Post by ch00beh on Oct 26, 2015 0:38:00 GMT -5
Posting the responses that I occasionally write over on /r/WritingPrompots because why not.
[WP] You are a public figure who really wants to get assassinated
It would be glorious, with songs sung for generations. I would be the greatest king, known throughout the country--every common boy wishing they had the blood to be me, every noble woman wishing they could have married me. But alas, my time would come too soon, taken after my greatest triumphs by terrible Ortigian poison. This is why it would be so beautiful.
Yes, we are technically at peace with those damn Teagues. But they know me. They must remember, because I never forgot. Ten years hasn't erased the months of captivity, or seeing my army broken by a lucky cavalry charge. I nearly had them, their middle column easily pushed back.
I knew it must have been General Irinio. Everyone claimed he was a strategic genius, but I knew better. He said something about their configuration being different today, and to not hit the middle as it seemed "too disorganized." That sounded completely backwards to me, so I ordered the general to charge, but he was too weak. He tempered the ferocity that we needed to smash them. I could tell.
If only we had shown the Ortigians our true worth and smashed them with impunity, we could have had every glory heaped upon us. I had already written the song the night before, and it would have been my greatest work.
Instead of a beautiful rout, some lucky stroke put their horses on either side of my army. Bah! When they took me to their dungeons, I could see them hiding their fear with soft chuckles and fake smiles. They knew I, the King's greatest son, was the one who almost ended their empire.
They kept me for six months before my father came for me. He told me I was the reason for the war ending, and his disappointed tone told me he wished I was there when for the official declaration. I knew I had them trembling. The first thing I did when I got home was execute Irinio for losing the battle. There were mild protests, but no one would argue against the Prince.
Now ten years later, at my father's funeral, I listen to his eulogy and imagine how much grander mine will be. My father was a good man and a strong ruler, but as his son, I will exceed him.
There will be war soon. I was at my father's side when he died, and though he never said it, I let everyone know his true will. The people are reluctant, but once the assassin dressed in Ortigian green does his work tonight, the masses will be moved to action.
It won't be me, of course. I'll be killed by poison after eight incredible military victories, thus destroying the Ortigian's will to fight face to face. My brother, the King for a Day, however, will provide the perfect opening to this glorious tale. Eight victories and two tragedies--the perfect cadence for a glorious song.
[WP] All superpowers come from capes. The bigger the cape, the stronger the superpower
Recommended listening
Heron stat with her eyes closed and legs crossed, meditating in silence in the stone chambers. Sunlight poured through the open windows, illuminating her brilliant white cape which fluttered and flowed around her despite the lack of wind. Her cape was more than mere fabric; it was an extension of her soul, and as she mediated, more white threads coalesced from thin air and wove themselves into the edges of her power. The meditation chamber was normally spacious, but Heron's cape had already flowed over the whole floor. It was starting to weave yet another layer upward when the sunlight suddenly turned to shadow and a sound like dynamite disturbed the peace.
"Heron!" a booming voice called. Heron could hear the voice both with her ears and projected directly into her mind. She ignored the voice, her regular breathing not skipping a beat.
"It is I, Gilgamesh, the Hero of Heroes!" He must have been unaware that most everyone called him Gilgamesh the Devourer. "Come out of that hut you call a fortress and join me in the glorious sky such that we may talk!"
Heron continued to not move. A single thread, about to join the rest, instead wiggled back into the air and burned slowly. The faintest whisper, "no" drifted into Gilgamesh's surface thoughts.
A moment later, the ground rumbled, and Heron could feel Gilgamesh's anger project through her entire body. Dust shook itself loose and swirled into the air as the quake grew stronger. There was a deafening crack accompanied by a shower of gravel and timber. Only then did Heron open her eyes.
She looked up to see the entire top half of her tower flying off into the distance. Instead of blue, a writhing, shifting canvas of gold colored the sky. A large section of it was burning away, and for a brief moment the sun was visible, but the hole quickly mended once the earth stopped shaking.
"That was a command, not a request!"
"Then let's talk," Heron said. She sighed and got to her feet. As soon as she did, she was caught off guard by a crushing force on her back and sholders, pushing her to her knees.
"No." Gilgamesh voice reverberated in her mind.
Heron briefly saw another patch of gold burn before Gilgamesh forced her head to the ground. She only just caught herself before the man could give her a concussion.
"I thought you might be different from the other Capes. The gods themselves said i am the greatest. Are you like the others and you cannot hear them sing my praise even now? Can you not comprehend the sky of gold I have woven together to fulfill my destiny? It is obvious that the gods have chosen ME as a vessel to reincarnate the King of Kings. I come to your remote island to offer you the privilege of weaving your soul into mine, to harness your full potential to bring justice and unity to the world instead of just your puny Arachnine City. In the face of such opportunity, you refuse to even see me as a guest when I come to your remote island?"
Heron laughed.
"And now you mock me? Or is this just an insect coping wit htheir imminent destruction?"
"No, you were right the first time. It is mockery. There are no gods. You're just insane." As Heron spoke, her cape, previously pressed to the ground like its wearer, began to float again. The white fabric rolled and folded in on itself. Some of it wrapped around Heron's body, and the rest twirled into three pillars that pushed the woman back to her feet. The body might have been too weak to resist the force of Gilgamesh's soul, but another soul? Child's play.
Heron continued pushing and growing her new legs, raising herself toward the human shaped speck floating in the shifting gold sky. She could see now that Gilgamesh's cape was easily ten times the size of her own. Despite the fact that he was no longer pushing down on Heron, his cape still burned at the edges. It seemed that he was using his power to keep himself in the sky without support. A cape was just an extension of oneself, and like forming a fist, required only a thought to shape. Reshaping the world outside the body, however, required a sacrifice. Gilgamesh must have believed he had enough power to spare.
"I can see why you didn't want to come out. You're just an old woman, too frail to fly. The stories said you saved the city from thousands of unbound threads. I can barely believe you fought ten."
Gilgamesh brought his arms up and at least a dozen patches of his cape flared. The ground erupted in an equal number of places, earth and stone flying into the air and swirling together to form massive spikes before hurtling toward Heron.
Heron simply moved out of the way as each approached. It wasn't a serious attack; it was a show of force and power. Most Capes struggled to control five things at the same time, and those who could often rarely had enough fabric to burn. Gilgamesh wanted to make it clear that he had both.
"Lithium also moved too much," Gilgamesh laughed.
"And you simply talk too much." Heron scowled. Lithium had been somewhat of a protege several years ago. Heron was now close enough to Gilgamesh to make out the seams in his cape where other lengths of fabric had been sloppily patched in. Though its brilliant blues had been dyed gold by Gilgamesh's power, one patch clearly had the embroidery of Lithium's cape.
Gilgamesh laughed even harder and flared his cape in a hundred different places.
[WP] A warrior meets their match
Samantha Nightingale squeezed more oil into the servos in her left arm. She flex again and felt the creaking before she heard the faint whirring. It was barely louder than a whisper, but it wouldn't do. An SH47 unit couldn't accept anything louder than silence from their limbs. "Silent" made up half their name, after all.
Then again, Sam was batting 0 for 2 on her model name. She sighed as she tightened a bolt near her elbow, added more oil, and flexed again. This was all emergency self repair after a botched mission. The first few hours had gone perfectly as always. The SH line was considered one of the best infiltration automatons money could buy. And even competing against the reputation of 126 other hand built, tuned, and trained SH47s, Sam was specifically requested 9.32% of the time in New Kyoto.
Sam raised her chipped forearm from the makeshift workbench again. She turned her wrist twice and formed a fist three times. Satisfied, she put the oil filled syringe down, wrapped some duct tape over some exposed wiring, then turned to the dirty motel mirror to reassess the damage to her face.
A long, bloodless gash cut through the synthetic skin of her right cheek. Jagged burn marks marred the silicon down her neck, traveling well past the lapel of her gi. She'd probably need a full chest plate replacement--no restoring a chassis after a solid hit with an arc bldae. She refrained from making a face and started applying stitches and glue to her facial "wound."
Sam ran a replay of the mission in her virtual vision for the 138th time since escaping Oushi Corp's surrounding district. It had been easy enough tgetting in--Ouishi dealt with the droids that made up most of the planet's manual labor. No one paid much atention to another robotic skeleton in a delivery crate, and droids didn't have the intelligence to rat her out. For the 95th time, she took careful note of each droid in her crate, but for the 95th time, nothing was amiss. None had their power cores operating above stand by.
Her recording had every detail in multiple spectrums in perfect clarity. Outside the crate were the same Wednesday evening guards--Isabelle Flores and Frederick Lee--rendered in infrared. They had the appearance of watching the x-ray, but Sam could easily pick up the wireless pulses of their virtual card game. Sam picked Wednesday for exactly this reason. She had scouted them dozens of times before, and she knew their background front to back without having to actually pull the files from deep memory. Neither had marks of misconduct on their respective records, but they were both too busy shagging, or thinking about shagging, each other to give the scanners 100% of their attention.
The recorded feed continued to droids pulling the delivery crates out of the truck and to Sam shedding packing peanuts without the warehouse droids reacting. No signals or alarms raised by any of them. Sam watched herself do a routine take over of the security systems. She was able to listen to all comms traffic, and she easily swapped old video--stolen a week prior--into the cameras along her intended an fallback routes. She had confirmed twice with her programs that her 96 floors of sneaking would actually be invisible to the guards. Everything still according to plan.
Two hours, twelve minutes, and fifty eight seconds on floor 96 was where the mission had gone south. Guard drones on their truly unpredictable path had forced Sam to ascend using an emergency staircase that stopped at the Oushi building's outdoor garden rather than continuing up the main tower. This was entirely within mission parameters.
Sam paused the video after the part where she disabled the emergency door's alarm, but before the part where she actually opened the door. The automaton flipped through each EM spectrum for the 121st time to see if she really did miss anything. Again, nothing. The man tending the garden behind the door had been completely invisible to her in every wavelength besides visible.
The video unpaused and Sam watched herself pull out a silenced pistol at the sight of the man with his back turned. She slowed the video down as he turned around and studied his features in detail for the 137th time. A long, waist length braid with sparse white hairs threading through the otherwise deep black. A bald forehead with few wrinkles. Cyborg eyes accentuating a blank expression.
He had a long guando in his hand, its wide, curved arc blade already charged and crackling with electricity. Sam also noticed for the first time that he had what appeared to be a six shot laser pistol, and therefore wasn't adhering to the strict New Kyoto gun laws like she initially thought. The fact that he never pulled it made the cut to her face even more embarassing.
Sam slammed her first on the table, leaving a visible crack. Who was this guy? How did he know where to intercept her? How did he dodge her bullets so efforletlesly? Why couldn't she find any matching facial record in any database? Sam started playing the video from the top for the 139th time.
Warehouse again. Flores and Satou again. Just to bash her head against a wall, she pulled up their files. Just as she thought, nothing indicating that they might have been actors or had special augs or--
I KNOW YOURE READING THIS NIGHTINGALE. YOU SHOULD REALLY RUN SOME DIAGNOSTICS. NOW THE QUESTION IS HAVE I ACTUALLY GOTTEN YOU OR AM I JUST FUCKING WITH YOUR HEAD?--ED
Son of a bitch.
Bonus pictures of Sam and Ed
[IP]Dragon's skull
The featureless grey sky began tinting blue as dawn approached. A chill breeze blew across the mountain's bare rock. Besides the wind and a young man's footsteps, nothing stirred. The evening insects had gone silent, and the morning birds didn't dare fly in the territory of an iron dragon.
Marcus, on the other hand, paced nervously in this silence. He had tracked the dragon to these cliffs the day before, and he had snuck to his current vantage point above the creature's nest during the night while it hunted. He pulled his cloak around himself to fight the early spring air, but loosened it only a moment later as he felt himself sweat. It seemed like a good time to pee.
Before he could contemplate emptying his bladder, his ears picked up a distant rumbling. Relief that his wait was finally over was quickly replaced with anxiety over the same reason. Marcus dropped to the ground and let his cloak fall around himself. His heart raced as the dragon's whirring propellers grew louder. From previous hunts with his clan, he knew his cloak would keep him hidden from the iron dragon's eyes, but logic rarely quieted emotion.
It's an old one, on its last legs, Marcus told himself. It was the only beast he'd seen in the past few days besides his horse, but even his poor girl had run out of fuel a day ago. THis is why he was here: dragon's blood. Even a rusted over, hole-filled dragon would have enough left in the tank to get him across the wastes.
The whirring crescendo suddenly became a roar as the dragon crested a snow capped peak. Marcus watched it fly low over the mountains, its gigantic wings held straight out to keep it aloft. It approached the valley and began circling in descent. Marcus could almost feel the spinning engines vibrating in his bones.
The iron beast had to take wide circles to lower itself, with part of the arc passing underneath Marcus' perch. He had to time this perfectly. First, he had to jump such that the dragon would catch his fall. That was the easy part. Second, Marcus had to judge how high he wanted to the dragon to be. His heart raced faster. Too low and he would break something landing on the metal exoskeleton. Too high, and he wouldn't have a chance of surviving the crash.
Each lazy circle brought the dragon closer to the ground. Beads of sweat formed on Marcus' brow. This was insane. Hunts always happened with at least two people. One would distract and lead the dragon on predictable paths while the other could use a glider to have some measure of control. Without a living friend, Marcus had to rely on surprise. The chances weren't good, but still, they were marginally higher than surviving in the wastes.
Marcus' eyes narrowed. The dragon was circling close to the cliff face for the fifth time. This was it. He slowly brought himself off his belly and into a crouch, carefully watching for any deviation in his target's path. He gripped his spear tightly, knuckles turning white with anticipation. Then he jumped.
Marcus' cloak flailed around him, but the hunger managed to keep his eyes focused on his quarry. His stomach turned, and the initial rush of the fall was immediately replaced with adrenaline fueled clarity. Marcus thrust his spear down.
There was the not yet familiar crunch and screech of tearing metal as the hunter's spear coroded and pierced the dragon's head. Marcus landed hard. He would feel that tomorrow, but the dragon had the worst of it.
The creature's engines roared into higher gear, and it began swerving to throw the hunter off. Marcus held onto the spear for dear life. The beast had been rusted before, but corrosion spread like a blight from the impact point. All Marcus had to do was maintain his grip long enough for the poison to work.
The seconds felt like hours as the beast bucked and banked. But soon, the engines stopped roaring and quieted to a purr of defeat. The left side failed, then the right. The two bodies began accelerating toward the ground.
Marcus braced himself but didn't dare close his eyes. The dragon's wings kept them in a steep dive rather than a free fall, but the ground was still approaching entirely too fast.
And then metal met stone, sending showers of dirt and gravel into the air. Marcus managed to hold his spear for only a few moments before being violently thrown off. He screamed as he hit the ground shoulder first, but his voice was drowned out by the thundering crash.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, silence returned to the valley. Marcus blinked tears out of his eyes, and as the dust settled, he saw the dragon broken in two, though its precious silver blood was only trickling out. Marcus untied a leather skin from his waist, took a few breaths, and began his work. He'd be out of here soon.
[WP] The last minute of your life before the world ends.
Mike's cigarette glowed orange as he took another drag. He leaned back in his lawn chair and sighed, smoke lazily drifting from his mouth. 30 years old, and this was it. He scanned the southern sky looking for the asteroid that would kill civilization.
Mike heard the roof door open and shut but didn't bother to turn around, his eyes still fixed around capricorn. There were footsteps followed by clattering as another chair was unfolded next to him. Mike took another drag from his cigarette then held it out.
"Thanks, hun," Laura said as she picked the cigarette from Mike's hand, pulled a joint from her ear, and used the burning ember to light her weed. She flicked the cigarette off the roof then handed the joint to Mike.
"You too," Mike said.
They sat in silence for a minute, passing the joint back and forth. If not for the end of the world, it would have been a lovely summer night. The city was quiet. For the past several weeks there had been chaos--sirens, fires, riots--as people tried to cope.
Tonight, nothing. People who thought leaving ground zero would save them had left. Those who could retreated underground. Everyone else was praying or watching or both. Between the lack of people and suicides taking out power lines, most of the city was dark, and stars could be seen fro the first time in decades.
"I think I see it," Laura said, breaking the silence.
"You sure that isn't a satellite?"
"It's not moving sideways fast enough. Look." She leaned toward Mike and pointed. Mike followed her finger and squinted.
"Huh. I think you're right."
Laura shrugged. They both kept their eyes on the tiny speck until they could tell it was growing. "Well," Mike reached below his chair and picked up a pair of beers. He turned to Laura and offered one. "It's... been a pleasure"
Laura took the can and popped it open. "Yeah..."
"Cheers, I guess." Mike raised his drink.
"To going out with a bang."
"To going out with a bang."
They locked eyes, clunked their beers together, and took a drink. They turned back to the stars to watch an asteroid become a meteorite.
[WP] Two men from The League of Absurd Weaponry decide to have a duel
Rutherford gripped his weapon firmly but not tightly. He was acutely aware of how sweaty his palms were, but his years of training kept him from making the rookie mistake of clenching the fist while manipulating this type of weapon. To be effective controlling the ball and cup, one had to be as fluid as the monofilament razor wire holding everything together.
Across the arena stood Frederick, his keytar held in a ready stance. He was dressed in traditional dueling garb like Rutherford: a loose cotton shirt and fitted trousers, all tailored to allow the wearer maximum freedom of movement. Between them was a bare wooden floor and the duel's arbitrator, his arms out to make sure both combatants wouldn't start prematurely.
"Rutherford, you have raised grievance with Frederick. What are your terms?"
"No quarter. No one insults Master Quacksworth and gets away with it."
Frederick rolled his eyes. "Quacksworth deserved it and you know it."
"Listen here you little--"
"Gentlemen!" The arbitrator glared at each man in turn. After an appreciable silence took the arena, the arbitrator continued. "Frederick, do you accept these terms."
"Of course." Frederick spat. He flicked the power switch on his weapon.
"The terms are set." The arbitrator backed out of the arena to the wall. Both fighters stole glances at him but kept focus on their opponent. "You may begin."
Frederick wasted no time and immediately ripped out an arpeggio in G. The turbulent sound waves visibly distorted the air around the musician for the briefest moment before focusing into a multicolored beam aimed directly at Rutherford.
Rutherford instinctively jumped to the side, rolling as he hit the ground, ending in a stable three point stance. Frederick opened with that move in all his duels. Rutherfrod may have been Frederick's senior by twenty years, but he sure as hell wasn't letting a quick attack beat out wits and preparation.
Rutherford also was not going to pretend he was better than using his own quick attacks. He swung his weapon around and pulled one of its triggers. There was a loud bang as the lead ball shot out from the cup, whipping around in a small arc toward Frederick's offhand side. Frederick switched his hand position just in time to play a C major chord. A bass fueled shield deflected Rutherford's attack over his head.
Rutherford immediately pulled another trigger on his weapon. The razor wire snapped taut, zipping the ball back to the wielder. Rutherford effortlessly caught the ball in one of the containment cups then shot it back at Frederick. Again Frederick threw up a shield. Rutherford started to feel like he had the upper hand as he struck again and again. The keytar would run out of power eventually. The shields were not cheap to maintain.
Rutherford didn't catch the ball as it came back this time and instead whipped it around his head to have it gain even more momentum. This gave Frederick just enough time to plant his feet in a power stance and change his grip again. He seemingly ignored the lead ball as it careened straight for his head again and instead slammed out an atonal riff.
The sound waves disturbed the ball's math again, forcing it into the ground. It shattered the wood boards and bounced up and took Frederick in the stomach, but the medley of notes had slowed it enough that he didn't end up with a hole where his spleen was. The move was not entirely defensive, however, and the air distorted again as a cone shaped blast flew at Rutherford.
Rutherford tried to scramble to the side again, himself off balance from putting his weight into the attack, but the counterattack caught him in the ankle. Rutherford was thrown off balance and crumpled to the ground. He tumbled back awkwardly as the bass reverberated through his bones.
Then silence. Rutherford's vision began to clear. He saw Frederick adjusting the knobs on his keytar again, dialing the power levels up to 11.
"If you really taught Quacksworth everything he knows," Frederick said through a mouth full of blood, "then I'll say it again: I'd rather fight him than a hundred duck sized horses."
With that, Rutherford heard his last song.
[WP] In a world where constant clouds make the night pitch black and compasses have not been invented, you are a Wave Reader, one of very few who can guide ships on the right path by feel.
Leanne felt the wind through her hair and smelled the salt of the ocean. She sat cross legged on bare wood, weather worn, rocking in time with the waves below. Her eyes were closed, but she saw better than the chittering helmsman five feet in front of her. He was surrounded by blackness and a handful of blinding lanterns; Leanne could see the world clear as day without her sight distracting her.
She could hear the waves lapping against the side of her Queen Marie. To her right, the rhythm of the ocean quivered in almost imperceptible way. Almost imperceptible. Leanne smiled.
"Clever boys," she whispered to the wind. "Bertrand, take us three turns to port."
"Y-yes captain." The boy turned the wheel thrice and held for a moment. The ship yawed as the rudder caught water. A moment later and the ship was sailing straight again. "May I ask why? ... Ma'am."
"No, you may not." Leanne paused and listened to the waves again. There were at least three. "And you don't want to know."
Bertrand had the talent to be come a renowned wave reader. Leanne even admitted that the boy's ability to feel the alignment of the world was naturally better than her own. This is why he asked: he knew they were veering off course. But he had grown up on land. While he may know the orientation of a vessel, he didn't understand the signs of hunters trying to hide in the sea.
Leanne turned inward and let her mind's eye construct a map of the surrounding area. She may not be as good an Aligner as Bertrand, as good a Windseer as her lookout, nor as good a Feeler as her first mate, but what she lacked in each area, she made up for as a true Reader. She had survived the open seas for 10 years by being able to put everything together and keeping her crew out of the worst of things.
In her mind, she saw the Queen Marie as if it were a toy on a map. She traced a mental line from their origin, Stormhaven, to their destination, Torin Bay, and noted that the ship was around a mile off course. They had drifted over the past week to avoid pirates, weather, and worse. This adjustment to avoid the marauders was would put them off by around another day.
Leanne held her breath and listened to the waves. The marauders were perhaps five miles starboard, and the adjustment would give them a good wide berth. Leanne could barely feel them, which meant they were anchored and unmoving. Though they could surely feel the Queen Marie cutting through the waves, they had so far made no obvious signs of pursuit. Odd that they were waiting so far off the shipping lane.
A stiff cross breeze picked up, raising the hairs on the back of Leanne's neck. The sails ruffled then billowed full again as her crew adjusted the ropes. They shouted while coordinating, but they still sounded hushed , seemingly in reverence to the night's embrace.
The sails waved about again as the wind changed once more. The clean smell of ozone mingled with the overwhelming must of salinity. A storm was brewing. By Leanne's judgement, it would touch down directly in the path of the Queen Marie. Leanne was about to tell Bertrand to take the ship five more turns to the left when three small waves slapped that side of the ship.
Oh no...
A moment later, Leanne's Windseer began blinking a message with his lantern in the crow's nest. The captain took a deep breath. She wished the acrid smell of chum was her mind playing tricks on her, but her Windseer's message insisted not. She quickly got to her feet. Bertrand jumped at the captain's sudden movement.
"Bertrand," she said to the boy. "Take us eight turns back to starboard."
"Aye aye." He tried his luck again. "May I--"
"No. The answer is worse than earlier."
Lightning flashed in the distance as the ship yawed once more. Leanne moved aft toward a large bell and began ringing it in a pattern. All hands on deck, it sang, and load the guns.
[WP] You are a public figure who really wants to get assassinated
It would be glorious, with songs sung for generations. I would be the greatest king, known throughout the country--every common boy wishing they had the blood to be me, every noble woman wishing they could have married me. But alas, my time would come too soon, taken after my greatest triumphs by terrible Ortigian poison. This is why it would be so beautiful.
Yes, we are technically at peace with those damn Teagues. But they know me. They must remember, because I never forgot. Ten years hasn't erased the months of captivity, or seeing my army broken by a lucky cavalry charge. I nearly had them, their middle column easily pushed back.
I knew it must have been General Irinio. Everyone claimed he was a strategic genius, but I knew better. He said something about their configuration being different today, and to not hit the middle as it seemed "too disorganized." That sounded completely backwards to me, so I ordered the general to charge, but he was too weak. He tempered the ferocity that we needed to smash them. I could tell.
If only we had shown the Ortigians our true worth and smashed them with impunity, we could have had every glory heaped upon us. I had already written the song the night before, and it would have been my greatest work.
Instead of a beautiful rout, some lucky stroke put their horses on either side of my army. Bah! When they took me to their dungeons, I could see them hiding their fear with soft chuckles and fake smiles. They knew I, the King's greatest son, was the one who almost ended their empire.
They kept me for six months before my father came for me. He told me I was the reason for the war ending, and his disappointed tone told me he wished I was there when for the official declaration. I knew I had them trembling. The first thing I did when I got home was execute Irinio for losing the battle. There were mild protests, but no one would argue against the Prince.
Now ten years later, at my father's funeral, I listen to his eulogy and imagine how much grander mine will be. My father was a good man and a strong ruler, but as his son, I will exceed him.
There will be war soon. I was at my father's side when he died, and though he never said it, I let everyone know his true will. The people are reluctant, but once the assassin dressed in Ortigian green does his work tonight, the masses will be moved to action.
It won't be me, of course. I'll be killed by poison after eight incredible military victories, thus destroying the Ortigian's will to fight face to face. My brother, the King for a Day, however, will provide the perfect opening to this glorious tale. Eight victories and two tragedies--the perfect cadence for a glorious song.
[WP] All superpowers come from capes. The bigger the cape, the stronger the superpower
Recommended listening
Heron stat with her eyes closed and legs crossed, meditating in silence in the stone chambers. Sunlight poured through the open windows, illuminating her brilliant white cape which fluttered and flowed around her despite the lack of wind. Her cape was more than mere fabric; it was an extension of her soul, and as she mediated, more white threads coalesced from thin air and wove themselves into the edges of her power. The meditation chamber was normally spacious, but Heron's cape had already flowed over the whole floor. It was starting to weave yet another layer upward when the sunlight suddenly turned to shadow and a sound like dynamite disturbed the peace.
"Heron!" a booming voice called. Heron could hear the voice both with her ears and projected directly into her mind. She ignored the voice, her regular breathing not skipping a beat.
"It is I, Gilgamesh, the Hero of Heroes!" He must have been unaware that most everyone called him Gilgamesh the Devourer. "Come out of that hut you call a fortress and join me in the glorious sky such that we may talk!"
Heron continued to not move. A single thread, about to join the rest, instead wiggled back into the air and burned slowly. The faintest whisper, "no" drifted into Gilgamesh's surface thoughts.
A moment later, the ground rumbled, and Heron could feel Gilgamesh's anger project through her entire body. Dust shook itself loose and swirled into the air as the quake grew stronger. There was a deafening crack accompanied by a shower of gravel and timber. Only then did Heron open her eyes.
She looked up to see the entire top half of her tower flying off into the distance. Instead of blue, a writhing, shifting canvas of gold colored the sky. A large section of it was burning away, and for a brief moment the sun was visible, but the hole quickly mended once the earth stopped shaking.
"That was a command, not a request!"
"Then let's talk," Heron said. She sighed and got to her feet. As soon as she did, she was caught off guard by a crushing force on her back and sholders, pushing her to her knees.
"No." Gilgamesh voice reverberated in her mind.
Heron briefly saw another patch of gold burn before Gilgamesh forced her head to the ground. She only just caught herself before the man could give her a concussion.
"I thought you might be different from the other Capes. The gods themselves said i am the greatest. Are you like the others and you cannot hear them sing my praise even now? Can you not comprehend the sky of gold I have woven together to fulfill my destiny? It is obvious that the gods have chosen ME as a vessel to reincarnate the King of Kings. I come to your remote island to offer you the privilege of weaving your soul into mine, to harness your full potential to bring justice and unity to the world instead of just your puny Arachnine City. In the face of such opportunity, you refuse to even see me as a guest when I come to your remote island?"
Heron laughed.
"And now you mock me? Or is this just an insect coping wit htheir imminent destruction?"
"No, you were right the first time. It is mockery. There are no gods. You're just insane." As Heron spoke, her cape, previously pressed to the ground like its wearer, began to float again. The white fabric rolled and folded in on itself. Some of it wrapped around Heron's body, and the rest twirled into three pillars that pushed the woman back to her feet. The body might have been too weak to resist the force of Gilgamesh's soul, but another soul? Child's play.
Heron continued pushing and growing her new legs, raising herself toward the human shaped speck floating in the shifting gold sky. She could see now that Gilgamesh's cape was easily ten times the size of her own. Despite the fact that he was no longer pushing down on Heron, his cape still burned at the edges. It seemed that he was using his power to keep himself in the sky without support. A cape was just an extension of oneself, and like forming a fist, required only a thought to shape. Reshaping the world outside the body, however, required a sacrifice. Gilgamesh must have believed he had enough power to spare.
"I can see why you didn't want to come out. You're just an old woman, too frail to fly. The stories said you saved the city from thousands of unbound threads. I can barely believe you fought ten."
Gilgamesh brought his arms up and at least a dozen patches of his cape flared. The ground erupted in an equal number of places, earth and stone flying into the air and swirling together to form massive spikes before hurtling toward Heron.
Heron simply moved out of the way as each approached. It wasn't a serious attack; it was a show of force and power. Most Capes struggled to control five things at the same time, and those who could often rarely had enough fabric to burn. Gilgamesh wanted to make it clear that he had both.
"Lithium also moved too much," Gilgamesh laughed.
"And you simply talk too much." Heron scowled. Lithium had been somewhat of a protege several years ago. Heron was now close enough to Gilgamesh to make out the seams in his cape where other lengths of fabric had been sloppily patched in. Though its brilliant blues had been dyed gold by Gilgamesh's power, one patch clearly had the embroidery of Lithium's cape.
Gilgamesh laughed even harder and flared his cape in a hundred different places.
[WP] A warrior meets their match
Samantha Nightingale squeezed more oil into the servos in her left arm. She flex again and felt the creaking before she heard the faint whirring. It was barely louder than a whisper, but it wouldn't do. An SH47 unit couldn't accept anything louder than silence from their limbs. "Silent" made up half their name, after all.
Then again, Sam was batting 0 for 2 on her model name. She sighed as she tightened a bolt near her elbow, added more oil, and flexed again. This was all emergency self repair after a botched mission. The first few hours had gone perfectly as always. The SH line was considered one of the best infiltration automatons money could buy. And even competing against the reputation of 126 other hand built, tuned, and trained SH47s, Sam was specifically requested 9.32% of the time in New Kyoto.
Sam raised her chipped forearm from the makeshift workbench again. She turned her wrist twice and formed a fist three times. Satisfied, she put the oil filled syringe down, wrapped some duct tape over some exposed wiring, then turned to the dirty motel mirror to reassess the damage to her face.
A long, bloodless gash cut through the synthetic skin of her right cheek. Jagged burn marks marred the silicon down her neck, traveling well past the lapel of her gi. She'd probably need a full chest plate replacement--no restoring a chassis after a solid hit with an arc bldae. She refrained from making a face and started applying stitches and glue to her facial "wound."
Sam ran a replay of the mission in her virtual vision for the 138th time since escaping Oushi Corp's surrounding district. It had been easy enough tgetting in--Ouishi dealt with the droids that made up most of the planet's manual labor. No one paid much atention to another robotic skeleton in a delivery crate, and droids didn't have the intelligence to rat her out. For the 95th time, she took careful note of each droid in her crate, but for the 95th time, nothing was amiss. None had their power cores operating above stand by.
Her recording had every detail in multiple spectrums in perfect clarity. Outside the crate were the same Wednesday evening guards--Isabelle Flores and Frederick Lee--rendered in infrared. They had the appearance of watching the x-ray, but Sam could easily pick up the wireless pulses of their virtual card game. Sam picked Wednesday for exactly this reason. She had scouted them dozens of times before, and she knew their background front to back without having to actually pull the files from deep memory. Neither had marks of misconduct on their respective records, but they were both too busy shagging, or thinking about shagging, each other to give the scanners 100% of their attention.
The recorded feed continued to droids pulling the delivery crates out of the truck and to Sam shedding packing peanuts without the warehouse droids reacting. No signals or alarms raised by any of them. Sam watched herself do a routine take over of the security systems. She was able to listen to all comms traffic, and she easily swapped old video--stolen a week prior--into the cameras along her intended an fallback routes. She had confirmed twice with her programs that her 96 floors of sneaking would actually be invisible to the guards. Everything still according to plan.
Two hours, twelve minutes, and fifty eight seconds on floor 96 was where the mission had gone south. Guard drones on their truly unpredictable path had forced Sam to ascend using an emergency staircase that stopped at the Oushi building's outdoor garden rather than continuing up the main tower. This was entirely within mission parameters.
Sam paused the video after the part where she disabled the emergency door's alarm, but before the part where she actually opened the door. The automaton flipped through each EM spectrum for the 121st time to see if she really did miss anything. Again, nothing. The man tending the garden behind the door had been completely invisible to her in every wavelength besides visible.
The video unpaused and Sam watched herself pull out a silenced pistol at the sight of the man with his back turned. She slowed the video down as he turned around and studied his features in detail for the 137th time. A long, waist length braid with sparse white hairs threading through the otherwise deep black. A bald forehead with few wrinkles. Cyborg eyes accentuating a blank expression.
He had a long guando in his hand, its wide, curved arc blade already charged and crackling with electricity. Sam also noticed for the first time that he had what appeared to be a six shot laser pistol, and therefore wasn't adhering to the strict New Kyoto gun laws like she initially thought. The fact that he never pulled it made the cut to her face even more embarassing.
Sam slammed her first on the table, leaving a visible crack. Who was this guy? How did he know where to intercept her? How did he dodge her bullets so efforletlesly? Why couldn't she find any matching facial record in any database? Sam started playing the video from the top for the 139th time.
Warehouse again. Flores and Satou again. Just to bash her head against a wall, she pulled up their files. Just as she thought, nothing indicating that they might have been actors or had special augs or--
I KNOW YOURE READING THIS NIGHTINGALE. YOU SHOULD REALLY RUN SOME DIAGNOSTICS. NOW THE QUESTION IS HAVE I ACTUALLY GOTTEN YOU OR AM I JUST FUCKING WITH YOUR HEAD?--ED
Son of a bitch.
Bonus pictures of Sam and Ed
[IP]Dragon's skull
The featureless grey sky began tinting blue as dawn approached. A chill breeze blew across the mountain's bare rock. Besides the wind and a young man's footsteps, nothing stirred. The evening insects had gone silent, and the morning birds didn't dare fly in the territory of an iron dragon.
Marcus, on the other hand, paced nervously in this silence. He had tracked the dragon to these cliffs the day before, and he had snuck to his current vantage point above the creature's nest during the night while it hunted. He pulled his cloak around himself to fight the early spring air, but loosened it only a moment later as he felt himself sweat. It seemed like a good time to pee.
Before he could contemplate emptying his bladder, his ears picked up a distant rumbling. Relief that his wait was finally over was quickly replaced with anxiety over the same reason. Marcus dropped to the ground and let his cloak fall around himself. His heart raced as the dragon's whirring propellers grew louder. From previous hunts with his clan, he knew his cloak would keep him hidden from the iron dragon's eyes, but logic rarely quieted emotion.
It's an old one, on its last legs, Marcus told himself. It was the only beast he'd seen in the past few days besides his horse, but even his poor girl had run out of fuel a day ago. THis is why he was here: dragon's blood. Even a rusted over, hole-filled dragon would have enough left in the tank to get him across the wastes.
The whirring crescendo suddenly became a roar as the dragon crested a snow capped peak. Marcus watched it fly low over the mountains, its gigantic wings held straight out to keep it aloft. It approached the valley and began circling in descent. Marcus could almost feel the spinning engines vibrating in his bones.
The iron beast had to take wide circles to lower itself, with part of the arc passing underneath Marcus' perch. He had to time this perfectly. First, he had to jump such that the dragon would catch his fall. That was the easy part. Second, Marcus had to judge how high he wanted to the dragon to be. His heart raced faster. Too low and he would break something landing on the metal exoskeleton. Too high, and he wouldn't have a chance of surviving the crash.
Each lazy circle brought the dragon closer to the ground. Beads of sweat formed on Marcus' brow. This was insane. Hunts always happened with at least two people. One would distract and lead the dragon on predictable paths while the other could use a glider to have some measure of control. Without a living friend, Marcus had to rely on surprise. The chances weren't good, but still, they were marginally higher than surviving in the wastes.
Marcus' eyes narrowed. The dragon was circling close to the cliff face for the fifth time. This was it. He slowly brought himself off his belly and into a crouch, carefully watching for any deviation in his target's path. He gripped his spear tightly, knuckles turning white with anticipation. Then he jumped.
Marcus' cloak flailed around him, but the hunger managed to keep his eyes focused on his quarry. His stomach turned, and the initial rush of the fall was immediately replaced with adrenaline fueled clarity. Marcus thrust his spear down.
There was the not yet familiar crunch and screech of tearing metal as the hunter's spear coroded and pierced the dragon's head. Marcus landed hard. He would feel that tomorrow, but the dragon had the worst of it.
The creature's engines roared into higher gear, and it began swerving to throw the hunter off. Marcus held onto the spear for dear life. The beast had been rusted before, but corrosion spread like a blight from the impact point. All Marcus had to do was maintain his grip long enough for the poison to work.
The seconds felt like hours as the beast bucked and banked. But soon, the engines stopped roaring and quieted to a purr of defeat. The left side failed, then the right. The two bodies began accelerating toward the ground.
Marcus braced himself but didn't dare close his eyes. The dragon's wings kept them in a steep dive rather than a free fall, but the ground was still approaching entirely too fast.
And then metal met stone, sending showers of dirt and gravel into the air. Marcus managed to hold his spear for only a few moments before being violently thrown off. He screamed as he hit the ground shoulder first, but his voice was drowned out by the thundering crash.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, silence returned to the valley. Marcus blinked tears out of his eyes, and as the dust settled, he saw the dragon broken in two, though its precious silver blood was only trickling out. Marcus untied a leather skin from his waist, took a few breaths, and began his work. He'd be out of here soon.
[WP] The last minute of your life before the world ends.
Mike's cigarette glowed orange as he took another drag. He leaned back in his lawn chair and sighed, smoke lazily drifting from his mouth. 30 years old, and this was it. He scanned the southern sky looking for the asteroid that would kill civilization.
Mike heard the roof door open and shut but didn't bother to turn around, his eyes still fixed around capricorn. There were footsteps followed by clattering as another chair was unfolded next to him. Mike took another drag from his cigarette then held it out.
"Thanks, hun," Laura said as she picked the cigarette from Mike's hand, pulled a joint from her ear, and used the burning ember to light her weed. She flicked the cigarette off the roof then handed the joint to Mike.
"You too," Mike said.
They sat in silence for a minute, passing the joint back and forth. If not for the end of the world, it would have been a lovely summer night. The city was quiet. For the past several weeks there had been chaos--sirens, fires, riots--as people tried to cope.
Tonight, nothing. People who thought leaving ground zero would save them had left. Those who could retreated underground. Everyone else was praying or watching or both. Between the lack of people and suicides taking out power lines, most of the city was dark, and stars could be seen fro the first time in decades.
"I think I see it," Laura said, breaking the silence.
"You sure that isn't a satellite?"
"It's not moving sideways fast enough. Look." She leaned toward Mike and pointed. Mike followed her finger and squinted.
"Huh. I think you're right."
Laura shrugged. They both kept their eyes on the tiny speck until they could tell it was growing. "Well," Mike reached below his chair and picked up a pair of beers. He turned to Laura and offered one. "It's... been a pleasure"
Laura took the can and popped it open. "Yeah..."
"Cheers, I guess." Mike raised his drink.
"To going out with a bang."
"To going out with a bang."
They locked eyes, clunked their beers together, and took a drink. They turned back to the stars to watch an asteroid become a meteorite.
[WP] Two men from The League of Absurd Weaponry decide to have a duel
Rutherford gripped his weapon firmly but not tightly. He was acutely aware of how sweaty his palms were, but his years of training kept him from making the rookie mistake of clenching the fist while manipulating this type of weapon. To be effective controlling the ball and cup, one had to be as fluid as the monofilament razor wire holding everything together.
Across the arena stood Frederick, his keytar held in a ready stance. He was dressed in traditional dueling garb like Rutherford: a loose cotton shirt and fitted trousers, all tailored to allow the wearer maximum freedom of movement. Between them was a bare wooden floor and the duel's arbitrator, his arms out to make sure both combatants wouldn't start prematurely.
"Rutherford, you have raised grievance with Frederick. What are your terms?"
"No quarter. No one insults Master Quacksworth and gets away with it."
Frederick rolled his eyes. "Quacksworth deserved it and you know it."
"Listen here you little--"
"Gentlemen!" The arbitrator glared at each man in turn. After an appreciable silence took the arena, the arbitrator continued. "Frederick, do you accept these terms."
"Of course." Frederick spat. He flicked the power switch on his weapon.
"The terms are set." The arbitrator backed out of the arena to the wall. Both fighters stole glances at him but kept focus on their opponent. "You may begin."
Frederick wasted no time and immediately ripped out an arpeggio in G. The turbulent sound waves visibly distorted the air around the musician for the briefest moment before focusing into a multicolored beam aimed directly at Rutherford.
Rutherford instinctively jumped to the side, rolling as he hit the ground, ending in a stable three point stance. Frederick opened with that move in all his duels. Rutherfrod may have been Frederick's senior by twenty years, but he sure as hell wasn't letting a quick attack beat out wits and preparation.
Rutherford also was not going to pretend he was better than using his own quick attacks. He swung his weapon around and pulled one of its triggers. There was a loud bang as the lead ball shot out from the cup, whipping around in a small arc toward Frederick's offhand side. Frederick switched his hand position just in time to play a C major chord. A bass fueled shield deflected Rutherford's attack over his head.
Rutherford immediately pulled another trigger on his weapon. The razor wire snapped taut, zipping the ball back to the wielder. Rutherford effortlessly caught the ball in one of the containment cups then shot it back at Frederick. Again Frederick threw up a shield. Rutherford started to feel like he had the upper hand as he struck again and again. The keytar would run out of power eventually. The shields were not cheap to maintain.
Rutherford didn't catch the ball as it came back this time and instead whipped it around his head to have it gain even more momentum. This gave Frederick just enough time to plant his feet in a power stance and change his grip again. He seemingly ignored the lead ball as it careened straight for his head again and instead slammed out an atonal riff.
The sound waves disturbed the ball's math again, forcing it into the ground. It shattered the wood boards and bounced up and took Frederick in the stomach, but the medley of notes had slowed it enough that he didn't end up with a hole where his spleen was. The move was not entirely defensive, however, and the air distorted again as a cone shaped blast flew at Rutherford.
Rutherford tried to scramble to the side again, himself off balance from putting his weight into the attack, but the counterattack caught him in the ankle. Rutherford was thrown off balance and crumpled to the ground. He tumbled back awkwardly as the bass reverberated through his bones.
Then silence. Rutherford's vision began to clear. He saw Frederick adjusting the knobs on his keytar again, dialing the power levels up to 11.
"If you really taught Quacksworth everything he knows," Frederick said through a mouth full of blood, "then I'll say it again: I'd rather fight him than a hundred duck sized horses."
With that, Rutherford heard his last song.
[WP] In a world where constant clouds make the night pitch black and compasses have not been invented, you are a Wave Reader, one of very few who can guide ships on the right path by feel.
Leanne felt the wind through her hair and smelled the salt of the ocean. She sat cross legged on bare wood, weather worn, rocking in time with the waves below. Her eyes were closed, but she saw better than the chittering helmsman five feet in front of her. He was surrounded by blackness and a handful of blinding lanterns; Leanne could see the world clear as day without her sight distracting her.
She could hear the waves lapping against the side of her Queen Marie. To her right, the rhythm of the ocean quivered in almost imperceptible way. Almost imperceptible. Leanne smiled.
"Clever boys," she whispered to the wind. "Bertrand, take us three turns to port."
"Y-yes captain." The boy turned the wheel thrice and held for a moment. The ship yawed as the rudder caught water. A moment later and the ship was sailing straight again. "May I ask why? ... Ma'am."
"No, you may not." Leanne paused and listened to the waves again. There were at least three. "And you don't want to know."
Bertrand had the talent to be come a renowned wave reader. Leanne even admitted that the boy's ability to feel the alignment of the world was naturally better than her own. This is why he asked: he knew they were veering off course. But he had grown up on land. While he may know the orientation of a vessel, he didn't understand the signs of hunters trying to hide in the sea.
Leanne turned inward and let her mind's eye construct a map of the surrounding area. She may not be as good an Aligner as Bertrand, as good a Windseer as her lookout, nor as good a Feeler as her first mate, but what she lacked in each area, she made up for as a true Reader. She had survived the open seas for 10 years by being able to put everything together and keeping her crew out of the worst of things.
In her mind, she saw the Queen Marie as if it were a toy on a map. She traced a mental line from their origin, Stormhaven, to their destination, Torin Bay, and noted that the ship was around a mile off course. They had drifted over the past week to avoid pirates, weather, and worse. This adjustment to avoid the marauders was would put them off by around another day.
Leanne held her breath and listened to the waves. The marauders were perhaps five miles starboard, and the adjustment would give them a good wide berth. Leanne could barely feel them, which meant they were anchored and unmoving. Though they could surely feel the Queen Marie cutting through the waves, they had so far made no obvious signs of pursuit. Odd that they were waiting so far off the shipping lane.
A stiff cross breeze picked up, raising the hairs on the back of Leanne's neck. The sails ruffled then billowed full again as her crew adjusted the ropes. They shouted while coordinating, but they still sounded hushed , seemingly in reverence to the night's embrace.
The sails waved about again as the wind changed once more. The clean smell of ozone mingled with the overwhelming must of salinity. A storm was brewing. By Leanne's judgement, it would touch down directly in the path of the Queen Marie. Leanne was about to tell Bertrand to take the ship five more turns to the left when three small waves slapped that side of the ship.
Oh no...
A moment later, Leanne's Windseer began blinking a message with his lantern in the crow's nest. The captain took a deep breath. She wished the acrid smell of chum was her mind playing tricks on her, but her Windseer's message insisted not. She quickly got to her feet. Bertrand jumped at the captain's sudden movement.
"Bertrand," she said to the boy. "Take us eight turns back to starboard."
"Aye aye." He tried his luck again. "May I--"
"No. The answer is worse than earlier."
Lightning flashed in the distance as the ship yawed once more. Leanne moved aft toward a large bell and began ringing it in a pattern. All hands on deck, it sang, and load the guns.