Member-Run Contest Terraria Literature Competition

Naaa, then it wouldn't be a challenge, also I'm in Australia and most people are either from the UK or USA so they are either 8 or 16 hours behind me.

But just to be safe how many hours until the dead line is hit.
 
Genderless Neko's Entry

Looking frantically around the adventurer caught a glimpse of the guide that also lived in his home, the guide's horror filled expression easily lit up by the red ominous light that streamed in through the window. The last night time expedition had left him with scratches and bite marks that still resided on but after sleeping through the entire day there were a little healed though, although he winced as he forced himself out of bed. Opening up his back pack he frantically rummaged through it, ignoring the useless mushrooms and rotten chunks until he found some of the shurikens he had come across last night. He grabbed a hand full and set them on his belt for quick use before running over to the nearest door, slamming his should along with his fully body weight against it in a vain attempt to stop the zombies from coming through.

The guide still and that look of horror on his face but seeing him attempt to keep one door he too also moved to take action, running to the opposite door to put his weight on it before the door suddenly burst open. A horde of zombies quicky flooded in, their rotting bodies showing scabbed filled lacerations and shreds of skin that hung like strings from their body. Their disfigured faces almost matched the guide's horror filled face as he cried out in fear, skidding to a stop and almost falling over as he turned around and ran the other way, heading for the adventurer and the other door. The adventurer's eyes were focused on the zombies, frozen in fear as he remained in his spot against the door before he finally listened to the alarm screaming in his head to get moving. He dashed away from the door, knowing that it would last a few seconds by itself before it would bust open as the adventurer dashed to the stairs leading to the second floor.

The adventurer hadn't anticipated how panic stricken the guide was, reaching the door the adventurer was just at and foolishly opening up in a vain attempt to escape the zombies behind him. Despite the situation the adventurer couldn't help but scream "Idiot" at the guide, quickly disappearing up stairs as he tried to block out the sounds of the strangled screams of the guide as he was ripped apart by the zombies he had just let into the house. Despite loosing a useful friend he was slightly thankful that the fool was distracting the zombies, giving him enough time to reach the upstairs room and entered one of them, slamming the door shut behind him and looking at the other person in the room.

At first glance there was no one else in the room but after a few more frantic looks the shivering body of a fearful painter hiding under the table. The creaking and groaning sounds from outside the door told him that the zombies were making they're way upstairs and he knew he would only have a few seconds before they were banging at the door. With quick thinking he grabbed the nearest chair and shoved it up against the door, lining it up under the handle before turning around to get the table. He only took a single step before banging, scratching and moaning signaled that the zombies had made it and the adventurer was forced to once more throw his body weight against the door in a desperate attempt to survive. He pushed his back against it and he scanned the room for anything that could help him, his eyes locking onto the painter when he couldn't see anything that would help, but that's when an idea came to mind.

Morning came around and the zombies slowly dissipated from the building, leaving nothing but red stained floor boards and some scattered bones and body parts. A few zombies remained, groaning and wondering around the top floor for a while before all but two finally made their way down stairs and outside. After a moment the last two zombies also made their way down stairs, both going to opposite sides of the room and closing the doors. "That was a close one." One of the zombies said, wiping away the paint and rotten chunks away from his face to show the adventurer's face underneath. The painter nodded and started to wipe off his own disguise, paint covered rotten chunks falling away from him as he started to use a paint scrape on himself, easily getting the rotten chunks off but it would be impossible to get the paint off completely.

Challenge completed (Kinda)
 
They could still be writing, polishing their work, or maybe they forgot about the whole affair. The deadline is very soon, however.
 
Might want to go around and send everyone who wanted to be in the competition a reminder, they would have already missed the dead line if you hadn't extended it.
I don't want to be the only entry here, this kitty will feel lonely if it is :'c
 
WAITWAITWAIT
1633 word entry:
The air around him is going still, the day is failing now. As the bright radiance of the sun faded behind the horizon, the shadows of the night stirred from their daytime slumber. He shut the door to his haven, built from rows of planks roughly hammered together. From the crevice of his husk of a wall he can see that the silver moon was rising. Although he would love to sit out there and watch the full moon rise, as he would do in his homeland, here in the abyss left by the death of countless lives he cannot take any risks. The moon here is no good omen.

Something was stirring out there, just another undead, hopefully. Here in the void left by the people of old the dead do not rest in their graves. The spirits of dark hate and anger embody themselves in the husks of the fallen. He could remember that bugger’s face from last night; dead, but not quite yet, his strength not quite gone with the wind, unlike his soul that had left for a better world.

The day was failing yet there was something wrong with the air around him, something that was subtly wrong; the air was still, but yet he can swear that it was thickening by the second, like that foul haze that fell upon battlefields of old. This was unsettling for him. Despite having the proud blood of heroes flow throughout his veins, he’s still new to this whole “Chosen” business.

The guide wasn’t at all helpful, he didn’t say what was going on, nor did he do anything else important either; at least it’s good seeing that he is his usual, useless self. The nurse though, Emily was really “on fire” this evening, her temper was fiery, quite alike the unreasonable fury of some beast. Perhaps in best interest, he’d better seek refuge elsewhere tonight. Something inside him was stirred, his mind tensed as if he was in battle; an omen, or was he thinking too much?

------------------------------

Elendil was aroused from his sleep, his planks that formed a door was rattling like the mail of some rotting corpse. The moonlight was different, there was no silver radiance to light the fields; in its place was a sickening crimson, like that of the foul blood of spoiled flesh. He could hear the wails of the forsaken, whose despair had not yet known to leave the living world. Their cold cries struck fear into him, who was now afraid of what lied behind that door. That door wasn’t going to save him again tonight, the mass of decaying flesh shredded those flimsy planks. He was petrified, he barely won against two of these wretched things, let alone a sea of them. Without second thought, he ran between the rows of walking carrion, just quick enough to dodge the wild swings of their decaying arms. Amongst the chaos, he could make out one of these “things” that stood out from all others. Unlike his fellows, his face spoke of disgust rather than the fear that was carved into their moulding skulls. There was something wrong with those bulging eyes, which should have fallen out long ago, but yet still bored into the flesh, where the sockets have long since hollowed out. The skin of that undead was white, unlike the foul carrion of most; a sickening white in the absence of the blood had long since turned into putrid vapour, but his perished husk not yet feasted upon by worms of graveyard soil.

At least he was safe up here, where he could stay beyond the reach of the horde of living dead. That thing there was even more interesting as he could afford to gaze into the far reaches of his homestead; there was a hat upon the bald scalp of that thing, which should of been brefet a groom, rather than some animated flesh. Although the bloody moon was in the sky, it was still quite some sight to jest at, especially at second glance that undead probably could've been Emily’s groom… wait, Emily’s still... Oh no.

No, this couldn’t be happening. Without any thought of sanity left in him, Elendil rushed towards her room, hewing down the rows of carrion nearby. This couldn’t be true, he was too late… Amidst swaying torchlight and a crimson moon he could see a pitiful sight. She laid in a heap there, her eyes frozen with the fear at the moment her life was taken from her, her bright golden hair now stained by blood. No thought was now inside his head, except his wrath which burned brighter than dying stars, his temper set alight by the infernal anger of his failure. Now suddenly lifted of his fear of the walking dead, he stuck down the filth that was gathering around his friend’s body. his eyes now lit only by dark hate.

No… this must be some nightmare, some grim reminder of the previous day, some… frightful dream that haunted him as a child. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it, as he held his friend’s body in his arms, the first time in a long while he was crying. He swept the aside the yoke of black blood which splattered over her fair skin, his eyes were still swollen with grief. He swore on the grave of his forebears that he will protect this land, but yet he couldn’t even protect his friend. As he was growing mad in despair, a thought grew in his mind: She will come back, she’s bound to the oath of the heroes after all, bound until the day he dies… but what if she doesn’t?

He was alone. His last haven was the door that kept out the growing horde of animated flesh. He was afraid, afraid that he was going to be alone forever more. The deathly rattle at his door was like the harbinger of his doom, the sound of the Reaper’s grim bell tinkering. This was the end for him, at least he was going to die at the side of his friend. Elendil’s thoughts grew unstable, too hazed to see reason anymore, he was now afraid of the world around him, as if he was that child again. The world around him was now a silver mist, a wild storm that faded out the grim rattle, his nightmare was becoming reality.

-------------------------------------------

There was no hope, there was no chance against a god of old. But he couldn’t die now, couldn’t just leave Elendil without a father nor mother, he had to fight on. There was no end in sight, none of his blows could harm the black one, there was no way he could win. Out of the sky broke the last straw of his hope, his wings now tired, and from the night sky he fell, the best he could do now was fight one last time. Wielding the ancient blade, the heirloom of his bloodline, he struck one last time, an almighty blow that cleaved into the head of the dark god. No use, brushed aside and now clinging on to life, he had failed. His blade broke upon a stone ridge and the shards scattered into the wind, awaiting another chosen to take up the oath. The artifacts of an ancient and dying people couldn’t save him now, there was nothing that can stop the wrath of a god. However, he wasn’t ready to go just yet, he had a son, without a family to look after him now, he couldn’t leave him there, without a mother nor father at his side. As he clawed forwards, inching towards his pair of lifestealing knives, the last thing that drove a dying man forward was his will to see his son again. Except he never made it there, his heart was shot by a dart of foul sorcery, he died fighting till the bitterest end. His son now too, was at his end.

Elendil’s eyes opened, awoken from a nightmare straight out of his childhood. They were now red with an infernal rage that not even blood could suffice. His father had died a hero, but it wasn’t his own turn to go yet. He promised on his father’s grave that he will save the world, just as his people had done ever since the days of mythical past. He will save her, he will protect his friend. If she couldn't come back then he will at least avenge her. The veins that ran of the heroic blood was awoken, the hallowed might was flowing inside him. He was awoken, his true strength released from their binds. His hand clenched tightly around his tattered and blunted sword, which now was his only chance at striking down the horde of decay that was about to break his doors. His hands were ablaze, an arcane might that had passed down in his family ever since his legendary ancestors, was now unleashed from their binds.

He moved his friend into a corner, safely out of reach for when she wakes from a bad dream. The rattle at the door finally died down, the bulging mass of flesh tore down the wall and poured in. Elendil’s time had come to prove himself, he was a hero, a bearer of ancient powers, descendent of those who had torn down a god. He threw aside his notched sword, knowing it would do no good here. Just fresh from his expedition yesterday, he raised an older enchanted blade, one which was sealed in stone by hands long fallen. His heart was beating faster, the fire at his hand was now an aura that covered his arm. He was waiting, he was ready, he will live.
Lament for the Writers:

Where now the other entries ? Where is the alerts that are blaring?
Where is the pen and paper, and the buttons mashing?
Where is the hand on the keyboard, and the red torchlight glowing?
Where is the spring and the competition and the budding thoughts growing?
They have passed like rain on a mountain; like a wind in the meadow,
The days have gone down in TCF behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead writings burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Spams returning?
 
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Well, time to end the competition, so it seems. Only two entries, that's actually really depressing. I guess everyone was a little too busy.
 
Oh yeah. We still have another day.

Nevermind people, you still have time to complete the entries! Thanks Garneac.
 
So everyone, we're now changing up some things in the TLC. All discussion and questions will be left in this thread, as well as results on the winning entries. However, all the entries will be submitted in a social forum. This helps organise everything, and spreads us across two areas. People who are interested in the results and don't want to submit an entry can stick to the thread, whereas people who are thinking about participating can go directly to the social group.

Thanks to @Turtleton for this suggestion, we'll be setting up everything fairly shortly.
 
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