Prologue

It started on a white day, in a world dyed white.

Snowflakes fell from the sky, unhastening. The sky was equally white with the snow, a compact opacity undecipherable by the human eye.

Snowflakes fell slowly, their graceful swaying imitating nothing but the fall of scarlet sakura petals. They landed in unison, laying a frosted carpet atop the mud and concrete. The wind hymned cheerily, even festively, carrying the coldness to horizon and beyond.

Cold. It was cold, so cold to send constant shivers up your spine, penetrating your thoughts until
you dream of nothing but a fireplace, and fight for nothing but that.
On the streets of Haven, not many were seen. That was typical---on such a freezing day, most would put aside what they were doing and instead opt for the tight embrace of their mattresses. Those who must venture into the snow were whisked to the destination smugly in private or public vehicles.

There was but one person. A figure clad in white, brighter and purer than snow under sunlight, trod slowly along the snow-covered walkway. His face was obscured by the snow, but one could infer from his nonchalant pace his steadiness and determination.

The snow-laid ground, squishy and quite comfortable to step on, nonetheless made his boots sodden and his feet wet. He seemed not to care, and continued his unhurried walk.

If one panned in closer he would have noticed anomalies on this queer person; for one thing, his coat was of authentic fur, silvery and smooth with a weird feel of sharpness. A few long objects were strapped to his back; pointed with an edge of ferocity.

However, with such low visibility no one could make out what he was composed of. So they naturally waved him away with queer, disbelieving glances.

Alone he trod, a white loner in a white world. For long, unnerving moments it seemed that he was wandering nowhere. It wasn’t until much later, when the dazzling neon lights of the Coliseum emanating fiercely could be recognized, than his intention was clear.

Coliseum. And not a mere Coliseum, but the greatest and grandest in all Haven---presumably also in the whole world. Even in the darkest conditions this majestic structure still opened loyally to the top-notch battle fanatics in the city.

Yet what was he, a random person, doing? Did he meant to barge into the fray, where the best of Cradle competed? Nonsense.

Yet he was here, stepping into the Coliseum in his usual, slow pace. The service lady at the counter growled when she saw the wet footmarks he left on the registration hall’s futuristic fluorescent floor.

The white guy readily approached the service counter. And when he was face-to-face to the service lady he asked, “This is Lockdown? I would like to sign up for the next match.”

The service lady frowned. Not only did he pull his hood so low that half of his face was hidden, but his costume was so rare and archaic that it was almost beyond recognition. She traced faintly from her memory---was that somehow a Skolver Coat? She had only seen such a piece of gear in movies. Old school movies.

“Who are you? You do realise that you’ve just entered a professional-level Coliseum, don’t you?”

“I know the situation perfectly well. And I would like to sign up for the next match.” He spoke, his voice cold and unyielding as the melting snow coated on him.

Seriously, that was one strange person, the lady had to admit. Even after meeting so many weirdos and fanatics in this place, her nerves were still aroused by this oddity. Fine, not to care so much, let him just have a game. A famous proverb said: “The queerest is always the coolest” anyway.

She followed the standard procedure, “Please show your personal identification to sign up.”

He obliged, and detached to hand her a silvery ring from his index finger. It was without any etchings and patterns, save for a delicate “S” carved shallow into it. The lady grabbed the ring, sent it to the scanner, and waited for a while. The computer responded soon, but perplexing its answer.

“Access denied. Enter passcode for access.”

Strange, she thought. Confused, she handed him the ring, and asked, “I can’t sign you in by the computer. Can you give me your name and occupation so I can register manually?”

The white stranger paused briefly, then answered, “Lance. I am a...Striker.”

“Striker?” the lady apparently did not understand.

“Yep. Striker. The Edge of the Blade. The Wings of Skylark.” the stranger orated calmly, in a matter-of-fact kind of way.

Well, Striker it is, the lady typed the word in, grumbling. “What weapons are you using?”

“Swords.” pride seeped from his well-masked, calm tone.

“Wait! You don’t mean you are going to use…” she eyed quizzically at the things protruding from his back. Those pointy stuff?

Without answering or even a slight gesture, Lance went on into the ready room, disappearing from her eyes. Yet before he left, she spotted something; a faint, enigmatic smile.

If she had more sense she would have identified that one of the swords he carried was previously known as the Divine Avenger.

I have chapter 1 ready. I can post it anytime you like...waiting for replies
Prologue is relatively short; chapters are much longer.

I originally scheduled only to post two times a week, but...
PROLOGUE IS NOT A CHAPTER
AND
I don't want people think "Vivid quit after writing the prologue! Let's smack him!"
Here comes chapter 1! But...a song first:

Cradle Theme.
What is better than starting a story with the music that start's your Spiral life?
Night be my cradle, darkness be my haven.
Light I sought, salvation I forgone.
If my haven is indeed your heaven...

Chapter 1

Nicholas dropped his weapons on the couch, sat down beside them, and grabbed an orange juice. Casually he sipped the drink. It was too sweet for his taste, but after an intense battle served as a good replenishment of glucose.

He also took off his Kat Cowl to refresh. It was a cute spectacle, originally a simple, comfy purple-and-black cowl but painted eyes and attached artificial ears. Oh, and also a special blessing by a renegade Kat Conjurer that boosted his ability to focus. He had found out that wearing the cowl for more than 2 hours consecutively made him hear much clearer---even after he had took it off. Oh, and his ears were growing pointier day by day according to observers.

He was in a good mood today. He had managed to grab some spectacular victories and an even more spectacular 8 killstreak. Now he only need a few victories and some three dozen kills more to secure himself a spot in this year’s Grand Finals. Apart from the fun, there also existed a lucrative sum of cash prize for all participants.

He could really use that bit of cash. Though a minor legend in Lockdown, he was neither a professional nor a soldier. He job yields little surplus and well, he really needed some extra money to upgrade his polaris.

Speaking of legend. Among the myriads and myriads of Lockdown players, young or old, pro or new, he stood out as the outstanding minority. Nowadays Lockdown was dominated by guns. Though swords still existed at lower tiers, it was nearly useless among the professionals. The short range was simply too fatal for their users.

Nicholas was one of the few that incorporated the usage of swords into his playstyle---and very successfully. His warhammer (technically a sword-typed weapon) was so fast and powerful that people could do little but die in awe.

He took another sip of orange juice, then tossed the half-full carton into a recycle bin. The heavy bass of the microphone boomed overhead, “Notification to all players: Next match starting in two minutes.”

Confidently he rose, donning his cowl. Then he picked up the dual alchemers: Umbra and Hail, and slipped them conveniently into his grayish cloak. The Polaris, a large gun that buzzed electrically, clinged to his waist. And finally his behemoth of a hammer, fuming dangerously, which he held tight in his hands.

Once they were in the ready room, NIcholas observed the other team cautiously. Most of them he knew; good players, but all subject to his relentless abuse of hammer and Polaris. He grinned with much confidence as he scanned the room, until he saw at the corner---

Skolver? He had had the piece of gear identified immediately, yet still he was amazed. Who was to don such a useless piece of gear that couldn’t absorb any damage? And the long, thin blade he held, gleaming attractively...a Flourish? That kind of sword was almost extinct from Lockdown now. No, actually, fading from existence entirely.

Suspicious. But it wouldn’t be a big matter. Nicholas was still confident of grasping the victory. While he was calculating the possibilities, he entered the locker room with his teammates.

A 6v6 in Rampart, which means a rather large map with five scoring points. There were two main paths, one at the top with control to the home points and secondary points of each team; the second at the bottom, which led to the fiercely contested fifth point. Also a hidden pathway, blocked by multiple gates which required some effort to open. This path was often unused; at professional level players could identify the intruder quickly, and have him/her swiftly repelled. The path was narrow, with only narrow room to manoeuvre. However, Nicholas could exploit this with ease to claim victory.

The locker room was a rather spacious room; sturdy brownish red tiles mosaiced the floor; the walls were a dull, nondescript colour of rust. Six sets of gear were hung off one wall. The set was comprised of four objects: An energy gauge which would offer protection in the expense of the mist energy stored: when the energy level dropped to zero, the player would be proclaimed defeated; a huge shield; a backpack-styled booster; a personal cloaking device.

While his teammates invariably went for the booster, he reached out for the cloaking device. He would be a Recon, a silent capturing of points; though he would add to that description “master assassin” or maybe to some extent, “kill machine”.

King Krogmo bellowed loud in the announcement channel, signalling the battle to begin. Three of Nicholas’ teammates would capture the bottom point, then strike north to meet the enemy. Two more would capture the home and secondary points and hold the enemy at bay. As for Nicholas...he was planning for something else.

Five figures darted out of the force barrier. Shockwaves escaped from their boosters as they reached the maximum velocity they could keep control, and they soon reached their respective points. Nicholas meanwhile sprinted for the hidden path.

Normally this would be too easily spotted. Yet Nicholas had turned his cloaking device on---the ten-odd seconds of invisibility was enough for him to deactivate the gates and dash through. As his cloak depleted he had reached the opponent’s home point. It was obviously captured as the point was flooded in red light. Two of his opponents were busy capturing their secondary point, unaware of the covert action he had been up to.

He snickered mischievously. Quietness was never his norm;it was simply too boring. Instead, he approached the northern edge of the point, waved amiably to his opponents, and well, made himself known.

Within a split second one of the guys began boosting. Nicholas nodded in satisfaction, and took out his Polaris. Then he began shooting---or, in less precise terms, spamming.

The slow Polaris bullets escaped the gun like small, dense spheres. But as they drifted forward they expanded violently, finally becoming huge orbs of glowering, volatile plasma. At about 15 meters from origin they erupted into dazing flashes of lightning.

Not expecting this, the interceptor charged face-first into the fray. A bolt of electricity trickled through his body, and the next moment he was thrown backward like a rag doll roflstomped by its angry master. Green energy buzzed round his armour, signalling a drop in his energy level. However, he would not falter; with his hands he tried to pry open the explosion with minimal damage, but was soon repulsed. He took a step back and promptly checked his gauge: Still some 77% of energy remained.

He took out his Nova Driver and raised it to eye level. Feigning an action of aiming, he waited for a second before lifting his boost instantaneously to an extraordinary level---and sprinted swiftly through the narrow gap between the orbs of malevolent storm.

“You are on bait.” Nicholas whispered with satisfaction. Adrenaline coursed through his body, blessing him with extrahuman reaction. In his world time seemed viscous and lagging---there was so much his sense could recept. In less than a second he finished three actions: he clung the Polaris back to his waist, then retrieved from his Umbra Driver from his cloak, and as he began pouncing forward he unleashed a much awaited purple bullet.

Nicholas did not aim. He didn’t even think that was necessary. His screen of Polaris had reduced his opponent’s position to close proximity; apart from that, he could infer from various experiences and encounters, what his opponent would think and do.

In such a scenario he would probably have his head lowered and an arm to protect it, with the other hand holding his gun. Thinking that he had outsmarted his opponent, he would not caution; mostly probably he would just dash straight through the Polaris until reaching his ideal range.

This was not to happen though. The Umbra bullet ripped through the air, colliding straight with the lower, exposed part of his head. An immense amount of energy exploded from the epicentre; a headshot could claim over one half of the victims energy gauge. For a fleeting moment Nicholas could witness his dazed opponent’s cranium being lifted upwards by the explosion. He laughed at the total bewilderment on that face, and cloaked.

A burning hammer emerged from the right flank of the unfortunate player. He felt himself again tossed by an invisible, violent hand, until he landed.

“You have been defeated.”

The defeated player was lifted into the air and transported back to the locker room by some electromagnetic force. He would emerge unscathed after 20 seconds, eager for revenge or perhaps more humiliating defeats.

By now the second opponent had finished capturing the other point; he boosted forward, pelting at Nicholas a terrifying round of bullets.

Nicholas pulled out his hammer and swung at the air. Though the hammer could not reach him, the gunner nonetheless leapt backward, creating a single moment of lull. Fully grasping the situation Nicholas activated the second hit of the hammer.

A steam-powered dash. Directed not toward his opponent, but sideward, evading all bullets. With one hand hanging onto the hammer, he fired his Hail Driver.

Two bullets traversed the distance between. Compared to the hailstorm of bullets they seemed lonely and underpowered.

Yet they were the only two bullets that made contact. One found the gunner’s legs, adhering quickly and freezing his feet to the ground. Another rammed into his right hand, immobilizing it together with the gun being held.

Terror was clear in the victim’s eyes. Yet with such sheer horror he still had sense to pull out his second gun with his other hand, and fired a rapid succession of bullets. However, in such a shocked state he could not aim; all were desperately off-target.

Nicholas decelerated and walked towards his victim, shoving away stray bullets with his arms. Finally he stood at the back of his still frozen opponent. Raising his gargantuan hammer overhead with both hands, he inhaled sharply, a breath full of the exultation of battle, and had the fervent, steel-clad fury unleashed.

With a dull but loud thud the hammer landed on his victim’s skull. Shook by the great impact, he was sent whirling forward, tumbling with sheer momentum until he rebounded against a few walls. When he stopped he ceased to move.

Nicholas grinned. A great 1-hit knockout. He was pretty sure this would be one of the ten most spectacular kills of the day.

He hummed contentedly. So far everything was according to plan: He had killed two himself, the lone opponent venturing for the fifth point had long been deposed, and his teammates at the top route had already gained the upper hand against the two players they faced. They were prevailing at all three routes; soon he’d secure another easy win.

Wait. Two by him, one at the bottom, two at the top. Five players down.

All of a sudden, he realised. This was a 6v6. And they had only seen five people.

The sixth...the white stranger with the swords? What was he planning?

A dreadful feeling flooded his thoughts as the familiar, mechanical voice droned on.

“Your teammate Juan Capez has been defeated.”

“Your teammate Ben George has been defeated.”

“Your teammate Samson has been defeated.”

Three deaths within three seconds. What efficiency was that? The last time he checked, his three alive teammates each retained well over one half of their energy…

Nicholas shivered involuntarily. He felt cold. As cold as the frost on the stranger’s equally white cloak. No, his teammates had no chance to fight this killer heads-on.

“After you’ve captured the second point, don’t go back to base.” he commanded in the team channel, his voice calm though a little shaky. “Do not go back to base.”

“Nah, we’ll go back. That guy’s busy capping 5 so we’ll be alright.” his teammates did not notice the severity of the event. Yet Nicholas knew. That person...so cold and deadly...was not someone that would prioritize capturing a point over killing some more people.

Having affirmed that his teammates are goners, he could do nothing but try to save the situation. A loud boom had kindly reminded him that he had finished capturing the point. Taking a deep breath, he held his Polaris in his right hand, and his Umbra in his left; then he began his walk---not to north for the second capture point, but eastward, towards the other team’s locker room. As he proceeded he kept Polaris bullets afloat; he intended to create in front of his enemies soon to be revived a wall of impregnable storm.

As he waited patiently he received the message. He had expected it without doubts, but was still astounded by the quickness the Skolver had demonstrated.

“Your teammate Capac has been defeated.”

Two seconds later,

“Your teammate Sam Wong has been defeated.”

Nicholas sighed. Yet it was not time to lament on their ill-fated defeat. His opponents were emerging from behind the humming force barrier, five in total. Five infuriated juggernauts that would do anything to claim his head. Nicholas wasn’t afraid.

“My head is always yours to claim.” he mused, watching his opponents struggling to get through his matrix of blue plasma. Dropping the Polaris, he produced on his palm his Hail Driver. Training his duo of firearms at them, he fired.

“Now come.”

Nicholas sighed comfortably as he finally slumped to the ground. Not bad---three taken out before he dropped. More importantly, precious time had been wrested from the other team: his teammates now had enough time to congregate and take on the Skolver. After defeating the threat they could exercise their collective strength to beat the other team.

“Still according to plan.” Nicholas muttered in silence. The Skolver’s prowess was much beyond his wildest guess, yet he was sure the balance of victory still tipped to his side.

“Your teammate Capac has been defeated.”

Normal. Taking down such a tough opponent would invariably require some sacrifices.

But seconds later.

“Your teammate Ben George has been defeated.”

The death toll was still within expected results, if perplexing and worrying. Nicholas whispered to comfort himself, “Damage control, damage control…”

The subsequent events were not so within control.

“Your teammate Juan Capez has been defeated.”

“Your teammate Sam Wong has been defeated.”

“Your teammate Samson has been defeated.”

Suddenly his team was no more. A thick, dead silence loomed over the team channel. Finally, Nicholas spoke uneasily, “Well...maybe I’ll go meet him?”

There were no encouragement, no round of applause. Nicholas could feel the contempt and disbelieve in the mute conversation.

“Go ahead Nicholas. Good luck.” someone replied, his tone flat and inanimate. Nicholas did his best to shy away the pessimism, but it still sapped his confidence.

Great. Before he had defeated me he already took away my confidence. Nicholas thought bitterly as he grabbed the booster. Against such a dangerous cloaking was next to functionless. He needed mobility, a lot of that.

The white stranger stood there, some 10 to 15 metres away from Nicholas. Aggression was absent from his gestures, which compelled Nicholas not to fire, standing straight in his position.

He carefully observed the stranger. He wore on his body a white coat which enveloped his entire body. There were strange fur at his collar and elbows---glitteringly silver, beautiful and soft like fine Chinese silk. On his coat were intricate etchings lined in silver and grey; the patterns were flowing in the air, dancing with each flutter of his cloak. His boots were white as well, made from the hides of some unknown creatures. He also wore a black glove on his right hand.

He put his hood down, revealing his hair: it was silver and curled, like the mane of a grey wolf. His powerful eyes stared into Nicholas’, observing not only his surface but also his essence. For a fleeting moment their gazes locked.

NIcholas could identify such a wide variety of emotions in one single gaze that he felt quite overwhelmed. There was unwavering determination, strong like an uncrackable rock; there was the fervent pleasure of battle; there was the cold, calculating ruthlessness also visible in his style of fighting; but there were other things---sorrow from isolation, uncertainty, and...fear?

What was he fearing? Definitely not the Kat cowled person he faced now.

The moment passed. Nicholas saw him actually smiling. The stranger nodded, grinning, acknowledging Nicholas’ strength and eligibility as an opponent. He held his sword vertically in front; it was long blade, extremely thin, made of a metal that sparked and glimmered a thousand pristine reflections. A rapier like sword, its body provided only range, not offence. The fatality was stored within its sharp tip.

Seeing his opponent raise his weapon, Nicholas did the same. His twin Alchemers sprang into his hands, fixed straight at the Skolver. His legs were slightly bent, his eyes transfixed; every little motion would send him springing backward unleashing a series of buzzing bullets.

“Very well.” the Skolver spoke solemnly. There was traces of reverence in his tone. “My name is Lance. Good luck.”

With that he charged forward. At precisely the same moment Nicholas leapt back, pulling the triggers consecutively and lightning speed.

The barrage of lilac-and-azure bullets travelled through the air, splaying out like a giant web that covered every direction Lance could possible go. That should buy him enough time to pull back and organise a second offensive.

That didn’t happen. Instead, Nicholas saw vacuum. The space behind Lance was briefly sucked empty. Sprinting with such a great velocity he evaded all bullets---they simply couldn’t reach him.

Nicholas’ heart thumped loudly. That speed...it was three times faster than that of a normal professional. With such momentum one could hardly think, let alone react. Yet Lance...not only had he managed to keep himself entirely conscious, but he could actually dodge.

Amidst the torrent of air ripping around him Lance cocked his head. A purple bullet whizzed past his face, enticing a few magentum sparks to leap into life. Not the least distracted, he slashed fiercely at Nicholas’ exposed shoulder. Unable to defend with both his arms held out, Nicholas was knocked back by the impact, yellow flames spewing out from his left shoulder.

He managed to hit Lance with his other gun while retreating. The white bullet made a solid hit on his chest, but the icy orb could not adhere and instead slid off.

At the same time Lance tapped his boost to the limit. A blue shot of steam blasted off the booster as the mist energy inside ignited. The boost depleted after that, but not before propelling Lance off his feet. Darting mid-air, he made a powerful thrust towards Nicholas’ throat, his blade tearing air apart, producing a thin, shrieking noise.

As soon as the tip of the blade encountered the energy field surrounding Nicholas, Lance felt something wrong. The energy field---it gave way to his blade too fluidly. Gasping, he hastily pressed his wrist down, converting the thrust into a slash. It pressed into Nicholas’ back, emitting a bright fury of golden sparks. The next moment he was forced to retreat; the slash merely did damage to his opponent’s energy, but didn’t obscure him from further action.

Nicholas retaliated with a powerful strike from his hammer. Lance could not dodge this as he was landing and his boost already depleted. It wasn’t worth to risk his fragile blade against his opponent’s gigantic hammer in such circumstances. His back itched. He knew it was his Divine Avenger calling him. It longed to be used, and now it was the chance.

A sequence of images formed in his mind. He could grab for the greatsword, then spin and deliver a backhand slash that would hit Nicholas before his hammer reached him. His left hand twitched with excitement and he hardly could suppress it.

However, revealing the Divine Avenger would be too risky. Riskier than clashing with his Flourish. The sword bore too much secrets, many long forgotten. He would not have the revelation premature.

Taking the brunt of the impact entirely with his left hand, he surfed on the momentum, flying towards the right. Using his left foot as the pivot point he rotated to slash at Nicholas’ abdomen. Narrowly Nicholas dodged the not-so-powerful slash, firing a bullet which explode on the aggressor’s chest.

Lance continued forward regardless, delivering another thrust at Nicholas’ chest. This time it hit, dropping Nicholas to the ground. Having finally emptied his respectable opponent’s energy gauge, he made a slight bow and remained, waiting for the next challenger.

Speed. Nicholas was completely taken aback. Only after the battle was over could he reflect upon his opponent’s prowess---his impregnable speed had forced him on the defensive from the first second. He could not make a single active move against him.

Apart from talent, how much training and work had Lance done to attain his level of skill? Nicholas couldn’t even speculate. That deadly thrust---so accurate even under extreme acceleration was still plaguing him. His shoulder was stinging. The blow, though much energy diverted at the last moment, had managed to pierce through his energy field and leave a scarlet line on his shoulder.

If that was aimed at his throat…

Nicholas was completely defeated. He wouldn’t have had chance to land the two extra blows.

The rest of the match went through quickly for him. He had managed to kill a few when Lance was busy slaughtering his teammates. Once he had even stole a kill off Lance. He didn’t feel proud or success though. The other team’s points increased constantly, while his was stagnated at a shameful 53.

He sighed with relief when the scoresheet popped up. The nightmare was over. He was surprised when he saw himself claiming 10 kills and a capture. He was even more surprised, when he looked at Lance’s statistics.

A part of him had expected this, but the other part still gawped in awe.

“Lance. 0 capture. 37 kills. 1 death. Longest killstreak: 21”

The audience cheered in sheer disbelief. Soon the Coliseum bathed in exuberant exultation; its guests had just witnessed the flaming rise of another Lockdown legend.

Nicholas wanted to play again. He wanted revenge. He knew that he would be soundly defeated, but he also knew he could never reach Lance’s power if he shied away from damage. However, Lance had already vanished from the Coliseum.

In much haste he managed to intercept Lance at the entrance. Lance spun round to face him, and said plaintively, “You did well.”

Nicholas’ face turned red. That irony had stung him. Yet as he looked into Lance’s face, he found nothing but genuity. “Tell me,” he demanded, “Why are you so strong?”

Lance walked over until he was face to face with Nicholas. “You don’t lack this,” he pointed at Nicholas’ long, artful arms. “You don’t lack this,” he pointed at his forehead. “You lack this.” he pointed at his chest, tapping against his vividly beating heart.

“What do you mean? I am not focused? Not determined? Not devoted to Lockdown wholeheartedly?” Nicholas sputtered at the speed of a machine gun firing.

“Sword.” Lance remarked. Much reverence was in this random comment.

“You mean I should practise with swords? But…” Nicholas was quizzical.

“No.” he grinned again, that light, amusing grin he once shown to the service lady. “You didn’t use your guns as how I wielded my sword.”

“No matter how hard you try, your gun is still only a gun. No matter how serious you are devoted in this, this is still merely a spectacular game that had allured you. Gun like how I sword.”

Leaving that Nicholas to digest, he began his wander. Nicholas’ voice rang from behind.

“Is there something I can help?”

Yep, there is. One crucial thing.

“Is there any cheap lodgings I can find?”

Nicholas hadn’t expected such an irrelevant question. He had imagined Lance to request something epic. Still, he beamed, and offered, “There’s a few near my home, quite far away but I can lend you a ride. Want to come?”

His hospitality seemed to have touched Lance. He stood in the snowstorm for a few moments, unmoving, then smiled again. “Sure. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem, my friend.” Nicholas, cute and amiable as ever, replied.

He whistled all the way to the car park where his motorcycle was parked. At least the day ended nicely. Lance’s last smile seemed so much more friendly...and humane.

On the motorcycle. Lance was meditating. Thoughts whirred in Nicholas’ mind, undisturbed by the intensifying storm. The world was white, and getting whiter still. The sky, fading in lustre, bellowed ominously. Snow fell, not the elegant sakura petals but malignant hailstones.

Wanderer. Skolver. Final Flourish. Impregnability. Coldness. “A Spectacular Game”.

Linking all the pieces, he now had a clearer idea who Lance was, though still entirely unsure.

At least, now he understood why Lance inquired on lodgings. He smiled. Things were getting more and more interesting, he definitely becoming a part of it.

Chapter 1 is conducted at an extremely slow pace. Things won't accelerate considerably but at least I have multiple storylines. I know the prologue sucks---Chapter 1 actually happens 1.5 minutes after the prologue (trololololol)

Nu,
I am NOT posting Chapter 2 here, though I already had it done 1.5 weeks ago.
If I continue to post like this a chapter a day, I'll soon find my existing chapters depleted.
and there's no damn way I can write 4k+ words a day
Well, actually I can, but my mom will surely charge over, slap me on the face (slam!), and roar, "WTF are you doing with ur computer stop being an addict do some work revision etc etc."
No, my mom is a good lady. And I agree with her that I can't just sit in front of my lappy and spam 4k words a day.
enough trash talk. Time for some feedback:
Effer: Ben George is just a start. If you prefer I can add Richard and Joe Chan (if that pleases you!) to my death toll. When are we doing FSC again? Love!
Popoixd: You are the kindle of innovation required to tear ripples in the dead water called literature. Keep up with your style, never falter or sway to the peasantry rabble, and some day you'll clutch the Nobel Prize! /e cheers
Tedme: Did I hear grammar? Joking. If you could afford to write more add a bit of psychological illustration and background (include symbols!), that really works. An impressive quotation, just one line, could decide the theme, tone and quality of your chapter.

So...I was damn bored on the Physics lesson and I started to think about my fanfic. How do I get more views and replies? Then I realised:
Character Application
Yup. No matter how derpy your fic is, views are guaranteed iff (if and only if) you dish out this dark magik wand. (logik iz dark magik!)
I am doing my own Character Application :w:
There are several categories you can apply into:

1. A few randoms whose only purpose is to be mentioned on the death toll; Power=?; Mortality=100%
2. A few LD losers whose only purpose is to be defeated; Power=5; Mortality=very low?
3. A few less rubbish guilds and their members to be defeated in the Guild Lockdown tournament; Power=50; Mortality=very low?
4. A few people to go on to a mission only to be trashed by a Snarbolax (btw Snarby is strong in mah story); Power=100; Mortality=medium
5. A few officers or warriors who will happen a few times and have a lil'bit of fighting; Power=200?; Mortality=high
6. A few dicky politicians and high-ordered Spiral Order Knights; Power=5~250?; Mortality=low
7. A few Strikers who are friends and comrades of the supposed protagonists; Power=200~400; Mortality=variable, quite high
8. A few lovely hot girls (or boiz?) whose only purpose is srsly I dunno; Power=?; Mortality=?
9. One or two strong commanders/generals who will have some serious action; Power=300~450; Mortality=high? :3
10. A bawss-like Master of the Swords for the Strikers; Power=over 9000!; Mortality=over 9000!

If you want to apply, please state the name of your character, sex, and anything you want to add. Please also specify the character category you are applying to.
Names like "Ernest", "Jill" or "Liz" will be accepted (I guess), but I don't want derpy names like "Derpyhoovesyeah" or "DarkarchonworldeaterwhatsoeverIthinkmynameiscoolprocomposedofseveralderpywordsIsawfromthedictionaryorLoLorStarcraft"

You can gimme the bare minimum; the name and sex. But then, I'll probably write your guy like this:
"Lance looked at the guy before him. Lance could see he is a guy from his flaring nostrils and prominent Adam's Apple. He is smiling. He wore a shirt, and see what! Trousers! So he wasn't naked, Lance noted. He held a piece of metal...something long and quite pointy...with a handle on one side. To his horror, Lance realised what it was; a very, very generic proto sword! Before he could unsheath his blade someone slapped the guy from behind and he died. Oops, his name was probably James."

Good luck, have fun, and support this act of total insanity!

@Thinslayer: Guns charging is perfectly fine. I'll just say its an action of discharging more power in the same duration, that requires some prior heating. I don't want to meddle much with the mechanics since that's really not the point of the story. But swords are seriously NOPE, since I treat them as pieces of metals.

@Vinny: Stop being a noob.

I'll wait for more character apps then :3 I seriously need some people to fail for the story!

No, none of these kind.
But rather,
The writer deluded his readers .
Each chapter is a thread, longer and messier than the last. Where will they lead to? Soon they will tangle, bundle, into a great mess of fiber, spiralling down into an inescapable abyss of sorrow that overtakes you (spare my EU3 reference xD)
Chapter 3 is even more delusional in this way. But things get better after Chapter 6. Continue reading (advertisement) :3

If you don't have time, just fill in the bare minimum, something like:
Name: James Sex: Who cares Category: 1
And I'll have this translated to:

Evera scanned the crisp white piece of paper, squinting to make out the beady alphabets. "So..." she mumbled, tossing and spinning a steel throwing-knife in her hand, "We've lost a lot of people yesterday."
"Yeah..." her friend, Asta, sighed sadly, "Ben George...Joe Chan...then there is James."
"James..." Evera whispered the name several times, quite confused. "Who is James?"

Also, please tell me what do you want the interval between each chapter to be: 2 days? 3 days? 4 days? 1 Haven Cycle? 30 minutes? A few parsecs? (seriously parsec is not a time unit :w:)

Thanks and have a real nice weekend! Play more Lockdown!

I have to confess...after finishing Chapter 3 about 2 weeks ago, I...
turned my story prematurely into complete cr@p.
Let's start this epicness.

Blackmore's Night---Shadow of the Moon A song worth listening over and over.
"In the shadow of the moon,
She danced in the starlight
Whispering a haunting tune
To the night...

......

Feeling lonely, feeling sad,
She cried in the moonlight.
Driven by a world gone mad
She took flight...

"Feel no sorrow, feel no pain,
Feel no hurt, there's nothing gained...
Only love will then remain,"
She would say."

Chapter 3

At night she stood, wandering among the mystic lilac mist. The blue corn moon wooed softly to the barren field below. The field, devoid of any life whatsoever, glinted with much melancholy. Endless piles of the fallen---corpses, beasts, weapons, dotted and marked the ashen, burnt soil. In the unspeaking moonlight they moaned enigma, their tender, bloating bodies mourning softly of their abrupt demise.

What were they thinking; hatred, sorrow or guilt? What were the fighting for; justice, faith or pride? The wanderer had no answer.

Among the fallen she stood, exceedingly fair and exotic. A swivel of a shadow, gliding swiftly through the seams of decadence. Her purple form shimmered distant among the broken blades; she studied each with quizzical patience, but did not pick up any.

Her black eyes were unnerving, unmoving. They were clear like crystals but reflective like mirrors. Her pupils captured the carnage in its entirety, but her soul reacted to nothing. Hell abound presided in her eyes, yet her mind untainted, unmoved.

Cold the night breeze, colder her face. The mists whirled around her, twisting and tangling, writhing like a knot of snakes. That she waved away casually, condensing on her palm droplets of crystalline, violet dew.

Numbness. She could not speak, for her voice was locked and soundless. She could not shed a tear, for her eyes were but transfixed onto the scene. She could not bend down, and stroke their pallid, bloodied faces, for she wasn’t even there. All she could was to wander, floating, a flickering, fleeting existence so naked and exposed in the eyes of the newly dead.

At day she lingered on, her existence rendered obsolete by the scorching heat. The sun, blazingly magnificent, sown on the ground below a field of gold. Steam rose vividly, from the dews, from the creaks in the earth, from the bloated, diminishing bodies of the soldiers. The steam---stirring, a substance of impurity, of the rank stench of rot and the burnt flavor of life.

Among the clashing she stood, graceful, exotic, exceedingly fair. Yet her face was pale, her form dashed. The sun brought down on her a bright glimmer, an aura golden and extremely imposing that sapped her purple, pale form.

Among the warring she glided, swift and elegant, across the clambering swords and brandishing claws. Great hordes of armies, some human, some beastly, confronted with innate ferocity. They fought with savage obstinacy, solid, courageously adamant. Totally unyielding.

She glided among them, her lavender form shimmering weakly among the blinding tips of their swords, claws, and other mortal instruments. From distance she looked majestic, a royal figure clad in rich burgundy and crimson. From close she looked ghouly, bathed in rich, rank blood.

The deafening roars didn’t shake her. The moans and cries of the dead didn’t move her. She stood silent among the living and the dead. One side were knights, clad in fine armour, charging and fighting with valiance. The other side was the Night, red, silver and black, furiously bloodthirsty and excessively chaotic.

Both sides she eyed; the bright, valiant Knights, she neither hated or liked. The dark, beastly Night, which had invoked astir her fluctuating thoughts.

Resonance was her term. Deep in the reclusive soul of hers she rediscovered something---a strange mixture, grasping her heart like a muddy, rapid torrent.

She knew what that was when she looked into the bloodshot, glowering eyes of a Trojan, a wrathful entity amount its skeletal horse. The eye stirred, and beneath the pretension of blood hot fury, the existence she could identify.

Emotion. Suddenly, she was alive again. Still the wispy, pale figure, but a solid mind and soul. Abhorrence and weariness of the bloodbath surfaced, followed by empathy for the belligerents and sadness for the perished.

She realised a lot---for one thing, the valiant, chivalric Knights with their self-justified cause were not the “better” side in this battle. In terms of life and death every single creature was weighted the same. And, she knew, that the Night had its casus belli as well.

The field was now full of blood, lusty and hot. It was warm as it first exited its master, a thick, flowing liquid much like ruby. But when it cooled, and all signs of life left, it became a sad clump of black, crusty solid. Only the smell and the stark truth remained.

She wanted to cry out, to tell them stop their meaningless fighting. Yet her mouth was full of blood, its sanguinary rankness clogging thick in her throat, constricting her breath.

She struggled. For a moment something sneaked into her mind, a thought sinister and rabid. Suddenly, she felt an immense hatred---one towards the Knights; the images of bloodshed coursed in her veins, hateful, dominating---

Then she realised she wasn’t here. She was merely a shadow, an observant, a fleeting glimpse. The world here didn’t belong to her.

If that was so, who was she? She had no answer of that, either.

Ah, you are here, Child of Darkness.

She screened around. The owner of the voice was nowhere to be seen. All around her the battle raged on, with ever increasing brutality. She was disgusted.

Child of Darkness, finish your wandering. It’s time to awake.

A part of her resisted to that voice. She should not wake, it called. Yet another part---the truer, closer part, was tired of the carnage and death she had already witnessed for an inexplicable amount of time.

Child, what are you waiting for? The proceeding events are not for you.

She was torn between the two parts of her mind. One urged her to stay on, to witness in full what was happening next. The other yearned for nothing but peace, and peace in her own world.

Child of Night, why cling hopelessly to the blinding light of the day? You simply don’t belong there. Your solace is the dark and immaculate night.

She was confused. She didn’t know what to trust---her torn, conflicting mind or the voice. Finally the longing for peace and sanctity overwhelmed the desire to know.

I shall wake.

Her eyes fluttered open to a bright, hazy sky. Azure dotted with beautiful, white clouds, it placated her and soothed her puzzled head. A cool breeze enveloped round, fresh and pure without a slight hint of lush grass.

Who am I? She seemed not to know.

Name. My name...what is it? V..Vin...Vin---

Vindeus.

Vindeus rose, her flowing purple hair brushing smoothly against her exposed back. She surveyed around; the earth was soft and moisturous; a green carpet, comprised of lush grass beaming with a lively emerald; pillars of stone rose everywhere, their texture smooth and white like marble. Birds twittered and chittered, spreading their gaudy wings, gliding in the air. Apparently not afraid of her, one landed on her lap, studying her with its innocent, beady eyes.

Beautiful and Peace. However,

Why am I here?

She stood up, discovering the weak state of her body. She had either been badly malnourished, which was a definite no judging from her healthy complexion, or had been in a coma for long.

Why?

She walked down the steps. What she had slept on was not natural: a random stack of large, smooth-surfaced cubes, pure white like snow. More of these cubes were present, of various shapes and sizes, some embedded in the pillars and the grass, some suspended in the air.

She had absolutely no idea why she was there. Worse, she had no information of where this place led to. Not knowing where to go, she wandered around in the beautiful but isolated paradise. She encountered more bird on the way; also flowers, exuberantly gorgeous, of unknown species.

On her way ideas formed in her mind, clustered and unclear. Then they faded again.

Finally she reached a place of oddity. It was a little square pool. The edge was white, the same texture as the cubes. Long, thin prisms of translucent crystals floated above, its clarity only rivalled by the water below.

She stared into the calm, crystalline surface, and the reflection that was clearly painted there. She looked into herself. A feminine face, presumably young; she had never remembered how old she was. Deep, large eyes with stunning black pupils and long, elegantly curved eyelashes. A small, delicate nose and thin lips. Her face was of a light complexion, nearly flawless and without a mark. Her long, purple flowed down her shoulder, interspersed with strands of black and silver. A ruffled bang covered parts of her forehead.

Memories flushed back. She tugged at her black-and-silver vest uneasily---she had remembered it to be white. But well, fashion would be only another mystery waiting to be solved. Other memories were more important.

I am Vindeus. A traveller. I have traversed this planet to where no one had dare gone before.

She remembered how she came here. Defeating a wild Snarbolax, she had it tamed and rode it all the way, through innumerable forests, mountains and swamps. And then…

Then she couldn’t recall. As she pushed further, an immense headache seized her.

A giant anvil seemed to have banged into her head. Failing to control herself, she let out a loud, agonizing yelp.

What was that…

The residing pain of the immense seizure caused her to bend down and breathe heavily, creating ripples in the still water. The ripples sent more memories to sprawl into existence.

Abruptly she rose, walking quickly over to a patch of bush where she believed her weapons and equipments to have been hidden. She retrieved her cloak, frowning---the colour had again changed into a dark purple. Same with her weapons---lying there were some fine pieces which she didn’t recognize.

She picked up the blade and studied it closely. It was a lacklustre, black blade with a purple glow. Long and slightly curved, it exhibited an explicit perception of death.

Child of Darkness, let this be my blessing.

How come...She had wanted to refused this gift. Yet she knew by heart what it was named.

Acheron.

The name sent more echoes into her skull.

Echo. Echo…

Her guild? Did she even have a guild?

Reality Echo.

She was more confused than ever. This place was not intended for her to stay on. She had to leave.

Things will sort themselves out later. I have to go back.

Picking up her cloak and draping it over her body, she started off towards the reality. The new acquired blade hung on her shoulder, smiling menacingly from behind.

Things will get better.

She exited the bright sanctuary to control the darkness beyond. Yet that was not where she belonged. She abhorred the darkness and the chaos.

Child of Darkness...she joked.

Where do I belong?

“!”

With a gasp Mira scrambled down from her bed. She sat on the floor, leaning against the bed frame, exhaling sharply. Placing her hand onto her chest, she could feel her heartbeat---quick, rash, even urgent.

“What was happening…?” she murmured. A slight tugging was felt below neck; she looked down. The chain of runes she wore hissed slightly. She touched the central one; it was extraordinarily warm. With a delicate finger she deliberately traced its contour and inscriptions, feeling a electric tinge go up her fingers. Viewing closely, she could spot a slight glow and a small surge of vapour that escaped the rune’s porous surface.

In a single stroke her fingers scanned through the rest of the runes. A low chorus of humming was heard, one of danger and urgency.

“Tell me,” the humming intensified.

“What has disturbed the flow.”

Light blue emanated from the chain of runes, seeping through the pores and onto Mira’s face. Suddenly, they lifted themselves into the air, edging slowly towards her. She gasped faintly.

She tapped into the runes, sensing the irritated flow. She felt, beneath the seemingly correspondent order of nature, a novel shadow of death. As she drilled deeper she saw it; a great current of purely destructive emotion, rising unopposed through the desolated depths.

It was...something devil. Something that wouldn’t follow the rules, that did not abide to the laws and balance of life and death. It was seductive, elusive, delusional. And when it danced, rejoicing in its macabre glory, the world danced with it.

This is not good. What has unleashed you from your stupor?

Mira had no answer of that. As the runes faded, her mind became increasingly disturbed. She knew the dark image would kept her from sleep tonight.

She rose and went for the door, retrieving the cloak that she had hung there earlier. In the darkness her vision was sharp; closing the door in silence, she travelled noiseless through the corridor, through the evacuated, dimly-lit common room, and finally out of the camp.

The huge, metal door glided into its original position, leaving Mira alone in the wild. A single step out of the door, the difference was already so obvious. Contrary to the static, inanimate suspension inside, the night here teemed with life---and danger.

Outside the landscape were but different shades of black. The trees and shrubs that comprised the front view were a more solid black, their contours sharp and distinct. Behind swirled the mists, pale and blurring, a complex shade of deep, unnerving grey. The mountains and canyons rose sharp in the distance, a milky shade of monotone extending into the horizon.

The night was not silent. The wind was strong, hustling, sending the tall, swerving trees to brush against each other; the noise was soft but perplexing, constantly reminding her of a particularly grimness. There were squeaks: nocturnal animals, insects, the unstable, drunken pendulum motion of a tree about to topple.

More prominent was the sound heard at the ambience. A low rumble, a consistent grumble of rocks against earth, perpetual like the ceaseless groaning of a volcano about to erupt. Ambers leapt into existence, illuminating the swathes of thick mist. Mira blinked. Not an illusion.
‘
An ill omen. Mira recited from her past teachings.

Night, what has awakened you from your protracted slumber?

I am here. Alive.

Mira gasped. What was that?

My servant, have you been seeking me?

Mira knew. The hidden malevolence in its eloquent speech was unmistakable.

Come to me, o faithful one. Fall into my reincarnated embrace.

So elusive, sweet and fatherly. Mira was compelled---

I know you have been waiting for a long time. Come to me for the reward I promised.

She felt an inexplicable urge to reach out for the dark, swirling mists. Dangerous, deadly, she knew; but also magnetic and irresistible. Sensing the immediacy of the danger, her runes burned in warning.

She yelped, surprised by the sudden pain, which expelled the manipulating voice from her soul. She recalled one thing: the Goddess Divine never promised her followers any reward.

Why are you hesitating? Come to my reach and receive blessing abound.

Mira refused.

Calmly, she confronted the shadow, “No, you are not who I follow.”

Are you lost, my poor Priest? Let me guide you to salvation.

With that the shadow condensed into a form. A hand, reaching, grappling for her. She stood there, undaunted, not even evading. As the darkness reached her it was rebounded by a sharp jolt of blue flash.

Her runes were burning, projecting an aura around Mira’s frame, preventing the shadow from entering. Hissing, the great, malformed hand knocked against it, unable to break through.

My Priest, what are you doing? Recognise your rightful patron!

“No, you are not the Divinity.” she stated. “ The runes speak it all.”

One day, one day. You’ll know punishment. And I promise the day would be soon.

“Never mind. I serve the Divinity with faith.” she spatted contemptuously. Then she left.

Having switched on the light, she grabbed a piece of paper and started writing.

The rest she would explain when she got back.

Among the bushes she leapt, a flaming figure riding a red wolf. A great battle cry was shouted, followed by a shocking roar of her mount.

The soldiers, marching across the forest, could not react. In a few moments those who took the brunt of impact had all but fallen. The rest of the legion, however, was undaunted. Hoisting their shields, they formed a cobalt wall surrounding the ambusher. She could see more than two dozen guns trained at her, ready to fire and blast off her head on command.

She smiled reassuringly, knowing that the moment wouldn’t arrive. She watched in amusement a scout approaching his officer in scrambling haste, whispering in panic. The officer paled upon hearing the message, and turned to bark an order.

Within seconds the rearguard formed another shield wall opposite to her. Moments later, the Riders charged from the bushes.

With a frantic scurry, the soldiers started firing at the shadows appearing so suddenly. A few were shot down, but more struck their javelins into the wall, striking down the defenders and creating gaps in the legion. The officer, steady as ever, ordered reinforcements to be sent to supplement the scene of war.

This the feminine figure watched and nodded approval.

A good commander there. The decision was almost perfect but…

The one moment of distraction was what she required.

A bloodthirsty grin materialised on her face. At lightning speed she unsheathed her weapon---a burning, jagged fang of a blade with a lava-like texture.

“That was a mere decoy.” she wielded her savage blade, faster than the passing wind, towards the shields in front with a furious slash. With their bulky shields cluttered together, the guards could not evade. Gripping their shields with extra strength, they braced valiantly for the offensive. Behind the gunmen fumbled noisily for the trigger.

“Here’s the real danger.” as the blade was about to contact solid with the shields and get rebounded, it erupted.

Burn with me. A maelstrom of searing flame erupted from the blade, adhering vividly onto the blade and encircled her body. The lead bullets were mostly deflected by the storm; one passed through, leaving a scratch on her face.

Gritting their teeth in defeat, the gunmen reached for the Blaster strapped to their waist; its bullets, in the form of pure energy, could pass through the flame barrier unopposed.

Too late to notice. The sharp noise of metal against metal was heard. The rapid, sucking noise of extreme combustion was also heard. More was the startled, agonizing cry of the defenders.

Tempest. The maelstrom had evolved into a full-scale tempest, a cyclone of red-hot plasma latching its tongue onto any unfortunate passerby. Around it the brave soldiers scattered, thrown mid-air, burning, crying, their efforts rendered completely futile.

Amidst the tempest she felt it---the red-hot, burning temptation of the flames. But before she could reach for it in exultation, she felt a sharp tug to her stomach, followed by a rapid drain of strength. Her arm limped, the flames enveloping distinguished. Not a wisp of smoke was seen.

Victory is already our’s. Scattered and demoralized, the remaining troops, those not charred and blackened, could only become prey.

The officer slumped on the ground, his face dirty, his coolness nowhere. His legs trembled involuntarily as she closed in.

“Ha...Ha..Halfblood…” he stammered. A murky liquid flowed thickly out of his trousers. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. It smelled.

“I am the Halfblood Princess.” she snapped impatiently. Toting her sword, a new burst of crimson flames engulfed his horrified eyes.

It was dusk. Scratching at her facial wound playfully, she studied the map with her subordinates. “So, we’ve won another skirmish today. But we also had quite a few down, and while they could incessantly replenish their forces, we couldn’t.”

“Princess, why don’t we retreat via the Western Pass?” a young warrior suggested.

“Entirely unviable. From what I know, they have put in a considerable number of forces into this operation. Not only would retreating via the usual route,” she pointed finger towards an area of valleys on the map, “bring us into direct contact with the bulk of the Spiral Order,”

“But they would most likely have garrisoned the Western Pass.” another warrior continued.

“Correct. They are more numerous and could afford extensive scouting actions. We couldn’t. If we decided to retreat via that path we would find ourselves smashed to bits in our passage. Which means,” she tugged at her dragon-scale armour, “Our only way to go is further West.”

“Princess, are you sure?” an older one enquired, “That would very soon bring us into the Gloaming Wildwoods.”

The Riders shivered. Dying was one thing, but venturing blindly into the Wildwoods and be torn into pieces to feed its inhabitants was another.

“I know now!” the first warrior exclaimed. “That’s the whole point of their initiative---to trap the whole Dusk Riders here, and either kill us or make the beasts kill us. And with the best force of Almire now gone,” he eyed his dragon-scale clad, flaming commander with awe, “Also the best general in all Almire, they could mount an invasion against the demoralised Kingdom!”

“Thanks for the compliment, Ashar.” she smiled confidently. Its always good to have someone admire you, fight for you, sacrifice for you. “However, we are still going into the Wildwoods.”

The whole group of Riders hushed in unison. They had faith in their Princess, but this was all too risky and courageous.

Facing the glares of disbelieve, she rose. Her large frame, clad with fine, red-and-brown dragon-scale, seemed so imposing with her flaming cherry hair. “No worries. In the name of Atalia, the Halfblood Princess, the Heiress of the Fang, I will you safety.”

The crowd cheered half-heartedly. She shrugged the apprehension away, insteading raising her blade.

“Anyone, or creature, that lies in our way.” she poised the Fang high overhead. With a single thought it erupted into a pillar of scorching heat and glamour.

“Will burn!”

Around Atalia, the awed and spirited Riders cheered in wholehearted unison.

Well after the meeting. The Riders were having a quick dinner---bread, dried meat and cheese. After that they would quickly set camp and sleep. Atalia paced around. Something was bothering her, but she could not figure out.

Fang, what is that approaching? There’s a strange feel in me.

Little Princess, listen carefully.

So she did, placing her ear against the ground. Then she heard it. The sound of an army marching through the vegetation, not far away from their camp. “Curse that.”

Hurriedly she approached her second-in-command, then busy finishing his dinner. “Yes, Princess?” he asked, his voice blurred by the foodstuff in his mouth.

“I need you to get the Riders moving. Now. Move towards the Wildwoods.”

“And you, Princess?”

“I’ll suffice as the rear guard. Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you.”

“Are you sure this is good? I mean, if the scenario is indeed that we need to evacuate…”

“Worrying about me? Not typical of you. I’ll be safe and sound, Vercin, remember what I promised.”

“OK, Princess. I’ll get them moving. Take care.”

Vercin moved around, barking at his comrades to rise and get mounted. Soon they were ready, on their Duskers, riding out toward the west. Before leaving, he shot a concerned glance at the beloved Princess. She replied with a blatantly confident smile.

The cool night breeze blew around her, lifting her cherry hair, fluttering. It looked alike to the flames that she commanded, twirling and flickering. The dragon-scale armour glistened a majestic red under the faint moonlight. Her short skirt fluttered wordlessly. Donning her exquisite, burgundy shoulder guards and shin guards, she was ready to fight. And she promised herself, she would not be the loser.

Vercin leaned against his Dusker, tapping his foot impatiently. They had reached the verge of the Wildwoods an hour ago, but did not dare go in.

Where was the Princess? He was increasingly worried. Atalia was a strong woman---she had verified that with her bravery and prowess at war. But could she fend off an army, sent to destroy the whole Dusk Riders? He didn’t dare think.

“Captain! Something’s not right!”

“What?” Vercin demanded.

“My Dusker...it couldn’t stop howling.”

“Mine too!” “So is mine!”

“Peace.” Vercin heralded. Though he wasn’t as dominant a figure as the Princess, he was still, in fact, her second-in-command. “This could only mean one thing.”

The fiery shadow emerged from behind. The crystal-clear, confident voice proclaimed, “The Halfblood Princess and her Ash Tail are both here.”

Instantly, the Riders bursted into yet another frenzy wave of cheering. Vercin studied the victorious Princess carefully; there were multiple bullet marks on her dragon-scale mail; her skirt was torn and bullet-ridden; a piece of her shoulder guard went missing and the laces of her knee-length leather boots were loosened.

A few scratches and shallow gashes existed on her exposed arms and legs. But nothing major was inflicted. Sighing with relief, Vercin questioned the Princess in admiration, “Princess, how did you manage to overpower that army?”

Atalia smiled, boastful and vainglorious. “Of course I couldn’t kill them all. Even if the Fang could supply so much power, I simply couldn’t hold it. So I did the clever thing and sniped down quite a few of their commanders.”

Murmurs of realisation spread quickly across the Riders.

Wiping the condensed flakes of blood off her face, Atalia commanded her troops, “Why loiter around? Hurry up and into the Wildwoods.”

Her troops shuffled hesitantly towards the unknown. But after a few steps they stopped.

“Riders, what’s wrong with you? Where’s your self-proclaimed courage?”

“No, Princess…” a Rider stuttered, “something...huge...coming towards us…”

Indeed. The unknown beast stampeded across the earth, howling ferociously. In a great leap it pounced out of the woods, knocking an unfortunate Rider miles backward. The rest unsheathed their weapons in grave alert.

The beast cocked its head, letting out a long, inflaming howl. Sparks of fire could be seen from its breath. With gigantic, burning eyes and the golden mane emboldened with animated crimson, the beast shed the alerted Riders a derisive glance.

“Don’t worry.” Atalia grinned casually. “It’s an old friend.”

She raised her Fang, pointing towards the great beast. The beast’s eyes bulged upon viewing the blade. Then it burned, roaring, flames congregating onto its body like a new layer of majestic, fiery mane. Responding to the beast, the Fang burned vehemently.

She walked towards the legendary beast, wolf-like but multiple times larger---and multiple hundreds of times deadlier. The beast studied her ominously, but then submitted, lowering itself for her to lightly stroke its prominence-like mane.

You have answered to my calling, Vog.

Which means.

A new era is about to dawn.

Sorry for making things confused, I didn't do that deliberately. But I gotta entertain myself as well ;__;

Why no one apply to category 1. You can post up to a million entries at once and they'll most likely be accepted.

OK...I srsly need some feedback on the length and duration between each post. Too long? Too short? Post too often? Not often enough? Please help.

Edit: I'll do a reply to all character applicants and talk about what I want them to be in the story later, perhaps tomorrow or the day after. I could always fit it in for you as my story enables extreme flexibility. Love!

Edit: Topo you doing Char. Apps? I desperately need spare names for category 1 and 2 :3 And feel free to spam more hot guiz/galz for my use ><

English is not my first language. I am still studying IB Prep year now, and I don't plan to do higher level next year...too hard for meh
As for writing, I think that if you have a heart and you can dream, you are awesome. Grammar and literary devices and everything else added can't catch up to one thing---your dream.

That's what I've conjured in my month in Australia:
"What I write are words
What I compose are sentences
What I tell are stories
What I weave is fantasy
What I create are worlds"

"What I illuminate is my soul
What I redeem are my dreams."

I think that explains it all, what I write, how I want to write (though great gaps exist between ability and wishes...). At times like this when I have written 2.5k a day I felt strangely tired...and a bit philosophical. And derpy.
And its too long. But I can't stop :<