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[decadentpandawasteland]

Hi! I actually have a tiny backlog finally, so here's the next section of For All That Have Fallen! Thoughts and comments are always welcome! As always, thanks for reading :)

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A few days passed, but they didn't register with Nicolas. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the stare of that crimson orb bore into him. It just sat there, unblinking and unmoving. Nicolas had recalled a few meditative techniques during those few days and had tried more than half a dozen of them to no avail. No matter what he did, that orb watched him. It gave him an uneasy feeling. There was a feeling of a predator watching its prey, as if he was being evaluated from the inside out. The orb never moved, but he knew he could feel it coursing out his mana channels. The feeling was like when someone walked over your grave.

The old priest came walking into the day room. Nicolas was flipping through a notebook before looking up. The old man's deep wrinkles were now the size of canyons, his eyes were cloudy, and the only semblance of hair he still had on his head was a few white strands. His right arm was no longer blackened and brittle, but the skin looked almost like wax. The man couldn't channel mana through it, even if he had enough to spare. 

A thought crossed his mind. “That chunk of soul wa-”

A red orb. 

Nicolas stood from his seat and stretched trying to shake off that feeling of existential dread. He suddenly felt ravenous, but not for food. He wasn't even sure what he wanted was real. From drinking from the goblet to learning a spell that all scholars consider lost to time itself. This isn't who he was or what he strived out to be. He was so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed. Was this what he really wanted? Power at any cost? Enough to change everyone's perspective.

Ragnar let out a soft cough and Nicolas's head shot up. His gaze was hard. It was as if his eyes were large icicles, waiting for the perfect moment to kill him where he stands. 

“What?” Nicolas asked impatiently. 

“You must return to the College and complete the final task our glorious Lord has set upon your shoulders,” Ragnar stated in a mechanical tone. It was like he wasn't even remotely injured. Then Nicolas remembered the screams. 

Ragnar handed over a small black envelope. “Opening this envelope will automatically make this a sealed pact. Failure to complete this task will cause one of the runes on the pact to break. We both know how much better than anyone, whoever broke it would be better off dead.”

“What if I refuse to do it at all? Nicolas asked. Before Ragnar could answer, the red sphere took up every millimeter of space within Nicolas's mind. It was terrifying. The light fluctuated and pulsed as it spoke. 

Then I shall use my gift upon you, rendering your mana channels as nothing more than wasted space within you. My flame may only be put out if I demand it so. 

Reflexively, Nicolas stated “Yes, my Lord,” before he was shoved back into his body. Having his consciousness forcefully taken out and forcefully returned was very discombobulating  to him. To add on to the disorienting feeling, something he hadn't thought of at all slipped through his lips. My Lord?

“My advice to you, since you seem so torn,” Ragnar began. Nicolas just held up a hand. 

“I'm returning to the College. My disappearance probably hasn't even registered with… Quin,” Nicolas said, grabbing the sealed envelope. It felt much heavier than it should be, almost the weight of a brick. It still retained the density that a normal sealed letter should. 

“I should get back before it's noticed.”

“Just as before, I shall be here. Do not fret, for he watches over you even now,” Ragnar said. Nicolas just ignored the ramblings of a deranged man. He grabbed his wide brimmed hat and attempted to leave, whatever kind of building he was in. 

After a few false starts, Nicolas had managed to get out. He had looped back through where he had came in, leaving through what looked like a water drainage channel that hadn't been used in hundreds of years. The ceiling was low and the space was cramped. More than a few times, Nicolas debated on turning around, but eventually he found the light at the end of the tunnel. 

The tunnel opened up into a dried creek bed. Nicolas passed through the opening, he thought he had registered a feeling of… something…, trying to keep him there. As if the darkness of the tunnel was reticent at best to allow him to leave. Eventually he did make it out of the creek bed and Nicolas decided he wanted a good look at whatever kind of building he had been in. Based on the dungeonesque layout of the bottom floor, he was expecting to see some long forgotten castle or fortress.

It was an old, dilapidated chapel. The roof had partially caved in long ago, making the belltower in the front the highest spire. The bell it had housed had been taken a very long time ago. Greenery was taking over the building. A slow but inevitable return to nature. 

A name popped into his mind the same way it had to bring him here a few days ago. Emerald Garden. Nicolas decided to add that to his list of things to research in the library, after showering, and stopping by Quin's office. “This day is going to be a pain in the ass,” Nicolas mumbled as he started the trek back to campus. 

One shower, a change of clothes, and an unhelpful trip to Quin's office, which he wasn't in, led Nicolas into the library. Right before the library, he had stopped to get food. He was starving. It felt like he hadn't eaten in a month, but the sandwich had tasted rancid to him. Still, he forced it down. That hunger only increased in intensity. He tried to push that aside as he walked into his favorite place in the world. 

The Mage's College Library was filled to the brim with everything from scraps of paper with hastily scrawled out alchemical formulas, scrolls of every possible variety discipline available to magic, grimoires carrying the magnum opus of mage's studies. Nicolas walked in as a pair of students walked out. They're long black robes were adorned with a forest green trim, signifying they were studying one of the natural fields. “Hydro or geomancy would be the most useful of those,” Nicolas thought to himself. He turned and watched the male, who knelt down and placed his hand on the grass. In seconds, blooms of iridescent flowers exploded into being. Nicolas shook his head in disgust. “Agricanology. Such a waste.”

From the outside, the library looked small and simplistic. The only real adornment on the building's facade being intricate glass work in the shape of the College's symbol, a book with the pages flipping open. Of course nothing is that simple, as a mixture of magic and light glinting off the glass created an impression of the pages slowly flipping forward. Inside the building, however, it was a completely different story. 

The inside of the building was quietly bustling. The floor was intricately carved, thousands upon thousands of runes and symbols were painstakingly etched and covered with a sealant to perfectly preserve it. All around him were small tables and chairs, rows of books. This and the upstairs level held most of the books used for required course material. Students ran around, professors gave impromptu lessons, even the sylphs used as janitorial stand-ins kept the areas clean and free of trash and debris. It was a sight to behold between this and the upper floor. Both were open to any of the students who wished to use the spaces to study or complete research. 

Nicolas walked by a table covered from end to end with every type of scroll imaginable. A frazzled woman who looked like she hadn't slept in days was scratching at her head. Wisps of curly, frizzy red poking out between her fingers.

“You!” She screamed, before quickly covering her mouth as the sound cut through the low murmur of students. She dropped her hands and this time yelled in a whisper, “You! I need fresh eyes! Please, please, please help!”

“Why me? I'm busy at the mo-” Nicolas began before she cut him off. 

“Honestly? You're the closest person I could see, and I'm afraid I'll pass out if I try and find someone else.” Her voice was frantic. After a moment she added, “You carry yourself like a well worn book and I feel more like a rolled up thousand year old scroll. How about this, you help me with this, I'll help you with whatever. No questions asked.” She stared up at Nicolas from the dragon's hoard of scrolls with the deepest green eyes that he had ever seen. 

“Fine, fine. Nicolas Varro, third year, astralogian,” Nicolas said as he pulled up a chair. 

“Kara Cutwright, second year, wordsmith and bibliomancer.” Kara said. 

“You'll have to forgive me, but I don't think I've ever heard of either of those specialities. What are they?” Nicolas asked. 

A very exhausted but happy grin broke across Kara's face. “A bibliomancer allows me to cast any form of magic by reciting and using either a scroll or grimoire as the conduit. It takes longer than normal to cast and it will always require an incantation, but the versatility is unmatched.”

“And the wordsmith?”

Kara laid her head on the pile of scrolls, a makeshift pillow of knowledge and destruction. “It's technically not a specialty. Not yet. I'm trying to make it one.” She said it with the conviction of a soldier getting ready for battle, despite the fact that her eyes were shut. 

Nicolas knew the only way specialities were created was through decades upon decades of dedication. Master Quin was the closest thing he'd seen to the specialty Nicolas desired of a Soulweaver despite Quin's focus on the Astral Plane instead of the Soul itself. At least Nicolas's choice has a path to follow, even if it is rarely chosen. Cutting a path of your own design was a challenge that he didn't think anyone could achieve. This woman just became a lot more interesting to him. 

“Okay Wordsmith-to-be, what can I help you with?” He asked, glancing at the scrolls. 

Kara perked up immediately, before immediately letting out a massive yawn. She held up a finger to signal to wait a second before twisting in her chair to grab something out of the bag on the back. Something about the motion seemed off. She pulled out a metal cylinder with two thick lines running horizontally across it. She twisted the bottom end and it made a cracking sound. Tiny runes lit up with red light as she sat the cylinder down. After a moment, she unscrewed the top. Steam rose into the air and the smell of coffee filled the table. It was fascinating enough that Nicolas had forgotten about the hunger that had been wracking him since he had left Ragnar's castle or that unblinking red orb in his mind. 

“Okay, so I'm looking for…”

[decadentpandawasteland]

Okay, these are pretty fun! Thanks @pluppsauthor for this game. This is for a story I've been working on for a while. It doesn't have a working title, but I've been referring to it as Luna and Kai, since those are the MCs. Anyway, here's the plot explained badly in 15 points.

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Explain 15 plot points badly: 

1. Family fun day ends with an argument because kids are dumb. 

2. I'm pretty sure that's a part of a clock. Wait what's a clock?

3. Kids are Dumb 2: I could probably take that metal spider. Update: I could not. 

4. Stranger Danger. Cue: A Whole New World™.

5. Returning home *Donald Glover meme of getting pizza and everything is on fire* Yay trauma bonding.

6. Nature is crazy.

7. Time to wish upon a star.

8. Big city meet country girl and Mad Max wannabe.

9. Oh, so he was just always crazy.

10. We don't allow nepotism in this city.

11. Why won't this guy die?

12. Has this place always looked this bad? 

13. Mission Impossible: How do you kill something that won't die? 

14. I swear, this is definitely something for a clock.

15. Oh thank God, I can take this mask off now. 

[decadentpandawasteland]

Hello! Hope everyone's having a good day! Here is the next part of For All That Have Fallen. I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcome and appreciated, and as always, thanks for reading :)

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Damien stared dumbly at the elongated ears of Wryn. A metal clasp encircled part of her right ear, a small chain connected it to a piercing at the lobe of her ear. Her left ear had two simple hoops near the same spot. 

“You're.. an elf?” Damien said. It wasn't quite a question or quite a statement, more a sound of disbelief. 

“The last time I checked, yes. I assume nothing has changed since then?” Her voice was calm, which surprised Damien. He had gotten used to the manic edge to her voice that it was strange to hear her without it. Was it just an act then? He was surprised to feel it made him even angrier. 

“You seem calmer than usual,” Damien said, biting off the words. 

The elf woman shot Damien a cold glare and in the same flat voice said, “Plans made in the heat of the moment will burn up before ever coming close to fruition. Passion makes for a great strength, but will leave you blind in the simplest of ways. If we're to burn this place to the ground, we need patience. Do not mistake calmness for a lack of fighting spirit. Why brawl for a few scrapes when a knife to the throat is always more deadly?” Her tone made it clear that the topic was done. In an odd way, it forced Damien to relax some. Anger and resentment had become his mainstay now. Anything else just felt wrong. 

“Alright then, old wise one, what's the plan?” Damien asked, keeping the biting tone back some. 

“It depends. How do you feel about taking a life?” Wryn asked nonchalantly. She had wandered over to a cupboard in the kitchen and grabbed a bag of something. 

Damien wasn't sure whether it was the question itself or the nonchalance in which it was asked, but his mind had blanked. All that came out was a stuttered “Wh-what?”

“Are you able to take a life? It's a simple yes or no question,” Wryn said. She had started a burner and began heating water. 

Honestly, the thought hadn't fully occurred to him. The Brood was always this faceless entity, the black dragon on the crimson background, faceless entities that had to be less than a person, because why else would they treat people this way? At what point do cells stop being cells and start to become the being they make up? The thought ate at him.

An awkward silence filled the kitchen, lasting long enough for the water to be brought to a boil. Wryn grabbed a metal pitcher, two ceramic mugs and two kinds of cheese cloth. She talked as she worked, stretching the cloth over the metal pitcher and heaping a few scoops of whatever was in the bag onto the cloth. 

“Killing isn't difficult. It never was for them, so why should it be for you?” She stated matter-of-factly. “They've had no qualms in making you suffer, only trying to hobble you and make you a symbol of what they can do. For someone to point at and ask them why and for that Bastard in power to simply say ‘because we can’.” Wryn began pouring the boiling water over the pile of what looked like dirt into the pitcher. She moved slowly and deliberately, pouring in concentric circles. 

A strong, earthy scent filled the room. 

Coffee. 

“How did you end up with that scar?” Damien asked. He had taken a seat at a small table, needing to sit down and mull over her question. Wryn flinched, spilling some water but recovered quickly. She took in a breath. 

“A fight,” she said in a curt tone. 

Damien waited for her to elaborate, but the only sound that broke the silence was the sound of coffee being poured through a second cheesecloth, catching any missed coffee grounds. He was fully aware there would still be some in it. 

“If I'm fighting with you, I need to know your past. What you can do, how you do it, and what's driving you? You're willing to risk everything for a chance of fighting them off even if they have a dragon?” Damien asked. A sudden feeling of deja vu of him and Rost having this exact same conversation less than a day ago.

“Yes,” was her only reply.

There was a clinking of ceramic on metal as Wryn brought a metal tray with two cups of coffee, a small container of milk, and some sugar. She sat across from Damien and plopped in two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk. She offered him the other cup, which Damien accepted. Unlike Wryn, he preferred his coffee black. 

“The mine is filled with voidstone. It's almost like a stone-metal composite. You've almost certainly seen it around.” Wryn said, taking a sip of her coffee. Her face was an emotionless mask.

“What's so special about voidstone?” Damien asked. He tried to remember if he had ever seen any, but was drawing a blank. 

“It has the highest possible storage as a mana conduit. Think of it as an almost infinite amount of storage if it is a good enough quality. Only a few mines can produce it since it required being in a place with an absurdly high ambient mana density,” she said, watching the steam drift lazily out of her cup. 

“Okay, and…?” Damien said, moving his hands in a ‘hurry up’ motion.

“What do you know about magic?” Wryn asked. 

“You're dodging my original question,” He said flatly. 

“You're doing the same to mine. Just bear with me,” she said, still staring at the streaming cup. For a second, a hint of fear and rage passed her eyes. Before Damien could even really register it, the look was gone. 

He let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine, fine. I don't know much about magic. Something about channels, attributes, and affinities.”

“Voidstone can work a saved up charge through a mana channel. You want pyromancy but your affinity is with hydromancy? Now you can. It can act as a check to your own weaknesses. Usually mage's will pick a specialty and the more use of a specific attribute. The use of only one attribute changes the composition of the mana in your own body to create more of that one, as a detriment to others.You're exercising those sections to give yourself a specialty,” she said. Damien's cup had cooled, but Wryn's kept steaming. It was almost more than when she had first poured it. 

“The Emerald Sea used to be more than just grass,” she said. There was a wistful look in her eye. “A very, very long time ago there used to be a forest here. The trees were supposedly massive, some so massive the canopy blocked out the sun. The trees that grew here had the same property of voidstone and the people here lived in a delicate balance with it. For every one harvested a dozen would be planted. But humanity is a greedy bunch. They're a toddler throwing a tantrum because the world doesn't work on their schedule.” A razor-sharp edge was creeping back into her voice and Damien could noticeably tell her coffee was actively steaming more now. He thought he could hear the sound of it starting to boil. 

“It was always one thing or another. ‘We need the lumber to secure some walls’ or ‘How else will our soldiers defend themselves?’. It continued like that until the mountain was bare. The elders of the people said that enough was enough. Whatever human faction that was here fighting someone over there, again and again it would require more and more until the people had nothing left to give, and yet humanity demanded more.” There was a finality in her voice. She had sharpened the edge in it to sever whatever she was about to say next. He could see her coffee boiling over now, running over her hands. Wryn didn't even seem to notice. 

“Humans attacked them. Not just attacked, not just fought. They were slaughtered, Damien,” Wryn's voice broke and he thought he saw a tear roll down her cheek. “We were slaughtered.”

Just like that, it all clicked into place. That's why she was here. That's why Wryn chose to fight every day, at every waking moment. Why the fire in her soul refused to be snuffed out. How she could simply take a life. All of the horrors they had seen separately, separated by untold years all aligned in a sickening display. Something drastic needed to be done, even if it meant becoming a monster to kill one. 

Damien finally took a sip of his coffee. It was rich and earthy, but also bitter. It paired perfectly with the words the decision he had reached. “Yes. To answer your question, yes.” Long after the coffee was gone, he could still taste those bitter words on his tongue.

[decadentpandawasteland]

First time I've ever done one of these, so thanks, @pluppsauthor , for giving me an excuse to try one! There are a few things I want to keep in secret until they get revealed in All That Have Fallen, so there might be some answers that are vague. But here is my favorite angry little edge-lord, Damien!

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Are you named after anyone?

"I don't think so? My memory is a little hazy from when I was little, so maybe, but I'm leaning more towards no."

When was the last time you cried?

"The night after they took Rhea. I couldn't register existing in a world without her. The door was still kicked in, but there was a faint knock on the door frame from this bear of a man. His accent was thick and made it hard for me to understand, but I understood " it's alrigh' boy. Let it all ou'. Ye'll be good, jus' takes time." That was the first time I really talked to Rost."

Do you have kids?

"Rhea and I both did, but I don't want any without her. Rost's little goblins are more than enough for me. I'm happy to be the fun uncle."

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

"Mom always called it sass, dad called it back-talk, Rhea called it cute. So, maybe."

What’s the first thing you notice about people?

"Their eyes. You can always tell when they're listening for information to report. When people have a goal, they always react, even if it's miniscule. The eyes are the windows to see it."

What’s your eye colour?

"Blue. I think. It's been a while since I checked. Oh, this might answer your sarcasm question."

Scary movies or happy endings?

"Happy endings. I've seen enough scary stuff for one lifetime, and they took my happy ending. My new happy ending is taking down The Brood."

Any special talents?

"When I still had both of my eyes, I was actually pretty good at throwing knives. I haven't done it since I lost the one. Maybe I'll pick it back up at some point."

Where were you born?

"Veradica. It's by mom's village to the east by the sea."

Do you have any pets?

"I did growing up. Dogs kept the animals safe at night. I'd always sneak them some scraps after dinner. Dad would yell every time, and mom just laughed. "

What sort of sports do you play?

"I do not understand the question. What's a sport?"

How tall are you?

"Uh, I can pass under a door frame without cracking my head, but short enough to rest my chin on Rhea's head when I hugged her."

"Oh, you want numbers? Too bad."

What was your favourite subject in school?

"Mom did her best to teach me some stuff at home. Reading was always my favorite hobby."

What is your dream job?

"Being a hero. Save people from evil villains, stopping enemies for the greater good, maybe even saving the world a time or two. It's a childish dream, I know. Sometimes it's good to hold on to something childish to keep your dreams from crumbling down around you."

I can't think of anyone to tag yet but I'll make an edit when I do!

[decadentpandawasteland]

Calling for Playtesters!

Well ive been making quite a bit of progress when it comes to polishing dialogue and its about time i make another call for playtester and sensitivity testers.

The latter would especially be appreciated as i tend to put a lot of thought and effort into representation and complex themes, which can lead to a lot of misguided writing and unfortunate implications slipping by my limited perspective. To anyone interested, contact me through private chat and i will forward you a build. -------------- As for everyone else, keep spreading the word about the game and share THIS LINK to get the game as many followers as possible before release. Making a game is one thing, but it wont matter how good it is if nobody even knows it exists. Maybe ill even prepare some rewards for each milestone we reach. Lets start simple. Once the game reach 20 follows on Gamejolt, i`ll make a post covering the game's main antagonist.

Thanks for following the project everyone and remember....they are watching...

[decadentpandawasteland]

It's been a bit since I've posted, but I finally came up with a working title at least! This entire series is now officially For All That Have Fallen. Honestly, chances are I'll end up changing it a few times, but for right now, I think this fits perfectly. Anyway, here is the next section of it! Feedback is always welcomed, and as always, thanks for reading :)

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Nicolas was frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. Does he speak out loud to the Voice? Through thought? 

“Tell the priest to go and perform the Rites of Ahlera. If it doesn't kill him, it'll at least give him some use of that arm” the Voice said. It felt like his skull was vibrating from the words. “Now, boy.” It said when Nicolas hadn't acted. 

“Go do the Rites of Ahlera. It'll give you some use of your arm,” Nicolas said. He quickly added “I believe this is from your Lord himself.”

Ragnar stood quickly and mumbled to himself “Yes, yes, of course. Ahlera, of course, Goddess of Flesh and Bone..” as he hurriedly left the chamber. He hadn't even bothered to close the door. 

Join me on the Astral Plane, child. This is a discussion from soul to soul. 

Nicolas sat back down on the bed. His joints still ached and his muscles burned, but nothing close to how he had felt before ripping off part of the old man's soul. Nicolas crossed his legs and closed his eyes. He cast Animadverte, this time focusing it inwardly and watching it map out his soul. Lines formed and crossed, reminding him of veins and arteries, but these held radiant light in hues of blue, yellow, and green. Flecks of red would appear only to be swallowed up by the other lights. Nicolas watched intently, focusing on it, harmonizing with it, and tracing the mana as it circulated throughout his body. 

Nicolas opened his eyes. He no longer was in the dark, dank room, but instead amongst balls of light. It was both light and dark, good and evil, right and wrong. A soul is neither of these things and all of them at once. He was in the Astral. The colors dimmed as he watched. Nicolas tried to speak but no words came out. The lights had dimmed, almost blinking out of existence. The Voice spoke. 

You have talent , boy. Talent squandered by those insufferable curs at that sad excuse of a college. 

The dimmed lights flickered brightly as the Voice spoke, as if it's speaking forced mana back into them. The lights were in four spheres. They floated loosely near each other in almost a ‘v’ formation. Blue for the two forming the top of the ‘v’ and yellow for the lines of the ‘v’.

It took the priest almost ten years to be able to even be able to hear my instructions. Ten years of pulling and nudging until he finally understood to drink from the cup. You understood immediately to do so. If you have a question, speak now for you may only hold this form for a short time. Your soul may not be able to find its shell if it is gone for too long. 

The soul takes the shape of whatever shell it inhabits. It is a fundamental law in the study of the Astral Arts. While the use of mana to hold a shape is possible, it is too cost effective to be used more than a few minutes at a time. Anything beyond that, the caster runs the risk of a ‘crack’ forming and their soul leaking out. It could be as slow as a leaky tap or as fast as a dam breaking. It entirely depended on the density at which Nicolas had applied his mana. 

Nicolas thought for a moment. The swirling balls of brightening and dimming light gave him an idea, but if he was wrong it was about to drastically shorten his time on this plane. He called forth the Animadverte, feeling the mana shift from forming a thick shell to almost paper thin. He focused it into his left hand. The light formed, a lit match compared to the stars, the Voice was using. He focused, the light grew. 

"Who are you?"

The moment Nicolas asked the question, he dropped the spell, trying to absorb the unspent mana back into his shell. If he hurried, he might be able to get back an extra thirty seconds. Enough time to gather one more piece of the puzzle. 

The Voice rumbled.

I have been called many things over the millennia. Skybreaker. Cloudweaver. The Last Sunset. The Immortal. The Scaled Rot. Halfling of the Horde. And now, your Lord. 

Nicolas knew he was out of time. He had lasted as long as he could, but the risk of staying was too great. He felt as his soul was called back, his vision of the four orbs was fading. Suddenly, at the lowest part of the ‘v’ a line formed in crimson. It forced itself open, swirls of what looked like blood flowed in it. 

Xestial.

Blackness flooded Nicolas's vision, as the lights faded into nothing. Nicolas opened his eyes, back in the dark room. Ragnar had lit torches, bathing the dingy room in paltry light compared to the Astral Plane. The Priest was off in another chamber, reciting the Rites of Ahlera, at the behest of his Lord. His Lord. Nicolas mulled over the words. 

“Your Lord.” 

Xestial's words felt like an earthquake in his mind, shaking his thoughts to the core. Every thought, except that unending red orb of light that hadn't left his thoughts since leaving the Astral Plane.

[decadentpandawasteland]

Hello! Here is the next entry into my Revenge Series (I really need to come to with a proper name for it). Anyway, please feel free to leave any and all comments! I appreciate your time, and as always, thanks for reading :)

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After a brief respite of sunshine, the downpour continued unabated. Damien felt a little lighter getting his story out. It gave him an eerie feeling deep in his gut. If his hatred could be cooled just from speaking a few sentences then it wasn't enough. 

“Have no fear, for the fire in your hearth has not diminished,” Wryn said without looking back. 

“How di-, never mind. Where are we going anyway?” Damien asked. They had walked following the wall they had been standing on earlier. This had them walking through the poverty stricken outer ring. These people, known as ‘ringers’ lived in something almost like a tent city. It was so densely packed with people, that some had begun to risk it, sleeping out in the Emerald Sea, the grassland that led up to and encircled Evansguard. 

“You and your wife arrived from outside the Sea, yes?” Wryn asked, pointing to approximately where the little village of Wandering would be. Damien nodded. 

“Why do you think this place was chosen to settle Damien? They easily could have cleared the grassland around here to settle or even climb higher into the Hallowed Mountain. Instead this was chosen. Why?” Wryn asked.

Damien thought as the two continued walking. Beggars would start to approach them, only to see the hooded woman and scurry away. It was kind of unnerving. Normally it took fetching a guard to clear them away from you, but then the guard just shook you down instead. There was an old wives tale about the ringer who could smell a mark twenty strides away, but the moment these guys eyed Wryn they sprinted away. One man was even on a crutch and he picked it up and hopped away. 

“Friends of yours?” Damien asked. He figured he wasn't going to get a response, but he could feel a ghost of a grin hidden in her hood's shadow.

“Of a sort,” she said. Damien wasn't even sure if he had heard her correctly. Before he could fully process it she asked “Have you figured it out yet?”

“It has something to do with the minerals inside of the mountain, right?” Damien asked. 

There was a crowd of ringers in front of a massive board. An armored guard stood off to one side of it, calling out names. Damien recognized it as a jobs board. There were hundreds of papers tacked to the board, some bone white indicating they had been put up very recently, others were a sickly yellow and the ink was barely still legible. The guard standing on the left was only there if the ringers got too rowdy. A man was standing to the right, plucking off papers and reading them out to the crowd.

 

“Twenty bodies needed by the Comstock Farm! Two weeks of work guaranteed! 2 gold pieces per day! Possibility of continual seasonal work!” The crier called out. Four dozen hands shot up. 

Damien knew it wasn't the pay that they were after. Two gold was the equivalent of handing them scraps for dinner. The real prize was the seasonal work. Each hiring site worked differently, but the general rule of thumb is that if a contract was offered for the next five years, your pay would double for each full year. Two to four, four to eight, eight to sixteen, sixteen to thirty-two, and thirty-two to sixty-four. Those hired could choose to freeze the pay raise at any time, but if payments got too high, they'd be too expensive to keep and they'd be let go. 

“Correct. The minerals deep within the mountain are highly sought after for one big reason, they are able to hold highly dense amounts of mana,” Wryn said. Even as they walked through the crowd rushing towards the job board, everyone within a five foot area gave them space. It was eerie.

“Okay, and how does this come into our plans?” Damien asked. Up ahead, he could see a gated off area with a sign. The sign read ‘KEEP OUT BY ORDER OF THE BROOD. ANY TRESPASSING WILL BE MET SWIFTLY BY VIRTUE OF ARREST OR WORSE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED’.

“Our plan is simple at the moment,” Wryn said, in a tone Damien had associated with her plotting and scheming. “We are striking against them, correct? In order to do so, we must bolster our own numbers, and in order to do that, we must deliver a blow that will hurt them without getting caught.”

She gestured with her thumb at the gate. 

That's when the plan mostly clicked in Damien's head. Since they had been in public, the two of them were speaking in vague and ambiguous terms, but now it made perfect sense. There were at least twenty mining operations going on throughout the city at any given time, but this one was the most secluded. It also involved hiring exclusively ringers, which meant mining safety was the last thing on the employers mind. Who cares if a few poor souls get lost in an accident, when cutting corners saves you thousands? 

“Who is it?” Damien asked through gritted teeth. He wanted to know who their target was, who was going to pay the price that he and Wryn were setting. He hadn't noticed it before, but he did now. Almost all of the ringers that were nearby were missing a part of themselves. Fingers, hands, whole arms or legs. A man limped by using a pickaxe as a crutch. Some had burn marks from explosives used in demolitions. A boy walked by missing three fingers on his left hand, blood was seeping through the fresh bandages on him. The boy was crying, not because of the lost feelings, but that day's pay having been deducted to cover the cost of the treatment.

“Callum Moren. He owns this mine. Turns a pretty good profit, considering two thirds of his income is snatched away for The Brood. He strictly only hires ringers for the grunt labor, inner-city people make up most of his guards that drive the workforce,” Wryn said. 

The two walked for a bit more, taking a left at the end of the street before reaching the gate. Another left and a right, suddenly there was a warehouse. Wryn produced a key and unlocked it. The door swung open revealing a table, a few chairs, a stove top in the corner with an ice box beside it, and a few scattered bookshelves that were almost bare. The rest of the space was so empty there was a slight echo when they spoke. 

“Welcome to our base of operations, Damien. By the time we're through, we'll have this place packed with those just like us, ready to burn it all down.”

Wryn showed Damien around the space. A hallway led down to sleeping quarters and a bathroom, which thankfully had a shower. “Won't they notice people conning in and out of here?” He had asked after claiming a bunk for himself. The sleeping quarters were big, but with about ten beds in the room, there wasn't much room for privacy. “What about noise?”

“You have no knowledge of magic, do you?” Wryn asked. It looked like she had claimed a bunk for herself, but sure hadn't slept on it. Damien silently wondered to himself if the woman ever did actually sleep. 

“Not even a little,” he said honestly. 

“There are two main enchantments on this building and the grounds surrounding it. Obfuscation and Silence. Obfuscation not only hides, but gently pushes those not granted its protection away.  To most people, it's almost an uncomfortable or eerie feeling in the air, something in the back of their minds telling them to run. Silence does exactly what it sounds like, dampening any sound in the area. 

“You've actually seen both of these in use before you came here.” Wryn said, turning her back to Damien.

She stood there for a moment and something in the air changed. The back of her cloak was dark, but then suddenly, the fabric itself shimmered. An intricate circle formed with crisscrossing patterns filling it in, underneath all of it though was what almost looked like a music note. When Wryn turned around, it almost caused Damien to take a step back. 

Her normal vast amount of darkness that hid her face from him was gone. Long white hair flowed out. Her skin was the shade of alabaster and her face had all soft features, except her eyes. Her eyes were hardened by a loss so vast, it made even the stars look diminutive. The softness of her face was marred in three spots. Three identical lines went from the left side of her face down to the right side of her jaw. It reminded Damien of a claw mark, each line passing over her left eye, her nose, and her right eye.

“Obfuscation rune is placed on the inside of the cloak, silence on the outside,” she said simply. Wryn took the cloak off and shook out her hair. The long white hair was mostly straight, parting down the middle and framing her face. She wore a leather jerkin and simple pants and boots. The woman was much smaller than Damien had realized. The cloak had given her a presence to compensate for her slight build. After fussing with her hair for a moment, the last little detail popped into place. Poking out of her white mane, two elongated and pointed ears poked out. Wryn, Damien realized, is an elf. 

[decadentpandawasteland]

Here is the next part of my Revenge Series! I'm interested to see what people have to say about it, as this part begins to open up the magic system within the world. So, if you have any questions or are curious how specific things will work, please feel free to ask! I hope you enjoy it and, as always, thanks for reading. :)

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It's…his… blood…,” Ragnar said through shuddering breaths. Nicolas was looming over him and all Ragnar could think of was that he was now under the headsman’s ax. Nicolas took a minute to process that piece of information and was frustrated. Why doesn't anyone ever give him a straight answer? He was stonewalled when he used reason and here he was, stonewalled again, when he had acted on a violent impulse. 

Nicolas stood to his full height and the band of light in his hand pulsed outward. Ragnar screamed again as he watched the light pass over and through him. Suddenly, Nicolas knew what the light pulse did and he laughed. It was a deep, long belly laugh. The involuntary action shattered whatever remnant of fight that remained to Ragnar. A dark stain spread across the lower part of his cloak.

Holding up his left hand to show the colorless light to the terrorized priest he asked in between laughs, “Do you know what this is?”

It was a monumental effort for Ragnar, but he managed to barely shake his head. 

“Animadverte. Marking of the Soul. Astral magic is intensive on the casters' mana for two reasons. One, it requires a ritual to be performed in order to map out the target's soul. The other reason is having to overcome the target's soul defenses.” Nicolas looked at the light, mesmerized. 

“This spell takes the first part of that problem and negates it almost completely. This was something that was only ever even theorized. With the mana consumption alone, I should be dead from casting it so many times, and yet here I am using it as a torch. I've ripped away the left arm of your soul, Ragnar, and it was consumed. It's gone. Forever. There is no growing it back.” 

At that, a pulse of light passed through the cowering man. His soul was marked once again. Nicolas pushed through the astral plane, using the power of Animadverte to guide himself. With an understanding of the spell structure, Nicolas realized just how crudely he had used it. He saw the look on Ragnar's face the moment he closed the hand on the first finger of Ragnar's remaining hand. 

“You've got one more chance before I start taking chunks,” Nicolas said. Some part deep within him wanted to do it, to rip and tear Ragnar apart, to go and rip everyone apart. In the darkest depths of his labyrinth of a soul, The Voice stirred. The violent impulse intensified. The only reason he didn't act on it was his wanting of answers. Answers he might be able to get out of someone else. 

“P-p-p…” Ragnar stuttered. 

“Use your big boy words, Priest,” Nicolas said, icy coldness swept through every syllable. He tightened his grip on Ragnar's soul and began to pu-

“PACT! PACT! PACT!” Ragnar shouted the words. A sickly purple light radiated off Ragnar's upper chest, as he threw himself into the floor. 

Nicolas knew very little about Pact and Sealing magic. It was the only discipline of magic that required the use of crystals as an external mana source. Due to this, it it's utilized primarily in the security of information. 

Glyphs will always follow three simple rules, regardless of their complexity. The first is the same rule that applies to all magic theory. Simple does not mean easy. The strength of the seal is relative to the mana infused within it, not the seal lines themselves. Finally, do not attempt to break a seal without adequate knowledge of who, what, and why. Who created it? What is it sealing? Why would this need to be sealed or unsealed?

A relatively good thing about seals is that they won't kill those who break a pact. It will make those who break them wish it did though. Nicolas thought on the last bit of information. 

“Who, what, and why?” He asked out loud. The intensity of the purple hue was dimming. It was at a snail's pace, but it was dimming. Nicolas was starting to pace, the purple light of Ragnar's Pact Seal faded into darkness, the only light in the room was from Nicolas's spell. 

“You're a priest of, uh, something. You're wearing the symbol of The Brood,” Nicolas said. The only sounds in the room were his boots scraping the rocky ground and Ragnar's whimpers. “Show me the seal again.” Ragnar hesitated, but complied. 

The seal itself was about the size of Nicolas's hand. It looked like it had been carved directly into his skin and left a scar. Surprisingly, none of the scar tissue felt raised. It was two circles, one was smaller and inside the other. At the very top of the inner circle was a triangle, equal on all sides, stretching down until it was spitting the circle into equal halves. At what would be the center of both our circles, was the tip of the second triangle as it copied the same pattern. Inside the ring created by the two circles were fuzzy symbols that Nicolas couldn't make out. He let out a slow whistle. Simple does not mean easy.

“I don't even understand how they even made this. There's no marks from an etching tool, it's not burned on, nor tattooed. It's not even ink. There's nothing you can tell me?” Nicolas asked, caught between a feeling of frustration and excitement. It's not on the skin, maybe the muscle or bone?

“I… I can't. It goes against..” Ragnar said, pointing at his chest. This was the first time he had spoken in a while. Nicolas watched as the light grew in intensity again, but stopped and slowly died down. 

The old man looked ancient now, his wrinkly skin was torn up and down his only working arm. He looked like shit. 

Ragnar took a breath in and steeled himself before saying, “He's testing you.” The purple light grew but fizzled out a second later. 

“So he is involved with the whatever-the-fuck blood that was in the chalice?” Nicolas asked. Frustration was steadily winning in the race against his excitement. He felt an urge to send the pulse out again. Ragnar said nothing. Nicolas let the urge win. The Animadverte Spell swept across the entirety of the room. 

That's when Nicolas noted two big things. There were no scars to be felt from Ragnar's seal because it wasn't carved into the skin. If Nicolas hadn't been touching it, he doubted he'd even believe what he was seeing. He couldn't make out the letters because they weren't on the material plane, they were on the astral. Ragnar's seal was carved directly into the man's soul. That's when the other thing happened. 

“Greetings, child. It's time we talked.” The Voice said. 

[decadentpandawasteland]

This part of the story is not very heavy in the revenge in itself. When I read reading through some of my old sections, I realized I hadn't actually fleshed out the characters except for a few key points. Oh, I also finally named the city they are in and have an extremely rough draft of the map. Anyway, enough of my ramblings. Please feel free to let me know what you think, points that be made clearer, or anything like that. As always, thank you for reading :)

Ps. The next section will show some of the breakdowns for this world's magic system

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Damien and Wryn stood on the wall overlooking a wide grassy plain. The rain had stopped by the time they had arrived at the stairs leading up to the wall and the sunlight made it through the clouds. This caused there to be small patches of the grass to be illuminated, while most were covered in darkness. A strong breeze blew, creating waves in the emerald sea. The pair sat in silence for a while. Wryn's hood was getting caught in the breeze and for a second Damien thought it was going to blow off, finally revealing the stranger's face. It always threatened to, but it never did fall off. 

“Why do you hide your face so much?” Damien asked as he watched the emerald waves crash into part of the wall.

“Why do you choose to live here? There is a vast world out there. Countless sights waiting to be seen, bars to drink at, and pretty women for you to try and swoon. Yet, you've chosen this place. Why?” Wryn asked. 

Neither of them broke their gaze, watching the grass sway in the breeze. The wind was shifting the clouds, giving bright radiant light in some areas only to be snuffed out a second later. Both of them refused to look to their right. That's where the gallows sat. Where they had watched the lives of an innocent, a scoundrel, and a rebel die. Damien let out a long sigh. He turned around looking back to the town inside the walls. The town that was built halfway into and around the base of a sheer rock wall. The similarities between out there and in here were both almost non-existent and completely similar at the same time. 

“I hav- had a wife, once. Rhea,” Damien turned around and found the treeline far off into the distance to the east. “There's a little village, if you can even call it that, way past that treeline. I grew up past it. On a farm. Just me, my father, and mother. I'd play in the forest over there. That's where we met. Just two dumb kids, playing in the forest.”

A tear ran down his cheek, as he continued. 

“Rhea had always talked about Evansguard as this big city. She’d always ask ‘Who wouldn't want to live in a city built into a mountain?’ and I'd always just shake my head. After my mom was killed by those fucks, I ran through the forest and found her in the same place as me. Those assholes took her family and did the same thing to them. We were just teenagers and now we were on our own. We loved each other, but it isn't the same as what we lost,” Damien said, silent tears fell. 

Clouds swirled in the sky as the sunlight patches began being blocked out, one by one. 

“Thankfully there was an inn in that tiny village. The village is called Wandering. We stayed there and thankfully the owner let us work instead of paying for us to stay. The Wandering Inn was our first home. We stayed there for a while, but eventually we had earned enough. She had never once forgotten her dream to live here. I think this place became a haven for her, or her idea of it did anyway. We bought that land the house is on, you know. It was supposed to be our first real home.” The tears had stopped and was slowly replaced with rage. Out in the distance, only a few sunspots remained, leaving inky darkness covering the ground. 

Through all of this, Wryn never took her eyes off the horizon. She took in each word, each syllable, each meaning in complete silence. 

“They give out rewards. If you're willing to be a backstabbing prick to everyone you know, it's apparently a very lucrative business…” Damien's voice trailed off. 

“None of that answers why you've stayed here. Why are any of you staying here? It's a vipers den, each snake willing to eat its own young, its own tail to satiate its hunger. Burn out this viper den. Between the loss of her or part of your sight, you know the venom their fangs bare,” Wryn asked. She had no inflection in her words. They were stiff and mechanical.

Damien just ignored her question, continuing to stare out into the dark sea of grass. A single drop of sunlight was all that poked through the heavens. Clouds swirled and moved but that stream of light refused to be swallowed up. 

“She ran a little seamstress shop in town. She was good. Really good, actually. She had been right. This was a place that we could make a home. A place for us to thrive, despite everything that we had endured. In my lowest points she was my harbor in the storm. I tried to be her lighthouse, to guide her safely home. Do you know what lights can also do? They can bring in the vermin who deserve nothing but pain,” he spat the last words out. 

All that remained in that emerald sea in front of them was a tiny pinprick of light. 

“I did something I regret every day. I had gotten drunk and I let something stupid slip out. It was one fucking sentence. ONE. SENTENCE. WRYN. ‘I've got my eye on all that gold that they're collecting’. It was a drunken boast and it ruined everything.” Damien's words echoed as he screamed it into the plain in front of them as the last little bit of light was snuffed out. The clouds darkened, the breeze changed directions swirling and whipping violently around them. 

Wryn stared out towards the horizon, her cloak and hood billowed in the gusts of wind and her long white hair flew in all directions. Quietly, in a voice void of any emotion she simply said, “Finish it, Damien.”

After a long moment, he took a deep, shuddering breath. “It was one of the guys at the bar. Thorn. Regs Thorn. He was the one feeding drink after drink until I was drunk enough to forget myself. Forgot where I was, and that little rat-faced prick heard that magical sentence. He walked me home and said he didn't want me drowning in a gutter. After he dropped me off, the fuck walked to a guard outpost and told them exactly what I'd said. That's why they cut my eye out. Their captain just laughed, thinking he was the funniest fucking man in existence. They took her Wryn. She swung from the same gallows. But they left me here, alone. A punishment I wouldn't wish on anyone.”

You won't leave her, will you?” Wryn asked. 

“No Wryn. I won't leave her dream.”

In the distance, lightning danced from cloud to cloud, and thunder boomed, as if in agreement from the heavens itself. 

[decadentpandawasteland]

Hi, here is the next part of my Revenge Series. Please feel free to leave any and all feedback, and as always, thanks for reading :)

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Everything was dark. Everything hurt. It felt like he'd been run over by a caravan.

“What… what happened?” Nicolas thought to himself. He opened his eyes only to be met with the exact same darkness as when they were closed. He could tell he was on a bed. Nicolas moved his arms and legs. They weren't shackled, but they hurt a lot. The last thing he remembered was, what? Arguing with Master Quin. Following that pull that took him…

Nicolas shot up in bed. Every muscle in his body tensed, and he immediately regretted the sudden motion. Ragnar. The chalice. The pulses. Suddenly a ring of light appeared around him, rushing out on all sides of him. It created a wave of light, giving him a few precious seconds to take in his surroundings. He was in an old section of whatever place the pull had taken him to, maybe a dungeon that had been converted into living quarters?

Nicolas tried to send out another pulse of light. It came and went more quickly than the last one. He tried again and again, each time slowly getting pieces of the puzzle together. A thought occurred to him. The ring of light always came out through his torso, spreading outward in all directions. Instead of pushing it through, he tried to hold the light in place. To his utter astonishment, it had worked.

“Good…” an ominous voice called in his mind. It was deep and gravely, like how a mountain would sound if it could speak. It was an alien thought.

“Who are you?” Nicolas asked out loud. His voice was so harsh it almost didn't sound human. The voice gave no reply. The only door in the room opened, someone drawn to the noise.

A man entered the room. He was dressed in crimson robes with a long hat that almost caught the on the door frame. There was a familiar crest on his robes. A black dragon with a person in one claw and grains of wheat in the other. The Brood.

“Finally, you've awoken,” the man said through red stained lips. Ragnar.

“What did you do to me?” Nicolas asked. He remembered pieces of it, but couldn't put them together. It was as if the memories themselves had been cut and mixed together.

“Me? I did nothing to you child. You chose of your own volition to partake in the drinking of the holy relic. A gift for us mortals by our Great One,” Ragnar said simply.

“And what exactly was this holy relic?” Nicolas asked, frustration in his voice. It reminded him of Master Quin. Always beating around the bush. Always hedging or even just flat out ignoring him. He wanted the power to make them listen. No, he needed it.

Power. That's right. That's what he had been searching for.

“Child, it is a gift for us. From hi-” Ragnar was cut off. The light encircling Nicolas shot outward, passing through Ragnar. Suddenly, Nicolas could feel it. A feeling that he had only felt within himself before, but thanks to his study of astral magic he knew exactly what this was, Ragnar's soul.

“The soul is like water. It takes the shape of whatever vessel it is housed in. The concentration of where the soul mostly resides will tell you your magic affinity. In theory, if the soul takes on a human form, pieces may be torn from the whole…” Nicolas remembered from his studies.

“So you're going to do this too?” He asked, suddenly seething. “You're all the same, thinking only about yourselves, never daning to teach, just barking orders and expecting me to follow. No. Not anymore,” he said, lifting his arm up, palm towards Ragnar.

“Do it. Strike back against those who hold you back. They are afraid of you. They will stop at nothing to keep you from your goal,” the Voice said. It was stoking the flames of violence.

“I'll make them all listen,” he thought. He closed his hand into a tight fist. He could feel it now, Ragnar's soul. It was old and tainted, almost feeling greasy. Nicolas pulled hard, feeling the tension of Ragnar's soul attempting to stay attached to his left arm.

“Do it.”

He pulled harder, his muscles felt shredded, his joints filled with glass. He didn't care.

“Take what's yours.”

Niclas used his other hand now, too. Pulling desperately as Ragnar screamed.

“Make them suffer.”

Nicolas felt part of Ragnar's soul rip. An inhuman screech filled the dank dungeon, echoing off of the stone walls. It was something so horrendous it would stay within the stone walls until the end of time.

Grunting with effort and through clenched teeth, Nicolas grunted out the words.

“You! Will! Listen!”

Just like that the soul residing within Ragnar's left arm was torn away at the shoulder. Nicolas was screaming. Ragnar was screaming. The Voice roared. Something within Nicolas came forth. A carnal hunger for power. He felt the presence greedily devour the segment of soul, savoring it. The pain within his body lessened. He could feel it now. Power flowed through him, an unstoppable wave rushing through his very existence.

Nicolas stood and walked over to the whimpering man who laid on the ground. Nicolas created light again and was surprised. He could move it now from his torso to his left hand. Nicolas could only see part of Ragnar's left hand. It was shriveled and blackened.

“Now I'm going to ask again. What did I drink?”

[decadentpandawasteland]

It's been a while since I've posted anything. Life's been busy, so I apologize. I did, however, finally get some more writing done! I'm wanting to try and get something done at least once a week if possible. Anyway, here's the next part of my Revenge Series. Please feel free to let me know what you think and as always, thank you for reading :)

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There was always an air of awkwardness and grief after public hangings. Especially those involving a child. The cart, holding the bodies of the “traitors” , walked ahead of Damien, Rost, and Wryn. They followed quietly behind, a respectful distance away, being pelted by the rain that was turning the dirt into mud. A soul-jarring scream came out ahead of them as the cart passed by someone. Moments later, they passed the same woman.

For a split second, Damien thought it was his own mother. Thought and reality overlaid one another. For a long moment, he wasn't on a muddy road, but in the treeline. He could still see her, long, flowing brown hair, her eyes hollow by knowing what she was about to experience. Damien blinked back tears. They washed away the sight.

“No, she's younger,” Damien thought. She wore a simple green dress and brown boots. The dress was covered in mud, some of which had splashed up into her face. It was Silas's mother. Damien actually remembered seeing her around town on a few occasions. She was young, maybe in her mid twenties. Right now though, she looked like she had fought her way through the Hells to get here. The poor woman looked like she belonged on that cart just the same as the dead. The trio stopped in front of her.

“Ma'am”, Rost began, placing an arm on her shoulder. Before he made contact, there was a flash of movement.

“Don't you dare fucking touch me,” she whispered out, her voice sounded like metal scraping metal. As if every sound was a strain and her vocal chords could snap at any second. The voice of someone who lost everything.

To Rost's credit, the giant man didn't flinch. “I won' pre'end like I know wha’ yer going through. But I'd burn the ‘ole worl’ down if somethin’ ‘appened to my girls.” A long moment passed where the only sound was the rain. “I'm so sorry. Truly, I am,” he finished. As if on cue, the rain came down even harder as the poor mother turned her eyes up at the man. Damien recognized the look in her eyes instantly. They were the same he'd seen every day for decades when he'd see his own reflection. A deep, almost unfathomable sadness and grief, only to be matched with a smoldering, unquenchable rage.

Rost met her eyes and she tried to whisper a few words to Rost, who nodded, before turning and continued following the cart. Wryn and Damien nodded and followed.

“What did she say to you?” Damien asked.

“Take care of ‘em,” Rost said simply. There was no tone or inflection in his voice. It was as if he was a puppet, masquerading as a man. Going through the motions as the rest of the world turned.

“Welcome to the club. Now let's rip it apart,” Damien thought. His masquerade mask had been partially ripped off a long time ago. The arrival of Wryn had pulled the rest of it off. All that remained now was the wicked smile of a man who's lost everything.

They stopped at the edge of the gathering grounds. Rost said his goodbyes to the pair, telling them he'd meet up with them later. He walked back to his family and Damien and Wryn watched as the giant man hugged his wife and children tightly before turning and walking away.

“His mask has been loosened. The true nature of the man is leaking through,” Damien thought as the large man and his family walked away. Damien could feel it radiating off of him, like Wryn and himself. If Damien was a lake of rage and Wryn an ocean, Rost was a dam ominously creaking and cracking. One more bad day and the dam will break, letting loose a torrent.

“You feel it too. The entire city is almost to its breaking point. All it'll take is a nudge in the right direction and snap.” Wryn snapped her fingers to drive the point home. “Oppressors can only oppress if they build a society that allows for such things. Who makes up the society? The ones being oppressed and those with power allowing it to happen,” Wryn said, staring at Damien's back.

“Alright. Then who do we go after? The support or the body?” Damien asked.

“Crippling the beast will make cutting off the head an easy task. But we must tread carefully as the beast's claws will be quite sharp,” Wryn said as the two of them walked casually through town, keeping an eye out for any eavesdroppers.

Even in the rain, people were out and about. Gold needed to be made whether it was rain or shine. The crowd they walked towards was somber. Even the boisterous merchants weren't yelling out sales or pitches. When they did speak, it was in hushed tones. It was always like this when a child ends up on the hangman's noose. This wasn't the first time it had happened and Damien knew it wouldn't be the last, unless something changed. Unless he made something change. He thought of Rost and his family.

Quietly, Wryn turned and met eyes with Damien. It was the first real time he had actually seen any real discernible features other than her long white hair. Wryn’s eyes were a stark light blue, but somehow also deep and vibrant. Something else lingered in there though, barely contained. It reminded him of something breaking coming up from underneath water. A split second where the water tried its hardest to hold something in its unforgiving depths.

“The embers of rebellion are beginning to stir, for within each of us lies the hearth of our souls. Some will remain unlit for their entire lives, content to be a sow and comfortable in their shit encrusted pen. Others carry embers, waiting for the kindling to be laid on it. This is what I believe is in your friend's soul. You and I, however, are very different from them,” she said, her speech was beginning to pick up speed now. Manic energy was seeping in, pushing her forward harder and faster.

“Our hearths have caught fire, illuminating the very depths of our souls. The brightest flames burn the shortest.” He could see it now, a reflection of flame burning in her eyes. It was equal parts beautiful and utterly terrifying. “So let us make use of the light while it rages within us.”

A thought clicked in Damien's head. They were in public and Wryn was speaking of open rebellion against The Brood, even if it was cryptically.

“You don't have any fear of retaliation from them. At all. You're openingly welcoming it,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“You're finally starting to understand,” she said, placing a pale hand on his shoulder. It was ice cold, even in the rain. “One has nothing to lose if it's all already been taken.”

[decadentpandawasteland]

four word dialogue prompts ੈ✩‧₊˚

@celestialwrites for more!

✩ “don’t lie to me.”

✩ “she was in love.”

✩ “(character) lied to us!”

✩ “i killed him, bitch.”

✩ “you broke my heart.”

✩ “i couldn’t hate you.”

✩ “you are my soul.”

✩ “i wish you did.”

✩ “my love is dead!”

✩ “please just promise me.”

✩ “i’m sorry, he’s dead.”

✩ “you won’t, not again.”

✩ “it’s not the truth!”

✩ “don’t ever blame me.”

REBLOG TO SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL WRITERS!<3

ty to the lovely @que3rduckling for some of these prompts! [I’ve written more with you in the last five minutes than i have in weeks]

[decadentpandawasteland]

for every note this gets, I will write one sentence in my WIP so I’ll hopefully finish it soon (I need motivation)

[decadentpandawasteland]

"why does writing take so long" because 60% of it is coming up with a sentence, realizing that sentence doesn't work the way you want it to, and staring at a wall

[decadentpandawasteland]

It's been a bit, but I've been working on a few different things. I am currently doing a reread of one of my favorite series called Dungeon Crawler Carl by Matt Diniman, which opened me up to the LitRPG genre as a whole, which I quickly came to love and adore. I've been working on building a world with an RPG style premise, and this is the test piece I've come up with. I was getting antsy in setting up in the world rules, classes, races, leveling system, etc. So, if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to let me know! As always, thanks for reading :)

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Flames whipped by my face as I just barely dodged in time. I eyed my attacker just as they threw out another volley of flames, these were more globular than the last. I dodged it, but the glob of heat hit the burned wall behind me, splashing my back with little dabs of gooey heat. I watched my health drop from around 60% to a little above 50%. 

“Definitely a magic build. Either Half-Fey or full,” I thought as I gauged the damage. Even through my fire resistance, that ate through more than I was comfortable with. I decided I needed to end this fast. Ducking behind cover, I tossed out a smoke bomb. Digging through inventory was a pain in the middle of a fight when seconds can matter. 

“Shit, shit, where is it?” I thought, scrambling to find it. There it is. I unslotted my smoke bombs and put the Potion of Fire Resistance in my hotlist. I'd have preferred to save it for a later fight, but it wouldn't do me any good if I was dead. The thing had been a pain to find the right crafting materials for, requiring legendary level ingredients. Still, after reading the description, it was definitely worth it. 

Potion of Fire Resistance - Legendary

Grants the user Fire Nullification for 120 seconds. Grants user Fire Damage Reduction by 25% for 120 seconds following Nullification. This is a single-use item. 

Following the description was some flavor text in red font that I didn't have time to read. I used the potion and felt as frost grew around my armor, encasing me entirely before vanishing. A single red orb began orbiting me from my right shoulder to left hip. I passed my sword through it with nothing happening to either. 

“Well that's neat,” I thought before I readied my weapon. My smokescreen still had a few seconds before fading and I had to be ready to strike as soon as it did. 

“Blink Strike to close the distance and follow up with Skyward Slash. Juggle if I can-” I didn't have time to finish the thought. Another Firebolt ripped through my remaining smokescreen. It missed by a few inches, but it created a trail right to the caster. Gripping the sword in both hands, I leveled it to my shoulder, the tip pointing straight through the dissipating swirl of smoke. Taking a step, I activated the skill. 

Rushing forward in a blur, I landed a hit directly on the Fey's shoulder. The blade landed deep and I watched her health bar drop to a little above 25%. Her left hand readied another glob of molten fire that she threw directly onto me. Thankfully, I still had my FireNull for 100 seconds still. My hovering red orb took the hit, splattering the molten fire on me. 

With my sword still in her shoulder, I bent my knees and jumped, activating Skyward Slash, rocketing the two of us into the air. “Now comes the hard part,” I thought, dropping back down slightly before her. Her health was deep in the red, maybe 10% left. 

I crouched and turned my weapon to the flat of the blade. It made for an awkward upswing, but after trial and error with tons of mobs, I had found this easier than either using the blade itself or trying to switch to a bludgeoning weapon. I swung upward, connecting and bounced the Fey back up in the air. Skyward Slash may not deal much damage, but its cooldown is only 10 seconds. That meant if I kept this up for a swing or two more, I could finish the fight. 

She was dropping again, but this time she threw out another ball of molten fire splashing more both on and around me. My potion still had 80ish seconds before I'd start taking damage. I repeated my previous steps, juggling her back into the air. I readied and jumped again, activating Skyward Slash. That's when two arrows shot through the air hitting both of us just as my hit connected. 

The Fey's health dropped to zero as she hit the floor shattering into a thousand pieces. I landed and noticed an indicator by my health bar. It was a grouping of three purple spheres. Poison. 

“Goddammit,” I said. Poison Arrows usually meant a sniper type class or even worse, a sniper type class specializing in assassination. I pulled the arrow out and it revealed a serrated edge in the tip. A new icon sprang into existence beside my poisoned icon, a red blood drop. Now I had both poison and a bleed effect, which my Potion of Fire Resistance did absolutely nothing against. I watched in horror as my slowly draining health picked up even more speed. 50% then 45% then 40. I had to admit these two ailments stacked together really well, as frustrating as it is to fight against. 

Assassination type snipers will use status ailments to either drain away health or mana from a safe spot before going in for the kill. It seems like an easy choice when picking a class, but the trade off is the insane amount of grinding required to level it up. Most mobs are resistant to at least half of the ailments meaning their level grinding can take almost twice as long as anyone else. It's just easier to pick up a sword or cast a spell instead of using trial and error to figure out what works against them and what doesn't. 

I looked around for where the shot had come and couldn't find where it had come from. There were two raised platforms to the right and one to the left. I decided to check the higher on the right first, high ground would mean if I was wrong at least I'd see them before they'd see me. 

A movement trick I had picked up was jumping, then right as I began falling down I'd activate Skyward Slash. I was basically jerry-rigging a double jump at the cost of a 10 second cooldown skill. My FireNull Orb blinked away and I felt the invisible ice surrounding me begin to slowly melt as I completed the maneuver. I landed heavily as the poison faded away, leaving me at 20% with the bleed still going for another 10 seconds. As I turned, wind rushed passed me and I felt the sting of a blade cut through my stomach. 

My health dropped to around 5% but my bleed had been refreshed and I knew this was it. I turned to face my attacker, my health ticking down. It was an elf, her longbow was so big it almost touched the ground from her back. Above her head, her ID read as Kali. My vision faded into blackness. 

A moment later, my vision filled with big red letters. YOU'VE DIED. After a second the words faded into the blackness. A headshot of my character came into view. 

Ryo. Level 55 Human. Class: Fighter, Subclass: Blade Master. 

Stats -

Strength: 20 (+3 Ring of Strength) (+5 Battle Hardened Short Sword) 

Dexterity: 18 (+1 Chloranthy Ring) 

Constitution: 25 (+2 Shield of Battle Hungry Berserker) 

Intelligence: 7 

Wisdom: 5

Placement in Uncommon Battle Tournament: 31 out of 150. Good luck next tournament.

[decadentpandawasteland]

Prompt:I picked my journal up. I hadn't written in it for so long, I had no idea where to start.

It was weathered and worn, and the leather binding was aged and cracked from years of keeping it open. The paper inside had begun to yellow slightly. A single ribbon stuck to the top of the book binding acted as a bookmark two-thirds of the way through. The front embossing had faded throughout the years, the only word on the front barely visible but could easily be felt with fingertips, “Journal”.

“What's that, Dad?” Ethan asked, watching me handle the worn book. He was my oldest, always eager to learn but starting to become ashamed of his eagerness. An average teenager in his sophomore year. Unruly but eager, a leader but a follower, a child who thinks adulthood is a time frame, not a mindset.

“One of my old journals,” I said, flipping through the pages. I picked a random page and glanced over it. “I was never good about writing dates, but I saw it mentioned Mr. Woodard, so it's either from my freshman or sophomore year.”

“Wait, really? Why were you journaling then?” Ethan asked, his eyes wide.

I let out a little laugh, “Honestly, I'm not even sure anymore. That was almost twenty years ago buddy. I had a full head of hair, just like you then.” I said, running a hand through the thinnest part of my non-existent hairline. Ethan made a face of absolute horror, his curly brown locks were his most prized possession.

An ancient urge, long forgotten in my mind, had me find a pen. “It's been so long since I've done it, I wouldn't even know where to start.” I thought to myself. Opening it up to the bookmarked page, I read through my old entry. Luckily this one was dated.

November 10

I saw her in class again today. We even talked for a little bit! I couldn't tell you at all what it was about, I just kept getting lost in looking at her. Señor Inglès yelled at us for interrupting class, but I didn't care. It felt good. Hopefully I'll get some actual courage to talk to her about things other than Spanish class.

It's been about two months since the whole thing with mom. Dad isn't holding up too well. Lana came back from college early to help out. I just want to stay out of the way. I really miss her.

A few wet stains were on the page. Losing mom was rough, especially on Dad. They had been together since high school, and the cancer ravaged through her in less than a year. Even to this day, I miss my mom. But at least Dad's with her now too.

I skipped ahead.

Dec. 18

Out for winter break and it finally started snowing. Dad finally started getting out of the house. He needs it. Before school let out I asked Rachel “¿Saldrias conmigo?” while we were practicing conversational skills in Spanish. She just responded with “Me preguntaba cuando preguntarias. Sì.” I was so blindsided, I just assumed she said no! We decided to go see Christmas lights on Christmas Eve at Stanley Park. Corny, I know, but hey it's who I am. Miss you mom.

Pen in hand, I added a new entry.

March 16

Saying it's been too long is an understatement. Around twenty five years, give or take. Rachel and I got married and we have a son, Ethan. He reminds me a lot of me at his age. He's hopeful and curious, questions everything but just a little too shy to be outspoken about it. Mom, you would have adored him, but I'll let Dad fill you in on all of the stories. He better tell you about when Ethan was six and demanded to be allowed to eat the wasabi at Tsunami Sushi.

Rachel and I are doing as well as we can be. I never realized how hard marriage is, but in the end it's worth it. For some reason every day she gets up and chooses to be with my grumpy ass, if you'll excuse my language Mom. The easiest choice I ever make is waking up and choosing her, and choosing this life. I wish we didn't have to be packing up the old house, but I'll make sure Rachel and I help build the memories of our little family. Even if Lana likes to be a fun party aunt a little more than I'd like her to be, but hey, it's her life to choose. I love you and miss you more than you know.

Oh, by the way, we haven't told anyone yet, but Ethan is going to be an older brother! I wanted to tell you two first. I love you.

- R.

I closed the journal and Rachel came up behind me. She kissed my cheek and I watched her slightly graying hair fall down around her shoulder. A flash of seeing her sitting at her desk, freshman year in Spanish class. She looked even more beautiful now than she did then.

“Ready to go?” She asked, giving me a hug.

“Yeah, I think so.” I closed the journal. Ethan came over and we walked out the front door.

As we walked out, I poked Ethan with the journal before asking, “Hey buddy, have you thought about journaling?”

[decadentpandawasteland]

Continuation of my Revenge Series. As always, please feel free to leave any and all feedback. It's greatly appreciated, and once again, thank you for reading :)

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The passageway that feeling had led him through seemed like it hadn't been used in decades. Torches on the wall were soaked through, leaving the wet stone of the passageway in complete darkness. Nicolas focused on his palm creating a mini galaxy of lights, swirls of blue, orange, gold, and white filled the passageway. He stumbled more than a few times, making his way through the long hallway. 

Finally, a glimmer of fire light appeared and Nicolas snapped his spell off. The pulling and light were from the same place. 

“What will you give up for power?” The alien thought itched at the back of his mind. Each step toward the light gave the voice more power, emboldening it, making the itch turn to a splinter to a nail being dragged through his skull. 

What. 

Will. 

You. 

Give. 

Up.

For. 

Power? 

Mercifully the moment Nicolas stepped through the threshold, the force dragging him, the nail in his mind shoving. 

It was gone. 

A man in black robes with the hood drawn was sitting in front of a large circular table. Firelight dancing along the walls, creating abstract movement of light and dark, a dance that could never be replicated. 

“I see. You listened. I am glad for this,” the robed man said. His words seemed clipped, as if trying on a new language for the first time. 

“Who are you?” Nicolas asked, still apprehensive about the whole ordeal. 

“You may call me, Ragnar. Have you given it thought? The question?” Ragnar asked. 

Before Nicolas could answer, he noticed a chalice filled with a dark red liquid sat in front of Ragnar. 

“I wouldn't be here if I hadn't, sir. You already know the answer, correct?” Nicolas said, forcing calm and smoothness into his voice. 

Ragnar nodded. “Good. Then you may partake,” he said, nodding to the chalice. 

Nicolas approached, finally making out Ragnar's face. Gray bloodshot eyes and a large nose, the corners of his lips stained with some red. Nicolas looked down at the chalice, the silver goblet glinting in the firelight. The liquid gave off an air of power and arrogance, almost to the point of oppression. 

“What is it?” Nicolas asked, his eyes now fixated on the liquid. 

Ragnar let out a small chuckle before answering one simple word, “Power.” 

Hesitantly, Nicolas picked it up. Surprisingly, despite his nerves being frayed to oblivion, his hands weren't shaking. The aroma of oppression filled his nostrils. He paused for a second, the lip of the chalice stopping just inches from his lips. Was he willing to give up everything? 

He forced the hesitation down, putting the liquid to his lips and began to drink it down greedily. The liquid was thicker than water, it lurched down into his stomach. A taste of copper filled his nostrils and mouth. Refusing to quit until every drop was drunk, Nicolas finally placed the empty chalice on the table. He now had matching red lines with the old man sitting at the table. 

“You may want to sit,” Ragnar said, but it was already too late. 

An explosion of pain erupted behind Nicolas's eyes, twin searing daggers stabbed into him. His skin felt like it was melting off and freezing into chunks at the same time. His bones became gelatin and then became harder than steel, but none of that compared to the pit of his stomach. It was as if he was being flayed, meat hooks pulling his stomach into tiny pieces. 

A magical pulse washed over him. It was the heartbeat of creation, the lifeline of magic. A pulse again, intensifying the pain tenfold. 

Pulse.

Pulse.

Pulse. 

On the last pulse, a nebula of astral magic exploded out of him. The magic created an entire galaxy, filling every square inch of the room in fantastical blues and golds. The beat of the stars matching to the beat of the magic’s heartbeat. As suddenly as the galaxy had come, it shot back into Nicolas’s body. The pain faded finally, just as Nicolas blacked out.