New Fantasy writing/modelling comp
It was going to be a mid-October launch, but have decided to launch now as it may take some time for people to decide to join and to get judges etc sorted. https://i.imgur.com/6m0241E.png ...
Forum Discussion
Oop, got a bit sidetracked and didn't get a chance to finish up the editing, but I'm done and happy with it now. For my writing, I took a bit of an experimental approach by using one of my preferred, but probably non traditional, writing styles for creative pieces, but if it's not taken well I'll take a more traditional approach in the future. :)
Spoiler
We are told to head to Wolfwater. We do not question it at the time. While our information is limited, we are told that a successful trader may be in danger. Truthfully, I’m skeptical at first. She has been quiet for a short while and that is what raised alarm. I have disappeared into the wilderness for many moons in the past. Clearly, I am holding up just fine, and I am reluctant to even continue with the group, but I do not object. We travel to Wolfwater.
The trip is easy. But, we are met with hostility. There is a man, a half-orc, a creature, who greets us. He is rough around the edges, yes, but he is not directly hostile. Perhaps, I think to myself, I should let my guard down for just a moment. Perhaps, I shouldn’t be so jaded. Some of the more social members of our group begin to speak with him. He introduces himself, but his name is lost on me. He directs us to a cottage. The trader used to live here, he says. She took her family and left Wolfwater, he says. We are welcome to stay the night, he says. He is acting as an artist, painting us pictures of hospitality and kindness. The villagers show us a very different portrait.
As we approached the cottage where the family once lived, our sorcerer stops to tell us of the mystical energy that she is picking up. It is all around the town, she says, but it is manifesting as we approach this cottage. I’m not really sure if she’s right. But, what do I know about mystical energies? Still, we continue. The cleric chimes in, timidly stating that he feels our humble host is deceiving us in some way. Still, we continue. Then, we arrive upon the home, and something is clearly amiss. Nothing is broken, nothing is shattered, nothing is ruined. But, the home has clearly been rummaged. Still, we continue.
The others in the party decide to search the home in its entirety. I join in their search for a bit, but eventually it feels like a child’s game. I feel like I am doing nothing but wasting my time when there aren’t many obvious signs other than the mess. Perhaps the family who was here before us is comprised of slobs. It is starting to grow late, and the group is growing rowdy. The barbarian in the group is resigned to yelling and cursing and throwing a fit as he sulks around the home. I cannot stand this. I cannot handle this.
I announce to the group that I am going outside. I need to clear my head, I say. It is growing dark out and the front porch is illuminated only by the light shining through the windows of the home. I sit down on the front steps and let out a sigh, relieved to be free of the commotion indoors. I try to zone out, but my mind focuses in on something peculiar. I rub my hand against the stone, and, sure enough, the mark does not smear. The mark is faint, but it is noticeable to the trained eye. It is crimson red and stark against the stone of the stairs, seemingly glimmering as the moonlight shines upon it. There is no denying this sign. It is blood.
I get up to examine the area surrounding this mark. Sure enough, in the dirt, there is a small rut that is nearly parallel. I begin to think about what this could mean. There is no mistakenly that I have found evidence of bloodshed. I play with the dirt a bit, getting a feel for how malleable it is and how easily it can be moved. I find that a person falling forward, likely in a hurry, could produce a similar rut to the one I found. My stomach drops at this realization. I am queasy beyond belief, feeling my stomach rise to my throat, but I pause to catch my breath and continue around the perimeter of the home. Are there any more marks like this? Are there any more signs of trauma, signs of struggle, signs of wrongdoing?
I find more ruts in the group. They are tracks. They clearly belong to a wagon, almost as through the wagon at the residence could make them itself. But, the tracks are clearly facing away from the cottage. The carriage that created these tracks has, quite obviously, fled the scene. It isn’t possible that the family left in their own wagon, I reason. It is unlikely they own two similar wagons and just left one behind. And the struggle at the stairs, what does this lead to? I can only conclude that someone must have fallen in an attempt to escape their kidnappers. That is likely the worst case scenario. Yes, that is likely the extreme of what happened. Still, I must share my findings with the others.
I make my way back into the cottage, and the group seems to be deliberating amongst themselves. They have found evidence within the home that points to a similar conclusion. I wait for the other group members to quiet before I raise my voice. I tell the group that they must follow me outside. I tell them that they must come see the horror of the situation. And, in that moment, I am not sure what is more horrifying: the prospect of bloodshed on the family’s front porch, or the fact that all of our findings lead to the same conclusions.
The trip is easy. But, we are met with hostility. There is a man, a half-orc, a creature, who greets us. He is rough around the edges, yes, but he is not directly hostile. Perhaps, I think to myself, I should let my guard down for just a moment. Perhaps, I shouldn’t be so jaded. Some of the more social members of our group begin to speak with him. He introduces himself, but his name is lost on me. He directs us to a cottage. The trader used to live here, he says. She took her family and left Wolfwater, he says. We are welcome to stay the night, he says. He is acting as an artist, painting us pictures of hospitality and kindness. The villagers show us a very different portrait.
As we approached the cottage where the family once lived, our sorcerer stops to tell us of the mystical energy that she is picking up. It is all around the town, she says, but it is manifesting as we approach this cottage. I’m not really sure if she’s right. But, what do I know about mystical energies? Still, we continue. The cleric chimes in, timidly stating that he feels our humble host is deceiving us in some way. Still, we continue. Then, we arrive upon the home, and something is clearly amiss. Nothing is broken, nothing is shattered, nothing is ruined. But, the home has clearly been rummaged. Still, we continue.
The others in the party decide to search the home in its entirety. I join in their search for a bit, but eventually it feels like a child’s game. I feel like I am doing nothing but wasting my time when there aren’t many obvious signs other than the mess. Perhaps the family who was here before us is comprised of slobs. It is starting to grow late, and the group is growing rowdy. The barbarian in the group is resigned to yelling and cursing and throwing a fit as he sulks around the home. I cannot stand this. I cannot handle this.
I announce to the group that I am going outside. I need to clear my head, I say. It is growing dark out and the front porch is illuminated only by the light shining through the windows of the home. I sit down on the front steps and let out a sigh, relieved to be free of the commotion indoors. I try to zone out, but my mind focuses in on something peculiar. I rub my hand against the stone, and, sure enough, the mark does not smear. The mark is faint, but it is noticeable to the trained eye. It is crimson red and stark against the stone of the stairs, seemingly glimmering as the moonlight shines upon it. There is no denying this sign. It is blood.
I get up to examine the area surrounding this mark. Sure enough, in the dirt, there is a small rut that is nearly parallel. I begin to think about what this could mean. There is no mistakenly that I have found evidence of bloodshed. I play with the dirt a bit, getting a feel for how malleable it is and how easily it can be moved. I find that a person falling forward, likely in a hurry, could produce a similar rut to the one I found. My stomach drops at this realization. I am queasy beyond belief, feeling my stomach rise to my throat, but I pause to catch my breath and continue around the perimeter of the home. Are there any more marks like this? Are there any more signs of trauma, signs of struggle, signs of wrongdoing?
I find more ruts in the group. They are tracks. They clearly belong to a wagon, almost as through the wagon at the residence could make them itself. But, the tracks are clearly facing away from the cottage. The carriage that created these tracks has, quite obviously, fled the scene. It isn’t possible that the family left in their own wagon, I reason. It is unlikely they own two similar wagons and just left one behind. And the struggle at the stairs, what does this lead to? I can only conclude that someone must have fallen in an attempt to escape their kidnappers. That is likely the worst case scenario. Yes, that is likely the extreme of what happened. Still, I must share my findings with the others.
I make my way back into the cottage, and the group seems to be deliberating amongst themselves. They have found evidence within the home that points to a similar conclusion. I wait for the other group members to quiet before I raise my voice. I tell the group that they must follow me outside. I tell them that they must come see the horror of the situation. And, in that moment, I am not sure what is more horrifying: the prospect of bloodshed on the family’s front porch, or the fact that all of our findings lead to the same conclusions.
Spoiler
https://i.imgur.com/YyB0oR0.jpg
