Romulus, The Journeyman Scrivener
Just an ordinary student from the deep southern depths of The Netherlands. Well apart from saying that I write really really slowly and that I often have loads of ideas for stories, but I then abandon them for a couple of months/years, there is nothing else I can think of to write here.
Oh, and I am always happy to help out with something, just send me a message.
P.S Since you have time to read my profile page, why not read (and of course rate and comment on) one of my stories. ;)
A great war is about to erupt, the greatest the world has ever seen since the Trojan war. As the Greek city states are about to be engulfed in civil war, one man has to undertake a great journey. A dangerous road lies ahead, but you must take it, for the odyssey of one will decide the fate of many. This story is loosely based on the famous Greek epic: the Odyssey, by Homer.
Note that this is more of a story than a game. Depending on your choices, it can be either pretty long, or very short.
The people of Azrya live in fear. An evil group of wizards, that call themselves The Black Veil, hold the country in an iron grip. Their leader: Sarces, singlehandedly killed the previous king and his royal guards. When all hope is lost, a small light appears in the darkness. A hero is born ...
I know that this isn't a masterpiece, but this just my first story and I'm not a native speaker of English so advice or comments are welcomed.
The sequel to my first quiz. Welcome back to the Big Little History Quiz! After ending at the Middle Ages last time, we now focus on the time between approximately the 14th and 16th century in a few, short questions.
In this instalment, I've added a wildcard system, that let's you continue after a wrong answer, and a scoring system. Though I guess you'll notice when you get a question wrong, 850 means you have answered everything correctly. You can view your score after you comment ;)
Welcome to the Big Little History Quiz, the best quiz about history from all over the world! This first part mainly focuses on ancient history of European and Middle-Eastern civilization, but later parts will discuss later historical era's and other parts of the world.
Edited 17-07, added some more historical info and corrected some spelling errors.
Inspired by the famous poem by Edgar Allan Poe, 'The Raven' tells the sad and dreadful tale of a man torn apart by his love for his lost love. However, the past does not rest easily and the arrival of a shadowy messenger unlocks memories the heart desperately tries to forget.
The fate of a nation lies on your shoulders. You have infiltrated the royal palace of Arkhendale to recover the most priceless object in the realm. After fighting your way to the treasury, you are but five locks away from your prize. However, time is short as guards are coming your way. Will you be able to solve the puzzle in time?
I made this short game as a test of a puzzle type that I might implement in a future game. It also functions as a teaser of a story that I'm thinking of writing.
London, 2054, almost 40 years after the great war the city has been rebuilt and it's reach stretches further than ever. Tag along with the story's protagonist as he delves deeper in the British Union's society, where free speech and free thinking are nothing more than an illusion for the meek.
It's the middle of the 19th century: Napoleon is rotting in his tomb, industrialisation is speeding up, and the Great Powers of Europe are scrambling to colonise the furthest reaches of the Earth. In the far East, on the tropical islands of Southeast Asia, tales are emerging of immense riches, temples to deities long forgotten, filled to the brim with treasure. It only takes the conquest of the untamed jungle for any dedicated adventurer to earn wealth and fame for all eternity.
'Redemption' is the sequel to my story 'A Hero's Odyssey'. Though you have saved Greece from ruin you yourself are not yet saved. Poseidon, the god of the sea, will not rest until you have paid the ultimate price for the blinding of his son, Polyphemos. The rest of the immortal gods are trying trying to protect you, but they cannot keep the wrath of the earthshaking Poseidon at bay forever.
Your only hope is to make an offering to the sea god. An offering made of the powerful objects of mythology. However, these myths are just stories, moralities from a long time a go, aren't they? A dangerous road lies ahead of you, but will you reach the end?
Reading my previous story ('A Hero's Odyssey') is advised, yet not required to understand this story.
"Dear Watson, you do not really believe in ghosts, do you? No, I believe that we are dealing with a mere mortal man."
When the jewels of the dowager Duchess Marbrough go missing and mysterious deaths shake up the town of Brightmore, Holmes and Watson are called in to crack their hardest case yet.
"...A huge, grey monolith, towering above the run-down tenements arrayed in a circle around it. Its smooth surface broken only by a thousand mirrored windows, giving it the impression of being a restless giant. Never was one certain if he was being watched. Even within the 'privacy' of one's home, one could feel the eyes of the Party prying into them, looking for the slightest hint of deviancy."
Welcome to Whynaere, the marvel of the modern world. A society under the watchful eyes of the Party, where crime is non-existent, and the people prosper. Follow John Blair, as he delves beneath the surface of this so-called utopia. Would you sacrifice the safe status-quo, for the promise of freedom? Risk breaking down the pillars of society, to pursue a dream for a better future? For when the day is done, what is freedom compared to security?
Recent PostsFebruary Flash Fiction Contest Feedback Thread on 2/22/2017 5:25:33 PM
E: Whoops, read that wrong. Uhm, I guess it's a sci-fi over-the-top final death battle thingy?
February Flash Fiction Contest Submission Thread on 2/22/2017 6:35:58 AM
Something, something, edit-lock. 298 words.
February Flash Fiction Contest Submission Thread on 2/22/2017 6:35:31 AM
Among the Tombstones
Two careless children were playing in the garden of a long-abandoned home. Circling an ancient apple tree, with nimble feet that barely stirred the dry blades of grass, their cries of joy echoed loudly against the windowless walls. Even now, I wonder who they had been: the boy, wearing ragged clothes that were not of this time; and the girl – a few months his senior, though both had barely left the cradle – in her elaborate dress. Both lost in play.
I don’t know how long I stood there, gazing intently at that unexpected scene of unspoiled innocence. The street around them had long since disappeared, its cobbles cracked by growing weeds, its houses covered by the dust of ages. Nothing there but the cold, eastern winds, to disturb the reminder of that once bustling place. And then there was me, who came to dig it all up.
A shiver ran down my spine as the wind howled through the emptied husks around me. And in that brief moment, I glimpsed the untarnished splendour of a vanished world. Its pillared houses, gleaming in the morning sun. Its proud people, languishing in the luxuries of an empire that spanned the globe – built on the broken backs of conquered peoples. A blissful bubble, once and forever more detached from all the sorrows in the world, and the discord that brought it crumbling down.
Silence once more gripped the decaying ruins, their splendour gone forever more. Only a whispered echo remained, borne on the murmuring winds that stirred the leafless branches of an ancient apple tree behind me.
Two children played in the garden of an abandoned home. But when I turned around they were gone, called home by the voices of long-forgotten parents, amidst the crumbling monuments of their forgotten existence.
Poetry Prompts - Week 6 on 2/19/2017 2:52:26 PM
@Bannerlord @Crescentstar @Orange @Mizal @Lancelot @Mayana @Betaband @Kwism1127 @Leoscales7 @bbshark @Drew8521 @BerkaZerka
Here's the updated point list, please correct me if anything's wrong. If you want feedback for last week's (weeks') exercises, please let me know and I'll try to come back to you.
As always, giving feedback is encouraged, but please don't reply to the entries directly if they're not edit-locked, so people can still change them if they want to.
Poetry Prompts - Week 6 on 2/19/2017 2:49:30 PM
This week's topic: Time.
This week's topic is a bit more abstract than usual, but should be applicable to a variety of poetry as well. Have this nagging feeling that time is running out? Feel optimistic/pessimistic about your future? Feel melancholic about the pasing of time? Or just have an unhealthy obsession with the period between 4:30 and 5:25PM? Write a poem about it and you're all set!
This week's optional requirement: Write a ballad.
As most of you might remember, Bucky hosted a ballad contest in December. For this week, I thought it might be nice to return to everyone's favourite musical form of poetry, and elaborate on its different types. However, generally speaking, one of the positive aspects of ballad poetry is that there aren't really any strict definitions or rules, so you have a relative freedom of improvisation. One of the negative aspects is that I therefore can't give you an exhaustive list of how to write them.
Generally speaking though, in terms of form, ballads are mostly made up of quatrains (four-line stanzas). Usually, each line has eight or nine syllables, but this tends to vary between authors, and usually, these are arranged in a iambic (da-DUM) metre.
Almost all forms of ballads, however, are rhymed. Cross-rhymed, to be precise. In terms of quatrains, this means that at least the second and fourth lines rhyme. In many cases, only the second and fourth lines (abcb scheme) are rhymed, though in many other poems, both the first and third; and second and fourth lines (abab scheme) rhyme. An example of an iambic, abcb rhyming quatrain might be:
I saw a wisened wanderer, (a)
With neat and measured stride, (b)
Put down his pack of ponderance (c)
And stroll into the night. (b)
Now, in the above example, the length of the lines alternates between eight and six syllables. This is commonly done (see, for example, Coleridge's work) to give a bit of a more interesting rhythm to your poem.
As for the length of your poem in general, there are no rules. Make it as long or as concise as you want to. Just make sure that you keep your readers entertained.
And that's all with regards to common ballad-practices that I can tell you for the purpose of this exercise. There are many different types of ballads, with various executions, ranging from plain old poetry, to song and dance (I will definitely give an arbitrary amount of bonus points to people who perform a musical number or interpretative dance session for this exercise), but the above guidelines are some of the more commonly seen features of the ballad-form.
So, in summary:
Ballad: Quatrains of cross-rhymed (alternating) iambic tetrameters and/or trimeters.
Have fun writing!
February Flash Fiction Contest Submission Thread on 2/19/2017 10:27:49 AM
Aaand, edit lock. 241 words. These things are a great way to procrastinate :P
February Flash Fiction Contest Submission Thread on 2/19/2017 10:27:18 AM
It was just past midnight when Death set foot on Church Street’s muddy sleet. Silent and unseen, he passed the gathering crowd of speechless onlookers – flustered faces, wrinkled formal dress – and made his way towards the sea of sirens and flashing lights.
Frightened eyes met with his own. Sunken deep inside their battered sockets, glazed-over with alcohol and adrenaline, they pleaded him to end their pain, to alleviate the suffering of a conscience-stricken heart. He walked past them, as they were borne away into the begrudging care of duty-bound paramedics – an appointment for a distant day.
The hastily-erected plastic wall did little to hide the tragedy that unfolded behind it, and even less to impede Death’s stride towards the intersection – two vehicles strewn across its asphalt. He passed one dismembered metal carcass, its occupant already being sped away, and followed a frantic fireman, glistening stars of glass crunching beneath his boots, towards the commotion on the other side of the road.
Death glanced briefly at the smudged writing on the shattered wind shield, and paused at the sight of the placid couple – tranquil, if not peaceful – inside their mangled hearse. Silently, he straightened the woman’s once-ivory dress and picked a grain of uncooked rice from her fiancé’s – now husband’s – matted hair; and collected them: two blazing souls that unknowingly reached the end of their allotted time; and a tiny, shimmering one, half-hidden by its mother’s glow, that never was to be.
Call for the Dead on 2/17/2017 7:44:27 PM
Call for the Dead on 2/17/2017 7:43:36 PM
Drunken cries of jubilation, and the heavy smoke of countless bonfires only barely registered in Jonathan Belmonte’s troubled mind. High above the pockmarked city – gorging itself on its new-found freedom – he sat alone, balancing on top of the blackened ruins of a bombed-out church.
The crescent moon and shimmering stars formed a bright contrast against the murky landscape below, vanishing evermore from sight with every passing moment. But Jonathan didn’t notice. Instead, his gaze drifted on towards the broken fields past the crimson horizon, from where he could still hear the resounding lamentations of the dead and dying.
His hands wandered, unknowingly, towards the tiny bronze disc that was pinned to his lapel. How long was it since the dignitaries presented them to him, immaculate, all dressed in their Sunday best? A day? A week? One pinned to his jacket, two presented in fine oaken boxes – tiny caskets for misplaced men – for his brothers. His trembling fingers gently rubbed the jagged letters: ‘Volontaire’. He found himself hunching under its weight.
Somewhere from below echoed the cacophonous notes of the Marseillaise, filled with patriotic joviality. Did they play it when he returned to a silent home? Did they sound the bugles when he broke down – tears of joy, of relief? – in his abandoned mother’s arms? When he fruitlessly searched for his youthful fiancée? He honestly couldn’t remember. Ceremonies, funerals, celebrations, remembrances; all muddled into a single, mournful dirge.
Ashen tears rolled down his cheeks – soot from the trenches. Why was he even crying? Didn’t he survive? Didn’t he return home, one of the few? Jonathan clasped his searing medal, and wallowed in its weight – two brothers, three. Blackened stone crumbled beneath his unsteady feet. He closed his eyes, and let go.
One drunken bugle-call wound in the distance.
February Contest & End's EdgeLord Contest on 2/17/2017 4:59:10 PM
Pretty sure I can at least complete one of these, so I'm in!