One of my players recently found an English paper he wrote back in the day. Considering he was only fourteen when he wrote it, it was remarkably entertaining. Since it dealt with our D&D campaign I decided to post it here. I cleaned up the grammar as best as I could and added some extra scenes to flesh it out (probably to the detriment of the story).
City of Wrath
Clyhpso put another log on the campfire, then went back to his task of keeping watch over the camp. He didn’t like it here, there were no crickets chirping, no wolves baying at the moons. He laughed quietly to himself, stroking his beard. What moons? There were no moons showing overhead, only the glowing green dots that somewhat resembled stars on the ceiling of the cave some one thousand feet above. One singularly large glow resembled a moon and that bothered his thinking because it reminded him where he was. He hadn’t seen the real moons, or for that matter, the sun for around twelve months now. He thought about his home in Calbut. He wished he were home again, enjoying the sub-zero temperatures, and the daily snow fall of a few inches- the kind of weather typical in the Duchy of Tenh this time of year. He smiled and snickered, he realized he didn’t even know what day it was anymore. With a sigh, his thoughts wandered to his lady. How he wished to be back home enjoying the nice weather with her.
He didn’t hear the creature coming up behind him until it was nearly thirty feet away. Cursing his dulling senses and unsheathing his sword, he went to confront the menace. He cursed again at his carelessness when the huge beast backhanded him in the chest. The blow imbedded him in one of the mushrooms that were the size of trees. While he was trying to free himself from the collapsing mushroom, he heard a short battle. As he continued to struggle to stand, a bronze colored hand broke through a piece of the mushroom. He took it and was pulled out.
“Could’ve handled it myself, Sigurd,” he said to his friend.
“Yeah, sure. You’re just getting lazy in your old age,” Sigurd said through a square jaw that Clyhpso had never seen opened more than half an inch.
“Old age? I’m barely twenty-eight,” Clyhpso retorted while examining the corpse of the creature that attacked them. He recognized it as a minor demon.
“As I recall, you’re thirty-one,” Sigurd said grinning.
“Whatever. You’re here to take over the watch, right?”
“Yes, your agedness.”
“Shut up,” Clyhpso said over his shoulder as he started back to camp.
When he arrived, he took off his chainmail and crawled into his bedroll. It was warm and comfortable. It should be, he thought to himself, he paid five gold to have it custom-made. Clyhpso could afford such luxury, he was rich. Most adventurers who lived as long as he had were. A lot more were dead already. He realized he couldn’t sleep, so he tried to think of something less depressing.