"Write a story about someone making a deal with the devil."

People are weak, by their very nature. People are weak, afraid and desperate when trouble arises. They balk and cower from the mysteries of the dark, and flee from that which they see in the light. That was why the college was founded. It was a symbol of hope, and understanding. That was what Yorin's understanding was, and as many times before he went to the gardens in the court to clear his mind, though there was little left to see at this time of year. A few others walked through the gardens, carrying glass vials and carefully inspected the budding flowers.

Yorin was different from most that he knew, and many recognized it in him. He was never one to smile, no matter how pleased he was or seemed. He rarely spoke, save for when he had to. The grim workings of his father, an infamous necromancer bound to the service of their young king had changed him from the moment he could think. His memories were ambiguous at their best, and at their worst, completely forgotten. He knew that he had helped his father with much of the menial work, but not much else. Yorin knew that he had nothing to complain about. The dealings of his father kept his family fed, and it was his connections that allowed Yorin into the schools of philosophy and of magic. Yet Yorin could find no joy in what he had accomplished. He was an avatar of anger. The face of contempt.

Despite what those within the colleges and high streets claim, following the path of the dark arts corrupts body and soul. There was something about the energies used that couldn't fully be explained, something that seemed to drain the life from those that used it. They, the nobles and wealthy, would deny such things, as the coin that filled their purses twisting the truth and spread their own far. Bastards he thought, making eye contact with one of the professors. Yorin, despite his relatively youth was well aware of the decadence that flowed through high society. The teacher, Matteus, made a courteous bow towards Yorin, dropping the tip of his masterfully carved oak staff slightly. Yorin, imitating the same courtesy bowed in return, though under his breath he muttered a single world.

"Useless."

The two men were opposites in almost every way. While the teacher was fair skinned, clean shaven with long blonde hair. Yorin was well tanned, with dark eyes and unkempt hair that was balding prematurely. Golden robes, embroidered with the script of an ancient language flowed and shimmered around Matteus, a hypnotic beauty about it that forced Yorin to look away. There was something about the clothes. He sensed a danger behind it, but could not describe it.

"Yorin, son of Baarahis. It's well that I find you here!" Yorin grasped the man's outstretched arm, "There is much to discuss, I'm afraid. Follow me, and with haste."

Yorin followed after Matteus, silently, for though this proved to be a greater challenge than he had first anticipated. The blond man stepped with much grace, and seemed to glide towards the Great Hall with much ease. Other students ran in the opposite direction from them, grabbing those that knelled beside the mystic plants and fled. Yorin's walk turned to a jog, before turning into a full sprint. Matteus was always a foot ahead of him, effortlessly gliding on, which made Yorin flush with anger. Without showing any signs of exhaustion until the two reached the massive doors, made of rowan and engraved in many runes. A stench of inferno assaulted Yorins' senses, the stench so strong that it made his eyes water. He could taste it. Matteus gave Yorin a final, somber look before opening the door. Pity?

Inside the Great Hall stood representatives from every philosophy of magic, and representatives from each of the local divinities. They stood in a circle, with lowered heads. Many of the representatives looked sickened, Yorin noted before Matteus elbowed him, and through gritted teeth told him to lower his eyes. Total silence filled the room, before an otherworldly voice spoke.

"Come! My master bids that you no longer avert your eyes." Yorin looked, slowly and cautiously towards the figures before him. There was one that sat, staring intently towards him. It's face was long, and completely smooth and was without the black iron armor that htey are often envisioned with. It was different. It sat upon a massive throne, and seemed to tower above all others. Then Yorin noticed it. The creature had neither eyes, nor nose, and yet stared intently towards Yorin, or so he felt.

There was another, smaller and far more feminine. It was she who spoke, and waited until the majority had looked upwards, towards the grotesque thing before continuing. She was like a gaunt, skeletal maiden, dressed in a cloak of shadows.

"Why have you summoned my master?" She asked, looking around the room.
"My lord, we have found ourselves at a slight disadvantage against the beasts which walk as we do. All that we ask for the command of a band of your own. The blood our enemies will be our offering unto you, and I will see that your name is spread through the land, great one." Spoke the arch wizard, and before he finished speaking, the woman laughed openly.
"You honor me with your most generous offering," she spoke, her voice dripping with open malice, "But I am afraid that my master cannot accept such an exchange. The lives of these beasts are of no profit to us. My master wants something more. Something from you."
"Please reconsider. Our offer is more than sufficient, and we need very little from you, considering the--"
"Considering what, dog? That your lands are being swallowed in death, and madness? That the beasts have crossed over the rivers that you claimed would protect your homes? Or is it that your armies of the dead, risen only by the power stolen from my master, falter and crumble as your esteemed necromancer lies in his own blood? Though how could you, any of you have know that your defenders have fallen? Hiding away and summoning us, only to offer worthless trinkets!"

Yorin felt his entire life fall apart as she spat onto the ground, the repressed memories came to him. Carting the dead, scouting in neighboring villages for easy targets, aiding in every ritual, and every spell. Many of those which guarded the people with blades were of his own creation. All of it was gone, ruined by a group of beasts. Yorin stepped forward, brushing past the hand that tried to hold him back.

"I offer myself."

A strange noise came from the eyeless creature after he spoke. It took a moment for Yorin to recognize what it was. Laughter. The woman looked toward him intently, without saying anything. Yorin tried to look away, to break her gaze, but fear paralyzed him. The arch wizard spoke, but his words were cut short by a flick of the devils wrist. He fell, writhing on the ground as he was drained, and in a moment it was over.

"You. Speak. Who are you, that we should accept your offer."
"I am Yorin, son of the necromancer that guards," Yorin paused, his throat tightening, "guarded the towns. I have learned much of the magic that allowed him to control the dead. I offer you myself, and all that may come after me, if you will give me the power to enact vengeance upon the beasts."
"A life for a life? It is agreeable. My master will grant you powers beyond anything that you could imagine. Let us make the pact."

She produced a small, ornate dagger and sliced into her open palm. A dagger of equal splendor was brought for Yorin. As their blood mixed, power filled him. Pure, unaltered power. True understanding. The methodical system that his father used was so similar, but now he felt as though he could feel every measurement needed, and knew everything that his father did. As he went through his changes others began offering themselves as well. Matteus, and several others agreed to be taken, in exchange for the usage of powerful entities upon the field of war. Soon twenty of their own were gone, dragged into whatever realm that the strange ones came from, exchanged for ten massive tools of war.

It came as quite a shock to Yorin, who at this point was fully transformed and ready to defend his people, saw his father manning the wall. He was very much alive though wounded deeply in his leg, forcing him to sit atop the wall. Yorin knew that he had been deceived. His gifted warriors, without purpose, returned to their own domain. Twenty of his own were gone, possibly forever.

"Write a story about someone participating in a seemingly innocent game that suddenly takes a turn."

I was born into a fairly normal family, in a very normal fishing town. It wasn't a huge place, but it was home. Our lives were deeply connected to the sea, and we prayed to Salanam, our patron god daily. A third of our catches were offered to her, in the hopes that she would continue to bless us every season. I was content, for the most part. Everything changed when a ship unlike anything that we had ever witnessed before washed upon our shore.

It was my tenth and eighth summer when the strange ones docked, and came before our peoples. Every single one of them looked like a prince. All of them were tall, lithe, and breathed an air of ferocious elegance. The Elder was summoned, and with the aid of his councilors, prostrated himself before the strange ones. I watched, intrigued, for the Elder was never one to lower himself before another. The stranger spoke to him in a foreign tongue, far different from anything that I had ever heard before. There were sailors from many distant lands, but none matched the accent, or dialect in the slightest.

After a moment the sailors aided the Elder to regain his footing, and together made their way towards the hall. My friend Rònan and I followed behind them as silently as we possibly could. Peering inside, we looked at the two figures sitting, each flanked by their own people. They all looked so different, yet so similar to our own. They had the same distinct features that we had, which none of our neighboring towns seemed to share. Like us, their ears were longer than average, and ended in a pronounced point. Their ears were thrice as long, and ended in a far sharper tip. Their armor was golden, with chains so intricately woven that it looked more akin to fine art.

They spoke for a while, and we listened intently as if we could understand what was being said through pride alone. Still, we were determined to hear every word. Eventually Rònan's mother caught us, and sent us away to finish our daily work, which we had been neglecting. I couldn't take my mind off them all day, so I was more than overjoyed when I was told that there was going to be a spectacle near the shore. I swelled with pride at my invitation, and hurried to finish my chores faster than I ever did them.

Both moons shone brightly in the sky that night. Despite the younger of the sisters being a few shades of red no one payed notice to it. Normally it was considered an evil omen, and a sign to stay home. All of the youths were sat near the large fires which the strangers built near the shores. My face burned with embarrassment when I saw how many there was. There must have been a couple hundred of us there, waiting to get closer to the fires. There were many children present, some as young as ten, and many more young adults mixed in, similar to me. We were divided into groups of ten, and taught how to cast bones, which they called dice. Although I've always been a slow learner, I managed to pick up the game with relative ease. Laughter filled the air as the younger ones threw the dice too hard, or completely too far and had to spend unnecessary time trying to find the bones. The losers were sent home to their parents.

In a matter of minutes our ten turned to seven. Finally it became three. I looked at my remaining group, Rònan and a girl who worked in the local fields with her mother. With determination I cast the bones first, and Rònan followed quickly in my stead. Taking a moment to count the points, the girl rose stiffly and told us that she had to give up. Wordlessly she made her way back to the town. I looked to Rònan with an innocent smile, and he returned it. If I knew him, he was trying to think of a way to cheat. He must have known I was thinking of the very same thing.

Rònan extended his arm, and I took it firmly, wishing him the luck of the Norfolk. Finally alone, we excitedly whispered about what sort of prize that would be given to the winner. I was thoroughly convinced that it was a treasure from a far away land, or gold, but Rònan convinced me otherwise. As he said, there was no reason why they should give the winner something that could be stolen easily by another. I conceded the point, and asked him what he thought it could be. In his fashion, he simply shrugged his shoulders.

I was still pressing Rònan to explain his thoughts when the last loser was sent back. Returning to my false smile, we got to our places and prepared to roll the final die. Rònan insisted that I cast mine first, and I nodded in agreement, maintaining a straightforward expression. I threw, and before they could finish I knocked the placement with my knee. Rònan didn't notice that I cheated, or if he did then he did not care. He rolled his, suspiciously towards mine, though luck was on my side and both missed. I won. He looked at my roll, two eyes like a cat which stared at the sky, and scratched his chin before shaking my hand. I told him that no matter what, I would try to find a way to share whatever it was I was going to win. He laughed at that and turned as I made my way towards where the winners were gathered. He turned back, and I waved.

It was the last time I saw him.

Our victory was short lived, and in a way Rònan was right. We got to sail in the ships, and see the world. What we found out was that our home was a colony of a greater empire. As the ships sailed, words of power were spoken, and the waters sprayed into a mist; a circle of sea green which we sailed through. As we passed, our eyes were filled with splendor, which we found out was the splendor of our true heritage. Golden temples shone brilliantly, casting their shine onto the plethora of colorful birds flew through the air. In a massive temple we were brought before our true Queen, who's beauty was otherworldly. Our own fifty were surrounded by an unknowable number of groups like us, brought before their rightful Queen.

We ate, drunk and danced with the people of this land. We were given weapons and armor, similar to those that were worn by those that brought us here, and trained in fighting pits. In service of The Lady we fought, sailing through the mists that permeated her sacred lands, allowing for us to appear suddenly and overwhelm whatever she had foreseen as a threat to her domain. From our fifty, we became ten. We were Elitists, the Eternal Guard. Eventually we were given the knowledge of the mists, and sent out to bring back the Queens tithes. From village to town, all that bore the her mark were brought out.

I watched as our spokesperson would entreat with the elders, and the elected officials. During this time we would study those which had potential. Every night their youths were brought out, to come and sit beside our fires. With dice we tested them, taking notes of their ambitions and the way they acted, as the message was passed through the flames. In a familiar city, I chose my mark. A youth who reminded me of someone I once knew. As she threw her dice, I whispered a spell, and the dice fell to my favor. Two eyes, like a cat, stared towards the sky.

"Write a story titled 'Desperate Remedies'."

Charlie paced through his office, back and forth, back and forth. He would sit, only to rise and stare out the window expressionless. When his stomach was knotted with what felt like guilt he forced himself to go back to his table and sit once more. This had been going on for two hours. He was a prisoner of his own design, the worst feeling he had since becoming mayor. With lidded eyes he grasped the star that his bother once wore and thumbed with it absentmindedly. It wasn't that he hated the people of Scorpion Lake. It was, in fact, the opposite. Love for these people was what caused him to do what he did, and the actions that he knew he could never undo. He tried to forget, but there was no point.

Scorpion Lake was a backwater town, where everyone knew everyone. He was born here, and knew every dirty secret that he was able to. He kept them hidden, though well memorized. When he was twenty seven he ran for mayor. His political rivals backed out once he began running, after a chance meeting with them. Without any opposition he became mayor, and immediately he began work on protecting the innocence of his town. He denied the government when they attempted to build a railroad through their homes. He chased away roaming bandits, and discouraged settlers that he knew wouldn't fit right in this town. He gave the people everything, and it still wasn't enough.

There had been troublemakers. There always were troublemakers, and once he was gone there would be more. He ignored them for the most part, and made deals with them whenever possible. They were a good bunch, he reckoned, just a bit misguided and restless in this small town. No one really had any issues with them, they were the good old boys. Charlie drank of their sins, and turned a blind eye to what happened whenever the whiskey flowed. He had been warned by his wife, the local priest and his brother after he appointed him sheriff, to turn from this way of life. Charlie never listened.

It was early, one unnaturally cold day in June, when a group of strangers rode into town. There were many of them, possibly fifty. At their front was an elderly man, and so Charlie went to speak to him.

"Morning! What brings you this way?"
"Morning to you too sir! My boys and I were looking for a couple of men from around here. Came to one of our bars and shot one of my boys when they had their backs turned. Hell, I shouldn't even call them men."
"It truly is terrible how things happen out here! But how can you say that any of ours did that to yours? Don't suppose you brought any proof with ya?"
"I can assure you, we don't need to show you proof. Bring out your boys, or we'll bring them out ourselves."

Charlie desperately wanted to make them see reason. The commotion had drawn a crowd, including the sheriff, rifle in hand. A gunshot. A cry of panic filled the warm summer air as one of the riders fell. Chaos ensued, the sheriff shot dead point black by one of the riders before he could even raise his rifle. Shots rang out from every building and several riders dismounted in search for cover, while a few more rode through the town wildly. Charlie saw the world through the blur, as he tried to stop the bleeding from his brother. Buildings were set aflame, and innocents lay slain in the streets. With eyes shut tight, Charlie wished for a miracle to take place, his body shaking as the last of the gangsters rode past him, fleeing.

It was a fitful night. There was an eerie silence for none danced and the whiskey was dried up. Charlie found himself alone, truly alone, as he sat atop his chair. Sleep would not come. Four days passed, and Charlie never left his office, his exhaustion overwhelming. He fell into fitful sleeps, where he dreamed of a priestess to another force, another god. It strained to speak to her, though she told him what must be done. She offered him the power to regain control, but before he could discover what it was, he would awaken. Fragmented pieces of knowledge were given to him, and he was thankful that no one came to see him. With each passing dream, the hallucinations grew stronger. Soon, he could see her while he was awake, standing in the corners of the room, in the farthest corner of his eye. He heard her voice, and saw the strangers from whence she channeled her magic. They seemed to care. In a dark, unholy way he felt their pity. They listened. Channeling their voices through her, they revealed that he needed an initial sacrifice, and showed him the symbols that were needed to speak to them. They would give him the answers he sought. He knew it. Then, a knock sounded at his door. Not waiting for an answer, it opened and one of the younger folks came in, hat in hand.

"Charlie, me and the boys were thinking. I think it's only right that we go back and get even with them for what they did."
"You think?" Charlie answered absently, without looking at the speaker.
"Yes sir. It ain't right, all that they did. We ought--"
"Are you even capable of thought? We've lost enough already, and we have nothing to show for it."
"We got nothing to show for it, because we haven't won yet. Tonight we will. We'll get revenge for our folks, for your brother"
"Revenge? Revenge for something you've caused? Why should you leave, when you're guilty?"
"Guilty of what? Taking care of our own? Defending this God forsaken town when you didn't?"
"You shot an unarmed man! You," spittle flying from Charlies mouth, "killed a man because you gambled the entire treasury! Can't come clean, so you shot him like a coward."
"How did... we never told anyone what happened."

Shock, and confusion was written on the mans face, and Charlie himself was unaware that he knew this fact. Before the man could draw his pistol, Charlie raised his revolver executed the man. As he writhed, trying to crawl away Charlie strode behind him, and emptied another two into his back. The man lay dead, with a look of confusion and pain. Charlie waited, patiently for the other members of the outlaws to come and investigate.

Charlie paced through his office, back and forth, back and forth. Six dead men lay on the ground. His stomach was tight with excitement as he forced himself to sit once more, readying himself for what would come next. With the blood of the guilty coating his finger, he traced the symbol that he saw in his dreams.

"Write a story about someone trying to resist their darker impulses. Whether they succeed or fail is up to you."

Thunder rolled in the distance, and lightning illuminated the sky, though despite the absence of rain. Helga sat quietly in her little cottage, and waited as patiently as she could. It was only a matter of time until her esteemed guests arrived, knocking at her door to seek shelter. Helga allowed herself a moment to rock upon her chair, fiddling and fussing with a small doll in her hand. The blue eyes of the doll were almost lifelike, glistening as they were. She smiled at the little man before returning him with the many others in her collection. A knock. Helga floated towards the door, moving as quickly as she could. On the second knock she answered, with a genuine grin stretching her wrinkled face.

"Come in, come in! By the Seven Tears, it's far too cold for you to stay out there!"

Three young men stood in the doorway, and none of them could hide the shock that they felt towards her appearance. She didn't mind. Before the first of them could speak, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside. His companions followed shortly after.

"Thank you ma'am," the shortest of the men said, "though we don't want to intrude"
"Nonsense! I've just prepared a meal, and I've accidentally made far too much for just myself. Please. tell me you'll stay for a little while."
"You do us a great service," the blonde man said, "we will stay and may the Divines bless you for your kindness."

Helga led them into her small home and bid them sit and make themselves comfortable around the table. They did, well, everyone but the black haired man Helga noted. He stepped through her room, eyeing everything that he could. When he arrived at the doll collection he stopped, and stared at the miniature figures. Helga pretended that she did not notice. Behind her warm smile was daggers. She went, and retrieved the food that she had prepared for their arrival. Lamb stew was brought out, filled with her own special blend of spices and potatoes from her own garden. With it she brought the potato skins, stuffed and baked. The Dwarf looking man grinned like a fool when he saw it, and she smiled at him. Again, she went to retrieve more, and returned with a large plate, whereon a young doe lay. The blonde man rose quickly and took it from her, eliciting a 'My, you're a strong one!' as he placed it on the table. Once all were sitting, she spoke.

"It's not often that I get guests here! Where do you all come from?"
"I'm from the Princedom of Delmourett, as is my friend here," the blonde spoke, slapping the shoulder of his short friend, "and he's from Trillaci. South from here."
"Fascinating! Tell me, how did you all come together? And where are you destined?"
"My friend and I... we haven't addressed ourselves properly! My name is--"
"Our names are of nobodies concern, and neither is where we're going."

The dark haired man interjected curtly. His companions looked at him with wide eyes. The laws of hospitality were lost on outsiders it seemed. Helga knew that she had to smooth the tension, and so turning her attention to him, she spoke softly.

"Come come. Perhaps things are treated differently where you come from, but here we adhere to the laws of hospitality. Look at your friends! Clearly you've upset them. How can we speak openly if we do not know even the names of one another," she said before taking another sip of soup. When the man did not answer she continued, "My name is Helga."
"That's not your true name though, is it."
"You're being quite rude friend. Aplogize to our host, please. For my sake."
"I will not, and neither will you. Upon every god and spirit, I beg you not to tell this woman our business."
"You can come and do as you please, but I will not abandon the teachings of a gracious guest for your whims. I am Neilyn, a Knight of a the Sacred Rose. My friend here is Coed, a blacksmiths apprentice back home, if you'll believe it. As for him, well, I don't know why we travel with him some days" Neilyn said with a laugh.
"Where are you going?"
"We seek after the King of the Giants."

The conversation died down for a while, and they ate in silence. Eventually Helga spoke again.

"You haven't taken a single bite of your food! Is it not to your satisfaction?"
"I'm afraid that I cannot eat this"
"Why not? I've spent a great deal of effort in making this meal. I'm surprised that none of this is to your tastes."
"I feel that you almost spent too much time Auntie."
"Auntie?"

Auntie. Helga breathed in deeply, and cocked her head slightly. She suspected it from the beginning. He knew of her identity, or her nature from the very beginning. He even tried to reveal her secret, her true identity. But it was futile. There was nothing that he could say, or do to dissuade his friends. They didn't even look towards him, or admonish him, so grossly were they obsessed with their food. They were hers. All that she had to do was seal the deal.

Helga, at the head of the table cut into the flesh of the deer, and revealed it's heart. She offered it first to the man who called her Auntie, but he refused. She gave it to the others, and they ate. Their friend had tried to dissuade them. He yelled as they bit into the still beating heart, without rancor revealing her true nature. They could no longer heed his warnings. As the poison filled their veins they fell, slamming into the table. The man that had given her a hard time watched in horror as she took her true form. The illuion was ended. Before him towered the upper body of a woman, with the legs of a slug and the face of a beetle unlike anything seen. In a moment she was upon him, and with a swift movement she bit off his head completely.

Helga sat on her chair, rocking. In her hands she felt her favorite little blonde doll. The eyes glistened, on the verge of crying as she pet it's soft hair and returned it to the shelf. She took another off, a dark haired man with a suspicious and untrustworthy look before twisting off it's head and tossing the body into the fires.

"Set your story in an eerie, surreal setting."

Seven years had passed since the destruction of the Gates. Gudrun, a favored astrologer and wizard in the courts was slain, caught up in the initial blast, as the runes that he engraved on the portal combusted. His charred and smouldering remains were thrown thirty feet away. From the smoking portal the sound of hooves were heard, and massive creatures the size of bulls came riding forth. Each had seven legs, and had two horns which took the shape of a swans neck, each the size of a mans thigh, whereupon red ropes were tied like a web, and hanging from it were totems of alien magic, dangling loosely. Between each of their pure black eyes was a jewel of sorts, jutting out of their foreheads. The riders too were massive, humanoid in appearance though with bloated skin and large, still, unblinking eyes. Each wore necklaces with similar jewels around them, though unrefined. Without the astrologer, the only one that had any knowledge of them alive, the people gathered were ripe for the killing.

Hartmut was little more than a boy when they first came. He, like many others in his village had heard the tales of the Astrologer, and the strange worlds which he claimed that they could spread to, and conquer. There would be no more hunger, for the worlds were endless. Gudrun had claimed that every world, every planet was interconnected by the gates, which allowed the first people to pass through and monitor all life. It was borderline heretical. Unlike many others, Hartmut had left his home behind to seek after an untold truth. His mother had warned him not to go, and that he would only find disappointment. He refused to listen to her, though often he wished he had. He was there when they passed through the portal. He saw the wanton slaughter, as man was trampled under heavy hooves, and hundreds more were killed by the riders. His people had won the battle, and managed to close the portal once more, but the losses were heavily stacked against them.

The loss of Gudrun brought about the loss of all their knowledge of the portal, and what lay beyond. Gudrun was a secretive and paranoid man, who would have had his life work die with him, and come to naught than to allow someone to steal anything that he had created. Hartmut worked closely with the others as they tried to regain what was lost. Despite his lack of technical skill, medicinal or esoteric knowledge, he was eager to help. For the next seven years he toiled, working to remove the large stones that were knocked over, and distribute food among the poverty stricken people. He worked alongside the mages, carefully sliding his blade through creature and beast, dissecting all that was brought to him. It disgusted him to the core. Their bodies were coated in a thick layer of slime and muck. But the knowledge it gave. He would kill for it. The more he cut, the more he dug into their haphazardly preserved flesh, the more he understood Gudrun.

It was the jewels, they realized after years of experimentation. The jewels were attached to the brain in such a way that it removed all memories, and all thoughts except for that which the holder carried, and imparted into the creature. This allowed for a replication of a hivemind to form, the front line soldiers to fight without feeling pain, and to strike deep into the enemy while the holder could watch from afar, seeing through their eyes when he put the jewel towards the sun. On a cold morning, Hartmut lay before the surgeon, one of the first to receive the jewel. There was little said, Hartmut wasn't one for talking. The jewel was pressed on his forehead and hammered in. The blood that pooled out from his skull was collected, and stored. When he awoke, he found himself alone, in a dark haze. All memories of his life were gone, and he could not form any thoughts, or questions.

Then the day came.

The portal had been rebuilt to it's former glory. The large marble pillars were refashioned, carved as closely to the original as possible. There were six massive pillars, lining the sides of a pool house. A circle drawn on the floor, and those that were studied in the ancient tongue did their best to recite the ritual. The clicking words of the ritual seemed to echo, as mists took form, circling around them before pooling between two of the massive pillars. The pillars which depicted an ancient twin-headed god shook violently as the portal was lit. In his mind he heard the keeper of the jewels speak, a voice faint.

"Brace yourselves"

There was a thunderous noise as the portal became inflamed with blue and white energy, and they ran through, fueled on blood and fire. Stepping in they saw an endless expanse of stars, where lightning struck and flashed continually. They were running along a pathway, which swirled around them, twisting. Hartmut's feet touched this mass of energy and began burning, his foot sinking into the chaos. He ran, and the voice called out. Do not stop, do not look back. Before them came another raiding party, similar to those that they saw in their youths. They rode the massive woolen beasts, and wore their furs as armor. Seeing these men, they charged faster, the hooves leaving ripples in the unnatural ground.

Hartmut waited until the last possible moment before spreading the solvent onto his blade, the chemicals causing the metal to heat and burst into flames. Avoiding the oncoming beasts, he swung, igniting his enemies and their mounts alike, allowing for those behind him to stick them with spears as they ran. Many of their enemies fell, yet many more pushed through, desperately trying to reach the end. Those that fell within the portal sunk, screams of agony nauseating as they dissolved all that were within. Those that reached the end were met with spears and bows, being pushed back into the portal by the defenders.

Hartmut ran, sprinting as fast as he could, his feet burning with every step. There was an end, finally. With all of his might, he kept himself aright and sprinted. In a moment he was alone in a new world.

The sky was a dark purple, though the sun was seen. He walked, blade in hand. The air was thick, and wet, though there was no clouds in the sky, and the ground itself felt dry. Every plant, and every tree was massive compared to what they had back home, and even the birds which flew overhead seemed at least twice the size of all others. He stopped, and rested upon a rock. A hundred feet away, a rabbit sat, though it was nearly up to his own waist. Every animal that he had seen was far larger than anything he had ever encountered before. He put a hand to his forehead to wipe away the sweat that was forming. Blood. His head was silent.

The world that he had become a part of was void, empty of nearly all life forms. There were abandoned structures, ruins of a thousand buildings. Many were human, or appeared so. Some were wooden, others stone. Most were round, though some, like what he had passed through, were long and filled with marble pillars. Some were built with statues guarding them, of heavily armored heroes. Others had what appeared to be gods. He saw one, and marveled at the detail of a Dwarven face which was etched upon it. Hartmut looked up. The sun had not moved at all. The air was wet, and his his armor felt tight on his skin, but he could not allow himself a moment to relieve himself from it.

He knew not how far he had walked. It felt like days, but he had never once felt hunger or the need to rest. It was then that he heard the sound of a horn, and he followed. Entire bands came, riding the great beasts. Larger of these folk, with massive guts and paint hundreds of jewels tied around their necks butted against each other, and Hartmut assumed that they were cursing in their own tongue. A black mist flowed and they charged into it, and as the last one entered the mists dispersed.

Hartmut lived in this strange land for seven years, never once feeling the urge to eat, as those that he studied did. He hunted them, stalking the smallest and weakest of them. He conducted experiments on those he captures, and learned part of their language. They were simple creatures, he came to realize. They were a part of a world between worlds. Created by some unknowable god to be the bridge-men between the worlds, but they had become degenerate over the years. He learnt, enthralled by them, and their way of life. He watched in the distance as they would leave, and again, when they would return. They never returned with anything. No captives, no gold. They had no use for anything. Villages burned, countless people killed, and they would simply go back to their regular lives, riding aimlessly and feasting on the plenty of the land. And Hartmut hated them for it. Alone, we wished for a chance to return to his people, and be free from this hellish place.

Years had passed, and Hartmut had at last found purpose in his life. He became a ghastly figure, walking with armor fused to his flesh. As the horns sounded, welcoming them to those that wished to pass between realms, Hartmut would follow. As the mists flowed, he would descend upon them, hacking until he saw the terrified faces of the defenders. Then he would turn, shutting off all others from this place of silence. One day he followed the horn, and saw a familiar sight. His own people had tried it again. He waited, grinning excitedly. He was about to return home. When the mists came, he fell in among them, and slew, the flame on his blackened sword burning brightly, fighting like a madman. He looked upon his people. They wore armor unlike anything that he had ever seen, and held thin blades which looked more ceremonial than lethal. They were wide eyed at his appearance. He turned, and left them.

"Set your story in a type of prison cell."

Tiaga sat in her tiny containment cell, blankly staring in front of her. Around her were walls of chiseled stone, which she had spent her first few days puzzling at since being taken. She didn't remember exactly how she had come to this place. The last thing that she remembered before waking up in the cell was hunting after a young Wyrm as part of her rite of passage, allowing her to be fully accepted by her tribe. There was a blinding light, and she found herself in this cell. She gripped a jagged stone in her hand tightly, feeling it's edge dig into her calloused hands. She did this three times, imitating the deep scars which she had along her side from her last attempt at being accepted by her tribe. Tiaga, which they had named her, after the tiger, was a caged animal herself. Still, she waited.

Those that proved themselves had a chance of being purchased by the wizards which watched. The wizards were the only way to be freed from the cells. Victory brought great fame, and the prisoners worth was measured in blood. Even the dead had value to some wizards. The meat was enriched with magical properties, enough to feed and keep the winner rigorous, but left them with a deep craving, which did not help with the hunger they felt.

Suddenly she saw it. Food, falling from the sky just outside her prison cell. She slowly made her way forward, keeping low to the ground, walking on heel and knuckles. She was not locked in, there was not even a door. But she knew that it was foolish to run to the food right away. An ape like scream sounded from outside her cell, and she followed the noise.

Suddenly she saw it. A huge portion of food fell from the sky just outside of her prison cell. She slowly made her way forward, keepign low to the ground, walking on her knuckles. She left the cell and found herself in the large, circular arena. Fifteen other cells, small and open like hers ran along the walls of this place. She knew it was foolish to run to the food right away, a lesson that she had learnt through anothers misfortune An ape like scream sounded, on the opposite side to her. A prisoner had ran heedlessly towards the meat in the sand, and was almost immediately ambushed by a larger, hairier, figure who wrestled the unsuspecting newcomer to the ground and began furiously beating his skull into the red sands, wailing without mercy. Tiaga followed suit, finding her target. A burly man, pale skinned and with a mane of red hair was approaching her, seemingly dazed. She kept low, and studied him. His chest heaved with every breath, and his skin was soaked with sweat. His hands were outstretched, as though he was trying to coax a beast.

Tiaga played her part, not moving and cocking her head slightly as he stepped closer to her, as if unsure of him. He spoke, though Tiaga could not understand his words. Not that she would have cared. There was no place for the weak in this hell that she lived in. Without warning she lunged towards him. Despite his much larger size the red sands made his footing impossible, and the force from her impact knocked him off his feet. She crawled towards him, her feet burning in the red sands as she brought the stone down, cutting through his neck. He pushed her, throwing her off of him and tried to stand. She was quicker. Running like a fox, she slammed the stone into his hand, dislocating his thumb and bit deeply into the wound in his neck, ripping the meat from it. Choking on his own blood, he stumbled away, trying to escape. She left him. It was pointless to finish him off, and there were others who posed a greater threat to her survival.

Her knuckles found the sand once more as she surveyed the arena. The ape like man had dragged the remains of his victim back to his cell to feast. His type was rarely entertaining for those that watched, for his type were concerned with only survival and saw this life with a reptilian mind and did not care for entertaining the crowd. But they served their purpose. They weeded out the weak. Not everyone had left their cells, for many were not hungry enough to throw their lives away for the little meat that was burning in the circle. Those that remained were engaged already. The meat was so close, yet she would not go after it for she had seen firsthand how enemies could become allies in a blink of an eye. So she went, and searched the dead along the walls, only to find nothing of value, though her eyes caught a familiar sight. It was as though she gazed upon her reflection in mucky waters, for she saw a young woman that looked just like herself. It was uncanny, for the woman had the same black hair, the same tattoos along her stomach.

Tiaga ran to her. She was engaged against two bald men who, despite being thin had been able to ward her away through their teamwork, keeping her back with sharpened staffs. Around their necks were metal collars, which Tiaga had learnt stopped the person wearing them from using magic. They were of the people who watched these fights, who had men kill one another for their scraps of meat, disgraced and sent to die. Tiaga willing obliged those that peered. She slashed into the ankle of the first, and gripping the hem of his pants, pulled him backwards. He dropped his staff in the sands, and she grabbed it, skewering him on his own weapon. Invigorated by the small roar which she heard from the crowds, and she grappled the other, gripping his jaw and severing the neck. As she reached for the stone the younger woman saw the opportunity and struck, digging deep below Tiaga's arm. Tiaga grabbed a handful of sand and threw it into her foes face, blinding her. Tiaga threw herself against her once fellow tribesman and placed her hands on the others neck, watching the life leave her bulging eyes.

It was a strange feeling. She felt as though she was looking through anothers eyes. She felt pity, the weight of betrayal, the blood of her kin on her hands. But she couldn't dwell on it, a fact that filled her with anger.

Again, she crouched, and waited. There was only two left and so she risked it, sprinting towards the meat. She grabbed chunks with her hands and stuffed it into her mouth frantically, before grabbing as much meat as she could and tried to run back to her cell, the heat scorching her mouth and palms. The two had become one, as a femur bone shattered the side of the other's head. She was too weighed down, too exhausted to run any faster. A hand gripped her hair and yanked her to the ground painfully. Trying not to choke, she involuntarily let go of the meat and crawled back to her cell. The wards would not allow another living creature to enter.

She spat out the meat, and began eating slowly and sparingly, glaring at the dark haired man who ate of the meat freely, gouging himself on the food. She cursed at herself for allowing him of all people to overcome her. He would, without a doubt be approached that night by a wizard willing to pay for his services, possibly as a bodyguard or lent out as a killer for hire.