Brings Rain ~ An Elder Scrolls Story (Part 3)

  • PART 3

    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

    Calls evaded the patrols she could and set her ears on a distant voice. It sounded female, familiar. She approached a doorway left partially open. Inside was a large study of some sort. Faded blue textiles were draped onto the walls with desks sitting beneath them, alongside numerous wooden bookshelves. Most were bare, others possessing a scant text or two. Lamps bathed the room in soft light. A Dark Elf woman with short hair clothed in a simple tan and red dress was retrieving something from a locked strongbox. A netch-armored guard stood over her. There was an air of urgency about the woman. What is she doing? Calls wondered. Do these elves have more tricks in their bag…?

    She decided to put an end to whatever it was. The two elves startled as Calls burst through the door, sword drawn. The woman screamed. Her guard hastened to fend off the Argonian warrior. He never even got a chance to arm himself. Calls cut him down in a single stroke and strode over to the elven woman, her armor splattered with the guard’s red blood.  Cowering back into a corner, the woman stared at her, eyes alight with terror.

    She was helpless. She posed no threat.

    She is still my enemy, the Argonian thought coldly to herself. She dies here.

    Calls gripped her weapon. The woman’s eyes snapped to something behind her assailant. Calls hesitated, feeling a gentle wind at her back. She spun around and brought her sword up flat to block. Another blade crashed into hers, swung by a Dark Elf in ebony armor with a swirl tattoo on his left cheek. Gilyn. He had come to the woman’s rescue.

    “You dare attack my sister!?” he growled.

    The battle maiden bared her teeth in a half-snarl, half-smile. Her prey had come to her. Good. Brings-Rain would have to wait a while longer. Calls pushed Gilyn away, clutching her sword in two hands, eager and ready to fight. She glared at the man she blamed for the deaths of Croon and Shade. The desire to kill him was intoxicating. This was the moment she’d been pining for. She readied to attack.

    A searing pain exploded in her back. She cried out, stumbling forward as a weight suddenly pressed against her. Calls lurched her head to the side, gaping. The woman–

    She had a knife…!!

    Whipping her gauntlet around, Calls backhanded the woman, knocking her to the floor. The knife blade remained lodged in her collar. She refocused, deflecting a strike from Gilyn’s sword. The maiden and the elf fought violently, stabbing and slashing and parrying blows. Calls unleashed the storm within her, lusting for vengeance. But as the battle dragged on the elf woman’s knife cut deeper into Calls’ muscles. The pangs grew more and more unbearable with every motion. Gilyn struck at her with killing intent, leaving no room for pause or respite. She could not stop to pull the blade free.

    The wound took its toll. Calls grew desperate and made a reckless rush, slamming her sword down to slice through Gilyn’s shoulder. Her opponent blocked the blow with the edge of his sword instead of the flat and bent his off hand down through the gap between her arms. In a swift overturning motion he pinned her arms against his waist in a cross hold. Calls would have to let go of her weapon to free herself. Still gripping his sword overhead, Gilyn hammered its pommel into Calls’ skull.

    Her vision blurred, head ringing with the shock of the blow. She could barely feel her sword as it slipped from her hands. Calls broke away and nearly fell over. Where was she standing? What were her bearings? Calls couldn’t reorient herself. Gilyn’s hazy figure grew large. There came a strange sensation, almost like a pinch in her side, then in her stomach. It left as soon as it came. She tried to slash at the man’s face with her claws. Her arm was caught mid-swing. Gilyn threw the maiden to the ground, keeping a tight grip. He snapped the back of Calls’ elbow against his leg with a loud crack.

    Why wasn’t she screaming in agony? She didn’t feel any pain. But as her senses came back to her, as the shock slowly wore off, she felt it. Fire. Coursing through every nerve in her body. She was dying. Calls’ eyesight returned. She saw her arm lying broken in front of her. She saw blood pooling on the ground from a hole in her armor were Gilyn had driven his sword. She saw him, helping up the frightened elf woman, embracing her.

    The man turned around and walked slowly over to Calls. She tried to stand. Her legs refused to move. So much pain…

    “I knew you lizards would come here,” Gilyn said coolly, squatting down to her level. “You called for help, didn’t you? That lightning in the sky.”

    “Air sick… land strider… You’re too late…” Calls hissed. Or at least she thought she did. She told her body to speak but could not tell if it obeyed. Gilyn did not respond. Perhaps he couldn’t interpret her language. Whatever the case, Calls’ insult was left to fall on her ears alone.

    “I don’t care if you can understand me or not,” he continued. “I want you to know we’re prepared for anything you send at us. No one is going to save you.”

    Another elf rushed into the study. The elderly man from before, called Dalvus. He set his eyes on Gilyn.

    “I heard the scream…” He trailed off.

    “It’s alright. Orona is safe. I made it in time,” Gilyn replied. The older elf relaxed, seeing the woman alive and well. He looked over at the ghastly Argonian bleeding out on the floor.


    “Their leader, if I’m not mistaken.”

    “That makes her the last, then,” Dalvus declared. “We caught one trying to escape with the stone.”

    A chill ran down Calls’ spine. The elf held something in his hand. Croon’s leather bag, stained with blood. Calls shut her eyes from the sight, pressing her snout against the cold floor. She wanted to cry. Gilyn took the bag and reached inside it, pulling out the shining white Varla Stone. He stared at it incredulously and stifled a chuckle.

    This was your plan?” he said, looking down on the Argonian woman. “You break into our stronghold. You kill my best warriors. And at the end of it, you think us all fools?”

    The man kicked Calls in her stomach. She gasped, fighting to stay conscious.

    Taking the stone? You thought that was going to stop us!? Are the Dunmer so feeble now that you think can squash us anytime you please? Like ants beneath your feet!?”

    Gilyn walked over to the strongbox Orona had tried to open.

    “You thought stealing that one stone would leave us helpless and exposed… at the mercy of the Argonian army…”

    He raised its lid and pulled out the object inside. Calls stared at it numbly.

    The elf held in his hand a second Varla Stone.

    “No. We were never going to make it that easy.”

    Calls felt dizzy. She and her men accomplished nothing. Mud, Shade and Croon had all died trying to fight a hopeless battle. Now the An-Xileel were coming in force, unwary of the Varla Stone’s danger. They would be slaughtered.

    “This is how it starts!” Gilyn barked. “We will take back the land of our ancestors, settlement by settlement! Even if we have to pry it from the dead claws of every last scale-skin we lay eyes on!” In the midst of her pain, Calls somehow felt remorse above everything. Could she have stopped this somehow? Where did it all go awry?

    It was over. To die with nothing but regrets… There was true defeat in that. Calls braced herself for the end as Gilyn raised his weapon to kill.

    The elderly elf cried out, his back struck by a sword. He spun around, only to be wrestled to the ground by a mid-sized figure plunging his blade into the man’s heart.


    “No!!” Gilyn shouted, turning to see his companion killed. “You n’wah!!”

    He lunged toward the hatchling to strike him. His sword sliced air as the boy jumped aside. Rain dove for his legs. There was a flash of light reflecting off quicksilver. Gilyn’s shin was sliced open, crippling his mobility. He seethed and sprang back out of the hatchling’s range. Calls held her breath.

    Is this happening…?

    Brings-Rain crouched into a readying stance. He wore a look of malice on his face. There were nicks and tears in his armor, some bloodied. Nearly all of his equipment was gone, save for the sword in his hand. The boy’s hood was thrown back, revealing a pair of short stubble horns and a head of brown feathers. Crimson red scales shone beneath the light of lamps. His eyes had changed. They were no longer soft, pupils narrowed and razor-like. They were the eyes of a killer. Fearsome.

    He rushed his opponent, striking fast and light. Gilyn failed to stand his ground and began to back away. Rain’s offensive was unrelenting. The elf deflected one of the boy’s attacks, countering with a sword swung down hard. Again it missed. Rain was too nimble, able to sidestep with frightening speed. Gilyn knocked aside a thrust from the boy’s quicksilver sword only to flinch as a chitin blade suddenly lashed at him. The hatchling stood over the body of the man Calls killed earlier and had drawn the corpse’s sword. He swung it in a reverse hold, narrowly missing the elf’s head as he reeled away.

    The tempest blew. Rain was now armed in each hand, fighting in his element, lashing at Gilyn with a whirlwind of whistling blades. Calls watched in awe. This hatchling – no, this warrior – was a bringer of death to match the Shadowscales of old. Even as she lay dying she found herself on the verge of laughter.

    To think you doubted them… The An-Xileel gave us our victory… Brings-Rain…

    A sweeping kick. Gilyn toppled clean on his back. Rain stood over him, the tip of his sword pulled back to thrust. Orona screamed. Not a scream of terror but of rage.

    The hatchling saw her running toward him. She wasn’t armed. All she could try to do was push him away.

    Rain grimaced as he drove his sword through her chest. No resistance. Gilyn hollered, helplessly watching as the hatchling pulled his weapon free. Orona crumpled to the ground. Flooding all the strength and anger he could muster, he kicked the young Argonian away and leapt upon him. Gilyn clenched his teeth, eyes filled with hatred as he wrestled the boy onto his back, grabbing him by the neck. Rain’s smaller size left him disadvantaged. He fought to push away the elf, choking and gasping for air. Calls couldn’t move. She couldn’t help him. In the struggle Rain wringed his arm free and brought his fingers tight together like a spear-point. He aimed for Gilyn’s neck and swung.

    The elf gaped in shock. Rain’s claws pierced as surely as any blade. His choke hold slackened. The hatchling pushed Gilyn off of him with a cough. There was a twitch in the man’s limbs before his body laid still. Rain pushed himself up off the ground. He wiped the blood off his face and tried to stand, stumbling, inhaling ragged breaths. Calls shut her eyes.

    Brings-Rain had won.

    The struggle was nearly over. All they had to do now was escape with the Varla Stones.

    … No… He would escape. Calls would not. She knew she had to be left behind. Her wound was past the point of being healed. Too much blood loss. She would not live to see the sun rise. In this realization there came a small moment of calm. Calls could only think.

    She thought of her men and pleaded to the Hist on their behalf for safe keeping. Their souls would surely see rebirth. Perhaps their lives to come would be bettered for their sacrifices. She thought of her son, an Argonian barely ten years of age. Calls only knew him from afar but loved him as any mother would. Yet she distanced herself from him and all those living in peace. She was a warrior, always fighting, always traveling, serving her people with strength and loyalty. Their lives were not meant to cross. Would he mourn the loss of a woman he didn’t know? The boy was not without family. He had his tribe. His father, too. Calls thought of her siblings. They would mourn her if they were still alive. They weren’t. The red-eyes saw to that. In the end she would not be missed by anyone. The thought was painful.

    But Calls would not have lived any other way. She did not regret who she was. She fought to the last, and now the troubles of her life would finally end. Her mind was clear. Her heart felt at ease. This was a death worth dying. She owed it all to that hatchling. At least he would still live.

    The battle maiden opened her eyes one last time. Brings-Rain was not fleeing.

    He pushed the weight of a bookshelf toward the study’s door, slowly, arduously. His boots were slick. At last he leaned the shelf up against the wooden frame. There was pounding on the other side. Rain shuffled over and retrieved his sword. He stood facing the door… motionless. Waiting. Letting the enemy gather in numbers.

    “Wh… What…?”

    “Don’t speak,” the hatchling hissed between gasps of air. “Rest…”

    “Why didn’t you escape!?” Calls cried, barely raising her voice. “They’ll kill you…!”

    “They will not.”


    “No one… is coming through this door…”

    Calls beheld the boy in disbelief. Why was he throwing his life away? Was he mad? The woman looked upon his face saw the last thing she expected: tears. Brings-Rain was crying.

    “I was sent to protect you… all of you…”

    Calls suddenly realized. For all his skill in killing, the hatchling hadn’t come with killing intent. She remembered his words. ‘We are here to prevent loss of life.’ His thoughts were never of bloodshed. They were never of victory.

    He didn’t fight to kill. He fought to save.

    And now, after everything, he still found strength to stand. He kept that will to fight. Calls found herself believing the boy’s words. He would defend her to the end. To think he seemed so timid before... Her first impressions of him had been proven wrong. So wonderfully wrong. He was still very young but he showed himself distinct. Even at his age he was more capable than any soldier she had ever known. Calls could only imagine the man he’d become, having the skills and knowledge of a warrior in his prime…

    Brings-Rain would achieve great things for the Argonian people. She was sure of it. The thought brought Calls-From-Afar another strange sort of peace. Yet it also brought a twinge of sadness. She wanted to see the world men like him would bring.

    And she would. Just not in this life.


    Brings-Rain – called Okan-Zeeus in the tongue of his people – was exhausted. He knew it. He simply refused to accept it.

    I won’t let her die… I can’t…

    The young Argonian stood there, barely standing, his sword clutched weakly in hand. He ignored the fatigue, hearing only the sounds of hammering on wood. He would fend off as many as he had to. Nothing else mattered to him. Suddenly the pounding stopped. More shouts rang out from the elves, calls of distress. Okan-Zeeus perked up. He stepped closer to the door, cautiously, listening with hopeful intent. From outside came sounds of a battle mixed with Argonian war cries. The assault had come at last. He shoved aside the door barricade and rushed back to Calls-From-Afar.

    “They’re here!” he exclaimed. “The An-Xileel are attacking! We have to…”

    Okan-Zeeus froze. The woman did nothing to acknowledge his presence. He felt knots twisting his stomach. She wasn’t breathing.

    No…! She… she was alive! I saved her…

    The hatchling heard his sword clatter on the floor. A distant sound. He slumped down, hands propped behind him, holding up the weight his legs could no longer. In stillness he sat there, staring, fighting, denying the sight before him – as though by will he could somehow bring her back. He was begging and pleading for it not to happen, to not be real.

    But it was real.

    He succeeded in his mission. And yet he failed. He failed all of them. Okan-Zeeus drew close to the woman, walking on all fours. Gently he reached out and shut the battle maiden’s eyes.

    “Find peace in your next life,” he said softly, his voice quivering. The boy wore a look of mourning and defeat that no one would see. He sat back, retreating into himself, too tired to try and dam his tears anymore. In his mind’s ear he cried out. What went wrong? Why couldn’t I protect them? It wasn’t supposed to be this way! He should have been their strength. A fearless ally. A Zanxhu-Loh of the An-Xileel.

    The battle raged outside. Okan-Zeeus could not bring himself to join it. His battle was over. After some minutes, footsteps echoed down the hall coupled with voices of Argonians combing through the villa. The hatchling snarled and snapped over his hood to hide his crying face. He stood up. His legs ached. Why did they ache? He hadn’t even worked them that hard… Or had he? A pair of Argonian soldiers arrived at the doorway. Both were clad in leather jerkins. The one behind had skin the color of burnt siena and barked something down the hallway. The other in front had muddy green scales and a head of spines. He briefly glanced at the fallen elves, only just acknowledging the two glowing Varla Stones on the floor.

    “Those stones were the source of the elves’ magic,” the hatchling said. “Take them.”

    The Argonian complied, stepping inside to scoop them up. He regarded the body of Calls-From-Afar.

    “She is dead?” he asked.

    Okan-Zeeus could only nod.

    “A sad thing… May the Hist guide her down river,” the soldier lamented. “What of the others with you?”

    “This one is the sole survivor.”

    The soldier glanced back at his companion who left to relay the news. He faced the hatchling once more. “You are the assassin, yes? The one sent from Archon?”

    “I am.”

    “Ajum-Okur would speak to you. He is outside near the farm.”

    “What?” Okan-Zeeus startled. “Why has he come here?”

    “You should ask him yourself.”

    The young killer cursed inwardly. He had no desire to see that man, though little choice otherwise. Okan-Zeeus strode out of the room, fighting to keep his composure. It would do him no good to show weakness at a time like this. He was supposed to be a symbol to the Argonian people – an embodiment of the An-Xileel’s strength and cunning. If only he felt like either of those things.

    As he skirted through the villa, stepping over corpses and brushing past soldiers, he brooded. He was determined to figure out where everything had fallen apart. After staying back to hold the rear, the Dark Elves kept him from rejoining the others at every impasse. He fought them all down. He just couldn’t get through quick enough. Some managed to wound him. One even blinded him with a strange bright powder. They were relentless. Should I have stayed with the group instead of hanging back? Okan-Zeeus wasn’t sure. He did not fight well in crowded spaces with no room to maneuver. He found it much easier to operate on his own – he worked better that way. So he took initiative whenever he saw the chance, first with the cellar guards, then with defending the stairwell.

    Was that my mistake? Did she know better than I? He could have kept following the woman’s orders. But the hatchling had been told expressly: he was outside of her command, given the freedom to act with impunity. His superiors regarded his survival as paramount even above the lives of the assaulting force. Okan-Zeeus did not share that opinion.

    He wanted to blame himself, thinking he somehow could have saved the battle maiden from her wounds at the end. But Okan-Zeeus knew better. He was no healer.

    Outside, the boy gawked at the sight of so many Argonians gathered in one place. Warriors, shamans, and bowmen walked to and fro across the plantation with scales of every color imaginable. Sleeps-In-Shade had been right about one thing: the An-Xileel’s forces overwhelmed the elves easily. Looking up, Okan-Zeeus noticed a pair of tentacles hanging limp over the villa. The farm’s netches had been killed. More bodies of them lied nearby in the ash, their carapaces riddled with arrows and scorched by destruction spells.

    Okan-Zeeus rubbed his nostrils. The scent of death was strong. Bodies of slain Dark Elves were strewn about. Some had even surrendered. The silence of the night was broken by screaming and crying. Women, children, men and other bystanders were being dragged out of the plantation’s guard house, dressed in colorful dunmeri garbs and silk cloth. The hatchling watched in dismay. Why had the soldiers brought their families with them? They must have believed that they would be safe here, convinced by Gilyn somehow. Or perhaps the soldiers weren’t willing to come without them. Maybe that was the only way Gilyn could amass his militia. He made them believe that this was really the beginning of a grand crusade to take back their land, that they would become invincible harnessing the power of their Varla Stones. Sheer foolishness. And for what?

    Okan-Zeeus shook off the questions. Knowing their answers would change nothing.

    He looked around for signs of the one who sent for him, not bothering to ask others around for direction. He longed to be alone at a time like this. Okan-Zeeus peered out into the distance. Standing near the edge of the plantation was a large Argonian man, tall and overbearing in presence. Torchlight gleamed off of his blackish-blue scales, head of spines and shadowspun robes. Ajum-Okur. Arch-Warden to the city of Archon. He noticed the hatchling’s approach.

    “Okan-Zeeus. You are alive. Good,” Okur spoke with a deep-toned voice. He was smiling coolly, arms folded. His tail swayed slowly back and forth.

    “Did you think I would die so easily…?” the boy hissed.

    “Don’t speak nonsense. Surviving has become your hallmark.”

    For what good that did. “What are you doing here?”

    “Checking on you, of course.”

    Okan-Zeeus let out a soft croak. There were times when he thought he liked Okur. The Argonian had an air of authority and wisdom, never bending beneath the strains he bore. But his pleasantries were superficial at best. He was a cynic, so often bitter. Okan-Zeeus hated his vitriol. Okur would always judge the worth of one’s scales by their performance and merit. Sometimes it seemed as though nothing else mattered to him.

    “Are the others here too?” the hatchling asked, looking around.

    “Ixtha-Kai and Zollassa are away on their own assignments. Veethei remains in Archon.”

    Okan-Zeeus sighed. “I should have figured I wasn’t the only one keeping busy.”

    “Such is the nature of your work.”

    “That and you never grow tired of giving us tests.”

    “What makes you assume this assignment was part of your training?”

    I’ve been ‘training’ my entire life. You came here to debrief and evaluate me. Any dry-scale can spot a trend…

    “It is just a guess,” Okan-Zeeus said.

    “Do not make presumptions. You are partially correct, but this wasn’t meant to be a true training exercise.”

    The hatchling glared. “So why have you come here?”

    “I already told you,” Okur scowled, baring his teeth at the boy, “I have come to check on you. Okan-Zeeus, you were sent on this task specifically to work with an outside party. Zollassa and Ixtha-Kai are both doing the same. Veethei will eventually have his chance. It is important for us to know that each of you can operate with other teams beyond merely the four of you together. That is why we sent you here.”

    What!? I wasn’t told that!

    “What about Kai or Zol? Why come to me?”

    “We have had confidence in their abilities from the start, but you have a history of working poorly with groups. Mahei-Ru and I were not sure if you were ready. We considered withholding you from this assignment.”

    Okan-Zeeus stared at the Arch-Warden, wide eyed.

    “You… thought I would fail…?”

    “It was believed you would complete the task. And you did.”


    The boy couldn’t bring himself to speak further. Okur sighed, gazing out toward the villa.

    “I was told what happened. Those you were sent to aid did not survive. This is what we were afraid of. It is regrettable, but we can do nothing about it now.”

    Okan-Zeeus felt a bitter mixture of anguish and rage.

    I did everything I could! I wanted to protect them!! I tried!!!

    “In any case, our forces prevailed,” Okur continued. “Your efforts thwarted the elves and saved many. Mahei-Ru and I will remember this event the next time we decide to lend your services.” More and more Okan-Zeeus felt like a tool in the hands of others, always being passed around. Truly told he was a tool, one that happened to be very good at killing.

    Not at saving lives…

    Okan-Zeeus realized his fingers were tense, claws ready. The boy became downcast and let his anger fade away. What were you going to do, pond scum? Strike the man? Are you no better than that? Ajum-Okur stood at rest and watched the Argonian forces as they herded the elves like cattle. The hatchling followed his gaze.

    “What will happen to them?” he asked.

    “I do not know. These dry-scales hail from Shadowfen. They do not answer to me,” the Arch-Warden said flatly. “The elves may become prisoners of war. That or they will be killed. Their numbers are unfortunately inconvenient.”

    Okan-Zeeus only grew unhappier at that. He did not believe the elves deserved such a fate. What was their crime? Following a madman to the depths of Oblivion? Okur looked down at his ward, seeing him troubled.

    “Don’t be so sullen, Okan-Zeeus. You mustn’t let the deaths of your comrades weigh you down. Failure is only that if you learn nothing from it. Reflect on your experience here. You will do better on your next assignment.”

    The Arch-Warden walked away, beckoning for his assassin to follow. Okan-Zeeus lingered but eventually caught up. He wanted to do as Okur said – he did not want to let this day weigh him down. But that was much more easily said than done. He couldn’t bring himself to let go. His mind became a tangled mess of questions, doubts, accusations, fears, regrets.

    In this, one thought stood out. One thought haunted him more than any other.

    You will do better on your next assignment.

    My next assignment

    He would have to do this again. Countless times. He would be sent to kill more people. He would watch others die. This was his life now. The honor to which he had been called.

    No… Not an honor… A curse…

    Okan-Zeeus glanced back, welled with emotions, the greatest among them sadness. The sounds of shouting and wailing grew faint. He never asked for this life. He did not truly want it. Yet having known no other path, the boy chose obedience and continued walking through the ashes, his young mind loathing the senselessness of it all.

    ~ END ~


    PART 1 --- PART 2 --- PART 3


  • Okan-Zeeus
    Okan-Zeeus   ·  April 1, 2015
    This was a lot of fun to write. It turned out to be a really tight piece of writing. And yes, it helps to illustrate the level of depth that Chase has in my mind. 
    Truly told, Chase's backstory is deep enough that I could write a full length story a...  more
  • Tolveor
    Tolveor   ·  April 1, 2015
    Man oh man. This really put the skill of Chase in a Whole other perspective for me. I really enjoyed this story, and hope to see more "short stories" or glimpses from Okan's earlier life. I think it's very good that you wrote this, as it deepens the chara...  more
  • Okan-Zeeus
    Okan-Zeeus   ·  November 14, 2014
    @ The Unhelpful
    I certainly do not enjoy putting my characters through these things. But at times I feel, as a story teller, I must. 
    For me, a story is partially a means to teach something. It is an opportunity to experience things beyond our...  more
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  November 14, 2014
    *round of applause swells from overseas*
    That was heart-breakingly bloody awesome! Oh poor Calls and Okan... I mean really... Do you enjoy putting your characters through these things? 
    Obviously not, of course you don't. Every good emphatic w...  more
  • Okan-Zeeus
    Okan-Zeeus   ·  November 12, 2014
    I appreciate all of your feedback. It's good to see that my surprise near the end had it's intended effect.
    This was really just so much fun to write... Aside from practicing my 3rd person narrative skills, this gave me a chance to further deepen Ch...  more
  • Gabe
    Gabe   ·  November 12, 2014
    I had my suspicions when you described the appearance of Brings-Rain, but I dispelled them from my mind, thinking there was no way. Now I know what you were thinking when I compared it to DOTE...
    But seriously, this was brilliant. Loved every word o...  more
  • Golden Fool
    Golden Fool   ·  November 12, 2014
    These were great. 
    I wish my writing was like this.
  • Borommakot
    Borommakot   ·  November 12, 2014
    *sound of brain matter splattering on walls*
  • Lozhar
    Lozhar   ·  November 12, 2014
    Awesome! If only I could "Like" more than once!