Published writing

Week 3: Overcoming Obstacles How beautiful it all was, so majestic, so magical. Until they passed the bend in the road. The forest was cut, the grass was dead, the little town had a rolling head. Ancria was in no better shape than Mothdroth. Further along the dismal road, laced with rot and filth, Barg and the scribe came to the river Armanthir. The rushing water had carved itself into the earth, 500 metres down to a sharp, wet doom. There used to be a bridge. The bridge was no more. "Ohh m - my," stuttered the scribe, "Ancria has seen better daays," "What's wrong?" said Barg. "Even th -the bridge has fallen," The scribe didn't say any more. They took a path along the river, always wary of the fall, high jagged stone peaks shadowing them all. Then a claw. A great beast with claws the length of mountains and teeth as jagged as the cold, hard rocks of the river lashed out at them from the shadows. It jumped the craggly old scribe and barely missed his fragile head with a fatal blow. Barg slashed at the terror with his sword, and the beast backed off a little. He picked up the scribe and ran, ran as fast as he had ever run before, away from the monster of the ...

Week 2: Through the Door The scribe stumbled over the jagged rocks to colossal crack in the towering gate. “Millennia have worn thiss placce down,” he croaked, stumbling through the crack. Calling it a crack doesn’t do it justice, it was the size of a large cave system, so massive it could fit an army. The gate hadn’t stopped intruders in centuries. Barg followed. Once the pair made it to the other side, chaos ensued. A confusing rush of clanging metal and flickering fire, lighting up the great tunnel with a dazzling light that blinds. Shouting, crashing and urgent footsteps echoed through the empty mountain. The great guards of almighty Ancria fled, the stench of Barg assaulting they’re terrorised nostrils. Archer windows, blockades and towers emptied in the blink of an eye. They walked. At first there was some light, some sound, something to ground them. But as the last guards, deeper in the tunnel, fled, it was just Barg, the scribe, and the dark. Time was meaningless, space incomprehensible. Days were years and weeks were hours, the dark ever unforgiving. If you lost your sense of direction you would be sent back to the start. After a day, a month, maybe even a ...

Barg was a very effective guard, no one ever messed with Barg! He wasn’t skilled in fighting, he was terribly unfit and had the attention span of a goldfish. The only reason Barg is a guard is that whatever Barg guards is simply not worth the effort of talking to Barg to get to. No one messes with Barg. Everyone always knows when Barg is around. When they’re around, whatever air was unfortunate enough to be in the area was immediately replaced with Barg's atrociously putrid personal air bubble. A bubble of air so beyond mere stink it can no longer mix with outside air. Barg is commonly know as the most disgusting thing to walk the very world he inhabits. Barg is guarding the royal palace of Mothdroth. It's boiling, uncomfortably dry and far below fun. Mothdroth has been in a decade long drought, with no end in sight. Usually the precious rain finds its source in the great river Armanthir, Armanthir happens to no longer exist. The new dam built by the High Ancrians in the mountains has cut off Mothdroth from one of the most basic necessities of life. Mothdroth has tried to reason, to plead, to bargain and to fight the Ancrians, yet they can never get past the gate. Barg ...