originally posted in:The Black Garden
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Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for us writers to take center stage for a time. The Black Garden as well as our friends over in Arts and Stuff are going to host a contest that is solely devoted to writers. The rules are simple.
For any who wish to enter, you are tasked with writing a short little anecdote that is to have a maximum of 300 words. The location for this piece of work is to be located in the picture provided above. The deadline for entering is this Sunday(14th) at midnight. For any who wish to enter, please submit your stories by placing them in the comments.
Judging will be done in two phases. The first phase will consist of a Panel of both groups reading over each story and deciding which seven are the best of the best. Once the first stage is complete, we shall hand it over to you, the audience, to decide who is ranked number one as lore master. The Winner of this contest shall receive a print of the Buried City signed by the Destiny writing team.
Good luck and Be Brave.
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Edited by ix Nomad xi: 7/15/2013 2:58:00 AM[b]The Cabal's Gift[/b] The gold sand seems to be in some ancient union with the city, an echo across ruins and rust, dust carried off by dull winds, like a cold breath that tastes of salt and rock. The hunter puts on her mask and looks down at the earth, and saw the disturbance in the sand, the large familiar tracks of the cabal headed in the direction inside the facility. Looking up, whispers of sand blot out the sun in mute transparency. The hunter sighs, takes the rifle from her back, and moves forward. At the entrance, the Cabal’s rumble echoes from the far reaches, lazily bubbling from the black corridors. The hunter takes each step cautiously, her ghost lighting the path forward. She hadn’t seen a patrol of Cabal on her way here. The dunes were empty. This one had to be a straggler, lost from the rest, and using this place for shelter for a time before moving on. But its call was weak, like a wounded animal on a cold verge of collapse. Even in her suit, she feels the partial cold trying to creep under her skin. She passes the broken windows that appear as jagged teeth, broken walls with patches of black and brown. The Cabal’s voice becomes louder and louder. And there it was. She saw the legionnaire stooping in an awkward position befitting its size, its armor partially covered with sand, red fluid seeping from under the chin of its helmet, and there was a large wound on its leg keeping it from moving. The hunter made herself visible, her rifle lowered, and behind the solid mute grey of her mask, her green eyes show pity, even concern, much to her surprise, that the legionnaire couldn’t see. The cabal growled sleepily, and the hunter understood its meaning. “Are you sure?” The hunter asked. A slight nod. It could understand her? Maybe not. The bulky creature dropped its weapon, a gift to end its pain. A rifle shot echoes across the facility and remains, and fades into nothing. The hunter accepted the Cabal’s gift gratefully. One last thankful look at the legionnaire, and then she turns away and explores deeper into the facility. There’s more to find inside.