Tag Archives: Fantasy


You are in a deep, dark forest. The animals cautiously surround your group. They are not used to seeing people and you may be the only humans to enter so deep inside and live to tell the tale. You cut through the overgrown brush and come across the moss-side of a rock. The illustrious ranger, Darkfang, remembers from his experience tracking that the moss always points north. However, underneath the moss is also a cluster of tiny mushrooms. The mushrooms sparkle with intensity, as if warning you of some impending danger.

Darkfang fails his spot check and you and Alastair both fail your will saves. You are encased in a cloud of sparkling glitter, spewed out from the tiny mushrooms. It gets in your clothes and your eyelashes. You’re both sparkling  so intensely that you can’t even see anything at all. You both count your blessings that there’s nobody here to see how gay you look. You fail your spot check again and are surprised as suddenly, a swarm of tiny magic missiles fly at your sparkly bodies. A swarm of pixies fly at you with daggers drawn, whooping high-pitched little war cries.

Roll for initiative.

The pixies surprise you a second time as you are too sparkly to notice anything but the blood oozing from your magic missile wounds. The pixies stab at you, their little daggers coated now in your blood and glitter. You try to counter-attack with your own weapons, but you are blinded from the glitter clinging thickly to your eyelashes, so much so that you look like bioluminescent drag queens. The pixies flutter out of the way of your attacks and then move in for the kill. As the swarm of pixies wrestle you to the ground, the last and only thing you see is the sparkle of glitterdust.


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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXI

Before the Great Battle

Before the great battle, Yoshitaro Ishida sipped lightly on a cup of green tea. His lord was in battle against another lord for land and so it goes. Yoshitaro had seen dozens of battles in his life, though he knew the next could be his last. However, he was not afraid of death, of the sword piercing his heart or severing a limb; he was not afraid of the arrow that might someday fire into his thigh and give him a fatal infection; he was not afraid of the stampeding hooves of a warlord’s horse that might someday crush hand, making him a useless samurai, or his skull, making him a dead samurai. All of these outcomes and more could happen during the great battle, but he was not afraid.

Yoshitaro knew that fear was his greatest enemy. He knew that if he met his fear face to face and killed it, he would win the great battle. However, there could be no trace of fear. He had to think of every possibility, every outcome, and subdue it. He would counter the sword, anticipate the arrow, and take the horse as his own and ride the wild horse just as he would fear.

Just as Yoshitaro was about to take another sip of his tea, a cherry blossom fell into his cup. He watched it wilt from the heat and he took a sip, taking the blossom in between his teeth and rending it apart. Later, while Yoshitaro was killing men in the great battle, he would think of how that cherry blossom tasted.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XII

The Last Hold

Onidas knew the war was over when the giants seized the walls of Svellgard, humanity’s last hold. The giants crushed the bricks of the guard towers with clubs carved of ancient ash trees, bearing the blood and shattered remains of the guards of the East Towers. Their clan’s leader, hoary giant called Vald, stood just out of range of the defenders’ bows, catapults, and ballistas. His beard flowed down to his stomach, long enough to soak from tip to chin in the twin falls of Garbassa. He wore an ancestral sword at his waist, the only one in his clan which may have been taken from another clan at one point. It is said that entire mountains are destroyed to obtain enough ore for one sword fit for a giant.

With the East Towers decimated, Onidas cut loose the straps holding his leg plating and sprinted to the battlements in the West Towers. Armor would only slow him down in this battle. One of the ballistas there was abandoned, its operator either dead or a coward, both just as likely. Though there is no escape when running from giants. As the saying goes, you run from a giant and you only choose to get scraped from his boot instead of his club. Onidas preferred a death in which he resembled an opponent rather than cow dung.  He signalled for a boy who was delivering buckets from the latrines to the ballistas. He was only a squire, not even a man, though he showed the courage of a knight. The boy came back and tossed the refuse onto the head of Onidas’s weapons. They would all die, of that he was certain, but the least he could do was take one down a day or two after the battle when the infection settled in.

He waited until the giants had closed in on their warpath, though the debris from their carnage was shattering even these walls. He loosed his ballista onto one overzealous giant. The gods  must have been on his side, for the diseased spear tore into the side of the giant. He fell, howling in thunderous pain. Vald, seeing this, took his first steps toward the remaining battlements. Each step brought him straight toward Onidas. He sought revenge for a fallen clansmen. His sword, when brandished, lit up from the sun so that the entire battlefield was hammered by its glare. It is said to be an honor to be killed by a giant’s sword, a death usually reserved only for other giants. Onidas may have felt the honor if not for his overwhelming fear.

The giant crashed his blade into the battlements. It sunk in deeper than Onidas would have imagined, perhaps down to the earth. The blade was not only humongous but sharp as well. With his other hand, he swatted and twisted apart the other men on the wall, never taking his eyes off of Onidas. Vald meant for him to die by the sword. He drew the sword from the rubble and the sword again glared at Onidas. Having nothing to defend himself against this beast, his courage faltered. Not knowing whether to fight or to run, Onidas merely stood there as the giant raised his massive arm and he could only watch as the arm was stayed and blood waterfalled down onto the battlements. Vald had been feathered with half a dozen arrows, all the size of ballistas.  Another clan had arrived.

Onidas saw them emerge, dressed only in blue war paint, all equipped with bows. Unlike the siegers, these giants were equipped to assassinate, not to massacre. They were giant-killers. At first, Onidas was relieved. He would live another moment, perhaps another day. But the realization dawned on him. His kingdom must have struck a bargain with this clan, cooperation to provide slaves for their clan. More than likely, Onidas and the few other survivors here would spend the rest of their lives mining for the giants. His only hope, then, would not to die honorably in battle, but that maybe one day the weapon that he helped mine for would kill more giants, at least until they had finally all killed one another. But that would never happen in the short lifetime of a slave. Onidas sunk to his knees, peering over the gorge that Vald carved out with his blade. At the bottom lie the giant leader, bleeding the last of his life through his mouth and his nose. Onidas knew, then, that the fall of Svellgard and the fall of Vald were tied, marking the beginning of something new and very horrible for giants and humans alike.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session X

The Start of Every Grand Adventure

<<AlastairDuArden has entered the chatroom>>

AlastairDuArden: First!

AzzerothiusGM: Welcome to Azzerothius, Alastair, level 4/5 half-dark elf fighter/mage. You may sit and drink at the pub while you wait for your companions.

AlastairDuArden: Gladly. I’ll flirt with the bar wenches while I wait. lol

AzzerothiusGM: The one waiting on you is a half-orc.

AlastairDuArden: Ouch. Nevermind then.

<<**DaRkFaNg** has entered the chatroom>>

AzzerothiusGM: LOL

**DaRkFaNg**: sup gusy

**DaRkFaNg**: guys

AzzerothiusGM: Alastair, you see the roguish Dark Fang enter the pub with his trusty wolf, Shadow.

AlastairDuArden: Come and have a seat. Ben’s RP cockblocking me, anyway.

**DaRkFaNg**: Cool. i have a seat and order an ale.

<<VampQueen2008 has entered the chatroom>>

Vampqueen2008: hey guys

**DaRkFaNg**: yo

AlastairDuArden: Hail.

Vampqueen2008: Sarah said she’d be here in a minute. Her parents are making her take out the trash.

AzzerothiusGM: Welcome to Azzerothius. You both see a pale woman drift into the pub. She’s strangely alluring.

AzzerothiusGM: That’s fine. You can have a seat in the pub.

AlastairDuArden: I hit on her.

Vampqueen2008: I bite his throat out.

AzzerothiusGM: The pub’s a sanctuary, Jess. No biting your traveling companions.

Vampqueen2008: 😥

<<bellaXedward88 has entered the chatroom>>

**DaRkFaNg**: hey sarah!

<<c0ckm4st3r69 has entered the chatroom>>

bellaXedward88: hey guys

c0ckm4st3r69: yo

AzzerothiusGM: I told you guys to use handles with the names of your chars 😡

bellaXedward88:It is! My character’s name is Bella Xedward. She’s a human in love with vampires.

AzzerothiusGM: …

c0ckm4st3r69: Yea and mines the Cockmaster!

**DaRkFaNg**: whos cock is he mastering?

c0ckm4st3r69: shut up!!1

c0ckm4st3r69: hes a dwarf who beats people to death with a steel cock!

AlastairDuArden: And as green as a dryad’s pubes.

c0ckm4st3r69: WTF?!?!

AlastairDuArden: It means your a noob!

Vampqueen2008: Thanks, guys. I really didn’t need either of those images in my head.

c0ckm4st3r69: screw you!

**DaRkFaNg**: I roll to steal cockmaster’s cock.

c0ckm4st3r69: yea, I bet you would fag!

bellaXedward88: Why are boys so obsessed with their dicks? Creepy boys are creepy XP

AzzerothiusGM: Alright, guys. Let’s just get started.

AlastairDuArden: What about Bryan?

AzzerothiusGM: He’s late. Forget it.

<<inuyashafan58339 has entered the chatroom>>

inuyashafan58339: Hey! sorry im late!

AzzerothiusGM: Inuyasha walks into the room. He looks like a dillweed with cat ears and a big sword that’s compensating for something.

inuyashafan58339: They’re dog ears dammit! He has dog ears!

AzzerothiusGM: He’s a furry.

inuyashafan58339: Shut up! Inuyasha could beat anyone with his Tetsaiga.

AzzerothiusGM: I never let your character have that. He has a bastard sword. Because he’s a bastard child of a dog and an emo kid.

inuyashafan58339: STFU 😦

bellaXedward88: I think it’s cute. Not very original but cute.

inuyashafan58339: thx! 🙂

AzzerothiusGM: Alright. Let’s just get started.

c0ckm4st3r69: I mack on some girlies with my giants steel cock.

AlastairDuArden: Bar wench should be your type.

Vampqueen2008: I kill everyone in the room and leave. It’s nighttime, right?

AzzerothiusGM: You guys have to roll if you want to do anything.

**DaRkFaNg**: I roll to steal Sarah’s virginity.

bellaXedward88: WHAT?

Vampqueen2008: Over my dead body!

c0ckm4st3r69: Yea! Hit that son!

AzzerothiusGM: ENOUGH! The entire pub burns down.

bellaXedward88: Edward saves me!

inuyashafan58339: My Robe of the Fire Rat protects me from harm.

AzzerothiusGM: You don’t have that! You’re not an anime character! The fire burns your hp down to 1 and you all barely escape with your lives. Now stop acting like children and let’s get started!

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session X

Annabelle’s Prince

Local lore tells that a woman holding a duck in her hands will gain the favor of any man she chooses. Annabelle, a girl of only nine years, decided one day to test that lore. She left home one day and told herself that she would never come back until she had caught a duck. Because the season was late fall and Annabelle lived in the North, she would have trouble finding a duck. But as the willful girl assured herself: the more impossible the find, the more impossible the wish that would come true. For, you see, Annabelle was not interested in just any handsome farmer’s hand. She wanted to marry a prince who would sweep her off her feet and away from her dreary life.

The child wandered for many hours through the woods, only to find that she was had no idea where she was. She had never spent this long or gone so far from home, and she had almost chewed completely through the morsel of bread she had pocketed on her way out the door. At this rate, if she could not find the path back to the village, she would starve. Still, she had promised herself not to return until she had found her duck. Instead of turning back, she challenged herself by climbing a steep hill. Maybe she could find her duck if she climbed higher into the sky.

The higher Annabelle ascended the hill, the more her thirst grew. The sweat on her brow seemed to suck the spittle from her tongue. The cold winds whipped her horribly. She was ready to just lie down and sleep forever, but as she closed her eyes, she could hear a tiny trickle in the distance.

“Water!” she cried, leaping toward the source. It was a stream that fed into a great lake. The drink was chilled by the weather, but Annabelle kneeled by it and slurped greedily from cupped hands, staining the front of her dress with mud. It was the best water she had ever tasted. She sat for a while, thinking that she should go back home. Her search ended in failure and she would most likely grow up to be an old maid, or else marry that strange Jackson boy who seems to live purely off of boogies and worms. She sighed and stirred the water with her finger, causing ripples in the water. She thought about home and how angry her parents would be. A funny thing then happened to her ripples. They broke apart, ripples hitting other ripples. Annabelle looked up to see a duckling splashing the water with his beak.

“So you’re the one ruining my ripples,” she giggled. “Where’s your family?” Annabelle looked over the whole lake but could not find any other ducks. “Did you run away too?” She was a little disappointed. She had wanted a huge, uncatchable duck. But this one was so puny, she didn’t think her wish for a prince would be granted. Still, she felt compassion for the little duckling. After all, he was the same as she was. “Have some bread,” she said, crumbling the last bit of bread for him. He flapped his wings happily and ate. She laughed at the sight of him, dipping his small head into the water. To the young girl’s surprise, the duckling then leapt into her folded arms.

“Thank you,” he chirped and she almost dropped him. Instead, she stood and held him at arms length.

“You can talk!” she gasped.

“Why, yes. Every duck of noble birth is taught a little of the human tongue.” Annabelle did notice a bit of an accent, but he sounded proper enough.

“How can a duck be noble?”

“How can a person be noble? My name is Doun, heir to the throne of this kingdom you see before you.” He waved a wing that encompassed all the forests below the hill.

“Really? I mean, my name’s Annabelle,” she curtsied and blushed at her soiled garments. “I didn’t know ducks owned this land.” She looked out over the pines in wonderment. “Then that makes you—?”

“The prince.”

She giggled. “My village has a legend that whatever girl holds a duck in her hand will marry the boy of her choosing.”

“Oh? And who did you choose?”

She blushed. “I wanted to marry a prince. I didn’t expect the duck I found to be one, though! How odd is that?”

Prince Doun cocked his head, looking as thoughtful as Annabelle supposed a duck could look. “My kingdom has another legend. These waters are sacred to my people and have a story tied to them. Will you accompany me up the stream for a ways, Annabelle? I’d like to show you something.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

And so she carried Prince Doun to what she could only describe as the beginning of the stream. Here, a fountain poured all the water that ran into the lake. It was as if this statue created the lake here. She moved closer and could see, carved out of white stone, a duck embracing a woman with his wings. Her lips connected with the tip of the duck’s beak. The source of the fountain itself was hidden behind the wings, making it seem as if the water came from the very passion of the embracing figures. It was a strange statue, but in spite of that, Annabelle could see the passion in the way the woman and the duck leaned into each other. They seemed to twist around so that the wings seemed a part of the woman and her arms were a part of the duck as well.

“Our people have a story about a woman and a duck who fell in love and turned into stone. The immortality of their love created a stream of water which made the sacred lake below. I love this place and I go to visit it whenever I feel the need to retreat from my princely duties.”

“It’s beautiful,” Annabelle said, smiling at the little bird in her hands.

“I’m glad you think so, because I think the same about you. I’d like you to marry me, Annabelle.”

“I just… what?” Annabelle nearly dropped the prince again.

“You offered the last of your bread to me, even though you are so far from your village. You are truly a kind person and would make a perfect queen.”

“Yes, but… this is all really sudden.”

“You don’t have to answer now. I can only choose a queen when I am king and not a moment before. When that time comes, I’d like you to be the one. When I come of age, I will come back for you. You can give me your answer then.” Doun hopped from Annabelle’s hands. “I will take you to the edge of my kingdom, but then we must part. If my geography lessons have taught me anything, your village is not much more than a three hour walk to the east of this hill.”

Annabelle and Doun parted with a kiss and she found herself home just as the sun was meeting the hills to the west. She sighed and walked into her home. Her mother, harsh woman that she was, beat Annabelle so hard with the girl’s own brush that the handle broke off. She was sent to bed with no supper and was told that she would have to work to pay for a new brush. Though she had never suffered such a harsh punishment, Annabelle endured it without crying for the first time in her life. As she was beaten, she thought of her charming prince and how someday he would come back for her and make her his queen.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session VIII