"Oh, shit! Go, go, go!"

The three remaining members of Dura's team raced through the cavern, weapons at the ready. Venmys was their heaviest artillery, their Arcanist's Rifle primed and crackling with energy; Conor was a little more lightly armed, a simple handgun in one hand and a holy symbol in the other, venerations to the Watchful Eye already flowing between his lips.

Dura, she preferred the old ways, like many orcs did. A sturdy sword and hardened armor that'd let her close the gap, regardless of what they were facing. Her multiple braids streamed behind her as she led her team in, the brass rings at the ends tapping against the back of her mithral breastplate as they went.

They'd been sent to look into the disappearances that the local precincts couldn't answer; the first point of contact, they'd decided, should be the dragon that their data showed had taken up residence here recently - perhaps she'd noticed something, with the powerful senses dragons were gifted with. Or, as Richard had pointed out, perhaps she was responsible. The disappearances had started shortly after her arrival in the area.

Dura was keeping an open mind. At least, she was until she heard the bellowing roar, and the sound of Richard's voice, first yelling in anger, then screaming in agony.

Now, the three of them charged into the deepest part of the cavern, and what greeted their eyes was not pretty. Richard was on the ground, eyes glassy and vacant, his Royal Inspector uniform - still new to him, their squad's rookie - rent down the front with great claw marks. Dura could see the bone of his ribs through the gashes; she heard Venmys swallow hard - the elf had no head for gore - and saw them raise their rifle out of the periphery of her vision.

"Royal Inspectors, don't move!" Venmys' voice rang off the stone, and Dura looked up from Richard's corpse to see what they had their crackling rifle trained on.

Sure enough; a dragon. Though, smaller than Dura had been expecting, barely an adult. And...she was cowering. Her claws were raised as she pressed herself against the back wall of the cavern, eyes wide and dilated, smoke curling around her face as she practically hyperventilated.

"Please, no, please, don't shoot! I didn't mean it! Please! Oh, by the platinum scales, please, please, help him!"

Conor had already reached Richard, sliding on his knees to look over the man, his brown eyes already glowing red with magic. "He's gone," the holy man's voice said, the gruff and pressured tone quite different from his normal jovial boom, "but not far. We're just in time."

He set his gun down, and withdrew several small gems from a pouch on his belt - diamonds, Dura knew. They glowed between his fingers as he invoked his god, a favorite deity of the healers of the Royal Inspectors, and begged for the return of their comrade to this world.

Conor had this. He was her second, and she trusted his judgment more than anything else in this world. If he said he could save Richard, that was good enough for her. She looked back up to the dragon, who was, if anything, trying to press herself further into the stone, as though she could meld into it. Perhaps she could.

Dura spoke up in a clear voice, and said, "Step away from the wall. Wings folded, claws where we can see them. Nice and easy. My friend doesn't want to shoot you, and they won't if you don't give them a reason to."

Venmys muttered to themselves, "Wanna bet?" The dragon wouldn't hear it over the sound of her rapid breathing, but Dura did; she gave the squad's arcanist a scowl. There was no hate in Ven; the elf just liked to shoot things. With a rifle like that, Dura couldn't blame them, really, but she still tried to keep the arcanist in check.

Dura turned her attention back to the dragon, who was slowly moving away from the wall, obeying her instructions.

"Good, good," Dura said gently. "Nice and easy. This doesn't have to go any worse than it already has. Just stay cool while my healer does his thing, then we can talk. Alright?"

This was why Dura was the sergeant for this squad. She had a knack for keeping things calm, and getting to the heart of a situation quickly. Being handy with a weapon was just a plus; she was a born investigator and negotiator. And now, her instincts told her there wasn't anything to worry about here. The dragon was frightened, alarmed by what was happening. There was no anger there, no ferocity.

"A-alright," the dragon stammered, slowly walking forward, the motion somewhat awkward as she walked on two legs toward them.

Dura's eyes flicked back towards Conor, still kneeling next to Richard's body, bearded chin moving as he gave word to the prayers that would summon their squadmate's soul back from beyond.

She heard a choking gasp from Richard, then a harsh cough. She felt the tension in her chest lighten as her rookie came back to them. Good. One less thing--

She heard Conor's wordless exclamation first, then saw Richard moving, scrambling towards his dropped rifle. He was ranting wildly as he went.

"You fucking scale-skin, I'm gonna blow your Gods-damned head off for that! Fucking menace!"

The dragon squeaked - actually squeaked - in fear, and backed away again, pressing herself against the stone wall as Richard made for his weapon.

he's a hobo who murders

Aww, this was sweet. I want to give Brimstone a pat on the head :3

Cutting a Promo

The theater seats of the Star City Odeon sat empty, save for the one man shrouded in shadow sitting in the back row watching the performance on stage. A solitary spotlight illuminated the hulking beast of a man on stage. A tight red tank top hugged his barrel chest while his sweatpants looked ready to rip at the seams trying to contain legs the size of tree trunks, a red brick patterned mask concealed his face. A tuft of platinum blonde hair poked out the back of the mask which was rolled up above the man's lips so as not to muffle his monologue. A matching blonde fu man chu mustache framed his square face.

"Try as they might, all shall fall, since none on earth can conquer.....the wall!" Bellowed the man on stage in a voice far too high pitched for a man of his stature. He flexed his enormous biceps and snarled.

The man in the back row rose from his seat, the echo of his footsteps reverberating through the empty theater as he emerged from the shadows. A slim man with a deathly pale complexion made his way on stage. Dark eyes sunk deep into their sockets, his cheeks sullen, making his high cheeks bones more prominent on his slender face. A long thin nose sat above thin lips bearing a pencil thin goatee. A black leather beret hugged his skull, his puffy shirt and pants made it look like he'd stepped off a movie set from earlier in the century. The man put his hand up and shook his head as he paced in a circle around the behemoth.

"I've had many struggles in my career. When I was a young man learning the craft of shakesperean theater I was denied countless roles due to backstage politics. The only way to overcome that hurdle was to become a performer so great that none could deny my greatness. With ease I overcame that obstacle. Naturally I sought out a new challenge.

Turning low level schmucks such as yourself into orators capable of striking fear into the populace and the supers that protect them. Not through acts of malicious intent or plans most fiendish, but through the power of the human tongue. Before me, the cartoonish antics of those with powers were portrayed as such.

Gone are the days of ham-fisted, over the top, ridiculous monologues delivered in a fashion more fitting of a mustache twirling vaudeville villain that a sophisticated sadistic supervillain. I've instructed many on the arts of menacing monologues and sinister soliloquies, but you, my brick shithouse friend...have been the toughest challenge I, the great Reginald Buttersworth, have yet faced." Reginald spoke in a flat english accent, disappointment hung on his every word as he continued berating his student. Weeks of instruction had already past with little to no progress made. Reginald was nearing his wits end.

"Being loud doesn't make you intimidating, especially with the habit of your voice raising an octave or two when you do. It sounds like an oversized girl scout trying to sell me stale cookies, not exactly bone chilling. Defeats the look you're going for of an unstoppable hulking monster that could crush every bone in a person's body with ease. Lean into that. Sometimes less is more. The bard did say that brevity is the soul of wit."

The wall scratched his chin in thought, "Am I really that bad on the mic?" he asked sadly.

Reginald nodded his head. "Terrible. Too many dramatic pauses, non-sequiturs, tangents that seemingly go nowhere, absolutely awful segues, and a voice crack or two shattered the menacing air you were trying to project. Remember to speak from your diaphragm not your lungs. Keep your timbre under control. Someone who can speak calmly about devastation and destruction is more menacing than a raving lunatic. Bring some gravitas to the performance."

The wall cocked his head to the side in confusion. The direction had flown directly over it. Reginald rolled his eyes, he hated having to dumb it down. "Let's take it in a different direction. Give me a menacing growl." He demanded.

"You want me to just growl?"

"Yes. Now give me a growl, not a snarl. Imagine there's a burning fire deep within the core of your very being. If unleashed a cleansing hellfire would escape and wreck untold misery and devastation. You fight to contain it.....action!"

A weak grumble escaped the wall's mouth, hardly a growl. His skin turning as red as his mask.

Reginald shook the massive man about the shoulders, unable to move him even an inch. "That's the best you've got!? You're hopeless! Weak! Those are just glamour muscles that came from a syringe and not a dumbell!" Reginald screamed.

A vicious growl rumbled the stage as the wall bent at the waist to look down at Reginald. Every muscle tensed, veins popped along his arms, a pulsing network that thumped with each beat of the wall's heart.

"Perfect!" Exclaimed Reginald as he slowly backed away. "Now that is scary. I wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley like that. Maybe we should focus on non-verbal communication next week. That's where you excel, even with a mask on."

The wall's barrel chest heaved as he composed himself. "That doesn't work for me brother, I need to be able to talk in public. Promoter won't give me a push unless my mic skills and promo work improves." Wall embarrassingly admitted. He moonlighted as a wrestler on the independent circuit on the weekends.

Reginald paced about the stage, he doubted even he could mold this massive lump of clay into a charismatic wordsmith. An idea bubbled in his brain, exploding into a plan to get paid more for less work. "Sounds like you need a manager to speak for you. A Bobby 'The Brain' Heenan to your Sid Justice. For a price I could play that part. I've held audiences in the palm of my hands for years; I can rile up a crowd of rubes looking for cheap entertainment. With my help you'll shoot to the top of the card in no time! All you need to do is look intimidating. That's what we'll work on each week during our sessions." A sleazy smile crossed Reginald lips as he extended his hand to the wall. The two shook hands, sealing the deal.

"Are you a heel or a babyface?" Reginald asked.

"Babyface." Replied the wall.

"Oh that will never do. Being a villain is much more entertaining. By the time we're done you'll be the most hated man in town. All without saying a word."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this check out more at r/StarCityChronicles

I love this! The ending made me laugh.

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The rest of party bent over, covering their ears with no effect, as the psychic screaming of the panicked dragon echoed relentlessly through their minds

> NO NO NO NO WHAT I JUST DO NO NO NO DO NOT WANT

"Please, stop! You're hurting us!" The cleric screamed at the flailing dragon, as blood trickled from his nose.

I wiped a warm wet stream from my own stoically.

> SORRY

The dragon echoed. It stopped it's psychic screams and curled up into a ball, knocking its bony skull into the castle walls to calm itself.

Dust and cinder fell from the rafters and the structure creaked ominously. The cleric laid a hand on the dragon.

"Hey. hey. Hey. It's not perma-death. I have a Resuscitation Elixir for the murderhobo fighter. I know you're upset , but if the tower collapses, I die, you die, everyone dies. And I won't be around to revive anyone."

> No, don't do that

The dragon laid a firm and unyielding palm on the cleric.

> Those who come back have all been corrupted by the Void.

It's eyes narrowed at Aleric, the golden-haired elf who kept his bow still raised at the dragon. Aleric's eyes flashed, and for a moment, the blues were replaced by dark swirls like the night sky. An enchanted arrow flew through the air. Aleric gasped, then crumbled into dust, the runes from my own bow still slowly dissipating.

"You're right. " I tell the dragon. "You have the Sight , too. Now, we must hunt." I grunt, and force the wings out from beneath my shoulder blades, dragon scale replacing the veneer of human skin I wore as a glamor.

I woke up in a waiting room sitting down. I remembered that I was shot in the chest. I thought I died. Maybe this is the afterlife. I looked around to see no one. Outside the front doors, which were glass, I only saw white. Then, the door opened. It was a man in a lab coat. “Hello, I’m Keith. You’re in a place for people who died. These people have split personalities, and it’s sometimes hard for the world to choose an afterlife for them. Follow me.” I got up and followed him into a white room of two men on thrones facing me. One was blue and ethereal. The other was completely gold. They both looked at me. “This one is…different”, said the gold one, “I detect no split personality.” Keith looked at him, shocked. “So, what do we…”, Keith started. “We need time”, said the blue one. “Uh, I’m a glitch”, I said. They all stared at me. “I’m a being of chaos. My physiology makes no sense. I act a bit glitchy in the head, too.” I laughed. “I have always been fond of Valhalla and Heaven.”
Keith turned to me and said, "Until this is settled, you will be staying here at the waiting room. Meanwhile, we'll be discussing whether you should go to Heaven or Valhalla. I wouldn't be surprised if Buddha also shows up." I walked out, and the door closed. Stupid godly beings. I walked to the front doors and opened them. It was just a white void that went on forever. I looked down. I might as well. I stepped off, and I fell down. I continued descent for a few seconds before I blacked out.
I opened my eyes to see a woman looking down at me. She had a blue T-shirt and jeans. We were in a meadow. “Hi”, she said, “I’m Fiena, goddess of order. This is my personal copy of Earth. It has no people.” I got up. “Order? Well, I’m a being of chaos. Are you okay with that?” “Of course. I see good in you.” “I’m X”, I said. “Do you know how you ended up here?” “I probably just glitched into another reality. It happens.”

A few typing errors is common for us all!!

Good luck with your next prompt

(Sure hope a few more people would try mine)

DOUSE

As the longsword Wyrmspite blazes to it's fiery glory with the word of power, Sir Tor with a mighty cleave beheaded the drake that was keeping the princess captive.

IGNITE

With that word, Wyrmspite douses it's flames and Sir Tor sheathes the sword.

Approaching the cage that held the princess, he had a look at the lock and balling his armored fist, gave it a good solid punch.

ARGH! Damned arthritis... ...

Shaking his fist in pain, he drew Wyrmspite and prepare to smite the lock.

Sorry old friend but I am not that young anymore.

As the lock laid broken and defeated, Sir Tor pick the princess (who had swooned as princesses are suppose to do) and left the dragon drake's lair. He mount his mighty stallion Windcharger and placing the still swooned princess on the pack mule proceeded to return to his manor.

As Windcharger pranced into the courtyard, there was no jubilation. There was no mobs of serfs or peons cheering him. His courtyard was unkempt, the walls were moss covered and the porticullis creaks as loud as his bones when raised or lowered.

For Sir Tor was a knight of 40 winters. He was no longer the dexterous hulk of his younger years. His plate mail hung loose on his shoulders and did not cover much of his expanding stomach. He has long forgone using his great helm, not because of his experience but rather it hurts his neck and restricted his hearing and vision (of what little that he has left).

He could not provide to keep serfs or peons. He had no squires to wait on him as what use do they have of him, an old knight useless in tournaments and poor in coin.

By nevertheless, like the triumphant knight of old, he tied Windcharger in the stables and cradling the princess, he made for the great hall where his wife and 2 daughters were waiting for his return.

Milady, this here is the captured princess whom I have saved for the drake. Let her into the guest bedroom and to recover for her torments.

Me girls, treat her as you would she be your sister. Give her your finest gowns, your scented water and bathe her as you would yourself.

And so he sat down to dine and to rest his weary bones.

A few days have past hence and the princess has regained her colour and her composure. She was one of regal bearing and royal blood. But humble. She did not command the lady of the manor or her daughters to do tasks nor did she turn her nose at the dilapidated conditions of the manor.

During Evening Fest, the princess stated to Sir Tor

My Good and Gallant Sir Tor, as you have rescued me, duty dictates that I am betrothed to you as just rewards for your deeds.

Sir Tor who was partaking of his soup, started choking and spluttering

My beautiful and delicate princess, that was never my intent for rescuing you. As you can see, I have milady (gestures to her) and my two daughters who are akin to sisters to you in age.

Neigh I say. I will not dishonor milady by breaking my vows to her nor bring gossip into my house by taking one such as young and delicate as yourself.

Sir Tor, it has been decreed by my father, the King of Ashtoria, that whomsoever rescues me will earn his eternal gratitude and that I be given to my rescuer as a reward for the valiant deed.

Now, the land of Ashtoria border the land of Oakenfelt when Sir Tor reside. Ashtoria has nil imperial sway over Sir Tor and hence cannot compel Sir Tor to comply. But age and experience has taught Sir Tor, tolerance is always the road to a long life.

My beautiful princess, please give a day to discuss this with milady and my daughters. It is not a decision to take lightly or in haste.

As so Sir Tor and his family retire to another room and they discussed. They realise that they did not want to anger Ashtoria but they were contented with who they were. The discussion went long into the night but they have come to a decision and it was agreed that Sir Tor will respond on tomorrow's evening fest.

As they sat down for evening fest, Sir Tor at the head of table signal for attention and spoke

As the king of Ashtoria has decreed, whomsoever saves the princess will earn the just reward of being given the princess for the deed.

While my family resides in the lands of Oakenfelt, we are closer to Ashtoria than to Oakenfelt.

And my age has shown me that it is better to have friends than to make enemies.

Hence, my beautiful and delicate princess, is it of free will that you give yourself to my household and myself? As a just reward for my valiant deed of freeing you from the drake?

With coquettish eyes looking at the knight, the Princess said

Yes, I do. It is of my own free will and desire that I be taken into your household and am bestow upon yourself as a just reward.

Very well then. Princess. If you will so kind as to put your intentions onto this parchment, I will have it courier to your father, the King, so hence he knows I have slayed the drake and claim my just rewards so that nil other can lay claim or raise arms against me in protest.

The Princess thought to herself and so with this parchment, I will get my hands on Wyrmspite and Windcharger by the next moon. You are an old man playing at a being knight. Your lady is no better than a fish monger's wife and your daughters will not survive a night in the sordid house of pleasures when I kick them out.

Yes, I will lie with you. I will give you one of pleasure with my body. I will make you feel euphoria, ecstasy and pleasures that your body cannot think of achieving with your fish monger's wife. And then you will be dead the next as the medicine that I give you for regain the vigor of a oak shaft will also render your heart asunder.

My Princess, my princess.

The parchment...

Please endorse the parchment and I have sent to your father the king immediately.

With a flourish of the quill, the Princess signed the parchment, sand was poured upon the ink, a courier was called for and dispatched to the land of Ashtoria. To present the Princess intentions to her father, the King.

As so the deed is done.

Welcome to my humble abode and manor. Princess CINDERELLA.

That sounds like it would be awesome story, I get the feeling that it would be both wholesome and sad at the same time.

[removed]

got commit -m "seppuku"

start.sh

+ ":(){ :|:& };:"

I feel Pedro has been most popular as a Dad lately

I now need a book series on Ana. Whenever you get around to it... tomorrow? 5 book series? Perfect.

Naturally, for that is the way

Holy crap. Will there be a part 2? This is such a great story.

So, my thought process with this is Mom actually is 25 and daughter is 4. This takes place in an imaginary future where people usually only live, on average, to 32, but 40 tops. Someone from that time found Queen Elizabeth II’s grave and thought there is NO WAY anyone could live 96 years. They figured that our year must either not mean 365 1/4 days (which it does, the fraction next to the number means to add the fraction to the number. Another way of writing this is 365.25) or that Elizabeth was two people. I hope that makes sense:) I am kinda rambling here and in the story within my own imagination:/

I had the idea because there are ancient records, including the Bible, that record people living a CRAZY amount of time in ancient times. Some people think that these aren’t actually years. Others think that it might be 2 people, and there are other theories, of course. I don’t know near enough to have my own opinion. I just find it fascinating:)

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

Reminders:

>* No AI-generated reponses 🤖 >* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* [RF] and [SP] for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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This sounds like something Critical Role would do lol

I'm glad you enjoyed it!

Riso is a typo, my bad, that's meant to say "risk" 😅

Thanks for pointing that out, I'll go back and fix it

This is so sweet and wholesome

I loved every bit of it.

Juat one more thing

What does riso mean?

Yes.

Yes he should.

And of course, only takes off his helmet in private.

[removed]

I love him and think he should be played by Pedro Pascal