Utterly Mad
The Pit => Creative Endeavors => Topic started by: ajwilli1 on April 02, 2015, 01:34:14 am
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Awakening
"Have you been having these dreams lately?", the vampiric preacher said looking up from his small parchment notepad. "Yes, why do you think I'm here?" Mark Dyerforth sat up from the cushioned couch, "I thought you were-", he was interrupted. "Would you mind telling me about these dreams", the preacher asked scribbling more on his pad. "Again?" Mark laid back down on the couch and with a long sigh, became retelling his dreams. "Well I wake up in a puddle of what I think is ink, until it starts to twist and form around my body. At which point the ink separates from my body and molds into this creature.", waving his hands about trying to make some shape for the beast. "But its formless... and then after that it starts speaking in so many voices shouting at me about how I'm chosen, and how..." Mark cut himself off before coming across as insane. "Listen I'm only here because I don't want to end up in the nuthouse outside of town. You know I have a family Father, so is there any charms? Anything."
"At this point Mark I'd say you'd need an exorcist." The Father laughs as he gets up from his rickety wooden chair, it moaning as his weight is lifted from it. With a swift motion, he rips off the scribbled on parchment from his notepad and hands it to his "patient". "I recommend you meet with her, she might have something for you... but I'd recommend you don't take whatever she gives you in public." Mark nods and gets up from the couch. "Thank you Father."
It was another chilly afternoon in Thurnoth, and the Cathedral of Thurnoth's steps were filled with umbrella carrying vampires ready to attend mass with their lessers tailing behind them with suitcases and medicinal bags in case their masters sit in the sun too long. Taking a long look at the chicken scratch on the paper, Mark made out an address among the twisting pen marks and small dots of ink, "1782 X'lrzz Avenue". Hailing a cab, he started towards old town.
Old town, both the most 'quaint' and the most 'seedy' of Thurnoth. The address pointed towards a tucked away store that lay at the end of a labyrinth of alleyways, having second thoughts about the Father's 'remedy' as he continued his journey, asking ruffians about which way to the old medicine shop; and after several dread filled minutes he found the place. Hazy purples and blues oozed from the cracks in the windows and from under the door in a thick viscous smoke that stunk of acids and fermented fruit. Inside though the cloud of smoke that hung in the air, he made out a counter in the back with a large burly Crocwoman adorned in thick velvet fabrics and wore a hood over her head with only her scaly maw sticking out from under it.
She spoke in the heavy voice, "Whats your business 'ere?" "Father Brayborne told me to come here.", he shakily held up his note, fear was really starting to take hold now, he was most likely going to get ambushed and cut up into some recipe by the over-sized designer bag. "Come 'ere." Her hood flipped back revealing her reptilian features, glowing yellow eyes that pierced past the thick veil of smoke and into your very soul, feathers that were all braided and adorned in inscribed rings and hoops, and hair grew from the spaces in between the scales that she let flow around and through her feathered head. She knelt down, paper crinkled from underneath the liquid stained counter, placing the small brown paper bag on the counter she spoke once more. "Ere's your prescription, Breyborne payed up front. Directions are in de' bag. Now off wit' you." Hurriedly he grabbed the bag and nearly tripped over the nearby display rack as he ran out the store.
Back home he was alone, his wife with out with the children visiting relatives in the country, it was deafeningly silent throughout his magnificent home. Only the creaks and bumps kept him company as he sat on his bed ready to retire for the night, but before that he looked within bag. Inside were three small vials of golden colored liquids along with a folded piece of paper with "DIRectIONs" written on it. It read: "Take one vial before bed. Use the dropper built in the lid and put two drops in both eyes, then drink the rest in the vial. Results may vary. Don't use if are/have: Pregnant, suffering heartburn, syphilis, flu, or have a cold." Following them to a 'T', he put two drops in his eyes coating his eyes in a golden film of the medicine, then he put the lid in the bag, held his nose, and drank the rest down. It tasted more bitter than the blackest licorice in Nocturne, he cringed from it passing over his tongue.
That night his dreams were more vivid than before. The creature he saw had form now, it was this grotesque abomination of limbs and twisting appendages that seemed to stretch in all conceivable directions. What it spoke of made more sense, it spoke of a prophecy that must be fulfilled or else the cycle would reset. What cycle? Not even Mark knew what cycle it refereed too. The next night, his medicine started to taste sweeter and the drops in his eyes made him "see things" in the waking world; creatures that were more abnormal that the ones you'd see in Nocturne, the creature in his dreams spoke of the cycle in greater detail, but he couldn't remember what was relayed to him by the next morning. It was the third night and his last vial of the liquid, he'd had a full day of communicating and seeing these beings crawl about the walls and floors like shadows in the rain. It was this very night when what was taught to him that everything made sense. The Harvest, the cycle that would keep repeating without end if he did nothing.
Every thousand years, an Elder God unspeakable by any tongue on Nocturne would rise for the Harvesting, a mass reaping of living and dead that leaves the world a barren of any life. A cycle that has been stopped 10 times before by people that were chosen just like Mark. But with the Vampires taking over and abolishing any other religion, then that of their own in the belief of The Blood of Thurnoth, there has been no one to stop the cycle yet and its nearing its end in two years.
When dawn broke and Mark awoke from his visions, he ran towards his desk and began writing down all he heard and saw in his dreams. If viewed upon anyone else, they'd assume him to be a madman speaking of long dead gods and prophecies. That or that he was a junky. But what he wrote was all very real, and by late afternoon he'd recorded his experience and stowed it away on a shelf, hidden in plain sight.
That year he took some funds from his fortune, told his wife he'd be away and lovingly said goodbye to them all as he left on a five month long pilgrimage to learn all he could about the creature that still contacted him in his dreams. Traveling to the blistering cold mountains of Crehfalang, where Mark met with a shaman that sat in a ruined village, that told him of a forgotten city down in the depths of the Undead Lands. Taking the airship line down to the southern swamps of Louachtang, where he traveled several weeks with a band of fanatical gypsies that told him that the god visited him was Zar'lyah The Messenger. With his pilgrimage ending at a long forgotten holy site that was told to him by the shaman, it was covered in webs and fleshy vines that wrapped and twisted around buildings like veins in a body which gave off the feeling that the city was "alive".
He returned home, armed with his new found knowledge began to write once more in his book, transferring what was kept in his journal and what he could remember. Mark began spending more on books about the occult, slowly he stopped showing up to work and became more introverted as his knowledge of the unknown started to consume him. His wife, worried about what this will do to the kids, politely asked her husband what this was all about. In which he replied, "The cycle must be stopped dear, and the more I look the more I see. I- no... we need to stop it."
It was there that she took some cash from their vault, packed hers and the kids bags. Her ordering a airline ticket back to her folks, was when he realized what he said, instead of explaining. By the time he reached the platform it was too late, his wife's airship was already soaring away into the bright orange sunset. It was there that he realized he had nothing to hold him back, starting to take comfort in the fact that his family was no longer in harms way and that they wouldn't be back. There was nothing stopping him and nothing to protect but the unaware world.
It was there in the gentle breeze that whispered through the airship docks that he formed The Children of the Messenger. As he returned home, he realized his was being followed by something... but shook off the feeling as, "Something that might've been another vision."
Next Chapter: Church of Zar'lyah
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To address the question put up in the poll.
Yes, it actually does. Nocturne is currently ruled by what can be considered a "Third Reich" only replaced by vampires. They run the schools, churches, states, and both play as the puppeteers and the puppet masters. So when you take something like a Crocodile-person, and compare them to most of the other species (which are all humans or a variant of human) you realize that Crocmen might be the lowest on the totem and that their limbs, bodies, and skin can be sold or remade into a product.
But to answer the question in short. Yes, Crocpeople do get killed and have their bodies/what they produce sold or turned into a product. The Vampires don't care for them so its not illegal. And even other Crocmen kill each other to sell the scales, leathers, whatever for cash.
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So what you're saying is...
Slavery is ok as long as its Croc-people. AJ is Hitler 2015.
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So what you're saying is...
Slavery is ok as long as its Croc-people. AJ is Hitler 2015.
I never said Crocmen were slaves. As a matter of fact they're more like wild game to the Vampires, the only reason they haven't been enslaved are three reasons. 1. They are magically inclined and use a lot of occult and voodoo, so the Vampiric "holy" magic doesn't do shit on them. 2. They're a violent species that can never settle down, they have cities and towns but they're normally in conflict over territory with one another. 3. If the vampires are using them to make fashion wear and turning their blood and shit into medicine then why would they enslave them?
No the real slaves are the humans, they're the social and racial minority. They used to be pretty powerful in Nocturne until Thurnoth decided that his subjects should quit hiding out and basically gave them forbidden knowledge (more powerful magic) which is normally a big no-no but the Elder Gods are either too weak or dead to fight back.
So with these supped up vampires, they employ a 'personality' shift across the entire human race (through the use of said knowledge). Causing them to go from a arrogant and strong-headed species (that liked Crocmen due to their similarities), to a easily manipulated and subservient race that basically handed over the keys to the kingdom when the vampires came knocking.
Most of Humanity are slaves to the vampires, having to play servant to them. The ones that aren't enslaved are inventors, the rich, and anyone whom actually aided the vampires during the raid. But there isn't to say that there are a few that were lucky enough not to become slaves, or ones that are resisting.
So maybe "Third Reich" isn't the term to use here. Maybe The Combine is a better comparison.
Also I like the Crocmen you ass.
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I didn't think my sarcasm would spawn such a response...
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I didn't think my sarcasm would spawn such a response...
Well I checked the poll before I took my bath and someone asked if Humanity was enslaved. So I decided to answer that and the Old Gods question all at once.
Also I like Crocmen, I'm not a racist I swear to God! (/whiteguilt)
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I think I can manage writing the next chapter tomorrow. I know what I want to do with it, but the middle chapter in many short stories get to be really boring as its setting up to a climax.
So there might be more talking in the second chapter along with some more word building, with it ending somewhat violently (they're still a cult after all).
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Church of Zar'lyah
His small congregation gathered outside his new estate in the country, away from The Cathedral, away from any naysayers or skeptics. Nothing but the trees surrounding his colonial styled home, and their autumn leaves were any bother to him. Within these busy few weeks he had fully converted the small town of Rumshire to the ways of The Messenger, showing them his miracles by blessing the crops with rain or healing the blinded and crippled. Where The Cathedral failed, the Church of Zar'lyah succeeded, with Mark Dyerforth as their prophet they were not to fail.
But sadly their beliefs had to remain hidden, as Cathedral Holymen passed through the town to take collections of blood and coin. Dyerforth and the rest of the inhabitants were starting to have enough of their ways, "Soon. We will have our vengeance and show those heathens up at that blasted eye sore that stabs our sky, whom they're fighting with!" Dyerforth addressed his followers from behind the podium situated on the porch of his home. "We will gather our weapons, we will gather torches, harness the power of the sun! WE WILL BE FREE FROM THEIR TYRANNY!" Slamming his fist down on the podium, his following began to roar in agreement. After which he led into teachings, how Zar'lyah requires their full attention with idols and symbols in their homes, so his influence might spread further into the town effectively making it a holy place for him and his followers.
Dyerforth filled with the energy and 'cleanliness' of that evenings session, walked into his study with glee and a knife in hand. Slowly he started shaving pieces of the pillar away into a shape similar to The Messenger, although with more 'artistic license' and 'clarity'. The form was of a bird like creature that was perched in a sitting position with his 'inky' tendrils wrapped around its raven-like legs that clawed into the base of the pillar, its face had the beak of a crow and the face of a sickly man, large quills spread from his back as if ready to take flight. It was a beauty to its creator who dusted himself off as he marveled at his work, he then pointed at it and spoke, "Your avatar is done, my Servant." The eyes of the 'sculpture' flashed a bright white, fire burned inside the eyes lids as it "spoke" to Mr. Dyerforth. "You've done well my messenger, but there is more to be done. For the time is almost at hand.", a heavy voice spoke through the fire. "I know, but I must know what it is that must be done!" Dyerforth was eager to serve his god anyway he could, even if that meant sacrificing himself. "It was foolish of me to not tell you this when we first met, but I had-", Zar'lyah was cut off by his "messenger". "WHAT IS IT THEN!?" Dyerforth shouted out. "You must make anchors in this reality to prevent his awakening."
Hours upon hours of sketch work, and listening to his master's directions on making one of these 'grisly' anchors. Removal of the eyes, splatterings of blood, the innards of the torso being messily torn open, the directions to the areas of where to do this, and the words to chant. With a quiet simmer, the flame extinguished from the pillar's new wood working and silence took hold of the study once more. Tomorrow would be the time for action.
Even after the hours Dyerforth spent thinking over how he'd deliver the wondrous news, it was still commanding innocent people to mutilate a man. If his followers weren't too keen on the whole "anchor" idea, it might mean him being sold out to The Cathedral and then after that nothing but torture at the asylum. Gentle rapping at the door shook him from his thought, he left towards his quaint entry way and opened the heavy arch-shaped doors. Standing at his porch was Father Brayborne with umbrella in hand, "Lovely afternoon is it not?" He smiled at the messy man whom held open the door. "Are you going to invite me in? Or are you going to let me sizzle out here?", Father Brayborne chuckled. "Why yes, come in, come in."
Setting down some coffee for his unexpected guest, he retreated back into the kitchen for some sugar and cream. "You don't even have any clue as to how I found you?", Father Brayborne said pulling a flask of "red syrup" from his coat pocket and pouring it into his coffee. "N-no, not really. Martha probably told you where right?" Dyerforth ran back into the room with a small metal tray that had a jar of sugar and a kettle full of cream. Brayborne thanked his host and took a pinch of sugar and a bit of cream in his coffee, taking a quick sip, looking satisfied. "Well let's just say that we both have a mutual friend between us." Mark split some of his coffee on the table with how much his hands were trembling with fright, as quick as a mouse with cheese in mouth, he darted out of the room to fetch of drying cloth. "Calm down son, you know me, I'm not like those other fools back at the Cathedral who act all kind. I'm not the damned inquisition." Brayborne was getting a kick out of how scatterbrained his friend was being at his unexpected arrival. "I-I know, its just that I turned a new leaf. I'm not the same woman- I mean man as before, that's all."
Chuckling he grabbed Mark by the shoulders and sat him down at the table. "I only came here to see how you were doing. Still having the dreams?", Brayborne asked finishing his coffee in a quick gulp. "No, Father.", Mark responded with his gaze set on the swirling mixture of his coffee. "Good. I'll be off then, don't be afraid to call and chat if things are seeming to get rough out here. The locals are kinda nutty that way." Father Brayborne tossed a slip of paper on the table like "tip" almost and left out the front door.
Cleaning up Dyerforth discovered the scribbled on slip of paper, on it an address with a short description of a 'wanted' man by The Cathedral. Apparently this man has been charged with various accounts of disobedience and dabbled in occult activities in the shanty towns down by the fishing docks. Dyerforth put two-and-two together, and slipped the note into his pocket. That night at the service Dyerforth gave a powerful sermon and told his most loyal followers of what they need to do, to keep The Messenger's blessings continuing.
Using his given knowledge and with his group of five followers they went down to an old canning warehouse down by the docks. The poor bastard that was "wanted" by The Cathedral didn't have a chance, with a quick strike to the head with a shovel he was done. It was a messy process it was creating the anchor, it being confirmed with the blood glowing a bright shade of "cherry red" and bubbling as it burnt itself into the dirty warehouse floor. Their shadows faded from view as they piled in the back of a cab and took off back to the "famously quiet town of: Rumshire".
That night his dreams were filled with visions, horrifying visions of violence in death. Of whom? He couldn't recall when he awoke, but he remembered smelling pine in the air and the taste of iron filling his mouth. Maybe it was just a nightmare... maybe.
Last Chapter: Born in blood
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The next chapter will probably be a hellavua lot more violent, it will be stranger, and a fuckton is going to happen to explain what happens in the RP. I will also be continuing this like I said in the format of more short stories.
I really am growing more and more found of the 12th Harvest world and I think I could create something interesting with it to coexist with the RP.
So there is a new poll that's going up, and its mainly about how much gore you want in the final chapter of what I'll call: "The Cult'ing"
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OH SHIT! I forgot to answer the whole "Are the Elder Gods well known?" question.
Let me answer:
Yes, and no. I'm going to take the Dark Souls approach (possibly Bloodborne? I haven't gotten that far), most people know that they existed at some point or time. But most have agreed that they're probably long dead by now, either due to them fighting in their dimension or lack of belief. The Elder Gods are basically an unknown factor that just blessed or smite'd people, and not much else.
The Cathedral is based around the most "popular" Elder God Thurnoth, whom was the God of Blood. But they kinda rewrote history and mythos to say that he was the only one and the rest were fairy tales.
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Born in blood
End of the winter's cycle, it was almost time. There was but one anchor left, far in the mountains that loomed over the city of Thurnoth and the surrounding area was left. At the peak is where they would finish their final ritual, some unlucky hiker that was "blessed" enough would make for their final anchor. Outside the trees surrounded them on either side, thick fog rolling out from under the soil they were planted in, snow inches high covered everything and buried trees.
"The blasphemers are on their way." The 'officer' from the Cathedral said to his men that had blockaded the final site, which they found out about from their informant. Snowfall started turning into a flurry, the cop's spotlights barely shone through it. Even though they were cold blooded creatures the dropping temperature started to freeze the vampiric "badges". "They ever going to show up?", said the Tommy-Gun wielding officer. "Eventually Laurence now hush up." A car engine in the distance, growing louder, they were close.
Back at the compound Dyerforth started gathering all his followers back to his 'church', it was decorated in statuettes and large wooden idols of their god. The floors were a mirror-shined tile with checkered patterns that looked endless if you gazed at them too long. Past the fancy entry way and behind the heavy oak doors, was a large aisle leading up to a podium with rows upon rows of seats that stretched to the ends of the building. At the very back of the room, behind the podium, was a grand organ with pipes that towered up to the ceiling. Dyerforth took his place and opened up the large book that sat on his podium, "Today my children is a glorious day indeed, as we speak our most courageous followers are finishing our task giving to us by our Messenger. And to those whom are new to our congregation, you have joined on the most beautiful of days." Leading in hymns and chants to Zar'lyah, he started gathering the new comers for the baptisms near the fountain that stood next to the organ. Within this fountain was flowing with golden juices, he started with the first one, dabbling the water under his eyes and then letting him sip from the goblet that sat next to it.
His courageous men of The Messenger meanwhile were caught in the middle of gunfire, their "anchor" running out to only be torn apart by gun fire. The hiker's guts spilled all over the sidewalk like spaghetti, his left side of the face nothing but meaty paste and shattered bones, and his coat was soaked in blood that stained the snow as it leaked out from his exposed ribcage. "DON'T STOP FIRING NO MATTER WHAT!", the Captain shouted at his officers. Like the roar of an infernal demon the sounds of fifteen Tommy-Guns firing rattled the very air on the mountain, tearing apart the empty car that stood dominant before their guns. Zar'lyah's children were behind the trunk of the car, avoiding the gunfire and gathering their own weapons from the leather bag they took with them. "How are we going to pull this off, our 'chosen one' is dead.", one of the cultists said to his comrades as they handed him a 45. pistol.
"We'll try to flank around them, we'll bless one that we manage to take alive!" Another responded as he hefted up a pump-action shotgun from the bag and loaded three shells into the chamber. "Now follow my lead."
The baptisms were nearly finished back at the compound, the last one drank from the goblet and looked entranced. Becoming one of Zar'lyah's "chosen". Flinging the doors open were some of his guards he stationed outside the town, "The Cathedral's men are coming! Someone told them about our activities, they have half of the damned county coming here on a raid!", the guard started sliding the statue revealing the cache of guns and ammo behind it. Dyerforth led the crowd with a rally for action, "Now my followers, this isn't the time to shy away from violence, remember what we're doing, we are preventing the end of the world. We must stop them from interfering, remember your families, remember the countless lives you're saving! We mustn't let those that don't understand just stop us! NOW IS THE TIME FOR ACTION, PROVE YOUR DEVOTION TO ZAR'LYAH! AZ'HUZ KALATH ZAR'LYAH!"
Gathering the weapons they charged out into the streets, spreading out, taking cover inside, on the roofs, and beside buildings in the alleyways that ran between them. Siren's blared at the cops sped into the city, making a sudden stop in the middle of Main-Street. It was deathly quiet before the first shot rang out, the stores all looked untouched as if no living thing came into contact with the town in decades. Layers of dust collected behind windows and the streets were oddly 'clean'. "They aren't here. What was this you were going on about-" The bullet ripped through the lycan's throat, spraying his grey lifeblood all over the cobblestreets. Clutching his throat he slowly collapsed to the ground as the rest of his posse took cover behind their cars. Bullets whizzed up and down the streets, blows were traded, blood being splattered onto walls and floors as bullets shredded through skin.
Back on the mountain the group was flanking the cops on both sides, hiding behind trees and using the cover of the what is now a blizzard to cover their view. "I don't think they're there anymore!" One officer shouted out as he started climbing over his squad car and towards the empty cultist's car. In a blink the cultists unleashed a wave of bullets against the unaware officers, the snow turning a bright crimson as the last cop fell to their knees before being executed by one of the members. His brains splattering all over the hood of the car, and his basketball sized exit wound pouring blood from his cranium like a waterfall. "Shit...", the lone officer whispered as he slowly back away from the scene, gun shakily pointed towards the now 'dead' police barricade. A gunshot, a bullet grazing across his knee and him falling on his back. Out from the thick snow he saw a figure emerge, he knew it was hostile so he held down on his trigger, keeping the butt of the Tommy-Gun against the dirt to keep it steady. His weapon shook the snow away violently, and the silhouette in the snow was blown apart in meaty chunks of quivering meat, its intestines being gutted out splattering in the snow before being covered in inches of powder. The figure slowly collapsed, the officer took a deep breath and got to his feet.
Another shot, this time to the chest. He felt his skin go cold and frigid as he looked down to see a large formation of blood seeping into his uniform, right in the heart. Taking one last breath he collapsed to the ground, fading into oblivion. The cultists grabbed his body and quickly preformed the ritual. "Shame he won't be able to see what all his efforts amounted too." One of them said as they plucked the officers eyeballs from their sockets, the chords snapping as he pulled them out. "It is a sh- hey wait a minute... don't anchors usually pull something into place.", the one cultist said stopping the heart removal process. "... Yeah... they do... you don't think we've been fooled, right?" The other said putting their hands on their knees. "I don't know its just been bothering me for a long while. I meant to ask Brother Dyerforth but he always said that he was "busy"." They both sat in silence for a moment coming to the horrifying realization of what they've done.
Their realizations were cut short however as two gunshots rung out, and two bullets tore through their skulls severing their brains from their spines. Both collapsing in the snow, a figure emerged from the blizzard and continued the ritual in silence, using both their bodies instead.
The sky above Rumshire flashed like their was lighting in the sky, high above the town was a shimmering crag of light that stretched infinitely into the night sky. The officers and members sat their stunned, their weapons no longer spewing out bullets. The light started to darken, something was coming through! The members and officers were both starting to panic, "This wasn't supposed to happen!" The members started shouting as they ran back towards the church, their leader Dyerforth standing at the doors in stunned silence. "You... you lied to us!", one of his coalition shouted at him. "W-what no! I never intended this to happen, I-I've been foo-" Was the last sentence he barely had time to mutter out as the mob charged towards him, ripping him limb from limb, his pleas for mercy being drowned out in the sounds of tearing flesh.
The officers witnessing this started heading back to their cars, with a "this will sort itself out" mentality. As something emerged through the rift and slowly engulfed the town of Rumshire in the thick haze of blackness, and in another flash all that was left of Rumshire was a large crater and smoke the billowed up from the hole.
Father Brayborne [Epilogue]
In the past few weeks The Cathedral deployed a huge coverup that what had happened at Rumshire was a "Powerline Accident, we swear!". Most bought it, while others put The Cathedral under scrutiny and ended up finding "nothing". After a few weeks everyone decided that believing the papers was probably the wisest choice as people started to turn up "missing" if they dug too deep.
Father Brayborne adorned his best white suit, pulled out his umbrella and started off towards mass with the biggest smile on his face. "You've done well my prophet.", the Elder God spoke to him through his mind. "I know my master, and there is no evidence against us. The threat in The Cathedral's eyes has been neutralized.", Father Brayborne spoke back to his 'master'. "But my question is how did you convince him of doing the anchors?", the Elder God questioned his prophet. "Simple, vampiric charms and hallucinogenic drugs from our cleric weakened his mind. Any idea I implanted in those "dreams" of his would be viewed as an unquestionable vision." He responded with. He was nearing the Cathedral's open doors, his god Zar'lyah The Trickster started to grow more silent as the shrine of Thurnoth came into view.
Alright there it is done. I feel that with a bit more time and some more thought this could've been better, but this was mainly trying to show what would happen in the RP. All the betrayals, gore, rituals, and manipulation will all be there and be the main thing.
Anyway the next story will be a bit longer, and feel free to throw any criticisms or questions you have below. I'll have a poll up for what you want the next story to be about. The RP will be going up in a few minutes, I'm almost done writing that up and then we'll go on from there.