Third annual writing contest submission thread

[Ludens]

The third annual story contest submission thread

Hello and welcome to the third annual story contest of the Org. In this thread I will post all submissions I have received. Just for the record, if you want to participate, submit your story to me through PM. For questions, comments and information regarding the rules, duration and off course the prize of the contest, check the organisational topic.

Enjoy!

[Ludens]

Romano-Germanic War
By King_Numero

In the year 61 A.D. Emperor Maximus Verilius, wanting to further expand the empire, invaded the lower Rhine. The Romans met with success at the battles of Ludrof and Chattis where the legions crushed five German armies in total. The Emperor, thinking that the war was won, withdrew three of the four legions used in the invasion.

In Saxony, Thodric, a great chieftain, learned of this and even though the war had not touched his lands he decided to mobilize his warriors and destroy the occupying Romans from the lower Rhine. He first entered into an alliance with the Langobardi, Frisii, Cherusci and the remains of the Chatti. The Roman army was encamped at Emus, a newly founded town in Chatti lands. Thodric organized his army of over 200,000 men and set out to destroy the Romans.

The Romans learned of the approaching army and numbering only 5,000, knew that they stood no chance. The commander of the legion evacuated the town and fled to Roman lands. Upon reaching Emus Thodric ordered the town burnt to the ground. The Germans didn’t know quite what to do. They had gathered this huge army and now there was no one to fight. So, Thodric proposed the unthinkable.

Emperor Maximus became enraged once the news of the retreat of the legion from Emus reached him; he had the legionary commander executed. The emperor ordered the XX, IV, VIII and XIX legions to arrive in northern Italia immediately. He would lead the legions himself this time.

After arriving in Arretium, the emperor was given shocking news. The Germans had invaded Raetia and had sacked Augusta. At first, the emperor didn’t know what to do. They had sacked the capital of Raetia. This information was at least a week old; where were the Germans headed. Rome? He shrugged off his shock and had messengers sent to the four legionary commanders telling them to group at Arretium. Until they arrived he was powerless to stop the barbarians.

In the city of Augusta, Thodric gathered with the other chieftains to develop a strategy to best defeat the Romans. Should they try for Rome or stop in northern Italia to frighten the Romans into submitting. It was soon decided that they would try and take the capital. The army was put on the move towards Arretium, after a few days of rest and relaxation. Thodric did not know that the emperor was there waiting for his legions and that no army stood in their way to Rome.

One week later the VIII and XX legions had arrived in Arretium. This put the total troop strength at 35,000. Maximus eagerly awaited the IV and XIX legions. From the reports, the Germans were just a few days away. The IV and XIX legions arrived just two days later after narrowly avoiding the Germans who were less than a day away. Maximus formed up the legions in a large plain three miles north of Arretium. In total, he had 60,000 legionaries, 8,000 archers, 2,000 Equites Alares and fourteen repeating ballistae.

The Germans arrived with 100,000 infantry; including spearmen, swordsmen, woodsmen and archers, 10,000 heavy and light cavalry and 20 pieces of varied Roman artillery. Thodric formed his men on the opposing side of the plain. It was evening, the stars were partially out and the sky was scarlet and purple. The battle for Rome was about to begin.

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The Germans moved first. Thodric charged his entire infantry force toward the Roman line. The shear shock of having 100,000 screaming warriors charge at you caused the first Roman line to forget to throw their pilla. The Germans slammed into the legionaries, cleaving and hacking at limbs! The Romans fought back but the Germans were too many. Meanwhile, the Equites tried to flank the German infantry but were repulsed by German heavy cavalry. Emperor Maximus was killed while retreating with the cavalry. The Germans had surrounded the legions, cutting off their escape. The German cavalry stopped pursuit of the Equites and turned to charge the Roman rear. At this time the Romans were beginning to break through the weakening Germans.

The cavalry smashed through the Roman archers and headed straight for the legionnaire rear. They hit the Romans twice but it had little effect. The Romans had used the many pilla on the ground as spears and killed many horsemen. Thodric pulled his remaining cavalry back. The legionaries, being better trained and equipped, proved too much for the lightly armed Germans who had no choice but to retreat after losing half of their number.

The Romans had won, but just barely. Among the over 38,000 dead was the Emperor. Now there would be a mad dash for power since Maximus left no heir. Thodric retreated back to Augusta where the other half of his army was. The Germans still numbered over 100,000 and they were going to try to take Rome again but, after well needed rest. Thodric had lost over 60,000 in the battle along with his two sons. He vowed that he would be better prepared next time and not so rash in his decisions in the battles to come. And there would be more battles; battles to dwarf Arretium.

[Ludens]

A Fiction of Perception
By Eclectic

   It was a black, blustering, oppressive, tyrannical, torrent of unceasing wind-screams and liquid pain. The roosters were crowing, the mongrels were howling, and my aunt was snoring incessantly. I was about tired of hearing her guttural growling glory-hole, so I rolled her drunken tubular body onto the front porch. Much like an oversized sausage, her greasy flesh spilled out onto the wooden deck, where she would lie under the awning for the remainder of the evening, oblivious to her chill, moistened condition. I turned back inside and, closing the door behind me, smiled as her gurgling belch of deep sleep disappeared into the mix of crowing, howling, and plattery-splut of rain against the old rubber roof of the neighbor's tent. I stalked through the aging fungal house, searching for something to calm my nerves, which had only grown more nervous as nerves tend to do when something unnerving is afoot. The carpet these wrinkled feet scratched across was much like the wretched wiry few hairs that remained on this author's slippery scalp. It had been almost two hundred years since anyone had even spoke of re-carpeting, but yet the furniture in the living hall was still encased in protective plastic sheeting, as if guests were predicted to imminently descend on the residence bearing tired tidy hindquarters and compliments aplenty in consequence of their relief.
   These feet dragged themselves, cursing with each step in a gesture of remorse and misery at the plight of their existence. But still they labored, on towards the kitchen, which, despite its yellow floral patterns and silver market trinkets, still retained the dripping sagging earthen age of the place. I propped myself against the countertop, its green cracked tile a reminder of my own teeth. I hastened a smile as I let my claws forth to search for the bottle which would bring me sweet sublime satisfaction. Grasping the oblong glass canister was only made further cumbersome by the length of my yellow cracked nails, each as long as its respective finger, and each deliciously encrusted underneath with the meals of weeks past. Still, I managed a throat full of the precious sweet poison, and felt the sting of icy corporeal corruption.
   The haunting taunts of cocks and hounds and aunts and tents was instantly suppressed. My eyes made wide, dilated inside, the all familiar squint violently repressed. In that moment, clarity attained, memory regained, logic and reason defied, as I struggled to set aside, that which I knew inside despite the callousness of man in a world where dominion of domination deified in that moment, that one moment of translation.
   And I was lost as soon as I was found, swirling in return past this moment of reflection, backwards to oblivion, resurrection, transmogrification. ‘Twas a crawling itching burning that crawled upwards and through my skin, itching and climbing, burning and writhing, twisting, itching, burning, climbing, writhing, oh blessed sanctimonious agony. In my mind, it crawls inside and burns alive, my eyes grow wide as I see my self alive outside myself, outside myself, outside. I am, outside.
   The rain has stopped, the world is still, the earth is cracked, and the winds have died. The trees themselves, barren, spirits broken, thrust themselves with rage from the cruel earth seeking escape from earthen prison. The trunks, wrists and torsos. The branches, twisted limbs they are, with headless corpses reaching for relief from the torment of anchored domination. White and bloodless. Death is their desire.
   My eyes melt inside and I lie for now, in a state of eternal horror, as the world falls prey to glorious, beautiful, elastic permanence. Encased as I am, unable to escape this shell, this is mine. My animated carcass; damned flesh seeking death and singly messianic escape to oblivion.

[Ludens]

Freedom
By LegioXXXUlpiaVictrix

The sound of metal under my boots was the last thing I had wished for at this time. My cramped feet were unable to react quickly, and I was lucky that my left foot slipped, so that my right foot came to a halt along with my wearied body. This way, the pressure from my right foot remained on the metal item on which it had stepped. Even though I was getting optimistic after having gotten this far over the frozen steppe, as I heard the familiar clinging sound under my sole I didn't for a moment doubt that what I had stepped on was a land mine, and my optimism was immediately swept away.

I swore, but not much sound came out of my frozen lips, they trembled without forming anything that reminded of words. My eyes swept over the horizon, over the barbed wire and trenches a hundred yards in front of me, to a halftrack so burnt out that there were no traces of the men who had been sitting in it when it had exploded. The battlefield was derelict, eerie. No bodies were visible, either they had been given a hasty burial, or the survivors had brought them with them as they left - pushing forward against a weakened enemy or retreating to receive reinforcements.

A wind was blowing up from the north. It was cold, and it easily penetrated my worn out jacket. I tried to suppress the worst trembling so as not to release the pressure from the mine. All of us, even freshmen, knew how these mines worked. You step on them, and the fuse is activated. But it's not until you release the weight of your body, that the mine explodes, tearing your body apart from below, filling it with shrapnel and dirt. If you were lucky, the shrapnel would hit you in the face or groin, giving you a quick end. But if you were unlucky, it would miss these areas by a few inches, giving you a slow, and painful death. Or you could try to jump off the mine, hoping that the shrapnel coming in the direction you jumped towards will only hit you in places where the damage won't kill you. You can hope it won't hit you in the arms or legs, making amputation necessary and further marching impossible. That was not an option out here, out on the frozen steppe. To the front of me was the German army; behind me, the Soviet army. It was difficult to tell which army I had reason to fear the most, to tell which one was most worthy of the label "enemy". Only three hours earlier, we had taken very accurate German artillery fire in our trenches. Me, Pavlov and Dmitrij had started firing like maniacs over the steppe, but without hitting anything - the German infantry hadn't arrived yet, our shots were merely an act of despair and panic. As the artillery continued, large clouds of dust and snow created smoke screens all around us, and from the screams of pain I could tell that our casualties were starting to mount. Suddenly, an artillery shell had made the trench collapse between us and the Sergeant. In the ensuing mess, I abandoned the trenches and started running. I didn't know where, but soon I was engulfed in a deep forest. Behind me I could hear the sounds of more rifle shots, but I couldn't tell whether they were firing at me or at the Germans. I continued over a field covered in deep snow, then through another forest, eventually reaching an open field again, and that was where I was now. On a mine. I couldn't tell if it was of Soviet or German manufacture. It didn't matter.

Slowly I weighed my alternatives. I could bend down over the mine, face close to the earth, and jump off, hopefully dying quickly and painlessly, but if unlucky, a slow and painful end. I could jump off as far away as I could, and get mutilated legs, being unable to walk any further, and being forced to lie here in the snow until I died from hunger - or more likely - from freezing to death. Or I could just stand still and do nothing, until my tired, trembling legs slipped or the cold killed me. Or until Soviet troops came to execute me as a traitor, or German troops came to shoot me, because I had no white flag to show. In fact, if the Germans came here, they were likely to think there were still Soviets in the trenches, and maybe bombard the area with artillery just to be sure. If I tried to hide, they would find me, if I tried to stretch up and show my raised hands in a gesture of surrender, they wouldn't see the gesture through the high grass, only that there was a man hidden here, and open fire. There was perhaps one more alternative, something that I had heard one of the older soldiers explain. When the fuse had been activated, you would typically hear a little sound when the mine was released to a position close to where it detonated. If I released the pressure from the mine slowly, I would be able to feel where that position was, and maybe if it was high enough up, I could maintain sufficient pressure on the mine only by means of my clothes, my rifle, and earth that I could dig up from beside me.

Slowly I begun my tedious and dangerous work. Raising the foot carefully until I could hear a faint sound, I found that the critical position was at about one third of my weight. I took off my outer clothes, and put them along with my rifle and magazines on top of the mine, while releasing the pressure from my right foot about the same amount. For hours, I carefully dug up earth beside me, and put it on top of the mine, while gradually releasing the pressure from my cramped foot from it. I felt warmth and hope inside, as the pile of earth grew higher and higher, while I could release my foot more and more. I had dug out large pits all around the mine, and it was getting increasingly difficult to reach the earth - after all I couldn't dig out below the mine or too close to it, neither could I bend down too deep without my leg releasing it's pressure on top of the mine.

I paused to rest, looking at my achievement. Indeed, I had made a great work so far, releasing the pressure to just a gentle touch from my foot. Soon I would get to stretch out my cramped leg. The pile was almost two feet high, but I knew it was possible to add enough earth on top of it to successfully release the foot without detonating the diabolic weapon. I leaned backwards and closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath after the digging. I could hear nothing but the wind. The wind blew the light snow fall into my face, cleaning the sweat from my forehead. I leaned forward again and continued the digging. Only a few handfuls more. I dug greedily through the soft earth. Suddenly my hand touched something hard. As I continued digging, a long, white object emerged. A bone, still covered in some tissue. As I continued, I touched another hard object. A head. I shuddered and could hardly keep myself from vomiting. A sudden realization struck me - this was where they had buried the casualties. In the middle of a minefield...?! Something was wrong, horribly wrong. Then I noticed pieces of sharp metal in the head. Shrapnel. No, this wasn't the graveyard, the corpse was from a man who had stepped on the mines too. I shuddered, but went back to my work. I reached out as far as I could to get the last handful of earth that I needed. My hand went down through the soft earth, this time not uncovering any corpse, but I could feel the earth falling together, my hand reaching down into a hole. Then my hand touched hard earth again. I pressed my fingers down as hard as I could, but they didn't penetrate the earth. Instead, the fingers remained on top of a narrow layer of earth, while pressing down what felt like a disc below it. I heard a clicking sound. In my stretched out position, while still needing to keep the foot pressed towards the first mine to keep it from detonating, I had hit another mine.

Closing my eyes, I released my foot from the first, and my fingers from the second. There was nothing else I could do. My last thought was that of an image of my wife. I thought I would feel comfort by forming a mental image of her face in this situation. But all I saw was either a wife destroyed by grief, or a wife forgetting about my existence and marrying one of the commisars who had ordered men to die in wars, but personally had stayed away from all combat. They were the men unhaunted by nightmares, the men who could still smile, and comfort a woman. Those were the men who would form the next generation, while us who were willing to fight for a cause would die out here. If that was the case, then what was the cause we were fighting for? The survival of the cowardly and violent, and the death of the men with honor? Could my death really yield anything else than pain, fear and suffering for future generations, under the leadership of such men as those who had sent me to my death? I was lucky, the shrapnel hit the most sensitive parts of my body. In a matter of seconds, my thoughts would melt away, so that I couldn't finish them, dying with an unanswered question, and not with an unbearable answer.

[Ludens]

The Stony Man
By Franconicus

Noble jury, dear listeners,

Let me tell you a story of a town and a man. Maybe you will find familiar, maybe you won’t understand.

The town was at the confluence of two rivers, somewhere between the Danube and the Alps. The town did not belong to any county, it reported directly to the emperor. The emperor was far away, and the citizens knew how to use their freedom and their privileges. The town became a center of cloth manufacturing and trade; it became incredible rich. Wealth and freedom attracted artists and artisans from all over Europe and the town was well known for its gold- and silverworks. In other words, the town was a shining light in the middle of the Dark Age. The citizens were wise enough to enclose their town with mighty defensive fortifications.

Inside of the walls there once lived a master baker. He had inherited the bakery from his father and made a good living. People used to call him a fool. Oh, he was not ignorant; in fact he was rather smart. He just used to do the wrong things or the right things at the wrong time, if you know what I mean. He asked the mayor about his family when everybody knew that the daughter had just run away with a tramp. During worship he sat on the wrong place. At the wedding of the master of the guild he talked about the first wife. When the wife of the commander of the guard had borne a daughter he adored the golden hair; although both parents had black hair. That was why they called him the fool, because everything he did he did the wrong way. Except one time, when he did the right thing.

Well, our town was a refuge of peace and wealth within the Dark Age and one day the darkness also sought our town. The Swedes had come to help their fellow Christians and while they crossed the country to spread religious freedom they left an aisle of destruction and desperation.

One day the Swedish army stood at the gates of our town. Maybe the citizens could have made friends with the idea of religious freedom. However, they saw the Swedish mercenaries and they knew pretty well what would happen if they opened the doors. Therefore they decided to trust in their defensive fortifications and to hope that the emperor would not forget his town.

The Swedish commander realized that he could neither assault the town nor break its walls. All he could do was to starve it out.

Days passed by, weeks, months. The Swedish kept on besieging the town, the people in the town withstood. There was no sign of the emperor or a release army. Maybe the emperor was busy somewhere else. The defenders were getting weaker and weaker and, even worse, they began to loose their confidence. Finally, the magazines, once well filled with grain, depleted.

The baker did the best to provide his customers with bread. Day and night he twisted his mind to find a way to satisfy hunger. He already diluted the flour with sawdust. One day it came how it had to come; the baker had to open his last sack of flour. What a bad surprise when he saw that the flour was spoilt with maggots. The baker became so angry that he emptied the flour to the floor. Then he sat down and wept. He wept until he fell asleep. Early next morning, when he woke up lying on the flour covered floor, he had an idea. It was Sunday and the bakery was empty. He fired the oven and mixed dough. Then he formed a huge loaf of bread and pushed it into the oven. When the bread was done, he took it out of the oven and climbed on the outer wall. He had an excellent view on the camp of the Swedes. Those had just finished their worship. The baker shouted and waved. The Swedes could not understand what he was shouting, the distance was too long. However, they could see the huge bread in his hand. When he threw it to them they realized that he was mocking them. They raised their guns and started shooting at him. Someone else would have taken cover. Not so our baker. He kept on jumping and shouting until a bullet hit him and tore off his arm. He fell from the walls and bled to death.

Outside the town there was a tumult in the Swedish army. While the people in the town had been suffering from hunger they did not know that hunger and disease had beleaguered the besieger, too. The Swedish soldiers had been holding on just because of the confidence on a close victory. Now that they saw that the sieged town could afford to throw its bread away all hope was abandoned. All the Swedish commander could do was to lift the leaguer and to go away empty-handed.

The people in the town could not believe their eyes when the saw the Swedish troops leave. However, they knew whom they owed the rescue; the foolish baker. They built a monument made of stone, the statue of a man with one arm, holding a huge loaf of bread in his one hand. They placed this statue on the city walls.

The town is still there and so are the two rivers. The wealth and the glamour, however, are gone; just like the people that had been living in the town during the big besiege. However, he is still there, the Stony Man, the statue of a baker, who was a fool, but who rescued the town because once in his life he did the right thing. Therefore, dear listener, if you like my little story and you come to this town, do not forget to visit that statue and to pay deference to it.

[Ludens]

The Unstable
By GrimSta

As he sat at his desk listening to an American band shout about Prisons and Crack and thinking about how to win the writing contest he rolled up a joint, he had had the gear for a bit but had never had the time to actually smoke it....

He lent back and the world turned,

The book he had picked up earlier on that day was sitting on his desk - The Salmon of Doubt by Douglas Adams...the cover was a picture of space with a fish on it, actually the fish was a Salmon which is a good thing when he considered the fact the book was named after the Salmon.

while he ran down a corridor,

The purple light faded from sight, his head swirled as he sat up. A rat sped out of the way as he tried to step forward but to no avail, with a colossal crash he toppled onto his back and lay there, trying to catch his breath. He tried to remember how he got into such a strange position..he never normally got drunk enough to get into the condition he was in, and it definitely wasn't the weed - he hadn't had enough for one - thinking, lying on the ground. It was warm but still he shivered. Now that the purple light was gone he was left in darkness.

lights flashing behind him,

He groaned, still not sure of his surroundings he tried the obvious plan - find the light-switch. As he rose he felt a lot steadier on his feet this time round. One step at a time he traversed the room, the darkness was cloying, the air stifling him. It wasn't that he was afraid of the dark, it was that he was afraid of this dark.

he stumbled but kept on running,

As the lights flicked on he recoiled in surprise; he was in his house but it was different somehow, the stains on the wall were new but the sofa was definitely his, as was the television and the carpet.....but the stains, the colour of the walls and the ashtray were not. He realised he had been lying on the sofa, and that the staines on the wall were identical to the one on his sofa. On closer inspection the sofa stain was a dark dry colour that could have been black - but in the dim light provided by the energy saving light bulb - it had a faint red tint. Blood. Were the hell had it come from?? what happened to his house?! As he panicked he a thought flashed into his head "He lent back and the world turned" - his chair and the dope he had....after having a drag he had lent back and collapsed into unconsciousness.

he tripped again, catching his foot on the sidewalk,

The thought that he was in a place that was almost certainly his room, but the walls were stained with what could only be described as blood dragged him down into the morass of emotions that circled his mind, panic kicked in, followed by extreme depression..what the hell had actually happened.....there was blood on the walls but he had no cuts....his outline was imprinted on the stained sofa and he was sure that he was ok.

he panicked

He walked into the next room, his bedroom, the walls were also caked in the supposed blood...apart from one patch which was still white, the clear patch spelt out a sentence. He approached the wall and studied it, the words from a song he had been listening to were scrawled onto the wall -"He's gone so far to find the truth, he's never coming home.."- this puzzled him. He could remember listening to it but there was no importance to the song, at least not to him.

and pulled out his cell phone,

He ran downstairs, the door was open..he could of sworn that he had left it closed and locked, but then he was absolutely positive he had not covered his walls in blood - strange things were happening, his mind caved in and he couldn't cope.....

he tried to call his partner but he couldn't get through,

Bright lights flashed on, the walls of his mental prison were purely white, a clinical white but there were no doctors there, there was no one, no nothing there......just him and himself. The whiteness pounded at his eyes, so bright, so white..he couldn't think and he could not cope. He tried to will himself to sleep but it wasn't possible, he pinched himself but he could feel it....something was horribly wrong here. There was no source for the lights but they were reflected a hundred fold by the shade of the walls. As his mind swirled he felt the ground lurch and rumble. He tried taking a step and the ground shook even more violently than before. It was past the stage of shaking, now it was a tremor....it grew in intensity and he felt himself collapse and roll over..........

the cell phone flew from his hand but not from any exertion of his

And over. A huge smashing noise above his head alerted him to his surroundings - wherever the hell he was he had to escape, and he had to do it quickly. Colours coalesced in his mind and whenever he tried to clear it he only succeeded in making them more vivid and painful. He stood and ran, he didn't know from what he was running - or from whom - but all he knew was that he had to run, to break free of his chains and leave this piece of hell that was inhabited only by the very thing he feared the most - his imagination.

he ducked and rolled off to the left

The Whiteness was fading, becoming less bright one would even say dull, but the shade also changed to dark red - still he ran. the whiteness of his consciousness disappeared as he gained momentum and the walls took on the shade of the house that could have been his. Suddenly he stopped and flew back three feet, as if he had hit a patio door......he was back in the room. Stains on the wall and sofa, the TV on a pay-per-view S&M channel. With the sick and sordid noises emanating from the TV he found it harder to concentrate than he had thought possible with the experiences of the last ten, twenty minutes? he didn't know how long he had been out for, it was all a bleak memory, strong, but painful. He lurched over to the TV and switched it off, the quietness settled like a blanket around him. The room was still a mess.

something shot past his head as he tumbled

He woke up sweating, there was something in his arm.....it was a drip...he must be in a hospital, how did he get there? there were 3 other people in the ward with him, all were asleep. His other hand was bandaged and he couldn't move it even if he had wanted to.
He tried to get up but the pain in his right arm pushed him back to the ward bed. He lapsed back into a troubled sleep.

picking himself up he continued to run

The ward bed was rolling down a corridor, his hand still firmly bandaged - the bed as being pushed by a couple of nurses and the doctor in front didn't once turn around and look at him. As the doctor neared his destination his pace quickened as did that of the nurses.

he stopped and turned, preparing to go down fighting

The elevator descended, the doors slid open and the bed was wheeled out. He wanted to speak but he didn't know what to say, he wanted to run but he didn't know were to run to, he wanted to cry but he could not show any kind of weakness. They approached the operating theatre.

he lost his breath as the punch connected with his stomach

He had time to see the needle go into his arm before the knock-out effect kicked in. He had time for one last silent scream as he realised what he had done.

his reflexes kicked in, and he pulled the trigger of his gun, shattering the silence of the fight with an ear splitting roar. The cop lay dead, a bullet through his forehead. He realised what he had done.....he stopped, dropped the gun and started to cry, the other cops circled him and closed the gap quickly and professionally.......he knew his fate.

[Ludens]

The Hunt
By Aenarion

The rider galloped relentlessly through the dense forest of his country. The hot, humid place sent drops of sweat in the opposite direction, as man and horse rode on. He urged on and on to follow something ahead of him. Something that could not be seen.

With wind and sun in the East, his spear glowed in a dazzling ray of light, whilst his great grey mantle fluttered strongly at his back. He had no time to waste. Although being tired, he knew he could not stop. He had to ride on. His horse whined as weariness also fell on the animal. The day grew on and the sun started settling in the West. And still the chase did not stop.

It was odd how the creature ahead of him, being on foot, could nearly outrun his horse without faltering a while. This made it ever difficult for the rider to catch him. His steed’s speed was reducing bit by bit.

“We will soon reach it Arudol! Hasten your running if possible”, whispered the rider in one of his steeds’ ears. And so Arudol sped on with a last effort. Suddenly, the rider caught a glimpse of his target. Thus, he positioned his spear, aimed carefully and with great skill, he threw the weapon directly towards his prey. In an instant, the creature, to escape from the weapon’s deadly catch, leaped forward with a jump, leaving the spear sticking out on the damp soil.

The rider was not easily going to be led down. Having lost his primary weapon, he drew forth his great sword from its sheath. The creature finally began slowing down and crawling on all fours, it gave a last desperate push forward. But Arudol, gaining some strength and being used to hunting with his master, would not reduce pace, but kept on going.

Daulios was the rider’s name. He was a hunter. The finest in all his country. He ventured far and wide with Arudol across the vast lands of the continent, in search of some wild animal or creature.

His father, the King of Elodelie, promised him great reward and fame if he captured this mysterious creature. Daulios had no idea why his father urged him to find this thing. It seemed to be of great value and rarity. Although with this odd sensation in mind, he was set to capture the creature at all costs.

It was after he had stopped thinking about this matter, when Daulios discovered that the thing ahead of him had vanished. He had no doubts that it must have hid itself in the trees. He and Arudol both stopped listening. At the same time, catching their breath. A cold drop of sweat passed down from the hilt’s sword, into Daulios’ hand. There was silence. Only the whispering of birds nearby could be heard. Daulios climbed down his horse and dragged the steed slowly forward, as he walked beside it.

No sound. No movement. No sign at all came from the creature. It was clever. It knew how to hide itself from good hunters. Daulios realised that the path on the ground had now perished and they both lay in the heart of the forest with no sense of direction. The fact of loosing their way did not even bother the hunter. All he thought about was to find and capture the creature. He moved again forward a little and stopped once more. Still he kept on listening. Still there was silence.

Then, doom fell upon him. Suddenly, ropes were hurled down from the highest trees above. Birds flew off in haste, due to some activity. Daulios got confused as he heard loud shouts. He turned and turned, always with his sword in front of him, ready for defence. It was at this instant that figures from above came sliding down the ropes. They were all like the creature he had been following. They had dark grey skin, with big bulging yellow eyes. They had their spines bent so that there hands reached almost the ground.

Daulios had been ambushed. It was in the heart of this dense forest that these odd creatures increased in number whilst they had been thought to have become nearly extinct. In this instant Daulios remembered his father’s words when he was still a boy: “Take great care my son in your missions. As finally, the hunter becomes the hunted.”. At this thought, he slashed his sword with skill and he desperately fought to defend himself and Arudol.

It was at this moment that he felt a hard blow on his head and fell to the ground. Arudol gave a loud cry as he was being attacked, but his master only heard a muffled sound. And as he slowly drew on to unconsciousness, ever thinking about his father’s words, two bright eyes emerged in front of his face. But then he passed away and saw no more …

[Ludens]

The riddle of Doga-Kavuue
By The Stranger

Thunder broke the brittle silence over the landscape. Rain descended on the earth, which could finally, after a long period of intense drought, appease its immense thirst. It is funny actually, a thing as small as a drop of water… and yet if there are enough of them, they can flood a field, cleanse a mire and choke a forest.

In the forest of Doga-Kavuue – which miraculously survived the scorching drought that swept through Himakadur for the past few months without a scratch – nothing was, as it seemed. Nearby villagers told tales of Black Magic and witchcraft. It was a place so dark and evil, so filled with negative energy, you even had to be careful to let your mind wander, because it might not come back. But nothing scared them more than the power, which was said to lurk in the shadows of the trees in the centre of Doga-Kavuue. Some say it was a mythical beast that survived from ancient times and others talk of demons and the devil himself. But nobody knew the truth, because no villager really dared to come close, afraid they would be grabbed by the unknown and swallowed in to the darkness. Never to hear the beautiful sound of a lioness at sunrise, never to taste sweets the earth produced, never to come back.

And in this vicious and treacherous world one traveller faced the odds. What he was looking for? Adventure perhaps… or maybe he was just searching. Nobody knew. His search had lead him beyond the mountain peeks of Ta-Tarum, over the mighty river Toruck and finally into the treacherous shadows of the age-old trees of Doga-Kavuue.

His, was a journey full of dangers and verged a lot of devotion but unlike many other people who risked their lives on such trips, on the end of his journey lured no gold or other riches. His was a journey without an end, without destination. He lived his life from dawn till dusk, uncertain of what tomorrow would bring. He lived life as it was supposed to be lived, wild and unruly, as the untouched nature he lived in.

For a while already had he been looking for a place to catch his breath, where he could shelter for the rain and come to himself for spare seconds, his heaven on earth. He cursed the rain that had soaked through his clothes; making them so heavy he could barely walk. His line of sight had diminished to the point where he could see no further but an arm length.

I have to find shelter… and fast. I don’t think I can hold out much longer. Cursed rain, cursed forest, cursed gods.

It was if heaven read his mind and decided to punish him for it, as if the freezing cold that sent a chill down his spine every 5 seconds and the ongoing down pouring rain that struck with the force of small rocks weren’t enough punishment, a storm arose. The cold and raw winter wind blew through his soggy clothes. His hands and feet were benumbed and his face was meagre.

While every other sane person would have given up and fallen on the ground to let it all happen because resistance seemed futile, he pushed on.
‘Faster, I have… faster,’ he mumbled.
But his words were taken by the wind; to places no man has ever set foot on, so fast it left him with the uncomfortable doubt if he had ever spoken those words out loud.

Still denying the fact that he ran out of energy, denying the fact that he could see no more and that his cramped legs refused to work properly, he tried to walk faster.

It does not matter how, I just ha…

A fierce twinge of pain, a fall into dazzling depths, and then? Then nothing. The forest had taken its toll on this courageous man. He was the umpteenth victim of Doga-Kavuue.

Slowly the traveller opened his eyes. Pain raged through his head, beating like the drums of his village when the fishermen came home. Next to him an old lady was knitting. She was dressed in rags and her face was covered in the dark shadows of her kerchief. Though her appearance was mysterious she seemed very familiar, as if he had met her before…

Could it be… no that can’t be…

In the meanwhile the old lady had noticed her quest was awake and she stopped knitting.
‘Where am…’ the traveller tried to say, but he was to weak to talk and his effort ended in a sigh. Exhausted, he coughed up some slime. Though he barely had the energy to keep his eyes open he tried once again – with the spirit he had also shown if the woods – to talk. But the lady placed her surprisingly soft fingers on his lips and almost whispering she said: ‘Go to sleep, young man. You will need all your energy for the dangers that lie ahead.’ And although her voice was soft and calm it had a very decisive undertone. It sounded as a request but felt like an order. The traveller decided to obey this mysterious woman and within minutes after he had closed his eyes, he slept.

The traveller dreamed that he opened his eyes.

Where am I, what happened?

Then he noticed that there was something weird about this place. The trees seemed to grow horizontal and the horizon had disappeared. Though the place was very odd, it felt painfully familiar.

Haven’t I been here before? No… wait a minute…

He tried to get up, he needed a lot of strength but he succeeded. Little by little some things came back to him. The world that had seemed odd at first changed back to normal. The trees grew once more to the sun and although he couldn’t see the horizon due the trees blocking his view, he knew it was there. And now he also knew where he was, the forest of Doga-Kavuue. But he still had no clue of what happened.

Oh, yeah… or maybe…no that is not it…

He didn’t know it anymore. All he remembered was a twinge of pain and everything before and after that was a giant black blur, that annoyed him as much as a big stain of ink on his best parchment annoyed a writer.

Something came back to him as if it was whispered in his ears by the divine powers themselves.

Didn’t I have a dream… about an old lady in her cottage… or am I dreaming right now… I went to sleep, didn’t I?

Confused and exhausted he dropped himself on the grass that was still wet with early morning dew. It wasn’t until then that he noticed the pain in his stiff limbs. Tortured by the course of events he laid down on the forest floor, worrying about all sorts of things. Slowly he slipped into unconsciousness of the world, a sort of coma, he lost grip on time and reality. How long had he been lying there? Ten minutes, maybe twenty, or a few hours…

When the sun started to set, he decided to travel on, and above all he was thirsty. He stood up to grab his knapsack. But it was nowhere to be found… Suspicious he looked around as if he would see the thief lurk in the shadows of the trees and bushes.

Something is going on here… but what? What was that?

He turned his head in the direction he had heard a sound coming from. He pricked up his ears and listened. His heart stopped and he skipped a breath. It was as if his entire body was focusing on that one point, it was as if he had waited his entire life for this moment. And then he heard it. It was very vague at first but it gradually became louder, more closer, until he could recognize the sound for what it was.

Voices…

Distant voices, but voices nonetheless.

But from who are they? I haven’t seen a living being for miles…

And as he though that, he realised how odd that sounded. He had not encountered one single animal since he passed the first trees of Doga-Kavuue.

What is this for place…

There was a crack of branches and a rustle of leaves. Rapidly the traveller’s eyes flashed into all directions.

Who was that… what was that…

He started to panic… but for what? He was afraid but what was he afraid of. Wild animals? There were none. And that was the fact that disturbed him the most. If it was no harmless deer or another harmless animal… than what was it? Which dark and evil being dared to spy on him, what stole his knapsack? And why? Was it hungry… did it long for more?

Now the voices were so loud he could clearly hear what they were saying.

My name…

The voices were screaming and shouting, shrieking and moaning his name as a terrifying and mysterious choir. Louder and louder, until it was so loud it echoed through the trees and seemed to come from all directions at once.

I will stay here no minute longer… this place is haunted.

He started to run as fast as he could, he ran like he never ran before, he ran like the devil himself was after him… and maybe he was. Where he was running to he did not know… but he never knew. He was so scared he did not notice that the tree formations became denser, that the forest swallowed the sky above him and that the only light came from the ominous lights that shone vaguely between the trees. He was so scared he did not notice that he was no longer in a forest but in a prison. And every attempt to escape would be ruthlessly beaten down by the prison guards, the trees.

The trees… they are alive. I saw one moving, right over… no, over… where am I?

He now saw shadows everywhere. He saw them in the trees and in the bushes he even saw them moving over the ground, silently as a serpent that creeps up his prey.

Have I lost it?

He did not know. But somehow he felt like someone was staring at him. Someone… or something… he was not safe. But was he safe where he was heading? He knew only one thing… if he…

He did not saw the root sticking out of the ground, he did not saw the tree it was attached to and he did not felt his foot tripping over it, but he did fell the pain that surged through him – it sliced him in to two like a hot knife through butter – when he smacked his head on the ground with such force it was a miracle he did not break his neck.

What was that? Where did that come from?

That were the last things that flashed through his mind.

But did he really trip over the root? Did not the root grab his feet? There was more to the trees than just their mighty appearance.

He did not know if he had lost consciousness but when he tried to open his eyes he felt a twinge so agonizing he thought he was going to die. He kicked with his feet and threw hands in the air like a mad man and his entire body was racked with sobs. Over time the soaring pain faded. He slowly opened his eyes and he stared right into the eyes of…

‘Mum, what are you doing here,’ he shouted astonished.
Although his mom looked very anxious she said: ‘you don’t have to yell at me, Maku. I’m sitting right next to you. Her voice sounded unnatural and emotionless as if she tried to suppress her feelings.
‘But…’ Maku took a look around. He was no longer in the forest; the trees were gone and replaced by the walls of his room. He lay no longer on the forest floor but in his safe and comfortable bed.
‘What happened,’ he added quietly more to himself than to his mother. It was as if his energy faded away after he realised he was no longer in the forest.
‘You had a nightmare,’ his mother replied and her voice wasn’t as calm – faked or not – as before, but was shaking. ‘You were kicking and screaming and I couldn’t wake you up.’ There was nothing I could do but to stare at you and scream your name.
She placed her head in her hands. She cried and sobbed uncontrollably. She looked at him with tears shining in her eyes – as dew on the top of a tree when it is being touched by the gentle rays of the sun – and empty she added: ‘You are all I have, and I thought I lost you too.’
‘Mom, I am fine, really I am,’ Maku said clumsy and stumbling over his words, uncertain of which words to choose. ‘It was just a bad dream, everything will be all right, trust me.’
His mother hugged him so tightly as if she was never wanted to let go of him.

You dirty liar, you know it is not true.

A voice in the back of his head protested against the things he had told his mother. Somewhere he knew it was no bad dream, somewhere he knew more was going on and involuntary he looked at the bookcase behind his mother. His eyes glanced at a book that was resting on the top shelf. It’s cover had painted on with great golden letters; The Riddle of Doga-Kavuue.

[Ludens]

Oaks don't jump.
By AndresTheCunning


Once upon a time, Bahbah Growl, registered Warlord, recognized by the Official Board of Barbarian Warlords, registration number BWL 085.321, was walking in Teutoburg Forest, looking for a few Romans.

He just got this fancy new sword from his father and he wanted to test it's skull-crushing capabilities. Sitting on a tree, he scratched his butt and this action got rewarded with a nice stinking brown substance on his fingers. Like his mother taught him, he gave his armpits a good rubbing with this natural soap and he enjoyed the smell of it. With a bit of luck, one day he wouldn't need no sword anymore, his smell causing the Romans to run in agony. Aaah, his girlfriend would be so proud of her stinking hero.

Whilst admiring his nice brown teeth in the reflections of a nearby pool, he smiled thinking about his girlfriends' sexy moustache and hairy legs. He would never understand those Romans with their fancy clean (bwah, clean!) uniforms and washed bodies. No no, his homeland should never be conquered by those crawling insects.

And thus, he remembered the purpose of his trip and he jumped of the piece of wood he was sitting on.

All of the sudden a jumping oak crossed his path. In those days, when magic was overwhelmingly present in Barbarian societies, strange things happened a lot more often then nowadays. But a jumping oak? No, this was going way too far for our registered Warlord.

And so he felt obliged to shout: "Hey, you idiot! Don't you know oaks don't jump?"

"You dirty Barbarian! It must have been ages since your brains got a decent catch of breath, I guess. When was the last time you took a bath? 15 years ago?"

Bahbah was very pleased with this compliment. Like any civilised Barbarian, and a fortiori a Warlord, he indeed never took a bath, nor did he wash his clothes or did he use toilet paper. So he thanked the oak for his nice words.

Nevertheless, he mentioned that it was simply not done for a well educated oak to be jumping around in Barbarian forests. Imagine all those other trees starting to jump! No, no, the oak simply had to stop this ridiculous behaviour.

"You stupid mewling Barbarian! Can't you see I'm not an oak? I'm a rabbit. A rabbit! An it is very common for rabbits to jump. Nothing indecent or ridiculous about it."

Bahbah answered : "Grumph!"

"No, not a grumph! A rabbit! R-A-B-B-I-T! A grumph is a certain amount of air pumped through a Barbarians throat. Do I look like poisoned air to you? Damn, I knew Barbarians with an IQ above 80 get slaughtered by their tribe members, but your stupidity is just too much!"

Mister Growl became very angry with the oak-rabbit and so he decided to teach this moron a lesson. "Primo, 25 is the maximum IQ of a normal, honest Barbarain and secundo, if you don't stop jumping around, then I'll..."

"Then what? You'll chop me into rabbit-wood with that rusty piece of metal that's hanging on your side? Never saw Monty Python's movie about the Holy Grail? Maybe I am a killer-rabbit! So watch your words, you fool!".

"Hey, that's not fair! Monty Python doesn't exist yet! For Christ's sake, it's the year 220 BC!"

"First of all, Mister "IQ not above 25", you cannot refer to Jesus Christ, because he isn't born yet. And how do you know it's 220 Before CHRIST if our Lord isn't even born yet? For as far as we know, the Messiah will be called "John" or "Gaston". And then it would be 220 Before Gaston! For Gaston's sake! Where do they breed such idiots?"

Confronted with that much eloquentia, Bahbah stood there, perplex. So, he answered: "Grumph!".

Tired of the meaningless conversation, the oak turned it's back and walked away.

Mister Growl saw the little tail on the back of the oak and he became very angry.

"Hey you bloody rabbit! What's the point in pretending you're a jumping oak? Is this supposed to be funny?"

"You know what, you so-called warlord. I won't talk to you anymore, because I'm an animal and animals aren't supposed to talk."

Then, as a lightning bolt thrown by Zeus from Mount Olympos, Bahbah got struck with an amazing idea, very exceptional for those with IQ's below 25 and even more exceptional for a recognized Barbarian Warlord.

"But you talked to me! And animals aren't supposed to talk. You said so yourself! So a logical conclusion would be that you are not an animal!"

The rabbit was amazed by so much brilliant insight, never been seen before in a Barbarian.

"So, you MUST be an oak! Yeeha!"

The rabbit got bored and cried out: "NOOOO...! Trees don't talk! Animals don't talk! I'm human, you imbecile!"

While his words were still carried by the wind in the direction of our Warlord's ears, the oak-rabbit-human realised the mistake.

"Human? No beard? Clean clothes? No smell? You must be Roman!"

And so it happened our good friend Bahbah finally had the opportunity to test his fancy sword...

[Ludens]

A Gaul To Arms
By Dol Guldur


   The cold rain, sped by fierce northern squalls, pelted the cloaks of the warriors lucky enough to have them whilst the main bulk of the army, naked above the waist, had to make do with shields held high to block the inclement weather in a vain attempt to keep their hair dry. The Gallic warrior's hair was of course very important to him; he did not spend two hours every morning getting his braids just right to have them ruined by sudden downpours and irksome gusts of wind. And what would the enemy think if, perchance he should fall in battle, his head were to find itself upon a pole in some unsuspecting town? 'Oh, look at that!' one of the townsfolk might say, 'his braid is undone!' or another, 'Ah, here is one with split ends! Surely such an one shall not have honour in the halls of the afterlife to have fallen with his hair in such a state!'
   So on they marched in the deluge with shields held above their heads unaware of the future* existence of umbrellas and the advantage of their significantly lighter weight; though blessed, even without the knowledge, that their shields would not fold and break in the wind and go blowing down the street resulting in the need to buy a new one next time it rained. This was of course the perfect timing for an aerial attack by the enemy, but fortunately for the Gauls such tactics had not yet been devised, though the Greek Icarus had come pretty close (in more ways than one); his example, however, was not altogether lost as it would one day inspire the Wright brothers to invent the aeroplane thus enabling Greek air-travel companies to fly people to exotic Greek shores where they might catch the sun in an entirely different way to that of Icarus.
   'So, are you looking forward to the battle?' one of the young bare-chested Gauls asked an older warrior marching by his side. The latter was drenched through but did not seem to mind; he paid the rain as little attention as he did the young man's question.
   Unperturbed, the young warrior continued his attempt to make conversation. 'I'm Heerforkix,' he said as he put forth his hand to the other.
   'Many are,' replied the other, making no attempt to extend his own hand.
   'No, my name is Heerforkix, son of Bagatrix.'
   'Warriors do not speak their names,' the other replied brusquely.
   'They don't?' The young man had a frown upon his face which quickly disappeared as he narrowly avoided stepping in a rabbit hole. 'Why's that then?'
   'Better the fallen remain unknown. If you don't know a man's name he cannot become a friend,' the older man replied.
   'And what is your name?' said Heerforkix.
   'Sordfulanix,' the other replied before he could think. 'By all four foot of my great grandfather's braided beard, must you ask such direct questions when a man is not ready for them?'
   'Sorry,' Heerforkix apologised.
   Sordfulanix remained silent for a moment. Heerforkix thought he seemed agitated, almost angry. But it was hard to tell in the gloom the rain clouds had brought.
   'It is my first battle,' Heerforkix said after he was sure the older man was not going to impale him to the floor. 'I was recruited at the last city about a week ago,' he said.
   'Six months,' Sordfulanix said.
   'Six months?' Heerforkix asked, not quite understanding the statement.
   'Yes, we left the city six months ago,' Sordfulanix elaborated.
   'That was never six months. We've only come two hundred miles and we've made good time!' Heerforkix said.
   'Nevertheless, six months it was. Time passes quickly when you're out in the field, believe me,' the veteran explained. 'So why did you join the army? No, let me guess. The glory of battle? The thought of bearing arms for one's country? The prospect of serving under a great commander perhaps or becoming one yourself some day?'
   'Well, no, not exactly. You see, I've always liked these striped trousers,' Heerforkix said as he brushed some rain of his thigh so that he could better admire the colourful green stripes. 'Ever since I was a boy and first saw our warriors pass through my town, I knew that I simply had to have a pair.'
   Sordfulanix made no reply although Heerforkix thought he might, as his mouth appeared to be open but no words were coming out. When his mouth shut again it was set hard and he was looking straight ahead.
   'I loved the training,' Heerforkix said eventually, uncomfortable with the silence.
   'What?' the veteran said. The rain had begun to disperse and shields were lowered once more.
   'At the city,' Heerforkix added.
   'Ah, yes. A well-trained warrior now then, eh?' said Sordfulanix.
   'Yes, I've learnt all of the moves for close combat! My trainer said I picked them up quickly - just six months!' the young warrior explained enthusiastically.
   'Well,' said Sordfulanix, 'it is indeed a feat deserving of praise to have learned both moves so swiftly!'
   'Thank you,' Heerforkix said, a broad smile on his face.

   The smile was short-lived. As they topped a small rise they found themselves facing an army of Romans, their serried ranks formed up across the grassy field in a manner that Heerforkix had never seen before. It seemed to the young warrior that he was staring at a field of metal squares, each sprinkled in bright red blood - a machine of war as cold as the metal from which it was constructed.
   'Those are some interesting formations,' the young man commented, trying to sound confident but doing a very bad job.
   'Yes, a creative assembly,' said Sordfulanix absently. He seemed little impressed. No doubt he had seen such a sight many times before.
   The entire Gallic army had now come to a halt. It was clear from the Roman lines that they had been expected. Perhaps the enormous bright green Gallic banners hoisted forty feet into the air had given them away?
   'Battles are grim things, son,' Sordfulanix said as he checked his spear. 'Those who command them are grim, those who fight them are grim; heck, even the horses are grim - though not, admittedly, quite as grim as their breath should you happen to get too close to one in the heat of battle.'
   'Yes, a bloody affair I'm sure,' said Heerforkix looking somewhat nervously at the opposing army arrayed against them.
   'Blood? Why would there be blood?' Sordfulanix asked, looking surprised at the younger warrior's comment.
   'Well I-'
   'I've not seen blood in all my years as a warrior,' Sordfulanix interrupted. 'We aren't barbarians you know, well we are but we are not those sort of barbarians!'
   'I see. So no blood then?' Heerfakix said.
   'Nope,' the other confirmed.
   'But when you hit another-'
   'Hit?' Sordfulanix interrupted again. 'We don't hit anyone. Arm's distance at all times! It is one of the Rules of Engagement, well of Near-engagement to be exact.'
   'I don't understand. How do we win then?' Heerforkix asked.
   'Scare them!' the veteran said.
   'Scare them?' Heerforkix responded. 'How?'
   Sordfulanix looked at the young recruit impatiently. 'Taunts, war cries but – and most importantly – standing at arm's distance and shaking and pointing sharp things at them. They don't like it you know.'
   'No, I can see they wouldn't. And what happens next?' Heerforkix asked.
   'Do they not teach you anything in training theory these days? Ah, it's not like it was when I was a lad!' the veteran mumbled. 'Let me quote from the Gallic Army Training Manual, Edition 1, Patch 1.6. I memorised it in my first year: Once near-engagement has been initiated and the prescribed moves are in operation, it is possible to defeat the enemy in one of two ways: firstly, by scaring him so that he flees the battlefield; secondly, by causing him to trip over. This latter method sometimes leads to unconsciousness or serious injury which will be indicated by the subject not getting up again for the duration of the battle. However, sometimes a fallen enemy will arise again in which case the process must begin again. It is therefore of some helpfulness to try to get your opponent standing near a large stone or otherwise hard terrain in the hope he will be knocked senseless should he fall. Of course, this will also have the same chance of doing the same to your own forces. A useful tip in such a situation is to try and scare the enemy general into running away or tripping over; this makes him look very silly and in the eyes of his army he will lose a lot of 'field cred' thus making the battle a lot easier to win.'
   'I see,' said Heerforkix. 'Thank you.'
   'No problem, son, if you listen you may be blessed to hear the Voice of the gods,' Sordfulanix said.
   'The Voice of the gods?' the young Gaul questioned.
   'Yes, it is the voice of the war gods that all true warriors hear during battle if they are brave and strong - and have good hearing,' he explained as he hefted his spear in anticipation of the battle.
   'I can hear something,' Heerforkix said suddenly. 'Not a voice, it...it is music!'
   'Ah, yes. It always comes at this time, just before a battle. It is the music of the gods, carried down from the hallowed halls of our forefathers above to inspire, uplift and grant us courage!' Sordfulanix explained.
   'The gods are busy! But I don't much like it. I think the melody could be improved though the base is OK I guess, but I think overall it could...' – Heerforkix's voice tailed off as the sound of many heavy hooves approached – 'What is that?'
   'It is the General! He has come to give us his pre-battle speech!'
   'Is he good? I have not heard him speak before,' said Heerforkix.
   'Yes, he gives a fine old skull session. We are fortunate to have a general who has three speeches. Many have only one you know,' explained Sordfulanix.
   'No, I didn't know-'
   'Quiet!' Sordfulanix interrupted the recruit. 'General Inafix is about to begin his speech.'
   Before them now was the General, a man about ten years older than Heerforkix. He was bearded and his armour looked quite resplendent, as if he had spent the previous night polishing it. Perhaps he had. His fine grey steed bore him with lordly poise as he began his address to those whom he commanded.
   'Friends, Gauls, countrymen! Lend me your spears! You sons of the wolf and the beard! Er...I mean the bear! Can you smell that? It is the smell of fear! That is what unbraided hair does to a Roman!
   'Now, there is enough wine in camp to sink a boat, so let us remember that our forefathers look upon us from the mead halls of the hereafter - let us not shame them!
   'I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of Gaul fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day!
   'An hour of wolves and shattered shields, when the age of the Gallic peoples comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of Gaul!
   'I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
   'We are met on a great battle-field of this war. We have come to dedicate a portion of this field as a final resting place for those who give their lives that our people might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
   'We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.
   'Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered! A sword day, a red day, 'ere the sun rises! Ride now! Ride for ruin. And the world's ending!'
   When Inafix had shouted the final word, drawing his sword as he did so, shouting erupted across the army, from the great chiefs to the lowliest warbands. 'For Gaul!' said many whilst others shouted 'This day we fight!' and still others, 'Can you all be quiet I've got a headache!'
   'Another great speech,' said Sordfulanix, nodding approvingly.
   'Yes indeed,' began Heerforkix, 'but it sounded a little familiar.'
   'Well, he's been known to borrow a bit from here and there but then again who hasn't?' the veteran said as he watched General Inafix move back into the front of the ranks, into the middle ranks and then to a position about fifty yards behind the rear of the army at which point he was surrounded by a bodyguard that had more armour and weaponry than the entire Gallic army combined.
   'Ha! At last, I think we are about to move!'
   Sure enough, no sooner had Sordfulanix said the words than the order was given to 'near-engage' the enemy.
   'Have you ever heard this Voice of the gods of which you spoke?' Heerforkix asked. His heart was beating hard now. I must not trip over, I must not trip over he kept on telling himself in his head.
   'Oh yes!' the other replied grimly.
   'And what did it say?' the young recruit pressed, anxious for some word of hope to cling to.
   'Ah, something about bird food but I am sure it has some deeper meaning I have not yet discovered. But enough of talk! The time has come for war!'
   Heerforkix marched nervously forward hoping that this day he would be able to scare lots of Romans. But they didn't look like they would be easily scared. They had better armour, were better equipped, had strong, disciplined formations and troops. No, the Gauls' only hope lay in the fact that they outnumbered their enemy twenty to one - oh, and perhaps in their finely-braided hair and striped trousers. After all, you know what fear does to a man...



* The author is of course aware that the concept of an umbrella pre-dated the Gauls, but these devices were not (as far as we can tell) used to protect from the rain but to shoo birds away from local fields after the planting of seeds. The most well-known evidence of this is the so-called 'Brolly Bog Man' discovered by the English archaeologist, J.C.B. Delver, in Paris in 1953. The find, now displayed in the British Museum, shows the remarkably well-preserved remains of a Gallic farmer clasping an umbrella-like object at the end of which is impaled a large crow; it was Delver's contention that the object was not normally used as a weapon but that this particular farmer just 'got lucky'.

[Ludens]

Dawn
By Banquo’s Ghost

His candle guttered and spat over the remnants of its crooked wick, as if bitterly opposed to the thin light creeping through the cell’s tiny window. The struggle between waning shadows and waxing, yet still feeble daybreak, strained the inquisitor’s eyes to add a further burden to lids made weary by the night’s meditation. Wretched and cantankerous with weak will, he surrendered himself to a begrudged yawn.

The unborn day promised both the quiet and the storm. Ahead lay interrogations and frightened eyes. He had needed the calm of night to study and clear his mind of all but the task ahead, to pray and receive purpose and grace for the commission that God and His Church had set before him. Once the night was gone and the sun had regained the sky, there would be no time for rest and reflection, precious little even for prayer – save those intimate moments with God as a confession went well or awry.

Yet the half-light was also the time when the back of his work was strengthened or properly broken. The endless night had been endured by the prisoner in her suffocating cell, trapped in the inky blackness of a lonely dungeon and her own terrors. These terrors, he knew, were not nameless nor were they silent. He had made sure of that. Sound preyed on the frightened mind far more than the sight of instruments and pain. A clatter of chains: the crash of a crucible: the crackling of coals: all these created a cacophony of dread within the imagination that no conscience could counter. And in between, the silence: the interminable, eternal silences wherein the accused could anticipate their coming fate, could conjure the most awful barbarities, could feel their resolve quail within their breast like a feather shrivelling in a hearth-fire.

He had prepared this girl with precision. Beatrice Cenci was a most special prisoner, and he needed a full confession. Though remarkably young for a murderess, the Holy Father required that she be put to the rack and that the confession so obtained be comprehensive. She had been dragged into the Tordinona prison a month or so before, accused of patricide in the most terrible degree. So young and so fragile, had been his dispassionate thought when looking first upon her: so very simple a case. Yet she possessed a steel in her eye that belied her articulate protestations of innocence. He had known in that moment that whether she be sixteen or twenty, he would have to break her. Now, that long-anticipated morning was seeping its greyish light through the mists of Rome to herald its whispered reckoning to both confessor and criminal.

The inquisitor pulled fretfully at his tidily clipped beard, drawing free one of the grey hairs. He stared at it with a blank, unknowing face, as if some divine message were held in the curl, some comfort in the slight stab of its removal. He was troubled as never before, his mind in turmoil as if it were he, and not the girl, who faced la corda in an hour’s time, friendless, hopeless and naked. Neither fervent nor humble prayer had stilled the ruthlessly erratic beat of his heart, neither had calmed his turbulent thoughts. Indeed, the opposite had befallen him and as the dawn made to overcome his inadequate candle, he felt his resolve failing. He was astonished.

It was not, he knew, the girl’s youth and façade of innocence that had disturbed his long-cherished equanimity. He had put many young children, girl and boy to the rack and some on to the stake. His experience had confirmed his own belief that children were often the most evil of wrong-doers, so much closer as they were to original sin. Moreover, their sufferings often loosened a parent’s resolution faster than when in their own agony. No, it was something alluded to by Beatrice’s elder brother in his earlier time of confession.

Giacomo Cenci was certainly destined for the scaffold for, as the heir to his father Francesco, he had most to gain from the untimely death of that brutish thief. At the very least, though he maintained he had been far away from the remote mountain castle where the deed was committed by his sister and step-mother, he was in law responsible for them. It was common sense that women on their own could not have conceived and committed an act of patricide – and for what purpose? To be put back into the convent from whence the father had plucked them?

Under the knife and the poker, Giacomo had confessed everything – they always did. Francesco had been a brute and a villain of the worst order – that much was corroborated in the Vatican archives, for the heir to the Cenci fortune, all embezzled from His Holiness, had been charged and found guilty of many nefarious crimes. He had stolen and raped and committed sundry sodomies. He had paid near half his inherited loot in fines to avoid the dungeons. He was no example to his children now in the dungeon for his murder – but that murder was a great and mortal sin nonetheless.

The inquisitor felt pleased with his work on the unfortunate Giacomo, for the Papal Court would now be able to recover the Holy Father’s fortune with little opposition from the nobility. Francesco Cenci had always been an embarrassment to them despite the Cenci’s ancient heritage. The others would be glad to see the proud rogues humbled, and if the whispers about Francesco’s illegitimacy were true, then they would draw the veil of bad blood about the episode and all would be well. Yet…

An echoing sob that swept up into a soaring cry echoed into and around his cloistered thoughts before breaking off, plummeting from his reflections like a lark shot by a bolt. It was not from the Cenci girl’s cell, but further along the damp corridor, deeper along the passage to despair. ‘Eli, eli, lama sabachthani’ it cried in memoriam and mockery of the Saviour’s finest hour. His jaw fell in shock. Was God now mocking him or speaking to him?

He glared off into the shadows that congealed in the black socket that was his open door to the interior of the prison. The silence had sat back on its haunches at the threshold of the gape, and stared back. No matter how he stared, there was no flutter of an angel’s wing, the angel that might bring clarity and faith to succour his soul. No tablets of right and wrong. Not even another scream from the abandoned.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed and he dropped his piercing eyes from the gloom. It had not been the Lord of Light who spoke through the darkness, but poor demented Alessandro Barberini, tortured to the precipice of madness for his heresies as a priest. He had screamed often enough in the long night, and for months his terrors had announced the dawn as surely as cock-crow. Why now did those strangled pleadings strike so deep and so hard?

The fey light had crept in far enough to soften the rough flagstones of the floor, and as he dropped his eyes away from the door, it appeared to the inquisitor that the dawn had cast a path from his desk to the corridor outside. An invitation was extended to step into that light to understanding. Undecided, he drew his gaze back to the miserable candle-flame, spitting and staggering about the tether of its wick like a wasp drunk on rotted autumn fruit. It could not last.

He extinguished its life in an instant, keeping his finger and thumb closed upon the wick so that the brief pain of burning might spark a fire in his belly for the day ahead. Naught happened, so he stood, and the ancient agony of joints that had too long been bent into sitting upon a poorly made stool rasped through his limbs. He gasped a little, wobbling like the unremembered candle-light, snatching at the edge of the table as he saved himself from falling. A breviary tumbled dully to the floor.

He stretched, and his creaking bones, brittle with age and the effluvium of a thousand dungeons, loosened reluctantly. As his thin blood circulated once more, bringing a myriad of pricking pins along with the returning life, he grimly reflected that he again was behaving more like the accused than the accuser.

He walked to the doorway. The awaiting smells were the same, rancid, sweaty, depraved. Dungeons always smelt of boiled cabbage, he reflected, wrinkling his nose in disgust. And of fear. Or perhaps fear and stewed cabbage were one and the same smell.

He was about to discard one of his most cherished methods, that of the early morning footfall. Now was the time when the prisoner would be wide awake and straining every sense to glimpse when their tormentors might come. Timed right, those first, distant, almost inaudible footsteps would unman them, and invariably evidence of their sudden terror would be only too discernible in the ordure that had escaped their bowels. So added to terror would be shame, and the game would be on.

But this morning, he crept like one of the rats that brazenly ignored him over to the cell door of Beatrice Cenci. He looked in, trying to make her out in the deep gloom of the un-illuminated cell. His eyes adjusted slowly, even though his own room had barely been lit by the uninspired dawn. She was there, a huddled figure, sat with her head bowed. He could see from her tense body, expressive even though shrouded in a filthy blanket, that she had been awake all night – as he had planned.

She was very beautiful, he thought. Enough to make an impression on even such as he, long since lost to the desires of the flesh. Other men would be so easily ensnared. Perhaps – even though the thought provoked nausea with its mere flirtation – perhaps even her own foul father?

For in his awful agonies, having confessed to all and taken the blame for whatever had been suggested to him, Giacomo Cenci had claimed this most terrible of sins as the justification for the murder. His sister had been imprisoned and repeatedly raped by her own father deep within the confines of his decrepit country castle. And worse to boot, for the step-mother had claimed she had been forced to bed her husband and his daughter simultaneously.

The inquisitor had previously put aside Lucrezia Cenci’s ludicrous statement for she had yet to be put to the rack, and she was such a worthless, simpering animal that he had no time for her ravings. There was naught to be gained from making an example out of her. But when the proud Giacomo had repeated the accusations about his father, surely knowing how the claim might affect his status should he escape his predicament alive – a hope always encouraged, for a hopeless man reveals nothing – the inquisitor found himself listening.

And that listening had broken open the cage of his heart to release all the fickle misgivings and disquiets trembling therein, leading him to this long night of doubt.

She had been raped by her father. May God forgive the thought, but perchance the child Beatrice was rumoured to have given birth to was the unholy product of such a blasphemous union. How must the girl have suffered? Her chastity torn from her, not by an evil stranger or ambitious suitor, but by her very own father. Not once, but many times, imprisoned as she was in a friendless, hopeless dungeon, naked and powerless.

As he stared at her, she stirred, moving her cramped legs a little on the raw stone floor, trying to find comfort in the unforgiving limestone. She lifted her head tiredly, and caught his movement in the corner of eyes, red-raw from crying, but shining still like brown topaz. She looked at him, a long hopeful look, full of compassion and gratitude, warmth and welcoming. For a moment, he recalled a time when a girl had last looked at him like that and he could not but help believing that it was a look of love.

She sighed, deeply and with a resonance that echoed in the small cell. A small, wan smile passed over her face, like a brief glimpse of the early sun behind the mists and hills of Tuscany.

“Father?”

He heard the title, so very quietly uttered, so powerful in its incantation. ‘Eli, eli,’ cried out soundlessly in his deepest memory.

“Father?” He jumped with shock. Beatrice’s voice had become deep and cold and brusque. He stared into the cell in confusion. The girl had not moved, her eyes still binding with his, her lips unmoving. A sudden apprehension gripped him and he spun round to meet the angel who had come with his answers.

But Giraldo Niccolini was not an angel. Not even his mother would have claimed that. He was a mere prison guard, stinking of old cabbage and stood not with answers but a length of rusty chain and some manacles, and an oiled key. His face was quizzical, but not censorious. He knew the inquisitors all had their funny ways, and the bitch inside was very good-looking.

The inquisitor looked at Giraldo’s weather-beaten face as if he was trying to count how many teeth the man had left amongst the foul sockets that passed for gums. The guard stood his ground under the scrutiny, as if he had all day to stand and be gawped at like a gilded prince.

At that moment, the louring clouds of early mist were hastily ushered away by an insistent breeze and the sun speared in through the skylight at the far end of the passage. The filthy stonework, slick with damp, blood and urine attained an instant of nobility as its slime shone in the new morning sun. The bisecting bars across the window threw a shadowy cross down the corridor, and rude Giraldo was caught in the effect.

The day had come and the inquisitor found its clarity burnished away his own tribulations. His faith felt renewed as if doubt served to temper not shatter his resolve. The unquiet night had nearly undone him. His way was clear at last, lit by a gentle sun and the truth of the Cross. Giraldo’s simple, unyielding and obedient faith both shamed and inspired him.

He nodded to Giraldo Niccolini, who stepped around him respectfully and rattled the key in its lock. With a grunt, he pushed open the door and the new light washed into the cell, lapping around Beatrice’s cramped legs.

The inquisitor smiled, a smile as thin as a winter’s dawn upon a coffin lid. “It is time, my child.”

[Ludens]

Notorious Company
By matteus the inbred

The sudden commotion of clamouring bronze drowned out the bustle of the Piazza Prato della Valle market, hammering into the shimmering noontime air and startling pigeons from every rooftop. As he always did, Lorenzo Cambiola smiled at the way all the newcomers stopped and gaped at the tumult. It made picking pockets and cutting purses so much easier when the subject’s attention was elsewhere. One fat traveller clad in white robes and adorned with a great scarlet cross splashed across his back clasped his hands in fervent prayer as the bells sang on, and did not notice the slight tug at his waist as Lorenzo’s razor sharp purse knife did its work. Slipping away into the crowds, Cambiola tucked the jingling leather pouch next to the two others already inside his jerkin, and decided that he’d earned a break. The life of a thief, a dealer in ‘mislaid’ goods and an occasional guide for pilgrims when the brothers at the almshouse could find him was tiring work. Scuttling down the Street of Vines, he turned into the Moneylender’s Quarter and swaggered into the Tavern of the Cross. Spying Francesca, he sidled over and cupped an arm around her waist ‘Fair maiden, a cup of finest wine, if you would be so kind!’

‘Hands off, you thieving rascal, and sit over there! I’ll bring it shortly. Busy, we are, with all these soldiers in town.’ Tipping him a knowing wink, she hurried to attend to a group of men shouting for wine and bread. Broadswords and falchions and daggers clattered on stools and tables, battered gloves and boots sat or sagged on the floor, and money tinkled and clinked in coarse and callused hands. Lorenzo gazed in admiration as the band of soldiers filled their wine cups and began to sing, a simple song about battle, pay, women and plunder. He might have been such as they, he mused, for he was an orphan brought up in the almshouses of Il Santo, the great Saint Anthony of Padua, and many desperate men among the poor and downtrodden found employment when the frequent bands of sell-swords came marching through the city, as they so often did in these days of war and politics. Opportunities to make a fortune exist wherever a man can find them, as Lorenzo’s long-dead merchant father had always stated, and presumably this included soldiers. He’d always been somewhat scared of them though, their filth and roughness and belligerence, the foul oaths they swore and the casual air of violence that hung about them like the heady incense that always seemed to be wafting about the nave of the Basilica of St. Justina when he brought crowds of pilgrims to marvel and weep and pray…

The two men that entered the tavern slightly after him went unnoticed by all, including a breathless and exasperated Francesca. Slipping quietly into a corner, wearing nondescript tunics and brown cloaks, they sat in apparent conversation, but their eyes flickered constantly in Lorenzo’s direction…

Before the great Palazzio della Raggione, shadowed by its massive roof and watched by the great crowd gathered expectantly beneath the cool shade of the multitude of arches below, the army of Padua began to form up. The Lords Carraresi, current rulers of the city, had spared no expense in hiring condottieri, mercenary companies, from far and wide, and had paid from their own pockets to raise the civic levies as well. But then, was the enemy not the hated city of Verona, Padua’s ancient blood foe, who had humiliated the city seventy-five years before? Now was the chance to avenge this! And better yet, they had hired, for three months, the most famous band of condottieri in all Italy; the White Company of Giovanni Acuto, Signore John Hawkwood himself! Granted, he was a bit unreliable and had often changed sides, even fighting against the Pope himself on occasion, but they’d paid him a vast sum, all the quarterly revenues from the rights of way on the Bacchiglione and Brenta rivers, to ensure he didn’t turn his coat again. The crowds pressed closer, trying to get a view of this most famous commander. The square was filled with horses, armoured men, valets, coustilliers, banners and pennons making a fine show. Red and white predominated, the colours of Padua, but splashes of blue, green, gold and black marked the gathering parties of Free Companies, civic and corporate troops and all manner of individual contract knights, variously called condotti, lanze spezzati and elmeti, and their households. Armour gleamed and shone, from humble mail to fine plate, great helms surmounted by grotesque beasts and high plumes. Forests of pikes mingled with hard-bitten crossbow companies, their heavy pavises impeding a squadron of Hungarian light horsemen, whose outlandish facial hair and fierce eyes frightened the children darting about amidst the riot. The army was gathering for the blessing of the Most Holy Saint Anthony, and the crowd could now pick out the famous White Company, so-called for their armour, kept bright and shiny by numerous pages and lackeys. Scarred and burly, mainly English veterans of the wars between that country and France, they kept most of the curious at bay, essaying an occasional oath at the more impertinent revellers. Of their famous leader, however, there was currently no sign…

Lorenzo started from his wine-induced reverie, disturbed by a bout of cursing from the tall veteran soldier on the nearest table. Lanky, lined with age and possessed of a distinguished, if somewhat large nose, under which rested a fine greying moustache, the soldier was now groping around under the table for his spilled wine goblet. He wore many fine rings on his long, powerful hands, and if the fat purse, silver spurs and fine doublet he sported were any indication, he was a captain at least. Lorenzo watched him, fascinated and aghast at the gutter oaths that spilled from his mouth. Abruptly the soldier looked up. Piercing blue eyes skewered Lorenzo into his seat, and he nervously jerked his eyes down to his bread and cheese. When he dared to steal a glance up again, the soldier was still looking. Abruptly, the man winked at him and then turned and began cursing at one of his men instead, his language Italian but oddly rolling and guttural, spiced with comments in a tongue unknown to Lorenzo.
‘Blast you, you gutter scum, who didn’t tell me there’s a parade on? Damn popolo, always having a ceremony…’
The other soldiers protested in vain at their apparent leader’s ire. ‘How the hell are we going to get there on time eh? You say the message says one hour after the bells ring noon, well, they rang long since! I can’t read it, fool, but that’s what Gelio says…’

Lorenzo realised that they were arguing about the great parade due to take place in the plaza before the Palazzio. He’d intended to be there himself, partly for business, but also to see the show. Coming to a bold decision, he swallowed and stood up. As he walked nervously forward, a hand gripped his arm like a vice, making him start, and another lifted his cutpurse dagger from his belt. A smooth, high voice by his left ear purred ‘Well, well, Lorenzo Cambiola, the famous thief and purse snatcher himself…and caught working without the permission of the podesta delle ladrocinio, most unfortunate.’
Another voice spoke in his other ear, harsh and angry, ‘Last time for you, Cambiola. You’ve flouted us too often, almshouse boy. It’s not a trip to the consiglio this time, it’s the bottom of the river for you.’
Lorenzo stilled his trembling and tried to ignore the cold sweat dripping down his spine. ‘Gentlemen, surely it’s not worth all this…unpleasantness? You might call me boy, but I’ve worked my way for years and never brought attention from the wrong quarters. Perhaps the consiglio would accept a small token of my regard to forget this sorry business…?’
‘Sorry Cambiola, not this time. One of those purses you lifted belonged to a personage with whom we are currently engaging in…business. Of the sensitive sort. Naturally, we’d given our word he’d not be molested in such a fashion during his visit. It has caused much…embarrassment. Too much.’
The finality in those words turned Lorenzo’s blood to ice.
‘You could have warned me, I got no message…’
‘This is the message, ometto.’
Lorenzo slumped as if in despair, thinking fast. A short walk outside would end in death. He must cause a scene without getting a knife in the back. The Carraresi family tolerated criminal organisations for a payoff, used them sometimes against the other families, but blatant murder and rioting would create trouble and unwelcome investigations…Cambiola was a slim and short man, and no fighter, but a man in his trades did not live long without learning a thing or two about gutter brawling. Abruptly, he twisted, tore a hand free and flicked it down to the stiletto in his boot top, slashing up and around. His assailant dodged back, too slow, and the keen knife nicked his forehead. With barely a curse, the man dashed the blood from his eyes, and both he and his partner drew daggers and stepped apart smoothly to trap Lorenzo between them. Lorenzo backed up against the tall soldier’s table, as patrons and serving people alike scattered out of the way of the incipient fight. Francesca’s frightened scream rang in his ears as, heart hammering, he tried to think of another way out of this one…

‘Careful boy, you’re taking on too much there I wager!’ The soldier, watching with a cheerful expression on his face, stood up and stretched, ostentatiously placing a hand on the scabbarded sword that lay on the table. Behind him his men cleared their own sword hands and sat waiting, disciplined and clearly ready. The taller of the two assassins spoke cautiously, an edge to his voice. ‘Captain, if that’s what you are, we have business with this fellow, a matter of protocol and manners.’
‘Good manners are important, are they not?’ said the soldier in his odd accent. ‘In some trades. But not in mine. You’re interrupting my leisure, and I‘ve no liking for bloodshed except on a battlefield, and we’re like to have plenty of that soon. So…clear off.’
The assassin took this equably. ‘We’ll give you thirty florins if you let us leave with the boy, mercenary.’
‘Like boys do you? The pimps in the market could surely sell you a pretty Moorish boy if that’s your fancy. This one’s a bit old, and with a sting in the tail too. Still, money is money, and I’m not interested in petty trouble…’
Lorenzo seized his chance, blurted out, ‘Sir, I have money also, more than thirty florins! Better, I can get you to the Palazzio in time for the parade. I am a guide for the pilgrims and know all the shortcuts. I would serve you, sir, I have many useful skills…’
‘The soldier laughed. ‘Si, I can see what skills you have. You could be useful to us, I think, and it would be most embarrassing for us to miss the blessing of the saint. Very well. You two, get lost unless you want to see what your own insides look like. Young man, you lead us there, and quick.’
The shorter assassin made a last effort ‘Do not cross us, mercenary. We can make your life shorter if need be. We have powerful friends.’ He stepped forward, hefting the knife to throw.
Every one of the mercenaries’ blades rang from their scabbards as one. The captain grinned humourlessly.
‘If you have the balls, backstabber…if not, you need to be somewhere else. Now.’
The pair of cloaked men paled and stepped away, frustrated, dogs denied their prey. The taller one sneered at Lorenzo ‘Run and hide, little thief. No doubt you’ll amuse this mercenary for a time, but when you’re cast off we’ll give you a pointed lesson…’
The captain stepped forward, arm raised for a backhand, and both assassins ducked and fled.
‘So, young fellow, let’s be off. D’you have a name?’
‘Lorenzo Cambiola sir, and my thanks to you…’
‘Don’t thank me, I’m about to take all your money, as you promised.’ Sighing theatrically, Lorenzo put two of the stolen purses into the tall soldier’s hand. The man smiled, his sharp blue eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Now, time to run. You can keep the other purse. For now.’
Lorenzo smiled, his cheeks reddening. ‘You have my undying gratitude, good sir…as I am to serve you, might I know your name?’
‘They call me Giovanni Acuto, lad. But my countrymen call me John Hawkwood.’
Lorenzo was so awestruck he almost got them all lost on the way to the parade…

Early next morning, as wood-smoke began to curl from campfires and men cursed their hangovers, sore bones and dew-soaked bedrolls, Lorenzo yawned, hefted the heavy banner pole bearing the pennon of the White Company, clumsily stuck his feet into the stirrups of his moth-eaten new pony, said a silent goodbye to Padua and its troubles and kicked the nag forward to begin his new life as a soldier of fortune…after all, opportunities to make a fortune are wherever a man can find them, he thought with a wry smile.

[Ludens]

The Retribution
By Kagemusha

Adekagagwaa has brought us another beutifull summer. The nature has given us everything we need. The rivers are full of fish and the great hunter God, Sosondowah has driven so much game to our lands that meat will be plenty for next winter. Soon the harvest will come and the people of the long house will have lots of corn, beans and squash, the deohako, life savers will be plentifull and will feed us and our children, so we will be once more stronger when the new spring comes.

The forest is silent, too silent, the enemy is in the forest and they have disturbed the peace. Three days a go, group of Hurons came from their home country over the lake Ontario unnoticed. The dogs attacked our people that were collecting food from the forest. They killed three men : Skenandoa, Otetiani and Thayendanegea and also two women: Oheo and Oniatario.
Oniatario,who´s name means sparkling water,which she got from her sparkling laughter, i liked very much and my blood screams for revenge.

We have been driving them like a game for two days and we are closing on fast. The Huron thinks that they will escape back in the safety of their homeland the same way they came crossing Ontario with their birch canoes, but they are wrong.
Our fishermen found the canoes and now they are coming South to meet the Huron war party. The Huron dogs are walking into a trap.

This morning my friend Deskaheh, found fresh tracks that tell us that we are only a moment behind the Huron party.
We have travelled on swampy terrain the whole morning and its impossible for our game to move there without leaving any tracks. Now the terrain is getting more dry and we are getting into higher ground. The forest is getting thicker and the leaves of the trees are wet from the rain that poured down last night. From here and there i can see dry leaves where a Huron has passed or a cracked plant where he has stepped. Based on the tracks there cant be more then 15 Huron braves moving in front of us towards the Lake Ontario. We have 30 men in our party and another 15 of the fishermen are coming down to meet the Huron. Now its just up to, who will meet the enemy first.

As we move through a thick bushes, suddenly a volley of muskets is fired in ahead of us. Everybody throws themselves in the ground and listen. But in a moment it becomes clear that the volley was not aimed towards us.
Now we hear single shots and screams from ahead of us. This can only mean that the volley was shot by either the fishermen or the Huron party. Gawasowaneh, a great warrior who is leading our party , raises his ferocious war yell. And after that the whole forest is thundering with our yell!
We run towards the battle. I can feel my heart beating fast as i run towards the sounds!
I pass some tree trunks and suddenly i see a Huron straight in front of me aiming his musket in the opposite direction. I grab my trusted musket,aim and fire. The Huron stiffens when the musket ball hits his back. He turns around with an expression of doubt on his face, but there is no more doubt of his fate. My war club smashes into his face and his worries are over. I take my prize with my knife and move on.

Most muskets are now empty and the battle has changed to an hand to hand fight. Our two groups are pushing the Hurons in one spot, but still they are fighting fiercely.
Another Huron is running towards me with his axe high above his head. I manage to dodge the swing and only get a minor scratch on my left shoulder. Simultaneously i slash my knife and feel the warm blood on my hands coming out of a terrible wound on the braves belly. I swing around him and the Huron tryes to turn to face me,but drops on his knees in the process, becouse of the wound in his stomach. I look at the man and while his face is covered on white paint making him look fierce. I can see from his eyes that it is his time to meet the great creator.
I grab his hair and cut his throat. Then it is over.

The fight was fierce. There are 9 Huron warriors dead on the ground. Also two of our own have met their destiny, dying bravely in the midst of the battle.
7 of the Hurons have thrown their weapons in the ground and given their faith on our hands.

As many of the young warriors are screaming death to the Hurons. Our leader Gawasowaneh gives his judgement on the Hurons.

" These dogs came to our land to harm us. 7 of our people are now dead becouse of this dogs,who shouldnt call themselves warriors. So in order to appease the Oki,the life force of our people. We will burn two of the Hurons in our village , so they can honour our spirit.
The five others we will adopt in our tribe so they can continue to lives of the 5 dead warriors which they killed ".

Once again Gawasowaneh, has shown his wisdom and everybody is satisfied with his decision. The spirits are happy and the nature is back on its course. The Hunt is over and the peace is back in the forest.

[Ludens]

  Family Business

By Don Corleone

   The cold October rain was always a welcome relief to Camilla. She found it difficult to understand why people always judged things by their surface appearance. Take the rain. It was the only remedy for the harsh heat of the summer, and with the rains came the relief from the high temperatures that had plagued the town of Rovigo for nearly all of the summer months. Camilla had never come become accustomed to the summer heat here in the outskirts of Venezia. She wished she had listened to her mother and stayed in her native land of Albania, high up in the mountains. But when she was young, the allure of Venezia, greatest city in all the world, called to her with a pull she could not resist. Oh, to be young enough to go back and do it all over… to have lived a life of peace and contentment, instead of the misery….

   Her sewing needle jammed up into her finger, startling her back out of reverie. She looked down, alarmed at the prospect of ruining her embroidery. No, no blood. Just drops forming on her finger. She stuck her finger in her mouth to suck the droplet off, hoping it dried soon. She only had two days left to finish Adelina’s confirmation dress and it had to be just perfect. The only chance her granddaughter had to escape the horror that was daily life in Rovigo was to attract the eye of a young, kind (and if she was lucky, handsome) soldier in the Doge’s guard. She was struck by the irony, that her granddaughter’s best hope lay in marrying a soldier of the Doge’s army… the same act that started the events in motion that led her and her family to this bleak existence. All those years ago…. she could still see her handsome young Matteo, shiny breastplate on and helmet in hand, asking her father for her hand in marriage. And of course, standing closely behind, the perennial scowl etched upon his harsh features, Matteo’s oldest friend, Monsignor Giuseppe Ardaro (may he burn in the furnace of Gehenna), though he was only a lowly aiutante, an acolyte, in those days.
Alas, Matteo had had a kind, trusting heart, and in the end it had cost him everything, even his life… and more. And she herself had suffered terribly at the hands of Monsignor Ardaro. Once Matteo was dead, she was helpless. Monsignor Ardaro immediately asked her to renounce the Patriarch of Constantinople and her Orthodox faith. He insisted she take an oath of loyalty to the Pope. When she refused, he put her on trial as a heretic. She pleaded with him, begged him. But it was all in vain. Giuseppe crazed her body once, yes. But he craved revenge even more now. He had murdered Matteo in cold blood, even though Matteo had saved his life several times. Giuseppe’s affections for Camilla were no match for his bloodlust and need for revenge, even if it was that desire that had given birth to his malevolent spirit in the first place. She still remembered the savage glee in Monsignor Ardaro’s eye, when he cut off first one, then her other thumb. She remembered the words he hissed into her ear through the pain… “You chose foolishly, whore. Nothing you can offer to me now can save you. You are filthy with Matteo’s stink, and I won’t sully myself with you. But I will teach you. You will learn just how wrong you were…”
She had lasted a full 7 minutes with her feet in the fire. She had screamed, cried…. The pain had been blinding. She was convinced she had seen Jesus Christ himself at several points, and certainly his mother. When the flesh on the soles of her feet charred and then peeled back, exposing the bone, the pain became unbearable. She had thought she could make it as a martyr. She had been wrong. So wrong. She sobbed heavily and with her last remaining strength, she wailed “Pentirso! Pentirso!” (I repent). And with that one word, her Orthodox faith, and what remained of herself and her family, were gone. Monsignor Ardaro gloated triumphantly. He waited a moment more, then raised his hand, and called for pieta, mercy for the repentant woman. He smugly ordered the guards to lift Camilla off the tripod that held her dangling over the fire. He chuckled when they released her, her weight transferring to the burned mess that was once her feet and she collapsed under her weight and the pain. He strode up to her one more time, and when he was sure nobody else could hear him, he murmured at her “And to think, I would have made you mine once. You never should have humiliated me and chosen Matteo”.
Camilla shook herself back to the present. Adelina’s dress wouldn’t finish itself. She scolded Vito and sent him out for firewood. Aah, Vito. What a sweet, innocent boy. And sadly, how stupid. She wondered if he was even aware of the world around him. He spent most of the day standing still, staring into space. She had lost count of how many times she had wiped the drool out of the corner of his mouth before she finally resigned and allowed it to accumulate. His vacant eyes betrayed no emotions, not even a flicker of recognition..
Camilla watched Vito walk out the door. Physically, he reminded Camilla of Marco himself at his age. He had just joined the cavilliere and had made Matteo so proud. The day Marco joined the regiment was the last day of Matteo’s life and the last day Camilla would ever remember as peaceful. They had had such high hopes. With Marco’s entry in the cavilliere, Matteo could count on a land grant from the Doge. Unlike other Italian feudal states, and even his predecessors, Doge Jacopo IV demanded the life’s service (20 years) not only of a man, but one of his sons before he would bequeath him with land. With Marco’s acceptance of the pledge, the family’s position was secured, possibly for all time. At least it was until Monsignor Ardaro poisoned Matteo, tortured Camilla as a heretic, and eventually murdered Marco’s wife Rosa when giving birth to their fourth child. Even though Marco had served 18 years of his 20 year pledge, and even though he had to remain in Rovigo to care for his idiot son, crippled mother and 3 other children, Doge Jacopo had been merciless. He had the guardia evict them from their house that very day. All they had left was the one room shack with the fireplace in the center they now occupied.
Adelina staggered through the door. She was disheveled, her clothes ripped, mud was in her hair. She cried and whimpered and collapsed into Camilla’s outstretched arms. “They almost got me, Grandma. They almost took my virture! And there were four of them!” Camilla tensed. She knew without asking who was responsible. She knew that Monsignor Adaro’s pupils had attacked beautiful Adelina on her way home. Something must have happened for them to have stopped. If they had gotten her into such a vulnerable position, she would already have been ruined. “What stopped them, angelina?” Camilla asked her granddaughter as she soothed her and stroked her hair. “Vito” she said excitedly. I never saw him coming. They had just torn my shift, when I saw Vito’s face appear over the head of the boy who was on top of me. He hit the boy in the head with one of the logs. Grandma, I think he killed them!” Camilla shivered…. Vito was doomed. Unless…
When Marco arrived home later that afternoon, Camilla called him over to her stool immediately. She explained the events of the day. Surprisingly, Marco showed no reaction. He nodded quietly and seemed to pensively consider the options left to the family. When Camilla finished the tale and had proposed the one possible resolution she could imagine, she looked deeply into his eyes and asked only once “Are you sure you can do it, Marco?” Marco grimly looked her in the eye and said “I have waited since the death of Rosa for this day. The Lord has forsaken this house. He cannot expect protection for his jackals any longer”. “SILENCE!!!” Camilla shouted. “Monsignor Ardaro is no servant of God, no matter what the authorities might say.” Marco nodded, but Camilla suspected he hardly cared anymore whether he was saved or damned, and probably hadn’t for some number of years.
The knock at the door caught them all unaware. Marco opened the door and greeted the visitor, none other than Monsignor Ardaro himself. “Good evening, Camilla, Marco. I am certain you know why I am here”, the evil priest chuckled. Monsignor Ardaro seated himself at the head of the table, his gaze daring Marco to challenge him on it. Marco let it pass unacknowledged and poured him a glass of wine. “Please monsignor, my boy, he’s not right in the head. He meant no harm. He doesn’t know his strength”. “The youth will be hung tomorrow, his body will be cast over the garbage cliff for the crows to peck at”, Monsignor Ardaro stated, matter of factly. “There is no hope for him or his immortal soul”. Camilla hobbled over and took a seat at the table beside Monsignor Ardaro. “Giuseppe, please. I have suffered enough. My family has suffered enough. Please, there must be something”. Camilla shivered in revulsion as the familiar hungry smile crossed Monsignor Ardaro’s face. “Oh, I suppose for the right price, I might relent to a quick beheading and an actual funeral” Ardaro smiled. “Adelina”, Camilla murmured sadly. Monsignor Ardaro grinned wickedly. “So, you see her resemblance to you in your youthful days as well, eh Camilla?” “Yes, she would make a decent offering. Unlike you, her womb is unsullied by that despicable Matteo. IF she is pristine, she may be my whore. I will put her up in a house closer to the cathedral, and I will visit her from time to time as is my right. Any children that come of this, well, they will have to be tended to by you and by her. I will not offer them my name. I offer this in exchange for Vito’s pardon.”. Marco forced himself to resist the urge to strangle the priest right then and there. “We’ll bring her to the rectory tonight, Monsignor” Marco managed to stammer.
Several hours later, Marco drove the cart up from his shack to the rectory. Young Adelina, dressed in a provocative dress sat with a doomed look, sat on the seat beside him. As he drove the cart up to the rectory he adjusted the oil skins to cover the vegetables he carted to the market each morning. He braked the cart just outside the guardhouse next to the rectory. “I’m here to see Monsignor Ardaro” Marco said softly. “We know damn well why you, and SHE, are here!” the leering, grinning guardsmen laughed. “He’ll be right out”. The monsignor walked out from the courtyard to stand alongside the wagon. His hand strayed up to Adelina’s exposed young thigh. “HEY!”, Marco yelled. “Not until we have the pardon”. “Yes, yes, of course” the monsignor chuckled. “We’re in luck. The bishop and his staff are visiting this evening. I will have Monsignor Toredo take my dictation for the pardon and the bishop himself will sign for it, when I tell him to. I will only do that when I see your daughter present herself, nude, to my bedchamber at the top of the stairs. I will be up there in 5 minutes exactly. If she isn’t there, I will have my guardsmen torture your son to death. If she is, you will receive the pardon”. Marco leaned down and whispered in Adelina’s ear. She violently shook her head. Marco whispered some more. Adelina began to cry. Sadly, she climbed down from the wagon and headed up the stairs. Marco climbed down and walked over to the guards. He produced a pair of bones and asked if any of them would be interested in a throw. Of course, they all joined in. Monsignor Ardaro triumphantly entered the house and proceeded to his personal chapel, to offer a small prayer before ‘retiring for the night’.
Monsignor Ardaro found it impossible to concentrate on his prayer. He had dreamed about how to seduce Adelina without raising the suspicion of the townsfolk. This was too perfect. God really did favor him. He said a quick word of thanks, extinguished the candles in the house and headed up the stairs. He paused, lit a candle, and then entered his bedchamber. From beneath the trappings around his bed, he saw a long, creamy exposed thigh and other sights of female flesh that excited him to no end. He cackled happily and stepped back into the hall. “Monsignor Toredo, have you prepared the pardon?” he gleefully asked. “Yes brother, but I find this a filthy business indeed”. “Never you mind, Luigi”, Monsignor Ardaro mused. He tapped briefly on the Bishop’s door “My lord, my lord Stefano. I am satisfied. The D’Amelio family is pardoned for all offenses this night”. “As you will have it”, the bishop called out from within the bedroom. He stepped out and signed the pardon extended by Monsignor Toredo. Snatching it from him the moment the ink was to the page, Monsignor Ardaro walked rapidly back to his own bedroom and entered. He set the pardon upon his washing table and announced “You may bring this to your family in morning…. if you’re able to walk”. He removed his dressing gown and entered his curtained bed, feeling much younger than his fifty something years. The moment he passed the curtain, he sensed something was wrong, and noticed a small pool of blood at the foot of the bed. He looked to the head, and saw not Adelina, but Camilla outstretched on the bed beside him. “Oh darling, you always wanted me. And those new feet you gave me… they made it so hard for me to come to you. But I did it…It cost me dearly, but I made it to you.” “There must be some mistake”, Monsignor Ardaro managed to stammer. “No mistake at all darling”, Camilla cooed. “Adelina is here”. “Adelina!”….” Camilla called out. The curtains parted and there stood Adelina, bearing a small dagger. She handed it to Camilla and said “The pardon is clear. It says… ‘for all offenses this night’ and it’s signed by the bishop himself”. Cold terror ran down the spine of the monsignor. “Wait” he whimpered, “you must allow me my last confession”. Camilla smugly looked him in the eye and said “Do you really think there’s anybody listening to you on the other side anymore” as her hand brought the dagger down…

[Ludens]

The Story
By Big_John

This damn story. These stupid contests. I'm sitting here trying to think of something to write. Like I don't have better, more important things to do? Damn, damn, damn! If only I had an imagination. Or maybe I need skill? I think I imagine good things to write about, but I lack the skill to follow through. I can't flesh the stories out. I get the premise, and then nothing.

This is no good. What I need is a Muse. I saw a commercial once... some dude has a Muse that's playing an electric keyboard because he bought a digital camera or something. At this point, I'll try anything. I'm going to Best Buy, be back in an hour.

-------

I'm back. I asked the sales girl about the camera that comes with the Muse. Predictably, she was a bit confused; she didn't know what a Muse was. Once I explained the mythology to her, she seemed more confused, but that didn't stop her from recommending a certain digital camera. It was expensive, but what price can you put on a Muse?

So I come home, open this bad boy up, and... nothing. No Muse. No genie. No fairy. I would have settled for a midget after spending $400 on a damn camera. It is a nice camera though. I'm going to go take some pictures, maybe that'll give me an idea for a story. Be back in a few.

-------

OK, so guess what happened... I go to take some pictures of trees and stuff, right? When I come back, I plug this thing into my computer and USB does its thing and within a few seconds I'm goofing around with these pics in Photoshop. I'm playing with all these filters when I feel something brush against my shoulder. I turn my head and what do I see? A small woman is floating beside me. Man, I jumped right out of my seat!

"What the!" I exclaimed.
"What?" she asked, backing away with a start.

I stood there just staring at her for a long time, wide-eyed. She stared back. She was holding a harp in her right hand, and I noticed her ankles had little tiny wings on them. She was floating, gently bobbing up and down.

Eventually, she repeated her question, "What is it? Is something wrong?"
"Wrong?! Holy crap!" I responded.
"I guess you need a Muse to help you with your vocabulary," she said, acerbically.
At this point I rubbed both of my eyes hard, and shook my head in my hands. I held my hands over my face for a good minute before peeking out. She was still there, floating and looking bored.
"Anytime now," she complained.
"Are... Are you a Muse?"
"Wow, can't get one past you, can I?"
I was too awe-struck to react to her sarcasm. "No way, dude. No way!"
"Oh good grief. Look, do you need help creating? Or am I just supposed to float here and look pretty?"

She actually was pretty too. She had a long sky-blue gown on that shimmered in the light. Her skin was a bright pink, which was weird; it kind of looked like she had a bad sunburn, but I guess it was more periwinkle than red. Her hair was also pink (but a much lighter shade) and her tiny lips were a deep purple color. And she was small. I mean, really small. Probably only like three feet tall. But she had the normal proportions of a woman, I guessed she probably only weighed about forty lbs.

"How much do you weigh?" I asked, slack-jawed.
"Ex-cuse me?" she said, putting her hands on her little hips, the harp resting on her wrist now.
"You're so tiny."
"Do you have brain damage or something?"
"What?"
"Come on, let's get to creating.. I'm a Muse, and apparently you're an artist, albeit a powerfully stupid one. So let's do this thing."
"What?"
"Unbelievable. What am I here for?"
I didn't respond.
"I'm here to help you create. I'm a Muse. Let's start creating."

I just stared at her. Her frustration had turned into disappointment, "Why do I always get the simple ones?"
By now, my shock was wearing off, and I was coming around, "So, you're a Muse?"
Her head fell forward and she made an incredulous gesture with her hands.
"Oh, hey, forgive the hell out of me! I just don't run into too many Muses, you know."
"You bought the camera didn't you?" she said, pointing at the digital camera sitting on top of my computer, "Didn't you see the commercial?"
"I thought that was just an advertising gimmick."
"Nice to meet you too", she said narrowing her eyes, obviously offended.
"Oh, I... I didn't mean... I mean..."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can we get this over with already?"
I looked down at the chair, sat down, and swiveled it towards her, "OK yeah, I need help with this," I indicated the computer screen.

The little wings on her ankles fluttered and she floated over to the monitor. She read aloud, "Third annual writing contest organisational thread. You're organizing a writing contest?"
"Huh? No. I'm trying to enter it. I need your help writing a story."
She wasn't really listening to me now. Instead she was enthralled by the computer monitor, "Is this an internet?" she asked, with noticeable wonderment.
"Oh, uh... yeah... uh... part of it."
"Does it all look like this?"
"What? Oh, no. That's just one website."
"Web site," she repeated.
"Uh, it's 'The Org'," I said.
"What's it about?"
"My story?"
"Hmm?" she seemed a bit confused.
"What's what about?" I asked.
"This ‘Org’," she resumed staring at the computer screen. She floated even closer to it and was thoroughly entranced.
"Oh, it's a gaming site... the total war games."
"Total war?" the phrase had broken her concentration.
"Yeah, uh... games. Computer games," I grabbed my RTW case off the shelf and showed it to her.
She regarded the case for a long time. I offered it to her, but she seemed content just looking at it.
At length, she said, "So, are you like a huge nerd?"
"What!? No. I mean, not really. Everyone plays games nowadays. Come on."
She had an amused look on her face and rolled her eyes slightly. She resumed staring at the computer screen, leaning forward slightly, with her little hands clasped behind her back.
"So... umm, when do we get started?" I asked.
She turned her head slowly to me, and said, "Come again?"
"When do we start 'musing'?"
"Oh. What am I helping you with?"
"My story."
"What story?"
"For the contest!" I pointed at the computer screen.
"Oh, you're writing a story?"
"I'm the one with brain damage?"
"No need to be snide," she said aloofly, returning her attention back to the monitor.

Aggravated, I shut the monitor off with a quick jab to the power button.
She sprung back a few feet, "How rude!"
"Sorry, but you weren't paying attention!"
"I haven't seen an internet before. Show a little consideration, why don't you?" she said setting the harp on a hook in her little golden belt and crossing her arms.
"OK, sorry. But help me with this story and I'll show you all around the internet, OK?"
"I hate humans," she muttered glancing around the room, purposefully ignoring me.
"Great. Well, let's finish this story and you can go back inside the camera."
"Inside the camera?" she asked quizzically.
"Or to 'Museland' or wherever you come from."
"'Museland'," she repeated flatly, shaking her little head.

I didn't say anything, and eventually she asked, "OK, what's your story about?"
"Uh, that's what you're here for."
"How so?"
I was bewildered. I said, "You're a MUSE! Help me come up with a story already!"
"Mmm. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not that kind of Muse."
"Say what?"
"I do musical inspiration." She pointed at her harp, and said, "I can help you tell a story through song, or tone. Want to compose a tone poem? How about one telling the sad story of a little girl slaving away in the dreary mines of Boliv..."
"Hold on!" I interrupted, "Are you trying to tell me you won't help me with this story?"
"I do musical inspiration."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No, I do mus..."
"But you came with a camera!"
She just shrugged.
"Shouldn't you at least do photographic 'inspiration' or something?"
She looked at me blankly for a few moments, and then said, "I do musical inspiration."
We stared at each other in silence for a solid minute before I finally said, "I can't believe I just wasted all this time... some Muse you are!"

She shrugged again, took her harp in hand and started playing a melody.
"No," I said, "No music. Put your harp away and go somewhere else if you're not going to help me."
"I can't go away, you've summoned me."
"Well now I cast you off, away with you!"
"'Away with you'? Ha. I thought you said you weren't a nerd." She punctuated her insult with a loud glissando.
I put my head in my hand and asked, "How do I get rid of you?"
"We could write a song about a wise old owl that meets a toad and..."
"No."
"An opera about a young, inner city white boy that wants to ‘battle rap’ and..."
"No."
"How about this for a symphony? A saber-tooth tiger gets caught in a tornado that whisks him into the future..."
"Seriously, go away. Now."

"I can't just go away; you have to take the camera back."
"You take it back. Return yourself and leave me alone."
"I can't return the camera, I'm incorporeal."
"Really?" I said, already reaching a hand out to her. Sure enough, my hand went right through her abdomen.
She looked down at my hand sticking into her, looked up at me and said, "That is really unprofessional."
I withdrew the hand and said, "Sorry," with a big goofy grin.
"I hate humans," she said.
"Yeah. Alright, well, I guess I'll take you back to the store then. Thanks for being such a tremendous help. I don't know how I could have wasted this much time without you."
"No. You said you'd show me more internets. I want to see them."
"I said I'd do it after you helped me with my story. Clearly, you haven't helped me do anything except realize how overrated Muses are."
"Come on, just show me a few."
"Go to hell." I got up and grabbed the camera, unhooked it form the computer and started to put it back in the box.
"I really hate you humans," she said with venom.
"I know," I said with another huge grin.

"Wait!" she exclaimed suddenly.
"What?"
"If you put the camera in the box, I go with it, and I won't be able to appear to you anymore."
"Awesome."
"No, it’s dreadfully boring in the box. Please let me stay out a little longer."
"Nah, you hate humans. I wouldn't want you to suffer," I added a comically villainous laugh, "Muahaha!"
"No, wait!" she screamed, holding out her arms, "I have an idea for your story!"
"Yeah, right."
"No, seriously."
"Let's hear it."
"OK, what about... this!" she said, holding her hands out, palm up, as if presenting something.
"What?" I asked, puzzled.
"Write about this, about me, about meeting a beautiful Muse, yeah. Write about how this beautiful young Muse came and how you were brutish and stupid and wouldn’t show her your internets." She was smiling and nodding, obviously impressed with her own idea. I stared at her for a long time without saying anything.

Eventually, she asked, "Well? Not bad, eh?"
"Stupidest idea I've ever heard," I replied without expression, and shoved the camera in its box. She popped out of existence with a disgusted look on her face. I laughed, closed up the box, looked at it and said, "Owned!" And then I took it back to Best Buy and got my money back.

Once I returned home, I still didn't have a story to submit. So, I took that dumb pixie's advice and wrote about her and stuff. I know it sucks, but I couldn't think of anything else to write. Anyway, now I feel kind of bad about shoving her back in the box like that since I ended up using her idea. But she was really annoying. And besides, the last thing you want is some twit knowing that they helped you.

[Ludens]

Nightmare
By Edyzmedieval

Dark clouds covered the misty atmosphere of the abandoned mansion. Tyrannical screams of pain filled the air, as the phalanx of phantoms erupted from the moving walls, scaring my little dog to lifeless death. The echo of the monstrous growl arrived to my bleeding ears, making the sound to vibrate in my liquid brain. I jumped out of the bed, dilating my pupils, trying to see through the dark room. I understood quickly what terrible deeds were going on in our stricken world.
   I took a torn jacket, jeans, t-shirt and a baseball cap and I searched for my weapons, to fight off Zalmex, The Dark God of the Wrongals, and his morbid army of Wacrones. The deserted mansion where I live, offers protection against the cackling crones, but I decided to fight in the acid open. I passed the ghastly living room, filled with furniture from 300 years ago, and with the old, rusty carpet, which have you a bug-massage to my cracking toes. I opened the 58th dimension portal, it’s fuzzy light engulfing my body inside an eerie sensation of mystical fulfillness. I took my weapons and I set foot back on the watery grave roof of the demolished mansion. The Glacial wilderness was starting to take over the world once again, another inhumane deed created by Zalmex . The planet was starting to be covered in fiery ice once again, and I could hear the inhuman liquid screams caused by this. I had no friends to help me, I was about to go fight alone.
   My reflexes kicked in as I swooped through the jelly chairs and paper windows of the mansion. I took a white Uffington horse, and started galloping through the dark day, to the fearsome inexistent horizon, the sky being totally covered by the powerful warmonger.
   In my trip, I passed past dark-glowing seqanta forests, filled with Dark Elves, Cackling Crones and other horrid creatures. Howls, cries, screeches, crows could be heard louder and louder, as the source of this horrid, mystical weeping was drawing closer and closer, making my thick ears to bleed harder. Boned elephants could be seen, fighting for food between each other. Horribly mutilated skeletons crawled from the poisoned fountains, capturing anyone who dared to come near them. Megalithic temples with sacrifice altars and shiny entrails completed the horried view of the landscape. As I came nearer and nearer to fight Zalmes, I heard distant barbaric songs, filling the atmosphere with their screeches.
   Volcanic ash erupts, molding thousands and thousands of fierce warriors, deployed by Zalmex. Nothing more than fiery lava, these ephemeral Wacrones march forward to attack me. Using my ancient spellbook, I summon my old friend, Fran, a hunting dog with magnificent powers. Thousands and thousands of Wacrones attacked my milk white Uffington horse, but I was able to repel back these monstrous invaders. They began to give terrain, as the massive liquid pressure inflicted upon them melted their lava armor. I made my way to Zalmex, who was fighting like a possessed creature, blocking every shot I aimed at him. The battle lingered on, as both of us wanted their enemy dead. Even though the horrible fatigue started to put more pressure on both of us, neither of us gave terrain. Slowly, but surely, Zalmex’ power overwhelmed by fatigued and stricken body. I lay down, defeated, waiting for the final blow…

"Wake up!!! said my sister"
"Wha? Where am I?"
"You had a bad nightmare. Now wake up, breakfast is ready."
"Yeah, ok."
Was it really a nightmare? Or was it an event what would clearly change the known world forever?

[Ludens]

The Letter
By Stephen Asen

Be cursed, Nicephorus Doukas, a megas logothete of the Roman Empire !



My husband John Radul was blind and desperate, kneeling before you, Nicephorus Doukas. He was begging you, who had blinded him and had killed two of his sons, for the life of his youngest. However you were relishing his tragedy and an arrogant smile appeared on your face… You thought you were so powerful that you could laugh at the death of a whole family.

Be cursed to be defeated by the death while still alive: then it will be you who will curse the day you laughed at my sons’ death!



Two of my sons were stabbed by your assassins; one you accused of high treason and was beheaded as a criminal. The last one you did not kill but you should have to. You also killed my single grandchild in a horrible way…Words can not express the mother’s grief – it should be experienced.

And be cursed to know my grief, Nicephorus Doukas!



However you did not kill my last son but poisoned his mind and made him a fratricide… You have taken his soul with you in the Hell: then I do not need the Paradise anymore. And I declare with my own blood, which I used instead of ink, that I wish to pay my soul for the revenge you deserve.

Be cursed to be yourself, Nicephorus, the son of Alexius Doukas !

Sister Iphigenia( Irene Radulena), widow of John Radul
and mother of his dead children

The abbess, who had read the letter, gave a low cry and threw the letter into the fireplace. She crossed herself – she felt He was watching her from the flames. In the following moment a nun stormed into the cell – she was as terrified as the abbess herself.

‘ Mother, sister Iphigenia became insane! ‘

The abbess heard a woman screaming in the convent…