Hello, I thought it would be fun to have another mini forum game/contest. The idea is to create a short work to introduce something called the “The Hand of Ishtar” what it is, is entirely up to you. Make your entry as creative and interesting as possible. The only rule is that reader should have some idea what the hand of Ishtar is by the end of your work. Also as this is meant to be an introduction to the main subject of much larger work it should not be conclusive in anyway. You can enter as many times as you like, so don’t hold back let the creative juices flow. Also feel free to leave criticism for other people’s works. If you like or don’t like something the let them know. Nothing helps improve writing like practice and constructive criticism. To start everyone off here is my entry. Enjoy! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The scorching heat of the crimson sun burnt the very air, and black winds whipped the sands into such a fury that could they strip the very flesh from your bones. It was a place that even sand devils avoided, a place were neither man nor beast could survive. Why the Sultan chose that route to bring his greatest treasure, I can not say. But I know that that choice still haunts him, even now. When he sleeps at night even his nightmares flee at the memory of what happened that day. Five hundred of his personal guard where sent to escort the greatest treasure any man has never known back to the capital. They crossed burning sands and slaughtered countless bandits with no trace fear or hesitation. That is until they began to cross Ishta Gal the devils graveyard. Fifty died the first night their bodies butchered and left to stains the sands with their blood. But still they pressed on for there was no turning back for any them. The Sultan seated at the head of his army waited on the outskirts of Ishta Gal for the arrival of his personal guard. On that day of the five hundred that had begun crossing only one emerged for the wasteland. His final act before death took him. Was to point at a lone black figure upon a distant hill, and speak its name “The Hand is Ishtar”.

Go easy on me, I'm a programmer not a writer (not to say I don't want to be a writer so critique is welcomed)! Yours was great, I loved the ending!

And without further ado:
The magician Anasuil led Iira into his home. The house looked smaller on the inside because every surface was covered by all manner of magical instruments and ingredients. Anasuil wasted no time in showing off his extensive collection, but he was interrupted by Iira when she asked "What's in that box in the corner?". "You have a sharp eye for danger, hmmm?" replied Anasuil, suddenly getting very exited. "In that box is the only object I keep here that is stronger than myself" he said, reaching into his beard for a key and unlocking the container. Anasuil reached into the box and pulled out a crystal cube, inside the cube was what looked like a wrinkled human hand. "Behold! The hand of Ishtar!". In spite of Anasials overly dramatic presentation Iira couldn't help but gasp; The story of Ishtar was well known to students of magic.

Ishtar was strongest of the nine original sages of magic. Stronger not because he was more gifted than the others but because he pursued strength over the other attributes of magic. Eventually Ishtar was confronted by the other sages. No one knows exactly what happened in the chamber of the wise that day, inside was found nine dead sages and one live hand encased in crystal, emenating evil.

"But how did you get the hand of Ishtar", asked Iira? "That my friend is a tale for another day" replied Anasuil.

A gray rain fell ceaselessly on the roof of a small, one-story house. Inside, a boy of no more than seventeen years of age sat scribbling away furiously under the cadence of candlelight. His eyes were sunken and tired, and he silently mouthed the words of his story as his pen desperately scrawled them upon the parchment before him. He paused, pondering the crux of his plotline.

"Eh, what are you doin' there, boy?" came a voice from behind him.
The boy stiffened up a bit, startled by the intrusion. He turned to face his grandfather. "Nothin' grandpa, just working on a story."
"Oh. Well, it's gettin' kinda late, don't ya think? Why not call it a night." said the wizened elder.
"I'm not t..." began the boy, before a powerful yawn ripped itself out of his lungs.
The old man chuckled. "Right. Off to bed with ya."
The boy smacked his lips tentatively. "mmm No grandpa, I really want to finish this..."
The old man stomped his foot on the ground harshley. His eyes suddenly grew stern, almost angry. "Go to bed."
"Grandpa. I only have maybe two more hours left on this story." replied the boy with a dry indifference.
"NOW." yelled the old man. His fists were clenched.
The boy stood up to face his grandfather. "NO!" he clenched his own fists. "Look, you can tell me to eat vegetables, or to go and pick them in the field, or to buy you something at the market. But you can't tell me this. You can't tell me not to write." He pulled himself up to his full height and glared defiantly at the elder.
The old man let out a tired sigh and lowered his eyes. A distant sadness replaced the anger that had been in them. "Alright boy... I guess it's time. Let me show you something." he said, then he turned and walked back toward his room.
The boy was puzzled for a moment by the turn of events. He paused in deliberation, then quickly trotted after his grandfather.

At the foot of the old man's bed was an ornate chest. Its hinges, lock, and lining where all gold, and a plethora of different jems adorned the various nooks and crannies of the intricate designs carved upon it. It had been there for as long as the boy could remember, and while he had asked about it an innumerable amount of times, he'd never been told what it contained. The old man looked at it tentatively.
"Now, I've never shown you what's in here, have I?" he asked.
"No, grandpa." replied the boy, eager to see what might unfold.
The old man sighed. "I guess it's time." He turned toward the chest. "Please unlock the box." he said into the open air.
The boy looked around in confusion, unsure of whom the old man was speaking to. Suddenly, he heard the lock click itself open. He stared in amazement as the chest slowly creaked its lid off. The boy moved closer and looked inside.
"It's......a rock?!" he asked in bewilderment.
"Quiet boy!" whispered the old man harshly. "He can hear you!"