Player Submissions
Every month, we invite players to submit their own original works for inclusion in the newsletter.
Here is a haunting piece by
Lebbeh
:
-Vagary-
A single snowflake, drifting contently through the air. Beyond its microscopic beauty lie a thousand meanings - the cold and the eerie...the dawn of winter. Death. It rests underneath the blankets of snow, poised and ready to latch itself onto anything living. Spirits and hopes; it kills those too. When the trees shake hard, and the wind howls like wolves...that's when you know it's happened. The one word, measly and seemingly insignificant; it instils fear in the greatest of warriors. Drained of all life, their once mighty grips are crippled, iron fists frozen into place.
Starved.
Like vultures, desperate beings feast off the frozen corpses. Tearing flesh with knives, jaws locked into place...savage is the only fitting word. Survival of the fittest; that was their reasoning. Why join the weak when you could live?
Then the white turns to green, leaving the desolation for the regrowth and birth of new life. Icy tombs melt to form new rivers, pure and cleansing. The canvas is no longer blank; it fills with new hues - blues, violets, yellows and reds. Resuscitated. Nature has deployed its defibrillator. Revived. The memories of the cold turn to pictures of warmth and hospitality, much food making itself available. It's almost as if the page has been turned. A new chapter. The story of spring.
Nourished.
Birds rejoice in the renewed landscape. Over the rolling green hills, songs are heard; they intermix with the serenity. Or perhaps they are the source of such an atmosphere. Life. Life meant spring. Life was spring.
A sweeping fire engulfs the hushed surroundings. In its wake, blistered earth is left to burn eternally. The malicious and scathing gaze of the sun penetrates deep into the soils, scorching and destroying any greenery. The revenge of death. No bird can fly high enough to avoid the flames that reach for them. Everything smoulders, thick clouds of fetid smoke curling upward as they attack the heavens. Summer. To truly personify evil, one must use that word. It melts the coldest of ice and the most ambitious of dreams. It crushes desires, disregards emotion and drags everything to hell. The devil smiles.
Sated.
In amongst the blackened terrain, small seedlings sprout from roasted seeds. Beacons of light in a pitch black room. Nature's Braille. From the harshest of deaths comes the newest of life; it pushes through the concrete slab. The cracked pot is reassembled.
In perfect rhythm to the music, an orange leaf waltzes to the forest floor. Some say it is the fall; this is the opposite. The busy environment is one that brings opulence and richness. Autumn is exactly this. It is the time when all become affluent, free from the dangers that so frequently present themselves. Liberty. Fruits grow in abundance, collected in routine fashion and stockpiled for the coming weeks. Gluttony. An icy breath flutters past the back of a neck. Deep sleep. Buried away, hoarded food is the only life support.
Gorged.
An antique lamp falls clumsily into the hands of an adventurer, a soft scraping sound whispering to him as the clay brushes across his palms. Walking over the fragmented remains of the effigy, he continues on his way.
Next, a poem by
Elithen
:
Drack Blagon
His scales gleam, what a sight, they're black as night,
Malice in his eyes to make you run in fright,
Your potion means his fiery breath cannot sear,
Your Herblore sucks, the potion did cost you dear.
Grasp your sword, and prepare for the fight,
Others range, but you cannot stand the sight.
Say your prayers, hope Korasi serves you true,
The dragon lunges, you prepare to run him through.
The dragon's maw attempts to close around your head,
Nezzy's horns make him draw back instead.
Seeing the chance, you plunge your sword into his thigh,
The dragon wrenches your sword away with a cry.
A spurt of flame escapes from the dragon's snout,
Thankfully, your dragonfire shield holds out.
You raise your armored arm to block an attack,
The dragon's claw sends you sprawling upon your back.
The beast, sensing weakness, lumbers near,
With your warspear trapped beneath you, your path is clear.
You pull out an item old as creation,
And throw the rubber chicken in desperation.
Flying at the dragon just as it roars,
Between the monster's open jaws the chicken soars.
It coughs, chokes, wheezes and dies,
Choked to death by your last-ditch try.
As nearby warriors stare at you in disbelief,
You reclaim your items, and rewards that are yours to keep.
Wishing for some dwarven stout, an entire cask,
You swear you'll kill Kuradal for setting you this task.
If you would like to submit a piece of original content to be considered for the newsletter, please feel free to email it to us at
[email protected]
. We can't promise to use every submission but we do view all of them. We look forward to receiving your contributions!