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 mountains. Yet the beast had won, it had seized the Motharn's food supplies, it did not care for Barg or the scribe or anything. Barg was putrid and the scribe was so tiny it wouldn't be worth the effort. It took their lunch. Now the challenge for Barg was food, he knew nothing of Ancria, stank of a demon and had nothing to pay with. The scribe was also unconscious. It turned out to be quite easy, in the first town he got to along the road, the people all ran. Barg just took the food right from their houses. It was going to be a weird road ahead.

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 year, they made it. A blinding light filled Barg’s eyes, as they adjusted he could make out some lush dark green trees, some bright green grass, skies of bright blue, mountains with peaks of majestic white and rich silver. Birds fluttering around and chirping, instead of hiding in they’re nests choking on the dry air. They'd made it.

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 is a glorified siege engine, and Mothdroth’s last resort. Barg is not going to enjoy it. He doesn't even know where the gate is yet. “Helllo Barg, it's time to get mooving,” croaked the old scribe. “Mmph,” snorted Barg. “Gett in the carrt Barg, we have – loong routes ahead,” “Mmm,” groaned Barg as he clambered onto the hard seat of the creaky cart. The scribe, choking at the stench, started explaining to Barg the mission. “No one has gotten past the gate, yet you might. The High Ancrians aren’t used to you yet – so, surely they muuust cave in to your… stench.” An unlucky leaf of an unlucky oak fell to the ground, shrivelling up in the toxic airs. “Our mission is to destroy the dam and free Mothdroth from the tyranny of drought and famine, you might just be the key,” “Why,” humphed Barg, “Why should I help Mothdroth?” “Mothhdroth is your home, your life, your everything, Barg. Why shouldn’t you!” exclaimed the scribe. “Mothdroth never helped me,” The journey was painfully silent after that. The cart passed through pines and vines and oak and croak and all the wonders of Mothdroth. All were dry. They crossed the old Bridge of Armanthryer, once a beautiful rush of life, now a bridge over a sad dry chasm. Finally the day grew old and they reached a stop, the old tower. “What. Is. This. Place,” threatened Barg. “Thiiis iss the oold necromancer’s tower,” replied the scribe, surprised. Barg calmly got out of the cart, slowly hobbled over to the tower and punched it so hard the stones crumbled. “What did you just – you just – why – how – Barg?!” stuttered the scribe. “I. Don’t. Like. It,” “II thinkk I mightt knnow why,” said the scribe. There once was a necromancer in the old tower who dabbled with not just the revival of life, but the creation too. He created many things in his studies, rabbits that breath fire, horses with wings, trees with legs, and a whole range of life all the way from completely normal to mythic. Once for an experiment he created a human. The experiment failed and the human was left at an orphanage. The orphanage didn’t give much love either, it barely paid any attention to its children at all. As soon as the child turned 12 he was kicked out into the wider world with nothing. Then Barg became a guard. It was a job he could do and he got fed. No one ever liked Barg. That night they slept restlessly. The next day the party went onward through the dying forests of Western Mothdroth until they reached the Ance Mountains foothills. The cart turned back as Barg and the scribe were left to go on foot. Through rocky desolation and icy, unbearably windy damnation they walked for 5 km. Until it stood before them, the secret gate to Ancria. A granite behemoth hidden in a little mountain valley, chained shut with 500 tonnes of pure lead. The gate to a much better world.