The light fell. Only the occasional bark or crackling of fire pierced the soundless air. All was still. As if all activity had ceased in anticipation of the dawny, low-hanging sun’s return. Along the pathways, trees stalked. Stared him in the eyes and followed him about until he’d reach the river bank. The calm waves flowed, moon-polished. He stooped down and lowered his craning neck to the surface and took in little, humble sips. The water was salty but would have to do. A few more sips and he got up and carried on, walking alongside the tranquil tide like a stray dog too quickly attached. He could hear distant bellows, roars and chirps. And by then it was pitch black. The air, the sky and the land were waded in darkness. The man relied now more on his other senses than his sight $. Cold. Cold to bite your ears and toes off. Cold to wilt your flesh away. Freezing air swept up under his torn t-shirt and stroked his goosebumps. It had been a little over a month that he’d been living like this. Half-starved and half-frozen. Walking, running and resting with no set destination in mind. He was the land’s captive. A soon-to-die nomad, unsure if he’d get the chance to ever feel the sun's warmth again. If Mary never ran away, none of this would have happened. None of it. A dull pain was building up in his legs after a day consisting of mainly moving from wasteland to other barren wasteland. Each scenery was as bleak as the next. He rattled his water flask and heard the last few drops of water bounce off the interior walls. If only humans could drink tears, he’d have a flaskful by now. Tears spilt over his current situation, the image of Nathan, his son, dying in his arms. Blood, so much of it. Dripping from his lifeless body, slowly sending him to his death. Banishing him to the soil. There was no time for a proper burial, he had to be thrown under mud, two sticks planted in the ground, forming an X to mark the burial site. To warn the future survivors, if any, that yet another person had died here. More than one tear hit his coldly pale skin and rolled off the edges of his jaw down to the floor. He carried on in the night’s dark, clutching at his rumbling stomach. The last time he’d eaten, he gouged on some shrivelled, rather misshapen peaches that he’d found in that town beside the train tracks. The town where doom hung in the air, where catastrophe should’ve been marked somewhere on its eroded “welcome to” sign. It was there he ran into the pack of klepto-dermists. They were a savage, uncivilised group of people who, in big thanks to the apocalypse, won the scramble for state territory after the government fled the country when it all started. Those savages loot, kill and rape their way across the US. They are well known for their methods of murder. They skin their victims and use the flaps of flesh they collect as trophies. When he was back in Colorado, in some tucked away town, its buildings charcoal-coloured and the air dominated by smoky ash, he saw what they’d done, what they were capable of. Lifeless bodies in the streets looked as though they deserved to be hung up by the toes in some butchers. To be sold and then cooked like pork or beef. Tendons and muscles scintillating in the frail light of the afternoon.

In the doom-stung town, the group approached him from behind. He hadn’t any time to turn around before he felt the cold metal of a pistol digging into his skull. Without saying a word, he removed his dusty bandana and raised his hands in the air slowly. He had been caught. Fair fucking play, he thought. Death would have to catch up to him at some point, his new way of life just wasn’t sustainable.

-“Martin, look what I got here. Another one! This one’s got supplies.”, one called out across the street.

Footsteps approached. It was over.

-“Oh hello there! He’s got more than just supplies, he’s got some meat on em’. Wouldn’t mind a barbecue tonight.”

He felt a pair of stained hands squeeze his biceps. Supposedly Martin’s hands. Unwashed hands, sinful hands.

The first man spoke;

-“What’s your name? Tell us your name.”

He remained silent. A fist came swinging to his face, blinding him shortly. Blood came gushing down from his nose.

-“That’ll make you talk, you bastard. The silent game won’t save you now.”

-“Sam, Sam Chauvin…”

-“Ah a Sam. We’ve got a Sam. Isaac, where's Sam? Go find him, he’ll want to meet the pig we have here.”

Martin let go of his biceps and walked in front of him. For the first time, he could catch a glimpse of one of them. Coltish and wide-legged creatures, that looked not like the inhabitants of earth but yet were. They wore minimal clothing if at all, and their chests stood bare in the sun. Lanky, towering and frog-like people in their appearance. The sun seared their skins varying tones of reddish pink and they had tattoos, or more like splatters of colour running down parts of their bodies. As if they had asked a baby or rather an abstract painter to give them tattoos. Their skin wrapped tight around their deformed, bloated skulls. Technologically-advanced goggles covered their eyes and contributed even more to their already alien-looking appearance.

-“Tell us, did you come here alone?”

-“Yes.”

-“No one followed you?”

-“No.”

-“You gave up pretty easy, just flailed your arms in the air when you saw us walking by. You knew not to mess with us, you’re one of the smart ones. You understand that there is no point hiding and there is no point running, you’ll only delay the inevitable.”

So I put up a poem a bit ago and you people have given great pointers out... So I fixed it the best I can, the poem is a little different, but I tried... U/Ie_bwah please feel free to give your opinion again!! Here's the edit...

The Eternal Winter's icy grip, Has held the world for three thousand trips.

A barren wasteland, a frozen hell, Where pain and agony forever dwell.

Hail fire rains down from the sky, Despondency reigns and hope is dry.

Complacency rules, for what is there to do, When the world is dead and the sky is blue.

I am lost, with no trace of yearning, No one knows, my heart is burning.

I am gone, I am death, But I must carry on, with every last breath.

All my fears, all my tears, Tell my heart there's a hole, and it sears.

I wear a void, of fear and pain, War and genocide, forever stain.

Evil reigns, and death is all around, Not even breath can be found.

To cease the darkness killing me, A tragedy, that no one can see.

The world is trapped, in eternal frost, And all hope is forever lost.

But there's one who can save us from this plight, And bring back warmth and endless light.

We must hold on, through the sorrow and strain, For life, love, and hope to reign.

And though the winter may never end, We'll fight until the bitter end.

So this is a book I've been working on as a side project to my other books... It's based in my superhero universe on the planet Terragyn... This is the second part to chapter 1... Give your honest feedback, I can take it...

Zorr-EL is by far the wisest and most knowledgeable person in the universe, she's around 24,600 years old. She is the smartest Centurian to ever exist and has knowledge that spans for over 20 millennia, she has memorized all 679,465,923,512,094 books (and counting) in the Library of the Centurians. She knows more about this universe than OUR own scientists, she has wisdom as vast as a black hole is deep. Every week over 15,740 new books flood in to the library, to in which she reads; she can read 1,200 words per minute and has excellent edetic memory. Edetic memory is controlled primarily by the posterior parietal cortex of the parietal lobe of the brain. This is the part of the brain through which visual stimuli are processed, and images retained. Zorr-EL also has hyperthymesia syndrome, which is like an enhanced version of photographic memory. Now, Draco has some ability to be a knowledgeable person, but most of her wisdom comes from experience and not books, this is why Draco is a better ruler and Zorr-EL wouldn't be able to take her place. Since Zorr-EL relies solely on what the books say and not what experience says. For this, Draco is technically smarter than her, but does not contain the ability to retain vast knowledge like Zorr-EL can. Zorr-EL is the official teacher of the school of Fireborne and the personal teacher for Dan-AL. Of course Dan-AL does not like her know it all attitude, he doesn't mind her teaching. Zorr-EL tries to make it fun for him, but where she's smart in knowledge and wisdom, she lacks in fun and humor. Dan-AL sat quietly in his seat, Zorr-EL wrote on the blackboard. The chalk squeaked as it rubbed against the porcelain enamelled steel. Zorr-EL turned to the class. "Today we are going to learn about, other planets and THEIR life!" Zorr-EL said to the class. "Now, first we're going to learn about Earth and it's people..." A student raised her hand. "Yes Marcella?" "Why do we always talk about Earth? They're not that interesting..." The girl said. Zorr-EL smiled. "Well, they may not be interesting, but they are our allies..." "Draco has good friends on Earth, and it's a nice planet with wonderful life..." Zorr-EL opened a book up. "Now turn your pages to 365 and I'll read with you..." The class turned their pages. "Today we'll be learning of the great war that happened in their year 2030..." "Now, when the team known as The Defenders of Earth we're created, they protected their leading city, known as 'Seattle' from a creature known as 'Megasaur'..." "When they did this the people of their planet accepted them as the official protectors of the World, hence the name 'Defenders of Earth'..." "Later on more enhanced people began to come out of hiding, why is that?" A boy raised his hand. "Firgus?" "The stones of enhancement began getting found by them..." He said. Zorr-EL nodded. "Yes..." "Later on, more enhanced people began to appear and the Defenders of Earth had a harder time to keep them under control..." "Soon after the Lizardians came to Earth to destroy it..." A boy raised his hand. "Yes, Herald?" "Are there any more Lizardians left?" He asked Zorr-EL sat down on her desk. "Well yes, of course there are..." "But they aren't going to attack Earth again..." "Especially since your Queen is protecting it!" The kids chuckled. "Also, the Defenders of Space protect Earth as well..." "Why?" a kid asked. "I believe it is because Earth is a rich planet with perfect weather and perfect temperatures... So a lot of evil beings out there want to rule over the World.." "Earth is full of water and life, it has rare elements you can't find out here, and it is just a beautiful planet..." "The people of that World are lucky to have it!" Dan-AL sighed, this was boring, why bother talk about a planet who can't even protect itself from silly Lizardians? Zorr-EL walked around the class. "Now can anyone tell me when the Defenders of Earth we're founded?" "Why?" Dan-AL asked. "Excuse me?" Zorr-EL questioned. "Well, what have the people of Earth done for us?" "And why bother talk about them, they don't even live as long as we do... Seems a little useless..." Zorr-EL walked over to Dan-AL's desk. "Life isn't about how LONG you live, it's about how you live it..." She said. Dan-AL sighed. "Why don't we just learn about OUR people?" He asked. Zorr-EL walked over to the front of the class. "The people of this planet is learnt enough, the people of Earth are far from knowledge..." Dan-AL sighed again...

Pt 2 coming soon...

If I could proceed without killing, I would do so. However, the four swordsmen who stood before me didn't look like they would allow me a leave with just a strike or two.

Just as I did, they all carried swords, if not, of higher quality and larger builds. They also wore armor unlike me. They were of different builds and heights, but I could make out the leader from among them quite easily. He stood behind the three others with a confident smile and his arms crossed. He most likely didn't see me as a threat.

The three before me stood with readied stances and faced me with eyes of earnestness. Locating their leader from this bunch was an easy task, no doubt.

The first to engage me was the swordsman who stood at the forefront. He lunged at me, swinging his blade. I sidestepped out of the way, avoiding his strike quite easily. Waiting for me was another strike from a second swordsman. He was agile judging by how fast he managed to make it to my right. He may have been as fast as me. His strike was coming down on me, so I twisted in an unnatural manner and leapt out of their striking zone.

It would be more effective to strike down the second swordsman seeing as his speed seems to be the heart of their strategy. That is, their strategy of caging me in their strikes and forcing a strike in; a standard in bouts like this with an uneven amount of fighters.

However, that was the obvious move here. They might be expecting me to do so. I won't do it. Instead, I will hunt the first one.

They didn't give me a whole lot of time to think. Hot on the pursuit, they swung their blades wildly, their footwork flawless and their swings calculated. Their skills were very clear by their fighting style, and it was obvious I wasn't against amateurs.

Their strikes forced me to dodge them or block them with my blade. I continued doing this for a while, not giving my intentions away with my eyes or movements. And now, the third swordsman was also on me, striking with precision and control. I was against three on my own with little options.

It was until the first swordsman swung his blade from above straight down towards me. If it landed, it would most definitely kill me. My eyes caught on to the swordsman on my right as well. It was the second swordsman, swinging his blade at me. And my eyes also caught on to the swordsman on my left, the third. I was trapped, with nowhere to dodge or maneuver out to. If anything, their teamwork was certainly laudable. To barricade me like this with nowhere to move, it was a sure-fire strategy. However...

In one swift movement, I swooped under the first swordsman's strike, and swung my own sword from below like a bat. My blade struck his neck, his head lopping right off. The lifeless body followed, falling onto its knees, and then onto the ground below, blood spurting out uncontrollably.

The two who were now before me didn't show it on their faces, but I could certainly tell what they were feeling. From how tight they gripped their swords, and their eyes which screamed bloodlust, I could tell they were fuming with anger.

And yet, I couldn't feel an iota of empathy for them or for what was lying on the ground now.

"What are you two gawking at him for!? Kill him!" their leader ordered from behind.

He himself wasn't involved in any of the combat, yet he still managed to order his subordinates as if he were completely oblivious to what had just occurred. If anything, his unyielding confidence was slightly laudable.

It seemed I wouldn't be getting a break from these things until I killed them all.

The two rushed for me, swinging their blades in unison and in a calculated fashion. I avoided their strikes by sidestepping or by moving backwards, but they were hot on the pursuit. Just like last time, they were trying to corner me and strike me down. Their odds were greater last time, and they failed miserably.

Occasionally, their blades would nearly hit me, so I would have to intercept with my own and block.

Their teamwork was phenomenal to say the least. If they were amateurs, their strikes wouldn't compliment each other to such a high degree. They superseded for each other and covered for each other. They knew exactly where the other would strike from and how.

There were a variety of options at my disposal. The one I choose...

I stopped dead in my tracks. The third swordsman swung his sword at me with good control and posture. I side stepped and dodged, retreating to his left.

The second had begun to swing his sword down, aimed at me. The third swordsman was right in front of me, but he was most obviously expected to move out of the way. Their impeccable teamwork dictated that simply moving out of the way of another's strike was something trivial. That was their normal thought process. Unless...

I low kicked the third, destroying his balance.

CHOP! The second swordsman had swung his blade right into the third swordsman's back.

"W-What...?" The second swordsman was gobsmacked.

What, indeed. It wasn't a card they expected me to play. I knocked the third swordsman off his balance before he could move away from the second swordsman's strike, resulting in the spectacle before me.

"What are you doing!? You hit me!" the third swordsman exclaimed.

"You were supposed to move...! I-I..." The second swordsman then looked at me, "Damn you! You tricked us!"

It was only necessary. If I had killed one, there would be two remaining. However, since I only injured one, I ensured only one remains, their leader. This is because humans are empathetic by nature.

I looked at the second swordsman who was now on his knees, treating the injured third swordsman.

I trusted in the fact that the second wouldn't be able to grapple with the fact he injured his companion and would treat him. In other words, I used his loyalty against him.

Now, will they allow me to go on my way, or will their leader still stand before me.

I looked at him. His face had changed. His confident smile had turned into a frown. His anger was apparent; he was fuming with bloodlust. I wished only to get this over with as fast as possible.

So this is a part of my Almanac for my book Dragons of Fireborne... Tell me if this seems like an Almanac-worthy story and if it's worth making a whole series of... The race known as Centurians are the creators of such books as they are the most intelligent race In the universe... I'll include an image... Here is the Almanac...

Almanac Section:DE Book:1 Vol.1 Page:1

Almanac Section for Death Eaters: A malevolent creature

Introduction: Death Eaters are a unique breed of theropod-like wingless dragons known as Drakes. They are malevolent and feared by everyone due to their aggressive nature and predatory instincts. This section of the almanac will provide crucial information related to Death Eaters.

Scientific name: Mors Comments

Appearance: -Death Eaters are pitch black and have a large body structure. -Males have a colored mark running down their side from their eye to their tail. -They possess a large 2-foot-long sickle claw on the second toe of each foot. -Death Eaters are 48-56 feet tall and 58-65 feet long. -Death Eaters are capable of camouflage.

Feeding Habits: -Death Eaters are hypervores and are in a constant state of starvation. -Their bodies produce a permanent deficiency in caloric energy intake, and they prey on everything, including other dragons. -Death Eaters can smell for dozens of miles and once locked onto a scent, they will stop at nothing to get it, even traveling for hundreds of miles

Breeding and Mating: -Death Eaters breed like wildfire, and females lay up to 100 eggs at a time. -Mating for life, Death Eaters fiercely protect their mates and offspring. -Females are significantly larger than males. -They can reproduce asexually

Life and Death: -Death Eaters can run at speeds up to 80 mph. -Death Eaters are malevolent and highly dangerous. -They live for around 800-1200 years. -When Death Eaters die, their bodies keep producing metabolic fluids that eat away their corpse.

The Death Eaters are among the most feared and dangerous creatures on the planet. They are aggressive, and predatory, and have formed a legendary part of the folklore of many cultures. Avoid them at all costs, as their cannibalistic tendencies and capacity for destruction can put any individual at risk. If you come across one, do not run and do not play dead, they will see it as an opportunity to feast, make as much noise as possible for they are sensitive to loud sounds... They avoid berries because they are poisonous to them, be sure to carry a few at all times...

This is the official poem for my book Dragons of Firebonre... Enjoy!

In the land of snow and ice Where the sun was once so nice There is a winter that never ends For over three thousand years it extends

Agony and tragedy fill every day With hellfire and hailfires scorching our way Despondency and complacency reigns supreme For what use is there to hope in a nightmare dream

I am lost, with no one to know The yearnings that haunt me so There’s no trace of what I once was I’m only a shadow of a loss

I am gone, a deathly ghost With a heart that’s nothing but a frost But I must carry on, face the fear When all I can feel is the emptiness and tears

All my fears and all my tears Only echo in an abyss of fears Tell my heart, there’s a hole too deep Where the only company I keep is grief

The void I wear, like a shroud And all around me is sadness and pain allowed In war, genocide, and evil’s reign Death lingers over us like an eternal bane

Not even breath comes from my hollow bones As the darkness sweeps through like drones To ease the agony and end it all Or let the despair take over and fall

We’re trapped in an eternal tragedy Where the only way out is a mystic prodigy One who can break the chains of the night And bring forth the elusive morning light

Until that day, we’ll carry on In this winter that never sees the dawn Trying to keep hope where everything else dies As we look up to the cold, unfeeling skies

To start one of the big plot twists is that the villan is actually the main character deseased brother

Second, he is also being influenced by a dark force and was manipulated in the past , like palpatine to Vader

Third , he also wears a black mask that hides his deformed face

Forth , he also has dark powers that most characters don't have

Have tou ever got yourself into this ? How do you fix it ?

I'd like to start by letting everyone know that the genre is Fantasy Epic, and that this is a long prologue at 6,414 words. This prologue serves a purpose as it takes care of a lot of my setting and plot setup. It also gives the reader a fair bit of worldbuilding without making it too much of an info dump (talking to you Robert Jordan ;P).

I've had several people beta read this for me and gotten a lot of positive feedback. The prolbem for me is that these were all people I know very well on a personal level. Several have made comparisons to Chronicles of Narnia or Lord of the Rings as far as how well the full book is written. The problem is, friends and family can often have a bias and make things seem better than they really are. So, now I want to do a test run in the real world and see what people who don't know me think. Is it as engaging and compelling as they have made me hope that it is?

I'm basically wanting to take a page from a couple authors I admire and follow the ABC rule for critiquing. Please let me know of any point where you thought it was Awesome, Boring or Confusing. I know prologues aren't everyone's favorite thing, but this has basically been written like a novella for the main story as it foreshadows a lot of things leading all the way into book four.

————————————————————————————

PROLOGUE

ARCHIVE INFINITUM

October 14, 844 (Alt-Future)

"Welcome back to the Archive, Master Jonathan."

"Thank you, Charles. It's good to be back. Have you noticed anything interesting in the Physical Realm?"

"I have not, sir. Do you require any assistance today?"

"Thank you, but no. I'm only here to revisit a passage within the history of the Order. Shortly after, I'll depart for the reunion at the Tower."

"Excellent, sir. I'll leave you to it."

Jonathan emerged from the ether and walked through the Archive doors. Inhaling deeply, he breathed in the familiar scents of dusty cleanliness that can only truly be found in a place of learning. The lights reflected off the floor's white marble surface, casting a glow that evenly lit every corner of the large chamber. Even so, the room still felt cavernous to him, as if he were a galleon amidst the vastness of the ocean.

Jonathan appeared to be in his early to mid forties. Though, with the way he carried himself and the spring in his step, he seemed closer to his late twenties. His hair was shoulder length and dark gray. He wore bifocals though he hadn't needed them since his ascension, and dressed with a refined sense of style.

His gray eyes were by far his most interesting feature, though. They were the only hint of how old he truly was and the many adventures and travesties he'd witnessed. Regardless, how old he was didn't matter as age had long since lost its meaning for him. After all, being an immortal tended to give a man new priorities in life.

As he strolled across the room, a lift descended from the tower's heights. The square platform had waist high rails around its perimeter. It floated through the air showing no sign of a suspension system to raise or lower it. This was accomplished by a magical enchantment that allowed it to levitate and dart about the room at mind numbing speeds. As he stepped up onto the platform's dais, it landed on the floor in front of him. He took a position at its center, then, after folding his arms behind his back, mentally willed it to take him to floor eight hundred forty four.

It rose off the ground, gradually gaining speed until it was a hundred or so feet in the air. At that point, the platform took off like a rocket. The thought of what these speeds would do to him if this were outside the Realm of Intellect crossed his mind, making him chuckle nervously. He knew he had to be moving close to six hundred miles per hour.

Now, let me tell you a bit about Jonathan's pet project, The Archive Infinitum. The Archive is a magical structure he'd designed shortly after the cataclysm that nearly wiped out the human race. An event most of you now refer to as the Night of Burning Skies. That same event is also what gave us the powers we now refer to as magic.

Shortly after obtaining his ascension, he learned that science's multiverse theories were close to how reality really worked. There are an infinite number of parallel universes, or branching timelines, that coexist simultaneously. What was different is that each universe shared a common six realm structure. The Physical Realm, the Realm of Intellect, the Dominion of Shadows, the Plane of Enlightenment, the Land of the Forgotten, and the Ether.

He built the Archive within the Realm of Intellect so it wouldn't be bound by the laws of physics or time as we know them. Once the structure was anchored in place, he could set most of those parameters himself. What he didn't realize was that making it here would have an unintended, though not unwelcome, side effect. The structure's size, shape, and architectural style could change by anyone who entered it.

When someone enters the Archive, it ascertains their strength of mind and will. Suppose the individual's mental fortitude is deemed stronger than that of the other occupants. In that case, the appearance will adjust to one that best serves and appeals to that individual. This could become unsettling for the occupants already inside the first few times it happened. That being said, it has no effect on the contents atop the shelves or where you're located within the structure. For Jonathan, it shared an uncanny resemblance to the George Peabody Library, though on a much grander scale.

The lift stopped after a brief ride, and Jonathan stepped off. He resumed his stride, passing row after row of the cherry wood bookcases. There were hundreds of rows and thousands of tomes and scrolls in each. As a scholar, he'd spent most of his existence here. But, even so, he knew there would always be something more to be gleaned from their pages.

Today was a day of remembrance. Of celebration. Of mourning. It was the anniversary of the end of a war that had lasted ten thousand years. With the death of one individual, a light of hope was given to many. For others, it was a bittersweet victory that left a void in their hearts. He'd come here today to revisit a passage that would return him to that fateful day. Reliving the event which granted them this peace, and once again, paying his respects to a dear friend.

"Ah, yes, yes, yes. Here we go."

The plaque on the side of the bookcase read, Row DD, Column 15. Now that he'd found the right one, he began scanning the shelves. It wasn't long before his hand landed on the tome he sought.

"Here it is." He pulled it down from the shelf. "My word. Has it truly been fifteen hundred years since I glanced through these pages?"

Looking at the cover, he chuckled. The combined magic of the Archive and the Realm had created a thin layer of dust. Giving it the feeling of something ancient and lost to time. Raising it to his lips, he blew the dust away, causing the magic to dissipate as it fell to the floor. He pulled open the cover and rifled through the pages. The section he stopped at contained the account of Rexinon the Prophet's final words.

Summoning his divine magics, he channeled a spell into the tome. The words that once filled the passages began to fade away, leaving only the blank pages, which now bled a blueish gray smoke. The soft glow of the lights against the floor diminished as the smoke spread. As the darkness grew more substantial, luminescent spheres and arcs of brilliant blues and crimson could be seen dancing about its surface like lightning.

The ground trembled beneath his feet, and the smokey haze took on a more stormlike appearance. All around him, the air started to feel heavy, and the taste of dust and sea salt filled his mouth. A gentle rain began to fall, and the room's remaining lights winked out. If not for the increasing flashes of lightning, he would've been left in total darkness. But even this was not a comfort, as those flashes cast shadows against the storm's ever swirling walls. Many of which appeared to be dark things that should never be seen in the light.

The storm's intensity grew, bringing disorienting cracks of thunder and wind whipping around him. It assaulted his senses and seemed to have an almost vengeful purpose. That meant he had to constantly focus on the spell, bracing himself against the onslaught. If he failed, it would kill him without question.

Some of the shadows began to take on a physical form with details beyond what the walls could offer them. He watched as an hourglass tumbled end over end, circling him before it returned to the storm. A moment later, a blazing fireplace and mantle emerged but produced neither light nor heat. Finally, a door engraved with the crest of the Order appeared. These images were ones he'd expected to see for this particular passage, and so came as no surprise. However, when a fourth image appeared, he was caught off guard.

Although it was normal for three images to accompany this spell, an occasional fourth spoke of prophecy. He focused intently on this final image. It showed twelve people standing in a circle; one of them was coated in blood. Two others were bound by chains. One a man, the other a woman.

He looked closer at the man and realized it was Godric. His eyes opened wide as he tried to decipher the meaning behind the image. Only a few moments passed while he speculated, but it was a few moments too many. Disaster struck, and too late, he realized his mistake. He'd lost focus, and now the storm would surely take him.

Hurricane force winds and debris tore at his clothes, quickly turning them into rags. One powerful gust slammed into his side as if he'd been struck by a car, knocking him off his feet. The storm swelled with even greater ferocity. It threatened to consume him this time, and he wondered if it would finally cost him.

Rain and hail pelted his face and body, while dust and sand stung his eyes. As he wiped away the grit, a bolt of lightning struck before him, temporarily blinding him. He got to his hands and knees, gasping for breath as the storm continued to beat him relentlessly.

Steeling himself against the pain, he rose to his feet. As fast as he could manage, he began casting mental defenses and barriers to protect his mind from the horrific assault. He bellowed in defiance of the storm, "I will not let it end this way! I refuse!" One defense after another was laid upon his person, until finally, he succeeded. The winds died to a breeze as the rain became little more than a summer misting.

He heard the sound of a quill scratching against paper over the storm's remnants, and the air behind his back grew hot as a crackling fire joined the room's ambiance. The sickly sweet smell of incense filled his nostrils, reminding him of days spent in his master's study. Another fond memory.

The storm wall vanished as the tremors subsided, making the room visible through a misty haze. The light of the fireplace cast his shadow across the now rough cut gray stone floor. Half a dozen tapestries hung around the room, and a liquor cabinet stood at the room's far corner. The main entry door remained closed to his left, and the doorway to the study's balcony lay to his right. At the room's center sat Rexinon at his desk, writing furiously on a piece of parchment.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he breathed a sigh of relief. Although he'd done this countless times, the journey into the pages of history was always filled with peril. But, blessedly, the most intense part of the spell was complete. And while he could now relax in that fact, that fourth image still concerned him.

He stood in the familiar square room, clothing restored to its original state. The evening's air flowed through the open windows, making the ambient temperature quite cozy. Crossing the room, he paused at the desk and listened as Rexinon started muttering. "What I wouldn't give for a typewriter, much less a computer. Would make this so much faster."

Jonathan couldn't help but crack a smile. "Oh, but how many times have I thought the same thing, old friend?" He remarked, though he knew Rexinon couldn't hear him.

He stepped up to the desk and leaned over it. Looking down at the paper Rexinon was writing on, he frowned. Like so many times before, it appeared as little more than black scribbles on a page. Those words had to be important, but there was no way to know.

This was one of the spell's critical weaknesses. The details within the vision were only as precise as what was written in the tome. Most of the books in the Archive were magically transcribed. The benefits of this were completed histories free of victor and writer biases. Although, it wasn't flawless.

Throughout history, there have been individuals or events that the spell couldn't see. The most well known examples of these blips in time were the United States presidency of Franklin D. Roosevelt from 1933 to 1945 and the United Kingdom's Prime Minister, Michael Durham, from 2063 to 2065. All that is known about them was their lives before office and the accounts written by those around them. These gaps in history were generally the result of one of two things. In these two cases, a place or individual with a strong connection to the Dominion of Shadows.

Sighing, he pushed off the desk and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet. He opened the glass doors, pulling several bottles and a glass from the shelves. He made a drink consisting of three parts Red Adders Bite and one part Dry Amorian Blood Wine, then added a lime wedge to the rim of the glass. The others wouldn't arrive for another half hour, leaving him time to kill.

He walked around the room with his drink in hand and studied the various tapestries, several of which he'd been a part of. Each one depicted an accomplishment or tragedy facilitated by the Order. All save one, which showed a scene from the event that started it all.

The one to the left of the cabinet showed the Order's founding. In the background stood a grand tower of black and white marble. Its four sides were engraved with the Mark of Hellyrr, which glowed with a magical light. In front of it stood a man facing a gathered crowd, his arms swept wide in triumph. They looked up at him and the structure with reverence and awe.

He continued to move in a counterclockwise manner around the room. Above the main entry door hung another tapestry. One he was even depicted in. It showed the aftermath of a massacre. Six figures stood amidst the bodies of hundreds. The earth around them was scorched by flame, and the blood of the fallen had stained it red. The cloud covered sky glowed a deep crimson with gold outlines from the fires below. It had come to be known as the Cleansing of Elysian, in which the entirety of the planet's second continent had been annihilated to preserve the world.

"I wish it had never come to this. Why can't we all just get along? Instead of thriving in the prosperity of our two lands, they plotted and began planning to bring war to our own people. To rape, pillage, and enslave them. Even with all my vast knowledge and wisdom, I can't understand why they felt the need to dominate and control the world." He looked back up at the tapestry. "Even now, most of the land is still uninhabitable."

He turned around and looked at the tapestry above the balcony door. This one would appear out of place with the others to all but a few handfuls of people. Even for those who learned the truth behind it, it looked like little more than an artist's vision of what a beautiful landscape at sunset should look like. The sky is dotted with hundreds of stars as shades of red, orange, and yellow dance across the land's horizon. The artist's point of view appears to be looking down from a hillside. Down the hill's slope, you can see a pond teaming with wildlife along its edge. The remaining landscape is filled with miles of forest stretching toward the horizon.

For the few who survived this event and still remained, they knew it depicted the final moments of their world before all of humanity was nearly lost.

Jonathan fixated on this tapestry more than he had on the others. The longer he stared, the more distant his expression grew. Over time, his breathing quickened, and his grip on the glass slipped. It shattered as it hit the floor, causing the rug to stain from the liquid. The sound jerked him out of the trance like state, making him feel ill.

He could still recall the memory of that long ago day like it were yesterday. The thought of how close humanity had come to extinction made his legs weak, and he stumbled back against the wall behind him. He slid down the stones' cool surface and noticed his hands were now trembling. Through shuddering breaths, he uttered the words of a broken man. "So much death. So many lives were lost that day. So many. Oh, Sonia. Even after all this time, I still miss you."

The main entry door slammed open, crashing against the wall with a loud bang. Jonathan jerked as one of them collided mere inches from where he sat. The startling sound had been enough to pull him from his stupor, but it still took a moment for him to gather himself. A man in the doorway lowered his foot from where he'd obviously kicked the unlocked door in.

"Knock, knock, Rex. Seems you've done it now."

"Seth. I'll never understand the animosity you held for Rexinon," Jonathan said wearily as he got to his feet.

Seth stood just shy of five foot eight inches and had slick black hair that he kept combed back. He wore black jeans and a beige dress shirt with mother of pearl buttons, which had seen far too much polish in recent days. A malevolent grin displayed his perfect teeth and careless eyes. He strode into the room, dragging a chair behind him, and placed it on the rug by the fireplace.

"Was kicking the door in really necessary, Seth?"

A second man stepped into the room, obviously annoyed by the unnecessary use of force. He wore a navy blue business suit and towered over everyone else in the room, and that was saying something considering Jonathan was six foot. As he still held to the standards of a marine, he kept his hair high and tight and his face clean shaven. He stood at the rug's edge out of respect for the Order so as not to mar the embroidered Mark of Hellyrr. A respect Seth clearly lacked.

"Godric Gibbs. This day changed you. Hell, it changed all of us, but few as much as you," Jonathan said. He looked back at the door as the third and final man entered. "Assassin."

This man was of a height with Jonathan and wore all black from head to toe. His outfit looked like something out of a TV show. Almost like a cross between Gi Joe's Snake Eyes, and CW Arrow's League of Assassins. After ten thousand years, all they knew about him was his previous occupation as a contract killer. It wasn't long before they'd taken to calling him Assassin, as they had no other name to go by. Any time he was asked a question regarding his past, he either remained silent or dodged it outright. He took a position to Godric's left and, like Godric, took care of where he stood on the rug.

The three men stood in silence and watched as Rexinon continued to write. Godric and Assassin seemed content to wait until he addressed them. On the other hand, Seth seemed to grow more agitated as the minutes passed. Jonathan chuckled in spite of himself.

About twenty minutes later, Rexinon spoke, "Reverend Seth Jones, Colonel Godric Gibbs, and Assassin. To what do I owe the pleasure?" His tone plainly indicated that he already knew.

Seth spoke first. "Oh, cut the crap, Rex. You already know why we're here. This cult thing of yours has gone on long enough."

"Well, there's the pot calling the kettle black," Jonathan muttered sarcastically.

Godric rolled his eyes. Everyone in the room knew about Seth's past as a cult leader. They also knew his anger was more at being forced to wait in silence than anything to do with Rexinon or the Order.

"Calm yourself, Seth. There's no need for such hostilities." Godric looked at Rexinon apologetically. "I'm sorry to have to do this, old friend, but my hands are tied. Rexinon the Prophet, Headmaster of the Hellyrrian Order, you've been charged with conspiracy to overthrow the governments of Aurelia and seize control for the Order.

"As we speak, the leaders of the Hellyrrian Order are being gathered for execution. Furthermore, your towers and all their artifacts will be destroyed, and any remnants of the Order's existence is to be wiped from the face of history. As of 0813 this morning, you have been sentenced to death. How do you plead?"

Rexinon continued to write at an incredible rate. He knew why they'd come. He'd known this was coming for months. After all, his gift was the gift of prophecy. The evidence for the charges against him was both substantial and ethereal, depending on what light was shown on it.

Two centuries ago, the Order had tracked the activities of an unknown number of individuals who'd been subtly manipulating several of the Aurelian governing bodies. They'd spread like a poison, corrupting them and turning once prosperous kingdoms which knew few hardships, into lands where the people had to fight just to survive. The problem was that whoever that force had been, always seemed to be just one step ahead of them. Now, not only was it check, but checkmate. The Order had lost.

"I believe the Righteous Twelve to be ill advised. I believe you've been manipulated by the same corrupted governing body which we've spent so long trying to purify—." Seth grunted. "—But," he said at length, "I accept all charges against me, save one. Neither myself nor anyone else of the Order has ever sought to rule Aurelia, as the charges would imply. The Cleansing of Elysian should've been proof enough to show that to be true."

Rexinon penned the final words of his letter and placed the pen back in its stand. Pulling the top off a jar, he dusted the page with a thin layer of sand to soak up any excess ink. After dumping the sand back into another jar to be cleaned, he pushed away from his desk and stood to look at his guests for the first time. After nudging his stool back under, he addressed Godric directly.

"Will you join me on the balcony one last time?"

Godric nodded his head and gestured towards the balcony doorway. As they stepped outside, Jonathan followed.

Rexinon leaned against the railing and looked out over the city, his gaze fixed on the setting sun. Godric joined him and looked down to the tower's base, some five hundred feet below. Although he was not afraid of heights, it gave him respect for the sturdily mounted railing at the balcony's edge.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Rexinon said. Godric looked at him, confused. "The way the world has turned out since that day? Ten thousand years of watching as civilization was rebuilt and destroyed time and time again by a senseless war. Watching them evolve into something more as they learned how to use these gifts we were given. In some ways, we're greater than we ever were. In other ways, we're inferior. If I have any regrets, it's that I couldn't do more to leave the people better prepared for this new age."

"Well spoken. If it's any consolation, I believe this is wrong. I even spoke out against the council for a different outcome. For my efforts, though, I was threatened with execution if I didn't cease my objections."

Rexinon's tone grew heated after hearing of the council's reaction. "You should know better than anyone why I fought so hard against them, then. I'm not against governance. I'm against corrupt governance. We had far too many corrupt politicians and warlords in our own time for me to ever want to allow it again."

Godric nodded his head. "Yes. The problem is you played too heavy a hand too quickly. Instead of accepting that they'd been beaten, they cheated by playing with an ace they had hidden up their collective sleeves."

Rexinon sighed, knowing his words were true. "Indeed. I've accepted my fate. I won't run. Won't even make it difficult for y'all. I have no need to. I would like to make one final request to ease your conscience, though."

Rexinon leaned toward Godric conspiratorially. As he did this, the world around them began to shimmer and distort. Almost like the motion blurring you'd see on a TV. Likewise, their conversation was masked by the sound of white noise and the sound of hushed incoherent whispers.

This was the second hurdle the scrying spells had to deal with. Individuals with divine magic could conceal their conversations or even the events they were a part of. Rexinon had concealed this conversation, and to this day, Godric has never spoken of what was said.

Jonathan returned to the study with a resigned sigh. There was nothing more he could learn from their conversation. Assassin stood in the same spot he'd been when he first entered the room and looked as if he hadn't so much as twitched. Seth, however, was rummaging through the desk's drawers. He'd tried to figure out what he was looking for in the past, but nothing seemed obvious.

The shards of glass from when he'd dropped his cup earlier had vanished, along with the stain on the rug from the liquor. As expected, the glass had returned to the cabinet, and the bottles had refilled to where they were before he'd arrived. This was yet another reminder that this was a magically induced vision of an event that had long since passed. It could be too easy to forget that this wasn't real and that if he spent too much time here, it would have consequences in the real world for him.

He knew they'd be out there a while. In previous visits, he'd occasionally spent this time combing through the room, similar to what Seth was doing. Having cataloged everything centuries ago, there was nothing left to do but wait. So, he walked around the desk and sat squarely within the Mark of Hellyrr embroidered on the rug. There, for the next hour or so, he would remain, arms folded, legs crossed, and eyes shut. Freeing his mind of all unnecessary thoughts and emotions. At least, that was the plan.

About forty minutes in, Seth started to grumble and complain, forcing Jonathan to give up on his meditation. "… I know he's one of the humblest among our kind, but lord, does he have to be so dull? I can't find anything interesting anywhere. Even his liquor cabinet is dull." Seth walked from behind the desk to the liquor cabinet, pulled a few bottles out at random, and read the labels aloud. "Red Adders Bite, Amorian Blood Wine. Christ, he's even got Athester's Sweet Malt. This crap might as well be water." He pulled another bottle down and said, "At least he's got the taste to have at least one bottle of Nordic Berserker."

"Some of us prefer the simpler things in life. You might find life more enjoyable when you aren't always looking for the rare and exotic," Assassin said with a disinterested, almost dismissive tone.

Seth clicked his tongue. "Hell, even this letter he was so focused on when we arrived makes no sense." Seth thrust the letter towards Assassin, who took it nonchalantly. "Look at this."

Jonathan studied Assassin intently, hoping for any sign that would reveal the letter's contents. It was no use, though; for all the emotion he showed, Jonathan would've thought it no more important than a grocery list. But, if that were the case, why obscure it from the eyes of the scrying spell? The frustration caused by such a simple sheet of paper was baffling.

Jonathan got to his feet as Rexinon and Godric returned. As Rexinon walked to stand at the center of the rug, Jonathan moved behind the desk. Godric walked toward Assassin and conversed with him for a few minutes. Once again, the sound of white noise shrouded what was said. This time, it was Godric who masked his words from the spell. When Assassin nodded, Godric moved beside him and faced Rexinon.

Rexinon looked at each tapestry and seemed to relive each as he did so. They all knew those accomplishments and tragedies would stand the test of time. Any efforts to change that would fall flat. The Order had played too significant a role in shaping this new world. Finally, he turned to Godric, kneeling as he met his regret filled eyes.

Assassin pulled an infamous rod from his side, dubbed the Executioner's Handle. Forged in the Dominion of Shadow by Assassin some three thousand years ago. It was one and a half feet long of shadow infused steel and bound with his own divine essence. Ominous black tendrils crawled along Assassin's hand like something alive and flowed into the handle. The shaft elongated, and an axe head formed at its end.

Though he had accepted his fate, seeing that axe form made Rexinon's heart stop momentarily. He looked at Godric questioningly. Godric knew what that look meant and nodded his head in assent. Agreeing to this had allowed them both to right several wrongs this night by asking one simple question. "Do you have any final words or requests?"

"I have two, if you'll grant them. The first, allow me to disband the Order formally as my final act as headmaster."

Seth started to protest, but Assassin lowered the axehead in his direction as a silent threat. Seth glared at Assassin with seething hatred. Godric nodded to Rexinon. "Proceed."

As the headmaster of the Hellyrrian Order, he had a mental connection with every member. Without hesitation, Rexinon's eyes began to glow with a brilliant purple hue. This would be Rexinon's final order, and Godric knew it would save thousands.

"My brothers and sisters, hear me now and heed my words. Abandon the Order and save yourselves. Flee to the hills and never look back to what we once were. With my dying breath, the Hellyrrian Order is no more. The governments of Aurelia have played a hand we can't stand against. Anyone who disregards this command will be hunted down and executed without mercy. To the leaders and guild masters of the Order, I charge you with dismantling everything relating to the Order and turning over every artifact and document you can to Godric the Just, Jonathan the Wise, or Assassin the Watcher. I also ask that you help calm those who feel outraged and betrayed by this night. Do not blame the Twelve, as they were little more than pawns in this corrupt game of politics. Farewell, my friends. My family. May the peace we have fought for be found in the coming days."

The glow faded, and he slumped forward onto his hands, his breathing labored. A few moments passed, and he managed to catch his breath but still looked towards the ground.

"The second request I have is that anyone who would heed that warning be spared. The ruling factions wanted me. As long as no one else causes trouble, we know they won't cause too much fuss over it."

His voice took on a much sharper edge as he looked back up. "You call us a cult, though you know we are nothing of the sort. On the contrary, our Order has stood for nearly five thousand years for the betterment of the entire world. How they treated you should tell you that what I said and what we were doing was justified."

"Shut your mouth, Rex!" Seth spat venomously.

Godric glared at Seth. His own anger with this situation was at the point of breaking free. "Be silent! I don't know what kind of grudge you have, but I, for one, don't give a damn what the council said. Rexinon doesn't deserve death for the crimes he's being accused of. Unfortunately, the ruling factions in almost every nation are corrupted and working towards being as corrupt as they were back in our day." Godric sighed. "Regrettably, my hands are tied, though. The law is the law, and I have been overruled on this matter. Regardless of what my conscience thinks, I will abide by the rules of the land."

Rexinon nodded, understanding Godric's situation perfectly. Godric had become the divine embodiment of law and justice at his ascension. While those two things work hand in hand, they are far from the same, and one must often walk a fine line to serve them both. In this case, the choices were clear. In the end, it didn't matter what he chose; he would inevitably betray one virtue or the other. Unfortunately, there was no good way for him to handle this, and Rexinon could see how this was affecting him.

"The majority of the Order will heed my warning. As for the leaders, if any are still alive, they will follow that command to the letter. They'll even aid you in handling any hotheads who resist," Rexinon said.

"The good news is that no one has yet been executed this evening. I'll personally see to it that those who abide by that order are given a chance to live long, productive lives within society. If all goes well, you will be the only casualty of this idiocy."

Rexinon gave the faintest sign of a smile with a halfhearted chuckle as he said, "Godric, one thing I'll not allow is any of the Order's work ending up in the hands of one of those tyrants. Therefore, I demand that Jonathan be given every document, scroll, and tome held within our strongholds for safekeeping." Rexinon felt exhausted. The spell to warn his Order took more out of him than anticipated.

"You're in no position to be making demands of us," Seth said. Godric finally snapped and struck him so hard that he slammed back into the wall beside the fireplace, cracking it. He got back to his feet a moment later, fixed his shirt, and looked down at the blood he'd wiped from his lip. Godric looked back at Rexinon.

"As you were saying."

"Assassin, I'd ask that you secure all our relics and artifacts, regardless of their magical significance. I don't need to tell you what all we have housed around Aurelia."

"No, you don't. The nukes of our time were nothing compared to some of those items," Assassin replied.

"We'll see to it that it's done. There are things within these walls that were never meant for untrained mortal hands," Godric added.

"Thank you."

"As for the texts, Jonathan will have a field day going through everything. There is far too much the council doesn't understand within these walls that we can't afford to lose."

"Godric was right, Rex. I still have everything. Much of which has been quite useful over the centuries,"

Godric turned his head away, no longer able to look Rexinon in the eye. "I no longer deserve the right to call you a friend, but is there anything else you would ask of me?"

Rexinon looked at Godric for a long time and couldn't help but smile. Not at his pain or suffering in following the orders given to him, but knowing that if anyone here had ever been a friend to him, Godric certainly was. With his final words, he left Godric with a warning.

"No, but I'll leave you with this. Be wary of those among you, for one will betray you all. My friend."

Godric nodded, accepting these as Rexinon's final words as a tear ran down his cheek. Rexinon lowered his head, and Assassin enveloped his axe's blade in a purple aura.

"Woah, Assassin, what's with the new color? Never seen that before," Seth asked.

Ignoring the question, Assassin swung the axe, severing Rexinon's head cleanly.

That night, the cries of the Order were heard in every city across Aurelia. All mourning the death of the Order's first, and last, headmaster.

Jonathan fought back tears of his own as he watched the axe's head vanish. Assassin secured the handle on his belt as he walked towards the desk. Godric looked as though he was going to be sick.

"Did you do as I asked?" Godric asked shakily.

"Of course. I may be a trained killer, but even I know this was bullshit, mate."

Seth walked over and picked up Rexinon's severed head by the hair. He held it up before him, a mischievous grin on his face. Then he whispered something into Rexinon's ear.

Assassin's eyes locked on Seth. As he let go of the head, he used one of his abilities, known as shadow step, to cross the distance to where Seth stood. Before Rexinon's head hit the ground, Assassin snatched it out of the air and punched Seth so hard that it sent him flying into the same section of the wall he'd hit earlier. He bounced off it, but the force of the impact sent several of the stones flying into the next room. Seth crumpled to the floor, where he lay unmoving for several seconds. After a while, his head snapped upright, and he began to laugh. He stood up as if nothing had happened and headed out the door. Godric, now seething with anger, watched as Assassin started to go after him. "Leave him. He's not worth your time."

Jonathan paced around the room, waiting for the spell to wear off. His heart ached, and his own anger toward Seth at that moment made him wish he could destroy the man. But that was Seth's way, and they'd all learned to let it go in time. The world began to blur and vanish, reverting to the Archive once again.

He closed the cover, placing the tome back on the shelf with a heavy sigh. His fingers lingered on the binding as he read the inscription, A Complete History of the Hellyrrian Order, Volume 666. Finally, Jonathan let his hand fall to the side as he walked away with his shoulders slumped.

As if speaking to an old friend, he lamented, "Damn you, Rex. Why couldn't you have just left well enough alone?"

As Jonathan walked away, he shed a tear at the loss of one of his closest friends.

Let's suppose i change myself to be affected by only the people i care about. I mean to say the people who i care about about can only hurt me and no one else(random person). For example if a random person say bad things and stuff it doesn't matter to me but if a person i care does about that it matters. So it's like i am less likely to get hurt . Does that make sense . Please do correct me if u think there is something worng or just share your Thoughts

*fyi the strange descriptions of the elevator and other seemingly oddly specific descriptions are to used to serve as foothold for our protagonist’s current thought process, as it gets rather ‘odd’ later on.

As i traversed through the streets, i would take a conscious moment to gaze at whatever my eyes would happen to stray upon. I would point out whatever details i could make out from that moment, and at times, the thought would slip into sentences; I could forgive a stranger had they assumed me sick for rambling to no one. Of course, The details would never remain though. The moment i diverted my attention elsewhere, all details would sink away into the moment i had found them. But they were not lost either, not in its true sense. The memory remained, only waiting on the state of mind that forged it into life, or as i had just worded it, "the moment i had found them". deja vu.

As for the reasons i had such a curious habit, well, it was because i was searching for one. A memory that is.

It was not something i could explain, for it was something i lacked, obviously. Its absence though, was irrefutable. The very depth of my being screamed so. "But if it was so important, how could you forget it?" Again, i lacked the foundation to answer that.

I did feel that 'forget' was not quite the right term somehow. But how else does one discard a memory...?

These thoughts are not going anywhere, i concluded.

Though my mind was mostly pre-occupied, i walked on with relative ease, confident in my directions. Roughly fifteen minutes later, i stopped by an old studio apartment. its walls were very noticeably discoloured, though the overall condition of the building was roughly acceptable. The apartment stood three stories high, with an open roof where the laundry was hung, and a lively if not crowded ambience. I made my way to the entrance and greeted the guard by the front desk. He contorted his lips to somewhat resemble a smile and gave a slight nod. The lifts, though functional, only ran on alternate days starting the week day; Today being what the landlord liked to call "leg day". I made my way up the stairs to the second floor, stopped in front of the last door to the right, and as was my custom, knocked once and then rang the bell.

At the distance, i could hear a feminine voice yell, "Coming!" seconds later, a lock bolted open and the door swung open outwards, revealing a frail looking tenant.

"You sure took your time didnt you?", she said with a wide and condescending smirk.

I waltzed in without much regard and sat onto a sofa on the farther side of a small living room.

"Nice to see you too, Fei."

So this is a diagram for a creature I made for my book... It's called a Death Eater...

Are we capable of more, or were we at least meant to be? https://carpevelo.blogspot.com/2021/06/the-waking-world-short-story.html?m=1

Tell me if you think it's canon worthy, compared to my new version...

THEDARKLORD2000's avatar THEDARKLORD2000 Jul 7, 2022 Premium Galleries T LITERATURE The Origin of The Silver Bandit Deviation Actions

Literature Text Name - The Silver Bandit

Real Name - Aliza Yashnikov

Age - 26

Height - 5'6"

Weight - 115 lb

Eye Color - Green

Hair Color - Silver

Occupation - Owns Silver Sword ind. , and is a trained surgical assistant

Allies - The Vengeance, Silver Sword, Heather Raven, Meghan Taylor, The Dutchess and Phillip Edwin

Foes - The Defenders of Earth, Roger Crilly, A.U.S.S.I, and The Assassin's Organization

Powers - highly trained assassin, martial artist, markswoman, swordswoman, Olympic-level gymnast, also has super strength (up to 12 tons), heightened senses including; foresight, pre-cognition, combat empowerment, and durability, also has probability manipulation, as well as longevity.

Origin Story - At just the age of 9 her father shot her mother and used her to get away, after that incident she wandered southern Russia eventually being captured by war trafficker's, after a few months she managed to escape and continued to wander around eventually coming across France who in which a police officer found her and put her in a foster home.

She stayed with a kind and loving family for almost 3 years until one day they were walking down a street and her foster parents were assassinated, she ran from the scene being chased by the assassinators coming up to a dock and boarded a cargo ship, she got on just as it was leaving escaping her assailants.

She ventured off hiding in a cargo crate, ending up in New York City, she lived on the street for a long while until a young man found her, he gave her his sandwich and revealed himself to be Roger Crilly, He brought her to his building and gave her a room to stay in.

After a few months she grew to trust him, and he offered her a way to get back at the people that hurt her, she of course reluctantly agreed, he took her to a room where a man named Dr Wilson was, they gave her a special serum that made her super strong and she began training under Roger's wing.

One day she was tested by having to kill an unknown man, at first she resisted but she ended up killing the man anyway, Roger knew she was ready, he gave her a job to go and kill his older brother Charlie, who was in a hospital in LA do to a cancer in his brain, she went off with Roger's other brother Jett and poisoned Charlie.

Aliza came back victorious earning her right as an official Assassin member, eventually she met another assassin named Reed Smith, whom she fell in love with, one day she found out she was pregnant and tried to hide it from Roger, who ended up finding out anyway.

He attempted to kill the child before it was born but Aliza fought back, and ended up on the run, she came up to Reed who reveled that he was indeed a clone of the original who died several years ago because of treason, she fought him vigorously, but Jett ended the fight by shooting the clone through the skull.

Jett helped Aliza hide from his younger brother, Jett eventually reveled that the man she had shot long ago was in fact her father, he helped her find a safe place to live which was in LA where she started a new life under the name Alisha Young and became an assistant surgical nurse to Aaron Thompson.

After a few years she reveled to Aaron (who was the Vengeance) that she was the Silver Bandit, to in which he of course thought that was the coolest thing he ever heard, they helped each other on missions every now and then.

While she was acting as a nurse, she started a new company where refuge assassin's could stay and help people who needed it most, she ended up being one of the many heroes who died due to the actions of the Dark Lord, but was eventually ( along with everyone else) revived a couple decades later, when she came back she found out her son was an adult and older than her in fact, and was carrying her name as the Silver Bandit.

He of course willingly gave her, her title back and named himself the Black Mamba, she continued to work as a vigilante sometimes helping the main heroes and even ended up helping Charlette Swiftly ( Charlie's granddaughter) fight Charlie and his team, after the fight ceased with Charlie in a coma, she went back to fight crime off the streets and ultimately gave up her life fighting the Dark Redeemers.

So I've created this character, Alizah Yashnovik, a Russian/Swiss Assassin known as the Silver Bandit... She has silver hair (get it? Silver Bandit?), and bright green eyes... The picture above... What I need help with is giving her character closer... Her dad murdered her mother when she was nine and she ran from home and met a young man named Roger Crilly, who brought her in and helped her become this highly lethal Assassin... She falls in love with a guy who turns out to be a clone... She kills several people during her time as an assassin... The problem is I don't think I've given her enough justice... She's in her late twenties in the image (to clarify)... I want her to become a surgical nurse aid, helping Aaron Thompson (who is secretly a vigilante named The Vengeance...)... But I don't think it fits the narrative... I'm still working on the book... I'm only on chapter two (she's still running and hasn't met Roger yet at this part...)... I just don't think her story and arc are interesting enough... Please give me some advice, is greatly appreciate it...

CRAWLING

LIBRARY INTERACTION: “That’ll be ten days.” “I’ll try to be a good Samaritan and bring it back.”

The phone rings and I answer it. “Quick”, he says, “What’s the capital of South Dakota?” This is another test from TLN (The Library Network). I hear his stopwatch click and I rush to the computer. I type: WHAT Is THGE COAITOK F SOUTH DOIKAS (caps lock was on). I rewrite my search to simply just “SOUTH DAKOTA”. I knew Google would give me that little box guy off to the side. It did, I read: Pierre, and I say that to the TLN Man on the phone.

He tells me that if I took any longer, I would be fired. The agents would come in and I would find myself in the snow, red hands from the cold and red ears from the embarrassment.

I listen to Apple Music’s “80s Dancehall Essentials” playlist. It has a clear Jamaican influence, every song so far at least. I stand at the front counter when the phone rings. “No grooving!” the TLN Man says. He hangs up before I can apologize I stare outside and if I squint really hard I can see someone hiding behind the middle bar of the doors. A skinny man, or person, maybe a woman, like Maris from the acclaimed sitcom “Frasier”.

We have a fan in the – who is we? – front lobby to reduce harmful particles in the air. I want to stomp on it. I know if I turn it off the TLN Man would call and instruct me to turn it back on. I would too, since I am a slave to authority, or so they tell me.

I’ve stopped listening to 80s Essential Dancehall Essentials so I don’t start grooving again. I get a text from my Dad: We had McDonald’s for dinner. I say: Sounds good. LIBRARY INTERACTION #2: A man whose daughter is hiding check out the Blu-Ray of “Knives Out” and “The Revenant”. I say, “Good variety in movies here.” He says, “There we go. Have a good night.”

TLN Man can see me through every camera. I cannot see him; I never have. The phone rings: “What were you just thinking about?” I hesitate. “Every second is five dollars deducted from your pay!” I say, “I was thinking about how I can’t see you.” He hangs up. My phone beeps I have had thirty dollars deducted from my pay.

I’ve switched to 70s light rock Apple Music Essentials. My co-worker comes up from the back – We aren’t supposed to learn each other’s names. She smiles at me and I feel furry like someone just shoved feathers into my stomach through my belly button. I attempt to smile but I think I look like a monster. She scurries away. I have struck fear in her.

My face feels funny and I call TLN Man. I ask to go to the bathroom and he tells me I’ll get no lunch of I do but my face is squirming and I only get a five minute lunch anyway. I go to the nearest bathroom, the public one, and I look at my face. The feeling is emanating from a mole on the left side of my face, the mole that I have a hair growing out of. Every time that I pluck the dang thing it grows back in days. It’s a thick hair, so it always is a little uncomfortable. I always scratch and itch at it until TLN Man calls and tells me to stop and that I am disgusting and will drive customers away. I want to tell him they are called patrons not customers or at least they used to until now I guess. Everyone is a customer and everything is a business.

TLN Man doesn’t know that I can access the cameras. I managed to get the software by sending myself an email from my boss’ computer. I use the cameras to write this journal. I watch Her as She walks. I am enthralled. My mole throbs. I try to ignore it. MY home is small and sad but the camera feed brings me light and brings my joy. I can be God for a moment too.

I am back at work and sometimes I worry my thoughts are projected above my head and I get scared because I think inappropriate things about Her and TLN Man. Different things but both bad. A patron customer comes up to the desk and asks me if I know anything about some apartment buildings down the street. I say no and she spits at me, claiming I shouldn’t keep information from the public. Another man comes over and asks if he can put real mail in our Santa mailbox. I tell him no and he turns on his heel as quickly as he can and steps outside and he pours his coffee into the letters to Santa mailbox.

The more my mole twitches the more I wish I had the money to pay a dermatologist to remove it entirely. If there even is a dermatologist around here. Maybe if I didn’t talk so much at work or slack off. They money I was docked could’ve been used to drive out to see a dermatologist in the town over. Nobody has cars here since nobody can afford to leave for an extended period of time. I’ve been here for six years now, they only place I’ve lived since my parents died. A man came into our house and shot them along with my siblings. They were nine years old. He came into my room and pointed the gun at me but he didn’t pull the trigger. I’ve always wondered why.

At work She makes a joke to me but I’m too nervous to respond. I just laugh and look down as my hands search for something to do. They find some rubber bands and I try to take a big rubber band and wrap the other ones around up in it but it snaps back at me and hits me in the face. My glasses fly off and she chuckles and hands them to me. In my head she leaps into my arms and saves me from this job. I hope the TLN Man cannot see this.

The last thing I remember about my parents was them fighting while making dinner. Mostaccioli. They didn’t fight often, so it was jarring when they did. I can’t remember what the fight was about either. We ate dinner quietly and when we were done we all went into our separate places. Nobody said goodnight to me that night.

I never know how old people are at work. A woman comes in and I guess she is nineteen but she is forty-three. Married, with kids, two kids, Joey and Marko. She lives at 14432 Cumberland Avenue. Her husband is fifty-four, John. I can find this very quickly at work as long as everything is up to date. I’m not a stalker but I could be.

I left my journal in my work bad on accident. I hope nobody finds it especially Her. Good thing TLN Man is never here, I bet he’d sniff it out. I tried to bury it in my bad, hopefully nobody knocks it over on accident. The page that works knocks the cart into the wall and I jump. The phone rings. TLN Man asks me why I did that and I shrug. He tells me never to shrug, answer with your words, like a man! My fists become tight and I hope he doesn’t notice. I’ve never hit anyone but I would hit him. My mole twitches abnormally, it feels like it’s pulling me in a direction. I let it guide me, I follow it, briefly, and it takes me face to face with Her. She smiles and I blush and walk by Her. The mole stops guiding me and throbs once, hard. Almost feeling like a punishment. I get a drink of water which’ll dock my pay but I don’t care I’ve embarrassed myself and needed and excuse after nearly running Her over. Not that I would ever hurt Her. I barely know Her, what reason would I have to hurt Her?

I believe the man is standing in front of the doors again. I envision him hurling the doors open and lunging at Her over the counter. I save Her, everyone cheers. My boss (not TLN Man) comes in and tell me I have a piece of tape stuck to my jacket. I try to grab it and can’t reach. Double embarrassment. I tried to take the jacket off and she walks by and I worry she can see slash smell my armpits. Every patron customer that has come in has been able to see the tape. They never forget it, I bet, I’ll be the tape guy forever.

Sometimes when I get home from work I daydream about how work should’ve been, how I wanted work to go. I have a dog – Bailee. She barks and barks and I’ve given up trying to stop her. She sees something I don’t, clearly. I sit and I think and I stare at the empty television. I wish TLN wasn’t there, or, I guess he isn’t there but he is present. I am his empty television, waiting for the static, maybe a picture someday. I search dirty things on my computer to take my mind off all this and I feel the one haired mole throbbing.

I am back at work and I see a text from my Dad. Usually I try not to check it at work to avoid TLN Man’s rage, but the phone is quicker than I am and my face opens the phone and I see the text. “Hi. Marla passed away”. She was an old across the street neighbor. TLN Man calls he’s so mad the words sound animalistic, guttural. I tell him my neighbor died and he tells me he can make one phone call and get another neighbor killed the next time I go on my phone at the desk. Phone at desk = lazy = no customers = no $$$. I’m not even sure how we make money but I don’t say that I just hang up. My dad should’ve known better than to text me while I was at work. He’s done this on purpose I bet. Jealous I have a job and he doesn’t. My head throbs, the pain crawling up and around the top of my skull. Fuck him.

I’m home and I go back in the camera feed to see the moment I took my phone out. As TLN Man is yelling at me I see Her behind me laughing at me. How can such an empty television feel so many things at once? I am ashamed and angry, ready to run and ready to gage Her eyes out, rip her tongue out, biblical punishment – thou shalt not laugh at me. I could be better than her, I could be the authority. She’d bow down to me if I had the strength to make her. The headache has moved back into my mole. I storm into my filthy bathroom and rip the cabinet door of the henges; I didn’t know it was broken. The tweezers are in my hand and I’m yanking at the mole hair, mostly missing. My face is bleeding from the poking and prodding and I finally grasp the hair. I yank hard and my face both throbs and tingles. Pins and needles shoot into my face by way of the mole. It feels explosive, volcanic. What’s the lava, I wonder. I feel movement and the hair comes loose, thick, mangey, twitching in the light breeze. I stare hard at the cause of my pain, is this my inhibitor? Is this the reason I am who I am? Maybe now I can be free. I will be the authority. Maybe I can be the TLN Man. My mole throbs – my head whips to the mirror. I watch the hair regrow: longer, thicker than before. I’m on the ground and my mouth is open and I’m wailing. My fists hit the floor and my eyes bleed tears. I remember my childhood exercise. “Weezer, Dolly Parton, Elton John, Dodie, Avett Brothers, Metallica, Disturbed, Bobby Darin.” All musicians whose music has been devoid of all meaning to me. It doesn’t even exist anymore. I sit alone.

TLN Man calls me and tells me my facial injuries are too gruesome for the customers. I notice She is looking at me while I am on the phone. She is stifling a laugh; not obviously, but I just know it. She brought Her friend up to the desk to watch me suffer. The phone has left my hand and has gone flying towards her face. The cord pulls it back and it hits me. She and Her friend laugh. TLN Man is screaming. Suddenly I am home. I do not look at the cameras.

Rejoice! The library is out of power. What a joyous occasion. Alas – I will not see her today, in person or on camera. Or perhaps ever. Tis a shame, although the pain I feel in my face as I think this overcomes the shame. It grips my attention. I turn on my 80s ballads Apple Music station – “Forever Young” plays. Alphabetville? The band name escapes me. I twirl and twirl, attempting to enjoy this lucky day and dismiss my facial pain. My arms were flailing and my brain was quiet. Then, horror! My music changes! I did not request this. MY joy is sucked out of my body; I can feel it leaving, dispensing through my pores. How dare my moment be ruined? I walk over to my phone and to my behest it stands up tall, sprouting two legs! “Ugly mole!” it says to me. I head to my kitchen and I slide one of my dull knives out of the slot and I go walk into my tiny bathroom when I hear a knock at the door. I freeze – who would be here? Must be a vagrant; a burglar; murderer; rapist. I keep the knife behind my back when I answer. Two police officers stand right outside the door, sternly. “Sir, we regret to inform you that there’s been a murder in the building. We have police stationed at all exits and we are doing our best to blah blah blah”. He went on for too long and I managed a weak, “Thanks, officer” and they left. I hope they don’t think I did it. I don’t think they saw the knife. And I was so careful about it all too.

I am back at work. I go home. Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

It has been a week since the police came by. They still haven’t found who killed Her.

It has been two weeks since She was killed probably with a knife and my mole the mole on my face (not my mole, I do not own this, I do not condone this) has made me cry every single day. I can barely work, so I have been yelled at by TLN Man every day until he quit.

TLN Man has been reported as a missing person. Work is closed in remembrance. Not that I could forget him – I see him every day.

I cannot move. My mole The Pain on my face has spread, parasitically. I can feel it moving through my brain, down into my arms, all the way to the tips of my fingers. I am rigid with crawling pain. I cannot handle this. I am through. I grab my tweezers – removing the eight hairs might make the mole removal easier. I pull and pull on some of the hairs, then I get them into the grasp of the tweezers. I hear my skin rip apart, I can barely feel it, I’m already in so much pain. I yank and rip the hairs out and I look at the tweezers. In their grasp is a spider. Our eyes meet, the pain is fading, but so is my vision. The pain moves from all over my body back towards my face. Another spider rips its way out, then another, and another, and another. Then a swarm of them. The pain fades, and the pain fades, and the pain fades, and

BREAKING NEWS: The murder of two local people, both employees of the district library, has been found dead in his apartment along with the two bodies. More at six.

The end.

Ok... This is a long one... So I wrote a book called Dragons of Fireborne... The book revolves around the newly crowned Queen, Draco Fireborne Ignis... Tea, Draco is a woman... It's Latin for Dragon (get it?)... So the book is set in my superhero universe in the year 1500, and is on a planet called Terragyn (also Latin), Is it or is the Earth sun-like star Ek Draconis (more dragons see?)... So Draco is part of a humanoid race of people called Tarragons (who live on the planet Terragyn)... Terragans live for about 8-11,000 years and age like us (as in a 2,000-year-old Tarragon looks like a 16-18year old human)... And so I want to go in-depth to explain how the race of people work (by work I mean function) and age, and I want to incorporate information on the race... Draco in the first two books (out of four) is about 2,400 years old, so she was born in 900 BC... Later on, she becomes a part of The Defenders of Space around the year 1998, and The Defenders of Earth become a team in the present day (2018)... So by the time The Dark Lord comes, she's about 2,900 yrs old... Anyway... I want to explain the race in-depth but not make it seem like a lecture... Here's a snippet of what I've come up with...

"Now, Draco is part of an alien race known as Tarragons, they live about 10,000 years, and are human-like beings. Zorr-EL is part of another humanoid race known as the Centurians, they live about 50,000-100,000 years. Dagon and Keith are Tarragons, as well as the majority of the population on the planet. Now, the planet is known as Terragyn, which is two Latin terms meaning Earth and Woman. It is found in the Draco constellation and is about the same size as Earth..."

Do I need to change it up, or explain it in more detail? Please help...

What are your best strategies for getting over Writer's block, or just getting inspiration in general?

Hello friends, I'd like your opinion on this question. I published my autobiography in French 3 years ago, and had it translated into Spanish, which is also published. Since then, I've reworked it for the English edition, which is now out. I changed a few texts, removed and added a few pieces, which represents about 5% of a 100k book. For this new English edition, I've changed the title, cover and general concept. I now want to reformat the French and Spanish editions with the same title and layout as the English edition. Should I take these two editions and make them a direct translation of the English edition, which means more rewrites, edits, corrections and so on, which means more money and time? Or leave them as they are, which means there will be a slight variation between these versions? Does it really matter? Do the translations have to be identical? Finally, what I've added or deleted doesn't change the story, the learning or the purpose of my biography. It's just that sometimes I'm such a perfectionist that it drives me crazy!!!! Thanks for your thoughts and comments. Guy

https://preview.redd.it/qy5s1belxu4b1.jpg?width=512&format=pjpg&auto=webp&v=enabled&s=5389b4103caefdcac347a701eec3ae06a2611db8

I'm 21 and 1 thing changed my life this year

It wasn't hitting a goal, it wasn't shifting my mindset, it wasn't Chat GPT
It was making my bed
Sounds stupid, right? But hear me out:
Ever since I was young, I never understood the importance of making my bed.
I always thought I'm going to get back into it later why do I need to make it now?
I had the wrong idea

After reading Atomic Habits by James Clear
I learned that goals weren't holding me back but my habits were
That's when I discovered the hidden power of making my bed 😂

This simple change has helped me balance school, work, friends, and the beginning of my entrepreneurial journey with my AI productivity newsletter. (The Edge)

Since success isn't a one-time thing, why would you set a one-time goal?
This approach completely changed my life and how I increased my productivity this year.
Changing habits can be a daunting task after all they are habits for a reason
So I learned the best method is to start changing with something that you do daily, and everyone wakes up and gets out of bed.
This allows you to build a foundation of change

This made it easier to stack habits on top of your new habit
This simple task has now allowed me to build the confidence I needed to tackle bigger habits or tasks.
This simple change has helped me balance school, work, friends, and the beginning of my entrepreneurial journey with my AI productivity newsletter.

Change is a process, and in order to reach your goal you must change your habits to create a new system (A new you if you will)
Success is a continuous process of improvement.
It doesn't have to be making your bed, it can be anything simple that is tied to something you already do.
Maybe every morning floss for an extra minute
Or after your coffee say a quick prayer for what you are thankful for
It is up to you

I encourage anyone struggling with reaching goals or taking action to read Atomic Habits by James Clear to change your perspective and become a more productive version of you!

We are thrilled to announce the return of our beloved community contest!
Presenting the Royal Road Community Magazine contest—an event sponsored by Royal Road and proudly organized by our vibrant community, where even the winning novels will be chosen by dedicated readers from the community! 

About the Royal Road Community Magazine:

How to Participate: 

​

• Submit the first chapter. If this is your first time, you can read this post regarding the steps on how to submit a novel on Royal Road.
• After your novel is approved; register it by filling out this form 

Rules: 

​

• The submission must be based on the writing prompt: “Mirrors can't eat people.”
• The submission must be written during the month of June.
• The submission must be independent and not a part of any other work.  The judges need to be able to review it fairly without needing to read any other book or material.
• No sexual content is allowed.
• The submission must have at least 8,000 words by the second deadline. 

Deadline: 

On June 10th, the first chapter of each entry will be compiled and published in a magazine format. No new entries will be accepted afterward.
You can view the last three editions as an example: 

January 2022 edition
June 2022 edition
January 2023 Edition

Second Deadline: 

As long as you participate before June 10th, you will have until the end of the month (June 30th), to write and publish at least 8000 words in your own fiction page. 

The judgment: 

There are multiple volunteer judges who will review the entries and assign scores to them. 

​

• The judges will judge up to a maximum of 40,000 words, but the submission may exceed that amount.
• There is no requirement for a definitive ending. You don't need to complete the story within the contest itself. But, Judges need to get a sense of how the story will proceed.
• The prompt writing theme must be obvious to the judges. If they are unable to see where you included the prompt, the submission will be disqualified. There are no clear requirements on how to include the prompt. Be as creative as you want to be.

The top 3 scorers will receive the fabulous prizes listed below!

The Prizes: 

First Place: $1000 Royal Road Ad Campaign
Second Place: $300 Royal Road Ad Campaign
Third Place: $180 Royal Road Ad Campaign

*All three winners will also receive Author Premium alongside their campaigns.
**At least half of the ads must be used for the entry story.

We look forward to your participation and can’t wait to see what sort of stories you will create!

A 1,500 word short story about the last three people ... or are they? https://carpevelo.blogspot.com/2020/07/3-short-story-part-1-of-3.html?m=1

A really short read but I thought this was great advice. I'm usually not the most organized person when it comes to editing, but this idea of taking notes and documenting the changes that you make and referring to them throughout the rewriting process seems like it could be really helpful, not only seeing how much your work has changed from the first draft, but also being able to look back on the changes you made to get there. Definitely worth the read!
https://herbertlui.net/contentions-track-your-rewriting/

Stardust, spread around the space/ Often can't think that it can have a face/ From whom it sprung? this celestial matter/ Consciousless - therefore that doesn't matter/

Usually, being out of any being's mind/ It cannot be undermined, nor' vilified/ Unable to tell or be spoken to/ Unbothered, like the breeze we get used to/

Seemingly, eternally "floating"/ Wherever it exists, only laws of physics govern/ Whereas Terra's governors are gloating/ Stardust is it's own sovereign/

I wish so much to have been turned into it/ And I know that it sounds insane/ to be celestial matter, spread across the universe/ Feeling 'nor joy, 'nor pain