Path of the Mountain Warrior


I found it! I found it! It’s glorious! I thought that this post had been lost forever but now I realise that I had saved an earlier draft of it. As promised, here is the first part of my Metanoia story. You can read the full thing, here.

A Daily Response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Mountain Wind
Sweet mountain, I climb up your broken path.
to call upon the shrine of the ancient Mystra – goddess of the enlightened ones and those who wish to learn.
Sweet mountain, I climb up your staggered steps reaching for the sky. Hoping to hold onto grasp upon you strength, with my soul, and leave this old world behind.
Sweet mountain, you are the pillars
from the earth into the sky.
The icy air turned my breath to mist as I sung the sacred hymn of my forefathers. Each and every one of them had made their pilgrimage to the top of Mount Tosk when they entered came of age. Doing so would give them strength and solidarity of soul. I was just shy of a decade so I had to take a different path – the path of the Cleric. I knew I had little chance of mastering Ki and becoming a Mountain Warrior but nevertheless, I would do whatever I could to get close enough to them to learn their ways and achieve inner peace. To do so, I embarked on this pilgrimage atop the Frostfire Mountains to sip at the waters said to be made from the tears of our revered Lady Mystra. The path before me grew ever colder as I left the last patches of grass behind me. I steeled myself for whatever lay ahead. Humming the tune of the Mountain Warrior I ventured forth into the blinding lights before me.
Continue reading “Path of the Mountain Warrior”


When a Good Man Goes to War

Dream Journal 20-07-16

Although it did not completely encompass all the events written below, my dream did take place as a small portion of what you see below.

A Really Late Response to the daily Post’s Daily Prompts: Forbidden Feast

At last! He has updated the story. I know it’s been a while since I added anything to the Metanoia plotline but I have been unfortunately preoccupied with more pressing matters. And then there was the camping trip that I went on with my family and then it was varsity prep. I apologise for the extreme delay but I should be able to update more frequently now. Continue reading “When a Good Man Goes to War”


Daily Response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Deprive

Grand Cleric Anastasia

“The boy sleeps now. He is restless but it is only because of the premonitions he must be getting. You were good to bring him to me Madam Ironfist. How do you know Preacher Windrider?”

“I don’t your royalness. I was passing by here when he collapsed in front of me. I just didn’t want it to look like I was the one who knocked him out so I used me dwarven might and brought him in for ya.” Continue reading “Premonitions”

Agony in the Garden

A Daily Response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Fence

So lately I have been feeling a bit out of it of sorts and haven’t really been in the mood t write anything. I’m even updating my dream journal from my tablet. I want to post updates and continue with the story but I just feel no inspiration to do so. Here is what I managed to write so far. Hahren, this is for you.

Those new to the story can find the whole story here

Grand Cleric Anastasia

He rocked on his knees, twice per line. Back and forth and back and forth. Reciting the most ironic prayer. Calling out for the guardian angel that watched over him dearly. I wanted my child back, but not like this.

Bran Windrider

“Angel of the Maker, my guardian dear,
to whom the Maker’s love commits me here,
ever this day be at my side,
to light and guard, to rule and guide.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. Continue reading “Agony in the Garden”

Tag Team

A Daily Response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Companion

As per usual. This part is repeated.

Check out the whole story here: Metanoia

In addition to trying to continue this story every  day, in relation to the Daily Prompt of that day, I am also using this as the perfect time to experiment with the writing styles I spoke of here, as well as any others I may or may decide to bowl with. Part one of this story no longer exists until I can figure out what it was and add something there.

Amber Ironfist

The official record says that I checked into town a week after that dreaded battle, but I was there for the whole thing. I saw was there when the frail bodied Grand Cleric called down an Avatar of Torm to bless the troops. I was there when, inspired by that same holy aura, half of our men died before we had felled but one of those abominations. I fought in that battle with all me might, aiding the Grand Marshal in his defeat of just under half of the Reavers. I killed two of them meself but let the other soldiers claim  the kill. If I took the compensation from these guys then me name would become too well known. Continue reading “Tag Team”

The Majesty of War

A Daily Response to the Daily Post’s Daily  Prompt: Aimless

Although, I really battled to get this post to stick to anything less than a whimsical aim.

You know the drill. Skip this if you’re up to date with the story.

Check out the whole story here: Metanoia

In addition to trying to continue this story every  day, in relation to the Daily Prompt of that day, I am also using this as the perfect time to experiment with the writing styles I spoke of here, as well as any others I may or may decide to bowl with. Part one of this story no longer exists until I can figure out what it was and add something there.

Bran Windrider

We all have our own methods for self-satisfaction. Some donated coin to charities because it made them feel warm and fuzzy inside. Others pursued the arts and unleashed their creativity into their medium. I preferred the simpler things of this world. I simply enjoyed revelling in the magic that was life itself. We, creatures of divine intervention, were still so fickle. Our lives could be snuffed out of existence in the blink of an eye and there was just something about that which made this my favourite pastime.

Don’t get me wrong. I considered the act of battle to be an art in its own right. Crucial to this art is the act of dying for what one believes in. That’s what I find beautiful. The soldiers in the field before me were being pushed back into their city by the Reavers. The two tides rose and fell as each commander tried a new tactic and then had it countered by the other. The art of war was not just a scene of beauty but also a battle of the mind. A war could not be won by simply outmanoeuvring the enemy, but add the manoeuvres of Hannibal to the martial prowess of von Manstein and you get a truly magnificent battle. This general, Grand Marshal Erik, he needed to move his men more. He seemed too reluctant to let them give their lives for their emblem. He was holding his true grace back. He was holding his entire army back because of his personal fears. I felt like a sculptor who had just ripped the white satin cloth off of their new piece to an eager-eyed audience only to have the cloth stuck to the face of the majestic work of art. I would not tolerate this.


The wind blew down from the mountain, it’s cold touch signalled snow. It didn’t feel imminent but I decided to head down the mountain nonetheless. Perhaps I could get a better view of the battle from up close. Maybe I’d stumble into the commander and have a word with him abut his performance here today. I knew I couldn’t approach this like I usually did. I skipped across the river, allowing the sound of water rushing through rocks to ease my soul. The serenity of the mountaintop on a calm afternoon like this, and the guttural war cries of men struggling to parry away Lady Death, were what I found the most enjoyable aspects of humanity. The one allowed on to make peace with his life and inevitable death, the other allowed one to fight with all his might for what he believed in and realise his or her reasons for living.

I walked slowly down the rest of the tattered mountain path and sat on the grass 200 metres away from the nearest soldier. I watched as the leader of the Templars sliced through his own comrades after they disgraced their code of ‘honour’. I watched his heavy blade cleave through them like a hot knife through butter. With armour that weak it was no wonder the Reavers laid such a heavy blow to their forces.

Night consumed the land but the harsh light of the full moon illuminated the corpses of the dead. The storm had still not arrived but the threat of it remained looming above our heads. It was as if the world wanted to remind everyone that with the coming rain, all the blood will be washed away and, in time, so will the memory of this occasion be washed from the minds of men and mer alike. Art is fleeting and evocative. It must be appreciated when it exists in its majesty. And just like so many artists before these, it is their death of them that makes their art ever more beautiful.

Note: The events in this story are all set is the world of Martas. Barring any copyright issues that may occur in the names of the Deities and other aspects where WOTC is clearly my inspiration, the world is all my creation and takes place in the same worldline as those in the story: Turpitude.

Image credit: Killing Floor via freeimages (license)

Blood in the Streets

A Daily Response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: City

Typing the same thing each day gets kinda monotonous. Skip this part if you are familiar with the story.

Part One: Path of the Mountain Warrior
Part Two: Grand Cleric Anastasia
Part Three: The Human Condition
Part Four: The Rift

In addition to trying to continue this story every  day, in relation to the Daily Prompt of that day, I am also using this as the perfect time to experiment with the writing styles I spoke of here, as well as any others I may or may decide to bowl with. I know see that there is no text to part one of this story. I have not got it saved in any drafts or anything so it seems to be lost forever. If I ever find it, I will be sure to repost it and notify all of you of the addition.

Grand Marshal Erik

Wiping the thick black blood of the third Reaver off of my blade I watched my comrades spit on the body of the once-human beast. I could tolerate no disrespect on my battlefield. The ranks of the dead would welcome these skilled warriors. But they deserved no place amongst the Templars. They were tough to put down but they were not as resilient as the Reavers and I had killed two of those already. I called up to Torm in the skies above the battlefield. Answering my plea with a great red pillar of light, he stripped the soldiers of the power that they used to disrespect our enemy. Continue reading “Blood in the Streets”