I have been writing as a hobby for longer than you have been alive. I have been a regular member and roleplayer of no less than fourteen different online forums during that time (including the old RPG), fivesix eight of which no longer exist.
I was previously a regular on the Homestuck forums, but I became so sick of thread turnover there that I asked around and eventually found the Guild. Since joining, I have exclusively only participated in Advanced RPs. Before Mahz gave NRPs their own subforum, I used to be an NRP regular in the Advanced Subforum. I am a Guildfall survivor, and know/regularly write with a few others.
If you ask anybody who has written with me in previous RPs, they should tell you that I have a generally open schedule, I post regularly and in a timely fashion, and I never drop an RP once I join unless the thread dies. Some of them may tell you that I have extensive expertise within the realms of Biology, Psychology, and Physics, which I will make no effort to validate since there is no way I can provide hard proof of aforementioned alleged expertise to anybody over the internet (though I am happy to try and answer any questions you send my way).
My favorite fandom is the Myst franchise, which seemingly nobody other than me has ever heard of.
I was a Contest Moderator for the Writing Contests Subforum for just a little bit over two years. I wrote the Moderation Policy for that subforum and I ran a contest called the Twelve Labours; you can still go there and see all of them and the entries people wrote for them in the Contests Section and the Victory Archives.
I have been quadruple secret banned from the guild discord. That is not a joke.
@xCRAZYxFACEx Yes, I am perfectly open to the prospect - so long as I am given advance warning ahead of time.
As for Syncpads, there are three common variants available to us which all share common features with minimal differences that are largely aesthetic. Features include:
Synchronized writing. Everything anyone types is added and updated in real-time, with identifying authorship marks (which can be removed, although this is still recorded in the history slider mentioned below). Each individual character, and each edit, can be traced back to a particular author.
A history slider that records the entire history of the pad, including edits.
A built-in sidebar chat (there is no rule saying we cannot use the main page for chat itself, it is largely a neatness thing).
There is no character count cap that I am aware of. I have personally written collaborations in syncpads that have exceeded a million characters. I have heard from certain individuals that they have written much longer works. (There is a per-line character cap count due to how syncpads store information, but I have only hit it a few times. All it means is that we cannot have run-on paragraphs all contained on the same line. As long as we decide we are not above using line breaks we should be fine.)
The gui is extremely streamlined and intuitive to use. It is ultimately not quite as powerful as google docs, but everything we need for the purposes of formatting is present.
No need for accounts, registration, or log-in of any kind. You enter the pad and you have full access. (This does mean the only way to restrict access is by keeping a pad link between us, mind you.)
Pads are essentially immortal as far as data storage goes. I still have pads from more than four years ago floating around.
Piratepad is essentially the best of the available syncpad options. The others have questionable stability and fewer utilities.
Check out the link I posted above to mess around and get the hang of it - it is fairly straightforward. If you want to create an entirely new pad, just hit the big 'PiratePad' logo at the top of the screen and it will spawn a brand new one for you.
I do not know what you mean when you say 'game,' but if you go to my profile my bio summarizes my overall experience as a roleplayer. Altogether I have some 16 (verging on 17) years of familiarity with collaborative storytelling and worldbuilding. I have been a member of this site since Oldguild 2007, and if you ask anybody who has collaborated with me in the past they should confirm that one of my greatest strengths is worldbuilding. My greatest failing as a writer is my inability to write in a vacuum and come up with an initial premise. I participate exclusively in Advanced and Advanced NRPs, and my preferred genre is Hard Science Fiction.
In all the time I have been writing online, I have only ever started four roleplays. Refer back to aforementioned weakness, combined with an obsessive need to make sure the posting is perfectly timed and sufficiently thought-out. My preferred form of communication is posting and messaging right here on the forum, although it should be noted I do most of my collaborative writing via syncpads.
Edit: Example of one syncpad platform I commonly use. http://piratepad.net/k6zAi0OPQi In my experience it tends to be a bit easier on the eyes and more discussion-friendly than google docs.
Hey, I uhhh... Skimmed over some of the rules when I submitted OPRAH NO!, and missed the part that said I had to give you permission to knock my name up next to my story. Can we fix that? Also, might I ask how to activate that Stygian title?
Sure thing, I'll attach your name to your entry in the victory archives.
As for the Stygian Legend title activation, yeah...Do not hold your breath on that one. The trophies that have been handed out thus far work exactly as intended, but the problem is the Contest Mod toolkit is still under development and we cannot actually assign trophies ourselves at this time.
Compounding the issue is that Mahz has yet to get around to awarding the appropriate trophies for the last...five or so Labours, I think.
Do not get me wrong, you will eventually get the trophy. I just do not know when. It is out of my hands.
As for your actual question though - upon earning a trophy, you can head to your profile. Check below your arena statistics and you should see a 'Trophies' tab alongside your posting history and any images you have stored. You can activate your trophy there (once you actually get it).
Edit: Added your name to the announcement post as well as the victory archives.
Oprah extended her arms towards Pubert Greenblatt, aged thirty. He did not enter into her embrace, nor did he look her in the eyes, instead focusing upon the tips of his sneakers. His fingertips felt numb, the back of his neck cool and damp. Oprah's joyous smile faltered for but an instant. This one wasn't like any other guest she had had before.
Pubert plopped down onto the soft red couch reserved for guests. Oprah lowered herself into her own seat, crossed her legs, and leaned in as she asked the question everyone had been waiting to hear.
"So Pubert! I have to know, and I'm sure I'm not the only one that is curious; what was the first thought that ran through your head when you first discovered that you were a mind reader?"
Pubert wiped a sleeve across his brow, took a juddering breath, and then at last looked Oprah straight in the face. Conviction and honesty steeled his words.
"Every day, I thank God that my son doesn't know about how many brothers and sisters he has in Nam."
Oprah grinned, eyes sparkling. Then her brain processed what she had just heard. She blinked twice, nodded once, and then glanced over her shoulder to see if the offstage producer had any idea what the hell was going on.
"No, you see that was the first thought I heard. As you can plainly see, I am absolutely not Vietnamese. My father had been stationed down there though. That was how I learned from whence he had contracted AIDS."
The audience laughed, until one by one, they realised that Pubert was serious. Guffaws evaporated and a heavy silence filled the studio.
"Oh, w-well Pubert...That's very...-"
"Then I found out that my girlfriend was a transvestite. He- *cough* SHE... Had been planning to leave me before we got too deep in our relationship. Thing is, I had been suspecting that-"
Pubert slowed to a stop as he saw the expression on Oprah's face. He was about to be taken off the set. He hadn't wanted any if this, but he knew that his financial future depended on people believing in his genuine gift. He had to act fast.
"I know I'm not like Tom Cruise, but-"
Pubert's eyes widened into saucers and he stood up as Oprah's next thought burst through his medulla, impossible to ignore. Oprah seemed to understand at the same time. She rocked back in her seat, lips drawn back over her teeth, protest on the tip of her tongue. Alas, too late.
"You had an affair with Tom Cruise and had an abor-!!"
Oprah sprang from her seat with the speed of a cheetah and the practical strength of a grizzly. She rugby tackled Pubert to the floor, driving the air from his lungs as her shoulder drove into his diaphragm. Wheezing, Pubert instinctively reached down with both hands and grasped the sides of Oprah's head, thumbs digging into her eyes like spades. With a feminine roar she reared back, easily swatting aside two stagehands that had ran out to stop the fight. The audience screamed.
Pubert shoved himself to his knees just in time to catch the cruel toe of Oprah's right high heel on the underside of his jaw. White and red spots burned before his eyes, but he managed to wrap both arms about Oprah's leg. She hissed and began batting at the top of his head with her fists, eyes red and watery, but filled with unfathomable bloodlust rather than pain.
Pubert growled from between gritted, bloody teeth as he locked his hands behind Oprah's knee, summoning up every ounce of his untrained adult strength in order to power himself up into a rising backwards arch. Oprah was propelled up and over Pubert, face plowing through the nearby glass table and into the floor. A flapjack, perfectly executed.
Security rushed in and dogpiled Pubert. In seconds he was buried beneath several beefy bodies. Oprah lay unmoving. In the days that followed, Pubert certainly got more than he had asked for. The first guest to have ever put Oprah in the hospital.
Was he launched into a one-sided legal battle, forced to plea that he had acted in self defence? Did he use his telepathy to escape prison and start a new life in Panama? Yes, that all occurred.
But that, my friends, is a story for another time.
By @mdk. Terminal's Note: This entry won the Mortal Coil Challenge Accolade for being a winning entry of exceptional quality.
There was a supermodel on the television peddling natural male enhancement. Her lingerie left only a little to the imagination, but thick rolling bands of static left a bit more. The boxy screen sat on a chair next to the cash register, supported by a stack of phone books, not a decoration but merely an afterthought, as though the manager had one day grudgingly agreed that they might as well install a television because what would be the point in saying no? The commercial ended and football took the screen – a kickoff into the endzone, timeout, more commercials. Nobody watched, nobody cared.
It was Sunday afternoon and the coffee was cold, the bagels stale. It didn’t matter what the doctor said, the damned things needed cream cheese and a lot of it. Ken, the shabby-bearded and overweight youngster in flannel, caked his morsel with enough saturated fat to choke a goose. He briefly pictured the choking goose, and smiled a little, then took a big bite. The topping embedded itself in his whiskers. Instead of wiping it off with a napkin, he swallowed mightily – twice, to get it all down – and began to lick the cream from his moustache. The extra saltiness from his unwashed hairs was musty and somehow delicious.
A family of three entered the coffeehouse, wearing muddy jeans hoodies and leaving filthy wet bootprints behind them. Church must have gotten out. Before long, Ken knew, the whole place would be swarming with the insufferable smallminded hordes of bigots. He didn’t mean that in the general sense that all Christians are racists, he meant that specifically in North Point, AK, the churchgoing crowd was only outnumbered by the weekly Neo-Nazi rallies every Friday. Hell, the cinnamon-raisin morsel he gnawed on was probably a rejected leftover from that famous gathering – they all came to the same coffee shop after, bedsheets and all. The missus behind the counter cooked ‘em up fresh for that lot.
The whole town was a disgusting, fat, xenophobic waste so gruesome that even Wal-Mart had rejected them, and the mom-and-pop clothing store was always out of T- shirts in children’s size XXXL. The only justice in the world that Ken could see was that the town was also objectively terrible, a frostbitten armpit of America into which sub-human parasites sequestered themselves and their fetid offspring. What was he doing here? The hell did he know, he was nineteen. He had toyed with the idea that in his previous life he’d shot Ghandi, but decided instead that an infinite number of monkeys banging on an infinite number of keyboards had simply produced a typo, and the lazy shits didn’t even have the courtesy to hit the cosmic backspace key.
He paid up and went outside, stumbling around jocular families of asshole through unpaved and unkept streets full of mud from their Indian summer. In a town so small why the hell was everything so far apart? He was heading back to his place when it happened.
Aliens.
For some reason they were in a pickup truck, a red and white old-fashioned Ford with a ridiculous lift kit, and the whole thing caked in rust. They looked just like the standard Greys all over pop-culture, and the juxtaposition of such wildly phenomenal beings in such an abysmal setting paralyzed his mind. They were changing a flat tire – A FLAT TIRE for fuck’s sake, otherdimensional transcendent beings, the meaning of life, we are not alone, they’ve got a fucking flat? He could see nothing else, he could do nothing. They spotted him and turned to face him.
“What….. what are you?” Ken managed to ask.
The alien with the tire iron shrugged, apparently exhasperated. “Seriously, dude?” he asked. As if it were something he’d been asked a hundred times. As if this were normal for him…. Her? It? Ken screamed. The thing sighed. “Dude. Hey, dude!” the alien sighed and muttered under its breath. “Could you not? Okay?” it bellowed at him, and he stopped screaming. “Okay. Just… chill, alright? Jesus.”
“What is this?” Ken stammered.
“Well it’s an F-150,” the alien said. “Oh, this? It’s a, uh…. Tire iron.”
“How did you get here?” Ken asked.
The aliens looked at one another. “…in the F-150? Look, man, don’t even worry about that, okay? Just relax. We’re cool.”
“What are you doing?”
“Changing the t….”
“I KNOW, you’re changing a tire, god damn it. What are you doing HERE?”
“Oh.” That made sense to the alien. “We’re uh….. shit this is awkward. We’re here to destroy all humans?”
“What?”
He laughed. “Naw man I’m just fucking with ya. We come in peace or whatever. You need like a beer or something? Hey, Xlagnmarth, we still got any Coors?”
Xlagnmarth leaned into the truck and picked up a yellow can. “Half?”
“Shit. Want half a beer?”
“What the fuck is going on?” Ken demanded.
The aliens looked at each other. “Oh, you mean in like a general sense, like, oooh, there are aliens. That makes more….”
The creature’s head exploded. He just stood there for half a second, arms still spookily hung in the air where it had been animating the conversation. Then it tipped over backwards and collapsed. After a moment the gunshot registered in Ken’s ears from somewhere behind him.
“Jesus Christ!” Xlagnmarth shouted. He dropped his beer. “Run!” A second shot rang off the side of the truck.
“Wait, stop!” Ken yelled. The aliens were already halfway around the truck, but they hesitated. Ken’s eyes were pleading. “Take me with you?”
Xlagnmarth sighed. “Listen man, you’re like…. Really fat. We gotta…”
“Please!” Ken begged. “I hate it here. I’ve got so many questions.”
Xlagnmarth frowned. It was as if he’d forgotten that someone was shooting at him – his whole demeanor was calm. “Alright, look, just meet us at…. FUCK!”
Ken didn’t hear it. There was a feeling like a balloon popping in his chest. The snow in front of him went red. It didn’t hurt. Before it could hurt it just turned off, like a fleeting picture on a monitor when the cord is pulled out – there for an instant, and then
That night at the White Power emergency rally in North Point, things were different. Everyone was there – not just the good folks, the whole town. By special decree, nobody wore hoods tonight – they had to know for sure that there were no browns, blacks, or greys in the crowd. This was a special case. This was important.
Grand Cyclops Leroy Johnson took the podium first. After he got through with the usual opening, he got to the real meat of the night. “Now I know a lot of y’all is concerned about what happened. I mean it sound stupid, don’t it? This is crazy times. But it ain’t concern that we should be feelin – it’s anger.” A murmur went up. “A white man was killed today. A white man. And I for one am mad as hell!”
The good folks voiced their profanity-laced agreement. Grand Cyclops Leroy keyed the projector, but nothing happened. “This fuckin thing….” He jammed the buttons some more but couldn’t induce the screen to change, and somewhere in his mad fumblings he switched it off. Frustrated, he changed gears. “Well shit you all know Ken Thompson, dontcha?” The good folks agreed. “He weren’t a public fella, kept to hisself – but damn it he were one of us, and that’s gotta mean something ain’t it?” An impassioned ‘yeah!’ rose above the others. “Boscoe you was there. Tell these good folks what happened.”
Boscoe stood up, quivering. “It’s like you all know,” he said. “Them gray n-----s was tryin to take him up off the street. I yell at em to stop and they started shootin at me and Jim. Me and Jim was comin back from the woods, tell em Jim.”
Jim, the white-faced and sweating tweaker next to Boscoe, couldn’t manage to speak.
“So we shot back at em and took one, that one they got in the yard out there. It was crazy. And then in all that craziness I guess Jim panicked, because…”
“They shot him,” Jim stammered, pale. “Them grey n------ shot Ken, I seen it. With like some kind of a space gun. Shot him right in the heart. But it was a space gun, so that’s why it hit him in the back, even though he were…. They shot Ken!” If there was a picture of credibility in a dictionary somewhere, it looked nothing like Jim – but no one argued. Boscoe just shrugged, and Grand Cyclops Leroy shrugged back.
“Then they run off into the woods. They’s on foot, runnin scared.”
Grand Cyclops Leroy felt that something was missing from this story. “Now what was Ken doing at the time when he was shot?” he asked. Boscoe raised an eyebrow, unsure of what he was meant to say in response. “Was he perhaps resisting them aliens?”
Boscoe nodded. “Yessir.” Then, more vigorously, “Yessir, he was fightin’ them off. Outnumbered and all still he had ‘em on the ropes. That boy Ken was a hero.”
“A hero,” Grand Cyclops Leroy nodded, satisfied. “A hero, struck down by grey cowards while nobly defending all us here in town from a menace from outer space.” He thought he might have laid it on a little too thick, but nobody said anything. “Now I don’t know what horrors them grey n-----s had in their big ugly heads for us, but I tell you this, I got some horrors in MY head for them, you better believe that!” The good folks angrily cheered. “And we ain’t gonna LET them just slink off into the woods after they killed our boy. They’s on foot. One of em’s got no head and he’s a lawn ornament – I say we decorate the whole town!” More cheers. “Who’s with me?” A cacophony. Boscoe and Jim nervously kept to their seats, eager to be out of the spotlight.
“I say we go out there and hunt them bastards down until there ain’t none of ‘em left. They gonna answer for what they done!” The gathering boiled over into death threats and gunshots fired into the already-bullet-ridden ceiling. Grand Cyclops Leroy let it carry on for a while before raising his hands and quieting them. “When you’re out there tonight, I want you to remember – we’re doin this for that young white man who died tryin to save this town. It’s what he would’ve wanted. He loved this town -- and we owe it to him. For Ken!”
“For Ken!” they echoed.
“For Ken!”
“For Ken!”
They repeated it ad nauseum until gunshots drowned out the chanting. Then they piled out in droves, taking to their trucks and filling the beds with drunk and gun-toting rednecks until the suspension sagged under the weight. The vehicles of war roared out, slinging mud from their axles and honking furiously and bathing the night in murderous spotlit patrol, and all the while chanting “For Ken! For Ken! For Ken!”
“Are you looking forward to the challenge?” Benjamin asked his friend. Ethan was one year older and aside from music they had very little in common, but he considered him to be one of his best friends. They were both students, Benjamin studied for a profession as a creative arts therapist and Ethan aimed to be a music technician. And they had decided to try and win a prize in an entertainment show, live on television. In every episode five duo’s had to complete a challenge, these duo's were randomly picked out of the many teams that had signed up for it, and the winning duo would win a prize. There were a total of ten challenges, each with new prizes. What prize that was wouldn’t be revealed until the live-show started, but some of the better prizes had been announced when the show opened up for registration, to entice people to join.
So far there had been two different obstacle courses, two quizzes and one challenge in which the teams had to build a model glider out of the materials provided and the team that covered the most distance with their model had won. And today fate picked them to compete.
“Yeah,” Ethan said with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. “I wonder what task we’ll get.” He lit the cigarette and blew out some smoke. They still had ten minutes before they had to go into the studio and start their next challenge. "I hope it's something like an obstacle course or building something. I'm not smart enough for a quiz."
“All you need to do is know everything I don't and we still have a shot at winning a quiz,” Benjamin replied optimistically.
Ethan shook his head, but couldn't stop himself from grinning. He wasn't nervous, but having Ben with him made feel even better about the outcome of the challenge. And if nothing else they'd have a great time together.
~
Ten minutes later they stood in the studio with the other participants. The two hosts, a standard male-female set in a glittery outfit, walked up to the teams.
“Today we’ll have a cook-off!” the blonde woman chirped excitedly.
“What the hell?” Ethan replied, silencing her before she could continue. “Cooking? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No,” the charismatic male host replied. “We’re not kidding. Today we’re cooking! And racing! One of you will have to collect the ingredients from the supermarket down the street and the other has to cook a hot meal without any assistance from your team-member.”
“God no,” Ethan groaned. Why, out of everything this challenge could be, did it have to be cooking? He’d much rather dive in a stinky mud pool covered by mosquito’s to collect a key than to do this. At least he could run to the supermarket and let Ben do the cooking, Ben loved to cook.
“And the cookers will be…” the female host began overly excited as she pointed to a screen.
Ethan looked at it, praying to God his name wouldn’t appear on that screen. “Oh hell no!” he exclaimed when his name was revealed as the cook. “I don’t want to do that!”
The two hosts looked at each. “Do you want to forfeit your chance at the prize?” the male host asked. “Because today that will be…” a drumroll sounded in the back, “a multimedia extravaganza! Two laptops, two draw pads, two mp3-players and credits to buy ten songs online! A complete set for each winner!”
Ethan stared at prize and let out an exasperated sigh, he knew this was one of the prizes Ben had hoped for and to be honest, it was one of the better prizes. He certainly could use a new laptop while Ben had been looking around for a draw pad and he didn’t have a laptop yet. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll cook.” He spoke the words with so much disgust he got a frown from his friend, but with one look he warned him not to say anything.
The curtain lifted and revealed five cooking stations, for every participant one. A panel of judges sat at a table and were introduced by the hosts, one of them was a famous food critic, one was a famous television chef and one was a respectable restaurant owner. They would elect the winner of today’s challenge.
Ethan stomped over to his cooking station, followed on a more leisurely pace by Benjamin. He looked in the cabinets under the table for cooking materials and threw a cooking pot on the gas stove.
Benjamin leaned against the steel top. “You don’t seem to be looking forward to this.”
“You think?” Ethan snapped as he opened the drawers one for one to see what tools they had and slammed them shut again. As the hosts requested the cooks would write down their ingredients so the runners could gather he grabbed the pen and sheet of paper that had been provided and scowling he scribbled down some ingredients.
“I take it you don’t like cooking,” Benjamin stated as he watched his friend make the ingredient list.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Ethan growled and put down the pen. “There, collect that for me. You’re fast, just get me those things and we can get this over with.”
Benjamin nodded and walked over to the hosts, where he waited for the others to gather too. The hosts explained that the faster they would return the more time their cooks had to prepare their chosen food, because the time to cook would start the second they left the building. And when they were back they had to create a desert by the recipe of the famous chef who’d judge the cook-off, those ingredients were present at the cooking station and would be measured by the cooks in their absence. That was when the female host chirped a ‘good luck!’ and the male host pushed a button that started a digital counter at the wall.
Benjamin and the other four runners grabbed a straw basket and sprinted away. He would have liked the cooking bit, but running was certainly one of his strong suits. Admittedly, making deserts wasn’t his favourite part of cooking, but he didn’t mind. He certainly didn’t mind as much as Ethan seemed to mind cooking in general, he wondered why that was. He soon got some distance between himself and the others and entered the supermarket first, without giving any attention to the camera man filming it all. As he walked through the store he collected the requested meat, potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic and spices. After that he hurried over to the beer section to get bottle of dark beer. He had seen how much Ethan wasn’t looking forward to this, so he wanted to make him wait as little as he could. He noticed two other runners were walking through the aisles, desperately searching for what their cook had written down, but the two others were done collecting too. He ran back to the studio, but made sure to not shake the beer too much.
He was the first to enter the building again and the overly excited hostess cheered him on as he made his way over to the cooking station of Ethan. He glanced at the countdown quickly and even if he had no idea how long the preparing time was of what Ethan wanted to make, he was confident they had enough time.
“I’ve got everything,” he announced as he put the basket on the steel worktop and the bottle next to it. He noticed a couple of bowls on the steel worksheet on the other side of the stove and walked over to see what Ethan had prepared for him.
Ethan grumbled an answer and he unloaded everything. Without a word he started to peel the potato and carrot with short and fast movements, as if he wanted to mutilate them rather than peeling them.
From the other side Benjamin glanced at Ethan, but soon brought his attention to the recipe of the desert he had to make. Just like Ethan prepared the ingredients for his meal, Benjamin started preparing the custard he would need as part of the desert, all the ingredient were there and he trusted Ethan had measured everything correctly. He heard Ethan curse at a bloody onion, as he referred to it, and growl why it always had to be such a pain to peel them. That was a pain Benjamin knew all to well, onions always made his eyes water too, but he felt it was best to just let Ethan get it out of his system without interfering.
After a while Benjamin decided to break the silence between them, cooking in silence was boring and he always liked having a chat when he did something. “Why do you dislike cooking?” he asked as he glanced aside.
“I hate it,” Ethan grumbled. “I’ve lived by myself for almost a month now and I don’t cook. I eat bread or microwave meals or take-away meals. Unless I eat at my parents place or at a friend’s.”
“So, do you hate cooked meals?”
“Of course not!” Ethan snapped. “I just don’t like making them. The feeling of raw meat is disgusting, preparing potatoes or vegetables is dirty work, the scent of baking lingers and can get in your clothes and hair, you can cut or burn yourself.” As he explained he continued cutting everything with angry movements. “If you do something wrong you can get sick or the food tastes awful and you wasted time and resourced to have made it. Don’t forget it’s boring, but if you go do something else and lose track of time you end up burning everything, again wasting resources and time. And there are so many dirty dishes for just one plate full of food.” He chopped up the final bit of carrot and looked at Benjamin. “And every time I had to cook back home my brothers always had remarks about, it was never good. Never.” He grabbed the meat and started to slice it, the expression on his face changing to disgust when he touched the raw meat. “There was always something wrong. Either it wasn’t cooked enough or overcooked. The taste was never good, too salty, not enough salt, you name it, they could always think about something to say. And still they made me do the cooking when mom wasn’t there! ‘You still have to practice, you do it’. Or ‘we don’t have time, you do it’. Or whatever other excuse they could come up with. And I never wanted to, but what do you do when you’re the youngest and your father if off drinking somewhere and your mother is not there to do the cooking.” He grabbed a kitchen towel to clean his hands and threw it down again. “I really, really hate cooking.”
“I see,” Benjamin said, but Ethan didn’t seem to wait for an answer from him.
Ethan threw the knife in the sink and put in some butter in the cooking pot, where he waited for it to heat up. When most if the bubbles had vanished he threw in the sliced meat. Some droplets of fat splashed up and landed on his hand. “Damn it!” Ethan continued cursing as he shook his hand. “This always happens!” He stomped over to the basket to get the spices and returned to the stove. He looked inside the cooking pot, looked at the counter, in the cooking pot again and sighed. It didn’t take him long to tap his foot on the ground and let out another annoyed sigh. If he could will the meat to get brown enough he would, but cooking took time. That’s what his mother always said. Cooking takes time. And he was never good with waiting, it frustrated him. Finally the meat brown enough he added water and had to wait again for it to finally boil. After that he added the potatoes and a couple of minutes later the carrots. He continued with adding onions and garlic and he had to wait again.
After everything boiled for a couple of minutes, Ethan added the spices, stirred it and then poured some beer to it. When he decided it was enough he put the bottle to his lips and took a sip himself. The male host wanted to comment on it, but decided against it when he saw the daring glare coming from Ethan.
~
When the time was up the judges came forward to taste the meals. They didn’t hold back when they gave their remarks about either the cooking process or the taste, but they kept their final verdict to themselves.
Ethan stood next to his pot with crossed arms, looking extremely unsatisfied and bored. Unlike Benjamin who was all smiles and happiness, something Ethan just couldn’t master. He looked only briefly at the judges when they arrived and barely listened to the remarks they made about the cooking process. He couldn’t care less. When the chef mentioned he was worried Ethan might have added too much beer he shot the man an angry look, but refrained from commenting. The best part about the cook-off was drinking that beer. No, not true. The best part would be in fifteen minutes or so, when they could go home.
The judges proceeded to taste the stew. The all scooped up a little in a plastic cup and ate from it with a plastic spoon. It was silent for a moment as they looked at each other.
“What?” Ethan asked curtly. “Too much beer? Too much spices? Too few spices? You can tell me, it’s not like I’m not used to comments like that.”
“No,” the food critic said. “This is delicious.”
“Whatever,” Ethan grumbled.
“It really is,” the tv-chef agreed. “I’d like the recipe of this.”
Ethan just looked at him and shrugged.
A curious Benjamin walked over to taste some of the stew himself, there weren’t any rules against it after all. After putting a spoon in his mouth he blinked twice and looked at Ethan. “It really is delicious,” he said. “I thought you said you hate cooking.”
“What? I’m not allowed to know how to make one dish properly because of how I feel about cooking? Screw you, Ben.”
In the end the decision of the judges was unanimous, while Benjamin’s desert wasn’t perfect, they loved Ethan’s stew and they declared them the winners.
“Aren’t you happy?” Benjamin asked after they received their prizes from the two hosts.
“I’m just glad it’s over,” Ethan sighed.
“Do you want to go for a drink tomorrow and celebrate our victory?”
Ethan shrugged. “Fine with me. The Old Oak, at four?” The Old Oak was a bar they visited often, so it wasn’t a surprise when an affirmative nod came from Benjamin,
~
The next day Benjamin walked over to the Old Oak and saw Ethan sitting at a table on the terrace with two pints on a table. He walked over quickly, but slowed down when he noticed how unhappy Ethan looked. “Hey there,” he said as he went to the table. “Everything okay with you?”
“Does it look like everything is okay with me?” Ethan grumbled.
“What happened?” Benjamin sat down and looked at him.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“The results of the live-show are all over the internet and in newspapers! The underdog won, the reluctant cook beat everyone else with his ‘amazing’ stew. The food critic loved it, the tv-chef wants the recipe, reporters smeared all that out in their articles. Everyone talks about it, damn it! That bloody food critic posted a column about my food in one of the best newspapers of the country, praising it!”
Benjamin couldn’t recall anyone sounding so outraged about being praised for something.
“It’s just food, there’s nothing special about it,” Ethan continued, “but some people who read his column and value his opinion already contacted me on my social media. And the newspaper called me, I don't know how they got my number, but they called me, they said they got so many positive reactions to the column and the article about the show that they want to do a damned interview with me. And the television chef was on the radio this morning, telling about how surprised he was by what I produced, because when he saw me working he didn’t see a cook in me. The DJ thought it was a neat idea to call me to invite me to join their conversation about it, but I hung up. I didn’t want to. I don’t care about it, I cooked yesterday and that’s it. I don’t want to be bothered anymore, but people can’t leave me alone about it!” He slammed both fists on the table and he leaned forward. “I got family asking me why I never told them I could cook and want the recipe, I got cooks who contacted me because they want to know the recipe so they can make my ‘amazing’ stew. I get held up on street by strangers to tell me how much they enjoyed the show, enjoyed watching me cook and how I deserved the price. They didn’t even taste it! How can they know I deserved to win?! Hell, they just want to talk to me so they can tell their friends and family they met me. And to make matters worse, I got called by a women’s magazine for an invitation to cook this stew with the ladies and they would devote an article to it!”
Benjamin listened to Ethan’s rant as he drank from the beer, he wasn’t quite sure what Ethan hated most: cooking or being called by a women’s magazine about it.
“I don’t want to cook!” Ethan continued in a heated voice. “And now people do nothing but bother me about my cooking! I swear, the next stranger who walks up to me and comments about the show yesterday, I will punch them in the face.” He grabbed his glass from the table. “Even if it’s a woman!” he added before gulping down some beer. “I got praise and requests for the recipe the entire day. I wish people would just leave me alone!”
“I’m sure it will pass,” Benjamin began, but he stopped when Ethan glared at him. He cleared his throat before he continued, the next one to be punched could easily be him if he said the wrong thing. “Look, fame like this usually only lasts until the next sensation comes along. Just wait it out.”
“Wait it out?! Damn it, Ben, I want them to stop now! I should never have cooked on that stupid show! I don’t want to be reminded about it every bloody minute of the day!” He downed his beer and gestured to the bartender for another one. “I don’t want people to know me or remember me about a stupid stew anyone could make, I wish they would care about my music, about our music like that. But they don’t, hardly anyone knows we even exist!”
Benjamin had to admit Ethan had a point, the small band they had with a third friend was barely known. It was hard to get anyone to hire them for an event, so mostly they just played for the fun of it.
“If only it had been a music challenge, we would win that with no problems and then I wouldn’t have minded the fame. I would have loved to break through with music. But no, it had to be a cook-off.” He pulled a face as he spoke the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “I really don’t want to hear anything about it anymore.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I think I’ll go to the mountains for a couple of days.”
“But you hate going to the mountains.”
Ethan scowled and grabbed the beer a waiter brought to him. “Not as much as this,” he growled before taking a sip.
Charity stood, focusing all she could on the piece of metal in front of her. Her hands were stretched forward, her eyes narrowed, the blonde twelve year old young girl focusing what little power she currently had. Through her extended studying, she believed she had finally been able to develop her own strain of magic. She was currently inside her classroom late at night, for that was her preferred time of experimentation. And... it was working. The molecules of the metal was slowly duplicating themselves, though Charity felt her magic power straining to achieve this. But... she was achieving it. A second metal plate emerged above the original one, and now two small metal squares lay on top of one another in front of Charity, who was gasping in exhaustion from her achievement.
'My. That was well done, Charity.' Her teacher, Steven, a gray-haired tall man with a thoughtful expression picked up the duplicated metal plate and inspected it where he stood at her side. Charity grinned widely and turned to him, looking up his great gray coat to rest her eyes on his aging face.
'It was, it was! I really did it! Hahaha!' Charity announced happily, feeling excitement brimming within her. The young girl had seen her classmates whip up flames, electricity, winds and all kinds of amazing-looking things... but few of them had actually tried to do something useful. That's why Charity felt excited to create magic able to duplicate items, which would become really useful to people around the world if she could master it.
'But, compared to the flashy spells of your classmates who intend to become hunters, your new strain isn't useful for combat. What will you do with it?' Steven asked her. Charity's gaze turned a complete 180 to unhappily glaring at him from his statement.
'What? Help people, of course! I can save people from mines by copying materials, and I can feed hungry people by copying food! They're the stupid ones, thinking only of the violent uses of magic...' Charity grumbled, reminded that pacifist magicians are really rare. And there was a good reason for that...
'That's good and all, Charity, but...' Steven said, smiling a kind smile down at the child magician. 'Remember what I said the first day?' He asked, causing Charity to grudgingly look down on the original metal plate, which she had been given on request for her experiment.
______________
The first day of school. They had all been children taken from their parents because they showed magic capabilities, and they had come from all over the world, gathered in a single hidden school in United Kingdom. It was protected by many hunters. On their first day of school, Steven had wandered in, placed his hand on each student's head and used his magic to teach them, including teaching English to those who couldn't speak it. He had stood in front of the class and spoken.
'Welcome to the world of magicians. You'll find that you're very lonely indeed in this world. Leave your past lives behind you, or you'll find it being used against you. As magicians, you're a rare breed of resources capable of magnificent feats, which is why everybody wants you. This includes other magicians, some of which are powerful enough to feel unbound by rules and will attempt stealing you or your magical research for their own profit.' Steven had said, his voice loud over the sound of despairing children.
'The hunters are government magicians who are tasked with defeating magicians that are acting out of turn. This school is protected by them. For a magician, you have three potential roads in front of you. Firstly, you can become a hunter, combating evil magicians. Secondly, you can become a researcher, developing your magic to accomplish dreams to save the planet. Thirdly, you can become freelancers, using existing magic to help the world at large where it could be needed.' He continued.
'Regardless of your choice, dark magicians may attempt claiming you and your magic at any point. As such, it is important that the first magic you develop is for the purpose of defending yourself from attacks. Without further ado, I, Steven, will be teaching you the basics of developing your own strain of magic, for that is something that all of us will do...' So he had said, and then the lesson had begun.
______________
'Yeah, I know, I know.' Charity answered him, frowning, regarding what he had said. 'Defend myself, defend myself. Violence, violence. Why does the magical world feel so much more barbaric than the world of common people?' Charity demanded, looking up at Steven.
'Heh.' Steven smiled down at her. 'What a question for a twelve year old to ask. Well, young Charity, I believe you'd find that the same would happen if we gave any specific individuals more power than the people around them. Magicians naturally have more power than common people, and power corrupts. Common people commonly can't steal or kill with impunity... but some magicians can get away with it due to their sheer power, and as such quite a few do. It's a real problem.' He gave an answer that made sense, but that annoyed Charity even more.
'What if I don't want to fight, then?' She tried, unhappily.
'Then they'll take your spells, and then maybe your life. You'd be competition, after all.' Steven so calmly answered.
'… Grrr. Shouldn't hunters protect me?' Charity got angry, and faced her teacher.
'As long as you're in school, yes. However, as soon as you grow up they won't be able to watch you constantly. Unless, of course, you can hire a permanent guard. There are many solutions, but having a few tricks up your own sleeve is always to be recommended.' Steven answered her, embracing her questions. Charity took a few moments to consider it.
'… Fine. I'll think of something.' She finally, grudgingly, accepted.
'Good.' Steven nodded, pleased with the girls resignation. 'Besides that, there is something I wish to warn you about.' He said, looking over the plate in his hand. Charity looked up at him unhappily once again, wondering what he was going to complain about now.
'This recreated plate of yours practically shines with your magical signature. It's obvious you made it.' He told, and Charity could but give him a glare.
'So? It's fine, isn't it?' She said. Sure, they'd feel it's a magically made copy, but that was inevitable. No magician had the power to keep their signature away from their work as they made something.
'The thing is, many common people will be adverse to using magically created resources, especially if it's to be eaten.' Steven explained. 'Your duplication is well-meant, but you'll also find that it might not be accepted by many people. You're free to proceed this route if you wish, but I would suggest rethinking a little. I wouldn't want a magician as promising as yourself to find that you've wasted your capability.' He said, looking down with worry at his student.
Charity's expression twitched, and she felt really bad, suddenly. He came with all these criticism, and so she felt dispirited about this. Was she doing the right thing? Could she help those that didn't want help? It was painful. It was her magic, and yet...
'Don't worry about it.' Steven placed a hand on her shoulder. 'Think of the simplest possible thing you can do. Focus on that. In here, you're safe. There's plenty of time. Ask me for help anytime you want some. For now, go to sleep. You've been awake working for far too long already.' So Steven said, placing down the the metal on the table before turning around and leaving her in the classroom, staring down at her metal plates.
'Grrr.' Charity made an annoyed noise, her hands leaning down on the table as she inspected her copied plate, which was glowing with her magical signature. Anyone could see she had made it. This much was true. She glared down, inspecting it on a closer level. She distanced her own consciousness to inspect the matter. The reason why things magicians had used their magic on held their magical signature. She needed to find that reason.
Charity grinned, as she realized what she saw. Simplest possible thing she could do to solve the problem, eh? Well, then she certainly had something in mind!
______________
It was a couple of months later. Most of her classmates were intending on becoming hunters, others intended on becoming freelancers. Few intended on becoming researchers, but almost all intended on continuing development on their own strain of magic. During class and in between, the young magicians would show off their spells for one another, and those with the coolest would be on top of the world for the day. This resulted in that Charity, with her duplication, ended up on the lower rung. Not that anyone really bothered her. She studied like anyone else, and she worked harder than anyone else on her magic strain, but she didn't really have anything to show for it. The rest of the kids left her to be, and Charity appreciated the loneliness.
'C'mon, c'mon!' Charity excitedly dragged a happily confused Steven into the classroom, where the plate awaited once again. Steven didn't mind, and stood in place as Charity focused her powers on the metal in a show very similar to that scene quite a few months ago. Charity was determined to show what she had developed. The girl grinned as her powers duplicated the plate once again, an additional metal plate growing in place above the first one. However, something was very, very different this time. Steven's eyes grew wide as Charity grinned at him and the plate stood there, ready. The girl was exhausted, once again, but with her development she wouldn't have become tired like this from mere duplication. This was something else.
'This is...!' Steven said in wonder, as he picked the top plate and brought it in front of his eye for closer inspection.
'Teh-heh.' Charity giggled. 'You can't feel a thing, can you, can you!?' She grinned widely. Steven was silent for numerous seconds, inspecting the plate closely.
'Actually, I can.' He finally said.
'Hey!' Charity frowned deeply, looking up at him in anger.
'But that's because I knew to check.' Steven continued, pausing Charity, who's look immediately switched to looking at him in wonder. 'You've contained the magical signature within the actual object. Even me, a practiced magician, had to closely delve into the object to find out that it was a duplicate. This is greater protection than even the most powerful of magicians can usually hide their lairs with. It is without a doubt a magical object, yet had I bought it in a store, I never would have known. This... is amazing.' He looked down at her with awe in his eyes. 'You're a real magical prodigy.'
'Oh.' Charity felt her cheeks burn up in private happiness. 'I got praised. I got praised!' She grinned so happily, blushing clutching her fists up to her chest as she danced and laughed in place, happy that her many late nights of practice had produced results. But, behind her, Steven frowned deeply as he looked at the plate.
'Charity.' He commanded, his tone serious.
'Eh?' Charity immediately froze, blinking up in surprise at his unexpected tone of voice. He then placed a hand on her head, and she flinched a bit as she felt his magic working on her head. His voice showed up in her mind.
This is really bad. Magical criminals from around the world could desire this. Imagine if they duplicated gold bars, and nobody could even notice that they had been magically replicated. You've made yourself a high-value target, and you're on top of that easy prey. Do not show off this magic to anyone else.
'Please tell me that, on top of this, you've developed some method of defending yourself?' He asked, pulling his hand off her head, a lightly shaking Charity looking up at him, a bit of fear having made itself known.
'Ah, well, um.' Charity's eyes trailed a little, hesitating to answer because she was sure it wouldn't be enough. But, obediently, she put her hand into empty space behind her. There, she retrieved something from her magical pocket, a dimension of sort where she could keep all her things without them taking any space. She retrieved a rifle. A wooden handle and underside, a metal barrel extending forward. It was sized-down for a young girl to wield, but it was certainly a functional rifle.
'I made it.' She said. 'I looked up how it worked, and then made my own.' Steven watched her for a bit, before crouching in front of her, smiling at the young girl.
'Charity. You have learned to make wards by now, haven't you?' Steven said, and a somewhat confused Charity nodded back.
'Uh-huh. But, my wards are really weak. Any of my classmates can break them easily.' She admitted, feeling a little ashamed of how poorly her defenses had performed.
'Those wards of yours are already strong enough to resist the strongest tank-shells.' Steven said, causing Charity to jump in surprise. He stood up again, and proceeded to explain. 'Soon enough, your wards will be so strong nothing mundane can touch you. The reason your classmates penetrate your wards are because their attacks are magical. Magical attacks penetrate magical wards. This gun will do nothing, I am afraid. Not as long as you load it with mundane bullets.'
Charity looked up at him, understanding, but once again dispirited. She felt so vulnerable now. But, Steven smiled at her, and patted her head.
'Do not worry. You're a brilliant young magical developer. I'm sure you'll be able to make something. I now command you to focus all your might at making defenses for yourself, to be able to take out a magical attacker. Remember that they'll have wards and other magical defenses. Good luck. I know you can do it. Let the school protect you in the meantime.' So he said, and Charity couldn't help but feel comforted. 'Go to bed, and think about it. It's been a long day for us both.'
So Steven said, placing the duplicated metal plate down on the table once again, before turning to leave. Charity was once again left, thinking. Only a magical attack can penetrate a magical ward, but that still left the magical defense. Wards were always there, defending magicians from unexpected dangers, while the defenses were the spells they cast in the moment to defend themselves. She just had to develop a weapon that could penetrate both.
'Gh... grrr!' Charity gripped tightly with her fists, staring down at the rifle she still held in one of them. It disgusted her. She abhorred it. She only made it because she apparently needed to be able to defend herself, so she got something that could do it for her instead of wasting time researching something for a violent purpose. Why was the magical world so focused on murder and profit? She just wanted to use this opportunity to help out the world. She could use her power to duplicate something to chemically remove greenhouse gases or something! Why did she have to worry about...!?
But fine. If she had to get through this, then she had to do it the way she knew how. Efficiently. Charity sighed, as she turned to her magical, yet unnoticeable so, metal plate. She had a plan. She hated it, but she had a plan. So be it.
______________
'KAH!' A cry resounded through the forest, as a hunter was stabbed through by an assailant. The assailant was dressed in a coat with a hood resembling the head of a bird, and along the sleeves hung wings with feathers strewn across them. He had stabbed the man with his hands, which nails resembled large talons that had fatally buried through the hunter's heart. The hunter promptly detonated, for in their death, a magician's magic makes their last attempt at survival. However, although the explosion happened, the man dressed as a bird-costume simple smiled, undamaged.
'M-Manville! What are you doing!?' Their third fellow hunter called out in surprise, jumping back and raising his hands to summon the nearby vines of the forest to fight with him. To respond, Manville simply grinned at him.
'I decided that it was time.' He told, his expression filled with confidence.
'T-time?' The panicked partner asked, happy for the time he was given to converse for his plant-powers needed the time to be summoned fully, the growth of the forest building around them to close in on Manville.
'Time for the “Bird of Prey” to seek new hunting grounds.' Manville called, and suddenly three men flew in from seemingly nowhere, from all sides. They were all dressed like Manville with the same wings and hood, and they sought to stab through the remaining hunter. A magician cannot be taken by surprise that easily, however, and the man spun around and massive vines from the trees around surged out and quickly wrapped around the three men. However, this left him open as Manville, the “Bird of Prey” himself, flew in and stabbed through the hunter's heart from behind with his magical speed and talons, and with a wave of dying magic, the hunter became a tree. Manville and his men left the tree behind, heading towards their goal.
______________
'What's happening?' Charity asked loudly as she and the other students of the school had suddenly been told to evacuate down to the shielded basement.
'I-it's the “Bird of Prey”, Manville!' Someone called out, panicked, from the groups that had been outside at the time and heard the calls.
'But, isn't he a famous and really powerful hunter, known to never let his target go when he seeks in on them?' Someone replied.
'Y-yes! B-but he has turned against the hunters, and used his position to learn the location of this school! He's coming for the students...!'
All kinds of discussions came up from this as they headed down. Charity felt despair hearing this, frowning as she headed down with the others. It had been a couple of more months since she had shown off her new ability to Steven. She felt afraid. Everyone had heard of the “Bird of Prey” before. He was that famous hunter that evil magicians feared. Were they... going to be claimed, by him? That was a terrifying thought. Why was this her reality?
Steven escorted the students down, and in a hurry he cast additional wards and spells upon the door and walls of the basement with a deep frown as the hunters outside tried to fight off Manville while the students hid among the various rooms in the basement. It was actually a nuclear bunker, designed to survive anything... but it wasn't designed to survive a magician.
'Gah!' Steven sounded out as the door broke open, a blast of magical energy evaporating any defenses that were placed on the door. Steven stumbled back onto the floor, and Charity could only watch from the side, peeking from behind a door. In strolled Manville, the “Bird of Prey”, in his bird-costume. Behind him were several men dressed the same way, for Manville had powers that could share his magical abilities with other common men, to make his flock of birds. Together they had overwhelmed the defenders and come all the way in here.
'Steven, my old friend!' Manville called out, spreading his arms. 'Unfortunately for you, I know all about your magic. You're an information specialist, and can certainly gather or transmit info fast or help people learning, but against a real warrior you're not a match. Step down. I have no desire for your antics.' He said, his later sentences a lot less kind than his first four words.
'Tsk.' Steven clicked his tongue on the floor, glaring up at Manville and his men, anger and distress apparent on his expression. He could do nothing from there.
'Any heroes among these kids?' Manville asked, looking around. As he was requested, various boys and girls among the kids stepped forward from the shadows, Charity blinking in surprise at their readiness. They were summoning different powers, fire, ice, electricity and other less clear things, looking at Manville.
'Stop it!' Steven called out. 'You don't stand a chance!'
'But we can't let him just take us!' Some kid called out, and a flare was launched at Manville. The scene that followed lasted only a few seconds. The soldiers of Manville, empowered by their masters, flashed lightning-quick across the group of kids. The children attempted defending with their various specialties, but none could resist their speed and skill. Arms were torn. Blood was spilled. Screams echoed. … Manville intended to take the children alive, so they weren't killed, but they fell with multiple wounds and many were unconscious.
Charity shook with fear as she watched the one-sided battle unfold with wide eyes. This... this was impossible. That speed. Even if they fought magically, they were fast and powerful, and she noted that their ridiculous bird-outfits actually defended them from magical attacks. It was overwhelming. Charity couldn't move from where she hid behind a door, peeking. Why... why was this so violent? The blood... she didn't want to see it. Yet, she couldn't look away.
'Ah, young bravery. Always a sight to see.' Manville said, smiling as he stepped on, walking towards Steven, who sat up with a regretful expression. Charity got a feeling that it wasn't the first time he had felt like this. Steven's own powers were not for fighting at all, he had directed his strain elsewhere. Was this something he considered a mistake and as such urged everyone else to be able to defend themselves, to not repeat his mistake?
'Unfortunately. Steven, the “Info Broker”. You might be out of your prime and a spy no longer, but we can't have you pulling any tricks. You're pretty well-known for your nasty surprises. So, for safety's sake, I'm killing you now. No hard feelings.' Manville said, looking down at Steven, who's eyes widened in distress and panic. Charity panicked too. Th-they couldn't kill Steven. He's the only one she had in this lonely world! But, she saw how Manville lifted his talon. He couldn't-!
BANG
Manville blinked a little in surprise, as a mundane bullet hit his ward and crumpled into nothingness. His eyes trailed, and laid to rest on Charity, the blonde girl wide-eyed and wielding a rifle, pointed towards him. The other soldiers of Manville looked in her direction as well. After a few moments of silence, Manville gave her a smile.
'Sweet girl. You should know a gun will have no effect on a magician. Steven must have told you as much, correct?' He told her, chuckling a little by himself, and his other birds joined his chuckles. They were collectively laughing at her. Charity stood rigid, inspecting the result of her shot. She felt vulnerable. Oh, so vulnerable. Any of them could instantly fly at her, and then they'd kill her. The only reason they were leaving her be now was because she wasn't even a threat. Had that bullet been magical, Manville would have sensed it and dodged it easily, then taken her out. He hadn't dodged it. Meaning, he hadn't felt anything magical.
'I-I won't let you, I won't let you kill Steven!' She said, shaking. She really didn't want to be here. She didn't want to do this. Charity wanted nothing more than a life where she could use her magic to help the world...
'Oh, looks like someone has a crush on her teacher!' Manville laughed, and his bird soldiers joined into his laughter. 'Alright. Stop me, then. But the moment you try anything magical, my soldiers will have chopped off his head.' Charity breathed in, fearing the possibilities. Alright. It should all work. So she lifted her rifle up to her eye and took aim.
'… Eh?' Manville's eyes went wide. Charity watched him, holding her breath. He felt a mundane bullet flying at him. Of course, Manville expected it to crumple up against his wards. But instead, the supposedly non-magical bullet thrust straight through his wards and plunged through his heart, leaving a red hole through his body. Blood stained everywhere behind him as his eyes blanked out and he toppled backwards, his body hitting the ground with a loud noise. Then, all of a sudden, his body flashed brightly. After the flash, but an outline of ash showed where the magician had been lying. He was dead, his body burned to ash by the dying magic within him.
'MASTER!' Multiple of his men shouted out in panic and despair at their leader's sudden departure. It wasn't over yet, however. Charity felt it. With his death, the remaining magic followed the links between him and his men and infused them with power, which they'd now have permanently. They unknowingly divided Manville's power among themselves and became minor magicians of their own rights, which meant they could still kill her. Quickly, Charity dropped her rifle and held her hands to her chest, summoning her powers.
'That gun penetrates wards!' One of them shouted.
'How's that possible!?' Another answered.
'Doesn't matter! It's just one! We can dodge it and kill the-' The one who spoke halted his words as he gazed towards Charity, who made her real power known.
From her magical pocket, she pulled on threads of magic with her hands. The threads were attached to multiple rifles, all duplicated versions of the one she previously held. They pulled themselves out of her pocket to rise at her sides, one by one, and they formed large wings of guns on her left and right. Wings because she needed them to create a gun-line, so it was simply practical like that. With a determined glare, she gave her guns the order to fire, and with that her wings folded forward to direct the barrels at her foes.
The soldiers of Manville were taken by surprise and couldn't properly counter her. They charged, but with intelligence that Charity had programmed into them the guns automatically aimed at separate targets and fired. Charity herself simply held the unseen threads that carried her wings, supplying them with magic to power her guns. A salvo of deadly shots plunged through the defenses of the close-combat fighters, no matter how fast they were Charity's magical programming could track them down instantly to fire at where they'd be. Multiple dead bodies flew past her, and multiple minor explosions happened around her as the dead magicians lost control of their magic, their feathers flying about around her...
It was done. Her mind was wrecked with guilt and regret. Tears ran down Charity's eyes as all the enemies were dead, the thirteen-year-old girl had wiped them out. Her hands let go of the threads, and the wings of rifles collapsed onto the floor with loud noises. The children gazed at her in awe and worry, the supposedly weakest but most brilliant of them had been the one to save them all. But, she had also been the one to take the pain of blood on her hands, for the basement was now stained, all over it. She fell down on her knees, sobbing, her legs having dipped into the blood of the soldiers that had died charging her.
'Charity.' Steven immediately got up and walked up to her with a serious expression, gazing down at the crying girl. She looked up at him, her eyes drenched in tears.
'Come with me.' He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. The gray-haired teacher looked over the remaining mess, and gave commands. 'Heal the wounds of your fellow classmates! Secure the perimeter, and await reinforcements! Inform me at once if something happens!' He said to them, before he pulled Charity along upstairs.
______________
Charity followed Steven into his office, where he turned to crouch and look at her eyes with a serious look.
'I-I killed them.' Charity said, quivering where she stood. 'I killed them.' She continued, once again.
'You did. It was very well done. They were evil men, intending to hurt us.' Steven said, doing some magical spells to check various things about her. 'You used your technique of hiding magical attributes on the bullets, as such the magical bullets appeared mundane. But, when they hit the wards, they revealed their magical properties and pierced through at a time when it was too late to react to them.' He told, looking at her seriously. 'This magic of yours, you may never let anyone know of it if you can prevent it. If it'd be released to the public, it would allow any man with a gun to kill magicians. It would be the end of our kind. Merely with the information out, all evil magicians would be after you in hopes of getting their own magician-killing gunmen.'
'I-I know.' Charity cried as she said. 'I know.' She repeated.
Steven looked at her seriously, before hugging around her. Charity replied by bawling and hugging him back, crying out at his neck. Steven held her closely against him, letting her let it all out.
'You did good.' He told her, placing a hand to pat her on her head. 'Just as I told you to, you prepared defenses for yourself. You did good...'
Charity's eyes widened. With a violent pull, she tore herself out of Steven's hug. He looked at her in surprise, pulling his own arms back, surprised by her action. Charity jumped back a few steps, before pulling a magical thread to retrieve a handgun out of her magical pocket, which she then grabbed with both hands and aimed with a panicked expression at Steven. Steven blinked in surprise looking at Charity for an explanation of what she just did.
'Y-you just tried to attack my mind.' Charity stated, her words sounding like she couldn't believe it.
'Charity, you-' Steven started, but Charity interrupted him.
'… A-and you used MY magic to do so. You hid your magic under your hand. If I hadn't put a shield on my brain, I wouldn't have noticed. That's MY technique, and I've not taught you how to do that.' Charity continued, looking at her teacher, wide-eyed. 'Y-you... at some point, before I made this shield, you stole my spell from my mind. Steven, the “Info Broker”...' She reminded herself of her teacher's title, staring at him wide-eyed, hoping for an explanation.
Steven blinked at Charity some more, before his mouth twisted in what was for Charity the most heart-wrenching smile she had ever seen, and she gasped out seeing it.
'Charity, Charity. You always were the most brilliant of the bunch. Too brilliant, I see.' He said in a poisonous tone as he stood up to look down at her. 'Sorry. I've been using my position as a teacher to sell the developments of magician children as well as the children themselves as soon as they graduate and they're less protected.' He explained looking straight at her, while she aimed the gun at him.
'A-aah...' Charity stumbled backwards, aiming her gun up at his face. It was what she had figured after she felt his attack, but much worse. 'N-no, no, no...' She said, realizing. Now that she knew, there was no way she'd live to tell the tale.
'Looks like I'm going to have to empty your mind. Sorry about this.' Steven gave her a smile as he advanced towards her. 'You always were my favorite student, but alas, this is nothing personal.'
'St-stay away, stay away!' Charity cried out, and she pulled the trigger. A loud gunshot filled the room, but the target had vanished. The blonde girl blinked in terror in front of her, where Steven had vanished. Suddenly, she yelped out as his hand grabbed her gun-arm and his elbow hit into her stomach while his other hand grabbed onto her face. In this position, held from behind by him, she felt her muscles strength waning and magic draining as he held onto her as she struggled, some magic stealing away her energy.
'During my time, I've learned many, MANY spells.' Steven whispered into her left ear. 'I know your spells better than you do. As long as you miss, you're no threat to me-'
SPLURTCH
Charity shook as she heard that disgusting sound and the left side of her head and body had become completely stained with blood and remnants of head leaking down on her shoulder. She quivered, tears dropping over her blood-stained face as Steven's hands let go of her and his body fell limp.
'I-I know...' She said out loud. 'Th-that's why I made sure the bullets were homing...' She couldn't look beside her. It seemed that, with its dying power, Steven's magic had attempted creating a new head to replace the one the bullet had blown open. Unfortunately, that head had also blown open, leading to an exceeding amount of blood and brain matter having blown over Charity's side. She stood up, shaking, her left side entirely covered by red matter. She cried, thinking of what she had done, and where this led next. Then, she couldn't take it anymore.
'A-ah-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH...!' Charity screamed out, her grief and distress consuming her. Why had the one person she trusted turned out to be a-!? Why had she been forced to kill him!? Why... why had she succeeded!? That was worst of all! She didn't want to kill! She hated this! This wasn't what she wanted! She just wanted to use magic to help people! Why had-!? How come-!? This was-!!
She directed magical power at the wall. It burst open, some tables and debris from the office flying out along with it. Outside was the forest just outside the school, the forest in which they were hiding. She didn't want to be here anymore. Charity ran, crying, straight out into the woods. By now, she was already a master at concealing magical presence. They would not be able to find her.
______________
Charity, the “Gunpowder Fairy”. While hiding undercover for several years, Charity learned what she had become known as. Apparently, her use of gunpowder made her famous, and people talked about how she had slain both the hunter-turned-villain Manville “Bird of Prey” and the corrupt teacher-spy Steven “Info Broker”. After his death, they had found incriminating evidence which proved his vile deeds, and Charity was hailed as a hero for the successful disposal of the villain. The newspapers held a notice that, if Charity were to read the papers, then she should know that she'd be welcome to return as they knew she was not to be blamed for Steven's death, they knew it had been self-defense. It seems they thought Charity fled because she thought they'd think she had killed Steven in cold blood.
Charity wanted none of that. For a little while, she pretended to be a newly emerged new magician, Dolly the “Duplicater”. She walked around taking smaller tasks in the Magician's Guild, small freelancer jobs as well as jobs of duplicating items. All just to keep herself fed while she perfected her ability to smith. Not many knew of her magical signature, after all, and it would take a while before anyone who'd recognize it would come out on the streets again, especially if she went to a different country. A flight to America was not difficult to arrange for a magician, after all.
During her time, she fled violence when at all she could. Charity was forced to slowly get over her traumatic memories, while dodging some wicked magicians here and there. Despite that he had been using her, Steven's lessons turned useful when even Dolly the “Duplicator” turned too much for the low-grade magicians hunting after her, but she avoided killing them. It was first when she had managed to win a battle without killing that she finally felt that she was ready to return. Ready to overcome her past. Ready to face the future.
Five years later, at the age of eighteen, she finally felt the courage that she was ready to face the world as Charity once again. During her years she had managed to develop onto her duplication magic and felt ready to do some good work with it. She sent a message ahead of time to a Magician's Guild in United Kingdom that the “Gunpowder Fairy” would be coming back. In said letter, she also informed that she was now a professional blacksmith magician, and she'd be able to help in any kind of work that included building or development of material objects. That's the kind of jobs she aimed to do.
______________
Charity felt really good about herself as she entered the Magician's Guild. Here was the place where people posted requests for assistance by a magician. It usually paid really well and was very different depending on the day. She had sent the letter ahead of time, so people could post requests knowing that a magician was coming. She felt eyes on her, and she could wander in with a smile. Charity still didn't trust any one of them. Not after Steven. She hadn't made a proper contact since leaving the school. But now, she finally felt better. She felt confident of her skills. So she approached the counter.
'Charity. The “Gunpowder Fairy”. I'd like to see my requests.' She told the black-haired woman in purple dress on the other side of the counter. The woman gave her an analyzing glance, before grabbing a box of papers.
'Oh, wow, oh, wow! You got a whole box of them?' That was more than she ever got as Dolly. Charity felt privately excited. The woman frowned strangely, looking at the box. 'Is something wrong?' Charity asked, looking over at her.
'… These requests differ greatly from the kind of job that you yourself requested, Ms. Charity.' She informed, and Charity could just blink at her as she was handed numerous papers...
“Please kill Karlos, the “Crystal King””, said the first one.
'Eh?' Charity blinked in surprise, staring down at the request.
“He's taken over our home village, and the hunters are too frightened to take on someone of his strength. Please kill him for us. It's for the good of us all. Our village is at-”
Charity's hands shook, as she moved the request to the back to the pile, and looked at the next one.
“Wilhelm, the “Vile Vigilant”, has been commandeering our freighters as of late...” “Johannes, the “Torment Talker”, has taken my father. Please retrieve him and...” “Well met, “Gunpowder Fairy”. I am Charles, the “Fire Dragon”, and we should team up to take out...”
… They were all requests to murder. No matter how many times she turned to the next page, they all involved doing battle to the death with an evil magician. There were even requests just outright challenging her to duels for her spells. A vast majority of the requests wanted to get rid of Karlos, the “Crystal King”, whom apparently hunters couldn't touch. Charity's eyes teared up.
'Why? Why do they all want me to...?' She asked, glaring down at the paper. Even remembering that terrible day, when she had claimed those lives, it made her shudder to the core. She thought she had overcome those memories, but here she stood. She never wanted to kill, ever again. So why...?
'Because you proved good at it.' The woman stated, drawing Charity's attention. 'You did kill the famous “Bird of Prey”, did you not?' She asked.
'...' Charity did not answer. Truth was, she didn't feel confident at all in taking out these big-names, even had she wanted to. She did have a unique advantage, yes, but all it needed was that someone got the jump on her, and Charity was done for. Not to mention, even if they all asked for her help, she was... She didn't want to fight. That alone was detrimental to her chances of defeating any one of them. There was no question that she was unsuitable. They needed someone else...
'Oh, that one. That one's been canceled, I just couldn't find it in the pile.' The woman said, suddenly taking the request about Johannes “Torment Talker” back.
'Eh?' Charity looked surprised, back at her.
'Merely hearing you would be coming, the “Torment Talker” released his hostages and fled the country.' The woman gave Charity a smile, as she looked through the different pages and retrieved any that mentioned Johannes.
Charity stayed silent. This felt so cruel. Villains already feared her. She recognized this. She had an opportunity. It was true that she alone had the capability to penetrate magical defenses with impunity. If she didn't do this, then maybe nobody would. She felt like crying again. However...
'So this is the me they want, huh? A killer of magicians.' Charity asked for confirmation, looking forward at the woman.
'This appears to be the you they want.' She replied. Charity nodded briefly, giving the papers back. She made her decision.
'As I am, I am unsuitable for the task at hand. For I loathe killing. … Give me two months, and I will fix that problem.' She said, before she turned around with a blank face, leaving a perplexed expression on the woman's face.
______________
Two months later, in a lonely building on the countryside, the brilliant magical researcher Charity sat in front of a magical potion she had developed herself. She stared at the yellow, bubbling liquid with a transfixed stare. So this is what it came to, huh. With a shaking hand, her eyes watering again, she reached forward to grab the bottle-
It is all over if you drink this
Her mind warned her, and she froze for a moment. Her body shook. Her mind was despairing. Was this... REALLY what was best for her? … But, all those requests. They needed someone. They needed a hero. The hunters wouldn't do, for the government program unknowingly created a scenario to develop sub-par magicians compared to those who developed in their natural environment. Besides, Charity already had a reputation as a competent killer, and the means to be one. All she had to do, was drink this and-
Is this truly what you want
Her mind asked again, and Charity frowned. It didn't matter what she wanted! She couldn't have what she wanted! Life had taken that away! Now this was her lot in life, and it was a unique opportunity offered to her alone! With anger fueling her motivation, Charity stopped thinking about it and threw her head back to down the yellow potion in one go, the sour liquid dripping down her throat.
And now it's too late
Charity felt a sudden strike of regret. However, the effects were already taking shape. The magical power of the potion surged through her body, her mouth gaping and she gasped as a terrible pain shot through her mind, the magic changing her. She blacked out.
______________
'… Hueh?' Charity blinked awake, staring up into the ceiling. She slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes to wake herself up. On the floor lay the crashed remains of the glass bottle which she had drunk from the night before. She stretched her limbs out wide, making a noise as she did so.
'Hnnnnnnnnnnnnhgah!' She sounded out, and then smiled widely, looking up into the ceiling.
'Hueh? What was I doing, what was I doing?' She asked herself, looking around. Then she saw a paper on the table. 'Oh, yeah!'
She jumped up, her eyes brimming with excitement once again as she looked down on the note. It was telling her to head down to the Magician's Guild and accept all the tasks to kill powerful evil magicians. Oh, yeah. She could kill. Charity thought back on that night. That night where she had killed Manville, and then his goons, and finally Steven. And she remembered these events to have been...
'… So much fun, so much fun! I can't wait to shoot some more!' Charity grinned widely, quickly checking her magical pocket. She smiled happily as she found herself fully outfitted and ready for battle! Nobody would stand a chance against her! She remembered that many had requested the killing of one particular individual, maybe she'd check if he was still alive on the way, and otherwise, kill him.
'Karlos the “Crystal King”, eh?' The new Charity grinned widely, as she preemptively drew a gun from her pocket and slammed open the door out towards the morning sun.
'Ready or not! Here comes Charity, the “Gunpowder Fairy”, ready to kill ya! Hahahahahahaha...!' And so she laughed, the brilliant researcher Charity willingly having changed herself with a magical potion to fit the expectations of the public, for she could not fight while also feeling the intense loathing for violence which she naturally inhibited. So instead, she sacrificed that herself for one which would have the same intelligence, but a mind that otherwise held no inhibitions for murder.
And so began the reign of the returned, changed, and now somewhat insane, “Gunpowder Fairy”.
This is very much planned as an origin story for the Charity that appeared in Apocalypse Maiden. However, that doesn't necessarily mean I accept her fate in Apocalypse Maiden to be this Charity's ultimate fate, since when I wrote that I hadn't written this. As such, I might desire to change Charity's fate there, because I no longer accept her death. This, however, does not mean the Charity in Apocalypse Maiden didn't die. Simply consider that, while Apocalypse Maiden and Gunpowder Fairy takes place in the same universe, it might be alternative versions of that same universe. As such, the Charity told about in THIS story doesn't necessarily meet her end in THAT story, but BOTH stories might still have happened exactly as told. Hahahaha. … Though, yes, Gunpowder Fairy happened several years before Apocalypse Maiden, as Charity is a grown woman in Min's story. That's about that.
...While the folk of Eleusis made merriment in celebration of the hero's might, the mighty Hercules was heard to sternly rebuke those who made light of noble Charon - in the retelling of his tale, Hercules lingering greatly upon the great patience of the ferryman who had permitted Hercules to bring Cerberus across the aphotic river of Erebus.
Those of you who have completed this task - heavy are laurels wrought of unforeseen merits. No crown might be more proper in the procession of a triumph, to remind the victor of their foibles. You are hereby worthy of bearing the title...
Stygian Legend
Congratulations to the authors of the following stories: OPRAH NO! by @Doc Doctor. For Ken by @mdk, which won the Mortal Coil Challenge Accolade. The Cook-Off by @WiseDragonGirl. Gunpowder Fairy by @PlatinumSkink.
Your stories have been added to The Twelve Labours Victory Archives, to which there will be a permanent link in my signature. In addition, your victory has been announced in both the News and Roleplaying Discussion Subforums!
You have failed in the twelfth labour.
Erhm. Wha… I… that can’t have been the whole entry. I um. There’s... not enough to… wha? I’m just… I’m confused. I’m… confused. So very confused. I… don’t think there’s enough substance here for me to pass the entry, nor really enough substance for me to review it… That said, part of my instinct is to pass it just cause I’ve not seen an entry done like this before. But… no, I can’t. We have no idea if the speaker was being sarcastic, what the cause of this award was… any of a hundred other things. There’s just not enough substance.
Perhaps if you had been quoted as saying more… but until then, only obscurity will be had for you.
You have succeeded in the twelfth labour.
Erm. I’m sorry, but… what? I’m confused. I mean… I guess your story fulfills the requirements? But… I, at least, did not enjoy it at all. It’s a good thing stories don’t get disqualified due to judges’ opinion. Perhaps this is very closed minded of me but this story was just… too absurd and it did nothing for my suspension of disbelief.
Grammatically, I can find few flaws with your story. It is sound, structurally. That said – in the future, please refrain from using colors. There is no good reason to use colors within a narrative, especially not when the colors take the place of the proper, in-text indication of speech (i.e. “s/he said” or some embellishment of that phrase)
Overall, a sound entry that fulfilled the requirements. However, I would suggest taking a mildly more serious tone for future labours, lest you want us all crying “NO!”
paging @mdk You have succeeded in the twelfth labour.
Short, sweet, to the point. The kind of entry I have come to expect of you, MDK. While it wasn’t the most clear-cut fame for something hated, it definitely is a nice juxtaposition. Ken, who hates the racism, became a symbol for them to rally behind (even after they likely shot him, which is a vending-machine logic thing that only hit me like two days after the first read… >->) and also: Ken, who thought the aliens were peaceful and cool and all of that, dies and becomes a symbol for war against them. Clever.
As ever, your grammar and dialect are pretty much impeccable. A natural, elegant read, even barring the repeatedly-censored word (for the sake of pure style, I would have suggested leaving it in its uncensored form as it mildly broke immersion, though I understand it’s best to be on the safe side when writing things that younger audiences can read.) Your description is as on-point as ever- enough to give a feel for the scene without being clunky and overdone.
Great work as always, MDK. May your name be forever a rallying cry for authors great and terrible alike.
Paging @Burthstone You have failed in the twelfth labour.
I’ll be honest – I really wanted to pass your entry, this was one of the more heavily disputed ones. It was short, sweet, and to the point, and encapsulated a sufficient narrative to contain a full world and story. That said, I’m going to have to go with Terminal’s verdict on this one – your failure is purely due to the sheer proportion of errors relative to wordcount and paragraph length. Terminal has done a mock-up of the entirety of your entry, and I suggest you read over that, study that.
Overall, though, I did seriously love this entry. Work on your grammar and sentence structure for a bit before the final hazard, and perhaps then you will receive more positive closure.
Paging @WiseDragonGirl. You have succeeded in the twelfth labour.
D’aww. This was… fairly adorable, and lighthearted. I was not expecting to see such a lovely nonviolent entry in this. It’s just… fun, and sweet, and simple. None of this cloak-and-dagger-y drivel, just friends and cooking and... yeah, great job, DragonGirl. I needed to read something like this.
You did a wonderful job with the grammar and exposition this time. I noticed nothing wrong while reading through. You did an excellent job of characterization through dialogue. One thing, though – in the opening, it does seem as though you engaged in a bit of an exposition infodump. Which is fine, but as an opening paragraph, especially as almost the entirety of the paragraph, it can be a bit tedious and bulky at times. Scatter it around through smaller paragraphs, or as the conclusion of a line of dialogue or like an elaboration off of the “he said” bit of the phrases.
Anyway. Nitpicks are nitpicks. Overall, a strong, solid entry, one that really boosted my mood. This is how lighthearted labour entries should be written. Great job, DragonGirl. May your sudden culinary fame serve you well in the final hazard.
Paging @PlatinumSkink You have succeeded in the twelfth labour.
Ooooh. Ooooooh dear did she just—oh. Well then. That’s an inversion. I… This was fabulously done, and an enjoyable story, and I deeply enjoyed the twist at the end. Like… wow. I think this may be one of my favorites of your labour entries. And this was my favorite of all the stories put forward this time.
I would have given you the accolade for content but in terms of form I had to give it to MDK’s For Ken. While I deeply enjoyed the content of the entry I didn’t feel the story in quite the same authentic way—it felt more like your story was from a very… detached point of view? Like the narration didn’t quite take on the style of the characters, I guess? I don’t exactly know how to better quantify this. I think Terminal’s review makes a good summary of the grammar so rather than re-iterate that I’ll just send you to go back over that section of his review.
Overall, a very solid entry. Perhaps in the final hazard, with an equal amount of gunpowder and an additional sprinkle of fairy dust, victory could be yours.
While I can appreciate the attempt to encapsulate the challenge parameters into a brief a segue as possible, the problem with this entry is that there is no actual narrative. There is a narrative - we have two characters and an implied chain of events, but that is about it. A narrative which does not really embody the qualities of an actual story, lacking any substance beyond the suggestion of implication.
The shortest entry ever to have won in any iteration of TTL, both Old and Newguild, was three paragraphs long. There have been shorter entries than that before now, and each time I come to the same conclusion: The story needs to be of sufficient length to establish an overarching narrative as well as a contextual reality. That does not mean a story must be longer than three paragraphs; merely that a story, no matter how short, much have sufficient substance to stand on its own. The writer has the burden of meeting the standard of quality expected of good storytelling, and also of making it unambiguously clear that the challenge criteria have been met. This entry falls short and accomplishes nothing.
Even if I were to accept the entry as-is, the fact of the matter is that it does not firmly meet the challenge criteria. As I said before, the writer has the burden of making it apparent that the criteria have been met. Here, we do not necessarily know that is the case. It is merely implied, and only weakly so at that.
Short, but sweet and simple. The entry is not overly complex, but is executed near-perfectly. I spotted two minor grammar errors, but both were part of spoken lines and could be easily excused as due to imperfection in human speech - and that is nearly the worst I can say about this story. The topic is an interesting mixture of humor and dark implication, each line balanced and not overstated - which is hard to accomplish in scenarios like this one. Most writers have the urge to turn up the drama or the ham or both, but this particular entry is set up as a cool and clear record of events which nonetheless manages to evoke both amusement and intrigue in the reader. A victory duly earned.
I can strongly empathize with Ken in this story.
I have so many questions.
@mdk, you are an utter TROLL. This tantalizing yearning for more of your patented bullshit is so precisely rendered that it is clearly artificially manufactured, turned out by your dire machinations with the nonchalance of aliens drinking coors. Combined with the aspect of this entry's cunningly duplicitous simplicity and linear narrative, your entry is engaging without being at all involved you snake.
This is made all the more worse as the singular mistake I found in your entry is the run-on sentence in the first paragraph. Not quite eldritch, but not quite human either. Plus the bit where I became so engrossed in the minute I spent reading your entry that I forgot what I had been doing.
I am at a loss as to what I can even actually criticize here. Possibly the only thing I might have done differently in your shoes was include a line about the townspeople being buck and short-toothed. I certainly would not have (or even have thought of) written anything in this particular style, and while the accusation that you are writing beneath your abilities rests on my tongue I dare not speak it. The entire story seems established specifically in order to leave the reader hanging out to dry in the middle of a literary desert wondering what the hell just happened and wanting more. The length is therefore precisely as long as it needs to be, and the content perfectly rendered for its purpose. I suppose in the end the only thing I can say is that this particular style does not seem well-suited to lengthier narratives. I can kind of see it if I squint a little, but the longer the story goes on the more actual setting detail you would be forced to surrender to the reader beyond scenery and implicit intrigue, which I take runs contrary to your malign intentions.
Just take it, you piece of slime. Take your fucking Victory and your fucking Challenge Accolade and ride off into the sunset on the eldritch horror you rode in on.
You unfortunately have failed, although not for the reasons most might expect. Believe it or not, but I initially intended to pass your entry. I felt that it sufficiently encapsulated the challenge criteria in an efficient package. The entry is fairly short - it does not meet the three-paragraph record currently in place, but it comes rather close. I bring that up specifically because you have two superfluous paragraphs that could have been removed altogether with minimal tweaking to the remainder in order to produce the same story - if you were aiming for brevity you could have done better, or at least been more efficient.
What I like about this entry is just that - its brevity, or rather your expertly compressed narrative, which does exactly everything it needed to. The first paragraph establishes everything the reader needs to know, the fourth paragraph is the climax, and the fifth paragraph is the closure. You do just enough to establish a setting that I cannot properly accuse you of cheating us out of a proper story with, but not really enough for me to be impressed except by the entry's near mechanical adherence to the challenge criteria. This is what I get for making simple requests. Which is where we come to the reason I eventually decided to fail your entry.
Because your entry was so short, I decided to take the few errors you made into greater consideration relative to the whole. I went ahead and proofread the entire thing for you. Refinements in italics, commentary in parenthesis.
Spending years with Locus had attuned Audrey to feel when magic was afoot, and as she steppedsether (unnecessary possessive pronoun) foot within the city's stone gates of the city (inefficient) it was all she could do not to collapse under the almost unbearable pressure of the magic that saturatedsaturating (formally grammatically incorrect even if informally accepted in literature. Untidy in general, try to avoid the use of the word 'that' when able. Also inefficient.) the air. Someone, (unnecessary) or something incredibly powerful was here. That could mean thatWhich could mean Locus, who she hadn’t seen in almost two months, had finally managed to track her down. Or it couldmight (repetitive) mean Jonah had finished him off and was after her now. Worst case, it was neither, (this comma is not strictly necessary, but I left it since it does have an effect on the tone of the subsequent text) and Audrey would have to spend months more wondering what had befallen her friend.
Deciding however that it was better safe than sorry, Audrey made sure she had access toclutched at the hilt for (awkwardly stated, one of several possible structural corrections) the dagger Locus had given her when they parted. Made of some black metal, the blade looked like the most wicked thing one could find on God’s green Earth. It had more points than the King’s kitchen, and was serrated wherever possible (as a minor aside, heavily serrated blades are inefficient for striking through clothing/leather or at making anything more than superficial cuts with glancing strikes. Most daggers intended for combat will have clean edges with serration further down the blade for enhancing damage after contact is made. No idea if the dagger was made intentionally for torture or not, just thought I would point that out since many authors unfamiliar with blades seem to like tossing in serrated edges needlessly.) While she walked around the cobble streets and busy people, Audrey began to fellfall into a sense of sad security (this entire sentence could stand being rewritten honestly. It is a bit out of place and awkward.). The source of the energyenergy's source didn’t seem concerned with her, which meant it wasn’t anyone that knew her. (This paragraph is faintly superfluous, you establish her possession of the dagger and that the unknown source of magic did not seem focused on her - both details could have been established as part of the first paragraph.)
“One apple please,” she said to a street vender, pulling out a few coins to pay for it (what the hell kind of economy is this where you need coins plural to pay for an apple? This is an archaic setting, minted coins are going to be large and weighty things with considerable value as opposed the throwaway contemporary pieces currently in-use.). The man selling his produce was more than happy to take money in exchange for his food product (not only is this line unnecessary, but the reader does not care even slightly about it. It establishes wholly irrelevant information that comes to no fruition and adds nothing to the narrative. You could have added a line about Audrey nervously haggling with him in order to enhance the story's atmosphere, or any number of faintly interesting and relevant lines instead.), and soon Audrey was on her way. (This entire paragraph is entirely superfluous. You could have omitted it entirely and the story's conclusion would not have ended or felt any different). (Added a line break here). She was mid-bite when she felt someone coming up from behind her. She clenched her hand.
“Been a while, Audrey,” said something as it put its gloved hand on her shoulder. (I understand the use of 'thing' is intentional here, but it clashes with the use of the 'someone' used immediately prior in the last sentence.)
She was on edge, she reacted before she realized what she was doing.
Black ichor drooled down her arm.
“Ah.” Was the sound Locus made. Not ‘ow,’ not ‘damn,’ not a shout. Just ‘ah,’ like someone had just told him that he was actually supposed to be sitting two seats down on the dinner table. Audrey looked at her hand, horrified, unable to speak. Locus sighed softly. “I think you told me you hate surprises one time,” he collapsed as he said this, taking the dagger with him. His unnatural blood welled up around the wound, and the (specificity in order to avoid ambiguous and awkward syntax) people around her quickly took notice. (While this is nothing technically wrong with the shift from present to past tense here, the abruptness is more awkward than its enhancement of how swiftly the following events proceeded justifies.)
She and the corpse were dragged off to the cathedral, lorded out before everyone. Demon and Demon Slayer, in their own city! (Bear in mind this only works as an idiom). An archpriest honored her, giving a speech, (this is awkward in structure and could merit a faint degree more elaboration in order to enhance flow) but when she was asked to recount how she knew the corpse they had tied to the rafters was a black-blooded demon, (entirely unnecessary this time) before she had put a knife through him, her voice shriveled up and died.
The problem here is not the nature or severity of the errors themselves, because there are not that many in total and because none of them are incredibly serious. If there were a few out-of-place sentences or even paragraphs in a more drawn-out entry, I would probably let it slide. That said, since your story is so much shorter you have a greater burden of effort in terms of per-line-capita. 2/5ths of your story is essentially a complete waste of space, issues which could have been easily and readily rectified in ways that would have enhanced the story overall. As an extension of that point, part of the reason I am ultimately failing this entry is because of the impression your entry gave me of nearly being cheated out of an actual story. It is just-barely-sufficiently there to qualify for the purposes of the challenge criteria, but it is clear you could have done much, much more - and is why I took greater consideration to the flaws in your form than I might have normally.
More than any other entry, this one captured the essence of the challenge in terms of what I was looking for in the entries. The meat of the narrative in the expository rant near the end is nearly precisely what I wanted to see. The preceding rant earlier on in the story about how much Ethan hated cooking is incredibly easily to understand and empathize with, and the harassment Ethan received after winning is both realistically portrayed and perfectly described.
I will say that there was a distractingly large number of typos, grammatical errors, and a few flat-out misspellings towards the beginning of the entry. It makes sense since everything important is further in, but the beginning passages are memorable and linger in the mind throughout the story specifically because of the errors therein. Then there is the entire issue of Benjamin's existence, or rather the conundrum thereof given he has very little reason to. He enables the story as a mechanism to enable Ethan's expository rants, full stop. The segue where he goes on a shopping race was wholly superfluous, and illustrates the story's greatest weakness: The contextual reality of the narrative is perfectly suited to Ethan, but is weak and sloppily made for the purpose of accommodating Benjamin.
In addition to the great news of passing and breaking your ever-other-labour win/lose streak, I can confidently say that your issues with grammar have narrowed down specifically to your use of conjunctions. Errors in other areas are still present, but I had to go out of my way to look for those. Here are a few egregious samples for your consideration:
The molecules of the metal was slowly duplicating themselves
This includes other magicians, some of which are powerful enough to feel unbound by rules and will attempt stealing you or your magical research for their own profit.' (A conjunction is missing here, if it is not immediately obvious.)
Most of her classmates were intending on becoming hunters, others intended on becoming freelancers.
More good news in that I feel your handling of natural narrative flow has improved significantly, along with your use of dialogue. There are a few odd lines, but everything is much smoother and easier to process. My primary complaint now is that the diction is unrealistic, or more specifically that everyone is speaking as though they lived in an anime. Which is fine if you are into that sort of thing I guess (as history will show, I have demonstrated something of a bias against that particular genre of writing). To me, it comes off as unrealistic and forced - I know it is not and that it makes sense for you to write your lines out in that particular fashion, but it feels wrong to me nonetheless. I suppose I will have to settle for asking whether or not you have considered attempting to find some form of happy medium.
My biggest issue with the story is its conclusion. It makes sense that Charity would want to pursue an avenue that would ease the burden of having to head out and murder heaps of people. The solution of 'I will make a potion that will turn me into a hackneyed B-Movie Serial Killer!' seems rather contrived, tasteless, and honestly kind of stupid given the details of the setting we have been exposed to. We already know that there exist any number of mental magics that she could have used in order to adjust her outlook accordingly, or to have installed mental blocks, etcetera. Potential reasoning that she would have had to spend time studying that sort of thing is invalid, she she had to spend time figuring out how to brew up Serial-Killer-Stew in any case. Moreover, why go full-ham on becoming a serial killer? She could have just made herself amoral, or chosen to repress SPECIFIC emotions, or any number of other solutions! Also at the tip of my tongue is the accusation that it is typical anime contrivance, but even that aside the fact of the matter is that the notion of the story's end is completely at odds with the rest of the story. It seems drastically less reasoned and thought-through, in addition to simply being poorly handled. If I had to make a bet on it, I would even hazard that the entire segue after the line break was copy-pasted from an older iteration of your work for the purposes of maintaining continuity.
Congratulations are still in order however. By and large this entry is perhaps your most impressive to date.
I have been writing as a hobby for longer than you have been alive. I have been a regular member and roleplayer of no less than fourteen different online forums during that time (including the old RPG), [s]five[/s] [s]six[/s] eight of which no longer exist.
I was previously a regular on the Homestuck forums, but I became so sick of thread turnover there that I asked around and eventually found the Guild. Since joining, I have exclusively only participated in Advanced RPs. Before Mahz gave NRPs their own subforum, I used to be an NRP regular in the Advanced Subforum. I am a Guildfall survivor, and know/regularly write with a few others.
If you ask anybody who has written with me in previous RPs, they should tell you that I have a generally open schedule, I post regularly and in a timely fashion, and I never drop an RP once I join unless the thread dies. Some of them may tell you that I have extensive expertise within the realms of Biology, Psychology, and Physics, which I will make no effort to validate since there is no way I can provide hard proof of aforementioned alleged expertise to anybody over the internet (though I am happy to try and answer any questions you send my way).
My favorite fandom is the Myst franchise, which seemingly nobody other than me has ever heard of.
I was a Contest Moderator for the Writing Contests Subforum for just a little bit over two years. I wrote the Moderation Policy for that subforum and I ran a contest called the Twelve Labours; you can still go there and see all of them and the entries people wrote for them in the [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/forums/45-writing-contests]Contests Section[/url] and the [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/79562-the-twelve-labours-victory-archive/ooc]Victory Archives.[/url]
I have been quadruple secret banned from the guild discord. That is not a joke.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">I have been writing as a hobby for longer than you have been alive. I have been a regular member and roleplayer of no less than fourteen different online forums during that time (including the old RPG), <span class="bb-s">five</span> <span class="bb-s">six</span> eight of which no longer exist.<br><br>I was previously a regular on the Homestuck forums, but I became so sick of thread turnover there that I asked around and eventually found the Guild. Since joining, I have exclusively only participated in Advanced RPs. Before Mahz gave NRPs their own subforum, I used to be an NRP regular in the Advanced Subforum. I am a Guildfall survivor, and know/regularly write with a few others.<br><br>If you ask anybody who has written with me in previous RPs, they should tell you that I have a generally open schedule, I post regularly and in a timely fashion, and I never drop an RP once I join unless the thread dies. Some of them may tell you that I have extensive expertise within the realms of Biology, Psychology, and Physics, which I will make no effort to validate since there is no way I can provide hard proof of aforementioned alleged expertise to anybody over the internet (though I am happy to try and answer any questions you send my way).<br><br>My favorite fandom is the Myst franchise, which seemingly nobody other than me has ever heard of.<br><br>I was a Contest Moderator for the Writing Contests Subforum for just a little bit over two years. I wrote the Moderation Policy for that subforum and I ran a contest called the Twelve Labours; you can still go there and see all of them and the entries people wrote for them in the <a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/forums/45-writing-contests">Contests Section</a> and the <a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/79562-the-twelve-labours-victory-archive/ooc">Victory Archives.</a><br><br>I have been quadruple secret banned from the guild discord. That is not a joke.</div>
KactusPunch,
Crown Sage,
MarshalSolgriev,
SkyeOfStars,
princess,
flat lovenote,
Zeroth
