Storythread

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MAN. After the untimely death of the last one and over three weeks without a new one, I was seriously worried something terrible has happened to the storythreads.
Any news on what happened to the Bard, by the way? I did not submit to the last edition, and I haven't heard or seen anything about them since the deadline of the last submission, and some rumors about some legal rights dispute...

The hatchet wielding gangster continued mocking “-I Know you some poor-ass bitch living off scraps. But who ever gave you those hideous sandals… Flip-Flop-thingies? Must be some cruel and merciless asshole. Again, you playing with children’s toys?”

Another of the gangsters who was brandishing the bolo-knife joined in too. “Also might I ask old man? What are you dressed up as? You trying to impress the kids, geeks and other people who are geeks and got kids? I doubt anyone would find your getup convincing, HAHAHAHAHAHAHEHEHEH!”

Then suddenly there was a loud wooden tapping sound that echoed in the train car, it was from the Demonium Gangster who was sitting down and reading a newspaper. He was tapping his baseball bat that had nails embedded in it on the ground and unlike the three gangsters making fun of Toby; he was quiet the whole time and had a name visible in his jacket, his name apparently was Dante.

“Alright settle down, settle the fuck down you three. We’re just on our way home to my suite in the Frast Avenue; and quit acting like a bunch of juvenile motherfuckers by making fun of an old homeless guy. Not being some moral considering the heinous and evil shit our organization’s done, but come on Bo Cree, Gavin Brinly and especially you Tyler Grin, act like mature adults at the very least.” Dante said to his fellow Demonium Gangsters in a loud yet bored and somewhat tired sounding voice. He was apparently the leader of this small group and Toby noticed Dante looking a bit longer at the blonde knife-holding gangster; whom Toby assumed was Tyler Grin, as Tyler put away his knife back at his pockets and took his seat again.

While the hatchet wielding black man; who was Gavin Brinly, also took his seat back, while the bolo knife holding gangster, who was possibly Bo Cree, also just went back to his seat and settled his bolo knife weapon on his lap.

“So Dante, sir. How long are we from Frast Avenue?” Bo Cree asked Dante.

“We should be at the Frast Station about in five minutes boys. Then we can have ourselves some cold beers at my suite.” Dante said matter of factly.

Toby had to stay quiet for the rest of the trip; he distracted himself with two action figures he had, playing with them. Time passes by, four minutes have past and the trip for Toby was tense as he could feel the Demonium Gangsters; minus Dante, looking at him with certain intent. Then one of the gangsters; Gavin Brinly, announced.

“Hey everyone, I think I see the Frast Avenue Station!”

But to everyone’s surprise the train did not stop as it kept going and going. “Hey what the fuck is this!?” One of the Demonium Gangsters exclaimed.

Then the public announcement speakers of the train sounded up, it was the train driver. “Attention passengers… Due to some technical difficulties and problems… We will not be stopping at Frast Avenue Station; instead we will be stopping at Lower Blingil Station… Sorry for the inconveniences. Please stay seated till the ride ends at Lower Blingil Station. That is all.” The train driver announced, though he sounded very nervous.

“Lower Blingil? Waits a minute, isn’t dat in the Darlington State? We headin’ to Darlington City something’?” Tyler Grin questioned.

“Nah man, Lower Blingil’s in Champids. The border town separating Darlington State from Twin Distance County and Dayport State.” Said Bo Cree.

“What the hell??? This ain’t right boys; this train could’ve just made it back to the previous station back at South Pret. Why bother going all the way to a station at Darlington State??? Stay alert boys...” Dante said to his group.

(Man, am I the only one making a story here right now? C'mon anons go and share your write faggotry while also keeping this thread alive with healthy bumps.)

I dunno, I'm getting pretty upset. They were supposed to publish on the first of december. There's been nothing on their site nor their facebook to explain themselves. They haven't contacted authors via facebook nor email.

Fuckers

This was getting even tenser than it already is for Toby as he just kept on staying quite. The gangsters often exchanged looks with Toby, while also being tense around their seats. Some more time passes and the train's public announcement speakers go up again.

"Attention passengers, we are five minutes away from Lower Blingil Station in Champids Town, Darlington State border. Repeat, five minutes..." The train driver sounded nervous and anxious again.

This felt like forever for the current passengers. Toby kept pre-occupying himself with his action figures and imaginations while the Demonium Gangsters kept tensely quite while also holding firm to their weapons. Another four minutes have passed and everyone knows it.

“One more minute… One more minute till we arrive at the Lower Blingil Station folks… Stay seated…” The public announcement systems sounded up with the nervous sounding voice of the train operator. One of the Demonium Gangsters; Gavin Brinly, said to his fellow gang members as he twirled around his bolo knife.

“You know what boys? I think that operator’s hiding something. I got a feeling that shit’s got something to hide from us. Maybe that train operator’s forgetting who he’s servin’ and I think he maybe in cahoots with people we don’t like.”

Dante then chimed in: “You know, I think you’re right… Assuming that operator’s in cahoots, we stop in Lower Blingil and quickly bag him. Beat some answers out of him if we must; know why we’re stopping at Lower Blingil and not at Frast Avenue Station… ASSUMING there ain’t any witnesses around since we’re in Darlington now…” Dante said with a gritted voice knowing that they’re outside their turf of Farburg and the Twin Distance County.

But Toby either did not overhear their conversation or just minded his own business he was about getting ready to leave and packing his belongings. Finally the train stopped at Lower Blingil Station.

>to be continued

Considering they have been pretty correct and fair up till recently, I would suspect something either really big, or very legal fucked up. I would not be that harsh on them.
Might not be obvious to anyone who has not found themselves in the same situation, but especially in case of some (potentially troublesome) legal issue, the first thing your lawyer will advise you is to keep your mouth shut UNTIL it's resolved, because anything you will say can be used against you. Even on a bloody anonymous forum. And if you find yourself in such situation, it's pretty easy to find yourself scared and rather trusting your lawyers on this.
Alternatively, something they are really, really ashamed of happened.

Ultimately though, Bard was actually still at core a non-profit and largely enthusiast project, so... It sucks, but I would not get too angry about it. If I remember the wording of the agreement they gave us to sign when we submitted the articles to the first one, it included a clause that all their rights to the story are void if they do not release it under the time and conditions they promised to release it, so it's not like they "stole" anything from you, or scammed you out of anything...

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I need to write an Orks x Steel Ball Run crossover

Today would be the start of young Gue'vesa Jim's training on the operation of a Tau battlesuit. Normally this would comprise of hours sanctioned simulator usage, learning the ins and outs of using such complex technology, but for some reason his instructor, Shas'El Sa'cea Nace'yr, insisted that he begin training in an actual battlesuit as soon as possible.

The young boy found his Tau instructor already at the Hangar with an XV-9 Crisis Suit prepped for today's demonstration.
"I'm glad you could make it today, Gue'vesa!" the Tau cheerfully announces. "Today's going to be a big day for you!"
The child didn't seem to notice any of her excitement. He declares, "I want to serve the Greater Good in every way I can!"
The instructor was already licking her lips in anticipation. This one was already so unaware of her desires. "That's right," she hums, "we should all serve the Greater Good with everything we have." Her hand pats him on the head, ruffling his short hair. Young Jim blushes uncomfortably. "Ah, is something the matter, young one?"
"N-no, Shas'El," he stutters. "I was just...surprised."
She giggles. "Does it feel good?" Jim could only nod under her sway. "Good boy. I like honesty."

The battlesuit opens and El'Nace'yr hops into the cockpit with practiced grace. She then motions for the Gue'vesa to join her,
He glances nervously. "But Shas'El, that looks like it can only support one pilot."
"It does..." she notes, "but it is an ancient Tau custom for an instructor and a promising young student to sit in the same cockpit together. This ritual would help them...bond, shall we say?" The entire story was a fabrication, of course. Nace'yr wanted to get as close as she could to him as soon as possible, to feel him in a way that never would be allowed. Even among the Tau, there were those that desired something beyond their Greater Good, and for her it was the taste of Gue'la. Young Jim caught her eyes the instant she saw him and now all she wanted was to make him hers.

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Unfortunately, Jim was as dense as they came. He believed every single word his instructor told him without question. "If that's okay," he mutters as he hopped on top of his instructor. "I'm sorry if I'm too heavy for you, Shas'El."
She giggles again as she accustoms herself to his weight pressing down upon her as the cockpit closes, his foreign smell slowly filling the room. "Now then," she begins, "we need to turn this on. Please move aside a little so I can do that." Jim leaned a little only to find an arm snaking around to feel up his chest. He holds in a gasp as those long Tau fingers crawl around to to the other side of his body, slowly kneading.
He moans, "U-um, commander...!"
"Don't worry, child," she whispers. "I almost got it...here." The switch is activated and the sensory systems come online. "By the way, your body feels so soft."
Even within the dark of the chamber, illuminated only by the screen, she could tell how brightly Jim was blushing. It felt delightful to have such an influence on him.
"Now, I want you to grab this nice big joystick right..." She floats her hand around his legs, occasionally moving dangerously close to the base of his legs, but when she saw how hard he was breathing and how much he was writhing, she finally decided to grab the joystick in the cockpit. "Here. Do you want me to guide you?"
"No! No, no," yelped Jim. He recoils at the volume. "I'm fine. Totally."
"Good. Now, let's walk out."

The live demonstration was rife with innuendo such as this. Accidentally rubbing her chest on his back to get a rise, 'innocently' licking his ears, fitting her hands under the Gue'vesa standard issue armor, even ever so lightly rubbing his legs, nothing was out of game in Nace'yr's game to seduce the boy. Add that to the indoctrination demanding that all Gue'vesa obey their superior officers and that left Jim with only one option: accept her advances.

He could express his discomfort, but that meant little to the Tau system, which placed duty to the Empire above the interest of the self. In the end, all he could do is restrain himself and hope he could pay even the slightest bit of attention to the actual lesson.
Quite obviously, in the battle between will and instinct, instinct won by an embarrassing margin between all the advances she made. Even after an hour in the cockpit, he still didn't understand what half of the various buttons and switches in the cockpit did, much less how to make his battlesuit move without tripping half the time.

"Say, Gue'vesa," asked the Tau, "are you...enjoying this lesson?"
This left the boy frozen in terror. Common sense and arousal clashed again for dominance in his head, struggling to come to a single answer. He stammered, and the probing caress of Nace'yr's fingers across his skin made him even less certain about himself. "Are you uncomfortable?" Her teasing words snaked their way into his ear, the breath tingling. "If you are, then you should just say so." She then drew away. "But if you want to keep going, then you know what to say..."
It was clear what she wanted, even poor Jim understood as much. She wanted him to submit, to become hers, yet that did little to help him with refusing. Each and every one of those actions, the prodding, the sensation of her body rubbing so sensually to him, separated by only millimeters of plate and near-skintight polymers, had a very peculiar effect on the young boy. Nace'yr knew all about the effect, but she had been very careful to never draw attention to it.
"Now be honest with me..." she cooed. "If you're honest with me, then I'll give you a very...special...present."

It all lay on Jim. He alone could make the choice between releasing all his pent-up urges with her or finishing his proper training. No matter what he did, he would remain unsatisfied, either educationally or sexually.
Jim then realized that his throat was dry.

>he's back
Oh, thank God

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Since both of them were so tied up with the predicament, neither of them realized the sudden arrival of an Ork Mega Dread.

The impact it made jostled both of them out of the predicament, the Crisis Suit now scattered on the floor. The two scramble to reorient themselves to face the sudden arrival. Nace'yr grumbles in Tau, remarking how the drone was not meant for combat as it was utterly unarmed. "Quickly," she barks, "We need to retreat! The sooner we get more suits, the sooner we can get back to what we were doing!"
"Right!" The distraction was welcome to Jim, whose urges found themselves shoved to the back of his mind so he could try to navigate the suit. However, the distraction's effects showed, as he panicked in between hitting any button he could find to fire the thrusters. This inexperience proved to be his undoing as the Ork death machine opened fire and scored lucky hits on them. The suit finally manages to get airborne, but with such an inexperienced pilot at the seat, it proved difficult to evade the onslaught of rokkits and eventually it is downed by the fusillade.

Jim is the first to wake up from the crash, and none too soon as he hears the horrific ripping sounds. Before he could ask just what was going on, he sees a crack of light. Another howl of Orkish engineering, and two massive claws tear into the hole and open a gaping hole in the cockpit. The Gue'vesa had his opportunity. Before the Ork contraption could raise its klaw again, he loosens the restraints and leaps out of the cockpit.
It was the kicking that awakens Nace'yr. She instantly realizes the lack of weight on her and begins panicking. She has no idea where they took the boy, and without any armaments of her own, she fears that she might become of him.

The Shas'El tries to lift a leg to realize it's broken. Even with all of her effort, she finds moving impossible. As she looks up, praying to the Greater Good that Jim may still live, she finds the Mega Dread not moving.

This was unusual for the blatantly warlike Orks. She hoped again for Jim's sake, wondering what would happen next.

It was at this point that she hears footsteps. Then she finds the giant hole in the suit blocked by a hulking figure in a suit.
"NOW, I'D ASK YA TA HAZ A SEAT, BUT IT SEEMZ I DON'T NEEDZ TA." She understands in an instant that this was an Ork. "MAH NAME IZ CHRIS ORKSEN, AND I WOULD LIKE TO ASK YA SOME KWESTINZ."

It became clear in that instant that everything Shas'El Sa'cea Nace'yr had risked in her attempts to bed this one human had all gone to waste. Now the Greater Good would not come to her aid, but in those last moments she had, she had to wonder if they would ever protect someone with such impure impulses to breed beyond their species.

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>story about Tau superior making subtle lewd advances to Gue' Vesa Recruit
>hoping the get together
>Chris Orksen shows up
>mfw

Arrrggh! You sly bastard! And I was rooting and hoping for the Gue' Vesa and that Tau woman to be together!

I even got a fucking boner out of this till Chris Orksen showed up.

I demand/request you make an alternate version in which the Gue' Vesa recruit and Tau superior hook up.

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Tyler Grin quickly rose up and peeked out to see the station if there were any people, and somewhat confirming to their suspicion, there were no other people outside to board the train.

“Yo Dante soir! No one else around this station! Either there aren’t peeps because its dis late, or we’s bein’ set up!”

And with that everyone; even Toby Bailey. Stood from their seats as the doors of the train opened up and Tyler Grin was the first to not only getting out, but practically dash out of the train as he was suddenly heard yelling.

“HEY YOU MISTER TRAIN OPERATOR! WHERE’S YOU GOIN!? GET BACK ‘ERE YOU LITTLE BITCH!!!”

At the sound of that, the Demonium Gangsters rushed out to, but Dante stayed for awhile to say something to Toby Bailey, who was still standing not knowing what to do.

“Hey hobo, whatever happens out there; DO NOT interfere. You got it?”

“…Uhmm… I really don’t even know what’s with all this, I just wana leave now-”

“Good, then don’t interfere, OKAY!? And here, something for your troubles.” Dante threw about a hundred credits at Toby, mostly in hopes of having to keep his mouth shut and look the other way around as opposed to charity. Dante dashed out of the train car and Toby then followed in suite to just leave and go someplace else where the road leads him.

As Toby moved out of the train car he saw the four Demonium Gangsters all gathered around the Train Operator. Bo Cree was the one to ask as he pointed his hatchet at the Train Driver;

“Why the fuck you brought us here to Darlington State!? And why the fuck were you trying to run away when Tyler here approached as soon as you got of your working post!?”

And Gavin Brinly then motioned his Bolo Knife close to the Train Operator. “Tell us, you setting us up or something!? WELL ARE YA!? YOU FORGETTING WHO YOU WORKING WITH NOW!?”

>to be continued

bamp

Birds are chirping, she stopped singing, it must be morning. Rising from my slumber, I rolled my bedding and I stepped out of the tent to find her sitting across the shallow ash filled pit. The hooded figure, always smiling, silver strands of hair standing against her ash grey skin, blood-soaked eye coverings and midnight black cloak

"You must have slept well, didn't hear a peep from you all night! I was half tempted to wake you up at one point, there were streaking lights through the sky."

She sounded genuinely excited, more so than usual, she's been that way for the past few days now in fact. With a brief stretch, I went about my morning exercises.

"Streaking lights, nothing else?"
"Nothing else!"

I asked, and she responded as she made her way over to the tent, removing my equipment to begin deconstructing it. With the equipment gathered and donned, I had slung the pack over my shoulder, gazing up through the canopy of leaves to be met with a dull sky. We started off north again. This had been frankly awful, days of travel with nothing to do, I would kill for a bandit troupe to attack us right now.

"I'm running out of ink, we'll have to restock that when we get to the citadel. You're sure they're going to just let us walk right in?"
"Positive. I just hope they don't make too much of a ruckus at the gate check. Don't freak out if they ask to examine anything, just let them know about the curse and it should be fine."

Maybe she was just excited to get back to her 'home', it would make sense, but then why has she been staring at me lately so much? The day passed by without incident, unfortunately, and we set up camp again. I don't quite understand why I can't simply ask her why she's been so particularly cheery, maybe she isn't, and I've just not noticed it to this degree before.

Bored nearly to death, we did come to the gates of the city, and she was quite serious about these people. Sun worshiping Drow, quite in your face about it too.

Their armor and architecture's colors and designs mostly revolved around it, a bit garish to be frank. One of the guards rose a hand and asked our business, and to present any weaponry we would have.

"We're just travelling sell-swords looking for a bed and some liquor."

The guard across from him had motioned for us to present our gear. Unbuckling the blade from my hip, I shunted it to him and began unfastening the holder for the weapon on my back. I had addressed him whilst handing over the second blade.

"That weapon is cursed, I advise against unsheathing it." Maybe I shouldn't have trusted her so much, and simply hid the blade, as the mention of the curse piqued their interest. Within moments a cleric and I believe wizard were brought over and started creating protective wards around the weapon.

"Sorry, ma'am, any cursed items aren't allowed inside the walls. We can hold the sword out here for you, should you leave legally, you can retrieve it then." Wonderful.

"I expect you to keep it safe then. How do you know if the rightful owner comes to claim it?"

With the question posed, the wizard, a middle aged human, came up to me and produced a small slip of paper from his robe. Muttering to himself quietly, the paper gave a spark which seemed to be a queue for the cleric, another human, older and female, to take the blade from the ward and in to a small shed. The man handed me the paper with a smile.

"Keep this on you, present it to the guard on duty. He'll know which is yours."
"And if someone attempted to take it by force?"
"They would have a time getting through the door!" He said with a laugh as he went back to his post.

Growing tired of the day already, and the sun had just started coming up, this was going well. With that whole issue taken care of, my other weapon was returned to me. Turning my gaze to the other guard and the girl, I was met with a rather shocked expression from the former.

She muttered what I could only presume was a word of thanks, despite not speaking the local language it seemed clear enough, and we were passed through. She must have been excited to be back after all, seeing as she had started rattling off so many different places and names until finally I had to interrupt her.

"Priorities. food, drink, smith, bed. In that order. Anything else can come later."
"Right, right, sorry. Uhm, well, it's a bit of a walk, we came in on the wrong side of the city, but there's this great little place I would always meet with friends at. I can't speak much about the harder drinks but the food--"
"I don't care, I'm hungry for something I didn't hunt."

She just giggled at me and lead the way through the streets, as I hoped that she remembered where she was going. There must have been some festival approaching, I gathered, as we reached near the center streets. Shops were selling different masks and costumes. Some had been selling rather luxurious and vividly colorful threads at what was frankly a shockingly low price. If I had more room in my pack I could have made a killing in profits come the next trading town or city. There was music almost everywhere we went, not entirely unpleasant to the ears. The inner buildings were less hideous than the outer walls as well, I could understand why she would like it here.

Finally we arrived at a dingy little place, the decor on the outside being what was once polished wood. An iron sign with the depiction of a tusked hog stuck head first in to a tree sat over the doorway.

"Oh. OH! I wonder if Halavin still works here?! You've got to try the dire rat stew. Don't make that face, it's delicious, really!"

Who in all the hells would serve that in a public establishment. If that's the highlight of the meals here, I may skip breakfast. The inside was at least clean, though small. She dragged me along to the bar, purposefully keeping her head down, her face hidden under her hood.

Behind the counter there were two people. A younger Drow woman and an older man. Both of which were working the wood burning stoves at the moment. The smell wasn't unpleasant, they seemed to have at least a few spices available, but the heat was murderous. The man caught sight of us, making eye contact with me while flashing a smile, before he went back to tending the food.

"Welcome to the Hortwog! We have a fresh batch of radish soup, our signature dire rat stew, and the best mead in the city!" He seemed genuine enough, then again, it could just be good customer service honed through years of experience though.

"I'll take a pint of mead and some of the soup. My companion here won't be partaking." And just as quick as I had been making the order, the man had put together the order. While he slid the pint of alcohol towards me, and I handed him payment for the meal, she rose her head with the biggest grin plastered on her face.

"Hey old man, I thought you said you were gonna retire!"

I'm glad she waited until he finished handing over the food, he looked as if he were about to have a heart attack.

"Airdan? What...where have you been?! We were worried sick over you, young lady!"
"Well, I'm fine, aren't I? Nothing to worry about!"
"Fine my ass. What's happened to your eyes?"
"That's...a long story. Really I'm fine though! How have you all been!?"

I started tuning them out after that, the meal was surprisingly good. The drink too, though I doubt it meets his claim. After only a few moments, the pleasantries and surprise were shared with the woman who had been working when we arrived, then finally with a young man. From what I bothered to pick up, they were the man's children.

They didn't have too much time to continue a proper conversation, as they had attended to the other customers, but they got in what they could. If I knew the area I would have left her there and met later, as it was though, I instead imbibed far too much mead.

We ended up spending the entire morning at the establishment. By the time we left, I had to steady myself when I stood. She made the same plea to the three of them, after the usual farewells. This time in common.

"Please just, don't mention me to my father or mother yet."

At this point, I was growing curious. She had seemed somewhat somber when mentioning this. Finally on our way out, she began explaining different street names, and pointing out landmarks to find the restaurant by.

"So, when you go down central street west, take a left down the road with the three trees next to it. Just keep going until you see the alchemist's storefront, then take a right on the next street."

I retained only that much. Eventually she did find me a smithy, and surprisingly did not carry on a far too long conversation with this man.

Handing over the remains of my helm, giving the specifications of size and design, he said it would be ready in about four days, after his other orders were finished. Finally, it was time to find a place to simply rest, a bed, not even a nice one, but simply a bed to lie on was all I craved.

"So do you know any inn worth staying at, or are we going to be going to your parents? I couldn't care either way." She hesitated for a moment, even with the blindfold, I could follow her gaze darting across the ground.
"I suppose if we can't find a good place to stay, then we can go see them. I'm not sure they'd be very happy to see me but, if nothing else works."
"Then I'm sure an inn will do fine. You seem to know people, go...do people things."

It makes sense, her not knowing a place meant for travelers to stop in at temporarily, seeing as she lived her most of her life. Our main issue was the prices, several gold a night and we hadn't any paying work in a few weeks now. I was unfortunately right about the festival, and it was apparently quite popular. She relented and started leading me along the northern central road.

"Okay, so, this may or may not go well. If it doesn't, it may not be a bed, but I know a nice little secluded place in the public parks you could set the bedroll at." I glowered at the thought of spending another night in that ragged cloth. So sunk in that dreadful thought, that I hadn't noticed when she turned and made her way towards a rather large building, a gated yard with a high wall around it, guarded by two fully armed and armored men.

She rose her left arm and rolled her sleeve, showing most of her forearm to them as they began questioning her business there. Apparently the mark on her arm meant something to them, despite her insistence that it was an insignificant tattoo.

They opened the front gate and ushered us in, the grandiose building meant that there must be a wonderful bed inside waiting for me. Family drama be damned.

"So you're an heiress to some form of royalty? I honestly wouldn't have guessed."
"Ah, well. Not royalty per se, but close. My father is the head of one of three rather prominent military families. My older brother should be ready to succeed his position any day now."

Never would I imagine she came from a military family. Ever.

"The issue would probably be with the whole entire, me running away from home, never telling anyone where I went, and stealing my father's ring." The alcohol was definitely influencing my mood, heavily. I could nearly cry, feeling the bedroll on my back taunting me.

A well dressed Elf opened the door and lead us through the halls to a room lavish with well padded seats, the walls adorned with paintings, abstracts and portraits of various types.

"If you would please wait here for Mistress Daelana. Master would attend, but is out traveling as of now." He bowed and then walked out of the room, turning and closing the door we came in through.

"If your mother orders my execution on account of your eyes, don't blame me for things getting messy."
"It won't be all that bad, she's really sweet."

Chapter 2 - Part 3 of the Cormyr Archives is here!
I took an extended break over Christmas and New Year, then I ended up crashing my car and having to deal with that. Anyway, enjoy and leave feedback!

Links to previous chapters:

Prologue: 1d4chan.org/images/b/b4/BornOfChaos.png

Chapter 1: 1d4chan.org/images/1/19/RedHarvest.png

Chapter 2 - Part 1: 1d4chan.org/images/3/3d/TheCormyrArchives-Chapter2.png

Chapter 2 - Part 2: 1d4chan.org/images/0/04/AboardTheLadySovereign.png

=][=

The link was tenuous, slightly muted. It always was when she was nervous like this.
Though her psychic talent was vastly superior to mine, it was unrefined, and it showed in the way her thoughts bled unintentionally into mine.
I saw in my mind’s eye a world besieged, labourers daubed in obscene symbols and ritual cuts, foul ceremony having extended their ability to work until they inevitably burned out. I saw glimpses of a once-proud spire city reduced to factory labour and chimney stacks. I saw the fortress across the lake painted in incandescent light.

“Stop.” I ordered, breaking off the contact.
Across the juddering compartment, Lysa rubbed her eyes before opening them.
“You must centre yourself,” I said, “Seek thoughts of solace. If you can’t keep to that during the séance you’ll lose yourself.”
She ran her tongue over her lips, staring down at her lap. We had rarely done an auto-Séance together before, and those few times had been all but overwhelming for me.
I winced as turbulence rocked the compartment, gripping my harness with both hands.

(cont.)

We had picked Lysa and her Guardsman escort up at Port Fortune and hired a skiff out to the crater.
Rickard Kiasan seemed a peculiar man, completely out of his depth with Inquisition officials, he remained silent with his lasgun laid over his lap, meticulously checking it over every few minutes.
It didn’t help that he was sat opposite Mach Tannhauser, I mused.
I picked up the dataslate containing Lysa’s notes, rereading the contents and reeling scenarios off to myself.
“Summoning ritual, possibly? Psychic apotheosis gone wrong? Perhaps the house’s inhabitant was coming into her gift…”
“Unlikely, sir.” Kiasan said, I snapped my gaze up to meet his and he blinked a couple of times. His surface thoughts betrayed unease, likely owing to my blank eyes.

He flinched, speaking hesitantly, “There’s no previous, apotheosis is usually preceded by minor warp disturbances, buildup, that sort of thing.”
“And out here?” I said, “Who would be around to see it?”
He bit his lip, glancing out through one of the skiff’s windows. I approved, of course, the man had done his reading, and he knew procedure and how to handle psykers, which was more than could be said for a lot of Guardsmen.
To let it show might have broken the illusion he had of me. Allow those beneath you to fear you, and they will do their best to meet your needs for fear of your lash.
“Last I heard, Lieutenant, the Jurdani tenth, ninth and twelfth had all been deployed to the Ersival Belt to quell the Greenskins there.”
“That would be correct, sir.” He replied.
“So what are you doing here on a backwater like Crestworld?”
“We’re on leave, sir,” he said, “We were en-route to Richton when we picked up transmission. We arrived eleven hours before the Lady Interrogator.”

I kept my thoughts to myself, but something about the convenient arrival of the Imperial Guard seemed suspect.
“Setting her down, m’lord.” Tobias’ voice rang over the vox-horn, “shall I prep for turnabout?”
“Do so,” I said, “I don’t anticipate us being here long.”
I stood despite the rocking of the compartment as we came in to land, my prosthetics could take the turbulence.
At a gesture, my entourage rose to flank me. Leah in her matt-black Arbites armour and overcoat, Mach in his Cadian-issue Flak, Lysa in her bodyglove and corset, and lastly the Guardsman Kiasan, taking the fore.
The hatch hissed open, revealing to me a double-line of Guardsmen and Arbites standing to attention in front of a small village of lean-to tents and gazebos. At their fore stood a heavily-muscled older man who looked to be in his early fifties, balding with an iron-grey stubble.

“This your boss?” he asked Lysa as she climbed out. She nodded in return, grinning at me over her shoulder.
“Milord, Major Quinn Hardy.” He performed a stiff half-bow, as if his back wasn’t quite in it.
“Inquisitor Garrow Bronn,” I spoke curtly, stepping down from the open hatchway, “Why aren’t these men performing other duties, Major?”
“Because there’s piss-all to do, Milord.” Hardy said, falling into step with me once he saw my pace was not slowing.
“That being the case, why have you not let the Arbiters do their job?”
“Got an itch in my nose,” the Major replied, “Feel it’d be best were I to remain here.”
“We’ll see,” I said, gesturing Kiasan forward, “Lieutenant, the crater, please.”

(cont.)

He nodded, leading us out into the wilderness. I could sense it already, a subtle buzzing in the back of my head, a metallic tang at the back of my throat, an itch on my neck. We followed Kiasan for about ten minutes or so, away from the campsite. While I still held my suspicions I had to admit I liked the Major, his type was not one to pander, but to be brutally honest even if it meant offending a superior.
His type could also run easily afoul of the wrong type of fanatic and end up stripped of their skin for imposing their tongue on some self-important Monodominant.
The buzzing increased as we neared a portion of the forest where the trees bent outwards, unswaying despite the light breeze that brushed our cheeks. Ground frost still lingered here despite midday having passed, a telltale sign of Psyker activity.

“Arbiter Sianan, see we’re not disturbed.”
“Be careful.” She cautioned as I ducked under the cordon, shortly followed by Lysa. Her assessment had been accurate, a surprise to me, though in truth it ought not to have been. The crater seemed perfectly circular, which in itself was disturbing. The item had been placed on an upturned ammunition box in the crater’s centre, a diamond-shaped sliver of bronze-coloured metal with a slit in it, delicately sculpted to resemble an eye socket, complete with lashes and brow.
“Assessment, Lysa.”

(cont.)

“It’s from a larger edifice, large enough to contain a human head. It’s perfectly severed from the whole, with no signs of being cut or melted away.”
“Your guess?” I pressed.
“It came from something lying at the very edge of the blast radius.” She said conclusively, folding her arms over her bust.
“Let’s take a closer look.” I said, kneeling before the sliver and clasping my hands together before me. Lysa did the same, sitting cross-legged on the blackened earth of the crater.
We closed our eyes and first engaged in breathing exercises to lower our minds into a trance-like state over something close to half an hour, more than enough for Lysa to settle herself, but I was ever-cautious. Once I was happy with her state, I did something I rarely do, and opened my mind to the raging tempest of the warp, shuddering throughout my entire being as I filtered its icy touch through my mind and joining it to my apprentice.
She recoiled from the connection for but a second before allowing our minds to be linked. The breeze, the chatter of the Arbiters and Guardsmen around the crater’s rim became muted, but the taste of metal in the back of my mouth became stronger, more tangible.

The world mapped itself around us in a phantom of what it would be if our eyes were open. The sky was blank here, and the trees around us flickered with iridescent blue light from within, translucent. I cast my gaze upon the sliver between us, its surface wrapped in a rancid green aura of panic. I looked up at Lysa.

(cont.)

“Pierce it,” I instructed calmly, speaking to her through our mental connection. She tilted her head a little, as if finding it difficult to hear.
“You must,” I continued, “I can administer and maintain the séance, but I’ve not the power to reconstruct events from this empyrean matter.”
She hesitated, then gathered herself and built a spearhead of psychic energy, her being glowing from within. With it we pierced the shard, and cast our ghost-world into a shade of tinted green that almost instinctively set us on edge.

No longer did we sit in the crater, but in a comfortable rug-strewn room with idyllic pictures and murals hung upon the walls and a fire burning in the hearth. A young woman sat at the table in the corner, drumming her fingers. She stood, turning to face the hearth in robes so long it seemed as though her feet didn’t grace the floor.
She was pale and beautiful, her hair tied back in a braid that extended to her ankles. Slender ears tapered to points and her eyes had a disgustingly alien hunger to them. The door opened behind her and a man stepped in, clad in a worn brown overcoat, its hood pulled tight around his face, which itself was masked by a battered mechanicum-issue rebreather, often employed for hazardous conditions or atmospheres.

(cont.)

I knew this man, or at least I had heard the stories. A terrorist by the name of the Grey Man, a heretic who openly decried the Imperial faith. Many among my ordo had wet dreams of bringing him in, yet he had proven more cunning and deadly than all previous assailants.
“And you are?” he asked, his voice heavily-distorted by a scrambler-unit hidden in his mask.
“Lady Saryas,” the Eldar replied, revealing a pair of fangs nestled in her mouth, “Lhamean to the court of Baroness Tamaera, and her Bronzed Talon.”
I wrinkled my nose at the mention of the Kabal. The Bronzed Talon had been a problem for my peers among the Ordo Xenos for a long time, their raids striking regularly and repeatedly, but never predictably.
The only one to even get close to them was Inquisitor Victoria Einhart, daughter of my old mentor and a long-time friend. But she was several sub-sectors away.

“And you know who I am?” the Grey Man inquired.
“I do,” Saryas confirmed, “Do you have what my mistress asked for? The Baroness prefers her mon’keigh allies to be proficient if she absolutely must deal with them.”
He reached into his pocket, heedless of the way she laid a hand on her dagger, and produced a small, leather-bound package, handing it over to her. She unwrapped it, exposing a small, ruby-like stone pulsing with an inner light, like a heartbeat. The Lhamean ran her tongue over the gem’s surface, her slim figure shuddering as if in ecstasy.
“A child of Lleuadsaren, she will be immensely satisfied.”

(cont.)

“She’d better,” the man replied, “I was almost outbid several times. Do you have what I asked for?”
The Lhamean smiled, making a subtle gesture and beckoning in a bronze-clad soldier from the hall. In his hands he carried a small, smooth black box, its surface reflecting the ghostly green of the hearth, a harsh reminder of the fact this was a psychic reflection, a fragmented memory maintained by the empyrean as an afterthought.
He surveyed the box for a moment before taking it from the Kabalite, giving Saryas a curt nod. He tucked it under one arm and stuck his free hand in his pocket.
“Then we’re done,” he said, “Our last deal, complete. I no longer have to see you, nor vice versa.”
“Very true,” she replied, “Unfortunately, my mistress’ standing in the courts of commorragh would be greatly damaged if she were seen to be doing business with an ape.”

The Lhamean lunged forward, but to my surprise fell forward with a diminutive snap, a brace of needles decorating her face. A Glavian needle pistol, emerged from the Grey Man’s pocket as the Kabalite reached for his weapon. Needles spat into the alien’s shins and he too fell, grunting.
The human chuckled, shaking his head as he produced a small, perfectly-round black ball topped with a needle from his pocket and set it on the table.
“I wonder where you go when you die.” He said, removing the pin from the ball as the Eldar warrior tried to make his legs work. The Grey Man shot his legs a few more times for good measure before retreating through the back door.

(cont.)

“We can piece together what happened from here.” I said, breaking the link and opening my eyes.
Lysa sagged back, breathing heavily. She had done well, to her credit.
“Breathing exercises, Lysa,” I reminded her, “Don’t hyperventilate.”
She nodded, forcibly slowing her breathing.
I climbed to my feet, dusting the psyker frost off my coat and proceeding back up the slope of the crater to where Leah appeared to be arguing with a Guardsman.
And the Major was nowhere in sight.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I spoke with authority, letting the man know, in no uncertain terms, who was in charge.
“Second Captain Fenton Muir, Milord.” He replied, staring at me with cold eyes and a lopsided smirk, “Major gave you permission to look, but nought else.”
“Second Captain, I don’t need the Major’s permission to do anything.” I said, meeting his gaze without trepidation, “Do you have his word in writing?”
“No sir, I do not.” Said the second Captain, laying a hand on his sidearm, “But you’re getting involved in things that don’t concern you.”

(cont.)

“It concerns me, deeply so.”
I became aware then that the Guardsmen around the crater had become much more alert, their conversations falling to silence as they all stared our way, hands on weapons. The Arbites too were tense, though they seemed more confused than anything else.
“I don’t like you, Fenton Muir.” I returned my gaze to the Guardsman, laying a hand on the hilt of my sword, “I don’t like that shit-eating smirk of yours, I think you’re hiding something, and I think you and your men might be heretics.”
My intuition had not failed me, Major Hardy and his men hadn’t come to this world by accident. Well, I would fight through the entire damn Regiment if I had to.
“Loyal men of the Emperor, to me!” I cried, sliding my blade from its sheath and singing it forward to slice the Second Captain’s hand clean from his wrist as he bought his las-pistol up to fire.

=][=

And that's all for now. Part 4 of chapter 2 ought to be up fairly soon-ish as its close to done. Please give feedback as always!

heya boyos.
i made this shit when i was really really tired and couldn't get back to sleep, so naturally the quality isn't going to be very good. but i figured that a few of you chums might like it
it's also worth noting I'm using another guy's work as a crutch, since I wanted to see what I could add to it and things like that
so without further ado, here's a probably awful scene of events
--

"Gee, you're really acting like a sleep police agent right now."
He gives an odd look, same with his wrought posse."That even a thing?"
I shrug my shoulders, and lay back on the recliner. "Wouldn't be without you, Judge Dredd."
"Just remember that you're cashing in Federal currency for under-the-radar work. So in that case, you'd better stop being a gripy bitch over it right quick and actually show some goddamned providence."
It's cute that this is an Australian tribal telling me this because you'd expect his type to be more for shoving pin-grenades down peoples throats and blaring lead like it's opening night for the purge.
Yet instead of shooting rapid firepower into my face, he's coping with endless streams of paperwork instead. Which, speaking of which, he dumps right into my lap.
"This is for the registration into the Inquisition's Homefield this part of town. I trust that you will promptly sign all the forms given to you and hand them back to me within the afternoon."
"Oh boy, and THEN I can become Batman?!"
He grimances. "I don't know; way you're acting, we might as well fufill that wish and strike down your parents too."
(1/2)

See, now he's trying to bank on that old fashioned savagery stereotype, but he just loses his edge halfway through finishing the sentence. I can tell too - his heartbeat is racing, his eyes are pulping like Orange Juice.
Bet in reality that these chodes are the type that'd get sentimental watching Old Yeller. Cold hard wasteland resolve in the front but with puppies in the back. Whatever. I'm not here to start playground brawls, even if they expect it, even if I wanna.
"Look, I'll fill it out and get it to you by at least three o'clock, but you gotta promise a solid."
"Fine, go ahead."
"Whenever there's a name slot, let me put in Ash Williams."
There's a death grip with his stare this time, trying to tell me 'lay off, fucker'. Oh, did I mention I'm sort of a mind reader too?
Well, anyway, dopey boy fails yet again. His lips shrivel to a pout. "Wait, you're serious."
"Nope, I'm Ash Williams. That's what the card will say."
"Why must you be such a filthy boy? Don't you want us to look good? And, you know, subsequently get good pay?"
"Looking good?' Okay, first up, you rolled up to my house in a filthy 1963 VW Beetle Sedan that's been jury rigged to hell and back and threatened to chop off my head if I didn't buy out for this coup, yet didn't even dare when I stepped up to challenge.
I have NO problems sharing that same first impression with the magic boys, even if it's by a little."
"Secondly," I proceed, my calm a little buttblasted from the overwhelming aura of Mad Max stunt doubles trying to play hard on me, "I'm not doing this for the pay. I have my own reasons."
And do tell what remarkable vendetta you vouch for."
By now, the seat must be descending into hell, because I depress the recline and go down a bit further. "Shit, son, how about YOU start? Scratch that, don't. I still need a bit of sleep, sorry I'm not adjusted to three A.M. board meetings."
(2/? now, underestimated how long this shit was)

He must be as riled up as I am, because he takes that ridiculous over-sized swiss army knife of him and cuts a faint sear on my left Temple, and drags it over to my point of view.
"You know, we could slaughter you this very instance, save for us being civil. There's nothing code in that says we can't punt you in tha' face and leave off for another silly Farie."
He's putting too much force into it, like he might accidentally kill me on account of a hand jerk. Still, I'm not phased. 2/5 on crooked-mercenary.net. Would not recommend.
"See, you could do that, but then, like I've talked it over before; I'd become a High Plains Drifter. Then I'd bite either you, or someone else from the Predator backdrop selection, and we'd be off with a whole Lurker dilemma this side of Melbourne. Epidemics spread quick, and they're barely contained too, just so you know."
"Quaint...quaint. Okay, fine. We can't stop you, but you gotta realize that takin' such important matters into hand and perverting them with your shitpickled pop culture jokes won't help get us anywhere."
"And now I'm wholeheartedly convinced that you're sleep police, for we just reached a loop in conversation. Holy fuck, sure. Whatever. Fine. I'll get it done, just leave already before I drive my own piece of plywood right down into your kidneys until you're pissing dick for the next six months straight."
"Don't go with Ash Williams. I'm warning you."
"Yeah, a little too on the nose, ain't it? But it's not like I can go with Sandman Slim, either."
"Who?"
I give him a look, and a genuine look at that. "Buy yourself a cozy new-aged album and bring your bunnie slippers to my house, you'll need it to stop your skin from crawling out when I tell you. Speaking of crawling out;"
It gives a bitch for me to roll out, before I remember that it's still reclined. So, I depress the button on the opposite side and rise up like a holy visage.
(3/4)

"Your papers fell."
Fuck.
"I'll get em' on the way out, don't worry rudy shoe."
And, to my word, I do. I leave this ugly desert Log Cabin and head off for my dorm on the eastern fringe of town.
Last hope is that we can get this squared off easy, and without it looking like a David Bowie album covered in pizza grease.
Yeah, bet that's what they thought on the Titanic.
(4/4)
***
so anyway, that's it.
i made this and i didn't really have a proper use for it, so i decided why not let the guys in the storythread give it a rating?

personally i think it's kinda shit, but it's always worth a third party criticism.

i dunno.

Czechfag here. Glad to see the threads still up.
I was wondering: how do you fellas feel about tripcodes? I'm kinda tired of saying "czechfag here", seems like almost worse attention whoring than having a damn trip. That said, I never used the thing in my almost ten years here...

I've read it very impatiently and quickly, and I'll try to revisit it again, but on brief, first glance reading:
On one hand, it has a ver fun rythm. And I actually like the idea: the juxtaposition of the recognizable over-the-top bad-assery with mundane issues of paperwork.
That said: on quick reading, it's VERY hard to follow. This might be partially because I'm not very familiar with the setup and many of the references, but it's also because it's just really hard to figure out how and why does one quip follow and stem from another. Also: at some moments, the characters seem inconsistent: they seem to switch their attitudes towards each other too frequently, instead of keeping things consistent. I don't think that the dialogue consisting almost purely of sacrastic quips is inherently bad (in other context, I would harp on that quite a lot, but in this particular genre of genre fiction it's fine), but it feels like at times, the quips are present for quips sake, and not because they logically flow from the dialogue exchange.
But again: very first impressions here. I'm a bit busy struggling with my own writing at the very moment (I should not be browsing this place at all right now if I want to get things done), so I'm sadly not giving this 100% attention, so keep that in mind.

I prefer just having a name, but whatever suits you really. I suppose I might feel differently if there was more attention on me, but right now I'm working on the basis that people just read my stuff and enjoy it, so I'm quite happy being a diminutive namefag.

I honestly did not even realize there was a difference between having a name and trip. Not all that experienced in how this works, you see. That does actually seem like a much more reasonable option.
This is a test to see how it works...

The way I see it, trips are more for if you're worried about someone pretending to be you. But I find people in the writethreads tend to be more mature and just want to write/read.

That said, could I get you to look over my stuff?

>The way I see it, trips are more for if you're worried about someone pretending to be you.
Well, that is one thing that I am really not worried about. I noticed some people tend to react to me specifically, so maybe having something to denote my posts could be potentially useful (also I'm a MASSIVE attention whore and vain as fuck and like to think people care what I think), but I'm hardly worried someone could steal my nonexistent spotlight.

I'll take a look, but probably not tonight, as I'm supposed to get some more writing done and I'm meeting my... uh, "editor" (just a guy who is kind enough to read and offer feedback to my current project) later this evening. And that... that is a lot of text.

Also, I guess I should warn you a bit: I've lately generally stopped giving much feedback to genre fiction, especially one that is tied to existing universe, mostly because I've realized that I might be reading it all wrong, and consequentially, the feedback I'm offering might be all wrong too. I'm growing... disenchanted with genre fiction (fan-fiction or semi-fan-fiction in particular), which is not so much an issue of the fiction itself, as me growing more narrow-minded and boring.
A completely cursory glance at what you posted here: I see absolutely nothing wrong with the style, it's an easy and natural read, but very fast and... bit routine?
For an example: I've glanced to the moment when your characters are transported from a crater into a comfy rug-strewn room, for an example: that is quite a powerful image, two stark contrasts set against each other: it could deserve a bit more atmosphere to make that contrast come out of the text. Stop for a while, build up a scene. But again: here is where my issue with genre and fan-fiction may be coming to play.

Those are really just quick thoughts. I'll try my best to offer more as the thread goes on - I should get into the habit of commenting more, it actually helps my own work and focus quite a lot too.

Might I inquire as yo why that Inquisitor is wearing such skimpy clothing? Does it have to do with the inquisition and iquisitorial personnel having such quirky and colorful people, characters and personality?

...

Bump

Bimo

if possible, bump with pictures.

Better still, bump with feedback on people's stories (I'm going to bed right now but hopefully I'll be able to find time to do so myself tomorrow)

He was really regretting the first gen SlowMo aug right now.

Oh, not that it was a bad choice in general. Being able to double or even triple your thinking speed and reaction time, even for only thirty IRL seconds at a time, was fucking awesome. But the first generation aug didn't have mental command support-It took it's cues from adrenaline levels in the blood.

So when something caused the lizard part of his brain to kick the adrenal glands into high gear, he'd be stuck in SlowMo, for as long as it took for the aug to hit the safety limit, stuck in anticipation of whatever cause him to panic. Like right now.

Freefall.
Wind buffeting his exposed face, chilling exposed skin.
The street passing by below him, little people and police interceptors roaming slowly about. Like ants and little RC cars, mired in molasses.
The roof approaching, meter by meter, in a parabolic arc towards him that was really his own. Legs curling forward on their own accord, responding to muscle memories even the SlowMo couldn't override, landing pose calculated and recalculated and recalculated by neural circuits older than the first ape.

Fight. Flying in formation, with the other four members of their little brotherhood.

It looked one of those parkour escape movies, the high quality ones with the slow motion and the first person perspective and the tactile hacks, except this was real. Also, noone was going to resume normal speed midway through the jump. They'd have to sit through this whole thing, just like he was, until his lizard brain finally realized he wasn't going to fall to his death.

This was going to take a while.

Something about one of the jumpers got his attention. He directed his eyes down and to the right.

His eyes felt sluggish-things took a bit to get into focus. It was always like that under SlowMo-the eyes didn't track any faster. Conscious effort had to be expended focusing the eye's attention, or in trying to see everything you would see nothing.

A guy in blue clothes came into focus. Plump, ish, the sort of muscular plump gotten from days in the gym and nights in the burger joints and pubs that dominated the night life of San Neptune's streets in lieu of the long outlawed whorehouses. The new guy.

What was his name? Noone had asked. Until you'd survived your first outing, you didn't get to be known by a name.

It was looking like he'd never know. The guy had missed his mark. He was going to fall short.

He was spinning forward, outstretching his arms. Fast thinking, actually, and it was going to be close enough he might actually grad the ledge. But he'd better have a industrial-grade grip, or that would be that for him.

Assuming Garry didn't do him in. The man in a mohawk and dusty white clothes was also falling short, but not by that much-knees on the eaves gutter, a bit of a fuck up but fine enough. Except that he was occupying the new guy's LZ.

Garry started tucking in, rolling forward, anticipating impact and moving to stave off overbalancing. The new guy bent his legs forward, arresting his spin.

The anticipation was killing him.

Garry touched down, knees first onto the gutter, rolling forward, hands slapping down to grip the tiling-

And the new guy's hands came down like the wrath of God on Garry's poor, abused work pants.

Fingers slipped into the gap, impacting against the denim. Denim ripped, and tore into flesh. Garry yelped in surprise but, keeping his wits about him, kept his grip on the roof.

The fingers curled in, the hands gripped. The denim tore itself, nearly breaking away in his hands, but it held. His chest swung forward and impacted the gutter. The fat and muscle rippled under the shirt as it absorbed the impact.

And then other muscle memories tore his gaze away as he prepared for his own landing. His legs pistoned forward and out, tensing and relaxing muscles, anticipating impact.

The lizard brain finally figured it out, and the SlowMo released him. He took the shock to the legs, rolled with the momentum, stuck out a foot to arrest himself instead of rolling to his feet. Without thinking, he scrambled on all fours to Garry.

Garry's face was a frightened grimace, the face of someone who had no idea what the fuck was happening to his nether regions, only that he must hold on. He scrambled past him to grab the new guy's hands, and pulled. Jesus! This guy was heavy. He dug his heels in and put his back into it.
Garry finally got what was going on, dug his forefoot into the gutter, and straightened himself. Between that and the pulling, the new guy got one foot on the roof, and they worked from there.

Garry and the new guy collapsed on the roof top, panting. The other three surrounded them.

Garry spoke first, explosively. "CHRIST ON A BIKE, ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!"

"No?" The new guy offered experimentally. Garry wasn't listening, mumbling regrets and half threats under his breath as he massaged his exposed bum.

"I think I've got a name for him now." Nicknamer commented, adjusting his belt. He nicknamed everyone, including himself. He with the SloMo tilted his head at Nicknamer, who took it as permission to go ahead. "Super Wedgie."

"Wedgie my poor, abused ass. And don't think I can't hear you laugh!"

Wesley snickered anyway as he adjusted his pack. "Oh poor, poor Garry. Just can't take you anywhere, can we? First that incident with the candy floss, and now this whole thing with the pants..."

Garry mumbled something about assholes, assholes everywhere as he tried to rethread his belt through the loops that had survived the ripping of his pants. The belt itself sported a tear almost up to the tip where the buckle had ripped through the material.

The new guy still laid there, looking aghast. The SlowMo man approached him, knelt before hime. "You alright?"

'Um. Ya." The new guy was still shaky. He brought a hand to the back of his head. "I think."

"Hell of a grip you've got."

Someone muttered behind him."Ya, hell of a grip, jeez."

"Ya, that. I have Gecko pads." The new guy flipped his hand up, showing the furred surface strapped to his palm. "Um, just thought it might be a good idea to-"

"Oh, I think you'll do fine." He said, startling the new guy. "Fast thinking reaching for the ledge. Complete accident that Garry happened to be there. Of course, the Gecko pad's a crutch, and you'll have to learn how to do without soon enough. But all in due time-"

"Uh, guys?" The Nicknamer leaned over the edge of the roof, sounding worried. "We have a problem."

Title:SloMo Parkour

[spoiler}Also realized the writing got a bit wonky towards the end, what with the Man with No Name, but I don't know how to edit previous posts so I was kinda stuck.

...

...

"Hey frank do you think he realizes the top of his helmet's completely visible?

Whats her name?

Gotta say: you absolutely sold me on these two lines:
>But the first generation aug didn't have mental command support-It took it's cues from adrenaline levels in the blood.
>This was going to take a while.
This is an absolutely awesome setup.
I'm not entirely sure you did it justice though.
The writing is fine, pleasant even. But for a while, you made me think that you wrote the last few seconds of a person before his death, agonizingly stretched out by the SlowMo aug and sparked by his utter cynicism about the situation, and that would be an incredible scenario. Plus, the snappy language would really compliment that.
You kinda lost me when the SlowMo kicked off. Not so much because the language got loser, but rather because - and don't take this the wrong way - I kinda stopped caring what is happening again.

I'm still thinking of a story of a guy who has unvolutarily triggered his SloMo aug while he is freefalling to his death, and kinda isn't sure if he wants the whole situation to be over with, or if he wants to remember every single detail around him before he dies. I think you should write that, you sure as hell have the style for it.

"Norman was by no means anything special, at least when it came to his upbringing. Normal parents, normal house, normal life. He yearned to become better, do things for others that he couldn't as a normal person, see a brighter day." Distant thumping, presumably the clanking of armored footfall, was approching at a breakneck pace. "Norman went out and did things for people all over, but he wasn't special enough. No change in the community, everything even seemed a bit worse for wear." The footsteps grew louder. "His efforts were never recocnized, his feats dismissed at large." The chilling skull face showed no change in features, but the voice became venomous. "Then THEY came. Stupid man of muscle, greedy little rogue, smug-ass wizard, egotistical bard, closed minded paladin. They all have serious flaws, and yet, they succede at all." The footsteps echoed rather closely, each step more thunderous than the last. "They do almost the exact things that Norman had done, BUT EVERYONE LOVES THEM. Norman goes to the next town, and they follow!" Candles in heavy metal holders flicker. an air of cold filling the dungeon room. "Norman finally cracked, and confronted them one day. He was murdered in cold blood, each member of the party helping in the act. He died and no one cared." The footsteps stopped right outside the oppressive metal door. "As a nobody, he couldn't alter fate in the least," the magical skeleton whispered to itself, "but as someone like THEM, with flaws that should really stop him from doing anything, he would raise a new world for all, made of peace and hope." The adventureures stepped into the chamber of the lich. "And he would build it on the corpses of the psychopaths who had killed him." The door slammed shut, and the candles died out.

So, how was it?

first of all: paragraphs are your friend. No one likes reading an unbroken wall of text.

As for the actual content - yeah, pretty good. The interspersing of the two time frames really gave it the sense that it was building to something. And I liked the theme, but then I always like a good 'murderhobos get their comeuppance' story (I wrote 1d4chan.org/images/0/04/AdventureInTheMistwoods.png)