The Art of Killing

[Clarke667]

Hey hey. Got something I’m working on that I’d like to post, a sort-of sequel to The Art of Dying. I say “sort-of” because… well, I guess you’ll find out. No need for me to belabour the point.

Anyways, this story’s in a bit of a rougher state than I’d like it to be (only a draft and a polish), but to tell you the truth, this is where I tend to flounder the most. So any thoughts, comments, questions, rants, raves and/or musings would be greatly appreciated. Seriously. Go ****ing nuts.

Since this story turned out to be quite lengthy, I’ve decided to cut it up into easily-digestible pieces. I’m not savvy on the way this is usually done, so I’m just gonna wing it and post two chapters a day. This can be stepped up (or down) upon request.

And here we go.







The Art of Killing



Part 1: Convergence


Chapter One

Inevitability had come to her. Funny how that happened, sometimes; inevitability like a marker on the horizon, every day getting a bit closer, the marker bigger and bigger until you’re forced to lay your hands on it. Inevitable, she thought. Inexorable. Here I am with my hands on the marker.

It wasn’t a big deal, though. That’s what Seph was always saying. Not a big deal, sis. Keep it steady. Garbage words. Cold comfort. It’s no big deal, yeah.

“Hungry?” Sephony said. Her widebrim hat was tipped down over her eyes. The windowslats were half closed and the amber sunlight painted the cab in thin bars. She could smell leather, polished mahogany.

“No,” Willowyn said. They shifted in the cab. They rode a knot in the rails and Sephony held her hat as they bounced in the seats.

Two years I’ve been putting this off, Willowyn thought. But here I am, on Trans-kingdom Rail. Inexorable.

The train hissed and hollered over the rails. Fingering open a slat, Willowyn looked out at a blurred yellow landscape. The wind sifted her long hair and fluttered the chequered kerchief tied around her neck.

Sephony plugged a cheroot between her lips. She cupped a match in the smooth shell of her hands and sparked it with her thumbnail. The smoke was cobalt blue and rich.

“Ride’s a bit smoother’n I thought it’d be.”

“Aye.”

She nudged the brim of her hat and her moth-coloured eyes flashed with humour. “Aye,” she said, enjoying her sister’s discomfort. “Doin’ all right?”

“I’m just fine, thank ya. Why worry on a train?”

“Well… if we happen to jump the rails—”

“Won’t happen.”

“You sure? I hear it happens, us going so fast and all. The train jumps and the engine-room goes up, and then it’s a funeral pyre for all us paying passengers. You know how these rails were set. You trust the work of goblins with your life?”

Willowyn grit her teeth. She wouldn’t let her sister bait her fear. “The gobs may be dumb as dung, but they worked. And when they didn’t we took care of em. I got ninety gold takin care of em, you got seventy. That’s a hunnert-sixty coin says these rails were set right.”

That was back in Aranoch, where the railwork was hardest. The sisters were paid to watch over the imps as they slaved under the scorching sun, setting rails and hammering them, trudging iron spikes in wheel-barrels, the wheels always getting sputtered in the sand and the spikes tipping over. The imps sweating and falling to their bony knees and so many of them just keeling over and dying by the rails. Others, though: others ran, that’s where the sisters made their coin. They got two gold a head for deserters and slackers.

“I heard a cow wandered onto the tracks two week ago,” Sephony said. “The train splashed it and its guts got caught in the wheelworks and the train went screeching off the—”

“I’m hungry,” Willowyn blurted out, though she tried to make it sound casual. “Let’s grab lunch.”


The meal-car was long and spacious, filled with tables and the tables filled with men in fine suits and women in gowns, their sleeves of their gowns frilled, ivory canes and coloured parasols leaning against their chairs. The smells of meat and corn and coffee, fresh fruit and milk.

All eyes moved to the sisters as they waited by the podium to be seated.

Conversation hushed.

Unperturbed, Sephony reached into her vest and checked her platinum timepiece. She knew what they were looking at: the Archangel .45 slung low and deadly on her hip, the roundnosed bullets winking in the loops on her belt. Gun-iron always sent a shiver up a plutocrat’s spine, especially when they were locked on a train with nowhere to hide.

Willowyn glared openly at them. Her hand never fell to her matching Archangel, but they could see it in her eyes, how she wanted to slap leather and fan hammer.

The hushed words drifting around them. Bounty killers. Headhunters. Assassin.

A man in a white tux nervously seated them in a booth by the window. This was wise. With the sisters safely out of sight the mood in the cab broke and the passengers began to relax.

“Gods rot all trains,” Willowyn hissed to herself. She ran her long fingers through her hair.

Sephony studied the menu.

“Weeping blood,” swore Willowyn. “How much longer’s this trip?”

“A few hours to the station. Then it’s a day’s coach to Sadness.”

“Coach, good. Now there’s a way to travel. And what’s that dogswallowing smell?”

“I don’t smell a thing.”

“Smell again. I know that… that stench.” Her nostrils oculated. “I know that…” Her eyes widened. “Imp.”

Sephony placed the menu on the table.

“Imp?”

“Smell it. Baal’s livid penis, that’s definitely imp!”

They scanned the car.

“There, in the far corner,” Willowyn said. “Look at the little bastard. Gods, he’s a blueskin.” She hawked and spat on the floorboards. “Worst kind, those puny blue rothearts.”

Sephony squinted. “He’s got a menu.”

“What? Well that settles it. Let’s pay him a visit.”

They traversed the car slowly. Willowyn tucked a thumb behind her gunbelt and rested her palm on the bullets, her small finger almost touching the mouth of the roughout holster.

Sephony cupped flame and lit a smoke.

In his booth, the small imp was propped on a pile of books and his thin legs dangled under the table. His wispy brown beard was cut and groomed, his eyes two glittering stones in his sharp face, like pyrite. Incredibly, the imp was wearing a tiny pinstriped suit—badly stitched, homemade, but a suit nonetheless. He had a white piece of cloth tucked and folded at his neckline, a makeshift cravat. An old bowler hat that was much too big for him, even though it was for a child.

They stood over him.

“What a rare day,” Willowyn drawled. “An imp actin’ like a man.”

The imp nodded politely to them. A bead of sweat ran down his neck, but to his credit he did not shiver with fear.

Again the car was silent.

“Mind if we take a seat?”

He gestured to the empty side of the booth. His finger betrayed him and trembled.

“What, can’t talk?” Willowyn asked. “You a mute’r something?”

The imp cleared his throat. “N-no. Please sit.” His voice was thin and jagged, like he was talking with a mouthful of razorblades. Willowyn snorted disgustedly at the sound of it.

They slid into the booth.

“Never saw a goblin with a suit before,” Willowyn said, nailing the slur hard, looking for any show of defiance so she could legally crush him. “Make that suit yourself, blueskin?”

The imp hid partially behind the menu. “My wife,” he said. “My wife sewed it.”

“Your wife, huh? Hear that Sephony? His wife.”

“I heard it.”

Willowyn smiled without mirth. “Was it a nice ceremony?”

“Excuse me?”

“The marriage. Was it nice.”

“We’re not—legally, we’re not…”

“Oh, that’s right. Goblins aren’t allowed to marry. That’d be like marryin dogs or lizards or sisters. Do you think I should be allowed to marry my sister?”

“No. Of, of course not.”

“Ah.” Willowyn turned to her sister. “The beast has standards when it suits him.” Back to the imp. “Tell me, blueboy: how’d you get off the tracks and on the train. I’m curious. Who’d you swindle? Who’d you kill?”

It was a thought on the entire car’s mind. What little conversation remained guttered out as they waited for the imp’s answer.

“No-nobody, I swear it. No swindle. No killing. I—my…”

“Hurry it, goblin.”

“My family. We—on the rails, the railwork, they give us a gold a week. My son died hammering spikes and his pay was left to me. My two daughters died. My wife was shot. All their gold came to me, and—and their belongings, which I traded for more coins. Except for the suit. I kept the suit.”

“Dung,” Willowyn said. “You killed em and took their golds, didn’t you?”

Anger glowered under the imp’s brow but he tucked it away quickly. I’ve come so far, he thought. I can’t die now.

“I killed no-one. I love my family. And now I’m going home. My debt to the rails is paid. My ticket’s paid. I don’t owe anymore.”

Willowyn plucked the cheroot from her sister’s mouth and took a puff. She considered what the imp had said, sucking the smoke deep into her lungs, tapping ash on the table. She streamed the smoke from her nose.

“You owe. Don’t you ever think you don’t. Your people took up arms against mine. You sided with the Great Evils. How much blood is on your little blue hands?”

“None,” the imp snapped, unable to hold his rage any longer. “None! That was generations ago. My hands are clean and my debts paid!”

Willowyn slammed the flat of her fist on the table. The silverware jumped and clattered. “Your debts are never paid, you hear me? Never. You’re an evil, brutal race—hatred of my kind will always run in your abominable veins. That’s why you’re slaves. You can never be trusted. Savages. You’re all savages.”

“Who’s the savage here?” The imp asked, nearly delirious with rage. “Who? The imp that worked honest for two years, or the woman that murdered honest workers?”

It was too much. Willowyn sprung upright and the silverware clattered and her fingers slapped leather, the revolver flashing from its holster and the click of the hammer coming back. The imp held the menu in front of his face like a pathetic shield, whimpering, waiting for the thunder and the darkness to follow it.

The thunder never came.

He peeked over the menu and saw the other ape-human, the quiet one with the cold pale eyes gripping her sister’s wrist, gently—yet firmly—halting her fire. The imp could not believe his eyes. It made no sense to him at all.

I should be dead, he thought. It should be getting black and I should smell the cordite biting my nose, like I’ve smelled it a thousand times before on the rails.

Sephony was shaking her head. “Not yet,” she said. “Let’s not kill for free, lest we’re forced.”

The words calmed Willowyn. She slumbered the gun and straightened her coat.

“This is pathetic,” she said while taking her seat. “I never thought I’d see the day you saved a goblin. If word gets out we’re finished. No one’ll want us stalking the tracks.”

“The railroad’s finished, Will. That work’s gone anyways.”

“Sure. But there’s a thing called honour, you know.” She turned to the imp. “That’s something you’d know precious little about.”

Says the murderer, the imp thought. He couldn’t wait till this trip was finished. By the Shaman’s beard, why’d he take the train?

Because there was no other choice, he told himself. There was bad business back home, he’d heard; the tribe was in danger. It was his duty as patriarch to return and defend his land from all invaders.

Hopefully he wasn’t too late.

It’s a long ride to Sadness, he thought.



The train squealed to a halt at TKR-27, the dilapidated station that sat on the outer edge of Khanduras. Only a few of the passengers dismounted; most would be riding on to Westmarch, where trade was good and the forests cut away and safe.

The sisters hopped from the open car to the platform, slinging their travelling packs over their shoulders and lighting smokes. The imp gave them a wide berth, quietly dragging his beaten pack across the platform and into the station.

“Gods,” Willowyn said. “All that sitting. My rump’s aching like a black tooth.”

Sephony nodded absently. She was watching the train lumber out of the station, coughing and sputtering dark smoke, clutching for speed. It was an ugly beast, this coal-fed contraption… but before long it would find its legs and whipcrack through the countryside, reaching speeds never thought possible before.

She did not fear the train like her sister. But it did fill her with a ghostly foreboding, the progress it implied, the steps taken forward that were perhaps steps taken away from them, far away. The rail stalking done; the money mostly gone. Would there be another job? Would the train speed away and take their livelihood with it?

No, Sephony thought. Train or not, there’ll always be killing work.

But would there? Before, a bounty could only run so far. More often than not they’d find their prey in the outskirts, trekking half-dead and worn-out, all the fight kicked out of him by hard travels. But now a bounty could just jump a train and coast to the far-reaches of the Kingdoms.

It was a problem she would have to ponder.

Willowyn pitched her smoke to the rails below. “Where’s the trotter? I gotta splash some pish.”

As Willowyn wandered off in search of an outhouse, Sephony leaned against a post and languidly finished her smoke. The land around the station was formless and ugly, still too close to the alkali flats to harbour much life: terse whorls of witchweed struggled from the parched earth; a few stunted trees, their bark gnarled and sunbleached, stood like skeletal claws.

I can’t wait to get to the woodlands, Sephony thought.

A legless man loped from the station on his hands. His clothes were filthy, mere rags. A faded insignia on his breast, a chewed army cap on his bald head. His eyes glimmered when he took sight of Sephony; he loped toward her.

“Missus! ‘Scuse me missus! Got a coin for a poor old footless sod?”

“A veteran, are you?”

“Thass correct, missus. Loss my legs in the Big Fight an’ I’ll never dance again. That’s a shame for an old vet innit? Spare a coin?”

She fished a gold from her pocket and flipped it in her palm. The man’s eyes followed the coin as it spun and flashed in the sun.

Sephony asked, “That the Territories War?”

“Yar, the Big Fight in thirty-three.”

“You fight for Khanduras?”

The man sneered and spat. “A-damn-course I did! Most glor’yus Kingdom of the three! I fought an’ loss my bloodthumpin legs an’ if I had another pair I’d give those too!”

Sephony closed her fist around the coin.

“Khanduras was the first to lay down, soldier. You lost your legs but kept your life. Your charity’s already been doled by the Gods.”

The man’s jaw worked spastically and the grimy cords in his neck bunched. “You bloodthumpin harlot! Your greed’ll be the death’a you!”

“The same can be said for yours. Now hobble off before I finish what Entsteig couldn’t.”

He would’ve protested but the harlot had a gun and slaughterhouse eyes. She was a hard one, he knew; he’d seen those eyes before, on the killingfields when the enemy rushed with his rifle belching smoke and the bayonet gleaming. If I had my legs, the man thought while loping away; ooooh if I had em, I’d kick that bloodhungry harlot right in'r scabby gulch an’ watch her whine an’ squeal.

She’ll get her payment, he thought. Ay she will.

Willowyn stepped out of the man’s way and gave him a rough kick in the rear. “Watch where you’re going, you old fool! Gods, let’s get back to proper civilization. I’ve a coach waiting for us out front.”

[Clarke667]

Chapter Two

Grimletter, chieftain of the Bloodmoon Clan, uncorked his wineskin. He drunk deep of it, careless of the wine that streamed down his muzzle and soaked his coarse fur. His eyes glittered in the firelight. His chipped horns gleamed.

“Yeh be a right lucky find, gully,” Grimletter said. “We’ll geh such a purty price fer yeh, one like yeh naa believe. Iss’t naa true, boys?”

Grunts of assent around the campfire. Ugly hulked shadows, the flameflash of ugly weapons.

Grimletter drained the wineskin and tossed it at the chained captive.“A right purty price. Settle Clan Bloodmoon fer generation.” He nodded to himself, his muzzle pulling back into a makeshift grin. It always pleased him to think of time, and how it moved on. He was a satyr, and like most of his kind, he measured success on an extremely long timeline.

Iss naa mah honour, he thought for the millionth time, but the Clan’s. Wi’ this gully, Ah kin gee the Clan thirty-year of prosper’ty.

Winds ushered through the night and billowed the tents. The leaves whipped on the dark trees and the fire glowered.

Half-man and half-goat, the satyrs were a race of nomads feared throughout the entire Western Kingdoms. Ages ago they ruled the plains and forests, but an Imperial crusade was waged against them and, though the kingdoms could never scourge their lands clean of the satyrs, they at least scattered the clans and loosened their grip on the ancestral territories. Now they roamed, their numbers few and their hatred great.

There were six of them around the fire. They were still in good spirits from the ambush and capture that had occurred hours before on Coach Road 5.

Chained to a tree, their semi-conscious prisoner struggled weakly. The chains clicked and rasped against each other.

It was a good hit, Grimletter had to admit. His boys had done their duties to the hilt, not a straggler or slacker among them. They waited in the brush by the road for the entire morning and most of the afternoon, swatting the flies with their tails and sweating under their patchwork armour. The boredom of it was crushing. They didn’t risk conversation, so each satyr was left to his own thoughts for small eternities until finally a coach crested the hill and the boys readied, their hooves digging in the gritty dirt, their scarred weapons ever so quietly unsheathed. But Grimletter smelled oil in the winds, oil and iron. The tinge of pounded brass.

At the last moment, he made the call. Geh back down, boys, he whispered. Thu’ve goh Thunderfingers.

Whaa? said the satyr at his side.

Thunderfingers, Grimletter repeated. Guns. Geh down; we let thuss ‘un pass.

His boys reluctantly agreed. The coach clacked and raddled by them and they waited for another two hours. But what was two hours to the generations?

Nuthin, he thought. Two hours be but a blink ’r a tear.

The next coach came. All Grimletter could smell was money.

They hit the coach fast and hard from both sides, three of his boys piking the driver and the guard riding shotgun, two slaughtering the horses before they could get the fear and bolt. The rest of them jumped the cab.

In the back was their prize. A human gilly of about sixteen in a fine silk robe, her skin healthy and bronze, auburn hair long and combed and clean. Grimletter could smell magicks on this gully-girl; he pulled his truncheon and rapped her over the head a few times until she stopped shrieking and passed out. It was close, he knew; if the young sorceress had called a spell they’d have been cooked meat. And there would’ve gone Clan Bloodmoon, a footnote in history instead of its glory, as he knew they would someday be.

By Andariel’s poisoned tits, Grimletter thought as he warmed his callused hands by the campfire, we be so close to greatness Ah kin taste it. We ransom the mage-gully ‘n Bloodmoon gaas down strong in history.

Per’vided she’s naa worth more dead.



The world came back to Marise in slow increments.

First came the cold. It was all around her, a funeral shroud; coldness like a kiss on her heart. Her marrow frozen, the bones around it glass. Phantom winds assailing her, her tongue an ice floe in the frosted sepulchre of her mouth.

Where am I?

Next came the pain, which negated any questions. The pain thumped in her swollen skull, shivered the glass of her bones. It was omnipresent—she couldn’t discern its origin or its extremities. It was pain, total and uniform, and Marise was a slave to it.

Last came the emptiness. It enslaved the pain.

After what seemed like an age of wandering in the dark wreck of her psyche, Marise’s eyes began to clear. The fractured prisms in her vision went about their slow work of cohering; shapes that were once mere blobs of grey gained definition and colour; it came to her, it was all coming back. She blinked once, twice, her eyelids like butterflies, a wet flutter every time she blinked. But it was coming back, her eyesight. The world around her was gaining.

She was nude and chained to an oak tree. The steel links crisscrossed her body, haphazard yet tight. When she shifted she could hear many locks clicking against the chains.

What’s happened to me?

A fire nearby. The orange flames dazzled her eyes and wormed into her skull, quickening her headache. The fire was relatively close to her, yet strangely she could feel no heat from it. Why am I so cold? she thought. It’s a summer night and there’s a fire; I shouldn’t be freezing this badly.

Marise looked down at her naked legs and found her answer. They were completely slicked in blood. The earth around her feet was dark and muddy.

“Thass right, gully,” a figure by the fire said. “We be draining yeh of the red juices. Stuck yeh in the womb, likes, so yeh won’t be doin’ none ‘a them magicks. Cain’t be doin’ magicks with naa blood, kin yeh?”

Fear slammed into her. Fear, and a curious mourning under it, a shallow slipstream of self-pity: My womb, she thought. They’ve damaged it. I’ll never mother.

And that may be the least of my problems.

The figure stood and stretched. Half obscured by the firelight, yet nonetheless she knew what he was. That miasma of rancid milk and wet fur, old meat and wine. A satyr. Goat-man.

Grimletter strode over to her with his giant poleaxe resting on his hairy shoulder. She saw that his eyes were as dark as pitch and his teeth were stained brown and maroon. The stench of him intensified until Marise thought she would either gag of pass out. She did neither.

“Yeh’r a Sister, eya? Do naa lie—Ah’ll chop yeh’r bits off faster’n the words fall from yeh’r godsrotting maw. Sister ‘a the Sightluss Eye, eya? Zann Esu. Eya?”

She managed to shudder open her mouth but no words came from it.

Enraged, Grimletter raised his poleaxe.

“Yuhhhh,” she croaked. “Yuhh-eee…”

The axeblade halted. “Was thut a yes?”

Marise nodded as vigorously as she could.

“Eya,” Grimletter said. The poleaxe fell back to his shoulder. “Good-good. We’re to geh much coin from yeh. Now: whaa was yeh doin’ on the coach? Where was yeh goin’?”

Marise tried to say ‘Sadness’ but couldn’t force it out.

Grimletter snorted. “Bah! Such an ugly thing yeh be. Weak ‘n godsrotting dumb. Humans!”

Grease-slick laughter from around the fire. Marise noticed—that seeing how she was so hideous to them—none of the goat-men would look at her for more than a moment before turning away in disgust. Except one. He had a broken horn and a craggy purple scar on his cheek; he was so drunk he was swaying in his seat; yet his eyes never faltered. He devoured her with them. He picked her bones clean.

He must be really tossed, she thought.

Grimletter slapped her mercilessly across the face. “D’naa look away from me!” He slapped her again and through the numbness and cold she could feel a distant burning. “When Ah speak yeh look to me! Eya? Eyyyya?”

She nodded before the next slap found its mark.

“Filthy godsrotting humans! Ah’ve enough ‘a thuss. Tent-time.” He faced his boys. “Who’s gaa first wartch?”

The goat with the broken horn waited the barest of moments before raising his arm.

“Mairzus, good boy ‘a mine. Naa too boggled, are yeh?”

“Naa Chieft’n.”

“Good-good. Wartch thuss ‘un till two screws ‘a the moon.”

“Eya Chieft’n.”

Grimletter lodged his blade into the tree by his tent. “Tent-time, boys. Keep the fire goin’ Mairzus, and wake the next boy at two screw.”

“Eya.”

They boys guzzled the last of their wine and filed off to their tents.

Soon there was silence. A knot popped in the fire and embers danced aerials to the dark canopy above. A male wendigo moaned in the distance, hoping to attract a mate.

Mairzus swayed and stared at Marise.

Marise stared back.

This might be a bad idea, a voice in her head warned her. Baiting him could be very unwise.

I know what I’m doing, she told the voice. Even in the confines of her head she didn’t sound confident.

“Whadder yeh lookinah?” His wine-limbered tongue mixed with his accent made him nearly unintelligible to Marise. She picked apart his words carefully and, damning caution, continued to stare. “Ahsedwhadderyehlookinah!” He snaked and fumbled from his seat and snaked and fumbled toward her, a broken mass of drunken rage, his pitch eyes glossed, his muzzle twitching a snarl. His fist sailed and tagged her across the chin and his raw knuckles split her lip and the other fist sailed but missed its target and thumped her on the shoulder. It still hurt. As Mairzus reared back for another punch gravity got the best of him and carried him down to the dirt where he flailed and flopped and clawed at her bloodslick legs; he got hold of a chain and steadied himself; got hold of another and began to climb himself up.

Face to face with the satyr, the stench was too much. Marise winced and her throat worked and bile rose up to the back of her teeth.

“Ah disgust yeh, do Ah? Ah smell too bad? Welly, yeh be smelling worst soon…”

Marise grit her teeth and closed her eyes as Mairzus reached into his pants and limbered himself. The stream splashed her legs and belly.

At least it’s warm, she thought.

“Now howdoyeh smell, eya?” He rubbed the urine into her wounds and the sting was incredible and she cried out. “Like that, do yeh?” He rubbed harder and harder. But his drunk logic flipped: he began to rub slower. He caressed her.

“Yeh’r such an ugly thing,” he said. His hand moved higher and squeezed the fullness of her breast. “Hid’yus. Dis-gus-tin’.”

Forcing away her loathing, Marise decided to plant the first hook in him.

“Please,” she cried. “Don’t. I’m still unsullied.”

“Ver-jin, be yeh? Unsullllllied? Welly, tonight yeh be right sullied.”

He yanked and pulled at the chains. “Godsrotting!” He searched quickly for the keys but his wine-fuelled lust overcame him and he pulled a hatchet from his belt and hacked the chains away.

When the last binding fell he dragged her by the hair and tossed her in the dirt. Concentrate, she thought as she writhed, concentrate. I’ve got to hurry before the others wake from the noise.

Mairzus straddled her. His head bobbed drunkenly, swivelled up to the sky. He scrunched his eyes and watched the stars, grinning, his teeth like broken pickets.

“Thuss be a sweet night,” he said.

“Yes,” Marise croaked. She lashed out, her arms feeling like jelly, her fingers wrapping around Mairzus’s neck. There was no way she could choke him—she was still very weak and Mairzus was a satyr, a race known for their hardiness. But luckily that was not her intention.

When Marise was unconscious the goat-men had stabbed her womb and bled her because it was commonly known that a sorceress could not cast magicks while drained of blood. But this was not entirely true: a loss of blood muddled the brain and only made a casting much harder to perform. Though certainly not impossible.

Concentrate, she repeated to herself. She only had a scant few moments before Mairzus pried her fingers from his neck. Turn your head. Look at the campfire. Concentrate. Concentrate on the fire. Feel its heat wash over you, feel it in your veins. The heat burning up your arms, concentrate on it, burning your wrists and your fingers and and and

The perfection came to her. Mairzus’s head burst into flames.

[RevenantsKnight]

So any thoughts, comments, questions, rants, raves and/or musings would be greatly appreciated. Seriously. Go ****ing nuts.

And so I shall...my first thought with this was that you shouldn’t make this Diablo. As I’ve mentioned to other folks, I personally think of Diablo as a medieval fantasy world only. Therefore, whenever someone changes the setting on me, parts of the story (the game history references in particular) just clank around in my mind. Now, I’m not saying that you can’t have goblins, etc. in this; I’d just rewrite it into your own universe if possible. It can resemble the Diablo world on some points, and be a mix of higher technology and magic, but just taking Blizzard’s setting wholesale and then advancing it far into the future doesn’t do it for me.

Overall, this looks promising. It’s not as heavy on the description as your last piece, though what’s there is generally good, and I can’t tell whether or not you skimped a little too much. Personally, I wouldn’t mind a little more imagery, so long as you don’t double or triple it up on the same thing. Your characters are interesting so far, and believable. :) The difference between Sephony and Willowyn in particular is nice; I’ll elaborate on this later. So, without further ado, here are some specific thoughts on your story:

I’m just gonna wing it and post two chapters a day. This can be stepped up (or down) upon request.

I’d slow it down a bit if you want feedback on all of it. Personally, I can usually get to one chapter per day, two if I’m lucky, and that’s assuming other people don’t post things. If you don’t mind that, well, then, let ‘em rip, but in terms of usable revision advice, you’ll get more from me at a slower pace.

Inevitability had come to her. Funny how that happened, sometimes; inevitability like a marker on the horizon, every day getting a bit closer, the marker bigger and bigger until you’re forced to lay your hands on it.

Umm...something inevitable may appear, but I don’t know if people come upon the idea of inevitability itself. I guess this is a stylistic call, but I’m not sure if this works as well as it could.

The imps sweating and falling to their bony knees and so many of them just keeling over and dying by the rails.

This sentence doesn’t sound right to me; maybe if you added something like “They remembered” at the start, it would read better. Or then again, maybe not...

The meal-car was long and spacious, filled with tables and the tables filled with men in fine suits and women in gowns, their sleeves of their gowns frilled, ivory canes and coloured parasols leaning against their chairs.

I’d change that part in the middle to read “in gowns with frilly sleeves” or something to that effect, because it feels verbose to have a whole clause to convey that idea.

The smells of meat and corn and coffee, fresh fruit and milk.

I don’t think this fragment works stylistically, since the rest of the paragraph’s a general third-person narration with complete sentences, not what a character’s experiencing firsthand.

Unperturbed, Sephony reached into her vest and checked her platinum timepiece. She knew what they were looking at: the Archangel .45 slung low and deadly on her hip, the roundnosed bullets winking in the loops on her belt. Gun-iron always sent a shiver up a plutocrat’s spine, especially when they were locked on a train with nowhere to hide.

Willowyn glared openly at them. Her hand never fell to her matching Archangel, but they could see it in her eyes, how she wanted to slap leather and fan hammer.

Well, the Isadora sisters (if that’s still who they are) are distinct individuals this time, and I think I like this better than having them as two representations of the same idea. This way, they do seem much more believable and human, especially when you start playing them off each other.

Her nostrils oculated.

Umm...the verb “to oculate” means “To set eyes upon; to see, behold,” according to the online version of the Oxford English Dictionary. Given that, I don’t think this works.

In his booth, the small imp was propped on a pile of books and his thin legs dangled under the table...

The whole scene with the imp and the sisters is good, I think, insofar as it develops Willowyn’s character. However, Sephony doesn’t really appear much here; is that deliberate, as in a sort of silent (dis)approval? If that was your intention, you might want to drop a couple more hints to that effect, because I didn’t pick up on that sort of thing when I read this.

He peeked over the menu and saw the other ape-human, the quiet one with the cold pale eyes gripping her sister’s wrist, gently—yet firmly—halting her fire. The imp could not believe his eyes. It made no sense to him at all.

Sephony was shaking her head. “Not yet,” she said. “Let’s not kill for free, lest we’re forced.”

Again, there aren’t enough bits prior to this to really indicate Sephony’s motive here. I can guess at why she did this, but with a few extra details thrown in, I could get a much stronger sense of her character.

She was a hard one, he knew; he’d seen those eyes before, on the killingfields when the enemy rushed with his rifle belching smoke and the bayonet gleaming.

I’ve always seen “killing fields” spelled as two words, not one.

He drunk deep of it, careless of the wine that streamed down his muzzle and soaked his coarse fur.

I think that should be “drunk deeply from it,” since “deeply” modifies the action of drinking, and one usually drinks from a vein...I mean, from a cup, or a glass, or a stream, or whatever. Also, I'd change "careless" to "heedless"; it's a minor point, but it works better in my mind if you're planning to use the preposition "of" afterwards.

He was a satyr, and like most of his kind, he measured success on an extremely long timeline.

I’d see if you can’t describe Grimletter’s race without saying straight up that “he was a satyr.” As it is, it sounds maybe too matter-of-fact.

Winds ushered through the night and billowed the tents.

The verb “to usher” usually takes an object, so I’d recommend finding a different verb here.

Half-man and half-goat, the satyrs were a race of nomads feared throughout the entire Western Kingdoms. Ages ago they ruled the plains and forests, but an Imperial crusade was waged against them and, though the kingdoms could never scourge their lands clean of the satyrs, they at least scattered the clans and loosened their grip on the ancestral territories.

Again, this sounds too factual to me, though maybe there isn’t a better way to get this information across. Also, I’d change “an Imperial crusade was waged against them” to something like “crusading Imperial forces had bested them in numerous battles” to get rid of the passive voice there. That doesn’t work word for word, obviously, but hopefully you get what I’m trying to say here.

First came the cold. It was all around her, a funeral shroud; coldness like a kiss on her heart. Her marrow frozen, the bones around it glass. Phantom winds assailing her, her tongue an ice floe in the frosted sepulchre of her mouth.

This is one of the few points in this piece where you approach the sledgehammer-like use of description common in your previous story, and my comment here is the same as it was then: this seems excessive. I’d say that you got your point across in the first two sentences; the third was OK, but extraneous, and I was waiting for the plot to get moving again by the fourth.

He snaked and fumbled from his seat and snaked and fumbled toward her, a broken mass of drunken rage, his pitch eyes glossed, his muzzle twitching a snarl. His fist sailed and tagged her across the chin and his raw knuckles split her lip and the other fist sailed but missed its target and thumped her on the shoulder.

I don’t know if the verb repetition here was intended for stylistic reasons or just a slip of the mind, but I don’t think it works. For me, it just messed up the flow of your story and reminded me, “Oh yeah, I should comment on this story sometime.”

The perfection came to her. Mairzus’s head burst into flames.

The similarities between the two names made my initial reading of this sentence much...weirder than it really had to be. You might want to change one of those names...

Anyway, this looks good so far. Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

Revenantsknight…

You know, I’m beginning to think I can count on you to give a hit-by-hit, error-by-error account of just about anything I write. Which, by the way, rocks. Thanks a heap for taking a few minutes to jot down a laundry list of your thoughts, much appreciated.

...my first thought with this was that you shouldn’t make this Diablo.

I know how you feel. When something is brought too far from its original element, it sort of becomes an exercise in pointlessness: why have it take place in some pre-made universe when you’re basically going to abandon it and craft your own? So yeah, totally agree with you there. But, bare in mind—what you’ve read is just the two first chapters. I’d rather not give anything away (and if you plan on reading the rest of it, I doubt you’d want me to, either), so I’ll just say that perhaps the Diablo universe comes into sharper relief later on.

I’d slow it down a bit if you want feedback on all of it.

Good idea. The last thing I wanna do is overwhelm you poor folks. One chapter a day it is.

The whole scene with the imp and the sisters is good, I think, insofar as it develops Willowyn’s character. However, Sephony doesn’t really appear much here; is that deliberate, as in a sort of silent (dis)approval? If that was your intention, you might want to drop a couple more hints to that effect, because I didn’t pick up on that sort of thing when I read this.

Oh ye of little faith. Seriously though, I purposely made Sephony silent through that scene, and kept her reasoning for not killing the imp ambiguous. At this point in the game, I felt she shouldn’t lay down all her cards just yet. But thanks for the heads-up, maybe I’ll add a line or two where Willowyn becomes frustrated with her sister’s taciturnity.

This is one of the few points in this piece where you approach the sledgehammer-like use of description

You cruel bastard. Cruel, but most likely right.

The similarities between the two names made my initial reading of this sentence much...weirder than it really had to be.

Ha! That would’ve made for a pretty bizarre plot-twist. But hey, maybe in the next draft I can have her light her hair on fire and headbutt the satyr to death. The scene could then go down as the ultimate description of “out of left field”.

Out of left field -- Eccentric, odd; also, mistaken. For example: lighting one’s own head aflame in order to attack a goat. See also, bad acid trip.

Thanks for reading.

[RevenantsKnight]

I’d rather not give anything away (and if you plan on reading the rest of it, I doubt you’d want me to, either), so I’ll just say that perhaps the Diablo universe comes into sharper relief later on.

Hmm...should be interesting to see what you do with Blizzard's world, then.

Seriously though, I purposely made Sephony silent through that scene, and kept her reasoning for not killing the imp ambiguous. At this point in the game, I felt she shouldn’t lay down all her cards just yet. But thanks for the heads-up, maybe I’ll add a line or two where Willowyn becomes frustrated with her sister’s taciturnity.

Ah. I had a similar line of reasoning for Farewell, and then neoplatonic dropped by the thread and hinted that I should develop a certain character more. I believe his exact quote was "Every action has to reveal character," and that was on my mind when I read your piece. In retrospect, it's probably not as much of a problem if this story goes on for a while, so add extras if you want; they're probably not necessary per se.

You cruel bastard.

Awww...that hurt right *here* :( Seriously, though, let me know if I'm being too evil.

Ha! That would’ve made for a pretty bizarre plot-twist. But hey, maybe in the next draft I can have her light her hair on fire and headbutt the satyr to death.

Yeah...my original guess was that she had succeeded in doing some sort of fire elemental shapeshifting spell. That or you were being darkly sarcastic about her screwing up the attack.

Thanks for reading.

My pleasure.

[Clarke667]

Awww...that hurt right *here* Seriously, though, let me know if I'm being too evil.

Equally seriously, you're not. I was just kidding... well, kidding-ish. Fact is, I'm posting here because I want honest criticism; I'd be a bit of a baby if I said, "I want to know what you really think, unless you disagree with what I think."

A pat on the back is nice, but sometimes a punch in the mouth is more effective.

So as long as it's contructive, and (though cruel and brutal are fine) not totally mean-spirited... well, ****, fire away.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Three

The local historian was a notorious drunkard, tosspot first-class. He was a red-nosed imbiber of ale and rum and wine, a backslapper, a pincher of bottoms, a barley cloud of jollity and well-wishes; this bothered some, since he was supposed to be the town’s intellectual, and to have him rolling in cups five nights a week was a mild embarrassment. Others didn’t much care. He was a good-natured sod, and even in the depths of his rum-hazes he never raised a fist or spat a curse. Not only that, but even in spite of his raging nights and crushing mornings, he still managed to somehow get the work done.

When properly inebriated, the historian was known to say that no town was more aptly named than Sadness.

“We’ve had the baddest of times,” he would say, usually stopping to raise his mug at a patron in celebration, or motioning to the barkeep for another round. “Baddest of the bad. We sawd the terror twice in Sadness, ay. Our history’s painted black with it.

“First was the deal with Lazarus and the catercombs,” he would say, as if anyone knew what he was jabbering about. “Dark times in the church, which has since been razed and flattened and buried and forgotten. I’ll show you the site sometime, you’ll get a right kick from it. That’s where the wanderer battled the Lord of Terror.

“A sad story,” he would intone. “Ay, so very sad. ‘Nother round on the tab?” The barkeep had no doubt heard the tale a thousand times before, but the historian had the gift of tongues and his too-old voice was soothing; on most nights the barkeep would honour the tab.

“Next came the Reckoning. Our town was killed by the Lord of Terror for what we had done to him, and most everyone was slaughtered. Some escaped the Reckoning, though, and my greatest of great-great grandfather was held captive and later freed. He was the one who eventually came back and re-founded the town, about a mile and a half from the original. You’re all welcome.

“Some of the ruins still stand, you know. It’s the place we call Rockswoon, and as we all know, it’s a bad place. Ghosts and such. I went there to mark the site of the forgotten church and even during the bright of the day I could feel it. The earth there was black, and so were the trees, and they wept slowly.

“We’ve had the baddest of times, no?” the historian would say, nodding to himself, draining his mug in silence.

No one had seen the historian for going on two weeks now. He was gone like the rest of them, presumed dead. Hopefully dead.

Sadness was seeing bad times again.



The dusty coach shambled into Sadness by late morning. The horses were muddy and tired; after a long hold-up in the forest (caused by a broken wheel), the driver had been offered double-pay to get his passengers to the town as quick as possible, and to insure this bonus the driver had to whip the horses into a forced-trot for the rest of the trip. It was a gamble, he knew; if the horses died from exhaustion the bonus wouldn’t even cover the cost. But it looked like the gods were favouring him today. Lucky, lucky.

He bridled the coach over to the nearest inn, The Morning Rain.

“Here we are,” the driver called over his shoulder. “The Morning Rain’s prob’ly the best bed in Sadness. They got harlots, though, if that bothers ye; but they also got a decent breakfast and a bath. That to your satisfaction?”

“It’ll do,” Willowyn said, climbing out the cab. She tossed the driver a pouch of coins as her sister dismounted and dusted her sleeves.

The driver pulled the string on the pouch. “It’s all there,” Willowyn said.

“Ay, yarse, of course.” He didn’t push it. He tucked the coins in his coat. “Oldish habit. You know us drivers. Unruly lot we are. Sods all.”

One of the horses stumbled and whinnied pathetically. “Ey Carmin?” the driver said to it, and the horse fell to a knee and jittered and then toppled over in a spume of dust. The coach listed on two wheels and the driver clung to the reins to keep from keeling over the side. “Godsrottit!” He scramble-climbed to the fore and unhooked the binds and the coach righted itself with a thump. “Godsrottit to the ninth sphere of Hell!”

Sephony placed a hand on the fallen horse.

“Still breathin?” the driver asked.

“Yes,” Sephony said. She stood. “I’ll care for it.”

The Archangel loosed from her side. She pulled back the hammer with her thumb. When the judgement came the horse’s scream was swallowed by the declaration and all passers-by stopped and gaped. Shooting-iron. A rare-ish sight in these parts.

“Carmin, Carmin,” the driver said.

The sisters left the driver to his ill-fortune. In The Morning Rain, they bought a room and paid for a week up front. Patrons and harlots and harlotmongers watched them covertly.

“Have some cold coffee sent up to the room,” Willowyn said. Most people thought cold coffee tasted like sludge but the sisters had gotten used to it on their long journeys and ambushes.

The room was small and ugly but clean, a soft bed and a sturdy dresser and a claw-footed tub. A round table in the corner, two chairs. A window and a heavy blind.

They tossed their packs in the corner and draped their coats over the chairs.

“When they come with the coffee tell ‘em to get buckets for the bath,” Willowyn said. She sat on the edge of the bed and yanked off her boots. “Ugh. Tell em to hurry with the buckets. My paws reek.”

Sephony had to agree.

“So,” Willowyn said while fanning her feet with her hat, “think there’s coin here?”

“That’s what they’ve been sayin. We’ll visit the keeper after supper, see what we can eek out.”

“Good. We’re running frightful low on cashes.”

“Ay,” Sephony said, tasting the regional term on her tongue. She would have the accent down in a day or so, and the cadence in another. A familiar voice could do wonders in a small town.

A well-groomed porter came with the coffee and Sephony paid him and requested the buckets. They sipped the coffee and waited and filled the tub with steaming water when it came, Willowyn undressing and settling in the tub, still sipping her coffee, relaxing and sunshafts from the window falling on her face and chest. She touched her neck, feeling the chequered kerchief there. She untied it and tossed it on the pile, revealing a half-collar of pink scar.

She asked Sephony to get the bar of yellow soap she carried in her pack; she scrubbed the grime from her feet and arms.

Sephony rang for the porter. “Another few buckets,” she told him. “And a bottle of rum. And get a harlot up here, too. A pretty one.”

The porter looked dumbfounded. He glanced over Sephony’s shoulder and saw the nude woman bathing in the tub. Sephony tucked a few coins in his vest-pocket. “Keep it quiet, too. Ay?”

He nodded feebly. “Ay.”

Sephony closed the door.

“I ordered us some rum. And a prostitute.”

“You what?”



Downstairs, the porter discreetly explained the situation to the desk manager. She was a woman of about fifty with cyclone hair and too much makeup. The makeup twitched as she gaped in astonishment.

“The two women just came in? They want a harlot?”

“Ay.”

“What do they think this is? We’re The Morning Rain! We’re respectable!”

“Ay.”

“We can’t be having this. No, no, no. Go back up there and tell them to clear the room and find some other hovel more appropriate to their, their deviations.”

The porter blanched. He stutterwalked a foot, then abruptly halted.

“Gods, what is it?”

“They… they’re gunners ma’am. They’ll blow me out my boots.”

The desk manager tapped her long crimson nails on the counter. “Perhaps they won’t,” she said. “You might see this one through. Now get.”

He stuttered and stopped again. “The gunners,” he said, “they’ve got coin, coin a’plenty.” He didn’t want to show her the tip he’d received but he wagered the gold was worth less than his life. He slid the gold across the table and it vanished under the desk manager’s long nails.

“A’plenty, you say?”

“Ay.”

The desk manager shook her head slowly, lost in thought. “Mr Tanner’s not gonna like this. No, this’ll put a quillrat in his trousers. Rich, are they?”

“Ay.”

“You want your life so bad, you talk to Mr Tanner. He’s only marginally less apt to steal it, though. And charge them gunners double and get me a cut of it.”

He considered it. “Ay,” he said.



As it turned out, Mr Tanner, Harlotmaster for The Morning Rain, didn’t have much of a problem with the request. On another day he would’ve; he would’ve thumped the porter and then stomped up to the room and thumped the gunners too. But ever since the bad came to Sadness, business was trickle-drip slow, and he needed the extra gold. Prostitution was a high-upkeep field; you had to feed the harlots and room the harlots and even pay the harlots every once and a while. And they were always getting strangled or ruined, so once a month he had to buy fresh ones for the corral.

Even so, he might not have agreed. Even at double rate he might not’ve been able to cover the costs; if word got out that one of his girl was tainted by impure relations, he would have to cut her loose and buy a clean one from the skin traders.

But it just so happened that luck had finally tumbled his way.

Just this morning he purchased a girl from a hunter at a fifth of the price. Apparently he was out bagging windego for meat and fur (their coats especially luxurious during rutting season) when he came across her lying in a ditch, filthy and naked and blood-strewn. He gave her some water and wrapped her in one of the fresh pelts he’d bagged and tossed her in his cart. When his work was over the girl was still alive, so he brought her to Tanner on the way to market.

“She’s a cute one, idn’t she?” the hunter said.

“Cute, ay, but a bit young and damaged. Look the scars on her belly. No one wants to bounce a scarred up harlot.”

“Use her fer whatever, then. Twenny… twenny-fi’ gold.”

“You said twenty.”

And the deal was done and Tanner immediately regretted it. Maybe the girl could clean the trotters or something; wash out the harlots’ bits when they got infected.

But now he had a good use for her. She was damaged anyways—might as well cash in and put her down afterwards.



Sephony baled most of the filthy water out of the window and refilled the tub. “The rum?” she asked and the porter set the bottle on the table. “And the harlot?” He reached out the door and guided her into the room. She was wearing a plain cotton robe and her eyes were huge and fearful and her face was bruised like an apple.

“A bit young, isn’t she?” Sephony said.

“She’s old enough,” the porter said. “Her price is sixty gold.”

“Sixty!” Willowyn said while towelling her hair. She somehow managed to glare at her sister and the porter and the harlot, all for different reasons.

“That’s far too much,” Sephony said. “Look at her. She’s young and she’s bruised up and I smell blood on her. Sixty is ludicrous.”

“That’s the price.”

“That’s robbery. We each took the train for thirty gold and that was a five- hour ride. What can this girl offer?”

“Discretion.”

“Dung on discretion,” Willowyn said. “Give us a fair shake or I’ll blast you six new smoking arseholes.”

The porter gulped but stood firm.

“Thirty,” Sephony said. “Or I leave you to my sister and you’ll never see another rainbow. That would be a terrible shame.”

“Truly,” Willowyn said.

The porter hesitated. “Fifty.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Fifty.”

“Forty, and I give you twenty seconds to run before I shoot you in the back.”

It was a good offer, he reckoned. “Deal.”

He took the money and left the fearful girl to fend for herself, scurrying down the hall and wondering how he would make up the other twenty and save his life from Mr Tanner. And then he would have to cover the desk manager’s cut as well.

What a terrible day.

Sephony closed the door and began to unbutton her shirt.

“You can’t be serious,” Willowyn said.

“Serious about what?”

“This.”

“This? I don’t know what ‘this’ is, at least to you.” She laid out her shirt on the bed. There was an ugly pink scar on her side. “This is me getting ready to take a bath. This is me looking for a knife so I can shave my legs; it’s a forest down there. And this is me about to drink some rum and have a smoke, and this little harlot here is gonna talk. In a town like this, no one knows more’n a harlot, ay? A bed is where a man lays his secrets bare.”

She tossed her skivvies and stepped into the bath.

“What’s your name?”

“Marise.”

“Get the rum, Marise. Pour me a finger.”

Marise did as she was asked, her hands trembling, a bit of the rum splashing onto the table. “Sorry,” she said, thinking, This is bad. Very bad. Should I kill them now or should I take my chances and wait?

Sephony sipped her drink and lathered her leg with soap. “So what can you tell us, Marise? What’s going on here, exactly?” As an afterthought: “And for forty gold it better be good.”

Willowyn sat crossleg on the bed with the towel wrapped around her hair. She laid another towel on the bed and began breaking down her .45. She had a kit by her side with brushes and jags and swatches of dirty cloth and oil droppers. As Marise spoke she could hear the clicking and ticking of gunworks behind her.

“I—I’m not a harlot.”

“Don’t feed me that tripe,” Sephony said. She flicked open her trail-knife and ran it skilfully down her lathered leg. She shucked the foam and hair into an empty bucket. “We’re not gonna have at you. We want information, and maybe a backrub, seeing how we’re paying you so much. Actually, get to that. My shoulders’re awful tense.”

Marise walked behind Sephony and carefully laid hands on the woman’s shoulders. I can light her up like Mairzus, she thought. The other one’s got her gun broken down; she’ll never snap it back together in time. But… As she worked out Sephony’s knots, she ticked an eye to Willowyn. She saw another gun lying holstered by the foot of the bed. Still pretty far away. But if these girls are really assassin then she might be able to get to it and punch a hole in me.

“Well?” Sephony said.

Think, think.

“I’m not a harlot, I swear. I’m a slave.”

Willowyn said, “There’s a difference?”

“Today—Today yes, there’s a difference.”

Sephony considered this. Her face was impassive but underneath she was being gnawed by apprehension. She studied Marise as best she could without alerting her. She noted the texture of Marise’s hands; the nervous lilt of her voice; her smell.

Her smell.

Sephony nodded near imperceptibly to Willowyn.

“Why, pray-tell, is there a difference today?”

Before Marise could answer Sephony was twisting out of the tub with the trail-knife to Marise’s throat and pushing against her and knocking her down, pinning her and the knife never wavering and Willowyn off the bed with her sister’s .45 cocked and a split-moment later the Archangel’s black dead eye pressing against Marise’s forehead. Soap and water drenched her robe as Sephony straddled her with the blade forced cruelly against her skin.

“Zann Esu,” Sephony hissed through her teeth. “You’re caught cold sorceress; the merest hint of trickery and we’ll paint the floor with you.”

“Are you hired?” Willowyn asked. “Who paid you for our heads?”

“No! No one, I swear!”

“Demonpiss! Was it Trans-Kingdom?”

“I’m not hired! I’m—I, I…” The fear broke inside her and she wept.

“Gods,” Willowyn said. “I’m feeding this dogswallowing fool a bullet.”

“No! Please, please, I can help you! I have information! Please!”

The sisters shared a glance.

“You have two minutes,” Sephony said. “Start at the very beginning.”

“I—can you get off my chest? I can barely—”

Sephony jabbed Marise in the neck with the tip of the knife. It was a shallow puncture; a line of blood trickled from it.

“Minute and a half.”

Marise spoke quickly. She told him how Exalted Mother had ordered her to Sadness to investigate the disappearances. “What disappearances?” Sephony asked, and Marise told her that twenty had vanished in the night without a trace and that, before darkness broke to dawn, a chorus of screams could be heard on the winds. She told them of her capture by the goat-men, and her escape.

“Torched his head, did you?” Sephony said. The two minutes were up yet the killing had not come.

“Yes. He screamed and his face melted and I pushed him with my mind, sent him reeling back into the tents. They went up like kindling, all smoke and flame, and I scrambled to my feet and ran and ran, in the dark. After I don’t know how long, I started to get dizzy, terrible dizzy, and sick. I think I tripped and knocked my head. In the morning a hunter found me and brought me to town and sold me off.”

“Don’t be so bitter. He could have left you.”

“Or he could have helped me.”

“He did. You expect too much of people. He gave more kindness than I’d ever give.”

That didn’t sit well with Marise. She swallowed and the knife poked her gullet.

Sephony told Willowyn, “I’m naked and I’m cold. Keep a bead on her while I towel and dress.” She slapped the knife closed and tossed it on the bed. She went about her business.

“Reassemble my iron while you’re at it.”

“Can’t. You’ve broke it down too far.”

“Bah. You should learn the ways of a gun before you ever squeeze the trigger.”

As a rebuttal, Sephony belched.

“Charming. Now what’re we gonna do with the harlot?”

“Send her back to the corral.”

“No, please—”

The gun pressed against her cheek. “Hush. You’re coming out of this with your life, and many a woman’s made a good life on her back. It’s nothing to be extremely ashamed of.”

“I can’t. Please. They won’t keep me. They’ll kill me.”

Sephony straightened her cuffs. “Kill them, then. Why is this so difficult? Rain fire and judgement down on them.”

“It’s against the Order. I can’t do it. Please help me. I’ll—I know more.”

“Oh?”

“I know where to look for the Darkness.”

“Where?”

“I’ll tell you if you free me.”

“No. You’ll tell us now.”

“I won’t.”

Willowyn said, “We can make you tell us.”

“No, not today. I’ve nothing left but that. It’s all I have over you and you won’t steal it with torture.”

Willowyn smiled.

“I don’t believe you.”

Slowly, slowly, Marise walked over to the table. With each step the gun pressed harder in her cheek. “What do you think you’re doing, you imp fornicator?” Willowyn hissed, and slowly, slowly, Marise placed her left hand on the table and splayed her fingers.

“Which one do you want?” Marise asked.

“We’ll take all of them if it’s our pleasure.”

Fully dressed, Sephony was knelt-over and rooting in her pack. “Now, now,” she said, “that’s not fair.” She removed a small hatchet and tested the edge with her thumb. Razor-sharp.

“It’s your bequest, Marise,” Sephony said. “You choose.”

Willowyn said, “We’re not bluffing, you know.”

“I know. Neither am I.” Oh by the Sightless Eye what are you doing? “The little finger. Take that one.”

Sephony placed the cold blade on the skin. Willowyn held the wrist. Her grip was like an iron bar.

“Last chance,” Sephony said.

Marise held her tongue. And her breath.

The hatchet ascended. The sunlight caught the steel and burnished it and motes danced around it. It came down in a white flash. Marise sucked more air into her bloated lungs and her head rang and buzzed and the blade stopped a quarter-inch from her finger.

Sephony looked at her. “Kidding.”

Marise exhaled and nearly collapsed. Willowyn held her, laughing.

Sephony laughed as well. “Actually… No, I’m not.”

The hatchet was up and back down before Marise could register what had occurred and her little finger jumped across the table with a tail of blood and the pain shot up her arm and exploded in her head, tearing her brain to pieces, the agony of it, her fingerstump sputtering red and she was screaming, shrieking, thrashing; Willowyn flung her against the wall and the bed rattled and Willowyn kicked her in the stomach and the screams and shrieks rushed out of her, all at once, the blood painting roses on her cotton robe.

Sephony tossed Marise her finger. “Better concentrate,” she said.

Insane with pain and terror, Marise jammed the finger on the stump, feeling the bones grind together, the acid sting of raw flesh like a million wasps, her hands red gloves. She mewled and cried. “Concentrate,” Sephony said and her hand lashed out and gripped Marise’s throat. Like her sister, Sephony’s hand was an iron bar. The air died at the back of Marise’s throat.

“I gave you two minutes before. Now I’m giving you two more. Two minutes before you pass out and die, Marise. This is the rest of your life. Now concentrate. Will yourself to fix or die like a dog.”

Marise gazed dumbly at her hand. It looked far too big. It took up her entire field of vision; the hand would come and engulf her face and that would be her death, a palm-blessing, a blackness smelling of copper and salt and meat.

She fumbled the severed finger. Somehow the bone-ends clicked into place.

The perfection came to her. A band of whiteness covered the wound, perfect whiteness. It burned pleasantly, and her finger was warmed by it. She could feel it. Her finger twitched.

Sephony released her grip.

“Now,” she said, “what aren’t you telling us?”

Marise fell over and coughed. Retched. She battled for consciousness.

“Which… do you want next?” Marise asked, and splayed her bloody fingers on the floorboards.

This time, Sephony’s laugh was genuine.

[RevenantsKnight]

This was another good read, no doubt about it; you most definitely still have my attention. The end felt a little uneven, as if you had an idea but didn’t quite get all of it down, but other than that, this was strong.

Comments on Chapter Three:

He was a red-nosed imbiber of ale and rum and wine, a backslapper, a pincher of bottoms, a barley cloud of jollity and well-wishes; this bothered some, since he was supposed to be the town’s intellectual, and to have him rolling in cups five nights a week was a mild embarrassment.

I’d suggest a period instead of a semicolon here; the shift between the two sentences would be best noted with a full stop, in my opinion.

He was a good-natured sod, and even in the depths of his rum-hazes he never raised a fist or spat a curse. Not only that, but even in spite of his raging nights and crushing mornings, he still managed to somehow get the work done.

Given the first sentence here, “raging nights” seems too...aggressive.

No one had seen the historian for going on two weeks now. He was gone like the rest of them, presumed dead. Hopefully dead.

Heh...it’s probably a good thing for him, if you think about what Willowyn might do to him if she got annoyed. :p Anyway, I thought this whole bit was a good way to start out this chapter, slow and easy in contrast to what happens later. But then again, I write only slow prose, so maybe that’s just me.

The horses were muddy and tired; after a long hold-up in the forest (caused by a broken wheel), the driver had been offered double-pay to get his passengers to the town as quick as possible, and to insure this bonus the driver had to whip the horses into a forced-trot for the rest of the trip.

That should be “ensure,” not “insure.”

He didn’t push it. He tucked the coins in his coat.

I’d suggest combining these two sentences into something like “He didn’t push it, and tucked the coins into his coat” in order to eliminate the repetition of “he” (unless that was intentionally done to focus attention on the driver.)

When the judgement came the horse’s scream was swallowed by the declaration and all passers-by stopped and gaped.

“Rain fire and judgement down on them.”

That should be “judgment.”

“Carmin, Carmin,” the driver said.

Since you don’t spend any other sentences on the driver’s reaction (which is fine,) I’d use a more descriptive verb to get a little bit more of an image across. “Said” is just too bland if you’re leaving it to stand alone here.

The sisters left the driver to his ill-fortune.

I don’t think “ill fortune” is hyphenated.

“That’s what they’ve been sayin. We’ll visit the keeper after supper, see what we can eek out.”

I think you mean “eke out,” which is defined as “to supplement, supply the deficiencies of anything” (definition from the online version of the Oxford English Dictionary.)

“Ay,” Sephony said, tasting the regional term on her tongue. She would have the accent down in a day or so, and the cadence in another. A familiar voice could do wonders in a small town.

This stood out in my mind as a particularly elegant bit of phrasing. :thumbsup:

They sipped the coffee and waited and filled the tub with steaming water when it came, Willowyn undressing and settling in the tub, still sipping her coffee, relaxing and sunshafts from the window falling on her face and chest.

The “and” after “relaxing” should be “as,” or something like that; since “relaxing” isn’t parallel with “sunshafts” (they aren’t both verbs in the gerund form,) “and” doesn’t sound right as a conjunction.

[Willowyn] untied it and tossed it on the pile, revealing a half-collar of pink scar.

There was an ugly pink scar on [Sephony’s] side.

Oddly familiar, that...

She asked Sephony to get the bar of yellow soap she carried in her pack; she scrubbed the grime from her feet and arms.

This seems extraneous and didn’t flow as well from the previous paragraph or to the next one; I’d recommend deleting it altogether if you don’t mind leaving the reader to assume a few things.

“Mr Tanner’s not gonna like this.”

There should be a period at the end of “Mr.,” and for any other contraction of a title, such as Ms., Mrs., Cmdr., etc.

But ever since the bad came to Sadness, business was trickle-drip slow, and he needed the extra gold.

“The bad?” I guess it’s a stylistic call, but I didn’t think that worked as well as, say, “bad times” would’ve.

Apparently he was out bagging windego for meat and fur (their coats especially luxurious during rutting season) when he came across her lying in a ditch, filthy and naked and blood-strewn.

In the game, I think the monster name is “wendigo.” This is an instance where it works just fine to borrow a detail; as long as you don’t capitalize it and then add that they’re immune to Cold on Hell difficulty, it won’t stick out. Additionally, I think you’re missing a “were” or a “being” after “coats,” and “blood-strewn” looked a little odd at first glance to me, though I did get what you were trying to say.

She was wearing a plain cotton robe and her eyes were huge and fearful and her face was bruised like an apple.

I could be wrong, but “was wearing” seems incorrect to me...I’d change that to “wore.” In general, I have no real problem with your use of “and” to chain together descriptive phrases; that’s a stylistic thing and really your own decision. However, I do think that some variety in terms of sentence structure might be good at times. For instance, the above sentence could be rewritten as “She wore a plain cotton robe, her eyes huge and bright, her face bruised like an apple.”

She had a kit by her side with brushes and jags and swatches of dirty cloth and oil droppers.

Here’s the only time that I noticed where your use of “and” makes things a little ambiguous; as it is above, it sounds like there were swatches of both dirty cloth and oil droppers. You could leave it alone, since it’s not a pressing issue by any stretch; if you want advice on changing it, I’d write the sentence as “She had a kit by her side with brushes, jags and swatches of dirty cloth, and oil droppers.”

I can light her up like Mairzus,

I don’t think Marise would remember the satyr by name, since that implies a sort of equality. I would have expected something more along the lines of “...like that satyr.”

Still pretty far away. But if these girls are really assassin then she might be able to get to it and punch a hole in me.

There are two others in the room, so “assassin” should be plural.

Before Marise could answer Sephony was twisting out of the tub with the trail-knife to Marise’s throat and pushing against her and knocking her down, pinning her and the knife never wavering and Willowyn off the bed with her sister’s .45 cocked and a split-moment later the Archangel’s black dead eye pressing against Marise’s forehead.

This sentence is too long in my opinion; I’d break it in two after “wavering” (the second half would need a little revising to work grammatically) so that the reader doesn’t get lost in the sheer length of the thing.

“You’re caught cold sorceress; the merest hint of trickery and we’ll paint the floor with you.”

There should be a comma after “cold”; as it is, I read it and thought, “Wait...she’s a fire sorceress...”

She told him how Exalted Mother had ordered her to Sadness to investigate the disappearances. “What disappearances?” Sephony asked, and Marise told her that twenty had vanished in the night without a trace and that, before darkness broke to dawn, a chorus of screams could be heard on the winds. She told them of her capture by the goat-men, and her escape.

Umm...she told *him*? Who the...? Also, you use the verb “told” in every sentence here; to avoid repetition, I’d suggest considering synonyms such as “recount,” “relate,” “divulge,” etc.

The two minutes were up yet the killing had not come.

There should be a comma after “up.”

“No, not today. I’ve nothing left but that. It’s all I have over you and you won’t steal it with torture.”

I feel as though this lacks something; there’s not enough of a description of Marise, or her voice, or elements like that, to really nail down an image. She could still be on the verge of crying when she said this, or her words might have a hint of strength...you get the idea.

Slowly, slowly, Marise walked over to the table...

What happens before this is clear to me, but this point, and some parts that follow, feel disconnected from the first half of the chapter. What prompted this sequence? Why would Marise offer this in the first place?

Oh by the Sightless Eye what are you doing?

Umm...the Sightless Eye is the patron of the eponymous Sisters, not the Zann Esu. Why would a Sorceress offer respects to a foreign deity first, as opposed to one native to Kehjistan? Or is this going to be explained later?

The hatchet was up and back down before Marise could register what had occurred and her little finger jumped across the table with a tail of blood and the pain shot up her arm and exploded in her head, tearing her brain to pieces, the agony of it, her fingerstump sputtering red and she was screaming, shrieking, thrashing; Willowyn flung her against the wall and the bed rattled and Willowyn kicked her in the stomach and the screams and shrieks rushed out of her, all at once, the blood painting roses on her cotton robe.

This is one sentence? *blink*...*blink*... Seriously, though, this is too long. I’d suggest breaking it into three parts, one after “tail of blood,” and the second break at the semicolon. Regardless, the part between the breaks needs a second look in my opinion; “the agony of it” doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of the sentence and “she was screaming...” doesn’t sound parallel with the other verbs. Also, I’d suggest deleting “and the bed rattled” and rewriting that part to avoid using Willowyn’s name twice in the same breath.

Sephony tossed Marise her finger. “Better concentrate,” she said...

Again, maybe I missed something, but I don’t know why the heck this part happened; there’s nothing in the game or the preceding parts of your story that I saw to suggest this is connected with the rest of your tale.

Anyway, this was good, other than the bumps at the end. Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

Hey RevenantsKnight, few quick things to mention here...

I agree with 95% of what you've said. Fixes will be made. So thanks again.


One thing, though:

This is one sentence? *blink*...*blink*... Seriously, though, this is too long.

That was sort of the point. I'm sort of a fan of the run-on sentence when a character is in a moment of great stress or pain; in this instance, Marise has just gotten her finger chopped off, so I tried to muddle the narrative a bit. Quite frankly, I enjoy the effect, though I can certainly understand why someone else would not.

Umm...the Sightless Eye is the patron of the eponymous Sisters, not the Zann Esu. Why would a Sorceress offer respects to a foreign deity first, as opposed to one native to Kehjistan? Or is this going to be explained later?

All I can say is, "oh ****". It looks like I've gotten a bit confused about the old mythology... I was under the impression that the sorceresses prayed to the Sightless Eye. Yeeps. Hmmm, I assume I can fix this. Not sure how, exactly.

Double yeeps.

[Clarke667]

New chapter slightly delayed, due to the untimely death of Dimebag Darrell. He was one wicked son of a *****, and I will miss him greatly.

I'm sure Jesus is a Pantera fan. He's a long-hair, after all.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Four

The tribe would never move, that was the problem as Cor saw it. They weren’t like the hellblasted goat-men, abandoning their ancestral lands and living on the currents of the winds; they were imps, and over the years they had learned to stand their ground. For better or for worse.

Cor silently damned his forefathers. How could they have sided with the Prime Evils? And, worse still, displayed such cowardice that they would taint their children with it, and their children’s children. That’s why we’ll never move again, he thought bitterly. We couldn’t bear another stigma. We’re forced to die without reason before we relent.

And even that wasn’t working so well. The imps were slaves, after all. They were cowards. Weak-willed. Betrayal coloured their foul blood.

No.

And that was precisely where Cor felt he was caught. On one side was the safety of his tribe; on the other was the sneaking suspicion that the humans were right after all, that he and his people were fundamentally wretched and not to be trusted.

He crossed the grassy plain. The sun beat down on him and he was glad to have his hat. But the suit was far too hot; he removed the vest and coat and rolled up his pant-legs. Better.

I’m already shedding my civility. Before long I’ll be stark naked and hunting swine with a club or rock. Back to my savage ways.

But was that so wrong? Civility is what put him on the rails in the first place. Human civility killed his wife and children.

All these questions are going to kill you, Cor. You put them away for now. You think only of the tribe.

He left the plains for the bushlands. His shoes trod flowers flat and snapped branches and soon he removed them to travel more easily.

The air carried the faint aroma of smoke and grease. He was close. Soon the bush dissolved to hillocks and the hillocks dissolved to crags and stones. Cor picked his way through the jagged terrain, the path indecipherable to anyone but a member of the tribe. He instinctively stepped over a snare made of dried sinew and hoped that the tribe had not placed any new traps.

He approached the cave. There was an old deerskin tarp over the wide mouth, patched and repatched. He ran his blue fingers over the stitching; he and his brother had stalked the deer themselves, and his wife had done the stitchwork. There was nothing that fine lady couldn’t sew.

He fought the tears away. Gods how his heart still ached!

Cor pushed the tarp aside and stepped into the cave. Blue faces looked up from the many coal-pits, the glow of the embers lighting their chins and mouths. At first they were afraid the skin traders had finally found their village, but their eyes softened when they saw it was the patriarch.

“Cor!” Wela said from her roost by her family’s coal-pit. “You’ve come back!” Wela was Cor’s wife’s cousin and the closest relation to her in the tribe. He was already dreading telling her the bad news. For now, though, he smiled at her and caught the running-hug she threw at him, swinging her around and kissing her lightly on the forehead.

The rest of the tribe encircled him, congratulating him on his safe return and posing a dozen question at once.

Wela asked about Cor’s wife and he hushed her and told her they’d speak later. He addressed all of them, saying, “I’ll answer all of your questions later, at the supper.”

“And a supper it will be!” Degg said, parting the tribe and clasping his brother on the shoulders, as was customary when a relative or friend returned from a long journey. “A feast!”

Degg was reigning patriarch in Cor’s absence. There was bad blood between the brothers, though Degg’s current joviality seemed sincere. Enjoy it while you can, Cor told himself. His mood will no doubt change when you announce that you’re taking back the top spot in the tribe.

Degg ordered the workers to rake the coals and double the meat for supper. Traditionally, imps ate all their meals charred over coals and covered in ash. The burnt, ashed meat was then lathered with boiled grease and fat. Few races could stomach the preparation of imp cuisine, but Cor thought it delicious.

Degg said, “I’m anxious to hear of your journey, brother.”

“I’m anxious to tell it. I need the journey out of my heart, Degg. As I walked through it, the journey walked through me.”

Degg nodded sombrely. “I fear, though, that your journey is not finished.”

“I know it isn’t.”

“After the feast… after you tell your tale to the tribe… I’ll take you to the Shaman. He will tell you our tale. So far, it’s a dark one.”

“As I figured, brother.”

And, looking at the dismal cave and automatically remembering his days on the railroads, he thought: Will we ever reach the light?



The feast was a grand occasion for Cor. It certainly beat the sparse, tasteless rations he had been given on the rails, and it was leagues above the weak human grub he had eaten on the train. He devoured the first course silently and with great relish, wishing his family could be at his side enjoying it with him. He offered a prayer to the guardian Rakanishu for their protection and peace in The Land Away.

Although the tribe was anxious to hear his tale, they waited patiently as Cor gorged himself.

The wives cleared the table and served the second course. Steaming soup in earthenware bowls, rat broth and fat and spices, vinegared grasses; Cor took the bowl in both hands and sipped from it appreciably. He pronounced it scrumptious. And, carefully placing the bowl before him and the steam wafting up to his chin, he began to speak.

Cor had always been a good storyteller, a gift that had been given to him by his father, he supposed, who would regale the tribe nightly with stories of bravery and gods and great warriors, who would make his rounds every night amongst the young of the tribe, telling them a special story with them as the hero or price or princess. As he cleared his throat and embarked on his telling, he felt so much like his father that he was saddened and proud at the same time.

He began lightly. His tone was jovial and he made eye contact with all those sitting around him, perhaps working his brow or winking, smiling; he cracked jokes about the stench of the humans, their questionable cuisine, how they were so bloated with their own self-importance. And he joked about himself. He made a farce of his own tragedy, at least in the beginning. The tribe roared laughter as Cor climbed onto the table and pantomimed pounding rail-spikes, wiping his brow comically and swooning, tumbling on the table in a jest of his own agony. He stood and pantomimed his wife looking down at him, shaking her head, and in a falsetto Cor said: “Eeeee-yaaa husband! And you say you’re a descendant of Rakanishu? Eee-ya, great guardian Rakanishu would not deign to pizz on you old man!” The tribe roared and clapped their hands and slapped the table, and this was to Cor’s liking. He needed them to be loose and easy.

Only Degg saw through Cor’s cheerful manner. There was sadness and pity in his eyes. Degg had always been frightful sharp.

Cor settled back in his chair and prepared himself. He took soup. He waited.

“My like-sister, Cor?” Wela asked. A ‘like-sister’ was what an imp called someone who, family or not, had done so much good for them that they were given honorary siblingship.

Cor reached over the table and laid his hand on hers.

“Vela passed on, dear like-sister. Shot by a rail-stalker. They thought she was trying to make a run, but she was only going for a cup of water because our little daughter was dying of thirst. The rail-stalker, he shot her in the back and the bullet came out her neck. It was a quick death, and she did not suffer greatly.”

Tears drew ravines down the sides of Wela’s face. She trembled. “And the children, Cor?”

He shook his head.

Cor continued his story, now with great pauses and the sadness chewing at him; the poison of the memories lapping in his guts, eroding them, and he wondered obliquely if the Gods would ever turn back to the imps, if They would ever embrace the tribes again. He thought: We are damned beyond all belief.

The imps picked at their food and when the third and final course came it was left untouched, though ale was consumed in abundance. Soon the cave reeked of barley and tears.

“Those godsrotting harridans,” Degg said when Cor spoke of the altercation on the train. “Were they the ones who shot Vela?”

“No.”

“Might as well have been,” Degg said. “Rak knows how many families they’ve claimed. How many tribes.” Degg said: “Why have we been forsaken for our crimes, yet they glorified?”

It was a question Cor had long pondered, and for once he had a definitive answer.

He said, “Because they’re stronger.”



After the table was cleared and the condolences uttered and the tribe settled, Degg took his brother out of the cave and down the way to Ee-Amoh Dae’s cottage. It was nestled in a deep scar of rock, the cottage squat and wide and crumbling, half stone and half blackwood, the straw roof grey from rain and ages. It was much as Cor remembered it: the empty wooden buckets by the slanted door, the mouldy stack of kindling on the porch, the dun coloured moss eating the mortar and the blackwood splintered like tufts of fur. It was in a terrible state, and would someday topple and no doubt crush frail old Ee-Amoh Dae, but, even in the face of the tribe’s constantly pleading, he would never issue repairs. If it falls, the shaman would say in his rusty voice, then it is the Gods’ will that I be crushed like an insect. The death will humble me, I’m sure, and perhaps the Gods will take pity and forgive my transgressions.

Upon their induction into slavery, the human King had promptly outlawed Shamanism in the Western Kingdoms, all the shamans to be rounded up and decapitated and burned, their scream-frozen heads to be returned to the tribes and placed upon a spike in the square, for everyone to see; Ee-Amoh Dae was one of the few—the very few—to have escaped such a fate, and, the tribe agreed, it was idiotic and pointless to risk him as such… but they could not refute him. He was Shaman, after all. A direct conduit to the word of the Gods.

“How is he?” Cor asked as they approached the cottage.

Degg grunted. “Stubborn as always, brother. Stubborn and maddening and strange.” He stopped and scratched lice from his beard. He fixed his gaze on Cor. “He’s pared away another third, you know. He said nothing, he never complained, but we all know the strain of it nearly killed him. To pare away at such an age! Sometimes I think he’s trying to die.”

“That would be most unfortunate.”

“It would cripple us. The tribe lives by his will. And dies by it. Though with the fresh paring, he’s probably as close to divine as any Shaman has ever been. But it’s made him odd, brother; his mind is more in the Land Away than it is here, so tread carefully.”

Degg knocked trice on the door with his walking stick.

The door creaked open.



Ohn had been acolyte to the great shaman for twelve years now. Often, he thought of his existence as pointless: there was no magic for him, at least not yet. No spells nor incantations, no moonlit treks to the graves to raise the dead. All there was for Ohn, it seemed, was slavework.

Fill the buckets, Ohn. Feed the fire, Ohn. Cook the soup, Ohn. Visit the tribe, Ohn, and have Wela cut you a bushel of vermillia roots. Answer the door, Ohn. Empty the buckets, Ohn.

Only once did he voice his displeasure to the great shaman. Standing in the doorframe, trembling slightly, looking down at Ee-Amoh Dae as he sat crossleg on the floor and scrawled greasy sigils on strips of parchment, Ohn told him he wanted to leave the cottage and pursue a meaningful life.

“Meaningful?” Ee-Amoh had asked without looking up from his work.

“Yes. Meaningful. I want to work the stone like my father.”

“Ahhh,” Ee-Amoh had said. He looped a final sigil on the parchment and carefully rolled it. He placed another on the floor and began anew. “Your father, the sculptor.”

Without looking up (or even stopping his work) Ee-Amoh Dae used his will to twist Ohn’s left arm, twist it quickly and cruelly like one would twist a wet cloth, the bones first popping and then snapping and then turning to powder. Ohn shrieked and crumbled to the cottage floor. He writhed like a crushed insect.

“There’s little meaning in a one-handed sculptor. No, I think you should perhaps stay here a while longer, where you can be put to good use.”

After the pain, there was only hate for the shaman. And, after five years had passed, even that went away. All that remained was awe.

Someday you will take my place, Ee-Amoh Dae would say, on one of the rare days when he spoke at all, much less kind words. You will be Shaman, and you can twist all the arms you desire. Even mine, if the Gods will it so.

Cold, hard words. But there was power in them, ay; Ohn considered this power as he led the brothers through the cottage, grunting tonelessly when they asked something of him, never looking at them, knowing that they were looking at him and his arm that hung black and dead at his side. They always looked.

“In here,” Ohn said, pointing to a door at the back of the cottage. It was splintered and missing the top hinge; it was as ugly and squalid as the rest of the place. “Just walk on in, but mind the door. The old bugger’ll not let me fix it. He’s expecting you.”

Ohn shuffled off to perform one of his many menial tasks.

Before they entered, Degg whispered, “Remember what I told you about him.”

“And what is that?” an ancient voice said from beyond the door. The tenor of an imp’s speech never failed to unnerve a human; they considered it ‘rusty’ or ‘too sharp’. It of course did not bother the imps themselves, but even Cor had to wince at the sound of the shaman, how his voice had progressed so far beyond rust as to be an ocean of decay itself: the place where rust went to die.

Degg sucked in a deep breath and opened the door.

Ee-Amoh Dae sat crossleg on the floor, much as he always had. There were two small circular depressions in the groaning floorboards, and his small knees filled them perfectly. He wore a loincloth and little else, much as he always had. His head was bowed. There was a length of parchment before him, and he drew sigils and runes with his inked finger. He was so much like he was before that Cor felt a curious doubling-back of time, as if he had never left for the rails in the first place, as if Vela and the children were still alive and smiling, as if the horror and tragedy still awaited him and as of yet did not own him.

But he trebled back to the present when the shaman raised his head and gazed upon them.

The imps simply called the age-old ritual ‘paring’. It was something only done by the most skilled and resilient of shaman, so gruesome and painful that only a handful had even attempted it throughout time.

For a shaman to ‘pare’, first he must journey to the Gulf of Westmarch and cleanse himself by the seashore. His feet must never touch the sea, or even the waves lapping from it. He must then wait on the beach for a sign from the Gods to continue, usually in the form of a comet or an eclipse of the moon. If this does not occur within an hour of the cleansing, he must travel home in shame and pray for two years and a day; only then may the shaman rejoin the tribe or reattempt the pilgrimage. But if the Gods give the shaman a sign, he may step into the sea and cleanse himself once again, this time with the blessing of the Infinite. He may then journey home to pray for a year minus a day.

Thus begins the ‘paring’ itself. The shaman must forge a thin iron blade by his own hand. He must sharpen it himself, and do it well.

After another cleansing and prayer, the shaman lights a brazier of vermillia oil and then slowly, carefully, cuts the skin from his dominant arm. This is known as ‘shallow paring’.

Once he reaches the end of his endurance (or begins to lose consciousness due to blood loss), the shaman may bandage his arms and rest. Then, two days later—not before or after—he must commence the ‘deep pairing’: the flaying of muscle from the bone.

After that (weeks later when the remainder of the flesh has healed and the exposed arm-bones cleaned) comes the etching: with a small needle, the shaman chips delicate sigils into the bone.

Last comes recuperation. Most shaman do not survive to this stage, and those that do tend to die on the bed from massive infection.

Ee-Amoh Dae not only survived, but ‘pared’ his other arm as well. And his shins. And the tips of all his fingers.

And, as Cor stared at the shaman with a mixture of disgust and terror and admiration, he saw the old man has pared his face as well. His crown was nothing but white bone; his lips removed, as was the flesh of his cheeks; the nub of his chin; the socket of his left eye and the eye itself scooped, a black cup of scar in the dry hollow.

Compounding this grotesquery, making it all the more strange and thrilling: amid the sigils Ee-Amoh Dae had inexplicable carved an oval door into his forehead, with a tiny latch and keyhole. The detail was astounding. On the door was a miniature carving of a hand with a burning eye in the palm.

Ee-Amoh Dae smiled. Or perhaps, with his lips and cheeks cut away, he was always smiling.

“And what is that?” the shaman repeated. “What have you told the prodigal? That the old man has lost his wits; that he’s pared them all away?”

“No, Shaman,” Degg said. His voice sounded very weak and some of the blue had drained from his face.

“Did you tell him that I am a fool?”

“No!” Degg gasped. “Certainly not!” They all knew what had befallen Ohn for speaking cross words to the shaman. Or Nuhwe before him, who no imp had seen for going on twelve years now.

Ee-Amoh Dae nodded to himself. “No, of course you wouldn’t. You’re a fine patriarch, Degg, as was your brother before you.” He fixed his one-eyed gaze on Cor. “I’ve already thanked the Gods on your behalf for your safe return to the tribe. They’ve favoured you greatly.”

“Yes,” Cor said, not really believing it. All the Gods had seen fit to ‘favour’ him with was three burials and a dying tribe.

“You don’t agree. No, you’ve always been like an unmuddied stream, little Cor. I can see down to your silt. But know that the Gods have favoured you, and the Gods are not finished in Their work. Sit.”

It was nearly an hour before the shaman spoke to them again. He lowered his head and continued his work, dipping his sharpened fingerbone in the ink pot and drawing loops and whorls and jagged lines. The shapes looked random to Cor until he relaxed his eyes, and then they began to cohere and whisper. It made his skin crawl so he looked away.

“You want to know of the darkness that plagues us,” Ee-Amoh Dae said as he set the parchment aside to dry. “You want to know of the screams that ride the winds.”

Degg said, “We do, Shaman.”

“Sadly, there is not much I can tell you. I’ve been praying for days now, and I’ve opened myself wide to the Gods. They’ve yet to speak, but such is Their will. And I’ve listened to the screams that ride the winds, and I can tell you these are the screams of men and imp alike, and the screams of many more, though they who scream are not living.”

“Ghosts?” Degg asked.

“No. Not yet.”

Cor turned this in his mind, over and over. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” the shaman said, “that they are not living, but they are not dead. Beyond that I can tell you nothing. Perhaps if you give me another night the Gods will limber Their tongues. Yes, one more night. You’re home now, Cor, and you’re greatly favoured, whether you believe it or not.” The shaman tilted his head slightly and considered his own words. “Belief,” he said, “means so very little to Gods. Sometimes I think it is only important to us.”

The parchment was dry. Ee-Amoh Dae rolled it and tied it with twine.

“When you leave, send for Ohn. I have two parchments for him, though he can only carry one at a time.” This struck the shaman as deliciously funny, and he tittered. It was like the sound of fine-grain sand rushing down an old iron pipe.

[RevenantsKnight]

Still going strong, I see. This is a very interesting take on some monsters from Diablo II, and definitely something that stands out in my mind. Sorry for not getting this up earlier; a little thing called finals week is upon me.

Before I get to your newest post, here are a few thoughts about Chapter Three: there is no specified deity for the Zann Esu, so you get to make one up, or just cut that part out altogether. Or you could play off of what I originally was led to believe: that the Sisters of the Sightless Eye and the Zann Esu had formed an alliance of some sort or merged their orders. There’s no material at all on this, and since it’s so far ahead in the future, it’s totally your call; as long as you explain any apparent conflicts like this one, I’ll probably buy it if it’s at all possible. As for the sentence length commentary, that’s discussed later on in this post. Anyway, here’s my thoughts, comments and rantings on Chapter Four:

The tribe would never move, that was the problem as Cor saw it.

Both of the above clauses are complete, so there should be a semicolon between them, not a period. You could also change “that” to “which” and leave the comma.

All these questions are going to kill you, Cor. You put them away for now. You think only of the tribe.

Since he’s mentally commanding himself to do something, I’d use the imperative form here, and drop the “you” at the start of each sentence.

At first they were afraid the skin traders had finally found their village, but their eyes softened when they saw it was the patriarch.

Should that be “their patriarch”? I’m not sure myself on this, but it seems as if “the patriarch” alone begs the question “Patriarch of what?”

For now, though, he smiled at her and caught the running-hug she threw at him, swinging her around and kissing her lightly on the forehead.

“Running hug” isn’t hyphenated, I don’t think.

The rest of the tribe encircled him, congratulating him on his safe return and posing a dozen question at once.

“Question” should be plural.

Degg said, “I’m anxious to hear of your journey, brother.”

There are a number of points in this scene where you use the verb “to say.” While it’s perfectly correct, I’d look for synonyms that convey more connotations, or add adverbs, since it’s a little bland at times, though obviously it’s fine to use “said” every now and then. The above example is a place where I really thought that the text could use some more description: I can think of at least four different reasons why Degg would say this, but with “said,” they’re all equally likely. Unless you were intentionally keeping his attitude neutral, I think it would be better off with a hint of what he’s thinking.

“As I walked through it, the journey walked through me.”

That sentence is gold. :)

He devoured the first course silently and with great relish, wishing his family could be at his side enjoying it with him.

Aww...it’s moments like these that make me like your characters.

Cor had always been a good storyteller, a gift that had been given to him by his father, he supposed, who would regale the tribe nightly with stories of bravery and gods and great warriors, who would make his rounds every night amongst the young of the tribe, telling them a special story with them as the hero or price or princess.

I think you mean “prince,” not “price,” in the last clause. Also, in this instance the sentence length works for me, since he’s among his memories, which are probably somewhat meandering. The other long sentence I flagged in your last chapter dealt with hard actions central to the story, so it felt weird to have them seep into one another. Now that I know that was a stylistic call and not you just writing without checking the sentence length, I have a (somewhat) easier time accepting it. With that in mind, I’m going to add a disclaimer to my previous advice: change it if you don’t see it as central to your style. If it is, then by all means leave it as is, and I’ll just deal with it. :D

The tribe roared laughter as Cor climbed onto the table and pantomimed pounding rail-spikes, wiping his brow comically and swooning, tumbling on the table in a jest of his own agony.

I think there should be a “with” or similar preposition after “roared.”

There was sadness and pity in his eyes. Degg had always been frightful sharp.

There was “sadness and pity” in Cor’s eyes, or Degg’s? Maybe I’m just not reading this well, but this seems ambiguous. Also, I’d change “frightful” to “frightfully,” since you’re using it as an adverb here.

It was in a terrible state, and would someday topple and no doubt crush frail old Ee-Amoh Dae, but, even in the face of the tribe’s constantly pleading, he would never issue repairs.

“Constantly” should be “constant,” and “issue” seems like the wrong word here...maybe “allow” or “request,” depending on what you want to say?

Upon their induction into slavery, the human King had promptly outlawed Shamanism in the Western Kingdoms, all the shamans to be rounded up and decapitated and burned, their scream-frozen heads to be returned to the tribes and placed upon a spike in the square, for everyone to see; Ee-Amoh Dae was one of the few—the very few—to have escaped such a fate, and, the tribe agreed, it was idiotic and pointless to risk him as such… but they could not refute him.

I think the part from “all the shamans...” to the semicolon needs another look; it sounds really off to me and almost made me skip this paragraph. I’d recommend ending the first sentence after “Kingdoms,” and continuing with “All the shamans were to be rounded up ...heads sent back to the tribes...” etc. Also, why “the square”? Did all the tribes live in some sort of city with a big central plaza at this time? Finally, I don’t think the comma after “square” is needed.

Degg knocked trice on the door with his walking stick.

I think you mean “thrice,” if you’re saying that he knocked three times.

But there was power in them, ay; Ohn considered this power as he led the brothers through the cottage, grunting tonelessly when they asked something of him, never looking at them, knowing that they were looking at him and his arm that hung black and dead at his side.

I don’t know if I’d use “ay” for the narrator, unless you’re trying to imply that s/he is speaking in the local dialect, and you don’t seem to drop enough hints to that effect for that to be true. Personally, I’d use “indeed” here.

The shaman was very well done; I could really get an image of this freaky old imp with more power than anyone would ever suspect. Anyway, I enjoyed this part, and am looking forward to whatever comes next. Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

Sorry for not getting this up earlier; a little thing called finals week is upon me.

S'alright. And good luck on evil finals.

there is no specified deity for the Zann Esu, so you get to make one up, or just cut that part out altogether. Or you could play off of what I originally was led to believe: that the Sisters of the Sightless Eye and the Zann Esu had formed an alliance of some sort or merged their orders.

Can't cut it -- it comes into play later. I'll most likely merge, good idea... now I just gotta orchestrate it properly.

There are a number of points in this scene where you use the verb “to say.” While it’s perfectly correct, I’d look for synonyms that convey more connotations, or add adverbs, since it’s a little bland at times, though obviously it’s fine to use “said” every now and then.

Oh hell no. Much like Stephen King, I have a profound hatred of adverbs when concerning dialogue attribution. It's just... icky. I think I used two so far in this entire story, and I'll do my best to cut at least one of those out in the next draft. Dirty, filthy adverbs.

For one, an adverb usually makes a sentence redundant. Take this for example: "'There's no way we can win,' Billy said gloomily." I mean, we should already know how poor Billy feels by what he's saying. And as to playing the synonym-game... I dunno. The only dialogue attributions I ever really use are "asked" "replied" "whispered" and "said". Mostly "said". Not to act all high and mighty here, but I'd caution you against adverbs and said-synonyms as well. It makes for icky writing (he said pompously).

As always, thanks for reading, and hella thanks for reviewing. So far you're the only one... where is everyone else, by the way? I feel sort of like the Omega Man here.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Five

It was Sephony who finally came to a decision about the young sorceress.

“We send her back,” she said.

Before Marise could protest, Sephony raised a finger to hush her. “It’s final. We’re tossing you back to the corral.”

“But I—”

“And you say you’re a student?” Sephony asked. “Consider listening for a moment.” But Sephony seemed to be in no rush to elaborate. She thumbed the drying blood that had gotten onto her coat, Marise’s blood, great long swatches of it. There was no way she’d be able to scrub it out.

Not really her fault, Sephony conceded. I was the one chopped her finger, after all.

She dropped the coat on the floor.

“I figure this. You’re damaged; you got scars and as far as everyone’s concerned, you’ve had relations with women. No one’s gonna want you, and the harlotmaster’ll probably cut your throat soon as you get back and give you a kick-burial in the woods. But that’s to our advantage. We’ll tell him we want you for another few days and his greed’ll take him. He’ll keep you breathing until our coin runs out.”

Marise said, “I don’t want to go back there.”

“You’re going,” Willowyn said. Her eyes dared Marise to disagree.

Marise was silent. The corral was bad, sure; but at least she had her life for a few more days. Knowing that she might live through the week eased a bit of the dread.

What Marise didn’t know was that the sisters’ coin had already run dry, and her life was hanging by a bluff.

“We’re taking a walk down to the keeper’s,” Sephony said. “We’ll get you back out of the corral at sunset.” With that finished, she turned to her sister. “You still got that spare coat in your pack?”

Willowyn nodded. “But it’s seen better days.” Rummaging in the pack, she removed a brown and white poncho. Willowyn had spun it herself from sheep’s wool, and later wove the blocky white patterns into the fabric with a knitting needle she had broken in two. And she was right: after nearly a decade on the move, the garment had seen better days.

Sephony tossed it over her head and fixed the shoulders. Old or not, it was comfortable.

“Now,” she said, “let’s go see the keeper and talk bounty.”



Sadness was a smallish town, about four or five crisscrossing streets by Sephony’s count. From their window, they could see the keeper’s office two dirt-laden streets over; it would not take more than a few minutes to arrive there.

It ended up taking much longer, though.

They left the Morning Rain and waited patiently on the stoop. It was high noon, and the ranchers were coming in from the outskirts, a great big mass of them; neckless men on dishevelled horses, their leather gloves sunworn, their faces red and peeling, shirtsleeves rolled and the cuffs of their scraggly jeans rolled and the spurs on their sprung boots winking tarnished silver. The many horses shot dust and grit from their hooves, and it hung there around the ranchers like a swirling yellow fog.

Many of them eyed the sisters. The ones with shooting-irons glared.

Sephony would never know exactly why the duel occurred. She had a feeling it was due to Willowyn, though, and how Willowyn could look to a man and speak volumes with her eyes. Entire libraries of scorn and disgust. She hated men and all their priggish, piggish ways—she hated their apelike hairiness and their bulbous muscles and the idiot smiles they plastered over their mashed-in faces.

Men. Almost as bad as imps.

Yes; Sephony was becoming increasingly certain that’s how it happened, as they sat there at high noon on the steps of the Morning Rain and smoked and watched the ranchers and Willowyn’s hatred so pure it was palpable, a red stench that wafted from her in waves. Yes; the man with the broken nose and the long-barrelled revolver got a whiff of the hatred and decided he didn’t like the smell. No, not at all.

He edged his dun coloured horse to the shoulder of the street and made it trot. Ranchers streamed passed him in a steady wave, their mingled talk and laughter like the buzzing of a thousand bees.

He trotted the horse by the stoop and stopped in front of it. He stared at them openly. From the pocket of his duster he took a corncob pipe and jammed it between his chapped lips.

“Either you ladies got fire?”

As he stared at them, they stared at him.

He dismounted, revolving the pipe from one end of his mouth to the other, slapping the dust from his pants with his glove. “I said—”

“You don’t want a light,” Sephony said. “You don’t even have ‘bacca in that pipe. So what do you actually want?”

The man grinned while chewing around the stem. “Got ‘bacca?”

“No,” Willowyn said. She stood from the stoop and stretched languidly, the hem of her coat lifting ever so casually to reveal the hardwood grip of the Archangel.

Sephony made no move for her own. This was Will’s deal.

She smoked and watched; she marvelled at how things could get so dire so quickly.

Willowyn said, “Move along, rancher. Ain’t pissall for you here.”

The rancher dipped his head and neatly spat his pipe into his breast pocket. The slick, chewed end of it gleamed. “This is my town,” he said. “You don’t tell me where to go.”

The dirty road-procession slowed to a crawl, every horse trotting, every pair of eyes under every hat hoping to catch a glimpse of a killing. Those who knew the rancher didn’t wish him well, but wished him luck: he was a blowhard and a scoundrel, but those gullies looked like the kind of hard business they had no intentions of buying. Better they get sorted early, and save Sadness from even more trouble.

“Seph,” Willowyn said without looking to her sister. “You got a match?”

Elated with his easy victory, the rancher went to take out his pipe.

Willowyn shook her head. “It’s not for you. It’s for the both of us.”

The rancher sneered. His eyes narrowed. “Like that, is it?”

“Like that.”

In professional duelling circles, it had become the height of fashion to have an impartial third stand to the side and produce a match. The third would strike the flame, and the duellists would draw at the sound of the sulphur burning. It was considered honest and civilized.

Sephony plugged a cheroot and strode beside them. They made a triangle on the cobbled walk. Some of the other ranchers dismounted and tied their horses swiftly, not wanting to miss a moment of the bloodshed. Bets were made. Coin changed gloves.

“Last chance to back out,” The rancher said.

“I was gonna tell you the same.”

Sephony produced a match. She placed her thumb under the head.

She flicked it.

The rancher was fast. He worked on House R, about as close to the forests as a farm could get; wolves came frequently, and coyotes, and other mad green-eyed things he cared not to remember. On last-watch, in the black of night, you kept your glove on your gun and you made good use of it.

He pulled iron with his left and came in for the hammer-fan with his right, his gloved palm touching the grooves of the hammer and the click of it drawing back and the trigger yielding to his index and the pain cutting into him, a great red-black pain, smouldering from his breast and blooming out from it. His hands—so used to their killing work—continued in their practiced motions, but he was off balance now, falling, plummeting, and the shot went low and cracked harmlessly off the cobbles by his feet.

Willowyn dropped her smoking .45 in the steel-lined holster.

Sephony lit her cheroot with the match and shook it out.

“He almost made his shot,” Sephony said.

“Nah. That gun was miles away from dangerous.”

On the ground, the rancher held his wound. His glove sizzled—something was burning his palm. Sluggishly, as if in the throes of a terrible dream, he reached into the wet redness and removed the shattered remains of his pipe. In the bowl, the black dregs of his tobacco were burning.

Then it got very cold.

“Well that’s finished,” Willowyn said. “Let’s go see the keeper.”

A grey haired man parted the crowd. The brim of his hat was razor thin, the eyes under it were watery, bloodshot, but steady. His clothes were clean and his nickel-plated .38 even cleaner.

“Won’t be necessary,” he said. He stood between them and smoothed the corners of his salt and pepper moustache with quick delicate strokes. “One, the keeper’s already here. And two, I’m sorry to say it ain’t finished.”

“Ay?” Sephony said. “Last I checked, a bit of shooting’s legal if both parties want it done.”

“Looks like you didn’t check in Sadness, missy. It ain’t legal, and it’s ‘specially frowned upon when you do said shooting to the keeper’s nephew.”

Ice crawled up the sisters’ spines.

The keeper said, “Your iron, ladies.”

They both considered blasting their way out, but a quick look to the crowd put a stop to such thinking. Guns might be rare in Sadness, with only a few of the ranchers and lawmen laden, but a crowd of this size with the fear in them could swarm in a moment’s notice and crush the sisters under two dozen bodies.

Sephony unbuckled her gunbelt and set it on the cobbles.

She said, “Looks like we’re going to the keeper’s, after all.”

[Snowglare]

As always, thanks for reading, and hella thanks for reviewing. So far you're the only one... where is everyone else, by the way? I feel sort of like the Omega Man here.I meant to read this, but now I'm certain I'll never get around to it. With five chapters, RevenantsKnights' lengthy replies, and more on the way, it's altogether too daunting. I could read one chapter at a time, ignoring how far behind I was, how out of the loop, but I don't care to. I could skip non-story posts, but then I wouldn't reply - there would be too high a risk of repeating things already said - so you wouldn't know I'd read it anyways.

I know those reasons are flimsy, but I think it best to be honest even in circumstances like these. You asked, I answered. There's something about forum posts; for whatever reason - eyestrain, attention span? - I'm especially fickle when it comes to what I read. I'll devour hundreds of short posts in a day, but may think twice about starting into a pages-long story/chapter, or keeping up with any thread that suddenly gets a massive injection of text. It stops being fun, and starts feeling like work. When I'm doing something just to get it done, I'll stop to ask myself why I'm doing it in the first place. That gets me to stop bothering about many threads.

[Clarke667]

I meant to read this, but now I'm certain I'll never get around to it.

Damn. That sort of sucks... While I was writing this story, I actually thought to myself that you'd get a kick out of it, mainly because it skirted a lot of the problems that plagued The Art of Dying (problems that you so kindly pointed out, too). Oh well, I guess.

There's something about forum posts; for whatever reason - eyestrain, attention span? - I'm especially fickle when it comes to what I read.

I know what you mean. I've been coming here for, what, two-three weeks now, and although I've wanted to read through most of the stories here, I'm finding it especially hard to do so. Know what I think it is? For me it's the length of the lines... a 12-line paragraph on the old word-processor becomes 3 lines on the forum. Maybe it's just me, but it forces my eyes to run a marathon across the screen and soon enough they’re begging for mercy.

Just to get something straight, here: When I was wondering where everyone was, I was honestly curious. I wasn't trying to ***** or whine about it... it just seemed a little strange, that after 100+ views, only one person was responding (unless Revenantsknight is constantly hitting the refresh button to give me false-hope, the bastard). So yeah, I’m not demanding that people read my work and write essays on its merits… hell, since you started this whole “honesty” thing here, I’ll go ahead and admit that I was probably just looking for a keen way to make an Omega Man reference.

Charleston Heston rocks.

Sorry the length of my story has killed your taste for it. Maybe the next one will seem less daunting, and less like work.

[sangorel]

it just seemed a little strange, that after 100+ views, only one person was responding (unless Revenantsknight is constantly hitting the refresh button to give me false-hope, the bastard).

The reason for that is probably because there are a lot of lurkers on the forum. Not too many people can write a good fanfic, but would still like to read other people's well-written stories (like me). That, and people in general are lazy (again, like me!).

Well, anyway, I really like this story... even though at first I found the setting a bit strange (d2 in the wild west era?). Things are definitely becoming more interesting with each chapter.

As for nitpicks, well I didn't really look hard enough and only picked up one error when I read chapter five (I personally think Revenantsknight has done a great job critiquing the first 4 chapters)...

Not really her fault, Sephony conceded. I was the one chopped her finger, after all.

I think it should be ...I was the one who chopped her finger...

Apart from that there was one more thing I had a problem with in this story. In chapter 2 you indicate that the satyrs were about the attack the coach in which the assassins were travelling, but held back because their leader smelled the sisters' guns. If that is so, then how could the sorceress have reached Sadness before them? I mean... the sisters get to Sadness as fast as they can, and if Marise was already behind them, how could she get caught, escape, found, delivered to Sadness to quickly?

[RevenantsKnight]

Clarke667: with any of your pieces, there are always some things that I don’t agree with or a few comments to make; after all, perfection’s an elusive beast (and I’m inclined to call it mythical at this point.) But still, your work’s consistently interesting, and this chapter doesn’t disappoint; indeed, it’s possibly the cleanest and most enthralling one yet (to me, anyway.) So congrats, and here’s some random insanity, followed by the inevitable potshots and edits on this chapter:

First, here’re some more thoughts on the whole Sightless Eye/Zann Esu thing (geez, this has really become a major topic of discussion...weirds me out a little.) The Sisters (a.k.a. the Rogues) did get decimated by Diablo’s curse and Andariel’s possession of the monastery, though it’s up in the air as to whether they recovered from that quickly, slowly or not at all. As for the Zann Esu, there’s obviously no definitive material on that (seeing as there’s no Diablo III as of yet,) so you can decide whether they lost most of their members to the battles against the Three, or if they “proved the purity of their magic” (taken from the Diablo II manual) and rocked like nothing else. The only restriction I can think of is that any alliance or merger should make strategic sense to both sides; don’t have an ultra-powerful Zann Esu invite a weakened Sisterhood into a joint pact unless the Rogues have some sort of ace in the hole.

As for the synonym/adverb thing: thanks for the advice, but it runs too hard against my style to make a change in my writing and view at this point, just as mine did vis-à-vis your style. I’m a little too partial to the extra layers of description that they offer, so let’s just say we make different stylistic choices and leave it at that; after all, this forum would be a boring place indeed if everyone used the exact same tone, subject matter, imagery, etc.

(unless Revenantsknight is constantly hitting the refresh button to give me false-hope, the bastard).

Heh...not guilty. There are other folks looking at this, to be sure; however, this forum’s often a little light on the replies. Also, Snowglare does have a point about the amount posted; I don’t mind keeping up with your story now since writing, both other people’s pieces and my own, occupies more of my time than ever before, and I like it that way. But I could see that the pace could be frustrating to people who pop in every other day or so. Anyway, on to some comments on the new chapter (and Sangorel's got some good points too; I agree with what he said, and my apologies in advance if my assumption about gender happens to be wrong):

They left the Morning Rain and waited patiently on the stoop. It was high noon, and the ranchers were coming in from the outskirts, a great big mass of them; neckless men on dishevelled horses, their leather gloves sunworn, their faces red and peeling, shirtsleeves rolled and the cuffs of their scraggly jeans rolled and the spurs on their sprung boots winking tarnished silver.

I got the impression that more time had passed between the sisters’ arrival in town and this point; after all, they got in sometime in the “late morning.” Also, would the ranchers really come back to the town at noon? I can’t think of a real reason for that, other than possibly lunch, but I would have thought that they’d leave at least half of their number behind and return in shifts, given the troubles of late. And on that subject, in Chapter Three Sephony says “We’ll visit the keeper after supper,” which is definitely not what they did. This inconsistency isn’t a really big problem, but it does make it feel as though Sephony’s a little scatterbrained. Or was this intentional? Also, “neckless” doesn’t work for me; I keep seeing disembodied heads hovering over shoulders.

The many horses shot dust and grit from their hooves, and it hung there around the ranchers like a swirling yellow fog.

The “there” in the above sentence seems redundant.

Yes; Sephony was becoming increasingly certain that’s how it happened, as they sat there at high noon on the steps of the Morning Rain and smoked and watched the ranchers and Willowyn’s hatred so pure it was palpable, a red stench that wafted from her in waves. Yes; the man with the broken nose and the long-barrelled revolver got a whiff of the hatred and decided he didn’t like the smell. No, not at all.

Heh...she just doesn’t do moderation, does she? Anyway, I thought this was especially well done.

“Last chance to back out,” The rancher said.

A minor side note: the “the” in the last quote shouldn’t be capitalized.

In professional duelling circles, it had become the height of fashion to have an impartial third stand to the side and produce a match. The third would strike the flame, and the duellists would draw at the sound of the sulphur burning. It was considered honest and civilized.

I think that this might be better expressed in a manner other than straight exposition; if you can weave some of this into the conversation and trash talk, and leave the rest implied, it might flow more smoothly. It’s not really disruptive, though, so leaving it in is probably OK too.

Willowyn dropped her smoking .45 in the steel-lined holster.

I’d change that last to “into its steel-lined holster”; “into” is the correct word here, and the other change is just for clarity, though probably strictly unnecessary.

His glove sizzled—something was burning his palm. Sluggishly, as if in the throes of a terrible dream, he reached into the wet redness and removed the shattered remains of his pipe. In the bowl, the black dregs of his tobacco were burning.

Well, if he needed a light, I guess he got one. Bungie Software's old games rock, by the way.

“Well that’s finished,” Willowyn said. “Let’s go see the keeper.”

Strictly speaking, I think there should be a comma after “Well.”

Again, nicely done so far.

[Clarke667]

The reason for that is probably because there are a lot of lurkers on the forum. Not too many people can write a good fanfic, but would still like to read other people's well-written stories (like me). That, and people in general are lazy (again, like me!).

That's cool. Hey, I'm quite lazy myself; I've written about two reviews on this forum, and to be honest, one was like four lines and mainly consisted of swear-words. So I'm sure as **** not going to rag on everybody else when I can't even be arsed to practice what I preach. God, I'm a douchebag.

As for nitpicks, well I didn't really look hard enough and only picked up one error when I read chapter five (I personally think Revenantsknight has done a great job critiquing the first 4 chapters)...

I have a theory that Revenantsknight is some sort of machine. If you would like to know more, contact me via smoke-signals and I will tell you how Revenantsknight is a robot bent on world domination, which he will achieve through his powers of impeccable grammar. He will rule us with participles and gerunds and compound-complex sentences, and it will be like Planet of the Apes, only with robots... so not really like Planet of the Apes at all.

Apart from that there was one more thing I had a problem with in this story. In chapter 2 you indicate that the satyrs were about the attack the coach in which the assassins were travelling, but held back because their leader smelled the sisters' guns. If that is so, then how could the sorceress have reached Sadness before them? I mean... the sisters get to Sadness as fast as they can, and if Marise was already behind them, how could she get caught, escape, found, delivered to Sadness to quickly?

Yeah, I noticed that too. I did attempt a quick-fix, though:

"The dusty coach shambled into Sadness by late morning. The horses were muddy and tired; after a long hold-up in the forest (caused by a broken wheel)..."

It's sort of flimsy, I’ll admit.

Anyways, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the rest!

[Clarke667]

Part 2: The Damned


Chapter Six

When the sun touched the tops of the trees, they watched it.

The oaks and birches and regal redwoods, the good strong trees, a good forest of them, summer trees in violent bloom; and the bloated sleepswelling sun touching them, the shadows no doubt crawling from their roots, this entanglement of night. Most said the night came from the skies, but those of Sadness knew different. Night came from the cold, black earth. Night wormed up and out, and then wormed around them.

Against their mute prayers and their tenuous hopes, the sun submerged. It was lost behind the oaks and birches and regal redwoods. The cold black earth swallowed it.

If the historian were still around, he’d drain his cup and tell them of the baddest of times.

At night’s edge, when the world was grey and gossamer and not quite real, Sadness locked down. Homeowners that had never even bothered to close their backdoors—much less bolt them—found themselves turning heavy locks and wedging chairs under the doorknobs; they sprinkled nails and shards of glass on the window-frames and they left the lanterns burning in their kitchens and they kept pitchforks by their beds; when they laid their heads to sleep, their necks soon cramped from the knives and cleavers they’d tucked under their pillows.

The keeper was having a hard time maintaining a constant patrol. Ever since they lost one of their own, none of the lawmen wanted to venture into the desolate streets passed sunset, even at triple pay. What’s money when you’re dead or worse? they would say, and so far the keeper had no answer.



“We’d do it, you know,” Willowyn said. She was stretched out on the bottom bunk, arms behind her head, hat over her eyes. “Wouldn’t be dung to us.”

“Quiet, you,” the keeper said. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He had a terrible headache; he wanted to squeeze his old eyes shut and crawl into a warm bath with a bottle of rye and a gully thirty years his junior. Instead, he kept his eyes open and used them to glare at his supposed lawmen.

There were five of them, now. Used to be nine, but as soon as one was taken, three of the godsdamned spit-siphons hightailed it out of Sadness on the morning coach.

“You’re all a disgrace to the Crest,” he told them. “Ascairt of your godsdamned shadows, makin’ an old toss like me patrol the streets every godsdamned night while you hide here in the station squirting dung outcher ears. One of you bogarsed sons of hoors is goin’ out there tonight, or it’s the lash to all of yas!”

The lawmen sat nervously in their chairs and avoided eye contact.

“I nominate my sister and I,” Willowyn said. “We ain’t no cowards. We stalked the rails in Aranoch for three month and we’ll certainly stalk your streets for a fair price.”

“Shut your worthless maw, headhunter, or I swears I’ll walk right in there and boot you in the juice pit.”

She took heed and shut her maw. The keeper redirected his ire to his men.

“We’re gonna do this proper, alright boys? Dill, pass me the headhunter’s gun. No, t’other one; the one that shot my muleheaded nephew.” The keeper pulled the revolver and flicked the catch. He drained the bullets on the desk; they clacked and rolled in idiot circles.

He palmed them into a pile and, sitting at the desk, he removed the dead slug that killed his nephew and tossed it in a wastebasket.

“There’s five of you,” the keeper said, “and now there’s five bullets. I’m gonna dab some charcoal on the bottom of one of these; the man who gets the marked bullet goes out tonight and does his duty to the town at triple pay. Got it?” the men glanced at each other. “Got it?”

They grunted.

“Good. I knewd you’d get it.” From his desk drawer, the keeper took a nub of charcoal. He made the mark. “Now,” he said while shuffling the casings in his hands, “I should tell you that, if one of yas get the mark and refuses your duty, well, I should tell you I’ve had a-godsdamned-nough of yer renegation. Put simple: I’ll shoot you dead and wheel-barrel you back to my place so my chickens can eat your eyes and tenders. Got it?”

They got it.

The keeper nodded to himself and went about lining up the bullets. Each time one clicked on the desktop the men winced. To them, each was the sound of a miniature axe falling.

In the cell, Willowyn took the hat from her eyes and watched the show, the lawmen’s naked fear amusing her. Pathetic pisspuddles, she thought. They’re shivering at the prospect while we’re spoiling for it. Where’s the justice in this world?

On the top bunk, Sephony traced the cracks in the wall with her finger. She lost herself in the cracks and thought of nothing at all.

“You got the gun fer me Dill, so you get best odds. You’re up.”

Dill blanched. He trembled out of his seat and regarded the marching brass cylinders on the desk. His finger hovered over one, then another; his finger touched the second from the left and jumped from it as if it was red-hot. “Hurry it, Dill.” He scratched the scruff on his neck vigorously, and his finger settled on the bullet dead middle.

Dill picked it up and turned it over. Clean.

“Sweet Mother of Tears,” he said.

“Lucky boy,” the keeper said. “Go siddown. Erwin, yer up.”

“Come on, sir,” Erwin pleaded. “You gave Dill good odds, now pass some my way. Gimme last pick.”

Protests and curses from the men.

“Wai’ wait,” the keeper said over them, “all of you shut yer maws. I said yer up, Erwin, and I—”

tap tap tap.

It was a small, fragile sound. The lawmen jumped (keeper included) and many clawed for the pistols on their hips but none got them free. A chair tipped over and crashed and two of them men shrieked.

The sisters sat bolt upright on their bunks and slapped their hips where their guns once rested.

“What the godsrotting was that?” Dill screamed. He backed up flush against the wall, grinding against it, trying to push himself through it. He finally got his gun out and after three attempts managed to get the hammer back.

“Window,” the keeper said. “Some gory bogtrotter’s tapping on the window.”

.38 in hand, he crept to the dark pane of glass.

“If it’s some whelp trying to play us for fool, I swear he’ll be crawling home with a red rose on his belly.” He approached the window, grabbing a lantern on his way, his bootsteps on the floorboards hollow punctuations. The men were deadly silent, their pale faces all eyes, their mouths thin pink lines. Their guns chattered in their hands.

They were all thinking, the Darkness. The Darkness come.

The keeper cocked his revolver and held the lantern against the glass.

“Nothin,” he said.

They all breathed a sigh of relief. Except the sisters.

“Godsrotting kids,” the keeper said, returning to his desk. He stifled a yawn. “Things they do for fun. No concept of crisis. That…” This time he couldn’t stifle it. The yawn spilled out of his mouth and quivered his neck. Infectious, the yawn moved through the lawmen. “That or some grit hit the glass. Wind pickin up, maybe.

“Let’s see, who was up again?”

None spoke.

The keeper cursed. “I’ve been awake for two godsdamned days in a row. That’s bad news for a chap my age.” He was thinking about a bottle of rye and a bath. “I’m tireder than a harlot on rancher’s payday. So who was up?” The rye like liquid gold in his glass, the bath steaming in the darkness. The darkness was total, like a crypt. None of the men came to the desk and he thought of the rye, waves moving in the rye, concentric circles from its centre lapping outward; he banged his fist on the desk and it was an empty sound and the bullets hopped and clacked and fell over. “Who was up?” he yelled and the men pushed at each other and finally Erwin got sluggishly to his feet. He stood there by his chair and the keeper yawned and he thought of circles. He rubbed his hands together. “C’mon Erwin, pick a bullet.” Erwin walked up crookedly, his legs like straight planks of wood and a few of the men cackled, strangely, oldmaidishly, and the keeper shushed them and thought of circles and thought of steam in the darkness and Erwin came to the desk and stood before it and looked down at the scattered bullets. “Pick one Erwin hurry it.” And with numb, dumb fingers Erwin spun each bullet around and looked at its base for the charcoal and the keeper slapped Erwin’s hand thinking of a hot bath in the darkness and a girl. “Can’t look, you idiot.” A girl thirty years his junior. “Why not? You said not to pick the one with the mark.” That would make her young and fresh and beautiful, so young, clean skinned and ravenhaired. “I never did Erwin. You bogarsed fool!” Erwin recoiled and in the cell some girl said what’s happening here and the keeper thought Girl, he thought ravenhaired girl sweet and succulent who brings me rye in the bath in the darkness. He could see her now with her fine bones and pinkscrubbed clean skin. Erwin went back to examining the bullets and the keeper didn’t stop him. He could see the girl so clearly in his withered mind, he could lay a finger on her juicy breast and feel it dimple under his touch and her raven’s hair and her calm sloping angles and her eyes, her eyes, her eyes like punched out cigarette burns and her teeth like rusty hooks and the ink tentacles of her hair devouring him and Oh Gods what’s happening to meeeee…

As he was devoured, the keeper dimly heard his men falling out of their chairs and thumping on the floor.

[sangorel]

I have a theory that Revenantsknight is some sort of machine. If you would like to know more, contact me via smoke-signals and I will tell you how Revenantsknight is a robot bent on world domination, which he will achieve through his powers of impeccable grammar. He will rule us with participles and gerunds and compound-complex sentences, and it will be like Planet of the Apes, only with robots... so not really like Planet of the Apes at all.
Well atleast he won't use the line "All your base are belong to us" :lol:

Oh and RevenantsKnight, your assumption about me was correct :thumbsup:

Anyway... on to chapter Six!

Night came from the cold, black earth. Night wormed up and out, and then wormed around them.
I liked that line... gives night a creepy atmosphere.

It was lost behind the oaks and birches and regal redwoods. The cold black earth swallowed it.
Not really sure if you want to use "cold black earth" in this paragraph, since you already used it in the previous one. Unless, you want the repitition for emphasis or something.

They were all thinking, the Darkness. The Darkness come.come? comes? is coming? has come? wasn't really sure about this one, but "come" seems a little awkward.

The second last paragraph is huuuuge... it's just a pain to read on the monitor.

Well, that's all I noticed when I read thru chapter 6. I must say I'm itching for chapter 7 now... good show!

[RevenantsKnight]

Another day, another enjoyable chapter...good job yet again. As before, I agree with the comments Sangorel made earlier, though it does appear as though the repetition of “cold black earth” was intentional, and it felt OK to me. Anyway, here’re some of my own:

The oaks and birches and regal redwoods, the good strong trees, a good forest of them, summer trees in violent bloom; and the bloated sleepswelling sun touching them, the shadows no doubt crawling from their roots, this entanglement of night.

The semicolon doesn’t work grammatically, though it’s probably fine if you’re using the stylistic effect you described in the thread on The Art of Dying. Either way, this sentence doesn’t feel fluid to me, since I can’t find a verb for the trees, and “this entanglement of night” sounds off given the context. It’s a nice image, though.

Homeowners that had never even bothered to close their backdoors—much less bolt them—found themselves turning heavy locks and wedging chairs under the doorknobs; they sprinkled nails and shards of glass on the window-frames and they left the lanterns burning in their kitchens and they kept pitchforks by their beds; when they laid their heads to sleep, their necks soon cramped from the knives and cleavers they’d tucked under their pillows.

“Homeowners” sounds perhaps too specific here; I get the impression that “Folk” or “People” might work better. Also, the “that” following the first word should be “who,” since you’re referring to people, not things.

The keeper was having a hard time maintaining a constant patrol. Ever since they lost one of their own, none of the lawmen wanted to venture into the desolate streets passed sunset, even at triple pay.

I think you mean “past,” not “passed.” Also, the first sentence sounds too technical; I’d write it as something like “These days, the keeper was having a hard time finding willing hands for the night patrol.”

Used to be nine, but as soon as one was taken, three of the godsdamned spit-siphons hightailed it out of Sadness on the morning coach.

Not sure if “hightailed” is OK as is, or if it should be “had hightailed.”

“We stalked the rails in Aranoch for three month and we’ll certainly stalk your streets for a fair price.”

Is the use of the singular “month” intentional here? It’s not grammatically correct (should be “months”) but then none of these characters care much about perfect grammar.

She took heed and shut her maw. The keeper redirected his ire to his men.

I’d just use “mouth” here, not “maw,” because as it is, you’re giving the narrator more of a rough vocabulary, which doesn’t work well with some of the descriptions.

“I should tell you that, if one of yas get the mark and refuses your duty, well, I should tell you I’ve had a-godsdamned-nough of yer renegation.”

Though “renegation” is a suitably roughened-up version of a word, it still sounds too advanced for this grumpy old keeper. Maybe you could find something more...colorful.

He trembled out of his seat and regarded the marching brass cylinders on the desk.

Shouldn’t that be “matching?”

They were all thinking, the Darkness. The Darkness come.

To add to what Sangorel said, this should be “has come” if you mean that they think it’s there with them, at that moment.

Anyway, I await the next installment; with this chapter’s ending what it is, it should be interesting indeed.

Oh, and:

I have a theory that Revenantsknight is some sort of machine. If you would like to know more, contact me via smoke-signals and I will tell you how Revenantsknight is a robot bent on world domination, which he will achieve through his powers of impeccable grammar.

...I'm a boy. But seriously, depending on who you believe, I'm that, a Mjolnir Mark IV battle cyborg on the UESC Marathon, the biggest nerd alive, a homicidal psycho obsessed with biological warfare, or just another insane brick in the wall. Any bets on which one? :scratch:

[Clarke667]

Chapter Seven

Marise had no clue why she bothered.

Maybe it was the sense of duty she still retained. Maybe it was that in their tortures, they showed her dim kindness. Or maybe she was just a fool, and always would be.

“I found the mark,” Erwin said to her. His eyes were glossed over and the smile painted on his face was nothing short of ghastly, impossibly wide, his jaw creaking, like a serpent’s a split moment before it eats a prey three times its size. “Oh, I found it, I did… What do I win?”

Marise placed a hand on his forehead.

“You win repose,” she said, and found a bit of the perfection and passed it to him. Erwin’s glossed eyes rolled back and he tumbled to the floor, in a deep sleep before he even hit the boards.

Moans drifted from the cell. Marise looked inside and saw the sisters huddled on the floor, gripping each other’s hands, defiant tears streaming down their faces. Still conscious. Interesting.

“The dread will pass in a few moments,” Marise told them, not unkindly. A part of her wanted them to suffer, and suffer until eternity’s end, but the rest of her was shamed by that part and ushered it from her psyche.

She sat on the keeper’s chair. She explored the white ring of scar around her little finger and wondered why she was bothering.

“What happened?” Willowyn asked through the grill of her teeth.

“I put the dread on all of you. Second time I did it tonight, actually. With the town so riled up, it wasn’t difficult. I just… intensified everyone’s fears.”

“Bog,” Sephony said. She mashed the tears from her eyes and willed herself to stand, holding herself steady on the bars. “There was no drop of fear in us.”

“I may have pushed you a bit harder,” Marise said apologetically. “It was a momentary lapse in good will. For the—the finger incident. I’m sorry, but I wanted you to squirm a bit.”

“Fine,” Sephony said. “Payback’s in good standing with me.”

Marise motioned to Willowyn, who was still on the floor. “And her? how is payback to her?”

Sephony kicked her sister. “We’re alright now, Will.”

“Yes,” Willowyn said. “Of course.”

Sephony shot Marise a look. She read it easily. Leave her be for now.

“So why’d you come for us?”

“Truth is,” Marise said, “I need your help. I know this now. I consulted the Sightless Eye.” Back in the damp putridity of the corral, the gully-skeletons milling around her and her on her knees in the corner, urinating in a discarded cup so she would have some water from which to divine. The Sightless Eye in the murky yellow depths, a sacrilege.

“Need our help… to do what?” Like her sister, Willowyn pulled herself up on the bars and rested there.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve divined on the way.”

“The way where?”

“Out,” Marise said. “We can’t stay in Sadness a moment longer. We’ll camp in the forest.”

“Goody,” Willowyn said.

The keeper was slumbering at her feet. Marise fished in his pockets until she found the cell key.

“He’s got a good coat,” Sephony said. “Take that too. You’ll need it in the forest.”

Marise nodded, awkwardly yanking off his coat and—even though the situation required it—still feeling like a criminal.

She threw it on and swam in it. But Sephony was right: it was a good coat.

She unlocked the cell door.

Willowyn stumbled straight to her gun and loaded it from the slugs on the table. She leaned over and removed the bullet that was still clasped in Erwin’s fist. She thumbed the charcoal from the primer and popped it in the cylinder.

For a moment Marise was certain Willowyn would shoot her; she never got her answer on payback, after all. But the shooting never came.

Guess she’s fine with payback, too.

“We’ll need to stop by the Morning Rain,” Willowyn said. “I need my pack.”

“And I’ve still got a half bottle of rum up there,” Sephony added.

“We’ll need that too, in the forest,” Willowyn said.

They set off, leaving the lawmen slumbering peacefully on the floor. Of them all, the keeper looked the most content.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hmm...this didn’t begin the way I thought it would, but that’s why it’s interesting. Well done with the setup in the last chapter. This one’s short but still good, as usual. There’s one part here which I think might be better with a little more time spent on it, but overall it seems quite strong as is; there’s not much to say in terms of random edits. Anyway...

His eyes were glossed over and the smile painted on his face was nothing short of ghastly, impossibly wide, his jaw creaking, like a serpent’s a split moment before it eats a prey three times its size.

The images here are good but the order in which they're presented seems a little off; I'd change it to "...ghastly, his jaw creaking and impossibly wide, like..." so the last simile doesn't sound like it's referring to the "jaw creaking" instead of the wideness of his open mouth.

“And her? how is payback to her?”

The “how” here should be capitalized.

“Truth is,” Marise said, “I need your help. I know this now. I consulted the Sightless Eye.” Back in the damp putridity of the corral, the gully-skeletons milling around her and her on her knees in the corner, urinating in a discarded cup so she would have some water from which to divine. The Sightless Eye in the murky yellow depths, a sacrilege.

This feels a little too brief to really stay in my mind, and it seems important enough that you might want to make it stick better. After all, such powers are why she’s a sorceress, and it couldn’t hurt to go on a little longer on this scene now, even if you’re going over it again later, so the reader holds it in his or her memory until the next chapter.

Marise nodded, awkwardly yanking off his coat and—even though the situation required it—still feeling like a criminal.

I think “still” is unnecessary here.

Guess she’s fine with payback, too.

This sounds like something that Marise would think, but it’s in the narration. If you meant for this to be attributed to Marise, I’d change it to something like “Marise figured she was fine with payback, too” or adding “Marise thought” afterwards.

They set off, leaving the lawmen slumbering peacefully on the floor. Of them all, the keeper looked the most content.

Why did the keeper look the most content, in terms of facial expressions? This just doesn’t conjure up much of an image on its own, though it’s a nice touch given the context of the entire story and the keeper’s thoughts at the end of the last chapter. Also, the phrase "Of them all" sounds incorrect to me; should it be "out of them all" or "out of all of them"? I'm not sure on this one, but somehow "of them all" doesn't seem to fit.

Anyway, I'm still looking forward to more. :thumbsup:

[Clarke667]

Hmm...this didn’t begin the way I thought it would, but that’s why it’s interesting.

Good, good. I have to say, I was a bit worried about that; glad it panned out.

Why did the keeper look the most content, in terms of facial expressions?

I was trying to play-up on the fact that he was just so bloody tired. I figured if Marise put them all in a deep, nigh-comatose sleep, the keeper might actually see it as a godsend. Although... considering the way in which he was put to sleep, his expression might be more akin to abject terror than contentness. Hmm. Could maybe use some revision (or a cruel cut with the editing scalpel).

Anyway, I'm still looking forward to more. :thumbsup:

Ask and ye shall receive.

PS I still think you're a robot. When the Revolution comes, please don't eat my brain.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Eight

Cor raked the coals absently, thinking, of course, of Vela. Always Vela. If he didn’t love her so much—love her still, perhaps even more now that she was gone—he would say that she was haunting him. How strange it is, he pondered. You have them and you forget so easily; you lose them and they are everything. How strange and terrible.

Life as a cruel joke of the Gods. He considered this as he raked the coals and saw his wife behind his eyes. He winced remembering her dying shot on the sands. He remembered the good times instead and he winced as they dug at him even deeper, and perhaps that was the cruellest joke of all.

“Can’t sleep, patriarch?” Wela asked, walking across the coals. She took a seat beside him. She brushed the embers from her feet.

“I’m sorry, but I’m no longer patriarch, Wela.”

“That’s not true, and we both know it. We all know it.”

“I suppose.”

“Suppose?” she said. “Remember what your father said about ‘suppose’?”

Cor chuckled. “‘Suppose, eh?’” he said, mimicking his father’s gruff voice. “‘Well then, suppose I paddle your backside, eh? Then suppose I send that paddled backside to go off and be a shaman and pare off his cheeks, eh?’”

“Your father certainly had a way to him, didn’t he?” Wela said, giggling.

“He was a great man.”

“We all miss him.”

Cor nodded. He pushed coals between the tines of the rake and the sparks cavorted brightly. “So do I. No more so than now. If he were here—”

“No, Cor. Don’t. Your father isn’t here, and if he was, I’m sure he’d do the same as you’d decided.”

“I haven’t decided a thing, Wela.”

“And neither would have your father. It’s too early. See? You have his wisdom.”

They sat in silence for a time.

“It was a nice thing you did for us, Cor. At the feast. Making your pain into a comedy for us, it was the work of a true patriarch to have such care for his tribe. I shudder to think what actually transpired on those rails.”

“So do I,” Cor said. “I’ve… blocked most of it from my mind. I’ve walled it behind ten feet of stone and steel. The only thing that still slips through is Vela, and the children. I—I can’t bare to lock them out.” He felt precariously close to losing his grip on his emotions. With great will, he forced himself away from the edge, even though the abyss was looking more appealing to him each and every day. Perhaps the totality of the pain would break his mind, and he could live out the rest of his life insane and thoughtless and at peace.

Perhaps. But not yet. After the tribe is righted, and Degg is settled as patriarch, I’ll do with myself as I see fit. If we ever get that far, of course.

Will of the Gods, he thought. The bitterness he felt did not surprise him much.

“Are you going to stay up for the screams?” Wela asked.

“Hmm?”

“The screams on the winds.”

“Oh. No, I’d rather not be awake for that.” Deep inside, he was afraid he would hear Vela amongst the chorus, damning him. “How long before they start?”

“We still have many hours. They never seem to begin until deepest night, the time right before the dark breaks.”

“That’s very strange. The Shaman says they are not ghosts, yet they aren’t alive… Can you make any sense of that?”

“About as much as I can make of the Shaman himself. Why are you raking the coals?”

“Passing the time.”

“Would you like to take me to your bed, Cor? Would that ease any of your pain?”

Cor smiled to himself. How the human’s thought their candour so tactless. Uncivilized. But really, what was so uncivilized about speaking one’s mind?

On the rails, even as he burned with hatred for the humans, Cor knew that their ways were still seeping into him. They were clever about that: outlawing all the imps’ ancient traditions to be replaced with their own, punishing them severely when they adhered to the old ways and rewarding them when they embraced the new. A home-stitched suit got me on one of their trains, and human ‘civility’ got me off it. I played their game I did… but now I can be myself again. With my people.

Still, he did not want to take her to bed. It’s not that she wasn’t pretty—she was actually his second choice, those years ago, if Vela refused him—it was that she reminded him, ever so slightly, of his wife. Not much, though; just the softness around the eyes, the way she jutted her chin after she posed a question (as she was jutting it now)...

Little things. But, nonetheless, important things.

“It’s too soon, Wela,” he said.

“I understand, Cor.” She shrugged it off and Cor saw there would thankfully be no lingering embarrassment. It was sex between humans that was frequently complicated and ugly; imps tended to see it more for what it was.

Cor recalled walking through the bushlands and feeling caught between the safety of his tribe and his fear that the humans were correct in their assumption that the imps were savage and uncultured and never to be trusted again. Much of that was peeling away now, and he began to suspect the converse: that perhaps it was the humans who were the true savages after all. Only they concealed it so well, under their fine robes and their rings and their fiefdoms and their kings.

Fools, he thought. An epiphany fluttered to him on paper wings, and, holding it, he realised that what linked them was that they were all fools, all meat and bone and dismal stupidity. They were all scurrying through the dark, laying their hands upon the dusty gravestones of their forefathers and hoping, praying that those before them possessed all the answers. Only to realise their forefathers hoped the same.

It’s all a God’s joke, he thought, and this time felt no bitterness. Instead, he felt something curiously akin to liberation.

[RevenantsKnight]

I enjoyed this chapter a good deal, probably because I generally enjoy reading (and writing) reflective and thoughtful works. Anyway, it’s a beautiful read, and I never thought I’d like Carvers before I read this...good job indeed with that part. Some comments:

How strange it is, he pondered. You have them and you forget so easily; you lose them and they are everything. How strange and terrible.

I’ve heard this sort of idea before, but it still rang in my mind, partially because it feels so true, and partially because this is well written. Nicely done.

He considered this as he raked the coals and saw his wife behind his eyes.

I’m not sure if “behind his eyes” works here; while it’s an interesting way to denote a mind’s eye (if that’s what you meant,) my first image was that his retinas had reversed themselves, so he saw into his head instead of out. That could just be me though, since I’m currently awash with biology.

He winced remembering her dying shot on the sands.

Umm... I get what you’re trying to say here, but “her dying shot” doesn’t read smoothly to me. Also, I think that should be “as he remembered” instead of “remembering,” unless you put a comma after “winced.”

“Can’t sleep, patriarch?” Wela asked, walking across the coals.

Why “across the coals”? This drew my attention at first, since it’s definitely unusual, but I couldn’t find a reason for it being there, as opposed to her walking around the fire pit or something like that.

“Suppose?” she said. “Remember what your father said about ‘suppose’?”

I’d add a little more here on Wela’s expression, tone of voice, or something like that so the reader gets a better image of her and how she acts here, since it’s a seemingly important point in their relationship and Cor’s return. After all, you base the chapter off of this.

“No, Cor. Don’t. Your father isn’t here, and if he was, I’m sure he’d do the same as you’d decided.”

I think that should be “as you’ve decided.”

“And neither would have your father. It’s too early. See? You have his wisdom.”

I like this line...it’s probably going to take up residence in my memory for a while. :)

“I shudder to think what actually transpired on those rails.”

“Transpired” seems out of place here given Wela’s usual diction. In fact, I think it’d sound a little awkward for almost anyone to say it at this particular moment.

“I’ve… blocked most of it from my mind. I’ve walled it behind ten feet of stone and steel. The only thing that still slips through is Vela, and the children. I—I can’t bare to lock them out.”

I don’t know if the “ten feet of stone and steel” bit works here, since it sounds too...cold and factual for the context. Also, “bare” should be “bear.”

With great will, he forced himself away from the edge, even though the abyss was looking more appealing to him each and every day. Perhaps the totality of the pain would break his mind, and he could live out the rest of his life insane and thoughtless and at peace.

Wow...that’s a great image you’ve got there.

How the human’s thought their candour so tactless.

Funny...I missed that totally on my first look. But then, I’ve always been bad at finding innuendos of any kind, so, yeah...where was I now? Oh, right; “human’s” should be “humans,” since you’re not indicating possession.

I played their game I did… but now I can be myself again. With my people.

I think you need a comma after “game.”

It’s not that she wasn’t pretty—she was actually his second choice, those years ago, if Vela refused him—it was that she reminded him, ever so slightly, of his wife.

Shouldn’t “It’s” be “It wasn’t,” since you’re using the past tense for narration? Also, I’d change “she was actually” to “she’d actually been”; what you have now sounds off in terms of tenses.

They were all scurrying through the dark, laying their hands upon the dusty gravestones of their forefathers and hoping, praying that those before them possessed all the answers. Only to realise their forefathers hoped the same.

It’s all a God’s joke, he thought, and this time felt no bitterness. Instead, he felt something curiously akin to liberation.

You know, when I read this, I felt something curiously akin to the feeling I get when I read something that really sticks with me...oh, wait, that’s because it did. I enjoyed this part a great deal, if it wasn’t obvious. :thumbsup:

With a chapter like that, I don’t think there’s a way short of my computer exploding that I won’t get around to reading the rest. Great job so far, and I look forward to what comes next.

[Clarke667]

I enjoyed this chapter a good deal, probably because I generally enjoy reading (and writing) reflective and thoughtful works.

Thought you'd like it. Sort of funny, though; coming in to this chapter, all I wanted to do was fill some space between what happens to Marise and the Isadoras. But it turned out being a bit more than filler, which was a nice gift from the inspiration pixie.

A quick sidenote: If you would've told me yesterday that I would type the words "inspiration pixie" in the near future, I probably would've punched you in the mouth. I should probably just stop fooling myself and buy like, a Babylon 5 t-shirt and kick my own ***.

Anyway, it’s a beautiful read, and I never thought I’d like Carvers before I read this...good job indeed with that part.

The idea to make a sympathetic imp came about after reading some article about the inherent racial prejudice in most works of fantasy. I'm sure you know what I mean: all orks are warmongers, all imps are sneaky, etc etc. I thought I'd bust the mold a bit.

Question: Do you (or anyone else reading this) agree with the above statement, that works of fantasy are inherently racist? Personally I don't really think so, but after reading say, Lord of the Rings, it does at least seem plausible. Just wondering what you think.

With a chapter like that, I don’t think there’s a way short of my computer exploding that I won’t get around to reading the rest. Great job so far, and I look forward to what comes next.

I look forward to hearing what you have to say about what comes next.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Nine

They sat on a log in the small clearing, a threshold of trees all around them, the fire between them, passed a bottle rum back and forth, girl to girl to girl, speaking little and watching the stars.

It was a quarter moon. The curved rind looked down at them; to Marise it resembled an old orange peel, to the sisters the blade of a scythe.

“Have the Sisters of the Sightless figured the stars yet?” Willowyn asked while still gazing. “Do they know how they hang in the sky?”

“The will of the Gods,” Marise answered promptly.

“Bah,” Sephony said good-naturedly. “You can answer anything with ‘The will of the Gods’.”

“And?” Marise said.

“And…” Sephony turned to her sister. “Bugger, the gully’s got me there.”

Willowyn passed her the rum to wash out the taste of defeat. Sephony took a guzzle and wiped her mouth and offered the bottle to Marise.

“Here, kill it.”

Marise shook her head. “No thanks. I’m starting to feel a bit loopy.”

Willowyn leaned over and grabbed the bottle. “I’ll take that. Can’t have Marise feeling loopy.”

“No, can’t have that,” Sephony said.

“Frightful bad,” Willowyn said. She killed the bottle and tossed it in the bushes.

Marise refrained from telling her that it would unnecessary disrupt the harmony on the forest. She resolved to pluck it out of the bush in the morning and bury it.

“So how far along are you, Marise?” Willowyn asked. “Must be far enough, if they let you travel all the way out here alone.”

“Not too far,” Marise said, frowning. It was something she had been turning in her mind as well. “I’m in my third year of my third tier. They usually don’t allow acolytes to travel on official business until the middle of the forth tier. But Great Mother said that it was—”

“Wait,” Willowyn interrupted, “let me guess. It was the will of the Gods.”

Marise tapped her nose solemnly and they all chuckled.

“And you,” Marise asked. “What brings you to Sadness?”

“Coin,” Sephony said. “Nothing more.”

“I see.” Marise almost asked them why they were still here, then. They had killed the keeper’s nephew, after all, and then escaped from the jail. Who would pay them their coin now?

She hugged the keeper’s huge coat around her and decided on a different tack.

“Where did you come from last?”

“The desert,” Willowyn said. “We stalked the rails and made good coin. Managed to blow it all, though.”

“Oh?”

“Oh indeed. That’s not usually our way, spending money as such. But an emptiness took us, and we tried to drink and smoke it away. The liquor wasn’t too mad on the purse, but the vermillia! When we came-to all our coin was settled at the bottom of our lungs, where we could no longer reach it.”

“An… emptiness?”

“Yes.”

“From all the killings?”

The sisters laughed.

“Certainly,” Willowyn said. “From all the sad and dreadful killings. Oh, how it rent our poor hearts! I nearly took my life I was so—I’m sorry, I can’t continue with a straight face.”

“You’ve ruined it,” Sephony said.

“You don’t—you don’t feel anything from them?”

“Why?” Willowyn asked. “The emptiness we felt… it was nothing like the emptiness of killing. And killing’s only empty because it’s largely meaningless. Some live long and some die quick and when night comes the Gods hang their stars in the sky and the living sleep and the dead sleep. And I swear—I swear to all the drunken, inbred deities—that I’ll never understand what people find so difficult about this.”

Marise corrugated her brow. The woman’s strange logic made no sense to her. But she feared that someday, after years of hard travels, it would. And then she would be damned.



Sephony tossed a log into the fire. She warmed her hands over it, rubbed her fingers and absently felt the calluses there, the tough skin of questionable work. When she was but a girl she had sat in a dusty basement alcove and pulled a lyre from a chest and strummed a chord; she remembered this, and she remembered how the clean warbling sound had kissed her ears and how it had filled the chambers of her heart with light. She rubbed the calluses and wondered if, under different circumstances, life might have been… might have been…

Sephony tossed the thought aside. She was at peace with her lot. She willed herself to be.

“Dawn’s coming on,” Willowyn said. “Think there’ll be the screams tonight?”

Sephony told her sister she didn’t know.

Marise was curled up on the grass, the big coat huddled around her, her knees tucked into the coat. She snored lightly. An ant crawled up her neck and investigated her nostril. Marise sneezed.

They both watched her.

“She’s had a hard go,” Sephony said.

Willowyn shrugged. “For Zann Esu, it’ll just get harder. Best she get used to it now.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Sephony said.

“What have you been thinking.”

“That maybe we should take her with us.”

Willowyn considered this. She said, “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t seem to make sense but it’s what I’ve been thinking nonetheless. We could use a third.”

“No we couldn’t,” Willowyn said. “We’ve been doing just fine as we are. And even if we needed a third, I would certainly not choose her. Think she would stalk the rails with us, or any work such as that? You do remember how we generally make our coin, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you think she would go along with it?”

“No.”

Willowyn nodded to herself. She took her trail-knife from her pack and whittled a chunk of redwood. “I know what’s going on here,” she said while shearing the bark and flicking the wood-spirals from the blade into the fire. “You don’t want another partner, you want a pet. Something to keep and care for. Am I right?”

Sephony said nothing.

“I’m right,” Willowyn said, “and it’s foolish. I’ll pretend I never heard it.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s a sister for?”

They sat for a time in contented silence. Two decades together, many of which alone together, all of which together yet alone no matter how big the group or clan or family. It was always Sephony and Willowyn, the Isadora Sisters, and they were comfortable enough with each other that they didn’t even need to acknowledge it anymore; the sun rose in the morning and the sun fell at night and Sephony and Willowyn were one. They could be silent and alone together. They would always be.

With a stick from the fire Sephony lit two cheroots. She passed one to her sister and her sister wedged it in her mouth and snuffed the smoke out of her eyes as she whittled.

Marise curled deeper into the warm channels of the coat.



The screams came an hour later. The sisters woke Marise and she pawed knuckles into her bleary eyes and yawned until she heard the first tremulous whisper of a moan. It slipped around her, this moan, changing timbre and pitch and fading and rushing back, a single slow lamentation; the sleep fell from Marise and she shivered, scooting closer to the sisters who had already drawn their Archangels and were scanning the thick darkness around them. They all realized there was no actual wind on which the moan was ushered, but only seemed to be. It travelled the currents around them. It was close and then far and then nowhere at all.

“Gods,” Willowyn said. She stood from the log and, dropping her whittlework, took a large stick from the fire and brandished it to the darkness. “Do you see anything in there, Seph? Marise?”

They could see nothing. Where the darkness dissolved there was only fresh darkness.

Two minutes passed and the moan did not return.

“Was that it?” Marise asked. “Is it finished?”

“I don’t know,” Sephony replied. “But they do call it the screams on the winds.”

Willowyn said, “If it comes again, I’m going to follow it.”

Marise was aghast. “Is—is that prudent?”

“Dung on prudence.”

In the lull, Sephony selected a handful of sticks and wrapped proper torches from spare cloth she kept in her pack. She lit three and handed them out.

“What about the Sightless Eye?” Sephony asked. “Do you see anything with that?”

“No.”

“Is that strange?”

“A bit. I should be feeling something.”

They picked apart the night. When some small woodland creature broke a twig nearby both sisters rushed on quiet feet to examine it.

“You never told us what you divined, you know,” Willowyn said.

“I divined…”

And then the second came. It clawed across the forest floor, this watery groan, not precisely human but not far off. It was the sound of a beast only half conscious from agony, a sound the sisters associated with long hours of beating a prey with clubs for information. It was that groan near the end of the work, when the prey would say anything, divulge any secret, as long as you promised it death.

Willowyn sprinted into the woods, her torch a flashing beacon in the darkness as she gained. This was old-growth forest; the ground was a convoluted mess of stumps and vines and husked-out trunks and rocks, yet her feet rarely faltered. She knew the ways of nature intuitively. She could anticipate a pitfall yards away.

Her torch ate the dark and the dark ate back.

Drawing closer to the groan now—she could hear it quavering but a few feet away, behind a massive redwood. Willowyn was dimly aware of another groan behind her, this one more like the teethgritted grunt from the first hit of the club. She spun around the redwood and thrust the torch and drew the hammer on her .45, the tangerine light spilling over the gnarled fissures in the old tree and the furry black moss that speckled it, the lonely grey-white toadstool and nothing else, nothing at all. She turned and brandished the torch, feeling the groan crawling over her legs but seeing nothing there, looking down, looking at her boots and seeing nothing there, nothing anywhere except for a lightless flash of purest nothing, the sort of nothing like that between the blink of an eye, and inside this blink for the barest of moments she maybe saw a pale naked man lying at her feet with his clawlike arm outstretched to her, his face all black groaning mouth, teeth bashed out, gums ruined and seeping and then he was gone.

The grunt behind her convalescing and then silent. Killed.

She ran back to the clearing.

“What did you find?” Sephony asked.

“A phantom, I think. I can’t be sure.” A piercing shriek assailed their ears. “Marise,” Willowyn continued, “tell us what you divined. Now.”

Marise was huddled against Sephony’s shoulder, the coat buttoned and the collar up over her nose. Her eyes were wide and dilated and Sephony holstered her gun and slung an arm around the frightened girl. “Tell us,” she said.

“I divined,” Marise said, her voice muffled inside the collar, “that in the darkness, nothing dies.”

“What?”

“In the darkness, nothing dies.”

“Great,” Willowyn said. “It’s gibberish.”

A squeal rode atop the shriek. A whimper mixed with it. Then came a wail and a screech and a dozen other, the voices all different, the agonies unique. Snowflakes of torture in the deep of night, twisting the minutes to hours, the hours to clamorous eternities; their heads were pounding, so filled with the infections of anguish that it was all they could do to remain standing.

Marise burrowed into the coat, her arms into the sleeves and her head down the collar. From the recesses of the fabric came muttered prayers. Sephony was almost tempted to say one herself, but she knew the nature of a prayer was to disappoint.

It was a long, gruelling night.

When the dark finally broke and pale blue light spilled over the horizon, the screams disappeared. At this point Marise was half-conscious, propped shivering against their sitting-log, still hidden in the keeper’s coat. Willowyn was awake and alert, but her headache had soured her mood and she defiantly sat on the log and whittled sullenly, paying as little attention as possible to the screams. Only Sephony still listened, and it was only she who heard the final scream, before it fully dissipated, suck in its phantom breath and whisper:

we’re all damned.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Just finished chapters 1 and 2 and wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed them. This much: :clap:

I had been avoiding this thread because, despite the spectacular writing, I had lost interest in your previous story, The Art of Dying, but I'm having no such problem with this one. I'm a little short of time right now so I won't go into detail, but I'll try to do that as I read more of the chapters. I also noticed a very few typos here and there which I'll list if you would like. But for now, excellent job!

:thumbsup:

[Clarke667]

Just finished chapters 1 and 2 and wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed them. This much: :clap:

Glad you're enjoying it, and I hope the rest doesn't disappoint.

I'm looking forward to any comments you may have.

[RevenantsKnight]

Interesting...this chapter was a nice look into the characters, with a rather mysterious ending. In general, this felt a tad long, though I can see why you made it one chapter. Anyway, I’m still reading. Some comments:

They sat on a log in the small clearing, a threshold of trees all around them, the fire between them, passed a bottle rum back and forth, girl to girl to girl, speaking little and watching the stars.

I think that should be “passing a bottle of rum...” and “threshold” doesn’t seem to work for me, since thresholds usually don’t encircle things.

It was a quarter moon. The curved rind looked down at them; to Marise it resembled an old orange peel, to the sisters the blade of a scythe.

There are a lot of good distinctions and contrasts between the sisters and Marise here, as well as some strong bits that speak of their characters. This is just one of the better instances, so I’m putting my comment here.

“Have the Sisters of the Sightless figured the stars yet?” Willowyn asked while still gazing.

“While still gazing” sounds awkward to me; what’s she gazing at? I mean, I can guess, given the context, but there’s no object for “gazing” in this clause.


“That’s not usually our way, spending money as such. But an emptiness took us, and we tried to drink and smoke it away. The liquor wasn’t too mad on the purse, but the vermillia! When we came-to all our coin was settled at the bottom of our lungs, where we could no longer reach it.”

This seems like a bit much to tell a relative stranger; after all, the sisters don’t know Marise that well. Also, I have a hard time seeing Willowyn admit to feeling “empty” to anyone except maybe Sephony, as she doesn’t strike me as a very open person. Finally, “came to” isn’t hyphenated.

Marise corrugated her brow.

Maybe it’s just me, but the only time I’ve seen a form of the verb “to corrugate” is in describing cardboard. Because of that, it sounds too modern to me, even for your new setting.

When she was but a girl she had sat in a dusty basement alcove and pulled a lyre from a chest and strummed a chord; she remembered this, and she remembered how the clean warbling sound had kissed her ears and how it had filled the chambers of her heart with light.

You just don’t let up with the excellent imagery, do you? Anyway, I thought this particular part was especially evocative. :)

“What have you been thinking.”

While I see this phrase as more of a statement than a question, I still think it could use a question mark, not a period, at the end.

Two decades together, many of which alone together, all of which together yet alone no matter how big the group or clan or family.

“Many of which” doesn’t really work with “two,” in my opinion. Also, the lack of verbs here makes for somewhat rough reading; while it does get the idea across and you could keep it as is because it does work, I’d change it to read “They’d spent two decades together, often alone together, always together yet alone no matter...” On a totally unrelated topic, you don’t have a twin, do you?

She passed one to her sister and her sister wedged it in her mouth and snuffed the smoke out of her eyes as she whittled.

I’m not sure what you meant by “snuffed the smoke out of her eyes.” Did she exhale through her nose to clear away smoke?

She stood from the log and, dropping her whittlework, took a large stick from the fire and brandished it to the darkness.

I wouldn’t use “darkness” here, since you use it again in the following line, which by the way is quite nice.

And then the second came.

I’d add “scream” or something after “second”; as it is, my first thought was that you were using “second” as a noun.

It was the sound of a beast only half conscious from agony, a sound the sisters associated with long hours of beating a prey with clubs for information.

I don’t think you need an “a” before “prey” here.

This was old-growth forest; the ground was a convoluted mess of stumps and vines and husked-out trunks and rocks, yet her feet rarely faltered.

I’d try to find a different way of saying “old-growth forest,” since that sounds too technical to me, and there are ways you could make this sound suitably ancient without compromising the tone of your story.

The grunt behind her convalescing and then silent.

I think you mean something like “The grunt behind her convalesced and then fell silent.”

Her eyes were wide and dilated and Sephony holstered her gun and slung an arm around the frightened girl.

“Dilated” sounds both redundant and overly technical; I’d advise cutting it.

Snowflakes of torture in the deep of night, twisting the minutes to hours, the hours to clamorous eternities; their heads were pounding, so filled with the infections of anguish that it was all they could do to remain standing.

Nice image, but you don’t say what “snowflakes of torture” refers to in this sentence. While I’m pretty sure I know what you’re talking about, it makes the sentence jerk a little upon reading. Also, as it is, “their heads” seems to refer to heads that don’t belong to Marise, Willowyn and Sephony.

When the dark finally broke and pale blue light spilled over the horizon, the screams disappeared.

I don't know if "disappeared" works as well as another verb could here, since technically, the screams never "appeared" in the first place.

Only Sephony still listened, and it was only she who heard the final scream, before it fully dissipated, suck in its phantom breath and whisper:

I think "it was only she" might sound better as "she was the only one," and you might want to use "voice" or something like that instead of "scream," because technically a scream can't suck in "phantom breath."

Anyway, it's a good sign that more or less the only things I'm noticing are small grammatical and wording things. Congrats so far.

And on your question about inherent racism in fantasy stories: I think it depends on the subgenre of “fantasy.” Diablo II fan fiction, for instance, doesn’t have to be “racist” if the author doesn’t want it to be, and either interpretation is valid in my opinion; for instance, demons could be portrayed as irredeemable because of their total removal from the Light, or they could have some shard of "humanity" in them that can't be purged. However, things like fairy tales (which I believe Tolkien modeled Lord of the Rings after) usually are “racist” since they, almost by definition, have a very black and white worldview. I don’t think this is inherently “bad,” just less advanced; after all, if you try and have a 6 year old comprehend Dostoevsky, where just about all the characters are messed up in some way, he or she is just going to block out most of it. Then again, less advanced is still great fun at times and can be considered high quality work (again, see Lord of the Rings.)

Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

This seems like a bit much to tell a relative stranger; after all, the sisters don’t know Marise that well. Also, I have a hard time seeing Willowyn admit to feeling “empty” to anyone except maybe Sephony, as she doesn’t strike me as a very open person. Finally, “came to” isn’t hyphenated.

Hmm… good point. I feel I need this information in there, but you’re right, I should probably find a better way of presenting it. Oh, and as to the hyphenation thing: I thought you could use hyphenation pretty much anywhere you want, so long as it serves the purpose of clarifying the action? What I mean is, if I wrote “When we came to all our coin…” that could make it sound like they were “coming upon” the money, or finding it, or something like that.

But hey, you’re Commandant Grammar, so you tell me. :D

Maybe it’s just me, but the only time I’ve seen a form of the verb “to corrugate” is in describing cardboard. Because of that, it sounds too modern to me, even for your new setting.

What about corrugated iron? That’s what I always think of when I hear the word.

While I see this phrase as more of a statement than a question, I still think it could use a question mark, not a period, at the end.

The “What have you been thinking” without the question mark is actually a really, really oblique reference to The Art of Dying; in the second chapter (Concerning The Night of Orchids / The Second Taste of Emptiness), Sephony says “I’ve been thinking”, and Willowyn responds “What have you been thinking.” I just thought it’d be cool to hearken back to it, even if I was the only person who could possibly get it without a lengthy explanation.

On a totally unrelated topic, you don’t have a twin, do you?

No, but I do have a split-personality. He goes by Clarke665 and writes Carebears fan fiction.

[Clarke667]

Part 3: Time’s Negative

Chapter Ten

The lost, they were calling them now.

The lost, maybe dead and rotting in some rancid pit, or black and bloating at the bottom of a well; maybe buried and sacraments given, maybe cut to pieces or heaped in a red pile or hanged from an old grey hemlock, all to one tree, decaying fruit in black swathes of flies. Maybe consumed, by someone or something—consumed and still being digested, even now, their lives and memories reduced to nothing more than brown sludge sluicing the intestinal loops of some unfathomable beast.

The lost, maybe still alive.

Even worse.

No matter how they armed themselves, no matter how closely they herded their families together or how vigilant their watch, the lost were collected. Just this night, five had disappeared.

A child who had slept in his mother’s arms; in the morning the mother had found but a still-warm spot where the child had once been. A husband who, damning caution and damning fear, strode out to his barn with lantern and longsword to see what got the sows and heifers so riled; his surviving family found the guttered lantern on the haystrewn floor and little else, all the livestock accounted for. A gully girl that was bound for the chopper anyways. The two headhunters, whom Sadness was better-off without.

It was the worst night yet, and it brought the total of the lost to twenty-five. A third of Sadness had already emigrated, and most of the remaining townsfolk were scraping and borrowing and pleading for coin. The coaches were making a killing.

The keeper had packed up and left at first-light. His men got drunk together one last time (their cups and mugs catching morning sun in their depths) and then disbanded. This did not bode well.

Twenty-five lost. But out of them all, there was but one anomaly: Of those taken from their families and homes, taken from their beds or from the arms of their mothers, only one had set out to find his fate.



The local historian was a notorious drunkard, tosspot first-class. He sat in the tavern from high noon to mid night, drinking, swilling, spilling, laughing and cajoling, extolling, always on the lookout for an ear to tell his tales or a pocket to plead a free drink from. On the lookout for a weakening of the barkeep’s resolve, so he could extend his already impressive tab.

It wasn’t that he was poor. Quite the contrary. It was the principal of the thing.

Weeping Spirits, his loathsome sister would often exclaim when he arrived home. You’ve made us a farce, our family a farce! Oh no no no, how much did you borrow tonight? And he would tell her proudly; and, throwing up her hands, she would demand he pay it back, pay it all back. This very instant.

What a funny old gal, he would think while chatting the barkeep, poking and prodding for the hole in the man’s armour (or pocketbook, rather). She’ll never understand a fashionable debt.

Though two weeks ago, he bypassed the tavern. He woke wanting to go there, to have a nice tall glass of ale and maybe a few whiskeys, spread a bit of lore, pinch a few bottoms, maybe even pay for a drink or two… But as soon as he finished shaving and had a look at himself in the cracked hand-mirror, he knew he wouldn’t be savouring a single drop of beer that day. He was a notorious drunkard, sure, a tosspot first-class: But he was also the local historian, and some days that overshadowed the rest.

What he never told his fellow tavernites: Sometimes history is an art, and sometimes the inspiration takes you.

Looking mighty handsome, his loathsome sistercreature said from the doorway while he inspected himself in the mirror, for someone who’s gonna end up face down in his own sick.

I’ll have you know I’m not going to the tavern today, he said. And I’ll thank you to not be so presumptuous in the future.

She—she of the horns and scales and serpent’s tongue and cold black cantankerous heart—snorted derisively. Oh? And just where are you going?

Rockswoon, he said. He checked the underside of his chin and made a few quick touch-ups with the razor.

The frostblooded demon’s concubine stared at him. Her harpy’s brow furrowed. Why?

Got the urge.

She was quiet for a time. Be careful down there. And pack a good lunch.

I will. Sometimes he loved her so much it hurt.

It was a goodish hike to Rockswoon. Only a mile or two away, granted, but the country was rough; the old coach-road, once the lifeblood of Old Sadness, was now in such a state of disrepair as to be worse than no road at all. Most of the ruts were ankle deep, if not deeper, and would delight in tripping an old tosspot like himself or clasp his shin and snap it. He picked his path slowly and carefully; he stopped twice to rest his weary old bones.

Next time some young scrap tells me history’s ‘old man’s work’, he thought while working a knot out of his calf, I swear I’ll boot him straight in the jolly.

By midday, about the time he would have been sipping his third beer in the natural run of things, the historian came to the ruins. They weren’t much to look at, he was forced to admit—just a few piles of stone and brick, a handful of gutted foundations, the odd archway that stood with nothing around it, incongruous, a bit forlorn. Nothing much at all.

To perhaps anyone but a historian.

Look here. This half-crumbled wall, the charred spatterings of ancient woodsplinters, the flamespotted twists of iron; this was once the blacksmith’s hut. That formless lump of metal half-sunk in the dirt? His anvil. This is where the warriors came for sharpenings and repairs, for new swords and fresh arrows; this man, this faceless nameless man now lost in the cruel vagrancy of time, in his day he was everything.

And here, a brass spigot. That’s all I need to see to know this was a tavern. To drink here! To hear the stories of these impossible men!

He knelt. Brushed off the spigot. He thought: Maybe I can still hear their stories, ay. If I’ve the right ear.

He moved on, through the wreckage, imagining the town around him, still standing and strong and vital; imagining the people, their idle chatter under shop awnings on sunny afternoons, the smells of their cooking, the corn and wheat and boiled potatoes. The life in their blood, before the darkness came. And then, when they thought it was over: the Reckoning.

Such fury here! The historian could feel it even now, the plague of it. When he removed the rusted haft of an old shortblade from the rubble, he swore he could feel the metal buzzing. “Who’s blood did you spill?” he asked the blade. “Was it in vain?”

He was coming up to it now, he knew. The bad place. The pummelled earth of the old church.

This is where it started for us. Right here.

Well… not right here, if he was to be accurate. More like right over there, about two yards away. But, as of yet, he had not dared to venture directly onto the site.

But today he would. It was obvious to him that he was a good historian, perhaps even a great one; without his penchant for booze or bottom-pinching he might’ve found himself in some lofty university, penning brilliant tomes, debating his colleagues in an ivory hall, perhaps teaching a class or training a protégé. But he was what he was, and that was fine, he wasn’t great but he was good, and he was happy… but how could he truly, honestly be even considered “good”, if he—the historian—had never even bothered to tread on the very soil that had so sharply defined his forbearers?

He winced at the thought. It was almost ludicrous. His greatest of great grandfather had lived here. He had not only survived the darkness, and the Reckoning, but had come back to this forsaken place to rebuild the town. And he, weakest of weak grandchild, shivered at the very thought of touching the place with his feet!

Well, not today. When I meet Old Great Deckard in the After, I’ll meet him as a man. By all the flatulent Gods, I will!

He walked. The earth was dark and soft, the way the historian imagined a corpse’s flesh would feel after a week or so in the sun. Soft. Spongy.

Gritting his yellow teeth, he petitioned his stomach to keep hold of the lunch he had given it. He promised to give it a good dollop of ale if it agreed.

Ugh. Spongy… Viscous. Viscous like a weeping sore. Spongy and viscous like—”

Thump thump.

He stopped abruptly. He gazed downward. The earth looked pretty much the same here as everywhere else, soft and spongy and viscous and overall gross.

He raised his leg. He dropped it.

Thump.

Tyrael’s sorrow, a cellar door!

The historian fell to his knees. This was big. No, this was huge. If the cellar was untouched by the Reckoning, if it had somehow escaped that hellblasted demon’s fury, if if if—Get a hold of yourself you old drunk, he scolded himself. Most likely it’s as gutted as everything else. But maybe not. Oh but maybe not. Clear that dirt away!

He clawed at it.

And it all came away in one swoop. In his hand, the historian held an old, dirty, black rug.

What?

Perhaps if he had considered this for more than a moment he would have never opened the cellar door. Perhaps he would have left then, ran away while he still had time. Perhaps he would have escaped with his life. But the thrill of discovery had intoxicated him, and he threw the rug aside and grasped the tarnished ring on the cellar door. He pulled it up and open.

And the screams rushed up from the black mouth of the cellar.

[Snowglare]

I thought you could use hyphenation pretty much anywhere you want, so long as it serves the purpose of clarifying the action? What I mean is, if I wrote "When we came to all our coin?" that could make it sound like they were "coming upon" the money, or finding it, or something like that.

But hey, you're Commandant Grammar, so you tell me. :D

Captain Comma to the rescue! What your sentence lacks is a pause, signified by this li'l guy (,). See: "When we came to, all our coin was settled at the bottom of our lungs, where we could no longer reach it."

[Clarke667]

Captain Comma to the rescue! What your sentence lacks is a pause, signified by this li'l guy (,). See: "When we came to, all our coin was settled at the bottom of our lungs, where we could no longer reach it."

Thank you, Captain Comma! And your secret identity is safe with me.

[RevenantsKnight]

Another interesting chapter...but you probably could’ve guessed that I’d say something like that, given all my previous comments. I’m definitely curious as to whether this historian’s going to come up more, or if he’s just around for one more chapter or so, but I suppose I’ll find out soon. Anyway, here’s another serving of insanity:

The lost, maybe dead and rotting in some rancid pit, or black and bloating at the bottom of a well; maybe buried and sacraments given, maybe cut to pieces or heaped in a red pile or hanged from an old grey hemlock, all to one tree, decaying fruit in black swathes of flies.

There’s a bunch of great images in this sentence, but I think it could read more cleanly; I’d change “bloating” to “bloated,” delete or expand on “cut to pieces” since it seems much weaker than the rest of the sentence as is, and add a verb, such as “cloaked,” after “fruit” in the last clause for clarity.

Maybe consumed, by someone or something—consumed and still being digested, even now, their lives and memories reduced to nothing more than brown sludge sluicing the intestinal loops of some unfathomable beast.

”Intestinal loops” sounds a mite too technical; I’d imagine the same idea would be expressed simply as “gut” or “bowels” in a medieval setting.

A husband who, damning caution and damning fear, strode out to his barn with lantern and longsword to see what got the sows and heifers so riled; his surviving family found the guttered lantern on the haystrewn floor and little else, all the livestock accounted for.

“What got the sows and heifers so riled” would read smoother as “what had scared the sows and heifers” in my opinion. Also, I’m not sure what you meant by “guttering”; if the lantern’s flame was fading and almost gone, then it’s “guttering,” and if the lantern had gone out, something like “spent” might work better. Finally, I think you need a “with” before “all the livestock...”

A gully girl that was bound for the chopper anyways. The two headhunters, whom Sadness was better-off without.

Is the use of “that” instead of “who” for Marise intentional? Also, I think the last clause should read “without whom Sadness was better off [anyway].”

His men got drunk together one last time (their cups and mugs catching morning sun in their depths) and then disbanded.

I’d set off the phrase “their cups and mugs...” with commas instead.

But out of them all, there was but one anomaly: Of those taken from their families and homes, taken from their beds or from the arms of their mothers, only one had set out to find his fate.

I’d delete one of the uses of “but” in the first part there; as it is, it suggests that it’s surprising that there weren’t more anomalies.

What a funny old gal, he would think while chatting the barkeep, poking and prodding for the hole in the man’s armour (or pocketbook, rather).

I think that should be “...while chatting with the barkeep...”

Though two weeks ago, he bypassed the tavern.

“Bypassed” gets the meaning across, but because of its connotations, it makes the historian’s absence seem a bit less than consequential. “...he’d forsaken the tavern” sounds as if it’s more noteworthy to me, but of course I could be wrong here; maybe it works and I’m just getting hung up on my own delusions.

Sometimes he loved her so much it hurt.

Heh...that brought a smile to my face, given the previous bits. Funny how people are like that, sometimes...

Most of the ruts were ankle deep, if not deeper, and would delight in tripping an old tosspot like himself or clasp his shin and snap it.

There’s a verb shift towards the end of this sentence; “clasp” and “snap” should be “clasping” and “snapping” respectively.

Look here. This half-crumbled wall, the charred spatterings of ancient woodsplinters, the flamespotted twists of iron; this was once the blacksmith’s hut. That formless lump of metal half-sunk in the dirt? His anvil. This is where the warriors came for sharpenings and repairs, for new swords and fresh arrows; this man, this faceless nameless man now lost in the cruel vagrancy of time, in his day he was everything.

Ahh...this was a nice touch.

He moved on, through the wreckage, imagining the town around him, still standing and strong and vital; imagining the people, their idle chatter under shop awnings on sunny afternoons, the smells of their cooking, the corn and wheat and boiled potatoes.

Minor detail: “vital” seems off here, and I’d suggest replacing it with “alive.” Here, the simplicity of the word and its idea works to point out the contrast between then and now, in my opinion.

“Who’s blood did you spill?”

“Who’s” should be “whose.”

His greatest of great grandfather had lived here. He had not only survived the darkness, and the Reckoning, but had come back to this forsaken place to rebuild the town. And he, weakest of weak grandchild, shivered at the very thought of touching the place with his feet!

The contrast between “greatest of great” and “weakest of weak” is good, but somehow it doesn’t seem to read smoothly to me. Unfortunately, I’m at a loss to explain why this is the case, or even provide suggested fixes. I guess I’d say leave it as is for now, but if other people start mentioning this too, I’d advise a revision.

As for some previous stuff: I've never heard of corrugated iron (or if I have, I don't remember what it is), so I don't know if that has an image attached to it that suits your purpose. My gut feeling, though, is that a word associated with types of cardboard and iron is not the best thing to use for describing facial expressions.

Anyway, another great chapter. Thanks for posting!

[Anyee]

This is the first story in a very long time that has made me actually look forward to the next chapter. Well played. Now get this into TDL before I start smiting.

For the record: I turned my assassin into a cop. Worked pretty well, too.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Eleven

Marise held the steaming tin cup in her hands. She took measured sips from it, the coffee black and bitter and revitalizing. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, two hours at most. The coffee would have to hold her over.

This was something she that had never occurred to her. She knew the course of her life would bring her to strange places, force her to witness strange things; even as a child, she knew there would be wars and death and tough times, blood and pain. But to embark on such things, to do such strange deeds, while bone tired? Why didn’t they ever teach me that I’d be guarding Sanctuary with an empty belly and bleary eyes?

She took another sip.

Beside her, Willowyn oiled her gun. Sephony was nowhere to be found.

“Ever shoot one of these?”

“No,” Marise said. “We haven’t a class for gunmanship.”

“Pity. Guns will rule this world pretty soon.”

She was going to refute this. But then she thought, It’s possible. Guns are too easy. Magics take such time. The art of sword and bow, they take time as well, years and years. But a gun? Why, even a beggar can kill a god with a gun.

It was like the locomotive, in a way. Guns and trains, opening wide the world around them all. And soon there would be bigger guns and faster trains, and the old ways would be left behind. They would be relics. Words in dusty books. Curiosities.

Sephony returned to the camp, holding a skinned hare by the foot. “Breakfast,” she said. With her trail-knife, she unzipped its belly and scooped out the innards onto a plate.

Marise scrunched her nose.

“It makes for good soup,” Willowyn said. To her sister: “Pass me your iron, Seph. I’ll oil it for you.”

The sisters went about their business, one spitting the carcass over the fire, the other cleaning the weapon. Marise watched, feeling useless, an undue burden. “Pass me those guts,” she said.

“You’ll need the salt and spices from my pack,” Sephony said while handing her the plate. “They’re—”

“No, no sorry. If you want I’ll make the soup later. I’m going to try to divine.”

“Oh. Good.”

Willowyn blew the grit from the Archangel’s cylinder. “This time,” she said, “come back with something better than ‘Nothing dies’.”

“I’ll try.”

Marise carried the plate out of the clearing.

Sephony turned the hare on the spit.

“There’s something,” Willowyn said, “that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Really,” Sephony said. She had a feeling she knew what this would be about. It had been on her mind as well.

“Yes, really. I’d like to know why we’re still here. It makes sense for Marise to be—she’s been sent. But who’s sent us?”

“No one,” Sephony said.

“Exactly. Whatever we come across here, whatever the little magician divines… we’ll be doing it for free.”

Sephony nodded. She turned the hare. Placed another log on the fire.

“What do you suggest?”

“I suggest,” Willowyn said, “we tell Marise it’s been grand. We bid her good luck, well wishes, and best regards. And then we’re off on our merriest way, to sniff out some coin.”

“She broke us from the jail. I’d say we owe her.”

“Owe her what? It’s not like we would’ve rotted there. In fact, if she would’ve left us, I’m sure I could have convinced the keeper to let us deal with their problem. For a handsome price, I might add. If anything, the little gully’s impeded us.”

Sephony said, “I disagree.”

“Oh, she disagrees. Tell me, why does she disagree?”

Sephony sighed. Of course it would come to this.

“How did you get that scar on your neck, Will?”

“I got it when you…” Willowyn brought a hand to the scar and touched it. Confusion settled over her brow, and then was quickly tucked away. “Who cares? It’s a scar.”

“How did I get the scars on my side?”

“It’s a scar as well. We’re filthy with them. Some battle’r other. Who can remember them all? I’m not your, your chronologist or some such tripe. Who cares?”

“Before the rails,” Sephony said, “where were we before the rails?”

Willowyn searched her mind and all she could find was a smooth blank wall. There was a hole in this wall, the size of a coin. She could look through it if she wanted.

“I don’t understand the nature of these questions,” Willowyn said. “What do they have to do with anything?”

“If I’d agreed with you, would we really leave this place?”

“Of course.”

“Lies,” Sephony said without rancour. “You know as well as I that we’re supposed to be here.”

“Now who’s lying?” Willowyn asked. There was very little conviction in her voice. She went back to her work, oiling her sister’s gun, wanting to drop a bullet in the bed and send it screaming into Sephony’s face. Why stir the silt of their past? Why go to that place and wake all the slumbering beasts? Damn her, why can’t she leave well enough alone?



Marise set the plate on a tree stump and knelt before it. She was uneasy about this—would hare-guts be enough?

Divination, her Great Mother had told the class. A tricky business.

Marise closed her eyes, looking for the hint of the perfection inside her. The mark of the Gods, an imprint; the place where the magic had laid its finger on her soul to give it life.

A very tricky business. For know this, little sisters: the Gods will not come to you. And why should they? We are instruments of their will, not the converse. The polished stone walls of the classroom, yes; she remembered them well if not fondly. The teak desks and the algae coloured windows. The young with their eyes like white saucers, acolytes: those who had yet to learn that guarding the world was hungry, sleepless work.

Following the comet-trail of perfection. The moth of light inside her, to cup it in her hands and rub the stardust from its wings.

You must go to the Gods if you wish to petition their advice. But beware the journey. If you lose your way to the Gods, you will wander the Ephemera, cold and alone for eternity.

A tricky business, indeed. So far, the trickiest had been meeting the Gods through a cup of urine, but at least it had been from a human, those so supremely favoured. This, though… this was the paltry viscera of a hare, a lesser beast, and she remembered the time Alyania had tried to divine from a dead rat and they had found her body, her and Great Mother, and Great Mother had closed Alyania’s eyes and prayed to the Gods to show mercy on the poor lost girl.

But who will close my eyes? Who will pray for me here?

She touched the entrails.

The Sightless Eye engulfed her.



The hare was crisp and golden, the juices sizzling where the flames licked it, and Sephony thought: Maybe I could’ve been a cook.

Where was all this coming from, that’s what she wanted to know. These errant desires, sad little maybes and what-ifs and if-onlys. It wasn’t like her to dwell on the vagaries of possibility. No, not at all.

But still, she could’ve been a cook. She could’ve played the lyre. In all these other inside worlds, she could’ve and would’ve and should’ve. Sour dreamflashes of her hair pinned with golden clasps and of ball gowns and concerts; or skillets simmering with tropical fish and slices of lime, or modest houses, or slow nights by a crackling hearth and not mornings by a slipshod campfire, her clothes filthy with hard travel, her head stale with ghostly screams.

Better things. All these maybes.

It was Marise, she figured. That’s where all this was coming from. When she looked at that young little harlot she could see all the choices splayed before her, the paths and doors—the godsrotting potential.

When she looked at herself, all she saw was scars. Scars she couldn’t even name.

This is foolish, she told herself, taking the hare from the fire. You are what you are, and you’ve done what you did. Marise will do the same, and when she looks back she’ll regret it just as badly. No matter what.

She thought: No one comes out of this life content.

She thought: Time passes, and so much passes with it.

And why would she want to play the lyre, anyways? Such stupid melodramatic whimsy. Yes, she would sit in a concert hall with her hair pinned up goldly and her white gown a-shimmer, plucking melodramatic strings and the debonair crowd ooohing and ahhhing, the princes and delegates and the chancellors and dukes, the plutocrats of all shapes and sizes with their dusty primped wives and their marble-faced children. A sea of slicked sculpted hair and her before them as their siren. Yes. Certainly.

And if she did, and if she could, every night when she placed her lyre in the velvet-lined case and unclipped her hair and dismantled her gown and corset, she would surely sit by the window and dream of the blood that could be on her hands, of the guns and the knives and the look on a man’s face when the light shuffled out of him. She would maybe and what-if and if-only, all the same.

Sephony sighed.

“Grub ready?” Willowyn asked.

“Mostly. Let it cool a moment.”

“Smells good. You could always cook, Seph.”

“Thank ya.” A compliment like a dagger in the heart.

Marise appeared out of the wilderness. She was calm and composed, but her eyes were strange.

“Here, come eat,” Willowyn said. “It’s just finished. Get anything this time?”

Marise sat on the log and tore into a haunch.

“Yes,” she said, chewing. “I know where we’re to go.”

“Oh? And where’s that?”

Marise swallowed the lump of meat and chased it with cold coffee. She belched into her fist.

“Rockswoon,” she said.

[Clarke667]

This is the first story in a very long time that has made me actually look forward to the next chapter. Well played.

That actually means quite a bit to me. Thank ya kindly.

Now get this into TDL before I start smiting.

The last thing I want to do is risk a smiting. The last time I was smoten, I lost depth-perception in my left eye for two weeks. I had to wear Velcro shoes and ride the bus like a crazy person.

But seriously though, it might be a little while. Killing's only in its first (and a half) draft, and I forsee at least two more before it's completely up to code. And I tend to take long rests between drafts, to catch up on my drinking.

For the record: I turned my assassin into a cop. Worked pretty well, too.

Interesting. Would this story be stashed somewhere in TDL? If so, I'd certainly like to steal--I mean learn from it. ;)

[Anyee]

That actually means quite a bit to me. Thank ya kindly.

I'm not as good as Snow or RevKnight, since I'll not edit anything as closely, but I don't mind throwing praise.

The last thing I want to do is risk a smiting. The last time I was smoten, I lost depth-perception in my left eye for two weeks. I had to wear Velcro shoes and ride the bus like a crazy person.

You're an interesting lad. Anyone ever tell you that? And just the left eye?

Interesting. Would this story be stashed somewhere in TDL? If so, I'd certainly like to steal--I mean learn from it. ;)

It bears the unfortunate title of fulcrum reloaded, and at 87 pages, is competing with the original fulcrum, trials, and matrix for space. Bits of it are in the forum and the rest in the hands of various denizens.

[RevenantsKnight]

Well, I’m still reading, and will be until the end, since this just keeps on going...anyway, you’ve definitely got an interesting dynamic going on between the three women. On a different note, this chapter read especially smoothly; I’d call it a good sign that I have so few edits to suggest. Specific comments:

Marise held the steaming tin cup in her hands.

While it’s perfectly clear what you mean in context, this reads grammatically as if the cup itself is steaming. “...cup of steaming black liquid” would be more accurate, though unnecessary in my opinion.

This was something she that had never occurred to her.

There’s an unnecessary “she” here.

This, though… this was the paltry viscera of a hare, a lesser beast, and she remembered the time Alyania had tried to divine from a dead rat and they had found her body, her and Great Mother, and Great Mother had closed Alyania’s eyes and prayed to the Gods to show mercy on the poor lost girl.

“...they had found her body, her and the Great Mother...” confused me for a bit at first. I’d see if you can make this a little clearer without breaking up your trademark long sentence.

Sour dreamflashes of her hair pinned with golden clasps and of ball gowns and concerts; or skillets simmering with tropical fish and slices of lime, or modest houses, or slow nights by a crackling hearth and not mornings by a slipshod campfire, her clothes filthy with hard travel, her head stale with ghostly screams.

Technically, the “dreamflashes” are “pinned with golden clasps” as it is above. If you add something like “She imagined” at the start of the sentence, this problem would be fixed.

Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

Well, I’m still reading, and will be until the end, since this just keeps on going...

Is that weariness I hear? It's good to hear from you, though, Mr Knight; a day or two went by went by without your trademark criticisms, and I thought maybe you'd gotten crushed under a copy of William Strunk's Elements of Style. Speaking of which, ever read Elements? If not, I think you'd like it.

I've got a quick question for you, seeing how you're quite a prolific scribbler yourself: I just finished another story, and I was wondering if I should post it here after Killing's done with. Thing is, I don't want to like, "over saturate" the forum. I don't much care if people get sick of me personally (as far as I'm concerned, that's inevitable), but it would be a shame if they got sick of my poor, defenceless stories.

Thanks for posting!

That kid in the Psionic Love thread called you his critic idol, but I think I'll raise the ante: Revenantsknight, I want to have your grammatically correct lovechild. Now, if I could only find that spare uterus kicking around here...

But seriously, thanks for the time and effort.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I can't keep up with your pace. Are you sure you don't have 12,000 chimps typing furiously in the attic, and you're just gleaning the best of their simian best. Anyway, on chapters 3 and 4:

The first thing I noticed about your writing was your fresh and clean use of vocabulary. Whereas, for me, descriptiveness and readability always seem to be locked in a deadly battle of trade-offs, you seem to combine the two effortlessly:

The windowslats were half closed and the amber sunlight painted the cab in thin bars Actually that's from chapter 1 but its a great example of how you portray a vivid image with a simple sentence.

The opening paragraph to chapter three was pure genius. By the time you mention the aptness of town's name I felt like I knew the speaker well and that, in turn, colored his opinion of the town.

The next thing I discovered about your writing is the way the dialog feels so real. It seems like they are just speaking off the top of their head, nothing contrived.

As a rebuttal, Sephony belched. Not the most literate line ever penned perhaps, but somehow it just seemed perfect, a perfect example of natural dialog. I loved that line, like it was exactly what you'd expect from Sephony. This whole dialog-filled chapter read effortlessly and the interplay between the women was exciting and compelling.

Chapter 4 seemed to slow down a bit, but then it just might be that I somehow prefer a roomful of naked women, drinking, whoring and cutting off fingers, to a frumpy ole imp patriarch. (Naaaah!) But still well written and enjoyable. I thought you handled the whole patriarch knows best thing well, especially the way he tried to break the news of his family's death to the tribe.

And then the bit with the Shaman and paring. At first I thought it was just too much, a little unbelievable, removing skin down to the bone. I was this close to disbelieving it. Then you did a remarkable thing; somehow, by taking this extreme idea even further you grabbed me hook, line and sinker. Using his pared and sharpened fingers to paint runic scrolls, cutting a little door in his forehead, decorating his exposed bone with intricate decorations. Wow. That's what made me believe.

I'm very impressed with your writing. Sorry for the rambling nature of this commentary but I'm hurrying so I can get back to reading and hopefully catch-up. :xmad:

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 5: This chapter had an authentic western feel to it. Could almost hear the dramatic spanish guitar playing in the background. Nice job.

Yes; Sephony was becoming increasingly certain that’s how it happened, as they sat there at high noon on the steps of the Morning Rain and smoked and watched the ranchers and Willowyn’s hatred so pure it was palpable, a red stench that wafted from her in waves. Yes; the man with the broken nose and the long-barrelled revolver got a whiff of the hatred and decided he didn’t like the smell. No, not at all. Really liked this paragraph, especially the interplay between stench, whiff and smell.


The rancher dipped his head and neatly spat his pipe into his breast pocket. Nice image.


Coin changed gloves. Ditto


Sephony made no move for her own. This was Will’s deal.I liked the way the two sisters seemed to change roles here. Before this chapter I would have said that Sephony was the hard-case, and Willowyn the older wiser sibling. Not so, apparently.


Willowyn dropped her smoking .45 in the steel-lined holster.

Sephony lit her cheroot with the match and shook it out.

“He almost made his shot,” Sephony said.

“Nah. That gun was miles away from dangerous.” I love the arrogance of these two, the contempt with which they treat anyone other than each other, they're just plain bad. However, I wouldn't mind seeing them taught a lesson sometime.


...Willowyn could look to a man and speak volumes with her eyes.

... but a quick look to the crowd put You're use of the expression "look to" in these two places instead of "look at" bothered me. Can't say it's wrong but it felt that way.



Some random comments as I warp through this thread...

I know what you mean. I've been coming here for, what, two-three weeks now, and although I've wanted to read through most of the stories here, I'm finding it especially hard to do so. Know what I think it is? For me it's the length of the lines... a 12-line paragraph on the old word-processor becomes 3 lines on the forum. Maybe it's just me, but it forces my eyes to run a marathon across the screen and soon enough they’re begging for mercy. Trying taking your browser out of full screen mode and resizing it until the paragraphs look normal. That's what I do and I don't seem to have any problem reading online. In fact I do my final edits in preview-post mode because I like the look of the text in this forum so much.


First, here’re some more thoughts on the whole Sightless Eye/Zann Esu thing... The only restriction I can think of is that any alliance or merger should make strategic sense to both sides; don’t have an ultra-powerful Zann Esu invite a weakened Sisterhood into a joint pact unless the Rogues have some sort of ace in the hole. I have no authoritative reference to quote but the rogues seem to me a little like the paladins: the military arm of a religious sect. And the sorceresses seem a bit too dark to allow an easy alliance. Unless it's sisters thing...

[Clarke667]

I can't keep up with your pace. Are you sure you don't have 12,000 chimps typing furiously in the attic, and you're just gleaning the best of their simian best.

"It was the best of times... it was the blurst of times? You stupid monkeys!" [/Simpsons reference]

But I should probably smoke a J or something and chill out. All this writing... I'm bound to give myself a ****ing brain embolism. And the chapter a day thing, I think I might slow that down a bit, too. You probably know how it is: you spend like, a decade basically writing for yourself, no one really around to read it (funny aside: my girlfriend won't even read my stories because they're "too gory and weird"), and then all of a sudden you come across a place where people actually WANT to read your work. So I think I've been going a bit... psychotic with the content, lately.

The first thing I noticed about your writing was your fresh and clean use of vocabulary. Whereas, for me, descriptiveness and readability always seem to be locked in a deadly battle of trade-offs.

You and me both, brother. I actually have you folks to thank though; I used to be of the mind that "more = better" until I posted The Art of Dying here, and you people were kind enough to mention that just because I can write two paragraphs describing someone punching someone else in the throat, it doesn't necessarily mean I should.

Chapter 4 seemed to slow down a bit, but then it just might be that I somehow prefer a roomful of naked women, drinking, whoring and cutting off fingers

Preach on. But hey, you know what they say: Write what you know. So I guess my inherent debauchery is finally paying off.

I'm very impressed with your writing. Sorry for the rambling nature of this commentary but I'm hurrying so I can get back to reading and hopefully catch-up. :xmad:

Can't wait to hear what you have to say. Oh, and in case I don't hear from you again through the holidays, Happy Christ's Birthday! I decided to get him a pair of mittens, because he's got those holes in his hands....

[RevenantsKnight]

I have no authoritative reference to quote but the rogues seem to me a little like the paladins: the military arm of a religious sect. And the sorceresses seem a bit too dark to allow an easy alliance. Unless it's sisters thing...

Both groups feel like seamless combinations of a religious order and a military sisterhood to me; there doesn't seem to be a division between the fighters and the priests, unless you count age and physical ability. After all, there aren't really civilian followers per se of either group, and both seem to be following a long-term agenda against the Burning Hells that doesn't involve converting large numbers of the populace. I'd put money on Kashya's being able to recite Sightless Eye doctrine chapter and verse one minute and kick demon butt the next (heck, I even wrote on that sort of thing). And yes, it probably wouldn't be an "easy alliance"; the only way I see the two groups combining totally is a divine order, or perhaps the realization that the theology of the two groups actually overlaps.

And the chapter a day thing, I think I might slow that down a bit, too.

Couldn't hurt. I'll still read it, and you'll probably get more folks to start reading, or at least try to keep up.

Is that weariness I hear? It's good to hear from you, though, Mr Knight; a day or two went by went by without your trademark criticisms, and I thought maybe you'd gotten crushed under a copy of William Strunk's Elements of Style.

Nah, I'm still here, and that's not weariness, that's mild irritation at my temporary confinement to dialup. As for Elements of Style, I've got a copy sitting next to my computer as I write this. It was required for freshman English in high school, way back when, and I've used it some since (though not as much as I could, or probably should.)

I've got a quick question for you, seeing how you're quite a prolific scribbler yourself: I just finished another story, and I was wondering if I should post it here after Killing's done with.

Hrm...I say go right ahead, though that's just me. It's not like this forum gets seven new chapters/stories a day, though if it does reach that level for some reason, you might want to hold off for a little while. The bottom line is that if you want feedback/ideas/whatever for a story, this forum's definitely a good resource, and the amount of previous posts you have shouldn't discourage you from utilizing it. I personally wouldn't mind seeing more stories by anyone, so long as the writing leaves my eyes intact.

I decided to get him a pair of mittens, because he's got those holes in his hands...

Actually, I believe those healed upon resurrection. And besides, Heaven isn't cold (I don't think.)

Revenantsknight, I want to have your grammatically correct lovechild. Now, if I could only find that spare uterus kicking around here...

Now how is that possible if I'm a robot bent on world domination? Wait, don't answer that; I don't even want to know.

But seriously, thanks for the time and effort.

You're welcome.

[Anyee]

Well, the Rogues are their own sect. According to the reference (http://tdl.diabloii.net/modules.php?op=modload&name=Sections&file=index&req=viewarticle&artid=20&page=1) we have in TDL, taken from the original Diablo books...

The Sisters of the Sightless Eye are a loosely organized guild shrouded in mystery amongst the people of the West. These highly skilled archers employ ancient Eastern philosophies that develop an “inner sight” that they use both in combat and to circumvent dangerous traps that they might encounter. Known only as wandering Rogues in the West, the Sisters conceal their secret affiliation by posing as simple travelers. Many pompous fools have made the mistake of underestimating these steel-nerved women in combat and paid a terrible price for their vanity.

I'm guessing that if you follow the Sightless Eye, you are a Rogue. I don't think there are any laypeople among them, Akara and Charsi notwithstanding. The paladins are an arm; there are lay Zakrumites. You also get the impression from Akara's sorceress-specific (http://tdl.diabloii.net/modules.php?op=modload&name=Sections&file=index&req=viewarticle&artid=15&page=1) conversations that Akara's relationship with the sorceresses is cordial at the very least. Two women-only groupings after a great war might be able to depend on each other, especially if Akara is the medium, no pun intended. I would not have to imagine a situation in which the Zann Esau directs candidates who, while unsuitable for the task of sorceress, may be appropriate for the Rogues.

And now, back to...stuff.

Oh, by the way, when Jesus returned from being all dead and stuff, he did still have the wounds. See Thomas, doubting.

[Clarke667]

Actually, I believe those healed upon resurrection. And besides, Heaven isn't cold (I don't think.)

Oh, by the way, when Jesus returned from being all dead and stuff, he did still have the wounds. See Thomas, doubting.

So this is how a jihad starts. Interesting.

Oh, and for the record: When Jesus died, the wounds were healed in Heaven, but for the Ressurection he had them surgically re-inserted for vanity reasons (ie, to impress girls at parties). See Bible II: Now It's Personal.

I probably shouldn't be so blasphemous during Christmas time... If I'm around for the Second Coming (spit or swallow?), Jesus will most likely pistol-whip me down to Hell.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Twelve

As he trekked through the forest, Cor passed the time by plotting murder.

He could sneak up on his most foul of adversaries while he was sleeping and bash him over the head with a rock. A big rock—a chunk of granite, maybe. Or stick a knife in his heart; it wasn’t a flashy way to get the job done, but there was a simplicity to it that was satisfying. A knife in the Shaman’s heart: oh to dream!

Rockswoon, the Shaman had said when Cor and Degg visited the old mule-fornicator’s cottage at first light. You’re to go to Rockswoon. Looking to Degg, then back to Cor. A smile behind that horrid peeled face. And you’re to go alone.

Poisoning. Garrotting. An axe to the genitals.

Rockswoon alone!

“That old dungheap,” Cor grumbled to himself. Rotten fool, he’s pared away all his sense. My life… my life is in the skeletal hands of a lunatic. A self-mutilator. Sadist.

Cor laughed ghoulishly. “Do you hear that, forest? Do you hear that, birds and trees and foxes and rabbits? A dungchugging sadist-lunatic with a cutoff face has ordered the patriarch of one of the greatest tribes of the forest to brave the horror of Rockswoon alone, brave the Darkness alone, to no doubt die [/I]alone[/I], and the patriarch—Rak guard his stupid soul—has agreed! He’s walking there now, and he hasn’t even the good sense to dawdle!”

Cor let out a bellow and thought of hanging strangulating head-bashing and throat-slitting. He turned these grim things over and over in his mind. He examined their merits and the joy they would give him. But he never stopped walking.

It was that old standby. Will of the Gods.

You cruel bastards, he thought. Ee-Amoh Dae’s sadism is nothing when compared to yours. It is a teardrop to your ocean of madness.

When will it end? Have much do I have to give you?

He had asked that very question to the Shaman. The Shaman had shrugged and said, As much as They want you to give.

“Gods,” Cor said, and spat on the dirt.

At least Ee-Amoh Dae saw fit to arm him. That was the only bright spot in all of this. The Shaman had sent Degg back to the cave and ushered Cor into his earthen basement. It smelled of wood and wetness and rot. Ohn led the way with a old lamp, saying little, only asking which door the Shaman wanted him to open.

The red door, Ee-Amoh Dae said.

Behind the red door was a small red room. There were three red chests in the room. Nothing else.

Ee-Amoh Dae produced a red key from somewhere in his tattered rags.

Open the middle chest, Cor, and only the middle.

The Shaman left.

Ohn snorted derisively and watched the shaman hobble up the stairs. He leaned against the wall. He scratched his neck. Well?

Well what’s in it? Cor asked.

Ohn grinned. Why don’t you have a look-see, patriarch?

In the red chest was a red wand. Cor removed it gingerly and examined it, ran his fingers over the grooves and notches, delicately caressed the blood-red feathers tied to its base with sinew. It can’t be, Cor said, and when Ohn asked him what it was Cor stuffed it in his shirt and demanded to be taken out of the basement. Ohn begrudgingly complied.

Now the wand was in the travelling pack strapped to his back. It was carefully wrapped in three linens, the linens tied with twine.

Cor swore he could feel a warmness on his back, but it was probably his imagination. No, certainly his imagination. The wand couldn’t be what he thought it was.

Could it?

Before long he was on the old coach road. If the historian thought the holes and ruts were bad, then to Cor they were torture: he was nearly three feet shorter than the historian, after all. The ruts were like chasms, the debris (which the historian easily stepped over) like nigh-insurmountable barriers.

This would be a hard day’s work.

Luckily, the sun didn’t bother him. He had gone firmly back to his old ways, the tribe’s ways: besides his travelling pack, he wore nothing but a cotton jerkin belted with hemp, and leather shin-covers. Perhaps he was a savage, him and his kind; an uncultured primitive, a lowbred lout. And perhaps he and his kind would never be anything but that, no matter how hard they prayed or how many suits they stitched, no matter how much of that awful human cuisine they pushed down their throats with fake smiles and fake contentment. Perhaps they would never belong.

And perhaps Cor no longer gave a damn.

He carefully picked his way past a tangle of desiccated, sunbleached wood in the middle of the road. He noticed a misshapen wheel lying near the debris, the white broken spokes around it like scattered matchsticks. This mess was a coach, then; and oh, look: deep within the snarl of planks and beams, the oily gleam of bone. A skull peeking from its impromptu wooden crypt, smiling it’s deadman’s smile, whispering black omens to Cor with its dusty silence.

Cor thought: Gods in the sky, I do not like You. In fact, I think You unfair and cruel. But nevertheless, give this poor rotten invalid of an imp the strength to carry on and do what You ever so bastardly will.

That aught to do it.

Rockswoon loomed ahead. He had only been there once prior, in his youth. Degg has goaded him into going there, and a few of the local children endorsed the motion—betrayal by committee. Since his honour was at stake, young Cor had made the journey, alone and scared and telling himself he wasn’t scared. Scared was for whelps, not godsrotting patriarchs, which he would someday be.

And his first order of business as patriarch would be to make his brother drink a cup of pee. And then punch himself in the face.

Cor smiled to himself. Such easy, good years. I was lucky to be born in the lull between the Reckoning and slavery. The children today… not so lucky.

As he closed in on Rockswoon, Cor imagined he could see himself as a child walking this very path beside him, a little trembling scrap of imp with candy- dreams of leadership and honour and rightness, of fun and future, love, greatness. As he walked, he measured himself against this child and felt no shame.

I’ve survived, he thought. Today might be my last day, but I’ve survived till this moment and I’ve done much with my time. And if I die today, maybe the Gods will pity Their wayward son, and allow him to join his wife and daughters. Vela, how I miss you so. Rak keep you safe in the After, until I arrive.

In Rockswoon now. When he came here as a child, he had grabbed up the first treasure he saw (an old brass doorknob, as it happened) and ran terrified back to the road. He did not set foot on the Black Spot, or even seen it. Honour or no, committee or no, there was nothing that could force him to go there.

Cor made his way toward it. His heart tripped in his chest. He had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

A foot on the Black Spot. The ground squished between his toes; his stomach tripped with his heart. He may have shed his humanly ways and embraced the tribe, but right now he wished for a pair of their shoes.

Fighting revulsion, Cor took another step.

What am I even looking for? Do I have to wait here till nightfa—

A quick series of clicks behind him. Cor squealed and threw his hands up, his body recognizing the sound before his mind did.

Guns.

From behind him: “Well, looky here.”

Cor turned slowly and saw the two headhunters from the train emerge from the ruins of a tavern. The dark bores of their .45s watched him intently.

“Ain’t this a strange coincidence,” Willowyn said. She looked back into the ruins. “You can come out, Marise. It’s just an old friend of ours.”

The young sorceress carefully stepped from the ruins, staying close to the sisters and gazing at Cor with big, confused eyes. Though she tried her best to hide it, Cor saw kindness in her, and knew that she would be his best (and probably only) chance at survival.

“What’re you doing here, goblin?” Willowyn asked. “Come here to pay respects to your masters of old?”

“No,” Cor said, his arms still in the air. “We’ve long renounced the demons. We’re—we’re deeply ashamed of our involvement with them, and we damn our ancestors for their greed and weakness.” This was not precisely true, though: the tribe was shamed by its past decisions, yes, but they bore their forbearers no ill-will. Those poor fools had chosen the wrong side, nothing more.

This was all for the benefit of the Zann Esu.

How he had gotten on the train wearing a suit and cravat; how he ordered the human food and acted as if it wasn’t like cold dung in his mouth; how every imp was learning that to ply the ape-humans, you must recant your self and appeal to their vanity.

“I pay no respects to this foul place,” he said, and glanced at Marise. “Except respect for the dead.”

Willowyn chuffed cold laughter. “Can a goblin not open his mouth without a lie burning on his tongue?”

“It’s no lie, I swear it.”

Sephony said: “What are you doing here.” Her voice was flat and deadly. The Archangel in her hand implored him to answer truthfully.

“I was called here by the Gods.”

Willowyn was about to refute this, but Sephony hushed her with a glance. “Are you trying to tell me,” she said, “you hold council with the Eternal?”

“No. But the Shaman does.”

Marise’s wide eyes grew even wider.

“Shaman?” Willowyn said. “Please. There’s not a single shaman left in the entire empire. I’ve killed three of them myself, Sephony four.”

“Why?” Marise asked, shocked and disgusted.

“A hunnert gold a head is why,” Willowyn replied. Back to Cor: “I doubt I’d get anything for your head, but if you make one move I swear I’ll take it anyways.”

Cor tried his hardest not to squirm under her gaze.

“Wait,” Marise said. “Maybe he’s telling the truth.”

“Oh come now!”

“Think about it.” Marise knew she was playing a dangerous game. She willed herself onward. “We’re here because we’ve been sent by the Gods. Perhaps the same has been done to him.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“If they’ve a shaman… it’s possible. Entirely possible.” They argued back and forth for a time, Willowyn’s mood steadily increasing from angry to murderous. Marise began to sweat. So did Cor. He wisely kept himself from the conversation, sometimes glancing over to Sephony; she was sitting on a mossy stone, cleaning her fingernails, wholly unaffected.

“I know they’re—they’re less than we are, less than humans. And I know we’ve both been betrayed by them before…”

“Severely betrayed. Those vile traitors, they sided with the Evil… and yet you defend them!”

“I defend the will of the Gods! And the Gods have willed him to be here, as we were willed, and—”

“Oh, what’s that?” Willowyn cocked her head and cupped a hand around her ear. “I think I hear the will of the Gods. Oh? You want me to… to shoot the goblin? Deary.” She levelled the .45 at Cor. “Thy will be—”

“No.”

Sephony stood from the stone. “That’s about enough, sis. You’ve said your piece, now we move on. With the imp.”

This did not sit well with Willowyn. “Perhaps I’ve been pointing this gun,” she said, “at the wrong traitor.” And slowly, inexorably, the barrel moved from Cor’s forehead to Sephony’s, who made no move to stop it, no lightning-quick reach for her own .45.

The silence hung heavy. Sephony’s eyes bore into her sister’s and the bore of the gun, and Willowyn behind it, watched her calmly, both threatening quick death and long darkness.

“These days,” Willowyn said, “I can barely stand you. Helping the goblin twice, and always quiet save for a few words, and those words confounding riddles or useless lamentations. I don’t know what happened, Seph, but you’re no longer the sister I knew.”

Sephony said, “I know what happened. You could know too.” She smiled. “But you fear it so terribly.” A chuff of laughter from the pit of her stomach, mirth without any real humour. “This is funny, isn’t it? No wonder you want to kill me, seeing how I’ve already killed you.”

And inside Willowyn’s mind, the wall broke and crumbled.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 6: I really liked this chapter. Creepy.

When the sun touched the tops of the trees, they watched it.

The oaks and birches and regal redwoods, the good strong trees, a good forest of them, summer trees in violent bloom; and the bloated sleepswelling sun touching them, the shadows no doubt crawling from their roots, this entanglement of night. Most said the night came from the skies, but those of Sadness knew different. Night came from the cold, black earth. Night wormed up and out, and then wormed around them.

Against their mute prayers and their tenuous hopes, the sun submerged. It was lost behind the oaks and birches and regal redwoods. The cold black earth swallowed it.Potentially a great opening; as it is, I found it barely passable, but the difference between what it is and what it could be is a real tragedy. At the risk of being an arse, I'm going to make some rather specific and invasive suggestions:

The antecedent of "it" in "they watched it" is too ambiguous. Watched what? The sun? I feel you are referring to the night, but you don't make it clear. If you are referring to the sun, well, it really feels like it should be night instead. Like this: put a colon, semi-colon or perhaps a comma, depending what comes next, anything but a period, after "it" and run into the next sentence, adding a verb somewhere. I would suggest "worm". Consider this sequence: the first sentence, a colon, the sentence that starts "Night wormed", suitably refitted, then the bit about the trees, with the image being the night worming up and around the trees. Make "night" the subject of the verb and the sun and trees the objects. Make all of this one of your stylistically glorious run-on sentences, with a wormy feel, and end with "cold black earth." With some effort you could probably squeeze-in the bit about the sun submerging against their mute prayers, but if not you could lose that part, because the later images of the townsfolk fortifying their abodes each night makes that point clear anyway. Eliminate the duplication: "cold black earth" and the phrase starting "oaks and..." Then, as a separate paragraph, put the sentence that starts "Most said" last and let the reader dwell on what it suggests while the wonderful image of the worming night is still fresh in their minds. "Worm" is a great verb for this, but you could even choose a stronger one; the evil being at the end seems far nastier than a mere worm.

Please forgive my conceit, but I'll risk your resentment because this is such a diamond in the rough. It deserves better and you have already proven what you are capable of.



What’s money when you’re dead or worse? they would say, and so far the keeper had no answer.Question: is italics the conventional way to indicate a fragment of dialog that is not being said at the moment? I ask because I am forever struggling with how to wrap bits of dialog: how to punctuate around it, how to indicate thoughts instead of words, how to refer to statements and phrases, as here, not in the act of being said. Does anyone have a reference to the rules of dialog?


Ascairt of...It took me a few tries to realize that this was slang for "Scared of"? At first I thought it might be a name or some bit of vocabulary I didn't know. Since it is dialog you can get away with whatever you want, but something like "A-scare't of" might more easily invoke the word "scared". I think the root "scair" instead of "scare" might be what threw me.


...they clacked and rolled in idiot circles.You at your best. This is an example of what really shines out to me about your writing: these fresh, original and evocative combinations of words. "Idiot circles" - I'll definitely steal that some day.


He palmed them into a pile and, sitting at the desk, he removed the dead slug that killed his nephew and tossed it in a wastebasket.If he's been sitting all the while then this seems an odd place to tell us. If you mean that he sits down between palming and removed, I would suggest making that clear. "Sitting" is ambiguous as it could mean either he "is sitting" or he "sits down."


knewd "knewd" seems too much like it might be a word. "knewed" might suggest mispelling so I would suggest "knew'd"


“Now,” he said while shuffling the casings in his hands,The word "while" sets up an odd sense of time. He might shuffle the casing for a few seconds. Does he draw out the word "Now" for that entire time: "Nooooow"? If not, you might substitute a comma for while.


a-godsdamned-noughAdding a single quotation mark, a-godsdamned-'nough, would make the slang clearer.


"They got it."Is this a POV shift? I don't remember if your narrator is omniscient or from the sister's POV. Does the narrator know what they are thinking? If not, you might substitute a description of their demeanor that is externally visible. I'm not really a POV stickler but someone mentioned this type of thing to me recently and that has me thinking about it. This POV is also used later in "To them, each was the sound of a miniature axe falling." and in at least one other place.


tap tap tap (and what follows)This really worked for me. I could feel the fear in the room. The tapping was such a startling image.


They were all thinking, the Darkness." I thought a colon would be better than a comma.


The keeper cursed. “I’ve been awake...

what’s happening to meeeee… About this whole rambling paragraph: Cooool!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 7: Just when you had me convinced that they were all being eaten by some cool worm-demons. Oh well. Nice job on the misdirection, though.


Chapter 8: Nice interlude. It read very easily, but left me hoping that this doesn't slip too far into a cliche of anti-traditionalist rhetoric. Not that I have anything against anti-traditionlism, its just that most of this didn't feel very original.


It was sex between humans that was frequently complicated and ugly; imps tended to see it more for what it was. Quite vague here, or maybe I'm the only one who doesn't know what sex really is.


Question: Do you (or anyone else reading this) agree with the above statement, that works of fantasy are inherently racist? Personally I don't really think so, but after reading say, Lord of the Rings, it does at least seem plausible. Just wondering what you think. A lot of fantasy has a strong good versus evil theme. To do that you need bad guys. In a way you could call it less racist to choose demons rather than German facists or Italian mobsters or Arab terrorists as your bad guys. Since Imps don't really exist I wouldn't call the prejudice against them racism, unless similarities to real humans were done in a racist way. You could say that these children of the minds of fantasy fiction writers were born to be hated, reviled and ultimately defeated. (Did y'all know that the word n-a-z-i gets filtered?)


Chapter 9: Another great job with dialog between the ladies.

Sephony tossed the thought aside. She was at peace with her lot. She willed herself to be.I love this. A crack in her philosophical certainty? Changing the period after "lot" would tie the last two sentences together better.

“You don’t want another partner, you want a pet. Something to keep and care for. Am I right?” The plot thickens. Unless she wants a pet to torture, this would seem to portend feelings of a caring and loving nature. Hmmm...


she pawed knuckles into her bleary eyes There you go again. Where do you come up with these wonderful combinations: "pawed knuckles"?


the sisters who had already drawn their ArchangelsDon't think I've mentioned it yet but naming their guns Archangels was an act of genius.


They picked apart the night. Bliss.


Drawing closer to the groan now—...

...gums ruined and seeping and then he was gone.Nice paragraph.


Snowflakes of torture in the deep of night, twisting the minutes to hours, the hours to clamorous eternities; their heads were pounding, so filled with the infections of anguish that it was all they could do to remain standing. Wow. If I wasn't such a saint I'd be furious with envy about now.


...but she knew the nature of a prayer was to disappoint. Or rather, as she misunderstood the nature of prayer. Perhaps Marise will have time to enlighten these two. I must say you've done a good job thus far contrasting the cynicism of the sisters with piety of Marise. I hope they manage to exchange some of their respective wisdoms along their journey.


Only Sephony still listened, and it was only she who heard the final scream, before it fully dissipated, suck in its phantom breath and whisper:

we’re all damned.This seems a bit muddled. It also makes me wonder about the true nature of damnation. Does it require the presence of malice, or is it merely the absence of grace?


Three more chapters that make me wonder why you are doling out free goodies in an amateur internet forum instead of writing novels for a living, not that I am complaining. I look forward to the day when I'll be able to go to any bookstore and find row upon row of <insert-your-name-here> novels, and I'll be able to say: I was reading him when he was still Clarke667.

[RevenantsKnight]

And the plot thickens...interesting indeed. This was an entertaining and well-done chapter, with one or two notable exceptions (I’ll get to those in a second.) Regardless, I’m still planning to read whatever comes next. Anyway, here’re some comments:

Rockswoon, the Shaman had said when Cor and Degg visited the old mule-fornicator’s cottage at first light. You’re to go to Rockswoon. Looking to Degg, then back to Cor. A smile behind that horrid peeled face. And you’re to go alone.

I had trouble believing Cor’s character and actions from this point on to his arrival at Rockswoon. Where’d all that bitterness come from? I don’t recall much hinting towards this, since he didn’t have thoughts in this vein when he met the shaman, so while it’s understandable that he might vent given the solitude, this seemed badly out of character to me. Furthermore, he just didn’t seem that...unbalanced. After all, if he was like this even once on the rails, he’d probably end up dead...and he had worse things to deal with there.

It was carefully wrapped in three linens, the linens tied with twine.

This bit was a little wordy (something I’m much worse for, I assure you.) I’d rewrite it as “It was carefully wrapped and bound with twine.”

If the historian thought the holes and ruts were bad, then to Cor they were torture: he was nearly three feet shorter than the historian, after all. The ruts were like chasms, the debris (which the historian easily stepped over) like nigh-insurmountable barriers.

Given the next sentence, I’d emphasize this part more and add a sentence or two on his efforts.

A skull peeking from its impromptu wooden crypt, smiling it’s deadman’s smile, whispering black omens to Cor with its dusty silence.

That should be “its.”

That aught to do it.

That should be “ought.”

Degg has goaded him into going there, and a few of the local children endorsed the motion—betrayal by committee.

That should be “had.”

As he closed in on Rockswoon, Cor imagined he could see himself as a child walking this very path beside him, a little trembling scrap of imp with candy- dreams of leadership and honour and rightness, of fun and future, love, greatness.

“As he closed in” makes it sound as though he’s hunting Rockswoon or something; I’d try to find a different phrasing here. Also, do you mean “righteousness” instead of “rightness”?

He did not set foot on the Black Spot, or even seen it.

That should be “see.”

The young sorceress carefully stepped from the ruins, staying close to the sisters and gazing at Cor with big, confused eyes.

This was all for the benefit of the Zann Esu.

How does Cor know she’s a sorceress? I think you might ask a little too much here to just have the reader believe he knows Marise’s affiliation on a glance.

Though she tried her best to hide it, Cor saw kindness in her, and knew that she would be his best (and probably only) chance at survival.

I’d personally call this stronger if you didn’t state flat out “Cor saw kindness in her” and instead went into a few sentences of description which contained imagery/words to more subtly convey this idea. Also, the parenthetical bit there just slowed the sentence down for me; I’d advise deleting it.

Sephony said: “What are you doing here.” Her voice was flat and deadly. The Archangel in her hand implored him to answer truthfully.

I think you need a question mark after that speech, and “implored” seems too...subservient; maybe “demanded” or something more forceful?

“No. But the Shaman does.”

Cor doesn’t struggle at all with whether to reveal one of his tribe’s greatest secrets to two bounty hunters? Interesting...

Marise knew she was playing a dangerous game. She willed herself onward.

Again, too matter-of-fact for my tastes. I’d suggest seeing if you can’t say this in a less...blunt way.

They argued back and forth for a time, Willowyn’s mood steadily increasing from angry to murderous. Marise began to sweat.

That should be “beginning,” not “began,” for parallelism.

Sephony stood from the stone.

Maybe “rose,” not “stood,” would work better here.

And slowly, inexorably, the barrel moved from Cor’s forehead to Sephony’s, who made no move to stop it, no lightning-quick reach for her own .45.

If I’ve been reading correctly, Sephony already has her gun in hand.

The silence hung heavy. Sephony’s eyes bore into her sister’s and the bore of the gun, and Willowyn behind it, watched her calmly, both threatening quick death and long darkness.

“The silence hung heavy” seems to be missing something grammatically, like “...around them.” Also, “bore” (the verb) should be “bored,” and “watched” should be “watching.”

Anyway, I look forward to whatever’s up next. Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

0xDeadCafe, thanks for the double autopsy. It’s posts like these that get me itching to start the next draft (so much to change, so much to polish). But um, one thing:

… put a colon, semi-colon or perhaps a comma, depending what comes next…run into the next sentence, adding a verb somewhere…the first sentence, a colon, the sentence that starts "Night wormed", suitably refitted, then the bit about the trees…Make "night" the subject of the verb and the sun and trees the objects…Then, as a separate paragraph, put the sentence that starts…

Do you happen to write instruction manuals in your spare time? “Put connector rod C in the upper left quadrant of housing unit R6, attach housing unit R6 to fitter H…” Like, I tried to fix the paragraph in the fashion you recommended, but halfway in I got confused and afraid and it somehow ended up being a recipe for sautéed snow crab. They seem like good suggestions, though, so if you could perhaps draft me out rough copy of what the finished product should look like, I’d be hella grateful.

Quite vague here, or maybe I'm the only one who doesn't know what sex really is.

You put connector rod C into housing unit R6…

A lot of fantasy has a strong good versus evil theme. To do that you need bad guys. In a way you could call it less racist to choose demons rather than German facists or Italian mobsters or Arab terrorists as your bad guys. Since Imps don't really exist I wouldn't call the prejudice against them racism, unless similarities to real humans were done in a racist way. You could say that these children of the minds of fantasy fiction writers were born to be hated, reviled and ultimately defeated. (Did y'all know that the word n-a-z-i gets filtered?)

Another interesting take. I like the bit about “these children of the minds of fantasy fiction writers were born to be hated, reviled and ultimately defeated”. But I still think there’s something to be said about how a fictioneer can write, “He was an Orc, and therefore he thought of nothing but war” and no one bats an eye… but hey, change Orc to Puerto Rican and you might start getting some angry letters.

It also makes me wonder about the true nature of damnation. Does it require the presence of malice, or is it merely the absence of grace?

Perceptive lad.

Three more chapters that make me wonder why you are doling out free goodies in an amateur internet forum instead of writing novels for a living, not that I am complaining.

If I’m ever so lucky to write for a living, it will most likely be because of these amateur internet forums. I’m not going to bore with a whole ****ing A&E Biography of my life, but let me just say that before this crazy internet thing, I’ve been writing in a vacuum. No one to read my stories. No one to say “good job”, or “this sucks dead dog penis”. So this is very peachy-keen for me, so thank ya and all that noise.

Oh, hey, switching gears here: What does 0xDeadCafe mean? I picture a place where ghouls and ghosts go to drink coffee and eat apple pie a la mode. Maybe some light jazz in the background.

- You still haunting that Jasper place?
- Yeah. It’s been empty for twelve years. I emailed the union, but they told me if it’s not officially condemned I can’t apply for a transfer…

[Clarke667]

I had trouble believing Cor’s character and actions from this point on to his arrival at Rockswoon. Where’d all that bitterness come from? I don’t recall much hinting towards this, since he didn’t have thoughts in this vein when he met the shaman, so while it’s understandable that he might vent given the solitude, this seemed badly out of character to me.

Hmm… I think I might’ve gotten the tone a bit wrong. The idea was that although Cor was angry with the Shaman for essentially sending him to die, he was still going along with it. It was sort of supposed to be a comedic interlude, ie when Cor considers launching an axe into Ee-Amoh Dae’s genitals (that’s just funny to me, like a modified ‘football in the groin’ gag). It’s possible, though, that I overdid it with the harshness of his musings.

Cor doesn’t struggle at all with whether to reveal one of his tribe’s greatest secrets to two bounty hunters? Interesting...

The way I figured, Cor saw this as his only chance. He had to work through Marise to survive this, and appealing to her spirituality would probably be the only way to do this. Will of the Gods, and all that.

If I’ve been reading correctly, Sephony already has her gun in hand.

Ha! Good call.

I tend to have problems with chapters like these. To me, they’re the literary equivalent of playing “catch-up”: we basically all know where the story is going, so it’s just a matter getting all the characters and plotlines lined up as quickly and smoothly as possible. And sometimes I falter.

But things should be picking up very shortly. This is the first story I’ve ever writing with actual pacing, and although I think the story is better for it… I just can’t wait to get to the big nasty payoff.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you like the rest.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Do you happen to write instruction manuals in your spare time?Sort of, just not for human consumption, and generally not on my own time.


if you could perhaps draft me out rough copy of what the finished product should look like, I’d be hella grateful.Okay I'll give it a shot.


When the sun touched the tops of the trees, they watched it.

The oaks and birches and regal redwoods, the good strong trees, a good forest of them, summer trees in violent bloom; and the bloated sleepswelling sun touching them, the shadows no doubt crawling from their roots, this entanglement of night. Most said the night came from the skies, but those of Sadness knew different. Night came from the cold, black earth. Night wormed up and out, and then wormed around them.

Against their mute prayers and their tenuous hopes, the sun submerged. It was lost behind the oaks and birches and regal redwoods. The cold black earth swallowed it.When the sun touched the tops of the trees, they watched it, worming up and out, worming around the oaks and birches and regal redwoods, the good strong trees, a good forest of them, summer trees in violent bloom, touching the bloated sleepswelling sun, the shadows crawling from their roots: this entanglement of night, in which, against their mute prayers and their tenuous hopes, the sun submerged, swallowed by the cold black earth.

Most said the night came from the skies, but those of Sadness knew different.


Oh, hey, switching gears here: What does 0xDeadCafe mean? Well for years the 0xDEADCAFE was a sterile place where daily writ lines of grammatically perfect, unambiguous logic made stanza after stanza, page after page, of an endless argument of banal intent, only to be consumed by the insatiable hunger of the soulless machine, never to be read by human eyes; these words, this river of precision, to live only through the whirring of nearly infinite electronic gears and the orchestrated splashes of certain phospors, if at all, at a whim, while unseen, the impossible, almost musical elegance of it, lay entombed in magnetic exile.

But recently it opened for a different kind of business:
"Squawk! Welcome to 0xDEADCAFE, the place to eat where ghouls meet. May I take your order?"
"Yeah, I'll have an unlikely plot line, with a side of excess, and light on the periods."
"That will be 3,735,931,646 at the first window."

[Clarke667]

When the sun touched the tops of the trees, they watched it, worming up and out, worming around the oaks and birches and regal redwoods, the good strong trees, a good forest of them, summer trees in violent bloom, touching the bloated sleepswelling sun, the shadows crawling from their roots: this entanglement of night, in which, against their mute prayers and their tenuous hopes, the sun submerged, swallowed by the cold black earth.

Most said the night came from the skies, but those of Sadness knew different.

Hmmm... I like it. The only problem might be the beginning: it sounds like "they" are the ones doing the "worming up and out"; otherwise, though, I think this'll be making it into the next draft. Thanks bunches.

Oh, and:

"Yeah, I'll have an unlikely plot line, with a side of excess, and light on the periods."

Make that a double order.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Thirteen


Concerning Time As She Saw It / Flesh

There was a flaw in the bottom of the universe, she knew, a place where the seams did not match. This was where a god was born, or never born; this was a place outside of time where all the Gods and vast energies nestled, like rainwater collected in a gutter.

She also knew that bodies were such ugly things. Each age and civilization carved its shape of beauty, the childbearing or svelte, the nymphic or the rugged; muscled or slim or the curves a certain way, a certain look, a certain style. But in the end the body was all so much matterless matter, everyone ugly a week in the grave, and before that growing older and sallow, the flesh loosening, hair thinning, and teeth yellowing then dropping. She knew that a body—even a beautiful one—was a study in decay.

And nestled in their flaw at the bottom the universe, the Gods were laughing.

Laughing at all the exquisite sadness.

To death, then. To the flaw. She and her sister would reside there against sadness and against deterioration. Against the hope that something could mean anything at all.


Concerning The Life Before / Drinking

They sat on the flat roof and drank wine straight from the bottle, gazing out from Lut Golein to the endless expanse of desert, the sun hidden below them but for a few scant colours twitching on the horizon, the sands like fresh marmalade and the dunes shivering fine grit, the grit waving and nodding in the trade-winds. Empty bottles, smashed to bits behind them: green shards and brown wedges and spreads of glass petals; two fresh bottles in a bucket nearby, the ice mostly melted.

Fire blooming in their bellies, and the prospects in their heads even hotter—explosions of grand possibilities, a future like soft cremation. So much to do and see. So much blood to spill.

Baal was years away. Moment zero was lit upon some other fool’s head. Death was still their mother and friend.

Sephony passed the bottle to her sister.

“To the Dry Hills, tomorrow,” Willowyn said between sips. “I hear there are tombs.”

A prospect so grand as to be perilously perfect. Desert tombs with spectres and demons, dusty terrors and rusted traps. Darkness, and the sick-sweet smell of embalmment. The crackle on their skin of dead magicks.

Tomorrow would be a day to remember.

“More wine,” Willowyn said, and tossed the bottle behind her. “Black Rose, if we’ve got another.”

They did. The last bottle of it.

Willowyn popped the cork and poured a third of it down her throat. “What’s the other?”

Sephony squinted at the label. “Krynna—Krynnasanthia?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Must be local.”

Willowyn took another tug and passed the bottle. She said: “I’m quite drunk.”

“Yes.”

“And it’ll only get worse.”

The problem was, there was no one to kill. Tomorrow was settled, but it had taken them a week to venture here, a dry and desolate week, and they were craving for it.

Alcohol, they found, was a cheap substitute for murder.

Stars blinked through the clouds and they laid on their backs to watch them, feeling little towards them, no sense of distance or time, no trite existentialism; the sky was a painting and they were never much for art. They killed the bottle and rolled it off the roof.

“How do you feel?” Willowyn asked.

“Like another bottle wouldn’t make me feel much better.”

They sat in silence, lost (trapped) in their thoughts. Time to think was time wasted, and so far tonight was a junked night. Drunk on a roof and feeling jumpy and pointless; feeling like they were but driftwood in the seas of time. Scooting to the edge of the roof, they dangled their feet and finished the last bottle even though they didn’t really want it.

“We could go out into the desert now,” Willowyn said.

Sephony shook her head. In an hour it would be much too cold in the desert, and the night would be so thick that even a torch wouldn’t penetrate it. Desert nights ate torches.

“Down to the tavern, then,” Willowyn said, sounding a bit unsure of herself. “For a man.”

“To kill?”

She regarded the empty bottle in her hand. Loped the neck between her fingertips, let it go, watched it plummet to the street and smash like a flower. “Forget it,” she said.

Sephony turned to her sister. “No, by all means—continue. I’m intrigued. If we’re not to kill him, what could we possibly… oh.” She scrutinized her sister. “Oh.”

“I told you to forget it.”

“And I refused. This is all very—when did this come upon you, Will? This foul urge? You’ve never given a hint to it before.”

“I’ve never given a thought to it before. Not seriously. I—this is all so stupid. I don’t even know why we’re discussing it.”

“Because you asked me if I wanted to go find a imbibed, sweaty man to seduce.”

It was the first time she had ever seen Willowyn blush. “I don’t want to seduce anything. I have no interest in men, such vile things, slobbering and hairy. They’re like wild dogs, only twice as dumb. No interest.”

“But?”

“But there’s nothing to do in this sewer of a city. The wine’s gone and there’s no one worth killing. We have to pass our time, and it might as well be with a new experience.”

Sephony pondered it.

“No,” she said. “A new experience, fine. But not that. I could never trust some random drunkard with my body.”

“Then what?”

Sephony reached for her satchel, almost overbalancing and tumbling off the edge. Willowyn made to effort to steady her; as far as she was concerned, her sister could never die.

She rummaged in the satchel, pushing aside the detritus of long travel. Willowyn thought it amazing what one ended up collecting, even if you wanted none of it.

“I don’t even know why I kept this,” Sephony said. “Remember that pirate fellow with the face like a baked apple? I took this from his pocket when he was trying to scoop his guts back into his belly. I just… took it, and kept it. Ah, here.”

She took a deerskin pouch from the satchel. The top was knotted with a piece of twine.

“You wanted to try something new,” she said. “Then let’s try this.”

She opened it.


Concerning History / Transience

Such long moments in dead history, a world of ghosts that could never die.

The time in Lut Golein, and another in the Worldstone. These places and names of ages passed, these people and their vain struggles; Harrogath, Kurast, a marsh as black as midnight. The bones of a dead holyman. Bloodied Gods with their legacies stuffed down their throats and their names but smudges in ancient tomes.

The time in the Viz-Jaq’tar, learning the canons of bloodshed and then going renegade. The time in the alley with their first kill.

The time in the marsh with a false kill, and then one all too real.

The time after, incomprehensible. In the flaw.


Concerning The Life Before / Drugging

“If we had more whiskey. Aren’t you thirsty? I’m thirsty. Please tell me you have something to drink. Wait, we can just drink the water from the bucket, can’t we?” “Of course we can. Why couldn’t we?” “Good point. Fetch me the bucket.” “You’re the one that’s so thirsty, fetch it yourself.” “That’s a horrible thing to say to your sister.”

Willowyn ambled over to the bucket and dipped her hands into it. “It’s so cold,” she said, looking back over her shoulder at Sephony, who was playing in the bits of glass. “Stop doing that, and come touch this water. Marvel at its coldness.”

“It can’t be cold, it’s been sitting there for hours. Look, all the ice has melted. At best, it would be tepid.”

“That’s why I said marvel. This is some sort of banal miracle and I want you to witness it.”

Sephony rolled away from the glass. She crawled over. “A banal miracle, you say.”

“Yes. They can’t all be winners, you know.”

“Then why would I marvel? Seems quite pointless to marvel at—”

“You would marvel at its utter unimaginativeness. You would be in awe of your lack of awe. This could very well be the crowning nadir of your existence, and you’re caught in meaningless inquiries. Now dip your hands into the bucket and—”

“Yes, yes, fine.”

She dipped her hands into the bucket.

“Well?”

She removed her hands.

“It’s a bucket of water.” “…And?” “And it’s a bucket of water.” “Floundering gods! I knew you wouldn’t understand.” “Oh, I understand. I understand you’ve smoked too much vermillia and have gone mad. This is a bucket of water, and nothing but a bucket of water; it probably feels cold because you’ve been sitting on your hands for quite some time and they’ve lost feeling.”

Willowyn considered this.

“I knew it wasn’t cold,” she said. “I was just trying to make a point.”

“Really. A point about what?”

This she also considered.

“A point about how your head would look better twisted.”

“How my… Will, that doesn’t make any—”

Willowyn took her hands from the bucket and pounced on her sister. They rolled on the roof, scuffling, kicking, Willowyn trying to choke her sister but her wet hands slipping, both of them laughing and their laughter echoing through the quiet city. Sephony lashed out with a knee and Willowyn dug an elbow under her sister’s ribs. “Remember when we were children,” Willowyn said through gritted teeth, “and I used to…” She grasped Sephony’s forearm with both hands and started twisting the skin.

“Ooo you filthy harlot!” Sephony squealed, and jabbed at her sister’s thigh with her free hand, over and over, hoping to cramp the muscle.

Willowyn stepped on the offending hand and twisted harder. “Sing The Jeweller’s Eye and I’ll stop!”

“I don’t remember it!”

“You better, or I’m taking this arm as a trophy!”

She hissed and closed her eyes. She plumbed the depths of her childhood.

“The jeweller’s eye…” she sang, “the something-something never lie…”

Willowyn snickered. “I don’t remember that verse. Have they revised the song and not informed me?”

“You’re a terrible thing,” Sephony squealed, “and I wish you all the misery in the world.”

“And I wish your arm to catch fire.” She wrung the skin harder. “Which do you think will happen first?”

As her sister was berating her, Sephony wrenched her shoulder out of joint and twisted around, the angle nearly surreal, laying a decent backhand across Willowyn’s face and sending her tumbling into the broken glass.

“Ow ow ow owwww! I’m cut to—”

Caring not a lick, Sephony pounced on her sister and rained blows on her face and arms, Willowyn lashing back, their laughter wild and drug-addled and mingling in the night.

Willowyn locked hands around Sephony’s neck and squeezed. She pulled Sephony closer, squeezing harder, Sephony grimacing, reddening, her hair falling on Willowyn’s nose and tickling it, her pale eyes, the angles of her face, this age’s shape of beauty, and not knowing if it was the drugs or the wine or the bloodloss or the moment or something else entirely, Willowyn placed her lips upon her sister’s and kissed her deeply.

Startled, Sephony pried the hands from her throat and fumbled off Willowyn. She crabwalked a few paces away from her, red lines streaming from her palms as they were cut anew. “What are you—why, what?”

“Like you’ve never thought of it,” Willowyn said, having never thought of it herself.

“I have never! I, you…”

“Aren’t you a least bit curious? You won’t trust your body with a man, fine. Trust it with me.” On her knees, Willowyn dipped her head as if to drink from the broken glass. She opened her mouth. Unrolled her pink tongue. And with her pink tongue, she picked up a shard and cradled it atop the pink leaflike surface.

“I can’t believe this,” Sephony said. She gazed at the sharp wedge of glass on her sister’s tongue, how it caught points of starlight, a miniature constellation of obscure design, an archer or a chariot or a lion, or nothing at all, the random geometry of a heart’s untethered desire. “We never speak of this,” Sephony said, moving closer to her sister. “We never even remember it.”

And as they kissed, the shard cutting their tongues and their bloods winding together, history watched and recorded.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 10 - Had me so deeply engrossed I almost forgot to stop and write comments. Who would have thought a historian could be so interesting. Another Cain? And this Rockswoon, it couldn't have been a little place once called Tristram could it?

The lost, they were calling them now.

The lost, maybe dead and rotting in some rancid pit, or black and bloating at the bottom of a well; maybe buried and sacraments given, maybe cut to pieces or heaped in a red pile or hanged from an old grey hemlock, all to one tree, decaying fruit in black swathes of flies. Maybe consumed, by someone or something—consumed and still being digested, even now, their lives and memories reduced to nothing more than brown sludge sluicing the intestinal loops of some unfathomable beast.

The lost, maybe still alive.At the risk of being repetitive, I liked the opening, but felt it could be slightly better. I think colons would be better than commas following each instance of "The lost", especially in the first sentence. I had to read the first line over a few times to really get the feel of it. I also don't understand the reason for the period before "Maybe" in the second paragraph - seemed like an awkward stop. A comma, making it parallel to the first "maybe", would flow nicely, but if you do want a thoughtful stop there you might consider starting a new paragraph and using another "The lost" before it. Again I'd recommend a colon rather than a comma. Oh, and great use of color here.

On another note, "Tosspot" was charming the first time, still warm and fuzzy the second time, a bit tarnished the third time, clattering and rusty the fourth time, ...

Other than that maybe the best chapter yet. Now leave me alone so I can go read the next one.


Chapter 11:

“Oh, she disagrees. Tell me, why does she disagree?” Willowyn speaks to her sister in the third person. She's a little annoyed here isn't she? And a little condescending too, no? This is great texture. Perfect example of why one should never write things like "...she said annoyedly."


Divination...Made me think of the coke-bottle-glasses-wearing Divination teacher from Harry Potter. Shame on you!


or skillets simmering with tropical fish and slices of lime Do you really want to say "topical fish"? Are we talking guppies here?


Chapter 12: Nothing stands out here, except for the fact that it felt like I read this in like 2 nanoseconds. What, is this the end already, but I just started this chapter...


Chapter 13:

Alcohol, they found, was a cheap substitute for murder.Although "cheap substitute" is a standard cliche, it doesn't seem accurate here.


They sat in silence, lost (trapped) in their thoughts. This is a rather peculiar thing to do. If you mean trapped why not just write it? Is it in deference to the sisters? It's almost like you want to say trapped, but don't want them to hear you, fearing they might take offence to the implication, so you say "lost" and then whisper "trapped" to the audience. No wonder your characters seem so real. They are very real to you aren't they?


And as they kissed, the shard cutting their tongues and their bloods winding together, history watched and recorded.Okay, hold the phone here. The jagged piece of glass between their tongues almost makes this work for me, but, nah, not feeling it. Maybe the drugs make it possible. Maybe I really don't know what sex really is, but I can't see this happening betweenthese two, or even if I can, I don't like it. Plus there's all those wine bottles laying around, haven't they ever thought of that?

This is a very interesting, enjoyable, well-written chapter, but given the non-sequiter of it all, you could just leave it out.


:xx: Boo-hoo. Out of chapters. Guess I'll go back and finish the Art of Dying

[Clarke667]

Although "cheap substitute" is a standard cliche, it doesn't seem accurate here.

I actually really like that line, though the correlation between alcohol and murder might not be the clearest. Would “alcohol was a cheap substitute for the joy of murder” be a bit better?

No wonder your characters seem so real. They are very real to you aren't they?

Sickeningly so. It seems I’ll come up with a few characters, write a story about them, assume it’s finished… only to have them whispering in my ear to write more, more, always more. The Art of Dying was supposed to be a one-shot deal. And truth be told, I didn’t even particularly like the Isadora Sisters. In a lot of ways, I still don’t. They’re the lowest of the low, bottom-feeders, the human equivalent of hammerhead sharks… yet they won’t stop pushing me around.

Sephony’s been asking me to write the story about how she got to The Art of Killing. She’s even sweetened the pot by giving me the title: Sephony and the Sin Eater. So my question to you is, do you think this story could sustain another plotline? Or would that be overkill?

Okay, hold the phone here. The jagged piece of glass between their tongues almost makes this work for me, but, nah, not feeling it. Maybe the drugs make it possible. Maybe I really don't know what sex really is, but I can't see this happening betweenthese two, or even if I can, I don't like it. Plus there's all those wine bottles laying around, haven't they ever thought of that?

This is a very interesting, enjoyable, well-written chapter, but given the non-sequiter of it all, you could just leave it out.

Not feeling it? Damn. I don’t exactly know why, but this chapter seems really… important to it all. Not in the sense that it really impacts the overall story; more like this is a defining moment for them. Like, yeah, it’s an incestual relationship, which is pretty ****ed up and weird… but in a lot of ways, I can’t see them not doing it. They’re just so disassociated from society, even one so strange as the Diabloverse; in some ways, they’re more surreal than the demons and gods they’re battling against.

And maybe it’s just me, but that makes them tragic. They fit in nowhere. They were relics even when they were useful. They claim to care not for laws or morality, but this chapter tells me that maybe they just can’t understand it in some fundamental way.

Does that come through at all?

Boo-hoo. Out of chapters. Guess I'll go back and finish the Art of Dying

You make that sound like a punishment. ;)

[0xDEADCAFE]

I actually really like that line, though the correlation between alcohol and murder might not be the clearest. Would “alcohol was a cheap substitute for the joy of murder” be a bit better?That makes it a bit clearer I guess. My take was that while the wine may be cheap, murder is free, and sometimes even profitable. Could be I'm just being too literal with the meaning of "cheap."

Sephony’s been asking me to write the story about how she got to The Art of Killing. She’s even sweetened the pot by giving me the title: Sephony and the Sin Eater. So my question to you is, do you think this story could sustain another plotline? Or would that be overkill?I'm probably not the best judge of that due to my rather low tolerance for complicated plotlines. My feeling is that the story has already had enough background and build-up, and now its high time for some kind of climactic events in or around Rockswoon. This is extremely subjective, of course; another chapter of character development might not hurt, but personally I would probably enjoy it more if you worked it into the plot, advancing the story at the same time. But that's just my .02 - I wrote something similar in another thread a while back and a few people responded with how much they liked flashbacks.


Not feeling it? Damn. I don’t exactly know why, but this chapter seems really… important to it all. Not in the sense that it really impacts the overall story; more like this is a defining moment for them. Like, yeah, it’s an incestual relationship, which is pretty ****ed up and weird… but in a lot of ways, I can’t see them not doing it. They’re just so disassociated from society, even one so strange as the Diabloverse; in some ways, they’re more surreal than the demons and gods they’re battling against.

And maybe it’s just me, but that makes them tragic. They fit in nowhere. They were relics even when they were useful. They claim to care not for laws or morality, but this chapter tells me that maybe they just can’t understand it in some fundamental way.

Does that come through at all?There is definitely a tragic aspect to these two. They are a bit too fervently cyncial, they dost protesteth too much, one might say, which suggests thet they doubt their own bad philosophy in some way, but I rather think that shows their good side to some extent. Sephony's questioning of her choices, or example, seem to amplify this. There seems to be hope for these two, even if they are unable to change of their own.

However, in general, I have to say that your extremely low opnion of the sisters does not quite match my own perception of them. See, you've given us pages of dialog between them, many intimate exchanges that reveal their characters, and they just don't seem as bad to me as you claim they are. They are very loyal to each other. They support each other, are even kind to each other. They have a sense of humor. They're smart and patient. They have been rather decent to Marise, despite the finger cutting, which they apparently new Marise could repair, and which they actually encouraged her and helped her to do. They talk about casual killing but I've yet to see them actually kill anyone in cold blood; the guy in the street doesn't count because it was a fair fight. Maybe if they had cheated, but that doesn't seem like them does it - they are too honorable for that. About the worst I have seen is that they are rude and drink too much, but they even seem disciplined in their debauchery. So about the incest: to me, it just doesn't fit the people that I have come to know, but again, it's a very subjective point.


You make that sound like a punishment.And I went and sat in the corner while I read them too. :uhhuh:

[Clarke667]

My feeling is that the story has already had enough background and build-up, and now its high time for some kind of climactic events in or around Rockswoon.

Heh. ****. Looks like I wasn't too clear on what a meant, there. When I said Sephony and the Sin Eater, I meant a completely new story to be written after The Art of Killing. A connector piece.

And I'm definately with you on one point: enough with the plot, let's get to the murder! I don't want to give anything away here... but I get the funniest feeling it's going to be a ****ing bloodbath.

However, in general, I have to say that your extremely low opnion of the sisters does not quite match my own perception of them.

That's cool. I still think they're the dregs of society, but in some ways, so I am. And since I'm playing their God, I guess there's more than a bit of affection in my loathing of them. They're damaged rag dolls... but hell, who isn't?

It won't be long now, before the end. Hope it holds up and keeps you interested.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Fourteen (pt 1)

She awoke lying in the ruins with the memories still sour in her mouth. She twitched and fluttered open her eyes and shivered and grabbed a tuft of witchweed, pulled it up; she ground the dirt and green-brown shoots in her palm. The dirt was cool and moist. The tough shoots rasped and crinkled. Real. Reassuring.

Good.

Though nothing else was good, she reckoned. Everything… everything else was…

And for the first time, the first time in this life and the first in her newfound last, Willowyn rolled over, looked up through a scar in the ruins at the washed-out colours of the sky and the burgeoning stars and the ghostly hint of moon; she looked up and held the look and blinked once, dryly, and again, wetly, and it came all at once after that, and lay there gazing at the sky and she wept for the wreck of her life. She wept long and hard, the tears like acid. She whimpered and cried out and hitched and sobbed and utterly hated herself, hated the world, the universe and the omniverse, all the Gods and all the people and all the forests and trees and every single grain of sand on every single beach. She hated hope and desolation and everything in between. She spat on eternality, and pissed on oblivion.

All of you, she thought. Everything. I want to explode and erupt and scream fire and turn this whole worthless reality to smoke and ash.

She wept on. A relic, a beast, something that no longer made sense. For two lives now, she’d played the bayonet, even when all the world needed was a plough.

Sitting beside her in the husked out tavern, Sephony assembled a fire. She did this as methodically as she did everything else.

“Let me tell you a little story, sis,” Sephony said. Her voice sounded like a call through the empty aeons. “It’s about a quill rat. You heard this one?”

Willowyn said nothing. Sephony plugged a cheroot and placed twigs inside the stacked kindling. “This quill rat, it got ran over by a coach one day, but it didn’t have the good luck to die. It just laid there on the roadside, out in the scorching summer sun, bleeding, bones broken, innards crushed. It lay there for hours, screeching in pain.

“When night was settling—much like it’s settling now—a little girl came walking down the road. She had a wicker basket on her arm, filled with apples. The rat cried out to her, pleaded with her to take it in her basket and bring it back to its nest so it could die with its family. And the little girl, she took pity on the quill rat. She dumped her apples from the wicker basket, and she tried to pick it up. But every time she took hold of it, the rat stung her, and soon enough she fell down beside the rat. Soon after, she died from the poison.”

Sephony took out her flint and iron. She sparked the twigs and soon the fire was burning mellowly, tossing tribal patterns on the cracked walls. “Far as I’m concerned,” Sephony said while lighting her smoke, “that’s us. We’re the crushed quill rat by the side of the road, and no matter how bad we want help, no matter how much we plead… we’ll always sting whoever comes close to us. Even each other. Even ourselves.”

Willowyn forced herself to sit up. She kept her head low and her hair in front of her face.

“After I died,” Willowyn said, “I watched you.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. I floated above, and… and there was something pulling me, pulling me into the sky. Only I wasn’t moving. It was as though I was being pulled into another sky, one from a world that never existed. It’s… difficult to describe. But nevertheless, I lingered for a moment, to lament. And could you believe what I witnessed?”

“Yes. I can believe.”

“Good, because I couldn’t. Though I suppose I have to.”

“Listen,” Sephony said. “Like the rat, I am what I am. And you what you are. I don’t like it much either, if that helps any—”

“It doesn’t.”

“—But we got something to deal with, here, so I say we put that business aside for a time. And after, when it’s all done… well, if you wanna take another run at me, fine. I’ll be waiting.”

Willowyn brushed the hair from her eyes. They were bloodshot, still a bit wet; but beyond that, the fires of a thousand hells churned and devoured.

“Yes,” Willowyn said. “And this time, they’ll be no puerile tricks to fell me.”

Sephony pinched her cheroot and tossed it in the hearth. Thin plumes of smoke trickled from her nostrils as she contemplated.

“We’ll see,” she said.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Fourteen (pt 2)

In a broken-down smithy across the street, Marise and Cor sat by their own fire. They spoke haltingly, with little or no eye contact, fixing their eyes on the flickering flames and steadfastly keeping them there; they warmed their hands and peripherally examined each other’s fingers, the difference in colour and size and smoothness.

“Getting dark,” Marise ventured. Thinking: A dumb observation.

Cor ticked his gaze to her, then quickly away. “Yes,” he said.

Thinking: A dumb response.

He sighed, so weary of this trans-cultural game. He was on his way to die, die badly, and yet here he was, trapped in small talk purgatory. I should be alone, he thought. Breathing in this world, this last little bit of it. This crumb of existence. Dying may be good, and the After might be sweet, but this is most likely my last night on this strange planetoid, and I should be taking from it whatever I can. I should be… He strained his mind. I should be composing a poem.

Thinking about this, Cor clucked his tongue and shrugged. Oh well. He wasn’t much of a poet, anyways.

“Dark, dark,” Marise said.

“Yes,” Cor said.

Dumb.

With his small blue hands, Cor rolled a cigarette.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Used to,” Cor said. “On the rails, though, there was no ‘bacca so I lost the craving. But now…” He smiled grimly and twisted the end of the paper. He placed it between his lips. His dire look spoke the sentiment more clearly than words.

“You don’t think you’re coming out of this.”

He shook his head. “I was never told I wouldn’t, but I saw my tragedy in the Shaman’s eye.” He paused before lighting his smoke. Taking a chance, he waited and rolled another. He paused again before licking the seam.

“This one’s for you, Marise. Would you prefer to seal it yourself? I won’t take offence if you do.”

“I—I don’t smoke.”

Even though his shrill, tittering laugh sent shivers up her spine, Marise could detect warmth deep inside its razory depths.

“Let us be honest here, little fair one. If you die tonight, the habit will not follow you. And if you happen to live? Well, someone who lives after this should want a smoke.”

Marise thought about this.

“You can seal it,” she said.

When it was passed to her, she watched Cor light his with a burning twig and tried her best to mimic him, awkwardly dabbing the end of her smoke with flame, her eyes crossing as she attempted to steady it. This managed to do no more than double her vision, and by the time she got it right her twig had guttered. Frustrated, Marise tossed the twig back into the fire and snapped her fingers in front of the smoke. The tip sputtered orange and lit.

Cor nodded appreciably. “A nice trick.”

“And wouldn’t the Great Mother be proud.”

Smiling, she sucked deep of the smoke. Her smile quickly evaporated and she hitched and coughed.

“Gods,” she said, plucking the hateful thing from her lip, “it tastes like powered bones!”

“Ay. It’s an acquired habit.”

Marise turned her head and hawked an unladylike gob of phlegm. But, to her credit, she placed it back on her lips and went about the foul business of smoking it.

Quiet for a time. Smoking, watching the fire. Then:

“I don’t think we’ll die here, Cor. At least, not tonight.”

“Oh?”

Marise shook her head. “I’ve consulted the Eye, and saw nothing.”

“Ahh yes,” Cor said, “the Borrowed Eye.”

A curl of smoke stung her eye. She rubbed the socket with her knuckle. “Excuse?”

Cor said: “It’s what you took from the Others of Old, isn’t it? Their grand totem.”

“I’m not sure what you’re…”

“The Arrowhead Women. When they were decimated by the Golen T’al, and the Zann Esu swallowed them.”

“I—I’ve never heard that.”

“Doesn’t surprise me in the least. You’ve been taught your version of history, I’m sure, with all its careful cuts and censures. But we imps, oh, we have the longest of memories, and a penchant for lore. We know everyone’s little secrets. Would you hear this secret?”

Confused yet interested yet curiously afraid, Marise nodded.

“The Sightless Eye,” Cor said, “is not of your people’s making. It’s from the Others of Old, the Arrowhead Women. They were entrenched in the bitterest of wars with the Golen T’al, a sect of shadow worshippers, and on the verge of being snuffed out. This was… five century ago? Maybe as long as six. Your people—Zann Esu, what we once called the Feared and Exalted—they came to their aide, and when the Golen T’al were driven back, the Feared and Exalted saw fit to devour the Arrowhead Women.”

“Devour?”

“Oh, not physically. Of course not. But… idea-wise. Culturally. They merged with the Arrowheads, and took what they wanted, and discarded the rest.”

“What you speak of,” Marise said, “is thievery.”

Cor waved his hand in the air. “Perhaps. And then again, perhaps not. Can one really steal something that had never an owner to begin with? Can you claim the winds or the sun on our backs, the moon that now grins in the sky? No, of course not, so we call it the Borrowed Eye, and we will call it that no matter where it goes. Even if the Arrowheads return and claim it once again.” Cor pinched out his smoke. “Everything’s the same. A shaman, a priest, a Zann Esu like yourself. And those women who sit by their own fire across the way, under any title they are killers. Yes. And the one God they pray to—the Great God Death—He is always the same as well.

“Death has spoken to my Shaman, and I saw His proclamation in the Shaman’s eye. Death craves a meal, Marise, and He craves it tonight. A banquet in His honour.”



The night came on, and it weaved shadows around the group of five that stood on the Black Spot. The two head hunters, one with the side of her poncho flicked over her shoulder to free her revolver, the other with her eyes like hell and the sleeves of her coat neatly rolled. At their dirty leather boots were their travelling packs. By their side, the young Zann Esu, the bloodstains on her plain cotton robe like blotches of ink in the moonlight, the too-big keeper’s coat half buttoned and the collar up. She held a torch in her hand, so far unlit, and if one were to look very closely, they would see the stem jittering as she trembled.

Last, the imp. His pack was at his feet as well.

“This is the place,” Sephony said. “I may not be a gully girl of magicks, but this I know.”

“I see nothing with the Eye,” Marise said.

“I see blackness with mine,” Sephony replied, walking to the outer edge of the Spot. She turned left. She trudged along it.

Marise asked her what she was doing.

“Searching,” Sephony answered. “It can be done without magicks, you know. Now all of you, get to searching.”

They each took an imaginary track: Sephony, Willowyn, Marise, and Cor at the end, closest to the middle. So it was he that first trod on the cellar door.

Thump thump.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...while the chapter itself is engaging, I’m not sure if it fits here, in this part of your story; it feels a little awkward given what came before. The first, and most obvious reason for this, is the format of the chapter; the separation of general statements and grand narrations from the action make this feel like a lost chapter to The Art of Dying. The material you’re covering doesn’t help this point either. I could definitely see this appearing somewhere in the aforementioned story without sounding too out of place, though you’d have to make a few thematic and general changes. In this story, however, none of this really seems necessary, as this discussion of beauty and sexuality doesn’t link to anything that you’ve brought up so far (at least, nothing I saw.) Personally, I didn’t mind that it was implied that the Isadora sisters here were the same ones from before, and that there was really no explanation for it. In fact, I almost liked it that way, and for that reason, I don't know if I'd recommend a connector piece. I'd sure read it, though. This chapter is, of course, a decent read, but it doesn’t work for me here. Some specific comments:

They sat on the flat roof and drank wine straight from the bottle, gazing out from Lut Golein to the endless expanse of desert, the sun hidden below them but for a few scant colours twitching on the horizon, the sands like fresh marmalade and the dunes shivering fine grit, the grit waving and nodding in the trade-winds.

The time in Lut Golein, and another in the Worldstone.

“Lut Gholein” has an “h” in it.

“To the Dry Hills, tomorrow,” Willowyn said between sips.

Would the Dry Hills really be known as that to the inhabitants of Aranoch? I’d imagine that they’d have a different name for it...Anyway, I think you should remove this bit, because it’s an unnecessary reminder of hacks, a messed-up “economy,” spammers, rushers and 12 year olds who type in “l33t” instead of English, as opposed to being a useful reference point. For instance, “Lut Gholein” is fine, since that’s the name of a city and the people in Sanctuary have a good reason to call it that. However, nobody would call the area surrounding the cairn stones “the Stony Field” with the emphasis indicated by the capitals.

The problem was, there was no one to kill.

The comma here is unnecessary.

They sat in silence, lost (trapped) in their thoughts.

The parenthetical insert here messed up the flow of the story for me. If it’s important that this idea gets across to the reader, I’d say you should add another sentence that brings this image up.

Loped the neck between her fingertips, let it go, watched it plummet to the street and smash like a flower.

Erm...loped? Did you mean “looped”?

“Because you asked me if I wanted to go find a imbibed, sweaty man to seduce.”

The “a” should be “an,” since it’s before “imbibed.”

Willowyn made to effort to steady her; as far as she was concerned, her sister could never die.

Methinks that should be “no,” not “to.”

Willowyn thought it amazing what one ended up collecting, even if you wanted none of it.

Minor parallelism thing: since you start with “what one ended up collecting...” you shouldn’t use “you.” Given the context, I’d suggest replacing it with “she,” or changing the “one” use to “you.”

She took a deerskin pouch from the satchel. The top was knotted with a piece of twine.

Maybe it’s just me, but this was too vague for me to know what the heck was in the pouch, though I’ve got a guess based on other passages. I’d advise another sentence or two on description, touching on things like what the contents felt like through the pouch, the size of the container, the smell, etc.

The time in the Viz-Jaq’tar, learning the canons of bloodshed and then going renegade.

That’s “Viz-Jaq’taar,” I believe.

“I don’t remember that verse. Have they revised the song and not informed me?”

“Revised” sounds off here. I’d rewrite this to “Have they changed the words...”

She pulled Sephony closer, squeezing harder, Sephony grimacing, reddening, her hair falling on Willowyn’s nose and tickling it, her pale eyes, the angles of her face, this age’s shape of beauty, and not knowing if it was the drugs or the wine or the bloodloss or the moment or something else entirely, Willowyn placed her lips upon her sister’s and kissed her deeply.

“Blood loss” is two words, as far as I know.

And as they kissed, the shard cutting their tongues and their bloods winding together, history watched and recorded.

Personally, I thought you did a fine job hinting at this sort of thing, and it feels a little like you’ve thrown that out by going directly to it. As far as The Art of Killing is concerned, I’d think the results of this event, not the event itself, is what matters, and so actually moving back to it seems awkward to me. It may be a "defining moment," but I don't think it belongs here.

Anyway, I’m still reading, and looking forward to what comes next. Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

Hrm...while the chapter itself is engaging, I’m not sure if it fits here, in this part of your story; it feels a little awkward given what came before. The first, and most obvious reason for this, is the format of the chapter; the separation of general statements and grand narrations from the action make this feel like a lost chapter to The Art of Dying.

Christ, you’re like supernatural or something. The Lut Gholein scenes were, in part, excised from a lost chapter in The Art of Dying. And for the rest of it, yeah, I was purposely mimicking Dying’s grandiose style. The idea was, that in the previous chapter, Willowyn essentially regains all of her lost memories from her previous life, so I thought I’d be sort of neat to not only revisit the content, but the narrative style as well.

In this story, however, none of this really seems necessary

I’d love to argue this point, but I don’t really think I can. To me, it was somewhat necessary, in the fact that it’s a journey into Willowyn’s mind, and that she’s remembering something both the sisters pledged to forget. So it was like a “two birds with one stone” thang for me: show that Willowyn is, in fact, remembering her previous life, and sneak in some keen characterization as well.

But hey, you win some you lose some. I don’t know if I’m going to completely dispense with this chapter in the next draft… but I think it could definitely use some whittling down, or maybe a change in direction.

Would the Dry Hills really be known as that to the inhabitants of Aranoch? (…)it’s an unnecessary reminder of hacks, a messed-up “economy,” spammers, rushers and 12 year olds who type in “l33t” instead of English.

I honestly thought “the Dry Hills” was what they were called. Just like in Dying, I thought the marsh was really called “the Black Marsh”. Gullible, aren't I? Oh well, I guess I’ll just switch that to “desert” or something.

Thanks again, kind sir. As always.

[RevenantsKnight]

Looks like things’ll get bloody, or something, soon...should be interesting indeed. As for this chapter, I liked the conversation between Marise and Cor; that was a good look into the minds of the two characters. The part with the sisters was also strong, in that it tied in well with the rest of the story. Anyway, some specifics:

And for the first time, the first time in this life and the first in her newfound last, Willowyn rolled over, looked up through a scar in the ruins at the washed-out colours of the sky and the burgeoning stars and the ghostly hint of moon; she looked up and held the look and blinked once, dryly, and again, wetly, and it came all at once after that, and lay there gazing at the sky and she wept for the wreck of her life.

I’m guessing “newfound last” refers to The Art of Dying, but it’s unclear to me and sounds perhaps a little too indirect. I’d advise looking at this again, though the contrast you’re using here is nice. Also, I think there should be a “the” before “moon,” and the phrase “and lay there gazing at the sky” in context says that “it” (from “it came all at once”) is what is laying down and gazing at the sky, which sounds...odd.

I want to explode and erupt and scream fire and turn this whole worthless reality to smoke and ash.

“Reality” sounds too modern to me, maybe “world” would work better? Plus, “whole worthless world” sounds good (to me, anyway.)

For two lives now, she’d played the bayonet, even when all the world needed was a plough.

If you want to stay perfectly consistent with the saying, I’d recommend “sword” instead of “bayonet.” This does work, though.

Sitting beside her in the husked out tavern, Sephony assembled a fire.

“Husked out” sounds awkward here; did you mean something like “husk of a tavern”? Also, I’ve seen “built a fire,” but “assembled” sounds a little too industrial in this context.

“But every time she took hold of it, the rat stung her, and soon enough she fell down beside the rat. Soon after, she died from the poison.”

The repetition of “soon” here is a little disruptive; I’d advise replacing “soon enough” with “eventually” or some other phrase.

They were bloodshot, still a bit wet; but beyond that, the fires of a thousand hells churned and devoured.

With the way this is worded, it sounds a lot like there’s “the fires of a thousand hells” are behind her eyes, as opposed to being visible in them, which is what I think you meant. I’d add “...at their cores” or something like that on the end of the sentence to clarify this.

“Yes,” Willowyn said. “And this time, they’ll be no puerile tricks to fell me.”

Did you mean “there will”? “They’ll” sounds really weird here...

He was on his way to die, die badly, and yet here he was, trapped in small talk purgatory.

“Die badly” is too vague in my opinion; when I first read this, I thought he meant it in the sense that he was wasting his life or something, which works (sort of) but doesn’t seem like what you’re trying to say.

Dying may be good, and the After might be sweet, but this is most likely my last night on this strange planetoid, and I should be taking from it whatever I can.

Even if astronomy has advanced enough to show that they’re living on a “planetoid,” I have trouble thinking of Sanctuary in those terms. This is one of those things that, as long as it’s a Diablo world, just doesn’t seem to work for me, which is why I initially suggested (and still do) that you set this in your own universe. Anyway, I’d advise changing it to something less techinical-sounding, but feel free to ignore this, since it’s an admittedly minor and heavily subjective point.

“Gods,” she said, plucking the hateful thing from her lip, “it tastes like powered bones!”

Did you mean “powdered” bones?

Marise shook her head. “I’ve consulted the Eye, and saw nothing.”

I’m not sure on this one, but “I’ve” doesn’t sound right given the following clause; I’d just use “I.”

“The Arrowhead Women. When they were decimated by the Golen T’al, and the Zann Esu swallowed them.”

The “and” here is unnecessary.

“You’ve been taught your version of history, I’m sure, with all its careful cuts and censures.”

“Censures” means “judgments condemning misconduct.” Did you mean “censors”?

The night came on, and it weaved shadows around the group of five that stood on the Black Spot.

Hmm...Sephony, Willowyn, Marise, Cor...who’s the fifth?

So it was he that first trod on the cellar door.

I think that should be “he who,” not “he that.”

Well done so far, and I’m definitely waiting for whatever’s next. Thanks for posting!

[HybridPunk]

nice keep working on it

[Clarke667]

nice keep working on it

Will do. The next chapter might take a little while, though; life has decided to piss in my ear, and things around the old homestead have been chaotic to say the least. Ugh.

Adding to that, I've got the second draft of a story called "Pig" that's just begging to be flogged (it will hopefully appear on this forum within a week or two), and, to make matters worse, I saw that little contest posted at TDL, the one about the best warcraft story, and for some reason that got my blood up, so I'm chewing through that right now.

Oh, and on that subject: Is there a warcraft forum around here somewhere, or should I just post that story here?

Anyways, thanks HybridPunk. Glad you're digging the story.

[Squelch]

nice keep working on it

Agreed. 10 char

[0xDEADCAFE]

Oh, and on that subject: Is there a warcraft forum round here somewhere, or should I just post that story here?There is a link to a Warcraft III fiction forum on the main TDL page, but I wouldn't mind seeing it here.

[Clarke667]

There is a link to a Warcraft III fiction forum on the main TDL page

Wow. My powers of observation are the complete opposite of astounding. Pretty soon, I'll have to ride on a special bus, and wear a special orange day-glo helmet. And hey, I might even get invited to the Olympics! You know, the one where are the competitors are smiling all the time, and 3rd place is just "1st place in the You-Lympics, so cheer up buddy!"

That sounds pretty good, actually.

Excuse me whilst I go eat some paint chips.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Fifteen (pt 1)

Here is a man we have never met: Johan Branch. A somewhat unfortunate name, to be sure; poor Johan spent his childhood known as Twig and the name stuck, even through to adulthood, it being so funny and all. For even as a young boy, Johan was always overweight. Which is to say, fat. An overflowing bag of guts.

Hey Twig! they would squeal. Twiggy-twiggy-twig-twig! Little bigboy, Twigboy! Squealing these things and so many more at the bigtwig Johan Branch, with his pudgy untwiglike fingers, his gelatinous treetrunk arms, (twiggy-twiggy), the stumpy legs and the bushy hair (twig-twig-twig).

Those endless days of torture. All the tears that dampened his pillow nightly.

The only person Johan hated more than his childhood tormentors was himself, and he wore this self-hatred like a (huge) shroud. He clung it tight to his bloated body; he buckled it under his belly and his belly no doubt hung over it. He wore it all his life and died not with a sneer or a scream, but with a sigh. It was over. Finally, it was all over.

In the meantime, between his crawl from his fat mother’s thighs to his crawl to the grave, Johan Branch made desks. And this is why is he interesting to us, if only passingly.

Six days after his thirty-first birthday (and two hundred and twenty six days before his final sigh, his deathday), Johan made a desk exactly like a thousand others he had made before. Johan possessed a steady hand, and an eye for angles, though not much else. There was no inspiration in him, nor creativity; perhaps there had been such things years ago, but they had long since been kicked out of him (Twiggy-twiggy).

He sold the desk at a modest price and promised himself he would not use the shiny coins to buy a haunch of beef. And he didn’t. He bought a leg of lamb instead.

And as he sat by his woodstove in his small one bedroom bungalow, watching the leg cook and spit juices, Johan Branch passed from our tale with a sigh.

The desk went through five owners, none of them noteworthy. It was that sort of desk, after all: plain and reliable, though largely uninteresting; a few pieces of wood in history, as its owners were ultimately but a scatter of bones. Though the sixth owner, and so far the final… perhaps he was worth the ink he spilled.

His desk now sits in a small two bedroom bungalow; Johan never built pretty but he certainly built to last, for the desk is still strong of leg with nary a crack or loose nail. There are scratches and ink stains, a water-stain like a white zero; in a few places the varnish is fading, like ghost breaths on the wood, but the desk will remain. It will remain long after it’s next owner, and perhaps the owner after that, if whatever God unfortunate enough to look after furniture wills it.

Two points of interest on the desk’s pockmarked surface, nearly identical: tiny watermarks. Not stains yet, but if they’re allowed to set that’s certainly what they’ll be. But now, they’re still just marks, a small pair of teardrops. These fell earlier today, when a woman once known as the loathsome sistercreature tried to open one of the drawers and sort through her tosspot of a brother’s papers. The drying blobs perhaps tell us she didn’t get very far.

In his drawer, the dog-eared papers slumber. They smell faintly of beer and tea. And, if we had the kind of nose to smell it, we would also detect the faintest odour of salt and water. More tears.



One page (no more than a small scrap tucked between the stack) says: rememb ask M Frgsn.

Another says: Deck – find gravesite – dig it up??? look for clues in manu. also, rsrch ‘horradric’ or ‘horadic’.

Notes to himself, like thoughts travelling through time.

Another: pay barkeep. maybe.

Scraps and swatches and torn off strips, reminders and lists orders and bills. Larger works, a few pages each, out-of-true and shuffled like playing cards. At the very bottom, though, is the uber-note. Around three hundred pages long, definitely book-length, though it could not be considered a book, or a tome, or even a journal. A collection of musings, perhaps, but even that is not wholly accurate. The uber-note, then: the biggest, fattest, most Twiggy-twiggest time traveller of all; a sieve wrought not a steel but of parchment, collecting the dregs of one man’s undeniably prodigious imagination.

This note was written largely in a drunken stupor (the author being what he was), the quillmanship nigh illegible, all loops and scratches and runny letters, some topped with brown coronas where the ale or whiskey was spilt.

The first page: I will never come to terms with the obscure moments in history. And I suspect, no true historian ever will.

I ask: Just what is the history of the floorboards my boots rest on? What is the history of the boots themselves? Who made them? Who weaved the heavy laces and who punched the eyelets and who leathered the tongue? Who were these people that I wear on my feet? What did they feel? Were they ever important? Are they important now? Will I ever know?Will I want to?

This desk. I’m writing on it now. I ask: Who made this desk? Who sanded the top and varnished it and fit the legs? Who was this man? Is he important?

These obscure moments in history, recorded only by history itself.



Another page: (…) bits and baubles and grains of time, the tinniest pieces, all the biggest pieces just a mash-together of tinnier pieces, and the tinnier pieces just a mash-together of the infinitesimal. And after the infinitesimal? Darkness? The nothing between darknesses? And what is that wrought of?



Dismal inquiries without answer, yes; this was certainly a drunkard’s plague. He wrote such himself, when the drink was on him strong yet bearing no joy, all the fun of it sucked out as the years wore on and he saw life only through a brownish haze; those night when he sold all his smiles at the bar and was left with only an empty socket on his face, and another on his heart. Worthless, he’d scrawled across many of the margins. I’m worthless. This is worthless.

Yet these meandering inquiries, these plague-spots on a drunkard’s mind, were not completely devoid of truth… If the historian could speak now (and perhaps he could), he would probably say the same.

All these bits and baubles and grains, these pieces of time: like an infinite swirl of fireflies in bleak infinity, a dancing design we hope so very terribly much to be calm and rational and with purpose.

And the flaw in the bottom of the universe, where some of these swirls came out of step, and fell, and collected like rainwater in a gutter.



Another: In this world of grains, between the obscure spaces of darkness and time, can anything ever really die?



And now, our question: when the historian opened the cellar, and the screams rushed up at him, did he get his answer?

[Clarke667]

Chapter Fifteen (pt 2)

And now the cellar was opened again, the half-light of dusk spilling over the small stone room, the shadows bleeding in the hollows between the ancient bricks, the cobwebs like silver filaments and the eyeless albino spiders scurrying back into their hides. The half-light spilled over the groaning wooden shelves and twinkled the dusty glass of the old jars sitting there: in the jars was mostly dust, some with a few shrivelled nubs of fruit, others with cloudy brown or dusky yellow liquids. Preserves, no longer preserved.

So far, there were no screams. It was as if they were hiding in the cracks with the spiders.

Sephony made her way down the short staircase, her revolver in one hand, an ornate claw attached to the other. A suwayyah, it was called, though that name was lost. Walking down the stairs, she scanned the room with her gun, finding nothing amiss; she stopped at the last stair and examined the earthen floor.

It was filthy with fresh tracks. Some were footprints, though others…

The tracks were too jumbled to make good sense of them. Sephony replaced the Archangel’s hammer and holstered it. She stepped on the floor and added to the jumble.

“It’s clear.”

Willowyn swung down into the cellar. On her opposite hand she was wearing a claw, three long and deadly prongs that were actually some ancient demon’s petrified talons. They looked like they could shred steel. “It’s not clear,” she said, “it’s an ungodly mess. It stinks of bad air and stale goblin farts. It’s a stupid, messy cellar.”

Marise and Cor joined them, each carrying unlit torches. In his other hand, Cor dragged his travelling pack.

“You reckon there’s nothing here?” Sephony asked.

“Ha, no,” Willowyn said. “There’s something here, alright.”

“Really?” Marise asked.

With her revolver, Willowyn pointed to a rug hanging over the far wall. “Look. The hem of the rug is moving from the breeze we’ve let in, and the middle’s dimpling. That’s a sure sign of a hidden archway.”

Marise furrowed her brow. “First a rug over the cellar door, and now one over an archway. Whoever… or whatever… is down here is trying to camouflage their hideaway. But they’re not doing it very well.”

The sisters said nothing. But they both knew of a species that was transiently cunning, though largely uncaring. For a moment Willowyn tried to make herself believe it was the imps, those godsrotting halfhigh bastards, surely them… but deep inside she knew better. Over the hard years, the imps knew to care for their sanctuary.

No, Willowyn though, this looks to be the shoddy work of a demon. Gods, though I hope not.

“I think you should drop that pack, little one,” Sephony said to Cor. “It’s apt to be hard going from here on in.”

Cor could not argue with this. He possessed no audience with the Sightless Eye, nor did he have the hardworn intuitions of the headhunters… but he felt something down here in this cellar. Something black and cold and hungry. But before he abandoned his pack (never to see it again, he assumed), there was something he needed.

He removed the red wand. He smoothed the red feathers, as if he was afraid that ruffling them would somehow anger the carved stick. Though this wasn’t exactly true, it was close enough to make Cor feel absurd and frightened at the same time.

Marise knelt by Cor and examined the wand with her wide eyes. She could taste the magick of the thing on her tongue, a bitter, thrilling taste. She could smell old years and bad fortunes.

“What is that?” Marise asked.

“Just a stick, maybe.”

“No. It’s not.”

Cor looked up at her and whatever ruse (or was it hope?) behind his eyes crumbled. With a sigh, he said: “I know. But I wish it was. This… if I’m to believe my heritage, all those old stories I was told by my father on sleep’s edge, then this is Rakanishu’s ward.”

“Wait,” Willowyn said, dimly remembering something a shaman told her before she chopped off his head. “Wasn’t Raky-nishi a great warrior? At least by goblin standards?”

“Oh yes. Certainly.”

Marise said, “Then why do you not wish this to be his?”

“Because,” Cor said, “The Great Guardian Rakanishu died in battle. And if he could not survive with this ward, then how can I?”

It was Sephony who eventually answered this question. Leaning against a wall, she picked at her teeth with her nail and shrugged.

Who cares?

[Clarke667]

As I was formatting the next chapter, I happened to notice that this little story's crossed the 100 page mark... that's sort of insane, isn't it? I mean, that's nearly four times longer than the preceding story.

I can barely believe you people've stuck around for so long to listen to my meandering craziness. That's awesome, and somehow frightening. And then there's folks like Reverentsknight and 0xDeadCafe, who write these lengthy replies... jeez. ;)

What I'm getting at, is thanks. My schedule's cleared a bit (funny story: someone stole a hundred bucks off me and now that someone is very unhappy) so I should be able to finish this up in the coming week.

Anyways... on to chapter sixteen.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Sixteen

Some of it was still dark to her—much of it, actually. If she gazed upon it quickly, a glance, a taste, a quick thought with all the weight of an autumn daydream, then it made sense. It was cohesive. She could count on the logic, even be comforted by it; Rakanishu had his ward and she had hers. The memories. The truth of them.

But if she spooled them out, these memories, if she ran the fingers of her mind over their smooth surface…

There were gaps. Holes in time’s negative.

She remembered her childhood (if one could call it that) in the Vis-Jaq’taar. She could remember the long years and the ceaseless teachings and the punishments; she could remember quivering in the place they called the Gorge, where all the bad acolytes were sent, that cold and dark place, the echoes of her heart beating, the echoes of her tears as they splashed on the stone floor. Her hand gripping her sister’s, though her sister was not there. They could do that, at times. They could be alone together.

Those long years and the ceaseless teachings of battle. The feel of a suwayyah: so perfect. They were taught that a weapon should be an extension of one’s arm, but to her that was tripe: the suwayyah was her arm. It trumped her palm and her fingers and even her heart.

The ways of this weapon, how it sang when she brandished it. Even now, as she crept through the hole in the cellar and into a darkswept stone anteroom (dead torches on the walls; stains and cracks and scatters of bones) the suwayyah sang to her, the same age-old song, melody never faltering. And that was good. Comforting.

But in her other hand, the gun. A hole in time’s negative.

In all truth, she had never even seen a weapon such as this. There was no frame of reference in her past life that could even categorize it; the closest she could come was an old story she had heard in some town or another, that there was a sect of archer-brigands that tied loads of exploding powders to their arrows. But something as… as advanced as this?

No. Never. And worse still: on some vague level, she understood the contraption. She was skilled with it. And how did this happen? Who trained her? Where were the long years making the Archangel the trump of her palm and fingers? And for that matter, where did she even get it?

As they searched the anteroom, scattering the bones with their feet and running fingers along the bricks in search of a hidden doorway, a terrible thought occurred to Sephony: perhaps (just perhaps) the hole in time’s negative was so wide and so deep that she had fallen into it completely. Perhaps (just perhaps) she was twisting and turning in its bottomless depths right now. None of this is real, she though, the slow-terror taking her. This is all—all a belch in history. An errant strand.

And then, as the terror held tenuous sway over her, in a jumble: all a / all a strand of time / errant eating the tail it’s own / a crumpled ball of time paper (calm) parchment a / a parchment sickness of history a nightmare (calm down). This terror: there was something here beyond this anteroom, some terror beyond terror, some manner of truth, she knew it, some obliterating truth—

“Seph?”

Falling in this hole of time, and maybe it wasn’t bottomless.

“Sephony? Sis?”

“Is she okay? She’s gone awfully—”

She would smack against the bottom, maybe, maybe the cold grey floor of the omniverse, broken and splattered like an insect on the floor of the omniverse, and wasn’t this the biggest joke of all, maybe, maybe broken and splattered but alive and breathing through the blown remnants of her guts. How they so wanted to carve an obelisk, how they wanted to reside there against life and be newly stillborn (calm down calm) the most perfect nothing, and the cruel jest of the joker Gods, forcing them to live and live and live and live again. Revenge. Greatest revenge from all the Gods they’d slain, as they watched them wreathed in their star-knit cloaks of history.

A deafening explosion and a flash of luminescence like a glare of rotting snow and Sephony cocked her .45 and it was yes, certainly, yes it was her hand, it trumped the little bones, her eyes sighted down the mile long gunblackness of the barrel and the steel obelisk of the gunsight: Willowyn standing with a hand on her hip and the other wrapping the Archangel, the revolver raised, a curl of smoke from the bore.

She said: “You were panicking.”

Sephony brushed a tear from her cheek. “I know.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes.” (calm calm calm)

“Good. Can’t have you cracking up.”

“I wasn’t cracking up.”

“Whatever.”



In the anteroom, the slight echoes of words fading. It was something the sisters, or Marise, or Cor, had never really considered: how speech tumbled and fell and continued to fall, each word quieter, and quieter, yet never dead, never gone.

Every sound they spoke curled in upon itself like a dry and rotting leaf. It tumbled and fell and hushed; it mixed with the words before it and the words after it, becoming a soup of pure noise. Under their lips, this soup hung like a fog, ever ready to snatch fresh, vital words and assimilate them.

And to move, of course. To seep outward.

This fog of words lapped against the stone walls of the anteroom as the sisters argued. It touched the grout, crept along it, nestled into the pores that were invisible to us yet gigantic to them, these long, yawning channels of intersecting chasms. By the time the fog navigated through the foot-thick walls, it was so faint that no mortal creature could hear a whisper of it.

Yet what slumbered beyond the walls, in the winding darkness of the labyrinth, was by no means mortal. The fog lapped against it, and it was awakened.



“If you think I can’t handle this, Will, then say it.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, I want to hear you say it. I really do.”

“Gods! I don’t think you’re not cracking up, Seph, but I swear you’ve been cracked. There’s a break running through your mind, zigging and zagging, and it’s made you something you’ve never been before.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“A woman who’s a fool to her own emotions.” She said the last word as if she was saying ‘vomit’. “You pule ceaselessly, and you whine, and what has it done for you? What? Certainly nothing beneficial. In fact, it’s made you weak. Unsure.”

There was something dark and horrible brooding in Sephony. Over the past few days she’d been trying to outrun this broken facet of her morality, this crimson streak; but here it was, not only grasping at her bootheels but overtaking her, winding back and smothering her. If she ruminated upon this (though she could not, for any manner of introspection was bleeding away), she might say that what she felt originated from a hole in her heart, where some God or demon or force had seen fit to scoop out her soul. Such a hellish place, made more hellish by the very fact that, in a way she would never admit, she perversely cherished it.

Sephony smiled. It was the kind of smile that elicited not a smirk or a grin, but a shiver. It could sour milk. Peel the paint from walls.

She lilted, “I’m going to enjoy killing you again,” and for the barest of moments, Willowyn believed her completely. She thought, Inevitable; she thought, Inexorable. “I’ll skin you alive, and suck the jelly from your broken bones.”

Marise blanched. She wanted—needed—to stop this before it escalated, but want and need were as far as she could get. Her voice would not comply. Her feet would not propel her. She might’ve been a still life: Young Woman In Fear.

And Cor: The Misfortunate Imp.

Willowyn, though, had regained her composure. With infinite nonchalance, she said, “I thought you wanted to wait for our killing?”

“Oh, I do, and I will… just know you’ll be no luckier than the last time.”

“Stop pushing me, Sephony. I can’t keep a promise if you keep prodding at it.”

“Of course. My apologies.” She said the last like she was saying ‘feces’.

And as her words faded, a ghostly moan crept through the walls.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Sweet. (A lot of this reminds me of the way I wish I could write: ignoring all the rules and still somehow connecting, running words and syllables together like music, dropping hints and fragments like bread crumbs from a whirlwind, dragging the reader along feeling like they're running, unable to keep up, but revelling in the chase.) I just read through chapter sixteen quickly, because that's the way it felt it should be read. Glorious. It felt like I wasn't getting a lot of it but that's why I intend to go back and read it again. It would have seemed wrong on the first read to slow down and re-read even one sentence twice. First impression: sweeeet

Second impression: Some flaws, perhaps, should one read like a dissectionist:

...the echoes of her tears as they splashed on the stone floor. Her hand gripping her sister’s, though her sister was not there. They could do that, at times. They could be alone together.The sentence starting with "Her hand gripping..." seems grammatically like a fragment. (Granted there are a lot of fragments in this chapter and I would keep most of them. This one, though, just seems off.) A comma, instead of a period, after "floor" would probably be more correct. And... the last sentence seems backwards. Don't you mean they could be together-apart? Alone-together sounds like two people in the same room not connecting at all.

They were taught that a weapon should be an extension of one’s arm, but to her that was tripe: the suwayyah was her arm.Seems like that colon should be a semi-colon. Contrast it with your previous colonic usage: "The feel of a suwayyah: so perfect." which seems just right.

She would smack against the bottom, maybe, maybe the cold grey floor of the omniverse, broken and splattered like an insect on the floor of the omniverse, and wasn’t this the biggest joke of all, maybe, maybe broken and splattered but alive and breathing through the blown remnants of her guts. How they so wanted to carve an obelisk, how they wanted to reside there against life and be newly stillborn (calm down calm) the most perfect nothing, and the cruel jest of the joker Gods, forcing them to live and live and live and live again. Revenge. Greatest revenge from all the Gods they’d slain, as they watched them wreathed in their star-knit cloaks of history. I think I may cry.

A deafening explosion and a flash of luminescence like a glare of rotting snow and Sephony cocked her .45 and it was yes, certainly, yes it was her hand, it trumped the little bones, her eyes sighted down the mile long gunblackness of the barrel and the steel obelisk of the gunsight: Willowyn standing with a hand on her hip and the other wrapping the Archangel, the revolver raised, a curl of smoke from the bore. The "glare of rotting snow" is a difficult simile but the rest is just perfect.

Every sound they spoke curled in upon itself like a dry and rotting leaf. It tumbled and fell and hushed; it mixed with the words before it and the words after it, becoming a soup of pure noise. Under their lips, this soup hung like a fog, ever ready to snatch fresh, vital words and assimilate them.The fog of words is really a nice image. But "Every" seemed mismatched against the many occurrences of "it" that follow. I had to reread it a few times, and it never seemed quite precise enough. The last part, "ever ready to snatch fresh, vital words and assimilate them," also seems to fall short. I don't know if it is that "assimilate" seems out of place, or that I can't imagine putting a soupy fog together with the verb "snatch." Nice idea but, for me at least, it got a little muddy at the end.

“Gods! I don’t think you’re not cracking up, Seph, but I swear you’ve been cracked. "... don't think you're not..." Confused, I am.

“A woman who’s a fool to her own emotions.” She said the last word as if she was saying ‘vomit’. An example of when it works to attribute dialog.

“You pule ceaselessly, and you whine, and what has it done for you?" Had to look up "pule." Guess what? It means "whine." So what does "and you whine" really add? (Or maybe pule and whine are subtly different. If so, plz forgive, I am at the mercy of my dictionary.)

“Of course. My apologies.” She said the last like she was saying ‘feces’.I didn't think this worked quite as well the second time.

What else? The dialog was real and compelling. All this side-light somehow managed to propel the plot forward and leave-off at a cliff hanger. What can I say? Stunning. Your best yet. Whatever crap life throws at you man, keeping writing.

[Clarke667]

A lot of this reminds me of the way I wish I could write: ignoring all the rules and still somehow connecting, running words and syllables together like music…

Well thank ya. You know, I consider that to be one of my few good literary techniques; guys like Reverantsknight might be able to flawlessly describe a landscape or character, but I can spin something totally bizarre and then make it dance like a ****ing loon. This is probably due to all the chemicals I ingested during my mid-teens… I’ve scorched a hole in my brain and strange things ooze from it.

"... don't think you're not..." Confused, I am.

Omit the ‘not’, you should.

Had to look up "pule." Guess what? It means "whine." So what does "and you whine" really add? (Or maybe pule and whine are subtly different. If so, plz forgive, I am at the mercy of my dictionary.)

Yeah, they’re slightly different, though probably not enough to (usually) warrant the usage of both. I say usually because, well, it ain’t narrative—it’s dialogue. You may know that both words are basically the same, and I may know it… but does Willowyn? I doubt it, cuz after all, she did say it.

didn't think this worked quite as well the second time.

I thought it was a nice little flourish, considering Willowyn said it the first time to goad Sephony, and then she used it back later. But hey, to each his own.

Whatever crap life throws at you man, keeping writing.

I honestly feel like I don’t have much of a choice in the matter. I write when I’m happy, I write when I’m sad… I write when I’m pissed and when I’m confused and when I’m sick with the flu and I wish I was dead. I have a notoriously addiction-prone personality, so instead of amphetamines and psychedelics: literature.

But man, what a ****in godawful week… the godawfulness somewhat compounded by the fact that it is now (as of a half-hour, actually), my birthday. But hopefully that’s a good omen. Maybe an RV full of strippers and moonshine will break down in front of my house. And maybe one of the strippers will have a prosthetic leg filled with Jolly Ranchers and Bazooka Joe bubblegum… damn, that would rule.

[RevenantsKnight]

Grrr...I hate my temporary Internet connection. Stupid thing’s made me fall behind; these are all on Chapter 15. I’ll get to #16 when I can (hopefully soon.) Anyway...

The first part of this chapter was definitely confusing for a while, as the shift from Cor stepping on the trap door to this was...unexpected, to say the least. I’m not entirely sure why you made this move away from the story; while it’s decent on its own, it doesn’t add much (in my opinion) to the piece as a whole. I think the tangent on Branch could be eliminated entirely with some effort. Or you could just ignore my rantings and leave it as is, ‘cause that’s your decision as the author. The second’s much more in keeping with your usual style, and I don’t have any general observations to make on it, other than that it was, as usual, an engaging read. Anyway, here’re some specific comments:

A somewhat unfortunate name, to be sure; poor Johan spent his childhood known as Twig and the name stuck, even through to adulthood, it being so funny and all. For even as a young boy, Johan was always overweight. Which is to say, fat. An overflowing bag of guts.

Hrm...the narrator here has an evil sense of humor that I don’t remember in the rest of the story; am I just missing something, or was this a mistake?

The only person Johan hated more than his childhood tormentors was himself, and he wore this self-hatred like a (huge) shroud.

Again, the “(huge)” here sounds a bit out of place with the darker tone the narrator uses throughout much of the story. It’s also a little disruptive as it is; I’d recommend removing it.

There was no inspiration in him, nor creativity; perhaps there had been such things years ago, but they had long since been kicked out of him (Twiggy-twiggy).

“Nor” should probably be “no,” or you could rewrite this as “There was no inspiration or creativity...” or “There was neither inspiration nor creativity...”

There are scratches and ink stains, a water-stain like a white zero; in a few places the varnish is fading, like ghost breaths on the wood, but the desk will remain.

The “ghost breaths” image is vivid, but the simile sounds a little awkward here; if I’m reading this correctly, you’re trying to say that the faded areas appear as though “ghost breaths” have been laid on the wood over the varnish. What you have here doesn’t suggest that on first glance, as this compares the way the varnish is fading to the way “ghost breaths” fade on wood. If my interpretation is correct, I’d recommend editing the sentence to read “...the varnish is fading, as if ghost breaths have fallen on the wood, but...”

It will remain long after it’s next owner, and perhaps the owner after that, if whatever God unfortunate enough to look after furniture wills it.

That should be “its.”

Scraps and swatches and torn off strips, reminders and lists orders and bills.

I think you’re missing a comma after “lists,” and “torn-off” can be hyphenated. Also, the first bit does beg the question, “Strips of what?” It’s a decidedly minor point, and I’m guessing you meant paper, but all three nouns suggested fabric to me initially.

At the very bottom, though, is the uber-note.

Apologies in advance if it wasn’t your intention, but this struck me as ridiculously grandiose. If you weren’t intending this, I’d advise not using “uber,” for starters.

Another page: (…) bits and baubles and grains of time, the tinniest pieces, all the biggest pieces just a mash-together of tinnier pieces, and the tinnier pieces just a mash-together of the infinitesimal.

Umm...do you mean “tinier” and “tiniest”?

And now the cellar was opened again, the half-light of dusk spilling over the small stone room, the shadows bleeding in the hollows between the ancient bricks, the cobwebs like silver filaments and the eyeless albino spiders scurrying back into their hides.

“Hides” sounds wrong here; I don’t think the spiders are scurrying back into their skins.

It was as if they were hiding in the cracks with the spiders.

Nice image.

A suwayyah, it was called, though that name was lost.

This felt like an unnecessary reminder that the character parallel to Sephony is the Assassin; after all the hints, big and small, you’ve dropped over the course of the story, I think most people would get it by now. Also, it was a link back to the game, though subtle, and I still think divesting yourself of the Diablo world for this story would work fine, other than the fact that you’re importing some characters from a Diablo world.

He removed the red wand. He smoothed the red feathers, as if he was afraid that ruffling them would somehow anger the carved stick.

I’d see if you can’t find a synonym for “red” to use once here.

Cor looked up at her and whatever ruse (or was it hope?) behind his eyes crumbled.

This sounds a little off to me, as “whatever ruse behind his eyes crumbled” just doesn’t feel correct. I’d say you need a verb of some sort, such as “hid,” after “ruse.”

“Wait,” Willowyn said, dimly remembering something a shaman told her before she chopped off his head.

I think that should be “had told her” since that event is in the past relative to this one.

Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

Grrr...I hate my temporary Internet connection. Stupid thing’s made me fall behind

Ah. I thought maybe you joined a cult, or a travelling band. Either would be unfortunate.

Hrm...the narrator here has an evil sense of humor that I don’t remember in the rest of the story; am I just missing something, or was this a mistake?

You didn’t miss anything, nor was it a mistake. Okay, I’m gonna go ahead and claim ignorance for not knowing the term for this technique… um, closest I can get is to describe it as “metamorphic prose”. Does that make any sense? The general idea is, that the narrative is no longer dispassionate: that it gets right down into the guts of the action and assumes some of its flavour. I tend to use this trick often, like my (in)famous run-on sentences during times of stress.

(…) and I still think divesting yourself of the Diablo world for this story would work fine, other than the fact that you’re importing some characters from a Diablo world.

I honestly don’t want to sound combative, here, but this is something that’s been on my mind for a little while now…

Essentially, here’s what I’ve learned on this forum:

1. (Art of Dying) Too many specific game references = bad;
2. (Art of Killing) Too few game references = why bother setting it in the Diabloverse?

So I guess you can say that I’m a tad bit confused. Is there like, a sweet spot or something that I haven’t hit yet? Or is it all an exercise in futility, that any story would essentially be ‘better’ by not being set in a pre-made world? Again, I’m not trying to sound like a douche here, nor am I trying to pin this all on you… I just get the feeling that I may be missing something fundamental about this whole fan-fic thing.

Anyways, your comments are appreciated as always.

Oh, and if you do decide to join a travelling band, make sure you call dibs on the tambourine. The tambourine player always gets mad tail.

[Snowglare]

I honestly don't want to sound combative, here, but this is something that's been on my mind for a little while now...

Essentially, here's what I've learned on this forum:

1. (Art of Dying) Too many specific game references = bad;
2. (Art of Killing) Too few game references = why bother setting it in the Diabloverse?

So I guess you can say that I'm a tad bit confused. Is there like, a sweet spot or something that I haven't hit yet? Or is it all an exercise in futility, that any story would essentially be 'better' by not being set in a pre-made world?Well, yeah. In my opinion, anyways. It's not that it's a pre-made world that's problematic, it's that Diablo is very much a videogame, from level ups to old school boss fights (it's a wonder you don't have to shoot Baal in the blinking red spot to defeat him). Translating the game world to realistic fiction is difficult if not impossible, and even the best writers leave in groan-inducing reminders of gameiness.

Aside from the locales and the history, both of which are spotty, what is there really to take from the Diabloverse? I don't want to say that no one should write D2 fan-fic, but I've always prefered original writing and fan fiction set in richer universes.

[Clarke667]

First off:

(it's a wonder you don't have to shoot Baal in the blinking red spot to defeat him). Translating the game world to realistic fiction is difficult if not impossible, and even the best writers leave in groan-inducing reminders of gameiness.

The part about shooting Baal in the blinking red spot gave me a chuckle, probably because you're right. It is totally old-school, and right now I'm sort of hard-pressed to refute you in any way.

Aside from the locales and the history, both of which are spotty, what is there really to take from the Diabloverse? I don't want to say that no one should write D2 fan-fic, but I've always prefered original writing and fan fiction set in richer universes.

Wait a sec... maybe I've confused the meaning of your position here, but aren't you the D2 fan fiction moderator? Okay, I know that doesn't necessarily mean that you have to wank off to diablo day and night... but nevertheless, it's sort of funny for you to have such a low opinion of it.

Well, I'm not sure to what extent I agree with you; like I said, I sort of have to concede the "old-schoolness" of the game, and basically the overall simplicity of its universe... but hell, there's just something about it. Maybe the appeal lies in the simplicity: how, seeing that the Diabloverse is not completely fleshed out, you can pretty much do what you want with it without upsetting the boundaries (example: pretty much anything written by Reverentsknight).

Also--and this is pretty much a personal statement--I like the overt Satanism of the Diablo games. It's all demons and pentagrams and piles of burning corpses, dark rituals, possessed priests... just a ton of cool evil ****. Sort of like an old White Zombie video. And that's just neat.

I guess that's that. Thanks for dropping by, and it's always cool to hear from you.

[RevenantsKnight]

I honestly don’t want to sound combative, here, but this is something that’s been on my mind for a little while now…

Essentially, here’s what I’ve learned on this forum:

1. (Art of Dying) Too many specific game references = bad;
2. (Art of Killing) Too few game references = why bother setting it in the Diabloverse?

So I guess you can say that I’m a tad bit confused. Is there like, a sweet spot or something that I haven’t hit yet? Or is it all an exercise in futility, that any story would essentially be ‘better’ by not being set in a pre-made world?

Oops, did I suggest #1? It definitely wasn’t my intention; the number of game references was fine for me in general. What I didn’t like in The Art of Dying was when one or two references (notably the “Black Marsh”) felt a little too...unshaped to fit in with the rest of the story. I mean, you’ve read at least some of what I’ve posted, and my stuff’s got Westmarch this and Philios that shot all over it. Since these examples aren’t playable in the game, I have to have them in there at least some of the time to orient the reader; I can’t realistically describe a castle or a city in the trees and expect that the names will follow in the reader’s mind. With the Black Marsh, it’s a place that’s in the game with some very notable features, so you can get away with describing the scene and just hinting at some familiar aspects instead of saying it straight up. I mean, no other area in Act I has a huge ruin of a tower in it.

As for The Art of Killing, the reason again I can’t see it as Diablo is because of the technology shift, not because of the frequency of game references. It’s true indeed that you’ve done an excellent job of extrapolating out possible changes in the Diablo world, but guns and trains are so removed from that universe in my mind that I keep thinking you could change the setting. Both of these are from my opinion, obviously; maybe other folks really like the setting of The Art of Killing but just aren’t speaking up.

More generally, is there a “sweet spot”? Got me. I add as many references as I think are necessary (okay, sometimes a few more than that) to give the reader an idea of where he or she is from the perspective of someone who is part of the Diablo world. Depending on the story, this varies, so I don’t think there’s a universal target; it seems more like each combination of plot, characters, narrative tone, etc. has its own “sweet spot.” Whether this works for just me or for fan fiction readers in general, I don’t know.

And as for whether a story is ‘better’ if set in an original world...I disagree with Snowglare in that I think if a story explores the pre-made Diablo universe in enough detail and with originality, then that story is best in Diablo, and not somewhere else, because if it were set somewhere else, it’d make me think of Diablo, just as The Art of Killing makes me think of...something not-Diablo. :D Ah well, it’s still a good read.

Hope that helps.

[Clarke667]

Oops, did I suggest #1? It definitely wasn’t my intention; the number of game references was fine for me in general. What I didn’t like in The Art of Dying was when one or two references (notably the “Black Marsh”) felt a little too...unshaped to fit in with the rest of the story.

I'm never gonna live down that Black Marsh thing, am I? Maybe when Killing's properly finished and polished, I'll go back and re-edit Dying and save myself from the terrible shame. :(

maybe other folks really like the setting of The Art of Killing but just aren’t speaking up.

Silent bastards. You're hanging me out to dry, here! (shakes fist)

But seriously, you're probably right. I mean, someone's gotta be reading this beside you and 0xDeadCafe and the few others that responded... I'm sure they just broke their fingers in a bare-knuckle battle royale and can no longer type. Yeah, that's probably what's going on.

I guess the bottom line is, I like the setting. I like it a helluva lot, actually; it's like Sergio Leone inpregnated Tolkien and their half-retarded lovechild went on a two week peyote binge.

because if it were set somewhere else, it’d make me think of Diablo, just as The Art of Killing makes me think of...something not-Diablo.

I'm somewhat banking on changing your mind by the end of this. Who knows. I might get lucky.

Hope that helps.

Certainly does.

[0xDEADCAFE]

My .02:

I find the world of Diablo inspiring and convenient. It gives me ideas; there are possibilities for all sorts of things between the game elements. It's also a stage of big drama: life and death, killing and dying, heroism, etc. It's fun and it's fairly easy to make up a story based on the game's rich fictional setting.

When I do get an idea based on Diablo, it most likely will be tied up in some way with game elements. As a practical matter then, I can get to the writing much more directly if I just leave them in. Furthermore, the game provides a ready-made history, along with a huge number of fictional items: weapons, abilities, places, quests - things that I don't have to make up on my own.

This is one area in which I feel rather unskilled. I marvel at authors who can invent entire worlds and their myriad details. But in this way I feel that Diablo is, for me, a bit of a crutch. I'm happy to use it for now as a way of enabling myself to write more, and because I am getting a lot of enjoyment from reading and witing Diablo fan fiction, but taking a longer view I see it as more of tool for practicing writing, than an end in itself.

So I always have one eye watching how far I dip into the world of Diablo, not because I think in anyway that Diablo elements diminsih a story, but because it feels like a personal limitation, one that I hope to eventually outgrow.

Finally, one way in which less Diablo is more, is when it comes to our audience. I enjoy having people read my work, and telling stories that depend on a knowledge of Diablo is very restricting. To whatever degree each of us dreams of being a real author when we grow up, we must acknowledge that we're not likely to get there through Diablo fan fiction.

[Clarke667]

To whatever degree each of us dreams of being a real author when we grow up, we must acknowledge that we're not likely to get there through Diablo fan fiction.

Disagree!

Numero uno: Any practice is good practice, and writing is writing. This is basically the first time I've scribbled a story for someone other than just myself, and I must say that the feedback I've received is invaluable. So sucks to your assmar.

Numbero duo: If any of us become 'real' authors, then we might very well look back on our time here with fondness, remembering that we once peddled our literary wares for the pure joy of it, and not to put tacos on the table. At least that's what I think, so sucks to your assmar times two.

But in this way I feel that Diablo is, for me, a bit of a crutch.

Crutch to your assmar.

PS I'm stoned on lorazepam. Disregard what I've said.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Disagree!LOL - seems to me we are in heated agreement. I won't completely disregard what you say, but I may take it a slight discount. Sweet dreams lorazepamicon.

[RevenantsKnight]

Chapter 16...more or less like what I’ve come to expect. I second 0xDEADCAFE’s remarks that your writing has this spinning-off-into-insanity feel, and yet remains spellbinding indeed. Some comments:

There were gaps. Holes in time’s negative.

This is a vivid image, but it’s also a little awkward for me given the technology of Diablo, and the technology of this world.

She remembered her childhood (if one could call it that) in the Vis-Jaq’taar.

That’s spelled with a “z,” not an “s.”

Her hand gripping her sister’s, though her sister was not there. They could do that, at times. They could be alone together.

The first sentence is a fragment, though I’m not sure if it should be changed or not...the extra emphasis on this particular point is nice, in a way, even if it doesn’t read as cleanly as it might. And as for “alone together,” I thought it worked, but that might just be me.

The feel of a suwayyah: so perfect. They were taught that a weapon should be an extension of one’s arm, but to her that was tripe: the suwayyah was her arm. It trumped her palm and her fingers and even her heart.

The second colon, in my opinion, works either way; it didn’t strike me as disruptive if it’s wrong. Also, “even her heart” seems a little off, since there’s no parallel I can think of between that and “palm and fingers.”

Even now, as she crept through the hole in the cellar and into a darkswept stone anteroom (dead torches on the walls; stains and cracks and scatters of bones) the suwayyah sang to her, the same age-old song, melody never faltering.

I’d strike the parenthetical description, because it seems to interrupt the story’s flow a tad. Instead, I’d change it to “...anteroom, past [description]...,” though this might be just personal preference.

There was no frame of reference in her past life that could even categorize it.

“Frame of reference” sounds too technical to me; I’d try to say this in a more descriptive manner, though I do get what you’re saying.

And then, as the terror held tenuous sway over her, in a jumble: all a / all a strand of time / errant eating the tail it’s own / a crumpled ball of time paper (calm) parchment a / a parchment sickness of history a nightmare (calm down).

From a certain point of view, this is barely coherent, but hey, I think it works. In fact, I think it stays true to this idea of growing insanity and ranting. :)

It was something the sisters, or Marise, or Cor, had never really considered: how speech tumbled and fell and continued to fall, each word quieter, and quieter, yet never dead, never gone.

A very nice idea, indeed.

It tumbled and fell and hushed; it mixed with the words before it and the words after it, becoming a soup of pure noise.

“Pure noise” suggested to me that the anteroom was noisy, that there was some sort of constant background white noise, which doesn’t sound like what you meant. I’d consider seeing if you can’t find another phrasing for this.

“Of course. My apologies.” She said the last like she was saying ‘feces’.

I second 0xDEADCAFE on this one...maybe it’s just because “feces” sounds too technical, but I’d consider a revision nonetheless.

Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

Some comments

Man, I'm really itching to get started on the second draft--it's gonna be tighter than... well, let's just say it's gonna be tight. No need for us to get filthy here (and I know you, Rev, you sick lad).

Quick question, posed just for the **** of it: How long to do tend to take between drafts? For me, it's like a minimum of three weeks, and that's if I feel like really pushing it. I'd much prefer to wait like two months, keeping the manuscript in a cold dark place without food or positive reinforcement, prodding it with a sharp stick, making lewd, drunken phonecalls to its wife...

(Concerning Time's Negative) This is a vivid image, but it’s also a little awkward for me given the technology of Diablo, and the technology of this world

That's bothersome, seeing how Time's Negative is 1. The central image of the story; and 2. Awesome. I always figured they had those old-timey cameras, you know, like the tripod ones that you see in spaghetti westerns... but now I'm wondering if said old-timey cameras had negatives; was it just like an emulsion jelly or something? I took photography back in high-school, but I never really went to the class and managed to fail it with a 12 (a score so low I can almost be proud of it), so I'm a bit out of my depth, here.

The 'feces' thing... you're probably right. I liked the parallelism, but a new word is probably in order.

Thanks again.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Seventeen (pt 1)

-I-
Awakening; the rotten machinery in its skull bloating with blood, yes, this it knew, blood it knew so intimately: this red rushing machinery, churning ever onward in the cracked press of its skull, bloated, a timepiece made of writhing slugs.

This—the meat of existence. The sour-milk taste of living, so wet and fine, and feeling everything, the delicate fur on the spilled caps of its scabs, the hot slurry moving through its caked bowels, living, life, ever beauteous meat of existence. It would gorge itself upon this; it would eat the ashes of the world. Over and over.

And awakening. And such pleasures in waiting.


-II-
They were all amazed to see the wall melt open.

As soon as they ghostly moan slipped through the room, the wall began to bubble and run, like it was not made of stone and mortar but wet putty. The rough bricks lost shape, yawned, bent, slipped; they trickled to the floor and pooled and more followed, streamers of grey sludge, foul smelling. Steam rose from the widening pool, and with a slight cry Marise edged away from it, not knowing if the muck was scalding or poisonous, or if something wetly formless would lash up from the slate grey depths and twist around her ankle.

And, more amazing: for the barest flicker of a moment, it was as if nothing was happening at all. The wall was perfectly normal, perfectly fine, and Willowyn’s keen eye even noticed a fractional flash of an heavy oak door, with a chunky bronze lock; but this vision was gone in a blink, and the wall melted, and the steam rose, and the wall was fine again, and it began melting, and it finished melting and the sludge hardened and it was wet again and it ran in fat streamlets and the moan that touched their ears was joined by another.

“What’s happening?” Sephony asked.

“I don’t know,” Marise said. “An illusion?”

“Maybe.”

Where the wall melted (where it stopped melting and started and hardened and was not even there at all) was a hole. At times it widened, at others it closed in. At one point, in the blackness of the hole, they saw a pale dab of skin pushing out, a screaming face that dissolved and disappeared and may not have even been there at all.

“Seph?” Willowyn said.

“Yeah.”

“Do you think we’re in over our heads?”

“I don’t know.” She aimed her revolver at the hole and though fear trilled in her mind it did not touch her arm. The gun was rock steady. “But if whatever’s in there can be killed, then we’ll kill it.”

“In the darkness,” Marise said, “nothing dies.”

And they all felt the foreboding weigh down on their shoulders.


-III-
A hole in time’s negative, Sephony called it. And if this could be seen as true, then it could be said that the hole was now widening, larger and larger, like a blown pupil.

And in this pupil: unfathomable reflections. The lank shadows cast by darkness itself.


-IV-
After a few minutes of tense watching and waiting, the wall finished melting. The hole remained at one size, vaguely oval, the edges still dripping. It resembled an orifice all recognized but none mentioned.

“Reckon its safe?” Willowyn asked her sister.

“There’s not much I can reckon at this point, to say sooth. All I can really reckon is that we’re going through.”

“And if it’s a trap?”

Sephony smiled. Like all the rest of her smiles, she wore it badly. “Oh, I’m sure it is. But I’ve got a scar for every ten traps I’ve walking in to, and I’d say that’s good odds. You ready?”

Willowyn didn’t even need to nod. She had the scars as well.

They crept through the hole, the sisters first with their guns scanning, Marise and Cor close behind, brandishing their lit torches, the spare light licking against the walls. It was corridor, they saw, the ceiling low, doorways at either side, archways, holes; as they made their way, they noticed bones on the floor, drifts of dust, the odd relic—a brazier, a smashed chair, the rusted haft of what might’ve been a halberd.

The quiet trickle of water. A solitary moan deep in the distance.

“Where are we going?” Marise whispered.

The sisters stopped. Marise could detect no fear in them, but there was a sort of anxious intensity in their actions that was almost as disquieting. Their nerves were no doubt strumming, alarm flashing behind their eyes like the rhythmic strobe of fireflies.

“We’re not going far,” Sephony said. “No, I…” (smell purest dread, blackest horror) “… I’ve become a bit unsure about this. We should just—”

“Leave,” Willowyn said. “Come back in the morning.” Something caught her attention and she raised a clawed hand to quiet the rest, listening, eyes widening and then narrowing. “Something’s coming down the corridor. I can feel it.”

A cold strand of fear touched the base of Marise’s neck. She could feel it, too, something big and shambling and shapeless. A terrible force that made not a sound but thrummed the air around her in ever increasing waves.

The moan in the distance: it died off, and was soon replaced by a dry cackle.

“Go,” Willowyn said. “Now.”

And as they turned to retreat, and as this shapeless shambling something gained on them, this force, a rind of moonlight coming from the hole they entered, the dry, cackling voice said:

damned. you’re all damned.

The air thrummed feverishly, like all the bits and baubles and grains of time were shivering, pulling apart. The strength of it was incredible, and before long: unbearable. It pried buzzing fingers into their heads, it played the knobs and discs of their spines like rattles. Almost as if synchronized, they fell to their knees and gripped their heads, squeezed shut their eyes. Grit their teeth, the enamel groaning like old floorboards. Marise curled into a ball and shrieked in the closed hollow of her mouth, shrieked and wailed and cried and tried to keep her skull from splitting like a flower, Sephony dropping her gun and the sound of it clattering on the stones a million miles away, a lost beacon. Reality stretched around them, stretched to breaking… and then the force engulfed them, and they were lost in the eye of time’s negative.


-V-
Maybe they always knew the truth, but kept it hidden from themselves. Buried it in the dark pit of their minds, the way one would bury the corpse of an enemy: deep as time would allow, and unmarked. Though maybe this truth wasn’t a corpse, as they thought, but a seed… and over time, nourished on the sludge that trickled down to the pit, it began to sprout.

But into what? Fear? Regret?

No. The only thing a festering truth can ever sprout is bitterness.

It came to them in the eye of time’s negative. It came to them with a sneer slashed across its face, and a look that said I am what you made me. And it held them by the pale flesh of their necks with its cold grave hands, and spoke what they did not want to hear.

There would be no rest for them. No salvation. They would live forever, and they would live forever so they could kill. For all their grand deeds and victories and hopes, they were nothing more than history’s chambermaids. They existed solely to clean the mess of greater beings.

And maybe time’s negative, this flaw in the omniverse, was their true home, the obelisk they so desired, and possessed all along.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Seventeen (pt 2)

-VI-
The years peeled from the walls. The cracks ate their crooked expanses and disappeared. Water dripped up the walls and snuggled into the ceiling. Mounted torches grew from embers to tenuous flame, and before their blurred eyes, a chair reassembled itself. It clacked as it did this, like it was singing.

A drift of dust hushed across the floor, disassembling into puffs and streamers; the rust licked itself from the half of the halberd, and—clang clang clang—its bowed blade came skipping down the corridor and inserted itself into the socket.

The torches burned brighter. Bones chattered on the floor, locking together, some of them bleeding. Cor found this strangest of all; through the slits of his eyes, he saw the bright blood wrap around the bones, coat them, and then from this primer a culture of writhing red strings, like kelp, winding around the bones. And on it went: the kelp weaving into long coils of gleaming muscle, and cartilage like snot blooming in the joints: and spurts of skin weeping from the hollows, runny and sallow like candlewax, then drying in a moment and these gory pieces twitching together: a foot to ankle, and ankle to shin, and on and on, and behind a mossy ribcage he saw the yellow-grey wings of lung forming, and on and on, slurping sounds and crunching sounds and tearing sounds…

Lying flat on the floor, Sephony reached out for her Archangel. Her head felt like it'd been mulched to hamburger; her vision wavered, presenting her with five different revolvers that shifted from side to side in front of her five different hands. At the sight of this her stomach lurched and she vomited stinging bile behind her teeth and the taste was so sharp and disgusting that it steadied her mind a bit; and she grabbed the gun; and she couldn’t remember what she wanted with it in the first place.

But it was comforting.

The halberd slid by her. It was as if someone was pulling it on an invisible line. She watched it travel—saw it slowly lift into the air and glide into a hand that was still developing skin.

Another hand gripped the haft. Twisted it, a rasping sound, getting the feel of the weapon. A good, tight grip.

Behind the glimmering blade, the ghoul snarled at her. It bared its black teeth, its twisted body glowing a vague, sick orange, a rotten pumpkin colour, and it raised the halberd and charged at Sephony, the glow trailing behind it like an after-image. Without thinking (those unknown years trumping her palm) Sephony brought up the Archangel, and pulled the trigger.

The roar was deafening. The roundnosed bullet punched through the ghoul’s collarbone and dark mud splashed the wall behind it and it dropped the halberd, reeling, screaming, a sound like an acre of glass shattering; a few feet away, Willowyn felt the violence and her head cleared immediately—she stumbled to a crouch and levelled her revolver and put a hole the size of a grapefruit in the ghoul’s head, destroying its glass-shattering scream, splattering its brains like oatmeal.

Through the terror and confusion, through the dread, both sisters had to admit that killing still felt good.

Nearly headless, the ghoul stumbled into the chair and knocked it over and lost its thoughtless footing and fell. When it smacked against the floor, leftover brains jumped from the ruins of its skull and its pummelled mouth rushed with blood and puke.

So very godsrotting good to kill.

The sisters got to their feet. The thrumming in the air subsided to a dull whine, still unpleasant but manageable. Marise and Cor got to their knees and took deep, gulping breaths.

“Everyone alright?” Sephony said, sweeping her gun, a pound and a half of pressure on the two-pound trigger.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Willowyn said, colour in her cheeks, eyes glittering, beautiful in her bloodlust.

Marise and Cor mumbled assent.

“Okay,” Sephony said. “Now get to your feet—we’re gonna try for the exit. Will, cover the stern; I’ll lead.”

Willowyn nodded. With such lunacy all around her, she was glad to assume a role she understood. When they moved forward, Willowyn walked backward, her steps careful and calm, her eyes trained down the corridor. She saw dark, amorphous smears down the way; they looked vaguely human, like forms struggling under thin sheets: a push of features, a palm, a knee. It didn’t seem to be moving… yet as they moved, these smears never grew smaller.

Willowyn cast a glance at the dead ghoul. It wasn’t there. Nor was the mess it made, the brains, the blood. Even the bullet holes in the wall were gone. She quickly snapped open her gun: one slug was dead.

What was happening here?

She pulled the shot casing and reloaded. She asked her sister to hurry this up.

“I don’t wanna rush it, Will.”

“Don’t rush it, but get us the hell out of here.”

Sephony was having problems of her own. The hole they had crept through was now an oak door, exactly the same as the one she had glimpsed when the wall melted. There was a heavy brass lock under the knob, but no matter: if she couldn’t pick it, they could just blow the hinges off. But still, it was disquieting, as a closed door usually is when all you want to do is escape.

Marise waved her torch in slow arcs, though the light from it was no longer needed. Cor did the same, his other hand caressing Rakanishu’s ward, hoping to draw some strength from it. He found it wanting. For all he knew, it was just a painted stick.

At the back of the procession, Willowyn was thinking: Those smears. What are they?

Never mind. She could hear her sister turning the doorknob. Or trying, rather.

“Locked?”

“Ay. Should I try to pick it, or—”

What happened next was so fast and unexpected that she couldn’t even finish her thought, much less speak it.


-VII-
There was a chrysalis between worlds, this the damned knew. Though how they became trapped there was a mystery even to them. But not a mystery that held much sway now: they were almost free of it. They were wriggling through the gaps.

And they were angry—angry in a way that a dog that’s caged and prodded and starved for days is angry. It was directionless, this anger, and all encompassing: it cannibalized its own burning tail, hate feeding hate, until it reached a rolling crescendo of purest wrath usually reserved for vengeful deities. It ricocheted in their heads ceaselessly. It dripped from their jagged maws like acid.

And ushered on the currents that blew through the blank chasms of history, the damned broke from the chrysalis (what Willowyn saw as a smeared sheet), the ethereal fabrics shredding not with a tear or a rip but a resounding boom, and a sound like the greatest of heavenly gears grinding; and with this clamour biting at their heels, the damned rallied and charged at the nearest hot-blooded entities, those living, breathing fleshbags, hoping to finally release their centuries-pent ire.


-VIII-
In the moment between fear and battle, Marise remembered the first time she saw a Zann Esu blink.

Not a blink of the eye, no, of course not. A blink of the body.

It was oh, ten years ago? Could it possibly have been that long?

Yes. Ten years. She was but a girl, no doubt with green-stained hands from playing catch ‘em in the grass with a hopper or a toad or something equally as silly, and her hair knotted lopsidedly, and a few proud, pink gaps in her mouth where her baby’s teeth had popped. A girl just starting to get this whole ‘magicks’ thing.

It was Kalil who blinked. Kalil was five years her senior, deeply entrenched in what Marise and her bedmates thought of as the ‘good’ training: the first true Tier, where some of the ancient secrets were offered into their green-stained hands.

Kalil (always so curious and troublesome) had pilfered a flagon of cherry wine from one of the mother’s cabinets, and she had gathered Marise and her bedmates to the forest so they could watch her drink it. By about the fifth grimfaced sip, the brush rustled down the path, and Kalil—thinking it was a mother coming to investigate where her nightly quaff had gone off to—closed her eyes and mouthed a few words and, well… blinked.

One second she was there, and another the bottle dropped from its nowhere perch and thumped on the moss, the wine streaming from the neck and darkening the earth with a smell that was both sharp and sweet.

In the moment between fear and battle: a legion of ghouls, imps and impossible horrors pried their way into the realm of the living, their weapons raised and their patchwork armour squealing, a portrait of hell’s unwanted children… and then a violent blink and the entire frothing army was but a few feet away, the shed chrysalis still flaking from their misshapen bodies like dead skin.

Marise opened her mouth to scream but an iron hammer came flying at her and caught her cheek cleanly; it crushed bone and smashed teeth, the pain unbelievable, like half her face had caved (which, sadly, was very close to the truth). She stumbled, sputtering blood, hoarse eruptions in her head, pissing herself, swallowing splinters of her own teeth, and falling, falling, always falling.

In the darkness, nothing dies, and oh how she hoped that, because here was darkness, rushing up from the floor, a blooming flower of it. It touched the contours of her body and the slime it left numbed all sensation, all pain. It cupped her eyes and her mouth, and before it cupped her ears and sent her spiralling into nothingness, she dimly heard gunfire and screaming.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Now I know how those Olympic judges feel. See, I guess I praised the last chapter rather highly, so where do I go now? There is no ten-point-one after all. So I'll flirt with understatement: awesome. I'll attempt some criticism out of sheer vanity.

I: This was very difficult. No kidding, I must have read the first paragraph at least ten times, the second half a dozen easy. It was worth it. Life as the meat of existence, and the palpable delight in something waiting to devour it. Luxuriating in its slumber, knowing, like a child on Christmas Eve, that it would surely awaken to its fondest indulgence. So creepy.

II: Maybe I am just stating the obvious but I got an image of an eye blinking. This was nicely done. I liked this: "...though fear trilled in her mind it did not touch her arm," but not this: "But if whatever’s in there can be killed, then we’ll kill it," - feels a bit cliche. Maybe that's what these two are - you seem to imply somethnig of that sort later on - but comments like that one just kind of strike a false note in the ear.

IV: The sudden change of heart was very effective: ""We should just — Leave" I thought this was weak: "(smell purest dread, blackest horror)" but this was very strong: "something big and shambling and shapeless." I really like "shambling" here - it reminded me of the Shamblers from Quake I, which was baddest of the baddies. This is one of your splendid similes: "...the enamel groaning like old floorboards. "

V: Nice opening paragraph, but this seemed out of place: "But into what? Fear? Regret?" Why would the author drop a rhetorical question in the middle of this? To break the creepiness? To ruin the mood? I wondered,... which took me away from the story...

This seemed to ring untrue as I read it: "The only thing a festering truth can ever sprout is bitterness," but this slithered up my spine: "I am what you made me."

VI: Time moving backwards? Nice. Another cliche-sounder: "Through the terror and confusion, through the dread, both sisters had to admit that killing still felt good." I know it's the sister's theme song, but somehow it's like seeing a big TV Batman "Splat" graphic thrown up in the middle of what is otherwise gripping, thrilling prose. Sigh. Loved this: the headless ghoul "lost its thoughtless footing." (So good it hurts.) I liked this "Willowyn said, colour in her cheeks, eyes glittering, beautiful in her bloodlust." (Why I don't find that cliche I don't know, but I don't.)

VIII: The extended blink-explanation was worth it, because it cashed the check you wrote at the end of VI: "What happened next was so fast and unexpected that she couldn’t even finish her thought, much less speak it." I was thinking "sure, sure" as I read that, but by the time I got to "and then a violent blink and the entire frothing army was but a few feet away," I was a believer. That was sweet, but this was sour: " (which, sadly, was very close to the truth)." If you are going to write prose that flows like an open artery do NOT stop to drop in folksy by-the-ways in a voice like Mr. Rogers. (That was a friendly tip.)

An Overall Comment: Time's negative is a compelling concept, but it's a difficult metaphor. Metaphors are useful because they provide an easy reference for a reader. Time's negative is anything but an easy example. What exactly is it? I'd like you to spend time drawing out the concept, exploring it, exposing it, making me understand it, but everytime you drop that phrase in I am reminded of the fact that I don't quite understand what it is. What you really need is a metaphor for time's negative.

Another: I've got my $6.95 ready. Let me know when you find a publisher.

[Clarke667]

Gee... I don't know what to say, 0xDeadCafe (or can I call you Cafe? maybe 0x? 0DC? My kingdom for a viable nickname!). Thanks for the kinditudes. Hella glad you're digging the story, much as a dig your work.

Maybe somewhere down the line we can collaborate on something? Your stories seem to be a little more light-hearted and funny, and seeing how I have cancer of the humerus (see? that was my idea of a joke, for god's sake), it might actually work out. And then Rev and point out our combined spelling and grammar errors. :D

Who knows. Food for thought.

Oh, and you're largely right about the cliches... but in the defense of "if whatever’s in there can be killed, then we’ll kill it", I sort of needed it there to set up the "in the darkness, nothing dies" call-back. But yeah, maybe I should edit it to something that isn't so groan-inducing.

Time's negative is a compelling concept, but it's a difficult metaphor.

I realize that I've been walking a fine line, here. Time's negative, the chrysalis, etc. I'm toying with some pretty heavy concepts, and I'm finding it difficult to hit the target... you know, define these ideas, but not lock them down completely. Cuz the last thing I wanna do is say "Time's negative is this and only this" and "the chrysalis between worlds is this big and this wide".

Another: I've got my $6.95 ready. Let me know when you find a publisher.

You can just send me the money now, and I swear I'll use it to find a publisher... or maybe just a pub, which you have to admit is pretty darn close. A step in the right direction, I'd say.

PS The Interdimensional Shamblers in Quake scared the piss out of me.

[RevenantsKnight]

Whoof. Maybe it was just me, but the erratic format and irregular style made this a little tough on a first shot. However, once I got past that, it was indeed excellent in your way of spinning together a lot of great ideas and images, so congrats on that. Some comments:

The sour-milk taste of living, so wet and fine, and feeling everything, the delicate fur on the spilled caps of its scabs, the hot slurry moving through its caked bowels, living, life, ever beauteous meat of existence.

Technically, “...and feeling everything...” refers to the “taste of living,” as if the taste is doing the feeling. Now, I’m not sure if you consider a change as a break in the necessary style, but I’d suggest “...and the feeling of everything...” instead.

As soon as they ghostly moan slipped through the room, the wall began to bubble and run, like it was not made of stone and mortar but wet putty.

I think “they” should be “the.” Also, “slipped through” suggests that it passed right through the room; if you meant that the wall melted the instant the sound entered, I’d change it to “slipped into.”

Steam rose from the widening pool, and with a slight cry Marise edged away from it, not knowing if the muck was scalding or poisonous, or if something wetly formless would lash up from the slate grey depths and twist around her ankle.

Nice job with the thoughts here.

“But if whatever’s in there can be killed, then we’ll kill it.”
This worked for me, seeing as Sephony’s not exactly the best speaker in the world; I could imagine her saying something a bit worn just to steady herself.

“Reckon its safe?” Willowyn asked her sister.

That should be “it’s.”

“There’s not much I can reckon at this point, to say sooth.”

Not sure why, but “to say sooth” broke up the flow of the reading for me, maybe because it’s not exactly a common phrase. This isn’t a big problem by any measure, but if you’ve got the time...

Sephony smiled. Like all the rest of her smiles, she wore it badly.

Heh. Nice.

It was corridor, they saw, the ceiling low, doorways at either side, archways, holes; as they made their way, they noticed bones on the floor, drifts of dust, the odd relic—a brazier, a smashed chair, the rusted haft of what might’ve been a halberd.

I think that should be “It was a corridor,” and “as they made their way” sounds incomplete to me, as if you forgot “forward” or something.

(smell purest dread, blackest horror)

I agree with 0xDEADCAFE; this stuck out in a not-so-good way. Personally, I don’t think you lose much by deleting it.

No. The only thing a festering truth can ever sprout is bitterness.

And again, 0xDEADCAFE already called this one, but here’s my opinion: “truth” is a bit too general; what you have doesn’t convey specifically the idea of a repressed and burning realization. My suggestion would be to change it to something like “a denied revelation,” where there’s a sense that this might have benefited them had they not buried it.

It clacked as it did this, like it was singing.

This image felt like a bit too much of a stretch for me. The rest of this part, though, was quite good.

It was as if someone was pulling it on an invisible line.

This did feel a little cliché...though maybe that’s just me.

The hole they had crept through was now an oak door, exactly the same as the one she had glimpsed when the wall melted.

Continuity: Willowyn was the one who saw the door, and if Sephony did too, you didn’t say it.

But still, it was disquieting, as a closed door usually is when all you want to do is escape.

The narrator’s use of “you” was a little jarring here; I’d see if you can reword it to change that direct address.

There was a chrysalis between worlds, this the damned knew. Though how they became trapped there was a mystery even to them.

Just a stylistic thing: I find that starting sentences with words like “though” tend to sound like unintentional fragments, even when they’re not fragments and are intentional. I’d just make this one sentence by turning the comma after “worlds” into a semicolon and replacing the period with a comma.

A girl just starting to get this whole ‘magicks’ thing.

This sounded a little too familiar, or as 0xDEADCAFE put it, like Mr. Rogers. I’d definitely try to get rid of these types of points, because they don’t fit well with the atmosphere of the rest of the story.

Kalil (always so curious and troublesome) had pilfered a flagon of cherry wine from one of the mother’s cabinets, and she had gathered Marise and her bedmates to the forest so they could watch her drink it.

I’d use commas instead of parentheses here, since the parentheses stand out more and call attention to something that’s not really essential to the story.

One second she was there, and another the bottle dropped from its nowhere perch and thumped on the moss, the wine streaming from the neck and darkening the earth with a smell that was both sharp and sweet.

I’d change “another” to “the next,” though I’m not sure if there’s a real reason behind this suggestion.

(which, sadly, was very close to the truth).

As 0xDEADCAFE said, this sounds off, but for me the one word that does it is “sadly.” Without that, the narrator’s apparent personal interest in the story disappears, and then it’s much more in keeping with the tone.

It’s good, but you probably could have guessed I’d say that...so, yeah...just waiting for the next one over here. Thanks for posting!

[Clarke667]

Whoof. Maybe it was just me, but the erratic format and irregular style made this a little tough on a first shot.

Jeez... shut up, you pompous anal retentive!

It's a revolution goddammit! Overthrow the Revenantstyrant!

Ha. Okay, I'm obviously kidding. No need for Snowglare to mosey down here and pistolwhip me like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas.

Yet again, thanks for the comments. You and 0xDeadCafe have pretty much convinced me to omit the "Mr Rogers" aspects of the chapter (how did that cartigan-wearing bastard get in there, anyways?). The "festering truth" bit needs some work, as well. Good calls all around.

Next chapter up soon. Hope you're not squimish...

[Snowglare]

Jeez... shut up, you pompous anal retentive!

It's a revolution goddammit! Overthrow the Revenantstyrant!

Ha. Okay, I'm obviously kidding. No need for Snowglare to mosey down here and pistolwhip me like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas.

aww... Not even a little?

[Clarke667]

Okay, maybe a little.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Eighteen (pt 1)

Willowyn saw Marise drop. She saw her crushed head bounce off the floor tiles; she saw her twitch, tremble, then lay still. Willowyn was never much for sympathy; she thought, Unfortunate, and then turned her attention to the oncoming hoard.

Sephony felt shock. Cor felt fear. All Willowyn felt was lust, and careful joy, and the clarity which trailed behind it like the tail of a comet. She had artisan’s eyes, a calm carpenter’s gaze; she could have been examining a chunk of driftwood and wondering what could be made of it. And she saw it—she saw it quickly, cleanly, and without romance.

Like Johan Branch, the things Willowyn built were not pretty. But they were efficient.

The Archangel: a good tool for this part of the work. Sephony could wonder where she came across it and how she learned its ways, but Willowyn could not have cared less. It was what it was... as was she... and though their histories were shrouded in mystery, both had a sharply defined purpose.

Purpose. Purpose was good. You could set your timepiece by it.

She fanned the hammer, the hard pads of her palm catching the grooves, her trigger finger tense, a buzzing along the loops and whorls of her fingerprint, like crackles of electricity. She squeezed the trigger when she heard the hammer click back and then she heard the hammer slap the primer and the primer scream and the barrel scream and the reined kick of the gun, the white lick of fire; a ghoul took the slug in the nose and his face peeled back around it, and fan/pull/fire an imp went tumbling, its heart pummelled to mush in its chest.

Fan/pull/fire: a convoluted, waxy creature lost its head in a shower of meat. Fan/pull/fire, and quick now, right after it fan/pull/fire/fan/pull/fire and bodies dropping like cut marionettes, the hot smoke in Willowyn’s nose, the burnt powder speckling her wrist—her sharp artisan’s eyes and her wet oxblood lips, and Sephony walking in front of her and covering Willowyn while she reloaded.

The casings burned crescents into her thumb and forefinger as she plucked them. Dull thunder, claps of light: Sephony chopping them down like matchwood. And Willowyn thought: Time will never end for us. She thought: Inexorable eternality without rest, and if we can kill the whole way, till the end of everything, then good.

Loading fresh bullets—could anything be finer? All this promise set in brass, one bullet two bullet three, a half-smile in the Archangel’s cylinder.

I’ll kill every world I come across. I’ll burn every book and crush every story, and soon enough there will be no history but the history that’s whispered from dying ember to dying ember. Whole cities razed. Entire continents brought to cinder. And whatever God that’s cursed us, he’ll see my face before he winks out of existence.

She snapped the drum closed and took her place in front of Sephony as her sister reloaded. They were beating back the army by increments, the noise and fire confusing them, shattering their offensive front; this would be temporary, though—they would rally and then it would be tooth and nail. Which was just fine by Willowyn.

Throughout all of this, Cor felt guilty. Well… he mostly felt scared and panicked and doomed, but running under these feelings like an aquifer, was the guilt of cowering. He was never much of a fighter—that was Degg’s lot—but he could fight, in fact he should fight, the sisters were doing all the work and Marise, sweet poor Marise, she was dead and he was doing nothing.

Around him, in a haze of blued smoke, bullets cracked open skulls. They excavated chests. The gaping wounds screamed smoke and gruel.

The thing was, he didn’t need to fight. That was the problem. If the ghouls surrounded him, he was sure he would defend himself, however ineptly; he would thrash and kick and bite and hope to take at least one of them down before Death tapped him on the shoulder. But strangely, the hoard was ignoring him. He supposed this was because there were imps amid their ranks (oh shame of shames). Maybe if these unholy creatures stopped and smelled the hot blood pumping through him, they would attack… but there was far too much happening. They had chosen to pit themselves against the two vilest humans Cor had ever seen, and were paying the price in blood.

Cor scurried over to Marise, the guilt now beating in his head like a drum.

Poor Marise… she was so young, and so very ugly in death. Even that had been taken from her, that last thing everyone hopes for: a corpse that doesn’t make bile rise into hardclenched throats. One of her eyes was open, the pupil a pinprick, and the other eye was, quite frankly, ever terribly, an eye no longer. It was like a popped grape in the red mess of its socket, oozing pale tendrils of fluid, a part of the iris flopped on her cheek like a bit of torn cloth. Broken teeth: he forced himself to look at this, this was his ownership: the gums mashed, lips crushed, coal black bruises on her cheek, overlapping, and when Cor brushed a hand on the side of her brow that was unmarred, and ran it down to her pallid cheek, he felt her breathe.

It was impossibly shallow, this breathing, like a rustle of silk. But it was a breath. He gingerly pressed a thumb to her neck: a weak beat of blood. She was alive.

Her pinprick pupil twitched larger. It slid and regarded Cor.

“Rak weeps,” Cor whispered. “You’re alive.”

She tried moving her jaw. The results were ugly.

“No, don’t. Lay still, little one. Not a move.” Ghouls clamoured around them, a forest of gnarled legs, taloned toes. The gunfire had ceased and now Cor saw the sisters rampant with the blades, steel flashing, the shear of smooth deep wounding; Sephony took a ghoul’s head with a swipe of her suwayyah and the headless corpse spun around like a blood dervish; Willowyn pushed a club-wielding imp against a wall and unzipped his hot guts, kicked him aside and planted knives in the nearest neck.

Deep in his head, Cor heard: Kill me.

“Marise? Are you—?”

Kill me. The pain; I, I can’t…

“No, you—just, just wait Marise, listen.”

End it. Please. I I I beg it of you, I’m dying, I, I the pain I. I can’t.

“Listen. Touch one of the sisters’ minds. Whichever one seems softer on you. Have her help you. You—you’re not dying.”

Silence. A feeling like a gathering of gnats in Cor’s head. And then, ever clearly, a single word:

Liar.

[Clarke667]

Chapter Eighteen (pt 2)

Still, Marise felt a far off glimmer of hope, no bigger than the head of a needle. The agony attacked it, ate it away to the size of a grain of sand. Yet it remained, minuscule and defiant, whether she wanted it or not.

Marise concentrated. Feral pain clawed the soft belly of her mind, and the juices that flowed from these ragged cuts were as hot as molten lava. It torched the living edifice of her mind; it billowed flame smoke down the corridors of her consciousness and scorched them black. She would’ve cried out if she could. She would’ve stopped if she hadn’t already gone so far. She concentrated.

And deep inside, barricaded in the last alcove untouched by the killing fire that blew through her, was a hint of the perfection. She eased it out of the alcove and carried it through the burning tunnels of her mind, ever careful, shielding it from the fire and poisonous smoke. She brought the perfection to the destroyed aperture of her mouth, kissed its ephemeral wings, and sent it flying.

Sephony, the perfection spoke, and Sephony nearly faltered in her execution of a nearby ghoul. As it was, the tapered blade of her suwayyah missed the abomination’s heart but snapped through its sternum, doing more than enough damage to kill it. Still, she pulled the blade plunged it back, this time right on the mark.

Sephony. Help.

Marise?

The hoard was thinning, now down to about a handful of attackers. Yet down the corridor… beyond the heaps of corpses… was another chrysalis. A smudged cocoon of time, throbbing darkly. It would break soon. It would spill another hoard.

Sephony grit her teeth and rushed through the rest of the ghouls and imps like a thresher. Her blade shrieked laughter in the mute tongues of steel, streaked with blood, blood everywhere, fountains and banners and cascades. A red hurricane with she as the I. The creatures panicked, some laying down arms and pleading for mercy and finding little; others turned tail and ran. Willowyn took this opportunity to slam three bullets in her gun and pick them off. It reminded her of stalking the rails, those days ago that felt like ages.

Time had lost most of its significance to her.

Down the corridor, the chrysalis swelled to bursting.

Sephony palmed blood from her face. “Will?”

“Yeah?”

“I think Marise is still alive.”

“She is,” Cor said. “I’ve been—”

“Quiet, traitor,” Willowyn snarled. She was picking gobs of brain from her coat, and didn’t look at Cor when she spoke. “You’re in league with these creatures, and I’ll have your head before the second wave.”

Sephony knelt by Marise and examined her quickly and expertly. If there was one thing she’d seen much of in her days, it was injury.

“She’s fading,” Sephony said. “It won’t be long.”

“But she’s Zann Esu,” Cor said. “She can… fix herself.”

“Not likely. She could barely put her finger back together. This—this is a bit more serious.”

“But it’s possible.”

“Perhaps,” Sephony said. She hunkered. She considered. “If…”

“Seph?”

“Yeah Will?”

“Load your godsrotting gun. It’s starting.”

She fed the Archangel, noticing something strange happening to a smoking corpse beside her. It was somehow being erased: an arm disappeared and then a leg and then its head, its trunk, until it was completely gone. Another corpse nearby was rubbing out as well, and when she looked at the chrysalis, she saw it grow.

This will keep happening, she thought. Wave after wave after wave, until we shoot all our bullets, and slash our blades dull. And then there will be one last wave, and it will devour us. And—I’ve no doubt—we will then join them.

“Cover me, Will. I’m gonna pick the—”

But the oak door was gone. Its smooth absence laughed at Sephony, and spoke of the trap they’d so easily stumbled into.

Sephony said, “We’ve gotta move. Down that hallway. Now.”

“Alright.” She spun the cylinder of her gun. She turned to Cor.

“Wait, I—”

“Here’s the plan, goblin. We’re breaking for the hallway. You stay here and slow them down.”

“But how will I—”

Willowyn answered by shooting him in the knee.

[RevenantsKnight]

Whoo-ee...I’m sure Willowyn was kicking you in the butt and screaming for you get to this part already the whole time you were writing the previous chapters. Anyway, this was well done, and I especially appreciated the fact that it didn’t degenerate into a blow-by-blow account, which happens too often when people do fight scenes (myself included.) There were a few specifics that caught me up as I read this, but on the whole it was quite engaging. Now, about those specifics...

Willowyn was never much for sympathy; she thought, Unfortunate, and then turned her attention to the oncoming hoard.

But strangely, the hoard was ignoring him.

The hoard was thinning, now down to about a handful of attackers.

Erm...do you mean “horde”? .

She squeezed the trigger when she heard the hammer click back and then she heard the hammer slap the primer and the primer scream and the barrel scream and the reined kick of the gun, the white lick of fire; a ghoul took the slug in the nose and his face peeled back around it, and fan/pull/fire an imp went tumbling, its heart pummelled to mush in its chest.

Wow...vivid indeed. Nicely done, though there was one thing that struck me as odd: wouldn’t “its” be better than “his” for a ghoul?

All this promise set in brass, one bullet two bullet three, a half-smile in the Archangel’s cylinder.

If the Archangel has a six-round capacity, then wouldn’t three bullets be a semicircle, or a full smile?

They were beating back the army by increments, the noise and fire confusing them, shattering their offensive front; this would be temporary, though—they would rally and then it would be tooth and nail.

“Offensive front” sounds a little too technical here. “Scattering the first of them” or something like that might work better.

Well… he mostly felt scared and panicked and doomed, but running under these feelings like an aquifer, was the guilt of cowering.

The first part of this feels too familiar for the narrator, and seems awkward given all the fighting and such. Also, that comma after “aquifer” looks unnecessary to me, unless you were planning on expanding the simile and adding another comma after “feelings.”

He was never much of a fighter—that was Degg’s lot—but he could fight, in fact he should fight, the sisters were doing all the work and Marise, sweet poor Marise, she was dead and he was doing nothing.

Not entirely sure about this, but the commas separating “in fact he should fight” look like they should be periods or semicolons.

The gaping wounds screamed smoke and gruel.

Uh...”gruel”? Maybe that’d work if you shot someone who’d just eaten gruel in the stomach, but otherwise this seems really weird to me.

The gunfire had ceased and now Cor saw the sisters rampant with the blades, steel flashing, the shear of smooth deep wounding; Sephony took a ghoul’s head with a swipe of her suwayyah and the headless corpse spun around like a blood dervish; Willowyn pushed a club-wielding imp against a wall and unzipped his hot guts, kicked him aside and planted knives in the nearest neck.

“Rampant with the blades” sounded rough to my ear. Did you mean something like “rampaging with their blades”?

Feral pain clawed the soft belly of her mind, and the juices that flowed from these ragged cuts were as hot as molten lava...She eased it out of the alcove and carried it through the burning tunnels of her mind, ever careful, shielding it from the fire and poisonous smoke.

I’d see if you can’t replace one or two of the uses of “mind” with something else, the repetition is especially noticeable since the rest of this part is very well done.

As it was, the tapered blade of her suwayyah missed the abomination’s heart but snapped through its sternum, doing more than enough damage to kill it.

“...doing more than enough damage...” felt too much like something out of a game, since it implies (to me) a sort of quantification of the harm dealt. In cases like these, I’d just go with an additional description of what actually happened.

It would spill another hoard.

Now this might not have been your intent, but “hoard” does work here, as that particular spelling stands for “An accumulation or collection of anything valuable hidden away” (www.oed.com)...kind of a nice image actually.

Sephony grit her teeth and rushed through the rest of the ghouls and imps like a thresher.

I think that should be “gritted,” though I could be wrong.

A red hurricane with she as the I.

Did you mean that as in the “eye of a hurricane” or “eye of the storm”? Also, I think that should be “her,” not “she.”

Righty then...do I actually get to find out what Rakanishu’s wand does next? Maybe, eh? :) Well, I look forward to finding out, and thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

This read much more easily than the previous chapter, and I agree totally with Rev that it did not bog down into blow-by-blow action. Nice combination of action-fighting and intimate-backstory. I know you don't like it when I say things like this but sometimes your writing just seems so effortless. Bastard! (Sorry, can't stay and chat more - I've got to get back to beating my busy sentences out of stone with my tiny little lead hammer...)

They were beating back the army by increments, the noise and fire confusing them,... I think there is a problem with the antecedent of "them". I assume it is referring to members of the army, but it initially felt like it referred to the "They" at the start of the sentence.


Liar.That's not Marise talking. It could be Seph or Willowyn but never Marise. Liar? The whitest white lie ever told, told daily a million times to loved ones, friends, the sick, old and lonely, told out of compassion, kindness, weakness, frailty, desperation. Liar? Not Marise. No matter how much she hurt, she wouldn't say it.


Her blade shrieked laughter in the mute tongues of steel... That's excellent. And separately, it reminds me a little of the movie Conan the Barbarian, the discipline of steel and all that: "I will drive my enemies before me... and hear the lamentation of the women." (Hey, I really dig that movie, and I WILL be baaaack! )


...those days ago that felt like ages.I think I get this but the wording seems wrong. I'm not sure "ago" quite works.


Willowyn answered by shooting him in the knee.Cap'd him eh? Cold. (I still think the sisters are too nice.)


fan/pull/fireAbout fanning: as it happens, I saw a program on the History channel this week about famous gunfights of the old (American) West. It went into detail about the people, guns and techniques used. Fanning, as they described it, involved pulling the trigger just once and then holding it. With the trigger in this position, pulling the hammer back and releasing it fires a bullet. To fire more quickly, gunfighters would hold the trigger down and use their non-shooting hand to repeatedly slap the hammer back and release it. The show claimed an expert in this technique could fire 6 shots in about 2 seconds.

So, my first point is that fan/pull/fire sequence may not be quite accurate, since pulling the trigger is not required after the first shot. Secondly, the show stressed the point that, although you could fire quickly with this technique, you were unllikely to hit anything other than the side of a barn due to the constant slapping of the hammer, which made holding the gun steady, and hence aiming, mostly wishful thinking.

Now we come to the two suwayyad sisters. They are both wearing at least a few pounds of steel on the hand that they would use to "fan" their guns, which would not only make the unsteadying impact on the hammer, and the gun, that much greater, but also suggests that they would have been unable to move their hands easily enough to fan very quickly, which is the only benefit to this technique. Granted these two may be experts but, given the weight of their claws, the mechanics described on the History channel, and their (reportedly) deadly aim, it seems unlikely that S & W could actually be fanning.

Would any of this have occurred to me if not for my chance encounter with the History channel? Absolutely not. So is it a real problem for the story? Nah, but given the way you weave the flavor of gunfighting into the story, I thought you might be interested.

'Til next time pardner, keep your barrels clean and your gullet oiled. (Fires a long, juicy sluicy into a nearby spitoon with deadly accuracy, and tips his ten gallon hat.)

[Clarke667]

Whoo-ee...I’m sure Willowyn was kicking you in the butt and screaming for you get to this part already the whole time you were writing the previous chapters.

No kidding. You know, I tend to dislike when writers get all "writerly", if ya get what I mean--acting like their characters are just so real to them, or that the act of composition is like God Himself whispering in their ear.... I usually just chalk that up to overcompensation, because (let's be honest) writing is a pretty mundane activity. We're not putting out flaming buildings, here, or rocketing into space at mach 5. In fact, I'd go so far as saying that writing has more in common with jerking off than communion with the Divine. Think about it: sitting alone in a dark room, the door closed, and after a good session your wrists hurt.

But then something comes along and proves the above reasoning to be completely and absolutely full of ****.

Willowyn, for example. Sephony too. Sometimes it really does seem like they're dictating the story to me and not the other way around. Like Willowyn shooting Cor: that just sort of... happened.

Is it ever that way with you? Or anyone else here? It's a subject I've been interested in for awhile, so if anyone wants to share a few words while waiting for the next chapter, that would certainly be peachy keen.

Erm...do you mean “horde”?

Christ. I'm an idiot. That's just the sort of thing I should know. Thanks for the snag, Captain Retentive.

If the Archangel has a six-round capacity, then wouldn’t three bullets be a semicircle, or a full smile?

Good point.

Uh...”gruel”? Maybe that’d work if you shot someone who’d just eaten gruel in the stomach, but otherwise this seems really weird to me.

Agreed... I was just getting so sick of using blood and gore; tried to change it up a bit; failed.

Now this might not have been your intent, but “hoard” does work here

I like. I will now pretend that's what I meant all along, and thereby rob you of any credit.

Did you mean that as in the “eye of a hurricane” or “eye of the storm”?

Ha! I actually meant it to be "I"--God am I ever pretentious. Looking back, I have to wonder what the **** I was thinking. Time to go bathe in lye.

Righty then...do I actually get to find out what Rakanishu’s wand does next?

***Spoiler alert! The wand writes patchwork novelettes in the style of William S. Burroughs. It also gets drunk at fancy parties and tells everyone what it really thinks of them.

Thank for reading, Rev.

[Clarke667]

I know you don't like it when I say things like this but (...)

I'm lying. I secretly love it when people compliment me, but I act all modest because I secretly love being thought of as modest. It's a good quality, and I won't let the fact that I do not possess it stop me.

Bastard!

That reminds me, I was thinking about forming a punk-rock band called "The Tourettes". Can you play the tambourine by any chance?

That's not Marise talking.

Yes it is.

It could be Seph or Willowyn but never Marise.

Dude, it totally is.

Liar? Not Marise.

What did I just say? Jeez, do I have to like, write it down in a story or something for you to believe me?

No matter how much she hurt, she wouldn't say it.

She totally said it.

(...) but given the way you weave the flavor of gunfighting into the story, I thought you might be interested.

Thanks guy. That was interesting. I still think the sisters could do it, and I cite my many years of never actually holding or shooting a firearm as proof of this.

'Til next time pardner

See you 'round the Ponderosa, Slick.

[RevenantsKnight]

Is it ever that way with you? Or anyone else here? It's a subject I've been interested in for awhile, so if anyone wants to share a few words while waiting for the next chapter, that would certainly be peachy keen.

First off, I tend to write with my roommate in the room, the door open, the lights on, and my wrists don't usually hurt afterwards, so I'll take your word for it on the...vivid...comparison. :p But anyway, writing for me is 90+% of the time pretty mundane, as you've said. I'm a bit of a slow writer usually, so I'll hammer out a couple paragraphs per sitting and be happy with them, and maybe especially pleased with a handful of sentences, but I don't exactly come away from it feeling spiritually elevated or something. In these times, I can logically connect most of what I'm doing to my greater ideas of characters, plots, etc. and it feels like I'm in control, not my characters.

...However, on occasion, I'll start writing and go on for a while, then I'll stop as I realize that somehow, somewhere along the line, I went from just writing to...well, something else. I'm not really sure how I'd characterize this, other than as a period of massive productivity where I get wet eyes and emotional sniffles every few minutes. Sometimes I can trace this back to something, and sometimes not.

I don't know if what I come up with in these periods is my "best" writing, and my first thought isn't that it's divine inspiration, but if I read over these passages, they ring true for me much more so than usual, and I suspect that these bits may stand out to others somewhat. For example, my favorite story started on a rush of inspiration that resulted in its "completion" after maybe 2-3 weeks, while another that I don't like quite as much took me a year to finally get to a point where I was willing to show it to someone else.


Thank for reading, Rev.

My pleasure.

[Snowglare]

My wrists don't hurt afterwards, either, and I like the light on.

Writing is way down on my list of fun-filled activities. More often than not I hate what I write, what I think of writing but don't, and every noise and stray thought that distracts me. When I write something of moderate length, when I reach what looks like a less than premature stopping point, and I have before me some facsimile of good writing, something that I can read through without wanting to tear it apart, I feel... good*. Satisfaction, accomplishment. I made something, and it doesn't suck. I think.

Sometimes I'll go back later and shred it anyways. It's all wrong, and I didn't see it till now. Or a revised paragraph square pegs the rest of the tale, and I have to rewrite one or the other. The new paragraph is, of course, better, so the remainder is quite viciously slaughtered. I don't believe I've ever felt like a story was writing itself. Maybe I don't remember. Maybe I'm too hung up on technical perfection to allow any muses to make contact. My writing progresses in a stutterstep fashion, with sporadic bursts of inspiration where I may write as much as a whole paragraph before I run out of ideas, or stop to puzzle over a bit of punctuation.

*And a little like a god.

[Clarke667]

First off, I tend to write with my roommate in the room, the door open, the lights on, and my wrists don't usually hurt afterwards

My wrists don't hurt afterwards, either, and I like the light on.

You guys are making me look bad, here.

I guess I fit the typical writer's mold: lights off (or at least dimmed), no distractions of any kind, smoking cigarette after cigarette, coffee after coffee, mumbling to myself incoherently... the latter was something I found out second hand, and it sort of creeped me out; I have no clear recollection of speaking when I write, but just about every time my gf comes in to my dungeon and asks me if I want a drink or a sammich, she asks me just who in the hell I'm talking to.

Does that happen to anyone else?

"Communion with the Divine" is a bit of a lofty idea, and one I don't necessarily subscribe to... but I have to agree with Snowglare in that I feel a little like a God... and seeing how I talk to myself when I write, I guess I am communicating with the Divine, and the Divine just happens to be me (okay, so maybe I have a bit of a superiority complex).

And I'll admit it: my wrist hurt after I write. It could be due to my nigh-Olympic sessions; I'll write probably 10 or 15 pages in the afternoon, then a few more later, and then revisions at night. Plus in between these periods, I'm playing mind-rotting videogames or hitting the benchpress. Not to mention I'm almost constantly masturbating (kidding, kidding).

So thanks to both of you for your thoughts. Hope you folks don't mind that I tend to ask all these questions between chapters; just trying to keep things lively and interesting (or a reasonable facsimile thereof).

Anyone else wanna chime in on this topic of “Writing is Talking with Yahweh while Wanking Off?”

[0xDEADCAFE]

I can really identify with what Snow's written. For most of my life I have been firmly in the "hate writing, loved having written" camp. For me, writing can be like having a tooth pulled: wanting to get it all on paper but simultaneously wanting to fly out of my chair, to go do something, anything that's more fun and easier. Even when the fires of inspiration are burning, the tension between the compelling beauty in my head and the unbearable ugliness on the paper can be almost intolerably daunting.

But recently, since I discovered this forum, that has begun to change. For the first time in my life I can now, at least occasionally, look forward to an evening of writing; I might even go so far as to say it is sometimes fun. Why is that? It seems that the twin horns of difficulty and disappointment are becoming duller, and I think I know how.

Reading the many posts here is both a learning process and a humbling experience. The learning comes both from reading examples of good writing and from the many thoughtful criticisms posted by readers. Each little nugget becomes another tool in my toolbox, which helps me get it on paper easier, which allows me to write a little more. And the more I write the easier it seems to get. That's an important issue. After a long day of work, do I really want to sit down and write? Well, that depends in part on how hard I think it will be.

The humility comes from reading works that are flawed, amateurish, difficult, bungled, and yet somehow still wonderful, exciting, inspiring and enjoyable. When I see someone be brilliant and then awful in the same paragraph, when I thrill to originality and great story-telling that come through the words despite the occasional mistake, the sometimes poor writing, I realize that I don't have be perfect either, and it encourages me to think that someone else can like my stories even if I don't write like a pro, even if it's not that good. And for me that's humbling. If I can so easily forgive the mistakes in the writing of others, then maybe I can do the same when it comes to my own, and that, good citizens, is a great liberation.

And then there is the motivation: nothing pushes me back to the keyboard like exchanging comments with other writers about their work and mine.

Snow, while I wish you the best with your future struggles, know this at least: this forum is making a big difference to at least one strugging writer.

[Clarke667]

Snow, while I wish you the best with your future struggles, know this at least: this forum is making a big difference to at least one strugging writer.

Seconded wholeheartedly. No bull****, no jokes, just agreement.

[RevenantsKnight]

I can really identify with what Snow's written. For most of my life I have been firmly in the "hate writing, loved having written" camp. For me, writing can be like having a tooth pulled: wanting to get it all on paper but simultaneously wanting to fly out of my chair, to go do something, anything that's more fun and easier.

Heh, yeah...the reason most of my writing sessions don't crank out more than a couple paragraphs, other than my inherent slowness, is because it feels way too hard to sit down and write at times. Personally, though, this doesn't bug me much; I'd rather do something more useful than conjure up another page or two that doesn't quite compare with the rest of the story. I try to write only when I'm in a good and tolerant mood, which might explain why I don't ever "hate writing."

Even when the fires of inspiration are burning, the tension between the compelling beauty in my head and the unbearable ugliness on the paper can be almost intolerably daunting.

It doesn't hit "intolerably daunting" for me, but I'll wholeheartedly agree that it's not a fun thing to realize that what I'm writing doesn't really get across half of what I want to say.

And then there is the motivation: nothing pushes me back to the keyboard like exchanging comments with other writers about their work and mine.

This forum and the feedback provided definitely helps with the whole motivation bit; just under half of my stories/chapters have been written during the time I've been a member here, and I started this whole Diablo fan fiction thing maybe a year and a half before that.

Snow, while I wish you the best with your future struggles, know this at least: this forum is making a big difference to at least one strugging writer.

Thirded, I guess. :D