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OMG EVERYTHING ON THIS THREAD SO FAR IS BEAUTIFUL

There was a soft sweeping sound as the club collided with the grass, and a light swoosh as it continued its arc towards the sky, bits of earth and greenery trailing out behind it. There was no noise coming from the ball which had been hit, however, but you could plainly see its small white outline as it curved gracefully upwards, reaching its zenith in the face of the sun before beginning to descend back towards the ground. Then, if you were near the ball, you could hear the faintest of whistlings as gravity pulled it hungrily down. When it landed, it landed in a small cup embedded a few inches into the ground, with a thin white stick coming from inside it; at the top flew a bright yellow flag. It was triangular in shape and quaint in size, and a breath of wind tickled it ever so slightly, setting it awhirl before it drooped lifelessly back. The ball rolled a few times within the cup, then settled; the side that faced upwards had a single, small red dot upon it. A bit of sod has collapsed into the indention as a result of the ball's impact, and it rested with the ball at the bottom, a small piece even resting up against it.
There was a moment of reverent silence, then the bright, crisp clap rent the air, followed by another, then another and another in quick succession. They grew faster in pace until a single pair of hands was clapping rather enthusiastically, then they ceased, as soon as they had started.
"You must get bored of this. Making a hole-in-one every time you play golf? It surely gets tedious." The one who had spoken placed his hands on his hips and smiled slightly, his eyes bright with amusement. They were a deep blue, flecked with turquoise and a sort of nutty green, and they flitted slightly as he shifted his gaze. He was dressed for a game of golf, with a silken green polo tucked into pressed white pants and held fast by a thin brown belt. His hat was white like his pants, his cleats brown like his belt. His hair was hidden from view. He was tall and lithe, not quite broad and not quite skinny, with arms bound with corded sinew and thick veins. His nose was small and upturned, and his lips were full and twisted, as if he was always in a state of condescending mirth. Sliding his sullied gloves off finger by finger, he tucked them roughly into his back pocket and turned his attention once more to his counterpart.
"Boring? For you maybe!" The other he'd addressed said with a grin. He was perhaps a half inch taller than the one whom had spoken to him, but also thinner. His attire matched that of his former, however his shirt was white and his pants were green, as followed his hat. Poking out under it, at odd intervals, were small stalks of orange hair, fluttering as best they could in stray breezes. He was very pale, with freckles all over his exposed skin, and his face was angular and welcoming. His eyes were wholly green and unremarkable, although once might tell you they were liquid in the deep candlelight. Only one had seen his eyes in the deep candlelight though, and she did indeed say they were liquid. He grinned again, exposing a row of straight white teeth. "But after a thousand years of practice, it's become somewhat of an amusement to see when I don't sink it on the first try."
"Have you ever done that?"
"No." He said with another twinkling smile.
They were utterly alone, as far as the observant eye could see, and that happened to be a very long way. The two stood at the start of a lush, well manicured fairway that extended a few hundred feet out in front of them, staying for the most part straight aside from the occasional bump or imperfection off to the side. Here and there were dotted the occasional sand pit, and at the end, surrounded on all sides as if an island by fairway, was a small, perfectly round green, the center of which housed the cup where the golf ball had just moments ago found its home. There was no rough, just a thin band of trees surrounding all of the fairway.
Extending out beyond the course was a remarkable landscape of rolling hills, wide and shallow, dotted with trees and great expanses of wildflowers. There were no forests or fields, only the broken, wavy ground, stretched out beyond the comprehension of the naked eye. In actuality, just beyond a particularly large hill to their right, a pebbly outcropping overlooked a sea of crystal blue expanses, boundless and wild. The only sound was the soft touch of the wind and the chirping of a few birds hidden from view, perched in nearby trees or maybe roosting beyond the immediate hills. At length, with silent consent, the two began to walk slowly over the grass to the flag, where the pale one reached down and retrieved the ball. He tossed it up once, and although the sun was fully in his face, he caught it in the palm of his hand and pocketed it.
"You should have golfed with me today." He said to the other, looking at him out the side of his eye as they broke the cover of the trees and started over the hills. "It's a great thing to clear your mind on a day like today." The other didn't answer. "Have it your way." He said with a wink. "Now, what hole are we on?" Although he knew very well what hole he was one, and his friend knew it, he answered anyway, pulling a small slip of divided paper out of his pocket.
"We're heading to the fifth hole."
"And what is my score as of now?"
"Twelve under. Just like it was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day-"
"Hey! Take it easy!" The pale one said with an exaggerated accent, holding his hands palms-out towards the other. "No need to get excited."
"Be bloody hard to get excited around here." His friend said darkly.

I'm trying to be more poetically inclined.

The cold earth
Curled up upon it
Beginnings

Did I even do that right?

He awoke, and the earth was cold. The earth was cold. Gray clay, imbued with dull blue veins of irreplaceable mineral, was all he felt 'neath him. He was curled in a ball, naked and alone. Naked, and cold. Cold like the earth. He longed to draw warmth over his barren flesh, to alleviate the searing punishment doled out so suddenly upon him, but primordial instinct, while obviously apt enough to warn him of his own chill, was not sufficient to grant him the means to achieve relief. He wrapped his hands around his knees, tucking his chin in, and began to weep, salty tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. Teeth chattering, fist reaching out occasionally, he raked in great handfuls of soft clay, fingernails becoming caked with the substance. At last he could go on no more, and succumbing to the cold, his mind passed into shadow

The wind moaned softly, and gentle rain splashed against the ground. The sky was a pallid gray, even and oppressing, seemingly endless in its expanses. Under its all-encompassing canvas, the proud shadow of Armor City loomed, buildings coated in moisture, and roads dotted with puddles. The cobblestone streets were nigh abandoned, and except for the occasional splash of a heavy boot or wooden cartwheel in the water, the city was silent, brooding and stolid. A low crash of thunder boomed and a tendril of lightning penetrated the sky, but the rain kept its plodding pace, droplets wet and glistening on glass and metal.
There was a single, mournful peal as the great bell of Armor Cathedral sounded, and the melodious note hung over the city, vibrating on the damp air. It echoed on various surfaces around the city, lingering like some half-remembered dream, and then was silent. It was one o' clock, just past midnight in Armor City.

In a small room under the bell tower, a young man sat staring out his rain-streaked window, tapping a quill against his chin. Parsat the chinaman, the poetic maven of Armor City--or so people called him--paused to scribble a few rough lines on a piece of parchment before he returned to surveying the storm, listening to the wind howl through the rickety room. There was something inspiring about rain at one o' clock, but it was difficult for Parsat to manifest the words on the piece of paper. Song Jiang, a brave hero and outcast, was know as the Timely Rain for his benevolence. He frowned, and folding the parchment, slid it into a small book at his side. Bored, he rose from his bed and stepped to his window, resting his forehead against the cool glass. Condensation ran from the surface of the window onto his face, going from his forehead to his chin, where it dripped, shining, to the floorboards. Parsat wiped a hand across his face, inspecting it as beads of moisture followed the lines of his palm, before wiping it deftly on the side of his cargo pants. Going to the side of his bed, he grabbed a heavy green jacket and pulled it over his faded tee, extinguishing a small candle on his nightstand. Taking the small book, various bits of parchment poking out at different angles, he placed it into one of his jacket pockets, and opened the door that led into the cathedral.

Well, if it's just a poem, it's alright. If it was trying to be a haiku, it was off by a few syllables (3-5-3 instead of 5-7-5). Good poem, though.

The cathedral was empty, with the sound of softly falling rain resonating off the marble floors, as Parsat walked down the aisles towards the heavy oaken double-doors. His footsteps clicked smartly as he strode to the end of the room, and, with slight effort, pushed the doors outwards and stepped outside. It was not raining as hard as he had gauged from his room, so he continued down the steps from the cathedral into the street. A pale lamppost illuminated the square, bathing it in an eerie and unnatural light; shadows danced in and out of Parsat's vision as he hurried from one corner to the next. Looking about, he saw no one, and shoes kicking up small showers of water, started to meander down the road.
Going directly outwards from the cathedral, Parsat walked a few minutes down a nameless, but well-lit street until he came to Index Road, the circular way that surrounded Armor Castle. From there, he headed north, and soon reached the foot of Aristocrat Way, home of the rich and opulent. He started up the winding path, which ran steeply up a hill overlooking the castle, and to the right, Armusement Park, lights twinkling merrily against the stoic storm. A faceless user passed by, hood up, and Parsat exchanged a silent nod with the stranger. He made another left turn, and after walking for a few minutes down a very long road, came at last to the home of Chill, Grandmaster of George. He rapped loudly on the front door, then took a step back, crossing his arms as water dripped from his hair and clothing. It was only a few moments until Chill answered, pulling the door back and greeting Parsat amicably.
Chill was young, thirteen or perhaps fourteen, however he had a quiet and knowing countenance about him, a perceptive aura that shown through not only words, but in actions. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a solid green t-shirt, and a blue woolen scarf. He held a steaming mug of some exotic brew, and taking a sip of it, beckoned Parsat to come inside.

Parsat hung his jacket, sodden, on a coatrack by Chill's front door, and proceeded to follow him to a cozy sitting room, adorned with two comfy chairs in front of a warm fireplace. Chill sat, as well as Parsat, who accepted a mug from his host, and the two looked about the room, mutually silent as rain battered the single window on the western wall. After a few silent moments passed, Chill leaned forward, and, elbows upon his knees, addressed Parsat with a quiet, even tone.
"Well, Parsat, what brings you here? Itâs not like you to venture out in weather like this." Parsat paused to take another draught from his cup, which contained a dully warm mixture that ran like fire down his throat, before answering Chill. He opened his mouth, paused, then closed it, rethinking the manner of his response. After thinking again, Parsat resumed, eyes troubled.
"Chill, do you feel, well, different?" Parsat inquired, mouth set in a hard line as he studied Chill's face. "I spent all day trying to write some prose, but I just felt... felt... er, wrong. And to think that I would ever have problems writing about rain at midnight!" Parsat fell silent as Chill nodded slowly, pondering what Parsat had said. "Something unnatural is happening in Armor City, that I'm sure of.â Parsat sat back in his chair as he finished, the candlelight illuminating his features.

Parsat hung his jacket, sodden, on a coatrack by Chill's front door, and proceeded to follow him to a cozy sitting room, adorned with two comfy chairs in front of a warm fireplace. Chill sat, as well as Parsat, who accepted a mug from his host, and the two looked about the room, mutually silent as rain battered the single window on the western wall. After a few silent moments passed, Chill leaned forward, and, elbows upon his knees, addressed Parsat with a quiet, even tone.
"Well, Parsat, what brings you here? It's not like you to venture out in weather like this." Parsat paused to take another draught from his cup, which contained a dully warm mixture that ran like fire down his throat, before answering Chill. He opened his mouth, paused, then closed it, rethinking the manner of his response. After thinking again, Parsat resumed, eyes troubled.
"Chill, do you feel, well, different?" Parsat inquired, mouth set in a hard line as he studied Chill's face. "I spent all day trying to write some prose, but I just felt... felt... er, wrong. And to think that I would ever have problems writing about rain at midnight!" Parsat fell silent as Chill nodded slowly, pondering what Parsat had said. "Something unnatural is happening in Armor City, that I'm sure of. Parsat sat back in his chair as he finished, the candlelight illuminating his features.

Annoyed >.>

âI can relate to what you feel.â Chill said in a measured tone. He fingered the handle of his mug and drank deeply from it, draining it before setting it on the small table between the two chairs. âI certainly didnât acknowledge this feeling while pondering the poetic characteristics of precipitation at a specific time, but I feel odd. Almost as if something is about to happen, but in a way it already has and the actual happening, as it were, is the discovery of it. Itâs almost as if the weather embodies this, as if this danger is so tangible we can see and feel it.â Parsat smiled to himself; here they were, drinking in front of the fireplace talking about the weather. But, Chill shared his unrest, that was comforting. âParsat, how long, exactly, have you felt this way?â
âNot long. Maybe a week, although never as bad as today. What about you?â
âNot long, as well. Just yesterday I noticed I felt eerie, but now that youâve gone a brought it up, I am certainly well aware of it.â He trailed off, and his voice was replaced by the sonorous pattering of rain, rain that had not abated but quickened in pace. Chill rose and walked slowly over to the window, arms clasped behind his back. His breath fogged the glass as he peered out into the smudged darkness, pensive. Not that I donât like water. He said to himself with a grin. He turned from the slick pane and looked hard at Parsat. âWell, Parsat, weâve established our feelings. Whatâs to be done? I know you came for more than to have a chat with oleâ Chill.â Parsat shifted uneasily under Chillâs gaze, grasping the ends of the chair arms and biting in with his fingernails.

"I can relate to what you feel." Chill said in a measured tone. He fingered the handle of his mug and drank deeply from it, draining it before setting it on the small table between the two chairs. "I certainly didn't acknowledge this feeling while pondering the poetic characteristics of precipitation at a specific time, but I feel odd. Almost as if something is about to happen, but in a way it already has and the actual happening, as it were, is the discovery of it. It's almost as if the weather embodies this, as if this danger is so tangible we can see and feel it." Parsat smiled to himself; here they were, drinking in front of the fireplace talking about the weather. But, Chill shared his unrest, that was comforting. "Parsat, how long, exactly, have you felt this way?"
"Not long. Maybe a week, although never as bad as today. What about you?"
"Not long, as well. Just yesterday I noticed I felt eerie, but now that you've gone a brought it up, I am certainly well aware of it." He trailed off, and his voice was replaced by the sonorous pattering of rain, rain that had not abated but quickened in pace. Chill rose and walked slowly over to the window, arms clasped behind his back. His breath fogged the glass as he peered out into the smudged darkness, pensive. Not that I don't like water. He said to himself with a grin. He turned from the slick pane and looked hard at Parsat. "Well, Parsat, we've established our feelings. What's to be done? I know you came for more than to have a chat with ole' Chill." Parsat shifted uneasily under Chill's gaze, grasping the ends of the chair arms and biting in with his fingernails.

Alt's a bit wordy here, simply the unfortunate byproduct of loose fingers on a late night. Shan't be helped :-D

âI was thinking about asking the mods about it, maybe seeing if they have had any similar feelings. If I say so myself, Iâm rather perceptive, and now that one of the highest magical authorities shares my concern, Iâd say this is a rather... common unease. But, I wanted to know if you thought itâd be crazy.â Parsat averted his gaze and looked along the simple design adorning the wall. Chill was quick to answer.
âIâd say itâs a good idea. But who should you go to?â Chill asked.

Far away from Chillâs cozy abode, amidst the rain and thunder, a lone figure stood in front of the gates of Armor City. He was outfitted in a black cloak, hanging to his ankles, that hid his entire body. A pale sword, long and thin, hung from a belt around his waist. A shock of white hair stuck out from the hood of his cloak, which obscured his face. Wetness dripped off his clothing as he stood with somber silence, hand outstretched to the sign-in pad to the right of the doors. He clenched his hand into a fist, withdrawing it from the pad, and recoiled as if hit. His mouth twisted in distressed lines as he pondered his dilemma, unknown to the silent city beyond the wall. Steeling himself, he punched in a few unintelligible digits, and with a sigh, the door cracked open, just enough for the figure to grasp its edge with his fingers. He pulled it open with effort, and beheld the city in all its beauty, great monoliths and erections standing against the storm. Taking a step onto the street, he hesitated, looking over his back into the wilds. With one last long stare, he turned back into the city and began to walk ever so slowly along the path, passing neither human nor beast. He made no noise, even as his feet came down on puddles and scraped against harsh cobblestone. Invisible, perhaps, even to himself.

"I was thinking about asking the mods about it, maybe seeing if they have had any similar feelings. If I say so myself, I'm rather perceptive, and now that one of the highest magical authorities shares my concern, I'd say this is a rather... common unease. But, I wanted to know if you thought it'd be crazy." Parsat averted his gaze and looked along the simple design adorning the wall. Chill was quick to answer.
"I'd say it's a good idea. But who should you go to?" Chill asked.

Far away from Chill's cozy abode, amidst the rain and thunder, a lone figure stood in front of the gates of Armor City. He was outfitted in a black cloak, hanging to his ankles, that hid his entire body. A pale sword, long and thin, hung from a belt around his waist. A shock of white hair stuck out from the hood of his cloak, which obscured his face. Wetness dripped off his clothing as he stood with somber silence, hand outstretched to the sign-in pad to the right of the doors. He clenched his hand into a fist, withdrawing it from the pad, and recoiled as if hit. His mouth twisted in distressed lines as he pondered his dilemma, unknown to the silent city beyond the wall. Steeling himself, he punched in a few unintelligible digits, and with a sigh, the door cracked open, just enough for the figure to grasp its edge with his fingers. He pulled it open with effort, and beheld the city in all its beauty, great monoliths and erections standing against the storm. Taking a step onto the street, he hesitated, looking over his back into the wilds. With one last long stare, he turned back into the city and began to walk ever so slowly along the path, passing neither human nor beast. He made no noise, even as his feet came down on puddles and scraped against harsh cobblestone. Invisible, perhaps, even to himself.

I know the anonymous introduction is a bit generic (or a lot generic), but just bear with me for now. I've just got to clear the intro-ey stuff out!

Dear anyone who cares: my laptop was taken away, because apparently D's in math are frowned upon in this establishment. So, hopefully I'll post more soon. So, yeah... Yeah.