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 Post subject: Am I terrible at writing?
Unread postPosted: Thu Mar 17, 2016 10:35 am 
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Joined: Tue Feb 23, 2016 1:48 pm
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(Because I'd like to know!)


Lord Marshll Orfell Bracketblade bellowed out, "The western wall is sacked! What was once a an upright hand in the sky has been irrevocably stubbed down to a tower! Roarfin's army is capitalizing on our vulnerabilities!"
Sash blinked profusely, as if he could blot his vision to save himself the pain of the barking dwarf, with his mangy, cudgel-shaped beard and right hand constantly etching at his scabbard.

"Your speech has no doubt bolstered the men's morale, and our defense will be a wilful, unrelenting image of defiance."
Indeed, just one middle finger left in the battle-drizzled sky... how about taking some accountability for your mistake?
"These are the words I wished to hear, General. Now, tell Lord General Custerly I want him to lead the defense of the northern walls, and deliver this important letter to him. You will be transferred to work under him."
He wanted to punch him; but his tone spelled out wheedling and war-prickled. He accepted the letter, giving it a sincere I won't read this look (he certainly wouldn't, no matter how much his curiosity gnawed at him). "Yes, sir."

His misery-freezing hand saluted, and made his way for the edge of the familiar campfire. The desert night's chill haunted the air and he picked wearily at the plume of his now-uneqipped helmet.

So many sanctimonious statues of Shar crushed and befouled by golem artilery scarred his every step, all of them resemlbing naught but nothingness-moted shards and smoke-smothered scraps.
How fitting. If we truly all worshipped Her, why didn't we do this to the city ourselves?
The sky was struck with clouds and there was only a solitary crack in the west exposing the moon. The shell of light dogging the adrenaline-shocked soldiers twitchily marching about, as they somehow manifested the will to squeeze out that last drop of hope, a last spark of order.

His mind swam over the deeply miserable routine he'd endured these last few weeks.
Crawl through the trenches, while bursts of contemptible fire storms went off around him. Murder as many men as possible, and see how many medals decorate your uniform the next night.

Stuff my face in one of those ready-to-go stews and watch in horror how it looks when (#2) out; hate when its green. Like something out of a witch's cauldron...

Orfell had made the deadly error of commanding everyone to ward prematurely, despite the warning heralded in the overly polite letter scripted from the August Majesty himself. It had resulted in the loss of three hundred more lives, and the fear of arrows had grown real when the entropic shields inevitably faded and the harsh fact its considerably easier to deflect a bolt.

Sash observed the grueling exchange of mean-eyed soldiery at the fire-pit. One sullen-faced, black-haired man who looked better suited for eeking out an existence in bugbear hills backhanded the chin-lowered man beside him icily. Hot liquid scalding him and an embarassing yelp followed."That's my coffee! You think it was cheap."
The friendships that spike the wheel to go here...
Another soldier looked uncussed, attempting to untangle his fishing rod in the murky yellow pond that had to of harbored nothing healthy.After another round of failing to use critical thinking skills, he slammed his thick fishing rod against his bait box in a rush. "Why would anyone fish?!" It did not sound like a question.

The overflowing patience here.

Sash smiled, noting a soldier steeped heavily into a book. He had the trappings of bookworm all around him, had the hope sneaking up in his chest.
Maybe someone I can catch an understanding to...

A crossbowmen paused before the bookworm, the line of his jaw turning thoughtful. "An interesting read you have yourself absorbed in, yes?"
The bookworm swept a tentacle of hair from his eyes, and shrugged, "Not sure, I skipped to the last chapter."

Sash heaved a horrible breath in, left the two men behind with his fists clenching and unclenching, averting the pitter-patter of sudden rain as he slipped into the tent. If only he could retire in here for a long time, like a vampire bored of life and knowing nothing good is gonna happen for at least a dreadful hundred years.

He found Lord General Custerly oogling the buzzing chatter and raucous laughter of early night drunken antics boiling to a mean churn from the smudged lenses of his binoculars. Someone had designed a window-like peep-hole for him, an absurd delicacy to partake of in war, but then again Custerly was full of himself. His officers practically cooed around him like chuckling highschool girls at rather unfunny jokes, complimenting him for successful sieges he hadn't the gall to clarify were not of his doing, and generally being delusion fed c**ts.
Sash waited for the conversation to die, and in the process found himself wanting to die, his mask of patience eaten away enough for Custerly to exchange attention.

"Sash! A pleasure to see you, how goes the war-front on the west wall?"

All of his Officers affixed their eyes on Sash.
I can read their judgemental faces now: look what we have here, this second-rate General still thinks we'll present him with inclusivity and respect. Just say what you have to say, and get out of here. Putting you on any historical timeline is out of the question no matter what you achieve.

Sash's high voice asserted itself a whit, "It bades fine. Lord General, you have been chosen to defend the north wall, to ensure the maskarrans do not spill out into the High District. As you know the temples and merchant exchange and the palace reside in this district, and so this is the most prestiguous objective and no one else better to go about it. I am also to be serving in a advisory capacity." Sash concluded, believing he had enabled Custerly's ego addiction to a titilating fix.

The tent fell into a daunting silence. Sash had to pinch himself, even.
"I shall have no choice but to recall the thirteenth for this mission."
Sash wound his gaze back to Custerly, one of his officers was chewing a fingernail in the back, like something about it was naughty and needed rectifying.
"The thirteenth, sir?"
"Yes, reinforcements are pivotal."
Sash sighed, and looked through Custerly's tent "Window", the act itself had the sensation of forbidden behind it, like he was cheating and looking at Custerly's cards. The look progressed to sheer horror at the worsening weather and claps of lightning, and the highness of his voice empowered the officers to loose the smugness from their features. "May I be excused, Lord General."
"Of course, don't drink too much and get some rest."
"I don't drink." Sash stepped out of the camp, and it wasn't til then he realized he was going to die before the thirteenth arrived.
"Very well, however I request you schedule a breakfast with Lord Marshal Orfell. I would like you to help on this front; but I feel your duties would be most appreciated and wanted in the Eastern District. As you can see.. I have plentiful advisors in my midst."
"Very well," Sash said in a high, droning-on voice.

Lord Marshal Orfell, despite his high chain of command, had always been laughed at behind his back, and he knew damn well about it, and he also knew damn well it was because he sounded nothing like a dwarf. He also missed the thrill of battle, of being an underling whose tasks called for the simplest of orders... bloodletting.

He had always lacked the ability to pontificate the merit of affirming discipline, and thus it was like he were an alchemist with the worst tutor in the world and he was struggling to not slip down an grease-slicked slope. Messages had a way of being altered the higher up the chain of command dependent upon the acidic egoism of the sender or receiver, or the toxicity of the commander.
He only wished he could go around firing everyone, and replacing them with those of righteous intention.
"Lord Marshal, the war council meeting is in a few hours, perhaps you'd like to eat breakfast with General Sash?" The fat-clad man held up a tray of various finger foods, it took a will for Orfell to not lash his feet into a side-shuffle and leave that tray-offering dolt stuck on a blade gradually twisting inside his chest.
"I know when the god-forsaken meeting is!"
The man jumped back, startled to the bone and flitted away into the gnat-filled crowd.

That bastard Custerly... I told him to designate Sash to a small army. He is just a burden to me. Why would I want to eat breakfast with that self-conscious hag of a man. That self-victimized savage with his high-pitched voice...

He'd become greatly riled by the news the thirteenth were leagues away, and for all the condemnations he had issued towards Blonde, he wished he was here.

The war was like perfecting your rapiership, this defense specifically could be equated to the fourth line where attacks are suitable for both the inside and outside, thanks to the easeful motions which angles fit.

He still remembered in abject fury... the news that teleportation was impossible, a preemptory move by the maskarrans's trickery and magic? No one really knew, all he did know was the western wall is sacked beyond recognition. and the enemy were attempting to press themselves deep into the city; prompting their forces to be spread thinner amongst the High District and Eastern District.

Orfell collapsed heavily into a deer-composed chair, skinned a half-grin on his parched lips as he read a letter from his nephew with a portrait of his new house in Athkatla, and his butler re-filled his glass of full-bodied wine. He picked up the glass and downed it like water, breath oozing out of his throat contently. His butler turned out to be his most worthy secretary.

The butler leaned back in a chair across from him and stooped his eyes on paperwork. His eyes were bloodshot in unbearable contrast to the flurry at which he tested his hand-eye coordination, and to further his competence, the papers remained unbent and unruffled as he stuffed them into the proper yellowed folders. He was so graceful, Orfell's butler. He had never seen someone so adequate at work before and reckoned he should of been a soldier in another life.

He sighed as he brought his lips to meet with the soft, cold scrape of the glass, and right as he decided to calm himself and indeed meet Sash for breakfast-- Piercing screams echoed from tent-to-tent, four arrows whistled through the tent, through the portrait of the King( at his most vainful, both arms extended outwards towards the sky, as if he were a Chosen of Shar), and pinned Orfell's poor butler to his chair.

Orfel produced a mournful breath, and his grip slowly slackened around the arrows peppered into his blood-leaking neck.
Orfell sprang up, pounded out into the street with his greataxe held two-handed, saw some of his men being dumped into a lake from the Cosmo Bridge.

The maskarrans were charging towards him, setting tents alit with fire from horseback, Orfell watched a man crawl as gleaming arrows flew and buried him in the mud. From the shadowy outcropping, a great-axe cleaving through a maskarran's neck and shoulders and down the middle of another's chest to the hip, and spun around to split a mask woman open from belly to pelvic bone.
Orfell loosed a mad growl, seemed the dwarf in him had returned like a prodigal son, and launched his great-axe at an oncoming rider.

The axe vaulted into the horse's snout, and the rider struggled vainly to hold onto the reins of his wound-shrieking horse who dragged him across the muck til it went smashing into the bridge.

The rider spat out a mouthful of dirty, dead filled water, and shrieked girlishly as this all-knowing, powerful axe zipped for his head. The rider worked his hands around the morningstar and crunched it hard over Orfell's fingers. The great-axe came down anyway, snuffing out the life of the horse that would of surely drowned, and the rider soaked his trousers. Then, the losing of control, his own whimpering pleases as Orfell clubbed him in the face with his three-fingered fist.

Orfell knew he weighed a ton, so why not use it to his advantage as he lay atop the man and peeled at his pale lips and sunk a finger into an eye to make the other lonesome, the sounds of bangs and clatters and explosions only interspersed by Orfell's foreboding, "Shut-up."

The rider slipped off of Orfell spryly, and jerked Orfell's fat face towards the evilly sharp spurs of his peacefully dead animal, the sickening shock of gore-gleaming spurs taking a sick taste of brain, and the shell-shocked kickings of nerve-dying feet followed in its wake. Then the war wore on. More Heroes on their horseflesh thundering down from misshapenly-conceived hills with a lot of edges and gaps to fall into.
Fester gave one last look of disapproval and relief as he plucked the greataxe out of the frigid waters.

Nearby he saw the legs of a great pig-fleshed meal, apples and all-- steaming, dark smoke wafting invasively around likes tentacles trying to make his mouth water. He reckoned you could prise slabs of flesh off a man, and right after, you were still hungry as a horse. He frowned, he'd loved that horse. Had it since last Eltiruel, the crash into the bridge left his blood-red body sulking with ache.

He tried desperately to crank up the energy reserves of his right leg, felt a mass of imaginary snakes writhing at the bones, gnawing at the calcium and his vith. A few tall men with dark, sharran armor leered at him, levelled their heavy crossbows at him, and fired unaimously.

The bolts shattered through carts and created storms of glass from wine bottles, Fester weaved to and fro, lugged up a dead corpse and it served as a pain-grasping shield for the wild, disarray of bolts stalking through the air in soulful chaos. Each shot propelling him back yet he somehow (and stubbornly so) was advancing.

Another torpedo-style bolt notched his hope darker, weakness soaking into his bones, and he was about to release the corpse and give up. The reinforcement of riders came rampaging down the city-destroyed street and swallowed the archers whole.

Fester shivered, shoving the body into a surviving archer and started strangling her in the middle of the street. His hands tightened around her neck like fury, and moments later he was tottering down the street. The seventh regret of the day flaming on his shoulder.

A handful of soldiers were patrolling the road ahead; a hill-sagging excuse of a road. Fester noted them looking at each turned-over, dilapidated, or misshapen building with bittersweet memory.

Fester drew himself into the shadows, he couldn't see much of what they were doing besides patrolling, though he did catch the devilish act of them kicking a bearded man to death.

The sharran body of soldiery later seemed rather grateful about still having wine and water, and they dragged a cumbersome barrel of it behind them, like the war had been on for a weary stretch of time that wetting their tongue mattered more than tactical advantage.

The inevitability of Fester surviving through this scratched at him, and as he rounded the black, featureless corner with its diamond-forged windows and roofs that ended in forked, lifeless tongues of purest mithral... a malignant bludgeon to the ribs sent him crumpling to the floor.

He lifted his glassy eyes, distraught, to be greeted with an unbrilliant white light, tottered left then right, and the last contents of imagery assailing his mind were a hook-nosed, frail-looking, tongueless man yipping with glee.

Fester was choking his dry throat, one fat band of contorted purple vein recharging itself slowly, slowly...the frenetic rustling of tools being picked up, and replaced, and grasped again tore at his ears.

He discovered he was blind-folded, and cried out all hoarse, "Release me, please!"

A grinding, crackling scream that already felt lost in the grimy, sewer-suggesting blackness. Mold and a green splash of fungi-festering spores clung to the walls-- the sound of machinery; cogs churning-- drove invisible nails into his nerves.

A slender hand softly removed the blindfold from his eyes.

Fester gawped at the black, featureless table. "There are so many... weapons, they are so..."
"Immaculate. Beautiful. Like the dead." He looked at Fester with depraved vitriol burning in his eyes.

Playing other games/gave up.

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