Title, Miscellany: 58 words
Foreword: 489 words (COMPLETE)
A Sense of Belonging (Digimon Revival): 8847 words (COMPLETE)
Electric Parade (Unbound): 12721 words (COMPLETE)
Over My Head (World of Warcraft): 8629 words (COMPLETE)
??? (???): 13237 words
How Epics Are Born (Ys: Rebirth): 0 words
Moebius (The World Ends With You: TSG): 0 words
Message in a Bottle (The Legacy of Agratana): 0 words
Letters and Numbers (Phantom Tales): 0 words
Long Way Home (Dragon Quest: Voyages): 0 words
Afterword: 0 words
I am exhausted. EXHAUSTED. I was sprinting with myself in 10 minute bursts yesterday and today, and my brain has completely shut down.
Cancelling Moebius. That leaves me with the Epic Drunken Adventures of Brendan and Sierta (AKA How Epics Are Born), since I want to end things on a light-hearted note this year. I COULD finish tomorrow, probably, but I don’t really want to. I can’t validate until Tuesday anyways…
Have an excerpt, since I kinda shafted you guys over the last few days.
From: Over My Head (Zyrath, World of Warcraft)
The first thing he noticed was the dirt in his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but more dirt spilled in as soon as he opened his mouth, and he felt it spill into his throat.
Where was he?
Annoyed, he opened his eyes, and he saw nothing. He clawed at the dirt in front of him, and he was satisfied that his efforts, this time, were not in vain. Soft, dry dirt gave way under his hands, and when he surfaced, he found himself sitting in a shallow grave inside a dark, dingy crypt.
“Ah, you’re awake. Excellent.” A hooded figure with a thin, reedy male voice came up to him, holding a scroll attached to a slab of thin wood. He took out a quill that looked like it had seen better days, and a pair of glowing yellow eyes looked out at him through the hood. “Name?”
“… what’s going on?” He looked at the figure in confusion. His head HURT, and his mouth was still full of dirt. He spat, but he was surprised to find that while soil and a few pebbles came out, he couldn’t bring up any spittle.
“What’s… going… o-… oh.” The figure scratched out what he had written, muttering to himself in annoyance. “Right. We are the Forsaken. We are those who have broken away from the Lich King’s control. We are led by the Dark Lady Sylvanas Windrunner; she is the one who we owe our freedom to. And I am Gristle Longuts of the Royal Apothecary Society… I am one of the Forsaken in charge of welcoming newcomers to our ranks.”
He blinked, the sudden influx of information sinking in. Lich King…? Sylvanas…? He had no idea who those people were, and right now, he didn’t actually care.
Was he dead? He looked at his hands, confirming his fears; where there once was flesh, there was bone. He touched his face, feeling his sunken, rotting cheeks, and what was left of his mind, now clear of the voices that had talked to him as he was dying, snapped as everything sank in.
The apothecary looked at him strangely before scribbling something down. “I’ll assume you don’t remember your name… that’s fine, you can pick another one out later. Now if you’ll follow me, the Dark Lady has given us much to d-… where are you going? Don’t you want to serve the Dark Lady?” Gristle blinked in confusion as he watched the newcomer start to climb out of the crypt.
“Your Dark Lady can kiss my ass… I’m out of here.” The gravel-like quality of his voice didn’t surprise him, and he doubted it was because of the debris lodged inside his throat. He’d take care of that later…
“Oh my.” Gristle tsked in disapproval as the “fresh meat” left the crypt. He scribbled a few things down before moving to another grave that was only just stirring. “Well, he’s a write off… that’s too bad. He won’t survive one night out there. Next…”
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