CERAMIC D.M. (not the current one, a year old) - Page 9





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  1. #81
    Clockwork Golem COPPER SUBSCRIBER
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    ř Ignore arwink
    Friends Found in Lethargy

    It was one of those down times, when I was back in Southport and doing nothing. This time around, it was due to design rather than coincidence. I’d finished big job down south a few weeks earlier, earned enough to keep myself in a humble manner for a month or three, so I headed decided to take a brief respite rather than capitalize on my success. It’s a common enough practice for me; Southport was a place where boredom settled in with the tides and I could drink beer and watch daytime TV until the need for work and money uprooted me again.

    I drove into town and rented myself a room at the Jadran, this run-down hotel a block back from park that separates the city from the water. It was a seedy enough place, the sign out the front depicting the silhouette of a bikini-clad woman leaning against a palm tree and the whole complex lit up with green lights. At night I would leave my unit shadowed, lit up only by the television and the green seeping in from outside. I’d open myself a fresh beer and sit on the balcony, staring at the brick wall view and enjoying the ambient buzz of crickets, cars and the various eccentrics that surrounded me. The Jadran was that kind of place. Even among the general exhaustion of Southport’s buildings, it was a beacon to the mildly deranged or outcast. A place where you could sit, do nothing, and not be bothered by anyone. It’s one of the reasons I was there. It was the reason Nick was there as well, biding his time in the flat next to mine.

    I’d seen Nick around before we became neighbors. He was one of those Southport people, those residents that always seemed to be on the edge of your vision. He was a local landmark, if you will. Like the guy whose mullet had turned into dreadlocks at the back, always hanging around the local shopping center, or the old guy with tourette’s syndrome that was always on the back of your bus at nine PM. Nick was a local in the indescribable sense; an entity that everyone seemed to know by reputation rather than name. The first few times I’d lived here, I’d see him at the local McDonalds buying burgers for that weird Skeleton-child he was always carting around. Or he’d be sitting in the park, muttering under his breath as he watched the Broadwater slowly drifting out to sea. It was the kind of stuff Nick did, indecipherable and strange.

    The first clue I had about our proximity was the music, and everything else seemed to follow from there. I was sitting on my balcony, drinking beer and wearing nothing but boxers. It was in the heart of summer, and the muggy heat and the mosquitoes were starting to drain all the energy out of the air. I was listening for crickets, trying to guess the make and model of the cars that were cruising the main road by the noise of their engine. Then the music starts, winding its way from Nick’s balcony. It almost sounds like someone playing guitar, except the sequence of notes is more complex than any I’d heard before and the sound is somehow softer, more gentle and lilting. I listened to the song for a few minutes, closing my eyes and drifting along with the rhythm. It reminded me of this girl I once new, the singer for a Celtic folk band that broke my heart. It made me think of red hair and a smile I knew I would never see again, and it was the first time I could remember her without feeling angry or pained. It took some time to realize that I strangely happy about the way things had turned out, like I suddenly understood more about events and it made everything easier to accept. It was that kind of music, the kind that made heartache feel distant and worthwhile.

    Nick played for the better part of an hour before I decided to introduce myself, leaning over the corner of the balcony with a spare beer to offer him. I knew him, as I said, but that didn’t seem such a big deal at the time. It was the kind of coincidence you expected at the Jadran, to look over to your neighbor’s balcony and see a gray-bearded Southport local identity playing an instrument you barely recognize. He was still playing, eyes closed and fingers dancing along his instrument. It was strange to watch– his hands shifting along the two dragon-like necks while his strange skeleton-child perched on his shoulder and plucked at a third set of strings, strung like a harp from the dragons tail that curved from the instruments body. The instrument was a two man job, but the skeleton child seemed adequate to the task, small fingers moving nimbly to pluck string after string and large ears cocked to catch the rhythm.

    When they finished I applauded, the two beer bottles clinking together softly. The Skeleton-child ran at the noise, disappearing through the open doorway to cower under a couch. Nick just opened his eyes and grinned through his graying beard.

    “Beer,” he said. “Excellent.”
    “I owed you,” I told him. “For the show.”
    “You liked it?” Nick asked.
    I nodded.
    “You got anymore beer?”
    I nodded again. I’d stocked up when I arrived, enough to last several months.
    “Why don’t you come over then,” Nick told me. “I think we can put a dent in your supplies.”
    The skeleton-child bore its teeth at me, a mouthful of sharp needles.
    “I don’t think your friend likes me,” I said. I pointed at its position under the couch, the faint glow of its eyes and the soft hiss.
    “He’ll survive,” Nick said. “Lou is easily startled, but surprisingly hardy.”
    I nodded, trusting his word, but I made a point of putting on heavy boots before I went over. The boots I wear when I’m out bush, and afraid of stepping on snakes. The boots I wear when I fear for the safety of my ankles.

    The unit Nick was renting was a mirror to my own, but showed signs of a fastidiousness I could never imagine. The kitchen was neatly kept, the lounge sparse and well decorated. The only potential for mess were the candles Nick kept burning, and even then the candelabra were kept surprisingly free from wax drippings. Even the faded carpet, with its design that imitated gray mouse-droppings on beige wool, seemed cleaner and fresher than my own.

    “Lou takes care of the cleaning,” Nick explained. “I don’t have the attention span.”
    The Skeleton-child was perched on his shoulder once more; it’s hollow eyes glaring at me. At his comment, it took to preening itself, scraping a skeletal finger along the edge of a rib, before leaping to the floor.

    I proffered the six-pack I’d brought along, and Nick was quick to twist a lid free and begin drinking. We settled into plush couches, amiably silent for a time, while Lou batted the twist-top lids around the room like a cat. After a time, the small creature grew bored of the game, but did stop to lay a tiny hand on my knee before taking its place on Nick’s shoulder once more.

    “I think he’s adapted,” Nick said, stroking the creatures elongated, bone ears. “He’s always pleased when someone brings something for him to play with.”
    “Good to hear,” I said. “I’m Jack, by the way.”
    Nick just nodded, extending his hand and introducing himself. For a moment I got the impression that Nick wasn’t his real name, something about the way he paused before he used it, but I didn’t press the issue. Jack is far from my real name as well, but I’ve grown more comfortable with its use.

    We said little that night, just sat and drank and felt the humidity get worse. Summer was in force over Southport, and neither of us had much to say.

    It was a few days before we spoke again. Nick was quiet, probably up to something only he could understand, and I went back to my routine of drinking and television. Eventually I decided I needed to get out, to see something of the old neighborhood while I was here. When I got home, there were letters stuffed into Nick’s mailbox and a package addressed to him lying on top. I paused for a moment, considering it all. The package was small and rectangular, about the size of a human head, and it had the air of something important. The letters numbered in the dozen, and checking the dates on the postmark I knew that some had been there for weeks. I’m not known for being a good neighbor, I’m rarely in one place long enough for the effort to be worthwhile, but I gathered Nick’s long-neglected mail and took it to his door.

    He smiled when he opened the door, smiled wider when he saw the post in my hands.
    “Thanks,” he said. “Normally Lou gets it, but the past few times I’ve sent him out he’s come back empty handed.”
    He paused for a moment, glanced over his shoulder to ensure the Skeleton-child was occupied with its playstation game before leaning in to whisper.
    “I think he’s afraid to go the entire way. He’s been getting into fights with the brute of a cat from Unit 4, and he doesn’t like to admit it.”
    I nodded, not much caring. Nick shrugged and rifled through the mail, checking addresses.
    “Come in,” he said. “I’ve made coffee. If you don’t mind, I think we’ll say the post was delivered to your address by mistake. To preserve Lou’s feelings, you understand. He’s sensitive about such things.”
    I shrugged again. No skin of my nose, and my ankles felt very bare in my sneakers.

    Sitting on the couch, drinking rich coffee, I watched Nick unwrap the parcel. Paper fell away layer by layer to reveal a picture frame, crafted from red rock. Nick beamed when he saw it, his face lighting up as he gazed into the frames center. After taking a deep breath, he held it up for me to examine. A landscape was set into the frame, although it was so realistic it was enough to take your breath away. The green, majestic mountains were a stark contrast to the red-baked desert stone of the frame. When I reached forward to touch the picture, the snow-capped peaks left a cold smudge of frost on my fingertip.

    “An old home,” Nick explained. “I lived there years ago, and a friend thought I might be pinning for it.”
    He pauses to sigh theatrically. Lou stopped hammer the controls of his computer game to establish Nick wanted for nothing, then went back to pressing buttons.
    “I do miss it, a little,” Nick said. “There was a rawness there I haven’t experienced since. Every day rushed past like a rumbling river. They held power, eagerness, but there was no time for reflection. No real meaning. Not like here. Here the days flow past like honey, rich but slow moving.”
    “It looks like a nice place,” I offered. “Very wild.
    “I suppose,” Nick said. “Wild is not always the redeeming feature we expect it to be.

    He stood up and placed the picture on a shelf, next to several small painting and portraits of strangers, Lou and occasionally Nick himself. He stared at it for a few minutes, then turned towards me. The lines of his face were pronounced, and I noticed the tip of a scar poking out of his beard for the first time.

    “Why do you stay here, Jack?” he asked. “What is it that keeps you here?”
    I hadn’t ever thought about this before. It took some consideration and half a mug of coffee before I found an answer.
    “Inertia,” I said. “This is the place I come when I can longer be bothered moving.”
    “And what do you do when you’re not here?”

    I thought about this too, thought long and hard about the tools of the trade still hidden beneath my bed. It’s rare I feel like talking about work with anyone, but there was a temptation to answer Nick’s question. Only prudence and practice kept me from answering honestly.
    “Odd jobs,” I said. “I try to fill in the gaps here and there. Entertaining, sometimes, drudge work other times.”
    Nick just nodded, once. Lou finished his game, crawled quietly into Nick’s lap. We said nothing for a long time, and eventually I excused myself and went home.

    The time to leave came sooner than I would have liked, and I gave my weeks notice the day I got the details of the next job. There wasn’t much I had to do before I left, but the idea of saying goodbye to Nick loomed in my mind until I finally did it the afternoon before I left. I knocked on his door with the six-pack of beer I hadn’t yet drunk under my arm, intending to give it to him as a gift for his hospitality.

    He was half-dressed when he answered, bare-chested and wearing ragged jeans. The promise of a scar I’d detected along the edge of his beard was delivered upon on his chest, a mass of ugly tissue and purple lumps. I tried not to stare as I offered the beer and explained I was leaving. Nick didn’t seem embarrassed, pointed at one or two of the larger scars with a grin.

    “Souvenirs from another life,” he said. He smiled at me, ushered me in. Lou was quietly snuffling in the remains of a cheeseburger rapper, peeling off the last of the cheese. Gobbets of half-chewed burger where spread along the newspaper spread out beneath his bowl.

    “He loves the taste,” Nick explained, “But he can’t digest. I normally don’t let people in when he’s feeding, but you brought beer.”
    He shrugged as though that explained everything, sat me on the couch and opened two beers.

    “So why are you going?” he asked.
    “Work,” I said. It was a simple answer, and I felt the need to expand on it. “The rest period is over. A few months off, then back to the grind.”
    “Entertainment, or laboring?”
    “A bit of both, for a while. I’m heading north, to Cairns, then east towards Darwin.”
    “Good traveling,” Nick said. He held a beer high in salute, grinning through his white beard. I watched the way his scars twitched as his arms moved. One of them, longer than the rest, snaked from his belly to his forearm. I was staring, and once again he didn’t seem to mind.
    ‘Touch it,” Nick said. “You may learn something.”

    I felt awkward touching another man, but curiosity got the better of me. My fingers brushed along the tip of the bruise, over the wiry bicep. I was struck by a sudden image, almost like a memory, of wearing heavy armor and bleeding while friends carried me out of an arena. It was a subtle thought at first, but then it hit my like some kind of drug – a sudden rush of feeling, memory and pain. I jerked my hand back, as though bitten by a snake, and looked into Nick’s eyes. They twinkled a little, like he was laughing at me, but it could have been the beer talking.

    “You were a gladiator?” I asked. It seemed silly, I could remember the experience well even though I’d never experienced it.
    “It wasn’t my mistake,” Nick said, “but someone has to pay for it. Sometimes, you bear someone else’s burdens whether you want to or not.”
    “But you were a warrior, a swordsman?”
    Nick shrugged.
    “Does it really matter. A mistake was made. A life was almost lost. Someone bears the brunt of that, will always bear the brunt of it until they die.”
    “Why take it if the experience wasn’t yours, then?”
    “Who knows? Because fate asks many things. Because sometimes there’s a lesson in someone else’s pain.”

    Nick shrugged again, started on his second beer. We watched the sun shift along the fence, the rabid dog pace the yard. Lou paused in his snuffling to peer at me, crawled forward to rest a skeletal head on my shoes.
    “If you’re ever back this way, come see me again,” Nick said. “Lou seems to like you, and that’s rare.”
    I promised. I still don’t know if I was being honest, but I thought so at the time.

    I packed the next morning. Practice has made it a quick process, a simple matter of collecting and compiling my life into two small suitcases. When it came to the box under my bed, I stared at it for a few seconds. It seemed less appealing, less necessary than it had the day before. It made me think of Nick’s scar, the reasons he carried it. In the end, I lugged it down and put it into the boot instead of under the passenger side seat. A small change, a different choice, but enough to make a difference. A strange feeling settled in as I kicked the car into gear, getting worse as I drifted towards the Highway. I thought about the work to the north, the money it could make and the time I could spend drifting aimlessly after it was done. I found myself thinking of the red haired girl with her Celtic songs, the one that broke my heart. I thought about Nick, his neat flat and faithful Lou on his shoulder. I didn’t know if it meant anything, didn’t really consider it long enough to come to a decision. I just changed gears, gunned the engine and rushed forward. The road could take me where I needed to go.

    Ingredients
    Picture One: The image summoned by Nick’s Scar
    Picture Two: The instrument being played by Nick and Lou in the first meeting.
    Picture Three: The picture Nick’s friend sends him
    Picture Four: Lou.
    Peter M. Ball

 

  • #82
    Clockwork Golem COPPER SUBSCRIBER
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    ř Ignore arwink
    -sigh-
    That should read Arwink vs Dark Eternal at the top there. How in hell did that not get included in the copy and paste?
    Peter M. Ball

  • #83
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    ř Ignore Mirth
    Originally posted by alsih2o
    you are like the ainti mirthcard
    Hey! I resemble that remark :rolleyes: I like the Southern misspelling too. Was that intentional, Mark?
    Ceramic DM I & II -- http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=98651

  • #84
    Originally posted by mirthcard


    Hey! I resemble that remark :rolleyes: I like the Southern misspelling too. Was that intentional, Mark?
    so little of my spelling is intentional it is almost embarassing


    wow, everyone is quick on the trigger, arwink pounding it out too!

  • #85
    Clockwork Golem COPPER SUBSCRIBER
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    ř Ignore arwink
    Originally posted by alsih2o
    \ wow, everyone is quick on the trigger, arwink pounding it out too!
    I'm very bad at interpreting time when it comes to these boards, so I decided it needed to get done fast. I also knew I wouldn't do a propper edit in two and a half days, so I forced myself to post before I lost the draft to a mess of tinkering and half-formed ideas
    Peter M. Ball

  • #86
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    ř Ignore Thimble the Squit

    Quick responses...

    This is the joke police! Come out with your mouth shut!

    I did this kind of thing at college - the rule was to get a story written in only one hour, censoring nothing. Which is why most of my stories were bad puns. Well, it was good enough for Asimov (anyone else remember the "Star Mangled Spanner" story?)

    So yes, I apologise again for my terrible puns....
    I roll how many botch dice?

  • #87
    Shakespear is turning over in his grave because of you, thimble...

  • #88
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    ř Ignore barsoomcore
    Here's my entry for round one:

    The Pigs and the God

    Cool mud between his toes forced Titus Nasennius Sylvius to remember. Even as terror maintained its grip, keeping his heart frantic and his eyes wide, he couldn't repress the memories of the girl's screams. The wet sod sank beneath his sandals and more mud flowed up around his feet with each step. His dress finery clattered around him, deafening in the dawn silence.

    The trees welcomed him beneath their twisted branches and Nasennius fell to his knees, turning and crawling beneath a low shrub he didn't recognize. His leg ached.

    This couldn't be happening. He was going home. They'd won. This couldn't be happening. Nasennius closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. This was all wrong. The screams. The squealing.

    They came up over the hill. Nasennius froze, peering through the leaves.

    Four of them, two women. Nasennius wouldn't be fooled by that again. At least they weren't mounted. They did, however, seem to know just where they were going and Nasennius watched, glum, as they approached. Too late he realised he'd left a clear trail across the wet sod, mud-filled footprints all the way across the meadow. Nasennius cursed and drew his sword.

    The leader, the old man with the extraordinarily long beard, stopped and looked directly where Nasennius was hiding.

    "Roman, it will do you no good to flee. You are wounded and will die swiftly. Face us and we will show you the mercy you did not show my grand-daughter."

    Nasennius paid no attention. He scanned the hills all around, watching carefully for any other movement. Nothing. The image of those pale, bloated things teased at his mind. He shuddered.

    "You know what you deserve. We are no enemies of Rome, to be treated in this fashion. You will give up your life in exchange for the one you took."

    The short woman, the one who looked enough like the dead girl to be her sister, stepped forward.

    "Monster! We will find you, and we will feed you to the god!"

    She stopped her rant as the old man put a hand on her shoulder.

    Nasennius sobbed. Running would do no good at this point. They'd come alone. He cursed Vassinus Augendus, and shut his mind to the screaming. Enough screaming. He resigned himself to what he had to do and stood up.

    They stepped back at his approach. Nasennius overdid the limp, although this group didn't look like much of a threat. They had a felling axe and a hoe between them. Nasennius still had his sword in his hand.

    And they let him get into range. The short woman spent some energy spitting at him as he approached, which distracted the old man until Nasennius went into action.

    An upwards stroke sent the axe flying from the young man's grip, and Nasennius spun as he cut the fellow's neck. The farmboy fell to his knees, far too concerned with flow of blood from his throat to be any further threat. Another step and the short woman took his swordpoint in her stomach. Her screech was all very well, but Nasennius was unable to tug his sword free from her body, and her second spasm yanked the weapon from his grasp.

    The hoe descended and only by lunging forward was Nasennius able to avoid the sharpened blade. He drove himself into the lean woman wielding the homemade weapon and knocked her down, the hoe bouncing on the turf as he turned to the old man.

    They stared at each other. The boy gurgled hoarsely. The short woman grunted. The lean woman struggled to her feet, eyes wide. The old man stared.

    "Mercy, Roman."

    Nasennius collapsed.

    *****

    His eyes opened and far too much light charged in. He realised immediately that he was bound, and squinted to make out his surroundings.

    Glistening, distended shapes gleamed in early morning gold. The villagers moved among them, turning some with long poles. Nasennius shuddered and heard himself crying out. A voice cackled in his ear.

    "You thought it was funny. You thought that Paullus' greed gave you the right."

    Something hard cracked against his ribs.

    "My daughter! My daughter, you animal!"

    Murmurs then, as Nasennius groaned. Another voice, a woman.

    "Here is our mercy, Roman. Epiran mercy."

    He felt hands grab at him, lift him from the ground. A horrible sucking sound came from all around. Nasennius struggled.

    The old man hissed, "Feed my daughter to pigs? We feed you to our gods. They will..."

    The voice fell away as a slick, sickening coldness enveloped Nasennius. He tried to scream, to thrash, but the only motion he managed was a slow roll, showing him the villagers watching him with hatred in their eyes. Their shapes were strangely distorted, as though he were viewing them through water. Or clear jelly. He couldn't inhale, and yet felt no need to breath. For a second he had no idea what had just happened.

    A faint burning erupted on his skin, all over, on his eyes, in his throat, between his toes where the mud had once cooled him. The mud. The pigyard, the girl's screams, the grunting of the hogs.

    The old man smiled. The Roman would take days to die in the belly of the god. And they would be able to watch.

    Ingredients:

    Image 1: Nasennius
    Image 2: The old man
    Image 3: The god (ew)
    Image 4: The girl and the pig (double ew)

    Barsoom Tales II: Romance, Revolution and Bloody Revenge!
    Big Trouble. Little Heroes. Welcome back to Barsoom. (COMPLETE)

  • #89
    Here goes me!

    Things don't always end up as they should


    "Hail agustus(pic 1)!",Nemo moved to get the grizzled old warriors attention,gathered his long flowing beard in one hand and smiled broadly. "Ah,Nemo(pic 2) so good to see you again my friend.",Agustus made his way throught the milling throng of the market place to grasp Nemo's hand and clap him on the back.
    Nemo cleared his throat,"Augustus Remillian,you old dog,it has been far too long since last we have seen each other."
    "Ahh,my duties to the king and the knights equitable have kept me very busy.I have only just now returned from Enoa."answered Augustus.

    Nemo threw his beard over his shoulder,"So I have heard,but perhaps you could find some time to stop by my villa?I have a matter of great import to discuss with you." Augustus stood in thoughtful silence for a moment,"I have a small matter of importance to attend to at the present moment,but I shall drop by later in this afternoon if that pleases you?" "Yes that would be most excellent Augustus,thank you dear friend!"
    "Think nothing of it Nemo."

    After exchanging goodbyes,both men headed off into the crowd.As Augustus walked back to the barracks,his thoughts were upon Nemo.Was it just his imagination or did Nemo seem perturbed?Augustus was pleased to have run into lifelong friend Nemo,but worried at the underlying queerness he felt about the encounter.Ah well,he thought I guess it will have to wait until this afternoon to get to the bottom of.With that he turned left onto the avenue of might and hastened to perform h is duties as captain of the Knights Equitable.

    During Augustus' journey towards Nemo's villa later in the day,his shoulder began to pain him. "Damn war wound .",grumbled Augustus.His recent assignment to Enoa had been a seemingly easy one.That is until he and his 20 Knights Equitable had arrived to find that a quarter of the great city had been razed,and Enoa's forces had been reduced by 40%.Outriders had been plaguing the city for a months with hit and run tactics.The destruction left in their wake was formidable.

    Augustus wasted no time in marshalling 400 of Enoa's best knights along with his 20 Knights equitable to mount a strike deep into the Nelian woods to crush the halflings.After the better part of a days travel,his forces reached the fringe of the woods.His initial urge was to press on for the final confrontation in the thick of the night.However ,as much as the plan appealed to Augustus' warrior nature,he made camp for the woods were the outrider's territory.They had intimate knowledge of the forest,and trying to strike them in the dark of night surrounded by the trees would be folly.Little did Augustus know that it would have been the lesser folly.

    Augustus was troubled as he lay in his tent,things did not feel right,a blanket of doom lay across his chest smothering him.Just as he began to rise,a cry split the air, "Hallalalalalahallaheeeeee!"
    Augustus ran from his tent to find a force of halfling outriders sweeping down from the forest edge, a mass of wild death,intent on destruction of he and his troops.If not for the very tangible danger of the site,he would have admired the view of them.Close to a thousand of them made the charge,riding the biggest wolves,dogs,boars,and pigs ever to be seen.He saw his knights rolling from bedrolls and reaching for arms,and thus did Augustus release his own war cry,unsheathe his sword and charge into the midst of his men attempting to rally them.

    The battle lasted well through the night until dawn kissed the earth with its warwm breath.Only a hundred or so of the fearsome outriders remained,while Augustus retained only 30 odd Enoan's and 11 Knights equitable.The most able of each's respective forces hacked at each other with their bloodstained swords,seeking to deliver death with every stroke while dancing amongst the corpse littered field.

    A fierce halfling heavily muscled,with a multitude of braids in his hair charged Augustus,riding the most monstrous pig(pic 4) ever seen in the lands.August had time for the thought that this must be their leader before thier swords met in a deafing clash.The halfling shouted "Hoof",and his pig lashed out and struck Augustus in the shoulder drawing blood and fracturing bone.Augustus dropped to a knee in pain as the pig rose again to trample him.The leader of the Knights Equitable managed to thrust his sword high above him as the pig drove itself down unto death as the blade sought it's heart.The chieftan rolled off his dead mount and drew a dagger.With a flick of his wrist he sent silver death hurtling towards Augustus.Captain Augustus managed to duck and let the blade fly high.The chieftan bullrushed and they met blade to blade in a mighty shower of sparks.Long they fought until Augustus gained the upper hand.

    With a feint and redirection of his bastard sword Augustus cleaved the chieftan's head from his body.Augustus looked around to count his men and saw the halflings all had been slain.Yet the cost was great for he counted only 3 Knights quitable of his 20,and 6 Enoan's of 400.Faintness washed over the captain ,and he dropped to the ground from bloodloss.When he awoke ,he discovered he was in a house of convalesence in Enoa.Long did Augustus speculate on why the halflings had come to the recourse of force against Enoa.Yet the answer eluded him.

    When the memories began to fade,Augustus found himself outside of Nemo's villa.He knocked upon the bronze wrought door,yet he had not long to wait.Nemo greeted him personally,"Well Augustus do come in and make yourself comfortable!" As Augustus walked into the hall past Nemo he felt the bite of stell slide between his ribs.Augustus hit the floor unable to move coming to the realization that not only had he been betrayed,but that the blade carried a toxin to cause paralysis."Ahh,Nemo why my friend?" As he looked up at his "old friend" Nemo began to distort and shift like a pool of water,and lo and behold a dark faced man stood before him.

    "Why you ask,you fool,Nemo is no more!His visage has served me well however.Have you not any brains at all you brute?I Omelian the dark have been pulling the strings behind this morbid play.I put the outriders in motion to draw you from this city,I then killed that fool Nemo and stole his appearance.As I shall murder you and take your's!It shall be an easy feat to assassinate the king now that shall I look like the captain of the Knights Equitable." "But why do you do this?',gasped Augustus.Omelian began a incantation and a vision of miles of tubes appeared(pic 3)."Because Augustus I desire the power of your King's windcatchers."

    All of a sudden Augustus began to grasp Omelian's end result,but before total comprehension could come the blade was drawn across his throat.The last the mighty Augustus Remillian saw was Omelian smiling in evil delight...........IS THE STORY OVER?.....IF I ADVANCE YOU ALL SHALL SEE......MWU HA HA HAHAHA HA

    Ingredients
    Pic 1 (old roman warrior)
    Pic 2 (old bearded man)
    Pic 3(sculpting the wind)
    Pic 4(huge honkin' pig)
    mystras' chosen

  • #90
    Dang it,I forgot no editing so please forgive my multitude of misplaced words and grammatical errors. *walks away muttering.....dang barsoomcore's story is very good.The chosen is shaking in his robes in worry.
    mystras' chosen

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