Zelda Universe Forums - Poetry and Originals

Zelda Universe Forums - Poetry and Originals http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/ Have a poem for us? Perhaps a song or a story of your own invention? Come and share it here! en Sat, 21 Nov 2009 07:19:27 GMT vBulletin 60 http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/images/zutemple/misc/rss.jpg Zelda Universe Forums - Poetry and Originals http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/ Bloodmaiden http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102633-bloodmaiden-new-post.html Wed, 18 Nov 2009 19:44:04 GMT BLOODMAIDEN ~Christine E. Schulze CRYSTAL RIVER Crystal river, Tell me true, BLOODMAIDEN

~Christine E. Schulze

CRYSTAL RIVER

Crystal river,

Tell me true,

Tell me what I ought to do.

Should I cross thy icy land

Frozen in time?

Memories

And dreams forgot,

Still I must go on.

But when I feel

That I cannot,

I remember

This song.

Crystal river,

Tell me true,

Tell me what I ought to do.

Should I stay or should I run?

Tell me my future:

I already know my past.

BLOODMAIDEN

In Sulaiman, four kingdoms stretching to the four corners of that vast land were ruled and guarded by the four dragon dynasties. To the East, upon an island hovering in the ocean not far from the coast was the Zale Dynasty, where the blue, serpent-like dragons slithered through the pure ocean waters or visited the fields, slipping so silently through the grass it looked like a gentle wind swaying the tall reeds. They were the most playful of the four dragon families, the gentlest of the four dragon rulers. They caught fish in the oceans and rabbits in the fields for the people of the island. The Zale dragons spent much time in meditation and in studies of peace and charity towards all. Thus they taught their people, and thus they required from the humans the lightest of the four tributes required by each dynasty. In exchange for their care and protection, the Zale Dragons obliged from the people only an annual feast which both human and dragon would share.

To the West lay the rocky, treacherous, harshly windy Valther Mountains, on top of which stood the grand Gauthier Dynasty. Unlike the elegant golden palaces of the east, the Gauthier Dragons lived in a sturdy, stone fortress. They were the fiercest of the four dynasties, a warring family. They did not war needlessly, though if the humans of their land were threatened, they would’ve brutally defended them until death. They had used their strength many a time to protect the people from wild mountain beasts, and they used their thick, leathery, wings to fight snow and ice storms, finding those humans who lost their way. With their brute strength they not only protected the people of the mountains but also quarried great rocks, minerals, and precious gems which architects used to build and blacksmiths used to forge into great armor and weapons and all sorts of fine things. Thus, the tribute that the Gauthier dragons required every year was some of their jewelers’ most finely crafted gems as well as their blacksmiths’ most excellently crafted armor and weaponry.

Vardon lay to the south in a deep and evergreen valley, a place of farmers; both the Vardon Dragons and the human races inhabiting that place possessed a gift in making things grow. The dragons bore scales which, when rubbed from their bodies and into the earth, would fertilize the dirt with rich nutrients, helping the crops grow strong, tall, lush, full. The tribute they required was an annual portion of their bountiful harvest.

These three dynasties—they all sound like something out of an ancient oriental legend, myth, or fairy tale. The concept of humans and dragons helping each other, living in harmony with one another, without fear. To me, that’s exactly what they are. A distant dream, a story of a magical, peaceful place only read of, told of secretly, quietly yearned for.

I live in Tynan, the fourth, southernmost dynasty, whose dragons do provide much protection, and there is much need of it, for our dynasty is set in the northern mountains where wild animals and avalanches are ever constant. But the tribute they require in return is so horrible, no one speaks of it. I cannot even utter it here, now, on paper. In fact, I will soon have to lay down my pen because my fingers tremble, scrawling the words in nervous, illegible scribbles across the pages of my last days. I will have to lay down the pen because the unspoken truth is all the more real and close and unbearably frightening for me.

For, you see, I am the new Quelda of Tynan.

I look up abruptly, the pen clattering on the desk as someone knocks in the door. Then they open it with a gentle creak, slowly, as if the person wishes to grant me a few more precious moments before my life changes forever, before I become no longer Crisilin, but the Quelda. All must forget I am Crisilin, for it will soon be blasphemy to speak my name.

The person steps in. It is one of the Tynan Dragons’ servants. It is a woman. I know this by her long, grey cape and hood which conceal her entire body. I know too she is my aunt because she’s the tallest servant in the palace. She cannot reveal herself during the ceremony—I must see no one’s eyes from the gold-spinning until the time I meet my husband—but I know it is her. She cannot speak to me either, but she lowers the hooded head in what I understand as a nod, and I nod back, following her.

We traverse several corridors. I glance out the arched windows we pass. It is a black night, as is every night on this mountain. The blackness always seems appropriate, but now more than ever. However, tonight, the bright, white stars shine in the blackness, both reflecting what should be a glorious, pure experience yet mocking with their joy, their almost tangible laughter. I don’t even know the man chosen for me, yet he too must share the Quelda’s fate.

A blue ribbon ties back my curls, matching my dress—blue and white, both for purity. We climb a stair and walk noiselessly down another hall. A silence, not like peace but like death, breathes loudly in the complete hush. We reach the end of the hall and the arched, red doors accented elaborately with gold carvings. Before them stands one of the dragon’s priests—he bears white robes and humbly lowered head, though his bald head is again hidden by the hood of his robe.

My aunt turns and slips quietly down the hall. I turn to the priest. He waits a moment, as if assuring we are alone. Then he performs the ritual, the lighting of the incense, showering me with white rose petals and sprinkling sweet waters. He does these things to bless my purity. Another priest somewhere does the same to my husband even now. My heart beats faster as he slides too quickly through the rituals which bless our marriage and join us together in that perfect union.

At last, he steps aside, holding his hand towards the doors.

Sickness swirls in my stomach along with the fear. The doors loom large and red like a wall of blood or fire. I don’t know what I fear more, whether what the ceremony signifies—the beginning of the end of my freedom, my life as I know it, my childhood—or the ceremony itself. Now, in this moment, the fear of the former passes away as the latter, the last step of the ceremony, this step, looms closer, so close that it is now, my dreadful, terrifying, unknown now.

I realize why this part is the hardest. I must open the door. I must reach out and grab the cold handle that will grant my right of passage into the life I must both face and detest. I suddenly feel small, shy, and weak, as though the blood-red door and its brightness grow, its fire ensnaring, consuming me with hopelessness. I feel so alone, yet I suddenly yearn for that young man I will meet on the other side, wishing for someone to cling to. I suddenly want him to at least like me, be kind to me, hold me, love me even, just as much as I suddenly want to do all these things to him, whoever he is. This part is hardest for the Quelda, yet also the easiest, because all I want to do is both step away from that door, turn, and run, and yet, knowing I can’t, open it and run to him…

I reach out, clutch the handle firmly, pull, and slip through. The door echoes my loneliness as it shuts. I’m in the final stretch, the hall with the blood-red carpet. Red is not a very pure color. Perhaps it is meant to encourage the passion which cannot exist between two people who don’t even know each other. Of course, fear even now encourages some sort of passion within.

I force myself to walk down the hall, heart pounding, panic gripping so hard it is hard to breathe, hard to see. I need to hold on to someone, something, but there is nothing until I reach the final red and gold door.

Stumbling to a stop, I grasp the handle. I take in a final, deep breath. This is it. This is where I lose my childhood. This is where I must become someone else, where I now must transform. Where I must struggle to survive, to hold on to what might remain of myself. Where I must hope that my soon-to-be-known husband will show gentleness and kindness and mercy, share my fear, hope, and longing...

I open the door. He sits on the edge of the bed, wringing his hands. A small connection races between us, his fright an instant part of mine. My first small sign of hope. The second comes as he stands to face me, the light of the fireplace illuminating his face, handsome curls, sparkling but troubled eyes. I gasp, the sickness in my stomach changing to that of both relief, wonder, and horror as I breathe:

“Chalom.”

“Crisilin.”

I rush to sit beside him, Chalom, my best friend, my betrothed. He slips his arms around me.

“How?”

“Please don’t be angry, love.” His eyes glint guiltily. “But when I knew you were meant to be Quelda...I had to find some way to be with you...”

My eyes scold him, though lovingly. I cannot help being comforted by his presence, but is there no nobler way for us to be together?

That night we fall asleep in each other’s arms though we do not make love. Such a sacred act would be too marred by the shadow of tomorrow's looming ever closer, even as sleep is marred by the nightmares of that morrow’s coming.

* * *

I wake, still snuggled in Chalom’s arms. I wonder if it is morning; there are no windows in this room. I stir and he hugs me close, announcing he too is awake.

A knock raps too loudly on the door like thunder, and a voice declares too emptily, “It is time. Rise and prepare yourselves for the ceremony.”

Thick silence drowns us again, and I half wish for the drawling voice to return, for any sign of human life to cling to, because suddenly, even his own arms around me aren’t enough. Even they cannot symbolize life but death. Death, not life, not today. Death only. Everything is death.

I shudder, suddenly cold as if death already ensnares me in long, curled claws. I hug Chalom tighter, closing my eyes like a child trying to shut out a bad dream, but he whispers those inevitable words in my ear: “We have to get up, love, we have to get ready.”

Even his own voice is too devoid of emotion, of meaning. But perhaps that is how all voices are bound to sound today. Perhaps it makes everything easier. I rise to obey.

* * *

The goldenrods sway proud and tall in the Field of Sunlit Gold.

I sit within a Coliseum-like building encircling a wide field. I stare at that field, blocking out the hundreds pressed closely about me in their seats, talking, laughing too frivolously. For a moment, I even shut out Chalom and his touch, except for his warmth on my hand which is like the warmth of the golden fields I have only ever heard of. Its grass stretches before me now short, brown, and dead. Yet, although I’ve only ever heard tales, I’ve hoped in and imagined them so vividly their image is set in my mind more clearly, more real, than the one I now view but don’t want to. The dragons, their ice white scales gleaming cruelly in the vainly shining sun, slither onto the field...

This is the only field in all Sulaiman that bears golden soil. The Tynan Dragons breathe their magic breath upon the soil, giving the life needed to grow the goldenrods blanketing the field like a solid sheet of waving, glinting sun. Their petals are made of pure, real gold.

The people use the gold of the flowers to trade with the other dynasties and to create beautiful things and healing powders. The people pay annual tribute to the dragons each family offering some precious gift crafted from the precious gold.

The previous Quelda and her husband, who reigned for a year, whose reign must end with the coming of my own and Chalom’s, walk onto the field behind the dragons. The Quelda is shaking and sobbing violently; her tormenting cries wrench at my heart, make me suddenly want to vomit. We sit so close I can see her maddened eyes. She tries to run, but her husband—does anyone remember or know their real names?— holds her close, trying to console her or at least make the awful thing as easy for her as possible.

I want to close my eyes but am suddenly unable, knowing they deserve someone to watch, to be there, to share their last moments, someone who truly understands. No one could possibly ever understand besides me and Chalom and those who’ve gone before. So, despite the hundreds gathered, some sorrowfully, some to enjoy the show, we are all who are left in their world.

The golden fields sway, petals clinking together, almost singing in the breeze; there is more than enough gold for all, both dragons and humans, enough to care for all of Sulaiman and many worlds beside...

The Coliseum is built, the old traditions give way to those both new and yet ancient, hideously ancient.

Shouldn’t we be past such things, shouldn’t someone try to stop this?

The flowers die, drowned in the shedding of blood. The next Quelda is forced to weave straw into gold to appease what has grown into the dragons’ unquenchable lust, greed, desire for more and more. The humans of Tynan themselves will not see, touch, use any of the gold spun by the Quelda, they will be forced into poverty and a struggle to survive.

A pain of rage and hatred grips me powerfully again as I remember how I was forced to stand before them as they breathed their tainted breath, endowing their gift to spin the straw into gold, that gift they are not deserving of. They deserve no gift but the horrors they now force upon this young couple, and, in a year’s time—or less than that, if we do not produce a child—Chalom and I.

It is just as well none see the new gold spun by the Queldas—had they seen the new gold, it would have broken their hearts. It is not nearly as glorious, as pure, as that grown from the soil in peaceful times.

Now the gold, our lives, everything, is marred by the rubies.

They lay the Quelda beside her husband, binding her because she writhes like someone possessed. And she is, not of a demon, but of terror, anguish, fear, unbearable torture. Her screams slice through the air like a thousand knives, as if threatening to burst open the heavens with some storm of vengeance. I tremble all over, contorting with each scream, sharp knives slicing all over my body, searing at my heart with each agonizing cry. I wonder how she could be in any greater pain although I know she is. Chalom squeezes my hand, but I am numb now to all feeling except her excruciating torture.

And then, as the dragons bear down upon her with their bloodthirsty snarls, claws gleaming like cruel swords, they silence her, and him as well, for even her husband has lost his nerve, crying out. And the last awful sound is that of the baby’s pleading cry quieted too abruptly. Because the dragons of Tynan no longer require a sacrifice of gold.

The Field of Sunlit Gold has become the Field of Rubies.

* * *

I lay in Chalom’s arms. He drifted to sleep holding me close. I wavered in and out of uneasy fits of slumber. I couldn’t shake them from my mind—flashes of blood, ghost-like screams of unimaginable torture, dragons so mercilessly ripping the innocent bodies to shreds. I wished I hadn’t watched or listened, rendered too stunned to look away. I would've preferred suddenly going blind and deaf and now wished my mind could turn numb to their pain.

As I slipped into yet another uneasy sleep, her eyes glittered, vividly staring straight at me with intense pain and pleading for help. As if my being the next Quelda somehow gave me a larger power than she herself bore in her own short reign. As if I could somehow stop the dragons and spare her. Then, the dragon hovering over her, swiping his long, gleaming claws towards her neck—

The vision changed in a flash, so quickly my body flinched. Then I lay very still as if the approaching dreams wanted me to focus solely on them.

And the visions came.

At first I saw myself racing through the fields of the mountains, twisting between rocky paths with my closest friends, laughing, skipping, chasing, and tagging each other. Chalom wasn’t there, but all was peaceful. I was with my friends. I was a child again.

Then I saw myself in Chalom’s arms as if my spirit traveled outside my body to hover over my sleeping self. The bed gradually faded until we lay on the softest, greenest grass. Or so it looked, but try as I might, I could not reach out to touch it. My dream self, the one lying in Chalom’s arms, looked up at me gravely then, eyes flashing sharply, determinedly, pleading to share some message. What ignited such intense passion? As her eyes scrolled to the side, I followed her gaze.

I took in a small gasp and stared. A third me ran laughing between tall, thin, brightly green fields illuminated with heavenly sunlight. A salty-sweet breeze wafted dreamily. My laugh danced lightly, care-free, as in the vision of my childhood. And behind me, laughing too, was a small child. She grasped at the folds of my white, almost fairy-like gown and I turned, scooping her up, holding her close, twirling her around then hugging her again, pressing her cheek against mine—

The child looked at me.

I suddenly wanted to cry. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I suddenly wanted to run to the child more than anything else in the world. Because her eyes were Chalom’s, her curls were my own. She was our child. Those eyes that were Chalom’s gazed more vividly real than the eyes of any child I ever saw. I knew she was real. Or she would be, if I heeded the solemnly pleading spheres. They urged me to do something, anything, to spare her from her fate...

The vision faded to black, and I gradually became aware of Chalom shaking me gently.

“Crisilin? Crisilin, are you alright? What is it? Did you have another nightmare?”

“I saw her.”

I wanted to sob yet was too breathless, too overcome, shaking too badly to even do that.

“I saw her, Chalom...”

“Saw who, sweet heart?”

“Our daughter, I saw our daughter...”

“Shh, sweet heart, shh...it’s okay...”

But it wasn’t okay, not anymore. It was never really okay, but I at least accepted the morbid thing for what it was, resigning myself to my fate not long after being chosen as the new Quelda.

Before now.

Before this needless yet fearfully unstoppable, accepted horror involved my Chalom. Before it involved the baby we would create together, my baby, our baby, our child. These reasons all suddenly made my fate, our fate, necessarily, possibly, and desperately stoppable.

“I can’t do this.”

I trembled as he held me with such excruciatingly tense muscles it was hard to even shake with the sobs filling me, wanting so desperately to grant release. “If it had been someone else...but I love you, Chalom. I can’t let them kill us, kill our child—”

“Then don’t,” said a woman firmly, and looking up, I gasped.

“Aunt Simone?”

The tall woman stood clad in a simple purple robe, the hood thrown back to reveal sharp, set eyes and fashionably spiky though graying blue-white hair. I wondered how long she’d been here. Then I remembered guards patrolled every hour to make certain the Quelda and her husband were yet safe in their beds.

“Yes, child, it is I.” She moved to stand right next to our bed though she would not sit. A familiar, urgent glint in her eyes revealed deep anxiousness.

“I came to you on my watch for I have been considering what would be better—spending a year together loving each other or risking your lives in escape only to have them ended cruelly and even more prematurely than the Quelda’s curse deems.”

“My good lady,” Chalom said, eyes sparkling with sincere warmth and determination, “I assure you we would not want to live together for one more year this way. This is not the life we want. Even if we perish, the risk would be far worth it.”

He glanced with searching eyes to ascertain I felt the same way though the look didn't really question. He knew me too well.

“Very well.” Aunt Simone's hushed voice floated swiftly. “I will take you from the palace grounds. But beyond that, I cannot lead you safely. You must travel on your own, from the city, down the mountain, and across the lake.”

Even as she spoke, Chalom scrambled from bed and I hurried after. He helped me with my coat and he began pulling on thick, warm pants and boots.

“And where will we go?” he asked.

“Anywhere,” she said, “Beyond Tynan’s borders, they will not search for you. You will be considered tainted, and they will choose a new Quelda.”

My heart sickened at this thought. Our escape would mean others' deaths. But then my aunt gave the last bit of hope I would need to start out,

“It may be if you seek the emperors of the other three dynasties, they may listen to you. You will be the only Quelda and her husband ever to survive and escape. Maybe they will listen if you tell them yourself of the horrors of Tynan. Maybe the next Quelda can be spared. Maybe there will be no more Quelda.”

No more Quelda. The words echoed like a hopeful song. Sixty-six years had passed, sixty-six Queldas. Incredibly more than enough torment. If I could spare the sixty-seventh and assure there would not be a sixty-eighth...

“But remember,” my aunt said gravely, “you must pass beyond Tynan’s borders. You must clear the Lake.”

My heart fell again. I was suddenly unaware of Chalom wrapping my legs in warm socks, leggings, and boots as this reality loomed ever closer, realer, graver. The lake, miles wide, was the last stretch between us and freedom. And the deadliest. The water would be well below freezing now, and the patches of ice creeping towards its center would become less trustworthy as we traversed it. A desert of ice. Mountain cliffs rose up on either side of the lake's edges so there was no way around, only across.

Chalom echoed my dread, “And how am I to get her safely across the lake? You know the stories of all those who perished years ago, trying to escape. Without a boat, it’s impossible, and even more so in winter.”

“Then you must pray for a boat,” my aunt said firmly, but her eyes glanced skeptically, as if a part of her felt she’d already sentenced us to our deaths. I looked at Chalom’s own eyes, sincerely troubled, deeply concerned, though still determined. If we had to die, at least we should get to choose how.

My aunt’s expression softened as she studied first my face then Chalom’s. “I have heard myths of sprites who guard the Ever-White Lake. Perhaps, if such tales be true, they will aid, guide, and protect you.”

I hoped yet wondered why the sprites never tried to help anyone before now.

She placed both large, strong hands upon my cheeks and bent down to kiss my forehead. She looked deeply into my eyes, her own glossed with the haze of approaching old age yet filled with an ancient wisdom and love as she whispered, “Remember that Usamah, the Lion of the Heavens, is always watching you, my child. May He protect you, and may you keep His hope and courage in your heart. Usamah bless you, my child.”

I studied her eyes a few moments longer until tears began to creep into mine and hers both. Then she forced herself away and said, “Come, we must hurry. Make no noise, and should we run into any human, bow your heads and feign normality.”

“And if we run into the dragons?” Chalom asked.

She paused before answering, “Pray that Usamah will be so merciful as to grant you invisibility.”

She cast him a final, grave look, and he nodded. In his eyes, it was better to be sure of what would come, good or bad, than to bury oneself from the truth.

Turning and casting a final glance at me, tying my scarf more securely and nodding satisfaction, Chalom took my hand and we slipped from the room after my aunt.

We walked noiselessly, but I feared my heart pounded so ardently the keen dragons would certainly detect the sound of their precious Quelda betraying them, slipping between their claws into forbidden freedom. They would certainly sense the rich blood pulsing so vibrantly beneath my skin.

But the halls remained surprisingly quiet, devoid of any signs of life besides our own presence. I expected loads of guards. After all, was the Quelda not sacred? Wouldn’t they want to prevent our escape at all costs?

Then I thought of my aunt. It was her watch, she was meant to be my guard. I’d heard stories of guards physically fighting the Queldas they found outside their rooms, maddened by the thought of the Quelda escaping under their watch. What horror it would mean for her if my intensely beating heart truly trapped and brought us to our downfall. I shuddered, not wanting to imagine what unimaginable consequences would befall, might still befall her. After all, we escaped on her watch. Certainly that was impossible without her helping us?

But I forced the thoughts from my mind. I could not think them. My aunt could never be convinced to let us stay here now. I must focus on the task before us, what she gave us, not what they would take from her.

Corridors, stair cases, all remained motionless, lifeless. Passing one of the tall, arched windows, we stepped around the betraying light of the moon. It was only half-full but bright enough that our concealing cloaks would prove vain if we stepped under its glow. Chalom and I must be extra careful once outside.

At last we graced the bottom of a staircase where my aunt turned and whispered so faintly I couldn’t even catch all the words,

“...silent...outer wall...guards...along the top...”

I snatched enough words to understand. We prepared to slip inside the outer wall of the outer courtyard. This was the one place where guards would definitely be stationed, marching along the top of the wall itself. We must be certain to make no noise.

More silently than even before—save my beating heart which I still felt certain would echo up the walls to the guards’ ears—we slipped through the narrow passage, carefully turning a corner, walking further until my aunt stopped. I burrowed close to Chalom who held me tightly. My aunt crept slowly as a snail up to the wall. Then, so cautiously we could barely see her move though at some point her body had shifted, head leaning over, she placed her ear to the wall, listening. I wondered what she listened for until I heard the faint thump of footsteps overhead.

They passed from my ears quickly, but still she listened, pressed close to the wall. After what seemed an eternity, she drew back and motioned us forward.

She then pointed to a door set by the corner, eyes flashing urgently. I gave her a longing look, wanting to hug her, tell her I loved her, beg her to come with us, knowing I might never see her again. But any slight sound was now most dangerous, far too risky.

Chalom drew me towards the door, opening it slowly and just enough for us to squeeze through. All the while I looked over my shoulder at my aunt who stood tall and proud, eyes pleading my swift and safe escape. Tears betrayed her sadness in her aloneness, a fear we might not make it yet a hope that we would. Too soon, Chalom led me from the wall. The door closed on her tormented face, suddenly small in the black shadows as she breathed, “I love you, child.”

I forced the sob catching in my throat to remain silent as Chalom hurried me away from the wall, down the small hill towards the city. We must hurry because we were in plain view. The moon shone bright, following us like some snitch intent on capturing and turning us in. We’d have to reach a hiding place before the guards reversed their patterns.

Slipping around a building, hiding in its shadows, we looked back. The guards had just turned, heading towards the corner we fled from. We sighed relief, thanking Usamah. Yet, as if fearful the traitorous moon would somehow catch the glint of our eyes and reveal us, Chalom pulled me away, hurrying us into the city.

For a few moments, my mind could rest and think more clearly. Mostly everyone should be safe in their homes. If anyone was about, we’d have to avoid them. No one liked the Quelda’s sacrificial position, but some existed who would turn her in for extra food, clothing, or better shelter. I glanced up at the dilapidating stone houses. I wouldn’t blame anyone who did such a thing. But, unless we encountered such a person, we were safe until we reached the outer city wall. The top would surely be lined with guards, the final stretch illuminated by that wretched moon.

As we slipped down one of the narrow alleys, I froze, gripping his hand so hard he was forced to stop beside me. I stared at her—a young woman, ragged rags pulled closely around her, cuddling in frail arms a small bundle, a sweet, sleeping thing, a baby, an infant. The moon reflected the baby’s soft, blue skin, a breeze wafting the baby’s scent to my nostrils. Lavender. The child was a girl. I watched as the mother gently snuggled the baby, singing a quiet lullaby broken by soft sobs. I knew what she was going to do. Chalom knew too. He tried to pull me away. But, even as tears crept into my eyes, I felt compelled to watch. Watch as she laid the baby on the ground and gently draped the swaddling over the infant’s mouth, pressing, only releasing the cloth and her sobs when certain the baby had taken her last breath.

She looked up then, too sorrow-stricken to be shocked or horrified someone had seen her. No judgment shone in my eyes, only anger, hurt, pity, a longing to comfort this woman I could not comfort. Because she had not killed the infant simply because she was too poor to care for her. Clearly she loved the baby. This mother did what so many other fearful, helpless mothers did before her. Sacrifice their firstborn child to spare her the possibility of being sacrificed as the future Quelda.

Terrible as it was, watching that woman only renewed my strength and confirmed my desire to help my people, to bring this awful ritual to an end. ]]> Poetry and Originals Chasmira http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102633-bloodmaiden.html Virtue http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102574-virtue-new-post.html Tue, 17 Nov 2009 10:42:28 GMT Seems no one really liked my darker one. So here's a nicer one.

I wrote this after a long discussion in my philosophy class about virtue.

It's my first attempt at rythmical structure and rhyming.

To my beloved:

From a place deep seated
And a pain miss treated
Comes a tale conceated
Of a man defeated

He fought fire with wine
He became his womans mine
His heart could no longer assign
His will to her he did resign

Such is the contract of love
So obviously sent from above
A contract we all choose inspite of
The pride which is so uncharacteristic of

The normal selfish heart
Of which we now depart
In order to live in art
Our holy existance we impart

And I could have chosen it any other way
Kept my pride and slowley decay
But pride is the poison of us all
And to give it up, to an angel like you

Is the virtue that rings true.

I am open to all criticism ^^ ]]> Poetry and Originals AzraelBlack http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102574-virtue.html <![CDATA[[Tra] The King and the Tyrant]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102500-the-king-and-the-tyrant-new-post.html Sun, 15 Nov 2009 19:22:06 GMT I had to edit this a little bit, but here it is. The King and the Tyrant A man walked up the stairs very slowly as he held a sword. That sword was covered in blood that was still dripping on the floor leaving a trail for someone to find him, so you can call him the Swordsman. His... I had to edit this a little bit, but here it is.

The King and the Tyrant

A man walked up the stairs very slowly as he held a sword. That sword was covered in blood that was still dripping on the floor leaving a trail for someone to find him, so you can call him the Swordsman. His footsteps echoed throughout the castle. The stir was battle could still be heard in the background, but he ignored it as if it wasn’t there. The man was emotionless, but if you looked at him, you could notice that he has seen a lot. You could notice to hardships he has seen, and the anger that is within him. He reached the top of the stairs, then suddenly stopped. A little bit of sunlight glistened through the window, and on him. It was raining outside, but sun could still shine. He looked over to a glistening window that looked finely detailed, and slowly walked toward it. He laid the right palm of his hand on the window.

A month back, on a cold day while the clouds mildly covered the sky, the kingdom was active. There were merchants selling, and customers buying. Two royal guards walked to the front of a house, which was very near some business shops. The first guard knocked on the door. The door opened, and an old man appeared. He was five inches shorter than them.

“Hello?” he asked.

“The kings needs some of your money for the advancement of this great kingdom.” said the first guard.

He looked nervous, moving his head around.

“Do you have our money?” asked the second guard.

“No, I don’t have your money.” he stammered.

The first guard grabbed the old man by the chest, while the second guard closed the door. One of the guards held the old man while the other threw punches at him. The old man was crying and screaming asking for them to stop, and that he’ll pay their taxes, but they ignored him completely. After the guard stopped punching him, the other threw him to the ground, then left without saying anything while the old man was coughing blood. While in pain, he didn’t even bother to get up.

Later that day in the same part of town the Swordsman walked into his house. There were candle lights that made the place brighter, but not really bright. There was a woman standing with her arms folded looking in distress. You can call her the Fair Lady. She walked to the Swordsman.

“My father has been beat up by two guards badly and I don’t think he’s going to live.” she said.

He looked down. “I need to see him. Can I see him?”

She allowed him to do what he asked, so he walked over to the old man who was laying on some cushions. He leaned down and asked “Your daughter thinks you’re so bad that you are going to die. Are you really going to die?” he asked.

“I’ve seen many days, my friend. I’m weak, I’m old, and I’m hurt. I don’t exactly know if I’ll die, but if I do, I won’t care.”

The Swordsman shook his head. “No, you won’t die.”

The old man interrupted him. “No, no! Don’t think that. If I don’t die now, I will die soon.”

The Swordsman just frowned with this mouth open, then stood back up to let him rest, and walked a couple meters away. The Fair Lady turned to him.

“I know you’re upset about him being this away.” She said.

He interrupted her. “No, I’m not upset.” He took a pause. “You’re beautiful.”
She hinted a little disgust over a mild smell of alcohol on his breath as he tucked his face near hers.

A couple of days later, the Swordsman, and his father were in at a bar. There was various laughing that talking between the two as they were sitting in chairs with some alcohol on a table. The Swordsman was tipsy, and almost not even paying attention to what he was saying.

His father grabbed his arm and brought it toward him. “Now, listen here, son.”
The Swordsman shook his head around, and paid attention as we as he could.
“Son, there is going to be a meeting soon with a lot of people.” he whispered. “It is a meeting to form a rebellion attack against the king. Ever since he took over this kingdom ten years ago, this place has been more worse than it was. If you want to come, it will be exactly next week. I will lead you to where we need to go at midnight. You want to go?”

He nodded.

When the night came, hundreds of people came. They tried to be as quiet as possible to not raise suspicion. The swordsman saw the Fair Lady, and stopped while his father kept walking. He briskly walked to her.

“Mam!” He shouted.

She turned to him. “What is it?”

“This king of ours has mistreated us.” He stammered. “He has either beaten, or killed anyone who doesn’t fallow him. I have had years of swordsmanship. When we rage battle toward him, I will go into the castle, and I shall slay him.”

“You’re drunk. aren’t you?” he asked.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. You’ve turned into a deluded drunk.”

She tried to leave, but he grabbed onto her.

“Please, listen to me.” he asked. “When I slay him, if I slay him, I shall marry you, and we will live happily.”

“I don’t love you.” she scolded.

“No, no, you’re just saying that, my love. I want to marry you, and I want to have kids with you.”

She just disagreed. “I will never marry you, you drunk.” She got loose of him, then sprinted away.

“My love, you are my heart. I cannot live without you. You are my life.” he said.

In the meeting people talked were chatting. A man stood up and silenced everyone. “People, for ten years our kingdom has been overrun by a tyrannical king. He has given us unfair taxes, and punished us if we do not pay his taxes; sometimes by death. When we work for that tyrant, we get low incomes. We can’t pay for our family, and children. Our women can’t feed their children, because of low money. We need to silence the king, once and for all, because all men should be equal.”

Back at the castle, the swordsman laid his hands off the window, then walked away from the light. In the other room, the King was on his royal contemplating; having a bored look on his face.

Many years in the King’s past, he lived in a tribe up north. This tribe hunted and gathered, so they were a little behind the intelligence of the kingdoms. It was a winter night. The wind and snow danced together as the men, women, and children were sleeping. The King was merely nine years old, snug under his protective blankets. On top of a hill were a group of men wrapped in heavy clothing on everywhere except for the eyes. They rode on horses that also had heavy clothing on them. They stormed down into the tribe with large torches, and lit the place on fire, ran into people’s houses and killed them. The young King was still sleeping in his bed. He could smell smoke which disturbed him, causing him to wake up. He rubbed his eyes, and walked out of his bed. He peeked out of his house, and saw the men marauding the tribe, burning houses. He was devastated at the sight he saw, so he quickly ran out of his house, and escaped the place unnoticed. Running as fast as he could, he ran in the snow that would get deeper over time. He did not wear something to cover his feet which left a higher chance for hypothermia. He ran till his feet were numb from the snow, and he was as cold as the snow itself, and his legs ached in pain, then he ran some more.

The next morning, when the snow had calmed down, the young King laid on the snow as if dead. Two men not from his tribe, nor from the marauders, but from a kingdom saw him. They did not know if he was dead, or alive, but they knew that he was in a horrible condition. They picked him up and laid him on one of their horses to bring him back to town.

Later, the young King was laying on a couch with many blankets on him while next to a fireplace. He need not snore, but just seemed silent, then suddenly, he slowly opened his eyes. He heard two women talk to each other.

“How could he survive in the cold?” the first woman asked.

“I have no idea.” said the second woman. “Two men just found him in the morning looking like he was dead. Luckily he’s alive, but this is amazing.”

The young King got off the couch, and waked to the woman.

“You’re awake!” shouted the first woman.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Why, you’re in a kingdom.” said the first woman. “Now, you should get some warmth in that bed over-”

“What happened to my tribe?”

She took a pause. “The two men that found you, also spotted a tribe that was burnt to the ground. There were many dead bodies.” She let the young King think for a couple seconds about what has happened. “I’m sorry.” she muttered.

The young King grimaced. “My family, my home, gone.” The young King freaked out, then yelled. The two women tried to calm him down, but couldn‘t succeed. He punched the ground, crying his eyes out, pulling hair, and kicking things.

Over time, the young king would be the son of two foster parents who would send him to military school where he would prove his worth. Over time, his teachers would see how great he is at archery, and swordsmanship. They would always write how his anger seemed to be his fuel for battle, and that they had a feeling that he would become a military mastermind. He would rise up in his adulthood from sergeant, to admiral, to general. The day would come that he would take over the throne of the kingdom he once lived in as a child, by force. With a strong army at hand, he would plunder kingdoms, then take them over, punishing those who resist him by torture, or death. All the while, getting into drugs, and alcohol, but he would still remember the tragedy that he faced when he was a child that caused his choices in the future.

The King looked back at all of this while he was sitting in his throne. He rubbed his eyes with his right hand, while a sword was in his left. He saw the Swordsman just looking at him. The King stood up with his sword tightly gripped, and casually, but slowly walked to the Swordsman. He did not get too close, for the Swordsman would start the battle.

“So it appears you’ve come to battle me.” said the King.

“Yes, I have.” answered the Swordsman. “Tyrants like you need to go down.”
“Well then, lets have at it.”

The two dueled each other. They both seem evenly matched, surprisingly. The battle lasted for a couple minutes, but the Swordsman was able to have the upper hand as he was a young man, and the King was in his fifties. The Swordsman was able to do the final blow by stabbing him right through the guts. He merely grunted over the fact of a sword lodged through his chest, then he fell to the ground and shed a tear that slowly went down his face, then dripped onto the floor. Quickly after that, he died. The Swordsman said nothing. He just looked at him in disregard, and slowly left the room

Hope I win. :DD

Also, if you see any misuse of grammar, I WILL fix it. ]]> Poetry and Originals Zero of Time http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102500-the-king-and-the-tyrant.html The Hurricane http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102353-the-hurricane-new-post.html Thu, 12 Nov 2009 08:23:01 GMT It's been a while since I've been in a hurricane. After all these years, I find myself in another one at this moment.

The wind seems to be taking on a life of it's on as it slams against my house. The rain is rushing down to the earth and flooding everything it can. I can hear the thunder clapping and see the lightning striking my beautiful tree. This hurrcian is wide awake in terror as it speeds past me

Don't ask why I just wrote that.

EDIT: Sorry for the lack of creativity in this. This is my first time doing something like this ]]> Poetry and Originals bolero_of_fire http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102353-the-hurricane.html A spark of inspiration http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102259-a-spark-of-inspiration-new-post.html Tue, 10 Nov 2009 05:18:51 GMT A few days ago i was sat in my front room listening to sum music and having a drink when I got hit by a wave of Inspiration. This is the song that i wrote. It's called: An Infinate Horizen

An Infinite Horizon

V1
Infinite horizons are ahead of you
The sun is rising on a brand new dawn
Darkness has faded from your heart
And the light of hope has returned
Just when I though that all was lost
A hand reached out and pulled me back

Never give up
And never let go
Just hold on
And you will see

Chorus
The dawn after the dark shines ahead
It calls to you and reaches out a hand
Don’t be scared or turn you back
Find the strength deep down inside
Follow the road to your new horizon

V2
An infinite horizon blooms ahead of you
The colours in your heart are finally set free
Your heart and soul paint the future ahead
The steps ahead are clear and bright
Walk the life you dreamt for yourself
Hold the hands of your family around you

You are never alone
Feel the strength of others
Hold onto your friends
And never forget your Family

Chorus
The dawn after the dark shines ahead
It calls to you and reaches out a hand
Don’t be scared or turn you back
Find the strength deep down inside
Follow the road to your new horizon

Bridge
Do you walk alone?
No!
Do you isolate yourself?
No!
Do you ever loose hope?
No!
Do you let your dreams die?
No! No! No!

Chorus
The dawn after the dark shines ahead
It calls to you and reaches out a hand
Don’t be scared or turn you back
Find the strength deep down inside
Follow the road to your new horizon

The dawn after the dark shines ahead
It calls to you and reaches out a hand
Don’t be scared or turn you back
Find the strength deep down inside
Follow the road to your new horizon

Final words
The horizon ahead seems closer everyday
You walk proudly with friends and family
You dreamt this and built it with your heart
For in your soul you have an infinite horizon.

End ]]> Poetry and Originals Wolfix-01x http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102259-a-spark-of-inspiration.html <![CDATA[[Con] Riddles (G)]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102088-riddles-g-new-post.html Sat, 07 Nov 2009 14:07:50 GMT Hi there. I was making riddles for Mooncalf's Riddle Thread when I noticed how proud I was of the rhyme and metre. So I thought I'd post them here and see whether other people thought they had merit. There's a few of them:

1.
I am farther from home than anyone has ever been,
and yet can clearly see it even from where I stand.
I stand here at the greatest risk,
Yet do so at our leader's command.
In years to come, most famed I'll be,
Though others come, also answering the call.
But though my feat everyone can see...
Many will say it never happened at all.

2.
One strong, one weak, yet both are small.

One heavy, one light, yet both attractive.

These four sisters live as one,
In darkest night and midday sun,
They'll give the world to anyone,
And are not yet understood.

The smartest man pursued them all,
His grand designs destined to fall,
Do you know what they are called?
If so, then very good.

For he didn't; no he never knew
Of the strong and weak, not of those two;
He died before
he knew the four
And yet pursued them all - it's true.

3.
The whole of me is black as night,
O'er my compressed form people fight
It cuts and is cut, but until then I
am black and deep in earth I lie

4.
Like an endless, raging fire I burn;
But icy cold I can be, too.
Through thoughtless acts, you will soon earn
My attention and devotion, too.

Power I hold o'er he who lets
my teachings in his tenacious heart,
He ne'er forgives and ne'er forgets
Those who made him play this part. ]]> Poetry and Originals Bravo http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102088-riddles-g.html <![CDATA[The Fairy's Emblem]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102045-the-fairys-emblem-new-post.html Fri, 06 Nov 2009 21:10:47 GMT Okay, first things first, I'm not changing my author "voice" in any major ways just to make YOU happy, I'm not trying to please everyone, I'm just sharing my story. By that I mean, if the changes involve me typing or writing the entire thing differently in a way that you(as a single person) like, then don't ask. If you have an opinion which can/could improve the story or at least my future storys then list them in as neutral, nice way as possible. Please don't post your opinion and expect me to obey it like a command, an opinion after all is just that, an opinion. A few things about my style that I've chosen for this story are listed below. These are things that I will NOT change forthis particular story, however I will take said opinions in mind for the next one.

Sarcastic Drag: When a word has sarcastic drag on it, it will be spelled as it sounds spoken aloud with that drag. Right for example would be spelled as "Riggggghhht" or some variation because of the extended use of said letter sounds in the word.
Narration: Please do not ask me to change my narration style, you can make suggestions and add constructive input that may improve said narration type. But Please, my author voice is my own, I'd like to keep it that way
Description: Big thing here is that I'd like constructive input, on anything dealing with description. My method of description is the way I like to have it right now, any suggestions please keep them as such.
"Changing" Characters: I put my heart into each character, thus I request that you respect that. In otherwords, commentary on the characters themselves is fine, but asking me to change them in a way that you think the character should be depicted to make them "better" isn't. Everyone's unique, that goes the same for characters in a story.

Okay that's out of the way, again any form of critique is okay, but please don't expect me to be "poof" instantly better. I don't work like that...ever.
__________________________________________________ __
Prologue: The Origin of Artisan

First, imagine yourself in this world quite similar to ours, in truth it is a mirror of ours. However, things aren’t as bad as it seems, actually…its worse! New York is a hell-pit of shoplifters, carjackers, and many similar crimes. Texas is now a huge dustbowl, some states aren’t even livable anymore. This world my friend, is the world our Hero Alan Johnson lives in. He may be a normal young adult on the outside, but inside…inside lies a powerful warrior. And that warrior is known as Artisan, the sole hope for this dying, alternate world.

Now, imagine many of these warriors working together to save this world from unseen threats that go by unnoticed to most people. Ghosts, demons, monsters, alien and sacred creatures, anything both good and evil, of myth or legend have often made their way into this world. Due to the curse placed on the first copy of a book titled The Fairy’s Emblem. At one time, there were a great many Artisans, but now those numbers have dwindled to a mere handful.

Fifty…fifty true artisan’s remain in the United States, each of them stationed as the sole protector of their hometown or city. Outside America, only a few hundred Artisans are at the whims of the noble leader who has remained hidden somewhere in New York. He or she strongly believes that Alan has high potential, but is disappointed with his abrupt and sometimes disrespectful use of his powers.

Lastly, we join Alan Johnson on his average day, just as he finishes his latest assignment. Unfortunately, for him, his usually long break from work won’t last quite as long. In fact that very book, who’s denizens and creatures occasionally slip into this alternate world, is where our story, and Alan’s journey begins.

Chapter One: The Journey Begins

Alan sighed as he looked at the swath of careless excessive force he used in taming the large dragon now laying behind him in a large energy net. Though these were truly the streets of the worst state to live in ever, New York, none but Alan and the few people trying to grab hold of the net.

“Look I don’t want to here it okay, if it’s the same song as before I am not in the mood!” Alan put his hands up defensively as he spoke with slight sense of fear and a hint of sarcasm.

A hooded figure in an incredibly ornate cloak that looked like something you’d expect to see in a Harry Potter movie appeared in front of Alan from a beam of light shot down from the sky. The artisan symbol lied both on her necklace and on the cloak, which she soon threw off to reveal her field clothes.

“Thorn?? What the heck are you doing here…and I thought you were plant elemental…” Alan’s tone was as shocked as his face as he eyed the essentially curvy woman about his age over.

“Haha, you’re Roku…hmph…more like nature boy; it’s no wonder you’re still in the lower thirties! And duh, it’s a teleporter spell…besides…you know the masters never show up in person.” She responded with a chuckle as she walked around him rather erm…teasingly.

Alan blinked as he tried to calculate what the famous lady Thorn was talking about. Was she mocking him, or simply trying to intimidate him sexually. Whatever it was, he didn’t know what to think of this Ally of his.

“Wait…what state are you? I mean…aren’t you stationed somewhere else; New York’s my domain sweetheart. Or is this…heh…a personal visit, and would you know anyone by the name of Rose by any chance?” Alan chuckled as he spoke and used his body language to show her he wasn’t intimidated.

Thorn froze; this boy sure had a good poker face if he caught on to her this quickly. And why did he suddenly ask her about a normal name? Business was business, and as nervous as she was. She couldn’t ruin her secret, especially with him seemingly reminding her of someone she’d met recently.

“R-rose…oh uhm…hmph…I know what you’re doing big boy! Well it’s not going to work! I don’t know who the hell this Rose girl is or why you’re so interested in her.” She responded bitterly as she quickly casted another teleportation spell and vanished.

Alan stood there in shock, what the heck was that all about? Was this Lady Thorn Bi-polar or something, whatever the case he didn’t have time for that now.

“Oh crap, I’m gonna be late again!” He thought aloud as he quickly realized the morning sun rising and shining its orange light on the now slightly misty streets of his run down, hell pit of a hometown.

Alan rushed as quickly as he could on foot, but the school was downtown and several blocks away from him. At this rate, he would never make it in time. So he created hills of mud around his feet and used them to thrust himself forward at a much faster pace, making sure to stay out of sight. This was perfectly doable when all he had to do was take slow, deep breaths and raise his arms. Turning the low mist into a now thick fog as he passed places where many people were at. When he came up to the run down, slightly destroyed school Alan wondered why this place still had the highest rank of students in the county. Honestly, the creaky wooden gymnasium floors…the dorm doors that nearly fell off their hinges? Well even if he didn’t get it, maybe his parents did, and were paying the nice two thousand a year price to prove it.

“Alan Johnson…hmph…tardy or rather, very fashionably late again! What was it this time…a Harpy asked you out on a date?” The voice of his skinny, lab coat-wearing teacher was annoyed and disgusted as always.

As he looked at his nervous classmates, he realized that this woman was the famous professor. The stone cold giant standing at around five two who’s skill in depriving a student of ‘stalling’ was world known. Alan himself being a professional in this skill, and the clock being just a few ticks away from the bell. He figured he’d put his own slightly super quarterback build against the grind.

“Oh… verrrry funny coming from a teacher who knows that this particular student hates ‘fiction’. I just got caught up in traffic is all…so…what did I miss Teach?” He asked with a big grin on his face walking up to the desk and resting his hand on the table.

The already steamed professor glared at the coy young man staring her down with a big grin on his face, she raised an eyebrow at his disheveled hair and devious eyes. So what if the child could easily bench two hundred and forty pounds, a student was a student. And she intended to make that point clear, here and now. She did so by pulling a book out of her desk and slamming it on the top in front of him.

“Well, well…so you’re the infamous trickster, hmph…oh yes the inner circles of the teaching conventions and meetings have told me plenty of information about you young man! Just to let you know, I just assigned the rest of the class a five-page essay on this book. I’m sure you’ll find it quite enjoyable.” She shoved the large paperback book in the boys face and handed him the details of the assignment.

Alan was a bit surprised; this woman wasn’t gonna back down any time soon. Noticing the clock again, he smiled and flicked his wrist a few times.

“So you expect me to do five page report on thi--hey, what’s the idea teach??” Alan played dumb as he tried to swipe the book from his teacher.

“Hmph! Not so fast “hot shot”! This’s my personal copy of The Fairy’s emblem…you can look at the charming bookstore that just got a copy in this week. Everyone else has been reading it over spring break.” The professor’s voice was happy, yet still assertive as she spoke.

The other students hushed and started chatting quietly as the two went back and fourth, Alan continued to give them the ditching signal that stalers often used to let the class know what they were up to. The clock kept ticking away, and the argument grew tenser as it went on, until finally the teacher was caught off guard by something she never expected to hear at a time like this.

“Well I nerve--… very clever Alan, I admit defeat this time…and I’m letting you off with a warning. But if you ever try and stall me again…” She paused and put her hand on a detention slip as the bell rang and the many students bolted to the cafeteria.

“Ha, we’ll see miss Agatha…we’ll see!” Alan laughed as he took his assignment and punishment happily and left the room with a big grin on his face.

“Oh dear…what AM I going to do with that boy…perhaps you could help him more than I. Then again…even I don’t believe you’re real…” Agatha responded with a chuckle while looking at the book’s inside cover art. A picture of a so-called goddess was painted extremely ornately on a mural.

Alan groaned after hours of searching several bookstores, one book is all he needed. But no…the world famous book just had to be sold out at every store, well perhaps not every store in town. He’d avoided the one place his teacher suggested. So he spent a few minutes asking people about the place his teacher had written down.

After a few hours of walking, he came up to a quaint little store shoved in-between two other stores. The place was like those old Chinese buildings, with slanted roof, red tiling, bamboo walls, and of course excessively detailed dragon sculptures. A sign that was above the door red the name of the store, and it just had to be a dragon shaped sign…corny.

“The Golden Dragon…ugh…I think I’m gonna lose my lunch…” Alan groaned sarcastically as he entered the shop holding his breath.

The inside of the place was even freakier than the outside, and definitely overdone. Its furniture had the dragon theme, and the shelves and walls were decorated with of course dragons. Top that off with the enormous mural rug on the floor, the bead curtains on the inside of the doors to the other areas of the store. This place was definitely cornball central; it was like he was in a bad horror movie, or at least one of those freaky bookstores. As in, one of the kind where something weird or crazy happens to the person that bought a book from there.

Odd…why the heck is my artisan charm glowing? Hmph must be bugging out cause of all the cliché in the area. Alan thought with a chuckle as he walked up to the counter.

A woman in a surprisingly underdone Kimono came shuffling out of the back room with a smile on her face. If not for the fact that she worked in the freaky bookstore, Alan could’ve considered asking about her daughters if any.

“Ah…another bold adventurer ready to challenge the works of Hara…what can I do for you young man?” The woman asked with a warm and surprisingly calm tone as she started writing things down.

Alan wasn’t sure what this woman meant, Hara…that sounded like some Roman or Greek god or something. Whatever the case, and despite the freakiness of the voices coming from the shelves of the store, he decided to ask.

“Uh….Riiigggghhhht…I’m a student at a local school, and my teacher sent me here to-” The woman put her hand over his mouth and laughed.

“Ah-ah I know exactly what you’re here for…just give me a moment.” She disappeared behind the back rooms taking one of those rolling ladders with her.

Oookayy…creepy, hmm…nice place. Alan thought with a laugh as he wandered around the main room a little bit.

As he wandered the shelves of the front room, Alan noticed something weird about the store. The woman disappeared behind a room where he saw there was no store on the other end on the outside; she also knew what he was here for somehow. The oddest thing being that his artisan charm had started to speak to him. His charm was something he’d always found important, made of gold, silver, bronze, and sapphire that glowed whenever danger was near. Sometimes the charm even served as a warning of danger, but where was the danger at…good question!

“Okay…this place is getting creepy enough…huh…no way…you have it?!” Alan turned around when she returned to the front counter with a big smile on her face and a rather large book in her hands.

“Yes…I must caution you…this is a very dangerous copy. It’s one of the original printings, a rare artifact indeed. See for yourself the wonders it contains…” She responded handing the unsurprisingly overdone book to him carefully, like it was about to explode or something.

Alan cautiously took the large, leather book in his hands. Its front cover covered in gold symbols of an unrecognizable language and one very large seal. A pair of long bodied dragons dueled each other while wrapping themselves around four seals, earth, water, fire, and wind. Oddly enough, a small keyhole shaped design was embedded in the center. In English just above the seal it red The Fairy’s Emblem.

“Whoa…the pictures look…alive…” Alan flipped through the pages and smiled in awe of the detail. Even a friend of his couldn’t draw this well.

“Yes…they are alive, that world is brought to life by the imaginations of every living child. Their sorrows, their happiness, their dreams and nightmares are all floating around the words of those pages. Do you here that…the book is calling to you…” She explained with a smile as the book’s voices began to speak.

Alan raised an eyebrow, there was definitely something weird about this book. As he flipped through some of the latter pages of the book, he started to hear cries of help. Oddly enough, he felt compelled to answer them, if he could. He chuckled and shook the idea out of his head, like he would want to do that.

“Um…Riiigggghhhht…so…how much to rent--ouch…what the heck is wrong with you lady??” Alan responded in a panic as she slammed the book closed onto his hands.

“No rent, only buy! This journey is one that must be finished in one reading…” She snapped sternly and a little fearfully as one of the dragon’s glowed purple, the other glowed white.

“Alright, alright…Jeeze…here then…is this enough?” Alan reluctantly gave half of his billfold to the strange woman.

“Yes…be sure to let me know how your…haha book report goes…” She chimed with a chuckle as he walked out of the store in a hurry.

Man…what is up with that lady? What did she mean all that bull crap about the pages being alive anyway…oh well. I guess there’s only one way to find out. Alan chuckled a little and headed back to his dorm in as quick a rush as he left the store.

Alan laughed at the thought of it, books coming alive with people’s imagination. Yeah right, he had no imagination; it wouldn’t faze him if he saw a God or something. With all due curiosity, he began to flip through the book some more.

“Hara the goddess of fiction…yeah right…there’s only one God. Hmm…I wonder how much this piece of junk would go for on EBay.” Alan thought aloud with a chuckle as he dusted off the emblem on the front.

“Piece of junk?! How dare you criticize that which you have not read nor written and imagined?” A booming and angry female voice erupted from the book as Alan tossed it to the floor.

Oh…it looks as if I’ve angered a god, tsk this aught to be interesting. Alan thought with a smirk as he watched the book open and flip through its own pages rapidly.

“I see you are quite disbelieving Alan Johnson! Hmph well…perhaps a little make believe in my world will change that.” A large and transparent woman appeared from the pages of the book as the room began to generate wind.

“Your world…ha, if you’re a god lady…then prove it! Do something so all mighty that’ll scare the crap outta me just by looking at you!” Alan figured he’d taunt this image of a woman who’d shown herself.

“You dare disrespect me…the guardian god of all fiction which you have so callously criticized?! Very well…it seems that your desperate teen years and the loss of your family have robbed you of your imagination. If you wish to be re-sparked in that manor…I’ll be happy to oblige!” The woman roared angrily as she raised an arm into the air.
While she did this, the door locked, the wind got even more violent and pages started flowing out of the book. They all had the same text on them, which of course was glowing with a weird energy. Slowly a vacuum formed from the winds and started pulling Alan toward the book.

“Let us see how the oh so brave hero fares against the villains of my world! I hope you learn something from this Alan, this is something I do not do lightly!” The woman vanished into the book as a bolt of lightning and the vacuum got even stronger.

“What the heck…god…she wasn’t kidding…oh crap! This can’t happen now…my book report!” Alan shouted in surprise as the pull continued to strengthen.

Alan tried and tried, but the more he resisted the more tenacious the winds and elements around him became. There was soon thunder and even lightning floating about inside his dorm, and a large black cloud had formed. At one point Alan tried to use his powers, when he did he was struck by lightning and was sucked into the book as if it were a black hole. ]]> Poetry and Originals MetroidMaster http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/102045-the-fairys-emblem.html <![CDATA[[NF] Under the Rain(G)]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101803-under-the-rain-g-new-post.html Mon, 02 Nov 2009 03:02:13 GMT This a Song/Poem I wrote. Let me know what you think. *Under the Rain* Chorus Watch the rain, feel it flow down. Let is wash your burdens away. Then you realize just what it means... To stand... Under the Rain This a Song/Poem I wrote. Let me know what you think.

Under the Rain

Chorus

Watch the rain, feel it flow down.
Let is wash your burdens away.
Then you realize just what it means...
To stand... Under the Rain

Verse 1

You hurry home in the rain.
You feel your anger, you sore abuse.
Then you stand and think some more.
Now you stop... and then you

Chorus

(V.2) When you reach home, your house is a mess.
Ev'rything's ruined, there's nothing left.
You call for aid, then you stand to think.
Now you stop... and then you

Watch the rain, feel it flow down.
Let is wash your burdens away.
Then you realize what it means...
To Stand...
Watch the Rain, let it was away,
Then you realize...
Feel it flow down, your burdens are gone,
Now you know...

(V.3) Your anger is gone when help arrives.
You aren't mad at teh wrongdoer.
You tell the man to come with you...
And stand... Under the rain....
Under.... The Rain.
]]> Poetry and Originals Golgoroth http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101803-under-the-rain-g.html <![CDATA[[MC] "Dearest Diary" -- A Tale of Murder (M)]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101801-dearest-diary-a-tale-of-murder-m-new-post.html Mon, 02 Nov 2009 02:21:46 GMT Taking a short break from editing my novel, I am penning this short story, a murder mystery of sorts, set in the early nineteenth century. I've never dabbled at length in the Victorian period, nor have I done anything involving police-work or crime, so helpful criticism would be most appreciated! :D

So here is what I have so far, and thanks for reading!

"Inspector!"

I turned from my paper and removed my glasses, setting them down on table. A young messenger boy approached the café where I was enjoying the serenity of an early afternoon tea, a fervor in his face from an undoubtedly prolonged run, and stood panting before me. Ragged and filthy in appearance, his message assuredly must have been coming from the lower wards.

"Yes?" I said, unconvinced that this message could be anything but the news of a beating of one of his friends or the killing of yet another prostitute.

"Beggin’ your pardon, sir...." He held out his hand, like the little shaver he was.

"Very well." I dug into my pocket and retrieved two pennies. "Yours...once the message is delivered."

The boy licked his lips and stared at the chips of copper, a desperate look of hunger on his drawn face. Denying his mistrust of those with money to spare, he leaned toward me and whispered in my ear.

My eyes widened and I looked him square on. "You better not be blagging to me, boy.

"Honest, sir." He stared again at the penny in my grip. "I swear my life upon it!"

I leaned in closer. "Show me...and this two pence becomes a shilling."

A smile growing on his face, the prospect of food and shelter at the forefront of his mind, he took off and began running to the south – to the lower wards.

Grabbing my coat and top hat, I hurriedly exited the café, telling the host to hold my bill until my return, and climbed into my waiting carriage. Poking my head out, I motioned to the driver and pointed south. "Follow that child!"

Doing as instructed, the driver gave the horse a gentle whip and the carriage lurched forward, rocking like a ship over the worn and uneven cobblestones. Passing through the safe and inviting streets of northern London, we soon moved through into the lower districts: the degenerate and foul collective of the poor and the iniquitous. Houses of ill repute, pubs, and gang-houses lined the rows, with filth and sewage running openly in the streets. No policemen or aristocracy to be seen, I had indeed crossed the line into the impoverished rectory of sin.

Forlorn children of the abominable conditions before me clamored at my carriage, my driver scarcely able to continue to follow the boy on up ahead. Many times did the heavy wheels and the clopping shoes of the horse nearly crush them to death, but thankfully they had the wit to stay clear of those.

Coming to a stop near a dilapidated hotel, my messenger boy stood in front of a dark alley overshadowed by the tall buildings that framed it, and was staring down it’s length. I dared leave the relative safety of my carriage and step down onto street level, pushing away begging, soiled hands as I made my way to the boy’s side.

"Here?" I asked of him, still unconvinced of his tale. Curiously, as I neared the alley the clawing hands of the depraved ebbed and they dared not draw any nearer than that.

He nodded and pointed into the darkness. "In there...behind the old shack."

Pursing my lips, slightly unnerved by the actions of the wretched populace, I pressed on down into the dark alley, my right hand tucked into my coat and grasping the small club I had concealed there. Many times before had I been lured into such situations, only to find out it was a trap set by someone wishing to be rid of one certain inspector on their case – I could not be too careful while in this part of the city.

About halfway down the alley I spied an empty old shed, the timbers and tiling rotted and falling apart. Bits of straw, broken bottles, and strips of molded fabric lay beneath, suggesting a makeshift shelter, though it obviously had not been occupied recently. Lifting my head to the left as my eyes adjusted to the faint light, my lips parted at what I saw beyond.

A pair of fine red shoes lying in a stagnant puddle, and a lifeless body five meters beyond.

--------------------

"Here you are, Inspector." A young policeman handed me a cup of coffee as I scrawled hasty notes upon a bit of paper. "Not the best of stuff, but as good as you’re going to get in this place."

"Thank you, officer." I took the cup and set it down on a near ledge, returning to my notes.

"Well, sir?" he pried. "Who is she?"

My brow furrowed and I let out a sigh. "I do not know."

The man kneeled down next to the body and looked closer. "Doesn’t look like a street trollop from the wards, I can tell you that much."

I grabbed him by the shoulder and firmly pulled him back, trying to keep him from contaminating the scene with his obtuse presence. "Yes, thank you for the coffee, officer. Now, if you please...."

"Yes, sir." Taking the hint, he nodded and walked back out of the alley.

Lighting another lamp that I placed at the woman’s head, I drew a quick sketch of her form on my pad. Clothed in a crimson red dress, expensive by the looks of it, and adorned by an array of silver jewelry, I found myself to be baffled. What was a woman of stature doing down here in the wards? And dead, but not robbed? Her earrings alone would pay for six months food and rent, let alone the necklace which was studded with small, invaluable diamonds.

I gently moved her head to the side, looking for signs of what might have caused her death, but could find none. No bludgeoning, no stabbing or shooting, the police surgeon was going to have to delve into this one in more detail. Poison was my guess, but at that point I could only conjecture. I supposed that the cause could have been something medical to do with disease or illness, but that seemed unlikely given her unspoiled looks. Or maybe drowning, but her hair was dry and well kempt. Judging by the state of the body and the coldness of it, she must have been deposited here sometime the evening before. The way the body was lying prostrate said to me that considerable attention was given to place her there, to lie her in repose in a kind and honorable manner, be it in a filth-ridden alley.

Whomever committed this deed must have cared for her, and at least known her – this was no random slaying.

I looked upon her as she lay there, cold and alone in a dark alley. She was a handsome woman, twenty years of age at the most, with riveting dark hair and intense blue eyes. I lifted her left hand – no wedding ring. She must have been a child of wealth, or had a suitor who doted upon her lavishly. Either way, she would assuredly be reported as missing within the afternoon, which would greatly assist in finding her killer.

A bustle of noise broke me from my inner thoughts. Lifting my head and pivoting toward the opening of the alley, a man with a large black portfolio was having some trouble with the policemen guarding the entrance, them denying him access.

"Let him through!" I said with a cut of annoyance.

Releasing their hands upon him, the man fixed his hat, gave the two young officers a glare, and came to my side.

"Well, old man?" the gentlemen prodded, offering a friendly hand. "Who’s the poor soul this time?"

"I cannot say." I took his hand and stood up. "Good to see you again, Chauncey."

"And you, Inspector." He unwound a couple of strings that sealed his portfolio and opened it wide, revealing some large sheets of white paper. "No details at all?"

"Other than supposed stature, none."

"And no missing persons reported?"

I shook my head in response. "None that would carry such a high prominence as this."

"Very well then." He took in a deep breath. "The usual?"

"If you please. And make haste – I want copies made and sent around all of upper London by the end of the afternoon. The longer we stall, the harder it will become to solve, as the killer is undoubtedly already on the run."

"You’re the Inspector." Chauncey found a near crate and sat down, finding the best angle of light to assist his hand. Pulling out a bit of charcoal from his pocket, he began sketching her face.

--------------------

Nothing. Twenty sketches being carried all around upper London, and no word on the identity of this poor woman. No reports had been filed on her behalf either, making me begin to wonder. Perhaps she was dressed up to look the part when she was still but a resident in the impoverished tracts of the lower wards, but I still harbored my doubts. No personages would throw such fine jewelry away in such a frivolous manner, not even the wealthy. And why had the body not been rifled through by the local folk? That remained the most cryptic of all.

I found myself back at my café, sipping at some tea, awaiting the police surgeon’s report. I had the body delivered to him over two hours ago and placed her at the upmost of importance on his list, and still no reply. I had half a mind to go down to his shop and do the autopsy myself if it would quicken the results, for as of right now I had no leads to work on.

"Inspector?" The elderly waiter was at my side, for who knows how long, awaiting my answer to his unheard question.

I shook myself from my thoughts and looked upon him. "Forgive me, I must have wandered. Yes?"

"Should I bill your household, sir?"

"Oh, no that won’t be necessary. I will pay now."

The man bowed gratefully as I handed him some coin. "I’ve been meaning to ask of you, Inspector, we do not have your address, in case you should desire to do so in the future."

I stood up and grabbed my coat and hat. "I am a man of the moment, sir. I do not believe in debt, if I can forgo it."

"Very well, and thank you, sir." He politely bowed again before returning to his duties.

Stepping out into the building evening air, I climbed aboard my waiting carriage and plopped down in the back, letting out some of my frustrations with a deep purge of breath. "To the coroner’s den, driver!"

Acknowledging the request with a nod, he cracked the whip on his pony and the cab lurched forward.

The stench of death. My senses were overwhelmed by it as I entered the subterranean lair of the police surgeon, Robert Drudge. An almond-shaped, red-faced man, scarcely able to stomach his work, I found him sitting at his desk, a flask in his fist, starring at a blank sheet of paper, as if he were commanding it to write upon itself with the sheer power of his will.

"Mister Drudge?" I cautiously entered his office.

"Yes, come in." He hastily stashed his flask within the desk, acting as if it were never there. "What can I do you for, mister...."

"Inspector," I reminded him with just my title.

"Oh!" He stood up, nearly knocking the desk over with his overarching belly. "Apologies, Inspector. I...um, didn’t recognize you."

"For sure." I motioned for him to sit down as I did in the chair across from him. "So? What news of our girl?"

"Girl?"

I frowned and leaned on his desk, the fury of a patient man smoldering in my eyes. "Perhaps if the blundering novice had not been at the drink while on duty, he would have done me the great favor of an autopsy this day. I have a murderer to catch, mister Drudge."

"Oh, yes! You mean the rich girl!" He feigned a smile, though it became painfully obvious he had not soberness of mind at the moment. "There are many girls that come through here...don’t want to get them mixed up."

I remained silent and glared.

"Perhaps you better come with me." He made for the door and left the office, heading toward what was colloquially known as ‘the den’.

Me following behind him, he brought us to his place of worry: a cavernous tunnel beneath the streets of London that housed the grim responsibilities of those charged with the care and keeping of the soon-to-be inhumed. The den lay littered with all kinds of odd devices and visceral equipment, and the stains upon the wooden tables and stone floors could not be ignored. That smell I encountered upon first entering the small space became more prevalent here, and it was all I could do to refrain from gagging.

"Here she is." The coroner pulled back a lone white sheet, revealing the maiden that was found in the alley, holding a handkerchief to his nose as he did. "Bloomin’ shame – she’s a pretty one."

"Yes." I leaned in closer, capturing her face in my eyes. "And? What have you found?"

"Nothing. No cuts, no wounds, no bruises. No traces of any poison I know of in her stomach, and all her organs seemed intact enough."

"Enough?"

"Well...there’s some minor signs of white plague starting to build in her lungs, but it was very early on – she wouldn’t have known."

I pursed my lips. "And so you brought me out here because...why?"

"These." He covered her back up and reached for a near box that contained her personal effects. Rifling through it’s contents, he produced the pair of silver earrings. "I may not be much help in determining cause of death at the moment, but at least I can offer some insight as to her identity."

My eyes propped open at the thought of a clue.

"Here." He handed me one, while keeping the other and flipping it over. "See this marking?" He pointed to a thin etching upon the silver. "That’s Jeremy Witherstone’s mark. I’ve...purchased from him before"

"A jeweler?"

"A restorer, actually. He has not the means to create such fine pieces, but can repair them with ease, and for much less than the usual fee. But...he’s a bit of a low-liar, you see. His only desire in exchange for such a cheap repair is that he then can re-brand the item in his name."

"Cover a jeweler’s brand? That’s theft!"

"Most of what he deals with are stolen items at the start of it. He knows it, but also could never prove it and needs the business. Could you blame him? He’s a good lad, and has found a decent way to earn a living in the wards where coin is rarer than God. True, it’s illegal work he does, but what down in there isn’t?"

I conceded the fact and offered out my hand, silently requesting the other earring. "And where might I find this Witherstone?"

"His shop is in Whitechapel, at the end of Thrawl Street."

"I’ll send an officer out." I pocketed the earrings. "Keep me informed if you determine the cause of death, or if anything else comes to mind. And I mean that. Anything."

"Aye," he said with a nonchalant waive and returned to his office and his flask.

As I exited the den, the dark of night blanketing the city, I pulled my coat close around me and stepped back into my carriage. I then rapped twice on the roof with a knuckle, ready for some rest as I wait for the coroner or my dispatched officer to send word. "Driver...take us home."

]]> Poetry and Originals Mendicus http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101801-dearest-diary-a-tale-of-murder-m.html <![CDATA[[Sf] Friendship Isn't For EVERS]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101784-friendship-isnt-for-evers-new-post.html Sun, 01 Nov 2009 20:55:02 GMT A Sci-fi high-school fic about some role play characters I made. It's got a good story, there's basically this group of researchers trying to tear their friendships appart so they can recapture them and continue research. Of course them having superpowers and being CIA agents in this futuristic world doesn't make it any easier for them! I don't feel like copy/pasting the content here, please just go to FictionPress to read it. if you want to leave a review, be CONSTRUCTIVE, and at least try to lighten up the damage a tiny bit. As always I don't mean" sugarcoat" the hell out of it, just ya know...ease off a little, keep it neutral.

Oh and my grammar,spelling etc is as good as it's going to get for now. So please, unless you find something unbelievably and horribly wrong, just stick to the characters. plot etc okay? You can comment grammarwise if it's a must, but again, please be nice about it.(IE no swears, calling it ***t even if YOU think so etc) Also keep in mind my "level" of writing, which is still halfway between beginner and intermediate before reviewing.

Chapter One: The Four Strangers Meet

Also, it already has a nice review, so that means I must be doing something right. :D I will add links to the following chapters as I add them to fiction press. ]]> Poetry and Originals MetroidMaster http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101784-friendship-isnt-for-evers.html <![CDATA[[Hor] "Twelve Chimes": My 10/2009 Contest Entry edited and easier to read! (T/M-Disturbing)]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101766-twelve-chimes-my-10-2009-contest-entry-edited-and-easier-to-read-t-m-disturbing-new-post.html Sun, 01 Nov 2009 13:28:04 GMT *Awards/Nominations:* _Runner-Up:_ The Zelda Universe October 2009 Writing Contest _Rated *T/M*, (between Teen and Mature), for very disturbing situations._ An EzloSpirit-Zelda Universe Original Story: Awards/Nominations:
Runner-Up: The Zelda Universe October 2009 Writing Contest

Rated T/M, (between Teen and Mature), for very disturbing situations.

An EzloSpirit-Zelda Universe Original Story:

“Twelve Chimes”
A Short Story Based on My Upcoming Novel, The Door
By EzloSpirit

Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong.

Eleven chimes. Just one hour to go. Then we all die. Hunted. Become one of them.

To describe the beasts is like explaining the meaning of life. I can tell you only this: the beasts have fangs. Fangs that pierce your skin effortlessly. That’s when you join them. Become them. And there is no turning back.

You do not need to know who I am. In sixty measly minutes, you won’t care. Because you will be screaming, trying to escape me. I’m sorry. I’m oh, so sorry.

* * *

I sit beneath the tall oak tree out in front of my mansion. As I pluck a blade of grass from the ground, a cool, soft breeze rushes by me. I bring my knees in close and curl into a ball. I know the storm is coming. And I’m scared. Very scared.

When I look up, she is standing there. She is a child, about seven years of age. Yet I see wisdom and fear, even age in her dark, hazel eyes.

“Are you afraid?” she asks me. Her voice reminds me of the good and light in this dark, cruel world where all we do is wage war, kill each other, and live in perpetual fear. I nod in reply. “Give me your hand,” she instructs me. I oblige, letting her wisdom flow through me, yet not allowing it in. She pulls me to my feet. I shiver, though whether from cold, fear, or something else entirely I’ll never know.

“Why do you come to me, little girl?” I inquire. “Why do you wish to help me when you should be hiding away from the monsters? They are coming.”

“Yes, I know,” she replies, smiling. How could she? There is nothing happy, nothing worth smiling about. The beasts are coming.

She takes me to the park, and we sit down on a bench. “Why do you shiver so?” she asks. I am still unsure how she could be so concerned about me when she should be very concerned about herself. Because the beasts shall come when the clock strikes midnight, and the bell shall toll twelve times.

“I don’t know,” I say. We sit on that bench for a while. Spend our second-to-last thirty minutes alive just sitting there. Breathing. Waiting.
When we finally stand up and she bids me farewell, the clock reads quarter-to. Fifteen minutes, then we all go to hell. Or hell goes to us.

It is deserted. And why shouldn’t it be? Everyone is probably in his or her bed, cowering in fear. I don’t know why I don’t join them. Perhaps it is because the monsters under the bed or in the closet are scarier, more dangerous. But no. That can’t be it.

I bend down and pluck another blade of grass out of the ground. I twirl it around my index finger, hoping for some comfort. The oak tree above me is menacing. Just like my mansion behind me. And just like the clock. Fifteen minutes. The beasts are coming.

I lay back on the grass. The morning dew covering the grass is cold. Though it is not morning. I shiver once more. The next five minutes seem like weeks. For I know that after these five minutes, I’ll only have two more five-minute blocks of time to live. That’s when the beasts come. And I think I hear them stirring even now. Yearning to awaken and feed.

I stand up. I walk down the street. I am alone. The street lamps are out. It’s just me and the darkness. I consider killing myself so I would not become a vessel for a new beast. But no. I am too weak at heart to do that.

As I walk down the lane, I hear only the trees whispering to the calm, cool breeze. Not a cricket chirps. Not child whimpers. Just the trees. And the beasts. They whisper in their slumber. They want to be free.

Ten minutes until midnight, and I continue my silent, cautious stroll down the lane. I pass my church and consider praying for mercy and protection, but not even God could protect me from the beasts. Please, O Lord, protect me from the danger that lurks just around the corner. No.

I walk until I reach the park bench where I had sat with the child. I sit down. I look around into the darkness of night and see nothing. But it’s not like there’s anything to see anyway. Just the dark.

I ponder over the beasts. Who would be my attacker? Would it be one of my relatives? My mother was the last one before me. Last night. Her screams as the beasts grabbed her and bit her still ring in my ears. Where did the beasts come from? Stories tell of a door. And beyond that door, a world of evil sits. The door has never been seen, except by a few. It was in a valley in the mountains. People lived there. I feel very sorry for them. Oh, so sorry.

Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong.

The trees. They moved. The trees. They are shrinking. The trees. They are taking another form. The trees. They are the beasts. They have awakened.

One steps towards me. I gasp. I know that face. That child. I look at the empty space beside me on the bench. I look back up at the beast. I am certain. And I am content.

As the beast draws closer, I close my eyes. Was sitting with the child a dream? No. Then how is she a beast? I’ll never know. I feel oh, so sorry for myself. For the child. For you. For the world.

The beast slowly reaches down and takes gentle hold of my hand. I open my eyes. As I look into the beast’s angry yet sorrowful red eyes, I see apology and pity. Then it lifts my hand up, bares small, razor sharp fangs…and bites me on my hand.

I close my eyes, smiling. And I change. My eyes turn red and my canine teeth sharpen. And I laugh. An evil, inhuman laugh. And I’m hungry. Very hungry. Oh, so hungry.

-- The End --

©2009 by EzloSpirit. This is only to be posted on the Zelda Universe Forums (http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/). Direct permission from the author is required for this story to be posted anywhere else. To post without permission is to violate copyright law.
This story is an entry in the Zelda Universe October 2009 Writing Contest.

The Door © 2005, 2010 by SightSpirit

(Comments/feedback welcome!) ]]> Poetry and Originals EzloSpirit http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101766-twelve-chimes-my-10-2009-contest-entry-edited-and-easier-to-read-t-m-disturbing.html <![CDATA[[Sf] [MC] Upworld (T)]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101604-mc-upworld-t-new-post.html Wed, 28 Oct 2009 20:52:29 GMT Yep, I decided to do a dystopian story. I don't know what else to say, so enjoy!
Prologue

Not since the Industrial Revolution of the 19th century has an event shaped human existence so much. All cultures around the world are still effected by the changes brought on by the Third World War, even now, hundreds of years after it’s conclusion.
- from The Last War published 2346, by Dr. James Fife; Head of the Shelter 417 Department of Archives and Records

Taka Hikowa dangled from a thin wire, with over a mile of open space beneath her. She pressed close to the white metal surface of the skyscraper. She was hanging from just one structure in the forest of inverted skyscrapers that made up the Upper City, all of which hung from Shelter 417’s ceiling like massive steel and glass stalactites. She pressed a button on the wire’s winch control, lowering her a few feet closer to the sprawl of smaller buildings far below on the Shelter’s floor. She finally stopped in front of a window, and brought out a glass cutter from her belt. She flicked a lock of her dark, shoulder-length hair away and tapped her ear, activating her radio.

“Hey, Kestrel.” she addressed her partner warmly as she began cutting a circular hole in the glass. “I’m beginning entry now. How’re things on your end?”

“I’m having trouble with this damn computer.” Kyle Kestrel replied. “I’m gonna have to crack the system myself; the codes that hacker sold us don’t work. At least the Agency is paying the guy’s bill for us.”

“Quit complaining.” Hikowa rebuked with an air of annoyance. “Your not the one hanging thousands of feet in the air.”

“Yeah, well…oh, wait a minute, I think I got it. Yeah, there we go. Ok, security system is disabled; all camera’s and sensors are shut down. I’ve also locked down this section of the building; they won’t be able to run off like they did with the SPD. I’ll meet up with you at the rally point.”

She clicked off the radio and climbed through the hole she had cut, finding herself in a lab. The room was filled with all manner of scientific machines, none of which Hikowa could identify. She drew her phase pistol and cautiously opened the door. She continued down the hall, when she suddenly heard the whirr of a door opening to her left. She quickly spun and leveled her pistol as a figure emerged from a nearby door.

“Little jumpy, eh?” Kestrel said, and amused grin lighting his face. Like Hikowa, he was dressed in normal civilian clothing; this was an undercover mission after all.

“Otoshigo!” she cursed, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. “Kimi odorokimasu watashi!”

“If you feel the need to admonish me, do it in English.” he said chidingly. “Now, if you’re done with nearly shooting me, can we continue?”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a sheepish grin, then turned and continued walking down the hallway. They came to a stop in front of door. Voices emanated from behind it; they were too faint to make out, but Hikowa estimated there were about three separate speakers. Silently, she pulled a breaching charge off her belt and planted it on the lock. Kestrel readied a stun grenade.

“Let’s keep the weapons on stun this time.” he whispered, adjusting his phase pistol. “I really don’t want to loose a week’s pay again. Ready when you are.”

She armed the breach charge, then stepped back way from the door. With a muffled boom and a hail of sparks, the door fell inward. Kestrel quickly lobbed the flash grenade through the doorway. Hikowa waited a moment then burst through the doorway.

“ISA!” she shouted, raising her pistol and badge simultaneously. “On the ground, now!”

There were two men and a woman in the room, all blindly stumbling about. One charged toward Hikowa, but fell to a paralyzed heap when Hikowa fired a trio of azure stun bolts into his chest. The woman attempted to flee, but in her blind state ran head on into a wall. The final man had recovered from the flash grenade quicker than the others. He drew a projectile pistol from his belt and aimed it at Hikowa, but fell in a hail of stun bolts from Kestrel.

“Doctors Angus Dillon, Hoshi Fujikawa, and Immanuel Hurst, you are all under arrest by the authority of the Internal Security Agency. You are charged with authoring seditious libel as well as attempted subversion of the Shelter 417 Provisional Government.” Kestrel boomed. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”

“We have made no seditious speech.” One of the men said as he was being handcuffed. “We’re physicists, not anarchists! All we did was publish a paper on radioactive decay rates.”

“Yes and your paper was blacklisted, which is why you’re being arrested.” Kestrel said. “Look pal, I don’t make the laws; you’re gonna have to talk to the Provisional Council on that one.”

He pressed a stud on his radio, signaling for a pick up crew. Within a few minutes, blue suited members of the Shelter Police Department entered the room, rounding up the prisoners. One of the SPD officers approached them.

“I must say, I’m impressed.” he said wonderingly. “These guys have been eluding us for 6 months, and you two find them within 12 hours of us calling you. How do you guys do it?”

“We’re ISA.” Hikowa said, as if that explained everything. The officer scratched his head with a puzzled expression, then shrugged and walked away. Hikowa turned to Kestrel.

“So, how about a little celebration?” she asked. “I’ll buy; I still have about 200 points on my ration counter, and it’s getting refilled next week.”

“Sure, how about that steakhouse in Sector 56?” Kestrel suggested. They began walking through the building, heading towards the landing pad.

“No, I was thinking of my uncle’s restaurant.”

“No.” Kestrel said. “Absolutely not. They don’t even speak English there; the entire menu is in Japanese.”

“I’ll translate for you.” she reassured.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Last time you ‘translated’ between me and the waitress, I ended up with wasabi sauce mixed in my ice cream, which I am almost positive I did not request.”

Hikowa laughed at the memory of the prank. “Come on, that was a one time thing.”

“Fine.” Kestrel sighed. “But you better not try anything.”

They stepped through the exterior doorway, ending up on one of the building’s many landing pads. Kestrel activated the hailing beacon on the landing pad’s railing, summoning a tiltrotor taxi. Within seconds a cab dropped from the traffic lanes and landed. They climbed aboard and directed the pilot to take them to the Japanese Quarter. The cab lifted off the pad and began the long descent down to the shelter’s Lower City. ]]> Poetry and Originals Wrath of Pong http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101604-mc-upworld-t.html <![CDATA[[Sf] Physically Virtual, a special sneak preview! (T-frequent mild language)]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101543-physically-virtual-a-special-sneak-preview-t-frequent-mild-language-new-post.html Tue, 27 Oct 2009 02:36:35 GMT Rated T for Teen: frequent mild language A Zelda Universe Creativity Corner Production, in association with The Worlds of the SightSpirit Productions (http://www.fictionpress.com/~SightSpirit): The Virtual Files, Volume 1: Physically Virtual: A special 3-chapter sneak preview! Rated T for Teen: frequent mild language

A Zelda Universe Creativity Corner Production, in association with The Worlds of the SightSpirit Productions:

The Virtual Files, Volume 1:

Physically Virtual: A special 3-chapter sneak preview!

Written by SightSpirit/EzloSpirit

Pixels of Darkness

Suburbs of Washington, D.C., USA; Present

Clicka-clicka-clicka-clicka. Les rapidly typed at his computer. The Game had to be created. Soon. He was the only one who could do it. Someone had told him. Over the radio. He had an I.Q. of three-hundred four. At age fourteen, that was considered genius. And that was exactly what Les Manding was. Genius. Pure genius.

“This is taking too long,” he muttered to himself still typing away. “The War could break out any day now! This needs to be finished very beforehand, so we can be ready! At this rate it won’t be finished until after we all die!”

Les could almost always be seen typing at his computer. He only got four haircuts a year. His hair did not grow that quickly anyway. But it still grew almost to his shoulders. The hair on his head was as black as night. He did change his clothes everyday, though. Except he wore the same outfit everyday, no matter what the weather was: a green shirt and black shorts.

If Les had gone to school, he would have been considered a weirdo and a nerd. But he didn’t. Senior-level college was too easy for him! So he stayed at home with his computer.

One Week Ago

Les was watching the news on television with his father, Joseph Manding. Les did not care about the world around him. He hadn’t watched the news since he was about five years old. Naturally, he had refused when his father had invited him to watch the news a few minutes earlier. But Mr. Manding insisted that his son learn about “the latest scoop around the planet.” So Les eventually gave in.

So, here he was: watching what would soon become the most famous and scariest news stories in history.

“We have received an odd report from NASA that a bizarre computer virus has come from outer space and is now spreading throughout the world. Other countries are putting the blame on the US. Rumor has it that the other main powers of the world besides the US are preparing for war.”

The scene changed, and the President of the United States was being interviewed by another reporter. The President was saying, “I do not know what has driven these other countries to turning against us. It is almost like this virus is putting little ‘pixels of darkness and evil’ into their hearts.”

“This is getting too weird for me,” Mr. Manding interrupted, turning the TV off. “It’s almost like when everyone thought there was an alien invasion when they listened to the radio, and they were actually listening to a radio play of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds.” Les said nothing. For at that moment, the radio turned itself on.

“Les Manding,” an odd, slightly metallic voice whispered from the radio. Les looked up at his father. Mr. Manding was still talking about the chilling news report. He seemed unaware of the voice from the radio.

“Les Manding,” the voice repeated. Les felt chills running up his spine. He forced himself to listen to the radio. It began to give him instructions for programming a virtual reality game, meant to train anybody for war. When the voice was finished, Les pondered on whether to obey. After all, it could be a trick. Or he could be hearing things. Nevertheless, Les Manding decided to begin the creation of the Game.

Completion

Suburbs of Washington, D.C., USA; Present

Les watched as seven strings of binary code scrolled vertically down his computer screen.

“This is taking too long,” he pointed out, an obvious tone of impatience to his voice. “There are only seven damn strings of code now! There will need to be hundreds, maybe thousands, of strings before this thing is finished!” He banged his fist on the desk and continued working.

* * *

Les’ parents were becoming increasingly concerned about their son. While he had always spent at least half the day on the computer anyway, now he was spending at least sixteen hours at a time in front of the monitor. The boy rarely got up and ate a meal. He could starve. He could also go blind. That was the most likely outcome of this odd addiction. What had gotten into Les? Mr. Manding decided to find out.

One day, when Les was, quite obviously, seated in front of the computer, eyeballs on the screen and fingers typing away, Mr. Manding decided to “watch some TV.” Les’ computer is located in the same room as the TV; in fact, the sofa facing the television is right behind the chair to the computer. So, every few minutes, Mr. Manding would silently turn around and look to see what Les was doing. Les was unaware of his spying father behind him.

What was this? All Mr. Manding could see were a bunch of vertical lines of the numbers one and zero, arranged in different orders. Les would, every few seconds, type another arrangement of ones and zeroes. There were about seventy strings of what looked like some kind of code at this point. What was the point of ones and zeroes anyhow? Les’ father was clueless. He decided to do a web search on computer code next time Les took a break. The Mandings only had one computer, and it belonged to Les.

That night, Mr. Manding sat down at the computer. The codes were not there. He saw there was a minimized program. That’s probably it, he thought. He opened up the Internet browser and Googled computer codes. The code with ones and zeroes was called binary code. Depending on how the numbers one and zero were arranged, each string stood for a different thing. Les was up to something. Maybe he was making a virus. Maybe the alien virus wasn’t alien, but was being made by his own son. Or maybe he was just making a computer game. Mr. Manding decided to keep watching Les to see what took shape as more and more strings of binary were inputted.

Ten Months Later

Les breathed a sigh of relief. Exactly ten-thousand one-hundred ten strings of binary had been inputted into the system. He couldn’t (and nor could his father who was right behind him) see the code anymore. He saw a landscape. A landscape of nothing. But it would soon be a landscape. Les just needed to activate the Game from inside of it. Now it was just a grid. The grid was green. Everything else was pitch-black.

Much to Mr. Manding’s sheer astonishment, Les poke a finger at the monitor…and it passed right through! Les continued until his entire body was inside the Game.

Activation Grid, The Game, Cyberspace

Les walked forward until he came upon an icon that looked like a jetpack. “It looks like an item icon in a video game!” he exclaimed, amazed as well as proud of his hard work. He touched the icon, and it became a real jetpack. The new Player put it on and turned it on. He blasted forward.

It was like flying without wings, a mysterious, but magical experience. Les did loop-the-loops in mid-air, turned his entire body around and flew while on his back, and even did mid-air flips. He loved it. Then he got to the other wall, which was covered by a grid.

Les shut down the jetpack and began walking to the wall. In the center of one of the squares formed by the grid, was a lone switch. The switch was a lever. Les walked up to it and pulled it down. Suddenly, the grid disappeared, and images began taking shape. The Game had been activated.

The Player Draft

Tutorial Level, The Game, Cyberspace

The place taking shape before Les’ eyes was very familiar to him. It looked like a Washington, D.C. suburb, just with no houses. It was just a fairly hilly area, blanketed in a sheet of grass. The sky was as blue as could be. Besides that it was empty.

“Hello?” he shouted to no one. He heard an echo in reply: “Lo…? Lo…? Lo…?” That was his only answer. There was no one else here. Or was there…?

Suburbs of Philadelphia, PA, USA; One minute earlier

Harry Drake sat at his computer playing games on the Internet. He had pitch-black hair, always messy; he could never keep it straight, even when he wanted to. He wore black, round glasses. His nickname at school was “Harry Potter” because he looked almost exactly like the fictitious wizard.

Harry was a wizard. But not a magical wizard. No. He was the wizard of track and field! The event he excelled at the most was the long jump. Harry usually managed to leap two yards! Everyone admired him. Especially the girls!

But he had never known what he could use his leaping ability for. He definitely would not have suspected it would be good to use in a virtual reality video game…

So there he sat, eyes glued to his monitor playing a game where a four-colored circle would need to be guided into a fan-like portal. Just then, the screen went dark. Vertical lines of numbers flowed across the screen downwards.

“DAD!” Harry shouted. “I THINK THE COMPUTER’S BROKEN!”

“I CAN HEAR YOU, DAMN IT! I AM IN THE NEXT ROOM!”

Harry groaned. He felt annoyed that his father made him feel stupid.

“Plus, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his father said a lot more calmly. “I am on the computer, too, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Maybe it’s this computer,” Harry suggested. Suddenly, some of the numbers shaped themselves into a hand. A look of curiosity flashed across his face. Then, the hand came right out of the monitor and grabbed him! Harry screamed.

Mr. Drake came into the room just in time to see his son dragged right into the computer….

Toronto, ON, Canada; Ten minutes earlier

“To hell with this! There’s no reliable information about climbing on the first page of my Google search!”

“Google is typical American stuff, eh?”

“Shut up! I don’t want to talk right now!”

“Are you so lazy that you don’t feel like going to the next page?”

“…Yes!”

Keith Marrier and Joel Nison were in front of Keith’s computer researching more info on Keith’s favorite hobby: climbing. Keith was lazy. Joel was just the opposite. Somehow, they still managed to be friends.

The two boys spent another five minutes arguing about clicking one tiny link. Then, Google disappeared.

“That stuff looks like that code we learned about in school last week,” Joel noticed. Two coded hands suddenly reached out of the screen and grabbed the boys.

“I hope you also discussed this happening when you talked about the code!” Keith whined.

“Nope!” Joel replied. Then they were pulled in.

Beverly Hills, CA, USA; Ten minutes earlier

“Hiya!” the boy on the screen shouted.

I love YouTube! So many ways to get your karate moves out there. That was what Matthew Jones was thinking as he watched himself teach an invisible audience karate on the video he was watching on the Internet.
Matt was a second-degree blackbelt. He had started learning karate when he was five. Now he was fourteen. Nine years of fighting. That’s the way he liked it!

He snapped out of his thoughts when he realized the video had stopped. In fact, the video was gone.

“I stink at math!” Matt told no one. “Is this some pop quiz that my teacher’s sending me over the Internet? These problems are up and down, too! This is going to take me hours!”

A surprised look sprouted on his face as his “math pop quiz” grabbed him and took him into his computer.

Tutorial Level, The Game, Cyberspace

And so this continued. Five other teenage boys were chosen and pulled in, each with his own talent. Les didn’t know this. He wasn’t aware he had started it either. For when he had pulled the lever and activated the Game, nine other boys were dragged in by the Game itself to play with him. The Players had been chosen. It was almost time to play.

Note: The part with Keith and Joel in chapter 3 with Google being "typical American stuff" is/was not meant to be insulting or to imply that Canadians typically don't like Americans. The point of this comment was to emphasize the fact that Keith and Joel are not American, for the sole purpose of characterization. Sorry if this little comment insulted anybody.

(c)2008-2009 SightSpirit/EzloSpirit. All rights reserved. ]]> Poetry and Originals EzloSpirit http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101543-physically-virtual-a-special-sneak-preview-t-frequent-mild-language.html <![CDATA[[Fan] The black crusade (M)]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101504-the-black-crusade-m-new-post.html Mon, 26 Oct 2009 05:02:50 GMT Just a note this story involves alot of death in some of the most brutal ways that have come out of my crazy mind. I post ONE PAGE per post .Enjoy

Prologue: Times are tough in this land. The Centarn army are in a mist of coliapse. We can't continue fighting, Atlast this great land shall parish. My only regreat is my people may share my fate.

"Bar tender, give me more of this wine." a man said. The bar tender looked for a moment and then filled his glass.
"Times are tough right now." The man said as he took a sip of his wine." The six Tyrants want the rags off our backs and the air from our lungs, ever sence Centarn fell the Tyrants made us pay for everything. Wine even though being 32 pieces of gold per cup is cheaper than the air we breath.
The bar tender looked at him and sighed. He the went to clean his best goblets for when the footmen arrived. Just then door got kicked open and five footmen walked in.
"What will it be?" the Bar tender asked
"None today, We need bar!" a footman stutered
A figure walked through the door and laughed.
"You call yourself men." He said "Yet you hide in the dirt like the pigs that you are. Just waiting to be slaughtered but you still hide." The man unsheated his sword and said " Who is first?"
"Damn you!" a footman yelled and he charged at the man. The man beheaded the soldier in acouple of secounds. Two more charged at him, He through the first ones mail and completely skured him. He sliced the other man in half with the other footman still on his blade. One man fleed while another was trying to escape. The man sliced of the mans arm and told him to tell the tyrants that the Black Crusader is coming for them. ]]> Poetry and Originals venjek http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101504-the-black-crusade-m.html <![CDATA[[Sf] Mourning Freedom (M)]]> http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101358-mourning-freedom-m-new-post.html Thu, 22 Oct 2009 21:05:05 GMT For several months now, I've been wanting to write a dystopian-style story. I put it off for various reasons, such as not having any idea what to write, and already trying to focus on my other two stories. However, I finally watched V for Vendetta, and that gave me ythe push I needed to get started (plain and simple).

The prologue here is the main protagonist's first entry into this world as his 'radicalized' persona.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Prologue:

'20' His burnt orange-colored cloak flailed gracefully behind his back while he ran through the dimly lit hallway. 'Three corners to exit...' His breathing was heavy from exertion, yet as steady as his vigorous and well-calculated sprint. He could hear the calls of no more than seven guards behind him, separated from him by one turn. Their voices were agitated and annoyed, for these men had been chasing him for at least twenty minutes, through every level of the BioArm Labs building. They were two stories above the ground now, almost to the bottom... But there was no time now.

'10' He kept reminding himself how little time he had. Yet, it would have to be enough. He had to reach the exit: his freedom, for a time.

'8' He counted down as he drew closer to the emergency exit. '6...' His hands could almost reach the door's handle. '4...' The guards were closing in. '2...' He was clear! He leapt off from the fire escape, head-first towards the ground.

'1... Detonation.' As his hands came into to contact with the sidewalk under him, the uppermost level of the building erupted into a massive flare, extending several metres away from the building on all sides. Each level below it followed in line, downward. He reached the other side of the empty, rain-washed street just before the final level met it's fiery destruction, and made the final blow to the building. There was no need to watch the 124-story building's framework collapse in on itself; he'd seen such things before.

~ ----- ~ ----- ~ ---- ~

"He what!?" Dean Redoak was furious, and this was made abundantly clear to The Directors. "How? How, I ask you, can one man... One single man... evade BioArm's finest security for twenty-minutes, and then utterly destroy the entire building!?"

Barry Willson was the first to find his voice. "He... must have taken advantage of the explosives already in the building to enhance the destruction..."

"Really now? Is that the best my staff can come up with!? God-dammit! My six-year-old could have figured that out!" Dean continued to fume on about the matter for several minutes before Carmine Anderson put up a finger.

"Sir, I have reports indicating that several orders containing high amounts of dangerous chemicals were ordered by an anonymous man."

Dean leaned in towards Carmine. "Anonymous, hm?"

"Yes, sir. I speculate that the information was hacked, and wiped by whomever ordered the materials, probably this new radical."

"And these materials were...?"

Carmine took a file folder from his briefcase, and placed down on the table. He flipped it open to read over the first page. "Red phosphorus, potassium chlorate, sulfur, and calcium carbonate, as well as a few other chemicals."

Dean glanced down at the list himself, then pushed off the table. "Armstrong's mixture, hm? A highly sensitive explosive mixture... Add to that a building full of other such explosive chemicals, and even a man in a flamboyant costume can destroy 124 stories of advanced weapons research." His cold stare turned back to Barry. "Is that what you're telling me?"

"Y-yes, sir... You h-have it right, sir," Barry stuttered nervously, not even looking at Dean. Dean slowly raised his hand up across his chest, and over his head. He was only a split moment away from bringing it down on Barry when the meeting room's doors opened. A guard dressed in a gray and green uniform rushed in with a long-distance walkie-talkie in his hand.

"Sir! There's a call for you! He won't give his name, but he claims to be the one who destroyed the BioArm Labs!" Dean ran over to the guard, and snatched the walkie-talkie from his hand, quickly placing it to his ear.

"Good evening, Chancellor Dean Redoak." The voice that came to Dean's ears was flat and cold. No emotion, no unnecessary fluctuation. This man had no fear. "I, who's name shall go unannounced for the time being, am indeed the one who destroyed your research building."

"You bastard-!" He was cut off by the voice, which suddenly seemed to flare up with feeling, and intensity.

"I, sir, am the people's art, I am their unique qualities, their free will, their expression, their emotion, their belief! I, Chancellor sir... I am the voice they don't have, the mind they cannot think with. I am the people, Chancellor! I am them, and they are me. What I do is what the people want. I am their hero, their savior. I am their government, a government as it should be! I guide, but I do not rule. I watch out for them, but I do not hold them back" After his enthusiastic statement, both he and Dean were perfectly silent for almost five minutes.

"You are nothing but a bug! An ant that I will crush under my boot." He heard the man on the other end chuckle to himself.

"Chancellor Dean... Look out the window to your left." Dean frowned with a slight confusion in his mind. Was the man going to somehow show himself? He wasn't sure what to make of the man's request, but he did so regardless, standing right at the window. "Look now at the BioArm production facility."

"No... You're not going to...!?"

The man's cold, lifeless voice came back. "3..."

"You infidel! You fool-!"

"2..." The last second of the countdown felt like an hour to Dean as he prepared for what was coming. "1... Detonation." Dean fell down onto his back as the entire building he was in shook like mad. The BioArm facility was untouched...

...It was the indeed the government building's bottom floor that was hit. Dean rushed out the door with The Directors following close behind him. They could all feel the slight sway of the 30-story building as it's supports began to give into the pressure. There wasn't much time for anyone to reach the bottom floor, but the Chancellor had another, much closer way off. He and his cohorts scurried up to the helipad on the building's roof, where a HAL Dhruv helicopter was already starting up.

He was watching from the building across the street. He saw the men frantically climb into the helicopter. He smiled to himself at their fear. "Pathetic." These men were actors to him. If something went wrong, their act was disrupted completely. They portrayed fearless, strong-willed leaders, when they were truly the lowest of humans.

Dean watched from the helicopter's window... Watched the government building fall right down into itself, leaving every other building around it unscathed. This radical, whoever he was, knew what he was doing... Deep inside, Dean felt a true, cold fear. ]]> Poetry and Originals BrokenWing http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/poetry-and-originals/101358-mourning-freedom-m.html