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I'm really writing an announcement about myself huh. Okay, just as always, I'm doing it in third person. 

It seemed like that Darius had procured an angry mob yet again. Waiting in the "beating up Darius" line are none other than two folks and one screaming teenager. Of course just like a sinking ship, children go first and thus Petros was shoved forwards to duke it out against Darius. Well, I first have to recount why this duel is even taking place. 

During the hosting of several Thunderdome duels, it seemed that our resident 'ironic' gay wolf erotica author and dress up game enthusiast Darius has done it again. His ego had skyrocketed after he had insulted many renowned and accomplished CYStians and Petros. Without any repercussions he pranced around being passive aggressive around others to the point he had earned the spot as the most hated writer on the site. It's really too bad that he doesn't have an ounce of humor or writing talent, having lost a duel against a teenage boy and another one of those Dutch gremlins and being told multiple times that he cannot even write funny insults. He tried to shed off his mean spirit, got slapped around by a Canadian, then tried to do the hohoho evil disney villain arc, but it obviously didn't work due to his lacking charisma. You know, it's quite an accomplishment that he even functions as a human. 

After being beaten to pulp so many times with his flesh barely clinging onto his bones, it's quite the time to put him out of his misery no? Some people may say that it's akin to beating a dead corpse, but those folks are just as humorless as Darius. 

Well, luckily for us, our resident Stoneman Petros had stepped in to yeet Darius straight into pink hell. After having beaten a teenage boy to pulp after his embarrassing loss against a teenage girl, his self confidence has grown by tenfold as well as his determination to give Darius the title "The one that got beaten by someone who got beaten by a teenage girl twice/thrice". His rage was already seen during the announcement of the fishing contest, his seething hatred already known to all, but will he be able to channel this energy to his writing? We'll see. 

LIVE IN THE THUNDERDOME 

The theme is Haunted mountain. Any genre.

 

Story A

Summit fever

My hands steadfastly clung onto my hiking stick as I pushed through the thinning air only to find myself surrounded by a vast white emptiness. The wind drowned out the voices of the three Sherpas and the five other climbers of the expedition. It left nothing but a hint of a whisper, a soft undertone beneath the cacophony of my labored breaths through the oxygen mask and the wails of Mount Everest.

One more step and then I'll reach the northern ridge, the summit pyramid, and at last, I'll be able-

Despite the growing ache devouring my limbs and the cold tearing through the vast layers of clothes to drain away any semblance of warmth, I carried on not wanting to waste the single chance I got to fulfill my dream. The camera, that was tied to me, served as a reminder of why I came to this hostile place in the first place. Wouldn't every photographer wish for their pictures to make a lasting mark on the world, to have something they would be remembered by? If I were to keel over and die, I would want everyone attending my funeral to see the photo of me having just conquered the highest point on earth. A bright smile for my husband, a flag for my mother, and a peace sign for my son. It took so much effort to make them understand that I was doing it for them, so much money to plan and prepare for this expedition and so much energy to even traverse a meter of this ridge.

I leaned to the ice-covered rock wall, bracing myself for another shriek of the wind. On my right side, the mountain edges had split themselves open like a gaping jaw of a predator as it waited for the moment that an unlucky climber will lose their hold on their ropes, stumble and plummet into its stomach. Still, I carried on, my eyes focused on the narrow path.

One more step.

A climber in front of me collapsed. His one hand barely clung onto the rope while his legs helplessly flailed around. The tips of his bright red boots brushed over the edge, almost dangling above the steep slope. Although the wind and the breathing mask distorted his voice, my ears still picked up his pleas.

"Help. Need air. H-help me."

I kept my distance, observing how his breaths quickened in pace while they decreased with strength. Although he was a member of my expedition, my mind couldn't recall his name or whether he even preferred coffee over tea. Before I could respond, one of the Sherpas rushed in and grabbed him by his red coat in an attempt to prop him up. However, his body kept slipping toward the endless depths.

The other climber of my expedition, a woman around my age, joined the Sherpa in the futile struggle of keeping the collapsed climber alive. She took hold of one of his arms while calling out his name. I gnashed my teeth. Every second they spent on top of the death zone 'saving' this man, was another valuable bottle of oxygen wasted.

This man was probably already at death's door. Wouldn't it be easier to just let him slip into the crevasses instead of carrying this dead weight?

So when the time came to decide whether to turn back and carry the man to base camp or to continue our bid to the top, I chose the latter. I stepped over his barely conscious body with the sole of my green boots barely brushing over his red coat, just as we once did to the countless other corpses that littered the rainbow valley.

I still vividly remembered the moment when we entered this place. Bright red, yellow, and greens were strewn over the white wasteland, almost like splashes of paint on a bare canvas. Coats, tents, gloves, and even a video camera tied to someone's chest. Once these objects belonged to someone, but now they only served as landmarks to other people's dreams.

And my dream.

As I parted with the group, I looked back. No climbers had joined me. Only one lone Sherpa lingered. His one free hand gestured at the grey sky and the whirling clouds beneath us. His harsh loud voice bit through the shrieks of the mountain and reached my ears.

"No time left. The weather is too bad. Not enough bottles." He said. "Turn back."

Turn back?

And my dream?

I shook my head. I couldn't after I had come so far. The mountain beckoned me to come closer. Its voice was haunting, but oh so breathtaking.

One more step.

"Turn back."

"I can't."

The Sherpa froze for a moment before slumping his shoulders. Without uttering a single word, he unbuckled one of his spare bottles of oxygen and handed it to me. His hand lingered. He sighed. Then he turned his back towards the top of the mountain along with his bid to the summit, to head back with his tail tucked between his legs.

Just like the other weaklings.

I gritted my teeth as I hastened my pace. For months and months on end, I had trained for this moment and I won't let anything or anyone stand in my way. With my free hand, I pressed the recording button of the camera.  I'll show everyone what it took to become a true photographer.

The cold winds felt like the warmth radiated from a crackling fireplace, the thinning air a rush of euphoria, and the ever-depleting supply of oxygen a sign to push forwards. The sheer force of adrenaline numbed the ache in my legs and melted away the tiredness in my bones. Time seemed to have slowed though I was certain that I had long passed the top of the pyramid. Thoughts and images jumbled together into a whirl of feelings and want. After what seemed like a days-long climb across the narrow northeast ridge, I at last set foot on the highest point in the world.

The films and documentaries promised me a mesmerizing view that would make any person's heart flutter. It spoke about standing on the top as an almost ethereal experience, a feeling of elation and awe. The beautiful sky, the bright sun, and clouds that coiled around the mountain ridge.

I couldn't see anything.

Only a wide expanse of grey met my gaze. I brought my flag out of my backpack, clumsily pressed a few buttons on my camera, and numbly made my descent.

If the ascent was characterized by a feverish exhilaration and glee, the descent had been nothing more than a torturous feeling of dread. The weather grew ever more traitorous and the winds harsher. As the rush of adrenaline died down, all the muscles in my body began to scream at me. My legs slogged through the snow as if dozens of hands of lost souls were dragging it down. No matter how much air I sucked in, the world kept spinning around me. It felt as if I breathed through a broken straw.

I squinted my eyes to check on my oxygen meter. The letters and numbers all had melted together into a big blob of ink. It reminded me of George's first attempt at writing his name. Slowly I shook my bottle. Was there even anything left? My head hurt thinking about it.

After hours of walking, I should be able to be close to base camp, no? I barely was able to see more than a few meters in front of me, but my gut feeling told me that I almost made it.

One more step.

That was what I'd told myself.

One more step.

Was I seeing the eastern ridge or was it called the northern one? Perhaps I had long passed it. The snowy rocks beneath me didn't feel like it was part of a ridge. Solid, but slippery.

I fell.

At first, my legs flailed around, trying to make me stand up. However, their lofty attempt had been in vain as I saw from the corner of my eyes the souls of the damned. Dozens, no thousands of bright red, green, and yellow coats swarmed me, pinning my limbs down on the warm snow. Even though a storm was brewing, their voices were clear. They taunted me. One voice that rose out of all their anguished moans belonged to none other than the climber with the red boots and coat. He bared his yellowed teeth, bent down, and whispered to me.

One more step.

I saw a faint light and heard the crunch of snow. Hope. A pair of boots walked past me. I clumsily grabbed ahold of one and clung to it as if it was my last lifeline. It felt real, solid. I ripped off my oxygen mask.

"Help. Help me."

It stopped.

I held my breath.

Then it shook off my hand before disappearing into the grey haze.

One more step.

One more step.

One more-

One-

With my last ounce of strength, I unbuckled the camera. I never had the time while I was on the summit to properly look at the photos I'd taken. When they found me, they would be able to see my bright vigorous smile, the flag I held proudly in my hand, and of course the peace sign, things to remember me by. I pressed the button and waited.

A black screen with a flickering lightning bold.

I forgot to change the battery.

---------

"Your mother was a brave and kind person." His father said.

"You think so?"

She had been nothing but troublesome for his father, making him agree to that stupid and selfish idea of hers and berating him whenever he pushed back. She had always donned a stern frown when she was at home and never complimented him nor his father.

Still, George swallowed down these thoughts and smiled. His eyes lingered on the tombstone while he held tightly to the bouquet. He still couldn't believe that it had been two years since his mother lost her life to that cursed mountain. Underneath the grave was an empty coffin. The leader of the expedition told George and his father that she died too high up for her body to be carried back safely. 

His thoughts then lingered on a particular memory, on the day his father chose which picture of her would be shown during her funeral. He had picked a photo that was taken during her last birthday. It showed a slight sleep-deprived grimace, garish birthday flags in the background, and a camera in her hands. They were all elements that embodied his mother and their memory of her.

The image of her being all alone in the cold should have sent chills running down his spine, but instead, it set his heart ablaze. They said they weren't able to retrieve her body, but they never knew his mother as well as him who had left them without any closure. Even in her death, her presence choked down his father and kept him from living in the present. George's tightening grip made some stems of the flowers snap.

"Do you think that I'll be able to climb up that mountain?"

He whispered under his breath. With slightly flushed cheeks he turned to look at his father's widened eyes that carved new lines across his worn-down face.

"George…"

"I’ll get her back."

A challenge, something to conquer, a nervous anticipation. A feverish desire. Was this what his mother meant with the phrase 'wanting to have something to be remembered by'? The mountain was calling. Even when entire oceans separated them, he could still hear its sweet voice.

Story B

Old Man Campbell’s Place

“Pa, get in here! We got ourselves a customer.”

The speaker looked at Paul warily. His creased face stared at him unblinkingly. Paul stood stiffly at the entrance and looked over the dilapidated supply store he had stopped at. The tin roof was rusted in spots and was decorated with cobwebs like streamers. The walls were pealing and dead crickets littered the floor. The man behind the counter seemed to value his personal hygiene as much as the store’s cleanliness.

Soon, an old man with a grizzled white beard, presumably “Pa” shambled out of a back room.

“Why don’t ye jus’ give him what he wants? Are ye plumb stupid” He yelled at the man.

“He don’ want nuthin’ we got. He jus’ wants directions.”

The old man spat tobacco juice onto the floor at Paul’s feet. Paul retreated a step involuntarily.

The old man glared warily. “Where you goin’ boy?”

Paul answered. “My uncle’s property. Victor Campbell’s farm.”

“Old man Campbell!” The old man yelled excitedly. He broke into a long wheeze followed by a series of high pitched, staccato laughs. Once the laughing, and subsequent coughing fit ended, the old man trundled over closer to Paul.

He looked Paul up and down. “Yup. He sure looks like a Campbell. He’s got pieded skin like Old man Campbell’s woman had.”

He stepped back and looked Paul in the face. “Y’ain’t from round here, are you? Why’d you decide to come out to the Campbell place?”

Paul answered with a bit of hesitations “I live in Oregon, but Uncle Victor’s will had a caveat that I was not to sell the land unless I had stayed there for a night. The market is good for land, but I want to try to respect his last wishes.”

The old man began the three stage wheeze-laugh-cough again, much to Paul’s chagrin. “Sorry, stranger. I’ll sure ‘nuff show ye the way. Lemme see yer rig.”

Paul and the old man walked out and looked at the Honda Civic parked in the gravel in front of the little country store. The old man spit in the car’s general direction. “Yer never gonna get up the mountain in that thing. We’ll have to take my Ford. I’ll swing by to pick ye up tomorrow.”

Paul looked at his car, looked up to the sky and heaved a huge, dramatic sigh. “I guess that’s the best option. You won’t steal my car or anything, will you.”

The man gave a softer chuckle, apparently unfazed by the implication. “What fer? Ye can’t haul nothin’ in it. ‘Sides that, we’re honest folk.”

Soon, Paul found himself behind the wheel of a 1980s F-series Ford, heading up a steep mountain trail with the old man sitting in the passenger’s side barking instructions. As the ruts in the narrow dirt road deepened, a scraping noise sounded through the cab.

The old man lost it. “Don’t just let yerself bottom out! Straddle the ruts ya idjit!”

Paul jerked the wheel over and glared at the man. “Why did you ever insist that I drive?”

“My legs hurt and I’m bored,” the man said.

Paul shook his head in exasperation. As the road widened and evened out somewhat, he began to ply the old man for information.

“So, uhm… I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Don’t recollect as I told ye.”

Tense silence filled the cab of the truck as Paul considered how to continue the conversation. “So, old man… what’s so funny about me going up to spend a night at Uncle Victor’s place.”

The old man sounded off with his trademarked tea kettle laugh. “It’s just that Old man Campbell’s place ain’t got nary a convenience or amenity. You’ll be roughin’ it, and by the looks of ye,” his eyes scanned Paul’s frame appraisingly. “Yer used to life bein’ soft as butter on a hot biscuit.”

Paul looked at him, confused for a moment before shifting his eyes back to the road. “Is that it? I guess you’re probably right about me, but it’s also just one night.”

The old man thought for a second. Then, after spitting in a water bottle, shrugged and began. “Well, didja know about Old man Campbell’s daughter? Woulda been yer cousin, I reckon.”

“Yeah, Maggie. She stayed with us a few times growing up when Uncle Victor would go on hunting trips and things. It was heartbreaking when she died.”

“‘Course it was. Even more heartbreakin’ on account of the fact it weren’t no fever that killed her. Hey! KEEP YER DAMN EYES ON THE ROAD!!”

The old man’s shrill scream brought Paul back to reality as he pulled the truck from the brink of sliding off the side of the mountain and back onto the road. On the old man’s suggestion, they waited on the rest of the explanation until Paul reached the lonely cabin on the top of the mountain.

The old man breathed deep and began. “Right around the time Maggie Rose turned eighteen, she ran off with her friends to go to college. Near broke her old man’s heart.

“Anyway, long story short, she came back ‘round six months later to tell old man Campbell that she wants to marry a fella. He tells her, ain’t no way ‘less he could meet the man. Maggie Rose hemmed and hawed, but Campbell knew somethin’ was up. After a while, it came out that he was a nigger.”

“You can’t—”

“Boy, do you want to hear the story or not?”

Paul weakly nodded, and the old man continued.

“Anyway, the gal thought she had a trump card an’ told her pa that she had to marry him ‘cause she was pregnant.

“Old man Campbell took to wailin’ on her, an’ she took on a hollerin’ so loud that Billy, the crackhead in the trailer down in the holler, came runnin’.

“The way he tells it, she was stone dead by the time he arrived.”

Paul stared at the old man in shock. “So, the only witness was this crackhead, Billy?”

“Well, we all saw her beat up body at the funeral. It was a bad time for sure. Nary a one of us approves of mixing blood, but we also don’t approve of murderin’ our own kin. So, instead of turnin’ old man Campbell in, we just shunned him for the rest of his born days.”

“So he just went unpunished?” Paul asked incredulously.

The old man smiled a sly, smug smile. “Now, I wouldn’t say that.”

“What do you mean.”

“‘Round these hills, there’s a tale that goes around about the ghost of a girl who goes around up here screaming’ in pain. At first, it was just Billy sayin’ it, so nobody put much stock in it, but in his bed of sickness, old man Campbell was out of his head mumblin’ about ghosts and blood on the walls.”

Paul looked at the old man, then at the cabin. He shook his head and grabbed his duffel bag. “Alright old man, thanks for the ride, and thanks for the nightmares.”

His shrill, piping laugh sounded off again. “Happy to oblige.”

Paul slowly opened the door and peeked inside. It was exactly what he expected. A one room cabin with a wood stove in the middle, a kitchen area one one side, and two beds, a table and chairs on the other. The table had nothing but a candle and box of matches on it.

Paul threw his duffel bag on the table and went to the stove. There was still some dry, chopped wood next to the stove and some newspapers, so he did what he remembered his grandma doing all those years ago and set the logs in a crisscross then stuffed some newspaper pages under the bottom logs. A match and a few careful breaths later, he had a reasonable fire crackling and filling the cabin with smoke.

Paul opened the chimney, coughing and sat down at the table. He stripped for bed, laid his clothes across the duffel bag and hopped into one of the two beds. He briefly wondered whether it was Uncle Victor’s or Maggie’s bed.

He closed his eyes to sleep, but felt the anxiety and fear blooming in his chest. The rustic cabin carried a sense of profound loneliness at night. Paul rolled over and fixed his eyes on the fire. The dancing light calmed his mind and allowed him to slowly drift into deep sleep.

Though he couldn’t recall any dreams afterward in totality, he was left with a few scenes and impressions. The clearest scene was standing behind Uncle Victor as he painted a nude painting of Maggie. When Paul called out to his uncle, he whirled around and revealed a bare, grinning skull where his face should have been.

Paul shot up, breathing hard and soaked in sweat. He breathed deep and slow to calm his racing heart. He rolled back onto his side and noticed the fire in the stove was completely extinguished and not a coal was glowing.

Paul rolled out of bed, conscious of his bare feet on the gritty, unswept floor. He stumbled over to the table and grabbed the box of matches, struck one on the box and lit the candle. As soon he raised the candle though, the flame suddenly went out.

Paul cursed, struck another match, and lit the candle again. This time, the candle flared into flame but before Paul could even pick it up, the flame was extinguished.

“Must be drafty in here,” Paul muttered, his voice trembling slightly.

His hands trembled more than slightly as he moved to light the third match, but muffed it badly. The fourth was lit well enough, but went out nearly as soon as he lit it, and this time, he could swear he had felt a pressure on the match, as if someone had pinched it between their fingers.

In desperation, Paul yelled out into the night. “Please stop!!”

As soon as it left his mouth, he was embarrassed by the outburst. All the same, he lit another match, put it to the candle, and was surprised as it stayed lit.

He walked carefully over to the stove with the candle, but stopped short. There, in dark red liquid, “kin slayer” was written on the stove. He turned and looked at the wall the bead was pressed against, and saw a crude sketch of coffin in the same liquid.

Paul ran his finger on the top of the stove and raised it to his nose. It was blood. Suddenly, a he heard a soft feminine giggle. His head whipped around toward where he thought he heard the noise.

“Maggie?” He asked softly of the wind.

A bloodcurdling scream was his reply. He jumped, and the candle crashed to the ground, once again plunging him into darkness.

Paul’s legs took over, and he burst from the cabin, out into the night, running down the gravel pathway, naked as the day he was born.

Just as the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and the pain in his sensitive feet was beginning to become too much for him, his toes smashed into a rock and Paul went careening headfirst into the gravel road.

The next thing he remembered was waking up in the old country store with the old man staring at him. A quick glance down reassured Paul that he had been dressed in some overalls and a flannel shirt.

“So,” the old man said, smiling. “I take it ye found somethin’ a mite more substantial than nightmares.”

“You could say that,” Paul said, rubbing his forehead. “Well, I suppose the land will be staying in the family after all.”

“Y’know, I’m startin’ to figure on that bein’ what old man Campbell would have wanted. You reckon so?”

“I suppose I do reckon so.”

The old man looked at Paul in amusement and began his telltale wheeze. This time, Paul laughed with him.

I'm looking forward to when Darius and Petros end their 'enemies' phase in 'enemies-to-lovers' and start making out instead of dueling it out. 

 

Story A:

To start off, it had a very unique setting. It was definitely not my first thought when I read the prompt, 'haunted mountain'. I didn't see any grammatical errors throughout it, so that's a bonus. I really liked the line, "I kept my distance, observing how his breaths quickened in pace while they decreased with strength."

It wasn't bad, it was certainly written nice, but it felt like something was missing. All I can think of is that the characters are a bit flat. I'm not sure entirely if that was it thought. Also, minus points for making it a heterosexual relationship. I had high hopes when I read the word 'husband', and was greatly disappointed. 

Story B: 

First off, there was a lot of dialogue in this. I personally believe dialogue can make-or-break a story, so I was pleasantly surprised by how well-done it was. The old man and Paul were both very agreeable characters. 

I noticed a bit of grammatical errors. Nothing too bad, but the other entry was pretty flawless when it came to that so minus points for that. Also, I feel like Paul should've been a little more rattled at the end, considering he just ran into a ghost he was worried about. 

 

Both were very nice entries, written by wonderful writers. This one was close for me, but I think Story B managed to pull ahead through it's dialogue and characterization. 

 

You’re disgusting. (This in reference to your first sentence)

I think she's reading too much fanfiction. Teenage girls these days smh.

Both stories were well written with few, if any, SPAG errors to mar them.  Both stuck to the prompt and fit within the word limit.

Story A:

Like Suranna, I would not have thought of Everest as haunted, but it certainly fits the bill.  The characters felt a bit flat and uninspired.  Was this story intended to be the tale of the infamous "Green Boots" marker on the summit trail?  I only ask because the color of the protag's boots are very explicitly called out and given the topic, that was a question I was left with at end.  Interesting if dire tale.

Story B:

Tight and cozy little ghost story.  Reminiscent of many Applachian ghost stories that I have heard over the years.  Characters are intersting, robust and feel very true-to-life for people I actually know.

My vote goes for Story B.

I was the one who wrote story A. 

Answer is no. The color of the boots was only included because you often find mountaineers wear those brightly colored clothes and so that this nameless guy could be identified later in the story. Practical purposes.

The story is actually a big amalgamation of Mount Everest stories I read, but the flag visual was I believe inspired by Arsentiev. Her corpse was nicknamed sleeping beauty by other climbers and eventually covered up by a flag.

But I'm very curious why the characters come off as flat to lots of people. I definitely understand that point with the son and the father, but I'm still a bit confused why the mother also comes off like that to readers.  Could you perhaps elaborate on it if you want to of course!

Both stories were interesting, you are both good writers and it was reflected in both stories.

Story A:
The protagonist was extremely unlikeable, from being okay with the fellow hiker collapsing and dying, to not caring about the well being of anyone else. So it was hard to really root for her to achieve her goals, and yet somehow at the end I found myself rooting for her to climb down and into safety. It would have still been satisfying if she made it only to find out her camera hadnt been on. But then the death helped add to the final bit with the son wanting to go out and look for his mother, possibly having gone a bit insane as she would clearly be dead by the time he tried to go find her, but you know how it goes. I realize the protagonist was intended to be quite unlikeable so that doesnt take any points off, plus it was written well enough to where I still ended up rooting for her to survive - albeit cameraless. Though I guess judging by her character, she would have wanted to climb again just to try to get that picture anyway. She was deadset on killing herself for it, living wasnt part of her dream, only the pictures. Good story!

 

Story B:
After reading story A, I figured that was going to be a clear winner as it was written pretty well and the narrative was good and I had almost zero complaints about it. But then I read this one and wow. It was a very prototypical ghost story/haunted house story, but your writing is great and made it a lot more tense. Dad kills own daughter, usually for some gross tragedy (racist and didnt want her pregnant with a black child), daughter haunts the place until the man eventually passes away, someone stumbles upon it, light goes out at night and ghost girl appears and scares the person who stumbled upon it, etc. But all the little details captivated me and kept me reading. Everything from his cursing at the fires going out, his bare feet touching the dirty unswept wooden floor, the fact that this was a family story as opposed to 'some wandering passerby who just heard rumors this house was haunted' etc. I wondered why he'd want to stay there to begin with, but the story explained that well with the addition of him wanting to sell the land but not being able to until he went and followed his uncles wishes. Excellent work for a short story like this!

 

Verdict: 
Honestly, a lot closer than I anticipated after I finished the first one, I am going to have to vote for B - both stories were very well written but B captivated me a bit more. Well done to both of you!

I vote for Story A

b

I vote for Story A. I liked its tight pace and its grounded feel.

Announcement: perhaps it's obvious from the writing styles, but yup give me another lost tally to me. Let's see, I lost to a teenage boy, a Dutchman and Petros. RIP. Perhaps I'm cursed to never win at these kind of things lol, but I do think I'm at least slowly getting better at short stories. Appalachia mountain stories damn, you can't lose with them. 

Well, but congrats Petros haha. I'll give you the win. Your story was good and you noticeably improved too with managing the short story format. I think it was tighter than the other ones you had written.

Congratulations Petros! It was an excellent story and I loved every bit of it. 

Also, good job Darius! Your writing is immaculate as always.