Short Story Contest #4 - Great War Stories

[Lightskin]

^

Uncapitalized Is.

Inability to discern between he's and his.

General spelling mistakes.

Upside down question- and exclamation marks. Wtf? This isn't Spanish.

-- tags around post-quote "speech?"

In conclusion, do NOT write in English if you don't grasp the basics. Stick to your Spanish.

Oh i'm sorry mr english god -.-
Read the rules : ENGLISH TEXT
And seems you never read... the tags mean actions within the words said by the character ...

 

[TwistedImage]

I've read a shitton of books and never seen that technique used, and it's annoying.

 

[Lightskin]

I've read a shitton of books and never seen that technique used, and it's annoying.

you are annoying... stop it.

 

[Coffeeholic]

While TwistedImage did go about telling you the wrong way, he does have good points that you might want to keep in mind when you go to fix your story up. These are all just WIPs, after all.

 

[The World Is Flat]

Yes, agreed.

Lightskin, your formattig is unconventional to say the least, and, as a result, quite unpleasant and confusing to the average reader. While i personally like the story, i think you could do better with more conventional format. i myself, an avid reader, have never seen this style used.

Usually, descriptive speech is like this:

"Well, hmmm," he said, "I don't quite know, why don't you ask davis?" I nodded briefly. He continued, suddenly, "OR, becky might, its really quite hard to tell," Jackson finished, sighing at the beautiful day, and the gorgeous view from the port side of the yacht. "becky?" I questioned, "what does she know about this?"
Thats when he drew the pistol.

 

[TwistedImage]

TWIF's right except for the part where he treats the first letter after a quote tag as the start of a new sentence.

 

[The World Is Flat]

Lol, i usually have random capitalization issues. sorry.

 

[TwistedImage]

Finally someone who doesn't throw a raging tantrum when I point out a spelling mistake! You just made my morning better, sir.

 

[The World Is Flat]

LOL. it was constructive criticizim, wtf am i supposed to do? were both trying to help lightskin out.

EDITING COMPLETE.

 

[Cthulus]

AH, I think I'll sign up for this 'ere contest.
Here's my WIP. Wrote it as soon as I read this topic. Should only take a paragraph to figure out that it's Halo.

Actaeon

One marine gasped in fear as a long, sinuous tentacle snaked slowly toward him from the overhead panel that had fallen. "Keep it.. um.. distracted." He said cautiously as he reached slowly for his sidearm, as the tentacle reached around his neck and past the group. It was then that the tendril brushed against Pvt. Dorphen's cheek. It stopped a moment later, and headed back around to the frightened man. He stopped moving as it touched his back, and rubbed briefly against his head, before stopping slowly in front of his chest. The first marine drew his magnum, and aimed it at the strange creature, as it began to slowly shake as some strange bulge within moved quickly down it's length before reaching the tip of the tendril. The thing shook as a tear slowly came across, and a creature leapt from within the opening, and landed on the private's chest, even as the marine fired and hit the tentacle in it's midsection. It thrashed around and dangled low.
The private screamed as the small bulbous creature stabbed his neck with one small needlelike spike, which rendered him numb and he began to trip and slowly fall over, and the thing burrowed into his skin, ripping the kevlar and uniform apart like newspaper wrapping. "Sarge, what is this thing?!" another marine yelled as he watched in fear. The man screamed once more, and saliva, mucus and blood foamed at his mouth before he went silent and his eyes turned blank and white. The thing disappeared into the hole in Robert Dorphen's chest, and ended the assimilation process. The corpse trembled and thrashed as if in pain, and his skin turned a strange rotting brown-green, even as his squad watched. His neck snapped and a mound of some vile substance filled the space where his head had left, and now dangled over his shoulder. The body slowly rose to it's feet, uneasy as if it was doing so for the first time. "Are you.. alright?" the marine who'd fired said. The thing looked to the marine, with his M6 handgun, and screamed like a demon as it jumped onto jumped onto him like some vicious predator.
He fired once into the air, then the dead private crushed his skull with his bare hand, spraying the floor with his blood. The other marines opened fire on the thing, as it jumped high in the air and landed on top of another marine, grabbed his neck, and threw him flying into the wall. There was a crack, and the wall had a long red stain where he hit. "Keep that bastard pinned down, Hotch!" a lieutenant said to one of the marines, "Fire in bursts, save your ammo!" The others fired short bursts as they ran, their MA5Cs mostly missing the dashing creature. It latched onto another marine, and as it held onto the man's torso, It grew strange whip-like tentacles from it's forearm, and slashed them at the captured human, and he fell dead to the floor. The four last soldiers ran from the chamber, firing crazily at the reanimated marine who pursued them. The creature screamed once, and ran faster.

 

[TwistedImage]

Good story and well-told. However there are a few mistakes.

First up, you're messing up its and it's. Every time I see that, I die a little inside. "Its" denotes belonging (to a non-human) whereas "it's" means "it is."

Secondly, you use "as" a tad too much. Try to vary it a bit.

Finally, too much "his," you could confuse someone, sending said someone stumbling into a "who does what?" state. Use more names and less "his," but don't use too many names either.

Also, I've no clue whether the plagiarism rule applies to this.

 

[Lightskin]

Yes, agreed.

Lightskin, your formattig is unconventional to say the least, and, as a result, quite unpleasant and confusing to the average reader. While i personally like the story, i think you could do better with more conventional format. i myself, an avid reader, have never seen this style used.

Usually, descriptive speech is like this:

"Well, hmmm," he said, "I don't quite know, why don't you ask davis?" I nodded briefly. He continued, suddenly, "OR, becky might, its really quite hard to tell," Jackson finished, sighing at the beautiful day, and the gorgeous view from the port side of the yacht. "becky?" I questioned, "what does she know about this?"
Thats when he drew the pistol.

Like that?(check my text again) i read and write books, but my mother tongue is spanish, i didn't knew the english book format. I also corrected some gammar and it's his hi's etc.. can't find more mistakes. Many thanks.

 

[Cthulus]

Excuse me? What do you mean by plagiarism?
However, I accept your critique.

 

[Noobius]

Yeas! Finally remembered what my story was! Here's the wip.

The Zardinus Premiere

The sun was at its peak that day. It was glorious. We had found where the Culprit, as he was called, was hiding. But something didn’t go as planned.
The constable had already cuffed him with the help of an adept mage. The four of us were standing on the side, ready for any attempt to escape. But there was something we had forgotten in our arrogance. The Culprit, despite his muscle bound size, was one of the five fastest thieves in the whole of Maloreighn.
With terrifying speed the Culprit broke his chains and drew the constable’s sword. It happened so fast. The Culprit had already struck the neck of the constable and was already aiming a deadly thrust to the stunned mage. But Samuel Wu, the fourth member of our PRO team, had had enough. He concentrated his Ionic energies in between his two hands behind him. With speed that shamed the Culprit’s he aimed his fire at the Culprit who was pulling his stuck sword from the body of the mage. The power was overwhelming. Blue electric energy, the highest any gifted, level 3 Psi Handler could ever achieve, blasted from his hands. Trees died, the sun beaten ground trembled and split. It blew away any and all evidence that the Culprit ever stood in the ground before us. The 5 mile wide line of destruction continued for 20 miles. Luckily no one was hurt, unless of course you count the entire wolf population in this area of Maloreighn.
But as you know, any action of this magnitude has an opposing reaction… We had awoken a beast of destruction. More powerful than any that had ever set foot in Maloreighn.
We had awoken… a Beast of Zardinus.

Please let me join!!

 

[TwistedImage]

Excuse me? What do you mean by plagiarism?
However, I accept your critique.

Well, you said it was based on Halo if I'm not mistaken. Since I've never really played Halo, I couldn't tell. But yeah.

 

[The World Is Flat]

Then, the mighty Sir, came, within the army of barbaric men could be noted he's stature passing through them, about three meters from head to heels.


I'm sorry, but its hard to tell what your talking about. also, your exsessive use of commas is confusing. the use of the word, 'sir' is confusing, and: Sir, Came, within the army... sounds like a breathless man's speach: "Sir... came... within...the army..." It seems to me you are trying to say is that the leader came from within the armies ranks, but your grammar is a bit off, and your missing the word, 'from' in that case, the comma after came is not needed.

Also:
The army was on command of Gallance Brahn, an expert battle master. Looking around, the Sir asked to Gallance, "What is this? are you retreating?", "There's no possible victory here, the soldiers neglect to fight".

there should be no comma after the ? mark. (because ? marks act as period punctuation.)
E.G. "what is this? why are you retreating?"





"There's no possible victory here, the soldiers neglect to fight".

Also, neglect means to leave ignored, not nessicerliy not fight. Refuse would be a better term here.



He walked a few steps away from Gallance's position. From a big silence, he asked;

Big denotes LARGNESS of MASS not duration, the preferable term would be a long, or exsessive silence.


You call the commanding officer the sir, is that an intentional use of the word? at last i knew, sir was a title, not a noun. you should call them by name or a more proper title, such as 'the sargeant' ect.

There are a few more mistakes such as these, but otherwise your story is MUCH improved.

 

[Fussiler1]

Bah, I forfeit.

 

[Lightskin]

The World Is Flat; That makes many sence, already fixed all the points, very many huge thanks. Um, i say "sir" because he's "The Great Sir of Scotland", i just think Sir has the same use as Spanish, else i'm confusing things, is is it wrong?

 

[Miz]

My schedule is finally less hectic with AP Testing finally done. So I will actually get my WIP up here soonish.

 

[The World Is Flat]

Well, sir is used almost exclusivly as spoken title, e.g. "Sir, what is it sir?" but not as a descriptive/narrative term.

 

[phoenixfire]

Is it too late to post my WIP?

 

[The World Is Flat]

No.

 

[Lightskin]

Do you think i should change it?

2 WIP (now need to fix grammar etc, if anyone can help me I'll thank a lot)

1304 Words

The Battle of Stirling

And so he was... standing with a bloody sword, exhaust, with the face painted, the colors of freedom. With victory on his rear.

Stirling, September 11th, 1297.
The English troops were shown atop the hill, ready to fight, ready to crush as many Scottish as it would be possible. Instead, the people of Scotland was ready to scape to home, so they could live, fighting was losing it's sense. The soldiers were pretty sure it was a great lost.
Then, the mighty Sir came within the multitude of barbaric men. It was easy to denote his stature, about three meters from head to heels.
The army was on command of Gallance Brahn, an expert battle master. Looking around, the Sir asked to Gallance, "What is this? are you retreating?" "There's no possible victory here, the soldiers refuse to fight". He walked a few steps away from Gallance's position and from a prolonged silence, he asked; "Is this an army!?" while walking around the front of the army's formation. None answered, a silence kept. "Do you really think an army is led by fear!?" asked again. "We have no fear!" said a soldier from the mass. "So you are telling me to retreat is not to fear" said the Great, "This battle is lost, we are not going to fight. If we retreat we will live." said another soldier. "For some time, but yes. If you men, fight, you may die. But, if you don't fight, you will want to come back in time and fight this battle, you might understand me in a couple of years, when the tyranny rape our women, kill our children and destroy our homeland. Is that what you want? You want Edward to burn your home? You want your family's death? Is that what you really want?" a short silence was made after the Sir's word. "If we keep together we can make it, because they might take our lives, but the may NEVER TAKE OUR FREEDOM!" The multitude of soldiers were driven into a reflex point, and a few seconds after the Sir's word, every single soldier started to clash their weapons and shout in a rush. "And for so i say, stand up, take up you sword and shield and FIGHT FOR OUR FREEDOM!!" shouted with huge strength the great Sir of Scotland.
The multitude of barbarians kept getting each time more aggressive and more likely to fight. Now the battle had recovered the cause.
It was possible to see the large English armies marching from the front, to engage the Scottish army in the river, the river of Stirling. Each passing second was another remember of English tyranny, each second was another reason to crush them.
The Scottish army was angry and enraged, they remembered that none would free them from England else themselves. Now, the English men were close, too close. The Scottish made haste into positioning in the bridge. Shield on the shoulder and the sword ready to slice.
The English light troops stepped into the bridge running at all speed. Then the English had engaged the Scottish formation from the front. The war sound could be loudly be heard from a big distance; shields, swords and axes clashing and the soul of war, the battle cries.
The Scottish warriors were fighting with great valor, no matter how greatly outnumbered they were, they kept their positions killing English after English.
The Great, angry, entered the battle area with a big jump, such size made a stomp that scared the nearby English soldiers, and made them fall. The Great swung his 3 meters sword and sent four soldiers to Hades, he swung it again and killed two more soldiers. Almost by surprise an English warrior attacked the Great Sir of Scotland from behind, no matter how fast he may did it, the Great turned with immense dexterity and parried the attack. To take advantage on the enemy he kept the sword down and crushed the enemy's skull with his right fist, the English got down unconscious. With strength and haste he kept fighting and pinning one and another soldier, it was an unstoppable butcher.
The battle was balanced at this point, the Scottish were not so many, but they were killing enough English to make a good enough fight.
As the English commander seen this immense defeat, before it may happen, he sent the Cavalry to ambush the troops from the flanks. Velek, the English commander sent the cavalry to pass through the rive within the meadow zone. Also, he sent the heavy infantry to reinforce the bridge forces, the light infantry was going down too fast, and many were retreating.
About 150 cavalrymen marching at all speed and 300 heavy infantry soldiers reinforcing the English troops.
While everyone may have thought the Sir was a seer, he already had this English plans already in mind, and for so, he had a counter-attack plan too.
He knew the Heavy infantry was going to annihilate the Scottish, but still he did nothing. He took a few men from the army and gave them the order to set in the flank.
The Scottish wondered what the Great Sir was plotting. But he was pretty sure of what he was doing.
When the time to fight with the heavy infantry knights came, the Sir told the barbarians; "There they come! hold on my freedom warriors, hold them in the bridge and don't let them trespass it! Use a defensive stance!". So the Scottish forces held the English withing the bridge bounds with great efforts.
As time passed by, the Sir kept an eye on the cavalry, and they were already visible. The Scottish saw them too, and frightened up. "Stay in your positions and hold on, i know what i am doing!".
The heavy infantry was doing it's job very good, and in a matter of time they would blast the whole barbaric army, still, the Great said; "Keep your positions! HOLD THEM A BIT LONGER!!"
The cavalry was just about 300 meters away from the flank. "Hold on... hold on..." repeated the Sir to the flank soldiers.
Now the cavalry was about 100 meters away. "Just a bit more" said once again. It was the time, they were 40 meters away. "NOW!!!" shouted the Sir extremely confident. As he gave the order to the soldiers, every single barbarian took a spear from the grassy floor and made with haste a nice phalanx formation. 40 meters was enough time to do this, and not enough to make the horses stop. The cavalry was sent into a death formation, and almost the whole cavalry squad died in hands of the Schiltroms.
With victory almost on the Sir's grasp, he went to the battle area to keep the heavy infantry in bounds, while kept shouting "Hold on, victory is almost ours!". But this time the soldiers were not so confident they would win, those heavy infantry seemed to be indestructible killing machines. From one time to another the bridge started to collapse and the Sir said almost whispering; "I knew it". The wood bridge collapsed and almost every heavy knight drowned.
The theory of the Sir was the resistance of the wood bridge against the heavy armor of the knights, he knew it wouldn't resist 300 heavy knights armor.
The lasting English had to retreat, they were no match for the Scottish forces and their great commander, William Wallace. "VICTORY IS OUR!!!" desperately yelled with hope a soldier from the Scottish army followed by innumerable battle cries from the other barbarians.
And so he was... standing with a bloody sword, exhaust, with the face painted, the colors of freedom. With freedom on his front.

 

[phoenixfire]

Oh whens the due date then?

 

[Lightskin]

Oh whens the due date then?

The contest shall begin on April 25th and conclude on 11:59, 5th June 2010, GMT

btw; what do i do with the finished story? do i sent it to someone? just post it here?

 

[phoenixfire]

Yes, but there was a due date for the WIPs.

 

[Lightskin]

oh really? well, The World is Flat said it's yet in time, so make haste

 

[phoenixfire]

Submitting my WIP, I'm basing my story on multiple, small chapters, so I'm displaying the first chapter as a WIP:

WIP 308 Words

Lothranius stared, nervous and paying close attention, into the dark that now surrounded him. The only strands of light were those of the fire behind him. It had to have been nearly an hour since the strange sound, he thought to himself, yet he still had a strange feeling. There was suddenly another noise behind him. Clink! He drew his sword and did a full spin, hitting Ethran's armor. Clink!
"It's just me you foolish boy!" screamed Ethran.
"Shhhhh!" hissed Lothranius, "I think somebody is out there."
Ethran sighed. "Get to sleep, your mind is tricking you."
"Very well, perhaps I should -," Lothranius was cut off by an all too familiar sound, and a deep pain. Then, suddenly, all he could see was darkness. Another sound echoed the dark, and Ethran felt the same pain.
"Arrow fire!" he managed to scream, before the sound echoed two more times. It was too late. The camp was destroyed by burning arrows, and everybody burned inside it.
Of course, there was one survivor. A small grin crept over his face as he watched from the cliff, observing the burning camp. He pulled an arrow out of his quiver. No - not a regular arrow. This was a strange arrow, with dark feathers and it's tip dipped into an ink-colored substance. This person was not some dumb individual who would blow his cover and get himself shot down, killing only one or two archers. He had a different plan. He released an arrow, firing exactly where he wanted, the giant hog roasting on the fire. The arrow broke in half as it hit the bones, and then blended in with the other arrows that were fired by the enemy. He put his bow away, seeing nobody noticed, and went to sleep. The Kalarian raiding party would be dead in the morning.

 

[Cthulus]

Yeah, it's Halo.. but are you not sure if I stole that text from it, or what do you mean? Speak sensibly, sir.

 

[Noobius]

OI!!! Didn't any body read my bloody wip?!?!?
Besides mine is created purely from the ground up!!!
It's based on a comic series I created when I was grade 6.

 

[Wolfe]

... just because we do not reply, or provide you with any feedback, does not mean that we have not read it. Nor do we care that you created it from the ground up, because that is what you are supposed to do.

And no, I did not mean to offend you or anyone by saying that.

Will be posting an 1,000 word work-in-progress soon.

 

[The World Is Flat]

DUDE, lol, about 80%-90% of our stories are from the ground up. only 2 people commented on my 6000 word WIP

 

[Lightskin]

DUDE, lol, about 80%-90% of our stories are from the ground up. only 2 people commented on my 6000 word WIP

can i have a link to your story ?

 

[The World Is Flat]

my first wip is page 5, i forget the other.

 

[The Titan]

I suppose it is not too late to rock in.

 

[Ghoulrush]

OI!!! Didn't any body read my bloody wip?!?!?
Besides mine is created purely from the ground up!!!
It's based on a comic series I created when I was grade 6.

Your WIP is a paragraph, don't expect any profound literary analysis.

Hell, even I feel bad about posting my WIP at 700 words or so. The only reason I posted it was so that I would meet the WIP deadline and prove that it was my work, all The Word is Flat could really critique was the grammar due to its short size.

 

[phoenixfire]

Hey World, how did you get a 6000 word WIP when max is 5000?

 

[The World Is Flat]

Its a Wip, i have to cut back.

 

[The Titan]

Ok, here is my WIP

Cold, dark night. The Ancestors are whispering quietly, while the Great Sea sleeps in peace. But that peace is not going to last long. Children aren't going to play forever. The Wheel of Time is getting what it deserves. Dark clouds are surrounding Northrend. Howls of the Dead are scaring the living ones, breaking the harmony, crushing the last moments of silence. The Human Grand Army has arrived in Dragonblight seven days ago. They have established settlements and prepared troops. Soon, Humans will fight the Death itself, they will look at the the one and only - The Lich King.
Everyone is sleeping. Warriors have to be mentally prepared for the battle. But they cannot sleep, because they know that this is their last night, the last beacon of light in darkness. Even Jaina Proudmoore, the leader of Humans of Lordaeron, is sad and unwilling to live. And how can ordinary warrior be optimistic when his leader thinks only about fall of the living ones?
Captain Kell is alone, standing on cliff and enjoying freshness of air and smell of sea. He is a bit sad and nostalgic about his home - Lordaeron.
- Captain?
Nothing, just silence.
- Captain? - warrior repeated - Captain, are you there?
- Ugh, sorry. I was thinking about something. Do you need any help?
- Thinking about what, if I can ask? - warrior is curious.
And that was the moment of something that cannot be explained by words. Both warrior and captain were thinking about the same thing, but they couldn't say that, nor they could move or do anything else. Like all evil of the world came to that place.
- It....It doesn't matter. I just can't tell that to you. I think you understand me. - captain was barely able to say anything.
- Yes, I do. I just wanted to ask if you have any good shields. I'll need them for tomorrow.
- No. I know you are lying. Tell me what do you want or go away! - captain was angry.
- Well, Jaina told me to tell you that you need to return to tent and sleep.
- Hah, sorry. I'm just a bit sad. Good, I will go to the tent.
But he didn't.
Kell stood on cliff for whole night, thinking about the Undead, Lordaeron, future and past. "This war, it's just not good. We are fighting our prince, we are spilling our blood. For what? Even if we win, greater shadows will fall on us. But some people can't live with that. Tomorrow, we'll die for nothing.", he was deep in his mind. He was right. The black mantle has surrounded Azeroth. Armageddon is coming.
- Kell, why are you still there? - that was same warrior.
- Ah, you again. I can't sleep. What is your name, soldier?
- Jagg, sir.
- Listen to me, Jagg, I've survived many wars. That's really hard. I can sense that this fight will be our last. - Kell took off his helmet - Do you have wife and children?
- Yes, of course.
- Then you know how much it is hard to leave your home and to never return. You are man of iron, honorable and strong, and I will help you to survive.
It's quiet again. Jagg is wondering what is captain up to, and Kell is smiling mysteriously. The moment of truth is nearer with every hour, minute, second. Tension in these two noble warriors was bigger and bigger.
- Wait for me. I'm getting back shortly.
Jagg actually lives with Orcs deep in Barrens. He likes them, their culture and philosophy. His wife, Mola, is from Stormwind. Galg and Armen are both strong and agile children. Jagg's family was paradise. Until this war. And there comes Kell...
- Here, take this. - said captain.
- What is that?
- That is magical teleport stone. I used it in order to quickly teleport home after battle. Since this is my last fight, take it, and teleport to your wife. Remember that you are the owner of that stone now, and no one but you can teleport with it. Now go and don't say anything.

713 words

 

[Coolty44]

Reposting my WIP, I think it burried witha few other peoples.

WIP[Real]

It was 1945, two days before the atomic bombs would bring an end to World War Two. With victory around the corner, my final mission was guaranteed to be forgotten. Too bad too, it cleared the way for the bomb.

It was a nice day, or at least the nicest it could get on an aircraft carrier preparing a raid on Japan. I, Sargent James Watt, was getting a briefed with a few other people about were we were being dropped off at to join the ground forces advance on the Japanese islands. After that was over, I was called off to the side and into a private room, were I was greeted by a small man with funny glasses. He had a document in his hands that looked rather important, and I assumed the worst. He gestured over to a chair. “Sit down, have a break, you must be rather tired”. “Rather stay standing” I replied. Guess he never dealt with someone who has seen the front lines before, since he looked a little offended. “Well, then” he continued “I just received new information regarding your latest deployment, and you will be coming to us to Japan to assist in the raid”. I was very impressed with that statement. “I'm not air force, why would I join and air raid?”. He must've sensed my growing anger, because he started to back off a little. “The Generals want you and a few other men to parachute in during the raid and do as much damage to Japanese defences as possible. They aren't sure what to expect if they decide to send in a full force of troops or airdrop platoons in......”

Apparently, my opinion doesn't matter, because we made my original stop, but only 30 of 35 of use got off. The rest were selected for the “Special Operations” mission. I was later given a much shorter brief that told me all the things I would need for the mission. Apparently, I we all get 1000 bullets, a stander ed M1A1 Thompson and we were to all share a non-military motorboat the ship engineers made out of bed planks and a lifeboat motor. The original parachute plan got scrapped after the pilots all agreed that they didn't want dead people with them.

If the day got any better, it might as well rain lava, because none of us were expected to make it out alive. The ships crew decided it was best not to commune with “the dead men walking”, because we were all voted out of our rooms and had to fend for ourselves in cramped hallways.

 

[The World Is Flat]

Sorry guys, reviews to come later. too tired now.

 

[darklegacy11]

I don't know if its too late but heres my WIP

686 Words

The sky used to be so bright. I remember when it was still blue and warm. Now only darkness is seen in its place. How could such radiant land be covered in a veil of red and black? My mind in deep thought, I reminisce about the past. Tear slowly slide down my cheeks from my blackened eyes. Darkness... is the only thing I see now.
It began with chaos. Their soldiers marched mercilessly upon the edge villages. There were no signs, no preparation, and no survivors. I should of payed more attention. Before the beginning there were people disappearing, rumors of the dead walking, and even the animals were acting strangely. We should of saw these signs. Our ignorance and overconfidence was our downfall. When we finally began to take these events seriously, our outer fortress fell and many died. Some of our best Bright Paladins and Shining Eyes fell during the siege. When I heard this, I gathered the Luminescent Army and began the counterattack.
I peered overhead from the cliff side. Our soldiers were marching towards their armies. Light Blades were at the front, Luminous Monks prepared their spells from behind, and the Bright Paladins were shining in their armors alongside the Light Blades. It seemed like a invincible team. The Shining Eyes and I continued to scout ahead. I was not a Shining Eye myself but I needed the higher ground to view the battle strategically. When I was in the perfect position, I motioned the Shining Eyes to join the ranks. I stared down at the enemy army. They were marching in lifeless motion. Their armors were bloody black. Their movements were mechanical and did not seem to care for rough terrain. They did not seem to be real. I check my belt. Three runic horns were strapped on tightly. They were my tool of command and warfare; The weapons of a Brilliant Commander. When the black soldiers came into view of the army, I blew my first horn. Our army stopped and prepared a defensive stance. Time passed slowly as the black soldiers slowly marched on. A sound resounded through the air. It was gloomy, dark, and it left a aura of depression and pain. With that, their army suddenly charged. Light blades began to clash with the black soldiers but the sound lessened their fighting capabilities. Behind the the Monks unleashed searing light across the black mob. Flesh was burned, armors were melted, yet they still fought. Their bony hands continued to swing jagged blades. This was impossible. Realizing they needed to do more, the Bright Paladins pummeled their bright hammers against the ground. Light beamed from them and the Monks channeled into a wave of pure light that disintegrated their first wave. Light Blades used this time to switch with the Bright Paladins to rest. The second legion came immediately after the light. I drew my next horn and signaled the Shining Eyes. From a nearby cliff side, a shower of brightness came upon the black legion. Half of them fell right there but the remaining pushed on. Overhead, the battle seemed like a swirling pool of light and darkness. Lights flickered here and there and explosions of light covered the field. This continued for a long period of time until our lights were dimming. The fight has taken too long, the soldiers are tired and their morale is low. The black horde was unrelenting and still full of energy. I knew the battle was lost. I pulled out the last horn. It was the heaviest and least used. With a heavy burden, I blew the sound of somber. Our army unleashed one last wave of light and began to retreat. Shining Eyes provided extra fire against the pursuing enemies. With a heavy sigh, I went to join the retreating forces. The Shining Eyes shortly came after. The march to our camps felt humiliating. We had failed to stop their march. With each hour wasted they are one step close to our capitol. While our army rested in camp, I began to plan our next course of action.

 

[The World Is Flat]

Titan:

" Cold, dark night. is a fragment."

[A Cold, dark night.]


" But that peace is not going to last long."


[breaks flow. this is somthing that fells most writers. it is key not to break flow.]

NOTE: your narrator is too invloved. unlness this was intentional, keep your narrator less personal.
e.g " The wheel of time is getting what it deserves. "


And this:

" Dark clouds are surrounding Northrend. Howls of the Dead are scaring the living ones, breaking the harmony, crushing the last moments of silence. "

Again, breaks flow, your wording is off.
(especially the: 'scaring the' )

You have many examples of flow break.

Your use of:

- DIALOUGE

is rather unorthadox. Please use ordianry english grammer. Also, your use of sound equlizers in speech is unorthadox and unpleasant. it makes me feel like i'm in the hive chat. (ugh) to quote.

"
"Captain?" a voice called. Nothing, just silence. "Captain? the voice repeated, Captain, are you there?" "Ah, sorry," he sighed. "I was thinking about something. Do you need any help?" he finished, clearing his throat. "Thinking about what, if I can ask?" the man asked cuirously.

"

Your use of: Word - Word
Is unorthadox. Not that i havent seen it done before, its just unorthadox, especially for new readers. I'll leave you to go over your story for other fixes like this.


Coolty:

Your story starts off with slight breakage in flow. and i am confused right off the bat. NOT GOOD. NEVER ASSUME YOUR READER KNOWS THE TOPIC. NEVER.

Also, there is no 'day' in an aircraft carrir, maybe the day 'outside' or 'could have been'

Your, I, sargent james watt, is confusing and flow breaking.

I would reccomend you follow similar reccomendations that i supppied to Titan. Otherwise, yours is good.



ENDNOTE.

Abruptly switching style, writing type, or perspective IS NOT ACCEPTABLE IS A SHORT STORY. you are not writing novels. this is a short story contest.

All else:

Getting to yours.

 

[phoenixfire]

So turns out I won't be here on June 3rd until like June 9th, I can just put my final product in before that and then just see the judging afterwards right?

 

[The World Is Flat]

yes.

 

[TheDanish]

Arg, 5,400 words, and that's after editing. I'll have to look for larger chunks that are removable...

 

[The World Is Flat]

i think with rounding down thats acceptable... ask mid

 

[Vengeancekael]

Arg, 5,400 words, and that's after editing. I'll have to look for larger chunks that are removable...

I think if it's a good story, then it would still be accepted.

 

[Grey Nightmare]

Although it's rather hard to tell if it's any good without judging it... :/

 

[TheDanish]

Here's a "rough final draft" or so to speak. If I don't post any other drafts, this will be my entry. It's 5,400 words but hopefully that's alright.

Warning: Contains blood, violence, and language in decent amounts.

...Who Art From Heaven

Wet snow was the worst of its kind, Oscus mused silently. It was heavy, first of all. Made treks like this one harder than they had to be. He could deal with it, though, if it wasn’t for the damp. The damp was even worse. Got into your leathers, through your gloves, froze your fingers. Made it hard to grip an axe, or even focus right. Sapped the strength right out of you. Fatigue and cramped muscles Oscus could ignore, marches day and night he could slog through with little more than curses and complaints. The cold, though, doesn’t give a damn how strong you are. Doesn’t care where your place is in life. Big men and small men, farmers and scholars, they’re all equal before Father Winter.

And it wasn’t even winter yet.

Oscus clenched and unclenched his left fist, trying to get the blood flowing. He could hardly feel his right, but it was busy balancing his axe over one shoulder. This wasn’t the time to chain his weapon just so he could squeeze another pitiful ounce of comfort into his uncomfortable world. That would be death. War, like the cold, wasn’t forgiving. Stack them together and life becomes a hellhole. A moment off guard could mean a sword in your back, or an arrow through a lung.

He trudged through the ankle-deep snow and stooped under a low-hanging pine branch, but something caught in his hair anyway. He scowled and plucked a stick from his scalp, bringing pain a few brown strands with it. Gave his fingers something to do, at least. He flicked the twig away and turned round, peering into the sparse forest.

Of his party, one of the soldiers came first. He wasn’t quite as tall as Oscus, so he didn’t have to duck the branch. His cheeks and nose were red under his poorly-fitting steel cap, and he didn’t look much happier than Oscus felt. Seemed older, too. The man probably had more war experience than he did, but Oscus was the one who knew the area. That was why the Imperial Divinity had chosen him to lead. He knew the foothills around the base of the mountains better than anyone, so it was his task to escort two Divinity priests to Ulms.

Some job for a Sword of the Divinity. He was supposed to be the martial arm of the church, a soldier of the Heavens, not some party leader plodding through land that could very well harbor enemy scouts. Wasn’t like he was afraid, though. Not at all. He just preferred his usual task of hunting bandits on the outskirts of town. Didn’t offer much of a challenge, and the pay was decent enough. Bought him a room, meals, and a couple nights a week at the local whorehouse, all for little more than killing half-starved thieves no one would miss.

“Oscus! Where do you think we are?” Macard, one of priests, waddled out from behind some brush. It was a wonder he hadn’t spotted the holyman sooner, given his ludicrously overblown fur coat and gleaming silver circlet. His neck was lost between his puffed collar and the rolls of fat flowing from his chin. The second priest, Jorn, followed up close behind, his coat only slightly less boisterous and circlet slightly less polished. He wasn’t nearly Macard’s size, but his shining bald head more than made up for what his attire and physique lacked. If there were any patrols nearby, it was pure luck his mirror of a skull didn’t attract them with reflected sunlight.

Oscus looked up to the sky and wrinkled his nose. He didn’t have a damn idea where they were, to be honest. The last time they’d seen a clear sky, the mountain peaks had receded quite a bit into the distance. Meant they hadn’t quite made it halfway to Ulms since their departure six days ago, but they were close.

He hawked yellow into the snow, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand. As he looked to his companions again, a second soldier brought up the rear, completing their group of five. He was young, maybe younger than Oscus. At their departure he’d shown some enthusiasm. Probably happy to leave the piss-pot of a town that was Tuldua. See the capital, maybe find some work there once his stint in the army ran out. Now he was as cold and wet as the rest of them, the frown on his once-lively face ever slacker and more miserable as the days passed. Life in the wild was hard, that much the kid was finding out. Oscus was too.

He missed Tuldua already, no matter how unhappy and dry the town had been. At least there he’d had a stable job. Then the damn eastern barbarians decided to revolt against Ulmiric rule. Suddenly it wasn’t safe to travel the Empire’s roads without a strongman or four. The armies were already tied up in the south, cleaning up the last war against Dhasun, and there was no telling how long before they could march back and put the easterners in their place.

“Well?” Macard’s snapped, cutting through Oscus’ thoughts. The priest’s fat face was right in his, frowning as if he’d already said the bad news. Oscus blinked, wrung his shoulders, felt his chainmail rub awkwardly through his cloth. He sought something useful to say, something to stall the question Macard invariably asked every morn and eve.

“Six days, maybe.”

The priest’s lip curled. “Maybe? I want something better than maybe, Kulth. The Clergyhead did not pick you for maybe.”

There was something about authority and how it liked surnames. “Then the Clergyhead can come play in the fucking snow himself.” That was what he wanted to say. He didn’t, obviously. Might forfeit whatever pittance he’d get when this whole thing was over. Instead, he waved vaguely in a westerly direction. “Hard to say. Even I haven’t been out this far, not in months. Two days ago we were about a third o’ the way, but the snow’s freezing now.” He picked one boot from the powder and shook his leg, working out the kinks. “Makes it harder to move.”

Macard’s frown only grew. He muttered something under his tongue and drew his coat tighter, beady eyes glaring daggers at Oscus even as he made to turn off the beaten path. “I have to piss. I’ll take the opportunity, if we’re stopping anyway.”

Stopping hadn’t been Oscus’ intention. He’d been waiting for the rest of the gang to catch up, was all. Almost had the mind to say his piece, but he grit his teeth and sucked in a breath instead. “Father, I don’t think it’s wise to go off on your own-”

“Then come join me, by all means! I don’t want to sit around on my ass and get cold.” And with that, Macard’s fat figure ambled away into the trees.

Oscus bit his lip to suppress a curse, and he turned to the older soldier. “Stay with Father Jorn. If anything happens, holler.” He frowned and jabbed a thumb at Macard’s retreating figure. “I will… accompany Father Macard, for his safety.”

The soldier only offered the most imperceptible of nods. Probably too cold to care, even if Oscus had just said he was going to go murder Macard instead of babysit him. He jammed his longsteel into the ground and leaned back against a tree, taking the chance to crack his knuckles and slap some feeling into his face. The younger one wrung his fingers together, doing the same for his frozen digits. Their uniforms, not much more than leather breastplates inscribed with the Imperial seal, were already dirtied and faded, their weapons specked with rust. Might be pitiful figures, if Oscus didn’t feel like how they looked.

He glanced to Jorn, who only smiled softly and dipped his head in Oscus’ direction. He was an agreeable sort, as far as Oscus could tell. Didn’t say much, and that was better than most Clergymen he’d met. Ate his fair share of the rations too, unlike Macard. Tolerable. The second priest did nothing more than stand in the snow, gloved hands clasped behind his back, and gaze off into the trees.

Oscus turned round and followed Macard’s wide footsteps into the thick brush. Behind him the young man said something to his older counterpart, and the latter chuckled softly. Oscus didn’t make out the exchange, but he smiled anyway. It was good to hear laughter. In his experience it was the best medicine for many a man’s ails.

Except for steel in your stomach. His grin faded and turned downward. Wouldn’t do for any easterners to overhear a couple careless soldiers swapping jokes. They might find it funny too. Funny enough to come join the party. But they were keeping relatively quiet so far, wasn’t quite worth it to yell at ‘em to shut it.

He heard the sound of splattering on snow and a tuneless whistle before he found Macard. Rounding a bush he saw the priest facing away, relieving himself at the base of a tree. It really was a wonder the man could find his own fruits, let alone his-

He heard the twang but by then it was already too late. An arrow thudded into the tree trunk not a foot in front of Macard’s face. The fat man stared at it dumbfounded even as it sat there quivering, his steady stream of piss abruptly cut off.

Shit.

Oscus moved. He pounded snow as he ran for Macard, swinging his axe from his shoulder and gripping it in his hot hand. “Get down!” he bellowed.
Macard either didn’t hear him or was too shocked to respond. He jerked round, a look of utter surprise on his pudgy face that might’ve been amusing, if circumstances were different. Oscus reached him, grabbed a handful of fur and dragged him to the ground. The fat man let out a squeak of terror, flopping into the snow with arms flailing. Then Oscus spun, looking frantically into every dark bush that could cover a marksman, axe ready in both hands-

The old soldier came roaring out of the trees, sword high over his head, face contorted in an expression of rage and fear. If he had a target, though, it got him first, as another shaft sunk into his chest, just below his heart. He flopped forward with a gurgle, blood spurting from his mouth, cracking the arrow as he hit the ground and lost his sword.

If Oscus had any real sense, he probably should’ve made a run for it. One of three able-bodied men already down, an unknown number of assailants, and two helpless priests that required protection. Running would’ve been the smart thing to do. Running might’ve saved his life, and he could’ve gone off on his own, forgotten this whole business. He had the survival skills to do it. Could’ve run without a second thought.

But Oscus guessed he wasn’t a smart fellow. He found himself rushing forward once again, charging the undergrowth where the second arrow had come from. He didn’t yell or scream. There wasn’t time. There was only his breath in his ears and his heart pounding in his throat and the snow crashing round his boots. Five paces from the brush he saw the archer, or at least the shape of a man with a bow. He had a third shaft knocked but it was too late, and Oscus’ shoulder crashed into him full-tilt, sending the man sprawling and launching his arrow into the woods.

The axe went up and down, connecting with the archer’s head with little more than a soft crunch, blood and bits spattering in the snow. That was it, the killing business. Pretty simple, pretty messy. The thing was, though, just like any other trade, there was always more work to be done.

“Yer did it now, fucker. Give up while yer can and we’ll give ya a clean death.”

Oscus looked up from the fresh corpse, and his heart fell. Advancing from a small clearing were five more men, each one more fearsome than the last. A couple spindly ones had rusted shortswords and bucklers. Another held a pretty big axe, larger even than Oscus’ own and the arms to use it, while a fourth, a tall and lanky fellow, brandished what looked like a butcher’s cleaver. The last one, a huge man of a good six-odd feet, heaved a great iron sledgehammer in two hands, his ham-like fists gripping the handle and forearms bulging with purple veins. They were all dressed in what amounted to rags, by Oscus’ standards. Mud on their faces. Ragged, greasy hair. Easterners, by the look of ‘em.

He glanced left and right, hopelessly searching for allies, or maybe a way out. This wasn’t what Oscus had in mind, when he’d been given this job. He’d hoped for an easy task and easy pay, something different from the norm, a chance to see Ulms itself. Now it seemed all too likely that he’d die out in the middle of fucking nowhere, with naught but a missing person’s report as his legacy. Hell, the priests would be more missed than him, and they hadn’t done anything for it. He didn’t deserve this. He’d killed men, but they’d been thieves and beggars. Nothing the Heavens would condemn.

It was so unfair.

And then Jorn was next to him, as silently as the shifting pines overhead. Oscus jumped, ready to split him open, but Jorn had a look of serenity on his face, almost boredom. Hands still behind his back, chin tilted up ever so slightly, eyes shifting about as though surveying a scene that interested him only in the most miniscule of ways. He looked at each of the barbarians in turn, inspecting them, maybe judging their worth. Then he glanced sidelong at Oscus, and smiled.

“Come now, sir Kulth,” he said, waving a gloved hand dismissively, “I think you can deal with these men. Why, they’re barbarians, are they not? One of our kind is worth two of theirs.” Jorn tilted his bald head forward, holding his palm up in offering. “And you are a Sword! The finest the Divinity and the Empire has to offer. Why, I’d put the exchange rate at five to one!”

The lanky easterner spat on the ground and took a step forward, bringing his scarred and pitted face into the light between the trees. Looked like he’d been struck with the pox and a scrap all at once, and lived to tell about it. The last person Oscus wanted to fight right now. “Fuck yer, imperial! You all die like the rest of us, no mistake!” He grinned, showing a set of dulled yellow teeth. “The mud don’t care who you are. Yer the same, and yer bleed the same.”

“But we’ll be happy t’ try,” the one with the axe said. “Make yer bleed more, that is.” The others chuckled their agreement.

Oscus gulped. “Father,” he muttered, swapping hands on his axe, “if you want my advice, you get the hell outta here. Run. Maybe they won’t find you. Take Macard and the youngin’ with you-”

But Jorn cut him off. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Oscus.” His grin grew wider, and his eyes narrowed. “In fact, I think you have a very important job to do. Rise and shine, sir Kulth. Rise and shine.”

*****

He was so very bored, Oscus was. The Good Work, the Great Game, it was sparse in the woods. But perhaps these newcomers would oblige him. They held promise and amusement. Maybe they could hold their own in his wonderful contest.

He giggled like a schoolgirl, like a squirrel chittering in the spring, like a great beast at a watering hole, like the king of the world. “Are you here to play?” he asked the five men, the five pieces before him. “We can begin, now that there are players!” He took a step forward, raising his Queen piece in the air, his axe, his leveler. It was his secret weapon, but they did not know it yet. They would find out, and they would be so surprised! They would be awed! They would discover his ability and commend him so!

“Oh yea, we’ll play,” the tall one hissed. He was the Snake, but not the quickest of them, Oscus knew immediately. Then the biggest one laughed his consent, a rumbling thunder pouring from his deep stomach. He was the Great Storm, infinitely strong yet infinitely uncontrollable. Not the best player of the lot, Oscus could tell. This was his second secret. He knew his foes’ strengths at a glance, their faults at a whim. Naught but a flash and a moment’s thought. An invaluable skill in any game, but in this one most of all.

Oscus smiled so invitingly, a grin from ear to ear. “Then we will begin!” He spread his arms, to draw them in, to deceive them. How they would all laugh to see themselves fooled!

The Snake came first, lurching forward, cleaver high, falling towards his open embrace. He was so eager to prove himself. An apt player indeed. But Oscus was the master, the hand over the chessboard. He would teach them the beautiful rules, and they would learn the wonderful game.

The cleaver did not cleave, but thumped into the ground where Oscus had been a moment before. He’d twirled to the left, spinning elegantly, his Queen arcing round and painting the Snake’s side with glinting silver and shining red. A point, for him, or ten. Points were truly unnecessary in this game of his, in this Game of Life. It was the outcome that mattered.

The Snake announced his delight and painted in the snow a streak of pleasing crimson. He stumbled, forgoing his weapon and clutching at his side. A poor move, but Oscus was not a forgiving teacher. The only way to learn was through one’s mistakes, and so he would teach. His Queen came up high and flashed down, splitting the back of the Snake’s neck right through the center, decorating the white with specks of pink. How handsome it was! How perfect! No one could have declared his victory more gracefully.

And yet victory it was not. There were still more players to be tested, to poke and prod and engage. Oscus turned to face the opposing party, his grin still shining brightly, and he reached out with one hand to beckon them on.

Three advanced steadily, but one, the axeman – the Bull – rushed forward to succeed where the Snake had failed. He roared loud, eyes bulging, axe swinging in wild sweeps, and Oscus retreated. He danced and ducked and laughed as the Bull’s steel was a blur around his limbs. But he never kissed that steel, no. He was too quick. He was smoke in the wind, flames in the air. Impossible to touch and even harder to seize. Oscus stepped back, to the left, to the right, and the Bull snarled louder with each miss, with each small defeat. There was nothing to be had. Oscus was not available to be had.

The opposing player swung round and chopped with all his might, spittle flying from his mouth. A noble endeavor, a well-played hand. But Oscus was better. His Queen carved a flawless circle and connected with the Bull’s axe just below the steel, sending the offending piece flying head over handle into the brush. Then Oscus’ backswing crashed into his stomach, tearing out a painting of pink and purple and rose. The Bull’s eyes went wide. He squeaked, fumbled to keep his guts in as he slumped to the ground, but the work of art was complete. His satisfaction was only succeeded by Oscus’. The master’s grin grew ever wider.

Now the other three were wary. They no longer advanced so confidently. Their eyes shifted to find one another, unsure of whom they were playing against. Oscus felt this, and he did not blame them! How could they know who he was? How could they know how fortunate they were to be engaged in a personal match with the best of the Game’s players?

Oscus tipped his head back and bellowed his laughter to the trees, a bottomless and limitless declaration of his passion. “I am such a poor host!” he chuckled. “I have neglected introductions! I know, already, who you are. The Snake and the Bull I have met,” he gestured to the two defeated onlookers, still so shocked by their swift defeats that their eyes gazed off into nothing, “and I know that you are the Great Storm, and the Spider Twins.” Now Oscus’s free hand flowed in the air, like a conductor guiding his musical flock. “But I, you see, am the Grandmaster, the Chessman of Life, the Player of Games. This is my most favorite of sports, and such sport you are offering me. Oh yes.” Oscus laughed again and twirled his axe while his conductor’s hand extended, three fingers pointing to the remaining players.

One of the Spiders jabbed his sword in Oscus’ direction. “Yer fuckin’ nuts! We’ll skin your hide, when we get ya. Too fuckin’ crazy to live!”

Oscus frowned. This was not expected. They were acting immature and spoiled, unused to losing. Such poor sportsmanship. Such… maladroit taunts, insults from children. They had yet to develop gentlemanly manners. They did not understand the finely tuned, unspoken etiquette exchanged in the Game of Life.

But he was the Teacher, and it fell to him to teach.

“Come then!” Oscus barked, “and we will see! You have much to learn, my students!”

The talk was done. They sidestepped to the left and right, scattering in a rough triangle around Oscus. They may have been juvenile, but they had some notion of the Game’s tactics. Still, knowledge of tactics alone would not help them. Oscus let himself smirk, one corner of his mouth turning up, just enough so that the closest Spider, the one with a crooked nose, could see.

The Twin pursued the bait, but in a reserved manner. His counterpart, the one with a scarred cheek, advanced from the opposite side, both with swords and shields raised. Oscus merely held his axe low, slack in both arms, encouraging their plan. He would pick it apart and show them the error of their ways. He would find their faults and tear them wide. He would show them where their weaknesses lay, and how their strengths were frail.

They both came at once, the Broken-Nose Twin jabbing, Scar-Cheek slashing. Oscus arced his back like a dancer, the first strike missing by no more than an inch. He could feel the space, the air that signified his success. He could sense the blade fail to carve flesh, even without his eyes witnessing Broken-Nose’s poor maneuver. Yet as he did so, as he contemplated how well he flowed round their attacks, his one-handed Queen swept up and parried the second strike, steel on steel, the loud music of their contact ringing joyously in his ears. Then he settled on the balls of his feet, twisted his hips and whooped loud, swinging the Queen at Scar-Cheek’s head.

The latter Twin staggered back. He had not been fully committed to his first blow, and that was his mistake. Oscus’ strike, though, nipped his forearm, cut through his leather, and Scar-Cheek yelped in pain.

This was how the Game was won, when numerical odds were unfavorable. Little triumphs, won by little blows, drawing little blood. Even small wounds slowed down the most enthused of combatants, drained them of their strength, distracted them from the ultimate prize.

Except Oscus. He was far beyond that point. His focus was unparalleled, his commitment to the Game unmatched. He felt steel dig into his back just below his left shoulder and slash through his skin, but it was nothing more than a signal, a message in a long-lost tongue, a language only known by the most superlative of masters. It told him that its deliverer was weak, open, committed to the strike. Commitment was better than hesitation, but even this would not save the message’s courier.

“Good!” Oscus roared, and he spun, Queen carving low and sweeping through Broken-Nose’s knee, cracking it the wrong way. The Queen’s blade continued, shearing through flesh and bone, lopping off his other foot just above the ankle. The Twin screamed in surprise; he had not expected such swift retaliation! But now he would learn, and now he would know forever more. He stumbled back, falling to the ground without a prop, fumbling his steel and leaving a trail of wet red in the snow, crying in wonderful, anguished surprise.

There was thunder, a great booming in the sky, and a flash of furious lightning. But this was no natural tempest, Oscus knew. An enormous black mass, the Great Storm, loomed above Oscus, trunk-like arms supporting the Heavens’ own hammer. He intended to use the Master as the anvil. Oscus admired his tenacity, his bravado, his pure power and sheer strength! What a bold and natural plan, so in tune with the smith’s profession and nature’s task alike! How he pined to commend him greatly, but there was no time for words. Regardless, he was certain the Great Storm would come to understand his appreciation.

The Heavens’ Hammer fell towards the earth, and Oscus dodged to the left. Even he was not quite fast enough, and the great block of iron crashed into his right foot. But this would not stop him. This was minor, and quite expected. Even a master such as he would receive bits of wisdom from three opponents.

Before he could retaliate, though, Scar-Cheek came again, growling harshly with the sweep of his sword, slashing Oscus’ right thigh. A touch, a half point for the enemy! The Master himself would walk away from this combat ever wiser. Even he found more to learn with each match.

“Excellent!” he screamed, the pitch of his voice carrying over into hysterical elation. He was overjoyed to see such progress in such a short amount of time, to see them learning so well! But it was best to not let them become overconfident, no. That would invite disaster.

And so his Queen found Scar-Cheek’s face, cracking in two.

The Great Storm had removed his hammer from the earth’s embrace, and the huge iron block drew back and came around again in a wide arc. Oscus ducked the blow as he wrenched his Queen from his fallen foe’s skull, took the weapon in both hands and flung it at the Storm. The axe tumbled once, twice, before the weapon impacted in his chest, expertly positioned over his heart. The great man stood there, blinking for a moment at the steel now embedded in his flesh. A trickle, then a stream of red leaked from the wound, and he wobbled on shaky legs, fell to his knees, and finally crashed into the ground with a truly epic thud.

But this was not the time to relax, or conclude the Game with laughs all around. Oscus jerked his head over his shoulder, grin still frozen wide, to find Broken-Nose. He was rolling in the snow, howling, clutching at the stump below his calf, trying to halt the flow of blood.

Oscus leaped forth, one knee landing on Broken-Nose’s shattered leg with a terrible, magnificent crunch. Broken-Nose squealed like a pig before the butchers until Oscus’ hands closed around his neck. “No!” he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth. “No, you mustn’t! You must learn!” He brought his face right up to the Twin’s, eyes popping crazily from his skull. The Twin had a look of half-horror, half misery on his face, lips twisting and curling in fear and shock. He had lost, after all. He had lost the Game of Life.

Oscus’ fingers wrapped tighter, his thumbs pressing together into Broken-Nose’s neck. “You must let it bleed! You must learn! This is how you learn!”

Broken-Nose could not speak. There was only gargling and the scrabbling of flesh as he weakly clawed at Oscus’ hands. His eyes rolled back into his head as red bubbled from Oscus’ thumbs, flowed over his skin, stained the snow.

“Learn! You must learn!” Oscus released his grip and slapped his pupil twice with bloody hands, smearing red across his cheeks. Broken-Nose’s head lolled with the strikes, but there was no more life. Too overcome by his defeat, clearly.

“You must… you must learn…” Oscus’ breath was suddenly gone, his chest was constricted. The strength was draining from his limbs, flowing through his body, abandoning him for the earth. Weakness replaced it. He crawled from Broken-Nose’s body, red hands sifting through the white snow, before flopping down onto his side and rolling to his back. His eyes were tired. His head hurt. It did not help that the trees overhead were inexplicably shifting, blending, morphing together hazily.

“Learn…” There was always more learning to be done. Learning was the cornerstone of life, of the Great Game. Learning was a passion. And Oscus, he was the Master…

*****

Oscus screamed. His limbs were a shrieking chorus of agony, his veins rivers of molten lava. There were three, four, too many wounds to count, so many that they melted together in a sea of boiling acid. His back felt charred alive, like a great, ugly welt had been seared across his shoulderblades. His leg was dumb but it spewed incredible pain, and his foot was a lump of butchered meat and shattered bones. There was nothing untouched, no oasis of calm in the thousand burning needles that stabbed deep into his body every moment, every second.

His scream died in the woods, and now it was silent. He tried again, but there was no sound. His throat refused to work. He sobbed, wheezed, blubbered like a baby. It hurt to cry. He could not be alive. He must’ve been in hell. There was no explanation for this torture, this horrific, unfathomable misery that was hoisted upon him.

Oscus’ head flopped to one side, eyes squeezed shut, and even that shot tendrils of fire up his spine. He ground his teeth, little noises squeaking from his stupid mouth, but the pain did not subside. When he opened his eyes, he saw a blur of greasy brown hair. Then his vision focused, and he blinked away his tears of pitch.

The hair was attached to someone’s head, but the face wasn’t one he recognized. It was coated in blood, eyes glassy. Red poured from his punctured throat, and the stream had melted out a dip in the snow, pooled on the frozen ground. He was missing a foot, too. The other leg was bent backwards unnaturally, bits of pink and white bone sticking through the skin at his knee.

He might’ve vomited, spewed all over the bloody snow… if it weren’t for the comforting edges of oblivion flickering in his mind’s eye…

*****

“Where is he, Jorn?”

“Over here.”

“… which one?”

“Here, Macard. Here, see?”

“…This is Kulth? By the Heavens, is he… is he dead?”

“Not yet, no. “

“Yet?”

“He might not make it, is all. He has lost much blood. The ambushers may have been barbarians, but they did their work well.”

“But… they’re all dead too. You’re saying our Sword killed them? All five of them? By himself?”

“That seems to be the case. One of our soldiers died before the fighting truly began, and the other I instructed to remain behind. There was no one else, and I watched from afar. Indeed, sir Kulth was the lone combatant.”

“…Then it is a success.”

“It would seem. These techniques that the Clergyhead used, they have the desired effect almost to the letter.”

“Almost?”

“If you had seen it, you would understand. Words cannot describe what sir Kulth… did. It is no matter, though. We will inform the Clergyhead of the project’s success.”

“And Kulth?”

“We must leave him. There is no choice. We cannot hope to carry him, no matter how close safe territory may be.”

“A shame. A shame, truly. I still find it impossible to accept that he butchered five men so easily.”

“Yes, but think of the rewards our men and our armies will reap, Macard. Think of the results…”