Crew Expendable

Hello again world! Am I the most inconsistent blogger in the world? Probably! Nonetheless, here I am once more. I do fully mean for this blog to become a regular thing - once I find a nice balance between working on my various writing projects / actual paying work / and thinking of interesting topics to talk about I'll be here much more often.

Before we begin, allow me to shamelessly plug the amazing anthology my first short story was recently published in. Www.daylightdims.com - feel free to peruse the snazzy website, learn more about the anthology, and if you feel so inclined head on over to Amazon and pick up a copy - what's Halloween without great horror literature after all?

Now on to the matter at hand. I am an experienced veteran of the Horror genre - this includes nearly every medium from books and movies to video games and the like. Being truly scared while reading/watching/playing is not something that happens often these days - movies that people swear gave them nightmares for weeks leave me with nothing but a sense of wasted time and money. My fiance and I both have been long seeking something to feed the old horror furnace, but until recently nothing has caught fire.

Sure, movies such as The Conjuring were enjoyable and a little creepy at times - but scary? I'd have to say no. The last true movie to deeply frighten me and leave an indelible mark upon my soul that no amount of time will remove was Antichrist directed by the somewhat controversial Lars von Trier. If you are expecting a glowing recommendation of the film then I am sad to say you will not find one here. I can appreciate the beauty of the movie and the talent behind what I saw - but I am not lying when I say that film may have actually bitten off a piece of my soul never to be seen again. One thing is certain though, I will never be able to look at Willem Dafoe in the same light ever again. If this post piques your curiosity I am warning you, with as much gravity that I can muster, that the things you will see are truly disturbing. Now, I'm going to push on before my mind is completely taken over by the images I can still recall with crystal clear clarity from the movie.

Being October I find it only natural to talk about horror and all things macabre - though once more my discussion finds its roots in the depths of outer space in a world created by Ridley Scott.

Yes yes, I know - yet ANOTHER attempt to form a playable experience out of one of (if not my favorite) sci-fi horror franchises. Why you ask, why would I even give the title a second glance after the botched monstrosity that was Aliens: Colonial Marines? Well...this is why.

Finally, the perfect scenario. No huge guns, no horrible attempts to match the macho playfulness of space marines, and seemingly no hope of survival - much like our friend the Xenomorph, to me this title is perfection.

The story (I can't spoil anything even if I wanted to as I've been playing for hours and still have not gotten past the first few meetings with our Xenomorph pal without a giant spiked tail through my sternum) follows Ripley's daughter, Amanda, in between the first and second films. Naturally, when one's mother goes missing in space on a routine salvage mission you would be curious as to where she went. For those of us that have seen Alien in all of its glory, well we know what happened. After an offer from some higher ups, Amanda is given the opportunity to accompany a small crew in the hopes of discovering exactly what happened to her mother and the crew of the missing ship the Nostromo.

First of all, what makes this game scary? Well, where to begin. I purchased the title on Xbox One (against my better judgement) and was pleasantly surprised to see how the Kinect was used to enhance the experience. The Kinect not only tracks your head movement (allowing you to peek around corners and over objects in order to scare the shit out of yourself) it also detects noise in the room. Allow me to explain.

I sit crouched behind some type of metallic alloy crate. Somewhere around me the hissing breath of the alien echoes - it knows I'm near. I constantly steal glances at the ceiling, this isn't my first rodeo - I know the bastard can crawl on ceilings, but I see no threats. Tink...tink...tink....shhhhhhh - the sound of sharp chitinous claws on metal, and the telltale scrape of that horrific tail - it's getting closer. I hold my breath and hold down the button that allows the Kinect to transfer my head motion onto the screen, I peek over the stack of crates - OHSHITTHEREITIS. I release the button, crouching back behind the boxes, my heart hammering in my chest. Like I said though, this isn't my first rodeo and just like in every game if I wait long enough it'll wander off. I smile to myself, restoring some sense of calm - just play it cool daddy-o. Oh no. My right nostril twitches. Not now. I clamp a hand over my nose, my face contorts as I fight a sneeze. No no no no no no no no nonooooooACHHOOOO!! In a nightmarish blur of speed and mind shattering shrieks the Alien vanishes, it's over. Before I can even make a break for it I can hear it breathing behind me, I can imagine the long strings of saliva dangling from one of its many fanged mouths. A black clawed hand obscures my view and a spiked tail tears through my chest. Game over man...game over.

While there are various tools and even guns you came across during the title, standing and fighting your alien adversary is not advisable - take a pipe to all the people you want, but mess with the big dog and you get eaten. The feeling of utter helplessness in the face of such an overwhelming enemy makes this game a one of a kind experience. Where other games (such as Amnesia: The Dark Descent) have tread down a similar path, the focus here is completely on the environment and the experience.

Unlike the bastardized version of Aliens in Aliens: Colonial Marines - this game actually does look THAT good when you play it. No bait and switch here, play this game on a big enough television and you'll swear you could walk right into any hallway pictured before you. The ambiance is perfect, the sound is perfect, the lighting is perfect, hell even the horrifically difficult learning curve is perfect. This is not a game to play if you want to feel powerful, if you're the type that can only get by with a mini gun in his hands and endless ammo then you will not enjoy your stay here. You are going to die, you are going to forget to save and you are going to die. There are even streams of the game on Hard mode going just to see how long someone lasts during the first confrontation with the beast, spoiler alert - no one lasts long. 

I'm currently playing on medium, a difficulty level I usually ignore due to my long history of game playing - but here the beast confounds me at every turn. Every careful plan and every stealthy maneuver only seems to land me in the horrible arms of my hunter. 

If true survival-horror is your bag, then look no further. If you can put up with dying repeatedly without throwing a temper tantrum and enjoy being part of a truly terrifying atmosphere, then this is the right derelict space-station for you. Now, I believe I have an elevator to attempt to sneak into....

What about the music?

Greeting once more! Today I'd like to tackle a subject that holds a great unspoken importance to myself - Music. Before we continue, this is not a discussion of video game music (though I'm sure some will make its way into the conversation), this is more of a glimpse into the constant soundtrack running behind my life. I need music, I don't think about it often but every activity I undertake simply must be accompanied by music - driving, playing games, writing, cooking dinner, doing laundry, walking, running, you name it I need a soundtrack to it. Someone who spends ridiculous amounts of time discovering new music (*cough* me) has more power in their hands than they may at first could have imagined.

If you'll allow to me to wax philosophical for a brief moment, as little as I know about the actual creation of music (as I have absolutely no talent in the field...except for making playlists) I do know one thing. Knowing yourself through music that ignites emotions inside you opens doors you never thought possible to pass through, how you may ask. I'll do my best to illuminate you on my opinions of my age old friend and long time muse - music.

Before I can truly dive into my opinions, it is worth mentioning that even though there are some types of music I truly despise hearing (my apologies Country fans) I still consider each and every genre to be music. The constant back and forth battle of "does a having a band vs. not having a band matter" has no right answer. There are artists in both categories that I adore that I also feel are talented musicians. Oh right, I should be posting what I'm listening to as I write this I believe.

Aussie hip/hop - that's right. Bliss N Eso, if you haven't listened to them you are most certainly missing out. I've grown weary of modern day hip-hop consisting of only streams of curse words and threats of violence. Bliss N Eso actually have a "bad reputation" for being "too positive." How this is a problem or why it would detract from their listeners is beyond me.

This is definitely a strange post for me to write, talking about music is something I rarely ever do - it simply has been with me throughout my life and has always held the same grave importance. I'm not going to create a list of my favorite bands, or even attempt some fumbling attempt at a top ten list - it would be impossible. My "favorite band" has evolved with me as I've grown. What I will do however is continue posting the tracks running behind this blog post as I go along - it is worth mentioning that this playlist is one I recently put together out of a rough timeline if my tastes as I've grown up. Our first track comes to you from the heady days of middle school.

Yeah I listened to Limp Bizkit, and yeah I loved Limp Bizkit. Hell I saw them in concert with Metallica (another long time favorite) - no shame. Every piece of music has a special place - for example, heading into a soccer game against my school's rival team with Break Stuff blasting in my headphones completely changed how I mentally entered the game. Therein lies the power of music, while it is certainly possible for a particular track to change how you feel in the moment - to me the most important quality lies within music's ability to augment what you are currently feeling and act as a source of power to fuel that desired emotion. Track change!

Incubus still holds the record of the band that I considered to be my "favorite" for the longest time. This track is also my only musically oriented tattoo (for now). My listening habits also tend to be far different from others, I attribute this to my natural interest in writing. My first few listens to a song always have me focusing on what the lyrics are, around the 3rd or 4th listen I allow the actual instruments/electronic equipment to seep in and give the words more punch. If your lyrics don't at least entertain me I can't finish the song - hence my problem with most Top 40 music today. I love the lyrics in almost every single Incubus song, they have recently fallen from my listening pool in recent years but they provided me with years of beautiful music that  I will never forget.

Enter early-mid high school.

I suppose now it is easier to see where all of the cross-pollination between genres showed up within my music taste. From Alternative, Indie, Hip Hop, Metal, to almost any genre you can come up with - you'll most likely find that I've dipped my toes into their respective pools and why shouldn't I?

Someone who is learning to draw is pushed to increase their "visual library" (basically all of the things you've seen stored in your brain) by traveling, taking in the sights, and then bringing to bear your new knowledge to make yourself a better artist. The same thing goes for a writer, you need to read astronomical amounts along side writing in order to fully round yourself out and have inspiration to pull from in those tough moments where the words just won't come to you. I can't help it, I'm going to go off on a tangent quickly and post one of my current favorite songs.

For me, every song is a key. Each key is useful for opening a specific door, and obviously not all keys will fit in every lock you run into. However, if you do enough searching and dig through enough rubble you will find that when you look down at your once bare keychain that it will be full of glistening metallic tools all waiting to help you get through whatever obstacles you may encounter. From little things to sitting in traffic or going for a walk, or to the more serious such as dealing with the passing of a loved one, or moving to a completely new state - music is always there with me. When I run into that door that simply will not budge and forces me to freeze in place unsure of what to do - all I need realize is that the key is already with me and when we attack the problem in unison there is no barrier that can stand in my way.

Recently my first story was picked up for publishing (something I am absolutely over the moon about that I will go into more detail later), as soon as I heard the news (besides telling my lovely fiance / friends / family) was to blast all of the songs that helped me through the times when I was sure that I was going to fail as a writer. My strength combined with the tracks that helped inspire me to write and to continue writing regardless of how fruitless it felt allowed me to reach the place that I am today. A place where I fully believe in myself as a writer, and as someone who is no longer afraid they are going to finish their book. Before I depart for the afternoon/evening I'd love to share with you the current playlist that has been giving my novel life. Talk to you all again soon!

Lost in space...

Is this thing on?

Shock, surprise, and awe! I have once more returned from under whatever bridge I have been sleeping under lately. It has been a while, far too long in fact. I hope everything has been alright with you all - I myself have been absurdly busy. My activities of late range from getting robbed, having my car broken into, moving to a new state soon, getting engaged to the perfect woman, and most recently becoming a published author. I'll be able to expand more on the final event once things have progressed further.

These events cast a wide net, from the downright deplorable to the amazing - and I can't actually say I'd rather have it any other way. Now that something I've written will actually stretch past the walls of this little blog I've decided resuscitate my beloved blog and continue my ramblings for those that are interested. I'm not sure what I want this space to be still...I may tell stories, talk about movies, discuss video games, rant about the absurd - who knows. Writing everyday and in varied forms is what is important however, and if my yammering happens to stir interest in someone else then all the better!

In my spare time I've been split between a variety of television shows and various video games. Now, before I go on - since it has been I while and maybe some of you will be new, everything I say is definitely only my opinion. There are no statues of me declaring my will law (yet), and I am open to all forms of discussion. Back to what I was talking about, that time I said writing in video games was better than television. Oh wait, that was just now.


Now now, I don't watch every single show on television - in fact far from it. My viewing list is often a mixed bag - most recently it includes; The Leftovers (HBO Drama), True Blood (HBO Giant Piece of Garbage), Kill la Kill (Anime), Breaking Bad (AMC, when I'm in the mood to be depressed), Always Sunny in Philadelphia (FX etc.), and finally Doctor Who (BBC).  Looking over this list I'm almost reticent to back up what I have already said (except for the one dumpster among them). I must have seen every single episode of Always Sunny about (and I'm not lying) 50 times - something about the show allows it to be ceaselessly funny to me. Breaking Bad is of course amazing and highly lauded, though it does weigh heavily on the mind. The rest are amazing as well, NOT YOU True Blood, and deserve to be commended - but my love of well written video games is still stronger...I'll try to explain.

Pictured above is TellTale's rendition of the famous franchise first spawned from comics, The Walking Dead. It's graphics are not stellar, the animations are even a bit clunky at times, and actual game play is pretty sparse. Yet, as each new episode comes out I find myself frothing at the mouth barely able to contain my excitement. There are few games that will swindle me into the whole "Season Pass" schpeel, but Walking Dead is one of them. In my humble opinion, in comparison to the show, the game is the superior choice (except for maybe the comic books) when it comes to wanting to experience The Walking Dead.

The first game sees you following Lee through the beginning of the zombie apocalypse through an adventure that would mentally test anyone to their limits. The game is not full of pop out scares, button mashing combat, or over the top gore (though this is still present, it's The Walking Dead after all). What it is full of is some of the best character development in any medium that I've seen in years. If you have a computer capable of playing games (the requirements for TellTale's games aren't too bad to handle) I'd highly recommend the title. Instead of chopping through zombies (which you will do now and then) the game is more about how you respond in conversations. You are given four, or sometimes fewer, responses to whichever situation Lee finds himself in. As the game progresses your choices effect what happens, people will die and live by your choices. By the end of the final chapter in the first season you will be on edge of your seat, the characters by this point will be your friends and no matter what - not everyone is going to make it.

Following closely on The Walking Dead's heels comes another project by TellTale, The Wolf Among Us. Another to spawn from the comic book world, The Wolf Among Us takes the comic Fables and treads down a new storyline. Men and monsters alike have been pushed out of their fairytale world by a being known as The Adversary and the fantastical beings are forced to live in modern day New York City. Everyone gets a new start in the gritty real world, the game follows Bigby Wolf (AKA the Big Bad Wolf) as the sheriff of Fabletown attempting to solve a deadly case. Much like the walking dead you are building your character through conversation and progressing the story by digging out whatever facts you can and coming up with the best options when things go wrong (and they will).

A television show, while many are still amazing, simply does not provide the immersion of a title such as those listed above. Your actions do not directly impact how the story will play out or how someone will grow as a person - you are merely a spectator. You may have your heart strings pulled, but someone's (albeit virtual) life is never actually in your hands. Video games are slowly becoming the way to tell a truly emotionally impacting story. If you don't trust me, give one of the chapters to either of the above titles a try. If you  really don't want more, then alright you win this round. I have yet to meet someone (video game player or not) who has not enjoyed both.


Ahhhhhh, not bad for a warmup I suppose! I'll be back regularly with more musings, drawings, reviews, and what have you!

Art Break - The Bridge

I'm no master artist, not by a long-shot. My actual training in practical drawing only began a little over three years ago.

I entered a school with basically nothing to show for artistic talent and had to slog through the mud with the rest of the class. Anatomy, gesture, perspective, all the greats all the oldies. I like to think it was better that way, I always play games on Hard mode first anyways.

I've got a basic grasp of Photoshop, and I'm actually beginning to have a little bit of fun with it. So, in the spirit of posting things just for people to see, I'll start putting up some more art work - rough or not.


My first experiment, this time around, is trying to capture a scene from something I've written. I'm normally terrible at drawing from my mind, but if I can pull off something passable - awesome.

So, here we have the beginning of the fight on the bridge. I'm not sure if I like the rough perspective of the bridge (and I do me rough), I may just take it out entirely and focus on the character...we'll see.

 Super rough forms still, working on the sword for fun, and trying out new brushes.

 

Here I'm just working on a representation of what someone would be wearing under armor, a kind of quiltesque material came to mind. I'm not sure I'm ok with how it looks with the new additions..but I'll be picking it up again soon.

The Respite

He was being moved again.

Strong hands slowly pulled him down what looked like a small stone alley-way. Their traversal was horrifyingly conspicuous. His steel boots and leg guards dragged the ground producing a hair raising squeal. His companion, so far the only person that hadn't tried to stop his heart from beating, clanked about noisily. He had apparently chosen the cumbersome armor over risking a variety of stab wounds.

“You had better be an ally,” he heard the figure above him say, he sounded tired, “otherwise I'm going to feel very foolish about this later.”

He attempted a response, his dry cracked lips fumbled to produce a sound, but failed. Darkness rose up again, pulling him down.

Noise. Loud clamoring noise. His eyes drifted open weakly. An armored figure stood before him, he hoped this was the same man who had dragged him away from the bridge, a longsword in his hands. He said something loudly and relaxed his grip, allowing the point of the blade to drop towards the ground. His left hand lifted, exposing his palm indicating that he meant no harm. He pointed back to the barely conscious form on the ground, and said something else.

Who is he talking t-

His vision cleared slightly, they were inside. A figure moved in the background, drawing closer to the armored man slowly. The room was a mess, a stained pile of straw occupied one of the far corners of the room, broken containers (carrying the sickly sweet smell of rotten food) lay scattered about the floor.

Sweat rolled down his forehead, his skin was on fire. Fever.

The new figured moved past his guardian, sinking to a knee next to him. Through his blurred vision he could only make out a face carved to leather by long years of hard living, there was concern in the deep set coal black eyes however – he took joy in this fact and let his eyes close once more.

“How did you get here?” The old man said, straining slightly upon standing. He carried a weathered wooden staff upon which he rested most of his weight. He turned his gaze to the armored man.

He looked more than a little confused. His mop of unkempt black hair was matted to his face with sweat. He was tall, and stronger than his wounded companion by the look of him. That silver armor must have been hell to move about in, even without dragging someone.

“I don't know. There was the bridge...and before that, nothing.” He raised his hands to his face, sweeping sweat and hair out of his vision. Two green eyes peered out from deep-set sockets. “By the time I had any sort of actual physical bearing,” he gestured to his unconscious companion, “I had missed the events that lead up to his current state.”

The old man nodded, three slow bobs of his head. The dark skin of his bald head was wrinkled, a horrifying pink hued scar ran down the left side of his head ending where the top of his left ear should have begun.

“You should rest, that armor won't do you any good in here,” he tottered across the filthy room to a dark wooden box. Silently, the larger man began to shrug out of his gear. He propped the longsword up against the wall, near the door. As each heavy piece fell to the ground a gasp of relief escaped him.

“Try to get your friend onto one of the straw pallets, we don't have much time.” He said as he knelt down to the rectangular box. He lifted the lid carefully, producing bound linen bandages and a mixture of other medical supplies. Behind him he heard the his now unarmored guest laying his companion down on one of the rough straw beds.

“Rather convenient that you have those supplies.” The large man spoke cautiously. “Do you even know how to help him?” If the old man heard him he made no indication of acknowledging his statement. His gaze drifted to the strange wooden chest, and back to the old man.

The weathered cane clacked across the floor as the strange old man moved to tend the wounds of the unconscious man. His mouth tightened, the injuries were extensive and the fever was getting worse by the minute. He laid out the jumble of equipment on the bed and peered backwards.

“This is going to take some time. Make yourself at home – though I wouldn't go outside.” His head jerked towards the battered wooden door, now barred from the inside. The longsword no longer resting against the door frame. His attention was fully focused on the man lying before him.

He lifted the bloody tunic, an angry red gash ran across the man's ribcage. He produced a small needle, deftly threading an almost invisible string through the eye. “You're friend is going to be thankful he was unconscious for this if he awakens.” He set to work stitching the wound closed.

“My name is Ward, you?” He spoke without looking backwards, he talked mainly to ease his nerves. He was only self-trained in these matters after-all. His guest did not answer immediately.

“I..don't know. I can't remember anything, except for the events of today.” He leaned carefully on a rotten barrel, testing it's ability to hold up his weight. “I woke up, in full armor on a bridge. I could hear a disturbance at the far end, but couldn't make out what was happening in time to help.” He crossed his arms, satisfied with the barrel's load bearing strength. He eyed the old man cautiously.

The stooped old man worked tirelessly. Hes boney arms flitted about the prone form closing cuts, dabbing linen bandages with a strange mixture he had produced in a wide based glass bottle from the chest. The smell of the tincture was pungent, it filled the room with burning vapors that made his lungs ache.

“Do not worry, the tincture is helpful. The smell is...off-putting but the results could keep your friend from being pulled away from us by his fever.” He stretched his arms over his head, his joints popped in a symphony of arthritic barks. “With rest, a very large amount mind you, he may survive.”

He toiled on for a few more hours, finally using a damp cloth to dab at the fingernail scratches on the man's face – attempting to draw out any infection with the solution dabbed onto the rag.

“How have you managed to live here for so long?” He had not heard the other man speak in so long that he nearly jumped, he had been absorbed in his work. “Where is everyone?” He resumed cleaning the superficial wounds.

“Rest assured, I am not the only person living here.” Sarcasm crept into his voice. 

 

“And just exactly, where is here.” The man spoke from behind him.

“You, my friend, are standing in the servant's quarters of The Bulwark. The strongest fortress ever constructed by human hands. Built to shield the world from the great evils that stalk it during these times. Or couldn't you tell?” His tone took on an angry desperate air. “All of our building, preparing, recruiting, and training could not save us.” His hands dropped to his sides for a brief moment, blood crusted over his fingernails. “We are forsaken here, The Bulwark is no longer safe, things have gone...wrong.” He wiped his hands on a loose bandage and continued his work.

“What do you mean wrong?” Curiosity crept into his new companion's voice.

“For example, you asked earlier how I had survived here for so long.” He raised a bony hand and pointed to the dark chest laying in the corner of the room. “I brought that with me from a neighboring town many years ago. All it contained were my few sets of clothes and some traveling money. That was until things changed.”

Silence crept through the room for a brief moment, he could feel the man behind him burning with questions.

“Go ahead, open it.”

He applied a salve to the wounded man's cheek with the hopes of it bringing the swelling down. Behind him he heard footsteps make their wary way towards the chest. The man knelt and opened the box, the old hinges creaking as they always had.

“What do you see inside?”

“Everything,” the man's startled voice said from behind him, a sort of glee permeated his tone, “everything we need.” The old man stopped working. He heard the man draw something out of the box quietly. “What did you say your name was old man?”

“Ward, my name is-” the dagger buried itself deep in his right side, he gasped in agony. “Why..”

“I don't have a name,” the man twisted the knife, balancing Ward with his left hand, careful to not let him pitch forward onto his unconscious ally, “but Ward will do just fine.” He drew the dagger he had found in the box out of the old man, spun him around, and thrust it deep into his chest.

The Fight

He did not hesitate.

With a muffled grunt he began a limping run towards the three men. The tip of the sword clanked to the ground, it was too heavy to carry in both hands and move at speed. The notched sword carved a thin trench through the old wood of the bridge as he dragged it behind him, his right arm ached fiercely under the weight of the blade.

The three men stood their ground.

Two more steps.

Tears coursed down his face with each step of his wounded leg, the embedded wooden spike tearing through the muscle of his thigh.

One more step.

The two men holding short blades, they looked more like rusty farm tools, raised their weapons. The third held the blood soaked ruined blade he had retrieved earlier, gibbering to his allies. They glanced at him and stepped backwards, the cackling man approached alone.

He had counted correctly. With one final lunging step (on his good leg) he pulled himself into range of his first enemy. He let go of the sword, steadying himself. It crashed to the ground loudly, his assailant stopped short – confused.

He reached out with his plated hands, grasping the man by the back of neck. He cried out in fury and pain, whipping his left leg backwards – the wound wept dark blood. He pulled at the head of his attacker yanking it down, his leg careened forward thigh first. The exposed chunk of wood punched easily into the mans head, he jerked madly for a few seconds and fell limp, blade clunking to the floor.

The pain in his leg faded for a brief moment, he felt victorious. 

 

 Steel slid across the right side of his ribcage.

“No..” He jerked to left as quickly as he could.

The blade thrust forward, tearing through his undergarments and slicing a deep wound in his side. He screamed and sank to a knee, clutching the wound. He heard foot steps approaching from his other side.

Metal whistled through the air, but found no connection. He had dropped to the ground, anticipating the wild strike of his foe. In his hand he now clutched the sword again, he adjusted his grip quickly.

The crazed man had over committed to his swing and was still regaining his balance. This was not to be.

He pushed himself to his knees and lashed out with the sword. The man toppled over, garbling a horrifying scream, his left knee sheared across the top. Blood boiled from his leg, he twitched on the ground moaning. The sword had slipped from his grip at the end of the swing – clanking uselessly over the edge of the bridge spinning into the unknown.

One more.

His final problem, for the moment, seized him from the right. His arms wrapped around him like links of iron chain despite their apparent frailty. He grunted and struggled, twisting furiously and even lifting the crazed figure off of the ground and spinning him around. He soon began to tire.

Foolish.

He couldn't catch his breath. His vision faded from vibrant color to misty gray and white. The arms remained cinched around him, squeezing viciously. He couldn't achieve the leverage necessary to strike out with his elbow. The man began laughing, a raspy blood filled cackle. 

 

“Tired?” The grip released. He pitched to the ground, his swollen cheek landing on the splintery wood. The pain normally would have been a cause for great distress.

I'm going to die.

His mind raced. He could find no foothold, no memories of a long life lived in happiness, no warm familiar faces to see him off to wherever he was about to go. No memory at all. Nothing.

A sharp blow struck him in the ribcage, aimed at his wound. He cried out and crumpled into the fetal position, blood oozed between his clenched teeth.

“DO IT!” He screamed between gasps. Blood and spittle flew through the air, spattering the man's feet. “What are you WAITING FO-” he looked up, the man was gazing across the bridge with a strange look on his face. The ferocity drained from his eyes.

He took the opportunity to scoot away as quietly as he could, following his attacker's gaze.

“Impossible.”

At the far end of the drawbridge, amongst the piles of cracked lumber a body rose. Clad in silver armor, scratched but impressive nonetheless. The figure slumped to the ground, unable to rise. The crazed man was still staring.

No more.

He pounced at the man's legs, a startled cry broke the air. They crashed to the ground. Before the man could react he had seized his right hand which still clutched the strange short blade, and slammed it onto the ground. The grip did not loosen.

Light and sound exploded on the left side of his head as he was dealt a blow by the man below him, he shook his head sweeping away the strange shapes drifting through his vision. He seized the hand and began prying at fingers. The man screamed.

“LET.”

He pulled at an index finger, the digit twisted and snapped.

“IT.”

The man was howling, punching madly at his face and back. He gripped the mans thumb and wrenched it to the right.

“GO!” The sound of a ripe twig snapping echoed through the air. The blade thudded to the ground. The man screamed, holding his maimed hand within his left guarding the ruined fingers. He kicked out with his legs weakly.

The scabby feet dragged across his bloodied tunic, attempting to push him back feebly. He didn't care.

“Hello..?” Echoed from across the bridge. The voice was hard to understand.

He grasped one of the kicking feet and dragged the man towards him. The heel of the other foot jabbed him in the side, a grimace of pain arched across his face. He tugged on the mans leg harder. He was close now.

He seized the stained tunic (woolen after all) and pulled, bringing the howling man to a sitting position. He clenched his metal clad right hand and fired it into the man's throat. Shock exploded in the man's bulging eyes, he crashed to the ground surrounded by air he couldn't breathe.

He kicked the struggling man away from him, the frantic light in his eyes dying slowly as the oxygen burned out of his system.

He let himself lean over and eventually fall to his unwounded side. The world was pain. He started to drift away from consciousness only to be shaken awake a few moments later. A man stood over him, but something was different.

In between the blasts of pain within his skull he could barely make out his outline. He knelt over him dressed in a similar black under-tunic.

“The armor..,” he coughed weakly, “was heavy.”

The man uttered something muffled, it didn't matter. A deep spinning blackness had come to take him away from the pain. He welcomed it.

The Bridge

 I have returned! I'm going to be using this space as I usually do, though hopefully with more updates. I'll be posting up some short stories I write, and perhaps art to accompany them once I'm less rusty at Photoshop.

What follows is the beginning of one poor fellow's journey.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Where am I?” The world around him spun in drunken circles. His eyes refused to make sense of what they saw, he slammed them shut. He attempted to raise his hands, but failed. They were heavy, far heavier than they should be. In fact his whole body felt pinned to the ground under some inexorable weight.

“Hello?” Only the sound of his own voice returned, weak and full of confusion. His eyes slowly began to clear, illuminating his surroundings. “How..?”

 In front him a resplendent fortress stood, bathed in sunlight filtering through the gaps in the clouds casting it in a divine light. The bright stone shimmered as if bathed in gold. As far as he could tell he currently rested on an over-used drawbridge. The splintery wood around him was torn up in places, exposing glimpses into a heart-wrenching drop below.

Piles of scattered lumber stood in various places along the bridge, perhaps it had been under repair. If it needed to be fixed, where were the carpenters? As if to answer his question, at the far end of the bridge the sound of clattering wood shattered the silence.

He attempted to raise his hands again, his arms burned with exertion – armor. Black cloth covered his arms, cinched to plates of scratched steel lining the length of his body. He pushed himself forward mightily, the armor creaked loudly. The noise from the end of the bridge seemed to grow closer. Someone was coming, finally.

A groan issued from the approaching sound. Relief was suddenly and violently replaced by fear. He needed to stand up.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.

More wooden beams crashed to the ground, the groaning became clearer.

Get up.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.

NOW.

He pressed his palms into the ground and drew his knees up to his chest, hoping to find his footing quickly. The effort was nearly impossible. He pressed with all of his might, his body raising slowly off of the drawbridge, creaking loudly all the while. As he stood his balance forsook him, he tottered backwards crashing into a stone wall. The sound of metal screeching against stone rent the air. Inset within the wall was a monstrous wooden door, barricaded.

No way back.

The crashing ahead of him had stopped. Ice ran through his veins.

“H..Hello?” He cast his eyes to the ground, there was nothing within arms reach. He returned his gaze to the bridge. A man stood there, or something resembling a man. His skin was dark red, etched with scabs and a myriad of cuts. A constant moan escaped his mouth, rising and falling in pitch at random. His breath came in ragged gasps.

A loop of frayed rope wound around his body, securing his only piece of clothing (a horribly stained sheet of gray cloth with holes hastily cut for arms and legs) to his skeletal form. His eyes burned with something unnatural. Fever perhaps? In his hand he held a broken blade, sheared off neatly near the hilt, but still sharp. Rust coated the destroyed blade, the hand gripping it looked blistered and infected. The man took a step forward, a grin spread across his face causing a few of the scabs surrounding his mouth to weep dark trails of blood.
 

He pushed himself away from the wall, finally able to maintain balance. His legs felt leaden, his body hunched over underneath the foreign armor. He could barely lift his arms. He had to get out of it. His fingers scrambled over strange buckles, loosening straps and tugging on leather strips. His chest plate fell away, he gasped in relief.

The strange man was only a few feet away, but he had slowed down – a look of curiosity briefly flickered through his eyes.

He seized his assailant's pause and knelt down, attempting to free his legs from the steel greaves keeping him immobile – eventually they too crashed to the ground. He pulled the simple metal gauntlets off of his hands and stepped out of his heavy metal boots. He stood, unarmored finally.

The strange man snarled, his approach quickened.

He stumbled to the right in hopes of finding a way to defend himself, he quickly lost his balance and went sprawling into a nearby pile of lumber, he cried out in pain upon his elbow meeting a metal surface. A jagged cut sliced angrily up from the tip of his elbow, dripping blood on the ground below. He knocked aside the wood and gasped.

A man (or woman perhaps) in armor very similar, if not identical to his own, lay there. Dusty bones filled the armor, the chest piece had been hacked and stabbed at by a blunted blade. More importantly, next to the body lay a notched sword. The blade was about four feet long and worn, but more than sharp enough. The leather hilt had all but worn away. He seized the blade and spun, facing the monstrosity approaching him.

A terrified shriek escaped him, the man was already upon him uttering an unintelligible string of words - his blade held high over his head.

KILL HIM.

The ease at which the thought entered his mind would trouble him soon, but not now. He gripped the notched longsword with both hands and raised it over his head horizontally. The small blunted blade crashed into his own, his arms bucked in protest, he collapsed to a knee. A red scabrous leg entered his vision before he could react, he felt loose flesh pull away from the knee that struck him in the right side of his face.

Light exploded into his vision, he numbly felt the sword drop from his hands. He pitched to the ground, catching himself on his hands. Spikes of wood drove into the palms of his hands, raising pinpricks of blood. He could feel the man above him reading another swing, he rolled to the left with all of his strength.

Dull steel met the wood of the bridge, the man roared in anger – his blade was stuck.

Now.

He pushed himself to his feet and charged the man, pulling his right shoulder in close, barreling towards his foe. The thin man crumpled under the assault, crashing to the ground snarling. A long nailed hand clawed at his face, he batted it away with his own delivering a savage blow with his right hand to the strange man below him. His fist smashed the few remaining teeth in the man's mouth to pieces, but he snarled on. His strength was not giving out. He raised his hand for another blow.

A lightning bolt of pain ripped through his leg. The man had seized a large chunk of loose bridge and jammed it into his right thigh, blood poured from the wound causing him to roll off of the man.

The two regained their bearings, the mad man wiped at his mouth with a boney hand smearing a dark trail of blood across his face. He stood slowly, swaying slightly.

Leave the goddamned splinter.

Sweat coursed down his face, the man was already standing, approaching him bare handed. He fell back onto his hands, scrabbling backwards. As he moved his hand brushed across a metal object, the broken blade. He snatched it frantically, attempting to find a grip.

The man fell upon him.

Fingernails dug into his shoulders, he could feel the hot breath of the man on his neck his teeth snapping at his flesh. He drove up with his left knee, air blasted out of the man's lungs but his grip was iron. With his left hand he seized the man by the throat, simultaneously squeezing and pushing him away as hard as he could manage.

The furious look in his eyes was gone, replaced by a soulless lust for death. He attained the grip necessary on the blunted blade. With one final exertion he dealt the man a thundering blow to the side of his head with his left hand, he toppled off to the right clutching his ear.

He wasted no time. He gripped the blade and dove onto his tormentor. A long nailed hand swiped at his face again, missing by mere inches. Another hand rose, he knocked it aside, inching up with his knees pinning down the struggling man. He lifted the blade and rotated it, aiming the sheared end at his opponent. He drove down once without hesitation, the short blade tore through the ragged cloth into the man's chest.

A dark river of blood gushed from his mouth. He kept struggling, his crushed mess of teeth clacking wildly. He raised the sword again.

It had taken seven stabs to stop his ceaseless thrashing. Blood coated his hands and most of his legs. The dark chunk of wood protruding from his thigh burned. He carefully wrapped his right hand around the intruding fragment and was immediately rebuffed by mind-rending pain.

Blood ran freely from scratches on his right cheek, his shoulders bled from where the man had penetrated his skin with his nails. His face had begun to swell where he had accepted the man's knee, he couldn't see through his right eye after a few more minutes.

He laid down carefully, catching his breath. Sharp bolts of pain played throughout his body.

What now?

He sat up slowly, clutching the continually swelling side of his face. At the far end of the drawbridge, past the mess his friend had made on his way to brutally murder him, was the entrance to the sprawling fortress he had admired earlier. That door looked barred as well, but the small sentry stations on either side stood with their doors hanging open.

Without placing too much weight on his wounded leg, he stood and limped over to the pile of armor he had discarded. No more chances. His hands were ripped and torn from the confrontation, his feet composed of what mostly felt like shards of ancient wood. He shrugged back into the metal arm guards feeling the weight immediately sap what little of his strength remained. The gauntlets slid perfectly onto his hands, as if they were forged for him alone. The weight may have been great, but he felt slightly better for the protection.

Next he buckled on the heavy metal greaves and foot-wear. Any more pieces would render him unable to move around with coordination.

One more thing.

He limped towards where the fight had begun and seized the old longsword from the floor of the bridge. He turned it in his hands attempting to get used to the weight. The blade was badly damaged, even chipped in some places.

Better than nothing.

He took a steadying breath and turned to begin the walk down the long drawbridge towards the castle.

Three men stood there, their scab covered bodies only hidden by shifting gray rags wrapped about them in rope. Two held actual blades this time, one pried the severed sword from his dead comrade and joined his allies.

“Alright you bastards.” 

He strengthened his grip on the old blade.