The Official Glitchitty Write-A-Day Thread!

[Glitchitty]

So I've been roleplaying since I was like twelve, and I think I'm pretty good at it. But I've noticed something, too. I do my best, and have the most fun, with intro posts. The moment I've got all to myself before the thread gets chugging along to work just with my character, not worry what others are doing, and generally flesh out my goods and have fun. So, I figure that means I need to start writing stuff by myself. Rather than continue to do it all alone on a notepad, where most likely nobody will ever see it and I'll never know if I'm just some hack that couldn't write his way out of a paper bag, I've decided to put it all out here on this small corner of the ETERNAL VASTNESS OF THE INTERNET where maybe someone will see it and think I'm cool. Or give me pointers. Or tell me "lol ur stupid" because hey, critique helps.

To that end, I want to write at least one thing a day. A scene, a snippet, a monologue, a bad joke, who knows? I feel like I get a lot of story ideas throughout the day, but they never get written down. Or I'll get an idea for a roleplay, then realize that nobody would want to write about it but me. Or come up with a cool character, but have nowhere to use him. Well ******** that! Time to use them for my own fun.

Guess that's all done, so... yeah. Time to make s**t up. If you've got anything to say, feel free to post in the thread, or PM me, or whatever.

[Glitchitty]

The wind was with them, and the sun was high. At the rate they were moving, the portage was but a matter of hours away. After sailing a stubborn sea, the river's mouth had been a godsend for many, a sign that their time at the oars was at an end. The oarsmen milled about the longship, searching for food, sleep and chatter. Near the cargo hold hatch sat three men, a nearby fourth pissing over the side unceremoniously as gold was doled out. They were among a number of warriors hired from alehouses and port taverns along the way to defend the ship through what promised to be a perilous trip down the Nezir river. Each man had signed on for the trip in exchange for a handful of gold to line their pockets, in hopes that they'd spend it at their desination: Ajirahn. Already these men sat, swapping tales and coins as they diced to wile away the time. It wasn't as if there were a great many other options to keep them busy just then.

"Aye, I was there," said one of the men, putting down three silver coins and taking up the dice. "How I got my start, actually. You believe I used to be a farmer?" Dropping the six dice into an empty wooden pint, he shook the mug violently before upending it and peeking at the results. He did indeed look as though he might have once fit the part of a commoner, with his homely face and calloused hands, and a slight stoop that no doubt came from years at the plow and shovel. With a short crop of brown hair and eyes of the same shade, there wasn't much remarkable about the man save for the strength of his arms, of which he had plenty. "Place yer bets and call 'em."

The pissing man yanked up his britches and took his seat once more, tossing down his three coins while the others did the same. "I'll call even. Garwenn's Crossing... that's one hell of a place to fight your first." The other two men called odd, tossing their three each as well.

"Didn't have much choice. Lord Haelek came in and conscripted the lot of us, and it was either fight or lose everything. Lucky b*****d that I am, I got both." He checked the cup again, counting out the total on the dice once more. "Count says odd. Ivar pays up," he grumbled, counting out six coins and handing three each to the other two, "Bayhas' roll. Then Galt's I reckon, on account of we skipped him last round." He looked back to Ivar, a smirk crossing his face. "Killed six men on that damned bridge crossing. With the same spade I used for my farm."

[Glitchitty]

"A spade?" Bayhas sounded nothing short of confused, a matching look finding its way onto his handsome, bronzed face. "Your lord did not provide you with real weapons? How were you expected to defend his lands?" The desert native dropped the dice into the wooden pint and shook it vigorously, slamming it down onto the deck next to his boot.

"Ain't a man alive out that way what's got weapons on hand enough for what needs doin'. The lord raises his fyrd, and your best hope if you're part of it is to loot somethin' useful." Bayhas counted out the dice beneath the cup, and each man put in his five silvers. "Callin' even. Anyhow, managed to brain three of the bloody savages, once they'd come howlin' over the bridge. Had my neighbor Irving and his boy on one side, my wife Sarah on t'other. Irving was the only one among us who'd ever seen combat. Old fool still had his sword, bless him."

"Even," Bayhas announced, and Ivar scooped up his newly won coins greedily while Galt and Bron slid their bets over to the desert warrior. "The lord brought no men of his own?"

"Oh, aye, reckon twenty or thirty or so. Garrwen's Crossin' weren't exactly rich land, didn't merit much of a fight. Gods know it became one, though." Galt, the archer who looked like an ox, took the pint full of dice and set to rolling then. "Next man that came up to me, fool as I was, I thought I'd strike the blow aside with my shovel. Sure enough, damned axe chopped straight through it, left me with two halves. Bloody good length for swingin', really... killed three more with it 'fore I managed to pick up a real blade." He patted his pack then, grinning. "Still got the damned thing."

[Glitchitty]

The Supremacy-class starfighter was far too flimsy a ship for his liking. Twin engines, twin laser cannons, and a shield that could be brought down by a harsh stare. Those twin engines made it nimble, though, that much could be said for it. The fact that they were so damnably cheap also meant that swarms of the things could be belched out of a Harrower dreadnought at any time, which in turn gave the pilots a shot at surviving solely due to the sad fact that the enemy had a thousand other little flies to try and swat at any given moment. For the moment, however, the fact that his vessel looked the same as a thousand or more others was all he needed.

The patience that the Sith warrior had exercised in choosing his strike could not be overstated. It was entirely unlike him, or rather, entirely unlike the man he'd been some years ago. After his narrow escape from the spectacular failure that was his attempt on his master's life, he'd been forced to reevaluate a great many things. Forced to realize that giving into his mad bloodlusts, his rages, could only take him so far. It had turned him into a highly efficient killing machine, yes, but it also made him terribly predictable. Easy to trap and trick. It was a realization born of an urge to grow stronger, but it managed to become so much more.

The smile that formed on his face as his fighter sped from the Desecrator's hangar bay with a full complement of identical craft was nothing short of satisfied. A gentle nudge with the Force to cause the original pilot to trip and snap his ankle just an hour prior had left an opening in the ranks, which he'd filled after pilfering a flight suit. Of course, the entire reason he'd managed to get onto the Desecrator had been the fact that he'd tricked the mind of half a dozen officers into not noticing that there was a Sith on board the vessel. How had he picked the right capital ship to board in the first place? By weaseling the information out of a drunken pilot on Nar Shaddaa. Moreover, after living some years in exile, how had he known there would even be a battle? The battle station was supposed to be a secret installation on the edge of Sith space. A shockingly simple matter of intercepting the right intelligence, then dropping it into the ear of a Republic spy, seemingly by accident. Then, he'd waited. By the time the Desecrator and a half dozen other Dreadnoughts had arrived, the station had already been trying desperately to repel a surprise attack by the Republic navy.

"Chatter down, Flight 12-B," came the call from the center ship. "Today, we're picking off bombers."

[Glitchitty]

"Weapons free, you are clear to engage all targets." It was a surprisingly calm start to what was, for all intents and purposes, a descent straight into Hell's gaping maw. Turbolaser fire lit up the cold blackness of space, bolts of green and red energy streaking by the hull of his dinky starfighter as Republic ships closed in to engage. What never ceased to surprise him was the chilling silence of it all. Ships and their pilots met a fiery, noiseless end out in the abyss, and he could feel each and every one of them panic just before their life slipped away. Even his own twin laser cannons sounded miles away as they unleashed their blasts of green, turning a Republic ship into charred slag. The only sounds available to him were the hissing of his breath in the flight mask, the pumping of blood in his ears, and the occasional crackling from the Desecrator's bridge over his commlink.

The small flight of ships he'd launched with split down the middle, veering off in opposite directions as a hail of fire from one a Republic cruiser threatened to turn them into space dust. A blinding flash off to his left told him that one of his temporary partners was down, buffeting him with a spray of slag and debris that was ultimately harmless as he flew right through the remains. The radar showed two Liberator fighters swooping in from above, aiming to skewer him and his remaining wingman. He immediately split off from the unfortunate pilot, moving into a harsh corkscrew dive that took him down and to his right, one of the attackers breaking off to pursue him. By the time he'd straightened out of the dive, the Liberator was closing in, no doubt prepared to open up with a stream of lasers. Accelerating madly, he banked a sharp turn around a thick piece of debris, giving him the moment he needed to get himself turned around and ready to fire. Immediately upon reaching that safe, floating cover, he disengaged the left engine, letting the right whip him around to face the opposite direction before throwing both thrusters into reverse. When the Republic fighter rounded that corner a second later, it was met with a deadly hail of fire.

Split off from the flight team and without an attacker at that moment, it gave him a moment to clear his head. This was all for naught if he died in a dogfight. There was a mission at hand, and vengeance to be had. It was with this in mind that he streaked towards the station itself, seeking out one of the less busy hangar bays. The station didn't bat an eye when he came in for an emergency landing in the bay; a battle like this, they had their hands plenty full with repairs on fighters, working to get pilots back out into the fight. What did surprise them was when the cockpit hissed open, and the pilot stood, a crimson lightsaber humming to life in his fist.

[Glitchitty]

Immediately, he recognized his mistake. How blind he'd been. It was old, hateful instinct that had driven him to immediately activate his lightsaber and make ready to kill. Had he simply kept it in the flight suit, he could have strolled right through the chaos that was the flight deck, on into the station. He might have kept his presence a secret for a short while longer. Now, though? Now the clock was ticking. "Direct me to Darth Korron's chambers. I must speak with him," he said loudly, the voice crackling through the flight suit's communicator. This could still be salvaged, he told himself. He hadn't thrown it all away just yet. In the Sith Empire, after all, there was one law among the rank and file: never question a Sith. Was it law, or was it just a good general rule? Either way, disobeying it could quickly see a man losing his head.

"I'd expect he'll be on the command bridge, my lord," came a reply from one of the flight deck officers. His voice quavered with nerves, but to his credit he stood upright and did not stutter. The crew was clearly used to dealing with the Sith and their ways, but it was still a shock to them. Calmly, he powered down the lightsaber, replacing it on his belt. "Good man."

"Shall I tell him you're coming, my lord?"

"There's no need to report my presence," he said softly, staring down the man through the eyes of his flight helmet while he forced his way into his mind.

"There's no need to report your presence," he said blandly. "Right, I'll... good day, my lord. Back to work, men."

It wasn't until he'd passed through the blast doors into the station's interior that he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Now to find a lift, obtain clearance, and -

The alarms blared loudly, and the station's PA system crackled into life. "Attention all soldiers of the Empire. There is an intruder on board; my former apprentice. The elevators will be disabled until he has been dispatched. Do not fail me."

[Glitchitty]

The announcement left him stunned. He'd been found out. He stood there, puzzling the situation over in his mind. The dock workers, even if they'd betrayed him to Darth Korron, couldn't have possibly known that he was their lord's former apprentice. Could they? He'd left the pilot's helmet on, and hadn't mentioned anything of the sort... but perhaps they'd realized it? As a number of armed guards ran past him without so much as a word, he thought he might have some more time with this very effective disguise. That, however, was when he felt a pressure at the edge of his mind. A presence, one that was all too familiar. The voice that spoke within his head set his nerves on end, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

"Come back, have you? Like a dog to his vomit... and here I'd thought you dead. Time to rectify that."

The warrior didn't dignify it with a response of his own, shaking his head vigorously as if to shake clear his thoughts. He'd hoped that his former master might have been too concerned with the great battle on his doorstep to sense his presence among so many lives, but it seemed he'd been mistaken. He'd managed to take his first steps on down the hall again when the blast doors to the docking bay hissed open, those same armed guards returning, as well as several of those who'd been on call in the hangar.

"That's him! He drew a lightsaber on us!" Foiled again. This time, by himself. Well, no plan survived contact with the enemy, he supposed.

His lightsaber was in his hand in a flash, the Sith soldiers still steadying their aim. The crimson blade hissed into life in the moment the first trigger was pulled, and positioned to deflect the first blaster bolt in the next. The first shot was deflected wildly, the second landing at the feet of a dock worker. The third was a kill, reflecting back and carving a sizzling hole in a trooper's visor. Against so many with repeating blasters, there could be no hope of defending himself for overly long. He needed to close the gap and begin the killing. Tapping into the boundless power of the Force, he began to bound forward, keeping impossibly light on his feet as he bounced down the hall in an erratic, serpentine pattern. The speed of his motions made it difficult for the soldiers - who grew steadily more nervous as he approached - to place their shots, and when they did, it was simply smacked away with a careless motion of the lightsaber.

The second man to die let loose a blood-chilling shriek as his arms were severed, leaving him defenseless with a pair of sizzling, cauterized stumps. As he fell, the Sith ducked low to relieve the next man of his legs, the saber then arcing upwards to cut another soldier from groin to neck. He rose to his feet once more, deflecting a pair of shots before neatly snicking off a head at the neck. The surviving trio sought to pull back then, part tactical retreat, part fear. The warrior all too easily snatched up one of the blasters on the floor and fired into their backs, ending two of them on the spot. The third still ran... until an invisible hand took him at the throat, lifting him into the air and letting his feet dangle. This one the Sith strolled towards, saber in one hand while the other was held aloft before him, held in a tight fist.

"Tell me which level the command bridge is on," he hissed, his tone dripping with malice, "or I swear to you I will make your passing unbearable."

[Glitchitty]

On pause for Thanksgiving. I'll post some of the s**t I'm bound to write during the week when I return on sunday.

[Glitchitty]

I didn't write s**t during Thanksgiving 'cause I was drunk the whole time I was gone, then came home and did rps. Whatevs~

The beacons had burned for days, to no avail. It was a realization that burned in Valdr's chest, like a slow tightening of a fist around his heart... much like the one that would soon close about their lands. "Damn the beacons," he growled, climbing down from the great flame and onto the walkway that ringed the wooden palisade. He took the stairs gingerly, his long axe serving as a walking stick as needed. The cold was agitating an old wound, and the warrior had no time to nurse it. Red war was coming to their land, and with it came an end. Men were marching from the southern lands, and they were bringing their tempered steel and strange gods with them. It would be an end of the old ways, the ways of his father, and his father's father before him.

"Damn the beacons," he repeated in a venomous hiss, leaning heavily against one of the wooden spikes that lined the palisade while he looked out over the frozen land that was their home. "And damn Halfdan... damn Ulfwane... Thorven... damn them all." His tone was giving way to a whisper, one that grew thick with tears as they begin to sting at the corners of his eyes. Bitterly the chieftain cuffed them away, his head hanging heavily as thick fingers squeezed the old logs of the fortification. A thick head of graying black hair obscured his features, and a long sigh rattled in his chest.

"Chieftain... we're down to the last of our oil for the beacon." The voice came from behind him, the voice of a young man. Hrothgar. Slowly, Valdr lifted his head again, pushing off of the wall to lean on his axe. "No, lad. Save it. I think we all know we're alone in this, now. Might be we'll want that oil to throw at 'em, assuming we get the chance."

"Aye, chieftain," came the lad's voice. It was the sound of a dying hope, put into words. "None have answered the call, then?"

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the aging warrior slowly dropping his head, as if the weight of it had become too great to bear. "None, lad. We die alone."

[Glitchitty]

Today I cheat and put an old favorite here. Moving it from its old place, though, and it's something I wanna expand on, so... yeah.

"Patronizing stuffshirted ignoramuses... let's see how a month-long case of diarrhea treats them."


"WINSTON!"

The call reverberated in the high stone chamber of the laboratory, doubtless echoing through the carved archways and halls before reaching the outside where it could be swallowed by the roar of the nearby sea dashing itself upon the cliffs. Within the cavernous laboratory itself, however, even the loudest cry could be drowned out by the sheer noise of an indecent amount of machinery in motion. Whistling steam hurtling through pipes to push pistons into place, mechanisms grinding into motion for countless machines that were deemed necessary by the good doctor. Couple that with the odd, absolutely intentional explosion here and there, and you had quite a loud facility.

Which was why Doctor Ignatius was entirely unaware that Winston was behind him all the while, smiling mischievously while his employer worked to fetch a spanner that had been dropped right into the maw of a dozen piping-hot mechanisms. Clad in a dark waistcoat with a close-fitting cotton shirt beneath and a green bowtie at his neck, with black suspenders keeping his equally black trousers up, the scientist uttered a string of curses that would be sure to de-virginize any delicate ears in the vicinity while he shut the machine down and wound a grease-stained cloth tight around his hand. His other adjusted the brass goggles over his eyes as he leaned in towards the machinery, rag-clad hand reaching ever so slowly towards the prize...

...when his forearm, bare on account of his rolled-up sleeves, grazed a hot pipe. A roar that was part frustration, part pain tore past his lips, and he reared back to slam his fist on the table. "DAMNATION! DAMN YOUR EYES! WINSTOOOOON!"

"Right 'ere, boss," the stooped little man said with a cheer that could not have been more the opposite of Ignatius' expressions of rage in that moment. It, if nothing else, blindsided the scientist, who only blinked a moment as he rubbed his sure-to-begin blistering arm.

"Oh. There you are. Where were you?"

"Right 'ere, watchin' you bein' silly. 'Course, I was gettin' th' post first. Here y'are." Winston produced a fistful of envelopes from beneath his raggedy cowl, offering them up to Ignatius while the doctor lit a pipe. "An' what's that bizness 'bout my eyes? You know they's already proper ********, boss." The jest was punctuated by a cheeky smile, eyebrows rising and falling in good humor as Ignatius scowled down at the envelopes.

"Sometimes I think you get your jollies by watching me suffer," the doctor growled, an indignant tone festering beneath the anger.

"Ain't you specifically, boss. Same fer ev'ryone, promise."

"Hush. Get the spanner." While Winston carefully set to the task of probing between the burning-hot machinery to fetch his employer's tool, Ignatius produced a switchblade from his waistcoat's breast pocket and slit open the first envelope without reading the return address. He immediately learned who it had come from by reading the enclosed letter, of course: the highly esteemed Farthington Academy of Sciences.

"Dear Mr. McGillicutty," he mumbled to himself, a twinge of anger flaring up again at the perceived mistake in his title. "While your knowledge and research are indeed extraordinary and brilliant in nature, we regret to inform you that an honorary doctorate is not within our ability to grant to..." A half second later, he'd quit reading, rolled up the note, stuck the end of it in his pipe to catch a light blaze, then tossed the letter on the ground while it burned away.

"Bad news, then?" Winston's voice came from back in the machinery as he slunk around between the pipes and gears, actively making an effort not to touch them.

"A disappointment, more like. Have Rosie pen another "thank you for your time" letter to Farthington Academy. This time, though..." He fetched a tool from the workbench beside him, flipping a switch that caused it to extend a long, telescoping steel arm outward until it was just the right length. With that done, he moved over to a high series of shelves, upon which were sitting hundreds of labeled vials full of... well, full of things of varying degrees of nastiness. He settled the hand-like clamps at the end of the arm on a bottle and flipped another switch, the clamps closing before delicately bringing the bottle back to Ignatius down on the ground. "Have her lace the letter with a bit of this... and let her know I recommend making use of her gas mask while she does it."

"Wot's it do?" Winston had emerged again, a little ragged around the edges but not truly any worse for the wear as he dropped Ignatius' wrench on the workbench.

"At best? A bit of tickling in the intestines. At worst?" The doctor flashed him a grin that, were it not so sinister, could almost be joyful. "Complete rectal prolapse."

Winston gave a momentary cackle before slipping the vial into his cloak. "Dunno wot a rectal's s'posed t' be, but it sounds right nasty. Ya might check th' other one, boss. Th' fancy one. Rosie got one jus' like it, reckon you lot've been invited to sumthin'."

The doctor did eye the envelope, and was going for it when he heard the woman in question proclaim that breakfast was served. "It's morning?" He shot a glance up towards the high windows near the ceiling, seeing light streaming in. Bloody hell, so it was... and he wasn't a bit tired. Another wide grin broke out on his face. The energy supplement was a success! Side effects had included a bit of dry heaving and, at one point, a rather severe case of the shakes, but other than that, glorious success! "Come on, best get to it. I could use a meal."

[Glitchitty]

Getting back into this soon... depression is a b***h but I think I'm finally starting to smack it around a little.