Writing Group: Be My Sword

Writers! Draw your Rapiers, Katanas, and Claymores!

Listen closely. We are entering the realm of conflict. Your job is to be a weapon. It doesn’t matter what kind—physical, emotional, philosophical—whatever it is, I need you to do your job because…

This week’s Writing Group prompt is:

Be My Sword

Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!

The first place my mind goes to with this prompt is the idea of a protector. Someone saying to someone else who is stronger, and/or more skilled than them “be my sword.” As in “protect me, because I cannot protect myself.” It reminds me of the game Ender Lillies, in which you play a little girl, and all your “weapons” are spirits who fight for you—even the bosses you fought can become your swords. Mulan choosing to fight in her father’s stead is another example of someone being another’s sword for noble reasons. Even someone who can protect themselves might still need a protector—that could be a particularly touching take on the prompt: someone who is usually very strong breaking down and admitting they need someone to help them. 

It could also be taken in the opposite direction. A villain might hire a henchman, or multiple, to do their dirty work out in the world. Such as the Evil Queen sending the Huntsman to kill Snow White. They might do this because they can’t be bothered with the everyday aspects of villainy, or because they don’t want the evidence to lead back to them. Is the henchman more than willing to help their master? Or are they forced into this role unwillingly? Could someone forcibly be made into a sword? 

“Be my sword” could even have “please kill me” connotations. In The Case Study of Vanitas vampires can become “curse bearers.” When the curse takes over completely, they lose themselves, and turn into bloodthirsty monsters. When Vanitas promises that he will kill one of the other characters if she loses herself one day, this is a relief to her, not a thing of horror and sorrow—especially because this is a job she has had to do for others, and she realizes how necessary it is. Perhaps you could write about this sort of situation. Many stories have the hero saying to their sidekick, best friend, or lover, “if I get captured, I need you to kill me.” A request to “be my sword” might be a request for a mercy killing when the time comes. Is the person able to be the sword in the end, or do they not have the heart? 

You could, of course, take this prompt more literally. Perhaps you want to write about someone on the path to become a knight picking out their first sword. Or a blacksmith’s apprentice making the sword that will be their faithful partner for years to come. You could even write about someone in a shop finding a sword they like, and whispering to it “be my sword.” …Or you could write about another customer in the shop hearing this and thinking they’re crazy. 

Continuing with the literal direction, you could play with the material a sword is made from. Sokka in Avatar: the Last Airbender using the meteorite to make a sword is kind of like him saying to the meteorite, “become my sword.” What other strange materials might one want to make a sword from? Or perhaps it’s less about the material of the sword itself, but a jewel put on the hilt, or a mantra inscribed on the blade that one wants made into a sword. 

You could even write about sentient swords. I can’t think of sentient swords without thinking of Ahrah from Dust: an Elysian Tail. In that video game, the sword with which you fight baddies is also very much a character in the story—something of a mentor. Perhaps you want to write about this sort of situation. How different would buying a sword be if they were all sentient? If you were choosing a companion instead of just a sword? Just how sentient are they in the first place? Can they talk, or do they just seem to have an aliveness about them that’s hard to quantify? It could be a “the wand chooses the wizard” sort of idea. Perhaps the sword resists its new master until they request nicely “Would you please be my sword?” 

Rather than the sword itself being alive, someone’s consciousness could be trapped within a sword. Going back to the unwilling henchman idea, perhaps a villain literally turns someone into their sword to punish them. This could be a moment of true horror, as they become the blade used to kill the good people they once fought beside. Maybe you want to write about someone going on a quest to free their loved one from their sword prison. A more positive take on this idea is the regalia from Noragami. In that anime, spirits become the weapons of the gods. Literally, they can transform into a blade, and back into a human form. This is an honor, especially because, if not chosen by a god, they might turn into corrupted phantoms, and lose themselves. Perhaps you could write something more along these lines. 

I’ve been rewatching Once Upon a Time lately, and that show has what could be a very interesting take on this prompt. In the show, there is a title: “The Dark One.” The Dark One’s powers are given by a dagger, (which, if I remember correctly, was once a full sword), and their name is written on the dagger. If you hold the dagger, you can control The Dark One (going back to that unwilling henchmen idea…). If you kill The Dark One with the dagger, you become the new Dark One. The dagger is also the only thing that can kill them. In this way, the Dark One sort of is the dagger. At least, their power and life are tied fundamentally to it. Perhaps you could use this sort of take on the prompt. A villain might not make someone into a literal sword, but could they tie their life force to one still? Could a sword grant more power to its wielder than a simple blade, and if so, how difficult would it be to let go of it? 

You could take it in a “the pen is mightier than the sword” direction, in which the pen is the sword. Perhaps you want to write about a character walking up to make a speech, internally praying that their words can be their sword so they don’t have to truly fight. Negative words—an insult or broken promise—could be a sword as well. A secret could even be intended as a sword in the back. Perhaps, later, when the character tries to take it back, the insulted person says something like “you wanted your words to hurt.” As in “you wanted your words to be your sword.” 

What happens when the sword rejects the call? The prompt is “be my sword” but speaks nothing of the response to whoever, or whatever, is being commanded/requested. Perhaps you want to write about the person, or sword, resisting. Perhaps, for that sentient sword idea, someone could bow and politely say, “Would you please be my sword?” …only for the sword to blatantly reject them and start attacking. 

On last Saturday’s stream, we discussed the horror of everyday objects. Lee Strangely wrote a story of a typewriter that very much seemed alive, and Arith likened it to the Tell Tale Heart. It made me think of how an object seeming alive (but, especially if it is not) has this interesting layer of spookiness to it that horror stories of a living killer or monster don’t have. Something acting alive that shouldn’t be in the first place is a special kind of scary. And someone fearing something inanimate often creates a special kind of character that seems (or is) mad. Because this prompt has an inanimate object right in the title, I thought I’d make it the challenge: use the unique brand of horror an inanimate object can have in your story. 

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!

What are you doing?! I didn’t order you to be a knot on a log! Get moving! Go go go go go!

—Pearce & 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!

  1. Text and Formatting

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  2. What to Submit

    1. Keep submissions “safe-for-work”; be sparing with sexuality, violence, and profanity.
    2. Try to focus on making your submission a single meaningful moment rather than an entire story.
    3. Write something brand new; no re-submitting past entries or pieces written for other purposes
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    5. Submissions must be self-contained (everything essential to understanding the piece is contained within the context of the piece itself—no mandatory reading outside the piece required. e.g., if you want to write two different pieces in the same setting or larger narrative, you cannot rely on information from one piece to fill in for the other—they must both give that context independently).
  3. Submission Rules

    1. One submission per participant.
    2. Submit your entry in a comment on this post.
    3. Submissions close at 12:00pm CST each Friday.
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    5. 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.
    6. Use the same e-mail for your posts, reviews, and likes, or you may be rendered ineligible (you may change your username or author name between posts without problem, however).
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Comments on this post that aren’t submissions will be deleted, except for replies/reviews left on existing submissions.

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Anton Kragh Paaskesen
Anton Kragh Paaskesen
12 days ago

Her Morning Star

Celeste made her way to the top of the hill. Grass and mud and pieces of broken shields and blades impeded the arduous climb. Looking up she saw the one, she’d always followed. In the sunlight her otherwise small elegant frame cast a towering shadow over the battlefield of Auldron. This was the one she had always followed. the one she would always follow. Her master. Her Morning Star.

General Elaine. The hero of Auldron.

At last, the arduous climb ended, and she stood by her master’s side. Elaine had a solemn gaze. Celeste knew that gaze as one of mourning. Mourning the fallen brothers and sisters in the battle. Elaine had known a great many of them. Many were victims of war, who’ve sworn to fight under the Banner of the Morning Star. Whether for glory or for vengeance they all had one thing in common. Their devotion to and reverence for Elaine.

All of them were feeding the worms now. Their dreams vanished to dust.

“Celeste,” Elaine asked, her gaze still fixed on the battlefield.

“What is it General?” Celeste answered reluctantly.

“Do you resent me?”

Celeste shook her head. “No of course not, my liege” she answered in a way, she hoped was convincing “What for?”

“For stealing your life” Elaine answered with icy cold in your life “for forcing you to the frontlines at the tender age of eleven”.

“I had no choice” A shake grasped Celeste’s voice “You didn’t force me into anything my liege. Zenoba did when they put my village to the torch, It was because of you, that I could live on to fight”.

“You should not have lived to fight!” Elaine’s voice had taken an icy edge “You were but a small village girl. You should never have seen the battlefield!”.

“But I did!” Celeste rebutted “Whether you like it or not, I did see battle! Nothing can change that now! You taught me the sword! I fought beside you!” Celeste lunged and with a fierce grip clutched her master’s shoulders. And with a shameful shrill voice, she pleaded “Say it! I’m your first lieutenant! I am your sword!”

“Celeste!” Elaine’s reprimand was like a stone to the face “Enough. You’re not my sword. You’re not a tool for slaughter”.

Celeste’s hands went slack, and with contemptuous ease, her general removed them. “It’s time you find your own path” she added with finality “one free from war”.

And with those parting words she turned and left. Celeste would follow, but her legs betrayed her. She could do nothing but look, as her morning star vanished on the horizon.

13 days ago

Saber (by Casey)

The train whistle blew and it came to a stop. Angie didn’t bother to look at the leaving passengers nor to look at the new ones getting on. She continued contentedly reading her book, running her fingers over the pages.

“Pwetty dwggie!” A voice squealed with excitement. The voice was young. Very young. A toddler most likely? Unfortunatly, at that age, all children have a similar pitch so she didn’t know if they were a boy or a girl.

Another voice joined. “Lily, don’t.”

‘Lily? So, a little girl then.’ Angie thought.

“That is a special doggie with a special job. And even then, you don’t just pet a dog you don’t know. You always ask for their owner’s permission first.” This voice was more mature.

“But momma,” The girl whined. “I wanna pet the dwggie!”

‘Traveling with her mom.’ Angie observed.

Angie adjusted her glasses, turned towards the source, and smiled. “Thank you. You would be surprised how often people throw on blinders when it comes to dogs. You’re a good mom, teaching her that. Lily, was it? Do you want to pet my dog?”

Lily happily fired back, “YES!”

There was a soft ruffle followed by a quiet giggle. “So cuwwlie.”

“If I may be bold, a poodle is rather unique choice for a seeing dog.”

“Not at all. Poodles may have a reputation for being frilly show-dogs but they are rather wicked smart and clever. I have a friend who actually has one of his siblings as a hunting dog.”

“What’s his name?”


“Star Wars fan?” The mom asked. Angie could hear the smile in her voice.

“Well, yes but that’s not the reason. I named him after he saved my life in a robbery attempt. Apparently, being blind in the city makes you an easy mark. I was attacked on my way home. Saber stopped it. Only a puppy at the time, still being trained, and he fought off the guy. Left a few scars or so I’m told.”

“Don’t mess with poodles.” The woman said in awe. Saber grumbled as if in agreement.

Old n Gold
Old n Gold
14 days ago

My Own Sword
By Old n Gold

A small group emerged through the door, the sound of boots and swords echoing through the great hall. They were but boys, young and wide-eyed, many of their heads angled towards the chandeliers high above rather than the throne which grew before them.

“Are these the best warriors we could find? They are as green as the summer leaves,” one of the advisors whispered but was quickly shushed with a raise of the Lord’s ringed hand.

“Greetings distinguished warriors,” announced the Lord, his voice commanding the boys to kneel. “I would wish to congratulate you for winning the selection tournament, but I am sure you are more interested in the reward that was promised.”

The young warriors nodded excitedly. None of them knew what the reward could be — the tournament never stated what it was — but they were all desperate for money of any kind.

A smile grew on the stoic Lord’s face, “The reward I offer you is a privilege of the highest honour. You shall serve as the bodyguards and agents of this court, working against this land’s enemies.” The Lord drew his elegant sword and held it out in front of him. “You shall be your people’s sword. My sword.”

The excitement was muddled. This was not the reward they truly wanted, but in front of the Lord and his court, the warriors could only form a stressed smile and reluctantly accept. All but one.

The one named Karlos slowly rose from his knees, “I apologize my lord, but I will have to decline this offer.”

“On what grounds?!” The Lord replied, taken aback.

“My family owns a farm, and we have lost many, if I am not there to help then what is to become of it.”

The Lord laughed callously, “We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good, your farm is inconsequential.”

Karlos clenched his teeth and turned his back. “Then my sword is my own,” he declared as his footsteps echoed once again through the great hall.

14 days ago

Set A Course For Adventure! (Chronicles of The Dragon: Scribe)
By Makokam

“Whoo! Yeah!” Scribe cheered, leaping up and bouncing on the couch as the show went to credits. She leapt from the couch and grabbed the remote. “I am-!” She stopped. She looked at the remote and frowned before tossing it aside.

She pushed aside some papers and magazines left on the table, but not finding what she wanted. She ran back and forth across the TV room, moving things and checking drawers and cabinets. Tossing aside pillows and cushions. Looking under the furniture.

She went into the hall, and almost immediately shook her head and headed for the kitchen. She first went to the knives. Pulling out a long thin one, she held it up and grinned.

And then thought. And frowned. And put the knife away.

She started going through drawer after drawer. She picked up a rolling pin and held it up, testing it, then put it back. She tried a spatula, but didn’t like the feel of it either. Eventually, she grabbed a long wooden spoon. She held it up, it swished through the air, and made her eyes light up.

She gave it a couple more good swishes before dashing back to the couch. She jumped over the back and planted her bare foot on the arm of the couch, the spoon held against her hip. With her other hand she drew her sword, with a loud hiss of wood against her cotton shorts, held it up, and proudly declared, “I am Scribe of the Bright Hair, and with the power of my Shift Shift fruit, I will find the One Piece and become Queen of the Pirates!”

“What are you yelling abou-” Nighthawk called as he and other’s walked in.


Scribe looked down at the couch turned miniature pirate ship. “Uh… hehe. Oops?” she said.

“Turn it back,” Nighthawk said, shoulders slumping, and covering his eyes with his hand. “And your TV privileges are revoked for the next week.”

14 days ago

You! You’re a Weapon Now!
By MasaCur

Nabiki finished tuning her bass as she waited for the rest of her band to arrive. They had a school concert next week, and needed to practice.

“Where’s Jacob? He’s late.”

“Dishonor! Dishonor on him! Dishonor on his cow!” Myoni declared. He played some dramatic music on his keyboard.

Nabiki glared at him. “Stop using Western references!”

“Nah. Besides, that movie is set in China.”

“It’s put out by Disney! It’s a western reference!” Nabiki gripped her bass tightly in her hands.

“Don’t have a cow, man.”

Nabiki growled and swung her bass at Myoni’s head, but he quickly ducked away. She circled around his keyboard and swung again, but the cord leading to the amp had tangled around a chair, and swinging the bass down, pulled the chair awkwardly with it, smacking into Nabiki’s back. Nabiki abandoned her weapon and chased after Myoni barehanded, the collision with the chair barely registering with her.

“You need to take a chill pill, Nabiki,” Myoni said.

Nabiki growled, gaining on him, so he circled toward the back door of the classroom.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Jacob said as he entered.. “I was…urk!”

Nabiki grabbed Jacob’s arm, and swung him at Myoni, lifting him off his feet. Myoni darted out of the way, vaulting over desks to get away from her.

“Nabiki, put me down! I’m not a…oof!” Air rushed out of Jacob’s lungs as Nabiki swung him overhead and down onto a desk, barely missing Myoni.

Myoni looked back and tried hard to stifle a laugh as Nabiki approached, swinging the much larger, and most unconscious, Jacob above her. It was both ridiculous and frightening to behold Nabiki’s angry tsundere girl rage as it gave her strength far greater than her small size would indicate.

“Nabiki, you need to see someone about your anger issues!” Myoni pleaded.

“I already am!” She whirled and hammer tossed Jacob straight at Myoni. Nabiki put her hands on her knees, panting heavily.

“What the heck is going on in here?” Ayase asked from the doorway.

14 days ago

In Shadow Grow the Sharpest Thorns (The Depths Files)
By ThatWeirdFish, reviewed by Alex Nightingale

Snuffles always felt small due to his stunted growth, leaving him at just under five feet tall. But now, standing next to his cousin, he felt the sting of his given name even more. Rainbunny. The title was given to the runts expected to die. Small, weak things hardly deserving of the heritage of their berserker bloodline, let alone something as powerful as a name.

“She’ll never pick you.” Galewrender smirked. Age fourteen and already a six-foot-tall wall of onyx muscle, Galewrender exemplified everything Snuffles should be in the eyes of the demonic half of his family. He had never met his fey side, but he expected they would think the same.

Burying his insecurity behind a scoff, Snuffles stretched his one advantage over his siblings. Despite being stunted and the flimsy gossamer texture of his feathers, his wings provided something his siblings could never have: flight.

“What’s that I see?” Galewrender leered at Snuffles through the corner of his eye. “The runt about to fly back to his mommy crying about how he lost?”

“You don’t know the future.” Snuffles answered, subtly clenching his fists at his side.

“I know enough to know you don’t have a chance.” Galewrender countered. “If you were as intelligent as your father’s delusions claim you are, you’d know it too.”

“Wow… such big words, I’m impressed.” Snuffles said dryly, refusing to give him the gratification of an emotional response.

Galewrender blinked. Then, his confusion morphed into an indignant scowl. He turned to face Snuffles, his body blocking the sun and casting his smaller cousin in shadow.

“You little-” His growl was cut short by the decisive clack of the door opening.

“Galewrender, do not accost my heir.” Grandame Quail said from the doorway.

Both teenagers stared up at the albino demoness in shock.

“But my birthright-” Galewrender began protesting as Snuffle’s heart lurched.

“Entitles you to my lands and possessions. My wisdom is mine, and mine alone to bestow on whom I deem worthy.” Grandame Quail’s direct gaze never felt heavier as she looked at Snuffles. “Come. Your training starts now.”

14 days ago

Stinger – A prologue written in charcoal, sap and blood
by Aracnarquista

“I’m dying. I need your help, little wasp.”

Smoke, scorched earth and the charcoal skeletal remains of trees; what once was a vibrant forest is now a desolation. Sam’s feet hurt while walking, both from the effort and from the dryness. He is not sure if it is the pain or a different trance that compels him to venture deeper into the catastrophe site, coughing the heavy air under the orange-tinted skies.

The burned forest reminds Sam of his own life – what was once an explosion of potential and life, now burned to the ground in a definitive and sudden catastrophic event. Maybe that is why his inner voice calls him further and further through the desolation. But why is it calling him a “little wasp”?

Before trying – and failing – to be a spellcaster, Sam was a gardener. Maybe wasps meant something then. Now, he is not even that. Sam is but a lost cause, walking through a lost land.

“There is still venom coursing in you. There is still time.”

In what should be the center of the forest, a tree still stands. Once a majestic fig tree – full of life and welcoming of all life – now dead, charred. Lifeless. It waits for Sam. Sam doesn’t know why, but the tree calls to him.

A solitary fig still clings to the tree, somehow surviving the inferno that took everything else. Just barely. Slowly drying and dying. A voice – that voice – comes from it.

“We are both hurt and brought down. But we are not yet lost. I can help you find your true potential, little wasp – if you allow me to live through you… I’m the soul of the forest, but the forest is no more. I’m dying. The forest is beyond saving… but maybe justice is still in reach. Take my sap. Become the forest’s stinger, little wasp.”

The wasp’s stinger dips in the hamadryad sap, a pen ready to write a new tale – in blood and charcoal if need be. Amidst ruins, magic and life flows again.

15 days ago

A Soul of Damascus

By Galer.

Swords were a simple tool for either protection, friendly sparring, or murder., A hunk of iron shoved on a stick with different proposes, depending on the design.

Nothing else was needed from them.

Although people on the planet, regardless of species, always gave them a personality of sorts. Or a soul for lack of a better term.

Even if they were replaced with guns in wars.

However, that didn’t stop your occasional crackpot wizard from using organic material, Damascus steel, and aether to make a sword sentient.

Or in the case of Durandal, an angel.

“One could say you only were born during the world wars,” Riana said to the sword that now functioned as the core of a robotic frame. Although it didn’t have a head it was a walking scabbard for the living weapon.” But I guess you let those times behind you given how they weren’t really happy moments”

The noise of iron striking iron reverberated across the room. An echoing of exhaustion from Durandal.

“I guess it would be traumatic, being passed from hand to hand. With your first memories being nothing but use for brutal killings,” Riana asked Durandal. “Although I am surprised that you are as stable as you are after that mess”

Durandal replied with the sound of a sword being sheathed back into the scabbard, as Durandal differed in opinion.

“Jesus. I didn’t know you were that mentally bad at the time,” Riana worried “Sorry for assuming”

Durandal raised their hand and simply waved in as if telling her not to worry about it, then followed it up with the sound of cutting air.

“Yeah even if you were made a weapon you desired peace,” Riana stated. ” But it is better now, you don’t have guild-induced nightmares right?”

Durandal let out a dirtied angelic chorus, expressing bittersweetness and hope.

Riana emphatically smiled in reply.

It was a statement of progress.

Meaning that one day Durandal would be free from their nightmares, to live their life to the fullest.

15 days ago

Purpose, Simplified
By: Boople

Jack carefully picked up his new shield with deranged excitement. With his arm raised in the air, he admired how its ruby gloss caught the light from the bulb hanging in the middle of the concrete room. It had a wonderfully intricate crest that looked like porcelain, planted firmly in the center of it, the visage of a skull warped in agony with a multitude of twisting horns, wasting no free space. Jack would have loved to adore his new toy for longer, if not for the sudden spilling of vomit behind him.

“Gretel,” Jack said stiffly, taking in a sharp inhale, “Now what did I tell you about making a mess.”

He turned around to see a young woman enveloped in his shadow, splayed out in quite the exhausted manner. Gretel found her hand gripping tangled in her hair, her eyes staring blankly and shaking much like the rest of her, with lunch once again to her right.

Jack loomed over her, disappointed.

“First you had NO table manners, so I taught you out of the goodness in my soul. Then you leave a pile of bodies to be found and tracked back to me, which I so GRACIOUSLY cleaned up for us, THANKS WOULD BE NICE BY THE WAY-,” Jack caught himself before he felt he lost composure.

Without a word he took some time to himself, ignoring the quivering mess before him.

He neatened up his hair,

He fixed up his tie,

He li-

“You’re a monste- EUGH.”

He lit up his cigar.

“And this,” Jack continued where he left off, “Is how you treat a promotion?”

“A Prom-m-otion-n, t-that’s what you call this?”

“Absolutely! I am making your life so much easier.” Jack’s words oozed with condescension

“You, -HURP-, You are sick.” Gretel spat out, catching what remained of breakfast

“No, I think you are.” Jack responded with a straight face, “but you won’t be much longer.”

Gretel could feel her bones break and melt out of shape even before Jack said the words.

“I wish I had a sword.”

Wangles Bojangles
Wangles Bojangles
15 days ago

The Last Resort

By: Wangles Bojangles

The storm had settled in, brooding above the high cliffs overlooking the city. Her hands were clenched in frustration. She knew she had to choose, but the choice wasn’t fair. The giant stood off from her, an enormous silhouette looming at the tree line. The rain coming down tinked and clicked off of his dark armor. His voice was so deep it rumbled like the thunder overhead. The storm in her mind given voice.

“You know I cannot do that. If that’s what you wanted, you should have found a way to have your revenge without such cost,” he said. “But vengeance always costs something, doesn’t it.”

She ran her fingers through her soaked hair. The tears welling up stood no chance against the driving rain.

“I tried…damn it I tried so hard. I believed I could find some justice. It just…it just doesn’t stop, does it?” she asked.

The giant simply crossed his huge arms.

“Humans are creatures of spite,” he said.

She stared down at the city again.

“And when they’re all gone? What then? Will the ones who come after be any better? Would all that death really mean anything?”

“I don’t care,” he answered.

She spun, staring at him. There it was again. That impossible darkness within him. That terrifying reminder that whatever he was, even if he looked like it, couldn’t be human.

“I suppose the real choice is, can I live with it or not,” she said.

The giant nodded and she turned from him again. The tears were catching up to the storm now.

“I never want to see you again after this…but I suppose it’s better. All anyone will remember is you, the thing that brings this horror upon them. One last time, I ask of you, give me vengeance…be my sword.”

Thunder crashed overhead as he disappeared into the shadow of the woods. She looked down upon the ones she hated, one final time. She would be the last one to ever do so.

Danny Gilhooley
Danny Gilhooley
15 days ago

The Gunsmith
By Danny Gilhooley

Llewelyn had heard stories of the Gunsmith. He was the last man standing during the siege of ’87. He successfully defended the town against marauders during the time the sun hugged the horizon but never set. He went without food for five days during the Great Famine.

To Lou, he was just grandpa.

His door stood before Lou like a wall. Only grandpa was inside. The rest of his family had left. His two cousins Arthur and Bull stormed out first; he was able to hear Bull screaming at someone in the parlor. Then his parents and his uncle left. His uncle would usually give Lou high-fives whenever he saw him. Instead, he just looked, grunted, and walked away.

“He wants to see you, Lou,” his dad said.

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I’m scared.”

“Death ain’t nothing to be scared of. Not when you have family. Go say goodbye.”

Dad was a lot sterner than usual. He was so gentle on the wagon ride in.

Those words egged him on, though. Finally, Lou walked toward the door, grasped the handle, and walked inside

“Is that who I think it is?” The voice sounded so distant than what grandpa used to sound like.

Lou stepped inside. Portraits of family members hung the walls. Candles glowed on the nightstand. And on the bed, looking much frailer, was the Gunsmith.

“Is that my little Louie?” grandpa said before coughing.

“Yes sir.” Lou sniffled.

“You alone?”

“Yes sir.” He wanted to cry.

“Before I go, I got something important I want to give ya. Come closer, boy.”

Lou wanted to turn around and run. Instead, he walked to the side of the bed.

“I need someone to look after this town,” grandpa said. “Someone who’s strong, bold, but also selfless and kind.”

He lifted his hand. In it was the Gunsmith’s pistol. The legend was that whoever held the gun would never miss.

“And I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have in charge than my little buddy.”

The tears got harder to force back.

“Llewelyn, can I trust you?”

15 days ago

Excalibur’s Abyss

Shawnee Bysh

The skies over the kingdom of burnt umbra pastures are filled with golden orange hues. As I embarked on the great journey to Excalibur’s abyss. The lady of fire is the protector of a sword hidden in a pool of lava, awaiting the chosen one to retrieve it. The prophecy states that someone must be strong enough to take the sword from the lava’s hot bath, where it will transform into the magical Excalibur.

My face is covered as I travel through different lands. In accordance to legends, if someone is exposed to fire smoke for too long, they can be killed where they stand. I reached the pit of the lava spring after a long journey. Approaching the lava, I saw it bubbling and whirling like a vortex. As I approach the brink of triumph, the golden skeleton engraved shaft of the sword becomes visible at the edge of the lava, a mere feet away. As I edge towards it, a being transforms before me from within the liquid pool. A beautiful woman morphed into being. Her eyes were the color of amber jewels as her hair flows like the sun is adorned upon her.

She does not speak words, only somehow invades my thoughts. I must complete several tasks before allowing myself to touch the sword. With what I have fought a lava and stone armies vigorously defending myself. Destroying the last of them, as seas of hot water from a nearby spring storm glowed in my direction as the lady of lava’s eyes glowed in the brightest flame I’ve ever encountered. As she warns, I cannot defeat the lady of the lava. Scalding liquid water barreled against the mountain as I raced to the lava pool’s edge. The sword’s handle was now within my grasp with all my might, pulling it from the ground. It transformed into the sword within a breath.

It blinds me even as I keep my grasp firm and as a grand nova vanishes before my eyes, whispering in my mind. I am now the possessor of the Excalibur sword for all eternity.

15 days ago

“Fortunate Heroes” (Alinar Setting)

By: Arith_Winterfell

“Nobody really knows who started the practice,” Jadish said tapping a taloned finger against the tabletop, “just that both sides used transmutation magics and that it kept escalating.”

Nordran, the young man across the table, sat listening with rapt attention.

“At first it was just short-term transmutations, like turning a man into a beast for a short time, or perhaps buffs that enhanced strength or skill. It didn’t stop there,” Jadish paused before continuing. “Such changes didn’t last long enough for the longer grueling battles. So, the Sorcerer Lords began using transformation rituals that lasted longer. Then drew on still more magical power. Finally, they managed transformations so profound that they were not only permanent, but also passed on from one generation to the next. Of course, the results varied, these were experiments after all.”

“And that’s how they made the great war heroes!” Nordran added naively.

Jadish grimaced. “Those were the fortunate sons. Those who were stronger and faster, but still just looked like ordinary men. They were lauded as heroes when they came home. Then there were those like me,” Jadish rapped his knuckle against his horned visage. “We didn’t get to come home to welcoming parades and adulations. We were lucky to be welcomed into our own homes. Then there were those who didn’t get to come home at all.”

“Those who died you mean?” asked Nordran.

“No,” Jadish said quietly, “the one’s who ran screaming into the wilds. The ones who lost control and were chased from towns. The ones who became beast headed bandits. The man-wolves and the Orgknocks. The ones who lost their minds altogether and forgot what it was to be human at all.”

Monsters, thought Nordran. Though he was at least smart enough to not say it to Jadish’s face.

“So boy,” Jadish said with his eyes glittering goldenly, “do you still want to sign up to be a champion for the Sorcerer Lords?”

Nordran swallowed hard. If it meant escaping poverty and debt, then yes, it was worth the risk.

15 days ago

Prisoner’s mind (Morgan & Alea)

By Reidrev

« Are you… okay? We can wait outside. »

«No… Thanks, Alcos, I am fine. » Morgan was sitting near the forge, focusing, trying to pry his own mind. « I have to do this. I can’t avoid hot temperatures forever. »

« I understand that, truly I do, but… I could fill buckets with your sweat right now. »

Morgan ignored him. He was feeling it, the sizzling in the back of his mind incensed by the swelter. He wanted to know and tame this will inside his own. A child drawing his fingers near the candle’s flame, longing to see if he could somehow wield it.

Sparks flew from the hammering, just close enough, bright enough to cast the child into the fire. Morgan was instantly lit ablaze. His whole skin felt the heat, and his heart felt it too, palpitating as if exploding in his chest. Morgan tried to breathe, the memory of sulfur burned his lungs instead.

Morgan ran out, or perhaps he was pulled out. He was dying, maybe crying. He fell or was thrown into the mud, bile pouring out of his throat.

His heart, after some eternities, calmed down. He looked at his unbound hands, he looked at Alcos then he looked at the endless sky.

« I’m so fucking stupid. » he began, his voice as coarse as ever. « It’s empty. Why did I think it was anything but? »

Alcos threw his arm around Morgan’s shoulder, sitting down next to him. « Are you alright? »

« No, of course not. I thought… I thought there was something good about it! I thought there was some bestial, primal instinct I could tap into. But there’s nothing in this tumour! Just sulfur and chains and heat. » Morgan exploded angry and ashamed, puke freezing on his chin. The cold air of winter kept the sickness at bay. Not him, impotent and weak.

Alcos said nothing, he held Morgan tighter and the pair looked in silence at the endless freedom of the night sky.

15 days ago

Stop trying to scam people and get a job please Barbara.

Strong Berry
Strong Berry
15 days ago

Give Him a Hand, Won’t You?
By Strong Berry

“Well then, Billy.” Said Master William with his hand in pocket. “Now you will meet your guide and teacher.”

From his pocket he pulled not only a sword, but also a helmet and armor and a head, which would’ve been very impressive, had it not been all made of cloth, and had the lower half of the armor not been missing, and had the eyes on the head matched in color and didn’t look like cheap marbles.

“Well, Billy, meet your new teacher: Man-”

“Is this a joke?” Billy said. “A sock puppet?”

“Let me explain-”

“No! You said I was going to learn from the best!”

“I AM!” Yelled a demonic voice that pushed Billy with its’ startle. He never heard his teacher speak like that. “That was not me.” Said William. “Correct.” The sock puppet spoke again, and moved William’s arm so its’ unmatched eyes, one green and shiny like a gem and the other brown like mud, never moved from Billy. “Is THAT the best you got?” It asked. “Look at him, he probably gets beaten by his nanny!”

“Hey!” Said Billy. “I’m Master William’s best student!”

“Yes, Manfred.” Said William to the puppet. “And his resistance to magic would help him against that witch.”

“He’s resistant to curses…?” The puppet’s tone changed. “I see… did you ever fight witches, boy?”

“My sister once tried to turn me into a chicken,” Said Billy. “but it… bounced off me, I guess. Does that count?”

“Manfred, I assure you, Billy is a great fighter.” Said William. “Oh, how silly of me, I forgot to introduce you. Billy, this is Manfred von Kaputskin, a great sword fighter who’s won 42-”

“Forty-THREE! A win by magic isn’t a win, it’s a CHEAT only dirty witches use!”

“-42 battles with a cheated loss.”

“I’ve heard of you.” Said Billy. “Is this why you went missing two months ago?”

“Hmmph.” Growled Manfred.

“Billy, you’re the best fighter I have, and Manfred is very experienced. I think you’ll learn a lot if you go with him after that witch. What say you?”

Ethan Jesse
Ethan Jesse
16 days ago

Anointed, Ye Spire
By Ethan Jesse

“By ashen cinders or brazen steel, a furnace lives for one. To forge pristine or burn away, may thy flame be the flesh of thy core. May thy skin be callous like the great castle walls, thy mind and thy being hardy as the hither storm. We hold high the heavy heart, behold the mural of a man no more, and under gracious blessings knight ye of a name forsaken as Captain of the Royal Guard.

The world around, a light as one.”

“The world around, a light as one.”

. . .

I am a soldier of steel,
A man of no renown.
No blade or fire may hurt me,
For the absence of love is not pain.

Absence of love is not pain, and this absence of pain be the void of my love. I am a man of no renown, untouched by follies and valor. I am a soldier of steel, clad and resound from a time since forgot. I am the soldier of steel, unbreakable steel, untouchable, unbendable, unending cold steel…

I do not live, but have lived and will die. I am the howl at the base of the mountain, the monolith for a world that liked things as so. Awaken and march for not the men, but the task, and rend their opposition as a monarch’s vantaknight. If Hell on this Earth be the sorrow of the morning, then may Heaven be the promise of a pawn-man’s oath. If we could clash here together without ever splitting flesh, I could rest easy knowing my life served a coin to be spent.

Sword edge and spear head,
Hurt me nevermore,
For to serve and be of service
Be the call of my yearning.

To my king and my people,
May we live here to die.

Rewan Demontay
Rewan Demontay
16 days ago


Last edited 10 days ago by Rewan Demontay
16 days ago

Soul bound
By Coyotl Martinez

I made my way through the treetops, watching over the highest bounty I’d ever dared to pursue. I was never a man of risks, but my entire family had fallen ill, and there was no other bounty close enough that could afford my family’s treatment. In fact if I were to succeed I would never have to work a day in my life, that only served to my discomfort however. Tracking this man down was easy, that’s what I’m good at, but the hard part had just begun. He walked through the thick woods without a care, wore no armor, and carried nothing but a sword in his back. Only a fool would think that’s all there is to him. He was hiding something, there’s a reason no person who pursued him ever came back. Which is why I decided to wait until he fell asleep and slit his throat, I knew I held no chance otherwise. And so at night, he leaned his sword against a tree, laid on the bare ground and fell asleep. I waited long into the night making sure his sleep was heavy. Carefully, I approached him and without making a sound, I drew my blade when suddenly the most agonizing, gut wrenching sound came from the sword. I was startled only by a second, but that was enough for the man to grab my arm and throw me a couple yards away. I crashed into a tree and bounced as I hit the ground. I recovered as fast as I could. I should’ve been dead by now. He was toying with me. I got up as he stood there patiently, waiting for me to catch my breath. He drew his sword, and its sounds only got louder. No. They weren’t sounds. They were cries, cries of terror! As that realization hit me. He had already stabbed me through my stomach. I wish that had been the end, but I felt that wretched sword absorbing me, my essence, my soul. I could only look into my jailer’s eyes in despair.
“Be my sword” he uttered

16 days ago


By: Iskritt

“Aimia!” My master stood as I entered his throne room. “I am pleased at your timely arrival.”

“I do as you command, Lord Helel,” I responded, bowing deeply.

“As you should.” He stopped beside me, took hold of my chin, and turned my head to face him. “In fact, that is the very reason you have been called here.”

I said nothing and stayed in a bow. My curiosity was itching for answers, but I knew they would come in time.

“My servants tell me of your loyalty. Unquestioning obedience and quicker results than any of their underlings, no matter the task.” Helel paused, allowing me to process the praise. “I’d like to put these claims to the test.”

“I do as you command, Lord Helel,” I repeated.

“Eager! I like it.” He let go of my chin, allowing my gaze to fall to the floor. “This is my command. I wish for you to go to the mortal realm, and slaughter all that you find.”

Questions of why quickly filled my head. I had never been to the mortal realm. However, I could not betray the image of pure loyalty Lord Helel held about me. My only response was, “I haven’t got a weapon, my lord.”

“We can fix that.” In an instant, he grabbed my arm and I screamed as it filled with pain. My hand cracked repeatedly as it extended and malformed. When he finally let go, a fleshy sword now sat upon my wrist. I was breathing deeply, trying to ignore the discomfort, as he admired his work.

“Now, you have a weapon.” Quickly, he grabbed my shoulders and turned me around to face a portal that had not been there when I walked in.

“Do my bidding.”

With a shove, I was in the mortal realm, and a thousand eyes were now on the lone demon that stood before them.

Caution made me hesitate, but loyalty shoved it aside. My eyes glowed red and my horns flared with infernal power as demon instincts took over. I made sure my master would be proud.

16 days ago

A Sharpened Blade
By Vin

As Verus stumbles back, hand pressed against the new bleeding wound on his side, he thinks to himself: I’m going to be dead in the next few minutes.

“Really, just what IS the use of you?” The voice that reverberates around his head is loud and grating, like metal on metal. Verus cringes back, but his opponent does not notice, too busy basking in the jeers of the audience as he raises his bloodied axe over his head towards them.

“Not the sharpest blade, are you?” The voice continues, relentless. Verus’ vision begins to fuzz at the edges as he feels his sword humming in his hand. He’d felt a presence in his head for a while, ever since he’d picked this sword from the offered selection. At the time he’d thought it was the perfect sword for him, dead man walking: gloomy black steel with a bone-white grinning skull pommel. Something had slithered into his mind when he picked it up but back then, he had chalked it up to his impending sense of doom. He wasn’t a fighter. The arena would eat him alive.

Now, the presence had sharpened, become a many-bladed thing digging into his head.
“Focus. Don’t let him kill you.” Verus’ vision clears and he sees his opponent approaching again, sufficiently drunk on the audience’s screams of excitement. “Shift your weight to the left. He keeps attacking from your right. Anticipate. Dodge. Then, when he leaves himself open—“

Verus’ body shifts and he’s suddenly made very aware that he cannot tell where his arm begins and the sword ends. It’s as if his entire body has been honed into a killing weapon. The sword slides cleanly into the side of his opponent’s neck. A silence rolls over the crowd as the body thumps audibly onto the ground; then, the screaming cheers begin.

“Very good. Very, very good.” The voice has become a lighter rasp in his head now. It feels like someone lightly running a blade up and down his thoughts. “I can work with what I got.”

Shini-gamma Radiation (Shinigamma)
Shini-gamma Radiation (Shinigamma)
16 days ago

Fight at the Museum!
by Shini-gamma Radiation (Shinigamma)

The glass ceiling of Le Grand Musée was shattered not by two women, but by two cartwheeling men crashing through it. One fellow, dressed in a fine silky blue cape and bearing a twirled moustache, slid down the tusk of a mammoth skeleton and flipped onto the balcony of the first floor. The other man, sporting a rich purple frockcoat with absurdly long tails flapping down to his calves, grabbed a marble statue’s spear with both hands, and spun himself around to land on the opposing balcony. A powdered, white wig landed perfectly on his head.

“I say, Marquis, old chap,” said the wigged man in classy English brogue, “We appear to have misplaced our blades. What say we call it a draw and return to our duel another time?”

“Absolument non!” cried the moustachioed man in an outrageous French accent, “You ‘ave insulted moi for ze last time, Viscount! Zis time, I shall put une end to you!”

The Marquis spun around and shattered the glass casing of a caveman skeleton display. He snatched one of the poor Neanderthal’s bones, leapt from the balcony, swung from the chandelier, and landed where his opponent had been standing.

“Damn and blast!” cursed the Viscount, springing backwards and grabbing a bemused-looking swordfish from the wall. He swung it by the tail, its pointy nose meeting the Marquis’ flailing femur.

“Only un amateur believes zat un sword must be une pièce of métal!” exclaimed the Marquis.

“Quite right,” concurred the Viscount, “With enough imagination, anything can be a weapon!”

The two harried and parried with their bizarre weapons into a hall of mannequins dressed in gorgeous vestments. Finally, with a wild flourish, the Viscount knocked the Marquis’ bone away, sending it flying into the mouth of a stuffed dog.

“Concede!” demanded the Viscount, “You’ve been disarmed!”

“Not quite!” grinned the Marquis, grabbing a mannequin and knocking the swordfish away with its wooden hand.

In the end, neither man could lay a scratch on the other. However, the egregious destruction they caused did do a lot of damage to their bank accounts!

J. J. Peterson
J. J. Peterson
16 days ago

A Sword of Fire
J. J. Peterson

The shadows around Bazden laughed quietly, the rustling of spears and the crunching of feet slowly coming closer to him through the night. His hand held his torch in a fierce grip. “Stay back!” he yelled, waving the torch about, “Don’t come a step nearer!”
The first hideous goblin stepped into the flickering light of the torch, smiling sickly. Others followed, ringing Bazden in. “Back!” he yelled, shoving his torch towards the nearest goblin. It side-stepped the thrust, then the goblins rushed him.
Bazden huddled around his torch, hoping desperately for his old sword. “Give me a sword,” he thought desperately, “Please, give me a sword.” The torch flickered in the wind, the grew brighter, making Bazden sweat despite the cold sweat of fear coating his body.
“Be my sword, please I beg you. Be my sword.”
The goblins were steps away now, swords levelled at Bazden.
In his hands the torches flame jumped and leaped, writhing into a blade of pure fire. Bazden jumped up swinging his sword in a large arch, the nearest goblins falling back with howls of agony, skiing alight. Bazden felt his clothes begin to smoulder and his skin melt. He spun, sending a wave of fire out from him which enveloped the horde, turning them straight to ash.
More goblins fell from the trees and came out of the night to replace the fallen, running at Bazden. “Flamespitter!” they growled in their barbaric tongue, “Give it back. It should never have been yours!”
A river of fire flowed of Bazden’s sword turning the ground to magma, leaving no trace of the goblins that had been there. He spun, releasing ripples of flame in all directions, but still the throng of goblins pressed towards him, more numerous than before. Bazden raised his sword and drove it point first into the ground. A ball of fire exploded out from him, decimating the dying land all around and lighting the darkness. Every living thing turned to ash, and even that ash was incinerated as goblins, trees, and critters were caught up in the torrent of flame. Bazden himself melted, clothes and hair bursting into flame. A few hours later, one lone goblin scrambled across the smouldering ash and grabbed the sword, now an unlit torch. “It has been recovered. What shouldn’t have been wielded by men, has been lost by man.”

Xavier Twentyone
Xavier Twentyone
16 days ago

Piao Liang Meaning Beautiful: An Absurd Story
By Xavier Twentyone

Behold this sword named Piao Liang! A single-edged two-handed sword who had slaughtered an entire army before! And her master, Chin Ming, who was a glorious warrior who could fly on the battlefield!

Together they were Greece and tragedy, destined to meet.
Together they met at the battlefield, destined to rule it.
Together they married under a Plum Blossom, rejoicing in their history.
Together they would become a legend… if not for Chin Ming’s atrocity.

You see… after many hard battles and many furious fights, their relationship, to say the least, became distant. Chin Ming, who was a warrior for hire, never had a mother who took care of him. Meaning, he never knew how to treat a woman. He only had his mercenary father take care of him, and in return, adopted his father’s belief in women.

“People are like women. They cannot be trusted!” Chin Ming’s father said. “If you’re rich and powerful, you can pick any woman you want and sleep with them how many times you want, but be careful when devoting yourself to them, or you’ll end up just like me.”

At that time, Chin Ming didn’t understand what his father had just said. All he had understood was that women are like shoes; you can try and use them a couple of times and never use them again.

Piao Liang on the other hand, who still wanted to renew their love, tried her best to become a better sword than before. She sharpened her edge regularly, swapped her grip and pommel for a more beautiful one, and even bought a new scabbard so that Chin Ming could carry her easily.

One night when Piao Liang was waiting for her husband, a mysterious old lady appeared in front of her house’s window.

“I fear that your husband has cheated with another sword. I suggest you use this perfume for its smell can kill eight men.”

Piao Liang refused to use the perfume and stabbed the old lady instead. The old lady magically turned into Chin Ming. The perfume magically turned into a corrosive liquid bottle.

16 days ago

The Old Blacksmith. A Story in the Alchemy’s Kin Universe by Macboizen. Written by Alex Nightingale.


The massive hammer was brought down again and again, each metallic sound undercut by an exhausted gasp.


There were better and more modern methods he could use for this, but there was something to be said, about forging in the old ways. Something satisfactory to himself and his clients. He closed his eyes, taking in the scent from the forge, letting the coal roar, forcing his will into the metal beneath him.


He applied the final strike with his hammer, before taking the still red-hot blade in a gloved hand and dropped it into a bucket of water. It sizzled and cooked, smoked and misted. He wiped the sweat off his wrinkled brow, before raising his hand. The metal followed his call and the bullets rose from the water, still glowing slightly.

He drew them close to his lips and blew on them, slowly and deliberately, before, pressing it into a pot of soil. The soil grew hot and began to smoke, but the cool moisture.

He waited, his long, grey beard itching slightly from the coal dust. He wiped the sweat off his bald head, his gaze upon the sword sticking out of the flowerpot, like some grotesque tree. While the sword cooled, the old blacksmith took out some leather and started wrapping it around the hilt.

There had been many weapons he’d forged, for many clients. Swords, yes, but also knives, axes, bullets and more outlandish tools. His command of metal helped make his creations unique; unique and expensive. But well worth the high price-tag. He’d never met a dissatisfied customer before. And this time, his customer would not be either.

After he was done wrapping the hilt in leather, he pulled out a small splinter from his apron pocket. It was barely larger than a fingernail, gleaming like a jewel. The metal on the blade parted slightly, as he pushed it in and he pulled the now cold sword from the soil.

“Will you be mine?” he asked, quietly.

The sword seemed to nod in the flickering light of the forge. The blacksmith smiled.

16 days ago

To finally trust

by Reinkarnitor

Emma was confused…and for the first time she actually showed that confusion, because there was no way she could have held that back.

“X…why…why did you come back? How did you even find me?” she asked the young man in front of her.

“You know I have my ways, Emma” the detective answered her.

She just shook her head. This guy was unbelievable. She knew that much already when she first saw him. But that he was even capable of tracking her down…

Even so, she quickly got her emotions under control and put up her emotionless facade again.

“You should not be here. It is dangerous” she berated him.

“I know. The guy who is attacking London right now…he is your old familiar…isn’t he?” he asked her, and she slowly nodded.

“A mistake from my past…”

“Which you can not get rid of alone.”

She looked at him and her cold gaze glimmered up with yet another spark of confusion for a second.

“I set you free…I told you that you don’t have to stay my familiar. I accepted it was wrong to force you…so why are you still here?”

X’ expression turned soft.

“I did not want to be controlled…that is true…you were really pushy…but I know now why. I know how often you were betrayed in the past.”

She looked down at the ground.

“Things don’t have to be like that. I don’t have to be controlled. You don’t have to be afraid. We don’t have to be alone.”

He offered her his hand.

“But you have to trust me, Emma.”

She could not believe it…in this night alone she experienced two ‘first times’. Letting a familiar go…and him returning to her on his own. This young man…this human…he was different from the ones before.

“I…I want to trust you” she quietly said.

“Then let’s get rid of the bastard!” X smiled at her friendly.

She took his hand, tears forming in her eyes “Yes! Please be my sword, my beloved familiar!”

The moon crest appeared on the back of his hand.

“As you wish, milady.”

17 days ago

Fighting Words (Conflict of Dreams)

By Sanguinerus

Friedrich von Gottesau smiled gleefully as he admired the beautiful countryside. Wind blew through the trees, rustling the leaves and the fields of barley and wheat swayed in kind. He adjusted his tattered top hat which no longer matched his white suit. He took a deep breath of the temperate air as his servant Addler approached him and he turned to acknowledge her.

“Inquisitor Octus is after you. He intends to brand you with the mark of the inquisition for abdicating your duties.” She stated plainly.

“I’m not worried about him.” He replied dismissively.

“Why not? He’s a renowned pyromancer who has a reputation for upholding the tenets of the Sortis religion. You can’t fight him, he’ll burn you to a crisp.”

“Oh but I can fight him, in a manner of speaking. I’ve heard he likes to pontificate, so I shall duel him, and my tongue shall be my sword. When accuses me then I shall parry!” He said, swinging his arm as though to knock away an attack. “I only left to further my education! I say. And if he rebuts with the fact that I must return immediately. Then riposte!” He continued, gesturing again as though wielding an imaginary sword. “Then while he’s on the back foot, lunge!” He said, thrusting his arm forward. “It is in fact you who is shirking his duty! Pursuing such a frivolous allegation! I say, turning the accusation back on him. He will concede with his pride mortally wounded I assure you.”

Addler raised an eyebrow, uncertain about his plan, despite his confidence and conviction. Though he had pulled off something similar in the past, and he did have a way with words.

“Very well then.” She said, accepting his plan of action. They walked down the dirt road in silence for while as they contemplated their future encounters.

“Failing that of course, I’ll probably just run away. What is he, seventy years old?” Friedrich said, breaking the silence once more.

“Seventy-three.” Addler corrected him.

“Alright then, I should be fine either way, there’s no way he can catch me.”

17 days ago

A corpse
By Vex
(Warning: Gore and Implicit Murder. It’s probably not suitable for the stream)

Amethyst colored the drowsy sky whilst embers polluted its allure in an air of death. As pretty as the image was, it couldn’t make my nose forget the scent of blood. Especially when it was mixed with feces, mites, and steel. I have tasted this scent for so long that my body is no longer repulsed by it.

What is the point of continuing this crusade? Haven’t I done enough? A corpse laughed at the notion.

“It’s a bit too late now, isn’t it? The job needs to be thorough. Otherwise, how can you face your dear, dead sister?”

The corpse gestures to the bodies of men women and children strewn about the city streets.

“Pick up your weapon! Finish what you’ve started!”

I know I know, but this is getting rather manic, isn’t it? Can’t this end already? Unfortunately, my sword begged to differ, its crimson blade already pulling me to its target.

Arriving at the house I abandoned, I peered through the doorway. Ignoring the homey decor and I focus on the scene by the far wall. There, the window nestled a cradle which had its base bleached in the blood of the parents. The father was on the floor, sword still in hand whilst the mother was slouched over the top of the cradle, head inches from a sleeping baby. She still smiled for her child despite the gaping hole in her back.

Despite my swords best efforts, my body remained stuck leaning against the door frame. My cheeks streamed hot tears at the sight.

I really can’t go on. Isn’t this enough? Haven’t I done enough?

The corpse begins to chuckle.

“I knew you didn’t have the guts. You are a coward who can’t even get his revenge right.”

I take a step.

“Isn’t this what happened to you? Why do you hesitate?”

I arrive next to the crib.

“Are they really deserving of mercy after all they did to you?”

The corpse smiled.

“That’s better, my sword never lies.”

Last edited 15 days ago by Vex
Tamela Redfin
Tamela Redfin
17 days ago

Out of the Sheath

By Tamela Redfin

Lukas was happy to unite with people of the rebellion. He also could be free of Klon Vatti. But then a face could change everything.

He was going for a walk with his brother, Otto, gold and orange leaves dancing to the ground when he noticed her. Her pale grey skin, her soft lips, her beautiful blue eyes. She paused, tilting her head before calling out, “Lukey?”

A shot of adrenaline burst into Lukas’s veins and he ran off. No! It couldn’t be! Reagan was part of Grey Rose?

“Bruder, slow down.” Otto called out, chasing to catch up. “Why did you break into a sprint?”

Lukas panted before answering, “I saw her. Reagan.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“She was not my girlfriend! We only fell madly in love. And she loved me more than her husband. And I might have freaked out over a pregnancy scare she had…”

For a while, neither brother said a word. The two stood in the dewey grass.

Then Otto said, “Odile said always fight for what you believe in. If you love Reagan, show her. Don’t be afraid to stand up for what you believe in, even if it means standing alone. Reagan will appreciate your courage and support.”

Lukas wrung his hands.

“You don’t need to be afraid.”

“Easy for you to say.” Lukas rolled his eyes. “Iris just fell into your arms. I abandoned Reagan when she needed someone.”

“The wound might need time to heal, yes, but if you break a bone, it will heal stronger, right Lukas?”

“It’s not the same, Otto.” He frowned.

“Maybe, but pretend for me.” Otto pleaded.

Lukas closed his eyes and saw her sitting there, smiling, unlike she normally did. “Otto’s right. I can’t just avoid her forever.” He thought.

He took a deep breath and shouted, “Reagan, come here!”

C. M. Weller
17 days ago

A Share in the Victory [set in A Devil’s Tale world, Alfarell]
C. M. Weller

The hag told all of the truth, and the whole of the prophecy. The vile villain destroying the world that Hero knew could only be stopped with a weapon forged from the blood of their allies. One might think this was a curse. One might believe that this could lead to a narrative filled with inevitable betrayal.

One might easily expect tragedy from such a prophecy.

Heroes are heroes BECAUSE they know how to make statements like that work for them.

The Hero set out to rescue, befriend, and otherwise be amenable to every single creature capable of stringing two thoughts together to make a conclusion. Hero gathered friends like mountaintops gathered snow. They only asked for one thing in return.

Every season, fill a single preservation phial with their own blood and see it delivered to a specific forge in a specific place. And continue to do so for as long as they considered Hero to be a friend.

If Hero had befriended a thousand people, it would have taken them forty-five years to gather enough blood for the sword. They gathered five thousand such people, and did it in nine.

The prophecy never said a WORD about the blood being from the dead.

Assumptions are where most prophecies do the most damage.

The vile villain also assumed that such a weapon could never become a reality. They never bothered with security. Never had any guards in their castle. After all, only a sword made from the blood of friendship and wielded by that central friend could defeat them.

The vile villain was just as surprised as the seers.

17 days ago

The Burned Loaf

The scent of yeast and soot filled Marggrin’s bakery, shafts of light filtering through the front window. Her daughter Celrin opened an oven, finding a burned and rock hard loaf inside. Her eyes flicked to the stairs as she called, “Weolrin, how long ago did you put this one in?”

“Fifteen minutes,” her sister replied from upstairs.

“You sure?”

“Uh, maybe a little longer.”

Celrin sighed, flipping a lock of her long crimson hair as she thought what to do with this latest failure. The chime of the hanging door bell stilled her thoughts, Celrin putting the offending loaf under her arm as she hurried to the counter. A dark haired man with a cocksure gin and a glint in his eyes swaggered towards her.

He leaped over the counter, sword flashing out as he wrapped his arm around Celrin, pressing her and the bread together. Celrin yelped, struggling to free herself as the man cried, “Sir Palejjor, I am Bethior and I have taken your love!”

“Palge isn’t not here,” Celrin hissed. “Now let me go you lunatic.”

“Where is he?” Bethior demanded, glaring into Celrin’s eyes.

“Meeting with the Longshoremen.” No sooner had she spoken than the bell rang anew.

On the threshold stood Palge, a short man with straw colored hair and tried blue eyes. He paused, looking horrified, as he stammered. “Ooh, uh, what’s happening?”

“I am Bethior!” He shoved Celrin away and jumped over the counter, twirling his sword. “And…”

A crack echoed through the room as a rock hard bread loaf collided with the Bethior’s rock hard head, dropping him insensate. Palge blinked, edging over and taking his sword. “Uh…”

“A lunatic, let’s get him out of here,” Celrin sighed, stepping around the counter to help Palge drag the groaning man from their home. “How did the meeting go?”

“Progress was made, barely.”

Celrin nodded, dumping the lunatic in the street and waving to a watchman. She put her arm around Palge’s shoulders, her Love rising up on his tiptoes to kiss her. Then they retired to the bakery as Bethior was carted away.

17 days ago

There Are No Strings on Me
By Marx (CW: Alex/1st Person Daisy, i.e. mental/physical abuse)

A small whimper escapes my lips as the demon hunter’s blade impales me.

It hurts…

Of course it does…

But I don’t dwell on that…

The pain will be over soon…

I’m just happy that…

…at least I was useful to Him.

My heart slows…

My breathing stops…

It’s finally over…

‘I thought I made myself clear before,’ says a familiar voice, breaking through the peace in my mind. ‘You die when I say you die.’

‘…sir?’ I feel tears falling down my cheeks having nothing to do with the gaping wound in my chest.

‘No,’ He sighs in exasperation. ‘The other voice in your head. Who else would I be?’

‘…you said–‘

‘I said you’d be a target for my escape. I never said you’d die from it.’

While true, He’d never said those exact words, they’d been HEAVILY hinted. Regardless, that wasn’t important.

‘How may I serve you, Sir?’

I hear His chuckle echo in my head. ‘Surrender to me.’


I don’t know how much more I can possibly give. I was willing to die for Him. But whatever more He wants from me is His to take.

His chuckle becomes louder. I feel myself being hurled somewhere deep in my mind. I’m forced into being nothing more than a mere observer as my healing body stands up.

His smile curls on my lips.

It takes the demon hunters a second to realize my body is moving again. That’s all the time He needs.

He makes my body do things I didn’t even know were possible. It uses magic to bend time and space, instantly appearing behind our foes.

He takes their own swords and swiftly relieves them of their heads.

The rest, he incinerates with a blast from my hand.

It isn’t a fight.

It’s a slaughter.

When only the youngest one remains, my lips smile widely as we watch him flee.

‘Why do you allow him to escape, Sir?’

“Dead men tell no tales. I want his clan to know what happened here. What merely my thrall is capable of. I want their fear.”

Berith Quinn
Berith Quinn
17 days ago

The Blade of Nythveral
(A Tale from Aetherion)
By Berith Quinn

Countless voices wailed in discordant symphony from the dark recesses of Nythveral’s mind. Every victim, every soul, that he took in His Lady’s name stirred within him. With every blink, he could see a different echo in the shadows. Indistinct shades that seamlessly shifted in waves of misery and silent pleas.

But one echo stayed constant. It was always there amongst the crowd. Never begging. Never crying out. It just stared at him with regretful eyes filled with forlorn pity. No matter how much Nythveral tried to cast aside his once mortal life, Wyndham was always there. The first amongst the echos. A bitter reminder of his discarded humanity.

A familiar hand snaked across Nythveral’s carapace-covered chest, as a long tongue lovingly caressed his ear. The icy embrace from The Lady warmed his elongated limbs. For the briefest of moments, it was soothing. Serene. Yet uncharacteristic of her.

His Lady’s talons sharply pierced through flesh and bone, as though they were nothing but clay to mould in her grasp. Venom dripped with every word that she spat in disgust.

“Remember what you are. What I forged you into. Nythveral, the Great Devourer. My herald of darkness. My blade of torment. Perhaps, when I ascended you, I left too much of that pathetic human within you…”

Without hesitation, she plunged her hand further into his chest, as her spidery fingers burrowed through the ichor filled flesh. As icy tendrils wrapped around his heart, Nythveral felt his entire being wracked with exquisite pain. Chunks of unneeded flesh sloughed off, while his bones thickened and elongated. Nythveral’s limbs slowly fused, as his rage and malice sharpened, leaving little room for remorse or sympathy.

The Lady of the Black Tower, slowly appreciated her finest creation that she held within her grasp. A sword, forged of flesh and bone, that pulsated with ravenous hunger and insatiable anger. Along its edge, thick black ichor oozed from minute pores, which hissed and fizzled as it burnt the air, like a necrotic acid.

“Yes… a form much more fitting for you, my beautiful Nythveral.”