Fortnightly Writing Competition: Pioneers (CLOSED WINNERS ANNOUNCED)

[Myinah]

Pioneers!

Pioneers are people who have broken new ground. They may be folks migrating to pastures new, or people doing dynamic work that we once thought impossible. Your protagonist should be a pioneer of some kind. They could be the inventor of something we once thought impossible, they could be breaking barriers of gender or race, the first female president maybe? They could be people looking for a better life elsewhere. Will your pioneers have the odds stacked against them? Will their triumphs feel hollow or bittersweet? I look forward to reading your stories and finding out.

The voting will be split into these categories that are only slightly altered from last time!:

Best Pioneer: The most believable and well written protagonist
Best Plot: Which scenario was the most well crafted. Maybe it is the most creative or adds something new to a more traditional plot?
Best Atmosphere: Which story gave you the feels? An emotional intensity of some kind.
Best Ending: Which ending satisfied you the most?
Best Background World: You could vividly imagine this place in your minds eye due to the author's talent with the keyboard.
Best Writing Style: Who gets a gold star for their writing ability? It doesn't just mean they used fancy words, but actually put them together in an engaging and readable way.
Most Ruminative: Which story makes you reflect on the deeper themes and meaning? Which one seems especially thought provoking and really draws you in?

Entries in by 30 January unless you really need an extension. Good luck and I look forward to reading the entries!

[Baron]

Allow me to be the... hehe... FIRST to stake a claim to this fertile topic.

[Myinah]

I'm glad to see at least one entry from Baron. Just over a week to go, surely you guys can think of a little something to write with this prompt? Would love to see a few more entries!

[Stupot]

I was toying with an idea for a story and 'pie and ears', but nothing came of it. I'll sit and take the topic a bit more seriously and hopefully come up with something :-)

[Sinitrena]

Fire, Kindling in her Heart

She reached her destination on the 30th November 1911. It was a lovely day, but a storm was brewing in the distance. The ice shimmered golden and green in the light of a sun that never seemed to reach its peak. Instead it stood ever low over the massive broken hills and blinded her without ever warming her freezing skin.

Not much of it was exposed to the harsh climate, of course. She wore the pelts of â€" most likely â€" more than one reindeer and thick gloves that could hardly keep the wind and the ice away from her body. Somewhere underneath the pelts she had tucked her skirt into a pair or two of pants and the pants into her boots. It wouldn't do to wear no skirt. It just didn't seem proper to her, though she knew that there was nobody nearby to see her â€" other than her 19 trusted huskies that had pulled her two sleights for 1400 kilometres and 45 days.

She had killed some of her dogs on the way, had eaten some of the meat and left some behind for her way back.

She stood now on this one point she had done everything for to reach. She shielded her eyes with her hand against the harsh sunlight and turned on the spot, looking in every direction for just a tiny moment. It was cold and the vastness of the eternal ice was overwhelming to the exhausted woman. It was remarkable, it was unbelievable, it was a dream come true.

In every direction she saw nothing but the wilderness of a frozen world, somewhat broken up into mountains of snow that seemed smooth and small from afar. But when you got near to them you realised how small you were compared to them, how utterly insignificant anything you ever did was to the grandness of the mountains standing tall. It was unimaginable beautiful, unbelievable majestic â€" and it was nothing she hadn't seen for every day in the last month.

She sighed and let her head fall back to look up to the sky exactly above her. She stretched her arms far to the side and turned on the spot a second time.

“Here I stand,” she murmured and the loyal dogs perked their ears, longing for a command from their mistress to run again. “Here I stand. - The first to ever do so.”

She was sure of it. The other expeditions had men and motor equipment, motor sleights or dogs like her â€" they had every advantage. But she had still won. And so she noted the day in her journal, kneeling on the very spot she so desperately lounged to see just once in her life and smiled.

Once she had finished the entry she stood up again. Her eyes wide open, she turned around for a third time, slowly, taking in every cloud and every snowflake on the ground, every sunbeam and every mountain in the distance, basking in the glory of a world she never wanted to understand fully. What would it be worth to her when no mystery remained, when she would some day stop seeing the glory of the Lord in ice and snow, or the power of a thunderstorm? No, she had not come to find answers, to discover or solve a mystery. No. She had come to reinforce the secrets of the world in her heart, to affirm to herself that even if all places on this earth were to be discovered and described, the world would still hold its secrets firmly in its hands.

One of the other expeditions, or even both, might reach this place after her, would tell the world of their success, but what would it mean compared to the view she now enjoyed? Words, mere words. And even if â€" in a few years time â€" people came to this place somewhat regularly, the ice would still not reveal all its secrets for a very long time and never lose its glory.

She screamed her happiness to the world then, inarticulate and feral, hoping without any malice that it would reach the ears of some of the men pursuing the same destination but not the same goal as her.

Just a short moment later, she released the brakes of the two sleds and called to the dogs: “Go!”

It was not yet midday. There was still half a day to begin her journey back and no reason to stay in the middle of a wilderness that had given all its meaning to her.

*

A fire was crackling in the fireplace, illuminating the panelled walls in a gentle light. It wasn't a particularly cold march, but she liked the smell of burning wood and the feeling of contentment she always got when she sat in her library and watched the sparks fly. It was nearly the same feeling, or close at least, to the way she felt when she walked on unknown grounds to see unknown sights.

A husky lay on her feet, the only one who had survived the whole trip, content as well, though he preferred a colder climate. She scratched the dog absent-mindedly behind his left ear.

She had read this morning's newspaper already and had put it on the couch next to her. Now she was drinking a cup of tea and looking at her table, where she had placed the inconspicuous journal. She had taken it from its place on the shelf right after seeing the article she had waited for.

“The Conquest of the South Pole,” it read, “Captain Amundsen announces that he reached the South Pole ‘14-17 December', by which we suppose he means that he was for that time at the Pole. […] Whether Amundsen was the first to reach the South Pole remains, of course, to be seen; no word has of yet come of Captain Scott...”(1)

She smiled serenely when thinking of the brave men who had taken similar path to her only about two weeks later. But winning such a conquest meant nothing to her. It was never about the contest.

“Here I stand,” she said, echoing the words she had murmured at the pole and then written down in her journal together with her destination and the date. “Here I stand.”

For a second all the emotions she had felt there rushed over her again and the memories stood clear in her mind. Too soon it was gone but her serenity and her contentment stayed with her.

Slowly, she reached for the journal on the table and read it a last time, then she wrapped it into the newspaper and tossed the packet into the flames. “Congratulations, Roald; hope you're alright, Robert.”, she said, toasting them with her tea and smiling.

Well then, Mount Everest...(2)

-------------------------------------------
Notes:

1) The quote comes from the Manchester Guardian, 9 March 1912, found here.
Roald Amundsen was the first person to reach the geographic South Pole. Robert Falcon Scott reached it five weeks later, but did not survive the way back. As always, wikipedia has further information and an intersting chronology comparing both expeditions can be found here.

2) The first succesful ascent of Mount Everest happened in 1953.

[Myinah]

Very nice work Sinitrena! I loved reading about your female artic explorer who went not for the glory, but the experience. A great protagonist and a wonderful setting 😊

[Myinah]

Deadline is tomorrow dudes and dudettes! Anyone need an extension? Hopefully see people posting their entries tomorrow

[Baron]

I'm about halfway through, but should just be able to squeak by before the deadline barring any free-time destroying disasters.

[WHAM]

Sorry, won't be participating this fortnight, am working on a game for a change.

[Baron]

I've always wanted to beat Sinitrena on word-count.

Fires of the Horizon

   The rolling heartbeat of the ocean waves died in the eerie stillness of the harbour's waters as the Libertas trimmed her sails to make a final approach to the quay.  The still air clung to the smell of the sea, no longer fresh from the churning gusts, but ripe and stale and foul.  There was a hint of spice and fragrance, wafting over the bay from the town, which served only to stoke the stench to a more sickening level.  But Pertinax was raised on the foulness of town air, and leaning eagerly over the ship's railing he breathed it in deeply as a man who had been away from home too long.

   â€œAye,” the Captain agreed, striding over to join him, “she smells like a sugared shit, she does!”  He gave Pertinax a friendly slap on the back, then drew him close so that they would not be overheard by the crew scurrying about them.  “Stay on, Pertie,” the Captain crooned.  “There's a dozen towns with a sweeter stench between here and the Wending Sea.  This Ciscomaer is but an inside-out sewer at the edge of the known world.  Stay on, and we'll put you off at the port of your choice, with double the pay.”  The Captain whispered the last bit emphatically, so that none of the other crew could hear.

   Pertinax stared out at Ciscomaer, its squat white houses huddled close against the looming backdrop of barren, wind-lashed mountains.  It was more of a village than a town, which made the strength of its smell all the more sad and impressive at the same time. 

   â€œI won't be lingering,” Pertinax said curtly.  He knew the Captain meant well.  Indeed, they had become good friends over the past several months.  They both knew the old songs, and joked in the old tongue, and they both loathed the Empire with all the fire and venom that their souls could muster.  But he, Pertinax, was no seaman, and no pirate.  He lacked the guile that was the difference between the Captain's profitable smuggling business and a public death on a gibbet.  No, he, Pertinax, was a builder by trade, and it was in his nature to build, not dance gayly around tax-collectors and armed blockades.  And if Ciscomaer was the gateway to the last corner of the world not under imperial writ, then it would be here that he would build a new life.

   The Captain shook his head.  “Pertie, my boy!” he pleaded.  “Our people are scattered like farts in a wind storm.  Their bodies bound in hateful bondage, their language smothered like embers under a stream of piss, their souls trampled to pulp under the iron shod hooves of the imperial host.  Your own family will work the lime quarries until their eyes bleed and their limbs are ground to stumps.  Sail with us!  Such a havoc I could wreak on the imperial shipping lanes with a crew of men with your inner strength.  We could break the very spine of the imperial customs revenue scheme, force the Emperor to raise taxes, sow the discontent that will shortly bloom as revolution, and make ourselves filthy rich in the process.  Join me!”  The Captain got a bit carried away, drawing glances from nearby crew members.  They were mostly mercenaries, or worse, the whole ship being a melting pot of ne'er-do-wells and scoundrels of every hue and nation.  The Captain dreamed of an army of his blood-brethren, but all he commanded was an adoptive mob.

   Pertinax was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly and deliberately.  “There is no homeland anymore, no shining walls nor emerald fields.  My future, our people's future, is in the Gleaming Realm.”

   The Captain shook his head again.  “Do you really think it exists?  Beyond the pale of the Endless Desert?  A land unpopulated, just waiting to be taken up?  With gold flowing down the mountain streams, and rich soils unploughed?  If it were even half as great as the claims, men of all cuts and colours would have already seized it, and would defend it to the death.  No, this enterprise is worse than madness.  It is fantasy!  It is delusion!”

   But Pertinax looked resolutely beyond the town, to the towering heights of barren rock.  They sang a siren's song to him, beckoning him to fill their lonely emptiness with a nation risen from the dust.  He was the vessel of his people's hopes and dreams, a seed upon the wind of despair that might yet sow such greatness if only it could span the desolation and find a clement plot.  The future was before him, the past behind him, and Pertinax's mind was resolutely set on pushing forward.
   
*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

   His name was Spero, a squat man with eyes that burned with a messianic fire.  He was the latest in a long line of self-proclaimed guides, trying to recruit a party large enough to beat off the predatory bandits in the Near Desert.  Every year or so there accumulated enough prospective settlers in the town that one of these guides succeeded, and a train of donkey carts would stream out of  Ciscomaer in search of the Gleaming Realm.  Pertinax listened impatiently to see if this was the man to follow.

   â€œ...a plague of thieving locusts, preying mercilessly upon the righteous pilgrims.  But like insects they can be crushed, if only we could cross the Near Desert in strength!  How much longer will we lose our tools, seeds, and last savings to these crawling parasites?  We must band together to thwart their rapacious designs!  We must band together as brothers of a common blood!  We must band together in pursuit of the Gleaming Realm that was promised to us in the prophecy!  We must band together now!  Follow me!”

   A murmur of support rose up from the gathered company at each sentence, building to cheers by the end.  Pertinax approved, and hollered his support.  He had been stuck six months in this dreadful town since barely escaping the desert bandits with his life.  Since then he had toiled day and night to save enough money to try again.  Only this time he was going to be smart about it, and join a company able to withstand the petty villains of the Near Desert.  His heart leapt with excitement as man after man stepped forward to shake Spero's hand and sign his name to the expedition's roster, each to increasing applause.

   His friend Ratio nudged him in the ribs.  “This Spero guy,” he said chuckling, “he really cracks me up.  Used to sell chicken feathers before he started having visions.”

   Pertinax frowned.  “I don't need a great leader, just a convincing one.  Look at all the men signing the roster!”

   Ratio shook his head.  “A large party won't get attacked by thieves, yes.  But it will still starve to death if it gets lost in the Endless Desert.  Trust me, my friend, you are best off with a guide that is sane.”

   â€œThe sane ones can't recruit half the numbers needed to scare off the Near Desert bandits,” Pertinax pointed out.

   Ratio shook his head as more cheers rose from the crowd, as another man signed up with his whole family in tow.  “Pex, buddy.  You gotta think this through.  It is desperation that is leading these men to sign up now, but it will only lead them to greater desperation in the Endless Desert.”

   â€œI've already lost so much time,” Pertinax whispered, taking a step forward.

   Ratio grabbed him by the arm.  “In six months there will be another expedition: the numbers of our blood-brethren swarming into Ciscomaer make it inevitable.   Wait six months and you will save years of hopeless wandering and suffering, or worse.  Mark my words, you will save time by waiting.”

   Pertinax tried to shake Ratio's grip.  “You just want me to finish those houses.”

   Ratio's grip tightened.  “We're partners, you fool.  We've both of us made our fortunes back in mere months.  Our people are streaming to this miserable port like cattle to a salt-lick.  And where are they going to live while they prepare for the great trek to the Gleaming Realm?  In houses built by you and sold by me, that's where!  Don't throw it all away just yet on such a long-shot as Spero Supera.”

   But Pertinax shook free of his friend's grip.  “I don't want to live here, making a quick buck off the pioneers passing through to build our nation anew in the Gleaming Realm.  Being merely suffered by the local Ciscomaerians who gouge us with inflated taxes, and spit on in the street.  And how long before the Emperor decides to clamp down on this expanding free-port?  Our real-estate investments won't be worth the paper the deeds are written on then.  No, I will quest for the Gleaming Realm with my blood brothers.”

   Ratio and Pertinax parted ways, and the crowd cheered the latest man to sign the roster.

*   *   *   *   *

   â€œ....Of course, we'd need to find a waterfall or cascading stream to make it work,” the old man muttered, looking hopelessly around at the desiccated shrubs and pillars of stone that were the only punctuation in the otherwise dust-caked monotony of the Endless Desert.

   â€œDon't start on about water again, father,” his daughter Veraetta sighed.

   They trudged onward awhile in silence, but for the rasp of their breath wafting through their dust-choked throats.  Pertinax closed his eyes and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, for the day was still young and there remained many hours before the unbearable heat of the afternoon would force them to break their trekking.  The boney donkey pulling the light cart next to him brayed in protest, but the old-man pulled on his bridle to silence him.

   â€œMaybe we could build a dam to make a mill-pond....” the old man ventured after a spell.  Veraetta and Pertinax exchanged looks acknowledging the futility of trying to stop him.  The old man, a miller by trade, was wedded to the dream of setting up a mill in the Gleaming Realm; first a sawmill to help build shelters for the early settlers, then converting it into a grist-mill to grind the vast piles of grain that would be reaped from the bountiful fields.  The mill itself would be white-washed, he had decided, to make it look clean but also to reflect the heat.  The old miller wanted to erase all memory of his hardships in the desert as soon as they were ended.  And there would be a hedgerow around the yard, like the one around the lord's manor where he had grown up.  And a small garden with a bower under which he would take his tea in the heat of the afternoon.  And there would be a two-tiered trough by the roadside, offering free water from his well to all passers-by, for men and beasts respectively.  And....

   There was a jarring crack as one of the wooden wheels of the cart broke upon a rock on the track, tipping the cart over and the donkey with it.  Pertinax was only barely able to pull Veraetta clear before the contents of the cart spilled out: sacks of cloth and clothing, blankets, a light trunk of personal items, a kit of hygienic necessities, a dwindling pack of food supplies, a large leather flask of water, a sundry assortment of tools.  And then the great millstone flipped upright from its place in the upturned bed of the cart and started rolling back down the slope they had just climbed.  Men shouted in warning behind them and desperately pulled their own beasts and folk aside lest they be crushed by the remorseless stone wheel.

   â€œNoooooo!” the old miller shouted, leaving donkey and possessions behind to limp after the receding wheel.   

   â€œFather!” Veraetta called, starting after him.

   Pertinax just stared at the mess of the cart and the whining donkey on the ground.  The rest of the party lumbered past unspeaking.  Reluctantly Pertinax lowered his own heavy pack to the ground, grimacing at the effort it would require to pick it up again.  He released the donkey from the tangled harnesses that tethered him, and assessed that it was not too hurt to continue on.  Pertinax used what he could of the harness to lash the family's possessions to the back of the donkey.  He used the tools to pry loose as much timber from the ruined cart as he dared stack on the donkey's back, for it would be useful as firewood in the chilly desert night.  He took for himself one of the hitching shafts to use as a walking stick, at least until it got cold tonight.  The donkey staggered slightly under the weight, but still stood.  He hitched the beast to a skeleton shrub next to the track, then set off back down the hill for the old man and his daughter.

   He found the old man weeping next to the stone that had finally come to rest at the bottom of the slope.  His teary daughter rested helplessly on her knees next to him.

   â€œWe must move on,” Pertinax said bluntly, dismissing the magnitude of the man's broken dream in favour of the greater gravity of their peril if they gave in to sentimentality.

   The old man stared bitterly up the hill.  At length he spoke: “help me right it.”

   It was against Pertinax's better judgement, but Veraetta looked at him pleadingly.  He stooped down and heaved, and with the help of the old man and his daughter they were able to get the stone wheel back on its edge.  The old man turned his back to it, and for a moment Pertinax had hope that he might leave this one dream on the roadside for the greater good.  But then the old man bent his knees, pressed his back against the wheel, and got it slowly rolling once more.

   â€œFather....” Veraetta spoke faintly.

   â€œGo,” the old man said flatly.  “Take what you can salvage, and stay with the group.  I will meet you in the Gleaming Realm.”  He began to slowly, determinedly push the millstone back up the slope, inch by painful inch.

   Veraetta sobbed as Pertinax dragged her up the slope to obey the old miller's final wish.

*   *   *   *   *   *

   The donkey collapsed three days later.  The sound of the hot sand searing its flesh was audible, but the beast was too weak to even whimper.  Veraetta sat down on top it, staring sullenly into space. 

   â€œOnward!” shouted Spero, their diminutive leader, from a saddle atop the last surviving donkey.  He waved his tasselled willow whip-cane in the air to urge them on.   â€œThe map says the next watering hole is but four short miles ahead!”  What remained of the party trudged wordlessly after him, through a desolation so flat and empty that but for its pale colour it could have been a giant cooking pan.  The air choked like an oven, and shimmered along the horizon like steam.  The last of their dwindling companions walked by, and then Pertinax and Veraetta were alone with the dead donkey.

   â€œI'm not going to make it,” Veraetta rasped, folding her hands on her lap.

   â€œWe must make it to the water,” Pertinax stated simply.

   â€œThere is no water,” she replied.

   â€œSpero's map says-”

   â€œSpero's map said there was water ten miles back, and fifteen miles back, and twenty miles back!” she spat, or would have if her parched throat could muster the saliva.  She returned to staring sullenly at the horizon.  “There is no water.”

   â€œHave a drink,” he suggested.

   Veraetta took out her flask and upended the last few drops onto the concrete sand, where it evaporated instantly.  Then she tossed the empty flask aside and lay down, arched-back over the dead pack animal.  “Leave me to rejoin my father,” she whispered.

   Pertinax stared.  The tools would have been useful, but the rest of the donkey's load was just dead weight to him.  He turned to squint after the receding company, shimmering like spectres in the heat.  His dream lay to the north, through the flameless fires of the white hot coals on which they trod.  But he was growing quite fond of Veraetta.  If he would admit it to himself, he even loved her.  This was the ugliest in a long line of ugly choices.

   Pertinax retrieved the emptied flask from the ground and then bent down over the woman.  Through a supreme effort he was able to hoist her bodily over his shoulder.  She moaned and slapped at him weakly, but her strength was gone and he was nauseously aware of how incredibly light she proved to be.  Still, with his own pack as well it was an impossible burden to carry for long.  He would carry her four miles, he decided, after which they would either find water or death.  Setting his sights upon the dancing horizon, Pertinax began to walk once more.

*   *   *   *   *

   A thin plume of white-steam snaked skyward in front of him as he passed through a forest of stone cones of tessellated colours, some towering three or four times the height of a man.  The place smelled of brimstone, like entering the very bowels of the Beast himself.  As he drew closer, Pertinax could see ahead that the plume was actually emanating from several same such cones.  He lurched onward toward them, stumbling under the weight of his load.  He had considered leaving his pack, but that would merely invite death of a different type, for it contained only the food and supplies he deemed absolutely necessary to survive this trip.  Stubbornly, he persisted.

   At the base of the cone with the largest plume there lay several men, among many more skeletons.  A little stream bubbled out of a hole in the cone to make a shallow puddle at its base.  One of the men waved weakly at him as he approached.  “The water is foul,” he whispered.  “The company is making for the next watering hole, but we have run out of water.”

   Pertinax gently laid Veraetta in the meagre shade of one of the cones and then went to investigate.  “These men are already dead,” he said, kicking at them with his toe.

   â€œThey drank the water,” the man shrugged, before flopping hopelessly to the ground.

   Pertinax cursed.  He took out his own flask and drank the last few drops.  He had offered it to Veraetta, but she had just ranted about spitting it out, which served no one.  Then he bent over the tiny spring and filled both flasks with the foul smelling water, wincing as a few drops spilt down the side and burnt his hand.  Gingerly he carried them in the folds of his cloak back to Veraetta.

   â€œHere,” he said, offering her one.

   â€œFuck you,” she whispered.

   â€œIt's poison,” he told her.

   â€œYeah right.”

   Pertinax left the flasks next to her and set up a tent as best he could using his pack, the stone cone, and a light blanket he had kept to ward off the chill of the desert night.  Then he sat down next to Veraetta and put her arm around her.

   â€œI would have liked to see that white-washed mill,” he told her.  She merely nestled into him.

*   *   *   *   *

   Pertinax awoke to the setting sun, throat burning.  He looked at Veraetta's parched lips, and decided that now was the time.  He took a long draught of the now luke-warm poison, shuddering despite himself because it tasted even worse that it smelled.  Veraetta awoke to the sound of him choking on the foul fluid, then eagerly hoisted the other flask to her lips.  After they knocked their flasks together in good cheer, and then settled in to watch the dancing colours of the sky bring on the night.

*   *   *   *   *

   Veraetta hammered the sign post into the concrete sand.  They had walked all the way back to the donkey to collect the tools to do it, using material that had been cast off along the track to fashion the sign.  She smiled at the accomplishment, then turned to hold his hand as they strolled back towards the hotsprings in the refreshing cool of the evening air.  In the dark Pertinax could not see the rising plume that marked their location, but they were so incredibly pungent that he was confident that he could navigate there by smell alone.

   â€œWe'll dig a cistern,” Veraetta decided.  “Maybe we could use some of these tools to fashion some rough bricks from the ground -it's as hard as concrete anyway.  Then we could cover it over with some arches, to give the water a place to cool down.”  The water reeked of volcanic elements, but once cooled it could be drunk.  In remarkably short order they had both recovered their strength, the water apparently agreeing with their constitutions if not their taste and olfactory glands.

   â€œWe'll signpost the trail as best we can, so that others can follow,” she continued.  “We'll have to go back to scavenge as much as we can from the trail side, so that we can build a shanty to nurse stricken travellers back to health.  Oh....” she said, suddenly thinking about what she might find next to a millstone back along the wending trail.  “Well, it must be done.  Think of the others we can save!”  She skipped with excitement.

   Pertinax was quiet for a long while as they strolled together.

   â€œWell, what do you think?” Veraetta said at last.

   â€œWe need food,” he said.  They had supplies for just two more days.

   â€œThere are dead beasts littering the trail side for miles,” she said.  “Dried out and preserved for the ages.  Just add water,” she smiled.

   â€œWe can't go back,” Pertinax said.

   Veraetta stopped.  “I need to do this.  For the memory of my father.  For the next band of weary pilgrims that follows in our footsteps.  Can't you see that we can make a real difference for the greater good?!?”

   Pertinax stared at her coldly.  “We'll make some signs,” he conceded.  “And then gather as much water as we can in the flasks of the fallen.  We have to move fast if we are going to catch up with the company.”

   â€œWith Spero?!?  He led half of our party to their deaths, while he rode that ass like a petty chieftain!”

   â€œI don't care about Spero,” he said.  “I care about our people making it to the Gleaming Realm.  That's what it's all about.  That's what it's always been about.  I have to keep going.”

   â€œFuck you,” was all she said back.

   â€œCome with me,” he begged.

   â€œFuck you.”

*   *   *   *   *   

   Pertinax passed another trail-side grave.  There were no markings, but the pile of stone was unmistakable.  It was larger than most, and there was a  tasselled willow whip-cane lovingly placed on top of the cairn.  Pertinax spat, and kept walking.

   The graves stopped after that, and there were only desiccated corpses, strewn where they had collapsed on their very last step.  On the last one he found the tattered map, but could make little sense of it.  He trudged onward.

   Days passed as he crossed through chasms and over endless salt-pans of what must have been dried lake beds.  From what few heights he could climb he searched in vain for any sign of water.

   His strength began to fade, and his water ran low.  There was nothing to eat, nothing to drink.  In desperation he finally sloughed his pack, but still his shoulders felt the phantom weight pushing down towards the searing ground.  His head began to swim as he stumbled onward, ever onward.  Through the shimmering waves of heat he could make out the ghosts of his company, or others, all lurching unsteadily like himself: his blood-brethren, careening here and there as if buffeted by outrageous forces beyond their control.  They were pushed this way, then that.  They were bowed and bent.  But they were not broken.  Even in death their spirits crawled onward, so that at least their souls would reach the promised paradise at the end of the endless path.

   And then at last, when a kind of calm semblance of coherence steadied his mind, when he knew clearly that the end was upon him, he saw it glimmering on the horizon through the fog of heat.  Like a glorious dream beyond the frustrated reach of the wakeful mind, it shimmered like a palace on the clouds.  It was the Gleaming Realm.  Pertinax took the last few steps of his journey.

[Myinah]

Fantastic stuff there Baron! Well done for the word count victory! And with two entries I declare voting open until Feb 4th.

[Baron]

These are always fun when there's only one other entry!

Best Pioneer: Sinitrena for her unnamed female explorer.  It was very satisfying that her motivation was not fame or recognition: most refreshing!
Best Plot: Sinitrena for rewriting history, very plausibly, in women's favour.  The twist at the end was wonderful (see below).
Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena for a sense of empowerment that she depicts in her main protagonist.
Best Ending: Sinitrena - LOVED the journal burning.  It just said so much about the nature of pioneering (see below, again).
Best Background World: Sinitrena for wonderful sweeping expanses of empty beauty.
Best Writing Style: Sinitrena for poetic descriptions (although her spell check made some interesting choices along the way )
Most Ruminative: Sinitrena for burning her journal.  She freakin' burnt it!  If that's not a statement for living in the "now", and not dwelling on things past, I don't know what is.  Pure awesomeness.  But really, it's the ultimate mindset of the true pioneer, isn't it?  It's not about what's behind you, but what's in front of you.  The future is everything: the next mountain, or the next horizon.  Beautiful.

[Sinitrena]

Oh, decisions, decisions, so much choice...

Best Pioneer: Baron, for Veraetta, who is less blind but not less determined in following an impossible dream as Pertinax, whose determination comes too close to desperation to make him completely likeable. Veraetta's motivations come across stronger than Pertinax's.
Best Plot: Baron Searching for a paradise-like place is a very old incentive to start exploring. The need to do it because of a war(?) in the backstory adds a nice layer.
Best Atmosphere: Baron Wonderful descriptions of the inhospitable desert.
Best Ending: Baron A nice ambigious ending. Did he reach his promised land? Or did he simply die? I take it as more likely that he died, which is actually what I expected from the very beginning.
Best Background World: Baron A world with a history, politics, smugglers, bandits and a myth that makes people walk through the desert following the smallest sliver of hope - what more could one wish for (except maybe even more details, but that would require a whole book, probably)
Best Writing Style: Baron I always have and always will love your style.
Most Ruminative: Baron Does it do to dwell on a dream? Or should one built a future wherever possible? As an explorer, should one go on even though the most likely result is death? Here we have a story that wonderfully illustrtates the determination necessary for a successful explorer and the downfall of many an unsucessful one.

[Baron]

Thanks for the kind words, Sini.   One more day and we can declare another epic tie!

[Ponch]

I would vote but I dare not upset this delicate balance.

Looking forward to 2 authors / 1 theme in a few days.

[kconan]

Looking forward to 2 authors / 1 theme in a few days.

Never had a writing comp with co-winners deciding on a theme...

[Myinah]

Well as I like both stories so much and everyone seems to like the idea of joint winners I declare Baron and Sinitrena both winners! Congratulations and I look forward to your joint theme!

[kconan]

  Congrats to the co-winners! 

[Baron]

Wow!  It actually happened!   Let the preliminary stages of the initial negotiations begin....

[Sinitrena]

Congrats to my co-winner!
Admit it, guys, you were all just too lazy to read our stories and that`s why you didn`t vote, right?