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Damn, I should have written that dragon-story of mine from a while ago and applied it HERE instead!
Now I'll have to re-write it, but with unicorns instead!

Quirky humour wins the day!
Congratulations, Baron!

Basically, I wish you had written the party going to speak to the dog instead of them talking about it.

I didn't want to make my story too long. It's already longer than I am comfortable with posting in these competitions, to be honest. However, your wish may be granted at a later date, as I am quite fond of this little tale and may expand upon it outside of the competition.

[>> A fox knows many things... by jahnocli]

>> A fox knows many things... by jahnocli
> Most Convincing Protagonist: Reynard Fox. We don't learn a whole lot about him, his background or history, just a few basic descriptors and a rough outline of his roguish character type. There was much room for more here.
> Best Story: Something about the setting rubs me the wrong way. Having a newspaper distributed is cute in a lot of ways, but an Owl with an online gambling problem feels a bit too modern for my tastes here. Perhaps that's just my nostalgia goggles speaking, though.
> Best Writing: Some of the descriptions come off as stiff and unnatural, but serve their purpose well enough.

>> Ice-cream by Sinitrena
> Most Convincing Protagonist: The frightening nature of budding adulthood told through the metaphor of magical powers and the protagonist struggling to accept or even rejecting the change so that they may cling on to their fading childhood innocence for a moment longer? It feels a tad cliche.
> Best Story: The whole "You're a wizard Harry" reference felt a bit too on the nose here. Apart from the protagonist rejecting the secret reality of her existence on some level, choosing to live among the 'muggles' instead, this felt a lot like a modern Harry Potter re-hash.
> Best Writing: Apart from a few very small typos, this was very much the usual high-quality work of Sinitrena. Hard to beat.

>> Leave No Stoner Unturned by Baron
Most Convincing Protagonist: I like this Toad character. I feel a strange and deep kinship toward him, like he's my long lost identical twin, and he's also described in a way that combines his non-human nature with a fine sense of humour.
Best Story: I needed this tale in my life right now. Some crude and witty humour, absurd ideas and events, a sadistic mouse character and an ending that drops a brick on any and all sense this tale might have held. I hope there will be a sequel about the Anteater.
Best Writing: The descriptions and themes used raised this one well over the average, and I think Baron inches out a win in this category as well!


Final votes:

Most Convincing Protagonist: Leave No Stoner Unturned by Baron
Best Story: Leave No Stoner Unturned by Baron
Best Writing: Leave No Stoner Unturned by Baron

[An Alliance]

An Alliance



The farm buildings were wreathed in a light fog, which swirled slowly around the structures, clinging low over the recently cut grass of the yard. The barn was silent, the lights in the house had gone out an hour ago and even the birds of the night seemed to sit and wait in anticipation. The narrow dirt road, that separated its buildings from the broad open fields to the east and to the north, glistened under the light of the moon and the stars, the small puddles upon its surface stood still. To the west the hills and the forest extended for miles, their leaves yellow and orange and red as the autumn grew colder by the day.

In the corner of the farm, close to the rickety old fence, sat the old potato cellar. Its wooden structures had crumbled and been worn away by the many years, but the stone steps still remained, as did the skeletal, empty crates and the cracked old glass bottles. All was not quiet, however.

Faint shafts of moonlight crept in down the stairs and through the narrow gaps on the wooden floorboards, with a central pillar of pale light forming underneath the Speakers Knothole. There, upon an old jam jar lid (raspberry, if one must know), stood Old White. Her beady red eyes scanned the gathered crowd, her withered pink tail twitching restlessly as she gazed past the flecks of dust floating in the air. Her name was as much a title as it was a description, as age had bleached the colour from her once soft and pristine fur. The soft chittering sounds of the Assembly filled the shadowy space, created by the crude angular vaults of the support beams and floorboards above, as dozens upon dozens of beady rodent eyes stared back at Old White. Teeth glimmered and clawed hands gripped bald tails, twisting nervously over and over again as hushed whispers carried over one another in conflicting waves. Only the Grey Guards, strongest of the mice, their claws sharpened and their eyes always watchful, stood still and stoic. Rumors were plentiful here on the best of nights (usually on the subject of theft, which was both condemned and also a daily occurrence), but tonight the tone of these whispers was frantic, alarmed and fearful.

Old White clutched the White Pebble in her hand, raised it to the air so that the reflecting light made it shine under the light, and struck it down against the metal edge of the jam jar lid. The harsh clang echoed around the enclosed space, and the voices fell silent at once. On the outside Old White was calm, emotionless, enveloped in wisdom and power granted to her by her many years, but on the inside she smiled as she saw her power was still respected. Not many saw such age as she did, or ruled for so long. The years had been good to her. Slowly she inhaled, feeling the stale, musty air, warm from the press of myriad bodies so close together, filling her lungs. Then she spoke, her voice clear even in its croaky, ancient tone (that she greatly enjoyed exaggerating for effect).

“Representative of the Browns, step forth.”

To her left, among two loosely formed ranks of skittering, matte-brown rodents, a single mouse stepped forward and stood up on his hind legs. No words were spoken, or needed, as the representative nodded to confirm his presence. Orderly. Organized. The Browns had outdone themselves. Old White knew this mouse well, even as she'd tried to put his name from her mind for a long time. They had been friends once. They might have been lovers (many had believed so, and suffered for spreading such rumors) if not for a harsh disagreement during that one equally harsh winter. Under his leadership the Browns had kept their chain of supply running well, the hidden passages into the two-legged-giants grain silos were producing plentiful food that fed the young and the old, and made for good trading. Old White nodded in return, then scanned the gathered crowd for the next tribe to be called.

“Representative of the Voles of the Field, step forth.”

A different crowd erupted in soft skittering that sounded much like a debate (it was). Smaller than all others in stature, thought certainly not in numbers, the voles argued (fiercely), shoved and pushed (and bit), until finally one of their kind was forced to the fore. As the rank of her companions closed up tightly behind her, the singular vole lowered her head and stepped forth (while looking rather miserable), declaring her presence with a meager squeak. The voles did not enjoy the attention. Their representative was often elected on the spot, as the previously elected one fled or refused to stand, and rarely had much to say.

“Representative of-” A scraping sound, of claw on stone, interrupted Old White. She wheeled around to face the offender, disbelief flickering in her expression, only to come face to face with the glare of red eyes and sharp half-rotted teeth. Old White clenched her jaw, the twitching of her tail the only remaining sign of her nerves as she regarded the newly arrived envoy (and struggled not to gag at the smell of that breath). “I see the Great Blacks have deemed it suitable to join, albeit late.”

The words were followed by a deep silence (several of the voles covered their eyes). Without a reply the rat bowed his head, then rose up to his full and formidable height as he reached a great clawed hand forward. As the fingers parted, a set of six severed tails fell to the edge of the jam jar lid, bloodless and dead. The silence no longer held as shocked gasps and fearful whispers rose anew (one of the voles had fainted). Old White raised the White Pebble again, and its clang on the metal lid served to mostly restore order.

“I bring to you betrayal and death!” -the rat declared, towering over Old White, addressing the gathered mice about her directly. Old White knew this one, too. Red Tooth they had called him, for his bloodlust and prowess in battle, long before his teeth rotted and he earned a less pleasant name, not to be used in polite conversation. The Great Blacks, warrior rats, defenders and keepers of order (through swift violence), as long as the council kept them well fed. “Six tails you see here before you, and for each of these three more are devoured and lost! Death and destruction have been brought to us, and the Legion of the Great Blacks demand justice!”

Old White lowered her gaze, staring at the severed tails. She'd known of the danger, of course. She'd known that something new lurked the farm at night. The Browns had lost a few. The voles spoke of many disappearances (thought these were not uncommon to begin with) and even Old White and her Grey Guards had felt the uneasiness in the air. All of this was precisely why she had called the council this night, to quell the rumors, to learn what each of the tribes knew, to assess the threat to her people, but even she had not fully understood the severity of the situation.

Not until now.

“Calm yourself, Red Tooth of the Great Blacks. We gather tonight to end such loss, not to place blame.”

Red (Brown) Tooth snarled in response, rancid spittle flying off his cracked lips as his claws stroked his fur to dislodge flecks of dried blood and dirt. “Betrayal!” -he snapped back, pointing his claw at the crowd, slowly turning left to right as if to see who among the crowd would flinch (the voles did so, collectively). Finally that pointed claw found its intended mark, a small, ragged collection of mice at the outer edge of the assembly, standing among the upturned roots of a dead plant. “The Watchers of the Wood!” -the rat snarled. “Theirs was the task of signalling us, to let us know of the danger! Such was the agreement we signed, and yet the lights remain dark and the bells have not tolled!” Red (Brown) Tooth's voice was dripping with venom, and Old White had to step back to keep his rancid saliva from dripping upon her nose. The Grey Guards stood to the side, whiskers twitching as they tried to decide if they should intervene. Caution (or fear) won the night, and Old White was left to fend for herself before such verbal onslaught. She held up her hands, the White Pebble glowing brightly in the shaft of moonlight coming from above. She demanded silence. Red (Brown) tooth, however, was not quite done: “They hide in the roots and the trees while my cohorts are thinned out and decimated! Curse them! Curse them all!”

With the last of his venomous words spoken, his defiance made clear, Red (Brown) Tooth stepped back, shaking his head in disgust. It was rare for the Great Blacks to mourn their dead (as such deaths were commonly caused by the very members of the Great Blacks), but they did make a fine show of their loss, to bargain for more food and living space. This time, however, Old White felt their anger might have been sincere and not just misdirected frustration.

“Representative of the Watchers in the Wood, step forth and answer this accusation!”

It took several moments for the answer to come. The dark-brown fur of the Watcher clan blended almost completely into the shadows among mounds of dirt, dust and ancient, cracked wood. In his hand he clutched a staff carved of wood, upon which he leaned so that he could stand alone. Old White did not recognize this one. This one was thin, almost sickly-looking, with a black pit in his head where the left eye should be. His voice shook as he spoke.

“I bring no tails to this council. Only a warning: the Watchers have failed.”

The true meaning of these words took a while to sink into the crowd. The Watchers of the Wood were tasked with trade with the outside world, with delivering messages to and fro, and with ensuring that the tribes always had safe passages prepared in case the two-legged-giants brought the fog of death on the tribes again. They were also the lookouts,tasked with keeping an eye on those that passed from the woods, under the great Fence of the Two-Legged-Giants and into the Home Realms. The one-eyed wood mouse shook his head, his tail clutched tightly in his free hand. In a fit of unexpected anger he cast aside his own tail, then continued on.

“The seven of us you see here today are all whom remain. The rest are dead, or have fled. We, too, will go as they have gone, once the moon is out. The hills are no longer safe-”

“COWARDS!” -spat Red Tooth from the corner where he'd been sulking, shaking his fist in the air. Others joined the outcry, emboldened by the anger of the black rat (even some of the voles squeaked angrily). Baring his chipped teeth the one-eyed envoy hissed back: “She has returned!”

The uproar that had enveloped the assembly died out in an instant. It was not uncommon for wild things from the woods to come and go. Often the warnings from the outlooks came in time, preventing any loss of life. But this intruder was not just any wild thing. It was Her.

“Then it is as we had feared.” The voice of Old White came through clearly in the sudden silence, as she stepped to the edge of the jam jar lid with the White Pebble under her arm. “We knew this day might come. We prepared for it! We have plans and contingencies in place...”

“She is greater than before!” -the one-eyed mouse cried in protest. “More wicked, crazed with bloodlust and vengeful! She stalks the night, rending eyes and tails and silencing lookouts! She has grown wild and feral, her hunger not for meat and blood, but for sport!”

Old White pitied the one-eyed mouse. She knew by the tone of his voice, as well as from his scarred appearance, that he had lost much already. If action was not taken swiftly, they all would.

Many had hoped that the Great Feline Deviless would never return. Two winters had gone since the two-legged-giants of old had left, leaving the Feline Deviless behind. Some say they fled her, too, for she was fierce even then. As She was left to fend for herself, hunger drove her into a frenzy as She ravaged the mouse tribes, and only after many fierce battles that had cost countless lives she had retreated into the woods, bleeding and dying, or so the tribes had thought. In time her name had become a legend, a tale told to the young to keep them from venturing too far, for in the darkest parts of the distant wood, the Feline Deviless would devour them whole.

Long She must have nursed her wounds from those battles of old, and great her hunger for retribution must be if She had scoured the woods and sent the Watchers fleeing. And now it was clear to see: She had made her first move, and was poised to enter the Home Realms proper. Not even the Great Blacks could hold her back.

The voles had disappeared during the fiery speech, leaving behind only many sets of footprints (and stinking wet spots) in the dirt. Old White cursed their fearful nature under her breath, then collected herself.

“We have an ally to call upon. An alliance was forged when the new two-legged-giants arrived in the winter. Representative of the Giants House, step forth!”

A light-grey mouse skittered forward, clutching a disc-shaped object wrapped in a pouch woven of black hair. He looked uncertain, despite his best efforts to the contrary, and repeatedly glanced over his shoulders at the gathering of his kin. Their silent support was as uncertain as he looked.

“Will he truly aid us, still? Will he even recall us?” -the spiteful Red (Brown) Tooth wondered out loud, his loud voice bringing to question the validity of this final gambit. Old White wanted to smack him over his thick skull with the White Pebble, but contained herself and instead gestured to the carrier of the Token. With a nod the grey mouse peeled off the pouch and revealed the great brass disk, a ring of glimmering metal attached to its side, and three arcane symbols carved upon its surface: R E X. Others stepped forth, dragging behind them great red-and-yellow bag of crinkling, shiny material, inside of which resided the Brown Cakes. Said to have been baked by the two-legged-giants themselves in some infernal furnace far away, their shape was that of a great, thick bone, with seven holes pressed into their surface. As the shiny material was parted, their scent poured forth, pungent and strong, and all those present felt their mouths watering. The bag looked light. Too light.

“How many have we left?” Old White's voice was tainted with worry.

“Nine remain.” -came the answer of the grey mouse, followed by a spiteful glance at the black rat. “We have cut up and traded many during the long winter months, sparing as many as we could.” Old White shook her head slowly, then raised the White Pebble above her head.

“Then nine must do.” -she intoned, releasing her grip on the White Pebble, allowing it to fall upon the metal of the jam jar lid. Its sound signalled a final decision. Her will and leadership would either save the tribes, or cast them into chaos and destruction. Her life depended on the outcome of this night.

“We must deliver the offerings, and our plea, to the Hound. We must secure His aid, lest we all be lost before that fall of first snow.”

The wheels of thought churned in Old White's rodent skull. She hadn't left the nest-homes for longer than she could comfortably recall, but knew she had but one option here.

“I will lead the delegation.” -she finally declared, to the joint murmuring of the Assembly. It was unheard of, unthinkable. But surely she would not go alone. Surely the others (except for the voles) would see the importance of this task. She took a deep breath, her clawed fingers gripping the White Pebble tightly to keep herself from shaking. She could ill afford to show fear now. “Those who would join me, step forth now!”

They all shrunk back. Even the carrier of the Token glanced over his shoulder, as if wishing he, too, could slip away from this task. Like Old White, he was trapped in the open, held in place by fear and shame. A great black hand gripped Old White's shoulder. She could smell the vile stench of the black rat's breath, and feel the tips of those razor-sharp claws underneath her fur.

“I will go!” -the rat declared, loud and boisterous. “The Blacks stand with you!”

Old White hadn't known what to expect, but the words soothed her soul. Even the stench of that breath felt tolerable all of a sudden. Another mouse stepped up to the edge of the jam jar lid, the light from the Speakers Knothole illuminating his quivering nose. It was the speaker of the Browns. Old White's heart fluttered in her chest, and she had to suppress a surprised squeak so as not to appear like the young, excitable girl she suddenly felt like inside. The rat's hand on her shoulder squeezed her (was he trying to reassure her?) and then slid off so she could stand strong by herself. Red (Brown) Tooth was grinning as if he knew something he shouldn't have.

“I shall represent the Browns, and in doing so, go with you, my Lady!”

He bowed his head to Old White, just as he'd done back then. She wanted to say something, to thank him, to speak his name, or to...

“Then I cannot stand aside.” The voice interrupted Old White's thoughts and left her blinking to see who it was that spoke. That voice belonged to the one-eyed mouse of the woods. He stepped in close with a solemn and serious air of the kind only great experience and age could grant, standing side-by-side with the Brown representative. The carrier of the Token stood up as well, and approached the light. He was smiling now, given confidence by those around him, even though his beady eyes betrayed his nerves.

“And with that...” The one-eyed mouse noted, looking around at the five rodents gathered in the light of the Speakers Knothole. “...I believe you have all the tribes (save for the voles, obviously) at your side!”

Fear turned to hope, and a great cheer echoed throughout the basement. A new Alliance had been formed that night.

<<<---------->>>

Writer's notes

Spoiler

I wanted to write something inspired by my childhood. I've always had a soft spot for small, furry creatures, so cutesy little rodents seemed like a solid basis for this story. At its core I felt like I was writing a children's book, with simple and likeable characters, a grand and adventurous setting, a clear and imminent danger and just enough elements of more violent and frightening themes that they would stir that excited feeling in the reader that I recall experiencing so vividly as I was subjected to the children's literature and some early cartoons as a child (I'm looking at you, Watership Down!). I wanted to write something that a child of, say, 7-10 years old could read and understand, with enough complexity to it that the tale wouldn't feel condescending to such a reader, that they might feel a little older and braver and stronger for having read the tale.

I hope you had as much fun reading this little tale as I had writing it! And who knows... perhaps I will write more some day, of how the five rodent party face challenges both great and small as they seek their ally. Thank you to everyone who helped me edit this tale and provided their feedback! Tabata, you deserve a special mention here, you mouse maniac, you!

[close]

I have something, and unlike the last competition I think I'll actually be able to deliver this time.

Expect mice!

Because mice are nice

My first read of that subject line made me think of a literal party, with balloons and everything, slowly fading out as people just got bored and left.
Now I want to write a story combining that with the actual horror movie trope and...

I might just participate.

Congrats on the win, Sinitrena! An impressive amount of work well rewarded!

[Baron]

- BEST CHARACTER: Baron for his protagonist pair
- BEST WRITING: Baron, for solid use of dialogue and inventive descriptions
- BEST STORY: Baron, for painting a world with a sense of history and plenty left to discover
- BEST ATMOSPHERE: Durinde, for the cozy atmosphere present in the first half of the story
- BEST DRAGON: Durinde, for the cutesy and cat-like Green


> Dragons by Wiggy
I ended up reading this out loud in a pseudo scottish accent for some reason. Poetry isn't really my thing, however, and the line length and weight seemed off to me, making this a bit of a slog to read. A for effort, though many of the lines didn't seem to rhyme. I guess that's more of a modern poetry thing?


> Dragon's Guardian by Sinitrena
Impressive. All around impressive amount of work went into this tale. I really hope you take the time to clean it up and, perhaps, expand it out in the future.

Sadly I will not be voting for it in any of the categories, despite you surely deserving several of those votes in the strict sense of the competition rules. The reason for this is the length. There is no real rule or guideline about this, but personally I feel that fortnightly stories should be kept to a reasonable length, so that they might draw in readers and voters from people who did not participate. If one or more stories are of such overwhelming length and complexity that they turn away potential casual readers, I fear it might detract from the voter pool of the competition. Imagine if we had 10 participants who all wrote stories of your caliber! We'd need another fortnight just for the voting process! I hope this makes some sort of sense, and you can forgive me for taking such a harsh stance, despite it possibly seeming unfair. I know I struggle to keep my stories from overflowing in lenght sometimes, and I am pleased to see your work growing in size as it provides more potential for advancement of your writing. Perhaps stories of such length should not be contest entries, however, or they should be cut down for purposes of the contest and then expanded later elsewhere? Not having to bow to a deadline would allow you to edit and refine these tales further, turning them into something much more. You clearly have potential for that!


> Green And Me by Durinde
The story is distinctly divided into two segments. First off is a part of cozy, warm and comfortable descriptions of Green acting like a sort of draconic housepet. I very much enjoyed the mental image of this, and the description here was fantastic. The latter half of the story was a flashback into, I'm sad to say, boredom. After a fantastical setup that invoked all sorts of warm, fuzzy feelings in my tired soul, reading up about a coincidental meeting during a car repair trip seemed like a downer by comparison. Rather than reading about dragons I ended up, for most of the story, reading a conversation between people who were not very interesting. Especially compared to dragons. In my opinion the story should have focused more heavily on Green's daily life and the story of how Green came into the possession of Alec should have been reduced to a shorter, less important sidenote, as now it serves only to drag out the story, turning it from fantastical to mundane.


> Quest For Concord by Baron
Well, that story did not go the way I expected it to, but then again the nature of it had me quite uncertain of HOW it was about to go, anyway. There was history here, but too little of it was made clear and understood, or maybe I just lacked the imagination to piece it together. I did like the language here, though, and the two characters were quite interesting, although the dragon ended up something of a non-character due to the brief appearance and abrupt ending of the story. There is potential here, but this one needed a bit more time in the oven, dear Baron. It's not quite done!

Just got home from yet another 5 day stint at the hospital. Will try to read through the stories tomorrow and cast my votes.

My entry is about two-thirds done.  I'm pretty confident I can flesh out the rest this evening.

*eyes the clock in a worried fashion*

I've yet to read it, but... HOLY HELL, SINITRENA!
Are... are you all right? Need an ice bag, either for the brain or the fingers?

I look forward to reading all this!

Can I give Ferrungis a big hug? 

He'd probably be fined if he declined. I'm sure he'll learn to appreciate it in time, though.

[Hard Bargain]

Hard Bargain

Ferrungis planted his claws into the soft soil and took pause, his great serpentine eyes gazing miles away, at the mouth of a great pass. The passage through the mountains was sided by tall cliffs, banners fluttering in the wind above. People and carts, peddlers and traders and travelers from far off places all milled upon the road through that pass, coming and going on their endless business. Before the mountains that served as the wall of the King's city were the vast, rolling hills of green, and the great pastures with neat little fences around them. Sheep, like white, puffy clouds, dotted the vast expanse. It made his stomach rumble, seeing food like that, so easily in reach...

The great dragon stood taller than any house, his head atop a slender, scaled neck that allowed him to see for miles and miles. His wings were folded atop his back, while his great tail rose high behind him, so as not to knock over trees or buildings or farmers. There was a fine to pay if he did that. “A fine for everything...” -he rumbles, a swirling cloud of smoke emitting from his nostrils, rising up into the air, to be thinned out by the breeze. Even now he could feel the eyes on his back, and see the glint of steel in the towers atop those hills. Ballistas in all of them. Cursed things. The old wounds still ached, even now, after all these years.

“Move along, ya big lizzerd!” -comes the voice of some straw-hatted man wearing goofy suspenders and muddy boots. Not a hint of fear in his voice. No respect. The man was brandishing a rusty pitchfork while hauling a bunch of beets in his other hand. “Yer' scaring the flock! Move along ‘fore I call the guards on ya!” Ferrungis simply bowed his head and began to stride, moving along the right side of the road so as not to be in the way, leaving the farmer to his beets and his delicious sheep.

The plains and the hills brought many memories. Fiery battles had raged right here, with the Great King's armies driven to a rout before the Dragon horde, screaming in terror as the first line fell. Or so it had seemed, right until the dragons had followed them to that pass ahead. Great fortifications had been set up there, protected by spells even Ferrungis could not begin to comprehend. Cursed bolts from those great ballistas had darkened the sky, rending wings and shattering scales, while sending dozens and more of the dragons into a lifeless freefall. In anger the retreating dragons had set fire to all the lands and forests. Even now, barely a single tree stood tall here, thought the humans had planted countless saplings, brought from distant lands and paid for with the gold and gemstones from the Dragon reparations.

Reparations. That word tasted bitter in the mouth and brought Ferrungis' blood to a boil. He'd been wealthier than any mortal man in the realm! Worked hard, for centuries, to accumulate his precious hoard. And here he was now, loose gold coins from centuries past tucked away under his scales.

He entered the pass, where the narrow passage forced him to share the road with the carts and peddlers streaming toward the city ahead. He knew the odd looks now, and the pointing and the laughing. A child, no older than seven, too young to have known the war, pointed up at Ferrungis and shouted: “Show us your wings! Wings! Wings!” Finally his mother rounded the slow-moving cart and silenced the child. Again, the great and mighty beast could only draw in a deep, shuddering breath and swallow down the bile and the frustration. He could easily have spread his wings, take off and reach his destination in moments. He could, but only if he wished to be fined for entering a no-fly zone. Or perhaps he'd simply be shot, if the guard captain was in a foul mood today. It was not a smart gamble, and Ferrungis had known of a fine old lizard, too proud for her own good, who had suffered and died here, just for such a risk, hoping to save half a days worth of travel time. No fines, that day, but no reparations, either. Those only worked one way.

Finally the pass opened up, and Ferrungis could make his way to the side of the road, overtaking the slow moving column. There was, of course, a speed limit. No faster could he stride than a horse could ride, so as not to cause alarm. Some children tried to run alongside with him, but could not keep up for long. It was a petty and pyrrhic victory to leave them in his dust. No pride welled up in that old draconic heart.

“Name and number, big red!”
“You know me by now, Gate Warden. Must we do this every time?”
The fat man, Henry was his name, with thick glass lenses over his eyes that made him look like some kind of foul insect and a big, round belly barely contained by the leather strap that could be graciously called a belt, tapped his finger on the great leatherbound book set on a counter before him. “Name and number! I need ‘em for the books, see!” Ferrungis rolled his eyes once more, his reptilian lids closing in a slow blink to mask the impolite expression.
“Ferrungis of the Iron Cliff.” His home. “Four-seventeen.” His birth-year. “Nine-two-two.” Nine for a red dragon, twenty-two for his unique registration number. Prior to the war he hadn't even known there were twenty-one other reds, let alone more.
“Repeat that last part, please!” Hot air darted from Ferrungis' nostrils. An image of the fat man's bones laid out in a smoking pile before him flashed in his eyes. It was a pleasant image.
“Nine - Two - Two!” He made sure the numbers were clearly audible. Speaking slowly in that rumbling voice of his, a voice that could shatter stone if he willed it, made him sound slow in the mind. Someone laughed off to the side. The fat man flashed up a smile and nodded his approval. “All right, I'll send the word. Out of the gates by the sixth bell, wings and tail in check and watch those claws. Knock loose too many of the cobblestones and someone will make up a fine for that, too! Already came close last week, with a silver one.”
Ferrungis simply nodded as he took his leave of the man, carefully picking his steps as he moved onto the cobbled streets and passed beneath the Great Gate and into the marketplace beyond.

The city streets were narrower to navigate, and uncomfortable to be in. With each step Ferrungis had to care not to knock on the corner of one building or to crack the door on another. It was frustrating work to navigate this maze, built for creatures that were like insects to him once, but eventually he made his way to the old paupers quarter, the only part of the city that had burned down in the War. Now it was a very special marketplace, the construction work paid, once again, with Dragon gold.
“Ferry!” -came the far-too-friendly shout of an old woman, silvery in hair and wrinkled in face as she marched, brown robes billowing, out of her stall and right up to Ferrungis, smacking her hand on a scale on his forearm. He couldn't even feel it, but he knew her habits by now.
“Greetings, lady Mabel. I've come to trade.” She knew this. He visited every other week, especially this close to winter. “What is the price for a dozen heads of sheep?”

The old woman stepped back and begun to gesture wildly for the dragon to follow. The streets here were wider and more open, to cater to the draconic customers that visited every other day. Business was slow, but the profits, apparently, were well worth it. Only two other cities traded with the scaly kind, and the three formed a cartel that squeezed the dragons tighter every month. Some folk whispered, fearfully, of a breaking point, while others laughed and lined their pockets.

“Seven gold for a head, Ferry, but I'll cut you a deal and sell ‘em off at eighty. You know old Mabel likes you the best, right Ferry?” It might have been mockery, but it had gone on for a long time now, ever since the market opened. Ferrungis believed she had some strange fixation for his kind, which might explain why most of the other humans avoided her as best they could. Sometimes she seemed lonely. “Old coin or the new?” -she croaked up, trying to look like a sweet old lady as she scampered back to her little stall and pulled out her books. Her haste to make business betrayed her look. Ferrungis lifted his wing slightly, reaching underneath it to dislodge the bundles of coins hidden away. The old coin was much more valuable than the new, the coins wider and heavier, and pure gold rather than the plated copper the new King passed off for currency. Mabel's eyes grew wide and her mouth, with all four of her teeth, turned into a mighty grin. “Ooooh, dearie-dear! Let me just see, here...” She rubs her wrinkled hands together and turns the pages on her book. At least she could see better than the gate warden, and needed no help for her eyesight. “That makes twenty-two for the full dozen!”

It took a moment to register in Ferrungis' mind. “Don't lie, woman.” -he snorted. “Last time it was seventeen for a dozen! I doubt the sheep eat gold to fatten up!” His voice took on a loud, booming quality. Windows rattled nearby. Guards manning the inner gate turned to stare, hands on their crossbows and their horns, for alerting the knights. Mabel simply shook her head, looking small and sad for a moment, as if she pitied the great dragon, despite holding the upper hand in this little transaction. She was like a cat, and he her mouse. A plaything. “Two green drakes brought in stacks of the old coinage just this week!” -she explained. “Nobody even knew there was so many of those old things lying around, so they've gone down in value, see? That, and the King raised the tax on draconic transactions again last week, as you might know...” She paused as Ferrungis parted his lips, his great white teeth glimmering in the light of the slowly falling sun. He had to struggle to keep his voice down, to swallow the foul words that might get him thrown out. And fined. “Ferry! Please! It's only business, and you know how old Mabel likes you best!” It was as if she were talking to her favourite puppy dog, or a small, particularly dull child. “Tell you what, I'll give you thirteen for the twenty-two, so you can go home in good spirits. How about it?”

She drove a hard bargain. He had nothing more to offer than his gold.

The sixth bell tolled as Ferrungis already strode away from the gates, having stopped there to listen to rumours of the realm while being pelted with dung and small stones from time to time. Teenagers, wanting to be knights one day, proving themselves in the eyes of the giggling girls and smaller children. There was talk of great serpentine dragons in the west, over the sea, and of great harpoon ships being built to stop them from reaching the coast. The coastal nobles were upset and anxious to see their holdings defended. In the east there was talk of civil war, of an alliance of three dukes and their dragon servants wanting to claim a slice of the King's land for themselves. Ferrungis knew not whether to hate, pity or envy his eastern brethren. They, at least, had secured a steady income and food for the winter.

The sheep lay against his side, stunned with fear and pinned down by his wings, six on one side, seven on the other. They, at least, still knew fear and respect for the dragons. He'd likely eat one on the road, to sate the worst of his hunger, and to calm his nerve for dealing with the enforced landing checkpoints on the way. This week there were six, when two weeks prior there had been five.

It would be a long way home.

Somehow Ferrungis just knew it in his heart he'd need at least 30 of the old coins when he returned to trade a couple weeks from now. The humans always drove a hard bargain.

[WHAM: Brevity]

Congrats to the winners!
My entry was heavily reliant on theme, of portraying a place and situation where brevity, but also clarity, are absolutely vital. In my mind this tale of mine was also connected to my past entry, but that's wholly beside the point. Suffice to say it was a lot more interesting in my head, than what those 144 words could rely in the way I used them.

WHAM: Brevity
Okay, it is clear that this is some kind of military operation and I think it's one that goes fubar. But other than that, I can't really tell what is going on. I can't even tell how many people are talking, let alone who is talking when. There's also a lot of "useless" information here, or unecessary repitiotions that are words that yould have been used more efectively ("The barrier is breached! I say again, barrier is breached!") It might be that people would repeat certain things in such a situation, but with a word limit of 144 words, you don't have the luxury to go for autenticity over clarity.

The jist of the tale was basically one of an overwhelming enemy, and military aircraft struggling to use the precious seconds they have to understand, communicate and confirm the situation, while also receiving conflicting orders and being put in a difficult position. In this case that difficult position was having to fire at positions dangerously close to friendly units, which results in a retaliation similar to those seen regularly in WWII as the allied aircraft had a tendency to strafe friendly positions, with infantry struggling, and often failing, to not return fire on friendly aircraft.

WHAM: Brevity  Not enough love for this entry.   It was an awesome attempt to portray the confusion of battle in an action-packed 144 words.  If only your contest adminstrant had the foresight to invoke a Most Intense category....  Maybe Stupot's time warp murder SD card could help us out with that.  What could possibly go wrong?

You are too kind, as always, Baron!
Alas: no. 'Brevity' was barely a story at all, and thus deserved to fail compared to the more skillfully crafted narratives on offer this fortnight.

I already have an idea for the next competition, though, so I hope to redeem myself with the DRAGONS!

I have an idea. Dragons A dragon will be involved. More to come at a later date.

[Frodo - Curse of the Moon]

Char: Frodo - Curse of the Moon
Word: Frodo - Curse of the Moon
Overall: Stupot - Something dark

[Brevity]

Brevity

Papa-Six, this is Zulu-One!
The barrier is breached! I say again, barrier is breached!
I'm seeing lots of movement across sectors two through six, additionals around eight and niner. Seven looks clear for now, recommend using that for immediate evac. Over.

Negative, I have no clear line of fire. Too many civvies and... Sir, that would... No Sir. Negative. Yes, sir, danger close, understood. Over.

All allied forces across sector six, fall back, I say again, fall back! CAS coming in hot. You with me Zulu-two? Aim for the bigger clusters, disregard the civvies, we need to put them back down! Confirmed! I'm rolling in now... GUNS, GUNS, GUNS!

RADAR SPIKE! I'M LIT UP! Who the fuck is... Negative, I know it's close, but we're friendly! FRIENDLY, DAMMIT! DO NOT FIRE! DO NOT- INCOMING A-A! Zulu-Two, take that A-A out, now! NOW DAMMIT!

[Sinitrena]

Gotta end this eventually, and so we come to the final scores:

Sinitrena takes the win! Congratulations!

Baron takes the second place.

Wiggy holds 3rd position.

Thank you to all who participated.

I plan to read all stories and vote tonight. Hopefully voting is still open.

Since there are so few votes so far, I'm giving you until end of the day to get some votes in. Hopefully we'll get a few more votes, too, to make things more interesting.
I hope you guys don't mind all the extensions dragging this fortnightly out a bit. Sorry!