K'sariya's Story Journal
#1

What will I write? Who knows.

Also going to track my story legend here:

Stories:
Mwako - Medium - $20,000
Royalty - Hard - $20,000
The Things They Carried - Simple (x2) - $10,000
FUSION // FISSION - Complex - $30,000
Heroes - Simple, Medium (x2) - $25,000
REANIMTE - $47,500
LIGHTWARDEN - Hard (x2) - $50,000

Story Journals:
$3,500 earned

Writing Competition Voting:
to be compiled

Total:
$205,500

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#2
Gonna start drabbling out an idea or two for my WaR in order to get a feel for what grabs me.

In the black void of space, he wakes alone.

Crimson eyes, ringed with brilliant seafoam iris, roll slowly open to take in the vastness. Deep, dark pitch spreads as far as he can see, interrupted only by the occasional glowing speck of a planet or a star or some planetary body or another. Draconic maw twists into a frown as he looks over the unfamiliar scape. The grimace flashes pale teeth.

One light particular seems a little larger than the rest, tinted with a peculiar cerulean. Curious, he leans forward toward it, and the bulbous shape of his tail lights unbidden, lightning blue swirling in the lapses in its carapace to propel him forward. Electric light gleams on his dark armor as he slowly, gradually, pushes himself through the empty, quiet, and dead void.

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#3

There's a fog, thick and choking around his conscience, one that he can't quite place. There's a strange sense of deja vu around it, as if his very existence floats in the limbo between existing and not, like words on the tip of the tongue that haven't quite teetered over the edge. Drifting through space with no one else for company, he dwells on that fog.

Occasionally, when he reaches into it with memory-searching fingers, he captures brief flashes of wispy impressions that curl fleetingly over grasping digits. Bright flashes, intense pain, intense anger. Thick bracers on claws crossing, steady... shielding, something. Something about the memories makes the loneliness feel stronger. Agony, anguish. Reluctance. Then loneliness. The feelings play on a repeat.

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#4
new angle because i'm fickle

Lightning shatters the thick artillery shell before it can collide with the obsidian bracer. Body hunches low and close as the blast's fire washes searingly over the hulking behemoth's armor. Another missile zips near, circling as it hones in on the blindingly-bright ball of heat and lightning explosions, and as the plasma strikes it down, shrapnel shreds into tender nape. A roar of agony bellows from him, and lost beneath are the shouts of surprise.

With surprising tenderness, Zekrom's claws grab the tiny body ensconced within its shielding form. Crimson eyes roll downwards, lingering on the small body cradled in his arms. She gazes up at him--not with fear, but with trust. He pulls her close and surges upward, conic tail bursting with energy as it propels him into the sky.

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#5
Call me a protractor because I can't stop measuring this out with new angles

His body rests, suspended in the vastness of the void, distance stretching endlessly between them. His eyes don't leave him; crimson pools remain locked on the ice-armored dragon floating in the distance. Guarded, Zekrom holds Reshiram close, the orb nestled against him like a large, pale pearl, its warmth seeping through his armor, so different from the space's ruthless cold.

Kyurem drifts ever-so-slightly forward. Sparks crackle threateningly between Zekrom's wings in response.

"Hand her over," comes the telepathic grumble. Voice is distorted, warped, twisted like rock and metal being ground into one. Zekrom looks upon this third part of them, remembering when they were once whole. He looks down at the sphere that traps the great dragon of fire, and knows that within, Reshiram lies, weak. He could forfeit them both, now. They could return to being one.

The lightning crackles more fiercely around his armor. "No."

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#6
Mood-y-boarding out Rookidee story. :eyes:

Lion-hearted little one, fiercely re-arranging the pieces. Wooden statues moving unbidden across human-sized chessboard, pushing leaves out of the way, too-large statuettes of strategic pawns hiding the tiny figure sliding them across the tiles. Two birds perched above, one large one upon the wooden arcing mane of Mudsdale up above, the other perched comfortably in the toothed nooks of a rook.

It rained recently, making the board slick enough to more easily move the light-wood pieces. Pink tennis shoes squeak against the slightly-slippery tiles. Pigtails bob as she carelessly uses her full body weight to move 'em. An old man watches from a nearby bench that he had wiped down, his interest piqued, watery blue eyes narrowed kindly. He hauls himself from his seat and begins to shuffle over.

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#7

It’s one of the things you get used to early out here in the Under. Y’know, how kinda’ messed up things can be. It’s especially scary how quickly the youngin’s get used to it. Hell, when I was still a whelp, I watched a sick old Intelleon get beat within an inch of his life for a coupl’a silver pieces like it was nothin’. I think some part of me was supposed to feel like I should’a helped him, but instead I just turned scale ‘n’ walked away, ‘cause him being at the wrong place at the wrong time to keep those guys occupied was the only thing that got me home. But that’s just the way it is.

As a kid, I used to spend a lotta time looking up at the metal transports ‘n’ cars flying on the magneto tracks up above the low shanties of the Under, dreamin’ about what it’d be like up there. I always wondered what we must look like from that high up. But that’s the funny thing I’ve found out now that I’m up there; once you get out, you don’t look back down much. The Under’s like a tar pit; you’re scared it’ll suck you back down if you even so much as look at it.

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#8

My Mixer whines as it shifts modes from magway to airway, gears clunking as it shifts the liftoff magnets to the base. Blasters whirr to a shuddering start. These little vehicles get a bad rep’, but they’re cheap and they get a chump like me into space on low enough fuel to make ‘em affordable. I knew the owners of the company that made ‘em, once--grew up with their son while they were still making little space buckets, ones they could barely keep in the air at first. But the Mixers is what made ‘em rich--the vehicle’s nifty trick of switching from car to ship with a button press made ‘em enough money to send ‘em straight into the lap of luxury into the capitol.

As mine rises, I watch the world pull away from me. It feels nice, to leave it all behind--the first time I took off in one of these old things, I wanted to do it ten more times. There’s something about leaving the atmosphere and pulling your ship out of the sticky, clingy fingers of Orre’s orbit. Out into the dark vastness of space, where the stars don’t ask questions.

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#9

Break the truth inside of me,

Grotesque silhouette dampens the burning light of the inferno, iron statuette cast in warped charcoal, deep darkness interrupted only by the places where the firelight flashes on gleaming metal. Thick plates of resplendent aqua frame the humanoid creature's jaw, locking around to the front of the chin to join the two sides into one mandible. Another thick plate of blue arcs from beneath the wreath of feathers that blossom in a mane around her neck and through the dark fabric of her jacket.

Climbed down to hell on the devil's tree,

Figure is weary, haggard. Hands dangle almost limply near her sides. Right arm is twisted, caked with seafoam steel, tips of fingers forged into beastly metal claws. Around the neck, feathers burst from human flesh and into a blossoming mane. They quiver in the fierce breeze whipped up by the burning city behind her. Over the din of the crackling flames, one can hear the breathing -- a deep, ragged choking, its undertones echoing as if bounced off of some sort of metal within.

I clutched a branch of soot and flame,

Her eyes--one an ice-cold blue, one burning hot with the color of blood--roll from gazing emptily in front of her to fixing down at the ground. A chilling breeze crops up amidst the overwhelming heat of the inferno. Ice cakes at armored feet, heavy on the concrete.

A thought that rose, to scorch my feet.

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#10

I walk alone,

In the wake of her own destruction, she turns bi-colored gaze slowly back over armored shoulder, gazing through arcing bloodlines aflame with fire. There'd been souls here once, life here once. Amidst the scorch and the flames, there had been children born and lives lived here. There'd been something inside of her once too, something warm that didn't scorch, something alive that she thought wouldn't die.

Beside myself,

The beast's gaze is empty, her gaze is empty, thick armored jaw hung slack, tongue rolling slowly around the slavering fangs of a monster which hungers. Trapped inside, she watches through empty eyes, hollow orbs, as the creature slowly decides where it must feast next.

Nowhere to go,

Within, in the dark room, she lays curled. There's the snapping of fangs and snarling as the Kyurem-White's conscience seeks her, but he's there to protect her. When had she grown so weak?

Ahh, this bleeding heart,
That's in my hands, I fell apart.


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