Thechosenone

I'm in, of course,

I'm thrilled with second place it looks like and also very happy with the participation and attention paid to the whole process by Edonil and the his judges. Can't wait for the next round.

I just think that so much was said on individual pages that, i for one, feel its almost a reharsh to do it again. A bit more in depth but still. Look at the comments in those threads, there is some fantastic stuff there. Truly.

I'd throw in that I'd like a shorter time. Five weeks really. I know its hard for some people but I think a lot of the writers are seeking to get their story to a perfect state. It's Iron Quill. Its hard and its about speed just as much as anything else. Perfection is for Golden Demon level events. Iron Man stuff is about a combination of quality and dogged juggernauting through a piece. But I concede to the masses regardless.

Thanks for the story Black. My few thoughts, On the Guild Scrip thing versus Dollars- It's your story so do what you want but that being said you need to establish for us the reader whether your Scrip has any worth. There's so many takes on Malifaux and I think for the sake of what we're doing here you can't take for granted small details. Historically Scrip is an important thing. It was a company's way of enslaving its workers. Wal-mart had a case in 08 where it was ordered to stop paying its employees in mexico with company vouchers. The only power in Malifaux that regulates official legal business is the Guild. The alternative is really a long ways away. That being said, if you want to use something other than scrip just give us some deep thoughts on the subject. And on language and style- I always use Lovecraft as an example. He's certainly not the best writer out there. But the way he describes a thing and speaks about a scene leaves no room to guess when that story was written and that its meant to be terrifying. He's consistent in his tone, his words and his style. If you were to start swapping words for more modern equivalents the tale would get rather strange. It would lose the antiquated horror feel that we've attached to say, In the mountains of madness, and just get jarring. So I think that when you are writing in a certain style you have to take a lot of care to maintain that fourth wall so to speak. Overall I think that a lot of the preliminary round stories set out with achieving a style or a wacky twist or interesting plot device first and then wove the story around that. What I do like about Black's is that it was simple and straight forward. It still aimed for a style filter. I have nothing against that but I think what i've learned is two fold from the preliminaries. Either stay in character/theme the entire time while avoiding heavy handedness or tell a good story first and avoid reliance on literary bells and whistles.

My own view on it is this: You're robbing them of some fate or destiny. An insignificant model will never have any bearing on the fate of the game. They just won't be able to take any action of importance. The thought never crosses their mind. If my Hamelin makes someone Insignificant I see it as a crippling despair and worthlessness that overtakes them. In other cases maybe its a deep rooted fear that grips them. Thats just me though.

Its an ok list. It capitalizes on what's probably the best 4SS minion so that's cool. But how hard is it to just kill the Handler. After that you have basic stalkers and Lady J is left to do all the heavy work.

I have my secret suspect for winner too. But yeah I have a lot of fun doing these. I really hope everyone who votes does read all the stories so its at least totally genuine. Thanks again judges for doing all the work here.

(So here's another narrative battle report. Again, those that don't know my material, its rather divergent from the regular Malifaux narrative. Malifaux inspired really. My take on Collodi can be found in a piece called Song of Suffering I which is on the third page of the Writer's forum currently. Please read and please comment. Thanks so much for checking it out) The Cult of December Rasputina Essence of Power Snow Storm Two Ice Gamin Two Silent Ones Strategy: Reconnoiter Schemes: Reflections of December The King’s Men Collodi (The King) Four Wicked Dolls Four Marionettes Arcane Brutal Two Stitched Together Strategy: Escape and Survive Schemes: Bodyguard Setting: Ghost Town Special Terrain/Rules: Mysterious Effigies Pre-Game The noise, so methodic and mechanical, repeats over and over. The drawing of thread through rough stiff cloth. It zips over and over. The rustle of fabric is occasionally broken by the scything slice of metal on metal as shears cut the thread. Sharp scissor hands set a stuffed doll down upon a cracked iron press. The doll is dressed all in black, its coat a stitched bit of leather, its features ghoulish and macabre. It looks like a lawmen of some kind with a tiny toy gun woven into its hands and a tin badge on its lapel. Button eyes, asymmetrical and loose, stare up into the dark recesses within the hood of its creator. Yellow glints look back at the inert doll and the two soulless sets of eyes meet for quiet moment. Father and son. Slave and Scourge. Liege and lord. A jostling of cloth begins again, this time from the stained and tattered amber robes the God-King wears. Long lengths of wire snake out from the cloth piled around his feet and wriggle up around him like a mass of eager tendrils coiling and flexing. One of the loops of wire takes the newly crafted doll, limp and still, into its grasp and drags it before the creator. Words are spoke. Not with human lips, not with flesh at all. The words are dry as kindling, harsh as unsanded wood and whispered like silk curtains billowing silently in the breeze. The shadows of the room bleed away as a flickering wisp of light materializes; ushered in by a weeping cry of despair both ethereal and haunting. The light screams at it drifts unnaturally along the wires and into the new doll. The toy twitches, its limbs gangly and unsure like a new born barn animal taking its first steps in the world. But while it shakes and thrashes at its new existence the creator continues his work. Lengths of wire are shackled around its ankles and wrists, pulled tight and stitched into place. Finally the creator’s wire sets the toy down. The doll wobbles and then stands upright. Its button eyes looking at the coils of wire that bind it and the cloth hands that it now has, clumps of dirty needles make its misshapen finger, stitchwork takes the place of palm lines. The dolls tiny mouth flexes wide loosening strings and stretching cloth. The world only hears the sound of fabric ripping. Only the King can hear the true voice it speaks with. The anguished and terrified dirge that only a tortured soul pulled from its eternal rest can offer. The soundless scream echoes in the empherea announcing to all the Shackled that another joins their rank. In the alleyways outside the metal works a pair of button eyes briefly turns from its duty to stare in the direction of the scream. Some distant memory flitters through its mind. It’s not sure if its remembering its own awakening or if something more primal is trying to rise to the surface of its thoughts. It’s forgotten how to fear just as its forgotten how to feel much of anything else. Memories of eternal peace and of the flesh life are always the first to die. The wires consume that the quickest. The rest is lost like a needle dropped into a basin of cotton. Obedience takes the place of everything else. Its eyes turn back to the alley. It watches a women. Tall, terrible and beautiful. She wears heavy clothes despite the city’s heat. A haze of icy air surrounds her and strikes the hot winds of the city. She walks with lanky cloaked women who are as silent as the dolls in its King’s employ. Trollish beasts scuttle along with her and the dolls eyes scan over them. They are much like it is in a way. They are prisons of ice filled with trapped energy. It wonders for a moment if they screamed during their awakening. Frost forms along one of the alley way walls as a beast emerges. Spectral and nightmarish, this horned monster snarls and flexes its ghostly claws. It stops before the woman in her heavy robes and looks down on her. In its eyes the doll can see obedience. It knows the telltale signs of servitude well. The woman speaks with such confident authority. A memory returns; a brief one. More a feeling. A familiarity. Its King spoke that way as well during the flesh times. “They’re here. Cut off all escape routes, find them and bring them to me. We can bind these relics and turn them against the Guild.” The doll leaves its perch and skitters through the refuse strew streets back to his King’s workbench. Another doll is clasped in the creator's hands, half made. A dangling eye wobbles back and forth as the stitching is done. So rapid is the work that the living doll likens the jerking frenzy of the limp one to the way flesh ones begins to flail when they are electrocuted. The doll's mouth pulls taunt and flaps. Words said but unspoken. The King drops his half made servant to the iron press. His mass of wires whip and splice at the floor and walls as he moves slowly and reverently with his four arms folded like a monk, hands hidden within his sleeves. The clatter of wood on metal and stone slowly follows. The servant watches carved grinning faces emerge over copper piping, stone drains and through dark shadows. They crawl and climb like spiders, these marionettes, dragged along on lengths of wire that glimmer like webbing. The King’s orders drift through the void. His kingdom is disturbed. Let nothing escape. Let nothing survive. Turn One Rasputina points toward the alleyway opening she and her cultists stand before. It’s a maze work of twisted rows, crumbled walls and dead ends. “Go.” Her Silent Ones rise from their obedient crouch and dart down the opening, pushed by the winds of her all consuming spirit Snow Storm. His urges become the howling winds, his desire for flesh a biting chill and all of it pushes the cult on. Rasputina walks slowly behind them. She holds a globe of ice in her hand that pulses with strange lights and runes. “They’re near.” She says as she reads her relic’s data. “Be ready” She watches all the dark pathways, the shadows cast by the tall looming empty structures and the moonless sky. Rasputina lets her cultists advance just a little further ahead of her position. She holds a Gamin back with her and the totemic strobing power spirit she ensnared. Turn Two and Three Snowstorm moves relentlessly forward, each of his ghostly steps leaves a sleet covering on the hot street that melts into the cracks and recesses. With a nod of his bestial head he demands one of the gamin into the next corridor. Its long lanky limbs carry the creature into a new darkness. The frozen construct steams in the heat and vanishes into the night. Snowstorm waits. Rasputina looks at her globe and the pulses of light. The warnings. A sound of thick relentless hacking and the scattering of icy shards on hot stone follows. She and Snow Storm look toward the darkness of the alley. A quiet fills it now, replacing the violent noise that was there before. She can see chucks of ice slide across the street and begin to melt before her eyes. “Watch out! They know we’re here! Stay alert and…” Rasputina stumbles backward and drops the globe to the floor as one of her Silent Ones is taken. Coils of something descend from above and rip her into the darkness. She never screams, true to her duty. But she rains great gouts of her life to mix and mingle with the snow and slush. A cloud of wires and blades and clattering wooden hands falls from above. It’s a cyclone of darkness whipping about with a sinister stationary center of yellow. A pallid death mask stares back at the cultists while the marionettes and the wires creep and slither. One of the Silent Ones watches as a doll stalks along the walls; its face stuck in a permanent grin. Its dead eyes lock with Snow Storm with no concern before it pounces on the spirit. Another shape shambles into sight, standing on the gantry above the alley. The Silent One sees a sack with limbs and a face like torn cloth. Maggots fall where saliva would be and stained fluid the color of rotted blood drips from the hollows of its eyes. Hooks instead of fingers point down toward her as a die is cast. Too late does the Silent One realize the creature is laughing hysterically and without a sound. The die comes up with six little skulls on its face. A light pulses around the Silent One. There’s a snapping noise like a balloon meeting a needle. The last cultist paints the alley with her insides, bone and hair falls like confetti. Snow Storm raises pillars of ice to block off the giggling stitched monstrosity from the alley they now find themselves trapped in. The cloud of wires and dolls… and the wicked eyes of the King, all pull back from the chaos in a clattering wind of metal and wood. Rasputina grabs at her globe again. The only sound coming from the night now is the furious movement of needles and thread. Turn Four and Five Rasputina walks into the alleyway and beside Snow Storm. Her Gamin and totem beckoned along. She surrounds herself in a wall of followers. The stitching ceases. Now all that remains is the clatter of little hands on stone. It comes from all around her. The night is alive with noise now. Wicked dolls creep into view. The sound of dice being rolled echoes in the dark. Marionettes float down upon nearly invisible wires. Snowstorm watches as a silent cloud spills from the darkness behind Rasputina. Through the whipcord obscura insidious eyes glare. Then, slowly, a hand of blades reaches for his master. Post Game A King’s reign continues again unopposed. He surveys his crumbled kingdom. There is silence in the night again. No more noises. Just words unspoken. The feverish shouts and screams of his legion as they rip and shred and tear. They beat dead flesh with arms that will never tire. The wires take everything but their hate. They hate the living for they are a constant reminder of… something. Of a thing that they cannot put into words but deeply miss. Flesh failed them. They hate it and love it. The King will let this suffering dirge be sung for a while longer while he watches his kingdom. The little globe’s pulse is nothing but a constant glow now. And that glow suffocates as it’s dragged into a mass of hungry wires. The Cult of December- No schemes or strategies achieved. 0VP The King's Men- Captured Effigy, Escape and Survive partial victory and bodyguard achieved. 5VP (So this was the first time my opponent used Rasputina. He's otherwise a seasoned player with many crews. At the end of turn five he was wiped out. With turn six I didn't have what enough to get full victory for Escape and Survive. Also, based on the way the game went, with his crew stuck in a six inch space for pretty much the whole game as I darted around assassinating models one by one, i reimagined the meaning behind the Escape and Survive mission. Hope you all enjoyed)

So I read all the way through and id comment at length but again... cell phone. What I can say at the moment is that its very readable and well edited. There is a use of "you're" when it should be your and you typed win once when I think you meant wind. Something that stands out to me is something of a dialog tone disconnect. What I mean is that in some scenes there is a jarringly different manner of speech for some charaters. Comepare the language and style of speech between the way marius is speaking with ramos and the way the woman with the tall boots is speaking. Its just very different in some scenes. You'll get haughty evil villain banter with casual conversational speech. Regarding dialog there some things that just don't roll of the tongue well when said aloud. "Unfathomable treasures" for instance. The scene jumping mechanic is ok. I think at some points when sections consist only of speech its difficult to grasp exactly what's happening. I do not like the use of things like aarrrg. It really says nothing about the pain or injury. Just that there was some pain and some injury. And one time when you use it its not even to denote injury, just aggravation. More later. I promise. ---------- Post added at 07:15 AM ---------- Previous post was at 07:13 AM ---------- Oh but most important welcome back to writting. You know you missed it it, your mind churned out a3000 word story at 5am. You're back. There's no escaping the addiction.

On jordan again, actually I stand by disliking her a lot and I had to go back to the book to get the page but my feelings on her are laid out by nick on 57 and 58. She's incurably dishonest and avoids shrewd men. Id type the whole passage but on my phone at the moment.

Well, for one, I'm probably going to leave this piece where its at, only because no piece is every really perfect. I could tweek it forever and I'd still find little things i'd want to change. But I really thank everyone for their suggestions. It really helped the piece. There should really be some recognition in this thing for top contributors of editing help. As far as the nature of evil discussion, i'm not really going to weigh in on where my head was at. I'm just happy to spark the discussion. I do like considering whether evil is a part of nature or if evil is an ephemeral concept that invades a less tangible underlying reality. If its nature, then I guess its an acceptable part of reality. Its instinct. If its supernatural than evil is beyond our understand and mortals can really be help accountable because of the invisible hand of fate directing things. And regarding Gatsy again. To me, Panda, calling someone like Tom merely careless is just too dismissive. He's a racists. He's seems to treat his wife as a prize in some situations and in others he's totally unconcerned about what his actions do to her? Daisy lacks any kind of loyalty to me and I just don't see any strength in her. She needs decisions made for her. Jordan, deeply self concerned. I guess she's the least awful. Its just that the contrast between all these people and Nick is so startlingly apparent that it makes them even worse then they may actually be. Nick's mere presence shows us the depths of their hollowness. ---------- Post added at 08:39 PM ---------- Previous post was at 08:37 PM ---------- Oh and ubergruber, I just invent my own narrative. I guess i've real all of wyrds but i just do my own thing.

What if I did....... that! Edits, changes, suggestions woot! Thanks all. And I'm glad you enjoy Gatsby too Panda. I can say it certain has worked its way into me on a lot of levels. There's really something to that book. Can we agree on hating Daisy and Jordan? Cause I totally hate Daisy and Jordan.

Coolness on the edits. On the genre/sub genre shifting, i'm all for keeping it Wyrd centric. It's there home after all. But, nothing would stop people from shifting the timeline with their work. What about an alternative future setting using wyrd themes or bronze age early history Wyrd. (Bronzepunk?)

So everyone, I rest my case on why The Panda Director is bad ass. It's because he gives you some meat to work with. The chess set concept you laid out very well packaged and I like it. Given the opportunity I'd change it around. I think these things are done once posted. I completely forgot about the chess set as an element required till about halfway through so, sloppy as it is, I went back and threw in a cliched chess set, the kind that would give Dracula a boner. I may be playing my hand as far as how that element works in the story and for scores but that's cool. I'm honest if nothing else. In my mind the impetus for the imaginary action was the slow build up of questions and the spark was the tipping over of the chess piece. Eh... it was ok ish, in retrospect. But yeah, thanks again Panda for the evaluation.

We're all guilty of experimentation with perspective change within chapter. I mean, you haven't really lived unless you've jarringly shifted perspective at least once.

Why thanks so much sir of the quick read. I actually was just in the process of making a few structural changes. As for the tense change. Present has just always been my thing. I know I've chatted with Edonil I believe and maybe others about it. I know most write in past tense. It probably comes from years of Game Mastering, who knows? But that's just how I roll. Feel free to point out passages where the action tumbles out like a tipped over garbage can so I can understand and improve. Thanks again.

Can I just say that The Panda Director is one of my favorite people on this board. He's read my stuff, liked some of it and shot down other parts of it in an honest way that a lot of people avoid. I know that comes from his background. We've talked. He's a good guy and he's gunna tell you when somethings wrong without wasting time on white gloved, sugar coated delivery. And much of what's been said I'd just end up echoing. Overall, yes, this has a manga feel to it. Its that kind of jarring mixture of modern delivery with anachronistic tone and setting that typically doesn't mix well for me. It would be like if Aragorn quoted likes from Commando or Kick Ass while killing Nazghul. Dialog, even if witty on its own, falls short if it doesn't match the setting. That's why something like Buffy works. You're treated to clever high school type banter in a high school setting that includes monsters. And that carries with as the setting evolves. Its kinda one of the weaknesses of a short story. You have no time to evolve a setting. So if things don't work from the start or are jarring you really have no time to sell me on it in a deeper way. Thats why with short story work I think its easy to play it safe with tone and setting rather than risking it on something. But that being said. The hardest part is actually writing anything at all. So the fact that you got it out there is commendable. And when we punch each other metaphorically speaking it makes us better at what we do. Like Doomsday, i guess? Point is, thanks for the story sir. I look forward to seeing more of what you do.

By all accounts, Bennett Creedy is a disgusting man. His habits are disgusting. His captain’s uniform is a stained battlefield where old droplets of food left a permanent wound for the world to see. His laugh is disgusting. It’s a sickening baritone noise delivered with a rapid fire deluge like a Gatling Gun aimed mercilessly at the enemy. And his body is disgusting. Muscle, grown by a long string of cruel seeds planted over thirty seven wicked years, is tucked away behind mounds of slovenly bloat. The uniform strains to hold it all it and where it failes waxen stretched flesh pokes through. His head, bald aside from tangled eye brows and harsh stubble, is otherwise child like. Chubby as a well fed boy and with a constant smile that promises all the mischief a man in his position can suffer upon the world. He smacks his lips together and as they part the jostling clatter of hard candy against his teeth and the wet slapping of his tongue and cheeks creates a nauseous orchestra that besieges the ears of those around him. Always with a half smile. Always on the verge of a satisfying laugh that never quiet comes. Constant tension never broken. “Do you mind if I smoke Doctor?” The voice beside Creedy asks dryly. It belongs to Christopher McGinnis. A handsome, modest and clean man; in every visible way he is the opposite of the Guild Captain. He wears the long coat of a Guild officer sure enough but the rest of the outfit beneath is different from Creedy’s. The vest, slacks and suspenders are more akin to what a banker would wear. He’s a Guild Accountant. An Auditor specifically. The terms and titles are banal and material. They mean the simplest of things in any other context but that of the Guild. Auditors in service of the most beneficent Governor-General offer a very different type of service to Malifaux and its citizenry. They are special agents, hunters of the dead who have unique talents when it comes to wracking the spirit and shackling the soul. Their methods were honed and perfected by a perverse dissection of books like the Malleus Maleficarum and the Cautio Criminallis. “I wouldn’t if I were you.” A third voice answers the request. Doctor Douglas McMourning sits across from the two men and leans deeply into the green padding of his tall desk chair. He’s regal and casual at the same time; dressed in his favorite jade paisley vest and white slacks. His dress shirt is fitted well and the ascot, a rust brown, is loose around his neck. A pair of shocked yellow rubber gloves rests on the oaken corner of his elaborate desk and Creedy’s offensively keen nose can smell the acrid cleaning materials that almost manage to wash away the rot and blood they toil in. Almost. The doctor fidgets with a large gold ring on his right hand, staring into the emerald that tops it and never really making eye contact with McGinnis. His voice remains passive and cordial. “Not to say that you can’t of course. By all means do. It’s just that in my line of work you see things, if you understand my meaning investigators. You see a lot. I’m not one of those sorts with an idle mind. It’s always orbiting unknown possibilities trying to make sense of them. Peculiar growths and pitch colored clots turn up in the lungs of smokers. I suspect long term exposure can be fatal.” He says the last words with infinitely more interest. There’s a twinge of delight that Creedy hears and chalks it up to an eccentric man taking pride in his own correctness. Mcmourning’s cautionary assessment is punctuated by the striking of the Auditor’s match and the sudden rush of smoke. Christopher pulls fumes through the cigarette and feels the warmth of it fill his lungs. “Short term exposure to Malifaux is far more dangerous a thing than this will ever be.” He waves the cigarette toward McMourning. “You know, a man in your profession I suspect would have a very interesting answer to this question: How many men have been laid on your slabs because of this.” He again gestures to the cigarette. “And how many have been brought in because of Malifaux’s distain for the living.” McMourning turns the question over and over in his head. “A place can’t hate Mr. Mcginnis. You can blame Malifaux for its predations as soon as you can bring charges on a cat for murdering a rat. A thing can’t be held accountable for its nature.” A rare smile crawls with slow spider like efficiency across the doctor’s face. A wolf’s grin stares down upon the emerald surface of its jewelry before receding back into the fog of human formality and decorum. The Guild Captain loses interest in the conversation for a moment and turns to the chess board beside the chemical soaked gloves. Little ivory and onyx pieces decorate a surface of black and white squares trapped in a static thirst for dominance half sated. The set is a patchwork menagerie of fragments. Some pieces that resemble pachyderms with their trucks trust high. Carrion birds perched on hangmen's scaffolding.Others are Apes with arms hammered firmly against their broad chests. Hunting cats stalk their prey across the dulled squares of their monochrome savanna. And two oppressive and wickedly regal lions leer at each other from across the board. Creedy can't help but pick out their little details, especially the damage to them. Faces are chipped, pieces are ragged and cracks run like old scars across the little sculptures. Animals that nature never intended to meet now mingle together in a brutal instinctual scramble for survival. But the pawns are of special interest to him. They're the missing chucks of the other pieces scattered across the board. Bestial claws, rough chisel gouged faces, tails, limbs. Tiny chaff that creeps across the board at the urging of their masters. Creedy’s laugh comes like quick shotgun bursts “I like you doc. I like a man that lets a beast be a beast.” He examines one of the pawns briefly before setting it down with all the grace of a stampeding ox. A quiet moment passes, only the crackle of the office fire and the rattle of candy in Creedy’s mouth fill the cemetery hush. “So to what do I owe this visit gentlemen? You said something about official business? Guild business?” McGinnis nods. “Yes. Four of our guards are missing. They just graduated training and the ceremony is in a few very short hours. They haven’t checked in with any of their commanding officers nor with their very concerned women. They went out to Silken Row to celebrate last night. And now… gone.” A puff of smoke swirls around McGinnis’ pale features and his eyes scrutinize McMourning with a terrible growling intensity. “Have you checked Silken Row?” The doctor inquires, still caressing his ring with his thumb. The other hand traces fingers along the lip of a closed desk drawer. “Sure did.” Creedy stuffs the candy into his cheek. He speaks sloppily while the bulge in his cheek shifts. “Figured what you probably figured. They’re out feedin’ the beast. Carousing if they’re lucky. Sleepin’ it off in a ditch if they ain’t. Or…?” McGinnis picks up on Creedy’s unspoken question, waving his cigarette like a tiny smoldering scepter. “Or indeed. See, we’ve asked questions in Silken Row and we’ve heard fantastic stories. Rip skined beasts like great dead cats prowling the night…” Creedy pokes his fat finger into the ivory bishop and watches the piece dance. “… rumors of hungry dead. Sightings of three of our boys looking for the missing fourth. One of the women they met down there, Heather I think her name was…” McGinnis seems to struggle with the recollection. “Woman… that’s a bit generous eh?” Creedy adds. “She was a whore through and through. Used the name Jade. It’s after a stone. Celestials use it a lot in their art.” He says with a rare bit of seriousness as if his words are news to either men. “She says that the guards were drugged and very drunk. But she says a lot of things.” “Yes. Anyway…” Christopher continues “seems a local opium monger there reportedly saw morgue workers in the area collecting up at least one of the guards who allegedly perished. He also says one of the men owes him a great deal of script too. The whole thing is terrible mess you see.” Beneath McMourning’s calm lips teeth gnash. The eyes that held so firmly with his emerald break, darting between the two men as they tell their tale before sinking back into the obscura of his precious stone. His thoughts wander to pad locked cages, to feline works of necromantic reverie and to cold boxes holding unfinished work. The edge of the drawer starts to yawn slightly. “What we were hoping doctor is to have a look around your morgue and the hospital to see if we can find our men among the cliental.” McGinnis offers a slight smile. “Maybe even speak to some of your men too. I promise we won’t be a bother. Just want to find what’s ours. Can you help us?” The doctor’s lip curls. His hand slithers into the dark of the drawer and blindly probes. Creedy’s curious finger tips one of the silent carrion crows onto its side. The wobble and the snap of fire lord over the quiet study. There is nothing for a long deadly moment as two men await and answer while a third sinks deeper into the inviting promises of a polished stone. The rocking of the fallen crow slows. But a new sound devours it. The howl of a beast concluding its silent hunt, a noise that says the game is over and all that is left is for hunter and prey to finish their part. To kill and to die. The chair grating against a wooden floor muddles with the blur of the doctor pouncing to his feet and screaming like demon tasting his first moments of freedom from the pit. Equal parts elation and unholy defiance. His left hand strikes eager and fast like a viper grabbing Creedy by the back of his bald head and slamming it down against the chess board. The fat man flops backward, the black king impaled through his eye socket all the way to the base. “I’ll take you RIGHT! TO! THEM!” A rabid and maniac frenzy spits from McMourning’s mouth. McGinnis reaches for his peacekeeper but instead his hand shoots for the white hot burn at his throat. A scalpel flashes in the firelight and an artery offers its life’s work in a single messy praise across the doctor’s vest and chin. McGinnis flounders in his chair and almost falls to the floor but like a starved animal chasing its meal McMourning clambers over his desk dragging papers and curios to the floor. His free hand catches the Auditor by his hair. The other hand goes to work, gutting, slicing, cutting. His hands slide among the ruin of McGinnis’ open chest reaping chucks of steaming gristle and blackish ruin from the lungs. He was right. Cigarettes never bring anyone to the morgue. “Doctor? Can you help?” Christopher McGinnis repeats a second time. McMourning's eyes leave the stone for a brief moment to glance at the two investigators again. Pleasant possibilities fuel the smile he shares with them. It makes the expression genuine but for all the wrong reasons while the curtain falls on the phantasm in his mind. “Gentlemen I assure you I’d be the first to know if one our city’s brave sentinels were brought in. I know the workings of my morgue and the hospital as I know my own heart.” His fingers release the blade in the dark. They slowly close the yawning drawer. He stands graciously and gestures to the door. “But if it will allay your concerns then it would be my honor and privilege to help.” He lets them lead the way before following behind. “Thank you again for your cooperation Doctor McMourning. The Guild is most appreciative.” The Auditor says diplomatically. “Oh I’m sure it is. I’m sure.” His voice echoes down the barely lit halls of his office and wanders dumbly into the depths of the staircase they walk toward. “Oh… excuse me one moment gentlemen.” McMourning says apologetically and pauses. He takes a few quick steps back into his office and grabs the yellow gloves off his desk before waving them at the two investigators. The wolf emerges from the fog again with teeth bared “I may need these.” ---------- Post added at 04:17 PM ---------- Previous post was at 04:03 PM ---------- Thanks again for reading. Hope you enjoyed it. Few things. First, I wasn't sure what I was going to write and, inspired by the randomness of the themes, I took fifteen stat cards and shuffled them around then drew three cards with my eyes closed. Got the Guild Captain, Exorcist and Douglas McMourning. So that's how this came together. I like deep exposition on things. Probably comes from my enjoyment of things like Lovecraft and even my recent reading of Great Gatsby. That style of explaining a thing so deeply that you see it an entirely new way thanks to the author's detailing. I dig that. This story uses two characters from my previous work. Bennett Creedy who's pretty disgusting. And Christopher McGinnis who's a pretty even handed investigator. The Auditors are my versions of the exorcists. I think another thing that's worthy of mentioning is that my version of Malifaux differs greatly from the canon. If you've read my stuff before you know. If you haven't this one won't really touch on my vision too much but I'd be overjoyed if you were curious enough to check out my other work. Ask Chucklemonkey and Thepandadirector. They know. Anyway. Thanks. Please leave a comment, I love to read them no matter the nature of it.

I need to be added good sir.

Pre-league is fine too Edonil. You lead the way. I'll write.

Absolutely. Great idea.

healthy application of illusionist and coryphee

True fact ratty. And I'm not too partial to to what I run. If i find things I like they'll make it in and get proxied for something?

http://www.coolminiornot.com/shop/the-old-death.html Thats where i'm going.