Random Ramblings and Writings

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A Personal Appeal

I've been thinking quite a lot recently about the future and what I really want from it, the lack of knowledge of where I want to go has been bothering me for sometime as I'm sure some of you know. I started this blog to just get some ideas down and have fun and get myself to write more, all good things, but part of me is starting to think that maybe I can use this for more. Maybe this can really inspire me and improve my writing. I have mentioned, partially in jest, that I want to publish a novel sometime in my life but now I'm starting to think that I should really start pursuing that and thanks to the digital age I have a fantastic editing tool. I have you. So this is a personal appeal from me to you all, dear readers; please comment honestly and fully about my writing style or anything that catches your eye. If you are good at grammar, awesome, I'm not so I would appreciate any help I can get on that front. Some story just didn't draw you in? Tell me honestly and fully how and why and I can get it right the next time. I read a quote recently about editing that I really liked and I want to pass it along to you: Be nice to me, be ruthless to my words. If you could do that whenever you could I would be immensely grateful. Happy Hunting, Ian

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Eastern Storm

Yet another Dalesmen piece but this one stands out a little as there really is no context needed. This is just a small glimpse of an event in the world. Here I tried experimenting a bit more with dialogue, something I am not terribly good at, and combat, something I have never written before so I hope it turned out comprehensible and that you all enjoy it =D

“I said stop right there!”

The caravan slowly ground to a halt in front of the four men blocking the road, the horses nickering nervously as the tension filled the air. Highwaymen and bandits were hardly uncommon in these areas, especially along the Spice Road, and every few shipments or wagons would be raided for supplies. Some of the more prosperous merchants hired guards to watch over their goods should such an occasion occur while the poorer were left unguarded and vulnerable. The lead driver eyed the thugs warily, many bandits chose simply to rob and run rather than leave any corpses behind for fear that the Empire might finally take notice and put a stop to their lifestyle. Yet there remained some who were bloodthirsty enough to take no notice of the consequences and were looking for the kill as much as the prize, the driver simply prayed they would be the former.

                Yet as they drew closer it seemed that they were cut from a different, bloodier cloth. One was short and squat and wore a brown tunic and carried two dao, another was tall and thin with a pointed face and wielding a long spear, and a third was a broad bearded man brandishing a long iron staff. It was the forth that really worried the driver, he was tall and lean and was the only one of the four who was mounted, on his back he carried a shuangshou jian, a long and thick blade that required both hands and great strength to wield. He was donned in the blue green tunic and armor of the soldiers of the Empire though the dirt and blood had faded it considerably.

“What’re ye got in the wagons there, friend?” growled the one with the dao, his face twisting into a mocking grin, “Is it gold? Jewels? Spices? Whatcha got in there so precious you’d come on our road?”

“Bai, you idiot you got eyes in that thick skull o’ yours? They only got four wagons and not a bit o’ steel in sight. They’re more likely shipping shit than gold and more like gold than spice” the spear-holder sneered as he circled around the driver’s right. “But the half-wit does have a good point,” he said thrusting the tip of the spear up near the driver’s throat “what do you have in there?”

“Hah! Qiang, if you get that thing any closer to him I think the poor man’ll shit himself” Called out the bearded one “I say we bash his head in and take a look for ourselves, maybe have ourselves a go at the women too” he said as he gripped his staff and gave it a few lewd squeezes.

“You will do no such thing, Gun.” Said the man on the horse “We need her alive or we get nothing.”

“Sure sure” Gun said shrugging “but it said nothin’ bout her condition, ‘cept breathin’. And it’s been a long while since I had a warm one wrigglin’ under me.”

“I’m with Gun on this one. ’Sides, if she’s not here I don’t see any harm in having a little taste for ourselves” said the one called Bai as he strained to look up into the wagon

“Yeah, Bǎn why don’t you let us have a little fun? I’m getting’ sick o’ all the wanderin’ out here lookin’ for some firecrotch cunt.” Added Qiang, pushing his spear up higher against the terrified driver’s neck and twisting just enough to draw a bead of blood out onto the spearhead. Several moments passed in total silence, not even a breeze blowing, as all eyes turned towards the leader, Bǎn. Finally a feral grin spread across his face and the silence was broken.

“Well it has been an awfully long time since we had a good poke… take all the women you can find, if she’s here you don’t touch her, if not they’re yours”

“And the others?” Gun asked, advancing on one of the rear wagons “What are we gonna do with them?”

“Kill them” Bǎn said, his grin widening.

“I think that’s quite enough” came a voice from the back wagon. A cloaked figure stepped out of the cart and onto the road, walking calmly towards Gun.

“Hah! Lookit this! We got ourselves a hero here! That never happens, most just try to run, maybe this one’ll actually be some fun!” laughed Gun as he hefted his staff up.

“My name is-“ began the cloaked figure, but Gun no longer cared for words and brought his staff down in a crushing strike, aiming to smash the stranger’s head into a pulp with one blow. Darting to the side and towards the foe, the stranger narrowly dodged the killing blow and brought a knee sharply upwards, catching him between the legs. Gun gave out a gasp and fell to the ground, clutching his bruised manhood. The hood had fallen in the dash revealing a tousle of dark red hair. “My name” continued the stranger, undoing the clasp on her cloak “is Nira Jian-Dao. You are assaulting a courier to the throne, release him and lay down arms and no harm will come to you. Resist,” she announced as her cloak fell away, revealing a lithe and toned body armored lightly in boiled leather. “and I will kill you” On her back was a sword of unparalleled quality, a single-edged jian with two characters inscribed on the blade, just before the pommel: 剑and 刀. She drew her weapon with a single fluid motion and stood at ease while awaiting a response. 

    Bǎn burst into uproarious laughter “A bastard?!” he laughed tears coming to his eyes “We were sent to get a bastard? Oh that is too much, what old lǎoye squirted you out?” Nira made no move at all, Gun groaned in the dirt by her feet. Finally regaining his composure, Bǎn looked down at Nira, “Whatever you did, it pissed someone off really bad. Bad enough to offer a mountain of gold to whoever brings you in alive. Qiang” he motioned to the tall one, “go get the cunt.”

    Qiang grinned and brandished his spear, advancing upon the woman, making sure to keep her between himself and Gun who was still trying to find his feet. Nira recognized the flank and was forced on the offensive lest she give them the advantage, stepping forward and slashing at the spearhead trying to knock it away. Qiang, no stranger to combat, kept his distance from the red-haired woman, using his reach to harass her and keep her at bay. Seeing her overstep, he launched a stab at her exposed leg trying to cripple her. But as quickly as the opening was there it was gone again, the spear batted to the side harmlessly, but leaving a new opening as she extended her head too far in deflecting the strike. Qiang whipped the spear around so as to hit her in the skull with the flat of the blade but at the last second she ducked underneath it, going into a crouch. Annoyed, Qiang raised his spear for an overhead smash. Inwardly Nira smiled and threw a handful of dust and rocks right in his face, causing him to sputter and stumble backwards in surprise. Normally she would have run him through right then and there but behind came a roar of fury and she instinctively rolled to the side, just ahead of the iron staff smashing into the ground.

“Damnit, Gun! We need her alive! She’s worth nothing dead!” shouted Bǎn but Gun didn’t hear him, he was focused on making this bitch pay for humiliating him like that. Seeing the fury in his eyes Nira formulated a new plan. When he next charged her she dropped and slashed at the back of his leg, hamstringing him. Gun howled in pain and dropped to a knee, out of the fight for now just as Qiang recovered. Qiang once again used his reach to goad her into a position between himself and the downed Gun. Nira sighed as she parried, it was the same strategy as before and was laughably predictable. Nevertheless she let herself be herded behind the second foe, still clutching his knee, and when Qiang made a particularly bold thrust, she parried to the side, grabbed the shaft of the spear and hooked her heel up and back, dealing a smarting blow to Gun’s tailbone. Screaming in fury but unable to stand Gun brought his staff around in a blind horizontal sweep at head level. Nira ducked easily under the clumsy swing and yanked hard on the spear causing Qiang to stumble forward just a half-step…

    The staff connected with Qiang’s head with a sickening crunch and he crumpled bonelessly to the ground. Seizing the moment of confusion, Nira pivoted sharply and thrust the point of her blade up through Gun’s chest. Crimson bloomed around the sword and Gun looked at her with an expression of utter disbelief before falling bodily to the ground. Freeing her blade from the dead man’s body, the red-tressed woman turned towards the remaining two bandits, both staring with unbelieving eyes at the scene before them. Bai was the first to react, screaming and charging her, dao whirling in his hands. He brought the blades downward in an arc to bull through her defenses. Shifting forward and bracing her sword with both hands she blocked the zealous attack, locking blades and forcing the squat man to a standstill. Nira knew she had to act before Bai could bring his full weight to bear and wear her down; she launched a low kick at his groin, forcing him to shift away and break the lock. Instead of retreating, Nira followed his shift and swung wildly at his face. Bai took the bait and blocked with his left dao and raised his right for the killing blow. Using this brief opening, Nira brought her left elbow up and straight into his chin, splintering his jaw and dazing him, leaving him wide open for a slash across his throat. Blood gushed from the wound and Bai went down with a gurgle, clutching at his ruined throat before expiring.

    Hearing the pounding of hoof beats, Nira saw Bǎn charging her as Bai fell, holding his two handed jian ready cleave her in two if she wasn’t careful. Bǎn was almost upon her and there was no way she would last long against a mounted opponent. Thinking fast, Nira spotted a rock on the ground a few yards away about the size of her fist. It would do. Leaping to the side as the horse raced by, Bǎn’s blade cut wind just inches away from her face, Nira rolled and grabbed the stone in her left hand. Bǎn turned and began another charge but this time Nira knew she wouldn’t dodge, she had one chance and one chance only or she was dead. Time seemed to slow and the world grew quiet, except for the distant sound of trees shaking in the wind. Nira felt calm but focused, all her senses honed to a razors edge. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, a slow and even beat. Thump thump. Thump thump. The horse and rider grew closer but not close enough, not yet. Thump thump. Thump thump. She could see the bloodlust in his eyes, the sheen of sweat on his face, the dried blood on his armor, the sun shining off his blade. Thump thump. Thump thump. Now!

    Nira hurled the rock and dove away, not even looking to see if she hit her target. When she landed safely on the grass, she knew she had. The horse was galloping away still, riderless. Nira collected herself and walked calmly over to the prone form on the ground. The stone had taken him right between the eyes; a shallow cut was oozing blood down his face and onto the ground. Remarkably still conscious, Bǎn tried to sit up but was met with Nira’s blade at his throat.

 “Who are you?” he sputtered, hate filling his eyes.

“I, Nira Jian-Dao, Captain of the Emerald Watchers, Shadow of the Vajra and First of the Kensei, in the name of the Emperor and the Jade Coatl, do sentence you to die.”

The Blade Descended

The Promise Had Been Fulfilled

The Thunder Withdrew

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A Brief Aside

As I look back over these writings there is something that has been bothering me. Having watched d&d and read many of the books over the years their mythos has inspired me in my writing for quite sometime. I always will love the world they've created but I am trying to create my own and give it my own flavor and not just a copy/paste job of their or anyone else's world. Problem is, when I started doing this campaign I didn't have a good sense of the world I was building, I was just a young nubile DM thrust into the fray armed with what little original knowledge I had and forced to make do. So you will see references to the Orc god Grummush or to the Spider Queen Lloth because, at the time, thats what I was using. Having developed my own system by now its kind of hard to try to incorporate those deities into my world as they feel very out of place. But they are there and for now there is nothing I can do about it except ask for some leniency from you, the reader. I hope as I continue this blog that my writing and continuity will continue to improve and these hiccups wont happen quite as often. Happy Hunting ~Ian

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The Pillars of Ishram: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Dreams

                Ash

All he could see was ash. The devastation extended around him as far as he could see in every direction, a grey wasteland devoid of life; even the stones seemed dead. He had no memory of how he had arrived at this place, his steps made deep impressions in the ash but there were no other tracks, no indication of any other being who might have been here. He opened his mouth to call out but the words died in his throat, to break of silence of this ruined place seemed akin to sacrilege, poor respect to the deceased. The air was so still and thick even it felt dead, pressing in on him like the carcass of some great beast. He began to walk; he knew not what else to do so he picked a direction and began moving. He walked for a great long while it seemed, he could not track the time, the sky was a dull grey and neither day nor night seemed to advance. He climbed endless dunes of ash, every footstep sounding like a drumbeat as it hit the earth. He did not sleep; he did not eat or thirst for water he simply walked. At first it seemed aimless but he gradually became aware of a slight pull, a feeling, barely an urge. 

It was slight but it was the only real thing he felt since he arrived and so he obeyed, wandering sometimes this way and sometimes that way but always following a strange sense of urgency. He passed through forests of petrified trees, around lakes as grey and still as the sky and past mountains topped with ash instead of snow. As he walked through a vast plain land, his foot struck something round and sent it spiraling forward, landing in a puff of soot. Curious, the old man walked to the object and knelt to inspect it. The skull stared up at him blankly, so small it must have been a child’s. Its lower jaw missing it lacked the grinning aspect of its other more complete kin; it just stared upward at him. Empty

The Archivist awoke with a start, covered in a cold sweat despite the heat of his chambers. Rather than feel relieved as many do when waking from a nightmare the old man was filled with a sense of dread, tendrils of despair worming around his heart. Giving up on sleep he rose and donned the scarlet robes of his order and began his morning meditations. The Archivist was not a particularly pious man but he said his prayers each morning as part of his daily ritual. Today though he could not remember the words even though he had said them a thousand times before, the dream must have shaken him more than he thought. He reached for the pitcher that sat on his work desk beside his bed; a cool drink of water always cleansed the mind and focused his thoughts. Many of his fellows kept flagons of wine, some even kept tankards of mead close at hand, but he had always felt that any drink that would cloud the mind was abhorrent, especially to those so dedicated to the learned ways. Eager to gain the clarity of day and banish the dream from his mind he poured himself a glass and drunk deep. It was flat and dusty, tasteless and dull in his mouth. 

It tasted grey.

  Without thinking he spat the water out, not wanting to swallow something so dead. What was the matter with him? He was a man of learning, of science and laws and yet a simple dream was holding such sway over him. Unnerved but not entirely sure why he opened the door to his cell and stepped out into the library. As he began to wander amongst the vast volumes of lore and knowledge his mind began to settle and the dream started to fade away as dreams so often do. It was an early hour but there were still people in the library, some of whom were looking for a certain answer to a certain question and some who simply wandered aimlessly through the shelves, stopping only when something caught their eye. It was these wanderers that the Archivist loved most and in the early hours of the day they were the only ones among the shelves it seemed. The old man himself like to wander as such from time to time, it was so peaceful and calming to simply wait for a book to choose him. Who knew what he might find? Sometimes he read books on medicine though he was no doctor and other times books of war though he had no heart for bloodshed. He always left having learned something new, however small, and knowledge was his most beloved possession.

Today though he did not feel like wandering the books, instead his steps took him to the main entrance, a work of art masterfully done to awe those who came to the library. He stood at the center of the great design and marveled again at its simple complexity: gold, silver, jade, and quicksilver all wove a beautifully intricate design on the floor, a knot of such complexity it was hard to look at the thing entirely. It was made to represent the path of knowledge, how one subject merges with another, medical research can be used for war, numbers to measure results of experiments and tinctures from those experiments to cure a disease in the body. Knowledge never had one use and the design was made to remind even the most wise of scholars this simple fact. Cutting straight through the design was a ribbon of red gold, leading up the stairs and into the most holy of wings, where the books of the Holy Order were kept. The message was obvious: faith transcends knowledge. Normally the red line slicing through the knot filled the Archivist with mild disapproval but today he felt something else entirely. Today the same shred of despair he felt earlier again wrapped his chest tight, so tight he could barely breathe. Once again sweating, the Archivist reached up to wipe the perspiration from his brow. When he lowered his hand he noticed a dark smear across his palm.

Ash.

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Hatred

Another Dalesmen piece, and probably my least favorite

The sewers were disgusting, decades of grime and filth covered the walls and ceiling and the floor was submerged in a knee deep pool of refuse. The smell was overpowering, a pungent cloud that permeated the air and seemed to choke the life from any creature inside it, so strong was it that even the rats avoided these areas. The sewers were truly disgusting, but they were safe and secluded. Safety was just what she needed right now, safety and solitude. The figure limped through the filth, slowly but surely heading deeper and deeper into the earth. Goddamned lunatics she thought to herself for not the first time, wincing from the pain and anger of the memory. How could a bunch of madmen ruin me? Rage boiling inside of her she momentarily lost her footing, slipping on the slime that coated the floor and dropping to her knees with a grotesque splash. Sickened, she tried to stand but all her injuries would allow was for her to lean bodily against the wall, barely on her feet at all. This shouldn’t have happened. The words echoed over and over again in her head, each time feeding the burning rancor she held inside. Maniacs, she was sure of it, for who else would simply burn it all down? The guards wouldn’t have; certainly, they were “honor-bound” to protect the city, she thought as she snorted in derision, and any of the guilds would have simply taken what they wanted. But they had taken hardly a thing; they just killed her forces and burned it all to the ground.

Who the hell were they? She didn’t know, she had no idea who they were or what they wanted but she hated them, she hated them with all of her black heart. And she remembered them, remembered what they all looked like, the scaled swordsman, the bowmen, the shadowy one, the devil worshipper, the axman, and the robed one. She spat at the recollection of the last one. Him she hated most of all, he was the one who had started it, he was the one who had burned her precious spiders, he was the one who-

                A fresh wave of pain washed over her and she almost vomited with the intensity of it. Yes she thought, cradling her ruined face, I remember you. A flash of light and a smell of ozone was all she could recall from the encounter. That and the smell of her own ravaged face, stinking like charred meat. She hadn’t actually seen the damage for herself but as her fingers traced the blacked gouge she knew that her visage, once darkly beautiful was now hideous. The bolt had caught just above the chin and had dug and seared its way up her face, barely missing her left eye and burning away a large chunk of her snow white hair. It was a miracle that she could still see, hell it was a miracle that she was still alive at all. For now at least, she thought grimly. She knew she was dying, that’s why she was down here. If she was going to die she wasn’t going to leave a disfigured corpse for the city guards to find or for the street rats to loot her pockets, no, she was drow and such a death would be pathetic. She would die in this foul place, to be devoured by the rats and, Lloth willing, spiders but she would die alone. They’ll never know they won; they’ll spend their days looking over their shoulders for me. Let them fear my memory, let it fester in their hearts and poison their lives. That will be my victory, to make them jump at shadows the rest of their days and when death finally takes them I hope they know their own stupidity for fearing a dead woman. Only a priest could save her now, a priest and quite a bit of luck, but who would help one such as her on the surface? None, the Day Lands were every bit a wretched as she was led to believe. At least she could die underground, away from the blinding light, in the darkness where she belonged.

Her strength gave out and she fell heavily, her body sinking into the filth while her head cracked against the edge of the wall. Yet she felt no pain, only a light floating sensation, so light it made her feel faintly sick but she no longer had the strength to care. The world was only the darkness, the stench and the soft sound of… footsteps? The dark elf willed her eyes open with tremendous effort to regard the figure that approached her, a figure clad in white robes and a turquoise bodice seemingly unmarred by the grime she walked through. The woman knelt and cradled the dark elf’s marred face in her hands and the stink seemed to abate, replaced with the smell of spring lilac. But the most striking thing about her was her hair; long locks of auburn flecked with gold fell about her face artfully and somehow carelessly, giving the woman an earthly radiance. The drow tried to speak but all that would come out was a dry croak.

“Shhhh hush now” the woman said, her voice smooth like wind through the grass, “Ohhh what did they do to you, my poor dark warrior?” she cooed stroking the scar on her face. The pain seemed to lessen and strength, small as it was, seemed to return to the drow. “Be not afraid for though you failed, you are one of my choosing and death takes not what is mine”

“N-n-n-no-t” gasped the dark elf struggling to breathe. A look of slight surprise crossed the woman’s face.

“Not? Not what?” she asked

“N-n-n-o-t afraid” the words came out in a dry gasp. The woman simply smiled knowingly.

“If you are not afraid then what do you feel now? What fills your heart as you lay dying?”

The fires of malice surged within her, aching to be let free, consuming her, their black fire coursing through her veins and raging inside her.

“Hate” Moia said, her scarred face contorting to a snarl as she spat the word. The woman smiled

“Good. I have use of hate”

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Fightin' Dalesmen

So I am a DM for a group of friends, which really is a blast but since I don't use a premade campaign and am making my own it can get rather complex trying to keep everything straight in my head. One way I deal with that is to write various snippets of the NPCs that the Dalesmen come across and show important events in their lives or how the players' actions have affected them. I don't typically write the adventures themselves because I don't want to take away the players' voice in the matter but maybe sometime in the future I will. Anyway, be warned quite a lot of this site/blag is going to be dedicated to fantasy style writings and many might come across as strange without context but hope you enjoy them anyway. And lets be honest, if you're reading this there is a better than average chance you're a Fightin' Dalesman yourself

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Nightmare

My first Dalesman writing!

The nightmare would not end.

Josie lay on the ground writhing in agony, the stump where her arm used to be burned ceaselessly. She had been wounded on the battlefield before but nothing like this, nothing so catastrophic. It had happened so swiftly, she almost could not believe it. But then the pain had come, clawing and tearing at a limb that was no longer there. There was nothing she could do but succumb to the torment and find peace in unconsciousness. But even then the pain had not stopped, not for a moment had she had any sort of reprieve, the pain had followed her into the very depths of her mind, twisting there and taking shape. She could see the blade, in all its wicked glory, feel it cut her, smell the blood pour from her, sense its wrongness. That blade seemed to rend her soul as well as her body, ripping at the very essence of who she was, and memories bled from the wound. She saw images: a young girl defiantly leaving home, a great city, tall and imposing and a sea so vast it spanned as far as could be seen in any direction. She saw faces too, some warm and friendly, others cold and hostile. She almost smiled when she saw his face, and the pain seemed to abate. She wondered if he still thought of her, so many years had passed since they had last spoken, not since…

The image twisted and became that of a frail man, by all accounts a cripple, leaning heavily on a walking stick. But for all his frailty, a force resonated from him, a power. Even awash in her own memories Josie could feel the oppressive might of this unassuming man garbed in white. She tried to will the specter away, not wanting to remember him. She wanted so desperately to forget about it all, to forget what had happened but she couldn’t. To do so would mean forgetting him and she couldn’t, she wouldn’t do that. Her wound throbbed and the Man in White melted in the darkness and was replaced by… Josie blinked, what was she seeing? She saw herself, adorned in her battle armor, her spear at the ready, her shield raised. Josie looked about, reeling. All around her Freedale burned, her home burned. A hissing behind her caught her attention and she saw the Dalesmen fending off a massive three-headed hydra. Just like… The realization horrified her. She whipped back around in time to see him, the orc king, enter the battlefield. He was massive, easily eight feet tall, and clad head to foot in dark iron armor. His stride was even and calm as he entered the field, almost graceful.  Here he was in his element, here he truly was king. It was with that same ease that he drew the blade, that horrible blade, from its scabbard. It would have been a feat for any man to wield that blade with two hands but he held it casually in only one, like it was a part of him. The blade was long and massive and bore many scars, evidence of previous battles. It sat in his grasp so perfectly that it just seemed right, the blade and the warrior, so well did they complement each other that Josie could almost admire it. But then she felt the wrongness again, it radiated off the blade like a stench. She could believe she didn’t sense it on the battlefield, so overwhelming was it. She heard herself shout a challenge, an old orcish curse that she had learned over the years. She blasphemed Grummush and every other god the orcs hold dear, trying to goad the King into a fight, into letting his guard down. Josie already knew what was coming but she still was surprised when, instead of howling and charging, the orc king responded in a flat and even tone.

“Grummush” he growled, his voice deep and rumbling like boulders shifting, “would have my people huddle in caves, fighting over scraps of honor. I have no need of Grummush.”

It had come as a shock to her, an orc not hell bent on pleasing their blood-drenched god? It almost didn’t seem possible, that was why orcs warred, it was their religion!

The orc king kept his pace even and steady, approaching Josie with little concern for the war raging on around him, nor for the massive hissing beast nearby.

“My people will be strong. We will burn your town to ashes and from it we will build another. It will be a symbol of our defiance. No longer will we confine ourselves, we will freely walk this land and it will be our nation. A nation without Grummush, a nation without the constant struggle to survive, a nation where we will thrive.”

Josie saw herself raise her shield and ready her spear, saw herself standing defiant before the goliath, saw the fierce determination in her own eyes but knowing what was to come froze the blood in her veins. Pressing the attack, the Dream-Josie launched forward, her thrust aimed at the eyes of the orc seeking to end the fight quickly. Moving with a speed and grace that belied his size, the orc King sidestepped and brought his blade upwards, slapping her spear away and quickly retaliating with a downward slash that followed the length of her spear. Dream-Josie just barely had enough time to bring her shield to bear to deflect the blow; the sound of the blade hitting metal was more akin to a screech than a clang. Josie watched in abject horror as her dream self fought with the beast, her own skills were impressive, careful and practiced but the king moved like liquid, deftly parrying her strikes and launching his own counter attacks with graceful ease. It was a dance, and Josie was always two steps behind. Then it happened, Dream-Josie overextended and left her right side exposed for the briefest of moments. Josie futilely tried to call out to herself, to warn her but the Dream paid her no mind. Like lightning, the King stepped past her spear and brought his sword down in an arc, crashing into her armor. Pain shot through Josie as she could feel her ribs crack with the impact. She dropped to one-knee gasping for air, every breath sending red hot agony through her, and realized what was happening. She looked up and saw her Dream-self down on one knee as well and watched as that terrible blade descended once more. Dream-Josie brought her shield up to try and deflect the blow but it was no use, the blade crashed into the metal and crumpled it like tissue paper. Josie felt the jolt shatter her arm, felt the steel of her shield contort around her arm, pinning it to her like a deformed gauntlet. She cried out but no sound came from her. She knew what was coming next, she didn’t want to see but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the scene that was playing out before her. Battered and bloodied, her Dream-self attempted a feeble thrust at the King but instead of parrying it, the King simply grabbed the spear and tried to pull it from her grasp. Dream-Josie stubbornly held on, refusing to relinquish the spear and to her credit maintained her grip on her prized weapon. Pausing for the briefest of moments, the King regarded her with something that might have been respect, but then he yanked hard on the weapon, forcing her to extend her arm fully to keep hold of it and then he brought the blade down on her exposed limb. Once again the pain flooded in as Josie felt her arm fall lifelessly to the ground beside her. She screamed and screamed but there was no end, not even when darkness took her. How many times had she watched this unfold? How many times more would she have to? The agony scoured her mind bare and would not let her wake from this nightmare.