CAMELOT DIMENSION 360
The Long Winter
Written by Author
Daton L Fluker
Flemish Translation done by
In reality, life is encased within its own formality, occasions of factual truths we see with our eyes. The world we breed in makes us use assets that compose us to believe in wealth.
We dream and live in terminologies that can’t be figured out by just a naked look. These items of principalities lead us on a path of wreckage or opposite, appreciation.
These nomenclatures of society aspects, which we believe, give us our first bicycle, our first kiss, and our first confrontation with an enemy.
The above covetousness is musts that humans encounter during decades of vigor imprisonment.
Conversely, what if there was another world besides the one which we hold dear and love? Four dimensions are inside a cube shape, and each dimension is plighted in its own place or noted lines.
These cubes fill with smaller cubes or living organisms. If we take a look inside of a plant’s anatomy, we can figure out through science that the smallest cube of life is a cell.
This ideal of biology is voiced and fulfilled with the unique track record of our scientific methods. Our scientist can distinguish smaller worlds within us and many other worlds beyond them.
One social circle, in contrast, keeps well-overseeing itself in the convictions of our minds. The power of the soul is occasionally explained as supernatural.
In mathematics or physics, the share of a space or object is informally determined as the smallest number of dictums necessary to indicate each level within it. Thus a line has a ratio of one because only one order is needed to identify a point. However, what if the points are not necessarily straight and they are bent into circular or inert patterns?
Most cubes of life are explained without edges, and the edges are not fringed together even though a figment of an edge scopes inside itself. We think of the supernatural worlds when we comprehend other universes this way.
We have to go somewhere when we die. Nevertheless, this is not suavity which holds authentic behavior. I’m going to tell you of another dimension that stacks its bodies as fast as it piles its resources. Dimension 360 is a verse where people are similar but not necessarily like us. They live like us, but they have an abundance of prosperity.
Imagine a place that is 50 times the Earth size. Its massiveness counteracts each season. When it circles the sun, it rotates on its axis only once every five human decades, meaning that summers are long and bright, and winters are cold and dark.
Half of the planet is full of ice and the other half of it is bless with vegetation and animal migration. This world is eight-billion-light-years away from planet Earth, which has similar life forms.
Just like Earth, water, trees, mysterious creatures, and humans are on its surface. However, because technology can’t advance more than what earthlings had in the Middle-Ages, when there was an abundant outfit of royal families, we tend to forget how brutal humans will fight for power, respect, and wealth.
We begin our quest in a newly built town-hall. Unknown people group together resettling on the other side of the planet. Some of them protest because they need nourishment. The winter has finished and spring time is on its way.
The people must capture as many resources as they possibly can, well, before the wars commence. More colonies like theirs are being brought to bed on their planet.
These wars can last for the entire summer. There is no limit on how big a kingdom can get because if the population doesn’t relocate when the winter comes, the city will be incased in ice for decades and the people will die from starvation.
Even the sea creatures change direction overtime because of the seas freezing over and their natural habitats are lost in hoarfrost and ice. They consider each race as barbaric, and the kingdoms, not in alliance, could be brutal rivals.
CHAPTER 1 NOURISH THE BEGGAR KILL THE CRAVING I
People protest around Town-Hall. An example made of a man and his family extends to the outside. The family stayed loyal to the lord of their people. Now they’ll suffer for their allegiance.
The doors are chained from the inside; the crowd can’t get inside to conflict deserving punishment on their leaders.
The winter came unsuspected. It veiled a treacherous trail of death and suffering on this uncivilized nation. The people had to walk 32-years in a forever blizzard to the other-side of the planet where they are made to saunter out on a journey of life and death.
It is a pilgrimage that every man and woman experience. It’s a calling that carries the young to maturity and buries those individuals, who are weak and frail, from the joys of a new day. It could be because in time they can gouge the best of the plentiful resources harvested during the summer.
They call their planet Minaera. Minaera slowly turns. Spring is coming. For almost 45-years no vegetation grew in this area. Every day, more grass grows from out of the crevices of the cracked ice, and for the first time in ages the sun rises in the east. They used all their resources two years ago, and they blame their lord for their gluttonous behavior.
During that time, families were picked from out of the colony every month to be consumed by hungry colonists. The lord accepted this behavior because his traveling metropolis ran out of strength and endurance; its people have turned into ravenous maniacs.
The King’s army took half of the food to fight a smaller army which attacked them from a mountain-pass three years ago. None of the soldiers have returned.
The lord sets weakened in his quarters looking out of a bulletproof window with bars on it.
Weapons used similar to Earth guns are thrown in a pile on the ground. No more iron resources or gunpowder subsist to manufacture ammunition.
A human made hill near a cottage, constructed of mud and packed ice, is used as an execution zone. The crowd of farmers and workers hold unfamiliar gardening tools made of stone, and 80 of the villagers walk behind the poor gentleman and his family.
(The man calls out) “Lord Matchbox!”
Tears roll down the man’s face as he and his family march to their gruesome fate.
“We stayed loyal to you! Please save us! Come out and stop these people from doing this! Please lord! We still believe in the principals of our nation! How and why can our lord let this happen?”
His wife bleeds from her mouth. She can’t speak because her tongue has been cut out.
Fingers dangle from the neck of a man behind the family, who are being pushed toward the hill. He shoves them while the diminutive crowd follows. It’s so cold plus the wind blows a freezing mass of air converting chills underneath their skin every second.
Everyone has developed a form of adaptation to the weather, and they look like aborigines dressed in nothing but rags.
The Passing Tory, the man with the finger bracelet, is over 500-pounds and seven and-a-half feet tall. He wears a solid black wardrobe. Compared to a certain devious profession on Earth, he resembles an executioner, but on this planet he is called The Passing Tory. They are the ones who prepare the people for eating.
Two traitorous swordsmen, at the top of the hill, bear the sign of the kingdom on their armor. It signifies a picture of a lion with wings and the words Camelot on it, except most of the depiction has been scratched off and covered with dents and human blood.
The swordsmen are the ones responsible for gutting the people like fish. They take out their organs and save them for the upper level families to eat; the families who are now in command.
The day resembles a never ending sunset. Icy sheets of cracked-soil gnash underneath their feet as they progress forward.
The place, where no one ever walks, settles on the out skirts of the trail. Brown grass grows a few feet higher than the level of land that has been smashed on for months.
The first time in years, clouds form in the east in front of the rising sun. The dirt path the crowd follows, leads to a human made dirt hill. Lord Matchbox watches as the family is harassed and shoved toward it, but there is nothing he could do.
The man and his wife have a son and a daughter and both of them are truly young. The girl is the oldest, and she looks to be around 10-years-old. Her brother is nearly eight.
The children are held in front of their parents so that they won’t get hit with the weapons from the crowd behind them.
Instead of guiding themselves away from the mass of angry people, the family pushes back into them.
On the hill, two swordsmen stand waiting for them introducing a big surprise at the bottom.
Logs from the dark forest and a large pot of boiling water are in facing distance from the hill gradually proscribing the family’s doomed destinies.
The man screams out. He and his family are half way up the hill,
“Lord Matchbox! At least help my family. You coward! Come out and face your people. Can’t you see everything you all are doing is wrong? Let them go and take me!”
An old man from the crowd screams back,
“You bastard! Can’t you see your lord is nothing more than a man? He can’t save you! Your family is lost because of your loyalty to these fake principles! Kill his family first!”
The mob repeats,
“Kill his family first! Kill his family first! Kill his family first!”
One of the swordsmen meets them on the pathway. He punches the poor man in his nose. He loses grip of his daughter and son.
The swordsman takes the children up the hill, along with the man’s wife. They pull him up behind his family. The iron glove the swordsman wears knocks a few of the man’s teeth out.
He lies on the ground. Bleeding from his face, he’s too hungry and too weak to fight back. The Passing Tory grabs him by the neck and forces him to his feet. They walk up the hill together.
Nothing the man could do. He reaches his hand out for his family kneeling down in front of the boiling water. Hopelessness sings in his heart, and for a moment, he is no longer loyal to his lord.
“No! Stop it. You monsters!”
The swordsman raises his sword into the air lowering it in the same breath all the way to the dirt. His sword chops off the woman’s head. The man screams…
“No! Not my son! Please, stop. I’m not loyal to this kingdom anymore. Please, let them go and take me. They are only children!”
He tries to fight but The Passing Tory is too strong. He holds the wiry-man in place. Next in line is the man’s son. The boy and his sister bow near the body of their dead mother. Her open neck bleeds-out into the boiling water. Human remains simmer in the pot. The woman’s soft tissues boil from the neck of her braised head.
The other swordsman has another job to do. Dragging the mother’s body to the middle of the hill, he grabs her legs. Taking off her clothes, the swordsman prepares her corps for consumption.
In a chopping position, the other swordsman raises his sword to strike the man’s son. When he does, an arrow goes through the swordsman’s neck causing him to drop his weapon.
Downward trotting from out of the darkness, a figure of a man rides a horse toward the hill. Because of the midnight shade, he’s nothing but a blurred vision, behind the hero yonder a small army.
It’s the army that went to defend the valley. They’ve returned from a two-year battle. Within 15-seconds, arrows from archers fly toward the swordsman. A few arrows hit the swordsman’s chest-plate bouncing off, but the ones that penetrate, squarely pierce through the soft parts of his body.
The swordsman falls into the sweltering pot of boiling water. Lord Matchbox witnesses the capture through the window. Tears stream from his eyes as servants inside town-hall remove boards from the entrance.
A young lord in his 20’s sports a semblance of a flying tiger on his armor. A red-cloak slopes from his back. Grasping a brand-new sword, he stares out to everybody with dark-black-eyes. The lord wears a king’s helmet made of gold and diamonds.
The people stare back. No one attacks him. He hurries toward the hill with his attention on the remaining swordsman.
Standing at parade rest the swordsman has a big smirk on his face. The dead woman’s body beneath him lay saturated in blood. The little girl grabs her younger brother and holds him close. The town goes quiet.
Clouds move through the sky like zigzag lines stimulating toward darkness. The sun blazes in the east. Two moons are close together in the western skies where most of the blackness disperses from. A black forest resides behind the town. Shadows of a vast mountain range shade in behind it.
Lord Matchbox paces closer to the hill. Moving a little faster each time, his body levitates upward with every step. He speaks while expanding forward.
“How dare you? We had a deal not to kill any children! For over a month I have watched you murdered a dozen young youths! Don’t you know they’re our future? And their families, thirty of them lost because of your political anarchy!”
The swordsman stands in place. He breaks his thousand yard stare glancing toward Lord Matchbox’s direction. He yells back,
“You are not my lord anymore! You allowed your people to go hungry and in return they have turned into corrupted monsters! I’m no longer loyal to this lunacy! You’ll find your reprisal, and it’ll be in the courts of our Gods. Don’t tell me about how I murdered innocent children. Tell me how a Lord can let an entire nation fall to its annihilation!”
The lord poses next to him. The villagers are afraid as they watch this avocation acquire. Leaving a mass of dust behind them, the army advances from the west striding at full speed. The Lord and the swordsman’s teeth clatter together as they speak.
“You do not understand! It was my father that ordered those people to die! I’m a different leader and this is a new day! However, you’ll never see it!”
The Lord’s gesticulate action and the sound of his voice cues the swordsman’s death. Lord Matchbox swings his sword.
The swordsman falls to his knees. His head captions into the sky, while his body falls to the dirt like aspic gelatin, inanimate and lifeless. Blood flows out, as his heart virtually stops pumping.
A Hero rides toward their direction. He jaunts passed the crowd to the hill. No one can make out what’s on his chest-plate. Carrying a broken sword, three fingers are missing from his right-hand. Walking toward the hill, he leaps off his horse.
On top of the hill, the man, who was once loyal to his nation, is now mystified that fate gave him back his children. Holding his children close, he reaches out and grabs them.
“I’m sorry about your wife. I saw what happened.”
He points his sword out to some open space.
“Over there, you can have your own farm. Now you are graced as a Duke. I’ll give you workers, tools and 1,000 gold-pieces to help you and your families grow.”
The man replies back with tearful shrieks,
“Thank you my lord.”
The man, his son, and his daughter slide down the hill moving through the crowd. No one touches him because of his granted royal position.
The army takes control. The Camelot Kingdom is under martial-law. The Hero kneels in front of Lord Matchbox.
Showing appreciation to the new lord, he lays his broken sword in the dirt bowing his head to the ground. When the Hero left, Lord Matchbox’s father was king. Lord Matchbox walks over to him and puts his hands on the Hero’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to bow anymore! Stand up! I’m appointing you as mayor! Help me govern these people! We can talk a few hours later at Town Hall!”
The Hero stands up. Gazing out with the eyes of death, he screams.
“Yes my Lord!”
“But before you take your position, I want all these families names brought to me with their heads on silver platters. These are the people who started this outrageous anarchy and brought months of disorder on our people! The Johnstown, Flasksens, Belgrans, Lebeltons, and the Norchins; bring them to me in the next hour!”
“Yes my Lord!”
His voice is ferociously deep. He’s in his 50s. However, he’s in good shape because of the many battles he experienced.
The hero screams out to some warriors carrying heavy loads of meat that they captured from a valley army, which they had fought with previously.
“Drop those sacks! You heard the King! Bring me the Johnstown, Flasksens, Belgrans, Lebeltons, and the Norchins now! I want everything that they own brought to this hill and burnt along with their headless bodies!”
The warriors drop their bags and search for the leaders in the crowd.
Lord Matchbox’s eyes are full of tears. They fall out by the loads. He strides toward Town-Hall. The entire kingdom has become chaotic.
An old man and his wife are brought in the middle of the street, and more people are pushed with him and her.
Lord Matchbox glances back before he closes the door. He notices one of his soldiers beheading Mr. Lebelton, a man who was once his father’s friend.
This is a new age, and now Lord Matchbox has to make them pay for their fowl mistreatment of their own countrymen. Lord Matchbox’s father would never accept this type of behavior from himself, nor the people but now he is Lord, and he must rule his kingdom. He closes the door and chaos continues.