Lucky's Tale Spinning

To be fair, the grim part was more of because of the purple.

For some reason, black = dark, purple = grimdark.

I don't remember any purple.

It's also worth mentioning that that story is yet another example of a story I have tried to write in my main setting, and then dislike and shortly after, for unrelated reasons, I change so much about the story that the story can no longer really exist.

Yeah...for some reason, I read it and thought "I bet it's purple."

heh Actually, you'd be wrong. There's lots of yellows, reds, and some blues, but no purples.

Of course, I didn't say any of that, so you had no idea but hey, whatevs.

Yeah, I remember really liking that one too.

This next story is a continuation from this one.

And so I moved centre of this pocket realm, terrified at the gigantic and obese monster that periodically scooped and gobbled up the lost souls that shambled towards it. I wanted to run away, but I simply couldn't: every step I tried to take away from the forgotten god only brought me to it more quickly. It did not take long for me to realise that escape was hopeless, and so I ceased moving, and like the other souls trapped in this place, I wailed.

I know, I know. Absolutely no dignity in giving up and crying, and it's probably hard to imagine someone on my power level doing something so base, but, in my defence, this was almost like a past life for me.

It was an eternity before I had reached the god of this realm. An eternity I spent wailing at my cruel fate, and I was far from prepared to deal with it. Really, at that time, I didn't even know how to prepare for something like this. I didn't even realise this was something that happened, let alone could be prepared for.

Of course, that didn't mean there was nothing I could do. And when the god held me in its sausage-fingered hand and tried to drop me into its gullet, inspiration struck. I had obviously never been in these experiences before, but in my life I had been an amateur philosopher, and guessed that this was a realm of spirit, of imagination. I willed myself into being made of flame, quickly burning the god's hand. The ancient, monstrous god flailed its arms in surprised pain, and, for the first time in millenia I suspect, it dropped someone before they were hanging over its gullet.

As I fell through the air, I extinguished the flames of my body, and willed myself into another shape, such that when I hit the god's pustulent flesh, I was essentially a human spear. Though I was nowhere near as powerful as the god, I was far more willful than it, and all of that will was focused on a singular intent: hurting the damn thing. I pierced the skin of its leg, diving into its body.

I don't think there are words in the English language to deal with how abstract it is inside a god's body. I didn't find myself in torn muscle or veins. There was no blood erupting from it. Instead, I found myself in what could most easily be described as another realm, this one composed of a repulsive black haze, a throat-curdling scream resounding throughout: the sound of a god's pain.

In this hazy realm, I drifted around, willing the mists away from me. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I figured I'd eventually find something that wasn't so misty. In the eternity this search took, the god healed, or at least it stopped screaming, which was a mercy. Eventually, my drifting brought me before what looked like a perfectly cubic building, composed of some sort of stone made of the fog of this place.

I examined every inch of the building, but found no opening. At this point, I considered myself a master of making entrances, though. I willed my arm into being a sledge hammer and began to pound it against a wall, over and over, and with each strike, the fog and building screamed. It did not take many more strikes before the wall gave in, and once it did I slithered into the building.

Remember how I said it's not easy to describe being inside a god's body? Well, it's much easier to describe the inside of one's heart. Yes, it was another realm, but this was much more concrete: a white room, with a pool of dark water in the centre, and a marble pillar that came out of the centre of the pool and up to the ceiling. With this set-up, what I had to do seemed pretty obvious, and with ease I walked up to it and knocked it down with three strikes of my arm-hammer.

With that, the god began to implode. The black waters, the walls of its heart, dissolved into mists just like those outside it, and rushed towards me, and it was not long before all the mists of the realm outside the heart followed.

The god, his body, his realm, had turned into a vortex, and I was the centre.

edited 30th Jul '11 4:11:11 AM by LuckyRevenant

Hmm, can't say I was expecting there to be a sequel to that one. TBH I kind of liked the ambiguity of the ending the first part had.

Not that I'm complaining about this one. Indeed not. This one does leave me wanting more, though, where oddly enough, the previous tale's ending didn't.

edited 30th Jul '11 9:46:20 AM by Zudak

Yeah, I understand.

This is a story that I've wanted to finish for a while, though. And I very nearly am. However, I wasn't entirely sure how it was going to end. Now I am.

Hope you like the next part like I do. If I can pull it off, it should be spectacular.

I also have to apologise about the quality of the writing. I feel like I'm being entirely too tell-y right now. Or something.

Tcheluocoma slouched forward in his throne, his head laying on a table covered with scrolls detailing the next month's plans for the war. Today alone he had gone over and approved many strategies for attacks on the other Tchumal state capitals. All his advisors and generals estimated that the war would be over by the end of the year, and if the Sun were to shine brightly, their state would be the victor. Now, though, there was only one thing on Tcheluocoma's mind: sleep.

"Oh, and there's just one final matter for you to address, Tchuluocoma," Nahqatl said. Of course, the sun would never let its child such convenieces. "You have another challenger."

At this, Tcheluocoma lifted his head a bit, to make a show to his chief advisor that he was, indeed, still awake. He thought of adding an obscene gesture to signify that he cared little about another petty lord's challenge, but decided that such would not be fitting for one as exalted as he, and so refrained. Instead, he asked, "Who?"

"The son of Yuzelmat." Tcheluocoma thought on this for a moment, trying to remember who Yuzelmat was.

"That general of the Quatolmi state? Didn't we take the whole family prisoner?"

"Aye, Child. And it is for his family's freedom that the son has challenged you."

Tcheluocoma snorted at this. "Has he not heard the stories of my prowess? Why would he challenge me for something so petty, when a victory could mean so much more?"

Nahqatl merely shook his head, smiling. "You know how the young can be. His head is likely too full of dreams of freedom to think of glory."

"I hope I was never that single-tracked.[[hottip:*:Note that I do not like using this phrase here. Stinks of trains. Can't think of a better one for a pre-industrial society, though. Of course, if the phrase has nothing to to do with trains, then it's fine.]]" Tcheluocoma laughed again, and then stood up and began stretching. "I presume the child wishes to fight me now?"

"Indeed, Child. We have taken him to the arena-pit."

Tcheluocoma grabbed his great sword, and the two of them departed together.



Yuzelmat's son merely scoffed when he saw Tcheluocoma enter the arena-pit armourless and with only a great sword. "No armour for the great warrior-lord of the Tilome state? Father always speaks of how wealthy your state is! And, yet, not enough money to afford decent armour for yourself, eh?" When the crowd around the pit began to laugh, the deluded child thought they supported him and thus began trying to rally them further towards his cause. Tcheluocoma could only snicker; these men and women were his advisors, his soldiers and knights. They had all seen him in battle, and they knew the child was only asking for his defeat.

Once Tcheluocoma had grown tired of the boy's foolishness, he shouted, "Boy, I wish to know your name for I send you back to your father."

"I am Huatil, son of Yuzelmat, knight of Quatolmi! And when I return to my father, it will be with our freedom and your head!"

A dual to the death, then? Oh, this child was foolish indeed. Tcheluocoma smiled when he realised he'd get to sleep sooner than he thought at first.

Huatil again tried rallying a crowd that laughed at him, and then bashed his shield with his short spear three times, and charged Tcheluocoma, who did not even take his sword from its sheath on his back. Instead, he decided to take this chance to show Huatil who he was dealing with. When the child was a few yards from him, he threw his spear at Tcheluocoma, and to his credit, it was done with more force than Tcheluocoma would have thought a boy of his age could do. Of course, this mattered little, as the spear merely bounced off his chest.

When Huatil noticed what had happened, his face began to twist into a grimace of horror. He had little time to think about this though, for in one short minute, Tcheluocoma had grabbed both the spear and the child and thrown them against the wall of the arena-pit.

It took a moment for the boy to realise what had just happened to him, and for him to catch his breath, and in that moment, Tcheluocoma had made his way in front of the boy, and had his sword drawn, point inches from Huatil's eyes. "Boy, I can put this through your skull, chest, and groin before you can even blink. Do you still wish to fight to the death?" Instead of changing his mind, Tcheluocoma's words seemed to have only increased the boy's resolve, and he tried to grab his spear and stab it into Tcheluocoma's gut. Instead, Tcheluocoma dropped his sword, grabbed the spear, and stabbed the boy in his gut with it in one swift movement.

The boy did not die from the strike, but it was clear that he would bleed out if motions were not taken soon.

"BEHOLD! TCHELUOCOMA! BLESSED CHILD OF THE SUN!" Nuoma, one of Tcheluocoma's top generals, bellowed causing the crowd to cheer. "Enough!" Tcheluocoma shouted before calling for his healers. "This child shall die if he does not recieve treatment soon."

"Let him! He was the one who challenged you to the death!" one of the soldiers in the crowd shouted.

"And he is only a child, with a child's foolish arrogance," Tcheluocoma projected. "Am I not merciful enough to allow the foolish to learn from their mistakes?"

His words silenced the crowd, and with the silence came the healers, who began to take the boy to their tent. Tcheluocoma thought for a moment of following them, and ensuring that they did indeed heal the child, but instead picked his sword from the ground, and made his way back to his own tent. "Enough of this foolishness."

Dust and ash, dust and ash. Everywhere he looked, he saw little but dust and ash. It covered the ground, so that plants could no longer grow, and it was thick in the sky, such that neither he nor his family could see the sun. There were few animals left, and it was not easy to find those that were so he and his family had taken to subsisting on themselves, each other, those who fell and would not get up.

They did not know another way. They knew little of how the world had been before, having learned the tales from their mothers, who had learned them from their mothers before them, and they from their mothers before them. They did not even know how long the world had been like this.

They did not know if they were the only ones left. They certainly had not seen other men, at least they had seen none who had not given in to bestial brutality. They, and their fathers before them, had spent their lives wandering this dying world, looking for the place promised them, their only source of hope.

He was unsure if this place existed. After all, he had been wandering longer than any of his still-living family, and they saw nary a trace of what they looked for. He would always tell himself that he really did not know what it was they looked for, but that did not reassure him any more. Before, he had thought he would know what the promised place would be when they found it, but it began to seem likely that the tale existed to give them false hope, a purpose to keep moving so that they would try getting up when they fell.

He could not share his misgivings with any of his family. He had lived longer than any of them, dealt with more things than the rest. It was only natural that they would look to him for leadership, and though he did not like this arrangement, he could not waste the energy to resist. Thus, he led them forward, despite the pessimism that had taken root in his thoughts. A pessimism that was undeserved.

Sorry there's not much yet. Until I can figure out how to actually transition to the next part, this is about all I can do.