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[Cryxis, Prince of Doom]

That sounds like you could make something that fits both prompts and is totally awesome.

I'd actually work on something for that but my laptop is borked again and I don't know how to fix it. ;_;

Who?

[TD1]

That sounds like you could make something that fits both prompts and is totally awesome.

I'd actually work on something for that but my laptop is borked again and I don't know how to fix it. ;_;

Who?

He's talking about the prompts, not an individual story. He's suggesting that the prompts could be merged to make one story that would be good.

And edit, cause I just wrote it. Nothing to do with any prompt.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Have fire or emerald swords,
Green boots or yellow hair,
Have fire in speech or words,
Or strength in arm and stare.

Be braver than the mountain men,
Have boots of supple skin-
Be lighter than a flying wren
Have dice that always win.

Be old and fair, or young and not
Be rich or wasting poor,
Be life and joy, or be life’s rot
Be evil or be pure.

Possess a gleaming star of old,
Be married to an elf,
Have strength in men that fight and hold,
Or be the strength yourself.

Have habergeon of pearly grey,
Have shield of oaken hue,
Wear gauntlets with the shade of day,
Or magic bow that’s true.

Have all of this, or have no thing,
You are just what you dream-
So have a golden elvish ring,
Be common man or king.

[hops]

GAH! I was so preoccupied with thinking of what I could write for the prompts that I forgot to put them up!

Short-ish Fiction Contest: Draigcorp Objectcorp Edition 2014

Rules
Your story must be greater than 250 words.
Your story must be less than 10,000 words. (Translated into average paperback pages, that's ~40 pages.)
Your story must be submitted before the deadline to be considered.
Your story must respond to the prompt (in some way) in order to be considered for grading.
You cannot win twice in a row. You may be ranked first, but you can't get the benefits of 'winning'.
You can submit a story either in the thread or by pm. If you submit by PM, your story will remain anonymous.

You Can
Submit stories from a larger body of work, as long as they fall within the word limits.
Write in any kind of style you feel like. I really don't give a damn and I've read pretty much anything.
Write poetry. Bear in mind that, like Draignean, I'm not exactly a good judge of poetry either unless said prompt is scenery. As before, poetry is exempt from the minimum word count limit.

You Cannot
Write stories of graphic sexuality. Forum rules, blah blah blah. Keep Reginald's quivering member to yourself. Sex is fine, just don't make it the centerpiece of the story.
Write nonfiction. I don't care if it's a spectacular history of central Asia that explains Kazakhstan's multi-vector politics AND somehow fits the prompt. NO. Bad brain!
Submit the exact same story twice, even if it fits two prompts. You must evidence clear and substantial revisions before you can re-enter an old piece.

How this Works

   Every week there will be a prompt submitted. You then have the rest of the week to work on your story. You can submit anytime between the start of the contest and the deadline. The deadline for stories is approximately a week after the contest is started. If you post after that deadline then I won't consider your story for the rankings and you can use it another time.
   At the deadline, or in the week following, I will declare someone a winner and rank the rest of the stories. I will provide critique along with each piece. It may not be substantial, but I guarantee you that I will read it and point out the parts of it that I think work best and the parts that need the most work. I will avoid being mean, but I will also avoid telling you something is awesome when I think it needs work.
   Then, after I declare a winner, that person declares the next two prompts. Then the process repeats. If the winner doesn't post prompts by the end of Wednesday, I will post one that night. The winner can also waive the right to make their own prompt, but I can't imagine anyone doing that. I may also veto the winner's prompt and write a new one of the occasion calls for it. Fanfic, since it you need knowledge to write in it, is a banned category for prompts. (Not, however, for stories.)

Prompts

Prompt: 1. In defeat, victory is obtained.

Or

2. Taking on the role of a protector.

Spoiler: FAQ (click to show/hide)

Q. Will listening to you make me write better?
A. Of course not. That's stupid. I'm only sixteen and English is not even my first language (it *is* the language I am most proficient in, though).

Q. Would participating in this make me write better, then?
A. Yes, at least on the merit that you wrote something. Practice makes perfect.

Q. Are you going to be mean on your critiques?
A. I doubt it. I'm kind of mild-mannered, despite what my swearing suggest.

DEADLINE: 18 NOVEMBER

[mastahcheese]

[spoiler]

His heart hung low, like a flower it opens
Though his soul drifts away, just ashes, burning
As he sits in the wake of his last mistake
His mind high on the time that he found his way
But the path was lies, false promise of comprise
Send straight through the core of his own design
He sighs cause he left himself on the line,
Left his life to resign to watch passing time
Drift away, through the empty skies

And when the clock strikes
the wake of an empty lie

Show's over, no time for order

They'll find their comfort
Hiding from them, just out of sight

Thinks he's winning from the web of lies he's spinning

Shrinking the wind, petals from blossoms
Stood up, and shook off, and left for dead
Finds life at the foot of the thing he dreads
But is this for real, or just in his head
Pressing the blade down until he bled
Crying in rage, 'till his eyes went red
And he went out to see that the beast was fed

And when the knife strikes
The parts of a broken heart

Nothing left, but rust and gore

They'll find their respite
Hiding from them, miles apart

Running from the pain, of the souls of those he's slain

[Arx]

I think the competition due date might need extending. Everyone's writing for NaNo at the moment.

[GiglameshDespair]

Gimmiw a couple of days, I've been busy with assignments and XCOM FEFs.

[TD1]

Yea, All's Busy on the Education Front here, too.

Might do something after I get all this cleared.

[Cryxis, Prince of Doom]

I had a really cool idea for the prompts and then forgot what it was before i could write it down

[GiglameshDespair]

I'm writing a story about a huge snow-barbarian and a tiny baker girl because the almost-pun of 'frosting' as a title amused me. ._.

[GiglameshDespair]

The words really aren't flowing for me at the moment. Grargh.

[Empiricist]

Finally got motivated enough to type something, though I had no idea what to type so the plot didn't really move anywhere. No particular prompt, just a short story for critiquing.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Amidst a sea of vermillion clouds, silhouetted by the dawn sun, a sail-less brig glided out of Aldnarian airspace. Atop the treated pine of the ocher deck, beside a smooth sable mass of plastic shipping crates, an angular set of platemail stood, its very presence partially blurring into its surroundings like an indistinct platinum haze.

Forged from enchanted meta-materials and integrated with a variety of features, ranging from strength-augmenting mechanical enhancements to space-distorting defensive systems, armor had come a long way from its archaic roots. However, as Christopher Ingram was learning to his utter dismay, at no point did it become any more compatible with the operation masking tape rolls. It was precisely because of this critical flaw, that he had activated his obfuscation enchantments in the vain hope that perhaps he would be mistaken for doing something far more impressive than fumbling futilely to a chorus of muttered obscenities.

As for how affixing cheap radio transmitters with a particularly ghastly shade of fluorescent green tape to various arbitrary locations would help protect the ship from bandits, apparently, there were issues with the new construct: its visual sensors were faulty, effectively blinding it. Thus, unless he wanted it to charge off the starboard and ruin the crew's faith in this oh so professional squad of contractors, there was little choice. Thankfully, its echo and soul sensors functioned correctly, ensuring that it could at least detect spells and people respectively. Christopher sighed silently as he pondered the matter, it was a prototype after all, and in spite of this issue, it was by no means a bad deal seeing as the manufacturers agreed to fix any issues and sell it to them at a heavily discounted price.

* * *

By midday, he had triumphed over his accursed foe. Which is to say, he swallowed whatever remained of his pride and asked a crew member to do it for him lest he start pondering whether to pray to Merrinae over it or any other similarly morbid options. Thus, he was free to examine the prototype as it dutifully patrolled the area. The succubus was named after something or other, Christopher wasn't entirely sure what and, by this point in time, was almost certain that it was probably chosen by flicking through a dictionary and picking a random noun. Considering that such units are defined by their ability to (to simplify it by a degree) bludgeon people to death using their own soul, he was also reasonably sure that no term in any dictionary would actually function as any sort of accurate label.

Watching the plated armor march on its accord he noted that, from what he could make out of its blurry ebony form, its left arm bore the distinctly bulbous mass of a pulse spear, likely acting as a counterbalance to the larger right gauntlet that housed its unique weapon. Of course he already knew that, he'd be a fool if he didn't endeavor to know what his own allies wielded. Nevertheless, it was good practice for when he would need to identify a foe's armaments and, more importantly in the present situation, stave off boredom. After all, few bandits would dare attack a ship transporting mercenaries, not to mention that the most valuable cargo onboard also happened to be quite literally, blindly murderous.

And so, Christopher soon found himself wrestling with his nemesis once again, not that the transmitters required any more tape. Rather for all its infuriating qualities, he had no choice but to begrudgingly admit that the impertinent struggle at least helped pass the time slightly faster.

[TD1]

Not to do with a prompt, but I decided to try writing something new, so here's a few sonnet thingies. I liked the Spenserian Sonnet form, but I stuck with Shakespearean Sonnet form.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

So gentle as a summer’s breeze on land,
And soft as lively spring-time squall at sea,
The rings are sickles pale upon your hand
Remotely distant and farthest from me.

Your eyes are gems which shine with forest light,
The everglade woods are still new within,
They twinkle and gleam, are first green then white,
Are free of strife and misery, of sin.

Your hanging locks of home-spun golden hair
Are gleaming beacons in afternoon sun,
No woman, no beauty ever was as fair
As you, lady, the first whose heart I won.

But how long can the fleeting smoke be caught,
And how may I keep that which by all is sought?

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The moon has no power over your mind,
The stars which twinkle are motes in your eyes,
And gently the sun pays homage in kind,
To touch your face and hear your gentle sighs.

The gods have given us such things as stars,
So we may gaze in awe, rapt and happy
To see a sight which no mortal thing mars.
So it is when any see your beauty.

For the waves are violent and strike the rocks,
That guide them, shape them, are broken by them.
So with you, your face framed with hanging locks,
Your eyes are emerald, of forest’s green gem.

Not mine, not ever will you be my song,
That tune for me is flawed; to sing would be wrong

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

O soft hands, o spritely noble dancer! 
For domain you would have my heart’s secrets
And twist them, hiding from me the answer
To questions plaguing often-sought-for genius.
Your earthly lands are haven for fairy spirits,
Your form and beauty catch, ensnare with lust,
The humble man, O silver seductress!
Whose hair is like lightning, like shimmering dust
That captured me, like a lowly pig trussed
And ready for the slaughter, O lady!
Your eyes belie your heart, so often cussed!
And show to me through the veil of beauty
You; yourself, that joyous thing, and no other
O spritely dancer, who none can smother!

[sjm9876]

Completely unprompt related, but I was struck by the urge to write something that wasn't work, so decided to write up an intro for a forum game that may be run after xmas. No massive spoilers, more a setting thing, just for the concern of anyone who might be interested

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

“Through Fire and Water, Earth and Sky; some will Live, some will Die. Through Day and Night, War and Peace; some make Order, some remain Free.”
Extract from ‘The Hands of Fate’, a poem recovered from the Time Before

   “Once, there were gods. Or so they say. Maybe it’s all a fairy tale, to remind us that we control our own fate, here in the clans. The Humans to our South do not have such privilege - they live and die on their crusade of ‘enlightenment’, never thinking of the alternatives. The Angelos to the East are tied by their belief that once they were the favourites of the gods, and that they have a duty to protect us - imagine that. To the West the Dwarves hide beneath their mountains, as trapped by their rules and traditions as they are by the sun that sets behind them. And to the North, the Deep Ones - as much as they haunt our tales, and make us fear the oceans, they are as much slaves to their nature as any other being.”
   The orc warchief sat on the crest of the ridge as the sun began to rise above the horizon. Behind him, the tents and fires of his clan. Before him, the massed horses of all but the deep ones. On his knee sat a small child, his newest daughter-of-the-line. As he sent her away, to the relative safety of the camp, he wondered how the other races could stand their mortality. No orc had ever died of old age, and their type was such that no injury would linger. He himself was only two hundred years old, by the measures of those who counted. The other chiefs considered him a child - some even claimed to have seen the fall of the gods. And yet it was he who had been chosen to lead the clan here, at the Effigy of the Stranger.

   From the opposite side of the field the Human commander watched. His army broke camp before him, spears and helms shining, soldiers unheeding of the relative cold. For those who were born in the deserts, nowhere was too harsh. And yet even Men did not bring their children to war. The orcs may be immortal, but they were not invincible, and in battle anyone could fall. Even their chief, whose size alone proved that the Greenskins never stopped growing. It was a shame that such a creature would not join them, for many a civilised army would have fared far better with such raw power harnessed.
   But he would not abandon his ways, and as such, he could not be permitted the power of the relics - whether they were fragments of the gods or otherwise. Personally, the commander didn’t care - their power alone allowed the light to spread further, and that was justification enough. Maybe the fate of the light would be decided here, at the Effigy of the Stranger.

   In the shadow of the hill to the West, a legion of unmoving steel figures stood. At their head, the Elder of the Dwarven cavern, his armour finely decorated with jewels and gems as befitted his rank. He glistened red in the rising sun, no flesh visible beneath the suit that served as protection from both weapons and the light. There were some Dwarves who could stand the sun, but they were rare or mad, or possibly both. Most likely mad, given that they were known to defect. All Dwarven soldiers swore an oath upon entering service, and a Dwarf’s oath was binding.
   The Elder had no real grudge against the other races. But they were so impulsive - so changeable. An ally one day could become an enemy the next, and the Emperor could not afford to trust them with the power of more relics - let alone ones rumored to be so powerful. Even the Orcs, usually so indifferent to anything outside of their own needs, had gathered here. He was certain that whatever was within the Effigy of the Stranger would change everything.

   Overhead, a lone figure glided on silvery wings, a belt at his waist holding his relics of healing. He was one of the rare ones they called the Touched, who could harness the power of the gods through the relics, and as such the duty of protection fell onto him. His brothers would arrive shortly, and they would watch as those below tore each other apart, squabbling like vultures over the remains of the gods. Then, when all was over, they would save those they could. Perhaps some would even come to see that there was more to the world than their wars. Perhaps.
A single tear rolled down the cheek of the lone Angelos. He longed to join the ranks of the Devout, to not use the gods power as his own, but without him, so many would die. He only hoped some of them would join the Devout themselves, and be driven to try and change the world for the better. Maybe he would give them the relic that allowed him flight, and see if they could resist its use. But who below would resist a relics power - after all, that was why they were gathered here, at the Effigy of the Stranger.

   In the watery deep, a creature peered into a relic, the view it showed not too far away. It was thin and spindly, and bore hundreds of scars, as if it had lived as long as the oldest of Men. And it had. Its scales were faded almost to grey, and its time was soon. So long had it lived that it had even tired of the wars its children craved so much. It thought of them, on the way to the battlefield, and hoped they would remember that they did not heal as easily as the other races - no power could save them from a deadly wound.
   But if the relics were as was whispered, then it would be worth it. With such power the Eldrin would no longer have to fear the races of the surface. Perhaps they would even learn their real name. Perhaps the Eldrin would even find a way to shake free of their natures. The creature smiled to herself sadly, revealing yellowed grey teeth. Much was at stake at the Effigy of the Stranger.

-----

   The warchief sat on the ground, head in his hands. An Angelos pressed a hand to the Orcs’ arm, and his wounds closed, but he didn’t raise his eyes. The Angelos moved to his neighbour, a fatally wounded Deep One, and pressed a knife to its throat. Its sudden silence cause the chief to look up at last. Such was the Deep Ones curse, to heal only by time - and it was a curse well deserved. They had come up behind them during the battle, and when they had returned, he had found the camp as ashes, decimated by the foul bastards. He had sent the soldiers off to search for survivors. Of any race, save the Deep Ones.
   He shuddered then, though the only breeze was a stray memory. His axe cleaving through the Dwarf’s armour as if it was nothing. And in the end, it had been. He had slain the chief of the Men so that they broke, and yet he had not won. No one had. The Effigy was empty. Why had none of them paused to consider the possibility that the rumours were just that. All that death, for nothing. And now he was alone, his clan slaughtered and his line extinguished. No relic could heal that. He looked at his axe, stained red, before he saw a greatsword a short way off on the field. He lurched to his feet with a final, decisive thought. An Orc could only die of injury.

In addition to pure literary criticism, I'd also appreciate it if people could tell me how clearly it gets setting info across, as I know I can be quite opaque at times.

[Cryxis, Prince of Doom]

Completely unprompt related, but I was struck by the urge to write something that wasn't work, so decided to write up an intro for a forum game that may be run after xmas. No massive spoilers, more a setting thing, just for the concern of anyone who might be interested

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

“Through Fire and Water, Earth and Sky; some will Live, some will Die. Through Day and Night, War and Peace; some make Order, some remain Free.”
Extract from ‘The Hands of Fate’, a poem recovered from the Time Before

   “Once, there were gods. Or so they say. Maybe it’s all a fairy tale, to remind us that we control our own fate, here in the clans. The Humans to our South do not have such privilege - they live and die on their crusade of ‘enlightenment’, never thinking of the alternatives. The Angelos to the East are tied by their belief that once they were the favourites of the gods, and that they have a duty to protect us - imagine that. To the West the Dwarves hide beneath their mountains, as trapped by their rules and traditions as they are by the sun that sets behind them. And to the North, the Deep Ones - as much as they haunt our tales, and make us fear the oceans, they are as much slaves to their nature as any other being.”
   The orc warchief sat on the crest of the ridge as the sun began to rise above the horizon. Behind him, the tents and fires of his clan. Before him, the massed horses of all but the deep ones. On his knee sat a small child, his newest daughter-of-the-line. As he sent her away, to the relative safety of the camp, he wondered how the other races could stand their mortality. No orc had ever died of old age, and their type was such that no injury would linger. He himself was only two hundred years old, by the measures of those who counted. The other chiefs considered him a child - some even claimed to have seen the fall of the gods. And yet it was he who had been chosen to lead the clan here, at the Effigy of the Stranger.

   From the opposite side of the field the Human commander watched. His army broke camp before him, spears and helms shining, soldiers unheeding of the relative cold. For those who were born in the deserts, nowhere was too harsh. And yet even Men did not bring their children to war. The orcs may be immortal, but they were not invincible, and in battle anyone could fall. Even their chief, whose size alone proved that the Greenskins never stopped growing. It was a shame that such a creature would not join them, for many a civilised army would have fared far better with such raw power harnessed.
   But he would not abandon his ways, and as such, he could not be permitted the power of the relics - whether they were fragments of the gods or otherwise. Personally, the commander didn’t care - their power alone allowed the light to spread further, and that was justification enough. Maybe the fate of the light would be decided here, at the Effigy of the Stranger.

   In the shadow of the hill to the West, a legion of unmoving steel figures stood. At their head, the Elder of the Dwarven cavern, his armour finely decorated with jewels and gems as befitted his rank. He glistened red in the rising sun, no flesh visible beneath the suit that served as protection from both weapons and the light. There were some Dwarves who could stand the sun, but they were rare or mad, or possibly both. Most likely mad, given that they were known to defect. All Dwarven soldiers swore an oath upon entering service, and a Dwarf’s oath was binding.
   The Elder had no real grudge against the other races. But they were so impulsive - so changeable. An ally one day could become an enemy the next, and the Emperor could not afford to trust them with the power of more relics - let alone ones rumored to be so powerful. Even the Orcs, usually so indifferent to anything outside of their own needs, had gathered here. He was certain that whatever was within the Effigy of the Stranger would change everything.

   Overhead, a lone figure glided on silvery wings, a belt at his waist holding his relics of healing. He was one of the rare ones they called the Touched, who could harness the power of the gods through the relics, and as such the duty of protection fell onto him. His brothers would arrive shortly, and they would watch as those below tore each other apart, squabbling like vultures over the remains of the gods. Then, when all was over, they would save those they could. Perhaps some would even come to see that there was more to the world than their wars. Perhaps.
A single tear rolled down the cheek of the lone Angelos. He longed to join the ranks of the Devout, to not use the gods power as his own, but without him, so many would die. He only hoped some of them would join the Devout themselves, and be driven to try and change the world for the better. Maybe he would give them the relic that allowed him flight, and see if they could resist its use. But who below would resist a relics power - after all, that was why they were gathered here, at the Effigy of the Stranger.

   In the watery deep, a creature peered into a relic, the view it showed not too far away. It was thin and spindly, and bore hundreds of scars, as if it had lived as long as the oldest of Men. And it had. Its scales were faded almost to grey, and its time was soon. So long had it lived that it had even tired of the wars its children craved so much. It thought of them, on the way to the battlefield, and hoped they would remember that they did not heal as easily as the other races - no power could save them from a deadly wound.
   But if the relics were as was whispered, then it would be worth it. With such power the Eldrin would no longer have to fear the races of the surface. Perhaps they would even learn their real name. Perhaps the Eldrin would even find a way to shake free of their natures. The creature smiled to herself sadly, revealing yellowed grey teeth. Much was at stake at the Effigy of the Stranger.

-----

   The warchief sat on the ground, head in his hands. An Angelos pressed a hand to the Orcs’ arm, and his wounds closed, but he didn’t raise his eyes. The Angelos moved to his neighbour, a fatally wounded Deep One, and pressed a knife to its throat. Its sudden silence cause the chief to look up at last. Such was the Deep Ones curse, to heal only by time - and it was a curse well deserved. They had come up behind them during the battle, and when they had returned, he had found the camp as ashes, decimated by the foul bastards. He had sent the soldiers off to search for survivors. Of any race, save the Deep Ones.
   He shuddered then, though the only breeze was a stray memory. His axe cleaving through the Dwarf’s armour as if it was nothing. And in the end, it had been. He had slain the chief of the Men so that they broke, and yet he had not won. No one had. The Effigy was empty. Why had none of them paused to consider the possibility that the rumours were just that. All that death, for nothing. And now he was alone, his clan slaughtered and his line extinguished. No relic could heal that. He looked at his axe, stained red, before he saw a greatsword a short way off on the field. He lurched to his feet with a final, decisive thought. An Orc could only die of injury.

In addition to pure literary criticism, I'd also appreciate it if people could tell me how clearly it gets setting info across, as I know I can be quite opaque at times.

I suck at writing so I can give little advice
I'll say this, I loved reading that story. The different views and I thought it was well written. I could even immagine most of it in my head as I read.
Bravo, well done

[Arx]

"to not use" is a split infinitive, and it was a little unclear to me that the perspective was shifting on my first read through.

Otherwise, it's good.