills of the land. A sharp eye would be able to catch glimmers of green within the rain...

… Which sprouted as soon as it met the surface. As pieces of green came into contact with the ground, small patches of grass sprouted using the water that had flushed down from the skies as its source of energy. The buildings quickly became covered with green grass of heavens, the roads overgrown and hills became clear green with plant-life. For now, it would only be this quickly-growing grass, but in the future seeds for trees and other useful plants would also grow out, to give the area life.

The area was now blue in the sky and uncontrollably green in the fields and roads, the overgrown city looking like an entirely new problem, reclaimed by unnatural nature. But, the heat had left, the air looked fresh, and it looked like a place where life might once again find a way.

A lone cone-shaped shuttle descended from the skies, a construction of engineering firing its engine straight down to de-accelerate for landing. Meanwhile, a hatch opened in the centre of the city, a stairway showing its way from deep underground. As the shuttle set down, a few humanoids in grey suits jumped out, helmets on their heads. From the hatch in the city, black creatures who walked upright, but had four legs and no clothes, came out. Both were walking carefully, investigating the areas with an feeling of foreignness. The two groups eventually met one another.

'… Didn't they say this planet was dead!?' One of the humans cried out in fear, readying himself to run in terror at the sight of the tall, black forms. 

'They did. They were right. These just... lived beneath the dead atmosphere.' The leader noted in amazement as he looked at the hatch which the creatures had come out from. But of course, in the face of aliens there was no way they couldn't feel uneasy. The creatures walked towards them without fear, making them edge back... and then they stopped. They stopped, facing facelessly towards the humans. They were silent for a few seconds, long enough for sweat to break out in the necks of the humans, but then, all the creatures simultaneously lifted one leg, the front-left leg, and placed over their backs.

'Crrrrck. Crrrrrrrck.' They all made the same indescribable noise towards them, the humans staring in surprise back at them.

'… What's it saying...?' One of the humans asked, staring wide-eyed.

'I have no idea, but...' The leader responded, staring at what they were all doing with their feet. 'I think it might be thanking us.' … After all, they had just dropped the items that had healed the atmosphere of the planet, bringing it back from an uninhabitable state. While no feelings could be identified by his human eyes in the black forms of the aliens, that gesture had to mean something. The men started to relax a little, breathing out looking at the forms.

'Or hailing us. Either case, guess we can't colonize this planet.' One of them laughed, due to the rules for colonization of planets.

'Oh, man.' Another commented. 'A couple big companies are going to be pissed.' There were big money in the technology they had used to restore this planet, and now it would all go to waste simply because they hadn't known the indigenous species hadn't actually died out.

'They can't do anything.' The leader assured. 'This planet is now protected under Commonwealth law for protection of indigenous life-forms.' This was the case. All intelligent life was entitled to their own home planet, and with that this planet was no longer up for grabs. … More and more aliens came into visual range, and all assumed the same pose, their left front leg placed over their backs. The meaning was lost on the humans, but so many of the creatures were doing it, it was difficult not to be amazed by it.

'We must be like gods to them.' A crewman stated in amazement.

'Well, we did just save them all.' Another stated. It was a pretty good feeling, even if it was a mistake.

'… Then let's be good gods and never be seen again except for in their tales of old.' The leader declared and turned around to his men with a determined expression. 'Let's return to space!'

'Yes, sir!' The men saluted back to the the aliens, not sure if it came across any sort of way for the aliens. Then they headed back to the shuttle and let it thrust them into space. For as long as they were in vision-range, the black creatures of the planet held their front-left legs over their backs in some form of unknown gesture.

The humans left into space, and the creatures of the planet proceeded to rebuild their civilization on their newly healed planet, happy to have been given another chance. It was highly doubtful they'd ever have returned from their planet's death, after all. But here it was.[/hider]

[hider=Season Saga] He sat in the bay window, head against the glass, staring out at the falling snow. How it always calmed him, and made him feel alive and welcomed. Most found it to be an inconvenience, but he found it to be peaceful.
Above everything else, the snow brought back memories. With those memories came the truth and the lies. The snow was a bitter sweet factor to him. If anything, it made him realize what he had; however, it made him miss what he once kept close to his chest.
Even if everything felt so off at times, snow, was always there if only for a short time. Unlike when it was fall, with all it's bright colors. Unlike spring, with its sodden days that provided life. Unlike summer with its blistering heat and playful days. Winter brought about the one thing that could make him smile uncontrollably, save for when he had to drive in it.
Removing his frosted forehead from the window pane, he looked back into the room and couldn't help but smile. It had been years since he had watched the snow himself. Two kids stared out with him, though kids was a harsh term for them. Unlike when they were young, they wouldn't find it exciting just to stare at it. No they wanted to play out in it, and he thought it destroyed some of it's beauty. Although he realized that another beauty grew from the trodden path's the “kids” created. Joy. Union. Memories. The now older “kids” looked at their second father with worried looks. They had seen that look too many times to count, and the older of the two put a hand on his shoulder.
“Dad,” the boy turned man's voice called to him. “Why don't we get you a cup of hot chocolate?”
The younger nodded in agreement and seemed to dance her way into the kitchen, the sounds of mugs clattering could be heard. The younger always left her second father to the oldest. For he was always like this when this time of year came around. Always worrying about the two's true father. Always worrying about their true father themselves. The younger, head shaking, grabbed four packets of the powdered substance, one for the older and younger and two for the second father. Voices reached down to the younger as the water was set to boil.
“He'll come back and he'll be fine, now come on old man, let's get you away from the window.”
“Yare yare, yeah yeah, if you say so... and I'm not that old ya know. If anything I'm only fourteen years your senior. Now your father on the other hand... HE'S old.”
Laughter. The younger smiled as her shaking hands went to reach for the tea pot. As the younger's own hand reached it, his grabbed over the younger's.
“I meant not to worry you. I just worry about him when he's not here with us. Plus it's easier to keep you two in line when you visit. Now let's have some coco. I haven't had this since you were but a wee little tyke who had this unimaginable tact for pouting and getting out of trouble.”
The three passed the time, talking about the past, and asking how his family was doing.
“You know them,” his voice was suddenly slightly sad and the two “kids” couldn't help but stare at him. “They keep me on my toes. Always asking questions, wanting to see you. My niece has been bugging me to bring you with me.” He pointed to the youngest of the two. “As well as my nephew.” This time his finger found the oldest. More laughter filled the air as the three continued to talk into the night. Soon the two “kids” went to bed in their old rooms which their father had kept current for them as best as possible.
He; however, had gone back to the bay side window and stared off into space. The dawn was approaching, he could feel it in his bones. After having hit the lottery for a nice some of money, work was a thing of the past. His “husband”; however, continued to work and he said nothing against it. His worries were for nothing, for he knew without a doubt his husband would come back.
As if on cue, the garage door opened and he smiled to himself before he finally let himself sleep for a few moments. Soon, he'd be in bed with his “husband” and everything would be as it was for the past fourteen years. Peaceful, like the snow he so adored.[/hider]

[hider=Rising Embers]
[center][h1][color=f7941d]Rising Embers.[/color] [/h1]

[h2][color=f26522]A tale of Life after Death.[/color][/h2]

[h3][color=a0410d]By: Blizz The Silver-tongued. [/color][/h3]

[color=DarkRed]Towering Giants Born From Seeds.

Looming Over With Warm-Red Skin.

Standing Tall, Untouched And Ardent.

[center]Hundreds Of Years, Sentinels From The Ground Up.[/center][/color]
[hr]

[color=FFA500]Than Came The Red, And The Gold And The Orange.

A Hunger For The World, A Hunger For The Warm-Red.

A Sleeping Wolf With A Hunger For The Forest.

[center]They Soon Meet.[/center][/color][/center]

[hr]
[center][color=696969]A Dim Cloud Escapes The Wolf's Undaunted Grasp.

A Cloud Black As Ink, Sickening To Most.

Yet In Such A Vile Thing, There Is Hope.

The Children Of The Sentinels.[/color][/center]
[hr]
[center][color=00FF00]The Wolf Leaves Its Hunting Ground, The Clouds Disperse, A Child Is Lost.

Abandoned, The Child Finds A Home Among The Earth.

Time Is The Child's Lone Guide.

Until The Wolf Grows Restless Yet Again.[/color]
[/center][/hider]

[hider=Love isn’t Love]
By the time the sunlight evaporates beyond the Nagoya horizon, Jennifer has already arrived at work. By the time many families congregate for dinner, she has already finished her first class and is well into the second class where two single middle aged women and an eager university bound boy practice the English vocabulary they’ve been learning about since Monday. Her students mean a great deal to Jennifer and while moving from America to Japan has been a stressful endeavor, it is one she continues to cherish. Hideo and his older classmates show a good enough understanding but for Jennifer, good enough isn’t good enough.

Most people take the plunge and assume teaching English in Japan will be a wonderful experience filled with cute things and plenty of downtime to sight-see. Most people do not care about teaching at all and they struggle to manage their money, too busy being lured by the wild nightlife. Except when these people have to drag themselves to numerous schools in one week, the stars in their eyes quickly disappear and they realize that work is work. And so those people don’t last three months. 

Jennifer teaches three more classes that night and by the time many are asleep, dreaming of things and faces once forgotten, she is stopping by the convenience store on her way home, unsure if she wants to buy something with chicken or something with pork. She arrives back to her apartment and turns on the lights; the faces of her friends and family are the first thing she sees. The pictures are propped against her dresser and remind her of a life she once lived two years ago. Jennifer slips her shoes off and continues into the kitchen where she warms up her meal: chicken and rice. While she waits, she removes her bra and tosses it onto her bed, now she feels truly at home.

When the next day makes its presence known, Jennifer is still sleeping.

It isn’t until 10 a.m. that she stirs and begins grading assignments and surfing the internet. An hour passes and she gets up to prepare a light salad for lunch. On her salary she could surely afford some bread every now and then but she’s learned to go without unless the occasion is special. 

The day’s progression seems to come to a sudden stop when an email arrives from her college sweetheart, her formal college sweetheart. A heavy sigh rattles around old familiar feelings inside Jennifer’s chest as she nervously opens it and discovers he’s going to be in Tokyo for business next week and wondered if they could catch up. For old time’s sake. For who’s sake?

Jennifer isn’t sure about it, even though she already knows she’ll say yes.

She still isn’t sure though.

After playing Pokémon for an hour, she finally replies to Jeremy’s email and tells him that she’d love to see him and hear how things have been. She and Jeremy know this is just a pleasantry and that love is a very strong word she seldom uses in actual context. As he well knows, Jennifer struggles to find and identify love. The rest of the week passes without incident. Saturday night is a busy one where breaks between classes are nonexistent. By the time the last of the students stagger out of the classroom, Jennifer is in dire need of a drink. So she quickly cleans up and bolts out the door to catch the next bus into the heart of Nagoya where she’ll drink away the nerves that meeting up with Jeremy has summoned.

It’s a little past two in the morning when Jennifer unlocks her apartment and kicks off her shoes. Her feet are killing her and she craves a long lukewarm shower. However with Sunday being a day off, she makes her way to bed and promptly barricades herself in the dusty comforter which she knows she needs to clean if Jeremy might come over. Jennifer’s thinning brown hair leaves traces of itself as she tosses and turns, trying to escape into dreamland. In dreamland, she can escape her past and even her future. In dreamland, Jennifer is warm and safe and most importantly, undisturbed.

Her trip to dreamland never lasts as long as it needs to.

In the morning, she is refreshed and writing a list of things to do in order to utilize each minute she has off from teaching. Teaching is fine. Some days it sucks. Some days it’s the best gig in the world. But with her company working her to the bone and offering few days off, she tries to attack her day off, like a lioness would attack its unsuspecting prey. She cleans her apartment but because it’s so small, it doesn’t take long. She washes her bedding and while she waits for it to dry, she dusts and vacuums. By the time noon rolls around, her apartment is ready for guests, but mostly Jeremy in particular. She is determined to prove she was right and to have Jeremy admit he loses sleep over regret. She is determined to deny the fact that during her first month in Japan, she cried more times than she could count. Jennifer was stronger now. And she was happier.

But what about Jeremy?

The rest of the day off is spent being a slob and it isn’t until dinner that she begins to plan for Sunday’s lessons. Thankfully Sunday isn’t too busy and she’ll have Monday off, which is when Jeremy arrives. Her past will finally catch up with her. 

It’s now Tuesday afternoon and Jennifer is waiting in the lobby of Jeremy’s hotel. It’s pretty ritzy and makes her feel under-dressed even in her business attire. Most of the people wafting around are foreign businessmen. The snippets of English she hears make her yearn to be back home. As she waits, she thinks back to how she and Jeremy ended things. He had gotten a great job related to his Accounting degree and she struggled to find relevance with her English degree which she already resented before she even graduated and Jeremy already had a job lined up which had benefits and all sorts of shiny perks. On more than one occasion, she wished it had been too good to be true.

After countless hours of research, Jennifer applied to several companies: ECC, Interac, AEON and even JET though she was pretty sure JET would be too competitive to offer much of a job opportunity. When she landed her first interview with ECC, she finally broke the news to Jeremy who was more outraged than supportive. It was easy for him to lecture her on how she had to keep looking for editing work and although she liked to edit, she found the job listings to be hilariously skewed. Many jobs wanted experience she did not have because she had been a full time student, deciding not to worry about part-time work until she had a degree in hand. Even unpaid internships were being picky and Jennifer couldn’t continue to live at home with her parents.

Jeremy eventually admitted that her four years of Japanese in high school might be useful. But he was quick to also point out that she’d be alone, all on her own. 

In the end, Jennifer and Jeremy’s three-year relationship crumbled as she posted to Facebook that she had taken a job offer from ECC to teach in Nagoya, Japan. She ended up receiving over 30 likes and a dozen comments, none of them were from Jeremy. As her final month in America began to wither away, she tried reaching out to Jeremy but he ignored her numerous outreaches. All she could do was hand her mother a handwritten note at the airport and ask her to give it to Jeremy. Whether or not she got in touch and whether or not he even read it, remains unknown to Jennifer. She wished she hadn’t been forced to pick between living a dull life in America with him, and going to Japan to marry two of her passions together. And she wished they hadn’t acted so childish.

He should have gone with her.

She should have stayed.

Either way, only a child frets about the past and the present that could have been.

Regrets are regrets.

Looking up, Jennifer sees Jeremy heading towards her. She’s unable to stop herself from being a cheesy cliché. She runs toward him and the gap between them is finally closed as their arms wrap around one another, two frantically beating hearts finding solace in the other. Jennifer is shaking and she hopes Jeremy doesn’t notice or at least has the common courtesy of not mentioning it. 

They release one another and Jennifer motions to show Jeremy out. Words are slow to tumble from Jennifer’s mouth but eventually they break the awkward clumsy silence. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She couldn’t stop glancing at Jeremy, his face was more thin and angular. He’s lost weight. Plus he looks good in a suit with his curly light brown hair styled in a uniform manner. “It’s been two years…”

“I’m sorry.” Were the first words that reached her ears. If it weren’t for the crowds on the sidewalk, she would have collapsed. “I shouldn’t have told you stay. I should have supported you.” He told her. Jennifer knew they couldn’t do this here or now. It wasn’t how she pictured it. She grabbed his hand and tugged them off the busy sidewalk and led them to a more docile side street where less tourists dared tread. The pair dove into the first café they spotted and were soon served tea.

Now Jennifer is ready to resume their reunion. “Don’t be sorry. I mean, we should both be sorry.” Jennifer admits nervously, her fingers squirming against her palms. “I should have told you as soon as I was considering going abroad. I didn’t tell you because I knew you might get upset and that was selfish of me. I wasn’t doing it to protect you, I was doing it to protect me.”

“I didn’t want to lose you but…” Jeremy chews on his lower lip. “I refused to see you struggling with your job search. I know for a good month all I could talk about was my amazing new job and how lucky I was compared to my classmates...I know you probably resented me for bragging about it and then wanting to deny you the same sense of accomplishment.” He knows he should have been more supportive, even as just a friend. Jeremy looked down at the glass table, unable to meet her gaze. He feels like an avalanche of lava is suffocating him. “I really wished we had parted ways better.”

Her chest is tight and she’s nauseated. 

Somehow, it’s the best she’s felt in weeks.

“I missed you so much.” Jennifer reaches out to tentatively place her hand over his. “The first two months were so hard and I had so much regret. In those two months, I felt I had made a horrible mistake that couldn’t be undone for ten more months. I knew you were right and I was wrong and that mistake had cost me you.” Jennifer could feel warm tears forming in her pale blue eyes and she once again hoped Jeremy wouldn’t mention such uncommon weakness. Jeremy laced his fingers within her own, they fit just as they had back in the library as they tried to cram for their finals.

“You are happy now, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes.” She finally let out a cry but it was one wrapped in joy and freshly shattered nerves. “It’s not easy, I miss home every day and there are times when I feel like I don’t belong but I am happy, yes.” The bitterness she had felt had faded away without her even noticing. The two of them soon departed and she took Jeremy back to her place in Nagoya. Along the way, she pointed out some of the sights and when she would make something up, he’d call her out on it. Just like old times. He claims to have missed her creative wit but she has a feeling her humor has rubbed off on him, in one way or another.

Once back home, she unlocks the door and pulls back her grey heavy curtains which block out a portion of the noise, to reveal a flurry of pink silk suspended in the air. The park across the street is home to a horde of cherry trees and many tours miss out on the view because they don’t consider traveling to the more suburban areas of the city. This view is one she’s privilege to share with Jeremy. He stares at the view for a while, leaving Jennifer to toast some cinnamon bread she purchased less than 24 hours ago. The comforting scent lures Jeremy away from the window and he takes the offered snack, his mind not focused on the shape of the bread, which is a cat.

Biting off one of the ears, Jennifer chews and looks to Jeremy. He’s looking right back at her and suddenly his expression of contentment morphs to one of sadness. The expression is one that breaks her heart, even after they’ve relinquished their romantic status. “What’s wrong?” She asks, praying it’s nothing serious. But with Jeremy, it often is something serious. 

“I’m not here for business. Not exactly...” He confesses and nudges his toast with his chipped fingernail.

Her heart sinks. 

This is too good to be true. Of course. Of course.

She began to wonder if she went onto Facebook or Twitter if she’d find pictures of him with a new woman, some blond haired blue eyed busty beauty who had some fantastical career helping the poor. Jennifer stared at Jeremy and tried not to think about him marrying someone or moving somewhere like Estonia. Sure, she was in Japan but deep down, she knew she could come home and find Jeremy right where she left him. Would he really run away to Estonia? Were Estonia women super attractive? What’s so good about Estonia?

“O-oh?” She inhales deeply, bracing herself.

“I’m here for you.”

“What?” Jennifer is sure she hasn’t heard right.

“I’m here for you.” He repeats himself, something he often had to do when she sometimes spaced out, inserting herself into her own fiction world. “I’ve been taking Japanese online and I’ve found a job and I’m here to finalize everything but…” He’s looking at her now, trying to translate her bewildered expression into something comprehensible. “I only want to do that if you’re open to us trying again.” He concluded.

“You’d move here for me?” Jennifer asked, unsure if she could carry that burden in case they reverted back to children someday. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“No, I love the job itself but I can probably find another somewhere else but you plus the job would be perfect. I’m not saying if you say no, I’ll just leave Japan and forget the job but...” Jeremy lets out a sigh and shakes his head, clearly getting annoyed with how Jennifer was the one who could weave together wonderful sentences. He was the numbers and logic guy. And right now, he didn’t seem like it. “Being with you would really cement things here and if we don’t work out, that’s fine but I just really want to try again. I think we’re both in better places, emotionally and uh mentally speaking.”

Jennifer knows what he was trying to say.

Her eyes travele from his handsome face to the clock on the wall. “Shit.” She had to leave for school. She couldn’t believe how time had flown by so quickly, but it had. Jennifer moves to pack her bag with her lesson plans, papers and other teaching supplies. “I have to go to work, I’m sorry. Can we uh get back to this later tonight?” She asks him as she grabs her heels and tries to put them on while standing up. Jeremy moves to let her lean on him and she does. She inhales his scent and fears her classes will be agonizingly long and pointless. She wishes she could stall for even five minutes but she knows she can’t. She knows her routine and the city’s routine and she has to leave now.

“Sure.” Jeremy replies but Jennifer knows she’s disappointed him, a habit she can’t seem to break even after two years apart. They exit her apartment and she and him walk until they reach the bus station. “When will you get off?”

“Probably around 11. Are you free for dinner?”

“Dinner?” A brow is raised.

“Oh...right.” She reminds herself normal people have already eaten by then. But she didn’t want to wait until dawn to figure out Jeremy’s offer. “I’ll be free for breakfast.” She offers in a second attempt. She can already see the hope leaving his eyes and she fears his mind is changing. Jennifer wants him to stay but cannot bring herself to say the words he wants to hear. They both hurt one another and she wants to prevent history from repeating itself, she wants him to be happy and doesn’t want him taking a leap of faith with false expectations. It’s a lot of pressure, it seems the avalanche of lava has shifted its sight to the teacher now. “Please, I do want to talk about this but I have to go.” She was really pushing it now and if she was late, she would be docked in her paycheck.

“If you wanted me to stay, you would have said it by now.” Jeremy shook his head. Jennifer steps toward the bus and boards it. She turns back to see Jeremy as the doors close but his back is already to her. A gentle rage is the only thing to keep her company as she commutes to work and marches up the two flights of stairs to her designated classroom. What was Jeremy thinking, springing such a thing on her? Six and a half hours pass and she is done with work. Jennifer heads back to her apartment, too conflicted to consider eating. As she crosses the street, she spots a figure in the park and at first she thinks it’s probably a rebellious teenager but then after further observation, she notices its Jeremy. He’s taking pictures of the cherry trees.

Jogging over to him, she stops in front of a baby blue blanket. There is a small picnic set up with finger food and bottles of fizzy juice. Jeremy turns and snaps a picture of Jennifer. His camera is lowered to reveal his tired but smiling face. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.” He shrugged as if it was obvious. 

“Why?”

“Because adults talk to each other, because we’re not kids anymore.”

“But you said if I had an answer for you, I would have told you.”

“And while I do believe that, I also believe I was springing news on you without giving you a chance to think it over.” Jeremy took a seat on the blanket and patted the open space beside him. “It doesn’t feel good, does it?” His head tilts to the side and Jennifer is unable to hold onto her anger. He was right. He was making a point. He was annoying and wonderful and she wanted to kiss him, so she did. 

Jennifer sat down and leaned into him, her lips pressing into his. Instead of the past flashing before her eyes, she saw several possible futures, some were exciting and some were tough but she was finally ready to move on from the gloom hanging over her. Their foreheads brush against one another as they exchange light chuckles and brief kisses. Jennifer knew they had made mistakes and missed one another despite them. She also knew things would go better, not everything was as it seemed. After all love isn’t just love. Love is respect and growth and kindness. 

Love is also making out under the cherry trees at midnight before a passing police officer chases you away.
[/hider]

[hider=The Winters Rose and The Wolven Song][@Dark Wind]

[note: apostrophe doesn't play well with hiders, the title error is MINE and mine alone -- mdk]



[center][h2][color=0072bc]The Winter's Rose[/color] and [color=ed1c24]The Wolven Song[/color][/h2][/center]
With a twist of his well-used steel, the black-clad warrior carved a bleeding hole into the horned demon’s hide. Metal on bone screeched as he retracted his blade. A spray of blood painted his worn face, an arc of crimson trickling over his golden eye like a scar. His boots crunched into the newly scarlet stained snow as the beast drew his last breaths; chuckling.

“What do you expect to accomplish, hero? Winter has come, and the ice shall reign forever.” 

And, the words seemed to be so. Endless crystalline white tears of the heavens fell forth from the gray. A gray veil that devoured the sky whole and had remained for years. With the snows came ice, with the ice came the death of crops, and with vanishing crops came the starvation of man. Demons crept forth from nether planes. A world made ready for a new ruler as the lands of Aurora were ready to fall, prepared to rot away underneath the layers of cold sorrow. 

The man in night-scale armor darker than a starless sky held onto the wood-carved pendant hanging from his neck; an ornately made raven.

“The raven comes with death, not answers.”

He raised his sword, and so was the end of the horned demon. But, the fallen beast was not his last challenge. A whispering light appeared, shimmering green as a leaf. The orb ablaze travelled through the snow to float by his side.

“Go back, go back. This does not have to be the end. What do you seek, warrior? Why do you brave this storm when there is no hope? End your final days in peace and this world shall begin anew.”

“So said the promises of a liar.”

“Ah, for some words may be lies yet for others the same words… truth.”

“What was spoken shall be done.” 

The warrior trekked forward, over sharp rocks and slick glaciers as he braved the cutting chill of the wind that stabbed deep into his bones. 

“The Great Dark has been slain. She saw to it. This misery too, shall pass. Though, you may not live to see it.”

“Burn in the abyss, foul spirit. No matter what appearance you take, I see.”

A horrid, booming laugh cracked the snowy peaked mountains and rocks fell. The falling debris smashed him in the back, and the warrior fell into the white piles. He grunted in pain.

“Come then, fool. I shall be waiting to spill your blood. I will drink your life in celebration.”

The voice disappeared. Underneath the snow the dark figure struggled to all fours. His muscles ached, his bones cracked as he shook the rocks and ice from his back. Torn fabric exposed his arm and the trail of blood flowing down his flesh. He staggered forward, agonizing steps yet he continued. One shaky foot forward after the next as his life dripped a trail behind him.  Soon he came to face a gargantuan wall and the only place to go was skyward. For hours, the solemn man dug his fingers into rock and ice. Cut under the nails, he bled until the nails chipped off. His skin became frostbitten and his lips chattered against the soul-crushing winds. Despite the pain that burned away at his physical strength, his will remained to the highest peak of the kingdom. Nearly crumpling to the ground, he held his feet steady to stare at a forming castle of ice and magic. 

“F-f-fight me, beast!” 

The man in black managed to call out. Laughter answered.

“Did you think it’d be so easy?”

A million feet echoed against the ground, or so it seemed. All around him, the lone figure saw a host of monsters like the one he had slain. He stood and held his sword centered at his chest with the blade pointed to the clouds. 

“The two shall join as one, but for only so long as the winter’s night…”

“Don’t tell me you still cling to that foolish prophecy. It’s finished, the end has come. Feast on his flesh!”

Demons charged forward, a wave of claws and fangs fell upon the warrior like a boom of thunder. But, even in the snare of defeat he moved like wind. He danced through the whirlwind of beasts, surefooted as his stained steel etched death upon them. Screams and guttural cries groaned to the beat of falling corpses crashing into the snow. Though, he did not go unscathed. Claws left his armor scraped and tattered, the metal falling to the ground. Unarmored, the torn cloth of his back revealed the scarlet slices of numerous wounds. It looked like the whip had lashed him for hours on end. Gushing blood leaked from bites on his shoulders, yet with a tremendous scream he spun the doom of the final two demons. As they fell, so did he to his knees. His fading strength leaned upon steel that was no longer capable of cutting anything. Only the blade strapped to his back remained. 

Amidst the field of corpses and ice, the ground shook. From the castle there came forth a great being beyond demons, an ancient force of old. Shrouded in a gray robe, its ice blue eyes pierced through the darkness. Above its head sat a crown made of ice, decorated with the bones of men. The thing spoke, and its voice inspired fear into the hearts of all. A chilled tone that whispered in the air, unseen shards of cold to freeze all in terror. 

“You had the chance to turn back, I gave you freedom.”

Unfeeling of fear, the man was too tired to care for it. He spat blood.

“That’s what I think of your freedom.”

“And now you mock me. I shall end you quickly, but her… For your sins, I’ll make her suffer.”

Golden eyes seared through the gusting winds. The man in black stood and pulled his hands from the steel sword impaled into the ground. 

“The old words speak of the fates singing of two, a wolf and a raven…”

The ancient one laughed. “The prophecy again. I’ll entertain you, speak it one last time before you’re forgotten in the pages of time.”

And, so he spoke.

“In a whirlwind of rage and war, two spirits meet; entangled in conflict. Yet, blooming from death, the flower of love does spread. The Great Dark shall come undone from their intertwined hands, and bring a new age. The two shall join as one, but for only so long as the winter’s night… Til’ the Ravenheart drinks its final souls, and the song of the wolf is first heard.”

It became quiet as the two waited to move. 

“Old words will not comfort you in the shades of the underworld.” The great ancient roared to the sky, his scream shrill and bloodcurdling. A thousand knives of ice hit the lone warrior as it seemed all the wind directed itself at him. The gust blew him back, yet he held his ground by digging his foot into the ground. He watched the great king of death glide through the air towards him with a raised hand. A sphere of pure darkness with rings of winter circling around it. Inside the ancient’s magic, he could see the end. He saw himself alone in the cold wandering forever and ever in unending pain. But, there was quiet. Despite the wintry winds, all he could hear was the stillness of nothingness. Peace.

He was ready.

“The old words mistook the fates. They did not sing this story… They were crying.”

With swift movement, he drew out his final blade; a long sword with a raven shaped pommel, and metal as black as ash. 

The ancient tried to recoil back at the sight of the darkness, the Ravenheart consumed light like a void; the abyss borne into a weapon. It was too late. Already, the warrior lunged forward and sheathed the deathly blade into the core of the ancient. Great and terrible force screamed and screamed but could not escape as his power dwindled, fading away as its energy and malevolence was drained into the void blade. A blind light flashed and the icy helmet fell to the ground, shattered. 

On the ground lay a woman with hair as red as flame, a beacon of light to the dying warrior’s darkness. She opened her eyes to see him holding the deathly sword, an aura of crimson evil glowing about it. 

“Kael!” 

She spoke his name, coming to him and holding him tight. 

“Triss.” 

His voice was broken. Triss gently cupped his face and laid a gentle kiss upon his lips. 

“You came for me. You came all this way… after all this time.”

With sudden force, he pulled her back to him, locking her into a passionate exchange until their entanglement was cut short. Two joined as one, but only for so long…

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Triss. Freedom is yours. Aurora needs a ruler, and there are none but you who can guide them.”

“You will be my king.”

“No.” 

“What do you—“

“Winter remains as this evil still lingers. Only the heart of a raven can… extinguish it.”

She looked at him and saw his intent. 

“No, you can’t! You can’t!” 

Triss cried.

“… Please. Dry your tears Triss, for they may break my spirit and I need all that I have left to do this.”

She embraced him, her warmth made summer come even in the blistering cold.

“I love you.”

Kael kissed her one last time before he parted from her, walking towards the towering ice castle. At the steps he turned and faced her, the light of his dark.

“I would walk through the darkest and coldest corridors of hell just to have a few minutes more with you. Because of you, I will not be a solitary ghost.”

He fell upon his sword. The Ravenheart took his life, and the two souls faded from this world. A great beam of light surged into the sky and tore apart the gray clouds. The castle fell into a heap of snow, dust, and shattered ice; brushed away from existence by the beginnings of a warm breeze. 

Triss buried Kael’s body where the sword had transformed into a grave. Upon the highest peak, the snows began to melt and grass began to grow. Sun began to peak out and share its warmth, glowing golden upon Triss’s skin. The shimmering gleam reflected upon the lakes beyond and life slowly came to Aurora. The Great Dark and the Cold Winter turned into a new era. 

Despite her tears, there was a smile on her face as she held tight to the wood carved raven pendant she had given him. Triss wreathed his gravestone with it, and shape-shifted. Her form a brilliant white wolf with violet eyes. As she stood still by his grave, a flower bloomed from under the surface of the snow. A rose never before seen, blooming with blue petals; a winter’s rose. One final time, Triss wept. Her cries were the first heard, the first of its kind made by any wolf. They were howls. A bittersweet melody that flowed with the wind, the Wolven song sung every spring the moment the winter roses bloomed. It was a song so sad that the entire kingdom wept with it, and all the wolves howled as one. 
[/hider]

[hider=Leo's Snow Day (WARNING: feels, maybe)]

[b]Leo’s snow day[/b]
Based on a [url=https://66.media.tumblr.com/d64198f0ce0f25c903be3843d5b321a3/tumblr_inline_o1b9jvKmYA1qe0npe_540.png]real dog[/url] (which is still alive by the way(oops))

“We have to do it tomorrow.”
Voices wafted through the open door.
“But he still has a little time left…”
“Leo is hurting. I know he is.”
“He doesn’t look like he is…”
“He’s always been like that. Even though the cold is making it worse, he’s holding on for us.”

The warmth in my arms shifted, as if it knew what I was thinking. Even in the darkened room, Leo knew exactly who I was. Throughout his whole life, Leo had only ever acted for me. He came when I called for him, even if he was in the middle of something he enjoyed, he never left my side whenever I was sick, and he always hid his pain just so I wouldn’t worry.
But Leo was dying now, and he still pretended that he wasn’t.

“Come on, Leo.” I said.

I led him through the front door. I held his leash in my hand and he followed, walking beside me. When Leo was young, he’d be the one pulling me along. He wouldn’t be running forward wildly, more like he was helping me walk. He’d always look back every so often as if checking if I was still there because I’d always hold the leash a little loose. Even now, I was still holding it like that, but for a different reason.

As we walked, snowflakes started to fall from the sky. It was late at night so they were hard to see. We didn’t get snow so often and even then it always came late in the winter. We were worried Leo wouldn’t make it… And he wouldn’t have if I didn’t take him out tonight. I hoped against hope that the snow would come early this year, and it did.

Leo loved the snow. Maybe he loved it more than me. Whenever we let him go, he wouldn’t do anything crazy but we could tell he loved it. He’d walk on his own through the snow and come back when he was completely covered in it with a happy look on his face. He loved it the most when the snow was really thick, and tonight it looked like the thickest snow we’d ever had.

As we walked along, the snow started to settle onto Leo’s shoulders. He stopped, looked up, and closed his eyes like he was savouring the moment. Suddenly, the snow started falling faster and the wind started to pick up, blanketing the world in white. I kept a tight hold on the leash and I lost sight of Leo for a few seconds. When the snow cleared, it wasn’t the old Leo I saw, it was young Leo. His fur covered in snow, his eyes sparkling, almost like he was telling me; [i]what are you waiting for?[/i]

He led me playfully around to all of our old favourite places; the playground where I would play with him when I was younger, the tree we used to sit under during summer and finally, the hill he would always go to when we let him go. He stopped there. I went and stood next to him, he moved closer and looked up at me expectantly. I knew what he wanted, but I didn’t want to let him go. Leo understood, and he turned to leave, but for the first time I pulled on the leash and stopped him. I knelt down and held him close.

“…Will you come back?” I asked after a while.

He nuzzled up against my chest. I undid the leash and let it fall from my hands. The wind picked up again as Leo started to walk away, with me staring after him.

Leo didn’t come back, but it’s not as if I expected him to. We never found his body, but we didn’t exactly look for it. Whenever I tell someone the story they always think I’m exaggerating, but I don’t really know if I was. I want to believe I wasn’t though, I want to believe that Leo was his old self before he died. Maybe it was just my wishful thinking, but that night... It felt like Leo had been reborn.
[/hider]

[hider=Tomorrow/Today]
Outside of speckled glass
He spots the mountains
Sees a path

Inside of spotted skin
His thoughts are mounting
Killing him

One day, soon
He'll begin to climb
One day, soon
It will be time

One day, soon
He'll face the frustration
One day, soon
His reconstruction

For Today
He'll merely hold on
Because Today
He's barely holding on

Strength will come
Like a tide
But today he is numb
He'll stay inside

Tomorrow
Tomorrow it will start

Tomorrow
Tomorrow and Tomorrow 

Salvation will wash over him
Like the promised tide

•••

How many days now?
Not now, not now.

TODAY

Rise to your goddamned feet!

The tide isn't coming

GET ON YOUR FEET

Unsurrender
Uncompromise

NEVER SURRENDER
OPEN YOUR DAMN EYES!

It's wrong!
You have to do it right now
Too long
Have you sat around

Shred your sheets
Dig beneath your bed
Beneath your comfort lies the answer
It's all in your head!

Fuck Tommorow
And fuck everyone you're afraid of
It's time to go
You're the only one that you're a slave of!

•••

Yes! Yes!

He's done it!
He stands!
If one truly wants it...
The entire world is in their hands.

[/hider]

[hider=I was not always a frog.]
I was not always a frog.

That’s a stupid way to start, I assume, but it’s the truth and I have no reason to lie. I was not always a frog. I was not always forced into the monotony of living in a pond, eating bugs, and staring lazily at the rest of the world. I was not always slimy, small, and wordless. I did not spend my days swimming, eating, swimming, sleeping, swimming, because I didn’t have a need to before. I was not always a frog.

The universe works in funny ways. As a frog, I know I shouldn’t know much about fate or Gods or deities, but since I was not always a frog the knowledge remains and I sit in my lake and ponder, ponder, ponder about the universe and it’s strange ways. It was the universe’s fault I am now a frog, because I was not always a frog, and the universe just saw me in my frogless state and must’ve said “Well, we could always use another stupid amphibian right?” And so I was reborn as a frog, just because the universe said so, just because fate is cruel and knowledge is power and my mind deserved to be shoved away into a frog’s body.

Rebirth is defined as the process of being reincarnated or born again. As a frog I shouldn’t know this, but I was not always a frog so it’s fine. It’s fine to know how I was not always a frog. I was once someone who didn’t believe in rebirth, I thought it just another promising story to tell a child when they feared what sat beyond their last breaths. Looks like I was a bit cynical, a bit wrong, because I was reborn and now I am a frog and it sucks. Rebirth for me wasn’t as kind, I guess. I could have been brought back to life as a general, a school teacher, a hawk, anything else, but the universe chose a frog to be my next vessel and then left me alone. With only my thoughts. With only my knowledge that I was not always a frog.

I see other frogs sometimes, and we don’t speak because frogs don’t speak. Sometimes they croak and I croak back and we separate with a fondness in our froggy hearts because it’s nice to get a validating croak to hear after your own I suppose. I sometimes sit back and watch those other frogs be frogs, and wonder if they think like I do. Are they aware that they might not have always been frogs? Are they aware that I am able to think like I can? Are they aware of my watchful eye and anxiously placed croaks and pondering? Probably not, because I think they’re just frogs, and though I am one too I know that I was not always a frog.

I try to remember who I was before I was a frog, but that part of my mind doesn’t remain. Again, the universe, it’s strange. Finicky. It gives and it takes and it kills and it rebirths and that’s just how it goes I suppose. As a frog I can’t really complain. But still I wonder why I know that I was not always a frog and nothing else. I sit back in the pond some nights and stare up at the stars -- the dusty, dusty stars -- and imagine what I could have been before all of this. What if I was a sparrow, singing in the spring and flying in the summer and dying in the fall. I lived to the fullest because, as a bird, I would have to. My wings needed to spread and my soul needed to fly and it would be a peaceful, flighty life. And then I could have been a dancer, with toes pointed and head high and voice demanding as I called for my water after a rehearsal. Many eyes would watch me on those special nights as a pranced across the stage and my body would flow as if made of water and life and all those things that a frog could never be. And as the curtains close and the rose petals fall I would turn and find my dance rival, gun in hand, and I would die and find myself in this pond, wondering who I was, wondering, wondering. Nonethewiser.

Sometimes I wake up and find the grass greener and the water warmer. Spring is like me. The dead trees bloom again, reborn, reborn. They were rotting and now they live again and it is a magical experience that only i understand in this pond. I imagine that was how I was born. I was dead, rotting away, and then spring came for my soul and I was pumped full of life as something else. As a frog.

Spring time for the soul, right?

…

But not really. Spring time for the earth is lively and beautiful, and frogs are nothing but lazy and slimy and useless. To be a frog… Is it better than being dead? Sometimes I wonder that as well, while i settle down beneath my favorite leaf and prepare to let my tiny heart slow. I think about being buried in the ground instead of being a frog, being alive, being able to breathe and see the world breathe and be reborn just like me. I think of how nice it would be some nights, and then how cruel it could be. My emotions sway often, probably because I was not always a frog. 

To be a frog now, however… It could be worse.

It could be much worse.

And I know this because I was not always a frog.

[/hider]

[hider=Ancient Ruins]
[h2]Ancient Ruins[/h2]

You know you're in trouble when you are crawling through a tunnel and it collapses behind you. But of course, knowing doesn't help much, as the tunnel still collapsed behind you. Doesn't help much if he ruins you're crawling through are situated beneath your home village. You still have to find a new way out. In Iliyana’s case, it was just that. She was right beneath the village she'd spent her entire life in. The tunnel had just collapsed behind her. And she did not know the way out.

Some might think it odd for a regular old village to have extensive ruins beneath it, but those people haven't been to Gellim. Ruins are everywhere in that kingdom. There's just enough peace between the wars for people to build their massive stone buildings before another war rolls around to break them down. Over the eons, the ruins have grown to be found beneath pretty much every settlement in the kingdom. Some empty, some not.

And where there is potential for treasure, adventurers will go. Some find it, others don't. Some live, some die. Some find fates worse than death. It is simply the way of the world. In Iliyana's case, it was youthful curiosity that inspired her. A boring life as a village forester just wasn't enough. She didn’t just want to marry and pump out children for some man.

Sure, she'd experimented a little in the field of procreation (who hadn't?), but she was most definitely not ready to settle down. That of course eventually led her to this particular predicament. She was almost through the small tunnel dug through the rubble when the unmistakable sound and feel of rocks falling could be heard and felt. Moments later, a cloud of dust shot past her. Thankfully, she had a scarf over her nose and mouth, letting her at least not breathe all the dust directly.

Rushing forward, she got out of the tunnel and on her feet. The dust was everywhere at first, but soon started to settle. A quick look back revealed that there would be no way back. No way to safely reopen the tunnel. She would have to find another route. She did not speak, not knowing if anything was listening, or for that matter whether any such being, should it exist, was benign. Better safe than sorry, as her uncle used to say.

She looked around the room. Like almost everywhere else in the ruins, the ceiling was veined with some pale, red fungi, which let out a dim red light. While not as bight as torchlight, it was enough to see somewhat by. The room was surprisingly large. Hexagonal in shape, it had tiers going down at the center, not unlike oversized stairs. 

In alcoves situated in each of the six corners stood large statues, solemnly as if on guard duty. Iliyana was about to ignore them when she recalled her uncle's stories about enchanted golem guards. Unfortunately, it was soon clear that her entrance wasn't unique. In fact, it was the least collapsed entrance. All the others had piles of rubble poking out of them.

There were less steep stairs going down from the corners, right before the ominous-looking statues. At the center, far below her, was something reminiscent of an opening. Certainly better than trying to dig her way out. She walked up to one of the statues, stopping a short distance away from it.

Feeling a little foolish, she spoke out to it. “May I pass?”

At first, nothing happened and Iliyana started feeling even more foolish. Then she heard the grinding of stone upon stone. The statues heads turned to look at her, their eyes glowing brightly beneath the stony semblance of helmets. They nodded once in unison, then turned back.

Iliyana breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that if she had not remember her uncle's advice from that adventurers guide, this could have gone very badly. Walking carefully, she moved past the statue and down the stairs. The golems did not do anything more to acknowledge her presence. That much relieved her.

The stairs were remarkably even, hardly marred at all by age. Whatever had caused everything else to crumble, had hardly affected these at all. But despite the lack of damage, she still had to tread carefully, for they were very steep. She had no concept of exactly how long it took her to walk down, but eventually she reached the floor. It wasn't more than a few meters across, broken up only by the large, circular hole at the center.

Iliyana looked carefully over the edge. There was no bottom in sight, but there was a gleaming metal ladder along one side. She had no way back, so the only real option was forward. Thus, she grabbed the edge, climbed over and began the climb down.

For many minutes, there was nothing to do but to climb. The shift did not change shape, nor did it change appearance. The strain of extensive physical effort began to make itself known, but she couldn't go back. She could only go forward, deeper down.

The top of the shaft was barely visible when she reached the bottom. Something vaguely red high above. There was no telling how far below the village she'd gotten, but she very much suspected that nobody in the village had any idea how deep the ruins reached. She certainly hadn't heard any stories about such depths.

The room she was in now was even more dimly lit and had no distinguishing features. But what made it stand out despite the lack of features was the fact that it looked as if it could have been carved yesterday. There was no wear or tear, no stains nor any dust. Truly pristine. 

There were two possible directions. She picked a direction at random and began walking. No point in staying put. She did not know what she might encounter, but she knew her guard needed to be kept up. Pristine corridors meant that they were inhabited. That she was not alone down here. That was either good . . . or very, very bad.

The corridor or room or whatever she was in curved slightly to the left. It was impossible to see whether it would come back in a circle to where she entered or whether it was a spiral. There were no alcoves, no doorways, just bare stone walls. Only after a long while was it clear that it was all spiraling inwards.

Whatever it was that kept the corridors clean, Iliyana did not spot it. After what was probably somewhere from half an hour to an hour and a half of walking along the same boring corridor, she came at last to an end. More specifically, a door. 

It was massive, more than twice as tall as she and many paces wide. Its hinges were thicker than her wrists and the entire door gleamed as if just polished, something that was slightly unnerving. There was a large, silvery handle at the center. Though taller than many, she still had to stretch to properly reach the handle. It was only when she had pulled it down and had begun drawing the door open that the gleaming red runes showed themselves around the handle. They flared once, then exploded into sparks that faded before they touched the floor.

Iliyana knew not what to think about it, but decided to go on. She could not turn back until she at least knew something about what lay within… After all, curiosity must be sated, right?

The air beyond could only be described as warm. She had not even realized how cold the corridor had been. The room itself was heavily decorated, but sparsely furnished. In fact, there were only three objects upon the floor. Two chests and one large stone box. None of them appeared to be locked.

Torches burned upon the walls, but something told her that the fire was not natural. Tapestries hung between the torches, each more opulent than the last. Iliyana had not seen their like before. She was about to check out one of the chests when the sound of stone scraping on stone made itself known. 

All she had time to do was turn around. The lid of the stone box was slightly askew, and something misty was pouring out through the gap and flowing along the floor. It had no apparent pattern, simply flowing out and about. She tried to remember her uncle’s lessons about things like this, but drew blanks. She had a strange feeling that it was something dangerous, but found that her legs just did not want to obey her. She stood frozen in place even as the mist flowed past her.

Eventually the mist stopped flowing out of the stone box. All over the chamber’s floor, the mist swirled and shifted. In a way, it was actually fascinating. Then, without any visible prompting, the mist’s movement altered, drawing together. Frozen in place as she was, Iliyana could not turn about, but some instinct told her that the convergence was right behind her.

She thought about the past. About her regrets. About things undone. About the boys she had bedded. About her family. It took no more than a few moments for the mist which had once covered the entire floor to be gone. She felt someone, or something, grab her from behind. “You woke me, child.” the voice was deep, yet cold. “For that I thank you.”

Iliyana did not know what to think, but she had a strong feeling that the situation had gone straight to very, very bad. She happened to be right. A moment later, the creature holding her bit her and latched onto her neck. It sucked greedily and she could literally feel how her life was rapidly draining away.

It hurt like nothing else had before. Breaking her arm in a bad fall six years earlier? That was nothing. This hurt everywhere. Even as she screamed in pain, she could see how the color drained from her skin. It went from a warm pinkish tone, to a sickly gray-white as life bled from her body. Though she ought to have died already, she kept feeling everything. How her fingers changed, the nails turning into claws. How her toes splayed out and claws grew in, tearing holes in her patched shoes. How her teeth sharpened, her incisors lengthening into fangs. And the heart-wrenching thirst. How she ached to drink.

The thirst was all-consuming. Nothing else mattered. She barely noticed as the creature withdrew its fangs and released her neck. All she could think about was the thirst. Though they had no physical connection, she could feel his mind right beside herself, feel how his will and the thirst were the only things mattering. She had no wants beyond his wants. She felt him peruse her memories and felt no objection. His will was her will.

How long they stood there, not moving at all, Iliyana knew not. She certainly did not care. Her entire body had taken on a distinctly feral cast. And she was most definitely not a normal woman anymore. She did not care, for He liked her this way, and His will was all that mattered.

When he finished perusing her memories, they began moving. Rapidly. The corridor, still as pristine as before, flowed past them. Though Iliyana ran at a breakneck pace, she did not tire. The corridor appeared brightly lit and every detail, once indiscernible, was clear as day. They did not go up the ladder she had come down. Instead, they kept moving for a few hundred meters more, then went up a shaft there. The climb was, like the run, effortless. The golems at the top moved when they emerged, bending to their knees then pulling their weapons forth and taking up defensive positions. Nobody would pass them without a fight now. Nobody besides the two of them, that is. She knew now that they served Him, that they had no more free will than she. She did not mind. She liked serving Him.

Not much later, only a few twists and turns later, they came to what was clearly a door. He opened it, and they stepped through. After they got through, it closed behind them, leaving no sign of its presence. The 
corridor they were now in was very much familiar. It was no more than a couple of levels beneath the village. Thinking about the village made think of the thirst, which always gnawed at the pit of her stomach. Had He not redirected her thoughts, she might have stood there forever, but He did and she obeyed. They kept moving rapidly, heading towards the surface. Though the corridors they passed through were among the more commonly used, they were all empty now.

When they emerged inside the village palisade, she knew it as well after dusk. She could see clearly, but that did not change the facts. After emerging, they stopped running. Iliyana knew it was time to hunt. He needed more protectors than just she. She needed brothers and sisters. The more, the better. Though darkness prevailed, some of the houses had torches outside. Where the light illuminated, they kept to the shadows. For a good while, nobody came out. But soon enough, one did come out. The thirst demanded to be sated, but He did not let her strike. Only when he had gone into the shadows did they strike.

He had no chance to scream before the venom in their fangs paralyzed him. The silky feel of his blood flowing down her throat was so far beyond wonderful that she had no words appropriate. It was too wonderful. But as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Pulling back on His command, she could see how the meal began changing. His skin paled and grayed, hands and feet grew claws, teeth became fangs and his eyes turned red, almost glowing.

She could feel his mind there, but it was dull and gray compared to His mind. The newborn’s body finished changing, the final, feral traits growing in. And so, what had been one then become two, had now become three. For the rest of the night, they prowled the village. By dawn, when they retreated back underground, they numbered more than two dozen. Her body gorged on fresh blood, Iliyana had no need to sleep. Along with her new brethren, she began restoring the cellars. She knew from Him that within the week, they would begin rebuilding the fortress. By that time, the entire village would be theirs. It was time to retake the kingdom. To bring it under proper management.

~|~

It took two months from the Iliyana’s fateful day before anyone even noticed that the village of Smyrna had gone dark, had stopped communicating with the outside world. At that point, some set out from nearby villages to figure what had happened. Not one of them returned. It would take another seven weeks before anyone realized that something was wrong, that no travelers ever returned from Smyrna. As remote as it was, few had paid the disappearances much heed. The wilderness was no safe place. People died there for a multitude of reasons.

By this time, the village of Smyrna was no more. Each and every house had been razed to the ground. Not even the palisade remained. The forest which once surrounded the village was no longer the open, welcoming place it used to be. Thorny, blighted growths were everywhere, the trees twisted and sickly. The sky was always cloudy, fog seeping around the place the village used to be. At the center, the former villagers worked tirelessly to build a mighty fortress. Already it had risen high. Stone was being quarried at all times of day and night. Blocks that once took a team of horses to move were carried by a pair of villagers. Though none had any free will left, they were stronger than ever, the entire village working in unison for the first time. Nobody fought, nobody quarreled. They only built.

Five months had passed by the time the reports of the events at Smyrna reached the right ears. Tales of darkening forests, of corpses drained of blood and torn limb from limb. Tales hauntingly familiar to Branimir Dimitar Bogdanov, Paladin of the order of the Gilded Tear. He knew the ancient lore forwards and backwards. There were many forces capable of erasing entire villages throughout Gellim. It had happened countless times before and—sadly enough—it would happen again. Liches, necromancers, marauding orcs, migrating Gorgons… More than he liked to think about. But there was only one thing, one creature capable of this exact combination of tales: Ankharu, blood-suckers.

The questions were numerous. Was it a newborn Ankharu, migrating in from a far-off land? Or was it one of the old ones, somehow awakened and intent on seizing the land once more? Branimir did not know which would be worse. A migrant might not be familiar with the land, but it would definitely know the ways of the world. It would be prepared. Ankharu were not stupid. It would know about the centres of power. No doubt it would have brought forces with it. 

On the other hand, what if it was one of the old ones? The ones children were threatened with if they didn’t do their chores. If it was one of those, then there was no telling what it had with it. Sure, his predecessors had done their best to destroy them all, to level their fortresses to the ground. But with creatures like those, there was no telling what things they had secreted away.

The old ones—should even just one of them have returned—would be beyond dangerous. He dreaded the very idea of more than one returning. He would have to be very careful. It did not matter whether it was a migrant or one of the old ones. A single wrong step, and it would know he was onto it.

Branimir could not delay. Whatever Ankharu it was, it would quickly build up its forces and entrench itself. The longer it had to do that, the harder it would be to oust. He got to his feet, easily trotting through the halls, oblivious to the weight of the suit of scale mail he wore at all times. Only when he got to the order’s library did he slow down. 

“Brother Krastyu. Bring me the Ankharu texts.”

“Master Branimir. How nice to see you too. Which of them do you wish me to find?”

Branimir did not smile. “All of them.”

The other, and far more bookish paladin nodded once and started moving down the stacks. “Why do you need them now all of a sudden, Master?”

“There is an Ankharu making a mess out in the western reaches. I need to find out if it is a migrant or one of the old ones.”

The elderly paladin’s gaze grew grim. “The old stories, then. Where in the western reaches, did you say this Ankharu has taken up residence?”

“I didn’t. And you know I didn’t.”

“Sure, sure. But do tell.” He replied, smiling a little as he extracted dusty tomes from the shelves and dumping them in the wheelbarrow.

“A small village, not far from the river Agenil. Smyrna it used to be called. A true backwater, a full day’s ride from all other villages, and on a good horse at that. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more remote location in all of Gellim.”

There was a thud as a heavy tome hit the floor. The elderly paladin, Brother Krastyu, rushed over to the grand master with remarkable agility and speed. “Are you [b]Certain[/b] it was Smyrna? That it was not Smyrnia or Smirthen or somesuch? [b]Smyrna?!?[/b]”

“Yes. I’m sure. I have the letter here. S m y r n a.” He paused for a second. “Why do you ask? Is there something special about that village?”

The archivist shook his head. “Is there ever. Is there ever. . . We should’ve burned that village the moment the fools founded it. Those ruins should’ve remained buried forever. If they somehow broke the seals… oh, I hope not…”

“What are you implying, brother Krastyu?” Branimir asked, more than a little confused.

“Call the banners, master Branimir. All of them. Now!”

“Fine, but what's so special about this particular Ankharu?”

“He is only known as ‘the ancient one’, that's what. The Old Ones are weaklings compared to him. Now go. Muster the order. We will need them all if we seek to successfully hunt down this Ankharu.”

~|~

Back in what used to be the village of Smyrna, Iliyana was pleased. Per His will, the fortress had been rebuilt. Neighboring villages and the odd foolish traveler kept them well fed, and occasionally added to their numbers. She knew only what He had told her about fortifications, but the walls of the fortress were both thick and tall. He was pleased with the results, thus they were all pleased. Life was simple that way.

Some seven months had passed since the fateful night. In that time, everything had changed. Iliyana had, like the rest of the villagers, long ago stopped caring anything about her appearance. Where she had once had a soft linen dress, doeskin boots and a warm glow in her cheeks, her current appearance had only reminiscences of that. Her boots and belt were both gone, the glow faded to the pale, almost grayish tone of her skin, her once-bright blue eyes now had an eerie red glow to them. Her dress was torn in places, tattered along the edges, not quite exposing anything humans would’ve considered untoward, but still covering less than most people would’ve considered appropriate. She couldn’t care less. She did not freeze, she did not have modesty. She existed to serve Him. Life was good.
[/hider]

[Hider=the god in the cave]
[@Flagg]

[center][i]Trust no god but God.[/i]
- From the [i]Fragments of Wisdom[/i], Sacred Text of the Holy Scholam[/center]

She is standing at the mouth of a cave. In one hand she holds a torch, in the other a curved sword, dripping with blood colored black in the moonlight. 

The priest is lying dead at her feet, eyes and mouth open in an expression of mild surprise. There are small pale things, like worms, twitching in the blood leaking from his chest. Some have just started emerging from his mouth and from the corners of his eyes, fleeing the cooling corpse. He had been infested by his god, it seemed- and she is not surprised. She wonders if in time he would have shared her husband's fate, and she regrets slightly sparing this wicked cleric such a grisly fate.

She steps over the corpse of the man she has killed toward the cave, looming like a huge and ragged mouth in the face of the mountain. Amid the shadows within she can just barely see [i]something[/i] begin move, and hear the whispered rustle of chitin against stone, the soft clicking of what she knows are mandibles and segmented joints. Something massive and dark is unfurling itself slowly towards her, but she is past fear. Many painful years have led to this reckoning.

She throws the torch down at the mouth of the cave, and the firelight is reflected in a thousand unblinking eyes.

She says a prayer as she readies her sword.

[center]-[/center]

Her husband had been the Duke of Varyon. A severe man, sixteen years her senior, known for the efficiency of his rule and for deft generalship in the Drathan Wars. 

She loved him, had grown to love him over the years of their marriage. He was faithful to her. Not at first, but over time- no concubines, no whores, no chasing after other men's wives. Rare enough for a man of his station, rarer still for a man whose wife had borne him no children and could bear him none, if the masters of physik were to be believed.

When out on campaign against the Dratha, he left her as regent. Trusted her with the order and safety of his realm, silenced the doubters in his court with a stern glance. "She will rule in my stead," he stated, and so put the matter beyond discussion.

From the front he wrote her poetry- none of it good, most of it treacly but all the more touching for that, having come from so naturally taciturn a man.  He tried make her happy, feel loved. “I am composing the worse sort of kitsch to the sound of cannon-fire,” his letters would read, “but I hope it amuses you.” 

[i]By the river I saw you/among the falling petals of the trees in spring/and felt glad for having/so beautiful a wife/so beautiful a friend.[/i]

Terrible stuff, but she smiled when she read it and prayed for his safe return.

Return he did, unwounded, decorated by the Emperor himself with the highest honors of command. He looked forward to years of peace, he said, to years of enjoying the company of his wife and tending to the prosperity of his realm.

The first night he was back they got drunk on wine from the Imperial larders and made love like they were teenagers.

That he was dying became apparent only the following month, when the persistent cough he brought home from the battlefield did not fade but intensified. Fits wracked his nights, and he did not sleep. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. He grew pale and gaunt. His hands shook.

Fluid in the lungs, said the physik, a bad humour caught at the front. They could do nothing to heal him. The Emperor sent his personal chirurgeon all the way to Varyon attend to his favorite Duke, but to no avail.

“Surely something can be done?” she asked the Imperial Chirug, a reedy man with no chin and sharp eyes.

“Nothing,” he said with a sigh, glancing into the bedroom where they had left her husband coughing and spluttering, “Nothing lawful...”
 
With that he left for the capital. Left the Duke wasting away, and her helpless with grief. 

[i]Nothing lawful,[/i] she said to herself quietly that night, sitting by her husband's bed, wiping the blood from his lips.

The next day she left the castle discreetly, with no guard, dressed as a merchant's wife, to find the followers of the old gods. She knew the stories, knew what the Holy Scholam taught, knew that imperial law forbade the worship of ancient deities. Knew that even the wives of Dukes were not beyond the remit of the Inquisition. But she also knew there was power there, in the old ways. And she knew she loved her husband.

“There is a place, a holy place, in the desert, among the red mountains,” said the hedge-witch, “A place of power, of healing and sacrifice. Go to Mount Sarcophaga, where the tribesmen tend to the god of their ancestors in secret, beyond the reach of the Scholam or the Empire.”

She nodded, thanking the witch and pushing a packet of coins across the rough hewn table of the hut. She got up to leave, but the hag grabbed her arm. “Just know, the old gods do nothing for free,” said the witch.

She arranged for the Duke to be taken in secret, disguised as a petty lord, hidden away in a carriage, where he hacked and coughed and writhed in fever-dreams the whole journey. A company of his most loyal soldiers, men who had fought and bled for him in the War, accompanied them on the long road from Varyon, with its terraced hills of rice paddies and fish ponds, to the wild edge of the Empire, where the long red emptiness of the Avanagashan Desert began. To the forgotten town at the foot of Mount Sarcophaga.

The settlement was a collection of cracked mud huts centered on a creek of bitter water. Animals milled in filthy pens. The locals were dour and poor and said nothing to the newcomers, only pointed them to the mountain, to the long and winding path climbing up from the village. 

They carried the Duke up, his head lolling, past sinister idols carved into the living rock, past stunted trees hung thick with strange webs, past piled bones and the dried husks of cattle and goats.

They reached the cave just as the sun was setting over the desert, painting the rocks a brilliant orange.

The priest was there, outside the cave, smiling as though he expected them. An old man with kind, pale eyes, he was dressed simply in dun-colored robes, and spoke with soft and reassuring confidence.

He held her hands in his as she asked for his help and nodded and said he would arrange for her husband to be cured, said that the god here was kind, that no sacrfice need be made in return, that their pilgrimmage here [i]was[/i] their sacrifice.

The priest laid his hand on the Duke's chest, listened to his breathing, anointed his head with strange and cloying perfumes, asked the soldiers to lay their leader before the mouth of the cave. They did so while she watched, her eyes drifting from her dying husband to the darkness of the cavern. In the failing light she thought she could make out odd and jagged shapes within.

“Go down the mountain now, before the light fades” said the priest, smiling at the soldiers and at her, “Come back at first light, and he will be cured.”

“I cannot stay?” she asked, “I cannot witness his healing?”

“No, you musn't,” said the priest, still smiling.

Her husband, lying in the sand, groaned and spluttered blood. She steeled herself, and turned away, trudging down the hillside in the failing light.

She spent that night in a rented room, lying awake on a cot of dusty hay, the soldiers asleep on their bedrolls on the ground. The night was stifling and still, the long silence broken only once by the panicked bleating of a goat that quickly died away. She went to the window, curious, but the town was still, and nothing moved on the shadowy mountain looming above them all.

The next morning, as the first crimson light of day seeped over the hills, the priest came into the town, supporting the Duke on his arm. Her husband, looking aged but very much alive.

“Darling,” he gasped when he saw her, “My Ilyna...”

She rushed to him, and the small gaggle of soldiers cheered as they kissed, and the priest clapped his hands and grinned, and the townsfolk looked on with sly and unreadable smiles.

They returned to Varyon discreetly, the Duke growing more vigorous each day of the journey. He could not recall what had happened at the cave, saying only that he awoke at its entrance, with the priest helping him to his feet, and that he could breath again and think clearly once more, his fever having broke. The Duke swore his soldiers to secrecy about the trip to the desert. To his wife, he only said that he was grateful he had more of his life to spend with her.

Weeks turned to months, months to a year. The Duke maintained his rude health, putting on weight. Ever abstemious in his habits, his appetites had returned with a new strength- he ate and drank as he never had, and was ravenous for her at night. Only sleep eluded him, for he was troubled by queer dreams he would not describe, even to her.

For her part, Ilyna found herself wondering about the mountain and the cave and the god within. Wondering what it was that had returned her husband to her, and how. Troubled by the words of the hedge-witch she had sought for answers. [i]The old gods do nothing for free.[/i]

Increasingly, she spent her days in the castle library, or among the scrolls and and codices of Varyon's Grand Scholam. Reading about the old ways, reading about the time after the stars fell and the ancient gods walked openly on the earth. About how they ruled over and preyed upon the sons of men, devouring their own worshipers, how they propagated their kind through murder. 

The old stories were vague and contradictory. Some said the magisters of the Dratha stole the old gods' power, others that the First Emperor united the tribes and drove them into hiding, where they are plotting their return. The tales that disturbed her the most were those of the boons they were said to grant on their human servants, twisted blessings that drove men mad or turned them into monsters. She thought about her husband, about his new found zest for the pleasures of life, about what she could here him muttering in those rare moments when sleep [i]did[/i] find him.

Still, life was good, and most days she was able to suppress her niggling doubts and the growing unease she felt when she delved into the ancient lore. She attended to the daily business expected of the wife of a great man. And if she had the bladesmith forge her a dagger of steel and silver, as the ancient books prescribed? And if she took lessons from the castle's master of arms and learned to shoot a flintlock? New pursuits for a woman of leisure...and peace of mind.. 

Her husband did  not look askance at her recent, rather unladylike undertakings. “My wife can fight and shoot and hunt as she likes,” he said with a shrug after overhearing one powdered courtier making a snide remark to another, “you gentlemen seem to have the gossip and painted faces covered, at any rate.” 

He died at dinner, almost two years after the trip to the cave. It was at a banquet held by the lesser lords in his honor.

When he stood to toast his bannerman the goblet fell from his fingers, and he turned suddenly ashen. With a glance at his wife, he doubled over and vomited blood, and someone in the hall screamed something about poison. 

His guards rushed over to him. Ilyna remained quite still a moment, mouth open in shock, and felt the blood drain from her face, felt her heart go cold. Time slowed.

The thing that burst from her husband's stomach in a shower of crimson gore looked vaguely like a huge, pale scorpion, but only vaguely. It was hard to make out it moved so fast, eviscerating one stunned guardsman with a flick of some chitinous appendage before launching itself at the other, chittering with glee as it tore into the poor man. 

[i]It used him as an egg,[/i] she thought in the slow serenity of shock, [i]It had cured him like farmer might cure an appetizing sow of the summer blight. For eating later.[/i]

The monster killed six more men that night, five guards and a viscount. As it skittered down the banquet table towards her, black eyes gleaming in the candle light, she pulled a flintlock from the holster she kept hidden in her skirts and shot it. She felt strangely calm as she did this. It hissed and skittered backwards, but by then the guards had regrouped somewhat, and managed to hack the newborn horror to pieces, though one them lost an arm in the process.

As they killed the monster, she knelt by the mangled corpse of the Duke, weeping.

Afterward, the Imperial Justicars and the Inquisitors of the Scholam covered up what happened with frightening thoroughness. The official story was that he had been poisoned by agents of the treacherous Dratha. He was buried as a military hero, to the salute of cannon and musketry. She sat through the service, dressed in black, thinking of the bad poetry he wrote for her when he was at war.

The Inquisitors of the Scholam did not arrest her, but made it clear that she was to remain in the castle. And that they would have questions for her in time. The time came a tasteful week after the funeral. The Grand Inquisitor was, as it happened, a woman, older, heavy-set, dressed in the simple black of a scholar.

She was polite, but chilly. They met in the empty throne room.

“So?” asked the Inquisitor. 

Ilyna sighed, “I loved my husband. He was sick.”

“We do not make exceptions. Those who have dealings with the old gods are punished.”

“I know.”

“I can offer you two options. One, a life of imprisonment. Humane imprisonment, befitting your station, but it will not be comfortable.”

“The other?”

“Vengeance.”

“Vengeance against...”

“The creature that used your husband as a womb for its foul offspring.”

The Grand Inquisitor leaned forward in her chair, “There is an Order overseen by the Holy Scholam, an Order of hunters tasked with tracking down the old gods and wiping them from the earth.”

“I'm not-”

“You can be trained. You have the steel in you, I can see it. But it will be painful, and long, and you will likely die- if not in the course of the preparation, then in combat with your eventual foe. The old gods are powerful.”

“I choose revenge.”
[/Hider]


Remember, as a courtesy to your loyal bean-counters, to tag [@vote] when selecting your winner. Just makes it easier for us to find and tally everything up. ALSO -- if your work is either (a) signed, when it shouldn't be, or (b) not signed, when it should be, message [@mdk] and I'll fix it (or just tag me in a post, so if I'm not around, other people can see that you're claiming your story and respond accordingly).

[h3]Voting deadline is May 18th![/h3]