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Title: Contest #3 - Music and Lyrics

Grendel Hammerschmidt - December 19, 2010 08:24 PM (GMT)
So, the new theme for this month’s contest is as follows:


That is, most of us have songs that remind us of our characters, right? Of course! There’s even a game for it here. For this month’s contest you will be picking a song and write a short story sort thing around the song. The rules are:
    1. You may choose any song you want, and any character you want. The setting of your story may be AU, past, present, future, anything. But the character must be one that exists on this board.

    2. You must find a way to work in a lyric of the song into either your narrative or character dialogue. Your character may not be singing the song (and neither should any others).

    3. This can be any length of narrative. No boundaries there.

    4. You may use other people’s characters, but only with their permission.

    5. At the end of your entry, please state the name of your song, a link to the lyrics (and a video/mp3 of the song if you please), and the lyric you used in the entry. To make things easier on judging, of course <3

    6. You may join with three entries maximum. These contests are not mandatory for all members, though we’d really like it if you joined.

    7. Have fun!
Winners will not only be able to make up the topic for the next contest, but they will also receive one of the following:
A special character
A poster of your character/whatever you want.

Here are the choices:
    Hybrid vampires - the children of a female pureblood vampire and a male human. These are very rare, and most commonly found in the Empusa clan. They are similar to mixed bloods in make-up, though they can too get pregnant and have children. Often considered children of succubus or incubus in myth. Hybrid vampires may NOT be the children of male pureblood vampires and female humans, as these often die before they are born due to lack of nutrition.

    Psychic Humans ('Rogue' Seers) - basically, a human with psychic powers. Most likely not in any hunter clan, unless they're in a 'rogue' family. These are humans with certain psychic powers, who may or may not be aware of their powers or anything at all. Also, no psychic human can be stronger than the clan seers.

    Non-Premade Priscus - you know how all the Priscus vampires are canons. Well, choose this, and you get an original. Just make sure to follow the rules.

    Really Super Old Vampires - around 600 is our cut off for older vampires played by people. Well, choose this and you can make your next vampire up to 1000 years old (but please, no older than around 1000).

    Bird or reptile shifters- on site, Kiasyd vampires may only be mammalian. Win this contest, and feel free to make a parakeet or a crocodile shifter.
Contest ends on January 19th although if there are late entries, this deadline can be extended. Voting will be shortly after, and will just be a public vote by all the members. Post your entries in this thread, and good luck!

Blaire McGregor - December 19, 2010 09:20 PM (GMT)
Curse you! You know I will have to enter now because I am a music junkie, can't live without it and never can walk past a challenge!


I hope you're happy now! I have 5 characters demanding contest entries - the chaos in my head is all YOUR fault.

(Thanks for that XD)

Ellen Fitzgerald - December 19, 2010 09:23 PM (GMT)
;;D I'm incredibly happy. Anything for you, Sina. Anything at all <3

Damien Sepúlveda - January 6, 2011 08:29 PM (GMT)
1. All dialogues are spoken in Spanish. However, since this is an English writing competition all important dialogues are in English. For dialogues/phrases not in English, please see below this entry for the translations.
2. Damien (my character) was named Krystal and changed it only a few years back; hence he will be referred to as a Krystal throughout this entry.

November 1699, Palacio Del Marqués de Dos Aguas, Valencia, Spain

“A gran caballo, grandes espuelas.”

Her dark hair like chocolate dripping from the edge of a golden goblet, she bites her crimson lips and puts her hands around his collar. A flicker in her eyes as she looks up at him, eyes just like a chocolate snake coiling inside it. He says nothing, puts his hands to hers. Such proximity, such guilelessness the women showers and the younger man says nothing. Nothing, but his lips tremble like a tremor within the ground.

She smiles. Leans in and whispers, her cold breath blistering his naïve ears.

“I’ve touched you up and down, inside and out…”


Define the artist who is mastered in flawless target killing—we call him a Sepúlveda in Europe. If you speak the name in a lively coniferous forest in the middle of spring, it would disperse and panic, the hollers like a screech from the pit of the stomach of a starving vulture. No sinner or saint goes under their covers without a halo which an alchemist made to ward us off.

I’m a Sepúlveda.

Krystal Sepúlveda, the ultimate weapon. The epitome of flawlessness—trained night and day since I could breathe, endless hours in the freezing sheets of snow and in the livid noon of summers—hell, I was taught to wash my butt because it was important in becoming an assassin.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not unhappy. This ramble isn’t going to end in a twist of some sort, a two-worded sentence to make a fancy cliffhanger about how I’m not happy.

Not this paragraph either.

Tell me, why shouldn’t I be happy? I’m great at what I do. I’m surrounded by admirers, servants and worshippers. All the luxuries ever known to vampires and humans, every nuance of wine possible and I’ll gladly state I’ve probably attained the pinnacle of pleasure a man can take.

My life is damn perfect.

I’ll confess, I didn’t achieve this perfect world on my own. I was a scheme of the Sepúlveda’s wisest, eldest. Not exactly the wisest old men I’ve met, if you ask me; but that’s how they are spoken of, so let’s play along.

Scheme of the wisest, eldest. A compendium of the genetic makeup of Alejandro and Rosa.

And finally, when I was still in my crib, I was bestowed the mentorship of Ibbie Sepúlveda—a fantastic, undefeated assassin. She and my birth mother were the only two women to ever be full-blown assassins like the men, having trained like no parallel. And she truly put in the same struggle in building me—she was my godmother, my teacher, my aunt.

And now the woman I go to bed with everyday.

No, you’re wrong. I’m not going to bring a twist now, about how this is confusing and disturbing. Sleeping with my aunt, my godmother. Because, well it’s not!

I do not deny the existence of love. It truly does exist, there’s no denying that just because someone managed to double-cross you, get sexual pleasure out of you and walk away without commitment. Love is a human emotion, and holding definite similarity to humans, us vampires feel it too. And love, in its purest form, is not about transuding animal instinct—it’s the simple principle of need.

Selfish, cold, hard need.

I need her. I need Ibbie, I love her so bloody much.

And it doesn’t matter if she wants me in bed, I love her just the same.

But I am an assassin, I have asserted that enough. The best of the best. Unseen, unparalleled. And I do have to transcend emotions…a good assassin cannot rely on his heart to make the right decision. The heart is biased, our profession is not. It’s about what’s more expensive, not about who’s right or makes your heart flutter. Of course not.

Ibbie, are you forgetting that?

(Yes, this is the twist.)

Is love blinding you, like it blinds most? Can’t you see that this need is becoming a weakness? Not only in your performance as an assassin, but as a teacher. You’re lagging…you’re the boulder in my path, Ibbie.

No hindrance on Earth can be allowed to block my path. It’s what you taught me.

And you taught me well.

The longest night of the longest year.

She doesn’t particularly care, she just wants him to get his tail inside. Her long hair falls on him, like Rapunzel, only it’s not a fairytale. Her eyes glittery, naughty, provocative. He says nothing, he usually doesn’t. She starts to work on her flamenco, the strings slowly snapping, relieved of the tautness. Her eyes continue swarming on his body, as if a predator setting its radar on the prey.


She looks up at him.

“Please, call me Ibbie. You know how I hated being called that…”

Her hands round his collar another time, secure and comfortable. Like she owns him. He bites his lower lip, looks away and then back. Resolve, firmness and courage wrestle in those beautiful silver eyes.

“Madrina. I am not going to sleep with you tonight.”

She opens her mouth, but he speaks before her.

“Or any other night.”

Disbelief, as if the ground beneath her feet is mist and even the cushion of air around her is lost. Is this really happening? She probably asks herself. The eternally symphonious snake in her eyes stung harshly by a wasp, her expressions become fiery.

“Are you refusing to obey an order, Krystal?”

His adam’s apple jostles up and then comes down to a rest, and he takes a deep breath. Never has he known defiance, never even an innuendo to something of the like.

“I am, Madrina. But my intentions are still in line with the orders of the Sepúlveda elders, unlike yours. Have you seen how you’ve reduced the time I train just to have more sex? Just to—“

Her tiger claw slashes across his face, slits cut through his eyes and his torn lips bleeding profusely. His beautiful blue eyes like an ocean looming inside them—now with trifles of red smearing across them—are stuck on the woman.

“You dare disobey, Krystal! And then you justify it—there is no room for that kind of behavior in this family. You know that very well.”

He watches her, as if gauging the fear entwined around her. So petrified, he can sense it without any doubt. Frightened, sad, angry.

But not more than him.

“There is no room for teachers who’ve become lustful wild boars like you, either.”

She snarls and strikes again, but this time Krystal flings himself back at the mantelpiece, his boots artistically tucked in the crevices and his hands in good reach of the smoldering coal in the fireplace. She hisses and quickly launches throwing knives—flying right at his arms. He grabs the fireplace poker and quickly folds his body, holding himself on top of the wrought iron poker just long enough for the knives to miss him. Within the next reflex, he heaves the hottest coal on top of the poker and shoves them into his teacher’s eyes, who screeches in a manner he will never forget.

It rattles the very foundation of the Palace, awakening all assassins. He has little time.

There is one thing he will gain from this, though. How easy it is to kill a vampire, but how much easier it is to ruin one’s life.

The poker held long enough in the fireplace, enough that his hands are scorched brown from its passion, he strikes it to the wounded vampire’s chest. She hollers, footsteps all around are closing in on him. But he was taught to fulfill a task he is assigned. And he does—dragging the poker through her chest with all the might in his body, he tears through ever single strand holding the heart together. He drags it through her collar, her throat…

He should take it through her jaw, and if the iron poker fails he should simply stab his hands through it and dig out the very brains out of this vampire. It should kill her soon enough.

But he doesn’t.

Blood everywhere he sees, not a singular scent of any human’s but a mixture of perhaps uncountable lives. His eyes still bleeding—this is a metaphor, of course, because now he’s crying—tear drops are dripping on the cooler poker, slithering down to her dying, monstrously cleaved apart, heart.

“Kill me…kill me Krystal…tesoro…”

She begs in the softest tone a vampire can conjure, but he stares with foggy eyes at her body. She’s not going to die unless her brains are rendered nonexistent, but if her heart dies she can never walk the Earth again. This much he knows…and he watches.

He needs her. He’s damn selfish, you see. Everyone is.

April 1711, Castell de Santa Barbara, Costa Blanca, Spain

Cold, so cold. That boiling pot over there, it is shivering and crackling into crystals of ice. It’s the iciest night I’ve known and not a cloth to cover an iota of my skin. My chill bumps are thicker than the actual flesh on my body: God, where are you?

I’ve never believed, I probably won’t ever care to either, but right now I could use just anyone.

They used to insinuate this would happen. I heard them murmur behind the curtains like miniscule, ancient pixies: I remember nothing but understand everything. Because I was a gamble…jack of all trades, master of none. Perfect, ruthless…flawless…I’m at loss of words to describe how happy I should be.

So, cold.

This is a nightmare, I know this much. No, I’m not being figurative—this really is a dream. But, even with this realization…the blistering cold reaches into my bones and congeals the very bone marrow inside me, so bloody cold! This has to be real, maybe I sleep in an alternate dimension but it has to be real.

Otherwise this ordeal makes no sense.

“Lo suficientemente cómodo?”

Beautiful and Scottish would describe her, but I want to be eloquent. If there’s one living being in this fortress of snow, even if I know she’s just someone waiting to shred me apart…why not live the beauty as long as it lasts? Cherry red lips; silky, white skin; inviting, green eyes like stones buried in the pirates’ chamber. Glory untold.

“You don’t remember me, do you Krystal?”

She breathes a cloud of cold breath on my face, jeering next.

“Am I not beautiful, señor? I was beautiful then, too. I was getting married a night later, you must’ve known. Wonderful suitor, none like him in all of Loch Ness County.”

She reaches to the nape of my neck, breathing coldly…oh God, how could I have missed? She isn’t alive. Her back…her entire back is peeled open, like an orange. I could peer into the cavity where her heart should’ve been, her skull where trickles of brain tissue still held on.

Mordag Farquhar, mixed blood Lamia vampire, murdered at the age of twenty-six.

My first kill. I tore off the skin from her entire back and then mutilated her brain and heart.

I earned twenty-thousand pound sterling. Worth every penny, I was told.

“So you remember.”

She says with a chuckle, I could feel her hate ooze out of every hole in her body, scarily overwhelming. I felt the hate protrude my senses, and I hated myself. Maybe only for a moment, but the strength of her emotion!

Someone like me, Krystal Sepúlveda, hated himself.

“But do you know what it felt like, Krystal? Dying? I’m not a sinless soul, I know. I’m trapped in a conflagration in Hell for all I know.”

She licks my ear.

“And that’s why I’m not going to play nice.”

Her hands rise to the top of my head, scratching it as if floundering for a place to start with. I breathe rigorously, trying to summon my body to move. But even though I try, it’s as if they have a mind of their own, they themselves soldiers of God and determined to punish me.

No…no. Madrina, Sabrina, God…anyone! Anyone at all, wake me up.

Her hands stop grazing and her longest finger traces a path along my skull. I breathe once last cold chill and then her fingers clutch the innermost wall round my brain, and pull it down with the foaming hate she has felt for me for who knows how long.

And I scream.

Scream like a wounded pup watching a stampede come its way as it sits upon a floor of roasting coal. A scream so loud that it shudders my body, it breaks the veil between reality and dreams. A scream just like Ibbie’s.

About the pain, I am at loss of words. Of metaphors. Or anything that ever existed, because this feeling is beyond existence.

“Señor? Señor Krystal, wake up! Wake up, please!”

The witch shakes him with desperation scrawled all over her face. He stares at her with the nightmare replaying in his head, over and over again. But he says nothing plausible, just breathes. Her velvety, curly hair falls down on him like a waterfall stumbling down a mighty cliff, after fighting a series of rapids. He wraps his hands around a few curls, so unforgettable, but let’s go as she starts talking.

“You frightened the entire quarter, señor. Young women have faint hearts and if their guardian is bawling so terrifyingly… señor you have no idea how worried we are. You should see a saintly figure, maybe a healer.”

The witch mutters with tears in her eyes. The man knows she isn’t lying; a group of witches stands at his door, huddled close to observe as to what on Earth made him wake up so ‘noisily’. The pain is still pinching the inside of his head; he doesn’t even want to go there, but it keeps coming before his eyes as if it is not a feeling but a material being.

“Sabrina, speak!”

The witch stops sobbing to herself, letting go of her feria dress that she used as a handkerchief. Her lips quaver—speak what, pray tell?

“Señor, what do you wish to hear?”

She manages to bring out this much from her choking throat, at which he growls and sits up straight, glaring at her and baring his vampire canines.

“Bloody speak, you perra!”

He then humbles abruptly, the fervor lost, his tensed temples relaxing as he sighs into the thick, Victorian quilt.

“Speak of what you would do for my life.”

The mention brings a smile to her face, who hops a little on her feet and exclaims anxiously:
“But of course! For this life, I’d even cut my hair and change my name, señor. The two most valuable assets of a Valencia witch.”

The witches at the door nod in chorus—is he going to turn them into a vampire, defying the terms of the treaty? A vampire who’d be considered of the Sepúlvedas? And which idiot would not want that!

Burn their hair to ashes, gorgeous it may be, and who gives a damn about the legacy of their family.

“Say that again, and again, and again…until I want to live through this day, Sabrina.”

The witches gasp and then twitter like newborn nightingales—he must be joking. The woman before him also shakes her head, smiling.

“Señor! Why would you say such a thing? This is indeed a most hilarious joke I have ever heard from anyone. Why would you not want this life! You have everything a man could ask for, señor. Your life is perfect!”


“Too perfect.”

Song: Rockstar by Nickelback {Lyrics, Video}
Lyric Used: I'd even my hair and change my name
Palacio Del Marqués de Dos Aguas The palace of Marqués de Dos Aguas
A gran caballo, grandes espuelas The preparation should be according to the grandness of an occasion (Lit.: A great horse, large spurs)
Madrina Godmother
Tesoro Sweetheart (Lit.: treasure)
Castell de Santa Barbara Santa Barbara Castle
Lo suficientemente cómodo Comfortable enough
Señor Sir
Perra Bitch

Blaire McGregor - January 11, 2011 08:36 PM (GMT)
Karma Killer
– A contest entry by Sina featuring Blaire McGregor, huntress of the Harpur coven –

Clouds drift across the sky, like pieces torn and shred from darkness’ body: darker than even the inky night, foreboding against the bone white full moon that hangs overhead. A nocturnal wind can be heard ghosting through the treetops, a steady murmuring and wailing that echoes through the high nave of Saint Katherine’s and rattles the tall stained glass windows with intangible fingers.

Saint Katherine – her bones are not pillars of marble, but polished granite. What artistic genius created these delightful and frail seeming pillars that grow from the ground like trees with delicate vines climbing their trunks, you might ask, and how is its name not known to the generations that followed? What other wonders were created by the mind that thought of this cloister where light and shadow seem unmovable by night and day to tell the story of His sufferings?

The Saints of Saint Katherine gaze benevolently from their stained glass perch and watch over the empty benches, where rows upon rows of believers used to dwell. Watchful by night and day, loving and wise as the light falling through their shimmering bodies proofs to everyone, that they have been touched by Him, have come close to His secrets and hide them in the colorful lights dancing over the stone floors as much as in the darkening shades of night. Secrets, that each and everyone shall unravel for themselves. The abundance of exquisite beauty, of stone ornaments lavishly adorned with gold and jewels is there to please His eyes only; to show the believers’ reverence and love for Him. The praise of His greatness, glorified with earthly splendor, with mundane riches that shall never come close and yet always strike admiration into the hearts of those who believe.

Saint Katherine, the beautiful – oh, what secrets she holds!

She knows that inside of the breathtaking gothic cathedral, the brazen chandeliers will be holding candles crowned with golden flames to illuminate the magnificence of Saint Katherine, but her steps are unhurried as she makes her way across the nightly gravel path. She knows that the wind’s soothing caresses will soon give way to the warmth that resides within the building’s granite walls. The stone floor will amplify the softest of steps, will let it echo through the cathedral’s nave loud and clear like the clapping of thunder on a sunny day, with no presumptuous rain to take away from the purity of the experience. She knows, that she will walk the cloister – respectful of what it is, but unimpressed of the splendor lining it – until her watchful gaze falls upon the confessional. It is beyond the crimson curtain that hides the center seat of the confessional, that the person she has come to seek out will await her.

And indeed, when her pale, delicate hands pry the cathedral’s gate open, the chandeliers hold tall, white candles and they are ablaze with flames that lure her in.

And indeed, the stone floor lends the softness of her steps a force beyond the gentle whispering it should be, announcing her presence and baring her to the one lurking in the shadows.

And indeed, she walks the length of the cloister with her hands demurely clasping the gospel, a rosary wrapped around her wrist and her head bowed to the Lord of Lords.

Shadowy stalker that she is, Blaire McGregor slips into the confessional and kneels on the hard wood to await his acknowledgement of her presence. The wood is relentless against her knees and she takes comfort from its strength, from its refusal to offer her physical comfort. Her stomach is heavy with guilt, her conscious sullied with the knowledge of sins committed by her heart, her soul and her hand – yet she can show not an ounce of regret for any of it.

In the shadowy darkness of the confessional, a piece of wood is slid to the side and her blue eyes darken as she sees the shadowy figure on the other side of the suddenly all too thin wooden screen.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen,” she intones, crossing herself and the shadowy figure behind the screen offers her a gentle nod in greeting. “May the Lord, who enlightens our hearts, bless you with the true knowledge of your sins and His everlasting mercy,” the shadow murmurs. Blaire reciprocates with a resounding and clear “Amen”, before continuing: “Forgive me father, for I have sinned. Seven days have passed since my last confession.”

”Speak, child, so that I may absolve you of your sins.”

The shaky breathe she draws into her lungs does nothing to soothe her emotions, but the sore flesh on her left hip – burning and stinging still from receiving the mark that she had sought to justly earn for all of her young life – reminds her and reassures her of what she has come to do and she cannot find it in herself to draw this out any longer. But instead of a confession, what she says is this:

”How old are you? Five, six hundred years? Why haven’t you managed to die yet? You know, you could prop up the bar in hell. Tell me, how do you sleep?”

The shade turns towards her and she wonders what he sees in the semi-solid darkness of the confessional. Does he see the soft curve of her mouth, the paleness of her neck and the golden blonde curls that frame her face? Does he think her angelic, innocent seeming?

Because she is not; she is not even human at this very moment.

”My child, I am afraid I cannot quite follow,” the man behind the wooden shade rasps out. ”I am but a man of Go-“

”You’re not a man,” Blaire interrupts. ”Stand and deliver.”

Blue eyes burn into the shadowy figure that always felt so safe behind the wooden screen, behind the robes of his so-called trade, hiding behind the cross, its dignity and infallibility; blue eyes that are dangerous, blue eyes that know.

”Atone,” the young woman says and he knows it is an order he’d do well to follow. But why should he? This land has become a safe haven for his kin. There is nothing to fear, no one to step in, no rule to follow – this is Saint Katherine’s and he is the lord of this house, keeper and master in one. He can do as he pleases.

”Whose sister are you?” he asks solemnly. He would need to know. It was supposed to stay secret but someone had obviously talked. Why else would such a frail creature claim his confessional and pretend to be some sort of avenging angel? But the girl does not respond, does not even twitch under the hawkish gaze of his brittle brown eyes. They fall into a silence that is deafeningly dunning in his ears. No word from the would-be avenger, but her silence unsettles him. He doesn’t understand why.

A doll of a child, deliciously frail and mortal, come to challenge him – of that he is sure. And is this not preposterous? This silly little creature that should hope for his mercy when he took it upon himself to blow out the tiny flame of her existence does not truly believe – why, look at her! Look at her kneeling, her hand clasps, her head demurely lowered even as her gaze pierces the artificial twilight as if she came here not to be absolved but to carry out a verdict.

Who is the saint come to absolve the sinner and who is the poor sinful soul in need of an absolution?

He is not aware of any wrong wrought – the laws of humans do not concern him, after all. But of course, there is this one thing he guesses she might not be pleased with and if she tells him whose sister she is, he will make sure that it won’t be of any concern anymore.

”All I have done is share my love,” he finally says in a weak attempt to rebut whatever accusations she has heard.

”You’ve never loved,” is her icy response.

He can hear her shift beyond the screen; hear the wooden bench groan as the weight of her body is lifted. The harsh sound of the curtain being drawn back is expected and so is the light falling into the cabin where he sits. He faces an angel, crowned with blinding light, her grim expression veiled in soft shadows.

”My child,” but he chokes on the words as the sword gleams golden like fire and sunlight in her hands. ”Are you here to take revenge?”

”You won’t atone,” she says and her smile is serene and vicious at the same time. ”There’s no hope for you…”

Karma Killer.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen,” Blaire says softly and her confessor responds as she has heard earlier tonight already.

“May the Lord, who enlightens our hearts, bless you with the true knowledge of your sins and His everlasting mercy, my child.”

“Amen. Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Three hours have passed since my last confession.”

”My dear girl, what could you have possibly done in three hours that you require the absolution of our Lord?” the confessor enquires and he cannot hide his astonishment and disbelieve.

”I have deliberately gone against the teachings of my elders and willingly broke the law of my people.”

”You speak in riddles. What have you done?”

”I have killed the vampire of Saint Katherine’s.”

Blaire slides into the passenger’s seat of the car. She is a picture of peacefulness and serenity, but the driver knows better than to be fooled by that. It has been a day, since she has received the clan’s mark. A day since she has been a hunter of the Harpur clan.

”The Lord of Sevenwaters will punish you for that. Who do you think you are,” the driver asks. The serenity of her smile never falters.

”I’m a karma killer.”

I admit I censored myself while writing and I am not sure whether this makes my entry more obscure than it has to be. The lyrics don’t fit 100 per cent, but the sentiment does.

Karma Killer – Robbie Williams

You've been naughty...very very naughty
Are you cut up
Or do you easily forget
Are you still around
Why haven't you managed to die yet
You could prop up the bar in hell

How do you sleep
You've never loved
Why was I never good enough
You thought you'd leave me falling forever
Karma killer

Needless to say
I guess you know I hate you
You're so full of sin
Even the devil rates you
I hope you choke
On your Bacardi and Coke

How do you breathe
Why don't you cry
How come you never ask me why
You're not a man stand and deliver
Karma killer

How do you sleep
You've never loved
Why was I never good enough
You thought you'd leave me falling forever

Karma killer
Karma killer
Karma killer
Karma killer

I hope you choke
On your Bacardi and Coke

Look what you didn't take from me
Look what you didn't take from me
Look what you didn't take from me
Look what you didn't take from me

I don't need to take revenge
Cos they're coming to get you
There's no hope for you my friend
Cos they're coming to get you

Karma killer
Karma killer
Karma killer
Karma killer
Karma killer
Karma killer

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Ellen Fitzgerald - January 19, 2011 11:18 PM (GMT)
Beautiful entries you two! ^_^ There was requests to have an extension on the contest, and so I'm leaving it open for ONE MORE WEEK, so anyone else looking to join should do that soon <3

Again, this contest has been extended until JANUARY 26TH.

Nick Barrett - January 25, 2011 07:14 PM (GMT)
S a n d m a n

"You are mortal: it is the mortal way.
You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell.
You grieve. Then you continue with your life.
And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest,
and you will weep.
But this will happen less and less as time goes on.
She is dead.
You are alive.
So live."

Dream to his son Orpheus, Brief Lives



Rain fell that night, a fine, whispering rain. It is the last true sound he could recall. In years to come, he only had to close his eyes to remember it, little taps on the roof that drowned out the voice of his father.

A wolf bayed in the distance, and that night, no matter how many times he tossed and turned he couldn't get to sleep.



He stood at the top of the crag. He stood perfectly still, silent the way the air around him and the water below was not. The wind blew his dark hair into his eyes, but he saw the dark waters, nevertheless.

Today would be the day of his return.

The day his spirit would be no more. All his sad quilted memories would be taken away from him. The child would have to be on its own from now on. He would have to leave the child behind. It was out of question that he could bring her with him. His own child. In a way.

Better this way, for he has seen what his father could do, in the name of a faceless God. Know the depths of the man’s purity and righteousness. She’ll be his tool if he brought her here, just as his father plans to make him do his bidding.

Never again, he thought.



He sighed, and wiped the blood with the back of his hand. His eyes looked beyond the rolling hills, past the mist, and saw the outline if his home, his prison.

Everything was being gently erased.

Time has a way of doing this and at times, he cursed his lonely existence.

He could not escape.

He could not sleep...



If he heard the alarm in her voice, he paid no heed to it. By starlight he saw that she was young indeed, close to his wife's age on the day of their wedding. She looked at him with blue eyes. Blue, like his wife's eyes, before death robbed them of color.

He killed her, without saying a word. The light left her eyes before she even had the chance to close them. What was left of his soul frayed at the edges.

He was withering away, he could feel it. He heard the whispers of the Storyteller, looked at the body of the girl and felt resentment how his story was being taken away from him.

"My story is mine to tell, Storyteller."

"Is it now?"

They look at each other, and knew they both were the same: they were as indifferent to the girl's death as they were to wars, crucifixions, resurrections.

...and he keeps fighting.



He didn't see this coming. The girl and the man, and the other girl, the one with the red hair; he didn't see it coming.

He had been with the time-teller; he had been with men who spoke of seeing the unseen. He had learned all and mastered all their techniques. And he had not seen this coming.

Still, it doesn’t matter. He has all the time in the world and there is no need to rush. He feels a bit of regret, for it is beautiful, what they have, but in the end, it's not enough.

And he would fight; fight until he was worn and weathered and beaten, fight with all his spirit.

Because that was all it came down to in the end. His spirit. He has nothing left but the soothing calm of his spirit, his only constant. It would always be there for him. He didn't have a life, it couldn't be called that. He had - has - an existence.

With only a spirit and the urge to keep holding on...


song inspirations: can be found here

Sebastian Maddock - January 28, 2011 08:54 PM (GMT)
The contest part of this is closed now, and its time for

VOTING :biggrin:

We're going to do it the same as we did last contest. Post IN THIS THREAD with your vote of who you think best narrated their story while still remaining true to the contest. Feel free to give reasons why you picked them or not.

I'd also like to know: Should we continue with these contests? And, are more people interested in joining them in the future?

Feel free to answer or not answer that too with your votes.

Bee's Vote

Blaire McGregor - Karma Killer.

William Harper - January 28, 2011 11:28 PM (GMT)
Voting for Karma Killer, also! Good job, guys!

Brayden Kees - January 29, 2011 04:49 PM (GMT)
Good job everyone! <3

Voting for Chingoo's entry.

Damien Sepúlveda - February 1, 2011 09:12 AM (GMT)
Voting for Karma Killer.

Ruben Kroll - February 3, 2011 03:01 AM (GMT)
:gasp: Thanks all who voted so far. I just realized I hadn't set a date for this to end ^_^ So Imma say voting will go for another week, until February 9th.

So if you haven't voted yet :gasp: please do!

Gwendolyn Manson - February 8, 2011 07:15 PM (GMT)
Y'all got until tomorrow to vote ^_^ so if you haven't already, please do <3

Roxie Beauregard - February 8, 2011 07:23 PM (GMT)
Ok it was a toughie for me since I thought both entries were interesting. In the end I had to go for personal preference and I just love Ama's style so that's where my vote goes. :)

Dorian Faux - February 8, 2011 07:24 PM (GMT)
i seem to be following the crowd by going for Sina's Karma Killer

Sebastian Maddock - February 10, 2011 07:15 PM (GMT)
Voting is closed! The winner of this contest is:


Congrats! ^_^ your prizes are above, and you get to pick the next contest theme. Post it up in this forum, and the admins will pin it up afterward <3

Thank you everyone who entered and voted!

Roxie Beauregard - February 10, 2011 07:29 PM (GMT)
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I won I won I won! <33

Thank you everyone for the votes! I have a contest idea already and it'll be up asap. I will make sure to PM one of the admins about my choice in price. :) I won ;_;

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