View Full Version : (Sept) Prompt #2 - Indignant
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The second prompt of September is the word, indignant.
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If you have any questions about how to participate in this event,
please visit the rules (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=63004) thread or PM me (http://role-player.net/forum/member.php?u=42034).
Happy writing!
Learn to swim... (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=neGdoqsuiN8)
The leader of the Golden Knights sat down in his own private chambers adjacent to the Chapel of his Order. Long golden strands hung down, framing his face in finely straightened, clean layers. The Knight-Captain was clean shaven, his hair tied back apart from those layers that draped over his shoulders. His piercing blue eyes were upon the holding frame before him, designed specifically to support only one blade in this world.
Reaching his left gauntlet-wrapped hand to the hilt on his right, he pulled forth the majestic sabre from its sheathe. Sabres were versatile single-edged blades, curved and meant to be swung in an arc, rather than thrust forward for piercing, like a rapier. They had the added distinction of being the sword of choice for horsemen and cavalry. The sheathe that held the blade was embossed in platinum and constructed of polished wood--a hybrid make that combined the organic with the elemental in its design. The hilt of the sabre was made of black strips of leather wound around gold-plated enchanted steel--the same steel which was used to forge the blade itself. On the head of the hilt, the Vitruvian Man was engraved--the seal of the Order. Golden hand-guard swept out from the round head to rejoin with the blade at its bridge, designed for protection and deflection, rather than disarmament. Aurelius would rely on the edge of the blade for that task in combat. The blade's hilt was meant to provide balance and shield his right hand from any attacks, unprotected as it was like the gauntlet that wrapped around his left.
Laying it down upon the frame, he took a seat on the stone bench beside it, and turned to the sharpening kit next to him, deftly opening it to reveal a file, a whetstone, a vial of oil, a piece of coarse sandpaper, and a slip of silk. Taking the file in his right hand, he ran the edge of the file over the length of the blade in a steady, measured rhythm.
"Our guards and townspeople are more than skilled enough to handle anything that might come up against us, without the help of the shining airheads."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
"And I will be damned if I let a racist prick who has his head so far up his arse that he cannot see daylight lead us."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
"However, to think that arms and armor alone will solve this problem simply shows me you are not what the expedition truly needs, at least not at leaders."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
"Lord Aurelius, of the Golden Guard, I have confidence in your bravery but how would it stand without your faithful men to watch your back? You are young and have much to learn about what a true warrior might be."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
"No we need a neutral leader, and one who everyone can respect and trust."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
"We find your words to be a contradiction on much as now you seem more than willing to protect those who mere moments ago you insinuated to be a threat to Zarasan."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
"Do you Sir, truly think for one single moment that anyone but the so called "decision makers" who allowed the bomb to be set off and infect our lands are to blame for this destruction we now face?"
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
Her gaze leveled off with his, then just as abruptly without so much as giving him chance to respond, she turned her back on him to face the crowd of frightened and confused settlers and friends. "Friends, our good Lord Aurelus feels that we need an army of warriors, his warriors, to protect us from any incoming threats."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
"He has given his loyalty and is wise when he speaks of the disunity the golden lord would bring to our homes and peaceful way of life."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
"Genavia and Dire have brought up very valid concerns of which the Elders agree with. Your words, while some wise and all eloquent, do not appear to be sincere to when you contradict your own words."
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
Thirty passes Aurelius made with the file, thirty to carry out the scraping resentment and indignation that scraped and roughened up his indomitable spirit. Thirty to echo the barbs and biting words he and his beloved Order sustained at the hands of the Elders and dissenters at that meeting. Thirty scrapes of the file across the blade would be beautiful.
And deadly.
Aurelius's azure gaze fell upon the bruised appearance of this legendary weapon, its polished sheen now dulled with the file's merciless passes. He frowned, feeling an empathy for the blade, and took the vial of oil, pouring it upon the wounded edge that had lost its shining glow.
And then, with the slickness of the oil upon the sword, the Knight-Captain of the Golden Knights drew out the whetstone. Laying it down beneath the blade, he slowly embraced the hilt with the fingers of his right hand, the tip of the blade with the fingers of his left, and began to make thirty more passes over the surface of the stone at a thirty degree angle in the same, smooth, uniform rhythm.
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
They would pass beyond the reach of the Elder Chivon and her influence, and the platinum haired Amazon would be isolated, alone, by herself in Zarasan after they left.
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
They would pass beyond the walls, leaving behind family and friends to fend for themselves.
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
Little would they know that there were threats and powers beyond their little world lurking in the mountains, lurking beyond...
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
Though they felt safe in their little harbor, the sea would prove kind only to those who could survive the storm...
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
Only the ones who could swim would survive; only the ones who could fight would survive...
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
The violence of the natural world respected only one law...
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
Survival of the fittest.
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
They thought they had won? Aurelius smiled tightly. They were going into the one place where the Knights would not just survive, but thrive.
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
Where only words were allowed in Zarasan, blades and might would determine every single one of their fates beyond the walls.
*scrape* *scrape* *scrape*
Drawing the blade up, Aurelius examined it; his laser focus engraved the blade with his gaze. His left finger reached over for the sandpaper now and with immeasurable precision, he drew it carefully, slowly, exactly along the blade's edge, now sharper than ever. One meticulous, slow, careful pass after another. This final act required a marriage of patience and focus that only finest blacksmiths and warriors could appreciate.
After thirty minutes passed like years off his life, the Lord of Aramosa stood up, extending the sabre into the shaft of sunlight that shot through the window with the first fingers of dawn. Then he dipped the blade into trough of water for just a few seconds before raising it again, taking a rough cloth and sliding it ever so gently over the edge of the sword, cleaning it off from its brief bath.
Finally, he drew out the slip of silk and with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he tossed it into the air. Like a dream, a hope upon fluttering wings it shot up and then glided, slipping back and forth, down, down, down... upon the upturned edge, slicing silently in two without hesitation. The two separate halves of the silk piece fluttered their own ways to the floor, never to be joined again.
Such was the fragility of hopes and dreams.
Kicks
09-21-2015, 01:38 AM
A pencil in hand, a paper beneath dried skin. Lotion came to mind, but no sooner did the thought float away and onto the paper. It was traced in gray lead, its elements created by swirls and twirls. Lotion became a dance, its partner coming in later... a fashionable arrival. The paper applauded for the partners dance.
The gray tip pulled away, as if scorned by an indignant alien.
And the alien teased the atmosphere, filing away its destination onto the paper. The paper, always accepting and loyal, took the alien into its spaceship... its gray and lead spaceship.
Down in the corner a curious observer watched, skinny as a stick was its countenance. Its telescope and eyes were larger than its body. He was grinning crookedly at the onslaught of the sky. It had lit up with falling bodies. The alien had brought back zombies with it.
The paper took on the new horrors without fear. The paper was always so convinced that whatever was given unto it was nothing but a good thing. It was not its job to judge, but the pink think sticking out at the end of the yellow stick.
One end created and the other end destroyed. How could two completely different things be married to one body? Did they not know that all creations were beautiful?
The paper giggled and crinkled under the pressure of the pink thing. The alien was erased and destroyed, bloodied, and smeared and in its place an airplane with wide wings and a skinny frame came to life. Its engine puffed out smoke and from its crooked and wrecked, gray door came a body floating from the sky like a tiny speck being swung by a great D.
And still the boy in the corner watched.
The dance between lotion and its partner ended shortly at the arrival of the pink thing. Just like the alien, these partners were sent into smears and doom. Their end had come. And in their place arrived clouds looking like a melted puddle of chocolate and vanilla.
The zombies were joined by dots, all askew and spewing in random places. They had no means, they had no end, they were a crazy dance without grace or direction.
The paper was torn, and with it its new friends. The eraser was not needed for this adventure. Instead, it remained resting while its married pair came into play once more. The paper was tossed into the trash in several pieces. Its murdered body had no screams or places for new stories to be told.
Instead, a new piece of paper- white and fresh- was put in its place. The lead tip pushed against this paper, suddenly moving much quicker. This time no doodles came to meet the paper. Just words. Lots and lots of words all dancing together like a choir that had done many nights in training for the perfect dance for their perfect song.
Just like any great dance and any great song there were mistakes. But the paper gladly accepted these mistakes just as it gladly accepted the dance and the song.
It listened and watched, felt and smelled this dance and this song. So many details came forth from it. At first just few words, now several all to create one great story. It was like a ballet. Though it could be seen and it could be heard, with it came real feeling and real adventures. It told a great story.
A story of kingdoms and of nights. Of a little boy that watched from afar with his telescope. He watched as the monstrosity from the sky unfolded, as a girl in a castle put lotion on her skin. As the zombies fell from the sky. As two new married pairs danced along each other. As the alien flew off into space, as it called more of its people to join the zombies. And then there was a war, a great war between the aliens and the zombies. It all started with the princess because an alien fell in love with a princess but then the zombie killed the princess. The war had started and ended with love. For the boy watching from afar showed the two sides in the war what love really was and how it came in so many forms.
And the paper cried when a zombie killed the little boy. It cried when the eraser refused to come and erase the damage of the story. It hoped for replacements, it hoped for more of a great story. But the eraser never came. Its married other half came instead, continuing the story without the little boy.
The war may have ended but now the zombies and the aliens had to find their ends too. The zombies were shipped off into space. And then the aliens went back home. The alien that had lost its princess continued to cry for many days and for many nights. Until one day a littlle ghost boy showed up in its spaceship. And the paper was suddenly leaping with joy. It crinkled in places because of the intensity of the lead.
The little ghost boy was the one that taught them about love and the different expression sof love. And it had come back, latched to its new friend because it didn't want to be lonely and it new the alien was lonely. And so the two stayed together. They had to stay together because they refused to be lonely. And they wanted to share in the love of friendship.
And so the story was ended with another mark made by the lead. It looked like the little dots that had marked up the other paper. And while this piece of paper thought the story was amazing, it was still torn to shreds.
More shredded pieces of gray and white were tossed into the garbage can. The pencil was put down. The lotion was put back in place. The writer's block remained.
Part Seven of the September Story
Previous Installment (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=65399&p=2593604&viewfull=1#post2593604)
Next Installment (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=75406&p=2614901&viewfull=1#post2614901)
From the way she was holding the paper, and from the very way she was shaking, Paul could tell that Miranda had not yet finished reading the letter. But he had finished it. And he had read more than enough. He was more than just a little indignant. No, he was fully angry.
He had stood up. He could not even look at that paper anymore. How dare they, he thought How dare they even think such a thing would be appropriate? Leaving us here to die? As if they could escape death?
If one of them appeared now, in person, before him, Paul would have punched them out in a second. It was one thing to make a mistake- that was forgivable- but it was quite another to run from the consequences of one. If the theoretical had happened, and one of those leaders had appeared in front of him, somehow, Paul would have thrown his fist, hard. And then, he would be was quite willing to accept his consequence- probably a punch back. And so would begin a fight, and he would be plenty fine with whatever bruises he got. But, considering that none of those whom he wanted to punch were here to be battered, he did not care of theoretical consequences- in fact, he did not even care about theoretical possibilities. All he cared about now was the present.
And his emotion towards the present, simple as it was, was anger.
He had been tricked! Deceived! Lied to!
And why? Because someone, someday had thought this was a good idea. A good idea? Pfft. As if treating his life as a simple plaything was a good idea! If he ever found that person...
He stalked angrily towards the open wall, where once the window had stood. The sky, now cloudy, seemed to mirror his emotion. The wind was stirring, and it tugged at his jacket. He looked out, and saw the remaining ruins of the surrounding buildings- once tall, white pillars of... of...
Of what?
Of nothing. NOTHING!
He bent down and picked up a shard of glass. As he straightened up, he tightened his grip. The glass pierced him, and the red blood began to flow. He did not acknowledge the pain.
What were these buildings for anyways? Supposedly people had once bustled here and there- important people- people who thought they controlled the world. But what had happened to them? Well, when they decided they wanted to rule their world a different way, they had all been destroyed. Their puny white sandcastles had collapsed, and they- well, those that could- left, and those that could not must have screamed in pain as the flames consumed them, destroyed in their self-created Hell.
But he, he had been left here. He had been made to suffer for something that never was his own, something he never agreed to ever. And before then, even for those first years, before the disaster of ten years ago, he had been living in a lie. Could good things come from playing make believe? No. This proved it. Dreams must always, eventually cede to reality, and the stark contrast between the two would always make the previous one hated, no matter how rose-colored it was. If nothing else, it will be hated because it is gone, and can never come back
Paul threw the piece of glass as hard as he could. It hit what might have once been a lamppost, then fell to the ground. Two plinks, and it was silent. The wind continued to blow, rustling the leaves at his feet. It was silent a moment more.
Then he cried out as loud as he could.
He cried out at all the injustice he had faced.
He cried out of anger towards those who had wronged him
But mostly, he cried out of his inability to do anything.
And there was no response to his cries, to his accusations. The wind only ok them away, and when it returned, blew back only empty echoes.
Now he was silent. He stood there, a drop of blood falling from his hand that had once held the piece of glass. The drop hit the floor, and was absorbed into the carpet. The dark red spot, that would soon turn brown, would stain the dirty gray carpet forevermore. Once more, a man had made his mark on the room. Small, surely, and not even noticed by the one who did it, but it had been done. Even unnoticed, it would not fade, until the building itself had turned to dust, the path towards which it was already heading.
But for the while, while yet the moment was present to Paul, the building still stood. For better or for worse, it had not yet collapsed and did not yet collapse while he remained in it. And so, the man, moving away from his anger and towards the despair that comes from not being able to do anything about the cause of the anger, stepped back from the window and fell to his knees.
"Why?"
The single word escaped his lips, spoken barely above a whisper. He had asked this question before, true, but never quite in the same way. As he looked towards the empty sky for an answer of some sort, he was doing the first searching he had done for a long time. Usually, he asked why in answer. But this time- well, this time, he actually wanted an answer, no matter what it would be. He had fallen apart so much that even the words "It is your fault" would have been welcomed. So long as there was an answer, something definite that would have explained all that had happened, all that was happening-
He felt a sudden grasp on his hand. He turned. It was Lyra.
"Um," she said, biting her upper lip, and looking a bit scared, "Auntie's fainted."
He looked towards where Miranda had been sitting. Sure enough, she was now completely on the floor. Seeing this, in some whirlwind of rising, grabbing his pack and opening it, and running to her side, he was placing salt under her nose.
Here, at least, was a problem he could solve. Here, at least, he was capable of doing something.
And that was good enough- for now.
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