Well here is my entry for Ceramic DM. Unfortunately I had to rush through it (school work is picking up). I wish the best of luck to my opponent and to all others in the contest. With a little luck, and a mysterious attack on PirateCat with a crowbar a la "Tanya Harding" thereby making him incapable to submit, I'll see you in the 2nd Round. 
Ceramic DM Round #1
Gregor vs. PirateCat
The fat merchant’s laughter rang out across the shallow muddy river, causing his narrow boat to rock back and forth and his turban to slip down over his eyes. His two female passengers dressed provocatively in sheer silks and glittering jewelry, gripped their seats tightly and released faint nervous giggles as the bobbing boat threatened to send them into the water. Moustafa Al-Jortir enjoyed nothing more than to spend his idle days careening down the river in his boat, his obese frame suspended by the piles of multi-coloured pillows which adorned the floor. Basking in the heat of the mid day sun, the large man would puff at his bubbling hooka pipe, drink his exotic teas which warmed in coal-holding braziers and entertain his many concubines on his routine river trips. As always, a larger second boat sat ahead of Moustafa’s and tugged it along the river. This larger slave-powered oar-driven craft held four such rowers and two of the merchant’s guards. The oars dipped noisily into the river, spurning the two boats onward and leaving a trail of stirred-up grayish silt in the brown water behind them.
From where Kimose Mobaso could see, crouched among the reeds and branches of the river’s shallow edge, the fat man puffed at his pipe and stared out across the water. The ebony-skinned Kimose lowered his upper torso into the dark waters and leveled his camouflaged head with its rippling surface. Draped across his face hung the cured feathery carcass of a pearl-white river monitor [PIC 1]. The bird-mask created a life-like representation of a monitor, frozen in natural form by both rigor mortis at death and “koomba”, the thick waxy waterproofing glue Kimose’s tribe uses for such projects. From Moustafa’s pleasure craft, the unsuspecting passengers noticed only a typical river monitor swimming among the reeds and out into the deeper waters.
With one hand outstretched beneath the surface to guide him and the other gripped tightly around the hilt of his dagger, Kimose propelled his naked form softly and slowly along the thick silt floor of the river. Approaching the slowly moving craft, the assassin studied his massive target. Rolling his eyes back and forth from behind the mask, Kimose tried to determine where on the silk-clad merchant his dagger should slip for immediate success. When the sickly-sweet scents of Moustafa’s hooka tobacco, the stale perfumes of the concubines and the fetid odor of human sweat began to tingle his nostrils, he knew it was almost time.
* * * * * * * *
There was once a time when Kimose was just another tribal boy, the sort who loved his day trips into Buuthma, the city of a thousand splendors. Buuthma was a frontier town, the last bastion of civilization in the south and the final destination for intra-empire merchants. Thus, it was a fair mix of wealthy eastern Imperials, poor southern tribesmen and every combination of wandering human, demi-human and humanoid. This mélange was especially apparent when the bazaar crowded the palm-covered streets of the city. The flood of silk and turban clad easterners, the dark skinned animal fur wearing southerners and the intermittent Imperial guard was truly a sight to behold. It was days like this that Kimose longed for as a child. The day when his weekly chores came to an end and he could bask in the glow of eastern civilization, spend his own money and live like a king. Every ten-day he would ride into Buuthma from the surrounding tribal outlands with his small group of friends, their almost-empty leather change pouches rattling noisily from atop their trotting Zebra mounts.
Although Kimose enjoyed spending his coin in the packed palm streets of the market, taking in the rich scents of spices, cooking fires and various dishes, he especially enjoyed participating in one specific pleasure. While he was no stranger to cleaning himself in the rivers around his village, he could not help but spend the majority of his money in the outdoor hot-springs of Moustafa Al-Jortir’s canopied harem. Nestled into the ground and covered by richly dyed leather canopies lay a number of stone carved reservoirs filled with steaming perfumed water. It was here, surrounded by barely-dressed eastern women and bombarded by the cacophony of sitar music, that Kimose spent his gold. Whiling away his afternoons, he soaked his skin in the sensuous heat of the water and felt like an emperor, whilst his friends scurried through the streets like children [PIC 2].
On one such hedonistic afternoon however, Kimose’s world changed in an instant. Opening his closed eyes from their bliss-induced slumber with a start, the boy watched as a very large eastern man lowered his bare skinned body into the pool with him. His mounds of chest hair flattened and stuck against his wet skin as he shifted into position. Kimose gazed at him but said nothing. His large yellow turban hid his hair, but a long greasy goatee hung from his chin that framed his brown-toothed smile. Reaching out of the pool and off to the side, the large man brought forth a long spouted tube and sucked deeply. The low rumble of bubbling water and the escape of rich white smoke from the man’s mouth revealed the hooka positioned to the side. He stared at Kimose before speaking.
“I see you here every week, yet you are just a child, how is it that you afford these pleasures?” said the large man, his words hissing slowly from behind his lips.
“I work hard in my village” replied Kimose with a slight tremble.
“You must work quite diligently to be able to afford these services. Pardon me … my services.”
Kimose remained motionless, his façade an image of fear and confusion. “Who is this man and why have the guards allowed him to share my pool” he thought.
“How rude of me” said the man with a grin. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Moustafa Al-Jortir, I own this harem as well as many merchant caravans.”
“It’s very nice to meet you.” Replied Kimose, his voice continuing to tremble.
“Do not be afraid little one, you have done nothing wrong and I am not here to harm you.” The large man coaxed.
Moustafa sucked deeply from his hooka once more, this time exhaling through his nostrils and staring intently at the boy before him. He raised a wet hand from beneath the surface of the pool and placed it on the shoulder of Kimose who sat staring at it, afraid to move.
“I can see that you are special” whispered Moustafa, his hand running slowly down the arm of Kimose. “You are young and virile, your skin is dark and tight and you have the form of a warrior.”
Kimose pulled his arm away nervously and his breathing began to increase, the fear becoming clearer upon his young face.
“How would you like to be able to afford these pleasures everyday little one?” Moustafa asked as he lowered his hand down beneath the surface of the perfumed water and towards Kimose’s lap. “I would pay you well and you would only have to provide a few minor services for me.”
By the time Moustafa’s hand touched Kimose’s inner thigh, the boy was up and swinging at the fat merchant, his bony black hands connecting with his fleshy greasy face.
“Guards!” shouted the merchant between punches. “Take this piece of garbage to my tent!”
Before Kimose could react, he was pulled from the pool, his hands lashed with cord and was dragged along the dirt floor of the canopied harem. He landed with a jolt, his face buried in a pile of pillows and the closing flap of the canvas tent he now occupied muffled the outside music and chatter. His heart was pounding with terror, his chest heaving with each breath and his surroundings a blur. It was not long before Moustafa’s fat wet hand forced the boy’s face into the pillows, gripping tightly around his neck and warning him not to scream.
“Now I will take what I want from you boy and you will serve another purpose” whispered Moustafa, his voice a viper’s hiss. “I will steal you from your family and you will fight for my enjoyment in the arena. But first…”
The last sounds that Kimose could recall were the muted laughing voices of the concubines outside and the “swishing” of fabric that marked the loosening of Moustafa’s robe.
* * * * * * * *
The gladiator lowered her massive form into a defensive stance, her back legs squatting and shifting the weight to her rear. Her front limbs, ending in large tightly clenched fists, dug her knuckles into the sandy floor of the arena, her face reddening from the rush of blood to her head. She was exhausted, her deep constant breaths scattering the sand beneath her in all directions. Above her sat the throngs of the affluent, the many easterners and rare southerners who could afford this form of barbaric entertainment [PIC 4]. It was this crowd of cheering social elite that Kimose was focusing on, his gaze dancing across the rows of seats, his eyes for one man only. Acting almost instinctively, the young man leapt to the side as the thick female gladiator plowed towards him, her exhaustion evident in the sloppiness of her approach. Backing off, still full of energy and armed with a long knife, Kimose danced around his opponent. The woman knelt to the ground and grasped at long iron spear, one of the many deadly weapons scattered in the arena before each match. Using the butt-end to prop her weary body up and help her get to her feet, the woman’s face deepened in shades of crimson and her breathing increased. Kimose could clearly see his opponent’s vision swimming, her cognizance of surroundings fading rapidly. He stole another glance into the crowd and there he was, the corpulent merchant who watched him every day, the reason he had been fighting in the arena for years, and the butcher who violated him as a child. Kimose’s gaze was unyielding; it locked onto Moustafa and his greasy skin, matted beard and ochre teeth.
The spear whisked across Kimose’s face, its deadly barbed point coming within inches of contact. He removed his glance from his oppressor and focused on his attacker. He raised his knife and pointed it towards the woman, her motions slow and uncoordinated. Falling into his own defensive posture, the young man circled his opponent, the thick ropy muscles of his bare legs and arms visible with each movement. The spear came again, its tip flying towards Kimose’s chest. In one smooth motion, he stepped to the side of the blow and pushed the hilt of the incoming spear out of the way and caused the gladiator to lose her balance. Stepping towards her as she struggled to bring her spear back to the ready position, Kimose drove his knife into her stomach. The crowd let out a cry of enjoyment, their screams only a blur of noise in the young man’s ears, his senses blinded in the sickening exhilaration of murder. Her eyes turned white and rolled back in their sockets, her lips parting to allow a stream of blood to run down her chin and onto Kimose’s dark skin. He stepped to the side and allowed her lifeless form fall forward onto to the sand covered floor, the weight of her body driving the blade clean through her back. Kimose rushed to pick up the iron spear from the hand of his vanquished opponent, holding it in preparation to throw and scanning the seats for his last sight of Moustafa. His eyes found their mark, but a dissipating cloud of hooka smoke signaled the villain’s exit.
* * * * * * * *
It had been one year since his escape from Moustafa’s iron grip Kimose thought as he swam up next to the boat, his monitor mask concealing his presence.
The guards had forgotten to lock his cell one evening, their inebriated states removing both their sense of duty and their ability to stay awake at their posts. As quiet as a gazelle, the young southern prisoner slipped out of his dirt-floored cage and murdered his guards with their own knives. Covered in the blood of his captors and gripping the hilt of a bloodied dagger, Kimose fled into the empty evening streets of Buuthma, his sprinting form delivering him from bondage.
He listened to another of the fat merchant’s jokes, the squealing laughter of the concubines and the rough evil voice of his enemy caused his skin to crawl. Kimose swam the length of the small boat, his grip on his weapon becoming tighter as he approached Moustafa’s pillow covered position.
“Oh what a pretty bird.” Exclaimed one of the concubines, her many jewels rattling with each word.
“What bird?” inquired the merchant, his massive body rolling on its side to gaze into the water where his whore was pointing.
Moustafa’s melon-sized cranium reached out over the water and his eyes met the brilliant white monitor. In one lightning-quick motion, Kimose shot his dagger-wielding arm out of the muddy water, its point penetrating the fleshy neck of his mortal enemy. Tearing the mask from his face and pulling his mud-covered body into the boat, he climbed over Moustafa’s choking and bleeding body. The concubines screamed in unison at the sight of their strange attacker and the convulsing, blood spewing form of their employer. Diving from their seats into the river, the soaking silk-clad women splashed noisily as they tried to swim towards the guard boat.
Kimose stood over his bleeding foe, the wet gurgling sounds of his blood-splattering neck wound filling his ears. With a look of complete and utter satisfaction, he released a wad of hot spit upon the face of Moustafa, its translucent dallop distinguishable among the flowing crimson. With a flesh-piercing jolt, Kimose fell backwards, the end of a cross-bow bolt protruding from his chest. The guard boat had spun around and was moving towards the merchant’s pleasure craft, the screams and splashes of the concubines alerting them to danger. Kimose fell, gripping at his wound and watching his life-force drip from the opening in his flesh. His body collapsed upon the tea-warming brazier, its collapsing structure scattering red-hot lumps of coal into the boat. The many pillows and fabrics beneath his dying body burst into flames [PIC 3]. Despite the intense heat of the boat turned inferno, Kimose’s body remained cold while he died.
“At least we die together” he thought, “for all the years of suffering …”
A final smile permeated itself on his face. His world went dark.
Pictures
PIC 1 – Bird Mask
PIC 2 – Child in Bath
PIC 3 – Burning Man
PIC 4 – Sumo Wrestler
Ceramic DM Round #1
Gregor vs. PirateCat
The fat merchant’s laughter rang out across the shallow muddy river, causing his narrow boat to rock back and forth and his turban to slip down over his eyes. His two female passengers dressed provocatively in sheer silks and glittering jewelry, gripped their seats tightly and released faint nervous giggles as the bobbing boat threatened to send them into the water. Moustafa Al-Jortir enjoyed nothing more than to spend his idle days careening down the river in his boat, his obese frame suspended by the piles of multi-coloured pillows which adorned the floor. Basking in the heat of the mid day sun, the large man would puff at his bubbling hooka pipe, drink his exotic teas which warmed in coal-holding braziers and entertain his many concubines on his routine river trips. As always, a larger second boat sat ahead of Moustafa’s and tugged it along the river. This larger slave-powered oar-driven craft held four such rowers and two of the merchant’s guards. The oars dipped noisily into the river, spurning the two boats onward and leaving a trail of stirred-up grayish silt in the brown water behind them.
From where Kimose Mobaso could see, crouched among the reeds and branches of the river’s shallow edge, the fat man puffed at his pipe and stared out across the water. The ebony-skinned Kimose lowered his upper torso into the dark waters and leveled his camouflaged head with its rippling surface. Draped across his face hung the cured feathery carcass of a pearl-white river monitor [PIC 1]. The bird-mask created a life-like representation of a monitor, frozen in natural form by both rigor mortis at death and “koomba”, the thick waxy waterproofing glue Kimose’s tribe uses for such projects. From Moustafa’s pleasure craft, the unsuspecting passengers noticed only a typical river monitor swimming among the reeds and out into the deeper waters.
With one hand outstretched beneath the surface to guide him and the other gripped tightly around the hilt of his dagger, Kimose propelled his naked form softly and slowly along the thick silt floor of the river. Approaching the slowly moving craft, the assassin studied his massive target. Rolling his eyes back and forth from behind the mask, Kimose tried to determine where on the silk-clad merchant his dagger should slip for immediate success. When the sickly-sweet scents of Moustafa’s hooka tobacco, the stale perfumes of the concubines and the fetid odor of human sweat began to tingle his nostrils, he knew it was almost time.
* * * * * * * *
There was once a time when Kimose was just another tribal boy, the sort who loved his day trips into Buuthma, the city of a thousand splendors. Buuthma was a frontier town, the last bastion of civilization in the south and the final destination for intra-empire merchants. Thus, it was a fair mix of wealthy eastern Imperials, poor southern tribesmen and every combination of wandering human, demi-human and humanoid. This mélange was especially apparent when the bazaar crowded the palm-covered streets of the city. The flood of silk and turban clad easterners, the dark skinned animal fur wearing southerners and the intermittent Imperial guard was truly a sight to behold. It was days like this that Kimose longed for as a child. The day when his weekly chores came to an end and he could bask in the glow of eastern civilization, spend his own money and live like a king. Every ten-day he would ride into Buuthma from the surrounding tribal outlands with his small group of friends, their almost-empty leather change pouches rattling noisily from atop their trotting Zebra mounts.
Although Kimose enjoyed spending his coin in the packed palm streets of the market, taking in the rich scents of spices, cooking fires and various dishes, he especially enjoyed participating in one specific pleasure. While he was no stranger to cleaning himself in the rivers around his village, he could not help but spend the majority of his money in the outdoor hot-springs of Moustafa Al-Jortir’s canopied harem. Nestled into the ground and covered by richly dyed leather canopies lay a number of stone carved reservoirs filled with steaming perfumed water. It was here, surrounded by barely-dressed eastern women and bombarded by the cacophony of sitar music, that Kimose spent his gold. Whiling away his afternoons, he soaked his skin in the sensuous heat of the water and felt like an emperor, whilst his friends scurried through the streets like children [PIC 2].
On one such hedonistic afternoon however, Kimose’s world changed in an instant. Opening his closed eyes from their bliss-induced slumber with a start, the boy watched as a very large eastern man lowered his bare skinned body into the pool with him. His mounds of chest hair flattened and stuck against his wet skin as he shifted into position. Kimose gazed at him but said nothing. His large yellow turban hid his hair, but a long greasy goatee hung from his chin that framed his brown-toothed smile. Reaching out of the pool and off to the side, the large man brought forth a long spouted tube and sucked deeply. The low rumble of bubbling water and the escape of rich white smoke from the man’s mouth revealed the hooka positioned to the side. He stared at Kimose before speaking.
“I see you here every week, yet you are just a child, how is it that you afford these pleasures?” said the large man, his words hissing slowly from behind his lips.
“I work hard in my village” replied Kimose with a slight tremble.
“You must work quite diligently to be able to afford these services. Pardon me … my services.”
Kimose remained motionless, his façade an image of fear and confusion. “Who is this man and why have the guards allowed him to share my pool” he thought.
“How rude of me” said the man with a grin. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Moustafa Al-Jortir, I own this harem as well as many merchant caravans.”
“It’s very nice to meet you.” Replied Kimose, his voice continuing to tremble.
“Do not be afraid little one, you have done nothing wrong and I am not here to harm you.” The large man coaxed.
Moustafa sucked deeply from his hooka once more, this time exhaling through his nostrils and staring intently at the boy before him. He raised a wet hand from beneath the surface of the pool and placed it on the shoulder of Kimose who sat staring at it, afraid to move.
“I can see that you are special” whispered Moustafa, his hand running slowly down the arm of Kimose. “You are young and virile, your skin is dark and tight and you have the form of a warrior.”
Kimose pulled his arm away nervously and his breathing began to increase, the fear becoming clearer upon his young face.
“How would you like to be able to afford these pleasures everyday little one?” Moustafa asked as he lowered his hand down beneath the surface of the perfumed water and towards Kimose’s lap. “I would pay you well and you would only have to provide a few minor services for me.”
By the time Moustafa’s hand touched Kimose’s inner thigh, the boy was up and swinging at the fat merchant, his bony black hands connecting with his fleshy greasy face.
“Guards!” shouted the merchant between punches. “Take this piece of garbage to my tent!”
Before Kimose could react, he was pulled from the pool, his hands lashed with cord and was dragged along the dirt floor of the canopied harem. He landed with a jolt, his face buried in a pile of pillows and the closing flap of the canvas tent he now occupied muffled the outside music and chatter. His heart was pounding with terror, his chest heaving with each breath and his surroundings a blur. It was not long before Moustafa’s fat wet hand forced the boy’s face into the pillows, gripping tightly around his neck and warning him not to scream.
“Now I will take what I want from you boy and you will serve another purpose” whispered Moustafa, his voice a viper’s hiss. “I will steal you from your family and you will fight for my enjoyment in the arena. But first…”
The last sounds that Kimose could recall were the muted laughing voices of the concubines outside and the “swishing” of fabric that marked the loosening of Moustafa’s robe.
* * * * * * * *
The gladiator lowered her massive form into a defensive stance, her back legs squatting and shifting the weight to her rear. Her front limbs, ending in large tightly clenched fists, dug her knuckles into the sandy floor of the arena, her face reddening from the rush of blood to her head. She was exhausted, her deep constant breaths scattering the sand beneath her in all directions. Above her sat the throngs of the affluent, the many easterners and rare southerners who could afford this form of barbaric entertainment [PIC 4]. It was this crowd of cheering social elite that Kimose was focusing on, his gaze dancing across the rows of seats, his eyes for one man only. Acting almost instinctively, the young man leapt to the side as the thick female gladiator plowed towards him, her exhaustion evident in the sloppiness of her approach. Backing off, still full of energy and armed with a long knife, Kimose danced around his opponent. The woman knelt to the ground and grasped at long iron spear, one of the many deadly weapons scattered in the arena before each match. Using the butt-end to prop her weary body up and help her get to her feet, the woman’s face deepened in shades of crimson and her breathing increased. Kimose could clearly see his opponent’s vision swimming, her cognizance of surroundings fading rapidly. He stole another glance into the crowd and there he was, the corpulent merchant who watched him every day, the reason he had been fighting in the arena for years, and the butcher who violated him as a child. Kimose’s gaze was unyielding; it locked onto Moustafa and his greasy skin, matted beard and ochre teeth.
The spear whisked across Kimose’s face, its deadly barbed point coming within inches of contact. He removed his glance from his oppressor and focused on his attacker. He raised his knife and pointed it towards the woman, her motions slow and uncoordinated. Falling into his own defensive posture, the young man circled his opponent, the thick ropy muscles of his bare legs and arms visible with each movement. The spear came again, its tip flying towards Kimose’s chest. In one smooth motion, he stepped to the side of the blow and pushed the hilt of the incoming spear out of the way and caused the gladiator to lose her balance. Stepping towards her as she struggled to bring her spear back to the ready position, Kimose drove his knife into her stomach. The crowd let out a cry of enjoyment, their screams only a blur of noise in the young man’s ears, his senses blinded in the sickening exhilaration of murder. Her eyes turned white and rolled back in their sockets, her lips parting to allow a stream of blood to run down her chin and onto Kimose’s dark skin. He stepped to the side and allowed her lifeless form fall forward onto to the sand covered floor, the weight of her body driving the blade clean through her back. Kimose rushed to pick up the iron spear from the hand of his vanquished opponent, holding it in preparation to throw and scanning the seats for his last sight of Moustafa. His eyes found their mark, but a dissipating cloud of hooka smoke signaled the villain’s exit.
* * * * * * * *
It had been one year since his escape from Moustafa’s iron grip Kimose thought as he swam up next to the boat, his monitor mask concealing his presence.
The guards had forgotten to lock his cell one evening, their inebriated states removing both their sense of duty and their ability to stay awake at their posts. As quiet as a gazelle, the young southern prisoner slipped out of his dirt-floored cage and murdered his guards with their own knives. Covered in the blood of his captors and gripping the hilt of a bloodied dagger, Kimose fled into the empty evening streets of Buuthma, his sprinting form delivering him from bondage.
He listened to another of the fat merchant’s jokes, the squealing laughter of the concubines and the rough evil voice of his enemy caused his skin to crawl. Kimose swam the length of the small boat, his grip on his weapon becoming tighter as he approached Moustafa’s pillow covered position.
“Oh what a pretty bird.” Exclaimed one of the concubines, her many jewels rattling with each word.
“What bird?” inquired the merchant, his massive body rolling on its side to gaze into the water where his whore was pointing.
Moustafa’s melon-sized cranium reached out over the water and his eyes met the brilliant white monitor. In one lightning-quick motion, Kimose shot his dagger-wielding arm out of the muddy water, its point penetrating the fleshy neck of his mortal enemy. Tearing the mask from his face and pulling his mud-covered body into the boat, he climbed over Moustafa’s choking and bleeding body. The concubines screamed in unison at the sight of their strange attacker and the convulsing, blood spewing form of their employer. Diving from their seats into the river, the soaking silk-clad women splashed noisily as they tried to swim towards the guard boat.
Kimose stood over his bleeding foe, the wet gurgling sounds of his blood-splattering neck wound filling his ears. With a look of complete and utter satisfaction, he released a wad of hot spit upon the face of Moustafa, its translucent dallop distinguishable among the flowing crimson. With a flesh-piercing jolt, Kimose fell backwards, the end of a cross-bow bolt protruding from his chest. The guard boat had spun around and was moving towards the merchant’s pleasure craft, the screams and splashes of the concubines alerting them to danger. Kimose fell, gripping at his wound and watching his life-force drip from the opening in his flesh. His body collapsed upon the tea-warming brazier, its collapsing structure scattering red-hot lumps of coal into the boat. The many pillows and fabrics beneath his dying body burst into flames [PIC 3]. Despite the intense heat of the boat turned inferno, Kimose’s body remained cold while he died.
“At least we die together” he thought, “for all the years of suffering …”
A final smile permeated itself on his face. His world went dark.
Pictures
PIC 1 – Bird Mask
PIC 2 – Child in Bath
PIC 3 – Burning Man
PIC 4 – Sumo Wrestler
