Shathward

Heh. That's pretty good. Rather than making me feel incredibly uncomfortable, if someone were doing the 1950's version for me, I'd just sigh, get the look, and think to myself, "must remind wife of the times". Then I'd probably wrestle the dishes from her to do them myself, leave her to do the cooking since I can't cook if the universe depended on it, wrestle my feet away so that I can take off my own shoes and socks thank you very much, tell the kids to go play their video games or something, and try to get her to talk about the grievances she wishes to place before me. Basically, it'd be an uphill battle. But it's in my nature to do stuff like that, especially the refusal to be waited on like some obese king, because it simply makes me feel useless. I don't really like to feel like some cripple or paraplegic.

Yes! Yes!! Someone cares!!! *bursts into tears and hangs onto Wyvern's leg* Er, yes. I guess things seemed too unnatural, but I wanted to give detailed descriptions. Sometimes I feel writing lacks enough description of the world where the characters are roaming. You have a good point, though. About the two couples, I was struggling a bit with the beginning. A good point, too, though it could be possible that the two are deeply embittered since they might be stuck together for financial reasons. Perhaps you're right about the Gods, but I just wanted to mention them now, in a big list, and briefly explain how religion worked for these people and maybe do individual, detailed descriptions later. As for the conflict that will motivate Sakaso, well, it's not going to come very much out of the death of his 'comrades'. Remember, though these are the only people who are more familiar with Sakaso than the people on the street, they're still thieves, and they still can rob, backstab, and murder each other at any moment. He only said that to Mitsuko, who by the way is a DIVINE HAND and NOT a god, because he was feeling cynical. Sakaso's motivation for his part in the plot hasn't quite come yet. He will need to do more self-searching, more exploring, more of everything before he works that out for himself. In short, the story is only just beginning. If I ever get around to finishing it rather than quitting halfway. *EDIT: Fixed grammar blooper. 'quit' to 'quitting'. I don't know why I randomly edited this.

New segment posted. Comment. Now. Please. I beg of you. Is this thread getting abandoned by the readers or is it just me?!!

----------------------------- Chapter 3. (continued.) ----------------------------- Sakaso. He staggered to his feet and looked around the room for the source of the voice. He didn't see anyone within earshot, or at least no one alive, but someone could be hiding. After what happened just a few moments ago, he was jittery and his nerves were on end, and so he nervously checked everything in the room for possible hiding places. The voice sounded from within his head once more. Sakaso. Listen to me. He gave a little jump and hung onto his knife as if his life depended on it, and looked around wildly. The voice called him again, sounding a little impatient. Foolish mortal, listen to me. I'm speaking directly into your head, and I'm nowhere near you. Now look at the back of your right hand. Do you see the mark on it? Well, that he could plainly see. It was glowing brighter than a torch, for one thing. After some deliberation on how to answer a voice speaking into his head, he just decided to quietly mutter a reply out loud and hope it understood. "I see it. Did you put it there?" No. The Seven Gods marked you to aid them. They did more than just that; they created you directly. You were born an orphan, weren't you? Sakaso thought about it for a minute. So he wasn't born of mortal woman, but of divine hand. He was created for some noble purpose, possibly to save humanity and divinity from the Godslayer. He laughed out loud. It was too ridiculous. It was too funny. He choked out a reply. "Y-You ... expect me ... to ... believe that? You seriously do? That's good. That's too good." What? Which part of what I've told you sounds false to you? "All of it. Think. Sudden voice in my head tells me I'm the chosen of the gods. I'd like to know why I've had to eke out my living by the arts of the thief, then. Where were the gods when I've huddled in that sewer during the brutal winters? Where were the gods when I nearly starved as a youngster? Where were the gods when my friends were just killed right now? Right now, I find the existence of your gods hard to believe." You fool. You need proof? I shall give you proof. Sakaso covered his eyes as a blinding light suddenly appeared in the middle of the room. When his eyes recovered, he saw what looked to be a black-haired woman dressed in loose, white folds of silken cloth. A headcloth circled the top half of her head, covering her eyes, and small golden runes were etched on each of her cheeks. Her skin was a pearly white not seen in mortal women, and her entire being radiated a faint, white aura. She crossed her arms and turned towards Sakaso, who backed away. I am one of the Hands of the Divine. I am like you, except that I accepted the call of duty and entered their service. We are the centerpieces of their power, and we act as their eyes, ears, and when it is needed, as their champions. Sakaso noticed a similar marking on the back of her right hand. He looked up at her, tried to say something, and failed. This was all too bizarre. Today was definitely not his day. Growing impatient, the woman sighed. You seem to be very slow. No matter. I have been assigned to work with you and teach you how to focus and use your innate strength. We've got a large time frame to work with. She held out a hand. After much deliberation and fantasizing about the more horrible fates in store for him, he hesitatingly took it. Almost reluctantly, she gave him a small smile. For the first time since their meeting, she spoke out loud. "You can call me Mitsuko." Sakaso remembered one thing, though. The one who'd called himself the Godslayer seemed to be on an agenda of his own; perhaps they didn't have as much time as this lady thought? ----------------------------- Author's comment: Yup. I decided to give her a Japanese name, because I rather like anime, Japanese names (mostly coming from the love of anime), and ... well, because Mitsuko sounds different for a change than 'Vanessa', or 'Galadriel', or all those Tolkein-esque ripoff names. All those "elvish" names are so common they make me sick. After hearing them all the time, Mitsuko sounds pretty to me now. It means 'child of light'. Very fitting, yes? But I digress. I hope you all liked this chapter, though it didn't have much action in it, but I wanted to take my time. All the good stuff has some very interesting material in the non-action parts of the piece, and I've decided to learn from that. Look forward to the next segment, people. Please comment for me. I demand it! The comment thread is so lonely.

Vegas? Well, you could go squander all your savings gambling, and then romantically file for bankruptcy together. Ah. Here's a wish for your marriage to be fruitful and actually last longer than three months.

----------------------------- Chapter 3. ----------------------------- "You will all die." The Godslayer snapped a finger, sending a rippling wave across the room. Everyone collapsed, clutching their throat in uncontrollable pain, unable to breathe, scream, or even make a noise. The only sound in the room was the barely audible footsteps of the Godslayer as he paced the room. He examined each of them with an emotionless eye, and lazily snapped his finger again. The ones who hadn't suffocated were able to breathe again, and they slowly staggered to their feet. Sakaso didn't even bother pulling out a knife; it clearly wasn't going to change things. The Godslayer smirked. "Of course, I could snuff out each of you with a thought, but that wouldn't be very interesting, now, would it? And besides, I could always harvest a few extra souls. Fresh ones are in short supply." He whipped out a hand, catching Saik by the neck. Saik dug at his neck as he began to suffocate, and in desperation he pulled out a knife and slashed at the hand around his neck. What small wounds he made instantly healed, and the Godslayer ignored his futile efforts. Sakaso couldn't believe his eyes. The best thief and fighter in all of Gornath was absolutely powerless, and he was only being killed by one hand. There were crunching and tearing sounds as the hand began to break Saik's neck. He let out a scream as his neck broke, and as blood began to spray everywhere from his neck, his eyes started to glaze over. The Godslayer snapped out a command, and Saik glowed with a reddish light. Saik regained consciousness as his life was forcibly extended by the Godslayer's magic, and he continued to watch helplessly as the Godslayer calmly tore out his windpipe in a spurt of blood with an index finger to cut his screaming short. "Now all you need to give me is your soul." As if it were being squeezed forth from Saik's body from his flesh like a sponge, golden energy seeped forth from him and wrapped itself around the Godslayer's other hand. Saik finally expired, now extremely pale from having lost almost every ounce of blood in his body, and collapsed. Sakaso and the other thieves, having watched in horrified stupefaction, looked at each other and went straight for the door. The door swung shut by itself, and resisted their every attempt to open it. At that moment, it crossed their minds that they would all die no matter what they tried, that this was their designated moment of death. "What's the matter? No one else to throw themselves at me? Have these scum grown soft on me?" His mocking words met no reply but a terrified silence. Hadn't they just seen the two most powerful thieves in all of Gornath die helplessly? To one hand? "I grow weary of this game. Perhaps the less interesting method is the better one. After all, it's efficient." Once again, he snapped a finger, and they all went down clutching their throats. One by one, without so much as a squeak, they all suffocated to death and yielded up their souls. The Godslayer paused and listened on the astral plane to examine if he had drawn any attention. Despite his name, he could sometimes get careless and get spotted by a local divinity. If that happened, things could get bothersome. He noticed no threat or spying eye, and examined the ring closely. Yes, this was one of the things he was looking for. Although it looked different to the eye, the astral signature matched perfectly with one of the artifacts he was looking for. Satisfied, he walked back through the smoking opening in the wall. At that moment, the green circle on Sakaso's hand suddenly blazed, as if on fire, into blinding light, and golden energy flowed from the Godslayer back to his body. Life energy returned to him, along with consciousness and vital strength. The Godslayer turned, and saw the now glowing tattoo. He cursed loudly. Apparently the gods had marked this miserable wretch to be one of their emissaries, which meant that they saw whatever he saw. His annoyance only increased when he picked up the buzz of rapid teleportations through astral space. It was time to run, and he flew out of the room into the astral dimension with divine creatures hot in pursuit. Sakaso opened his eyes and sat up. As he felt himself for injuries, he saw the glowing circle on his hand. He heard a voice speak from within his head. Sakaso. (To be continued.) ----------------------------- Author's comment: Basically, the big pieces of the story seem to be coming together in my mind. This is turning out to be of a good versus evil framework. This is because this time, I'm going for something less intellectually complicated and something more ... well, something that can just be a good yarn. I hope everyone enjoys it, and please comment in the Critic's Corner, alright? The thread is already there! All you need to do is hit reply! Please? Onegai shimasu?

-If you can't get the girl next door to say anything more to you than "hi", then strike up the weirdest conversation you can think of with your roommate while she's in the bathroom. Then, you will earn a "this is a very interesting conversation I'm listening to" for your efforts. -Weird and bizarre conversation can't be scripted or planned; you need to have a good partner and both of you must be in the right frame of mind. -You know you've got it when you don't notice how weird the stuff you're saying is until someone else has to point it out to you. -When a roommate is drunk and is about to smoke pot, do everything you can to stop it from happening. If that fails, find a handy couch you can sleep on, because you're going to end up with a pool of puke on the floor of your room. -Relax, though, since your roommate will clean it up in the morning. -When your roommate doesn't bother cleaning it up in the morning, then you've got problems. -Do not talk on your cell phone while urinating, because there is a small, but nonzero chance, that it can fall into the toilet and sink out of reach. -Out of reach, that is, unless you'd like to dig through the toilet now full of urine to go get it. -If you have a pair of those long, long rubber gloves that mothers use, now is the time to crack 'em out. -If you've lived on the west coast all your life, you're moving to the east coast, and you're actually wondering if you need a heavy coat, then ... ahahaha, hey, go ahead. Go right ahead. See what it's like. -If you live on the east coast and you see said person nearly freeze to death, your sympathy should stop when you learn where that person used to live. -Then, along with all the other east-coasters, you laugh hideously at the idiot. Hey, you've earned it. Remember how brutal the winters are here? You've slogged through quite a few, year after year. -Plus, considering how nice it is in California, such people don't deserve any sympathy. Ahaha. Ahahahahaha. Wahahahahahahah! -If you're seven years old, and you have a kitten you love dearly, that's great. Having a pet can be good for a child. -However, if your mother is *scared* of it, and complains that those beady little eyes are appearing in her nightmares, that means your kitten won't get to stay for very long. -When the kitten randomly disappears after no sign of injury or disease, and you're told that it died, that means your mother gave it away without your permission. -When that happens, you should never, ever, EVER forgive her for that ... that ... *sniff* ... *sob* ... I'm sorry, let's ... *sniff* ... change the .. subject ... -*now sobbing constantly* Y-Yknow wh-what? L ... let's just ... s-s-stop ... *wanders off to a little corner somewhere* (Hmph. I can NEVER forgive her for that. I LOVED that kitten. This scar will last a lifetime, and I'll make sure she remembers this to her grave.)

Hey hey hey, perhaps we could now pelt Salinye with suggestions for names? I call Persephone! *EDIT: Forgot the mandatory smiley.

*splutters and coughs* If I weren't so fond of you, I'd say you're being singlemindedly pigheaded like the person who refuses to see the forest and continues to stare away at one leaf. Sorry. I should really mind my own business, but I really do have the best wishes for you. I probably don't know how to express it properly.

Mmm, Gwai, I've seen what you mean about protecting women in martial arts. The men there are protective of the women they train with, and much more often than not that comes from a subconscious belief that women are somehow weaker. My guess is that this comes from the fact that martial arts is a highly physical activity, which brings out adrenaline and a bit of testosterone, and that the testosterone is to blame. It's the testosterone that makes men do stupid things and think they're cool, go "oh YEAAAAHHH!!!" in response to pain when the honest response is to cry a bit, etc, and it also makes women look weak in their eyes. Not something that can easily be fixed, I s'pose. Mynx, you could think of it as expanding your martial arts skills and integrating other traditions into your style rather than simply as "quitting". It's a healthier, smarter, openminded, organic way of looking at it.

*sigh* Your call then, Mynx. I don't see why you have to be closeminded to other martial arts, but fine.

Too stubborn to do something about your misery that actually works? Your solution is to just stay and endure when it's driving you nuts, stressing you out, etc? I mean, the guy is pulling you down. The guy is not doing what a proper instructor should be doing. He's picking on you. There is no reason for you to stay, and when you're getting an overdose of stress along with sleep deprivation and the strenuous adjusting to school, you can NOT afford to assume the "try so hard to succeed and rub it in his face" attitude. I apologize for lecturing, but you need to take care of yourself, be more gentle to yourself, and go easy on your body and mind. Unless you are self-conscious enough to think people'd actually care whether you quit Taekwon-do or not, switching to some other martial art or even just a balanced yoga+light jogging+light weight lifting+light stretches in the morning regime seems healthier for you no matter how I think about it. Though I wouldn't know what's best for you, being just another screenname at the Pen.

*sigh* Yes, I've been there. I've done Taekwon-do before, though I only got to red belt before I got sick of it all. I personally got sick of those annoying self-training exercises that you had to memorize to do, obviously, because I could never remember all the moves. I'd do the first couple, and then sort of stop while I tried to remember the next one while the instructor grinned and swatted me on the head, and then the next couple, and then another pause, etc. Also, the splits you had to do. Oh gawd. Those were so unbelievably painful it wasn't even funny. I could've sworn I heard my pelvis crack or something though it was probably my overactive early-teen imagination. It's unfortunate to hear that your teacher sucks. I've never had the problem before, since all my past teachers have been terrific, though some were quite stern. The kids there were also mostly great kids as well (though there were a couple exchanges of blows, as kids our age typically do), and so quite supportive. Thus, the sparrings were a lot of fun. For me, Taekwon-do didn't do much to increase self defense, but it did teach me a bit about cooperation, willpower, etc. All I can suggest is that you do have the option of quitting Taekwon-do and maybe going after a different martial art. Perhaps you could try your hand at Aikido, or maybe kung fu, jujitsu, karate, kendo (quite cool, though the initial equipment purchase is a sizeable bit of an investment), perhaps even ninjutsu. There are other options than just giving up or plugging away under a teacher you hate. When you're trying to learn something properly, never mind have a good time while you're at it, the quality of the teacher counts for a lot. *EDIT: I hope the guy hasn't been such a terrible teacher that he hasn't taught you that violence like Pillow's suggestion isn't the answer. If you get the feeling he's just a teacher instead of a true guide, mentor, role model, and friend as well as a teacher, perhaps it's time to change martial arts. Yes, you've invested a lot in Taekwon-do, but a fresh start and some new learning in a different martial art can be refreshing.

*whispers in the dead silence* Y'all know you're welcome to comment, alright? The more the merrier, really? You know this, right?

----------------------------- Chapter 2. ----------------------------- Early in the morning, the streets of Gornath are quite silent. Most of the activity went on in the night, especially in the poor quarters, and so the bulk of the populace snored away in relative peace. When you looked at the sky, and saw the sky as blue as sapphire, dotted with those big, lofty clouds, for a moment you could even forget the filth around you. In the silence, you could wonder what it would be like to climb into one of those cloudy lands above and build your own castle. Wonder what it would be like to climb away into magical lands far away, up above the dirty city, and away from all the crooked guards, all the false taxes, the grip of the Gornath overlord. Morning was all the more mystical because no one ever noticed it. This morning, however, was broken by a racket on the corner of the street where Sakaso's manhole lay. A cart driver's wheel had caught on a large stone wedged into the road, bringing the cart dangerously close to the manhole. He cursed and began whipping the horse furiously with his whip, which sent it into a frenzy that only made it worse. With a whinny of effort, the horse tripped sideways, sending a cart wheel into the manhole. The cart half fell in, stuck pointing at the sky, and the contents along with the driver fell straight on top of Sakaso's spot. The driver hit the ground headfirst and went out cold. Sakaso, of course, was already awake and alert, with a knife in his hand. He saw the driver fall into the sewer along with a couple of sacks, and grinned with mirth. Some of the others in the sewer crawled towards the fallen driver, eyeing his wares. Sakaso sent them back with a silent glare, and they disappeared into the dark. Making sure no one was behind his back, he quickly went through the driver's pockets. He found a few silvers and a rather stout knife, both of which he pocketed. He then set about inspecting the contents of the sacks, to find them full of grain. Searching all of them and finding nothing but grain, he was ready to toss them into the sewer water with disgust when he felt something hard in one of them. He checked all of them again; it was just that one. He plunged his hand inside to find a heavy, small pouch adorned with odd markings he'd never seen before. It contained seven small figurines of fine steel. He grunted with disgust. This wouldn't sell, and he'd have to toss it away. But he had to admit it was fine, elaborate steelwork, and so he took a closer look. They were figurines of the gods. The people of Gornath, or rather the ones who bothered to be religious, believed in a pantheon of seven gods. It wasn't just Gornath; these gods were famous and institutionalized, and the people knew no other religion. They were known to grant powers to devout followers and clerics, and rumor had it they even intervened directly in history with miracles. Every child knew the names of these gods. The Ruler, protector of law and justice. The Warrior, protector of soldiers. The Sage, protector of knowledge. The Crafter, protector of art, craft, and music. The Mother, protector of the living. The Gravekeeper, protector of the dead. The Shadow, the unknown and unmentionable. These seven weren't the only gods out there, and other gods were worshipped with them in the great pantheon, but these were the main gods and people generally gave only these seven their respect and faith. Sakaso wasn't that much of a believer, but looking at the little idols, something prompted him to keep them, if only for luck. He pocketed them and was all ready to shove the sacks and the driver into the sewer water to be washed away, but stopped. He sighed. Was he getting soft? He tossed the sacks up onto the ground, and kicked the driver awake. The driver awoke with a groan, and let himself be shoved above ground. Soon, he found people to help him and he was back on his way. He never noticed anything missing, and neither did the people receiving his goods, since they didn't seem to care about the figurines. Sakaso tucked his blanket away into the crack in the wall, and climbed up to breathe the fresh morning air. He set off to earn his contribution to the little thieves' guild. He mused at the choices; he could either play it safe pickpocketing in big crowds, where he'd never be noticed, or he could climb into a house in hopes of finding a little cache like the one he'd found yesterday, which was significantly riskier. After a moment he decided to pickpocket for a while and then consider his next plan of action. He lowered his facecloth a bit; a completely covered face would hide you from the guards but it also scared people away. He walked over to the marketplace and looked side to side to inspect the wares. He was actually examining the people around him to locate their purses, and his hands were busy, cloaked in sleight-of-hand. In the matter of an hour, he had tucked away three purses already. By the time the day was over, he had quite a number of purses on him. In a dark corner, he picked out a large one and emptied the other ones into it. Covering his face again, he found a backstreet moneychanger. Many of the purses he had were decent and some even had solid gold clasps, so he just gave them to the changer as the fee. He was given a small pouch with twenty pieces of gold, and with a nod he was off with the pouch safely tucked away. He was having good luck lately; perhaps he'd do well to tuck some away for himself first. But then, having a higher rank at the guild was healthier. Poor performance would be noticed. He made his way to the guildhouse to find Hanard idly playing with a green-jeweled ring. Sakaso raised an eyebrow as he spread his earnings on the table and sat back in his chair. He noticed that nearly everyone else was looking at Hanard with a similar question: How did the guildmaster, who rarely did anything himself, get his hands on a ring, and why hadn't he sold it already? Stolen goods told stories, but money wouldn't rat on you, and any good thief knew it. Hanard idly spun the ring on his palm and took his time before speaking. "Some traveling wizard stumbled in here, thinking to set up his lab or something. Stabbed him and got this." Sakaso didn't buy that. "So where's the corpse then? I don't even see any blood." Hanard shrugged idly. "He didn't spill any, and his body just dissolved into thin air before he even fell. Anyway. I think I'll keep it. Good job on your earnings, by the way. You can keep five for yourself. I'll have ten and Saik gets five." Sakaso had a very bad feeling about all this, but he decided to shut up and take the gold. It's not like this was some schoolboy discussion. Round here, it was healthier to shut up and take what was given you, because that was rare enough. You looked out for yourself, too, and it wasn't as if the guildmaster needed worry. All the better if he ended up facedown in a gutter somewhere, because that meant you kept what you got, until someone else declared himself guildmaster. He went out the door with a nod. He'd only gone two steps when he heard an explosion in the room behind him. He whipped around, and what he saw made him doubt his eyes. Dressed in black robes, surrounded by swirling blue fire, a man stood in the giant, burning hole in the wall. His face was covered with blood-red markings, and there was some letter in gold on his forehead that none of them could read. He stared directly at the ring. For a moment, all of the thieves just stared at him blankly. Hanard recovered first and smiled with his hand on the hilt of his sword. "So who's this? That's not much of a greeting." The man in the black robes did not smile. He raised his right hand. A wisp of blue fire swirled in his palm. "You can call me the Godslayer, mortal." Hanard had no chance to react. His chest instantly erupted into flames, and he thrashed around the room, screaming. The Godslayer stabbed him through the chest with his hand, and pulled it back out. Hanard's body exploded, sending burning pieces of flesh and organs all over the room and leaving behind a pool of blood. The blood burned, and turned into red ribbons that flew around the room and wrapped themselves around the Godslayer's hand, disappearing into the flesh. He picked up the ring, and looked around the room. "You will all die." ----------------------------- Author's comment: Here we go. I like to end my stories in cliffhangers, because then the chances of my abandoning the story are lower due to my desire to see what happens next. This is a tip I received from someone I don't remember. Oh well. Hopefully I'll remember. Well, I do have to receive chemotherapy on the 10th, so I won't be able to write much from the 9th to the 13-14th, maybe the 15th, even. Cheers, everyone!

Next segment is now up and available for everyone's reading pleasure. I hope you all enjoy it hugely. *EDIT: And the next! But no writing from the 9th to the 14-15th, due to chemotherapy, and probably no brainstorming either. But worry not. I'll be back.

----------------------------- Chapter 1. ----------------------------- The twisted, pebbly streets of Gornath led to many places, depending on where your feet felt like taking you. Gornath was a city of fair size, so it had its fair share of all kinds of folk, ranging from the dead broke to the filthy rich, and it was divided along invisible lines according to that. The wealthy had their own portion of the city, a fairly large chunk of land covered with sprawling lawns, gardens of rare flowers maintained by magic, and of course, enormous villas. It was said that the richest ones even had trees of living crystal and gem tucked away in their homes, and it was the dream of many to see one in their lifetime. But it was just that, a dream. Getting into the quarters of the wealthy was about as easy as climbing the clouds with bare hands, since they were all filled with private bodyguards and soldiers. The rich folk weren't known for their hospitality for the poor. The winding back alleys, peppered with all kinds of filth that was cleaned out maybe once a year, led to the rickety homes of the poor, where some of the houses were little more than tents of twigs and rags. The authorities didn't care much for public safety, and besides, they were given a little something from each of the poor to let them stay there. Those who couldn't pay the "taxes" would be driven out under grounds of unsafe housing, unless they had a pretty daughter, wife, or sister. Then, they were left alone and the women would be welcomed into the guardhouses with a leery smile. In such a home, loud, angry voices could be heard among the general noise of Gornath during dinnertime, which was mostly composed of arguments, drunken singing, and the occasional exchange of fists. A man in his late fifties, his face dotted with scars, boils, dark splotches and a healthily thick layer of dirt, sat near a hearth of rather faint flame with a bowl filled with soggy vegetables in reddish broth, on his lap, shouting at a woman equally old and dirty who stood in front of him holding a ladle. "Curse it, woman, we're having kataal again? Can't you cook anything else?" "You dirty stinking rat, I've cooked for you for forty years, and this is the thanks I get? You're not getting anything else. There ain't nothing wrong with kataal, either. It's got vegetables, it's got a bit of pork fat, it's got broth, it's spicy, it's good for you." "Thanks? THANKS? Is it my fault you can't cook and you're dead ugly? And where's the thanks I get for bringing money into this home for forty years? Kataal might be great the first couple of days, but the same thing over and over again every night for those forty years is a bit sick. Go learn to cook something proper, wench." "Wench? WENCH? You lousy son of a bitch-" At this point, the relatively violent, but still entirely verbal, argument erupted into blows as the woman smashed the side of the man's head, sending him reeling into the wall. He staggered and lurched to grab the woman's hair, and began to beat her mercilessly, with her giving as good as she got to every part of his anatomy she could find. They didn't notice the thief climbing silently through the window. The thief was a green-eyed, dark-haired young man of twenty two, of average build. He wore tattered trousers and a tattered shirt of rough dark cotton, and his entire face and head except for the eyes, ears, and nose was covered with a cloth of similar material. He preferred to work without gloves, and on his right hand was what looked like a tattoo of a small green circle. He didn't wear boots or shoes; his feet were tightly wrapped with coarse, thick, black, cotton cloth. Traditional footwear made noise, and besides, this was cheaper. Unnoticed, he stole away to a small back room, which was filled with sacks of dried vegetables and stale bread. In a corner hung a thin, half-eaten pig preserved with smoke and salt. These people were obviously poor, with nothing worth stealing. But this young thief knew better. Poking around silently in a corner, he discovered a small chest hidden under a pile of sacks and rotting wood. He dug it out and gave it a look. It was simple, but strong, and it was locked with a rather stout-looking iron lock. Fortunately the lock was simple and could be picked easily. He leaned back and cautiously peeked around the corner to find the husband and wife still locked in their marital fight. He ducked back and fished out a small pick from the folds of his clothing, and got to work picking the lock. Feeling around a bit, he opened the lock with a soft click. After listening cautiously, he put away the pick and slowly opened the chest to find a couple pieces of gold carefully wrapped in a small, filthy pouch. He sighed. At least this was something. He pocketed the gold and sneaked back around the corner. In a breath he was back out the window on the now dark streets of Gornath. Whistling, he pulled down his facecloth a bit, and made his way through wheelbarrows and horses among the citizens of Gornath, dodging the occasional guard. He was without a care in the world, his hands in his pockets, but of course, he was ready to whip out a hidden knife in an instant if the situation called for it. He walked through the streets into the back alleys, and found what looked to be a deserted house. He stretched casually, twisting his body here and there to get all those muscles free, and scanning the area for any onlookers before stealing away into the house. He took off his facecloth and sat on a dusty chair out of the doorway's sight. A voice came out of nowhere. "Sakaso, you're late." A burly man could now be seen leaning against the wall behind Sakaso. Sakaso didn't seem to be surprised to see him there. "Take it easy, Saik, I just looted some rat and his wife's life savings. I brought us a few gold pieces to share." Saik wrinkled his brow. A man leaning back in his chair, with his feet on a table, turned his head and gave Sakaso a sharp glance and a small smile. "Surely you know that anything you steal belongs to me, your guild leader. Just making sure you remember that." Sakaso replied with a casual expression to hide the sudden nervousness he felt. Though their "guild" only had about ten to eleven men total, their leader was known for his cruelty. "Of course, of course. Take it easy, Hanard." He took out the pouch of gold and placed it on the table. Saik ripped it open, emptied it on the table with a cheery clinking noise, and counted it quickly. Seventeen pieces of gold glittered appealingly in the low light. It wasn't bad, considering how their pickings had gotten poorer lately. Trade in Gornath was going through a slump, and so almost everyone had less money to spare and tuck away in little caches the thieves could conveniently take. Of course, the wealthy were as wealthy as ever, and they had recently hired more vigilant and loyal guards, and it was nearly impossible to get anything off them. Hanard nodded with approval. "Very good. I'll have ten, Hanard can have five. Sakaso, take two for yourself. Keep it up and you'll make me happier." Sakaso knew what that meant. Promotion, which meant a bigger share in their pickings. He caught the two gold pieces in his hand with a grin, and walked out the door with the facecloth back on his face. Today was a rare day to get an entire two pieces of gold. It was usual to not get anything but a few pieces of copper or some cracked piece of crystal (which selled for a few pieces of copper on the street) or something. Considering how a few coppers bought several beers and a meal of stale bread with moldy cheese or smelly fish, a piece of gold was a sizeable thing. Of course, his usual way to spend it would be to drink it away, but today he had a thought. Perhaps he could buy one of those good swords at the smithy's. Not that the curved short sword tucked away in a sheath hidden away in his trousers was bad, but it felt good to have a real quality blade. Or he he could get one of the mysterious magical charms hanging at the back of the small shop run by the old wizard. He didn't know what they did, but they could come in handy. Anyhow, that could be thought over in his own little mansion, as he liked to call it. His "mansion" was just a small portion of the Gornath sewers, a good spot right under the manhole where he could actually get a little sun. Many of the homeless lived in these sewers, and it was a hotbed of nighttime stabbings and murders, but they knew not to mess with a thief connected with Hanard, and especially not Sakaso. It was said that Sakaso slept with an invisible eye that constantly watched out for him. Sakaso just gave a grin to such rumors whenever he heard them. He climbed down the manhole to the sewer, and went about fishing out his tattered blanket from a broken spot in the wall. Wrapping it around him, he went to sleep with a sigh. But of course, he was always ready to spring to his feet with a knife in hand. A good thief always sleeps very lightly. ----------------------------- Author's comment: Well, there goes the first chapter of the series. I think this went significantly better than the prologue. Look forward to the next portion, because something will happen soon that will Sakaso's world upside down.

Oh. *goes red* Ahh. Well. At this moment, I can tell you that the "world" in the Prologue contains no other objects, and you envisioned it correctly. It was actually inspired in part by the End Of Time in Chrono Trigger. (And does the name sound Japanese? I didn't mean for it to be Japanese. Oh well.)

----------------------------- Prologue ----------------------------- It is a place beyond time, and a time beyond existence. Swirling dreams of shattered minds waft through the air and wind, hidden knowledge flows through the unconscious, and lost memories of past lives whisper in the dust on a floor floating in the middle of nowhere. The floor is only big enough to cover a small room, and lighting it is a single torch of ghostly, everlasting light mounted on a metal post. The flickering torch is a solitary protest against the powerful air of inevitability that imbues this small world. This is the place where the beginning and end of time come together. This is one of many small worlds constructed between layers of reality, built to house the ones of power who desire a more quiet life. Seated beneath the tall lamppost is a man dressed in black robes. The ghostly light casts his face in shadow, but the sharp-eyed can make out the network of runes covering every inch of the face. They are all connected with lines with a flowing hand, all colored with the same blood-red ink, except for one rune. On his forehead is the symbol of divinity in golden ink. His eyes are closed in contemplation. Feeling a new presence, he opens his eyes and stares unblinkingly into the darkness. After a while, a ball of swirling, heatless fire pierces the nothingness. It sails toward him and stops above his lap, dissolving into vapor. It leaves behind a sheet of paper. The man looks down at it, and raises an eyebrow. "I see. Another god needs killing." ----------------------------- Author's comment: Heh. There'll be these after each piece, I think. This piece was a bit short. I guess it was a sort of a warmup. The last piece of "dialogue" sort of came to me, and it did inspire me a little bit for the big plot. Hmm. Fun, fun. Anyhow. Feel free to comment, alright? I adore comments.

Author's comment: In order to build up a little foundation of writing pieces of my own in the big pile already accumulated in the Pen, I shall begin writing again. Well, not that I ever did stop, but I really wasn't writing, being stuck in the 'I have too many ideas but I can't finish any one of them' limbo. I'm sure this sounds familiar to any who've attempted writing before and remember their strugglings when they first started out. As they say, the frog doesn't remember what it was like as a tadpole. The background will be that of high fantasy, possibly with the familiar world of faeries, elves, swords, sorcery, and more. In later projects, I'll consider putting my dream of a completely new fantasy world into writing, but for now I'll just focus on creating nice after-dinner-with-coffee reading material that many can enjoy. It'll come in little pieces as I find the time to write more. I don't have a world planned out, but I'll slowly work my way up. For example, just begin with a simple watering hole surrounded with small homes with a general store and blacksmith with a little back alley for the thieves to hang around in, then expand it to a bigger and more complete town, then go on to describe the towns and cities and forests around it, etc. I hope everyone enjoys it, and I hope many people come along for a read. Do comment at the Critic's Corner.

Congratulations. So ... Quill-bearer is 'full member' status?

Ah, thank you. *whisper* You all know I used to be ntraveler2, right? This shall be my official Pen character, and this piece will describe his history.

Thanks. So ... am I accepted, or what? I'm still a 'guest', it seems ...

The pale, blue moon shone almost reluctantly on a field filled with twisted, broken weapons and corpses. All the fires that might have burned on the battlefield had long since been put to rest, so the only light illuminating the aftermath was the reflection coming from the broken pieces of metal that mocked the ones who had died. The light whispered derisively, brushing by the ascending souls as they disappeared, one by one, in a voice that could not be heard by mortal minds. What did you give your lives for? Where did it get you? Nothing you would understand. We ascend, having fulfilled our dharma as warriors. ... fools ... what is the point ... what is the point ... The wind grew in strength, and blew away the silence that broke the silence, and the silent voices gradually faded away like so many emotions swept away by time. Nature was not merciful, and true silence blanketed the landscape under the moon once more. Rare were the nights when the moon was as blue as this; tonight it could almost be felt as ice on one's finger. "What fortune. The true moon shines tonight." A lone figure shifted, and staggered to its feet. It was a disheveled, wounded man covered in robes that were soiled and torn enougn to hide their true colors. Arrows decorated the patches of his bare flesh, broken pieces of various weapons stuck out from his body, and dried blood crusted on his clothing, giving him a very grotesque appearance. However, his eyes did not show any mere physical pain. Instead, they looked weary. A weariness beyond even that of the immortals. "The debt of karma must be paid tonight, though it may weigh down my soul." He smirked. If he still had one, that is. He needed to build a pyre, and the readily available fuel appeared to be the many corpses around him. He raised his hand, which began to glow a dull green, and swept it around himself in a circle. He started to mutter the mystical syllables in his mind, and stopped. He shook his head. This needed to be done by hand, otherwise it was meaningless as the repayment of the karma he had accumulated. If he was going to atone for his sins, using sorcery to avoid getting dirt under his nails wasn't the way to do it. He began to gather the corpses by hand. Each one, he lifted with his own hands and piled on top of the little pile he had already made. Every corpse he slung over his back seemed to weigh more than anything he had lifted before. The lifeless eyes of the dead felt like the eyes of Judgement. They burned into his back, into his mind, and into his soul. Sweat, mixed with dry blood and dirt, ran into one of his eyes and put these thoughts from his mind. Having built a sufficiently large pile of corpses, he noticed he had no means of making fire. He sighed. He would have to set it on fire by sorcery. "I suppose there is no other way. Well, this is the last spell I shall utter as myself. Pyros." A corpse was instantly covered with flame. The mage took out a bottle of oil and gave the surrounding corpses a pouring of oil and stood back. He gave the burning corpses a thoughtful glance. It was definitely true that the ones with a finite existence were the truly happy ones. They didn't know true power. They lived their short, boring, but happy lives and passed away without ever knowing real temptation. In a way, they were the blessed ones, and the immortals were the truly damned. As the fire spread, the flames reflected in his eyes gave voice to the turmoil in his mind. He closed his eyes and thought back on his life. All of a sudden, every murder, every lie, every theft, everything he had ever done wrong came back to him in a single instant. The towering flames reared up like a living thing, and flew up into the air, leaving the pyre a pile of ashes. The mage drew in a deep breath, and gave the flames a final nod. This was the final moment. This was when he would pay for his sins. This was when he would be destroyed and be given an appropriate punishment. His mind felt clear, and his resolve was firm. In a way, this was the only moment he could truly say he had been happy. The flames descended with powerful force, completely devouring the small figure, and grew into an enormous whirlwind of fire that took on a mind of its own. It roared and screamed in anguish, almost as if it wished to destroy the world in the frenzied dance of the Nataraj. All of the silent eyes looking upon the fire turned away. Not even the most powerful of planewalkers could meet the fiery eye of the sacred flames for long. The moment of judgement was the most eternal of moments, and the shortest of eternities. What occurred during that moment is indescribable in any speech or thought. The powerful consciousness withdrew from the fire, and the flames disappeared very soon. Miraculously, the flames didn't seem to have burnt anything but the corpses on the battlefield, leaving behind a field with no traces of a struggle at all. A completely different figure lay on the ground, clad in plain brown robes. This appeared to be a human male. He appeared to be a mulatto in his early twenties and was slightly more stoutly built, instead of the taller, deathly pale humanoid being of undeterminable age or race. A long, wooden walking staff lay next to his shaven head. The only other noticeable feature was the necklace that lay around his neck. It was wide enough to allow freedom of breath, but not wide enough to be removed. It was made of some sort of black metal, and was marked with the ancient symbol for sin. He thrashed wildly on the ground. His eyes flew open, filled with confusion, and his hands clutched at the air. He gasped out a few words. "I ... am ... Shathward ... " OOC: This is my application writing piece. I hope this suffices. If there is a problem with format, let me know.

*despite vows not to post due to approaching midterm, ends up posting* Pfft. Well, I appreciate all the good wishes and welcomes. As for the rank of Page, it is something I must give up. I have effectively nullified everything I've done to get the rank of Page, and I must atone by starting over from 'guest'. Now. I really ... must ... study ...