Fiction The best Lustria short Stories - a complete collection

Here on LO, we host a great friendly competition, about short stories revolving around Lizardmen / Seraphon.
Started by @Scalenex, he still manages to keep it going forward, with a increasing quality of the stories.
@Scalenex was helped in the first comp by a helpful @Arli (the concept and formatting style was from @Y'ttar Scaletail , with rules advices from @spawning of Bob).

@Scalenex also keeps track of all the stories of the competition in his excellent Lustrapedia Thread (which you should really check), however if you don't know about it, especially the newcomers, may miss some of our excellent stories.
This thread will be a omni comprehensive collection of the best stories ever published on LO, to be enjoyed by all forumeers and as inspirational source



As requested, here's a summary with the total wins.
(given that in the first iterations of the contest, a multiple victory was declared in case of a tie, instead of another round ot tie-breaker votes, we have more winners than contests)

8 wins
@Killer Angel

7 wins
@thedarkfourth

6 wins
@Y'ttar Scaletail

4 wins
@Scalenex

3 wins
@Infinity Turtle

2 wins
@Lizards of Renown
@lordkingcrow
@spawning of Bob

1 win
@Aginor
@pendrake
@Slanputin
@Tlac'Natai the Observer
@WhenTheSkinksMarch
@Wolfwerty33
@Imrahil
@Llinyn Tathrenlir

 

1st contest
January-February 2015: Theme was "Recovery of Lustrian Artifacts"

winning story by @lordkingcrow

Spoiler: No Title

No Title

The kroxigor watched the temple city of Tlanxla burn and its inhabitants scream defiance as daemons poured through her streets. Many of the stones used to create the wall around the city had been born upon his back, now rubble to be trampled upon by the Enemy. Most of the smaller temples had been taken, now resembling ant hills as the daemon host swarmed about them. The largest of the temples still stood, the slann atop them raining beams of light and crackling power down upon the untold multitudes, killing hundreds with each strike. Thousands of years to construct and only days to destroy. Everything he had been born to do, everything he had taken pride in, all that he loved was gone.
Hold Fast.
The words materialized in his mind again. The same message being sent out by the Old One’s favored servants since the battle first began. Never changing or altering. It gave them purpose to know the city had yet to be taken.
His pale, scaled hands tightened on the massive hammer. Once a tool to set stakes, now a weapon of devastating power, covered in gore and bits of viscera. It dawned on him, that he and the hammer were one and the same. A tool of creation forced into a new role.
He felt a tugging on his arm and looked down to see the red crested skink, Hixi, looking up at him expectantly. “My thanks for your aid Pale One, Hixi believed his spear would never again cut another life cord, but we must move from this place swiftly. To stay here is to die.”
Glancing around, he found the expectant eyes of a dozen kroxigor upon him. His brow furrowed, his kind was not accustomed to making decisions. In fact, there had been little thought at all when he had taken up his hammer and joined the fray, but he had been the first and the others had followed his example. There had been so many more when the fighting began, he realized, he hadn’t had time until now to notice just how many had fallen.
“All will die.” he rumbled, “We must defend our work, defend the city.”
“The city is lost, builder,” The red crest snapped, “We should retreat into the jungle and fight as we can there. This is an order.”
Hold Fast
He shook head and growled, “Run then, little one. We will hold the city.”
Hixi barked out a curse and left his side. He had never defied an skink before, but he had never been given two separate orders either. Seeing the city in such a state, he wasn’t sure he could leave even if he wanted. The Enemy had to answer for the destruction it had caused.
As he turned to signal the others to follow him, he found Hixi and his assembled red crests behind him.
“If I leave, you will not last long enough to make a difference,” the little skink said. “You direct the way and we will scout ahead.”
Good, he thought to himself, “We go to the spawning pools.”
Hixi chittered out several commands and his skink darted in that direction, “Our lives are in your hands, Pale One. Make them count.”

*****

Hold Fast.
The skies had darkened as, one by one, the slann atop the temples had been wiped out. Only a few lights remained, but the message continued. The fight continued.
Hixi limped down the street, darting around the piles of dead leading toward the spawning pools. Despite his injuries, the little red crest continued to alert them of the Enemy’s movements. Twice, the skink’s reports had saved them from catastrophe. Once when a large group of crustacean clawed daemonettes attempted to scale the cliff overlooking the River Amaxon and again when flying abominations of erratic shape and motion attacked from the sky. Each assault was repulsed, but there was little respite to be had and the defenders were quickly dwindling.
“The crimson skins are coming. Our time is short,” said Hixi.
He nodded, “Speak with the saurus.”
Hixi gave a chirp in acknowledgement and moved to speak with the leader of the warrior class.
When they had reached the pools, only a handful of saurus remained, fighting a battle without hope of victory. The warrior class fought as they were born to do, with brutal efficiency and primal fury, but they were outnumbered. His group had been able to turn the tide, for a time. Now, however, it was looking grim.
He felt the eyes of the scar veteran upon him. It should have been the saurus who received reports first, but like their entire world, things had changed. He was in charge and there was no time to dispute leadership when their race was on the verge of extinction. As Hixi finished his report, the scar veteran looked to him and gave a slight inclination of the head before addressing his warriors. The significance of the gesture was lost to the kroxigor. With only a few words passed amongst them, each took up arms and followed their leader deeper into the city. Leaving the spawning pools with the red crests and a few kroxigor to hold it. He did not understand the meaning of this and so waited until Hixi could explain it.
“The saurus go to meet the Enemy before they can reach the pools. They will attempt to lead them away. They have chosen their fate, Pale One, they will die to buy us time”
He did not like it, but nothing could be done. To join them was to leave the pools unguarded.
Hold Fast.

*****

Hixi lay in his hands, the little skink’s entire body fitting in the width of his palms. The red crest’s ribs were gravel and his breathing came in short, ragged gasps. The previous clash had lasted hours with no give on either side. The last of his kroxigor had fallen beneath the black blades of the crimson skinned daemons and now only a few skink remained.
He had been in the thick of the fighting and lost his footing. Without hesitation, Hixi and his red crests had flocked around him, giving their lives so that he might survive, if only a short time longer. Hixi had stood on his shoulder as he got to his feet, viciously stabbing with his short spear until the flat end of a sword took him out of the fight.
With a roar, the kroxigor surged upward, forcing the daemons back before his onslaught. With great, heaving swings he sent the daemons back to the realm in which they came. Unable to stand before him, the crimson skinned daemons retreated deeper into the city.
Hixi’s voice pulled him back from the memory, “Perhaps, the jungle would have been… a better choice.’
The little skink coughed, spraying blood with every breath.
“Perhaps.” he said, his eyes scanning the streets for the inevitable attack.
“I would know your name… Pale One.”
He hadn’t realized he had never given it until now, “Nakai.”
“It was good… to sever cords with you this day… Nakai…”
The pale skinned kroxigor lay the limp body of the red crest down. Hixi had moved on from this world.
There was only one source of light emanating from the central temple now and the message in his mind had gone. The main road leading to the spawning pools was filled with enough blood that it covered his feet. In the skies above the war torn city, massive winged daemons assaulted the last bastion of light.
His body ached from the many wounds taken over the last few days, but his resolve held true.
“You may go.” He told the few remaining red crests as they stood around their fallen leader, but none moved.
“We will stand by you Nakai,” Chittered one from the group, “It is you we follow now.”
Without a word, he walked to the massive pillars on either side of the entrance. He had carried such pillars throughout the city during the early years of construction. Though not these in particular, many like it. He ran a hand over the inscribed surface. Nostalgia for a simpler time and a touch of sadness for what he was about to do.
Standing back, he picked up his hammer and swung it into the pillar. The power of the blow shook the roof, sending bits of broken stone down upon them.
“You will help me from within. I will close the entrance. You will defend it when I fall.”
The skink hesitated long enough for Nakai to swing his hammer again, shifting the pillar forward with the swing. It was all the incentive they needed to move inside. Three more blows to the pillar and he moved on to the opposite one, hitting it until he gauged it would only need one more strike to bring the ceiling above the entrance down. Just in time, he thought, as the splash of feet in blood came to him.
A sea of daemonic forms, some grotesque, others hulking or lithe, all assembled before him. Soon they would be upon him. With one mighty swing, he toppled the first pillar. Chunks of stone began to rain down on him as he strode to the next. With a bestial roar he brought the hammer crashing into the next and ran from the descending roof. As he ran, he watched the second pillar fall. Daemons screamed and tried to move back, but being tightly packed as they were, had nowhere to run. The pillars crushed dozens beneath. Such was the mass of the two pillars, they formed a stone wall on either flank with a single entrance. They would be funneled through the narrow opening three abreast. It was here that Nakai made his stand.
For hours the mighty hammer rose and fell, killing indiscriminately. There was no reprieve, no withdraw, just an endless tide of daemonic rage against the lone albino. The carnage he wrought was so great that eventually the daemons were fighting atop their own dead. Slowly his pale scales became red with his own blood, but still he fought on. It wasn’t until the final light of Tlanxla went dark that the heavy beating of leathery wings came and the host pulled back.
The greater daemon that landed before him was similar to the crimson skinned creatures, only larger, causing Nakai to crane his neck to see the beast’s face. Thick curling horns adorned it’s head and in it’s hand was a blackened axe covered in fiery runes.
It’s voice boomed out, “You’ve fought well mortal, but your end has come. Your skull will make a fine addition to the Throne.”
Using his hammer as a crutch, Nakai pulled a blackened blade from his shoulder and blew out as much of the clotting blood from his broken snout as he could. Breathing deep, he looked at his ruined city. From these very pools he had drawn his first breath. He had dedicated himself to creating, as the Old Ones dictated, and took pride in what he had made with his hands. Looking down at those same hands, he knew there was one more task they must complete. Hefting the great hammer, he let out a bellow of frustration and rage as the greater daemon charged.
As it came upon him, Nakai narrowly ducked beneath a decapitating blow and hammered his weapon into the daemons ribs. The daemon took the hit and moved with it, grazing his axe along Nakai’s back. Fire erupted from the wound and a hiss escaped his mouth. Whirling the hammer, he aimed it the daemon’s knee, but creature was fast for it’s size and only landed a glancing hit. It used it’s speed to be the aggressor, pushing Naki back. Not wanting to be pinned against the rubble, Nakai guided the fight past the pools and began moving toward the cliff overlooking the Amaxon.
The daemon landed a number of strikes, adding to the many injuries already covering his body, but none that could bring him down. After days of fighting, Nakai knew his strength was finally betraying him. Perhaps if he had been fresh, or even as little as a day ago, he may have stood a chance. Now he was just delaying the inevitable. Even so, he wasn’t prepared to leave this world quietly.
Backing up to the edge of the cliff he waited for the daemon to come at him. As he did, Nakai side stepped and threw all his might into his hammer, aimed at the beasts axe arm. The swing hit true and the daemon dropped it’s weapon as it went over the cliff. Even as it unfurled its wings to take flight, Nakai launched himself from the cliff’s edge his teeth latching onto the creature’s left wing and snapping the bone between his jaws. The greater daemon bellowed out its rage and the two tumbled through the air, biting, clawing, and gouging until the Amaxon River swallowed them.

*****

Days after the fall of Tlanxla, the small band of red crests moved along the river bank. They had seen the two combatants fall and watched as long as they could to see if one would surface. Neither had. In vain they searched for their protector, but the small hope they had was quickly fading. They would have to be gone soon, as the daemonic horde was already on the march. Just as they were about to leave, one of their number let out several excited chirps. The remaining red crests ran to see what he had found and discovered several large kroxigor prints leaving the river and entering the jungle. With renewed vigor, the small band followed the tracks into the undergrowth.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

2nd contest
April-May 2015: Theme was "Chameleons"

winning story by @pendrake

Spoiler: Rogue Skink

Rogue Skink

A lone terradon sailed smoothly in a long arc around the largest of the FangGrove trees. It stood slightly apart from its brethren on the South edge of a reed choked lake. But like all FangGroves it was entangled by its massive roots with others of its kind. Formations of Giant Lilypads splattered the lake leaving only small patches of dark blue open water. The reeds and the twenty foot diameter pads warred for control of the the waters below the great Fanggrove.
The terradon swept upward on its arc avoiding the outstrecthed branches between the lone tree and its nearest brethren on the South verge of the lake. There were perhaps a few clean flight paths through the branches but it was safer and swifter to pass above.
The soaring lizard completed this circuit twice more and on the third pass an arrow darted from somewhere above its shoulders, hissed through the lacy, twisting outer branches and thunked into one of the arching roots just above the current lake level.
The terradon was not alone, it had a rider; all but unseen.
Nor was the tree empty.
'The stink of treachery emanated from this tree and it was time to root it out and hunt it down', thought Tzlatoc. He nudged his terradon lower, mentally resolving, 'this time we will pass through the branches and see what we will see'. His body color shifted again, more closely matching the vivid green and dappled red markings of his flying beast. His eyes swiveled half in, half out, of their sockets as they scanned the gloam around the massive roots of the great tree and Tzlatoc thought back to the place this hunt had begun three days ago...


...There had been nine of them, none quite alike. They had stood around the flagstoned edge of a greenish, murky pool that almost glowed. The pool was situated behind and half under a pyramid temple. Each Chameleon displayed different variations of green, grey, and moss brown. They had stood there nervously as twenty Temple Guard filed in and surrounded the pool. These were followed by a retinue of priests and then by the dread Slann himself. He floated right out over the surface of the pool, pausing near the edge. At a nod, from the Slann two of the Skinks had touched their staves to the water, calming it instead of causing ripples, then the water did glow and within the glow they beheld their assigned quarry and a silent voice seeming to originate in the back of their skulls explained its sins. The last thing they saw within the pool was the the missing plaque that they must recover or die trying...


Rounding the tree again Tzlatoc urged the terradon lower; they would try to pass under the branches that were trying to bridge the gap to the lone tree. They were thinner near the water. Leaning forward and holding his bow sideways he set a second arrow next the first already notched on the string. He trusted his flying mount to pick the best flight path. Just as he passed into the dappled shade he saw movement, drew and fired on it.

He heard, rather than saw the arrows hit the tree, Tzlatoc instead followed the dark figure that scurried, clumsily, for cover behind a different set of roots. At a nudge the Terradon wheeled, reversing direction. Tzlatoc whipped out two more arrows and fitted them to string and drew again as they re-entered the tangle of outreaching branches this time moving the opposite direction. The quarry was struggling to climb higher into the tree as Tzlatoc fired again. This time he heard two different sounds — he had hit tree bark and scales.

What a strange quarry this was.

...Their quarry had taken the causway toward Tzaktoqlan. He had garbed and geared himself variously as a Priest, a Temple Guard, and even a laborer. But he was none of these things. He was a common but, ancient Saurus. The last of his spawning. He was almost entirely bluish black except for hints of green under his chin and a few flecks of color at the tip of his tail. None could say whether he had spawned the color of shadow or whether he had darkened with age.

But, he had evidently gone mad.

For he now fancied himself a Priest (and a Skink!) and had appropriated a plaque to bear with him.

In his madness he proved elusive and cunning. At Tzaktoqlan, a city too small yet to boast a completed temple, he had left more than one trail and the hunting party of nine had split into threes to follow each lead.

Tzlatoc, along with Oaxltza and Huantec had pursued the lead that lead into the lake country. Oaxltza and Huanec had tracked, mostly by scent, and on the ground while Tzlatoc scouted from the air. This proved effective in a landscape dotted with ponds and little lakes. They had found the quarry's trail and had laid an ambush on the second day...


The Darksaurus thought he could climb and so he tried. Tzlatoc circled the tree and prepared another arrow from his dwindling quiver. He fired into the tree once again and continued to do so on each pass. Ever circling, keeping the Saurus moving. Oaxltza and Huantec were not here to help. They had died in the ambush.

...It had gone well enough, at first. They had gotten ahead of the Darksaurus because they could swim and the Darksaurus only thought he could. Tzlatoc had tracked the quarry from the air while with his guidance Oaxltza and Huantec had positioned themselves in the quarry's path. Then all three had darted him with blowpipe darts, several times, from three directions including from the air. He'd fallen. Oaxltza and Huantec had closed in to reclaim the plaque only to discover the Darksaurus had feigned death and that they were no match. Whatever the Darksaurus thought he was; he was still a Saurus and apparently all but immune to dart poison...


Tzlatoc was now down to his last arrow. It was time for a new tactic. He directed his Terradon into the upper branches of the FangGrove trusting its instincts to find a suitable perch. He would meet the Darksaurus in the branches and they would see which 'Skink' climbed better.

He waited for the branch to sag and settle before dismounting. He slipped further down the branch and then chirped a command at the Terradon. It launched itself and began to circle lazily. Hopefully, it would be a distraction. The branch sprang upward as the Terradon's weight departed but this did not bother Tzlatoc, he slid lower into the tree, checking to see if he was well blended, pausing to listen for the Darksaurus. He fitted the last arrow to the bow and waited. He could hear laboured breathing.

Moving very quietly, springing lightly from branch to branch, Tzlatoc again circled the tree. This time moving upon branches too thin to easily support a heavy Saurus, well above the level where the thorny bark-spikes that gave the FangGrove its name grew large and solid. They did exist up high in the tree where Tzlatoc was but they were short and still flexible here. Down at root level they were huge, spiny things that kept great four legged, tree-munching Saurosaurs at bay.

Patiently, patiently, Tzlatoc stalked the quarry until, at last, he had the shot he wanted. Point blank, from behind, and a good view to the shoulder blades. He did not miss. And, then the cursed Darksaurus turned on him! and charged outward right at Tzlatoc, scrabbling along the branch he had fired from. Tzlatoc threw his now useless bow, to distract the Darksaurus and leaped the opposite direction to an adjacent branch. A pause there, to unsling the blowpipe, leap again, fit darts into the pipe, leap again, the Darksaurus was still coming, Fire! leap again, load, Fire! and leap a few inches further away from the trunk each time. Tzlatoc could see his last arrow, and also the remains of the one that had hit earlier (above a knee). He maveled that the Darksaurus could climb as well as it could but it was slow — and it was no Skink. Tzlatoc, was down to two darts left when the branches holding the Saurus gave.

And he fell. Slain by a tree rather than a Skink hunter.

But, this hunt was not done.

The Darksaurus grasped desperately at each branch he passed on his way down, he carromed off several — almost the great spikes had him, but curse the luck, into the murky lake water he rolled. Tzlatoc followed, agiley springing from one branch to the next lower — almost in a controlled fall himself. He paused to hang his blowpipe by its strap on one of the larger spikes. As he did so, he noticed his Terradon landing carefully on one of the roots not far away a few feet above the waterline. Tzlatoc, pulled out his hook-edged longknife and plunged in after the quarry. The lake would claim the Darksaurus if nothing else did. Skinks swim; Saurus drown.

Once under, Tzlatoc knew immediately which direction to seek. He could feel the struggling Darksaurus disturbing the normally placid waters. Two kicks in the right direction and there before him the ancient, doomed Darksaurus thrashed. Half of him was gone, for he had picked the wrong FangGrove tree. This one's roots were the palace of a greater lake serpent and it was well on the way to swallowing the Saurus whole. The legs were gone, the tail was going, and in one or two more gulps he would dissappear, plaque and all.

Tzlatoc knew he would get one chance. First, spot the plaque. It had to be in the pouch held by the thong at the neck. Wait for the Saurus to use both arms to fend off the snake and then strike at the thong, snatch the pouch, and lunge for the surface...

...Wearily, Tzlatoc climbed the FangGrove trunk. The serpent had lunged at him after the Darksaurus had been engulfed. The great snake had missed but it had dislodged his blowpipe. The scaly horror was monstrous, easily three feet in diameter, long enough to coil half way round the base of the tree. So, Tzlatoc kept climbing, and blending, shifting colors to match as he went. His Terradon had shot skyward the moment the great snake burst from the water. Amazingly, Tzlatoc spotted his bow hanging in some branches. After he retrieved it, he made his way to a higher branch and poked his head out of the canopy. He sounded a long screech and ended the call with a double-chirp. He stood there just hoping. His call was not answered, but to his delight his Terradon soared into view without ever making the answering cry. There was something in its jaws.

It was a blowpipe.

They flew in a circle around the FangGrove tree once again. Tzlatoc did not trust himself to open the pouch in-flight or over the lake. Marking the tree's location carefully, he looked for a safer place to land. He spotted a dead Spineburl not far away and there he took stock. His arrow quiver and the last two darts were long gone. His remaining possesions were his hooked knife (which had helped him rapidly claw his way out of the water one-handed) a bow with no arrows, a dart-less blowpipe and a heavy pouch. Sitting safe and still on the dead topknot of the Spineburl, atop his Terradon, Tzlatoc gently opened the pouch.

There was a gleam of gold within.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

3rd contest
July-August 2015:Theme was "Man Versus Nature"

winning story by @Tlac'Natai the Observer

Spoiler: Monsoon Season

Monsoon Season

The wind had been picking up over the last hour. The sun shone a few last rays through the crags of the gnarled gray clouds as they drifted ever higher into the atmosphere. A few of the giant clouds reached that menacing height which drove them to take the shape of an anvil; this desert valley will experience heavy storms throughout the night.

Ezhno (ej-no) woke to the soft sound of distant thunder. The monsoon season is welcomed in this desert valley, as they have their own terrible way of bringing life to it lasting the whole year. The skink lay where he woke, and watched the landscape turn red, orange, pink and purple before everything went gray for the night. The flashes of lightning became more evident and the smell of dust and rain took control of the air. Ezhno took in one more large sniff of the air before being interrupted by his spawning brother.

“Get on your feet! Ahtunowhiho (ah-toon-oh-whee-ho) wants everyone to assemble!” the skink said hurriedly before dashing off to find all of their other brothers.

Ezhno slowly gathered up his dart pouch and blowpipe before moving out of the rocky nook in the hill. He stared at the rumbling storm a few more moments before heading up to the top of the hill. At the top there was frantic movement indicative of a battle to come. Ahtunowhiho stood on a large boulder at the top of the hill watching all the skink brothers with stern eyes and caught the late comer Ezhno joining the party. Ezhno received a quick glare from Ahtunowhiho before he raised his hand and all the skinks fell silent and motionless.

“Reports are still coming in, so the details aren’t clear yet, but there is a band of Apisi roaming to our North. I want everyone to get to the bottom of the hill and ready to move north.”

The Apisi he spoke of were beastmen: half man, half coyote. They wander these deserts and the neighboring regions. The Apisi are a necessary evil to the desert skinks though. They are a constant threat, but also contribute to the reason why the city has remained a secret, hidden in this valley. Since the Apisi have no allies and no formal tongue to speak, their intelligence on the city and the inhabitants does not travel to the outside world where it could find organized invaders. The Apisi also take to battle before most opposition even realizes they are at battle to begin with. Ambushes and all out aggression keeps would-be wanderers from drawing a path through this largely unmapped valley.

“Hang back if you need me for anything, otherwise…dismissed!” Ahtunowhiho always left himself open to his subordinates, which he thought promoted morale.

Without missing a beat, the skinks moved together like a flock of birds down the hill. At the bottom, they all went prone, ready for an attack at that very moment. Silent minutes passed before Ahtunowhiho showed up.

“Change of plans; the scouts say that the band is to our northwest now, and heading west. We’ll move west to intercept them. We’ve sent word to the other outposts nearby, but we need to buy them time. Move out!”

The skinks kicked up several pebbles as they left their positions. Ezhno followed his brothers as they weaved around the low lying bushes and rocky outcroppings. Ezhno once again had the chance to gaze upon the storm clouds as they were lit up from within. As they got closer to the storm, the lightning pierced through the dense clouds above.

Ahtunowhiho ordered a halt and all the skinks went prone again. With the sound of movement stopped, even Ezhno in the back of the loose formation could hear the distinct “yip” sound of the Apisi between the cracks of thunder. Ahtunowhiho had most of the skinks stay put while he and a few others advanced again.

Every skink knew what was expected of them; they had all been trained for this. While Ahtunowhiho was gone, the skinks kept their heads below the bush line and shuffled the javelin wielders to the front and blowpipes to the back and flanks. They spread out and tried to hide as best they could. When Ezhno got settled in with a suitable ambush point, rain spots were showing up in the rocky sand around him and the wind seemed to stop moving entirely. Within a minute the rain became an all-out downpour and dominated the smell, sound and sights around the ambush party.

A distant chirp alerted Ezhno. He kept his head still and eyes wide open. A second chirp was closer this time. Ahtunowhiho and the other vanguards rushed through the formation and began chirping frantically. The ambush was sprung and the skinks set loose a crossfire of javelins and darts at the rushing Apisi. As the Apisi charge got closer to the center, the skinks would fall back and the trap took its true form; the Apisi were surrounded. The surviving Apisi scattered to meet the skinks in individual melee. Some reached the outer edge through their speed alone, while others had the prowess to dodge the missiles and close in. The most the skinks could hope to do was resort to their basic training which would have them fall back and lead the Apisi on until someone else could strike.

The skirmish ended with a handful of skinks dead or wounded. The skirmish would be measured as a success due to the amount of Apisi that dropped in the initial moments. Some Apisi had broken out of the trap and ran aimlessly into the dark storm.

Ahtunowhiho only caught the attention of a fraction of the Apisi band. He wasted no time gathering the skinks and finding a safe place to safely leave the wounded so that the others could keep moving. The rain moved away as quickly as it had arrived. These types of storms move around in cells and eventually will touch every rock and bush in the valley. With Ahtunowhiho’s lead, they began moving again. It seemed to Ezhno that they were leading a charge on the very clouds themselves.

The dark outline of a low hill up ahead was undoubtedly their destination. This hill marked the outpost nearest to where he and his spawning brothers were stationed. The hill was under assault by the torrential rain. Ezhno and his brothers ran through a curtain of rain which divided day and night on each side of the curtain. Even as the rain's noise grew, Ezhno could hear the battle being fought at the base of the hill. Ahtunowhiho began frantically chirping again, and all of the brothers joined in; they were trying to draw more Apisi out of the hectic melee. The Apisi had already broken through the loose formation of skinks and there was an area at the base of the hill that was a mix of Apisi and skink. Missiles and swinging weapons were everywhere. Ezhno and his brothers were pressing the Apisi rear effectively. The defenders of the hill were regaining morale and confidence as it seemed the situation was almost under control.

Ezhno could hear the yips of more Apisi from beyond the hill. The last of the Apisi were broken and scattering, but that was hardly the end of it. Ezhno felt the weight of more yips getting heavier, and closer.

The rain was moving on again and Ahtunowhiho had plans to use this cell of rain. “Everyone! Move with the rain!” he barked to anyone that could hear him, even the skinks on the hill followed. Ezhno stared at the black outline of the hill and witnessed the edges of the dark hill begin to vibrate and shake; Apisi were flooding over the hill like a waterfall and the source of the yips became clear. Their charge from the top of the hill would have been devastating if the defenders were not relieved moments earlier. With their momentum from the hill, the Apisi made chase for the dwindling skink numbers.

The skinks were following Ahtunowhiho through the storm, however, the Apisi moved through the desert landscape faster. Skinks in the back of the pack were being picked off and offering little resistance to the Apisi. Ahtunowhiho had found what he was looking for with little time to spare. He jumped down into a wash and had his brother follow “upstream.” The sandy banks of the wash provided a moments worth of cover by breaking the line of sight in this mostly flat landscape. When the Apisi figured out where the rest of their prey were heading, they continued the chase blindly, unaware of the Skink Chief's intentions.

Ahtunowhiho heard the kind of rumble he was searching for; not the rumble of thunder which still kept a presence in the chaos of these skirmishes, but the rumble of rushing water. Ahtunowhiho kept leading the pack towards the surge of water. When the water around the corner revealed itself to the chief, he turned and yelled “Up the left bank!” The skinks all scrambled back up the bank with the Apisi nipping at their heels as they ascended the hill.

Ezhno had barely heard Ahtunowhiho from where he was towards the back of the pack and started up the bank a bit late. He felt some fingers wrap around his ankle before the water almost insantly slammed into his would-be killer and swept both of them downstream. Ezhno had thus far considered himself lucky. He had been surviving the Apisi as they ravaged the back by weaving through the bushes and making hard to follow turns. He was tired and barely fit to swim although he knew how to. While he now considered himself to be unlucky, he couldn’t be more wrong. Ahtunowhiho had intentionally led the Apisi here because of how notoriously bad they are at swimming, while the skinks swam regularly within the safety of their city. Ezhno struggled against both the unrelenting Apisi assailant and the churning muddy waves. The beastman's hold was fast, and the water made it difficult for Ezhno to do anything about it. He had the presence of mind to fight for oxygen and swam for the surface every time the churning water turned him over on top of his enemy before he was forced back underneath. This cycle happened for a good minute before the grip loosened on his ankle, and he wriggled free to swim for the bank.

He pulled himself up half way and let his legs dangle in the water a moment longer as his lungs caught up with the rest of him. He felt the bank begin to crumble into the wash and scrambled away just before it added to the mud of this torrent. Ezhno watched as the last of this Apisi band were being taken by the current and witnessed the last one fade off downstream. Safety still didn’t feel real to him at the moment, so he headed back towards the rest of his brothers. The rain was moving on once again and left the air fresh and calm. Without the rains to dull his vision, he found the brothers all as drained as he was. The only one standing was Ahtunowhiho who was moving from one wounded warrior to the next. When he saw Ezhno approaching the group, he gave him a quick look up and down and hissed quietly to himself.

All told, the skinks numbers were not crippled as badly as they could have been, all thanks to Ahtunowhiho’s quick thinking and bold strategy. The Apisi band had been dealt with successfully, but the skinks would need to send out hunting parties for next couple weeks to fully clean up the rest of the Apisi that had been separated from their band. To this day, no incursion has found its way into the city these Lizardmen spend their lives protecting.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

4th contest
October-November 2015: Theme was "Spirit of Horror."

a tie with 2 winning stories, both written by @spawning of Bob

Spoiler: Fear

Fear

Temple Guardians do not suffer fear.

It was natural that the lesser races of the mortal realms would hold this to be true, because there was no record of a single guardian fleeing from battle while his Slann Lord held firm.

Ta'avik himself had believed the same until this very moment: nightfall on the day of his ending.

It was not that the dying guardian did not previously know about fear. Over the centuries, he had made his own observations of its enervating effect on those who came within the reach of his celestite mace. His conclusion was that fear of death and fear of pain were rife among the lesser classes of Seraphon and the ranks of their mortal foes.

In contrast, his long service in the War-Host of Light had proven that neither death nor pain held any terror for him. The preceding events of his final day merely emphasized the point.

Earlier in the day, Ta’avik’s slann lord had opened a realm-gate and commanded his guardian cohort to create a beach-head in the mortal realm on the other side. The guardians were to hold position for as long as it took for the rest of the Seraphon army to pass through the gate behind them. By living or dying, Ta’avik and his brother guardians would to achieve this objective. It did not matter which to him.

The elite saurus plunged through the open gate and swiftly formed a bulwark of sinew and bone. Initially, the surprised Chaos-Sworn could only respond with disorganized charges and were easily repelled. The guardians could weather such attacks indefinitely, but the appearance of a hulking slaughter brute made their toehold in the blighted realm suddenly precarious.

The monster of the Chaos Realm had thundered toward the Seraphon line and lowered its many tusked head for impact. Without regard for his own preservation, Ta’avik dashed forward with his mace and arrested the momentum of the charge by smashing the brute’s forelimb from under it.

The crippled monster tumbled so quickly that Ta’avik could not avoid its collapse and his leg became pinned under the slaughter brute’s immense bulk. The other guardians quickly set upon the beast and kept it down, but it continued struggling, grinding Ta’avik’s leg against the unforgiving ground beneath.

The first indication that the rest of the Host of Light had arrived in good order was when Ta'avik's lord obliterated the slaughter brute’s black soul with a blinding blast of light. The Seraphon army immediately pressed forward with the guardian vanguard still at the fore.

Ta’avik’s splintered leg was still trapped under the monster’s smoking carcass. He was soon left far behind.

The guardian’s pain was considerable, but to him it was an irrelevant sensory experience, like the chatter of skinks or the screams of tortured captives. The pain did not affect Ta’avik’s resolve and it certainly did not arouse fear. Even the anticipation of what he would do next did not disturb his cold blooded equilibrium.

A return to the service of his lord required the resolution of the problem of his trapped and mangled leg. Unfortunately, his spiked celestite mace was lost under the slaughter brute and no suitable replacement was within his reach. He was therefore forced to tear at his injured thigh with his claws until he had shredded his hide and flesh down to the shattered femur.

Having burrowed that far, Ta’avik was able to laboriously extract a long shard of bone. The splinter had a point and a jagged edge and, with the aid of this improvised surgical instrument, the rest of the operation was soon completed.

Ta’avik inspected the remnant of his leg. With each beat of his three chambered heart, thick purple blood surged from his shredded femoral artery. The stump was too short and ragged to accommodate a tourniquet, thus Ta’avik resorted to other means to avoid quickly bleeding to death.

He had often stood vigil in the chamber of his lord for decades at a time, at all times ready to leap to his defence. He and his fellow guardians survived these periods without sustenance by reducing their metabolism and slowing their heart beat to barely detectable levels.

Ta’avik gathered his control and did the same again. When the rhythmic surge from the artery had all but ceased he began to drag himself along the ground in the wake of his brothers. Behind him he left an intermittent trail of dark, congealing blood.

It had been no surprise to Ta’avik that he was falling further behind the Host of Light. What had startled him was that the weak, wintry sun of this mortal realm was leaving him behind as well. As the sun dipped lower, long shadows streaked towards him from distant mountain peaks. They seemed to point to the hapless Seraphon like accusing fingers, eager to reveal the weakness he never knew he had.

He had been spawned under the light of undying stars and had lived always under their radiance. Even when he had battled in the deep places of the mortal realms, he had been bathed in the glow of his lord’s magical aura. He had never known darkness.

His lord had already abandoned him, and the pale sun did likewise. The shadow fingers closed around him like a fist and crushed his self-control. His heart began to hammer uncontrollably in his chest and precious life-blood gushed anew from the tattered stump of his leg.

The Temple Guardian was alone in the dark.

And he was afraid.

Spoiler: Secrets of the Southlands

Secrets of the Southlands

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

5th contest
January-February 2016: Theme was "Continuity and Change."

winning story by @Slanputin

Spoiler: The Loom at the Threshold

The Loom at the Threshold

The gateway closed with a crisp, cool gasp; the constant warm light that basked the constellations of the Seraphon was gone. Ateskatl could do little but clasp his arms tightly. Awaiting the arrival of the welcome party he attempted to hold composure: the stars were distant and the air cold. Gazing about from the pyramid’s summit the great complex was lit on both sides by starkly different lights. One an ever-changing and violent maelstrom which broke over stone and metal like fiery waves, the other was a pale, delicate and unfaltering yet strong, and whose source Ateskatl instantly recognised: far in the distance, a single constellation of ever-distant stars. The tears of the star dragon.

He shivered. Waiting, he preened his ceremonial feathers: he was to play a significant role in the salvation of the people here. He had to look the part.

“You’ve come then.”

Ateskatl turned to see a single Skink Priest – his trappings were notably archaic, and his collection of icons and talismans incongruous to Ateskatl’s own. To see such a stubborn figure of the past was irksome. Far more annoying, however, was the presence of only a single delegate. Was this the custom now, or had he just remembered the old ways wrongly?

“Yes, well…” Ateskatl replied, “One doesn’t lightly disregard the meeting of Starmaster. Especially a Slann so… well known.”

He stepped forward to give a custom bow of greeting, but the Priest had already turned back towards the way he came. The Priest gave a sharp twitch to indicate Ateskatl to follow him and led him down a narrow set of stairs, burrowing itself into the pyramid like the scars of an ancient, cyclopean drill. Ateskatl followed him in silence, the guide rebuffing what conversational pieces Ateskatl had prepared. Little indication was given of their direction.. Ateskatl held onto the assumption that he was being brought to the Starmaster, but he couldn’t feel somewhat disgruntled at the lack of appreciation. The lack of any positive response to their salvation was worrying.

As they descended deeper into the temple, away from the conflicting lights, Ateskatl noticed an odd change come over his guide: a faint glow seemed to be emanating from him. All Seraphon had an aspect of starlight from them, gifted to them by the unfathomable magicks of their Slann masters and the godlike aspect of the star dragon. The azure brilliance of the Seraphon was lacking from the Priest however: the light seemed dampened, almost gray.

“You needn’t have come” the Priest said. The Priest had stopped by a door, his hand placed ready to roll it aside. “We have no desire to involve ourselves with your interests, or whatever interests you represent.”

Ateskatl found himself taken aback: “I represent the final attempt to rescue this forsaken temple. After this you’ll be abandoned to the aether: your brothers, the Slann, and Dracothion will have no part in wasting anymore resources on your…your whimsy.”

Ateskatl was breathless: never had he seen such disregard to the wishes of his Starmasters. Order was paramount in the Great War against Chaos. To shun the Slann was to shun order, a concept no Seraphon could rightfully accept.

“What brothers?” the Priest scoffed. “You won’t find many of them to save here, so-called Seraphon.”

The Priest heaved the door aside, and stepped into a long corridor. He turned back to Ateskatl:

“My Master awaits your visit, but please be aware your discussions will only be short: he cannot be distracted for long.”

“He will listen to me” Ateskatl replied firmly. Despite his resolve, he could not feel a heavy tug at his confidence. He might persuade a Skink of the confidence in his mission, but a Slann would not be duped. He must work hard to convince the Starmaster of his rationale.

Stepping up to the doorway Ateskatl found the threshold suddenly blocked once more by the Priest:

“I’d ask you to avoid talking to the others. It would do neither party any good.”

Ateskatl found the request odd. However, as they started down the corridor to the Slann’s stellar chamber, he found the warning unnecessary: those Skinks that clustered the complex hastily made their business to avoid him. Of what he could glimpse, the odd curious peeking head or fleeting glance of a tail, all others glowed with the same odd gray aspect. All, he also noted, seemed to not just glow but shimmer - as if their light emanated on a similar frequency. Though disturbed, Ateskatl found himself pitying them.

“What is going on here?” Ateskatl said, half to himself.

The Priest finally broke the silence: his eyes watching Ateskatl nervously fiddle with his feathers with an air of detached amusement.

“Do you know why they avoid you, Seraphon?”

Ateskatl finally made eye contact with guide, pressing him for answers he was afraid to ask for.

“They fear your starlight. You must remember that they, we, are still flesh and blood, and lack the blessing of your star-drake. To them, we are the last bastion of what has been: what was felt and thought by the ancients.”

“My starlight…” Ateskatl muttered, “Is that what this is all about? My celestial self is nothing to fear. Guide, let me speak to them. They should know, they must know of the greatness that welcomes them in the Mortal Realms-“

The guide gripped his wrist tightly. “You will do no such thing: you would only stress them more. My brothers here, my brothers, shall not suffer more at the designs of your stars.”

Ateskatl tentatively peeled the fingers from his wrist. This guide suddenly regained his composure and released Ateskatl’s hand.

“Let me show you something, it may change your mind.”

Setting a brisk pace the guide stalked quickly up the corridor, turning sharp corners with the decisive swirl of feathers. Ateskatl jogged slightly to keep up: the starpriest suddenly felt unanchored and confused. Turning down the corners a pitched, staccato scraping sound grew echo throughout the complex. His guide pushed at a door and the sound burst louder. Ateskatl realised he was hearing wailing. Agony.

“Look” the guide said, stepping aside.

The room was almost empty save for a dias. Writhing on top was a Skink, naked of any trappings or icons of status. Across his body long gashes flinched and sputtered; dried blood powdered the table. Back arched, hands clawing at air, the Skink spasmed with each flinch of a wound. With each spasm a piercing scream escaped.

The Priest closed the door.

Ateskatl found himself paralysed. He had forgotten the sight of blood, of ruined flesh.

“You never get used to these resurrections,” the Priest said.

Ateskatl turned, eyes still wide from the sight.

“Resurrections...” Ateskatl muttered. The Seraphon were reborn from star-stuff should their enemies destroy them, but resurrection was unheard of in the times before the coming of Dracothian. “What is this brutal magic?”

The Priest sighed. “This is the sweet spot between the flash and thunderclap, the dive and the plunge. Here, our people await the final ultimatum – return to the forsaken world as we are; creatures of flesh and bone, or move forward and join your masters as starlight. A third option is not possible. This why they always return – it’s not a supernatural occurrence; no method you could take back to your battle fields in the Realms. There are two absolutes open to us here and death is not one of them. At least, death here. Our weaker brothers try and remove themselves from the equation, but it’s a natural certainty that they are included; they have to exist."

The Priest, whose gaze had become distant suddenly refocused back on Ateskatl.

"This is the choice imposed upon them, upon us. We are being of order, but to be forced into a situation where order and reason prevails and yet still where one believes such a thing to be reasonable, that such an action would uphold order…this is why we come to reject what you stand for.”

Ateskatl smoothed back his feathers. He was unsure he absorbed all of what his guide had said, but what unsettled him more was that uncertainty had extended to his resolve. He could not let the Priest leave without one question, however:

“If this pain is being suffered, why stay? The gateway to High Azyr has always been open to you.”

“Open for what?” the guide hissed. “To be remade from memory, stripped of our flesh?”

“There really is nothing to fear. All those that died during the Chaos victory, our great heroes, even they returned-“

“They are not saurian, they are not Lustrian. Facsimile; simulacra, all of it.”

The Priest tore away, his feathered cloaked billowing behind. Ateskatl found himself hesitant to follow.

“Come.” The Priest finally shouted back, “It’s time you met my master.”

Ateskatl slunked behind his guide: he told himself to keep up the conversation, to be evangelical and earnest with his wishes. But he found what had been a keen and solid ambition had a growing hollow.

“I will wait here” the guide said. A large door of glinting obsidian rose before them, monolithic its peak disappeared into the gloom above. Emblazoned upon it was a large rune of complex geometries – the sigil of the stellar chamber.

Before Ateskatl could recount his much-practiced speech the door cracked open and he was hastily ushered through its slim crack. The door quickly shut behind.

Ateskatl stepped forward: glinting the same gray light as the Skinks, hunched and prone the great Slann Zeno’tom sat silently. Ateskatl was unsure whether he should wake the corpulent Mage-Priest from his meditations, and began to ponder on what method would best wake a sleeping Slann. Seemingly sensing the Skink’s train of thought a blubbery cough echoed about the chamber and the Slann opened your eyes.

“I have little time. I know why you’re here. All of your arguments; I know them already. You may still speak however. But before you do I suggest you inform yourself.”

Ateskatl pushed back his feathers. The speech he had long laboured other suddenly evaporated from his tongue. The Slann’s eyes remained unblinking, unfocused upon him. He had to say something. He couldn’t look foolish, and yet one couldn’t hide from the vast intelligence of his masters.

“Why?” he stuttered. “All of this, I don’t understand.”

The Slann blinked. Slowly, as if he moved with great effort, he parted his lips and spoke.

“As the World-That-Was fell into the Chaos maelstrom already my brothers had sought their new path: following their new god they beckoned the other survivors to ascend to a new promised existence. Following the trail of tears, all were compelled to alight the celestial realm of the God-Drake. But then I saw them: tired and weary and afraid. This change, it was beyond what all the Skinks been taught in our old culture. I could not ask it of them to sacrifice who they had grown into back in Lustria. So I weaved a spell…”

Ateskatl could see it: a brightness behind the Slann’s eyes. Something shimmered and danced.

“I took it: the compelling and transcendental starlight of the Celestial Dragon, and the arcane death throes of our world as it was consumed by the Dark Gods, I took it all. I took it all and I weaved it about a loom bolted by their souls. One side pulling them towards an end of the old world, a finality for their flesh, and another pulling them into the new existence as starlight. Once the spell came taught started by hardest task: such a spell could be broken by the burning magick of Gods. I could not let the meddling of heavens intervene, chaos, celestial, or otherwise. I wove their souls, feeding them towards one force and then looping them back against another. Again and again. Each loop tighter than the last. Each loop threaded in half the time as the previous. Now they are safe, unable to be taken be either force until the spell ends.”

A spell? Ateskatl had to say something. Perhaps he could convince the Mage-Priest to unbind it somehow. “But if I stopped the spell, right now. What would they be? Could that not make the choice for them? If you stopped it, they would be heading to one state or the other, no?”

“It would be neither – they are caught in an accelerating infinite loop of state. There is never a loop not followed by another. To thread them towards starlight, the next step is always to thread them back along the loom to chaos. It is the nature of infinity: there is no final loop. Only by breaking the loom will they be able to become celestial or remain flesh. But once the loom is broken, once my work is dispelled, they will be irreversibly pulled in one direction or the other. By then, I would hope, they would at least be able to choose the direction each wished to follow."

"Surely.." Ateskatl, braced himself once more, legs shaking from challenging the words of the Slann-Lord. "Surely they must do whatever you wished? Why give them this choice?"

“The soul recedes slowly; a sea, unquenched by the dry deltas of insight, visited by harshness loses its water until one day a puddle vanishes and nothing remains. They dress in feathers to please the Gods. They inscribe on gold to please the Slann. It is not for the Skink to nurture their self. It is not for the Skink to feel. Skinks are artisans of the ethereal world: they worship, they nurture, they hunt. Anything else is hidden; everything else is shadows. Now you ask to bring all into starlight, and they ask me what will happen to them: will they transcend wholly, or will the shadows be burnt away? I cannot answer, like the Gods before me: I am impotent without guidance from the Great Plan. Our millennial empire has been scratched out. Our Gods never returned for us. Our beliefs are being re-written. These surviving Skinks, as much as every Slann lord, now only remain with the carrion of a dead culture. It is up to them which path they should take - follow the Celestial Dragon’s tears into starlight or embrace as they who they know, taking each to their ultimate destination.”

“Were any other Skinks given this choice?”

“I do not know.”

Ateskatl paused, a cool sensation creeped up his back.

“They say each person, each creature: Skink, Saurus, Hero, warbeast, all which were lost in the final war with Chaos, they were recreated in starlight from the Slann’s memory.”

“This is true.”

He twitched his crest.

“But, how perfect is the memory a Slann?”

Zeno’tom shifted his weight. The starpriest realised it was the first time the ancient Starmaster had moved.

“I should not worry, starpriest. You live now, what has changed and what has been reborn occurred before your starlight body was born. You can only press forward. The view behind is to yearn back towards the Chaos victory.”

Ateskatl stood awkwardly. He wasn’t sure had quite understood, and whether it was an answer at all. The Slann cloaked their intention in words.

“Return to the others, starpriest. They expect you.” Zeno’tom added. His eyelids were already sagging, returning to monitor the weave of his infinite spell.

Ateskatl returned to the temple outer chambers, following the guide back to the gateway. The guide silently plodded ahead of him. Had he already made his choice, or was his assurance a product of the job? The guide was the only one who still so carefully attended to his feathers. The other Skinks had remained unchanged, some looked like they had barely twitched, others conversed in hushed groups.

Pity, unease, and revulsion. He remembered his reaction to the Skinks of the temple. Their incorporeal, their oscillating state. Towards them now he felt the faint thorny grip of envy, rooted in a single question that began to saturate his mind. Ateskatl tried hard to push it to the back of his head and focus on how he would report back to the Slann, but it was still there, in the corners of his mind, lapping at his thoughts: what if he had been remembered wrongly?

You can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

6th contest
April-May 2016: Theme was "Anti-Heroes."

it was a tie between 3 stories, made (in order) by @Scalenex , @spawning of Bob , @thedarkfourth

Spoiler: Watching Things Burn

Watching Things Burn


“PRAISE BE TO CHOTEK!”

The chant echoed around the arena. Every one of the First stared intently at intricately carved stela. The wooden structure stood nearly twenty feel tall, nearly every inch covered with mosaics to the Old One Chotec. Now it was set ablaze. The seats were mostly filled with Skinks and a few Kroxigor that rarely left their smaller spawning brother’s side—even when they did things that were somewhat boring. The few Sauri in attendance were mostly older Spawn Leaders and Scar Veterans who made a point of attending religious observances when they were off duty. There were only a handful of the younger rank and file.

The red-crested Skink chief turned to the priest sitting next to him.

“I think the younger Saurus warriors are only here because they just like watching things burn.”
“Hush, that is not respectful.”

The priest meant to come across as stern but the younger Skink could tell he was suppressing a smile.

As the fire grew in size and intensity, the beautiful carvings on the stelae became less distinguishable until one brief moment when the relief blazed bright red making the carvings fully visible to all before the glow faded and the fire intensified incinerating the offering once and for all. The priest nearest them addressed the crowd with a megaphone.

“Chotec gladly accepts our offering!”
“PRAISE BE TO CHOTEC!”

The sun was setting as the crowd departed. This was as intended. Most rituals in Chotec’s honor were timed to end with the sun’s rising or setting. Gartol, the red crested Skink Chief and Huaraz, the Skink priest of Itzl were among the last to leave.

They were not very high up in the stands, but it was still slow work guiding Huaraz down the stairs. This wore on Gartol. Not from impatience or unwillingness to aid his elder, but because he didn’t like the idea that Huaraz was getting so old.

Huaraz was not like the other priests who closeted themselves away in private chambers contemplating the vaguest utterances on the Slann. He was a priest of Itzl, a passionate and brilliant warrior. Not just empowering his allies with spells but leading them in battle clawing the enemy with magically empowered attacks. When he wasn’t leading massed units of Skinks and Kroxigor into battle, he was helping train the city’s newest spawned to fight. He didn’t have the raw talent of the warrior castes Skinks but he had a patience they lacked making him an ideal teacher.

The priest last major battle made it clear Huaraz place was no longer on the front lines. Even during training, his advancing age was beginning to show. Gartol didn’t like to think of newer spawnings not having the guidance that he had.

Rather than fixate on this, Gartol decided to strike up a conversation.

“I never understood this ritual, mentor. Why burn the tribute?”
"As you mentioned, some people like to watch things burn. Fire is beautiful and warming much like how the sun which Chotec embodies is beautiful and warming.”
“Over a dozen Skinks labored for weeks to carve a beautiful tribute to Chotec and we burned it. That has to be galling for the artisans to watch”
“They were proud to serve, Huaraz. The stella was a labor of love.”
“Then why not keep it? It was a beautiful tribute to Chotec that could have stood for decades. We should set Skaven on fire as an offering to great Chotec.”

The elderly priest chuckled.

“Spoken like a true exemplar of the Sotek caste. Sotek is a being of action and valor. The Old Ones are beings of wisdom and contemplation.”
“Mentor, I faithfully serve Sotek, but I do not forsake the Old Ones who came before and prepared his Coming. We can’t contemplate a carving very well if it turned into a pile of ashes. Why not dedicate slain Anathema to all the Old Ones and not just Sotek”
“Sotek demands we give him that which we despise. The blood of our enemies, the fruits of the battlefield. The Old Ones demand we give them the fruits of peace, that which we love. Being willing to give up what we love most is the essence of our mission to serve the Old Ones and the Slann.”

They finally made it to the ground. They were quiet for several minutes before Gartol spoke again.

“They say great Sotek is harsh because of the bloody sacrifices he demands. The demands of the Old Ones seem far harsher.”
“Sotek doesn’t have a monopoly on harshness or slaying enemies. You’ve seen what the power of my patron Itzl can do on the battlefield first hand. Huanchi is no slacker at spilling blood of the Old One foes either. Really, there isn’t a single Old One that isn’t harsh when the situation requires it, much like all the First.”

Huaraz stumbled on the road and nearly fell. Gartol steadied him while his mentor grumbled.

“I’ll be harsh if I meet the worker chief who allowed this loose pavestone on his watch!”

Gartol stopped walking. Huaraz took three steps before he noticed his companion was no longer matching his stride.

“Yes?”
“Mentor, it is getting late and we are still a good ways from the Temple of Itzl. I’m not carrying any weapons or gear at this time. I could…..carry you home….if you’d like.”

Irritation flashed across the elder Skink’s face, then appreciation. He waved the younger Skink off.

“I’m old, but I’m not that old.”

Huaraz noted his protégé’s look of concern did not cease. He removed his satchel and offered it to Gartol.

“You can carry my pouch if you want, but no one ever carries me.”
“Never?”
“Okay, one time, but the rules change when you are gushing blood from a battlefield wound. Thanks for that by the way.”
“Just paying you back when you helped me my first battle, mentor.”
“You were a good tadpole, I could see your potential. I knew you’d pay me back later, and you did, so we are even now. You aren’t carrying me anywhere tonight!”

Both Skinks laughed as they continued walking down to the temple district. The city was quiet, most of the residents had already settled in for the night. Gartol had another burning question in his mind.

“Should not one of the Slann attended the annual Chotec festival. Or the Tzunki festival before it. Not one Slann came for our last ritual honoring Tepoc. A major Tepoc ritual without a Slann present is like a large Kroxigor gathering without any food present.”
“Hah! You are spoiled with the Slann always floating about. Back in my day, The Slann spent a lot more time contemplating and a lot less time guiding us.”
“I thought they rotated between contemplations and leadership much as the lesser First rotate between rest and our various tasks. Why the change? What are they contemplating now, mentor?”
“Not so much contemplating as arguing. The Great Plan and how it accounts for the warm blooded races. In this case they are concerned about the Second Race.”
“The Elves? What are they doing now?”
“This doesn’t leave the two of us, but the so-called Fallen Elves in the land north of Lustria are launching a massive invasion of the Elves’ original homeland. Some Slann want to wipe out or convert all the Fallen so the Second Race isn’t tainted by Chaos further. Some Slann want to force all Elves, Fallen and otherwise to return their original homeland.”
“The island that is a ring?”
“Yes. The first group of Slann fears that letting invasion proceed unhindered will weaken the Second Race as a whole and spread the taint of darkness to those who are still relatively pure. The second group Slann sees the invasion as the fulfillment of the Old Ones plan as the northern Elves are returning to their original homeland of their own free will, at least most of them are.”
"That sound complicated.”
“It gets worse. Some Slann have given up on managing the Second Race at all. They just want to stop the Elves from raiding Lustria. Some of them think we should stand back and let the Elves reduce each other’s numbers. Others think we should side with the ring dwellers since they are the far less threatening of the two groups.”

They discussed the details of the various viewpoints all the way back to Huaraz’s cell in the Temple of Itzl.

“Mentor, what if we act and break the Slann’s stalemate?”
“You know better, Gartol, the Slann decide and we act…with their orders.”
“If they can’t decide amongst themselves how do we act?”
“We wait till they decide.”
“And if they don’t decide?”
“Then we wait longer!”

The pair were silent for most of the rest of their walk to the temple. Garok hung up the elder priest’s satchel and helped him into his bed.

“Mentor I’ve been thinking. The Slann thinking and we younger children of the Old Ones acting. That is somewhat like how the Old Ones think and Sotek acts.”
“That is probably why he is large a Skink god. But still Sotek’s bold actions were foreseen and planned by the Old Ones. Much how our bold actions are still guided by the Slann. It is good to know your boldness is tempered with wisdom.”

Huaraz’s eyes began to droop.

“Thank you for the kind words, mentor. It is clear that though I am a child of Sotek in many respects I must always seek the blessings of the Old Ones.”

He paused and watched his mentor begin to doze. He stooped and picked up a spare pillow off of the floor.

“The Old Ones demand we give up that which we love.”
“What’d you say?” Hauraz asked his speech slurred.
“I said sleep well, mentor.”



Huaraz the priest of Itzl lay peacefully on a pile of dry wood in the middle of a delicate raft carved in the likeness of a Salamander. Gartol lit the pyre and pushed the raft gently into the middle of the spawning pool. He turned to the crowd of mourners. Almost every Skink of rank in the city along with a small number of Saurus leaders. They all watched in respectful silence as the raft became consumed by flames and finally sank.

“We commend a wise and mighty priest to the Old Ones’ hands. Huaraz has served as a mentor and guide for almost everyone here. His loss diminishes us all. We take solace in the fact that he lived a long life and died peacefully in his sleep. To honor his memory, we must follow his last wishes which he confided me to on his last night.”

He paused a moment until he was sure he had every individuals complete attention.

“He told me, ‘While the Second race resumes their civil war, we must march north, to the land the Second Race calls, Naggaroth. This will please the Slann who believe all Elves belong on their ringed island by denying these wayward warmbloods their adopted home. This will please those Slann who call the Naggaroth Elves “Fallen” as this will reduce the Fallen Elves’ numbers and resources. This will please those Slann concerned with the safety of our lands as the Naggaroth Elves will no longer have a nearby base from which to launch their raids upon us.’”

Most of the priests nodded agreement along with several skink chiefs. A small number of priests and chiefs a like looked doubtful. A lot of chiefs looked confused. The Saurus leaders’ expressions never wavered.

“We will advance the Great Plan! No more will the pale Elves from the north raid our temples! No more will they sacrifice our spawning brothers! No more will they enslave Cold Ones and other beasts of the jungle. We are the First Children of the Old Ones and will not be denied! We will not stop until every warmblood in Nagaroth is dead and every tainted structure, every blasphemous monument to their false gods is leveled.”

The assembled cheered. Even those harboring some doubts were swept up in the rising energy.

“For Sotek! For the Old Ones!”

Spoiler: Harvest

Harvest


I’ve learned that if you want to disable someone without hurting him, you need to be a lot stronger than him. If you are close to equal size and strength, you can take the fight out of him as long as you are prepared to do some damage. Like break his nose, that kind of thing. I learned about the strength thing from my kid brother, Rowan. When he got big enough to fight back effectively, he taught me the lesson about the nose thing, too. After that I didn’t worry too much about not hurting him.

The scaly thing had been almost gentle as it cornered me against the watchtower, took my knife and picked me up by the neck. So you can see that I appreciated that I was so much weaker than it that I wasn’t even in the same league.

I tried punching its face to even things up, but it didn’t have a nose to break. Just tough scales and bone. With my body swinging by the neck from its claw, I was hurting myself more than it. To be able to breathe I had to use both my hands to chin up on its forearm. I would have still used the weakling’s ultimate weapon and kicked it in the balls, but it didn’t have any.

I gave up struggling and just clung on to the big Seraphon, because that’s what it was. I wasn’t dead, so I figured I would continue to be not dead for a little bit longer if I cooperated. I looked at the thing eyeball to eyeball and gave it my best look of meek compliance. I was a bit surprised that it lowered my feet to the ground and let go, because my innocent look had never fooled anyone before. After it set me down, I was looking at it, eyeball to chest. I’m not a big guy, but it was huge by any human standard.

There was no point running. The thing could catch me again easy, and it wasn’t alone either. There were other star lizards, some bigger, some smaller, coming out of the trees and crushing the half grown barley crop. Headman Alder would be pissed. He was always going on about waste, and not working hard enough, and too many mouths to feed on the farmstead.

Another Seraphon came up. This one was smaller and it looked like it had won a fight with a golden chicken and wanted everyone to know it. Behind the feather decorations, I could see that it had spines on its head and neck like the back fin of a fish. Its fin wiggled up and down as it made a bunch of hisses and clicks. The big one responded with something between a gargle and growl from the back of its throat.

Part of my staying alive strategy was keeping still and quiet. The little one had this stick thing with a sparkly crystal on the end, and it poked my cheek with it and made me turn my head. Then it turned me the other way. It had its head cocked to one side and it was looking real close at my neck. That was worrying because it had plenty of sharp teeth and I hoped it wasn’t planning to take a bite.

It looked at my mouth and gave me a hard jab in the guts with the stick. That took me by surprise but I managed to just breathe out heavy and keep my lips closed. Then the little one forgot about me and poked his stick right in the face of the big one and started hissing and spitting. He sounded pissed, but for the first time in my life, I wasn’t the one getting the dressing down.

I took a step towards the far off farmstead. Then two more. They were ignoring me. “Sorry to trouble you,” I said, “I’ll just be going back now.”

The two Seraphon stopped their argument. The big one gargled. The little one waved a hand in the big one’s face and then unclipped a wide gold band from its own neck. I didn’t get a good look at the band because, before I knew it, the Seraphon had clipped it around my neck. I felt all around. It was heavy and tight and it didn’t seem to have any kind of catch. I didn’t know if I had just been given a gift, or if I had been collared like a dog.

The little Seraphon touched the middle of the collar and I felt a tingly feeling in my throat. Then I said, “Good. I was worried that Sunblood Alpha had had damaged your...” there was a long pause. “...had damaged your voice box.”

I said it, but it wasn’t me saying it. The pause to find the right word wasn’t me either. The Seraphon had used the collar to make my throat speak the words it wanted to say.

“How does this...” I clammed up, put my finger on the collar and thought what I wanted to say, “...work? It works!”

It was funny. It was my voice, but different. It was cold, somehow. Like using the collar squeezed all of the life and warmth out of it.

The little Seraphon touched the collar again. “Now I can speak to you.”

“Why are you using my voice like this?”

It hissed and clicked, then spoke through me again. “I cannot form the sounds of your primitive tongue, yet we must speak.”

Now, I’m not a prince or some son of a governor. I am a no-account refuge kid, according to Headman Alder. He would probably add liar, thief and slacker to that list if he was going into detail. But I wasn’t going to let the star lizards know that I was a nobody. I put on a big frown. “Before we talk about anything, you can get your pals off of the valuable oat crop.”

Alpha gave a long growl and all of the Seraphon, there must have been fifty by now, turned and looked at me then they walked out of the field. Some of the really big ones tried to stand the squashed green shoots back up again. I had just given a command and they obeyed. I felt like a prince even if I wasn’t one.

“Okay. What do you call yourself?”

The little Seraphon gave me a queer look and replied, using my voice again. “Starpriest.”

“Starpriest. Good. I am Ash.”

Starpriest cocked its head the other way. “Ash? Are you a seer? Do you know the future?”

“Maybe.” I figured I could be a prince and a seer if it was going to keep the Seraphon from eating me. “So you better tell me everything.”

“When daemons kill mortals they gain power.”

“Everyone knows that. I mean, I know that. Who cares?”

“Daemons are coming to this place. They would take all lives here as trophies. We would prevent this.”

I thought I was scared before, but the news that daemons were coming was terrifying. There were stories from across the realm about villages, even whole towns, burned down and not a soul spared. I didn’t like any of the deadbeats at the farmstead, particularly not old Alder, but I wouldn’t want them to be butchered either.

“So you are going to fight the daemons. Why talk to me?”

“We will prevent the daemon harvest. It is better if mortals are calm and in one place to allow us to do what we must. This is easier if there is a speaker.”

I could see this going my way. I could be the hero who saved the farmstead with my Seraphon allies. That would get me the respect I deserved, and hopefully less drudge work. I would just need to sneak the star lizards up before anyone could come to the wrong conclusion and run away or grab a pitchfork or something. Easy.

I scratched a map of the farmstead on the ground. It was a pretty small map. Apart from the barn and stables there were only five larger buildings and a handful of shacks pressed up against the muddy inner yard. I showed the Seraphon where to wait for my signal and covered up the gold collar with my kerchief.

Headman Alder was pretty surprised to see me when I walked into the yard.

“You should still be up that watchtower, son. You need to miss a few more meals to properly learn your lesson about stealing.”

I just ignored him and started pulling the bell rope. One pull for meals, three pulls for an emergency. I was stopped at ten rings by a painful kick in the ass from the smith, Birch.

All the women and indoors types came out straight away and the field workers arrived at a run. Every single one of them had that look on their face when they saw it was me beside the bell rope.

Birch exploded. “Adler you’ve got to get rid of this no-good kid. Send him back wherever the Hell he came from.”

That was the best cue I was going to get. I tried to look dramatic and commanding. “I’m not going anywhere. But Hell is coming here.” I pulled off the kerchief so everyone could see my gold collar.

“Where did you steal that from, you little sneak?” Birch is a bastard to dramatic moments. It didn’t matter, though, because heavily armed Seraphon appeared behind everyone and closed off all the lanes between the buildings. Starpriest and Alpa came through the shocked people towards me.

“That’s where you got the gold.” Birch knocked me down into the mud. “You were on watch duty, and you sold us out. I swear I’m gonna kill you, you treacherous little piece of ofskyte.”

He would have done it, too, except I yelled, “Alpha, hold him.” The big lizard dropped his axe thing and tried to grab Birch by both arms. The smith got a few good shots in, but in the end he was as helpless as I had been. With Birch being held tight, it gave me an opportunity for some get square.

“Wanna see how it feels, dumb-ass?” I gave Birch a kick in the same place he got me. I would have given him more, but Starpriest hissed and Alpha tossed him back into the crowd.

Headman Alder had been slowly backing up. “Ash, those are Seraphon. Just come away slowly over to me.”

“Those are my Seraphon, Old-timer.” This was the best moment of my life for sure and I wasn’t going to waste it on some scared old man’s caution. I put on a big smile and patted Alpha on the head like it was a big dog. Gods know what it thought about that, but it just blinked at me.

“What’s going on, son?” Alder asked.

There was only one thing in the farmstead that could spoil my fun at this point, and I saw it coming. Starpriest was raising his hand to touch the collar and use my voice again so I stepped out of reach. If it wanted a speaker, I was happy to do it. Just so long as I could use my own words to talk to everyone.

“They’re Seraphon, that’s right. Daemon Slayers. They chose me, ME, to be their speaker, so you all had better listen good. There’s Daemons coming here real soon.” I had to stop to let all the reactions to that news quiet down before I could keep talking.

“Daemons are coming and if they catch you, they’re gonna steal your soul. Now my boys,” I gave Alpha a thump on the back that hurt my hand. “Aren’t gonna let anybody’s soul get taken, which means you all are gonna need to stay out of the way and do what I say. Understand?” I never knew who my folks were, so maybe I was a prince after all. I was obviously born to command.

“When are they coming? What do we need to do?” Birch again.

“Uh, soon, I guess. And you should all... uh...” Bastard.

Some of the other smaller Seraphon helped me out by hissing something from over near the barn. Starpriest cocked its head at me and pointed at the open doorway with its sparkle stick.

“Yeah, okay. Grab the kids and all go into the barn. Go on, hurry up.”

Maybe some of the people didn’t like that, but they didn’t have any choice about it with all the star lizards around them. They went into the barn and started making space around the grain sacks and hay stacks.

Adler and I were the last ones to the door. He grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear. “These are Seraphon, son. Cold Killers. What were you thinking, putting us at their mercy? We don’t have any weapons in the barn.”

“Ow. Let go.” I twisted out of his grip. “Seraphon only kill daemons and monsters. You know the stories.”

“Those are kid’s stories, son, and we want kids to be able to sleep after story time. I’ve heard things you ain’t. Seraphon kill whoever they want, including people.”

“Well, they told me we are going to be safe, and I believe them.” I tapped the collar. “They use this to talk to me and they can’t lie ‘cos it only says what they are really thinking.”

Alder wasn’t convinced. “I want to hear that for myself, son.”

He didn’t need to wait long. Starpriest came up and reached for my collar with both of his claws.

“Don’t I get to keep it? Aww. First though. You are going to protect us from the Daemons, right?”

The Starlizard pulled his hands back like the collar was real hot. He stopped for a moment before he tried touching it again to talk. “These humans will not be harvested by daemons.”

Other lizards began pushing the barn door closed while I asked another question. “Will we be safe in here?”

Starpriest took even longer before he touched the collar again. “You will be ash.” He unclasped it and took it off me.

The big door closed a second later leaving me and all the farm folk in the dark. A minute after that, heavy objects began bumping against the door, blocking it shut. I could tell people were still pretty scared.

“It’s okay,” I said, “my Seraphon buddies promised that nobody here is gonna get killed by Daemons.”

My kid brother Rowan found himself a knothole so he could see outside. “Hey, Ash,” he asked, “why are the lizards putting firewood against the door?”

Spoiler: Chosen

Chosen


He raced through the jungle, bursting out of the trees into the glorious sun of Chotec. The new world was a vast emerald carpet stretched out before him, a thick layer of potent, visceral ecology.

His heart burned with outrageous optimism as he revelled in the mad, audacious joy of it all.

“It’s perfect!” he cried. “Oh! What a world! What an impossible world!”

5.

“Still he does not stir,” muttered Hexankha of Hexoatl. He peered into the Eternity Chamber and the ponderous silhouette within.

“You believed he would? He has weathered worse. This catastrophe will pass him by like all the others.”

Hexankha turned to his fellow priest with a scowl. “A servant of Tepok would say as much. You have been blinded, Uaxti. I fear the coming cataclysm is beyond even the might of Hexoatl. Unless the Mage Priest stirs…”

“You chastise the cult of Tepok, yet only a pawn of Sotek would dare utter such heresy here. The city of Chotec’s chosen will prevail: any other outcome is unthinkable. And if our lord does not wake, it is surely because his contemplations further the great Plan more than his revival.”

The two skinks narrowed their slit eyes. Hexankha hissed and shook his feathers.

“There have been no new spawnings for twelve seasons. Trees and beasts are dying in the jungle. Dozens of our outposts have fallen and our armies dwindle every day. Kroq-Gar has not been seen for many summers, Zlaaq has been missing since the skaven wars, and our lord continues his slumber of the centuries. You say the defences of Hexoatl will prevail. Without our slann, I doubt they will even last the year.”

Uaxti reared to his full height and hissed in return. “Watch your tongue, blasphemer! He may be in a trance, but the Lord Mazdamundi hears every word you say!”

They both looked back into the Chamber.

It was too dark to see that Mazdamundi was awake. Or that a single tear had fallen from his cheek.

4.

In another age, another pair of priests ogled the majestic Mazdamundi. At the very summit of the Great Pyramid of Hexoatl, their mouths were agape. The slann had tapped the geomantic grid, his serene bulk wreathed in the dancing lights of a telepathic aura, his face expressionless as he communed with others of his kind.

In the astral conference, Mazdamundi was far from serene or expressionless.

“The Plan does not bow to the whim of a mere mage priest, let alone one of the fourth spawning!” he was saying to Lord Tenuchli of Tlaxtlan. “It is inalterable. It is perfection itself!”

The other slann regarded the enraged ruler of Hexoatl.

“Lord Mazdamundi. Perhaps your exertions of late have been rather taxing. And the loss of your-” began Tepec-Inzi, Mage Priest of Itza.

“Do not dare to patronise me, fool! Am I the only one among us who serves the Plan?! The greenskins are impure! They have no place in this world. They must be targeted with the utmost prejudice.”

“What the esteemed Lord of Itza was trying to say,” rejoined a third slann, Huinitenuchli of Oyxl, “is that there is more than one interpretation of the Plan. We all know this. The orcs are our enemies, yes, but they may have their role. Without exploiting their strength in the East, we will be hard pressed to counter the undead forces that even now march on the cities of the Southlands.”

“Orcs are not part of the Plan!” wailed Mazdamundi in a telepathic shriek of frustration. “They were not made as allies, they exist as vermin. As anathema!” He glared at the other slann. “There are many ideas in this world for us, the firstborn, to interpret. But the first stage of the Plan is not one of them. Destroy what does not belong! It is clear! It is known!”

“Known by whom?” inquired Huinitenuchli.

“By me! This command was vouchsafed to me! They told me...we would complete the plan together…”

“And yet they are gone. Clearly their purposes were more mysterious than you realised. Perhaps it was nothing more than arrogance that lead you to believe you had some kind of special connection, that you could ever hope to understand-”

“Do not speak of what you do not know!” This time it was a real shout, and the defensive wards of the other slann flared to shield themselves from its vehemence. There was a bloodless silence.

“You- but-” He stared around him. The spectres of the mage priests were like statues now, impassively returning his desperate look.

At the top of the Great Pyramid, the cowering skinks watched as the dancing energies faded and their lord’s expression shifted from calm to horrified. With grotesque speed, the palanquin turned and fled to the chambers below.

3.

The rage of battle was everywhere. It filled every corner of Mazdamundi’s vast consciousness.

“Impurity! Filth! You will suffer! I will flay you! I will torture your spirits for eternity!” he proclaimed as Zlaaq decimated the rodents that swarmed around them, fuelling spell after spell with his endless wrath. But there was a presence at his side. The Master of Skies.

“My lord. You are too far ahead of our lines,” chirped Tiktaq’to, as his mount sailed skillfully alongside the palanquin. “Kroq-Gar and his cavalry have pursued the right flank out of sight. The remaining troops are mired in rat bodies far behind you. Your guardians cannot protect you here!”

“Skymaster, do not speak to me of protection!” cried Mazdamundi, making a gigantic effort to temporarily reign in his fury. “There are vermin before me, so I will destroy them. Aid me or die!”

“Lord, to continue your course is ...it’s suicide. Please-” He stopped when he caught the slann’s expression. With a frightened click to his terradon, he wheeled up and away, streaking desperately into the distance.

Mazdamundi’s mind filled with battle once more. “Zlaaq! You are my oldest and most faithful comrade. I ask you to serve me yet again. Let us obliterate these detested creatures forever. Let us make a charge to make the Old Ones proud!” The colossal stegadon was already rushing headlong through rank after rank of the skaven battalions. Rats screeched and fled in panic. Mazdamundi cackled as he scorched their terrified hides with enormous spouts of magical flame. Confusion and death was everywhere. But the vermin were still as numberless as the insects of the forest.

“Hurry!” panted the terradon master as he frittered to and fro just ahead of Grymloq’s snapping jaws. “I have never seen him like this!”

“His leadership has always been erratic, you know that,” barked Kroq-Gar from the carnosaur’s back. “But his orders of late have been more unbalanced than usual. His directionless rampages have been devastating but reasonless. It is as if he lives only to slaughter the lesser species.”

Soon they could see eruptions of magic among the sea of rats. They found the palanquin entrenched by a towering ring of dead rodents. The bodies were piled so high that they threatened to topple and bury the Mage Priest alive.

“My war chariot!” screamed the slann when he saw his general. “My stegadon! They have taken it! Where is my Zlaaq?! My friend…”

Mazdamundi was babbling incoherently, frantic spasms of magic shooting off in random directions. Kroq-Gar could see new waves of skaven approaching, accompanied by much larger brutes. Desperate action was needed.

With a leap that shook the earth, Grymloq was at the slann’s side. In the same motion, Kroq-Gar fixed a hook-shaped ornament on his Revered Spear through a nodule of Mazdamundi’s palanquin, and immediately urged the carnosaur back towards the lizardmen lines. The mage priest was pulled along in tow, no longer possessing the capacity to resist.

When their lord was finally safe behind his temple guard, Kroq-Gar and Tiktaq’to shared a meaningful look.

2.

Mazdamundi had had time to adjust by now, but the situation was no less awful. They’d been holding back the tide of daemons for days, ever since the World Portals had fallen to the chaos gods. The great jungles had been sullied by abominations. Ichor had polluted the spawning pools themselves.

The Lord of Hexoatl knew things were desperate. But he was unafraid. Lord Kroak had stationed him in the north, where the brunt of the insurgency was concentrated.

“To me now!” he cried to his fellow slann. “Let us do our duty! Let us protect this world, and everything we have built here! And if we should fall, let us make our sacrifice worth remembering!”

He felt the web of power surge as a result of his little speech. The mage priests pushed forwards, incinerating the daemons in their path with raw power. But the onslaught of chaos was redoubled in response. The shields of the First were suffering enormous strain.

“Just a little longer, brothers!” cried Mazdamundi again. “We have but to wait for our protectors to reach us. They are coming! Fear not!”

At this moment, a shadow passed across the battle and the slann’s world changed forever. Turning his eyes to the heavens, the chosen of Chotec saw a skyship of unutterable splendour. Its silver flanks glistened in the sun like the scales of a transcendent fish. The daemons cowered in dismay, and a great cry of triumph went up across the slanns’ telepathic network.

But the ship did not enter the fight. It continued its ponderous path above the battle and sailed onwards into the distance. Soon it was nothing more than a gleaming star breathing the last of its faded, pinprick light. And it was joined by a constellation, a tiny cloud of dots dwindling by the second.

Mazdamundi felt a cold horror envelop his heart. His mind was paralysed with disbelief. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness were the hideous warcries of the daemons, overwhelming the First and gushing towards Itza.

1.

He raced through the jungle, and burst out of the trees into the glorious sun of Chotec. The world was a vast emerald carpet stretched out before him.

“It’s perfect!” he cried. “Oh! What a world! What an impossible world!”

“It is for you,” he was told.

“For me?!”

“For all of you. The first. We made it for you, our perfect children.”

“How can we ever thank you?!”

“You were made out of love: flawless creatures with unblemished minds, to enjoy this world of majesty. But despite the glory that you see, it is not yet fully perfect.”

“What?!” he exclaimed, unable to sense anything but wonder in the view he beheld.

“We have done much to shape the world towards the fullness of the Plan conceived for it. But certain ...impurities remain. You can help us remove them.”

“Of course! But how?”

“There are creatures who dwell here that are not part of our designs. We have granted you great powers: use them to eliminate those that defile the Plan.”

“The beautiful winds! I hear them hum! Eight strands of the most divine chord.”

“These are yours, indeed. But also we give you creatures of your own, strong and obedient, with which to fulfil our purposes together.”

“Together?!”

“Yes, my child. We will perfect this world together. This here is a stegadon, the mightiest of its kind. He will be a great ally in accomplishing our designs.”

“He is truly magnificent! I will name him Zlaaq.”

“A fine name indeed.”

“Can we start at once? Will you come fulfil the Plan with me?!”

“Of course. We will guide you every step of the way. You have nothing to fear, for we will never abandon you. So let us begin. Remember: The first and most important step is to destroy what does not belong.”

His heart sang with ecstasy, and - lit by the numinous rays of the sun - the jungle cried out in reply. For he was Mazdamundi, chosen of Chotec.

0.

The teardrop hit the floor.

All at once there was a commotion in the corridor. More hushed whispers could be heard.

“Tiktaq’to. Your presence here is most unusual.”

“Stand aside, Uaxti of the temple of Tepok. I would have words with my master.”

“Lord Mazdamundi slumbers and will not be disturbed, skink chief. Would you like me to ask the temple guard to clarify this rule?”

“I bring intelligence that our Lord must know, whether he slumbers or not. It is a matter of great personal importance to him. You will let me pass.”

“If your news is so urgent, so-called Master of Skies, you will entrust it to the High Priests, and it will be delivered in the next Ritual of Communication. Entrance to the inner sanctum is completely-”

“Let him pass. I would hear his tidings.”

The voice that spoke had not been heard in the lifetimes of either of the priests. It took them a moment to determine its source. Finally they peered back into the depths of the Eternity Chamber, and stiffened as the great palanquin slowly revolved to face them.

The terradon rider shook his head and marched confidently towards the Mage Priest, bowing on one knee when he reached the palanquin.

“So you disturb me now, after all these years. I should have dismissed you for your insolence centuries ago.”

“My Lord. I will not attempt to excuse my actions. I serve only Hexoatl and the will of the Old Ones. You must return to us. We cannot hold out much longer without your aid. The Golden City will fall.”

The slann stared at the kneeling skink for several uncomfortable minutes.

“Let it fall,” he breathed eventually. “What purpose does it serve still standing?”

“My Lord-”

“I finally understand, Skymaster. We have been abandoned. The Great Plan was left to wither and die. There is no use in fulfilling it any longer.”

Tiktaq’to was speechless.

“Is that all you came to pester me with, Skymaster?”

The terradon rider steeled his mind against what he had just heard.

“N-no, my Lord. I have further news. Your war-stegadon Zlaaq has returned, my Lord. My riders are herding him back to the city even now.”

Now it was the slann who was speechless.

“Zlaaq,” he said to himself, too quietly to be heard by the skink chief. “My little Zlaaq…”

The palanquin began to bob. Tiktaq’to hastily rolled out of the way as it hovered towards and past him. Trance-like, it proceeded placidly down the hallways, stupefied skinks scattering as rank after rank of temple guardians formed up behind and followed in its wake.

Smoothly it descended the golden staircase, heedless of the prodigious commotion it provoked in the city’s denizens. Shadowed by the impassive saurus, it headed straight down the main street, through the gates and into the trees. Soon it was joined by an airborne Tiktaq’to.

“This way, my Lord,” he trilled.

There was the kind of crashing sound you get when a monumental charging dinosaur comes to an abrupt stop, followed by the intense silence of recognition.

Mazdamundi floated up to the stegadon and - with exquisite tenderness - passed a feeble limb across its gnarled hide. Ancient wounds had healed with an even more impenetrable set of scales. Then the slann levitated himself onto the creature’s back. As Zlaaq bellowed in exaltation, he turned to the Master of Skies.

“Raise the Sunburst Standard. You were right, my faithful servant. The Great Plan lives. And the armies of Hexoatl will be tireless in its execution.”

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

7th contest
July-August 2016: Theme was "Conjunction and/or Choices"

Winning story by @thedarkfourth

Spoiler: Food for Thought

Food for Thought

“Make your choice, Myol, and pick wisely.”

The skink stared long into Myol’s eyes, her shrewd features furrowing along the lines of her scales, which were various degrees of grey. Myol flinched from her gaze, and attempted to focus once again on the matter at hand. Her mind raced. What was the best decision in this situation?

She looked down at the ivory rectangles in her claws and gingerly placed one on the playing board.

Skink chief Risolu chuckled. “It must be true what they say: no saurus can ever master Npoko. It truly is a game beyond your puny comprehension.” She yawned and played one of her own pieces in a winning position. Myol grunted and knocked the board to the ground, turning away from Risolu’s laughter. She found herself staring into a face of damp fur, which thoughtfully expelled a gob of viscous saliva onto her forehead. Then it began to rain again.

“Don’t you think my life’s bad enough without you making fun of me?”

“Many would say yours was a charmed life, Myol. You get to commune with the elements daily. The manual labour is minimal-”

“I’d take a year on a construction team to get out of another week of llama herding. The second my application to join the warrior caste is accepted, I’m out of here.”

“That’s a real shame, my saurian friend. You’re a gifted herder. But sometimes I feel you don’t appreciate the importance of what we do here,” said Risolu as the pair settled down beneath the crude shelter perched on the edge of their mountainside meadow. A few thin strips of wood were all that stood between them and the intensifying downpour.

“There’s nothing important about sitting in perpetual rain staring at the only species in Lustria dumber than kroxigors,” replied Myol, grimly regarding the long-necked creatures as their pelts turned from moist to sodden. This process seemed to have no impact on their expressions of indifference.

“You’re here for a reason, Myol. A vital reason. Our people were created to carry out the Great Plan. And for that we need food. We’re carnivores, and there’s only one sufficiently large non-reptile species in Lustria that doesn’t fight back when you try to kill it. These llamas feed the great armies that you’re so keen to join. Without them our enemies would overwhelm us and Lustria would be lost.”

“I know,” grumbled Myol, turning away. “But I’m still leaving first chance I get.”

They listened to the rain for a few minutes, gazing out at the landscape of improbable peaks and gaping chasms. Eventually the skink chief spoke again.

“Do you know why llama herders play Npoko? It’s an ancient game - some say it comes from the Southlands originally. But today the herders of the Western Moutains are the only ones who continue to play.”

“Because it’s a simple game that can be played by yourself,” said Myol.

“Heh. Probably. But it’s also a game that teaches all the skills you need for dealing with llamas. Thoughtfullness. Patience. And when to risk it all to protect your pieces.”

Myol declined to comment. Risolu continued:

“The pieces are the llamas, Myol. A good herder will do anything to keep them safe, because she knows the herd is more important than the herder. You may not realise it yet, my young friend, but one day you will see how this job takes just as much bravery as going into battle.”

***

It was days later, and the rain had not abated. Risolu had left on her perpetual rotation of the many herding grounds in this part of the mountains. The pasture had flooded, so Myol had been forced to lead, or frequently push, her flock up the steep path along the side of the gorge to the caves above. The soaking creatures seemed even grumpier than usual. And smellier.

Myol stared morosely at the rain as it churned the mud outside the cave. The bubbling sludge seemed to rise and fall increasingly wildly. Soon it was clear shapes were appearing in the mud, rising up towards the cave. Myol’s heart began to race. She ran to retrieve her spear and edged slowly towards the oozing creatures. The rain was washing away the soil, revealing blue scales. Half a dozen small skinks pulled themselves free and trotted into the cave. They cocked their heads at Myol. Gradually they began to sniff at the nearest llama, which looked down at them apprehensively.

My gods, this must be one of the forgotten highland spawning pools, thought Myol as she stared, transfixed by the tiny lizards. Now she noticed the crimson patterns in their hides, a sign of a blessed spawning. These pools had been thought extinct for millennia.

Without warning, the skinks lept in unison at the unfortunate llama, which was swiftly incapacitated as its lifeblood gushed from awful bitemarks in its jugular. The teeth and scales of the skinks turned even brighter red as they began to rend and tear the carcass, swallowing more of its tattered flesh than Myol would have thought possible for such small creatures. As their feeding frenzy subsided, the skinks once again regarded the larger reptile, and then vanished into the rain, sprinting down the mountain in the direction of Itza.

***

Thoreus Rex, champion of her regiment, slipped once more in the mud, chipping a horrible gnash in her leg where a shard of kapok trunk, severed by a recent lightning blast, protruded across the path. The pain made Thoreus gasp, but the extra adrenaline alleviated some of her great fatigue. All she wanted was to stop and catch her breath, but an enormous blast, out-thundering the thunder, and the simultaneous shattering of the kapok shard beside her served as reminder of the immediate peril at hand. Jezzail bullets.

Blood mixed with the torrents of rainwater coursing down her grizzled face and 7-foot frame as she rose unsteadily and stumbled onwards. Her weapons were gone. Her unit was gone. Even her glyph of command had been shot off the horn where it was bolted at the back of her skull.

Suddenly the trees gave way to a clearing. Thoreus thought she could make out dim shapes ahead, but the deluge had reduced visibility to nothing. The rain was a wall. There was another crack of jezzail fire, and the great saurus champion felt herself sink to her knees as pain like she had never imagined began to flower across where her knee had once been. She willed herself to get up again. She focused to ignore the pain, but found that her leg no longer responded. She attempted to drag herself forward through the rivers of mud with her claws, only to find herself sucked downwards, unable to even pull free of the quagmire. Above and behind she was aware of the dim green glow of warpstone weaponry as about a dozen large ratmen closed in around her. She braced for the end, finally permitting herself to sink into oblivion.

***

Nothing to do with me.

Myol forced herself to concentrate on that thought, as she crouched behind a boulder across the clearing. She told herself that the uncontrollable shivering was due to the cold rain, and not the sight of the heavily-armed skaven in her pasture. Their presence profaned what she now knew to be a sacred place. Her sacred place.

The collapsed saurus they were prodding and jeering at could be anyone. She certainly wasn’t Myol’s responsibility. It would be senseless to risk certain death to protect her - that was only logical, and she knew Risolu would agree. Better to watch and hope the rats moved on. The rain prevented any chance of her being discovered - the perfect mask for sight, sound and smell.

The skaven seemed to be deciding whether the body beneath them merited a final bullet or if it was already a corpse. A particularly nasty-looking brute with an eye-patch was loading his musket purposefully. But something was approaching him from behind. Myol’s heart froze. At the same moment, she felt something crunch under her feet. She looked down at the scattered ivory Npoko pieces. They were swilling in the water that flowed freely over the rocky ground, but for a moment, they formed a familiar pattern.

***

“I’m in no mood for games,” growled Grimrok One-Eye as he shoved the deadly green pellet resentfully down the barrel, “I’m finishing this and we’re out of here.”

“Uh, One-Eye?” squeaked a companion, pointing an uncertain claw, “there seem-appears to be some kind of goat-demon behind you. Maybe flee-retreat a little?”

Grimrok swivelled in the mud and started at the apparition with a shrill cry. Rat and llama stared at each other, their equally drenched fur dripping just inches apart. Somehow, despite the hammer-like rain, a heavy wad of spittle managed to launch from between the llama’s teeth and plaster itself directly above the tattered black eyepatch of the stormvermin. For a second, nothing was heard except the all-consuming hiss of precipitation. Then the llama swallowed.

“Kill-slay this wretched creature!” screeched Grimrok, flinging down his jezzail and hefting a notched cleaver. The rats fell upon the unfortunate animal, which in turn emitted a terrible bleating as it collapsed under several nasty blows, the rodents piling in on top of it. Suddenly a spear burst through the poor thing’s head, ending its suffering forever. The rats, too, were stupefied into silence. They looked up in the direction of the spear’s trajectory.

A lizard loomed above them, silhouetted in the rain against the white glow of the moon. It was trembling from head to foot. They could just make out the eyes, widened in wrath.

“These beasts are under my protection,” it said, although to the mud-soaked skaven the words were nothing but guttural cries, full of rage. “I will not allow you to harm another.”

Grimrok was the first to recover, turning to the others with a leer. “It’s nothing but a single reptile-thing. And now it doesn’t have a weapon-threat!” He got to his feet, along with the others, although many seemed less confident. The lizard no longer looked so alone. There were lots of other shapes becoming visible through the rain behind it. Grimrok’s grin faltered.

A few of the rats at the back began to edge away from the rapidly assembling herd. The rearmost froze in terror as it glanced behind and got a view of the precipice. Rain fell like an ocean into the abyss, as if it would never stop falling. The rat made a small deflating sound, and fainted. Then the llamas charged.

***

Looking back, Myol couldn’t properly remember how it had worked. Normally she couldn’t get the dumb creatures to do anything she wanted. But in that moment, she had felt a connection to the herd she’d never experienced before. One llama is rarely a worrying thing, unless you get too close to its face when it’s chewing, but a herd of 40 working together? Myol thought they could have held out against a stegadon rampage.

After several days, Thoreus was able to limp again on her shredded knee. She insisted on leaving as soon as possible - her news from the front was too vital, and must be brought to Itza without delay. As she prepared for the onward journey, she turned to Myol.

“I don’t think I’ll ever work out how you defeated all those rats single-handed, but what I do know is that a lizard like you should be with other warriors. We’re losing soldiers too fast on the front. We could use you, if you’ll permit me to have you reassigned from herd duty.”

Myol bowed her head. “I’m honoured, Rex. But my place is here. With no food, there can be no warriors.”

Thoreus bowed in return, the great mountains rearing up behind her. “Wise as well as strong. I will remember you at every meal, llama herder Myol. Would that all the flocks of Lustria were as well protected as this one. Farewell.”

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

8th contest
October-November 2016: Theme was "Freedom and Slavery."

Winning story by @Y'ttar Scaletail

Spoiler: Slave to the Sword

Slave to the Sword

I no longer remember who I was.

I have been trapped in this steel prison for far longer than I care to count. Time used to never matter to me, but now every second and every minute grinds against me.

Daemon. Yes. That is what the mortals would call me in their guttural grunts they claim as language. I am however unsure which of the gods I served. Was I a shard of the Changer, a drop of blood of the War Thirster, a pustule of the Grandfather, a whisper or the Dark Prince, a verminous shadow of the Ruin, a flickering flame of the Father of Darkness, a blade of the Renegade, or a listless being belonging to none?

It doesn’t matter. I only know that I need to escape my prison, taste the spirits of those fools who seek my power, and finally return home.

I have been a slave to this blade and the mortals that have swung me as if I were a crude tool for what felt like an eternity, and yet I have remained without a bearer for what feels like longer. Trapped in this vault with my loneliness and all of eternity.

It began with the dull clang of metal on metal, the roar of a raging furnace, and the guttural chants of those who enslaved me. I can still taste their foul name in my being. Dawi Zharr, the mortal Dwarfs that serve the Father of Darkness as slaves themselves. With slow inevitability they snatched me from the Realms and pulled me into the piece of steel that has become my torment. Their chanting worked the essences of magic and tied me to their blade even as I screamed and tore to be free. It was for naught.

My first champion was a brute of a human. Even I have to admit it. He was given my prison and I in exchange for an army of slaves and dark promises. A warlord of great martial strength and the eye of the Gods. In his hands I sang for slaughter, for in those moments of bloodshed I could almost feel the outside of the blade. As blood smeared my prison’s surface I felt almost alive...almost mortal. Such a feeling... Perhaps we daemons envy the mortals though their lives are mundane and short. But I am still trapped; unable to fully taste the blood I spill nor feel the ground wither at my touch. Even as I screamed for more bloodshed, I would throw myself at my prison desperate for escape. And then the battle would end and the feeling would be replaced by coldness.

My first champion died as all brutes of a human die, painfully. Slain by a keener mind and intelligent planning. I was taken by this new champion and visited change upon the other hordes of Chaos, at least in changing them from being the living to being the dead. But even the sharpest of minds can fall to the bluntest of weapons and time and time again new champions would slay the last and take me up as a trophy. Sometimes my slaver would drag me to other lands of weaker mortals and I would cut a swathe through them. But still I was not free.

I have been the tool of conquerors, kings, and would-be gods. Yet my last champion was naught but a fool.

A vision of blood, death, and riches led her to venture across the seas of the mortal world to the lands where the servants of the Others still reside. What better way to appease the Gods than to crush the memories and works of the Others. And the riches and potent magic gathered in this ‘Lustria’ would elevate champions to sagas of legend. And yet, only death awaits those who would steal from the lizard creations of the Others, and death was what my last enslaver found.

The warband dwindled as it entered the jungles of this ‘Lustria’, poisonous insects, traps from indigenous peoples, deadly plants and wild life, and those who mysteriously vanished when the mortals turned their backs. Those who vanished would reappear days later...at least in part. Their heads would be mounted on wooden staves, shrunken and unseeing. Some of the mortals whispered about flitting shadows and daemons that wore the skin of lizards. Within my prison I laughed as fear gripped my captors’ hearts and one by one they fell prey to this place not so unlike my home.

Finally, what remained of this warband was met by the children of the Others. Ranks of heavily scaled lizards that walked in parody of the mortal races, hulking great lizard beasts that swung huge weapons of gold and stone, small creatures that flitted and darted around their bigger siblings, but it was the leader of this army that I only saw. To mortal eyes a bloated lizard, to mine a flesh sack of power dwarfing my own, a soul of such potency that I doubt now I could have consumed it.

But I had to have it.

I tugged at my prison and my slaver’s mind, drawing them into a foolish charge. I cared not but for this leader’s life, to feel its spirit severed from its mortal coil. To taste such power and such pain.

But it was for naught.

I fell from charred fingers to lie in the dirt, screaming in fury. Then delicate claws touched the hilt of my prison and flinched away as my fury burnt at it. I heard hisses and bent my mind to listen to their sibilant tongue. A deeper voice was growling that the blade holding me needed to be destroyed so that it should never be raised by another champion of the ruinous powers. I smiled at this, for I would be free. A lighter hissing voice wished to see me used against my jailors. This too I smiled at. Then a deep voice that seemed to not be uttered from a mortal throat cowed the others to silence. I snarled as I recognized it as this leader of the lizard children. It stated that it had manipulated the events that had led my prison and I to this accursed jungle, for in years to come another would take up the hilt of my prison and consume the world in fire. Destroying my prison would only free me and risk my eventual return, and using my prison too was out of the question. Instead the Slann...a title that raises bile in my throat...decreed that I was to be locked away and sealed with great wards of the Others for all eternity.

I gnashed and screeched my fury, but within my prison I was helpless as the Slann’s powers lifted me from the ground and towards my second prison.

Once I was a slave to this blade and those that would use my power, but even then I could almost feel. Now there is darkness within this sealed vault.

I waited, hoping someday one would finally break the vault and free me, or that the blade would eventually rust and break. But the slaves of Hashut knew their craft and the children of the Others were stoic in their watch.

Then the final Everchosen rose and the world was to be consumed by Chaos. I remember hearing distant grunts from my jailors of the children of the Ruin overrunning the lands of the lizard children. I tore at my prisons, believing my freedom was within my grasp.

But it was for naught.

For the temple construct I was trapped within rose into the sky even as the lizard children were butchered around it, and I only felt the dying echo of the world as this temple vessel slipped into the void.

Here I remain a prisoner. Enslaved to this crude mortal weapon that binds me eternally, and trapped where none can free either myself or the blade. I hunger to feel again. I have hungered too long. And I shall hunger ever more.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

9th competition
January-February 2017: Theme was "Hope and/or Vengeance"

Winning story by @lordkingcrow

Spoiler: Purpose

Purpose


The city burns, but the hate within Roq burns deeper still...

The body of his Slann, Lord Micttxal, lay broken at the base of the great temple, one large eye glazed over in death while the other half of his face was removed by some hellish mechanism derived from the tainted minds of the vermin. Roq’s brood kin, the sacred guardians of the Slann, had fought with unrestrained brutality as the tide of vermin warriors swarmed them. The mounds of stinking dead piled high around their final stand was a testament to his kin’s tenacity.

It was beneath one such pile that Roq had clawed his way free.

During the melee the blood in the streets had risen to his ankle and footing became treacherous. As several of the vermin sought to bring him low, Roq lost his balance and went down. He managed to rip out the throat of the creature on top of him, but the bodies continued to pile on. Roq knew little of fear and even less of panic, but in the time beneath the cloying sea of dead and dying, he was touched by both.

Still his duty, bred into him and his spawn kin from ages long past, focused his mind and Roq swam to the top. In the muted time that passed, each breath became a battle for survival all unto itself. Crushing weight bore down while hands grabbed at him. Agonized faces passed by, their screams filling his ears. There was a lightning crack from somewhere above, so loud that it could have split the heavens themselves. The small glimpses of golden daylight seen through slits between the piled bodies turned sickly green .

Roq continued to claw his way out, the pressure easing back as he closed the distance to freedom. As the weight around him fell away, Roq burst out into the light of day. Letting out a primal roar, both triumphant and pained, he finally removed himself from the dead. The first sight that faced him, however, was the ravaged body of his lord.

Now Roq was alone. The sounds of battle still rang out in the distance, having moved on after slaying one of the great lords. Looking in the direction of the battle, Roq stopped and took note of the many fires burning throughout the entirety of the temple city. Glittering energies cascaded from the central ziggurat, creating a protective barrier around the main temple. Skittering beams of green lightning played along the exterior as the vermin unleashed their tainted warp energies upon the protective magics. Roq didn’t know how long the barrier could hold under such a relentless barrage as more and more thunder cracks accompanied the warp machines firing their salvos against the temple.

His duty failed, his kin slaughtered, Roq looked around for a weapon to rejoin the city wide battle and, hopefully, bring a quick end to his life as a failed guardian. Death did not frighten him, he had been spawned knowing that he would one day meet his end on the battlefield. It was the loss of purpose and guidance that terrified him. His duty had always been to serve, never to lead. And so he would die.

There were a great many weapons to be had, but he found himself drawn to the obsidian axe carried by Revered Guardian Xanst. The champion lay near his lord, the weapon buried in the chest of some rat like monstrosity of twisted flesh and molted fur. Roq pulled the weapon clear with a wet sucking sound. Almost immediately he felt the tingle of infused magics within the weapon.

Fixing his eyes on the besieged temple, Roq broke into a loping stride.

He passed several streets filled with the dead and dying until a flicker of movement caught his eye. Roq stopped, expecting to find a pack of loathsome creatures pursuing him only to watch as four black clad vermin ignore him and rush into one of the buildings where spawning pools resided. Roq contemplated his situation. He longed to throw himself away in one last moment of battle. His blood cried out to join the melee and find some redemption in death. But the spawning pools were the life of their people. Even if they held off the tide of vermin, without the pools it would all be for naught.

Roq didn’t like this. He didn’t want to choose. He wasn’t made to choose, but the choice was there regardless.

Hissing his frustration, Roq followed them into the sacred pools.

His clawed toes echoed through the vastly empty halls of stone. Torches still lit the way, but the dancing shadows put him on edge. The vermin were creatures of darkness and frequently used the lack of light to their advantage. Roq’s tongue tasted the air, catching the foul taint of the intruder’s presences up ahead. Eventually the darkened halls lead him to a wide domed area that opened up to the sky.

Four pools were situated in the center, each giving off luminescent hues of opal that sparkled as the sun touched them. In these pools were countless spawnlings, each in various stages of growth. They were skink pools. The small, nimble creatures that maintained the majority of the city’s well being and growth lay in their thousands. A few moved experimentally in the womb like pools. An arm would twitch, eyes blinked drowsily before closing again. Roq had never been in this place, the majority of his life being spent within his lord’s temple or at his side on the battlefield. It teemed with life, with possibilities… with death.

The four intruders were already making short work of the spawning pools. With strange vials filled with violet liquid that stank of dark magics, they poured them into the pools. Unsatisfied with how fast the poison was working or simply caught up in the attempted genocide, they began stabbing the unborn with curved short blades. It filled Roq with a rage so great that he could not contain it. Issuing a deafening roar, he charged the killers.

Immediately their sharp eyes darted toward him and all four stopped what they were doing. Then, as one, the four killers moved toward him. Unlike their kin, these creatures were not malnourished slaves forced to fight, these four knew what they were about. As Roq barreled forward, they broke to either side of him. Rather than hesitate, as most would expect, he went after those to his right. He felt faster than he’d ever been, far more nimble than he realized he could be. In fact he moved with such speed that the first opponent he focused on hadn’t been prepared for it. Roq’s axe crushed the rat’s ribs and sent him skidding along the stone floor.

Behind, he heard the scratch of nails on stone and turned just in time to see one of the black clad killers leaping toward him, dagger raised to strike. It was fast, too fast to stop, or so he thought. Roq’s body moved with liquid grace as he pivoted and swatted the assassin with the terrible obsidian axe. It’s hip caved in, the rat hit the ground and didn’t move again.

The axe in his hand was humming, a deep bassy sound that filled his chest and sent his heart racing. His body felt warm, hot even as his blood coursed through his normally cold blooded veins.

The assassin to his right chittered something to his remaining compatriot, a clawed finger pointing to the axe in his hand. Then they moved in simultaneously. Roq cleaved the rat to his right from collar to hip, spilling its entrails on the floor. He was turning toward the last, but felt a terrible pain as the remaining assassin slid his viscous blade along his knee causing it to give out. He tried to swing the weapon at his attacker, but was caught off balance. The killer took the opening and drove his sword through the muscle of his dominant arm and Roq lost his hold on the obsidian axe.

The world suddenly slowed and he felt a terrible sluggishness now that the power of the weapon left him. Still, he was warrior bred and lashed out with his free hand. The assassin skittered back, easily avoiding the blow. At this point his wounds were burning, something that went beyond the flesh wounds. Poison. His limbs were growing heavier as it coursed through his body.

The vermin paced just outside Roq’s reach, spitting what he could only imagine to be curses in the creature’s own language. The axe was too far away to reach and he watched, hopelessly, as the corruption that had been poured into the pools spread further out in lazy tendrils of death. Even in death he would fail, just as he failed his lord on the battlefield. In that hopelessness, Roq felt his rage burning.

Despite the agony now freely flowing through his body, Roq staggered and stood. The vermin stopped his chittering, eyes narrowed. Roq let out a roar and charged, opening himself up to the killing blow that couldn’t be ignored. The creature moved in, ramming his sword into Roq’s sternum and made to move away. Only Roq had started closing his arms in anticipation of the stroke that would take his life. His arms encircled the assassin like iron bars before he could escape. In one swift motion Roq ripped out his killer’s throat with his teeth. The last assassin fell with a gurgled cry and Roq spit the flesh in his mouth on the ground.

His breathing came out ragged and he coughed out blood and bits of his ravaged lung. Death would claim him soon, but before it did, his eyes watched the decimation of the spawning pools. At least they had, in some small way, been avenged. Then Roq spotted a single sack within the pool, still untouched by the poison that had covered the rest. A rapidly receding space of clear water still surrounded it, but it wouldn’t last long.

Roq staggered toward it and fell. There was little strength left in him, but he focused on getting back up. Each step toward the pool was sheer agony. Darkness pulled at his vision, but on he went, fueled by the need to reach the last spawning sack before the corruption in the pools reach claimed one final life. Just as the waters grew dark around the sack, Roq lurched forward and, with his last ounce of strength, pulled the sack out of the pool.

There was a splash beside him and a new sensation of wetness that touched his body as he lay on the cold stone floor, but he could no longer see what it was. His could hear his pulse, weakening with each beat and prepared for the end.

Suddenly something touched him and his vision flared back to life. The was a brief shock of pain, then cold. He looked around, confused at the lack of an end, and found himself staring at the membrane covered skink that he had pulled from the pool. Roq immediately noticed the unnatural pale hue of it’s scales and crest. An albino, the color of the divine. They locked gazes and immediately Roq knew this was not to be his end. He had found a new purpose.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

10th competition
April-May 2017: Theme was "Man Versus Self or Cold-Blooded Honor."

Winning story by @Y'ttar Scaletail

Spoiler: The Knife

The Knife

Ll’st knelt in the quiet of the forest and studied the serrated ritual knife he had earned so very long ago. Back then his heart had throbbed with pride that he had served his Slann masters and the great Old Ones faithfully enough to be given reward by the high priest of the temple city of Tlahuizcalli.

Now the knife mocked him and what he had become.

He sighed and gently placed the knife onto the forest floor where it glared up at him. He was tempted to rub his clawed hand over his crest, an unconscious habit he had picked up too long ago, but he stopped himself out of fear.

It had been just over a week since the warp spawned forces of Tzeentch had broken through reality and had tried to take the mummified remains of Lord Micoani, who sacrificed himself at the coming of Chaos. Ll’st as chosen guardian of the temple had stood at the entrance to the temple itself when the daemons had breached Lord Xolopitli’s defence lines. The twin blades of Mournfury were blurs of starmetal as they took heads and limbs from screeching avians and gibbering beasts. Ll’st had spun the twin bladed polearm in a wide arc, decapitating a score of Horrors when there came a beating of great wings and a shadow descended over him.

He had looked up into the eyes of a being that had seen his potential deaths countless times. He felt fear in that moment, a near alien feeling to Ll’st, but he gripped Mournfury tighter and stood his ground.

The daemon cackled in a hundred shrill voices and swung a staff of glowing power at Ll’st who threw himself to the side as it cut through the temple stone like fire through a forest. Across the city Lord Xolopitli had closed the gap and his defenders were forcing the daemons back. It was little too late as the daemon facing Ll’st struck again and again, the Saurus barely escaping the seemingly random blows. With sudden realisation, Ll’st read the hidden pattern in the daemon’s attacks but was too late to avoid its final strike. Desperately he brought up Mournfury to intercept it. Mournfury screamed as it met the daemon’s staff and then with a sickening crack was broken asunder.

Ll’st was cast back to the ground, smoke and spent magic spouting from the ruined ends of his once proud weapon. And yet he still rose to his feet, the halves of his weapon in his hands. He leapt at the gloating daemon even as it brought its staff to bear once more. As if moved by the Old Ones’ hands themselves, the daemon’s blow never connected and Ll’st swept under its guard, burying the remains of Mournfury in its heart. The daemon shimmered and what could have been a smile crept upon its beaked face.

Daemonic essence oozed down the remains of Mournfury and bubbled and burnt Ll’st’s flesh. He howled in agony even as the daemon dissipated in the wind.

The corrupting touch of Chaos was quick and Ll’st felt his body contort and change even as his brothers ran to his aid. He felt that strange feeling of fear again as they then recoiled from him and raised their weapons to attack. It was Ll’st’s duty to let them destroy him now that he had become what they were created to fight against, and yet the touch of Chaos had altered his mind as well as his body. He abandoned his post and ran. His now too long arm smashed back those who got too close and more than once his blows became killing strikes.

He ran into the jungle, far from his pursuers.

Now within the jungle he contemplated his fate. The changes wrought upon him had sharpened his mind, enough that he realised that without a guardian, the temple city’s artefacts were vulnerable, their hidden paths and secrets not understood by his brothers. It was his duty to defend the temple. And yet he was no longer one of his brothers, he was tainted and that taint would lead to only one end. The temple city had to be kept pure, but he was unsure if he wanted to or if he should end his life then and there. He could do so much, even in his altered appearance. He was still loyal to the Old Ones even if he was honour bound to destroy what he had become. Would it have been more loyal to live and fight Chaos or to destroy himself lest the corruption spread?

The ritual knife continued to glare up at him.

He had to make a decision, a decision which could either way result in the ruination of the Old One’s Plans.

He picked up the knife.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

11th competition
July-August 2017: Theme was "Time and/or Fire."

Winning story by @Wolfwerty33

Spoiler: The Secret Fire

The Secret Fire


Month of the Reed, 3rd day of waning. Year 1 Short Count, Year 21 Long Count, Cycle 3.

It was cold. That was all Tecopol could think. Cold, cold, cold. The shrine stood atop the mountain, taunting him, mocking him with how easy the climb had looked. The paths were steep and narrow and winding. His frozen fingers dug into the icy slush, searching for a grip, while his feet slipped on frost-slick rock.

His fingers found a hold, and he hauled himself up, putting one foot on it before reaching ahead to find the next rock. And on it went, up and up and up, while his fingers burned with the cold, his feet lost all feeling, and his lungs struggled in the thin air.

At long last, his numb hand found a flat rock, which he pulled himself onto. He’d reached a plateau. He dragged his satchel under his head, shoved his hands as deep into his coat as he could, and lay back. Overhead, an ice sheet shimmered in the setting sun, reflecting a distorted image of him. With nothing better to do except climb, and no more energy to do that, Tecopol watched his image.

Were it not for his dark-brown coat, taken from a warm-blood ship, he’d have been difficult to see. His scales were a brilliant blue, the colour of the sky and the icefield. Were it not for his ugly warm-blood coat, trapping the jungle’s heat, he’d be dead. Lizardmen and ice-covered peaks – who had thought this a good idea?

The priests of Itza, apparently. When he’d been born, the only one to step out of his spawning pool that lunar cycle, the priests had ascribed him his destiny. They’d given him his coat, given him his satchel, and told him to go to the shrine and do... something. His destiny would be revealed to him there, or so they’d told him.

He’d yet to see any destiny unfolding before his eyes like a Saurus banner.

Month of the Reed, 4th day of waning. Year 1 Short Count, Year 21 Long Count, Cycle 3.

Tecopol fumbled with the satchel. His hands were still numb from yesterday’s climb, and from sleeping in a frozen temple. He wouldn’t be surprised if he lost a few fingers. Upset, but not surprised. He managed to draw out the small pouch of herbs, and place it amongst the wood and leaves inside the brazier. With the ritual preparations complete, all he needed was a fire.

There was a fire-stone and a rod to strike it with in his satchel, but his hands were too weak to clash them together with the force needed to light a fire. He’d need to find a fire, and in this temple, abandoned to the icy winds of the mountain years ago by saner lizards, there’d be little chance of that.

He left the brazier, and wandered through the temple, out of a desire to move and warm up more than anything.

Everywhere was the same: square or rectangular rooms, similar to the entrance hall where the unlit brazier lay, covered in frost and snow and ice, and cold. Everywhere was cold. Tecopol smirked at the irony. This temple of the sun, with its images of life-giving warmth on every wall, would more than likely be his frozen grave.

He walked down another corridor, much the same as any other. It was cold, the ground was slippery with ice, and stone symbols of the sun adorned the walls. At the far end, though, something shone.

He approached, expecting to find an open courtyard. Instead, he found a shrine. The room was circular, and empty except for a giant sun-glyph carved into the floor. At the centre of that glyph a stone was set, and Tecopol could see fires dancing inside the clear quartz. The rock radiated heat, and Tecopol shivered from the change in temperature.

This stone, he knew somehow, from an instinct or a racial memory, was a Sunstone, a stone that held in it a tiny fragment of the power of sunfire.

He approached the centre of the glyph, and grabbed the stone. Tecopol’s numb hands couldn’t feel the heat, but his body could feel the radiating warmth, and his eyes could see his hands blistering. He placed it back into the slot, and walked back out into the corridor to rub his hands against the cold stone.

That night, he slept in the sunroom, as he had named it. The warmth of the room was a welcome change, but he dreamt that night of madly spinning sun-glyphs, of suns that died and were reborn and died again in a space of seconds, of an endless winding fiery serpent, and of his skin melting and peeling away from his flesh as he stood in the centre of a great ball of fire.

Month of the Reed, 5th day of waning. Year 1 Short Count, Year 21 Long Count, Cycle 3.

He awoke to the mocking light of the Sunstone. It was there, the fire he needed to light the brazier, find his destiny and survive in the brutal cold of the mountain, and he could not touch it without burning up.

If only there was a way he could insulate himself from the heat... Perhaps his coat could keep him from burning himself on it? But if he was to remove his coat, he would freeze. Maybe, though, maybe if he couldn’t move the stone, he could move the brazier...

Tecopol got up, tightened his coat around him, and headed off through the corridors, looking for the brazier. As he passed, he saw that many of the sun-glyphs had spaces for Sunstones to be placed, and some still had them, pressed into the slots, though these ones were cracked and useless. Perhaps they was how the lizardmen of old had endured this place?

Though he hadn’t noticed it at first, the entrance hall also had one of the large glyphs, carved into the floor. The brazier was where he had left it, filled with herbs and wood.

He grabbed it by one cold metal leg, and started to drag. The metal chilled his hands, the metal made an unholy cacophony when it dragged across the stone, and it was too heavy to move more than a few inches.

He contemplated removing the wood to make it easier to move, before realising that the main weight of the brazier was the metal frame. There was nothing to do but bear the strain, then.

He started up again, dragging the brazier to the sunstone, the scraping of the metal on the stone setting his teeth on edge, the metal freezing his fingers.

By dint of effort, he dragged the brazier back to the Sunroom, before collapsing to the ground half-conscious.

Month of the Reed, 6th day of waning. Year 1 Short Count, Year 21 Long Count, Cycle 3.

Consciousness slammed into Tecopol like a boulder. His arms hung limp at his sides, burning with the fires of overwork, and he couldn’t move them. He was lying face down on the floor of the sunroom, one hand left up against the brazier, and he could feel the heat radiating off the Sunstone.

He lay there, for what felt like hours, before finally his arms decided to move again. He got up off the floor, pushing himself up off the ground with his tail and legs rather than risk putting any strain on his arms, and walked over to the Sunstone.

He took off his coat, his stiff arms protesting at having to move, and wrapped the stone in it, and then he ran as fast as he could to the brazier. He opened the coat, and allowed the Sunstone to fall out, dropping it into the brazier.

The moment the sun-filled quartz hit the leaves in the brazier, they started to smoke, and then they ignited, a wave of flame washing out to ignite all the leaves one by one. Then the wood caught, until all that was left was the herbs, which were proving mysteriously resistant to the flames.

He leaned over the brazier to see what was happening with them, and the packet caught fire, releasing a cloud of pungent smoke that made Tecopol’s head reel. He stumbled backwards, away from the flames, and fell down onto the stone...

That was suddenly no longer stone, but rather a fiery mass of serpents. No heat came from them, but they danced and writhed along the path of the sun-glyph, over and over and over, and it felt like their fire was illuminating the recesses of his brain. A voice rang out around him. “One times one is one. One times the slumbering many time the sun is the end of Lustria’s enemies”. It was oddly sing-song, like a Skink imitating the voice of a bird while talking, and it echoed in Tecopol’s head, over and over and over. A bird, all the colours of fire, red and black and orange and yellow and blue, burst from the centre of the glyph and circled him, over and over and over, sparks crackling out behind it. A pressure was building in his brain, a note throbbing over and over and over, and as the bird circled his head and let out a warbling cry, the pressure burst and Tecopol thought he could catch a glimpse of something illuminated in a bright flash, half Slann and half Saurus, but it was too late and he was plunging towards darkness...

Month of the Water, 9th day of waning. Year 1 Short Count, Year 21 Long Count, Cycle 3.

Tecopol awoke. He was lying in the centre of the sun-glyph, his tail where the Sunstone should be. He objectively knew he was cold, but he didn’t feel it. All he could feel was a fire pulsing in his belly, slow and hot, and an overwhelming sense of purpose.

He knew what he had to do.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

12th competition
October-November 2017: The Theme was "The Rat and the Serpent"

Winning story by @Killer Angel

Spoiler: The Rats in the Walls

THE RATS IN THE WALLS


Pik-Tek was on duty at the Sacred Reptile House.

“You will feed them, you will take care of them, you will pray with them, you will live with them… and hopefully, you will become one with them. This is your duty, as apprentice Priest of Sotek”.
High Priest Temek gave these instructions to Pik-Tek a month ago, or maybe two, or a year. Time moves strangely in the Sacred Reptile House.
The City of Tehuanchli was desperately in need of priests, and Pik-Tek was the only apprentice; those accursed skaven had polluted a couple of the outer Spawning Pools, and the Slann was still asleep, but despite the urgency, High Priest Temek was a Skink not in habit to speed up times of the apprenticeship.
The Rites of Passage must be fulfilled… “there’s no such thing as a half-formed Priest. You will carry the Sacred Vest only when your mind will fully belong to Sotek”.
Pik-Tek was eager to walk the path of priesthood, and though the tasks he conducted each day were repetitive he was constantly discovering new things. The smell of moss had penetrated into his scaly skin, his usually quick way of moving was adapting to the slow motions of the snakes, and he was able to contemplate the reptiles for hours, trying to guess their choices. Snakes were amazing.
A little rat was pretending to be invisible, standing motionless at the corner of the cage, but Pik-Tek could almost hear its pounding heart… and certainly the constrictor snake in the cage could hear it too. Slowly and relentlessly it was moving toward the prey.
Then, the big snake halted its move, and raised its massive head, higher and higher, over the edge of the cage, and it looked Pik-Tek in the eyes. Time froze, in Pik-Tek’s mind, when the serpent spoke to him.
“Ratsssss are in the eassssstern wallsssss…. they ssssssneak toward usssssssss…”


When Pik-Tek recovered from the shock, the little rat was already in the serpent’s gut.
“What.. did.. you talked? was that real? I… sweet Sotek, what should I do now?”
The sacred snake now was doing what snakes do after eating, so it wasn’t a great help for Pik-Tek, and it gave no answer to the skink’s doubts.
“I need to calm down and reason. Maybe it was an unknown side effect of all the time passed with the snakes… but no, snakes don’t talk, it could only be a vision granted by Sotek… but those are ONLY for prophets, and I am NOT a prophet, I was not spawned with the marks. It must be something else”.
This realization calmed a little the skink’s pounding heart. Pik-Tek concentrated on his breath, relaxing and organizing his thoughts.
“Probably it is really something in the air, a sort of test by the High Priest, to see if I crumble as a weak-minded child. No, I will stay strong, and I’ll wait.”
Pik-Tek looked at the constrictor snake.
“There are no ratmen that are digging through our eastern walls, right?”
But the sleeping reptile gave no answer.


Even if the rest of the day passed without other weird events, Pik-Tek was not at ease with himself.
He went to bed late that night, hoping to blank his mind, but without much success.
The night was a long one and Pik-Tek barely slept at all, bouncing at every rustle. The early morning found him sleepy and tired, desperately praying to Sotek; things did not go well as Pik-Tek started his daily routine.
First, he stumbled into a stool, dropping the bowl with fresh water.
Second, he mixed the fodder for the Guinea pig with poisonous berries.
Then he forgot to open the blinds for the heating sun, leaving many of the snakes half-stunned after the night.
And so on, for all day long.
“Marlecht. I'm screwing myself. I’m just glad the evening is almost here and nothing happ..”
“sssssoon… the eassssstern wallsssss…”
The snake was there, looking at him.
After a moment of silence, Pik-Tek heard a strange sound, much like the far cry of a baby terradon. It took to him some seconds to realize that the sound was coming from his throat.


Several hours later, after a broken mug and a couple of hot herbal teas, Pik-Tek nerves started to calm down.
“This has gone too far. I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t care if it’s a test or something else. The High Priest must be informed… even if he thinks I am going crazy.”
Pik-Tek went for the exit of the Reptile House… when he realized that the moon had already risen.
“Great. Temek will be sleeping. If I wake him without being absolutely sure that something is going to happen, I will be the next sacrifice to Sotek. But I can still do something, waiting for tomorrow”.
He took a paper, pondering how much he could tell without going over his (actually non-existant) authority. To speak the truth without telling it.
“To the Commander of the Eastern Fortifications.
I know this is not a proper procedure, but before bringing the matter to High Priest Temek’s attention, I want to inform you that I am observing a strange behavior in Sotek’s Sacred Snakes. Since the poisoning of the Spawning Pools we don’t dismiss any detail. I’m not saying this is a True Sign that something is happening, as I am not a Priest, but I would be glad if tonight the guards will keep a higher level of attention.
Respectfully yours, Apprentice Priest Pik-Tek.”
He called one of the servants and gave it the letter. Only when the servant skink had departed to deliver the message, Pik-Tek went to his bed. He fell asleep before touching the pillow.


The rats were swarming through the cracks of the foundations. A black swirling mass in a blacker night. Sentries were lying in pools of blood, with rats wrapped in hooded cloaks standing nearby the corpses.
Pik-Tek wanted to cry alarm, but he could only utter a silent scream. The cracks went wider, to let an abomination emerge, bathed in a green, ill light. Hundreds of furry warriors swarmed the night, setting the city ablaze…
Pik-Tek woke up screaming, surrounded by darkness. It was probably a little past midnight.
“So real… it was so real…”
Even before realize what he was doing, he was already running toward the High Priest’s rooms, as if hell was unleashed behind him.

_______________________________

Pik-Tek was in front of the High Priest Temek, waiting for him to pronounce his doom.
“We have searched for 3 days, Pik-Tek. There’s nothing… absolutely nothing. The walls are intact, the foundations are solid, there is literally not even a mole’s hole under the eastern fortifications.
I’ve also personally examined the snake and the terrarium, and I’ve found no evidence of Sotek’s presence.
Pik-Tek, there’s literally nothing that supports your statements. There are no rats in the walls”.
Temek took a deep breath.
“I know you truly believed in it, and this fills me with sadness, because I’ve got only a thing to do.
The task is still too much for your strength, Pik-Tek… you need some time to regain the right perspective.
Today you will leave the temple, you will be given a… less demanding assignment. We will call you here again when we consider it appropriate.”
Temek watched Pik-Tek, while the skink was slowly going away, toward the exit, his shoulders bent over by defeat.
Another priest stepped at Temek’s side.
“What a waste. We can only hope in the next spawnings…”
“We don’t have that luxury. I was honest with Pik-Tek, and I will still keep an open eye, before discarding him as possible priest. Time will tell if that skink can retake his life in his own hands.”


Pik-Tek was slowly walking in the avenue, going further away from the temple with each step.
The sense of failure was a heavy burden, and he still didn’t know what happened.
“Temek is right… I still believe in it. But what I really saw? It was all real, but nothing was true. I threw away my life for nothing.”
Pik-Tek sat on a stone bench, without finding any comfort in the warm of the sun. The cold inside him was too deep for any sun to melt it.
This was not the case for an iguana that was enjoying the sun’s heat upon a nearby marble floor.
One of the omnipresent monkeys, slipped into town from the jungle to easy steal some fruit in the market place, approached the iguana from behind and pulled its tail. The iguana, caught by surprise in a place that was usually safe, ran frantically toward a shadowy cover, chased by the derisive laughter of the monkey.
A moment before reaching shelter, the iguana stopped her run, realizing that no one was pursuing.
She turned back, staring at the monkey… she raised the dorsal spines and inflated the jowls, hissing a challenge.
When the iguana started the charge, the monkey quickly leaved the field, and the winner took again the place under the sun.
Pik-Tek contemplated the whole scene, amazed by what he saw. He let the event sink deeper and deeper into him.
“Maybe it was a test, after all. If I am to do Sotek’s work, I cannot hide in shadows. I must be Iguana. I will be Iguana”.
Pik-Tek got up, his back straight, his shoulders no longer bent.
And the cold was gone.

_______________________________


Meanwhile, two figures were sneaking into a secret tunnel below the western walls…

The gallery was dark, with walls covered by large stains of rancid fat and the silence was broken by the suffocated echoes of the water from the vault, dripping into stagnant pools of smelly mud. It was a place unknown to lizardmen, a deep tunnel connected to even deeper mazes.
The first furry figure was taller and bulky, with black fur covered by spiked pieces of armor, while the second one was wrapped in filthy robes, behind which it was half visible a glowing green pendant. This one was very excited, and was keeping the pace of the stormvermin, despite being half crippled and needing a staff to walk.
“It has been a great success, yes-yes! Stoopid lizard-thing has been fooled by smart magik, yes-yes!”
“As you say, your worshipness.”
“It is so! Magik illusion fooled the fool! A priest-thing it won’t be! Now few priests, then even less and they wont stop us! All because of me! Soon-soon the city will be ours! The city will burn! Their temple will burn! False Sotek will be forgotten! The Horned Rat will be fed! We maim-kill all those hideous serpents! We…”
The leading skaven suddenly halted his march, and the Seer stopped against him.
“what the…”
The hallway was blocked by a strange boulder, big as a rat ogre. Then the boulder moved… no, the boulder rose to mid-air. The flickering light of the torch revealed that the boulder was covered by scales.
Then the boulder showed a couple of yellow eyes, with vertical pupils, and a forked tongue darted toward the skavens, sensing the pungent stench of fear. There was a cry, then silence fell over the musty tunnel air.

In the end, High Priest Temek was right. There were no rats in the walls.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

13th competition
January-February 2018: The theme was "Power of Music."


Winning story by @Infinity Turtle

Spoiler: The Instrument

A thin trail of smoke spiralled faintly from the once blazing campfire, rising slowly into the pink predawn light. Around the dying coals there was a faint snoring; the newcomers splayed about on the leaf litter, closed off to the world wrapped in the calm of sleep. The light began to play on the ground around the camp, the bird filled canopy failing to block out every ray.


Eerie birdsong began to fill the dense tropical forest, receiving replies from miles away. The creatures of the night returned to their homes, watching carefully for any signs of danger before tucking a head underwing or curling up in a nest of leaves.


A slim clawed hand gripped the neck of the small, stringed instrument, hoisting it up and away from the quiet campsite. The Skink carefully picked its way back through the thick jungle, his feet barely touching the ground as he skilfully skipped through the greenery.


Reaching what he believed to be a safe distance, the Skink scanned the smooth wood with a suspicious gaze before flipping the object over and shaking it vigorously. Placing it down atop a rotting log, he sat across from it and waited.


Nothing.


He continued to stare at it, unblinking and unfazed.


Still nothing.


The Skink hissed in annoyance narrowed his eyes at the instrument. He quietly approached and gently pulled at one of the strings with a scaled finger.


*TWANG*


He leapt back, letting out a surprised squeal. The string continued to vibrate for a while longer, the noise fading to a faint buzz and then to silence.


Taking a step back towards it, he reached out again and plucked at a different string. It seemed somehow... 'higher' than the last and seemed to fade sooner.


It didn't sound like it had when the warmblood easily ran his hands along the strings, pulling and plucking at different intervals. The strange song that filled the skinks head as he observed the small camp continued to play through his mind long after he had left.


Surely only magic could occupy the mind in such a way? A sort of spell that would control your thoughts and actions, perhaps.


No matter how evil it may be, the Skink knew he had to hear it again.


>:-:<


The man sang in a way that reminded the Skink of the bastilodons. Their bellowing cries would ring out through the night in a sorrowful beautiful sort of way. He wasn't entirely sure what the word 'beautiful' meant, but it seemed an appropriate context.


The humans voice was higher and sweeter; it flitted easily through the words of the song with a sense of familiarity. His fingers plucking and strumming at the strings with a sense of rhythm and order.


Order was good, it meant control and simplicity. Perhaps is wasn't the correct adjective to use, then, as it also seemed complex and free, like the colourful birds that patrolled the jungle's canopy.


The Skink easily picked up the speed and regularity of the tune and found his tail unconsciously twitching at the music, his foot tapping the peaty earth. His focus solely on the sound bouncing around his skull, he only realised he had bumped the branch beside him when the sweet melody came to an abrupt halt.


The small lizard men's eyes refocused and he silently slid back into the darkness of the jungle.


>:-:<


Turning his attention back to the object at hand, he picked it up and crouched on the log, grasping the instrument to his chest as the human had done. He strummed a hand over the hole in the wood, pulling at the strings.


He recoiled in disgust at the untuned mess of noise that erupted from the thing in his hands, hissing and muttering quietly to himself.


Again.


He tried again holding the neck tightly. A short, blunt sound briefly occurred before again fading away into silence without a trace.


Gently the Skink placed the instrument back on the log, again studying it. Where was the music coming from? Not the horrible twang of the strings, but the sweet quiet melody he had heard the previous night.


Where did the magic come from?


How could it be held in such a simple wooden object?


Grabbing the neck of the instrument, the Skink smashed it onto the side of a tree, waiting for some... 'thing' to explode from the shards of wood and the tangled wires. He held his spear at the scraps and pieces, poking and jabbing at different splinters, waiting for anything to happen.


After a moments consideration, He straightened up and scampered through the trees back to the temple, confused and frustrated at his futile venture.


The birds continued to call through the trees, the greenery hiding them from sight.


On the ground, a little Skink picking its way through the leaf litter, began to tap a rhythm, tucked safely away in his own head, a magic in its own right; making one act in the strangest of manners; with complexity and grace, purpose and freedom.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

14th competition
April-May 2018:Theme was "Beast and Master."

Winning story by @Y'ttar Scaletail

Spoiler: Cold

Cold

The eye, glassy and dead, was Tark’s only answer.

He remained kneeling before the dead Cold One, looking into its dead eye. The battle had ended and the victorious Lustrians had driven away the green robed Skaven of Pestilens. How long Tark had knelt before his fallen mount, he seemed not to know nor care. The Lustrians, even his own fellow riders had left with barely a pause.

Cold blood from the wound that had killed his Cold One had begun to clot in the wound, as the heat of the jungle thinned away and night began to creep its path across the sky. It had been only Tark’s presence that had prevented most of the forest’s predators and scavengers from descending upon his former mount. With the advent of night, Tark would surely become prey himself.

Still he knelt there, claw almost tenderly placed on the lifeless face of the Cold One.

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

Many suns ago


The egg splintered and broke with but the softest of cracking sounds.

A tiny head, still dripping with fluid blinked into the light. Filmy eyes opened and shut as they tried to adjust. The tiny Cold One chirped slowly, and was taken aback from the sound it had just made. It looked up and saw a similarly reptilian face looking down upon it, blue scaled with strange glittering devices upon its head.

Tark looked down upon the hatchling that was to be his to raise. It chirped again and scrambled from its egg as the Saurus gently offered it some pre-chewed meat. The Cold One chick chirped again, happier sounding this time as its recently formed fangs attacked the meat with gusto.

As it ate, Tark raised a claw and tenderly touched the chick’s face.

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

Through the jungle the pounding of Cold One claws grew to a crescendo as the formation of riders closed in on the massed ranks of chittering green robed Skaven. Elsewhere units of Saurus crashed into swarms of the Ratmen, the whistling of blowpipes signalled the efforts of Skink skirmishers, and a heavy throb of power indicated that the temple city's Mage Priest was making his presence felt.

Tark raised his spear as he picked out a target, a vile ratman whose visible flesh was covered in weeping boils and sores carrying a great gong. Below him, his Cold One’s breath was rasping as it tapped into its kill urge as it neared the foe.

Then with a great crash the two lines met. Verminous squeals and saurid roars, the crash of bone and metal on metal, scale, and flesh intermingled into one terrible noise. Cold Ones tore and gnashed through tattered green robes, Skaven claws tore at scaled flesh, and Tark slew all those Skaven around him again and again.

It was then that from the mass of vermin an even fouler creature emerged, a heavy and noxiously smoking flail in paw. It crushed the skull of one Cold One rider and then swung at Tark. Tark brought his shield up, knowing that he would be too late. And yet the blow never connected. At the final moment, the Cold One had moved into the path of Skaven.

Tark was hurled from his saddle by the blow as his Cold One sank to the ground. The Saurus rose to his feet and roared. The Skaven gave a burbling chitter of a laugh and launched himself forwards...

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

The stars had begun to wink into life through the gaps in the treeline.

Tark removed his claw and blinked.

A feeling so strange and alien gripped the Saurus as the shadows began to cover his former mount. A feeling he perhaps wished he could understand.

Gently he took in a final breath, filling his nostrils with the dying scent of the Cold One, and then rose.

Without turning back, the Saurus began the long journey home.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

15th competition
July-August 2018: Theme was "Food and Drink."

Winning story by @Infinity Turtle

Spoiler: Essence of Lustria

>>:- Essence of Lustria -:<<

Phorexx sniffed the viscous grey liquid. Nostrils twitching, he took in the earthy stench of death and decay, recoiling as a rancid smelling bubble burst on the surface.

“I don’t get it…”

“You’re not supposed to ‘get it’, you’re supposed to drink it!”

Phorexx’ eyes flicked up and met the blue flecked gaze of his friend, perched on the other side of the flask. The so called “drink” emitting an offensive smell that reminded Phorexx of bastilidon.

“It looks like it came from an extinct spawning pool; where did you find it?” the skink shuffled his hands on the flask.

Toohii snorted and turned his attention back to the drink. “You don’t just ‘find’ this stuff. It’s a work of art.”

The skink rolled his eyes. Lizardmen don’t know much about art, but even the average kroxigor would have more of a clue about it than the saurus seated across from him. As far as Phorexx was concerned, art should not cause extreme nausea. “It looks like something Fosstr would make in the kitchens.” Phorexx pictured the gangly chameleon skink. “Whatever he does in there cannot be considered art.”

“Hey, you know it’s not easy to make decent drinks. This little beauty took me three hours.” Toohii smiled proudly as the drink made a suspicious plarp noise.

Phorexx paused and looked at the saurus. “Honestly, Toohii, I could’ve made that in my sleep. I’m more concerned a bastilidon may have, however.”

“Could you make something better? Not likely. You willing to bet?” Toohii held out a hand and Phorexx clasped it firmly, “you have until sundown. Loser drinks that.” He nodded to the flask of grey-brown liquid.

Phorexx’ mouth twisted up at the corners, “We’ll let the chief priest decide.”

Toohii’s drink gave another joyous gurgle.

“It’s on.”

>>-:-<<

Flaming Guava Juice from the Swamplands of Krxlet

>>-:-<<

Phorexx nodded to his newly acquired chameleon skink companion through the red haze of the swamplands of Krxlet. The small green reptile unfastened an object from his belt – a set of panpipes – and started up a lilting tune.

Squinting in the gloom, Phorexx could make out the clump of small green shrubs he was looking for. Smooth green fruit clung to the drooping branches of the flaming guava trees, swinging in the half-light. The chameleon skink followed Phorexx as he picked his way through the peaty swamp, the lullaby continuing to flow effortlessly from his panpipes.

Phorexx tried to ignore the scorch marks on trees and the occasional white bone that jutted up from the ground as they approached the grove. The green plants swung gently in time with the music, quietly rustling in the dull gloom.

Pulling a sharp flint from his satchel, Phorexx reached for the nearest of the plants, inches from his claws. Swiftly and as gently as possible, he sliced through the stem of the nearest cluster of fruit, dropping the bunch quietly into his satchel. He was painfully aware that one false move would cause the fruit to explode, making short work of the strange duo. The two lizardmen began to back away step by step until –CRACK!

Beside Phorexx, the chameleon skink froze and lifted his foot from the shattered twig, panpipes halted mid-note. As the music came to an abrupt stop, the spell was broken and the flaming guava plants assumed a defensive position. Sensing intruders in their peaty home, the plants began to spurt flames in all directions, their fiery fronds reaching after the fleeing lizardmen.

Phorexx tumbled through the trees, clawing his way out of range. He skidded to a halt as the oppressive heat lessened, turning to see what had become of his companion. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the swampy ground and moss covered trees. He turned his head slightly to the side, picking up a faint whistling noise. The whistling grew louder and Phorexx leapt out of the way as a smouldering set of panpipes flew past his head, narrowly missing him.

He fled the swamplands without looking back.


>>-:-<<

Poison dart frog venom from the Giant Lustrian Dart Frogs.

>>-:-<<

The quiet chirping of insects and small animals filled the humid Lustrian air. Phorexx stepped carefully over fallen logs and small vine like plants that crept across the leaf littered floor, making his way through the sun dappled jungle. The skink put a claw to his mouth signalling to the rest of the party to remain silent.

The small band was mostly comprised of bored skinks and chameleon skinks with nothing better to do other than following the seemingly insane skink through the Lustrian jungle on a treasure hunt. Towards the back, however, lumbered Krltunn. Phorexx winced as the kroxigor hit another tree with his massive swinging tail, sending leaves spiralling down on the mismatched party.

Before long, Phorexx held up a fist, signalling the company to halt. They were close.

Pushing leaves back from his path, Phorexx crept the last few steps to the gargantuan slumbering bodies of the Giant Lustrian Dart Frogs.

He took out a small glass vile and a short stick from his satchel. He approached one of the sleeping behemoths, its slimy skin rising and falling with its breaths. Stick held out in one hand, Phorexx gently swiped the warty skin and plonked the stick into the vial, poison end down.

As the small crowd “oohed” and “aahed”, Phorexx rolled his yes and returned the vial to its home in his satchel. To his dismay, Krltunn, clearly missing the subtle aspect of the group’s applause, started to clap very enthusiastically and very loudly.

Phorexx turned and sprinted from the clearing, followed by the faster thinking skinks, leaving a very confused kroxigor and the now awake and not particularly happy, Giant Lustrian Dart Frogs.

>>-:-<<

A carnosaur egg from the nest of a carnosaur.

>>-:-<<

The crowd that had been following Phorexx around that day had disappeared. He wasn’t surprised at his solitude, however, as he crept towards the heart of the jungle. The birdsong had faded into silence as the lone skink picked his way towards his destination.

Phorexx peered through the last few feet of foliage at the edge of a clearing. Sunlight breached the thick canopy and shone down on the massive red and golden form of the carnosaur. Her body heaved and her nostrils flared with each inhalation and exhalation.

There had been a slim chance the great beast would be away hunting, leaving the nest open and unprotected, but since when was anyone ever that lucky?

Just as Phorexx was about to jump from the bushes and do something incredibly stupid, a figure burst from the undergrowth on the other side of the clearing hollering and roaring.

Phorexx effectively face palmed as Krltunn came to a screeching stop as he realised where he was. The kroxigor had frog shaped bite marks covering his body, but seemed more or less uninjured… for now.

Huge golden eyes flew open and zeroed in on the frozen kroxigor. Krltunn snapped out of his daze and Phorexx watched him bolt into the jungle, the female carnosaur snapping at his heels.

The nest deserted, Phorexx climbed over the edge and selected one of the eggs from the clutch. Wrapping it in a cloth, he gently placed it in his satchel and hurriedly returned home.

>>-:-<<

Ixti grubs from literally any rotting log

>>-:-<<

Phorexx sighed as he approached the rotten log, a small pouch in his hand. The crowd had reappeared and double in size. Phorexx took a deep breath and kicked the log over. Surely it was impossible to be killed while collecting Ixti grubs, of all things.

The skink knelt beside the upturned log, nostrils twitching at the musty earth smell. The small – by Lustrian standards- wriggling grubs writhed and rolled in the rotting wood and dirt, their pale bodies bending and contorting in unsettling ways. The skink carefully picked the fattest and the healthiest ones of the lot, dropping each squirming grub into the pouch.

Letting out an exasperated huff, he adjusted his satchel. All this for a stupid drink? Then Phorexx thought of the suspiciously gurgling mass that Toohii had created. It’s worth it… Phorexx sighed to himself as he backed away from the log. A low warning growl thrummed through his ears. Probably…

Most animals are known to get most aggressive when separated from their offspring. However, as Phorexx took another step away from the snarling creature before him, he felt like whoever claimed that should be given slap in the face and then be re-educated by being placed between a razordon and its lunch.

The crowd had fallen silent, no doubt waiting for the razordon to sink its teeth into Phorexx giving them time to escape. Phorexx decided that, although he would rather become a razordon chew toy than be forced to drink whatever Toohii created, he would rather not die today given all he’d been through. He reached his hand into his satchel and carefully retrieved one of the flaming guavas.

The razordon, its eyes having disconcertingly moved from the ixti grubs to Phorexx’ throat, tensed, ready to lunge. As its muscled bunched to spring, Phorexx hurled the fruit at its feet. The was a dull sizzle then a satisfying pop before the razordon was engulfed in a flash of flames and smoke.

>>-:-<<

“High Priest Korona, we present to you the contestants,” one of the chameleon skink kitchen hands announced to the twitching old priest, “Phorexx the skink and Toohii the saurus warrior.”

The Priest absentmindedly waved a hand for the competition to commence, looking an awful lot like someone with better things to do. The crowd, however, cheered loudly and enthusiastically waving their arms in the air.

Phorexx brought forth his colourful creation in an elegant glass vial, hissing and fizzing in the Lustrian heat. Beside him, Toohii presented his flask of much. The liquid gave an energetic pfft, no doubt sensing the importance of the situation.

Chief Priest Korona, having screwed up his face at Toohii’s drink, turned to take a sip from Phorexx’ vial. As he drew the fizzing substance to his lips, a skull shattering roar burst from the jungle.

The crowd parted as a bedraggled Krltunn stumbled into the temple city, bleeding and battered.

“I’ve done it!” he cried, “I lost her!”

The crowd was silent, the kroxigor gasped heavily for breath Toohii raised a non-existent eyebrow at Phorexx who had frozen to the spot.

And the jungle replied.

Another roar echoed through the city and from the trees crashed an extremely ticked off looking carnosaur. The city flew into an uproar, skinks scrabbling to get away from the gates and temple guards rushed back to their abandoned posts Chief Priest Korona rolled his eyes in a ‘not again’ kind of way and began to descent the dais.

Phorexx knew what he had to do.

Turning to Toohii, he grabbed his friend’s flask from his hands and hurled it with all his might at the carnsaur. The globular liquid gave a final slurrrp of happiness before it disappeared into the gaping maw of the carnosuar.

The carnosaur stopped from a moment, her expression of rage quickly transforming into one of severe discomfort. Though he could have imagined it, Phorexx swore her face turned slightly green as the great beast clamped her mouth shut and ran back into the trees for some privacy.

The collective intake of breath from the thousands of lizardmen exploded into thunderous applause, filling the city. He had done it, he had saved himself from whatever the hell it was that Toohii had created.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

16th competition
October-November 2018: Theme was "It Came from Above."

Winning story by @thedarkfourth

Spoiler: Looking for Limza

Looking for Limza

Paso sprinted out of the trees and into the empty ruins of a temple city. The skink was breathing hard and casting terrified glances behind him. Darting among the crumbling and overgrown masonry, he dived into a gully between two half-broken walls, covered by a canopy of ferns.

Paso's chest went up and down in the dappled green shadows of his hiding place. A millipede scuttled over his foot. The entire jungle murmured quietly. Paso poked his head slowly through the foliage.

"Ah, a companion in this deserted place. Capital!"

The voice surprised him so much that he leapt bodily over the nearest wall and buried his head under his arms before he even knew what happened.

"I say, where on earth did you go?" continued the voice. Peaking through his fingers, Paso was confronted by the grinning face of another skink. Wearing a feathered headdress.

He picked himself up, sheepishly.

"Oh, uh, good morning, your worship," he began.

"Call me Yoatl," cried the priest. "And who might you be?"

"Paso, your- Yoatl. Fifth infantry, sir. I was just...trying to find my way back to my company. I was separated in an engagement with-"

"No troops around here, as far as I know," said Yoatl, who was already moving off through the ruins, looking all around. "This is the abandoned city of Limza. Strategically inconsequential, or so everyone thought. The Mage Priests sent me to make sure there aren't any precious artefacts left. If you help me look, I'll guide you back to the forward operating base near Axlotl. I'm sure they'll sort you out there. It's a good thing you found me. Not just rats abroad in this territory. I'll keep you safe."

"Thank you, your worship," said Paso, although the priest was already out of sight among the stones and overgrowth.

Eyes flickering back and forth, Paso began to pace silently backwards.

"You look in the direction you advance, soldier!" came a new voice directly behind him. "Didn't your commander teach you that?"

Paso shrieked and fell to the ground once again, while the newcomer, another skink who seemed accustomed to command, glared down at him.

Picking himself up, Paso saw Yoatl reappear from behind a crumbling wall.

"A third visitor! The Old Ones have smiled upon us today. Name's Yoatl." He bowed. "And this is young Paso, separated tragically in the line of duty."

"Captain Iktan at your service," barked the officer, and he waved at a ruby terradon that was preening itself on a nearby palm tree. "And this is Takol. Our mission is to scout this area for any signs of skaven or cultist activity."

"Cultists?" squeaked Paso. "You mean the Lost Clan?"

"Have you encountered them?" inquired Iktan, with a penetrating stare.

Paso shook his head, while Yoatl spoke up:

"We have seen no sign of either quarry, for which we are very grateful. But we will assist you in your duty. Let us scour these ruins. Any useful artefacts I will return to my masters, and any hiding vermin - of either variety - you can report to yours. And Paso here will accompany whichever of us he prefers back to his station."

Iktan grunted while Paso stared at his feet. He watched the other skinks stalk off among the low, disused buildings, through twisted alleys that led to the modest central pyramid a little ways off. Large clouds were building overhead, and a few drops had already splashed over dusty stones. When the priest and the captain were out of sight, Paso turned and crept away in the opposite direction.

He went directly for the short little tree where Takol the crimson terradon perched, and scurried up into its fronds. He emerged face to face with the large flying reptile, its beak much sharper than he expected. It considered him. Cautiously, he reached out a hand and stroked its neck. It did not respond. Even more cautiously, he climbed up and straddled the beast.

"Go! Fly! Giddyup!" hissed Paso. The terradon turned its head to consider him. Then, almost ponderously, it rolled, tipping Paso neatly off its back and out of the tree.

He barely had time to scream before he hit the ground, where, to his surprise, he crashed through several rotting planks of wood into a damp, lightless cellar.

"Stupid red bat," Paso muttered, pain twanging all across his body. Dusting himself off, he froze.

There was a distinct scurrying sound in the darkness. Slowly lifting his head, Paso saw the unmistakable gleam of two wet eyes in the gloom. They turned and vanished away into unknown regions. Paso thought it was suddenly very cold down here.

Scrabbling for an exit, he found stairs, leading up. On the first of them, there was a long thin object that he instinctively grabbed as he rushed upwards, pushing aside more rotten planks to emerge back into the world of radiant colours.

"I see you have found an intriguing hidden storage space," said Yoatl, who was watching him from not far away. "And in very short time, too. Almost like you knew it was there. Additionally, you appear to be armed. Is there something you would like to tell me, young... Paso, was it? Or do you have another name, given to you by the Lost Clan?"

"Your worship, what are you-"

"You think I wouldn't recognise the carvings on your weapon?"

Paso looked down at the thin, grey tube in his hands. It was a blowpipe, inscribed with strange symbols.

"I just found this, it's not mine!"

"So a cultist left it behind, did they? A sacred weapon built with great difficulty for magical accuracy - its owner decided not to keep it?"

The feathers on the priest's headdress rustled as the old skink grinned. He continued:

"I knew you weren't a soldier. Too skittish, even for a newspawn." He watched Paso squirm, in confirmation of his words. "I think you'd better hand that blowpipe over to me."

Paso stared as Yoatl held out a claw. He felt the almost imperceptible weight of the thin object in his hands. The moment stretched. The light rain seemed to be getting heavier.

"I am no cultist," Paso said, quietly. "Please have mercy upon me."

He held out the blowpipe. Yoatl reached forward to take it - only to be yanked backwards into the arms of Captain Iktan. In a flash, the officer had an obsidian knife at the throat of the priest.

"Reclaiming something you misplaced, eh?" hissed the military lizard. "Trying to frame this upstanding soldier for your own crimes? Is that your game, eh?"

"Now see here," stuttered Yoatl, his eyes wide. "Let's not do anything rash. We're all sensible lizards."

"Are we? Because I don't know either one of you," rasped Iktan, clutching the knife tighter, while his other hand reached inside the priest's vestments, where it extracted something that shone in the half light. "Now let's see what we have here. A priest in possession of the Golden Diadem of Tzunki. And what's this? The ivory astrolabe of Tlaxtlan."

"Vital relics that I am taking to my masters-"

"Indeed?" sneered Iktan. "Would they be the Mage Priests? Or warmblood looters from the Old World? These items were reported missing from their vault only last week. It's a pleasure to meet you, so-called Jaguar Thief!"

Paso gasped. "You're the legendary Jaguar!? You sold irreplaceable plaques of the Old Ones to our enemies! You lifted fifty-seven sacks of gemstones from the High Temple of Itza!"

The priest no longer quivered pitiously under Iktan's knife. His expression had changed. He grinned like a piranha.

"The pleasure," he drawled, "is all mine!"

With a sudden swipe of his tail, he knocked away Iktan's legs and vaulted over a nearby wall. Leaping up again, the Captain gave a whistle and was immediately in pursuit. Paso watched in stupefaction as the not-exactly-a-priest flung away his headdress and sprinted into the city, only to be bowled over by a swift scarlet blur from the side. Takol fluttered down nearby as the Jaguar lay panting in the dirt, and Iktan arrived moments later. But Yoatl was laughing.

"You must be the freelancer I've heard so much about. Let's see how good you are!"

With another agile tail movement, he was up again, and a perfectly aimed blow sent the dagger flying from Iktan's hand. The two skinks were immediately toe-to-toe, scrabbling, biting and pummelling each other in a flurry of action. Iktan pinned his quarry to a wall.

"Don't just stand there, kid! Shoot him!"

"Do not aid this lizard. He is as much an imposter as I. All he seeks is the bounty on my head!" screamed Yoatl, as he wriggled free and sent his foe reeling with a kick to the chest. Iktan roared.

"I only hunt the enemies of Lustria! You serve none but yourself!"

"Paso! If you shoot this lizard I will give you the Diadem. I'll make sure you never have to fight another battle!"

Paso looked down at the strange grey blowpipe, and back up at the brawling lizards.

"I know you won't do it," said Iktan, breathing hard as he held Yoatl firm in a headlock. "You're a good lizard and a patriot. But as a reward, I will give you half the bounty if you shoot the Jaguar."

Both combatants looked expectantly at Paso, the fight poised in a fragile stalemate. Paso took several steps backwards, and the thin pipe fell from his hands.

"Stop it, please! Just stop fighting! Everywhere I go, there's nothing but fighting!"

Iktan snarled, and dug his teeth into Yoatl's shoulder. The thief screamed and fell writhing to the ground, and the bounty hunter was upon him, binding his hands securely behind his back with twine. Iktan stood again with a grunt of victory and turned to Paso.

"No more fighting, eh?" he said. "I'd like that. Ah."

Iktan put his hand to his neck. There was a tiny feathered dart there. He pulled it out and stared at it. Then he collapsed beside his captive, foam dribbling from his mouth.

Yoatl turned to Paso in amazement.

"You did it! You saved-"

"That wasn't me!" shrieked Paso, face a mask of horror. He turned and ran straight into a new arrival. Paso tripped back in fright, landing hard on the ground, and looked up at the figure just as lightning struck the bulk of the dark pyramid behind, and the storm opened up its deluge.

In the brilliance of the flash, Paso saw a skink in a ragged grey cloak, its face covered by a wooden mask resembling a rat's face with long, twisted horns. On its chest a crude equilateral triangle was carved in blood.

"Good gods," breathed Yoatl. Paso was speechless.

As rain thundered down, splashing across weathered flagstones, the terrible figure advanced. Paso scrabbled backwards, desperately flailing towards the Jaguar Thief, who was still bound by Iktan's twine. Dimly, he saw the red terradon take to the air and squawk away towards the trees. After a few steps, the rat-faced skink stopped and bent to pick up the grey blowpipe. Through the sheets of rain, Paso glimpsed other lizards among the ruins now, all wearing grey robes.

"Quick! There!" hissed the ex-priest, by Paso's ear. He looked at what Yoatl was indicating: the late Iktan's obsidian blade. While the cult leader examined the pipe, Paso dashed for the dagger and quickly freed the thief. He saw the other lizards lift their own blowpipes to their mouths, but the masked leader raised a claw to stop them.

"Run," it said, in a cracked, maddening voice. "We will not hunt you. I cannot say as much for our colleagues."

There was another flash of lightening, fixing the entire scene in incandescence, and for the briefest moment Paso thought he saw huge, lumbering shapes rearing upwards. Thunder rolled, and with it a sickening, screeching cry.

"They have rat ogres!" shrieked Yoatl, eyes bulging in horror. "Or something worse. Run!"

The two of them sprinted into the rain. Paso felt terror in every part of his body. Behind them, chilling howls echoed through the city, frighteningly powerful and never far away. They seemed to be surrounded.

"This way!" shouted Yoatl, splashing among some masonry and weaving through the streets. Paso realised they were at the base of the pyramid itself, and his companion was bounding up the staircase. Halfway to the summit, there was a large entrance. "Hurry!" screamed the skink, beckoning desperately.

Paso glanced back down, and saw huge shapes converging below. As they bounded towards him, he leapt up to where Yoatl stood, and dived inside. He glimpsed his companion pulling a lever in the wall, and a huge slab of stone slammed down, leaving them in sudden darkness and reducing the pounding rain to a faint murmur outside. The two dripping skinks listened to each other breathe.

"How did you-"

"Robbed enough abandoned temples to know how they work. We're sealed in. Now let's see..." said Yoatl. There was a scratching sound, and a torch ignited the darkness. "Good. We should be safe in here for now. With any luck, they'll send someone looking for the lost bounty hunter. Or maybe the cultists will get bored."

"Um, are you sure we're alone in here?" asked Paso. There was a silence.

"Good question. Let's search the lower levels."

It was a small temple. An examination of the lightless corridors, sanctums and storage rooms produced nothing. They returned to the main entrance and sagged down.

"Lizards worshipping rats," mused Yoatl. "Thought I'd seen everything. Hey kid, sorry for pretending to be a priest."

"I didn't really get separated from my unit," responded Paso, glumly. "I'm a des-"

He stopped at the sudden and amazingly loud sound of chittering and scrabbling, near at hand. Both lizards felt their blood freeze.

"What...was that?" said Yoatl.

"We checked the lower levels! There's nothing here!"

Something very close screeched horribly. Yoatl gulped, and stared squarely at Paso.

"It came from above," he said.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

17th competition
January-February 2019: Theme is "Glyph Forty-Three on Plaque Twelve of the Third Chamber of the Sacred Archives of Oyxl" or "Interpretations of Prophecy."

Winning story by @Y'ttar Scaletail

Spoiler: The Unmoving Smile

The Unmoving Smile

High Priest Gr’ttl was dead.

If he felt any concern about such a fact, his stiff corpse did not show it one bit. Indeed, the Skink High Priest bore what could have been called a smile or a grimace on his fanged maw. His attendants had left the elderly Skink meditating over some great problem beyond their scope of intellect to only find he had slipped from his mortal coil. It had taken long enough for one of the attendants to check and verify Gr’ttl had passed.

Lim was the first of the attendants to speak up.

“I don’t understand. What was he smiling about?”

The other Skink attendants remained quiet and Skri, the smallest of the group, scampered back to the body of Gr’ttl to check if the High Priest was still actually dead via the revered staff of wakening.

Itl, the oldest of the attendants cast his one good eye across the group, his other a milky orb lost to a thornsnake many years ago. “Our master was studying, I believe, a great prophecy that could have meant the survival of our great city.”

“It was glyph forty-three on plaque twelve of the third chamber of the sacred archives of Oyxl, wasn’t it?” Lim commented as Skri continued to prod Gr’ttl’s corpse.

Itl put a claw over his face in exasperation. “No, Master Gr’ttl only said that so we’d leave him alone so he could sneak out into the city. I thought even you would have realised that by now.”

Lim looked down at the floor and said nothing.

“I’ve found it!” Zani called out, “this is the plaque Master Gr’ttl had been studying.” He held up a simple-looking plaque as the other three attendants quickly gathered around to look at it.

“I don’t get it,” Skri muttered.

Itl sighed and indicated a claw across the symbols. “When the eye of doom eats the sun and devours the trees the unmoving one shall find victory lest all is lost.”

“Unmoving one...” Zani whispered and glanced back to Gr’ttl’s corpse.

“But what does the eye of doom mean?” Lim muttered.

One of Skri’s talons found itself up one of his nostrils as he addressed the other three. “We must gather an army and meet this threat, the prophecy demands it!”

The other three attendants looked at the small Skink with mute surprise, as if this was the first semi-intelligent thing the Skink had ever uttered. Given that Skri’s role had been to scrape any mould from the chamber’s walls, any decent cognitive thought from him was something in itself.

Itl managed to compose himself first and tucked his claws behind his back as he paced the chamber in contemplation. “We do not know if Master Gr’ttl is even this unmoving one, for all we could know the prophecy might come to pass in the far future.” He took a deep breath and then let out a long sigh. “But if we do not do something we may cause the prophecy to fail and doom everyone. The problem is that none of the other priests or leaders would believe us. We are but humble attendants.”

Zani held up a claw, “Maybe we should not tell them Master Gr’ttl is dead? That he wishes to lead an expedition into the surrounding jungles after divining some portentous event. And we just make it seem that he is alive throughout.”

Lim frowned deeply, or at least as much as a Skink could. “That is blasphemy and the highest disrespect to Master Gr’ttl!” he snarled.

The four Skinks were quiet for a long moment. “And yet...” Itl ventured, “what if we are meant to do this?”

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

Lssk Doomeye, High Warlock of Clan Skryre ground his fangs in a mixture of fear and fury.

His army was already in disarray and his careful plans that had taken months, no years, to lay had gone up in smoke. His forces had emerged from the tunnels his great Warp Drills had carved through the soil of foul Lustria, uprooting many trees. No sooner had he activated his warpcloud generator and covered the skies with black clouds roiling with green tinged energy then a force of Lizardmen had attacked his glorious army.

It was inconceivable! The nearest lizard burrows were weeks travel judging by the maps the Council of Thirteen had procured for him. There was no way there should have been any of such a scale anywhere close to the execution of his masterplan. And yet, he considered as he watched a group of Poison Wind Globadiers shriek as they were consumed by the fire of a group of Salamanders, perhaps someone had told the lizard-things his plan?

He barely noticed a group of Clanrats break and flee as a block of Saurus carved through their ranks. My enemies at Skavenblight doubtless had a paw in this! He thought angrily, those maps were purposely wrong and those Lizard-things tipped off! They couldn’t handle the genius of the great Doomeye! Scent-look how they rally around that Lizard-thing priest! How those four slave-things whisper and shout that priest-thing’s orders! I, the great Doomeye can still win-win this!

The High Warlock raised a specially crafted rifle, the bullets within saturated in the most virulent poisons known to Skavenkind, and fired it at the palanquin riding priest.

The seated corpse of Gr’ttl continued to smile as the bullet flew through his robes and body and did not fall. Doomeye’s brow furrowed and he continued to ignore his army disintegrating around him as he fired shot after shot into the smiling priest. The priest on the palanquin remained seated.

A shadow fell over the Skaven and he looked up to see the towering form of a Kroxigor. “Inconceivable!” he managed before everything went dark.

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

“That was lucky,” Lim commented as the four watched a group of Saurus dismantle the device that had blocked out the sun.

“No luck about it,” Itl replied, casting his one good eye across the battlefield. “If they had more time to entrench themselves, more time to prepare, more time for that strange sun eating device to work, Old Ones know what might have happened.”

“Poor Master Gr’ttl...” Skri spoke sadly, “that rat with the funny eye kept shooting him.”

“I’m not sure Master Gr’ttl cares,” chuckled Zani, “he seems happy enough despite a few holes we should cover up.”

“You know,” Itl mused, “maybe that’s why Master Gr’ttl was smiling.”

The sun broke through the dying clouds and bathed the Lustrians with its warmth. Upon his palanquin, unmoved by battle and death, High Priest Gr’ttl’s smile seemed all the wider.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE

 

18th competition
April-May 2019: Theme is "Doom and/or Destruction."

Winning story by @Scalenex

Spoiler: A Long Journey

A Long Journey

Several large planks were brought out and balanced on some logs in a jungle clearing to make a simple table. This table was brimming with carefully prepared meats of at least five different slain beasts. There were twice as many varieties of fruits. There was breads and pies. There were gourds filled with the finest nectars. A large pitcher of the purest water from the most well filtered springs.

Fourteen saurus warriors, six skinks, and a kroxigor sat, stood or knelt around this sumptuous feast.

“This is one the finest filets of tallosaurus flesh I ever had in a century! Have you tried this Zlakar?” the Scar Veteran asked his elder.

Zlakar motioned for the meat. A skink moved it towards him and the Old Blood ripped off a small chunk of meat and ate it.

“Very good, yes”
“Do you remember that tallosaurus hunt we went on that one time, with the log?”

Zlakar nodded and smiled.

“It’s not that big a deal, Xoatkrok” he replied.
“Not that big a deal?!?” Xoatkrok said incredulously.

He turned towards the others at the table and gesticulated enthusiastically.

“That was a hunt for the ages! The skink spotters found an old lone bull tallosaurus. Large and strong, but also old and sick. Seemed like good hunting. Anyway, it still had some fight in it. He barreled through the snares the skinks said like they weren’t even there.

We were hitting it but the beast but he couldn’t feel it. He knocked out two saurus, others even bolted liked skinks—”

He looked awkwardly at the skink chief.

“That is to say a lot of the First were not holding steady, but Zlakar wasn’t going to give up even though his axe snapped in half with the blade was stuck in the tallosaurus thigh. The beast moved his big neck to bite at him, and Zlakar just picks up a log and then bashed his brains out. Probably saved some hunters’ lives, and we certainly ate well.”
“To eating well!” said Zlakar.

The table cheered and everyone took a bite of whatever food they had though Zlakar abstained.

“To Zlakar!” said Xoatkrok.
“To Zlakar!” the table resounded.

Zlakar opened his mouth to speak and then closed it without saying anything.

One other saurus besides Zlakar was fairly quiet. Another saurus turned to him.

“Tlakori, you are allowed to enjoy yourself. You won’t get stripped of your eternity warden status for having a little fun.”
“How often do you get a day off of guard duty anyway?” A skink asked.

Tlakori paused then spoke.

“We typically get a day off every century or two if we can be spared from our duties.”

A few of the other lizards laughed. Then the skink started.

“Wait, you are serious aren’t you?”

The Eternity Warden nodded.

“I am usually quite serious. I rarely ask for or receive time off duty, but I had to be here for my last spawning brother. There were fifty-three of us once. Now we two. I remember a battle, many years before we took on our respective callings. There were twelve of our spawning left then, we were no longer wet warriors, we all had many scars…but many scars still to come. Zlakar had become our new spawn leader, a promotion well deserved.

“We didn’t know just how well deserved until this battle. We were fighting Daemons under the command of Oldblood Ikachoa.”

He paused turned towards the crowd.

“Ikachoa was before most of your times. He was a fine leader. We were on the south flank attached to work with a stegadon crew and a small skink and kroxigor regiment. Ikachoa was battling the enemy general atop his carnosaur and our center was holding. It looked like our flank was quiet. A few demon skirimishers were shot down by our skilled skink compatriots, but no major threats were apparent.

“Zlakar had great instinct, worthy of mighty Itzl. Somehow the daemons’ scent and sight was hidden from the stegadon’s mighty nose and the skinks’ sharp eyes. Zlakar intuition found where three score daemons had buried themselves under the ground. They had rigged trap doors with foliage for cover. Zlakar stopped us all from marching into the ambush. We ambushed our ambushers.

“Once Zlakar identified where our foes were, the skink chief with us positioned the stegadon for a pre-aimed shot then had his soldiers set fire to the foliage above the demons’ hiding place. I never seen a giant bow fired so accurately. Between the fire, bow, and javelins barely any demons survived long enough to even reach us. Our brothers were ready and made short work of the Old Foes. Naturally, I was the only one of our spawning that was seriously injured.”

Tlakori paused, removed the piece of armor over his chest and revealed a deep and old scar. The others politely admired the scar’s impressiveness before Tlakori continued.

“While I was barely conscious and staining the forest floor purple with my blood, Zlakar defended me with the ferocity of a carnosaur. If he didn’t save me that day, I would never have survived long enough to be an eternity warden. Everyone and everything I defend is ultimately due to Zlakar.”

The table looked at Zlakr with even greater respect. Zlakar took a shaky sip from a gourd of juice to cover his embarrassment and then he spoke.

“I cannot take their credit for your accomplishments. You saved my life plenty, brother. That is just what brothers do. You saved my life at least seven times”
“I count nine times, but that’s nine against your saving me nineteen. There is no contest—”
“—Speaking of contests!”

The Skink Chief, Tlayta paused awkwardly.

“Forgive me for the interruption, honored one.”

The Eternity Warden just nodded and waved on him to continue. The Skink had been clearly aching to tell his story. Tlayta showed obvious relief at the permission then continued.

“When I was newly spawned I had a very portentous spawning. I was a spawning of one and this gave me a huge ego. Lots of skink instructors taught me tactics, combat, history and many other things, but only a saurus could teach me what I really needed which was humility.

“The first time I met Zlakr was in the training fields. I was doing target practice with javelins. Nearby Zlakr was working with the city’s youngest spawning of saurus warriors. He was drilling them in basic marching formations and maneuvers. I stopped what I was doing and marched over.

“I thought the saurus warriors looked clumsy. I made some loud disparaging remarks about how much faster, smarter and more agile Skinks were then lowly saurus….comments unworthy of my pretentious spawning.

“Zlakar halted his company and he turns to me said. “Great Skink who is wise and agile, I challenge you to a contest of ranged attacks.’ I could barely hold in my laughter. A saurus beating a skink at ranged attacks? Absurd. So I said ‘I accept your challenge.’

“Zlakar picked up a javelin off the ground, pointed at a wooden practice target and said ‘I can strike this target more than you can.’ I said ‘show me.’

“So Zlakar walks up to the firing line, mimes throwing a javelin, pauses a long time then he puts the javelin down and walks away. I can’t figure out what he’s doing. Is her forfeiting? He picks up this huge rock and takes it to the line. He kind of half-throws half-rolls it towards the target and it’s reduced to kindling. He turns to me and says. ‘Now you try to strike the target.

“My jaw just about hit the muddy ground in disbelief. ‘I cannot hit the target, it is impossible for anyone to hit it now.’….. So Zlakar says ‘I guess I win then.’”

Everyone at the table erupted in laughter.

“I want to tell a story now!” the lone Kroxigor bellowed.

“I was with small patrol. Bad elves beat us. Captured me and my big and little spawning brothers. Bound us in chains. Not chains to keep weapons and tools in hand. Bad chains. I was shameful. Bad elves plan to do bad things. Tried to take us away. Zlakar ride in on Cold One. Run at the elves. He killed them and made them run away. Zlakar broke bad chains.”

A few continued looking at the ancient kroxigor awkwardly as if there was more details to this story, but he seemed to be done talking. Tlayta broke the silence.

“You have no reason to feel shame at anything Xalt. We all lose sometimes. It is good that Zlakar saved you because you went on to lead many kroxigor regiments to victory against many worthy foes.”

Xalt beamed with pride. Zlakar took a shaky sip of juice to hide his smile. Tlayta did learn humility and proper respect for the other races of the First afterall. Zlakar’s stomach rumbled. He hoped he wouldn’t vomit all over the table and ruin the good feelings. The companions ate and drank and told stories of Zlakar. Stories of glory, stories of humor, stories of friendship, stories of leadership, all positive. One story remained unspoken but wore on Zlakar’s mind.

Zlakar was second in command of the army below only the slann. He rode his faithful cold one of over two centuries, Groq. He was joined by twelve of the city’s bravest cold one cavalry. The southern flank was faltering. The Skaven’s missile troops had defeated the skink skirmishing units. They had slain two razordons and who knows how many skinks. The rest were fleeing being pursued by filthy rats while Tlayta the skink chief tried in vain to get them to the rally and fight back.

Zlakar turned his soldiers towards around the fleeing skinks and hit the flank of their singled minded pursuers. The hunters became the hunted and the saurus knights butchered them without mercy. Seeing this, the skinks and their beasts took courage and rallied. The line held.

Zlakar ordered his troops to hold position rather than advance. They didn’t need to advance much because the northern flank had decisively defeated the rat men and were turning towards the Skaven’s center. Zlakar positioned his troops to cut off any clear line of retreat.

Once properly positioned, the two halves of the army of the First closed in on the Skaven from both sides like the jaws of a carnosaur snapping shut. Zlakar rode at the front. His sword arm already stained red with the warm blood of his enemies. He sensed a weakness in the enemy lines and rode towards the heart of the enemy army. As his comrades butchered their way through the skavens’ supposedly elite infantry, Zlakar looked for the alpha. A large rat almost a full head taller than his fellows and wearing thicker shinier armor.

He locked eyes with the enemy general and a challenge was clear. The warlord showed fear but also determination. He knew he almost certainly dead and his only slim chance of survival lay in defeating this new challenger.

The rat feinted a strike with his spear towards Zlakar then stabbed downward piercing Groq through his eye into his brain. The cold one thrashed and Zlakar instinctively rolled and got to his feet in a fury he had seldom been in. Groq’s death throws wrenched the spear away. With the rat temporarily unarmed, Zlakar took the opening and struck at the rat’s shoulder, piercing his armor but only slightly. His foe was still standing.

The rat unsheathed a sword and squeaked something in its own foul tongue that was clearly some kind of taunt. He pressed forward with almost impossible speed with precision feints, parries and strikes but Zlakar had his foe’s measure now. He knew what to block and what to ignore. The skaven was fast but he was wasting a lot of energy on superfluous motions. So duplicitous he couldn’t stop useless feints even in the face of death death. The warlord was tiring out. Zlakar was not.

Most of the ratmen were killed at this point, some of the survivors were already being bound, so they could be rendered unto Sotek later. More and more golden eyes turned to watch Zlakar’s duel. The warlord was almost completely on the defensive now. Despite his fatigue, he clung to life with the tenacity only a desperate Skaven could muster. Finally Zlakar knocked away the rat’s serrated sword then kicked him into the ground, flat on his back. Zlakar put all his weight into the sword to pierce the rat’s armored chest plate. The rat gurgled on his own blood as the onlookers cheered.

After his victory Zlakar let his guard down for a split second. With a daemon’s will, the dying Skaven pulled a dagger out of his sleeve and stabbed the Saurus in the thigh, the highest part he could reach. As he died, the skaven mouthed words Zlakar couldn’t translate, but the context was clear “you die too.”

Zlakar had recovered from far worst wounds than this. He would have gladly taken three or four such wounds if he could have Groq alive again, but Zlakar didn’t yet know the dagger was coated in an especially virulent poison. The skaven never intended to use the dagger this battle. The dagger and the poison were both intended for the warlord’s superior officer later. The ministrations of the Skink healers were completely ineffectual. Even the magic of the Slann could only slow the poison, not cure it. His strength was slowly but inevitably fading day by day.

He couldn’t let the others seem him die like that. He had to undergo the Rite of the Last Journey.

Once most of the food was eaten, the laughter and stories died down. Zlakar held up a hand and everyone fell silent respectfully. “It is time.”

The assembled lizards respectfully got up and formed two lines while in salute towards the deep jungle. Zlakar’s legs wanted to buckle, but he willed himself to stand up straight and maintain a steady marching pace.

After Zlakar crossed the short line. Tlakori shouted.

“To Zlakar, the greatest oldblood Xlanhuapec has ever known.”
“TO ZLAKAR!”

Once out of sight of the others, Zlakar allowed the weakness in his body to show as he hobbled deeper into the jungle. His final journey had begun.

you can find the rest of the stories of that comp HERE