2014 - Writing Contest Q1

A Writing Quest
Starting Today, and ending at January 31 at noon system time, I will be hosting a writing contest. The topic is broad: Any particular moment in TFC's history, any event, or individual or area, that captures your creativity. Entries can be in the form of a poem, song, or story. (Game Logs are NOT acceptable as entries.) Entries should be a minimum of 250 words.

First Place: Two restrings + 500,000 gold.
Second Place: One restring + 350,000 gold
Third place: 250,000 gold

ALL entries will receive a small token for participation.

Entries may be submitted to the corresponding thread in the Ceremonial Room Forum, via Notes on mud, or via email to Cordir@hotmail.com.

NO MORE than 3 entries per *player* are permitted.

The Old Man and the Hound=

ENTRY #1: by Zephyr - Third Place Finish


for three days the Hound and the old man has done battle neither one being victorious. this is the story of one of the battles.

He nods off in the temple of nydia.still grasping his favorite rum bottle then he hears a familiar voice, hello old man. The old man looks up his eyes adjusting to the light in the temple before him stands a former friend and ally now turned enemy. The old man smiles and says "hello hound come to cut my thread?" Even though the old man couldn't see the hounds face he knew he was smiling.
The old man slowly stands up his armor creaks and pops.he brushes the dirt and blood off it the best he can all the time looking at the hound. The hound is dress in some of the finest armor in all the realm a sight to be seen. By some others its the last thing they want to see standing before them.
The old man takes a sip from his rum bottle and puts it a a bag hoping it won't get broken. He draws his mace and starts casting protection spells. The hound laughs and starts cast spells himself once the final protection spell has been cast, the hound draws his whip the heat from makes the old man squint his eyes. He remembers all to well the damage it can do. The old man ducks out the room quickly he grabs a scroll from his belt pouch and recites it as fast as he can. The room grows silent just as the hounds whip flies threw the air and his the old mans shield with such force knocking him back a few steps.

The old man gathers his composure and strikes back hitting the hound on his arm. The old man can not hear the hounds laughter but he knows he is laughing at him. They circle each other looking for the right time to attack the old man grabs a handful of dirt and throws it into the hounds face but it just glances off his helm. The hound yells out "nice try old man" then brings his whip down across the old mans wrist pain shoots threw his arm causing him to drop his mace. But with out thought the old man draws another mace strapped to the inside of his shield and swings at the hound striking him mulitpal times the hound staggers back he no longer is laughing as he looks at the old man. The old man wipes the sweat out of his eyes and starts to breath heavily he knows he can't beat the hound but he will not make his death easy for him the old man calls for magic to heal himself then he braces himself for the on coming attack but he was not prepared for the hounds fury. The hound lunges forward swinging with such rage and strength his whip hits the old mans shield knocking it to the ground leaving the old man open to receive a forceful kick to the chest knocking the old man on his back. The hound stands over the old man smelling victory he starts to bring his burning whip down upon the old man each strike you smell flesh burning and see the screams of pain.

The old man looks up at the hound his eyes burning with blood and sweat his body trembles with pain darkness starts to creep in his breaths getting harder and harder he tries to scramble away but the hound stay with him every step. His vision starts to fade out he knows his time is near in a last desperate measure he calls on the magic of fear. The hound steps back trying to block the magic but soon it takes hold and the hound runs away
The old man lays back looking into the sky trying to gather his thoughts. "Get up old man he thinks the hound will be back" he staggers to his feet and slowly stumbles to the temple once inside he slides down the wall and rests on the floor. He reaches for his bottle and is surprised and happy its not broken. He pours some rum on his wounds then takes a sip he hangs his head when he hears a a voice "nice fight old man but next time you will not be so lucky" the old man looks up and removes his helm his dirty sweaty hair falls in his face "perhaps you are right old friend"

The Black Dragon

Entry #2: by Drakar - First Place Finish

“…I don’t need much of what isn’t for survival purposes. I’d rather give to those in need.” The Dragon snorted casually, trailing off into the silence of what seemed to be a half-hearted attempt to convince himself. His massive tail pierced through the empty air and wrapped ornately around the circumference of the donation pit. To a human paladin, this type of movement would be akin to a dismissing shrug of the shoulders. However, this was no ordinary human and certainly not one purposed to fight holy wars. This, indeed was Salem the Black Dragon. Council and apprentice of the Arch-Lich of the Black Conclave.
CLUNK! Another unwitting artifact pierced through the depths of the donation pit, finding a home on its floor.
All the while The Arch-Lich glared at His young minion from within the shadows. Finally, at the precipice of disgust, he spoke.
“‘Foolish Salem, your well-intentions will only be rewarded with the heathen’s sword. Do you not think they lie in wait and curse our Lord? And that foul-wretched traitor, Syrinx? That heretic will force our hand…you wait…”
The Dragon snorted again, wispy tendrils of dense smoke defiled the air and slowly dispensed into thinner streams of almost surreal consciousness. Timidly, he unearthed another unneeded relic from amongst his collection and tossed it into the pit.
“Then it will be done, Lich. I will find the traitor and…”
“YOU WILL DO NO SUCH THING, SALEM!” The Lich hissed. His tone decisive, filled with the venom of a basilisk. “We will NOT harm those who have done us no ill-will. But mark my word, the day will come…”
The words echoed throughout the room, heightening the Dragon’s senses to a nearly palpable level before eventually digressing into an insoluble whisper. The Lich was gone.
“THERE HE IS!!” the DeathBringer screamed. His cohorts, a verbose bard and the Paladin of the Passionate following in tow with weapons already drawn.
….without warning, a final blow found its way into the heart of Salem’s scales. Then……darkness. Finally he awoke, disarmed by his sudden rebirth. Surely he found the ire of His Master or perhaps even Lord Nash himself? What had possibly happened?
Syrinx gossips, (in common) “Thanks for your corpse, Dragon…”
A chill fell over the periphery of the Dragon, cooling the fire within to sheets of bitter ice. He hadn’t harmed a soul nor had he ever considered such an act of unjustifiable violence.
His Master’s voice found Salem’s senses again, wicked with vengeance.
“Your only true donation was a shovel, Salem. To allow these heathens to dig amongst their own graves. Now it begins…’

Nicholai's Solitude

ENTRY #3: by Nicholai - Tied for Second Place Finish

Please note: This entry is the thoughts and musings of Nicholai, in his own mind, and is not a written document and 'in character' information for others to be able to read, and/or be aware of.

The wind howls as it sweeps past the western wall of the keep, turned away with stubborn indifference by stone laid ages ago. Once a testament to the strength and hope of the people, now a relic weathered by the tests of time in a land wrought with decay and misery. Do not seek me within those cold towers, you will not find me there. Despite my callous and stoic demeanor I prefer a different kind of solitude high up in the branches of an ancient tree, an oasis of life amidst a world seething with death. It just feels more like home as I remember it, if my memory is to be trusted, having spend many a day in my youth amongst the branches of Loth-Llorien. From here I forget the passing of time as the sun rises and sets, lost in my own thoughts. The townsfolk below carry on, almost trancelike, with their mundane lives from birth unto death. It all seems so pointless yet they persist seemingly unaware of their fate. It is of no matter to me, I cheated death in return for this permanent existence, and in that choice I remain. Feelings like hope, joy, and love seem so distant like the faded words in a child’s diary long forgotten on dusty shelf. Where they ever real? Or just the delusions of youth? As I glance at the initials carved long ago in the wood I am reminded of the love once shared here, something that has kept this place untouched by the blight and is perhaps a source of hope. It is in fact a pleasant tree. A slight smile barely parts my lips as I recall the first mention of it, an amusing and innocent misunderstanding of pleasantry that became truer with the time she spent here. I scan the branches for any sign of her, perhaps a petal I may have missed, a memento of hope, or a grain of sand having voyaged by boot from the far off desert. What was it that caused her to seek me out? Questions at first an annoyance, bringing me out of my conscious slumber like a waking limb, thrusting me into a story not of my own making, but one in which I would play a role. Now it is her absence I find frustrating, though I would not admit it, I miss the to-a-fault politeness, the almost questions, and the way a simple greeting becomes an epic tale in true bard fashion. When she had asked if I craved her blood I told her I did not. That may have partly been a lie, while it did not taste like almonds to me, there was a sweetness, an alluring innocence and purity that in my younger years would have stirred the fiery passion within my still heart and I do not deny that the thought to indulge it had crossed my mind. But there was something else, an inner strength and power, a potential yet untapped for this desert rose. A potential far greater left to grow, nurtured, guided. Perhaps I will end up corrupting her, or she corrupting me. The future holds more secrets than can be wrung out of the present, and time has always been on my side. So for now I remain here in my solitude, lost in my own thoughts and waiting for the page to turn. Perhaps there is no hope, save for the few who seek its light, but even they ultimately succumb to the darkness.

What Will Your Verse Be?

ENTRY #4: by Rhyvn - Tied for Second Place Finish


I am a stranger, an awkward body in strange clothes.
This place speaks a new language,
one I don't understand.

I listen, walk out on hesitant steps.

I can never find the right words,
or do the right thing.

Even my wishes burn and hurt.

I open my mouth to speak - but
the first verse of the story hides.

I find between my fingers, a single letter.

I seek.

Snowflakes melt on my tongue, and I chase them,
an open and innocent child.
Crystalline, they cling to my lashes, I'm singing.

The joy makes the ledge-fall all the darker.
The blade of a secretary and captain sink deep.
Reborn, and older, I start a new journey.

I think I can see the rest shimmering -
hidden deep within the sands of the Eastern desert.
Alas, the verse is a mirage, and reveals a ladder.

It vanishes, deep underground.

There! It swings on gossamer strands,
as fragile, and as strong as a silvered
cobweb draped in morning dew.

But as I reach for it, it fades, like mist.

Like everything else, it eludes me,
ruined when grasped and touched
by fumbling, mortal fingers.

New boots blister. I know not direction.
Yet I still hack through the briars,
carve my own way.

I let my feet and fingers bleed,
I'm an easy follow for my enemies.
I leave my bones in the arms of a banshee.

Unlikely resurrection follows.

My mouth forms around silent words,
an ancient language of healing
and hope.

Still, the line sits, ready to disintegrate.
It lacks perfection,
and fades on my tongue.

I linger, silent and watching,
waiting to find my voice,
and praying -
for forgiveness.

The First Level 50 Bird

ENTRY #5: Written by Tikruul Vr'Keet -

The day was long, it had been a long scrabble over centuries.

Growing, climbing, striving ever higher winds...

...and he was close. Very close.

"Just a few more fights, and I can relax" the ancient Aara thought to himself.

He turned to his next quarry - the Museum's tour guide leader. He'd fought long, and hard,
the poor man never saw him coming. The backstab dealt a hefty blow but he turned to fight
back. For a mild mannered tour guide, he put up a good, if brief, struggle.

He wiped his weapon free of gore. One more thing. He wanted it to be special…he wanted it to be something truly awesome, bespeaking his status as the realm’s strongest bird. Something to cause the realm to capture him don to shade of plumage in stone, crystal, and precious metals, throughout the realm ---!

He sees a shimmer out of the corner of his eye. Reflexively, after centuries of his path as a shaman, he rifts the haunting ghost. It puts up a fierce battle. Fiercer than the spirit had in life. Rifts flare, curse, chill touch, and weakness are all uttered by his opponent. His cloak shatters, the ghost lands a good hit, but with a final, empowered rift, it as done, and the ghost was no more…only…

### Keat has advanced to level 30.

He half laughs, realizing what has just happened, completely on accident. His dreams of grandeur shattered…but even still.

He had made it. The world’s first level 50 Aarakocran.

Inspiration

Entry #6: Written by Belsambar

Asked to write about what inspires us from TFC…historically, room-wise, what have you…and I keep having problems writing anything…and the answer dawns on me.

The entire realm inspires me.

TFC is living inspiration. Some would have you believe it was ‘perfect’ in times past, but they couldn’t be more wrong…this realm is perfect because it is ever changing, always in motion, always further developing. Every day inspiration grows the realm as much as shapes it. People are inspired by battles, to do battle. People are inspired to write descriptions and stories, to role-play, to write whole new portions of the map. We bring our inspirations and aspirations from the outside world with us to shape this world that to many of us, is a home we’ll come back to at some point, though we may wander and be distracted.

…and we’ll be inspired by our return. Maybe it will be to level, perhaps to random, to collect gold, to wage epic combat against dragons and sorcerers. Some of us may be inspired to bring new friends to this realm that inspires us, so that they may enrich our world with what inspires them, to inspire us. The youth shape the old as the old shape the youth, followers inspiring their immortals to become immortal or to engage in acts of war as the immortals shape their followers. Inspiration flows inexorably forward from the new code painstakingly assembled to edge us farther, to the new areas written by those of us who find that will and spark, to those of us that just comprise the story and growing history of the realm.

Cordir: The Story Writing Contest Results

Sat Feb 1 13:23:45 2014
To: All

For the last two weeks, a story writing contest has been going on. Yesterday was
the deadline for entries, and we received six fine submissions. Because one does
reference one of my alts, I removed myself entirely from the voting - instead my
fellow Immortals provided their opinions. The winners are as follows:

First Place : Drakar's tale of the Black Dragon.
Second Place: TIED - Rhyvn's What Will Your Verse Be & Nicholai's "Nicholai's Solitude"
Third Place : Zephyr - The Old Man and the Hound

Drakar has graciously asked that the first place gold prize be split between the
two tied in second place. Therefore, the prizes are as follows:


Drakar: 2 restring credits
Rhyvn & Nicholai (each): 1 restring voucher + 425,000 Gold
Zephyr: 250,000 gold

Please see me for your prizes! All of the entries will be posted to the forum today.
Thank you to all who participated!

Cordir
Patroness of Bards