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Anyone here write stories besides FF?

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I was just wondering because I see a lot of writers here and were wondering if they wrote their own original stories or fanfictions and if would share it. 


I am writing a story on another forum (story gets a lot of attention surprisingly) and just thought id share a excerpt from it. It's written in first person and is about a group of elemental users trying to stop the revival of the king of Gods named Desaraggon. Think like Bahamut basically except this god controls all elements. Here's a excerpt in the middle of the story where they were invading a mine to get currency to escape easy from the continent of Black Fire. 



Me and Zachary crouch behind a rectangular mid height steel and iron crate full of gems of every shade of red and blue as we watched a couple soldiers similar to the ones that we met back at the refugee camp walk ahead of us. A dim torch engulfed in bright blue flames flicker on and off above us tinting everything within its light its shade. I rest my back against the crate breathing heavily but quietly..


"Drake, what now?" Zachary whispers so low I almost didn't hear him. I glanced at his tinted blue hair from the overhanging torch. A sense of unrest and paranoia emanated from his gaze as we looked at each other. I peek back over the crate and look at the soldiers to see if they had left. They seemed to have disappeared as quick as they came.


"They're gone Zach. . . come on we got a little ways more to go." I whisper quietly leaping over the crate silently and landing on the metal grated flooring. I looked up at the huge smoke stacks in the room pluming out thick black clouds of poisonous gas and toxins as the heavy rusty and corroded drills pummeled the bedrock with the fury of a titan. The dim lights on the overhanging areas illuminated everything along with the bluish torches dotting here and there over the intricate maze of grates and pathways along with factory stations and mining gear. 


"No wonder it took us over 10 minutes to get through that entry tunnel, we must be at least several miles under the ground. If it wasn't for that slope it probably would have took us longer to get here." I say looking around again before closing my eyes and feeling out the area around me. I could feel the energy levels of everyone near me. Some were average, some a bit weaker and some stronger than normal. The diversity of the soldiers down here must have been intense. Flexing my fingers I motion for Zachary to follow me. He simply nods and emerges from his hiding spot.


The cranking and battering of gears along with the whirring of machines everywhere was a thing to experience. Everywhere I looked I was greeted with hundreds of holes blown into the sides of the bedrock where one could see the feint glimmer of gold and silver along with the odd gem or two. I wondered who was in charge of this place.


"Wonder how everyone else is doing. . ." Zachary mumbles following closely behind me as I led the way. Our feet barely making a noise as we creeped along the metal walkways and periodically looked around for guards. All while sneaking around I couldn't help but feel uneasy about this all.


"Zach. . . I don't feel to safe about this whole thing." I mutter looking to my left and feeling out a couple more soldiers coming our way. Before Zach could reply I pointed to some overhanging wiring and poles and immediately ran over to them. With a swift pounce onto the smooth round railing I leaped up quietly and with one hand grabbed a thick black cable dangling from above me before climbing up higher and hanging above the area the soldiers walked onto. Zachary however didn't move in time for the jump and was stuck crammed in between to crates with a thick tarp over it.


"Hey when do we get our lunch break? I'm starving like a horse." One of the soldiers said, a older looking male probably a bit taller than me with a shaggy black goatee and a skull cap. His partner was fit athletic woman with dark red hair and peach colored skin. My heart nearly stopped when I saw them stop right by the crates Zachary was hiding under.


"I don't know, we probably got another hour. You know this stuffs expensive. You signed up for this all so don't go complaining." The female chuckled resting her arm wrapped in some black stretchy material on the side of the crate. I dangled from the cable above them.


"Don't look up. Don't look up." I pray to myself as I stared down at them. "And please don't look under that tarp."


"Man whatever I'm starving for real, I could eat anything right now." He groans before his stomach started to rumble aloud. His female friend scratches her head before looking at the tarp and feeling out the crates from the material. My eyes widen.


"Maybe there's some food in these crates. Come on lets check I'm kind of hungry to." She mumbles placing her other hand on the tarp, her fingers enclosed around the black material before she began pulling it away. 


"Shit. . ." I curse under my breath frantically. This was bad. This was bad. The tarp finally came off and the two soldiers looked down and saw Zachary nestled between the crates. 


Damn. . .


"What the fu-?" The man started to say as he picked Zachary up by his throat and started to choke him. The young Infernic frantically claws at his hands trying to release his grip. 


"We got a trespasser? Finally something to do." The female says taking out a sharpened dagger from her pocket and twirling it in her hands. Zach was gasping loudly, he was unable to do anything as the mans powerful vice-like grip wrapped around his throat even tighter. He was gonna pass out soon.


"Now we gotta kill you, all trespassers on military and federal property must be executed. Sorry kid, but I'm not losing this job for you. Rest in peace." She sighs lifting her blade about to plunge it in his abdomen. I swing off the cable down at them. My sword already halfway out its sheathe ready to slash flesh and sinew.


"NOOO!" I yell loudly briefly catching their attention before all the lights went out in the facility, followed by a huge crackling sound as machinery short circuited out. The noises were immediately followed by the sound of punching and flesh being cut from bone followed by a muffled scream and bodies dropping with a thud on the walkway. Everything is quiet afterwards. . . no alarms, no yelling, no anything. A lone flickering flame plumes from the black blanket of darkness illuminating Zach's face as he glared across the walkway.


"Drake? Drake are you there?" He whispers softly moving his engulfed hand around the air over the flooring. The flame soon meets the bodies of the two soldiers about to kill him. The mans head dangled off the edge of the walkway only being held to the body by the spinal column and a bit of muscle. There were no other wounds on his body. Zachary nearly gagged at the sight before spotting the feminine soldier to the right of the mans corpse. Torn into her chest was a huge gash so deep it cut through her sternum into her spine. The young Infernic looks in horror and surprise before hearing a sword clanging on the ground as if it were dropped from behind him.


"Drake. . .?" Zach mumbles a bit uneasy as he turned around and waved his light source over my body. I was on my knees just staring at the grating, eyes wide with shock and my entire left arm and neck covered in the blood of the soldiers. My sword resting halfway on my lap as I was frozen in place. Zachary runs over to me and crouches by my side.


"Damn Drake you are brutal, those kills were worse than what Nick did to Raven. . . I thought you weren't really a killer?" He chuckles a bit darkly. I continue to stare at the ground for a moment before my lips finally moved and formed words.


"I. . . I didn't kill them. . . it wasn't me. . ." I mutter choking out the words as I remembered the exact moments before the lights went out. As I lunged at the soldiers about to kill Zachary a huge aura had appeared. . . a massive one. . . probably even greater than Ryvans. .. then the second before everything went dark I had seen a vague shadow appear behind them both. Zachary looks at me shocked and confused, he could tell I wasn't joking but dead serious. It wasn't Ryvans. . . but I could have sworn I had felt it before.


"I didn't feel it, but I guess it must have been pretty strong if it made you lock up like that. Maybe it just surprised you?" He ponders trying to find a solution. "But regardless how did your sword and you get blood covering you then?" He asks another question as he helps me to my feet. I shake my head trying to regain my composure and reach down to pick up my sword and flick the blood off it.


"It splattered on me. . . I didn't kill them. I don't want to talk about it. . ." I mutter again still shaking a bit. What if the things target was me but it missed at the last second and hit the soldiers? What if it were coming back? I quickly try to kick the thought from my mind. I was still alive and the energy had vanished so it wasn't here anymore. I focus back on the mission lighting my right hand up in flames.


"I guess Dave took out the security system and the lights along with the main terminal operating the machinery at least in this area." I speak a bit more calm.


"And judging from the lack of any noise two things happened, either Aleria and Aeris took out a shit ton of soldiers by surprise, or the soldiers were trained for something like this and thus are keeping quiet and biding their time." Zach adds in. I nod and continue.


"Then that means we gotta move, we're the only ones lighting up like christmas trees with our hands on fire, if we wait here they will probably sneak up on us, if their are any still in this area and not either looking for the machines that went out or searching for the Break and Pick team faking a robbery of the lower levels. Come on Zach we have shit to destroy." I say pulling back out my sword in the standard grip in my left hand. I charge the blade with energy until it turns a bright bluish white and then with a slashing motion launch a powerful and dense crescent of blue damnation at a bunch of overhanging cables and wires. The fiery attack chars through them all before exploding violently as it hits the above walkway and raining down fiery embers.


"Drake you gotta teach me how to do that, what's that attack called?" Zach chuckles taking out his kukri machete from his back and stabbing into a bunch of wires and pipes below and beside us. The sound of metal being cut and wires whipping and cracking before falling down echoes throughout the large couple miles tall and many miles wide underground cavern.


"I don't know, I don't really name my attacks." I mutter leaping in the air and with a spiral downwards cut through the supporting pipes of the walkway above me causing it to collapse on itself and get entangled in more wires.


"Well if you did it'd make our sync fighting more intact, by yelling an attack I'd know what it is and how to add to it but the enemy wouldn't." He yells as he plunges his angled kukri into a vessel causing oil and water to spill out onto the ground. I think about his comment for a minute.


"Yea, you're right it would help wouldn't it? Very well I'll call it Dragons Bane." I mumble to him vaulting off a overhead pipe back down to him. Zachary looks at me, his flickering flames blue hue coloring us both.


"Dragons Bane? The chain of tunnels leading to the mountain where Deraga supposedly sleeps?" He says curious. I nod in agreement.


"We after all got our pyromancing from him, might as well dedicate an attack to him." I chuckle sheathing my sword.


"But I thought you hated being a Infernic?" He rebuts.


"I do, but I like large black winged dragons." I chuckle patting him on the head. "Our conversation is interrupted by a cackle coming in off my earpiece.


"Drake. . . Zachary? It's been long enough I'm checking in. Everything ok?" Dave statics through the microphone. I put my hand up to my left ear on the piece and reply.


"Yea, everythings good. Zachary almost got killed but your clones did their job right on cue. Hows the others?" I speak into my mic. 


"Aleria and Aeris did pretty good, they managed to take out a bunch of soldiers easy and draw a bit of attention, Nick and his group also did their job. I heard the lower levels are swarming with soldiers." Dave gives me the good news. A smile etches itself across my face as I laugh.


"That's good, we're on our way to the main chamber now. We should be able to just drop and parkour our way down, the rest of the soldeirs will be here any minute after the commotion we made." I reply extinguishing my flame and rubbing my black hair in the darkness.


"Yea we got em all over the place, strange. . . I thought this would be a lot harder than I thought. These soldiers are a let down." Zach says cockily. A brief silence ensues before Dave speaks in the mic again, his voice assuming a darker tone.


"That's what I thought. . . until Aleria told me about a anamoly they came upon after the lights went out." He says quietly. Me and Zach tense up and listen eagerly.


"What? What are you talking about?" Zach says into his earpiece as he strapped his sword back to his back. A deep bad feeling welled up in me as I looked over at the corpses of the two soldiers a bit to my right. Dave clears his throat and begins.


"Well Aleria said that even though they didn't take out anyone lethaly, they found bodies. . . lots of bodies strewn out all over their area, each corpse they inspected had brutal wounds inflicted on them." He says pausing. My eyes widened.


"How brutal were they?" I mutter back as the air around me felt heavier and my fingers started getting clammy. A sense of uneasiness tackled me and Zachary. Dave speaks again.


"Very. . . some were decapitated or nearly decapitated. . . others were basically sliced in half, and some were. . ." He trails off.


"Some were what?!" I yell nearly into the mic.


"Eaten. . ." he whispers. I nearly froze up like a ice cube. Eaten? What the hell was going on? What the fuck were we getting into? I wanted to leave this place more than ever now. I turn my gaze to Zachs flame, his eyes were wide with shock and fear. I briefly remember the experience I had when the lights went out.


"Nick also said the same thing was near him, he and James would hear screaming, groaning and then the sound of scuttling and running." Dave sighs a bit queasy himself. This was an unexpected low blow to us.


"No wonder this felt so easy, and we didn't see many soldiers. . . they were being killed. . . but who or what would kill so fast and brutally in the short amount of time we've been here?" I mumble.


"I don't know. . . but that's not the point at least you all are alive. Now make your way down to the heart of the mine. It shoud be ground level, the stealth and breaking groups are already on their way. You should get a move on." He utters aloud. I nod to Zach and we both prepared to parkour down the walkways and wires.


"And Drake. . ." Dave catches me just as I was about to leap off the railing. My feet balance on the smooth cold steel of the cylindrical railing as I stood upright and talked in my earpiece.


"Yes Dave?" I whisper the words in a serious tone. A long pause ensues as if time had frozen us all in place before Daves next words broke the silence.


"Be careful dude. . . we need this to go smooth if we want the riches and the ship." He says before cutting off his master earpiece. Me and Zach look at each others general directions in the darkness.


"Lets go Zach. Follow my aura signature through the darkness." I say stepping off the railing and free falling a bit towards the next platform with him hot on my heels. Everything was getting weird. Probably over a hundred soldiers or more brutally evicerated without anyone knowing? The shadow I saw just as the lights went out. The powerful aura I felt. The fuck was going on? After about ten minutes of nothing but the sound of me and Zach descending to the ground we finally saw the light of Alerias flame on the ground. She was surrounded by the rest of the group save for Dave. Me and Zach hit the ground a couple meters from them in a roll.


"Took you long enough. . ." James says chuckling darkly. He had the nerve to be so quaint in all this dark atmosphere. I ignore his comment and walk towards the group. We stood before a massive spherical safe like building with a small double doored thick metal entrance way with a self generating control panel still in function.


"So how do we get in?" I question everyone. Orin quietly walks over to the panel and rests his hand on the transparent pad. Everyone watches quietly.


"Like this." He says coursing his electricity throughout the pad overcharging and then destroying it. The steel doors flash lights at their tops and then slide open knocking dirt and dust from the cracks and crevices and revealing a large room.


To be continued. . .

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I wrote a take on the Wizard of Oz for NaNoWriMo two years ago that turned the setting into a modern day horror tale, borrowing heavily from the new World of Darkness realm.


Dorothy was a telemetric girl. Scarecrow was a girl who was kidnapped by a monstrous True Fae who ripped her apart and stuffed her full of straw. She returned as a Changeling. Tin Man was a version of Frankenstein's Monster played by a Promethean and my Cowardly Lion was a fourteen year old spanish boy who had no control over his inner werewolf.


I should finish it.

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Found it. Haven't re-read it or edited or anything since I put it together. My apologies if it turned out edgy tryhard as hell.





A murder of crows spiraled over head, cawing into the air in a cacophony of noise that made the constant and invading brush of feathers all the more horrific. Samantha had been running the length of dirt road between her house and her neighbor’s and the golden orb of sun was just finishing sinking below the top of the overlooking forest. She’d been on her way back, always told to be home before dark. That was when she heard the flapping. At first she thought it was a trick of the light, or even bats. Her and her dad had sometimes watched the bats dart around the summer skies, catching bugs stupid enough to fly by the lights that would light up her brother’s baseball games. The sport was dumb, but she got to spend time with her dad and they would

tore clean from the socket


She screamed, her arms flailing and trying to run free from the swarm of birds that had descended upon her. She could see the house in the distance, the warm glow of lamplight coming from inside her home. Her feet carried her even as those beaks and claws tore at her, hurt her, caused her to cry. She was almost home, locking her eyes on that window and running towards it. She was screaming and bawling like a child, because she was a child, running from a nightmare that had somehow become real.


The lights were in front of her, then slowly eased below her, and Samantha realized that she was no longer running but being carried. She thrashed, trying to coax the terrible birds harassing her to let her go, her mind refusing to believe that crows could pick up a child, even if there were so many, and that this was impossible and that this couldn’t be real and

ripped apart at the seams


She had given in, screaming, carried away from her home. Mere feet from safety and her parents and even her stupid brother and their cat. Her cat. She screamed and screamed until she couldn’t any longer, and that’s when she lost consciousness.


She became aware she was alive, and as soon as she could glance around at the nightmarish inside of barn she was sleeping in the crows descended on her again. She felt her hair being torn at, and when she reached up to fend them off she felt a claw take hold of her arm. Before she could shake it free, it yanked, and she felt her arm detach from her shoulder. Wordlessly, she stared in horror from the ground, unable to see any of the clear picture through the unending onslaught of feathers and beaks and that endless buzzing of cries and caws. She couldn’t see anything whole except for the corner of the barn where her arm had been tossed. It wasn’t the only arm there.


Her stupor was broken when her left arm had been unceremoniously torn off. It too was thrown onto the pile, discarded and useless amongst the pile of limbs that were all about the same size as hers. She felt she would be ill, and that’s when she caught sight of the misshapen clawed hand that reached down towards her stomach, below her belly button. A flash like fire danced across her and the claw came away red. Samantha began to scream in earnest when the claw descended, slipping inside of the incision and she screamed and screamed as the claw began to grip her insides. Samantha could feel them snapping loose and free like so many stubborn strings, a dull numb sensation as the claw gutted her and tossed the piles of gore and viscera into a trough. She didn’t know the word for it but she’d watched the pigs eat out of it when her class had visited a farm when she was in the third grade and


they’re pulling me apart oh god mommy daddy help they’re pulling


Terror overtook her, the pain a second thought behind the horrific things being down to her. She didn’t recognize the organs being ripped out of her but she did recognize when the thing doing this to her began to


Her eyes goggled when she realized what was doing this to her. At first it had been just the flock of crows, menacing her, but what stood before her was a devilish cartoon of disproportioned human shape with crow features. He wore overalls and a hat like a big farmer, in fact she was sure she’d seen him in a cartoon sometime. Tattered remains of a flannel shirt like the ones daddy used to wear in the winter were shredded by arms tapered off into useless misshapen wings, ending in vicious claws that had no purpose on either man or animal. She felt like she could laugh if she wasn’t being murdered by the creature.


The crow-farmer went away with a pile of her leaking, bleeding guts and returned with a huge clawful of straw. With one fiendish appendage holding open the now-hollow cavity that made up the deflated mass of her body, he began to stuff her full of it. It itched and burned and hurt and was awful and clawful after clawful came, expanding her stomach and chest and he kept going until she thought for sure she was going to burst. She didn’t however, and despite her being sure her lungs had been torn out of her body, she found she was still able to scream.


The farmer paced around on horrible, buckled legs to her head, and with that red-stained and dripping claw, drew a line across the top of her head below her hairline. It burned again, like her stomach had, and she wailed with the implication of what was to come. With one steady yank, she felt the top of her head pop off with a wet and sickening schlop and she pictured the jack o’lanterns that she had helped daddy make for Halloween when they would hollow them out and he would draw a scary black cat and carve it and they’d put a candle in and

he’s stealing me


She felt the snapping popping of the claw sinking into her brain and tugging it free. Something was wrong with her eyes, then, and her vision collapsed into itself and went black. She continued to scream, panicked and terrified, dimly aware that her head was being filled with the same straw he’d stuffed her body full of. She felt like she would wake up any second now, any instant and she’d be crying in her daddy’s arms and she’d be safe again and maybe Mittens could sleep in her bed tonight and

daddy help


Something was wrong with her face. She was able to scream but it felt like she was doing it through a plastic bag over her face. It sounded strange to her, somehow different. It went on forever, this torture of a horrified child, blind and unfeeling. She became aware she was being held upright but her feet weren’t touching the floor. She felt something slip around where her shoulders were, when she still had arms. A searing pain stabbed through her vertically, through her stomach and neck and out of the bottom of her head, where her dad would sometimes give mommy massages after she came home from work.


After what could have been minutes or years of darkness, she was able to see again. There was a horrid stabbing pain in her eye socket, and the darkness peeled away and she could see the farmer up close and in front of her. He had a needle in his beak, long and shiny and with a shining silver thread looped through it. He held up a button, she could see, and felt it placed against her face. Again the piercing sting of fire and she could see out of both eyes. She was facing the sun, which seemed too bright and somehow off color, and then she was facing the ground, slung up over the impossible shoulder of this crow man monster and being hoisted out to a field.


He planted her, pillared deep into the fertile soil growing the sorts of vegetables she had never seen before. She was able to look around in front of her, and she became aware she had new arms in the form of stuffed sleeves of the long coat put on the pike she had been impaled with. The pike ran along her spine and through her shoulders, filling out the sleeves of the coat. For effect, the farmer had stuffed a wide brimmed hat on top of her head, mostly to hide the lazy stuffing job he had done sewing up the top of her head where he had torn out her brain and eyes.


In the field, at sporadic distances, were the other Scarechildren that had been placed. One had no head visible, torn free from the beasts that roamed the garden and feasted on the things growing there. Sometimes at night, she heard the crops screaming, as if buried below the earth.


Oh god please help us



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all kinds of stuff actually. I rp world of darkness stuff more than anything else haha



These are thoughts that I may never commit to writing. Too often do people write meaningful thoughts down in a hope to be reminded of things they've done, mistakes they've made, sins they've committed.


Writing has too often been the downfall of many of my kin, as in the end... the writing isn't for their eyes... but to feel some sort of false relief in thinking that they would be the only one to see it. Our minds, while not the safest sure fire unmolestable place for information, can surely be considered the most difficult for any to pry into. It is the place easiest to shroud in false pretences. Easiest to wrap in tight layers and keep hidden from sight.


It is why I often find myself taking a moment to think over ever detail of my thoughts. Allowing myself a moment to commit to memory everything that others may put ink to paper for.


Here, in Raven city however, I fear that even my mind is not safe. Not because of the mad princeling, not for the princess enforcer... but the power hiding under the very foundation. I am safe from my elder kin, safe from their mental probing for now. It is the nasty thought of an ancient dwelling beneath our feet that gives me unease.


I've met my fellow elders and only a few things come to mind. My opinions of them I can separate on a personal and political level, but one thing above all else comes to mind when I see what may happen here.


Perhaps this ancient is merely very old, perhaps he's not a head at all... but head or not, only bad has come of a waking ancient in any story, any whisper, any rumor or experience I've been a part of. I am no youth, I have done my fair share of sleep and my fair share of diablerie. But I still fear the ancients, as much as I wish not to admit that. Just as I fear as well as loathe the wolves, only for very different reasons.


I have my reasons and my wit. There is good reason to have fear, even as an elder. The key is not to be consumed by it when reaction can save or kill you.

When I made my way here to Raven City, I knew that in a lingering place of life... to expect rivalry of territory as well as claim to the food source. A city of cattle in a world slipping away needed someone to herd them to fruition.


Without the cattle, my kin cannot eat, and if they cannot eat, then I may not feast either. So you care for the feed of your desired meal. It's all common sense. You keep them happy, complacent. That way the true rulers of this world can prosper and be free as we were meant to be. It sounds all dramatic I'm sure, but there is no race better to govern over all than the Vampires. We've been doing it for centuries, millenia. The only difference in then and now... is that the world is actually fighting back to take back what belongs to it... well, trying anyway.


Meeting with the enforcer princess, I find her to be quite reliable, dutiful. Very resourceful and determined. She has a much more direct approach to her words, but it's often good to find people that say exactly what is on their minds than the often normal dance of tongues that happens with politics. Her loyalties seem to be tied with Dr.Laborde, but I also sense that she may have more loyalty to the well being of kin, than the one person. Perhaps more the title. Which leads me to believe that her involvement with this title may lead deeper. I've yet to find out for sure.


My meeting with the mad princeling however... was not what I expected and yet entailed everything I did, and more. He seemed very self-proclaimed. Quite used to his entitlement that he seemed to note that in higher regard than making a suitable impression with the presence of another elder. I did not need to sense the bloodlust worn so proudly on his sleeve and along the crazed grin of his to be privy to it. He was quite charming in his own way. I've always held an intense attraction to one of his sanity. He is much more refined than some I've met however, but the madness is not lost entirely in his responsibilities. That was something I rather enjoyed finding out. At least in mannerisms, actions are something else entirely of course.


He spoke well, but I felt that his eagerness to keep a dying title from traditions of a dying age were more important than the threat of a potentially rising threat. More so than myself.


I of course know better than anyone concerning my thoughts, that title and tradition are what keep our kind civil, keep the politics in place and we can thrive better than any other. We are not mindless simple animals such as the mutts, or self destructive as the cattle. We are beautiful and delicious monsters. Incapable of true destruction and a formidable and unstoppable force to all.


What worries me the most right now, more than the drivel that Dr.Laborde wished to instill, is this ancient. I pray that it is just one, for one is already too many. I do agree with him though, that this city needs to be strengthened. Fleeing this supposed resting place is not much of an option when the food source flocks here.


I would much rather leave this place, hoping never to come face to face with this presence, but that is a distant dream in a time where traveling was of no gamble.


While I have my differences with Dr.Laborde, and I find his abuse of the title he claims this ancient 'gave' him, to be laughable. He does have his sources, those backing him. Roots as it were, and a point I heavily agree with when it comes to our inevitable survival.


I will have to swallow my pride however, during this initial meeting. If I wish to see where this council goes, I need to cooperate to my best. Throwing a stink over the offense of the initial meeting taking place in the tower instead of what Dr.Laborde and I had come to agreement on... shouldn't take away from the end result. My generosity thrown in my face in such an indirect way. To learn the arrangements in a message instead of being properly declined. It shows disrespect that I am quite tired of receiving. I have seen enough of it in fledglings and cattle of the last two decades than I would care to indulge actually admitting.


So as much as I would enjoy properly educating the mad princeling in etiquette, I feel there is a bigger picture to consider, and showing my distaste for something so trivial would only label me as petty. Perhaps I am petty. I am, however, able to look at the bigger picture.


The meeting happens soon. Perhaps I will continue making friends before any calls are made. There definitely needs to be a change, and a little princeling needs to learn to be humble. Perhaps he'll receive that lesson in time.


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I'm currently working on an edit with a friend of a roleplay we turned into a story :) The best way I can describe it is BDSM sci-fi erotica. Currently the second part is at 500-something pages with a sequel already behind worked on that is more occult based. It's taken us about 3 years to work on everything thus far and we FINALLY did all the major transfers into a google doc.

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I have a few personal projects as well as a ton of WoW/GW2 stuff. Hmm. I think I'll post my Warlock story here. He's from World of Warcraft!


The story deals with the culmination of events spanning months -- specifically an exercise designed to restore his tainted and tattered soul. Enjoy!



The time had finally come. Years of intertwining events had convened to hinge on a single plan of action...and failed. The ritual remained unfinished; even the steps of it that had been completed were horribly flawed. The inception of his Fel Heart would not come to pass. The gamble had been a heavy one, he weighed his entire existence on the series of steps required to seal his immortality. Failure meant that his soul would not be able to sustain ties with the rest of his being. In his efforts he had spent much of it, and severely tainted what shreds remained. His final estimate had offered him days to live, to exist. That was days ago. There was no mistaking it.


Hexon Grier was dying.


Despite the looming prospect of an unsavory demise, the man remained healthy in his usual appearance. At an average height of six feet, two inches, he sported a body well honed from physical trials, swathed in rich, dark skin that seemed immune to blemish. Raven back length hair flowed behind him, usually tamed via means of a tied tail. He was often granted the compliment of possessing exotic handsomeness, attributed to a sultry pair of reflective grey eyes, full pink -- almost red -- lips, and a symmetrical, well-shaped jaw. Dressed in quiet, pragmatic black cloth, he did not at all look like a man on the verge of death.


The warlock remained composed, however, as he carefully traipsed down a treacherously slick winding of stone stairs into the deep dark. Hands gloved in dark cloth clutched the damp walls, seeking for whatever traction his fingers could find. The downward, spiraling tunnel that hosted the stairs was pitch black, leaving him to navigate as a blind man. A fall down would be most uncomfortable, inconvenient, and perhaps deadly. The Warlock dared not cast anything in his descent; instead he chose to save the last of his casting capacity for what was to come.


It amused him really, that despite how dire his situation was, he could not feel it. Naturally he was aware and quite able to detect the required energies that led him to formulate his estimates, but there was no slowing of his blood, no seizing of his heart. No fatigue. No emotional distress. No mental incapacity. It seemed to him that he would be snuffed out feeling as if he was in his prime. Fear occurred to him, but he chose to ignore it. There was no time for such a thing.


The descent reminded him strongly of the chain of events that led him to his current predicament. Specifically among them were the creation and destruction of The Fel Heart and the subsequently failed ritual; the Travels of the Seven Sins. The Fel Heart had proven to be a formidable and volatile exercise in creation, his own attempt at playing Titan. The monstrosity that resulted had not only endangered scores of people, but him as well. It thrived on its own cruelty, aiming to spread misery, death and suffering simply for the sake of it. Hexon's original intention had been to use the construct as a weapon, but the unthinkable had occurred. While seemingly programmed to follow Grier's ultimate instructions, the Fel Heart had developed its own will, based on the unforeseen results of Hexon having injected a sizeable portion of his own soul into its creation. The malevolent entity had concealed its independent sentience and outmaneuvered its creator, only to be struck down by a band of Argent Crusaders. While Hexon himself had emerged no worse off than before, the loss of such a potent and irreplaceable weapon had been a frustrating thing to endure.


The Warlock had not given up hope, however, and moved to change the plan. Instead of working to produce an individual of sentient obedience who he would imbue with the darkness of the Fel Heart, he sought to bind the Heart to his own body and soul. It involved a massive ritual that would literally span the world, designed to produce the energy patterns required for generation. Generation alone would not have been enough; the created Fel Heart needed a source of energy to sustain itself through the first few hours of existence before adapting to produce its own. To serve that purpose, Hexon had planned to use the wild, churning energies about the Maelstrom-- run them through runic conduits and feed the darkened power. Things did not get a chance to escalate to that point. Very early on, the ritual had failed. He had been unable to finish the primary steps.


At the end of his rope, a new adversary had arrived; a Sin'dorei warlock. The caster had proven to be extremely powerful, resourceful and confident...and therefore gullible. With very little effort he had managed to steer the warlock back toward the very ones who had sent him, the Argent Crusaders themselves. Now, with his two largest problems embattled against one another, he found the freedom to continue to the next step.




As if triggered by the prospect the complete darkness began to lift, making way for a slight indication of light further down the spiral tunnel that made bare, smoky outlines visible. Hexon proceeded with no less caution than before, taking his time on the treacherous incline despite his time constraints. Hastiness would only jeopardize his endeavor.


Always a believer in backup plans, Hexon had prepared well in the event of the ritual's failure. For the greater part of two hears he had scoured the world, appropriating souls he found favorable and storing them for later use. Ninety six of them eventually remained in his custody. At a considerable cost, he employed a technique demonstrated by his former student-- forming threads from his own soul. Instead of using them for probing as was his student’s wont, he harnessed them to stitch and bind the ninety six souls together and to him. The cost, of course was the extension and the sheer volume of his spirit it took to maintain such a thing. Having already spent so much of it, the additional exertion left him with the pathetic remnants that threatened to snuff out at any moment.


In the risk slept the gain. Those souls would now provide him with what he needed to survive. No Fel Heart would form within him, but wholeness...it was an excellent consolation prize. The process was a simple one; he had spent months preparing the formations, runes, circles and reagents for it. The ninety six souls were to be broken down into the energy needed to reconstruct his in entirety. Given the accuracy required that not even his calculations achieved, he expected the waste to be phenomenal. His estimates of the waste had arrived at a staggering result -- only one forty-eighth of each soul's energy would end up successfully converted. Coupled with an eighty percent chance of that being accurate...in the end he decided that ninety-six was an appropriate amount to cover the margin of error and waste. He made tentative arrangements to capture some of the diffusing energy via runic channeling circles designed to run in a loop until harnessed or broken. Those, however, were not important in the end, though it would be nice for them to work. What would happen to the corrupted remnants of his soul, he could not positively say. Perhaps diffusion into the new structure was its fate, or to remain as a sickly abscess latched on to the pristine.


The shape of the winding stairs became clearer as Hexon continued to slink his way down, and soon he could make out the muddy green of the moss covering the dank passage. It was close, prepared and waiting in its venue. Streaks of yellow torch light glistened upon the wet stone, and suddenly, the tunnel opened into the cavern. It was not vast, but spacious enough to hold items for lodging in times he needed to lay low. A small square room with a low ceiling housed a small yet comfortable looking bed and a shelf of books. A small arch opened into a greater chamber, the house of his preparations. A large, convoluted runic circle was painted onto the floor in dark red blood that never seemed to coagulate or dry. Several foci within the construction hosted reagents, ranging from crystals to an actual human arm. There was a space in the structure for him as well, toward the southern arc, equipped with palm-rests for both regular and emergency channeling. The middle of the circle hosted the most important reagent of all.


The human man at the center of the runic circle had only recently lost his mind to despair, reduced to a catatonic husk. Hexon thought himself fortunate to have run into him while attempting surveillance on the Scarlet Monastery. Ironically enough, the Warlock had intended to take one of the Scarlet soldiers for this very purpose. Instead, a very viable adventurer had landed right in his hands. Strong in both body and soul, he served as the perfect main reagent. The fellow sat, naked and blank-eyed, barely moving at all save for the steady rise and fall in his form that his breathing supplied. Hexon hadn't even bothered to restrain him; his loss to terror had been complete.


Time was of the essence, and despite his careful journey down, Hexon knew that he needed to begin soon. With practiced deftness, he shed his own dark attire, vest, trousers, mantle, boots and gloves. Rings, pendants and little trinkets went in a neat little pile atop the discarded black cloth. Laid bare, the warlock lifted his hands to free his hair of the tie that bound his dark hair in a tail. It spilled down his shoulders and back with the thickness of oil. He stepped into his receptacle within the magical structure, the smell of both blood and Fel reaching his nose. Adrenaline worked within him with astonishing suddenness, giving way to trembling anticipation. His senses heightened as a result; the feel of the cold stone beneath his feet, the yellow torchlight that gave the blood-painted magic circle an extra slickness, the smell of excitement in his own sweat, the taste of Fel on his tongue, and the sound of his own quivering breathing.


Slowly, he lowered himself into a cross-legged seated position and placed both his palms onto their painted spots. There would only be one chance, one cast for this. It was all his soul could manage before being lost to oblivion. He had calculated complete success given his provisions, yet he knew the universe was a cruel usurper of even the most meticulous plans. Taking a deep breath, Hexon Grier fluttered his silver-grey eyes shut and focused on channeling. He sensed the energy flow from him, taken by the blood and coursed to populate the circle. The world around him began fading as his essence struggled to maintain its hold on existence.


Whether obliteration or rebirth, the moment had come.





As quickly as Hexon Grier’s surroundings blurred they snapped right back into focus, along with a shooting pain along his arms. The agony began on his palms, which were pressed slickly to the blood, and trailed a searing path up every last nerve on the limb. The muscles tightened and bunched even as his fingers clutched at the floor in an effort to maintain their hold. He kept his focus on the cast, waiting for that critical moment when the circle received enough of his energy to activate and work without his continued effort. An intermittent blur took to his vision and for one lurching moment he wondered if he no longer had enough. Yes, he assured himself, yes he did have enough. He had set himself a proper threshold to cater to this. With a careful squint, he peered across the circle to the main reagent. Along the pattern they were linked by a solid line flanked by symbols in cursed Eredun, each one marked in the same dark blood as the rest of the formation. The reagent’s receptacle had begun to change; the lines of blood crept and flowed toward him, converging in a predetermined pattern to make contact with his bare skin.


The second contact was made, the circle flared to life in hissing green flame, fuelled now by the very life force of the helpless man within it. Hexon breathed a sigh of expected relief; the baton had passed. What little was left of his own vitality now stood preserved, just enough for him to perform and witness the next stages of his spellcraft. Sluggishly he rose his palms off their holdings, both now dyed in the sticky, fresh-smelling liquid. With the index and middle fingers of his right hand, he smeared twin stains from his left deltoid down his chest and stomach, finally connecting the blood with the small ouroboros-shaped tattoo just below his navel. His skin was hot, and filmed with adrenaline-stinking sweat. For a moment he wondered if his own perspiration would undo the pattern he had just drawn. Upon observation, however, he saw that the blood was thick enough not to be rinsed away. Using his left hand he traced the symmetrical counterpart of the pattern before pressing the palm itself directly onto his breast. His quickened heartbeat induced a slow, almost lazy smile on a face tense with anticipation.


Hexon continued to monitor the circle, the main reagent in particular. He disallowed distraction, and so the very visible, green-splashed walls and ceiling of the cavern went entirely unnoticed. The doomed adventurer’s torso had been marked in identical fashion to the warlock’s the blood from the circle having crawled up his body like a sentient stain. Fel flames licked at him wildly, but left no burns. Hexon knew that the fellow’s soul was what they feasted on so enthusiastically. As the warlock observed, several reagents along the circle vanished in columns of roaring flame, activating a myriad of runic instructions and conduits within the greater structure.


The warlock barely had time to prepare himself; one moment he sat looking ahead; the next all he knew were screaming, raging patterns of energy, felt through a sense that transcended sight, hearing, taste, touch and smell. He remained self-aware – to his surprise, he had expected to be insensible during this portion – enough to recognize the distinct surge of energy that signalled the spending of yet another reagent. Suddenly, he could see again. As planned, his soul had been planted in a carefully constructed eye, very similar to the one he used to cast to perform remote surveillance. The vision granted to him bore a heavy tint of murky green, but through it he could witness the flows of energy that his naked eye could not hope to detect. He beheld his own form, drenched with sweat and marked with blood, finally slump to the side onto the space allocated to it. Also visible was the pull of vitality from the adventurer, flowing freely into the spellwork, slowly killing him. Hexon had no problem with this; it was the one part of the design that did not involve waste. The man would be consumed on every level imaginable.


The true spectacle floated lazily between Hexon’s body and the main reagent. Through the extracorporeal sight it appeared as a massive, rotating sphere of almost pure white; punctuated with stitched bindings composed of corrupted, slowly decaying threads woven from his own spirit all those months ago. The ninety six, bound together in one convenient package, ready to eat. The eye’s focus moved to the circle from which more consumed reagents triggered the emergence of several conduits, rising from the structure to make contact with the bountiful soul-harvest. Hexon wondered if the serpentine tendrils wreathed in green flames would be visible to the naked eye. They coiled about the sphere, latching on tightly and ready to take anything given. Relief fluttered through the warlock’s being as that bit of preparation executed without difficulty.


Sudden waves of despair and terror lashed at him in jarring blasts. Disoriented, Hexon remained puzzled for several seconds before realizing that the powerful emotion wasn’t coming from him. The eye swivelled to the adventurer, who now writhed within his appointed space, his mouth gaping and stretched in a scream that could not be heard. Hearing it would be much more merciful than feeling the peripheral anguish, Grier surmised. Yet, eagerness took him as he beheld the next stage of the design. The energies of the circle forced the adventurer to his feet – or rather, hoisted him like a banner, his arms open wide on either side of him and his instep dragging on the stone floor. The last thing Hexon witnessed from the man was a motion of his lips as fear bled from him. Not the most effective lip reader, the sequence of mouth motions was one familiar enough for him to decipher immediately. “Please,” The man cried to the cavern in his final moment, “Please, Light save me.”


There was no Light in this place.


Soundlessly the doomed adventurer was instantly shredded into a fine red mist, the globules of which remained suspended in the air as if caught in a gnomish photograph. The runic circle greedily lapped up the remnants of his spirit and vitality, the flames roaring high as yet another reagent along the pattern was consumed. Hexon knew very well what the flames had just licked up; the item that contained in its blood the very blueprints of his own, magnificent form. Those blueprints fed the circle instructions on what to do with the raw flesh, blood and bone that now hung above the structure. Excitement pulsed from the warlock’s presence for a moment…then nervous dread. The moment of truth had finally arrived. He knew quite well that he was indeed a fading shred and any significant failure in what was about to happen would end him entirely.


The fel-soaked, torn scrap of a soul that was Hexon Grier gravitated toward its ordained spot above the burning circle, held fast by tendrils of energy. As much as he tried to hold it at bay, fear ravaged him. His fear of death and the absolute horror the prospect of nonexistence brought him tore through unmitigated, jarring his focus. Slowly, with as much relative effort as it took to move a man-sized boulder, the warlock calmed himself. The flesh, blood and bone were being tended to, and the ninety six were firmly coiled in their conduits. All he needed to do was release them. The threads that bound them, though apart from himself, still responded to his will. With the release, he hoped that the structure held.


Trepidation gripped him as he gave the command, surrendering himself to fate. The threads vanished. The flames roared as they struggled to contain the surge of spirits that whirled about like disturbed fish in a bowl, each one frantic with the sudden realization of freedom…false freedom. Hexon was vaguely aware of the body he left behind being incinerated – his last bridge back literally burned, used as the final reagent. Appropriate runes activated, and all at once, the ninety six living souls were reduced to nothing but raw energy, the personalities, memories, experiences and growth accumulated among them suddenly swept from existence. The act in itself was so vile that Hexon could feel the precious shred of his own soul flay even further into ruin. It made him uneasy, he could barely afford that at this point.


The concussion from the energy’s release was incredible. Given no time to react at all, the warlock’s crafted eye bore witness to the cavern filling with pure white. The energy obliterated the viewing construct then, and Hexon’s entire world was thrown into senseless darkness.






An opening had formed. Not enough to allow complete passage, oh no. In fact, this opening was far less accommodating than the ones the Entity had tried to get through on earlier occasions. The interest in this opening, this window, lay in what was just beyond it. Energy so intense, so plentiful, that it presented the illusion of being boundless...delicious, pure and raw. The waves of it bent space itself, weakening the threshold between places. The interested entity dared to move closer, settling near to observe. Pulses of energy leaked through, teasing it like drops of water on a thirsty man's tongue. Oh, what it would do to feast upon it all. The Entity was sparked with curiosity as it recognized the plane from which the tantalizing waves flowed. As far as it knew, bursts such as this one were not common upon that plane. Closer inspection ensued, and astonishment followed.


There were patterns, extremely familiar patterns within the bombarding explosions of white. With closer scrutiny, the Entity recognized the flow of a directed process, automated by instructions wrought in a stunning array of runes. Though much of the power was lost in flaring bombardment, a great deal of it was routed through several conduits, fueling a remarkable system designed to...


The Entity lurched. It couldn't be. It knew of very few on that realm capable of such atrocious intricacies. With care, it struggled for some sign of the familiar spirit, the decaying, Fel-tinted tatter that it knew to be none other than the creator. The search proved to be as difficult as finding a wet needle in a needle-stack, but it detected him soon enough...or what was left of him. The Entity was unable to tell if that smear of a soul was capable of holding together for more than a few moments within the maelstrom of energy that raged around it. Something that small, that unstable, could only be -- but wait, no...impossible! Something was happening to it. It was growing. The Entity reeled. It wasn't uncommon for a soul to be restored or healed, but that was a process that took time and a nauseating degree of altruism. Right as it witnessed, the fading stain of its creator's soul began stabilizing and filling. With another careful inspection of the system, it saw. The construction was made to harness energy and use it to rebuild a soul. Absolutely impossible! Yet, the entity could not deny what took place through the window it had been drawn to.


So much of that delicious bounty was being wasted. Yet, every last ounce of it that pulsed through the window was consumed immediately; the Entity was loath to let it escape its clutches. Each tasting brought with it a swelling of vitality and potential, and a sharp sense of recognition. This power was born of a soul. Many souls, judging by the sheer volume of it. The Entity was sure that less than one hundredth of the power slipped through the window, yet it was already drunk on it. It let out a cruel laugh, the sheer evil and desperation that the creator would have endured to do such a thing must have been mind-breaking. Of course, it noticed that a significant amount of the energy was being saved, oscillated into loops that ensured storage for later use. How far had that man thought things through?


For the first time, The Entity beheld the physical; the spectacle had been taking place in a cavern. Most of it appeared to have collapsed from the blasts, but what was left housed another astonishing find. It was a body, empty, lifeless, preserved by the very flows about it. It beheld a familiar. Raven hair, dark skin, a fit build. The Creator's vessel. A lusting hunger took the Entity completely. A vessel. All it ever wanted. An item with which he could roam that deliciously vulnerable plane and consume all he dared and pleased. How frustrating it was to be unable to travel through the meager window? Just one chance, and the Entity would usurp the vessel and leave the ever strengthening soul floating without a place to go.


Jealously then, it observed, with the languishing resentment of a starving man viewing a banquet...or rather, a greedy dog lapping at table scraps; it did feast on the trails of energy, after all. With the meal came entertainment, watching the reconstruction of the potent soul. The Entity observed the ruined tatters of his Creator's soul as it was literally copied, sans the cancerous corruption of Fel. Genius, it marveled. Pure genius. Once the copy was made, the tatters dissolved and fed the process, now guided by the newly aware form. He took stunning control, harnessing the stored energy within the looping arrays to augment both himself and his eventual vessel. He opened a clear path between soul and body before traversing it with what seemed like eager haste. Envy shook the Entity to its very core.


Suddenly, a surprising opportunity! The window widened with such force that the way forward was suddenly clear as a moonlit road. It so shocked the Entity that it stood unable to initially react. The question arose as soon as it collected itself. Why had the way opened? A moment of thought rendered clarity. It had to laugh; the Entity could not help but thank its foolish creator for his avaricious addiction to the magic of Fel. He had to connect himself in order to use the power, and in doing so had solidified the bridge between planes. The opportunity would not be passed by. In a rush, the construct of darkness made for the gap, with one goal in mind. The vessel would be his. Surely at this point the tethers between soul and body would still be weak enough to cut loose; surely it would be able to cast out that freshly made -- the prospect boggled it, a created soul, human and whole -- soul and commandeer the vessel with which his desires could be sated.


Exhilaration fueled the crossing as it emerged, a sinewy construct of sheer black, possessing long, multi-jointed arms and short, bandy legs. Its torso was long and lizard-like; shadow fell from it as cold air would from a hunk of frozen meat. The formless, crushed-looking head shook and spasmed, turning toward its prey. Seeing without sight. Tasting without tongue. Above the flaming circle it reared, towering such that it scraped the cavern ceiling to bring down even more of the ruined structure. The entity, The Fel Heart, would finally be reborn, and walk Azeroth once more in the most ironic of vessels:The creator. Hungry, excited and primed, it rushed to take over.


The moment it descended it realized its folly. Impossible. Impossible. OUTRAGEOUS. For how much had that blasted creature accounted? To what level had he planned for, to what end did he forsee? The Fel Heart acknowledged it's creator's genius, but for him to have done this...it was atrocious!


The energy that had been cleverly circulated to compensate for waste was consumed in an instant, offered up to fuel yet another pattern of instructions among the cursed runes. The Fel Heart felt itself seized, and held fast. Control of its form was taken from it, and with rapidity, tendrils of energy coiled it. A trap? Had the opening been a lure? Or had this just been precaution? This cannot be, it lamented in anguish, I cannot suffer such an inglorious end! Not to someone so inferior, weak and limited! Yet, as the circle began breaking the Entity down and feeding it to its Creator, it realized that all it was to him was a pet...a pet that he had no hesitation eating as meat. Loud rattled curses roared through the cavern in coarse Eredun until the moment the mangled head dissipated into dark matter, funneled through conduits and into its final resting place.


The flames died.


Lying on his back on the blood marked floor, surrounded by the rubble of several ceiling collapses, the human man twitched. His mouth gaped open and drew in a breath which fed his blood precious air before being expelled as a roaring sob of agony. He writhed, trashed and convulsed, even as a black stain inked its way across his body. A circular point in his middle back stretched six stripes, three on each side. One pair rose above his shoulders on either to settle on his upper breast, the second pair snaked under his armpits to stop just above the nipples, and the last wound around his lower flank to point toward his navel. As suddenly as it had begun the spreading stopped, leaving the groaning man with an impressive tattoo.


The moment the formation of the mark ended the painful cries changed in pitch, escalating from agony to mirth and psychotic exhilaration. The sound echoed off the ruined walls, heard by none, but perhaps fear-inspiring all the same.


Within the darkness of the depths, Hexon Grier opened his silvery-grey eyes, tossed his head back and laughed.



Hexon Grier managed only a few barking peals of coarse laughter before pain visited him again in merciless waves, seizing his chest and abdomen in a vice of agony. Still sprawled on the floor on his back he lurched in an arch so severe that his hind left the warm stone while his shoulders and heels dug into it. In a reversal of the manner by which his cries had escalated to laughter they became shouts and sobs once more. His nerves sparked to life and brought with them an overwhelming barrage of sensory input. His organs began function; blood flowed through veins under sensitive skin. Nevertheless, he endured the uncomfortable activation of his body with savage pleasure.


His back hit the stone with a resounding thud, and he immediately rolled to the side, retching. A clutching gripe took his stomach on the heels of overwhelming nausea and he vomited. The congealed, red, fleshy discharge that spattered onto the floor did not alarm him; it was simply the unused material from the main reagent. The man, after all, had been a bit larger than him in stature, there was bound to be some left over. The instructions inscribed onto the runic circle had assigned the waste to the purposes of acting reagent. Any left over was to be deposited in his stomach for expulsion upon completion. Hexon spat a final, red wad into the crude puddle, grimacing at the fresh, metallic taste that flooded his mouth. Contrary to what people may have said about him, he had no interest in the taste of human flesh. Regretting the waste, the warlock swept his long, dark hair back to avoid dipping the ends in the bloody vomit.


Getting to his feet proved to be a fiasco that only patience mitigated. Laced with cramps shooting from never before used muscles, Hexon struggled, pushing himself up onto all fours with all the grace of a newborn calf. Twice he buckled and fell, lashed with searing pain from protesting limbs. The third time, however, he remained steady. His head hung low, as if he had prostrated himself before some unseen king, long black hair falling over his head to spill onto the ground like some sort of viscous tar. The markings on his back were still fresh, visible in the residual, seemingly sourceless green glow of the half-collapsed cavern. A stark black, fist-sized circle centered at the middle of his back trailed three pairs of equally ebony strap-like etchings around his torso, two at the shoulders, a pair under his arms, and the last set about his lower flank. The 'straps' were about only an inch thick, yet wrapped imposingly about his musculature, undulating as flesh rippled beneath dark skin. Hexon braced himself, pushing with both arms to rear up in a stiff, slumped kneel. Despite his difficulty, he could feel ease coming to his movements; it was only a matter of working through the initial kinks.


It was there with his knees on the stone, splayed apart at an awkward angle to support the rest of his slouched physique that thoughts and emotions hit the warlock with the force of an airship. It had worked. It had worked, and he was whole again. A great, heaving sob left him; shameless tears of relieved euphoria burned at the corners of his silver eyes before spilling freely down his cheeks. In a matter of seconds he was overcome, bawling like a child in the dark, grasping at his own torso as if to confirm that he was indeed solid. He was alive. He had managed to stretch himself to the very last vestiges of existence and come back as even more than he had ever been. Years of planning, research, trials and testing finally realized. His spine curled and he hunched, hugging himself as whimpering sobs shook his body. Pride had no place here. The raging maelstrom of emotion soon gave way to clarity of thought, as he remembered the last few moments of the circle's function.


Hexon frantically patted at his torso, running his fingers along the tattooed black straps. They were symmetrical and tapered off into sharp points at the edges. Two descended from over his shoulders, two emerged from underneath his arms to cradle the muscles of his chest, and the last pair swept down his flank like the hands of a lover to point toward his navel. The warlock's breath steadied and shuddered again with exhilarated excitement. Though he had prepared for the possibility, he hadn't at all expected to be so fortunate. The remnants of The Fel Heart had come for him, and in so doing had sealed its fate. The only evidence of its existence remained now in the black markings. Previously, the problem had been the construct's sentience, which led it to direct its staggering power as it pleased – mostly into chaos. For someone as structured as Grier, The Fel Heart turned out to be no good at all for a weapon. Thanks to his preparations, the weapon's sentience was no longer an issue. The weapon had become a part of him, just as his ears, nose or toes were. The downside, however, was that the process of breaking it down rendered it significantly less potent that it had been. Hexon would hardly be able to achieve what The Fel Heart could in terms of raw power. While designing the safeguard he had realized this, and so ordained the essence of his creation for another purpose.


Eager and near lost in the possibilities the integration of The Fel Heart afforded, Grier found himself staggering to his feet, wiping tears from his cheeks with shaking arms. He wanted to test the system he had made for himself as soon as possible. It irritated him that so much had to be done first. He could not, as much as he wanted to, traipse up out of the deep in nothing but his ink and begin. Not just yet. He stood, tall and bare, surveying the chamber. Great chunks of the ceiling had crumbled down onto the exhausted, blackened blood that composed the runic circle, warded away from him and his reagents by protections set within the structure itself. They glowed with residual entropic incandescence, lighting the rest of the cavern in a dim but sufficient green. All the reagents had been consumed, the only remnants being the sanguine regurgitation that formed a spattered pattern on the floor. The enormous energy was no more, harnessed, used, wasted. Hexon considered giving all those who footed the bill of his existence a tribute of thanks, but refrained. He owed them nothing. It was his own genius that had brought him to this point; they had all been wasting their lives with fruitless, ultimately pointless purposes. Even with the waste, he had put them to better use.


Thankfully, the small living quarters were mostly unmolested. While there had been no collapse there, the bookshelf had fallen forward in an avalanche of bound tomes and the cot was tipped in its side. The looming darkness of the passage upward stood beyond. The clothing he had shed before the ritual had been incinerated along with the rings and trinkets he possessed. They no longer mattered, at least, not in the long run. The stone was still warm under his feet as he padded to the cot, righting it and gathering the blanket into his hands. It would have to serve as ample covering until he managed to acquire more. He wouldn't need it just yet, however. As long as he roamed down in his sanctum he would remain in the raw and appreciate his own majestic form, ever grateful for his success in rendering it into possibility. Enjoying the minimal exertion, he righted the fallen shelf, replacing the books upon it with careful reverence. Though these books served no purpose other than sidelong distraction, Hexon Grier had boundless appreciation for the written word. Extinguished torches lined the quarters, one on each wall, having been snuffed out during the release of the ninety-six. Hexon dedicated his first cast in the new form to them, raising a pair of fingers and a simple, murmured incantation to invoke flame. The magic came easily to him, as usual. Very smooth, fast and potent. There was no Fel in these casts; he just wanted fire.


The torches provided a glazed, orange glow that revealed quite more than the entropic diffusion had. Even after fresh rebirth, Hexon found himself in less than pristine condition. Dirt from the floor clung to his skin and his shoulder was bruised from his clumsy fall earlier; a small price to pay for what had happened. The more he reflected, the higher his mood elevated. Everything had gone swimmingly; the only complication had been catered for in a manner that actually benefited him. The possibilities were astounding. As long as others paid the cost for energy, he could push himself to his limits and come back every single time. All at the cost of ninety six souls…not a bad deal at all, in his mind.


Brimming with drive, the warlock tucked the blanket under his arm and moved toward the stairway up. That, at least had not changed, just as dark and damp as it had been during his descent. This time, he reached over to grab a torch, guaranteeing himself the guide of light. He knew that the glow of the torch-lit quarters would not last past more than a couple turns of the spiraling passage. With ever declining patience, he began the careful trip up. It wouldn't do for him to hurry, slip and break his neck after being reborn. Hexon refused to allow himself the possibility of such a stupid finish, and so he took his time. There was much testing to be done, and the slick, orange lit walls of the passageway up provided an excellent backdrop for thought. The test would determine how he proceeded, and could go one of two ways.


One result would see him return to some sort of hiding to live his days and bide time until he could find a way to engineer things toward the other result. That other result would see him unleashed in a rain of vengeful fury upon all those who crossed him. As he ascended, possibilities of test subjects flit across his mind, arranged in priority of entertainment value. It took him less than twenty steps to decide.


A languid grin spread across his face, and his red-tinted tongue swept out to lick at his lips and teeth. The thought of his plan alone sprang water within his mouth. Ninety eight souls had perished tonight in his name. What better than to make it an even hundred?




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I've got a project that I've been researching and working on for at least twelve years now, a take on "what if all the myths/legends from around the world were real/based on actual events/actual creatures?"  


I have a mountain of research and notes, but very little in actual storywriting... I keep getting only so far before I start to hate my main character or I'll find something new and interesting and decide that I absolutely MUST include it and have to rewrite my outline >_>

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here's a really short story response based off a short story a friend of mine wrote to wrap up an rp we had once upon a time. Epic tear jerker (his story, mine's probably subpar hahaha)



[align=center]Friends short story


Music that goes with the story:



Based off of an rp we had started in Ascension City. Sterling is Morion's silversmith Gargoyle character, Nathyn played a gypsy with cancer and I played a Djinn of illusions~





The human form could not be held as he let himself slip back into his home realm; easily vanished into his true embodiment. For a creature such as Aecho, a being of pure energy and spirit, an aged being that knew so how to return to his home plane of existence with the greatest of ease. He was able to meld back into the spirit realm much like a sorrowful sigh. His return to the spirit realm was not one of eager joy and relief, but of frantic unbridled pain.


Being one of spirit, or pure energy... Aecho was never emotionless. Far from it, he could feel and struggle with the overwhelming tax of any emotional burden that came with life and experience and he, so aged and learned of the realm of the living.. he knew the beautiful torment that emotions could bring. He never shunned such things however, playing the never ending game of life and death again and again.


Joy and Sadness.

Pleasure and Pain.

Beauty and Grotesque.


All known concepts to Aecho. He was no human though and he doubted he ever had been, despite the common mystery that was his youth. As he was, like all creatures of spirit... born from the darkness and dust that filled the realm, simply aware one day as like with any Djinn.


Memories of a gypsy filled him however as he spilled himself back into this vast never ending plane of death and rebirth.


His beloved had died, lost to the weakness of the human condition as cancer claimed him far too soon, even for a human. He recalled those final years spent together, the last moments as his life left his body. Laying beside the human as they embraced one another for the last time. It had been the first time since being with Nathyn that he cried. Shedding tears for the one whom he loved so deeply as he left his shell and them behind.


It had only been he and Sterling for a few days alone together after that. Aecho knew already what he wanted to do, he spent those years with Nathyn and Sterling planning how to keep the gypsy from being lost from him. The gargoyle; Sterling was so stricken with Nathyn's death. They mourned his passing in silence for a short time before Aecho left him with their home and a special item to keep watch of before the Djinn left all things behind and returned once more to that familiar realm.


All things once living returned here, all things belonging to this realm also returned one day. Drifting, mingling and forming anew before filtered by an unknown power back into the realm of the humans, born to a whole new life and existence.


Time moved so differently there, days were equivalent to hours, and years to days. Aecho was quite familiar with the shift and manipulation of this time, however finding a single drifting soul was not something easily done by anyone, even Aecho. The Djinn felt he was quite old, but he knew the ache in his very bones by the comparison of the realm itself. His search was long, tedious and brought Aecho to frantic fits more often than he would have ever admitted on a normal day. This was far from normal however, drifting through this endless space of souls, energy and nothingness, absorbing in his surroundings as his search brought him from one endless corner of the universe that was the spirit realm to another. Years lead to a decade before he knew it but unlike humans, he felt no loss of hope in such a situation. No matter the means, he would find and collect his beloved once more. Anywhere from a moment to a lifetime, souls and energy drifted with no seeming purpose as they evolved and shifted back into the living realm. There was no telling how long a soul would remain in such a place, but Aecho remained.


It was within the deep, pocketed with what one might call wormholes did Aecho find purchase to what he sought. It may soon be too late should any soul be devoured into that unquenchable nothingness that such a thing was and the Djinn moved even swifter when he noted the one gleaming form he sought was slowly being drawn towards these black pits.


Reaching until his claws ensnared that ethereal shape in his palm. He knew for certain as soon as he held it closely, cherishing it finally found.


Nathyn's Soul.


If Aecho could cry in such a state, in such a place.. he would have. Holding that precious thing before his cheek rest against it. He had him at last and he would never let him go again.



The Lonely by Shii Malus, on Flickr[/align]


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About two years ago I finished writing and published my first, and so far, only completed book called the "Wheels of Diemer" It was an adventure story in the vein of Indiana Jones but set in a fantasy world. Was a fun tongue and cheek novel and had a lot of fun writing it. Problem is I don't have the same free time to write a sequel and what free time I do is spent weaving Askier's story online. Lol.



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I do a little writing myself, but feel i don't have anything worth while to show off just yet.  Mostly i write fantasy and super natural kind of stuff (mostly fantasy though), and am in the process of creating my own world to hopefully better understand what it is i'm trying to accomplish in my stories (we'll see how that goes).


Hopefully soon i'll be able to post something.  We'll see.

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I used to do a lot of writing for WoW back in the day but it was mostly for myself and close friends since I'm sensitive to criticism. >.>

Lol for some reason I enjoy people reading my writing but I absolutely get self conscious when im typing up the story and someone tries to watch me type. I be like turning off my screen and stuff lol

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