Chryste's Challenge
The muggers did everything right...
Clack. "Love?"
"M'darlin'."
"What’s this on the bed?"
"A present. Wear it for me?"
"Is it armor?"
"No. But please?"
"Why?"
"'Cause I love you. 'Cause I'm asking so pretty. 'Cause you're beautiful..."
A blush. "..Okay..."
...They did everything right...
"How 'bout that one, then?"
"Wi' tha' arse? Fuckin' 'ell, look a' it!"
"Look a' the dress. Gotta be rich."
"Right. Aye, on three then."
"One. Two..."
"Three!"
Chryste looked up at the noise from the alley. The tackle bore her face-first to the ground. She gasped as they started kicking her.
Shortly afterward, the first crunch of breaking bones sounded.
The dress was torn, ruined. She whimpered, muddy, bloody, as she walked into the bar. The elf, 'Ambry,' darted to her. She leaned in the taller woman's arms, trembling.
"What happened?"
"Two men mugged me."
"Oh." One beat, then two: "...Did they survive?"
"No."
"Ah."
Chryste sniffled.
"'S alright, love. 'S okay. We can get you a new dress."
...Almost.
Fan Ficlet Contest
Moderator: Guild Officer
Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
I drink to keep you pretty
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Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
Sunshine Survives...
She walked in her own ray of light. Sunshine, they called her. Down the back alley of Old town she went, at night, where angels cleared out and devils made their peace before getting to their work. She was not afraid - well, she was, but she wasn't. She was humility made flesh, and righteousness made form. The blade in the dark never knew what he was getting into.
If she had been surprised, it was that surprise of the first strike of the light on the earth at dawn. Galloway's hand flashed, but he hit solid air. She was surprised by words, by jokes, and by praise - never by the blade. Like a diamond struck with to much force, she sparked. Light gleamed from nowhere and everywhere, bursting forth like a phoenix from unknown ashes, slamming Galloway against the stone wall like the hand of Faith itself. He stood no chance against her might, a flurry of hands that seemed to possess a blade and shield of the purest form. Then, she struck him hardest of all.
She began to pray. "The Light bless thee and keep thee…"
She walked in her own ray of light. Sunshine, they called her. Down the back alley of Old town she went, at night, where angels cleared out and devils made their peace before getting to their work. She was not afraid - well, she was, but she wasn't. She was humility made flesh, and righteousness made form. The blade in the dark never knew what he was getting into.
If she had been surprised, it was that surprise of the first strike of the light on the earth at dawn. Galloway's hand flashed, but he hit solid air. She was surprised by words, by jokes, and by praise - never by the blade. Like a diamond struck with to much force, she sparked. Light gleamed from nowhere and everywhere, bursting forth like a phoenix from unknown ashes, slamming Galloway against the stone wall like the hand of Faith itself. He stood no chance against her might, a flurry of hands that seemed to possess a blade and shield of the purest form. Then, she struck him hardest of all.
She began to pray. "The Light bless thee and keep thee…"
I drink to keep you pretty
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Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
Fingold's Kiss
"Awright new fish. If'n yer gonna be runnin' wi' us, there's a few things y' need to know, right? I don' care if'n y' get in trouble wi' the guard, or get y'rself killed somehow, but a dead pickpocket don' pick no copper. Ain't tha' right, Mikahl?"
"Bloody oath, Gav'."
"Too right. So. If'n y' gonna br runnin' Old Town wi' us, one of th' first things y' need t' know is not t' mess wi' th' Riders. Them lot 'ang out down at th' Pig. Y'll learn 'em soon enough. All big and w' blades 'n spells. Non-mans 'swell! Long ears and stunties 'n th' like. Am I right, Mikahl?"
"Right so said, Gav."
"So yeah. Like I was sayin'. Y' don' mess wi' th' Riders. Let me explain. 'S jus' last week, one o' th'm were walkin' back from th' Pig. Tall 'oly man. Mr Fingold, wi' 'is missus. Nah th'll walkin' at night, an' this cut-throat accost'd 'em in Blackliver lane. Nasty no-brainer, 'im ain't been in Town long eno' t' know bett'r. So th' chap pulls 'is poker, and asks f' th' silver, not friendly like. An' mr Fingold jus' stands there. Tells 'im not t' be silly, to go 'way. Chump didn' like th't one bit. Got angry like."
"Real angry, Gav."
"So, qui' as c'n be, mr Fingold pulls th' knife from chump's 'and, and th'n BANG! Forred kiss t' th' nose. Chump's down. Out like. An' mr Fingold an missus strolls of like non' t' happ'n. Happier th' a bird in'a hat. 'S th't 's why y' don' mess wi' th' Riders, kid."
"Awright new fish. If'n yer gonna be runnin' wi' us, there's a few things y' need to know, right? I don' care if'n y' get in trouble wi' the guard, or get y'rself killed somehow, but a dead pickpocket don' pick no copper. Ain't tha' right, Mikahl?"
"Bloody oath, Gav'."
"Too right. So. If'n y' gonna br runnin' Old Town wi' us, one of th' first things y' need t' know is not t' mess wi' th' Riders. Them lot 'ang out down at th' Pig. Y'll learn 'em soon enough. All big and w' blades 'n spells. Non-mans 'swell! Long ears and stunties 'n th' like. Am I right, Mikahl?"
"Right so said, Gav."
"So yeah. Like I was sayin'. Y' don' mess wi' th' Riders. Let me explain. 'S jus' last week, one o' th'm were walkin' back from th' Pig. Tall 'oly man. Mr Fingold, wi' 'is missus. Nah th'll walkin' at night, an' this cut-throat accost'd 'em in Blackliver lane. Nasty no-brainer, 'im ain't been in Town long eno' t' know bett'r. So th' chap pulls 'is poker, and asks f' th' silver, not friendly like. An' mr Fingold jus' stands there. Tells 'im not t' be silly, to go 'way. Chump didn' like th't one bit. Got angry like."
"Real angry, Gav."
"So, qui' as c'n be, mr Fingold pulls th' knife from chump's 'and, and th'n BANG! Forred kiss t' th' nose. Chump's down. Out like. An' mr Fingold an missus strolls of like non' t' happ'n. Happier th' a bird in'a hat. 'S th't 's why y' don' mess wi' th' Riders, kid."
I drink to keep you pretty
--
--
Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
Bricu's Bombed
"Tort heard a dull clang as he crept down the alley. Peering over the boxes, he could see his target – a red haired man in plate, leaning forward against a wall. The trickling sound of piss steaming against the stone filled the dark street. Tort took a breath, held it, and leapt over the boxes, interrupting the paladin’s drunken song. “Oi, whocha?!” Tort brandished his dagger and said “Your money or your life!” The paladin eyed without turning from the building. “One minute lad, ‘em almost done ‘ere.” The trickling continued for what seemed like an hour. Tort froze in place, unsure what to do. The paladin at last turned around, tucking his pants back into his plate. “Now lad, ye made a mistake ‘er too ‘ere. The first is ‘at ye got too close. The second ‘is ‘at ye chose tha’ wrong target. But the most important is ‘at ye thought ye was as tough as Bricu Bittertongue’s codpiece!” The last thought through Tort’s mind before the blackness descended was that the clang of dull metal against his head."
"Tort heard a dull clang as he crept down the alley. Peering over the boxes, he could see his target – a red haired man in plate, leaning forward against a wall. The trickling sound of piss steaming against the stone filled the dark street. Tort took a breath, held it, and leapt over the boxes, interrupting the paladin’s drunken song. “Oi, whocha?!” Tort brandished his dagger and said “Your money or your life!” The paladin eyed without turning from the building. “One minute lad, ‘em almost done ‘ere.” The trickling continued for what seemed like an hour. Tort froze in place, unsure what to do. The paladin at last turned around, tucking his pants back into his plate. “Now lad, ye made a mistake ‘er too ‘ere. The first is ‘at ye got too close. The second ‘is ‘at ye chose tha’ wrong target. But the most important is ‘at ye thought ye was as tough as Bricu Bittertongue’s codpiece!” The last thought through Tort’s mind before the blackness descended was that the clang of dull metal against his head."
I drink to keep you pretty
--
--
Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
The next two ficlets are too long to be ficlets.... They are included for your view pleasure.
Joyous Jolly
* Delete message
* Quote message
Ficlet Fail
Sent at: Tue Jan 20, 2009 12:47 am
From: Tarq
To: Bricu
So I completely thought it was 1024 words, not 1024 characters. As such, this thing comes in at about 4x length, and either one hour before or two hours after deadline. OH WELL, IT EXISTS.
They don't let just anyone into the Caspar Street Cutters. Any Old Town swell, any Alley rat can tell you that wearing that many-times-sliced blue vest is a flag to the world around you, saying "I make hard boys piss themselves and the Watch find another place to be." You have to have a brother, a lover, a very close friend in the Cutters before they'll even start testing you. And if you're William Fannet's own brother - Blue-Coat Billy, Snapping Will, whatever else the Cutters fancy to call him - then you've got one shit of a test ahead of you. Will doesn't want you to make him look bad.
Davie Fennett knows all this well enough, crouching in the shadow of an awning, back against a shuttered window, elbow pressed to the stoop. Will's been looking out for him for years. But Will's got dozens of other brothers to look out for now, being the hardest muscle on Caspar Street. Time for Davie to look out for himself. And another one of those things that any fuckwit with their ear to the ground can tell you, is that the best way to look out for yourself is to get other blokes looking, too edgy on their feet for to even dream about fucking with you and yours. Make your mark. Make your name. Get yourself proper made.
And if you're looking to get made in Old Town, there's about three things that'll make you a legend in the time it takes to piss. You can hit the Service, and you can hit the boys in the Barracks, and you can hit the people who own the Pig and Whistle on Able Lane. Davie Fennett's about to take his shot at doing the third, and secure his place in history.
He hears the man before he sees him, a crescendo of breathing and half-drunk mutters and trudging footsteps. The man's old and slow, and blind on the one side besides, and not the same this past week. Some tragedy in the North, some fuckery in his outfit. Davie don't know, and Davie don't care - he just knows this great hulking ruin of a living legend is wide open for Snapping Will's little brother to make that Caspar Street luminary into "Dead-To-Rights Davie's big brother." He rather fancies that for a nickname.
The footsteps get closer, one two three four. Davie smells the sour tinge of whiskey, a bit of sweat. He tilts the polished knife in his hand just so and can see the dim shape of the big old man in his periphery, coming off of Able Lane the same way he has for a week. Five six seven, and now Davie can make out his brutal old face, sleepy scowl on his features, black patch over his eye. Eight, nine, no time to wonder if this is a good idea. Dead-To-Rights Davie only has good ideas, and if any of them are bad ideas, he just lies and thieves and batters and cuts until they got no choice but to be good ideas.
Ten. Club in his hand, knife in his sleeve. Eleven. Knock him down, give the old shit a couple new scars, take his coinage. Twelve. Tattered blues on over his coat and doublet so any Alley rats watching will know it was a Cutter done it.
Thirteen.
Davie's up, vaulting over the stoop, lips pulled back from his wide yellow teeth in a terrified grin, twirling his club, going to take it to the bastard and teach him who owns Old Town. He's on the man's blind side, a step away before the old drunk can even turn, and as he brings the club down he can see his whole seedy, grimy, glorious future laid out before him, just like "Jolly" the Northman is shortly to be laid out on the cobblestones.
Jolstraer Taborwynn moves his head. Just a bit to the left. It's enough for the club to come down and hit him where shoulder meets neck, which hurts like a fucker, but has never been known to knock a man out. In this case, all it seems to do is prove a loud "-THA FUCK?!" from the quarry, and if it hurts, well, this is a man who is well-accustomed to meeting, negotiating with, and eventually dispensing with pain. He takes a couple steps back, and Davie swings his club again, running on adrenaline, but Jolstraer gets one arm up and the club slams into his forearm with a dull crack of bone.
"Got yer!" shouts Davie Fennett exultantly. And then he notes the slight change of weight in his hand, and backs up his brain a second, and goes over the idea of "a dull crack of bone." Then he looks at the club in his hand, or rather the half of a club in his hand and the half of a club falling to the cobblestones, and meets the northman's smile like a thin crack in a stone wall. He palms his knife, wishing he didn't have to do this - it's not worth anyone's hide to kill a Rider, not ever. He brings it up, and there's another black-gloved hand, faster by far than a big half-blind slow old drunk has any right to be, catching his wrist and squeezing.
And squeezing.
And squeezing.
Davie Fennett is promptly educated on the difference between cracking bone and cracking wood.
He screams, and knows that anyone watching will see this, one of the Caspar Street Cutters squealing like a girl with a mark's hand wrapped around the bird-bones of his wrist. He is glad that the Rider is going to kill him so that Will won't get the chance. He wants his mother.
Jolstraer looks at him, and his face softens, which is sort of like granite sagging a bit. He just looks incredulous. "Ye daft feckin' git, wha' war ye thinkin?" And he lets go. Just like that. And laughs. "Fuck's saik, coam back whan ye grown some hair oan y'r balls." He lets go, leaves Davie Fennett curled up on the street clutching the shattered remains of his wrist, and walks off shaking his head, a smile on his face and a spring in his step.
There are three ways for an up-and-coming hard case to make himself a legend in Old Town. None of the three are really worth it.
Joyous Jolly
* Delete message
* Quote message
Ficlet Fail
Sent at: Tue Jan 20, 2009 12:47 am
From: Tarq
To: Bricu
So I completely thought it was 1024 words, not 1024 characters. As such, this thing comes in at about 4x length, and either one hour before or two hours after deadline. OH WELL, IT EXISTS.
They don't let just anyone into the Caspar Street Cutters. Any Old Town swell, any Alley rat can tell you that wearing that many-times-sliced blue vest is a flag to the world around you, saying "I make hard boys piss themselves and the Watch find another place to be." You have to have a brother, a lover, a very close friend in the Cutters before they'll even start testing you. And if you're William Fannet's own brother - Blue-Coat Billy, Snapping Will, whatever else the Cutters fancy to call him - then you've got one shit of a test ahead of you. Will doesn't want you to make him look bad.
Davie Fennett knows all this well enough, crouching in the shadow of an awning, back against a shuttered window, elbow pressed to the stoop. Will's been looking out for him for years. But Will's got dozens of other brothers to look out for now, being the hardest muscle on Caspar Street. Time for Davie to look out for himself. And another one of those things that any fuckwit with their ear to the ground can tell you, is that the best way to look out for yourself is to get other blokes looking, too edgy on their feet for to even dream about fucking with you and yours. Make your mark. Make your name. Get yourself proper made.
And if you're looking to get made in Old Town, there's about three things that'll make you a legend in the time it takes to piss. You can hit the Service, and you can hit the boys in the Barracks, and you can hit the people who own the Pig and Whistle on Able Lane. Davie Fennett's about to take his shot at doing the third, and secure his place in history.
He hears the man before he sees him, a crescendo of breathing and half-drunk mutters and trudging footsteps. The man's old and slow, and blind on the one side besides, and not the same this past week. Some tragedy in the North, some fuckery in his outfit. Davie don't know, and Davie don't care - he just knows this great hulking ruin of a living legend is wide open for Snapping Will's little brother to make that Caspar Street luminary into "Dead-To-Rights Davie's big brother." He rather fancies that for a nickname.
The footsteps get closer, one two three four. Davie smells the sour tinge of whiskey, a bit of sweat. He tilts the polished knife in his hand just so and can see the dim shape of the big old man in his periphery, coming off of Able Lane the same way he has for a week. Five six seven, and now Davie can make out his brutal old face, sleepy scowl on his features, black patch over his eye. Eight, nine, no time to wonder if this is a good idea. Dead-To-Rights Davie only has good ideas, and if any of them are bad ideas, he just lies and thieves and batters and cuts until they got no choice but to be good ideas.
Ten. Club in his hand, knife in his sleeve. Eleven. Knock him down, give the old shit a couple new scars, take his coinage. Twelve. Tattered blues on over his coat and doublet so any Alley rats watching will know it was a Cutter done it.
Thirteen.
Davie's up, vaulting over the stoop, lips pulled back from his wide yellow teeth in a terrified grin, twirling his club, going to take it to the bastard and teach him who owns Old Town. He's on the man's blind side, a step away before the old drunk can even turn, and as he brings the club down he can see his whole seedy, grimy, glorious future laid out before him, just like "Jolly" the Northman is shortly to be laid out on the cobblestones.
Jolstraer Taborwynn moves his head. Just a bit to the left. It's enough for the club to come down and hit him where shoulder meets neck, which hurts like a fucker, but has never been known to knock a man out. In this case, all it seems to do is prove a loud "-THA FUCK?!" from the quarry, and if it hurts, well, this is a man who is well-accustomed to meeting, negotiating with, and eventually dispensing with pain. He takes a couple steps back, and Davie swings his club again, running on adrenaline, but Jolstraer gets one arm up and the club slams into his forearm with a dull crack of bone.
"Got yer!" shouts Davie Fennett exultantly. And then he notes the slight change of weight in his hand, and backs up his brain a second, and goes over the idea of "a dull crack of bone." Then he looks at the club in his hand, or rather the half of a club in his hand and the half of a club falling to the cobblestones, and meets the northman's smile like a thin crack in a stone wall. He palms his knife, wishing he didn't have to do this - it's not worth anyone's hide to kill a Rider, not ever. He brings it up, and there's another black-gloved hand, faster by far than a big half-blind slow old drunk has any right to be, catching his wrist and squeezing.
And squeezing.
And squeezing.
Davie Fennett is promptly educated on the difference between cracking bone and cracking wood.
He screams, and knows that anyone watching will see this, one of the Caspar Street Cutters squealing like a girl with a mark's hand wrapped around the bird-bones of his wrist. He is glad that the Rider is going to kill him so that Will won't get the chance. He wants his mother.
Jolstraer looks at him, and his face softens, which is sort of like granite sagging a bit. He just looks incredulous. "Ye daft feckin' git, wha' war ye thinkin?" And he lets go. Just like that. And laughs. "Fuck's saik, coam back whan ye grown some hair oan y'r balls." He lets go, leaves Davie Fennett curled up on the street clutching the shattered remains of his wrist, and walks off shaking his head, a smile on his face and a spring in his step.
There are three ways for an up-and-coming hard case to make himself a legend in Old Town. None of the three are really worth it.
I drink to keep you pretty
--
--
Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
Yva:
The old woman was watching the alleyway through her kitchen window.
Through her kitchen window the old, narrow street looked the same as always.
Darkness had already claimed most of the alley, it was held at bay only here and there by flickering lights lit by the Nightwatch. Thus the sole wanderer of this forgotten street seemed to have misplaced their shadow.
She, for it was a she, walked tall and with a purpose, yet without urgency. Her hooded cloak was pulled tight around her form and the only sound made was from her heels- cobbled stone after cobbled stone being punished.
The old woman watched as the lady strode past her window. She watched as a lanky form separated itself from the shadows and snuck up behind the passer-through.
Moments later her back door opened.
"Gramma! I gots it!"
"Good, son, good. Go ahead, put it on the table."
"Is 'eavy, too, gramma. Heaviest yet!"
The boy giggled with glee as he dumped the mageweave pouch on the room's only table. The clink held promises of better days to come. Much better days.
"So o'en it, lad."
Impatient fingers fiddled with the pouch's ribbon, and then it fell open.
--
It was said that it was a fortunate thing Stormwind was a town full of mages. (No one mentioned the warlocks)
It was said the fire would have wiped the whole city out, had it not been contained.
It was said that in the ashes of the old house a handful of embers were still burning long after the sun had risen
The old woman was watching the alleyway through her kitchen window.
Through her kitchen window the old, narrow street looked the same as always.
Darkness had already claimed most of the alley, it was held at bay only here and there by flickering lights lit by the Nightwatch. Thus the sole wanderer of this forgotten street seemed to have misplaced their shadow.
She, for it was a she, walked tall and with a purpose, yet without urgency. Her hooded cloak was pulled tight around her form and the only sound made was from her heels- cobbled stone after cobbled stone being punished.
The old woman watched as the lady strode past her window. She watched as a lanky form separated itself from the shadows and snuck up behind the passer-through.
Moments later her back door opened.
"Gramma! I gots it!"
"Good, son, good. Go ahead, put it on the table."
"Is 'eavy, too, gramma. Heaviest yet!"
The boy giggled with glee as he dumped the mageweave pouch on the room's only table. The clink held promises of better days to come. Much better days.
"So o'en it, lad."
Impatient fingers fiddled with the pouch's ribbon, and then it fell open.
--
It was said that it was a fortunate thing Stormwind was a town full of mages. (No one mentioned the warlocks)
It was said the fire would have wiped the whole city out, had it not been contained.
It was said that in the ashes of the old house a handful of embers were still burning long after the sun had risen
I drink to keep you pretty
--
--
Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
The submissions are up. Winner to be announced later today.
Here's the optional part of the contest. IF your character was used, feel free to contact the author of PM with your suggestions, edits and direction. Feedback and critique can only make a writer better.
----
Submissions for the NEXT ficlet contest open tomorrow.
The next contest is the following:
Take a character (not your own, not one you had before) and write a ficlet (1024 characters or so) that puts said character, "In a modern world gone wrong." A while back, we talked about "WoW characters in a modern world RPG." You define the setting. Is it Beltar versus the rampaging aliens, Tarquin in a global conspiracy, Genise as the Doctor's companion, Varenna as the shining light at the end of the world?
To show you what I mean, I call dibs on Ulth. That being said, Ulth is still a valid choice to write about.
Here's the optional part of the contest. IF your character was used, feel free to contact the author of PM with your suggestions, edits and direction. Feedback and critique can only make a writer better.
----
Submissions for the NEXT ficlet contest open tomorrow.
The next contest is the following:
Take a character (not your own, not one you had before) and write a ficlet (1024 characters or so) that puts said character, "In a modern world gone wrong." A while back, we talked about "WoW characters in a modern world RPG." You define the setting. Is it Beltar versus the rampaging aliens, Tarquin in a global conspiracy, Genise as the Doctor's companion, Varenna as the shining light at the end of the world?
To show you what I mean, I call dibs on Ulth. That being said, Ulth is still a valid choice to write about.
I drink to keep you pretty
--
--
Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
edit:
I looked in the wrong file for this one: Bellesta
"Yer gonna be givin' me yer wallet, luv."
In the deeper shadows of Old Town, the wiry youth danced from foot to foot, a blackjack flitting through his fingers.
Broad shoulders turned, cornrows spinning with a whistle. Her gaze was impassive as fingers extended into claws and fur rippled down her arms. Girth, sudden and fast, as what had once been lean kaldorei flanks became solid muscle. Through all of it - the muzzle, the tail, the damaged half ear - the spectacular white hair glimmered, its treasures sparkling in the dim streetlight.
The snarl made her lip curl, revealing yellowing fangs and a lolling tongue.
"I don't have a wallet. You'd make a good one, though."
There was a bellowing roar as she charged.
A scream, a thud, and then the wet sound of something being dragged into an alley.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the Pig and Whistle, slurping her fingers like they were covered in sticky taffy. When asked why she was late, she shrugged, running her tongue under her fingernail to retrieve a fat, juicy morsel.
"Oh, sorry. I just stopped for a snack.".
I looked in the wrong file for this one: Bellesta
"Yer gonna be givin' me yer wallet, luv."
In the deeper shadows of Old Town, the wiry youth danced from foot to foot, a blackjack flitting through his fingers.
Broad shoulders turned, cornrows spinning with a whistle. Her gaze was impassive as fingers extended into claws and fur rippled down her arms. Girth, sudden and fast, as what had once been lean kaldorei flanks became solid muscle. Through all of it - the muzzle, the tail, the damaged half ear - the spectacular white hair glimmered, its treasures sparkling in the dim streetlight.
The snarl made her lip curl, revealing yellowing fangs and a lolling tongue.
"I don't have a wallet. You'd make a good one, though."
There was a bellowing roar as she charged.
A scream, a thud, and then the wet sound of something being dragged into an alley.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the Pig and Whistle, slurping her fingers like they were covered in sticky taffy. When asked why she was late, she shrugged, running her tongue under her fingernail to retrieve a fat, juicy morsel.
"Oh, sorry. I just stopped for a snack.".
I drink to keep you pretty
--
--
Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
So all of the submissions were fantastic. I'm not good at "judging" a contest. Therefore, I'm going to say the following:
Everyone who has submitted a ficlet: We can discuss how best I can help you in or out of game. Wether it's getting you a gem, running an instance, facilitating RP or proofing a story, I'm yours.
(this also includes: getting you new music)
But the "winners" based on my subjective scales:
Tarq's Mugging: Chrystenise (Frozen Globe is yours)
Fingold!: lli (100 gold)
Ale: Anna (Either a Blue Gem I can cut OR the raw gem)
Everyone's was wonderful, and if I had more play time, I'd hand out more prizes. Please take me up on my offer to help--It isn't much, but I do want to show everyone how much I appreciate your work on the ficlets!
On to contest #2
Everyone who has submitted a ficlet: We can discuss how best I can help you in or out of game. Wether it's getting you a gem, running an instance, facilitating RP or proofing a story, I'm yours.
(this also includes: getting you new music)
But the "winners" based on my subjective scales:
Tarq's Mugging: Chrystenise (Frozen Globe is yours)
Fingold!: lli (100 gold)
Ale: Anna (Either a Blue Gem I can cut OR the raw gem)
Everyone's was wonderful, and if I had more play time, I'd hand out more prizes. Please take me up on my offer to help--It isn't much, but I do want to show everyone how much I appreciate your work on the ficlets!
On to contest #2
I drink to keep you pretty
--
--
Re: Fan Ficlet Contest
ADDENDUM
Shael's fic was spammed. I may have done this while going through my email. I couldnt' find it this morning when I was posting and rereading submissions. This is my fault and it will be rectified in a variety of ways.
Fells' Revenge
Any idiot knew the best stuff was kept close to the heart.
She looked so small, so weak, and she was. It was easy for the lanky fellow to knock her down and snatch the pouch from her neck, leaving her calling angrily after him. Sucker.
He dashed into the dark alleyways he'd worked for several weeks now. The find was heavy; this might be the lucky strike that got him moving on to the next big city.
The plain runed stone within didn't disappoint him, nor the brilliant sapphire ring delight. He was too busy screaming at the black pearl panther figurine. It was probably worth a good sum. It was also squirming, and had sunk sharp teeth deep into his finger.
There was a soft rush of air, a blade at his throat. "I'll jes' be takin' that back now, fella."
He got off easy. He kept his life, and even his finger. It wsn't until later he realized he didn't have his coinpurse anymore. "Damn waste, folk losin' things like this," she muttered a district away, tossing it untouched to Topper McNabb.
Shael's fic was spammed. I may have done this while going through my email. I couldnt' find it this morning when I was posting and rereading submissions. This is my fault and it will be rectified in a variety of ways.
Fells' Revenge
Any idiot knew the best stuff was kept close to the heart.
She looked so small, so weak, and she was. It was easy for the lanky fellow to knock her down and snatch the pouch from her neck, leaving her calling angrily after him. Sucker.
He dashed into the dark alleyways he'd worked for several weeks now. The find was heavy; this might be the lucky strike that got him moving on to the next big city.
The plain runed stone within didn't disappoint him, nor the brilliant sapphire ring delight. He was too busy screaming at the black pearl panther figurine. It was probably worth a good sum. It was also squirming, and had sunk sharp teeth deep into his finger.
There was a soft rush of air, a blade at his throat. "I'll jes' be takin' that back now, fella."
He got off easy. He kept his life, and even his finger. It wsn't until later he realized he didn't have his coinpurse anymore. "Damn waste, folk losin' things like this," she muttered a district away, tossing it untouched to Topper McNabb.
I drink to keep you pretty
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