This took longer than I expected. Work and all. Sorry for the delay!
The challenge: One word and a number. 1-203. No fanfics. All oris.
First 5. Go!All slots have been fulfilled!
Title: Blades of Grass
Song: 155. The Eternal Diva – Jenis Quatlane (CV Nana Mizuki)
It was a beautiful day to be out. The sun shone warmly, illuminating the path before the traveller. A long cobbled stone path lay in front, begging to be explored. On each side, golden fields spread as far as the eye could see. Beautiful, tall golden fields. It was almost perfect as a tapestry. In fact, the traveller might have first come across such a scene in a tapestry, where women sat around a hall, weaving and sewing and needling for a lord’s home.
Behind lay a rustic village. A cluster of houses sat together in a tight bunch, almost spurning the outsider, though the villagers themselves had never been anything but courteous to any outsider that came to the village. It was easy to tell which houses had children and which did not; some had toys scattered on the outside porch, while others had bicycles propped up against the side of the house.
The village was clustered around a well, a common well used by everyone. In this heat of the day, there were few people about; most were in the fields, working. Since it was close to noon, there was no one about here at the entrance to the village.
The traveller smiled. The job here was done, and it was done well. With a step and deep breath, a farewell was said to the village.
Behind, a man raised a keening cry for his lost children.
Title: Glasses and Stones
Song: 200. Tron Legacy OST: End Titles
Commissioner: The Tsundere
It was a blinding sight.
A group of youngsters, perhaps about 20 or so, were cramped into a small area, their heads moving to the rhythm of the band in front of them. Around them, even more youths were crowded into the small space.
A crowd that she had found difficult to escape.
She pushed, pulled, prodded and in some cases, even kicked, but few, if anyone, was willing to give up their space. They had some of the best seats; they overlooked the stage as the band played. She found it nauseous. The smell of unwashed bodies and the stink of sweat, with some of the more exotic drinks. It was a heady scent.
She could not take any more.
Somehow, she managed to elbow her way out. At the back of the room, she was faced with two choices; either take the quick way down, which was a ladder out of the loft, or go down the stairs which was equally filled with people. She did not need to think too hard.
Hitching her skirts, she climbed over the window sill. One of the party-goers was nice enough to hold her hand as she climbed over, helping her hold on to her balance. Her steps down were labourious; she could hear her own breath over the music; she was taking it one step at a time, for she was now feeling giddy. A step, then deep breaths for a few minutes, then another questing step.
She could hear someone below her complaining about her speed. That they too, wanted to use the ladder (there was another one with the same function in the next window) and she was taking too long. She ignored them.
“Hey bitch, we don’t have all day!” one of them shouted. Ironically, she thought to herself as her slippered feet sought a step, the shouter was also a woman.
They got impatient. Someone picked up a pebble and threw it at her. She was perhaps halfway down. They missed, but they got the idea. Someone else started throwing pebbles.
She slipped and fell as it hit her head. As she fell, for a very long minute, she thought she could see a figure looking at her with pity. With large, sad eyes.
It went black.
Song: 7. Day becomes night (no choir) by Two Steps from Hell
Commissioner: Hit TP
He sank to the ground.
The longbow lay beside him, crushed. The bow’s rope had snapped while he was drawing it; the replacement they gave him must have been too thin. He had restrung his bow without really looking at it; while he was good with it, he had never really bothered learning the art of caring for one.
He wondered now what his fate would be. If the enemy found him conscious, there was a good chance they would spare him in return for ransom; the longbow he had actually belonged to an upper-class warrior who had donated his weaponry for the war effort. He felt sorry that he was going to die here. It did not quite seem final, for some reason.
The sounds of the battle was distant now. He counted the space between the shouts and the gunfire. It would seem that his side had been routed, and they had been routed well. The enemy would be making their way to the capital city now; he hoped they would be kind and spare his hometown.
At that, his thoughts flew back home. In the small village surrounded by fields, he could see every detail, as though he was there. The golden fields where they planted grain. The scarecrow that was completely useless in doing its job. The women who would harvest while the men carried the bales to the barn.
A pleasant face appeared in his mind. Her hair was always gathered in a neat bun, eyes set a nice, pleasant distance away from each other. Rosy cheeks, and a shy smile. The girl was not a beauty by any stretch of imagination, but she carried a quiet dignity about her. There was a solidness to both her frame and her bearing that suggested stable grounds.
He missed her. He wondered if she knew how he was doing here. Whether she was at home baking bread or in the fields, joking and laughing with the best of them.
He would never know.
“Manuel…” he could hear her voice calling him softly, gently. He closed his eyes and let himself rest, her name on his lips.
Song: 23. Moonlight Armies (no choir) by Two Steps from Hell
Commissioner: Her Twin, the Neon Lights
The books fell to the floor with a crash.
She ran into the room. The windows were closed and there was nothing that could have knocked them over. Yet she knew very well the books had been together, packed solidly on the table. She had just moved them from their precarious perch, after all.
She stepped into the room to pick up the books. As soon as her foot touched the floor, she felt a warning shiver up her spine, but it was too late.
The ground beneath her feet shone with a purple light and vines sprang out from under her feet. To her credit, she did not panic. Instead, her mind and body snapped into battle readiness. Her fingers traced the runes to dispel the vines while she used her other leg to swing out behind her.
He caught her leg easily, as she knew he would. His smirk and derisive voice was all she needed to hear. She sprung the trap.
“Well, creampuff, you seemed to have… urgh!” his words were cut-off in mid-air as the vines reached out to entangle not her, but him instead.
Within seconds, he had been bound far more securely than she would have been, and she dismissed the portal at the bottom of her feet. She had pulled a chair up to watch him squirm in the trap, but she did not relax easily. Instead, in her hands, she held a violin.
Title: A prisoner
Song: 20. Hynoptica (No Choir)
He struggled, but it was no use. She had bound him, and had done it well. As he tested his bonds, both via magical and mundane means, he had to admit defeat to himself. She had turned out to be a much better student than he anticipated. He grinned as she sat and called him demon.
There was truth in her words. He would not deny her words. She stared at him for a long time before speaking. He noted her pose, understanding that there was more to this young woman than he had anticipated.
“About what, my dear?” he feigned pleasantness.
“This harvesting of souls. Why?”
“It is in my nature,” he smiled, allowing her to see the hint of the true demon hidden within him. She did not answer him for a long moment, and he knew by her glare that she suspected he was hiding something.
Demons like him did not last long in the human world without extracting a price for their information.
“Continue,” she spoke like an imperious mistress. He would not have thought her capable.
“There is nothing more to say,” he attemped a shrug.
She thrust the violin’s bow at him. Straight towards where his human heart would have beat, if he had one. He didn’t, but it was best perhaps, not to let her know.
“There is, and we both know it. So tell me,” she threatened.
“Or you’ll do what?” he returned her stare.
She stood up and put the bow to her violin. Closing her eyes, she played just a few notes, and he realised his mistake immediately.
The notes were beautiful, and they were deadly to him. Notes from an ancient hymn, designed to bind him. He opened his mouth to scream, to find he had no voice. The notes sunk into his skin, and they burned. They burned his ears, burned his skin, burned his voice.
She stopped playing and watched him writhe in pain. Then she stepped forward and brushed her lips against his open mouth, relieving his pain somewhat. The pain subsided, but it throbbed. Achingly in many parts. She stepped back.
“Think about it,” was all she said, before she left him there. The pain became his companion.