jjp55

Lord Of The Dead - Part 2

2007-12-14T10:36:07Z

Heres an update on a story i wrote and posted here a while ago.

Title: Lord Of The Dead
Genre: fantasy/mythology
Rating: probably teens or over, its got a bit of violence and alot about the theme of death

1st part can be viewed here, in my journal.

If you can't be stuffed to read that bit, basically Hades has just been murdered and Zeus collected his dead body.

an interesting experiment

2007-12-14T10:30:06Z

to anyone who enjoys writing: i suggest you try this.
basically I just turned my screen off, at an empty document, and started typing whatever came to mind. this is 100% unedited, blind freewriting. just so you know, it took up just under a complete page in MS word.

Oh the blank page. It kills me. I hate it. It feels me with pain to see, having seen what it could potential ly be. This page is blank, when it could have been filled with words of wisdom, sorrow, horror, love, hate, passion, adrenaline. A blank page truly is one of the most powerful ways of expression. It is amazing that such a simple pattern of black and white symbols could invoke so many emotions; ones that can make us feel so unstoppable and yet so very human. From a simple blank page such as this, almost any sort of idea or emotion can be impressed upon a reader. That is why it is such a tr tradgedy to see a page so white, so bare, so far from all it has in store for it.
Yet it is beautiful. There is nothing in the world that conveys beauty quite like an empty page. The vast, endless whiitness has such endless potential, you cannot help but marvel at its ability. Something as simple as a small idea can be transferred onto paper, copied, and spread around, distributing it among many. And from that one idea, many people, who have many individual thoughts, spawn more ideas, newer ideas, some right perhaps, and sometimes wrong ones. And many, many more that, whether right or wrong, are good ideas, no matter what perspective they are viewed from. And all this would not be if not for the blank page.
When humans see nothing, they cannot stand it. They feel compelled to be rid of the blank space. It is repulsive to them. A bland, empty wasteland can offer them nothingcan offer them nothing new, nothing interesting, nothing to test their mind nor their sbodies. This is why I despisethe blank page.
But such an empty space is not so despisable for long. From looking at this empty space, we can see what it might be. From a bland grassy plain, cities are built. In the same way, by seeing a blank page, we are compelled to write on it. From simply nothing can spawn a creative outburst of emotive, entertaining, thought-provoking, or sometimes life-changing energy. This is why I love the blank page.
As a simple example, I challenged myself. By turning off my screen, and beginning to write what comes to mind, could I turn an ugly yet beautiful blank page, into a decent piece of writing? At first I didn’t know about this challenge. I simply started to write. But It took form in time, and I after a few minutes staring at the empty screen , I had found my inspiration. From this nothingness that I could see, I imagined what could become of it. And I made my vision a reality.
So, here you have it. A short, entertaining piece that started with my simple idea. And, who kniows? Perhaps from it will spawn your ideas. Perhaps you are now thinking of things, which are ffar beyond my own imagination, from my current perspective. I encourage you, go through with these creative expressions. In doing so, you realive your mind of things that are stressing you. Creativeity is a product of your emotions inside you, focussed into something worthwhile. It isn’t always writing, thought it often starts with it. Many movies are a result of a small idea, which a director has invested his creative engeries into. Whether the final product is a joyful, happily-ending family movie, or an angry, hard-edged tragedy, depends on the creative impulses of that director.
Such creative ventures serve not only to release these emotions, but also to show others our feelings. And, many times, in doing so, ourselves. Think about this, as you finish reading. This piece may not have affected you. It may mean absolutely nothing to you. Bnut in writing this I have relieved my soul of what I feel, shown the world what I am thinking, and taught myself a little bit more about me. I have finished my challenge; I have conquered the blank page.

Traits (working title)

2007-10-02T13:24:04Z

Posted this in fiction writers a while ago, but here it is in my journal, so its easier to find.

“You’re to kind ma’am,” Droll babbled, pocketing the cash the old lady had given him.
“Well, that was quite a story, to think that such a sweet young man such as yourself could be so wronged…” She broke off into tears.
“Isn’t that your bus?” Droll abruptly changed the subject.
“Well, er, I was going to do some shopping first… catch the next one…”
“You seem tired.” He looked sympathetic. “Perhaps you should just go home and rest now, save shopping for another day.” He ushered her along towards the slowing bus.
“Well, ok. It was nice talking to you,” She handed him a small handful of coins. “Take this, for your ride home. It’s just enough for a bus fare.” She extended her umbrella, and strode off towards the halted bus, still sobbing slightly. Droll smiled. Buses were for losers.

The taxi pulled up on the side of the road. Droll quickly ran from his shelter, across the puddles scattered along the pavement, stooping low and scrunching himself inwards, in an attempt to fit his entire body under the measly broken umbrella he had borrowed from another man. He reached the car door, thoroughly soaked, and clambered into the vehicle.
“Where you go to?” inquired the driver, staring suspiciously at his guest. He was dressed in ragged tatty clothes, carrying an umbrella that looked like it had been through several wars. He looked like the sort of guest who couldn’t afford a new hat, much less a ride in this taxi. On top of that, he was already dripping water all over the seats. “I only take serious passenger. You need money for ride.”
The accent was quite thick, and the grammar was terrible, but Droll understood it. He had a knack for understanding what people were saying.
“It’s ok, I do have money.” He assured him. It was true, technically. He had money; he just wasn’t going to throw it away for a simple cab ride. A little sweet-talking can get you anywhere, Droll reasoned, including home. “Nice car.” He gave the man an address, and they drove off.

****

Helix breathed in heavily. There was nothing he enjoyed more than acrobatic challenges, he had always been well known for his incredible agility, less than split-second reflexes, and huge bursts of momentary speed. Those that knew him called it inhuman. Helix agreed, although wasn’t sure how. But this was more than just physically difficult; the thought of what he was doing was almost enough to scare him out of it. But he couldn’t. He had to do this. For Pristine.

Barry sat in position on the machine gun turret two hundred metres away. Everything had been done to ensure the bullets were as inaccurate as possible. They were firing at its maximum range, and Barry would ensure to be as erratic as possible with his aim. They had also cut off the long thin end of the barrel, giving the bullets less opportunity to straighten out. This way, when the gun was fired, the spread of the bullets was dramatically increased, but the accuracy lowered. Almost like a squadron of men with handguns.

Helix took another gulp of air, and gave the go-ahead. Barry fired, straight at Helix.
Time seemed to slow down, as Helix launched himself from his crouched position. His aim was to get to the halfway marker they had placed between his starting point and the turret. All the while, it would be firing mercilessly at him. Impossible. For most people. Helix dived into a roll, barely pulling him under the first wave of bullets. The next wave came slightly lower, forcing him to leap straight into the air from his position on the ground. To the naked eye, it would seem that Helix was barely moving, that the bullets were miraculously missing, or loaded with blanks, but every twist, spin, dive and leap that he made was to fast to be seen as more than a blur.
To Helix, each move was slowly and carefully thought out, and the bullets he was dodging moved no faster than people. Now he had started, he realized that this was different to the exercise he had tried with dodging the rain. This was slightly easier, although the stakes were higher.

He continued slowly forwards, unable to advance very fast through the chaotic whistling of the tiny lead balls of death, until he had finally reached the halfway mark. Barry saw him jump on top of the marker, and collapse in exhaustion. He shut down the turret, and walked over to join his friend.

Helix smiled. He had made it. He had dodged a bullet. More than that, he had dodged hundreds. Granted, these were test conditions, and in reality it may not be so easy, but he had done it! Months of self-training with Barry were starting to pay off. Soon they would rescue Pristine, and he would start to set his life straight. No doubt about it, this was his happiest moment in years.

****

Another punch impacted with Braces’ oversized stomach. It didn’t hurt, but he feigned the pain anyway, in case it made them back away. It didn’t. They were having a good laugh at the variable giant, probably the toughest man in the neighbourhood, doubling over in pain at the slightest of taps. Well, to them it was actually the hardest force they could muster. Brace could easily take them on, all 16 of them. But he wouldn’t. He had given up fighting. It just wasn’t worth it.
“Yeah, how’d ya like that, huh punk! How ‘bout this?”
They punched him again. In the groin. He felt this one, although it still wasn’t so much a feeling of pain as irritation. He still pretended to care.
“How’d some coward like you win all those fights, eh? Yer musta bin cheatin or something. Or I’m jus’ tough.” The puncher grinned boastfully. Being beaten by a gang of teenagers was quite an embarrassment for Brace, especially with such a reputation as his own. Maybe it was just what he needed. He had decided long ago to stop fighting, give up the tough life, go to some art school and get a degree there. But he couldn’t help it. He was drawn to the rough life, here in the back alleys, dominating street brawls, starting gang wars, and finishing bar fights. Brace was well known all around the city, indeed much of the country, as the most brutal and feared scrappers out there. He didn’t need his gang with him to win a fight. He didn’t need to put up with petty younglings with something to prove. He pulled a fist back to strike back, but dropped it again. It just wasn’t worth it.
The kid, seeing a small sign of weakness, decided to exploit the move.
“What’s this then? Big Boy thinks ‘es gonna fight me! Tut tut tut, I think this yittle baby needs to be taught a lesson.” They burst out laughing again, huddling in closer. Moving in for the kill. All of them were punching him now, and some kicking. Each blow could barely be felt by Brace, but the continuous stream of small pains was slowly wearing him down. And he knew these bruises would be felt in the morning. Finally, one of them got the nerve to try giving him a wedgie. Brace cracked.

The kid’s plan might have been flawless, except for two things, one was that the mans pants were too big and heavy to be pulled up, and two, he was the best street fighter in town. Before he knew it, the kid was grabbed around the ankle by a single massive hand. He stared at the hand for half a second, before it started pulling. He tripped up, and slammed his head onto the rough asphalt. A wide gash, and instant concussion were imminent. But Brace wasn’t finished with this kid yet; even in unconsciousness he was forced to pay for assaulting him, by being thrown at one of the others. They slammed heads, and the two unconscious boys collapsed to the ground.

Before any of the others could react, Brace had punched, kicked or grabbed each of them, and sent them down to bite the dust. In a matter of seconds, the fight was over. Then Brace realized what he had done.

****

Duke scratched his chin as he typed. His task was proving far more difficult than he had ever imagined. There were five. Five. It was impossible. Improbable, He corrected himself. He was already nearly halfway there. He had, of course, found himself out quite early. That had been relatively easy. Only a genius could have begun to understand it, but fortunately, that was Duke’s forte.

The second had been by mere coincidence. Duke, in a terrible moment of weakness, had saved a mans life. A man who just happened to run faster than anyone Duke had ever seen, or believed possible. He was also very sneaky; good, and conveniently, very dumb; perfect. Dit had been an incredibly lucky find.

Perhaps, he mused, I should try and be nice more often. His finger hesitated over the Enter key. Or not. He pressed the button, and sat back. Somewhere, sometime in the next few hours, a small businessman would be shocked to find his bank account completely drained.
“Coffee.” Duke was startled, as he turned to his left to find Dit standing there.
“What have I told you about that!” He hissed, snatching the mug. “Never sneak when you’re in this room!” Dits face dropped, and he turned toward the door. It was a hundred metres away. He was there in half a second. He paused in the doorway, hanging his head. Duke was reminded of a puppy that’s been smacked.
“When will we be finished?” He asked timidly.
“I will be finished whenever I tell you we are,” Dukes voice echoed across the cavernous space. “Meanwhile…” He consulted a small handwritten list on his desk next to him. “You can run to the store and get me some more blank paper.” Dit darted through the door. The store was several kilometres down the road, so he would be back in about five minutes. Perhaps three, if he snuck into the front of the queue.
Duke truly resented having Dit around; he always asked such stupid questions, like a petulant child on a long trip. But his speed, and his loyalty, were invaluable tools for his quest. When Duke had saved his life, Dit had pledged lifelong commitment to him. And Dit really was stupid enough to stick to his word, attending to all matters, big and small, that his master desired. Duke still despised him. But soon, soon he would find out how to transfer his power. And then, when he had all five…
Duke smiled evilly to himself.

****

Droll crouched under the cover of a small bus terminal. Of course, the cabby had been angry when he discovered his lack of money, but he had softened him up with the story about his poor, retarded, disabled, orphaned foster stepsister. Perhaps it was a bit over the top, but at least it had put the driver off taking legal action. He pulled out the money he had gotten from the old lady.

This was intended to help his grandmother, who had abused him as a child, after his mother had committed suicide, then been sent to a mental hospital. Of course, his real grandmother wasn’t abusive, nor his mother dead. Probably. Droll hadn’t really known his family. As far as he knew, he had been born and bred on the side of the road. A bum his whole life. Which was fine by him; he knew all the tricks of survival necessary to stay alive, plus a strange knack for getting things out of other people for free. He had nothing, but he lived like a millionaire.

After counting the money, he looked around at the buildings surrounding him. The cabby had dropped him off in the rich side of town; whether because he thought Droll would be stranded here, or because he hoped to run into some richer customers, only he could tell. But Droll was not stranded; in fact he had intended to come here as soon as he had finished talking to the old lady.
Evaluating each of the hotels around, he selected one that, while not five star, was comfortable and fairly cheap. He had enough money for about three days, but by talking to the right people, he could probably stay for a week.

Beginning of a story I'm writing, about 5 people each with a specific 'power' or 'trait',
not sure about some of the plot details yet, particularly the backstory behind the powers, so suggestions are welcome.

WWI assignment

2007-08-27T12:53:08Z

The cold wind whistled like a kettle through the deep ditch. Satsklov Nireisch crouched low to the ground. He leant forward, and opened the tiny doorway of the lantern. He lit a match, and set the candlewick alight. He pulled the match away, and used it to light the cigarette in his mouth as well. He only hoped the Germans wouldn’t see the smoke. Unlikely, on this moonless, cloudy night, but one could never be too careful down here in the trenches.

He stood up, and began moving forward, when he suddenly tripped up on a rock. With a small grunt of pain, he collapsed to the ground. He breathed a quick prayer of thanks, as he realised what might have happened if he had stood up for any longer, with a lit cigarette in his mouth. He stood so that he was bent over double, picked up his lantern, and continued on his midnight patrol.

<^> <^> <^> <^> <^>

A small light shone through faintly from the other trench. Through the scope of his sniper rifle, Fredreich Hayner could clearly make it out to be a cigarette butt. A Russian had snuck outside for a smoke. Very foolish. He quickly adjusted his aim, so it appeared in the dead centre of the sights. Shoot to kill, show no mercy. His commander had told him. His finger hesitated at the trigger. Something was telling him not to shoot. A small voice in his head, fighting against the overwhelming urge to fire. He shrugged it off, and re-adjusted his aim. He looked harder at the small glow, and he could almost see the mans face. Strange, he thought, He looks like… The light disappeared; it looked like the man had tripped over something. He didn’t come back up again; presumably because he realized how exposed he was. Fredreich tried following the trail of smoke, in case he popped his head up again, but it was to dark to make it out clearly, and he lost track of it. He glanced at his pocket watch. His shift was over. He headed back to the dugout to report his boring night.

<^> <^> <^> <^> <^>

Dear Freddy,
How are you, old friend? I hope you haven’t gotten involved in this retched war. Unfortunately, I have.
Since the Germans tried to invade Russia, I have volunteered to do my part for my glorious country. Although, I am finding that, day by day, war is seeming less and less glorious.
Life in the trenches is so incredibly dull, all we do is sit around and wait for a German charge. Or we charge ourselves, but I haven’t participated in any of them yet. I am very thankful for that, too. Every time we charge we lose hundreds of men. Of course, the enemy loses more. Which kind of worries me. Every time I see a German soldier in pain, I wonder how I would feel if it were you.
Our commanders expect us to simply kill without thought or mercy. They describe the German culture and personality to be invariably cruel and evil, but just knowing somebody from Germany makes me think differently. After all, if you can be kind and friendly, why can’t all Germans?
This war is getting increasingly difficult for me. Protecting our great and innocent country is one thing, but slaughtering another equally great and innocent country, not to mention each of their soldiers… is it even worth it?
Anyway, I should not be dawdling here writing, no doubt there are trenches to dig, or some other useless job to be done.
Best wishes to Germany from Russia,
Satsklov

Satsklov read over the letter twice more, and picked it up. He hesitated for a moment, before holding it over the candle by his bed. It caught alight, and he watched it burn. Ever since the war had started, sending letters had become increasingly difficult.
Although the army had its own postal service for men missing their families, Satsklov doubted that any letters actually got through it. Nobody ever received any in return, at any rate. As for sending letters to another country, to say nothing of the fact that it was the opposing country… it was absurd.

Satsklov didn’t even know why he bothered pretending to write to Fredreich; although he had been his best friend for most of his life, Satsklov hadn’t seen him since late in April, a few months ago, when Freds parents had become terminally ill, and he was forced to return to his homeland to be with them. Satsklov could only hope for the best; He had not received word from him since the war had broken out.
The sergeant called his name. He blew the ashes of the letter off the desk, and headed out to join his squad mates.

<^> <^> <^> <^> <^>

Fredreich lay back in his bed, wishing sleep to come quickly. He had volunteered himself for a raiding party the next night, and he needed to catch up on his rest.
It had been two days since he had seen that familiar looking face in the other trench.

He thought about his old friend, from when he had lived in Russia. Poor Satsklov. He remembered the many days they had spent at the orphanage together. Until, one day, Fredreich had finally been chosen.

He shivered under the thin sheets that supposedly protected him from the cold. It was as useful as putting ice over a raging fire to cool it. He shut his eyes and thought back to that day.

His adoptive parents had, also, been German. It was both the happiest and worst day of his life. Waving goodbye to his lifelong friend had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. But finally having a family, after seven years of meaninglessness, had been like heaven on earth for Fredreich. But it was a bittersweet happiness; he couldn’t bear to leave his friend alone in the orphanage for long.

Fred rolled over in his bed. He could hear his bunkmates snoring in each of their beds. But he couldn’t sleep.

Each day he had visited Satsklov, until they finally turned seventeen. Old enough to get jobs and start their own lives. When he was twenty, Fredreichs parents had insisted that they moved back to Germany. Fredreich had refused to go with them, opting instead to buy a house with Satsklov, who was living in a pathetic rental apartment, and stay in Russia with him.
Eventually his parents grew terribly ill, just a little earlier this year, and Fred had felt obliged to go and be with them. He had barely stayed there for two days when they passed away. His original plan had been to stay for a month or two, until funerals, wills etc. had been taken care of, then go back to Russia and live with Satsklov again. Perhaps find a wife, a German wife, and start a family. But then the war had broken out, and he had been conscripted into the German army. He missed his friend.

Slowly, Fredreichs eyes drooped downwards, as he slipped into unconsciousness.

<^> <^> <^> <^> <^>

Another tedious sentry night. Satsklov yawned for the fifth time that minute. He stopped walking for a moment, and checked the field. The small wooden periscope was cracked and splintered, but still managed to display a near decent image of no mans land.

There was, as usual, nothing to see. The bleak, inhospitable landscape looked the way Satsklov had always imagined the surface of the moon to look like. Nothing could survive here; even if there weren’t two massive armies crouching at either end, firing at anything that twitched in the wind. Between the many artillery barrages, grenades, bullets and stamping feet, it was no wonder the once beautiful countryside had been completely demolished.

Satsklov began to lower the periscope. Not only are we killing the German people, he thought to himself, but we’re ruining their country as well.

He grimaced, and prepared to walk away, when something in the dirty mirror caught his eye; a glint of light. He looked again, and then he saw them. They had hidden behind the craters and mounds of wreckage when he had looked before; several dark figures could barely be discerned through the gloom. A German raiding party.

Satsklov quietly awoke his commander, and three other soldiers. Two of them silently took up positions at a machine gun turret, whilst Satsklov, the commander and the third soldier crouched just under the parapet.
At the commanders’ signal, they all stood up together. The commander brandished a hefty shotgun; Satsklov took up his trusty rifle; and the third soldier held some grenades and a powerful torch. This, he turned on, and pointed it out towards the Germans.
They cringed backwards, blinded by the sudden intensity of the light. Compared to the deep darkness pressing in around them, it was like setting fire to an oil tanker.
Satsklov was the only one who spoke German there, so he called out to them.
“Don’t move, put down your weapons and your hands on put your head! Otherwise machine guns will rain you on!” They Germans quickly huddled together in the large crater they had taken refuge in, separated from the Russians by several metres of uneven wilderness. Satsklov waited, hoping he had remembered enough of the language to convey the message clearly enough. Freddy had taught him German long ago, on his visits to the orphanage, which he had learnt from his new parents.

Finally, the Germans emerged from their cover. Satsklov eyed them suspiciously, as they marched closer and closer to the Russian trench. They didn’t seem to be discarding their weapons.
“I said drop. Weapons and hands on head.” He warned them, but he was sure they could hear the nerves in his voice. He hoped beyond hope that they weren’t getting lost in translation. The Germans stopped advancing. One of them stepped forward, and started speaking in fluent Russian.
“We hear your requests, and deny your wishes. Our response is as follows.” Before Satsklov could even begin to wonder what they meant, the raiding party responded. All five Germans raised their guns at once – except for one at the back, who appeared more nervous than the others – and fired in unison.

Five bullets pierced the commanders’ torso, arms, neck and stomach at once. He collapsed backwards off the parapet. With barely a seconds delay, the German party reloaded and took aim… a sudden splutter of a machine gun saved Satsklov and the other soldier. Although the gunners had been caught by surprise at the murder of their commanding officer, they had recovered in time to save their lives.

In five seconds, the majority of the raiders lay dead or wounded where they stood. There were only two left, turning to run. The soldier next to Satsklov chucked a grenade towards them, striking the leftmost one in the back. He fell to the ground, just as the explosive detonated. There was only one soldier left; Satsklov took aim with his rifle. The man was to far gone now for the machine guns, only an extremely accurate rifle shot would catch him at this range. No problem, He thought, I could make this shot in my sleep. He looked through the sights, lining them up with the shrinking figure, taking into account wind and kickback…

He hesitated. Something was telling him not to shoot. A small but distinct voice in his head gave him the impression that if he fired, he would regret it. Why? He wondered, what is so special about this soldier that I should spare him? He thought back to the soldiers face, when they had shone the torch on him… no, it had been to dark to see then. What? The muzzle flash! When the machine guns had opened fire, Satsklov had glimpsed the mans face… He strained his memory.
It looked like… no, it couldn’t be. The man disappeared over the parapet of the opposite trench. Could it?

<^> <^> <^> <^> <^>

The next morning, Fredreich sat shivering in the muddy German trench. This was suicide. Just like their little caper last night. If not for him, for the other four soldiers who had accompanied him. They were tougher soldiers than he, nearly twice his age with many times the experience. They had risked everything on a single theory; the death of the Russian commander would confuse them enough to get away.

But now the Generals were ordering a full-scale charge at the Russians. Stealthily sneaking through enemy defences was one thing, but running straight at them, screaming at the top of your lungs? That was genocide. There was no way anyone could talk him into doing this.
The whistle blew, and Fredreich, reluctantly, picked up his pack and loaded his gun.

Within five minutes, they had prepared. Hundreds of soldiers lined up along the walls of the parapet, waiting for the next whistle signal. But first, the commander insisted on giving a few encouraging words.
“Alright men!” He called along the giant ditch, “The Russians have brutally slaughtered our brothers in the place. Months of fighting have amounted to this. Today, WE WILL TAKE THEIR TRENCH!” A faint cheer rang up amongst the soldiers. None of them were really enthusiastic. “As private Hayner can tell you,” Fredreich looked up at the mention of his name. “The Russians are barbaric, insecure, sadistic fiends, and we must drive them from this land! Isn’t that right, Fredreich?” All eyes were on him. They gave us a chance to surrender. He thought, and we tried to kill them. His mouth was to dry to respond out loud. “Ah, I see their cruelty has deeply affected you, my friend.” The commander tried, and failed, to seem sympathetic. “Perhaps you will relate it to us later, until then CHARGE!” The whistle blew, and German troops all along the channel poured out, into no mans land.

It felt like he had entered a blizzard. A blizzard of heat and ash and smoke. There was a slight ping near his shoe. And bullets. He thought.
Fredreich had never been in a charge before. Which was probably why he had been chosen for this charge. Able-bodied men with charging experience were quite hard to come by in the trenches.

He sprinted forwards, with no clue where he was going. The fresh, morning sun had been completely blotted out by smoke, dust and debris caused by artillery fire. All around him, Fredreich caught glimpses of his squad mates getting caught up in painful and brutal circumstances. He never saw any of them again.
He had made it nearly… Past halfway across the battlefield. Here the artillery fire stopped. The large cannons were too inaccurate to be trusted this close to friendly units. Now came the rifles. Two hundred Russians were lined up along the edge of their trench, each cocking and aiming their rifles. Looking around, Fredreich realized that he was one of a mere thirty or so remaining Germans. He looked ahead again, and prepared for the wall of hot lead that was sure to come his way…

Fredreich was spared the firing squad by a rouge artillery shell. One of the cannons, some distance away, had been bumped a little to far down, and it fired its cargo terribly close to its own trench. The Russians on the parapet ducked for cover as they heard it coming. All but one. Fredreich took a split second to look back at the Russian frontline on last time. There, head and torso over the trench was Satsklov. His face a mix of shock, horror and delight, he stood gawping as Fredreich redoubled his efforts to outrun the approaching missile. It was hopeless. Fredreich looked upwards again, to see the monstrous explosive looming out of the smoke that clogged the air.
He stretched his hand out, as if somebody might be able to grab him, to save him. His last notion was the sight of Satsklov in his trench, doing the same reaching motion.
Then, nothing.
The mortar exploded onto the ground, with an ear-shattering boom, scattering debris everywhere.

<^> <^> <^> <^> <^>

Satsklov picked his way through the wrecked stretch of land. All around him, German medics did the same, looking for any man left alive. Of course, since he was Russian, the Germans weren’t all to welcoming of his presence. They carefully avoided him, as if they thought he would whip out a gun and shoot them all. But no, he had had enough killing. He was here for somebody special.

Dressed as a Russian ambulance officer, Satsklov had told the acting commander that he was on a mission to look for one of their soldiers, who had been to far out when the shell had hit. Which was, in a way, completely true. It had only taken him a few minutes to find the fresh crater mark. It had been several more minutes before he found where, he thought, Fredreich had been standing when the explosion had occurred. It was hard to be certain, of course, for the landscape had been completely reshaped again by this recent bought of fighting.

Satsklov wiped the sweat off his brow, willing himself not to panic. With every minute lost, there was an increased likelihood of the Germans halting their search, and resuming the fight. He had to be confident. He would find his friend.

Finally, he did. Fredreich lay still on the pockmarked ground, buried under two other German bodies. Satsklov checked his pulse. Weak but alive. He checked his breathing. Shallow, but recoverably so. Satsklov carefully hoisted the dead bodies away from the living, and examined Fredreichs physical damage. It seemed that when the shell had landed, several metres to the right, these other two soldiers had absorbed most of the impact of the blast. Fredreich, however, had been struck in the legs by two flying bodies, breaking them both, and knocking him unconscious.

There was a gasp. He was coming to. Satsklov gently began to pick him up, then stopped. He carefully began tearing off every German emblem and symbol from Fredreichs clothing. By the time he had finished, it looked as ragged and torn as if it had been in the centre of impact. He splashed Fredreichs face with some water from his field bottle. He woke up.
“Fredreich.”
“Satsklov?” His eyes were still half-closed.
“Do you still speak Russian.” Fredreich frowned.
“I – uh, yes. But-“
“I will take you to the Russian hospital. You will be treated there as one of our soldiers. Then,” Satsklov looked briefly around at the devastated landscape. “We will get out of this cursed army, and go home.” Fredreich nodded. There wasn’t much more he could add.

Satsklov stood up, and carried his friend back to the Russian trench.

Lord of the Dead - an Introduction.

2007-08-25T14:09:56Z

The warrior ripped his sword from his enemy’s chest. It slid out easily, with a squelch. He brought the heavy weapon up over his head, just in time to block a hard blow from another soldier. He parried the stroke, an in a few more swings he had swung his sword through his new opponents neck. Amidst the chaotic clattering and ringing of the battle, the man could hear a light thud as the head hit the ground. With a satisfied grunt, he turned to face another opponent.

Every few seconds, one of his own troops fell, unscathed, and apparently unharmed; seemingly without explanation. But this general knew. From the corner of his eye, he could see the old man, standing atop the hill. He glanced down at the glowing necklace Hyperion had given him. Wear this, he had said, and no harm will befall you in battle. Just as long as you kill the old man. It was a decent deal. The man prided himself on being invincible. Now he was. Even with the old man on the prominence, killing his troops with magic, he would be victorious. As long as he got up there, fast. A loud clang, and a painful smash on his helmet, brought him back to the present. To get to the hill, he would need to fight through these men. In less then a minute, three of them were down. The man fought with vigour, every swing was a devastating blow. His mentors had often told him that a fearless man could be more formidable than an indestructible one, in battle. Now he was both. He lashed at another soldier, swinging his blade so hard; it snapped the iron breastplate in two. Within minutes, the general was standing atop the rocky hill, watching the battle progress beneath him.

His troops were doing well, considering the terrible circumstances. They had come here, all the way from Rome, to chase the Greek armies all the way home. At first, they had far outnumbered the enemy, but within a few hours a second army had overrun them from the side. Hyperion had told him this would happen, and he had set lookouts along the flanks of his army. What Hyperion hadn’t mentioned was just how large and how strong the third army would be. Without the warning, they would all have been slaughtered, but as it was they had barely survived. Hyperion had told him how to beat the ambushers. Just kill the old man on the hill. His army will falter before you. The man was a few metres away, back turned. The general took another step towards him.

If the old man had waited another second, he would be dead. He turned as the mighty blade rose over the warriors’ head.
“Stop.” He said it with such power and authority; the general hesitated. Unfortunately, he was in mid swing when he did so, and he collapsed to the ground, suddenly feeling exhausted. “You cannot kill me.” The old man walked towards him.
“I can,” the general took a deep breath. He had never met anyone that made him nervous, just by talking to them. Until today. “I can, and I will.” He looked up. The old man had a kind of grim smile, on his bony grey face.
“Not if you value the lives of your men.” Whatever smile the old man had was gone. It was replaced with a sad frown, which somehow gave the general an uneasy sense of foreboding. He picked up his sword, with considerable effort. Somehow, being around this man made him feel weak.
“What do you mean?” He resolved to keep talking to stall for time, until he had the strength to launch a fatal blow.
“Everybody in your army is going to die.” Although a cruel comment, the old man seemed to hold some remorse for it. “You should not have come here, Roman.”
“”Not if I kill you first!” The general lunged forward.

With a click of his fingers, the old man turned and looked down the hill, across the battlefield. In the time it took for the general to take three steps to reach the old man, every single Roman in the valley dropped dead. There was no loud explosion, no flash, no blood, nothing. Thousands of lives simply left their bodies, in a split second. The few Greek survivors were left completely baffled, but thankful.

Atop the hill, the general saw what had happened halfway through his swing. Fuelled by a sudden overwhelming sense of fury, his already powerful lunge picked up momentum, and became a mighty charge, such that could fell a giant. The old man turned around in time to catch the blow in the chest. With no form of armour to absorb the shock of the attack, the generals’ sword went straight through his body. The two men went crashing over the edge of an outcrop, and down the hill. They slammed into rocks, tree stumps and dead bodies as the rolled along downwards. The general barely managed to hold on to consciousness, thankful for his helmet and armour, without which he would surely be beaten or impaled to death on the painful obstacles.

They came to a rest together, on a large slab of rock near the bottom of the hill. The general climbed to his feet, surveying himself. He was badly bruised and had many scrapes and grazes all over him, but he was virtually unharmed. Just as Hyperion had said. He looked at his opponent. The old man lay dead beside him. A gaping hole in his chest, which still contained the generals’ sword, revealed the disgusting innards of the man. Strange the general thought, black blood. He relinquished his hefty sword, and wiped it on a small patch of grass nearby. The black blood was sticky to. As he sheathed the weapon, he heard a screech echoing across the valley. An eagle was flying overhead, investigating the battlefield. The general did the same. Thousands of men lay dead. Most of them, sadly, Romans. The mysterious army that the old man had commanded had vanished, all that was left were the few hundred Greeks picking through the corpse-field towards a campsite set up at one end of the valley, where they had stayed the night before the Romans had attacked them. The eagle was flying lower now and closer to the hill. The general eyed it suspiciously; eagles rarely flew low unless hunting, and they never flew near humans. This eagle, apparently, was different.

The general looked again at the slain man on the ground; this time, at his face. He was surprised to see that it carried a sad expression, like the slaughtering of thousands of enemies had truly pained him. The general looked away. Once he had felt sorry for every man he killed. But now he took men’s lives so often, he didn’t really care anymore. The eagle screeched again - this time it was right above his head. Instinctively, he drew his sword and turned around. A man was standing behind him. The general recognized him, from his limited knowledge of Greek religion. For once, he was truly in awe.
“What have you done, mortal?” It wasn’t a question; it was a command. A command from the gods.
Zeus! The general raised his sword into a defensive position. Here in front of him was the supreme god of his enemies, weapon less and apparently shocked. Of course he was going to kill him.
“Don’t try it.” Zeus spoke with the same powerful authority as the old man, but louder. The general drew back his sword and prepared to unleash a lightning-stroke upon the god. At that moment, lightning struck. The general was blasted backwards by a massive shockwave, a deafening roar that consumed his world. He flew backwards, and over the edge of the outcropping. He would have landed safely and lived, had he not already been dead. Instead, the lightning killed him, long before he hit the ground

Zeus watched calmly as the Roman soldier joined his fallen comrades on the ground below. Quickly, he walked over to the old man, still lying on the rock in front of him. He took in the scene for a second, then waved his hand over the mans chest. The yawning hole in it disappeared almost instantly. Useless, Zeus knew, healing a dead body, but he thought his brother deserved some respect. Transforming into an eagle, he picked up the corpse with his talons, and took of into the fading light.

He resented the fact that he would have to bring this news to Olympus. Yet another god had been struck down in battle. Hades, Lord of the Dead.