Loreic's Book of Shorts

I make a short story or a Prologue to a story I'm not really making? Goes here, in one large go-to topic.

Prologue: The Fair Folk

A group of large people, of light gray skin, horns, and protruding lower jaws, stood around a bonfire on a mountain during a cold night. These people wore all animal hides, raging from full pants and vests to a simple loin cloth. They stared at the fire as it flickered in the night, inside of it was a body. This event was a funeral, and these people were trolls.

They were all bulls. Two genders would separate into sibling tribes and meet in two ceremonies each month, this was a privet one. This cremation not only held the usual sadness, but also anticipation. The troll in the fire was the tribe's chieftain; the leader and shaman for the tribe, unquestioned unless a fight was in order. Now that he was dead. There would be a great fight.

The fire eventual burned out, several trolls went and picked up the deceased chieftain's bones, the other members of the tribe followed them to the path that led to the mountain's foot. Two trolls walked close together, and started conversation.

“So, der gonna be ah Decide,” said the troll, slightly, “hope ya be ready, lotta tough'ins.”

“Urgarr,” the other troll groaned, he was a short for a troll, maybe six foot ten. “luck be dat we don't get ah fight wit Mal.” A hand landed on both of their shoulders, and because bad luck must have decided to get a move on before the fight, the two trolls look behind to see Mal'Grudge.

“How ya don',” his voice came up like sand paper. Mal'Grudge was in an average height for a troll, seven one. His lower canines, which are large on bull trolls, were nice and straight, rising an inch from his jaw. He wore boar hide long pants and nothing else. “heard ya call me Mal, so'in I thinks we shad hang ah bit.” Mal'Grudge had made it clear that only his friends called him Mal, and brought the 'friend' treatment to those who called him that.

“Urg, tanks”, muttered the smaller troll. His comment rewarded him in a head ock.

“Awea, baby troll muttahs,” Said Mal'Grudge as he executed a noogie that shave down the skin on a human.

“Push off, Grudge,” barked the bigger troll. He was in fact bigger then Mal'Grudge, but not as mean, and that's why everyone back off from Mal'Grudge.

“Eh, ah bit testy, huh,” Mal'Grudge passed away the noogied troll, “fin.”

“Why ya be like dis,” continued the big troll ,”dis a Passn', Orll.”

“Gah, ya guys no fun,” Mal'Grudge walked ahead.

“Tanks der,” the smaller troll said to the bigger one.

“Nah, it's nah problem,” the two continued their path down.

The ending of the Ceremony of Passing was simple, bury the bones, not necessarily in the same place. The tribe seemed pleased, and begun their hike back to their homes. Each troll had the same thing in mind, the fight tomorrow, the Ceremony of Decision.

The next morning, the clouds covered the sky like a warm sheet; it certainly wasn't doing a good job. Trolls rose from their tents and peeked outside, to them it seemed like nature was picking a war song as thunder rolled in the distance. They left the tents and gathered in what would pass for the tribe's center, the big troll from yesterday was standing next to a stone bowl.

“Alright,” he yelled out, “gettah strip ah hide and write ya name on it.” Each troll did this. The actually names weren't in words, but in symbols that were made by them and claimed. If another troll copied, he'd get a trashing he'd never forget. After they finished the big troll put his name in. Then he poured them all out, and without looking, put two together and put them aside. Eventually each hide had a pair, and he then arranged them in a line. It was a tournament board, to compare it to something familiar.

“First fight, Nalmd and Graj'rig! Get ya Ubs and getta fight!”

The battles went on. Trolls swung their clubs and beat each other in their goal to become the next chieftain, but deep inside, they said, “So Mal'Grudge won't be.”

It was the last battle, it was Mal'Grudge and the big troll. Both raised their clubs, and stared each other in the eyes. The storm clouds had moved closer, the noise of thunder booming over the mountain.

“Well, dis is it, “said Mal'Grudge with a grin. Only last battle he tossed an opponent off the side for a four story drop. He came back mostly okay, trolls have though skin.

“Yep,” said the big troll. Then he yelled, and Mal'Grudge yelled. When they stopped the thunder decided to ring, as if to fill the emptiness in the noise.

“Ya gonna be da chieftain, huh?” asked Mal'Grudge. The ceremony allowed smack tack before a fight as long as the watchers found it fun, “just like dahda?” The big troll stared back. “Ahahhhah,” laughed Mal'Grudge, “I'mma smash ya now.

Mal'Grudge broke into a screaming run, the big troll returned it. Their clubs met. The big troll pulled it away to thrust, but Mal'Grudge never stopped pushing toward him. The big troll tried to move to the side, but Mal was way ahead of him. For a troll Mal'Grudge was quick, the big troll found himself constantly cut off. Mal'Grudge just kept pushing on, keeping the big troll on the offensive. Before he knew it, a fist slammed him in the side of the head while the big troll had tried to block a club swing. The big troll was stunned, and Mal'Grudge used that opportunity to slam the big troll's head into the side of the mountain. Mal'Grudge turned to face the watches, and smiled with his teeth.

A troll should never open their mouths while smiling. Besides the canines their teeth are flat and spaced, it makes a face you never want to see again, even for other trolls.

GRAHHHAhhHHHHHHAHGGHGHHHHHH!

Mal'Grudge's smile dropped into a frown. Just as he turned the big troll rammed full speed. You were allowed to strike a foe from behind as long as you yelled at him and paused. Mal'Grudge almost fell to the ground. He and the big troll were once again locked, club to club.

“Daw, Arakeged tink he's bettah cus his dahda,” Mal'Grudge spat at the big troll, whose name was Arakeged, “I crush you!” Arakeged slowly slid back. To one side was the rock wall, the other the crowd, and behind him a four story drop. Ororha, Arakeged thought, he's gonna drop me, like da last troll...

In the space between Mal'Grudge and Arakeged's faces, something went thunk-angggg. The two trolls slowly looked to the crowd, who had turned to look in the direction the projectile flew. Mal'Grudge yanked it out of the wall. It was a wooden arrow, no arrow head, just sharpened to a deadly point. A troll in the crowd screamed.

“Elves!” his voice rang across the tribe settlement. In a flash the other trolls broke from their stationary positions and were running to their tents to get their clubs. Mal'Grudge gave Arakeged a cold stare.

“You luck dat der ah comin', or else I'dda thrashed ya,” Mal'Grudge snarled, and then ran off. Arakeged wasted no time pondering, these were elves coming, after all.

The elves had already climbed most of the mountain. Their numbers measured somewhere from twenty to thirty. They ran the side of the mountain like an army of gazelle. They, more importantly, were handsome and beautiful beyond belief. The trolls were immune to this glamor, and didn't even pause when they saw the fair folk. They just charged, intent to kill.

Arrows shot out, they landed in several trolls, making them look like gray pin cushions. Besides bows the elves had wooden swords. Most people laugh at the idea of wooden swords, these people have never seen an elf sword. Elves jumped onto troll shoulders, and stabbed the nearest flesh they could find. Trolls swung clubs this way and that, trying to break the bones of the elves. Mal'Grudge was seen roaring down the mountain, and in a jump, landed on the back of an elf. As he ran of the same elf tried to get onto his feet. Hardly any pain flickered on his face, he seemed to be more annoyed then hurt about his broken spin.

The sound of laughter and giggling filled the blood shed. With each slash the elves would break out into light hearted laughter, as if the whole batter were a joke. When the battle ended it wasn't because the elves died, it was because they couldn't stand up straight. In a limp and crawl, the surviving elves retreated, giggling into the cold sunset.

The trolls were counting the dead. There were three. A bon fire was made soon after to cremate the dead, only a day after their chieftain had died. Mal'Grudge was staring into the horizon as most of the tribe was eating small morsels of leftovers. Arakeged approached him from behind and put a hand on his shoulders. Mal shrugged it off.

“Ya wore gonna win, ya know,” said Arakeged.

“Of course,” grunted Mal'Grudge.

“At dah ceremony ah told them dat, der weren't happy, but dey agreed.”

“Hmmpf,” he snorted, “I did say ah course, I coulda smashed ya skull wit mah left hand gone.” There was a pause.

“Ya gotta eat sometin,” Arkeged said finally. Mal'Grudge snorted again. He got up and walked over to the trolls around the bonfire. All the other trolls stared at him, waiting. Mal'Grudge punched the air.

“For the Bloodwood Clan!” he screamed into the night. Then each troll joined in, each yelling the same thing. Arkeged watched from the back. His family had been the chieftain for three generations, which is along time when the line span of a troll is considered. Fine, he wasn't the next chieftain, but it wasn't family that mattered. It was strength, and Mal'Grudge wasn't certainly the meanest troll in the tribe. He walked forth and joined in the chant.

“For the Bloodwood! For the Bloodwood! For the Bloodwood!”

Into the night the trolls yelled their call. They had a new chieftain.

Prologue: The Fair Folk (Part 2)

The hunt was on. Several trolls ran down the side of the mountain, ready to bring home the bacon. The boar in question shot it's head up, in the distance trolls were running right to it with their clubs raised high and their yells laced with pride. It ran.

The boars of the mountain side were large creatures, an impressive four foot eight from feet to back hump. The creatures held a lot of meat on them, and that's why they were such a favored hunt. The troll at the lead wore boar skin, in fact, most of the tribes around the area did. This troll also had a hide mantel and cap made from the upper jaw of one, teeth still in. This was Mal'Grudge, chieftain of the Bloodwood clan.

He lacked the war club, however.

The part made gain on the boar, a troll is like a train in speed, give it time, it will tear through anything. The trolls imagine the taste now, a boar this fast had to surely taste amazing. Mal'Grudge was now right behind the boar, he lifted his club.

Something hit the side of the boar and killed it, it fell limp to the ground. Also like a train, a troll in full run has little ability to turn and slow down. In looked back Mal'Grudge tripped over a rock and hit a tree. The other hunting trolls had a similar fate, falling over logs and taking down trees. Mal'Grudge rose from what was left of the tree he hit.

Several figures were walking to the struck boar, neanderthals. Mal'Grudge growled as he straitened up. There five men and three women, one women had a sling on her back with something in it, and one of the men didn't look too neanderthalish. They noticed him, and turned to make hast the other way. The other trolls had gotten up and were blocking the path.

“RaHahahahaha,” Mal'Grudge chuckled, “what we got here? Someah thals huntin' our hunt?” Mal'Grudge walked to the boar as the neanderthals whispered nervously to each other, Mal'Grudge yanked something out of the dead boar. “What dis, one of dem stabber tossers?” Most of the neanderthals tried to look away from the troll's stare, except one, who gave it right back. Mal'Grudge broke the javelin on his knew and went to pick up the boar, the staring. strange neanderthal grabbed the troll's wrist.

“No, ours,” the man said. Mal'Grudge stared at the man for a second, then punched him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him enough to cause him to collapse. The woman with the with the sling came running to the man, only to run head on into Mal'Grudge's extended finger.

Nah, ah ah!” he said, “no helpn'” He pushed her to the ground with his finger. As she fell she quickly turned to fall on her stomach, so the sling wouldn't hit the ground. “Huhuhuh, what this so 'portant for?” He pulled the sling away from the stunned woman. The strange neanderthal got up and tried to attack him, but Mal'Grudge turnde while delivering an elbow to the stomach. “Come on, we done here,” Mal'Grudge picked up the boar and flung it over his shoulder, and carried the sling in his free hand. As they walked the other neanderthals tried to mount an attack with their spear, but they were knocked away by the other trolls' clubs. They walked back to the tribe grounds.

The small of the boar meat filled the tribe, hungry trolls sat around it. A few other members had gone out for a hunt and brought back their own pigs, but Mal'Grudge was the only one who came back with a story.

“Yah, ahahahaha,” Mal'Grudge laughed, “den dah 'trange thal tries tah sop me, see.” Mal'Grudge stood by the fire, and mimicked the scene from before. “At dat point dah she thal comes and up,” he stuck his finger out, “Bing! Knoks ha to da ground. Kicked dis thing from har.” He raised the sling he had with him.

A noise began it rise from it, it was a cry.

Mal'Grudge's eyes darted from the sling, to the trolls, and back again. He slowly lowered it to the ground, and carefully undid the button on the sling, which was hard considering the size difference. He opened the flap.

Two pairs of blue eyes looked back at him. Mal'Grudge lifted the thing from the sling. A baby, a baby neanderthal. A hush fell around the fire, everyone's gaze was set on the baby. The quiet lasted a minute. Then Mal'Grudge laughed.

“GahahAHaahhhahah, looks like I got ah trophy,” he announced to the crowd, “what should we do with it, well?” He looked around those by the fire, “well!? I say we eat it!” There was a mix yell of “YAYS” and “BOOS” from the trolls, but either way Mal'Grudge seemed pretty set on his choice. He passed the baby to the other hand.

Gob. Mal'Grudge looked down at the baby, it had tired to gum his finger. The two stared eye-to-eye. Mal'Grudge gently tried to pull his finger back, the baby held firm. “Nevah mind,” Mal'Grudge muttered. He was still looking at the baby. The crowd fell into disappointed grunts and relieved sighs. A troll walked up from the crowd. He was a tad on the short side.

“Whatah gonnah do wit it?” he asked. Mal'Grudge blinked into space for a bit.

“Hugh?” he grunted.

“Da baby,” he small troll said, “can ah eat it?” Mal's eyes narrowed.

“No!” he yelled.

“But-”

“No!”

“Fine, fine,” the troll left to cut himself a piece of meat. Mal'Grudge continued to look at the baby, not moving besides the occasional rock back and forth. Eventually he moved to the spits, baby in arm. He cut off a piece of meat, observed the baby critically, and chewed the meat. He spat it out, and put it in the baby's mouth. This got a few looks from the other trolls. This was Mal'Grudge, meanest troll in the tribe, chewing a neanderthal baby's food. What the hell, was the general reaction. The large troll Arkeged approached him.

“What is dis?” he questioned.

“Just feedn',” Mal'Grudge said defiantly.

“Ya, next ah goona name it, huh?” Arkeged shot back. Mal'Grudge spent more time thinking about the question then he found comfortable.

“Yes, yes, ah naming's in ordah,” Arkeged's jaw dropped. Mal walked onto the tallest rock by the fire and stood tall. He waited for a bit to see if they'd all hush up, then yelled. It was an effective move.

“Eveah one! For now on, dis child is ah Bloodwood!” he announced, “This child, for now on, is my son! Tis child, for now on, is Nug!”

And everyone accepted it, because this was Mal'Grudge speaking.

Mal'Grudge vs. The Decade Warrior

The sun was rising on the mountain side. A large man in green armor watched the sun, and turned to continue his walk. Another ten years of training, in a strange world. He walked until something bumped into his foot. He looked down, and saw a large log. The armored man picked it up and looked at it critically. Though dense forests began at the foot of the mountains, he could see them brush against the horizon, no tree actually seemed to grow up here. On the log's side a symbol was carved in, angry eyes, pig nose, and tusks, hmm. He put it back down and continued to walk.

By this time the warrior had found a large flat space in the mountain, some large boulders were scattered across it, so the man practiced his swings on them. The sword may have been sharp, once apon a time, but by now it was as sharp as the side of a pencil. Only a few swings got the bolder to rubble, the warrior began on the next.

“GRAAHHHHHHHHHAAHHHH!”

The warrior turned around quickly, gripping his sword in preparation. At the entrance to the bolder flats was a large creature. It had horns, which came out the holes of a brown hide coif. It had a hide mantle, and brown pants of the same materiel. It held what vaguely looked looked like a cricket bat with rocks jammed into the sides, the flat ends where decorated with carvings.

“Dis is Bloodwood territory!” screamed the light-gray creature. The warrior gripped his sword tighter and kept like a statue. “Well?!” The armored man stayed silent. “I Chieftain Mal'Grudge of the Bloodwood Clan!” screamed the troll, “who you?!” He still remained silent, Mal'Grudge snorted. “So be it Met!” The troll charged to the man in green armor, who, when the chieftain was only a two yards away, charged right back.

The weapons clashed. The war club and blunt sword gridded against each other. The troll's eyes where squinted in effort and battle fury, while the warrior's emotions were hidden by his helmet. The troll started to groan, which raised into a roar. Slowly the warrior slid back, this creature was at least seven feet tall, just around the warrior's size. Though it wore no armor aside from bore hide, it was over powering him. In a quick more the warrior ducked and swung his sword at the troll's legs. The chieftain dropped and grabbed his knees.

With the troll down the warrior made his way out of the flats. As he neared the exit a rock hit his head, he looked behind and saw Mal'Grudge back up, fuming.

“No run from fight!” he yelled at the warrior, “you dat weak!” Mal'Grudge began his charged, the warrior held up his sword to ready a block the next attack. The chieftain brought the power of his rage into the vertical swing, both weapons bounced off of each other. The warrior returned with a horizontal swing of his own, but the troll grabbed it with his free hand. Mal'Grudge pulled the sword toward him, the armored man with it, and head butted. The metal didn't cling, in fact it took the blow like rubber. The warrior pushed away and attempted another swing, and once more the weapons met.

The troll was screaming again, but this time on the edge of hearing, was a bear's roar. In fact, the warrior could swear that behind the troll was a faint image of the animal, pushing with the chieftain.

The warrior called on his own locked strength, deep inside him. It was a strength he kept stored for his mortal foe, who he swore to kill to fix his world, but if he didn't survive this, then he wouldn't be able to go back anyway. Now both combatants were shaking under each others strain, the weapons were creaking, and sweat was pouring off the troll while the warrior could still not be read. The sun was fully up now, which made it strange that the area went dark.

There was a roar, not from the troll this time. Still straining, both fighters looked to the side then up. Looming above them, descending from flight, was a dragon. As it touched ground it hissed at the two, universal language for, “I do think I've found two, tasty morsels.” Troll and warrior looked at each other, and nodded. Going straight from their strain, they charged at the dragon like a spring uncoiled.

It was dark now, the moon was at half glow and half shadow, the two fighters sat around a fire, the dragon behind them, dead. The troll looked to the armored man.

“You not say you are?” Mal'Grudge asked. The warrior shook his head “Fine, I call you Green Met, dem, cos' you ah green met.” The chieftain nodded in satisfaction to this. The warrior stood up and began to walk off. “Wait, where ya gon'?” the troll asked. The warrior shrugged, and walked off into the night.

The Monster Hunter

A man sat in front of a fire. He was dressed like a confederate infantryman from the civil war, he even had a saber and rifle, currently on the ground. The fire was simple, just a large pile of sticks set on fire, only one log was in it. The man sighed and rubbed his beard. God, he thought, how did this all happen?

He closed his eyes and thought back, to how it all started.

He woke up. The man dressed as a confederate soldier roused himself to get up. He had taken a nap under a tree after the reenactment. With a yawn and stretch, he looked around the mock battle field. It wasn't there, just a mountain side forest. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, still the forest. Now panic started to set in, he was damn sure this wasn't where he fell asleep. He grabbed his replica saber and rifle, and ran into the forest in a state of unthinking panic.

Well, now he slowed his pace as he walked under the trees, and his head was on straight. In retrospect, he thought, running into the woods wasn't the smartest move. The man sighed as he walked, were the guys playing a trick on him, dragging him deep into the woods while he was asleep. Yeah, that's the ticket. In boredom the man began to whistle a tune. Dodo doo, do do doo.

A rustling in the bush. The man grabbed for his rifle as an automatic response, and swore to himself as he remembered that his gun was a fake.

“Come on, guys!” he yelled into the brush, “this isn't funny!” His jaw dropped as he saw what came out behind the brush. It was big, hairy, and had large feet. What it was, was undeniable. The man screamed in fear, the sasquatch screamed in anger. It took two heavy steps foreword, and the man pulled his gun's trigger under fear.

BANG

The sasquatch reeled back and the man looked at his gun, dumbfounded. That couldn't have happened, this gun was a, a replica! Mind racing to the new facts and hand, the man drew his saber from the sheath on his waist, and look at it and the bayonet on his rifle. Good god, he thought, their real.

His attention returned to the sasquatch, it was finished being hurt and was now even more pissed. The man quickly dropped his sword and plunged his gun's bayonet right into wear the heart should be. Sure enough, the sasquatch cried out in pain. The man twisted it, then yanked it out. Now It was a fatal blow. But, it wasn't a quick kill, the sasquatch was clutching it's chest, but still very there and very angry.

“Come on big foot!” he yelled like a cornered animal, “come get me!” In pain, the sasquatch weakly charged at the man in confederate tan, and got a blast of gun fire into the face. The beast fell backward onto the ground. The man grabbed his saber off the ground and struck the sasquatch's throat with haste. After he was sure the thing was down for the count, the gears of thought started turning.

“Hey, wait,” he said to himself, “I hadn't even reloaded it.” He paused in thought, then investigated his rifle. He peeking inside the barrel, carefully, and saw no ammo. He aimed at a tree, and fire. It shot perfectly fine, which it shouldn't. It's just a replica, or was, and has no ammo in the freaking barrel. Maybe the guys switched it out. He looked to the dead sasquatch. Or maybe something really messed up was going on. The man sheathed his saber, and put on his rifle by the strap. He continued down the forest.

Civilization, just yards away. The trees cleared away in that cut down manner to revel a town. Small, but still, after hours in the woods any kind of town would do. The man eased himself into the play, with a casual walk. The place seemed, off. Didn't look like anyplace nearby. In fact, judging by the looks from the people, it seemed he wasn't a usual site either.

Well, he was dressed as a confederate soldier, that was expected.

He walked into the first pub available, waking up in the middle of nowhere and walking through a strange forest sure build up an appetite. When he opened the door and entered, he got looks. Once again, write it up to his out fit.

But something seemed wrong. Compared to everyone else's get up, the man's seemed modern. Well, not exactly, but close. Close enough to start thinking something's up.

“A White Russian, please,” the man said, sitting down on the bar. The bartender gave him a look.

“I don't know what a russia is,” said the barman slowly, “but, I can make you a White Malidin.” Now it was the confederate man's turn to give a stare.

“Err, sure,” the man reached into his pants pocket,” here.” he put down some money, mostly change. The barman picked up the coins and gave them suspicious look.

“What's this crap? You trying to pass some cheap ass crap on me?” the bartender questioned, he looked at the stray dollar bill, “and what's with this paper?”

“It's money, what do you think?” said the man, a bit frustrated.

“Not any I've seen, don't even know what this crap is,” the bartender said, gesturing to the dollar. “You're not from around here are you-” The bartender paused for the man to say his name.

“Mark,” Mark respond in an unsure tone, “Mark Samson, I, yes, I'm foreign.” Now he was SURE that something was far from right.

“Hm, well, don't get foreigners here much,” the bartender said, “this is kinda out of the way, should have guessed by your strange attire, though.”

“You want to know what's strange?” said Mark, mad, “I ran into the freaking big foot in the forest! Yeah, the one that doesn't exist!” The bartender scratched his head.

“A what?” he said, confused.

“You know! Big, hairy, large feet,” he put enthuses on the word 'feet', “tried to kill me!”

“Oh! You mean sasquatch!” said the bartender, “get those in these parts. Damn annoying, but their hinds make fine coats for the winter, hard to find better.” Mark's jaw dropped. “You seemed to survive it though,” the bartender laughed, “Ha, cus you alive.”

“Damn well I did!” Mark was getting mad in his confusion, “Shot it twice and cut it's throat!” He lifted up his rifle angerly, the bar crowd sunk in their seats.

“Oh damn,” the bartender said quickly, “you definitely foreign, only guys from Other Parts carry those gonnes.”

“It's a GUN!” Mark yelled, “and where on Earth am I!”

“What's earth?” said the bartender, who seemed suddenly smaller. Mark pause, and sat back down from his anger fit.

“Oh, okay, I suppose that explains things well enough,” said in the words of a man who has realized just how messed up the world around him has become, and has no power to do anything about it, “so, tell me, where am I?”

“Oh, this town never got around to getting a name, too small for that nonsense,” said the name that has renewed attitude now that the man with a gun is calm.

“No, I mean, where, all this surrounding area,” Mark explained.

“South Badmarrow, looks like the traveler got himself lost!” the bartender said jokingly, “were you trying for north? Most people do. Much better place, but I suppose consent sea monster attacks pull ya off course.” Mark stayed quiet and took some time to think.

“Yeah, hehe, new to traveling,” Mark not-exactly-lied, “in fact, had a poor bit of learning, just tried it on a whim.” This earned some chuckles form the bar goers who weren't frightened anymore. “Don't even know the name of the word we stand on, haha!” Mark continued. More laughing joined in, this was a good sign to him.

“Ha! Sad day to see when a traveler doesn't know himself some good Rylon soil, hahar!” the bartender joined. And that's when Mark's thoughts landslided.

“Yep!” Mark said with mock embarrassment to hide just how freaked out he was, “so! Since I new here, could yeah tell me or anyway to make a bit of cash?”

“Hmm,” the bartender thought, “could yeah find that sasquatch ya killed? Wonderful fur, as I've said.” Mark gave a heavy stare on one weighing just what kind of position they've into which they have gotten.

“Yeah, yeah I could...”

Mark opened his eyes. Yeah, that's how it went. Now look at him, out camping in the wild, hunting, well, as he saw it, monsters, for scrap money. He sighed and got the dollar from his pocket, and looked at it. He didn't even know how long he had been here, in this world not earth, in this world called. What was it? Rylon?

Long enough, at any rate.



To be continued?

The Monster Hunter (part two)

Mark stirred some meat and water in the tin pot he had over the fire. Soup, he thought, where would I be without it? He took It off the fire and used a wooden spoon to slurp up the meat and water, which by now was a broth. He's had it harder since he's been here, in fact, this one time came to mind as he ate his soup of mountain boar.

He had started getting used to this place. By that, he had a way to get food and get some sleep. Had a way to get some money too. Apparently, sasquatch fur was worth a pretty penny, hard to hunt though, if you were like these people and lacked guns. Mark didn't, and for some reason, he didn't even need to buy ammo.

It was when Mark was out hunting, in fact, when it happened. A noise in the brush. That was usually normal, but only followed by a howl. Instead Mark heard something else, giggling. Mark quickly turned around just in time to see a figure dash back into the deeper woods. It defiantly isn't a sasquatch, he thought. Mark ran after the apparition.

He was slowing gaining on what looked like, from how far he was, a person. Through rough bramble and low branches he chased the figure, and he honestly didn't know why, something in the dark corners of his mind just seemed to yell at him to follow.

The figure stopped, and in moments Mark caught up.

What he saw burned into his brain like a soldering gun. It was a beautiful women with long black hair, wearing, and this is especially where Mark's mind got frayed, an exceptionally reveling outfit. He had enough time to go “wah-” before a sharp pain appeared in the back of his head, he blacked out.

Mark's eyes flickered open. He felt around the area he was in before slowly getting up, the back of his head throbbing in pain. As he rubbed the sore spot on his head gingerly, he came to relive he was in a cage. Made of stone. As that fact set in Mark checked his gear, his gun and saber weren't on him. Panic set in further as he looked outside the bars.

The landscape was completely wrong. The grass was blue and the sky was green. The stone the cell was carved into was a dark purple.

“Hi there!” Mark almost fell back as the face appeared, it belonged to the women Mark had been knocked out while staring at. “Welcome to Fairyland!”

“What,” Mark managed.

“I hope you enjoy you're life as a slave to us superior beings!”

“Who,”

“We elves and fair ones!”

“Oh,” Mark mumbled. Some thoughts began to rise up in his strangely clouded mind. “Wait wait, hold on here. Did you say-”

“Yep! Slavery!” The elf said joyfully.

“Oh,” Mark said with new found glumness.

“Bye!” the elf walked off to do other things. Mark sat in his cell, looking around, lying down, and generally being bored. After awhile, he came to think, how did they put me in here? I see no hinges on the outside bars, nothing to open it. These thoughts led him to start patting around his cell. He was about to give up when he heard voices under him. Mark got his head to the ground and put his ear against the floor. It was voices of elves, beautiful and happy voices. Tunnels, he concluded.

It took some figuring and guess work, but Mark became sure that there was a way to push up part of the floor from underneath, making it hard to open it up any other way. They would come to get him for labor, he guessed, so eventually they'd open up the floor, and he'd be ready.

That time came. An elf pushed up the floor, and got a fist of Mark to the face. He grabbed the slab before it fell and jumped down the hole, a short drop, but filled with elves. All around. Most carrying wooden swords that looked just as dangerous to the flesh as a metal one. There was a pause, then madness as Mark ran from the angered elves. Now that he thought about it, several hapless people must have came up with the exact escape strategy. He wondered just how many had died at this point.

Through the elf filled tunnels Mark shoved his way through, a man truly running for his life. As he pushed and dashed, he noticed something. By chance, if an elf happened to be hit by one of his cufflinks in a shove, he or she would jerk away in seeming pain. Metal, though Mark, that's the ticket.

It was after much running through the tunnels that Mark found the armory. When he got inside he slammed the stone door shut and flung the board lock across it. He looked around. Everything was wood. Swords, shields, bows , knives, every single elven weapon was made from wood.

That's way Mark's saber and rifle stuck out even in the corner. As he went to grab it, quickly due to the knocking on the door that told of his little time, he noticed all the cloth and wool rags. Most likely used to hold the metal, Mark noted.

“Hello, human!” and elf said cheerfully on the other side, “come out come out, we will get you eventually!” The elf looked through the bars that served as a window, the human wasn't to be seen. Just as the elf was about to turn around Mark popped up, gun aimed, and shot the elf through the bars, straight into his left eye. The elf fell to the ground half-dead as the other fair folk back off.

Mark kicked the door open and fired on the retreating elves. They saw steel and iron, and they weren't going to stick around to watch it. Mark put the rifle on by its strap, drew his saber, and took off down the hall. Now they were running from him, a good thing to Mark. He gained on one elf as it tried to jump into a room. He slammed him to the wall and put the blade near the frightened elf's head.

“Now tell me, you creep,” Mark barked, “how do I get out of here!”

“No sir! No sir! I can not tell!” the elf cried. Mark's face twisted into desperate annoyance.

“If you don't tell me the way out of this place, I'm going to take this saber and,” Mark thought quickly, “and shove it down your throat!” In his mind he nodded, that seemed to sound mean and nasty enough to get the job done.

“Okay okay!” said the panicked elf , “you were taken from the Gravel stones,”

“And that is?” said Mark, trying to sound like he did have the guts to carry out his threat.

“On the surface when he get out! Just run to the large pillar that is surrounded by a field of gravel! There is a circle of stones there, go into them and you'll be back home!” Mark narrowed his eyes.

“You didn't tall me the way out of this tunnel,” he said.

“Just continue down! Oh, please just go!” Mark threw the elf to the ground and, as the elf instructed, continued down the tunnel.

Mark looked around. He was on the funky surface of 'Fairyland', were the sky was green and the grass blue. Any thing that tried to come near him back off when he held up his saber, that awful thing of sharp steel. And there were many different things. Centaurs walking in the distance, fairies flying in the sky, and unicorns walking across the grass.

The idea of a unicorn seems rather gentle and even feminine, until you see one. A big white hoarse, packed with strong muscles, with a horn on its head. A horn! Suddenly such a thing is no longer cute.

Now Marked reached the Gravel Stones. Some elves were standing guard around it, but they quickly lost their nerve at the sight of Mark steel saber. Thing was, this wasn't easy nosir, it there was a battle going on in his mind. Everything, despite all evidence against it, seemed so beautiful and grad, like the world itself was trying to force him into submission. When he had gotten out, it was like surfacing for air.

Mark let out a breath, his soup was ready to eat. It was times like those that let you know just how the world worked. That event taught an important lesson, Mark thought, all those elves, they were monsters, just in a pretty wrapping.

Hey. Look. A rant essay. Read it, for it shall open your eyes and bring joy to the sunshine Vally that is earth.


OCs: The Reusable Stickers

OC, original character. This is what it stands for, but does the title really make sense? People use this term for characters they've made and place in little role plays and interactive stories. Yet, when you get right down to it, what are these 'OCs', but reusable stickers?

What makes a character? A full flavor, completed through and through, character? In fiction a character is compromised of past and present, and how that and their environment has shaped them. The character interacts in a world he or she belongs to, and has a antagonistic force or person against them. These 'OCs' don't come close to this incredible fair and loose definition.

What you get with an 'original character' is merely a toy. An action figure of sorts for the creator. The term OC was made as a way of these people differentiating their creations from those that are the product of major or mainstream fiction. What they really have is pile of abilities and characteristics, not a full fledged character of any standing.

In the games these people put their OCs in, there's often the requirement of a character sheet, a summery of the character, how they act and what they can do. Sadly, this often is all there is to these creations. A page of appearance, personality, and powers. The sticker, that is used again and again, placed in this game and that. No world, and if there is a world it's not a true one, but a place that's just a back story, a place that reacts to them, not the other way around.

For example, let's take a person for my fiction, a man named Nug. Nug has a past, he was raised by trolls. Now, it's here that most people say 'done'. How did he come to be raised by trolls? How about those trolls themselves? Where do these trolls even live? What is their culture? There's opportunity to flesh something out everywhere you look. And then you have the all important present, the current story at hand. The world is the world, it wasn't built for that character. A perfect example is Discworld, there's over thirty books in the series, and you bet they're not about one character. It's about many characters, all of whom just happen to live in the same world (and sometimes city).

Another thing that is a serious issue is powers. This has nothing to do with Mary sues, anti sues, or over powered abilities. The problem is the raw focus on powers. “Look what my guy can do!” Is the only real thought out development, if it can even be called that. Powers should not be the cornerstone of a character, it shouldn't define them, it should be the other way around. Nug again, although he doesn't have 'power' as it's often used, what he does have is raw strength and unbend able willpower. These are traits trolls often have, which they themselves get from the rough life they live on the mountains. Power isn't the key to your character, it's merely a trait.

These OCs, they are the playthings and dolls for drawers and writers, far from being a true character no matter what light they're seen in. Just the term OC, original character, is an irker. Original, apposed to what? Clearly these 'characters' don't have base to begin with. If they were truly well thought out, with stories, history and environment, then there wouldn't be a need to call them anything but Characters.