Post by God Emperor Newman on Nov 6, 2013 0:56:21 GMT
This will be the thread in which I, your immortal and all-powerful God Emperor, will post scraps and fragments from various things I'm working on. Nothing contained herein should be expected to relate coherently to the material it either follows or precedes.
The Public is invited to offer commentary and/or critique upon any of the work posted in this thread.
Let's start off with three stubs from various fan fiction I'm working on. You get a gold star if you can identify each one.
The Public is invited to offer commentary and/or critique upon any of the work posted in this thread.
Let's start off with three stubs from various fan fiction I'm working on. You get a gold star if you can identify each one.
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The story ends on a green hill. A man wakes up, looks around. He is dressed in rags which might once have been expensive. He cannot remember where he is, how he got there or why. All he has is a half-remembered name.
The story begins nearly a year prior, in a kingdom now destroyed. A prosperous land now fallen into decay, populated by the witless survivors of a calamity too horrible for their stunted brains to realize.
All but one. A man in faded clothes and a scruffy beard, sitting on the crest of a hill and wondering who he was.
The story ends with a rising sun. In the distance, a solitary sheep announces its presence. A man stands on a grassy mound and studies the surrounding forest. Sluggish memories begin to stir.
The story begins in the royal court of the land’s dead monarch. A man in courier’s garb entered and crossed a floor of patterned marble to kneel before his king.
What happened? How did that mighty kingdom fall?
It's a long story. It begins with a letter.
The story ends on a green hill. A man wakes up, looks around. He is dressed in rags which might once have been expensive. He cannot remember where he is, how he got there or why. All he has is a half-remembered name.
The story begins nearly a year prior, in a kingdom now destroyed. A prosperous land now fallen into decay, populated by the witless survivors of a calamity too horrible for their stunted brains to realize.
All but one. A man in faded clothes and a scruffy beard, sitting on the crest of a hill and wondering who he was.
The story ends with a rising sun. In the distance, a solitary sheep announces its presence. A man stands on a grassy mound and studies the surrounding forest. Sluggish memories begin to stir.
The story begins in the royal court of the land’s dead monarch. A man in courier’s garb entered and crossed a floor of patterned marble to kneel before his king.
What happened? How did that mighty kingdom fall?
It's a long story. It begins with a letter.
-----------------------------
Flames licked the rooftops of the shattered city even as devastating hails of ice tore the fleeing citizens to bloody ribbons. Here and there, earthshaking bolts of lightning blasted a stone monument to dust. Screams and the cries of the dying echoed across the land as the world itself was torn apart. They had been prepared, and even so they stood no chance.
Deep in the heart of the crumbling city, a lone figure ran down shadowed corridors, sandaled feet flapping against the well-worn floor between interminable rows of great carven pillars. In his arms was a stack of sacred scrolls and in his hand was grasped a spherical instrument. Cold sweat beaded his bald scalp. He was gasping for breath by the time he reached the great chamber in the heart of the temple, but there was no time to rest. Already, the calamity of the storm could be heard creeping down the hallway behind him. He summoned his servant from the orb in his hand and gave the orders with a speed and clarity won from long hours of practiced recital in preparation for this moment. The creature heard and obeyed, and set to work transcribing text from the scrolls onto the sandstone walls. It worked with astonishing speed. After all, it had been bred for this express purpose.
A particularly loud crash sent the man glancing nervously back toward the gates. The flicker of flames could be seen in the distance. It wouldn't be long now. He dropped to his knees and began to pray.
As the servant worked the stone, a dark ooze coalesced out of the thin air and wormed its way into the engraved runes. Pulsing, gelatinous forms of utter blackness took shape within the wall as the Hidden One made his presence known. The servant cowered and shook at the sight, but kept working.
The bald man began reciting a verse of scripture. The same verse, over and over again. Translated from that dead language, it meant “And from the fury of the Three the One shall deliver us.” He knew it was useless. He could feel the One’s consciousness pressing in on his mind, just as it read his runes and divined their purpose. He could feel the One’s terrible, unknowable wrath wriggling into the cracks of his soul. He began to weep through the desperate mantra. The world was caving apart. The edges were gnawing at the core. The darkness was turning inside out and there on the other side He was.
By the time the hell-storm reached the inner sanctum, there was no robed man. There was only the servant-creature, shivering in a corner, and a long, streaking splatter of wet, red blood.
Flames licked the rooftops of the shattered city even as devastating hails of ice tore the fleeing citizens to bloody ribbons. Here and there, earthshaking bolts of lightning blasted a stone monument to dust. Screams and the cries of the dying echoed across the land as the world itself was torn apart. They had been prepared, and even so they stood no chance.
Deep in the heart of the crumbling city, a lone figure ran down shadowed corridors, sandaled feet flapping against the well-worn floor between interminable rows of great carven pillars. In his arms was a stack of sacred scrolls and in his hand was grasped a spherical instrument. Cold sweat beaded his bald scalp. He was gasping for breath by the time he reached the great chamber in the heart of the temple, but there was no time to rest. Already, the calamity of the storm could be heard creeping down the hallway behind him. He summoned his servant from the orb in his hand and gave the orders with a speed and clarity won from long hours of practiced recital in preparation for this moment. The creature heard and obeyed, and set to work transcribing text from the scrolls onto the sandstone walls. It worked with astonishing speed. After all, it had been bred for this express purpose.
A particularly loud crash sent the man glancing nervously back toward the gates. The flicker of flames could be seen in the distance. It wouldn't be long now. He dropped to his knees and began to pray.
As the servant worked the stone, a dark ooze coalesced out of the thin air and wormed its way into the engraved runes. Pulsing, gelatinous forms of utter blackness took shape within the wall as the Hidden One made his presence known. The servant cowered and shook at the sight, but kept working.
The bald man began reciting a verse of scripture. The same verse, over and over again. Translated from that dead language, it meant “And from the fury of the Three the One shall deliver us.” He knew it was useless. He could feel the One’s consciousness pressing in on his mind, just as it read his runes and divined their purpose. He could feel the One’s terrible, unknowable wrath wriggling into the cracks of his soul. He began to weep through the desperate mantra. The world was caving apart. The edges were gnawing at the core. The darkness was turning inside out and there on the other side He was.
By the time the hell-storm reached the inner sanctum, there was no robed man. There was only the servant-creature, shivering in a corner, and a long, streaking splatter of wet, red blood.
-----------------------------
Endrast was drinking and trying to pretend Winterhold was still the teeming metropolis he grew up in when Trebatius threw open a door and followed a freezing gust of wind and snow into his happy place. His breath hissed out slowly but he did not look up. Trebatius and his bodyguard tramped inside and slammed the door.
If I pretend he isn't there, maybe he'll go away.
"Endrast!" Trebatius shouted across the deserted pub. "There you are!"
Endrast slowly lifted his gaze and met Trebatius with a painful smile. "Sulla. I didn't see you come in. It's good to see you again."
"What are you doing here in this awful wasteland?" Trebatius took a seat.
"It's my home, Sulla."
"There's nothing left of it! Nothing but that den of thieves on the cliff!"
Endrast winced and glanced around. "They don't like you hanging around."
"Don't they?" Trebatius shouted, suddenly angry. "They don't appreciate it when the people they fucked over come banging on their gates, demanding their due? You don't say!" He breathed deeply and smiled again. "But I didn't come out here expecting justice from the College. I know better than that!" He chuckled.
Endrast silently drank from his mug. Eventually Trebatius continued. "I've found an old Dwarf city, practically untouched," he said in a low voice. "I want you on my team."
"I don't do that kind of work anymore."
"Nonsense! You're itching for a new adventure, I can see it in your eyes."
Endrast gazed morosely into his mead. "I'm happy to stay here."
"Ha!" Trebatius gave a hearty laugh and slapped his friend on the back. He stood up and pulled a map from his pocket. "Here's the directions to our base camp. The dig starts on Morndas. Don't worry about the labor, I've taken care of that. See you there."
As Trebatius headed for the door, his bodyguard drifted closer to Endrast. "You will be there," she said quietly. Her fingers drummed across the hilt of her sword. "Won't you."
"Umana!" Trebatius called. "Come along!"
The enforcer stepped away and followed her master into the blizzard. Endrast stared glumly into his cup and sighed. "Well. One more job? One more job. What's the worst that could happen?" Various elements of his mind began clamouring all at once, but he determinedly pushed them aside to make way for another drink.
Endrast was drinking and trying to pretend Winterhold was still the teeming metropolis he grew up in when Trebatius threw open a door and followed a freezing gust of wind and snow into his happy place. His breath hissed out slowly but he did not look up. Trebatius and his bodyguard tramped inside and slammed the door.
If I pretend he isn't there, maybe he'll go away.
"Endrast!" Trebatius shouted across the deserted pub. "There you are!"
Endrast slowly lifted his gaze and met Trebatius with a painful smile. "Sulla. I didn't see you come in. It's good to see you again."
"What are you doing here in this awful wasteland?" Trebatius took a seat.
"It's my home, Sulla."
"There's nothing left of it! Nothing but that den of thieves on the cliff!"
Endrast winced and glanced around. "They don't like you hanging around."
"Don't they?" Trebatius shouted, suddenly angry. "They don't appreciate it when the people they fucked over come banging on their gates, demanding their due? You don't say!" He breathed deeply and smiled again. "But I didn't come out here expecting justice from the College. I know better than that!" He chuckled.
Endrast silently drank from his mug. Eventually Trebatius continued. "I've found an old Dwarf city, practically untouched," he said in a low voice. "I want you on my team."
"I don't do that kind of work anymore."
"Nonsense! You're itching for a new adventure, I can see it in your eyes."
Endrast gazed morosely into his mead. "I'm happy to stay here."
"Ha!" Trebatius gave a hearty laugh and slapped his friend on the back. He stood up and pulled a map from his pocket. "Here's the directions to our base camp. The dig starts on Morndas. Don't worry about the labor, I've taken care of that. See you there."
As Trebatius headed for the door, his bodyguard drifted closer to Endrast. "You will be there," she said quietly. Her fingers drummed across the hilt of her sword. "Won't you."
"Umana!" Trebatius called. "Come along!"
The enforcer stepped away and followed her master into the blizzard. Endrast stared glumly into his cup and sighed. "Well. One more job? One more job. What's the worst that could happen?" Various elements of his mind began clamouring all at once, but he determinedly pushed them aside to make way for another drink.
-----------------------------
This next one is original fiction, so don't bother guessing what's going on.
This next one is original fiction, so don't bother guessing what's going on.
-----------------------------
Merlin sat alone on an iron dais directly beneath the cacophonous labyrinth of his great clock tower. He had been sitting so for more than an hour, but he was patient and this moment would only ever pass once. He did not want to miss it.
Somewhere in the obscure depths of his tower’s ancient, elaborate machinery, a heavy counterweight shifted, sending a cascade of levers, pendulums and gears swinging with perfect precision through the high, huge tangle of churning metal. Merlin stared, eyes wide, knuckles white, as the tremendous gong suspended at the core of his antechamber began to toll.
Doom.
Doom.
After how many years, the time had come. But was he ready? He stood and walked to the gates of his hall. He did not know what would happen next, but he could guess.
He opened the doors in time to startle the robed visitor standing outside, whose hand hovered uncertainly where the knocker had been. Merlin did not conceal his contempt.
“What business have you with Merlin, wisest and most powerful of all sorcerers?”
Doom.
Doom.
The visitor blanched and stammered “I-I have orders t-to tell you to attend to the temple Olympus. I was t-told to say a-a-at once. Sir.”
“On whose authority do you dare command Merlin?” But he could guess.
The messenger seemed to find a little courage and raised his head very slightly. “The h- The highest authority.”
Doom.
Doom.
Merlin was silent for a moment. “Very well. Tell your masters I shall arrive shortly.”
A sigh of relief escaped the messenger’s lips. “Of course, sir.”
“Now go.”
Doom.
Doom.
Merlin watched the little man scamper down the mountain path and then stared up at the sky. The sun, moon and satellite were all below the horizon and in the distant darkness glittered countless stars.
It was not idle contemplation, the chance wandering of restless eyes searching for purpose in absence of the conscious mind’s direction that drew his gaze to what many even then still called the heavens. No, there was deliberate purpose to his stargazing. By the frenetic motion of his eyes and the tightened muscles of his mouth, one might have imagined he was struggling to memorize the sight.
Doom.
Doom.
Merlin sat alone on an iron dais directly beneath the cacophonous labyrinth of his great clock tower. He had been sitting so for more than an hour, but he was patient and this moment would only ever pass once. He did not want to miss it.
Somewhere in the obscure depths of his tower’s ancient, elaborate machinery, a heavy counterweight shifted, sending a cascade of levers, pendulums and gears swinging with perfect precision through the high, huge tangle of churning metal. Merlin stared, eyes wide, knuckles white, as the tremendous gong suspended at the core of his antechamber began to toll.
Doom.
Doom.
After how many years, the time had come. But was he ready? He stood and walked to the gates of his hall. He did not know what would happen next, but he could guess.
He opened the doors in time to startle the robed visitor standing outside, whose hand hovered uncertainly where the knocker had been. Merlin did not conceal his contempt.
“What business have you with Merlin, wisest and most powerful of all sorcerers?”
Doom.
Doom.
The visitor blanched and stammered “I-I have orders t-to tell you to attend to the temple Olympus. I was t-told to say a-a-at once. Sir.”
“On whose authority do you dare command Merlin?” But he could guess.
The messenger seemed to find a little courage and raised his head very slightly. “The h- The highest authority.”
Doom.
Doom.
Merlin was silent for a moment. “Very well. Tell your masters I shall arrive shortly.”
A sigh of relief escaped the messenger’s lips. “Of course, sir.”
“Now go.”
Doom.
Doom.
Merlin watched the little man scamper down the mountain path and then stared up at the sky. The sun, moon and satellite were all below the horizon and in the distant darkness glittered countless stars.
It was not idle contemplation, the chance wandering of restless eyes searching for purpose in absence of the conscious mind’s direction that drew his gaze to what many even then still called the heavens. No, there was deliberate purpose to his stargazing. By the frenetic motion of his eyes and the tightened muscles of his mouth, one might have imagined he was struggling to memorize the sight.
Doom.
Doom.
