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Writing Sample 1 (Short-Pokémon)

 

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Mood-Setting Music: "Hyrule Castle Courtyard" (Legend of Zelda-Ocarina of Time)

 

The outdoor café was full of trainers and Pokémon alike, so there was little notice of a chubby-cheeked, cream-furred squirrel gracefully alighting on one of the fences. He lightly sniffed the air in anticipation; after having missed breakfast and facing a pink-haired fighter named Maylene in an impromptu sparring battle—he could blame that battle-crazed Bisharp for challenging her Lucario—he was starving. Something...rather, some things smelled exquisite, but it was a sweet flaky aroma that drew his attention. He was going to get a sample before his master and the others showed up.

The squirrel took to the skies, lazily floating on the breeze towards the aroma's source. A few moments of looking around, and his eyes locked onto a small pastry, oozing with vanilla frosting and what appeared to be a red—mmm, strawberry—filling. Fresh from the oven, he could tell from the still light trail of steam. And the redhead at the table was too busy eating and daydreaming to even notice.

A sly smile on his innocent face, he landed on a polished street lamp and steeled himself. It had been so long, and he couldn't help a momentary walk down the path of nostalgia. A smooth downward descent from the lamp to the table, and a quicker Aerial Ace-powered escape would do the trick; he'd be in and out in a flash if timed right. It had been a while since he engaged in his first great love, but the Emolga knew he could shake off the dust. And besides, surely she wouldn't mind contributing to a Pokémon’s health by offering one of those desserts...




Writing Sample 2 (Medium-Medieval Fantasy)

 

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Mood-Setting Music: "Ramirez's Theme Extended" (Skies of Arcadia)

 

The hoarse pleas for water, light—for death—went unregarded; long experience taught Veil to not acknowledge such whimperings. Unconsciously, one black-gloved hand gripped the hilt of his ever-present longsword, both as a personal comfort and a public warning to those whose tongues would slip along with their minds. Veil far preferred a clean, quick death. Swift and painless deliverance to whatever god his target prayed to held much greater mercy than throwing them into a bleak tomb to die in squalor, torture and solitude. Even better for a man to die unjustly yet swiftly and receive peace in the Heavens than to justly suffer for years, lingering on in this world with no hope of sampling its delights ever again.

This grim place brought little joy to his heart; confining people to wither away in the oppressive darkness, forgotten yet not allowed to fall into death's embrace. Living...no, existing knowing that every day spent here was one away from the light, from the loved ones and family whose hearts were undoubtedly scarred or broken from their fellow's fate. For out of the hundreds of men and women that have been placed in this particular prison over the centuries, only a literal handful received clemency. The rest were condemned to lingering deaths, their names and deeds erased from the histories at best, their entire family slain for "being complicit in enabling treachery" at worst.

Steel eyes surveyed the meticulously clean halls, the bleak gray stone, guttering flame and chill in the air a perfect match for the ominous surroundings. Unlike mundane prisons, where the typical criminal would do penance for their sins then be--eventually--released back into the world, this prison contained traitors of considerable power whose crimes were against king and country. Because the majority of prisoners were demonologists and others of great sorcerous power, special methods were taken in the prison's construction, the least of which being the very material blunting all magic save those with the royal blessing. Combined with seasoned knights trained in neutralizing and countering many common magics, clerics able to reveal—or tear—the truth from liars and torturers that operate with an artist’s eye and templar’s conviction, and it was no wonder that many here pleaded for immediate execution or attempted suicide. The latter occurred often enough in the past that a small legion of skilled white mages revivify those attempting to speed on their demise, to later receive a proper lesson in pain from the torturers. There would be no escape from the proper justice.

Yet, a tiny part of him couldn't help but notice that, once bereft of their magic, more than a few arrogant sorceresses, haughty devil cultists and prideful mages fell into despair, offering false information on royal conspirators or more...personal favors in exchange for freedom. Once torn away from whatever divine, fey, infernal or abyssal force powered their magic, a surprising number crumbled, reduced to pitiful wretches willing to betray their former allies—even families—for their own survival. (Not that such a thing was restricted to magic-wielders alone, of course.) The Slayer of Domiel knew such thoughts required sincere confession to a priest once his business here was concluded, but he lightly reveled in confirmation of a long-held belief...

Magic was as much a crutch as it as a tool.



 

Writing Sample 3 (Long-Paper Mario)

 

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Mood-Setting Music: "Sonic & Knuckles 'Sand In My Shoes'" (Jose the Bronx Rican)

 

While Dry Dry Desert was aptly named--the desert wind doing its best to absorb even the sweat off a wanderer's brow in its unquenchable thirst--it wasn't short of more physical threats for the unwary and ill-prepared. From bad-tempered Pokeys skulking about loving to stick travelers, deceptively-cute Buzzy Beetles that packed a mean bite and the spiky Cleffas whose rocky hides were just as insensitive as their personalities, even seasoned adventurers could find themselves having a bad time. To thrive in the desert, one had to be tougher than week-old Mushroom Steak. It almost made the roving Bandits a relief.

Such as the one currently watching the group atop a large boulder, trusting in the midafternoon shadow and overhead sun to shield his physical presence. There weren't too many large groups that came this way. His porcelain-white face noted how slowly the group moved, how the blazing desert sun was doing more damage than a dozen Pokeys. And with the outpost so tantalizing close, like the oasis, they'd let their guard down.

And a slow body meant light pockets.

"They're comin'" Skillfully shimmying down the crag, the young Bandit reunited down to his identically-dressed gang, squealing excitedly. "Group o' ten down the path!"

A great deal of elbow-nudging, gleeful handrubbing and snickering filled the air, their almost-plastered smiles twisting as he padded down, lest their marks hear them on the way.

"So whadda think?" another Bandit questioned. "They look like toughies?"

"Nah." The question made the scout snort. "Ten Toads, but they're about to peg out. Serves 'em right trompin' through the desert at noon, buncha idjits."

"Dey look heavy?" Heavy being the Bandit parlance for rich, that was the most important question. Robbing a group that size for a handful of coins wouldn't even be worth the trouble.

"Well, they're all dressed in fancy duds o' white and gold, so they've gotta have plenty of coins! And boyos lookin' like that ain't guardin' nothin'"

"You mean they ain't guarding anythin'!"

"That's what I said!" the younger crook snapped, ever-present smirk twisting in annoyance. "They ain't guardin' nothin!"

"Nothin's the worth'a dis argument." Despairing at his cohort's ignorance, the elder Bandit jumped up, peering ahead to where the unsuspecting targets were approaching. Sure enough, the white of their threading stood out like a Fire Flower in a dark cave. Idiots, the pack of 'em. "Get yer tackle together. We'll be rich men this day!"
****************
Five minutes later, the trap had been set-up and everyone in position. Half of their gang had already gone off to circle behind the approaching group. As one Bandit jumped in an abandoned Monty Mole tunnel, two more painted themselves in multiple hues of beige to blend in with the surroundings, while yet another—clearly an artist—scuttled on all fours underneath an oversized Buzzy Beetle shell. All in all, the scene seemed all the norm in the scorching Dry Dry Desert.

"Somethin' off," the scout whispered, nervously fiddling with his pair of Sticky Gloves.

"Don't worry," his partner snickered, standing nearby on the well-worn path to Dry Dry Outpost. They had chosen the ambush location well: Close enough so that the protective stone walls were in sight, allowing their marks to let down their guard, but not so close that some of the locals could see what they were up to or get involved. The locals were as tough as the wildlife (even the Toad in the Item Shop had sent them running off with a Lightning Bolt), and they had been warned by Sheek about plying their trade in the outpost. Even their leader wasn't brassy enough to piss off the mysterious Moustafa. "They'll be off soon enough, and we'll be swimmin' in loot!"

The first Bandit still felt pensive, his gut twisting in the same familiar way when they tried ganging up on that Nomadmouse a month ago. All that earned them was several headaches for their trouble. But that could happen to anyone; how were they to know the rat had a 3rd-degree Black Belt from the Toad Town Dojo? "I'm serious, mate. My tum's flippin'. Supposen' they are toughies?"

"Your tum's flippin' cause you are all that Star Crunch candy yesterday before goin' to sleep." Grinning at his nervousness, the elder Bandit laughed. "You don't think we can rob a coupla Toads? Stop bein' all scarrrred and bite into your inner Chomp."

"...My inner wha?"

"Yer Chomp." The speaker shrugged casually, ignoring his partner’s confused look. "Been readin' this book by Frogfucius about how the greatest enemy is ourselves and that fear comes from obsessin' over what-ifs, and they turn inta Metal Blocks. We bite through 'em and...eh, I'll show you later. Now get ready! They're comin' this way!"

Sure enough, one could see the ivory polish of the Toad's Mushroom helms. The older thief felt that chilly surge of excitement despite the harsh desert wind; they may be dressed in nice duds, but a Toad was still a Toad. Hoping to bolster his crony's confidence, he waited until the full crew--both the newcomers and the other Bandits--were in place before hailing them with a swaggering pose.
"There's a toll here now. You wanna get to Dry Dry Outpost, make with the coins. A 150 coins each seems right fair ta me."