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Grab Life by the Ass by Aaron Dennis

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Grab Life by the Ass

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Watch your thoughts; they become words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habits. Watch your habits; they become character. Watch your character; it becomes your destiny. – Lao-Tzu

Are you happy? Are you where you want to be in life? Do you feel like you’ve lost your edge? Consider the following: You only have one shot-not at happiness, or love, or success-you have only one shot at life. Your life will end altogether too soon, so there is no time to waste in crappy moods or thoughts. There are no survivors on this earth, so why do you throw away your few precious seconds living a life you don’t enjoy? Would you like to change that? This is not a BS self love book. This is an easy to understand manual, a map, that will lead you to the life you want to live. This manual contains 17 life lessons that will help you to transform your autopilot mentality into a magical awareness and appreciation for the short gift of life we’ve all been given. The world will not conform to your wishes. People will not change for you. You should not change for people, yet you should change your perspective for yourself. Even Gandhi told us: Be the change you wish to see in the world.

Let me begin this book with a story. When I was thirteen years old, I had a recurved bow. I got bored with firing arrows at a bale of hay, so I started letting them loose all over my grandma’s property just to watch them soar. The property was rife with oak trees, and some of those arrows vanished, never to be seen again.

One cloudy day, a storm threatening rain and winds blowing, I was walking around the back end of the property. I was standing beside the trunk of an oak, my mind wandering aimlessly, when something on the ground in front of me drew my attention. I can’t recall what it was, nor do I recall if I discovered what it was, because no sooner had I taken a step that something else drew my attention. I turned around.

A blue arrow had sunk about six inches into the soft ground where I had been standing. That arrow would have sunk right into my skull had not something made me move. It might have killed me, or it might have just made me a vegetable; it really doesn’t matter either way. What was important was the fact that I knew then, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that life ends. Life is short. There are no survivors on this earth.

Perhaps I was fortunate—obviously, I was fortunate enough to survive, but the question was why? God’s will? Perhaps, but more importantly than my survival was the lesson I received from the universe: You have one shot—not one shot at happiness, or true love, or following your dreams; you have one shot at life, and to waste even a single moment of it is beyond idiotic. Life is too short for missed opportunities.

I’m in my thirties at the time of writing this book, and since that day, I’ve maintained a special state of awareness, one that involves feeling the ever-presence of death, and before I make any decision, I ask myself if it’s a decision for which I’m willing to die. You see, if something hadn’t drawn my attention when I was thirteen, that might have been the end of my life, so a decision as seemingly insignificant as taking a step meant the difference between life and death, and each decision we make leads a little farther down the path of life, or it might lead us to our demise. My life since then has been lived with a magical feeling, and every action I perform, I perform with joy and alertness because it could be my last one.

Something as simple as driving to the store for a beverage can lead to a deadly car wreck. Leaving for the store at five instead of six can lead to my doom. Drawing money from an ATM can lead to a run in with a gun-toting mugger. Walking through a park during a storm might mean getting struck down by lightning, or the wind blowing a rotted branch, making it fall onto my head.

Do I dwell on the eventuality of death? Nope. Instead of focusing on the negative aspect, I choose to harness the potency of the positive aspect—I’m not dead yet, so there is still time to enjoy life, but then, why would I ever waste a minute doing something I don’t want to do? Why would I ever place myself in a position in which I don’t wish to be? Why would I ever perform an action for which I don’t care? My life is precious—every single second of it, so, too, is yours.

I’m writing this book because I don’t like the world in which I live. Don’t misunderstand that sentiment. I enjoy my life. I love the earth, but the world of which I speak is the world as perceived by mankind, a world of hurt feelings, regrets, wasted moments, comfort zones, poor decisions, and an overall disregard for the beauty, the commodity, and short expectancy of life. Too many of us don’t regard life as the magical thing it is, and by disseminating this knowledge, I’m putting something out into the universe, so, too can you.

They Lurk Among Us

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Lokians Book Two by Aaron Dennis

lokians they lurk among us

The Lokians have been defeated. O’Hara has gone AWOL. His spec ops team has been disbanded and reassigned. The President of the North American Union is working with aliens. Gray-Human hybrids are controlling the Earth from sights unseen, but hope is not lost.
After recovering on Eon, Admiral Lay warned O’Hara of an impending threat, and the young captain left the new planet behind him as he flew through space-time with Adams and Franklin, agents of The Bureau. Now, The Bureau has a new mission for Riley O’Hara, and it involves the Gray Agenda…but what, exactly, is the agenda of mindless, alien drones?

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Prologue

The flow of time is not a constant. The limitations of man are not concrete. What can one do once the doors behind reality are opened?

One man is blessed with a gift, burdened by a responsibility; somewhere in the reaches of space-time, he travels, seeking only to continue doing what he knows in his heart is right. Once a respected Naval Captain, now working for The Bureau, Riley O’Hara continues searching for answers.

Eight months prior, in July of 2111, Earth’s Navy surveyed a new planet, one meeting all requirements for colonization. Eon was a celestial body located in the Gemini system, a system of twin suns. For all intents and purposes, it was a new Earth.

During the survey mission to Eon’s surface, Captain O’Hara and his special operations team discovered alien beacons. Soon after, Admiral Lay of Earth Navy made first contact with a race of aliens called Thewls. A detailed exchange of information transpired.

The Thewls convened on Eon with the Navy’s spec ops team. During the meet and greet, Humans came to learn that a second race of aliens called Lokians were on the prowl. This devastating force ravaged the galaxy as it destroyed civilizations to harvest technology.

Ambassador Weh of the Thewls proposed a plan. A unified front between men and Thewls was the only solution. Careful deliberations occurred behind closed doors as Admiral Lay slowly sequestered himself from the special operations team’s endeavor. Suddenly, the brash and young Captain O’Hara was in charge of the Humans’ most delicate mission in military history.

He led his team aboard a Thewlian vessel, joining their admiral, Yew, in a search throughout the galaxy for a weapon to wield against the so-called impending threat, the Lokians. Upon its discovery, the weapon was kept secret from nearly everyone on Horizon colony, including Admiral Lay’s second in command, Rear Admiral Shaw. At the end of the ordeal, the Lokian threat was curbed, but the captain did not receive a hero’s welcome. He woke up, injured from the final battle, in a hospital tent. The suns on Eon caressed his face as he looked over his commanding officer. Admiral Lay was concerned. He relayed to O’Hara what had transpired. Only recently conscious, and recovering from his wounds, the young man was shocked to learn the President of the North American Union had decided to shut down Horizon colony.

Unbeknownst to anyone, O’Hara boarded a craft with two agents from The Bureau, Adams and Franklin, whom served under the captain during the Lokian assault. Their whereabouts are currently unknown to both the Navy and President Montrose.

Chapter One

Phoenix Crew was officially disbanded; Swain, Fitzpatrick, Day, DeReaux, all of them were reassigned. It was a modest form of punishment enacted by their former leader, Admiral Shaw. With no other course of action, he commissioned Captain Bragg of the Phoenix to fulfill the removal of civilians from Horizon. The routine mission was supposed to have been O’Hara’s punishment, but he was off the radar, vanished without a trace.

Shaw’s graying hair gave away his level of stress. He stood there, staring at the strange vessel, the Bohemian. During the process of disassembling the colony, just weeks after Riley O’Hara’s departure, President Montrose had arrived on Eon by way of that odd craft. Immediately, the President had pulled Shaw aside to initiate a special investigation of the former spec ops team.

Montrose had wanted every detail on every aspect of the top secret mission. He had been outraged by O’Hara’s escape. He had begrudged Lay’s involvement as well, but that morning on Eon, Shaw walked up the vessel’s steps and into the airlock. A man in a black suit led him to the bridge. The President, a corpulent man, snapped his fingers and the menacing man walked out of sight.

“I’m glad you saw fit to keep me up to date, Shaw,” Montrose gave a crooked smile.

The aging admiral took a seat in a leather chair next to a small monitor. He looked around the bridge. The ship reminded him of alien technology utilized during the Lokian mission. The monitors and consoles were unfamiliar. They were of Human utility, but not design. Shaw met Montrose’s eyes. He felt uneasy with the big man presiding over him.

“I did what I felt was necessary for Earth. We can’t have all these secret alien meetings, and Lay was getting carried away with his trust in O’Hara,” Shaw replied with a strained tone.

Montrose walked over to him. Standing behind the thin, older man, he looked down onto the top of his head. The President then placed his thick hands on the man’s shoulders and rubbed him through his full dress jacket, a black blazer weighed down by medals and ribbons. The action made Shaw even more uncomfortable, causing him to fidget in his seat a little. Montrose then eased his round face next to his subordinate’s ear. His warm breath had the admiral on the verge of running away or throwing a fist.

“Where does your trust lie?”

“My home world, my country,” Shaw responded without turning around.

Montrose squeezed the admiral’s shoulders. “And?”

“You, Sir,” Shaw replied, hesitantly.

“Good,” he said with a friendly pat. After walking over to the helmsman’s chair, across from the admiral, he swiveled 180 degrees to face the freaked out individual, who was stroking his thin, brown beard to calm himself. “We need to find that captain. His going AWOL is an insult!”

Shaw nodded once. Then, he attempted to adjust the fitting of his dress jacket.

“Agreed. I went over the reports Lay had in his data archives, but I think something’s missing. I have all of O’Hara’s debriefings, but after he boarded that Thewlian vessel, much of whatever transpired has been left out.

The Dragon of Time Two

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Dragon Slayer by Aaron Dennis

dragon of time 2 dragon slayer

With the death of Kulshedra, Dragon of Truth, it has been revealed that Scar, the mercenary, is in fact Sarkany, the Dragon Slayer, a creature fashioned for the sole purpose of purging the Dragons from the world of Tiamhaal, yet such a thing is not so simple. Kings and queens yet war amongst one another. They, too, lie, connive, and coerce, and so, Scar and his friends must find a way to persuade those few, benevolent rulers to band together. In the midst of peace talks and dead Dragons, those still in the worship of the beasts grow more powerful. Some of them even doubly praise their oppressor in an effort to wield more magic. Now, united with his friends, Scar sets his gaze upon a hopeful horizon, but is strength in numbers sufficient to keep the Dragons from completing their machinations?

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Prologue

An amnesiac mercenary called Scar appeared in the middle of the territorial disputes of Tiamhaal. He brought a whirlwind of change, the kind of change no one expected. That man was in actuality the avatar of Eternus, the Dragon of Time, a being outside the realm of human comprehension. Eternus was the universe, it was the ineffable creator of all that was, but having taken a liking to a particular world, it sent a portion of itself to the world of men.

Crafted from the clay at the edge of the world and fashioned from the eight guiding principles of man, Scar, the mercenary, was sent to slay the Dragons, and so he was named Sarkany, the Dragon Slayer, yet his fashioning was not without flaws, and he lost his memories. Finding himself traveling aimlessly, seeking only to learn of his origins, Scar was beset by Dracos, the followers of Drac, Dragon of Fire, and then he was manipulated by Zoltek, Negus of the Zmajans, followers of the Dragon of Destruction, and finally, the warrior was sent by King Gilgamesh of Satrone, a worshiper of Kulshedra, Dragon of Truth, to the ruined kingdom of Alduheim where a forgotten memory lay buried in darkness.

It was there that he and his men found a paladin, a warrior named Ylithia, who fought in the name of Mekosh, a true God, the God of Severity, and even though paladins had always maintained that Dragons were posing as Gods, most people of Tiamhaal had never believed them ingenuous, yet what was witnessed beneath the rubble of Alduheim united them in their efforts to reveal the truth to their kings and queens. The leaders of every tribe had established their own countries under the name of their Dragon Lord posing as God; constantly, they fought for territory, supremacy, religious beliefs, and even peace. Things changed when warriors of Kulshedra, Scultone, Fafnir, and Tiamat joined forces with Scar and Ylithia, but their plan to bring to light the lies of Dragons was short-lived; Scar and Ylithia fell in love and left kings and pawns to squabble among themselves.

The two abandoned Gods and Dragons for a life of peace, but the spurned King Gilgamesh had other plans, and he sent his men to kill Scar, yet he was away, and it was Ylithia, who was cut down without mercy, and for that act of betrayal, Scar took his sword, joined his old friend, Labolas, invaded the impregnable palace, Inneshkigal, and killed Gilgamesh before all the Kulshedrans of Tironis. Upon the king’s death, Scar was transported to Drangue, where he battled the mighty Kulshedra, a misty whorl of a Dragon, and the Dragon Slayer took the beast’s soul.

Since then, the Kulshedrans have lost their powers—the ability to augment their armor through Dragon’s magic—and they struggle to maintain their borders, their culture, their lives, but Scar is far from finished; he owes someone a debt of blood, and so he has journeyed back to Usaj, the land of destruction ruled by the mighty Zoltek. In Meshoptam, capital of Usaj, Scar, the pale skinned, seven foot giant, in black, leather armor, has slain the Zmajan royal guards and come face to face with an old foe….

Board James A Fanfiction by Aaron Dennis

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board james

Board James, the character and web series, is owned by James Rolfe and Cinemassacre Productions, but I’m writing this story anyway, because I think James will like it.

Board James by Aaron Dennis is a work of fanfiction, and it was not created for profit. It is illegal to sell Board James by Aaron Dennis for profit as it is illegal for anyone apart from the owners of the rights to Board James and his likeness to earn a profit.

Do not sell this work of fanfiction for monetary gain of any kind.

Please visit Cinemassacre.com and watch the Board James web series. If you believe this story will make a great movie, let James know by reviewing this after you finish reading.

Allen and Sharon buy a new house. It turns out to be the former home of Board James. Strange occurrences frighten the newly weds. When Allen wakes up, he finds himself sitting before James, Mike, and Bootsy. They must play James’s newest, made-up game, Board James, to completion, lest they be forever trapped within the living game.
Board James is fanfiction based upon the Board James web series owned by James Rolfe and Cinemassacre Productions.

Read on or download free via Smashwords

Chapter One

“Okay,” James started. “Here we are again; it’s the night before Halloween, and time to review a classic board game. What do we have? One Night, Ultimate Werewolf…okay.” Indifferently, he tossed the box aside to reach for another one. “Level Seven, Escape.” He turned the box over a few times, shook his head while wincing, and tossed it aside as well. “What’s this?”

Amidst other, colorful boxes was a small, square box. A picture of a goofy ghost was on the front.

“Ghost Blitz, and look, there’s a green bottle on the ground next to him. Is that beer? Is he drunk? Is that why it’s Ghost Blitz? ‘Cause he’s blitzed? He sure as fuck looks tweaked.” James started to crack open the box, but paused. “Major fun award? What the Hell is that? Well, whatever. Let’s get started.”

After dropping the top, James pulled out a deck of cards and a baggy with game pieces. “Let’s see; we got cards with pictures of the ghost. This one has a chair. This one a mouse, and what’re these? Oh, this is the chair, but it’s red. Why’s the chair on the card blue? And what’s this piece? A butt plug? Oh, that’s the ghost.”

Once he finished rifling through the game pieces, he scratched his head in confusion, picked up the tiny manual, and read through it. “A reaction game as fast as lightning for two to eight bright minds. Yeah, no dumbasses allowed. Story and object of the game– Object? Do they mean objective? Anyway….

“Balduin, the house ghost,” he stopped speaking to laugh. “House ghost? Is that like house…? Never mind, we won’t go there. So, Balduin found an old camera in the castle cellar. I like where this is goin’; a ghost director. Kind of reminds me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it….” Trailing off, the reviewer readjusted his ball cap then returned his gaze to the manual. “Immediately, he photographed everything that he loves to make disappear. So, it’s like a camera for pictures not filming; too bad. I wonder if he takes a picture of his ghost shit, ‘cause ghost dookie vanishes, get it?” James smiled.

There wasn’t anyone else there besides James. To whom he was speaking was as much a mystery as to where his friends had gone. Word was, Board James was a serial killer, a madman cutting the balls off his mates whenever they got tired of his shitty games.

“Unfortunately, the enchanted camera takes many photos in the wrong color. What? Sometimes, the green bottle is white; other times, it’s blue. Looking at the photos, Balduin doesn’t really remember what he wanted to make disappear next. Yeah, and I don’t remember the last time I took a shit or what color it was. Guess I should’ve taken a picture…now that’s a shitty picture.”

Frowning so hard his lips curled down, James’s eyes went wide as he nodded. “Can you help him with his haunting and quickly name the right piece, or even make it disappear by yourself?” He threw the red, chair, game piece into the corner. “It’s gone, vanished, banished to the black hole of Uranus,” he asserted.

The game reviewer shook his head in consternation. Then, cracking the manual open, he perused the actual game rules.

Short Stories

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From the Mind of Aaron Dennis

9 short stories. The Tuurngait, a mind bending horror tale. My first, a horrible tale from a psycho’s point of view. The Potato Clock, a silly story, Hunting, the mind of a survivor killing zombies. Losing Human, a mad scientist loses his humanity. Eudora, a young girl used to be something quite different. Expedition, a fantasy. Raising Dead, a fantasy. A Night in Hartford, a zombie horror.

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He looked back at the phone. It was almost 8pm; the day had gotten away from him. Now, it was night in Hartford.

Eric nodded. He had grown up in town and practically lived at the preservation as a kid. He knew about the weird, run down shacks, and warehouse looking buildings on the east edge of the preservation, but as a kid he was too scared to investigate. Now, he hated himself, was full of negative energy, and had a burning question in his heart. Is there more to Hartford than a pretty girl and a preservation? He made his mind up on the spot. It was time to investigate.

“But how do I get there unnoticed? I can’t drive up to the gates…no, but I can drive up to the town dump and park in the orange grove up the road…then it’s just, what, a five mile hike? Yeah…time to find out what’s really going on.”

Silently, he laughed in his head. He knew there wasn’t anything going on. That was precisely the problem with everyone. There was never anything going on in Hartford. It was a boring paradise. At least, it was boring before Claire. Now, it was weird, and new, and kind of scary in a fun way.

He nabbed his camping gear, took from it his headlamp, new batteries, his CZ 9 millimeter handgun, his shotgun, a machete, ammo, packed two sandwiches, and filled his water canteen. Figuring nothing was going to be out of the ordinary, he took his hammock, too.  No way I’m walking five miles back to my truck at three in the morning. Last, he got his phone charger, walked to his truck, hooked up his dying phone, and sent one last text.

How’s your sister? Are you guys having fun? He held his breath for a second.  No reply. He started the engine. To his surprise, Mad Mike was still on.

“These so called police folk happen to be people no one in Hartford have ever met before. What do you think about that? We all know everyone! I tried to contact the Hartford Police Department. Their damned phones are off, and I get redirected to the county Sheriff’s office, and guess what!? They refuse to talk unless it’s an emergency! Last time I checked, the nonemergency number was for nonemergencies! Listen, people–”

Just like that, the radio station blared static. Eric looked through his windshield into the darkness. What the Hell is going here? Reconsidering for a second, he looked at his phone. Claire had not replied. She wasn’t going to. One little, jealous, insecure mistake, and it was over. For the first time in his life, Eric wanted to bleed. He hoped there was something strange going on that night in.

He turned on his headlights, and pulled onto the road. Forty five minutes passed in silence. Not a single car was on the road. There was no way for him to know the silent, black helicopters had already quarantined the town.

Once Eric spotted the sign for the dump, he shut off his headlights and crawled along in the darkness. The sound of the engine wasn’t loud enough to block out heavy wheels crunching small rocks. Moments later, he pulled off the road and into the orange grove.

From his truck, he pulled all his gear. With the handgun in a holster clipped to the back of his pants, and his machete dangling from his belt, he took his phone, strapped the headlamp on, set it to red, and loaded the shotgun. Two steps later, his nerves got the better of him and he had to pee.

The Dragon of Time

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Book One

Gods and Dragons

By Aaron Dennis

Gods, Dragons, a mercenary with a blade and no memory of his past…. The world of Tiamhaal is alight in war. Men ruled by kings slay their opposition in the name of their God, but there are others who claim the Gods are little more than scorned Dragons of ages past. Scar has come to find the truth, but is the truth an absolute certainty, or is it just the skewed memory of a forgotten kingdom?

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Gods, Dragons, a mercenary with a blade and no memory of his past…. The world of Tiamhaal is alight in war. Men ruled by kings slay their opposition in the name of their God, but there are others who claim the Gods are little more than scorned Dragons of ages past. Scar has come to find the truth, but is the truth an absolute certainty, or is it just the skewed memory of a forgotten kingdom?

Prologue-

Most people worship the Gods, if haphazardly, but there are some who claim that the Gods are liars, that they are not Gods at all. It is strange to conceive of an ephemeral voice, which grants magical powers, as anything but a God, and there is no proof otherwise. A great many men have gone to war over such a premise, yet the worst of war combines the arrogance of kings with the ignorance of pawns.

The nonbelievers are easily cast aside by dutiful worshipers of their respective deity, but all too often a man who worships Gyo, God of the Sun, finds himself staring down the blade of a woman who worships Drac, God of Fire. These contests have flared into a war that engulfs the entire world of Tiamhaal. There are many who wish for peace, yet there are many more who desire only destruction. Zoltek, Negus of Usaj, a country on the southern edge of Tiamhaal under the worship of Zmaj, the All God, threatens all those around him with his magic, his men, and his cunning.

Most recently, Zoltek has hired a pale mercenary to assist in waging war against King Gilgamesh of Satrone, a worshiper of Kulshedra, God of Truth. This mercenary calling himself Scar has no memory of his origins and seeks only to understand the world around him. In exchange for his unique talents with a sword and his sharp mind, Zoltek has promised Scar he will discern the truth from behind that hazy memory. Zoltek claims to speak to Zmaj on behalf of Scar, but only if the country of Satrone is felled in a bath of blood.

Chapter One-

Zoltek, tribal leader of the worshipers of Zmaj, the All God, ordered a small portion of his army to amass on the outskirts of the Kulshedran territory called Satrone. Small trees grew sparsely around a clearing. A tributary from the river Inliil sloshed over small stones. Urdu, son of Zoltek, stood before the tributary. The setting sun cast shadows over his form.

As with all the tribesmen in the worship of Zmaj, his was a swirling skin. The dark brown hue was enveloped in patterns of purple and blue melting into one another over his body. With his helmet off, the skin of his head and face held eloquent patterns, too, like colored water pouring over his visage. Urdu’s widely spaced eyes were fierce.

“I should lead this charge,” he grumbled.

Warriors clad in black leather, and gripping their menacing, steel weapons, chatted among themselves. One older Zmajan acknowledged the brash, young man’s words.

“Don’t be foolish, Urdu. Your father put Scar at the forefront of the vanguard for a reason,” the older man said in a raspy tone.

Portions of his color adorned skin showed over the unarmored areas of his body. His helmet, also black leather and with rams’ horns mounted on the sides, hid the patterns on his aged face. Urdu stormed over to the man with a scowl.

“You dare talk down to me?” he howled.

“Show the general some respect,” another man chastised.

Urdu glared at his fellow tribesmen then returned his attention to General Dumar.

“I’m the better fighter, not Scar.” Urdu judged the strange man sitting cross-legged on the ground.

The massive one called Scar did not so much as stir. Eyes turned to the only light-skinned man there; he was pale as a ghost. Sunlight glinted off Scar’s muscle creased stature. A great many healed over wounds were his namesake.

“This one does not even know who he is,” Urdu yelled to his kinsmen. “Look at him. What tribe is he? No hair on his body whatsoever. No marks. Those gray, lifeless eyes give nothing.” Turning to the scarred warrior, he barked. “Who are you?”

The hairless man still did not stir. He wore little armor; brown, leather leggings adorned his thighs. Worn boots covered his feet, and a chunk of steel protected his left shoulder across to his sternum. He was a frightening sight to behold. An odd blade stood—tip buried in the soil—before him.

“Answer me!” Urdu was practically frothing at the mouth.

“Hey, stop it,” Dumar growled. “The sun will set soon, and we march against the tribe of Kulshedra. There is no time for squabbling.”

“Not to mention your outburst will give our position away,” another tribesman advised. “If we want to break their perimeter, we require stealth.”

“I care not about such trivialities. We are strong, and we are many. We will wet our blades with Kulshedran blood. Zmaj has blessed us,” Urdu argued. Then, he approached Scar. “Tell me, mercenary, you don’t really believe you’re fit to lead this charge; a timid, Godless ghost.”

Based on the Elder Scrolls series,

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An Enchanting Tale, by Aaron Dennis

an enchanting tale skyrim

This is a fanfiction based on The Elder Scrolls series of video games and incorporates the worlds from Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim. An Enchanting Tale is free, thus eliminating any copyright infringement. This novel is not intended for profit.

S’maash is a young dark elf bent on making new discoveries in the field of enchanting. After discouraging words form his fellow mages, S’maash and his brother, S’maath, venture into the dwemer ruin of Dmalzthur in an effort to discern just how the deep elves crafted items such as Volendrung, Keening, and Sunder, yet they find only death and ash in the ancient ruin. S’maash then travels into Cyrodiil, hoping to find some clues on the ayleids’ enchanting practices. When things go awry in the ruin of Anutwyll, S’maash makes his final move into Skyrim, joins the College of Winterhold, and finds himself on a quest for the Daedric Prince of Knowledge, Hermaeus Mora.

The daemon sets the dunmer on a path to reforge the Heart of Lorkhan, meet the dwemer in their new city of Xranthrnl, and eventually break ground on unknown forms of enchanting. This is the perfect addition to The Elder Scrolls.

Read on or download the whole story for free at Smashwords

Chapter One

S’maash always had an affinity for magick—enchanting especially—his natural talent was rivaled only by his love for the art. In his days as a child of Morrowind, he ran about with his friends and siblings stirring up all sorts of trouble. While they tried to stow away on silt striders, large insects utilized for the purposes of traveling long distances, S’maash normally found himself in trouble for different reasons, such as skulking into a mage’s workshop to catch a glimpse of a master spell craftsman at work. Most of his endeavors ended with a slap to the back of the head followed by the derogatory you s’wit, but that did little dissuade him.

Upon reaching adulthood in the year 4 E 221, S’maash, a striking, young, dark elf with a shock of gray hair on his head, and a gray-blue complexion, took a job as an inventory manager for a local union of mages in the town of L’Thu Oad. It was a small settlement southwest of Narsis, and his home town.

Working with the Mages’ Coalition consisted of little more than taking notes on their studies and cataloging their findings. Other menial tasks involving the organizing of reagents, soul gems, and magickal equipment kept him busy enough. Although he did learn a great deal about enchantments, the dunmer’s curiosity was never satiated. His knowledge of over fifty enchantments was a testament to the fact that knowledge led only to more curiosity, and that led him to speak to one of the elder mages, an old altmer—or high elf—named Rosoleola, the head of the Mages’ Coalition in L’Thu Oad. Ancient and surly with a shimmering, gold hue to his skin, he was not an easy person to approach.

“Master?” S’maash called.

The old altmer was stooped over an arcane enchanter, a malevolent-looking table adorned with the skull of a three-eyed beast, several candles, and a misty, green bauble. Rosoleola turned to the young dunmer while flipping through the pages of a journal.

“What now?” he barked.

“I couldn’t help, but notice you’re attempting to enchant that steel dagger with fire damage,” S’maash stated the obvious. Rosoleola winced as he returned his steady gaze to his journal. He remained quiet, absorbed, so S’maash stirred nervously before breaking the silence. “Why is it that we can imbue a weapon with fire damage, but not a shield or gauntlets?”

“S’wit…must you ask such a foolish question?” The altmer’s voice was raspy and condescending.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sir. I’ve been watching and taking notes for these past seven years. Along the way, I have realized many truths, but some of them seem to have no logical base.”

Rosoleola turned to the youngster with contempt. He pushed an errant strand of silver hair behind his ear.

“What are you babbling about now, boy?”

“Sir, a flame cloak spell can be cast by a mage. This provides him the ability to damage an opponent by merely standing adjacent him without so much as warming his own skin. Why not can a piece of iron armor be enchanted as such?”

Raising Dead by Aaron Dennis

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Raising Dead By Aaron Dennis
Raising Dead By Aaron Dennis

An ancient necromancer seeks but one dream, the power of perfection, the power of immortality. What he finds leaves him speechless. Is he but chasing the wind?

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I heard a story, once…it was about a powerful magician of sorts. He had obtained the power of creation, and as such, decided to craft creatures in his likeness, but because his was a power born of Earth, those creatures, which looked human enough, were impervious to fires.

Truth, it was an odd story, but there is more, you see…. Those creatures often found themselves in the midst of flames for one reason or another. This led to them to the discovery that they were unnatural. Inevitably, they returned to their master asking why it was that such an oddity was prevalent.

“Because I have created you. You are not human.” Such were his responses, and more often than not, those creatures went mad from learning the truth…hmph, truth.

It is has always been about truth, and perhaps it is why I like this story so. Now, here’s my favorite part. One day, that powerful magician found himself chased from his home, due to awful practices no doubt, and so he set up a camp. While sitting at the campfire, a creature, we’ll say it was a wolf. I am partial to wolves…but that is another story for another time.

Anyhow, this wolf attacked, and the magician fell into the fire. To his dismay, it did not burn. You see…he, too, had been created, but by whom? He had no way to learn such.

Why do I like this story? I like truth. It never plays out the way we expect. It is not a pure light. It is not epiphany. No, my, no.

Often, truth is a dark and murky thing; a veil of sorts, which we must learn to wield in ways proper to the culmination of our very own and personal life experiences.

What is my truth? Well, let’s say…death is not the end, and leave it at that.

He calls himself a necromancer

Gaulder ran across the valley of ash enroute to Cormaire’s lair. T’was valley was rife with death. Ancient bones, or cinders thereof, remained strewn about the gnarled and blackened trees. Puffs of ash kicked up behind the man’s wake.

Cormaire, the necromancer—as he called himself due to his practices involving unlife—hid away deep in the valley of ash. His lair, a cave beneath the putrid land, was denoted by a wicked entrance. The cave mouth was carved from a lone stone, which stood near the center of the valley; a stone chiseled to resemble a disfigured and pear-shaped head. Rows of teeth lined the maws of the head—the actual entry.

Ducking his head to enter, Gaulder clutched a bundle of gray cloths; an item master Cormaire required to create a revenant was ensconced within. Being an apprentice meant being a liaison of sorts, and because Cormaire was unable to travel into town—it was an unworthy risk to his life—Gaulder ran errands in exchange for knowledge.

The young man in tattered, dark clothing worked his way through the labyrinth of stone corridors. Each hallway was alighted by torches perched in sconces. Eternally, they burned. Finally spilling into the sepulcher, the apprentice spotted the bent, aging necromancer pulling entrails from a recently deceased.

“Master,” Gaulder called.

“Mm?” Cormaire mumbled without giving his attention.

Instead he dumped the viscera into a bronze bucket.

“It was no mean feat, but…I have it,” Gaulder announced with a smile.

“Yes. Bring it into the light.”

Gaulder swallowed hard. The master was neither pleasant to work with, nor look upon. Mostly, the man was covered in dark robes. Even with the hood pulled low over his face, the wizard exuded power, and a foul odor. Gaulder approached the stone worktable where the dead subject lay with chest cavity open.

“Here,” Gaulder whispered, placing the bundle adjacent the body.

Cormaire waved his apprentice off before unwrapping the bundle. Amidst the gray cloths was a polished piece of amber the size of a child’s fist. Encased within was a dried, angel trumpet flower.

“It was not easy to obtain.”

“Powerful items seldom are.”

“How, how does it work?”

The old man walked around the worktable. A plethora of ancient tomes sat on rotting shelves behind him. Candlelight flickered. Cormaire drew back his hood revealing deep wrinkles. He smiled like a Cheshire cat; his teeth surprisingly clean. The apprentice shuddered.

“Revenants, my boy, are particularly difficult to raise,” Cormaire explained. “Firstly, the body must have perished from unnatural causes, and the bloodier the better. Next, as you just saw, the entrails, gallbladder, and bladder must be removed. Then, the cavity is stuffed with chaff bound in burlap…this is to keep the body dry.

“Now, we prefer as little trauma to the brain as possible, lest our raised be a simpleton. Furthermore, I prefer to add multiple adrenal glands. These can be obtained from any dead person, so long as they are not overly decayed. Splicing the glands into the body is a rather simple task, and it provides our revenant with boundless strength and endurance.

“Finally, the dried flower encased in amber is used to tie the deceased’s spiritual nature to the aether; the…between, if you will. If this is not done, a revenant will be unable to follow the orders of the necromancer–”

Gaulder made the mistake of interrupting by saying, “But, master, the others didn’t require–”

The master’s eyes turned fierce. A furrow creased his brow, and his jowls sank at the corners. The dread immediately filled Gaulder’s heart. He looked away.

“Are you finished trying to tell your master what you think is correct?” Cormaire hissed.

Gaulder nodded emphatically. The necromancer’s demeanor relaxed, and he continued his lesson.

“Revenants are refined creatures. They are unlike the boorish zombies, or ghouls, which any inexperienced Necromancer can raise. Revenants need a connecting link between the world of the living, and the world of the dead.”

“What purpose do they serve?”

“Ah,” Cormaire nodded, approvingly. “A most intelligent question. Revenants nearly pass for the living. With the proper series of incantations, this…young thief, here, can certainly be mistaken for a drunken ne’er-do-well.”

“And what will you have him do for you?”

Cormaire grinned again.

Expedition by Aaron Dennis

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Expedition By Aaron Dennis
Expedition By Aaron Dennis

King Eidon of Ilteriel learns of a new island, far to the south. He sends an expedition in search of new resources, allies, and power. Jorunhaal, Ilteriel’s greatest warrior, is to lead the expedition. Upon setting foot on the island, one disaster after another occurs. The men battle small were-wolves, fall prey to a foul sickness in the air, and uncover demons once sealed away.

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The rhythmic sound of low waves crashing onto the sand was a relaxing melody to the ears of Jorunhaal. He was a great and mighty warrior; legends of his triumph over an entire clan of Medsai, though exaggerated, stuck to him like his own shadow. He was young, yet, and taught the various weapons of Ilteriel by the finest warriors who preceded him. King Eidon placed him in charge of the team of eighteen men and women. His sole purpose was to keep the expedition safe.

A few weeks at sea brought the ship of warriors and workers to golden sands. They had arrived on the island as their king had wished. Jorunhaal methodically scanned his surroundings. The broad-shouldered and burly man saw hills in the distance, mountains stood beyond.

“Sotha, unpack the furs and linens first,” Jorunhaal ordered.

Having only just anchored the ship, he knew his fellow party members were weary, and erecting camp was of the utmost importance. Sotha, a lithe woman who bore her age well, was charged with inventory, logging discovery, and sound planning. She was tasked with returning accurate information to Eidon’s hands.

“Aye,” she replied while shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

She wore traditional clothes, heavy linens. Her hair was thick and dark. Her eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence.

A warm wind caressed the backs of the party as they worked to erect tents, unload crates of supplies, and finally relax. During the hours that passed, Jorunhaal took stock of the immediate surroundings. About what I would expect, he thought. Blue waves continued crashing against golden sand. The beach before him was pristine, and the wind, heavy with salt. A few trees grew about. They had tall, straight trunks, light brown in color with a tuft of short, squat, green leaves at their tops.

Before long, night settled above the party. It was clear and many stars shone brightly over the island; prosperity seemed to be in the air. The men and women were glad to be in a new place. As they ate and drank around a large fire they conversed about what they might find, the proper steps to take, and much more.

“You think there are no men, here? No dangers,” Wilheim the mage asked in an accusatory tone.

The codger was balding and what little gray hair remained laid loosely over his shoulders. He had a hard face; years of magical practice left it worn and creased, a perpetual scowl. He continued arguing with another.

“I never said that, old man,” Durro, captain of the soldiers, replied.

Hunting by Aaron Dennis

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Mr. Gray has been hunting zombies for a long time. Hiding, scavenging, killing-this is surviving now. As Gray moves from town to city, and city to prairie, he leaves a few notes for others in his travels, but who is looking out for him?

In the year 2017 a worldwide calamity befalls the population. Poison clouds cause strange afflictions relegating major portions of the populace as a sort of walking dead. Among them Mr. Gray is not affected and decides to go off hunting. Hiding, scavenging, and killing his way across the States Gray keeps sane by writing in his journal. After food and other supplies run low he moves from town to town before coming across a farmhouse.

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Mr. Gray is asleep in a storage unit. Before giving in to exhaustion, he checked it for rats and roaches. He hates roaches. They have a symbiotic relationship with some kind of worm, like the worm is piloting some biological machine; freaky.

In this day, in this age, traveling is survival. Mr. Gray has been traveling for some time. He abandoned the last town soon as supplies ran out. Supplies always run out quick. It’s a tough decision to leave when zombies are dead and there is clean water. There was no more food, though, and Mr. Gray can’t farm or hunt, but not because he is incapable.

The soil in town looked good, but there were no seeds. Even if there were seeds, they are useless. Today’s seeds are genetically modified. They can’t be replanted for harvest, so the food supply is not sustainable. Hunting is futile, too, unless one hunts zombies. Zombies don’t qualify as food. They make people get sick and die. It’s always time to move.

Many hills line the area between town, and the storage units. It’s been cold lately, and Mr. Gray stumbled across a unit with blankets. The plan was to get some rest and then check each unit for food and other supplies. He has to keep clean or run the risk of illness.

With a quiet groan, he does a full-bodied stretch. He wakes fully, turns on his LED camping lantern, and immediately starts a stretch routine to loosen his tightness. The soft, blue light illuminates the tiny room. Once the stretches are over, he wraps up his blankets and stacks them neatly in the corner. There wasn’t anything useful in the storage unit other than blankets.

With the folding done, he turns to his black backpack. From it, he pulls out extra clothing. Because of the lowering temperature, he knows it is unwise to wear all of his clothes when going to sleep, especially if it’s getting colder. The body acclimates. Sleeping while wearing everything to keep warm keeps the body from warming up by its own accord after waking. It’s best to sleep a little cold and then don the remaining clothing when getting up.

Mr. Gray Pulls out three, additional pairs of long, black socks and puts them on his feet. He pulls out his black beanie with the eye holes. He has a pair of black, leather gloves, too. Instead of slipping them on, he slips a black, wool sweater on over his black, long sleeve tee, and leaves his protective gear lying next to him.

There are a few storage bins in there, the colored plastic ones. He opens one. It’s full of pots and pans. He pees in it and closes it then goes back to his gear, rubber backed rugs sliced and diced to contour his body.

There are a few small pieces for his thighs, calves, forearms, upper arms, and one that slides over his torso. He uses a piece of wetsuit as padding in his trousers. The rubber pieces are cinched with belts through slots he cut with his knife. Like a ritual, he straps on all his gear. Next, he takes out a can of dog food.

Bon apatite. He pulls the lid and scoops the food into his mouth with his fingers and licks them clean. Now, it’s time for the gloves. Gloves are annoying. Every time you put them on you gotta’ rub something out of your eyes.

After more stretches to loosen his knees—a good hunter keeps his body in good shape—he slides on the gloves. One can’t afford injury. Health supplies are hard to find and an injury, no matter how small, can give a zombie the leg up.