Writing Competition


The North Pacific & Greater Dienstad Roleplay and Cultural Exchange
Writing Competition

To encourage the development of our writing ability, we are hosting a writing competition as part of his RP and Cultural exchange.

Post a poem, song, short story (no more than 100 words), nursery rhyme, or something else that talks about your nation. Post it in this thread before the end of the event. The winner (chosen by TNP and GD) will receive a pretty award they can display in their signature.

The only rule is that it must be about your nation. Otherwise let the creativity flow through you :)


Factbook Addict
The National Anthem of Arrandal (IC it’s supposed to be translated from Arrandi into English/Mercanti)

Awake! Arise! Arrandal your long slumber must end
Darkness covers all the land
Be not afraid! Do not turn back!
The light breaks through the clouds
Illuminating the fields where
Mortal man works his day in love and toil

Now is the hour of our greatest valor
And we shall prove to all the world
That Arrand blood still flows in our veins
And our hearts beat with warrior fervor

Long live the Arrand Kings!
Long may they reign
Peace on earth from war and death
Saint Azulnais grant us your favor as God’s right hand
Praise be to God and Saint Azulnais
Praise be to God and Arrandal.


The one, the true, the great.
The King and the Banker- a Vallish Folk Tale (100-Word Edit)
Original: http://forum.thenorthpacific.org/single/?p=10148169&t=9152670

One day, a Vallish banker named Geir Ålsen travelled to Syrixia. Upon arriving in Pataliputra, he asked the Mayor where to find the King of Syrixia. The Mayor, puzzled, responded, "I know not what 'Syrixia' or 'king' is, but we have an emperor. He lives in the Golden Palace."

So Ålsen went there, and met the Emperor, Dasharatha II. "You must be the Emperor of Syrixia." he said. Dasharatha responded, "My friend, there is no Syrixia." Ålsen became confused, and he replied, "Then what is the state that rules this land?" Dasharatha leaned forward and responded,

"I am the State."


Old Guy with a Helmet

The Emperor wears a secret outfit, purportedly trying to spy on law breakers. The Kaiser walks toward a stoplight, and walks even though it was red. A guy from the car blows his horn, yelling "Get off the damn road, a**hole!". The Emperor removes his fedora and sunglasses, and the man runs toward him, crying. The Emperor consoles him, and tells him "I commend you, my friend." The man, clearly surprised, wipes off his tears and says "You... are not going to execute me? Even though I said profane words toward my Emperor?". The Kaiser's eyes enlarge, and the Kaiser tells him:

"Thanks for the reminder."

The man was taken by the police, and his right hand was cut off. The Kaiser took the severed hand, and shook it. "Nonetheless, I thank you for abiding by the traffic laws."

Don't kill me, please. :pinch:
Remember When Life Was Simple?
by Aozora Chiyumi

The following is a transcript of a messily handwritten poem found in Aozora’s archives.

Remember when life was simple? When death was just an event?
Not something which tore your heart apart and left your world in dissent?
Remember when life was simple? When taking it was easy?
Where the thought of having to do so again would never make you queasy?

Once all I wanted was world domination,
For all reality to be mine alone.
Now I must fight to maintain my creation,
Or in my death, be left alone.
Perhaps one day I’ll meet my demise,
But I shan’t make it an easy affair,
Too often now I feel those feelings rise,
Anger, hatred, loss, despair.

I felt my heart pounding, beating in my chest,
A constant barrage of reminders of the past,
When the accursed traitor’s first death,
Left me bereft of a reason to last.
Thus I found Sagiri, daughter of mine,
To whom I forever grateful,
For showing me, by leaving time,
For joy I can be less disdainful.

If only it helped when arrogant whelps and traitors came to attack,
Taking my friend and threatening ends to all that I’ve made get on track,
And thus did I almost die once again, and rise once again like a phoenix from the ash,
Yet one day I shall meet me end, so still I cannot afford to be rash.

If I could tell the past me one thing,
It’d be, actually, I have a whole list...
Oh, how things have changed since way back then,
I’m now a protector, not a madwoman.

Fear became love,
Love became grief,
Grief became anger at dire betrayal.

The captive child became a daughter,
The hunt for traitors turned to slaughter,

Am I broken? Am I fated to journey ever onward, ever suffering, every dying till the end?
Fate isn’t real.
I choose my future.
And here and now, what I desire, is to carry on no matter what,
For Sagiri.
For memories.
For all that I have gained,
And all that I have lost.

Things were once so simple. Now they are complex.
Even so I fight forever, up until my death...



the sentient Ry Bread, at your service!

The following is a transcript of the poem written by Kree Nayuzo that led to her condemnation and public execution. Use this as both a lesson...and a warning.


Lust leaves the lips
of a lovers quarrel at midnight,
one hundred pairs of roses
hang limp from tired hands
and fall to the ground.
No one notices the slam of the impact
just like no one cares to notice
the blank white slates we call faces
wandering endlessly between day
and the peripheral of night.

We do not sleep
for we lack closing eyes
to grant Hypnos rights to passage,
yet we are blind from light of day
as we erase ourselves
with shaking hands,
afraid of what might happen
if we choose to see the reality
sitting right in front of us
and staring with cold, dead eyes.

Cold, dead eyes,
but are they really?
One hundred pairs of roses
fell to the ground
but the eyes cast their glance
upon them and ignited them
with color. Those eyes so feared
and terrible can't possibly
bring any beauty, and yet...
And yet the fact that the lovers
became lovers in the first place
still rests unignored in the timeline,
unignored by all except
those cold, dead eyes...

Are they truly cold
or are we used to seeing
only the destruction
in the blue painting of the crisp
Winter ocean? Are they truly lifeless
according to definitions drilled
into our brains since childbirth,
or are we so used to seeing the blood
dripping from open wounds
that we forgot to notice the faces,
dainty and soft, here to fight
for their opinions in the first place?

Do we even know what an opinion
is anymore? Do these calloused hands
abused from overwork
not become tempted to reach out
for something, anything,
to feel the kiss from the sun
and birth new memories
in the wombs of our minds?

Do we even have memories
from how the world ticked
before we all became
another erased mistake
in the bluepirnt of perfection?

We are nothing but empty shells.
There is someone singing
in the distance, I swear
I am not crazy I swear, I hear it.
Two lovers fight under the moon
at midnight
and I struggle to grasp onto
the only shred of feeling
I have left in me.
But she dropped the roses
and cast him aside,
just as the voice inside has
abandoned this body,
has long gone silent,
consumed by rust
and eminates no longer.


Northern Wulf Gameside Advocate
This letter is from the Revanche War between Puczovska and Hardonius in 2048 and appears to have been written over the course of several days. It was discovered by a patrol surveying the beaches of the Hardonian defensive coastline. It was written by Private Kesslam Pouran, stationed to the 7th Home Defense Regiment, 3rd Battalion, C Company, 1st Platoon, 2nd Squad.

Addressed to my love, Mareni,

Here on the westward beaches, they have us digging in. Along the water, it's as if it is calling us to an early grave. The Emperor wants us to defend against the Puczovskan invaders, but how are we supposed to fight a superior enemy with superior technology and allies? It's almost as if the sea calls to us, warning of our impending doom.

Here in this foxhole, I feel trapped with only sand choking me and coating my throat. It sticks to my tongue and my lungs, and I can't taste food like this. We have no idea when the Puczovksans are coming, nor what to do when they arrive. If they come to take me in the night, know that I died in peace and loving you, Mareni.

The Puczovskans have arrived. They are bombarding us. I have been ordered to raise my rifle and fire. I lo~~

The foxhole Private Pouran was holding in was directly hit by an incoming Puczovskan shell. He was killed instantly and buried beneath the rubble. His body was never recovered.


Twas the imperial sun
who was crowned with jewels upon her head
with robes wine red and fabric thick in length
her authority elaborate with great depth

The breeze had briefly genuflect
when in her regency elect
her steps to pass the peasant village by
the farmer, wind did plainly sigh
he was the breeze who could not court
his fair beloved in this mortal earth made content
whose handsome face failed to gain her heart's consent
He reposed to sighing but in his heart raged to persist
in courtship without relent

He toiled and labored on the grounds
without complaining whining groan resound
He worked profusely like a hound
He worked persistently without a sound

He saw the sun in glamorous face display
His heart did swoon where his feet had lain
His constant trying did not sway
the sun's imperial face to turn his way

He swore upon his own breath
to win her whole and love her
without bounds nor end

He beseech the flowers and the trees
He walked for miles down the path so wide
The scent of her perfume reside
in all the flowers here today

The sun her office much too high
did not as much cast her eyes
still the wind would humbly try
to speak her sonnets sweet and passionate
filled with wine

she saw him trying then decide
that though he be of such a meager estate
but in his heart no love as pure
as the sweeten smell of the spring bound wind

She submit unto his chivalrous court
and made her heart with his cohort
to give the laboring wind consent
to woo her
and in wooing her in matrimonial recommend...

Though he the wind
and her the sun
his heart so pure did win her so