I’ve got a doozy of a teeny-tiny little story for you this time folks! I was in the mood to write something but didn’t want to immerse and thankfully there was this past weeks Trifecta Challenge! Some of you have seen me write for it before, for the rest, this is the quick explanation:
Anyway! This week’s challenge was using this:
1: existing in a natural state and unaltered by cooking or processing <crude oil>
2 archaic : unripe, immature
3: marked by the primitive, gross, or elemental or by uncultivated simplicity or vulgarity <a crude stereotype>
4: rough or inexpert in plan or execution <a crude shelter>
5: lacking a covering, glossing, or concealing element :obvious <crude facts>
6: tabulated without being broken down into classes <thecrude death rate>
So anyway, here’s the first thing that came to mind when I was told to write a story using this definition of the word “Crude”. Now I’m curious to see how this makes you consider my mental health! I hope you enjoy it, I definitely did.
The heavens thundered and earth itself seemed about to split apart as Arborn’s mystic barrier deflected the dark energies that threatened to destroy the whole village, sending wild bolts of of black lightning in all directions.
Around him the villagers cowered, huddled together in the village square as the strange magicks exploded around them, bending every known natural law. Some of them looked like they would need a restroom soon, others seemed to have given up on that luxury already.
Feeling a gap in the onslaught, Arborn ignored the smells and piercing cries of those around him and reminding himself that he was a Wizard and not an evil Warlock, cast forth fresh energy to reinforce the barrier. But in his heart he knew that unless something went in his favour, he was like an ant with a teeny umbrella under a magnifying glass and the noonday sun. The power of the demon possessing the villages priest was too much for him.
It seemed all hope was lost and he was about to decide “to hell with it” and pull a teleportation spell to get out while he still could when a thundrous roar went up from behind him and he turned expecting a fresh threat.
To his ever-lasting chagrin it was Blogort, somehow flying across the sky above him, straight at the evil that assailed them. As the grungily attired wood-Wizard flew overhead, his mud and blood caked kilt flapping in the breeze, Arborn noticed that he had powerfully glowing bands on his wrists.
“The crude little shit-swizzle!” he cursed, “He actually found the bloody cavern of dreams!”
In the next moments, Arborn was forced to stand by and watch as the swarthy young woodsman unleashed unimaginable power and drove the dark entities back – Arborn himself forced to stand around holding the barrier up, lest someone die on his watch and it get back to the council.
This was the worst day ever.