[Just a quick something I decided to write up in-character after spending a day RPing with the Orcs. It's content is most likely inaccurate OOCly, but it's what my character has managed to observe over the years. It also might seem a little rushed, didn't really put much effort into writing it]

    “Halt!” a man shouted from behind him. The Wandering Wizard glanced behind him, there was a hooded figure dressed in nothing but light leather armor, not a common sight around here.

    “I’m s-s-sorry but I have to k-keep going, the temple isn’t t-too far from here”, The Wandering Wizard stuttered as he turned back around, continuing down the mountain's edge.

    “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Wizard”, the man explained. The figure lowered his cowl to reveal bones and rotten flesh. The undead snarled as he lunged forward, gripping the hilt of his sword. The Wandering Wizard raised his hands in the air and murmured words under his breath. instantly the undead was sent hurtling through the air. The undead hit the ground hard near the edge. It tried to stand up but it lost it’s balance and fell off the edge. It’s screams began to grow fainter as it reached the mountain valley floor. The Wandering Wizard looked over the edge and saw nothing but a void. The Wandering Wizard could hear faint growls behind him, he instantly turned around and began running through the snow as fast as he could, heading for the temple.

    The Wandering Wizard was nearing the temple, it was just around the mountains corner. The Wandering Wizard reached the corner and glanced at the Snow Fields. His heart sank. ‘This couldn’t be’, he thought to himself. There in the open, sat the remains of the Snowy Fields. Nothing was left but ashes and fire. The distant calls of his name we're not welcomes, they were cries for help. The Wandering Wizard fell on his knees and wept. He was too late.

The distant growls began to grow closer but The Wandering Wizard payed no attention to them. He had failed and now countless inhabitants were killed on his account.  The undead behind him picked him up and shoved him off of the edge of the mountain. The Wandering Wizard fell peacefully. The ground grew closer to him until he finally hit the mountain valley floor.

The Wandering Wizard awoke in his bed. He sat up quickly, drenched in sweat. ‘What a nightmare”, he thought to himself as he set up and put on his robe. He walked out of his front door, men and women we're screaming and running through the streets. A man in full chain mail armor walked up to the Wandering Wizard,"Snowy Fields is under attack."

"They're running around like headless chickens, searching for us.



"They've escaped! The prisoners have escaped! Find them!" Their
Captain is a fool, an idiot, blinded by drink, gold and women. He's
being uncommonly cruel to his men tonight - understandable, if it wasn't
his fault.



He's infuriated, that much is obvious from a league and a half away. It
looks like he's rallying some men for a search party. It seems he's
already assumed that we are not in the compound, so he's bringing the
dogs as well. Some soldiers are half asleep, fumbling with their tunics
or leaning on their halberds - trying to catch a few winks. Others are
in hysterics, scared and confused that their dangerous but weak
prisoners have got out of their strong steel confinements.



The search party is coming towards us. Looks like the dogs have picked
up our scent, and are leading the men straight to us - into the swamps.
They walk right over us, as planned, and are lead deeper and deeper into
the murky waters. We wait for the water to rise to their shins, thighs,
waists, chests and then finally their shoulders before we strike. We
take out the men at the front and back first, stabbing and strangling,
drowning and biting. The lanterns go under, and the marsh is left in
complete darkness. Unfortunately for them, so are the men in the middle.



I see my first target, and quickly swim towards him. I open my eyes
under the water, feeling the pleasant but shocking sting engulfing my
sockets. I grab him by the ankle, pulling him deep down... further,
further and further until I see the white in his eyes dim and the panic
in his body lessen. In his last moments, he's realizing the mistakes he
made: following an incompetent and inexperienced leader into little
known lands; favoring protection over survivability by refusing to take
his armor off; and regretting the fact he has no chance in killing the
thing that has just killed him. Then, finally, the panic kicks back in,
and his arms flail before he finally sinks to the deep, thick weeds. I
swim back up, a dagger in my mouth, for my next victim. By now there are
little more then ten soldiers left, one by one vanishing with little
more than a gurgle. I swim to a large man (that is struggling to swim,
nevermind fight), and quickly cut jagged slits in his throat, listening
to the panic and fright in his thoughts. In a second I am done, leaving
the broad man to seek peace in the crevasses of the water.



There are three left. I swim closer. One vanishes - the last thing seen
of him is his hand reaching skyward from the surface of the water.
Another tries to grab for him, only for one of us to jump on him and
stab wildly. There is one left. Bodies of some lighter armored guards
float around him. I can feel the panic coming from him, then the area
around him turns red as he gets angry over the failure of his men. I
swim slowly now. I'm in no rush. I see three or four other ripples
heading towards him. To my left, one of ours is biting on the insides of
a dead dog. I can hardly blame him. We've been starved for two weeks,
nothing but crumbs to fight over and horrible liquor drank by the
Westerners to share. Just looking at potential food gets me hungry, but I
quickly snap my self out of it and turn towards our last target.



Ten feet away now. Seven. Five. Two.



I hear a horrible snap and a whizz, as a crossbow bolt skims my ear. I
look to the banks and see a group of men firing volleys into the water
blindly. More arrows plunge into the water. I swim under, trying to get
as deep as I can. I reach the weeds and look up. I see shaggy haired,
skinny and naked shapes writhing, before their blood taints the cool
water around them. One boy is hit - not much older than seven at least -
and he floats to the top despite his desperate attempts to dive deeper.
He spasms and wriggles as he is hit three, four, five and more times.
Tears come from my eyes, disappearing in the water around me. I see some
of ours make it to the weeds and plants. I quickly count. Three, four
including me, survived. I turn my head and dive to the fat man with the
cut throat. I rip his coin purse from a string to his belt and swim off,
clenching my fist around the handle of my makeshift knife.



We escaped with forty-three.

We left with four.



They started with 89.

They escaped with one.



That one, will go on and tell stories about the 'Palude Fantasma'.

We are Draugr. We are secret."

These are the thoughts of many. The thoughts of the few. The innumerable terrors of the many in the world. We focus only on the thoughts of one in this secretion of events told in linear fashion of petty mortality.

Verin felt a dark trepidation as he looks around the room, a slight buzz in his ears as the empty void engulfed him. He coughed, blood spilt onto the cobbles. His dark robes glittered seamlessly, a magic almost. Far from, if he had magic something could be done. This isn’t a fairy-tale. The man thought to himself in sequences of bemoaning. His perfect silence was interrupted, there was a cackle. Perhaps it was his own mind. Perhaps not. He pictured a rather tall ape with a twirly mustache as the ether took him. He made a broad grin, and there was a dark.

He fell. Deeper than earthly possible There was a flashing of lights, a grim screech, a vision of a river, flowing water. The smell of ash.

((Opinions? Verin is a placeholder name.))

Words

Words are like knives going through my flesh

As though it was nothing but a yarn mesh

The words are evil the words are crude

But I know the people who spew them are just plain rude

The blood flows down my skin

I wish I could just fit in

The words cut and slash

The people beat and mash

They see not the blood that flows

Even though its redder than a rose

They try to make me bleed

And believe me when I say they suceed

The people will say the words again

I wish I could scream until my head starts to spin

I tell I cry i scream I shout

I wish they would just cut it out

They make me bleed

Can they not read the pain in my face and my eyes

But I can smile and say my lies

Am I so different from those who talk

Don't we all crawl before we walk

Some say they wish I was dead

Many say they think I'm crazy in my hdead

They make me bleed from my soul and my heart

Their evil words tear me apart

But I just laugh and say I'm fine

How many times will I say that line?

All I know is they make me bleed

 Words

Words are just words

Yet they drag her down

She feels them tearing at her soul

She rarely lets on though

She smiles never frowns

But words are just words

Even though they drag her down.

Poems, Words

Cut

Can the pain of the wounds stop

Unfair is the word to her

Though the pain goes on she feels it less

Numb

Never ending pain

Unfair

Memory fading

But now she does not feel

Invisible

If she stands there

No one will see her

Very few would see her if she moved

If she left

So few would miss her

If she died

Bloody terrible death

Little would anyone care

Even though she's right there

Tragedy

There is a girl

Running from the reality of this world

Always hating her pain

Going round and round again

Everything seems fake

Does she know her own face

Yet there is a girl

Poems, Story

Reality Hits home

Kids stand on the lawn

Waiting Watching

The air was cold

It suited their moods

"Their coming."

Kids strained their necks

Then came the cars, escorting one from this city

It grew quiet, people bowed their heads

The war had taken another

But this was different

Until now none from the city had died

A black car passed

Then the army cars

Followed by the grieving family

We now feel the pain of reality

The pain of the war

That until now seemed fake

Child

Sleeping in a bed

There lays a child

Blissfully unawaares of anything outside his dream

He knows not about war

He only watches kids movies

He has no concept of what is going on outside

For he is cuddled in a warm mass of blankets

All of us where like that

Until our dreams where ripped away

Now we notice things the child does not

Though at times we wish we where still innocent

Like the child sleeping in the bed

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It originated from the Teutonic Order, and spread out from there. I made a map for it too, and I guess I thought I might share it with a group of more than 35 people to judge.

Requirements were to make you head of the nation, base it off a culture we learned about, make a map, observe the appropriate codes of that culture and choose to ignore or follow them, pick a type of government around in that time.

The Empire of Gotteslandt started from the Teutonic Order settled in the Prussian region around the Baltic. In 1255, as the town of Konigsberg was being founded, the Hochmeister fell ill, and Ordensmarschall James was elevated to the Hocmeister of the Teutonic Order. Within hours of being made Hochmeister, he ordered that the remaining Lithuanians be vassals, or face quick death at the hands of the Order. The order was more than pleased to bring death to their hated enemies, and the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, eager to see the Lithuanians, once Pagans, put to the sword.

This was taken with less than enthusiastic choler by the Lithuanians, who subsequently declared war on the Order, claiming the lands inhabited to have been stolen. Withing the week, the first battle raged. Hochmeister James rode out, his banner flying in the harsh Prussian winds, carried by his banner carrier, his swordboy riding on his left. The Lithuania king, a man once Pagan rode out, his retinue also of a banner carrier and a swordboy. Saying to the Hochmeister, "Aš iššūkis jums garbingos kovos, jei neturėjo garbę ginčyti", insulting him and the entire Order. As the King turned and rode to his lines, the Hochmeister would hold out his hand to his page, being handed a crossbow, and firing the bolt into the back of the king.

The Lithuanian soldiers, unsure what to do, stood there, until a captain named Danukas strode forward, and knelt before the Hochmeister with the words "Jūs turite nužudyti karalių, ir mes, be abejo, toks pat likimas, jei mes neturime sekti" and swearing fealty. Word spread quickly of the Lithuanian kings fall, his son, a 12 year old boy was crowned and reigned for three days before the Hochmeister and his solders, including the newly appointed General Danukas and his Lithuanian Regiments, came to the gates and slew those who did not kneel, the young king included.

Lithuania was broken, with no king, the provinces broke, other armies of the Teutonic Order, assisted by the Holy Roman Empire, marched upon the remnants, quickly taking over Lithuania for the Order. the Hochmeister would ride back to Konigsberg after the young king fell, looted riches being carried in carts to help fund the construction of the city, and a palace at it's center.

​The Most Holy Pontiff fell ill shortly after, and passed on, a Cardinal from Prussia was elected, who happened to be antiquated with the Hochmeister James. After being elected, he issued a Papal Bull, ordering all vassals of the Lithuanian royal family, to swear to Hochmeister James, or be declared heretics and be excommunicated. This was a formality, they were already under Order control. The Most Holy Pontiff also declared the Hochmeister King of Prussia, and ceded all the lands occupied by the Teutonic Order, to the Order. The Pope also gave all authority of the Teutonic Order to the King of Prussia, who happened to be Hochmeister.

Celebrations were held for 6 days, the last day being Saturday. Knights marched in full dress along the streets, squires behind them. The King of Prussia rode through the streets of Konigsberg all six days, being lauded by the common and noble alike, the royal coffers will filled with donations from the Papacy, England, Holy Roman Empire, and France, along with orders that the Teutonic Order treasury would be merged with the Royal treasury, to help bolster each other. General Danukas was made Archduke of Lithuania, and given permission to maintain the Lithuanian Regiments

By April 6th 1257, the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (HRE) was taxing his subjects too heavily, spending the wealth for himself, holding lavish parties, and spoiling himself. Princes and Lords from across the Empire were ceding, and forming coalitions, putting the Empire in a state of peril and war with itself. Working out a deal with the Pope, King James got a Bull issued by the Pope ordering all former vassals to rejoin the Empire, or cede to the Empire's loyal friend, Prussia.

3 coalitions, consisting of roughly 1/3 of North Germany ceded to Prussia. Princes were made Archdukes, the other nobles kept their titles, being forced to swear vassalage to King James of Prussia. By December 2nd 1257, Prussia declared war on the Empire, using the vices and sins and mistreatment of the masses as it's causam belli. By July 3 1258, the Prussian armies were marching into Vienna. General-Archduke Danukas led the Lithuanian Regiments, lords led their levies, while the King and Hochmeister, one man, led the Teutonic Order himself.

Vienna was quickly captured, the Emperor slain, and three of his four sons slain in battle, the fifth, a 5 month old infant, was spared. The King forced all the vassals of the Imperial Family to come and swear fealty, those who didn't were killed. The captured regions of the Austrian regions were made into a Kingdom under Prussia, the Austrian Kingdom, the previous son of the Empire made king, and the Lord High Steward of Prussia was made regent.

Despite the Papal Bull, and there being no war declared by France on the Empire, various Princes had stayed ceded to France, and French soldiers committed raids upon Imperial, no Austrian, peasant farms, burning them, raping, and pillaging as they went. The King of Prussia ordered troops not tasked with reconstruction or garrison of various forts and cities to march to the Austrian-French border, along the Rhine. Declaring war on France, King James I of Prussia had soldiers go to every sacked town and farm, and recruit them into the army.

At the first battle with the French, the Prussian King met the French King one to one in the middle of the field, James demanding the French surrender the rightful lands taken, and immediate reparations for damages. The French King, a man named Charles III, laughed and spat upon James with no words, his chortles heard all the way back to his lines.

James I let out a sharp whistle, signaling his infantry to charge forward, his crossbowmen let loose a barrage, and his cavalry trotted out to the sides, in an apparent attempt at a flank, when from the woods, the recruited peasants ran, holding spears, forks, knives, sticks, rocks, hammers, and anything else they could use, they hit the French from the rear, leaving them in confusion, allowing the cavalry and opening in the French lines, crashing against them, the French were quickly slain and defeated, over 1/3 surrendered, and were assimilated into an all French regiment who did nothing but clean and help around the camp. The peasants were given the chance to become full time levies, scavenging armor and weapons from the fallen, all of them remaining joined.

By May 13th 1259, as the armies came to camp, and a Frenchman named Adrian approached the King, saying "J'exige que vous nous faisons ce que nous sommes nés pour faire, pour tuer" looking him right in the eye. The Prussian King nodded, and made him Captain of the French soldiers captured, which had grown since the first battle. They played a crucial role in the siege of Paris on July 2nd 1259.

The current French King, Alain, a 21 year old boy, and first born of the late King Charles, ordered the city locked down, soldiers on constant watch, with only 12% of the soldiers resting at one time, only being allotted 4 hours of sleep at a time. When King James and his men arrived, the battle could likely have been won by words alone, but he wished to send a message to Europe.

The Prussian forces were sent supplies and 300 soldiers from England by Lord High Admiral William of House Dorahy, a good friend of King James of Prussia, the supplies ranged from food, to wood, to cloth, to armor and weapons. It was then on the night on July 2nd 1259, Paris burned. The French Companies led by Captain Adrian, led the spearhead. Armed and armored in fresh gear, they were supported by Teutonic Knights, while the Lithuanian Regiments of General-Archduke Danukas took the walls, and the levies of Austrian Lords securing the perimeter of the city, preventing any from fleeing.

King Alain rode forward, a white flag raised, he demanded a duel with King James, who did so, quickly slaying the arrogant youth, who thought himself superior to a man who knew war his whole life. The French soldiers loyal to Alain surrendered mostly, some fought to the death. The youngest son of Alain was a boy a year and 7 months old, was made King of France, putting the Lord High Marshal as regent, and having him swear fealty to King James I of Prussia.

After arriving back in Konigsberg in January 7th 1260, he declared himself Emperor of Gottslandt, and was crowned in March 31st by Pope Karl I, a Prussian Pope, taking the name Constantine. Lords from all over the Empire came, feasting for 7 days, each peasant in the Empire was given 2 Florins from the treasury. During this time, Norway struck. They invaded Northern Prussia, attacking Konigsberg on the third day of the feast, their captain slain by Emperor Constantine.

Calling upon Lord High Admiral William of Dorahy, he supplies them with ships, and began blockading Norwegian ports. Norway had been conquering along the North Baltic, and to attack the Empire of Gottslandt was brave, but stupid. Transporting Prussian levies, Teutonic soldiers, and elements of the Lithuanian Regiment up into the Netherlands, and the North Baltic. Meanwhile, General-Archduke Danukas led remaining Lithuanian Regiment forces up the East Baltic, squeezing Norway.

The King of Norway, Baldur I, fortified Oslo, and ordered his navies to go to port, his soldiers to cease attacks and move to Oslo. The order was done too late, by May 4th 1260, General-Archduke Danukas approached from the east, while Emperor Constantine attacked from the sea, British ships unloaded the troops right into the harbor, their navy far superior to the Norwegian raiding ships.

Oslo was slain in battle, he died a noble death, his axe falling many enemies. In the end however, Norway was conquered and added to the Kingdom of Prussia, and in turn, the Empire. Now, the only opposition to Gottslandt was the Kingdom of Russia, a Orthodox kingdom ruled by the Rus, former viking raiders who conquered the lands there.

Recently, they had been occupied with repelling barbarian invasions, and their coffers were drained, and their armies were recuperating and rearming for the event the barbarian raiders came back. The Emperor rallied his men, already having been deployed, they would surely be ready to slay some heretical Orthodox dogs. Calling upon his Austrian levies, and French soldiers, along with the Teutonic Order in its fullest to march with him and General-Archduke Danukas to Russia.

By December 4th 1260, they had reached the Russian border, and marched in, attacking castles and cities that opposed them with little opposition, reaching Moscow by April 13th 1261, King Afansi rode out, alone, to meet Emperor Constantine who also rode alone. The words of the two were not recorded, but there was a duel, it lasted an hour and a half, three bouts, the two were in shirts and trousers when Constantine won, piercing his opponent through the abdomen, and ending him in a mercy stroke.

Russia was absorbed into the Kingdom of Prussia, adding another title to the Emperor of Gottslandt. Arriving home in Konigsberg by August 3rd 1261, the Emperor awarded medals to his generals in the Ausrian-Prussian war, Franco-Prussian war, Norwegian-Gottslander war, and Russian-Gottslandter war. From here, the Lord High Chancellor urged the Emperor to organize the Empire's peerage, as the Prussian peerage was inadequate for maintaining an Empire. Thus a new one was drafted (See below).

From here, the Empire enjoyed peace, England was their closest ally, with support from the Empire, William Dorahy became King of England, the Papacy would find many of their future Popes to be from the Empire. The Empire would be a real and dominant force throughout the coming ages. Promoting sciences and advances in technology, the Empire would come to lead the world as it's chief power.

Quick Bio: Born in 1869, October Second, Mohandas Gandhi was the last child of his father. Gandhi was a child to Karamchand Gandhi, and Putlibai Gandhi. He was a shy child, and was always quite obeidiant. At the young age of 13, Gandhi had an arranged marriage with Kasturba. At the age of 18, Gandhi took leave to London, to study there in order to become a lawyer. He left his wife and newborn son behind to go to school in London. 

I have put my ridiculous fantasy and taste into work, and decided to go start a novel! I have got the first page (s), and as there are alot of people who are into literature and lore, I would like to hear your opinion!

In groups they ran, breaking the deafening
silence of the morning winter. Cloaked with rough robes, defending the wearer
from the evils of cold. Armed with weaponry, to match their foe. Goggles for
vision, and thoughts of pride. They had one goal, one vision. Unlike others,
they shared it to their last thoughts. Nobody knew these men, these shadows
covering the white snow. They did not know where they came from, or what they
wanted. The only thing they knew sure, is the fear you will have when their havoc
and lust for death would come to you. They were many, yet they were weak when
as one. With their heavy rifles, their fast rhythms of walking. The clutching
of metal making the horrible melody of a upcoming wrath. The shadows saw their
victims, with elegant robes and golden circlets they walked unknowing of their
soon destiny. Their petty lives dedicated to protect that one thing, that one
cargo. With a blue substance surrounding the doomed caravan, they seemed to
survive the hostile cold of Northwinter. They were with few , yet the promised
power they have would be as powerful as many. The shadows, not seeming to
matter within the big world of wonder. Took their aim steady, their lives
depending on that cargo. How low could one be, being bound to survive on
materialistic possessions. But the world turned sick, vile. Not being able to
fulfill everyone's needs anymore. Their white fur robes remained steady, their
muskets leaning on the cold border of the road. The foolish Lumidrim did not
see their enemies. With nervous expressions they walked, trying to keep their
shield protecting them. They were to elegant, too weak to survive the harsh
climates of Northwinter. Yet, they were ordered to travel through the forgotten
region. The last of the shadows made it to their points, all looking from their
goggles. Thirteen muskets pointed towards one shield, five man and a chest. It
was now or never, as if the world would 
die when they missed. Everybody knew that this is their only chance, the
only time the Lumidrim had to send a weak caravan. They nodded nervously,
knowing that their lives would be changed if they missed that shot, if they
missed that stab, if they let that cargo go. 
An overwhelming sound of shots turned the soft melody of food steps and
arcane into the chaos of destruction and death. The Lumidrim, shocked by the
sudden action lost their power to their shield. Two falling into the cold
decayed ground of Northwinter of the implosion. Both sides had a short time to
react, as the ones who stood turned their pale hand palms into a hungry fire.
Their pointy brows frowned as they saw the first showing themselves with their
long muskets. All the five of the Lumidrim regrouped, they were silent, as
their art of fighting required concentration. With the glow of purple in their
eyes, and the wing shaped ears listening for any sound. They prepared for any
battle to come. They were surrounded, ambushed. The worst thing that could
happen to a caravan. They were organized, yet outnumbered by the petty Dragaç,
who stood emotionless around the Lumidrim caravan. With hidden fear one of the
five stepped out of their small transparent orb, holding his hands high to show
he is harmless. With a pretentious smile, a focus on the Dragaç and a hope of
victory. The lumidrim approaching seemed superior among its kin. He wore grand
shoulder guards pointing at the heavens above, the circlet with the biggest
stone. The elves, or as called by their own kin, Mali'Aheral . Prepared to turn
from their protective sphere to a offensive action. The superior Aheral was in
doubt of which Dragaç to face. With a nervous bow he asked, on a elegant tone
"Which of you, are in charge?" All Dragaç came closer to the vurnable
Aheral, knowing that their goal was soon to be complete. The Aheral looked upon
the several short but wide people in silence, fearing that his brave step will
result into a step to the dark grounds of the earth. The Dragaç didn't came for
negotiation. They came for one thing, one thing only. With a quick nod, and a
vicious smile.  They fired their classic
weaponry into the body wielding a hidden taste of perfection, the once elegant
posture turned into a rock with the movements of water. The first casualty
fell, and with fury the other Aheral screamed fire towards the Dragaç. But as
soon as they lit one, their shield disseapered. Resulting into a rhythm of dark
melodies chasing the remaining wildlife of Northwinter to the far outreaches.
It went all fast, and for the first time, the sound of tiny explosions from the
muskets, the harbingers of death and decay to civilazation. Were pleased and
wanted. It was a great step of the Dragaç, as they were the last remaining of
the once prosperous race of the Dwemerin. The Aheral, a once passive and pure
race living among the other civilizations turned vile when they tasted the
bitter taste of magical power. Since the Arcanica, a huge energy source within
the deep core of the Lumidrim mountains was discovered by the Aherals. They
received hunger, for imperialism. Instead of believing to be perfect, they now
believed in being the most superior race of all time. Even today, their armies
fight the vile race of humans and all other remaining races to the last man.
But the Dragaç, the first victims of the Aheral turned hostile as well. The
last remaining, regrouped in their ruined capital Utovian. The last squadrons
of their military the Lumidrim, are ordered to extinct this rebellious race.
But they won't stop, not until they have brought the regime of destruction and
decay to their petty fall. The bodies of the Aherals, not moving and stains of
darker red on their robes lay on the cold snowy road. No compassion was shown,
none at all. As the sun reached its highest point, the snow began to melt flake
for flake. The Dragaç danced around the bodies as a form of ritual, then the
pushed the chest off the floathing Aheral platform. As the chest fell, the lock
broke. As a wave of water the pieces of parchment flew out of the chest, some
being carried by the cold winter wind. With a grim on most faces, the Dragaç
grabbed all the parchments they could while placing them in their backpacks. It
was time for a new era, a new land. Northwinter should be returned to the
Dwemerim, the Dragaç. They were getting there, their once ridiculous ambition
turned into a bitter reality for the Aherals. As they found more survivors,
their army grew. The Aherals were with many, and they had the resources. But as
they say, the bigger they are the harder they fall. So are the Dragaç, the last
of the Dwemerim, fighting for their survival of their race. Living in the caves
back in the ruined capital of Utovian. They had no leader, they never had.
Their political superiority were merely vague memories in the scarred minds of
the Dwemerim. There was a council, with 100 people in it. Every single one
could speak their opinion, and anyone could agree with the councilor. In this
way they had long, but fair debates. Unlike the other races , the Dwemerim
believed in real equality among its race. They did not hide their tyrannical
politics behind illusionary justice and equality. A Dwemerim lived for around
400 years, with the oldest of 520 years yet alive. Age didn't matter, they had
the perfect society. One day, when the rose trees of the ancient Bloomis, now
known as Northwinter. Shared their pink flowers in the capital, a reign of chaos
was thrown in.Red banners with a golden phoenix took quite the view, as scared
citizens ran into their homes while the dying guard tries to defend their
citizens. It was depressive, and every survivor still remembers the terrible
onslaught, the bloodbath of its own kin on their once so prosperous streets.
They had lost the siege, partially. They were thriven out of Utovian, in return
of the Dragaç's  shallow victory they
cursed the lands with their magic. Making it forever winter in the whole
Dwemerim northern regions. Such permanent destruction of a almost perfect and
prosperous race would never be forgotten. That apocalyptic event, made the
Dwemerim themselves filled with the vile hate the Aherals have as well. it
destroyed the race, yet it gave new possibilities. The last remaining Dwemerim,
now known as the Dragaç, will get their revenge and justice. They will rebuild
what was lost, and thrive out the corrupt regime of the Aheral, this is just
the beginning. But they will see, a Dwemerim curse.

The Empire

With the first beams of light embracing the
sidewalks of the Aheral capital 
Aetherus. Rosalyn opened her small oaken doors with her nimble fingers.
It was hard facing the direct sunlight first, but soon her purple colored eyes
could watch the colorful streets of Aetherus. With a smile on her face, she
watched the city come alive. She was proud to be Aheral, and to have acces to
the perfect city. The city existed of several rings, with all its purpose. The
inner ring was the govermential ring, the second ring is the industrial one.
With a big staircase you go to the privileged residences, which from there you
could go to the common residences. Around the inner and outer ring there was a
big marble wall, with red banners and guardsman making the lifeless stone
almost come to life. She lived in the privileged section, she was married to
the commander of the guard, the councilor of military affairs. She remembers
the drunk councilor hitting on her in the middle of her rose garden back when
she was a commoner, it still remains a mystery how he could climb a roof drunk.
Suddenly, her smile of the beautiful memories she had turned into a thin
stripe. She wasn't happy with him, Lorundil almost never was home. She couldn't
have intimate moments with her necklaces, she wanted him! Her lust made her
almost desperate to see him again. She was teaching herself not to be so
demanding towards Lorundil. Yet, she wanted him home. With a big inhale of air,
she sighs as she makes her balcony tidy again. She pulls a golden pillowed
chair from the small shack on the side, and sits watching the sun coming up.
Her favourite times were when it was dawn and dusk, it was a ritual to her for
to watch them both. Rosalyn had a pathetic life she often thought, she wanted
action and adventure. "Why can't Aheral women have fun!", she
accidently yelled to herself, making several passing merchants look confused.
In the Aheral society women were lessers, and sometimes considered equal to the
even lesser races. An Aheral woman would preferably stay home, and take care of
the children.. Which, Lorundil never could make. Her life was boring, she
always watched other people having fun. While never going out herself. It was
depressive, what could she do with her new magic if she would be arrested if
she used it! The system is corrupt, she thinks by herself while leaning against
the marble balcony wall. She didn't know where Lorundil would be, she never
did. He or was in the council or on the streets drinking. It was pathetic, even
a Dwemerim was better then that.

Chapter One

                         Chapter II - Lots of Guilt, No Pain, No Game

   Maxwell stood, pleased with his work, his slaves where kidnapping many innocent people of anthos, so he may test his discusting alchemical potions, to kill, and to torture. They came back with a young elven child, he looked barely six. Maxwell was pleased, picking up the child by the legs, and slamming his skull to the ground. The child had a large bleeding wound on his head. He began to whail. Maxwell threw the whailing child to the ground, and grabbed some rope from the wall. He tied the rope around the childs arms, and waist, using the other end to hang him to the bloodied ceiling.
  The child stood five feet above the ground. Maxwell unsheathed two sharp iron daggers, throwing them at the childs hands, and feet. One sharp dagger peirced the child's right hand, binding it to the wall. Another flew through his left hand. Maxwell admired the blood dripping down the wall. The child cried, as Maxwell grabbed another set of two bloodied daggers, laying near his table. He gripped them, and threw one. It dug into the childs left leg, and another, inwhich dug into the childs lower stomach.
 He eventually got bored, and walked up to the dieing child. He yanked all four daggers out, and threw them somewhere. He walked into his bedroom, changing into new robes, and jumping onto his bed, he seemed tired, and called for his guards. "Guards! Watch my back while I sleep!" He shouted, and two young men bearing many 'diciplen' scars arrived. They where wearing many wepons, with heavy armor. Maxwell drifted off to the sound of the child crying.
 
 

Time is all that is constant in this world. The eternal dance between the rising Moon and the setting Sun has always been the sole indicator of Time, this dance being the first and truest way for sentient beings to decypher Time’s flow. Though they may forever be ungraspable to one another, the Sun and the Moon may catch a glimpse of one another at dawn or dusk, the mark of a fresh day or night. Rivers bend themselves in new ways, forests grow themselves new trees, and societies raise themselves up and tear each other down, but this eternal dance has always been.

 

Yet eternity is not forever, greater forces came to say, as they robbed the Sun of its Moon in a hauntingly beautiful display of destruction. For the beings of the lands below, it was but a typical night. The Moon’s smile illuminated their plights in the dark, their eyes fixed upon their own matters. But when their gaze was fixed upon the night sky, no smiles were to be shared that night, nor for many nights more. Thalos’ inhabitants knew not what was coming, but feared the force of which it would come.

 

 

The Dagrim were the first to realize Thalos’ fate. A short, stocky and bearded people that resided amongst the lush forests of Thalos, they began to notice the vegetation beneath their boots beginning to lose the vivid tint of green and auburn that was so typical of their woods. Ogrin Greenbeard, the Chieftain of the Greenbeard clan, ran his lumpy fingers through his thick, bushy and long beard as he pondered what the reports of the woods beginning to wither meant. Ogrin sent the tallest and lankiest Dagrim up the trees to reach the top of the forest. Upon his return, what he reported to Ogrin was only grim news; the canopy of the woods had shriveled and turned gray, the very life seemingly sapped from them by the oncoming cold. The Chief furrowed his brow for a moment, then ordered his people to pack their things and evacuate. Ogrin mounted his miniature donkey, and rode away out of the woods with his best riders, in the direction of Sharengate.

 

 

Whilst the Greenbeards rode through the lands, they witnessed the arrival of the Dark Winter. Lush grass began to wither and die, leaves from atop the tallest trees were falling, lakes were being littered by the corpses of fish, and eventually snow began to fall. When they reached the gates of Sharengate, the capital city of the Humans, they were greeted by its King. King Retley Springmane had never laid his eyes upon a Dagrim with as strong a build and as grand a beard as this one. Ogrin Greenbeard wasted no time with formalities and returned King Retley’s greeting with a warning: the world as they knew it was to be cold and uninhabitable. Confusion was what first arose from Retley, as the Sun still shone brightly above them, their crops grew tall and yielded well, and their vegetation was healthy and vibrant in color, as per usual. King Retley escorted his Dagrim guest around his lands briefly, allowing the messenger to observe the surroundings. Upon touring the mountains, Greenbeard took note of the vents in the side of the mountains. King Springmane explained that beneath their grand city was a lake of scalding lava, and that these vents led to it. After but a few short hours, the Dagrim riders had left just as abruptly as they came, with Ogrin leaving the Humans with but one thing to say:

 

“King Springmane, your city is safe. Upon our travels here, I witnessed the slow death of the land that we rode upon, yet your land is nigh untarnished. Your majesty, your lands are an oasis in the approaching wintry desert that is soon to be Thalos. You must open your gates to all, or they will certainly perish in the Dark Winter that approaches.”

 

Retley Springmane watched his Dagrim guests leave his grand walls, then wasted no time. He stormed down to the ravenry and ordered that a message be sent to every settlement of Thalos, detailing that any who fear the aftermath of the “Shattered Moon” may take refuge in his city, Sharengate.

 

 

“Perhaps you should stop to reconsider, your majesty,” The Akari whispered into King Springmane’s ear, his tone of voice tentative. Drelthos was King Retley Springmane’s closest advisor and Viceroy, his second-in-command. The Akari advisor always stood at King Retley's side, tall and lanky as any other Akari, their strength not lying in swordsmanship or agility, but in their intellectual prowess and spirituality. “Not even I could predict what kind of... delinquents... our gates would be opened to, sire.” King Springmane grunted and shoved past his Viceroy, not wanting to hear the logical side this time. He knew what was right, and he knew what needed to be done. Civilization as they knew it would not fall because of his fears and insecurities.

 

A fortnight later, fourteen days past, King Retley Springmane ordered the gates shut. Upon the walls, Sharengate’s protectors stared out unto the frozen wasteland that lined the horizon, a wasteland that they had been fortunate to be spared from. “For now, at least,” Retley thought to himself as he watched the vicious hail storms batter the icy glaciers that were once the lush nature of Thalos. Behind the refuge of the walls, far too many Humans, Dagrim and Akari lined the streets and the homes of others. Overpopulation would be a problem in the years to come, King Retley had realized. Crops would not grow in the cold, and the reserves of the city could only last this starving, freezing mob so long. Fishermen lined the coast, dropping their lines deep beneath the ice, fishing all they could. It would be fish that would have to sustain Sharengate in the future. As long as the glaciers and the hailstorms did not reach the city, they would live on. Ogrin reassured him at every turn that they were indeed safe from the most dire of threats, and that not all hope was lost. King Retley Springmane had little faith, though, for nothing made sense in this world anymore, not even the sensible words of Drelthos.

 

Decades passed, and there was no shining ray of hope in sight. The days were cold, the streets lined with burning corpses, and the people huddled around their measly fires, sustained only by partly cooked fish. Firewood was in short supply, as was everything else, and most of the day was spent trying to stay warm by whatever means necessary. Being caged took its toll, however, and many began to go mad, King Retley Springmane not free of this ailment. After living the duration of his life knowing only absolute power, losing it all crippled his mind. Seeing his city begin to crumble, his people perish and having no means to alter this, he slowly went mad over the years. Paranoia began to set in, and he unleashed the city guard upon select members of his dying city, labeling them as traitors and enemies to their survival. As a result of these sporadic and seemingly random abductions and executions, the people began to turn on themselves. Bloodshed, lynchings and arson ran rampant in the streets; not even the city guard could bring a stop to this brutish violence. It took the King Retley's son, a young Prince who was charming, charismatic and adored by the people, Everson Springmane, bringing the people the truth of his own father’s madness to quell the chaos. With peace in Sharengate achieved, Everson stormed the throne room with his personal guard and abdicated his father from the throne. History does not tell the details on what transpired that night, but King Retley Springmane was yet to be seen again. His son mentioned him living out his days in his room, mad and alone, but none live to remember it, nor does any text confirm or deny this.

 

Time’s tale tells of King Everson Springmane serving as a fair, intelligent and honorable King. Sharengate’s significantly smaller populace was assigned tasks to better their city and way of life. The walls were maintained to the best of the city’s ability, the damage of the riots were repaired, whilst some homes were torn down for firewood. Supplies were rationed effectively, the guard force was trained rigorously and fishermen were constantly being trained and were always at work. Some of the tougher and more generous Dagrim even allowed their beards to be trimmed, for coats, blankets and insulation. Life may not have been ideal, as they now lived trapped, their city surrounded by a cruel tundra above, but the people were as happy as they could be in such a world. Many decades passed, and their way of life remained similar to when their King took power. When King Everson Springmane passed away in the comfort of a deathbed surrounded by his family and friends, it was then that the Kingdom had experienced true melancholy, a first in a very long time. Their spirits remained high for their new King, Frederick Springmane, hoping his extraordinary father would have taught Frederick his ways.

 

Though catastrophe was not found during King Frederick Springmane’s reign, not much was achieved either. After cowering in their city for years, and no sign of the Dark Winter relenting, the people began to grow antsy and impatient. Though several generations had passed since the gates were closed, the current generation wanted to see change. They did not wish to suffer the fate of their ancestors, living with no promise of anything but the promise of death itself. Despite Everson Springmane’s excellent policies still being in place, the populace desired more. A handful of Dagrim and Humans even attempted a rebellion at one point, with a handful of Akari masterminding the uprising, but King Frederick and his city guard crushed this rebellion with ease. After this, Sharengate’s complaints fell silent, the people gaining a new respect for their new leader, but always comparing him to his father’s unparalleled career as a monarch.

 

 

138 years past, four generations later, King Frederick Springmane stepped out onto the streets, the crowd amassing in front of him. He looked down at this relatively small crowd, imagining how large the mob must have been when the gates were first closed. The faces of his people were all pointed towards him, awaiting his word. There was little expression painted across their faces, with most days resulting in the King delivering uninteresting updates and hollow reassurance. Today was not one of those days, he thought to himself as he beamed proudly.

 

“My people! For generations, this city has lived a monotonous and unpromising life, one of perpetual waiting and mere survival. My grandfather opened the gates to our ancestors, and my father saved them from damnation and certain extinction. My ancestors will always be remembered as great men for this, but in my old age I have worried that I would die and fade into obscurity, a name upon a long list of Kings who merely kept this city alive, unable to combat the wintry fate we were condemned to so many years ago. But lo behold, this is not to be. For today, change has finally come. Dagrim scouts were sent out beyond the walls in secrecy last night, and today they have returned bearing the first good news in generations. The ice has begun to retreat, and show no signs of regressing back towards us.”

 

 

King Frederick Springmane laughed a hearty laugh as the sun broke the horizon and beamed upon his city.

 

“Today marks a new dawn in the chapter of our lives. This day shall be remembered as the day the gates were finally opened.”

 

Remi paced back and forth inside of the cage. Her mouth was
dry and cracked from lack of water while her stomach growled savagely at the
lack of food. The train had picked up her crate a week ago and no one had since
come to check up on the wolf’s health. No one would, Remi knew this much, for
she had been sent on this trip to die.

The official story as to why there was a wolf on board was
far different from the truth. When questioned, the humans who had brought her
here had simply shrugged and handed over a piece of paper and been allowed
passage. Everyone believed the wolf was en route to a zoo up north, no one was
any the wiser to the reality behind the zoo.

It was a zoo, this much had been true. Yet Remi knew more
beyond the basic description. She knew it was where they sent the animals
destined to die, the animals who were deemed too vicious to be tamed. Such
animals were simply a nuisance to the humans, who only wanted the tamed and
submissive creatures. Remi had refused to let herself become such a creature.

Physically Remi appeared very wolfish. Her body was large
and muscular, meant to pull down large prey and her teeth were sharpened while
her jaw was strong to keep the prey held down while her pack finished it off.
Yet she was not a pure wolf, somewhere far back in her genetics a dog had
mixed, tainting her bloodline. It was because of this dog that Remi had
something undeniably doggish about her. Though no one could put their finger on
it, everyone was quite aware of the dog in her.

It was due to the dog traits that Remi was chosen to be
tamed. As a young cub she had wandered too close to civilization and been found
by a young girl. Quite young and naïve, the human girl had led the wolf cub
back to her house and pleaded to be allowed to keep it. Erica, the girl, had at
first been denied by her parents, themselves thinking she would not take care
of the puppy. Yet Erica persisted, and so eventually her mother gave in and
Remi became Erica’s.

For three years Remi was loyal protector and friend to
Erica. When Erica began school, Remi would sit by the bus stop, watching her
young master ride away, and every evening she would wait for the girl to
return, guarding Erica on the way home. This put Erica’s parents at ease about
their daughter taking the bus to school, for the neighborhood was not the best
of places and they had often feared for their daughter’s life.

The last day of Erica’s fourth year of school was finally
upon them. Remi was waiting where she had always waited, head resting between
her large and powerful front paws and ears turned, listening to all that was occurring
around her.  The air was silent, as it
often was at this time of year as far as Remi was aware, and so she thought
nothing of it.

The bus finally stopped and Remi lazily got to all fours,
eagerly awaiting her master to run off the bus and wrap scrawny arms around
Remi’s neck.  Erica never got off of the
bus. Four students got off, merrily running and laughing to their own homes,
when there should have been five. Remi stood there, watching with a perplexed
look on her face as the bus drove away. Thinking Erica must be trapped on it,
Remi had taken after the bus.

The incident had occurred at the next bus stop, a tragic
mistake on the part of Remi. The bus driver had gotten off of the bus to chase
Remi off, having seen her guide Erica home many times before and assuming the
wolf was friendly. The bus driver had had no way of knowing that Remi had never
been social, and was quite reserved outside of Erica’s household.

It was over in the blink of an eye; the bus driver had
approached and stuck a hand out. Remi, in an aggressive and panicking mode, had
taken this as a threat and attacked. A leap at the woman’s throat, a snapping
of fangs, and it was over. The woman lay on the sidewalk, her breathing a mere
gurgle for a few seconds before she died. Remi stood there, her jaws red with
the woman’s blood, a shot rang out and then there was silence.

When Remi awoke, she was on the train, in the cage, on her
way to the zoo. For reasons unknown to the wolf, a sense of grief welled up
inside of her. The first few nights she had howled excessively, as though lost
in grief. Remi would never know, but she sensed it. Her young master was gone, her
family had fled, leaving Remi behind.

Remi raised her head weakly, a howl barely audible from the
exhausted and malnourished wolf. The train continued on, no one came to check
on the dying wolf. No one ever would, for she was an enemy to man that was
destined to die. Yet Remi herself was stubborn, no, she would not give up. Her will
to live and find Erica would see her through this.

Picking up the Piecs

Just like glass

A heart will shatter

We each try to pick up peices

but its never whole

Those we loved are gone

We try to, but cant get them back

With each passing moment

Ice forms around the hole

We put on a mask to hide the hurt

Try to fix it all with a smile

In the end its the smile the hurts inside

After a long time

We feel like it will never warm

But something sparks your interest

A person

Suddenly its warm and your happy

But yet you are still hurting

Your heart is still in shatters

Slowly you pick up the pieces again

You put some glue on them

Slowly you build your heart again

Stronger, better

You find the real you

You remove your mask

You toss the mask and embrace the new you

That is...till your heart is shattered once more.

My Love

My heart swells with passion

My passion for you

My eyes fill with tears

Tears of Joy from you

My love for you is everlasting

I love you

If i could say it all in words

I would only for you

You take my breathe

Each time i see you

I receive shivers

Each time you speak

I have butterflies

With each thought of you

My life is empty

Without you

When i hear a childs laugh

I think of you and me

When i see a rainbow

I think of you

When i feel the caress of the wind

I feel you hand

When your near

I feel passion

Each second without you

i feel sad

Every hour away from you

I become frightened and alone

every beat of my heart

reminds my of you

In the end

The wait is worth it

Footsteps in the Sand

Footsteps in the sand

We’re all footsteps in the sand

Soon to vanish

With the coming of the sea

We’re all footsteps in the sand

Candles in the dark

The light flickering out

The waves closing in

Nothing lasts forever

We all go higher

Footsteps in the sand

Try as we might

Nothing can stay

The light’s flickering out

Time wont stand still

We’re nothing but memories

Footsteps in the sand

We’re all footsteps in the sand

Soon to vanish

With the coming of the sea

We’re all footsteps in the sand

Stars in the sky

Touch many

But soon to be memories

Living a short time

Nothing lasts forever

Footsteps in the sand

We’re all footsteps in the sand

Soon to vanish

With the coming of the sea

We’re all footsteps in the sand

Take my Hand

Take my hand

We can try

To make things happen

Today

Take my heart

Cause I know

you mean the world

To me, Baby

I see, the future

Where we are together

And I…hope that we

Share that life forever

My heart beats

When yours beats

My breath disappears

When you hold my hand

Your in my dreams

Each and Every night

So…Take my hand

We can try

To make things happen

Today

Take my heart

Cause you know

You are the world

To me, Baby

My life, is now yours

Your life, is mine

I share your pain

And you take mine away

I live with you inside

You take my hand

We have

Made things happen

Each day

You took my heart

Cause you are the world

To me, baby

I hold you close

And never want to

Let you got

Cause you are

The world to me

I may add more if I feel up to sharing some of my more personal poems. Plus I need to find the others.

^^;;

Walking to lunch today made me think and puzzle over life. I kept thinking over one thing in particular though, the way everyone would tell me to stick up for myself. I never did, not even when I was pushed down the stairs. No one ever understood, but how could they when I barely understood it myself? Today I finally began to grasp what had eluded me for so long.

I never stood up for myself because I wanted to do the same exact things to myself that was being inflicted upon me. It was simply easier that it was caused by other people. I enjoyed the pain because it was another excuse to hate everyone and pity myself. I tended to hate almost everyone, even those who did nothing to me.

As much as I wanted to die, as often as I tried, really I just wanted to escape. Part of me must love life, after all, I wake up every day, even after a night of suicidal depression and attempts that never quite worked. Even if only to write the next story of mine, I had reason to exist and thus still do.

Everyone who says they'll stay ends up leaving. Its not their fault, I've been a pretty loathsome human who was caught up in self pity. Looking back, I don't even understand why I overreacted to so many small and insignificant things.

I write tragedies because all I ever focused on was the sad in life. Even in the happiest of times, I could find that one reason to be sad and just cling to that. This story was originally planned to be about a girl who felt like her heart was shattered and she couldn't live. By the end of the story she would have been holding her mp3 and stepping off of a chair to hang herself. In essence, it was the same theme of every other story I put a lot of emotion into. A girl killing herself or wanting to die because she is no longer loved. 

Yet this time something felt different. I had no desire to kill my fictional self once more. No, I take it back, I did want to kill her off. This time however, I wanted to truly end myself as well, as horrible as that may sound. Yet when I began to write and listen to Therapy by All Time Low it all just sort of melted away. This blurry empty shell I've forbidden myself from leaving started to just vanish. I felt at peace for once in a long time, and so I began to write what I have written so far.

Thus, what I planned to be my last story and last day are indeed not my last day nor my last writing. No doubt I will still write the most depressive of things when I feel the mood come over me, that is simply my nature. Yet at the same time, my reasons for what I write are shifting. In what way I am not fully certain yet. Its odd, to write this and to just....be aware of what everyone closest to me has been talking about for nearly a year. Strange and yet good.

*A white mask lays on a chair, the story resting underneath it. A pen is off to the side of the chair, abandoned.* 

Love me, as I have always love you. If you are unable to then know that you needn't comply. Treat me as Demetrius treated Helena while in love with Hermia, if it pleases thee. Strike me as you would a common dog or tell me how you hate me, if that will make you feel better.However you treat me, know I will always think of you as Juliet thought of Romeo. After all, was it not you who likened us unto them?

We were a tragedy, just as they were. Love stricken teenagers, too young and full of emotion to understand what it was we would suffer. Though you left so I would not suffer, you left me behind, alone and miserable. It was not your fault, I would sooner die then ever blame you. I am simply an emotionally fragile girl, shattered by the things that tore us apart.

For the scars on my heart will linger. Long after the physical scars have faded will my heart ache. Now, as you have read this and know of my feelings, I wish to request one thing of you. As you would no doubt allow a dog in agony to die, I beg of thee, my love, let me know what sweet blissful peace death will bring. Allow me the privilege of dying with your permission, as you cannot love me as you once did. I would sooner die than continue living, knowing my love is unrequited.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The girl smiles softly, laying a hand against her neck as she rereads the paper. A vague memory passes, and she recalls the day she wrote the note. Reading it again, she sighs quietly, remembering how it had stung when she was no longer loved. Looking to her arms, she couldn't help but smile with amusement at how all but one scar had long since healed. His name was still etched there, fading much slower than her other scars had. Putting the note away, she slowly exited the room. 

"As Juliet did die for love and I did not, perhaps you were not my truest love after all..." She says softly to herself, humming quietly as she shuts the door behind herself.

A single blue light permeated the vast cave the man sat in, his face illuminated by a small window in his hands. The world was grey, bland, strife was the name, war was the game. He frowned as he looked upon the people, frolicking in their fantasies, following false idols of glamour and greed. He shook his head and muttered, "Fools of a kind flock together." The man muttered angrily as he got up, grunting from sitting down so long, so bitter at the grey world yet so curious simultaneously. He looked around his cave and jumped at the clash of thunder outside, a flash of lightning briefly illuminating his cave, a small bed tucked in the corner, locks and chains adorn a worn wood door, a stone mask with a crude smile carved into it lies decrepit on a table reeking of decay, and a small clear puddle that reflects the cave, which is a small room in a small shack in a small world. 

The man glances out his window and goes to the locks, meticulously fiddling with each, making sure each and every one is locked, satisfied with his locks and sighs and walks over to his bed and falls back on the bed, giving a weak cry of submission as the man lies down. The pitter patter of rain drowns out all his thoughts and all he does is stare at the door as the water leaks in....

A dam stands between a river

Then a crack, a smash, and water flows again

A water of love

A water of hate

A water of joy and water of depression

Water of anger and envy

Water of contemplation and madness

Water to erode the facade 

A stony mountain of indecision

To bring fertile soil to barren lands once again.

“Lord, we know what we are but know not what we may be.” She
says softly, suddenly pushing herself up and running to the wall in front of
her, a pen in her right hand.

Uncapping it, the girl begins to write the quote of Ophelia
from Hamlet upon the blank wall. Standing back, she turns her head from side to
side, her eyes never leaving the blue words. A smile forms on the girl’s face
as she begins to laugh, feverishly reciting the words to herself over and over
again in the unmoving room.  She begins
to spin around, letting the walls blur into one empty circular hell.

Staggering to get her balance the girl laughs again. Her
eyes widen at the sound of footsteps and she drops the pen, looking all around
for the source of the sound. Nothing moves and she shrieks, falling to her
knees. Still hearing the sound, the girl begins to pound on her forehead with
her wrists. Shaking her head, she cries out for silence, pleading with the
nothingness for silence.

“Why. Why. No. Please no. It’s not my fault. I swear it!
PLEASE STOP!” She screams at the wall in front of her, tears streaming down her
face.

Growing more and more frustrated as times goes, the girl lies
on her side and begins to scratch at the top of her arms. Eyes wide, she bites
her lower lip until a small trickle of blood comes from it. Feeling this, she
panics and begins to scratch even more harshly at her arms until they turn red.
Still not stopping, her long fingernails begin to cause her arms to bleed.
Horrified at this, the girl stands abruptly and runs to the nearest wall.

“LET ME OUT! PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU!” She cries, pounding her
fists against the wall in a futile attempt to draw attention to herself.

There came no answer and she quickly grew fatigued. Giving
up, her willpower broken, the girl trembled and turned, slowly sliding down the
side of the wall, blood streaks forming from her arms. Hiding her face in her
hands, the girl begins to cry, trapped, alone with her thoughts.