They walked cautiously toward the door. Upon reaching it, they stood still for a moment, thinking it through one last time before making the decision to bravely open it. They did not do so gently, or with any caution of which they had just been exhibiting. Instead, they took a deep breath, and through open the door, for they knew that was the only way they were ever going to be able to do it. Truthfully, they were scared of what awaited them on the other side. The door flew open, and what awaited them on the other side was no monster, but a man. He was kneeling on one knee in the middle of the room, one of his arms was dropped to the floor, the other propped atop his knee. His face was buried into the one arm he had propped on his knee. His crown caught the light that now shined into the room, allowing it to glow, illuminating the beautiful gems encrusted into its golden frame. There was also just enough light to show off a deep, blood red cape that draped from his shoulders and fell down along the back of his body. He raised his head just enough so that his eyes had room to peer over the ridge of his arm, shooting a menacing glare at the intruder that faced him. He made no advances, no movement. He made no attempt to deter the intruder from him. He let out a sigh before pushing himself to his feet. For a moment he stood still, his eyes concentrated on the ground. “It’s a funny thing really… I’ve been driven insane by ideas. My *good* ideas.” the man said, speaking low at first, as if talking to only himself. He chuckled, “Who knew that *good* ideas could fuck you up?”. He paused, finally looking up from the ground and locking eyes with the intruder. He scoffed before continuing, “I feel I’m on the brink of exploding!”. He had almost shouted his last sentence, as he broke out into a fit of insane laughter. He reached up his right hand and cupped the side of his face with it. The laughter died down and his eyes drifted down to the floor once more, his face becoming straight, and almost grim looking, for a moment. He suddenly broke the silence as he began cackling, his laughter seeming to fill the entirety of the room. But this was not laughter of amusement, but hysteria. His red cape flew violently out in the air behind him as his head shot back, and he raised his arms, clutching at his hair. The harsh jerking motion sent his crown flying off of his head and falling toward the floor. The crown smashed on the ground, cracking the golden frame. He had crazed, bloodshot eyes, the pupils shrunken. He had a maniacal grin spread widely across his face for a moment before began speaking. “I see MILLIONS of empires rise and fall every second! I see the creation of worlds, and I see their cataclysmic destructions! I see every king, every tyrant, every conqueror. I see all of their people- the rich, the poor, the sickly, the strong and the weak! I feel their suffering, their happiness, their fear, their rage. I see the cowards, the ones too scared, too weak to fight back, the ones who side with suffering over freedom. I see the brave heroes, the ones who’ve had enough, the ones ready to take a stand and fight back. I see all the good that people do, I see all the atrocities they commit. I see everything, and I sit here and I dream. I dream about what I could do, what I could create, the things I could become. It inspires me, and yet it destroys me. Every second I feel myself falling in love with it, having my heart broken, but then falling in love with it all over again. It’s nonstop! There’s no end, there is only madness! And I- and I…” he shouted. He felt a strange feeling of defeat wash over him. His eyes became normal once more and he looked down at the ground. His body quickly followed his eyes, as he suddenly dropped to his knees, arms hanging at his sides. He sat there in silence for a moment, his eyes glued to the floor. He said softly, “And sometimes... I just get so tired of fighting it.” The ‘intruder’ who had initially entered the room stood still for a moment, a look of surprise and concern on their face. They finally walked forwards, stopping in front of the man. They extended their arm, placing their hand on the man’s shoulder, a look of sadness now on their face. The man made no acknowledgement of the intruder’s gesture, his eyes still unmoving from their spot on the floor. The man suddenly stood up, without words, and pushed the intruder’s arm away. He looked once more at the intruder, gazing at him with sad, cold, sunken eyes that reeked of pain. He turned away from them, walking over to where his now cracked crown lay on the floor. He bent down, picking up the crown, and held it in his hands. He stared down at it, examining the newly acquired crack from the tumble it had taken. “But despite that, I keep going. I keep fighting it. I am determined to reach where I want to go, and I refuse to let anything dictate that for me.” The man said solemnly. He put the crown pack on his head and, without another word, walked out of the room.


Andira looked on at the house from the road as she, and her brothers, always had done. It was mostly out of curiosity. None of her friends knew who lived in the house, nor had they ever seen him, yet it was always in pristine condition, there was a constant fresh stream of wood, lights were always on at night, and the garden was always well maintained. “C’mon,” Andira said to her siblings, “whoever lives there isn’t coming out, let’s go home.” After years of waiting, Andira knew she shouldn’t be disappointed. After all, why is now any different to any day before now? She still was though. Maybe it was just bad luck that they never saw whoever lived there, after all they only had a few hours each day before their parents expected them to be home. Maybe if she had waited just a few more minutes they would have seen whoever it was. Or maybe whoever it was didn’t want to be seen and was waiting for her and her brothers to leave, and if she walked back the way she came she’d catch a glimpse of him. The possibilities raced in her head of why she’d never seen the owner of the house, though she felt as if every possibility was equally, well, possible. “Who do you think it is?” Her little brother Rind asked. “I think it’s a ghost! He protects the house from people who want to take his stuff!” Her other little brother, Siloa replied with his expected glee. They were still little, Andira knew that, but it was still irritating for Rind to ask. “You ask that every time we come out here, Rind.” She said, “You already know what I’m going to-” Andira said, trying to sound as bored as possible in the hopes that Rind would stop asking “‘-Just some nobody.’” Siloa interrupted “But, if you think that, why do you take us out when mum says we shouldn’t be pestering him.” Andira was taken aback for a moment, not sure how to respond. “Because...” she stopped, trying to think of a reason, “...because you two are always asking me to!” Both of her brothers stopped and looked at her in confusion. “But-” “Let’s just go home.” Andira sighed. For what felt like the first time in years, her brothers didn’t talk to her for the entire walk home, instead quietly whispering among themselves. This left Andira to think to herself for the remainder of the walk, though like whenever she thought to herself she never could come up with any good answers for her questions. When the trio got home, her brothers rushed to their room as they always did. Andira was instead greeted by her mother, preparing to give her the same lecture he’d always give her. “What are you doing out so late spying on someone?!” Her mother barked at her. “When you were as old as your brothers, it was okay for you to not understand why this was wrong. BUT NOW?!” “Yes, I know mum, I know.” Andira said “I don’t think you do.” Her father said, walking into the dining room. “Go check on the other two, I’ll give her the talk for once.” Hugging each other, her mother nodded and left the room down the hallway. “What are you doing going out and spying on Utari? You know you shouldn’t.” He sternly said “Yes dad I know I shouldn’t but-” “But what?” “I don’t know why I shouldn’t. You and mum just tell me that he’s bad news but you’ve never told me why we shouldn’t.” Her father paused for a moment, looking down, “Fine, I suppose you’re old enough to know who he is.” The energy Andira had lost on the walk home immediately came back to her. “Really?!” She joyfully said, nearly throwing herself onto a chair to listen. “Utari was… well, he was an emperor of Hiradil.” “What.” Andira’s jaw dropped. In all her life, all the theories she had crafted, she never expected him to be an emperor! Living in the same town as her! Thoughts raced through her mind and she felt an excitement not felt in a long time. Her father chuckled, “I knew you’d have that reaction.” “What- did he abdicate? Was he overthrown?” “It’s… complicated. He tried to conquer the world.” “WHAT!” Andira immediately felt the urge to leap out of her seat and go back to wait there until he came out, she urged herself to stay as still as she could. “Uh- uhm- how did- what happened to him?” “He lost.” “Well, duh, but why’s he here?” Her father again paused, “...nowhere else would let him stay.” he somberly said. “People wanted his head across most of the planet, we were one of the few places that forgave him. We gave him a house and he’s lived here ever since.” “How long ago was this?” “I was your age.” A long silence was followed. “Can I… Can I go see him?” “You really are just like me when I was your age.” her father laughed. “You’re going to go out either way aren’t you?” “...Yeah.” Andira smirked. “Fine. But on the condition you don’t bring your brothers. Go out in the morning before your work on the farm, you’ll probably see him around then.” The next few hours were a blur, immediately after she’d eaten, Andira was getting as much sleep as she could, hoping to wake up as early as possible to go out and find him. To nearly take over the world? What kind of man was he to be able to do that? Clearly he had to be strong, tall, he had to be covered in jewels, maybe he still even had his old crown. Hell, maybe he was fully clad in his shining golden armour. Or maybe it was dark. She’d never left her village let alone been to Hiradil, maybe Hiradil was a group of zombies and he was a lich king, and that’s why everyone wanted to kill him. She’d only seen a lich once and it nearly killed her, so maybe he wanted to kill everything. She made sure she woke up as early as possible. Making sure no-one in the house was asleep, she quietly crept out her house, then began sprinting across town to see him. Once she got there, she had a realisation. If he was hiding from her and her brothers, maybe she wouldn’t be able to see him if she was just waiting outside. Luckily for her, there were bushes around his garden, so she decided she’d hide in them. Once she got there, she leapt into one of the bushes and waited for him. She was expecting to wait all morning, however she could hear the back door opening after only what felt like a few minutes. She wasn’t sure if it’d actually been a few minutes, or if the excitement made it only feel like a few minutes. She could hear the back door of the house open, and so she moved back there. As quietly - and quickly - as possible. As she moved around the back, she could hear the sounds of someone chopping wood. It was a near thundering sound, and the images in her head of a great and powerful figure only grew. When she got to the backyard, she only grew confused. All she saw was a normal old man, struggling to pull an axe out of a tree stump. He looked up to see her, seeing her confused and shocked face. The old man simply took the wood he cut and went back inside.


“If you need help, you should ask~” Hisashi says. I feel a little embarrassed. I pull my hands away from Hisashi’s. “Sure…” I say. “Thanks…” Hisashi continues smiling. Then he finally goes back to his own crochet piece. He’s farther than me and is crocheting like a master. What is he making…? Has he crocheted before…? I have to stare in awe for a moment. Then I get over it and continue making my necklace. It’s the easiest thing to make in this page of instructions, so that’s why I chose it. “Have you… crocheted before?” I ask. Why am I trying to make conversation…? “I’ve dabbled in a few crafts similar to this~ But this is my first time crocheting. Since I’ve had some experience, and I’m good with my hands, I quickly got the hang of it~” Hisashi explained. He crocheted as he talked. He totally seems like an expert… What does he mean this is his first time… “Oh… I see…” Why do I have to be jealous of the pervert of this camp…? I continue crocheting and it seems like it’s coming along. I glance over at Hisashi again. I pause. His creation has a strange shape… Seriously, what is he making…? “What are you crocheting, Hisashi…?” I ask. Hisashi immediately beams at me. “You want to know?” “Never mind…” I turn my head away. I don’t want to know after all. “Hold on~ You don’t have to be shy~ If you want to know, I’ll tell you~” Hisashi tries to bring me back. I give him the side eye. He holds up his creation. “It’s a pair of underwear~!” He exclaims. I choke on my own spit. I start coughing. Hisashi pats me on the back to help me. What did he just say!? Underwear!? Why is he making something like that!? There’s also no instructions for that, so how is he making that!? “Are you alright~?” Hisashi asks, not sounding too concerned. “What the hell… What are you making that for…” I manage to get out after my coughing fit. Hisashi puts a finger to his chin, thinking. Once he finds his answer, he smiles brightly. “It’s a pair of underwear for you!” I choke again. Is he trying to kill me!? Why is it for me!? I’d rather burn it in a fire than wear it!! “Be careful~” Hisashi says, patting my back again. “I don’t want it!! Why’d you make it!?” I exclaim. “What~? You won’t accept my heartfelt gift~? So mean… Boohoo…” Hisashi pretends to cry. “I don’t care if it’s heartfelt, I don’t want it!!” Didn’t he also hesitate before answering what it was for…? He obviously didn’t make it with me in mind. What is this crazy pervert even trying to do right now!? (This is a tiny part from my story called Camp Criminal. I just wanted to share it because I find Hisashi really funny. This is their first proper conversation. (If that's what you want to call it…) The narrator is Akiara, a boy.


Hey guys, this is the first time posting here and on Reddit. I’m hoping for some Criticism and and Critique of my work and I’m here to learn. Been working on this for a bit, so I hope you enjoy! Edit 1: Did some basic editing based on flow. I’m going to have some more peers proofread it (casually) and edit more with anything that may make the story flow and sound better. Although this story has gained no traction, these edits will be for me and whoever else may appreciate some better reading experiences :)) The Man With the Newspaper Yawning slightly, I emerged from my brief sojourn to the back with a spray bottle filled with cleaning solution and some towels. I didn’t know the kind of cleaning liquid, the label had peeled off a while ago and this was just the bottle I always used. Checking my watch, I glanced at the time: 12:50. I looked out over the almost empty bar with a sigh. The bar was in an older building on the older side of town. The walls had dark, oak planks jutting neatly up the wall about three feet before cutting off and merging with the dark green and musty wallpaper. The tables were an old brown made of polished wood, slightly lighter than the wood along the wall, but still a dark shade. The bar was always dim and darkened, fitting the image of a dramatic mafia film. This was especially true when it rained. I had worked here for the extra cash and the lack of unruly college kids, the night time bar atmosphere wasn’t exactly the most appealing to younger patrons. Usually, the bar was occupied by older, gruff looking men who had paid their toll to this life and were looking for an outlet. During the day, the bar would mostly be empty except for the occasional couple, usually younger, going out for lunch at a place that wasn’t fast food. To say the job was easy work was an understatement. I walked behind the bar and raised my pointer finger up motioning it in a circle, calling for a wrap up of whoever was left. “Last call,” I called out to the almost empty bar, in a cartoon my words probably would have echoed back. The bar was more empty than I remembered from when I had gone to the back. At first, I had thought it was empty, but at a closer glance, I noticed a man with a newspaper. The newspaper was held between his two hands and resting on the bar counter, obstructing the view of his face. I walked past the sink behind the bar up to the man with the newspaper so I was standing across from him on the opposite side of the counter. After a few moments of me standing across from the man, he slowly lowered the newspaper to the counter and gazed up. His glare was icy and eyes cold, complementing the sharp features of his face. The man with the newspaper was younger than I had expected, early twenties I’d assume. I wasn’t really used to seeing people younger than myself in the bar, especially at night. He was wearing an old fedora shaped hat and had on a dark grey blazer over a white collared shirt. His hair was brownish black and the curls seemed to bounce with every turn of his head or movement of his body. The man slid the newspaper to the side of him on the counter and grabbed the drink next to him, swirling it about. The newspaper, headlined with the year 1952, was strange to be reading in the twenty-first century. “Last call, sir,” I said motioning for his drink. The man with the newspaper stopped swirling the drink and set it on the counter. “Be my guest, I don’t drink,” He said, lifting his hands up in the air as if to surrender. His voice wasn’t gruff or stubbly like most avid drinkers that visited this bar, it had class and clear spoken purpose. The man with the newspaper leaned his head onto his hand and looked up at me as if bored, the slight smirk from his lips curling up a bit. Not drinking truly made me wonder his purpose in a bar, this bar, of all places. “Ok then,” I said offhandedly and in a somewhat mocking tone, holding my hands up as if to surrender back, “This place closes in another ten minutes, dude, so uh… wrap up whatever you’re doing.” “Fine by me,” The man with the newspaper responded, “Danny.” I froze in my steps, he knew my name, not just my name, my nickname. Not even my manager called me Danny. I turned on my heel, I wasn’t about to let this little pipsqueak hustle me. I was staring daggers back at him, he continued to smirk with his head resting on his hand, his icy eyes staring back. “Who are you?” I asked, brows furrowing further. “Not important,” He said back, gaining more confidence, “What’s important is who you are,” He emphasised with a point of his forefinger. He smirked and cleared his throat, “Daniel Delgatto, or “Danny,” born just outside Austin Texas to a single mother. Moved to Chicago with your mother and three siblings when you were young, seven I believe, and lived here since. Went to college on a scholarship and got an English major, useless in hindsight for your line of profession, so you work here. Alexander- Mr. Acolyte has treated you well, offering you a well paying position here. Really values you, he does.” He shrugged a bit and spun around in the bar chair, “But that’s not actually important, at least not anymore, I’m not here for you. You’ve got plenty of time,” He said with his hands in the air, an excited smile spreading across his face. “Do you happen to know where Alexander- oh I’m sorry, pardon me again, Mr. Acolyte is? I have a date to keep with him,” The man with the newspaper said, leaning forward on the counter and looking up. His smile had a missing front tooth and sharper than usual canines. He had eyes that poked out a bit from darkened sockets underneath and a smile that never seemed to fade. He licked his lips, waiting for my response. “Do you, like, know Mr. Acolyte or…? Old friends? Friend of a friend?” I asked, my daggers going to a look of confusion, the man with the newspaper had a funny way of talking. For whatever reason, the guy didn’t seem threatening like I assumed before when he listed off my personal information, just a bit socially inept, if that makes sense? He spoke as if he were stating well known facts, never stuttering. He seemed soft, young and naive, yet presentable and forthcoming. He felt like a radio announcer almost, speaking fast and putting emphasis on certain words. He looked up again lightly scratching his hands back and forth on his neck, fast like a dog. “Old friends, old friends…” He thought for a second, “no, no. I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of acquainting myself with Mr. Acolyte as of yet, at least not formerly,” He responded, looking up to the ceiling as if thinking, “but that is of no concern to me, you can always get to know someone.” His responses puzzled me, instead of being mad, I was further intrigued by the man with the newspaper, this mysterious and eccentric man. “So, uh… why do you want to see him. You got a vendetta or something?” I added with a small nervous laugh at the end. “No, not a vendetta, just a date I need to keep,” He said, taking his focus away from the ceiling, “Do you know where he is?” He added looking me in the eyes yet again with his icy stare. “Well... he’s gone, been gone actually. Got diagnosed with terminal cancer a while ago, he didn’t tell me what kind,” I nervously laughed, “He’s been at his home in Southern California for a couple months now,” I added. The man with the newspaper furrowed his brow and a look of confusion crossed his face. “It appears I have come to the wrong place, my dates and times mixed up no doubt,” He laughed, smile returning. “So long for now,” He said, smiling wider than ever as he picked up the newspaper, rolling it into a tube as he went. The man strutted and spun as he grabbed his trenchcoat from the hook by the door and put it over his arm. In the time I had spoken to him, he managed to answer none of my questions, in fact, I think I was more confused than before, still am to be honest, even looking back. As he opened the door, the dinging bell knocked me out of my confused trance. “Hold on, dude, who the hell are you?” I called at the man with the newspaper. The man with the newspaper stopped in his tracks mid door open, like a cartoon character, and turned around, a smirk appearing on his lips. “Where are my manners, second time tonight. You can call me Death, and I’m sure we’ll meet again, as old friends no doubt. Don’t worry, won’t be for a while,” He answered, tipping his hat at me then strutting out the door, trenchcoat in hand. “What the hell,” I muttered. I ran around the bar counter, out the door, and stood on the stoop, the little bell dinging behind me. I looked out onto the street; he was gone, the man with the newspaper was gone. I stood in the middle of the road for a good couple minutes, puzzled and confused, I mean, what kind of a name is “Death.” The streetlight above me flickered as it always had, the street was silent and deserted apart from the tumbleweed-like trash floating down the street in the wind. One raindrop, then two, then ten pattered down around me in the street, the rain scheduled for tonight seeping in through wet clouds. I let out a sigh as I walked back into the bar. The eccentric man with the newspaper haunted my thoughts through closing and the bus ride home, his image burned into my memory. I wouldn’t have thought much of that man, the man with the newspaper, or at least not as much if it wasn’t for the phone call I received the following morning from Mrs. Acolyte. Mr. Acolyte had passed away from terminal cancer the previous night.


Ion drives set to eighty-percent. Shields set to ten-percent. Auxiliary and weapons set to minimal power. All systems are green across the board. "This is it." I said to myself as I pressed down on the throttle. The engines roared to life, sending debris raining over the viewscreen. The sound of tiny pieces of metal clanking against the hull made me smile. I had cleared the system and auto-pilot kicked in. I let go of the controls and sat back in my seat. If only raiding convoys was this easy, I thought to myself. I managed to raid a small trader ship protected by two mercenary ships. I use mercenary lightly here; they were rookies at best, to call them mercenary would be an insult to my trade. I was a mercenary by trade and a bandit by night. This was my night or it should have been. My ship rocked to wailing alarms and red alert lights flashing everywhere. This startled me so much my headset almost fell off. I regained my composure, fixing my headset. Autopilot disengaged, speed dropping out of warp. I soon realised what was happening. That stupid trader, he must have sent out a distress call before I disabled his ship. A Mantis-class frigate dropped out of warp and opened fire. "Shields to full!" I screamed as I turned my ship a hard ninety-degrees downward to evade the blasts. Red beams of light narrowly shooting past my ship. I only have a Talon-class assault fighter, if those blasts hit me I'd be done for. The thing about Mantis-class frigates is they're meant to be supported. It's protected by a dome of thick frontal armor bristling with heavy laser turrets. Its weakness is very thin rear armor protected by a single light laser turret. You might have gotten the jump on me but this show is over. "It's my turn. Computer, play favourites and engines max power." "Playing favourites. Engines set to maximum power." said the computer in a monotone female voice. I grabbed the throttle as Faint by Linkin Park starts playing. The pursuing Mantis now coming within range. "He should start firing in... Three... Two... One..." I said and punched the throttle as soon as the electric guitar started shredding. I had engines on full power which gave me an edge against those heavy laser turrets. They're powerful but have slow tracking. Red beams of light whizzing past my ship. Left, then right, then left again, up, down, hard right, one-eighty stop, hard right, full throttle, and down again. Dodging those laser blasts was like a dance and I was having the time of my life. As fun as this was, I was doing it for a reason; I was now almost on top of him. "You're mine!" I yelled victoriously. I punched the turbo button, I was saving it for this crucial maneuver. My ship's engine burning a bright blue as opposed to the usual yellow. Aiming my nose directly at him then turned harder than I ever turned before. "Port shields at ten percent. Turbo fuel depleted." said the computer. I was now directly behind him. Smiling, I opened a channel. "Any last words before I turn you into space junk?" I said in a smug tone. "Your mom's space junk!" a gruff thirty-ish year old male voice said over comms. My eyebrows raising in amused disappointment. "Fair enough. Computer, weapons max power." I said as I activated my targeting display. At this, a Shadow-class recon fighter decloaked on my port side. Remember when I mentioned these frigates are usually supported? I was right and at this moment, I hated being right. "Computer! Shields-" The Shadow let loose a firestorm of light lasers. Normally not powerful enough to pierce my shields but powerful enough to pierce just ten percent. My ship exploded spectacularly, sending my hard-earned cargo flying in all directions. "Thanks for the free loot, noob!" said the frigate over comms. I take off my headset, press Alt-F4, take a deep breath, and close my eyes.


The land was barren, as it has been for almost half a decade. After the 2nd civil war and the consequent 3rd world war, there wasn't much left of people or clean spaces. "So what now?" He said looking at my eyes with his bright blue eyes. "We will remain together in the path to the next oasis, then we see from there." I needed him to survive, not that I can't survive on my own, is just that this was pretty much impossible without someone, to look after, to guard each other, to... Nevermind. In the mear oasis, I would find someone to come with me, and he probably will too. "We should find some shelter," he said. "Are you sure? The next safe place it's just about 30 minutes from here, and... It's over John. You shouldn't have done that. I don't know if I can trust you, not after you killed that girl." I pondered, thinking we could talk "You've killed too!" He said frantically looking at me with those sky blue eyes. Except they looked like a huge storm coming in. "Not because they fucking stole our food. Not because they wanted to just survive. Every time I shot a gun, or threw a knife, or slit a throat, was because mine or your life was endangered, not because of a fucking loaf of bread, that wouldn't make a difference to us." I stopped and breathed, trying to calm myself, but it was in vain. "We shared beds, we were more than just two guys, roaming and ravaging the wasteland from one haven to the next, searching for food and shelter." "How can you not trust me? As you said, we shared beds, we were more than just two guys, roaming and ravaging the wasteland from one haven to the next, searching for food and shelter. I wouldn't do that to you." He said, crying. Should I? No? Maybe? No. "Let's go before it gets too late and darkens here" Knowing him, he wouldn't stop talking. But he did The more time passed the denser the vibe got, to the point that I had no idea if we ever speaking. The thought that he would just murder me in sleep if I stopped having any use for me was too massive to just ignore it, for my mental health. I could see the buildings, of the clear area near. It was time. The sun would set in 40 minutes, and every minute spent in the open at night was a death sentence. Well, I've learned that even stealing bread was. I remember every moment with him, so I knew he won't do that to me, but that girl with a slit throat still haunted my dreams. We got to the city, the guards saying that we almost would be locked out since a bikers gang storm the town near the end of the day. Just as he said that the sound of motor engines got to the gates. The guard pointed to the nearest inn, and we moved there. "Two rooms, please" I asked the man behind the counter. "So this is goodbye." John said "Yes" I said giving him his key. "So goodbye.


Edit: The copy/paste from my original doc didn't come out right. Should be okay now. \ At the heart of the Zhou Dynasty was a temple towering over an inlet. It was the tallest building the nation's best architects could conjure, yet even they could not best the world's largest waterfall afore which it was built. It was thanks to the waterfall, which long ago they'd named Nia Zha, and other such wonders of the world that the Zhou revered nature. When they exited the temple, Aro and his father Quin Zhou meandered the winding stone paths through the inlet. They could hear the persistent rumbling in the distance, of water crashing down on water. They could see the fish, coy of all colors - golden and brown, and red, and grey, and a shade of orange like cream. "You're turning out to be a fine successor," said Aro's father. He'd noticed his son's journey had taken him far, something he could tell by his son's regal posture. "As a successor to the throne," he continued, "one must act as one would upon it." "Yes, emperor," Aro said after a pause. The stone walkway spiraled upward nearer to the falling streams. It lead to an alcove atop a boulder, upon which lay a garden. On this garden was one tree, of the most exotic kind found on their lands. Aro neared this tree and placed his hand upon it with his eyes closed and head tilted downward. It was only for a moment he did so, but he sighed and neared the floating garden's edge where Quin Zhou had already found his place. Aro sat down on the cloth mat cross-legged. He tried to imitate his father's posture, though no one, he thought, could ever posture himself as straight and regal as an emperor but the emperor himself. He hardly recognized him as his father, hardly ever did. He was a symbol, a protector of his people. The memory came back to him once of calling him father, and it brought fear that urged him never again to make it. It seemed that, for a moment, in the calmness of falling water and the absence of voices, the emperor's shoulders lowered and his gaze softened. "Aro..." "Yes, fa-... emperor?" "Do you know why I brought you here?" "Was it something I did? Did I err somehow, emperor?" "No, Aro." Quin Zhou took a breath, heavy and focused. The emperor's son yet remembered what his father had said that day, and every time he did his mind flowed back and forth between that memory and another - one much more gruesome. The words he'd said were, "As my successor, you will know only war." Then his thoughts shifted to another memory, one more recent of the emperor's face touching the ground with deadened eyes. And the memory shifted again. "War, Aro. Do you know what it means?" the emperor continued. "Death," Aro replied. Again his memory flickered. "That is so. And what will you do when that time comes as emperor?" "I shall conquer in your memory," Aro recited. "Good." Occasions Aro felt close to emperor Quin Zhou he did recall, but even in such circumstances the man would not once turn to face him. The Zhou had known since times of old that the high caste were holy people, and as such the unworthy should not look upon them. This is what Aro had learned, that those who looked upon the emperor's visage without his direct command of it must be sent to die. The memory continued, "You must understand, Aro, that you must always act upon the emperor's will, and the emperor's will is holy and absolute. Holy and absolute." "The emperor's will is holy and absolute." "Yes." The emperor paused. "You know your duties well. And that is why you are not ready." The words made Aro break from his posture entirely, so much so he stood up and faced Quin Zhou. "What?! But fa-! You said-!" "Silence!" Aro looked to the floor in shame and disgust. "You have not the stomach to rule," the emperor continued, "I have always known this, as have you." He looked to his mind, which told him that he knew the emperor was right. That he should have felt the hot shame washing down his face, and that his reaction was exactly why he was not worthy. "Even still, you are my only successor. You may be a good successor, but a successor is all that you are. The gods have told me I'll not have the time to turn you into a proper ruler, and you shall not become one of your own volition. A successor is all you'll ever be." Then the memory shifted once more. Aro saw the emperor again on the floor, where the light had escaped his eyes, and then back to the last line he'd ever told him. The one he'd always remember since then. "And the dynasty shall fall with you at its head." Ever since that day beside the waterfall, upon the floating garden, he'd never attempted to call him father again. And up until the moment of Quin Zhou's death, he never did. When Aro Zhou sat upon the red-cloved throne for the first time, he remembered those words. And on the day of his coronation was that his father's prophecy would come true. Through the Zhou Temple's gates afore the natural majesty of Nia Zha came a young man, not much older than he was. "I've one thing to say and one only. I urge you heed me, loyal servants of Zhou, for I am the one true heir to the throne. My name is Jano, and I am the emperor's lost son!" And it was on that day that Aro Zhou lost his way.


Roo’s Journal January 12, 2021 I met up with Dingo for lunch today. It was...honestly I’m not sure it was the best idea with how I’ve been feeling lately. Dingo always could tell when something was off. It’s that stupid superhearing of theirs I swear, they can tell your heartbeat is different or that your breathing is different. There's got to be some explanation for it. They caught on to me not too long in. They had just finished talking about a promotion, apparently, Solar Man was impressed with them tracking down a lost kid in the Rockies a few days back and moved them to Search and Rescue operations. Makes sense, despite the claws and teeth they were never great with the whole “combat” thing. Anyway, I guess I must have...changed my expression or something when the topic came up or something like that cause pretty soon they were just staring at me. They asked me what was up and I tried to dodge the question. But they wouldn’t drop it. Said they knew something was up, that they could smell it (Note to self, look into scents connected to emotional state, might be how they do it). Eventually got me to crack on the “Feeling like a joke” thing. They...they just kinda let me vent to them for a bit. About my frustration with work, about how low I had been feeling lately...eventually, I started talking about Genus, and then they looked a little upset. Genus wasn’t pleasant for us. It wasn’t pleasant for any of us who were left in that butcher’s shop since we were kids. The things they did to us, we don’t like to talk about it. Too many bad memories I guess. But they let me keep going until they could tell I got it all out. They told me about this...ID guy, they go to. Apparently, he’s some kind of specialist in Superheroes who need psychological help. Told me they go to him for help with their PTSD and a few other things that happen to kids you grow in test tubes. They want to make me an appointment with him. And all I can think about is whether or not I should let them. I mean...I haven’t heard of any other hero doing this. Would signing on for counseling make it worse? I mean if the guy’s not secure, if people find out, I’m not just a joke of a hero, I’m a joke of a hero with mental issues that might make me seem unstable. But what if it helps. I mean. There's no risk in trying at least right? I might take them up on it. Anyway, I need to go back to work. The Mayor’s doing some...big...something downtown. I think it’s a toy drive. He wanted to get some kid-friendly heroes in so he called in the Super Pals and Flexo invited me to come along. Might be his attempt to get me some exposure but well...the Pals aren't exactly the most respected team on the block either. They’re the kid-friendly little guys club and Flexo tries to make the less popular heroes look good whenever he can. I’m gonna go to it. Maybe going out for something that doesn't involve Super Criminals and schemes to reverse the State’s gravity and float it to the moon or something. Besides, it’s not like we’ve got anything major going on hero wise, I can take a few hours off. I mean, is the world gonna end if I just make a public appearance? Who cares about the joke hero. The Martyr and the others will be able to handle things without me for an afternoon.


First story I've written in almost 10 years, since I was 15. Any feedback is appreciated. \ I stared out the passenger window as we drove along the slender lane. The laurel hedges were marvelously beveled, the fence was given a fresh lick of paint and a fern green coated the house. Much had changed since my last visit here. Like the towering, smothering birches that sheltered the home house, granny was reaching the winter of her life. As beneficiary to the farm, Uncle Graham was committed to caring for granny in her old age. The timing of this deterioration and the shuffling of the pack which followed were both unexpected and unwelcome to everyone. Change, especially ageing, always is. But Graham had really done a lot to the place, granny was well looked after, and his kids finally had the space they always dreamt of. Today, my dad and I had come to pay granny a visit. But that was not all. Christmas was fast approaching, daylight levels were dropping and the crisp, winter air could have skinned a brass monkey. A trailer load of sticks was on the agenda, and Graham had plenty of them. The couple of bags we got from Farm Relief didn’t go far, and Graham had hinted at a small mountain of firewood beyond the back fields. Dads days of labour on the family farm had long left him since college, but he never turned down a day’s work when the opportunity came knocking. We parked ourselves up on the sloping driveway, climbed out of the car, and rang the doorbell. No answer. Dad tried the door and as expected, it opened. Let’s just say my granny always operated an ‘open door policy’. I wasn’t in Dublin anymore! Graham and Anne were out, but the kids were playing upstairs. They quietened as we entered but still sensed our familiar faces and managed to softly whimper a “hello”. We pulled down our face masks and scaled the stairs to grannies’ room. She was napping but awakened as her bedroom door creaked open. Her room remained just as it was when grandad was alive. To our right, stared the Child of Prague. To our left, Padre Pio. Dad helped granny out of bed and escorted her to the television room, arm-in-arm. We planted ourselves on the new recliner and muted the TV, keeping our distance from her. Like clockwork, the kids entered the room bearing Viscount biscuits and tea in Nicholas Mosse mugs, on a silver tray. “Oh, would you look at that. You’re so good, lads!” Dad raved. Anne must’ve drilled them for visitors, I suspected. Once the kids left, I had the chance to properly take in the interior decorating which had taken place over the past month. It was as if I had been transported three decades into the future. What was once archaic, cluttered with furniture and outdated in colour, was now minimalistic in style with earthy, grounded shades and tones. Everything about the place was more spacious and refreshing. “Anne picked the furniture, but I had my input too!” granny affirmed. “Ah yeah!” we replied appeasingly. “She picked the marble coffee table too I’d say”, I muttered to dad under my breath. He chuckled in agreement. After 30 minutes or so of circling COVID, potential cancellation of the GAA season and the predictable unpredictability of Irish weather, and we heard the crunching gravel of a car pulling up outside. Graham and Anne were home. Graham entered, slouched down on the couch beside granny and chatted mart prices with dad. After 20 minutes, dad, eager for us not to outstay our welcome said “Right, sure we were coming over to pick up a few sticks, if that’s okay with you?”. Graham said there were some down in Byrne’s old farmyard, already cut. There was just the small matter of getting there and loading them in the trailer ourselves. We began to make our way out to the yard. He pointed us to a Toyota Hilux from the early noughties. It was fair to say it had seen better days. “I bought that lad a couple of months back. Páidí Kelly was just getting rid of it. Load them up in that” he suggested. “That bloody yolk!” Anne lamented from behind us. “I absolutely read him when he brought that back, can you guess how much he paid for it?”. I guessed it must’ve been over the odds, but it felt a bit rude to start with too high a price. So, I lowballed her. “About €1000?” I guessed, half-jokingly. “HIGHER, one seven” she exclaimed. “The Banger” one of the kids, James, chuckled. “She doesn’t even have a handbrake!”. We were clearly taking our lives in our hands here. We finished our chit chats and headed over to ‘The Banger’. Dad took the driver’s seat while I sat in the passengers. Dried clay and dirt covering the fabric of the seating and steering wheel. I gingerly rested my feet on the floormat, sweet wrappers and bale twine below them. He turned the key in the ignition. A ferocious rattle erupted from the exhaust behind us. The jeep might have been weak, filthy and unsteady on slopes, but she moved all the same. We left the main yard and drove down towards Byrnes. Left and right of us were neatly fenced fields with cows observing us pass by, legs folded and gently chewing cuds. The road was bumpy, with bumps and potholes in equal measure. I recalled a story my dad told me before. He said his neighbour, one of the Byrnes, committed suicide around here. We didn’t talk about it much, not because dad wouldn’t but because I guess it didn’t hit home with me. I never roamed these parts nor knew those people. But as it was the scene of the incident, I felt appropriate to ask. “You know that Byrne woman who died here years ago? Where did that happen exactly?”. Dad stared ahead and reminisced, “Just over there, at the river, under the Bloody Bridge”. “We got the alarm that she was missing and began searching. I found her at the edge of the stream, already dead, and picked her out. I’ll tell you one thing…. there’s a reason they call it ‘dead weight’…” he reflected, morbidly. “Jesus that must’ve had you shook?” I stared back at him. “I never thought about it much back then” he replied. I chose not to prod any further, as we’d arrived at the farmyard. “Open up the gate and I’ll back her in” he instructed. I stepped out and did as I was told. I was a novice on the farm and didn’t have a leg to stand on in such matters. “You can’t bluff a farmer” as the adage goes. Dad turned the jeep and began reversing through the front entrance. I went ahead to get a sneak peak of our treasure. There it sat, a large pile of firewood, right beside an orange hedge cutter. He inspected the pile as if to devise our plan of attack. I could almost hear the gears click in his brain as he instructed “I’ll climb up and throw the good ones down to you”. He began pelting four to five stick at a time down to me and I threw them in the back of the Hilux. His plan worked well. Although each time I bent down to collect a load, I felt slightly nervous. I was right in the firing line, as blocks flew past my head from above. Starting off felt like pure hardship. I hadn’t pushed much beyond a pen since I moved to college, and now I was in a pair of wellies launching timber into a car trailer. Yet, the crisp, cold air and the time to think was almost medicinal and I began to enjoy the immediacy of the task at hand. As we picked in silence, I peered beyond the barn we were in, to what seemed like the remnants of a dwelling. I asked and dad explained how his cousins, the Byrnes, used to live in this very barn. They lived off the land, unmarried, and milked what cows they had by hand. “What did they do with themselves?” I asked curiously. “They got by really, that was it” he reflected, “that was a different time. A different Ireland”. I thought of the poor lady he had told me about earlier, and how perhaps this scarce and bleak existence led her to make that fatal choice further down the line. Then again, to me, there was something peaceful about this simpler way of life. It’s tough to truly put yourself in someone else’s shoes, or wellies in this case. I snapped out of my thoughts as the trailer was filling up and my bones began to rattle from the cold. I suggested we call it a day. “Yeah sure, let me have a quick look” dad said. He threw in a couple more for good measure, but we had collected most of the good ones. We finished up and headed back for the main yard. Job done. Dad popped in to throw Uncle Graham some cash for the sticks. Humbly but perhaps foolishly, Graham declined any reimbursement. “I'm not taking your money” he muttered, as he batted dad’s money away. Home we went, with our trailer load of firewood, leaving the old birches in our wake.


This is a little short story I wrote for a dnd character I'll be playing. I do this a lot as it helps me contextualize them in a more concrete way before the game. I've been trying to force myself to write more and I'm curious how something like this plays to a different audience. I will say there are definitely a few details in here that might come off as kind of random or not fleshed out. I don't think it's an issue but that's cause the initial intended audience has more context on the world (it's his world after all). Regardless, feedback is always appreciated! Sveta had never been truly alone. Her earliest memories always came with imaginary friends, guidance, and praise. In her darkest times she always had somebody to turn to, in times of fear or sadness they were always there when she needed them. While she struggled to make any true friends she never needed them, she never had fewer than three to play with. When she managed her first spell her parents were over the moon. They showered her with praise, told her she was such a prodigy (whatever that meant), and sung her praises. But she was just doing what the voices told her, they were always telling her things. With their guidance her power rapidly grew, a chorus of praise whenever she succeeded and a council of support when she failed. Sveta knew she was destined for great things, everyone told her so after all. But, as Sveta grew, the voices began to change. No longer were they content to solely support and shepherd. Slowly, that gentle guidance became just a bit more forceful. It grew and built with each coming year, with each paradigm leap in power. Soon it turned to orders, to demands, to injunctions handed down from whatever celestial realm they inhabited. Soon she realized her refuge was gone, now a hornet’s nest of commands shouting her down for daring to be somebody else, daring to be anything but the thing they demanded she be. Sveta could have taken it, could have been what they wanted. If only the voices had ever wanted the same thing. It was always strange, often the voices didn’t even seem to hear each other. They weren’t together in a chorus, but each a song unto themselves. At first they made a lovely meddled medley for they all wanted the same thing: the best for young Sveta. Slowly, their songs diverged. A discordant knot of sounds all calling for different courses, all demanding she sing along. To please one was to draw the ire of the other two. Love and care left in the wake of cold indifference as each had its faith in her devotion shaken time and again. She would reach out for help, try in desperation to open to others about her plight. All she was rewarded with was more admonishment, more disappointment, more displeasure. How dare she complain, she had a direct line to the powers above! So many toil their lives to have even a single conversation and she was born with such a gift! Sveta was chosen! Anointed! What manner of ingrate would whine about such divine providence? None seemed to consider the difficulties of having three such lines, nor the impact of being denied a self. A lifetime of this building torment. A lifetime of a mind roiling like a hurricane. A lifetime taken by three discrete forces well beyond her control. This was no connection, no concordance, no it was a chain. Her leash fought over by so many at once. A leash she may finally have the means to sever. — Blasting sands tear across the dunes with the biting acrimony of a disapproving parent. The cutting wind screams her name with each baleful gust. Beating rays of heat press down on her back with overwhelming expectation. Even so, Sveta trudges forward across the sand. A grim determination presses her through the storm. For years every free moment she had stolen was spent searching for the means to break these shackles, to finally be free. That desperation found her here, in this forsaken land of sand and sun. She stops to take a sip of water and consult the old map once more. Not some relic from an ancient ruin but a simple piece borrowed from an archive from the city’s ignoble past. Bracing against the wind she pulls out a compass as well. Comparing its needle, the sun, and the towering spires of the city in the distance she plots a course once more. They chastise her again for stooping to such basic orienteering but she heeds them and their power no mind. With a breath she tightens her facial covering and steels herself. Onward she will forge. Always onward, lest she crumble before the cacophony in her head. For three days she fights her way through the increasingly hostile land. Those same forces that screamed in her head fought her progress at every step, it was her only solace that their efforts could not coordinate against her. Finally, she crests a hill and spies what she seeks. The tip of a long forgotten tower peeking above the sands. Its design is unique, a cathedral to none beyond this plane and a watchtower once dominating its surroundings cut into seven segments each shaped by a different force. Perhaps this place still holds a bit of the independence it purported to protect. Clenching her teeth, Sveta looks at the spire barely peeking above the sand. No obvious way in of course. She tightens her fists into balls and invokes her power once more. Her head screams as the connection ignites. While other such chosen call on their deities to send them a servant Sveta reaches down three filaments tethering her to the above. Here she feels the forces moving like a powerful river and simply plucks one from the rushing mass. A lifetime of practice has left her quite deft at picking the right ones amid the unending deluge and tumult. To her pleasure it is another success. A hulking mass of roiling ajer and stone turns to face her with the vaguest approximation of a face. It manages only confusion as it finds itself at this strange woman’s beck and call. Sveta does not bother with honorifics, she simply points at the sand beneath her and bids the creature to “dig”. Without question, and much to its chagrin, it complies. Soon a tunnel is dug and stabilized, arcing around the tower until an entrance is located. A massive hall lay below the sand creating an artificial cave beneath the sand. Sveta then simply nods, commanding the elemental to cease in its work. It looks at her expectantly awaiting its release. She ignores the creature and examines the cavernous room below her. At first she considers simply flying down but that thought is quickly cast aside, tossed into the raging river of thoughts not her own. No, it would be better to simply use a rope. Grumbling, Sveta slides down into the large forgotten chamber below. She ignites a torch with a tinderwig and frowns as the flickering flame fails to illuminate much of the structure. With another grumble she focuses inward and whispers a prayer in a language she was never taught to speak. With a brilliant display daylight ignites upon her torch, casting its rays across the room. Sveta pushes the admonishment at the use of her power from her mind and raises the beacon high above her head. A scene of pitched battle is laid out before her. Whatever the engagement was it involved many parties, some maybe even more powerful than herself. The ground is riven and torn, impacts riddle the walls from arrow sized pockmarks to craters, burns, scorches, and a million other after effects mar this once grandiose chamber. Slowly Sveta picks her way through the carnage seemingly fixed in time by the desert above. She passes by a serpentine figure encased in some ancient crystal, over numerous humanoid shaped holes, around a patch riddled with shards of metal, through a whirlwind unable to let go of this world, and past dozens of remains of kynd of all stripes. Sveta pauses on the far side of the room and glances back at the scene. Perhaps she should have taken the time to study this place, if only *they* would let her focus on something as trivial as that. Sighing once more she turns back to the towering archway. What was clearly once a set of gargantuan metal doors lay twisted and broken on their sides. Another casualty of whatever tragedy befell this place. This place, this tomb, is a labyrinthine mess of halls and stairwells. Sveta wanders and delves deeper within picking her way through what remained. It seems that dozens lived and worked here, in a hierarchical structure judging from the layout, all she can ascertain is that those at the top called themselves “shapers”. As she picks her way deeper into the structure she slowly realizes that this ancient place was built atop something far, far older. While the signs of battle seemed largely localized to the chambers above deep below Sveta discovers the scene of one more. Unlike the varied and significant marks from above the conflict here was nasty, brutish, and short. A series of blood stains smeared on the walls and floor, each punctuated by a crack in the stone telling a sickening story. The dozens of discarded weapons told of the sheer number who presumably perished in what could only be an attempt to access whatever lay in the ruin below. The still growing plants about the bodies raise yet another open question. Regardless of the combatants or their capabilities they left a hidden passage, a wall of interlocked stone like a woven fabric, open to the world. This place, this hallowed hall of sullen silence, seemed to breathe again as Sveta peered down the corridor. A sense of unease settled over her soul, compounded thrice as a rare chorus of agreement pressed against her head. Sveta had learned well to heed the voices’ warnings, they always steered her clear of the most perilous danger. But “danger” had always meant what they wanted it to. She was steered as they saw fit, oft away from what was only dangerous to the possessive. Their council of agreement told her one simple thing: “she was going the right way”. Against their protestations she continued on, trying desperately to focus on the echoes of her footsteps over the ever increasing internal clangor. The yawning stone hall stretched out with the hallowed portent of a great cathedral, yet it terminated with just a strange circular chamber. The stone gave way to a twisted architecture of brass and bronze. Sveta had been told of the others who came before. Tomb raiders, daring archeologists, wise cracking adventurers, and mummy fighting treasure hunters had all picked the ruins long clean. If there were any further secrets she would need something more than the gumption and pluck the others had borne. While she knew not where to use it, she was perhaps provided with just such a thing. A quill, made of the strangest glass, seemingly able to write its tales in the strands of reality itself. Closing her eyes Sveta pulled the quill from her pack along with the instructions provided for her. She stares at the words, they shift in her gaze as the voices shout at her once more. She had thought of this however and the simple instructions were laid out in large helpful letters letting her mind push through the discordant din. One by one she read off the pieces out loud, her wavering voice echoing back to her, ringing over the cacophony in her mind. A piece of sandstone pulled from the city’s walls, a shard of ice that had never been water, a flicker of fire from the belly of a volcano, a vial of unbreathed air, a bolt of wood from the oldest tree, the means to write one’s fate, and a mote of untapped potential. The last two had vexed Svetta for years until she came across both in an unlikely shop on the far side of the world. A shop run by almost a concept rather than a person, an entity she could not find mention of nor recall detail since. Sveta was not one to look a gift enigma in the mouth. There she procured the quill, said to write in very aether itself. In addition a single piece of unsullied papyrus. A nothing that could be an anything. As if responding to her preparation, seven slots opened along the sides of the room. With each receptacle filled the ancient structure seemed to shudder with excitement. As Sveta inputs the last piece the entryway violently slams shut behind her with a screeching crash. Then, the entire room rapidly plummets deep into the ajer below. Sveta presses herself against the floor, with only the means to hope that it does not give way. As rapidly as the terror takes hold it is assuaged. The lift wrenches to a stop, her brilliant daylight winks out leaving only the dying torch and silence to fill the space. True silence. Silence Sveta has been loath to experience for her entire life. No orders, no admonishments, no advice, no anything save for her own thoughts stretching their legs for perhaps the first time. This relief was quickly tempered by the realization of what lay before. With a belabored heave the door slides free once more. Within she sees an octagonal chamber, seven sides and an eighth for a door. Her gaze is immediately pulled towards one such side however. While the other six bear symbology and portent this one simply frames what could only be described as a wound in reality. A void seemingly anathema to the concept of existence itself. It pulled at her, promising to consume the voices along with her thoughts. She dared not look more, for it was not why she was here. Tentatively, Sveta steps into the octagonal room. She raises the meager flame of the torch to let her see. Unlike the opulent halls and cavernous rooms above this one was simple and utilitarian. No further across than need be to fill the space, no taller than to allow one to comfortably walk within. The stonework is simple and sturdy, metal reinforcements helping bear the crushing burden of ajer above. Each wall is carved with an ornate set of symbols but each seemed etched with purpose. Each told a story beyond the profligate filigree that usually adorned such secret spaces. In the center the room holds a simple statue of a humanoid figure. It stands tall and proud, the kind of figure people deify, but here positioned like a coat rack. The statue holds two items, yet clearly misses a third. First, about each wrist is a set of bracelets, one gold the other silver, etched with a symbol seen covering the place above. In addition he bares a simple headband. It is seemingly made of basic silk and cotton, yet untouched by time. As Sveta stares she realizes it is held together by something much greater. Finally, around the statue’s neck a talisman is conspicuously absent. Sveta thinks back to the figure encased in crystal above and considers trying to wrest the amulet from him. But none of this was why she was here. If she were a covetous woman, like those who had scavenged this place before, she would snatch everything she could. But no, Sveta knew disturbing such places was always dangerous. Greed served her not. So she takes only the headband, turning it over in her hands to find it held together not by the fabric but rather the threads of reality itself, the very threads she was here to understand. Idly running her finger over the soft, comforting fabric she turns now to the walls of this room. Her unyielding will constantly turning her gaze from the destroyed wall as she does. Each remaining wall bears markings associated with various elements. Fire, water, ajer, and air, all simple and obvious. What she didn’t expect was wood to be counted among their number. Casting the void from her mind that left but a sole option before her: Aether. The others promised to bend the world about the finger of those willing and able to shape them but Aether promised much more. And thus here Sveta stands. For a short eternity it is all she can manage to stare, clutching this piece of metaphysical cloth comforting her quieted soul. She knew not what she was to expect here at the end of her journey. Perhaps a great sacrifice, a magical artifact, secret knowledge, something of such monumental great worth. She was ready to spend months deciphering ancient text, learning forbidden techniques, or proving some nebulous concept of worth. She looked back at the other walls, each bearing similarly inscrutable bromide yet all lacking something that this one still holds. Life. Slowly, everything began sliding into place for Sveta. She was not here to study, learn, or even understand. She was here to *do*, to act, to shape the world around her. With that realization the symbols carved about the walls began to snap into place in her mind. They were no simple artistry, no language, no instructions, or hieroglyphs. They were a guide, leading her hand to the threads of existence like a weaver’s shuttle. With a delightful glee, the excitement of discovery that was always jealously withheld from her, she tugged at the threads with all her might. Objects were pulled from her person and flung around the room, aimless forces woven together like fabric to block them as they rebounded. A control so utterly rudimentary yet unbelievably exhilarating. She let out a gleeful shout at this realization, at a thing *she* began to learn, a choice *she* decided to make. Turning free now she sighs with satisfaction. A spark lit within her that she would protect against the storm. With a newfound vigor she steps out of the room, only affording herself that last glance at the gaping void. Perhaps when she is free she shall uncover its secrets. For now she will settle for her own. Pulling once more at the threads she extends a hand at the quill lodged in the side of the elevator. It springs to her hand like a loyal pup and Sveta triumphantly holds it aloft like a sword. Truly the pen was indeed mightier. Ready now to face it all once more she turns as the door slides shut and she ascends to the surface. — Howling winds buffet the woman once more. The biting sand having given way to cutting ice, oppressive heat to bitter cold. The shearing screams of her name are a mere petulant whisper next to the wailing in her head. Orders and demands had long since given way to reprimands and those in turn to vitriolic invectives. Yet for once the sounds did not cripple her for eager enthusiasm and dogged determination impelled her forward through the driving snow. Gleefully she invoked her power, for once enjoying this part of herself she never could. She crossed the majority of the world with plane shifting and wind walking simply to revel in the ability. And for once she cared not for their protestations. As she climbed she wreathed herself in a glowing warmth, sheltered herself from the gale with one of her own, and pushed forward on borrowed strength. With every step the snow melts before her and a disgruntled elemental guides her path without question. On her back she hefts her greatest prize, the culmination of her meager fortune. A colossal blade forged from mithral and enchanted with an unerring edge, sharp enough not only to cut anything but to cut *nothing* as well. Embedded in the blade’s heart is that quill, the final piece in her emancipation. For once in her life she did not know what the future would bring. It was exhilarating. It was like this that she reached the apex of the mountain. A jaggy, snow covered crag of stone seemingly overlooking the entire world. As she crests the voices make their final demands. One by one they issue ultimatums and one by one she breaks them. Sveta braces as the power she had invoked dies around her, protections fading as nature crashes down like a tidal wave. The winds tear at her clothes ripping her hood free and whipping her hair to the side like a tarnished banner. The cold eats at her body, threatening to consume her extremities in its infinite spite. The air is yanked from her very lungs, each breath restoring only a fraction of what was taken. But in this state of wild yet unshaking resolve Sveta knew that this meant that she was finally at the end. As the power she had been given, the power she had been shackled to, was torn from her Sveta turned instead to the power that *she* had fostered. Looking at the sky through the howling clouds she smiles at the shimmering aurora, prismatic bands dancing in the sky. Sveta now knew what they were. From here she could see them, this place was special and those aetheric strands all seem to connect in long bending arcs. They stretched and bent about the world like a shroud, flowing like rivers, and here culminating in something even the layperson can see. To Sveta’s eye in training she searches for and spies the threads that bind her. Sveta smiles to herself, taking the deepest breath she can in the thin air, the cold tearing into her lungs. Despite standing at the zenith of her torment she was also standing at its conclusion. She casts a hand out to the side, focusing inward and pulling at the strands herself. Slowly, the massive blade begins to move from her back. It is far too large to ever functionally wield but for her it was perfect. The blade slowly rotates in the air as she wraps stands of her own about it, guiding it with practiced care to her target. She tugs at them like a weaver, puppeting the powerful blade forward. Even as ice forms on her face and clothing the world seems to settle into a quiet lull. Faintly she could hear the voices pleading now, stooping so low in their final moments. But it was too late. She thought back, never truly having known if she could be heard, but nonetheless she tried one last time. Her blade finds the tether, she tenses herself for what is to come, and flicks her wrist uttering a single perfect word. “Freedom” Reality seems to quiet about the woman as she drops to her knees in the snow, joyful tears streaming down her face. Despite nature still raging at her she can only revel in the freedom she dreamed of for so long. There was no explosion, no feedback, no horrible agony, just a sudden respite from everything bearing down on her beleaguered soul. She pulls her blade back, hugging the beautiful thing in relief and rapturous joy. As the cold begins to set back in she hoists herself to her feet, ready to make the arduous climb back down. But something gives Sveta pause, a sound cutting across the mountain top to her. Is somebody else here? She turns, looking for the sound, but there was no one here to share in her triumph. Then she hears another calling out, as if talking to yet another crowding the tiny mountain top. Slowly a revelation begins to worm its way into her mind as one by one more and more voices make themselves heard. Not one, not three, but everything all talking over each other at once. An incomprehensible deluge of thought passing through her mind headed everywhere else. She looks up at the strands again, these filaments vibrating like a harp and spiderwebbing out before her. She had not cut the tether, she had cut the restraints. In that instant freedom was pulled from her grasp and something far worse settled in its place. Sveta drops to her knees at the utter indentation of thought devastating her soul like a shattered dam. It is all she can do to clutch her head in a state of unmatched agony. And she screams.