The Furry Forums
Creative Arts and Media => Creative Writing => Topic started by: Corran Orreaux on March 31, 2018, 12:20:25 PM
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I've decided that instead of posting my things in separate new threads, it would be better to post everything in one place! This is for everything of my making that is fictional, lore, stories, poetry, whatever I make and want to share!!
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First is a bit of lore from a thing I've been working on: Among the Holy
Mister Rickkot, I have attempted to do your wish to the best of my abilities. But you must understand that collecting information on groups as powerful and mysterious as the ones you have requested is not a feat of simplicity: I fear one or more of the organizations have learned of my snooping and are spying on me. I can only hope that this reaches you quickly and safely.
Your ever humble servant.
The Holy Sword of the Catholic Cross was founded by his holiness Pope Paul III in 1539; a secret organization of soldiers and knights who were trained originally to protect holy artifacts and areas; created primarily in response to King Henry VIII dismantling of Thomas Becket’s shrine in Canterbury a year prior.
They followed through with this task for only seven years. In 1546, the order was dissolved as Paul III feared protestant spies had infiltrated The Holy Sword. Reports of documents and even artifacts disappearing sealed the fate of the order and Paul sent what was left of the now defunct organization across europe to fight enemies of the faith
For nearly five hundred years, The Holy Sword was little more than a couple of pages within the catacombs of the vatican. In the year of 1984, the church grew fearful again as the aids epidemic cut its way through the United States; many in the church saw the homosexual community uniting in protest against the government as a potential threat to the power and values of the church. This fear convinced Pope John Paul II to reform the order, as well as a new, sister organization known as The Holy Dagger of the Catholic Cross.
The Holy Sword and Dagger despite this return did very little other then collect and copy documents important to the church that held base in the United States. This continued until 1990 when a man who was to be recruited into the dagger was assassinated, his name and existence known only to a handful within the church. The Holy Dagger was set to investigate the murder and found that a group calling themselves ‘The Sons of Sicarii’ a force of zealot Jewish assassins who believe themselves the true successors of the Sicarii (a splinter force of fanatics that greatly opposed roman occupation in Judea through violent means).
From that day forward, the church focused the The Sword and The Dagger entirely on the destruction of the mysterious group, as well on any similar threats.
The Confederation of Protestant Forces was founded by the upper echelons of The Protestant Union in 1610. An alliance of secret Protestant organizations all over europe, most of these groups held near full autonomy in their specific areas of influence.
The Order of Holy Flowers was formed by Victor Grove in 1964. Victor was a Catholic who around the time of the founding of his order, began studying Catharism. From his studies he was inspired to found a cult that’s beliefs took heavy influence from both Catholicism and the Cathar Heresy.
Victor Grove saw sin and evil everywhere, so he thus dedicated himself and his small team of knights to hunting down and killing anything satanic or paganistic.
Organizational structures:
The Order of Holy Flowers operates on a oligarchical system of rulership. Four people hold the title of Grandmaster of the order. When a Grandmaster dies his/her body is blessed by every member of the order that is currently available to do so in person; those who cannot are asked to apologise to the spirit of the now fallen master and pray for forgiveness. Under the office of Grandmaster is Grandknight. Seasoned warriors, Scholars, and Financiers who have great skill in their areas of focus and hold great loyalty to both the order and god. Below Grandknight is simply Knight, than Squire, and the lowest rank being Acolyte.
When a squire rises to Knighthood he is given a flower by by his/her master. This flower is in theory, meant to represent the Squire’s personality and fighting style. From that they are titled the knight of whatever flower given to them (Ex. Knight of Dandelions).
The Holy Sword of the Catholic Cross is ruled by the Sanctus Protector, a former member of the swiss guard. A member that showed exceptional talent beyond the already high expectations of the guard. They are appointed usually by the college of cardinals, sometimes the pope himself will appoint a Sanctus, but that is rare. The Dagger is lead by the Sanctus Insidiator, it is unknown to me how they recruit these leaders.
The Confederation of Protestant Forces has no direct leader, rather a group of Overseers who keep track of what every active agency in the Confederation is doing and will at times give suggestions or advise against an action that is planned or in progress. The Overseers have the power to expel any agency within the Protestant forces, thus cutting them off of the deep pockets and influence of the Forces; also forbidding any current member to support the former member on pain of expulsion themselves.
I have found nothing on the inner workings of the Sons of Sicarii.
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So, is this a short story script of a much longer book that you are working on, are you going to make online chapters for this and form an ebook?
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So, is this a short story script of a much longer book that you are working on, are you going to make online chapters for this and form an ebook?
It's planned to be a full story, don't know if I would go as far as to publish it. I'm mainly working on a fantasy thing so if anything would get even close to publishing, that would be it.
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This is just a little bit of a thing I'm working on, been a little while since I've written a regular story so I would love to hear what you'll have to say!
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He was dead, at least Mara was pretty sure. The glossy white fur of her brother was caked in the wolf’s already drying blood, his blue doublet ruined — although she was sure that Edgar no longer cared for fashion as his the red liquid soaked through the woolen carpet. She laid over him, her gloved paws clutching the hilt of a ballock dagger that found itself planted firmly in Edgar’s neck. Her blue and white adora dress stained with blood as well, small bits of dried red rested on Mara’s white furry face and arms, she shook slightly and took heavy breaths, trying to fully comprehend what she had done. She took a couple more seconds before scrambling off of her brother’s corpse, slipping and landing back over the dead man, his green eyes staring straight at her chest as she yelped and finally managed to bolt to the other side of the chamber, breathing deeply in and out. Her hip lightly touched a hard object, a table --- a bottle of wine shook lightly as the wolf bobbed its base, Mara wasted no time in gripping it and pouring half of the sweet white drink down her throat. After she had her fill, Mara held the bottle firmly out in front of herself, staring directly at it and her brother’s body.
Her arm was shaking, the contents of the bottle swishing back and forth in tandem with the slender limb. A deep breath heralded a soft scream and the bottle crashing against the wall. Mara Screamed again, this time louder as she ran to the door.
“Help, Help, my brother, someone killed my brother!”
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Who is Corris!? He's so unknown.
I don't like him.
But I like this, I want to hear more!
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What if George Washington believed the land he and others fought so hard to gain independence from the British empire, could not survive as a democracy? What if he was convinced that America needed a strong, central leader? What if George Washington decided to rally the continental army behind him and tossed both the articles of confederation as well as the constitution out in favor of a monarchy?
George did not believe in an absolute monarchy as he still wanted to secure the freedoms of his people; he because of this, makes his new kingdom an elective monarchy, a delegate is sent from every province to decide the next king after the death of him or a unanimous vote to dethrone him.
The year is 1853, After the Mexican-American war, the current King, Norton ll, pushes the popular manifest destiny into the nation's creed and completely annexes Mexico, as well as the surrounding islands such as cuba and haiti. He strongly believes it is god's will to have all of the americas under the banner of America. He forces Mexico to toss their "inferior" culture out in favor of american culture.
The various nations of south america, in an effort to keep their sovereignty, form the Confederacy of South America, putting pause on Norton's plans of invasion.
England and America are in a war of spies and secrets, similar to that of the cold war in real life. England secretly supports the South Americans by giving them supplies, arms, and money. France and the KOA are and have been good allies since the young kingdom's inception, England wishes to end this alliance with an ever growing network of spies and saboteurs, the KOA has replied with their own counterintelligence operations within the nation. France being ruled under the Napoleonic dynasty as the American kingdom helped defend their friends in the battle of waterloo, securing Napoleon's rule.
Everyone born in the Kingdom of America are born as half-citizens, meaning they hold only half the rights of a full-citizen. They can only become full-citizens by serving in the military for a minimum of two years or reaching political office. Half-citizens do not have the right to freedom of speech, expression, or the right to bear arms. They can buy land, but they must pay double the taxes of a full-citizen.
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That's an interesting concept! ^_^
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Okay, alternative history timeline stories like this do sound pretty interesting to me, I'd love to see more of that!
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He walked the streets of a london encased in darkness. He walked without fear, with only confidence and faith in his heart as while any other man would have at least a touch of nervousness. His black dress shoes clopped firmly against the harsh and grimy cobblestone. The darkness of the night was beyond natural compare, it seemed darker than what was common; the lamp posts even seemed to emanate light much weaker than usual. Despite all of this, the white-furred wolf by the name of Alexandre Du' Mistiour walked on in a state of bliss.
For what would a good and faithful catholic man such as him have to fear from the dark? The tourist from Paris loved God, with all his heart he loved his lord and saviour. The blood of Jesus Christ washed his sins away and even if some beast managed to rip through the void and end his life, he knew that he would stand in heaven with his Jesus and one day his loved ones would join him.
While he would certainly prefer his end to be a peaceful one at an old age, in the arms of his beloved Mara, he had faith that whatever would happen was god's will and through his divine plan all would be okay.
All was fine... until he heard that noise. That noise not dissimilar from ---- in fact, it was the same sounding clop that his shoes made while walking down the street. The weather changed, quickly with no warning it had shifted from cool to cold, very cold. Alexandre shivered slightly as he stopped his strolling, turning around to see only the dark streets and buildings of london. The cobblestone ground and the series of brick buildings seemed endless. Alexandre never noticed before but it seemed like he passed this area before... this very night. While he didn't know the exact time passed the wolf would have guessed around five minutes ago.
He started walking again, this time slightly faster. That noise, it came back! The second set of footsteps sounded just like his own, same speed, same everything!
He walked a bit faster... and so did the stalker. Soon his walk evolved into a half-run, then a jog, so did the stalker. Next thing he knew he was running, running as fast as he could, so did the stalker! Same sound, same speed!
At first it was a thought, but soon enough he was putting voice to his cries: "God help me, God help me!"
"The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want!"
It started as a whisper, with every line of his prayer spoken his voice grew louder and more desperate as he ran down the endless street; seeing the same buildings over and over again.
"He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name sake!"
The same, the same, everything was the same!
"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; They rod and they staff; they comfort me!"
He was screaming now; tears rolling down his face and wetting his face fur badly. The same, the same, everything was the same!
But wait.... different... yes, different! An alleyway, finally something new! Alexandre thanked the lord, screaming his love for god in his mind as he jolted himself into the ally, tripping over his laces and landing face-first into the cramped way.
"Sir?" A voice, a voice other than his own! it was as soft as a boy's but when Alexandre looked up he saw a thin and pasty young man. He quickly pulled himself to his feet, not at all caring that his fur and black suit had a new coat of nose blood upon them.
"Are you okay, sir?"
He was also a wolf, this one black furred and had a strong norfolk accent. He seemed to have no visible muscle whatsoever.
Alexandre panted heavily, clutching his chest as it heaved up and down.
"I...."
He saw it, the lad smiled. his teeth, two teeth stood strongly at the farthest ends of his maw, sharper than any other.
"Do you like my fangs?" was all the lad said before he jumped upon Alexandre.
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Deus vault!
Sent from my SM-G920V using Tapatalk
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That was actually really tense. I can feel my heart racing.
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That was actually really tense. I can feel my heart racing.
For Really real?
This was my first attempt at horror.
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Yes, very good use of short sentences for rapid pace and still I found I was trying to read faster than I can.
Only critical feedback so far is I would use all capital G's for God and I had some trouble with this sentence:
"He walked without fear, with only confidence and faith in his heart as while any other man would have at least a touch of nervousness while his black dress shoes clopped firmly against the harsh and grimey cobblestone."
Is the second "while" just a typo?
And no e in grimy.
But yeah, it has a really distinct tone, that's the key to an alt world I think.
Good job!
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Yes, very good use of short sentences for rapid pace and still I found I was trying to read faster than I can.
Only critical feedback so far is I would use all capital G's for God and I had some trouble with this sentence:
"He walked without fear, with only confidence and faith in his heart as while any other man would have at least a touch of nervousness while his black dress shoes clopped firmly against the harsh and grimey cobblestone."
Is the second "while" just a typo?
And no e in grimy.
But yeah, it has a really distinct tone, that's the key to an alt world I think.
Good job!
Yeah, honestly I wrote this in one sitting and didn't really proofread much of it.
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I think that may have really worked for you. I mean one redraft fixes typos and stuff, that easy, but capturing a flow is hard. Who knows, it might be part of your method!
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Earth laid barren, endless wastes of darkness where only the demonic and evil could live. Despite the great night that covered the earth there still were humans who preserved. For these small tribes of humans had found fire; with it they just barely kept the darkness and its creatures at bay. These people lived in gray, gray that dotted several places all over the planet, holes in the dark. But why, you may ask, was the world like this? Black and barren, no great lakes or oceans graced the endless rock of earth. No sun to give life to plants and no gods to push the dark away. Yes, you heard right child. No gods, for the first pantheon were destroyed by one of their own, Marren, elder goddess of ambition.
Marren let the dark in, she let it enter the land of eternal light. The gods and goddesses of the first pantheon fought bravely with every inch of their beings; but it was not enough. For Marren the snake worked in shadow, pretending to fully stand with her kin. She wanted to be the queen of the dark. But the dark has no master and can never have one; it has no thought, no ambitions of its own. It cannot take orders or give them, the dark just exists to exists. Marren killed every god... but she herself could not control the dark, for the darkness can never have a master.
She, like everyone who walks into the dark, is changed by it. Marren quickly lost her way and with earth having no protection from the dark, she was corrupted completely. Her mind destroyed and the elder goddess turned into a great beast that could only feel anger and fear.
(Please note this is not finished. I'm posting this bit here so as to save it.)
In one of these dots of grey lived a mighty chieftain by the name of Oretothh. Oretothh both feared and hated the dark, more so than another human in existence. Everyone knew the gods were dead, but Oretothh found salvation, safety, purity in fire. For fire kept these pockets of humanity from total end. He worshiped it and constantly gave sacrifices to the great hearth that stood in the center of the tribe.
His faith gave birth to a new god, the first of the second pantheon, Sun: God of Light.
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Oh no! Can the elder goddess return to her original form, or is she trapped as a beast forever? And how is this beast different from her original form?
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Oh no! Can the elder goddess return to her original form, or is she trapped as a beast forever? And how is this beast different from her original form?
No, she is stuck forever as the beast. The difference mainly is mental. Her mind is permanently twisted to the point where Marren is no longer Marren, just a monster that kills anything it can possibly find.
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Title: Did I drop a penny?
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Something fell. Dropped upon the harsh wooden floor of my office. A loud clink that was followed up by sound of metal rolling, scattering, upon the ground. Using my grand deductive reasoning skills, I concluded that it was some type of coin. Most likely a penny, something of such little worth that it giving it more than a stray thought was foolish. So with little more pause I resumed typing away at my computer, these reports must be done by Friday, and as it was Thursday night, I could not afford to waste a single second, I had to finish them; maybe if I was lucky I would finish soon and get an hour or two of sleep before work the next day.
The coin. The thought of what was most likely a useless penny walked back into my mind, pulling for my attention as I typed on. Such matters are unimportant, I forced the attacking thoughts away, but only for a small bit. What if it was a nickel? or a dime? What if I needed exactly 5 or 10 cents when picking up stuff at the dollar store? Oh dear, the very idea of breaking a perfectly good dollar just to pay a bit of tax hurts me dearly.
I pushed the thought away yet again. It came back! Almost as soon as I tried to focus on my work did the thought come screaming back, no longer a silent spy looking to sabotage my efforts but a horrible warrior, clad in armor and wearing the heads of his foes on his belt, bashing at the door of my attention.
It wouldn't go away, it wouldn't leave me alone; the thought that I could been losing something of even minor importance was killing me! Panic, panic set in, not outwardly but on the inside there was a great battle, a war of which the rational side was losing!
What if I dropped more than a penny? What if a robber came up to me and demanded a quarter and I didn't have one? I would be dead all because I didn't pick it up from under my desk! Or worst of all, what if it was a silver dollar!?
I can't take it anymore, I can't take it anymore! In an attempt to go under my desk to be sure of what I lost, my head smashed down upon my computer on accident. I ignored that and dove under. I grabbed madly at the dark until I found the small metallic thing and finally appeared victorious above my desk.
But wait. . . no, no, NO NO NO NO!
It was all gone! Every single report gone, the piece of digital paper replaced with the black screen of an off computer. I. . . I didn't save. . . .
I opened my hand and looked down at what was in its palm, a dirty and old penny looked back at me.
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Oo. These are interesting. Keep up the good work!
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Oo. These are interesting. Keep up the good work!
Aww, thanks, it means a lot!
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It tasted awful.
Beer, I once---well, a couple times, bit into my meds by accident. Beer is kinda the liquid form of that. But I drank it anyway, forcing the bitter brownish golden drink down with a smile. I had little choice, my father had waited years to buy me my first alcoholic beverage. To him it seemed almost a rite of passage, a signature upon my papers of life that confirmed my new position as a young man.
The bar/restaurant had the look of what los vegas thought a wild west saloon was; various pictures of horses and cowboy’s either upon them or accompanying them in some way. From the booth we sat a lasso hung firmly upon the wall from which the booth was pushed up upon. Bad music (commonly called country music) buzzed on in the background like a fly that looped around your ears endlessly.
We didn’t talk, not at first. As soon as our drinks came I focused exclusively on the factually horrible but symbolically rich beer.
“You don’t like it.”
I jumped, nearly spilling my drink as the voice of my dad, grovaly and deep, suddenly stated my unspoken hate for beer.
“Is it that obvious?” I grumbled, slowly moving my eyes to meet his. I saw the same eyes as mine, but far more tired, and aged, the same light brown that was common to Border Collies. I remember in that instant thinking how amazing it is that eyes that look the same, can still be so different.
"Maybe if I wasn't your dad, you coulda fooled me." He smiled softly, signaling to me he was not angry with my distaste, mentally I cheered.
Without a word dad reached over the table and quickly slid my paritaly drunk beer to himself, waving at a passing waiter.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Chirped the wolf waiter, her smile large and somewhat unconvincing.
“Get whatever drink you want.” Dad said softly, not wasting any time in taking a big gulp of my old beer.
“Umm,” looked to the waiter, my eyes darting to hers then immediately looking away.
“I, umm. . . ahhh. P-pinot noir, please,”
With a smile and a nod she walked briskly away; as I was too scared to think about my father and what he might think of me, I stared at my paws, gently resting on the table.
“Martin, look at me.”
I had little choice, his voice was filled with thinly veiled emotion, I had to look once again into those hard eyes.
“The thing. . . you know. The uh, gay thing.”
I tensed up. The few times my sexuality came up were less than pleasant. While not as dramatic as some others experiences, instead of angry howls and sick screams, I got muffled grunts and disappointed silence.
“Is… are you sure, this. . . .”
He shifted slightly in his seat, I took some strange comfort in knowing he was just as uncomfortable as me.
“Are you sure this is the right choice?”
Somehow I managed to get even more tense; anymore so and I would turn into a living statue, unable to summon the power to ever move again thanks to my nervousness A strong mix of anger, sadness, and other emotions I can’t really describe bloomed inside of me. And with these emotions, I summoned the courage to speak.
“It isn’t a choice, dad.”
It took a lot of strength not to outright growl at him. I had explained to him so, so many times and yet he seemed to either not get it or refuse to.
“Martin, I.”
He ran a rough paw through his headfur, emitting a soft sigh.
“I’m trying here Martin.”
I was still angry, both in that moment and years beyond. But I did what I knew best and hid it, swallowing any pride and thoughts of giving him a frustrated lecture.
“Here you go!”
Grateful to the waiter for breaking whatever we were trapped in, I gave her a nervous “Thank you.” as she placed a glass of darkish-red wine in front of me. With another smile and a nod, she was I gone and I immediately took a decent sip of my drink. Sour, sour with a small bit of a fruity taste. I still didn’t care much for it, but it was still an improvement over the beer.
We didn’t talk for the rest of our stay at the restaurant. I slowly got used to the taste of the wine and found myself liking it, least somewhat. But that was the most I got out of the rest of the night. I always wonder if I should have talked, if I should have done something more… but, there is little use for getting hung up on regrets this small, there are bigger ones to overcome.
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I survived a tornado to read that. Well done! I like how you use words that can express more emotion than common ones.
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Title: Corran - Prologue
The Pitch and Pale was many things, good was something not on that list, in Corran's ever humble opinion at least. Its size large, its patrons many, and its ale cheap. It was the pure essence of everything Corran hated: People, noise, and alcohol. But unfortunately for him it was the only place in hundreds of miles that could be reasonably called safe. Even by day the long and endless roads mostly of dirt but sometimes of stone that lead travelers across the great duchy Angue were a risky thing to venture. So travel at night without a horse to ride and good steel in hand was suicide. As the only thing Corran could offer was a poultry amount of coin, a rucksack full of tomes, and some silver cups he had yet to pawn off, caution was his only friend. This caution had resulted in black rings just under his blue eyes, his maroon fur grown musky and tangled, his brown cloak ragged and torn, beaten by time and the weather. His white tunic now a whetted mess of tanish brown faded whites. He sat hunched at a small corner table as far away from the other patrons as he could muster. He stared blankly at the piece of salted bread held firm in his hand, only taking small bites here and there, occasionally glancing away from his food to the merry-making crowd around him. Dogs and wolves, the lot of them were comprised of dogs and wolves. Those who weren't dancing to the bard's song or downing cup after cup of the hated liquid chatted and stuffed their faces at one of the many tables set around the great fireplace set in the middle of the Pitch and Pale.
Despite all the warmth, despite the fire and the many candles and torches, despite all the happy, lively people around him, Corran felt rather cold. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, yawning softly as he adjusted his position upon the hard wooden chair. He wanted a room badly, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. But the only room he could afford was currently occupied by some muscle-covered wolf and a female companion. But the innkeeper assured him that the room was to be free some enough, just after the gentleman had sated his taste. "Take a seat and relax!" The happy old man had chirped: "have a drink and a loaf on the house!"
If Corran's guess was correct, an hour had passed since then, and still no room. He frowned, too tired to read but unable to sleep, so staring at nothing was his only option. He wanted to scream, to tell the loud and annoying clientele to be quiet, but doing as such wouldn't end well for him, he didn't need any sort of education to figure out that being rude to a crowd of drunk mountains of muscle and stupidity was not an idea that would get him very far. Eventually Corran realized his legs hurt, this information leading him to stand up, rubbing the pain and numbness from his legs and slinging his bag over his shoulder. A walk would surely wake him up a bit and heal the ache in his bones. He avoided everyone as best as he could, hugging the wall and jumping out of the way of any patron that got in his path. He didn't know how long he walked, how long he circled the inn, occasionally stopping to ask the innkeeper about the room, but he was sure it was for awhile. Eventually however, Corran was unfortunate enough to bump into a patron. A large a drunken wolf - not unlike everyone else - stumbled around aimlessly, empty cup in hand. Corran by this time had dropped his guard, paying more attention to his own thoughts than avoiding people. The result of this was small, a light stumble into the shirtless wolf.
"Eh?" The wolf yelped in surprise, his metal cup clanking to the floor, turning on his heel he was met with Corran's now fully awake and horrified eyes.
"I, I'm sorry, sir!" He squeaked, already shrinking before the much taller and physically stronger male.
"Huhhh, hey!" The wolf looked down at his cup, his maw quickly turning from surprise to anger.
"You spilled my drink!" He briefly pointed to the lone cup before clenching his meaty fists, a growl developing in his throat.
"Wha...? No sir, your cup was already empty, l-look there's no ale on the floor-"
"You spilled my drink!" The wolf screamed, his fist suddenly bolting from his side into Corran's belly, taking the wind out of the small German Shepherd and sending him to the floor, crumpled over with his hands held painfully at his hurting stomach.
He coughed, gasping for air while at the same time attempting to speak. "S -*cough cough* sir, please... I'll buy you another one!"
"You spilled my drink!" He was screaming at this point, in a blind rage where all the words in the world couldn't stop him, he wanted to something to hurt. Corran's lips barely opened in response as a heavy boot smashed into his jaw, causing Corran to flop harshly backwards, banging his head against the wooden floor. His teeth rattled in his head but thankfully none were damaged, one hand clenched at his painful jaw where the other helped push him away from the angry wolf. Corran squirmed, scooting very slowly away, the hand that once tended to his jaw held out before him towards the drunkard.
"Stay... away!" Corran screamed, panic overtaking him, not caring that his bag slipped off of his shoulder and was left laying beside him as he madly dragged himself across the floor. The wolf simply snarled, taking another step towards him. And another, and another.
"Stay away!" The other patrons at this point had all stopped to watch the show, some cheered encouragements to the wolf, others bade Corran to 'Act like a man' and fight back.
"Stay away!" Corran didn't realize he in his fear called upon his reverses of magic, it all happened in an instant. A flash of blue, a blur shot from an extended finger. The wolf screamed in pain, crumpling to the floor with his hands clutched at his right foot. A long and jagged needle of ice stuck through his ankle, sticking out both sides, the whitish blue of the needle already dirityed with the blood that steadily left the enter and exit wounds.
"Bloody damn, I think he pierced bone!" The voice of a female called out from the crowd.
"You think!" The aggressive wolf shouted in between gasps of pain.
"He's a damned Witch!" A male voice from the crowd shouted angrily. Another wolf, this one sporting a chainmail shirt, stepped forward, standing almost next to the injured man. His teeth were bared, and without much time for words he ripped his sword from its scabbard, the long steel blade pointed directly at Corran; he who had found his feet along with placing his bag once again around his shoulder.
"I... no-"
"Raise your hands above your head!" The wolf commanded, taking another heavy step forward, leading Corran to take one back in turn.
"P-please, I'll go. I was on my way to leave Angeaux!" Corran begged but still did as he was told. He trembled in place, feeling half frozen as those fierce brown eyes cut into Corran almost as deep as a sword.
"You expect me to believe that!" Corran's tail fell between his legs as the warrior took another step towards him. By his stance, it was clear he had had training with the weapon, feet standing apart, one leg in front of the other, holding his bladed slanted outwards, ready to deliver a close slash as well as defend from an attack.
"We let you go and you'll burn this place down with us inside of it as soon as we let our guard down!"
"No Please!"
It was quick and sudden, but Corran felt a hand painfully squeezing his wrist, the wolf had dashed forward surprisingly quickly. His sword pointed only inches away from Corran's throat.
"I'm taking you to the palace of Justice!"
Corran gasped. Everyone in the most holy Kingdom of Augeaux knew of the great palaces of Justice, there were 7 of them in total, all constructed by his Grace King Conner with little expensive spared. These structures were as much a symbol of Conner's power and wealth as much as a place of punishment for those who had been born with an affinity for magic.
"No!" Corran screamed. He drew an invisible magical energy within his paw. A harsh blast of air suddenly hit the wolf warrior in the chest. He yelped as he thrown several feet backwards, nearly crashing into the crowd, he landed flat on his rump. Corran left the door swinging behind him, bolting out of the inn as soon as he freed himself from his would-be jailer.
Thankfully, no one but the feral horses were outside of the surprisingly large building. He frantically looked around, heart beating quickly as he attempted to take in his dark surroundings. Trees, grass, and horses.
"Stop there you damn Witch!" The wolf who had attempted to arrest Corran was back, following out the door he just left with once again surprising speed. He was angry, very angry. Corran felt himself freeze for half a second, his mind flashing to past memories that came and went in the blink of an eye. He jumped upon the nearest horse he could get to - a large brown stallion. The steed made no reaction as Corran slid upon its back, tearing its reigns from a post to his hands. With a final yelp as he turned his head to see the wolf now mere feet away from him, he spurned the horse to action. It instantly took to a gallop, kicking up dirt and dust in its wake, running down the nearest road.
"Bloody damn!" The wolf screamed in frustration, tossing his sword onto the ground, gripping his head as he stared at the road Corran had just left on.
"Umm, Aren, was it?" A voice, calm and strangely jolly. Aren turned on his heel, surprised to see the old innkeep, a heavy bag in his hands.
"These were dropped by the Witch." Aren took the bag from the old man, opening it he expected to see some type of evil magical artifact or a vile poison.
"Books?" Tomes of varrious sizes pilled in the sack. Aren squinted, picking a small letter out of the mess of literature. The words, he simply couldn't make sense of them, symbols he's seen before many times, but save for a few letters, he couldn't read them.
He sighed, holding the letter up to the smiling innkeep.
"Can you read this?"
The man gently took the parchment page in his hands, nodding he looked to Aren: "Not literate?"
"No."
-
Okay, I'm starting on a backstory for Arja (most recent Dragon age Origins character). She's a Dwarf commoner, meaning she was born Casteless - one born without being apart of a caste, an outcast who is hated throughout all other levels of dwarven society. She's a bastard, a product of one of many nights her mother sold herself in order to pay rent for her home, so she and her first child/Arja's half-sister/ aren't tossed out on the streets. Arja's father was a merchant of middling success who had spent many nights with Arja's mother, after he learned however that she was pregnant with his baby, he tossed her away and threaten to kill her and her children if she ever returned. Shortly after giving birth to Arja, her mother fell into a deep depression and from that became a drunk, only using the exact amount of coin she earned to pay for rent, putting everything else on alcohol to drown her sorrows, causing many-a-night where her kids were without food. Arja's sister (Branca) almost single-handedly raised her, while she was just a girl herself.
Arja was gifted with something neither her mother or sister had, an affinity for stealth. She was for a long time a bone-skinny girl, small and unassuming. She used this as well as the fact that the commoners would generally ignore the children born without a caste for fear of them feeling sympathy for those disowned by the ancestors, to pickpocket.
As a teen, she met Leske, her future best friend, and fellow pickpocket
Leske lived on the streets, having been abandoned by his parents, Arja feeling sympathetic began gifting the boy she hardly knew food that she would either buy or steal.
One night, when Arja's mother was drunk as usual, she started babbling on about a man named "Sizmor" in her drunken state she revealed to Arja that this man was her biological father and that he had abandoned her.
Arja - after asking around a bit and splashing a bit of the saving she had gained through her thievery - found out where Sizmor lived. She confronted him, sneaking into his house and surprising him as he fell asleep. He attacked her, nearly strangling her to death.
Arja always kept a small and rather crude dagger in her boots, with it she slew her father, stealing all the coin she could find off him and leaving his corpse to rot.
It wasn't until after she returned back the dust and dirt filled streets that the casteless were forced to reside in, that what she had done hit her.
She was thrown into a panic, crying for the first time since she was a baby and decrying herself as an awful person. Leske found her like this and managed to calm her down, convincing her that her father deserved his fate.
Her skill and Leske's hadn't gone unnoticed, a member of the Carja criminal underworld saw potential in the two, and offered to train them, but only on the condition that she be willing to kill again in the future if needed, they both agreed. The man taught them both in the ways of stealing, bribery, extortion, how to create basic poisons, and how to use a dagger.
-
The rain was always such a pleasant thing in Jaris’ mind. How it felt, how it smelled, the sound of it tapping against the windows and roof; weather harshly or lightly, it was something that the old man couldn’t help but enjoy. It was all thanks to the small details, the little things that accompanied the rain, the thoughts that rain brought about, the calmness that always managed to ease his ever busy mind. How fitting it was that it would be raining on the day he would die. Jaris made peace with his death long ago, but he knew that that certain night he would pass on. Not from an illness as he was healthy - always was - and not from his own hand, no, he knew he was going to die that night, he knew he would be murdered.Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps by sending his entire guard team away and setting himself up alone, gently rocking back and forth in his chair, surrounded by the darkness and the sound of rain falling upon his home, that he was encouraging his assassins to strike upon that night. He heard the footsteps but he didn’t move from his seat. He heard them coming, but he didn’t seem to care, he waited patiently, not even bothering to turn around when the sets of footsteps entered his bedroom. “Jaris Wels, you are to be executed,” The voice told him, deep but smooth, calm.
“On whose authority?” Jaris asked, still rocking slowly back and forth in his chair.
“On God’s,” The voice blankly stated.
“Really now? Why would God call for the execution of one of his servants?”
“You are no servant of God. You follow a false prophet, a corruption of biblical teachings and the true path of the universal church,” Jaris chuckled at this, the old and grey mouse finally turning his head around slightly, seeing three figures, all coated in black and impossible to make out in the darkness.
“What makes you so positive that your ‘Red Pope’ is so much more legitimate than his holiness who resides in Rome?”
“Do not attempt to shake my faith Cardinal Jaris, God has shown me the true path, the true Catholic church… the *Red* Catholic church,”
Jaris chuckled again, louder than before.
“Isn’t ‘my’ Catholic church technically the red one? We are Roman after all,”
“A false Roman,”
“I pray for you, whoever you may be, my assassin,”
“I am no assassin!” The intruder's voice raised, he nearly shouted, practically hissing his anger so ripe.
“I am a servant of God, I kill for God!”
Jaris chuckled one last time.
“Murder is so much easier to justify if you say it’s for the Lord.”
“Your church has a long history of that,” The figure said, leaving Jaris silent for a moment, claws stabbing into the arms of his seat. He turned forward again, staring out the window before him.
“The rain stopped,” Jaris frowned.
“It’ll start again in a couple days.”