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Short Story Contest #3 - Heirloom

Discussion in 'Contest Archive' started by SilverEx, Jan 12, 2010.

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  1. Crazy Cow

    Crazy Cow

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    Part Two of my story.
    Story Part 2

    Nineteen Years Later
    Honicora woke to the cries of vultures.
    At first, she thought they were simply remnants of the dream she had been having. But as she collected her thoughts, the cries failed to go away, and so she got up out of her cot, strapped on her mighty two-handed axe, and stepped outside of her tent.
    Honicora was of average build for a tauren, standing about eight feet tall and with a fairly muscular frame. With light brown fur, darker brown spots and a deep, almost black brown hair, Honicora didn’t have many striking physical differences from the average tauren. Unlike most tauren, however, she was innovative and clever; something necessary, seeing as she had lived alone since the Windrider clan was wiped out by centaur.
    Sighting the location of the vultures down in the valleys of Thousand Needles, Honicora set off. Passing by the caves that the wyvern inhabited, she displayed the same gift her father had. The wyvern, when they would normally drive out intruders, were completely normal with Honicora around, as if she was a member of their flight. Passing through the cliffs, she stepped out into the valleys of Thousand Needles and headed towards the pillar of vultures.
    When she arrived at the gristly feast, she saw an unfortunately common sight - a group of mangled centaur and tauren bodies. It seemed the tauren had been overwhelmed by centaur and killed to the last man - the tauren bodies were surrounded by a ring of marauders. Wading into the sea of vultures, swinging the butt of her axe to scare the filthy vermin off, she went to examine the dead tauren bodies. They had the mark of the Bloodhoof clan on their totems, so she assumed they were a foraging party for the tribe living nearby. As she began to check the dead centaur - almost certainly the Stonehoof clan, as they were the biggest clan in the Barrens - one of the tauren bodies coughed.
    Turning, she saw a heavily wounded, but living warrior regaining consciousness. He tried to stand, leaning on his spear for support, but a deep gash running through his thigh prevented him from getting up. Quickly moving over to him, she began tearing strips off the clothing of nearby tauren to bandage him up, and started talking to the warrior. “Don‘t worry, I‘m going to help you, just hold still. My name is Honicora - who are you?”
    The warrior was slow to reply, as his wounds were severe and he was undoubtedly weakened, but he still managed to grunt a reply. “I am Mourg, of the Bloodhoof tribe.”
    With her guess confirmed, Honicora decided to go for quick, temporary healing instead of applying salves. They had only a few miles to go to his tribe, and despite his wounds the warrior would be able to make it. After bandaging him up, she quickly checked the other bodies to make sure she didn’t leave anyone behind, then helped the warrior stand up and start hobbling down the canyon.
    While Mourg was hardly talkative, as they moved on Honicora managed to get the basics of his travel out of him. His tribe, the Bloodhoof, were moving away from the Barrens towards the coast in an effort to escape the centaur. They were stocking up on food and other supplies to prepare for the journey, and his party was one of several sent out. They were hunting for herbs growing in the canyons when a centaur raiding party ambushed them and killed Mourg’s companions.
    Honicora doubted that the Bloodhoof would be able to simply run from the centaur, but she would hardly try to stop them. She might actually join them, in the hopes of killing Stonehoof warriors, but she didn’t know - she loved the Barrens and most of it’s creatures too much to simply leave.
    As she was thinking this, several harsh cries came from the jagged peaks above them, and another group of tauren enemies came down at them - harpies. Honicora backed up against the back of the closest stone pillar, and letting Mourg lean against it she drew her axe. They landed within a respectable distance of the two tauren, but their filthy stench still assailed Honicora’s nose. That was one of the gifts harpies had - no matter who they came across, they could produce a foul stench to offend the creature.
    One of the harpies - a slightly larger one, with scarlet feathers instead of the moldy green and brown the average harpy had - stepped forwards. Licking her lips, revealing sharp, pointed teeth, she cawed out a rough blend of barely decipherable Taur-ahe, saying something about surrendering for a quick death. In response, Honicora stepped forwards and stabbed the harpy in the gut with the butt of her axe. The other harpies burst into action, attacking Honicora and a few going for the seemingly defenseless Mourg. With ten harpies to the two tauren, Honicora began to worry, but soon stopped thinking and started fighting.
    Seven of the eleven harpies attacked Honicora, while three tried to kill Mourg and the last was on the ground, out of breath. To gain a bit of breathing room, Honicora cut a wide arc through the cluster of harpies, neatly severing a first, cutting through the chest of a second and driving the harpies back. One darted in, attempting to take advantage of Honicora’s lowered guard, but Honicora swung her fist back into the harpies’ jaw, knocking her to the side. Readying her axe again, Honicora met the next attack with an uppercut with her axe, maiming another harpy, killing a second and nearly clipping the wing off the harpy returning from her earlier attack. The surviving harpies, dispirited by their slain sisters, fled from the battle.
    In the meantime, Mourg had held his ground against his own assailants, stabbing anytime one tried to get near. When they all charged him at once, Mourg lost the use of his spear once one was gutted on it, and so met the other two with a bellow and a fist. Knocking the first back with a broken face, he started fighting the last tooth and nail, until a knee jab and elbow to the face dispatched the last of his attackers. His old wounds had opened up again, but the rags worn by the harpies were so ridden with disease he would die faster from those than from bleeding. Luckily, the harpies had ambushed the Tauren close to the Bloodhoof settlement, so with Mourg leaning on Honicora’s shoulder the two set off.
     
  2. naitsirk

    naitsirk

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    So, 5000 words is max? Good:D
     
  3. N.Knight

    N.Knight

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    After the second game does that mean after warcraft 2
     
  4. 13L4M3

    13L4M3

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    Heirloom

    A heirloom could be like Arthas hammer :D Let's say that his father and his fathers father and his fathers fathers father have used it and it have belonged to the family "Arthas" for almost... ehm let's say 300 years.
    That's a heirloom :D atleast i would explain it like that.
     
    Last edited: Feb 6, 2010
  5. idodik

    idodik

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    First Draft: Battle of the Two Hills

    Here's my first draft. It's around 1200 words right now and it still has to be finished.
    The story takes place after the end of the expansion's orcish campaign, in which Admiral Proudmoore of Theramore was slain, and Rexxar had taken back his place in the wilderness. The remaining human forces announced war on the orcs yet again, this time as vengeance for their fallen leader.
    Please read and respond! Currently the story is called "Battle of the Two Hills", but I'd like your opinion on better names to give this short story.
    Can't you upload Word files? That's lame!
    Battle of the Two Hills

    Battle of the Two Hills
    By idodik
    The battle was at its peak, and Garthul Shadowblade swung his mighty blade and split three human footmen in half. They were pathetic for him, after all those years of training that he excelled in, and because of something else. Garthul nearly began to ponder how fortunate he was when more footmen came striding to attack. It was an old blademaster trick: he merely splits his image and lets them lunge at his copies while he strikes them from the back. It wasn't difficult; he was vengeful after what their leader, Silthar, did to the orcs after the death of his precious Admiral Proudmoore. Garthul spilled more human blood: His entire family went out to fight them but he slaughtered them one by one… But he's not going to fail, not with what Thrall himself has given him.

    More footsteps at his back, and this time he turned to greet three knights charging at him, but this time he heard some friendly calls from the opposite direction, and Moojis, a Far Seer, smote them down with his chain lightning. He had been fighting for hours now and already adapted to the changing tide of battle. He jumped on Moojis's wolf and they rushed down the battlefield, joining tens of orcs that were fighting against the human treachery. As they rode Garthul smote down four footmen that jumped at them, and then he felt as if his hand was burning. He did not drop his blade but suddenly felt weakness, and swayed on the wolf as his hand rose in the air, uncontrollable, shaking and surrounded by strange red energy, and fired a bolt of scarlet: at first at nothing, but soon a mage appeared out of nowhere, screaming with pain, dropped to the ground, and was soon trampled to his end.

    Garthul regained control but was still shocked. He did not pay much attention to the awkward sensation that he had gone through, but thought: invisibility? He did not believe that Silthar allowed this; after all Silthar was known as a jealous warrior that never used magic and believed only in the blade. Few orcs had rumored about him calling mages to serve him, but he denied their words and claiming they were deceived. Now it turns out he has the one being deceived… He himself had participated in the assault on Proudmoore's castle so he remembered the foolish human general's face, but luckily for him Silthar escaped and claimed Theramore Isle as his, despite his cowardice in battle.

    It had been only a week, and Garthul forgot how unexpected Silthar was.

    Moojis stopped his wolf and called back to Garthul: "Who was it?"
    "Mages" Garthul grunted, still shocked from the incident.
    Moojis fell from his wolf, and shouted at Garthul: "Don't you say that word for nothing!" Moojis had been burned by one in his childhood, in the earlier battles for Durotar. It was the only thing he spoke unkindly of.
    Garthul stumbled and landed shaken on the ground. "I'm not joking, Moojis. I think that mage was about to kill us".
    Moojis paused fumbling for a moment, and stared at him. Garthul could read the deep anxiety on his face, and asked: "Do you think he knows about Garkarath?"
    Moojis returned to earth and said: "No, that's unlikely, but it's still dangerous – he probably just fears those fighting skills of yours and wants you killed to complete the series".
    Garthul looked thankfully at Garkath, the small scarlet-black ring that just saved his life. "If so, let him come. I'll crush him."
    "Don't let yourself fly into his arms; he may have an ambush waiting for you. He might not know about your ring but he probably has some scam waiting anyway".
    Garthul nodded. Sometimes bloodlust needs to make way for thinking ahead.
    "Let's split up: you help the troops and I'll follow deep behind. That way when the time comes I'll be able to show up and kill that stupid human".
    Moojis nodded. "Take care".
    "Go! I'll be waiting".

    He watched as the far seer mounted his wolf, encouraged it to charge and moved away from sight. He saved Garthul from killing himself in various opportunities: suicidal operations, helpless situations, each in another way. Moojis's wisdom was a one to behold, and even Thrall called him often to his throne to hear his advice. As he stood there alone he thought to himself, you bet that you can leave him alone to do his job well. And so, when he waited for the right time to charge, he looked down at his left hand.

    It was covered by blood-red tattoos and marks, some of them actually covered into his flesh. He had never understood the runes that were marked upon them, but he knew what they meant: demonic embrace. Garkarath the Ashbringer was an orcish myth from the long gone days in which orcs marched into Azeroth through the Dark Portal, and was rumored to be an heirloom from orcs that became demons themselves, their power granted from this sacred artifact. The everlasting chain of owners that killed each other to gain its trust would have lasted until today, if Archimonde, that couldn’t put the ring on but feared its power, destroyed the orc that wielded it and caused it to fling through the dark portal into Azeroth, passing out of any knowledge for centuries. Now that the orcs had grown independent, they have mysteriously found the ring lying at the exact location that they planned to build the Orgrimmar fortress, and the first one that put it on enthusiastically was killed in screams of pain and blood. It was thought at first to be cursed, and the situation wouldn't have been changed if Drek'thar hadn't noticed the demonic symbols on it. He took to studying it in private, and when he understood what it was Thrall was quickly informed. Everyone thought that Thrall would wield it, but Drek'thar discovered soon enough that the initial physical strength and endurance requirements (the bloody tattoos and marks), which were made to be very powerful, are shamefully too demanding for Thrall and that he would not survive. Thrall said that he couldn't risk the price since he has to lead his nation, and so the searches for a fitting wielder begun, ending with him, Garthul Shadowblade. He was meant to be the secret weapon of the Horde, and none but Moojis and the orcs in high command truly knew what his tattooed arm meant.

    He suddenly stirred from his trance, and looked around him. Orcish troops were still passing by the masses to the main battlefield, which has advanced forwards, and he watched them go and let a last wonder about Garkarath loose in his head: the ring gave him tremendous strength and agility but made him somehow lighter, which explains him riding on Moojis's wolf without making it collapse or slow down heavily, not to mention the capability of firing bolts of scarlet, like the one that recently saved his life. Still, Garthul remembered Drekthar's words to him telling him that the full effects of the ring will only reveal themselves in time. He did not want to think what they would be, and what power and responsibility they brought with them. He focused only on the thought of his enemy waiting for him.

    Lightning flashed in his eyes, and he groped his blade. The nearby troops paused and looked at him, and he cried: "For Durotar!" and charged with them following him. He was prepared to battle.
     
  6. Lordkoon

    Lordkoon

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    As we have seen in the end of the expansion content of WOTLK WOW, my question is can the storyline, plot or whatever begin from point after the defeat of the lich king for example.
     
  7. HailFireer

    HailFireer

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    Ye, I want something similar.


    But the no one who's leading the contest is bothering to answer.
     
  8. Crazy Cow

    Crazy Cow

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    Why don't you people read the rules?
    It says AFTER GAME #2, or WARCRAFT 2. That means YES, it can happen after the current events in WoW.

    idodik:
    I'm really confused about the paragraph about the Ashbringer ring. Apparently, it is exactly the same as the gem the sword Ashbringer was forged from, but a bit more potent. Is it supposed to be the same gem, or a diffrent one with similar properties?
    Other than that, you have Silthar claim Thereamore Isle in your story, when in reality it was claimed by the Alliance and is now the largest residence of humans in Kalimdor. A good portion of this contest is on lore accuracy, and you seem to not be holding up to that.
    Other than those points, it looks pretty good. I'm assuming that's just the first part? It needs to be at least 2,000 words long, and it has a pretty bad ending if you intend to stop there.
     
    Last edited: Feb 6, 2010
  9. Traxamillion

    Traxamillion

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    Story Rough Draft

    A Family Torn Asunder

    Growing up in Darrowshire was wondrous for the children that’s families farmed the lands east of Castle Lordaeron, it was gorgeous and lush, it seemed to be the epicenter of life itself. This was all true until the day the corruption of a single sword could shatter a world of peace. Arthas the Prince, made a pact with evil that day, when he held his own father at the pinnacle of his blade. Word had even spread to Darrowshire that Arthas had claimed the life of Uther, the light in this world of dark. The families of Darrowshire along with many others gathered at his tomb outside of Andorhal west of here. It seemed now that hope was lost for our people. Arthas and his scourge ravaged the lands of Azeroth, destroying everything pure and lively in his path. Without a King, nor a Kingdom, we were in peril. The remaining government officials gathered at Andorhal’s Town Hall in an attempt to direct the people and conjure up some sort of reassurance that our survival would be guaranteed. The meeting turned into a dispute between the officials, eventually involving the citizens. With news from the west, the people gathered all soldiers they could muster with the help of men drafted in. In Darrowshire we had no news of this yet, and went on with life unaware of Arthas‘ forces heading our way.

    That night I was awoken by violent knocking at the door. I sat up and looked around skittishly. My mother swung the door of my room ajar, and motioned for me. I grabbed my Teddy Bear and proceeded into her arms. She motioned to the bear and told me to close my eyes and squeeze it tight if I were to be afraid. The bear was given to me by her, she had told me that it was her bear once and her mother’s before her. Assuring me that the bear would bring me comfort in the event that she would not be at my side to coddle me. We rushed downstairs to the door where my father was speaking to a knight of Andorhal. I tried desperately to make out the words but the sounds of screaming, yelling and drums filled the air. I glanced up at my mother in confusion, she patted my head and forced a small smile out of the side of her mouth than quickly glanced up at my father awaiting his words as if it were air to breathe. My father lowered his head in despair. He turned to my mother and nodded his head, she quickly ran up stairs. You could here shuffling with heavy material. My father approached me, at the time I did not understand what he was telling me, I was so young and knew nothing of what was yet to come. He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead telling me how much he loved me, pulled back and smiled. The way his mustache curled always made me light up inside. My mother rushed down back and forth dropping off large instruments. Finally she walked down slowly holding a sheathed sword. She was crying, my father tried to comfort her but she became hysterical. He then suited himself in the armor she had displayed on the floor. He ran his metallic hand over the shield and swept the dust from the crest that it bore. It was the Redpath’s family seal, a red phoenix grasping a sword in one its talons and a sack in the other. He attached the sword to his hip and pulled on the leather making sure it was firmly kept at his side. At times like this I had my sister to shed some light on the current affair, but I was in the dark this time around. With the family scattered in various parts of Azeroth, there was a sort of panic for the others well being. Another knight approached the house adding some insight to the conversation at hand. My father nodded in understanding and placed his helmet over his head. Although he resembled a knight his red bushy eyebrows brought me clarification that he was still the same man. He placed his hand over his heart and shut his eyes for a second. He then stared into both my mother and my eyes alike, and stepped outside the house. My mother followed with me at her hand. The gathered militia started to march towards the bulwark. My father took Shea our horse and rode to the front of the marching ranks. Mother fell to her knees and wept violently as the men made way. I had never seen her this way in my life thus far, I had no idea what to do. I handed her the bear and her cries grew softer. She hugged me close to her. I wrapped my arms around her head and pressed my face above hers. I looked around to analyze the situation and noticed my uncle Carlin running towards us. He was already suited for battle. My uncle had fought the Orcs in the second war. As like any of the second war veterans he bore a necklace of teeth and bone derived form Orcish corpses. He kneeled down quickly by us and my mother reached out and hugged him. He quickly understood what had happened and interrogated my mother about where the platoon was heading. After the discussion he made haste towards Andorhal. He had told my mother that if we had no news of the battle in two days time, to head to the chapel east of town. We headed into the house and tried to remain calm. My mother fixed me a warm meal and assured me that everything would be fine. She forced her mouth into a fake smile that was high-lighted by her soaked eyes. He smile began to twitch and she turned away quickly. I looked down from where I sat, reading our family names carved into the floorboards, “Pamela” read one of the boards. My father had carved it when I was born, along with my other siblings. I pushed out my chair and sat on the ground. I ran my fingers across indented ground. By then it was nearly morning and the platoon would be reaching Andorhal soon. I went upstairs with my mother and fell asleep in her arms. I dreamt of terrible things, I saw fire and monsters and the town of Andorhal in ruins. The next day things seemed more normal but still, the facts loomed over head. Hope was diminishing along with the beauty of our home land. A red storm was transfixed over the west where our friends and family were sent to fight. My mother remained in tears although she had improved, in that she held herself together. I tried endlessly to keep my mind busy the whole day, but like an illness, I was constantly drawn back into pain. I prayed to the gods time and time again to watch over our men and bring them home safe, though it would seem my pleading would be in vain. That night my dreams re-occurred in all of its horror. I woke abruptly when my door swung open, it was like De Ja Vu all over again my mother motioned me towards her and I grabbed my bear once again. Although it seemed remarkably similar, this time there was no one here to reassure us. My mother grabbed the rug downstairs and flung it across the room, there lied a hatch leading under the house. She opened it and placed me inside, she cried and told me she loved me over and over again. I was so confused, I started to whimper in fright. She handed me the teddy bear and placed one finger over her mouth. I understood what I had to do and shifted under the floor beneath where my name had been carved. She shut the hatch and everything grew dark. I could see a bit through the cracks in the floor. My mothers figure rushed upstairs and shut the door. Almost simultaneously the front door busted open. I winced as if I had been hit, but the pain was merely a fabrication. What entered the house was not human, it crawled on all fours and made a bone cracking noise at its every move. It stopped in the middle of the room, and breathe din heavily. Sniffing and snorting. It than screeched and sprinted up stairs, I squeezed tightly on my head hoping to drown out all sound but what followed was dreadful screams that leaked through my shrouded hearing. My eyes filled with water and the screaming ceased. I knew at this point I was alone unless my father or uncle had survived the battle. The creature made its way down the stairs, stamping its boney feet on each step. It made its way back to the door, and stopped as if it had forgotten something. It once again breathed in deeply and my eyes widened in terror. It pounced on the floor above me and started to pry the boards up. It cackled with a ghastly voice and blood dripped from its mouth and seeped into the cracks. I shut my eyes tight and squeezed my teddy bear with all of my strength. Suddenly a shout from a young being filled the house and a loud smashing noise ended the creature’s plans. I slowly opened each eye in hopes that this was all over. The rest of the boards were pried up but this time I did not fear whoever sought me. Finally a young hand dropped in and opened in my direction, I grabbed and he pulled me up. He was a handsome young man, he had a short sword and a shield that was a bit big for him, I would say he was fourteen, three years older than I. He told me his name was Darion Mograine. He was very gentleman like and tried not to startle me, but at the same time he urged us to press on, and leave Darrowshire. I asked him about the battle at the bulwark and Andorhal, but he know nothing of its outcome. He hailed east of here at Corin’s Crossing. He was saddened when he spoke of his town, and I quickly connected the dots. It seemed that Arthas’ scourge was all around us, not only coming here form the west. Darion spoke of the same chapel that uncle Carlin mentioned. He told me that if we wanted to survive that the chapel was our only hope. Darion was smart, he had all these rules of surviving, like keeping off the roads, and traveling quietly with dirty clothing in order to blend in. We had to pass through Corin’s Crossing to get to the chapel. But with the scourge infestation we had to take a risk that would mean our lives. The town was only a mile up from Darrowshire. As we approached he pulled me with him into a bush. He pointed forward, and I witnessed terrible monsters and violence to innocent citizens. One creature seemed to have authority over the rest, He was absolutely vile, his embodiment was that of hundreds of corpses sown together. He wielded a Cleaver made from a tree trunk and a windmill blade. His other hand moved constantly with a swinging motion the object in his hand was a giant chain with a bloody hook on the end. His disgusting appearance was centered around his stomach which resembled another mouth. It had rib bones as teeth and its flesh looked like that of a tongue. It placed the corpses of the townsfolk in its gut, which seemed to empower and revitalize the beast. Darion grabbed me and led me to the forest outside the town. There was a small fishing pond on our route through were we replenished with water, we were so tired, due to the crash of adrenaline we constantly shared. We pressed onward, but stopped short at the sound of howling. We hid under a rock enclave. A pack of hounds surveyed the area, they were undead beasts with a blood thirsty appetite. Darion told me that they would eventually find us if we stayed. He jumped out and taunted them with a shout of his own. They charged and he fought, he yelled to me to run, and I did. I was a ways ahead when I glanced back. Darion still stood, but so did another figure, one who was the size of a man, but casts a shadow darker than oil. I ran until I was to fatigued to move, I laid in the dirt gasping for air, but my body could not deliver. I was so tired and I could see the chapel in the distance. The ground began to shake and a stench of rotting filled the air. I pulled myself upright to witness the creature of flesh that was the size of a home. I tried to crawl away but he grabbed me with the hand that once held that dreaded hook. He dragged me towards him, and my fingers filled with dirt as they carved lines into the plagued earth. I never knew if Darion survived or if any of my family had lived through the plagued war. I still wait at the farm for my father to ride into Darrowshire, it’s been several years but my hope still burns within me. I am bound to Darrowshire, my ghastly appearance is rarely recognized by mortals. My teddy has been ripped apart, all I have is its body…


    It's approximately 2,290 words and four pages. Keep in mind its a rough draft, although I'm not completely happy with it, I think it could turn out well. I was hoping for a better theme to create a great story but I worked with what was given to me.
     
  10. NearbyHermit

    NearbyHermit

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    After Warcraft 2 means that it can happen right after the closing of the portal in Draenor !

    It can happen in the time when Arthas killed Illidan,or it can happen after Arthas claims the throne in Northrend !

    Interesting,but I would of had preffered a more arhaic base of lore,like after Warcraft : Orcs and Humans !

    That would of been awesome.

    And also,a bit of help :cool: :

    Sunwell Trilogy:
    [​IMG]
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    Novels:
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]

    Others:
    [​IMG]
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    But,I don't understand the part with the heirloom, I mean,it should be based on that object or it must include it ?

    I'm going to talk about Illidan's blade :grin:
     
  11. Alagremm

    Alagremm

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  12. CaoSong

    CaoSong

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    Final product... 5,501 words... think they'd let 501 words slip by? XD
     
  13. Wolfe

    Wolfe

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    One word, yes. Five hundred and one... I doubt it. =P
     
  14. naitsirk

    naitsirk

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    Are people already done with their stories!?
     
  15. idodik

    idodik

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    Hey Crazy Cow, thanks for the feedback, I'm not farmilliar with alot of the lore so I needed this. I didn't intend this story to interfere with the lore of Warcraft, and I did my best to avoid it. I made now a correction (in my edition of the story, not in the post): Garkarath is now called Shard of Darkness and not the Ashbringer. If I've accidentally hit something again please feedbacka gain.
    Of course this is the first part, I'm sorry if I haven't made it clear:
    The story in my post is a premature edition of the story!!!
    Thanks again for the feedback, Crazy Cow, I'll stick around to read your story soon enough.
     
  16. Adiktuz

    Adiktuz

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    hmm... I think I'll go for Illidan or make my own character (its okay right?)...
     
  17. Kercyn

    Kercyn

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    Yes, if it is well-written, probably yes. You only exceeded the limit by 10% :)
     
  18. Adiktuz

    Adiktuz

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    but why place a limit if you'll let the participants write more than that? ^^
     
  19. naitsirk

    naitsirk

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    Cause probably with NO limit some would probably write a story longer then an average Short Story
     
  20. Adiktuz

    Adiktuz

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    but a limit is still a limit right?... just asking...
     
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