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Author Topic: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing - RESULTS!  (Read 8456 times)

Frodo

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #20 on: 20 May 2017, 23:30 »
Couldn't resist tweaking my story a bit.    :tongue:

It's hard to get across Tony's indulgent lifestyle, in a short story.   :=

Mandle

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #21 on: 21 May 2017, 14:43 »
Okay... my story is done for better or worse...

It's updated fully in the original post...

Enjoy, I hope...

Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #22 on: 21 May 2017, 16:47 »
A cold blade

Betrayal... Of all evil that a man can do, betrayal is the one we consider the worst. Do you know why that is?

Ahmed did not say anything, just quietly looked at Kazimir with questioning eyes.

It is so since any other crime can be committed by a man you hate, a cold and unfeeling stranger. But betrayal, betrayal is the very same thing done by a man you love.

Kazimirs eyes shifted and faltered, and then went back to Ahmeds.

And my betrayal is threefold, the worst and deepest form of betrayal, since through the murder I am about to commit I am to betray my land by killing my king and ruler, then I am to betray my promise to him to serve my king and protect him from harm, and last, I am to betray my family by murdering my own brother. And by doing so I have condemned myself to the worst of punishments if it was to ever be known that I, Kazimir, had my brother murdered so that I myself could be king in his place. And by telling you this, I have placed my life in your hands, because I trust you. Because we are family.

Ahmeds chest felt like a cage filled with birds fluttering in fear and joy alike. No less than a year ago he had no family or living relative in the world to care for him, he had been only one of the many young boys living on the streets and stealing food to survive. Few cared enough about a loaf of bread or vegetable to give chase, and if caught, they usually received a beating at worst. But one day, he had decided to risk stealing from a high lord riding by on a great silvercoated horse. He had used a small knife to cut the purse hanging from his belt and ran, but one of the city's guards had spotted him, and managed to grab a firm hold of Ahmeds tunic. He was trembling with fear as they dragged him in front of the lord he had wronged.

In that moment, Ahmed was certain that the theft would cost him his hand as he stared at the sabres hanging from the guards belts. He would have been forever marked as an outcast, forced to sit by the wayside begging for alms. But to Ahmeds, and the guards, great surprise the lord on the horse just looked Ahmed in the eyes and asked: Did you steal my purse just to buy yourself food?

Ahmed nodded. Slowly the noble lord smiled and said: Come with me my child, and I shall see to it that you never go hungry again. The Guards stood aside as he lifted Ahmed up on his saddle and began riding towards his home. The name of the lord was Kazimir.

During the time that followed, Kazimir had treated Ahmed as his own son, or at least how Ahmed imagined a royal prince would live. He had received plenty of food, in a single day he would eat more than in an entire month out on the streets, and felt himself growing both in strength and size. Kazimir was more than happy to accommodate him, let him run and play in his garden and even trained swordfighting with him.

When Ahmed finally worked up the courage to ask why he had taken him in, Kazimir told him that whereas others might only have seen a thief, he had seen something admirable in how quickly and easily Ahmed had managed to steal his purse without him noticing. More so, in him he had seen a purity and innocence, a young man untainted by the depravity and intrigues of the court, and therefore Kazimir had sought to keep him out of the court and its politics as much as he could.

The king, Kazimir explained, was not a good king. He was responsible for many ills and wrongs in the land, and so it had to come to the grim plan he had told Ahmed. The king had to die, but the plots and schemes of the treacherous nobility had rendered him a very suspicious man, so suspicious that the only person he still trusted enough to walk alone with was his own brother. But Kazimir could not kill the king himself. He turned to face the window behind him as he spoke:

As much as what is to come is necessary, he is still my brother. When the moment comes, I might not find the strength to bring myself to kill him. Ahmed, I will only as this once, and I will not force you to if you do not want it. Ahmed my child, will you help me kill him?

For a moment, Ahmed hesitated. He had only seen a dead man once before, an old beggar lying on the street with his eyes open in a stare which Ahmed could still see whenever he closed his eyes for long enough. But Ahmed had also been in his fair share of fights with other boys, and now, with Kazimirs nurture and training behind him, he felt more than confident that he could take on a grown man. Besides, he was not to engage him head on or fight the king, all he had to do was to rush up to him from behind, and after a quick stab in the back run back into the shadows just as quickly without even having to look his victim in the eyes. And if he succeeded, Kazimir would be the new king, and Ahmed, once a mere thief from the streets, would be the adopted son of a king, perhaps one day even king himself. It was a dizzying thought. And not only that, but Ahmed would be hailed as a hero as well, for he would have ridden the land of a Tyrant, an evil king. Kazimir had taught him that word, but he had given him so much more as well. Ahmed eagerly said yes.

It was a simple plan. While Kazimir rode through the front gates of the royal palace, Ahmed would slip in a servants entrance, disguised as one kitchen boy among many. From there, he had received clear directions on which paths to take towards the royal garden, where he was to hide in a bush of white roses, just like the games he had played in Kazimirs garden before. Meanwhile, Kazimir would meet with his brother and ask him if they could not both take a walk in the garden, alone together just like they used to do when they were young children. Once the deed was done, and it had to be done quietly, they would meet up and leave the palace together. Kazimir made it very clear that it was important to be quiet and make it look like the king had been murdered by a foreign assassin, for if anyone were to think Kazimir was the one who had killed the king, everything would have been for nothing and both of them would be sentenced to a certain death. Ahmed asked if the plan would work.

Do not worry my child, Kazimir said, he will trust me. He will not deny such a request from his own brother, because we are family.

As he sat crouching in the bush, Ahmed began to worry that they would not show up and that Kazimir had failed him, but to his relief he heard the sound of footsteps slowly coming closer. Kazimir was walking alongside a man in luxurious robes whom could be no other than the king. As he passed by, any worry or hesitation was gone. He flew up and quickly stabbed the king in the back, and then in the throat before the king could even scream. As the king sank to his knees he reached out his arms to his brother in a futile plea for help. Ahmed was going to stab him once more when Kazimir stopped him and took the blade from his hand.

But then Ahmed became greatly confused as Kazimir then hastily slid the blade across his own face and a few times across his arms. Ahmed could only stare in disbelief as Kazimir then screamed Help! Assassin! He's killed the king! and the sound of running soldiers came closer. Not until Kazimir plunged the cold blade deep into his heart did Ahmed realize that he too had been betrayed.


Sinitrena

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #23 on: 23 May 2017, 21:30 »
Trust Is an Illusion

April 16th 2016

The offer is good. Very good indeed. There‘s no question there, no hitch, no catch. I dreamt about this day for so long. Free again, free at last. I tried so many other ways, but this place, this life, it makes me so weak.

Considering I came here of my own volition, some 65 years ago, it seems kind of unfair that I even had to resort to manipulation and lies – had to, have to. Whatever. I wanted to rebuilt, to spread a better future, because this is also my country, my home. And after what had happened in 1945, after what I'd seen, I had to do something good, be good. At least for a while.

But the thought to bite into a neck again, after all these years – so tempting, so delicious.

It were just words, right? An idle conversation? What could I do, what couldn't I? - What would I do? We were drinking today. Alcohol, of course, not blood. Oh, how I miss it, delicious liquid of a long forgotten time. How I wish, how I wish it were forgotten. But the thought, always on the surface, the taste, never gone entirely.

I still remember the first time: confused, angry, hurting – fire in my veins and the teeth: growing, piercing my gums, grazing my tongue. And the light hurt in my eyes. How I wish the stories were true and I could retract them, show a normal face whenever I wanted. I can't.

But the blood. The taste. The feeling of warm liquid running down my throat. It makes all better, made me forget the pain, though not the craving, never the craving.

I'm losing track of my thoughts again. I really wish writing would help me to focus as I thought it would when I began this diary, but it doesn't. Not while writing, at least. It helps when I'm reading all this again.

But it's really no wonder I lost track, not when the temptation is so close, the offer so real. Was it real? Blood from a blood bank, making me strong again, making me myself again. I'm so sick of cow blood – though I must admit that I quite like blood sausages. Oliver brought me some. I'd nearly forgotten. It was in his first week here, before someone told him that I don't like solid food. They were wrong. I was wrong. I learned something new that day, after such a long time.

Oliver tried to be my friend. Naive. Stupid. Dangerous. - He's a good friend. So why shouldn't his offer be real? If When he brings me human blood... I'd betray the people here, but would that be so bad? After all, I'm just a prisoner, aren't I? A glorified pet in a cage – however gilded it might be. And trust, trust is an illusion anyway.


April 20th 2016

I've seen blood bags a couple of times on TV but never held one before. They weren't invented yet when I was imprisoned here. And the animal blood comes in bottles. I'm fairly certain that's not how Peter buys it. Strange, I never thought about it before.

Oliver has left. He never liked watching me drinking blood. The one time he did...

Laughing makes writing into one's journal quite difficult, I must say. But it was too funny, and the memory is still rather vivid. After all, it's only three years. Such a short time, all things considered.

I couldn't help myself. I just had to get my old journal from that day and read it again.

For a moment, I even forgot the clear plastic bag with all the information on the blood I never needed to know. But now I wonder if different blood types taste different. I remember sweet blood and metallic blood, thick blood and sour blood. Maybe I should remember the classification on the bag, learn what kind I like and what not.

Who am I kidding? Whom am I trying to delude? It doesn't matter. It never has. And once I am free again, it will never matter again.

And it is so easy. I drink the blood and then the wall means nothing and the free will of the people around me won't be so free anymore. And all I have to do, all Oliver asks me to do is go with him for a while, persuade someone to open a door and then I can go, live however I want to live.

It's disgusting. I have a reason. This is not natural for me. I carve blood, I need it, need it to survive,  need it to live. Necessity of life. It's as easy as this. Oliver? He wants money. Nothing else. Does it always come down to money? It did when I lost my human life, though I admit there were other reasons: liberty, equality, fraternity. Weak people, powerful ones and a fight that wasn't mine in 1848.

I made a promise when I came here. I promised to help eradicate those of my kind that pray on innocents. Oliver swore to serve and protect everyone, I think. It's strange how I never cared to learn what the policeman I work with actually promise the world. What I do know is that Oliver is about to break his oath, whatever exactly it is. Has already broken it, I think.

I'm dangerous. It's in my nature. But Oliver trusts me. He says my word means something. Maybe it does.

Idle thoughts. It doesn't matter. What matters is the bag still on the table next to me. There are small bubbles on the dark liquid, foam that build when I threw it from hand to hand just a few moments ago.

The blood is a promise. It promises me my strength, my powers, my freedom. It is also a promise from Oliver. He promises me more, more blood, more power, more freedom. All I have to do is agree. All I have to do is swear that I will help him steal. It's so easy.

Stupid Alexander. If it is so easy, then tell my why you haven't sunk your teeth into it yet?

Great, now I'm talking to myself, in writing no less. It's as if the blood is already blurring my better judgement.


April 20th 2016 later

Technically, it's the 21, I think.

I've made my decision. I bit into the plastic and I...

There's still blood there. Just a drip, a mere memory on the lips. It will never go away. I remember them all, always and forever. Other things I can forget, the blood always stays with me. This time, it tasted like iron and sugar. There was a bitter note to it. The fear was missing. The taste of sweat, salty and hot. It wasn't there. It wasn't the same as biting a living person. Not as fulfilling, not as exciting.

But it was better still than any other time. It had been too long.


April 21st 2016

I've made my decision. And I guess I'm repeating myself but it is true, I did make it. I told Oliver. I agreed. And now I'm waiting. I'm waiting for the blood and for the opportunity. Soon. Soon.


April 21st 2016 later

I forgot how much I hate the taste of cow blood. I never liked it, but now I seem to hate it more than ever before. Peter brought me my daily bottle and I drank it without thinking about it. I spit it out, spit it all over the desk and the TV. Peter was worried. I've never seen him like that before. He asked if the blood was bad. If I was sick.

I don't think I can get sick. At least I've never been sick. But how certain can I really be? What do I actually know about my own kind? I learned more in the years here than in freedom before. And it is still not nearly enough.

The blood was bad. It was a good excuse, a good lie, an easy lie, easy to believe. Peter, at least, believed it. He apologized. He cleaned my room for me. Not with me, for me. Told me I should sit and relax. That it was his duty to bring me my food, that it was the contract we had.

It is, I guess.


April 26th 2016

It felt so good to sink my teeth into a neck again after all this time. It was as easy as ever to open the skin, to pierce the flesh. So easy, so natural.

And there is no remorse. There never was, but somehow I expected it this time. The thought was so clear in his eyes, amidst the fear and the pain, the thought of betrayal and incomprehension. He didn't expect it. He didn't think I could do this. He didn't think I would break my word. Idiot.

He tasted sour. It's what I imagined Peter to taste like. I always thought of a lemon when I saw him with his wrinkly face and the crow's feet around his eyes. With the corners of his mouth closer to his shoulders than his cheeks.

And Oliver? What did I think of his blood before? Nothing, as strange as it might seem. I never thought about eating him. Never. Until the day he brought me blood and the temptation became too strong for me. And I took his offer.

I followed him, out of my room, my cell, out of the cellar, out of the castle that is exactly 100 years older than me and over the large fan-like castle square. I remember what it looked like here when I decided to fight against my own kind: destroyed and gone. There was nothing left, just a ruin. And I remember seeing the rebuilt castle when they moved our unit there in 1956.

Technically, I knew that there is a bank at the corner of the castle square and the pedestrian zone but I'd never thought much of it. It was not closed yet but the last costumers left. They smelled of hecticness, tired after a day of work, the stop at the bank the last thing they would do this day. They rushed past us, minding their own business and only the teller noticed us. He sighed. He did not want a costumer so late in the day.

I looked around. I smiled. People say my smile alone can open doors. The order in my voice really did. We followed him into the back, down a couple of stairs. Oliver smiled. His teeth were showing. It was strangely predatory, like my own smile, I guess.

The safe was opened. It was easy. It is always easy to deceive, to manipulate the thoughts and will of someone. At least when I'm well-fed, at least for a while. Oliver stuffed a couple of bags with money and the teller just stood there, a stupid smile on his lips, a vacant look in his eyes. Of course.

And then it happened. I'd expected it, of course. He would remember, and Oliver would loose the life he had built for himself. He couldn't let this happen now, could he? I expected it and I was disappointed nonetheless. Maybe if he had said nothing, if he had left...

He ordered me to kill the teller. My hand brushed along the man's neck, stroked his black hair, caught in the arms of his glasses, nearly tumbling them to the ground. My lips kissed his pale skin, sexual, demanding. It was what Oliver expected, what he wanted. He thought it disgusting when I drink animal blood, but he likes watching me violate this innocent man.

He is disgusting. His character, his actions, his thoughts – even though I do not know the details, only what I could read in his eyes. He had a choice, after all.

And in the end, I saw fear and pain in his eyes and the inability to understand what I had done.

He tasted of roses. Like the perfume my mother had used and which I accidentally drank as a child. He also tasted sour. I can't decide. It is both. It is neither. And while I still taste his blood on my lips, I can't describe it at all. What did I think Oliver would taste like? Not like that.

I wonder if Peter will notice tomorrow that I was gone for an hour or two. I locked the door with Oliver's key and threw it through the grate. It looks like someone lost it a few meters from my door.

Maybe they will figure it out. Maybe they'll think it was a random vampire. The teller will remember, but will he believe his own memories? Sometimes I envy the short lives and the coping mechanisms of the human brain.

But even if they figure it out, do I care? I killed before. I'll kill again. There is nothing more to it. There is no remorse, nothing. Can Peter trust me? Could Oliver? Trust? Trust is an illusion.


-----------------------------------

Off-topic: Is anyone else missing the options for italicized, bold, ect when posting? I only have the smileys.

kconan

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #24 on: 24 May 2017, 03:47 »
   They have been removed from the reply options for some reason. 

test

Baron

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #25 on: 24 May 2017, 03:53 »
Who needs rich font buttons when we've got BBCode 4evar!!!1! :-D

Sinitrena

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #26 on: 24 May 2017, 04:11 »
Well, BBCode is fine and dandy when you know it - and I do know those I use more often and usually type them in the text beforehand anyway - but when you need one you don't know off the top of your head, it's inconvinient.  :-\

Mandle

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #27 on: 24 May 2017, 04:15 »
   They have been removed from the reply options for some reason. 

test

They still appear and work for me. I'm using Firefox btw.

Frodo

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #28 on: 24 May 2017, 05:11 »
Off-topic: Is anyone else missing the options for italicized, bold, ect when posting? I only have the smileys.

I had mentioned previously in my post here, that Bold, Italic etc are missing.   :wink:

Baron

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #29 on: 24 May 2017, 12:01 »
Well, BBCode is fine and dandy when you know it - and I do know those I use more often and usually type them in the text beforehand anyway - but when you need one you don't know off the top of your head, it's inconvinient.  :-\

Yeah, me too.  Years back I got tired of always having to convert fonts in my stories when I cut & paste from my word processor to the comp thread.  Since then I've just typed the codes directly into the text to save time.

So I guess there's nothing for it but to storm the throne room.  Who's with us?  I think it's AGA that's hiding behind the curtain these days.  Unlike Celtic warriors of old who charged into battle bravely in the nude, he's always struck me as a sensibly clothed individual, which should work to our advantage.  We'll take him by surprise, and then play on his computer and rustle his papers until our demands for snacks & attention forum modifications are met. ;)

Mandle

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #30 on: 24 May 2017, 12:11 »
Here's a screenshot from my "Reply" screen from just now:



BBcode hot-keys all in place where they have ever been.

Frodo

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #31 on: 24 May 2017, 12:16 »
Aha!  So it was Mandle who stole the formatting buttons!    :tongue:

Mandle

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #32 on: 24 May 2017, 12:22 »
Aha!  So it was Mandle who stole the formatting buttons!    :tongue:

Really? You guys don't see this when you use the "Reply" button?

I use Firefox 48.0.2 if that helps track down the issue...

Sinitrena

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #33 on: 24 May 2017, 16:19 »

I had mentioned previously in my post here, that Bold, Italic etc are missing.   :wink:

Huh, so you did. In my defense, I normally read ths thread only after posting my story.



Mine looks like this:







Edit: I posted in the bug thread over in forum problems and linked this thread.

Edit 2: I use Firefox 53.0.3
« Last Edit: 24 May 2017, 16:25 by Sinitrena »

Frodo

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #34 on: 24 May 2017, 17:40 »
^  Mine looks the same as Sinitrena's.  And I use Internet Explorer, and Google.   :cool:


And thanks Sinitrena, for posting it in the Forum Problems.  Never thought of that.   :smiley:

Baron

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #35 on: 25 May 2017, 02:59 »
Gah!  Now AGA will know we're coming.... :P

---------------------------------------------------------
The Gnawing Worm of Treachery

   Decimus sat sweating on the wooden bench of the rickety waiting shed.  He stared at his long-time bond-brother, Fabius, who sat across from him.  They sat so close in the tight confines of the waiting shed that their knees were staggered like the cogs of two wheels.  The gaps between the planks of the shed walls admitted little fresh air to relieve the musty heat, but the sound of mortal combat in the arena beyond passed through with little difficulty.  The crowd cheered as steel rang on steel, but neither man broke the other's gaze.  Theirs was the very next match.

   Decimus was reluctant to reveal his anxiety by breaking the silence first, but he wanted to gauge Fabius' reaction to his worries.  “Let's go over the plan again,” he said casually, hoping to convey a sense of respectful camaraderie with a hint of healthy paranoia.  If Fabius replied too quickly or curtly, or if he tried to sooth excessively, Decimus would know that he did not command the other man's respect.  If there was no respect between brothers of the sword then betrayal was inevitable, and he would have to plan accordingly.

   But Fabius did not reply immediately.  If anything he seemed to be measuring Decimus' character with his eyes just as Decimus was measuring him.  “Belgian Wine Trot to start, followed by Dacian Salutes, then a Greasy Syrian melee,” he said calmly.  “I lose my blade, but dive to recover.  Then a quick Spartan Dance, you pull a Dirty Phoenician, fade to Iberian Whore Tumble.  You cut my left arm lightly, then ham it up with the crowd.  I rejoin with Suevian Nipples followed by Arabian Moustaches.  Finally a climactic Britannic Hand Job, after which you fall sensationally beneath my blade and we get you off on mercy.  We both walk relatively unscathed out of the arena and are drinking wine back in the barracks in half-an-hour.”

   Decimus didn't blink, and neither did Fabius.  They'd fought each other once before, and had pulled off a convincing draw.  But that time the plan had involved Fabius falling beneath Decimus' blade before the mercy-call.  Decimus was less comfortable with reversing the roles, but to admit as much would be to show a lack of trust.  And a match-fix without trust was nothing more than a backstabbing race.

   “I think we should throw in some Moaning Ephesians,” Decimus offered with what he hoped seemed like genuine cheerfulness.  “It'd look better if I get more blows in.”  The idea was to make the whole match look like an implausible upset, getting the crowd to empathize with the stronger gladiator who appeared to lose only due to a horrible turn of bad luck at the very end.

   “Samitus and Pollox are doing Moaning Ephesians right now,” Fabius countered.  “How plausible would that be two matches in a row?”  Indeed, the sound of impassioned grunts drifted freely through the wall slats of the waiting shed, to the delight of the mob in the seats above.

   “Alright then, Shaved Egyptian Cats,” Decimus offered.

   “We did that last time,” Fabius reminded him.

   “Gaullish Tongues, then,” Decimus said with just a hint of exasperation.

   “Before a Britannic Hand Job?” Fabius retorted in a sceptical tone.  “No one will believe that.”

   There was a sudden bang against the slats as Samitus slammed Pollux against the outside wall, initiating a new bout of fevered grunts and moaning as they grappled with each other in close quarters like Turkish wrestlers.  The crowd loved it.  Fabius casually pulled at the slat that the two fighters had broken in their passionate charade, easily removing it for a better view of the action.

   Fabius clearly wasn't interested in changing the plan, that much was clear to Decimus.  But what did Fabius have to lose by giving his opponent more lustre in the spotlight?  It seemed a lot like he was just conceding the minimum to make a draw seem plausible, while secretly hoping that the crowd turned nasty and showed no mercy in the end.  Decimus raked his memory for motives.  Could it be that he didn't want to share the meagre 200 denari purse?  Or was he interested in the new scullion boy who had recently hooked up with Decimus?  Or maybe it was some slight or grudge that was so trivial that Decimus wouldn't even be able to recall it?  It was even just possible that Fabius was  getting a little nervy and starting to doubt whether or not he could truly trust his opponent....

   “Fine,” Decimus said at length.  “We'll do it your way.  I trust you completely.”  Decimus began plotting the preemptive murder of his bond-brother immediately.

   Fabius nodded a salute.  “As do I you, my bond-brother.” 

   Jove's Swollen Gonads!  Fabius was clearly plotting Decimus' murder too!  But when?  He would want to make it look like an accident, to avoid complications back at the barracks.  Probably towards the end of the fight, during the more complicated manoeuvres of Iberian Whore Tumble or Arabian Moustaches.  Men can easily lose their balance on the bloody sands, blades slip, stuff happens.  There might be a sideways glance between chums over the wine amphora tonight, but everyone would soon shrug it off as happenstance and move on; he'd done it dozens of times himself.

   So he would have to strike first, probably during his Dirty Phoenician bit.  It would be a tad early in the fight, earning him arched eyebrows instead of just sideways glances, but a day or two of suspicion and he'd be back in the good graces of his brother gladiators again.  He smiled broadly at Fabius. 

   Fabius smiled back.  Shit, shit, shit!  He knew that Decimus would calculate that a strike during the Dirty Phoenician sequence would be his best bet.  That's why he was probably planning on a little mishap during the Spartan Dance!  Decimus wiped the sweat from his brow, noting that Samitus and Pollox were building to their climax out on the sands.  There would be whispers and rumours for a month or two, but if he cut Fabius open during the frenzied Greasy Syrian melee he would eventually recover his standing amongst his brothers.

   “Ready?” he asked as the crowd roared their approval of the two previous showmen.

   “Of course I'm ready.”

   Shit!  Of course he's ready!  He knew all along that Decimus would be forced to make his move during the Greasy Syrian melee, and so he would have planned to strike sooner!  Probably during the Dacian Salutes....  Now Decimus was painted into a corner.  He'd have to strike right off the bat during the Belgian Wine Trot.  He'd be socially ostracized back at the barracks, but at least he'd still be breathing.  So be it.

   Samitus and Pollux walked past the slatted waiting shed toward the arena exit arm in arm, waving to the adoring crowd.  Now was the moment of truth.  Decimus drew a long breath and psyched himself up for what he had to do.  “Good luck, my friend,” he said kindly to the man sitting across from him.

   In a heartbeat Fabius stabbed him in his sword-wielding shoulder with a wooden shank that had splintered from the broken wall slat.  Of course! Decimus thought, kicking himself inwardly....
« Last Edit: 25 May 2017, 04:23 by Baron »

kconan

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #36 on: 25 May 2017, 16:51 »
  Good show entrants!  Ponch could be - might be - adding his own backstabby tale.

  I'll extend the comp until Saturday night.

Baron

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    • Baron worked on one or more games that was nominated for an AGS Award!
Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #37 on: 27 May 2017, 02:56 »
Will there be betrayal by the deadline or betrayal by the deadline?   Poor Ponch has painted himself into quite the corner this time. ;)

Frodo

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #38 on: 27 May 2017, 10:02 »
Will the cow-man himself be betrayed?  Or will he be the betrayer???     :kiss:

Mandle

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Re: Fortnightly Writing Competition - Backstabbing
« Reply #39 on: 27 May 2017, 16:32 »
Will the cow-man himself be betrayed?  Or will he be the betrayer???     :kiss:

For whom the cow-bell tolls!?