Writing Contest: DoN Teaser

[Ash87]

I was going to do this as the first post of my character's journal, but here it is:
It was another cold night, the darkness thick in the dusty study our writer kept. They were meager accommodations, but that was all that he humbly accept. Granted it was off of the most magestic wing of the library, but grand surroundings didn't dirty the quaint modesty of that tiny study. In the center sat a elegant desk, carved from old oak and reeking of ink and old paper its simple organic carvings long deprived of the rich paint that stained it's trim subtle shades of blue and gold; he had been told it had come from before the chill, that it was once used by a great mage; now it was like it's owner, a forgotten relic of a bygone time. Holding back the tide of scrolls was a box of candles, ink wells, quills, nick nacks, etc. and a stunning candle holder fashioned out of a rusty golem head, all the products of a fruitful life, little momentos to remind their owner of memories long faded. Along all walls though, stretched high and thick book cases, floor to ceiling overflowing in a way his desk could only dream. It was his fortress, his place of solitude he went now to escape the world. And once more, the barbarians were pounding down the gatehouse door.

Footsteps retreated from the dusty voices that pursued, as two elderly men waddled furiously through the door, our writer thrusting a box of fresh scrolls down upon the end of his desk with a laborous sigh, his old bones relaxing as the load was lifted. Lifting bright eyes past his nose, to peer out as the heavy wooden door swung slowly closed, he focused upon his pursuer for a fleeting moment. Settleing his gaze upon the the candle holder, he wished quietly for the days when, that thing could have saved him from what was to come. His tormentor flipping back his dust covered hood with a huff that seemed to fill the room with a haze of soot and dust. And, even though the writer had to look straight down to meet the head librarians eyes, her knew that this man was sure enough to glare down at him from atop his stunted throne, any moment now. Extending one spindly arm like a marotte as he passed judgement, his gaunt fingers rattleing back and fourth scoldingly; continueing on with their prior discussion, much to the chagrin of it's targetted audience.

“-And may I add, that I had to apologize -Profusely- for your words?” His beady eyes glaring out from under a bushy brow. The writer offered no response for a moment, shuffleing idley across as he lit the wilted candle once more, filling the room with a pale yellow light. Huffing soflty, he settled into the great throne behind his desk, gathering up his robes with an indifferent smirk upon his weathered face.

“You know... this room could really use a fireplace.” a light flaring expectedly in the eyes of the gnomish master librarian, as he trundled across the floor and heaved himself up upon a used candle crate, forcing a bony finger in the face of the startled writer, who regarded it with a dispassionate smirk.

“You are doing this on purpose, these stories are useless!” Shifting sidelong, his boney frame displayed impressive strength in retrieving a book from the crate the writer had brought in. “This... This right here? This is useful as firewood, and nothing more! The, the Details are so focused on unnecessi- unecessi- Unecessarities! And what you Are suppose to include, you... you, you... you make so simple and short that it's hardly worth mentioning. You! You are making these intentionally unpresentable to Sully my reputation with the king aren't you?” The thin whine of an abused brat squeaking from his chest, as he glared up at the writer, his voice jabbing out furiously, seeking to wound it's target deeply. Yet, slumping over upon his arm the withered old human writer flicked his wrist, grunting boredly.

“If you want me to tell it how the king wants to hear it, I have to make it simpler.” Turning his hand, an amused glint flashes in his old eyes. “Truly, if you wish the people's deeds more heroic, perhaps I should continue to be more vague, wouldn't want people dwelling on their reasoning. They might see things in dim light,” grinning softly as the veins began to bulge in the bald head of the little gnome, “and we're aiming for blinding light in our chronicles, right?”

“You stepped too far,” the low and glowering eyes leveled on the writer, as the head scribe pounded his fist down to the oaken table. “Your job is to write the truth, to show the justice of our king's line just as it was. Not, to accuse the royal line of such... such...” Snarling words as he turned his hand over and over.

“Crimes?” Added the writer helpfully. “Atrocities? Realities?” This garnered him a furious growl, that he swore caused the little man to foam a little at the mouth. Retracting his hand, before it could be bitten he pushed himself to his feet and began to draw forth books to store on the shelves. “I could just write them for all for 'the greater good' because that's what we want, isn't it?”

“That certainly helped you to justify yourself all those years ago, now didn't it?” Satisfied with himself, the head scribe brought together his hands beneath the sleeves of his tunic, as that remark nailed the writer down with the cold steel blade weilded by regret. “Yes... almost funny, how hypocrisy sounds now, doesn't it?” Flickering his short hand dismissively as the writer stared up at his bookcase in silence. “Now, like I said. I apologized profusely.. and he agreed to let you write the next chronicle for his son... the prince regent has taken a liking to the chronicles from our period, and he wants to hear more on the... biographical side.”

“I'm a historian, not a storyteller.” Trying to hide the snarl behind his words, as the writer returned to shelving books, as a way to bind the gaping wound granted him a moment earlier.

“It's the same thing, and you know that” Snorting soflty, the gnome hopped off his crate and trundled on towards the door, pausing as he reached it and turning. Owlish eyes boring holes into the writers back.“Allow me to remind you... while memory fades and titles change, the justice delivered by the good... delivered by the winners, winners like Our King's family line, should be shown for what they were: The right course of action. The greater good was served, and the -best- solutions were used. Clouding up the issue with superfluous detail and failed endeavors does nothing but detract from the real justice that was done in the end,” a self-assured snort driving that point home, the scholar turned and trotted triumphantly from the room. Taking a deep sigh and muttering to himself in thanks, the writer silently wondered for a moment if he could still get a job at that public library.

Turning  he stepped carefully into the doorway as the chill began to rush in. He began to think on the prince. He had met him many times, he was a good young man. Great as a matter of fact, staying many hours late in the library. He was a bit sheltered, but that was most children these days in the writer's opinion. Stepping carefully over to the bookshelf as the door squealed closed, he plucked a small blue tome from the shelf deftly, dusting it off with a broad stroke of his hand. Perhaps it -was- time to write about the greater good. A small smile stretched over his thin lips, as he settled down.

“I suppose you can help me one more time old friend,” murmurred the old man, as he pierced the surface of the ink with his quill. Shifting he rolled open the first tome. The title was simply 'Diary', and the book bore the signs of extended use. It had sat in that box for nearly 40 years now, it's old owner having thrown it aside after it's pages were full. The time in it's pages back during the glory days of Gauth, back when Avera's hope sheltered all without question, and back before the chill was influenced by the power of a few men, perhaps for the better, perhaps for the worst. It was a time the writer hadn't thought about deeply in some time. Picking up an extra scroll he quickly notated the cover letter.

-Prince Regent

As I write this, I am reminded that the people who asked me to do so, wished I tell you nothing but truthful lies. Truly, the people we present in our chronicles are exactly as they were, I can tell you that from memory, but at the same time they are not represented as they should be. Even the most righteous can fall, the most vile can do great good. Therefore, when I heard your request for a biography, I was reminded of one who you will never find in the proper accounts. You see, for any era, there are those who will dance to the music of bards, in step and in unison on the world's stage. These are the heroes we remember now. Yet were one should look, is at time to the curtain, to the one lone fool dancing to the music as it is, not as it was ordained by the musicians, the players. They can tell you more about the times than anyone else.

In my days writing for your father I have been asked to write about the dancers and not the fools. Truly, I have been asked to write them as they would like to be remembered; but, remembering people based on idealized notions of their achievements is silly, therefore I have tried to show them how they truly were. This hasn't gone well. When you get this letter, I will have resigned for this very reason. Still, I promised that I would write something for you that would show you how the days were before your father's kingdom. You see the opportunity this gives us both is great, for I can tell you a story of someone of this time now, without reprisal; and thus I will shun humility to paint for you a portrait of things long passed.

You see, long ago there was a man named Roland. He was a descendant of a powerful nation that had held sway over most of the continent once. In the time it existed he would have been an abject failure, yet at the time he was born he was perfect. The chaos of the land allowed him to prosper in the face of adversity. Not because he was strong, but because he could be weak. Behind the great warriors there will always been the little people. And therefore we will begin our story where it will also end: In Obscurity.

[Robodog]

All right, a winner will be announced this Friday .

[ColoredPencils]

Bah! I'll be at work. How dare you make me wait longer to find out who won.

[Black Reilly]

I'm late for the competition, but oh well.

Enjoy. Or don't.







-------------





Steel fell from on high. Irresistable, comet-like. All resistance between it and the surface was brutalised, pummeled.

A massive hand wrenched the cleaver free of the bench, then set it aside. Cables and ropes rippled then went taut in their motion.
Calloused hands clenched around meat, bone and gristle. Breath steamed in the air in this chill place.
The tightening of chest and a short, small grunt were all the indication of effort given as the titan scooped up a pig carcass to join the other held on a shoulder. The figure carried the chill meat across the ice-scape with minimal effort, finally stopping at the end of his labors. Steel tips pierced flesh as the pig carcasses were left to hang on meat-hooks.

A bellow like a thunderclap pierced the simulated tundra, causing the blood of all who heard it to run as cold as mountain springs.

This was a place of business, and a freezer-room.

'YOBS! YOBS, GET IN HERE!'

The air changed as work ceased, steel clattered as it was set down. A trio stepped into the chill-room. They were orcish in appearance, and young. Hair grew thick and coarse upon their faces and shoulders, thanks only to their blood. If the crimson was human in comparison, they would be but striplings, mid-way through their teenage years.
They approached the be-rime'd silhouette hurriedly in response to the bellowed commands.

'I gots seven lambs in the pens and two damn steers that need to be slaughtered, cleaned and dressed. Who dy'a think is gonna do that?. You knows what day it is.'

The trio sped away with many nods of compliance.

A warm, satisfied smile split the face of the looming hulk, revealing thick, jagged tusks. They were good lads.

He was Russel Seagrave, owner and proprietor of Seagrave's Quality Meats.
His scalp was shaven, leaving only coarse stubble to cover his skull. Scars criss-crossed flesh, stubble suppressed where the barren tissue quartered and lined his visage.
He was stripped to the waist, revealing pound-upon-pound of thatched torso muscle. A thick, furred belt lopped around a comparitively thin waist, atop suspendered trousers. His feet were calloused and bare.
He was Russel Seagrave, and today was an important day...

------------------------------------------

Smokey air filled this place. A room carved from bare rock and lit by flickering lamps. The light created a warm, homely atmosphere. The faces it illuminated were anything but warm and homely.
Scoundrels of mixed race and stripe sat about a circular table made of cheap wood. They laughed, they drank, they smoked. A mound of minted copper and silver discs sat like a coveted totem of worship as the table's centrepiece.
Each held filthy cards in their hands, stained earthen by dirt and tobacco.

The door to this chamber creaked open, bare feet shifting quietly along dusted tiles of earth.
A chorus of greetings lifted, filling the room with a unity of noise to replace the bawdy cacophany.
Russel nodded and grinned to each in turn. A flurry of handshakes, dotted by a few wry jokes followed in his wake before his bulk rested itself down in a chair, joining the group.

'A good evening to each and all, gentlemen, though I handle the term as loosely as your mothers handle their virtue.'
'Now be not saying that, Seagrave. Me mothers dead!' came words somewhere between craggy brow and bushy beard.
'Aye, truth be told I was there the night she died. Tales of dwarven hardiness give much to the imagination, but leave much to be desired- for she could not handle a night with an orc!'

It was not funny, but the alcohol laughed anyway. The throng cackled.

'A drink Seagrave?'
'A man ain't a camel, mate. No matter how much he may resemble one.'
'Bah! How do 'ee know what a camel looks like, Seagrave!?'
'I don't, but theres truth in mirrors.'
The dwarf clapped once and barked a laugh.
'One'o ye' get this camel-lookin' bastard a DRINK!'


The mead and stout flowed, increasing the room's warmth tenfold. The jocular, the vernacular faded, leaving only the dealer's deft flick of wrist.
Hands were played. Coin clattered and bounced. Eyes went dull or focused in equal measure. Visages were read like books, though if these visages were books, they would be a torn children's story, or a chained grimoire.
The night drew on. Feet shuffled, cards were dumped and scooped-up. Coin changed hands.
There was a pattern in all this. The smaller pots went one way, the larger ones all in one direction...
Eyes narrowed in suspicion and brows folded and creased. Jade-green orbs burned with annoyance, swiftly turning to rage.

Lightning. An explosion of movement.
Seagrave had hurled the table aside with one massive arm and now held two hundred and fifty pounds of dwarf and chainmail by the throat.
'Stop...letting me...WIN!' the growl turned to a bellowed torrent of spittle and pure rage. Fingers like claws tightened around the dwarf's throat as he tried to gurgle a reply.
A hand rested reassuringly on the enraged giant's shoulder for a split-second before being slapped away.
'No one's letting you win, Seagrave! They're good hands, thats all!'
The group nodded in wide-eyed agreeance.
'LIES!' spittle flew once more and eyes smouldered.
'We're all friends here, mate! Theres no need for this! Now, come on, put him down, We're all just...friends, trying to enjoy a game'o cards'.
The arms of the group's representative were held out-stretched- disarmingly, placatingly, pleadingly.

The fires faded, the oxygen had run out, leaving them with no fuel to burn. Seagrave nodded and sat the dwarf down gently.
'I'm-...I apologise, gents. Feel free to stay, but...I'm not in the mood for cards.'
The giant nodded his head in acknowledgment and then apology, and made his way out of the room.
The group sat in silent shock for a time, before scooping up the table and beginning the game anew.

From the butcher's shop the sound of cleaver biting into meat was heard.


Thump. Thump...thump...













Breathe

Mist and ghost-lights hung in frosty air. The glow reflected off the tiny frost shards, illuminating the scene in a pale fog. The lines silhouetted were coarse, hard, sharp. Un-pretty slabs and alloy edges.

Breathe

Another puff of mist rose up from clustered shadows, twinkling briefly then departing like an escaping soul. Sometimes, he didn't know the difference.

Breathe

Solace was important. What had happened earlier, it was inexcusable. What was worse- he didn't see it coming...

Breathe

Solace was important. This was for no one to know but he.
Don't anger Seagrave, he's got a short temper. Oh, thats what they all said. Thats what they all said, but they didn't know. Couldn't. If only everything was simple.

Breathe

He had been here a while now. It wouldn't be long. Ice lay scaled on coarse arm hair. Frost twinkled amongst stubble. Flesh thick and freezer-burnt.
Blood began to freeze in veins. He wasn't quite sure when consciousness left him.

Brea-






He stood on a great plain. Billowing, shredded sheets of cloud above and stretches of grass below- emerald and wind-swept. Around him a throng. He was lost among a roaring, seething sea of life. Comrades about him as far as the eye could see.
The air was filled with the sound of shifting steel. Clinking chains and the sharp staccato of sliding plates. Steel gleamed in the sun.

It was too strange, this tableau. Too perfect. The detail was but in the mind's eye. Merely silhouettes, filled out by the dreamer's imagination. The idea of the things were there, like a child's painting.
It didn't matter. For a time, this was heaven.
The throng charged. He rushed forward in a spasm of movement, legs pumping like pistons. His axe was ephemeral and weightless. He may as well have been clad in clouds for how little his iron-clad form was encumbered.
All he felt was the rush, the concept of movement.

The enemy was brought into view, as if they were an afterthought, but suddenly they had always been there.
They were made of muddied colours and blurs. Indistinct forms arrayed in great lines across the sunny plane.

Blackened shafts filled the air as it rained arrows.

He forgot the arrows.

His legs carried him across bared stone protruding from jade flesh like the bones of the earth. His axe flashed as the throng met the arrayed lines, splitting the idea of a skull. It twisted in his hand, and with his backhand he severed the idea of a jugular. The crimson at least was distinct.
The feeling of sticky, crimson liquid between his mailed fingers was bliss. He ducked a return swing from a beshadowed opponent. It was slow, as if it travelled through water. His return splintered ribs.
With an offhanded blow he sent an opponent flying into the middle-distance, soon forgotten as if he never existed.

He flew now, the eyes of an eagle watched the swirling, bloody dance from amongst the clouds. He flew, joyous and exultant as the air whipped by.

His limbs were chained...

The earth called.


-the

He gasped once, lungs filling with crystalline zephyrs.
The rush subsided abrubtly, his descent to earth mirroring his disappointment with reality. He treasured these times, these racial remembrances of what the world once was, for he had never seen the sun- the dreams merely shaped by letters, and the spoken word from generations that had. He had never felt any warmth, save for the artificial glow of the fire, hollow and fake.

Slowly he got to his feet. The rime was shook free from the tectonic plates of muscle as he rose.
He glanced down at his fingers. Fists like bags of rocks were covered in bloodied, dirty bandages.

It would be morning now.

He would box for a time, then get back to work, for he was Russel Seagrave, proprietor of Seagrave's Quality Meats.


He was civil and savage. Man and beast.


Sigh

[Robodog]

It's the time we have all been waiting for! I want to say that every writing entry was awesome. Reading through the teasers got me even more excited for DoN and I can't wait to see these characters in game. The DM staff voted, and we have determined the following:


Winner: Dwarfare
Runner-Up: Ash87

Congratulations. I will find you in-game in one week once the module launches for your prize .

[FeyNight]

Congratulations to them both 

[Dwarfare]

Holy crap!   That was unexpected.   >_>

[Ash87]

Holy crap!   That was unexpected.   >_>

BWUuuuuUH?! Yeah no kidding!

Still, YEAH!

[Theorum Of Neutrality]

Congratulations to you both. You did excellent work.

[Terimos]

Those were some amazing teasers. I hope you both keep writing once the module launches!

[ColoredPencils]

Congratulations! I have to say, those were both my personal favorite entries!

[Dinean]

It's the time we have all been waiting for! I want to say that every writing entry was awesome. Reading through the teasers got me even more excited for DoN and I can't wait to see these characters in game. The DM staff voted, and we have determined the following:


Winner: Dwarfare
Runner-Up: Ash87

Congratulations. I will find you in-game in one week once the module launches for your prize .

Congratulations to you both!

And wait, every one of them?  Even mine? Sweet!