Hello readers. Welcome to the Chroddicles, as series of intriguing tales, awful uprisings and...brutal ballads. The first story, simply titled Morbodd, follows the life of an employee way out in the fringes of Paramonia, he must re-learn how to survive as a crack down leader straight from the Magog Cartel gains control of the facility. Friends will burn, enemies will collide and all will unfold below.
Ok so I was going to wait till I'd written a few more chapters but never mind, here we go:
MORBODD, Introduction
The chronicler flexed his cramped fingers and completed the script with careful scrutiny. The evident majesty of the terminating circles and detailed characters never failed to please the lawyer. The calligraphy of the eastern mudosian language was a vast and legendary set off ancient letters that looked quite out of place in the modern industrial world. The writing had been unchanged since well before the Age of Alchemy that had driven the glukkons into the dark confines of their factories, not even they could annihilate the ancient style, though they were never quite satisfied with its continued existance. In one final scratch, the quill fell dry and the creature of law cursed and rolled his tired, bloodshot eyes. His inkpots were empty and he so hated switching to those new biro pens, blasphemies against the art of writing that plagued every office supply store in the cities. Their clumsy points were no match for the broad quill that compiled such beautiful work so effortlesly across the paper. In fairness, one had to commend the industrious benefactors of the biro pen for they made writing in high eastern mudosian quite impossible but were adequate for the new industrial Magog Speak, a bastard hybrid of previous styles amalgamated into one monotonous, dull monstrosity. No doubt a secretive attempt to further indoctrinate the idol masses while at the same time making the native way of life harder.
In earlier times, one could simply walk a short distance to the local writing craft shop and purchase a new quill and inkpot for less than 200 moolah. More expensive than the biro pen but nevertheless, a worthwhile endeavour. But now, one had to travel into the bush and try to find a town still reeling from the industrial age before all the old ways dried up. The chronicler sighed and completed the text in biro, it was just thirty characters extra but the whole document had been ruined. He would have to type the blasted thing out. He kicked his chair back from his dimly lit desk and searched for his typewriter. The chronicler worked in a quiet, dingy office room with little natural light. The metal walls rose up around him in a circle and the floor was punctuated only with grey filing cabinets and two wooden tables, one covered in tattered scrolls and the other, at the moment far cleaner than its partner, bore a single flickering candle and a now unmoving quill pen. The tyewriter was dusty and cold, its bakelite structure made a hulking shadow from the candle and much to the chronicler's disgust, quickly made four small dents in the old pine table with its legs. Much like everything else dedicated to the industrial prestige, the chronicler hated it. Of course it was an instrument of writing, precise and neat but it was unnecesarily bulky and one had to take a course in mapping ones way across its type pad. Of course, it was not a mudosian variant, those great beasts were enormous and only contained a small fraction of the total characters in the alphabet. The magog speak typewriter had 26 simple letters and a number of punctuation marks. The law creature settled back down into his chair with a thud and sank into its comfortable leather cushion. The grim room almost buzzed electrically as the chronicler flexed his wrists and began to type his thoughts out. No matter what instrument he used to write a letter, there was little more satisfying in life than finalising a document. He began in an exclamative mood but tore the sheet up and brought his draft to the front, he didn't want to start again and besides, what he had was perfect for the uncanny and interesting case he had been assigned to, his letter read as follows,
To the delegate guard of jail-00213,
I am writing to inform you that convict 1322041 is to stand trial for his supposed crime, he will no longer be executed as was the courts original ruling. It is quite uncommon for a mudokon to stand a trial for a work related incident but it has come to my attention that this subject has sufficient evidence to suggest his actions were justifiable and that his persecution, at the least, should be minimized massively if not revoked entirely.
If you fail to heed this document, you yourself will find that soon you will be sent to Skillya under report of failure to conduct yourself to the law of common order for Mudos. Please see attached documents 4412 and 691 for more information.
Yours sincerely,
Solicitor E.J. Ghine. Study Superior for Mackinson and Sons seperate law firm.
The short letter was perhaps not quite as good as the chronicler had envisioned but he turned it over in his mind and concluded that it would suffice since the delegate guard would most likely be barely able to read, words such as 'justifiable' rarely came into a sligs conversation, the stupid beasts had a basic set of comments which delved about as deep as 'freeze' in syllabic content, either that or those horrific noises that signalled some sort of joy, the chronicler had noted such noises upon visits to work stations with slig guardians, they were a disgusting, cricket like noise that the glukkons should have stopped. Of course stamping out all native ritual was first priority.
Ghine looked at the document, nodded to himself and slipped the paper into his briefcase before locking it carefully and placing it by his door. He couldn't face the long walk to his lodgings and he had slept in his office before so he dragged himself to the clock, scrunched his eyes up and checked the time, he couldn't quite make out the numbers but it was certainly late so he grabbed a half empty soulstorm bottle from the foot of his desk and glugged it down noisily before slumping in his seat. as he dozed in and out of conciousness he regailed on his case. How had the mudokon made such an endeavour, surely it must have taken no end of cunning, intellect and deceit? Ghine had to meet him in person.