Storythread

Storythread: Spring is here edition. Are we all feeling warmer now that winter is officially (technically) over? No? Well then you'll just have to stay indoors and write something.

This is a thread for creative writing of Veeky Forums-related fiction, so epic campaign greentexts and other non-fiction go elsewhere. If you have Veeky Forums related stories to post, post them here, and hopefully some kind user will give you feedback (or at least acknowledge that someone did actually read it, which let's face it is what writefags really want).

What counts as Veeky Forums-related? Anything someone could plausibly use in a campaign (which means basically anything if you have enough imagination).

If you don't have a story ready then I and other anons will be posting pictures throughout the thread for you to test your writing skills on. This is, more or less, a world-building and character-building exercise: two vital skills for playing roleplaying games. If you don't have any pics to post, you could try posting an idea for a setting or a character, and maybe someone will be willing to write a story using it. It's also an exercise in writing though, where writefags can try out their material and gain inspiration, so if you just want to talk about world-building you may want to head over to the dedicated world-building threads.

Remember that writefags love to have feedback on their work. Writing takes a long time, especially stories that go over several posts, and it can be really depressing when no one even seems to read it (and the writer won't know you read it unless you leave a comment).

And since writing takes a long time remember to keep the thread bumped. Pics are good, feedback is better.

There is a discord for writers:
discord.gg/6AwKHGF

The previous thread can still be found in the archive here
if you have any comments about the stories posted there

Don't forget to check out past stories on our wiki page:
1d4chan.org/wiki/Storythread

Other urls found in this thread:

youtube.com/watch?v=TNMqzEvXISk
twitter.com/SFWRedditVideos

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Heat of the midday was dissipating, the mix of blood, liquor and food in the heat made for a peculiar smell, especially when the blood was still gushing out of one of the bodies that lay sprawled and twitching amongst the ruin of a dinner table and upturned chairs.

A single figure stood amongst the scene slowly and deliberately eyeing each of the bodies, ensuring their passing, his bloodied shortsword, the weapon that caused their demise, being slowly un-bloodied by the green cloth in the man’s hand.

He was tall, had the noble bearing of the Ostlier Merchant, his right cheek was a mess of subtle scars, his strong jaw ended in a short bearded shin, a thick moustache above his thin steady lips sweeping down grandly gave him the manner of a noble.

“What have you done!” it was not a question, it was a statement of horror, of whose throat it emanated did not seem to bother the Merchant Noble he still cleaned his weapon.

But Ilyric knew what had transpired, he had just witnessed the massacre of the two men by the single noble, two random innocent customers in this seaside eatery often tread by the nobility.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” the statement was more stern, Ilyric looked to his left to the source and saw the owner of the eatery, the fatman, the maids derisively called him, and his callous look only confirmed their bias toward him.

Ilyric immediately had a dislike of him, even more than the noble before him who had killed two men in cold blood.

“He exacted vengeance,” another voice said, Ilyric turned again to see who it was this time.
A man in an exquisite long leather coat, a wide brimmed felt hat and a cuirass with a sign, Ilyric immediately recognized it as the Sigil of the Excubitors, his face looked hard almost like chiselled from granite, peppered with stubbles of a day old shave, his skin was a swarthy as it was in these parts and his eyes piercing black.

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I suppose the captain, in his pitch black inquisitor's armor and with his magically envenomed sword, was not used to his quarry making itself known and willing for acquisition, for even behind that darkened steel helm, even at eleven years of age, I saw confusion.

"I am marked with the arcane." I repeated. "I am ready for conscription."

Around him his men and women shifted uneasily, as if their training, begun from an age around mine, back then, had not prepared them for when a mage to be conscripted appeared *willingly*.

"You are a mage? Prove this."

So I froze a nearby tree to such bitterness that it shattered into hundreds of rime-encrusted fragments. Many say the elements best for war are flame, lightning, and poison, but I have found to my satisfaction that command of flood and frost provides many opportunities for destruction that more narrow minded mages would overlook.

"Boy," the captain said, finding his voice. "do you know what you ask? Conscription means you work for the emperor, live for the emperor, die for the emperor."

"It would seem to have done you well." I responded.

There was a horrible sound from within that helm that might have been an attempt at laughter, as if the concept was foreign to him but was nonetheless provoked. "You've said goodbye to your mother and father?"

"Mom's dead. Dad's drunk." I said simply.

I did not expect comfort and pity, and I did not receive it- I had expected circumstances were much the same for each in that dread gang of recruiters, seeking new magelings to bolster the reserves of their arcane divisions of war, and later on I would be affirmed of this fact.

"Clap him in the duskirons," the captain said, but after a moment, considered. "but leave the neck unshackled. Let us see how willing he is."

To leave the neck unshackled was to leave me my voice, and though the other shackles would tax my mana, it would let me get off a spell or two, and so he showed a sliver of trust I had no intention of betraying.

They sat me on a wagon, and I suppose they might have been curious to my silence and lack of tears.

Or perhaps they saw the emaciated, dirty boy who was throwing in his lot with the one society that might let him see twenty, and so my motives were laid bare all the time. It did not matter then, and it does not matter now.

You may call their method of recruitment- to seek out all who bore the arcane and then conscript them, by force if need be- brutal, but you must understand what we faced. The Great Wisdom Council was an alliance dedicated to cruelty and brutality and nothing *but* cruelty and brutality, and later the captain would explain a sliver of their "genius" as thus-

It is accepted that to punish a disobedient child so that they will not disobey again is wise. Therego, in the Great Wisdom Council's mind, it was even wiser to punish- with unfathomable brutality- an innocent child of all sins it could ever possibly commit, then hand their soul over to demons for eternal torture, that they might be seen as the wisest.

Ponder *this* mentality, and suddenly the Inquisition's tactics were far, far more generous.

The fortress I was led to- with several other sniveling, shaken youths- was one composed of a stone I am told is 'obsidian', a rock forged from hellish temperatures in mountains where rock melts into a hellish liquid.

I suppose, to a more fortunate child, the training might have been seen as harsh. I was used to begging an ailing mother to eat my portion of gruel, or ducking bottles thrown by a drunken father shattered by his wife's death, so perhaps I was grateful for a distraction from the cruelty of my former life.

Because tears are a vicious thing, and once you let them flow, they are hard to stop. It is like upturning a cup full of water and expecting the flow to cease before all the liquid has been poured out- the crying will not cease until there is no crying left to be done.

They found other children, mewling or numb with shock, and put them in the wagon with me. I suppose even then they found my demeanor unsettling- all and one moved away from me as far as space permitted.

The fortress to which they escorted me was a massive thing of runed stone and steel, and it briefly concerned me that the purpose of it's construction was not so much to keep out as it was to keep *in*.

Our education began that very night. Those who had talent in fire were taught by an ogre of a man with a temper like a raging holocaust. Many who did not put forth the effort he desired did not survive.

Others were taught the ways of lightning by an old woman whose instructions were barks, harsh and loud like thunder, but unlike the fire master she seemed to wish that none of her charges die unless absolutely necessary.

The plague master was a morbidly obese, swollen pustule of a man, with a facade of geniality and a 'devil may care' attitude about the survival of his students. Those who were careless died horrific deaths, drowning in their own corrosive pus or consumed by maggots. Those who found favor with him... best not to think too long about why they giggle, or what lies beneath those thick, stained robes.

My own instructor was an aged man, beard neatly trimmed but caked with hoarfrost, and his demeanor was like that of a jagged glacier slowly but inexorably advancing. He was going to have his way, and gods help you if you stood in his path.

The classroom in which we were taught was never warmer than a winter night, and he suffered no incompetence or laziness. The kindest he did with those who did not achieve his standards but sought to was to send them to be preservers of meat and herbs. Those he deemed lazy were sent to be muckrakers and stable-hands.

I think he knew 'good enough' was not sufficient for me, and so what was 'good enough' for others was failure for me in his eyes. He pushed me harder and further than the rest, without mercy.

My shards and lances had to be the sharpest, my winds the coldest, my walls the hardest, or he was not content I had learned. Others pitied me. I had no use for pity.

I wanted power and control. A life in peace and prosperity was denied me with viciousness, if I was to be a mage, then let me be one of the greatest and most terrible order, or not at all.

One by one, the classroom dwindled. Some failed and were dismissed to less desired positions. Others were sent to be the preservers of food and herbs- a position some sought for fear of death. Others still were satisfactory and sent to be the tutors of nobility who saw the lore of cold as a mark of royalty.

One day, it was only me, and I was escorted to an arena meant normally for the artificers and the alchemists to put golems and chimera to battle, to see what was and was not fit for war. The stone was pitted with acid, gouged by claw and steel, and neither magic nor the daily scrubbings of servants could ever truly make it clean.

Above that pit stood senior mages, who apparently were either bored or wanted to see what the frostlord's 'prodigy' could do. I was left to stand in the dust for about an hour, unsure what would take place.

Eventually, my master appeared.

"You have surpassed the most demanding standards," he said with a sort of restrained pride, "you have persevered where others have failed. From nothing, you have come to this. I offer, out of mercy, one chance to spare yourself."

The gate behind me raised.

"Leave, and you will be a tutor to a boy or girl of high birth. You will be safe in a room, never want for food. You shall be a mark of wealth, your name sought by others when your pupil tires of you."

I stared him back, silently.

The gate fell with a clang.

For a solid minute of silence he assessed me.

"Then death it shall be." he said, and the gate opposite my now-denied salvation opened, blasting forth hellish heat.

The gloom only showed a red, hazy form of a man or beast stomping forth, each step making the ground quake. Eventually it grew close enough that I saw it was not a man nor beast, but something I thought a mere myth.

A Lava Golem. I almost laughed, despite my fear, impressed and bewildered all at once at the thoroughness with which my teacher had damned me.

I hurled a simple lance of ice to test my suspicions as the molten thing lurched forth. The magical spike of ice vanished as soon as it got near the boiling skin, affirming my fears- they had made it immune to magic! A costly, exorbiant thing! A finite thing, that would last three days at best! Maybe what was called for to break a siege held by mages, but to kill an apprentice? The very idea was of overkill to ridiculous extremes.

"Let me see," said my master, arms crossed, "if all the time I invested was wasted."

I was at a loss. He wanted me to fight to the invariable end? Was this or was it not an execution? The thing was immune to magic, and even if I had a weapon nearby, I could not inflict any damage to a thing made of fire and rock-

An idea struck me.

The thing was slow and stupid, but unrelenting, so to run until I was tired would have meant a prolonged death. I remembered the arena's dimensions- below us was nothing but earth and rock, a solid enough foundation for golems and chimera to do battle.

The golem was immune to magic, negating shard and wind alike before they could cool it but one smidgen. The earth and dirt was not.

Conjuration of water was of our forte, and while we would normally freeze and shape it into sharp or bludgeoning death, we were well versed in simple water spells, and so I saturated the earth beneath us until the arena was a swamp. I, blessed with the ability to freeze the mud and walk on it unimpeded, was unaffected.

The golem, a heavy thing of lava and fire, began to sink and steam.

The mud it slogged through boiled, steamed, turned to clay, but I led it in circles, the stupid thing, hydrating the clay back to mud, then chilling it to frozen swamp, so that the thing sank deeper, steamed fiercer.

Above me, I heard my master begin to chuckle.

We were taught of golems, yes. That they could be enchanted to negate magic was part of those lessons, and the point of those was often a single instruction- 'run'. But to negate magic requires energy in and of itself, expensive reagents, and lava golems with the need to stay molten and hot for true effectiveness are notorious for mana consumption.

Eventually it was not moving so much as shuddering, the molten eyes dulled to embers, and finally it ceased, energy expended from boiling off the swampy earth, not destroyed but disabled all the same.

Only when I was certain the threat for me was dead and gone did I look up. The teachers were of different complexions. The firelord looked confused, as if he was to inquire whether or not the moves I had made were entirely legal. The storm mistress gave a smirk, as if the whole thing had been a comedy and she was forced to admit she found the final jest amusing.

The plague lord applauded with rank, slapping of his encrusted hands, and my own master gave me a rare nod of approval.

"This is what it means to be a battlemage." he said, in a lecturer's voice. "It is not to be flashy. It is not to be artistic. It is not to give bards material or warlords nightmares. It is to win the battle. If that means you drop a small glacier on a keep, then do so. If that means you make it snow until the enemy surrenders in hopes of seeing the sun, then that is your course. If it means you send your enemy slogging through swamps until they are exhausted..." he gestured to the deadened golem. "...but you know this."

"By my authority as a instructor of the Lore of Cold, you are hereby authorized as a Battlemage of the Empire and to begin immediate duty. May you die satisfied."

The Cocytus pass is beset by blizzard-force winds year-round. Some say the sun goddess does not look there, or that some forbidden experiment turned it into a place of cold forever.

It is a terrible place to march through, whether you are Empire or Wisdom Council. When extensive magical protections are not available, casualties from trekking through were expected and unavoidable.

But our man-in-place has told the Council that on the other side lies a battalion that is led by a lazy commander who is lax in discipline, his troops sleeping ten hours a day, the guards drunk and gambling, and that they have been tasked with guarding a critical chokepoint in what has become a very long and brutal campaign.

High atop the glacial walls of the pass, I see what the ice-scryings have already told me. Through the valley of frozen death march thousands of men and women at arms, mages, chimera, golems, the sacred altars that the Council uses to both revive their dead as wights and sacrifice our children.

As an added jest, our man in place has off-handed mentioned the empire is discontinuing teaching the lore of cold, as the nobles find such a refined art used for war to be distasteful.

They march slowly, steadily, huddled around magical flames, trying not to set off one of the dread avalanches that have spelled doom for so many of them and so many of ours.

I wait until their altars and their mages are in the midst of the valley, unable to evacuate quickly.

Then I cancel my spell.

Mages can detect the birth of new magic, of course, so to throw down a hail of razor icicles or sheets of crushing ice birthed by magic would alert every mage down there to both the danger and the fact they had an observer. To cancel a spell, however, triggers no such awareness, and whatever magic a mage might sense entering the valley is usually chalked up to the elementals that haunt such places.

They aren't bad people, once you get to know them, elementals.

But I am forgetting to mention the spell I ceased, am I not?

Three days prior, I cast spells to create a barrier that would keep snow out. Not eliminate or push away, but simply a barrier. By now, snow and ice had accumulated in massive quantities on those barriers and on the accompanying ledges and cliffs, so that one relief in the upholding force would trigger a catastrophic downfall of frozen rock and snow.

The only warning they get are the cracks at both the entrance and end of the pass. By then, a deluge of frozen death rains down. A few wary mages hurl desperate fireballs upward, which only serves to hasten doom- explosions crack frozen rock and send more debris tumbling down.

I can't hear the screams from my vantage point, but after the snow and dust has settled, the devastation is plain to see. On either exit, small remnants of the once great army gather, shaken and demoralized. Those still in Council territory are furious with the ill luck, those in our territory are shaken and despairing- they need food and shelter soon, and they will find only sword and arrow as our decisively less than lazy army marches to deal with them, now alerted by the signal that was the passes' collapse.

The altars, the mages, the chimera and golems now lie buried under tons of ice and rock. The lucky ones die instantly. I am told that particularly unfortunate individuals sometimes fall or are cushioned just so that they spend days starving to death, surrounded by the frozen corpses of their allies.

Our man in place has, if he is worth his salt, already ran for his life into the volcanic gorges north of the council. Normally suicide, unless one has a firemage escorting them through, as we have afforded him.

Their tacticians will be put to the stake. The survivors left on their side will either live out their lives in forests, hiding for the rest of their lives, or return home to die tortuously in hopes the Council will not punish their families.

The Council, as one may guess, is not one for rational thought. It is not so much that a foot-soldier can be logically held responsible for a natural disaster as it is that the Council likes to boil in oil a failure every other week- keeps their people on their toes.

Our methods are brutal but with purpose to end this war. Their methods are abominable with the purpose to cause pain to innocents and thereby prove they are wise as according to their twisted minds.

So far, my name is unknown to them. Though many die in punishment for the natural accidents of cold and frost that befall them, they are seen as freaks of nature, nothing more.

And that, I have come to understand, is fine by me.

I'm not here for fame. I'm here to win.

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Great story, user.

The only minor note I can come up with is that in your effort to give the narrator a slightly archaic, olde-worlde speech pattern, you may have gone a little to far in places. e.g:
>Around him his men and women shifted uneasily, as if their training, begun from an age around mine, back then, had not prepared them for when a mage to be conscripted appeared *willingly*.
feels just a little more awkward than it needs to be.

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I had the narrator/ancestor from Darkest Dungeon reading all my writing to me in my mind.

My bad.

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Why do Knights-Errant travel? Is it to hunt the ills of the world? Is it to find peace for previous sins? Maybe to experience the beauty of the Broken World. All Knights-Errant travel to achieve peace in some way, trying to find their place in a world filled to the brim with evil. Not all of them are living saints, golden armor riding atop a shining horse, some wear old coats and wide-brimmed hats, others, little more than armed vagrants.
However, when evil rears its head, it is not the militiaman with a homemade rifle who stops it, it is not the dashing hero with a magical weapon crafted by the gods, it is no magician who bends reality to their whims. It is the Knights-Errant, bloodied and forgotten warriors, who fight, bleed, and die to vanquish those creatures.

The ship hummed as we edged closer to the Leviathan, trying to keep the Victory Maria silent as we made our way to our target. Tyson was looking worried, his blonde hair peeking out of his skull cap.
"Can we do this?" He asked, stuttering at the final word.
"Ova carse" the gruff voice of Mikael sounded, hauling his prized Tri-Shotter from below deck. His Scarian accent still thick after all these weeks.
"Oi, you fools standing around, get to the guns, we're firing in twelve clicks" Captain Cossa yelled, wearing his gaudy coat and jewels, he financed this trip, but I still don't like him.

"You're bleeding, Johnny"
"You don't think I fucking know that?"
I was running down a dank alleyway, a stolen gun in hand and gripping a gunshot with my other. The "thing" in my chest was talking, a large, inky tendril called itself Sam.
"Why the hell are they trying to kill me?"
"Gee Johnny, you think it's because of me?"
The condescending snark was not needed, but strangely comforting in this situation, Sam here was the only thing keeping me alive.
"I'm getting hungry Johnny, how about another hand?"
"No, no more eating people, my stomach still hurts."

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They came screaming out of the sun. Howling down from on high with their crescent shaped wings glittering in the morning breeze, they stooped upon the small convoy like raptors upon a dying cow.

Aboard the Yukikaze, Able Skyman Oishi Tashimura cranked the handles of his quad-barrelled turret, training the weapon to track one of the devilishly fast shapes as it rose to the highest point. It hesitated for an instant, and in that instant, Tashimura fired.

His quad-barrel roared, cartridges and disnitegrating link spewing out of the weapon to clatter to the deck.Tracer went leaping out of the weapon, crossing the distance in an instant... only for the raptor to twist and stoop down in a dive, barrelling in on the Yukikaze itself.

Tashimura continued to fire as he'd been taught, trying to aim just in front of the diving raptor but the raptor's juking coupled with the Yukikaze's evasive manouvres caused his shells to snap right, then left.

Tashimura saw sparks dancing beneath the strange bubble cockpit, and then a lance of fire came spearing down from on high and the Yuki bucked like a wounded animal as the sorcerous rocket erupted against its hull in a sickly bloom of green fire.

Tashimura felt himself being thrown from his gun, felt the sickening impact as he landed on the deck and stared up through the billowing smoke as the raptor twisted away... and he had only a moment to see the strange reptilian head behind the controls before he stumbled to his feet, head swimming as he staggered back to the gun, frantically cranking the turret with hands that were hot and sticky with something... He suddenly felt the deck pitch under his feet and suddenly he was on the deck again. He looked up at his gun and lifted his hands, struggling to pull himself up with arms that just didn't seem to respond with their usual vigor... and above him, the deep blue of the sky seemed to loom like an endless maw, waiting to swallow him up... (1/?)

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Yuhrikan Kazrakask looked down at the green human ship with an odd feeling of detatchment. He didn't hate the humans. The lizard didn't exactly like the humans either, you understand, but he didn't hate them. Sure, they were here to plunder the Tarsaiid Ore that was the backbone of the trade that his people enjoyed with the Khans. Sure, they had killed several of his broodmates today... but broods were born in clutches of hundreds, and Kazrakask had never been close to any of them.

No, Kazrak was a professional and took pride in a job well done. Now, as he watched the strange green ship succumbing to the efforts of his fellows, he couldn't help but narrow his golden eyes a little and wonder.

Speculation was prohibited by the Council of course. The humans were here to rob and pillage, this was accepted as a self evident fact. However Kazrak wasn't entirely sure of the wisdom of some of the Council's decisions, such as the choice to capture the human first contact team, and submit them to the rite of God's Questioning. True, his people consider such to be a great honour... but then his own people would survive the experience.

Still, Kazrak couldn't allow himself to dwell on the might have beens. The important thing right now are the five human transports now left completely exposed by the destruction of their single destroyer escort.

He opens his mouth beneath his oxygen mask and he's about to growl in triumph when his fighter shudders as it's rocked by a series of impacts. Kazrak snatches at the stick, eager to bring his craft around... but then the second burst of fire slices through the fuel tank and his raptor is suddenly engulfed in flame.

(2/2)

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Just wanted to say that thought I never contribute with anything else than pictures, I really enjoy theses threads. Keep up the good work, lads.

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Continuing my SF story. This chapter is a perspective flip to the aliens' point of view.

The ni-hir hive-city was located on the western coast of the largest continent on Sakai’s World, a massive conical structure towering over the surrounding plains and low hills. As imposing as the titanic edifice was, the part of the city above the planet’s surface acted primarily as an enormous ventilation tower and as a platform for solar collector, wind turbines, and farms built onto terraces ringing the structure. The bulk of the city was underground, with a vast network of tunnels extending around and deep below the central tower, filled with living areas, massive caverns, underground farms and factories, and shafts plunging deep into the crust to extract geothermal energy. It was in this underground city the majority of the ni-hir population on the planet lived, and in its deepest reaches, protected by solid bedrock and tens of feet of armor plates, was the queen’s chamber.
The chamber was a huge hemispherical room filled with viewscreens and communication equipment that allowed its occupant to observe and communicate with any part of the hive, as well as other pieces of complex machinery. Dozens of workers scurried around the room, carrying freshly laid football-sized eggs to the hatcheries and checking on the machinery while members of the administrative caste, including guards, technicians, and the queen’s consorts, observed their work and tended to their own responsibilities. Hum of machinery and the song of ni-hir workers permeated the chamber and echoed from the vaulted ceiling. At the center of the room was the seat of the hive-queen, mother and ruler of the ni-hir of Sakai’s World.

The planet’s only queen was still young, having assumed her role when the ni-hir established their colony ten years ago, and had not yet fully completed her metamorphosis from princess, or female member of the administrative caste, to queen. Her abdomen, the rearmost of the four segments of her body, had swollen to the size of a small groundcar, preventing the rearmost of her three pairs of legs from reaching the ground, but she was still able to move with anti-grav devices supporting her abdomen though she rarely chose to do so. Over the next decade her size would keep rapidly increasing until the metamorphosis was complete, and she’d be left far too massive to move on her own power, even with the aid of technology. Even then she would keep growing, albeit at a far slower rate, until eventually she’d be crushed under her own weight or grow too large to be able to sustain her metabolic needs – no ni-hir queen had ever died of old age in the strict sense.
Having finished her morning routines of eating, receiving the report on the status of the hive, and reading on the history and writings of great queens of the past, it was time for the queen to call the assembly of her highest-ranking officials. They entered the chamber clad in ceremonial robes displaying their rank and position within the hierarchy of the hive-lords; the grand secretary in his intricately embroiled robes of brilliant ultraviolet that proclaimed his position as the head of the central secretariat, and the heads of the six ministries of the department of hive affairs clad in slightly duller shade of the color with designs identifying which ministry they belonged to. As they entered, the other residents, be they worker or administrative caste, retreated to the perimeter of the room, clearing the center of the chamber for the queen and her officials. The worker-song died down, leaving only the ever-present sound of machinery.

The queen called for each of her officials in turn, starting with the grand secretary, at which point they approached her, made gestures indicating subservience, and entwined their antennae with her in greeting. The exact order in which they were called to greet her would no doubt be analyzed and interpreted among the ministers as sign of who among them held most favor in the queen’s eyes. With the necessary formalities completed, the queen listened to the officials’ reports and proposals.
The grand secretary announced that the central secretariat had drafted a decree based on the results of the discussion between the representatives of the department of hive affairs, stating that until the problem with the rogue humans attacking hive property had been eliminated the border of the human-controlled area on the planet would be placed under strict surveillance and embargo would be placed on certain offworld goods deemed non-essential, with potential to increase the sanctions in future if the current ones proved inefficient. The ministers confirmed this was in line with the conclusion they had reached, although the minister of defense admitted to still advocating military action against the human government. The queen, however, agreed that the central secretariat’s proposed decree seemed reasonable and gave the permission to ratify it.

Further matters of government were discussed, most of them routine. However, the minister of communications indicated his ministry had received an unusual request from the human government. Apparently, an envoy from the human Federation, representing one of the most powerful planets of that realm, had arrived on the planet and was requesting to meet representatives of the hive government to negotiate matters of trade. Unsure what to do, the ministry had concluded the decision on how to respond should be made by the queen herself. The minister of defense voiced his concerns about meeting with the human constituting a security risk, while the minister of revenue carefully voiced an opinion on potential benefits of trade agreements. The minister of communications added that the human’s message had indicated that he was showing proper deference and had brought tribute to the queen. Before a debate could start, however, the queen bade the ministers to quiet as she paused to think and lay another clutch of eggs.

On one limb, letting the human envoy meet with her officials might indeed pose some kind of security risk, and would certainly run counter with the impression the hive government wanted to send with increased surveillance and sanctions on the human government. On the other, refusing to receive the envoy might be seen as a sign of contempt, especially when he had even prepared tribute. And this was not a representative of the local human government which should be subservient to her, but that of a major planet of a rival interstellar power. While she considered it self-evident that a ni-hir queen was superior in position to any human ruler the fact remained that, being a queen of a minor colony, her influence in the Hive Collective was very limited, while the human world would wield proportionately far more influence in their Federation. She concluded that the best course of action would be to show the envoy proper courtesy and receive him in her court like she would an envoy of another hive-city. The ministry of communications was requested to draft a suitable reply and send it to the humans as soon as they were able.
With the matters of the day discussed, the officials returned to their duties, and the queen returned to eating and laying eggs, the two tasks that took up most of her time. Only the grand secretary remained for some more time, to fulfill his other duty as the queen’s prime consort.

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Hello, Walker. You may not remember me but I was there. I was there when you were hungry, there when you took what you needed, what you wanted, laying your gaze on the frontier. You're not one of those spirits, the kind that go peacefully. The vagrant which wastes away, incapable of bringing himself to harm his fellow man out of fear or perhaps consideration. Rather would die in the cold than be a bother. Those spirits leave this world awful easy.

You're the sort I find though and at the end of this, I'll bring you in, kicking and screaming like the rest. Not because you don't know better but peace just isn't who you are. That's fine. Hope you can forgive me for what I gotta do when all is said and done, we don't need Frontier ghosts like me wandering about any more...

I'd like to let you know something, Walker to Walker. This won't go the way you expect, it never does. You think you're the hero, Walker!? I dragged a man, screeching like an animal from his corpse and as he looked back at his bullet ridden body, so to did he see his wife and daughter fall, his efforts in vain. You think you'll die fat and happy, Walker!? That's not what you are, you and I know that. You'll get tired, Walker. You'll get a God awful tired that sleep never cures. You'll claw and squirm through the Frontier until something claws and squirms harder than you do. Long after the story should have ended, long after your big moment, I'll be there, watching... Because I was there... I'll always be there... We'll talk again... When we meet in that there pasture, under a sky so blue.

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Bump

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The general paced across the room, nervously eyeing the grizzled man in front of him. Passing his fingers through his moustache, he walked slowly and aimlessly.
>So, Colonel, any developments along the border?
The brawny man, scarred from his countless fights, stalwart and stoic, had never hated his life so much before.
>Well, sir, they're moving lots of troops near it. Our scouts show troop movements all over the country.
>What, exactly?
>Mostly armour, sir. They've got heavies mixed with AA assets and infantry.
The old man's eyes were black, and no amount of coffee could remedy to that. Cursing quietly, he wished he could simply collapse on the spot, but sleep quickly becomes a rare commodity when a nation's destiny rests on one's shoulders. He sat on a metal chair, still grumbling.
>What else?
>They've started to move air superiority fighters towards the Line, too. We've intercepted a few of them violating our airspace, but no fights occurred. No skirmishes.
>Good. Have we identified any enemy units?
>Negative, sir. No markings, no identified personnel, nothing.
>Bother. I'd like to know at least who they're massing up about a hundred metres from here.
The general picked up his pipe. This was his only luxury, for his coffee had stopped being a mere pleasure a long time ago and his rations had earned their nicknames rightly. Carefully placing what little tobacco remained, he caught the oaken pipe in his mouth and flipped his lighter. An orange flame emerged, and he finally felt the strong aroma he craved so much.
>I'll try to do something about it. In the meantime, I'd like to ask about our supply lines.
>Strong as ever, Colonel, which means that you'll be getting bugger all when the enemy strikes while the bastards a hundred clicks behind us get their shiny new toys.
>Oh, great. Air assets?
>Literally the one thing we aren't short on.
>Artillery?
>Nonexistent.
>Do we have anything in sufficient numbers?
>I'd say issues, but there's actually a surplus.
1/2

2/2
The scarred man mumbled. Every day, politicians threatened and promised all sorts of actions and punishments, mouthing off and screaming at their foreign counterparts. Meanwhile, he and his men sat still, idly wondering if they were between the hammer and the anvil. Every day he scanned the horizon, searching for signs of an impending invasion, while those idiots in their warm villas did their very best to instigate one. Only one thing worried him more.
>Understood. Thanks, sir.
>Don't worry. Are your men ready?
>Yes, sir. Morale is high, for a frontline unit. All other things are accounted for. I need to check on them.
Just as he turned, the general's quick movement startled him. Raising a hand, the old, stout man blocked his subordinate.
>I understand. I must say, Colonel, you've been sweating quite a bit.
>Yes, sir.
>And even with all these news, I wouldn't see the reason for all this nervousness.
>Indeed, sir.
The general leaned on his chair. Picking the pipe between two thick fingers, he carefully placed it on his desk. Not even seventy-two consecutive hours
>Look at yourself. In ten years, I've never seen you sweat. Not once. And now, one completely ordinary day, you come before me like a criminal before the gallows.
>...
>Tell me, Colonel. What are you hiding?
>W-What is it, sir?
>Colonel.
>Wel-I, si-
>Speak UP, Colonel. And STOP TREMBLING. What could possibly terrify you so much?
>D-during this morning's inspection, we've found one of our sentries waving to a female soldier on the other side.
The general's eyes widened.
>Oh, bollocks.

>Not even seventy-two consecutive hours
*Not even seventy-two hours without sleep could extinguish the fire in his eyes.
Fuck.

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Hello its me again, Manfred Pardo. Yeah I was still in the process of finishing my on going story. But due to some recently unfortunate event last month, I was now able to continue writing as my Grand Mother is already close to dying due to old age. I had to be away from my house to help take care and look after my older brother's house where my Grandma lives, but she is still hospitalized and everyone in my older bro's house are out, having to look after my grandma in the hospital. Thus leaving it decided that I stay in my older bro's home to help do chores and look after while everyone's out, still am doing that right now. And yeah during the past few weeks too my older bro's house so happened to not have internet that time too. But now that there's internet here I could continue writing my on-going story.

So I'm just gonna repost the completed parts then continue writing onwards when available, hopefully.

Reposting:

***

It was a typical day in a middle-scool. A sunny afternoon as hall monitor Angela Skinner is just standing guard at the still-currently-empty-hall, which will soon to be filled with students who're on their way home at this three-o-clock in the afternoon. It is dismissal right now as the students have now finally exited the classrooms with the bel still continue to ring and finally after a few more seconds the ringing has stopped and now the sounds of chatter among students fill the hallway. While Angela Skinner just stands at the sight leaning on a wall, waving to a couple of passing-by students who also wave back.

"Good day to you youngsters." Angela said warmly to a group of boys.

"Hey miss Skinner." One of the boys said and waved casually as the walked along minding their own business.

Angela Skinner is actually not a student of this school, but simply a paraprofessional staff member. Angela Skinner; age twenty-six, actually works as part time manager's assistant in a retail outlet from Mondays to Wednesdays, while in Thursdays and Fridays, she's a hall monitor in this school. She essentially works two jobs since one of her current positions as a retail outlet's manager does not earn that much compared to the school she's working for as a hall monitor. But even then she still maintains her two jobs since while Angela Skinner isn't a poor person, she isn't of a higher economic stature. And it does not help her bills and taxes tend to be quite high, so she's a frugal spender and sometimes settles with the cheapest items and products she can get.

So far Angela does like her job as a hall monitor for a middle school. It has mostly been a year and many students have already recognized her as "The older lady of the halls." Since she, along with the custodian staff are mostly the oldest people any student can see frequenting the halls while the teachers spend most of their time in the faculty offices when not currently teaching classes. Not to mention, some of the teachers and even the principal has gotten to befriend Angela Skinner. Admiring the fact that she is a hard working woman, working two jobs despite her not-so-impressive economic stature. Angela has even had a panel in a motivational school event to raise moral for students, specifically in a "work-hard-and-play-hard" panel where Angela went on about working hard, study well to get a good job. And also about never giving up in working for a living and all that which was held a few months ago or so.

And so the usual thing went on. She simply observed the students making their way out of the school, made small talk with a few here-and-there. Even spoke out some reminders here-and-there about wearing proper and appropriate clothing and attire and also wearing their school ID's. Finally all the students have left the inside of the school, while some students continue to hang around with each other just outside the school. And since it is Thursday right now, there no scheduled after-school activities for the students nor teachers during Tuesdays and Thursdays. The teachers on the other hand headed off to the faculty offices and teacher's loungers while also waving off to Angela with small talk aswell.

Angela Skinner was about to clock out since every Thursdays her shift ends as soon as the three-o-clock dismissal hits. Then she heard a bang, a bang which sounded like a door from around a corner was slammed shut. She knew it came from the boy's locker room, which made her suspicious.

>Background Music: youtube.com/watch?v=TNMqzEvXISk

Angela Skinner peeked the corner to see no one, not even a single custodian. This again, just raised her suspicions for she knew no student, not even the PE (Physical Education) groups were staying this afternoon. All students every Thursdays went home, save for just hanging around outside for no scheduled after-class activities were appointed within for the next two months. So there fore, all students are to head home after class every Thursdays for the next two months. Save for those students who're asked to stay after class by the teachers.

Angela thought maybe it was the coach himself or another teacher who went to the locker room. But Angela observed the people getting out of the classrooms during dismissal earlier and keenly saw all the teachers today went to either the teachers lounge or the faculty offices. And again, it could have not been the students... Or maybe not?

"Oh shit... What if someone snuck into the school and darted into the locker room!? To steal some student's stuff??? Shit..." Angela thought to herself about that possibility, it may have been a stretch, but who knows? But even if an intruder of questionable background and unlikable intentions did snuck into this school and is currently trying to hide in the locker room. It was still Hall Monitor Angela Skinner's duty check things out and ensure the halls are safe, secure and sound. And to also make sure no students are in the halls at the wrong place and wrong time.

"Here goes..." Angela said to her self as she slowly apporached the door to the lockers, being cautious just in case. She also reached for the keychain in her on her waist to reach for the key to the locker room, which she also had and remembered which it is while not looking. And readied herself to unlock the door as she got close.

Although it’s mostly the custodians and janitorial staff who have the keys. Angela has earned the authority to wield back up keys for the doors throughout the school since she has proven herself a capable, competent and trustworthy hall monitor. And so Angela Skinner knew the door was locked, or whoever darted into the locker room just a while ago locked it. She slowly and quietly unlocked it as best as she could so as to not gain any attention to whoever was in there.

Angela slowly opened the door while making very little noise and making sure the door did not creak. And what she saw surprised her.

"Why couldn't we do this back at my place, or your's!?" Exclaimed a young male student who's currently bound to the floor by two students, a boy and a girl who were twins or related due to the fact they were both brown-haired and had similarly colored clothes.

The boy who bounded the male student along with his sister replied sultrily. "We told you Kevin, you lose the bet. Me and Sheila get to have our way with you~"

The sister also replied in an equally sultry manner. "Yeah, me and my bro Nathan just can't wait to finally take pleasure with your bod Kev. Oh don't worry, me and Nathan will take good care of you unlike that preppy ex-GF of your's."

And the bound boy responded. "You cheated; you guys must have cheated at that game. I know you Nathan and your sister are gamers. I'm aware of that, but there's no way you guys are that perfect. Not getting hit once the whole time I tried hitting on you, what fucking cheating methods or glitch did you exploit so you two could just fuck me!?"

Angela Skinner just continued peeking silently, observing just as to what else is going to happen.

The sister giggled in response to the bound boy’s defiance as she held him firm. "Hehehe now-now Kevin, there’s no need to act like a sore loser, a deal’s a deal. You lose to us at Brutalphobia; a game you claim to be an expert at, me and my brother get to make love to you. You even said it yourself!”

The brother positioned his face closer to the bound boy's face and whispered. "Enough talk and let's get kinky... I'll go first."

And almost with a flash, the brother slammed his lips to the bound boys, shoving his tongue into his mouth. As the sister simply sat on the floor with the bound boy's head resting on her laps as she touched and caressed the bound boy's face with one hand. And she patted her brother's head as he was making out with the bounded boy.

Meanwhile Angela Skinner just looked on in surprise as to what was going on, plus she knew exactly who these three students are. The twins; the brother and sister, are Nathan and Sheila Davenport both age sixteen. The Davenport Siblings have actually had record of supposed and bullying in which former students, who were slightly older the Davenport Twins, claimed they experienced at the hands of the siblings. The claims ranged from blackmailing, to just plain old petty teasing and some slight physical contact here and there. But the Davenport Twins never really got into serious trouble for those claims and it’s not because of the fact Nathan and Sheila Davenport are upper class kids of upper class parents who’re business people working in a rather well known high-end company. But rather the former students of this school never really had any strong evidence or proof to back up that they were bullied before, so Nathan and Sheila simply got off with slaps on the wrist.

Whether or not those claims are real, Angela Skinner is witnessing something that really is happening for real done by the twins themselves.

As for the boy who's bound by the Davenport twins in question. He is Kevin Lassiter, although Angela Skinner has known a number of students throughout this whole school some of whom she knows were transferred to different schools. Some expelled and some where dropouts for reasons, but of course there a few handfuls of students that consider Hall Monitor Angela Skinner a friend and in return Angela consider them friends too.

But Kevin Lassiter unfortunately is not one of those students whom Angela never knew personally as she nor has Kevin ever made contact or any conversations personally. It's just that Angela does know his name since she has heard the green-haired boy's name during school activities and P.E. sessions. And also recognize him since he is so far the only boy in this school who has green-hair. And here she is witnessing Mister Kevin Lassiter being sexually assaulted by the Davenport twins, possibly being raped???

Or did Kevin Lassiter choose this thing to happen to him on his own accord? What was that bet and conditions that Angela heard about which made Kevin have no choice but to let Nathan and Sheila Davenport have their way with him. Whatever it was here she was just looking on Nathan Davenport lewdly assaulting poor defenseless Kevin Lassiter. Angela had no idea why she did not just bust in, scold the twins as to why they are still here at school despite it being dismissal and that all students are to head home at this day and hour, but also for doing such sexual activities in school premises. And Angela Skinner just stared at the whole ordeal, watching it for about five minutes until Sheila Davenport spoke.

“Easy there bro. don’t hog cutie-Kevin all by yourself. I wana make out with him too… Especially Miss Skinner,” Sheila then looked at the doorway where Angela was spying from. “Isn’t that right Miss Skinner?”

Angela Skinner was surprised, she's been caught!

Angela was still taken aback by Sheila Davenport's lewd implications. But Sheila may not be wrong, Angela Skinner could not help shifting her eyes to the bound and semi-shirtless Kevin Lassiter. Angela Skinner could not believe how amazingly cute and attractive. "My god, what am I thinking!" Angela thought to herself as she still had her eyes fixed on Kevin Lassiter, still lying on the ground, head prepped up at Sheila's lap. And she never noticed that Nathan Davenport was now just near her. Finally she decided to raise her voice against the Lassiter twins.

"Wha- WHAT ARE YOU TWO TROUBLE MAKERS IMPLYING!? ARE YOU TWO NOT ASHAMED AT WHAT YOU'RE DOING!? YOU'VE SEXUALLY ASSAULTED A STUDENT AND ARE NOW IN THE PROCESS OF VIOLATING HIM!? HOW COULD YOU TWO THINK AND DO SUCH A THING!?"

Angela Skinner scolded the Davenport twins out loud. She figured if she raised her voice loud enough against the two, they might realize she was serious and that she meant business that she’d get them both into trouble by reporting them to the faculty, the principal and even the authorities perhaps and in hopes that someone else might come in bursting in the room to see what was going on. But it seem to have not worked, and probably so due to the fact that even though Angela raised her voice as loudly and angrily as she could. The Davenport twins seemed unfazed by her sudden outburst plus, no one seemed to have heard the commotion or shouting that was in the locker room, probably no one is literally outside the halls.

Then Nathan Davenport simply shook his head with a chuckle as he placed his hand on Angela’s shoulder; which surprised her, and tried to coax her into coming near Kevin and Sheila.

***

Okay I hope I get to finish this as soon as possible.

Oh i forgot to include my pic to start the story off.

Pic related is meant for: