gagethefantasyguy-blog

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Sci-fi Writing?

The armored dune car skidded to a halt in the middle of the beaten path, filling the area with a smokescreen of dust. The car sat idly with its engine clanking loudly. The armored plates had burns and holes scattered throughout the vehicle, and smoke could be seen coming through the engine compartment.  After the dust began to settle, a door opened and a bloodied armored soldier stepped out and immediately dropped to a kneel, bringing a charge rifle to his shoulder and beginning to scan the area surrounding him.

He gritted his teeth nervously while he twitched his head in several directions. Still crouching and keeping his rifle raised and into his shoulder, he slowly made his way around to the back of the dune car and opened a door, still keeping the rifle at the ready, revealing several scanners on tripods that had been stowed and tied down.

After hesitating a moment longer, he slung his rifle around his back and grabbed one of the scanners, hastily unstrapping the ropes and unlatching the locks. He placed it on the ground and began typing on the keyboard that was attached to the tripod, causing lights to flicker on and spikes to bury into the ground, securing the scanner into place. The radar dish began to spin.

The bloodied man raised his hand and activated his earpiece, “Nox reporting in. Scanner is up.”

A moment of silence passed, and a response was heard through static: “Hard copy, Nox. Radar is up and running. Return to the rally point and join the Spearhead in the assault once they touchdown.”

Nox grimaced, “Requesting to return to ship for rendezvous, casualty status red. No stims left. Unknown status on other Shatter operators.”

Another response came once again after a brief moment: “Negative. You have your orders. Meet with the Medical squadrons once the Spearhead hits. Command, out.”

Nox cursed to himself and readied his rifle again, scanning the area while he deliberately walked to his car. He sat down into the seat with his legs still out of the door and disengaged the mag-lock on his frontal armor plate, allowing it to fall to the ground. Several bloodied spots could be seen on his undershirt. Nox picked his armor plate off the ground, holding his ribs and flinching with every movement, and mag-locked it back into place. Nox had determined that he would not die from his wounds, but it sure hurt like hell. Nox raised his rifle and examined the several damaged areas. He examined the ammo count and noted that only a few shots remained in the rifle.

The sky of this planet was green, which was odd to Nox, who had grown up to the blue skies of Earth. Two suns surrounded this planet, but one was being blotted out by a gigantic warship. Aerial battles could be seen taking place, and munitions were being exchanged by both sides. Explosions of different ships could be seen dotting the sky and several parachutes and jetpacks were being deployed by both sides.

Nox was watching the combat take place, carefully tracking the aircraft and trying to differentiate from friend and foe. As far as he could tell, the Sentinel Conglomerate was overtaking the air force of this alien foe who had dubbed themselves The Resistance Coalition at the last Gathering, where they had denounced and would not join the Sentinel Conglomerate. Nox had been present at the Gathering and was as surprised as he was angry. Who would not want to join forces for the greater good?

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More Writeblrs Please!

I need more writeblrs to follow and connect with. My dash is basically dead so help me revive it! Reblog if you’re a writer!

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The Tusk Ripper Origins, Part 2

Grok sat outside the door his large hut sharpening his axe, slowly grinding away the nicks that were scattered throughout the blade on a spinning grinding wheel, powered by a foot pedal and a series of complex gears. Sparks occasionally flew out into the snow but they did not cause any disruption in the intense focus of Grok. His foot slowly pressed down and back up in a consistent rhythm, causing a squeaking from the machinery that filled the air, almost drowning out the sound of the metal on the rock.

The axe’s blade was beginning to look smooth again, and Grok admired his handiwork, allowing the sun to glint off of the freshly sharpened blade. He ran his finger across it, feeling the warmth that had not yet dissipated and the intense sharpness of the thinned metal. He was a Warlord, but if he were to ever take a common Orc job, he thought he would make a great blacksmith.

He grabbed his axe and held it above his head in a combat stance, gripping his hands around the handle and slightly bending his legs, preparing to fight an imaginary enemy. He swung downwards with a mighty growl and brought the axe so that the handle was against his belt, losing the aggressive demeanor. Grok took the same combat stance as before, raising the weapon above his head and swinging it downwards.

On this downward swing, Grok had misjudged the swing, bringing the blade close to the ground and chipping a small rock, sending sparks flying along with small rock debris. He brought the blade up to his eye-level to examine the blade and he noticed a slight nick.

“Dammit!” yelled Grok, throwing the axe down to the ground and clenching his fist. He was breathing heavy and flaring his nostrils. He forcefully slowed his breathing, and picked up the axe and went to sit back onto his seat in front of the grind wheel.

Just as he was beginning to put the blade on the spinning rock, a figure appeared and stood before Grok silently, but Grok did not break his concentration on his weapon. Although Grok didn’t peer at the figure, he could see the armor he was wearing: leather shoulderpads, leather knee pads, and a small wooden buckler. He was a scout. An Orc who did not kill a mammoth when he came of age. An Orc who had not earned respect.

“What do you need, whelp?” asked Grok, not breaking his gaze upon the wheel.

“Chieftain, Kargath returns, but his brother was not with him.” replied the Orc as he brought his arm across his chest in a salute and stood with a disciplined demeanor. Grok stood up from his chair and stared at the scout with a scowl.

“Take me to him.” Grok replied grimly.

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Fantasy Guide: Common battle wounds and how to fix them

Arrow wounds: Now if the lung, heart, kidney, other major organ is hit, there may be little to do. The kidney has a back up, so maybe a skilled surgeon could save him, not exactly sure however. If hit by an arrow and not hit dangerously in an organ or artery, we can help. Firstly, DO NOT REMOVE arrow by yanking. Arrow must be worked from the skin by skilled hands. Once arrow is out, wash would with clean water/alchohol/herbal remedies. To heal slow, sew up wound and wrap in bandages. To speed it up, cauterise the wound with fire. It will hurt and patient pay pass out but now the arrow wound can heal faster. This works for crossbow bolts as well. On the gross side, arrows may be smeared with dirt or shit, so sepsis is a danger. This is how the great Richard the Lionheart died. Sometimes the mighty lion is killed by a shit arrow. But hey, shit happens. Arrow wounds take a couple of weeks to heal.

Sword slashes: if shallow, wash and bind up. May require stitches. If deeper, repeat process with more stitches and more bandages. Even if shallow, the cut must be washed using alcohol or clean water. May take a few days to weeks to heal depending on wound depth and severity.

Stab wound: Again don’t remove knife or object. If already removed, wash would and sew it up. You may need to cauterise. If guts, organs, brain, is falling out, there is nothing to do. This may take a couple of weeks to months to heal depending on wound.

Broken Bones: A break must be splinted with a board of wood and bandages. Slings can support arms and wrists. If your character breaks a leg, it may be worse. Breaks don’t heal great without modern medicine. Your character may have a limp or leg pain. In you’re are living in a hot climate, you’re pretty much fucked because infection sets in fast. These may take months to heal.

For @maslovianwench

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I’m not too familiar with Tumblr

What are some things that I should be posting? I’ve been posting my writing in a serialized manner, but I’m not getting much attention. Should I be posting other things? 

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The Tusk Rippers’ Origins, Part 1

The mammoth flared its nostrils, the cold air revealing the massive amount of air the beast was releasing. Its eyes darted back between the two green figures, angry and cold. The head of the beast began to tilt forward and with a sudden quickness, unexpected of a beast of its size, it sprang forward and began a desperate charge at the aggressors. Snow flew into the air with every massive step the beast took.

Kargath supported himself with his spear. His leg ached from the fall, and a sharp pain shot through his knee when he attempted to run. Using his spear, he began to hobble out of the way of the charging behemoth. Each step he took was excruciating. The beast was nearing, and just before being impaled, Kargath summoned the strength to take a leap, sending out a loud cry of anger and pain when he landed several feet away, out of the charging path and slightly behind the animal. Once again using the spear, Kargath began to stand and face the backside of the beast.

Kargath called out for his brother, “Grommash!”

No response could be heard.

Before Kargath could call out again, the beast turned around, revealing Grommash with a tusk through his torso. The mammoth began to shake its head back and forth, tilting its head so that the impaled Grommash would be shaken off its tusk. The body of the Orc hit the jagged rocky surface and a loud crack made Kargath grimace. After losing the burden on its tusk, the angry animal began to prepare for another charge towards Kargath.

The pain in Kargath’s leg had worsened after the jump so he could not run, and being the sole target, he had nowhere to hide. Kargath growled, and held the spear so that the point faced the mammoth. He would not die a coward.

The mammoth began its angry charge at Kargath, once again covering surprising distance with ease. It lowered its head, preparing to impale its target with brute force.

Just before being impaled by the ivory tusks, Kargath planted the spear in between rocks and the ground and fell to a kneel. The beast did not have time to react. It hit the spear, burying it deep within its head. Kargath sprung up, grabbing the spear handle and breaking it, leaving the metal only a small portion of wood sticking out of the wound. Kargath began hitting the beast with the broken handle with a fury.

The mammoth began to stumble, attempting to fight back, but fell to its stomach. The labored breathing of the animal slowly faded out, and its eyes closed.

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A Plea for Help, Part 4

After a few moments, the men began pouring back out of the old building with leather backpacks, each with a bed roll attached to the top, and each were holding assortments of burlap sacks and weaponry. While the men were loading their belongings onto their horses and wagons, an old, frail man opened the door of the tavern and beckoned for Ironhand to come meet him at the door.

Ironhand began to walk over to the old man and recognized him as the old owner. He was still the same owner as when Ironhand was still a child, and had seemed to gotten frailer and older over the years, despite that young Ironhand thought the man close to death even back then.

The man spoke as Ironhand approached “It’s a long way to Oaken Hill, child. Take this bag.” The man held out a large bag that contained enough food to feed a score of men for a night. “Even if you got enough, it never hurts to be prepared.”

Ironhand began to reply, “With all due respect, I think we will manage without-”

The old man interrupted, “If you die on the road, I will not be able to sleep and live out my days in peace. I will feel much better if you were to take any help I can give.”

“Once again, I reject your food, old man. I see that business is slowing down, and that you are struggling to help your family. If you must help, you can give me advice. I have taken the journey before, so I do not need you as a travel guide. I am, however, going to ask those under my banner to follow me down a dangerous path, it is weighing heavily on me. I need your wisdom.” Ironhand confided in the old man.

“What is this dangerous path, child?” asked the old man as he began to walk inside, opening and holding the door open. Ironhand followed, and the pair sat an old wooden table with a candle producing a flickering light across each man’s face. The inside of the tavern was typical: a couple of large tables for parties, a bar with a variety of different concoctions for parties, and a stage for, well, parties. The tavern was old, and every time Ironhand entered he expected a dank smell, but was always unexpectedly greeted by the smells of bread being baked for the next day filled the air or well-seasoned meats being roasted.

“It is something that must be done, despite the risk. I may even lose some of those that are near to my heart,” Ironhand responded as he pointed at the wall in the general direction of the stables. “However, there is no choice in the matter.”

“If it must be done, then why are you questioning yourself, child?” said the old man. He started to pour a steaming liquid into two cups and brought them back, sitting one in front of Ironhand and one for himself.

“It is not that I am questioning whether or not it must be done, but whether if I can be successful.” replied Ironhand, taking a drink from the cup. It was a tea, bitter enough to make Ironhand screw his face and want to spit it out, but refrained from doing so.

“I am no military advisor, but why do you not gather more men?” said the old man, sipping at his cup, seeming not to notice the bitterness that Ironhand had experienced.

“Asking those people under my banner to take up arms in defense of the West is a noble cause. Asking those under my banner to go on near suicide missions is not the cause of a just Lord.” Ironhand stated, thinking to take another drink to show respect to the old man, but decided otherwise.

“Ah, so you want to make yourself a martyr?” replied the old man, half smiling as he continued sipping on the steaming tea. Ironhand wondered if the old man enjoyed the bitter taste, or if he had just lost the ability to taste due to aging.

“No, old man, but I feel that may be in my future.”

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A Plea for Help, Part 3

He continued after a brief silence, “Lord, we cannot give in. The Orcs raid every day, but we cannot lose the Western Border. We must prevail.”

We must prevail. Those hallowed words revived Ironhand with a sudden burst of inspiration. The sadness faded, at least for the time being, and he regained his normal, hardened look.

“Let’s gather the party and pay the Cargo carriers to prioritize the shipment of weapons. Tonight, we ride to Oakenhill.”

Braum saluted Ironhand sharply and said with a heartily laugh, “Ho, ho, ho! There’s the Lord that held Oaken Hill! I will pay the cargo crews. The men will want to hear the news from you.”

Ironhand reciprocated the salute. The burly man started off in the direction of the stables.Ironhand watched for a few moments, taking note of the head taller Braum stood than every person he passed. The Western Holds had a reputation for producing giant-sized warriors, and Braum was the embodiment of that. Once he broke his own trance, he began walking towards the western wall that held the tavern that the other six men that served as the West’s Royal Guard, taking various streets and paths, looking at the buildings that he had grew up around and despairing at their current state. Ironhand cursed to himself silently while gritting his teeth, swearing that if he were to ever take the Throne, this town would be restored.

-

Once Ironhand came into eyesight of the old tavern his party had slept in, he recognized the blackened leather uniform of his Royal Guardsmen standing out and piddling out by the front door of the tavern. The sun was beginning to set, and a raggedly dressed man was out lighting the lanterns in anticipation of the night. A slight wind blew, causing the hanging sign that had The Whispering Flagon written across it to wave back and forth, the rusty chains creaking loudly with every movement.

The Whispering Flagon was an old inn, as old as the city. The building was done during the construction of the gigantic walls of Brek so that the richer stonemasons would have decent accommodations close to their work. The tavern is one of the few buildings in the city made entirely of stone, and one of the largest, being rivaled only by the Great Library and the Keep itself. Although the history of the Whispering Flagon was grand in its origins, much time had passed since the conception and took its toll: the stone walls had begun to sag and sink, ivy crept up on all sides of the buildings despite the efforts of the gardeners, and the once busy spectacle of Brek was now almost barren.

As Ironhand drew closer, the Royal Guardsmen took notice and all scrambled to form into a straight line in front of him. Once they had perfected their hasty formation, all the guards sounded in a loud chant in perfect unison: “Sir!”

Ironhand stood still, admiring his men. Although they hail him as a Lord now, he could recall the humble beginnings of every soldier before him. These men are not normal soldiers assigned to guard duty, nor hired blades; these men were trained from the beginning by his hand to form a perfect fighting machine. Together, they all have fought and bled, and most importantly, prevailed against overwhelming odds.

Ironhand began to pace back and forth, breaking the silence after a few steps, “Today, the Western Holds were denied the help that is so desperately needed. King Lesterborn believes the East cities are much more threatened than the West.”

Ironhand stopped pacing and continued, “However, this does not mean we will give up. We will ride for Oaken Hill tonight and continue the fight. I have been formulating plans to take the fight into Tusk Ripper territory. We will not fall.”

After finishing the short speech, the formation again sounded off with a thunderous and inspired “Sir!”, and the formation gave a salute that was also in perfect unison. Ironhand gave a salute back at the formation of soldiers, and the group of men broke off and began to walk inside the tavern. The creaking wooden door opened and the stampede of footsteps filled the air, more than likely waking any other tenants that already hadn’t been woken by the thunderous calls of the formation.

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A good tip for those writers that love flashy action in their books

Throwing Knives

Right, so, I forgot to mention this in my previous weaponry post, so I’m going to make a post here about a weapon that I definitely do not obsess over.

I personally have trained with throwing knives. I have to say, I’ve never, ever, ever seen them done properly. And it makes me cringe when a movie or book acts like any knife can be a throwing knife.

A throwing knife is balanced very differently from a regular one, and cannot really be used in a knife fight. They have different handles that make it hard to grip them to stab or slice at someone, and they’re relatively smaller for the most part.

Furthermore, they’re not going to pierce armour. They’re probably not even going to pierce a thick jacket. Throwing knives have never exactly been a stable of warfare. They’re more for show, than anything else. It would be hard as hell to actually kill someone with a throwing knife.

I cannot emphasize enough, though, that a regular dagger cannot be used as a throwing knife. They’re balanced differently, and it takes a lot of training to even be able to be accurate with the knives designed for throwing.

That said, though, it only makes characters that wield throwing knives properly even more great. Hitting someone in the neck or eyes are basically your only chance of taking them out with a throwing knife, and given how hard it can be to use those things, I love characters that have so much expertise that they always hit perfectly with them. In my opinion, that’s even more impressive than an expert archer. Though, admittedly, much less useful.

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Writing Prompt - You've just won $5,000 a week for life through Publisher's Clearing House! Two people with a big check come to your door to congratulate you. As they leave they hand you a printed letter, "Stay alive for a week to earn another $5,000. The Clearing House is hunting you."

“You’ve won our Author contest!” the pair of men exclaimed to me after that had barged into my house with a large, comically-sized check through my front door, leaving white wooden pieces of my door frame scattered on my carpet. Before I could get angry, the two men began their spiel.

“Your submission Operation Ironhand was just so realistic, it was pretty much no contest. I felt like I was reading an actual firsthand account of a special forces military mission.” spoke one of the men, who wore a red dress shirt with a tie and was holding the camera. He continued, “You’ve definitely earned this $5,000 a week for life!”. He talked with an unnaturally large smile that set me to a feeling of unease and he would not break eye contact.

After some basic formalities, some excess picture taking, and some awkward hand-shaking, the two sharply-dressed men left, leaving my front door wide open. I went to close it despite the ruined door frame. I wanted to be mad about the property damage, but hey, five grand per week for life? I’d let anyone bust my door for that. Shit, let them bust the windows too.

Before the door completely closed, the red shirt clad man began to run back “Sir! Sir! I almost forgot this!” as he handed me an envelope. I ripped it open, and there was a folded piece of copy paper with big and bold letters. It read: "Stay alive for a week to earn another $5,000. The Clearing House is hunting you."

I gave the red shirt guy a crazy look, but he did not break his smile, and probably hadn’t since he first kicked in my door. He asked, still without breaking his large smile, “If you have any questions, you better ask them before you die!”

I slowly backed into the threshold of my house and shut the door without breaking eye contact. I looked at the letter in disbelief. I crumbled it up, and threw it onto the ground. I decided that I needed a nap, but first I needed to clear my paranoia, no matter how stupid it was. I bent back the blinds that were eye level, and I scanned the buildings in my little neighborhood. Perched atop one of the two-story brick buildings, I spotted a glint of light reflecting on the top. I began to squint, wondering what I was looking at.

Pzzzzt

The sound was quiet, but distinct, almost of that of an angry bee. I ducked for cover, diving below the window and covering my head. I examined the window and saw a small bullet hole. I low-crawled through my house and into my room, and slammed my door once I stood up.

I leaned back on my door, attempting to slow my breathing. I could not believe that a sniper had shot through my window. I could not believe the freakin’ publishing contest holders were sending hitmen after me.

I ran to my closest, and pulled out a duffle bag that was buried underneath a variety of Christmas decorations and other junk, and began to unzip it. I began to speak to myself, laughing and grinning.

“Publisher Death contest. Of course. Well, it looks like Publisher Clearing didn’t do their homework!”

I loaded a magazine into the Glock pistol I pulled out of the duffle bag. I cocked back the slide and let it ride forward, and tucked it into my waistband so that it was parallel to my spine.

I mocked the red shirt guy, “Your work is realistic, oh, it felt like I was there, oh, WarhammerNewb, Operation Ironhand felt so authentic”

I slung a rifle around my back and one arm.

“Oh, but red shirt guy, do you want to know my secret? I WAS there! Oh yes. I was a Helldiver. Me. Warhammernewb.”

I loaded shells into the black carbon-fiber shotgun, and pumped the slide.

“I’m about to earn some mulah.”

[gagethefantasyguy-blog]

reblog if ur a writeblr

(or just let me know) my feed is kinda dead rn and i’d love to see more wips and excerpts!! 💞

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After 4 years of writing to a pen pal, you decide to go visit them. When you arrive at their address, the people there tell you your pen pal died 4 years earlier.

“He...died? No. How? I’ve been getting letters! Look!” he pleaded as he scrambled to undo a knapsack hung around his side, scrambling through the various books about modern magics and witch hunters that he had packed that he and his old pen pal had shared interests in. He pulled out a wad of papers that he wrinkled in his excitement. “Postmarked from just a week ago! Look!” he said, accidentally yelling.

The tenants of the house looked in bewilderment at the ecstatic man holding a wad of papers to their faces. “Sir, you need to leave or we’re going to call the police. We already told you that he died in an accident several years ago.”

Defeated and confused, Ben turned around and walked to the edge of the property and onto the sidewalk. Ben’s mind rushed, but the world around him seemed to stand still. He was only reminded that time was still continuing by the leaves falling around him and the cars whizzing by.

I just need to get home he thought after rubbing his eyes.

Later that evening, the sound of a knock on the door of Ben’s apartment weaved through the vacant furniture and empty rooms.

“Delivery!” sounded the man knocking on the door.

The letter slid underneath the door into the middle of the parlor. Ben was still arousing from his sleep when he slowly walked into the room and noticed the envelope on the floor.

No, it can’t be. He’s dead. Thought Ben as he examined the letter. He scrambled to find a letter opener, and finally opened the mail and read:

Ben,

I know you’re confused. It’s fine. Truth is, I am dead. I died 4 years ago, just like the people you met today told you. But it was no accident. I am a Seer, and I foresaw the conversations we would have and my untimely death, so I wrote these letters long ago and arranged for them to be sent to you because we need your help. The magic and hunters we read and discussed about are real, and those with the gift of power are being prosecuted by groups of renegade hunters. Don’t worry! I’ll be your guide.

I know you’re tired, so get some rest. We have work to do.

Love,

Jon

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A Plea for Help, Part 2

Ironhand opened the door and walked outside, into the courtyard that was serving as the main entrance of the King Lesterborn’s keep. Fresh blooming flowers surrounded the neatly-trimmed grassy area with a wall of oranges and blues, but the constant buzzing of bees reminded those with sticky fingers that might try and pluck the petals to stay away. The single break in the colorful wall had a wooden arch that was painted white and had two guards, each clad in red and white dress uniforms, standing with stiff posture with spears crossed, blocking the entrance.

Within the courtyard, many people dressed in fineries of different colors gathered in various groups spread throughout the peaceful reprieve from the soot and smoke of the industrial city that say just beyond the wall of color. The men were dressed in dyed robes that attempted to hide their flabby bodies and had soft, shaved faces, and all the women wore jewelry so large it was as if they were trying to outdo their peers in an unspoken contest. Laughter and cheers could be heard as a group would raise their golden goblets in celebration, and another as they told stories with exaggerated movements, attempting to bring their tales to life in this grassy retreat.

Ironhand began to walk towards the white wooden arch, taking a step onto the paved cobblestone path that ran directly through the middle. He began to approach the guards, and without any words being spoken, the spears were moved and Ironhand exited, each guard giving a quick salute to Ironhand as he passed.

Almost as if there was magic at work inside the courtyard, the color drained away and was replaced by a dark and dreary pallet, leaving Ironhand more defeated than he already was. Broken and sad people could be seen doing hard labor, carrying sacks and crates. The smell of smoke coming from the intense amount of ironwork buildings replaced the smell of flowers, and the soft buzzing of bees was replaced by the distinct sound of metal being hammered repeatedly.

“Sad, isn’t it?” spoke a voice from behind Ironhand

Without turning around, Ironhand responded, “It’s for the war effort, Braum, but I don’t think this city will never return to its former glory”

The large, barrel-chested man put his hand on the shoulder of Ironhand. Braum had a shiny, bald head, but a full and thick black beard.

“I’m guessing the great and mighty King denied your request for help, Lord,” Braum said to his friend, still retaining the proper respects despite the comfort between the pair.

“Aye, he said the East is more important.” replied Ironhand, letting a hint sadness bust through his usual steadfast demeanor.

“In your absence I took command of our party. I hope I did not offend you, Lord Ironhand, but I would rather not idle. I have dispatched a shipment of weapons to Oaken Hill. It should be enough to properly arm twenty-five soldiers if we can be careful.” Braum said.

He continued, “Lord, we cannot give in. The Orcs raid every day, but they cannot keep up their pace. We must prevail.”

We must prevail, We MUST prevail, thought Ironhand with a sudden burst of inspiration. The sadness faded, and he regained his normal, hardened look.

“Braum, gather the party, and pay the Cargo carriers to prioritize us. Tonight, we ride to Oakenhill.”

Braum saluted Ironhand, and he reciprocated. The pair started off in their separate ways.

Tonight, Oaken Hill. Tomorrow, The Orc Tribes.

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A Plea For Help

A knife stuck deep into the oak wood table the two men surrounded with a loud thud, piercing into the paper’s corner so that the crude parchment map would hold in place. A silver goblet toppled over and fell onto the ground with a loud clanging noise that echoed throughout the stone chamber as it bounced on the stone floor. A loaf of freshly baked bread with the immaculate steam still rising off of it, and along with it, many plates and other cups, were pushed to the side and off the table to make room so that the piece of parchment could be stretched out fully, allowing the landmarks and provinces to be clearly seen. Servants rushed to clear the mess that had been made, but the two men did not break their gaze off of the map.

“We must send a detachment to the Western holds, King Lesterborn.” spoke the man who had laid out the map and pushed the cutlery and food off of the dining table.

“So bold to as interrupt a king’s lunch AND to ask for help, Ironhand?” Replied Lesterborn sarcastically as he studied the left side of the map where Ironhand was motioning.

“Sir, I would not have come this far if it was not vital that we receive help.” Ironhand replied with a grim look forming on his face. “My holds do not have a proper military, just militias. We are not properly armed. We cannot hold the border.”

“The Orcs of the East are the biggest threat to my kingdom. The attacks are becoming fiercer and fiercer every week. I cannot spare bodies to the West.” replied Lesterborn without looking at Ironhand.

“Sir, The Western Orc tribes are growing in strength, and within days they could overrun the Wes-”

“Silence!” Lesterborn cut off Ironhand as he slammed his fist onto the table making a loud booming noise that rang off the stone walls of the chamber. The hushed whispers and mumbling of servants and guards preparing to serve the king his meal that previously filled the room came to a complete silence and time briefly stood still. Two guards that had been idling nearby began to edge forward after the shock had subsided, but the guards were slow to approach the table: the pair was still startled by the sudden rage of that filled the room and did not want to fall victim to an angry king.

Lestborn continued, “I have spoken, and I will not repeat myself. Gather your militias and hold your land, Ironhand.”

After speaking, Lesterborn motioned for the guards as he turned around, flipping his cloak into the air in an exaggerated movement, and began to walk away. The pair of guards positioned behind Ironhand with spears pointed into his back, and a simple command was issued: “Move.”

“The blood of the West is on your hands, King Lesterborn” sniveled Ironhand as he bowed towards the purple-clothed figure.

[gagethefantasyguy-blog]

One of my favorite indie hits in both VR and pancake gaming received big news!

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Unfortunately, MK11 is riddled with money-grabbing practices.

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Elder God in Chains

Chains. So binding to this mortal body.

These fools worship me but cannot discern me from a blaspheming prophet? I wrote the texts they cite to me! How can I blaspheme against myself?

Two hooded figures began to come into view as they stepped down a staircase and into the long hallway which held the pathetic prisoner at the end. The pair walked with an eerie slowness, moving through the hallway of the stone dungeon. The light flickered from torches that were placed systematically throughout the hallway and gave off a low light, but not enough so that the features of their faces were exposed. Each step that the two men took echoed in and out of the cells. The occupants, however, did not seem to mind, as most of them had turned to skeletons over the duration of their stay.

“Up. Your time has come, scum,” spoke one of the figures as he opened up the iron bar door that contained the scrawny captive.

Without allowing a response, the two men grabbed the captive and brought him to his feet and unlocked his restraints from his hands and neck. Roughly, they began to drag the captive back through the hallway. The rough stones that made the floor of the dungeon cut into the knees and legs of the captive when he would stumble, but the men would not stop.

The captive was dragged to the top of the stairs and then through a trap door that led to a amphitheater with seating all around the center that was filled with cheering bystanders. The cheering and chanting erupted from loud into deafening as the captive was pulled through the trap door and into the sandy arena.

One of the men raised his arms and beckoned for the crowd’s attention. Once quieted, he began to speak:

“Followers of Mak’Gulara, God of Wrath, I present to you the False Prophet that came to us!”

Applause and cheering began again, and after a moment, subsided. The voice began to speak again.

“As dictated by the Holy Texts and tradition, he will face death by Mak’Goora!”

Ah, Mak’Goora. Putting up the strongest warrior against the sinner in combat. If only they knew.

Before the cheering could begin once more, a giant warrior clad in metal armor jumped into the arena, armed with two swords with javelins on his back. One of the robed men drew a sword from a sheath on his belt and threw it onto the ground in front of the captive.

“Good luck, sinner”

The captive grabbed the weapon, and it began to glow as it heated and became molten. Gasps could be heard throughout the crowd.

I am Mak’gulara, and these fools will know my Wrath!