CommodoreFluffy
2007-10-24, 10:39 PM
This is for stories to have CONSTRUCTIVE criticism, I have one to start us off:
***
Chapter 1
In the town of Raven’s Hall, an old empire fort, a man in a dark green cloak stands in the pouring rain, on top of the collecting mud. He is nearing the middle of his life, but retained the strength on one much younger than himself. Streald, the hunter was about to close up shop and return home, glancing about for possible customers. Streald, looked down both alleys, “empty, and wet”, spitting out the latter with an obvious disgust, looked up and cursed the weather. The rain drove away customers, and made the furs rot faster. His hands uninterestedly began to fold down the wooden stand. Behind the financial effect, and the effect on his bowstring, of the weather, he enjoyed the rain, it calmed him. Under the incessant tapping of the rain, came the soft pitter patter of feet. Streald’s eyes flashed towards the noise, as his hands halted its action. The man didn’t look like one of the noble’s slaves, nor did he look like a commoner. “Not a customer then” Streald grimly commented to himself, and his hands continued their task. “Wait!” the man shouted as Streald began to wheel the cart to its niche in the walls. “Streald! The hunter?” the man panted, “That, I am” replied Streald, “What do you want? Furs or meat?”
“Your services”
“What!”
“Animals cannot be your only prey”
“What in King Areneth’s name is that supposed to mean?”
“You know very well what that means, or do you have to be showed the payment first?” the strange man pulled something out of his pocket, and absent mindedly began flipping it between his fingers, as the bright yellow light flashed in the corner of Streald’s eye, which lingered on the coin, but as if cold water was poured on his head, Streald snapped to awareness, and his eyes tore away from the coin. “That…that isn’t my profession anymore. If you have heard of…my previous…career, then surely you must know that.” stammered Streald. And then he braced himself for what came, but his attempts at warding away the memories could not stop it, and he knew it. Despite the agonizing pain that came to him, he was able to cynically note how humans always resisted, even when what came was inevitable, and unstoppable. “I also know that you will be willing to return, the reward is more than gold”
“I no longer care for riches”
“This reward is much more…satisfactory than gold”
“Why me?”
“Let’s go take a walk”
“I am not very good, talk to someone else”
“That’s not what I hear…now, this way” This man was right, and Streald knew it, but what could this reward be? Fool! Streald thought to himself, he couldn’t kill again, not for anything, nothing could change this, and anyway, the greater the reward, the worse the job would be. He knew himself, and what would happen if he did kill again, an inferno would burn his reason, cloud his rational thought with smoke, and leave only part required for his revenge, his soul would leave, in place would be a cold, calculating assassin bent on revenge. And once there was nobody else to blame, innocents would die to feed the flame of hate. Deep in his internal conflict, Streald was blindly following the man, never noticing that he had entered an inn, and to the last room to the right, all the candles were out, the shades were drawn, and the door was covered with a thick bedroll. And abruptly, but silently, the door slammed and the man whipped out a short sword and struck at Streald. By instinct, two daggers flashed out of Streald’s cloak, one deflecting the gleaming blade with a sharp crack, and a shower of sparks, as the other flew to the man’s throat. Streald caught the body, let it down lightly, and shoved it beneath the bed, careful not to drop blood. As that task was finished, he turned towards the window to leave, and saw someone staring down at him, by the light, he couldn’t tell his mother’s face from a pig’s, but the way this person carried himself, Streald was easily able to tell who it was, “So you can still kill, Streald.”
Streald stated, as if explaining to a small child a fundamental fact of life, which in his opinion, he was doing “Any man can kill to preserve his pitiful existence, Aran.”
“Not without a damaged conscious?” probed Aran, cautiously, nimbly retrieving the coin that fell from the man’s hand during the fight. “Who are you to tell if my conscious is damaged or not?” snapped Streald. “A normal man does not hide a body so calmly.” Aran nervously observed, careful not to let on that he was nervous, but Aran knew Streald could detect it, Streald was good at his art. “I am not a normal man, or I would not be here.” added, with a certain self distain, and distrust for Aran. “Enough of that useless chatter, you are here for business”
“I will not take it, Aran, not if I am given all the gold in the kingdom”
“Which you won’t, I can be sure of that. Because I know that you might even be willing to do this particular job, for free.”
“What do you mean” demanded Streald. Aran just smiled, a confident, content smile as he began to explain.
***
P.S. I'm open to "It would be cool if"s, and "You should to that"s as long as it is relevant
***
Chapter 1
In the town of Raven’s Hall, an old empire fort, a man in a dark green cloak stands in the pouring rain, on top of the collecting mud. He is nearing the middle of his life, but retained the strength on one much younger than himself. Streald, the hunter was about to close up shop and return home, glancing about for possible customers. Streald, looked down both alleys, “empty, and wet”, spitting out the latter with an obvious disgust, looked up and cursed the weather. The rain drove away customers, and made the furs rot faster. His hands uninterestedly began to fold down the wooden stand. Behind the financial effect, and the effect on his bowstring, of the weather, he enjoyed the rain, it calmed him. Under the incessant tapping of the rain, came the soft pitter patter of feet. Streald’s eyes flashed towards the noise, as his hands halted its action. The man didn’t look like one of the noble’s slaves, nor did he look like a commoner. “Not a customer then” Streald grimly commented to himself, and his hands continued their task. “Wait!” the man shouted as Streald began to wheel the cart to its niche in the walls. “Streald! The hunter?” the man panted, “That, I am” replied Streald, “What do you want? Furs or meat?”
“Your services”
“What!”
“Animals cannot be your only prey”
“What in King Areneth’s name is that supposed to mean?”
“You know very well what that means, or do you have to be showed the payment first?” the strange man pulled something out of his pocket, and absent mindedly began flipping it between his fingers, as the bright yellow light flashed in the corner of Streald’s eye, which lingered on the coin, but as if cold water was poured on his head, Streald snapped to awareness, and his eyes tore away from the coin. “That…that isn’t my profession anymore. If you have heard of…my previous…career, then surely you must know that.” stammered Streald. And then he braced himself for what came, but his attempts at warding away the memories could not stop it, and he knew it. Despite the agonizing pain that came to him, he was able to cynically note how humans always resisted, even when what came was inevitable, and unstoppable. “I also know that you will be willing to return, the reward is more than gold”
“I no longer care for riches”
“This reward is much more…satisfactory than gold”
“Why me?”
“Let’s go take a walk”
“I am not very good, talk to someone else”
“That’s not what I hear…now, this way” This man was right, and Streald knew it, but what could this reward be? Fool! Streald thought to himself, he couldn’t kill again, not for anything, nothing could change this, and anyway, the greater the reward, the worse the job would be. He knew himself, and what would happen if he did kill again, an inferno would burn his reason, cloud his rational thought with smoke, and leave only part required for his revenge, his soul would leave, in place would be a cold, calculating assassin bent on revenge. And once there was nobody else to blame, innocents would die to feed the flame of hate. Deep in his internal conflict, Streald was blindly following the man, never noticing that he had entered an inn, and to the last room to the right, all the candles were out, the shades were drawn, and the door was covered with a thick bedroll. And abruptly, but silently, the door slammed and the man whipped out a short sword and struck at Streald. By instinct, two daggers flashed out of Streald’s cloak, one deflecting the gleaming blade with a sharp crack, and a shower of sparks, as the other flew to the man’s throat. Streald caught the body, let it down lightly, and shoved it beneath the bed, careful not to drop blood. As that task was finished, he turned towards the window to leave, and saw someone staring down at him, by the light, he couldn’t tell his mother’s face from a pig’s, but the way this person carried himself, Streald was easily able to tell who it was, “So you can still kill, Streald.”
Streald stated, as if explaining to a small child a fundamental fact of life, which in his opinion, he was doing “Any man can kill to preserve his pitiful existence, Aran.”
“Not without a damaged conscious?” probed Aran, cautiously, nimbly retrieving the coin that fell from the man’s hand during the fight. “Who are you to tell if my conscious is damaged or not?” snapped Streald. “A normal man does not hide a body so calmly.” Aran nervously observed, careful not to let on that he was nervous, but Aran knew Streald could detect it, Streald was good at his art. “I am not a normal man, or I would not be here.” added, with a certain self distain, and distrust for Aran. “Enough of that useless chatter, you are here for business”
“I will not take it, Aran, not if I am given all the gold in the kingdom”
“Which you won’t, I can be sure of that. Because I know that you might even be willing to do this particular job, for free.”
“What do you mean” demanded Streald. Aran just smiled, a confident, content smile as he began to explain.
***
P.S. I'm open to "It would be cool if"s, and "You should to that"s as long as it is relevant