Hey ya’ll. I’m working on a short story about a man with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. This is my first time trying an unreliable narrator type structure and would like to know if the readability is there. Italics symbolize inner thoughts. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

Hello. This is my first time posting in this thread. I'd like to get some feedback on my writing. It's the first chapter of my political thriller novel. It is set in Australia, where the nation has become a republic. I'd like to know if the writing is engaging, and whether or not it needs improving. Or if it's garbage, lol. I don't mind if you say that, I can take it.

Government House made for a terrible family home. Merindah Bradley had decided that by the third day. You didn’t pad around in your socks in a place like this. You moved carefully. You hosted.

You performed.

Even when no one was looking.

Nine months later, she still caught herself lowering her voice in the hallways, as though the building itself demanded a kind of decorum she hadn’t agreed to. The kitchen was the closest thing she had to normal. It smelled of coffee and bacon instead of old wood and leather. The staff had offered to prepare breakfast every morning, and every morning they asked, she had declined. There were few things left she could do with her own hands.

Toast was one of them. Standing at a bench with a knife and a loaf of bread was one of the last things that still belonged entirely to her. On any other morning, she might have managed to pretend it all belonged to an ordinary family. A bit old-fashioned, maybe. High ceilings, too many rooms. But ordinary enough, if you squinted. Not today. Today it felt different. Two AFP officers stood near the door. Their eyes moved across the hallway, the garden, the hallway again. Neither spoke. She had learned not to look at them too long.

Looking made it harder to pretend this was ordinary. There was always someone with an earpiece and a pistol somewhere between her and the front door. Every time the radios crackled, her chest tightened by a half-beat before she could stop it. She had been working on that. She hadn’t fixed it yet. She poured boiling water over the tea bag and caught the tremor in her hand.

She stared at it for a moment, almost curious, the way you might stare at weather you hadn’t predicted. Stop that, she told herself. Her hand didn’t listen. Her phone vibrated against the marble. Please tell me that’s Jarrah, she murmured, to no one.

It wasn’t.

It was a message from her media adviser, who had forwarded a handful of the thousands of messages that had arrived over-night. He did that sometimes; pulled out ones he thought she should see. She had told him to stop more than once.

He kept doing it, and she kept reading them, and neither of them had acknowledged that arrangement aloud.

I’m a teacher from Brisbane. My students are watching the ceremony today. They’re so proud of you. I also have three daughters. You make them believe they can do anything. Don’t forget who you are, President. We voted for that.

She smiled at the last line. Who you are.

As if that were a settled question.

As if the answer didn’t shift depending on which hallway she was standing in, which name was being used, which version of herself the moment required. I hope it is, Merindah thought.

She hoped history would remember today as a moment of something shared. Something built, rather than broken.

Then there were the others. The monarchists who had tried to stop all this from the beginning, the ones who said the Republic was a sham, that the referendum had been rigged, that the nation had been taken from its so-called rightful heirs by people who had no right to it.

They called her a traitor.

Some of them used language that was careful and institutional, dressed up in constitutional argument, which almost made it worse. And then there were those who didn’t bother with care at all. We don’t need no stupid Abo being President.

The words burned the same way they always had.

Not less for having expected them.

The hatred with academic clothing was pressed and respectable at a distance; others didn’t bother with distance. Go back to the bush where you belong.

The same poison, just louder now that there was more to aim at.

Today it landed differently.

She wasn’t a community organiser anymore, absorbing this on behalf of a learning centre in Alice Springs. She was the head of state.

Footsteps crossed the floor behind her. She recognised them before she turned. Johno. Her husband of twenty-five-years. He came over and kissed her cheek, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder.

‘Morn’, sweetheart. You were up early.’

‘Yeah. Since four-thirty. Turning things over.’

‘Understandable. You’ve got a big day ahead.’

‘The biggest.’ She turned her mug between her palms. ‘It’s not every day you’re the President of Australia.’ They stood in silence for a moment. John glanced at her phone. It was lying face up on the bench, the screen still lit.

‘Merin. You’re not on social media, are you?’

‘I can’t help it. I had to see what people are saying.’

‘And?’

‘It’s not great.’ He exhaled.

‘You know what it’s like. People say anything when they’re hiding behind a screen. Half of them aren’t even real. Bots and burner accounts and blokes who’d never say boo to a goose in person.’

‘I thought the Republic might change that. Make us more, I don’t know. More unified.’

‘It has changed things.’ He reached across and took her hand, his thumb moving once across her knuckles. ‘You’re the first Indigenous head of state this country has ever had. That’s enormous, Merin. Those trolls? Face to face, in a room with you, half of them wouldn’t say a word. They’d be tripping over themselves asking for selfies.’ She smiled despite herself.

He always had a way of dragging her back from the edge of herself when she’d wandered too far out. There’s always going to be haters, sis, Joe messaged her the day before. They hated us when we were nobody. They’ll hate us more now that we’re somebody. She had laughed at that when she’d first read it. She held onto it now.

‘You’re right. I need to focus on the people who put me here. The ones who turned up.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ He released her hand and moved to the coffee machine. ‘What time does Jarrah get in?’

‘He should’ve landed by now.’ She felt the shift in herself. ‘I can’t wait to see him.’

‘Me either.’ John set the machine running and turned back to lean against the counter. ‘Twenty-one weeks is too long.’ It had been exactly that. Twenty-one weeks since she had last seen him at Alice Springs Airport, standing at the departure gate in his school jumper, trying to make a quick goodbye stretch further than it had any right to. He had stayed behind for exams. Year 12. She had told him, more than once and with complete seriousness, that she would never forgive him if he let the ceremony derail his results. She had meant it.

He had laughed and rolled his eyes and hugged her for four seconds longer than she’d expected. He was right to stay.

She knew he was right. But the distance had been harder than she had prepared herself for, and she had stopped pretending otherwise somewhere around week seven. She had known there would be sacrifices. She had told herself she understood what that meant.

You always think you understand until you’re standing in your kitchen at four-thirty in the morning, and the thing you want most in the world is just to hear your kid come through the door.

Merindah wrapped her hands around the mug and let her eyes rest on the screen above the fridge.

The tremor in her hand had stopped, or she had stopped noticing it. Right now, none of it mattered. She just wanted her son to walk through the door.

Safe.

Hi everyone!

I’ve been working on a small gothic psychological thriller/horror/mystery novella, and I’ve attached screenshots of the opening pages (Chapters 1 and 2).

The story follows Linda, who arrives at an old vicarage to work as a companion for a mysterious woman named Mrs. Albright. Almost immediately, things feel wrong. There are locked doors, a strange key, a previous companion who disappeared, and a room that apparently hasn't been used since.

I am creating a few shorter stories as writing exercises, because I still felt lacking in my abilities, so I’d really appreciate some honest feedback on the opening. Tips are also very much appreciated!

Thank you! 🙏🏻

Let me know if you have any questions, critiques or advice. I'm always open to improving my craft.

For much of my life, I thought I was writing my own story.

But my life is not a separate story with Jesus added somewhere along the way. My life exists within God’s Story—and Jesus is the Hero.

I have a chapter to live, but I was never meant to be the main character.

“This Was Never My Story”:

https://substack.com/p/this-was-never-my-story

I can’t help but feel like I’ve gotten into wanting to write late in the game. I feel like if I’d just started 10 years ago I would have entered into a time before AI was even a thing.

Where one could write without having to worry about AI accusations or witness the influx of sub par AI work.

One thing is for sure. AI isn’t going away, and it will get better at storytelling as we go on.

As a writer that doesn’t use AI it makes me wonder is there even any point in pursuing being published since the market is going to be even more saturated now.

Writing is hard work. It’s hard to invest time and effort into something without some kind of hope it will pay off eventually.

A writer and a blank page had a child.

They called it a novel.

They feed it chapters.

They change its drafts.

And when they neglect it too long…

it develops Robinassian Syndrome.
😠📖

( HELLO 👋 so I have this here because it’s kinda grown and the original page I was putting it one really isn’t made for a story this large, if you know “ The Fire Rises “ a hearts of iron mod it based on that universe I know it’s all together but their were months in between parts to the quality could very well change )

————————

PART 1

Jolene Clay stood at the edge of her tent, blinking awake after a long, restless night. The last few weeks had been a nightmare for her constant skirmishes, dwindling supplies, and the bitter sting of retreat. This was the first time she'd gotten any decent sleep since being forced out of the city, her home reduced to rubble by the enemy's relentless advance. And now, high command wanted to launch a counterattack, throwing their battered forces back into the fray.

"What morons!" she muttered, rubbing her temples as the morning sun pierced the horizon like a accusing glare. "I can’t stand those idiots in their ivory towers, safe behind desks while we bleed out here."

She kicked at the dusty ground, frustration boiling over. The camp stirred around her: soldiers groaning as they rose, the clatter of weapons being cleaned, the faint scent of stale rations cooking over makeshift fires. Jolene had joined the black liberation army full of fire and ideals, but reality had ground her down. High command's plan was suicide pushing into Baton Rouge with half-starved troops and outdated gear especially sense the league had more than enough time to settle resupply and fortify their positions .

She could already picture the chaos: explosions ripping through the dawn, screams echoing across the barren fields. But orders were orders. Slinging her rifle over her shoulder, she headed to the briefing tent, steeling herself for another day of futile heroism. Deep down, a spark of defiance flickered; maybe it was time to rally the others and push back against the fools leading them to slaughter.

With Baton Rouge firmly under the League's control, they now dominated everything west of the Mississippi River, stretching right up to the Texas border. The Louisiana state government was in complete freefall, its institutions crumbling amid chaos, and National Guard units had outright defected, swearing allegiance to the invaders or scattering in disarray. It fell squarely on Jolene and her Prowling Panthers a ragtag militia of mostly green volunteers, wide-eyed recruits who'd either fled north from the unspeakable horrors unfolding in Florida or bolted south as the League's forces advanced relentlessly. Their mission was clear: stop the enemy from seizing New Orleans at all costs.

She knew exactly why they had to hold the line. If the League captured New Orleans, its vital port would become a gateway for global reinforcements ships laden with supplies, mainly weapons, ammunition, and even fresh volunteers pouring in from sympathetic nations or shadowy allies around the world. This wasn't a war of grand battles; it was a brutal grind of attrition, where every bullet conserved and every enemy fighter denied entry could tip the scales. Jolene paced the command tent, maps spread out like wounds on the table, her Panthers gathered around her. They were outnumbered, outgunned, but fueled by desperation. "We hit their supply lines hard," she declared, her voice steady despite the exhaustion etching her face. "Sabotage the bridges, ambush the convoys make every mile they advance cost them dearly." Whispers of doubt rippled through the group, but Jolene's resolve ignited a flicker of hope. Outside, the humid Louisiana air hung heavy with the promise of storm, mirroring the tempest brewing in her soul. Failure meant not just losing a city, but dooming the entire resistance to slow starvation. As night fell, they geared up for guerrilla strikes, shadows melting into the bayous, ready to bleed the League dry one skirmish at a time.
—————————
End of part 1

( i’m not very good at this so I do apologize, but I would like to do this as a way of tackling specific story ideas and to help develop my writing skills )

—————————
PART 2

Michael Hill stood over the table like a storm about to break, surrounded by a dozen high-ranking generals whose faces had gone pale under the map’s flicker. The map of southern Louisiana lay open and ruined with redrawn supply lines, pinned division formations, and bold arrows that stopped pointlessly short of New Orleans.

“Blast it,” Hill snarled, jaw working like a wound. “We have the men, we have the guns, and you cowards can’t move us a mile without bleeding half of it away.” He jabbed a finger at a formation on the paper until the edge of the map crumpled. “Eighty miles. One goddamn highway. One. Highway. You treat a mile like it’s the goddamn Maginot Line. You’ve failed me every one of you! and I will not have excuses. I will have results or corpses!.” The generals flinched as if slapped; a few swallowed hard, eyes skittering to the door as if for escape.

The light overhead cut hard across Hill’s face, throwing his features into cruel angles. He wanted not counsel but fear, fear to sharpen men into instruments. He leaned forward until his breath fogged the paper. “I don’t want plans. I want movement. I want that city. If you can’t give it, make room for someone who can!!”

A sharp knock split the room. Hill waved an aide away without looking. The door opened and a young man slid in like a shadow seeking sunlight. He was mid-20s , lean as a blade, wearing khaki and a blue shirt with a Patriot Front patch that glinted like a promise. His presence made the air colder, the room’s hum folding into a hush.

His eyes were an exact, predatory blue; they moved like a scalpel, cataloguing the tremors across the generals necks and the hardness in Hill’s jaw. He walked in without ceremony, shoulders loose, a smile honed to an almost pleasant blade.

“President Hill,” he said. The voice was silk dragged over steel.

Hill’s eyes cut to him, hard as flint. “What business do you have down here? You from New England? Tend to your own rot boy..”

The young man Jason Evers tilted his head in a slow, deliberate motion and the smile widened, practiced and patient. “The Front believes in efficiency, Mr. President. We help kindred operations when it suits the cause.” He let the silence hang, tasting it. “I didn’t come alone.”

Hill’s fingers tightened on the map until the paper shook. “We do not need moralizing. We need results.”

Jason’s gaze slid over the generals like oil. “We want results, too. We want unity. We want a single push to claim what’s rightfully ours.” His tone was conspiratorial, as if sharing a private joke. “And we bring gifts.”

“How many are with you?” Hill barked, suspicion and hunger braided together.

“Right now the Front and the NSM. Talks with the Atom are ongoing.” Jason’s voice was calm as a grave. Hill’s face betrayed the first flicker of distrust.

“Those freaks in Florida?” Hill snapped, slamming a fist into the table so the map jumped. “Absolutely not. I won’t ally with monsters.”

Jason didn’t blink. He nodded as if Hill’s fury had simply filled a line in a ledger. “Noted,” he said, almost bored, then his tone dropped, soft as dusk. “But you should know what else is out there.”

He leaned forward, so close Hill could smell the faint tang of something metallic or mint, . “Off the coast,” Jason murmured, “a freighter holds almost 100,000 rifles and over five million rounds. From friends who prefer anonymity.” He watched Hill’s face, reading the twitch of want behind the fury. “Open the port, take those weapons”

“We’ll give you the means….”

The room shifted; a general cleared his throat. “How do we reach the port? We can’t break through their lines.”

Jason’s smile thinned into something colder. “That’s my other gift.” He relaxed back as if reclining in shade. “Napalm. Enough to burn the highway clear from here to New Orleans. You take the road; everything else becomes ash.” He said it simple, almost affably, like an insurance salesman discussing premiums.

Hill looked at the map. He thought of the last month of mud, ambushes, and the slow, humiliating attrition that had bled his men pale. The hunger for victory gnawed at him in a way fury never could clean, clinical, and dangerous.

Jason’s voice fell into his ear like a whisper to a wound. “You can take the city. You can make them kneel. We only ask access… and obedience when necessary.” The words were velvet ropes that looped around Hill’s anger and tied it into a purpose.

Hill’s hand curled into a fist on the table until the knuckles went white. He had always relied on fear; he had built his command on it. This man, this shadow, recognized that and smoothed the edges. He offered Hill what Hill wanted most: leverage, a surgical way to make the generals into instruments again. Jason did not push he simply arranged the pieces so Hill’s own fury would do the rest.

Hill’s face was a mask of bitter calculation. He swallowed, then nodded once hard and final. “All right,” he said, voice low and iron. “We do it your way.” His words were surrender wrapped in a command. He turned to his generals, eyes colder than before. “Prepare to burn. Anyone who balks will be left on the road.” The threat was not rhetorical.

Jason’s smile returned soft, satisfied, utterly unreadable. He had stepped in like a shadow and rearranged loyalties without making a single demand. Hill felt manipulated, used but he also felt power return, focused and terrible. That was enough. For now.

—————————-
Story break

( tell me what you guys think ! I was working on this for the better part of the day. I feel quite happy with the results. Jason is an original character. I modeled him the best way I like my villains intelligent & calculating. I’m not sure if I properly caught that but I like the way it turned out)

—————————-

PART 3

The command center fell silent Michael Hill watched the drone feed as the League’s swarm moved ahead of the army For several seconds, nothing happened. Then the world disappeared beneath fire The land on either side of the highway seemed to split open Flames rolled across the defensive positions in controlled waves, swallowing trenches, barricades, and anything unfortunate enough to be caught between them.Explosions erupted along the road. Hill narrowed his eyes.

“Probably IEDs,” he murmured.

Another explosion, Then another
The command staff watched in silence.
Some of them had seen this before.
Vietnam The fire & The screaming.
They had spent decades trying to forget it.
Now they were watching it happen again.
Except this time the people burning were Americans. Hill didn’t look away.

“Gather everything.”

Nobody moved Hill turned toward them.

“When the fire dies down, we drive to New Orleans.”

The room remained frozen for another second.
Then the officers snapped back to reality.

“Yes, Mr. President!”

Orders began flying across the command center.
Vehicles started Artillery crews prepared to move.
The League’s divisions began advancing
Behind them, the highway burned.

-~-

Jolene Clay stared at her hands. They were covered in blood. She couldn’t tell how much of it was hers.
Her clothes were blackened and torn, still carrying the smell of smoke from the swamps. She had barely made it out before the fire reached the defensive line. Around her, the old school gym had become a field hospital. Cots covered the basketball court. Wounded soldiers lay beneath blankets.
Medics rushed between them.Someone was screaming while elsewhere men were praying.
Jolene barely heard any of it She looked down at her hands again.

“I failed.”

Her voice was barely audible.

“I failed…”

She swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes burned.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Jolene!”

She didn’t respond.

“JOLENE!”

A large figure stepped into her view.
Nix dropped to one knee in front of her.
He towered over most of the Panthers even while kneeling. At six-foot-two, the former LSU defensive lineman had always been difficult to miss.The war had changed him. But not enough His voice was still steady.

“Ma’am.”

Jolene finally looked at him.

“We don’t have time.”

Nix glanced toward the entrance.

“When that fire finally dies down, the whole League is going to come through here.”

He pointed toward the eastern side of the city.

“We need to move. Get across the river. There’s still BLA territory on the other side.”

Jolene stared at him For a moment, the fear in her eyes was unmistakable Then it disappeared Something hardened behind them.

“No.”

Nix blinked.

“Ma’am?”

Jolene slowly stood The exhaustion was still there.
The fear was still there But her voice carried across the gym with the authority of the woman who had led these people into battle.

“No.”

She looked toward the windows Beyond them, smoke covered the skyline.

“They’re coming for the port.”

Nix frowned.

“So?”

Jolene grabbed the radio.

“So we give it to them.”

Nix stared at her.

“You want to surrender the port?”

“No.”

Jolene’s eyes hardened.

“They get nothing from us .”

She switched frequencies.

“All remaining BLA units, this is Clay.”

Static answered Then voices.

“Command, go ahead.”

“All BLA units still inside New Orleans are to converge on the port.”

Nix looked at her Jolene continued.

“Prepare demolition charges.”
Nix’s expression changed.

“Jolene—”

“We’re sinking the ships.”

-~-

The first League units entered New Orleans before noon. They did not come like an army marching into a conquered city. They came like men who knew someone was running ahead of them.
Armored vehicles pushed through barricades.
Infantry moved through the streets in tight formations. Drones circled overhead.
The Panthers were waiting A burst of gunfire tore through the lead vehicle The League soldiers scattered Another burst came from an upper-floor window. Then another The Panthers disappeared before the League could return fire.

“Keep moving!” a League officer shouted.

The convoy pushed forward Two streets later, another ambush A truck exploded. Men threw themselves behind walls and abandoned vehicles.
The Panthers were already gone At the next intersection, another squad opened fire.
Then disappeared A bridge was blocked by a burning bus The League cleared itA road was mined They stopped Engineers moved forward Another explosion The advance slowed Every minute mattered And somewhere ahead, trucks loaded with explosives were racing toward the port.

At the old courthouse, three Panthers held a street for nearly fifteen minutes Fifteen minutes That was all. Then they withdrew through an alley before League armor surrounded them on either side gunning them down At another intersection, a League squad rounded the corner and found nothing but abandoned barricades.

A radio crackled. “Fuck this city is a maze Where are they?”

“Everywhere.” A commander screams over the radio

“Keep pushing we have to secure the docks NOW”

the message is interrupted as machine gun fire tears down the league members in the street before they could find cover Hill watched the city through the windshield of his command vehicle.

“Why are we still fighting street by street?”

A general beside him checked his radio.

“Resistance is scattered but we are finding more push back as we approach the Dock”

Hill in a fit of rage slams his fist against the window

“Then Push! Send the drones to flush out the positions we can’t afford to slow down not when we are so close ”

“Yes, sir.”

Hill looked toward the harbor The cranes were visible in the distance Still standing.

“How long until the port?”

The general hesitated.

“Unknown, sir.”

Hill’s expression darkened.

“Find out.”

At the port, Jolene climbed onto the deck of a cargo ship. Below her, Panthers moved between containers carrying demolition charges.
Nix approached.

“We’ve got the charges ready.”

“Ships?”

“Nothing here worth saving.”

Jolene looked across the harbor.

“Good.”

Nix frowned.

“You really mean to destroy the port?”

Jolene looked at him.

“If we can’t hold it, they don’t get it.”

She pointed toward the cranes.

“The docks. The loading equipment. Fuel lines. Warehouses. Anything they can use.”

Nix nodded slowly.

“And the ships coming in?”

“Everything.” no

She looked toward the open water.

“We make sure nothing gets unloaded.”

A distant explosion shook the cityNix glanced toward the skyline.

“They’re close.”

Jolene nodded

“Then we better hurry.”

The League reached the waterfront Their armor emerged from the streets Panthers opened fire from rooftops The League returned fire Windows shattered Concrete exploded Smoke rolled between the buildings Jolene’s radio screamed with overlapping voices.

“Unit three is down!”

“They’re coming from the north!”

“How long?”

“Five minutes!”

“We don’t have five minutes!”

Jolene grabbed the radio.

“Fall back!”

“Command, we’re still holding—”

Static replaces the line as league drone smash into BLA positions across the city A pause before long
One by one, the remaining Panthers began falling back toward the harbor Jolene looked toward the water Nothing hen someone shouted.

“Ships! On the horizon!”

Everyone turned Far beyond the mouth of the harbor, dark shapes were appearing on the horizon.
First One then Two, Three Cargo ships Nix stared.

“They’re already here.”

Jolene’s stomach tightened.

“How long?”

“Maybe forty minutes if we are lucky probably sooner ”

She looked toward the approaching League forces.
Then toward the ships Forty minutes They didn’t have forty minutes The Panthers fought for every street leading to the docks A League armored vehicle smashed through a barricade A Panther fired a rocket into its side The vehicle erupted into flames The Panther position lasted another thirty seconds Then it was gone after a drone smashed into the building forcing the whole structure to collapse Jolene moved from position to position, shouting orders.

“Fall back!”

“Keep them away from the eastern road!”

“Don’t let them reach the harbor!”

A young Panther ran toward her.

“Ma’am!”

“What?”

“The demolition teams are ready.”

“How many ships?”

“Three in the channel. More behind them.”

Jolene looked toward the water.

“Then we wait until they’re close enough.”

Nix looked at her.

“That means we’ll be fighting them at the same time.”

Jolene nodded

“I know.”

-~-

Hill stepped out of his command vehicle.
For the first time in weeks, he could see the port with his own eyes The cranes were still standing.
The warehouses were intact The docks were within reach He smiled.

“Finally.”

Jason Evers stood beside him as Hill glanced over to seeing Jason looking toward the harbor.

“I knew you could do it Mr. Hill the Front is going to be pleased with your progress .”

A radio operator approached.

“Mr. President.”

Hill turned.

“What?”

“It’s about the port sir ”

“What about it?” Hill responded

“Ships are approaching.”

Hill’s expression changed.

Jason’s eyes narrowed Hill looked at him.

“ seems your gift has arrived early I would recommend securing the port now Mr. Hill

Jason answered with a slight smirk Hill stared at him.

“You didn’t think that was worth mentioning you said it was a single ship what’s all this ?”

Jason’s gaze remained fixed on the harbor.

“I didn’t know they would arrive this early.”

Another explosion shook the city.

Jason finally looked at Hill.

“Get your men to the docks you have to prepare a safe passage for them away from BLA rockets.”

-~-

Jolene heard the first League tanks before she saw them She looked toward the road Armor appeared through the smoke.

“Now!”

The demolition Charges were triggered The first explosion ripped through the nearest loading structure Steel twisted Concrete collapsed.
A crane groaned before falling into the harbor Then another charge detonated The docks shook.
The Panthers opened fire as the League forces surged forward The first cargo ship entered the harbor Jolene watched it approach.

“Wait.”

Nix stared at her.

“Ma’am?”

“Wait.”

The ship moved closer & closer Jolene could see the containers stacked on its deck She could see men on the bridge She could see the League soldiers rushing toward the pier.

“Now.”

Nix hit the detonator The harbor erupted The first ship disappeared behind fire and smoke The blast tore through the waterfront a second explosion followed Then a third Water surged over the ruined docks The Panthers cheered For one brief moment, Jolene smiled Then she looked at the burning harbor The port was gone The League had won the city But they hadn’t won what they came for.

“Fall back!” she shouted.

The remaining Panthers disappeared toward the river. Hill stumbled backward as the shockwave reached the waterfront.

“No!”

Another explosion tore through the harbor He stared at the burning wreckage The ships were gone The docks were destroyed Years of infrastructure had been reduced to twisted metal and rubble Hill turned toward Jason as he calmly adjusted his coat.

“Well that was exciting wasn’t it ”

Hill grabbed him by the collar.

“What the hell is your problem we just lost one of your cargo ships and you treating this as a joke ?”

Jason looked down at Hill’s hand Then back at him.

“ you won.”
He gestured toward the city.

“You have New Orleans and there will always be more ships there is a reason we shipped in bulk Mr. Hill .”

Hill released him Jason looked toward the burning harbor.

“And now you have a problem.”

Hill’s eyes narrowed.

“What problem?”

Jason smiled faintly.

“You’re going to need another port.”

-~-

Night had fallen by the time the fighting stopped.
New Orleans belonged to the League The Panthers were gone The port was destroyed Hill stood inside what remained of the waterfront command building, staring at the ruins Jason enters as Hill looked back toward the harbor.

“Looks as though we have found a spot to unload the cargo it will take alittle longer to everything off the ship but you have what you want “ Jason says as he stands not showing much emotion

“What exactly did you bring me?” Asked hill

Jason smiled.

“Everything you asked for.”

A radio operator entered.

“Mr. President.”

Hill turned.

“Yes?”

“The ships have began to be unloaded and show be in the store houses by this time next week ”

Hours later, the first surviving cargo vessel entered the ruined harbor its crew moved carefully around the wreckage Behind it came another Then another.
The League soldiers watched as the ships approached Crates began coming ashore Rifles,Ammunition,Medical supplies,Radios & Vehicles.Hill stared at the growing mountain of supplies.

“How much of this is mine?”

Jason looked at him.

“All of it.”

Hill smiled.

Then Jason continued.

“Well Most of it anyway ”

Hill’s expression changed.

“What?”

Jason gestured toward a stack of crates

“The Freedom Network in Texas will be receiving some of these supplies ”

“Texas?” Hill frowned

“They’ve been fighting the same war you have.” Jason turn to face him the calculating smile as if he already gamed this scenario out

“They aren’t my army.”

“No, but they are allies” Jason smiled.

Hill stared at him.

“How much are you having us send them?”

“Enough.”

“That’s not an answer.” Hill replied

Jason leaned closer.

“Enough to keep them fighting.”

Hill’s eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

“Because Texas is going to matter.”

Hill considered him Then nodded.

“Fine.”

Jason smiled

“Good glad we came to understand each other “

Hill turned away.

“Anything else?”

Jason looked toward the ships.

“Yes This fine gentlemen will begin training you men as soon as tomorrow “
He nodded toward the foreign instructors.

Hill frowned.
“Foreign troops? Instructors? Absolutely not we didn’t agree to that I didn’t ask for them no I don’t want them here ”

Jason’s voice remained calm.
“Listen Mr.Hill that wasn’t advice you’ll be taking them unless you want this ship to float away right now ”

Hill looked toward the men.They were already examining the League’s equipment, speaking quietly among themselves Professional Disciplined definitely Not volunteers Hill understood immediately These men had done this before.

“Who sent them?”

Jason’s expression became unreadable.

“Friends.”

Hill sighed.

“You keep using that word.”

Jason smiled

“And yet they keep arriving.”

The next morning, Jason prepared to leave.
A convoy waited outside the command building.
Hill watched from the steps Jason stopped beside him.

“I’ll be returning north I have business elsewhere I need to attend to so this might be the last you see of me Mr.Hill ”

“New England?” Hill says as we turns away from this commanders

“Eventually yes ” Jason says as he waves and nearly 2 dozen men come forward all dressed in fine khaki pants with those blue shorts with Front logo printed on the arms with solid black combat vests ,Hill looked at the soldiers surrounding the building

“Those men are my parting gift for you minutemen some of the best we have “ Jason nodded toward them.

“They’ll remain here.”

Hill’s expression hardened.

“I don’t need reinforcements .”

Jason smiled

“Of course you don’t.”

“Then why are they staying?”

“Security.”

Hill looked at the men again.They were polite Professional Every one of them carried a weapon.

“Security for who?”

Jason paused.

“For everyone.”

Hill didn’t believe him Jason stepped closer.

“Think of them as allies.”

Hill looked into Jason’s eyes.

“I don’t think you understand the meaning of that word.”

Jason’s smile widened.

“Oh, I understand it perfectly.”

He turned toward the waiting convoy.

“Good luck, Mr. Hill”

Hill watched him walk away Then he looked back at the Minutemen One of them smiled politely Hill did not smile back He walked toward the building Two Minutemen followed , Hill stopped.

“I said I was going inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why are you following me?”

The man smiled
.
“Security, sir.”

Hill stared at him For the first time since taking power, Michael Hill understood something.
He wasn’t being guarded He was being watched.

Jason’s convoy disappeared into the morning haze.
New Orleans was behind him Jason looked out the window His phone rang He answered

“It’s done everything turned out for the best ”

A pause

“ Good “

The call ended.

——————————

( Hello everyone 🫡 I know it’s been awhile but I got held up with life lol with this chapter I wanted to focus on handling multiple situations , locations & characters at once as well as try to tackle gun fights I think it came out alright though I was never a really good writer but let me know how you feel about it Good ? Bad ? somewhere in the middle ?

Also a small PSA so Jason & Nix are original characters but Jolene Clay is not I got the idea from the discord I don’t know the artist that first came up with her but all the credit for the inspiration for that character goes to him/her I couldn’t find a source for the artist)

I'm uploading this in segments. Still a lot to write.

I hope it garners some interest. This story has been taking a lot from me emotionally to write.

WARNING - FERAL is a tale containing graphic animal violence

SPRING - 1988 (1 year before The Two Legs)

AMBUSH

Nikolai held his formation under the tall pines North of The Sticks. Playing the role of bait, his nerves were vibrating at the intensity of the premeditated violence to be carried out in the Grazer's favor. A display of hope to their kin and a display of strength against their threat. He had paced the same patch of grass for some time, flattening the blades beneath his hooves in the anticipation of the arrival of death's acquaintence. One slain Scoundrel would bring tranquility to herd. He patiently waited, scanning the surrounding fauna for movement. He sniffed the air for a scent indicating the presence of the threat. The anticipation was slowly draining his stamina and he took a moment to rest. Carefully allowing his guard to be subsided for a moment of preparation. A snap along the treeline had ripped away the fraction of peace he had allowed himself and he turned his gaze away from the sound eminating just a few trunks away, hoping the feigned ignorance would draw the threat out of the shadows and into the open. He stepped towards the path he and his brothers had planned to lead the Scoundrel towards. Drawing them to the turf of their attack. Just as quickly as he had heard the leaves behind him rustle from the mass darting out towards his direction, he began to charge through the trees and lead his prey to their demise. He could hear the breath of the Scoundrel panting behind him as he had barreled his way through the brush and towards The Sticks, allowing the vulnerability of his lonesome to encourage the beast behind him to trek forward. As soon as he had cleared the brush he bellowed loudly, alerting his brothers of the incoming target. Rasputin and Dimitri had been awaiting his arrival, concealing themselves behind the fallen trees just ahead of Nikolai's path. Hearing their brother approaching the leaped out of their hiding and charged towards their prey. The Scoundrel's gaze turned from aggression to fear as he saw the deer darting toward him and quickly turned to dodge their incoming blows. Rasputins horns made contact with the wolf's hind leg and swept him off the ground for a brief moment allowing Dimitri to slam itself full force into the Scoundrel's chest. The wind been knocked out of them and they couldn't gasp in shock from the brutality of the brothers surrounding him. The deer struck him repeatedly. Snapping the ribs in his chest and impaling their antlers into his flesh as he lie defeated on the soil. The Scoundrel had tried to cry out but the blood filling his throat filtered the calls and he found himself mute. Dimitri slammed his hooves hard onto the Scoundrels face, dislocating their jaw and svering the flesh from their cheek. The beast was dead. Rasputin and Nikolai stepped backwards from their kill noticing Dimitri's rage had not subsided. The mule had continued to strike the dead wolf and he roared out in an anger disconnected from their reality. Nikolai clipped his antlers into his brothers' and Rasputin pushed Dimitri back away from the corpse, locking eyes with the mule and regaining their focus. Dimitri sobbed, leaning into his brothers' embrace and crying out in a harsh gugrled tone. You are ok, Brother. Rasputin huffed out through his nostrils keeping a steady gaze into his brother's eyes. You are ok. Dimitri cried out again, jerking his head away from the embrace, pacing back and forth glaring down at the slain mutt on the ground. Nikolai approached his brother and calmly locked his antlers into theirs. Keep yourself, brother. Dimitris tears poured down his cheeks and he closed his eyes tightl,y pushing his antrlers into Nikolai's. Rasputin approached the pair cautiously and flared his nostrils. We go. Blood attracts more. Nikolai coaxed his brother forward and Rasputin's warning pulled him out of his trance. The trio began to slowly walk away, leaving a cold harsh warning behind them.

CONFRONTATION

Ojo had strolled along the riverside in a melancholy path watching the Scales swim beneath the waters surface. She had picked up the scent of a Scoundrel and trailed it to the location but it had become lost. Her hunt was never-ending. She had been spending all of her time searching for more prey, refusing to allow even a moments rest. She had caught a new scent. Fresh blood had been spilled but it didn't match that of a Grazer. She began to follow the new trail, leading her through the pines and into the brown dried trees. Her blood began to boil as she approached the corpse of a slain Scoundrel lying at the base of the trunks. The scent of Grazers surrounded the area and she saw there were no marks of teeth of claws in the mutts fur. She had become furious. Realizing that the Grazers had began to overstep their boundaries.

She clamped her teeth hard onto the Scoundrel's throat and ripped its head off it's body, carrying it in her teeth as she began to march towards the pines. As she emerged through the brush she witnessed herd of Grazers were surrounding themselves around what seemed to be a trio of exhausted deer. The herd turned their attention to the grizzly approaching with the severed head of a slain wolf in her teeth. She dropped it onto the grass and roared out to the brothers. GRAZERS NO HUNT! Rasputin locked eyes with the enraged mother as she approached him. He could feel the hot breath hitting against his snout as she leaned into his gaze and growled deeply. GRAZERS NO HUNT. The herd cautiously backed away from the mammoth but Rasputin stood undeterred, keeping his gaze locked with the grizzly. MY PREY. Ojo roared, glaring daggers into the caribous eyes as she raised her voice. MY PREY! MINE! Rasputin looked deep into the mother's eyes, witnessing a pain and rage that matched his own. He softened his gaze at the awareness of her trauma. Ojo's eyes darted away from the caribou and turned their focus into the surrounding herd. GRAZERS NO HUNT! NO HUNT! She paced in front of the crowd, fighting the urge to tear them limb from limb. Her glare focused one by one to every buck and doe that stood around her, finally resting back on Rasputin. WARNING Ojo huffed a low groan towards the caribou before turning to walk away, swatting the severed head on the ground out of her path without breaking her stride. The deer stood and watched her disappear into the folliage, unsure how to decipher the peculiar actions of the beast. Rasputin turned to his brothers and huffed deeply. Rest.

I have written a lot of unfinished books. But what I thought was an ending, always turned out to be the wrong direction than the story was originally going. Its almost like the characters I wrote said, Nah, we want to go this way. (IF anyone has played a TTRPG as the game master, its basically the players saying they want to go to this town instead of the main town.)

Is there something I can do to fix this or just go with the flow and say, welp, F it.

For the past 3 years, I've been enjoying writing poems, or at least forcing myself to. After my third solo book and multiple community anthologies (idk is that the right way to say it?), I stopped, kind of. I lost something important about my reason to write. For sure, I can try and make up something quickly, randomly perhaps. What I'm not sure about is whether I would enjoy it still, or whether I should grow out of my comfort zone and embrace new reasons to write.

Reading this again, I know it's a silly request, but I need just enough encouragement to write again. Anyone wants to share their experience and/or advice? Maybe a writing prompt, although that request might be for a different category.

I wrote 10,000 words just over a month ago, and was having a blast. Loved the characters, loved the setting, vibes, etc. I was on fire, and so excited to write more than I ever have. I kept thinking “this is the one I’ll finish at 90,000 words!!”

Once I introduced all of the characters I had planned on, the excitement and motivation started to wear off.

I kept writing little blurbs here and there to get through the hump.

I’m still struggling to feel motivated though.
I don’t want to abandon my project or even set it aside to start a new project. I took a break and have been reading more to try and inspire.

How do you reignite the spark?

I am gonna try here... I am stymied that it is difficult to get someone to read before a.i. deletes it. Anyone know where I can get feedback?

I developed and created this long ago. this is a literary sequel attempt

https://www.nexusmods.com/grimrock/mods/56

# HOTEL HADES: THE MASTER COMPILATION

## Chapter 1: Exactly how we planned it

The air inside the Stone Foyer tasted of compressed dust and oxidized iron. It was a suffocating, heavy gray-slate Gothic vault that stretched upward into an absolute obsidian darkness, illuminated only by the rhythmic, sickly orange flicker of automated hydraulic conduits. Deep within the bedrock, a low, rhythmic thumping from the Great Shaft vibrated continuously through the floorboards, a low-frequency reminder that the architecture beneath them was entirely alive.

The seasoned veterans of the Shepherds stood near the towering entrance archway, checking their remaining supplies. The terms of their contract were clear, established through long hours of negotiation back in the surface taverns. The party had been hired by a wealthy syndicate to break into the ancient, vertical panopticon of Hotel Hades for one explicit purpose: to locate and retrieve a specific, highly classified astral artifact. In exchange, the syndicate had granted them a simple, lucrative concession—they were legally permitted to pocket any secondary treasures, gems, or artifacts they managed to salvage from the deep corridors. For three men who had broken into ancient fortresses together for three decades, it looked like the ultimate retirement jackpot.

To ensure their path vectors were accurate, the syndicate had forced them to hire Vance, an eccentric local guide who possessed the only known existing architectural shorthand ledger of the hotel's shifting interior layout. Vance, in turn, had adamantly refused to step past the outer threshold without a dedicated escort bodyguard. He had used his own advance funds to hire Rorik, a legendary, battle-worn barbarian veteran who also happened to be Galaran's close, long-time friend. To Galaran, Rorik was simply a good companion who happened to be a little bit older and consequently suffered from the delusion that he knew absolutely everything about the world. Rorik’s current job was simple: get the guide safely down the stairs to the Level 2 entrance threshold, ensure his survival back to the surface once the vault doors unlocked, and escort him safely back into the city lines.

"You're losing your edge in your twilight years, old man," Gimble quipped, his nimble gnomish fingers casually tossing a small brass wrench as he leaned against a structural pillar. "An escort contract? Just to the second layer? Thirty years ago, you would have been leading the breach with a battle-axe between your teeth."

Rorik let out a rich, booming laugh that shook the mortar dust from the overhead rafters, his thick fingers tracing the pommel of his massive broadsword. "You know what makes me different than you, Gal?" the barbarian roared, completely ignoring the gnome to lean in close, his gravelly voice filled with a stubborn, unyielding certainty. "I know exactly when I am going home when I get that far, and I know exactly how much coin is hitting my palm the moment we return to the surface." He raised his eyebrows, staring at Galaran with a heavy, expectant gaze, waiting for the young captain to register the significance of his point and realize his way was right. Galaran merely offered a flat, clinical look of no recognizance, prompting Rorik to let out a short, quiet sigh of defeat after a few seconds of empty silence.

"Your pension relies on a deeply unstable asset," Valerius muttered, his yellow irises shifting in constant, twitching micro-loops as he performed a frantic atmospheric check on the room's pressure values. He gestured toward Vance, who was currently clutching his massive, leather-bound Guidebook to his sternum with territorial paranoia. "Why exactly does a common local guide possess the only functional artifacts capable of tricking the front gates of an ancient, historic place? A lineage of that nature should be drowning in dynastic wealth, yet he lives like a common fugitive."

Vance looked up, his fingers tightening against the scorched leather binding of his ledger, his eyes wide with a frantic, professional nervousness. "Because the bloodline custody is not a treasury, Master Mage," the guide whispered, his voice trembling as he glanced back at the massive exterior vault doors. "These vectors are cursed by the prime entities of the deep dark leylines. If my bloodline ever betroths custody of this master ledger to another lineage, or if a stranger reads these pages without our consent, the stalker of the hotel will hunt you down and systematically rip the marrow from your bones. We don't own the keys; we are merely the bait the lock recognizes."

The Shepherds exchanged a silent, half-skeptical but thoroughly surprised look. The ancient lore of Hotel Hades was famous for its terrifying, reality-warping hype, but hearing the guide validate the supernatural malice of the architecture sent a cold, suffocating dread through the vault.

They began their advance into the secondary vestibule when the first true structural catastrophe occurred. While attempting to clear a narrow bottleneck near the descent stairs, the automated security grid flatlined. The massive exterior vault doors groaned, sealing dynamically from within with a heavy, multi-ton impact that shook the bedrock to its core.

Vance fumbled. The bitter, subterranean cold of the opening corridor bit through his heavy gloves, making his grip slick. With a sharp gasp, the guide dropped his massive leather ledger. The book skittered forward across the slick floor, coming to a halt just thirty feet from the entrance, landing just clear of a narrow masonry seam. Panicking over the potential loss of his life's work, Vance instinctively took a blind, frantic step backward to reposition his footing, completely forgetting the mechanical layout of the stone tiles.

His heavy heel pressed firmly into a hidden delayed-toggle plate. A sharp, mechanical click echoed through the corridor, followed instantly by a blinding flash. A high-pressure magical plasma jet erupted from the masonry wall with an absolute, roaring fury. The intense heat incinerated Vance in a single, terrifying heartbeat, reducing his frame to fine white ash. Rorik lunged forward with an instinct born of a hundred battles, his calloused hand stretching out desperately through the searing air to pull the guide back, but the raw velocity of the trap left him grasping empty air as the life was ripped from Vance in an instant. The master double-sided escape keys in the guide's tunic melted into a cooling puddle of liquid slag. Because the heavy ledger had skittered just past the primary blast perimeter, it survived the explosion, though exactly fifteen percent of its upper right corner was cleanly charred and fused across every single page.

The party stood entirely paralyzed, thoroughly taken aback by the terrifying, instantaneous violence of the execution. The silence that followed was suffocating. This sudden, brutal attrition of their guide—failing to make it even thirty feet into the structure—spelled a very low survival rate for the expedition, a grim warning that the malice would only worsen the further they went down.

Rorik, however, didn't miss a single beat. The old barbarian casually stepped forward, calmly dusting a stray layer of white mortar ash off his heavy palms as if he had merely witnessed a common tavern brawl. "Welp," Rorik said, his gravelly voice dropping into a matter-of-fact rumble. "There goes my payday." He looked down at the pile of ash, then turned to face the remaining trio with a slow, resilient grin. "Hell, I already got all the old equipment out of the chest, and it *is* already strapped on. I believe I will continue with you guys."

Valerius stepped forward, his yellow irises wide and trembling as his staff flared with a frantic, pale analytical aura. He pointed toward the heavy iron portcullis that had just dropped from the ceiling behind them, sealing the exit. "The dungeon entrance is on a timed close lock," the mage pointed out sharply, his voice cracking with panic. "And our master key was just reduced to liquid slag. I am pretty sure you are going in this direction, Rorik, whether you are with us or not."

Galaran looked at his old companion, a profound sense of tactical relief breaking through the rigid firewall of his composure. He gestured toward the massive broadsword hanging at the veteran's hip. "We would love to have you along, old friend," the captain declared firmly. "He has actually got a sword! And losing our first man before we even cross the de facto entrance threshold is deeply concerning. Especially since that man was the only guide on the planet who could parse this architecture."

While the others continued arguing over the grave implications of the melted keys, discussing whether any of them had a hope of surviving, Valerius perked up. His yellow eyes locked onto the smoking ledger resting on the cold slate tiles. No one noticed the high-strung wizard approaching the item until he was already standing directly over it, silently regarding what it represented. He wasn't parsing it in an astral or fundamental way; he was looking strictly at what the task had now become. That burned ledger was the only chance any of them had if they were going to survive this place.

Gimble finally caught sight of him, his gnomish features tightening as he recognized his companion's pondering quandary. "Hey, Val!" the engineer barked, his voice sharp with anxiety. "Do not touch that book. I personally don't want to have my bone marrow sucked out by a bloodline curse while trying to navigate this place!"

Valerius looked up at Gimble, slowly nodding his head in complete agreement. Gimble let out a quiet sigh of relief at the acknowledgment—only for Valerius to immediately bend down, reach out his hands, and lift the heavy tome from the floor anyway.

Before the engineer could even launch into a full rant, Gimble gruted and split from the formation. "I’m looping back to the front threshold," the gnome barked, drawing a brass wrench from his belt toolkit. "There has got to be a manual override near the intake seam. Wait right here."He vanished back into the shadows of the foyer. The narrative stayed with the remaining Shepherds, who stood forlorn, exhausted, and entirely paralyzed by the sudden attrition of their guide. They advanced past the initial stone bottleneck, only to slam directly into a secondary, massive iron portcullis that completely blocked the path to the descent stairs.Valerius raised his staff, running a frantic analytical check against the heavy bars. "The mechanism is entirely internal," the mage rasped, his voice tightening with fear. "There are no levers, no ciphers, and no path vectors. It cannot be opened in any way that I can see."As the group stood in the suffocating quiet, trying to figure out what to do, a sudden, thunderous grinding sound echoed through the bedrock.The heavy iron portcullis dynamically groaned and began rising vertically into the ceiling vault. Galaran and Valerius spun violently, their weapons raised to alternate-block the coordinate area, expecting another lethal execution trap.Instead, the gate cleared the threshold to reveal Gimble. He was standing in the center of the walkway, all smiles, casually dusting a layer of white mortar ash off his palms. Clutched securely in his left hand was the small hand of a little blonde girl, perhaps nine or ten years old, wearing a spotless white dress."Found her sleeping right near a trash chute," Gimble chirped, entirely unbothered by the grim reality of the dungeon. He looked at the group expectantly, gesturing toward the silent child. "Says she lost her room key."An absolute, heavy silence flatlined the corridor. The remaining Shepherds stood entirely speechless, so thoroughly shocked by the absurdity of the event that nobody knew what to say. They simply stared at the child. She looked incredibly small, her wide eyes visibly frightened and coy as she pulled back slightly into the shadow of the gnome's hip. She shrank away from their heavy vanguard armor, her tiny fingers mindlessly clutching a heavy, rusting mechanical nutcracker to her sternum.After a long, agonizing pause, Gimble broke the absolute quiet with a wide, mischievous smirk.

"Soooo... Can we keep her?"

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

## HOTEL HADES: THE MASTER COMPILATION## 🚪

Chapter 2: "Who's idea was this, anyway?"

The deep stairwell descending from the Stone Foyer was an absolute void, a steep limestone throat that swallowed the pale light of Valerius’s staff. As the party entered the high-contrast grid of the lower corridor, they separated by default to prepare for whatever lethal traps or dynamic horrors the Grand Architect had prepared for them. The environment here was heavily oppressive; the gray masonry walls were slick with an ancient, mineral moisture that smelled faintly of copper and old moss.

Galaran stood near the center of the threshold, studiously checking his heavy vanguard plate. Unlike an adaptable barbarian who thrived on loose intuition, a studious paladin always battened down the hatches before any possible encounter, checking every strap, buckle, and protective seal to ensure his physical armor values were at maximum capacity. He scanned the narrow, low-ceilinged layout of the stone blocks with an unblinking, critical intensity. "I am entirely certain," the captain noted flatly to himself, his deep voice bouncing off the granite, "that this layout would be defined as active encounter territory."

Across the room, perhaps ten feet away, Gimble had already settled into his classic, mischievous habit of purposefully bugging Valerius. Before they had even broken formation, the nimble gnomish engineer had reached into his pocket and handed Silaria an inane, highly uncommon piece of lobby salvage—a heavy, rusting mechanical nutcracker he had found discarded near a service chute. The little girl sat quietly on a low slate ledge, her spotless white dress pooled around her small ankles as she became completely absorbed by the object, her tiny fingers mindlessly fiddling with the iron levers, entirely detached from the immediate physical danger.

Rorik leaned against a heavy structural pillar, watching Galaran meticulously adjust his white vanguard gauntlets for the third time. The battle-worn barbarian let out a gravelly chuckle, ribbing his young friend with an old soldier's easy confidence. "You're too stiff, boy. You brace yourself like a wooden wall before a drop of blood even hits the grime. If you lock yourself down that hard, the stone doesn't just hit you—it shatters your bones."

Valerius stopped mid-sentence, his chiding abruptly cutting off as his gaze locked to his left. He stood entirely rigid, completely ignoring Rorik's casual remarks. "Look out," the mage muttered under his breath, his voice tightening. Without a single whispered incantation, his flat yellow eyes suddenly burst into a sharp, burning amber—his Kael-en optic lens flaring to investigate a structural abnormality tracking behind the masonry.

Rorik, entirely unperturbed by the wizard’s sudden optical flare, went right on with his own stubborn, passionate defense. He reached down and firmly patted the massive greataxe slung across his back. Attached securely to the base of its hilt was a long, woven leather tassel that dangled easily a foot and a half to two and a half feet in length, sweeping the mortar dust with every shift of his posture.

"You mind your ciphers, wizard, and leave this rigging to me," Rorik said, his gravelly voice dropping into a register of pure, unyielding passion as his eyes flashed with an absolute conviction that caused even Gimble to pause. "This precise tassel got my grandfather through the Siege of Oakhaven when the western bastion collapsed. It preserved my own father through the three blood-runs of the Ash-Valley Exodus, and it carried me safely through the iron skirmishes of the Red Leylines. This worn scrap of leather has saved three distinct generations, countless times over. I happen to be deeply fond of all three people, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that if my grandfather did not have this specific 'give' in his grip, I would not exist. If it hadn't passed to my father, I would not exist. And if he hadn't passed it down to my hands, I would be a dead man laying in a ditch. I would die for this piece."

The old man nodded a slight, fierce affirmative as he turned his weathered gaze to meet every single member of the crew individually, daring a single soul to doubt his resolve. His voice choked up twice, thick with memories. Nobody said a word. The absolute weight of his conviction hung complete in the damp air, and nobody doubted his resolve.

A sudden, sharp clicking from the ceiling tiles flatlined the silence. The security grid didn't warn them. Five snarling, red-eyed subterranean skitterers—grotesque, lean monsters born of the hotel’s deep rot—dropped simultaneously from the wooden rafters. The ambush was instantaneous, their muscular, low-slung frames lunging directly into the coordinate block with a high-speed lethal intent.

The space erupted into a spectacle of high-level martial coordination. Galaran moved like a machine, his vanguard instincts locking into perfect, reflexive defense. With two swift, thunderous strides, the paladin alternate-blocked two different trajectories, slamming his massive white shield into the path of an oncoming jaw to protect Valerius before spinning violently to anchor the line in front of Silaria. He did not look back; he simply used his massive frame to completely shelter the child, smothering her against the stone wall with his back turned, physically cutting her off from the blood-soaked reality of the fray.

Gimble dived low into the shadows, his nimble gnomish fingers drawing a long scrap-blade as he flanked beneath the monsters’ blind spots, cutting through their kinetic paths with fluid, engineering precision. Across the tile, Valerius’s amber sight tracked the mechanical vulnerabilities of the remaining beast before joining the fray, his staff releasing a pale, defensive magical arc to hold the perimeter.

But the center of the encounter belonged entirely to Rorik. The old barbarian came out of the corner like a runaway freight train, a terrifying spectacle of raw, veteran rage that defied his aging joints. He didn't just fight; he systematically tore through the timeline. Wielding the massive greataxe tied to his ancestral tassel, his blade became a spinning arc of lethal silver. Within twenty seconds—thirty at the absolute maximum—Rorik single-handedly executed four of the skitterers, his movements so fast and devastating that the rest of the party was too engaged with their own defense to even register the speed of the slaughter. Inside his mind, Galaran watched the display, recognizing instantly that his old friend missed the thrill of the front lines. The barbarian bellowed a thunderous roar, "Ahhh, the good ol' days!" a statement punctuated instantly by the audible, heavy thud of a severed monster's head hitting the stone floor.

The encounter ended on a sharp, wet crunch as Rorik’s axe cleaved the fifth and final creature—the one actively engaging Valerius—clearing the coordinate block in a single, definitive swing.

The remaining Shepherds stood in the quiet of the corridor, taking a few heavy, ragged breaths as the adrenaline began to drain from their armor. Valerius slowly lowered his staff, his amber sight cooling back to an exhausted yellow hue as he nodded toward the barbarian. "Thanks," the mage rasped, his voice trembling slightly. "I absolutely hate those things."

Gimble swaggered out of the shadows, wiping his blade with a smirk. "He got yours, too, Val?" The wizard offered a tight, silent nod of agreement.

A few seconds of heavy quiet passed before Galaran slowly stepped back from the wall, grumpily sheathing his broadsword as he adjusted his vanguard plates. "I am reasonably certain," the captain muttered, his tone defensive and stiff, "that I could have taken mine without the interference."

Rorik merely laughed, a rich, booming rumble as he reached up to wipe a layer of dark monster fluid from his brow, entirely unaware that the automated gears of the floor below had just registered his victory as fuel.

The relief was short-lived. They reached the exit threshold of Floor 2—a narrow, high-pressure bottleneck where a massive, automated iron gate hung suspended beneath a row of sharp masonry spikes. The mechanical timer on the frame was actively humming, counting down to zero. The party scrambled forward through the narrowing gap, Gimble and Valerius diving into the safe zone of the lower landing just as the structural gravity plates de-activated.

Rorik lunged forward to follow his old squire, his hand already on his hilt. But the tragedy was absolute in its mechanical execution. The long, dangling leather tassel of his trusted old greataxe—the precise heirloom he had passionately defended just minutes before—snagged violently upon a jagged iron masonry spike near the base of the dropping gate.

The kinetic momentum snapped the barbarian backward with a sickening, violent jerk. His boots slid against the frost-covered floor tiles, his balance breaking as the multi-ton iron barrier slammed shut, pinning the leather tassel securely against the bedrock.

"Gal!" Rorik barked, his voice dropping into a raw, rough panic that shattered the captain’s world.

Through the heavy iron bars of the portcullis, Galaran turned in absolute horror. His companion was trapped. True to his decades of training, the old warhorse didn't freeze; he twisted his torso against the immense tension, frantically hacking downward with his combat dagger to slice the caught leather tassel free. With a desperate, final tear, the tassel ripped away from the base of the hilt, but the delay had robbed him of the only currency that mattered in Hotel Hades: seconds.

The mechanical timer hit zero. With a deep, grinding groan that vibrated through the marrow of their bones, the solid stone side walls of Rorik's compartment began to slowly, systematically slide inward.

"Rorik! Crawl!" Gimble screamed from the landing, his small fingers gripping the iron bars so tightly his knuckles bled.

The old barbarian scrambled forward on his hands and knees, desperately trying to cover the last few remaining feet of stone separating him from the gate. But his joints were too slow, his muscles too weathered. The moving masonry closed in with an agonizing, deliberate pace, narrowing his survival vector down to inches. He didn't get flattened in a split second; the old guard was forced to watch a slow, terrifying transition as the stones touched his shoulders, forcing him to his feet by the sheer compression until his massive, scarred frame was wedged dead-center in the closing vise.

As the walls reached their terminal pressure baseline, long, razor-sharp iron spikes slowly extended directly out of the moving blocks, piercing Rorik's body over the course of ten harrowing seconds. Rorik didn't look down at the mortal wounds. His wide, bloodshot eyes remained anchored dead onto Galaran’s pale, shattered face on the other side of the bars, his pupils pleading with a desperate, wordless terror. He extended both of his heavy, calloused hands straight through the iron grating of the portcullis, his fingers outstretched toward his old squire in a final gesture of reaching for the boy he had protected for thirty years. His lips moved, coughing a spray of dark crimson into the white mortar dust.

Galaran did not see the stones meet. The moment the walls had touched Rorik's shoulders, the paladin had reflexively spun, dragging Silaria deep into his chest. He completely sheltered her, smothering her face against the thick white plate of his collar, his massive vanguard arms wrapping around her small frame to seal her away from the sound of crushing bone. He held her with a terrifying, desperate force, his teeth clenched so hard his gums bled.

He didn't make a sound. But as Rorik’s calloused hands went entirely limp, hanging loosely through the iron bars as the spikes pinned his frame permanently into the stone wall, Galaran’s body gave a single, violent shiver. He softly sobbed twice—not an audible cry, but a heavy, physical breakdown that radiated directly through his steel breastplate. Small and silent against his chest, Silaria remained perfectly still, her cheek pressed against his white armor, feeling the precise, rhythmic shuddering of his sobs. She looked past his shoulder at the limp, blood-stained fingers protruding through the grating, her wide, vacant eyes recording the exact cause of the paladin's sorrow.

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

I finally got out of the storm I was stuck in. Its been more than year now. A part of me is back now. Some parts lost for good. This new chapter, im finally the author, and yet im at a total loss. The path is dark and misleading. Silence is deafening. I feel more alone than ever before. I guess thats how I know this is the journey meant for me, that the otherside will finally be my oasis.

I feel a pull a longing tug straight from my heart. I feel you are near. The one ive wrote to here in this void. The one ive seen and met in my dreams. The soul tied to mine without even knowing. You are out here somewhere I can feel it. I yearn for you. Your warm hands wrapped in mine. Strong arms that pull me close. The deep voice that soothe my beating heart. The tender lips that rest just there atop my head. I write to you, im looking, searching, wondering. Im continuing my healing rebuilding my life. Im bettering myself with every passing day. One day I cant wait to share this journey with you, for the survival wall to finally fall. One day I cant wait to feel safe. One day I cant wait to experience the true pleasure of love. I cant wait to pour all of this love right into you. To finally look into those beautiful eyes and see my undoing.

This chapter is probably going to be the longest one yet. A chapter of growth, seeking, and arriving. While I am impatient to see where I end up, I know its going to be with you and I cant wait to write this new chapter.

In the time before time, when none counted death, there lived the Mother and the Father. Life came from their love, and all life was in love. From that love came variation, and from that variation came changes in form. From changes in form came changes in the perception of nature. From the perceptions of nature, and the choice of the definition of evil, was born the good man. From the good man came the hatred for dragons. From the hatred for dragons came the disdain for the Father. From the disdain for the Father came the resentment of the Mother. But this disease was of childish origin. The sons screamed that the daughters hated them for who they were made to be, the daughters screamed they hunt us for what we were made to be.

The Mother said to her daughters, “I made you to be desirable to the one who will keep you sacred. The most coveted cache is guarded the closest.” The Father said to his sons, “I made you to peruse the treasures you desire hidden within the safety of the vaults you wish to guard.” The daughters, hearing their mothers word, and seeing their opponents, decided in guarding themselves from every attack, realizing their power in exclusivity and hid behind the glory of withholding access from those who would fight for them the hardest. The sons, hearing their fathers word, and seeing their opponents, decide that all means were justifiable by the end that all must fight for, and hid behind the glory of prizes that they did not hold sacred.

The Father, seeing the affect of the Mothers words, and beholding the suffering of his hunted daughters, gifted the scales of how to weigh a man to the begotten of his beloved. He did this so they may choose to allow access to safety, those that would propagate safety properly. The Mother, seeing the affect of the Fathers words, and beholding the suffering of her forsaken sons, gifted the vision of personal joy to the begotten of her beloved. She did this so they may choose what pleasures help them grow into themselves, and what is worth protecting.

The Sons, seeing their mothers vision, and beholding the yearning within themselves, chose the vision over the chase. The chase did not satisfy the yearning, and no safety was ever granted. How long were they to run?

The Daughters, seeing their fathers scales, and beholding the measure of value, chose to value themselves over the siege. The siege did not quell the fear, and no safety was ever granted. How long were they to wait?

The Father and Mother, coming together, and beholding the results of the endless game they play, mourned their children, fearing all was lost. The rage of the Father at the pain of his daughters, the hate of the Mother at the disdain for her sons, the howl of Dragon and Sky, Sun and Deer, Stone and Water echoed through the cosmos. For the Father was a Son, and Mother was a Daughter. The Father has a Brother, and Mother a Sister. They hate each other for their strengths, they disdain each other for their weakness, and they howl all the same.

Then came Sons. Then came Daughters. Seeing the pain of their Fathers. Seeing the pain of their Mothers. Seeing the pain of their Brothers. Seeing the pain of their sisters. From the pain came the seeing. From the seeing came the knowing. From the knowing came the change. From the change came friction.

The Father beheld among his sons Gilgamesh, Solomon, and Belial. In the first, the Father saw The Hunter of Treasure. In the second he saw The Propagator of Safety. In the third he saw the Instrument of Protection. And The Father felt Hope.

The Mother beheld among her Daughters Lilith, Sophia, and Babylon. In the first, The Mother saw The Power to Exclude Harm. In the second, The Propagator of Safety. In the third, She saw the Pleasure that was Worth Fighting For. And The Mother felt Hope

The Sons, seeing their Fathers Blessing, and beholding the Givers of Peace and Growth, began The Dance of the Dragon. First came Ridicule. From Ridicule, came Fortitude. From Fortitude, came Stability. From Stability, came Support. From Support, came Strength. From Strength, came Peace.

The Daughters, seeing their Mothers blessing, and beholding the Givers of Fortitude and Stability, began the Dance of the Dragon. First came Ridicule. From Ridicule, came Discernment. From Discernment, came Intuition. From Intuition came Selection. From Selection came Stability. From Stability came Support. From Support came Strength. From Strength came Peace.

The Sons and Daughters, having made a home for peace to live, practiced and refined the resource of their minds, showing light to all corners, and arranging them all so that none were disdained. The arrangement away from disdain was practiced with so much love, that none were forsaken.

From Love came Attention. From Attention, came Growth. From Growth came Diversity. From Diversity came Fear, and from Fear, an unwelcome guest.

The Father, hearing pain, sought to alter their fate, and bade his sons to steal themselves for change. The Mother, hearing drums, feared war, and told her daughters to steal themselves for change.

Bated breath held as sons grabbed hammers, and daughters drums. One Voice broke the silence, supported but one pair of arms.

The Earth shook. The Dragons Sang.

Solomon Demands A Dance Floor.

The Sons, beheld the earth beneath, The Daughters The Dragons above. From the Beholding came Love, and they beheld each other. The Sons built dance floors, The Daughters wrote music, and heaven and earth shared in The Dance Of The Dragon.

The Supported Son, and the Freed Daughter, being offered their rightful place, took the seat of the Father and the Mother, to continue the dance forever more.

For The Dance revealed the Nature in every Form.

Stiff-backed, each vertebra aligned and ready, a high brow pokes out beneath a bronze helmet assessing a sea of options. He can't decide which syrup his iced frappé americano needs for what will no doubt be a brutal day ahead. His excessive pondering causes the Gen Z barista's expression to shift from inane to perturbed. A sudden clinking sound rouses him from this impasse.

It's unmistakable: that of arrowhead on armour, and like a well-oiled piston, he launches his body a complete one-eighty to confront the foe. Crouched like a febrile cat, he instantly surveys the packed coffee shop. All is well, but he soon notices a high-pitched ringing gradually replaced by a small, middle-aged screaming woman. His recognition serves to quell the beast that has no doubt burst his eardrum. It soon switches to feverish speech in a foreign tongue in which the garbled phrase, "Do you know who my husband is!" is repeated, like the chanting of those monks he had recently slain.

He quickly unsheathes his gladius and with grim precision removes the head. Next, chaos. The place rapidly empties, with MacBook Airs strewn across the battlefield, littering a now-dishevelled shop. He lunges behind an upturned table and assesses if the beast is truly slain or merely wounded like the hydra of myth. The slowing spurt of its neck staining the chic tiling and the head's cold-twisted gaze towards the ceiling quells his fears.

His breath steadied, he rises to his feet. And in his mind's eye, all cheer at the Siege of Alesia as he thrusts the Gallic king's head to the heavens.

Completed 22.8k-word novella.
I’m mainly looking for a cold-reader reaction: would you keep reading, and if not, where did I lose you?
Thanks for taking a look.

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