Graeme Patrick

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AWARDS

Game Writing

• Game Analysis
• Interactive Twine
• Convention Panels
• Self-Pub TTRPGs

I am well-versed in managing large-scale scripted and branching narratives. Having delivered story campaigns for a multi-award-winning podcast and written over 100K words for Chaosium. Working autonomously on IP bibles and creating living documents for reference and collaboration with team members and external 3rd party, such as VAs, editors, sound design, marketing, and test groups.To strengthen these crossover skills, I enrolled in a Video Game Writing Course with ELVTR, taught by senior narrative designer, Sarah Arellano,

Skill Set

Narrative Roadmaps

Setting the Scene

Props/Clues

Within the opening scene, I use two handouts to draw the players in. These offer a visual taste of the setting, with the old newspaper and exposition presented as a mystery. Around a table with iPhones and cheese puffs, these in era offerings are all the more valuable to hold the player's immersion.

Characters, Stats, Weapons

Relationship Map

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Scripts & Audio Drama

• Magnus Protocol
• Nine to Midnight
• Self-Serving

Self-Serving - A fully dramatized short audio story.Content Warnings: the sin of gluttony, body horror, self-cannibalism, death, delusions, explicit language, hallucination, suggested harm to domestic cat, manipulation, self-harm, violence, sounds (chewing flesh, choking, gore, struggle, vomiting)

Writing Samples

Below are excerpts from several projects, collected together for tone and story genre.
Style guide used: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style, Dreyer's English by Benjamin Dreyer

• Fantasy
• Sci-fi
• Contemporary

• Cosy
• Horror
• Cinematic

Short Story - Sirens in Rain
Five Minute Read

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Portfolio

DUSTER 2026 - TBA
Occupied Hex Games
Overview: A quirky post-apocalyptic Gaspunk world by Andrew Orvedahl, set in a world in the style and function of the old west mixed with Mad Max.
Contribution: Designed two scenarios. World Building, Narrative Design, Quests, Lore, Dialogue, Barks, Character Design.

BLEEKER TRAIL 2020- 2024
Ain’t Slayed Nobody
Overview Comedic Old West arc. A team of investigators, as part of a medicine wagon front, looks into strange events in the deserts of Texas, taking them on a mind-bending journey into dreams.
Awards Gold ENnie, Audioverse, EN World Hall of Fame.
Contribution: Lead Writer: World Building, NPC and PC Character Arcs, Narrative Design, Narrative Management, Quest Design and Management, Script writing & Editing, Lore, VA Sheets & support, Audio Editing. Collaboration with Players, Editors and VAs.

MAGNUS PROTOCOL 2024
Rusty Quill
Overview: Relaunched their coveted audio drama, Magnus Archives, as Magnus Protocol, a sequel and prequel series on Kickstarter.
Awards: Audioverse - Best Writing in a new production
Contribution: Guest Writer - Script Writing, world building, IP bible restrictions, editing.

BLADE RUNNER 2023
Ain’t Slayed Nobody/Free League
Overview: Paid promotion of Free League's Blade Runner RPG featured Ross Bryant from Dropout TV. Produce a showcase of Actual Play of their debut cinematic scenario.
Contribution: Script Writing & Editing, Marketing (In-game advertising), VA support.

OF SORROW AND CLAY 2023
Ain't Slayed Nobody
Overview: A special scenario created for an Old Gods of Appalachia mini series featuring Becca Scott and Cam Collins. historically accurate 1920s Kentucky. A deep exploration into family and decade-old secrets.
Awards: Platinum Best Seller
Contribution: Lead Writer: World Building, Narrative Design, Quest Design, Script writing & Editing, Lore, VA Sheets & support, Audio Editing.

FOUR HOURS TO RENO
Chaosium
Overview: A classic scenario Call of Cthulhu that blends an old west setting with an Agatha Christie train mystery. Used as a convention scenario to showcase the setting. Led to a 100K word TBA project with Chaosium.
Awards: First Place in Chaosium's Cult of Chaos Convention Competition.
Contribution Writer: World Building, Narrative Design, Quest Design.

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Cosy Samples

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Sample 1: Cosy Fantasy Dialogue
Character Chemistry, Conversational Humour, and Everyday Magical Realism

The physician padded over to whisper in his mother’s ear. Nodding, she upturned her empty teacup onto the saucer, allowing the Physician to dab at the leaves as they slopped out. The pair gravely exchanged looks until one broke and giggled, and then the other. And with great majesty, Mother rang the service bell.“Aud! I think we have it!” his mother said. Her gleeful grin turned down into a pantomime pout. “Oh, come on, this is fun! Aud, you remember fun! Penance is having fun, right?”
Penance looked up at Maple, their basset hound, who was still rotating three feet in the air. “Mhm. Fun,” she muttered and turned the page of her book called Gobstoppers and Other Things That Break Your Teeth.“See!” his mother declared.Audrey rolled his eyes at her superstitious nonsense and decided to ignore their petty conspiracy. Instead, he turned and leaned out the window to take in the crisp air as the day relented and gave over to cool night. Maple broke the silence and had a good bark at his tail, which remained wagging furiously just out of chomping range.Audrey closed his eyes and sighed. “Fine, I’ll help you find your ghost.”

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Sample 2: Modern Magical Fantasy
Relationship-Driven Dialogue Exploring Contemporary Witchcraft and Wonder.

“So… you’re a witch now?” Tomás said?
“Wicca, actually. It’s been like, uh, ten days? I don’t think I’ve slept. Ok, maybe an hour here and there, but did you know chaos magic works, actually freaking works. I can’t sleep, not yet…” Jen replied as the kettle clicked off.Tomás sat and tried to share a concerned look with Mumbles, but the obese tabby batted at Tomás’s toast instead, licking at the golden butter. “Ok, so you? What? You meditate now?”“Sure.”“I don’t think sure is going to cut it, Jen. Look at this place.”Mumbles stepped backwards into a discarded cereal bowl. Hissing, he kicked it to the kitchen floor. Tomás peered down and gagged a little at the rank milk before reaching down to pick up the dish. Jen shuffled over and sat, slippers splashing in the bloated cereal. She pushed Tomás’s tea into his hands as he came up from under the table.“Do we have a mop?” he asked.Jen barely shrugged, studying her foot as she slapped the milk again. “What if we just aren’t equipped to see? Like dogs missing colours. You can’t explain colour to a dog?”Tomás eyed his cup. Escaped leaves swam free in the turbulence of the final vigorous stir. He sipped at it cautiously. “Is spring cleaning in the Wiccan handbook?”Jen tutted. “Right, I get it. You’re colour blind. It wasn’t a dig. All I’m saying is we might be missing something else. You need to listen for the lie, the little betrayals of reality, like a black hole. You can’t see a black hole, but if you pay attention, its fingerprints are there. You just need to find new eyes, that’s all.”Tomás let his silence diffuse the conversation. Instead of speaking, he opened the cupboard. No mop. Inside was the laundry basket. Through its wicker weaves, a soft light thrummed.“What…what’s all this?”Jen grinned. “A surprise.”

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Sample 3: Fantasy Character Reflection
Warm Parent-Child Character Writing with Emotional Resonance and Gentle Humour.

Throwing down the crowbar, Tim upended the sack, searching for an answer. Junk and tools clattered onto the pine needles. Sifting through the mess, there wasn’t much. Rope, a few hand tools, lantern oil, sugar lumps for Bessie, a flask, and a bundle of linen.
The old man came and perched next to him. “You must have picked up mine from the wagon.”“What’s this meant to be?” Tim said, unfolding linen and holding up what looked like burnt squares.His father frowned into the dark. “You know fine well. That’s your mother’s shortbread. I thought ... I thought I’d try to make some. Never mind, I know it’s not the same, and they must be stale by now.” He went to snatch them back.“Wait, I’ll have some. I don’t think charcoal gets stale,” Tim said, jerking the bundle away.“Right,” said the old man.“Right,” said Tim.He chewed the sweet charcoal and sipped whiskey from his dad’s old flask. It tasted like any other Hogmanay, listening to bawdy stories and raucous laughter. As a boy, he’d like to think the cinders of the fire danced to the fiddler’s tune. The pair sat together, not a word spoken, watching the early frost make the branches sparkle in the fog-bound moonlight.The old man broke the silence first: “Time for resolutions.”

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Sample 4: Cosy Supernatural Healing
Nature-Inspired Magic, Emotional Warmth, and Whimsical Character Interaction

The roof brimmed with hundreds of pots, pans, and plastic barrels. Several had burst open, spilling roots and scree, piling earth onto the sagging black tar surface. Wildflowers had sprung up from the islands of dirt, and even a few trees thrived here. The largest dominated the centre of the space. He thought it might be a hawthorn, but it was mostly a wild guess. He knew some of the plants and picked out foxglove and ferns, which were easy enough to identify. He also thought he spied valerian and mugwort hiding in the dark. His sister would pester Harold for hours to help her press flowers in a big scrapbook. He’d held on to those names; he didn’t know why.A rustling of bushes saw swarms of glowing insects fill the night with a soft, yellow-green light, illuminating Mrs Goodfellow.“Lampyris noctiluca. Sadly, they are quite rare in these dying days. Set her down.”Harold blinked stupidly. The insects swirled around him like he was standing inside a universe of churning stars. “What?”“The bird. You want to save it or not?”“Yes. Sorry.” Harold placed the box on the bench and looked inside. The little robin didn’t move. “We might be too late.”Mrs Goodfellow didn’t reply; instead she plucked plants and added them to a mortar. The clunk of the pestle matched her steps as she flitted over to another clump and stuffed nettles into the mixture. Her eyes caught his, and she drooled into the bowl, grinding it in.“What’s that for?” Harold whispered—scared to speak aloud.
“You.” She said, eyes wide, and waved the bowl around, sending the glowing bugs into a manic dance.“Me?!”“Of course not, it's for the bird, dolt. But you should have seen your face, ha. Never gets old, that one.” She threw back a tarp and uncovered a dirty little gas stove near the door to the roof. Twisting the gas tap, she touched a lighter to the hob, bringing it to life, then set a wok on it to heat and brushed away the debris. From her cardigan pocket, she pulled out some chicken bones from dinner and found a length of garden string to wind around them. The aroma was like mown grass and Sunday roast. “Now, take the spoon and gentle, gentle. Yes, that's it. Feed her a little taste of that.”Harold dripped the mixture into the little robin's beak. Around the little bird’s box, hundreds of new stems sprang up and blossomed into daisies. Before long, the glow bugs swarmed around them, their wings thrumming in a hypnotic rhythm. Almost like a heartbeat, and then, the robin moved.“Bloody hell,” Harold said.“Now, who’s the silly old crone? There is more to this world than your loud music and cartoons, boy.” Mrs Goodfellow muttered as she reached down and scooped up the robin. She eyed it, nodded and threw straight up. The bird sang and flurried its wings, taking off into the city night.

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Self-Published

TTRPG Scenarios

I've published several best selling TTRPG scenarios on DrivethrRPG.
Below is a choice selection.

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Game Analysis

With seven years of experience in TTRPGs, I've developed a keen understanding of story through gameplay. Going as far as to create a YouTube channel, RPG Nook, to dissect scenarios and offer suggestions to improve story, cinematic impact, and player agency.Through these videos and with the enduring help of two friends, Orp and Riley, I have built a small community of 500+ members to run, play, and critique TTRPGs.

Breakdown Overview Samples

I've run multiple campaigns and game series for my community to help understand what makes them tick. Masks of Nyarlathotep is one of my favourites, and one of the most structurally demanding campaigns in tabletop RPG. It's a continent-spanning investigation with interlocking faction timelines, deep lore dependencies, and no fixed path through. Running it multiple times for our community meant I had to build and maintain reference documents like this to track narrative state, clue chains, and consequences across two years of play.Doing this lets me improve my own campaigns, such as Bleeker Trail for Ain't Slayed Nobody.

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Con Gaming Panels

I've been invited to take part in over a dozen panels at gaming conventions to discuss game design, horror, and roleplaying. Below is a selection of choices from A Weekend for Good Friends and Illusion & Horror Con, featuring TTRPG legends Scott Dorward, Mike Mason, and Paul Fricker.

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Interactive Game

Processing Mann

• Narrative Document
• PC Document
• Barks

Processing Mann is a psychological horror Twine game exploring ageing, bureaucracy, and social exclusion through branching narrative and environmental storytelling.Created as part of ELVTR's Video Game Writing programme, the project required narrative documentation, character design, companion mechanics, dialogue, barks, and implementation within a tightly defined framework.

The project serves as a public example of my narrative design process, including player journey mapping, branching structure, worldbuilding, and reactive dialogue. Similar skills have since been applied professionally on commercial projects, including a large-scale branching narrative scenario for Chaosium comprising over 300 passages, which remains under NDA.

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Horror Samples

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Sample 1: Body Horror & Tragic Decay
Character-Driven Horror with Graphic Physical Transformation

Morgan downed the last of his brandy, gave a weak nod, and then, step by step, forced himself back to the malodorous bed.“Damn it,” Morgan said. He steeled himself and ripped back the curtain. The smell watered his eyes as he belched and gagged at the pungent rot. Smearing away his tears,
Morgan saw Ernest for the first time since the incident. He lay in sweat-stained sheets, struggling against the bond that lashed him to the headboard. His tongue lolled, searching for the missing left side of his jaw. The wound had been packed with cloth, but a stream of caked bile and blood seeped onto the sheets. Incense burned beside him, fending off flies, but a few still crawled on his body, gorging themselves.His face was an obscene mess of bandages: one eye had been removed, the lid stitched shut. The one he still possessed fixated on the canopy above him as if unwilling to look down. Morgan could relate as his throat and stomach clenched in a dry heave.“Ernest, you’re looking well!” Morgan lied, trying to sound upbeat, but the humour fell flat, and now even the staff regarded him with a grim fatalism.“Moooorrrg,” Ernest said, followed by a low wheeze as the single eye found him.
Morgan leaned in and said, “Brother, I’m here. I won’t leave you. Not now.”Ernest slurred back, “Moorrg, ruuun.”“I-I don’t understand. What do you mean?” Morgan said.“It is a great shame. He’s in a fugue from the pain,” the physician said, sitting by the bedpan. Ernest gawked at the now naked, fat little doctor.

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Sample 2: Folk Horror & Mythic Dread
Atmospheric Dialogue in a Pagan Landscape

At its heart, flanked between large carved urns, was the likeness of Crom Cruach. The twisted and stooped figure of dark granite rose eight feet out of the murk on a mound of discarded offerings. The giant held a child's torso between its two hands, with loops of bronze innards corroded to bright blues dangling down into the god’s open maw.The Bonesman cast light over the lichen-covered cobbles and roots before holding it up at Crom. The old Pagan god looked gleeful, and the Bonesman suppressed the urge to leave.“Quite the sight,” the old man said. “I’d shit myself if I was dragged up here. Those urns make a statement.”“The urns? Not the big bastard eating the bairns?”“He’s not so bad, just doesn’t think much of his children. Children change you. I had a life before you fell out of your mother. Spent some time as a grave digger down south. Dug in some right lovely holes in my day.”“Course you did,” Bonesman said, lighting the dark aisles. The thick fog diffused the lantern's glow and lent an ethereal reverence to the place. “You take the right side. I’ll go left.”“What are we looking for?” the old man asked again.“I don’t know. Maybe we are here to bury you,” the Bonesman said.
“Heh, our blood isn’t rich enough for this place. Just hang me in a gibbet and be done with me.”“No,” the Bonesman snapped. “I’ll not. Stop graving yourself.”The old man’s voice darkened to a hollow whisper. “I’m all alone while you're off doing what? Stealing the dignity of the dead? You’re the best of me, boy, yet you squander it. Should I devour you and start over?”

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Sample 3: Domestic Horror & Unease
Character Centred Tension with Dark Humour

A shrill voice drifted through from the darkness of the front room. “Are you alright, dearie?”Harold went still and silently cursed. A shadow cut across the TV’s glow in the front room. The last thing he needed was small talk. He hated small talk.“I’m fine, Mrs Goodfellow; just cut myself. I’ll be okay.”“Oh. Oh, dear me, that sounds nasty. Here, let me see,” she said, and the scrape of worn slippers on tatty vinyl soon accompanied her prattle. “I think I have some plasters under the sink. They have little stars on them. Do you like stars, Harry? I do.”“I can’t say I’ve paid them much mind, Mrs Goodfellow. Honestly, I’m fine. Just watch your shows. And … please, my name is Harold.”
“Is it?”Mrs Goodfellow seemed to consider that as she emerged from the lounge and stood in the kitchen doorway. She stared at the void where the chicken buckets had been, and Harold winced. Slowly, she turned to grin out at him from her layers of cardigans, making her look like an absurd tortoise. This was the first time she’d moved since he got here. He thought she might have been grafted to that filthy couch.He pulled down his mask to speak and gulped in the stink of sweat-stale air. He feigned a smile.
“Yes, remember, I’ve told you several times now. It’s Harold.”
She just studied him with cloudy eyes.“Nonsense, young man. Now, let's see that finger.”She grabbed his hand quicker than he could snatch it away. Eyeing it, she mumbled and stuffed the bloody digit into her mouth. Her tongue explored the wound.Harold squealed and pulled free. “What the hell?”“I’m trying to help. It tastes off.”“Don’t touch me, no one touches me,” Harold said, trying to claw back some dignity.She only grinned at him and waddled forward, forcing him to step back against the sink, clinking into the pans. Icy grey water seeped into his jeans.“Oh, I can’t keep that sort of promise. I still need my bath,” she added, reaching beside him and opening the sink cupboard.
Stacks of boxes fell out, sporting pictures of little stars, moons, and suns.Harold blanched as she reached down. Her whiskered face and fetid breath brushed his arm, and the hairs stood up in alarm. He pushed her and escaped to the other side of the room.

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Contemporary Samples

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Sample 1: Coming-of-Age & Social Cruelty
Dialogue-Driven Scene Exploring Peer Pressure, Fear, and Childhood Hierarchies

“Do it, chicken shit,” Ginny said as Tom splashed down into the sewer runoff. The stagnant water looked almost clean in the half light of the fading August day, until you looked closely, and Tom tried not to. Ignoring the cold seeping into his socks and shoes, he crouched down, craning his neck to peer into the tunnel. It was four feet across and pitch-black inside. Save for the small pinhole of light at the other end, it looked really far away. He wasn’t sure he would make it out before sundown, leaving him in total darkness before getting out. His mind swam with what might call the pipe home.Ginny giggled and threw a rock into the water at Tom’s feet, soaking his legs and crotch. “Haha, pissy Tommy.” The gathering sang-songed in snorts and titters.
“Well? Are we doing this or what?” Dan said as the laughter simmered.
Tom ground his teeth; the water was ice cold. “I said I would do it, didn’t I?” But right now, he wasn’t sure if fighting Dan wouldn’t be the better of the two punishments.
Dan took a step closer to Tom. The older boy towered over him from the grass bank.“Then get in the hole, Tommy. It’s easy, I’ve done it a million times. Time to man up, prove to us you are a pissy bitch, or I’ll break your teeth. Give him the spray can, Flabs.” Dan said, he couldn’t help but grin.Flabs shuffled forward and looked at Tom with apologetic eyes. He knew how it felt to be the target of Dan’s games. Tom took the can with a nod and shook it. There was a satisfying clunk, clunk, clunk as the steel ball agitated the paint, and the thought of spraying it in Dan’s eyes nibbled at his better judgment. He didn’t, though; instead, he tested it on the wall of the old bridge, spelling out ‘Dan sucks—’ and his audience giggled again.He didn’t get further than that before the stone exploded inches from his head against the crumbling bricks, and a stunning crack caught the echo of the gulley. Tom almost dropped the can. If that had hit him, it would have taken his head off.

Sample 2: Psychological First-Person Narrative
Character-Focused Scene Combining Internal Monologue, Panic, and Rising Dread

9th of September 02, 2.01 AM.
It happened again. Dozens of faces crowded in on me like vultures to a carcass. They gawked down in confusion as I lay on the concrete pavers, paying them no mind. At the time, panic had engulfed me. So, I was a little busy fighting down the sinking dread. It tried to claw its way up and out of my twisting guts along with my breakfast. I can still taste the viscous porridge wrapped in bile. It might have put me off for life.Although I remember most vividly the smell of the bus exhaust, choking on those hot fumes. I resent the lot of them for not helping. Instead, they milled around deciding what to do. Until somebody declared themselves a first responder. And through the pounding rush of blood in my ears, Valerie introduced herself with a thin-lipped “hello.”Her face… I still remember the instant regret when I grabbed at her, attempting to hoist myself up. I almost pulled the startled woman over, but my vision washed out. Gasps escaped the audience as I went down again, like a cartoonish act you’d hear on a TV show, you know? Besides the obvious, I knew I did not have time for this; I needed to get away! Not cook on the scalding pavement as this good Samaritan talked to me as if I were five. Valerie, however, was having none of my nonsense. Loosening my collar, she confiscated my jacket before pressing a water bottle into my hands. It tasted stale, but I gulped at it, fighting the need to throw it back up. I suppose it was a welcome distraction from what I was there to do.That is when a second bystander involved themselves, informing me that an ambulance was on the way and explaining how lucky I was that we were so close to the hospital. It wasn’t luck at all, and the panic began to seep back into me. I’m ashamed to admit I threw up on Valerie at that point. The reeking mess made everyone take a few good steps back while offering a flurry of white tissues.

Sample 3: Contemporary Gothic & Character Drama
Emotionally Driven Scene Focused on Grief, Compassion, and Human Connection

“I think I’ll let it defrost first after all, Mrs Goodfellow,” Harold said, looking into the living room.The old crone sat there, eyes glassy, still fixed on the TV, where a game show host unveiled a large stuffed toy.“Mrs Goodfellow? I’m just saying I’ll give it an hour?”The light from the screen bathed the stacks of magazines and papers in a bleak white, bleeding the colour and life from their covers. She must have hoarded every tragedy she could find; there were a few he even recognised from decades earlier. It seemed like an odd thing, but he couldn’t judge her; she had been kind to him. Not many people were, not these days.“Mrs Goodfellow?” Harold said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “I’ll just be outside. Tell me when that thing is ready to be emptied. CFCs, you know; can’t be here when the wrecking ball comes in.”She didn’t move.He padded over to the settee and waved a hand in front of her eyes, but her gaze stayed fixed on the TV set. He sat next to her on the couch and didn’t speak. He didn’t know why, but he decided to wait for a while to keep her company. He thought he should say something, but he couldn’t think of the right words. He hadn’t known her long, only a few days. So, he just sat there as her show finished, then carefully took the remote from her hand and turned it off.Harold remembered that he was meant to check for breath and put his hand to her mouth. Nothing, and he felt foolish. She was stone cold now, and he decided he had better call someone. But he knew she’d have hated that.Instead, he quietly got up and lingered a moment by the door, then left.The stairwell was cool, but the sun poked in through the dirty windows that lined one side of the whole tower block, lighting the stairs all the way down to the ground floor. Harold thought it might have been nice here once, as he pulled out his lighter. He could picture it filled with plants, families, and laughter.“A real community, you know?” he said, to the empty hall.He tried to light his cigarette with shaking hands but couldn’t get a spark, and he grew frustrated. His mood darkened. The world wasn’t fair.“Bloody gloves!” Harold hissed as they squeaked and slipped.Snatching the edge of the yellow rubber, Harold peeled them off and flexed his finger; it still stung, still bound up in a Band-Aid with a crescent moon.Harry stared at it and wept.

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Sci-Fi Samples

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Sample 1: Science Fiction Horror
Psychological and Industrial Horror in a Confined Setting

Fadden’s teeth screamed at him to make the taste of metal stop as the sensation of vertigo hit, leaving him shivering in the dark. He tried to stand and slipped back down into vomit that squelched between his curled toes. Fumbling at the wall he located the panel with numb fingers, and a green glow bloomed out of the black to demand payment. He stabbed at it and closed his eyes, waiting for the gurgle of the ship's pipes to change into a furious rattle as the wet room's request was met, spraying Fadden with a fine mist. The lights came on next, but failed twice before settling into a flickering headache. It illuminated enough of the small, nicotine-yellow space and its long mirror for Fadden to watch the water well up and run off his blood-smeared face.“Call Maven,” he whispered between spits and accepted another charge for the connection. It took too long for an answer, and conclusions and conspiracies were churning in his mind before a crooning voice spoke his name through the crackling intercoms, “Fadden.” He had grown to loathe the way she said it.“So, you are present again. I know. This is upsetting for you,” she said.“You know… You know how I woke up? Do you? You fucking witch? Walking around the below decks caked in filth and blood with a severed hand stuffed in my pocket? What did you make me do?”“You agreed to this, no questions.”“I’ll dig these things out of me, I swear to the Twelve Gods, no more.” Fadden said as the pipes of the wet room clunked and died and the mist nozzles drooled out the last of the pressure, his hundred and thirty seconds were up.“They are not Gods, meat puppet,” Maven spat. “Now, the hand, fetch it and do exactly as I say.”

Sample 2: Transhumanist Science Fiction
Ideological Conflict Exploring AI Governance, Human Augmentation, and Space Colonisation

“I am not playing God. I’m cultivating a pantheon of them. I am painting the future of humanity across the stars. Our world dies. The implant you idly scratch at binds you to fate itself. We are to attempt to traverse across heaven's vastness in great ships that hang above us in their domain even now. It is all written out. Codified and notated. Humanity will survive despite itself.”With a tilt of his head, the surgeon and his monster turned and picked their way to the viewing window. Helena followed behind, stopping when she could observe the hangar beyond just short of the hideous contraption.Helena questioned him again. “These ships will fail us in time. You cannot predict what will happen.”
“Yes, so who would shepherd them through the darkest of ages? Who will set the example?”“Each other, we have free will,” Helena said.“Indeed, that has worked so well up to now, has it not? Pick one,” the Surgeon whispered as his monster lifted a slender limb and tapped the glass, making the softest of clicks. Its elegance made it seem to act of its own volition, absently forgetting to echo the man inside it.She took the last few steps forward, offering her back to the loathsome creature, and peered down over the hangar. She watched lines of people snaking in from the haze of the desert. They flocked to the lifters in droves for a chance at being selected. Safe here in the compliance centre, they would be taken to the ship’s holds and stored. The price they paid was to be injected and branded—proof of their pact.Helena spotted Tor, processing an old man. He leant over the console, the way he always did when he was nervous. He glanced up, and Helena pressed her hand against the glass. He gave her that tired smile he saved only for her.She pulled up his station assessment on her wrist screen. The applicant was around sixty, and Tor was about to reject him. The injection had failed to agitate white blood cells and take up the viral marker. It was meant to be a simple biological tracker that would allow interface with the ship AI cores.

Sample 3: Post-Collapse Science Fiction
Technological Inheritance, Lost Knowledge, and Power in a Declining Civilisation

People like to be secretive, underhand, and trust isn't a natural state for anyone in the business of power. Technology is power. Secrets are power. Machines are power. So even family houses don't trust each other.That is fine until a small problem occurs and someone dies. Power bases need to be passed along to the next generation. The fear lies in how lineage will use it. Letting go of power is hard and you want your story to go on, allowing others to build on it. The wil is generations of your genes dominate the world as they find it. And it is the reason for the decline in technology. Guarded too closely and lost to the past.
Some knowledgeable merchant long ago came up with the idea of family seals for this very reason. Each device look like a simple ceramic ring. Some are more impressive to look at but the aesthetic quality isn't the point of them. They are keys to vaults like the one Caven stood in front of now.Family members in line for power have one and they hold the DNA of each member that wears that seal, creating a log of owners. So the older the ring, the more owners it has had and the more it can unlock. Seals are handed down on the death of a family member. The problem is that if a seal is lost, so are its secrets, and mysterious vaults like this one litter the citadels waiting for a seal to return.
But today was a rarity.Caven looked at the seal in his hand. It wasn't his. It was a lot older. The glaze had dulled and worn in places. It was a pale blue. Caven always liked blue.It had a stylised embossing of a cog entwined with thorned flora of some kind. This seal wasn't his family's crest. Caven had spent seven years listening to stories just to find out what house had owned it. It took another decade to hear of them trading out of a township on the eastern border. Leagues away in Lanoa territory.He realised that he hadn't opened it yet.With a deep sigh, he turned to the small indent in the frame and pressed the embossed crest into the reader. A tone rang out as the DNA codes were read, the crest accepted, satisfying the ancient sentinel that all was in order.As the door cracked open, a rush of air and stench washed over and around him as old and new atmospheres mixed

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Fantasy Samples

Sample 1: Dark Fantasy & Arcane Intrigue
Prisoner Conflict, Forbidden Magic, and Survival on a Lawless Frontier

“They said I’d be getting out,” Barron said.“But they didn’t say that you were free, did they?” Clem said. Barron didn’t know her; he’d only seen her in the ship hold a few times.“Oh yeah? And who the fuck are you to them?”“Sometimes the cruellest thing they’ll offer you is hope.”Barron bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He didn’t want to be cruel, but the voice in his head often won. It put words onto his tongue that he didn’t mean. Or that was the excuse he’d given the magistrates.“You ain’t lying to me, are you?” Barron shouted toward the barred window. “I’ve paid my twenty. I deserved it, we both know it.”“They said nothing,” Clem whispered. “You thought, that’s all.”
The boy in the corner started to sob again.“Don’t eyeball me, boy. I’m not your saviour.” But the voice in Barron’s head smiled.He could be yours. Just stick him like a squealing pig and the guards will come.“We’ll all die,” Barron muttered.Clem and Serven started to bicker about where they were until a deep voice silenced them.“They’re taking us to Dun Gar.” The hulking brute said, shifting beneath his filthy cloak as he sat in his corner.Barron frowned. “And what the fuck is a Dun Gar?”“It’s not a what,” the brute said. “It’s a who.”Barron didn’t like his tone. Didn’t like his face.Gut the boy. See what leaks out.“I’ve been good,” Barron whispered. “We’ve had an understanding.”“You’ve killed your last three cellmates,” Serven said.“They wanted me to. They gave me that look.”“A look?”“Yes, a fucking look.”

Sample 2: Character-Driven Fantasy
Non-Human Perspective, Emotional Storytelling, and Enduring Loyalty

Duke was pleased with the memory and nibbled at Sir Giles’s hair, but the old man still didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the day’s dying sun as it kissed the treetops. No one had come, so Duke stood and waited.Duke had seen dead men get up before. He was a warhorse, after all. He’d campaigned against the Hag Widows of the Taigas. Those cursed days were vague memories of pain and cold. But sometimes, he would remember, drawn into the moment by the crack of a musket, the taste of icy moss, or the smell of charring meat on bonfires. It was a vivid reliving.Duke shuddered the thoughts away, sniffed at the old man, and pulled at his cuff. He was still dead and smelt of wine and earth, the heady musk of autumn. It was his usual smell at this time of year, as they burned the field near the stables to make ready for the new spring to follow. Duke had seen eighteen springs, maybe more. He liked the new grass. The old man kept joking that it could be the last, but spring always came right after the snow. Duke thought Sir Giles should’ve stuck to predicting the rain; he didn’t have the knack for seasons, so he was probably not a witch.The dull crack of a rotten branch made Duke dance a few paces. He scoured the long shadows of the woods and found nothing. Only Duke’s ears moved, swivelling to find the next tell-tale noise. When there was none, he snorted and stamped, making good his intention to whatever lay among the briars. Nothing moved for a long while, but Duke kept alert. He knew the woods were watching them as the dark crawled over Sir Giles, and the shroud of the new night obscured his features. By then, the woods were waking. The sound of sly things filled the quiet, all hidden within black thickets. Duke stood alone and waited. There was nowhere else he should be.It took longer than he’d thought for them to embolden and slip like nightmares from their cover: wolves, a pack of five. Low and slow, they spread out. Duke focused on the largest. It wore a shaggy midnight coat that didn’t entirely hide its starved ribs. It loped to the left with a limp. He’d kill it first. Duke hadn’t felt that bile grow in his throat for several springs at least, but he wore the anger like a well-worn jacket hung there by the old man long ago. He was trained, steady … and very slow.Pain startled him, and he kicked out to where the smallest of the wolves had darted in to nip at his hindquarters, testing his resolve. Duke connected with only air and staggered. Then he chanced a look back.
The wolf runt revealed a gore-stained grin before it lunged again, and the clamour of violence erupted.
The pack harassed him, snapping at his underbelly from every side. Duke reared and stamped. He caught a sleek, tawny one by the paw. It mewled and gnawed at his hoof to force him to lift, but he didn’t. Snarling, the large shaggy male barrelled at Duke, sunk its teeth into his neck, and held on, swinging. Duke reared, wheeling it into a tree, and was rewarded with a sickening wet thud. It whined and fell back with a strip of Duke in its fangs and watched as Duke stamped down on an unlucky packmate that was too slow even for him to miss. It didn’t move now.The pack paced back and forth before settling in at a good distance. The patter of Duke’s wound was the only conversation between them. He looked to the old man for praise, but he was dead, so Duke stood against the dark and waited.

Sample 3: Folk Horror & Ritual Fantasy
Pagan Tradition, Sacrifice, and Faith in an Unforgiving Wilderness.

“That baby will look like a goose buggered a mule,” Margaret said, her mouth hidden behind a piece of pie. She squashed the delicate pastry into the meat and devoured the last bite before plucking another from the basket. “Mmmh, these are gorgeous, Clementine – what do you put in these? Clem? Are you deaf to me, girl?!”
The remark dragged Clementine from her trance, as she offered the last of her bundled wet hawthorn to the hissing bonfire. Slack-jawed, she stared at the plump woman beside her, who pointed mid-chew.Clementine searched the congregation as the deep dusk crept through the trees like a predator slipping among the sheep. They gossiped, drank, and buggered. They didn’t care; life was good for them. Margret waved a pastry at the source of her ire; Seb was helping his pregnant wife down from the wagon into the crunch of new snow. The wind whipped at her cloak, drawing out a shriek. Their children's faces lit up as Seb made a show of it, pantomiming a shiver.“Who? Isabel’s new baby? I heard she put in some effort this year,” Clementine said as she pulled free braids of Wormwood and fed them to the flames, casting silvered smoke curling up from embers. The burning hawthorn deepened the forest’s autumn musk, mingling with the heady, medicinal nip of the wormwood that settled into a sweet, earthy fennel. The pyre's smoke cast a dream-like veneer over the gathering as others added their own braids to the other fires. This time of year had always bewitched her. It was a time for rituals and remembering – a time when the trees slumbered and abandoned all that was not prepared for the dark days.“She tried.” Margaret bit off. “But, not as much as you! You’ve been up this hill sitting in the bastard dark every night for the whole of September. I didn’t see her in the sleet and wind; only a few of us are truly devout. Not that she’d feel the elements! Will you look at the size of her?”
Clementine stared at Margaret, saying nothing, causing her to look away. “I wish I could have helped more, too, but my knees, you understand,” Margaret said. Cramming another morsel into her jowls before sneering again, “Crom’s teeth, here she comes.”
“Bountiful harvest be upon ye this night,” they all said in a soulless singsong.
“This is exciting, isn’t it, Margaret?” Isabel said, taking her hands in welcome.
“Look at you! All aglow, twins, isn’t it? You put me to shame!” Margaret said in return, preening at her new cloak, clearly hoping the other would notice.But Isabel’s eyes settled on Clementine, “I’m sorry to hear about – what is it now – the fourth? Just a terrible loss. Did you know the father this time, at least?”
Clementine bristled, and Margaret cut off her scorn, answering for her. “Oh, stop teasing the girl. She isn’t favoured like us, but look here!” Margaret opened another cloth wrapping and offered a slice of meat pie. “Try these; they are divine!”
Isabel eyed the slice with suspicion and gave it a sniff. “Spiced pork? Extravagant, isn’t it?” She nibbled at the corner before chomping the piece in two. “Oh my, so succulent. If you weren’t barren, I’d marry you myself, Clem.”The pair tittered as Isabel huffed down on the stone pew and reached for another slice. Clementine ignored their chuntering; it had started. The white stag was being led up high on the eons-old stone stage that had been cleared for the occasion. The beast’s bray silenced most of the crowd, and soon, all settled and let the Bluebell Wood's lilting cadence envelop them.Two of the town’s devout servants guided it up the worn steps, both naked despite the bitter night. The stag stood sixteen hands high, with fully matured antlers; to Clementine, he was an unyielding sigil of Father Sun’s full glory. Its heavy breath caught the frigid air, and it met the assembly's eyes and, with a stoic calm, waited for the blade.One of the handlers, Jack Tanner, tied off the ropes to the new iron rings fastened into the stones. He argued that they should be allowed at least some furs or shoes, and a vote was called. Clem was the deciding voice and she cast her stone against them, much to town councils’ exasperation. Jack had spat curses at her for twenty minutes, but this night mattered more to her than his comfort. She grinned as he shifted from foot to curling foot, trying to hold them off the icy-wet stone.The hunter's moon hung low over the clearing, casting long shadows against the gathered town and signalling the end for the unwavering stag. Both devout took up silver athames from the heather-lined baskets. Holding them aloft to be blessed by the moonlight, the pregnant moment broke as the townsfolk chanted.Heath and heather, Mother and stone.
We gather here to wracke and ruine.
Lay low the weak for the Deathless Crone.
We pray to Diana on the bone white throne.
She who mulches what day has sown.
Will rid us of burdens we have grown.The devout plunged their athame deep into the stag's neck, and it cried, curled into the chant. It went down to the stone, and blood welled around it as the blades hacked into it. The Wormwood was intoxicating, and the chant grew into fevered gasps, then an animalistic wordless cacophony. Clementine, Isabel, and Margaret sucked down the smoke, eyes burning as they starved themselves of the night’s crisp air. Their howls crescendo as the woods' wolves joined them.

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