Im writing a blog for school.
So i wrote a story on WW2 and i hope you will all like it.
So i wrote a story on WW2 and i hope you will all like it.
http://liammalky.blogspot.co.il/2012/11/the-control-room.html
Narratives and Book writing!
- Thread starter doctorwarband
- Start date
Users who are viewing this thread
TORN9000
Knight
Should be in the off-topic thread. No need of making a new one.
EDIT: If you write a blog write it in proper grammar <- this wasn't meant to sound offensive.
like if you say I as in me. It should always be captilized. type I'm isntead of im. Union would be with a capital.
'Because i was the Mors code tracker of the union C.I.A in Russia and Germany.' I don't get that sentence.
enemies not enemys
'All day i was in the base, hiding from enemys the will never come, and i waited.' should be 'that would'.
'in the 16th of September' Should be on the 16th of September.
Allies not Allys
'Then, in that day,' there shouldn't be a komma behind then and in should be on.
sayed should be said.
Its should be it's
"Yes Sir, Indeed Sir!"
indeed shouldn't be captilized.
And to be historically accurate Germany declared war on Russia on June 22 1941.
-
Besides that it's a nice idea and I would like to see it develope.
EDIT: If you write a blog write it in proper grammar <- this wasn't meant to sound offensive.
like if you say I as in me. It should always be captilized. type I'm isntead of im. Union would be with a capital.
'Because i was the Mors code tracker of the union C.I.A in Russia and Germany.' I don't get that sentence.
enemies not enemys
'All day i was in the base, hiding from enemys the will never come, and i waited.' should be 'that would'.
'in the 16th of September' Should be on the 16th of September.
Allies not Allys
'Then, in that day,' there shouldn't be a komma behind then and in should be on.
sayed should be said.
Its should be it's
"Yes Sir, Indeed Sir!"
indeed shouldn't be captilized.
And to be historically accurate Germany declared war on Russia on June 22 1941.
-
Besides that it's a nice idea and I would like to see it develope.
Still, is it good?TORN9000 said:
I know tried to fix it....TORN9000 said:Should be in the off-topic thread. No need of making a new one.
EDIT: If you write a blog write it in proper grammar <- this wasn't meant to sound offensive.
like if you say I as in me. It should always be captilized. type I'm isntead of im. Union would be with a capital.
'Because i was the Mors code tracker of the union C.I.A in Russia and Germany.' I don't get that sentence.
enemies not enemys
'All day i was in the base, hiding from enemys the will never come, and i waited.' should be 'that would'.
'in the 16th of September' Should be on the 16th of September.
Allies not Allys
'Then, in that day,' there shouldn't be a komma behind then and in should be on.
sayed should be said.
Its should be it's
"Yes Sir, Indeed Sir!"
indeed shouldn't be captilized.
And to be historically accurate Germany declared war on Russia on June 22 1941.
-
Besides that it's a nice idea and I would like to see it develope.
I hope it worked
Thats what is called "desert".
We have plenty of it in israel.
Enjoy
Em....Dion/Folcwar said:
*facepalm*
Its in all of Europe *More facepalm*
Hey, don't discourage him.
He's found an absolutely fantastic way of improving his English, and if he enjoys it, bravo to him.
Keep trying, and always look to improve.
Maybe you should create a Wattpad account.
On the subject, why not have a thread devoted to writing. I think it's a good way to encourage discussion, so let's keep it!
My own little story, that I wrote a few months ago, for fun. It's not very good, and I never finished it... But hey. I thought I'd share.
He's found an absolutely fantastic way of improving his English, and if he enjoys it, bravo to him.
Keep trying, and always look to improve.
Maybe you should create a Wattpad account.
On the subject, why not have a thread devoted to writing. I think it's a good way to encourage discussion, so let's keep it!
My own little story, that I wrote a few months ago, for fun. It's not very good, and I never finished it... But hey. I thought I'd share.
Vive les Morts –
Chapter I
The desert of Egypt stretched out into the distance, and a harsh wind blew incessantly across the dunes. No life appeared anywhere, and the landscape was a sculpture made up of canyons, crevasses and impressive rock formations. The ground appeared to move as sand, grit and small rocks were swept along the surface of Egypt’s deserts.
Only a small column of men marched slowly through a particular canyon: A single regiment, clad in deep blue uniforms. At the head of the column, a flag billowed furiously against the wind gusts, proudly bearing the newly adopted flag of revolutionary France: the tri-colour.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Year is 1799, and Napoleon Bonaparte, French General, has invaded Egypt, which is currently controlled by the legendary Mamlukes, who ride Camels and fought with sword, shield and the occasional musket.
A disgruntled voice broke the eerie silence which had descended upon the unhappy men of the 18e Regiment of foot.
His uniform was, like the rest of the regiment, covered in dust and sand. After having escaped a small Mamluke ambush, his head was partially covered by a bloodied bandage. Long, dark brown hair hung down the sides of his head, and a growth of stubble showed that he had not shaved for at least a week.
His unkempt face was dripping wet with perspiration, and he panted deeply under the unforgiving glare of Egypt’s sun.
“Four O’Clock in the afternoon and we’re still god knows how many kilometres away from camp” he shouted, to the shock of his comrades. The entire regiment had been ordered silent, due to the grumbling of the exhausted men.
“You shouldn’t have said that, Guillaume!”, muttered the soldier next to him. He was blond and short, and was a fresh recruit – scarcely older than 18.
His words proved to be true, and the Colonel started at the sound of their voices.
“Who was speaking?” “Who was it?” “Step forward or the entire regiment is on a charge!” growled the colonel from his dirty white horse as he span around in the saddle.
“It was me, sir”. Said the offending soldier, as he stepped forward.
“I should have known”, sneered the Colonel. “Name?”
“Private Guillaume Allimentere, third company, sir!” he replied, with a steely grudging bitterness to his voice. Grumbles of discontent rippled through the ranks of the regiment, and the Colonel cursed.
“Get to the back of the line, Private. You too, ranker. I saw you speak back to him. Joseph, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir” replied Guillaume’s unfortunate friend.
And so the 18e regiment marched on, through the valleys which defined this harsh land. The two soldiers soon deeply resented their punishment – the regiment in front of them kicked up the desert floor and their faces were covered in dirt and grime within minutes. The only advantage of the position was that they were well out of the Colonel’s earshot.
“I don’t like this, Joseph”, muttered Guillaume. “A far too good place for an ambush if you ask me”.
“Blasted Mamlukes. They fight like cowards. It’s unfair!” Complained Joseph.
A deep sigh tore free of Guillaume’s mouth, and Joseph looked down in shame.
“I know, you told me a thousand times before: war isn’t fair. Besides, you’re only twenty-three, so stop acting like one of those old veterans at the docks back home!”
The Colonel heard the Mamlukes before he saw them.
A deep rumbling sound rose and fell, and vibrations reverberated through the ground beneath the 18e.
The Colonel’s decorum and gentlemanship disappeared in an instant of indecision.
“****.” He muttered, before calling out to the regiment.
“Regiment will form line on my right! Double time, you fools!”
The vibrations grew louder and gradually the rumbling mixed with other sounds: The whinny of horses; the bleating of camels; the war cry of the Mamluke warriors.
The regiment completed the formation as the first of the Mamlukes crested the hill. His turban was covered in a chainmail coat, and his light brown horse reared up as he expertly brought his steed to a halt. He drew his sword in a slow menacing fashion, and proceeded to communicate with the French in the only way he knew how: by drawing the sword slowly across his neck, like the cutting of a throat.
Guillaume’s heart pounded in his chest as he stood in the front rank next to Joseph. The boy looked terrified, and his musket shook uncontrollably as he shivered in a desire to turn and flee. Guillaume’s planned words of encouragement died in his throat as hundreds of Mamlukes charged over the hill and down towards the small French line.
“Regiment! Assume firing position!”
The Private knelt down to allow his comrades behind him to fire over his head. The rest of the front rank did likewise.
The Mamluke riders drew closer. Guillaume estimated around 100 metres.
“Present Muskets!” Shouted the Colonel.
Guillaume raised his gun and aimed at the Mamluke infront of him.
80 metres and closing.
“Hold...” warned the Colonel.
60 metres.
“Hold...”
40 metres.
“Regiment!”
“FIRE”.
A deafening crash echoed of the walls of the valley as Guillaume discharged his musket. Smoke erupted from the end and the recoil of his weapon punched into his shoulder. Scores of Mamlukes were cut down as blood exploded from both mounts and riders.
“Fix... Bayonets!” Shouted the Colonel.
Guillaume hurriedly took the sharp steel spike out of his pocket, and slotted it onto the end of his musket. The sharp and wicked point of his bayonet protruded 15 inches beyond the barrel, and the regiment formed a pike wall as they braced against the Mamluke Charge.
A puff of smoke erupted from the opposition, and a moment later the Colonel’s chest was exposed by the crude bullet which tore through his flesh. He died instantly and fell to the floor.
10 metres.
The men at the rear of the regiment began to back away, before sprinting away as fast as they could run. More men joined them until half the regiment had descended into unorganised rout.
Guillaume and Joseph stood their ground.
5 metres.
He aimed his bayonet at the chest of the horse infront of him, and he braced his feet out behind him, preparing for impact.
A deafening crescendo of noise arose from the scene as the Mamlukes collided with the regiment’s first rank. Guillaume had closed his eyes, and he heard the horseman scream as his bayonet carried straight through his leg. The momentum of the rider kept him moving forwards, and it wasn’t until the rider’s leg hit the barrel that it fell to the floor, severed and spurting blood like an ornamental fountain. The rider collapsed from blood loss a few moments later.
Several Frenchmen had been struck down by the charge, but the initial impetus was broken. The neat formation of the French broke apart, as Mamluke and Musketeer duelled eachother in a desperate struggle for survival.
Guillaume’s blood soaked bayonet quickly found another body in which it could bury itself, and the Mamluke doubled over as he thrust into his abdomen. He worked the bayonet around inside the dying man, as blood and guts spilled from his chest. Finally the man’s heart was punctured, and he gave in with a final sigh.
As he turned, he saw his friend Joseph grin as he deftly destroyed a Mamluke’s face with his bayonet. Withdrawing it, brain matter coated the tip and Joseph gave a cheer of relief.
Guillaume’s warning came too late. “JOSEPH!” he cried, as a Mamluke rode past, his sword arm outstretched towards Guillaume’s friend. Joseph’s last look at him was confusion, as the Mamluke bodily separated Joseph’s head from his shoulders. It was too much for Guillaume. Checking around to make sure he wasn’t in immediate danger, he proceeded to vomit, until nothing came out but water. With a last glance at his doomed comrades, he turned from the scene.
He dropped his camping pack and ran for his life.
His legs could scarcely carry him further: Guillaume was exhausted. He stumbled into the nearest shade he could find: a barren rocky cave, cut around 4 metres into the cliff-face. From his vantage point, he watched as the Mamlukes finished off the 18e regiment. They were cut down one by one, as they desperately fended off the sharp slashes of the scimitars. Eventually, a sword would find its home, and a soldier would cry out in pain, dropping his weapon. The Mamlukes would waste no time in cutting him to pieces as he fell, mutilating his body with relentless efficiency. Soon, the last man fell, and the bodies were burnt in a large pyramid of corpses.
He couldn’t help it. His mind flashed back, his eyes wide with shock as he relived Joseph’s expression, confusion, pain, and then the permanent image of shock that had been locked onto his face. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the glint of sunlight against the bloodied scimitar as it swung inevitably down towards his friend. He would never forget this. All of Guillaume’s friends were dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was all too much now: he curled up and cried, as the Sun set on the desolate battlefield.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The next morning, Guillaume woke with a start. Leaping from the floor, he stripped his stifling uniform, and then set out in a light brown tunic. He relished the feel of the wind on his skin: marching for so long in the tight fitting military uniform had left him covered in sweat. Stumbling blindly around the cave, he packed up his things into a marching bag, and elected to set out. He didn’t want to die in the middle of the desert, alone and in agony. Worse still, he had heard about what Mamlukes did to captured soldiers. Guillaume shuddered, and tried to distract his mind. He wasn’t stupid, he mused. No man could walk alone and without food across the desert; he would need a form of transport. As much as he wanted never to see the battlefield again, he would have to go. If he was lucky, there might be a Mamluke horse still in the area. He set off as the sun rose. Making a quick pace, he hurried towards the scene of the battle. He wasn’t going to look for Joseph’s body – he knew that. Such a sight would be too painful, and he would never recover.
When he finally arrived at the battle, the stench of rotting flesh and of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. The smell made him retch violently, and Guillaume wanted nothing more than to turn and leave. Yet, if he was to survive, he must move on.
“****!” he screamed, as the absence of horses struck him.
A chilling noise sent shivers down his spine. He had heard the noise of camels before, and he was pulling his musket from his pack instinctively, as he scanned the nearby land.
A Mamluke was still here.
Gripping the barrel of his gun, he crept towards the source of the camel’s call. A turbaned warrior stood next to it, feeding it with a hunk of wheat. The warrior wore a dark blue turban, and a sandy brown tunic which billowed out at the waist. A belt secured the tunic in place, and also held a long, curved scimitar, complete with dry, encrusted blood – probably from yesterday’s battle. His heart in his throat, Guillaume clambered up the cliff-face, taking up position on a rocky outcrop. He could just about see the warrior through a gap between the rocks. The soldier smiled, as all soldiers do when their enemy is oblivious to their presence. Laying down on the rocky surface, he clicked back the hammer on his loaded musket, and aimed carefully at the warrior. Squinting down the barrel, he lined up the Mamluke’s muscular body with the trajectory of his musket ball. Thank god for the new rifled muskets that his regiment had been issued. Before, guns had been horribly inaccurate, but now, the inside of the barrel was grooved, causing the bullet to spin as it was propelled out of the end. Not only did this make the bullet fly almost perfectly straight, it also made it several times more devastating on contact with a nice, soft body. Now was the time. Guillaume placed his thumb calmly on the small lever, which would, when pressed, create a spark, which ignites the gunpowder, sending the musket ball spinning inevitably towards the enemy. He pushed the lever. A brief hiss sounded as the fuse ignited, and then a sharp, cracking noise as the gunpowder ignited. The Mamluke turned around in surprise at the sound of musket fire, before the bullet tore through his head. Hitting him in the side of the jaw, the musket ball ripped free of the other side of his head, allowing blood and brain matter to explode from both sides. The impact also cleanly broke the man’s neck, and he was killed instantly.
“I’d do better as a bloody sniper” muttered Guillaume, as he slid down the rock face towards the camel. A long test of endurance awaited him, as he mounted the saddle and kicked the camel into action. Guillaume estimated a two day ride back to camp, and even then he would have several hours of interrogation about the destruction of his regiment.
General Napoleon Bonaparte sat in his command tent, furiously working his fingers and rapping them against the sides of his chair. 'Where were the 18e?' he mused. His thoughts were rapidly interrupted by his clerk.
"Private Guillaume Allimentere here to see you, sir".
"Private? Why am I being bothered by such a low ranking officer? Has he booked an appointment?"
"He's from the 18e, sir..."
So that was why the Colonel had sent a private. Too scared to come himself, due to the fact that the 18e were several days late returning. "Very well. Send him in".
Napoleon sat back, fuming and preparing his next words. As Guillaume's exhausted frame turned into his command tent, Napoleon rose to his feet, aghast. "What is the meaning of this, Private? Where is your Colonel?".
"Dead, sir."
Damn. Too many staff officers were being lost to the desert heat. The very land was on the Mamlukes' side.
"Very well. Please fetch me the Lieutenant. "
"He's dead too, sir".
"They're both dead? Very well, fetch me the current commanding officer".
"I... I can't. They're all... they're all dead sir. All of them. I'm the only one left".
Napoleon's eyes widened as Guillaume described the battle, and how he had escaped. Napoleon's voice was terse when he spoke again.
"Very well. It was good of you to bring me this news. You are dismissed. Get some sleep, Private". "You've earned it".
Guillaume almost ran out of the room, and he didn't see the look of empathy etched on Napoleon's face. Napoleon knew that he had lost a friend at the battle, and he knew how it felt. Napoleon had, after all, once been a common soldier in the French army. God help him, Napoleon thought. God help us all.
Chapter I
The desert of Egypt stretched out into the distance, and a harsh wind blew incessantly across the dunes. No life appeared anywhere, and the landscape was a sculpture made up of canyons, crevasses and impressive rock formations. The ground appeared to move as sand, grit and small rocks were swept along the surface of Egypt’s deserts.
Only a small column of men marched slowly through a particular canyon: A single regiment, clad in deep blue uniforms. At the head of the column, a flag billowed furiously against the wind gusts, proudly bearing the newly adopted flag of revolutionary France: the tri-colour.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Year is 1799, and Napoleon Bonaparte, French General, has invaded Egypt, which is currently controlled by the legendary Mamlukes, who ride Camels and fought with sword, shield and the occasional musket.
A disgruntled voice broke the eerie silence which had descended upon the unhappy men of the 18e Regiment of foot.
His uniform was, like the rest of the regiment, covered in dust and sand. After having escaped a small Mamluke ambush, his head was partially covered by a bloodied bandage. Long, dark brown hair hung down the sides of his head, and a growth of stubble showed that he had not shaved for at least a week.
His unkempt face was dripping wet with perspiration, and he panted deeply under the unforgiving glare of Egypt’s sun.
“Four O’Clock in the afternoon and we’re still god knows how many kilometres away from camp” he shouted, to the shock of his comrades. The entire regiment had been ordered silent, due to the grumbling of the exhausted men.
“You shouldn’t have said that, Guillaume!”, muttered the soldier next to him. He was blond and short, and was a fresh recruit – scarcely older than 18.
His words proved to be true, and the Colonel started at the sound of their voices.
“Who was speaking?” “Who was it?” “Step forward or the entire regiment is on a charge!” growled the colonel from his dirty white horse as he span around in the saddle.
“It was me, sir”. Said the offending soldier, as he stepped forward.
“I should have known”, sneered the Colonel. “Name?”
“Private Guillaume Allimentere, third company, sir!” he replied, with a steely grudging bitterness to his voice. Grumbles of discontent rippled through the ranks of the regiment, and the Colonel cursed.
“Get to the back of the line, Private. You too, ranker. I saw you speak back to him. Joseph, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir” replied Guillaume’s unfortunate friend.
And so the 18e regiment marched on, through the valleys which defined this harsh land. The two soldiers soon deeply resented their punishment – the regiment in front of them kicked up the desert floor and their faces were covered in dirt and grime within minutes. The only advantage of the position was that they were well out of the Colonel’s earshot.
“I don’t like this, Joseph”, muttered Guillaume. “A far too good place for an ambush if you ask me”.
“Blasted Mamlukes. They fight like cowards. It’s unfair!” Complained Joseph.
A deep sigh tore free of Guillaume’s mouth, and Joseph looked down in shame.
“I know, you told me a thousand times before: war isn’t fair. Besides, you’re only twenty-three, so stop acting like one of those old veterans at the docks back home!”
The Colonel heard the Mamlukes before he saw them.
A deep rumbling sound rose and fell, and vibrations reverberated through the ground beneath the 18e.
The Colonel’s decorum and gentlemanship disappeared in an instant of indecision.
“****.” He muttered, before calling out to the regiment.
“Regiment will form line on my right! Double time, you fools!”
The vibrations grew louder and gradually the rumbling mixed with other sounds: The whinny of horses; the bleating of camels; the war cry of the Mamluke warriors.
The regiment completed the formation as the first of the Mamlukes crested the hill. His turban was covered in a chainmail coat, and his light brown horse reared up as he expertly brought his steed to a halt. He drew his sword in a slow menacing fashion, and proceeded to communicate with the French in the only way he knew how: by drawing the sword slowly across his neck, like the cutting of a throat.
Guillaume’s heart pounded in his chest as he stood in the front rank next to Joseph. The boy looked terrified, and his musket shook uncontrollably as he shivered in a desire to turn and flee. Guillaume’s planned words of encouragement died in his throat as hundreds of Mamlukes charged over the hill and down towards the small French line.
“Regiment! Assume firing position!”
The Private knelt down to allow his comrades behind him to fire over his head. The rest of the front rank did likewise.
The Mamluke riders drew closer. Guillaume estimated around 100 metres.
“Present Muskets!” Shouted the Colonel.
Guillaume raised his gun and aimed at the Mamluke infront of him.
80 metres and closing.
“Hold...” warned the Colonel.
60 metres.
“Hold...”
40 metres.
“Regiment!”
“FIRE”.
A deafening crash echoed of the walls of the valley as Guillaume discharged his musket. Smoke erupted from the end and the recoil of his weapon punched into his shoulder. Scores of Mamlukes were cut down as blood exploded from both mounts and riders.
“Fix... Bayonets!” Shouted the Colonel.
Guillaume hurriedly took the sharp steel spike out of his pocket, and slotted it onto the end of his musket. The sharp and wicked point of his bayonet protruded 15 inches beyond the barrel, and the regiment formed a pike wall as they braced against the Mamluke Charge.
A puff of smoke erupted from the opposition, and a moment later the Colonel’s chest was exposed by the crude bullet which tore through his flesh. He died instantly and fell to the floor.
10 metres.
The men at the rear of the regiment began to back away, before sprinting away as fast as they could run. More men joined them until half the regiment had descended into unorganised rout.
Guillaume and Joseph stood their ground.
5 metres.
He aimed his bayonet at the chest of the horse infront of him, and he braced his feet out behind him, preparing for impact.
A deafening crescendo of noise arose from the scene as the Mamlukes collided with the regiment’s first rank. Guillaume had closed his eyes, and he heard the horseman scream as his bayonet carried straight through his leg. The momentum of the rider kept him moving forwards, and it wasn’t until the rider’s leg hit the barrel that it fell to the floor, severed and spurting blood like an ornamental fountain. The rider collapsed from blood loss a few moments later.
Several Frenchmen had been struck down by the charge, but the initial impetus was broken. The neat formation of the French broke apart, as Mamluke and Musketeer duelled eachother in a desperate struggle for survival.
Guillaume’s blood soaked bayonet quickly found another body in which it could bury itself, and the Mamluke doubled over as he thrust into his abdomen. He worked the bayonet around inside the dying man, as blood and guts spilled from his chest. Finally the man’s heart was punctured, and he gave in with a final sigh.
As he turned, he saw his friend Joseph grin as he deftly destroyed a Mamluke’s face with his bayonet. Withdrawing it, brain matter coated the tip and Joseph gave a cheer of relief.
Guillaume’s warning came too late. “JOSEPH!” he cried, as a Mamluke rode past, his sword arm outstretched towards Guillaume’s friend. Joseph’s last look at him was confusion, as the Mamluke bodily separated Joseph’s head from his shoulders. It was too much for Guillaume. Checking around to make sure he wasn’t in immediate danger, he proceeded to vomit, until nothing came out but water. With a last glance at his doomed comrades, he turned from the scene.
He dropped his camping pack and ran for his life.
His legs could scarcely carry him further: Guillaume was exhausted. He stumbled into the nearest shade he could find: a barren rocky cave, cut around 4 metres into the cliff-face. From his vantage point, he watched as the Mamlukes finished off the 18e regiment. They were cut down one by one, as they desperately fended off the sharp slashes of the scimitars. Eventually, a sword would find its home, and a soldier would cry out in pain, dropping his weapon. The Mamlukes would waste no time in cutting him to pieces as he fell, mutilating his body with relentless efficiency. Soon, the last man fell, and the bodies were burnt in a large pyramid of corpses.
He couldn’t help it. His mind flashed back, his eyes wide with shock as he relived Joseph’s expression, confusion, pain, and then the permanent image of shock that had been locked onto his face. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the glint of sunlight against the bloodied scimitar as it swung inevitably down towards his friend. He would never forget this. All of Guillaume’s friends were dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was all too much now: he curled up and cried, as the Sun set on the desolate battlefield.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The next morning, Guillaume woke with a start. Leaping from the floor, he stripped his stifling uniform, and then set out in a light brown tunic. He relished the feel of the wind on his skin: marching for so long in the tight fitting military uniform had left him covered in sweat. Stumbling blindly around the cave, he packed up his things into a marching bag, and elected to set out. He didn’t want to die in the middle of the desert, alone and in agony. Worse still, he had heard about what Mamlukes did to captured soldiers. Guillaume shuddered, and tried to distract his mind. He wasn’t stupid, he mused. No man could walk alone and without food across the desert; he would need a form of transport. As much as he wanted never to see the battlefield again, he would have to go. If he was lucky, there might be a Mamluke horse still in the area. He set off as the sun rose. Making a quick pace, he hurried towards the scene of the battle. He wasn’t going to look for Joseph’s body – he knew that. Such a sight would be too painful, and he would never recover.
When he finally arrived at the battle, the stench of rotting flesh and of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. The smell made him retch violently, and Guillaume wanted nothing more than to turn and leave. Yet, if he was to survive, he must move on.
“****!” he screamed, as the absence of horses struck him.
A chilling noise sent shivers down his spine. He had heard the noise of camels before, and he was pulling his musket from his pack instinctively, as he scanned the nearby land.
A Mamluke was still here.
Gripping the barrel of his gun, he crept towards the source of the camel’s call. A turbaned warrior stood next to it, feeding it with a hunk of wheat. The warrior wore a dark blue turban, and a sandy brown tunic which billowed out at the waist. A belt secured the tunic in place, and also held a long, curved scimitar, complete with dry, encrusted blood – probably from yesterday’s battle. His heart in his throat, Guillaume clambered up the cliff-face, taking up position on a rocky outcrop. He could just about see the warrior through a gap between the rocks. The soldier smiled, as all soldiers do when their enemy is oblivious to their presence. Laying down on the rocky surface, he clicked back the hammer on his loaded musket, and aimed carefully at the warrior. Squinting down the barrel, he lined up the Mamluke’s muscular body with the trajectory of his musket ball. Thank god for the new rifled muskets that his regiment had been issued. Before, guns had been horribly inaccurate, but now, the inside of the barrel was grooved, causing the bullet to spin as it was propelled out of the end. Not only did this make the bullet fly almost perfectly straight, it also made it several times more devastating on contact with a nice, soft body. Now was the time. Guillaume placed his thumb calmly on the small lever, which would, when pressed, create a spark, which ignites the gunpowder, sending the musket ball spinning inevitably towards the enemy. He pushed the lever. A brief hiss sounded as the fuse ignited, and then a sharp, cracking noise as the gunpowder ignited. The Mamluke turned around in surprise at the sound of musket fire, before the bullet tore through his head. Hitting him in the side of the jaw, the musket ball ripped free of the other side of his head, allowing blood and brain matter to explode from both sides. The impact also cleanly broke the man’s neck, and he was killed instantly.
“I’d do better as a bloody sniper” muttered Guillaume, as he slid down the rock face towards the camel. A long test of endurance awaited him, as he mounted the saddle and kicked the camel into action. Guillaume estimated a two day ride back to camp, and even then he would have several hours of interrogation about the destruction of his regiment.
General Napoleon Bonaparte sat in his command tent, furiously working his fingers and rapping them against the sides of his chair. 'Where were the 18e?' he mused. His thoughts were rapidly interrupted by his clerk.
"Private Guillaume Allimentere here to see you, sir".
"Private? Why am I being bothered by such a low ranking officer? Has he booked an appointment?"
"He's from the 18e, sir..."
So that was why the Colonel had sent a private. Too scared to come himself, due to the fact that the 18e were several days late returning. "Very well. Send him in".
Napoleon sat back, fuming and preparing his next words. As Guillaume's exhausted frame turned into his command tent, Napoleon rose to his feet, aghast. "What is the meaning of this, Private? Where is your Colonel?".
"Dead, sir."
Damn. Too many staff officers were being lost to the desert heat. The very land was on the Mamlukes' side.
"Very well. Please fetch me the Lieutenant. "
"He's dead too, sir".
"They're both dead? Very well, fetch me the current commanding officer".
"I... I can't. They're all... they're all dead sir. All of them. I'm the only one left".
Napoleon's eyes widened as Guillaume described the battle, and how he had escaped. Napoleon's voice was terse when he spoke again.
"Very well. It was good of you to bring me this news. You are dismissed. Get some sleep, Private". "You've earned it".
Guillaume almost ran out of the room, and he didn't see the look of empathy etched on Napoleon's face. Napoleon knew that he had lost a friend at the battle, and he knew how it felt. Napoleon had, after all, once been a common soldier in the French army. God help him, Napoleon thought. God help us all.
Its so fun to writeJarvisimo said:
Nice story you will have...
+ Edit*
I know that you dont like smosh, but heres their last master piece:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12PWq22E9CQ
Ooooh boy if I was still Community Mod... dat merge threads button.
Aaeni
Sergeant
Now Narratives and Book writing... This is a thread I HAVE to pop in on. I love writing, I'm a chronic writer myself. Currently working on a book, and I'm actually rather proud of how some of the early material's turned out.
Edit: But back on topic, Warband, I don't intend to discourage you, but what TORN said was true in every way. Grammar is probably one of the most important things of writing, and there's nothing that turns a reader off more than something they can't understand. Always, always, always capitalize that solo I, and make sure to use them proper punctuation and stuff. It's incredibly important, it really is.
Edit: But back on topic, Warband, I don't intend to discourage you, but what TORN said was true in every way. Grammar is probably one of the most important things of writing, and there's nothing that turns a reader off more than something they can't understand. Always, always, always capitalize that solo I, and make sure to use them proper punctuation and stuff. It's incredibly important, it really is.
Aaeni
Sergeant
It's not done just yet, I'm still working through the story. Mainly working on a lot of different character concepts so I know who fits in where. But, probably won't hurt to get a few different opinions on the prologue.
Crystalline figures warred upon water that was colored to a hue of blood. It was a dance of death, where only one could emerge victorious. As I watched, I saw one of the figures plunge their icy blade into the other’s chest, and the vanquished one dissipated into water. The surviving warrior turned to me and bowed, before falling back. I clapped quietly for the ice figure’s bravery, before turning to view the red sunset, its rays gave the water its blood colored hue.
I was Lord of this world.
Here, on the eighth floor, where I had set up my mansion, was where I ruled. Like all the other floors of the tower which I ruled over, floor eight covered a substantial amount of ground. And it was undoubtedly the most beautiful of all the floors. To the south, lush, verdant forests bloomed in evergreen beauty. To the north, harsh, icy peaks of mountains standing thousands of feet tall rose above the horizon. Here, twixt the two locations, I had created my home.
Here, on the eighth floor of the tower, there existed only one other being beside from myself. That entity just so happened to be one for whom I had the greatest amount of hate. However, he was my roommate, in a sense, and I could not fight him. I spoke to address him, quiet as a whisper, “How long has it been now, Adam? Since we met, I mean.” As far as I had known, I’d been here years. Perhaps decades. However, Adam’s reply was quite sobering.
“Six months, three days, eight hours, twenty seven minutes, fourteen seconds.”
Slightly dismayed, I turned away from the setting sun to look back over at the diamond bowl, waving my hand and beckoning the warriors into life once more to watch them at their swordplay. “And what’s the count now? Not counting, of course, the half a man from yesterday.” I knew Adam would likely say something stupid like ‘A thousand and a half’ if I didn’t.
“Discounting the half-man, three hundred and sixty seven. You’ve been quite busy, Doomsayer.”
I shrugged, before nodding slightly at his words. “Naturally.”
From his words, I’d been inside this game for six months. Based on when I’d entered, that meant this was February. I hadn’t left yet, partially because of personal interest, and partially because of other reasons which I was quite uncomfortable with.
As a God, I had a duty. However, as a deity, I was not quite unmatched. Adam could still likely hold his ground against me, if not best me.
However, what held my interest in this moment was not my musings of whether or not I’d win if I were to meet him in combat. Instead, my gaze was focused on where the figures of ice had suddenly disappeared. “Adam?” I questioned, thinking it was his attempt to rob me from yet another of my enjoyments.
However, the truth was much more saddening than that. My footsteps made quiet ‘tap tap’ sounds as I walked closer to the bowl, curious as to why my warriors had stopped. Adam had not replied as of yet, and he likely wouldn’t. I was on my own.
As I drew closer to the diamond bowl, I became acutely aware of the fact, that in the approximate center of the bowl, swirls appeared. These swirls swirled the water about in an unconcerned matter, before stopping altogether when I was directly above it. Instantly, the water stagnated and an image appeared upon the surface.
It was a boy.
Sharp, black eyes which seemed to challenge his surroundings stared back through the water at me. I observed a nice nose, and lips that were neither too large nor too small. He had locks of black hair about him which hung down to about his eyebrows. He was, in his own way, attractive. However, that was to be expected. Adam liked his players to be all dolled up before their climb to the top.
However, this face intrigued me. It wasn’t particularly because of the challenging eyes which he had, or any other facial feature for that matter, but more because it was a face I felt I had once known. The name that belonged to this face danced upon my lips, dispersing into the slowly growing cooler air. “Zain.” I whispered.
A slight smirk crept across my face before I turned from the bowl. “Adam, I assume you knew about this?” I raised a hand over my shoulder and snapped my fingers, the bowl disappearing at once.
“Yes.” The reply was quiet, almost like a guilty child being reprimanded for taking a cookie from the jar when he was not meant to.
However, I knew better. Adam never felt guilt. “And I’ll take a guess as to your intentions for this boy.”
Compared to his guilt-sounding reply earlier, this time his words sounded quite amused. “Of course. I want the boy to climb the tower.”
I began to reply, but Adam cut me off.
“And you want to keep him on the ground.”
I clenched my fists at my side. Now I felt like the child who was being reprimanded. However, I needed to hold my ground. “Yes. I will stop him.” I spoke.
Mournfully, I glanced over my shoulder at where the diamond bowl once was. Now it had been replaced with open air, and the sky around me changed to night.
I knew what I had to do now, and I took a deep breath before I said the words. “Adam?” I questioned, making sure I still had his attention. But, I did not wait for him to answer me before finishing.
“I want to make you a wager.”
I was Lord of this world.
Here, on the eighth floor, where I had set up my mansion, was where I ruled. Like all the other floors of the tower which I ruled over, floor eight covered a substantial amount of ground. And it was undoubtedly the most beautiful of all the floors. To the south, lush, verdant forests bloomed in evergreen beauty. To the north, harsh, icy peaks of mountains standing thousands of feet tall rose above the horizon. Here, twixt the two locations, I had created my home.
Here, on the eighth floor of the tower, there existed only one other being beside from myself. That entity just so happened to be one for whom I had the greatest amount of hate. However, he was my roommate, in a sense, and I could not fight him. I spoke to address him, quiet as a whisper, “How long has it been now, Adam? Since we met, I mean.” As far as I had known, I’d been here years. Perhaps decades. However, Adam’s reply was quite sobering.
“Six months, three days, eight hours, twenty seven minutes, fourteen seconds.”
Slightly dismayed, I turned away from the setting sun to look back over at the diamond bowl, waving my hand and beckoning the warriors into life once more to watch them at their swordplay. “And what’s the count now? Not counting, of course, the half a man from yesterday.” I knew Adam would likely say something stupid like ‘A thousand and a half’ if I didn’t.
“Discounting the half-man, three hundred and sixty seven. You’ve been quite busy, Doomsayer.”
I shrugged, before nodding slightly at his words. “Naturally.”
From his words, I’d been inside this game for six months. Based on when I’d entered, that meant this was February. I hadn’t left yet, partially because of personal interest, and partially because of other reasons which I was quite uncomfortable with.
As a God, I had a duty. However, as a deity, I was not quite unmatched. Adam could still likely hold his ground against me, if not best me.
However, what held my interest in this moment was not my musings of whether or not I’d win if I were to meet him in combat. Instead, my gaze was focused on where the figures of ice had suddenly disappeared. “Adam?” I questioned, thinking it was his attempt to rob me from yet another of my enjoyments.
However, the truth was much more saddening than that. My footsteps made quiet ‘tap tap’ sounds as I walked closer to the bowl, curious as to why my warriors had stopped. Adam had not replied as of yet, and he likely wouldn’t. I was on my own.
As I drew closer to the diamond bowl, I became acutely aware of the fact, that in the approximate center of the bowl, swirls appeared. These swirls swirled the water about in an unconcerned matter, before stopping altogether when I was directly above it. Instantly, the water stagnated and an image appeared upon the surface.
It was a boy.
Sharp, black eyes which seemed to challenge his surroundings stared back through the water at me. I observed a nice nose, and lips that were neither too large nor too small. He had locks of black hair about him which hung down to about his eyebrows. He was, in his own way, attractive. However, that was to be expected. Adam liked his players to be all dolled up before their climb to the top.
However, this face intrigued me. It wasn’t particularly because of the challenging eyes which he had, or any other facial feature for that matter, but more because it was a face I felt I had once known. The name that belonged to this face danced upon my lips, dispersing into the slowly growing cooler air. “Zain.” I whispered.
A slight smirk crept across my face before I turned from the bowl. “Adam, I assume you knew about this?” I raised a hand over my shoulder and snapped my fingers, the bowl disappearing at once.
“Yes.” The reply was quiet, almost like a guilty child being reprimanded for taking a cookie from the jar when he was not meant to.
However, I knew better. Adam never felt guilt. “And I’ll take a guess as to your intentions for this boy.”
Compared to his guilt-sounding reply earlier, this time his words sounded quite amused. “Of course. I want the boy to climb the tower.”
I began to reply, but Adam cut me off.
“And you want to keep him on the ground.”
I clenched my fists at my side. Now I felt like the child who was being reprimanded. However, I needed to hold my ground. “Yes. I will stop him.” I spoke.
Mournfully, I glanced over my shoulder at where the diamond bowl once was. Now it had been replaced with open air, and the sky around me changed to night.
I knew what I had to do now, and I took a deep breath before I said the words. “Adam?” I questioned, making sure I still had his attention. But, I did not wait for him to answer me before finishing.
“I want to make you a wager.”
I was in a hurry that why grammar didn't work well....Aaeni said:
how much ****?jepekula said:I had written a few short stories like year or so ago, but in Finnish.
And they were all ****
+ I had a book called "Kingdom Of Silbidilia" but i lost it when i siwtched computers.... Damn me! it was a really good story!
