Curse of Graves

[0xDEADCAFE]

Something I started a few years ago, but never took very far. Lately its been on my mind again so I thought I would have another go. It's a tale of boy meets necromancer, with maybe a teeny bit of questing.

Chapter 1 starts in the next post. Comments invited.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 1: Harbinger

A black speck winged on the horizon, but the boy was not watching.

The matron said, “Graves,” but the boy was not listening.

“His name is Graves - do you hear? - whom you shall address as Master Slayer. And you will do so with all the respect that a young rascal such as yourself can muster. Roll your eyes all you want! You will attend this man, and attend him well, or I will find you the darkest, foulest corner of this monastery, and leave you there with nary candle nor broom ‘til it is clean enough for the Lady herself to take her tea!”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, if that’s what you think,“ said the boy, “and I cleaned plenty of dark corners before I became a novice. I’m not supposed to have to do that anymore. I am supposed to be out practicing my weaponry lessons with the other novices!”

He turned his back on the matron and took a few steps toward the window where he could see the rows of students training on the practice field below. Above his gaze, the black speck was gliding across the sky, nearing imperceptibly.

“It’s not fair,” he mumbled to himself. Everything about this thing disgusted him, but he knew his best chance against the matron was not to throw a tantrum, but to show respect for the rules in which he was schooled. Raising his voice for the matron to hear, he said, “It is the duty of all novices to train in the fighting arts and learn the way of battles,” and then added, in a somewhat lowered voice, “not wait on some smelly old codger who’s too weak to even feed himself!”

The matron sat down and sighed deeply. She regretted her moment of pique and tried again with more dignity. “And what of history?” she asked. “Is it not also the duty of every novice to learn the history of this monastery and that of the wide world as well?”

The boy ignored her. Standing at the window with arms crossed and feet apart he stared longingly at the field below where the novices moved as one to the calls of the apprentice masters. His muscles twitched as he heard the familiar commands. He closed his eyes, imagining himself down on the field, moving with the others, feeling the balance of the fighting stances, enjoying the effortless command of his body and that his strong arms and legs gave him.

The matron gazed expectantly at him for a few moments, then realizing he had not heeded her question, said coolly: “I am told that you are somewhat skilled at the fighting arts, for a novice of course.”

At this the boy whirled around, hissing, “Somewhat skilled! I’ve won every tournament I was ever old enough to enter. I’m the best - everyone knows that!”

Satisfied with the response that her remark had drawn, the matron pondered her next move. “I can see you are prideful,” she said in even quieter tones, and then dropped her gaze to some papers on her desk.

“Am I?” he said, taking a few proud strides towards her. “No one beats me with staff or fist, and soon I’ll complete my training in spear and sword-” he broke off suddenly, and then, as if suddenly remembering something important, continued, “-and I’ll soon have trials. How am I to get top marks if I’m not allowed to train?”

Now the matron ignored the boy, at least outwardly, and began importantly pushing some papers around her desk. Then, without looking up, she said, “You will be given ample opportunity to impress the masters.” Then after a few more moments of very important pushing she stood up and walked slowly over to the tall mannish boy. “Now, I ask you again, what of history?”

“History?” he said. “We learn it in lessons.”

“You do,” she stated flatly, strolling around the boy. “In what year was this monastery built?”

“Uh…”

“Who was the last of the ancient monks? The one who was so important during the last struggle against the darkness?

“…”

“You did say you learned it in lessons, did you not? Or were you speaking only of the other novices?”

“Names and dates! What does a warrior need with these things?”

“Why in heaven Master Adema chose you for this task!” she cried loudly to herself as she turned from the boy and walked back toward her desk. She stopped suddenly as she reached it, and turned around, looking hard at the boy, continuing, “But perhaps…, perhaps you need this task more than it needs you.” Then, setting her closed fist down on the desk and leaning, she said, “It is just possible that you will learn some appreciation for history before you’re done with it.”

The boy showed his puzzlement on his face, but the matron just stood and stared at him, saying nothing. After several uncomfortable seconds under the matron’s formidable glare, he finally asked, “So, what is this Graves, an old history teacher or something?”

The matron answered him thoughtfully. “In a manner of speaking, perhaps, but more to the point, boy, he is history.”

Even more puzzled, but defying the matron to get the best of him, he raised his voice a little and said in his best imitation of studious and proper speech: “Ahem, do you mean, history, as in he is as old and crumbly as the books in the library?” And then, grinning, “Or, history, as in he will soon belong in a history book, if you take my meaning, ma’am?”

The matron’s face brightened at this display of wordplay on the part of this lad who had previously shown little cleverness. “And if I said that he is history in the sense that he won it, changed it, made it, that all that you see around you and all that your fathers for three generations have known and lived is by his doing. What would you say to that, boy?”

Now the boy’s confusion reigned on his face and in his speech. “You speak nothing but riddles,” he said, now with a look of pain around his eyes.

The faint cry of a bird blew through the window, but neither of them heard it.

“I don’t know what your words mean, and it’s true I don’t know all the words of the history lessons, but, if you please ma’am, can’t I just return to the training and let someone who is better with words do this task?”

Disappointed, the matron resumed her seat behind the desk. She folded her hands and for a moment looked down at them as if unsure of how to continue.

“Please sit down,” she said.

Her voice now had a tone of finality, and the boy could feel himself resigning to the inevitability of what was to come. It felt a little like falling, like breathing under water, like taking on weight, and heavily he trod to the front of her desk and slumped down into the chair placed in front of it.

“I’ll not waste many more words on you boy. You have been chosen for this task - not by me, mind you - and if you ever want to be allowed to return to the practice field again you will do it, and do it well. In case you feel that you have been unfairly singled out, know that you are not the first chosen for this task, nor I suspect will you be the last. Quite a few novices, apprentices and even a few masters have had this task before you.

“It is simple enough. You will tend this man. He is very old and requires constant care. Whatever food he will take you will bring to him. When needed you will dress him and wash him. Whatever he asks for, you will furnish as best you can from the blessings we have in this monastery. You may seek my aid but understand this: he is in your charge not mine.

“Now pay attention. You will have writing equipment with you whenever you are with him. If he talks to you of his past you will write down what he says. If he tells you stories you will listen very carefully and then write down what you remember. At the end of each day you will present to me all you have written. Do you understand?”

When the boy did not answer, she began to ask again, but at that moment a raven landed on the window sill with a loud fluttering. Clad in its ebon armor of wings, it nearly shined in the sunlight, each of its sharp feathers reflecting the light like the edge of a knife. One of its eyes was milky white, and it glanced around the room purposefully, finally settling its lone black eye directly upon the boy.

The matron flew from her chair toward the window. “Evil creature! Away with-“

The raven held its perch, and stopped her in her tracks with a shockingly loud and piercing cry. It gave her a long threatening look and then returned its gaze to the boy. It screeched again, quieter this time, slower and low-pitched, like it was delivering a message, and then flew off.

“Begone!” said the matron, rushing to the window. “And take your treachery and your evil omens away with you. Your kind is not welcome here!”

The boy had barely noticed the arrival of the dark harbinger or the matron’s obvious distress. He sat grim-faced, self-absorbed, his body and spirit an alchemical mixture of one part fist and one part pout. He understood all right. He was to spoon-feed a smelly old geezer, wipe his nose, wipe his butt, and listen to all his crazy ramblings.

And while the boy sat wondering what he had done this time to deserve such a disgusting punishment, somewhere in the unseen sky above him, an avian voice answered, unheard.

[Relapse_]

Subject wise, not my cup of tea. Don't worry, though- I have very fickle, rare tastes that boarder more on sci-fi and avant garde than fantasy. But technically, you're writing flawlessly. Every sentance and paragraph flowed perfectly when read in my mind. If you want extra super-writer bonus points, try experimenting with colourful metaphors in keeping with whatever moods or emotions you're trying to establish.

Keep up the good work!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Subject wise, not my cup of tea. Don't worry, though- I have very fickle, rare tastes that boarder more on sci-fi and avant garde than fantasy. But technically, you're writing flawlessly. Every sentance and paragraph flowed perfectly when read in my mind. If you want extra super-writer bonus points, try experimenting with colourful metaphors in keeping with whatever moods or emotions you're trying to establish.

Keep up the good work!No worries mate, I too generally prefer Sci-Fi to Fantasy. Thanks very much for the kind words. Something tells me that RevenantsKnight could easily demonstrate just how not-technically-flawless this chapter is, but I'm very glad to hear that you thought it flowed well.

Your advice about colorful metaphors is very welcomed; I'll definitely keep it in mind. The whole raven thing was originally supposed to be a metaphor, but it seems to have become more of an allegory. It's something I grafted onto the original scene after letting it sit for about two years, and I am not quite sure how well I think it fits in.

[RevenantsKnight]

Something tells me that RevenantsKnight could easily demonstrate just how not-technically-flawless this chapter is.

Eep. First, I should say that I do miss stuff; I'm not an English teacher or professional editor by a long shot. As for being technically flawless, I think this is pretty darn close. Couldn’t pick up anything more than a few smallish errors, so my thanks on that; it did flow nicely for me as well. Anyway...an interesting start, to be sure; I’m rather curious as to what you’re going to do with this setting, and whether this will turn out to be your take on a teacher and student sort of thing, or something...less predictable, given your enjoyably oddball creativity. Here are those previously mentioned comments:

Everything about this thing disgusted him, but he knew his best chance against the matron was not to throw a tantrum, but to show respect for the rules in which he was schooled.

“Everything about this thing” doesn’t sound too smooth to me; I’d change “thing” to maybe “task,” “arrangement,” or something like that. Also, I’d see if you can’t remove the second use of “but,” possibly by moving the “respect” part before the “tantrum” part.

She regretted her moment of pique and tried again with more dignity.

The way this is worded, it sounds like the matron pauses for a second while she regrets, and then tries again. Did you want these to be simultaneous?

Standing at the window with arms crossed and feet apart he stared longingly at the field below where the novices moved as one to the calls of the apprentice masters.

I think you need a comma after “apart.”

He closed his eyes, imagining himself down on the field, moving with the others, feeling the balance of the fighting stances, enjoying the effortless command of his body and that his strong arms and legs gave him.

The last part of this sentence needs another look. What did his “strong arms and legs” give him?

Then after a few more moments of very important pushing she stood up and walked slowly over to the tall mannish boy.

You might want to drop a few more descriptions of the boy into this first chapter.

“Why in heaven Master Adema chose you for this task!” she cried loudly to herself as she turned from the boy and walked back toward her desk.

The spoken bit doesn’t sound right on my ear; should that be “Why in heaven did Master Adema choose you for this task!” or am I just missing something?

Then, setting her closed fist down on the desk and leaning, she said, “It is just possible that you will learn some appreciation for history before you’re done with it.”

I’d replace “learn” with “gain,” since “learn” can be either positive or negative. Or did you want that ambiguity?

“And if I said that he is history in the sense that he won it, changed it, made it, that all that you see around you and all that your fathers for three generations have known and lived is by his doing. What would you say to that, boy?”

I like this passage, but it’s a little hard to follow on first glance. You might want to trim it just a tad.

It felt a little like falling, like breathing under water, like taking on weight, and heavily he trod to the front of her desk and slumped down into the chair placed in front of it.

This is a wonderfully vivid image :)

“I’ll not waste many more words on you boy.”

You need a comma after “you.”

“You may seek my aid but understand this: he is in your charge not mine.”

I believe you’re missing a comma after “charge.”

He sat grim-faced, self-absorbed, his body and spirit an alchemical mixture of one part fist and one part pout.

Heh...excellent.

This was a great read, and I’m looking forward to more. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 2: Champion

That evening Matron Rubia stayed late in the dining hall with Master Adema, who despite his relative youth for one of that title, was one of the most respected at the monastery. For several years he had served as disciplinarian of the younger boys, but recently became the novice instructor of elementary fighting techniques. It was he who had recommended this latest boy for the task of tending to the man Graves, and it was that proposition that he and the matron were now discussing.

Albeit, for the moment, it would be Matron Rubia doing most of the discussing.

“Think once, think twice, said the eldest of the mice,” said Rubia, wagging a husky dinner roll at the young master. She then took a substantial bite of the crusty loaf, and began chewing her way to a rough oratory.

“’’Tis true that no one has had much luck with this man. Even Master Oriole, who we used to say could charm the quills off a porcupine, could get nothing out of him for a tenday of trying, and the other masters who took their turns fared no better.”

“It seemed only logical then, to let some of the more promising apprentices try with him, after all what could it hurt? Who knows what key will unlock that man’s mind, if he has one left, that is.” She paused to take a sip of wine, which she rolled slowly about her mouth.

Adema sat quietly, watching her. He had already finished his meal and now sat forward, leaning on his elbows, twirling the stem of a wine goblet between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. The calm, even surface of the spinning liquid evinced the fine control of a swordsman, as the shimmering outer wall of the glass reflected the face of a sincere seeker of truth. He had indeed thought twice, thought thrice, and thought again before putting forth the name of the boy, Kurst, for this very special task, and he continued to ponder the wisdom of it during Rubia’s monologue.

For her part, Rubia had thought of little else since her frustrating interview with the boy that morning, and the disturbing encounter with the strange crow, though it had in no way affected her appetite; a woman of many talents, she had the most remarkable capacity for perfect erudition while in the act of consumption.

“And finally when all of the apprentices failed, it was decided to use the novices. The old man must be tended, at least, even if he does refuse to tell us about his past, and he really doesn’t need that much in the way of caring.” Rubia paused to nibble a morsel of meat from a large, mostly bare bone, which she held in both hands.

“He barely eats at all and, strangely, though he looks to be as old and weak as death itself, he doesn’t seem to suffer from any serious ailment. I’ve never seen such case.” Rubia put down the well-cleaned bone and licked the grease from her thumb.

“So why not?” The question hung in the air as Rubia tended to her glistening fingers.

“But always, with the apprentices and novices, as with the masters, we chose the most intelligent, the most studious. All of them had some interest in history and at least a passable talent for writing.” Adema couldn’t help thinking that he himself had never been asked, but he nodded politely and passed her one of the monastery’s ornate napkins.

“But this one - Kurst, I believe you said - I wonder if he can write his name much less a coherent paragraph, and as for history, I suspect he’d use one of the old books as a bludgeon before it actually occurred to him to open it!”

Rubia unfolded the napkin and began wiping her hands in a manner that the young master perceived as intended to convey her disapproval. Adema smiled and said in as pleasant a voice as he could manage, “You’re not far from the truth, I suspect. He’s no scholar - that’s for sure.”

“Then can you, Master Adema, tell me why you recommended this boy? All I can think is that the masters have quite given up hope of learning anything from this man, and have now resorted to having the novices just take turns babysitting him.” Rubia balled up the cloth and dropped it roughly on the table as if to punctuate her last remark. “He does require a caregiver,” she said sighing, “and I can spare no one to nurse him all day long.”

Adema gave his glass a final twirl and then set it down. “It may come to that, but not just yet, I think.” Adema looked down into his glass and squinted as if trying to divine a deep insight out of the dark liquid. ”There is something special about this lad.”

Rubia dug a fingernail at a piece of meat between her teeth; Adema tried not to notice as he spoke.

“Over the years, I’ve taken quite an interest in him. He is the reason I changed offices. As head master of the young ones I would have had no contact with him once he graduated, so I asked for a position teaching the novices.”

Rubia succeeded in extracting the gray smidgen of flesh and flicked it onto her plate. Adema asked, “Did you know he’s never been beaten in the tournaments?”

Rubia answered by blowing a burst of air through her teeth. “I hardly think that will help him with the old man. If the knowledge he’s locked up in his head could be wrestled out of him, I’d do it myself!”

Adema chuckled inwardly and allowed his gaze to stroll the avenues of the matron’s strongly built frame. “I don’t doubt that you would, Rubia,” he said, and arresting his amusement lest it broach laughter, said “I don’t doubt that at all, but there is more to this boy’s prowess than brute strength. As I said, he’s never been beaten - I don’t mean that figuratively - he has never been beaten.”

“Surley not, Adema. Surely any one of the masters, if not most of the apprentices could easily-“

“Yes, yes, of course, Rubia, but we don’t allow formal competition outside of the age groups. But still, you must admit it’s remarkable. We have been blessed with outstanding young fighters before; at times there are students who are clearly better than the rest, but Kurst, he has been with us now for years, and he’s not lost not once – not one training bout, not one qualifying round, not one single final. The boy simply will not be beaten.”

Rubia frowned, poured herself another glass of wine, and offered the decanter to Adema.

“You’ve seen him, Rubia. Thank you.” Adema paused to refill his glass. “He’s not the biggest of them, and I can tell you he’s not the fastest either. His skills are excellent for his age, but not that excellent, not what I would call extraordinary, certainly not of a level that would explain his astonishing success.”

Rubia pushed the frown about her face as she listened to Adema’s voice, so earnest, so full of admiration for a boy she firmly considered to be little more than a rude and ignorant scamp.

“He has a knack for…, well…, overcoming. That’s the only way I can put it. He has a rare gift, Rubia. Though his mind may not made for history and writing, as you say, it’s as keen as a diamond in the heat of battle.”

Rubia began to appreciate the fact that Adema’s sponsorship of the boy was quite in earnest. Yet she was used to getting her own way. “I still don’t see how that will help. His behavior today was very disrespectful. I handled him of course – I dare say he’d meet his match in me - but nevertheless, he impressed me as one quite unsuitable for service in this monastery.”

“I’m sure I can talk to him, make him understand-“

“Can you? I’m not so sure you could. Or should,” said Rubia, looking away.

“Should? I don’t understand.”

Rubia shifted in her chair and swallowed roughly. “I have a bad feeling.”

“A bad feeling? About what?”

“About everything. About the boy – and about that man, I’ve never liked having him here – and about, today, that awful, awful creature.”

“You mean the crow that flew into your office?”

“That was no mere crow!” Rubia’s voice flared suddenly and Adema could hear the tension in it, a strain that bespoke of a genuine fear. “It was evil! You know what the villagers say about them.”

“I do, but don’t tell me you believe in that superstitious nonsense,” said Adema.

Rubia said nothing, but dropped her eyes, sat up a little straighter, and crossed her arms.

Adema continued, “There must be a hundred ridiculous tales about ravens: that they are messengers of dark lords, that they visit doomed souls on the eve of their damnation, that they are not birds at all, but immortal minions of the demiurge, screeching words of power older than earth itself. You can’t believe that.”

Rubia turned her head and wrapping her arms around herself more tightly.

“You do believe it,” whispered Adema.

continued in next post...

[0xDEADCAFE]

...continued from previous post

“I have a bad feeling,” repeated Rubia, in a way that raised the hairs on the back of Adema’s neck.

“Rubia, you can’t give these fables credence. Why, I’ve even heard people claim to be able to converse with them – right before they offer to tell your future for a gold piece – you can’t believe any of it. Its fear riding the back of ignorance, a charlatan’s tale sold for warm ale, a child delighting in an innocent vision of terror. Truly, Rubia, we’ve advanced beyond such foolishness, haven’t we?”

When Rubia did not answer, Adema reached across the table and laid his hand gently on her forearm.

“Trust me Rubia. Give this boy a chance.”

Rubia looked into Adema’s warm and steady eyes and slowly the chill seemed to leave her.

“Well…” she said, reaching for her wine glass. “He did show a bit of cleverness during the interview. For a moment I thought I saw…, but no. Tell me Adema, how will his…, this talent you describe, help us?” Rubia raised her glass and gulped a mouthful of wine.

“Well, I-“

“You must admit,” interrupted Rubia, setting down her glass, “the boy has absolutely no interest in history. And we didn’t even tell him what the real purpose of his task is - to get the old man to tell of his past - and I certainly don’t think he will press the point out of his own curiosity.”

“I thought it would be better to keep the true nature of his task from him,” said Adema, after waiting a moment to make sure Rubia was finished. “He’s at the age now when it’s easier for him to oppose a thing than to accept it. And he’s clever enough to guess that the quickest way out of this task might be to fail at it. You’ve seen how willful he is, even for one his age.”

“Have I!” said the matron, the color returning to her cheeks. “It’s been quite a while since anyone got my goat the way he did this morning.”

“You see? He has a powerful effect on people.” Master Adema smiled broadly and continued with a jolly air, trying to lighten the mood, “and he was none too pleased with me either, I can tell you, when he got back from your office this morning - I almost reached for my staff when I saw the look in eyes.“

Rubia answered stonily, not a bit amused, “Alright Adema, I’ll give my permission.”

“Thank you, Rubia,” said Adema, his smile vanishing.

“Perhaps all we can do is hope for the best, may the lady deign,” she said, and then bowed her head for a moment as she made a solemn gesture in the air.

“Its ironic really.” said Adema, a grin returning to his face.

“How so?”

“I’ve known this boy for most of his life, ever since he first came here as an orphan. Now, all the young boys love the martial arts at first, but over time most of them find other interests, even as they continue the training. Not Kurst. Though now nearly a man you can see how he still dreams of becoming a great warrior just as fervently as any six-year-old brandishing a stick at a monster of a tree. If he only knew: tomorrow, as he trudges his way to his hated task, he’ll be on his way to meet a man who might very well be the supreme champion of our age, perhaps greater than any warrior in known history.”

[0xDEADCAFE]

Eep. First, I should say that I do miss stuff; I'm not an English teacher or professional editor by a long shot. As for being technically flawless, I think this is pretty darn close. First of all, quit being so darned modest. Second of all, thanks once again for pointing out my many errors. (Some day I really must learn the secrets of this strange thing you call a "comma.")


“Everything about this thing” doesn’t sound too smooth to me;Agreed. In fact, I noticed that I used "thing" poorly in a few other places too.


The way this is worded, it sounds like the matron pauses for a second while she regrets, and then tries again. Did you want these to be simultaneous?I guess I didn't intend exactly that. I could reword this without the "and."


The last part of this sentence needs another look. What did his “strong arms and legs” give him? An effortless command of his body. Yes, it is awkward, and I'll revisit.


You might want to drop a few more descriptions of the boy into this first chapter. Actually, now that you mention it, I think I want to leave the description vague, perhaps even more than it already is. For example, when I reread "tall, mannish boy" I realized that I don't picture the boy as tall, so I plan to take that word out. "Mannish" is suitably vague so I'll leave that. I think what I want to do is define the boy by his words and actions and leave his general physical characteristics to the reader's imagination.


The spoken bit doesn’t sound right on my ear; should that be “Why in heaven did Master Adema choose you for this task!” or am I just missing something?It's an unfinished statement. "Why in heaven Master Adema chose you for this task I'll never know." I probably should have used an elipses instead of an exclamation mark to indicate that she trailed off without finishing her sentiment.


I’d replace “learn” with “gain,” since “learn” can be either positive or negative. Or did you want that ambiguity?I'm not sure that distinction is important to what is being said, but it's a good point. Foor for thought.


“And if I said that he is history in the sense that he won it, changed it, made it, that all that you see around you and all that your fathers for three generations have known and lived is by his doing. What would you say to that, boy?”I like this passage, but it’s a little hard to follow on first glance. You might want to trim it just a tad. Yeah, and it's a particularly important passage I feel. Thanks for the heads-up.


This was a great read, and I’m looking forward to more. Thanks so much, and, fear not, I'll be spicing with commas liberally.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...a rather quiet and serious chapter, with lots of foreshadowing and little hints. You’ve definitely got my attention, what with some of the possible futures you’ve put forth...but I can’t help wondering whether they came a little too quickly. In my opinion, it’s a little dangerous to introduce major hints as to fate, etc. before defining the characters they’re being attributed to. Here, I don’t know if I care enough about Kurst yet to view him particularly favorably or unfavorably, which means that if he doesn’t get more personal elements of him shown soon, I might start thinking of him more as a faceless agent of a prophecy or something. Other than that, this looks good, and I’m looking forward to more! Some comments:

That evening Matron Rubia stayed late in the dining hall with Master Adema, who despite his relative youth for one of that title, was one of the most respected at the monastery.

Minor nitpick: I think you need a comma after “who.”

“Think once, think twice, said the eldest of the mice,” said Rubia, wagging a husky dinner roll at the young master. She then took a substantial bite of the crusty loaf, and began chewing her way to a rough oratory.

“’’Tis true that no one has had much luck with this man. Even Master Oriole, who we used to say could charm the quills off a porcupine, could get nothing out of him for a tenday of trying, and the other masters who took their turns fared no better.”

Erm...who says this bit? From the punctuation, it appears as if Adema says this, but it sounds to me to be better suited to Rubia. If this is Rubia speaking, drop the closing quotes.

“It seemed only logical then, to let some of the more promising apprentices try with him, after all what could it hurt?”

The comma after “him” should be a period or semicolon, and there should be other commas after “after all” and “logical.”

For her part, Rubia had thought of little else since her frustrating interview with the boy that morning, and the disturbing encounter with the strange crow, though it had in no way affected her appetite.

Crows and ravens do belong to the same genus (Covus) but they aren’t synonyms. I’d pick one or the other and stick with it.

“I’ve never seen such case.”

You’re missing an “a” after “such.”

“But this one - Kurst, I believe you said - I wonder if he can write his name much less a coherent paragraph, and as for history, I suspect he’d use one of the old books as a bludgeon before it actually occurred to him to open it!”

I’d try to come up with something more specific than “a coherent paragraph”; you could convey a hint more about the monastery here with a good example. Also, you need a comma after “name.”

“Surley not, Adema.“

Surely you mean “surely.”

“Though his mind may not made for history and writing, as you say, it’s as keen as a diamond in the heat of battle.”

I think you need a “be” after “may not.”

“Its fear riding the back of ignorance, a charlatan’s tale sold for warm ale, a child delighting in an innocent vision of terror.”

“Its ironic really.” said Adema, a grin returning to his face.

I think you need “it’s,” not “its.”

“Trust me Rubia. Give this boy a chance.”

You need a comma after “me.”

“I almost reached for my staff when I saw the look in eyes.“

That should be “the look in his eyes.”

Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Here, I don’t know if I care enough about Kurst yet to view him particularly favorably or unfavorably, which means that if he doesn’t get more personal elements of him shown soon, I might start thinking of him more as a faceless agent of a prophecy or something. Yup, I got the same feeling as I was writing it. As a matter of fact I cut short and then removed another vein in the conversation for exactly this reason, and I might consider shortening chapter 2 even more. It was originally a brief interlude, but on revision I got a little carried away with the conversation... The next chapter will deal quite closely with the boy; hopefully it won't be too late.

“Think once, think twice, said the eldest of the mice,” said Rubia, wagging a husky dinner roll at the young master. She then took a substantial bite of the crusty loaf, and began chewing her way to a rough oratory. Just curious, did you have a comment about this line?


Erm...who says this bit? I'll attribute it.


The comma after “him” should be a period or semicolon, and there should be other commas after “after all” and “logical.” I opted for a dash - it seems like an aside - but dutifully applied the commas.


Crows and ravens do belong to the same genus (Covus) but they aren’t synonyms. I thought they were. Thanks for pointing this out. After doing a little research, I'm definitely making it a raven.


I’d try to come up with something more specific than “a coherent paragraph”; you could convey a hint more about the monastery here with a good example. Also, you need a comma after “name.” I'm not sure I follow you. She is saying that she does not expect him to be able to write well. Maybe "coherent paragraph" is a not the best choice, but what do you mean about conveying more about the monastery.


Surely you mean “surely.”Surely. (And stop calling me Shirley!)


As for what I didn't comment on: corrections have been made. Thanks a bundle, and for what it's worth, no one bears the crest of "anal" like the Knight. :D

[RevenantsKnight]

Just curious, did you have a comment about this line?

Whoops...I didn't; I guess that just didn't get deleted from the post.

Maybe "coherent paragraph" is a not the best choice, but what do you mean about conveying more about the monastery.

I suppose this depends on how much you want to show about the monastery. For instance, if this is the Rogue monastery, you could say "...much less than a prayer to the Sightless Eye," or that sort of thing. But then, you might have a reason to leave the affiliation of this establishment unclear.

Thanks a bundle, and for what it's worth, no one bears the crest of "anal" like the Knight.

Heh...no problem, and thanks, though an azure bend and a sable heart on an argent field definitely doesn't mean "anal." :D

[Clarke667]

Heh...no problem, and thanks, though an azure bend and a sable heart on an argent field definitely doesn't mean "anal."

This is correct. Traditionally, the crest for anal has a bottle of Jack Daniels on it, and a picture of a man pleading with his girlfriend to try something "new".

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 3: Kurst

The next morning found Kurst up before dawn. For most of the previous day, and long into the night, he had fought the idea of having to nursemaid the old man. In the end he had made no peace with it, but bitterly resolved not to let it interfere with his training, at least not more than he could help. Above all, he was determined not to let the task affect his performance in his upcoming trial with spear.

He needed to be in the old man’s room at first light, so out he went onto the muddy grounds of the practice field in the cold and damp twilight before sunrise. He had no spear to practice with, but from months of practice under the watchful eyes of the masters, he knew well the feel of one: how it affected his balance, how it constrained his movements. He new the length of it almost to the point of feeling; with a real spear he could reach out and touch an opponent’s jerkin as lightly as brushing it with his fingertips.

Or, with a lunge, a thrust, he could knock you down before you knew you were struck. To him there was no difference between the spear and his own arms, and even without a spear he could imagine his arms and body extended and elongated like a spear, feel the weight, the way it resisted the touch of his hands. With his eyes closed he could almost see a spear in his hands.

The routine he had chosen today was his favorite. Though not long it was one of the more strenuous. It consisted of a series of robust fighting moves designed to take on a series of adversaries attacking from all sides, coming in quick succession. In his mind he could see, too, these adversaries, their weapons, their armor, in places, even the expressions on their faces as he defeated each one.

Parry, spin, thrust, recover. Another now from behind. Step to the left, crossing right foot behind left, bending at the knee to lower the center, maintain your balance as you lunge now toward what was a moment ago your rear. Recover forward, avoiding another attacker from behind, what was the front, spin, retreat, no, feint retreat, fleche, recover, and on.

It was not work, this martial dance with invisible partners; for Kurst it was play. He smiled in spite of the tight set of his jaw, the concentration writ deep across his face, and though he sweated, it energized him; though his muscles burned, it was bliss, his bliss, his own special candy, and like a kid in a candy shop he frolicked without worry, and not heeding the time.

Soon the light peeked over the eastern hills, but it did not rouse the boy to his morning duty. Lost in his inner dreamscape he saw only the light of his beaming masters, smiling at him, and nodding their approval. His closed eyes did not notice the brightening sky, nor did his body, heated from his physical exertion, feel the warmth of the morning sun as it burst over the horizon.

“Not the place for you lad,” came a voice from behind him. “Not this morning.”

Surprised, but not startled by the familiar voice, Kurst turned to face the newcomer. His eyes remained closed and his stance maintained its wariness. So strong was the flow of the practice routine in his mind that he still clung to it, though not rigidly. Reacting to the unexpected presence at his rear he instinctively borrowed a phrase from another part of the routine, adapting it to the situation which just presented itself. He advanced upon the voice, preparing for a thrust…

“Halt!” the voice commanded.

Automatically his body froze and slowly his curtain of concentration began to lift. The voice spoke to him again.

“A spear, have you?”

In a moment he felt a hand press on his arm…

“Turn your shoulders”.

…then the hand was on his back...

“Stand up.”

…and he felt a light kick behind his front foot.

“Open your stance.”

Now recognizing the voice as that of Master Adema, he yielded to it as he had done so many times, taking part in the ritual of master and student. In his mind he pictured Adema slowly circling him, stopping at points to correct his posture, adjusting the position of his arms and legs, aligning his hands and feet. He could hear Adema intoning the words of the practice ritual.

“The spear is long and heavy. You must make your body long and like the spear itself. Only through leverage will your arms have the strength to master it.”

In his mind Kurst saw himself the great warrior: spear in hand, proud of bearing, hard as a statue, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess. With each touch of the master’s hand, he felt his stance improving, as if drops of grace were falling upon him, each one adding to the crystalline perfection of the ultimate warrior form.

“Align your feet to the shaft of the spear. Grip it lightly. Spread your hands along it as a hawk spreads its wings; it will fly straight and deadly.”

The words of his master washed over him like a warm bath, and in his mind his perfect form began to shine with a faint, golden light.

“Yet, I suspect it would please Matron Rubia more if you would fly to your task as well as you heft your weapon.”

The words “Matron Rubia” splashed against his brain like a cold wave, and in their wake the image of the figure in gold began fade. It was all but gone by the time he heard the word “task” which, piercing the last fog of his inner landscape like a perfect spear thrust, finally roused him to full awareness.

What followed was a transformation of the boy’s physical character so remarkable that Master Adama never forgot it, and in the years to come he would relate the tale many times to the delight of his friends and colleagues:

“At the sound of the matron’s name his eyes popped wide open. Bulging, they were - like a bullfrog’s bellows - for a moment I thought they were about to say ribbit! and leap right off his face! Then his mouth dropped wide open and started to make a sound, a long and mournful moan, like a lost cub: ohhhhh... He started waving his arms up and down like a frightened chicken, slapping himself with both hands on the temples - loud slaps they were - and each time they landed he yelled ack. Ack, ack, ack! Well, after a while – I don’t know how long it went on, but finally he tore off in the direction of the monastery like a scared puppy.”

But for all this strange behavior the boy did not quite forget himself. After just a few steps, he stopped and, remembering his master, turned and bowed quickly, muttered “By your leave, master,” and then, at the Adema’s nod, turned and raced off.

Between the practice field and the entrance to the matron’s wing was a grassy lawn glistening in the early morning sun with the dewdrops from the previous evening. In his haste he heeded neither the wet grass, nor the mud and shallow puddles that lay in his path. Neither did he notice Matron Rubia, who was standing near the bottom of the wide stone stairs that led to her offices, the infirmary, and the guest rooms.

“Late!” she bellowed as he sped past her. Hearing the matron’s voice, and now spying her just to his right, he attempted an immediate stop. Unfortunately, he was in mid-air at that moment, having just leapt from the lawn, intending to alight upon the third stair up from the ground, and as his foot, lawn-covered in slimy mud, came down on the smooth stone stairs, also wet from the night before, stopping was not quite possible.

“Matron Rubiaaaaagh!” He said as his foot slid most of the way across of the width of the stairs. Although he somehow managed, with a deft display of bobbing and weaving, to avoid falling down, he came too close to the low stone wall at the edge of the stairs, and, with his final bob, cracked his head sharply on the top of the wall.

“Ow!” he yelled, and sank down on that third step, taking a seat at the base of the wall, cradling his head in his arms. And though not another sound crossed his lips, his head was filled with a chorus of lively words he would be saying, if not for the presence of the imposing matron.

Rubia was quite annoyed, of course, but at the sight of the boy’s tragic-yet-comical accident she found herself stifling a giggle. Gathering herself quickly, she walked over to Kurst and lifted his hands from the spot where his head had encountered the stone wall. There was blood underneath, which she rubbed roughly with her thumb.

“Hey!” Kurst cried. "That hurts!”

“I’m sure it does” said the matron sternly. “It’s a nasty crack, but I think you’ll live. And I’m sure that such a strong, young warrior as yourself will not let such a minor injury keep you from your duties, hmmm?”

Kurst was actually stung by the matron’s apparent lack of compassion, but, being too proud to protest further, he rose slowly and started back up the stairs.

“Completely forgotten haven’t we?” said the matron.

“What!” the boy almost snarled now, at the very brink of losing his self-control.

The matron held up her hand; it was holding a writing tablet and a pen. Kurst climbed down and took it roughly from her, then turned back and began trotting up the stairs.

“You’ll find ink in the supply room. Don’t forget, you address him as Master Slayer, and what he says, you write!”

“What he says, write,’ Kurst mimicked quietly to himself. And then, after a final, longing look back at the field, turned to his duty.

[Clarke667]

Hi. And with that out of the way…

Or, with a lunge, a thrust, he could knock you down before you knew you were struck.

Could be just me, but I find “a lunge, a thrust” jags on the old ear. I’d prefer “a lunge and a thrust”.

To him there was no difference between the spear and his own arms, and even without a spear he could imagine his arms and body extended and elongated like a spear, feel the weight, the way it resisted the touch of his hands. With his eyes closed he could almost see a spear in his hands.

I like this bit, mainly because you flirt with the cliché of a weapon being an extension of one’s arm, then add a few flourishes to it and freshen it up a bit (I especially liked the ‘even without a spear, he could imagine’ part).

In his mind he could see, too, these adversaries, their weapons, their armor, in places, even the expressions on their faces as he defeated each one.

A common hallucination used in films when a character is experiencing drug-induced psychosis is to have the character believe his skin is crawling with spiders. Now, replace spiders with commas. Which is my snarky way of saying that there seems to be a few too many commas here. The sentence reads like an Olympic sprinter with his leg stuck in the starting-platform.

I find this especially irritating because the paragraph which follows has a wicked stream-o-consciousness vibe to it, purposely erratic and what not, so what comes before it sort of lessens the impact (for me, at least).

spear in hand, proud of bearing, hard as a statue, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess.

Nice. Liked the alliteration. Though could I suggest “spear in hand and proud of bearing, hard are granite, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess”? Not exactly sure why, but that seems to flow better. And of course, you could change granite to something else suitably hard (or abandon my advice completely and make fun of me behind my back).

Bulging, they were - like a bullfrog’s bellows –

I’m guessing you meant ‘bellows’ as a noun, meaning: “An apparatus for producing a strong current of air”. Still it gave me pause, because ‘bellows’ is usually associated with the verb-tense, so I got a strange mental picture of his eyes bulging and, well, bellowing, which would be a weird thing for eyes to do. Also, three-ish paragraphs later…

“Late!” she bellowed

Was that intentional?

Kurst was actually stung by the matron’s apparent lack of compassion, but, being too proud to protest further, he rose slowly and started back up the stairs.

Characterization! You smooth devil, you.

And then, after a final, longing look back at the field, turned to his duty.

I formally request the next chapter post-haste. I’m getting antsy to meet this Master Slayer fellow.

So in closing: if you haven’t guessed, I’m digging this story. It’s looking like it might turn out to be Tuesdays with Morrie on acid, and that simply cannot be a bad thing. Keep givin’r, 0xDeadCafe, and I hope my scribblings here are of some meagre help.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 4: Graves

By the time Kurst stood outside the room of the one named for the treasures of cemeteries, he felt himself almost in need of one of those deep, restful cabinets. He was tired and out of breath, and his head still throbbed. His bare feet were cold and wet, and the long run up the stone stairs had left them bruised and throbbing. His stomach grumbled, missing breakfast, and his muscles, pushed through a strenuous workout with no food to replenish them, felt weak and unsteady.

He nudged the door open, just enough to give him a view of the room and its occupant. He was relieved to see the man lying flat on the bed, apparently still sleeping. He knew he was very late and had no desire for another scolding.

He entered the room and moved quietly toward a chair placed by the window, in his pitiable state, hobbling more than walking. He barely glanced at the bed, but his first impression of Graves was that he was a truly ancient man. The old man’s skin was deathly pale, and beneath it there seemed to be nothing but bone. He did not appear to be breathing, and in all aspects appeared to be dead rather than merely sleeping.

The bed was located in the center of the room, with several feet spacing it from each of the four walls. It was positioned so that the tall headboard was toward the east, toward the window in front of which Kurst now sat, shading the old man from the morning sun.

Upon reaching the chair the boy promptly forgot all about his charge. He laid his writing materials on the stone floor and began tending to his wounds. For some minutes he sat slumped in the chair, alternately feeling the bump on his head and rubbing his feet, breathing deeply. At last he closed his eyes, thinking he might rest a little before the old man awoke, but Graves spoke before he slept.

“You are late.”

The boy jerked upright at the sound of the old man’s voice. It was not at all what he had expected from the decrepit prone figure: a clear and steady basso, the words carried by a low and broad intonation that, despite the distance separating him and Graves, sounded as if they were spoken right into his ear.

“No need to get up,” Graves said. “Let me have a look at you.”

Kurst stood up, thinking he would need to walk around to the side of the bed where the old man could see him.

“I SAID STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” The old man’s voice boomed and Kurst froze.

He could not see Graves from where he stood, and it was equally clear to him that Graves could not possibly see him either.

“But, you said you wanted to take a look at me,” said Kurst.

“Yes,” replied Graves, and for long moments afterward he said, and seemed to do, nothing else.

Kurst began to think that, despite the old man’s surprisingly robust and strong voice, it was as he had originally suspected: the old codger was crazy as a loon.

“But, sir, you can’t see me.”

“No?” Graves asked with amusement.

The boy had heard it said that the masters, as they got older, grew eyes on the back of their head. He was pretty sure that was just an expression, but, even if Graves did posses such freakish oculi, the headboard still made it impossible for Graves to see him. “Crazy as a loon,” he thought, and sat back down in the chair.

“You are a quite a change from the others,” said Graves. “How old are you? Seventeen, perhaps?”

“Almost eighteen,” Kurst said, thinking this correction on the matter of his age quite important. “How do you know how old I am?”

“And how did you cut yourself, young seventeen-almost-eighteen-year-old not-yet-a-man?”

“How do you know I…”

Kurst started the question but trailed off as he looked about the room for mirrors or some other device that would give the old man a view of where he sat - but he saw none. He leaned forward and peered closely at the back of the headboard for a sign of some crack or hole - but there were none.

So, as quietly as he could, he crept around the side of the headboard, thinking to catch the old man at whatever game he played, but as he turned the corner of the bed he saw Graves lying there exactly the same as when he entered the room: flat on his back, no pillow, his face pointed directly up at the ceiling, eyes closed.

“What do you think of me?” questioned the old man.

Kurst jumped back. He had hoped to steal a look at the man without his knowing it, and had, himself, been taken completely by surprise. “How is he doing it? “he thought, “His eyes aren’t even open.”

“Can you see me?” said Kurst, his query more of a demand than a question.

“Yes.”

“But your eyes are closed, and even if they weren’t you couldn’t see me from there.”

“There are many ways of seeing. Do I not have ears? Do you think that your bare feet go so quietly over the stone floor that I cannot hear them?”

“And how did you know I was bleeding, did you hear that too?”

“No. But I have a nose as well as ears, though I scarcely have need of one to detect a stench such as yours.”

The boy was suddenly aware of his sweaty clothing, and of the mud and grime that covered his feet and the bottoms of his pant legs. It occurred to him that he was not properly attired for duty in the monastery, but it did not stop him from taking offense at the insult.

“And I suppose you can smell blood, old man?”

“Of course.”

Again Kurst was taken by surprise. “Smell blood?” he thought doubtfully. He stared hard at the man, trying to see him better. After a moment Graves broke the silence again.

“But I doubt you were instructed to address me as Old Man.”

“No. As Slayer Graves - though I don’t know why.”

“And does the boy who-does-not-know-why have a name?”

Kurst wanted to say, “What, can’t you smell that too?” but instead just hissed his name.

The old man chuckled. “Of course you are,” and the sound of his laughter crawled inside Kurst’s head like a parade of bony spiders. Kurst backed away, bumping the wall with his back, his face a blank sheet of fear and disbelief.

“Well, Kurst, I would name you boy-who-arrives-late, and student-who-is-unprepared, and youth-of-little-respect. In all of these things you are foolish, and in your low expectations of me you are rash and equally foolish. Let me tell you what I can see without the use of my eyes.

“You have the smell of the outdoors, of sweat and moist earth. I can hear that you are barefoot, and you breathed heavily when you first entered the room. From your insolence and the spite I hear in your voice, I conclude that you are a fighter by instinct, though your proud speech betokens a view of yourself that is somewhat more than that.

“You were up early this morning, yet you were late to your duty. You rose early to exercise out of doors, though I doubt you were compelled to do so. Dedication to training in a youth belies a great dream, a dream perhaps to be a great warrior? But does not a warrior need a mind as sharp as his sword? Does he not need to keep his wits about him at all times? You did not! And so you were late.

“I heard you place a writing tablet and pen on the floor, yet I smell no ink, which all the others fairly reeked of. What would you do with this pen with no ink? And yet I suspect you would have little use for it if you had it. You are as unconcerned with writing as you are with proper address and behavior.”

When Graves finished speaking he again lay still on the bed without any trace of movement. After Kurst had taken several shallow breaths, Graves spoke again, but in a different voice. It sounded tired and weak, much as Kurst had originally expected.

“You may go and properly prepare yourself. I have no need for you now. Return in one hour with food.”

Kurst stood for a while staring at the now silent man. Before leaving the room he studied Graves face and chest closely. He saw no sign of breathing, nor any movement that would distinguish his repose as sleep from death.

(continued in next post...)

[0xDEADCAFE]

(continued from previous post)


* * *

Before the hour had passed Kurst was back at Graves’ door. It had been a busy hour. His feet were washed and no longer bare. He was wearing clean pants and a tunic, and the gash on his head had been cleaned and dressed. He carried a tray containing a small piece of cooked meat, a slice of bread, and a bowl of warm soup. On the side of the bowl was a knife and spoon and at the edge of the tray, away from the food, a freshly filled bottle of ink.

The door was not latched so he had no trouble entering the room with both of his hands occupied by the tray. He leaned into the door and pushed it open, stepping backwards into the room, watching the soup bobbing about the edges of the bowl, being careful not to spill.

Upon entering the room, he stood for a while without turning, still facing the hall, listening. In his mind he pictured the old man lying on the bed breathing slowly and evenly. But there was no sound of respiration to be heard.

He closed his eyes and opened wide his ears. He heard sounds from the window: birds, the wind, and echoes through the open doorway: voices, the scrape of feet on stone floors, but nothing from within the room, as soundless as a crypt.

Finally he turned and looked toward the bed in which the old man lay just as he had left him. “Is he sleeping?” the boy wondered. He crept quietly into the room and noticed for the first time a large wooden chest at the foot of the bed. It was not a common feature of these rooms, and he guessed that it must belong to Graves.

Kurst walked over to the bed and looked and down at Graves’ face. He hesitated to speak, not knowing if Graves was asleep, and, if he was, if he should wake him. The old man’s face was thinner than any face he had ever seen, and as pale as a winter sky. Yet there was a fine quality to the features, an almost ghostly elegance, as if his skin were a silky veil draped over the skull of an ancient king.

Kurst was sure he had seen faces in coffins that looked more alive.

When the old man awoke, if he had been sleeping at all, his eyelids swung slowly open like heavy doors on creaking hinges, and Kurst could feel the eyes, as pale as the stale skin around them, stare straight through him.

The eyes were motionless, as if frozen in place, and the boy wondered how long they had been that way. Had they been staring at him the whole time, peering through the pallid eyelids as easily as they now seemed to look through his own face and head?

To Kurst it seemed that the old man’s eyes were focused on something high above and far beyond him. He found it hard to meet their unnatural gaze and dropped his eyes to the look at the tray in his hands.

“Where am I?” said Graves, his voice barely a whisper.

“Where are you?” said the boy, looking up again, “At the monastery.”

“The monastery…”

Graves closed his eyes and for a few moments he seemed to be experiencing pain around his forehead and eyes.

“…where it all began.”

When Graves opened his eyes again they were looking directly above him, staring restfully at the gloom of the high ceiling.

Relieved of the old man’s baleful stare, Kurst lifted the tray slightly, wondering if the old man had noticed it and wishing he would ask for it. He expected to have to help the old man sit up, maybe even feed him, and never having done these things before he was anxious to get started, and even more eager to be done with it. He felt a bit nervous, but energetic, as if he were awaiting a tournament bout.

Finally the old man spoke, still in a hoarse whisper, and with the aspect of talking to himself.

“Food. I’ll need to sit up.”

At this cue Kurst began to survey the room. Graves lay in the center of the large bed. Between his head and the headboard was a pile of pillows mounded in a gentle wedge. The boy decided he would have to kneel on the bed near the old man’s chest to lift him up into a sitting position and then drag him toward the headboard to where he could lean against the pillows. But first he needed to set down the tray.

The large chest at the foot of the bed seemed like a good place for it. So, turning away from the man, he walked over to the chest and laid the tray down gently, not spilling the soup or jostling the bottle of ink. He was proud of himself for managing the tray so deftly and imagined the matron nodding approvingly at him for being so careful and responsible.

What he saw when he turned back towards the old man stopped him dead in his tracks. The old man was already sitting upright, hands folded, and leaning against the pillows just as the boy had pictured it a moment before. He would have been less surprised if he had seen a dead man get up and walk. Stunned and open-mouthed, he stood staring at the old man in utter disbelief.

“How did you do that?” he stammered. “I didn’t…You couldn’t…”

“You said there was food,” said the old man calmly.

Kurst’s mind raced as he turned back for the tray. How could the old man have moved without him noticing? No sound, no rustle of sheets, no bounce in the mattress. It was impossible, he thought.

He brought the tray to the side of the bed and stood, again waiting for some hint from the old man to tell him what to do. When Graves did not move he decided he was expected to feed him. Sitting down on the bed and putting the tray very gently in the old man’s lap he picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup.

“I can feed myself,” said the old man weakly.

The boy looked up from the tray and turned his head to see the old man looking at him. The eyes were different now, still glassy and unfocused, but warmer, the eyes of a very old man to be sure, but definitely of a man still breathing. He was not as uncomfortable as before meeting the old man’s gaze.

”But, it would be easier if you would help me.”

So the boy did. And though he had never fed or nursed anyone before he took to it quite naturally. With care and patience he lifted spoonfuls of the broth up to Graves’ barely open mouth, where the fluid slowly disappeared without a sound, drawn between the unmoving lips without a slurp or a smack.

Graves spoke little during the meal, but whatever words came from the ancient mouth were gracious and reassuring. When it was done he thanked Kurst and told him he could leave until the evening when he should return with a cup of tea and some sweet bread.

Kurst took the tray, left the room, and started the long walk from the corner tower back to the kitchen and then out onto to the training field where he planned to rejoin the other novices. As he went he thought about how very strange this first morning of his new task had been. And what seemed strangest of all was that during his meal the old man looked and behaved just as one would expect of a very old and weak man.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...you do indeed get around to working up the character of Kurst...helps, definitely. Hopefully, this’ll be enough for a starter when the story starts hitting the prophecy. In general, this was good, and I like the interactions between Kurst and Adema in particular. Anyway, some comments:

Above all, he was determined not to let the task affect his performance in his upcoming trial with spear.

“Trial with spear” just sounds odd to me, for some reason. However, I can’t really explain why...

He new the length of it almost to the point of feeling; with a real spear he could reach out and touch an opponent’s jerkin as lightly as brushing it with his fingertips.

That should be “knew.” Also, “to the point of feeling” sounds nice but not really parallel to me, and I’d write “as lightly...” as “as lightly as if he’d brushed it with his fingertips.” Again, I’m not really sure if there’s a real reason behind these suggestions; it’s more that they don’t feel as clean to me as they could be.

Or, with a lunge, a thrust, he could knock you down before you knew you were struck.

The lunge/thrust thing sounds OK to me, but I’m not sure if you want to use the direct address (you) in the narration.

With his eyes closed he could almost see a spear in his hands.

I like this... :)

Though not long it was one of the more strenuous.

Methinks you need a comma after “long.”

It consisted of a series of robust fighting moves designed to take on a series of adversaries attacking from all sides, coming in quick succession.

This sounded overly technical to me, though maybe it needs to be that way...anyway, I’d try to shift the tone into something a little more medieval-storyteller, if you know what I mean. Maybe something like “Developed by a nameless monk of the monastery, this exercise was the base for any warrior’s technique, as mastering it offered the ability to strike down adversaries attacking from all sides.”

Step to the left, crossing right foot behind left, bending at the knee to lower the center, maintain your balance as you lunge now toward what was a moment ago your rear.

Again, I’d see if you can’t drop the uses of “you” here.

He smiled in spite of the tight set of his jaw, the concentration writ deep across his face, and though he sweated, it energized him; though his muscles burned, it was bliss, his bliss, his own special candy, and like a kid in a candy shop he frolicked without worry, and not heeding the time.

Nice image. I know the feeling...

“Not the place for you lad,” came a voice from behind him.

I believe you need a comma after “you.”

Reacting to the unexpected presence at his rear he instinctively borrowed a phrase from another part of the routine, adapting it to the situation which just presented itself.

I get what you’re saying with “phrase,” but it sounds a little too...passive for a combat technique.

In his mind Kurst saw himself the great warrior: spear in hand, proud of bearing, hard as a statue, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess.

Should that be “...saw himself as a great warrior...”? Also, the alliteration there’s a little much, in my opinion.

With each touch of the master’s hand, he felt his stance improving, as if drops of grace were falling upon him, each one adding to the crystalline perfection of the ultimate warrior form.

Wow...wonderful image with the “drops of grace.”

“At the sound of the matron’s name his eyes popped wide open...Well, after a while – I don’t know how long it went on, but finally he tore off in the direction of the monastery like a scared puppy.”

Heh...excellent. I could definitely hear this in my head.

Neither did he notice Matron Rubia, who was standing near the bottom of the wide stone stairs that led to her offices, the infirmary, and the guest rooms.

Hrm...I’d say that should be “nor,” not “neither,” though I could be wrong.

Unfortunately, he was in mid-air at that moment, having just leapt from the lawn, intending to alight upon the third stair up from the ground, and as his foot, lawn-covered in slimy mud, came down on the smooth stone stairs, also wet from the night before, stopping was not quite possible.

This sounded a little too familiar for the tone; though you do work with a fair amount of humor and lightheartedness, this particular example didn’t go over as well as the others. Also, “lawn-covered” sounded weird to me.

“Matron Rubiaaaaagh!” He said as his foot slid most of the way across of the width of the stairs.

I don’t think you need to capitalize the “he” there; it seems like it’d be best as one sentence.

And though not another sound crossed his lips, his head was filled with a chorus of lively words he would be saying, if not for the presence of the imposing matron.

And here’s a place where the humor works much better...:D

“Completely forgotten haven’t we?” said the matron.

I think you need a comma after “forgotten.”

And then, after a final, longing look back at the field, turned to his duty.

From a grammatical standpoint, you need “he” before “turned.”

Yet again, another enjoyable read. I'm looking forward to more...oh, wait, it's already up. Yay! :) Thanks for posting!

[Troodon]

An interesting story, but I have one problem with the syntax: it is hard to read characters' thoughts when they are in quotes like their speech - I have to go back and check whether they were thinking it or saying it out-loud. Perhaps it would be better to italicise thoughts instead of putting them in quotes?

[0xDEADCAFE]

An interesting story, but I have one problem with the syntax: it is hard to read characters' thoughts when they are in quotes like their speech - I have to go back and check whether they were thinking it or saying it out-loud. Perhaps it would be better to italicise thoughts instead of putting them in quotes?You're not the first one to lodge that particular complaint. I've been trying to get away from using italics, but I could try dropping the quotes and depend on attribution like "he thought" to do the job. Does anyone know if there is a standard method for indicating thought?

Glad you found it interesting, and thanks for your thoughts. (pun intended.) ;)

[Clarke667]

Does anyone know if there is a standard method for indicating thought?

I believe both italics and 'he thought' attribution are the standard; in my reading, I've seen equal mesures of each. Personally, though, I like italics--I find it lessens confusion. The author James Clavelle is (was, rather, the poor dead fellow) a big fan of the non-italics 'he thought, she thought' attribution, and although I love his work, there were great whacks of say Shogun or Tai-pan where I was left wondering if a character was thinking, or if it was narration.

The only problem I can see arising from thought-italics is if you already tend to use italics to emphasize your narrative; you know, something like: 'And then the policeman informed him that the calls where coming from inside the house!' (Yeah, okay, that was cheesy. But I think you get my drift.)

Anyways, hope that helps.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Could be just me, but I find “a lunge, a thrust” jags on the old ear. I’d prefer “a lunge and a thrust”.I can hear your point but I wouldn't want to give the impression that the two were separate actions. Maybe: "a lunge-and-thrust."


I like this bit, mainly because you flirt with the cliché of a weapon being an extension of one’s arm, then add a few flourishes to it and freshen it up a bit (I especially liked the ‘even without a spear, he could imagine’ part).Thanks. I had the same feeling when I was writing it. Glad you liked it.


A common hallucination used in films when a character is experiencing drug-induced psychosis is to have the character believe his skin is crawling with spiders. Now, replace spiders with commas. Which is my snarky way of saying that there seems to be a few too many commas here. The sentence reads like an Olympic sprinter with his leg stuck in the starting-platform. Like my nightmares of drowning in a writhing pool of wriggling comma-worms. I'lll never get those little devils right... But I can probably re-arrange some of this, to reduce the punctuational tonnage.


Nice. Liked the alliteration. Though could I suggest “spear in hand and proud of bearing, hard are granite, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess”? Not exactly sure why, but that seems to flow better. And of course, you could change granite to something else suitably hard (or abandon my advice completely and make fun of me behind my back).
I had "granite" in this sentence at one point. I think your version does actually sound better, and I was not completely satisfied with this sentence either at the time I wrote. Another revision is probably in order.


I’m guessing you meant ‘bellows’ as a noun, meaning: “An apparatus for producing a strong current of air”. Still it gave me pause, because ‘bellows’ is usually associated with the verb-tense, so I got a strange mental picture of his eyes bulging and, well, bellowing, which would be a weird thing for eyes to do. Also, three-ish paragraphs later… Was that intentional?No, although I kind of like the idea of making fun of Rubia that way. I'll try to find another word for the frog.


Characterization! You smooth devil, you.I normally try to avoid it, but the chapter is entitled "Kurst" after all.


So in closing: if you haven’t guessed, I’m digging this story. It’s looking like it might turn out to be Tuesdays with Morrie on acid, and that simply cannot be a bad thing. That's a little bit scary, especially since I have read that book. All art is imitation so could it be that, I'm somehow..., nope, not going there, (is that a flashback I feel coming on?).


Keep givin’r, 0xDeadCafe, and I hope my scribblings here are of some meagre help.It's all good Clark-Numbers, anything I don't like I'll just blame on the drugs. :lol:

[0xDEADCAFE]

The lunge/thrust thing sounds OK to me, but I’m not sure if you want to use the direct address (you) in the narration.Thanks for that, I don't think I do.


This sounded overly technical to me, though maybe it needs to be that way...anyway, I’d try to shift the tone into something a little more medieval-storyteller, if you know what I mean. Maybe something like “Developed by a nameless monk of the monastery, this exercise was the base for any warrior’s technique, as mastering it offered the ability to strike down adversaries attacking from all sides.”I can see what you mean. I probably could soften it a bit.


I get what you’re saying with “phrase,” but it sounds a little too...passive for a combat technique.It does, now that you mention it, but I still kind of like it.


Should that be “...saw himself as a great warrior...” ?I think the "the" works. Use of "the" makes it a little more specific; not just any great warrior, but the paradigm of all great warriors, in a figurative way. At least that's my intention.


Also, the alliteration there’s a little much, in my opinion.Well, that's one vote for and one against, which reflects my own internal polling. I like the alliteration too, but maybe this isn't the best place for it.


Hrm...I’d say that should be “nor,” not “neither,” though I could be wrong.I had just used a "neither-nor" in the previous sentence, so I balked at another "nor", but I think you are right.


This sounded a little too familiar for the tone; though you do work with a fair amount of humor and lightheartedness, this particular example didn’t go over as well as the others. Also, “lawn-covered” sounded weird to me.It want it to be humorous. Maybe the answer is too emphasize the humor more. As for "lawn-covered" - it got in on a whim, but I do kind of like it.


From a grammatical standpoint, you need “he” before “turned.”I think that would diminish the sharpness of it somehow. I think I can fix it by putting a comma before "And", and making it all one sentence. Then "Kurst" would be the noun and I wouldn't need the "he."


Thanks as always, Rev, good stuff.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...I’d expected either one view of Graves or the other, so it was quite attention-grabbing when I saw both...wait, why am I surprised? This is by 0xDEADCAFE, after all...

The voices in my head aside, I found this rather interesting. I think the aformentioned duality is well done and definitely worth pursuing. And, as for the rest of it, you can probably guess what I’d say by now (hint: they’re good things). Anyway, some specific comments:

By the time Kurst stood outside the room of the one named for the treasures of cemeteries, he felt himself almost in need of one of those deep, restful cabinets.

Minor nitpick: calling the graves themselves the “treasures of cemeteries” sounds a little odd; I’d personally use that term for those within them. If you want to adjust this (which is not necessary,) then I’d change it to “treasure vaults” or something. The image is very nice, though.

He nudged the door open, just enough to give him a view of the room and its occupant. He was relieved to see the man lying flat on the bed, apparently still sleeping. He knew he was very late and had no desire for another scolding.

Both here and in the following paragraph, you use an awful lot of sentences with the structure “He [verb].” I’d suggest varying it a little.

He entered the room and moved quietly toward a chair placed by the window, in his pitiable state, hobbling more than walking.

I’d move the phrase “in his pitiable state” after “hobbling more than walking,” and if you do that, I don’t think you need a comma to connect them.

At last he closed his eyes, thinking he might rest a little before the old man awoke, but Graves spoke before he slept.

“Before he slept” sounds odd to me, because it implies that he did go to sleep afterwards; perhaps something like “before he could fall asleep” might work better.

“Almost eighteen,” Kurst said, thinking this correction on the matter of his age quite important. “How do you know how old I am?”

You know, I would have put him at maybe fourteen, from what I got out of your previous descriptions. He seems a little too immature for this age.

“How is he doing it? “he thought, “His eyes aren’t even open.”

You’re missing a space after the first closing quotation marks.

The old man chuckled. “Of course you are,” and the sound of his laughter crawled inside Kurst’s head like a parade of bony spiders.

Whoo-ee...creepy. Might explain the high turnover rate on his attendants...anyway, nicely done with Graves’s character. Reminds me a little of an extra-freaky version of Sherlock Holmes, what with the next couple of paragraphs and the silent spells.

When Graves finished speaking he again lay still on the bed without any trace of movement.

I think you need a comma after “speaking.”

Before the hour had passed Kurst was back at Graves’ door. It had been a busy hour.

I’d change the second use of “hour” to something else to avoid sounding slightly contradictory.

The door was not latched so he had no trouble entering the room with both of his hands occupied by the tray.

Technically, I think you need a comma after “latched,” though it’s not like leaving this unchanged would make much of a difference.

Finally he turned and looked toward the bed in which the old man lay just as he had left him.

Another “if you want to” comma suggestion: you could put one after “bed.”

He found it hard to meet their unnatural gaze and dropped his eyes to the look at the tray in his hands.

I’d remove “the look at” here because it sounds rather awkward.

Graves closed his eyes and for a few moments he seemed to be experiencing pain around his forehead and eyes.

Hrm...I’d suggest you describe in a bit more detail why he “seemed to be experiencing pain”; I could think of a number of ways this might appear to be the case.

Relieved of the old man’s baleful stare, Kurst lifted the tray slightly, wondering if the old man had noticed it and wishing he would ask for it.

“Baleful” suggests malice, or at least something evil. I didn’t get that impression from the rest of the description; am I just misreading this, or would something like “intense” work better?

He was proud of himself for managing the tray so deftly and imagined the matron nodding approvingly at him for being so careful and responsible.

Another nice touch on Kurst’s personality...looks like my previous concern was unnecessary.

What he saw when he turned back towards the old man stopped him dead in his tracks. The old man was already sitting upright, hands folded, and leaning against the pillows just as the boy had pictured it a moment before. He would have been less surprised if he had seen a dead man get up and walk. Stunned and open-mouthed, he stood staring at the old man in utter disbelief.

There’s a lot of uses of the phrase “old man” in this chapter; I’d try to replace a few of them.

With care and patience he lifted spoonfuls of the broth up to Graves’ barely open mouth, where the fluid slowly disappeared without a sound, drawn between the unmoving lips without a slurp or a smack.

Since Graves is singular, the possessive is “Graves’s.”

As he went he thought about how very strange this first morning of his new task had been. And what seemed strangest of all was that during his meal the old man looked and behaved just as one would expect of a very old and weak man.

Maybe it’s just me, but I felt like this was a little too quick of a look into Kurst’s thoughts given the situation; it just seemed like you glossed over it a bit. Also, I think you need a comma after “meal.”

Anyway, I’m definitely reading any other chapters you post...Graves is a most interesting character. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

I think the aformentioned duality is well done and definitely worth pursuing. Glad you liked it. It will be an important theme.


Minor nitpick: calling the graves themselves the “treasures of cemeteries” sounds a little odd; I’d personally use that term for those within them. If you want to adjust this (which is not necessary,) then I’d change it to “treasure vaults” or something. The image is very nice, though. You have quite an ear for subtlety. I think I agree with you here. Maybe "treasure chests of cemeteries." (Although it seems like a mouthful.)


Both here and in the following paragraph, you use an awful lot of sentences with the structure “He [verb].” I’d suggest varying it a little. Thanks for pointing that out. I tend to do that a lot.


I’d move the phrase “in his pitiable state” after “hobbling more than walking,” and if you do that, I don’t think you need a comma to connect them.Believe it or not that's exactly how I had it on the first write. For some reason I thought "walking in his pitiable state" sounded off, so I moved it. I will be moving it back...


“Before he slept” sounds odd to me, because it implies that he did go to sleep afterwards; perhaps something like “before he could fall asleep” might work better.Me too, sort of. It's the sound of it that I like, but it's just not quite accurate.


You know, I would have put him at maybe fourteen, from what I got out of your previous descriptions. He seems a little too immature for this age. That's interesting feedback. Do you actually KNOW any seventeen year-olds?


Whoo-ee...creepy. Might explain the high turnover rate on his attendants...anyway, nicely done with Graves’s character. Reminds me a little of an extra-freaky version of Sherlock Holmes, what with the next couple of paragraphs and the silent spells.Really glad you like that. I intend to return to it often...


I’d change the second use of “hour” to something else to avoid sounding slightly contradictory.Agreed.


I’d remove “the look at” here because it sounds rather awkward.Again, that's how it was originally, and shall be again.



Hrm...I’d suggest you describe in a bit more detail why he “seemed to be experiencing pain”; I could think of a number of ways this might appear to be the case.You know, that's a great idea. I could tie that in with his duality, and really pile on the metaphors. Booya, Rev!


“Baleful” suggests malice, or at least something evil. I didn’t get that impression from the rest of the description; am I just misreading this, or would something like “intense” work better?Good for you; it was not intended that way. I need a good word for disturbingly strange, or frighteningly odd.


There’s a lot of uses of the phrase “old man” in this chapter; I’d try to replace a few of them. I had been trying to sprinkle Graves with old man, but it did seem to come out old man most of the time. Thanks for pointing that out.


Since Graves is singular, the possessive is “Graves’s.”Oh man, I really do not like that; might has well write Gravezezz. Ugh) Can't I get a waiver or something? Come'on Rev, you must know someone. (nudge, nudge...)


Maybe it’s just me, but I felt like this was a little too quick of a look into Kurst’s thoughts given the situation; it just seemed like you glossed over it a bit. Also, I think you need a comma after “meal.”Yep, technically speaking it's a result of the this-chapter-is-way-too-long-i'd-better-wrap-it-up-before-people-quite-reading syndrome. Maybe I'll revisit.


It amazes me how many times I'll read one of your comments and get deja-vu, like, -dong- that's exactly what I thought when I wrote it, but, out of laziness, just kept rolling on. Buckets of horn-rimmed glasses for these comments! :worship:

[RevenantsKnight]

Me too, sort of. It's the sound of it that I like, but it's just not quite accurate.

Hrm. It does sound more...forceful, I guess, and it's not like it significantly disrupts the meaning of the sentence. I'd say either one works on second thought, though of course, the choice is up to you anyway.

That's interesting feedback. Do you actually KNOW any seventeen year-olds?

I know no currently-seventeen-year-olds. They're all eighteen or nineteen now, and they didn't exactly resemble this; they were much more likely to do an assignment well, or at least accept outwardly, though they may have been exceptions to the rule. Either way, phrases like "throw a tantrum" and "like a kid in a candy shop" have a more childish aspect to them than I'd expect from someone who's close to done with puberty. This might also be the trouble with the low level of physical description of Kurst; my default age setting for "boy" or "child" in medieval times is much lower than it is for the same term now.

Good for you; it was not intended that way. I need a good word for disturbingly strange, or frighteningly odd.

Hrm..."eerie"? Or maybe "unnatural"?

Oh man, I really do not like that; might has well write Gravezezz. Ugh)

Well, my comments aren't exactly law to begin with; they're only the (usually) coherent output of an English grammar module embedded somewhere in my cortex. Of course, that's before the anal-retentive module interferes with it.

Anyway, this sort of thing is your choice, since it's quite understandable, and if you don't want to change it, then I can't really make you. And waivers...I'll drop the Harsh and Pompous Writers Guild a line, and see what happens. :D

Buckets of horn-rimmed glasses for these comments!

And buckets of...hrm...well, something nice to you for posting! (...maybe bleach, since those runaway quotation marks from Diablo Con Carne might have guzzled yours.)

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 5: Confrontation

Kurst sat, pen in hand, the writing tablet in his lap, watching and waiting. He had been on time today. Upon entering the room, he had walked past the bed to the window, lifted the chair, carried it from the headboard back to the other side of the bed, and, sliding it back near the wall and tipping it up on the back two legs, sat exactly where he could stare straight-ahead at Graves’ face over the low footboard.

Graves, too, had been on time. Apparently awake when Kurst arrived, he had managed to sit himself up, again unseen and unheard, while the boy performed his rearrangements. It annoyed Kurst, to see him lying flat as a fish on a cutting block one moment and the next sitting upright, his hands together, with that superior look on his face.

But it did not shake his resolve, forged over a long night of heated dreams and cold awakenings. A strange, woeful, specter haunted every hour of his restless sleep. Even now, Kurst found his mind wandering, remember the night, seeing himself waking, again and again, to find himself sweaty-cold, tasting the bitter slime clinging to the furry walls of his mouth like moth-eaten shawls hung in a moldy cellar, and bells, from far-off, echoing in his ears, ringing him to his escape.

Against remembrance, he still saw the image of himself in the night, as if from above: tensely upright on the bed, clutching the covers alone in the dark, seeing only the ominous visions of his mind’s eye in the pitch-black room, and the sightless mirage of an approaching figure, indistinct, darker than darkness, which seemed to descend upon him, calling to him as it neared, challenging him, threatening him, and as he awoke, still upon the lip of the dreamscape, enveloping him.

And always he thought of Graves. Not dreamed of him, but in between the fits of sleep, in his waking, wide-eyed, wondering in the darkness: Graves. This man was much more than he had ever imagined, and his task not at all what he had expected.

By morning, Kurst was of a new mind. He now looked upon his task not as a menial duty, but as a trial, a bout between him and the old man, who was only a man after all, no matter how strange and tricky, just an old, weak, sick man. Kurst had convinced himself that it was a bout like any other, and like any other bout he had ever experienced, he intended to win.

For a while, on this cool overcast morning, the twin occupants of the northeast tower - the lookout from which generations of loyal defenders had kept watch in savage times over the cloistered fields of the vast monastery grounds – just stared at one another: the boy distracted but unflinching, the old man amused and probing.

In the great tradition of dueling warriors, the silence formed their first arena, each of them circling within it, searching for advantage, planning their campaign. Predictably, it was Graves who broke the silence, grinning.

“Tell me boy, what is about me that most frightens you?”

“Hmph. You don’t scare me,” Kurst said quickly, and then, as an afterthought, slowly and with emphasis, he added, “Master Slayer.”

Graves’ onion-skin lips widened to a toothy smile, two rows of pearly white ovals, protruding from receded, gray gums. “Too easy, boy,” he muttered quietly, then more loudly, “Allow me to throw you a bone. Pick something, anything that frightens you – describe it to me.”

“I told you. You don’t scare me.”

“Yes, yes, I heard.” Graves nodded showily, his enjoyment evident on his face. “Come now, don’t be bashful, anything, anything at all. Tell me what frightens you.”

Kurst clenched his jaw and rocked his backward leaning chair forward, bringing it to rest on all four legs with a thud. “A warrior fears nothing.”

Graves’ smile burst open and the bony spiders crawled out of his mouth and into Kurst’s ears. Kurst winced and focused his stare harder on the laughing old fool before him.

When Graves composed himself he tilted his head backwards and looked down the long, alabaster slope of his nose at the scowling, almost snarling boy. “So, this is how you want it? Well, perhaps a demonstration is in order...” Graves paused and glanced out the window on the north wall, “…but not quite yet. First, an explanation: fear is a constant of all living things. Can you imagine why?”

The conversation puzzled Kurst. He didn’t know what Graves was doing, but he knew that it felt like losing. “I already told you, a warrior does not dwell on fear – he conquers it,” and added in the bloom of anger, “What kind of warrior are you, anyway?”

“I see, I see. As far as what kind of warrior I am, or was, well, perhaps another time. The question at hand is much simpler than that, as simple as the question of whether you are alive. Are you?”

Kurst’s initial reaction was only to deepen his frown, narrow his eyes, and stare straight back without offering any response at all, but as the moments passed under Graves’ expectant and insistent gaze, he surrendered a curt nod.

“Yes, indeed. And though you are young, you realize that one day you will die.” This time Graves’ question was pure rhetoric, and he continued without waiting for the obvious answer.

“You are not alone, boy. All that lives dies, of course, of course.” Graves paused and gazed thoughtfully through the window. “One might say that that fact represents all that life is: the possibility of death, for without it there can no such thing as death. Or, one might say that there is no such thing as death, that what we call death is only life at the moment of its ending. You understand this, of course.”

Kurst was sure he did not, but when he nodded seriously Graves continued.

“At some level, all life understands its own death, and it is this understanding that we call fear. Being perceiving its own ending: fear. Knowledge glimpsing the unknowable: fear. An infinite sea of possibilities running out to a singular, inevitable certainty: fear. Such is life, and fear is its constant companion. Believe me boy, you do not want to be free of fear, because to be so, is to be free of life itself.”

By now Kurst’s frown had a twist at the mouth, and the furrow across his brow had become a crooked line between uneven hillocks, worried rows raised by a befogged ploughman. Kurst could not grasp the full weight of Graves’ words, but he knew that he was hearing something important, something he should, and wanted to, understand.

“So think again, boy, what is it you fear? It could be anything. Often, it is the most familiar of things. For while it is the root of all fear, death itself is a difficult concept, a cup all-empty, if you will. It has no face; you can’t put your hand against it, or watch it crawl up the wall. Each mind chooses a different harbinger of its ultimate demise, and some many. What is yours?”

But, where curiosity and intuition assembled, and insight petitioned, stubbornness ruled.
“I already told you,” said Kurst quickly.

“No. You have not,” said Graves.

“You know what I mean,” said Kurst, even faster.

Graves saw Kurst’s reflexes taking hold, forcing him to speak before his thoughts could temper his words, and he pressed him. “I know this: a warrior embraces his fear, holds it near him, as he would his own life. Tell me what you know, what does the young warrior fear?”

“Nothing,” said Kurst without thinking, but hearing the word, knowing it was a lie.

“Say it again.”

“Nothing,” repeated Kurst, lying, and in its wake, saw the faint reflections of the poorly-hidden, and now exposed lie.

“Again.”

“Nothing!” The truth bore down on him, bringing with it the fear he denied, the images from which he looked away, but he could hear its echoing, and the reflections became the lines of a great shadow that raised its back and shook free from the corners of his mind.

“Again.”

Kurst saw look in Graves’ eyes: he knew. He knew! Graves knew he lied. And Kurst knew that Graves knew he knew it. “Nothing!” Helpless, trapped, responding without answering, and in the place in his mind where he kept his fear, kept it hidden away, the place he had trained himself not to look, the lie failed and the truth arose.

“Again.”

Kurst felt Graves' voice in his mind, and the little spiders crawled inside his ears, “Nothing!” and in the back of his mind, in the hindmost, most unrevealed crevice, something moved, something with wings, fluttering and crawling, clawing its way up the arch of his mind.

“Again.”

Kurst’s mouth uttered no words, but inside, involuntarily, he gave up the unthinking lie again and again, Nothing, and up from the dark place it crawled, Nothing, across the vault of his mind, Nothing, overtop of his inner eyes where he would have to look, Nothing, where he could not look away, and the army of bony legs drumming in his ears, the fluttering of the enveloping wings, beating his reason away, Nothing! Kurst clapped his hands to his ears, closed his eyes, willed the looming specter descending from above back to its truthless prison, fighting it, battling it for control of his own mind.


(continued in the next post ...)

[0xDEADCAFE]

(...continued from previous post)

And then, from the window, came the sound of wings, a real sound, and, opening his eyes, Kurst saw the real image of a tall, stately raven, its shiny black wings shimmering in the gray morning light, alit upon the windowsill. It cocked its head toward him, one eye white and one black. Kurst watched it as it turned toward Graves and cawed, a slow, varied call, like words.

And then, from Graves, a banshee’s scream, not like his laughter, an army of spiders, of bony, pointy little legs, but a shriek of razor sharp gales blowing through his hand-clapped ears, or around them, or not through them at all, somehow, not from without, but within, the blackest of black, baleful, soul-stealing spirits surging from every crack and crevice of his mind, screams which he could not hear, but which blinded him, hammering his cramping eyelids down again, bound him, and the flutter of wings was within him and he could see it, he could see it, see it, see it on him, in him, enveloping him…

Kurst tore open his eyes, to escape from the vision, to pierce the shroud of Graves’ enveloping scream, but once opened: madness.

Madness: the room in blackness, the only light a thin sliver of fog slithering from a milky-white point, hovering in the gloom. Where the raven had been at the window, was now a tall dark, man-shaped figure, barely visible in the murky light of the growing fog, a figure looming, hanging above the ground, with ghostly, vastly wide and milky wings, beating the foggy air in wafts toward Graves, and the fog growing, spreading, lighting the center of the room, and there, Graves, but not Graves; where Graves should be, a man horribly thin, like Graves, a pale body, like Graves, but not, floating above the space where his bed should be, the impossibly bony body curved into a cruel crescent, and the thing, not Graves, spreading its hands, slowly, widely, and great folds of skin draping down from beneath his arms, stretching with his widening arms into great leathery white wings, not a pure white, but the murky white of maggots, of toadstools, and its eyes narrowing, shrinking into tiny dots of coal black, its jaw elongating, and in the dropping maw uncountable rows of needle-like teeth, the mouth still screaming: the bat, the fear his lie denied, his own special fear, his personal hell, beating, hovering, screaming at him and devouring him with its eyes.

Escape: Kurst had to get away, to the door, but where, in the light-meager room? To find the door, the door, feeling his way, the wall, finding the door, the handle, Ugh! The feeling of matted, greasy fur beneath his fingers, and his eyes adjusting to the dark, to the ever-expanding fog lighting the door: a tapestry of bat-like appendages, mouths and claws, snapping, grasping, and heads swiveling on rooted necks, the door handle a squirming lump of twitching maws; he feels the bile rising in his throat, but behind him, still behind him, the flapping, the huge wings beating, its coming, coming to get him, and he must get away, the tears streaming from his moaning eyelids like blood from a torn artery, and wretching, he grabs at the living door handle, feeling the needle-like pinpricks of fangs sinking into his skin, wrenching the handle and throwing wide the door, must get out, get out, to the hallway, the hallway! Madness! Not a hallway, a cave, a cavern, a prison, a crypt, dank and dark and deep, but can’t stop, must get away get away; stepping through the doorway onto a moving floor of clawing wings, giant claws the size of his legs, clawing him, and the flutter, the beating from the ceiling, alive, crawling with hidden, huddling, numberless, bats, a canopy of winged horrors, their glinting eyes like stars in a depthless sky, must get away get away, but his legs refuse his commands, wretching, falling to his hands on the squirming floor, feeling the pawing the scratching of the unmerciful limbs, on hands and knees now, downward, ever downward, rearing like a hunted hart against the hungry multitude, and the great white death behind him, in him, driving him forward; must get up get up, get away get away, must get up, keep his head up and get away get away, falling, slipping on the wretched-drenched floor, his head pulled downward ever downward toward the fetid stench the smothering, breath-stealing putrid essence of the bodiless demons; he is losing, losing, and the beating, behind him closer, and the walls closing in, and now fainting, exhausted, his arms giving out, flat on the living, killing floor, wrapped in the deathly embraces, in the dark, alone, and the voices in his head; down, down, down, and a new voice, a faraway gasp, a smoldering ember floating in the infinite depths, growing, approaching, now ablaze, now a burning pillar rising up out of the depths, it is within him, so deep within him, rising a like a meteor expelled, upwards, at him, in him, through him, and out, out: tearing aside his death-clenched jaws and erupting in a jet of crimson wrath, a fire that is heat that is light that is sound that is power…

And through the sudden, violent passage of the overwhelming, overcoming power, Kurst did not recognize his own voice:

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

[Science Cryption]

if this is the end of the story im not dissapointed, the ending was a horrible jumble of confusion. If your intesion was to confuse us as much as kurst you did more then well. I liked all the rest of the writing, but graves was a little more lively then I had origonaly imagined him to be. Your characters are great but the story doesn't grip me like it could.

If I were to have had a say in the ending to your last entry, i would have made graves make kurst relize he had issues to challenge and not just dismiss and burry them.

the last big long paragraph was un-needed and horrid, maybe your sick of the story and wished to end all possible future interest?

either way don't give up on writing, work on story, your character building is good.

[0xDEADCAFE]

if this is the end of the story im not dissapointed, the ending was a horrible jumble of confusion. If your intesion was to confuse us as much as kurst you did more then well. I liked all the rest of the writing, but graves was a little more lively then I had origonaly imagined him to be. Your characters are great but the story doesn't grip me like it could.

If I were to have had a say in the ending to your last entry, i would have made graves make kurst relize he had issues to challenge and not just dismiss and burry them.

the last big long paragraph was un-needed and horrid, maybe your sick of the story and wished to end all possible future interest?

either way don't give up on writing, work on story, your character building is good.
As it happens this is NOT the end of the story, unless I get hit by a truck, or find a better way to waste my time. I do indeed intend to have the relationship between Graves and Kurst continue.

As for the horrible last paragraph, it is my bungling attempt to convey panic, fear, overwhelming emotions, etc., through a stream of consciousness style of writing. I will admit to being very unsure about it, and it could easily end up on the cutting room floor. I guess this type of writing can be really hit or miss. Sorry to disappoint, but look for more chapters, and hopefully better writing, soon.

Thanks for your comments.

[Clarke667]

the last big long paragraph was un-needed and horrid, maybe your sick of the story and wished to end all possible future interest?

Disagreed. Overlong, ungainly, stream-of-consciousness style prose is my bread and butter, and that was certainly a treat. Sure, it needs some tightening, but big deal; what early draft doesn't?

Just so you know, 0xDeadCafe, I am threatening suicide if you cut out those last paragraphs. Fix them up and clean them off? Sure. By all means. But if you erase them completely, I will headbutt an overturned lawn-mower, and have a portion of my mulched brainmatter FedExed to you in a Ziploc baggy. This is an ultimatum.

Which is to say, that was rockin. Keep up, and keep on.

[0xDEADCAFE]

...I will headbutt an overturned lawn-mower, and have a portion of my mulched brainmatter FedExed to you in a Ziploc baggy. This is an ultimatum. Just so long as you don't send them C.O.D.

(Thanks, man.)

[Clarke667]

Just so long as you don't send them C.O.D.

The dead make no promises.

And you're welcome.

[Squelch]

I think the last paragraph did what it was intended to.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I think the last paragraph did what it was intended to.Thank you, sir.

[RevenantsKnight]

An interesting take on the now not-so-quiet friction between these two...I’ve several possible interpretations for the ending in particular, and I can’t wait for the next chapter, ‘cause I want to know how off I am. Given your ability to come up with rather unusual turns and make them seem perfectly plausible, I can only expect the unexpected at this point...:D Anyway, here’re some thoughts on an excellent-as-usual Chapter 5:

Upon entering the room, he had walked past the bed to the window, lifted the chair, carried it from the headboard back to the other side of the bed, and, sliding it back near the wall and tipping it up on the back two legs, sat exactly where he could stare straight-ahead at Graves’ face over the low footboard.

I don’t think “straight ahead” is hyphenated.

It annoyed Kurst, to see him lying flat as a fish on a cutting block one moment and the next sitting upright, his hands together, with that superior look on his face.

The comma after “Kurst” is extraneous.

Even now, Kurst found his mind wandering, remember the night, seeing himself waking, again and again, to find himself sweaty-cold, tasting the bitter slime clinging to the furry walls of his mouth like moth-eaten shawls hung in a moldy cellar, and bells, from far-off, echoing in his ears, ringing him to his escape.

Wow...that’s some great description. That got one creepy and enjoyably uncomfortable image going for me; congrats indeed on this. A couple nitpicks: “remember” should be “remembering” and “furry walls” sounded a little weird on a first read; I can get an idea of what you meant, and it does work, but the contrast is maybe a little too much of an initial shock.

Kurst had convinced himself that it was a bout like any other, and like any other bout he had ever experienced, he intended to win.

Dang. You’ve gotta admire his determination; I’m surprised that he’s still sane after a night like that. Kurst’s beginning to look like an interesting character indeed.

In the great tradition of dueling warriors, the silence formed their first arena, each of them circling within it, searching for advantage, planning their campaign. Predictably, it was Graves who broke the silence, grinning.

This whole scene with Graves and Kurst was well done, in my opinion, with a spellbinding combat of words and minds. The only thing I’d possibly question here is the rather dramatic setup by Graves; I don’t think it needs to be as much of a show for this to be effective. Granted, I’m guilty of this sort of thing from time to time, but here it felt a little like Graves wasn’t trying to teach Kurst but make him look like a moron in front of an audience (the reader). Of course, that could be what you intended; I’m not really sure on this count...

Kurst clenched his jaw and rocked his backward leaning chair forward, bringing it to rest on all four legs with a thud. “A warrior fears nothing.”

Nice bit of sound there to punctuate his response.

The conversation puzzled Kurst.

This felt out of place; most of the narration in this part’s setting up a skillfully incoherent finish and sounds carefully descriptive. The shortness and general nature of this sentence breaks that up; I’d recommend elaborating a little.

He didn’t know what Graves was doing, but he knew that it felt like losing.

Did you mean something like “it felt like he (meaning Kurst) was losing”?

This time Graves’ question was pure rhetoric, and he continued without waiting for the obvious answer.

He doesn’t really ask a question, so I’d change that to “words were.”

“Being perceiving its own ending: fear.”

Hrm...while this is nice because of its succinctness, I feel that you might want to change this to “A being...” to avoid it looking like you’re using two verbs in a row.

“Believe me boy, you do not want to be free of fear, because to be so, is to be free of life itself.”

An interesting twist indeed. I don’t think you need the comma after “so,” though.

“So think again, boy, what is it you fear?”

I’m not positive here, but I think the comma after “boy” should be a semicolon.

But, where curiosity and intuition assembled, and insight petitioned, stubbornness ruled.

Deftly phrased. :)

“Tell me what you know, what does the young warrior fear?”

I think that should be a semicolon after “know.”

“Nothing,” said Kurst without thinking, but hearing the word, knowing it was a lie.

Nice progression here from instance to instance. The imagery here is excellent, and really held me to the story. I liked the development of the bat in particular; the description was more than enough to creep me out some.

“Nothing,” repeated Kurst, lying, and in its wake, saw the faint reflections of the poorly-hidden, and now exposed lie.

I believe that should be “he saw” or “seeing” to remain parallel.

And then, from the window, came the sound of wings, a real sound, and, opening his eyes, Kurst saw the real image of a tall, stately raven, its shiny black wings shimmering in the gray morning light, alit upon the windowsill.

I think that’s spelled “alight.”

Kurst watched it as it turned toward Graves and cawed, a slow, varied call, like words.

This is definitely output from my anal-retentive neural implant, but a bird’s call would more closely resemble speech.

Where the raven had been at the window, was now a tall dark, man-shaped figure, barely visible in the murky light of the growing fog, a figure looming, hanging above the ground, with ghostly, vastly wide and milky wings, beating the foggy air in wafts toward Graves, and the fog growing, spreading, lighting the center of the room, and there, Graves, but not Graves; where Graves should be, a man horribly thin, like Graves, a pale body, like Graves, but not, floating above the space where his bed should be, the impossibly bony body curved into a cruel crescent...

This was also nicely done, for similar reasons to those stated above. Some thoughts: I’d move the comma after “window” to after “tall.” Also, does fog itself really give off light? If it doesn’t, then shouldn’t it just look black in the darkness? Finally, the alliteration at the end there is perhaps a little out of line with the tone here...it just sounds like it’s trying to be humorous to me.

The feeling of matted, greasy fur beneath his fingers, and his eyes adjusting to the dark, to the ever-expanding fog lighting the door: a tapestry of bat-like appendages, mouths and claws, snapping, grasping, and heads swiveling on rooted necks, the door handle a squirming lump of twitching maws; he feels the bile rising in his throat, but behind him, still behind him, the flapping, the huge wings beating, its coming, coming to get him, and he must get away...

I think “he feels the bile” should be “...felt.” Also, “retching” as in “to bring up phlegm” has no “w” in it. There’s another instance of this in the paragraph...sentence below. Additionally, “its coming, coming to get him” should be “it’s...” unless you did this as a stylistic move. Even if you did, though, it didn’t seem to work for me.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My first impression was that this was overkill, and made the end seem a little funny (which I’m guessing wasn’t your intention.) I can definitely see why you would want to draw this out, and I agree that it’s better that way, but this is a mite too much.

General comments on the ending: I think it does a good job of working into the story the emotions you wanted to convey. After all, Kurst isn’t going to be the most coherent person in the world at this point, and if the narration degenerates along with him, then that’s a very powerful suggestion. However, it does seem like you might have overshot a little; having a sentence that’s half a page in length is a hazard that will choke some readers, and, to be honest, it was enough to keep me from looking it over with the same level of scrutiny that the other parts of this story got. The idea’s there and excellent, but there are details that need tightening. Despite that, this was still a great read.

Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 6: Conflagration

It is morning. The monastery is a busy place, a center of activity for the surrounding towns: facilitating trade, settling disputes, dispensing religious ministrations. It is a place of study and a place of learning. Of all its facets it is first and foremost an institution of education. For scholars and clerics also, but mostly for the children from the surrounding towns and the many orphans who reside on the monastery grounds.

Outside the main building there is the constant training, older children mostly, practicing one of the many forms of specialized warfare. The smaller children are indoors, in the rooms lining the many hallways, clumped at tables, huddled over books, learning their lessons.

Each classroom is presided over by a monk or nun, all persons of religious devotion, dedicated to the cultivation of a serious and moral character in each of their students. The classrooms are places of piety, respect, and learning: oases of peace in a primitive and untamed world.

Such did the monstrous clamor find, as it roared down the corridors, stampeded past the classrooms, tore through the doors and windows, slammed against the serious brows, and penetrated the tender ears of the urchins and cherubs. So was a place of great communal conscience, a holy place, a sanctuary of greater good, of us-before-me, invaded by all the vile hunger and lust and impertinent demands of self.

Self, demanding to be recognized and reckoned with, the insatiable I, asserting itself for its own sake, undeserving and unrepentant, the raw, burning, unquenchable, unstoppable essence of life: self, the anti-death.

All in this place were frightened, offended, and astonished by the closeness of it, by the intimate audacity of the familiar invader, as, too, they recognized the terrible yearning that was also the essential quality within each of them, life, and they were stirred by an obscured truth made plain: that it was this untamed power and hunger that was the core of their very existence.

Within moments of its coming, doors were flung open up and down the trembling corridors. Covered heads and clasped hands surged through the doorways, and a river of roused community ire poured into the hallways and rushed toward the source of the soul-tearing call.

At its head was Matron Rubia, their flagship, sails billowing, racing to war. “What in the name of the Lady is this!”

Turning the corner that leads to the tower, she saw a small figure on the floor at the end of that corridor, just outside the door of the room she had assigned to the foreboding old man. It was a boy, on his hands and knees, rising, pushing himself away from the stone floor, but so weakly, and shaking, and not, in fact, rising at all.

“You there! What is the meaning of this?” Rubia increased her speed, bearing down on the small figure like a mother eagle, swooping down on a snake threatening her brood. She strode faster and faster, closing on the pathetic young figure, until she was close enough to see his face.

“Kurst? Kurst!” Reaching him, Rubia is frantic, and as she reaches for