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About Literature / Hobbyist Caleb R. TackettMale/United States Recent Activity
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Battle in the woods
A seen from an RPG I was playing with some friends one night and decided to recreate a scene that I remember vividly.
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I am currently working on a big project. Sorry for my lack of submitting new content. 
  • Listening to: Dream Evil - In Flames You Burn
    Markham spat out teeth and drooled blood from his cracked jaw while struggling to just hold his shield barely past his shoulder. A wild smash crunched the shield into his arm, braking the already shattered and defeated arm, the hand holding onto the slivered grip was knurled and destroyed, nails hung off annihilated fingers. He unleashed hideous curdling screech from his mud flaked face as he spat out more blood and phlegm in a vicious spray. A hammer came whistling, covered in blood towards his face and landed with a maddening crunch as Markham's face caved inwards into his skull, his ears spraying out brains and blood as the hammer hit blew his head off of his body, now fidgeting on the ground fro death. The head screamed for a second in the air before falling silent and then splattering on the ground, the hammer bearing warrior looked around him on his field of torment, groaning piles of the bludgeoned living and the bleeding dying howled with moans and yells of pain, calling out to foreign gods for mercy and death. The warrior's armor was cracked and dented, from his Faulds to his Gorget. His steel capped boots were caked in blood, bile, dirt, urine, and other obscene bodily fluids released by men when they exit life, his legs were scorched from the bush fires. Over the way past the field near a far hill north of the warrior emanated a madness, a screeching horror as twenty men came running like wild berserkers ready for the kill, the warrior took up his stance and readied himself, his hands and arms broken, his legs torn and tired, his eyes weary and filled with mud and blood sprays. He reached for his flintlock pistol and fired off a single shot before throwing it to side of him, the projectile firmly planting itself in the forehead of one of the rushing warriors, his screams of war and rage still flew from his dead mouth as his head dived forward over himself and slid in the mud, tossing his sword and shield in the air. The warrior was slammed with ten shields, shivering three of themselves against his armor. He groaned as the troy of the maddening hit knocked him off balance, but he swung his hammer anyways, knocking into one man's helmet and denting it into his skull, a waterfall of blood and chunks of brains poured forth like a fountain from his nose, mouth, and eyes, as the sockets were rendered empty from the hit, his eyes blew outward. It began to rain making the riverbed begin to fill, and the muddy ground softened by blood and piss now like quicksand. A lightening bolt smacked into a nearby tree and forthwith from the slung voltage came a shower of sparks that danced and glittered off the shining and polished armors of the men coming for the warrior with the hammer fresh from their hiding spots beyond the hill. The warrior let leash a howling growl before taking a giant swing of his weapon, crushing three warriors in succession across their iron shields, each shattering them into shattered, cracked, and bent slabs. Two warriors armed with Grossemessers flanked from behind and both punctured the warrior from the back, their long metallic shafts crushing his ribs and tearing through his skin and muscle made him arch forward. While doing so, the warrior with an injured left arm swung backwards and with such force, sundered one of the men's knees into a backwards facing stance, his shin bent to his waist. The man while falling forwards and sliding off the warrior, was knocked off with one final swing to his back, shattering his spine. The other man lost his sword in thee warrior while he twisted around, and with grim dark realization written across his face, he was knocked atop his crown of his head and lost the contents of his skull while falling over. There were only thirteen men left, but they were in full armor, their closed helmets only begot terrifying machines of death, not revealing to the warrior that they were simply men. Eleven came with Ulfberhts and Buckler shields, their armor was blackened from nearby fires. The other two were armed with Long Bows and Falchions, and aimed straight for the warrior. Cursing the men in an angry scream, exhausted yet with countless battles waged that day, the eleven infantry men came rushing forward in splitting sprints, screaming wildly while waving their blades above their heads. Three tried tackling the warrior with their blinding speed yet they were although thin and in thin armor, they were barely men in their twenties, now for the first time in their lives first experiencing war. One of them rolled over and slid in the mud past the warrior while other two struggled to grab hold of his legs and arms while stabbing and cutting at the warriors exposed skin. With a gigantic hand the warrior picked one of the soldiers up and slung him five feet away from him into a nearby tree while stepping on the other trying to stay his leg with his armor feet, and crushed his neck with a furious elephant stomp, blood came shooting forth like a geyser from his helmet's eye slits and the young soldier let forth a death screech muffled by war and furious roars from the warrior with the hammer. The warrior was cut short, a furiously bolted arrow sunk deep into his right eye socket, the warrior shrieked in pain, and grabbed hold of the long shaft sticking from his eye, and ripped out the arrow in full with the eye attached, and flicked it into the mud. The soldier from behind came rushing back now but slid in the mud again and struggled to get up while his armor's weight made him slowly sink into a deep hole covered with mud, and began to drown with slowly muffled screeches for help. 
    The first archer came rushing up stepping carefully over the dead while holding his knocked in arrow close to him. He stopped over one of his bleeding comrades, loosed his bow and began to drag the alive but paralyzed soul back to safety, but the archer began to get trapped among the bodies and mud and the heavy armor and the rain and the fire. The warrior began a full sprint towards the archer, every step taken kicked up mud and blood and broken weapons laid now deep within the ground, and as the rushing hammer came close to the archer's back, he turned, only to see a black shadow and a jet stream of mud coming towards him. The archer flew three feet forward and slid, his shoulder pulverized into mush as his arm hung low from being wrenched out of his body with sheer force. The warrior finished off the dying soldier in the mud with a sickening blow to the back of his head, caving it in. There were only nine men left. The others started to circle around the warrior, a sergeant holding a Claymore howled orders around him only ten feet away from the monstrous man in front of them standing seven feet tall, clad in Faulds, Schynbalds, Chain Hosen, a Plackart only covering his stomach region, a bare chest with strips of what used to be a cloth shirt clinging to his brusied breast loosely, a Gorget shattered and bent, and his helmet which was a Nasal Helm. The creature's eyes burned with rage and seemingly seemed to glow and reflect the fire around him. His long hair which was as black as the night was mottled with blood and spit. He stood seven feet tall and carried his hammer, which was named Vermorzelen. He held his hammer high, and with a roar of might and victory he began to transform into a monster he gazed at the full moon hidden behind rain clouds, shining brightly like it was his god. From his tearing flesh and broken bone came from within a creature covered in coarse black fur coated in fresh crimson blood, the armor and clothes falling around him. With hammer in hand, the warrior turned into his true form, the werewolf. This was the reason for him being hunted across the lands of Tertia, for this and his trail of countless murders across the years now plaguing the land with countless consecutive full moons, giving rise to the disease now known as Lycanthropia, consuming the land into madness, fear, and death. Now for the soldiers gathered around the revealed fiend, who have come to protect their land and families, the true test of mettle has come. The wolf whose name once was Brackerd, was now only known as beast, and with hammer in hand, charged forwards with brilliant ferocity. The battle was over in a minute, the beast was cut to pieces, but the men around him, torn to pieces. Intestines and organs covered the ground around as hammer blows and claws tore open bodies and smashed skulls and other bones. One man was alive, the last archer, and he retreated with hammer in hand retrieved from the beast, as record of the glorious victory, and his name was Haggard, and into the depths of the region of Rhendia within Tertia he did travel. Lost and alone, his home destroyed by the beast Brackerd, Haggard was left to his own devices, and foremost, he decided, that he was to slay every wolf in the region, and thus begins the story Haggard Sooth, Werewolf hunter. 
  • Listening to: Ambient Space Music
  • Drinking: Coffee
    Blackness, empty void. Devoid of stars, dark and cold. This was the realm outside of our old homes, where our warm and bright hearths and loving families lay. Where the animals and nature spirits dwell, where love and friendship live without end, where our cities bustle and where our entire universe lays, but without the borders of the small objects floating like dust in the wind, lays the infinite realm of space. Our lives are insignificant, and here we shall be for the rest of time as insignificant, our deeds unknown, and our names unspoken. For long have we been in comfort, enveloped by the sanctity of ignorance and protected by the boon of decay. Never until now have we been able to reach far into the stars, screaming with glorious victory as our starships tear past solar systems with lightening speed. Only up until this moment have we been confined, with good measure, to our little pebble floating in the sea. What a restricting habit learned it was for us to not tread so far out, to fear, and worry for the caution and safety for ourselves and kind to walk out of the home at night, yet now we fly like an eagle from home into the night sky, glorious, and bright like the wheel in the sky. Now we will be like our forebears again in the stone age, and soon, the sabretooth will come down from his mountain, and learn that we have built only shoes, and not a spear in sight. 
The Mimesis still in space did not move, its lights were dimmed and from it came only one bright searchlight illuminating a small portion of the empty vacuum around it. It was only a small cargo frigate, manning a minute supply of two hundred and ninety three men. From Bow to Stern it was only one thousand, one hundred feet, from port to starboard on the main cargo hull was only three hundred and sixty six feet. The long shaft that connected the hull to the frontal command and communications hub was only wide enough for ten men to stand shoulder to shoulder. It was eight feet in height. The Mimesis was only equipped with one, co-axially pitted on a pintle mount atop the roof of the weather deck of the rear facing rocket bay that stuck out of the cargohull, firing a high intensity electron beam, supported with a triple barrel, three hundred millimeter auto cannon. Currently stationed above the planet EHD 189773b, the Mimesis set anchor to cool its engines and export waste products into the body's extreme atmospheric weather. Geo-synchronizing with its orbit, it hovered far above its dangerous upper winds as a small firefly amidst a dark forest of blue and black during its night cycle. Aboard the Mimesis were Polish, German, American, English, Indian, Russian, Iranian, and South African scientists, sent out into space on a small space-boat filled to the brim with fuel and supplies to accomplish the next feat of humanity, to stretch past the boundary farthest traveled by humanity, and it was here to this planet it was located. Amidst them all gathered in their small laboratory pods poking out the sides of the cargo hull like berries on a bush, they studied with their advanced instruments the many factors of space and time, calculations, mathematics, they studied the planet they orbited, they took notes and set course for the next destination, whose charted course would be delegate by the command hub. The next zone was  a small patchy speck of stars polka-dotting the center of a magnificent empty void to the north of their position, weather deck side. It was a long course, sixty three and two thirds light years. They radioed in the communicated message of previous coordinates they had traveled to as a pebble trail to follow back to earth as regular code back to upper command to the Alpha Centauri space station far away, the message sent through a micro-gravity well as a light beam would take three Earth years to reach them, but this was safe. They sent their planned destination, cut off communications, and continued onwards with their journey. Their ship carried within it four crops that constantly grew short-food, or vegetables that grew at rapid rates just under two weeks was every harvest. The water was drawn in from their regularly filtered air supply and sucked out of pockets inside of meteorites and planetary atmospheres with solar powered drones. The ship with its bottom hull thrusters ignited and the spacecraft slowly moved away and out of the gravity well that held it firm. The boat was ghost like until its two hour exit maneuver had it spin one hundred and eighty degrees stern wise. Its rear heavy thruster jets activated with blinding light, spraying out glowing auroras the color of the bright noon sun, and soon the speck of light and dull metal slowly made its way towards its new destination, charted and coursed for a year long journey. The crew would inhabit the cryochambers lining the walkway corridors that connected the command hub to the main hull bay. Only five gentlemen would stay awake. Executive Stellar Officer Hayford Manningam, Staff Captain Kelsie Tragor, Petty Officer 3rd Class Aleksy Anka, and Stellar Marines Borys Bertannon and Nelek Vincenty, both Seamen, veterans of the JW GROM who signed up for they had nothing else to do. This small band of five men would monitor the ship while it traveled three hundred and sixty seven days on a constant trail through space. 
  • Listening to: Waylander - Walk With Honor
  • Drinking: H2O
The Flashlight began to burn out as Jared ran deeper into to cavernous arching tunnel, putrid rotting stenches floating by on weighted wisps of stink mingling in the air violated his nostrils, smelling of iron, bacteria, fecal matter, cinnamon, cardboard, and chlorine. His gun barrel sporadically burst to life illuminating the path behind him as he randomly stopped, turned to his rear, and let fly a hail of metal to those giving chase. His face was itching furiously from his camouflage paint melting from the intense heat in the corridor, which was many men wide and tall. His blue beret was beginning to fall of his head as was his scorched shirt and annihilated bullet resistant vest. His boots were beginning to tear from the endless use. Jared now had been running for what seemed hours without ceasing, breaking into and out of full sprints each time he halted to break free a flurry of metal behind him. A blue bolt ran by him searing his right arm, but he couldn't react, his legs were too swift, too much speed had been built up now for him to simply throw it away only for mere pain. He screamed as he finally swiped himself around with blinding agility, he aimed into his iron sights, and fired his entire magazine, emptying it completely in less than four seconds, the tip of his barrel glowing a bright orange as smoke poured out. He threw his rifle down and pulled out his knife, he was too deep in the facility to keep going, it useless. Now he was to face his enemy, and die with glory. He ran forward into the darkness, his flashlight blinking to light within one last brilliant flash, revealing his foe. It was tall, its skin was gray, its eyes were large and black, and in its right hand there lay a long serrated blade, and in his left a gun, which it threw down. Now the fight was no longer prey versus victim, now, it was for honor. Jared smiled, this creature knew honor. As he screamed his last mighty roar, and lunged forward, his knife hand arching high and his parrying arm in front of him ready to absorb impacts, the beast took up a fighting stance, and with a roar to equal that of the man coming towards it, lunged forward in kind. As Jared lay bleeding on the ground, his arms broken and severed, the creature gave a might howl of victory, its voice was very much unlike its appearance, it was deep and haughty, filled with rage and joy, for this was another victory. Both its arms raised above its head, one foot on top of Jared's back, the other planted firmly over his arm that was carrying the knife, it prepared for the final killing blow, and before Jared was silenced, his hand held radio device that was strapped to his vest flickered to life, sounding like chatter, sounds of calls for reinforcement, for there were others deep in the installation, other squads of the allied invasion forces were separated and holding out on their own, Jared listened before his head was brutally smashed by the massive slab of sharpened metal that was the alien's melee weapon, he heard the simple phrase; 
"Reinforcements affirmed en-route, stay put men."
Jared replied knowing full well they could not hear him;
"Wilco."
  • Listening to: Waylander - Walk With Honor
  • Drinking: Coffee

The battle field was trodden to sooty mulch. Craters from countless shellings of mortar and artillery assaults ground out what was left of the topsoil, including stone and rock, skulls and limbs covered the ground. The grime of terror and war ravaged the land, along with organs and shredded flesh. The guardsmen stood alone, the last of the 15th Siege Legion of the Arnic Manslaughterers. His grimy, tattered, crimson, steel studded Trench-Jerkin was torn from his left thigh up to his ribs, revealing rusting, broken adamantium chainlinks, his hood was torn off and sealed off a cut on his arm. His Hot-shot lasgun was smashed to smithereens against countless Orks, the whole of it was loose and cracked, his waterlogged battery was almost depleted. His Pot helm was battered and bent. His platoon was dead, as was his entire force, his comrades lay around him, shot to death. He heard in the distance a sound he feared, but he stayed stationary, not leaving his post until he was ordered by his first appointed superior officer of his platoon, and since he was dead, he had, by Arnic tradition, commandeered his post until his death.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH”
The greenskins ran in hard, under the fierce biting pound of massive war drums and ivory tusk bugles, gretchins playing large bone flutes on the backs of warriors charging their way forward. Some Orks came in with Shootas and Battlewagons of Symphony, blasting melodies of war and disunity, their monstrous engines were their metronomes of horror and anger. Most of the Ork Boyz came in with Choppas and Club-horns, their half-alive victims of several Arnic infantrymen dragged away in the cover of night from no-man’s land, screamed into their mouthpieces, playing the symphony of pain. This was the Gorgegashers Clan, a long time running enemy of the Arnic forces within Segmentum Pacificus of the Milky Way Galaxy. The Guardsman braced himself for the kill, and fired his last shot into the approaching horde, He dropped his lasgun to the ground, muddy blood-water splashing onto his pants, be embraced the will of the Omnissiah, of the Emperor. As the horde approached, he grew deaf, for what was the bleating sound of the Gorgegashers, was now the roar of holy war cries and sacred litanies, and the bellowing gurgle of Bolter fire.  He opened his eyes, and he was struck nearly blind. In the glory of what he beheld, was that of the living Monsignor Fieldmarshall of the Order Tetonius of Puritania Corps from the Gloam Strikers, Abinn Dagoe. His Astartes armor, quartered black and gold, shown greatly with the magnificent aura emanating from his Iron Halo, his long loincloth that draped over his armored legs, unsoiled, brazen, magnificent. His Bolt pistol fired angrily into the crowd in front of him, he himself facing hundreds alone, Abinn himself seemingly revived by the Emperor’s powers, or by chaos. He was glorious, reincarnated from his nearby grave, a great Ork assault killed him days ago, smashed under the treads of a Ork commandeered Baneblade. He magazine ran out of ammunition, he tossed it aside. He walked passed the guardsman with his fists at his sides, and strode into battle. As he was nearly at the enemy, he burst into a divine rage, and began, with his fists alone, to beat down every vile xeno his eyes peered. Each swipe of his arm, each bouldered hit from his steel fists smote down each Ork with a single stroke, bullets scraping and ricocheting off his armor, scratching his paint, denting his armor unsuccessfully. He picked up an especially large Gorgegasher, and split his jaw sunder from his skull, and began to beat it upon the head of a nearby Mekboy, breaking his armor and splitting apart the steel and sinew with each harmonic blast, a bleating beat of war drums sounded from his hits, his voice like a harmonious gregorian choir, his movement graceful, at peace. Soon many orks overcame him, and he toppled them over, stomping in the face of one, and breaking the other’s neck with his hand, and swung its body into the others watching and waiting to jump in, and fatally try combat with the angle of Arn. As the horde drew greater around him, the Guardsman, whose entire existence was forgotten by the warband, saw that the glow of the Marine slowly died. As the Orks enveloped him, and their axes chopped into his suit, he did not cry out, he did not flinch, he only continued to kill and be killed. The light died, and as so did the fallen marine, so was the Guardsman

spared, and for the rest of his life, he was a travelling prophet of the the holy Gospel of Arn, priest of Steel and righteous anger.


Chaos in the Sreets -
A present for a Friend's birthday, took me about 2 hours to produce, I  made it a couple weeks ago. CAS Robbie Rotten emote 
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  • Listening to: Dream Evil - In Flames You Burn
    Markham spat out teeth and drooled blood from his cracked jaw while struggling to just hold his shield barely past his shoulder. A wild smash crunched the shield into his arm, braking the already shattered and defeated arm, the hand holding onto the slivered grip was knurled and destroyed, nails hung off annihilated fingers. He unleashed hideous curdling screech from his mud flaked face as he spat out more blood and phlegm in a vicious spray. A hammer came whistling, covered in blood towards his face and landed with a maddening crunch as Markham's face caved inwards into his skull, his ears spraying out brains and blood as the hammer hit blew his head off of his body, now fidgeting on the ground fro death. The head screamed for a second in the air before falling silent and then splattering on the ground, the hammer bearing warrior looked around him on his field of torment, groaning piles of the bludgeoned living and the bleeding dying howled with moans and yells of pain, calling out to foreign gods for mercy and death. The warrior's armor was cracked and dented, from his Faulds to his Gorget. His steel capped boots were caked in blood, bile, dirt, urine, and other obscene bodily fluids released by men when they exit life, his legs were scorched from the bush fires. Over the way past the field near a far hill north of the warrior emanated a madness, a screeching horror as twenty men came running like wild berserkers ready for the kill, the warrior took up his stance and readied himself, his hands and arms broken, his legs torn and tired, his eyes weary and filled with mud and blood sprays. He reached for his flintlock pistol and fired off a single shot before throwing it to side of him, the projectile firmly planting itself in the forehead of one of the rushing warriors, his screams of war and rage still flew from his dead mouth as his head dived forward over himself and slid in the mud, tossing his sword and shield in the air. The warrior was slammed with ten shields, shivering three of themselves against his armor. He groaned as the troy of the maddening hit knocked him off balance, but he swung his hammer anyways, knocking into one man's helmet and denting it into his skull, a waterfall of blood and chunks of brains poured forth like a fountain from his nose, mouth, and eyes, as the sockets were rendered empty from the hit, his eyes blew outward. It began to rain making the riverbed begin to fill, and the muddy ground softened by blood and piss now like quicksand. A lightening bolt smacked into a nearby tree and forthwith from the slung voltage came a shower of sparks that danced and glittered off the shining and polished armors of the men coming for the warrior with the hammer fresh from their hiding spots beyond the hill. The warrior let leash a howling growl before taking a giant swing of his weapon, crushing three warriors in succession across their iron shields, each shattering them into shattered, cracked, and bent slabs. Two warriors armed with Grossemessers flanked from behind and both punctured the warrior from the back, their long metallic shafts crushing his ribs and tearing through his skin and muscle made him arch forward. While doing so, the warrior with an injured left arm swung backwards and with such force, sundered one of the men's knees into a backwards facing stance, his shin bent to his waist. The man while falling forwards and sliding off the warrior, was knocked off with one final swing to his back, shattering his spine. The other man lost his sword in thee warrior while he twisted around, and with grim dark realization written across his face, he was knocked atop his crown of his head and lost the contents of his skull while falling over. There were only thirteen men left, but they were in full armor, their closed helmets only begot terrifying machines of death, not revealing to the warrior that they were simply men. Eleven came with Ulfberhts and Buckler shields, their armor was blackened from nearby fires. The other two were armed with Long Bows and Falchions, and aimed straight for the warrior. Cursing the men in an angry scream, exhausted yet with countless battles waged that day, the eleven infantry men came rushing forward in splitting sprints, screaming wildly while waving their blades above their heads. Three tried tackling the warrior with their blinding speed yet they were although thin and in thin armor, they were barely men in their twenties, now for the first time in their lives first experiencing war. One of them rolled over and slid in the mud past the warrior while other two struggled to grab hold of his legs and arms while stabbing and cutting at the warriors exposed skin. With a gigantic hand the warrior picked one of the soldiers up and slung him five feet away from him into a nearby tree while stepping on the other trying to stay his leg with his armor feet, and crushed his neck with a furious elephant stomp, blood came shooting forth like a geyser from his helmet's eye slits and the young soldier let forth a death screech muffled by war and furious roars from the warrior with the hammer. The warrior was cut short, a furiously bolted arrow sunk deep into his right eye socket, the warrior shrieked in pain, and grabbed hold of the long shaft sticking from his eye, and ripped out the arrow in full with the eye attached, and flicked it into the mud. The soldier from behind came rushing back now but slid in the mud again and struggled to get up while his armor's weight made him slowly sink into a deep hole covered with mud, and began to drown with slowly muffled screeches for help. 
    The first archer came rushing up stepping carefully over the dead while holding his knocked in arrow close to him. He stopped over one of his bleeding comrades, loosed his bow and began to drag the alive but paralyzed soul back to safety, but the archer began to get trapped among the bodies and mud and the heavy armor and the rain and the fire. The warrior began a full sprint towards the archer, every step taken kicked up mud and blood and broken weapons laid now deep within the ground, and as the rushing hammer came close to the archer's back, he turned, only to see a black shadow and a jet stream of mud coming towards him. The archer flew three feet forward and slid, his shoulder pulverized into mush as his arm hung low from being wrenched out of his body with sheer force. The warrior finished off the dying soldier in the mud with a sickening blow to the back of his head, caving it in. There were only nine men left. The others started to circle around the warrior, a sergeant holding a Claymore howled orders around him only ten feet away from the monstrous man in front of them standing seven feet tall, clad in Faulds, Schynbalds, Chain Hosen, a Plackart only covering his stomach region, a bare chest with strips of what used to be a cloth shirt clinging to his brusied breast loosely, a Gorget shattered and bent, and his helmet which was a Nasal Helm. The creature's eyes burned with rage and seemingly seemed to glow and reflect the fire around him. His long hair which was as black as the night was mottled with blood and spit. He stood seven feet tall and carried his hammer, which was named Vermorzelen. He held his hammer high, and with a roar of might and victory he began to transform into a monster he gazed at the full moon hidden behind rain clouds, shining brightly like it was his god. From his tearing flesh and broken bone came from within a creature covered in coarse black fur coated in fresh crimson blood, the armor and clothes falling around him. With hammer in hand, the warrior turned into his true form, the werewolf. This was the reason for him being hunted across the lands of Tertia, for this and his trail of countless murders across the years now plaguing the land with countless consecutive full moons, giving rise to the disease now known as Lycanthropia, consuming the land into madness, fear, and death. Now for the soldiers gathered around the revealed fiend, who have come to protect their land and families, the true test of mettle has come. The wolf whose name once was Brackerd, was now only known as beast, and with hammer in hand, charged forwards with brilliant ferocity. The battle was over in a minute, the beast was cut to pieces, but the men around him, torn to pieces. Intestines and organs covered the ground around as hammer blows and claws tore open bodies and smashed skulls and other bones. One man was alive, the last archer, and he retreated with hammer in hand retrieved from the beast, as record of the glorious victory, and his name was Haggard, and into the depths of the region of Rhendia within Tertia he did travel. Lost and alone, his home destroyed by the beast Brackerd, Haggard was left to his own devices, and foremost, he decided, that he was to slay every wolf in the region, and thus begins the story Haggard Sooth, Werewolf hunter. 

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Caleb R. Tackett
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
I am Caleb Tackett, I am a hobby writer, and I enjoy writing Grimdark Science Fiction and Fantasy. I am currently attending college and am searching for a job. I am Odinist. I enjoy heavy metal, black metal, folk and pagan music in general, and I like to cook. One of my other hobbies is miniature painting and my focused subject in that area is Warhammer 40,000 miniatures and Warhammer Fantasy miniatures. I enjoy sketching and painting as side hobbies also, mainly vehicles, weaponry, armor, and nature scenes. I like reading dark literature and I enjoy political and scientific debate. Some of my favorite authors are Arthur Desmond, Cormac McCarthy, and Ray Bradbury.

-7/11/98-
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