Partida Rol por web

Task nr3: Random Title

You have to roll 2d20 to get an adjective and a noun that make up the title. For instance, 4 and 6 = Destructive Stranger.

You may add articles, or change to plural and such so the title makes sense.

Maximum 250 words.

You have time until September 15th.

seriously?!?! Terrifying Guitar?!?!?!?

Fallen in drugs. (broken drugs 2?)
If it's possible I would like to make the second part of "broken drugs" I will pm Weistol and if everyone is ok with it I think it will be interesting to have a story with more than one parts

Fallen rock!

Beautiful girl

There she was, her silver skin shining in the sun. She was Paul’s new plane, a B-29 that he had chosen still in the assembly line. “When she was still a baby”, he thought, smiling at his own joke. He walked to her, wanting to see her up close, examine her fuselage, the propellers, the doors.

He patted her. “Are you ready? Tomorrow is the big day. But you’ll do fine, big girl. I can only hope that I’m up to the job too” He was nervous, even more than before other missions. He had plenty of experience, but not in something like that. Nobody had. If everything was right, they would be heros. It was necessary. Justice for what they had done.

He saw Allan Karl running towards him. He didn’t have a lot of experience but he was a good man and a good soldier. He had a paint can in his hand and the run had left him without breath but he was smiling.

“There is not much time, but I thought the she needs a name”

Paul thought about it. He was right. Good planes need a name, and this girl was a very special one. For a moment, the image of his mother appeared in his mind. A red haired woman whose quiet confidence was always there for him, whose strength and belief in him had supported him. Tomorrow, he would need that confidence and strength.

“We’ll call her like my mother. Paint that name. Enola Gay”

The terrifying guitar

Dear Laura,

It has been almost four months since we arrived in the Peninsula. While Lord Wellesley has remained entrenched, securing the landing sites near Lisbon, he ordered several expeditionary forces to scout deep into French occupied territory. The 39th Dorsetshire Regiment, was granted the honor to be the first among equals.

For glory and duty, in full display of our colors and proper British gentlemen pluck, we parted in good spirits.

For five days we followed the Tagus inland, directly towards enemy territory. At the sixth day of our march, we arrived to a nameless village, where we witnessed for the first time the results of a relentless occupation war.

But the sight of the scorched houses and corps, though disheartening at it might be, did nothing but strengthening our motivation and our determination did not falter.

The signs of the enemy’s presence were quite evident, and so it was back then when the regiment was split into score-size patrol groups to properly begin the task commanded to us of scouting behind the enemy lines.

And it was back then when the real terrors begun hunting us at night.

Let me first explain that I am not referring to events that threatened our lives in one way or another. Quite the opposite to be honest, and out safety was ensured by those same horrors we learned to fear.

We had been patrolling a small valley for a week when we first heard it. It was midnight, and I was waking up for my guard shift. The sound was melodic, sweet, but also shift and powerful. It was a Spanish guitar song, played by what cannot be defined otherwise but a true virtuoso. Our entire patrol woke up to the song.

It was the first time any of us had heard that song. It was the first time we enjoyed. It would be the last one, for as we listened to it in the upcoming days, we knew what was coming afterwards.

Not fifteen minutes after the song was over, the screams started.

I cannot describe the horrible yells and groans we heard in a nearby farm. It was like the doors of Hell itself had sprung open, and an army of devils had broken loose on Earth. And with them, the horrifying screams of agonizing and dying men came as the army of indescribable terrors ravaged the farm. Ten minutes later, all was over and silence reigned once again under the star filled skies.

But none of us could sleep further that night, and we could do was remain vigilant, watching the surrounding darkness wary for the horrors that must had been lurking nearby.

But nothing happened that night, and the next morning we descended to the farm from where the terrible screams were heard last night.

To our awe and horror all what remained there were the bodies of an entire French patrol. Maimed, burned, impaled… All dead. No other corpse was found but those belonging to Napoleon’s army. No other sign of the attackers but the trail of death left behind.

That was the first time. Not the last one.

For a full moon we scouted, following the main Corps to which the French patrol belonged to and which we spotted in the distance that same morning.

For a full moon, every night, we heard the ominous song at midnight.

For a full moon, every morning, we found the dead remains of a French patrol. No other bodies, no other signs of the perpetrators.

One day, the French Corps changed it course, and apparently finally decided to retreat, backtracking its footsteps northwest. We decided that night to mount guard one last time before heading back and reporting to Lord Wellesley.

No song was played that night. No screams was heard. No death came to Earth.

Next morning, we packed and headed back towards our front lines. We arrived two weeks later with no further events to be noted and reported our findings to HQ.

While explaining what had happened to my superiors, one question kept coming from their mouths “who was behind those surgical strikes?” That I could not answer.

Who? Who I wondered then and still wonder now? But how would we know, how will we ever know, when the only thing we got from them was death and the nightly chords of a terrifying guitar?

Lt. Andrew Miller, 1st Battalion, 39th Dorsetshire Regiment,

Lisbon 1808

HARD ROCK

-“Shit!”, he cursed and folded another paper ball and threw it across the room aiming for the bin. He missed. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was past midnight, and he did not remember when he had eaten last. A bottle of whiskey on the table, a few pills, the head phones...Hustler magazine. He had tried all the tricks. The words just did not seem to come together. He kept fighting the blank sheets of paper with a pen, and lost over and over again. And the clock kept ticking. He wanted to run. Just run. He had to prepare some lyrics for the gig on Friday. The song itself had everything. The guitar riff kicked ass, the base was there, the drums... It was awesome. But he had not contributed at all. And he was the front man, for crying out loud!

How long were the guys going to stick with him if he was nothing but a pretty face with an OK  voice. He had noticed how they looked at him, how they whispered and conspired, waiting for a chance to kick him out. Maybe put some bimbo with a nice pair to sing the songs the band would write. He knew it. They were out to get him. He didn´t blame them. The band had had a good run, and it was easy to forget where you were going. And harder to leave.

He decided to give it a one more try. He had been hiding out and laying low for too long. It was time to make a stand. He put back the ear phones and closed his eyes. The hard rock beat reminded him of a fugitive running from cops. Or loosing his head, fleeing desperately from his own paranoia, afraid to face his own demons. Trying to keep his sanity.

And then he got it. Once again, he knew he had found it. The gods of rock smiled down on him. He smiled back.