Writing Explorations: Week 78, How Var We'll Go

[The Mood is Write]

My Writing Explorations series of exercises are a chance for users to explore new concepts and practice the art of raising two fingers to Writer's Block while screaming obscenities to fickle muses: to rebel against the idea that a person requires a mythical force inside them to make new and amazing things.

No. Listen well, users: there is no being inside you waiting to be let out. You are the writer, and in this exercise, you are given a place to push not only against Writer's Block, but also against the forces of stagnation. Feel trapped in your genre? Explore a new one! Stuck with a singular archetype? Do something else! In this thread, you will not be critiqued unless you request it. Should you wish it, I will happily offer my thoughts on how it might be improved, but I will not comb looking for fixes: this isn't the place: this place is for safely trying new things and indulging a love of writing.

Shake the bars of your cell block and roar, writers!

[fieldbox=How do I take part?]You can write to one or more (or none) of the prompts, the theme in the thread title, the bonuses—hell, you can even cast aside all of what I offer if you get a different idea.

The whole point is "get writing!"[/fieldbox]

Prompts:

1. Someone is entrapped and forced to silently witness horrors beyond counting. Good fortune finds this scarred soul eventually freed.
2. A faithful servant vows to protect their master from the abuses the master suffers, but soon takes part in the same acts they vowed to protect their master from.
3. There exists a link between two characters: a master and a servant. The servant feels the master's every emotion, and the master cedes control to the will of the servant.
4. There exists a golem forged from primeval forces and upgraded first by hoodoo and then through a technomage. This golem's programming is complex enough that it possesses emotions, and its intelligence rises and wanes to compensate for the possibility of bonding to those not its master.

Bonus Rounds:

• Write in a random genre.
• His love roared louder than her demons.
• He felt, suddenly, that the center of this man's attention was a very bad place to be.
• "You save everyone, but who saves you?"
• He would have wept, had he the ability.
• "He is a weapon. A killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature."
• "I was born for companionship, baby!"

 

[Ravenfrost]

(Hey there, Moody! Using some key phrases – highlighted - from your last several exercises. Quick and dirty, I'm afraid and not using prompts, but ...)


"I'm way too sober for this." Commander Bicky looked with dread at the neatly packaged but bulky document on his desk that had just been hand-delivered by special courier.

Agent Lovbetter never handed in a brief report with just the facts. It was always a fucking book! Because the man never "just" terminated a threat or "just" carried out his assignment and walked away. No. Their best agent had to explore every piece of a puzzle, pursue every loose end, ferret out every secret, chase suspects down every alley and byway—which, on one hand was commendable, but, on the other hand gave Bicky a throbbing headache.

The haggard man sighed, reaching for a half-empty bottle of his best scotch to help him cushion the onslaught of words, and prepared to have several hours of his life simply suctioned away.

Lovbetter's mission had been simple: Infiltrate the corrupt god regime on the planet Nizzbipple and report back on what he discovered. Not make crucial decisions. Not stalk every supposed threat. Not resolve the situation singlehandedly.

Luckily, the agency had moles and friendlies within the death god faction. As his cover, Lovbetter was engaged to the nubile young death goddess JanJaVa. Which would push him into the heart of their society. Of course, Lovbetter protested vehemently.

"I can't marry her! She'd kill me within a week!"

[Mortals were unable to withstand constant contact with a death god. No matter how pure the intention, how loving the relationship, their life force was sucked out of them, day by day, via the deity's energy field.

The Commander remembered when a distant cousin of his, Merry, had emigrated and then married a death deity. He had only visited her and her husband once, and then, very very briefly. He still remembered the wailing cry of her four-year old: "Dad! Mom died again!"

Bicky shuddered. Dreadful thing, that. Luckily, the family had been able to afford the services of a resurrection deity they had on retainer.]

"Coward!" Lovbetter's immediate superior had curled his lip at Lovbetter's protestation and sniped at him. "I expected a little more backbone from one of our agents. But suddenly you don't have what it takes? Or there is something in this assignment that impinges on a personal issue?"

Lovbetter had bristled back at him immediately, "How many times have I died for you? And you still question my loyalty!?!"

The Commander flipped over the introductory pages quickly, hoping to not actually read an account of the brawl that had ensued, and thus be able to claim ignorance of it, if later asked.

He continued to skim the document: the infiltration by Lovbetter into the gods' society, the blossoming attraction between the handsome agent and the gorgeous young death goddess, and Lovbetter's race against time to extract the needed information and return to HQ in one piece before all life was sucked out of him.

The Commander nodded in satisfaction over the intel that Lovbetter had gathered on a splinter group of radical demigods but frowned mightily upon reading how Lovbetter had interacted with his "fiancée" and her relatives to prevent a coup. Damn the man! He was on thin ice now. Luckily (as the Commander had reason to know), it had all turned out well for the Agency, but disciplinary measures would have to be taken. Proper procedure was not to be taken lightly!

He had expected that to be the end of the report, but no.

Bicky instinctively shuddered inside. What had their agent done THIS time?!

Oh hell. Lovbetter had decided to go native... No, no, no! This was terrible.

Bicky clenched his teeth and continued to read an account of a duel between Lovbetter and the young goddess's stepmother, Fryl. It was during the betrothal ball, and Fryl, the squirrel-tressed goddess of demons, deliberately insulted Lovbetter's fiancée by twisting the pronunciation of JanJaVa into something obscene.

Goaded beyond endurance by Fryl over a course of several weeks, Lovbetter had exploded: "I'll shoot the next bastard that mispronounces her name!"

Unfortunately, under an obscure rule of etiquette among the gods, this gave rise to Fryl's right to ask for an immediate duel. Whereby the bitch got to call the terms of weapons. Fryl had suspected that Lovbetter was no godling. Her edict? They were both to simply call on their powers, sit back, and let their avatars duke it out for them. And if things got a little out of hand? Fryl smirked to herself. Well then. A corpse or two shouldn't upset the death god faction, should it?

Tossing her squirrel-entwined green and glossy hair over one shoulder, Fryl postured in the ballroom, making a fine show of it. She writhed suggestively in her long clinging poison-purple gown and flung her dagger-tipped hands wide. "I call upon the power of demons. Come forth, my minions!"

A dark noxious cloud appeared and five appallingly ugly demons with fiery gaping jaws appeared, eager for battle.

Lovbetter gently pushed away his weeping fiancée, the blonde beauty JanJaVa, and then he bravely faced Fryl and her demons.

"I call upon the power of love!" he shouted, his pale face stern, his dark hair curling over his silk collar, blue eyes intense and unafraid.

Logically, he should have died within seconds. Minutes, if the demons were feeling playful.

But, his love roared louder than her demons.

His voice sent everyone present to their knees, gods or no gods, writhing in a kind of religious ecstasy (as some described it). The demons turned into little pink and green kittens and licked Fryl's helpless face.

JanJaVa was the only one that wasn't overcome. She ran to him and flung her arms around her lover. "Oh my darling, I didn't know you were truly one of us!" she whispered.

Commander Bicky spat up a mouthful of his best scotch.

"No one should wield that kind of power with just their voice!" He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and cursed at the ceiling for several minutes.

Apparently, there hadn't been a new deity of love created in eons. The god regime went wild with rejoicing. Lovbetter and JanJaVa were voted in as rulers of the planet. And Lovbetter had tendered his resignation to the Agency due to "a conflict of duties."

The Commander threw the report across the room and sank his face in his hands momentarily. He was getting too old for this kind of thing. It was no longer the good old days. Agents were doing crazier and crazier things. The universe was too damn complicated. He'd retire early and focus on his golf game.

Bicky perked up at the thought and then smiled. Lovbetter owed him, damn it, for all the times the Commander had looked the other way after his agent bent the rules. What a little "god power" couldn't do to his clubs, eh? Bicky sat back, put his feet up on his desk, and finished the bottle of scotch. Life could be good again.

 

[PoetLore]

She woke up feeling groggy. The cold was what penetrated her foggy mind first and then the feeling of being restrained. She jerked and struggled but soon ceased. She could not move and attempting to do so only made the restraints tighter and more painful.

She canned the room for some clue as to where she might be. There was what appeared to be a stone slab not far from her, and there was a large hearth beyond that and odd things hanging from above her that she could not quite make out. If only she had her sword, she could be free in a moment. How did she get here? Who was behind this?

As if she had called him on cue, a tall man entered the room. He wore the vestments of a cleric, but she knew no one of that order would hold another hostage against their will. But then a flash of memory, of a cleric being attacked by dark forces. She had fought beside him...trying to save him.

He looked up at her and there was nothing there in those eyes but ice and disdain. "You save everyone, but who saves you?" He stripped away the cleric's vestment and then bowed to her. "We meet again Highness."

"Merchande." she hissed out.

"Just so."

"Why have you brought me here?"

" You have thwarted my steps at every turn. Now you will watch, as I do what I will. If you speak one word, they will suffer more."

Her hatred had never burned so hot as it did that day. Her words were foul toward him, and full of venom and threat. But as time passed and she was forced to watch as innocent men and women were mangled, tortured and experimented upon her ability to do anything but weep within left her. As days became weeks and weeks months, she lost all hope of ever being free. She tried to starve herself but he would threaten to hurt others if she refused. Nothing seemed real anymore. Her life was full of horrible images she could not banish even when she closed her eyes. Her only reprieve was that he required rest, and it was at those times that she wept openly and bitterly at the cruelty and for the lives of those poor souls that perished by his hand.

However, her faithful knights never stopped seeking for her. They scoured the countryside and eventually heard tales of people disappearing in a certain village. Perhaps their Queen was one of them.

They also knew of Merchande and his viciousness, but had never been able to capture him. Until a young boy told them he had seen a man carrying a woman over his shoulders into a dark cave. They were sure they had found him. The boy led them to the cave and was paid handsomely. They entered the cave and found Merchande slicing a young man's head off slowly. The first to enter ran his sword through the villain's chest and yanked him away from the young man violently. The second Knight stabbed his sword into Merchande's neck and held him against the wall.

The first Sir Herrick turned to the lad and attempted to save his life, but it was too late. he sighed and closed the lad's eyes and said a silent prayer for him. When he lifted his head he saw her hanging by chains and heavy cords on the wall. He ran around the slab and cut the cords and called for a great axe. With heavy blows he broke the chains and she crumbled to the ground unable to stand at all. "My Queen..." he said as tears filled his eyes. "Forgive me. I have failed you."

His tears touched should have touched her but she could not feel anything anymore. She had not spoken in so long her voice sounded strange to her own ears. "You have not, Sir Herrick. You have not."

He scooped her up and carried her from that place determined to heal her and see her restored to the vibrant passionate woman he had pledged fealty to and for whom he was willing to die. She was not the same for a long time. But he was patient in the midst of it all, urging her to remember her life was hers to live now.

Her nightmares were constant and came to her even during her waking hours. But his love roared louder than her demons, and his patience never faltered nor did his support. She was scarred, that much was true. But she did emerge once more to rule with great compassion and justice, with a certain former Knight at her side.