First I'd like to thank John Scalzi for forming the wonderful world that resided inside the pages of the Old Man's War trilogy. It was a pleasure and an adventure, and I hope to see more from him in the future, in that universe or otherwise.
To clarify, The Last Colony is the third and final novel in the trilogy, following the original Old Man's War and the sequel, The Ghost Brigades. It does it's part well, wrapping up the superficial conflicts nicely, introducing new ones (such is life), and revealing to the reader the real solution to the core conflict, an issue the reader had known about since the first chapter of the first novel. Not only did it reveal a great truth about humanity, the ending also left an echo within me as well. As the saying goes: You know a book is good when, even after finishing the read, you can't help but ponder it's events and the overall meaning.
It has been said before, but there is a recognizable relation between Scalzi and Heinlein -- the writer of great sci-fi classics such as Stranger in a Strange Land and the more popular Starship Troopers. This similarity is, of course, shown in the content, but also the frank and in-your-face truths that Scalzi would layout on the table throughout the trilogy.
Yet Scalzi makes it his own, most dynamically in his common-man humor, something eked out as chirps of laughter as I would read. The jokes, puns, and quips wouldn't be tossed in for flavor but surgically placed to magnify the suspense that had been building or relinquish it in a single moment.
Our culture often stereotypes great works as classics, or that they must be overtly complicated, dry, and pontifical. Scalzi shuns this notion and rewrites the law with a trilogy and speaks difficult philosophical theories in layman's terms.
I recommend John Scalzi's Old Man's War to anyone who's new or old to the science fiction community. It showcases the morals of the genre without being a copy-pasted style of the greats.
August 20, 2010
August 10, 2010
Zombie Wake-up
I wrote this a month ago. It was playing with the idea of what it would be like to wake up amidst a zombie apocalypse. Not a fond morning from what it would seem.
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The taste in Kyle’s mouth was what woke him. It tasted like day old moldy chicken covered in equally as stale mayo. As he pulled the door open to the bathroom Kyle cringed from a wave of cottonmouth. The sting on the side of his tongue blurred his vision from tears. Quickly, though, he stepped in, not bothering to turn on lights but still careful to tread on the rugs and not the freezing cold linoleum floor.
He turned the water on and went for the toothbrush when he suddenly felt his hand collide with the corner of a picture frame, most likely the one he had bought a few days ago. It hit the floor with a shatter and with an agitated moan he knew the glass pane was done for.
A few curses escaped him but Kyle made his way to the wall, patting blindly until he found the switch. Kyle jumped slightly, feeling a weird pressure against the bottom of his foot, tumbling slightly. Another handful of swears leaked out of Kyle’s mouth.
The room illuminated, revealing the clear plastic shower curtains, the stained bath tub, and the now destroyed picture frame that sat in pieces throughout the middle of the room. The in store picture that still had the price tag in the corner lay torn in the mess of broken glass.
But it was the pool of blood that kept Kyle’s gaze, not the shards of glass.
Kyle looked down in alarm, seeing a small shard sat atop his foot. I should be more careful, he thought, brushing the glass away. It didn’t budge. Kyle blinked heavily now, squinting at the top of his foot. Again he brushed and it stuck. Impatiently now he knelt down and started to pick at it, only stopping when a dribble of red leaked out from the side of the speck. Kyle rubbed his eyes and lifted his foot from the floor. Out squirted an arch of red from his sole.
Kyle’s eyes went wide, realizing in the sleepy daze that it wasn’t just a speck of glass, but a long shard, sticking from the sole of his foot to the top.
He shrieked slightly, expecting a massive wave of pain but it seemed the fog of sleep was still overwhelming his senses. He sat on the toilet, careful not to step on any more shards, and yanked a towel down from the rack to his right. Gently Kyle rested his foot on it and looked at the sole. A large shard of glass stuck through the bottom.
Again he shrieked, figuring the wave of pain was about to hit him. But again there was nothing. He touched the glass and pulled slightly, filling the room with a metallic smell. More blood came out yet there was no pain until, finally, he tossed the reddened shard into the sink and rinsed his hands. Maybe the lack of pain was the adrenaline, he thought to himself, and quickly wrapped the foot tight, applying pressure to the wound like he had seen on TV.
He left the bathroom on one leg, hopping his way to the bed, finally beginning to shake of the sleepiness that had been blurring his senses. He passed the phone and paused. Should I call anyone? I mean, Is it really an emergency? There wasn’t any pain and it didn’t seem that bad. Was it that urgent? After balancing on his foot a little longer Kyle decided he wasn’t a doctor and dialed 9-1-1.
The phone didn’t ring, though, but went directly to a busy signal. He hung up and dialed again. The busy signal echoed through the receiver but Kyle waited, hoping to get an answer. After a few minutes he gave up and inspected the foot again.
The bleeding had stopped but the towel was completely red now. He pulled it off with a cringe and could see the hardwood floor through the hole. Staring, Kyle began to feel frantic, and went for the phone again when suddenly gun shots exploded from outside.
Out of habit he dropped to the floor, his eyes going straight for the windows. More shots rang out and he scrambled for the door, checking it was locked. It was but after a few more shots from outside, Kyle was pushed him past the thresholds of fear and left with curiosity. He snuck on his hands and knees to the windows, seeing a glow of red through the blinds.
The apartment building across the street was in flames. Each window spewed out bright fire into the night air. Below, expecting to see a team of diligent fire fighters he saw a single man, holding a pistol, shooting off into the distance.
The man was clad in baggy clothes, holding a container in the other hand. The booms from the gun filled his ears again. This time, though, Kyle didn’t bother to hide.
He looked to where the man was shooting, swearing to himself he would move from this garbage neighborhood, just like he had promised himself time and time before. The man was probably shooting at gang members, maybe even the police.
To Kyle’s surprise it was about five people, each unarmed and each running towards the man frantically. A bullet tore through the chest of one as another of the five finally reached the man and dragged him to the ground, biting through his hand, tearing off the trigger finger.
The others quickly swarmed and the man screamed until his voice was drowned in a gurgle. It didn’t take Kyle long to see what was going on. He had seen Dawn of the Dead, the old and the remake.
He sat up and walked towards the door, pulling the couch in front of it to barricade. Kyle put his back against the wall and with one last push with his foot it lodged into the walkway, barring the door shut.
Kyle stared at the foot. Few drops of blood drooled out of the hole on top now and, with a sudden realization, he sprinted for the bathroom mirror.
Kyle’s eyes were sunken, darkened but still filled with slight color. His skin was very pale, a faint green highlighting his cheekbones. And Kyle’s hair, a receding hairline and a crew cut, was seemingly falling out.
He looked at himself and turned to look outside, knowing what he was and with an overwhelming amount of fear he realized something else.
Backyard Nightmares
I wrote this roughly 4 months ago as an experiment in suspense in a story. I tried to keep as much detail about the specific genre from the story until the very end. Hope you like it.
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I was always afraid of the forest just outside of the old rotten fence of my dad’s house. During the day I could see as far into the trees as the daylight allowed but when night came there was only the shadowy tendrils of the branches crawling across the backyard grass. When I was a child I would stare into the night and watch the forest, waiting to see if any red or yellow eyes would be staring back. I never saw any but it always felt there was something out there.
From what I was told a neighbor found my dad in the backyard, sitting in a fold-out chair. The neighbor said they saw him early in the morning, about 4-ish, when they were walking the dog. They said he was still looking out into the forest when he died, like he was trying to see something but couldn’t.
The chair was still there when I entered the backyard.
I don’t know why but I sat down in the chair and looked into the forest. For some reason I wanted to know what he saw or think what he was thinking about, and remembered a conversation he had with me, back when I was younger.
My father was strict, someone who lived a life of military discipline even though he had been honorably discharged years ago. Dad was a god-fearing man, even though it didn’t mean much in today’s world. He kept his life orderly and decent, the type of gentleman who wore a tucked in collared shirt, never with short sleeves, always matched his belt to his shoes, and knew how to groom his beard when it was time to grow one.
But that night I had woken up from night terrors. The screaming would last as long as the kid would be in REM. The worst part of it is that as hard as my dad tried I wouldn’t wake up from the night terrors. But when I did I would have no memory of them save a sharp pain in the back of my throat, from the screams.
Sad thing is I still have those sharp pains in my throat. I guess the night terrors never really stopped.
The nightmare would always start with me waking up from in my twin-sized bed that most likely was still in the same room up on the second floor of the house. I would throw off the sheets and be overwhelmed with gusts of freezing air. When I looked down to my feet I’d see myself wearing the same green plaid pajamas and realize I was a child once again. We’ll, it wasn’t so much a realization as it was a reminder, like I had gone to bed as a child was expected to wake up as one.
I would stand and look around the room. The window would creak slightly from the corner of the room, blowing more wind in. My hair would stand on end when I heard the sound fill the room, my heart would race faster than I thought humanly possible, and in moments my skin would be coated in a frozen sweat.
That’s when I would look to the forest outside, its tendril-like branches against the overcast night sky, the only light glowing from the clock at the other side of the room.
It was flashing 12:00, as if there was a power outage during the night.
A movement from the window would tear my attention away from the blinking red numbers and in horror I would watch the seemingly distant tree branches crawl towards me. The black fingers would wrap around the window sill until the black tentacles would creep towards my feet.
I would snap awake immediately after a hand-like branch wrapped around my ankle.
My dad would be there, standing outside of the door, waiting for me to wake up. I would be gasping for breath in my bed as he would walk in with water and a wet towel.
He would never say anything. Dad would simply sit next to me and wait until I could catch my breath. He’d hand me the water and I would chug the glass as he gently place the wet towel on my forehead.
After a few minutes he would pat my shoulder and smile. “What ever’s in there,” he would say. “Will always stay in there, no matter how real it might seem.” The words always seemed to comfort me, not because of any logic that dad spoke with but because of how he said it, like he understood from some sense of familiarity. The words were like a promise to me, that he would protect me from my own nightmares.
Needless to say, when I moved out I left with some anxiety.
“Are you family of the deceased?” I jumped slightly in my seat, heart racing from the sudden voice from behind me.
“I am. And you are?” I saw an older man, uncut facial hair that grew to the base of his neck. Around the man’s eyes were layered wrinkles that shouted wisdom back at me. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, gray streaks following the strands across his temples. He shifted his weight to his back leg and pulled his black leather jacket, revealing a badge. And a gun.
“Detective Louis Gatts.” He tipped an invisible hat to me. “I’m guessing you are the deceased’s son.” I nodded. He continued. “I was the detective assigned to your father’s case.” He stuck out his hand. His nails were stained underneath. “Call me Louie.”
I shook. “Jonathan.” I said, still getting used to another person being in such a personal place and interrupting my thoughts. “Can I help you with something?”
“Do you know how your father died, son?” The man’s voice shook from old age. My brow furrowed and I gave a slight sigh. I didn’t like where this was going.
“I figured it was a fatal heart attack, Detective.” Louie grimaced at the formal title, a proper response for calling me ‘son.’
“Jonathan,” the man said, spreading his legs slightly like he was carrying something heavy. He rubbed his wrinkled forehead with a heavy sigh. “Your father was strangled to death.”
A familiar cold sweat overwhelmed my body as the words leaked across the yard. My heart began to race. And an overpowering urge to scream boiled within my gut.
But in silence all I could do was stare into the forest that sat just outside of the fenced yard, waiting to see red or yellow eyes, staring back at me.
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I was always afraid of the forest just outside of the old rotten fence of my dad’s house. During the day I could see as far into the trees as the daylight allowed but when night came there was only the shadowy tendrils of the branches crawling across the backyard grass. When I was a child I would stare into the night and watch the forest, waiting to see if any red or yellow eyes would be staring back. I never saw any but it always felt there was something out there.
From what I was told a neighbor found my dad in the backyard, sitting in a fold-out chair. The neighbor said they saw him early in the morning, about 4-ish, when they were walking the dog. They said he was still looking out into the forest when he died, like he was trying to see something but couldn’t.
The chair was still there when I entered the backyard.
I don’t know why but I sat down in the chair and looked into the forest. For some reason I wanted to know what he saw or think what he was thinking about, and remembered a conversation he had with me, back when I was younger.
My father was strict, someone who lived a life of military discipline even though he had been honorably discharged years ago. Dad was a god-fearing man, even though it didn’t mean much in today’s world. He kept his life orderly and decent, the type of gentleman who wore a tucked in collared shirt, never with short sleeves, always matched his belt to his shoes, and knew how to groom his beard when it was time to grow one.
But that night I had woken up from night terrors. The screaming would last as long as the kid would be in REM. The worst part of it is that as hard as my dad tried I wouldn’t wake up from the night terrors. But when I did I would have no memory of them save a sharp pain in the back of my throat, from the screams.
Sad thing is I still have those sharp pains in my throat. I guess the night terrors never really stopped.
The nightmare would always start with me waking up from in my twin-sized bed that most likely was still in the same room up on the second floor of the house. I would throw off the sheets and be overwhelmed with gusts of freezing air. When I looked down to my feet I’d see myself wearing the same green plaid pajamas and realize I was a child once again. We’ll, it wasn’t so much a realization as it was a reminder, like I had gone to bed as a child was expected to wake up as one.
I would stand and look around the room. The window would creak slightly from the corner of the room, blowing more wind in. My hair would stand on end when I heard the sound fill the room, my heart would race faster than I thought humanly possible, and in moments my skin would be coated in a frozen sweat.
That’s when I would look to the forest outside, its tendril-like branches against the overcast night sky, the only light glowing from the clock at the other side of the room.
It was flashing 12:00, as if there was a power outage during the night.
A movement from the window would tear my attention away from the blinking red numbers and in horror I would watch the seemingly distant tree branches crawl towards me. The black fingers would wrap around the window sill until the black tentacles would creep towards my feet.
I would snap awake immediately after a hand-like branch wrapped around my ankle.
My dad would be there, standing outside of the door, waiting for me to wake up. I would be gasping for breath in my bed as he would walk in with water and a wet towel.
He would never say anything. Dad would simply sit next to me and wait until I could catch my breath. He’d hand me the water and I would chug the glass as he gently place the wet towel on my forehead.
After a few minutes he would pat my shoulder and smile. “What ever’s in there,” he would say. “Will always stay in there, no matter how real it might seem.” The words always seemed to comfort me, not because of any logic that dad spoke with but because of how he said it, like he understood from some sense of familiarity. The words were like a promise to me, that he would protect me from my own nightmares.
Needless to say, when I moved out I left with some anxiety.
“Are you family of the deceased?” I jumped slightly in my seat, heart racing from the sudden voice from behind me.
“I am. And you are?” I saw an older man, uncut facial hair that grew to the base of his neck. Around the man’s eyes were layered wrinkles that shouted wisdom back at me. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, gray streaks following the strands across his temples. He shifted his weight to his back leg and pulled his black leather jacket, revealing a badge. And a gun.
“Detective Louis Gatts.” He tipped an invisible hat to me. “I’m guessing you are the deceased’s son.” I nodded. He continued. “I was the detective assigned to your father’s case.” He stuck out his hand. His nails were stained underneath. “Call me Louie.”
I shook. “Jonathan.” I said, still getting used to another person being in such a personal place and interrupting my thoughts. “Can I help you with something?”
“Do you know how your father died, son?” The man’s voice shook from old age. My brow furrowed and I gave a slight sigh. I didn’t like where this was going.
“I figured it was a fatal heart attack, Detective.” Louie grimaced at the formal title, a proper response for calling me ‘son.’
“Jonathan,” the man said, spreading his legs slightly like he was carrying something heavy. He rubbed his wrinkled forehead with a heavy sigh. “Your father was strangled to death.”
A familiar cold sweat overwhelmed my body as the words leaked across the yard. My heart began to race. And an overpowering urge to scream boiled within my gut.
But in silence all I could do was stare into the forest that sat just outside of the fenced yard, waiting to see red or yellow eyes, staring back at me.
August 04, 2010
What the Scholar is Reading...
I enjoy reading, just as any writer should. Because of this I've decided to let the reader know what books I'm working my way through. When I finish the novel I will write a brief review of that novel's style, characters, world building, narrative distance, and any other detail that I feel needs to be discussed.
It never hurts to review what we read. It helps us look passed the playtime that comes with a good book and study what made the writing tick.
It never hurts to review what we read. It helps us look passed the playtime that comes with a good book and study what made the writing tick.
July 31, 2010
When Life Seems Rage-Worthy Make Rage-Worthy Lemonade
So I spent the majority of the day strolling through the internet and found a true story that really irked me. It was about a young couple who decide to go to college together across the nation (California to be exact). These new students get their dorm rooms and find out that they don't life close together.
The story takes a downturn from here, as the narrator (the boyfriend) says the girl's Residence Assistant was an attractive male. The story continues its rage-filled fall with events that sum up to the narrator finding he had been cheated on and thusly beating the snot out of the attractive male RA.
Now, when I finished reading this I felt my blood boiling and put myself in the narrators shoes. I certainly felt the desire to beat the asshole within an inch of his life. But I also looked passed that and saw a lonely and regret-filled path that awaited when the rage subsided.
It wasn't a good feeling.
So what if the attention was turned to the girl? Maybe to win her back, or reason with her? Well, the evidence was there when the now ex-girlfriend rushed to the aide of the pulverized hot-shot RA. It was the final blow to the emotional cocktail that had been brewing since I had started to read the story and it spoke the truth to me in a single, defining moment:
The only thing the boy could do was survive the agony and move on.
Now, I don't know if he did do this, or if he went on a violent rampage instead, but what I do know is that the people who posted responses all agreed that tearing the asshole a new, well, asshole was the most satisfying choice. (Notice how I didn't say best, but I digress.)
What got my gears grinding even more was how this simple story rang true for all those different people who read it. In other words, there had to be a common denominator with everyone who read it to react in the same rage-filled way. For me, it hit hard because I felt the loss the man felt, and was drawn into sharing those emtions with him. The question, then, is how did I understand and sympathize?
The answer is pretty simple: it was because I, along with every other man that read the story, had at one point in their life known loneliness or feared their lover would be taken away by a better man.
So how does this relate to writing? Pretty directly, in fact.
Every story wants to inspire an emotional reaction in the reader -- to feel what the character is feeling. Its pretty impossible to do this when the basis of the emotion is something no one can relate to.
In the case of this sad story, the foundation of the emotion wasn't rage, but a concentrated dosage of a fear becoming real. Of course there was sadness in there, but that was after the boy had lost the girl.
So, when writing, think about the emotions that should be emmenating from it (if its genuine then they'll be there but sometime we emulate it). Even in the most distraught and cataclysmically destroyed person, the emotion will still have a logical flow to it. Does your story make sense emotionally?
Do what I did with the rage-worthy story: put yourself in the character's shoes and feel the emotions. How would you react? Does it match your character's reaction?
If not then it might be time to fix up the story because when you feel the emotion then so will the reader.
The story takes a downturn from here, as the narrator (the boyfriend) says the girl's Residence Assistant was an attractive male. The story continues its rage-filled fall with events that sum up to the narrator finding he had been cheated on and thusly beating the snot out of the attractive male RA.
Now, when I finished reading this I felt my blood boiling and put myself in the narrators shoes. I certainly felt the desire to beat the asshole within an inch of his life. But I also looked passed that and saw a lonely and regret-filled path that awaited when the rage subsided.
It wasn't a good feeling.
So what if the attention was turned to the girl? Maybe to win her back, or reason with her? Well, the evidence was there when the now ex-girlfriend rushed to the aide of the pulverized hot-shot RA. It was the final blow to the emotional cocktail that had been brewing since I had started to read the story and it spoke the truth to me in a single, defining moment:
The only thing the boy could do was survive the agony and move on.
Now, I don't know if he did do this, or if he went on a violent rampage instead, but what I do know is that the people who posted responses all agreed that tearing the asshole a new, well, asshole was the most satisfying choice. (Notice how I didn't say best, but I digress.)
What got my gears grinding even more was how this simple story rang true for all those different people who read it. In other words, there had to be a common denominator with everyone who read it to react in the same rage-filled way. For me, it hit hard because I felt the loss the man felt, and was drawn into sharing those emtions with him. The question, then, is how did I understand and sympathize?
The answer is pretty simple: it was because I, along with every other man that read the story, had at one point in their life known loneliness or feared their lover would be taken away by a better man.
So how does this relate to writing? Pretty directly, in fact.
Every story wants to inspire an emotional reaction in the reader -- to feel what the character is feeling. Its pretty impossible to do this when the basis of the emotion is something no one can relate to.
In the case of this sad story, the foundation of the emotion wasn't rage, but a concentrated dosage of a fear becoming real. Of course there was sadness in there, but that was after the boy had lost the girl.
So, when writing, think about the emotions that should be emmenating from it (if its genuine then they'll be there but sometime we emulate it). Even in the most distraught and cataclysmically destroyed person, the emotion will still have a logical flow to it. Does your story make sense emotionally?
Do what I did with the rage-worthy story: put yourself in the character's shoes and feel the emotions. How would you react? Does it match your character's reaction?
If not then it might be time to fix up the story because when you feel the emotion then so will the reader.
July 29, 2010
Like Clockwork
This was something I had written roughly five years ago. I was digging through old projects and found a flash fiction that was built off of a pun. Hope you like it.
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I entered the courtyard and paused to take in the beautiful site of the lush green trees and clear blue sky. I took a deep breath and started to walk again. I could feel the carpet of grass collapse underneath my footsteps. As I moved closer to the center of the large courtyard I started to hear a dull grinding sound. To my surprise, I saw a moving circular platform, rotating around a large clock. A top the platform stood a man, dressed in thick green-stained leather. He was holding a rifle.
"Who are you?" I asked, still looking around at the garden.
"I'm one of the guards hired to protect this clock." The man said, obviously proud of his duty as he continued to stand at attention. I chuckled a bit.
"So you work here?"
"Yes."
"Around this clock?" I asked.
"Yes."
I laughed again and started to walk away from the odd, rotating soldier.
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I entered the courtyard and paused to take in the beautiful site of the lush green trees and clear blue sky. I took a deep breath and started to walk again. I could feel the carpet of grass collapse underneath my footsteps. As I moved closer to the center of the large courtyard I started to hear a dull grinding sound. To my surprise, I saw a moving circular platform, rotating around a large clock. A top the platform stood a man, dressed in thick green-stained leather. He was holding a rifle.
"Who are you?" I asked, still looking around at the garden.
"I'm one of the guards hired to protect this clock." The man said, obviously proud of his duty as he continued to stand at attention. I chuckled a bit.
"So you work here?"
"Yes."
"Around this clock?" I asked.
"Yes."
I laughed again and started to walk away from the odd, rotating soldier.
Atlantica
This is from a game I've been dabbling in for the last few weeks called Atlantica Online. Its an MMORPG, small compared to others out there but a nice package for what it offers as a free-to-play game.
The story came from a dream I had about the game. Enjoy.
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In the end there was nine. We were a small band of soldiers that had discovered our talents by way of coincidence. It was by chance that I had met the other eight and when we had traversed the world we forced humanity's hand to recognize us as the best.
I still remember the dream, even though countless years had passed. The three beautiful women, each representing a different part of divinity. I remember their beauty almost as intensely as I remember their wings.
Leonidas, the legendary Spartan, decided he belonged in the Colosseum. No one could argue the choice. As time went on I began to hear his name in rumors and small-talk with passing merchants until finally Leonidas had become the Grand Champion. It was what was expected from a man who was born to be the most brutal warrior.
Naruk, the young druid, decided it was best to go back to his forest. Most of the nine made fun of him, teasing Naruk of the selfish child-like decision to go back home. But, when the laughs had stopped, I saw a glimpse of anguish in the young boy's eyes. Something was wrong with his home. Thinking back on it now I should gone with him. We sent Naruk on his way and I've kept him in my prayers since.
Zhu Rong, the beast trainer mistress, returned to her teacher, Nari. I've seen her a few times in my travels through West India. She seemed to be doing fine and I didn't feel the need to ask.
Da Vinci, a good friend of mine, returned to Europe, this time with a fellow technician, Oichi the gunner. Da Vinci wanted to change warfare so it would never again cost a human life, a task that seemed less daunting since the man learned a lot from Henry Ford's factory. He lives in Italy now, though I haven't seen him since my last visit to the southern countries of Europe.
Okuni, the shaman priestess, had set aside her staff and picked up the broom, opening up a halfway house for travellers. I didn't know this when we had departed but awkwardly found out when I stumbled into her new Inn just west of Japan. She and I had been intimate for a short time, it didn't end well and we haven't talked since.
Kim Yoo Shin, the Hwarang tactician, returned to his post in the Korean military and quickly rose to the rank of commanding General. I heard stories of the fearless Kim Yoo Shin in handfuls of taverns once in a while. It seems like he has the same immense intelligence that I remember. I pray often that it doesn't consume him.
Then there was Dharma, an old and very wise monk whose advice I would often regard first, before anyone Else's. He returned to a Buddhist temple just outside of the Yellow River and once again began his journey towards enlightenment.
But it was months later that I had heard he was found dead in his meditation chamber. They said his body was lifeless, that it was his time and he let up his spirit on his own accord. Some younger monks said he had finally achieved enlightenment. I hoped that he did as well but the travelling monks that had told me just shook their heads with sadness and continued on down the path.
As for me, I set aside my cannon and wrapped my calloused hands around a walking stick, changed my name from Brahe to Herab, becoming a wandering merchant specializing in medicine and dried foods.
I liked my new life, it was something that I had needed to do since the nine had given up on Atlantis. I was world-weary but knew that I had more to learn. The choice was a way for me to keep the lifestyle without having to keep the bloodshed.
And even when I heard news of an army building near Berlin I felt that I was far enough removed from the world that I could turn the other cheek and wait through the storm.
But, when I also heard the mighty Kim Yoo Shin was defeated in battle I was torn back into reality and begun to fear for the young man's life. It was only fate when he fell through the door at Okuni's Inn, drenched in blood and filth, barely able to stand but staring at me through red-stained eyes. Kim collapsed to the floor, panting wildly, speaking with fear of a demon army. Okuni and I ran to his side, her experienced hands taking over the mending of his broken body.
I watched her work but was lost in the haze of the moment. My mind was stuck in the future, guessing on what young Kim Yoo Shin was trying to say. Passed Okuni I saw my walking stick and for the first time in years tried to remember where I had put my cannon.
The story came from a dream I had about the game. Enjoy.
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In the end there was nine. We were a small band of soldiers that had discovered our talents by way of coincidence. It was by chance that I had met the other eight and when we had traversed the world we forced humanity's hand to recognize us as the best.
I still remember the dream, even though countless years had passed. The three beautiful women, each representing a different part of divinity. I remember their beauty almost as intensely as I remember their wings.
Leonidas, the legendary Spartan, decided he belonged in the Colosseum. No one could argue the choice. As time went on I began to hear his name in rumors and small-talk with passing merchants until finally Leonidas had become the Grand Champion. It was what was expected from a man who was born to be the most brutal warrior.
Naruk, the young druid, decided it was best to go back to his forest. Most of the nine made fun of him, teasing Naruk of the selfish child-like decision to go back home. But, when the laughs had stopped, I saw a glimpse of anguish in the young boy's eyes. Something was wrong with his home. Thinking back on it now I should gone with him. We sent Naruk on his way and I've kept him in my prayers since.
Zhu Rong, the beast trainer mistress, returned to her teacher, Nari. I've seen her a few times in my travels through West India. She seemed to be doing fine and I didn't feel the need to ask.
Da Vinci, a good friend of mine, returned to Europe, this time with a fellow technician, Oichi the gunner. Da Vinci wanted to change warfare so it would never again cost a human life, a task that seemed less daunting since the man learned a lot from Henry Ford's factory. He lives in Italy now, though I haven't seen him since my last visit to the southern countries of Europe.
Okuni, the shaman priestess, had set aside her staff and picked up the broom, opening up a halfway house for travellers. I didn't know this when we had departed but awkwardly found out when I stumbled into her new Inn just west of Japan. She and I had been intimate for a short time, it didn't end well and we haven't talked since.
Kim Yoo Shin, the Hwarang tactician, returned to his post in the Korean military and quickly rose to the rank of commanding General. I heard stories of the fearless Kim Yoo Shin in handfuls of taverns once in a while. It seems like he has the same immense intelligence that I remember. I pray often that it doesn't consume him.
Then there was Dharma, an old and very wise monk whose advice I would often regard first, before anyone Else's. He returned to a Buddhist temple just outside of the Yellow River and once again began his journey towards enlightenment.
But it was months later that I had heard he was found dead in his meditation chamber. They said his body was lifeless, that it was his time and he let up his spirit on his own accord. Some younger monks said he had finally achieved enlightenment. I hoped that he did as well but the travelling monks that had told me just shook their heads with sadness and continued on down the path.
As for me, I set aside my cannon and wrapped my calloused hands around a walking stick, changed my name from Brahe to Herab, becoming a wandering merchant specializing in medicine and dried foods.
I liked my new life, it was something that I had needed to do since the nine had given up on Atlantis. I was world-weary but knew that I had more to learn. The choice was a way for me to keep the lifestyle without having to keep the bloodshed.
And even when I heard news of an army building near Berlin I felt that I was far enough removed from the world that I could turn the other cheek and wait through the storm.
But, when I also heard the mighty Kim Yoo Shin was defeated in battle I was torn back into reality and begun to fear for the young man's life. It was only fate when he fell through the door at Okuni's Inn, drenched in blood and filth, barely able to stand but staring at me through red-stained eyes. Kim collapsed to the floor, panting wildly, speaking with fear of a demon army. Okuni and I ran to his side, her experienced hands taking over the mending of his broken body.
I watched her work but was lost in the haze of the moment. My mind was stuck in the future, guessing on what young Kim Yoo Shin was trying to say. Passed Okuni I saw my walking stick and for the first time in years tried to remember where I had put my cannon.
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