ScrewedUpDice

Cog Fight - WIP The original story appears below, wrapped in spoiler tags. The opening I wrote above survives as a passing mention, although slightly modified (why give them the thumb back for free?). Open Spoiler H Further to my previous report I have begun the infiltration of the Cog Pit, posing as a patron. Its environs and operation are far beyond what we suspected; both the Cog Pit itself, and the Mechanism on which it sits, are far greater in scale than we supposed. Much to my chagrin I have been unable to deduce the exact location of Cog Pit within/beneath the City. The venue’s own security measures have obliged me to continue using a single entrance, although others certainly exist. Blindfolded by my escorts, we travel downwards by elevator, before continuing by a rail car of some sort which, after a journey with numerous pauses and turns, arrives at the Cog Pit itself. I suspect that the speed of both rail car and elevator is altered upon each visit; certainly the pauses in the car are inconsistent. Further details of the entrance location and security measures are provided in the first two appendices to this report, should you wish to send another agent, or compare my findings with others you hold. The Cog Pit provides its patrons with a chance to witness Constructs participate in pit fights against one another. This machine-on-machine violence gives much wider variation than any mere boxing match, as the Constructs are restricted only by the abilities of their Fight Crews, rather than the limits of the human body. A standard match is thrilling enough, but such is the extent of the Pit that a number of dedicated arenas exist to cater for more specialist fights. The Cog Pit has taken residence in a much older structure. While some rooms have been created recently, the majority of the space speaks of something ancient. The chambers and arenas that make up the Cog Pit are nestled atop the works of the Mechanism, housed within caverns hewn out of Malifaux's bedrock. The Mechanism is vast. Gears and shafts of phenomenal size run throughout the Cog Pit. Some are in constant motion, while others appear not to have turned since before the First Breach. The Mechanism's true purpose remains a mystery. Certain sections are under full control of the Cog Pit, with their original purpose having been perverted to provide practical use or spectacle; two of the arenas are built wholly on top of slower-moving gears, while others use the ancient machinery to operate pits, or similar hazards. I have appended a full technical report and associated diagrams of the accessible areas of the structure. There are inscriptions on some of the parts and stonework, and I have attempted to copy these as fully as possible; I fear that someone with more knowledge than myself is needed to make a reliable survey. There are also vast stone and metalwork statues in the largest of the original chambers. These loom over even the largest Construct in the arenas, and I can't help but wonder if these Colossi once moved. I have been unable to explore freely, but rumours say that the Mechanism descends far below the levels used by the Cog Pit (As soon as egress is found I would recommend sending down our own hand-picked team to survey these deep workings- there must be vast water pumps, of a design that might benefit the mines). Somewhere below must be a power source for the Mechanism. The most prevalent theory is that there is a monstrously large Soulstone, but then all things in this City seem to come back to those rocks. The Cog Pit is controlled by the House of Iron, or simply "the House". I've made very little headway finding information on this front. I have yet to discover if it is a group, or a façade for a single individual; in either case the whole operation speaks of wealth and influence. The Cogs, as the fighting Constructs are known, are the creations of individual teams of designers, mechanics, and apprentices, known as Fight Crews. A handful of these groups have rich patrons, while others are financed by the House, and have an income tied to their success. Some Cogs and Crews have already entered legend: Bisley, Watt, & Steiner's TFU; Haley and Bastard Jack; the sisters Vellocet & Moloko, famed for their clockwork machines; Panama Rose; Hammerstone; Diotoir; Bolt Thrower. More than twenty Fight Crews participate, running in excess of forty Constructs between them. These teams occupy workshops within the Cog Pit, but their exact location is closely guarded, both from patrons and potential saboteurs from other Crews. (See Appendix IV for full details of the Constructs and Crews). The Cog Fights themselves are a true spectacle. A pair of Constructs enters the arena, watched by their Fight Crews. At the judge’s command the fight begins, with the two machines attacking each other as dictated by their logic engines. The command for the fight to stop comes from the judge when one Construct is deemed to have incapacitated or destroyed the other. See Appendix V onwards for breakdowns of fighting styles and vulnerabilities. There is a lot of information to be gathered from observation here, let alone if we turn a Fight Crew. The fights are split across weights and categories, with different arenas dedicated to certain matches. Antikythera holds the largest and most spectacular fights. Tourbillon, Escapement, Helical and Mainspring all specialise as well. Within the loose rules of each arena anything goes, although there is a prohibition on the deliberate destruction of Logic Engines or Soulstones. Leaving them vulnerable, however, is considered to be a worse offence. There are very few Constructs powered by Soulstones; all of these are either House owned, or in the possession of the most elite tier of Fight Crews. The other teams rely on steam power, clockwork, or more unusual methods (again, see Appendix IV). Given the reports of rogue Soulstone powered Constructs, this seems fortuitous. The thought of a mechanical Spartacus rising from the gladiator pits is one I do not wish to contemplate. The Cog Pit appears to run on a similar model to other, more mundane, establishments of its ilk. Bookmakers and loan sharks provide the main income of the House. Those unable to pay their debts have their thumb severed and held as collateral against a quick repayment. A number of my fellow patrons bear a tell-tale scar circling the base of their thumb, a testament to its efficacy. No one I met was missing this digit, and rumour in the Seized Gear (the Cog Pit’s own drinking establishment) suggests that failure to pay up leads to a fatal encounter with the House's own Construct, "Ultra-Violence". These death matches/executions seem to be the final fate of many a malefactor within the Cog Pit, and I've little wish to investigate them in earnest lest I find out the truth first-hand. The level of technical skill displayed by the Fight Crews is impressive. Very few of the Constructs are based on existing chassis, and those that are have been extensively modified. All others Constructs appear to be of totally unique design and fabrication. The Guild's Magewrights could certainly learn a lot down here. There do appear to be a number of "Guild" Constructs retained by the House for putting in the arenas as opposition in some of the narrative fights. This is in need of a separate follow–up report, as the idea that complete Constructs have found their way outside of Guild control is a fascinating one. The Fight Crews are not the only possible source of recruits presented by the Pit. The crowd may also provide willing members to our cause. While much of the audience is made up of those merely here for the thrill of the fights, there are others who are clearly rapt by the mechanics of the Constructs. I've seen at least a dozen patrons taking notes or sketching diagrams. I would be unsurprised to find a colleague in R’s employ already in the audience, or possibly in the Fight Crews themselves. Nor would the presence of a clandestine Guild observer shock me, although I suspect the Cog Pit is being deliberately hidden from Hoffman and his division. How long it will avoid his notice, I don't know. There must be some form of bribe being submitted to the Guild, although if it is in scrip, Constructs or mechanical innovations I do not know. More evidence of Guild payoffs can be seen in the spectacle matches, with some of the Fight Crew members actively using powers in support of their Constructs. I fear the Witch Hunters may find them regardless of bribes. Criid might find herself ill-matched should the whole Cog Pit rise up against her and her misbegotten soldiers, though. It would take a Guild action of considerable scope to dislodge any entrenched resistance, should it be stirred up. Should any other agent wish to contact me, have them use the phrase "Nobody panic, I know BASIC." I'll reply indicating their next course of action and if a meeting is possible. Word Count 1520 Ingredients Theme: In the Shadow of Giants Character: The Clockwork Girl Line: Nobody panic, I know basic stuff! Item: Severed Thumb I've also posted the above in the comments below (well, I did this, and the comments one is what you're reading now), so there's a record of what this story starts like, before any forum led alterations. It's certainly not the story I expected to write, as the setting turned out to have a far bigger story in it than I expected. I've managed to avoid dialogue again, which I'm really going to have to reverse in the next round. I look forward to your thoughts.

I've put up my WIP story in the previously vacant Cog Fight post. Sorry for the delay, go see what you think.

I like the sardonic tone, although I feel the action gets muddy in places. Ignore me here. It turns out it's a valid phrase. To be a pedant, if it's motorized, it's not clockwork. This does work, but there's a suggestion that the protagonist isn't a witch hunter, and that the caster has had her fun with witch hunters in the past. Why is he suddenly in the air? Because he's snapped the chain?

Another really nice piece. Can we look forward to something from you in the Iron Quill? I've got three tiny changes, and one suggestion. The use of continued suggests that there is some reason why the shadows should become motionless as the figure passes. I'd drop the a. You mention a Guild marshal. Would that be better changed to Guard and let the title belong solely to the Deathmarshals? Unless I'm correcting canon, in which case I apologise. And that suggestion: I'd be cool to hear the contents of the backpack slosh around before it's revealed what is in there.

I agree with all of Hatefull's points. Capital S on such. Annabeth notes that the weekly letters had stopped, but it appears that the first one read to her is the first one Jonathan would have sent from Malside. Precipice seems like the wrong word here. You're telling us what you then show us next paragraph. Are you implying that the letter is perfectly coherent, or is there meant to be a suggestion that what she is reading is disjointed? Is the change of name here deliberate? On a more general point, why does Annabeth/Annibell change her name? There doesn't seem to be a reason behind it. Merely Kingdom? The repetition of screaming seems ungainly. Undid There's too much action here. I'd cut out the strode, as Annabeth only has the sounds of footfalls to work this out, and the room has previously been described as small. "Got down into her face" seems an awkward phrase. I know what you mean, but I'd change it to "bellowed in her face" The earlier reference to Annabeth as a Guardsmen seems wrong, if she's been training for a record keeping role. Do you mean ravenous? Annibell's There's no prior mention of this change of clothes, which from the previous actions must be on the same side of the small room as the desk. Why risk them getting covered in blood?

I really like this. There's a nice voice to much of it, and a few really stand out turns of phrase. If I have one criticism, it's that once or twice it isn't clear who is speaking. It's just enough to throw me out of the story.

The story is still in far too many bits at the moment, but this is how I think it'll start. Then again this may get tossed out. Hitting the ingredients a little too rapidly. I'm having a pig of a time balancing out the setting description, which is why it's so lacking here. "Nobody panic, I know basic surgery." Steiner's thick hand covered Ryker's mouth, stifling his screams as the shears bit into flesh and crushed bone. The severed thumb fell away, pale and bloody. One of Steiner's white clothed assistants bent to pick it up. The other two remained in position, holding Ryker motionless with ease born of practice. Steiner pocketed the shears and took the proffered thumb, considering it it. "This is a friendly warning. Which means, you get this back. But only because we like you." Steiner pressed the thumb into Ryker's sticky palm and wrapped the four remaining digits around it, crushing them in his own grip. "Get to a doc, and they should be able to put it back on. Then you pay up what's owed." Steiner forced Ryker to nod, the mechanic's head thumping against the wall. "Next time I'll take back this thumb, and something else. After that, it's the old ultra-violence. You have three days." The assistants stepped away, and Steiner released his grip. Ryker slumped to the ground, moaning and cradling his maimed hand.

That's an unsettling tale. Well done for getting it written so so quickly. I'd have been interested in seeing the story before Edonil's comments, just to see the evolution of the piece. A couple of minor edits and queries from me. The nod back to your previous story really stands out as telling rather than showing. On the other hand, telling would change the weighting of the story to its detriment. A tricky problem. Mentioning the guard as being still shaken from his fall/flight might work, but is a solid recollection amongst so many fractured pieces. You use "the uncomfortable little wooden table" after using "my uncomfortable little wooden chair". A few things spring to mind. Firstly it's repetition, secondly, uncomfortable seems an odd description for a table. If that's what you are going for, fair enough. Thirdly, why is there furniture in a mountain cave? It breaks the image for me. "and in time we fall in love." from the first memory, change to fell? "wassome" in the second memory. Why have you used the phrase animal doctor instead of vet? If it's to add an odd edge to the dream I'll shut up. "I threw my newly-freed arms over my head" I see what you mean, but this is an awkward description. I wonder if you could use strikethroughs to enforce the impression that the guard is thinking of things and then changing his mind completely. It might be too much on top of the box outs. That's my two pennies' worth anyway. I look forward to seeing what you think of my story in a few days time.

Cog Fight Morgan sat, feet dangling over the shaft's depths. The disengaged gear upon which she perched was one of the smallest in this section of the Mechanism, yet it was still large enough that she straddled only a single tooth. Far above her the vast gear upon which the Antikythera arena had been built continued its imperceptible rotation; as it had long before the Breach, long before the Mechanism was discovered, and long before the House of Iron had built the Cog Pit amongst its chambers, axles, leadscrews, shafts, and gears. Antikythera was used for only the most prestigious of matches, amongst the elite of the Cog Pit. During such a bout the sound of the Constructs fighting would echo down here, each blow struck sending vibrations thrumming down the massive axle. Morgan and her Fight Crew, Resilient, were a long way from taking part in such a battle. They needed more wins to their name, enough to attract a patron, and sponsorship from the House of Iron itself. The thought of being wholly under the thumb of the House rubbed Morgan up the wrong way; there were as many shackles as privileges in such an agreement. With a patron Resilient could build a Construct capable of fighting its way through the other arenas to the top of a Soulstone Tournament. With that title, and one of the prized 'Stones they'd be able to build a machine worthy of the greatest arena in the Cog Pit, and stand alongside such legendary Crews and Cogs as Bisley, Watt, & Steiner and TFU; Haley and Bastard Jack; Vellocet and Moloko; Hammerstone; Diotoir. Tonight's fight was the first real test of Resilient's ambition; a series of wins in the Mainspring arena had lead to being part of the opening match in Helical. It was a step up for the Crew, both in terms of prestige and risk. Morgan's fingers scratched at the ancient script circling the gear, as she wondered if their Cog would survive the evening. Mettle wasn't the first Construct Resilient had built, but she'd been with them the longest, and won the most fights. Painful experience had informed the design and construction. The scars from each win were carefully repaired, and the wreckage of each defeat made good. Each refinement saw performance improve, leading to the current string of victories. Although it was Morgan herself who'd pushed for the move to the Helical arena, the thought of sacrificing Mettle to the Crew's ambition gnawed at her. Their opponents, the Suicide Kings and their Cog, Lono, had faced Resilient and Mettle in the Mainspring arena twice before and inflicted damaging defeats both time, before taking their own place in Helical. Morgan tamped down her pre-fight nerves, fear turning to focus. She pulled herself up, and began to make her way back through the Mechanism to the Crew's workshop, deftly picking her way through the moving machinery. The crew had been going through their own pre-fight rituals and checks when Morgan returned; Ber shaving her head back to rough stubble, in pessimistic readiness for the heat and sparks of post-match repair work; Inès triple-checking the internal systems; Reagan sharpening the weaponry. Mettle towered over the members of Resilient, pseudo-humanoid form dwarfing her creators. Their experience in Mainspring had turned their eleventh hour routine into something almost as mechanical as the Cog itself. "Any final adjustments Inès?" Morgan asked. The engineer shook her head, mouth filled with screws, as she replaced one of the inspection plates in Mettle's back. "Reagan?" "All finished Boss." Some Crews sent their Construct into the arena still covered in oil and tool marks, or polished their Cog's armour until it shone, but that wasn't Resilient's style. Mettle's outer shell was painted black, her name prominent on her hull, with other designs painted onto the large armoured plates; all the work of Reagan's hand. Inès had added flourishes to the metalwork as well, even taking elaborate care with the fretwork of the exhaust vents. That their artistry would be ruined during the fights deterred neither of them; in a few places the repairs from previous matches had even been worked into their designs. "Ber?" "Done and done. As always." Ber appeared from the back of the workshop, weaving between machinery, absently wiping grease off her metal hand onto her overalls, moving to help Inès with the last few screws. "Lets fire her up then." Morgan began the pre fight sequence. Resilient subscribed to the theory that if your machine didn't walk into the arena it didn't fight in the arena- if you wheeled it in you were going to wheel it out. Mettle's eyes lit up. Crew and Construct advanced into Helical to the cheers of the crowd. Morgan made a point of taking in the new arena, fighting down trepidation and excitement. She'd seen matches in Helical from the stands, but the view from the fight pit was a complete change of perspective. The metal wall ringing the arena rose to twice her height, before rows of seats climbed steeply away. The noise of the crowd rose as the Suicide Kings entered the arena. Lono had been modified since they'd last fought, now boasting even more armour plating, and what had to be improved power to mitigate the weight. The move to Helical had not lessened Suicide Kings' inclination for brutality and durability in their Cog. Morgan considered Mettle's comparatively lighter form. She had more speed, and it would hopefully be the edge Resilient needed. Not that they hadn't made a few specific tweaks to Mettle when their opponent had been announced. The Suicide Kings' would have done the same to Lono of course. "Fight Crews, are you ready?" The crowd quieted in anticipation. Morgan made her own quick checks and, getting the three nods she needed from Reagan, Ber and Inès, raised her fist high. Ryker, Suicide Kings' Crew Captain, did the same, signalling that both Crews were ready to fight. Cog Pit tradition dictated this as being the point of no return. If you didn't raise your fist you didn't have to fight. The crowd would boo you off, and the House would impose a fine, but if your Cog wasn't going to run it was often preferable to the alternative. Morgan had seen Captains raise their fist in front of Constructs that were clearly not ready for the arena. It always preceded a massacre; the Cog Pit had no place for mercy. "You've seen them pound Croceus into scrap: it's the Suicide Kings and Lono!" The announcer's voice cut over the crowd. "Coming up from Mainspring, Resilient and Mettle! Fight Crews! Arm! Your! Constructs!" The Cog Pit prohibited any Construct being fully armed outside either the arena or the workshop. In the event of mechanical failure it made sense to minimise the risk of fatalities; not that a Cog needed conventional weapons to kill you, but there was no sense in making it easier. Mettle knelt down as Morgan helped Ber lift a heavy punching blade into place and attach it to one arm. It wouldn't pierce armour of a decent thickness, but if it went between plates it'd damage anything underneath. It didn't have the reach of a long blade, but that mattered little in this match; Lono's preferred style was to get in close. Morgan removed the leather sheath from the point as Inès and Reagan finished arming the battering ram on the other arm. Five feet of pneumatically driven steel bar, the ram would punch clean through armour when activated. It was a gamble though, reliant on precision, firm footing, and mechanical integrity, with only a single guaranteed use, but one that might pay off, if Mettle had chance to use it. Across the arena, the Suicide Kings finished fitting their signature weapon to Lono: a huge pneumatic wrecking claw, capable of tearing Mettle apart. Its other arm ended in an equally large shield, to protect itself as it got close enough for the claw to do its work. The sight reminded Morgan of the bitter hours spent repairing Mettle after their last encounter. The Crew made their final checks, and stepped back, leaving Morgan and Mettle together. The Suicide Kings did likewise, Ryker remaining beside Lono. "Cogs, take your places." At the command Morgan activated Mettle's fight directives. The Construct stepped forward into the marked position. Opposite them Lono shuffled into place. Morgan joined the others, the arena door closing behind her. With the Cogs readied for battle they had about thirty seconds until the fight started. They headed up the stairs to the Crew's box in silence. The announcer began the countdown. "Five. Four. Three. Two. One. FIGHT!" Word Count 1447 Ingredients Theme: In the Shadow of Giants Character: The Clockwork Girl Line: Nobody panic, I know basic stuff! Item: Severed Thumb

Well, I'm impressed, and slightly scared. Well done for getting a piece up so quickly Hateful Darkblack. I'll take up the speed challenge, and get my story written in, being realistic, the next two day. Expect it Wednesday night, UK time.

Stepping away from action is hard in this setting. Certainly it's what my mind is drawn to first when thinking up ideas. The more subtle personal conflicts don't jump out without having thought about characters for a little bit, and I get to digging down into what they want, and what's in their way. I always find tension comes later, as a matter of arrangement and pacing, on a broad scale, and in the small scale, with the stakes at risk in a scene, if things have been foreshadowed well. Intimate what might happen, and let the reader fear it. Talking of resources, I owe you a debt of thanks for the link to Writing Excuses. Very useful stuff in there. In return, take a look at: Terrible Minds If you don't mind the swearing there's a lot of useful stuff there. The best place to start might be the 2013 recap post F Yeah Character Development Broad spectrum writing advice in response to specific questions. Veers between informative and useless depending on what gets asked Write World See above, but with more internal structure, like writing prompts and word of the day.

Thanks for the feedback Edonil. All fair criticisms. Really going to have to go the other way next time, by putting in lot of dialogue, and doing something other than straight action.

Sign me up.

Congratulations to Stormlord XIII, and the other entrants. Look forward to seeing what Ingredients come up on the 13th. I'd welcome feedback from anyone on Icebound, feel free to rip it apart.

Thanks Mako. Sorry to hear you won't get finished.

I'm all done. Can I get rid of the WIP in the thread title or am I stuck with it? If so, do you want a fresh post, or shall I just leave it as is?

Posted up my story Icebound WIP for now, as something is bound to occur to me before the 30th. If anyone has feedback I'd be glad to hear it. Hope everyone else's pieces are going well, and I've not stolen an idea out from under anyone.

Icebound Matthias felt the Soulstone clenched in his fist splinter as he drew the last of the power from it. He hurled the fragments at his pursuers in rage as the spell fizzled. One of the creatures let out a squeaking yelp as a chunk of the 'Stone struck its forehead, black blood trickling from beside one of its miniature horns. Matthias backed away as the Neverborn closed in. More than a dozen Tots hemmed him in, a recently transformed Young looming over them, the blood of Matthias's companions dripping from its maw. The pack stalked forward over the corpses of Nephilim and human alike, preparing to savour their last kill, red eyes never leaving their prey. With his Soulstone destroyed, Matthias drew upon his own reserves. The breath of the Nephilim began to mist the air, vapour billowing out from between jagged fangs. Matthias's lips and fingers took on a blueish hue, only the faintest wisps of breath coiling from his mouth. He cast an arm out towards the Neverborn, ice crystals forming in the air, sweeping over the Nephilim on a razor-edged wind. The Tots cowered before the blast, but the Young sheltered itself with its leathery wings. Matthias fled into the woods, hoping he'd bought himself enough time. Behind him the Tots gave voice and chase. The Young took three strides on its bestial legs and launched itself into the air. # Branches lashed Matthias's face and tore at his clothes as he ran, leaping fallen trunks and weaving between trees. Behind him the sound of the Tots’ pursuit faded away, but above he could hear the beat of the Young's wings as it doggedly tracked him. The trees opened out a little ahead. Matthias readied himself. The noise of wings ceased abruptly, replaced by the sound of breaking branches as the Young dropped through the meagre gap in the canopy, falling towards its fleeing prey. Matthias turned, throwing his arm up protectively, as the monster plummeted towards him. Ice formed along his forearm, a frozen shield coalescing from out of the air, growing rapidly. The Young had no time to react, and the impact sent both of them tumbling. Man and beast scrambled to their feet, the Young's breath coming in great huffing billows, the earth around Matthias whitened by hoarfrost. Matthias stood his ground as the creature charged through the trees, swinging the shield up to block the Nephilim's blows, the Young's claws tearing chunks from the sheet. Matthias's fingers turned mottled red then bloodless white as frostbite took hold. The shield thickened, even as the Young's talons sent cracks splintering across it. Matthias reached out with his free hand, fingers locking in a clawing grip on the Young's leg. Where their skin touched frost began to spread, Neverborn flesh turning to ice even as Matthias's own hand began to transmute. His already blue lips darkened, and his ears and nose began to whiten. Frost laced his hair and eyebrows. The Nephilim reared backwards in pain, its leg sundering at the thigh, crashing to the ground. Half-frozen black blood oozed from the wound. Matthias smashed the base of the shield into one of the Young's flailing wings, snapping bone, crippling any chance of pursuit. The lead he'd had over the Tots had been all but lost in the fight. The cries of the wounded Young would only lead them to him. Matthias ran on, fragments of the disintegrating ice shield littering his wake. Pieces of his frozen fingers fell away, unnoticed. # Exhausted, Matthias slumped against the bole of a tree. His extremities had lost all feeling, and he avoided looking at the remains of his fingers. Matthias watched the route he thought his pursuers would take, looking out from behind his cover, head twisted over his shoulder. His only hope now was losing the pursuing Nephilim and finding his way back to the last settlement. He started suddenly, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. His body responded before his brain, trying to flinch away, only for Matthias to find his arm was pinioned. The tree he'd sheltered against had wrapped branch and bough about his right arm, the numb flesh insensible to its creeping advance. Sensing his struggles the ensnaring wood pulled tighter, new shoots busting forth to further entangle him. The bark of the trunk split, peeling back to form a mouth and eyes in the white wood. The tree began to thrash its upper branches together, summoning the Nephilim. Panic overwhelmed Matthias and he began to heave against the binding growth. The madness of any trapped creature came down upon him; the desperate calculation between freedom and self-harm. Ice spread from Matthias's trapped arm, rime coating the grasping sprigs. They cracked and twisted in the cold as the frost crept up the trunk and across the ground around Matthias. The wood froze hard. Feeling something in his bonds give, Matthias pulled, and staggered away from the tree. Shards of his frozen flesh fell in a cascade, shattering on the ground. He looked in horror to where the tree still held his hand and forearm captive, the frozen limb ending in a glistening ruin of ice below the elbow. Broken twigs clung to Matthias's arm, and he cradled the shorn limb with his remaining hand. Over the sound of the tree's drumming branches he could hear the squeals of the Tots as they converged on him. He picked a direction and ran. # When the Tots reached the tree the hand had already begun to melt, water dripping from fingers turned to ice. # The ground began to fall away. Matthias picked up speed, but it wasn't enough. The Tot's were pacing him, appearing as occasional flashes of purple amid the dark trunks on either side, herding him. The forest suddenly opened into a clearing. The slope ended in a wide bowl, the far side backed with a sheer cliff face; Matthias could not have climbed it even with both arms. The human turned, at bay. The Neverborn emerged from the tree line, the stumps of their vestigial wings twitching with excitement. Matthias watched them come, gathering himself for one last spell. The temperature drop was so sharp that the Nephilim's flesh steamed. Frost flashed across the clearing, carpeting the ground white. The air filled with ice crystals. The Tots’ hands froze to the handles of their metal claws. Cold reached into them from the ground beneath their hooves. Cold reached into them from the air against their skin. Cold reached inside them with the breath in their lungs. And everything the cold touched, the cold froze. Blood turned to slush in their veins. Red eyes were hazed with frost, as the humours cooled. The blackened metal of their claws snapped. The cold cut them to the bone without breaking their flesh. # Rasputina stood in the centre of the frigid clearing, Acolytes standing silent guard amid the frozen forms of the Terror Tots. Ramos had mentioned the site in passing, and she'd be intrigued enough to investigate for herself. Pre-dating her arrival in Malifaux, the frozen tableau had remained undisturbed but for one trapper who’d stumbled across the site one summer, losing two fingers and some of his mind to the cold there. Tales of Neverborn carved out of solid ice had spread. Neverborn and something else. The man's face was serene, a look at odds with him maimed hand and arm. The Tots were empty shells, ice all the way through. He was different though; Rasputina could sense the bitter remains of life trapped within the frozen form. The Ice Witch reached out with ungloved fingers and began to work. Word Count 1304 Ingredients Theme : The Decent Character : The Iceman

Lets see if I can't get something written a bit more on time this round.

Congratulations to madjackdeacon. I look forward to seeing what the next round brings.

I'm not sure if it lives up to having the deadline tweaked, but the story is up. Button Eyes Good luck to everyone that entered.

Thank you. Now the pressure is really on. I need to fix the ending, as it's fallen apart on me. It'll go up sometime in the wee hours of GMT in whatever state its in.

Thanks to Edonil for the extended deadline. Here's the story, as it sits at 1,479 words, and too few hours sleep. ___ Joseph de Vèbre's eyes were bleeding again. Twisting tracks of blood ran from the corners of his clenched lids. Jenrette checked over the straps that held the man to the stretcher. Leather bands looped over limbs, torso, and head, rubbing where they bit into exposed flesh. Jenrette removed de Vèbre's gag. Words scratched out of a raw throat. "A square. A broken arch. Water" On the other side of the stretcher Holveck knelt, unfolding his map of the Quarantine Zone, squinting at names and annotations. "We're close to Shattered Stone," the veteran said in accentless French. Jenrette nodded, replacing de Vèbre's gag as he began to moan and struggle against his bonds, blood drying on fever hot flesh. Jenrette checked his pocket watch; the periods of lucidity were becoming rarer, and with them the chances of success. "We march for the Square." # Jenrette was checking his pistol over as Holveck hunkered back into the cover of the fallen wall. Legionaries were similarly positioned along the street, where great chunks of fallen masonry littered the roadway. "We turn left at the junction and it's a straight run up to the Square. You'll come out on the far side from the river. There's no escape but into the water that way. Unless you can jump to the far side you're out of your depth." "Choose three men, and hold here. Joseph De Vèbre stays with you. The rest are with me. We bring back his brother, or we don't come back. Retreat the way we've come if so." "Marche ou crève." "Marche ou crève." Holveck quartered the street from man to man, passing on orders. His men relieved the stretcher bearers, and moved the palette into the ruined shell of a house. Jenrette watched them, marking the lines of fire the position gave. Satisfied he turned his attention to the six Legionaries left with him. "This is a raid. We take what we want and get out. If the objective is not there, fall back. Pick your targets, there's already one twin on a stretcher." # The Square Of Shattered Stone opened up before the advancing Legionaries. The devastation here dwarfed that which they had already passed through. The Square was riven by a gouge that was almost the height of a man at its lowest. Jenrette felt the grinding of fragmented cobbles beneath his boots. Every single brick, stone, and slab in and around the Square was fractured. House frontages had turned to scree, and the bridge that had once crossed the river was now a ragged spur above the black water. Around the circumference of the Square figures watched, still as statues. "We've come for Justin de Vèbre," Jenrette's parade ground voice echoed back at him. "Hand him over, or he'll be taken." There was no reply from the encircling figures. Jenrette was reminded of skirmishes against Resurrectionists, the undead fighting in eerie, almost total silence. The resemblance was heightened as the enemy began their advance. They stumbled from the ruined buildings and across the broken ground in staggering packs. They advanced by turn, one group moving forward, while others stood immobile. They had only one thing in common; over every eye was sewn a button. A metal, wood, or bone disc, criss-crossed with an X of thread, nestled into each eye socket. Jenrette watched them over his gun sights, focusing on each group in turn as they moved closer. He scanned the maimed faces for one that matched the features of its twin strapped to the stretcher. Instead he saw faces that were familiar from sketches, or the rare photograph. People that had gone missing, who'd vanished without leaving behind a body, blood or even a scream. People who'd disappeared just like Justin de Vèbre, but whose family and friends had to rely on posting pictures in bars and workplaces, rather than calling upon contacts within the Malifaux Légion Etrangère. People who hadn't left an identical twin behind seemingly still linked to their absent sibling. # Whatever sixth sense had kept Holveck alive throughout years of service altered him to the danger at the very last moment. He turned to the side as a knife stabbed at his throat. The blade caught his pauldron instead, glancing off the leather. Holveck let the momentum of the blow take him backwards, swinging his rifle butt up to jab at his attacker. A figure of taproom fable confronted him, a Neverborn in human form. Black button eyes regarded Holveck from a mask of hessian. The slit of a mouth was off centre and crooked. Its off hand griped voodoo doll, its eyes chips of glowing Soulstone. # Jerette weighted his options as the missing drew closer. These were not the rotting corpses of the unquiet dead, where a bullet to the head was a mercy. These were people possessed. Somewhere Justin de Vèbre was being manipulated just like these men and women. There were powers in Malifaux that might free them. # Holveck fired as Button Eyes lunged. The shot went wide. Holveck stepped back again, battering aside the knife hand with the rifle stock. Button Eyes followed through, crashing bodily into Holveck. They fell, the knife stabbing in below the Legionnaire's ribs. # Jerette's escape was not yet cut off. He could get his men back to the street, rejoin Holveck, and lose any pursuit. Then they'd need a defensive position and reconnaissance before taking action. He judged his moment, as the closest groups halted, and the half dozen puppets labouring up the side of the great rent in the square began to move. "Fall back." The Legionaries retreat in good order, waiting for the enemy to charge. # Holveck lay on his side, one hand trying to stem the bleeding. The other three Legionaries were dead at their posts. The Neverborn knelt straddling the palette, sewing buttons over the eyes of its occupant, thread turning redder with each pass. Yet Holveck could see Joseph de Vèbre standing over the monster and its bloody work, buttons already covering his eyes. Realisation struck the veteran as Button Eyes stepped back, holding up the voodoo doll. His victim came to his feet stiffly, the other man acting out a weak reflection of the motion. The de Vèbre twins were united again. # The true ambush hit the retreating Legionaries as they backed away from the square. The enemy was suddenly amongst them, rising up from the cover of the rubble in the street, or from the houses. Jerette's compassion for the attackers dropped away. "Fire at will." The Square had been a diversion. A big enough group to either soak up casualties, or force a retreat, and a reserve to move in as needed. To keep them bottled up. Jerette shot two attackers on reflex, mind turning over the enemy's tactics. It was suddenly clear that his unit wasn't the target. # Button Eyes stayed within the shadows as he moved towards the sound of fighting. He nudged his dolls into action, spreading himself thin to command the larger group in the Square. The Soulstone eyes of the voodoo doll dimmed as power was leached from them. Compared to the careful work of manipulating a twin at a step removed, and without the tokens of his power, it lacked finesse. He considered the twins now, sending them ahead of himself. The link between the siblings allowing him to work through one to reach the other. The level of control was astonishing for so little effort. # Jerette tore his knife from another body, feeling his bruised muscle protest. He saw Justin de Vèbre as he straightened, staring into his button eyes. The other had stopped their attack, waiting for their champion. Jerette breathed hard, the last Legionnaire standing, ready to meet the man he'd been searching for. Jerette hesitated, pulling his first attack before it connected, and almost lost in that instant, rhythm thrown, and wide open to a counter. Justin moved haltingly however, blows hanging in the air. Jerette was caught glancingly, and felt the weight of the punch. The shock galvanised him. Weaving under de Vèbre's attacks, Jerette's knife struck home again and again, with few hits connecting in return. Jerette's attacks were telling, slowing Justin, though little blood flowed. Jerette saw his opponent waver and launched a final attack. Even as he did so the others charged at him. It was never going to be a fair fight. They mobbed him, bearing him down by weight of numbers. # Jerette lay strapped to the stretcher, blood running down his face, one eye now permanently closed. Button Eyes stood over him, fresh thread hanging from his needle. ___ CHARACTER: The Twins LINE: "You're out of your depth!" ITEM: Voodoo Doll Comments very much welcomed.

Count me in.

Here's my effort. Hopefully I won't wake up tomorrow realising where all the mistakes and plot holes are. http://www.wyrd-games.net/showthread.php?45499-Iron-Quill-%28Something-Wicked%29-Ghost-In-The-Machine&p=592688#post592688