| The Age of Assassins; Where the Pen and Sword are Equal | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: 3 Dec 2015, 19:17 (115 Views) | |
| Rocky | 3 Dec 2015, 19:17 Post #1 |
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Violent Nomad
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A fledgling novelist is merrily on his way to a publishing agency, his 700,000-word inaugural novel tucked carefully under his arm. But the publishers reject the author and his work without even hearing its title, and literally toss both out the back door. Dejected, he returns home, where his confusion quickly sours. Clenching his fist, he vows revenge upon the market he should so rightfully dominate. A mysterious figure approaches. He can help the author secure revenge. By poisoning the words in upcoming bestsellers, they can brainwash the readers of the world into abandoning the Young Adult market forever. But only if the author swears allegiance to him. With a chilling handshake, the deal is struck. At this, the literary world is plunged into danger like never before. At first, the plot goes well. Young readers abruptly discard their books and leave the market desolate. But then, all across the world, the young and old alike begin burning books at every opportunity. Nothing is spared. From Andy Weir to William Shakespeare, all are perishing in the Great Literary Immolation. And now reality twists once more.... --- The armored door slid open, and the Typhoon's darkened great room flooded with the roar and grit of the sandstorm. Dust choked the air, turning everything bronze. Swaddled in heavy layers, Rush dove inside and rolled across the now sand-cast floor. Scrambling to the panel beside the open doorway, he punched it and the door slid shut, sealing out the storm. The belly of his ship fell silent, the sounds of the outside reduced to soft warbling murmurs. Unwrapping the thick scarves and coats, Rush coughed and spat mouthfuls of grit onto the floor. He tossed aside his goggles and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. In the stillness, he heard the faint squeak of leather. The only leather in the entire great room was the cushion on the chair at his desk. Hollowing his breathing, Rush listened. He could hear something, There was someone else inside his ship... right there in the great room. Rush spun and drew his .45, flicking off the safety in a fluid motion. Peering down the barrel, he saw a figure sitting at his desk, turned toward him, one leg casually crossed over the opposite. In the dimness, Rush struggled to determine anything about the trespasser other than a vaguely masculine frame. "With a drawing speed such as yours, four bullets might be wasted before striking me," the figure said in almost scholarly critique. "Perhaps an additional bullet or two before any mortal damage could be inflicted." Rush immediately detected an English accent; from the south of England, to be precise, or what could be called "Oxford English". But there was a twist to it. Not posh, but definitely polished. The second element Rush noted was the slight gravel in the trespasser's voice, indicating he was more than middle-aged but not quite a senior citizen. "I'm not typically one to humor trespassers," Rush said. "But I'm fond of accents from the UK. Who are you and why are you here?" "Perchance you've heard news of people burning books around the world?" the man said. "Uh," Rush stuttered. His .45 dipped slightly. "I've caught snippets." In truth, he knew more than most about the Great Literary Immolation. It was an event he found deeply unsettling, but it wasn't something he'd discussed with anyone else. How did this man...? "I've come to enlist your services," the man said. Rush chuckled, and then cleared his throat. "Clients typically don't contact me face-to-face. In fact, clients don't contact me at all. I contact them." "I'm not what one might classify as a client." "Well, what then?" "Consider me a partner." "I'm not in the market for a partner. Not these days." "Well, I'm afraid I've come too far to take no for an answer." "Ah. Come too far from where, I wonder?" "Natal." Rush's eyes narrowed. "Somehow I don't think you're talking about the Natal in Brazil." "Is there such a place?" Nodding, Rush said, "There is. I think you're talking about the KwaZulu-Natal Province in South Africa." "Well, your reference to South Africa is correct." "Are you referring to the Province of Natal... or the Colony of Natal?" "I'm referring to the Natal in which the Zulu forced Durban to empty." Rush didn't blink. In a dusty corner of his mind, he remembered how fierce conflict with the Zulu had prompted the complete evacuation of Durban in 1844. Rush lowered his .45 and asked again, "Who are you?" The man rose from the chair and stepped into an area of lesser dim, and his details became clear. He was shorter than Rush, but modestly stout in the way most men of the outdoors were. His thick head of hair was lanced with streaks of silver and white, much the same as his pointed, short beard. His skin was leathery and dark, aged by the sun. And there was a youthful twinkle in his eye, the look of one who spent his years glaring deep and far into the world around him. "I, and others like myself, have traveled in search of help," he said. "We're on a quest - a crusade, if you will - to right the wrongs thus far perpetrated and restore the balance in both our worlds." "Our worlds?" The bearded man continued, "Each of us who traveled here has done so to enlist the help of those known as the Assassins. In Her Majesty's service, I am Allan Quatermain." |
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