1 | WRITING SAMPLES
Vyce
Star
- Joined
- Oct 24, 2010
WRITING SAMPLES
Writing Sample 1 | Supernatural Fantasy
Scene-Setting Music: "Super Mario 64-Ultimate Bowser Epic Orchestral Cover" (T.L.B. Orchestration)
Scene-Setting Music: "Super Mario 64-Ultimate Bowser Epic Orchestral Cover" (T.L.B. Orchestration)
It had taken quite a while, taken a bit more effort than he had liked, but it had finally happened. Sitting on his throne, a glass of wine in his hand, the ebon-skinned archdevil Iblis lightly sipped from it as he watched a large bed-like platform appear from the darkness. The figure lying prone on the bed, who would likely be waking up within mere moments, had been glanced at covetously by his generals, reflecting respect and more than a hint of naked jealousy for his magnificent prize. This was no regular woman he had bested in combat, had captured and brought to this palace of crystal and shadow. This was the feared and vaunted High Priestess Princess Candala, one of the most powerful mortal servants of the Lords of Good.
He had little need to read the auras of the E and D-class youma to know what they would enjoy doing to the raven-haired woman; simple-minded creatures such as they were ruled by their lusts and animalistic natures. But this priestess...both a heroine of justice and a priestess to boot; purity radiated from her like heat from a star. Red eyes closed as the plot he had in mind reverberated in his head. Once she awakened, he'd see for himself just how 'pure' this woman was. For after all, the brightest lights often cast the darkest shadows.
As if on command, as the glass of wine was sipped once more, the beauty began to stir. It spoke well that her expression changed from sleepy confusion to fierce defiance in a heartbeat, a holy word on the tip of her tongue and body alight with divine energy.
"Stay your hand, priestess." A thin smile graced the man's face, a face that was perfectly human save for his bright golden eyes. Turning to the chattering demons around him, many hungrily gazing at his captive, one snap of his fingers had them disperse. Though some rumbled discontentedly that they wouldn't see their lord destroy one of their greatest enemies, their respect and fear of his power far outweighed any minor indignation. Within a few moments, it was only he and the fiery nemesis within that 'room', dark purple flame providing just enough light for them to see each other clearly. There was no need to read her mind; the questions were clear enough in her eyes.
"You are in my personal domain; thus, your spiritual flames are...suppressed by the darkness. And to presume the second, I have little desire to kill you. If I had," here Iblis glanced at the woman with a wry toothy grin, "you would have been the first to know."
Rising from his throne, the arch devil prowled close to the glaring woman. "As for my desired endgame...hmm." That low rumble echoed through the seemingly endless hall, his boots clacking as he approached the baleful princess. Placing himself on the massive bed, one hand caressed the unearthly rich scarlet silk as the other stroked his chin pensively.
"I would consider it more a service, than a desire. It is, simply put...to expose you to truth, priestess." That quiet smile never left his face as he moved even closer to the brown-eyed woman, smelling something spicy and utterly intoxicating. Small wonder the lower-class demons were chomping at the bit to get at her, beyond mere vengeance at the goddess she swore herself to. "I'm going to free you up, and reveal your true self."
His clawed fingers caressed her cheek gently, teasingly. "I assure you this will be quite an enlightening evening for us both."
The hoarse pleas for water, light—for death—went unregarded; long experience taught Veil to not acknowledge such whimperings. Unconsciously, one black-gloved hand gripped the hilt of his ever-present longsword, both as a personal comfort and a public warning to those whose tongues would slip along with their minds. Veil far preferred a clean, quick death. Swift and painless deliverance to whatever god his target prayed to held much greater mercy than throwing them into a bleak tomb to die in squalor, torture and solitude. Even better for a man to die unjustly yet swiftly and receive peace in the Heavens than to justly suffer for years, lingering on in this world with no hope of sampling its delights ever again.
This grim place brought little joy to his heart; confining people to wither away in the oppressive darkness, forgotten yet not allowed to fall into death's embrace. Living...no, existing knowing that every day spent here was one away from the light, from the loved ones and family whose hearts were undoubtedly scarred or broken from their fellow's fate. For out of the hundreds of men and women that have been placed in this particular prison over the centuries, only a literal handful received clemency. The rest were condemned to lingering deaths, their names and deeds erased from the histories at best, their entire family slain for "being complicit in enabling treachery" at worst.
Steel eyes surveyed the meticulously clean halls, the bleak gray stone, guttering flame and chill in the air a perfect match for the ominous surroundings. Unlike mundane prisons, where the typical criminal would do penance for their sins then be--eventually--released back into the world, this prison contained traitors of considerable power whose crimes were against king and country. Because the majority of prisoners were demonologists and others of great sorcerous power, special methods were taken in the prison's construction, the least of which being the very material blunting all magic save those with the royal blessing. Combined with seasoned knights trained in neutralizing and countering many common magics, clerics able to reveal—or tear—the truth from liars and torturers that operate with an artist’s eye and templar’s conviction, and it was no wonder that many here pleaded for immediate execution or attempted suicide. The latter occurred often enough in the past that a small legion of skilled white mages revivify those attempting to speed on their demise, to later receive a proper lesson in pain from the torturers. There would be no escape from the proper justice.
Yet, a tiny part of him couldn't help but notice that, once bereft of their magic, more than a few arrogant sorceresses, haughty devil cultists and prideful mages fell into despair, offering false information on royal conspirators or more...personal favors in exchange for freedom. Once torn away from whatever divine, fey, infernal or abyssal force powered their magic, a surprising number crumbled, reduced to pitiful wretches willing to betray their former allies—even families—for their own survival. (Not that such a thing was restricted to magic-wielders alone, of course.) The Slayer of Domiel knew such thoughts required sincere confession to a priest once his business here was concluded, but he lightly reveled in confirmation of a long-held belief...
Magic was as much a crutch as it as a tool.
Writing Sample 3 | High Fantasy
Scene-Setting Music: "Dark Egyptian Music-Mists of Egypt" (Fantasy & World Music by the Fiechters)
Scene-Setting Music: "Dark Egyptian Music-Mists of Egypt" (Fantasy & World Music by the Fiechters)
Though merely a crescent moon this night, its light from high above shone over the desert kingdom like a freshly minted coin, a blanket of night and twinkling stars wrapping itself above the city and the people within. Below in the surrounding towns, lights began to flicker out as families tucked their children into warm safe beds, the day's tasks brought to a close. The soldiers quietly walked through the sandy streets; aside from those seeking to roister in pubs and alleys—not to mention those seeking more personal entertainments with a madam's ladies—the streets were calm and peaceful. Even the royal guards within the castle, men and women sworn to the protection of the Sultan and Royal Family, felt their edge blunted this night by the refreshingly warm air and tranquility. In short, there was no need for concern or worries, vigilance able to be relaxed if just for one night.
It only made things blessedly easier for the young man currently prowling through the marbled halls.
Making it to the Princess's private bedchambers, Lucien placed one gloved hand on the door, only to swiftly draw it back with a wince. While it seemed she temporarily disarmed the silent alarm spells, the wards were still in place; even with enchanted gloves and a moment's contact, it felt like he had touched lightning. Small wonder there were no guards; any solid contact would reduce a would-be assassin to ash without disturbing the royal slumber. Fortunately, though the mage taught everything she currently knew about warding and protective magics, he hadn’t even come close to teaching her everything he did. This he swiftly proved by pulling out a long raven strand of hair, plucked from Isis’s head during her swordplay lesson (or really his, since she was the Blademaster; that hair had nearly cost him a hand). Having a personal item was essential for a tracking charm, and the spell he had in mind he calculated would be strong enough to place him right next to the Sultan’s daughter.
Normally sedate robes of blue with a dash of silver were replaced with richly crafted robes of deep crimson, stitched golden flames dancing amidst obsidian that literally swirled as if the fire was real. A quick glance at a silver mirror before the teleportation cast a reflection of the archetypal evil sorcerer from childrens' tales, seeking to corrupt and ruin all at the command of his infernal lords. Since Isis wanted this to be authentic--and peering at the door to ensure she wasn't in hearing--the brown-eyed male gave a practice evil laugh.
"Hm hm hmm...feh."
The would-be dark mage sighed. That just sounded odd. It lacked true villainy, like a child half-remembering a particularly jaunty tune. He tried again.
"Hyoh hyoh!"
His reflection looked cross. Still no good. The rough textured croak was more fitting a thirsty hag than a malevolent sorcerer. And what inspired him to go "hyoh"? This time, he took a deep breath, drawing in from the gut for a true try.
"HA HA HA HA HA!!"
Lucian nodded in approval. That was a laugh. Powerful and confident, with just enough cackle to show he was a bit unbalanced and seriously dangerous, but not enough to make him utterly insane.
Muttering a chant to have his hands and body wrapped in thick obscuring black mist, the newly minted diabolist appeared right in front of the startled royal. Lucien fixed a wicked smile on his face, eyes raking Isis up and down in a shamelessly lascivious manner (an effect slightly blunted by the hot blush on his cheeks). While he may have been the sorcerer, it was the Sultan's daughter who was hotter than the desert. Immediately getting into his role, the mage schooled his lips into a smug grin, his tone feigning offense as he stepped forward.
"It is very late, Princess Isis. And the guards sworn to your safety have all gone. Do you not know the threat of the night, or do you simply choose to ignore it in hopes bored diabolists decide to visit?"
"I say you don't need a thing from foreign countries!
Here's your coffee, Bert!
Coffee?! Ha ha ha ha..."
Here's your coffee, Bert!
Coffee?! Ha ha ha ha..."
Every Thursday afternoon, Marcel St. Croix had a ritual that had been taking place for three years running. From 3:30 to 5 PM, he would just sit in his apartment suite, bathing in the sunlight as one of his favorite songs filled the air. In a world increasingly interconnected, where privacy was fast becoming a luxury even billionaires couldn't afford, sometimes you just needed to get away. And while he was fairly well-off, he wasn't could have a vacation on the drop of a dime well-off, so this was his method. His cell phone was switched off, his desktop computer closed; even his flat-screen TV was switched off so as to not intrude upon this refreshing of body and spirit. It was just the writer, his thoughts, his pad (in case inspiration hit) and his stereo playing smooth tunes. Odd and eccentric? Perhaps. But in a society where eccentric was often a euphemism for deranged or asshole, it was an essentially harmless practice.
Pale green eyes glanced at the door, a dark-skinned hand waving away at the intruder (as if it could actually seen) in mental dismissal, returning to drinking his spiritual cup of coffee. Whatever it was can wait. Or so he would have thought were it not for the very familiar aristocratic voice, bone-deep exhaustion creeping through her well-kept tones.
This had to be important, given it was A) Brittney breaking through his Thursday ritual (not even she was exempt), and B) the lack of confidence in her voice. Unable to ignore, Marcel strode over to the door, unlocking it to see the slightly shorter woman waiting for him, playing with her braid. The lingering droplet from her right eye caught his attention, as did the near look of...defeat? Stepping aside to allow her to enter his apartment, his private time could wait.
"Jesus. Had a rough day?"
There were few things that could soften Marcel's heart faster than a crying woman. Though Brittany appeared largely stoic, every bit the regal "ice queen" with the stiff upper lip, those two droplets were the equivalent of anyone else collapsing on the floor in a bitterly-sobbing heap. That she even allowed him to see that much...it was touching.
"Sit down on the couch." While the words were a request, his tone indicated he wouldn't take a no lightly. Fortunately he'd gone grocery shopping yesterday, so he could pour her a glass of ice-cold ginger ale. Pouring two glasses for them both, Marcel sat down the couch next to her, giving the blonde a compassionate smile. "I normally don't bring out the good stuff, but you need it. Tell me what's wrong."
Writing Sample 5 | High Fantasy
Scene-Setting Music: "For Instance, a Building Steeped in Animosity" (Bravely Default 2 OST)
Scene-Setting Music: "For Instance, a Building Steeped in Animosity" (Bravely Default 2 OST)
A pleasantly warm sun shone high above the realm like a freshly minted coin as a blanket of crystal blue wrapped itself above the castle and the people within. Below in the surrounding villages, lights began to flicker on as families tucked their children into warm safe beds, the day's tasks coming to a close. The soldiers and knights quietly walked through the cobblestone streets; aside from those seeking to roister in pubs and alleys—not to mention those seeking more personal entertainments with a madam's ladies—the streets were calm and peaceful. Off in the distance within the royal palace, the Templar Knights—those royal guards sworn utterly to the protection of their Emperor and royal family—felt their edge blunted this day by the refreshingly warm air and tranquility. With the great wars at an end and peace established among the Seven Kingdoms, there was little concern for outbreak of conflict. Even three decades on, none of the Seven wished to break the peace, lest they risk the combined vengeance—and assured destruction—at the hands of all six of their neighbors.
It was a peace the sorcerer-merchant Aliste savored, warm purple eyes gazing at the various islands below through a tower window. From his position, an archer with a keen eye could have had a clear shot of him if resting atop one of the thick platinum-white walls in the morning’s light. The eerie radiance was partially one of several powerful—and subtle—security enchantments placed by the tower's lord. Any would-be assassin attempting to ascend the tower walls would only get a little over halfway up before a blinding flash melted their climbing equipment and dispelled any magical flight on their person, giving them only seconds to pray to whatever god would have them before hitting the ground far below. The treasures within his domain, both material gems and magical artifacts, were said to rival the hoard of an ancient dragon; thieves throughout the land solemnly swore on their mothers that merely a handful would guarantee an entire family’s fortune for at least three generations. Privately, the mage found such tales overblown--doubtlessly by bards looking to impress audiences rather than espouse fact--but oddly flattering; everyone liked to feel a bit important. Being one of the most influential mystical merchants in the Seven Kingdoms had to have some advantages, after all.
There were just as many tales of would-be robbers attempting to help themselves to his goods. Most of Aliste’s wards were enchanted merely to chastise thieves and leave them with empty pockets, destroyed tools, and painfully bruised egos. Other mystical defenses were set up to banish thieves; those few with the wisdom—and skill—to attempt teleporting into his tower swiftly found themselves chest deep in the unspeakably vile Bog of Eternal Stench several miles away. And, if necessary, the mage's magical wards could easily be used for more lethal effect. As he reasoned while sipping a cup of cocoa, those aware of their existence and attempting to ply the cross-trade anyhow were either dangerously ignorant (making them a severe danger to all around them), dangerously arrogant, or purely dangerous (and their undeniably-sinister intentions needed to be quashed to maintain the peace). Even as he favored diplomacy in dealing with others, far preferring to use his magic for protective purposes rather than offense (thus why he chose residence in a tower where clientele could come to him), Aliste privately acknowledged it was far easier to maintain such a stance having the power of an archmage at his fingertips. There was also, of course, the mile-long list of favors owed him, from powerful princes to humble farmers, he could call upon if necessary. Knowing that a powerful mage was in the neighborhood tended to make most villains and cutthroats try their luck elsewhere, even though he rarely had to intervene personally. (Reputation truly had its own magic.) An entire knightly order, let alone some common rogue, stood a snowball's chance in Hell against all of that.
Of course, there was more to power than raw might. Those who walked the shadowy path of the rogue had their own proverbial saints and legends. To them, such a place was a treasure house ripe for the plucking. Beyond just the material gain, the gleaming tower of white and gold stood in quiet defiance...a challenge that they could not help but see bested. And as the old saying went, too bright a shine often drew eyes of envy.
It all seemed too quiet. That unspoken awareness, one which had saved his life on more than one occasion, was alert even as Aliste lazily sipped from his cup. With such a calm, warm spring day as this, even he found it hard to remain truly vigilant. That was the danger; as his soldier mother would describe it, it was too quiet for sleeping. Then, that well-honed awareness kicked in moments before a silent alarm pinged in his room.
Someone had broken into the tower far below.
The black-haired mage continued to enjoy the fragrant mid-morning breeze, mentally activating some non-lethal traps to greet the uninvited guest. That they made it through the basic wards at all indicated they were either somewhat seasoned, or merely blessed with inordinate luck. Either way, grudging admiration--and more than a touch of curiosity--colored Aliste's thoughts. Who would attempt to steal from him this time? What cutpurse or gutter mage had the reckless bravery, the nerve…indeed, the brass balls required to think him a suitable mark?
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