Search the Community

A Blue Ribbon Pumpkin by Sendrenx hal'Cingedoz An Excerpt Characters for Scene Grimaz: A poor farmer who spends less time working than he probably should The Winter Sprites: A group of 4 fey who with little magic of their own, promise much. Act 1 Scene 1 Enter Grimaz and Winter Sprites. Grimaz holds in his hand a poor misshapen pumpkin that bears a disheartened look to match his own. In the other, a bag with his lunch and a bottle of wine inside. Grimaz (To Audience) Oh, what a slipshod time it is. For me to find myself with nought but a pumpkin of unkind countenance to offer for the autumn festival. Alas, ruined am I! Struck down, bankrupt- (Grimaz notices the Winter Sprites). Wait a moment... should fortune be so gracious as to look my way. To gift mine weary hands with the loving outreach of our nature’s children? (Grimaz approaches the Winter Sprites, they shy away.) Do not fear me gentle servants of the soil. I mean you no harm. Many can speak of my character! My cunning, my kindness, my... (Grimaz looks to the audience and speaks in a stage whisper). Say something... something grand, but not so grand as to startle their temperate hearts. A moderate amount of grandness shall be best! (After the audience speaks their ideas, it is best to incorporate one or two as fits the rhythm of the scene. Should the audience be drunk, children, or otherwise unburdened by the art of comedy, the following will also do.) Oh, of course, my humility! Kind spirits, I beseech thee, do not abandon a simple, humble, farmer to the shame of gourdish forfeitures at no fault of his own! (Grimaz drops to both knees, holding his poor pumpkin towards the Winter Sprites. His bag falls and its contents spill out. They approach.) Sprite 1 Poor farmer, we wish that we could help but- (Sprite 4 claps a hand over the mouth of Sprite 1 as Sprite 2 strides to the front, the others eyeing the bag.) Sprite 2 (Musically) Why of course farmer, thy bidding is our call. We merely ask, a meager task, for a taste of your alcohol. A simple sip, a hasty taste, will put us wisps at ease. And then we can, for you good man, do anything you please! (Grimaz hands them his wine from the ground.) Sprite 3 And of course he’ll, provide a morsel, of freshly baked wheat bread. A simple labor, for the woodland neighbor, and we’ll do as you’ve said. (Grimaz, a bit more relentingly hands over his bread.) Sprite 1 (Breaks free and steps forward) I want cheese. (He is promptly pulled back and silenced again by Sprite 4.) Grimaz Of course kind spirits, anything I can provide to shield my honor and virtue from the piercing claws of fairground mockery! Oh, what a joyous and exquisite day to find as kindly and helpful souls as yourselves! Take it, take all you’d wish from my satchel, please, amend my squash’s saddened visage. (He hands over the rest of his bag and the pumpkin.) Sprite 2 Then off we’ll go, and soon we’ll show, how to save your ribbon chances. We just need time, alone with your wine, to do our spritish dances. Tomorrow you’ll see, your troubles will be, a worry none the longer. By then we’ll do, all we can for you, and make you the greatest pumpkin-monger?! (Sprite 2 looks to the other sprites for confirmation on the quality of his final rhyme.) Both Grimaz and Winter Sprites look pleased with themselves before turning to the audience and in a stage whisper proclaim in unison. ALL Aha! They fell for it! (Grimaz and Winter Sprites exit stage at opposite ends) Google Docs Link in case anyone needs it. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ErK9cjnnkxfFlbkZrDbPhMrxtBjB9W4aYUSgr7CIXHQ/edit?usp=drive_link

AD MORTEM US PARTEM He rose from his bed with a groan that echoed through the stillness of his chambers. Slipping on soft woolen slippers, he turned out of his bed, thin sheets rustling underneath the man’s weight. He shuffled towards the window, floorboards creaking, his hands wrapping about the heavy drapes before ripping them open, daylight flooding into the room as his chamber was set ablaze by the midday sun. Closing his eyes, the man did not open them until accustomed to the light. Upon an old desk in the room lay a pile of papers, tattered and bruised from poor care. The man sat. He procured a quill from a jar and dipped it in the silky black ink beside his hand. And so he began, burning hours away, while below him rang out church bells, echoing throughout a bustling marketplace crowded with people from all corners of the realm. The shouts of store tenders played as a soundtrack to his writing. And when he found that the night set upon him and the sounds quieted, an oil lamp he burned. Another day came. Birds chirped outside amongst the roofs. The ISA patrols moved throughout the city, greeting passersby on the road below the man’s chambers. Elves gave delicate curtsies to the men, dwarves headbutted each other in passing. Orcs grunted harshly at each other, usually ignoring the patrols of soldiers. And the man wrote, as he did for months before. Toiling endlessly at the stack of papers. Tap tap tap tap, a knock. Four times. The old wood door shook violently with each knock. An object outside the door thudded harshly on the hallway’s floor. The man trudged lifelessly towards the door, a wistful glance offered back towards the stack of papers sitting upon the desk, now whittled down to the last few pages. Tearing the barrel bolt from its rusted confines, he yanked open the deadbolt as the door creaked open slowly, a faint glimpse of a smile forming on the corners of his mouth. Nothing. And just as soon as it had come, the rise in his mouth had fled. He looked right. Empty halls. A portrait hung at the end of the wall stared him down, the cold eyes of Emperor John VIII following him. He shuddered. Left now. A mother entering her room with a baby, cooing loudly. She fumbled for a moment, hands shaking and palms sweaty as she fished through her pockets for the key, and he turned back. Now, down, he looked. To a box. He hefted it up into his hands and brought it into his room, letting it down onto the bed. The man examined the box, running his hands along the smooth, white cardboard. Shaking it briefly, he listened for sounds within the box. The man began pulling at the colorful ribbons wrapped around the box, tearing them apart and throwing them to the side, digging his fingernails under the lid as he pulled off of the top of the box a stack of papers. New, no blemishes upon the clean white sheets. Small, black letters and words littered the papers front to back. Butcher’s twine was holding the stack of papers together, he ripped it off as well. The man flipped the box over onto his desk, making room for this new batch of work. Crumpling up the unfinished old papers, he set them into a separate container and placed the lid of the newer box onto it, taking it out and setting it outside his door. He did the same with the finished older papers. Another day came. This time, horses prodded around the outer walls. The bells did ring, but not church bells. Raid bells. Women and children ran inside, men stayed around to watch their shops, taking arms. But, even still, nothing came of the such, and the city resumed business as normal. The market was still alive and buzzing with elves, humans, orcs, and more of the sort from all over the island. Another day came. Another package arrived at the doorstep. Another two were shipped out. Another day. More writing. More shopkeepers yelling throughout the market. More lively music playing, only to be interrupted. More bells. Another day rolled on by. And another. Another. Another. The days slowly melted in with the nights. All of it was a blur of words and ink blotches, melding together to form some semblance of a method. Some sort of structure to his work. Weeks rolled by. Hagglers in the market kept at their business, yelling over the crowds at the shop tenders as they hollered back their disgust. The bells kept ringing. The man worked endlessly as the bells, the bells, chimed out in a symphony to his toil. The market seemed quieter. Less orcs, at first, he noticed. His morning glimpses of the world were becoming more dull. The elves soon followed, and the dwarves next; retreating to their homes in the mountains around them. The city was hollow. Nothing but the sound of the bells echoed throughout the once full streets. But the silence was deafening. Every once in a while a passerby could be seen, but nothing more. Another day, another bell. The attacks began. Soldiers were sent to fight against them. And the number of patrols walking the streets dwindled. Another day. Another bell. Fighting broke out in the streets. And now, even the number of heartlanders chatting in the marketplace dwindled. Still, he wrote. But the marketplace had all but become deserted by now. The patrols of soldiers roaming the streets had all but left. And the man worked still. Engrossed by his writing. Until one day, he looked outside at the world around him. Carts were rolling out of the city, taking everything in their wake along with them. He’d never seen this before. They were leaving. Why? They’re safe here. This is Providence, after all. He went outside in a rush, papers flying through the room as he abandoned his workspace, throwing his quill across the chambers. Dust kicked up as the man walked across the bedroom and out into the halls. He took the right stairwell down at the end of the halls, running past a painting of King Adrian I that had been knocked to the ground. He stumbled out into the street. “What’s going on?” The man called. “What are all these carts for?” “Haven’t you heard? The Mori are coming! We must make it to Savoy.” A passerby called, halting his cart. “Hop along, I have room in the back for you.” He kindly let out a hand. “Mori? Savoy? This is Providence, isn’t it? We’re in Oren, we’re safe. The ISA is here to protect us.” His eyes, red, bloodshot. Denial plagued the man. Horrible, shaking fervor and tremors rippled through his demeanor. The man upon the cart cast a mournful gaze down towards the man, before looking down at the ground and soberly moving along. “Wait! Sir!” The man's voice shook as he looked about the square, “Please!” Nobody stopped to help, and the sparse gazes he had gotten turned quickly away as he dropped to his knees. Where was he to go? This is his world. And so he returned to his chamber. Writing. Only this time, no new packages came. None were shipped out. The world was dark. Empty. Cold. He was the only one left. Writing on papers over and over again, the silence of his own desire. His own creation. And as days and nights passed, the man felt uneasy. He felt empty, like a part of him was gone. Weeks later, strange dark figures rolled through. As the man awoke and went to sit upon his desk to write, it took him too many moments to realize what was happening. Men, shouting in the streets, razing the city. Flames, harsh, scorching, red flames, billowing from the streets and carts upon the ground. Ashes picked up in the winds, spreading the flames across the market, up the stalls, through the shops. Horrible, screeching celebrations from the Mori echoed through the streets and alleyways of the city. Buildings came crashing down, succumbing to the insatiable beast rippling through the town as it grew ashy, the monstrous flames lay waste to all around it in a horrid display of brutality. But there was nobody to see, nobody to notice, nobody to scream but the man. The dark figures were shouting a language he couldn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. His eyes were glued shut, hands over ears. As much as he denied it, it was here. He knew it to be so. And the bells, they kept ringing. The whole time… the bells. And as the world caved in around him, his world, he denied it. His chamber burned around him. Fire leaked in beneath the door, eating up the carpet, the rugs, the trash scattered upon the floor. It crawled around the room like a lion, engulfing everything in its path, climbing up his desk, up the chair, tickling the papers upon the desk. And it set fire thereafter, going up in a brilliant inferno of red, orange and yellow. All of his work set alight, consumed by the pyre. But the man began to smile. For once in his life, he had witnessed true beauty as the flames swirled and grew around him, a perfect, passionate storm engulfing everything that he held so dear. A spark, however briefly it lasted, burned inside him like nothing had before. And how nothing would after. AD MORTEM US PARTEM

[None of this is public knowledge/merely just a creative writing; please refrain from metagaming against any of the characters mentioned.] Cold and damp were the rocks she clung to, as water trickled down from the jagged crevices and filled the pools at the very bottom of the cavern. Ancient ruins, pillars of stone, and the like decorated its walls; only a small portion of the gigantic graveyard of Almaris, appropriately dubbed the Tomblands. She breathed through her clenched teeth, cold sweat dribbling down her chin as she made her way toward the three thrones that towered before her. There, sat a malignant figure of ectoplasmic sludge and a husked metal body, with a grin as toothy and crooked as the dozens of souls taken to forge it. The woman bowed her head, and muttered out a quiet greeting. From the corner of her gaze, she watched it rise and float toward her, and in the next moment, she felt her souls -- all three of them, writhe and scream within her mortal coil. . . . "Viktoriya." It was as though time had stopped. The Wight before her stared joyfully as its hand, which had plunged into her heart and out the other side, clutched two gleaming orbs of light. Why had the pain ceased? The screams faded? "Do you blame yourself?" Like a rush of wind, she felt her consciousness fade. All of a sudden, she stood, not knelt, beside another of her Mystic brethren -- his name long forgotten to her. It was the beast she'd just seen torturing her, she'd almost forgotten they'd both learned the craft beside eachother as mortals. Azakrivel ... Vevodrok. The Barrowlords of Arcas . . . At least, the only Barrowlords she ever knew of back then. She recalled dealing one of the last blows to the behemoth of an Apparition to ascend him to Wightdom as Khorvhaditz. And then, the student she taught and called a sister of her own. Veil. "It's quite common for patients in this sort of situation to have a sort of ..." She'd grown so much, she truly had. And she was there, unmoving, watching as Khorvhaditz tore her souls in twine. How had she gotten into this situation? Wasn't she a soldier? A ... Woman who fought for the 'greater good'? "Guilt." Again, her consciousness veered back to an even later date than when she'd begun to walk upon that darkened path. The Inferi War. She was only a Lieutenant of the army, then, but she'd lead her brethren with great success. Perhaps it was only a small dent they'd ever put in the demons' numbers, but it was a triumph to them nonetheless. Her hopes were high, until that faithful day. She could tell, as she sat in a boat beside her husband -- her Captain, that this was the very day. Not wishing to see it over again like she had so many times, the Knight finally croaked out in response to the voice. "What situation?" Time jumped forth again, though only in minutes. There she was, trapped beneath a tree as her soldiers were being slaughtered left in right and the man who caused it, Captain Velhrun ... Viktoriya scowled. He was the only man to nearly equal her in her insanity and her accursedly long lifespan. She wished she could forget him like she had all the others. He was fleeing. The remaining soldiers had fled, too, yet the Inferi chased after the Captain instead. She could've let him die, and she could've swam off later, but instead she limped toward the party and screamed. Screamed at the top of her lungs, so they'd chase her, instead. "The ACCIDENT." Within a blink she felt a spear skewer her thigh. She threw some odd concoction she was holding. She felt another blade penetrate her arm. She blinked, expecting death, yet in however much time had passed she was instead contained in some cell. The wretched form of the demonlord, Tichar, stood before her. Her will had been broken. She had been broken. And she'd done something unspeakable; she pacted with It. The next sequences flew by her vision like bolts of lightning and claps of thunder, tearing her mind asunder and leaving her frothing on the floor of her abode . The vision of her past had now gone away, she was in the present, now, but she couldn't breathe. She couldn't see. She couldn't hear ... Anything, except them. "GET UP!" Knock, knock. The door to her house shuddered against the weight of someone's fist. Right, she lived in Krugmar, now. "THE DOOR, THE DOOR, THE DOOR!" "DON'T OPEN IT!" "OPEN IT!" "THEY KNOW WHAT YOU DID, WRETCH!" "DEMONIC KNATCH!" "OPENOPEN OPǪ̸̺͖̘̭̦̩͆͂͗̒̅͌̏̚͜͝P̷̧̹̩̍̒̄̑̔͠É̴̛͎͐͗̉̍̀͜͝N̷̢̬̠̳͓͈͍͖̜̽̑̈͆͠ ̶̘̰̥̆̀͋̾̃̄͊̐I̸̱̗͔͔̪̥͛͋̎̚ͅͅT̶̛̹̹̻̩̭͚̤̗̉̈́̽̓̒͆̚!" Wordlessly, she crawled on her hands and knees toward the door and swung it open, her dagger unsheathed, yet there was no one there. They were taunting her, weren't they? This was a trap. She was going to die. Viktoriya stumbled down the street, wildly looking about like a wolf lost in the midst of a human city. A goblin side-eyed her as she scrambled past, and she whipped around to try and nail him in the jaw. "IT WAS YOU!" Luckily, however, she was as weak as she'd always been after becoming a Voidal mage. Her hand missed by a longshot, and she stumbled forward. An Uruk of her own clan cautiously shuffled nearer and placed her hand atop Viktoriya's shoulder. "Yahzlak ... Mi grukkz latz need moor zleep. Mi bring latz back, ukee?" Her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths, confusedly being tugged along by the Orc. "Apologeez, bruddah. Shez ... A bit awf tuday, agh--" "I'M NOT! I'M NOT CRAZY, GENERAL RUTHERN! I CAN PROVE MYSELF AGAIN!" ... "Please. VEVODROK, LET ME PROVE MYSELF! GIVE ME A SECOND CHANCE!" ... "Tichar -- TICHAR, I SWEAR! STAY, I CAN GET YOU OUT OF THERE! I PROMISE!" ... "Velhrun ... You can't die yet! YOU CAN'T! NOT AGAIN!" History was repeating itself. Realities were colliding. What was she? Was she imagining everything, again? Was ... She real?