My Epic

Possibly the most nauseatingly lengthy tale you shall ever read on this site. Literally. It's so long it has an actual WIKI almost a 100 pages long. I'm rather proud of it and I'm running in it an online literary competition.

I shall post as soon as the CW pot is stirred, if you get my meaning. Post, gentlemen!

That part about the 100 page wiki sort of picked my interest, is that background info, like about the world, its peoples and such? Sounds like you have quite the project anyhow. How long's the actual epic?

The actual epic is around... well, I don't actually have a way to tell other than that it takes about six minutes to scroll all the way down it.

Here we go, American King II: http://americankingseries.webs.com/americankingii.htm

My writing has drastically improved since last you saw it, and I think you'll like it.

Awesome logo made by a friend:



And illustration made by the same:




It has very little to do with the old one I posted on here. It may be called "II," but it's actually a reboot. The old one went up to 1950. This one is only up to 1850 and it's about ten times longer, which is just a hint of how huge it really is. It would get the attention of any royalty/nobility buff. It's very complex, and has required HUNDREDS of hours of brainstorming and discussing with history fans and historians. It's illustrated to the hilt, with hundreds of pictures. I have entire royal family trees mapped out, with cradle to grave dates for several generations. I describe economics, war, political maneuvering, marriages of convenience, the rise of crime syndicates, rise of religions, etc, etc, etc. Essentially, an entire history of the world from around 1765 to *insert infinite symbol*. And yes, I do go over it often, making little adjustments, making sure everything jives and there are no inconsistencies. James Madison, for instance, is the only character I'm aware of at the moment that does not fit at the moment. He'll be retconned, fixed, and put in again before long.

Wiki here: http://americankingseries.wikia.com/wiki/A...ing_Series_Wiki

I'm trying to get the Wiki up to an even 100 pages before the night's up. You can click "Random Page" to get ya surfing, or go to well-established pages such as Andrew I, Hunter DeRensis, or Joseph Smith. Yes, THAT Joseph Smith. The disparate characters really click when you read the Wiki. For instance, why would I create the character Roland Tully? Because his legal defeat against lawyer Martin Van Buren II helps Martin come out from under his father's shadow, which will effect the story severely in the future. The main story can be read without the Wiki. The Wiki cannot be read without the story and make total sense. Put them together and you got yourself a whole fantasy universe.

Other people have written/are writing short stories set in this universe, not to mention several mini-novels I've written myself, so there's pretty much always a continuous flow of new material. So, basically, if you want to have something to read that will take the rest of your life, read this!

As a preview of this world's setting, here's a snippet from the upcoming short story "The Revenge of Mister Mitchell." You can type his name up on the wiki to see interesting stuff, and to read about some of the characters.




Prelude

My name is Michael Mitchell, veteran of the Second Seven Years' War. During the Battle of Wehrley Ridge (October 4th, 1808), in Upper Canada, I was taken prisoner by a British regiment even though the Union of Royal American States won the battle. The disgusting dastards beat me up and threw me in a filthy wagon. Before I knew it, I was behind prison bars in Quebec City, in the middle of the harsh, freezing Canadian winter.

For five God-forsaken months I wrote to my beloved, Sarah Glasner, the beautiful flame-haired daughter of a wealthy Bostonian shipping baron. I thought she was the love of my life. Oh, how I was mistaken. During my time away in the army and subsequent imprisonment, she abandoned me. You can imagine my shock as an old friend from Boston, my hometown, told me about her when he was also captured. Our regimental commander, Major Desmond Battenfield--curse his name--had become her fiance, set to marry her in Christmas of 1809.

Battenfield was a sorry foppish wretch who had abandoned me at Wehrley Ridge. He could have traded me for one or two of our English prisoners like any decent commander would, but he hadn't. I realized that he didn't want to. Like King David setting up Uriah the Hittite to be killed so he could wed himself to Bathsheba, Battenfield wanted me out of the way.

It was time to take revenge. I was released when the war ended, October, 1809. Almost one year to the day of imprisonment under my belt. I was given some cash, some clothing, and told to hit the road. This was only the beginning.

ACT I

Michael Mitchell stepped out of a carriage. He breathed Boston air for the first time in over two years. Normally, a man would be happy to go back to his hometown after fighting in a war. Michael was not. One thought consumed his mind like the fires of Hell consume a soul: Desmond Battenfield and all his cohorts must die. Desmond walked through the streets, Christmastime snow covering the cobbles like powder on a Turkish delight. The buckled shoes that he had been given upon his release, formerly belonging to a British soldier, crunched over the icy winter frosting. The cold stung the lungs of most of the Bostonians out going about their business, but thanks to an obscene amount of time shivering in a Canadian prison, Michael hardly noticed it.

"Penny for an apple, sir?" bellowed a seller. Michael tossed him a coin and the man tossed the round, red fruit to Michael. Michael took a bite out of it, an import from the American Bahamas, most likely. Several children ran about the street, throwing snowballs at each other. Shouts of "Merry Christmas" greeted Michael, to which he only nodded. For him, Christmas would be anything but merry. All the local girls eyed him and the men stepped out of his way, for even his time in prison did not damage his masculine features. But he payed no attention to any of them. He just kept walking. Down, down, down the street. Citizen after citizen he passed, along with not a few green-clad URAS Marines. When he finally headed into Taft's Tavern he saw a nicely carved oaken sign which read: "No weapons allowed in or around Taft's Tavern, except swords." Michael felt the side of his jacket, which concealed a flintlock pistol. He planned on keeping it.

The former prisoner opened the doors to Taft's Tavern and stood there silently for a moment. An intimidating sight at 6 feet 2 inches tall, the other drinkers turned to look at him. Normally Oliver Taft, the tavern owner, would have one of his Cravat thugs (the Cravats were a local street gang and offshoot of the Sons of Liberty whose name referred to their wearing of light red cravats to identify themselves) search new customers for weapons, but they all backed off. Michael nodded mentally in satisfaction at their fear and went and sat down at the bar after grabbing a sandwich at the free-lunch counter. The sandwich was better than normal, as Taft was trying to get in the Christmas spirit.

The jovial, double-chinned man with a bushy beard walked over, which took a while since he had lost one of his legs in the war. His peg make creaking noises, almost as if his lard was going to snap it in two. Or maybe it was just the floorboards creaking. Either way, something sounded as if it was about to break because of his obesity. He waved a chubby hand and said, "Merry Christmas, gent, fine winter day, eh? Can I get you something?"

Michael looked up at him under the rim of his stovepipe hat. A look of recognition appeared on Taft's fat face, and his eyes grew wide. "Hello, Sergeant Taft," Mitchell said dryly to his old non-com.

Taft patted Michael on the back. "Bless me, by t'under! I never thought we'd see you again! It's good to see you, lad!"

"Go to Hell, backstabber," croaked Michael.

"Wha-what? Now why would ye wanta talk that way to me, yer old friend?" Taft understood why, whether he admitted it or not.

"You know why, Taftie. You were given orders by Major Battenfield to abandon me to the British so he could marry my fiance. You executed the orders that left me to rot for an entire stinking, miserable year in a damp, rat-infested Canadian misery box! You! You! And I've returned, and you shall pay for what you have done, backstabber!"

Taft's goons made ready to pull out pistols and swords, but Michael waved them down. "No," he said calmly, "I'm not going to kill him... right now." Then he turned his attention back to Taft, and enlightened him on the fate he had in store for the old sergeant. "Look, Taftie, I'm going to make you wish you were never born. I'm going to make you lose this business. I'm going to take away your family. I'll make you a penniless wretch. And then, I'll give you a gun. You know what you'll do with that gun, Taftie?"

"Taftie" shook his head very slowly, sweat pouring off it.

Michael told him: "You'll take that gun, and you'll load one single bullet in it. And then, you'll kill yourself. I won't kill you. I'll let you do it. You shall pay for your transgressions. You shall pay, backstabber."

Michael turned and walked out of the tavern, Taft shaking like a shell-shock victim.

Wow, impressive. Haven't had time to read yet but the scope in itself is inspiring indeed. I also hope you've thanked your friend for those pictures, especially the one with Mr Mitchell is wonderful.

But, what about the LEGO?

Thanks a lot, Mr. M! I think you'll like it if you get to read it. And the Mr. Mit painting was actually a real painting of the Count of Monte Cristo, which influenced Mr. Mit's story drastically. The pictures above are from my friend.

Lol, I need to get a camera badly. I do intend to create some key scenes from this story. Plus, I am experiencing an revival of LEGO Castle.