Shidyk

“So we're meeting the Elf representative at the new carriage King Archibald is providing us?” Obsyd gave a nod, “That's correct.” It was about five days now since the peace summit had finished, and things were even more busy than when the summit had been going on. With the discovery of Demons among the Elves and Dwarves parties, it was decided by all parties that with the arrival of the new threat, all of the tribes would join against the Demons. I had read how it had been Demon kind, the “Lost Tribe” according to the history book, that had almost caused the end of this world once. It had taken all of the tribes coordinating against this enigmatic enemy that had saved the world during the “Third Age of War” as it came to be known. Needless to say, after that threat had been settled, the four tribes then began to bicker and fight over the spoils of that war. It was thanks to that and the resources being diminished from another war between the four that the summit now was meant

It had been about three days now that I had made it to Gray Wall with Lilly and Minerva. I yawned as I explored the gardens, enjoying the fresh air and cool night as I tried my hardest not to go back to bed. It wasn't that the bed was uncomfortable or that I was sharing with Lilly and Minerva. Heck, the room was practically a five star hotel room from my old world if anything. I sighed as I found a stone bench and sat on it, once again reminded exactly why I couldn't sleep: my old world. I couldn't lie to myself, I was homesick in almost every way possible. Everything here was so...so alien to me that I had no way to share this with anyone from where I was. All of the stuff I knew, all of the stuff I was aware of, everyone that I knew... It was gone and I could never go back to that life. The thought had not struck me when I had run into Lilly or Minerva, it had not struck me when I had gone through the forest, and it had not even struck me when I was reborn into this

Blink...Blink... The white of the world blurred my eyes as I tried to figure out what was going on. My room was white, but this white was almost blinding in comparison. It was as if someone had been messing with a computer's brightness and contrast tabs and had gone out of their way to put both at maximum. Closing my eyes again, I tried to collect myself and figure out what was going on through the memory of what I had been doing for the last five minutes or so. I had sat down back in my bed, in my room of so many years, to type a story to amuse myself after having grown bored with my video games again. If there was one thing I liked to do, it was to do little stories on the side and see where they'd go if I made them public on a certain artist website. I normally got decent comments and I did like my little hobby, so every now and then I would write something and see how it went. Some was fan-fiction, some was just my musings from a certain series, others were original ideas (or

Marching....marching....how long had they been inside this dungeon? How long has it been since these adventuring fools had decided to take this path in the hopes of easy gold and jewels? How long have I been forced into their service...? These kinds of thoughts were spinning within the mind of Marcus Pollo, a low-ranking adventurer, as he carried a good portion of his “party's” gear. The young man's thoughts had been similar for the last six years, all of them revolving on the foolish choice he had made as a young adventurer himself. Despite the years, he had been the only one of seven others on that day to survive, because he had found a way to survive even in the awful conditions that these men, the Purple Pythons, had put him in. Glancing to the side, he noted the most recent batch of adventurers like himself were starting to tire themselves on the constant march with the gear they held. Then again, this bunch (at least, from what he had heard from the louder “full” members)

Do you ever have a day where the world that you knew was turned upside-down? Where the truth of the matter is that the perception that you have always believed in was naught but an illusion? Well, that is what seems to be occurring to me at this moment as I am laid out on a cold stone tablet, surrounded by strangers in hooded cloaks, chanting what I believe to be some lost language. For the curious, I am Professor Howard Phillips Loves, and I seem to be a sacrificial offering right now. Not that I was planning on it, mind you. I honestly was not expecting anything of the sort when I decided to come back to the university that I teach at when I realized I had left my pocket watch in the classroom. Life truly is mysterious. I have no connection to anything paranormal (current circumstances aside), and was actually born in Providence, Rhode Island to a rather normal family as the sole child of the house. Tragedy, however, was never too far behind me as I lost my mother at a