I like writing. Quite a bit. So here is a thread for my stories... And yours. The stories can be about Fury of Odin, Roots of Yggdrassil or even my Zombie minimod. I'll start one soonish.
Hell, if you want I could even make a competition and let the winner test some of my unreleased works on one of my mods.
Just for the hell of it I'mma write one about the zombie mod, though I started this thread to describe a battle from Fury of Odin... Bleh.
The streets show no signs of life. Rusty cars with shattered windows are spread around the streets, garbage lays around in great piles. No life, save for one car, just as rusty, just as beat up as all the others, only this one is moving, weaving in and around the other cars, running over piles of garbage. A bicycle. An old couch. And something else, something foul-smelling and torn up, showing the fact that this city had not been abandoned. It had been killed.
And in the car sits a man, wearing a tight black T-shirt and a pair of torn jeans. He cannot be more than 40, yet his hair is already mostly gray, cut short in a military fashion, like every other human still alive. Old before his time, hardened by the world around him. He looks malnourished, yet still powerful. On the dashboard in front of him lies the story of his life, four elongated rifle shells, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes, symbolic of pain and pleasure. He sits there, thinking, deftly dodging the obstacles in front of his car.
Then he hears a loud thump and snaps to attention, bringing the car to an immediate halt. He reaches behind him, grabs his rifle and gets out of the car, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and four extra shells as he steps out. He cocks the already loaded gun. No, the always loaded gun. He takes the rifle in his right hand, rests the stock on his hip, pointing the gun up into the air, and takes out a cigarette, puts it in his mouth, takes out his lighter and lights it. He puts away the lighter, grabs his gun with both hands and walks around to the front of the vehicle.
"You're one ugly son of a *****, aren't you?" he asks the mangled thing at his feet.
It's only answer is to look up at him with dust-covered eyes and stare, trying to make a sound, despite it's throat being mangled beyond recognition by the car's radiator.
"Fine." he says, pointing the gun at the thing's face.
"Just wish I had the guts to pull this on myself," he says uninterestedly, squeezing the trigger.
He gets back in the car, wiping the spatters of blackish goo from his shirt, then keeps driving.
Ten minutes later, the engine gives a big sputter, followed by a loud bang, then goes silent. The car stops. The man gets out, grabbing his rifle, looking around whilst lighting up another cigarette.
It isn't long before people begin to slowly stumble out of the ruins of the city. The man looks around again, doing a 360, counting the amount of people around him. He turns around and counts 20. Turns around again and counts 24. Another spin and there are 33.
He reaches back into the car and grabs his last box of shells and breaks it open, laying it on the hood of the car next to where he stands. There are 24 shells in the box, 5 in his gun and the four that were in his pocket next to his pack of cigarettes. He cocks the rifle, and raises it up to his eye, sighting at one of the shambling people in front of him, a skinny man wearing '60s style clothing with long, blond hair. The rifle goes off, blowing a hole through the man's left eye, sending him teetering backwards to fall on the ground, unmoving. He spins to his left, quickly dropping some fat, white man wearing purple sweat pants and a muscle shirt. He spins one hundred and eighty degrees and shoots a short Asian woman with a black trenchcoat, nearly taking off the whole top of her head. More people drop to the ground, but for every one down the sound of the rifle brings three more stumbling into view.
The box of ammunition empties. Soon enough, the man squeezes the trigger, only to be met with a *click*. He doesn't even remember the four extra shells in his pocket.
The man sighs, looking around at the crowd that draws closer. He waits. When the first person is twenty yards away, he mutters a single word under his breath, then takes the rifle by the barrel, charges the person and swings it at him violently, driving him back and down onto the ground. He keeps swinging as the rest of the crowd catches up to him. He keeps swinging as they drag him away.
An hour later, there is a rusty car with shattered windows lying in the street, almost identical to all the others. A fair distance away from the car, forming a sort of ragged circle, are the bodies of 29 people. 20 yards away from the car there is a wet, red stain on the ground. Lying in the middle of it is a story, told by four elongated rifle shells and a half-empty box of cigarettes.
Hell, if you want I could even make a competition and let the winner test some of my unreleased works on one of my mods.
Just for the hell of it I'mma write one about the zombie mod, though I started this thread to describe a battle from Fury of Odin... Bleh.
The streets show no signs of life. Rusty cars with shattered windows are spread around the streets, garbage lays around in great piles. No life, save for one car, just as rusty, just as beat up as all the others, only this one is moving, weaving in and around the other cars, running over piles of garbage. A bicycle. An old couch. And something else, something foul-smelling and torn up, showing the fact that this city had not been abandoned. It had been killed.
And in the car sits a man, wearing a tight black T-shirt and a pair of torn jeans. He cannot be more than 40, yet his hair is already mostly gray, cut short in a military fashion, like every other human still alive. Old before his time, hardened by the world around him. He looks malnourished, yet still powerful. On the dashboard in front of him lies the story of his life, four elongated rifle shells, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes, symbolic of pain and pleasure. He sits there, thinking, deftly dodging the obstacles in front of his car.
Then he hears a loud thump and snaps to attention, bringing the car to an immediate halt. He reaches behind him, grabs his rifle and gets out of the car, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and four extra shells as he steps out. He cocks the already loaded gun. No, the always loaded gun. He takes the rifle in his right hand, rests the stock on his hip, pointing the gun up into the air, and takes out a cigarette, puts it in his mouth, takes out his lighter and lights it. He puts away the lighter, grabs his gun with both hands and walks around to the front of the vehicle.
"You're one ugly son of a *****, aren't you?" he asks the mangled thing at his feet.
It's only answer is to look up at him with dust-covered eyes and stare, trying to make a sound, despite it's throat being mangled beyond recognition by the car's radiator.
"Fine." he says, pointing the gun at the thing's face.
"Just wish I had the guts to pull this on myself," he says uninterestedly, squeezing the trigger.
He gets back in the car, wiping the spatters of blackish goo from his shirt, then keeps driving.
Ten minutes later, the engine gives a big sputter, followed by a loud bang, then goes silent. The car stops. The man gets out, grabbing his rifle, looking around whilst lighting up another cigarette.
It isn't long before people begin to slowly stumble out of the ruins of the city. The man looks around again, doing a 360, counting the amount of people around him. He turns around and counts 20. Turns around again and counts 24. Another spin and there are 33.
He reaches back into the car and grabs his last box of shells and breaks it open, laying it on the hood of the car next to where he stands. There are 24 shells in the box, 5 in his gun and the four that were in his pocket next to his pack of cigarettes. He cocks the rifle, and raises it up to his eye, sighting at one of the shambling people in front of him, a skinny man wearing '60s style clothing with long, blond hair. The rifle goes off, blowing a hole through the man's left eye, sending him teetering backwards to fall on the ground, unmoving. He spins to his left, quickly dropping some fat, white man wearing purple sweat pants and a muscle shirt. He spins one hundred and eighty degrees and shoots a short Asian woman with a black trenchcoat, nearly taking off the whole top of her head. More people drop to the ground, but for every one down the sound of the rifle brings three more stumbling into view.
The box of ammunition empties. Soon enough, the man squeezes the trigger, only to be met with a *click*. He doesn't even remember the four extra shells in his pocket.
The man sighs, looking around at the crowd that draws closer. He waits. When the first person is twenty yards away, he mutters a single word under his breath, then takes the rifle by the barrel, charges the person and swings it at him violently, driving him back and down onto the ground. He keeps swinging as the rest of the crowd catches up to him. He keeps swinging as they drag him away.
An hour later, there is a rusty car with shattered windows lying in the street, almost identical to all the others. A fair distance away from the car, forming a sort of ragged circle, are the bodies of 29 people. 20 yards away from the car there is a wet, red stain on the ground. Lying in the middle of it is a story, told by four elongated rifle shells and a half-empty box of cigarettes.
