Hey you people in the CC! (A writing thread)

I am curious about how many people actually write and would not mind sharing their creations here in the creator's cafe. True it is mainly populated by people who know how to use photoshop, but as shown here, people really can share their works without being ridiculed! I am curious, because I always enjoyed writing myself, and I feel there are also a few others out there that would not mind, but would actually enjoy sharing and recieving feedback on some of their things.

Anyone?

I would post something...but I am nothing handy...

Edit: And the motion has been seconded by Kazyl!

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Huh... I could post some stuff I wrote. I haven't written anything extensive though, just a few short pieces of fiction and a few dreams.

So we just post some of our works here? I'd love to read what other people have written.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

The only thing I've written lately are entries in the Competition we had a while back, and some fanfiction, which is of course the lowest form of internet writing.

Let me see if I can find something worth critique.

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

Well, anyone who writes would probably want to get some critiques of their work if they think it's good enough. Would this thread just be a place to spotlight those works, or more towards having a few set members review each one that's posted? I think that the main reason we have so few writing threads is that no one really wants to spend the time to read it when artwork can be dealt with in a few seconds.

I do have a few stories knocking around that could be posted, but they're works in progress that I'm aiming to make novella length, hence my reluctance to put them up.

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I suppose then Sol that we will just have to become the intellectuals on GFF *sagenod*

Lemme grab something of mine here and post it to break the ice. It is a semi-fanfiction thing I am attempting to do for a small text-based game I help out on. It is based in the Wheel of Time book series.

Not really asking for a critique, because I really do not think there are too many WoT fans out there, but what I am really trying to get at is A.) The fanatcism that Leshrac shows in carrying out what he has been told to do, and B.) In the past sequences, try and get the bad guys to really sound like a cabal or cult of some sort.

It isn't done yet, but there is what I have.

I know it sucks, but maybe people will post now >;_;>

Spoiler:

“Come,” the fade has told him in that hissing voice of his kin, “Come, for the Great Lord of the Dark says it must be so.” And so Leshrac came. From the city of his birth, from the great City of Tear, he came without delay. He traveled as fast as his body would let him, and once he came upon the city of Caemlyn, he promptly found an inn and got a room to rest his weary body.

-20 years ago-

Leshrac had seen fifteen summers. He was a level headed boy, he thought quickly and often had no hesitations about doing what he thought should be done. Judging by his decisiveness and he manner, nobody would ever guess his family was made up of merchants, often not even his own parents. For generations, Leshrac’s family had been merchants, but also they held something darker.

For generations, Leshrac’s parents had also been Friends of the Dark. It was once he came of age and his parents believed he was ready, that they revealed their secret. Leshrac was not surprised, he took the knowledge the same way he took anything, with a level head and with consideration. After a few moments, he asked, “What must I do to become a Friend of the Dark?” And they told him.

-Present Day-

The inn was not of the highest quality, and so as Leshrac came awake, he found himself unconsciously rubbing the knots out of his back. He was an average looking man, as far as Tairens went. Of average build and height, with black hair that was slowly turning white at the edges. His face seemed to constantly be in thought, but he looked like the son of a merchant. His clothing not too fine, but not quite as low of a quality as a farmer’s, nothing that would seem uncommon in Caemlyn. In fact, the only truly remarkable feature about him was the two long scars down the underside of his forearms, which were quickly covered up as he laced up his shirt sleeves. Once he was dressed, he retrieved his pack that held all of his personal belongings and after a short meal down stairs in the common room, paid for his meal and left without a word.

The road to the borderlands was long, and though he despised it, Leshrac needed to pass through the city of the Shining Walls, Tar Valon, the home of the wretched Aes Sedai witches and their cursed tower. It took nearly a fortnight and a half, but once again, acting on his orders, Leshrac merely found a suitable inn and prepared himself to travel the next day, purchasing clothing for colder weather so he could travel in the borderlands. The next morning, he left, making haste for Fal Dara.

-The Past-

Leshrac’s parents smiled at him, and told him to wait until dusk. When it was dusk, they both dressed in black breeches and a white mask, and led him to a room in the manner whose door was always locked. One of the two, Leshrac could not tell which of his parents was which because of the mask, pulled a key from the folds of their clothing and undid the lock on the door. Wordlessly, they opened it and led them inside to what seemed to be a small audience room. There were perhaps a dozen other people already inside, dressed in the same clothing and masks as Leshrac’s parents, and as he came inside, they all tensed because of the outsider that was suddenly in their midst.

“Is this the one?” One of the masks from the crowd asked. And to this, both of Leshrac’s parents responded at the same time.

“He is the one. He is the one who wishes to join that which is immortal, in hopes of becoming immortal himself. He is the one who wishes to join that is powerful, in hopes of becoming powerful himself. But above all else, he is the one who wishes to join that which is proper, in hopes of returning the Wheel to that which it was in an age lost to the annals of time.”

Once again, from the crowd of masks came the voice. “Is this true youngling?” The voice was vicious sounding, as if it any moment it might break out into violence. As if it had an intense hatred of all things living.

“Y-yes.” Leshrac stammered, unable to keep the fear out of his voice. He had always thought of Friends of the Dark as not truly real. Some part of him had believed that this was some sort of test that his parents were putting him through, but now, that illusion was shattered. His unsure words hung in the air, and nobody responded, so he repeated himself, more confidently than before. “Yes.”

From within the crowd, a figure moved. It was wearing a cloak, and what Leshrac had thought was a mask was actually it’s face. It looked right at him and Leshrac found himself being overcome by fear. He had once heard the saying, “the gaze of the Eyeless is fear,” from a visiting borderlander, and as the Fade looked at him, he understood why. From what seemed to be far, far away, Leshrac heard the voices of the masked around him say, “Then let him prove his devotion to the Dark,” and slowly the fade moved towards him, reaching down and setting something at his feet.

-The Present-

The trip to Fal Dara proved to be the most difficult part of Leshrac’s journey so far, and it seemed as if the winter itself did not want Leshrac to follow his orders. The winds and the snow made it hard to keep his sense of direction. Many times when he was unsure of his path, a black-cloaked figure seemed to mysteriously appear barely within eyesight, walking away from Leshrac, and every time he ran out of food, he found a dead animal directly in his path, as often a wolf as not. When he found this bounty, he ate ravenously, and his strength seemed to be restored. Forward Leshrac traveled, unable to sleep because of the raging winds, unable to rest because of the echo in his head of the fade’s words that set him on this journey in the first place.

On the 21st day after Leshrac had left the Shining Walls of Tar Valon, far north in the land of Fal Dara, two guards noticed something odd during their duty. As the sun rose, it revealed a dark clad man who had apparently collapsed a small distance from the walls. Shortly, a small party of soldiers moved out to retrieve the man. Moving slowly, they warily advanced out towards him, and once they had him and were sure he was a human, they moved as quickly as they could back towards the walls of Fal Dara. He was suffering from frostbite and exhaustion, and if it was not for the visiting sister of the Yellow Ajah, he would have perished. Instead, he was healed, but a long time in recovery. The head of Fal Dara keep decided the man could, for now, be bedded within the Keep’s infirmary itself, until he recovered enough to tell his story and why he was traveling alone when he was so obviously not from the borderlands. And so, Leshrac slept, his only sustenance coming from the head of the infirmary in the form of plain broth drizzled down his throat. Leshrac slept, oblivious of what was happening to his body, completely occupied by visions of himself. Visions of the past and the future.

-The Past-

The fade silently stood up, leaving a silver goblet, and a small dagger on the floor. The masks watched him, and one spoke up.

“Prostrate yourself and spill your blood in the name of the Great Lord of the Dark,” the voice began. “Name him with no hesitation, and name him truly, for he is your true master. Offer the bloody vessel to that which hates the Light, that which is everywhere, and once it is accepted, drink from the bloody chalice, for no longer will it be your blood, but it will be the blood of the Dark Lord, just as once you drink from the chalice, it will no longer be your blood flowing though your veins, but the blood of the Great Lord, given to you so that you may better serve him, and be rewarded for your efforts.”

Leshrac kneeled on the floor, removing his shirtsleeves. When they hung at his side, he took the dagger and held out his forearm over the cup. He cut through his flesh and watched, entranced, feeling no pain, as his blood spilled from his arm into the cup and on to the floor. He then switched the dagger to the other hand and repeated the process on his other arm. He then dropped the dagger to his side and held both of his arms over the cup, holding them there until the blood stopped flowing and the cup was filled. Ignoring the fact that he was kneeling in a puddle of his own blood, ignoring the weakness filling him, Leshrac reached down and held up the chalice of his blood.

To the Great Lord of the Dark, with the seemingly disembodied masks floating about, and the eyeless one standing in front of him, watching, Leshrac spoke, and his audience of men, women, and shadowspawn, listened intently to his words.

[spoiler]

I was speaking idiomatically.