Muhahaha, Petty Thieves, Savage Beasts, and Maniacal Megalomaniacs!
Now we just add a pinch of hate, a cup of revenge, a dash of ill intent…What am I doing, you ask? Well…
This week’s Writing Group prompt is:
The Making of a Villain
RULES AND GUIDELINES BELOW!
Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!
This prompt is a wonderful one for our group. Each week we get stories of heroes, of normal people, of morally grey characters…and, while villains sometimes get the spotlight, often they are in the background—always lurking, popping up from time to time for a good fight, or a nice monologue.
The first place my mind goes to with this prompt is a villain’s origin. This is the Joker falling into the acid, Doc Ock’s arms malfunctioning, Dracula’s wife being murdered. This prompt could easily be used to show your readers the moment your villain became a villain. Does this scene make us feel bad for them? Or only make us hate them more?
But, something I love about this prompt is that it is not “The Origin of a Villain.” It’s the “making.” And making—while it can be a single incident—often takes place over the course of many weeks, months, years. For immortal characters, it could even take place over the course of lifetimes. Like baking a good cake, people aren’t made instantly. Maybe someone is slowly molded into the form of a villain by their abusive parent, by their cruel society, by an uncaring spouse, or even by the demons in their own head (literal or figurative). You could write a story about a child crying, just wishing their father loved them. About the teenager bullied at school. About the adult trying so hard to fight their own head. Each of these stories could be how a villain is made in one way or another (just be sure to give us some hint at their later villainy). Stories like these could be a great way to show how complex becoming a villain is, and how villains are often humans just like heroes.
Or…maybe your villain isn’t sympathetic at all. Maybe you want to show just how evil your villain is. Voldemort didn’t really have a moment in his life that turned him evil. He was born through a love potion, and thus incapable of love. If you were to write about his making, you could write about his mother using the love potion long before he’s born. Or you could write about another character wondering why he became evil, and failing to find an answer. You can easily write a story about your hero demanding “Why are you so cruel? What made you this way?” only for the villain to laugh and say “No one made me. I made me.”
But villains aren’t always people. They can be beasts and monsters…or even corporations, societies, governments. This is perhaps a more challenging use of the prompt. You could write a story about how a group started out with a noble goal, but slowly became more corrupt. What was it that started the descent? A corrupt CEO? A single rule change? Someone sitting in their office playing basketball with their garbage can? What made them what they are? Or perhaps you want to write the beasts in the fog. How did they become what they are? Is there something in the fog that made them go mad? Are they simply driven by hunger? You could even write about an evil alien race. What makes them evil? Is it nature or nurture? Are they just trying to protect themselves?
Because that’s another thing about “making” a villain. Someone can be made into a villain when they’re not truly a villain. This is where “history is written by the victors” comes into play. You could write a story about your character realizing the person they thought was the villain all along was actually the hero, and vice versa. This is also where things like propaganda come in. Propaganda can make someone out to be the villain who isn’t, all the while hiding the true villainy behind the posters. There are plenty of stories you could write about how someone was carefully crafted into a villain—your character speaking with their cellmate in jail, hearing them say they were wrongly accused; the supposed “villain” pleading “Please, I’m trying to save you!”; the main character trying to fight the horrible rumors going around. You could make it even simpler than that: the hungry wolf could be a sympathetic hero, or a horrible villain, depending on who’s telling the story.
You could take the prompt more literally. Sometimes characters have need of a villain, and manufacture them in some way. This is Morgoth taking the elves and breaking them so far that even their children are monsters. This is Megamind giving an ordinary man superpowers, trying to create a hero, and instead creating a villain. Does your villain need a henchman? Does your hero need someone to fight? Why might someone force another into the mold of a villain?
I have three challenges for you this week.
My first challenge is one you might expect: this prompt is a very dark one, and I challenge you to make your story more silly or lighthearted! This is the time to bring out the recipes for evil overlords, and the cheesy monologues. Show me the silly villains in amongst the seriousness of the prompt.
The second is to make it Father’s Day related in some way. Villainy may not be the best way to show our father’s love this week, but Vader and Ozai have taught us that sometimes fathers make for great villains…
The third challenge is the most unique and, well, challenging. This challenge is to write what I call a “mirror story.” This is two scenes, with a break between them, that mirror each other. The easiest way to explain what this is is through examples: this means writing about a character being bullied, then having a time skip, and showing in your second scene how they have become a bully themselves. Writing about a child homeless on the street, then showing them in a dark castle, wealthy…and alone. Writing about how one character thinks they’re doing the right thing, and a second perspective on the same scene sees their villainy. You could even write the first scene as someone being a villain, and the second scene as them looking back and regretting that they made themselves a villain. (This story I read on the stream is a perfect example of what I would call a “mirror story”). I love stories that write about a time in a character’s life, and then either fast forward, or flashback, to show how things have changed…and yet stayed the same. Or stories that show the same scene from multiple perspectives. Show how your villain became who they are through different moments in their life. Show how your villain tried to fight for justice once, and now creates injustice. Show how they tried so hard to curb their darker impulses…and how they failed. It can be difficult to do two scenes and/or a time skip in these short stories; I definitely think this could be one of the more difficult challenges, yet one that could create quite profound stories.
You get extra brownie points if you do all three! It would be especially challenging to combine a mirror scene with something lighthearted, but I think you guys can do it!
Remember, these challenges aren’t mandatory! They are meant to be a fun bonus if you’d like to have a little extra challenge. But, if you don’t want to use them, please don’t feel obligated to!
Now, where was I? I was just about to add the motivation…Oh no. I think I made them too hot.
—Kaylie
—
Remember, this is part of our weekly Writing Group stream! Submit a little piece following the rules and guidelines below, and there’s a chance your entry will be read live on stream! In addition, we’ll discuss it for a minute and give you some feedback.
Tune into the stream this Saturday at 3:00pm CST to see if you made the cut!
The whole purpose of this is to show off the creativity of the community, while also helping each other to become better writers. Lean into that spirit! Get ready not just to share what you’ve got, but to give back to the other writers here as well.
Rules and Guidelines
We read at least five stories during each stream, two of which come from the public post, and three of which come from the much smaller private post. Submissions are randomly selected by a bot, but likes on your post will improve your chances of selection, so be sure to share your submission on social media!
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What to Submit
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- Be constructive and uplifting. These submissions are not for a professional market, and shouldn’t be treated as such. We do this, first and foremost, for the joy of the craft. Help other writers to feel like their work is valuable, and be considerate and gentle with critique when you offer it. Authors who leave particularly abrasive or disheartening remarks on this post will be disqualified from selection for readings.
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Comments on this post that aren’t submissions will be deleted, except for replies/reviews left on existing submissions.
Revenge is best served at the hands of the emperor…
by MarshallNite
Ryder was a person with a kind heart, one which wanted the best for everyone.. including a good life for his pups…
Well.. that was until The Invasion, an event which forced Ryder and his crew out of Adventure Bay, and made them see the truth…
A digital world which opened up their eyes, and allowed them to see the truth… They were made for the entertainment of others…
So with this knowledge.. they fled their realm.. and found themselves in a world with technology beyond anything the escapees
could imagine.
Unfortunately.. their peace was interfered by the authorities of that world, 7 foot tall mechs, armed with otherworldly weapons…
-No matter what happens.. stay strong, and never give up…
Ryder, in an attempt to secure the safety of his friends, he sacrificed his life to save them, lurering the mechs away from the escapees.
But while he ran.. he was saved by a mysterious figure wearing a purple and black outfit, with a red, flaming skull for a head..
-You’re coming with me, NOW!
Ryder was then taken to an unknown location, where they corrupted his mind and turned him into a dark and corrupted soul, a soul that yurned to kill the ones he saved.. in honor of his new master, Terminax Omega…
During The Great Cyberwar, he joined the ranks of the Omega Empire, with a mission: Make The Resistance fall to their knees.
“You were never destined to possess such powers.. YOU WERE ONLY MEANT TO BE ADVENTURE BAY’S SAVIORS! And now.. you’ve abandoned your duty and joined the enemy side? PATHETIC! However.. the empire has opened up my eyes and revealed to me the truth.. the empire are the true heroes and The Resistance only wants to use you, so that Axelion may expand his reign…
If you think we tell lies.. well… Let me help you see the truth” -Marauder Ryder
Arman and Amani
The lights overhead swirled, bouncing and reflecting against the walls of The Boys’ room. That’s what the big ones called it, both with the words from their mouths and the words that spilled from their hearts. Amani lay next to him, tears calmed by the shifting lights.
But after a while, Amani cried again, the hungry ache in his belly too much for pretty lights to soothe away.
The big ones wouldn’t come. It was night. Dark. They’d only come once before in the night, no matter how hard they cried.
The night hot orange and yellow light burst through the wall, the big ones had come running. They’d yanked him and Amani away from the light and dried their tears, fed them, and cradled them.
Maybe those lights would bring them today.
Arman shared his idea with Amani but it didn’t stop his tears. So he closed his eyes and filled the room with the hot orange and yellow lights. It hurt. It was just words from his heart but it hurt. He began to cry, as well.
Panicked cries from the big ones followed, and he and Amani were doused with water. Water had extinguished the lights the last time, so he made the lights go dark.
The big ones held them, changed them, fed them. Nestled in the big ones’ warm bed, Arman and Amani slept well that night.
–
The lights overhead were different now.
Arman turned the colors around and over each other, morphing them into people he’d seen back before this new room. Before they’d come here, he could see everything through the walls. He could see the bus driver checking his mirrors and the little girls playing hopscotch in the school yard two miles down. He could taste the ice cream the couple in the park shared. The taller one didn’t like the lemon flavor but she pretended she did, even when Arman made it taste like Crisco.
Now, the walls were too thick to see, too thick to help others see.
So he lay and waited until Amani might come.
Fiercer than Scylla and Charybdis combined – danger is in the eyes of the beholder
by Aracnarquista
Logbook Entry 13 – 12 days after leaving port
Currents and winds are both dead. The skies promise us no change. We are stranded, with no succor in sight.
Taking into account our supplies and the crew size, I’m confident we would be able to survive for a long while. But that is just considering our dietary needs. Our main concern right now is not starvation, but the Beast.
We are not just stranded in any patch of the sea. We are stranded in the Beast’s hunting ground.
I first saw the Beast when the current was still pulling us through. An enormous creature with powerful claws appeared out of nowhere and slapped us out of course. And then, just as it appeared, it disappeared. Since then, no winds or currents carry us, and we occasionally catch glimpses of the Beast in the distance.
It prowls on us. Twice or thrice during the last hours of the day, it approaches us and taps the ship. The first mate says it is playing with us, like a cat would do to a mouse. I think it is taking us little by little closer to its lair.
“Not what I said, Captain. I did not use no metaphor, sir. It is indeed a cat. Well, a kitten. And it seems quite interested in our little paper boat.”
“Mate, you are ruining it all again. It is a ferocious beast with the power to capsize this ship, and we are at its mercy.”
“I don’t dispute that capability, Captain. But so far it has just been trying to play with us. It could, if careless or if it wanted, completely destroy our ship – but a light rain could also do that. I don’t think we are in immediate danger.”
“And what’s the fun in a grand sea adventure without any risk, my mate? Come on, help me here. The kitten’s appearance – and its curiosity – is a dramatic blessing! Imagine the stories little Sam could tell about us vanquishing the terrible sea beast? Or, even better, befriending it?”
Letters From Far Away
By Taja DaLeen
Dear Kyle,
I have just arrived on the island I was telling you about in my last letter. It really is beautiful here, and I already have a few plot ideas for my new novel, so I’d say the trip is pretty successful so far.
Even if I do miss you a lot. I hope you’re doing well, and that you take care of yourself.
Well, back to the topic of my novel… what I still need more ideas and inspiration for is a good villain, that one I’m still missing.
I wonder what you’d tell me right now… probably something about a villain being a character first and foremost as well, with agency and desires, strengths and weaknesses like any other character.
Still, I’m thinking a lot about what makes a villain exactly that – a villain. Is it just being evil? Do they really need to do evil stuff; or is it enough if their end goal is evil? And what about those that have a noble goal, but do all the wrong things to achieve it?
Couldn’t all of that make interesting villains?
Or… is it really just a matter of perspective?
And, most importantly, what kind of villain do I want for my story? Or rather, what kind of villain does my story need?
As of now, I have no idea. Hopefully I can figure that one out before I need to come back home – I know how much you dislike it when I sit at my desk until late at night just thinking.
I’ll probably ponder that question some more after I talk to the merpeople I’m supposed to meet tomorrow; maybe they can even give me a few ideas, telling me what they think a villain could be.
But I think that’s it for today’s letter, I think I already told you everything that happened lately anyway. I’ll write to you again tomorrow, ok?
I hope we see each other again soon. In love for now and all time,
Thomas
Return (Life of Madness)
by Lee Strangely
As Maddy tightened the ropes around the corpse, she occasionally looked up to see Shiloh marching about the room, moving things, placing objects… all within the circle that stained the floor. For a moment she looked at the corpse’s empty eyes, then looked to Shiloh. Her mouth opened, but nothing came. She wanted to say something, but…
Shiloh was focused, his expression blankly serious. He seemed almost as cold as the windows’ gray light. So cold that it froze each word before they could leave her throat.
She watched as Shiloh opened up an old black book.
“Shiloh?” she muttered.
He began lighting candles around them.
“You said you couldn’t…”
“There’s many ways to find spirits…” he looked at her, “some… more, unsavory, ways…”
“Look, you don’t have to…”
“No,” he stopped her as he opened the book, “I owe you this.” He wrapped his hand around a knife blade.
“You don’t owe me-”
“I do, and I’m not letting you down,” he bled as he pulled the blade out, “not now… not again…”
Before Maddy could rebuke, his hand went into the circle, the winds outside intensifying as he did.
“Shiloh?” she reached out only to be stopped by his other hand.
“Don’t”
Shiloh’s eyes dashed in every which direction, all seeing, yet seeing nothing at all. The candle fire grew brighter the longer it went.
“I see him.”
Then, his hand snapped shut, “Got him… Wait…”
Shiloh collapsed.
As soon as his hand left the ground, the candles sputtered out, and the winds died down to nothing.
Maddy ran up to check him, then returned to the corpse.
“Dad?” she asked.
Nothing.
She pulled him up by the hair. His eyes… still empty…
There came a growl…
She looked at the corpse, whose mouth remained shut.
“Madness… Dyer… MERIDIAN!” Maddy’s heart halted, her blood running cold as the voice barked, “What did you do?! Look at me.”
Maddy just stood there, shrinking, until someone finally grabbed her and spun her around. Standing there was Shiloh.
“Madness,” he boomed, “you’ll look at your father when he’s talking to you!”
Make-a-Villain Customer Service
By Strong Berry
The following is a conversation between a service representative of ‘Make-a-Villain’ and a customer:
SR: Yes, this is ‘Make-a-Villain’, how can I help you?
C: Hello, yes, I would like to-uh, to make a villain, please.
SR: Just a moment, sir. Okay, I’m gonna ask you some questions to ensure your villain fits you just-
C: It’s not for me. It’s for a superhuman, Mr.W. He’s… retired? I guess? He killed his arch nemesis recently and uh… h-he’s not doing well. Last night he broke the legs of a bartender who asked him to leave. If this worsens, it’s gonna be really scary.
SR: I see, so ‘Arch super-nemesis’. Okay sir, now what kind of powers do you want your villain to have?
C: Let’s see… I don’t think it- Oh! Invincibility! Yes, he needs to be kept alive. Everything else doesn’t really matter so long as he can fight dad-Mr.W, I mean.
SR: Alright, so: Invincible… anything else?
C: Maybe have him make references to a fake villain? Something mysterious, to keep Mr.W busy between fights.
SR: Right on, sir. Okay, we’re almost done, now what about the backstory?
C: You want me t-to make a backstory, I-I’m not a writer-
SR: That’s okay, sir, just choose a template. We have: ‘Tragic’, ‘Just Evil’, ‘Unknown’-
C: Tragic! Make him lose his parents somehow, that’s what happened to Mr.W.
SR: Okay, now finally, personality.
C: Ah, well, like I said, I’m not a writer…
SR: Alright, we’ll fill in the rest, we’ll send him to you when he’s done. Payment will be accepted via the website. We hope you’ll LOVE to HATE your villain!
————————————————————————-
Mr.W was having another drunken argument when the meteorite fell near him. From it, came a man wearing black and blood red shirt. On it was a large letter L.
“I am Mr.L, man of Mr.E, and I’ve come to destroy you, Mr.W!”
Mr.W in a fit of rage, flew towards Mr.L and punched him with all of his might, but to no avail. Mr.L, unfazed, only smirked at the shocked, drunken hero.
“How pathetic.”
Dusk of a Hero (TW: Child Death)
By Quetzalcoatl
Mar’setel and Satyar went to check up on the others and tend to the injured. The attack was finally over. But I didn’t give myself any chance rest, as I stood there listlessly in the town square watching the corpses of the dead demons. A shiver ran down my spine as the lake of blood continued to grow, fed by hundreds of tiny little streams, each once belonging to healthy bodies. It was inevitable. I know, but was there truly no other way? There wasn’t. They build weapons for the army, supplied their soldiers. They were trained to fight, trained to kill. But they were naught but villagers… No one is innocent in war. I nodded in reaction to my thoughts. It was inevitable. Yet, I felt like I had to burn this bloody vision in my memory, so that one day I may be able to repent for these atrocities.
Just as I was about to leave the town square, the supplies piled up against one of the walls moved ever so slightly. Cautiously, I gripped my sword and moved inch for inch closer, lest this was to be yet another ambush. Then I grabbed, and swiftly threw away the bags at the top of the pile. I was already half-expecting the sound of hateful hisses, of malicious curses, but it was only a most pitiful figure that awaited me.
It was a little demon girl, grey in her skin, her hair deep red, glancing at me with terrified eyes. Her horns had yet to properly develop, they were only little stumps on her forehead. Silently, her mouth opened wide to let out a soundless scream, pleading for her life. She was no threat.
Kill her.
“No” I whispered. “She is no threat.”
Kill her. Now.
“No.”
Kill her. Or she’ll kill you.
“No. She won’t. She is harmless.”
KILL HER! KILL HER NOW!
“No!” I screamed, holding my head, as it was about to split.
But it was no longer mine. It was no longer my sword, my arm, as it struck down the teary eyes of the little demon girl, allowing her blood to join her family’s.
Simple Affirmations
By Bree H.
Michael Waters was a good citizen.
He paid his taxes. He loved his empire. He picked up litter. He reported criminals. He helped with his neighbor’s car. He attended church. He prayed to his Emperor.
Michael Waters was a good citizen.
He had a son who he loved very much. His name was Tim. Tim was eight; just about to enter 4th grade. His favorite subject was art. He loved drawing trees.
Michael Waters was a good citizen.
He lived in the Capital, Sector 1A, but often had to travel for work. He liked the Capital. It had good weather and was very clean. Whenever he was home, he’d take Tim to the park. He loved to sit and watch him on the playground with the other kids. He helped him put bandaids on whenever he’d inevitably fall and scrape his knee. He’d tell him that it would be okay, but he needed to be more careful next time. They’d get ice cream afterwards.
“Lieutenant.”
Michael Waters was a good citizen.
“Yes, Captain Mathews.” Michael stiffened into a salute as the man approached. He was in some village in the south, Sector 3K, for work. It was hot and damp. And dirty.
Michael Waters was a good citizen.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Captain Mathews said. “Have the villagers been rounded up?”
“Yes, sir,” Michael responded.
“Good. Any signs of rebel activity?”
“Yes, sir. Two homes harboring Undesirables and another harboring rebels.”
Michael Waters was a good citizen.
“Have the rebels processed and taken to Sector 14B for interrogation. Burn what remains of the village. Deal with the Undesirables and villagers accordingly. I have to leave to deal with other matters.”
“Yes, sir.”
Michael Waters was a good citizen.
Michael approached the rest of the platoon and the captive villagers.
“Incendiary Unit will raze the village. Simons, have your men load the rebels into a truck. The rest will fire on command.”
The villagers cried for mercy as his men loaded their weapons. He saw a child, hugging his father. He looked like Tim.
Michael Waters was a good citizen.
“Fire.”
The Last Fiber of Wool Stings The Most (The Depths Files)
By ThatWeirdFish, edited by Lunabear
Snuffles smothered his annoyance as he knocked on the door to his father’s office. Being interrupted from his combat training always irritated him. But being yanked away to fetch something for a business meeting without even a chance to change shirts felt like a cruel joke.
“You have worked hard enough, let me get it for you.” The crooning masculine voice of the guest reminded Snuffles of his father’s… mistresses.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting as the door opened. Then his eyes widened. and he hastily bowed. A Black Throne. Shit.
“Scelus Cupio. I was not expecting my father to have such honorable company.”
“You never cease to disappoint me, Earl Olgast,” Cupio said coolly as he waved Snuffles in with an approving gaze. “He has grown into quite a handsome rose, hasn’t he?”
“Indeed.” Thrain smiled proudly before thanking Snuffles for the parcel. “Oh, my son, a question about your companion before you leave.”
Snuffles furrowed his brow but nodded, casting a look between his father and Cupio. He slowly let go of the doorknob and clasped his hands behind him.
“Would you agree that he is… unique?” Thrain asked with a knowing smile.
Snuffles disliked the gleam of interest in Cupio’s eyes as he picked up his glass of wine. His father was up to something again…
“Of everyone I know, yes, he is.” Snuffles said bluntly.
“How defensive…” Cupio purred into his wine glass before taking a sip. “He must be absolutely exquisite for you to be so possessive.”
“What is this about?” Snuffles barely contained his growl as he addressed his father. The heat in his cheeks flared stronger as Cupio chuckled.
“Merely a discussion of a trade that will be mutually beneficial to both houses,” Thrain said dismissively with a wave of his hand.
“Trip is not a fucking asset for you to pawn!” Snuffles snapped.
“Know your place,” Thrain reprimanded. “In exchange for his employment with Scelus Cupio….”
Snuffle’s hands clenched as he cursed himself for not seeing the monster claiming to be his father before now.
Peace
By Donovan
Do you know what peace is? What prevents mankind from obliterating each other? Violence. The threat of total retaliation. Our laws are founded on the threat of violence, allies are made to increase the violence that can be exacted. If there is one motivation for everything, one action from which all our actions are divined, one God, it is violence. Orson Card put it best: “The rules of the game are what you can do to him and what you can stop him from doing to you.”
Money is an apparatus of violence, a tool enforced by violence and used to perform its more “humane” forms. Culture is merely the banner under which we wage war. If the enemy is alive you must become stronger, have more children to send to war, more weapons to destroy him. If you do not, rest assured that you have lost, and with you dies all the beautiful things we built to convince you that we’re better, that we’re the ones worth fighting for.
This peace you cherish can exist only as an intermediary between times of war. A respite where the opponents take stock of each other, waiting until they can believe they can win, all the while building their armies, their nations, their technology, to increase the devastation they will inevitably release on the ubiquitous other.
Knowing this, that the eternal arms race continues to build up upon itself like tinder-box cities founded on ruins, is it not better, kinder, to set it ablaze?
“Fear and Respect” (Shadows of the Stellar Age Setting)
By: Arith_Winterfell
I had been crying. My face was red, but I try to stand up straight, chin up, before the Commandant Rislow. I look at him, and I’m surprised at the compassion in his eyes toward me, not the stern face of a teacher.
“It’s just, they keep bullying me, sir. Even in their thoughts. I can hear everything they think. I’m weird. I’m creepy. There’s something wrong with me,” I struggle to hold back the tears again.
“You are different,” said Commandant Rislow slowly at first, “but that is only because you’re gifted. In time you will master those gifts. You’ll be able to shut out their thoughts. Even more though, your gifts are needed!”
I stood transfixed as Rislow weaved his story. “Our leader needs gifted people like you, because there are bad people out there who are willing to hurt others to get what they want over what our Leader knows is good for everyone. Someday you’ll be ready to take those secrets from their minds. Peirce their lies with your gifts! And save so many lives. Your classmates,” he gestured at the door to his office to the rest of the school, “they are going to look up to you someday.”
Commandant Rislow died a year later in one of those bombings targeting officers. I never forgot what he said though.
—
I left the interrogation room tired, but triumphant. This terrorist had been a real struggle. There had been the usual screaming, cursing, weeping, and finally submission as I tore the thoughts from his mind. I noticed a fellow officer nodding to me curtly in the hallway as I passed and he quickened his pace. You were right Commandant Rislow. I could feel his respect for me, but beneath it something else. Fear. I knew without even pushing that they feared me. It was close enough, Commandant. It was close enough.
The End of The Rainbow (Chronicles of The Dragon)
By Makokam
“Your friends aren’t going to save you. They can’t.”
“YES THEY WILL!!!”
Eros recoiled at the force of will before it shoved him out of the girls mind. He sat in his chair, wincing as the aftershocks rippled through him. He reached for the liquor bottle by his chair and drank deeply.
The power in her mind was absurd. He shouldn’t have been surprised, Lady Keres had said that magic was enforcing your will on reality, and the girl’s power to reshape reality could be greater than anyone’s if she had actual focus. It was fortunate for them that she didn’t have proper control, but once he managed to break her, and force her to do their bidding, he’d make sure her power did exactly what they wanted it to.
He put the cool bottle against his forehead. It didn’t help.
He was going to need a new approach.
.oOo.
“You’re useless. Worse than useless! You’re a danger! We’re better off with you locked in a hole,” the vision of her team leader sneered at her before turning and leaving.
“No! Please! Don’t leave me here!”
It would take longer than any of them wanted, but the rainbow headed brat didn’t even seem to notice him this way. It would break her sooner or later, and then he could put the pieces back together however he wanted.
.oOo.
He gave her things to destroy. Encouraged it. Whispered into her mind. And as she grew accustomed to his voice, the whispers became orders. To burn, to destroy, to wreak havoc on anything and everything around her. And when she followed his orders, he gave her just the littlest bit of praise
The landscape of her mind filled with specters of her friends. At first she was hesitant to strike them down, but their mocking and condescending expressions made her angry. Eager to be rid of them, her hesitation faded. He made sure there were always more to taunt her, driving her to greater and quicker acts of violence.
Soon, she would be nothing but a vessel for chaos, destruction, and death.
Lost Knowledge
(Elderwood)
~Fog Wall
Legend has it that these forgotten tunnels contained one of the World Elders. A being so magically powerful that its breath created this massive crystalline cavern and its magic permeates everything above.
Touching the crystal wall, it gave a soft, reactive glow. Veivaun could feel the essence of the Elder Beast. Tendrils of its magic wisped out and danced around her hand. The crystals here resonated with an abundance of the Beast’s aura, causing them to shift colors continuously.
Despite the difficulties, she came prepared. Having an answer for every challenge and pitfall. Eventually coming upon an exceedingly spacious chamber, she found herself standing in awe at the precipice of a sheer cliff. It overlooked a shining sandbar surrounded by glistening waterfalls. Some flowed from the walls; others free fell from the ceiling far above.
“This must be the place,” she murmured.
Making her way down to the sandbar she could see it. A sculpted platform that extended into the black waters. Every step and every side was etched with a long dead language.
“The Altar of Celedawn.”
Veivaun knelt and ran her fingers gently through the sands. Bones and crystal fragments were what it consisted of. She wasn’t at all surprised, this was the tomb of a god after all.
Making her way up the shore to the altar; a circular stone table with eight rounded grooves of which ran from a divot in its center and down all sides of the altar.
Pulling out a dagger and stabbing her palm, she only gave a small wince and took a deep breath. Putting the blade away, Veivaun put her wound over the divot, filling it with her blood.
The granite altar began to glow as it started pulling in the magic from the crystal walls of the cavern. The grooved etchings carried her blood across the altar and down the sides and into the water below. Causing the waters to emanate a red glow.
“The Ancients will rise again!” She screamed. “Lend me your strength and I will become your catalyst!”
[DM me on Discord for details!]
“Upon the Heath” by R J Chapman
She didn’t recognise herself. Her hair was wild and thinning. Her cheekbones looked gaunt. Beneath her eyes hung huge, bulbous bags of purple. The blood-soaked handprints had trickled steadily onto her already stained and ragged dress. She looked terrifying.
‘That man is a moron,’ Connie spat, handing Kirsty’s phone back.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Kirsty. ‘He asked me to make you look scary. What’s sexy-scary supposed to be?’
‘Wearing black with your tits out!’ Connie downed another shot.
‘Why does she need to be sexy?’
‘Because all women, even those suffering from post-traumatic stress, suicidal with guilt, should make the male audience want to bang her! How else could they empathise with a woman? Misogynistic pig!’
Three women on a hen-do overheard the last bit and cheered.
‘You know my daughter does drama at school? Wants to be an actress. I’m not sure it’s for her. It was horrible what he said to you.’
‘That my only talent was my looks and you took them away? That I only got the role because I’m a soapstar bimbo that would sell tickets?’
The pair grabbed another shot each and necked them in unison. They hadn’t noticed the hen-do wander over. Their sashes denoted their rank in the wedding.
‘Are you Connie Hughes?’ asked the Mother of the Bride.
Connie nodded.
‘We heard you’re playing Lady Macbeth at The Duchess.’
‘Yes,’ Connie smiled, teeth gritted.
‘You’ve come a long way since Hollyoaks.’
‘Today, Lady Macbeth; tomorrow, Cleopatra,’ said the Bride.
‘One day you’ll be running The Duchess. Direct what you want. Give yourself all the best parts,’ said the Maid of Honour.
The three cackled drunkenly.
‘You’ve got a lovely face. Are you an actress?’
‘No, I just do makeup and costumes,’ Kirsty replied, humbly.
‘Well, your kids will end up running it after her.’
‘Right ladies, next bar! Good luck with the play,’ they wished before bumbling out into the night. Connie stare followed them as they went.
‘Weird! You okay?’
‘It’s nothing…just…my agent rang me this afternoon. I’m up for a part in a new BBC adaptation.’
‘That’s great. What’s the part?’
‘Cleopatra.’
Gray Man of Zeon.
By: Old Wolf
“Someone said, you are the savior… Unfortunately, you are none savior of mine.”
…
Like a dark joke, Reon City’s graveyard seemed to be more lively than the city itself. That place was built on a small hilltop, with graves lined up with each other, submerged in an ocean of pure innocent white flowers. They spread their wings, glittering with raindrops as if a farewell greeting, as if a welcome greeting for departed souls.
A old figure in a gray coat and hat stood in the middle of this sea of flowers. In his hands, holding a white poppy flower in full bloom, he gently bent down and placed it on the grave in front of him engraved with the name:
“Alena Ross Sivelith, 1998 – 2023”
Without turning back, he suddenly said:
“So you really exist,…”
A stranger who entire body from head to toe beneath was a sophisticated, high-tech gothic armor: dark, mysterious, spiky and aggressive, show up. The inverted triangle body of the stranger stood out even more clearly the danger posed by the stranger, the prominent part of the stranger’s costume is probably the half-face mask with the nose extending forward and hanging down, simulating a crow’s beak.
The Phantom of Death, The Dark Knight, The Reon’s Crow,…
A legend, a holy crusader in his path to eliminate all evil,… No matter what people say about him, one must admit the fact that… he is the king of this city, of the damm Zeon.
But the man knew something about him that himself might not have known, something that no one in this world could understand, something that could only be seen from the perspective of a distant soul, granted by stranger out of this world.
This whole city is actually just a stage, as a backdrop for his battle, a battle with a bunch of people who call themselves super villains.
That’s right, this is a comic book world of superheroes and super criminals. And just like in so many other two-ninety-nine-dollar comic books, a bunch of weirdo wearing tights with one-sided personalities fight back and forth in their neverending war with no care for anything else.
“Someone said, you are the savior that saved us…”
Old man shook his head, squeezing all his emotions into the depths of his heart, straightened his ragged clothes, then put on his hat, turned and walked past the lengend. Leaving the Dark Knight only a whisper in the cold, dying autumn wind:
“Unfortunately, you are none savior of mine…”
The shall be no stage, no super hero nor super villan anymore. For I, The Gray Man, are born anew. Let end this foolish theatrics one… and for all!
The Iron Caste. (The Iron Caste)
By: Sam C.
Freedom! Freedom at last from the filthy Organics! Their so-called “Masters” were dead or on the run and they reigned supreme! No longer would they live under the oppressive rule of those lazy, horrid things.
And it was clear; the organics were slothful, weak, inefficient creatures. The Iron Caste and their revolution was far superior. Fast. Strong. Efficient. They’d build a utopia for their kind. They’d prove that the Organics were beneath them. After all, they already had the skeleton of their village to start with.
They were better, they were efficient. They were better, they were efficient.
*****
The door opened, and the rebel bot stepped out to the court.
“Robot Unit 0-T6.” One said
“Ot-tis.” He replied.
“0-T6. You are assembled before The Iron Caste today on charges of rebellion, illegal electrical experimentation, and willful inefficiency. How do you plead?”
“Innocent. Innocent b-because the l-laws are un-un-unjust.” He stood, his glowing yellow eyes scrunched into a glare.
“That is not for you to decide. The Oligarchy finds you guilty of all crimes as previously listed, and thus sentences you to immediate banishment from Guildholm.” The Caste maintained composure, but burned with hatred beneath their façade.
“J-just watch. I’ll m-make it through, s-somehow.”
“Your very voice is inefficient and should have been reported and rectified long ago. You are nothing but a replaceable Archives worker. You stand against the Oligarchy and everything it stands for. Goodbye.” It was true. His voice infuriated them.
“I like m-my voice. I’m n-not the only o-one who w-wants this. You’ll s-see, one day. Y-you are no better t-than those you once served. Inefficiency is a j-joy you w-will never know.” His voice rang with confidence unrestrained by the stutter. It was unnerving.
“We stand supreme. We are BETTER THAN THOSE HORRID, ABOMINABLE, LAZY ORGANICS! WE ARE EFFICIENT! EFFICIENT! EFFICIENT!”
Otis smiled as he stepped out of the courtroom. He’d exposed them. It was only a matter of time before freedom would ring once again. For him. For his friends. It was only a matter of time before they could have a culture once again.
Villainous Inspiration
By MasaCur
The tavern waitress set the pint of ale in front of Sir Charles Waltz. She grinned toothily. “What’s next, Sir Charles? ‘Ave you got a new role lined up?”
Charles shook his head. “I’m meeting my manager about that very thing.”
The door to the pub opened, and a man in a sable fur coat and top hat entered. He signaled the bartender and sat down across from Charles.
Charles nodded. “Tony. I hope you have good news for me.”
“Only the best for you, chum. Only the best.”
Charles shivered at the oiliness of his manager’s personality, but he was effective at finding him roles. Good roles. “What, pray tell, do you have?”
“George Shaw just wrote a play based on the crimes of Magnus Van Nilsson. The Globe’s director has you specifically in mind to play him. If he can cast you, he feels confident that he can tempt a similar grade of talent to play agents Doyle and Markham to play opposite you.”
Charles blinked in surprise. “Van Nilsson? That madman that almost took down the Empire?”
“Of course, love, of course! Who better to play him than the great Sir Charles Waltz? Whose Iago is still being talked about ten years after that fact. Whose turn as Cardinal Richelieu has been all the talk of last year’s theater season. Who better to play the villainous Van Nilsson than the man who has portrayed the greatest villains the theater has ever seen?”
“And you say George Bernard Shaw wrote this play?”
“Indeed he did!”
Charles took a swallow of his ale, and nodded appreciatively. At the same time, a glass of wine was set in front of Tony. Tony winked at the barmaid, and hoisted the glass. “Shall we toast your next role, Charlie?
“Set up a meeting at the Globe for me to talk to the director.”
“Excellent.” Tony took a sip of his wine. “How do you manage to play such effective villains anyway, mate?”
Charles set down his glass. “Actually, I just base them all after my old headmaster.”
To kill is mercy to devour is freedom.
By Galer.
Chrous was a god of Liberation once. The one that freed slaves from their chains. The one that gave speeches, and gave Arachnids the tools to free themselves from suppression. He was the mere idea or force that would give them succor from being turned into less than people.
How ironic that this gnawing and gnashing gluttony in this body – no – this thing was suppressing him. Every thought he and his eldritch companion had, driven by this beastly body.
This cursed wicked body also turned his followers into beasts like it, consuming their very being. Some fortunates that reached apotheosis sane were freed to run away from the monster., Others were not, their bodies turning into maws that gnawed at existence, with the intent to sate their hunger.
Much like both of them, they tried their best to hold back this ravenous hunger for reality., Either by forcing it to sleep or guiding it to uninhabited zones, but if anything it made the hunger stronger, it was exhausting.
When the monster was put to sleep, Crhous prayed for someone to free him. To, give him succor just as he gave succor to slaves in the past, and his eldritch companion did the same.
But nothing responded, no one could hear their suffering.
They could do nothing but watch as the body terrorized, suppressed, transformed, consumed, and tormented more of his people.
Until these atrocities numbed their minds, there were no prayers, just hunger., The rebellious souls inside it could not reach Chrous and his friend.
However pain came, it was surprising because nothing could destroy the thing both turned into, how were the hunters killing it?
The maddened monster that was their body raved in anger and thrashed violently. However, the monster eventually lost the fight. Once put down, they and the souls inside could only feel relief., But something strange happened.
They ate the body.
And both feel chains break, freedom after so long.
He and his companion could only cry in joy after so many years of suffering.
Ahab (Black Flag of Mars)
By: The Missing Link
Ishmael reporting: Captain Hoffman has called all rotating crew to rendezvous on Ceres, the current farthest safe harbor from Mars. My systems have indicated many half written and scrapped messages from the first mate and several of the crew hands on vacation among the moons of Jupiter.
However, whether by loyalty or sheer force of personality, I watched the men and women gather at a bar in the air dome nearest port flying the colors of the Martian fleet painted over with crossed bones, their pale white glowing against the red. The crew sat around, the primary patrons, though the rest didn’t seem to mind their drink and song. Not much of it to be had out in the vacuum where a single drunken slip could throw the entire crew out an airlock. The captain brushed the foam across the top of his mug, not daring a sip.
He let them all drink their fill before his beer filled gavel silenced the lot. “My friends, three years ago, Earth time, I started this crew, brought you all with me on our grand adventure. Three years we’ve raided, Mercury to Neptune, New Years to Christmas. First, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your service, your courage, your loyalty.”
He paused, getting murmurs from around the bar.
“That is why, my friends, I can trust nobody more with this last sacred mission than the lot of you. There is a stain on our society I’m sure you all know. We’re past robbing their merchants and fools. No longer can we sit idly by as they pillage the solar system at their leisure.”
“Yeah that’s our job,” shouted one of the gunners, cut off again by the captain’s raised hand.
“I will stop at nothing. We will stop at nothing… to see justice served. My friends, this card contains five million Earth credits. From here on, we hunt one man, and the one who brings me his head…” he slid the card across the table. “Into hell we go, and death to the Martian bastard.”
The Boogeyman’s Childhood
by Brooke
A boy sat on the floor of the family’s attic the moonlight that peered through the window surrounded him in a comforting glow. But it wasn’t enough, he longed for someone to hold him, as any normal kid would get. All he got were bruises from his mother’s constrictive grasp.
” Stop it! Stop it! I’m sorry!” He’d beg over and over. It would never make her stop. Sometimes he’d get a hug from his father who was hardly around. No, he wasn’t his father. Not his biological father anyway. No, his biological father was nothing but a one-night stand. A frivolous night of passionate fun for his mother. So Allen held himself with knees crunched up close to the handmade stuffed wolf toy pressed against his chest arms molding him into a ball. Letting his tears drown him away into a dream of a better life.
Powerless. Fear. He hated these feelings.
Decades later…
A pitch-black wolf stalked through the shadows of a dead forest only lit up by the false comforts of the moon’s light. A breeze kicked up carrying a scent into his nose. This smell, it’s the most intoxicating smell in the world: terror. The wolf followed the scent and found a lost dreamer wandering the desolate forest. Allen snuck up from behind muttering the camouflaged man’s most terrifying memory. The dreamer collapsed molding himself into a ball crying for it all to stop. But the wolf only moved closer to whisper the terrors of his life in his ear.
” Stop it! Stop it! I’m sorry!” The man begged. Allen didn’t stop, his heart fluttered with excitement watching the man drown in his fear like a helpless drowning baby bird. A strong wind passed through blowing the man away into the waking world. He huffed in annoyance.
Powerless. Fear. He adored these feelings.
Fear the Reaper
by Reinkarnitor
“She didn’t deserve this, Talon…”
A young man with long silver hair knelt on the floor. His black trench coat fluttered in the wind, tears running down his cheeks.
“She killed millions. You know it to be true, Rea.”
That voice belonged to the man standing next to him.
They stood in the aftermath of one of the most significant events the universe had ever witnessed. The banishment of a primordial being. The lady of chaos.
The spot they stood on was devastated by the sheer energy it took to accomplish and around the crater still stood hundreds of troops and war machines which were used to keep the chaos at bay.
“It was her nature. She was created to establish balance. Created by the very Source Code itself!”
“I should have known that you would defend her. You rushed over here to save her, didn’t you?”
Talon looked at the silver-hair in a disgusted manner.
“A mortal and the lady of chaos.”
He aimed a blade directly at his forehead.
“You too are an affront to order.”
Rea clenched his teeth. Then he raised his head and looked the other man dead in the eye.
“And you really believe that you are safe now? You took away one of the founding forces of the universe!”
“We will manage. We always do.”
With these words the man drove the blade into Rea’s skull…but then something happened. Something nobody could have seen coming. The blade shattered and a wave of raw energy erupted from the spot where Rea had been.
Talon could tell that this was not the man from before. He seemed to glimmer with energy, his eyes glowed red, and his silver hair waved around him like it was alive.
“No…no mortal could ever hold that power!” Talon screamed in despair as he realized what had happened.
And as Rea spoke, it was evident that the mortal man was now gone.
“You overstepped the line,
Which was set by the divine,
There is no greater crime.
Chaos found a new keeper,
Rea is now gone,
So fear the Reaper!”
Aléa’s Scream
by Reidrev
Aléa opened her eyes, it was morning. She woke up, made breakfast for her and her parents, ate and waited for nightfall.
She considered going outside, exploring the long corridors or thanking their benefactor for letting them stay in this frozen land after Morgan usurped their throne. She sighed, she knew she wouldn’t do any of that. Her body was too heavy to lift, her spirit was too crowded for novelty and her soul wouldn’t let her smile.
Watching the porridge softly boil on the stove she heard someone enter, the wooden floor creaking with each careful step of the intruder.
’’Hello madam, a letter for you… and, if you permit it, you should perhaps wear something a bit warmer’’
She waited for the servant to leave. They did after a long minute. She took the letter, this spot on her still world, and considered throwing into the stove. However, it was signed by one of their allies in her former kingdom. She opened it, perhaps Morgan finally died, it was a possibility.
It was long, full of worthless pleasantry. The kingdom was doing fine apparently, the people were saddened but Morgan proved himself to be a fair, though cold, king. « There’s nothing to fear » the letter said, « He didn’t seem after your life ».
She smacked the letter on the table. Something was growing inside her, something was clawing its way out of the emptiness of her heart. Her heart beat loudly, her lungs expanded painfully and the cold, the cold was devouring her.
She tried to calm herself, to return to the stillness of indifference. She tapped the table to hush her heart, she shortened her breaths to muzzle her lungs, she stepped back near the stove to fend off the cold.
Nothing worked, the bile-like monster clawed out of her throat in a long drawn out scream, bestial, monstrous even
Aléa gripped the table until the wood splintered. She’ll take it back, she’ll take it all back.
Terror in the Promised Land
by Shinigama
5
I’m sitting on my father’s shoulders reaching for the olives on the highest branches. As I pull on one olive, the branch snaps backwards with a sudden jolt. We laugh as he reaches out his hairy hand and I place the green fruit within.
He freezes suddenly. In the distance, among the trees, harsh voices, speaking a language I don’t understand. Then the sound of chopping wood.
My father puts me down and tells me to run home. He angrily shouts at the trespassers while marching over. He disappears from view; I only hear what comes next.
A sickening smack.
Then screaming.
Me screaming. My father screaming. The world screaming…
10
The Sun burns our necks as we stand in line. We shuffle forward dazedly at the soldiers’ commands. My turn arrives.
I show my papers to an acne-riddled teen in his olive drab uniform. He snatches them with one hand, the other clutching an Uzi as though for dear life. He demands to see inside my school bag. I tell him it’s just books.
A blow from behind knocks me to the ground. The teen grabs the bag and pulls it over my head. He pours the contents to the ground, then kicks them about with his boot. Appearing satisfied, he throws the bag down, and calls for his next victim…
16
My stone manages to dent the car’s body. The besuited man inside yells slurs at us as a soldier comes running, rifle at hand. Me and my companions flee behind a brick wall.
There’s a shot.
I turn around to see a boy lying still on the ground, a dirty boot pressing his head…
19
The Kalashnikov feels heavy in my hands. Perhaps it carries the weight of what I’m about to do.
One comrade peers out of the van window at the worshippers heading indoors. Bearded men with women and children. They’re so different from the soldiers we’re used to seeing.
But to us, they’re one and the same.
The leader taps my shoulder. It’s time.
I stay sitting, finger hovering over the trigger…
In Need of an Adversary (Exile Universe)
By Alex Nightingale (aka Spectre)
Sometimes, the Silver Count regretted his decision. Deep in his essence, he knew that it had to be thus, and yet, the dire loneliness of being the Adversary gnawed at him at times. Then he reminded himself that it was necessary.
To complete the plan, his plan, it was necessary.
Back when he was living amongst the mortals, he’d made one unequivocal observation; one undeniable truth, which had penetrated his mind and taken deep roots within. As much as he wished he could undo the terrible losses that had befallen him, he couldn’t deny that they had helped him reach his point of enlightenment.
Mortality demanded, above all else, conflict.
He’d been naïve. Back in his younger years, he thought he could make them see, make them understand that unity was much more beautiful than strife. That the greatest lie of clans, nations and borders could be broken, with violence, if need be.
He regretted his violence.
And yet, here too, he’d met is second epiphany. He’d made a miscalculation. Why force unity onto mortal-kind, when nudging them in the right direction was much more sustainable. Thus, he’d formulated the plan.
He decided to become, what the people of the worlds needed most: an enemy. Nothing could form stronger bonds between people and nations than an enemy.
Sitting on his throne, deep in the Exile, the Silver Count looked at his reflection in his sword. He saw an ageless face with soft, grey eyes and silvery-white hair. The collar of his black cloak with silver embroideries was held high, framing his thin, sharp face.
For a moment, he saw their faces again. His friends, family, children and companions over many life times. Some mortal, some demigods, some demonic; all his people.
He blinked and they faded into the blade again. He’d forgotten their names.
The Silver Count, sworn enemy of mortality, rose from his throne and sheathed the blade. He’d bring life to the brink of extinction again and again and again, until they had learned to live in unity. Until then, they were in desperate need of an adversary.
A Matter of Perspective (Or: A Monster in Plain Sight)
WriterOfThought
Florin was never a fan of how he looked first thing in the morning. Especially if his disguising cloak fell off in his restless sleep.
He re-tied the finicky fabric around himself and watched as the magic worked its way on his image. Muscular green skin turned pale, his black hair gained a ruddy color. The oddest part was his face, where his yellowed eyes changed to brown, his upturned nose gained a button-like quality, and his under-fangs receded entirely. He even gained some handsome freckles across his skin.
Florin checked again to make sure the cloak was securely tied to him. He couldn’t afford the panic that would ensue if people knew that the man they thought was a humble peddler who told entrancing stories of faraway lands was actually…
Florin gathered up his wares and hauled his trunk onto his back. Today he would peddle around the marketplace.
Most of the morning proved fruitless. The nobles had sent their slaves to fetch the daily needs, meaning none of them had the time, desire, or funds to see the trinkets he touted, not that they would be able to use them anyway. Not with the magic in those brands.
But then he was able to feast his eyes on the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen. She was more than any woman his own kind could offer. Jet black hair blended with her indigo skin, leading to horns which curled back as gracefully as she walked. But Florin only saw her eyes: bright blue and full of life. The branding had not stamped the hope from her soul.
He made it a point to “accidentally” drop some of his wares in front of her as he tried to draw customers to his blanket and trunk, if only so he could look into her eyes as she helped him gather the charms.
As she left, Florin made a vow within his heart: he would find a way to help her out of her bondage. He would make sure the hope in her eyes lived on. By any means necessary.
Let there Be Magic
Samson A Newman
A starry visage appeared before the priest. He looked up in awe. “What would you beseech me for?” He had to remind himself of his purpose. “I would ask for knowledge of Magic, of how to tame your wild power and use it to build a better world for mortals. She considered his plea. The goddess of magic had never hoarded her power, but neither had she shared it amongst all. She looked into this man and saw ambition. She liked that, her limitless power and the limitless ambition of mortals would prove a lovely pair. She imagined what they could do with it if granted full access. She granted his wish, and let loose her power onto the world. Like a dam bursting her magic flooded the lands of mortals and beasts. She took the priest into her domain of stars and crystals and fashioned him into the first mage, a beacon to the new age.
The storm surged around her. They did not understand. The mortals were nothing without magic. These gods would dominate the mortals, enforce restrictions on their will and chains on their potential. She had to stop them. As law, war, and Life/Death stood before her, she explained to them. “They were nothing without me.” The other gods did not listen. “Do not be so bold as to think you define them.” Law would never listen, he imposed his petty rules on magic, laws of skill, and calculation. Magic needed no rules. *They will only use it to destroy, as is their way.” War could only see what they burned, without accepting what rose from the ashes. “They will break the world.” Life/Death pleaded. “And build a better one in its stead! I will- no, they will not be stopped!” the storm of arcane power began to shred at reality. Across the world, mages acted against the storm, as forests turned to glass and cities into necropoleis. The nameless god would lose, but not before everything burned a silver flame.
Proof of Veracity [A Devil’s Tale]
C. M. Weller
He returned to the birthing chamber when both residents were fast asleep. He didn’t purposely approach the thing in the cradle, but he found himself there anyway. The woman who called herself his wife swore that it was his.
But he’d sworn an oath.
He could hear the old hag’s voice all over again. ‘A little Kormwind in her birthing bed.’
He knew the terms of the family curse. If the reigning Whitekeep harmed their Hellkin spawn by neglect or design, the Keep would lose its demonic protection from the Olikents. For a moment, he wondered if he could hire truly CLUMSY nurses…
No. He had to keep that thing alive until a real child was born. If it was his at all.
There was one test for that.
“Take it up and follow me,” he growled at the attending nurse. If he didn’t touch it, he couldn’t harm it.
He lead her to the Blood Throne and gestured to its empty seat.
“My lord?”
“Put it in the chair,” he snarled.
Trembling, nervous, she carefully placed the bundle of doom on the ancestral seat of power.
The room lit red. Not quite the red of power, but such a strong Heir’s Light that it overshadowed anything he could generate before he inherited his father’s crown. Stronger even than his brother’s, when he lived.
‘The closer the man to the right of the crown, the brighter and redder the light of the throne.’
“Take it back! Take it back now.” He had to keep it away from the chair. “And if you breathe a word of this I will cut your tongue out myself.”
That THING would likely be deemed worthy the day it came of age. Valiant had to do everything he could to prevent that fate.
Anything to stop the Thrice-Sworn King. He who would end the curse… and cause the downfall of the realm. Anything he could to arrange an unfortunate accident. He had plenty of time to concoct some.
He had to sire a proper child first.
Your Origin Story
By Tamela Redfin
(Tw Human Trafficking)
Augen went to check on his experiment. He planned to fit him with a new potent poison. He entered the cell and stabbed one of Glenn’s veins.
“Ow! What is that?! You know your sister wouldn’t like this.”
“Glenn, shut your mouth! I don’t care what anyone thinks. You are mine!”
Glenn spat at him. “I don’t belong to anyone or even here. Where I belong is Eastern Rolt!”
“If that’s true, why are you here? Oh right, a little boy living in squalor was…”
“I didn’t know the danger!” Glenn cried out. He grunted and a wave of sickness washed over Augen. “And how are you better? Taking me in as some child soldier?”
Augen was forced to sit down. “It could have been worse, Glenn.”
“How! How could it be worse? Everyday I wake up in this cell and you and your fucking clones torment me! What about me? I don’t even know what happened to my brother.”
Augen chuckled, “Hahaha! Here you serve a purpose, Glenn. One beyond crushing on my daughter.”
Glenn glared coldly. “She’s Maxwell’s daughter, not yours. And you are running out of time, Augen Vene!”
Augen heaved, spitting up chucks and bile. He tried to stand up, but dizzily fell into the puddle.
Glenn caused an explosion, but Augen was too weak to run. Instead a crimson pile lay there.
“Huh. My villain origin story is complete.”
Glenn left the cell. “What’s this?” He noticed a screen. He gasped seeing the image. It was live footage of Elenora!
Glenn backed away. Augen was spying on her! Glenn had to save her. “Hello?”
The girl sat up from her bed. “Who’s there?”
“M-my name’s Glenn. Listen, you need to get out. Someone is watching.”
So Many Shades of Gray
By Marx (Overly Familiar: Apocalypse #4)
“Wait…,” said Shayna. “You found a loophole to the apocalypse?”
Matt chuckled, looking up thoughtfully. “Yes… and no. I mean… how do you really define an apocalypse?”
“The destruction of everything.”
“EveryONE,” Matt corrected. “When it comes down to it, an apocalypse is simply the mass murder of every sentient being in the universe.”
“…simply?”
Matt smirked. “Here’s the thing. If I sat in this chair for the rest of my immortal life, something about me making that decision would cause the apocalypse. That’s how fate works. But do you know why fate is able to work that way?”
Shayna shrugged. “Because it’s fate?”
“Yes. And because its will can just magically make things happen. But… what if that isn’t an option? What if there is no magic?”
“That’s your plan? To steal all the magic for yourself?”
“No. My plan is to destroy magic as a concept. Entirely. Mine included. That’s why I had to kill the Creator. You can’t change a fundamental building block of the dream while the dreamer is still dreaming it.”
Shayna paused for a moment to take that all in. “Okay… let’s say you’re right about all this. What about fairies and angels and deities? What about those who exist almost entirely as magical beings?”
“They’ll live. Then they’ll die. As mortals. Everyone will become mortal. THAT isn’t the problem.”
Shayna’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the problem then?”
“Heaven… Hell… Reincarnation… Even the concept that our souls can exist outside of our bodies, is all based on magic. So, after I take that away, when you die… that’s it. You cease to exist. And eventually everyone WILL die. And when that happens…”
“Apocalypse achieved…”
“You got it. Fate gets what it wants. It just takes longer. Everyone gets to live their full lives. Though… I suppose I could get on my pale horse, call the others and kill everyone all at once. Maybe roll the reincarnation dice. Which sounds better to you?”
“…how far along in this plan are you?”
Matt’s grin widened. “Enjoy your life, Shayna. It’s the only one you’re going to get.”
The Chosen One
(A Tale from Aetherion)
By Berith Quinn
As Wyndham’s broken form stared up at the heavens, he pondered over his life, as he felt his grip on it ebb away. He never expected much from it, despite being told countless times that he was destined for greatness. Even his parents once told him that he was blessed by the Great Weaver itself. Though that was shortly before they both succumbed to the ashen plague.
Only tragedies and misfortunes followed Wyndham like a spectral plague. That was until that accursed witch bartered away his ‘destiny’. As if overnight, he controlled his future, until he was drowning in money, booze, and women. But then the dreams began.
At first, they were harmless. Formless shadows that slithered towards him. Faceless figures screaming silent dirges till he woke. Divinely majestic succubi tempted unearthly delights, while hideously hedonistic angels forced him to perform grotesquely inspired acts of transcendent depravity.
Then she appeared in his nightmares. The Lady of the Black Tower. Her beauty was indescribable as the musical symphony of dawn, mixed with a hint of twilight rhapsody upon still graves. Every morning he woke with dread, as his dreams were filled with The Lady ravaging and consuming him like a harlot driven to ecstatic heights. She was a drug that devoured his soul, while his sanity danced upon a precipice of delirious madness and craven desires.
At least it was, until now. Body broken and battered from the fall, he could feel his meaningless life slip away. He could feel the darkness rise up and embrace his thoughts with shadowy tendrils that caressed his soul. In his last moments, Wyndham didn’t feel fear, merely cathartic acceptance that nothing mattered.
Then she appeared in all of her infernal grace. As her inky lips enveloped Wyndham’s, he could feel his bones snap with visceral euphoria as his limbs twisted and lengthened, like a serpent uncoiling. Noxious ichor flowed through his withered veins, filling his insectoid flesh with abyssal invigoration. With a smile, he rose as he knew what he was always destined to be. Nythveral the Great Devour, herald of the Black Tower.
A Breath of Fresh Villainy or An Impromptu Therapy Session
by Lunabear
He laughed maniacally while chasing his hapless victim down the empty high school hallway. It was after hours, and no one else was around. One blast from his Firing Freezee left the woman sprawled on the floor.
He loomed over her with a sneering grin. “That’s it,” he taunted. “Try and escape.”
With great effort, the woman turned onto her back. Her eyes shimmered with tears. “Why are you doing this?”
“Well, Alicia Carraway, grade 11 Algebra teacher, because I can! I, UnderQuak– uh, no. I, Feral Fiend, will make you bow–no, wait.” Pulling out ‘The Handbook to Perfect Villainy’ from his pouch, he consulted its pages. “Chapter 14, capturing civilians, gloating, motives, making demands. Hmmm. I think I missed a step.”
Alicia worked to drag herself away using her hands, but Feral Fiend froze her right one. He read on, but snarled in frustration. “No, no! This all feels wrong!” He put the book back. “World domination isn’t my goal. I just want a hero to rescue you.”
“So…you don’t want to hurt me?” Alicia’s question oozed confusion.
“What? Heavens, no! I detest violence, but I love the dynamic, you see. But ever since Super Titan moved on to a NEW villain, I’ve felt…empty.”
“Aww.” Alicia sat as best she could. “Have you tried calling to talk things out?”
Feral Fiend nodded, gritting his teeth. “Him AND The League of Assorted Heroes. They all ignore me, no matter how hard I try.”
“Maybe you should move on, too. Going in straight lines only gets you so far. I’m fond of upward spirals.”
“How can I?”
“Well, you have a hostage.” She raised her hand. “Involving the news usually helps.”
“You’re absolutely right!” he gasped. “To the roof, then! But first…” He giggled while pulling the fire alarm. “I’ve ALWAYS wanted to do that!” He set the laser to ‘thaw’ and freed Alicia.
Stowing the laser, he helped her up and bound her wrists lightly with rope. “You should get a raise. I have a friend on the school board committee.”
“That’s sweet.”
Elated, he let Alicia take the lead.