- Joined
- Jul 19, 2006
- Messages
- 2,307
Background: These were for Prodigy Productions, but ever since that shut down I've had my curiosities of what you all might think of them. So, finally, I'm releasing them to the public.
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Shadows drawn like masterpiece-on-the-mountain, travelers led by leaders no braver than themselves, were struggling to get any bit of progress on this morning’s desperate search. At the top of the cliff, a golden goblet. On the other side, an opposing expedition. The men, wanting treasure, started to look upon each other for help. In the confusion, a man fell off the steep cliff - to his death. Unfortunately, no one could do anything to help the man… watching him slowly clap his flaying head against rock, tree, and brush. His body scabbed and scarred by the everlasting mountain, the dredged climb. As he fell, the men could see no longer a man, but a grey fog, crawling closer, and closer to the top of the mountain.
The fog would be sure to doom all travelers, both sides, opposing each other, to the look of it. Thus, the men started in desperation, a run to the top of the cliff. Rocks chipping, falling to the ever-so-far away ground that they had once walked. Soon, even tall-standing trees, shortening by length the farther they traveled upward, were also being cut down, maybe by the force of the trotting and tempered humans, or by their equipment and will falling behind them.
Brush was sliced, waving faster and faster, the seemingly deadly fog was creeping ever so closely, and so was the wind that followed. Yet, in the struggle, now almost to the top, both expeditions started to lose more than just gripping turf, men. More now then a single clumsy soul, spearing toward his death. Guards, gatherers, bearers, leaders, lovers and loved ones, were being cut down as fast as the ground they stood upon. Getting the golden goblet, the realized, was no longer a team-effort, but a single trophy. No longer were the expeditions racing, but everyone, racing against each other, cutting each other down. Helmets, axes, torrents of blood, falling and tossing at each other. Once men, now animals.
The fog had turned them from travelers, to runners, from runners, to killers. Once the fog had caught up with the merciless, the monsters seemed to disappear. They had left their lanes and were disqualified from the race of ever-pointless death. For a treasure, that became more valuable to the monsters, as they longed their climb. Once a man, having his title rocketed downward from brave traveler to merciless betrayer, got his hands on the goblet. The fog had seized, and was now traveling at the same speed… downward. But the man realized, that the truth was creepingly obvious, with no help and no honor, he would never get back.
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Morning had come, then left. No one had any expectations, predictions or thoughts. The current day, awoken by the crowning of dictators and the mourning of animals in grey fog… was one of deep and thickening battle. One side, polluted by the smoke of utterly unimaginable war machines, and the other just the same. If one fired at the other, they would all follow along. Mindless, but necessary. Trained men, or zombies as most would call them, manned the machines, and the ones on the open plain were sure to be dead within minutes. The Machines had heavy defenses, armor plating, and devastating turrets. The infantry had rifles whose bullets would bounce like pellets off of the War Machines’ armor, and instead fling back at themselves.
One tank shot, accidental, no question. Then, a festival of deadly lights spread across the land. First there was the sound of bullets, the occasional turret spewing out deadly shells, or the scream of an unlucky victim. But, soon the bullets stopped, the screaming became scarce, and the turrets started to fire like land dragons. With no more infantry support, the tanks were forced to fire at each other, some had been manned with different weaponry, artillery, shrapnel-corpses loaded in the cannon. None were very effective, each armor plating was designed to deflect shells and only take the most heavy of fire.
After days of conflict, only minutes of rest, and thousands of casualties, the shells started to have a sorrowful effect. Some of the once war-ready tanks were now almost completely abandoned, or evacuated. Some tanks had been pounded by shells to the point of annihilation. From tens of thousands, to merely one or two, the men had all lost their initial motivation. Soon, men dropped like flies, some had given up, set their secondary weaponry on the ground-covered in blood.
In the final moments of the battle, some said that no one left on the battlefield was half the man they used to be. None of which were even half a man when the battle had started. None could remember what they had done, what they had planned, or even what they wanted at that very moment. One thing was certain, though, they had a sense of necessity, because they pleaded and retreated from the field of battle the moment that their inner instinct or controlled tweak had told them to. Sad and depressing, but amazing.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Trees being drown like murderous victims in suspenseful rain that chokes them as if every drop were a prick of acid, and men circled in the middle of this forest-like battlefield, were expecting a chaotic downfall of more than just natural occurrence. Strapped to these men’s chests were swords, axes, and inexpensive bows, useless, as were their pretty red-crimson armor plating and their adequate ability to follow orders - against their powerful enemy. In the middle of these soldiers, not prepared even to the slightest bit for battle, was a wimpish commander.
Trembling in the wet, cold pouring precipitation and white tears, the men stood, shaken, pail and colorless. Screeches came from the trees, the commander started to bight his nails, and show his oh-so-skinny physique. He crumpled like paper-set-aflame, and with that, the enemy showed it’s first valiant minion. The minion was covered in soot, flesh-covered bone and blood, creeping down from all of its pours. Tearing marks across its chest shown torn clothing and then terribly stained ribs, revealing a creepingly, and utterly reassuring fact, these were not mere mortals.
The minion had shown itself, then stepped back, the soldiers were looking in all different directions, seeing monsters of all shape-and-form. Some taller, some frozen, some more rain than man, and some were once mortals such as the ones that were surrounded by the impenetrable force.
Without notice, all of the warriors, countless, came charging in. Their leader, unlike that of the utterly useless militia’s, was a tall, confident, and ingenious one. The mortals’ leader, was pouring tears, and his awfully crooked and deformed spine was showing through his bent robe. The pitiful and crumbling commander started to point in all directions - with only one of his hands. Starting slowly, moving his soldiers from one location to get slaughtered, and then to another. Moving them in front of assassins charging in to take out the heart of the formation. Until nothing was left but a few soldiers, mindlessly wandering, with a slow slaughtering ahead of them.
The leader eventually had to step forward, without a single man left, and without a single opponent slain. The extremely powerful undead general looked upon him, offered him mercy, and had given it to him. The wimp had a lesson secretly bestowed-upon him, one of great disturbance, and great importance.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The Golden Goblet
Shadows drawn like masterpiece-on-the-mountain, travelers led by leaders no braver than themselves, were struggling to get any bit of progress on this morning’s desperate search. At the top of the cliff, a golden goblet. On the other side, an opposing expedition. The men, wanting treasure, started to look upon each other for help. In the confusion, a man fell off the steep cliff - to his death. Unfortunately, no one could do anything to help the man… watching him slowly clap his flaying head against rock, tree, and brush. His body scabbed and scarred by the everlasting mountain, the dredged climb. As he fell, the men could see no longer a man, but a grey fog, crawling closer, and closer to the top of the mountain.
The fog would be sure to doom all travelers, both sides, opposing each other, to the look of it. Thus, the men started in desperation, a run to the top of the cliff. Rocks chipping, falling to the ever-so-far away ground that they had once walked. Soon, even tall-standing trees, shortening by length the farther they traveled upward, were also being cut down, maybe by the force of the trotting and tempered humans, or by their equipment and will falling behind them.
Brush was sliced, waving faster and faster, the seemingly deadly fog was creeping ever so closely, and so was the wind that followed. Yet, in the struggle, now almost to the top, both expeditions started to lose more than just gripping turf, men. More now then a single clumsy soul, spearing toward his death. Guards, gatherers, bearers, leaders, lovers and loved ones, were being cut down as fast as the ground they stood upon. Getting the golden goblet, the realized, was no longer a team-effort, but a single trophy. No longer were the expeditions racing, but everyone, racing against each other, cutting each other down. Helmets, axes, torrents of blood, falling and tossing at each other. Once men, now animals.
The fog had turned them from travelers, to runners, from runners, to killers. Once the fog had caught up with the merciless, the monsters seemed to disappear. They had left their lanes and were disqualified from the race of ever-pointless death. For a treasure, that became more valuable to the monsters, as they longed their climb. Once a man, having his title rocketed downward from brave traveler to merciless betrayer, got his hands on the goblet. The fog had seized, and was now traveling at the same speed… downward. But the man realized, that the truth was creepingly obvious, with no help and no honor, he would never get back.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Capitulation or Confrontation
Morning had come, then left. No one had any expectations, predictions or thoughts. The current day, awoken by the crowning of dictators and the mourning of animals in grey fog… was one of deep and thickening battle. One side, polluted by the smoke of utterly unimaginable war machines, and the other just the same. If one fired at the other, they would all follow along. Mindless, but necessary. Trained men, or zombies as most would call them, manned the machines, and the ones on the open plain were sure to be dead within minutes. The Machines had heavy defenses, armor plating, and devastating turrets. The infantry had rifles whose bullets would bounce like pellets off of the War Machines’ armor, and instead fling back at themselves.
One tank shot, accidental, no question. Then, a festival of deadly lights spread across the land. First there was the sound of bullets, the occasional turret spewing out deadly shells, or the scream of an unlucky victim. But, soon the bullets stopped, the screaming became scarce, and the turrets started to fire like land dragons. With no more infantry support, the tanks were forced to fire at each other, some had been manned with different weaponry, artillery, shrapnel-corpses loaded in the cannon. None were very effective, each armor plating was designed to deflect shells and only take the most heavy of fire.
After days of conflict, only minutes of rest, and thousands of casualties, the shells started to have a sorrowful effect. Some of the once war-ready tanks were now almost completely abandoned, or evacuated. Some tanks had been pounded by shells to the point of annihilation. From tens of thousands, to merely one or two, the men had all lost their initial motivation. Soon, men dropped like flies, some had given up, set their secondary weaponry on the ground-covered in blood.
In the final moments of the battle, some said that no one left on the battlefield was half the man they used to be. None of which were even half a man when the battle had started. None could remember what they had done, what they had planned, or even what they wanted at that very moment. One thing was certain, though, they had a sense of necessity, because they pleaded and retreated from the field of battle the moment that their inner instinct or controlled tweak had told them to. Sad and depressing, but amazing.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Hand of Commandment
Trees being drown like murderous victims in suspenseful rain that chokes them as if every drop were a prick of acid, and men circled in the middle of this forest-like battlefield, were expecting a chaotic downfall of more than just natural occurrence. Strapped to these men’s chests were swords, axes, and inexpensive bows, useless, as were their pretty red-crimson armor plating and their adequate ability to follow orders - against their powerful enemy. In the middle of these soldiers, not prepared even to the slightest bit for battle, was a wimpish commander.
Trembling in the wet, cold pouring precipitation and white tears, the men stood, shaken, pail and colorless. Screeches came from the trees, the commander started to bight his nails, and show his oh-so-skinny physique. He crumpled like paper-set-aflame, and with that, the enemy showed it’s first valiant minion. The minion was covered in soot, flesh-covered bone and blood, creeping down from all of its pours. Tearing marks across its chest shown torn clothing and then terribly stained ribs, revealing a creepingly, and utterly reassuring fact, these were not mere mortals.
The minion had shown itself, then stepped back, the soldiers were looking in all different directions, seeing monsters of all shape-and-form. Some taller, some frozen, some more rain than man, and some were once mortals such as the ones that were surrounded by the impenetrable force.
Without notice, all of the warriors, countless, came charging in. Their leader, unlike that of the utterly useless militia’s, was a tall, confident, and ingenious one. The mortals’ leader, was pouring tears, and his awfully crooked and deformed spine was showing through his bent robe. The pitiful and crumbling commander started to point in all directions - with only one of his hands. Starting slowly, moving his soldiers from one location to get slaughtered, and then to another. Moving them in front of assassins charging in to take out the heart of the formation. Until nothing was left but a few soldiers, mindlessly wandering, with a slow slaughtering ahead of them.
The leader eventually had to step forward, without a single man left, and without a single opponent slain. The extremely powerful undead general looked upon him, offered him mercy, and had given it to him. The wimp had a lesson secretly bestowed-upon him, one of great disturbance, and great importance.
