r/PostPrototypes

Adrian laughed.

“Yeah. His name is Jeff.”

Darren narrowed his eyes. “Are you mocking me?”

“No! I actually named him Jeff.”

The sharpshooter scoffed at that, Pinpoint slung over his shoulder.

“The name of a guardian’s weapon is to be taken extremely seriously. It’s a unique reflection of the very magic composing it and you called it Jeff?!”

“I was like, 14 then! I kinda just thought it was funny, you know?”

Darren sighed. “What does Jeff do, then?”

Adrian raised his sword as it resonated with great energy.

“Today’s your lucky day. You get to see a live demonstration!”

The guardians approached the headless godborn. It appeared to have a humanoid figure and was riding on a horse. According to Darren, it was a dullahan, a rare and deadly species of godborn. Nevertheless, this was what Adrian had travelled the world for. He was sure of it.

Darren opened fire on the dullahan, raining down homing bullets on the beast. It lashed the air with its spinal whip, trying unsuccessfully to parry. Sensing an opening, Adrian stabbed his sword into the ground and channeled its power.

A line of ivory spikes jutted out of the ground from the blade towards the dullahan. One of the stalagmites managed to impale its body, pinning it in place. It struggled uselessly, flailing around with its whip.

“Keep your distance!” yelled Darren. “There’s no telling what that whip can do!”

“Calm down! I’ve got this.”

Adrian simply pointed Jeff at the creature and its blade extended in an instant, penetrating its skull. One dullahan, dead.

“I don’t get it. What does Jeff do?”

As the dullahan melted away, its eburdoreum whip stayed intact, rushing to Adrian’s sword like paper clips to a magnet.

“Our weapons are built from godbone, each with its own domain, fire, sky, wisdom. Jeff was forged from the bones of the skeleton god.” Adrian said as the sword and whip merged into one. “And that’s what makes him the strongest of them all.”

Man I think we all are. I wrote this while being immensely sleep deprived

Thanks! I suppose in my head when trying to frame this world, Grym was something like the genesis to humanity - older than most other entities in the universe and looking for anything to be his equal, even if only in one skill or task.

[removed]

Bro I- bro... I'm too high for this shit. XD

Great writing! Hope you continue!

This response slaps! I really am interested in what sort of being Grym is too.

"To be fair, my lord, the dragon did slay."

​

"SO WHAT?!" said the king, frothing at the mouth. His drool dropped down on the floor in front of the wooden throne where he was sitting.

​

"Well, there was slaying taking place. Maybe not of the sort you imagined, but it did occur."

​

"The fuck is this? Fab 5?!" said the king.

​

"No, but if it was they would agree with me. And believe me, this dragon did NOT need a make over of any kind so I don't even see why the Fab 5 would be here."

​

"Heeeeey queen!" a voice said. It came from the entrance to the king's hall. Both the knight and the king looked at the entrance. A man with long hair and a skirt had opened the doors to the hall and he was catwalking towards the king and the knight. His hair was flowing in the wind, even though there was no wind. He was followed by four men, all catwalking. A thumping music filled the giant hall of the king. "All things, all things, all things just keep getting better" somebody was singing. It was not the five men singing it. The sining voice and the music seemed to seep into the hall from the very stone in holding the walls and ceiling up. Suddenly the men stopped in front of the king and the knight holding his human-dragon baby. The music and the singing stopped too."We're here to make the knight ready for the night," said the man with the long hair. All the men cheered. One of them walked up to the baby. He had a wide brimmed hat and glasses.

​

"O.M.G., so cuuute," he said. He held out his finger and let the baby hold it. "Hi, my name is Karamo," the man said.

​

"Who are you?!" said the king, standing up.

​

"We're the Fab 5, of course!" said the man with the long hair. "I'm Jonathan, that's Karamo who's saying hello to the baby, that's Anthony, that's Bobby, that's Tan. You called our names and here we are!"

​

"You said something about my knight earlier?"

​

"Yas queen!"

​

"I'm no queen! How dare you mistake me for the weaker sex?"

​

"Oh my god, feminism much?" said Jonathan.

​

The dragon-human baby burped and accidentally burned Karamo's finger off. "Oh my god, guys, look" Karamo said as he held up the charred stump where his index finger used to be. "The baby totally burned my finger off!"

​

The Fab 5 all awwed at the baby and the stump.

​

"That baby is an abomination! It must be slaughtered, like a pig! And you, Fab 5, I shall give you the mercy of not killing you - if you leave IMMEDIATELY. We do not want cross-dressing men here!"

​

"Queens, should we get rid of him so that we can focus Sir Knight here?" said Bobby.

​

"Yaas, let's go!" said Tan.

​

Anthony snapped his fingers and the king exploded in a cloud of red, blue and green glitter.

​

"So," said Karamo, "We're here to help you with a make over. Can we talk to you?"

​

"Yeah, sure!" said the knight.

​

They all sat down in a circle on the floor. The human-dragon baby was passed around and cuddled with by all the Fab 5.

​

"It must be hard working for that king," said Karamo.

​

"Yes. He always ordered me to kill a bunch of dragons. I did it the first time. But it hurt me so bad and it still haunts me today. I really need help etting over that because it was a dark period of my life. It did'y get better until I got this little fella," he said and pointed at his baby that Tan was currently holding and playing with.

​

"And what about food? Do you cook?" said Anthony.

​

"No, not really. I never have time. I'm always off to war and stuff."

​

"If you're always off to war, do you, like, never wear fancy clothes?" said Tan.

​

"Never. I'm always in this armour. I never feel happy or sexy in it.

​

"Can you take off you helmet so I can see your hair?" said Jonathan.

​

The knight took off his helmet and his greasy hair fell down to his shoulders. Jonathan started touching it.

​

"So what does your house look like?" said Bobby.

​

"I have no house. I live in the military quarters with a bunch of men."

​

"Woooooo!" said the Fab 5 simultaneously.

​

"No, not like that guys," said he knight. "I do have my love and she's a dragon."

​

"Sure she is! She's got to be HOT!" said Tan.

​

"Absolutely!" said the knight. "Just ask Karamo!"

​

Karamo held up his charred finger and they all laughed. Karamo later got sick because the finger wound was infected. They all ended up at the medieval ER where they all got infected by all sorts of diseases. Then they all died.

​

​

PS! Thanks to Affectionate_Bit_722 for the funny prompt!

I want to know who the traitor is, is it a human soul or a demon who betrayed hell, or a angel who betrayed heaven and was banished?

Annihalatus stomped down the marble halls of his lair, each footstep echoing out as if it was the only chance of mercy to whoever would step in his way. He was known to be ruthless but cunning. He was incredibly aggressive and powerful but had more than enough intelligence to back it up. His power was that he was able to shift earth, minerals, metals, and stone to his will and owned a massive mining and steel company as his legitimate business.

Standing at a imposing 8’6 with a powerful build resembling more of a golem than a person, Annihilatus marched down the hallway into the meeting room. His metallic power armor covered him from his toes to his neck with a stone mask obscuring his face. As soon as he entered he heard the snickering and not so hidden jeering of his comrades in evil. Though bald, Annihaltus sported various dry erase marker drawings his daughter had created as well as “customizing” his power suit with drawings of her father ruling the world and fighting people to death and most importantly, glitter…lots of glitter.

Annihilatus narrowed his eyes behind his mask which everyone understood as a command of silence. “If anyone has an issue with my beloved daughter learning to be creative and expressing herself please step forward” his trench deep voice rang out to the council who all collectively decided that today. just like everyday, was a bad day to challenge him and decided to remain seated.

As the meeting started most of the snickering ceased or at least an attempt was made to make it less audible. They ran over their meeting last minutes but a villain three seats down from Annihilatus started cracking up and through tears said “I I I I I’m so sorry but I just can’t do it. I just can’t take you seriously”. Annihilatus shifted his gaze towards the villain “Firestorm is it? You ignite the oxygen around you to create fire is that correct?”

The relatively new villain from Arizona was well tanned and had slicked back black hair and wore a plan white shirt with a black jacket was on the ground laughing. Firestorm was only able to give a thumbs up in agreement as he gasped for air. Annihilatus calmly marched towards firestorm and grabbed him firmly by the throat, his hand reaching all the way around his neck. “Here’s a free chemistry lesson for you. Now tell me firestorm. What are the three components to keep a fire alight?”. Firestorm in a panicked voice tried to mutter out “I don’t know” as Annihilatus’s grip squeezed tighter. “A fire needs three things to stay alight, Heat, Fuel, and Oxygen”.

“Now tell me Firestorm. Do you know what happens when any of those three things are removed from the equation?” Gasping for air as his throat is totally collapsed, Firestorm begins to try to pry Annihilatus’s hands off his neck. “A fire is extinguished, that’s right. Fire needs oxygen just as much as you do. Isn’t that right Firestorm?”

Moments away from blacking out Firestorm is resorting to trying to use his powers to burn Annihilatus’s iron hand so he will release him. Annihilatus unfazed by the flames attempting to burn him puts a little extra pressure on the spinal cord before dropping the near unconscious villain to the ground with a heavy thud.

Firestorm begins gulping down as much air as he can on the floor as Annihilatus looms next to him like a Monolith. Annihilatus reaches down to the disobedient villain and pick him up by his collarbone to eye level and says “If you ever think about making fun of my daughters excellent artwork again, just remember our little chemistry lesson” and drops him back onto the floor.

Annihaltus walks back to his chair as if none of the previous moments had transpired and there wasn’t a man gasping for air and mewling in pain on the ground. He motions his hand to signal for the meeting to continue and it goes off without another distraction.

This is excellent. Truly excellent.

"We're meant to fight for our lives out here," Pieter said to the convict next to him. "They tell us valor will win us freedom, but we all know how this is going to end. We're cannon fodder. Nothing but trash for them to toss away as their nobles steal the credit."

Maximillian - called Maxi in the cells - didn't bother to argue. No one knew about his background. Now that they were out on a battlefield, there was even less reason to explain it to anyone. If he was going to get shot, he wanted it to be in the front, not the back.

All of the chaos, however, was a sobering experience. For nobles, war was always a sport. A privilege that you earned, not a risk. Nobles were never the ones dying, and after spending three months in trenches with a penal battalion Maximillian understood that it was by design. Nobles didn't want to be the ones manning artillery or shooting rifles across No Man's Land or running through eighteen year olds with bayonets. They wanted to be the tide-turners. The backbreakers. The people who would win the war and march home to thunderous applause and adoration.

Maximillian couldn't really blame them, though. He was a noble. After spending a month in jail, two months in army training, and three months in the misery that came after, he realized that man's greatest motivation is to prevent themselves from dying as long as possible. He had never changed from his mindset as a noble, he just hadn't been aware enough in the past to understand what his thoughts actually were.

"Enough of that gibbering, Pieter," another convict, Marko, said. He was the "officer" of Maximillian's squad. A group that had started as twenty men, now reduced to eight. "The Ponties-" soldiers loved their slurs - "are going to attack our position in an hour. You'd better hope the nobles get here in time with those Mounts of theirs, or we're going to be in a world of trouble."

"I'm just stating the obvious here, Marko," Pieter said. His lack of respect existed because Marko was only a de facto leader, forced in that position after the squad's initial "handler" had his organs evicted by an artillery shell. Command still hadn't gotten around to sending a new one.

"Would both of you be quiet?" Maximillian requested. "Goddess above, if you two would stop bickering all of the time maybe we would actually be able to hear them coming before they decide to drop into our hole. Wouldn't that be a blessing?"

Pieter sighed and pulled his canteen off of his belt. He took a swig. "You know, Maxi, I've neen meaning to ask you."

Marko rolled his eyes. "Here we go again."

"What did you even get locked up for in the first place?" Pieter asked earnestly, raising an eyebrow to emphasize the question. It wasn't the first time Maxi was asked, but it was the first time Pieter voiced the inquiry.

Maximillian felt the eyes and ears of other men prick up at the question. No one knew, and everyone who forced the issue wound up getting beaten. "It's not of any import to you," the noble said. "You don't even want to know. I promise."

"That bad, huh?" Pieter said tauntingly. "What, did you touch your-"

Surprisingly, Maximillian hadn't been the one to hit Pieter. "That's enough, you idiot," Marko hissed.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just... your face. You remind me of a nobleman who lorded over the area around my town before I got convicted," Pieter confessed, still catching himself from the smack he had received. "He was such a prick I can't help myself."

Message received, Maximillian thought.

Suddenly, Marko's curiosity was piqued. "Really? Enlighten us, Pieter, since you're so eager to share."

"Constant parties. Women. Alcohol. You name it. He was known for four counties as the greatest hedonist ever, and when he passed through the city he always looked disgusted, like he stepped in shit," Pieter recounted. "Only, the interesting thing about this guy was that he was surprisingly competent. He was great at running the place. The whole time he was in charge peasant taxes were never raised."

"How'd he afford all the parties, then?" Marko asked.

"He taxed the guilds. Shame on him, though, because that got him axed. Apparently the rich bastards didn't like all of his hijinks so they assassinated him and replaced him with one of his daughters. Her name was Penelope, I think."

Marko snickered. "How'd she do?"

"I didn't stick around long enough to find out. I got caught stabbing a guy for groping a barmaid and look where I wound up," Pieter ended his tale. "No good deed goes unpunished, I'll tell you that."

"Amen," Marko said. "What do you think, Maxi? Is Pieter making this up or-"

His sentence was cut off by a bullet landing between his feet. For a moment, all eight gathered men just stared at the hole, understanding what it meant but still somehow needing to process it.

"We're under attack!" a man shouted. Maximillian didn't see who said it, but muscle memory sent him flying to cover. He heard bullets starting to fly, and artillery picked up, sending dirt and shrapnel flying overhead. The trench did its job, keeping the inhabitants sheltered from the worst of it.

Another lesson Maximillian learned: Always wear your helmet.

The Ponties came like termites. For every one Maximillian killed, another popped up right behind him. They reached the trench.

Maximillian stabbed one through with his bayonet, and dodged to the side as another thrusted. A swift tackle send both flying into the mud, and he grabbed his opponent by the throat and pushed him into the mud. When the other man stopped moving, he had no idea whether he had killed someone or not.

Soon the Ponties were swarming back, another ten dead or wounded littering the trench and the space right outside it. Marko was grazed by a bullet, and another man shot dead, but the line held.

"Looks like we held it again, boys-" a man started to say. He died.

A Noble Mount wasn't a horse. It was a weapon platform meant to shield a noble from all but the most powerful, devastating weaponry. In an era where bolt-action rifles were still common, the technology necessary for creating one sould have been impossible.

Yet they existed all the same.

The Mount hopped in the trench and crushed a man's head by slamming him against the wall. Marko took one look at it and shouted, "Run!"

They ran. Pieter slipped. Foolishly, Maximillian stopped to help him. If he had kept running, he would have been fine, but somewhere in his heart the noble harbored some affection for the men he shared his filthy hole with. He picked up the fallen convict and took a shot at the Mount, which bounced harmlessly off the helmet.

"Go, go!" Maximillian cried.

A ball of plasma annihilated a wooden beam holding the trench together in front of them. Pieter and Maximillian were left isolated from their comrades with a Mount at their back.

"Done running?" the Mount said, its voice electronic and hollow.

"Goddess above," Pieter cursed.

"Have any grenades on you?" Maximillian asked.

"No. I used the last one. On the Ponties earlier."

"I hope you're ready to die, then."

"Oh, well. I already knew it was coming. I would have liked to kiss one more girl before I died, th-"

The Mount in front of them suddenly stopped. "Wait a minute, you're not supposed to be alive," it said. It took off its helmet, revealing a young woman. She couldn't have been older than sixteen. "Father?"

It wasn't her face that he remembered well. It was her voice. "Penelope?" he asked.

TW: suicidal thoughts, depression

I looked over the dirty comforter that ran between us, barely surprised. I rarely left the bed now a days. I got up to feed Sebastian, my Dane, twice a day. Every once and a while I would get myself a glass of water too, only if I could handle it.

My depression had gotten bad after I lost my father. I was trying to stay alive, my head in a civil war between the light and the dark. The only thing that kept me pushing was Sebastian, and in my spiral, my schizophrenia went unchecked.

My therapist told me that, in addition to pills, it was in my best interest to try and ignore the voices and hallucinations, namely talking to my dog.

Sebastian talked back to me for a long time, and it was hard to realize that it wasn’t him, but me answering. I stopped talking to him with my treatment and he stopped talking back, which in the grand scheme of things this was good, but I missed my conversations with my best friend.

“Why don’t you talk to me anymore?” Seb repeated.

It was a hallucination and I knew that, but misery loves company and I didn’t care enough to control my indulgence.

“I’m not supposed to,” I replied.

“Why not?” He asked

“Because it’s not real,” I said softly, like it would make this small comfort shatter.

“Your right,” he said, surprising me. “It’s not real, it’s you talking to yourself, but why shouldn’t you talk things through with yourself? It helps sometimes, and verbal processing is not unhealthy,”

“Look at me, I haven’t showered in a week, my room is a mess, and the only time I get up is to feed you. I obviously care deeply about how healthy this conversation is.” I said sarcastically.

“You don’t want to get up at all, but you do for me. You care so much about me and you are willing to keep pushing for me. Why not yourself?”

“Because I’m not worth it, but you are.”

“Who in the hell said you weren’t worth it. No one that’s who. It’s you putting it on yourself and believing it. While you feel you are worth nothing, , I am here proving otherwise. You feel like you can’t do anything right now except care for me. You care about me. And I care about you. I don’t care that you havent showered or cleaned up or that you haven’t taken me out or exercised me. I’m still here with you and I always will be. So for me, could you try? Just take a small step. Let’s go sit in the sun in the living room. I can bask and you can taste sunlight again. We can evaluate from there,” he finished.

I started thinking of this dialogue as my dog. That was the only way I could fathom doing this: if it was for him. I couldn’t let him down.

So I stood up, in the clothes I had been wearing for days, and stalked out to the living room Seb at my heels. I sat down in the sun and closed my eyes. I heard a hearty groan and sigh from nearby, and knew that Seb had found his spot.

His heavy head fell into my lap and I began to stroke it, feeling my head begin to quiet. I enjoyed the moment without surplus thought. I just was.

Sebastian led me through small steps back to where I am now. I am not the pinnacle of health, but I am getting better. I still talk to Sebastian now, and even though he doesn’t talk back, I choose to believe that it really was him who pulled me out and helped me back into the world again.

Just lovely.

This was amazing.

I absolutely loved the creative way you introduced the story, and feel you did an amazing job in really fleshing out a heavy tone to match the situation. It was really clever how you explained why the meteorite hadn't been noticed until it was too late.

The last part of the story felt a little rushed once you introduced the fae, but it tracks that the fae only saved the planet for personal reasons. Haha Overall, I enjoyed the read - thanks for posting!

Mood

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

🆕 New Here? ✏ Writing Help? 📢 News 💬 Discord

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.

Loved your writing style! I really liked the idea that even solitary humanoids wouldn't want to die alone if possible.

Statement of Nora Waltz, regarding the impostor in her family.

My brother - Ethan - and I never got along. We loved each other, but we didn't get along. He was always so prim and proper, obsessed with rules and neatness. He'd chide me for not being lady like, and I'd flip him the finger, and we'd argue about it for hours.

When I told him I wanted to be a doctor, he asked me if that meant I'd finally stop dying my hair. It didn't, for the record.

Naturally, we stopped seeing each other as much as we grew older, went to college - Ethan went to law school, because of course he did. I ended up shifting gears a little into becoming a therapist. We only saw each other on Christmas, although we occasionally called for each other's birthdays. It was the usual each time - he'd ask me when I was going to settle down, and I told him I got enough of that from our mother.

Then, last year, he left a voicemail - saying he was worried about something, how he might've gotten some bad attention. It's a bit strange, you see, my brother isn't a criminal lawyer of any kind. He specializes in elder law. It's not a line of work you expect to make enemies in.

I called him back, naturally, and I thought he sounded a little different at the time, but I figured he might've been under some stress. He said it was all fine, nothing to worry about, and he was looking forward to seeing me again on Christmas and I didn't think much of it.

Not until I saw him - him. It. The thing that called itself Ethan Waltz.

My brother was always taller than me - we had the same dark curly hair, although he always kept his shaved close to his head where I just... kind of went wild with it. Ethan used to play basketball, and he looked like it. But the man - the thing - that greeted me and called me 'sis', something Ethan never did, couldn't have been more different from him if it tried.

Shorter, doughy. Freckled, with an unruly blonde mop. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt of all things. I was so confused, I thought this was some weird joke. I looked at my mother to ask her who the hell this was, and she told me to stop being silly.

"Just hug your brother already, Nora," she said, looking at me like I was crazy.

"This isn't Ethan, Mom. For God's sake, he's white."

'Ethan' just laughed, said it was a funny joke 'sis', and did I come up with it on the flight over?

I kept asking where Ethan was, and my parents just got more and more frustrated. Even my Auntie chimed in, asking if I'd spent so long on the West Coast that I couldn't recognise my own brother anymore.

I felt like I was going insane. I started questioning whether they were right. I felt sick. I would like to say I excused myself to the bathroom, but I just kind of pushed past everyone.

I remember splashing some water in my face and thinking very hard about what the hell was happening. My parents weren't the kind of people to pull jokes like this, and my Auntie sure as hell wasn't. She was almost more uptight than Ethan is. Was. I don't know anymore.

"Are you feeling alright, sis?" 'Ethan' said from behind me, and almost making me scream. He was the only person who hadn't gotten frustrated earlier. The more I said he wasn't my brother, the more he smiled and laughed - and he was still smiling now.

It didn't feel like a kind smile. And I told him that. Demanded to know what sick game he was playing. What he'd done to my brother because I knew - I knew damn well he wasn't Ethan.

But it just smiled and laughed. "I really was looking forward to seeing you, Nora. I can't wait until next Christmas."

And then it left me. Just rejoined everyone else like it belonged, and I just... didn't know what to do or say. I couldn't get over any of it. I could tell I was bringing the mood down, but what was I supposed to do? That wasn't my brother but nobody believed me. I was starting not to believe me. Even the family photos Mom had on the mantel all showed him. I just... I thought I was going crazy.

It was only when I got home that I realised I wasn't crazy. I definitely wasn't. Our family went to Disneyland, when I was younger - I was twelve, Ethan was fourteen I think. He hated it, I loved it. We took some of those little polaroid photos - I still had some pinned to my corkboard. And the Ethan there is the Ethan I remember. Tall. Not smiling. Already wearing a tie everywhere at fourteen.

I don't know if I'm going to go to the next Christmas. But what choice do I have, if I want to find out what that thing did to my brother?

(Edited for formatting)

Attenuation time with a magic blade can vary wildly, depending on the age and strength of the blade, its sentience, and the will of it's bearer.

The occasion where I'd claimed mine, tearing it from the rotten hands of a lich which promptly rose in furious battle, didn't offer much opportunity for quick bonding.

That is, until the undead wyrm broke through the cavern wall, thundering it's challenge and throwing Thagror the Barbarian aside with a sweep of it's tail, Hellreaver ringing with a crash to the stone. I threw my trusty yet un-enchanted blade aside and fumbled my newly acquired magical weapon from its sheath. Holding it before me, I rushed through the words I'd been taught, arcane and senseless to my ears but charged with power.

holy shIT WHAT?! The voice echoed as if from a great distance before thundering into my head.

I staggered from the impact, looking up to see Tatiana mid-flurry, dual wielding her weapon Spiteblade and a lesser enchanted as she weaved a metallic blur before the wyrm.

"Um, Blade?" I muttered, unsure of the next step.

How many years I sleep, and I wake to this.

Aelric the Paladin strode before the undead creature, wielding the massive Dragonstooth in both hands before him.

"I don't really like it either," I pleaded with the weapon, "could you please...?"

Ugh, is that Hellreaver? What an ass. I've been at the sides of kings and emperors I'll have you know.

"You're about to join me between the teeth of an Undead Wyrm if you don't do something... magical or whatever."

Hmph. Fine.

The sword shuddered in my grasp, flaring with light so bright I shut my eyes to it and fell to my knees. After a moment everything seemed to still, and I blinked my eyes open against the afterimage the sword had left. The wyrm's open maw hovered feet away.

I leapt backwards, tumbling and quickly gaining my feet before leveling the sword in my hands at the creature. "Sword! Blast! Fire!"

Are you serious? Is this your first time? Look around, idiot, everything's still.

I did so, and turned my eyes back to the glossy metal in my hands. "Wow. How?"

Because I'm not a weak, fleshy mortal. The sigh was inaudible, but clearly felt. Have you ever bonded a magical item before?

"Um, no. This would be a first."

The sword let me know, in no uncertain terms, how displeased it was with this current arrangement. Well, we're gonna get nowhere fast as we are. What's your name?

"Rilidan. And, uh, what's yours?"

Jeff. Now, I need you to open-

"Wait, what, Jeff? Is that what you said?"

Yes, and in fact I projected it directly into your mind. I can only assume the echoes there disrupted that.

"Yeah...but...Jeff..."

Ask one more time and I will snuff out your life force like a guttering candle.

"Ok. Jeff. What do we do next?"

Normally you would lead this, but open your mind and I'll form the bond.

I followed these instructions, and felt a stronger awareness of the sword in my hands, almost a soft thrum between my palms and the hilt.

Ok, now hold me up, level with the Wyrm's forehead. No, idiot, I need slack in your arms to move, I'm going to stab it. Don't drop me. This time freeze will break in just a moment.

And suddenly the world arounds roared back into light and motion, and Jeff the Blade pierced deeply through the skull of the undead creature, a blast of dark magic ripping from its animated corpse. The rest of the party gathered around, congratulating me with hearty handshakes and stress-relieving laughter. We admired our handiwork before moving to collect our hard-won loot.

I paused, glancing down at my new sword. "Thanks Jeff." I whispered.

Don't talk to me. I can literally hear your thoughts. Another one of those sighs. This is going to be a long binding.

"There's always the chance I could die quickly."

Don't give me false hope like that.

"We're gonna do great, Jeff."

Shut up and go find something shiny.

Asmodeus approached the summoning portal. He enjoyed being summoned as it had become a theatrical sport for him. The humans never knew what to expect, so he could do just whatever he pleased and they would think it was normal. First, he would perform his theatrics, then he would torment his summoners as was tradition by tantalizing them with their most lustful of wishes before snatching them away. This time, he intended to emerge from the pentagram as a beautiful Nymph. If he was lucky he would stumble across a human that knew of Greek Mythology and really confuse them. He flew into the summoning portal with the aim of emerging as quickly as possible so it may appear that he swooped in. All for sport.

He slowly opened his eyes, just for dramatic effect, and began to bat his eyelids softly. He had emerged in a beautiful mansion. He was taken aback for a moment and grew excited as he admired the beauty of his summoning room, he greatly enjoyed tormenting the privileged. White marble and gold crested pillars adorned the four corners of the room, mauveine curtains decorated a classical four post bed and draped the huge windows closed to darken the room. Only the light of the candles in his pentagram lit the room; but Asmodeus’s eyes were keen for darkness. Two onyx lions perched at the door like guardians of the room. The room was festooned with living orchids of every color and a shower of never-ending rose petals fell from the ceiling. A white gold harp with yellow gold strings and a familiar looking embellished horn sat next to the only other occupant in the room, who sat aloof in an oversized burgundy chair with golden tassels. Asmodeus’s next ‘play-thing’ sat casually with his legs draped over the arms of chair with his head laid back on the opposite arm, as if left unamused by Asmodeus’s grand Nymph entrance.

“Asmodeus!” exclaimed Asmodeus’s soon to be sufferer, “Asmodeus, you know your tricks do not work here, though I am quite sure your act would have been spectacular”.

Asmodeus looked down to see his unadulterated body. He found the carefully enunciated voice familiar but did not recognize it yet.

“Where am I?”, Asmodeus’s deep voice bellowed and echoed in the pristine room.

“Asmodeus, it pains me to ask for your help, but here I am with needs that only a demon can fulfill”, Asmodeus finally realized who his summoner was with the verbose language and detached tone. “I find myself in quite the quandary that I believe only your unique and limited skills may be able to resolve within a timely manner”.

“Dammit, Israfel, how dare you summon the Daemon of Lust and then not pay owed homage! Further, you will refer to me with my appointed honorific of Daemon Prince!”, Asmodeus rebuked.

“Oh, come now. Calm for your old friend. Do you not recall how you ascended to the rank of Demon”, Israfel paused, “‘Daemon’ of lust, prince of demons, and king of the first three levels of hell? Certainly, I do not need to burden myself with such archaic rites and rituals. Next you will tell me I must send you a letter by cherub and ask you politely for your presence!” continued Israfel as he attempted to reprimand Asmodeus. “No, but you would do well to remember your place and my title.” he snapped. Israfel was rarely concise except when it came to demanding deference.

“Israfel, you still have not told me where I am”, commanded Asmodeus, ignoring Israfel’s demands. Asmodeus grew tired of Israfel’s posturing.

“Well you stand in my luxurious room of course. I thought you would have figured that out by now with all the beauty and song.” Israfel responded. Had you not known better, you may mistake Israfel as the Daemon of Pride as there was nothing he enjoyed more than bragging about his possessions and doing so in the most condescending way possible. Asmodeus had unwittingly given Israfel the perfect prompt to do so. “Wasn’t my golden-stringed golden-harp playing itself enough? How about my sacred horn!? What about…”

“ENOUGH!”, roared Asmodeus.

“You are no fun. Anyways, I did not summon you to remind you of your rank and how you got it, nor did I summon you to remind you how great my life is. I summoned you because I have job for you”, relented Israfel. “By my count you still owe me.”

“I refuse to be a pawn in your games again Israfel!” argued Asmodeus.

“You will do precisely as I tell you, exactly when I tell you to do it! Remember, I gave you the first three levels of hell, and I can take them away.” Israfel raised his voice in anger for the first time in the brief encounter.

“It would be a shame if the other Archangels were to realize just how unsavory your rise to power was. They may even oust you on the next communion of the Angels!”, Asmodeus subtly threatened.

Israfel calmed. “Indeed. You will do no such thing though. We both know that if I go down, you will go down as well. In the meantime, you will do my bidding”.

Asmodeus turned his head to the side and looked off in the distance, he breathed heavily through his nostrils. The smell of sulfur began to fill the room. He knew Israfel was right. The problem was that the life of an ousted Daemon Prince was far worse than the life of an ousted Archangel. With Asmodeus’s luck Israfel would take his place as Prince of Demon’s in his fall and Asmodeus would end up a lesser demon serving Israfel.

“What is your bidding Israfel.”

Her body tumbled through the empty air. The camera crew collectively squeaked in horror. All which was set in motion must eventually cease, though. Her now skewed trajectory raced towards a stone outcropping on the canyon floor below. Though none could see her final moments of descent, the resultant crash which echoed through the cramped canyon conveyed more than words could.

​

"Holy.. Holy shit. Holy shit!" bellowed Tory. Terren and Kilgo leapt to their feet, scrambling as they looked for... something, anything.

​

"Phone! Terren, the fucking satphone!" Tory shouted, snapping into action. Grym commended that - it was as much as anyone could do in the moment. At least, almost anyone.

​

Grym's body moved before his mind. His camera dropped behind him, a sickening cracking noise trailing in his wake. That's not going to be cheap, some part of his mind idly observed.

​

"Grym! Wha - Jesus Christ! What the hell - " the rest of Tory's words were lost to the wind as Grym jetted himself forward into the canyon. His shoes sought purchase on the rock, but found little yielded unto them. This run would be suicidal at best for a skilled runner in terf cleets. It was madness for an untrained cameraman in worn running shoes.

​

Yet, he bound forward. At least by his measure. To the crew above it practically seemed as if Grym ran in place and the world faltered and transformed itself to get out of his way. Though his shoes couldn't grip the stone, the fractional adjustments of his weights and inhuman speed made up for their transgressions.

​

Remember to breathe heavily. Falter where you can. Allow mistakes to be made. Yet, he did no such thing. Despite his careful planning and personal doctrine, his heart ushered him forward. There was no telling if Kayce was bleeding out below.

​

In what seemed no time at all Grym reached the crux of the canyon. He too performed a hitch into the conjoined space between canyons. It was with no small sense of admiration he moved his body exactly as Kayce had. Rare that I couldn't have done it better myself.

​

The wind itself made way for him as he pushed off the overhanging stalagmite. Breezing past it, his feet barely kissed the glimmering face of the crystal monolith. He passed under the overhanging rock ledge with all the grace employed by falcon navigating a cloudless sky.

​

Where Kayce had faltered though, Grym flew. To him, this was all in something like a slow stasis. He felt a small eternity rise and fall back into the recesses of time as his eyes delicately picked his route through the rock window. Rather than balling himself as Kayce had, he morphed his body into something akin to a diving pose and he glided hands first through the narrow opening in the stone and descended into the depths of the canyon.

​

He saw Kayce below. A pool of midnight crimson blood grew slowly against the stone floor, seeping softly around imperfections in the surface. Grym effortlessly let his feet skid against the sloping side of the canyon to slow himself, edgerunning to the bottom of the crevice.

​

He wasted no time. His hands tore off strips of his shirt with effortless strength, then deftly tied the cloth into neat bandages around her lacerated legs and midriff. Within a matter of minutes the bloodflow had been damned up and ceased.

​

"Sorry I didn't make it sooner," Grym uttered to the empty darkness.

​

Kayce's eyes flickered. "Grym - wha.. how the.. fu.. - " her sentence was never finished as her body once again succame to its numerous fresh wounds. Likely, she would imagine this to be some strange dream created by the flickering of a wounded mind.

​

Grym sighed softly in the dank depths of the canyon. It was, of course, better that way. He took one last long look at Kayce as she lie motionless in the dark underbelly of the earth. He was certain she was stable. Trauma teams would be able to retrieve her soon.

​

With that, he began to clamber and maneuver his way onward, towards the surface far away from his former companions.

​

I really thought she might be it. He goaded himself for such a foolish thought, though she had been magnificent. Oh, well. I'll get my race someday. Until then - farewell, Kayce.

She moved like the wind as it crossed and twisted its way through the labyrinth of a mountain pass. Her feet clambered from rock to rock, barely keeping traction against the damp stone. When you watched someone like Kayce it was hard to acknowledge they were human - your eyes and brain clambered over and disputed that fact. She was something more in that moment; she was the fury and passion of each person coming and gone set to motion.

​

The camera whirred imperceptibly softly as the lens articulated itself softly around its bevel to keep her in frame as she dashed onward. Grym felt the smile which had planted itself among his sharp features widen. Some things you really, truly, just had to see for yourself.

​

"Grym! Dude, are you fucking getting this?" hissed Tory. The entire crew was entranced - they watched Kayce with all the fascination of cavemen looking into the sky and observing the stars. Objects who's power and beauty was familiar through exposure, yet totally foreign in both their mystery and their magnitude.

​

Grym only nodded. His fingers gripped the sides of his camera tighter, battling to make the necessary minute adjustments and tweaks to preserve the run in its purest form. Though he would never claim it be anything impressive, there was skill to this. There was skill in being the keeper of events.

​

Kayce reached the crux of the course. The large fissure carved into the earth met with a second perpendicular one up ahead. The intersection was a mess of exposed geodes and spires. Behind each apparent jutting finger of the earth lay more hidden obstacles cloaked in the perilous shadow of their counterparts.

​

Canyon running hadn't been around for too long - about as long as the Sundering itself. Grym looked at the whole thing with a strange sort of reverence. In many ways it was the ultimate expression of humanity. Even after the surface of their planet had been marred and disfigured from the jagged hot beams cast out at it from the recesses of the cosmos, they managed to find joy in it. They sought even more challenge.

​

Kayce grunted loudly as she made the first leap. She performed a hitching maneuver. Classically this would be frowned upon. Though hitching into a new section provided the runner with staggering momentum, it also left them perilously committed to their maneuver. Blasted off from a strong double legged kick, torso positioned forward and arms tucked, there was no room for deviation once rocketed forward.

​

A number of the crew members audibly drew breath. It would be a terrible, perhaps lethal blunder for any less skilled. Kayce, however, was not like anyone else. Not really.

​

She flew into the pit of exposed stone, somehow squeezing through a gap in the impossibly complex geometry. As she passed through the first layer of treacherous stone, she extended her left arm with nearly impossible precision to push of an overhanging stalagmite. This course corrected her to miss the teeth of the sharp crystalline structure which had hungrily watched her approach.

​

As she passed the crystal monolith, her foot grazed its surface. The friction slowed her just enough to arc her downward, her hair harmlessly breezing against the rock shelf which had seemed poised to crack her skull.

​

As she approached the last section, her eyes flitted back and forth. They scanned for any possible opening. Such was the nature of canyon running; decisions made in seconds determined the fate of the runner. Mistakes weren't permissible - at least not without paying a hefty price.

​

Though the other crew members might not have caught it, Grym felt his stomach suddenly knot as his hawkish eyes observed her take a second scan. A second scan which was a few milliseconds too late.

​

Kayce attempted to bring her knees to her chest, forming a ball which would barely pass through the small squarish opening in front of her. She barreled towards the opening at frightening speeds... and her knee caught against the uppermost portion of the rockface. Skin tugged against stone, eventually giving way to its unrelenting nature. Kayce yelped as she tumbled through the gap, leaving a trail of crimson in her wake.

​

[cont]