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SF's "Write Your Butt Off!" Writing Competition XIV


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Blah's entry doesn't qualify because he wrote about Ghirahim, a weapon that can already talk in the series he comes from. The prompt says to use weapons that have no form of communication whatsoever. We have already discussed this in private and the matter has been resolved.

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Erm, I should ask then if the Death Star qualifies since, as a battle station, it has things like technical readouts and the like. Would that be valid 'communication' or would it having some form of personality (like what I intend to do) be okay?

Edit: I'm gonna write it and, if it doesn't fit, I'll sit this one out.

Title: Destroyer of Worlds
Fandom: Star Wars
Characters: Darth Vader and special guest!
Words: 3333

[spoiler=Destroyer of Worlds]

"Hey! Lou!" the voice of one of the many technicians working on project 'Peace Moon' echoed down the hallway to his neighboring companion. His fellow technician looked up, promptly clonking his head hard on the maintenance panel.

"Ow! What is it Harry?"

"Did you hear? They're going to dissolve the Senate tomorrow! Everything has been gridlocked and most of the senators have been found guilty of corruption or have been killed by rebels. Only, like, sixteen senators remain."

"Really? Only sixteen?"

"Yea. Corellia, Alderaan, Naboo, and some other backwater systems. Everyone else has been imprisoned or died."

"Huh. I remember the Clone Wars." said Lou as he pulled back from the maintenance panel and gave his electro-spanner a small test. "I don't remember things being that bad back then. Maybe it's just the war memories rising up again though. Damned spanner is broken again." he said before tossing it inside the panel. "Easier to say it was lose than file the forms. What do you think will happen now?"

Harry gave a shrug. "Who cares? All I want to know is why a mining laser platform needs so many stormtroopers on it."

---

The chill of the holoroom seemed far colder as Darth Vader approached the center platform in the old senate chambers. Behind him the bodies of what few remaining senators that could make it lay dead. As Darth Vader took a knee and the blue image of his master flickered into being he delivered his report.

"It is done my master. Thirteen of the sixteen remaining senators are no more. Only three remain and, of those three, only the Organa family is of importance. The senate is no more."

"Well done Lord Vader." replied Palpatine with a smile. Vader could almost have sworn he heard a small laugh coming from the Sith lord as he spoke. "Everything is in order then. Report to the Death Star to await further commands. We should be ready to begin tests soon and then no one will be able to oppose the empire!"

"As you wish my master." said Vader as he stood up and started to walk down the now-empty halls towards the shuttle to take him to the Death Star. Tonight would be a great night. He would need to arrange a meeting with the generals of the fleets but soon, soon, everything would be in order.

---

Once upon the Death Star Vader returned to his chambers. They were of normal decor for a lord with a nice, soft, bed, heavy drapes, and all the care equipment required for his suit. Slowly he went to take up a position of meditation.

"Annie."

Vader winced slightly as he let the force flow through him once again. All he could hear was the gentle hum of the ship and various sounds from the control panel for his suit maintenance station.

"Annie..."

Vader shrugged again. Nothing to worry about. Just some memories. Then the communication console chirped. With a resigned sigh Vader gave up his meditations and went over to the console.

"What requires my attention?" he asked in an irritated voice as one of the technicians, someone he didn't recognize by a longshot, popped up.

"Well... Lord Vader. When you arrived a short while ago the... computer... It's... Well, it's not operating properly sir." reported the technician.

"What do you mean not properly?"

"Well, sir, it's talking to us?" replied the technician, clearly confused and uncertain of if what he had just said made sense even to him. "We've been trying to get it to work and... well..."

Suddenly the technician's video feed cut out as static filled the screen. Then, in garbled techno-babble...

"Annie! Mesa sooo happy to see yousa again!" came a shrill, loud, and annoying voice as the image of one of the senators Vader had just slain appeared on the screen.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooo!"

---

"You cut me in the chest!" replied Death Star Binks with a smile on the video feed as Vader futilely, banged his helmet against the wall. "But it's okay! Cause wesa friends and friends never leave each others sides! Even in da deaths!"

"Jar Jar. I KILLED you! You are dead! How are you even..."

"Talking to you? Well, when you cut me up good I became this blueish ghosty thing. I could do all sorts of neatsa suffies like walk through walls, not be seen, and even control machines like I'm doing right now! Isn't this great! Now we can be the bestest of friends even after death!"

Vader raised his hand up high. If Jar Jar Binks was, really, really, just a force-ghost expelling him from the machine should be possible. Yet, as the force flowed through him and out into the Death Star, all he could sense was the thousands of engineers and soldiers and not ONE GUNGAN! What was going on?

"Oooooh! Lookie here? What are all des drawings? Plans of somesort?" asked Death Star Binks as, quickly, the many blueprints of the Death Star flickered up on-screen. "Oooo! Des very interesting! You makin something big Annie!"

"Yes, Jar Jar, now stop looking from confidential files and don't mess them up in any way, shape, or form."

"Okaies! But, wait, why are des labled 'fake plans'? Dey day real thing!"

"What? Fake... NO! Jar Jar! I am warning you, do NOT touch those plans. It... It will make me very sad. I might even cry. Do you like it when I cry?"

"Nope! Okay Annie! I won't touch dem anymore. Just let me put them back into their place!"

---

Harry sighed as he floated out in the void. His loss of the spanner had not gone over as well as he had thought it would. Lou got out of the situation by blaming him, but now he had to work an extra shift on exterior welding in the trenches to pay for the spanner. He sighed as he brought up the plans.

"Let's see.. Part A194 connects to the, part T138!

Part T138 connects to panel B82!

Panel B82 connects to area W1522, so hear the word of the Force!

W1522 connects to grate 93!

Grate 93 connects to... Odd. Doesn't seem to connect to anything. Oh. Wait. Huh. Why would a vent grate connect to a utility antenna? I should report this oversight... Wait. You know what? That guy put me on extra shifts and the plans right here say to connect it to this antenna instead of the vent so, when this becomes a problem, let my boss handle it. I don't care! **** him!" he said before starting to whistle and sodder on the grate to a nearby antenna.

---

Alarms blared throughout the Death Star as, slowly, Darth Vader strode down the hallways. Bothans had invaded the Death Star but he was unconcerned. This was a carefully laid trap that had been planned for months to lure out the remaining rebels. By the Empire's calculations about 90% of the rebellion had been killed or driven underground and one more decisive battle could easily crush their rebellion. The trap was simple. Upload some fake plans that seemed impressive but left one key opening, a key opening that they would try to assault, leaving them wide open and exposed as the TIE fighters ripped their fleet to shreds!

As he continued to move on down he was aware he was more acting than anything. Keeping up a presence to assure the Bothans that these were the REAL plans! As one of the bothans decloaked in front of him, his disintergrator firing on full, a quick raising of his hand to turn the weapon back on his owner was all that was needed. Yet, as the Bothan ship took off, intending to relay the fake plans to the rebels, Vader smiled. Everything was going to plan!

"Annie! Why yousa do dat? They're nice guests!" came Jar Jar's voice from one of the nearby computer consoles, thankfully without any troopers around. "They came and talked to me nice and even promised me a nice little party! Now yousa go killen dem? I thought the Bothans were our friends!"

"Not any more. They want to kill me. Hurt me Jar Jar."

"Ooooohhh. I see. Well, then, it's good I gave them the fake plans like you asked me nicely too! When are you going to bring me the frog treat like you said?"

"Soon, Jar Jar, if you do not bother me anymore."

"Oh. Okay!"

Then the com chirped as one of the Grand Moff's face appeared on screen. "Lord Vader."

"Yes, Grand Moff Tarkin?"

"There... There appears to be a problem. It the records show that, at some point, one of the technicians may have... accessed... the fake plans instead of the real ones."

"What?"

"We need to do a full maintenance check now. Tarkin out."

"Jar Jar... Did... Did you upload... The fake plans to the technicians?"

"Oh! No! Of course not! What do yousa think? Me stupid? No. I make fake plans of your fake plans then I upload THOSE plans for the bad guys!"

"So... You made... a decoy plan of our decoy plan?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Why would you do... Nevermind. How did those decoy plans cause a problem?"

"Well, I thought that, if da fake plans good for the rebels, they're good for our technicians as well! Then we can doubly fake them out! They won't know for certain which plans were real!"

"Our technicians won't know which plans are real! Upload the fake plans so we can find the flaw now."

"Sorry. Can't do that. They took the fake plans!"

"And you didn't back them up?"

"Nope! Why would I need a back up! Dey were supposed to be taken away anyways!"

"Maybe... Maybe the real plans?"

"Of course I got dem! Here! Let me upload dem now!"

Vader gave a heavy sigh as he tried to focus and calm down his nerve. This was not going to be pleasant. He could just TELL it was not going to be pleasant! Then, on the holo-screen, piles upon piles of gungans, quarrans, Mol Calamari's, all in various... 'poses'... popped up followed by a series of ads promising 'to make you as big as a wookie' 'used corvettes for half-price!' 'authentic Jedi Lightsaber parts!' 'The Queen of Hapes needs to transfer funds into your account to escape nobles trying to assassinate her!'

"Jar Jar... Where are the plans?"

"Ummm... Annie? Don't be mad but.. They seem to be... ummm... I think I put da plans in a different file and uploaded..."

"Why is this even. No. No. Do not tell me! I do not want to know just tell me... Where are the real plans?"

"Let me look."

Suddenly, throughout the entire Death Star, from bottom to top, cries of disgust and screams of terror and horror came out as the image of a Mon Calamari and Wookie filled every screen on the entire station.

"What does 'Send all' do when I ask write to it to ask where the files are? I attached the current files to show what was wrong as well!"

"Just get me a Star Destroyer. Now."

---

Chopping up rebels felt outright relieving as Vader strode down the hallways of the Tantive IV. Blocking blaster bolts, cries of death, all without that annoying voice in his head. When, at last, the trooper brought down the Princess Vader felt outright livid as she talked back to him! Yet, down below...

"Oh! Artoo!" Jar Jar's voice suddenly filled the small escape pod as C-3P0 and R2D2 shrieked in fear!

"Oh my! Is that you Master Binks? How did you get into this escape pod?"

"I died! Someone chopped me up but it's all fine now! He tried to leave me behind but I hopped into his suit so I could always be with him! But my friends are here now as well! Don't worry! I'll keep yousa safe!"

For a long moment silence filled the escape pod before, at last, 3P0 looked to R2. "R2. May I please have another memory wipe after all this is done?"

---

As the gunners for the Star Destroyer looked out watching the escaping pod their blasters honed in on it, ready to fire. A string of commands appeared on their screen all of a sudden.

"Do not fire unless the pods have people on them... Times are tight and the Empire can't afford to waste shots." said the gunner, a bit confused. Then, as the pod approached, he looked over to his fellow gunner.

"Scanners say no life signs on board. Must have mis-fired."

The gunner looked at his friend weird. He did know that droids existed, right?

"Alright." he said then, as the pod drifted past... "You do know that droids capable of holding plans exist, or they could have just wired the plans into their distress beacon, right?"

"Hey. If Vader values blaster bolts over doing our job right, he can take it up with our boss, not us!"

---

Harry sighed as he scoured the prison cells. Things had just gone from bad to worse. Last night he had been peacefully browsing gww.wookielove.hutt looking for a charity to donate credits to help mistreated enslaved wookies when, suddenly, a bunch of bad images popped up on screen with his wife in the next room! It had been so sudden that he had no way of stopping it and now his wife was screaming his ear off about it! She thought HE uploaded those images across the Death Star! Working prison duty was the only way to escape her cries! Yet as he scoured the cells he came across... something. A coccoon? A pulsating lump of flesh? Lights were blinking all around it with 'Mesa baby' on one of the screens. Quickly he contacted Vader.

"Ummm... Lord Vader?" he asked. "There is something in one of the prison cells. Here..."

He raised the comm link up to show Vader. A second later Vader cried out loudly, demanding he throw it down anywheres, destroy it now! Fire, trash compactor, toothpicks, anything at all to kill it now! Harry just groaned in annoyance as he gripped the disgusting, man-sized, lump of flesh and shoved it down the trash compactor. He'd need a strong shower and that was all he cared about.

---

"Now witness the firepower of this battlestation!" said Vader with a firm tone. Beside him the princess, brave and defiant to the end, gulped in fear. Her will was strong but maybe this... this would shatter her resolve! If she didn't outright break down maybe enough to use a mind trick on her? It didn't matter. As the power rushed throughout the station and the blast of energy shot down all he could do was smile. He was going to eradicate an entire city! Destroy their capitol in one swoop and leave the planet defenseless with no leaders and an ever-lasting scar upon its surface.

Then Alderaan went boom.

Vader quietly cured under his helmet as he put all his effort into looking calm and composed. As soon as he was alone he brought up Death Star Binks.

"Jar Jar! Why did you... You blew up a whole planet!"

"Yes! Are you happy Annie?"

"What? No! Alderaan was one of our strongest economic planets! I wanted to blow up their capitol and wound them badly, not destroy the entire thing! Do you know many credits we lost just now?"

"Nope! I saw yousa firin dat laser and I knew the laser was good for yousa so I thought more laser would be even BETTER!"

Vader could do little more than seethe with rage as he sent a force-blast into the wall, shattering the console, as he outright tried to force Jar Jar out only to find, once again, that it was no force-ghost. How could this be? Was he a REAL ghost?

---

Luke and Han looked around nervously as the garbage compactor on the detention level surrounded them. It smelled horrible and, having literally just dived down, well... it wasn't the most pleasant thing ever. Especially now that the Princess was here. Luke had to admit he thought she was a bit cute but... Something was brushing against his leg. Something... alive...

"Oh! Wow! More friends!" came a cry from below the water as a deformed, harry, outright disgusting-looking gungan grabbed Luke's leg and tried to pull him down under before Han's blaster shot out, causing it to cry out in pain and retreat. "Daddy Jar Jar? Why won't you send me any friends?" he asked the walls as the three newcomers escaped. "I wanna be just like you!"

---

Vader groaned in annoyance as the Death Star came out of hyperspace in front of Yavin. This was going to be great. Jar Jar was a putz but he was capable of blowing up an entire planet now... all he needed was for him to blow up Yavin and this whole war would be done. Could he possibly screw up destroying stuff? It was his talent!

"The Death Star will be in range in ten minutes!" came the voice of the gunner over the coms.

"I saw we're in range now." replied Tarkin. "Target Yavin and fire!"

Vader smiled happily as the lasers charged up to fire. They would blow up the gas giant and the moon with it! Quick, simple, easy! Power rushed through the main cannon before the mighty beam shot out at the gas giant... at such a weak level it couldn't kill a squirrel.

"What? What went wrong?" demanded Tarkin.

Up in the main firing chamber Harry looked at his readouts. Everything seemed normal right up until the end where the power just... vanished.

"I, I don't know sir. It's power just... went away. Maybe we overloaded the capacitors and it will work on a smaller target? It is a gas giant after all."

Tarkin just sighed. "The Death Star will be in range in ten minutes."

As Vader headed down to get ready to fight he quickly ducked into one of the side hallways to bring up Death Star Binks. "Jar Jar! Why didn't you destroy something when we WANTED you to destroy something?"

"Well, you got so mad at me last time that I thought yousa didn't want me to go blow stuff up Annie? Want me to blow it up dis time?"

"Doesn't matter. The laser takes ten minutes to recharge. Just, look, when it fires next time do nothing."

"Okay Annie!"

---

One more peace overcame Vader's mind as he soared out into space, gunning down rebel pirates left and right with ease. This was where he belonged, in space, piloting vehicles. Not on the ground or in a space station or with... it. As he swooped down into the trench again and again he didn't even care, this made him happy and think back to his old pod-racing days. At last it was down to just one or two fighters and, as he flew along the track, he was happy.

"The force is strong with this one." he remarked as he watched the pilot dodge out of the way with such speed as to have had known beforehand. It didn't matter. He had plenty of space in the trench and two wingmen in case things went wrong. He fires again and missed as the pilot dodged.

"Annie! Mesa gonna help yousa out!" came the shrill voice. "Imma gonna turn on auto-target to help yousa out!"

"WHAT?" he cried out just as a large ship popped out of hyperspace right overhead, its blaster-turrents firing at full speed, destroying his wingmen and knocking him out of the trench right as the Death Star suddenly blew up. Yet, as he watched the destruction, it was nice to know it was all over. He was dead. At last. Dead.

"Annie! I'mma gonna help you recover from dis! Cause we're friends!"

He was dead for good.

"Next one is gonna be even bigger!"

For good.

Edited by Snowy_One
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Title: Whispers

Fandom: Skyrim

Characters: Dragonborn (aka protagonist)

Gonna put a short explanation of the names in the author's note, because there was some confusion the last time. Last time it didn't matter because it wasn't important. Now it kinda is. Also, Brynne is my own creation.

[spoiler=Author's Note]

Dragonborn - can absorb souls of dragons and gets their power that way

Daedra/daedric - think of it as Demon/demonic

Molag Bal - Lesser God of Domination and Enslavement of Mortals

Stendarr/Boethiah - other gods

joor - dragon speech

The Reach - a region in Skyrim

[spoiler=story]

The Vigilant of Stendarr and his pushiness had almost turned Brynne away: she knew them and their righteousness well. If they knew who she was, they would probably declare her a daedric monster and kill her. They probably had strange ideas about the Dragonborn.

But the house emitted a strange aura, one that sent shivers up her arms. So she agreed to help him and followed him inside. Immediately, Brynne felt suffocated. The stench of magic was strong and a yellowish fog seemed to pour out of the basement.

"This is no ordinary Daedra!" she heard the Vigilant exclaim. She wanted to turn around and leave before she could get roped into another insane quest by an Daedric Prince. She had dragons to hunt. But after the Vigilant had disappeared in the basement, she suddenly heard something.

There was a barely audible whisper that crept into her ear like a slimy worm. Brynne wanted to recoil, but her body didn’t move. Instead, she perked her ears. It was a croaky whisper, a sound she knew well. So many men who had fallen under her battle axe had wished their friends or family goodbye in that tone.

It was a bad idea to follow that voice. And yet, that voice moved something in her soul. The dragon souls and their need to dominate had already overtaken part of Brynne’s mind and they sensed that they would find power here. She heard the Vigilant scream. Shivers of anticipation ran down her back and she grinned. The whispering grew louder.

She found the altar and felt Molag Bal’s thundering voice running through her body. But beneath that noise, she still heard that whisper. A rusty old mace was lying on top of the altar, directly in front of her eyes, and she knew it was making that the sound. It was calling for her and only for her.

Brynne agreed to kill the priest of Boethiah in exchange for the mace. Her human conscience was fighting her as she searched The Reach, but her head was filled with that scratchy, seducing voice.

After she had led the priest to the basement and he was caught in the black cage, she could barely keep from giggling in anticipation. The whispering had turned into a pleased humming. The dragon souls urged her to take the mace, to test it on the priest’s soft, yielding head.

Brynne could’ve yelped in glee when Molag Bal ordered her to break the priest and make him submit to her. She grabbed the mace and sucked in a startled breath; a clear, caressing voice that seemed to wrap itself all around her brain rung through her head.

"I demand blood."

And blood she gave it. The priest yelled and begged as she smashed his bones, but he didn’t give in. She felt a surge of disappointment when he died and Molag Bal’s anger made her ears ring. But she could’ve fallen to her knees and kissed his feet when he resurrected the priest. The mace seemed to shiver with glee and its excited voice caressed her snugly.

The priest’s desperate submission made Brynne angry. The mace was not satisfied. But Molag Bal ordered her to stand back until he had mocked Boethiah and his servant. Brynne felt empty and wanting when she killed the priest and the mace was restore to its daedric beauty.

"Let us bring terror and pain to Tamriel," it whispered and the dragon souls roared with approval.

As she stepped outside the stuffy house and into the cold night of Skyrim, she stopped dead, blinked and looked around as if she had just woken from a nightmare. Brynne’s gaze fell to the maze at her hip.

"I…"

"Give me what I want and I give you what you need."

Brynne gasped, feeling the voice weaving through her body. The mace was demanding kills, souls for its true master, Molag Bal, to torture and devour. Her human conscience yelled at her to stop now – to throw away the mace and never look back. Interacting with the Daedric Princes never did anyone any good. The dragon souls roared and fought, but in the cold night, the human part of Brynne’s soul won. Despite the seductive whispering of the mace, she left the mace at her house in Falkreath.

The mace and its voice never left Brynne as she travelled through Skyrim. She constantly wondered if it was still there, if Rayya had taken it and was giving it the blood it deserved. Almost every night she dreamt of it, of the havoc they would cause if it just were with her. Of the weight of the mace in her hand, of the sound of breaking bones, of the blood splattered over herself and the ground. The yearning for that sweet voice distracted Brynne so much that she barely made it out of the bandit hold she was supposed to clear out. Cursing the Daedric Princes and their meddling, she tried to focus on her search for the Word Walls.

She managed to two weeks of dreams until she submitted. Brynne had been on the way to Dragontooth Crater after a group of merchants had told her of the dragon patrolling the air around it.

She was still miles away when she smelled it. Burnt flesh – human flesh. Her nostrils flared and disgust mixed with excitement flashed through her. The dragon souls roared hungrily and filled Brynne’s limbs with the desire to run and gloat over the fiery death of joor– Brynne shook her head and dug her nails in her arms. They were growing stronger; the dragons were taking over her mind and the mace would make it worse. Sometimes, in a lucid moment, she understood that she was losing her humanity. That she had let them roam her mind and soul too freely and that she could barely remember the person she had been before she absorbed the first dragon soul. But then they would take over again and she would stop caring and even forget.

A grin crept onto her face as the two charred, twisted bodies entered her line of sight. The dragons were gloating, laughing about the pathetic joore and how amusing they looked like when they were dying in agony. Brynne tried to be disgusted, but deep in her soul she shuddered in delight at the mental image. Grimacing, she stormed towards the dragon in front of the World Wall.

A week later, she stood in front of her home. She listened carefully, yearning for the mace’s whisper. They had won. She couldn’t take the silence anymore. For painfully long seconds, she was afraid it was gone. There was no whispering. "If it’s gone… I will hunt them down…" she mumbled under her breath. Carefully, she pushed the front door open.

Brynne listened for her steward, but the house remained silent. Suddenly lurching forward, she ran to the trophy room, threw the doors open and almost crashed into the showcase of her mace. She almost broke down; it was still there. Reverently, she picked it up.

"I’m sorry," she whispered and held the mace up, tracing its intricate design with her eyes, "I’ve learnt my lesson. I will never leave you behind again." Her grasp on the mace tightened and terror began to creep up her spine. "Please talk to me. Tell me what you want. How can I atone for my sin?"

"Bathe me in blood."

Brynne moaned in relief like a Skooma addict after the first gulp. "I will," she whispered eagerly, "we will. You’ll never be free of blood, I swear on my life." A manic grin spread over Brynne’s face.

"The world shall tremble in fear, Champion of Molag Bal."

Edited by Farkas
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Can I please have a one day extension? I live in Prague, 6 hours ahead of EST.

Due to the low numbers of entries vs how many people said were entering, I'm going to extend the contest for two more days. I know people have been busy so I want to give them ample time to get their stuff in.

The new due date for entries is March 4th, at 12:00AM. Click here for the new timer!

Also Snowy, your entry is ok regarding the Death Star and its readouts, because that's not communication in the sense that it's talking to someone, just displaying information.

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Due to the low numbers of entries vs how many people said were entering, I'm going to extend the contest for two more days. I know people have been busy so I want to give them ample time to get their stuff in.

The new due date for entries is March 4th, at 12:00AM. Click here for the new timer!

Also Snowy, your entry is ok regarding the Death Star and its readouts, because that's not communication in the sense that it's talking to someone, just displaying information.

Okay, thanks.

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Title: Durandal

Fandom: Fire Emblem: The Blazing Blade, Fire Emblem: The Binding Blade

Characters: Eliwood, Durandal, Hector, Roy, Lilina, Ninian is mentioned.

Words: 1066

What had I done…

What had I done…

Why… why had I d-done this?

“Eliwood!” I snap out of my thoughts. I turn around, facing Marquess Ostia’s younger brother, a built man by the name of Hector. “What are you doing?”

I turn away from Hector. “Nothing. Leave me alone, please.” Hector looks at me skeptically, his gaze strong enough I could feel it despite not looking at him.

“Eliwood, if you need some--”

“I said leave!” I turn back to my childhood friend, my glare icy as my eyes could manage (which isn’t all that icy, admittedly).

Hector seems rather taken aback by my outburst. I don’t really blame him, I’m supposed to be the calm and collected one. But I’m not in the mood to speak today.

“If that’s what you want…” Hector sighs. “Just come out and meet with me and Lyn in about an hour, all right? We have to plan on what to do about Nergal.”

I nod. It is an acceptable offer. I would be calm by the end of the hour, knowing myself. Hector walks out of the room, shutting the door as he left. I remain seated at the desk, staring at the sword in front of me. Durandal… the Blazing Blade, the weapon of Roland from the Scouring.

I killed Ninian with this.

The sword just moved on its own, pulling my arm with it as it tried to kill the dragon before it.

It succeeded.

And I didn’t want it to.

I sigh as I lift the blade again. It’s heavy, much heavier than it was when the Ice Dragon that was Ninian loomed above us. The air begins to feel heavier.

“You didn’t want to kill the dragon.”

I jump and drop the blade, gasping as I back away from it.

“Why did you seek me out if your goal was not to eradicate dragonkind?”

My breathing is sharp and raspy as I stare at the weapon before me. The voice I was hearing was a strange mixture of creepy and melodious, a sound like that of a child and a demon singing in unison.

“W-who are you?” I demand, reaching for my rapier. Though I can see it clearly, I refuse to believe the logical answer.

“I am Durandal.” The statement was so simple, so plain, yet so unbelievable that my mind continues to doubt the voice. I put the disbelief aside, as I open my mouth to speak once more.

“Why did you want to kill that dragon?” I cry. “It hadn’t done anything!”

“It is what I was designed to do.”

“So?” I say through gritted teeth. This is the first time in my life I’ve truly felt anger. Anger at this strange sword spirit. Anger at Nergal. Anger at myself.

“It’s that simple. If I do not kill dragons, what else am I to do? I am a sword. A weapon, a tool used to cut flesh. Nothing more.”

“You don’t need to force people to use you!” I yell, the anger in my voice rising with the second.

“Weapons like me, we live, we exist, to kill dragonkin. Naturally, that action is our desire, our one objective. If our wielder sees a dragon, we will urge him on. It is our nature.”

“Why do you have a will? What fire were you forged in that made you like this?” I ask the sacred relic lying on the table before me.

“It was a necessity. A necessity to ensure the humans would defeat the Demon Dragon.”

“You dodged the question,” I respond.

“Ah.” The sword is silent. “The fires of Divine Dragons are enchanted. The Divine Generals captured one and used her flame to forge us.”

“That’s terrible…” I mutter. “How could you? How could they? Why is our world so… so…” I bend over, sobbing.

“Eliwood.” The sword’s demonic yet childish voice states my name flatly. I look at it.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I can tell you do.”

I remain silent. This sword was forged by the suffering of a Divine Dragon. This sword killed the girl I love. No, that isn’t right. This sword made me kill the girl I love.

“You want to know why I test your emotions like this.”

I glare at it.

“I test you because Hartmut’s rebirth will soon be upon us. I want to ensure he will have it in him to kill that demonic girl. Unlike his soft predecessor.”

I continue glaring, still angered, yet now intrigued by the sword’s words.

“Five years from now, you will father a son. He will be the next Hartmut. If you want me to quit testing you, you will agree to raise him to kill the Demon Dragon. To not spare her.”

I ponder the sword’s offer. If I agreed to raise a boy who has yet to be born into a cold hearted killer, it would stop torturing me.

I open my mouth. Only one word escapes: “...No.”

No. I won’t give in to the sword’s demand. It isn’t right. If my son will truly be Hartmut’s second coming, he won’t be a cold-blooded killer. Even if he will not be who the sword says he will be, he will not be raised to kill one dragon.

“...Hm.” The sword says this grunt simply, coldly, I can feel a malicious grin spanning the face of the invisible spirit. “Be that as it may, Lord Eliwood of Pherae. Good night.”

The air lightens back to its original state, and I collapse.


“So this is Durandal, Lilina?”

“Yes!”

“It’s huge… I doubt I can wield this,” the boy mumbles.

“Legend says Roland was a small man!” Lilina replies cheerily. “I think it has more to do with your sword skill than your physical strength.”

“In that case…” The boy with the flaming hair reaches out and grabs me.

“Wait a second, Roy. I have to break the seal first…” The girl approaches my pedestal and lays a hand on my blade, before pulling away and allowing the boy called Roy to lift me up.

“Ugh… I definitely can’t wield this yet. It feels as heavy as lead to me.”

“We should head back, Roy…”

“Yeah.”

I see Eliwood truly did what he said he would...

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. . .March 4th? But I know what you mean.

You'll know whether or not I'll enter by Saturday night, my time (that's roughly 24 hours from now). I don't think I'll have time to do anything on Sunday.

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I DO still remember this thing exists, and I WILL enter this week. However, my thesis deadline got pushed back a bit, which gives me a bit more time to breathe, but my entry will be delayed.

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Title: My father's son

Fandom: A tie in with my ongoing story in Written Works, A Brief History of the Twentieth Century

Words: 2499

[spoiler=Here it is at long last!]

November 2, 1939

In an airfield in Essen, Germany, a red Messerschmitt descended towards the ground. It was one among many fighters returning from combat operations that day, but there was something that gave it fame amongst soldiers of the German Empire and infamy with its arch enemy, the French Empire. Its pilot was Rudolf von Richtofen, a pilot in the German air force, and son of the prestigious Manfred von Richtofen, the Red Baron. As the plane glided to the earth, like an eagle returning to its nest, the men on the ground let out a collective cheer. The Barons son had returned! He had whipped the Frogs good! The war was surely won now!

In his heart, Rudolf von Richtofen knew that this was stupidity. One man, no matter how powerful, could not win a war. Well, von Richtofen mused, I suppose Guderian is coming reasonably close. Those Panzer strategies are really paying off. Guderian, of course, was a general. Generals won wars. Von Richtofen, high ranking or no, was an airman at heart. Although of noble birth, the squadron leader always flew with the pilots under his command against the planes of the United Kingdom (Germanys other main enemy in the war). Still, he relished the adoration he received from his men. He was the hope of Germany. And today he was having a very bad day.

Five hours earlier

The red Messerschmitt dodged and weaved through the clouds. Von Richtofen turned his head, desperately trying to locate his opponent: a British Spitfire. Scanning the clouds around him, he saw a quick flash of metal to his left. Banking left, he sent the Messerschmitt into a dive against the enemy. The plane burst from the clouds, machine guns spitting a hail of bullets. Smoke gushed from the Spitfires engine like blood from a wound. Von Richtofen turned away. He had done enough. There was no way the Spitfire was surviving now. A damaged plane was like a lamed animal. Damaging it was the hard part. The responsible thing for an ace like him to do would be to leave the kill for the new blood.

Flying just below the clouds, von Richtofen scanned the air for enemy fighters. It is in the air, he mused, where man truly comes closest to his bestial nature; in the cockpit, he has only his own thoughts and the menial task of seeking out the enemy to occupy him. It was much like the situation of the predators of old, with no company but themselves and their desire to kill.

Is that so? a voice inquired.

Von Richtofen jumped. He checked his radio. That was strange. It was off. Then who, the Baron wondered to himself, had asked that?

Just then, von Richtofen spotted what was unquestionably a British Corsair bomber squadron soaring beneath him. Diving towards them, he squeezed down on the trigger, but it was then, in this most critical of moments, that the voice returned. Come on. I asked you a question. Is that so? it inquired, with mild annoyance.

Von Richtofen swore with surprise, jerking the plane upwards, the gunfire missing harmlessly. There went his initiative. Who are you? he demanded, checking his radio again, to be sure. Sure enough, it was off. So there had to be someone or something in his plane with him. And yet, there was no response.

Von Richtofen was jolted out of his reverie when he felt gunfire rake the side of his plane. Looking to his right, he saw two British Hurricanes flying towards the Messerschmitt. That wasnt good. In any air battle, the outnumbered pilot was as good as dead. Quickly, von Richtofen banked away from the Hurricanes, trying to lose them with his maneuvers. Twisting through the air, the Messerschmitt dodged all the bullets thrown at it by the enemy. Still, the mission had been a failure. Out of the corner of his eye, von Richtofen could see the Corsairs unloading their bombs on a British airfield. Shit, he thought regretfully, that cant have been good for the war effort.

Suddenly, it returned. That voice. No, Rudolf. It wasnt. And it was all your fault. How does that make you feel?

Finally, Von Richtofen lost his composure. Shut up! he screamed furiously. Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up!

Come now, Rudolf. Is that any way to treat your dear friend? the voice inquired, mockingly.

I dont know who the hell you are, but I do know that youre not my friend! responded von Richtofen, noting with some degree of satisfaction that the Hurricanes were gone. They had no doubt abandoned their pursuit after coming to the realization that they ran the risk of being swarmed by enemy fighters if they continued. That gave von Richtofen an idea.

Ooh, is that where you work? the voice asked with mock excitement as the Messerschmitt neared the runway. As it continued yammering on about something or another, von Richtofen turned on his radio and contacted air traffic control. As he suspected, the voice stopped. As he got permission to land, von Richtofenaligned his plane with the runway, considering the implications of what had just happened. And that brings us right back to where we started.

About thirty minutes later, von Richtofen lay in his cot, going over what he knew. So lets see, he thought to himself, this voice consistently tormented me today during the mission. But what is it? What does it want? It did lead to those Corsairs bombing those airfields. Does it have something against Germany? This is going nowhere.

He decided to change tactics. What is it, then? Im not hearing it now, that much is certain. Of course, it could be a product of my mind. I could be stark raving mad! Bah. Well, it went silent when I turned on the radio. Could it be in my plane? He sat bolt upright. Yes, that was it!

Just then, a flight officer entered his room. Squadron leader von Richtofen, the officer said, saluting, Air general Hoffman would like to see you and the rest of the squadron leaders in the command tent. Its urgent. Von Richtofen returned the salute, heading for the command tent. He would worry about this later.

In the command tent, General Hoffman and the rest of the squadron leaders were seated around a table with a map of the Ruhr (a heavily industrialized region of Germany) at its center. As Von Richtofen entered, Hoffman cleared his throat.

Right then, lets not waste any time, he began, the Brits have launched a major aerial offensive against our airbases in the Ruhr. High Command is pretty much in agreement that they aim to achieve total air superiority in the area, so they can bomb the Ruhr with impunity. I dont have to tell you gentlemen that this would be a very bad thing indeed. Von Richtofen and his colleagues nodded gravely. If the enemy was permitted to destroy Germanys biggest industrial area, the whole war could be lost!

Now, High Command has come up with a very risky plan to deal with this problem, continued Hoffman. One squadron of fighters will escort five squadrons of bombers as soon as the enemy begins their attack to one target: London. This will hopefully cause the enemy to divert enough fighters to stop the attack on London to enable us to annihilate the enemy in the air above the Ruhr. Here Hoffman paused gravely, as if carefully deciding how he was going to word this next part. I shouldnt have to tell you gentlemen this, but the raid on London is a suicide mission. There is no way one squadron of fighters will be able to beat the massive response the Brits are sure to send. Now, do I have any volunteers?

No hands were raised.

Von Richtofen was coming to a realization. That realization was not a pleasant one. He really was the one best suited for the job. With his flying skills effectively neutralized by that thing in his plane, the most useful thing he could do was act as bait. Before he even knew what he was doing, von Richtofen got to his feet. General Hoffman, sir, my men and I would be honored to die for the Kaiser.

Hoffman rose his eyebrows in surprise. Are you sure about this? We can easily arrange you to be transferred, due to you being you know

Von RIchtofen knew perfectly well. As the son of a wealthy nobleman, and a war hero to boot, he really didnt have to do this. He also bristled at the suggestion that he would stoop so low. With all due respect, sir, I am a soldier, not a university student. He replied. This elicited laughs from the assembled squadron leaders.

Hoffman nodded his head in ascent. Very well, squadron leader. Just be prepared to go into action the instant our radar detects enemy fighters. Id suggest that you inform your men of their task.

The next day, at 6:00 in the morning, sirens blared all across the airfield. The Luftwaffe pilots awoke with a start, and were prepared for battle quickly. They had slept in their uniforms, so as to be better prepared for the decisive battle.

Von Richtofen ran out of the barrack, and headed for his squadrons airfield. Looking behind him, he could see the rest of his men doing the same. Hurriedly, he vaulted into his plane, which was first on the runway. As he fastened his seatbelt, he turned on the radio, so as to know when precisely to take off. This was also to stop the voice. Von Richtofen knew that neither himself nor his plane and whatever inhabited it was long for the world.

Finally, the voice he was so accustomed to hearing rang through his radio. Pilots, you are cleared to take off. It was more than a clearance. For the men of von Richtofens squadron, it was a death sentence and they knew it after last night. That didnt matter now. What mattered was the outcome of today.

The path that von Richtofens squadron and the bombers they were escorting would take to reach London was a treacherous one. Firstly, they could not go over territory occupied by the United Kingdom or its ally, Imperial France. As such, they would fly north, to Wilhelmshaven, and then head over the North Sea to Britain. There was no way they had the fuel to reach London and make the return journey. This really was a suicide mission.

As von Richtofens squadron reached soaring altitude, that voice that the airman had grown so accustomed to blared through the cockpit. Back again, eh, Rudolf? the voice enquired, somewhat perversely. Back to fight for an ungrateful nation so that liberals in the future can call you a war criminal?

Von Richtofen did not respond. He merely waited for the voice to notice the thing that was fundamentally different about todays flight path. The voice suddenly sounded worried. Wait, it asked nervously, why are we headed north? Thats not where the enemy is! Are you being a coward?

Von Richtofen allowed himself this small satisfaction, at least. No, Im being anything but, he replied smugly. The question is: are you a coward. If you arent, you should be perfectly willing to go to London on a suicide mission so that your comrade planes can win.

At this the voice lost all composure. Turn around! Turn around! it demanded furiously. Please! Turn around, now!

Von Richtofen didnt care. He was busy monitoring his radar screen. He could see a massive amount of British fighters converging on his squadrons position. He nodded with satisfaction. He was doing his job. Looking down, he saw the city of Wilhelmshaven below him, and, further on, the North Sea. He savored his last glimpse of Germany, before radioing the rest of his squad. Over Wilhelmshaven. Turn over to the North Sea. From there, head to London.

The voice was getting desperate. It had to do something to survive. As a Hurricane dove towards one of the bombers, it yelled out Youre only doing this because you have a pathetic inferiority complex! Youre worried that youll only ever be in the shadow of your father, so you decided to sacrifice yourself in some hope that youll be remembered as anything ever than your fathers son! Well this changes nothing!

Von Richtofen screamed then, the scream of a man who cannot get what he wants. In that moment, he would have liked nothing better than to destroy this damnable voice that had been tormenting him. Instead, he took his anger out on the Hurricane. Bullets tore through the plane without mercy; it was literally shattered in the air, debris flying everywhere. Regaining his composure, Von Richtofen turned on his radio, connecting with all the pilots under his command. All planes, he began, full speed ahead to London. Fuel be damned, I want a few bombs to fall on that FUCKING city before we all go down in flames. Fighters, continue protecting the bombers. With that, he set his Messerschmitt into full throttle, headed towards London.

The Spitfires and Hurricanes were a tornado around von Richtofens men, the bullets a never ending hail of death. More and more planes entered the fray. All around von Richtofen, his comrades crashed in flames. Do you see? demanded the voice. Do you see what your pride has wrought? More and more airmen dying, and for what? Your own foolish pride! Please, turn the plane around this instant! Von Richtofen ignored him.

And yet, despite all of this, he began to feel increasingly alone. All around him, his squadron, men with whom he had fought, men who it was his responsibility to protect, crashed to the ground in flames. The voice had turned to full on begging now, lying prostrate. And, finally, Rudolf von Richtofen could see looming in the distance the site of his death: London. Big Ben towered into the sky like a spire of doom. And yet, von Richtofen could not rest in peace if he died ignorant of one last thing. He turned on his radio and contacted his airfield, one last time. This is squadron leader von Richtofen. Did we win? he inquired breathlessly.

Affirmative, came the reply.

Von Richtofen breathed a sigh of relief. He could rest easy now. As he eased his Messerschmitt around, towards the enemy formation against which he had no hope of surviving, the voice blared through his plane. Well? Are you happy now? it demanded furiously. Happy that you finally made your mark? Happy that you can finally be more than your fathers son?.

Von Richtofen thought about this for a second. A second was all it took. This was never about me. He stated simply. This was about doing my- our- duty. And we did.

And, with that, Rudolf von Richtofen faced his death.

If the spoiler is still messed up, could Eclipse please fix it? Again? Sorry if my technological ignorance is causing hassle.

Edited by blah2127
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Remove the spaces from the ending and starting spoiler tags

[spoiler=Like this]STUFFSTUFFSTUFF[/spoiler]
[spoiler=Like this]STUFFSTUFFSTUFF

It's not rocket science...

Edited by Glaceon Lord
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I DO still remember this thing exists, and I WILL enter this week. However, my thesis deadline got pushed back a bit, which gives me a bit more time to breathe, but my entry will be delayed.

Ok, I'm going to extend once more because your thesis is important and I know how much you wanted to enter. I'm not about to mess up any potential entrants when they have something as important as a thesis that is due. But please be aware this is the last time I will extend the contest so we can get to the voting phase soon. (Unless another entrant has another huge important thing that would otherwise prevent them from entering but I can only extend so many times, so please be aware of that)

The final deadline for this competition is May 6th, 12:00AM. This will be the last extension so please be aware of this. Check the new ending time here.

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SF randomly goes out for me. Would you accept entries via an alternate means?

The extension should be enough to clean up what I have, to the point where I feel like it's worth entering into something. I'm asking the above just in case I wind up with another error.

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Remove the spaces from the ending and starting spoiler tags

[spoiler=Like this]STUFFSTUFFSTUFF[/spoiler]
[spoiler=Like this]STUFFSTUFFSTUFF

It's not rocket science...

Thank you! And it isn't.

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SF randomly goes out for me. Would you accept entries via an alternate means?

The extension should be enough to clean up what I have, to the point where I feel like it's worth entering into something. I'm asking the above just in case I wind up with another error.

Sure thing, you can either upload it to google docs or something, or ask me for my email in a PM and you can send it to me that way. I'll post it in the thread and say you wrote it so there's no confusion. :B):

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Y'know what cooperated? SF! I'm gonna post this now, before it goes kaput again.

Title: Prelude

Universe: Original. I've written about this world elsewhere, though I've since made some changes. They are NOT my Skittles, even if the number, gender, and approximate age match.

Words: ~1980

Draft status: Still a mess, but it's as clean as I'm going to get it. I really want to expand on this world, because a certain someone really, REALLY wants the attention.

"ARRGH!"

Blue looked at the now-ruined page in front of him. The words were sprinkled with ink spots, some of the large enough to obscure letters. Yet despite the mess, the ink had miraculously avoided the desk, his hands, and his clothes.

Yellow's head poked through the doorway. "Chill. It's not like this'll kill you," the other mage stated.

"Of course it won't kill me! But this is the eighth book that's been ruined like this, and it always happens at the same page!" Blue retorted. Yellow shook his head.

"Perhaps it's time for you to take a break. I'm sure one of the rocks here would love to talk to you." Rather than attempt to give that drivel a proper response, Blue shot Yellow a dirty look.

"Rocks are sociable only to YOU. They don't say thing to me." Blue looked up at Yellow, and sighed when he saw the latter with his eyes closed, a gold-flecked stone in his hands.

"It's because you're too noisy and volatile. Life would be so much better if everyone would let the small things slide," Yellow responded, his eyes now focused on the stone in his hands. Much to Blue's relief, Yellow vacated the doorway after that last bit of unwanted advice.

"When we're being killed for who we are, it's no longer a small thing," Blue grumbled. "And it's my job to record all of this. From now, until eternity."

---

Blue wordlessly stared at the ink spots on the page of his ninth attempted copy. Like its predecessors, it spread out over one particular page.

"That's IT!" he yelled, slamming the feathered pen down.

"HEY, THAT HURT!"

"Who's there?!"

"I'm down here!" The voice came from the desk. Blue's hands instinctively went towards a book he kept in his robes.

"Desks don't talk," he replied flatly, book at ready.

"Of course desks don't talk! I'm not a desk! I'm a pen!" He couldn't argue with the pen's logic, but the entire affair made no sense. Inanimate objects weren't supposed to talk!

"But I'm special! Remember how White called a cockatrice, just so you could see one without dying? And remember how a lone feather fell from the creature, as it went back home, and how you kept it because it was special, and then how you plucked out some of its lower feathers to make a pen, so you'd be able to--"

"ENOUGH!" Blue yelled. He had no idea what magic was at work, but whatever it was, it needed to be taught proper conversation etiquette.

"What's conversation etiquette?" the voice piped up.

"I'm making this up in my head. That has to be it. How else would it respond to my thoughts? I need to take a break." Blue put the now-useless draft copy off to the side.

"Can I go with you?"

"NO!"

Much to his surprise, he heard a sniffle. "Once upon a time, you let me see the outside world, whether it be in the middle of a field, or in a cave, or even that one time when you dropped me in a stream and spent the entire day looking for me. But now all I see are these dreary old walls."

Blue gave the pen one last glare before picking it up and vacating the room, slamming the door as he left.

---

Blue surveyed the stone path, stone walls that made up the stronghold, and stone sculptures from a medusa. She'd answered White's call for help some years back, and had decided to overstay her welcome after she became enamored with Yellow. On cue, his thoughts were rudely interrupted.

"Wah? It's just as boring out here as it was in there!" the pen complained.

"You're outside. Why are you still complaining?"

"Outside means life! It means fresh air amongst the plants and animals! But it's all rocky, and the air's stale. How are you supposed to live like this?"

Blue chuckled dryly. "It's been a long time since I've been alive. Now, I exist, and I will continue to exist as long as I'm hunted."

For a few blessed moments, silence reigned, before being broken by the pen. "This isn't what you wanted when you first made that pact. You wanted to end the killings, and yet all you do is sit in this dreary place and write about things that no one will ever read. What kind of writing is that?"

"That's. How. I. Was. Born. I record what happens, and if it's something that happened to me, it becomes some sort of inescapable mind-spell that makes the reader relive that exact moment in time. Yet somehow it's so VERY DANGEROUS that I had to go into hiding. It's not like I can summon a horde of creatures, or order an avalanche to rain from a mountain," Blue said through gritted teeth.

"Without a pen, ink, and paper, you can't use your magic," the pen responded, its voice unusually quiet. "But if you have all three, you're able to utilize the power of the archivist - one of the strongest magicks in the world. It's my job to make you powerful!"

"Give me a break." The pen responded with something akin to a sigh.

"Think about it, will you? Anyone who reads what you wrote can see, feel, and remember things, just as you envisioned them, and the more you believe it happened, the stronger your magic is. What if you wrote down how you felt when you had to leave White behind in hostile territory, and put it where everyone could read it? You can capture hearts and minds with ease, but instead, you mope about how powerful you're not."

"That is NOT how I want to treat others! I don't want to be in charge of other people's thoughts!"

Blue froze as he heard footsteps from the entrance. Red stood behind him, his eyebrows furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. "Who are you talking to?"

"Just needed to cool off for a bit. Noting like nine failed copies of a book to bring me down," Blue grumbled.

"If you need to vent, you can talk to one of us," Red responded, almost in a whisper. "But that's not what I came here for. We have visitors arriving, and we need to greet them properly." A pained smile crossed Blue's lips. Visitors were almost always hostile.

"You are looking forward to these visitors?" the pen inquired.

"It'll make the day more interesting. Hey, Red, wait up!"

---

Seeing-stones had been set up along the road, each one being as uninteresting to look at as the rest of the landscape. Yellow had said that the rocks were more than happy to share what they saw - whatever that was supposed to mean. The images in turn were transmitted to another, larger set of stones within the stronghold, each polished down to a mirror-like finish. Every seeing-stone was connected to at least one of the mirrored ones, thanks to the long, invisible threads Red weaved with his magic. It was in this room that the four young men in the stronghold gathered.

"Five of the enemy, as usual. Our taste in exterior design has failed to dissuade them," Green stated, a vial of something brown and opaque in his grip.

"I think seeing a petrified version of an old friend would have the opposite effect," Yellow chimed in. "I suppose a few more century's worth of imprisonment as a statue would be fitting punishment for their trespass."

"Pity the medusa can only turn one person into stone per day. Something about being compassionate for her species, or something," Green continued. "Anyway, they should be easy enough to split up. Just look at how they walk down the road."

The one in front, no doubt the leader, walked briskly, her raven-black ponytail swinging in time to her steps, with no regards to the other four behind her. The next two walked on opposite sides of the road, neither of them letting the other get an inch ahead of her. One had curly red-brown hair, and the other one had hair so pale it was nearly white. The last two carried the mundane things that any long journey needed. When the redheaded girl tripped, her companion stopped to give her a hand up.

Blue stopped paying attention to his companions when he saw the redhead trip. The final member of the group had faced the seeing-stone for a single moment. She looked to be no older than he appeared to be. Despite the long journey, her green eyes sparkled with life, her rosy lips held a smile, and her long, tangled brown hair cascaded around her stunning white dress like a fashion accessory.

"HELLO!" Blue's attention was rudely diverted back into the stronghold. "Which of the girls should go where, Blue?" Red asked, irritation in his voice.

"The black-haired girl can play with the medusa, since it looks like she's the one in charge. The two silent ones behind her can feed the chimera and hydra - doesn't matter which one goes where, if they can't resolve their differences amongst themselves, they'll be hard-pressed to resolve a lot of different heads. The redhead looks like she's physically strong and clumsy, so I think the minotaur should make short work of her. The brown-haired one should end up sacrificing herself to save one of them, so I don't think we'll need any more than that."

A chortle answered Blue's analysis. "Whatever you say, lover boy," Green said lightly, poking Blue in the ribs. "Can't have the harpies messing with the brown-haired one, after all. What if they mar her face?"

"That's enough, you two. I think the harpies should be enough for the brown-haired one," Red ordered, his gaze never leaving the images on the polished stones. "We should get ready for battle, too. It probably won't be needed, but it would be absolutely pathetic if we fell because we were unprepared. Let's go!"

---

"H-hey, what's the rush?" Blue's pen protested, as its owner fumbled out a scroll and ink.

"Hush, I've got something important to write!" Blue snapped.

"Oh, a love letter? Are you going to woo one of them? I approve. It will end things with minimal casualties, save the poor girl's heart," the pen teased, with its own version of a giggle.

"You said you wanted to make me powerful, right? Now's your chance to do it. I need to write this as fast as possible. If I put it on the pillars right outside of our stronghold, it should buy us some time. Those magical girls may be enemies, but they're still capable of empathy. Perhaps they'll turn back when they understand how much injustice their higher-ups have caused me," the archivist explained, ignoring the drop of ink that somehow made it into his mouth.

"That brown-haired girl could be yours, with the right words," the pen tempted.

"That's for her to decide. But if they insist on fighting, I want them to know our story. After all, what good is my writing if no one sees it?"

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Title: Of Holds Stronger Than Steel

Fandom: Pokemon

Words: 2,436

Weapon: Aegislash

[spoiler=Of Holds Stronger Than Steel]

No one has heard from Calem in seven days.

It's typical for Calem to vanish. Either metaphorically into the depths of his Pokedex or literally into the depths of caves, but he always resurfaces after a day. Two, at the very most. He never answered calls while he was researching and hardly ever checked his messages ­- let alone respond to them - so a sudden burst of activity on his end after a day of silence was typical. He would call, asking where did she want to meet again and when a good two days after she'd initially arranged it. He'd be late by about thirty minutes, dragging his bag behind him along the ground and slumping into the chairs he sat in. The exhaustion would be etched into every line in his face, and he'd only stir himself in liveliness at the mention of Pokemon and food, but he would be there.
Even Calem's record disappearance - three days and two hours with only one text to Trevor asking the Pokedex entry for a Sableye - was nothing compared to this. He'd long since blown past that and doubled it, all without a single message to anyone. Not an "okay", not an "i'll see you later". Nothing. Complete silence.
By now, Serena's concern had bloomed into a full-out worry.
She had called Shauna twice on the dawn of day seven, since she was the only one even remotely near Vaniville and could maybe swing by to check on him. She was off with a Trainer she had hiked through Route 17 with at the time, and Trevor and Tierno had practically anchored themselves to Lumiose City. Serena had even peppered her pleas with pleases, but Shauna calls at sunset with a friendly hello and hangs up with a tittery I forgot, and Serena remembers the old adage of "if you want something done to do it yourself".
She bids Trainer Anna farewell once they arrive at the Pokemon Center, explains it as she retrieves her Talonflame, and sets a swift course for home.
It only strikes her as silly once the sun's dropped behind the horizon and the red roofs of Vaniville are in her sight. Maybe Calem decided to go deep into the Whispering Woods, maybe Calem simply broke his phone. Maybe Calem's joking about how he's finally gotten to be too good for them became a reality and he's cut them off. The last one's a stretch - he's a jerk, not a jackass - but anything's better than the crippling worry sinking into her bones, tightening her grip on her Talonflame's reins until her knuckles are the color of snow.
They descend onto Calem's lawn with grace, and Serena dismounts with weak knees and a promise to return shortly. She strokes the soft feathers along the base of the bird's neck (three times in quick succession, a Kalosian tradition for good luck), turns to the front door, and freezes.
His light upstairs is on.
Relief melts into anger swiftly enough. By the time she's gathered the resolve to move forward, she's storming, heavy steps thudding against the concrete with the clicks of her boots.
She hits the front door a little harder than she should have, skin washed yellow with the glow of that damned upstairs light. She's going to tear into him, she decides then. She's going to stomp up those seven steps to his bedroom, yank open the door and tear him apart. If he has the audacity to lie there on his bed, reading his damned Pokedex, and not reply to any of her messages simply because --
Serena knocks on the door twice more. She waits. Shifts her weight from one foot to the other while the minutes tick by and there isn't an answer. Up above her, the light dims, then goes dark. He doesn't have the right, she thinks, and her hand drops down onto the knob just to test it, already bending down to lift the mat for the key with the mindset that it won't work.
It twists under her grip. She looks up just as the click sounds and the door budges open slightly under the force. Now she's concerned again, for even in the eventless town of Vaniville, Calem's mother does not leave her door unlocked.
Serena doesn't wait for an invitation anymore - she shoves upon the door and all but stampedes inside, listening to the ambiance and waiting for a sound, a word. Any sort of outcry (she did just break in, after all), but other than the slow, steady drip from the leaking faucet there's nothing. She calls out his name, a loud, firm shout that's bound to catch his attention if he were up there. It should catch his attention - she’s by no means quiet and everything else is, so why is there no answer?
If he’s ignoring her, she’ll wring his neck. She’ll wring his neck with her shaking hands as to why he made her suffer through seven days of worry.
So she takes to the stairs, goes up them one at a time and makes sure each time her foot comes down it’s loud. I’m coming for you Calem, she thinks with each resounding thud. I’m coming for you Calem, and you better be okay. You better be okay. She pushes open the door to his bedroom and the thoughts turn into a roar, into a stampede of panic so broken-up and static-y that she has to stop just in the threshold so she can breathe.
She expects nothing.
So why is she so scared?
She expected nothing, and on a first sweep of the room, that's what she receives - nothing.­ All of Calem's books are stacked on his dresser, in Calem's typical haphazard fashion. Clothes are strewn across the floor, most of them oozing from a knapsack half opened. Jackets, pants, shirts - some of them spotted with flecks of soil and stained with something dark, others untouched by grime but discolored. His map is hanging off the back of his chair with his notes smeared into unreadable watermarks - and it's then the smell hits her. The smell of rancid swamp water, the smell of Route 14 etched into every damp thing and into the carpet that squelches under her feet.
But while the water smells - it stirs in the swamp. It doesn't stagnate to the point where the smell concentrates like that, coats the air like that, unless it's been soaked into something motionless for days.
So in other words, none of this stuff has been washed.
Serena's first thought is disgust, then confused. Calem's always clean - except when he's knee-deep in caves of course, but even then he tries. She shudders, rolling her shoulders back and the quick glance over her right one causes her to find him, stretched out on his bed with his hands folded over his stomach. Even from here she can see that his hair is greasy, unwashed, and his clothes are still stained with grass and soil.
That's not right, she thinks as she approaches him. Stands tall over her and lets her eyes rake down his form.
She clears her throat once and calls out his name. "Calem." She makes she's loud, loud enough to pierce through the too-heavy air and reach his eyes, wherever he might be, and hen the boy doesn't open his damn eyes a part of her snaps.
Her hand goes to grab his wrist - she's going to yank him awake if she has to, how dare he not call her, how dare - and suddenly there's a flash of white across her eyes. Pain. Flares of it are going up and down a wrist that's being turned wrong and Selena has to blink thrice before she can see the reason why.
Calem is grabbing her wrist. Calem is twisting it.
She doesn't have time to dwell on the fact that he's hurting her, because he speaks. He speaks with his voice but it's a voice that's been altered, layered with another that clangs, sparks, grinds against her ears like metal being smelted. It's an old voice mixed in with his young one, and the contrast rings in a way that hurts.
"Do not lay your fingers upon my host," he says, and the words hurt. They pop up too many questions too fast. Selena clamps her other hand to her head, then stamps her foot down and yanks. She's out of his grip soon enough, stumbling back, her fingers throbbing as the blood rushes back into them.
What is going on? What is going on?
"Host?" Serena shakes her head. She's going to just pretend this is a game and she's no longer a child; she's not in the mood to play and eventually he'll relent, won't he? "Calem, this isn't funny. Why haven't you called me? Or - or anyone, really." He fixes his eyes upon hers, brown eyes dark and blank, and speaks again.
"You speak to my host. Not I." Calem is still lying there, his arm now back down at his side, just as it was before he grabbed at her. There's something cold about the way he speaks when he looks back to the ceiling and says, "I will only accept your audience if it is I you wish to converse with."
"Then who the hell are YOU?" It bursts out of her, breaking at the end as panic kicks her heart into overdrive. She reclaims those steps she staggered back with far more confidence, with much more demand, prepared to snatch him from atop navy covers and shake him until his sense returns. If this is a game, she is long since through playing it, and she reaches down one more time to take a hold of his arm --
She stops.
She stares.
She suddenly understands.
For wrapped around Calem's arm is a black scarf, tapered with purple, and on the scarf's other end lies a golden sword.
Serena pulls in a ragged sigh and curses under her breath. She warned him, she warned him. She warned him about the whispers of the dark, to stand away from dark pulses cast and from the creeps of shadows stalking. She warned him about listening, listening to the spirits of old and their whispers of deceit and death, the way they pulled at your soul and spun it through their voice like yawn through a spindle --
She warned him. Explicitly. Repeatedly. Ever since the day she got her Litwick and was plagued with an exhaustion so deep it sunk into her bones and she didn't know why -- she warned everyone who would listen.
There's an appeal to reforming darkness. The problem is that it may draw you down instead.
"Why do you want him?" she asks. "He's not a king. He's not... royalty, he's just a boy -" Her words hitch and she has to stop, hold them in her throat while she thinks of what to say. If Calem's been under its mercy completely for seven days he may very well be gone. The hold of a fully evolved Aegislash is one that's poisoned the strongest, most unbiased of minds for years after its control has been severed. It takes kings, politicians, it takes people of importance and she has to ask -- what does a sword of kings want with someone who was almost something?
"I hold him not for what he is, but what he can be." The sword rattles, tassles gently stroking his arm and Serena feels sick. How dare it, how dare it, how dare it use him, her mind screams as it ignores the fact that she used his own knowledge to surpass him. She, who last year, didn't know how a Poke-ball worked, took his advice and shaped herself with it until she became Champion. She took him and all but threw him away until she needed him, and now that someone else has picked him up, she won't let them have him.
It. It.
It's not a them, it's a sword --
"What he can be..." she whispers, and Calem's used voice rings.
"He is one of capability, of wisdom and knowledge spread wide throughout a mind always turning. He is a solver of puzzles, a reader of intercies; he is only weak to those who value strength in numbers and not words. He finds power in an unused medium and strikes from areas unexpected. In him, I see a soul older than time, revived again like traits in a dominant animal. Its tenacity enables it to live, and his tenacity enables him to thrive still." There is a pause, brief but poignant before it ends with: "He is not a king yet. But he shall be a Champion."
"But -" Serena stops. She claps a hand to her mouth as the sword's tassel tugs on Calem's arm and makes him move. He sits up with the stiffness of something robotic, swings both legs over the side of his bed. His feet touch down and he stands, unused joints popping, each crack in his neck like gunshots as he rolls it across his shoulders. The sword lifts itself into his open hand and Calem slides the blade across his knuckles, the lines it makes blooming beads of blood that burst and spill over his hands.
He sets the blade against, this time raising his hand so it rests level to her heart.
She suddenly, again, understands.
But oh -- if this hunk of metal thinks she's going to accept that, she won't.
She reaches into her bag and grasps the Pokeball she has in mind - and just from touching the surface she feels the slow drags of a burning exhaustion. Good, she thinks. Drain it until it's dry, until its soul is an empty and charred as a blackened desert.
Whatever mercy - or pity she felt, that she always reserves for Ghost-types gone awry is dead.
"Sure," she challenges, fishing the Pokeball out and holding a thumb just so over the button. "If that's your ambition." She grinds a foot into the ground, staring down the golden blade and right into the eye of the thing with its grip on Calem's soul. She speaks to it, not to him. The parasite, and not the host.
"But if you want it," she says. "We're putting up a fight first."
We, she says, because she means it.
She is not the only one who has a demon to battle, and she'd be damned if he won't fight it with her.

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I'm done. It's not that good and a lot shorter than I wanted it to be, but hey I was working under a time crunch.

Title: When Books Talk

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Awakening

Words: 1726 (if my word count is correct)

Characters: Laurent, Robin, Miriel, Validar

Grima’s Truth – the sacred book of the Grimleal; carefully passed down through the cult for generations and revered as a vessel for the true teachings of Grima. Only those who were worthy could decrypt its holy script and be blessed with its might and power. It was what Grima himself had decreed.

To Robin, it was nothing but indecipherable garbage.

He was not merely a carrier of Grima’s blood. Robin was Grima’s vessel, a perfection of the Grimleal after centuries of selective breeding. If there was anyone who had a claim to Grima’s sacred tome it was Robin – their god in human form. Not even Validar had that right.

Validar had been a foe not easily defeated – or swayed. Chrom and Lucina had fought the Plegian king with all their strength while the Shepherds had defended their leaders from the Grimleal … all without Robin’s help or his tactics. Even after Validar had lied to and used him, Robin could not bring himself to fight against the only family he’d ever known and left the responsibility of putting him down to Chrom.

In the end, he would never truly know what had transpired in that battle other than that Validar had mysteriously switched sides and chosen to fight for him – for Robin and not for Grima. Not even Chrom, nor anyone else who had been present, could explain why. But Robin was fine with not knowing because in the end the outcome was what he had wanted all along.

Sometime during the journey to Mount Prism, Validar had approached him – wanting to talk. Robin had dreaded it, not knowing what there was to talk about or what to believe anymore, but Validar had simply handed him a tome – very old by the look of it, but also timeless in a way; its cover was a deep purple, same as all dark tomes, but it resonated with a chilling power. The familiar symbol etched on its cover told Robin all he needed to know – this was Grima’s Truth, the treasure of the Grimleal.

“For countless generations, the heads of the Grimleal cult have guarded this book from our enemies,” Validar had said, his voice distant as if he were reciting a speech. “Like our ancestors before us, I too had been tasked with keeping Grima’s Truth safe for our master.” He paused, almost as if the next words he wanted to say physically pained him. “I know not what purpose it holds anymore, but nonetheless it is your birthright. Use it well, my son. May its power bless you as it has done so for centuries of Grimleal –”

“It’s incomprehensible gibberish,” Robin had interrupted, a disgruntled expression on his face as he flipped through the pages of the tome. What should’ve formed words on paper were nothing more than lines upon lines of scribbles – it was as if an illiterate had tried to weave an elaborate story without knowing how to write.

His wife, Miriel, had been attempting to read the tome over his shoulder. Her expression was one of irritated confusion – unlike her husband, Miriel understood the language that dark tomes were written in and was versed in intermediate dark spells. But the context of Grima’s Truth eluded her as well. “How vexatious. It is evident that this tome refuses to relinquish its knowledge, a disappointment.”

“Ugh.” Robin had slammed the tome shut in disgust. “It’s useless to me, that’s what it is,” he’d said to Validar. “You might as well take it back, it won’t do me any good.”

But Validar had refused to accept it; his response had been rather cryptic and he’d only stated that Grima’s Truth rightfully belonged to Robin – that it was up to him to decide what became of it.

So Robin tossed the once sacred scripture of the Grimleal into the convoy and never gave it a second thought.

-

Laurent took after his mother – an intellectual who was curious about the world and all that was in it, always wanting to learn more. To him, there was no knowledge that was forbidden – and dark magic was no exception.

Even now, most Ylisseans considered dark magic to be taboo; it was too dangerous, too uncontrollable, and would easily corrupt the minds and hearts of the weak. But Laurent, who had inherited the gift of dark magic from his mother, merely saw it as a branch of magic that required further exploration and study. He was not weak; naturally it posed no threat to him.

So when he found Grima’s Truth in the convoy, all but hidden under piles upon piles of weapons, Laurent immediately claimed it for himself in the name of curiosity.

Words that’d had no meaning to either of his parents were a world new and unexplored to Laurent. He was intrigued by the written text, a mixture of fascination and utter disbelief flowing through him. Was this what true power felt like – to be blessed with a knowledge forbidden to ordinary people?

The blood … it runs through you …

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, and it interrupted Laurent’s train of thought. He looked up from his reading and searched for the source of the voice, but there was no one other than him there. Uneasy but not wanting to leave the solitude of the convoy or interrupt his reading, Laurent debated his next course of action.

Child of Grima … do you wish to learn the truth of this world? To understand the true power of your bloodline?

It was in his head. The voice was not coming from the outside, but it was in his head. But who – or what – was speaking to him. It was then that Laurent had a sudden revelation – Grima’s Truth! Sure enough, when he looked down at his hands he saw that the tome in his hands was glowing an ominous shade of purple. Most people would have dropped the book immediately in alarm, but Laurent was not most people – he was an intellectual who let his curiosity override his good judgment all too often.

“I daresay … I must be hallucinating,” Laurent muttered, warily eyeing the book as if he were bracing for a response. “It is inconceivable to believe that tomes would be capable of communication.”

I am the will of Grima, his power manifest in physical form. I am no ordinary tome. You, born of my bloodline and blessed with the power of dark magic, you are worthy of my power.

So … it really was the tome that was speaking to him then. Every fiber of common sense in Laurent was screaming at him to stop speaking to the book, to inform his parents that Grima’s Truth seemed to have a life of its own. And yet …

His father had made no mention of this. Laurent had not been present when Robin had tossed Grima’s Truth into the convoy with nary a care, but he doubted that his father – paranoid and cautious as he was – would have treated an object with a mind of its own in such a blasé manner.

My vessel your father may be, but he was not worthy … a true shame. Your grandfather, and his father before him … they had the power. They were worthy of wielding my power. You have the same power as them. Child of Grima, I can teach you many things if you let me …

The offer was tempting, but Laurent knew better than to accept without giving it thought. He and his companions had come from the future to stop Grima, and Laurent knew that he could not allow Grima to destroy the present that they were in now.

But he hadn’t known until recently that Robin was Grima – that he and his sister were descent from Grima’s bloodline. It had put him in a state of shock when he first learned that the enemy he and his friends had vowed to slay was his own father. But the Robin of the present was not Grima – Robin’s path had deviated from that of Grima’s the moment Lucina had interfered in the past and changed the present. It had given Laurent hope that just because he was of Grima’s bloodline he did not have to walk the same destructive path.

Still, the revelation had only awakened something deep within him – the need to know more about the other half of his origins, to know the truth behind Grima and the ways of Plegia.

He probably would’ve given in to his desire for knowledge – agreed to let Grima’s Truth guide him and teach him its secrets. It would’ve been worth risking everything to know the truth he had been seeking so long.

“Laurent, who are you talking to?”

He probably would’ve given in, if it were not for Robin who had walked into the convoy without warning just then. Laurent quickly shut the tome and placed it down on a stack of fire tomes, turning to face his father. Without Grima’s Truth in his hands, his mind felt so much clearer … and lighter. It was as if a cloud he had not realized was there had been lifted.

“Father, good evening to you,” he said in his usual tone of voice. “What brings you here at this time of day?”

“There’s no one here,” Robin said, a strange expression on his face. “Laurent, I heard you talking with someone. But there’s no one here.”

“Ah, my apologies.” Laurent paused for a moment, as if debating whether to tell Robin of the events that had transpired earlier or not. “Father … something quite extraordinary just happened. That tome you got from Grandfather … I believe it spoke to me.”

“Tome? What tome? I don’t remember –” Robin stopped mid-sentence when he caught a glimpse of Grima’s Truth out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, right, that thing. You said that it spoke to you?”

“Yes. It was quite strange … and fascinating. Perhaps I should conduct more research into this phenomenon …”

“I don’t think you should go around messing with objects that talk to you, especially if they are named Grima’s Truth,” Robin interrupted. “I think we’re going to need to talk with your grandfather and see what exactly he hasn’t told us about Plegia’s national treasure …”

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Ok, time's up! Thanks to everyone who entered, the voting phase will begin shortly!

Here are the entries for this week's voting round:

Due to the extensions this week, the voting phase will end on Saturday, May 9 at 12:00AM. Click here to see how much time is left!

Edited by Jotaro Kujo
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What can a single ripple do?

Those at the Gateway of History monitor the flow of time. One day, a shrill klaxon rings through the halls. Somehow, a single, insignificant action in a world's timeline has triggered the History Write Protection - a divergence so great that it threatens to overwrite that world's established history.

Outline the single, insignificant event that altered the course of history for any given world (this one, another fictional world, or a world of your own imagining, though the last one will take a lot of creativity to pull off), and why that small change was so very devastating.

The tentative end date for this competition is May 17 at 10:00 PM HST. It's finals season, so writers may be much more busy than usual.

Glaceon

blah2127

Snowy_One

Ragged

Summer (Kay)

Formina Sage (Proto)

Edited by eclipse
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What can a single ripple do?

Those at the Gateway of History monitor the flow of time. One day, a shrill klaxon rings through the halls. Somehow, a single, insignificant action in a world's timeline has triggered the History Write Protection - a divergence so great that it threatens to overwrite that world's established history.

Outline the single, insignificant event that altered the course of history for any given world (this one, another fictional world, or a world of your own imagining, though the last one will take a lot of creativity to pull off), and why that small change was so very devastating.

The tentative end date for this competition is May 17 at 10:00 PM HST. It's finals season, so writers may be much more busy than usual.

So are we writing prose - with dialogue, action, and whatnot? Because "outline" makes me think more of a summary of events, like an entry in a history book. For instance: "Many Air Nomads lost their lives the first night of the Fire Nation invasion."

Just wanted to be clear on this prompt.

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