ThePensMightier
Knight
- Local time
- Today 6:43 AM
- Messages
- 37
- Age
- 35
Hello everyone out there,
I'm new to the site, and am eager to write with all of you. Below are a few characters/ideas I have. All of these are open for discussion though please be aware I tend to include a lot of dark, violent, and mature themes in my roleolays and so a like minded partner who doesn't mind pushing themselves would be best. Also, I enjoy a good deal of world building and really making it our own. Hope you see something that strikes your fancy and feel free to send me a PM if you want to discuss!
1) Straight on till morning (Modern Neverland/Peter Pan AU)
2) It Goes Bump In The Night (Modern Horror/Supernatural/Fantasy)
3) The Destroyer (Dark/High Fantasy)
4) The Blacksmith (Medieval Fantasy/Open)
Just a few other things you should know:
Post length: Typically, I post between 4 and 6 paragraphs per post. However, I tend to match my partner in length. The more you give me, the more I can give back!
Quality over quantity: I don't expect you to write a book with every post, but if you post less than a good sized paragraph or two per post I will tend to get very bored, very quickly. Sometimes, there just isn't much to say and I understand that but give me something to work with! I want to write with you, not push a story along with you reacting to it.
Smut: I'm comfortable with as much or as little smut as you are. Ask about kinks and limits.
Most importantly: Have fun!
I'm new to the site, and am eager to write with all of you. Below are a few characters/ideas I have. All of these are open for discussion though please be aware I tend to include a lot of dark, violent, and mature themes in my roleolays and so a like minded partner who doesn't mind pushing themselves would be best. Also, I enjoy a good deal of world building and really making it our own. Hope you see something that strikes your fancy and feel free to send me a PM if you want to discuss!
1) Straight on till morning (Modern Neverland/Peter Pan AU)
3 a.m. was quickly closing in on me, and my eyelids were growing heavy as the stale taste of beer lingered in my mouth well after having brushed my teeth. By all accounts, I appeared to be in my late 20's or early 30's, but the truth I suppose is that I'm much older than that. I don't know how many years I spent in Neverland, being one of the many Lost Boys who refused to grow up.
I had left 17 years prior along with Wendy, Michael, John, a few of the other Lost Boys, and of course, our leader Peter Pan. The days after having returned to London were confusing to say the least. Mr and Mrs Darling, bless them, had done all they could find suitable homes for the boys who had unexplicably arrived at their home one cold winter night. I was one of the lucky one's, adopted by a family who lived not far from the Darlings and was able to remain in close contact with my friends...for a time anyway, until they were sent off to the group homes.
Patches...or Daniel, died of a drug overdose 6 years ago...
Donut...or Ethan, was killed by a man in a bar in Dublin last year...
The twins...James and Thomas, had gone off to fight in the war. James never returned, Thomas was crippled by an IED and now requires 24 hour nursing care. War isn't such a fun game when you're all grown up..
And then there was Peter. He was Mr and Mrs Darling's favorite, everyones favorite, really. They adopted him themselves. From day we arrived in London he never spent any time away from Wendy. He loved her, we all did. They married just after university, though never had any children. Wendy claimed she was unable to have any children, but I think that Peter never truly grew up, and that there were some adult things he just never found an interest in.
After university, Peter and Wendy opened their own orphanage, and I found moderate success as a writer. Short stories mainly, published in penny papers across the local area. I had been compiling them all into my first novel about the boy who refused to grow up when I got the call...the cancer had taken just 3 weeks to kill Wendy, that was for the best I suppose. Less suffering...the Wendy Lady never deserved such a cruel twist of fate...
"Peter?" I said into my cellular to the quiet man, once so lean and full of life now beginning to age. I hadnt seen Peter or Wendy since the prior Christmas, but it looked he had been eating too many cookies. "What do you need me to do?"
"Just come home..." he had said. That was the last thing I heard Peter say..he didn't attend the funeral. Mr Darling told me that "the coward had run off". Through teary eyes as he stood over his little girls casket. I stayed with the Darlings for a stint, helpimg them pack Wendys belongings into storage and making the arramgements for the local council to oversee the orphanage. Poor kids...some of them grew up way too soon.
It wasn't until tonight that I had a chance to grieve myself, now 3 weeks past since the funeral. The beer bad been warm, but it had done the trick. I was just beginning to drift off when I heard the high pitched chirp on my phone.
"Piss off..." I grumbled, not opening my eyes.
"Language!" A voice said that I had never thought I would ever hear again. The woman sitting on my knee with her legs crossed was smiling, leaves and twigs in her dirty blonde hair and she wore a green dress made of old dirty silk. It had only just now occured to me, seeing her through adult eyes, that if she had been a regular size, she would he one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. My eyes widened in surprise.
"F*** me, Tink? That you?"
"Language, I said!" The fairly huffed, her silver wings flapping madly in warning before her features softened into a smile. "It's good to see you, Pockets."
"Actually, It's Sam now."
She rolled her eyes. "Right...Sam." she chuckled. "Heard about Wendy...I'm sorry." No she wasn't. Tink had always hated Wendy.
"Thank you. Peter's disappeared. I havent heard from him in weeks."
"That's why I'm here.." she said as she got to her feet. Walking up my thigh to my chest and standing right in front of my face. "Peter is in Neverland. He sent me to come get you..."
"How?...Why?"
"I'll explain on the way. He's playing a new game, Pockets. Its not fun either, you need to stop him..." My heart sank when I saw the look on the sprites face. "He kept on saying it until I agreed to come get you..."
"He kept saying what?" I thought. "You mean, I dont believe in..." I stopped myself from finishing the sentence. "Sorry...okay. I'll talk to him."
"I doubt it'll be that easy...he's really lost it. Meet me at the tree house. Whats left of the others are still there. I'll fly ahead and tell them you're coming." As she spoke, she floated around me, sprinkling her dust over my head "Still got that happy thought?"
"Yup." I smiled as I felt my body lift from the bed. "And i'll still never tell you what it is." My mind was on the task at hand, but god had I missed this feeling.
"Silly ass...okay, Im going. You remember the way?"
"Of course I do." I said as I floated towards the open window and looked up to full moon with a grin. "Second star to the right, and straight on 'till morning."
I had left 17 years prior along with Wendy, Michael, John, a few of the other Lost Boys, and of course, our leader Peter Pan. The days after having returned to London were confusing to say the least. Mr and Mrs Darling, bless them, had done all they could find suitable homes for the boys who had unexplicably arrived at their home one cold winter night. I was one of the lucky one's, adopted by a family who lived not far from the Darlings and was able to remain in close contact with my friends...for a time anyway, until they were sent off to the group homes.
Patches...or Daniel, died of a drug overdose 6 years ago...
Donut...or Ethan, was killed by a man in a bar in Dublin last year...
The twins...James and Thomas, had gone off to fight in the war. James never returned, Thomas was crippled by an IED and now requires 24 hour nursing care. War isn't such a fun game when you're all grown up..
And then there was Peter. He was Mr and Mrs Darling's favorite, everyones favorite, really. They adopted him themselves. From day we arrived in London he never spent any time away from Wendy. He loved her, we all did. They married just after university, though never had any children. Wendy claimed she was unable to have any children, but I think that Peter never truly grew up, and that there were some adult things he just never found an interest in.
After university, Peter and Wendy opened their own orphanage, and I found moderate success as a writer. Short stories mainly, published in penny papers across the local area. I had been compiling them all into my first novel about the boy who refused to grow up when I got the call...the cancer had taken just 3 weeks to kill Wendy, that was for the best I suppose. Less suffering...the Wendy Lady never deserved such a cruel twist of fate...
"Peter?" I said into my cellular to the quiet man, once so lean and full of life now beginning to age. I hadnt seen Peter or Wendy since the prior Christmas, but it looked he had been eating too many cookies. "What do you need me to do?"
"Just come home..." he had said. That was the last thing I heard Peter say..he didn't attend the funeral. Mr Darling told me that "the coward had run off". Through teary eyes as he stood over his little girls casket. I stayed with the Darlings for a stint, helpimg them pack Wendys belongings into storage and making the arramgements for the local council to oversee the orphanage. Poor kids...some of them grew up way too soon.
It wasn't until tonight that I had a chance to grieve myself, now 3 weeks past since the funeral. The beer bad been warm, but it had done the trick. I was just beginning to drift off when I heard the high pitched chirp on my phone.
"Piss off..." I grumbled, not opening my eyes.
"Language!" A voice said that I had never thought I would ever hear again. The woman sitting on my knee with her legs crossed was smiling, leaves and twigs in her dirty blonde hair and she wore a green dress made of old dirty silk. It had only just now occured to me, seeing her through adult eyes, that if she had been a regular size, she would he one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. My eyes widened in surprise.
"F*** me, Tink? That you?"
"Language, I said!" The fairly huffed, her silver wings flapping madly in warning before her features softened into a smile. "It's good to see you, Pockets."
"Actually, It's Sam now."
She rolled her eyes. "Right...Sam." she chuckled. "Heard about Wendy...I'm sorry." No she wasn't. Tink had always hated Wendy.
"Thank you. Peter's disappeared. I havent heard from him in weeks."
"That's why I'm here.." she said as she got to her feet. Walking up my thigh to my chest and standing right in front of my face. "Peter is in Neverland. He sent me to come get you..."
"How?...Why?"
"I'll explain on the way. He's playing a new game, Pockets. Its not fun either, you need to stop him..." My heart sank when I saw the look on the sprites face. "He kept on saying it until I agreed to come get you..."
"He kept saying what?" I thought. "You mean, I dont believe in..." I stopped myself from finishing the sentence. "Sorry...okay. I'll talk to him."
"I doubt it'll be that easy...he's really lost it. Meet me at the tree house. Whats left of the others are still there. I'll fly ahead and tell them you're coming." As she spoke, she floated around me, sprinkling her dust over my head "Still got that happy thought?"
"Yup." I smiled as I felt my body lift from the bed. "And i'll still never tell you what it is." My mind was on the task at hand, but god had I missed this feeling.
"Silly ass...okay, Im going. You remember the way?"
"Of course I do." I said as I floated towards the open window and looked up to full moon with a grin. "Second star to the right, and straight on 'till morning."
2) It Goes Bump In The Night (Modern Horror/Supernatural/Fantasy)
"You just go to sleep, little love. It'll all be better when you wake up." Those were the last words Brian Walker ever heard his mother speak to him.
"Yeah, champ. The doctors just gonna fix you up and take out those tonsils, and then we can go for ice cream." The last words from his father. Had he known what he would be waking up to, the 7 year old version of himself never would of never complained to either of his parents about a sore throat.
Marissa and Evan Walker had been investigative reporters with the New York Times, and damn good ones at that. Their passion for gettig to the truth had only been rivaled by their passion they shared for loving their son. He had a wonderful life. All the toys a kid could want, a nice duplex in Hell's Kitchen to call home, even a dog named Flash that he had named after his favorite superhero. It was perfect...and then he went to sleep.
When the police found what was left of his parents, the reports said that the officers on scene required months of therapy to get over the sight. No one knew why or how Evan and Marissa left the hospital while their son was in surgery and went to that stingy hotel down the street in Queens, only that they had done so without alerting any of the hospital staff. They never found his mothers body, but they did find tuffs of her hair and a hip bone on the bloodied hotel mattress. His father had been tied to a chair next to the bed and forced to watch what became his wife. His intenstines had been cut out and forced down his own throat to suffocate him to death...
Fast forward 23 years...that all seemed so long ago now. Before the Group Homes, the abusive foster parents, before juvenile hall and before Frank had taken some mercy on a kid nearly lost to the system and gave him a shot at life. He loved that old man.
"Yeah, I just got here...just pulling into the hotel...what? Frank? Youre breaking up..." the line went dead. Looking at his cell phone, he huffed. Of course. Never any service in these backwater towns. Stepping out of the old chevy sedan and i to the blistering humidity of the Louisianna Bayou, Special Agent Brian Walker whiped the sweat from his brow and retrieved the empty airplain bottles of whiskey from the dashboard before throwing them in a nearby trashcan. Of course the only rental car the place had didnt have working A/C. Why would it? At least there had been a liqour store next to it. He had been getting the shakes after the long flight from JFK to New Oreleans. New Orleans, now that was a town he could work in...but this? Why did these strings of murders and disapearances always have to happen in the middle of nowhere? Couldnt one of these wack jobs hit Vegas for once?
The bell over the front door rang with an empty jingle as he stepped up to the consierge desk and smiled at the little girl behind the counter. "Heya sweetheart. Your mommy or daddy here?"
"You Walker?" The girl asked in a tone that surprised him. His eyes flickering down to the worn out copy of War and Peace she had been reading. What was this girl, 12? Mature for her age.
"Thats me." He asnwered, trying to keep his smile on.
"Room 14. No pets and no loud music after midnight. Pools closed." She half growled and tossed the key to the room down onto the desk before going back to her book.
"Right...thank you..." he was just loving this town already. A few hours later he had checked in with the local field office, showered, went over his case briefing, and had changed into a plain black t shirt and blue jeans before exiting his room and ensuring his side arm was properly secured and hidden on his ankle. The girl from earlier was sitting in a lawn chair, reading by the dull lamplight outside. "Don't suppose you know where I can get a drink around here?" He asked, only to be met by a pointing finger thay directed him to a faint glow just down the road. His eyes went back to her and then to the book. Ivanhoe. "Thanks, kid..." he locked the door and made the short walk to the mostly empty bar. At least the little dive offered a somewhat familiar sight, and he dropped his credit card on the bartop and spoke to the tender as he sat on the stool. "Whiskey, neat please. Just keep em coming"
"Yeah, champ. The doctors just gonna fix you up and take out those tonsils, and then we can go for ice cream." The last words from his father. Had he known what he would be waking up to, the 7 year old version of himself never would of never complained to either of his parents about a sore throat.
Marissa and Evan Walker had been investigative reporters with the New York Times, and damn good ones at that. Their passion for gettig to the truth had only been rivaled by their passion they shared for loving their son. He had a wonderful life. All the toys a kid could want, a nice duplex in Hell's Kitchen to call home, even a dog named Flash that he had named after his favorite superhero. It was perfect...and then he went to sleep.
When the police found what was left of his parents, the reports said that the officers on scene required months of therapy to get over the sight. No one knew why or how Evan and Marissa left the hospital while their son was in surgery and went to that stingy hotel down the street in Queens, only that they had done so without alerting any of the hospital staff. They never found his mothers body, but they did find tuffs of her hair and a hip bone on the bloodied hotel mattress. His father had been tied to a chair next to the bed and forced to watch what became his wife. His intenstines had been cut out and forced down his own throat to suffocate him to death...
Fast forward 23 years...that all seemed so long ago now. Before the Group Homes, the abusive foster parents, before juvenile hall and before Frank had taken some mercy on a kid nearly lost to the system and gave him a shot at life. He loved that old man.
"Yeah, I just got here...just pulling into the hotel...what? Frank? Youre breaking up..." the line went dead. Looking at his cell phone, he huffed. Of course. Never any service in these backwater towns. Stepping out of the old chevy sedan and i to the blistering humidity of the Louisianna Bayou, Special Agent Brian Walker whiped the sweat from his brow and retrieved the empty airplain bottles of whiskey from the dashboard before throwing them in a nearby trashcan. Of course the only rental car the place had didnt have working A/C. Why would it? At least there had been a liqour store next to it. He had been getting the shakes after the long flight from JFK to New Oreleans. New Orleans, now that was a town he could work in...but this? Why did these strings of murders and disapearances always have to happen in the middle of nowhere? Couldnt one of these wack jobs hit Vegas for once?
The bell over the front door rang with an empty jingle as he stepped up to the consierge desk and smiled at the little girl behind the counter. "Heya sweetheart. Your mommy or daddy here?"
"You Walker?" The girl asked in a tone that surprised him. His eyes flickering down to the worn out copy of War and Peace she had been reading. What was this girl, 12? Mature for her age.
"Thats me." He asnwered, trying to keep his smile on.
"Room 14. No pets and no loud music after midnight. Pools closed." She half growled and tossed the key to the room down onto the desk before going back to her book.
"Right...thank you..." he was just loving this town already. A few hours later he had checked in with the local field office, showered, went over his case briefing, and had changed into a plain black t shirt and blue jeans before exiting his room and ensuring his side arm was properly secured and hidden on his ankle. The girl from earlier was sitting in a lawn chair, reading by the dull lamplight outside. "Don't suppose you know where I can get a drink around here?" He asked, only to be met by a pointing finger thay directed him to a faint glow just down the road. His eyes went back to her and then to the book. Ivanhoe. "Thanks, kid..." he locked the door and made the short walk to the mostly empty bar. At least the little dive offered a somewhat familiar sight, and he dropped his credit card on the bartop and spoke to the tender as he sat on the stool. "Whiskey, neat please. Just keep em coming"
3) The Destroyer (Dark/High Fantasy)
When most men think of the only woman they ever loved, they think of a tender embrace, a soft kiss, a gentle touch, the warmth of her body as it meets his. So do I...though I also imagine what it would be like to slit her throat, and drink her screams...
How foolish I had been. A young man, a slave...property, a dog to be kicked and put down for my master's amusement. A human, nothing more. It had been this way for a milenia, humans living under the rule of elves. The stronger, faster, immortal, more superior race dominating the other. It was the natural order of the world. By the time I realized it, it was entirely too late.
As a stable boy, I was allowed a much less stressful existence then some of my counterparts. Many were sent to work in the mines until their backs gave out, and then they were hit over the head with a hammer, and that was that. I kept my head down, keeping to my duties and fulfilling my master's requests in a speedy and efficient manner. My father, brother, and I were permitted our own little shack to live in by the fields so as to be in constant attention of the master's horses. A meager existence these days..but to us? To us it was a grand palace indeed.
It was a day like any other, and the Master had just finished her afternoon ride. I was alone in the stable, going about my duties and rushed to meet her. Wordlessly taking the reigns of the horse. All of the elves were beautiful, but Iliana was especially so. Her violet eyes, fair complexion, and blonde hair that always seemed to shine even when she wasnt in the sunlight.
"Kaim?" He said, holding her hand out from the saddle. "Help me down..."
For a split second, I was taken back. Never had any of the masters called me, or to my knowledge any other human by name. I wasnt even aware she knew it. Afraid of a lashing, I quickly replied. "Yes, master.."
Each day, Iliana would go for a ride, and each day she would return, and add a new order onto the list she had repeated each day...
"Kaim? Help me down..."
"Kaim? Take my boots off...
"Kaim? Help me with my stockings..."
"Kaim...." her voice was like honey. "Come with me up to the hay loft..."
And so was the way of things. Months went by and each day Iliana would return from her ride, and proceed to lead me up to her den of desires. Sometimes even affectionately stroking my cheek as he violet eyes lit up with a passion. Even offering a kind word here and there. Months went by and my infatuation grew...the came the day that changed it all.
It was a cold morning, and the sun had just broken on the horizon as I strolled across the field to the stables. My 20th birthday...Pa had agreed to take my morning chores so that I could get just one more hour of sleep. Perhaps would have been different had I not taken such a reprieve.
"Im telling you I know what I saw." A voice spoke from the front of the stable. Male.
"Is it true Iliana? Are you letting yourself be plowed by humans?" Another male spoke, a teasing whimsicle tone.
"I most certainly am not!" That voice like honey cried out. I peaked from just behind the barn and saw them, my brother and father on their knees with their heads down before the masters. No doubt confused as to where these accusations could be coming from.
"Prove it, then." The first male said, smirking as he picked up a rather large rock in one hand and handed it to my lover, his tone whimsicle and teasing. It was a game to him. Where I saw my brother and father, he saw bugs to be squashed.
In the end, I suppose she had no choice. But when I saw her take a stone and beat my Father and Brother to death, all while smiling, I couldnt help but cry a protest, running towards my fallen family and collapsing to my knees at their corpses. My fathers head had been beaten so badly it look more like strawberry jelly then flesh and bone. He didnt even have a face amymore...
I sat there in silence, waiting for the fatal blow to come, but it never did. The thud of the rock hitting the grass was the last thing I heard before that angelic voice said "Give him to the pit."
Elven society had thrived for years without war. Instead, they prefered to let their toys fight it out, and I was to be the object of their entertainment. We were gladiators, chickens forced to cockfight for the glory of our masters house. There werent many of us, but that was the masters fatal mistake. After all, it was necessary to ensure we were as dangerous as possible to our opponents, and so they taught us their ways. How to pull strength from the earth, speed from the wind, and most importantly, how to teach others to do the same.
I dont know what came over me that day in the practice ring. It had been 2 years since Iliana had sent me away to be killed like a dog in the fighting pits. Perhaps it was one too many lashes. Perhaps it was just my breaking point, but when I turned that blade on the Elven slaver, his eyes widened with such a surprise that he didnt realized the sword was going for his neck until it was too late. My brothers and sisters in arms followed suite, and soon we had killed 20 of the ones we used to call master. Soon, we were rebels. Soon, I had discovered a lust for elven blood I would never be able to quench.
There were more humans than elves, at least 5 times their numbers in total, and we were certainly not short on volunteers who wished to learn to fight them as we did. It took 7 years to push the masters back to one tiny quarter of the world. 7 years for them to offer a truce, but it was too late. My blood lust had been driven too far, my generals too hungry for absolute victory. We would slaughter every elven man, woman, and child. We would take our world from them at the edge of a blade...
How long had I been asleep? Long enough for them to seal me in a tomb...how did I get here? A voice spoke. In my mind? No...it was there...
"Are you awake?..." the voice called as my eyes adjusted to the bright light shining into the mosoleum, I glimpsed a party standing before me. How did I get here? Gods, Im hungry.
"Please, we must go..." the voice said. "The ancient ones have returned..."
I didnt know at the time, but my work was far from over. Maybe Iliana didnt die during our war, maybe I would get another chance to hold her in my arms. To run my fingers through her hair. Feel her skin so soft and warm against mine...and then crush her throat with my bare hands.
"You are the savior, yes?" The voice asked.
The savior? Now there was a funny title. I am no savior. I am death...I am destruction...I am the Destroyer.
How foolish I had been. A young man, a slave...property, a dog to be kicked and put down for my master's amusement. A human, nothing more. It had been this way for a milenia, humans living under the rule of elves. The stronger, faster, immortal, more superior race dominating the other. It was the natural order of the world. By the time I realized it, it was entirely too late.
As a stable boy, I was allowed a much less stressful existence then some of my counterparts. Many were sent to work in the mines until their backs gave out, and then they were hit over the head with a hammer, and that was that. I kept my head down, keeping to my duties and fulfilling my master's requests in a speedy and efficient manner. My father, brother, and I were permitted our own little shack to live in by the fields so as to be in constant attention of the master's horses. A meager existence these days..but to us? To us it was a grand palace indeed.
It was a day like any other, and the Master had just finished her afternoon ride. I was alone in the stable, going about my duties and rushed to meet her. Wordlessly taking the reigns of the horse. All of the elves were beautiful, but Iliana was especially so. Her violet eyes, fair complexion, and blonde hair that always seemed to shine even when she wasnt in the sunlight.
"Kaim?" He said, holding her hand out from the saddle. "Help me down..."
For a split second, I was taken back. Never had any of the masters called me, or to my knowledge any other human by name. I wasnt even aware she knew it. Afraid of a lashing, I quickly replied. "Yes, master.."
Each day, Iliana would go for a ride, and each day she would return, and add a new order onto the list she had repeated each day...
"Kaim? Help me down..."
"Kaim? Take my boots off...
"Kaim? Help me with my stockings..."
"Kaim...." her voice was like honey. "Come with me up to the hay loft..."
And so was the way of things. Months went by and each day Iliana would return from her ride, and proceed to lead me up to her den of desires. Sometimes even affectionately stroking my cheek as he violet eyes lit up with a passion. Even offering a kind word here and there. Months went by and my infatuation grew...the came the day that changed it all.
It was a cold morning, and the sun had just broken on the horizon as I strolled across the field to the stables. My 20th birthday...Pa had agreed to take my morning chores so that I could get just one more hour of sleep. Perhaps would have been different had I not taken such a reprieve.
"Im telling you I know what I saw." A voice spoke from the front of the stable. Male.
"Is it true Iliana? Are you letting yourself be plowed by humans?" Another male spoke, a teasing whimsicle tone.
"I most certainly am not!" That voice like honey cried out. I peaked from just behind the barn and saw them, my brother and father on their knees with their heads down before the masters. No doubt confused as to where these accusations could be coming from.
"Prove it, then." The first male said, smirking as he picked up a rather large rock in one hand and handed it to my lover, his tone whimsicle and teasing. It was a game to him. Where I saw my brother and father, he saw bugs to be squashed.
In the end, I suppose she had no choice. But when I saw her take a stone and beat my Father and Brother to death, all while smiling, I couldnt help but cry a protest, running towards my fallen family and collapsing to my knees at their corpses. My fathers head had been beaten so badly it look more like strawberry jelly then flesh and bone. He didnt even have a face amymore...
I sat there in silence, waiting for the fatal blow to come, but it never did. The thud of the rock hitting the grass was the last thing I heard before that angelic voice said "Give him to the pit."
Elven society had thrived for years without war. Instead, they prefered to let their toys fight it out, and I was to be the object of their entertainment. We were gladiators, chickens forced to cockfight for the glory of our masters house. There werent many of us, but that was the masters fatal mistake. After all, it was necessary to ensure we were as dangerous as possible to our opponents, and so they taught us their ways. How to pull strength from the earth, speed from the wind, and most importantly, how to teach others to do the same.
I dont know what came over me that day in the practice ring. It had been 2 years since Iliana had sent me away to be killed like a dog in the fighting pits. Perhaps it was one too many lashes. Perhaps it was just my breaking point, but when I turned that blade on the Elven slaver, his eyes widened with such a surprise that he didnt realized the sword was going for his neck until it was too late. My brothers and sisters in arms followed suite, and soon we had killed 20 of the ones we used to call master. Soon, we were rebels. Soon, I had discovered a lust for elven blood I would never be able to quench.
There were more humans than elves, at least 5 times their numbers in total, and we were certainly not short on volunteers who wished to learn to fight them as we did. It took 7 years to push the masters back to one tiny quarter of the world. 7 years for them to offer a truce, but it was too late. My blood lust had been driven too far, my generals too hungry for absolute victory. We would slaughter every elven man, woman, and child. We would take our world from them at the edge of a blade...
How long had I been asleep? Long enough for them to seal me in a tomb...how did I get here? A voice spoke. In my mind? No...it was there...
"Are you awake?..." the voice called as my eyes adjusted to the bright light shining into the mosoleum, I glimpsed a party standing before me. How did I get here? Gods, Im hungry.
"Please, we must go..." the voice said. "The ancient ones have returned..."
I didnt know at the time, but my work was far from over. Maybe Iliana didnt die during our war, maybe I would get another chance to hold her in my arms. To run my fingers through her hair. Feel her skin so soft and warm against mine...and then crush her throat with my bare hands.
"You are the savior, yes?" The voice asked.
The savior? Now there was a funny title. I am no savior. I am death...I am destruction...I am the Destroyer.
4) The Blacksmith (Medieval Fantasy/Open)
Sean's head hit the water barrel with a thunk. The coolness on his skin washing away the fatigue of the days work. The forge was especially hot today and father had gone into the city on business. At 21 years old he should have been married with a bunch of children of his own, but since mum died 3 winters past he thought it best to stay and help his father run the forge.
Large arms, toned from years of swinging the the hammer gripped the edges of the barrel as he flung his head up and out, short brown hair throwing beads of water behind him. His bright green eyes looked to the fields around him. Hangmans barrow was as little of a farming community as ever, and he had been dieing for years to get out. In fact, the barrow was so small that some people speculated that even the queen herself didn't know she ruled it anymore. Even queens gaurd patrols were a rarity save for every few years when the border posts were relieved. Aside from the local nobility, there hadnt been any royak influance on the labd in over 100 years. The people here governed themselves, and they liked it that way.
He dreamed of all the things young men dream of. Adventure, women, riches, the glory of battle, just like all the hero's in the stories. Alas, it would seem that his destiny lay on the anvil behind him. The sherrif needed his sword repaired. He would probably stiff Sean on the bill, as he had been doing to all the other merchants for years. Some had said that his father, James McLeod had been on of the most skilled swordsman the barrow had ever seen during the war. But whenever Sean had asked him to teach him the way of the blade, the old man simply replied, "Learn to use your head, and you won't need to use a sword. " So Sean did what any loyal son would do. He crafted one in secret. Spending his free hours cutting down invisible enemies in the woods. It was embarrsing to admit that he was a blacksmith who didn't know how to use a blade, but it was better than what others had said about him.
When James McLeod had returned from the war 20 years earlier, he brought with him a new wife and baby boy in tow. Sean was different than most of the barrow folk. He was taller for one, with a peach skin and dark green eyes. He stood out from most of the locals who were fair skinned with light. There had been speculation that James wasn't in fact Sean's birth father. Noone had dared question him though, at least not to his face. But children can be cruel, and at a young age Sean was quickly hearing the whispers of parents through the mouths of their children. He never said anything back to them either, he didn't think it was a good idea. Most people in the barroe thought him good of heart, but slow in the head. Mostly because he always thought before he did or said anything. Am admirable, if not condemning trait at times.
His body cooled, Sean placed the grey tunic back over his body and redoned his thick apron. Letting the cool norther breeze run over his wet skin before heading back into the forge. Face and hands showing blackened streaks of soot.
Large arms, toned from years of swinging the the hammer gripped the edges of the barrel as he flung his head up and out, short brown hair throwing beads of water behind him. His bright green eyes looked to the fields around him. Hangmans barrow was as little of a farming community as ever, and he had been dieing for years to get out. In fact, the barrow was so small that some people speculated that even the queen herself didn't know she ruled it anymore. Even queens gaurd patrols were a rarity save for every few years when the border posts were relieved. Aside from the local nobility, there hadnt been any royak influance on the labd in over 100 years. The people here governed themselves, and they liked it that way.
He dreamed of all the things young men dream of. Adventure, women, riches, the glory of battle, just like all the hero's in the stories. Alas, it would seem that his destiny lay on the anvil behind him. The sherrif needed his sword repaired. He would probably stiff Sean on the bill, as he had been doing to all the other merchants for years. Some had said that his father, James McLeod had been on of the most skilled swordsman the barrow had ever seen during the war. But whenever Sean had asked him to teach him the way of the blade, the old man simply replied, "Learn to use your head, and you won't need to use a sword. " So Sean did what any loyal son would do. He crafted one in secret. Spending his free hours cutting down invisible enemies in the woods. It was embarrsing to admit that he was a blacksmith who didn't know how to use a blade, but it was better than what others had said about him.
When James McLeod had returned from the war 20 years earlier, he brought with him a new wife and baby boy in tow. Sean was different than most of the barrow folk. He was taller for one, with a peach skin and dark green eyes. He stood out from most of the locals who were fair skinned with light. There had been speculation that James wasn't in fact Sean's birth father. Noone had dared question him though, at least not to his face. But children can be cruel, and at a young age Sean was quickly hearing the whispers of parents through the mouths of their children. He never said anything back to them either, he didn't think it was a good idea. Most people in the barroe thought him good of heart, but slow in the head. Mostly because he always thought before he did or said anything. Am admirable, if not condemning trait at times.
His body cooled, Sean placed the grey tunic back over his body and redoned his thick apron. Letting the cool norther breeze run over his wet skin before heading back into the forge. Face and hands showing blackened streaks of soot.
Just a few other things you should know:
Post length: Typically, I post between 4 and 6 paragraphs per post. However, I tend to match my partner in length. The more you give me, the more I can give back!
Quality over quantity: I don't expect you to write a book with every post, but if you post less than a good sized paragraph or two per post I will tend to get very bored, very quickly. Sometimes, there just isn't much to say and I understand that but give me something to work with! I want to write with you, not push a story along with you reacting to it.
Smut: I'm comfortable with as much or as little smut as you are. Ask about kinks and limits.
Most importantly: Have fun!
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