More or less exactly what the title suggests, this thread is for putting up ideas specifically for feedback from other writers, both published and not, as well as feedback from those who just enjoy seeing how the minds of others work. This really isn't for arguing game mechanics or things like that, although it may come up during the posts. Just put up an idea that you're mulling, perhaps some of the feedback will help you get past that block you've been dealing with for the past few weeks/months/uncomfortably long period of time you do not wish to quantify.
[EDIT] Had to edit the title!!!!
Hmmm. Well, I'm happy to provide feedback on anything, but I'm not so much looking for critiques as a co-author. Seriously, I came up with a whole world, figured out its ecosystems, economics, wrote a friggin language, populated it with diverse ethnic groups.....and then the story fizzled out. :/
So I either need someone to help me turn it into a game setting or help me write the gorram story. Or both. :)
I'm not sure if I'd be able to co-author with you, but I'd LOVE to see a synopsis of your world/setting and it's struggles- I'm working on that myself for a campaign setting and while I'm not very far down the road I think bouncing some ideas off each other might help! I have to go to a meeting at the second job now, but please post and I will respond before bed tonight.
Spoilered for length:
Hloewigheth (i.e. Haven...and that is a terrible transliteration, but Dorlahn is a phonetic language, and writing things out phonetically in English can be a bit tricky at times.) is a sentient planet. It is also b~~&&@$ crazy. It will sometimes just randomly change an ecosystem for no apparent reason. And it doesn't like creatures that drain its resources. Thankfully it is also a fairly lazy planet and tends to have a short memory.
Humans are not native to this planet. The original human inhabitants arrived here as refugees. The galaxy they came from was at war and this group got caught between the two sides, with both deciding that they would rather destroy them than let them fall into the other sides hands. So they rigged a hyperdrive engine to create a dimensional rift to find a way to escape certain destruction. While telepaths are highly prized in that world as they are the only means of communications between starships, this group were the non-standard psionic talents, ie psychokinesis, pyrokinesis, empathy, etc. They were all gathered together in a government run school so most of the refugees were not yet adults when they first arrived on Haven. I have lots more info about the InterStellar Empire and the governments and such that succeeded it, but that's a whole other kettle of fish.
To answer the next question, no the entire population is not psionically gifted even though the original settlers were. The planet found a psionic population too much trouble and has suppressed those abilities in most of the people who live there. The northerners are about as psionically gifted as a brick, though that is a recent development, and the southern kingdoms only have certain small talents. The nomadic tribes are the only ones with any appreciable psionic ability and that is very small and has become a form of ritualized blood 'magic'.
It's been thousands of years since humans arrived on Haven and there are no longer any records of where they came from. As far as they are concerned this is where they have always been from. There are three distinct ethnic groups and each has their own distinct culture. Every person on Haven has two names. These are not a standard first and last name as we think of it. Both names are first names. The first one is effectively the planet's classification of that person (it has sorted people into certain types and names them accordingly, but the humans are entirely unaware of this manipulation by the planet) and the second is their real name.
Of course it's not just humans that live there, and I think I will have to get into the rest of that later since I need to go take the kid out to play now. Feel free to ask any questions you like. This is an extremely basic outline of a very complex system so there's tons of stuff I'm leaving out.
Something useful that I have seen elsewhere is using a twin thread system. One thread can be created for the story and then a second one created for "discussion".
One of the best tools available with this method is the ability to learn how "readable" others find your work. By "readable" I mean how smoothly the audience can read and understand the work as opposed to whether or not the story is entertaining or interesting.
The rest of the synopsis:
The twist:
Greetings. Okay, I'm game to share my creations. Meager affairs that they are.
Flight or FIGHT! A short story set in the Privateer Press, Iron Kingdoms game
One shot A short story set in the Privateer Press Iron kingdoms game.
Hunters, Hunted My very first attempt at fan-fiction. Set in the reality of the Privateer Press Iron Kingdoms game.
Pirates Sunset Another fan-fic featuring certain characters from the previous Hunters, Hunted as well as other characters created in other shared role playing threads.
Unfortunately, neither Hunters, Hunted nor Pirates Sunset are finished. I am working upon the endings of both.
Feed back and comments welcome. :)
I hope said distractions give you some enjoyment and don't take too much out of your day.
*bows*
Lynora, your stuff sounds awesome!!! At first read, I wasn't too into the idea of a planet that was both sentient and crazy and a little dim, but when I read it again, it made a bizarre kind of sense. It doesn't have to be smart in the classical sense, it's a planet, and so its thought processes are going to be strange and alien to those that live on its surface. Perhaps the parasites are the only things that make any sense to the things that live on it, as noone likes being slowly eaten. Is the plane a character in the setting in and of itself or is it something else, akin to the Lady of Pain from Planescape?
I really like this, but your ideas are very broad(at least in brief), it makes some sense that you would want someone else to help you flesh it out.
Lynora, your stuff sounds awesome!!! At first read, I wasn't too into the idea of a planet that was both sentient and crazy and a little dim, but when I read it again, it made a bizarre kind of sense. It doesn't have to be smart in the classical sense, it's a planet, and so its thought processes are going to be strange and alien to those that live on its surface. Perhaps the parasites are the only things that make any sense to the things that live on it, as noone likes being slowly eaten. Is the plane a character in the setting in and of itself or is it something else, akin to the Lady of Pain from Planescape?
I really like this, but your ideas are very broad(at least in brief), it makes some sense that you would want someone else to help you flesh it out.
Oh, that was just the brief synopsis. I have it all fleshed out, cultures, language, systems of magic, all of it. What I lack is either someone to help me stat things up and organize it all clearly or someone to help me finish the gorram story that's set in this world. I forget how many chapter in I was I think eight. And then it just all ground to a halt due to the utter not workingness of it. All of the main characters hated each other. :/
Oh, and no, the plane itself is not a character, and the parasites are only recognized as such by some of the population, the rest preferring to remain ignorant and thinking that they are getting something for nothing.
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Spoilered for length: ** spoiler omitted **...
OK...
Scyther Ahrn moved the makeshift sickleblade across the ceramic of the ancient tower dome* scraping away the moss that had gathered in its fine cracks with his mind. It wasnt his job, but it didnt matter. He simply thought the motion and the scraper cut a continuous spiral from the very apex of the dome towards its outer most circumference.
It had taken the Scyther hours of focused thought, but the dome revealed the artistry of his talent.
"Well done Ahrn. Despite the fact that this is a job for the ceramic polishers it is...very well done. You demonstrate something few Scyther's have." Ahrn hated praise. The idea that being a Scyther was anything other than an assassin twisted his guts.
"And how is that, Instructor Sully?"
The Instructor shook his head at the Scyther's anger.
"Any Scyther can kill a man but it takes talent and focus do be able to do this."
*[a ceramic fuel Pod sitting on its end - converted into a Monastic Retreat]
Spoilered for length: ** spoiler omitted **...OK...
Scyther Ahrn moved the makeshift sickleblade across the ceramic of the ancient tower dome* scraping away the moss that had gathered in its fine cracks with his mind. It wasnt his job, but it didnt matter. He simply thought the motion and the scraper cut a continuous spiral from the very apex of the dome towards its outer most circumference.
It had taken the Scyther hours of focused thought, but the dome revealed the artistry of his talent."Well done Ahrn. Despite the fact that this is a job for the ceramic polishers it is...very well done. You demonstrate something few Scyther's have." Ahrn hated praise. The idea that being a Scyther was anything other than an assassin twisted his guts.
"And how is that, Instructor Sully?"
The Instructor shook his head at the Scyther's anger.
"Any Scyther can kill a man but it takes talent and focus do be able to do this."*[a ceramic fuel Pod sitting on its end - converted into a Monastic Retreat]
Ooh, that's good. The Assassin's Guild figured heavily in the story. That adds a few new twists. :)
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Ooh, that's good. The Assassin's Guild figured heavily in the story. That adds a few new twists. :)Spoilered for length: ** spoiler omitted **...OK...
Scyther Ahrn moved the makeshift sickleblade across the ceramic of the ancient tower dome* scraping away the moss that had gathered in its fine cracks with his mind. It wasnt his job, but it didnt matter. He simply thought the motion and the scraper cut a continuous spiral from the very apex of the dome towards its outer most circumference.
It had taken the Scyther hours of focused thought, but the dome revealed the artistry of his talent."Well done Ahrn. Despite the fact that this is a job for the ceramic polishers it is...very well done. You demonstrate something few Scyther's have." Ahrn hated praise. The idea that being a Scyther was anything other than an assassin twisted his guts.
"And how is that, Instructor Sully?"
The Instructor shook his head at the Scyther's anger.
"Any Scyther can kill a man but it takes talent and focus do be able to do this."*[a ceramic fuel Pod sitting on its end - converted into a Monastic Retreat]
Is that sufficient? or do you desire more to get you going? Cause I can do more...
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Taran Kwetspaa-hunter ran now. The Pack had pursued him from Ajan's Moisture Well across the wasteland for better part of the morning and it was already burning hot.
The Waskadizh were hungry enough to keep pace. They would not exert themselves to any great extent, likely falling on him the next time he rested or slept. Taran would simply keep moving - Stay awake, thats all he had to do. Long enough to make it to the Moisture Well at Red cave.
Five days without sleep...and hope to hell that a githrahkizh herd didnt stumble across him out here.
Taran Kwetspaa-hunter ran now. The Pack had pursued him from Ajan's Moisture Well across the wasteland for better part of the morning and it was already burning hot.
The Waskadizh were hungry enough to keep pace. They would not exert themselves to any great extent, likely falling on him the next time he rested or slept. Taran would simply keep moving - Stay awake, thats all he had to do. Long enough to make it to the Moisture Well at Red cave.
Five days without sleep...and hope to hell that a githrahkizh herd didnt stumble across him out here.
That reads pretty similar to a scene I already have where the main character is trying to cross the desert to get away from the Assassins Guild. Add in a few disturbing flashbacks and that's what I have. :)
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Greetings. Okay, I'm game to share my creations. Meager affairs that they are.
Flight or FIGHT! A short story set in the Privateer Press, Iron Kingdoms game
One shot A short story set in the Privateer Press Iron kingdoms game.
Hunters, Hunted My very first attempt at fan-fiction. Set in the reality of the Privateer Press Iron Kingdoms game.
Pirates Sunset Another fan-fic featuring certain characters from the previous Hunters, Hunted as well as other characters created in other shared role playing threads.
Unfortunately, neither Hunters, Hunted nor Pirates Sunset are finished. I am working upon the endings of both.
Feed back and comments welcome. :)
I hope said distractions give you some enjoyment and don't take too much out of your day.
*bows*
i promise to check this soon Sunset :)
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Lots of spoilers and fun stuf
Ahh i know the feeling...
je you are more or less suffering as I, in which you advance and create and then there is something missingje I have in mind a similar idea of humanity having recahed a world where will gives you power... the natives and the humans with close tie to the natives have begun developig this power based on the element of nature that gives them form (for me, water, fire, air and earth), but humans, the Star People, are trying to recover as much of their lsot technology and make common use of Psions as shokc troops
yeah, lots of relation with avatar.. which make me sceram, since I began with this story about 12 years ago, 2 more i began reorganizing ideas :p
meh
by the way, If you want I can check your story, you seem quite confident in the background... the problem is how the story and the characters are going... if you want I will take a look and give you some pointers or ideas for them to relate...
it always help to have another perspective.
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by the way
not to make "self-promotion", but for those interested in receiving ideas, making and getting their text edited I could recommend Pathfinder Chronicler
they won't publish anything non pathfinder or golarion related, but they will help with the text and editions whenever they get the chance
this involves grammatical edition, helping reorganize ideas, and even offering pointers to make the story better or to give it a twist, mentioning plotholes, etc.
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True what Montalve said above.
We publish Pathfinder Fiction to our main site (guaranteed) but we do all genres and settings behind the curtains. We edit Non-Pathfinder stuff regularly and some of those pieces have been published. My piece, Forgiven being one of those. Paris Crenshaw introduced me to Wily Writers about 8 months ago, but I would have never known about them unless he had come to us and edited my work (as I did his).
So, nice to be writing on this thread with other writers, but even more interesting to work with other writers at our editing pit at Pathfinder Chronicler.
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That reads pretty similar to a scene I already have where the main character is trying to cross the desert to get away from the Assassins Guild. Add in a few disturbing flashbacks and that's what I have. :)Taran Kwetspaa-hunter ran now. The Pack had pursued him from Ajan's Moisture Well across the wasteland for better part of the morning and it was already burning hot.
The Waskadizh were hungry enough to keep pace. They would not exert themselves to any great extent, likely falling on him the next time he rested or slept. Taran would simply keep moving - Stay awake, thats all he had to do. Long enough to make it to the Moisture Well at Red cave.
Five days without sleep...and hope to hell that a githrahkizh herd didnt stumble across him out here.
Just remember...short stories can be 350 words and still be relevent to your setting. So write a buch of Events as Short Stories. Probably from som Farmer's Perspective or some such. YOu can even build up a multi perspective story about the same event.
When I get a better 'feel' for more areas in Golarion, rest assured I shall allow characters to traverse and travail all over the place. ;)
Cheers!
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Well, only one piece on my deviantart page actually involves Golarion, but I'm rather proud of what I have.
I hope you guys enjoy ^_^
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there are the pefhlawae (starhawks)- large intelligent psionic birds that hunt at night (very effectively too since their feathers are patterned to look like the night sky)
LOL.
When you've used that on your alias, I always assumed that was your maiden name.
An unpronouncable, Welsh-type maiden name!
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OK, so if y'all have the time and inclination, here's the intro to a story I started on a while ago and put aside. It's about 6 written pages so far and I have been toying with working on it again, but figured if there is a group of folks who are volunteering for critique duty ...
Note that it is not fantasy in the D&D vein ... more like the Terry Pratchett vein.
If you can, give it a read and let me know what you think. If you think it sucks, tell me. If you like it, tell me more. ;) No holds barred folks.
PROLOGUE
It was a crisp autumn Thursday when John Edward Smith died. Not that he noticed. John had a way of overlooking the obvious that would have been extremely annoying if it was an intentional act. As it was completely involuntary, however, most would consider it to be only somewhat annoying. At least it would have been considered such if John were the type of person to whom other people paid attention. While John tended to overlook the obvious things in life, life tended to overlook John. And as of a crisp autumn Thursday morning, apparently so did Death.
It wasn’t that he didn’t notice anything about his death, it’s just he didn’t notice the death itself. John had been out walking through the woods near his house that fateful morning, pondering no great thoughts, as great thoughts rarely even considered coming into close proximity to him. His usual routine took him out to a cliff by the Chipasequanick River, where he would turn about and head back towards home. As he crested the rise that announced the small cliff, John was struck by a momentary intense headache, which he assumed was the onset of yet another migraine, but which was, in all reality, the bursting of an aneurysm within his brain. John was technically dead before his body hit the ground, rolled forward and fell over the cliff; which in turn, abruptly ended the lives of several centipedes, a portion of a column of ants and a vole who happened to be at the bottom of the precipice when the former shell of John Edward Smith came crashing down.
All these other creatures were completely aware of their demise, especially the vole, who had been experiencing feelings of dread for weeks, though the other voles laughed whenever it made mention of its fears. As John’s lifeless body came plummeting toward the poor rodent, the vole took some measure of satisfaction in knowing its fears had indeed been justified. Its voleish scream was an involuntary action, much like anyone would unleash when faced with a giant hurtling through the air directly at one’s person. The vole’s scream was merely of a higher pitch.
John, however, did not notice any of it; he was too busy applying pressure to the sides of his head and brow. When the pain departed as quickly as it came, John didn’t think it peculiar as most normal folk would. Nor did he hear the small, shrill shriek, or the dull thud from the base of the cliff that immediately followed. He just shook off the momentary inconvenience of the mini-migraine and resumed the trek back to his home and bland, uneventful, unnoticed life, if that is indeed what it would be referred to after the morning’s events.
How could it be that a person could die and yet not move on to the afterlife? Quite simply, Death was overworked and had been for several aeons. Certainly it had all started out easy enough for Death at the Grand Start of the Show; keep an eye out for those primitive organisms, no more than glorified protein globules, and when the time came for their physical existence to end, Death needed to only make a mark on the simple form on It’s clipboard and that was that. No pleading, no crying, no chess matches for extra time; it was all very cut and dry.
Death thought It had it pretty good. An easy job, self-supervision, fill out a simple, single line form for each organism which It processed and submit the completed forms to the Cosmos every hundred thousand years or so. The rest of Existence was one big vacation. However, that party didn’t last and when Death finally checked It’s contract, It found It was stuck in It’s role of Universal Reclamation Adjuster for the duration. Everything that is alive will one day die, and therefore must be visited by Death.
One side note here about death, the event, and Death’s, the entity’s, related paperwork. Not everyone realizes what exactly is involved with one’s death. Certainly those who are left behind in the mortal world have their fair share of tasks to keep them occupied due to the passing of a friend or family member. But Death also has Its fair share of work as well. Not only is Death responsible for the proper and timely processing of the spirit/anima/soul/essence of the newly deceased, but there are forms to fill out in triplicate, which then get notarized and copies distributed to the deceased, the Cosmos and Death Itself.
As a rule, simple life forms require simple paperwork when they cease to be whatever they had been. As organisms became more complex, however, so did the required paperwork. For example, a modern single-celled paramecium would still require a fairly simple form about one quarter of a standard page in length, a centipede or an ant would require a form of a dozen or so pages in length and a vole’s form would be similar to a compilation of the standard forms required by most lenders to secure a mortgage for the first time. The more complex a creature is, the more in depth the paperwork becomes. The platypus has by far the most complex form imaginable, resembling a New York City phone book written in several different languages all mixed together with some miscellaneous gibberish and differential mathematics thrown in for good measure.
And should a species enter the Extinction Club the paperwork is even more overwhelming. Filing for extinctions is comparable to filing an itemized income tax form without the aid of any tables, charts, calculators or even receipts or records of income. The reason the only two things one can be certain of are death and taxes is the paperwork involved with either process. The more complicated the paperwork, the more surely you will one day have to deal with it, a point raised by the British philosopher and tax accountant Herbert Franklin Pennywise III in his work On Death and Taxes – The Unavoidable Truths, published posthumously by Pale Horse Publishing in 1957. But we digress … The point being made was that Death was overworked and had been for literal aeons.
The increase in the complexity of the paperwork Death was required to file was the first indicator It may have made the wrong career choice. What caused Death to review It’s contract, only to discover It was stuck in a dead end job, was the extinction of the dinosaurs. This one event was the first and only time Death ever missed a deadline for submitting It’s paperwork. That particular paperwork logjam lasted for over three hundred thousand years, towards the end of which time Death came to realize It’s contract made no restrictions on the hiring out some of It’s workload to subcontractors, a loophole Death leapt through full force. It was due to this one decision that all of John Edward Smith’s post life problems came into being.
Chapter 1
The crow. Corvus brachyrhynchos. A very common bird indeed, so much so that not many folks pay close attention to them. It is no great event to see several crows at the same time. Nor is it unusual to see several members of this species perched and cawing, perhaps, if one used one’s imagination, engaging in conversation with one another. So accustomed are we to their presence, that we pay them no heed. Such was the case on that crisp autumn Thursday morning.
The three crows perched upon a large oak branch. An avid ornithologist could have considered the amount of cawing and the attention they seemed to focus on the man walking out of the woods and onto the street to be rather odd. The small sunglasses worn by the two smaller birds and the smell of tequila that seemed to linger in their general area would definitely have been considered atypical. The fact that one of the crows was clutching a fairly large sheaf of papers in one of its claws while another postured itself awkwardly trying to pour the contents of an aspirin bottle into its mouth would have most experts completely baffled and arguing amongst themselves for years to come. As it stood, however, the three avians went unnoticed by anyone.
“So when’s he supposed to kick?” asked the crow on the far end of the branch.
“Should be any time now, Mort. Just sit tight.” responded the crow with the sheaf of papers in its grip.
“And den we gonna get him, right Tod?” asked the larger bird on the outer edge of the branch. It shifted its weight rapidly from its left to right claw and back again and bobbed its head up and down as it spoke. The motion ran through the entire branch.
“Yeah Sammy, that’s right. Now quit bouncing the friggin’ branch! If I drop the collection schedule, you’ll be the one picking it up!”
The larger bird stopped shifting his weight and a sullen look spread across its face. Well, as much a sullen look as one would expect a crow to make. Mort piped up in his comrade’s defense.
“Tod, you shouldn’t oughta talk to Sammy that way, you’ll hurt his feelings. Then he’ll start to cry and we’ll spend the next hour trying to calm him down when we oughta be collecting the RDEs on our schedule. If we screw up one more time, the boss’ll have our tail feathers for sure.”
Tod sighed.
“I’m sorry Sammy. Just stop making the branch bounce around. It’s makin’ me all queasy-like.”
Sammy looked up, obviously in better spirits. Mort and Tod referred back to the sheaf of papers. Mort shook his head.
“He shoulda kicked by now, Tod. And where’re the bugs and mole that’s supposed to be picked up along with him? I don’t see no moles anywhere, Tod.”
“It isn’t a mole, Mort, it’s a vole.”
“Mole, vole, what’s the difference? They’re both rodents. And I still don’t see no rodents anywhere.”
“Well, you’re right about that, Mort, there don’t seem to be any voles around here. Maybe he’s off to do some gardening, only to encounter a gruesome gardening accident. Attacked by a rabid vole or some such.”
“He don’t look like the gardening type, Tod. Let me see the pickup schedule.”
Mort grabbed hold of the sheaf of papers and tugged, knocking Tod off-balance. Tod held tight to the papers, pulling Mort off the branch with him. Sammy started bobbing up and down, laughing at the sight. As the birds fells through the air, neither saw the black truck speeding along the road towards them. They impacted the grill with a dull thud and an explosion of black feathers and papers. Sammy stopped bobbing and started flying after the truck as it continued down the road.
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OK...there is a vaguely Terry Pratchett style to it (lets call it your style). A bit slow and with a Morbid-ish feel to it...but interesting.
Thanks Yellowdingo. It does need a pass through to clean up the text and grammar, which may help with the speed of the read. As to the morbid-ish feel, is it the subject in general or something in particular in the story thus far?
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OK...there is a vaguely Terry Pratchett style to it (lets call it your style). A bit slow and with a Morbid-ish feel to it...but interesting.Thanks Yellowdingo. It does need a pass through to clean up the text and grammar, which may help with the speed of the read. As to the morbid-ish feel, is it the subject in general or something in particular in the story thus far?
Its as if the Zombie walking along the ground were writing the story...it has that zombie (i've lost my soul and it is reflected in the morbidity of my tale) pace to it. It is very undead. In a way it could well be a unique writing perspective.
Non of that Matrix high velocity action here. :)
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Thanks Montalve.
Interesting description Yellowdingo ... perhaps the combination of Pratchett, Adams and Poe I was reading at the time caused an odd synaptic pathway in my brain. ;)
If y'all are interested, I will post more as I go ... most likely posting the first draft (or post first edit) chapter by chapter. But don't expect a quick pace (writing comes in waves for me).
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understandbale, I know the "waves" feeling.
you can post here, but also you can add your text in Deviant Art, I have my account there, for both Pathfinder related and non related texts Montalve's Deviant Art
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understandable, I know the "waves" feeling.
you can post here, but also you can add your text in Deviant Art, I have my account there, for both Pathfinder related and non related texts Montalve's Deviant Art
Very cool ... I was somehow under the impression Deviant Art was solely illustration, not written word art as well. Learn something new every day.
Well since people seem confused as to following links I present.
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Branches whipped at his face, undergrowth tugged at his trouser legs as he bounded a fallen log in his path. In his eight or so years in the service to the scout corps he'd never run from a threat, evaded, outmaneuvered and hidden but on this day Sergeant Gunter Ryley wasn't ashamed to admit to himself he was fleeing for his life. Hidden behind him amongst the forest something pursued his headlong flight. Gunter’s one clear thought was,
*Must. Run. Faster.* just in front of him he could make out the back of the Lieutenant to whom he'd been assigned to undertake the supposedly 'safe' mission. When he'd initially heard the Lieutenant’s name his reaction had been to collapse onto his bunk and hang his head between his knees. At the moment he was just immensely glad that said Lieutenant’s War caster armor, from the funnel of which a thin streamer of smoke trailed in the figures wake, wasn't slowing them down.
Lieutenant Allison McCain raced through the 'light woods', as her Sergeant had called them not a day ago. As her breath burnt in her throat and lungs, she concentrated both on keeping her armor coated legs from tangling in the scrub and the bobbing blond pony tail of Scout Katerine 'Kat' Denby in sight, though she was managing to swear on every second exultation now. She took a brief moment to mentally thank the gods, currently a grab bag with their names all inside, for her war-caster armor being of the 'light' variety since it meant she only needed it 'idling' to generate enough power to run in the bl@@dy stuff. Of course that didn't stop the thing being confining and awkward and Allison was glad she'd borrowed one of the Scouts 'bandannas' to hold down her hair since, at the moment, it was doing a great job of keeping back the sweat that plastered her black mane to her head.
The ground had begun to level out and the trees to thin allowing more of her mind to think about what was happening, about what had happened. A simple first independent mission, the task of sneaking over the river, getting more 'behind' enemy lines, find any Khard forces, count the legs and divide by two (Or four as the case may be) and then sneak back with the gist of what they'd seen.
Allison had been assigned a bunch of Cygnars finest tree skippers to brighten the mood and highlight the more scenic aspects of the countryside. It had been a credit to the bunch of them that they’d only been in country a day or so before finding some, said same, Khardorans. Sergeant Ryley had been startled to come across so many bad guys moving about but Allison hadn't been so surprised at all, well not as 'expletivly' as the Sergeant.
Anyway, it was an enemy's job to annoy and harass and she'd been glad the Khards were going about and doing their job so thoroughly. The trouble had been the Khardoran Bush Buggerers who'd found them as well. Again Allison made a mental note to work harder at surprising the enemy in future.
Nash Langswroth loped along, as the tallest amongst the Scouts his long legs ate up the distance while his gait made it seem as if he were just stepping over some of the smaller lying obstructions. As the trees gave way to the rough, rubble strewn riverbank. He gave a huff of relief as he slowed his pace slightly to pick his way across the rocky ground; they should have enough distance between themselves and their pursuit to get the boats away and be safely out in deep water before they were caught up to.
Glancing about he checked his bearings, noting landmarks both near and distant, as he zeroed in on the spot of riverbank where the groups transport had been drawn up and concealed. Racing up to the water edge he began to regain his breath as he looked about amongst the long tussocky grass and low shrubs scattered about. Langsworth's eyes picked out the anchor rope to the barge and followed it back towards…the...water... .As around and beside him the rest of the group stumbled to a huffing, winded halt. In the distance behind them came the echo of crashing trees from the denser wood.
"Yes, yes. I remember your lessons on the medicinal use of mosses, thank you Scout master Langsworth for all those lessons," Lieutenant McCain raced up to the river bank, huffing but obviously wanting to hustle her troops along, "But I think you'll agree with the good Sergeant Ryley that we're all in a bit of a hurry and every body agrees it's time to...go...?" Her voice trailed off in a surprised squeak. She knew they were in the right spot, even her nascent bush craft could tell that much. She could even see the prow of their 'skiff' under its covering of bushes just to her right.
What caused her consternation was that the rest of the long boat had been sheared away, its ruined hull lying jumbled and submerged off in the river current. To her left where before a large barge had been drawn up under the concealing shade of an over hanging willow, now only the anchor line trailed away into the rivers dark, turgid depths.
"Oooo...cr@p..." She breathed softly. A soft rustling of foliage a decent way off to the group’s right caught their attention and had all seven of them turning and raising weapons as a sun bronzed figure in furs stood up, grinning at their plight.
"Awe, poor leedle svans. Too afraid to get feadders vet?" The powerfully built fellow called in a thick accent, while casually holding a large hand axe nonchalantly across one shoulder, with a second such weapon in a sheath at the small of his back.
"Oopsie! It Look like you boat, zhey haff a leedle accident? They don't float so goot no more." The Khardoran Manhunter chortled deeply. More a rumble from his chest than a laugh, as he theatrically spun his axe off his shoulder with one hand and stroked his thick black beard around his smile of white teeth. The sounds of trees smashing grew louder.
Allison snarled as anger sparked inside her. The heat of her ire sweeping through her body as she stepped forward and drew her pistols, snapping them to bear upon the Khardoran. The barge and its contents had cost her a small personal fortune to acquire.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The Lieutenant’s guns blazed away, each cycling and spitting a second round as the mechanica nature of the devises reloaded the weapons seamlessly. Allison was impressed, the Khardoran managed to both pull his second axe as well as deflect two of her pistol rounds with the blades. She was smugly pleased at the surprised look on the Manhunter’s face as her second rounds had slammed home and taken him down.
The Scouts looked on impressed at the range, accuracy and rate of fire of the Lieutenant’s pistols. Young 'Kat' glanced from her rifle to McCain's pistols; she'd definitely be addressing some caliber issues when she got home. Allison turned back to the Scouts, pistols twirling back into holsters,
"Right! Quinnt, Gowan! Unpack those inflatables! Katerine? Strip out the bracing’s on the backpacks. Gafneagh and Langworth get to fitting the metal work into the rubber dinghies, that should give them a bit more back bone for the paddle across the river!" Her orders had the Scouts 'hopping to it'. Sergeant Ryley stepped up to her and whispered confidentially,
"Y'know them blow ups'll only hold three apiece, Ma'am?" She heard the uncertainty in his voice.
"Yes Mr. Ryley," She whispered back, "I can do math’s. It's one of the harder things they force us command types to learn." She smiled in reply, then held up a hand to forestall anything as Gunter bristled mistaking her humor for sarcasm.
"There are six of you, two boats. That's two groups to get back with the information of what's coming down on Northguard." She stated simply looking directly into the Sergeants eyes and they shared a look of understanding. He dropped his gaze first, then looking away to the far bank of the river and nodded his face grim. Allison looked to the forest and the rising columns of smoke emerging from the rent canopy as trees continued to fall, toppled out of the way as their pursuers drew ever closer.
"Right! You lot! Get those dinghies inflated!" Gunter waved away 'Kats' comment about oars. "There's two boats, two paddles, one per boat. How many more d'you need? We'll just have t' make do with th' rifle stocks. We're scouts, we improvise! Langworth, Gaf? Start spelling Quinnt and Gowan at the pumps. Come on lads! The sooner th' boats're afloat the sooner we're all across." He turned and gave Allison a wink, "The me an' Langworth c'n come back fer th' Lieutenant here!" Gunter’s last comment had all the Scouts surprised, they faltered briefly in their preparations and glanced nervously at one another as the arithmetic of their situation dawned on them. Young Denby slowed her work at refitting the backpack frames into the boats and looked nervously towards Allison. She chewed her lip and Allison caught the look,
"Katerine, did you leave everything on the barge just like I asked you?" The Scout nodded, braid twitching.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good! No worries then!" Allison grinned and smiled happily, then her voice shifting pitch,
"Now you lot! Get your digits out and get HOPPING!" she barked, re-motivating the troops. Quickly the water proof, airtight bladders were inflated, the bracing was put in place that had been scavenged from the frames of their backpacks and the replacement 'boats' were being carried into the swirls of the current at the rivers edge. The Scouts continued to look unsure as one after another they splashed aboard, still with the occasional worried glance being thrown in Allison’s direction. As Gunter pushed his rifle butt through the water for the first time he glanced over his shoulder and saw the first of the pursuing enemy break clear of the tree line.
Standing almost twice the height of a man, the Khardoran War-jack held the uprooted trunk of a small tree in one large metal fist, as its stacks chuffed smoke and steam into the sky from the effort of tearing its multi-ton bulk through the forest. Tossing the felled lumber away with a casual seeming ease, the War-jack shoulder its way completely clear of the foliage and walked forwards, its eye plates aglow and scanning, a second machine appeared pushing further trees out of its way to make room for a third. All the Scouts blanched at this display of mechanika and bent their backs to row faster.
Allison McCain stood her ground, her booted ankles almost lapped by the flowing river at her back. All three machines armored carapace was covered in the blood red enamel that signified elite Khardoran units. The massive hands of all but one were simple curled fists; each backed by large, spiked metal plates. Three sets of double stacks chuffed fire; ash and steam skywards as the two lead machines stepped left and right making room for the third War-jack to step to the fore. It raised the great mechanika axe it held in one hand as a way of salute and Allison stared into human eyes where vision plates of a 'Jack should be.
"Ah, the rabbit has run its course." The man's voice issuing from within the hulking twelve-ton construct sounded strange. An echoing, hollowness affecting its tones as the machinery within the modified Kodiac chassis augmented the sound over the roar of boilers, heartfires, steam and hydraulics systems. Kommander Karchev stepped forward.
"Your last name wouldn't be Cathmore, would it?" As he spoke a strange look came across his pale, scarred visible features. Allison smiled and straightened, focusing on the face of the man and not the thirty odd tons of destruction arrayed before her.
"Nope, sorry to disappoint. If I see one I'll be sure t' let 'em know you're in the neighborhood." She gave a lop sided grin. "Perhaps, sounding all 'Nobility' like, they'll arrange tea and biscuits?" Her gaze moved up and down Karchev's hulking metal body. "Um, perhaps you should bring a straw?" She tilted her head knowingly at Kharchev's figure, then made a dainty motion of lifting cup and saucer, one pinky extended. She saw the man's eye flicker to an arm of the machine that was his body before focusing back upon her with a deeper scowl.
"You show spirit commander...?" His voice trailed off, though it showed no hint of him rising to Allison's verbal 'bait'.
"Lieutenant Allison McCain." She smiled and waived him a salute.
"Allison Mc ?" Karchev looked puzzled and sounded intrigued by her surname, though now it was Allison's turn to scowl, shake her head and wave her hands negatively,
"No, no. NO relation. Just one of those coincidences of life." She quickly replied, though a hint of anger still showed on her features at the implied association. Karchev sighed, another weird sound from the man/machine, as he looked away his expression seemed almost bored now. The Kodiacs to either flank of him continued to slowly sidle away from him, the better to keep her hedged in against the riverbank by a semi-circle of steel.
"Surrender." A single word, delivered with no emotion, no inflection of feeling or care. Allison theatrically crossed one hand to an elbow and her other to point a finger to a cheek.
"Um, let me think about that for a minute. Hmmm, nope! Sorry, you're going to have to actually work at catching your rabbits!" Her hands blurred to her hips.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Karchev lifted his axe, Slaughter, up before his face as the Cygnaran's shoulders shifted. He heard the cracking report of her pistols sound. The trilling ring of metal striking metal. He was long inured to the prodigious rates of fire exhibited by Cygnaran weapons, what did cause him to blink in surprise, however, was that none of the wench’s rounds hit him. Glancing to his left from were the sounds of impact issued, he saw the Kodiac there venting steam and hydraulic fluid from large holes in the machines shoulder plates, even as he caught the motion of the girl scampering along the river bank in that direction.
He snarled as he poured focus into both Kodiacs, and his own metal body's turbine, pushing the enormous machines into a lumbering, earth shaking run. He grit his teeth, the minx would not escape back into the forest to lead him on another chase. As the War-jacks drove through the bushes and scrub of the river bank, metal feet clipping rocks and kicking off shards and raising dust, to head off Allison's path of flight even as she stumbled to a halt with one boot splashing into the river.
"Whoops!" She exclaimed, regaining her balance half stepped into the river as she was, feeling the cold of the water through the thick leather of her boot. Karchev and his machines smashed through the terrain of the riverbank before slowing and turning to face her again.
"Ah, you are like the fox brought to bay by the hounds!" His rumbling voice carrying easily over the sounds of the river and the mechanika of war. Karchev redirected his focus and a wall of mystical force sprang across the gap between his form and the hulls of the Kodiacs to either side.
"And like any fox driven from the hen house, steps have to be taken to remove the threat, to make the house secure again." Allison watched the Kodiacs slowly begin to step diagonally away from Karchev, both widening the line as well as drawing the two far edges closer to the river, putting their large metal fists in range to strike at her should any attempt at flight bring her close to them.
The strange wall of force expanded across the increasing gap. Its presence marked by a roiling sheen as if a gray film of oil, or a giant dirty soap bubble had been stretched between each. As she noted the occasional shrub or other detritus come into contact with the barrier, she watched it get viciously wrenched and shoved about and she knew that going through the arcane field was not an option.
Out on the river the Scouts pushed their oars and paddles through the water Fervently. Shoving their rifle butts fiercely into the water, willing the bobbing and twisting craft to move faster through the water. While keeping the jostling bows of the craft directed upstream, the crews fighting partially against the current of the river to prevent from being swept further down stream while battling across its width as fast as they could. 'Kat' glanced over a shoulder and gasped when she saw the three great constructs and the wall between them towering over the shape of the War-caster, how it was slowly moving closer towards the bank.
"Stop gawkin' an' keep paddlin'!" Gunter huffed angrily, she nodded and focused on her task at hand.
Allison McCain began to hesitantly step backwards. Splashing into the swirling waters, feeling each step with a cautiously placed boot heel. She had so much adrenaline running through her system that she hardly noticed the cold water as it began to soak through her clothes. Concentrating on her footing while holding her pistols well clear of the rivers tumbling surface and her eyes on Karchev and his 'pets' in case they made any sudden movements.
"You know." She called, "I can understand why you sound in such a bad mood." She continued to grin at Karchev's slightly puzzled expression, glad that the Khardoran War-caster was as focused on maintaining his magical field, "That nose of yours much Itch something shocking!" Though she didn't see his reaction as she suddenly had to catch her balance, her feet twisting on the weed slick rocks on the river bottom. Water splashed around he hips. Karchev did glower as his anger was riled by the impudence of the Cygnaran’s jibes.
"It is a shame you are not a Cathmore. Though for you I think I will find some satisfaction in you death." He called to her.
Allison nodded back somewhat absently as well. Her features twisted in concentration. Every step behind her had been with a tapping drag of a heel along the sunken barges anchor rope. Internally she was focused on her 'arcane sight', one of the distinguishing gifts of a Pistol Mage. This time she was looking 'backwards' and 'down' into the murky depths, tracing the line back to the sunken barge and its submerged cargo. Suddenly, to her sight, shapes loomed up black and silent out of the murky swirling silty water. Stopping her retreat waist high in the river she shifted her focus to a different and trickier task and wondered just how much of a surprise she'd be able to make out on Karchev's face.
The transformed Khardoran War-caster moved his 'wall' forward slowly, continuing to concentrate on hedging the Cygnaran in. The lass was backing ever further into the river shallows, eventually she would have to stop or risk falling into the deeper water of the rivers central course. He didn't care how she chose her end, if she would rather risk being swept away ad dragged to a watery doom by her quenched Caster armor so be it. He himself was in no hurry to follow her, since for him an extinguished boiler meant certain doom. The close proximity to the river laced all of his motions with caution, though his frustration at not having brought a Destroyer to hand rubbed at him. He'd chosen his personal Kodiacs the better to clear a path at speed through the forest and keep the scouting group 'contained'.
He wondered if he would be reduced to simply picking things up and throwing them at the wench. The idea brought a rueful smile to his features as he remembered a time long past of pleasant strolls along shaded stream banks and the child hood fun of tossing rocks into the water to sink twigs . He looked down and his eye alighted on a 'small' rock. transferring Sunder to his 'off' hand he bent and picked it up, testing its weight before hefting the stone out into the river. As he followed its arc, he registered the questioning signal from one of the Kodiacs. With his grin widening he gave instructions to his two machines and soon all three were bending, sorting, retrieving and launching stones out into the rivers flow to splash and spray all about the object of their attention. As some of the resulting shots came close to hitting the girl, he almost laughed at her sodden expression as the gouts of water sprayed over her.
Suddenly his pleasant revere was broken as he felt an arcane 'surge'. Flexing defensively he searched and 'felt' for the manifestation of the magical effect the woman had cast. Maintaining his field he glanced to either side and saw no change in his Kodiacs and the Girl still stood waist deep in the river. He thought harder, trying to analyze the fading trace of power. Then he saw the arcane glow in McCain's eyes, the sign that she too was communing with War-jacks. Startled he turned one Kodiac to scan into the forest, looking for a 'Jack that he may have missed powered down amongst the foliage, He shifted a small amount of focus into the Kodiac, preparing it to charge against some light scouting 'Jack such as a 'Hunter' class chassis.
Suddenly he saw them. Two large hulking shapes rising swiftly from the depths of the river to stand either side of McCain. Within seconds the dripping stacks and upper hulls of the machines burst from the waters and Karchev found himself staring into the glowing, glassed in ports of Mariner class labor-jacks. As their vents came clear of the river they opened with a 'clank' and then a belch of smoke and ash erupted form their stacks as the machines switched from their internal systems to 'breathing' clear air.
Allison McCain grinned, completely oblivious to the cold river waters swirling about her, as to her left and right her Mariners raised the cannon they each held and she poured her arcane might into their systems.
The wounded Kodiac was hammered under the double blows of the cannons. Instantly blasted to scrap under the augmented power of the Cygnaran War-caster.
"Still think I'm just a leddle fox?!" Allison yelled, jamming her pistols into her breastplate in an effort to keep them dry, before quickly beginning the cycle of reloading one of her Mariner's cannon. Karchev's throat issued a growl of hate and anger in response. He threw his anger and power into arcane force, willing the very ground to rise up and blast away the impudent b#tch. His remaining Kodiac turned towards the new threats.
From some where close behind Allison there came a whoosh and gout of spray and she winced as a surge of water buffeted her into the 'Jack she was working on. She grabbed at the rope lines on the machine’s shoulder for support as the water sucked back into the river. The drizzling cloud of water that fell over her momentarily veiled her vision. Secretly she was glad the big Khardoran lug liked hitting things with his axe. He couldn't throw a ranged attack to strike the broad side of a Colossus.
Sweeping wet hair from her eyes with the back of a wet sleeve she finished reloading just in time to see the second Kodiac come charging into the river at her. She didn't think, just reacted, pulling both pistols awkwardly and poured energy into her Mage-Locks. The huge ten-ton machine, running at full steam, sloughed into the river shallows and losing speed as it forced its way through the water, its bluff form raiseing an impressive bow wave before it. Then Allison's blast of arcane energy struck it. Such was the power focused through the guns that the Khardoran's charge not only stopped, the machine was actually forced backwards.
The Kodiac's cortex streamed impulses to the giant machine's systems as it fought to remain upright. With arms flailing and systems straining the War-jack stumbled trying to maintain its balance only to have the treacherous stream bed shift suddenly beneath its legs, sending the 'Jack tumbling backwards. An eruption of steam exploded from the toppled 'Jack as its heartfire submerged and the river invaded in through the openings in its hull.
Peering through the mist and haze Allison kept her pistols pointed in the direction of the river bank, wary in case Karchev himself came barreling down upon her. As seconds turned into moments and the air cleared, she listened to the pings and creaks as the Kodiacs chassis cooled. She heard a commotion from behind her and turned one of her mariners to survey what was happening. 'Looking' towards the river she could see Sergeant Gunter rowing back.
"Woo-hoo! Way to go lass!" Gunter hollered, "Th' big red lug has packed it in!" Though he didn't stop pushing his oar through the water. His spirits rose immensely as he took in the be-draggled form of Lieutenant McCain standing there peering at him from between the two Mariners from under the black mop of hair plastered over her face.
"Sergeant, you're back early?" Allison’s voice and the smile on her lips showed the joy and relief she felt at the sight of the bobbing inflatable craft.
"Aye Ma'am. Young 'Kat' came up with th' idea. She got Gowan t' throw us their oar about two-thirds the way across. Then she got out and swum th' rest o' th' way." There was pride in Gunter's voice as he told the tale of the scout’s gumption. Allison nodded and accepted the Sergeants handshake in celebration of having survived the encounter.
"I'll make sure to put in for a commendation for her." She said as they pulled the boat into the shallows near the fallen Khardoran machine. Gunter noted she sent one of the Mariners back into the river.
"Right, we've about an hours labor time in the 'Jacks. Enough time to salvage a few things from the barge and get this rigged up and dragged across the river. We can find some where to stash the three for when we come back for the salvage." She grinned happily at Gunter and Langworth, who nodded and smiled back.
"Aye, it were a good plan o' yours, t' use the Mariners as a sort o' 'engine' t' be drawin' us up stream like that, Lieutenant. T'is a pity th' buggers had t' go an' sink th' barge, it would a' been a right pleasant trip back down agin." Gunter complemented Allison on her tactics.
"Oh well. You know what they say about the best laid plans.." Her voice trailed off as she concentrated on giving orders to the submerged mariner as it went about its salvage tasks.
"Um, no Ma’am, I don't rightly do?" Gunter replied puzzled, though the explanation was forced to wait as they went about the tasks at hand so that they could safely 'tactically withdraw'.
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There DONE!
Yeah, the Cygnarans won the fight, but lost the battle at Northguard. ;)
Khardoran Forces: Karchev. Kodiac Heavy War-jack (2). Manhunter (1) Total points: 354 (approximately)
Cygnaran Forces: Allison McCain (Vanilla Cain). Mariner Heavy War-Jack (2). Cygnaran Royal Scout squad (1). Total Points 346 (approximately)
Hope it actually fits the theme of two War-casters and their 'Jack palls going at one another. :)
Created using the old MK I rules
Though, as some have pointed out in the actual rules a Cygnaran War-caster can't technically control Mercenary 'Jacks. So perhaps Allison has a 'Unique' ability, amongst other War-casters who all have unique abilities?
With more thanks to Ollibolli and Diinzumo!
Cheers!
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Very cool ... I was somehow under the impression Deviant Art was solely illustration, not written word art as well. Learn something new every day.understandable, I know the "waves" feeling.
you can post here, but also you can add your text in Deviant Art, I have my account there, for both Pathfinder related and non related texts Montalve's Deviant Art
lol well most writers felt pretty much abandoned there yeah :P
the site gives you the tools to present the stories... its sometimes lack of itnerest due to people mostly checking images... i admit it takes less time :P|
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DR WHO: SHADOWS OF MY SOUL
PRELUDE
The boy woke on a cold metal bed. On the opposite side of what could only be a Quantum Interference generator sat his twin. Looking around he spotted the large sphere that glowed with Energy. It was a String Mass. The Probes had been retracted temporarily.
He barely noticed as the Elderly Technician lower his twin down onto the bed to encourage interface with the system.
"I made a mistake." The child was suddenly aware of the elderly man talking to him. His swept white hair and old clothes identified him immediatly. He was staring at his first incarnation. The first and the last...and by the look of his unexpected Twin, Something had gone wrong. They were outside the Universe.
"I should have let them perish."
"No." The Four Laws came to mind.
"The Universe is Debris of change in Possibility. Time is continuous change in possibility. Singularity is moment of change in Possibility. Only Life can create change in Possibility..." The last Doctor spoke the words that had more meaning than any single Universe.
"...and only from outside the Universe." ended the first Doctor.
The Child who had been the Doctor lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.
"Randomize Quantum Interference Generator...Now!"
CHAPTER ONE – WANT SOME CANDY?
LONDON 1895 + 5 DAYS LOCAL TIME SINCE LAST VISIT
The TARDIS materialized in the narrow alley off Baker Street. "Here we are." The Doctor's new assistant stared at him with surprise.
"I thought we were going to some alien world to watch the setting of five suns...or something."
The Doctor shook his head. "Jelly Babies!" The red haired girl stared at him. "Jelly Babies?"
Doctor nodded with an insane smile. "Jelly Babies...I found the most amazing shop during a visit to Baker Street in eighteen ninety five."
"We are...Jelly Babies!" She was almost ashamed to be on what was apparently now a trip to the shops. The Doctor looked back at her from the exit.
“The Shops...?” Karen wondered to herself if he frequents Pompeii just for the pickled eggs.
"Not just any Shop...A wonderful little confectioner who makes Jelly babies from Turkish delight and in assorted flavours and colours." The Doctor stepped from the Door of the TARDIS into the city of London.
“What year is it?” Karen was just realizing that her silver radiation suit would be a little inappropriate.
“Eighteen ninety five plus five days local time since my last visit.” The Doctor took a moment to breathe in the Sunlight.
“So...you’re a regular customer?”
The two pronged fork penetrated both hearts as it pushed though his chest killing him instantly. Karen screamed his name.
The young assailant walked over to the body and put a boot on the Doctor's Chest, pulling the impaling Fork free. The Doctor was dead. Karen collapsed over his body and fell back again with blood on her hands.
"That's my name. Don’t wear it out...although I'm thinking of changing it to The Master." The young murderer smiled to himself.
"Yes...I think the Master will do nicely." The young Master grabbed Karen by the face and pushed her back into the TARDIS dragging her from the entrance. Her scream was cut off as the door pulled shut and the engine roared to life.
A crowd of people gathered where an alley met Baker Street, about the body of a young man who had apparently been stabbed in the chest by an unknown assailant. Somewhere nearby, a police whistle blew.
LONDON 2010 + 85 DAYS LOCAL TIME SINCE LAST VISIT
Rose halted and stared at it. The TARDIS sat open in the dark alleyway - Inviting. She smiled at the proposal.
He's offering me...what? Rose Tyler walked toward the Blue Police Box. "All right you...Doctor?"
Rose vanished through the Door of the TARDIS with a scream of horror. Blood sprayed against the Door of the Police Box and it snapped closed.
The Light flickered with the wretched cyclic noise of a Gallifreyan Time and Space Displacement Engine greased and oiled with human tallow.
Beyond the now Gothic horror that was the console, the naked, preserved Skins of Sarah Jane Smith, Jo Grant, and many other assistants were displayed for the viewing pleasure of a God of Time gone mad with eternity.
The Sonic Screwdriver pulverized the Bone of the skull allowing the brain of Rose Tyler to be lifted easily from the cavity, eyes dangling as it was lowered into a jar and connected with probes linking it to the temporal targeting array.
A voice: "I love you Rose..."
CHAPTER TWO – DOCTORS PLURAL
“He shouldn’t be alive. Your surgery saved him from certain death.” Someone grunted in agreement.
“The Doctor has always had the ability to defy the odds. It was a close call though, the way you had to take two damaged hearts and make them into one.” Both hearts damaged? Heart Surgery? In Eighteen ninety five? The Doctor, the original you might say, struggled to open his eyes out of sheer terror at the prospect.
“What have you done to me?” His eyes were slow to focus. That can’t be good. He hadn’t regenerated.
“No Doctor…you didn’t regenerate. Whatever you murderer has done to you has disrupted your ability to recover in the Galifreyan manor.” The Doctor relaxed back.
“You seem to have me at a disadvantage.” The voice laughed at his awkwardness.
"That will be a new experience for you then."
Anyone looking to submit their writing might consider Asimov magazine...Just put in a short story myself.
Thanks for the link, by the way. I sent them a submission a couple of weeks ago.
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Sara had heard stories about wizards from her parents; Wizards that always seemed very busy in a world of strange goings on.
“Always sneaking about and doing things is Wizards; Interesting things.”
After reaching this conclusion Sara began to watch closely as folks came and went from the houses in her street. The only folks coming and going were the postman and the stray dog that followed him about as he went from house to house.
No Wizards.
Sara’s Brother Robert was helpful in this matter.
“Wizards only move about when folks are not looking for them. Popping in at odd moments like when the scones are baked.” said Robert.
Sara spent the rest of the day lying on the grass behind the shrubbery with a cardboard and mirror periscope scanning the street, At least until teatime. Sara’s Mum was most irritated at the grass and soil stains all down the front of Sara’s good dress. She absolutely insisted that it had to be washed.
“Wizards don’t worry about grass and dirt on their clothes mum” Said Sara.
“Wizards don’t need to worry Sara, Magic keeps them clean unless they want to look dirty” Replied Sara’s Mum.
At this Sara wrinkled her nose and breathed out heavily before she pulled on her new dress. Being a Wizard was beginning to look decidedly interesting indeed.
Sara wanted to skip breakfast but her mum insisted that even wizards had to eat some time. Sara slouched in her chair and played the spoon in and out of the honey covered porridge with just enough variation to make it look as though she had eaten some of it.
Eventually her mum gave in.
"All right Sara, you can go. Just don't get your clothes dirty like you did yesterday” cried Sara's mum, but Sara was already out of sight and her periscope gone with her. Today had to be different thought Sara as she once again dived behind the shrubbery, periscope at the ready and no consideration for the failings of non magical clothing.
Apart from the occasional car going past, the only real activity on this particular morning was Mrs Hatley pruning her prize rosebush. Mrs Hatley smiled in the direction of the shrub with the periscope and gave a wave. Sara wrinkled her nose and gave a deep breathed sigh. If Mrs Hatley knew she was here then so did every Wizard in town. A little hand rose up from next to the periscope and gave Mrs Hatley a wave back.
“Find any wizards yet Sara?” It was Robert.
I hesitate to post anything of mine, because a lot of this work kind of intimidates me. :P
However, here's the idea behind a story I'm writing:
Anyways, the story opens up in a city called Wesendul. In the dead of night a very rag-tag group of raiders, traitors and madmen attack. Included in this group are:
A group of gunslinging goblins (they'd been raiding the city up till now). They're used as a diversion.
A bloodthirsty bufoli who specialises in setting up bombs. He blows a hole in the palace wall.
A rather insane monk. He deals in the prisons of heaven and hell, and calls himself the Warden. He basically makes deals with the inhuman prisoners, giving them time off their sentences in exchange for their help. He was supposed to help the goblins.
All this is done so that two members of the group can get into the palace and kill the ruler, who is the antagonist of the story for unknown reasons.
The main theme of the story is moral ambiguity in the extreme. Both sides have their evil members. Of course, the fear of treachery is also important, since many of the 'protagonist' team have no loyalty to their fellows and simply help to benefit themselves.
I do think every one thanks you for your round about compliment, Kobold Cleaver. (^_^)
As for my self, I just don't feel comfortable commenting on other people's works. V_V Sorry about that.
So, as for your idea? Might I suggest a 'separate' reality? change names and such? Placing it within a 'parallel' Earth might make things a little too 'odd'. I'm not suggesting not using Earth as a reference, just suggesting not 'shifting' your story into something that will be immediately otecable as Earth.
Um...hope the ideas/comments help. Much luck and success to you. (^_^)
Cheers!
I do think every one thanks you for your round about compliment, Kobold Cleaver. (^_^)
As for my self, I just don't feel comfortable commenting on other people's works. V_V Sorry about that.
So, as for your idea? Might I suggest a 'separate' reality? change names and such? Placing it within a 'parallel' Earth might make things a little too 'odd'. I'm not suggesting not using Earth as a reference, just suggesting not 'shifting' your story into something that will be immediately otecable as Earth.
Um...hope the ideas/comments help. Much luck and success to you. (^_^)
Cheers!
It's not so much a parallel Earth as a planet that is remarkably similar. Thanks for taking the time to read my post, though. :)