Preparation Poll: Ready?

[Velox]

Vote here for your favorite Preparation story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on June 11th at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Preparation Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 12th round preliminary poll.

• [*]In Honor's Name “You ready down there, Ceh’Larr?” The hall in the Diurghas arena where the gladiators got ready for the fight to the complete and terminally utter death that awaited them above seemed quiet as never before today. Ceh’Larr, the soon-to-be champion gladiator of Diurghas, eligible to fight against the champions of the other cities of Naghaldia, shook his long dark hair aside from his face, which, like the faces of many Naghaldians, looked as if it was carved from light bronze with some remarkably sharp, but gentle tool and took a glance up, towards the ceiling – well, lack of a ceiling – high above, where the desert sun’s heavy light penetrated through a patchwork of iron bars. “Yes, ready, Eglund. Is everything in order?” Gladiators in Naghaldia, unlike in other countries of the Far South, such as Athofilgh or Antigorr, were not slaves. Rather, they were freemen, volunteers actually wishing to risk their lives in the name of glory and Ilrahn, Lord of All. Their swords sung a bloody praise to their god. “Yeah. I’ve also got…” Eglund, a young, light-skinned, brown-haired man of about twenty years of age – evidently not a local Naghaldian – suddenly cut short. Well, “cut” might’ve not been the right word to use. More like, his tempo of speaking slowed down to nonexistence. Ceh’Larr could still visualize his shillouette in the sun’s hard light up above, so he had not disappeared. “What is it, Eglund?” “It’s gonna be hard to hear, ‘Larr.” “Try me.” Ceh’Larr could swear he heard Eglund sigh. Heavily. “Your opponent is Magda.” It’s impossible to describe what the Naghaldian gladiator felt at that point… but we could start by mentioning he felt the ground spinning right out from under his feet. He caught hold of a nearby training dummy, leaning on it as if drunk while a surge of pain overran his entire body, charging from the heart itself right to the brain and to every end of the nervous system there exists in the human body. “Eglund, she’s---“ “Ceh’Larr, before you jump to conclusions, I tried getting her out of this. Talking her out of this. I’d almost done it, before that [redacted] archpriest of yours intervened. Long before I know it, he talks some nonsense about honor and courage, and a remarkable lack of any mention, for a priest, of God, of Ilrahn – probably assumed, rationally, that Ilrahn wouldn’t support a brother and a sister fighting out to the death.” Ceh’Larr spat. “You can’t be serious. I’m not going against my sister. If she doesn’t quit, I will.” “You can’t quit!” “Watch me.” “I won’t, ‘Larr. Because when I said ‘you can’t’ – I meant it. That god-forsaken archpriest’s prepared some stuff with the Gladiator Master. You literallycan’t quit… otherwise, you, and worse, Magda, are dead.” Ceh’Larr didn’t feel succumbing to his knees. It was so natural. “Eglund, why are they doing this?” “Money, ‘Larr. Gold and silver. A lot of commercial value in selling a fight between two siblings… to the death.” “I’m not going to kill my sister so they could get their cash.” “There’s only one way you can do that, ‘Larr.” “How?” “Lose.” The gladiator tried standing up, slowly, weighing his options while he still could. This moment, he used to dream of it, when he was just a common gladiator trainee, amongst hundreds of others. He dreamt of it, all the way to the top. He dreamt of it for so long… to be the champion of his city. But now… “Leave me, Eglund. I need to prepare.” He fell to his feet again. And prayed. ------- [*]The Second Door on the Left Up the stairs, down the hall, the second door on the left. That door has been closed for three years. She walks past it, like she does every day. But today, the things that lie behind the door call to her. It has happened before, and she has tried to ignore the curious yearning, an almost insatiable longing to find out what she already knows, that stirs up inside of her. She has learned to shun, push down, and lock away the urge that is welling up inside her like one resists the allure of just one more cigarette. The girl steps forward, resting a thoughtful hand on the painted brass handle, almost daring to lean her weight against the cool, solid, whitewashed wood. She inhales slowly, and a whisper of a familiar scent teases her. It was nothing. Only a frustratingly evanescent memory, come back to haunt her. She lets the breath out. She turns away, not wanting to tempt herself. But her hand still rests on the doorknob. She takes a deep breath one more time. In her mind’s eye, she sees the picture of her family, which sits, all but forgotten, atop the mantle this moment. Before a wispy willow tree stands a family of four. They smile in the real picture, but not in her mind. There is a mother, and a father. There are two children. The girl recognizes a younger version of herself. And the boy beside her, only two years older than herself, and bearing a striking resemblance to her. They share their father’s thoughtful, caring eyes, and their mother’s proud, strong nose. The eyes of the boy in her mind blink, and find hers. Not the little girl beside him, but her, as if he knows he’s being spied upon. He mouths her name. The girl breathes out and opens her eyes, the image of the boy still fresh in her mind. And suddenly, she can stand it no longer. She twists the door handle almost desperately, and stumbles into the room. In three years, nothing has changed. If it hadn't been for the layers of dust, it was almost as though the room had been prepared just yesterday for the brother's return. Scuffed up white walls with lyrics painted over them, a simply designed ceiling fan with a solemn collectoin of dust on the blades, a rather large bookshelf against one wall, a tall mirror next to an empty laundry hamper, and a worn out bean bag chair next to a barely used work desk. The last thing her eyes find is the lonely, undisturbed bed. The blue and white patterned bedspread looks abandoned, uninviting, and lifeless. Even so, it is all the girl can do to make it over to the forgotten bed before the memories flooding through her cause her eyes to swim and shimmer like the scales of a fish through water. As she collapses onto the bed, and as dust is stirred up and gradually begins to resettle, the image of the boy from the picture flashes through her mind again. Again, he blinks, but this time, she with him. And as she does, she lets the tears overflow. After holding herself together for three years, it was good to cry. It was okay to lie there, vulnerable and raw. It was relieving to come to terms with her loss. And it was freedom to allow herself to finally wonder about the war that had taken her brother to a distant land, and when he could be coming home. -------[*]The Soldier “...Daddy?” Hodges’s round blue eyes pored curiously into his father’s bedroom. Daddy was packing a suitcase that lay on his antique wood desk; when Hodges spoke, he turned and smiled, but his eyes didn’t twinkle like they usually did. His face seemed worn, like the old teddy bear Hodges had been gifted after his birth eight years prior. A single, dim lamp cast a halo of light across the clothes folded haphazardly in the suitcase — Mommy always said Daddy wasn’t good at being tidy. “Daddy?” repeated Hodges, stepping cautiously into the room. “Mommy says you’re going away.” Daddy sighed, letting his smile fade. “Yes, son,” he said, packing a mottled green-and-brown suit into his briefcase. “Daddy’s going far away. He has a job to do.” “But why?” Why was a magic word. Whenever Hodges asked it, Daddy’s eyes would defocus, and his mouth would form into a half-puckered frown bordered by stress lines; he wouldn’t speak for several seconds, and when he did, his voice was slower, rougher. “Come here, Hodges,” said Daddy finally, patting his lap. Hodges complied obediently. His daddy needed to help him up. “There are bad people in our solar system,” he began, his voice as coarse as his hands holding Hodges in place. Hodges nodded. “Some of these people want to... hurt us. Hurt our friends. Maybe even hurt you” — he poked Hodges with his rotund index finger in the stomach, and Hodges giggled. “So there need to be... to be people who can stop the bad guys. Understand?” Again Hodges nodded. Daddy’s smile returned, bittersweet. “I’m one of those guys.” “Really?” Hodges’s surprise was almost palpable. A new question, however, wrinkled his forehead. “When are you coming back?” “I — I don’t know,” said Daddy finally. “Maybe never.” “You’d go forever and ever and ever and—?” “I don’t want to, Hodges. You have to understand, I’m making Mars — and every other planet — a safer place. For everyone.” He looked up. Mommy stood in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back in a bun. One-year-old Mike lay in her arms, tucked against her chest. She and Daddy stared at each other for a long time before Daddy finally lowered Hodges to the floor. “I’ll drive you to the spaceport, John,” said Mommy. Her eyes were sad. Daddy looked self-consciously to the suitcase and busied himself with tidying its contents. * * * Daddy reached the top step of the space-jet and turned with a salute. Mommy used one hand to help Hodges salute in return; her other arm still cradled Mike. Hodges looked up; her eyes were shining like the windows. “Mommy, why are you crying?” asked Hodges. Daddy disappeared into the spacecraft, and the door closed; ponderously, the space-jet taxied across the runway to the dome’s airlock. Mommy licked her lips. “Mommy’s just very sad,” she murmured. “Your daddy is a brave man, but courage is no guarantee of safety.” Hodges thought about that. “Daddy will be safe, right?” Her lips compressed. She didn’t respond. The airlock door shut. Hodges glimpsed through a window in the Martian colony’s dome the space-jet flying into the distance. It receded till it was too far for even Mommy to see. She exhaled heavily and gripped Hodges’s hand till his fingers began to tingle. “Mommy—” She lessened her grip. “Time to leave, come on...” “Mommy” — Hodges’s innocent eyes locked with his mommy’s — “someday I want to go into space and fight bad guys, just like Daddy.” Mommy didn’t look again at Hodges till they returned to the car. Her eyes were red by then, her lips white, her cheeks moist. ------[*]Foreknowledge "Getting ready?" Matthew asked, leaning in his friend's doorway. Daniel stopped polishing his sword and looked up. "Obviously." He was preparing to ride against a rebellious lord, along with a party of other knights from court. The king was to command them personally - he had to be prepared for this important fight in every detail. Matthew, of course, wasn't coming. His talents inclined more towards the arts of magery than those of knightly battle. Matthew now came farther into the room. "Is there anything I can do to help?" Daniel grinned. "Well, you could tell me what you're so worried about, Matt." He had noticed earlier that day - all day, in fact - that there was something Matthew seemed to be uneasy about. "Sorry," Matt apologized. "I wasn't aware I seemed worried about anything." "Well, you did. So stop worrying. We've been through worse fights than this together in th old days," Daniel said firmly. He held his sword up to the light. "Good enough to beat Sir Francis with, you think?" Matt started to say something, then stopped. "I suppose. The guard could still use a little work, though. Here, let me." "So you think you're prepared for this battle?" he continued, skillfully shining the golden hilt. "I do," Daniel said without hesitation. "I'm one of the best warriors in His Majesty's service." This was the simple and widely acknowledged truth, and the reason he was accompanying the force in the first place. I can take down a delusional petty lord." He looked more closely at his friend. "What's bothering you? You're really worried about this." Matthew looked at his friend. He was still a young man. "Are you...are you prepared to die?" Daniel paused. When he spoke, it was in a graver tone. "You really think there's a chance of that?" Matthew hesitated. More than a chance. Butt he couldn't tell his oldest friend that. He couldn't give him that doom. "Yes. There is." In spite of himself, Daniel was frightened. Matthew had more than a touch of the Seer in him, and he knew it. But he fought the fear down. The code of a knight precluded fear for oneself. It was cowardly and dishonorable. "I'll be ready for it, if it comes," he told his friend. "And...if you think it's necessary...I'll put my affairs in order." He paused. "Would you look after things for me, Matt?" Matthew nodded reluctantly. "I think it would be a good idea. And yes, of course I will." As he watched Daniel stride off, he hoped he'd done the right thing. His dream of last night rose up before him - Daniel, wounded, falling in the field, overcome by an injury he somehow knew instinctively was fatal. How, he wondered, do you prepare someone for their death? ------- [*]All of the Pieces Needed is paper, the canvas of the writer. The place where thoughts come alive. A blank expanse that awaits to be molded based upon thought and idea, a world just waiting to be formed. It can contain the great stories of heroics and bravery, of love and emotion, of darkness and of terror. It desires only the hands of those who have an thought that can be expanded, an idea that needs to be preserved. It is merely a pad of paper, but it can become so much more, so much greater. It sits on the desk, laying open, awaiting the words of a land formed by imagination. Needed is a pencil, the tool from which words are formed. The tip holds the power of creation, the ability to design anything that the mind can see. It can be a weapon, starting wars, bringing death and violence. It can be a tool of beauty, creating lands that inspire and awe. It can cause depression or joy, tears or laughter. It is a mighty tool in the hands of one who wishes to write. It sits beside the paper now, awaiting the hand that will use its power, to stir the emotions of others, and leave a lasting impression on those who feel the words. Needed is an eraser, the reverse of the mighty pencil. It can destroy all that the pencil makes, undoing what has already been set. It can fix the slightest of errors, or dissolve entire portions of a world. A battle can be undone, to have never happened. A character can cease to exist, remaining nothing but a passing memory. It can repair the damage of war, or undo the happiest of endings. It now stands silently beside its opposite, waiting for the chance that its abilities to change the past be required. Needed is the hand of a writer, the force that allows the pencil to create, and the eraser to wipe clean. The hands that fill the paper with creation and imagination, that guide the creation of worlds. They hold the power to bring the pencil to paper, and bring hope and sorrow to those who live within the words. They steer each thought into place, and should one thought strike against the flow, remove it with the eraser. They sit aside the paper, one to the right, one to the left. They await the beginning of a new tale from the mind of their owner. Needed is inspiration, the most valuable tool of all. It can not be prepared as the others, it arrives only when it wishes, bringing with it the path that the story must travel. Without it, there is no need for the pencil and paper, there is no world to create. The eraser lays in silence, having nothing to repair. The hands sit motionless, doing nothing but wait, hoping that the inspiration will arrive and allow them to begin. There is no way to control it, only to harness it and use it to form great works of the mind. It can vanish for days, leaving a writer to struggle, or it can arrive like a great energy, compelling the hands, steering the pencil, and creating realms based upon dreams and nightmares. It can come from the strangest of places, the smallest of sources. It can be awakened by the most amazing of events, or merely the preparation to write. With all of these wondrous tools brought together, imagination can be unleashed. -------[*]Boy ~~~ Blagir sat on the cold stone bench, shivering under his rags of clothing. The club in his hand, made of cracked wood with scraps of leather for grip, was dead and dull, offering no protection or threat. He clung to it anyway, tears falling down his cheeks. At the tender age of six, his parents were forced to choose between losing their home and selling one of their children to the slave market. Seeing as Blagir’s siblings were either too young to be put to work or already had a job, the boy was sold for a fine price. He never saw his parents again after that. He missed them, but he supposed now his siblings were safe until the rent ran out again. He was sold a year later, and went from owner to owner due to his clumsiness for four more years. Finally, the slaver, who had had enough of Blagir’s constant returns, had sold the boy to an underground slave fighting group. The owners of the group, Claude and Edda, had accepted the boy- even one as useless as Blagir had some entertainment value in the arena. So, they started him off on small tasks. He would bring food and drink to the rich masters observing the fight. He would scrub the arena floor, and make sure it was free of muck for the next battle. He did this without complaint, every day. But then, he had messed up. A valued customer of the arena had ordered a drink, and Blagir had tripped while bringing it to him. The majority of the drink fell upon Blagir, but a rogue droplet splashed onto the customer’s boot. He had watched, twitching in fear, as the boot landed upon his face, sending him tumbling down the steps to the low stone wall surrounding the arena. He had shielded himself as best he could from the blows rained upon him by the man, and watched as Edda had run over and apologised profusely to the customer. And then Blagir was sent away, locked in a cupboard for an hour until he was brought out, only to be told he would be fighting tomorrow. And that day had come, and Blagir could hear the shouts and cheers from outside. He gulped as he heard someone announce his name. Over in the other holding area of the arena was a big, nasty warrior, well-experienced in fighting. Blagir had no such training. He had no chance. He had prepared himself as best he could, but what could he do? He could only sit and steel himself for death. The doors were opened. He rose to his feet and, knees shaking, he went out into the arena. -------

[Space: Ocean of Awe]

A tough choice between 3 and 5. I went with 5 in the end.=)

[Excelsior]

I voted for 1.-Excelsior

[Legolover-361]

Entries 2, 5, and 6 were all very well-written, I genuinely enjoyed my own entry, and the remaining entries were also fun to read, so I had difficulty deciding which entry would earn my vote. I whittled my list to entries 2 and 3 (the latter being mine) before deciding to null.I now wonder if I shouldn't have nulled; I'm surprised some entries haven't yet earned a single vote.

[Padishah Mehmet II]

Uuuuuaghso freaking tense, this pollwith its slowness and its tenseness and all of those at onceYou probably guessed, right, that I self-voted.Though, I'll admit, my main competitor (entry 5) is pretty darn amazing. So was Entry 4. The others were pretty good too. If mine own entry wasn't here, I'd have a hard time picking the one I want to vote for.-Dovydas

Edited June 10, 2012 by Tsar Dovydas

[Ballom Nom Nom]

Although many of the entries were good, number five was the best.~B~

[fishers64]

5 is just amazing. I voted for that. The other entries were very well done, however.

[Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa]

I chose #5. But #4 was a very close second.

From the desk of Nuile: Lunatic Wordsmith

[Velox]

Polling period over; poll closed.