GotR's Writing Archive

Welcome to GotR's Writing Archive, where I stick up all of my work and hope people find it interesting. I'm going to make an effort to update the OP with new stuff I do, as well as post when it happens.

I've sorted the contents into the types of writing, which, at the moment, consists of a 'Short Stories' hide tag and a 'Poetry' hide tag. I may add different folders or separate them out a bit more if I branch out a bit, but at the moment it doesn't seem necessary.

I'd also like to take a moment to encourage the writers of Smogon to start similar threads. I know you're out there, from the 'Writer's' and 'Poetry' threads in Cong, but it's often really difficult to find people's work. There's a writing mega thread in Smeargle's Studio somewhere, but it's very, very dead, and more suited to single posts anyway. I'd love to see more writing activity around; it's a little sub-community just waiting to happen.

Also, go check out the Writing Room if you're ever on PS! There's a heap of cool people in there (shout-outs to all of the mods) and it's usually fairly active, so there's always a decent chance that someone will be around and willing to read/review anything you want to post, or even just to discuss writing in general.

If you spot anything that needs correcting in anything I post, or if you have constructive feedback, or even if you just want to talk and/or ask for advise about writing things, feel free to post away below.

I've been heavily influenced by books and stories from a young age, and ever since I can remember I've been obsessed with the fantasy and sci-fi genres. Some of my favourites stories are The Wheel of Time, a very long book series by Robert Jordan; Harry Potter, because it's amazing (nuff said) by J. K. Rowling, and Eragon, even if the final book wasn't as good as the earlier ones, by Christopher Paolini.

I was inspired to start writing for myself after reading some of Wislawa Szymborka's poem's for literature at school. As such, my style is somewhat based off of hers - I try not to be straight forward, and usually the meaning behind what I'm writing is something about my world view. The format also tends to be very free-form, which is caused at least in part by the fact that I prefer to just get ideas out of my head (also I'm not very good an rhyming).

Before I started writing, I used to get an idea that I thought was really cool stuck in my head and think something along the lines of 'someone should do this!'. Obviously I realised that not only am I capable of doing it myself, but if anyone else did it it wouldn't be the way I'd originally wanted it.

This means that I tend to write when I've had an idea rattling around in my head for a few days/weeks/months and decide I finally need to get it out on paper. I write in fits and starts, as I find things that I can be bothered following through on.

Part of the reason I focus on short stories and poems is because I find it really difficult to complete a long piece of work without going back over it and changing everything. I always feel like I could have written things better, or that my writing isn't up to the standard I set for myself, so I either spend a lot of time going back over it and editing (which just makes me feel worse about what I had originally) or not editing very much at all.

Most of the stuff I finish hasn't been edited much because of this, and as a result I feel like a lot of it is unfinished. I know I could write my poems better, but I'm afraid that if I go back in and change them I'll lose the spark that made them special in the first place, and so I just sit back and wish I'd done better the first time. Reading back over my old stuff tends to be painful - I always notice out of place words, passages I could have done better, or that my metre is out of whack.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still proud of what I have, I'm just hoping I'll get better with more practice.

I expect the main things that will keep me coming back to this thread to be my entries for the Writing Room's Fiction Phantasm events and Sunday Scribing challenges. If I'm struck by a bolt of inspiration and write a poem, I'll try to post that as well. Finally, if I ever actually start on the novel/series I've been thinking about for months, I might post completed chapters here as well.

The wind howls.

The leaves make skittering noises as they’re blown down the lane.
Old, abandoned houses squat at the verge;
Tall oaks blot out the sky,
Lamenting the rain, the clouds, the gloom.

Nothing moves, aside from those leaves.
In a movie they’d be tumbleweeds, but no;
Tumbleweeds don’t make that noise,
The noise that proves no other noise exists.

Down the lane strolls an old man.
He’s out of place:
Something that moves, something that knows it’s alive.
And yet, perhaps he isn’t so out of place,
Old, run down, no longer loved.

The old man hums a song long forgotten,
A song of love, of adventure, of tragedy.
A song of hope.
This place has not known hope in so long.

Strange, that it comes from one who himself is hopeless.
Odd, that it should come here at all.

The houses lean in to listen.

The desolation of time,
Manifest in the ruins of the pantheon.
A golden crown rests on a boulder –
A chunk of a once great structure.
It is bent and broken, the gold chipped away
Revealing the copper beneath.

Where once was power
Is ruin.
Where once were believers
Is emptiness.

The abyss, the all-consuming void -
To all things:
The beginning and the end,
If not the cause.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Where once stood a grand temple
Now lies a stagnant pond.
A majestic grove has been cut down
In favour of a satanic altar.

An honourable king has been slain,
Replaced by a regal jester.
He plays his subjects as a bard plays a fiddle.

The sheep are lethargic today;
They have time to smell the roses.
Though in truth, they only ever run
When they can sense the horsemen.

The sheep don’t know what has been lost;
Absorbed as they are with their flowers.
The king did, but was powerless to act.
The jester might, but is too busy to care;
Spending his days gold-plating the eves
Of the ramshackle mansion that used to be a castle.

What pillar will be next to fall?

Waves crash against my little island’s beach:
Unbidden. Unrelenting.
Just as memories crash through my mind.

She nearly drowned here.
Taken out by the tide,
unable to swim back.
Bobbing up and down in the water –
and then not coming up.

She said at first she struggled furiously to hold on to life.
She kicked and trashed, hoping for a miracle,
onlyto realise it was hopeless.

She said there was calm after the storm.
That once the violence was gone,
She opened her eyes
and simply appreciated the beauty of the sea.
Beauty tainted by savage power.

She told me that down there,
the troubles of above simply melt away
in refracted beams of light.
In the music.

She said she heard music.
Quiet, yet profound.
It sounded like an orchestra –
Her words –
with layers upon layers of melody.

She was only able to comprehend the top layer,
but She was aware that the other layers existed.

She has a theory about this music.
She calls it the music of life.
She thinks that every living thing has its own layer;
that sometimes they work in harmony,
and at other times they are discordant and unorganised.
Weaving, together and apart,
shaping the pattern we call living.

I don’t see the music in life.
Not as She does.

The waves crash against the beach,
as my thoughts crash through my mind.

I think I would like to understand life –
even if just for a minute.

What comes after no longer scares me.

I dive into the waves.

The puppeteer directs his show,
shrouded in a fog of his own words.
The words are repeated by the puppets –
the same puppets who see a hand in the fog
and call it Righteous Salvation.

Other puppets see the hand and cower in fear;
fleeing Fate, running from Destiny,
in a futile search for understanding through decision.
Their acceptance of the ethereal fist of inevitability
is more of a cage than any cell.

I see no hand.
I see nothing at all.
I am free to escape
into the unrelenting abyss of life:
where the puppeteer holds power only through his puppets.

There are voices all around.
But where are the people?
I try to push aside this inky veil of darkness
But reality doesn’t return.

A man is mumbling to himself.
He’s not talking to me;
It’s difficult to pick out his words.
What I hear isn’t pleasant.
‘Kill’, he whispers. ‘Stab. Blood. Death.’
I think maybe he’s insane.

A female voice.
Loud, shouting;
Easy to hear.
Someone I know?
Yes, I think so.
The words are familiar.
‘Work! Sleep! No breaks!’

Another man joins the conversation, if that’s what it can be called.
His tone is much more calm; reasonable, even.
It doesn’t make him more difficult to hear;
In fact, it might be lending emphasis to his words.
‘You are capable of anything’, he says.
‘All you have to do is try’.
He’s almost convincing.

Now a little kid.
Squealing, excited,
But distant, hard to hear.
‘I want to be an astronaut!
Or a cowboy! Or… Or…’

His enthusiasm is infectious –
Wait, where’s he gone?
I can no longer hear that voice.
He’s been drowned out,
And I think the calm man has gone off to help.

I don’t want to be left with the shouter,
And the crazy’s no better.
‘Too bad!’
‘Too bad, too bad, stabby stab.’

My vision clears,
Slowly and carefully.
The mirror is shattered,
And I see my face reflected
In a thousand shards of glass.

The sun is a burnt orange disc, hovering just above the horizon. It paints the wheat golden,
and baths the clouds in bloody crimson. It shows a beautiful landscape that manages to feel empty,
uneventful, and flat.

Sarah stands a few metres off to my right. We swing our scythes almost in unison, united in
purpose by the harvest. Our movements are smooth with the ease of long practice, graceful in their

There’s work to be done, and we both know there’s no time to waste.
I see a flash of colour flicker across my vision. White, cream, grey; doesn’t matter. It has to
be a rabbit. I haven’t seen one in years. It’s quick, but so am I, and I’m not giving up the opportunity
for meat easily. Not after so long.

In a split second, I’ve dropped my scythe and bolted after it. It’s realised I’m on its tail – it
picks up speed, and changes direction wildly, seemingly randomly. I might have been thrown off,
but I can track it by following the gap in the wheat heads as it moves.

I’m gaining on it, making up distance every time it veers in a new direction. I think I’m in
range to catch it if I jump. I’m going to have to take a risky shot, my legs are burning from the
exertion of running full speed. I take off, throwing my body weight forward, reaching out to slip my
hands around the rabbit.

I touch something furry. In the fraction of a second it takes for this information to register,
my hands seize up, locking in my grip. I’m holding it tight; it’s bucking and wriggling in a frantic
attempt to get free.

My body collides with the ground after what seems like an eternity in the air. I almost let go
as the wind is driven out of my diaphragm, but somehow I contrive not to lose hold.

I take a couple seconds to recover, then pick myself up and dust off the front of my clothes
with a free hand. Realising Sarah mustn’t have seen that rabbit and that I must look like a fool, I
raise the hand holding the rabbit towards her, and allow a wild, untamed smile to take hold of my

Instead of the laughter I was expecting, she looks at me with horror. Her hair isn’t billowing
in the wind, her mouth isn’t curled up at the sides, her eyes aren’t squinting to see, and I don’t hear
that wonderful sound of air rushing out of her lungs. No, her eyes are wide open, staring right at
me, lips only slightly parted, and her hand is outstretched in my direction, reaching toward me for
reassurance, or perhaps in a futile attempt to bring me back.

Halfway between us, little orange flags mark out a line. It’s only then that I realise I’ve
crossed the border.

I feel a momentary panic. A shiver wracks my body, and a quick light-headedness marks the
tell-tale sign of the testosterone dump consistent with the flight or fight response. My muscles
tense, looking to run for an escape, to punch something, anything.

Useless. Useless responses from a body not willing to accept that it’s too late.

My fate is already sealed.

I force myself to relax my muscles, including my face. My expression must have been
something fierce, judging by the look that Sarah is directing my way. She’s somehow managed to
look even more frightened, worried, and shocked.

I hold up the rabbit again for her to see, as if to say, ‘Yes, I did actually keep hold of it’. I
smile slightly – not the unconstrained show of glee from a second earlier, but rather, a sad, peaceful

Her expression changes as she hurriedly tries to stifle a chuckle. That’s the Sarah I love, right
down to her morbid sense of humour. Evidently, she understood what I was trying to communicate.

My hand drops to my side, and I let the rabbit go. No reason for him to die as well.

Sarah looks back at me, and I see my sad smile reflected on her face. She understands. Of
course she does.

Her eyes flicker over my shoulders, and I know the guards are coming. I don’t see them, but
I know what to expect: grey, padded uniforms, featureless helmets, guns in hand. Instead of
turning, I focus on Sarah. That’s what I want my last memory to be of.

She’s crying now. Tears leak out of both eyes, and yet, she’s still grinning. Again, she has to
suppress a giggle. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hands.

I feel a sharp pain on the back of my knees. One of the guards has stepped on them, to
force me into a kneeling position. I hear a dull thunk as the butt of a gun is slammed into the back of
my head, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. I feel strangely detached from the impact,
choosing instead to focus on Sarah, to drink in the sight of her one last time.

I don’t fall forward. No reason to drag this out longer than it needs to be.

Sarah’s eyes widen a bit. I guess that one of the guards has raised his rifle into a firing
position. And then she… turns away, walking back to the farm house.

Doesn’t want to have to see me lying on the ground with my brains blown out, I suppose.

A blast rings out through the empty air.

I see her flinch, every muscle in her body tensing all at once, but she doesn’t turn around.
She keeps walking. Good girl.

My blood splatters onto the hard packed dirt, and everything goes black.

The note read: 'I’ve found you once. I can find you again.' I had no idea how it had appeared in my pocket, but it was god damn disturbing. The contents on their own were enough to make me feel more than a little unsettled, but the fact that someone had managed to actually slip it into my clothing without me noticing was even worse.

I looked at Beisha, showed her the note, and raised an eyebrow. She snatched it out of my hand, instantly alert – she could tell something was wrong. Her hazel eyes flicked across the page and she looked back up at me. Without needing to communicate we started moving again, both keeping a watchful eye out for suspicious behaviour.

Making any progress through the bazaar was difficult, to say the least. People were crammed into the tight walkways between stalls, shoulder to shoulder, all struggling to push their way through the crowd. In the old days, this market area would have been loud, bright and colourful, but not anymore.

Now, the only way to describe the atmosphere would be ‘oppressive’. People were scared about the lack of success in the war, about the increased taxes, and, more than either of those, about the recent mage escapes. They bustled around with their heads down, rushing from stall to stall to stall or a pre-arranged trail that lead them to exactly what they were looking for, without time to stop and gawk at anything else on offer.

At each intersection and each entry point to the market area stood a pair of grey-clad city guards. The idea was that their presence would make people feel more secure, but in reality, their overt display of weaponry and constant watchful gaze had the opposite effect.

As I walked, I slowed my breathing, focussing on the almost trance-like state that accompanied constant surveillance. Slowly, calmly, I began lowing the mental barrier that protected me from my power, but didn’t seek to access it just yet. A mage’s first lesson is that use of magic has consequences, and his second is how to prepare his power without using it.

In my mind’s eye, I reached out and took hold of the glittering gem that signified my ability. I felt my body heat up; felt the electric zing of energy flowing through my veins; felt the world seem to slow down as my senses heightened. Everything seemed clearer, sharper, more defined; smell became a primary sense, colour seemed to burst from everything around me, and I could hear the heartbeats of those close to me. Beside me, Beisha was surrounded by the glow that indicated she, too, had taken hold of her power.

We would now stand out like a beacon to any mages around, but at this point it was a necessary risk. Both of us continued scanning the crowd, now also looking for the tell-tale glow of any other mages who might be holding their power.

I tongue clicked twice. Clear, in our personalised quick-communication language. She gave two quick tongue clicks back.

The crowd bustled around us, jostling us in the direction of the general flow of traffic.

There were people on every side, crammed in to the small alleys between stalls like fish in a net. The lack of personal space was making our job of reaching one of the stairs out of the shallow depression the market was situated in much more difficult.

We’d almost reached the eastern exit when it happened. For a split second, the crowd blocking my vision parted, affording me a view of a man standing perhaps 10 metres away. He was still and unwavering, which was quite a feat given the number of people bustling about. He wasn’t tall, perhaps 165 centimetres from head to toe, but still managed to seem like he was dominating the space. He wore a beige button down and black slacks, and his receding hairline was mostly covered by a dirty brown hat. His violet eyes stared out from behind his broken spectacles, boring holes in anything he turns his gaze to – and right at the minute, he was looking right at me. It felt like he could see my soul.

Then the crowd closed up again, and he was gone; blocked from sight by the overwhelming crush of bodies.

I leaned down to whisper in Beisha’s ear. “They sent The Detective after us. Ortmeyer. We’re in more trouble than I’d thought.”

She looked back at me, and for the first time in a long time, I saw genuine fear in her expression.

I put an arm around her shoulders, tried to drag her forward a bit faster. We began to move a bit more quickly, causing the people around us to cast nervous glances in our direction. Had there been the space to do so, we might have broken into a run, but that wasn’t possible with the limited amount of moving room we had.

I could see the stairs in front of us over the heads of the crowd now. It was being manned by two of the city guard, a small but steady stream of people trickling in and out of the plaza. We joined the ‘out’ line, exiting the plaza without incident.

At the top of the stairs I stopped, turned around, and scanned the crowd that had been following us for signs of the detective. He was very recognisable from head on, which those searching, purple eyes, but I was discovering that his head was a lot less unique.

After a couple seconds I spotted him. He was following the ‘out’ crowd in our direction, seemingly unhurried and yet cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter.

Now I released my power, and felt the tell-tale release of anxiety that came with holding the Source and not using it. The effect wasn’t immediately noticeable, but it was there. The crowd around Ortmeyer seemed to pack in a little tighter, an action that on its own seemed innocuous and unconscious, but combined served to block the detective and slow his forward pace down to a crawl.

I exhaled, and felt the dull exhaustion of power usage settle in. It wasn’t bad; what I’d done didn’t require much energy, but it was definitely noticeable. I kept my grip on the mental gem in case I needed to act further.

I turned to look at Beisha, back in the direction in which we were planning to leave. Concern was evident in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. I suppose she didn’t want to second guess my decisions before we were out of danger.

“Old City?” I asked.

She nodded once, quickly, and walked off, setting a pace she knew I’d find difficult to match.

The Old City was the heart of Akuna City: the living, breathing hive of activity near the city’s river border, that had stood since before humans had settled these lands. The buildings in these areas where made of beautifully curving sandstone, in accordance with the designs of some alien architect. This type of building was far beyond the capabilities of the city’s current denizens.

Logically, I would have expected the upper class to take up residence in this area, due to its clear beauty when compared to the timber-and-cobble construction evident in the rest of the city. Apparently, the upper class didn’t agree with my tastes. They instead preferred to create their own area - in what is now the centre of the city - that conformed to more modern ideals of practicality and efficiency.

That meant Old City was left to the middle class: blacksmiths, carpenters, other tradesmen; merchants; minor noble houses. These people knew they lived in the nice area of town, and they appreciated it. They were mostly a mostly cheerful, neighbourly lot, and managed to seem happy despite the current situation and their constant business.

Beisha and I ducked into ‘The Singing Lady’, one of the shoddier – though still acceptable – taverns in the area. We sat down, ordered drinks, and began discussing our next move in hushed voices.

“I know Ortmeyer”, I said, keeping my voice low. “It’s not possible to hide from him, and if he catches us unprepared, it’s not going to be pretty.”

Beisha glares at me. She already knows this.

“Where do you want to set the trap?” She asks.

I grin. She always knows what I’m thinking.

“The bridge?”

She inclines her head slightly. “Too open. The gardens?”

I cock my eyebrow, just to annoy her. “Too many guards.” She grunts.

The serving girl arrives with our ale. I pay, a copper too much, though it’s questionable whether or not she’ll notice.

Beisha and I both pick up our cups, take a long chug, slam our cups down, and say in unison, “The gallows!”

I laugh, and she even manages to crack a smile. We finish our drinks and set off again.

Beisha had gotten her way, and I was the bait. Nothing unusual there. I sat on a bench on the edge of what the general populace had labelled ‘The Death Square’. Whenever the Empress decided to purge the jails, this was where the hangings happened.

At other times, like now, people used the square like any other road. They never lingered long, though.

Behind me was the entrance to another tavern. It seemed to be cut out of sandstone as if the rock was alive, in the typical fashion of the Old City. Beisha sat behind the grimy window, waiting for something to happen.

I was going back through the breathing exercise, slowly regaining my grip on my imaginary gem, eyes closed. I didn’t expect my power to be able to help me much here, but being calm might.

“You… do know I’m immune to powers, right?” asked a quiet voice next to me. I might have been startled if I wasn’t in the depths of the trance.

“Yes, quite aware.”

“Yet still you hold the source.”

“It’s about control, Ortmeyer. Control and clarity. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

He chuckled quietly, without humour. “Quite.” Suddenly he shifted gears. “Where is she?”

I opened my eyes. That was something I hadn’t expected. I was the target, I was the one who had finally escaped; as far as the mages were concerned, Beisha was an asset that could be regained. I was the one who needed to be put down.

I didn’t let any of my confusion show through. “Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn’t it.”

“Would she come running if I stabbed you, I wonder?”

“Probably. That is the point of bait, after all.”

As if to punctuate my statement, a stack of boxes came flying towards the bench we were sitting on. Ortmeyer and I both dove off the bench in different directions, a split second before we would have been hit.

I rolled to my feet and planted myself in a fighting stance, seeing that Ortmeyer had done the same. Quickly I cast around for Beisha. She should have been just behind me, but when I looked, she’d disappeared.

Ortmeyer charged while I was distracted. He’d pulled a knife out of somewhere – a pocket, perhaps? It wasn’t particularly important. Even without a weapon advantage he would have been more than a match for me; as it was, it was all I could do to avoid his strikes and hold him off.

This part of the plan required Beisha to come in and back me up, but inexplicably, she wasn’t here. I focussed my full attention back on Ortmeyer –

Just in time to see the knife descending at an angle I hadn’t predicted. It lodged in my shoulder, effectively took my left arm out of the fight. I fell, landed on my back. I’d expected Ortmeyer to pounce forward and finish me off, but for some reason, he waited. Slowly he stalked over, drawing another knife from beneath a fold of his coat.

He bent down over me and spoke, still in that intense, quiet voice. “Yes, Mr Locke, I believe that is exactly the point of bait”, and he smiled – by which I mean his lips curled up and his teeth showed. It only served to make him seem more demonic.

Slowly, the knife descended, inching closer and closer to my heart. It seemed he was waiting for something, unwilling to finish it off with one final stab.

I was panicking. This hadn’t gone to plan – something had prevented Beisha from coming out of the tavern to my rescue. I wasn’t particularly worried about myself, I’d been expecting death for a long time now. No, I was worried something had happened to her.

The knife struck home, piercing skin, making its way between ribs, and lodging itself firmly in my chest. I screamed.

Behind us, I heard an explosion, followed by a loud pop. Suddenly Beisha is standing over me, over Ortmeyer. I have no idea how she got here, her power is telekinesis. She kicks Ortmeyer off me, dives on top of him, pins him to the ground with a hand around the neck. He struggles, but feebly, and I realise he’s not going to be able to throw her off.

I watch as the life slowly leeches out of him, as his trashing becomes less and less violent, and then stops altogether. His head tilts my way, and his eyes stare into mine one last time. They’re not the same any more. The purple is still there, but it no longer seems like he sees too much of me. It doesn’t look like he sees anything.

Beisha gets up and slowly walks over to me. She sits behind me, cradles my head in her lap, and looks me in the eyes. I stare back, and I manage to crack a smile. A tear rolls down her cheek.

“I can’t heal you”, she says, voice devoid of emotion.

“I… know”, I wheeze. Ortmeyer must have punctured my lung.

She shakes her head quickly. “No, you don’t. I- the bartender wouldn’t let me leave, said I hadn’t paid, people were blocking the door and I…”

“I… know”, I repeat. “Kinesh… Uldan.”

She nods. “There is no healing power. I have them all and… and I don’t have that.”

I nod back, and close my eyes. We share a brief, final moment of silence.

“Do it, Beisha”, I whisper. “It’ll hurt less.”

The knife comes free from my chest in a spurt of blood and the pain somehow increases. Then… then I don’t feel anything.

Beisha let his head drop, and wondered how long he’d known. She supposed it didn’t matter now. People knew her face, knew that she was a mage and that she was on the loose. She didn’t have time to stay here and grieve.

She got up, and slowly walked out of the square. She looked back once. He looked so peaceful, aside from the open wound in his chest.

The knife still stuck out of his throat.

She turned around and walked back into the street, thoughts turning to necessities: allies, supplies…

And revenge.

Edit 2: Added my entry for Fiction Phantasm 1.
Edit 3: Changed to OP to be a bit less erratic and talk a bit more about my thoughts on my own writing.
Last edited:
Bump! Updated the OP with my entry for the Writing Room's first Fiction Phantasm event. This entry actually won the competition, which surprised me a little - I hadn't finished it with enough time to go back over it and write a third draft, though I may still end up doing that if the mood strikes me. It also maybe have exceeded the word limit (2000, and my story was 2520 words, I think), but SHHHH don't tell anyone!

The specifications for this challenge were:
Genre: Fantasy
World Theme: Dystopian
Character: Ortmeyer (plus some description, including that he had to be a detective, socially awkward, and what he looked like)
Twist: A supporting character is the 'chosen' one who wields every type of magic power.

My approach here was to blend a whole heap of ideas from things that I've read and liked. The way the mages operate is meant to be similar to the mage circles in Dragon Age, and the escapees are reminiscent of the apostates. The way people access their magic powers was based loosely on 'The Wheel of Time' series, though obviously people can only have one power. The dystopian elements didn't shine through as much as I wanted, and mainly came from war, taxes, and a government crack down, but that system was loosely based on Volaria from the Raven's Shadow series. I'd had the idea to also introduce the slave trade in the bazaar, but couldn't find a way to word it without killing the passage's flow. Finally,
My extra special twist comes courtesy of G. R. R. Martin and Game of Thrones, which should surprise no one who watches/reads the series. Martin's ideal of breaking the typical fantasy tropes is something that really appeals to me, so expect whacko, expected shit to happen in my stories.

Other things that I need to get out of my system:
  • Let me know if you didn't read this, I like talking about how I wrote something but I'm not sure I can be bothered if no one cares.
  • Yes, I know 'let me know if you didn't read this' makes no sense, that was a joke. Still let me know if you think I shouldn't bother.
  • Smogon's formatting is a pain in the fucking ass. It doesn't take tab indents (or any indents at all) so I had to go through and remove them all, and then double space everything. Also, it makes dialogue take up way more space than it should.

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