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  …Priscilla.

  I will keep you safe.

  I will keep you company.

  Do you remember all those years ago – when we first met? I remember it perfectly. I was so very close. So very, very close to my last shred of sanity snipping. And then I saw a peculiar little girl in white dress – you. Your left hand was occupied by a tattered doll. Your right was wet from wiping your tears. Your eyes began to water again, but I caught it for you that time. I still had a shred of humanity left, gnawing at my heart's strings to care for you, to pity, and to comfort. You were scared by my face, but I mustered a smile, and told you not to fear. You told me that you were lonely, that you were unloved.

  And from that point on, I never left your side.

  Do you remember all those years ago – when I saved your life? I remember it perfectly. The cursed fellow had threatened you, and I had intervened. You were bigger, but still, I needed to protect you. He chased you up the tower, calling you a monster, saying you needed to disappear. And then he drew his rapier. I had never moved faster in my life than I did grabbing that awful man by the brim of his ebony vestment. I had never acted as instinctively as I led him to the window. I had never whispered as softly as I did to you of reassuring, and to him of the pain of death. I had never been more deafened than by his scream as I cast him away.

  Take away upon your black wings, bishop, for your mistress commands it.

 Do you remember all those years ago – when you saw my face for the first time? I remember it perfectly. Soul of black I had retrieved, and offered it to the gentle flame I did. My flesh was deep and wrinkled no more. I turned to you, and you seemed shocked at my form. You were my height, and we were both exceedingly young. I could even remember a flicker of attraction…but no. I refused desire. My love for you was of parent to child, or of sibling to sister. And it was good that I refused, for you grew, oh so very fast. Soon, you towered above me, and regardless, I still guarded you with my life.

  I made a promise to you, Priscilla. I promised that I would never let you see darkness.

  Do you remember that short time ago – when the people gathered? I remember it perfectly. Ariamis gathered, and desired your pure blood. How shocked I was. How scared you were. They hurried to the theatre, where you and I often met. How ready I was. How well-hid you were. The crowd broke through, and I met them head-on. How ravenous I was. How aghast you were. Ariamis fell to my feet. How alive I was. How frightened you were. After I finished, I ran to you, and embraced you.

  I fell the entire city as the ax man does the forest. I was invincible.

  You would be safe forever.

  Do you remember that short time ago – when I found the red rock? I remember it perfectly. I had slain anyone that came near you. Everyone was a threat, as everyone was present at the theatre that fateful night. And then you began to cry, for you were lonely again. I did everything I could to comfort you. Yet you ran from me, from your sole friend, terrified. So I brought new friends. I tempted those with Lifedrain to pursue me, as their master tempted them with the very art they wielded. I brought many new friends for you to meet.

  I will do anything in my power to keep you safe, Priscilla.

  Do you remember the fall of Ariamis? I remember it perfectly. The city crumbled under the assault of the Crimson Ones. All through the onslaught, you sought me. You found me in the theatre, and I greeted you merrily. But then you turned your blade on me. Your beautiful scythe sliced the air beside my head flawlessly. I was blank. My only friend wanted me dead. I begged you to stop as I evaded cut after cut. You screamed at me, calling me a monster. You claimed I was nicer when I looked to be a monster. You called all humans monsters. And then I held my weapon to receive a blow from the elegant scythe.

  And that was perhaps the greatest mistake I ever made.

  Your immense size…It threw me an admirable distance.

  And then, you hooked your foot under my torso, and threw me off the edge with it.

  When I finally landed, tears fell from my eyes as I felt my body fade, and the fiery ring burn brighter…

  …I am back, Priscilla. I have come to fulfill my promise to you…

  …As long as it is within my power...

  …You will never see the Age of Dark…

  …My dear friend.
A short story about the Painted World of Ariamis, and it's fascinating inhabitant, Crossbreed Priscilla.

I say "fascinating" because unlike other bosses in Dark Souls, Priscilla lets you walk away without a scratch, only if you return the favor. Therefore, I made a little connection to the character and Priscilla.

*NOTE: This is in no way real Lore. Only a theory that was expanded into a writing.*
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Don't be offended at the title. "Teenagers" is just my way of saying "people who write unprofessional/shallow stories." Not all teenagers write shallow stories, it just sounds catchier.... Anyway.

The first thing I want to make clear is: I'm not talking about anything mechanical in this deviation. Grammar/spelling is important (obviously), but that point has been beaten to death by people on the internet already. My purpose, as always, is to talk about the stories themselves, regardless of the way they are communicated. Whether it be through written word or on-the-spot narration, I believe there are certain tricks to telling good stories. Not rules, mind you. Tricks.

I don't believe that telling good stories is about what you "should" do, rather than what you shouldn't. Example: people generally hate Mary Sues, right? Well, sometimes I notice things that are "like" Mary Sues, in the sense that they're equally as shallow/unprofessional ways of telling stories. The purpose of this deviation is to point them out. I won't be talking about Mary Sues or self inserts in this deviation. This is about things that tend to go more unnoticed (I already have deviations about those anyway).

1. Thinking that "most" = best

Sometimes people who write think they're making "the best story ever," because it's the MOST dramatic, MOST dark, MOST romantic MOST (insert your choice of adjective here). Having the most of something doesn't equate to it being the best. Think of it like salt.

2. Unbalance

Do you ever read a story, and it feels like there was a big hole in it? Maybe it was a tragedy that focused on nothing but tragic events. The author got carried away in their emotions and didn't create a well-rounded world for us to care about while the sad things take place. Sure, sad things are sad, but that is no accomplishment of the author. It would be MORE sad if the audience had a well-created world to be sad about in the first place.
In fanfiction, the writers have the advantage of writing about something that people already care about. That's how a lot of people with barely any imagination can get so many people to like their fanfiction stories. "Hey! Let's take the Once-ler and find a way to drench him in blood! It sure took talent to think of that!"
Never judge someone's imagination by how popular their fanfiction is. Never...

3. Narcissism

Sometimes people consider themselves to be a certain way. They write certain genres or about certain themes for the sake of adding to their self-proclaimed image. They use their stories as stepping stones (a lot of times without even realizing it) to show off in front of other people. A lot of times it's in the little things, strategically placed to look innocent or humble. "The woman shook her head in admiration at *insert-person-that's-supposed-to-be-like-them's-name.* 'That girl sure is *insert-their-choice-of-adjective!* We may never understand her!"

4. Abusing character roles (sort of a Part 2 of Narcissism)

I want you to think about Belle from Beauty in the Beast for a minute (the Disney version). If you're familiar with it, think of the song sung by the villagers about her in the beginning. Has anyone else ever noticed something...odd about it? The villagers are singing about how different (or "weird") she is, all because she reads books and acts like... well, the average girl you'd meet every day on DeviantArt. Meanwhile, if you met one of those villagers in real life, you'd probably think of THEM as the strange ones (first of all, they're abnormally nosy, all bothering to sing a big song about a perfectly normal girl whose personal life they REALLY bothered to have apparently looked so much into... o_O).
Okay. I understand that can be a strategy in story telling (using the background to add to the general effect of a certain thing... i.e Belle wanting a break from her boring life).
I bring this up however, mostly as a warning. I don't know how...um... healthy it is, that a lot of teenager girls these days really seem to think they're sooo great that they write stories about themselves and use other people as tools to look good. They make people (sometimes fake, sometimes real) in their stories impressed far too easily by themselves (or certain things) sometimes to the point even of contradiction. It falls into the same attitude as the narcissism example.
Sometimes it goes beyond, "Oh, a cute little Disney story," and gets really narcissistic and vain.
A story will suffer if it's written for anything besides the pure pleasure of writing it. Ulterior motives distract from making it the best it possibly can be. Not to mention, nobody likes being used as an audience for people who can't stop shining the spotlight on themselves. (It needed to be said).
Furthermore, Disney movies are corny. It's a fact. That's why we like them. The point is simple: if you are writing a CORNY story, feel free to use their little trick of making the whole world conform to one character/theme (heck, make everyone burst into song about them!) If you're NOT writing a corny story, avoid it at all costs. It's a cheap trick, and it's no substitute for actually making there be something special about whatever character/thing you're trying to make something special about.

Fun fact: "Bully" characters are possibly the biggest form of abuse to story-telling. This can be in the form of a snooty, popular girl at school who picks on the main-character we're supposed to feel sorry for, or in the form of unreasonably/obsessively cruel bullies who are far from even borderline realistic. They're the classic example of cheating in a story; the cheapest way to make other characters seem special or victim-ly.



5. Pretty feelings

Did you ever put on an Owl City song while you were writing/drawing and think something like: Lalalalalala, beautifulness, and the dreams and the beautifullness of the wonderful outerspace, flying through the sky and the shooting stars lalala!
Yeah, we could tell.
No, seriously, it's fine to get your inspiration from wherever you want. Just make sure that while you're getting all into the music that you don't let the emotions that the song brings you be your only guide.
Sometimes people get REALLY excited about their characters or a story they're making up and draw all this beautiful art of it, and you're like, "Hey! That's an amazing picture of the main character on a shooting star! So... when can I read this?!" Then you see the story, and think, "...this is it?"
Don't fall into the trap of thinking that your emotions are the story. A lot of people who listen to music while they write make this mistake, though that isn't to say that listening to music when you write is always automatically bad.



To conclude this, there's really only one thing I want to say. Write because you like to. Write about things you like no matter what they are and force them to fit together. Write about things that you like and wouldn't be too ashamed to show your friends or family. Odds are, if you're too embarrassed to show it to the people you know best, it's not coming from the heart. I don't mean "your emotions" as your heart. It's not really YOU if it's something you're embarrassed of. Embarrassment can be a sign that you know deep down your story might be a wee bit... well, stupid.
And then there are the people with no dignity.......

I love feedback. If anyone has anything interesting to add, I'd be glad to hear!
See my other posts about writing:
How Not to tell a Story makingfunofstuff.deviantart.co…
What really defines Mary Sue makingfunofstuff.deviantart.co…
A list of cliches in story-telling makingfunofstuff.deviantart.co…
Common problems with self-inserts makingfunofstuff.deviantart.co…
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Leeds is the first awake.  Shadows of his dreams still echo in his eyes when he paces into the kitchen and startles her.

"Sorry."

"You're too quiet."  She smiles.  

He doesn't.  "Did you sleep?"

"I couldn't," she says.

He just nods.  She pours him coffee.  He drowns it in milk and sugar.  They welcome the morning in companionable silence.

"I wanted to be there for him."  It's a whisper.  He stares at the coffee mug in his hands, seeing something very different.  "I saw him get hit.  I wanted to be there so bad.  I would have gone in, but Vance held me back.  Probably saved my life.

"Zack."  He stops, almost overwhelmed, then forces himself to go on.  "I would do anything for him.  I would die for him.  But I couldn't be there."  His eyes are rimmed with tears.

She lays her hand over his.

Leeds wipes his face.  "I know you didn't want him to go for the second tour."

She shakes her head.  "It was his choice.  I respect that.  I love him.  I couldn't keep him home.  It meant so much to him."

"Thank you."  The tears escape anyway, and slide down over the scar and stubble on his face.  "Thanks for letting him come with us again.  I'm sorry I couldn't bring him home."

"It's not your fault."

"Maybe not.  But it feels like…"  He falls silent.  He's the same age as Zack, twenty-two, almost twenty-three.  Same strong shoulders and narrow chest, flat stomach, straight hips.  His arms are all muscle and sinew, skin deep tan from months in the desert.  His dogtags rest lightly against his drab green tshirt.  Unconsciously she reaches to the chain around her own neck, Zack's dogtags, which she has worn since he first graduated boot camp.

Leeds scrubs his face again, and this time, he stifles the crying.  He lays a dirty white envelope on the table and slides it across to her.  She starts to reach out, but he keeps his hand over it.  "Chia... You know what this is."

She realizes in that moment.  It chills her.  She nods, not trusting her voice.

"I think you should wait," Leeds says.

The first thing she feels at his words is relief.  She can put it off!  She doesn't have to confront this now.  She feels sick with guilt after that.  She feels the heat in her cheeks as she blushes with shame.

"I know," he tells her.  "It fuckin' hurts.  You can wait.  Wait until you're ready."

She can only nod again.  Brandon withdraws his hand, leaving the crumpled envelope lying there .  It is thin and plain, unassuming, but it might as well be a bomb.  There are faint, smudgy fingerprints on the front.  Zack's fingerprints she thinks, and feels her heart fist, her guts go icy and knotted.  She nearly breaks down.  Her eyes sting, her throat aches.

She slides it off the table into her lap so she doesn't have to look at it for the moment.  It is light – too light and thin to carry so much import.



She puts the letter into the footlocker at the foot of the bed.  Into this she has already placed Zack's dusty uniform, his boots, and gloves, his watch, a pair of sunglasses etched by sand.  Kits, and papers, a couple of journals, dog-eared manuals, and photos.  The things he had in his pockets when he died; a gum wrapper, spare change in several currencies, a stone, three spent brass bullet casings, a safety pin, a new pair of bootlaces, a pack of cigarettes, a die-cast Matchbox car with most of the paint worn off, a stub of pencil, a soft-cover notebook he'd reinforced with duct tape.  His wallet has no money in it, only more photos, and a video-rental membership card; a frequent buyer's card from their local bagel shop with eight of the ten punches filled up; a few postage stamps, already obsolete; a scrap of paper with international phone numbers written in pencil.

On top of this pile rests the tri-folded flag.  She came home from the funeral and the flag went straight into the footlocker.  The unread letter drops like a dry leaf on top of the flag.  She shuts the lid and breathes a sigh.  It is like relief.


Direct continuation of Requiem: Continued

Once again, this is a work of fiction.
For those who don't know the "death letter" is written by most service members before entering combat to be delivered to their next of kin in the event of their death. These letters are meant to be collected and held by the command element, but they are often entrusted to comrades in arms.

:bulletred: Any feedback is much appreciated.

© *KreepingSpawn
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“Nileas!”  Ausrius bellowed again.  He could find no trace of his fellow, even with his enhanced senses, and helmet overlay.  No trace of the daemon either.
     He surveyed the cavern again, slowly re-examining all the corners.  He checked the load in his bolter, and advanced, weapon at the ready, continuing to scan in visible light, infrared, and wireframe overlay.  The ripples and folds of the tunnel played tricks on the mind, casting odd shadows and concealing entire caverns behind seemingly solid formations of stone.
    “Nileas,” he voxed again.  “Brother, do you copy?”  Likewise the dense rock played havoc with the vox net.  He had no contact with his squad commander, or Imperial forces on the surface, and, up until a quarter-hour ago, only intermittent contact with his battle brother, and that plagued by static.  Now it seemed that too was gone.
    Something slithered across stone nearby; something massive.  Ausrius turned sharply, bringing the bolter up.  He couldn’t see it, but it was dangerously close.  He moved forward, stalking the hideous presence.  Though he and his squad were nominally doing the hunting, he could not shake the feeling of being hunted.  He heard the clicking of insectoid limbs and mouthparts; the heavy slithering sound again.  Overlapping echoes, reflecting and magnifying sounds in unpredictable ways, made it impossible to tell where the source of the sound was.
    He slowed, almost shuffling as he came around a shoulder of stone into an entirely new section of the cave.
    The broad chamber was dome-like, and smooth, the space carved out over millennia by the slow trickle of water.  Stalactites depended from the ceiling in eerily organic formations.  Stalagmites of formidable stature loomed from the uneven floor.  Some were as large around as Ausrius himself.  Others were even larger.  A damp mineral smell pervaded, but Ausrius’ charmed senses detected notes of other things: Astartes sweat ripe with glanded stimulants and pain suppressants, the burned-metal and melted electrical smell of damaged ceramite armor.  Blood.  Nileas had passed through here.  The scents told him his brother was hard pressed, but gave him some thin hope that his fellow yet lived.  There was also an odor of organic decay, rancid meat, ozone and cold – that was the warp beast.
    The thing lurked here somewhere.  Even without the smell, Ausrius could sense its hateful existence.  It was like a cold whisper down the back of his neck.  A feeling of utter wrongness.  But he still could not see it.
    He saw Nileas first, leaning heavily against a stalagmite formation.  His battle brother was sorely wounded, even his gene-hanced physiology laboring under the awful damage he had taken.  His beautiful red and gold power armor was dented and sheared apart, splashed with bright blood.  His left pauldron had been torn away completely, as well as the lower vambrace and gauntlet.  His naked hand, large as it was, seemed tiny and fragile against the bulk of his armor.  The chainsword in his right fist snarled at idle.
    “Nileas.”  Ausrius started forward to his brother’s aid.  
    Nileas’ helmet was also gone, but he did not need the vox speaker to amplify his formidable voice; “Keep back!”  He threw up his left hand, bloody palm out, to emphasize the command.  “It is here.”
    The thing was on them in that moment.  It moved like lightning, like a striking serpent, and a spider, and every terrible thing imagined by human nightmares.  It was too big to move that fast!
    Ausrius unloaded his bolter at it as it dove and surged around the chamber.  It had too many limbs and too many joints in those limbs and parts of its body were like smoke or oil, shifting and reforming in ways that made him nauseous to behold.
    Nileas tried to keep his face toward the thing, his back to the stone, and always the purring chainsword between them.
    The atrocity suddenly threw itself at the wounded Astartes.  Its face – if such a perversion could be said to have a face – split apart, the lower half of the elongated, skull-like head separating into four greedy mandibles.  It’s tooth-lined maw was large enough to swallow a Space Marine whole, power armor and all.
    Nileas braced, holding the chainsword out, ready to meet the thing head on.
    Ausrius poured bolter fire down its throat.  It squealed, shrieked and writhed in on itself in impossible ways.  Ausrius shuddered with revulsion, but kept shooting, reloading when the magazine ran empty.
    One mis-jointed limb shot out and impaled Nileas with a blade-claw more than a meter long.  It sheared through his ceramite armor like it was nothing.  The Astartes groaned aloud.  Ausrius roared his fury.  Nileas struck, slashing off the blade-limb even as it was withdrawn with the same uncanny speed.  The chainsword bit through hard carapace and fleshy inner parts, the blade snarling and gurgling.  Hurt, the daemon wheeled, flailing limbs and loose coils of itself.  It threw Nileas to the floor before boiling away into the shadows, into the next chamber down the tunnel.
    “Nileas!”  Ausrius charged to his brother’s side and knelt protectively over him, the bolter still held ready.
    Nileas groaned again, blood ran from his mouth.  He was panting for breath and Ausrius thought he might be relying entirely on the smaller third lung.  Blood poured from the wound.  Normally Astartes blood clotted quickly, they were fast healers and could weather monstrous amounts of punishment and brutal pain.  But Nileas was past all limits.
    “I’ll get you out of here, Brother,” Ausrius promised.
    “No, Hellan.”
    “Fortitude,” Ausrius urged him.  He slung his bolter across his back and lifted Nileas’ shoulders, supporting him to ease his breathing.
    “Fortitude,” Nileas agreed, “and faith.  You will need both... for this mission.  Take it.”  He pointed toward the chainsword.  He had dropped it when the monster threw him down and the blade had cut off automatically.
    Ausrius hesitated.  “My brother,” he said, “I don’t understand.”
    “You must finish it,” Nileas charged him solemnly.  “Destroy that abomination.  Burn it from existence.  In the Emperor’s name.  You must not fail in this.”  He spoke haltingly, as his breathing labored, but with fierce conviction.
    Slowly, Ausrius understood.  Still cradling his dying battle-brother with one arm, he reached out and grasped the hilt of Nileas’ chainsword and lifted it.  The elder Space Marine nodded.  “Finish this,” he sighed, at the end of his strength.
    “I will, Brother.”
    “Swear.”  Blood pooled on the stones beneath them, and dripped from his mouth.
    Fighting despair at the weight of responsibility hanging over him, Ausrius drew a tight breath.  He firmed his grip upon the chainsword, the heft of a ready weapon always a comfort.  It was an ancient and venerable piece, marked with a roll of honor stretching back into the far history of Kermodes Squad.  Dozens of Howling Griffons heroes had carried this blade into battle for Guilliman and the Imperium, for the Emperor.  Drawing his strength from their memory, and their example, he improvised an oath; “Upon this weapon, and by the Throne of Terra, I swear to pursue this mission until I have succeeded, or until I am dead.”
    Nileas reached up and pressed the bloody palm of his left hand to Ausrius’ cuirass, a make-shift seal to witness and acknowledge the oath.  He let the hand fall and his head rolled back.  He was failing; this nigh-immortal super soldier, this hero, was sliding rapidly down to death, and Ausrius could not help him.
    “Brother,” the younger Astartes began.
    “Go,” Nileas charged him.  It was a whisper, but it carried such weight of authority it could not be refused.
    Ausrius knew every moment he lingered was another moment the warp-beast had to make good its escape.  He loathed the thought of abandoning his battle brother to die alone, but he also knew Nileas expected him to place duty foremost.  Gently, he lowered Nileas to the ground.  “Rest easy, brother.”
    Nileas could not answer.  He clasped his armored right fist across his ruined chest, a warrior’s salute.  He closed his eyes against the pain of each shallow, sucking breath.
    Ausrius steeled himself and turned away, advancing in the direction the monster had gone.  As much as he wanted to, he did not look back.  His brother would not expect such sentimentality, and the beast could strike again at any moment.
    He held Nileas’ chainsword right-handed, in a low guard, and drew his bolt pistol with his left hand.  The bolter rode by its sling, in reserve.  He had also the simple but reliable gladius, and three grenades.  It wasn’t much.  He hoped it would be enough.
    The beast had left its scent like spoor and Ausrius followed that, trying not to gag on the stench of corruption.  Black, oily fluid pooled on the stones in places, faintly sizzling; the noxious ichor which served the thing as blood.  They had hurt it, and if it could be hurt, it could be killed.
    He paused as he heard it; slithering, chittering to itself.  It sounded like it was right beside him, though he could not see it, the acoustics of the cave playing tricks again.  He moved steadily forward, ever vigilant.  He could smell ozone and felt the unholy chill he associated with psykers and the warp.
    It almost escaped.  He came upon it just as it approached the portal.  Ausrius had never seen anything like it.  It was a hole in reality.  A cold rush of air, and faint mist drifted out of this impossible gateway.
    The warp daemon sensed his approach and turned its neck inside out to bring its obscene head around to face him.  It flared its mouthparts at him.  It seethed, limbs and spines and eyes and hungry mouths full of teeth appearing and disappearing across its flesh in a wave that traveled down and around its length.  It was taunting him.  It made a wet, basso, shuddering, purring sound and rolled like a water serpent in a spiral swimming motion into the portal.  It flowed into the unreality as if sinking through the surface of a mirror.
    Ausrius had seen many terrible things in his decades of service with the Adeptus Astartes.  He had weathered them with commendable stoicism, but now he wavered.  Astartes do not feel fear, but alone in this dark desolate place, faced with such an unspeakable monstrosity, and the prospect of following it through a warp gate to an unknown destination, Hellan Ausrius came very close.  How could he, alone, hope to succeed against this?
    He controlled his breathing, willed his racing pulse steady.  He swallowed the bile which had risen in his throat.  He fought down the urge to vomit, conquered the tremor in his limbs.  He recalled his oaths, and his debt to Nileas.  He had no choice, he had to proceed.  He clenched his fist on the grip of the chainsword and thumbed the activation stud.  The blade snarled into life.  Leading with that august weapon, and with a prayer to the God-Emperor on his lips, he strode forward into the warp gate.
This looks so much shorter here! ;p Ah well.

A bit of something. ~NotAnselAdams might find this interesting. :nod:

Notes: Guilliman is the Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion, according to my research the Howling Griffons Chapter is derived from the Ultramarines.

For those not familiar, the Space Marines often swear oaths specific to the mission they are about to undertake, these are usually witnessed by their battle brothers and commemorated by an oath paper which is sealed to their armor. images.dakkadakka.com/gallery/…

The description and function of the 'warp gate' is based on similar device found in the Gaunt's Ghosts novel His Last Command by Dan Abnett.

Rough concept art for the warp daemon:
WIP: Warp-Daemon by KreepingSpawn
and Hellan Ausrius:
Hellan Ausrius - Lineart by KreepingSpawn

Warhammer 40K, Astartes/Space Marines, terminology, universe, etc © Games Workshop
text/chars © =KreepingSpawn
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Lady,
In the water,
The rivers Daughter,
Won’t you let me
Come?

Come and sing now,
With you lady,
In the water,
Rivers Daughter,
Let me come?

Now good knight,
All in armor,
Quit your pestering,
And go marry
the farmers daughter.

But my lady,
Dressed in silver,
Just as I am,
Let me sing with you
A while?

Bold Knight,
All in armor,
Marry the farmer,
Live in the sunlight
Always smiling.
a song i wrote.
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Well...its been a year since reach....since i lost many friends and family,since i lost the love of my live,and...since i nearly lost my entire squad.But,i made a soul promise,i'd protect them with my life. I've had to many losses,but that ends this day.Heh listen to me rant i forgot to introduce myself, my name is Jack Christopher noeland.I'm and ODST (orbital drop sock trooper)i was a army soldier on reach....but thats past me now,i cant tell you the horrible memories i saw on that planet.Well anyways let me give you the rundown.Im a commander,and im with a unsc division thats always been known as the best of the best 1st disivion wolf pack.In second in command,and my right hand man,is my childhood friend,Dibs dubbo.He's austrailian,mean,and ready to kill the covenant,just the soldier i need for the second in command.He carries a pretty mean shotgun,its from  when we where on reach,the special thing about it,is that it as tree barrels on it.He regrets what happened to us on reach,he wont let that happen again,not even if the entire damn covenant fleet stands in his way.Then we have seth matthews another childhood friend.Seth is the sniper of the squad,never leaves the pack without that rifle.He is on a soul search for his fiance monica,a researcher trying to find a cure for some virus.Hes hellbent on makeing sure he gets her back,not the covenat,or the innsurection will stop that.Then we have Dex,my little buddy,hes basically the pointman,equiped with a m237 light  machine-gun.Get him in range of the covies and he'll blow the covies away in a heartbeat.Hes also very trigger happy and has a hyper personality.Next up is blake,hes african american,likes heavy weapons,and is mainly known as" big brotha" as the marines call him.He uses the Spunker alot(the rpg) and the machine gun turrent detachable.His personality is happy,and caring,this guy is a true member of wolf pack,he never leaves a man behind.Then theres rickey,hes....well kinda the smart elect of the squad,he uses the assault rifle and the smg,he and dex dont useally get along either.This is my team,and i want to make sure that they dont end up like what happened on reach.Ill throw down my life if i have to to ensure that.Well thats all i can write for today,it seems we got inssurectionist activity,time to get the wolfs prepped for the hunt.

Jack Christoper noeland out.
here it is finally.the proluge to ODST Brotherhood my odst story.The proluge is based of jacks point of view.the rest of the sory will be in thrid person.and yes for now they are fighting against rebels.

leave a comment if you want.
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The feminine figure laid on her bed, examining the white walls of her quarters,seeing all the pictures that crest had drew for her.On these pictures where figures,two with black banged hair, one with white hair with silver streaks,and one with a red goatee,short hair,and a sinister hell-hound smile,like that of a hungry wolf stalking its prey,getting ready for the kill.

She turned on her back and looked at the white ceiling,sighing.She began to close her eyes as everything around her went silent and dark.

She awoke in a forest that seemed endless.The trees where all dead,gray,lowering down sometimes.She picked herself up and began to walk trying to find anyone in this dead forest.Suddenly a figure was seen,a small girl.She came close to her and reached out for her.

It was no female,it was a silhouette of a young girl.She wore a white dress,and held a stuffed bear.She began running.

The female however looked at her hand,and saw a JERICHO MK IV claw.She saw it, she was in the Shinagami armor,her name written on her shoulder pad,was named"Sayia".

Sayia hesitated and began to follow the girl. A few whispers began to say and repeat various things and phrases,many included" Death will come for you" "You cannot escape the wolfs hunt" You cannot escape us." "You killed us Sayia, for the true evil."

Sayia shook her head and ran, she saw the girl and reached out for her.Her red eyes glowed going to her,then suddenly the girls shadow disappeared and revealed itself, it was Sayia when she was younger.

Sayia backed up,shadows consumed her, she struggled to find light and turned seeing a red glare.Standing there...was a figure...with red mist glowing around him he wore black clothing,his black hair had red mist traveling through the figures hair.His eyes glowed red revealing them has he looked up.

Sayia was a bit entranced by this then noticed his hands, where glowing red claws dripping with red plasma. She turned and saw a door and ran to it, but the figure was behind her walking slowly.Sayia tried to open the door,then it opened.

She ran out,looking back a few times in the old hallway the figure kept getting closer and closer,She finally smiled once she saw her friend,the ONI shadow lowering his hand smiling at her,his eyes hidden in darkness.The sound of a pelican roared through the hallway, light shined into the dark and sinister hallways.

Sayia reached up,and before she grabbed her friends hand,he pulled back,looking at her frowning.She frowned, tears rolled down her face.Suddenly she fell, free falling for at least a solid minute then landed in something red.

She got out of the blood of red substance and saw,blood,she stepped out,but a hand grabbed her, she noticed the wall was covered in bodies, bodies of people the shadow had told her to "eliminate for a better world".

Sayia looked around as they all groaned,wanting to rip her apart for killing them.sayia stood in the blood,and was suddenly blinded by a white glow.She ran to it thinking the shadow had returned to her, She hugged the figures clothing smiling thinking she was safe as the figure patted her head.She looked up,and suddenly frowned.

It was the figure,or as many ONI operatives call him"DEATH" the rage...of sorrow.

She tried to back away,then suddenly a hand went through her chest.It was DEATH,rage of sorrow.

Sayia looked up seeing its eyes, glowing red,words written in rage lettering wher ein hsi eyes, around his mouth where red stitches blood dripped down the edges of his mouth.His smile scared sayia,she saw his hand moved upward,then drove down into her eyes,blackness surrounded her.


Sayia woke up sweating she held her head in her hands and began to pant.She felt her heartbeat,it was accelerated. She sighed,same nightmare she had a few nights ago,it was a reoccurring nightmare.One she did not want to experience.

Sayia turned to the door hearing a few knocks.She waited for someone to say something.

"Sayia?"a young female voice said quietly.

"Its me...crest...um...we....well...you and the others have an objective to do today....".crest  quietly said looking down.

Sayia stood up getting off her bed,and walked to the door.She opened it as crest looked up,greeting her with a smile."Hi,sleep well?"Crest said closing her eyes and standing with her arms behind her back giving off her heart warming smile.

Sayia looked down at her,she treated crest like a younger sister,she put her hand on top of crest's head.

"I slept well."Sayia said in her emotionless voice.Sayia hated lying to crest,but she didn't want her worrying about her.Sayia wanted crest to be happy,even if she has to lie in order to preserve that happiness.

"Good!"crest said bouncing up."I'm happy you got good sleep too".She said while smiling warmly to Sayia.

Sayia looked over and saw a young boy walking over,she saw he already had his cloth wrappings over his left eye,his hood was down.

"Hello sayia"He began."Hello crest"

Crest ran over and hugged the young man. Giggling in the process.

"Fear! your actually awake for once."Crest said while putting her finger on her chin." I wonder if that's meaning something."She commented then looked at him sternly.Have you been practicing black magic? hmm?"She said putting her hands to her side,and putting her face in front of his.

"N-no!"fear replied backing up."I just went to sleep early i swear!"

"Hmm..."crest said,making sure he wasn't lying."Okay! your telling the truth. good work fear! a good soldier has to be up and early!"Crest said making a triumphant pose pointing to the sky.

"Yeah....your telling me."Fear said looking to sayia."Also,Sayia mam.The shadow has requested us for a task.I wasn't told anything else,but to report to the briefing room."

"Crest had told me.Shall we go then?And where is Cerberus?"Sayia asked.

"Already there,and already armored and ready....as always...hes ready to kill."Fear said frowning.

Crest froze up at cerberus's name.She feared him greatly seeing the horrors he does to soldiers on the battlefield.Even their own.

"Uh...sorry crest,sayia lets go."Fear said nodding to the hallway.

Sayia nodded,then looked at crest.In return crest looked back up and smiled.She gave Sayia a small hug."Be careful...okay?"She said worryingly.

Sayia nodded,then turned and began to walk to the briefing center.
My new side story about the ONI shinagami's and what they are capable off.

Its a dark spin of my story Brotherhood.The shinagami's are called to the briefing room for one of the shadow's dark operations.What does it hold? what secrets will be broken? we will find out more in the next chapter.

(occ took a while for me to write. i hope you guys enjoy this.)
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The Empty Child

I hide
I hear everything too loudly
I am falling apart
I grew up too fast
I am still a child
I cannot stand still
I see every detail
I panic
I cannot remember what I'm doing
I talk about dinosaurs and doctors and darkrooms
I cry for no reason
I do not have the ability to cry now
I see the world differently
I wish you saw it like me
I have a puzzle to put together
I wonder if you'll help me
I hear a song and must sing it
I see a picture and must take it
I see a world, a broken world
I want to fix that, too
I want to play
I need to work
I close my eyes and fall asleep
I remember everything
I forget my head
I stand in blue light
I see the world in shades of blue
I am lost
I have been waiting for you
I am the empty child
Are you my mommy?
Another poem, this one about my life with autism.

UPDATE: As of 10/20/12, this is my most favorited piece! Thanks everyone!
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No wind stirred the leaves of the trees; the forest was entirely still save, for the clattering of a young girl. She was hopelessly lost, and been so all day since entering the woods. Her small feet rustled the leaves as she walked on timidly through the trees. Her fine dress was now torn and tattered by clinging brambles and thorns.
It seemed to be getting dark, though she could not tell for certain, as the woods seemed to play tricks with the light. In any case, she was now tired and thoroughly hopeless of finding her way out before the sun had set. She sat down against the trunk of a great tree and began to sob.

“What am I to do?” she cried. “I am so lost, I don’t think I could ever get out.”

“I know the way,” croaked a mysterious voice from up above.
Startled, she looked up to see an enormous, gnarled old crow perched in the branches above her.

“Do you really?” she said.

“Of course I do,” the ancient bird replied.

“Please then, will you show me the way? I am so terribly lost, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes girl, I will show you. But I need a favor in return.”

“Oh, I would do anything!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“What I want is a small thing, yes, very small.”

“What is it that you want?”

“Let me show you.”

He flew ahead of her, cawing, and she followed. She had followed him for some time until they at last reached a great mass of trees all growing together. The crow landed on one of the branches above the entrance to a tunnel in the roots. The girl walked up to the hole and asked:

“What has this place to do with my favor?”

“Everything. This is the clockwork man’s house, and I want his heart.”

“His heart?!”

“Yes, his heart. Now go on inside and fetch it for me, or I won’t show you the way out of these woods.”

“But, how do I even get at his heart?”

“Wind him and you shall see. Now go girl, and if you are not back after a while, I will know you have died.”

She crawled into the tunnel, the crow’s words still on her mind. She tumbled down and out of the tunnel and into a room. She looked about, and in the half-light filtering in from the tunnel she could make out the remains of a table and a rusty stove. Next to the stove was a patch of blackness that she guessed was a hallway. The floor that she stood upon was stone. She walked over to table and found a candle, and then over to the stove where she found matches. With one of these she lit the candle and looked about. There were broken windows all along the walls, and she realized that the tunnel she had come through was at one time a window, and that she was in a cottage that had been overgrown by trees.
She walked then towards the hallway she had noticed, and in the candlelight saw something that had before been hidden away by the shadows. In the doorway of the hall there was a skeleton lying on the floor, long dead and covered in dust. The girl squeaked in fright and looked away. A feeling of dread came over her then, and she stepped into the dark hallway. She walked for what felt like hours, passing many closed doors as she went until she had reached the end of the hall. Her candle’s feeble light glinted off of something large and metallic that stood against the wall.

It was shaped like a man, only it was covered in plates of iron. In the joints were exposed cogs and gears. He had no real face, only a bare plate with two small, black holes that vaguely resembled eyes. It was as the crow had said, a clockwork man.

The girl looked over him in fear and awe, seeking where his heart might be. He looked on coldly and blankly with his unseeing eyes. She walked behind him and saw a large key protruding from his back. She remembered what the crow had said and wound it. The gears and cogs came to life and she stepped back to watch. As they wound about the chest plate of the iron man opened up to reveal his inner workings. There, where his heart should have been was a gear made of gold.

“So this is what the crow is after then,” said the girl.

She reached for it and began to tug it loose from the other gears. As she did this though, she failed to notice the cold iron hand reaching to grab her other arm. It gripped her like a vice and she screamed in pain and fear. Her bones cracked in the clockwork man’s grip. She flinched and pulled back her other hand in pain, and as it flew back it pulled the golden gear from its housing. The clockwork man looked down at her with his hollow eye holes, and his gearing wound down to a halt.
His grip did not loosen however, and though she tried wrestling herself free, she was trapped there and could not escape.

“Help me!” she cried. “Please help me!”

She went on like this for a while, until at last the enormous old crow flew in to see what was going on.

“I see that you are not dead,” he croaked.

“Help me please, crow. I have his heart, but I cannot get free of him.”

The crow looked at her for a moment, then flew up and grabbed the gear from her hand and took off cackling. The girl looked into the blackness he had flown off into for a second, and then began to cry. She sobbed until her body shook and no more tears would come to her eyes. She was finished now, and she knew it. The girl looked up then into the face of the clockwork man, and he looked down at her with his black and empty eyes. She then lay her head against his cold chest and fell asleep.
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Haunting, it's inside me.
Destroying, it's living.
With sharp teeth, it devours.

Strong, I rise up against it.
The deal is my soul or suffering.

The first strike is mine, but from there it's down hill.
It pushes me to the edge of insanity.
Tipping on the balance, I manage to push back.
But I never win, I never manage to land more than two blows before it strikes again.

With chains, this inner Demon of mine, binds my heart and mind.
Separated, they fight me.

Against myself,
How do I win?
I don't know about this one...I think it sucks...
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