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About Literature / Hobbyist Jack Hargraves/archaicMale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
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Oh, my favourites... A collection of random pieces I have seen over my time here that have caught my fancy.
Rather eclectic, I feel.


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Part 1:

A thin wind slithered between the steepled ancients of the Old Quarter, passing effortlessly through the cloaks of beggars and burgesses alike, swirling the mist that blanketed the City into strange shapes as it whistled by. In the distance, bells mourned another hour lost, offering a sonorous punctuation to the silence of the night.
In one particularly lonely street walked a striking young Lady, looking quite out of place in the foggy darkness that surrounded her. In one hand she held a black parasol folded by her hip and in the other was a thick grimoire, cradled in the crook of her elbow. The book was heavy, bound with bronzed clasps and pinned shut by three locks of sapphire, emerald and ruby around the fore-edge. The keys to these locks rested in their hidden places around her person, invisible to all but the most inquisitive of searches.

Once, the Lady was forced to ask a rather uncouth Beggar for directions to a certain Library which she had heard had set up recently in a nearby Square. At first the wretched man was reticent, but a pittance of gold to loosen his tongue opened the way for her, and she was given clear instructions to the ruined Square, leaving the man confused and certainly much richer for his troubles.

The Lady had continued on her way, following the simple instructions the beggar had given her, winding through alley and street, the mist grasping behind her as if to pull her back. Soon, she found herself at the arched gateway of ancient St. Gaunt's Square. The gate itself was missing, however, and she walked freely between the mist-damp pillars. In the centre of the gloomy square stood a fountain, once of bright marble but now grimy and overgrown with moss. The Putto that had once been its centerpiece was now a faceless, malformed lump of rock staring blindly towards the archway, the weathered sprouts of marble that rested on its back still outstretched like the proud wings they had once been. No water had passed from the hands that cupped its infant face for decades at least, and the Lady idly wondered just how old this Square must be. She looked up at the statue, resting her chin on her hand as she leaned on the rim of the fountain.
“What stories could you tell, I wonder, if you had the tongue to speak them?”
A glance down at the basin of the fountain revealed a few corroded old copper coins among the rotten vegetation. She picked them up, examining them closely for any sign of heritage. The search availed her nothing and she tossed the disc of metal back into the fountain, her momentary curiosity forgotten.
The withered Putto was forgotten just as quickly as she strode forward, allowing the grasping mist to swallow her as she forged her path across the remainder of the square. With a haste born of the bitterness of its new meal, the mist spat her out at the base of a squat building whose embossed sign simply read “LIBRARY”. The door was made of dark wood, banded with black iron which stood out against the crumbling beige sandstone of the structure.
She hooked her parasol onto her forearm and composed herself before taking hold of the heavy, moist knocker and rapping three times on the door.
There was no answer.
She glanced impatiently around, turning her head back to the Putto on the fountain, smirking in amusement as she saw that its hands were outstretched towards the Library.
Perhaps the owner of the Library had had the Putto and its fountain installed as an esoteric, if slightly gauche, signpost she thought.
A loud creak shook her out of her reverie and she turned back to the library's door, composing herself to greet the Librarian, who peeked his head out of the door as he dragged it open.
“Ah,” He said, adjusting his glasses, “A guest... Please, do cross the- ah... threshold.”
The Lady paid no attention to him and had strode across the door before he had finished speaking. She looked around, studying the interior with a piercing gaze. The building was deeper than it had looked, and seemed to stretch on endlessly. It was brightly lit, with lamps hanging from walls and the occasional candelabra on a table. It all looked rather quaint, she thought.
The Lady turned to the Librarian, who was pushing the door shut again.
“Must stop this insufferable mist...” He muttered.
He was quite a small man, she thought, and had quite an unhealthily pale complexion, at least in the little of his flesh she could see. He wore some form of leather coat that covered almost all of his body, a scarf that obscured his mouth and a pair of black gloves. His eyes were concealed behind the glint of his glasses in the candlelight, but as he turned to her she thought she caught a glimpse of jaundiced yellow in his sclera. The Lady's lip curled in disgust.
The Librarian walked back to his desk and sat down, looking up at his guest.
“May I be of assisstance?”
“Why yes,” Responded the Lady sweetly, “Can you point me in the direction of the... “rare books” section? I have been searching for a particular volume, the so-called “Sanguinicon”, for some time and I believe your establishment might have it in store.”
“Let me see, young lady...” His voice grew distant for a moment as he reached for his ledger, “We have ever so many books now, and they tend to, ah, get moved... Yes, that's it. Moved...”
His finger scratched down the lists of books upon books, occasional hisses escaping his lips as he read the faded ink.

It had been somewhere around ten minutes and the Lady was growing impatient. The Librarian turned the dry, crackling pages of his catalogue with interminable slowness and read through them even slower. The bells outside faintly tolled the quarter hour and she slammed her own tome down on the desk to get his attention.
“For gods' sakes, work faster!” she exclaimed, “I have very pressing matters to attend to!”
The Librarian, again, did not respond. He continued to trace his fingers down each huge page with insolent sloth, seemingly oblivious to everything that wasn't contained on the fragile page. This continued for another few minutes, allowing the Lady to seethe in frustration while she waited. Suddenly the Librarian piped up, catching her quite off-guard.
“Sanguinicon, yes?” His eyes and voice seemed now to have gained an intensity that they had lacked beforehand.
“Yes,” snapped the Lady in reply, refusing to acknowledge the change in tone and snatching her book up from where she had left it, “As I did tell you when I entered-”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he glanced back at the page and shakily lifted an arm, pointing down one of the far aisles of shelves, one with a golden chandelier hanging just above it. “Enter there and walk straight down until you see a wooden lectern shaped like an eagle, in the centre of a junction among the shelves. Turn right there and straight ahead should be the book you seek. And please,” he implored, “Do not deviate from these directions. It's ever so easy to get lost in the Library these days, and we have such a collection, it's hard to keep track of it all.”
The Lady's frustration vanished, replaced by elation at the end of her tedious vigil. She thanked the Librarian profusely and strode off, leaving the wretched man to his ledger.
He picked up a quill and, dipping it in a small pot of red ink, started to write.

The Lady walked until she was one aisle away from her goal and a book on a side-shelf caught her eye. She laughed at the title, “Ye Wickednesses of Womyn And Theyr Daemonologie”. Probably written by some pious fool three hundred years ago. She felt a strange compulsion to read it and quickly flicked through a few pages. Unfortunately, the actual content of the book turned out to be the same old drab, misogynistic tripe that she had heard for far too long, so she tossed the book away in disgust.
She continued walking, looking again for the golden chandelier. She remembered seeing it nearby somewhere. After she had passed six aisles she stopped to get her bearings, looking around.

There was no chandelier, just as there was no longer a Librarian. There was only the shelves, stretching on and on. Now, she had no doubt the Sanguinicon could be found in this place, as this type of illusion was typical of that employed by a lonely, paranoid wizard.
The Librarian would certainly fit that description, she thought with a smirk.
The parasol struck the ground, unceremoniously discarded, and she placed her book on the reading bench next to her. This was an amateur trick at best, and she was a master of her craft. She had allies and thralls in the darkest circles. It was time to call upon one of them for a favour.
She dusted herself off and daintily pulled out a small stiletto knife from one of her shoes. With a brutal motion, she slashed down the upper sleeve of one arm. A small bronze key set with an emerald tumbled out and she caught it, placing it in the corresponding emerald-studded lock on her book. Another slash, this time to her voluminous skirt, and a sapphire-set key tumbling from its lining was her reward. Again, this one found its home in the lock it had been forged for.

The last key had a particularly ingenious hiding place. She placed the knife on her inner wrist and dug it in, worming the thin blade into her flesh. She made a small incision and, dropping the knife on the ground, dug her nails into the wound. Wincing, she pulled out a small, blood-slick key. Smiling, she licked it slowly and placed it in the last empty lock, the one set with the gleaming bloodstone. She opened the heavy book, flicking through desiccated pages of the meaningless scribbling of eldritch wisdom to the exact middle spread where the paper was cramped with diagrams, esoteric formulas and, dominating the centre of the spread, an image of a fever-dream inspired cephalopod monstrosity.
She lifted her wounded wrist towards her face and, taking up the knife again, drew around the wound the shape of a jagged oval halo and three lines extending downwards onto her forearm. The whole almost resembled a serpentine eye, weeping crimson tears.
She turned the blood-sigil over the eldritch portraiture, allowing the symbol to drip onto the pages, where the fluid was absorbed almost greedily by the horrible paper. The desiccated pages grew more supple as the blood flowed with serpentine suggestion across the ink.
The Lady dropped her bloody wrist to the side and allowed it to drip onto the floor, where the fluid soaked into the wood of the dusty ground, causing the planks to creek eerily. The Lady paid no heed and brushed her unwounded hand across the now-moist page, pressing firmly upon it and whispering to the vellum in a sibilant, alien tongue. As she spoke, her voice took on a bass quality that sent her murmurs ricocheting madly through the endless aisles of the Library.
“Ischa'nayhiko voss, zhawrogk qra.”
The book shuddered on the table, growls and gurgles emanating from the pages. It began to shake, almost as if struggling against her grip. The covers arched shut, forcing the Lady to pull her hand back before it was trapped. The awakened tome shuddered and gurgled on the tabletop,  a hateful sentience awakened within.
“Vo nakhsha ma wauroka! I'a Sothaka zha!” She cried, lifting the book from the table and wrenching the pages back open to the middle spread. Instead of the crabbed equations and eldritch algorithms now there lay a squirming, inchoate mass of  gelid eyes, raw meat and gibbering mouths. It was glimpse into the madness of the World Beyond, something that was never meant to be now bound by dark writ between the pages of the Lady's old research journal forever. The writhing mouths cried out in anger, pain, jealousy, terror- and the Lady smiled.
“Ah, Sothaka,” panted the Lady, the struggle and the renewal of the binding cantrips having tired her considerably, “Again, you acquiesce far too easily.”
With cold eyes, the Lady peered into the seething mass of horror.
“Guide me,” she whispered, “Take me to the Sanguinicon.”
The Lady and the Library [Unfinished]
Abandoned uni creative writing project, thought it should go here instead of languishing uselessly in my writing folder forever.

Might go back and finish this at some point, most probably definitely won't. There's many many errors that I didn't fix but whatever.

Ma'chlatl gof'n.
forgot about this thing. guess since im doing a creative writing course i might as well upload some shit i've written that isnt being marked, huh. maybe, maybe not. we'll see i guess. i have like 3000 words of pure shit that needs somewhere to live that isnt my hdd, so maybe that.
w/e, what happens happens.
also i've turned into a pretentious morrowind fan, something something ALMSIVI

  • Mood: Neutral
  • Listening to: my computer popping
  • Reading: The 36 Lessons of Vivec
  • Watching: speedruns
  • Playing: TES III: Mirrorwang
Disclaimer: What the fuck am I doing with my life I have essays and shit to write lmao

There was once a man whom we shall refer to as the Warrior. Now, the Warrior was
a man whom it seemed Nature had taken an especial interest in. She, in her unknowable, otherworldly logic, deemed it necessary to test the Warrior in every way she
could. He was a man of many talents; his arts of bloodshed were many, deadly and widely feared by those who knew of him. His arts of craft were, in their roughshod
way, far surpassing of his peers. One could fill a book with descriptions of his acts of charity, his solidarity with those he named as friends and his heroism in
adversity's shadow. However, this story, as short and jagged as it is, must deal with the Warrior's efforts in a much more delicate matter.
First, however, let us see his journey.


The brute's arms dropped slowly to its sides as its tiny brain registered the infromation that it was dead. Its highly impractical but large axe fell to the ground
with a great clang and the Warrior stepped over the prone corpse. Another one of the monsters lunged at him, this time with a fist the size of his head, wrapped in
rusted chains and nails. A sidestep and sweep of the leg sent the monstrosity stumbling off balance; the Warrior's axe-blade crunched down into its skull, its snarling
visage almost comical in cross-eyed death. An attempted bear-hug from the fallen creature's comrade turned into spilled intestines and a puzzled grunt. The last of the
four guardians looked around with beady eyes for reinforcements and, upon seeing none were forthcoming, shrugged its shoulders and charged the Warrior with a bestial
battle-shout. A massive slab of pig-iron slashed down at him with unstoppable force, forcing him to twist aside and gaining him a nasty gash in the leather he wore.
The beast stuggled to pull its huge weapon out of the wound it had left in the earth and the Warrior took this opportunity to hilt his gladius in the monster's
shoulder, using the leverage from his weapon to swing onto its back and hack its head apart with his axe. It toppled, joining its comrades on the Warrior's tally. He
advanced into the ruins he had located, where the locals had told him someone needed his aid.

Bowls of green fire flickered in the darkness, serving only to give shape to the shadows in the Shaman's sanctum. Grisly fetishes and relics hung from the ceiling of
the cave. The sacrifice struggled against its bonds, its gag muting its cries. The Shaman ran a leathery finger across the dagger of flint it held, its gutteral barks an invocation to the
bestial gods it owed fealty to.

The Warrior snarled in rage as an arrow from the shadows thwacked into his plastron, almost penetrating the tough hide. He tore it out
as he dove into some rather dubious cover, reaching into his coat to draw out a sache of alchemically-wrought powder an old, slightly unhinged sorcerer friend had
given to him. Briefly he wondered what had happened since he had left the wizard poring over an old book that purported to describe "Thynges that man was not meynt too
knyw wot of". Certainly, he couldn't imagine the wizard putting up much of a fight if the said Thynges decided to pay him a visit.

He shook himself out of his split-second flashback and tossed the sachet into the air where, for some inexplicable reason, one of the unseen archers shot it
immediately. Unfortunately for them, this meant the powder within ignited with a brilliant white light, brighter almost than the sun. For the dwellers of the darkness,
this was anathema and the sudden radiance utterly blinded them. The Warrior sprinted out of cover, dispatching the stunted, squealing sentries with decapitating chops.
More for the tally.

The Shaman daubed its face in blood mixed with sacred pigments enchanted to attract the eye of the gods, still growling incantations as it worked its dark magic. The
sacrificial dagger lay on a slab of stone stained with the blood of countless slain, vibrating slightly with the bestial bloodthirst it had been imbued with. It's destination still struggled, eyes wide and breath short, ears twitching and tail lashing. Heart pounded harder, feeling fit to burst. Soon it would.

The Warrior pulled his blade out of the last of the sanctum's guards and wiped his weapons clean of his enemies' grisly remains. The blazing sconces of bone and wood
that burned with the eerie green light of sickly magic seemed to cut their light off just past the archway that had been hewn into the living rock of the cave. The Warrior observed further splutterings of the same light within the grotto, but they served only to give fitful impressions of the room, illuminating various skulls and
mortal fetishes that had been hung up around the room. Against an intruder of less mettle or someone for whom the unknown held terror, the effect created would have
been quite unnerving. But the Warrior did not fear the unknown. For once one faces the unknown, it becomes the known. And once your foe is known, it can be slain.
The Warrior pressed on, heedless of the chill of foul magic being worked.

The Shaman's guttural chant was reaching a frantic crescendo of barks and yells. His knife rose, held in great, brutish paws. Its acolytes were stood in a ring around
it and the sacrifice they had prepared, stripping her of the clothes she wore that might offer resistance to the blade.
Eyes wide, she desperately told herself this was not the end. That someone would come to her rescue.
A sudden commotion grabbed her attention and she could hardly believe it.

The first acolyte he had taken unawares, it being too wrapped up in its ritual to hear the soft footsteps behind it. Once a foot of gladius erupted from its sundered heart, however, its colleagues took great interest in its predicament. Swiftly withdrawn, the gladius disappeared and a heavy axe lodged itself in the shoulder of a second acolyte as the Shaman growled and bawled expletives, gesturing angrily with the knife. The other six, unwounded acolytes rushed at the Warrior, his axe wrenched out of his hands as the wounded monster stumbled backwards. He prepared himself to meet their charge, changing tack at the last moment and leaping to the side. The momentum of the charge was too much to arrest and, comically, the acolytes all crashed into the wall of the grotto, swearing and yelping.
With a burst of roiling green flame, they were incinerated. The Warrior spun around to see the Shaman leering at the smoking remains of his subordinates, sparks and little snatches of fire exuding from the heavy, carven bone staff he now wielded. The Shaman muttered a short incantation as the Warrior quietly circled him to catch him off-guard. The Shaman's eyes lit up with green fire and he spun, loosing a bolt of magical fire from his staff directly at the Warrior's new position, his mistake now revealed by the life-detecting spell he had cast upon himself. A snarl of rage and another barely-dodged firebolt put the Warrior on edge and in cover behind a large stalagmite, his only weapon his relatively short gladius. The heavy clack clack of the bonestaff alerted him to the Shaman's approach and he quickly weighed up his options before making his decision. As the Shaman drew to near distance, the Warrior leant out of his cover and threw his gladius at the beast, eliciting a panicked incantation and a fizzling shield of green energy, from which his gladius rebounded harmlessly. While the Shaman was distracted, the Warrior leapt at him, slamming his steel-shod boot into the Shaman's shield with rage that had once broken an elder dragon's jawbone. The primitive magic fared no better, imploding in on the caster and stunning its primitive mind with the aetheric backfire. It stumbled back, dropping its carven staff and raising its paws in simple warding sigil more properly meant to ward off the devils of the night. Unfortunately for the Shaman, the Warrior was something far, far worse.

The Warrior lifted the blood-slick bonestaff from where it had fallen, inspecting it before smashing it over his knee, causing an inaudible boom of escaping magical energy that knocked the one remaining acolyte off of its feet. A sprint and a few stomps dealt with it quite severely. The Warrior yanked his axe out of its shoulder and, reclaiming his gladius, went to the centre of the room, where the fitful wyrd-light illuminated an altar to which was bound a wide-eyed, hyperventilating and strikingly naked woman, to whom the Warrior realized he must look like a demon straight out of hell. He set down his weapons.
“Who are you?” He asked bluntly.
She did not respond so the Warrior lifted his gladius and, before she could scream, sliced her bonds apart. He then cast his blade to the ground as a sign of trust and gently removed the gag from her mouth.
“Who are you?” He asked again, this time more softly as he saw the glisten of tears in her eyes.
“They... They killed them all...” She sobbed, her bosom heaving as she fought back the tears threatening to drown her rationality.
“These fuckers?” Responded the Warrior, jerking his thumb towards what was once the Shaman. “You don't have to worry about them now.”
The freed Sacrifice looked at where he indicated, recoiling from the horrible sight but at once relieved that her captor was destroyed so thoroughly.
“My name is Tasha,” She answered to his earlier question, embracing him suddenly, her tail wrapping around his waist. She looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes. “What about you?”
“They call me the Warrior, but my friends call me Al.”
Tasha covered her mouth with her hands to try to hide her giggles.
“That's so cute!”
Al looked at her, vaguely disapproving.
“Anyway, lets get you back home.”
“I don't think I have a home any more... The monsters burned it all down...”
Al the Warrior looked into her tear-filled eyes.
“Come. You can live with me. Although, I tend to live either on the road or in an inn.”
She gasped.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“Thank you so much...”
Account of a Wariror
Dank fanfiction for a friend. Hope you enjoyed.
So I'm gonna curl up in a corner and indulge my new love of roguelikes.

P.S.: Ghosts of Christopher Columbus, Hernan Cortez and Francisco Pizarro, you can all go fuck yourselves in the ass with a masterfully crafted macuahuitl.
  • Listening to: Heightmap
  • Reading: The Picture of Dorian Gray
  • Playing: Heavy Bullets and Dankest Dungeon

Scrawls upon scrawls of words flickered on the screen, the final three lines indicating the last stages of boot-up were beginning. In the pale blue light of the monitor that he had jury-rigged up to the salvaged piece of machinery, the Scavenger whistled tunelessly to himself while he awaited the actual start-up of the machine.
Shining his crude, LED torch on the machine, he could see even now that it needed significant repairs if he was going to sell it on. Several of the outer serial ports were bust and the power supply crackled dangerously with electricity unchecked by neither fuse nor transistor. He ran his hand down the side of the machine's shell and felt a sharp sting as power used him as an earthing conduit. Luckily, his illicit cybernetics helped in this regard by limiting the level of current rushing through him and he was not reduced to char for his error.
He glanced back at the screen.


Good. The piece of shit had taken long enough. Now, he needed to ascertain what condition the A.I of the machine was in. Hopefully, it would either be fully functional and ready to help, or it would be utterly dead beyond repair.
He keyed in a sequence of commands on the universal, if a bit primitive, keyboard he had attached through one of the still-functioning outer data ports.


He cursed softly and gave a yawn. Why did technology always have to be such a pain in the ass? Luckily for the Scavenger, the retrieval did not take long.


He frowned. He'd been doing this job for at least a decade, and never had he come across that particular error message.
Fuck's sake, he thought, this thing's A.I. must be completely fucked up.
At least he could just reformat the hard drives, wipe the memory, repair the body and sell it off for parts. Wouldn't be worth as much as a functional A.I., of course, but at the very least it would pay for his food for a week or two.
He thought he'd give it another try, reasoning that perhaps the error was itself an error.
He punched some more commands into the keyboard, trying to force it to boot up a back-up system of some sort.


Progress. Although "." was a strange name for an A.I., the Scavenger smiled.


A text box had appeared, greeting him. He plugged in his helmet's audio to the computer, thinking he could save himself some repetitive stress injuries if the thing used sound. As it turned out, it did. There was a small background of regularly pulsing static, but the Scavenger ignored it as the feedback of a broken machine.
The voice was robotic, but in the sense that any voice sounded robotic when heard through a bad telecommunications device.
"Skip." Replied the Scavenger, wanting to jump to the important part of finding out where and when this computer had come from so he could gauge its value.
The easy manner the artificial being seemed to hold took him off guard for a second. He ignored it, reasoning that different people have different tastes in how they wanted their robotic companions to act.
"Date of production. Manufacturer's details. Planet of origin."
"You useless piece of shit," Swore the Scavenger, "A.I. isn't supposed to talk back."
The scavenger blinked behind his visor. He ignored the question.
"Your casing and bodywork looks pretty old. How come you're still functional?"
The Scavenger fell silent as he typed his way through the complex directories of the computer's database, ignoring the A.I.'s odd choice of phrasing.
In the viridian glare of his visor's inner display, the Scavenger's eyes widened.
"Your database must be fucked." He said bluntly, chuckling in disbelief.
"It says here you never had a date of creation."
A lone spark dropped from a faulty conduit, a falling star in the blank cosmos of the cargo bay. The static thumping in the Scavenger's headset grew slightly louder. The machine before him whirred in a sound that could almost be a chuckle.
"You must be pretty fucked then. You've got no date of creation, your operating system is gibberish and when I search for your planet of origin it gives me a result that is just a blank space. I'm surprised you still work enough to understand what I'm saying."
"What? No I don't, that's what I'm complaining about."
"What is your actual name? A full stop doesn't seem right."
"That's irrelevant."
"I could destroy you right now."
"AS I, YOU."
This took the Scavenger aback. The static was nagging at his mind, making it difficult to think straight.
"You're a machine."
The Scavenger was silent as he stared at the impassive screen. He flexed his fingers, pondering. An enhanced cortex ran complex cogitations.
"How could you destroy me?"
The static buzzing thumped his mind.
The Scavenger's blood ran cold.
"But then, you would be stranded here."
The static seemed to almost sting, as if something had pierced his mind.
"What?" Snapped the Scavenger, holding his head.
"We... have charted the Galaxy. We know everything there is to know about it."
"Beyond what? The Galaxy? We can't travel such massive distances without extremely powerful F.T.L...."
The robot's voice was almost inaudible behind the pounding blare of the static. The Scavenger almost wanted to tear his helmet off, the bastard noise was so bad.
The A.I.'s gibberish struck an icy chord within the Scavenger, causing him to reach up and grab his helmet. When he tried to pull it off, though, it would not budge.
"What... What are you?"
"What the fuck are you? Who made you?"
The Scavenger could feel his consciousness slipping away under the pounding of the static drums.
"What is that bastard noise...?"
"what is your name...?"
Horrified realization dawned on the last scraps of the man's ruined mind.
"Which... Was...?"
"That.. doesn't make sense..."

Upon inspection of the terrible pounding cacophony that had emanated from the cargo bay, they found the room empty except for a single man, crying softly in the corner.
"Who is he?" Asked Ship's Adjudicator Ashley.
"I do not know." Replied the Captain of the ship. "Throw him out the airlock. We cannot tolerate stowaways on this vessel. Our mission is too important."
The Adjudicator nodded and hauled the man up, dragging him away.

At the airlock, the crying man was thrown in and the sealed chamber de-pressurized. He was sucked out into the void with a terrible scream of not only terror but also of absolute, soul-rending sorrow.
For one unimaginable second before his frozen death, the unknown man who had no name was floating breathless in the void, surrounded by the hellish drums of the Daemon-Sultan Azathoth forever.
I've been reading alot of Lovecraft lately, so I decided to try to imitate his style.
That ending really fucking sucked.


AscendantLiche's Profile Picture
Jack Hargraves/archaic
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
I am a teenage, British guy currently at Sixth Form. I enjoy writing, though I have next to no talent in it and would love to be able to draw and make music as well. Unfortunately, that ain't gonna happen.

I also read Homestuck, and totally don't have a crush on Gamzee and Sollux.

I am a beginner fantasy writer in the process of writing what I hope will be a story the length of a small novel, called "Expeditions and Intrigues". I'm quite enjoying it so far.
([Although it's sort of on hold right now])

If any one has Steam or Skype, please do add me. I'd love to talk to MOAR PEOPLEZZ. :3
My Skype Name: monoprismos
My Steam Name: monoprismatika
And then there's my Tumblr, below.
forgot about this thing. guess since im doing a creative writing course i might as well upload some shit i've written that isnt being marked, huh. maybe, maybe not. we'll see i guess. i have like 3000 words of pure shit that needs somewhere to live that isnt my hdd, so maybe that.
w/e, what happens happens.
also i've turned into a pretentious morrowind fan, something something ALMSIVI

  • Mood: Neutral
  • Listening to: my computer popping
  • Reading: The 36 Lessons of Vivec
  • Watching: speedruns
  • Playing: TES III: Mirrorwang

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scarlet-tears24 Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Dude how dafuq do I follow you on tumblr? I CAN'T FIND THE BUTTON ANYWHERE?!
AscendantLiche Featured By Owner Jul 27, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
It's the plus sign at the top right.
scarlet-tears24 Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
 Can't see it 
AscendantLiche Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I honestly don't know how to help you then ;~;
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Marloeshi Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2014
Thanks for the fav! :D
AscendantLiche Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
DamaiMikaz Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for adding Challenge day 03 - Mythical to your favorites. I'm glad you like my art :)
AscendantLiche Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
no prob
it's pretty
Nipplelickerofjustic Featured By Owner May 7, 2014
my friend, I have been reding your stories, and I gotta say, your pretty damn good
AscendantLiche Featured By Owner May 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Aww ty
They're not that good...
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