Alternate-Faith

This was the end. Unfortunately, it was not the end that I had envisaged. Carden would not triumph in his valiant last stand, Paine would not infiltrate the Celestial Guard and most importantly, Captain Hale Crosse would not assassinate the Emperor.  The sea of smoke, debris and crimson would never materialise, it would never materialise because I didn't stand gallantly before those archaic throne room doors; instead I had resigned myself to an inevitable demise. This was undeniably an end, not the end of the Imperial era but, the end of the minor nuance that was the Vindician rebellion. "Presenting Lady Jem C'estrade." Jem C'estrade, the u

The end is nigh. Honest to God it is or at the very least it soon will be and to be brutally honest, I hope it's a rather swift affair. You see this is what happens when you morons take leave of your sanity when appointing your saviours. For Christ's sake people, heroes should actually be remotely heroic and not some ragtag band of adventurers. There should be some sort of test for this hero lark like storming castles, slaying dragons and rescuing damsels. The ability to drink a bar dry does not qualify you to be a hero; it qualifies you as a raging alcoholic. Would you put the fate of the world in the hands of the guy drinking whisky out of

In life there are generally believed to be two types of gamblers, those that are successful and those that aren't. Obviously falling into the latter category isn't desirable and so it was evitable that people were going to look for ways to optimise their odds of winning. The superstitious folks are, excuse my French, absolute fucking idiots. Anyone who believes that they can affect the cards that are drawn by lucky inanimate objects deserves to lose. The statisticians I have respect for, at least they can back up their claims with concrete evidence. However, all that their research and number crunching produces is what we already know; the ho

I'd woken in a cold sweat and whilst that wasn't unusual after the night I'd had, the bed being empty certainly was. That wasn't to say I was the lad about town, because I wasn't (at least not anymore). It was more that, after a year of curbing my old ways for my bride to be, I expected her to be there. It wasn't until I stumbled through the en-suite door that I finally realised this wasn't my house. My head was in tatters, I put it down to the alcohol. It had after all been a long night; how long exactly I couldn't recall. As I stared blankly into the mirror, it only reiterated the point. My sight took a good thirty seconds to focus and the

Pale, depressed and can't get laid, Time to reach for the old razor blade. Slitting their wrists? Unfortunately not, They sharpen a pencil and formulate a plot. With no charisma, no talent, not even a clue They reap shame on both me and you. They write shit poetry and expect praise, Thinking their poems can be the next big craze. I'll tell you what, you want a review? Nobody gives a fuck about your boo-hoo. I'd care enough to laugh if you got the clap. Now piss-off home with your angsty teenage crap.

"It is highly advisable that you co-operate and answer all of our questions. I don't think you quite realise the seriousness of your current situation. Now please state your full name." "Jess Ashton." "Is that your full name?" "Yes." It was a bald faced lie but her full name was completely irrelevant. She felt no obligation to be helpful in this situation and certainly wasn't going to indulge this 'auditor' with such trivial matters. "Mrs Ashton do you…" "It's Miss." "Don't interrupt me Miss Ashton. Do you realise that you were the only survivor of the explosion that destroyed Circadia chapel. You happened to be the only person outside