Dying

Marc rode towards his hometown of Arneria, where his parents were still living, and where Marc had unwittingly sent two armies to beat against each other. When his king had asked him about his home, he had told him what a small town it had been, and how few people were there, and how most of those people had been older couples who were living off the gifts of their children and grandchildren. His own parents had been the youngest pair in town, having been given a great gift of wealth for rescuing the son of a nobleman, and using that wealth to somewhat retire.

It had been a few days since Marc had realized his mistake, so he knew that he had set out in the rear. But he had ridden as hard as his horse could handle, and as hard as he himself could handle, in order to catch up. He feared that he would arrive late, but he hoped to be able to warn at least his own family of the impending danger, if not the entire town. He knew all of the members, and though he had elected to move away from them in order to experience more of the world and its royalties and dangers, he still loved all of them, and did not wish to see any harm befall them. It had been an honest mistake that had sent war to them. He could not have known.

As he approached the town, there was an eerie silence in the air. It had always been a quiet town, but this level of quiet was... unsettling. The road was well worn, though that had always been true. But the dirt was freshly turned, as though a great many people had been through recently. It was not a good sign. But the trees were still standing, and there was no sign of fire. Perhaps, if they had come through, they had not caused as much damage as Marc had feared.

But that was when he noticed the man on the side of the road, sitting beneath a tree and hidden partially by its shade. Marc dismounted and approached, holding onto the reigns of his horse, not quite sure what to expect. But as he got a better look at the man, he felt his stomach sink.

The man was bleeding heavily, his blood soaking into the dirt beneath him, from a hole in his stomach that he was holding with his hands. His skin was pale, and he had clearly been laying beneath the tree for some time. His eyes were empty, the life having drained from them some time before. A bloody sword was impaled into the ground beside him. It was difficult to say whether or not it was the blade which had killed him.

Marc felt as though he might vomit, but he moved forward and pulled the sword from the ground, shaking the mud caked onto it loose, trying not to think of what had wetted the dirt to make it stick. Under his breath, he made a quick prayer, and swung the blade, severing the man's head from his body. It was not a clean cut, but the head fell loose, and there was not enough blood left in the body to spurt forth.

The act made Marc feel dirty. But this would fall more in line with the rite of honor in death than a slow, and painful bleeding out. And if there were any fighters left on the field, a sword may come in handy. So he took it with him as he mounted up, and made the last push to Arneria.

Puzzles

It should come as no surprise that I am a huge fan of video games. Being able to insert myself into a world and interact with it like that is something that I love being able to do, and is part of why I got into writing in the first place. So a lot of things that I think about when it comes to writing come in some form from a video game that I have played, or watched someone else play. However, there are a lot of things in video games that don't translate well to other forms of media, and especially books. One of those things is puzzles.

Being trapped inside a room, and needing to find the hidden away clues to complete a task that will free you is a very interesting and sometimes stressful event that occurs frequently in video games. And it's not enough to simply find the clues - you must figure out how those clues go together, or how they interact with other things in the room, and slowly putting together the pieces until you have a way forward that makes it entertaining. In fact, in flash games online, such a concept is a widely popular genre of game all to itself, called "escape" games. While I've never been very good at them, I love playing them, just to see what kind of twisted logic you have to use to figure out wha to do and in what order.

Something like that doesn't translate too well to non-interactive, written form. You can somewhat do it with choose your own adventure novels, but even then, you are limited to the choices being made being fairly linear, where as a true puzzle can and should be attacked from multiple angles before the correct path is discovered. And you can have a character stuck in a puzzle - with The Da Vinci Code being a fairly popular example of that occurring - where the reader is just as lost as the main character is up until the pivotal moment. But that still means that the puzzle will be solved in a singular manner, the way the main character would.

This makes it especially difficult to have extra pieces of the puzzle, which is an equally frustrating and ingenious element of escape games. Pieces of the puzzle that are intended to make you think in one way about what to do, when the truth is something else entirely. And sometimes those pieces are used for another puzzle that follows immediately afterwards, so if you didn't find it the first time, you would have to move back and search a room you thought you had already completed in order to move forward with the new situation at hand. But you can't turn back the pages to find something you didn't find the first time.

I'm not sure that I would even be smart enough to attempt to put together something like this. It requires a very esoteric way of thinking, much like creating a choose your own adventure novel would. But I think it would be cool if someone found a way to pull this off. And maybe that would only be possible in a non-physical book, which may limit the potential audience. But that doesn't mean it's not worth thinking about.

Sickness

Part way through the second grade, my mother became very ill, and one day while we were sitting at home, I remember our front door very abruptly opening to a group of men rushing into our home, lifting her onto a stretcher to take her away to the hospital, while my father dragged a very confused little me away from the scene. My parents were already living apart at the time, so while I wasn't uncomfortable being taken to my dad's house, I was uncomfortable with how things had just suddenly happened, and how no one seemed to want to explain to me what was happening. I cried for a long time.

In following days, weeks, and months, it became commonplace for us to visit my mom in the hospital. I was never entirely clear on what she was sick with, partially because it seemed like every time we went to see her, she had a new problem. That would be a recurring theme for many years to come. I also remember on one visit asking my dad if mom was pregnant, because in her stays at the hospital, she had ended up gaining a lot of weight. I was not the brightest child.

Eventually, we sold the house in which my mother had been taken from, and rented an apartment for her, due to the uncertainty of how much time she would spend in it, thanks to all of the hospital visits. During that time I was able to connect in my brain that my mother was sick a lot better than I had in the past. I hadn't really wanted to accept that fact, but it was hard not to when I was able to spend more time with her, and see how much slower she moved, and how much less she did, and how much more she slept.

But not even the apartment would last. My grandmother decided that she could take care of mom better than the hospital could, which was a decision that I have never understood. But she took my mom away to live with her in Idaho, which really split my life up even further, and in time would drive me to choosing a side of my family in my head.

That's the position I've been in for most of my life. My mother living in a different state, being taken care of by my grandmother instead of a hospital, and having a heavy preference for my dad. My parents divorced during this time, which was an event that was so uneventful I hardly even noticed it happened. Her condition has only continued to degrade over the years, and my grandmother regularly attempts to guilt me into visiting them more because the doctors will say something new about my mom's condition. Eventually, I became numb to that as well.

Recently, my mom has been hospitalized once again, with her condition dropping heavily. Honestly, this happens once or twice a year, and they always tell me that she could die during her time in the hospital, and the frequency and regularity of it has made me numb to even that. At this point, I don't know how I would feel if she did pass away. There's a part of me that thinks that, like my grandfather before her, that might be for the better, given all of the pain that she is constantly in. I feel bad for saying that, but honestly, she's barely had any drive to stay alive for a very long time. The only drive she has had has been me, but she's so connected to the me that I was when she was taken away to the hospital that first day, that she hasn't been able to recognize that I have grown up and changed over the past fifteen or so years. It's painful and frustrating to be continuously treated as though I am only five years old. And I think the further that she drops, the less she will be connected to reality of what is happening. And as frustrated as I get with her sometimes, that's not really what I want for her.

Situational

Maureen pulled his cloak around his shoulders as he stepped out into the night, the sun having only set an hour earlier. Torches had been lit along the city streets, but there was not a soul to be seen walking them. There was a legend amongst the town people, never to leave their homes on the night of a blood moon, and this was the first one to arrive in forty years. There were four to be expected within the year, and the people were well prepared when they came around to set the lights in the streets, leave a lantern by their door, and lock themselves inside to huddle together and cower in fear until the night was ended.

And then there were those like Maureen, who had decided that when others were cowering in fear, they would stalk the streets, to protect those whose doors were locked from anything that might break those doors down. For the rise of the blood moon was the rising of monsters. The dead coming back to life, stealing the bodies of mutants and freaks to prowl on any foolish enough not to listen to the legends. To feast upon them, in hopes that their life forces would be enough to keep them alive when the blood moon sank back down below the horizon. Not that it ever was enough. But in their hazed and shadowy minds, that was their own sliver of shining hope.

Many of the protectors, the so called Hunters, stalked the streets with stiff blades and heavy hammers that they had taken from their covenants - orders of Hunters, dedicated to their protection through certain means, from the elimination of the accursed, to the spreading of good will. Accordingly, their weapons were meant to tear through flesh, crush bones, or burn before pain could be felt. Yet there were others, too, who preferred to stay free of the covenants, and hunt either for the pleasure of hunting, or because they had someone in mind they wished to protect.

Maureen was one such hunter. His weapon had been passed down through his family, and he wielded it in order to protect his wife and child, much as his father before him. It was a slick and sharpened epee, with a golden hilt and a strange handle extending forward off of the guard. Maureen handled it skillfully, able to both thrust and slash with power and accuracy to cut vitals and eliminate his foes with precision and speed.

As he walked the streets, he saw another Hunter turn a corner, blood on his coat and a crazed look in his eyes. The man smiled when he saw Maureen. It was entirely possible for a Hunter to lose his mind, seeing those whom he once knew as dead alive once more, and this was surely one such man. Maureen had no hesitation. The man moved to approach him, and Maureen was flipping the handle extending from his blade, popping the handle on it upwards to reveal a pistol extending off of the base of the blade. With another flick, a shot rang out, smoke rose from his blade, and the Hunter fell dead.

He pushed the pistol back into place, hidden away inside his blade. Such bullets would do little good against the raised. But a fellow man turned monster? That, they would end quickly.

Setting out

The coldness in his skin had been increasing over the past few weeks, and Hunter felt as though it were trying to tell him something. That is was time to move on, perhaps.

He had been living in Havenwood for a year, and grown to love the people who lived there. They were a simpler folk - he had lived much of his previous life in a castle, among royalty and scholars, and to truly live with farmers and ranchers had been a humbling and informative time. He had learned to make use of his strength in ways that benefitted life, rather than protecting and destroying it, as once he had. But in his time, he had not been able to regain his lost memories, and he had been isolated from the rest of the world. He knew that the monstrous black arm he possessed would bring him trouble if he ventured the world, but he felt that that was what he would need to do in order to regain what he had lost.

The townsfolk were very supportive of his decision. They had always been good to him, helping him to adjust and to find work, but they were also all familiar with the legends of Hunter and Sage in the Monster War. They had all seen him emerge from the stone statue that had been a center of their town for so long. It made it hard to argue that he was not the Hunter of legend. They had no belief that he would stay with them forever. Many were surprised that he had stayed with them for as long as he had, but he had come to love them, and in this world of uncertainty and fog, it was good to be around people that he trusted. But he had known that eventually he would have to move on.

The mayor had been kind enough to give him a room to stay in. As he was packing his bag with a few supplies and possessions, the mayor approached and knocked on his door. Hunter looked up at him with a smile. "You know you are welcome."

The mayor smiled back. "Yes, I know. But I will still show you some decency and knock." He stepped into the room, his hands behind his back, and Hunter could see there was something he was holding. The mayor knew he couldn't hide anything from Hunter. He was well acquainted with Hunter's astuteness and observational skills. He pulled the item forth, offering a hand-and-a-half bastard sword, with a weathered but tough looking leather grip, and a well worn sheath to be worn at the hip. Gingerly, Hunter reached out and took the blade, pulling it free from the sheath and examining it. It had been a long time since he had wielded a sword. He wasn't even entirely sure he remembered all the movements. "You might find it useful, out alone in the world as you will be. We both know that arm of yours will bring you unwanted attention. A blade may help reduce it."

Hunter stood up fully and hugged the old man, as though he were a long lost father. "Thank you," he said quietly. "This means more to me than you realize. More than I thought it would."

The mayor chuckled lightly and hugged Hunter in return. "I have no doubt, my boy. Now, I think it's about time you get moving. You can only dawdle around in a town like this for so long."

Opinions

I've always been a very opinionated person, and my opinions have never been necessarily popular, and many times my opinions have gotten me in trouble with people. I don't like a lot of popular things, and there are some things people take as a granted that I am thoroughly against. One of those I have talked about several times before, being my extreme dislike for Game of Thrones - I love the middle ages, but I hate sad and dark stories, and anyone who tries to argue that that is not what Game of Thrones is has clearly never used their brain. Nothing against the people who do like that show, because I know that the writing is terrific and very few people can argue against seeing naked bodies on tv, but it is very much so not for me.

This is true in a lot of things, and I am very strong in my opinions. So strong that the people around take my opinions as though I intend them to be rules that they are required to follow when they are around me. Which is not at all what I intend for my opinions to be. My opinions are merely that: opinions. I may not understand other people's opinions, and I may be against what other people do, but I would never try to stop them from doing the things that they want to do unless I felt that there was some kind of risk to doing so. Things like hard drugs or extremely unhealthy eating habits. And while there are a lot of things that I am strongly against, and I may scoff at people who are doing things that I disagree with, but I would never tell them not to do it just because I don't like it, regardless of how close they are to me.

I'm not a very controlling person. I have my preferences, and I won't hesitate to voice them, but I would rather be someone who follows than a person who leads. I am very good at doing what people tell me to, and that's something about me that I'm ok with. I don't need to be the one making the rules - I am satisfied to merely follow them. Despite what several of the people around me think, even if I tell them otherwise a dozen times. So why exactly they think that I believe that my opinions are the final line, never to be crossed or questioned, is beyond me.

But even beyond these things, I have found that in the last few months in particular, my opinions have begun to change. Many things, particularly when it comes to physical appearance, I have become more accepting of over this time. Things like piercings, makeup, tattoos, and hair dye. I have never been fans of these, and in the past have been vehemently opposed to them. I can't say that I'm really into any of them now, but I'm not immediately angered by them anymore. I don't think they're necessary or even necessarily beneficial. But if they are something that someone enjoys, and they don't go overboard with them, well... I can look past that.

Assuming they have a good personality, of course. If they're assholes to begin with, all the more reason to be angry.

Tattoo

Michael grimaced under the needle, but did everything in his power not to squirm or pull away. He had never been very good at taking pain - even small pins and needles had made him jolt and jump. But he was doing his best to train himself out of that habit. To be stronger and more withstanding. But perhaps getting a tattoo had not been the best way of testing that for himself. This was incredibly difficult for him, and it was going to last for a long time. They had estimated the length for his tattoo at three hours. For some reason, he had agreed to that.

It didn't help that he was getting the tattoo on his back, directly between the shoulder blades. Every time the needle moved over his spine, it sent a shock through his entire system, and he clenched his teeth hard together, trying to stifle back the pain. They had advised him against getting a tattoo like this, but he had insisted on it regardless. He was now wishing that he had followed their advice. But it was too late. He had to sit through and come out the other side. He just hoped it would feel as empowering as he hoped it would.

The procedure ended up taking even longer than they had estimated. Partially because of the involuntary shivers that ran through Michael's body as they gave him the tattoo. That added on an extra hour thanks to pausing and adjusting small mistakes. But at the end of it, Michael had a tattoo on his back, and it actually looked good. They had a couple of mirrors prepared for him so he could see his back, and he carefully moved over to see what they had made.

He had requested a tattoo of his family crest, as a symbol of the people he had lost and the family he hoped one day to be able to rebuild. The desire to become stronger had begun after his father had died, which was the last in a series of family deaths. Everyone above him had suffered and died, and he had been left on his own to take care of his younger brother. They were the only two left. Michael needed to be stronger for his brother, but he had spent a very long time crying and curling himself up into a ball, trying to pretend he wasn't alive.

But he knew that that wasn't what his parents would have wanted from him. It wasn't what his brother needed. It would hurt. But he would live for his family.

Red knights

Marcus was perched amongst the trees, his red cloak dropping just below the branch he stood on, the black leather underneath wrapped tight around his body. It was late at night, and he knew that despite the contrasting colors, he would not be spied from his location. On the other hand, his night vision was well trained, and he could see the advancing army in the distance, even though they had doused their torches and were marching blind. They were attempting to infiltrate Marcus's home under the dark of night, so as to catch the sleeping kingdom off guard.

But Marcus and his team had known of this plan for some time, and were well prepared to stop them. A dozen knights in red cloaks and black leather, hiding amongst the trees, waiting for the invaders to get into their range. Each trained by experts in their individual styles of combat, and worth ten men on their owns. Between them and the mask of night, the invaders wouldn't stand a chance.

They waited until they completely surrounded the army, spread out amongst the trees, before silently dropping to the ground around them. Only Marcus was visible, dropping directly in front of the leading forces of the army. Even in the dead of night and with their lesser vision, it would have been impossible to miss him. They came to a halt, calling out to those behind them to do the same, and their knuckles tightened around their swords and shields. But Marcus said nothing, only staring them down, waiting for the inevitable approach of one of their commanders.

It took just over a minute for a commander to push his way to the front of the army. "Who the hell are you?" his voice boomed in the night. Marcus could see the man trying to see him more clearly in the darkness, and elected to aid him. He held out a hand, fist wrapped around an empty handle, knowing that the commander had no idea what it was he was looking at. And then, like a flash of flame, he was holding onto a bright and glowing orange battleaxe, the butt sticking into the ground, the dirt around it just barely burning. Around the army, a dozen other weapons burned to life as the rest of his knights prepared their weapons.

The commander recognized them immediately. He knew who they were. This was the reason they had attempted to invade quietly and in the dead of night. There was fear in his eyes, but he called his men to action. Weapons and shields were raised, prepared for battle. But Marcus couldn't help but smile.

This night, he would once more keep his kingdom safe. That was a good feeling.

Dragon battle

Sierra could feel the wind rushing past her ears, flinging her ponytail wildly in the air behind her. Her dragon was beating its wings hard, shooting through the sky towards the mass of clouds in the distance. They had been training for months for the upcoming battle, and it was time to put that training to the test. One of the ancient dragons was awakening, and it would not be satisfied with the state of affairs. To see humans and dragons working together...

As they drew close to the forming storm clouds, Sierra pulled the bow off of her back and knocked an arrow, waiting. The clouds were being formed by the awakening of the ancient dragon, who controlled the storms. He was one of eight ancients, and unfortunately for Sierra, the most powerful. Two others had already awoken, and many of the dragon riders had fallen in battle against them. That was when Sierra had begun her training. She was not strong, but her dragon was graceful and fast, and she was good at staying on its back.

The moment they entered the border of the clouds, the ancient's form came into view. It was massive, far larger than the ones that preceded it, which were already well over three times the size of the modern dragons. Sierra couldn't take her eyes off of it, her bow prepared and aimed directly at the enormous beast. Its scales were like jagged rocks placed along its skin, jutting outwards and creating a broken surface that would tear dragon and rider to shreds if they were to crash into them. Its eyes were flaming red as it turned to glare at them. The fact that they came at it together confirmed what it feared and sensed in the world. Its roar was ear shattering, and would have deafened Sierra had she not been expecting it. Fortunately she already had prepared, and stuffed her ears with thick fur. This part had been expected.

Her first arrow let fly and pierced the membrane of the ancient's left wing as her dragon dived around it, slipping between massive claws that swung down at them. It was powerful, but Sierra's dragon was faster. That was the one thing they had going for them. She knocked another arrow and fired again, hitting the left wing once more. They were small piercings, barely even registering to the dragon. She prayed that she would have enough arrows to make the plan work.

Around and around the flew, barely evading the ancient's attacks, firing arrows again and again through the membrane of its wing. She had brought nearly a hundred arrows with them, and fired every single one of them in a circular pattern through the wing. They needed to remove the ancient's ability to fly if they wanted to beat it. And thus, they needed the removal of its wings.

Making the shots had been the easy part though. They swung around the ancient's body, looking for an opportunity. And when it finally came around, they dove straight for the outlined hole, to punch it out.

The empty throne

War had ravaged the land, tearing apart homes and families, slaughtering thousands and removing any evidence that they had ever even been there. The people's blood soaked the ground so thoroughly, it permanently stained the dirt, and one would have to travel well beyond the extent of the once-been kingdom in order to see its natural color. Over a dozen kingdoms had collided on this one land, and in the end, it was hard to say that there had been a winner. All of them had suffered heavy casualties. As long as there was one kingdom who refused to agree to treaty, the battle raged on, the homeland's people caught in the crossfire, until there was no one left to fight.

It was early in the morning, and the sky was painted a dark blue, the clouds still dark as the sun was only barely beginning to rise. A gentle breeze brushed through the air, lifting the ragged remains of the flags that stood on rickety poles. One might question how they had survived the onslaught of hooves and swords - they had not. King Thyrain had struggled through the night to makeshift new poles and put together what was left of his kingdom's flags, getting them shoved up into the air just before sunrise, before sitting on his broken throne and staring blankly into the distance as the world formed around him, where before there had been nothing but black.

The stone walls of his castle were little more than scattered rubble. Were it not for the embedded rock still in the ground, just barely visible under the shifted earth, one might have never known that there had been a castle there. Where once there had been extravagant halls, and statues made of marble and gold, fine paintings created to show the history of his kingdom, Thyrain now looked out upon open air, shattered earth, and emptiness. There were no people to rule. No animals or plants to farm. His land had been left barren, nothing left to rule, and yet it had been left to him. Of all the kings who had entered his land and fought upon it, not a single one had laid claim to it. They had destroyed it, and left it behind, for him to deal with.

The land had not even been his when the war began. It had been his father's. But his father had died trying to protect his land and his people, and then his uncle, and then all three of his older brothers. His mother. His sisters. He had only survived long enough to inherit the throne because, by the time he was in a position to do so, the war was finally over. Everyone else in his family had perished before him along the way.

He was alone. Alone in an empty land that was his to rule over. But what was there to rule over when the land could not be farmed? When it would be years, or decades before people began to return to it slowly, and in small numbers. When not even the animals would return for who knows how long.

He stood from what was left of his throne. He could feel it shifting as he stood, but did not turn back to watch it fall. He would make right by his heritage, and his land. But he could not do it pretending to be a king over nothing.

Storm

The wind was picking up speed as Treva stepped out of his front door, a cloth wrapped tightly around his face to cover his mouth and nose to block out the sand that was being flung through the air. He slung his lance over his back, the tip already heated to be red hot, steam rising off of it in the frigid air. The leather he wore was flapping like silk in the wind, but he pushed against it and through the town towards the oncoming eye of the storm.

The people of the town had already fled the scene, having gained word of the oncoming storm that threatened to tear the buildings to shreds and send them flying through the air to their inevitable deaths, crushed against a tree or boulder if not just splattered along the ground. Treva was the only one who had stayed behind. He had taken a vow many moons prior never to leave his small hometown and to protect it at all costs with his very life. That was something that he intended to do.

He stared into the eye of the storm, watching the wind swirl itself up and into a tube that spiraled up into the sky, before dispersing everything it had collected in a large radius like rain. Only it wasn't water that it was throwing to the ground. It was dirt, stones, and even wildlife and destroyed homes and fields. Debris smashed into the ground, launching additional dirt up into the air to twist and turn and get in Treva's eyes. It was unfortunate for the storm that he was blind. That dirt wouldn't slow him down.

He stalked his way towards the storm, undeterred by the going-ons around him. He could feel the icy wind trying to penetrate his skin and chill him to his core, could feel the wind pushing against his limbs to move him back, and could feel the dirt and debris slamming against his body to weaken him. But still he pressed onwards. As he drew ever closer to the eye, and the eye ever closer to him, he reached back and pulled the lance off of his back, pointing the still hot tip towards the eye.

In his mind's eye, he saw not the storm, but that at its center. A demon that had been sent from the underworld to destroy. It laughed at him, calling him a fool for thinking he could stand before it, and told him of how he would be crushed and left in the dust.

And that was when he thrust forth with his lance.

Immediately the demon screamed out in pain. The heat was from no human flame, but a purifying one, built over the period of a week with sacred wood doused in holy water. The flames, though Treva could not see them, had burned a vivid green, and now lived on in the tip of his lance. The spearhead cut through the cyclone of demonic power, leaving a gap in its wake, and the power of the wind slowed. The air became lighter. And still, Treva cut and thrust forth.

Up until he reached the very center of the storm, where there was peace. Where the heart of the demon lay. And Treva pierced the heart without hesitation or mercy, and the storm came to an abrupt halt, and what was left in the air fell down around him.

The town was still damaged. It would take time to heal. But Treva had kept it from dying.

Armor

Gendral was breathing hard, his knuckles white as they gripped his sword in his hand, his eyes glued to the wyvern in front of him dropping to the ground. He had been hunting the beast for well over an hour, constantly on, fighting tooth and nail to bring the beast down. It had been threatening a nearby village, who had hired him to take down the beast, which he had gladly agreed to. He had been living as a hunter for three years. He had come a long way from his first hunt, though he was always just a little uncomfortable fighting wyverns in general. They were intimidating opponents, especially with his small sword and shield, compared to the massive weapons of some of his brethren. But it was what he was comfortable with, and he had become more than capable of fighting with them.

His grip didn't loosen on the sword until he was certain that the wyvern was slain, motionless and breathless on the ground. He had made that mistake once before, and nearly been crushed because of it. Since then, he had become a very conscious and conservative hunter, and it had paid off. In his short career as a hunter, though he had some of the slowest hunts, he also had some of the most successful. There were very few casualties in his hunts, and his perseverance often lead to him getting some of the best parts. By not utterly destroying monsters, and instead taking out their vital points and wearing them down, he was less likely to break them as he hunted them, and thus gathered much more useable parts from them.

That was another thing that he had gotten good at. Once the monster he was hunting had fallen, he had learned the best ways to remove scales, tails, shells, wings, and most precious of all, the gems that formed from the compression in their organs. All of these he carried back home to the forge, where he had an expert smith create new armors and weapons and shields for him. He knew of hunters who would repeatedly take requests for the same monster in order to get enough parts to make armor based on them. Gendral could get those pieces in a single hunt.

He worked diligently as the sun set to carve away the pieces he needed from the wyvern. He could already envision the armor in particular that he would be able to make with these pieces, and he felt it would suit him well. And with the protection that this wyvern possessed, it would enable him to drag the fights out even longer in a much safer way. That would allow him to begin taking hunts with multiple monsters at the same time. That would allow for more parts, and more money, both of which would be incredibly useful to him moving forward. And then he could begin considering mixed armor sets. He had seen a few hunters using them. They looked incredible, and the things that those hunters could do...

Teaching

I'll admit right off the bat that this post is more of me trying to think some things through, that really has nothing to do with writing. It probably won't even have any kind of satisfactory conclusion. I am literally just trying to think through some thoughts I've been having, and want to write it down to have it more as physical evidence I can look back on. I'm putting it on here moreso because I feel like it's something that can benefit from being in public than anything else. So if that's not something you want to read, than by all means, come back tomorrow.

Alongside being a writer, a long time ago I decided that I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up as well. More than anything, this was mostly so that I would have a source of income up until the point that I could make a living off of my books. I'm not entirely sure why I decided in the first place that a teacher was the way to go - I remember that it was on a hike with my Dad, and he convinced me off it, but I don't remember how, because I have always hated school. Even when I was very young, I didn't enjoy being in school - being told how and what I should learn has always been a turn off for me.

But as I grew older, and I became involved in a myriad of activities, I found myself frequently in the teaching position. Especially between boy scouts and martial arts, I was constantly around younger and less experienced people, and I found that I was always willing to lend a hand, even going so far as to holding myself back with them much longer than I should have to try and help them understand. I learned that I enjoyed being around kids, and showing them new things, and I loved the satisfaction of seeing those kids running off to their parents to tell them about what they had learned.

And yet, there was a complete disconnect between that and school. I never saw those kinds of feelings in my teachers. They seemed like, if they enjoyed anything, it was being in a position of power over us. Telling us how to think, how we should be reading or understanding things. I never saw any teachers who seemed to enjoy actually teaching.

Except for my sixth grade teacher, who was long before I had made this decision. He was my favorite teacher I ever had. He was fun, he did things differently, and he looked so happy when students were asking questions and actually learning things. I felt like he was legitimately one of my friends.

I imagine he was who I was thinking of when I agreed to setting myself towards being a teacher. I've argued with myself about that decision a lot since then, but whenever I think it's what I should do, he's who I'm thinking of. About a year ago now, he passed away. It turned out even when he was teaching me, he was suffering from cancer. He was lucky to live as long as he did. It had been years since I'd last talked to him, but I was crushed when I learned about his death. Shortly before that, I had withdrawn from college because I just couldn't stand it anymore.

I was thinking today about how many people I let down with that decision. I stand by it - I would not have done well had I continued in school. If I had taken a break before college, maybe I would have done better. But as I stood, I'm not sure I would have even stayed alive - but that's a different story.

But as I was thinking about it, I thought about how disappointed my sixth grade teacher would have been. He had seen great things ahead for me, and I had let him down in that action. I had questioned following in his footsteps, when he was the one who had inspired me in the first place.

So I want to change that now. I want to continue what he can not, because he was there to lead me at a point in my life where my life's path really began to change and form itself in ways I had never experienced before. If I can be there for others as they go through that same experience... Well, maybe I can make up for my failures.

Demon King

The paladin was the first to enter the arena, where he was met with the demon king, who towered above him, arms encased in flames. The demon sensed his presence immediately and turned to face him, abandoning the mangled bodies of those who had come before him. The paladin barely had time to breath before flames were pouring upon his head, stopped only by the barrier he had placed before entering the room. It was a good thing he had thought ahead. This was not going to be an easy fight.

He dragged the demon's attention away from the door to give the cleric space to enter. She moved quickly and quietly into the arena, the air about her seemingly masking her presence thanks to a mixture of magic and herbs that she had prepared in advance. The bodies of those who had attempted this battle before were her primary target - if she could heal and remove anyone still there, then that meant she was saving lives, and making for a smoother fight for her companions.

Last to enter the arena was the archer, dressed in darker colors to hide among the shadows of the arena. She was quick moving and nimble, slipping around the edges of the arena as she pestered the demon king with arrows, gone from the point where she had fired by the time their points made contact with the demon so it could never track her. And the moment he turned away to look in the direction the arrow had come from, the paladin was upon him, slashing at him with his holy imbued sword.

The demon king roared in anger and anguish, smashing the pillars that supported the roof of the arena. The structural integrity of the building began to shutter, threatening to collapse at any moment, but the only one of the three warriors to take notice of this fact was the cleric, who grabbed those she had healed who were managing to stand and begin rushing them towards the door.

Unfortunately, this action was the one that finally grabbed the attention of the demon king. He turned upon the escaping group and roared, spewing fire in their path, entrapping them in the building. He did not wish for his already defeated prey to escape his grasp. The archer pelted the demon's hide with arrows, but the king had already learned to ignore their presence. The paladin struck hard at the demon's back, but while it hurt him, it was not enough to make the king forgo his desires.

The demon's hand swooped down upon the group, scooping many of the previously injured and simply dropping them into his massive gullet, devouring them without hesitation. He had toyed with his food before. He would not do so again.

Style of a hunter

Gendral was new to the hunting business, and in anticipation of getting his butt royally handed to him, had elected to go into the field with the more simple sword and shield, hoping that the simplicity would keep him from getting overwhelmed, and that the shield strapped to his off hand would save him from a few harsh blows. Standing there, however, looking at the monster towering above him at nearly three time his own size, he questioned the utility of a shield that was roughly twice the size of his head and fit comfortably on the one arm.

Even just the roar of the beast was powerful enough to send Gendral staggering backwards, flailing his legs wildly in an attempt to keep from falling on his ass unsuccessfully. As he landed on his rear, unable to take his eyes off of the creature in front of him, the wind knocked out of him by the blow, he heard the distinct sound of a horn blowing behind him. The monster's attention was pulled away from the newling hunter, and it stalked past him, barely even paying attention to the tiny human.

"Gen, you ok?" There was a hand on Gendral's shoulder then, taking a firm grip of his clothing and lifting him onto his feet. Gendral looked up to see the face of Ling, his master, whose own enormous great sword was still strapped to his back. One of the other pupil's - whose name Gendral was now spacing out on, thanks to the ringing in his ears - had been the one to sound the horn and pull the monster's attention. Gendral had wanted to prove his worth and take the charge into battle. That had gone south quickly.

"I-I'm fine," Gendral tried to assure his master. The quiver in his voice gave that lie away. But Ling smiled and patted him on the back.

"Remember, Gen. You're a hunter now. That doesn't mean being fearless. It means you think about what's going on around you, you adjust to your surroundings, and you conquer them. It is no competition. It is merely a test of your will, to which your successful return is the ultimate proof."

Gendral nodded quietly. Over Ling's shoulder, Gendral could see the other hunter flinging himself into the air off of the monster's head, swinging the hard backing of his horn onto the monster's spine on his way down. The monster merely shook him off, but the hunter was rolling along the ground and getting ready to move back in to the fight.

Gendral pulled the sword from his back into his hand, his shield already ready. He was trained in the basic style of the guild. To take the basics and to utilize them to their limits. He could hear the weight of Ling's great sword falling into position beside him. Ling was what they called a striker. He gave up some of the essential tools of the guild, but in turn was capable of incredible feats of strength and precision. They said that he could swing his sword so hard, the air itself would cut through a monster's hide.

Now Gendral would get a chance to see that in action.

Biography

I'm not huge on telling stories about myself, which I've talked about before, even though I do it quite a bit. I know that I've had opportunities to do a lot of things throughout what little of my life I've had that some other people never will, but a lot of the time when I talk about those things, I don't like the way that people look at me. Like I'm something better than I am, or that my actions and experiences somehow make them lesser. People have gotten mad at me before for not taking the compliments that they try to give me, but the truth is that I've heard it before and I'm just tired of hearing it. I don't want them to treat me differently than they did before I told them a story about myself. I know that's pretty unreasonable of me to ask, but I don't look at myself differently after I do those things, so I don't want them to either.

And the truth is, between those incredible moments in my life there are a lot of darker, sadder moments that I prefer not to talk about. And for some people those problems I've faced may seem petty, and in the future they may seem petty to me as well, but they hit me hard and they impacted who I am far more than any of the big, exciting things did. I've told some of those stories on here, in fact. The crash is a big one in particular that hurt me really hard. I almost didn't keep on with this blog after that. And it's because of things like that, when people ask me why I don't like certain, darker themed things, I usually reply, "Because if I wanted to be depressed, I'd write an autobiography."

And yet, despite that, I've thought of creating an autobiography in a sense. Just not as a written collection of personal stories. Rather, I've considered creating a musical playlist of the songs that define moments in my life, or tell the stories of things that happened to me, set in the order of my life. And not just songs that I like, but the ones that fit best with the events and moments of my life.

The problem with doing something like that is that I don't entirely remember everything that's ever happened in my life. I'm infamous amongst my friends and family for my absolutely terrible memory. I also spent roughly half of my life not really listening to music, and even once I finally got into it, my exposure to music and music genres has been very limited, so I don't necessarily know the best songs to use. Not to mention that there are new songs coming out every day, and some of them may describe my life better than other ones that I know of at the moment that I might use.

Of course, what I should really do is just get started, and worry about making edits to it later on. This isn't necessarily something that I could or would publish or make public, after all, so it's not like there's any particular standard that I would have to keep it up to. I just think it would be an interesting way of doing things, and looking back on my life. Something that, as far as I know, no one else has really done. I think it'd be cool.

Time travel

Time travel is probably one of the most interesting things you can have happen in a story, but is also easily one of the most difficult to implement well, and for one very simple reason. As soon as someone can time travel, all of the events from both the past and future become questionable. Were they meant to play out the way they did, or did the time travel that was introduced in someway affect the things that set them in motion? What have the involved parties affected, and what haven't they? Is there anything that isn't touched by their actions?

I know a lot of people who absolutely love time travel in their stories, and I enjoy it, but only when it's done well. The thing about time travel is that the smallest detail can have an enormous impact on what's going on, going so far as to change the outlook of not only a single person, but an entire world, or galaxy. And it can be in ways totally unexpected, because two people falling in love who didn't before can result in a new person who may lay claim to some sort of power that redirects the course of history.

In the meanwhile, huge changes may not end up having that big of an impact. Just by eliminating one of the powerhouses that caused mayhem in history - Hitler, for example - doesn't mean that there won't be another to take his place. It's a difficult thing to determine, and it's the act of taking all of those things into consideration while telling your story that really makes it interesting.

There is also a question that exists outside of time travel that, when time travel is introduced, becomes all the more interesting to delve into - that being nature vs nurture. And you don't even have to have a definite answer for how that plays into a race as a whole. I've met plenty of people throughout my life who are far more affected by nature than nurture, and vice versa. Some people who you may have suspected to be affected by a drastic change in history may be surprisingly unchanged, and that can be an incredibly interesting path to explore. Even if what that character is comes out completely differently, that doesn't necessarily have to mean that who that character is will change as well. And, of course, vice versa.

Time travel isn't just a "correct the errors of the past" game. Attempting to correct one error may lead to five others popping up. And despite how that may sound, it's not necessarily a bad thing. Especially if the characters learn that the hard way, and have to find ways to cope with the changes that happened.

Back to the Future is an excellent example of this concept, and one that persists through the first two movies. Marty makes a mistake that causes a small change in history, and in trying to correct it, he ends up making larger changes, and then has to go back again and redo it all over, and pray that the results of that are more favorable. With each pass through history, he learns more about the consequences of his actions, and though he may not make better choices because of it, he at least tries and is more conscious of what might occur accordingly.

Dynamics are an important part of storytelling. Time travel just brings them further to the foreground.

Summer camp

Michael had never been a fan of going to summer camp, and every year he tried to convince his parents that there were better things he could be doing with that week, or that he was getting too old, or that they should be saving their money. But every year, without fail, he was sent to Camp Chinawuakee with a frown on his face and a hunch in his back, and every year he came home hoping to never have to return.

There was something different in the air this year, however, as he got off the bus. He couldn't quite say what it was, and no one else on his bus seemed to notice, but there was a... thickness to it that he did not recall. But perhaps they could not tell it was there because he was the only one who had been there so many years running. Chinawuakee wasn't exactly a popular camp, and most parents sent their kids around to different places every summer so that they could get new experiences. They weren't like Michael's parents, consistently sending him to the same place year after year. But then again, maybe he was just starting to lose it after doing this so many times.

The day was a mad rush of introductions and camp set up, learning the rules, meeting their bunkmates, and eating their first crappy camp meal. Michael lay in his bed at the end of the day, staring at the cloth "roof" above his head, unable to sleep thanks to the obnoxious snoring of all three of his bunkmates. He had had bad ones before, but this was excessive. He wasn't sure if he was going to be able sleep at all this week.

That was when he heard a strange shuffling echo through the camp, and thickness he had felt in the air as he got off the bus grew thicker. He sat upright, trying to listen and hear where the noise was coming from, but it came from all around. In every direction he heard the strange shuffling. He poked his head out of the tent, barely able to see in the pitch blackness of the night, but he could see a strange outline of orange that surrounded the entire area. He tried to focus on it, to see the shape or any kind of details, and he watched in horror as the outline become more solid, with harsh scales and long claws, and the camp was abruptly in the arms of a massive, hideous creature.

Michael could only describe what he saw as a demon. Its eyes scanned over the camp, hunger apparent within them, and a wicked grin on its face. It didn't seem to notice Michael's head poking out of the tent, or if it did it chose to ignore him, because Michael was frozen in fear and could not move. He watched the demon open its massive jaw, could see the rows of razor sharp teeth within its mouth, and then there was gas pouring out of it and over the camp.

Ramisiel picked Michael up off of the camp floor on one of his claws, smiling down at the boy who had so drastically changed. He had taken in the most of Ramisiel's mind control gas that night three days prior, and the stubborn, hateful boy was little more than the demon's pet now. Michael informed Ramisiel of how the control was fading on one of the girls in camp - the one Michael had confided he had a crush on - and that if there was anything Ramisiel could do to prevent her from going into his gullet, he would appreciate that. Ramisiel promised he would consider it, but...

He was hungry.

Go

It had started innocently enough, as just a game. A game that captivated the hearts and minds of everyone who came across its path, save for a small few who saw the danger and confusion. They tried to warn the people around them, that it would need to be different if they were to continue, and that if they should play the game they must be careful, but the people did not listen. It only took a matter of days before the chaos began.

The reports were small, and evidence of the games involvement were excluded. Crime rates began to climb. Car accidents became more frequent. But even as the news was reported, it was ignored by the people, too involved in the game. They couldn't stop playing. They stopped sleeping so as to gain more time. Then they stopped eating. People began to drop dead in the streets, their phones still clutched in their hands with the game still running. The others merely stepped over their corpses.

The uninitiated could do nothing but watch on in horror as the world seemingly collapsed around them. At first they tried to clean up the carnage of bodies and flaming wrecks, but it built faster than they could clean it. Eventually they, too, gave up. They could only watch on as their friends and loved ones descended into madness, desperately clawing at one another's throats for the chance to capture one of the rarer, pixelated monsters on their screens. Anything to make it one step closer to completion of their collection.

It was a month before someone managed it. To collect every single kind of digital monster. The frees prayed that that meant the game would come to an end, and that the players would look up from their screens and see the madness that they had caused and the world might return to the way it was. But then another completed theirs. And another. And it stopped being a competition to see who could collect them all, as they all did, and rather became a competition to see who could make them strongest. And as they defeated one another in virtual battle, the violence began.

It became a ritual. That, when defeated, one was slain, and their phone was forfeited to the victor, who could then collect in two games simultaneously, collecting and training at twice the speed and capacity. The population dwindled, and the power of the mighty grew ever higher. The frees began to hide in fear, cowering so that there lives might not be needlessly taken. It was becoming ever clearer that they could not and would not escape the game's wrath.

The most powerful players became like gods, towering over the world. People joined forces in attempts to take them down, and were slaughtered by the handfuls. Even when they managed to conquer a god, the greed fell next upon them, and they turned against one another until a new god arose from their ashes.

The frees could do nothing. It had been only a year since the release of the game, yet the world they had known could not be further from the reality they faced. Their numbers had dwindled, as some were caught in the battles, and others could no longer resist the temptation of the game. The ones who remained questioned if they would even make it another year. They no longer believed in the future. They only prayed that they might live to see tomorrow.

The game had come, as it had once been promised. But the friendships and camaraderie it promised could not have been further from the truth.

Dice roll

Marth was drinking at the bar when he heard a commotion stirring behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder to see two larger men - both in weight and muscle - shouting at each other and standing from their table, raising fists and preparing to fight. He rolled his eyes to himself and turned back to his drink. Always fighting. Never able to just talk things out. How incredibly dull.

They must have seen his look, however, because before he could finish his next swig, there were hands on either side of him. He set the drink down and looked first over his left shoulder, seeing one man, and then over the right to see the other. He sighed and stood, turning to face the two. "May I help you, gentlemen?" he asked, sounding far more bored than frightened.

The one on the left threw a punch hard at Marth's stomach, but Marth was quick, and moved out of the way, making the fist slam into the other man's stomach instead. There was a loud growl of pain, but it only made the two angrier at him. One after the other they swung their fists, and each one he snaked his way around, causing the two to beat mercilessly upon one another instead of himself. With each swing they got more and more furious, singing more wildly, as Marth danced his way around the bar and their fists and the patrons stared in wonder at what was happening before their eyes.

When they made their way back to where Marth had been sitting, Marth directed one of their blows towards the table, rather than the other brawler. His fist smashed into the wood, just beside a twenty sided dice that had been resting next to Marth's drink, the number twenty facing up. The shock of the blow sent the dice through the air and bouncing along the ground, and the three followed it until it came to a stop.

Marth ducked under another blow and glanced at the die. "Oh, how unfortunate," he said clearly and loudly. "You know, chances are quite low to roll a 1 like that. I believe that's called a critical failure." A fist was coming down on him, coming from the man whom he had tricked into rolling the dice, but Marth was ready. His own arm shot upwards, slamming into the inside of the man's elbow, and the combined momentum of the blows sent a loud crack through the air. Marth's hand pulled straight back, ready to strike again, but his assailant's arm dropped dead, the elbow shattered, and the arm now useless.

Before he could even cry out in pain, Marth was swinging again, striking the man's throat. He gasped once for air, only managing half a gulp, and stumbled backwards, his one good hand reaching for his throat, uselessly trying to fix the now collapsed windpipe. The other man stood shocked, unbelieving of what he had just witnessed.

Marth turned to face him and bent down, scooping up the dice and offering it to him. "Would you like to test your odds?" he asked. "Surely you won't get a critical failure as well."

But the man turned on his heels instead and ran.

Gender

Jeremy was sitting at one of the park's picnic tables, waiting for Sam to show up. They had arranged a meeting there the day prior, so that they could talk about what had been going on. They'd met a few months ago for the first time, and in that short time, Jeremy had found that there were very few people he felt more comfortable around than Sam. There was just something that about Sam that made it possible for him to relax, and feel comfortable about who he was. But after realizing that, it made it harder for him to be without...

He felt a pat on his back and looked up with a smile to see Sam standing there. "Hey, you," she said. "Got something on your mind? You look all off in the clouds again."

Jeremy just smiled and patted the table, and Sam took a seat across from him. He had been thinking. Thinking about how things used to be, back before he had met Sam. As much as he loved Sam and everything she did for him, he missed those days. Things were less... confusing then. He felt like he understood the world around him. But now, he felt as though everything had changed, and he didn't quite belong anymore. It made him feel more alone than he ever had.

"Yeah, I kinda do," he said. "Same thing I always do, really."

"It's hard to believe there ever a time like that, Geraldine."

Jeremy sighed and nodded. It had been a year since he had woken up as a woman. There was no explanation for why. No recollection of the change. One night he had gone to bed a man, and the next day he had woken up a woman. Every picture of him throughout his life had been changed. His driver's license. His birth certificate. Jeremy no longer existed, and now there was only Geraldine. But he still remembered what it was like to be a man. Though the world around him had changed, his mind had not. That had made it very hard.

"But you do, don't you?"

Sam smiled. "I do. I'm just saying. It's hard to think of you as a man. I've only ever known you as a woman."

Jeremy nodded. He understood. "If I was still a man, do you think we'd still be friends?"

Sam shrugged, but her smile stayed on her face. "Hard to say. But I'd hope so."

"Yeah. Me too."

Poetry

I was thinking about what writers and artists were like when I was young - and I mean the people around me, not the professionals - and I remember two things, neither of which I ever really understood or participated in. The artists were always drawing what I now know to be furries (which are anthropomorphic animals, if you don't know), while the writers wrote poetry. This was a very consistent thing, regardless of how many of each I came across. Perhaps it was just the area I grew up in, or the time, but that's just how things were.

I don't intend to talk much about the artists and their furries. I was mostly uninvolved, and I've stated before that I am hardly an artist. Instead, I'm going to talk a bit about poetry.

Now, for the most part, I like poetry. The amount of talent it takes to tell a story within such strict limitations is remarkable, and when people can accomplish saying so much with so few words, it's hard not to be jealous. Honestly, my vocabulary isn't good enough to be able to make rhymes without losing meaning. It's barely good enough to write the stories that I try to write. Trying to write poems would and has ended very poorly for me the few times I have attempted it.

But the thing is, I have never enjoyed the poetry that those around me have written. For two reasons: either the poem doesn't make any sense and is about some kind of darkness that, typically, the person doesn't even really understand, or it was some sort of free form poetry. Now, I don't mean to say that free form poetry is by nature bad. Plenty of people love it. I just don't. I don't really think that it should classify as poetry just because you put emphasis on words in ways that you wouldn't normally during conversation. But I guess that's why I'm not really into the scene.

Nowadays, I don't know that many people who acted in these ways who are still acting on their creative side like they said they were going to when they were kids and pre-teens. Granted, my involvement with these people isn't what it used to be, but from what I've seen they've fallen out. At the very least, they haven't embraced it to anywhere near the levels that I have. And I wonder if that has anything to do with what it was they were writing as opposed to what I've been writing.

I'm not trying to say that I'm better then those people, as much as it may sound like I am. I'm genuinely curious if there is some kind of correlation, or if I'm just a weird exception. I'm willing to lean towards the latter, but I think it would be interesting to find out. Of course, how you'd ever figure out something like that, I have no idea.

Guardian

Erick approached the temple, the sun hanging high in the sky, a gentle breeze blowing through the grass and loosing some of the leaves off the trees to spiral softly to the ground. There was hardly a cloud to be seen. It was a beautiful day. A good day to be traveling to visit the shrines, if you wanted to pray to the gods, or even just to sightsee. Or, if one were traveling the lands to eliminate the shrines to the gods, it wouldn't really matter to them one way or the other if it was a nice day, other than that the air would be fresh as they made they're final ascent.

Erick took a deep breath of that fresh, morning air.

The temple guardian was standing the in the doorway at the top of the steps, waiting for him. The man stood, his sword already drawn and resting loosely by his side, and as Erick drew closer, he could feel the wind begin to pull in around the man. Many of the guardians before him had looked upon him with a smile, welcoming him freely into their shrines. This man would not be so kind. Which was not unexpected - there weren't many people left who visited the shrines after Erick had slaughtered their guardians and burned them to the ground.

Erick's own blade was still sheathed on his back, and he waved toward the guardian, a coy smile on his face. "Stand down," the guardian called out to him, the anger plain on his face. "I will not permit you to assault this holy ground as you have."

Erick merely smiled up at the man, slowing his steps as he reached the top of the stairs, but not stopping. "You know, I've heard that a few times now," he replied calmly. "And yet, here I stand. What makes you think you will be any different from the others? What makes you think that you can stop me when no one else could?"

The man's sword seemed to crackle with energy, and the draw of the wind grew stronger. "I am not like my brothers," he stated, holding out his hand, inviting Erick to battle. "I was assigned to this shrine because I am the strongest of the guardians. If there is anyone who can stop you, it will be me."

"I will be more than pleased to wipe that confidence off of the face of this earth."

The blade sparked to life, lines of red, green, and blue shooting across its surface as the power of the elements came to it. The wind gathered in the guardian's hand, like a sort of bomb that he could throw as a secondary weapon. Erick smiled and pulled forth his own blade, already coated in black shadows that dripped from its surface like thick poison, ready to chew out the life of his foe.

This would be fun.

Update

This is perhaps a more relevant post to me than anyone else, as I'm fairly certain that of the few people who read my blog, no one reads it daily. That being said, my writing this is of much importance to me for a number of reasons, so you'll have to excuse me for not writing fiction today, and instead electing to update you a little about the state of the blog.

When I set out to make this blog, my goal was to write every day, and my only time limit was midnight. It was supposed to be an incentive for me to write daily, and to give myself some wiggle room on getting my writing done in the day. And it very much so served its purpose. However, like most things I do, I very quickly fell into waiting until the last possible minute to do my writing, which lead to me frequently hitting post at 11:59. Which was problematic for a number of reasons that I imagine are quite obvious.

Recently, my life has gotten a little crazy, and not necessarily in the good way. But, thanks to that, I've found myself inspired to make changes that I really should have made a long time ago. On the levels of fitness, health, music, and most importantly writing, I intend over the next days, weeks, and months to work at bettering myself. Some of these I've already begun working on. A few months ago I decided that I would do my exercising at 4, in order to give myself a set time to do so with enough time after I got off from work to rest, rejuvenating my legs from the eight hours of standing and regaining some of my energy. Last week, I drastically changed my diet to combat the fat that has accumulated on my body which has irritated me to no end for well over a year. A few days ago I picked up my guitar for the first time in a couple years.

And, starting today, I intend to change my writing schedule for the blog. Not to stop doing daily writing, as I would gain nothing from doing so and lose much, but to change my time limit from midnight to 4. You may notice that that's the same time that I chose for my exercising. By having something set as my end point - my time for working out - I'm hoping to create incentive for me to write earlier. This way I'm not stressing about it later in the day, and keeping myself up later than I want in order to finish.

I cannot and will not promise that this will improve the quality of my writing. But, seeing as I will be more awake when I'm doing my writing, and I should hopefully be able to get more sleep, I'm hopeful that that will be happy consequence. At any rate, it should afford me more time and less stress throughout my day, which if it does not affect the blog directly, should at least affect my own happiness.

It's also worth noting quickly that the 4 o'clock timing is based on my current job, which I don't expect to last me more than a few more months. After that, the timing will more than likely change, though I don't anticipate writing another post like this to speak about it. But I will do my best to adjust my timings when that happens, so as not to revert back to where I was before.

Here's hoping.

Bleeding

Harry rinsed his arm in the water, flushing the open wound on his forearm of blood and anything else that might have slipped in between then and when he had been cut. It had been perhaps an hour, and he did not trust the wound in the slightest to be clean. He had already pulled the trash bin and a first aid kit beside the sink, and with his off hand was dropping the somewhat dirty, and very bloody cloth he had torn to make a wrapping into the trash. This wasn't the first time he had been wounded like this, nor the first time that he had tended to it himself. It was not likely to be the last.

It was for this reason that Harry had built himself the way he had. Years of training had produced muscles that made him look more like a wall than a man, and he had the endurance to run for five miles straight without need for alarm. He found himself frequently in the midst of fights; usually that he had no part in being involved with. Seeing people being beaten, in need of help, taken to their limits and pushed beyond them to the brink of death... He refused to stand by and watch.

The wound stung deeply as he wiped it with a disinfectant. He was fortunate that it had been made by a knife, and not a jagged piece of glass - while it was deep, it was not wide. That meant that sewing the wound shut would take much less effort, and therefore be much less painful. Though painless, it would not be.

He grimaced but did not cry out as he pulled the needle through his own flesh, back and forth, pulling a thin and sterilized thread with it to tighten the disconnected flesh. It helped that the nerves were somewhat deadened by the number of times he had done this. He occasionally paused his sewing to dab away the blood that was oozing and squirting out so that he could continue to see what he was doing. Only somewhat important.

He tied a knot at the end and snipped the line, making sure it was tight, then began to wrap it all with a new, clean bandage. Red spots appeared on it almost immediately. He wrapped the wound over and over, layering the white wrappings until no red spots seeped their way through. Eight time around his arm, pulled as tight as they could. With some medical glue, he sealed the wrapping, smoothing it out to ensure that he could still have as much mobility as possible.

He grabbed the whiskey on the other side of the sink and took a long swig of it. That was one wound done. Three to go.

Quiet

James found that he wasn't talking as much these days as he used to. He didn't feel sick, and he was still going to his job and doing his work, coming home to relax and spend time with his friends. He was going through all of the same motions that he had been taking for some time. He just didn't pipe up as much in conversation. He didn't have as many quips to throw out, and he didn't feel a need to hear his voice. He didn't feel down or angry, and he wasn't growing tired of the area or the people around him. He was just growing quiet. He didn't feel the need to make noise.

He could see that the people around him were growing concerned, though. He tried to assure them that things were fine, that he was just going through something and that he would be fine sooner or later. But his lips didn't quite reach as high as they used to when he smiled, and his eyes drooped with exhaustion, and he just couldn't hide very well that he was feeling a little off. He felt as though he needed to take a step back, and look at the world around him, and reevaluate the way he looked at himself. But it was difficult to do that with all of the obligations he had.

Night time seemed to be when he could really sit down with his thoughts and give them some credence. He was concerned that he was stagnating. That his friends were moving forward, finding better jobs and make big decisions in life, and that he was stuck in place. It wasn't a bad place to be stuck. He made good money, and his job afforded him time to spend with friends or at home relaxing. His girlfriend was wonderful and loving. He had the pleasure of living with her and being able to see her and hold her everyday. And yet he felt like there was something more he should be doing with his life, that the people around him were experiencing that he was missing out on. He just couldn't put a finger on what that was.

The thoughts were always at the back of his mind. Quietly nagging away at him, asking him to give them listen, or to tell the people around him about them. But he preferred to stay quiet. They didn't need to know about each and every one of his fears and thoughts. They didn't need to know of his little, petty jealousies. He knew that they would be there for him, and that was good enough. He didn't need to ask them to help shoulder each and every one of his problems.

So he grew quiet. Not out of fear. Not out of bitterness. But because he needed to think, and the words that came out of his mouth were often thoughtless, and while that made them pretty funny at times, it meant that when he was speaking, he wasn't thinking. And that was something he didn't feel like doing at the moment. So for the most part, he kept his mouth shut, so that later on down the line, it might open wider than it ever had before.

Losing

I've always considered myself to be a loser. I guess that comes with the territory of being a nerd, which I definitely always have been. Hard not to be when one of your earliest memories is waking up Christmas morning and finding a PS1 under your tree, and even though you don't entirely know what that is or what it does, you just start to get excited. And when you see that it lets you control some of your favorite cartoon characters, and move them around on the screen, and making them do dumb and crazy things, well... That just kinda sticks with you for the rest of your life. And it kinda makes you a loser.

But it's almost funny how, even when you're a loser, you're afraid of losing. I have never been a gracious loser. Especially when I was younger, and I had a lot more anger management problems, I would lose in a game and literally physically assault the person who beat me. I never really saw a problem with that. It's amazing I had friends. Even more amazing that some of those friends I had back then are still around. But I learned how to play cheap, and win dirty, just so I wouldn't have to experience losing any more. But that just makes you lose out on opportunities to play.

When I got older, loss became more real. I started to lose some of the friends I made. I would tell myself that it was ok, that the friends I still had were the important ones, and that they meant more to me. And that's not really a lie. But I think I gave more credence to that line of thought than I really should have. While it made most people less important, it did make the ones who were important all the more so. Which makes losing those people far more terrifying.

Especially when you fall in love with one of them. I've been truly, madly in love twice in my life. One moreso than the other, granted, because that's kind of how it goes, but still. The first girl I loved, I loved for nearly six years. We had our problems, though. And with her, I felt what it was like to lose someone you love for the first time. And it was devastating. And then I lost her again. And then a third time. And it never got easier.

But after the third time, I found a second love. A stronger love. A love that pushed that first love aside, and made it less important, less vital to my existence. That second love consumed me, gave me purpose. But I had tasted the loss of love before, and the thought of losing this love became all the more terrifying.

So when the possibility of losing that love arrived on my doorstep again... I tried my hardest not to panic. "You've been through this before," I told myself. "You believe in love. If it wants to pull through, it will. It will stare down the hard times and the bad times, and it will come back stronger than ever." But the words didn't mean much. They weren't even much of a coping mechanism. They were just there to distract me.

It wasn't until I faced that possibility of loss head on... It hurt. I felt like I was being crushed. Pulled apart and crushed simultaneously, being dragged through a space that was too small for me until I arrived at a place that was too large for me to comprehend. But I had lost before. I had been at that massive space before. And I had tried to pretend that it wasn't there. Ignore it, as though that would help. But not this time. I faced that space, that cold and empty expanse. And as I faced it, scared and feeling as though I would be alone... I learned that it was perhaps not so bad. That if I persevered I could reach the other side of it. And that, perhaps there, the loss could be returned.

So I travel that space now. I face my fear. I will face loss, and I will do all that is in my power not to be consumed by it. And I can only believe now that I will overcome it. Because I know what will happen if I don't. And I'd rather not go down that path again.

Sequels

For a long time, I've been very hesitant to work anymore on my novel I wrote during Nano last November - mostly because I gave it a very rushed ending that I wasn't very happy with so that I could close out my last of the fifty thousand words. Since then, I've thought often about how to continue it, because I know that where it ended is not where the full story ends. There are still a number of plot points that I want to hit, and the climax of the story has yet to occur. And yet, the more that I think about it, the more apparent it becomes to me that where I ended the novel is in fact the end of the book - to finish the story, it would be best for me to write a sequel.

This is an idea that I've been opposed to. After all, while fifty thousand words may sound like a lot, most people would consider it more of a novella than a novel. It's just too short. And I have a feeling that, in editing the book, it will become shorter. My goal was to write a book, not a short story, and I'm afraid that that's what it's going to become. So I wanted the story to continue, and fulfill the rest of the plot.

But I've finally decided that there's nothing I can do about it. The rest of the story simply has to take place as a sequel to the first. Which kind of changes my focus about what the first book is about, which in turn means that there are places in the middle that I need to flesh out further. Hopefully this will give me the length and substance that I'm looking for. There was a lot of kind of empty space, and while not necessarily a huge time skip, a time skip nonetheless. I've recently decided that I want to explore section of the story more, which will add a darker tone to the story as a whole, but I think will also give more substance to the later events.

The question then is just what all I will put into the sequel. There are a few events that I know I want - the main character learning a way to fight, revealing more about the villain, and of course the fateful encounter. But that definitely isn't enough to constitute another entire book.

In the meantime, I have to think about some of the other ideas I've gotten in the meantime. Things like adding more perspectives to the story, eliminating the intro to the story, and rewriting the reasons for why certain things happen. I've talked before about how I don't mind cliches, but I feel like some of the ones that I have used in my story thus far are a bit much. Especially concerning why the magic I have in place exists, and how it is used by those who wield it.

I definitely still have work to do. But I'm getting more comfortable with stepping back into it.

Sun god

Edward sat in the audience, stuffed between dozens of other people, all murmuring quietly about the group that had gathered them all together. There were a lot of questions spreading around, wondering what they were there for, who exactly the people in this group were, and what they wanted. There hadn't been much information given to them. Everyone who was gathered there had merely been told to do so, and that they would in some way be rewarded for doing so. Some were hoping that that meant money or fame, while others were hoping for something a little more... personal. Edward tried not to think about those people. Or listen to the explicitly detailed descriptions that they were whispering about.

As the sun fell to the horizon, a group of people in dark red cloaks emerged from the alleyways, moving around the gathered group and proceeding before them. The murmuring died down almost immediately upon their arrival. There was a feeling in the air, flowing over the crowd like a thick fog rolling in in the early morning, that said that they should be silent and pay attention to these men. It was irresistible.

One cloaked man stepped forward to address the crowd. "You have all been gathered here today because it is believed that you all have potential," he called out. The crowd began to whisper once more, trying to decipher what he meant by that, but a swipe of his hand brought them to silence once more. "We are disciple of the sun gods, who gave their power onto us mankind, granting us peace and happiness in these times of brightness. But those gods grow fearful, as well. They fear that we may soon begin to misuse the gifts that they have bestowed upon us. And they consider taking their brightness away from us as punishment."

Their was a gasp of shock that shot through the crowd. Edward didn't entirely understand what was going on, but he felt a pang in his heart and a shiver run down his spine. Whatever these men were talking about, what ever it was they were trying to tell him, it scared him to his core. He wanted to run and hide, to curl up into a ball and wait for their threats to come and go. But he was frozen to his chair.

"But you all have potential. Potential to change the gods' minds. To show them that you are grateful. To humble yourselves before the gods and convince them to spare us. That is why you have been brought here today. What say you?"

Edward didn't fully understand. He was afraid. But he screamed and cheered with the rest of the crowd like a man possessed. Whatever it was they wanted. Whatever they asked him for. He would do.

Wild

Michael had gotten lost from his tour group out in the midst of the Amazon rainforests, having fallen off of their buggy when the tire slipped on a patch of unexpected mud. He knew he should have been wearing his seatbelt, but somehow he had decided it would be a good way of showing how manly and unafraid he was to Samantha by not doing so. Clearly it had not been his wisest decision. Not only did it surely not do anything of the sort, but now he was lost, covered in mud, and he thought his left ankle might be broken from how badly it hurt. He was afraid to take off his boot to check, however. He seemed to recall that it was best to leave a broken foot or ankle in the boot until it could be seen by medical experts, because the boot could be helping hold the break in place.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since he had fallen off the buggy. His wristwatch had broken in the fall as well, though it wouldn't have been that helpful anyway - he had no idea what time it had been when he'd fallen off. He just knew that the tour itself had started at noon. And he didn't know if the hunger he felt was because it had been so long since lunch, or if it was just because of the trauma. Either way, his stomach had started audibly growling some time prior, and it was only getting louder. Every time it roared, it nearly scared the literal crap out of him. He had been lucky enough not to run into any wild animals yet, but he knew they were there. And he could only imagine what they might do to him.

It was only when the sun began to set that the panic truly began to set in. The green forest was beginning to take a distinctly orange and yellow hue to it, and he was beginning to fear that they had forgone searching for him. And only as the panic took hold of his heart did he finally hear the low, grumbling growl of a wild beast coming up behind him.

He slowly turned his head to see a jaguar stalking towards him, head low to the ground, eyes piercing him as if already seeing the meat that he was to become. He couldn't so much as speak, afraid that any noise he might make would only cause the animal to leap upon him and start its feast sooner. He didn't want to die. Though he may not have been consciously thinking it, anything he might do to prolong his life...

But then there was another figure behind it. He tried to focus his eyes on it instead, hoping it would somehow be better than the jaguar in front of him. And he found himself staring at the form of a woman with long, messy brown hair that extended all the way down her back, and a lean and muscular form completely uninhibited by clothing. She had a look in her eyes that said she was watching him, both in curiosity, and in much the same way the leopard was. He didn't know how to respond to her. He felt embarrassed, staring at this beautiful and wild naked woman, and yet he couldn't take his eyes away from her. She could either be his doom or his saving grace.

With the leopard only a dozen feet away, easily within pouncing distance, she suddenly clicked her tongue and let out a low growl. Immediately, like a trained dog, the leopard came to a halt, stood up tall, and sat on its haunches. Michael could barely believe his eyes. He must have been dreaming. This must all be a mad dream. The woman approached him, moving silently across the muddy ground, face inches away. He could smell her, she was so close. Though he didn't want to. She had clearly not bathed in a very long time. If ever.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice low and gravelly. "Why are you here?" Her english, while correct, sounded almost broken, and untrained.

"I... I'm Michael," he responded, feeling weak. "I fell off of my tour buggy. I think I broke my ankle. I'm lost. I don't know where or what to do." Realizing the truth in his words, just how terribly doomed he was, his legs began to wobble and he fell to his knees. The girl looked him up and down, as if judging him.

"You with other man?" she asked. He had to take a moment to comprehend her question. Another man? Had she found someone else? But the way she asked it, and the way she looked, it was clearly after thinking about it that she meant other humans.

"Y-yes. Or, I was. I'm alone now."

She hummed, thinking, and looked at his ankle. Even still in the boot, it was clearly not quite right. Even she could recognize that.

"I take you back," she said, decisively. "But you never tell about me."

The moment she agreed to help him, nothing else mattered. "Never," he muttered. Then she was lifting him in her arms and throwing him over his shoulder, and then it was black.

Achievements

I never used to be much of one for collecting achievements or trophies in games. That just seemed like one of those impossible feats that some people out there like to do because it makes them feel better about themselves or something. Hell, the first game I ever got a platinum trophy on (which you get by gaining every other trophy the game has to offer), I did so on accident, just by trying to play the game as it was and unlock everything in it. It was really easy, especially compared to the difficulty of platinuming some other games.

I think it was the second game that I platinumed that really pushed me over the edge. Because that game happened to be Bloodborne, which is a stupidly difficult game to begin with, and the last few trophies I acquired took that difficulty and ramped it up to the extremes - as well as adding in some monotony in the meantime. But I thoroughly loved that game, and seeing that - at least for the most part - I could get the last few trophies just by playing the game over again in new and different ways made me excited. There was just something about the fast and fluid combat that was engaging, and while I don't normally like dark atmospheres, the darkness in Bloodborne wasn't there to harm or punish. It was merely a set-piece that permitted for the kinds of monsters and insanity that you would bear witness to throughout the game.

After that platinum, I started to look at the next few games I wanted to play a little differently. I started to think about how plausible it would be to platinum them, as well. I played games that I would have played otherwise, not letting the trophies make the decision for me, but there were instances where I normally would have skipped over parts of the game as I grew weary of playing it so that I could finish and move on to the next. But I stuck through because I knew that if I could just finish that one extra thing, I could get a platinum.

It's worth noting that these platinum trophies, and trophies in general, realistically do nothing. They provide no bonuses, rewards, or extra content. They just look nice on the stats page of your profile. And yet there are people who actively hunt them out, as though they are life giving sustenance. They play games they otherwise may not have, simply because they know it will be an easy platinum. Or they may play all the way through a game they otherwise do not enjoy, just for that trophy.

But the interesting part is whether or not this is necessarily a bad thing. After all, if you are playing the game more, and experiencing more of it, are you not getting more bang for your buck? And while some may argue that your time could be better spent elsewhere, that is almost always true. But time is best spent making you happy. And if collecting platinum trophies does that, well... Who am I to argue?