1 Jul 2022, 09:19
Campfire Stories
This thread is for COMPLETED story submissions
Do not RP hereContest Information:
- This is the submission thread, which means that if you are participating in the contest, you will have to submit your campfire story here. Stories that are not posted in this thread will not be seen as a participating story!
- If you RP'd your story over multiple posts, please condense it to a SINGLE post (remove all RP content and submit story ONLY)
- One story per character (all characters from any school can submit)
- Click HERE to join the RP thread
- Godmodding is not allowed unless you have explicit permission from the person you are godmodding! (Which we will check)
- Wordcount: 200+
- Make sure the story is PG-13 content! And if you would have any questions regarding the event or the contest feel free to owl @Judith Cohen.
- Submissions are open until August 28. Submissions after that date will not be seen as a participating story!
Last edited by Judith Cohen on 3 Sep 2022, 14:38, edited 1 time in total.
| Judith's Ency | |Stamina: 6 | Evasion: 6 | Strength: 4 | Wisdom: 8 | Arcane Power: 4 | Accuracy: 8 | |
Part Goblin |
13 Jul 2022, 02:37
Campfire Stories
Erin Ryan, a sixth year and Slytherin was no stranger to the dark or the odd. Known primarily as an eccentric through her earlier years, she was most notable for the incident involving massive slugs that attacked after she spewed them on the lawn.
She would find a seat by the fire, probably alone. She was almost always alone. Friends were ill-appreciated and often short-lived, sometimes not even by her doing. Sometimes they just disappeared. Nobody seemed to notice, nobody seemed to care. She could have disappeared with them and who would have noticed. Considering the limited number of students in her year, few would even know her. Yet she tarried on for reasons she failed to grasp.
She seemed healthy. Long blond tresses pulled back from her face less a few unruly strands that framed her tanned features. She wore a pale blue tank and a pair of capri denim shorts. She was not one for accessories, so she wore none. Not even shoes, her bare feet covered in dirt. She had spent her daytime hours active in the stadium be it exploring or wandering, she was ever anxious being left in one place too long. The only thing odd was the terrycloth towel she had draped over her shoulders as if she had just finished a workout, only she had not been exercising recently only intermittently throughout the day, but she wore the terrycloth like a simple white shawl.
"I guess I will start," she announced as she broke through the NPC chatter and looked into the fire for some inspiration. "We all have them don't we? Those trunks and purses and shopping bags, all a bigger on the inside than they are on the outside. That space, that space that does not exist, that defies the rules and boundaries of nature. That stretches reality within the confines of a feeble confinement space.
We all know the rule -- don't hide in the trunk, don't store your pet in your bag... Yet we do not know why. There was always the unspoken indication that harm would come to us, perhaps there was not enough air... we would be lost amongst the baubles and trinkets, suffocated under a mountain of sweaters that we stuffed inside that terrible chest. It was just to socks and undergarments, not for rivals or that nerd.
But what does happen. What really happens to someone once they are stuffed inside? What happens if they wish to not be found? If they chose to live out their days inside this bedazzled or oaken vessel? Where space and matter is condensed to nothing, or space itself becomes perhaps not infinite but stretched and twisted. With that constant presence of magic bending the reality in which they deign to exist or subsist within?
Well, it has happened before. We all know that kid, the one that ended up spending aa few hours locked in a cramped chest, so scared they shat themselves in the dark while their tormentors laughed. But what of those that did not kick and scream, did not claw their way out of that box the moment light broke the seal? Well, that is when terrible things happen I would think.
When they hide beneath that sweater, behind those forgotten stuffed animals or below those spare linens. There they twist in the dark nothing, the place that is not but somehow is by the virtue of the very magic we often take for granted. I think that they are changed over time into something else, something different from everything that we knew before. That their limbs bow from their unnatural position and become gangly and strange as life was never intended to be supported, not for any period of time in any case. That what made them human and recognizable is washed away, their features a blank canvas over time. That they become lonesome and hunger, that they become somewhat inhuman in their new contorted, gnarled form and in that they become less humane.
So from hovel to hovel the pack man would go, these hovels the trunks and the closets, the drawers and perhaps even our backpacks and handbags. Living in their and then crawling out of the satchel whenever it pleased them, housed now inside the places we deign as safe. From there it slays and it takes from the house who or what it pleases and then crawls back within the confines of the space that is greater within than on the outside. The perfect crime, taken from house to house, neighborhood to school, to hidden clubhouse or private chamber. It kills, it takes, perhaps even drags its prey away into the dark and cruel confines that made it for purposes only it understands."
Just a trick of the lighting they said...
She would find a seat by the fire, probably alone. She was almost always alone. Friends were ill-appreciated and often short-lived, sometimes not even by her doing. Sometimes they just disappeared. Nobody seemed to notice, nobody seemed to care. She could have disappeared with them and who would have noticed. Considering the limited number of students in her year, few would even know her. Yet she tarried on for reasons she failed to grasp.
She seemed healthy. Long blond tresses pulled back from her face less a few unruly strands that framed her tanned features. She wore a pale blue tank and a pair of capri denim shorts. She was not one for accessories, so she wore none. Not even shoes, her bare feet covered in dirt. She had spent her daytime hours active in the stadium be it exploring or wandering, she was ever anxious being left in one place too long. The only thing odd was the terrycloth towel she had draped over her shoulders as if she had just finished a workout, only she had not been exercising recently only intermittently throughout the day, but she wore the terrycloth like a simple white shawl.
"I guess I will start," she announced as she broke through the NPC chatter and looked into the fire for some inspiration. "We all have them don't we? Those trunks and purses and shopping bags, all a bigger on the inside than they are on the outside. That space, that space that does not exist, that defies the rules and boundaries of nature. That stretches reality within the confines of a feeble confinement space.
We all know the rule -- don't hide in the trunk, don't store your pet in your bag... Yet we do not know why. There was always the unspoken indication that harm would come to us, perhaps there was not enough air... we would be lost amongst the baubles and trinkets, suffocated under a mountain of sweaters that we stuffed inside that terrible chest. It was just to socks and undergarments, not for rivals or that nerd.
But what does happen. What really happens to someone once they are stuffed inside? What happens if they wish to not be found? If they chose to live out their days inside this bedazzled or oaken vessel? Where space and matter is condensed to nothing, or space itself becomes perhaps not infinite but stretched and twisted. With that constant presence of magic bending the reality in which they deign to exist or subsist within?
Well, it has happened before. We all know that kid, the one that ended up spending aa few hours locked in a cramped chest, so scared they shat themselves in the dark while their tormentors laughed. But what of those that did not kick and scream, did not claw their way out of that box the moment light broke the seal? Well, that is when terrible things happen I would think.
When they hide beneath that sweater, behind those forgotten stuffed animals or below those spare linens. There they twist in the dark nothing, the place that is not but somehow is by the virtue of the very magic we often take for granted. I think that they are changed over time into something else, something different from everything that we knew before. That their limbs bow from their unnatural position and become gangly and strange as life was never intended to be supported, not for any period of time in any case. That what made them human and recognizable is washed away, their features a blank canvas over time. That they become lonesome and hunger, that they become somewhat inhuman in their new contorted, gnarled form and in that they become less humane.
So from hovel to hovel the pack man would go, these hovels the trunks and the closets, the drawers and perhaps even our backpacks and handbags. Living in their and then crawling out of the satchel whenever it pleased them, housed now inside the places we deign as safe. From there it slays and it takes from the house who or what it pleases and then crawls back within the confines of the space that is greater within than on the outside. The perfect crime, taken from house to house, neighborhood to school, to hidden clubhouse or private chamber. It kills, it takes, perhaps even drags its prey away into the dark and cruel confines that made it for purposes only it understands."
Just a trick of the lighting they said...
17 Jul 2022, 01:28
Campfire Stories
Word count: 703
Under the great Pyrenees mountains, in the south of France, there is a cave that is impossible to find unless you are not looking for it, but you are looking to fill a certain hole in your heart. If you can find the entrance, the winding tunnels will lead you to a beautiful meadow... or death, for the tunnels are deep and dark and full of miasma and if one loses their way, they will never find their way back.
If one does find their way, they will come to a vast cave, surely too big to walk around in a day. At the top of the cave, hundreds of feet up, is a large hole the leads to the sky. Impossibly, it can't logically come out at the top of the mountain, because there is no hole on that side, but there it is with the sun and moon moving in a perfect equator from one side of the hole to the other.
Directly under that hole is a lake of equal size. The lake is perfectly circular and filled with shining blue water. Then a wide meadow, in a perfect ring around the circle, and finally, forest reaching to the cave walls. It would seem almost impossible for such natural perfection to be hiding in the middle of the mountain, but here it sits, right in front of your eyes.
During the day, the cavern is filled with blue morpho butterflies and no other wildlife. There is no twittering of birds, no skittering of chipmunks, or hopping of rabbits through the brush. No foxes or wolves or fish. Everything is still and silent and serene.
Then the night comes and as the butterflies settle into the meadow grass, lazily finding flowers to sleep in, les dames blanches awake. The white women.
The white women are called such because they are, well, white. They are ghosts of revenge and pain with long white hair, pale-see through skin, and long white robes that flutter behind them like bridal trains. If you can catch a glimpse of their white eyes, they are simply that. White orbs that stare into your soul like carved marble.
The white women are an old old kind of creature. Back to the beginning of time, the white women were made anywhere that women suffered. When women were murdered in war, or when their husbands found no more need of them, or when their true loves found another, or when their children were taken from them far too early, a white woman was made from her soul to take revenge. Some of them found revenge by stalking bridges and drowning unsuspecting men in their rivers. Some of them found revenge by silently suffocating men they deemed unworthy in their sleep. Some of them found revenge by leading men off cliffs or into the depths of the sea with their beauty. After a good long while, the stories of the white women piled up and people began to hunt them. Anywhere a white woman cropped up, she would soon be over-run by a mob and so, their numbers dwindled.
Some of the later white women realized that revenge for their pain would not ease it, only the love that they had lost would, and so they sought to live peacefully away from their pain. They created this cave and made it their home. This perfect, serene place of quiet majesty.
Here, they could live out the rest of their days away from anyone who would do them harm and every once in a while, a unsuspecting traveler comes by and finds them. Some soul looking for love or healing from their own pain in their heart. Sometimes, that traveler will wake up outside the cave with a baby and they will turn around and the cave is mysteriously gone, never to be found again. The baby is always a girl and always dark haired and dark eyed, but will change it's features to match the traveler's in a month or so. The gift of the white women is hope. Hope that this time around, she will not be harmed, and the she will grow and thrive with a loving new family.
Under the great Pyrenees mountains, in the south of France, there is a cave that is impossible to find unless you are not looking for it, but you are looking to fill a certain hole in your heart. If you can find the entrance, the winding tunnels will lead you to a beautiful meadow... or death, for the tunnels are deep and dark and full of miasma and if one loses their way, they will never find their way back.
If one does find their way, they will come to a vast cave, surely too big to walk around in a day. At the top of the cave, hundreds of feet up, is a large hole the leads to the sky. Impossibly, it can't logically come out at the top of the mountain, because there is no hole on that side, but there it is with the sun and moon moving in a perfect equator from one side of the hole to the other.
Directly under that hole is a lake of equal size. The lake is perfectly circular and filled with shining blue water. Then a wide meadow, in a perfect ring around the circle, and finally, forest reaching to the cave walls. It would seem almost impossible for such natural perfection to be hiding in the middle of the mountain, but here it sits, right in front of your eyes.
During the day, the cavern is filled with blue morpho butterflies and no other wildlife. There is no twittering of birds, no skittering of chipmunks, or hopping of rabbits through the brush. No foxes or wolves or fish. Everything is still and silent and serene.
Then the night comes and as the butterflies settle into the meadow grass, lazily finding flowers to sleep in, les dames blanches awake. The white women.
The white women are called such because they are, well, white. They are ghosts of revenge and pain with long white hair, pale-see through skin, and long white robes that flutter behind them like bridal trains. If you can catch a glimpse of their white eyes, they are simply that. White orbs that stare into your soul like carved marble.
The white women are an old old kind of creature. Back to the beginning of time, the white women were made anywhere that women suffered. When women were murdered in war, or when their husbands found no more need of them, or when their true loves found another, or when their children were taken from them far too early, a white woman was made from her soul to take revenge. Some of them found revenge by stalking bridges and drowning unsuspecting men in their rivers. Some of them found revenge by silently suffocating men they deemed unworthy in their sleep. Some of them found revenge by leading men off cliffs or into the depths of the sea with their beauty. After a good long while, the stories of the white women piled up and people began to hunt them. Anywhere a white woman cropped up, she would soon be over-run by a mob and so, their numbers dwindled.
Some of the later white women realized that revenge for their pain would not ease it, only the love that they had lost would, and so they sought to live peacefully away from their pain. They created this cave and made it their home. This perfect, serene place of quiet majesty.
Here, they could live out the rest of their days away from anyone who would do them harm and every once in a while, a unsuspecting traveler comes by and finds them. Some soul looking for love or healing from their own pain in their heart. Sometimes, that traveler will wake up outside the cave with a baby and they will turn around and the cave is mysteriously gone, never to be found again. The baby is always a girl and always dark haired and dark eyed, but will change it's features to match the traveler's in a month or so. The gift of the white women is hope. Hope that this time around, she will not be harmed, and the she will grow and thrive with a loving new family.
Fearless | Calming Presence | E.L. | Prodigal Transfiguration
ST: 9 | EV: 9 | STR: 3 | WI: 8 | ARC: 9 | ACC: 11
Caretaker: A. P. Finch | iNPC: Yasha V.
ST: 9 | EV: 9 | STR: 3 | WI: 8 | ARC: 9 | ACC: 11
Caretaker: A. P. Finch | iNPC: Yasha V.
20 Jul 2022, 22:09
Campfire Stories
Legand tells of a group.... A group of eight fair and brave warriors who traveled the land to prove themselves and destroy those who doubt them.
The group call the land of the north home. Where it snows every winter and stays bitter year out... the weather doesn't bother them but fuels them! Often calling to them, the cold is where they hone their strength and skills. The isolation is where they become better than the rest.
For, their stories are known by all in nearly every land. Word traveled by admirers or the jealous. Looking to see the eight in action, with their own eyes or be the ones that could claim they defeated the undefeated.
For the group operates under the kinship of a powerful and fearless ruler. One of ruthless and ambitious. One who doesn't take lightly to laziness or loss. One who only wins, who has mountains of gold and whispers of his greatness. Of his power. King Yef- uh... King Yeffem! Yes! The powerful and awesome King Yeffem with his Mikotaur! Half beast and half man!
The group is made of remarkable warriors, each accomplished in their own way... a shame that each of their stories can't be shared tonight for they burn brightly in the stars above but! Here are some of them...
The leader of the eight, the white stallion with a heart of gold. They say his reflexes is that of myth, the speed of lighting. Striking upon it's opponents without a hint before. Reflexes that pair with impeccable eyesight, able to see for miles. Warns his team of the dangers ahead to prepare them for a fight- to prepare them to win! The white stallion never far from his group, always near to watch over yet far enough to strike upon those who cross them. The warrior of heart.
The white stallion has a close... perhaps closer than friends sidekick in the group. The scarf warrior, following the stallion with blue eyes and the scars of a feline. Always ready to aid his white brother. Ready to protect those in the group. Ready to fight for another. The warrior of loyalty.
The next... is quite hard to see. One would need to kneel and move around the others to see this warrior. The shortest yet angerest of the group. Always ready to finish a fight or jump on the back of someone. This warrior might be short but shouldn't be cross with... the dwarf warrior.
The dwarf warrior often finds themselves in larger feats then they can manage. They swing before they can think. Bite off more than they can chew. Because of this, the dwarf warrior often travels with their energetic and popular wizard friend. The circus wizard. The edgy and fun pixie cut with the mind and muscles, always there to aid the others. Often getting the warrior dwarf out of trouble. One who doesn't need a group, for she has all she needs within herself but has multiple groups she can count on if she needs them.
The eldest warrior. The wisest. Often offering advice, words to the others to aid them in their travels. In their victories. Flaunting off the newest and best gear around, always winning in style. The stylish and wisest of the group, seeks to grow his wealth but also the wealth of his group. Always keeping a eye out for the other warriors, sticking out a hand if needed. The warrior of wisdom.
The warrior of wisdom doesn't go alone. Their hardly ever alone actually. For they travel aside their little sister, a valkyrie in spirit. A girl who looks to prove herself worthy of fighting along side the boys. A true warrior who learned all she knew, even some more from her elder brother. The warrior of wisdom. The girl, the little sister who looks to make a name for herself. Perhaps next summer, she'll to have a warrior title but now she is known as the little sister.
The next warrior. One with the brightest blonde hair and bluest eyes that the world has ever seen. A dark horse. The loner who keeps to himself, starting the drama within the group and the first on the lines to protect the group. With hair that falls perfectly and extreme strength. For there are few who can overpower this warrior, often leading with his muscles and naturally good looks. The warrior of strength.
For the warrior of strength doesn't travel alone, either. For he has a little sister himself. One with fire redhead and a heart of an soldier. One of power and beauty. One of bubbling strength and enclosing darkness. One that could find a warrior name herself soon to, if only she came from the north like her elder brother did. The distance between... so far it feels sometimes.
The next... one of darkness- the time. It feels like this story is nearing a end. A shame I couldn't explain the feats of the other warriors. The warrior of style. The warrior of power. And the warrior of calmness. The final three, completing the unbeatable eight.
For those who face them shall only find defeat... but if your the unlucky choosen to face the warrior eight then some advice. For, don't look in their eyes. They say the eyes hold the fear... the soul.... the story... you'll know their story but they'll know your fears.
"There's no such thing as strange creatures, only blinked people" - Newt Scamander
The group call the land of the north home. Where it snows every winter and stays bitter year out... the weather doesn't bother them but fuels them! Often calling to them, the cold is where they hone their strength and skills. The isolation is where they become better than the rest.
For, their stories are known by all in nearly every land. Word traveled by admirers or the jealous. Looking to see the eight in action, with their own eyes or be the ones that could claim they defeated the undefeated.
For the group operates under the kinship of a powerful and fearless ruler. One of ruthless and ambitious. One who doesn't take lightly to laziness or loss. One who only wins, who has mountains of gold and whispers of his greatness. Of his power. King Yef- uh... King Yeffem! Yes! The powerful and awesome King Yeffem with his Mikotaur! Half beast and half man!
The group is made of remarkable warriors, each accomplished in their own way... a shame that each of their stories can't be shared tonight for they burn brightly in the stars above but! Here are some of them...
The leader of the eight, the white stallion with a heart of gold. They say his reflexes is that of myth, the speed of lighting. Striking upon it's opponents without a hint before. Reflexes that pair with impeccable eyesight, able to see for miles. Warns his team of the dangers ahead to prepare them for a fight- to prepare them to win! The white stallion never far from his group, always near to watch over yet far enough to strike upon those who cross them. The warrior of heart.
The white stallion has a close... perhaps closer than friends sidekick in the group. The scarf warrior, following the stallion with blue eyes and the scars of a feline. Always ready to aid his white brother. Ready to protect those in the group. Ready to fight for another. The warrior of loyalty.
The next... is quite hard to see. One would need to kneel and move around the others to see this warrior. The shortest yet angerest of the group. Always ready to finish a fight or jump on the back of someone. This warrior might be short but shouldn't be cross with... the dwarf warrior.
The dwarf warrior often finds themselves in larger feats then they can manage. They swing before they can think. Bite off more than they can chew. Because of this, the dwarf warrior often travels with their energetic and popular wizard friend. The circus wizard. The edgy and fun pixie cut with the mind and muscles, always there to aid the others. Often getting the warrior dwarf out of trouble. One who doesn't need a group, for she has all she needs within herself but has multiple groups she can count on if she needs them.
The eldest warrior. The wisest. Often offering advice, words to the others to aid them in their travels. In their victories. Flaunting off the newest and best gear around, always winning in style. The stylish and wisest of the group, seeks to grow his wealth but also the wealth of his group. Always keeping a eye out for the other warriors, sticking out a hand if needed. The warrior of wisdom.
The warrior of wisdom doesn't go alone. Their hardly ever alone actually. For they travel aside their little sister, a valkyrie in spirit. A girl who looks to prove herself worthy of fighting along side the boys. A true warrior who learned all she knew, even some more from her elder brother. The warrior of wisdom. The girl, the little sister who looks to make a name for herself. Perhaps next summer, she'll to have a warrior title but now she is known as the little sister.
The next warrior. One with the brightest blonde hair and bluest eyes that the world has ever seen. A dark horse. The loner who keeps to himself, starting the drama within the group and the first on the lines to protect the group. With hair that falls perfectly and extreme strength. For there are few who can overpower this warrior, often leading with his muscles and naturally good looks. The warrior of strength.
For the warrior of strength doesn't travel alone, either. For he has a little sister himself. One with fire redhead and a heart of an soldier. One of power and beauty. One of bubbling strength and enclosing darkness. One that could find a warrior name herself soon to, if only she came from the north like her elder brother did. The distance between... so far it feels sometimes.
The next... one of darkness- the time. It feels like this story is nearing a end. A shame I couldn't explain the feats of the other warriors. The warrior of style. The warrior of power. And the warrior of calmness. The final three, completing the unbeatable eight.
For those who face them shall only find defeat... but if your the unlucky choosen to face the warrior eight then some advice. For, don't look in their eyes. They say the eyes hold the fear... the soul.... the story... you'll know their story but they'll know your fears.
Wordcount: 904
"There's no such thing as strange creatures, only blinked people" - Newt Scamander
26 Jul 2022, 06:23
Campfire Stories
What does a leaf see when it falls from a tree...?
It dances back and forth in the air, maybe. Carried about by wind or fancy or fortune. Aimlessly in control. At the mercy of a breeze and defiant of things that would get in its way...
Do you think it hurts to fall from its stem? To break away from the only home it had until then? Does it fall with acorns? With other leaves on a branch? Or is it only itself, destined to make the journey by its lonesome?
Can you really guess where it lands, though? What it did to reach the place it fell to? Did it have other leaves with it on a branch? Acorns to defend? Ants that crawled on it? Is it full of holes or is it waxy and fresh?
When it falls, it may land feet away or miles away. The sky above and below, the earth a fantasy. Does it know what a cloud feels like? How much does it play with travelling birds and morning dew? Flutter and fall, then catch and fly once more. Scraping the ground, then cleverly dodging it once more.
But eventually it stops dancing, too tired to carry on. The grass catches it, ensnares it for its own desires. No matter the wind, the leaf, the whimsy or place... It falls to the ground and will stay there. Alone, often times. Sometimes, if lucky, with other leaves. Occasionally with an acorn, maybe. And maybe the acorn grows from it. Maybe it doesn't.
A beautiful flight, an experience of a lifetime indeed. Sights, sounds, experiences, winds, currents, eddies, sensations. It only gets to experience these once before its inevitable destruction. Sometimes it rots, trapped underfoot. Sometimes it is torn to shreds. Sometimes it is eaten or else washed away.
And sometimes, it burns to nothingness.
But then again; what is one leaf burning to ash when compared to an entire arboreal forest bearing thousands of perfect others? All of them are ready to take flight one day and do the same as their fellows. To live once and then pass as quickly as they thrived.
Replaceable.
Every single one.
Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight
It dances back and forth in the air, maybe. Carried about by wind or fancy or fortune. Aimlessly in control. At the mercy of a breeze and defiant of things that would get in its way...
Do you think it hurts to fall from its stem? To break away from the only home it had until then? Does it fall with acorns? With other leaves on a branch? Or is it only itself, destined to make the journey by its lonesome?
Can you really guess where it lands, though? What it did to reach the place it fell to? Did it have other leaves with it on a branch? Acorns to defend? Ants that crawled on it? Is it full of holes or is it waxy and fresh?
When it falls, it may land feet away or miles away. The sky above and below, the earth a fantasy. Does it know what a cloud feels like? How much does it play with travelling birds and morning dew? Flutter and fall, then catch and fly once more. Scraping the ground, then cleverly dodging it once more.
But eventually it stops dancing, too tired to carry on. The grass catches it, ensnares it for its own desires. No matter the wind, the leaf, the whimsy or place... It falls to the ground and will stay there. Alone, often times. Sometimes, if lucky, with other leaves. Occasionally with an acorn, maybe. And maybe the acorn grows from it. Maybe it doesn't.
A beautiful flight, an experience of a lifetime indeed. Sights, sounds, experiences, winds, currents, eddies, sensations. It only gets to experience these once before its inevitable destruction. Sometimes it rots, trapped underfoot. Sometimes it is torn to shreds. Sometimes it is eaten or else washed away.
And sometimes, it burns to nothingness.
But then again; what is one leaf burning to ash when compared to an entire arboreal forest bearing thousands of perfect others? All of them are ready to take flight one day and do the same as their fellows. To live once and then pass as quickly as they thrived.
Replaceable.
Every single one.
Jesters do oft prove prophets. 𓀚
I am the brother account to Romeo Marchonné & Zyva Hel Fae Skógrwight
12 Aug 2022, 01:40
Campfire Stories
“Very well. I will tell you the most frightening legend of my people. In another land, a silvery beast named ‘the colddrake’ stalks the wilderness. In this land lived a king, but his country was at war. His people begged for him to do something to end the war, so one day the king followed the words of an even more ancient legend. This led him onto a glacial peak where he made a deal with a colddrake in order to help his people.
The colddrake is a predator who hunts its prey, often humans, by luring them on with its hypnotizing amethyst eyes and consuming not only their bodies, but also their souls. Without eating, the colddrake will grow small and weak, but the more it eats, the more voracious its hunger, and the bigger and stronger the monster grows. This is why legends warn to never approach a colddrake, as its eyes can lock on from very, very far away. By the time the victim is enticed so close that its long claws can sink in, there is no escape. The legend says that looking into the colddrake’s eyes is the coldest experience one can ever have, but almost never does someone survive to tell such a tale.
Now, when the king met his colddrake on the glacier, the beast was intrigued by the man’s bravery and why he would purposefully seek her out. The drake’s amethyst eyes locked onto the king’s and pulled out his story from his mind. The king wanted to offer his wartime enemies to the beast in exchange for a peace alliance with her horde, and so the colddrake spared him. Together they returned to the kingdom, and at his command the beast began to entrance the enemies of the land, even going into the battlefield to gorge itself on the bodies and souls of warriors who could not escape the seduction of its eyes. As such, with every day the beast grew larger, stronger, hungrier. With time, the enemy forces dwindled and it seemed that a peace accord might be on the horizon, but the king’s advisors grew worried. Their plan was to keep the colddrake from consuming them, too, with the treaty promising their soldiers would not attack the colddrake homeland so long as they were allies. However, the advisors did not like the way the king had come to accept the colddrake as a natural extension of himself. They whispered to each other that he was the victim of the beast’s mind control, but they could not easily go against the king. After all, the king was loved all across the land, both for his own virtues and because he was winning the war and bringing peace to his people, as they had begged him to do.
Mysteriously, the proposal to end the war never came. After their foreign enemies were annihilated, the king then welcomed the colddrake to feast upon the land’s domestic threats. The now-gigantic beast gladly took on ridding the land of its murderers, rapists, and other hard criminals. As the advisors feared the colddrake had grown too powerful, many of them were eager to placate the beast’s seemingly insatiable hunger this way. However, one advisor was haunted by the possibility of the drake next turning upon the good citizens of the realm… so she decided that the beast must die. This brave soul went, loyally, to the beloved king to demand a battalion to finally slay the beast in order to safeguard the kingdom. No one knows if it was the king’s loyalty to the treaty, or that his mind was being read and controlled by the colddrake, but the king became furious and brought the colddrake down upon her. More and more rumors and discontent began to circulate until, one by one, the king had the colddrake consume anyone who questioned him.
As the king and the colddrake grew practically unstoppable from the power of all the consumed people, a hush fell over the land. No one dared to go against them anymore, and so the king successfully brought peace to realm. Some say the colddrake fell in love with the king– she always held true to the treaty, never bringing harm upon those loyal to them, even when she grew thinner and weaker. Legend has it that when the king passed away, his son took on the old pact with the colddrake and waged a new war with other defiant neighbors, eventually growing the land into a great empire that few dared to oppose.”