Anyone played around with this? I got HP Lovecraft for a letter I was writing and cory doctorow for some rough analysis I did of a shareholders agreement.
The site:
http://iwl.me/
I fed it a bunch of different stuff and it was all over the map. I'm guessing there isn't too much in there, because I also got Lovecraft and Cory Doctorow, as well as Shelley, Joyce, Mark Twain, Tolstoy, Dan Brown, and Anne Rice.
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'Darin Blackwey watched the little children playing from the shadow of the alley, His Cigarette little more that a short stub.
The wire Garrotte dropped around his neck and quickly tightened - lifting him from the gritty stone beneath his feet. Blackwey could only flail in the edge of a shadow as he was strangled to death.
The Batman had come for him at last. There would be no escape from his brand of Justice. Blackwey turned slowly with every twitch of his body as it jangled on the wire. He could only just see the predator above him as it dropped into the alley using Blackwey as a counterweight.
Was that Perfume? A scent caught his attention as his executioner descended past him to the alley floor and tied the wire off on a pipe protruding from a wall.
A young girl, her body tight and firm with the coming flower of maturity, emerged from the alley dressed in a Blackened Harlequin Costume and waved at the other kids in their Halloween costumes who waved back.
"Animal..." was all she whispered. Blackwey could only imagine that was what she had said as he died, a Puppet left hanging by his wires.' - I write like Charles Dickens
In your Face...you pulp fictionists!
Different text samples returned Cory Doctorow, HP Lovecraft, and James Joyce.
I have my doubts.
I pasted several excerpts from Mark Twain and it gave HP lovecraft.
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I tried a novella and a short-story. The novella is similar in style to Ursula k. Le Guin. The story is similar in style to Jack London.
I found my results changed based on how much data I gave the program--the first page of the novella came out as Doctorow, the first page of the story came out as John Irving.
Interesting, but I don't think it's accurate. I tried London's "To Build a Fire," but he apparently apes John Irving.
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Not too sure 'bout this.
I typed in some very Faulkner-esque stuff -- some straight out of Absalom, Absalom! and got back that it seemed like Nabakov.
Now, I don't mind making that connection. In fact, when working on my dissertation I did a ton of work on the similitude of Faulkner and Nabakov. And, looking at what I wrote out it did kinda have a Pnin or even a Defense sound to it.
Nonetheless, it didn't mention Faulkner at all.
Well, it thinks that my "To Slay the Immortal" campaign journal is written in the style of Ursula K. LeGuin, which I find to be high praise.
Then I put another short story in there and got Edgar Allan Poe.
One of my favorite pieces was back to LeGuin. Same with the oldest short story I've got.
My thesis has Isaac Asimov. More praise yet.
Mostly I write like Ursula it seems. Of course I'm not sure how much of LeGuin's work I've actually read....
Owner - Johnny Scott Comics and Games
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Interesting. I entered a few paragraphs from a Facilitator's Guide I wrote for physicians at our hospital and it told me I write like Dan Brown. Seems odd that an instructional design sample would return a best selling novelist. What does that say about authors, I wonder?
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Interesting. I entered a few paragraphs from a Facilitator's Guide I wrote for physicians at our hospital and it told me I write like Dan Brown. Seems odd that an instructional design sample would return a best selling novelist. What does that say about authors, I wonder?
Have you read Dan Brown? Very instructional voice. (He has to instruct with all the different theories/such he presents in his books.)
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Did I say I write Batman like Charles Dickens? :p
Done with exploring the community of West Cleave, Jarmo led his companion toward the structure at the edge of the Ravine. The old man sitting on the chair on the stoop of a small stone building smiled as the companions drew close.
“A thousand gold coins,” The price took Jarmo by surprise. “A thousand gold coin if you are looking to cross.” Jarmo scoffed at the suggestion.
“A Thousand Coin Toll to cross an invisible bridge...how Outrageous!” Patis the Swordswoman was in agreement with her companion and ignored the toll, throwing a few silvers at the bridge-keeper’s feet before heading toward the step to the invisible bridge.
“I don’t know what the villagers told you but it’s not an invisible bridge.” Patis halted in the step that would have taken her to her death. She backed away from the edge as the wind attempted to push her forward.
“I create the bridge. That’s why you pay a thousand gold pieces in toll.” Jarmo hurriedly reassessed the man in front of him. He had just as much admitted to being a Wizard.
“All right.” Jarmo smiled and untied two sacks of gold coins from his person and dropped them at the wizard’s feet. Pretty much his share of the coins they had picked up working for this community just went in bridge toll.
The Wizard smiled and opened a portal at the edge of the ravine.
“Across you go!” Jarmo entered the Gray portal before him – vanishing from view. Patis was still irritated by the old man’s tricks – she followed Jarmo up the stone steps.
That didn’t look right.
“Stop!” Patis ignored the Gatekeeper. Kraeg of Cleaves-bridge leaped forward grabbing at the Woman to pull her back from this unexpected doom. She was surprisingly quick – her hand dragged the wizard forward through the portal before her. Kraeg found himself – not on the stone of the far edge of the ravine - but on the stone floor of a dark chamber lit by Jarmo with his now glowing sword - his sword pointed at the Wizard. Kraeg was surprised by the fact that Jarmo was covered in blood and sweat. Some dissected beast lay in a corner of the chamber.
“What’s the matter wizard? Did you expect me to die in your little trap?” He turned the tip of his sword toward the wizard.
“Spell went wrong. You stepped through the portal a few seconds before me. Your companion is right behind me.” A long while later Patis stepped through.
“And that Wizard is what you get for touching...” she was distracted instantly by the fact that both Jarmo and the Gate keeper were standing well away from her point of entry. The wizard should have been sprawled on the ground before the community of East Cleave. Patis drew her sword and pointed it at the Wizard.
Jarmo stroked the stone of the wall, feeling its seeming perfection. It was almost perfectly smooth and cut from an unfamiliar stone.
“What is that?”Patis examined the corpse of the creature that Jarmo had somehow enjoyed the time to eliminate on arrival. She had never seen anything like it. It looked like a huge ugly deformed dog with scale-mail for hide.
“Where are we?” Kraeg looked nervously about. Where was he? A spell and the chamber illuminated with magic light.
Jarmo looked around the chamber. The chamber was a twenty feet deep pit and the only entrance was one way. He moved into the centre of the pit. The room above his view was perhaps forty feet in diameter and was entirely steps of stone. The Audience was now revealed to be a cloaked figure. From its skeletal hand a magic missile lanced out at the ceiling from which was suspended a great gong causing it to sound. Another hound in scale barding spilled into the fight pit. It was hungry for Jarmo and his companions.
- and this section of story from my Cleaves Megadungeon tale is in the style of L. Frank Baum.
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RPG Superstar 2009 Top 8
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Well you are comparing his work to others...maybe he does write like J.F. Cooper.My Wayfinder 3 prose gets "I write like Harry Harrison".
Doubt that.
EDIT: 3 paragraphs by Harry Harrison earn him "I write like James Fenimore Cooper."
The passage I chose spoke of hunters and deer. I think the program works by looking at vocab as much as or more than sentence structure. Interesting program but doesn't really tell you much.
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RPG Superstar 2009 Top 8
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Yeah, keyword search. I just read the article.
"martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian martian " gets me "I write like H.G. Wells."
Oh, I hope they're f*~@ing with me. First bloody run through, I got Stephanie Meyer. I EDIT MY G$%#@*N WORK!
~laughter~ so does that explain the shiny part of your nick? ~Runs for my life~
Yeah, you'd better be running...Oh, I hope they're f*~@ing with me. First bloody run through, I got Stephanie Meyer. I EDIT MY G+@~+~N WORK!~laughter~ so does that explain the shiny part of your nick? ~Runs for my life~
~chuckles~ So what you are really saying is that you are opposed to having millions of fans and millions of dollars? ~shakes my head and grins~ There are worse fates my friend.
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Yeah, you'd better be running...Oh, I hope they're f*~@ing with me. First bloody run through, I got Stephanie Meyer. I EDIT MY G#&#%~N WORK!~laughter~ so does that explain the shiny part of your nick? ~Runs for my life~
Would have ben far more funny if they had come up with: "We have reported you to The Eldritch Mr. Shiny's Lawyers for Plagarism..."
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My Short Story Collection
“Never again...” The hangover from his night of indulgence was entering one of the painful stages. Rowan crushed his eye as he moved to hold his aching head giving a yelp of the pain in the process. How many tankards had he put back? He couldn't remember. The pain was terrible. He remembered how many.
The assassin on the roof across the street fired his crossbow. Rowan stumbled drunkenly and fell to his Knees. The thug in the alleyway was not expecting to be struck in the heart by a crossbow bolt, the assassin, manoeuvring on the icy roof shingles for that second shot, slid at the worst possible moment taking a quarrel in the chest. As both corpses ate gravel, Rowan surged up and staggered onward in to the dark.
“Bloody drunks, Can't hold their liquor...”
Rowan stumbled into another tavern, stepping over the various unconscious patrons lying in the doorway. His cry for more of the stronger stuff and a quick accusation that the rest was watered dog piss revitalized a group of brawling tavern-goers. Rowan's tavern crawl ended in the early hours of the morning after extended visits to six more taverns and a number of fatally bungled mugging attempts. The locals were showing a severe lack of ability in holding their drink.
The Sun was just rising as Rowan stumbled in through the open doorway of an old wooden structure that seemed a bit different from the rest of this termite riddled shantytown. Mrs Ketlan's boarding house was a flyspeck of purity in the western quarter of a cesspool of a city. Mrs Ketlan was a stalwart, swarthy, raven-haired wench in her mid forties. So she wasn't one of the best looking women in the city let alone the cosmos. Actually she was close to demonically ugly however, in his pissed state Rowan felt like committing suicide and gave her behind a quick slap of approval. The meat cleaver spun swiftly from her hand as Rowan dove for the safe side of the hallway. The thug hiding in the shadows across the street checked twice to be sure that his vitals were intact. The large cleaver had shaved hair from his inner thigh. Guthrie the knife dropped his crossbow and vowed to leave the city. He couldn't take this kind of stress any more. At the height of his reform a pair of muggers jumped him. They stole his crossbow.
Mrs Ketlan cornered rowan in the stairway.
“Now where in the bloody hell have you been my boy? Out at some orgy no doubt, and you're drunk.” She gave him a clip behind the ear.
“Bloody Sorcerers... never should be aloud in the city. Cause nothing but trouble.” Rowan was a little hard of hearing as he stumbled up the stairs, fumbled with the lock and fell through the doorway into his room.
Rowan had no realistic idea of how long he had slept but the sun was casting the usual red pigment to the air so he assumed it was evening. Odd thing was that it made the room look cleaner.
“This isn't my bloody room!” He was right. The door slammed open and there, shrouded in a veil of light stood Janna Murell, light glistening of her raven hair and naked tattoo covered body. This defiantly complimented the blood dripping from her hands and mouth. How flamboyant of her.
“Rowan. You once said you loved me.” Her hair cascaded across her shoulders with a life of its own.
“Rowan,” her voice took a colder tone. Every chunk of ice within a hundred leagues felt a severe desire for a warm blanket and a cup of hot tea.
“If you truly love me, then join me and fight for the dark mage. If not, you can die.” A sudden chill ran down Rowan's spine. He suddenly realized that he was as naked as the lady in front of him. He lifted the blanket from the bed and cloaked him self in it.
It’s like this Janna. No chance.' Rowan threw himself out the second storey window. The glass panes exploded into a thousand shards. Rowan fell to the street in a cloud of debris shattering his left arm as ie hit ground.
As he struggled to his feet, Janna emerged onto the street.
“Thus you have made your choice Rowan, and thus you must die.” Her hair swirled and waved with energy. She lifted her hands and the world around them fell apart. A shadow fiend stepped from the darkest recesses of the street. Deciding that he had one course of action, Rowan rushed Janna.
“Kill him!” Rowan struck with speed and strength. The swift blow to her head and she collapsed to the ground. The shadow continued to advance.
“Oh s+*%! I'm going to die.” Rowan plunged down an insignificant lane only to find it was a dead end. He lost all grip on reality as the fiend advanced down the alleyway in pursuit. The only thought on this creature's
mind was food. Rowan unleashed with a volley of magic.
The volley resulted in a flash of light and a loud bang.
For some reason Rowan was now sitting in a pool of muddy water covered in the incinerated remains of what had been a blanket.
Rowan struggled to his feet, only to notice that he was under the watchful scrutiny of two well-attired young ladies of the upper classes.
The first fainted while the second screamed.
“Guards!” Four tall professionals emerged from the house with their weapons drawn. The young lady on the ground roused momentarily by the summons glimpsed once again at the rag-covered form that was Rowan and fainted.
“Oh do stop that Elanora, we know you do it for the attention.”
Elanora lifted her head from the ground and gave her sister a sour look of disappointment. She struggled to stand in her heavy dress, brushing furiously at a stain.
“If you ladles don't mind, I think it might be appropriate to acquire some clothing.” Rowan was struggling to maintain his modesty behind a shrub of poor foliage. His arm was hurting again. The lady in authority nodded to a guard who quickly retreated to the house.
“Are you some rogue who ravages young maidens?” Elanora's line of enquiry earned the young woman a quick flick to her ear, which caused her to yelp in pain.
“Ouch! Cassandra, what did you do that for?” Cassandra pointed at the house and Elanora, after a last inspection of Rowan's partially concealed form, complied with instructions.
The guard returned with an off white robe which he handed to Cassandra. It took a while for Rowan to convince the lady present to look in another direction as he shed the rags he was covered in and pulled on the robe. Partially satisfied, Cassandra shifted into interrogation mode.
“All right, now just who are you and what were you doing on these premises in such an ill clad manor?” Rowan drew up a quick excuse of semi plausibility and then boldly lied.
“Well there I was, just minding my own business when boom, the building explodes and wham, there I is sitting shocked by the experience and totally naked in the dirt as it were. It came as a complete surprise.”
The shadow struggled to move as the light dissipated into the evening. The fiend looked about for its prey. Gone. It examined the wall and jerked back. The light from a burning torch gave it pain. Prey was there. Others were there too. The fiend focused on the wall and slowly pushed through the gaps in the mortar, exiting into the garden, Rowan cried a warning.
“Run for your lives!” The crowd broke for the house but the fiend was already upon them rending and tearing it the guards as though they had the consistency of smoke. Light and fire burst forth from Rowan's hands and the shadow fell away into the nothingness as light hammered at it. The sky, the very air had exploded with the fury of a sun, lighting up the city. Cassandra's lily-white skin had emerged from the exchange with a full body tan that reached beyond the dense layers of her gown. She struggled to climb to her feet as Rowan moved to provide her with some assistance.
“My apologies, spur of the moment action. Hope you are not injured.” Cassandra fainted.
Cassandra woke with a sudden feeling of shock. She touched her singed hair. Then she noticed Rowan, his broken arm had been set and strapped.
“You! Wizard.” Cassandra gritted her teeth and struck Rowan's arm with a forceful blow, which caused him to wail with pain.
“And stop whining you pathetic excuse for a magician. You have brought death and destruction to this
Household.” Cassandra stumbled. The evening's combat had burnt the heels from her boots.
“My boots! You destroyed MY BOOTS! You wheezily little excuse for a man, no one stuffs about with the Winterdors. Do you understand me?” Her yell was a tyrannical screech. Elanora who had just entered the room, halted in stunned silence. Rowan revealed a face of twisted pain. Elanora fled the room before she was discovered.
It was a while before the noise of conflict vanished from the guest bedroom and Elanora, curious as to the reason behind the peace, penetrated the silent room. Cassandra was sitting on the bed, holding a glowing rose. She was smiling. The wizard was nowhere to be found.
“He's a wonderful wizard. Gave me this, kissed me, and flew away. Wonderful. Did I tell you that?” Outside, the sound of something heavy falling from a great height followed by a flurry of harsh words echoed towards the window.
Cassandra sighed, got up from the bed and walked out the door with the rose. Elanora rushed to the window and looked out at the night-shrouded grounds. Rowan crawled out of a destroyed hedge and returned to owl form, flying on into the night.
“Aw, how come I miss out on the nice ones? And he's a wizard. It isn't fair.” Greatly disappointed, Elanora slammed the shutters closed and left the room in a sulk.
Rowan shifted into human form as he reached the alleyway behind the Red Griffon tavern. This spooked a couple of muggers who ran out into the street. A squad of the city watch, a pack of thugs and murderers themselves, fell upon the duo. The skirmish finished quickly as the watch exited the dispute with a hand full of silver, several pair of boots and some above average clothing. The muggers didn't complain as a stray mongrel chose to believe itself upon their persons. The watch moved on. Rowan entered through the side door. The roof was low and the taproom was thick with a smoke that made Rowan's
eyes water with pain. As taverns went, this crowd was the vilest pack of vermin he had the misfortune to meet. A tall fellow in a corner was speaking.
“Bernardo, Tonight's brew is the best I've tasted in months. What happened? You steal it from the rich quarter?” An ugly brute behind the bar spoke out across the gloom.
“No. Last night I got drunk and pissed in the barrel.” A number of patrons moaned like sick drunks.
“Well, it certainly improved the flavour.” The Fellow in the corner took another drink of his mug. Others laughed and drank up.
Rowan strolled to the bar and slapped a gold mark on the counter. That would get him the good stuff until he couldn't drink without it being poured down his throat by the pink rabbit that stalked the edge of every drunk's mind. The large mug of ale he was handed was busy going through some unknown chemical reaction. Unidentifiable chunks were surfacing and sticking to the edge. One chunk in particular had sprouted legs and was attempting to climb out. Rowan took a long hard drink and slipped off his bench seat. Strong Brew. He drank what was left, sifting fungus between his teeth as he went.
“So Bernardo! How are you on this droll evening?” He quickly looked at the pink bunny that laughed at him from the corner of the room. Big Bastard. Someone will get you yet.
“Fine noble Sire.” Bernardo dropped into a whisper. “Janna was in earlier. Looking for you, she was.”
“Ah. Thought she might. I'd best be on the lookout for her and her associates.” Rowan glanced about the taproom with suspicion. There in the haze filled corner a stranger in heavy black robes appeared to be looking in the direction of the bar.
“Yes. That one showed up just after Janna left. me thinks he is watching for you my friend.' Bernardo poured ale and passed it to Rowan.
“Take a look at his face.” Rowan reached into his robe and touched the amulet about his neck. It
was warm to the touch. He concentrated on the stranger in the corner.
“Now, what did you see?” Rowan looked into Bernardo's face.
“A red star reflected back from his left eye.” Bernardo had a look of concern on his face.
“Well, that's it then. I think he knows I'm here, time to spring the trap.” Rowan started to climb off his seat.
“His trap or yours, my friend? The stranger also moves.” The stranger stood up from his table.
“Why Bernardo, Mine of course. Now you might want to take cover for this will get very messy, very quickly. And pass me that dagger of yours.” Rowan concealed the weapon against his wrist. He eyed Bernardo and turned to face the taproom.
“Are you ready my friend?” A quick gaze about the room was all it took. The patrons knew something was afoot. Hands edged towards weapons. Tension thickened as Rowan drew up to a full height. The cloaked one looked about the room. He too was aware of the danger of a wrong move. Warily he pulled a charred black staff from the shadows of his robes and headed for the tavern door.
The shadowy one paused at the door and hurled a ball of fire towards the bar. There was a disturbance as patrons in the path dived from their upturned tables. Rowan held out his left hand and gestured. The ball of fire never reached him. Instead it became a small marble of light, glowing as it sailed the remaining distance to his open hand. The shadow mage paled. Things were not working, as they should have. Rowan smiled and the mage whacked out the tavern door and exited into the street. Rowan flicked the small sphere towards the door and it flew after the fleeing mage.
“Amateurs; they’re sending amateurs after me. I feel insulted.” Rowan snorted into his ale as the sound of a loud explosion and a scream of primal agony echoed in from the street. The patrons had righted their tables and the merriment continued into the night.
Rowan finished his second ale, bid his friends farewell, and staggered out into the street. He narrowly sidestepped the smouldering remains of the cloaked mage and his pink bunny companion.
“Told you so you pink bastard.” He indecisively took a deep breath and felt sick from the foul stench in the air. Rowan hurried down the narrow street.
It was difficult to pin down the sensation he was feeling. Rowan looked back up the road. Something was wrong.
Must have been too much water in the ale. Rowan did an about face to retrace his steps. The street he had walked down moments ago was now a small, dark curio shop. A nasty thought dropped into Rowan's mind.
Oh s$@+! I've entered the shadow guild quarter. The Dark mage will get me for sure. A noise. Movement. I'm a dead man now. It was Janna. With her stood the Dark Mage. He was smiling, good.
“You were a fool to fall for such a simple illusion. For shame! I so expected more from you but then, the Talon have always proven easy to dominate.” Shan grasped Janna by the throat and licked the side of her face.
“It took so little to turn her, to break her, to set her free. In the end she begged to be mine.” Shan smiled at her nakedness. She smiled at Rowan. Rowan drew himself up.
“Even here I have the power to take you dark one. Arrogant are you to think that I should enter this place unprepared.”
One bluff. Better make it a good one. The dark one ceased to smile. Wish I had Bernardo's blade with me. No matter.
“You were observed since you entered the tavern. You took no preparations.” Shan felt surer of himself.
“Not all actions are observable. Now, when you feel up to it, let's get it on.” Rowan spat at Shan's boots. The dirt exploded in fire as the gob of spittle landed slightly short. The dark mage took a step back and the shadows at the edge of the street wavered.
“Illusions!” Janna laughed. “Such foolishness will not save you.” Rowan stepped forward and Janna retreated behind Shan.
“The end has come for you, Rowan. Even now I weave the path of predators.” Rowan could feel the magical energy around him, through him, twisting the fabric of reality, re-weaving all that is into that which must not be.
“You fool Shan! Not even old Thrain himself would weave this pattern into the fabric.” There was much energy in the weaving. Shan had added his life force to the weave.
“Thrain is an old man and I choose to reach beyond his weaknesses.” Shan continued the focusing of his spell. Shadows darkened the sky.
Rowan watched in horror as the form of great wolves wove them selves from the nothingness.
Janna came at him with a knife. Rowan sidestepped the attack and snatched the weapon from her hand.
Janna was thrown off balance and landed face down in the dirt. Rowan struck her across the back of the head and she went limp. The weaving was almost complete.
One chance. The throw was good as the blade gouged the dark mage across the cheek. It had been enough. The pain broke his focus and he screamed. His body erupted in an inferno of energy. There was nothing left to hit the ground. The problem became obvious. The wolves were still forming. The city was alight. What to do? Janna woke.
“What has happened?” She spotted the wolves. Her mind went wild with the terror of the moment.
“There is no time to explain. I must form the barrier tree before the wolves are loosed upon this reality. You must complete the final weaving.” A brew-house exploded somewhere on the far side of the city. He passed Janna his cloak.
“You might need this. Now we begin.” Rowan focused on the necessary weaving of thought.
“Goodbye Rowan.” Janna focused in on his way of thought and he was no more. In his place stood a young sapling of some wood that was more real than any tree known. The wolves howled in pain and began to dissipate, the shadows in the sky fell away to reveal the stars and the moon.
Janna looked at her naked, tattooed form and smiled. A group of peasants fleeing the inferno of the trader's quarter hurried past. Janna grabbed one by the throat.
“Where are you going?” Her inquiry was more of a threat than a question. The sub human struggled in her grasp.
“We're fleeing the city on account of the fire.” Janna took stock of the situation.
“No you're not! You and you're little friends will Fill some buckets with water and go find some burning building to throw it on or I will feed you to my pet Fiend. Do we have an understanding?” The peasant struggled to say yes as the grip on his neck tightened
and she lifted him off the ground. His friends trembled in fear at her strength.
The first volunteers departed to find as many buckets as possible. Janna stared at the tree that was once Rowan.
“You men! Always fighting to see who gets to be the big dog. Never realizing that the b+*#$ in the den is the real ruler of the pack.” Janna smiled at the memory of Shan.
I never begged for that which would be mine. Janna focused on the tree.
“And if you think that fool Thrain will oppose me, I had him by for lunch.” Janna whetted her bloodstained lips and kissed a leaf on the tree depositing a red mark.
The palace was probably a nice place to rest. Queen Janna. Has a nice ring to it. I can give it a try for a Few centuries to see how it feels. Queen Janna became an owl and flew towards the palace.
“Was anything taken?”
Burdon surveyed the bronze archives. The hall was in ruins.
“There were a few engraved totems from the Second Ku Bronze period. Fairly crude pieces.” The old Dwerg investigator ran his fingers across the blood covered marble floor. It was starting to dry out.
“Their value?” No answer.
Korva looked up at the manservant. He was downcast with grief.
“Oh. My apologies Burdon, but please, their value?” Burdon shook his head.
“She, I mean the Lady Tani, traded a pack horse for them.”
“We must assume that their value was enough to kill
for.” Korva placed his hand on the corpse's neck and pulled at the weapon hilt. A slight twist, a crack of ribs, and the blade worked free. Blood dripped slowly from the weapon.
“And this?” Korva turned the weapon in his hand. Burdon, nauseated, looked away.
It's a bronze piece from the later Ku iron period. Her Ladyship paid seventeen bars of trade silver for it.'
Korva scratched at his beard.
Bronze engravings of the Ku. Korva sighed, and struggled to his feet. His left knee was giving him pain. Korva handed the dirk to Burdon and cleaned his hands on his sweat rag.
“It's never gold and jewels any more, is it?” Korva moved down the hall. Burdon followed slowly behind him.
“I'll need the names of every visitor for the last month, a list of servants, and the trader who sold the engravings to her ladyship. Actually, make that a full list of the people she bought from.” Burdon nodded.
“Do you have full descriptions of the missing pieces?” Burdon nodded.
“Yes. Her ladyship had them catalogued. I will send them to your residence immediately, Master Korva.”
“Good. I'll see myself out.” Korva exited through the main doors. The mortician had arrived with the burial cask.
“Master Korva,” acknowledged the mortician. Korva nodded in reply.
“Mortician Urthalt, running late I see.”
“Business has been busy as of late, Master Korva. With plague, wars, and now this. I'm actually ahead this year.”
Korva climbed onto his low cart and drove his mule back towards town.
The cart passed through the town gates, Skirted the myriad alehouses of trader's way, past 'The Broken Leg Inn' and 'The Violated Mule Tavern'.
“Master Korva!” It was initiate Burtram from the chapel of Westriding. His little legs hurrying to carry him onwards.
“Yes young Burtram, how can I help you today?” Probably wanted me to appraise the candlestick holders for future reference. The little Hob was just like his dad.
“It's Father Cassius...” A pause to catch his breath.
“Yes lad?” Korva wondered at the excitement.
“Father Cassius has been murdered.”
And to think I used to get tired of the lack of action this town had to offer.
“Hop in lad.” Korva pulled him aboard. Korva turned the cart and mule down the lane and pushed on towards the church.
“Well lad, what happened?”
“It was terrible. I found him... on the vestry floor with the letter opener driven through his chest. It was terrible Master Korva, just terrible.”
It usually is lad. Korva reached into the back of the cart for his pewter flask of home brewed mead.
“Drink this. It will help calm your nerves.” The young Hob took a heavy swig from the flask and started coughing.
“What is this? It's terrible.” Burtram eyed the evil brew with distrust.
“My home brewed mead. Your dad always enjoyed it.”
“Really? My dad always had a funny attitude about what was drinkable, or so my mum always said.” He returned the flask to Korva.
“Probably true.” Korva took a sniff, replaced the cork and tossed the flask in the back of the cart.
Father Cassius lay face up. His face wracked by the oddest look. It was as though he was not expecting to be killed.
Korva pulled the Letter opener free. Blood covered the Floor.
“Killed this early morning by the look of it.” Korva looked at the young hobbit, then at the engraved bronze bowl on the shalbho behind him. The Hob tried to follow Korva's view.
“Father Cassius wasn't a collector of bronze pieces by any chance?” Young Burtram looked around the room.
“Um, actually, now you mention it, yes.”
“Is there anything missing? Well?” Korva stepped across the body towards Burtram.
“Well, there were a number of bronze panels, odd scratched writing all over them.”
Korva looked over the scrolled rubbings and sketches, There was nothing here. The names of guests were a meaningless parade of the poor Aristocrats that lived in the small Duchy. A Merchant had taken clay pressings of the plates. Long returned to the capital. The prospector presented the only true lead. This had to be investigated.
The journey out through the hills took a day. According to Burden's notes, the prospector who had sold the Ku engravings, was encamped somewhere out in the Black hills. A bad place to be alone. Here, practically in the ragged edge of the Empire. Nothing much to see out here.
“Old coot's probably having the time of his life.”
Korva stared the prospector in the eye. At least, what was left of his eye. The stench of death was strong in the prospector's burnt out camp. Korva looked the Hob’s remains over again. The prospector had been crucified on a large tree. The corpse was a week old at least. The few remains indicated that he had been tortured to death by a hot iron poker. The iron fire poker at his feet said everything.
“You old fool. What did you get yourself into?” Korva shook his head and walked away. This whole case was starting to smell bad.
Leone Wiffil the Third polished the bronze plates with the fine cloth of lamb's wool. Trusting such a task to the servants was, of course, out of the question.
“Excuse me, your lordship, but there's an old Dwerg at the front doors. Fellow absolutely refuses to use the service entrance. He was quite rude about it in fact.” The manservant was almost annoyed by it.
“What does he want?” Lord Wiffil focused on the task at land.
“He wants to speak to you about your bronze collection. He mentioned something about the murder of Lady Tani.”
“Ah. Send the fellow away. I don't have time to discuss such things.”
“Of course my lord.” The manservant turned and left.
These lords were all the same, Never interested in giving you the time of day until they needed you. Korva watched the manor from the street. His old mule and tired cart stood in the shadow of the great trees of the wide, cobblestone lane. Korva watched as the burglar made his entrance. This case would be solved without the assistance of Lord Wiffil.
A long moment of silence in the scheme of things and the crime was complete.
Korva watched as Arlo the burglar climbed down the side of the manor house with the heavy saddlebags. With keen stealth, he retrieved his horse from the shelter of the
shadowy hedge, and then led the animal to the lane.
Counting the beast, he headed away to the eastern gate of the town.
Korva followed at a distance, his newly greased axles providing some of the required stealth to remain undetected.
The thief rode out into the darkness of the countryside leaving the town behind.
“That's right son, lead me to the boss.” Korva pursued his quarry at a safe distance.
Growing ever weary, as farms fell away to the distant horizon, Korva struggled to stay awake. The cart rode the edge of the trail to commandeer as much shadow and coverage as possible.
Night was heavy as the thief halted near an ancient stone circle. Korva pulled the mule in on a low gravel wash behind a ridge.
Korva, spyglass in hand, dropped to the gravel. His knee jarred. Korva grunted lightly as the pain flared. The old Dwerg struggled up the gravel wash and peeked over the rim at the scene below. There beneath the trees, Arlo waited. In a swift movement, a cloaked figure entered from the trees.
“You're late, Aghrin.” Arlo dropped the saddlebags it the cloaked one's feet. Aghrin pulled back the hood, Korva easily recognized the new participant as an Albho.
It just got interesting. Korva considered the crossbow he had left back in the cart. No chance of moving unnoticed.
“Are you sure you have every piece of it?” asked the dark haired Albho.
“All twelve pieces, exactly as you described them.” Arlo paused.
“The cost was great. I expect to be compensated greatly.”
“You will.”
Below, in the shadow of the stones, Arlo experienced the afterlife. The Albho freed his dagger and drained the thief's blood into a stone bowl from beneath his cloak. Nasty business you're in. Korva settled in for a long wait as the Albho began to chant. Huddled silently on the low ridge, His spyglass took in the full view of the stone circle. The Albho chanted for an hour. Eventually, as the moon waned to full darkness, the shadows of starlight stirred. There, in the centre of the circle, stood a large shadowy individual, identification would be impossible in such darkness, the Albho spoke.
“I have them, my lord. As agreed.” The Albho handed over the two heavy saddlebags. The shadow handed over a large gemstone in return.
“Lord? This is only half the agreed payment. I don't understand.”
The tall shadow turned and stared at the low ridge. The Albho followed the dark one's direction of gaze.
“...I will dispose of the spy immediately.” The Albho retrieved a sword from the corpse of his murdered thief and hurried towards the ridge. The shadows twisted in the stone circle and the large creature left is it had arrived.
Damn. Been spotted. Korva slid back down the gravel surface dropping his trusty spyglass as he went. His crossbow was on the mule cart at the base of the gravel wash. The Albho was moving fast. This was going to be close.
Korva rode the loose gravel for most of the way to the bottom. The Albho cleared the ridge, sword in hand.
“Bastard Dwerg, I'm going to make you pay for this.”
Korva slammed hard against the wheel of the cart. His knee was burning with pain. The Albho was almost on him. Korva pulled his crossbow from the cart. The quarrel fell from the notch. Not now.
“Ha. I have you now Dwerg.” The Albho was laughing as he swung the sword in towards Korva's ribs. Korva jerked the empty crossbow up between them and hard against the Albho's neck, he fired dry.
The bow exploded forward against the Albho's neck. The sword fell from the dark one's grip as it bit into Korva's side. The Albho clutched at his throat, struggling for breath. Korva hammered him backwards with the remains of the crossbow stock.
Korva cast the wooden stock aside and pushed away the pain as he retrieved the sword. The Albho was still sprawled on the gravel.
Korva swung once and then a second time. The blade hewed off the Albho's head with a second blow.
“No, You don't.” mumbled Korva. Korva sat back against the wheel of the cart, his knee and side burning with pain. It was then he saw it. The large gem given In payment to the dark Albho was glowing with a great crimson light as It sat In a pool of the Albho's blood. His mind fell into the crimson darkness of sleep.
Sunlight and the hot smells of late morning roused Korva. The pain was gone from his knee and side. As was the blood, and the gemstone. The Albho was a dried husk of skin and bone.
“Damn.” Lost the evidence. Nothing left but to check the stone circle and the body of the thief, Korva climbed to his feet, sword in hand. He moved up the gravel wash to retrieve his dropped spyglass. The mule had pulled the cart across the road to a patch of grass to feed. Korva climbed aboard the cart with a renewed vigor. Reigns In hand, he guided the mule around the hill and towards the circle of old stones. The body of the thief was still lying on the ground. His horse, by the look of the tracks, had wandered off to look for its true owner. A search of the stone circle found the prints of something very large and heavy.
A Mael.
What would a 'Mael' want with the crude bronze engravings of the Ku? They had been of such value to employ an Albho Sorcerer to oversee collection, but then to pay him with some large gemstone of an obscure magical nature?
He returned to the cart.
Investigator Korva climbed aboard old the cart.
I must be a terrible sight.
Korva pulled a mirror from his satchel. His face covered in dirt and blood. The grey hairs had been replaced by a youthful dark-red. Korva shook his head and chuckled.
“Damn Albho blood makes me look twenty years younger.” Time to go home and have a bath. The pieces of this puzzle will fit together eventually, Above the world, the heavens continued their slow movement towards the coming darkness.
“The death of your brother was to be expected, my prince,” said Huatepec.
“The metal it was built from, the sacred metal of Ra, you see.”
“Why?” asked Ramses.
The old priest struggled with a large object of odd manufacture, moving it to the table.
“See here,” said Huatepec.
The young prince rose and moved to gaze upon the strange thing. There, on close inspection, Ramses found that the object was made of metal, silver in nature. It had not the feel of silver and consisted of many sheets, beaten to perfection in shape and thickness yet there were no indications that it had ever been beaten. The first was carved in an array of pictures that showed no work of carving. Some images he had seen carved on temple walls yet others were unfamiliar to him.
“What is this?” asked Ramses. The old priest lifted aside the first four metal sheets.
“These are the workings of Ra. Behold!” Huatepec pointed to an image. It almost resembled a djed.
“It looks like a djed,” said Ramses.
“Yes. You are correct, my prince,” said Huatepec.
“The djed is marked with the two main symbols of Ra, indicating its manufacture; and Set, indicating that it nay invite death if handled without the proper tools,” Huatepec paused.
“Here, the small, third symbol indicates that the panels may only be handled safely by reaching through the metal ankh while wearing sandals.” The priest waited for the boy to gain full view of it. 'How does the metal kill?' asked Ramses.
“The light of Ra gives it a power. The gods did not pass on the true nature of the power. Only that it is used with care.“
“You see the great panels of the djed are separated from the earth by these stacked pots are made from a fired clay and encased in molten sand.”
“Just as the bubble and small djed in the light-flower?” asked Ramses.
“Yes,” answered Huatepec.
“The difference is that while the large djed takes it's power from Ra, the clay pot beneath the light-flower contains a combination of two metals which is suspended in a liquid.”
“Then they are a different power?” Ramses struggled with the thought.
“No. They are the same energies. The energy is life.”
The priest moved the sheet to reveal the next. The picture was of the dead being passed beneath a djed.
“Here, when people have died, we link them to the earth and the djed at that place where the heart is. Sometimes it is possible to give back the energy of life to the body that has none.” Huatepec paused.
“Where ever the sun shines, there is life,” he spoke softly.
The young prince amazed at the prospect of giving life to the dead.
“What about my brother?” asked the Prince.
“Yes. We did this on the day of his death but he was beyond restoration. Perhaps he had been without the energy of life too long.” Huatepec moved the sheet aside.
“Now we begin. This section describes the island of Atlan across the sea where the gods did dwell. They knew of this land and a great land in the west. Their power reached across the world. They made ships to sail the leavens and flew as the bird flew” the priest trailed off.
“There. Do you see the Symbol of Ra in alignment with these others?” asked Huatepec.
'Yes. What does it mean?'
“They mark an alignment of the heavens that occurred long ago.” Huatepec reached for a bowl of sand.
“Understand that each grain marks the time that the Nile floods and the growing season begins.” Huatepec withdrew fifteen grains from the bowl and placed them in the prince's hand.
“You have lived for this many seasons,” said the high priest as he returned the grains to the bowl.
“Now we continue.” the prince stared at the bowl of sand.
'The gods, of whom you are descended, ruled with great power for things that are now forgotten were known as you know of the horse and chariot.'
“What things?” queried Ramses.
“The light-flower, the djed, restoring life, the secret of flight you must learn to listen my prince.
Your father has expressed these very same concerns about you.”
“Now there arose a degenerate culture in the east who sought to rival the power of the gods. The gods wielded the weapon of power. Thrown from the flying ships, it would destroy whole cities in a storm of fire and create great sickness in a rain of ash.”
“Investigations by the merchant classes have revealed that these people would bathe in a river to wash off the poisoned ash. This bathing in rivers has become a ritual of religion within the remnants of their culture.”
“Then the gods failed to destroy them,” said Ramses.
“No my Prince. The gods destroyed what they had become in the hope that it would show them the true path to enlightenment. They, being a degenerate culture, lave failed to achieve the expectations of the gods.”
“The rule of the gods reached far into the east and then cataclysm struck the realm of the gods and it was swallowed by the sea. The gods ascended to the heavens while the realm of the gods was lost to the few who remained.”
“So there is nothing left but these memories?” asked Ramses.
“No. There are ruins in some places, and it is said that some escaped destruction and journeyed to the lands in the west,” ended Huatepec.
“Now my prince, you must return to the learning of numbers.”
Ramses slid aside the last sheet of metal. There, a script and an image of a snake with wings.
“Huatepec? What does this say?” asked Ramses. The old priest turned and spoke softly.
“This is the beginning of the gods before they knew they were gods. They worshiped beautiful black snakes with black feather wings which, in flight, would reveal all the colours of the world. Realizing that they were gods, they slew the false gods, destroying all trace.”
“Why did they destroy them?” asked Ramses.
“To be free,” whispered Huatepec, returning the metal sheets to their place.
“Now my prince, numbers.” Ramses struggled again with the Ibis feather pillow.
“Huatepec?” said Ramses.
“Yes my prince?” answered the priest.
“One day we must cross the far sea and reclaim the places of the gods.”
“Yes my Prince. One day.” Replied Huatepec, as he counted out a number of stones from a bowl.
“Shagur Vu! Shagur Vu Lurak!" Nevok's voice was weakening with the light of Shagur Vu. The Beast would once again fall upon the Clan of the Vutak. Lurak felt the old one again brush his hand against Lurak's shaved head. Lurak could once again smell the strange mix of ochre and dayflower pollen. The old man paused. Lurak opened his eyes to the Firelight that warmed the cave. He knew what would happen next. He had aided the old one in this ritual when Shagur Vu Urgar had given of his life that the Vutak might survive. Now it would be his turn, this beast of the un-living world would come soon. Lurak watched the young boy approach with the claw of Shagur Vu. This gift of the most powerful spirit had been found embedded in the now sacred Usak tree that shaded the cave entrance. Found in full view of the fire mountain where only Shagur Vu nests during the darkness of Shoka Ne'S coming.
His young replacement nervously lowered the claw of Shagur Vu into Lurak’s open hands. It was ice cold, brought forth from the Deepest of the sacred caves.
Nevok began the final words.
"Grr- Su Sau Ti Shagur Vu!" The old man released his
Neck-beads as the claw glowed with an infusion of the light and strength of Shagur Vu. When it was over Nevok collapsed against the wall of the cave.
Lurak stood. The claw of Shagur Vu was a weight in his hand.
"Tao Ki Sura Shagur Vu." Lurak focused on the claw for a moment. Screams came from the tribal living areas.
Nevok looked up. It was here.
"Ne Ge!" Nevok was stricken with fear. Lurak put his hand on the old man's face.
"Sha Ki Tao Sura Su." Lurak moved quickly along the tunnel. This would be it. More screams. Lurak was running on the wet stone of the tunnel. His nand gripped tighter on the claw of Shagur Vu. Another turn in the tunnel and the fluorescent glow of moss on the walls gave way to pictures in ochre and blood lit by some distant light. Lurak emerged into the central gallery. The tallow lamps burned in their oil pits. The pictures of everything the Vutak had achieved. Every moment. Every deed. It would all be lost if he failed against this creature of darkness. Women and children were fleeing towards him. The struggle for survival was at it's most intense. The Women paused and huddled against the wall of the cave, dragging the children to the ground. They whispered to the children to look at the dirt and rock while he passed them by. No one looked up. Lurak ran on. Screams came again from the main lair. This time more primal, tainted with the darkness of Shoka Ni. Lurak could feel the strength of Shagur Vu pounding in his chest. The strength flowed into his limbs as he moved faster through the central gallery towards the clan's lair.
A warrior's scream ended with a bone shattering snap that echoed its terror into the cave network.
Lurak emerged into the lair. His foe was everything the darkness of Shoka Ni represented. It towered twice the height of the tallest warrior. It's body a powerhouse of strength. Its hideous face twisted and distorted in the Firelight of those few warriors that remained to hold it at bay. Lurak looked again at the creature's face. There was something familiar. A shadow trick. Lurak closed on the beast that held half a warrior in each hand. It flailed into the remaining men with the upper half of he who had Once been Shatuk.
Lurak could not mourn the loss of his brother.
"Sa! Sura Ti Shagur Vu." At this, the other warriors broke and retreated from the creature, moving past Lurak without a look.
Lurak could see it now. The monstrosity wore a mask that obscured its true face. Lurak looked at the facial tattoos. The stretched hide mask had once been Shagur Vu Urgar.
Lurak closed on the monstrosity. His grip on the claw of Shagur Vu had tightened to where it cut into the palm of his hand. Blood was slowly coating the claw.
Fhe beast of Shoka Ni hurled the upper half of Shatuk at Lurak. The weight and speed of the corpse spun Lurak aside.
It moved quickly. So did Lurak. The claw of Shagur Vu tore into the creature's flesh. The Beast turned quickly with the legs of Shatuk, knocking Lurak through a cooking fire. Lurak rolled to his feet and screamed with anger. Mocking him with laughter, the monster tore the lower remnants of Shatuk in two.
Slowly with a leg in each hand, it again converged on Lurak.
Lurak dove low into the flames of the cooking fire and emerged between the creature's legs where he stabbed into the flesh of the great beast. It roared with burning pain. The claw of Shagur Vu ripped flesh and sprayed the dark ichor that was the monster's blood. The monstrosity sprayed Lurak with its urine. The foulness of the creature's scent assailed Lurak. Lurak rolled further to emerge behind his enemy. Lurak stood and turned to be met with the bludgeoning strike of a gory limb.
First one leg and then the next hammered against him until he succumbed to the pain and passed out for but a moment. It was enough.
Lurak was awakened by the agony of an arm being torn away at the elbow. The clawed hand around his neck crushed the scream from him. The monster chewed at the freed arm with a renewed hunger. The pain was overwhelming. Choking for air, Lurak could still feel the claw grasped in his remaining hand.
Shagur Vu Lurak roared with defiance. The remaining arm, tight about the claw of Shagur Vu, drove upwards between them with the last of its strength. Shagur Vu Lurak pushed the point up into the throat of the beast of
Shoka Ni and deep into the monster's brain.
The monster released its grip on Lurak and fell back, grasping at the claw.
Lurak seized on the opportunity and fumbled about for a stone the size of his hand. He found one.
"Shagur Vu!" screamed Shagur Vu Lurak as he swung upwards with the stone and hammered the claw of Shagur Vu even deeper into the brain of his enemy. The stump of his arm was spraying precious lifeblood.
The monstrous corpse fell forward towards Lurak and he struggled to avoid being crushed by its weight. Lurak was weak now. He struggled towards the cook fire. He had one chance to live.
Lurak fDwerged the bleeding stump into the fire and seared the end against a hot stone. He screamed with pain and Fell back from the fire. It still bled. Again he fDwerged the arm into the fire, burying it in the red coals.
Shagur Vu Lurak coughed up blood as he fumbled for the pouch of powdered leaves and roots that the old man had given him. Lurak opened the medicine bundle and pushed the burned stump into the mix. With his remaining hand
he wound a leather binding strap up the remaining length of his arm, around his neck, and then down again to tie off on the pouch.
Shagur Vu Lurak propped up against a pile of hides and rested. It would be a while before the others returned to investigate.
Lurak was dozing in the firelight when Nevok emerged from the central gallery surrounded by the few remaining warriors of the tribe. Lurak struggled to sit up.
Only the old man approached him.
Nevok stared at the bloody form that was struggling upright. Nevok ordered the warriors to drag the monstrous Corpse from the cave.
Nevok moved to help Lurak to his feet. This was the most difficult part of the task. Lurak didn't speak. He knew what the custom required. The taboos had to be enfDwerged for the survival of the tribe.
Well outside the entrance to the cave network, wood was gathered. The monstrous corpse piled on top and more wood added.
The cremation fire burned slowly as heat built in the heavier wood.
The fire burned into the night and into the next day.
Shagur Vu Lurak and the old shaman choked on the foul smoke of the pyre. It was night again when the smoke was no longer the foul stench of the smouldering corpse.
Flesh had boiled away to reveal bone, which in turn rumbled under the intense heat. The beast would soon be gone.
The fire was no longer the raging inferno that it had become. Slowly the strength of Shagur Vu left the fire and began to dissipate.
Lurak thought of his brother Shatuk. The pain welled up in his chest.
"Fa Amun Shatuk" whispered Lurak to the fire. Fire was replaced by ash and glowing embers.
Lurak watched the light of the coals and thought of the many times in his child years that he had stared into the embers of such a fire.
There in the ash and warm coals was the claw of Shagur Vu. The old man pulled it free of the fire remains.
Nevok looked up from the ashes of the beast and stared at Shagur Vu Lurak.
"Tae Usal Shagur Vu!" voiced the old Shaman. He waved the claw menacingly at Shagur Vu Lurak.
Shagur Vu Lurak was now a thing of the spirit world.
The old man turned his back on Lurak and walked into the cave to join the rest of the tribe. The spirit thing that was once named Shagur Vu Lurak of the Vutak Clan moved slowly out into the darkness of Shoka Ni.
"What does the Kai-Mother desire of the Kaisar?"
Had the Sunrabi Envoy gone as far as whispering treason into the ears of the Kaisar? <gold-dragon> sighed at the prospect.
"Do not take that tone with me Nasi. You are a little Kai who does not even see the knives at his back." <gold-dragon> waited for a response.
"The Sunrabi are not a knife at my back." Kaisar Goreng got to his feet in a rage only to back down as the Kai-Mother's personal guard gripped the handle of the <dog-knife> at his belt.
The Kai-Mother became aware of what had caused the Kaisar to pause mid-rage and smiled.
"At least you know what a knife looks like."
"This Empire recorded the great cataclysm in the one hundredth and fifty seventh year of the Imperial Calender and the millennia of Yazak migration that followed yet here we are five thousand years later and you would have these outsiders involve us in the conspiracies of their petty immortal."
"They are not petty conspiracies Kai-Mother, their dispute was why magic failed for a week."
"No Nasi. They were a knife in the darkness, they were not the hand." <gold-dragon> breathed in and out.
"No. My decision is final. You will compel them to depart the Sar immediately then you will take the barge across the bay to the White Mosque and contemplate your obligation to the law before the Kadaitch." Kaisar Goreng squirmed in his seat at the prospect of it.
"Yes Mother." <gold-dragon> shook her head.
"That is Kai-Mother My Kaisar."
Despite the Kai's attempt at appeasement, the Kai-Mother's personal guard failed to release his hand from the <dog-knife> at his belt.
"I will not allow you to drag the Sar into a dark tryst with Vanya the Outcast." The prospect of a <dog-knife> in his immediate future loomed and for the first time Kaisar Nasi Goreng felt close to death. Nasi watched as <gold-dragon> relaxed her eyes and Kaisar Nasi Goreng was spared the knife.
<gold-dragon> relaxed back into her chair.
"I will however tell you the tale of the second Kaisar: <golden-eyes>." Kaisar Nasi Goreng closed his eyes at the prospect.
"<golden-eyes> was much likes his father. He enjoyed the prospect of freedom and enjoyed many years simply travelling the Sar by flying Barge, yet in his later years, he was devoted to the time he spent in the White Mosque that he had helped build by hand."
Nasi had not known that the second Kaisar had built the White Mosque. Certainly he had ordered its construction that Clerics of Law might establish it as a bastion of Law at the heart of the empire, yet he had never heard that the Kaisar had worked the wood of its construction as a common labourer until now.
Nasi was still focused on the thought of a Kaisar working timbers.
"<golden-eyes> had gathered to him in his travels many clerics who had devoted themselves to the Philosophies of Law. The more prominent you probably know from your history studies."
"<Kelintji-slayer> who had come from the Yazak Steppes where he taught the importance of Laws to the humanoids there offered up his callused hand to the Kaisar in thanks for his toils in the cause of law, yet <golden-eyes> spurned his hand and holding up his own less callused hand, said:
"Hefting a few timbers to build a mosque does not make me a martyr to law."
<Kelintji-slayer> placed his hand on <golden-eyes> shoulder, smiled and replied:
"I never said it would." He pointed at the large portal stone that sealed the Martyr's Crypt over which the Mosque was being constructed.
"The Martyrs to Law are over there."
"Now come, the others are having lunch and will be discussing the development of Laws for the Sar. Perhaps you might like to participate."
"Now you understand. It is not enough to found an Empire, build a Mosque, or even to be Kaisar. You must be more."
"Now, off you go." <gold-dragon> smiled at her son.
"And remember; be strong, yet polite with the Sunrabi Envoy when you inform her that she is expelled from the Sar."
Nasi sighed and prepared to leave the Kai-mother's Apartments.
"And don't forget your visit to the White Mosque. “
The Kaisar bowed his head to <gold-dragon> until she had touched his head with the palm of her hand.
"Yes Kai-Mother." The Kaisar departed cleansed of his burden.
<gold-dragon> waited a moment. Her servant, Ket, entered.
"The Kaisar's palanquin has departed." Ket was prompt. The Sunrabi would be dealt with if she had to tear their Dirigables from the sky her self. <gold-dragon> sighed and turned to the next task.
"And now to the other matter at hand!"
"Commander Fein reports a greater Kelintji approaches the Tiers." Ket smiled inwardly at this fine coup because he knew she enjoyed an outing.
"Prepare my flying barge. I depart now." Her bodyguard looked at her questioningly as Ket left to make the necessary preparations.
"Yes?" The Kai-Mother stared at her protection.
"Nothing Mother," replied <golden-talon>.
"I should hope not."
Kaisar Goreng sat in the Hall of Law and waited for the Envoy of the Sunrabi to arrive. He knew she would not like this.
Anna Vik Rappard walked past the announcer of prisoners without pause.
"Anna vik Rappard, Envoy of Vig the Eternal, Sword of the Sunrabi, Daughter of Imogen Daemonsdottir." A hundred spearmen looked up in unison as she was announced.
"Why?" Anna waited for an answer.
"It is the decision of the Kaisar that the Sunrabi should be driven from the Sar." Anna stared at the Voice of the Kaisar.
"I would hear it from him." The Envoy of Vig pointed at the Kaisar. The Voice of the Kaisar retreated to consult with the throne.
Anna waited for an answer.
The voice returned.
"Is the Envoy of Vig so deaf as to be incapable of hearing the Kaisar speak?" Things had changed since Anna had been smuggled from the Kaisar's apartments. He had surrendered so much to her. What had gone wrong?
He had gone to visit the Kai-Mother. Anna's eyes progressively closed. She had been foolish and now she stared at the Kaisar in suspicion.
He had led her to believe that the Kai-Mother was this little old woman living out her life in her royal apartments and yet this old woman had taken away her garrison and her Dirigible dry-docks in a single meeting.
Anna ran her fingernail across her thumb nervously.
Nasi leaned forward and spoke.
"If the Sunrabi wish to conquer, perhaps they will find the Desolation of Sinar more to their liking rather than the armpit of the immortals."
She could see he had given her what he could.
"As you demand, Kaisar!" Anna vik Rappard bowed her head slightly and walked away, her aide in her shadow.
"The Synod isn't going to like this." whispered Franz Torkeep. As if in reply to his whisper, the hundred Kelintji-slayer escorted them from the Hall of Law to the landing platform where their light Dirigible waited.
Sixty Sunrabi flanked the walk. Torkeep signalled their Sergeants to board.
Anna and Franz paused. Their long cloaks fluttered and whipped in the dry wind as the Knights boarded. The Kelintji-Slayer guard surrounded the Dirigible and pointed their spears inward. It was a purely ceremonial sign of hostility.
"We're leaving!" Anna and her aide stepped onto the ramp which was still closing as the Dirigible lifted clear of the sea of Spears.
Anna looked out across the Imperial City below her. Franz spoke up:
"By Vig How I would love to take that palace with a couple of Dirigibles." Anna looked at her long time companion.
"You may yet get your chance." Anna looked back until the boarding ramp locked.
"Where to?" Franz's became a voice in the near dark hold of the Dirigibles.
"Signal the Others. We go south-west across the Arm of Vig."
"The Desolation of Sinar?" questioned Franz.
"Yes." Anna vik Rappard Replied.
The Dirigibles headed south-west.
The Kai-Mother watched from the battlements of the Tiers of Pain. The Greater Kelintji Scratched at the stone of the first Tier. It was almost fifty feet from nose to rear as it struggled to lift its great bulk to the next level.
Commander Yath Fein leaned in on his walking stick. The decades had taken their toll on the young Commander she remembered from so long ago.
"Is he the last of his breed?" <gold-dragon> questioned Yath.
"No. There is a female up north. Our Scouts spotted her. She comes down to Wicked Ward in search of Honey. There are some bees nesting there." The Commander was sad at the prospect.
<gold-dragon> contemplated the tragedy. The Tiers had kept the barbaric hordes out but it had destroyed one of the rarest and most beautiful creatures in all of the realms. At this moment, she regretted ordering the construction of the Tiers so many millennia ago.
"I don't want them to be the last."
"Perhaps I shall have the scouts find some of the female's spore. Perhaps we can create a trail of scent he might follow to Wicked Ward." <gold-dragon> smiled at Commander Fein's ingenuity.
"An arranged marriage sounds most appropriate. Most appropriate indeed."
Oh God the Shame...I write mostly like Dan Brown.
Oh God the Shame...I write mostly like Dan BrownHey, it could be worse. Could be Stephanie Meyer.
~keeps my mouth shut before I can say something that would get me killed~
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RPG Superstar 2009 Top 8
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Funny, when I enter ...
... I'm told I write like James Joyce.
Arron Kyril is the third son of Zaine Kryil, Rogue Trader, charter of the Liss corridor, hero of the Kath uprising, hammer of the heretics of Malath's Grace and founder of the colony of Kyril's Grace. Born in the family's ancestral estate on the planet Malfi, little was expected of the boy. His duties generally involved growing up, not embarassing the family, and siring as many legitimate children as possible. But even from a young age Arron tried to overcome the low expectations heaped on him.
He excelled at mathematics and economics, was bright and friendly and had many friends amongst the servants of his household. Indeed it was thought that in time he would serve as Seneschal to his eldest brother, Zaine the second. There was no hope for him to inherit the warrant of the family line, and thus no pressure on his performance. All of this changed one fateful night, though he would not know of it for months afterward.
Across the sector his ancestral ship was moving through the immaterium, transporting goods as a cover for the movement of Inquisitorial troops. The ship's cargo was acting up and Arron's father and elder brother both went to the primary hold to assess the situation. There, in massive iron pens often used to transport convicts were the pack of razorclaws the family was moving. The Warp was driving the beasts mad as they traveled through it. Each of them thrashed and slammed against the sides of the cage, even as servitors attempted to sedate them without killing them. With a groan that shook the hold, welds broke, bars fell, and the beasts were free. Before the animals were put down ten crewmen, seven servitors, 15 guardsman and the Rogue Trader and his son were dead.
Months later the Inquisitor Verus darkened the Kyril Estate for the third time in Arron's life. The man swept in, his acolytes following closely, the man looming larger than life, pure and dark at the same time. Immediately retreating to what had been their father's private wing, the Inquisitor summoned Arron's elder brother Jatan to speak. The two were hidden behind closed doors in Zaine's office for several minutes before suddenly the doors flew open. Jatan leaped over the edge of the office's balcony into the courtyard below. With a snarl he wrenched a weapon from one of the estate's guardsmen and shouted out that the Inquisitor was a liar and a charlatan. The weapon was raised towards the imposing figure as he stepped out onto the balcony.
When Jatan's lifeless body fell backwards onto the plaza floor, what was left of his skull was a smoking, smoldering mess. The Inquisitor called to his acolytes and Arron was summoned to the office his brother had so recently left. Shoved into an ancient, over-stuffed leather chair at the foot of the massive desk by two guardsmen, Arron listed as Verus explained how things were.
Zaine Kyril and his heir were dead, his next eldest son was dead, and now the duties of the warrant fell upon Arron's shoulders. These duties would be exacting, for the warrant was in fact controlled by the man speaking to him. Arron was not a Kyril, none of his family were, they were the end result of a fabrication and deceit. Arron would stay on Malfi for a year in intense study of all the duties and skills of a Rogue Trader. After that, he would assume control of his ancestral vessel and use it to serve the needs of the Inquisition. If he agreed, he would be allowed to keep rank and title and continue to pursue the goal of being obscenely wealthy. If he did not agree, he would be killed where he sat and his ten year old brother would be groomed for the position.
Arron, in the face of that terrible man, agreed to all of his terms, including that his arranged marriage would be finalized immediately and that he would produce at least one heir before leaving to assume control of his vessel.
The next year was a blur of consciousness for Arron. He learned new things, became married, fathered a son and aged far more than he should have. The ship carried on without a master, travelling the void under the command of it's Seneschal, Arron's
If someone makes a seneschal and doesn't want to be related to Arron, strike out this bit.
uncle.
His arrival aboard the ship was a solemn occasion. Cherubim floated behind him, holding a banner bearing the Kyril family crest. Thousands of the crew filled the main hold, ready to witness his return to his birthright. Many more kneeled at each corridor he strode through on the way to the bridge. Every person that wasn't needed to maintain the ship's systems struggled to see their new master. On the bridge he formally took command of the vessel, and the ancient master at arms presented him with a grim and solemn gift; a cloak made from the hide of the razorclaw that murdered his father and brother.
The three years he's commanded the vessel haven't been easy on the formerly young man. Though he's grown accustomed to the finery and luxury of the ship, greater than the estate to which he was born, there are parts of the ship that simply bother him. Whispers from the crew, speaking of the dark old beast and how it slips so easily through the Warp. The darkest whispers mention that the ship claims the souls of each who dies aboard. That when it goes through the warp it offers up one or two each time as tribute, and that whenever it's currency of choice grows low the old beast arranges an accident so that its largesse can grow again.
Edgar Allen Poe
Funny, when I enter ...
** spoiler omitted **
... I'm told I write like James Joyce.
~laughter~ Mr. Shiny is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO going to kill me!
I write like
Stephen King
I spent the whole summer reading the Dark Tower series, so I bet that had an influence...
Edit: I just entered my nanowrimo from 2009, and got:
I write like
H. P. Lovecraft
Can I laugh while he butchers you?? :)~laughter~ Mr. Shiny is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO going to kill me!Funny, when I enter ...
** spoiler omitted **
... I'm told I write like James Joyce.
~grins and shrugs~ Sure. Why not. Isn't that what friends do?
It's hokum. It told me I write like Isaac Asimov, so I pasted in a big block of Isaac Asimov text and it returned Arthur C. Clarke.
Funny, when I enter ...
** spoiler omitted **
"The Eldritch Mr. Shiny is a sparkling-ass vampire. The Eldritch Mr. Shiny is a sparkling-ass vampire. The Eldritch Mr. Shiny is a sparkling-ass vampire. The Eldritch Mr. Shiny is a sparkling-ass vampire. The Eldritch Mr. Shiny is a sparkling-ass vampire. The Eldritch Mr. Shiny is a sparkling-ass vampire. The Eldritch Mr. Shiny is a sparkling-ass vampire"
** spoiler omitted **... I'm told I write like James Joyce.
Now that's f*cking funny.
It's hokum. It told me I write like Isaac Asimov, so I pasted in a big block of Isaac Asimov text and it returned Arthur C. Clarke.
Hey... this was a pretty smart move. Very cool.
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** spoiler omitted **...
I also have a Write like Poe
Their men were dead. The women of this muddy village of hovels screamed and retreated from the violence of this trespass as though their clay and straw huts would protect them from devils.
A groan came from one body of a man.
“Not dead?” Kershov signaled to his companion. Ilam approached the body.
“This one doesn’t want to die!”
“So?” Ilam lifted his rifle.
“No.” In a few simple blows, an axe split the narrow shape of a small tree, felling the leaves and branches, and then shaping the trunk to a point.
“Now?” asked Ilam.
“Now!” replied his companion. Ilam hoisted the living corpse in the air and dropped it down on the stump. The corpse choked and died.
Suddenly they became aware of something. No longer were there sounds coming from the ruin of this dirty hole of a village. They investigated the huts for potential victims. They were gone. The fear of their violence was gone from it. It hadn’t been that long. They had killed the groaning man in a breath of seconds.
Kershov and Ilam struggled about the grey clay mud with their rifles at the ready.
Movement caught Ilam in the corner of his eye.
“There!” An old woman had pushed quickly across the gravel and descended into the darkness of a hut at the very edge of the village.
“Not getting away!” Kershov made for the opening and descended into the darkness. Ilam almost fell in behind him.
What struck them instantly was the scale of it on the inside. They had entered the simple hut through a small doorway. The hut interior was deeply dark. Underfoot the floor scraped as metallic. Kershov struck up a light and applied it to his tallow-lamp.
"What is this?" The room of the hut was deeply circular. The floor, the wall, and ceiling were iron. The Ceiling most of all was low and dark. They would have to bend to avoid bumping their heads. The doorway behind them snapped shut.
"No!" Ilam and Kershov threw themselves against the sealed entrance. It was solid iron.
There had to be a release somewhere on it. Both companions struggled for the indiscernible catch that would release them from this wolf’s trap.
A grind of Metal came from the room behind them.
The Ceiling was a large clock face, the iron hands moving. Each tick echoed through the walls, ceiling, and floor. A minute on the clock passed. A Door on the far wall was grinding open.
What entered was a distortion of everything they thought of as human. The deformity moved slowly across the chamber until it stood at the centre.
"Interview you, Baba Yaga will." It examined them both with its diseased eyes. It couldn't possible see them. The deformity retreated to its doorway and the iron door sealed behind it.
Overhead the clock continued.
Kershov was whispering something to himself. Ilam stared at his companion. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Praying", answered Kershov.
Ilam realized he had never seen his companion pray in the six months they had been murdering and pillaging their way through these mountain villages.
"Why?" Ilam looked at the movement of the clock.
"Because when she is done cooking our corpses, she is going to torture our souls." Ilam stared at his companion.
"You are insane!" Segments in the wall opened and steam sprayed into the room.
The two murderers began to scream.
Very Nice...We should get together - all our short Stories that flag as Poe under a single title.
NEOPOE - A new era in Dismal and Dreary
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Damn it another Dan Brown...
Text message from Site B: Send more Food.
Text from Base Camp: What Happened to the Food you had?
Text from Site B: Food ran out.
Text from Base Camp: You have three months supply.
Text from Site B: Send more urgently. Hungry!
Text from base Camp: Who is this?
Text from Site B: Please. You are hurting us. Need Food!
Text from Base Camp: Professor Nealy?
Text from Site B: Professor Nealy here...Send Food Now! Urgent!
Text from Base Camp: Professor Capshaw?
Text from Site B: Professor Capshaw here...Send Food! Hungry!
Text from Basecamp: How is Peter Rabbit Professor Capshaw?
Text from Site B: Peter Rabbit hungry. Need Food Now!
Text from Basecamp: McMurdo. There is a problem at Expedition site B. They are acting weird.
Text From McMurdo: Has Site B found Food? We are out of food.
I was so hoping for a HP Lovecraft...
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RPG Superstar 2009 Top 8
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I'll sacrifice my position on the list so he can be bumped up a rung...You'd be so low-priority that it wouldn't be worth it.C'mon. Don't you have an enemy's list to put me on or something?Yeah, I can see that.Funny, when I enter ...
** spoiler omitted **
... I'm told I write like James Joyce.
* wipes tear away *
Very kind of you, Yellowdingo.
* low sobs *