Don't You Dare

In an ever-extending, dimly lit library, a lonely figure stood in the shine of the candle he held. His body covered in cloth, his face hidden under a robe; not even his hands were left for the world to see. In his other hand, the Writer held firmly a book which's pages were slowly being crumpled as the tension grew. His eyes hovered over the book, the same passage again and again, jumping between the pages from beginning to end before he snapped the book shut, the ashes and dust spraying in all direction and causing his fellow flames to spike, licking the edges of his hood. He sighed deeply, his breath a cold, white blow of winter air, fierce as the summer. With a solemn whisper, he put down his candle, resting it on one of the bookshelves, which he also leaned against.

The Writer's hand slipped into his robe and pulled out an iron pen with a golden cap and black grip before opening the book, locating once more the last written page. The instrument's tip closed in on the empty page, the first hollow line, but it stopped, droplets of ink fell, but no new words were born. The Writer looked in confusion, had the story he spent so long been cursed? The countless nights of writing that filled his time now but an ashen memory?

The Writer grunted angrily; the pen would not dictate what he wrote, never. He let the book down onto the shelf, grasped his pen holding wrist, and pushed the pen down. The words flowed again, and the time passed, but it felt hollow. Where was the joy, the excitement that he yearningly remembered, where was his emotion's coating the passages? He grunted, the time he had spent would not be wasted, so pressed harder on the page, the pen gave of horrible tunes, but he bit through as the words melted into new worlds, but then, oh how the tragedy struck, the pen broke in half, the ink scattered across the pages, the shelf, the floor as the metal fragments scattered away into the dark below.

The Writer gasped with shock, clenched the book, and tried to clean up the mess, the ink-stained on the pages but washed off his body like soap. He grasped the item with a sigh and started reading from the first page, hoping to find the creativity that so suddenly fled him.

He laughed at times, once shed a tear or two, his anger fueled him at one point even, but the further he heard, the lower his shoulder sunk, until the entire piece was only held up but by one page. The chapters he wrote fitted not, and it took such a long time to see, that the love he once held was long gone and tried to keep it alive by means most false. He frowned and sighed and sulked some too, before closing the book and eyeing it. "Don't You Dare" it read, smiling at the joy he had, before pressing it against his chest, the stained ink stuck, and he wasn't ashamed before lifting his head and putting it on the shelf.

And as he stood there and took in the memories, he suddenly jerked, turned around to see his desk with blank paper stacked, pen prepared, ink-filled and light perfectly dim, a new idea shot through his head, and he rushed towards his chair, giving one more glance at the literature, as flawed as it may be, and gave it one last goodbye.

When I first joined this site about three and a half years ago, I was pretty new in the world of literature, and writing at the time never came to my mind. One of the first stories that I got really into was "Don't Get Cocky," or rather, the attempted continuation called "Don't Underestimate Me." At the time, I was very interested in action-packed stories, but as time went on, my taste in stories and writing changed. Time changed, and so did I.

The story from Nosferus, the original writer of Don't Get Cocky, created an exciting world, and writing a story about it allowed me to attempt to recreate and expand the story that really interested me, but also take away the massive burden of creating a whole new world that was not just a guide of the mlp episodes with one more character. That was at least how I imagined things when I still wrote on my PlayStation, painfully writing texts with more grammatical errors than a typewriter that fell down a staircase.

The first twenty chapters just don't fit my style anymore, not even mentioning how plain and, at times, painful they were to read in retrospect. However, I am not ashamed of the beginning of the story because, through it, I could gain tons of experience and was able to find my writing style, which was used to write the later chapters. The difference is too significant, and I was quite unhappy for a very long time with the story, resorting to things like adding characters that were basically just a plot device for a few paragraphs or chapters that went down uninspired paths or plainness. Although I did find joy writing the stories in the later chapters, I am always presented with the reality that this story's foundation is crumbly, filled with holes, and most importantly, not mine.

It's almost ironic given that this last fact, I thought, would give the boost in confidence and writing I needed to make some delightful chapters, only in the end to be what ruined it for me.

Now to the point I've been trying to make.

I am sorry that I couldn't live up to the expectation that long-time readers had, and I've pushed through the latest chapters. I am sorry for people who hoped me to finish Nosferu's legacy. I would also like to personally apologize to DarkKing2, who had spent his time drawing some fantastic artwork for this amateur writer. However, I am not sorry for ending the story, for its well-deserved rest already was long overdue, be it words, plot, or just me writing it.

Mayhaps one day, I'll try to write a completely new Adventure for Mathael in a different time, a different world and setting, but it does make me wonder if it is just a name at that point. I don't know what the future has in store, so all we can do is wait.

This is my formal goodbye to this story. This premature end is the last I can give.

Yours Sincerely,
Zwillingen700