Playground Writers Workshop (Read 1st Post)

Critique: "The Dream-Singer, a classic weird tale" by GolemsVoice

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I'm actually rather impressed by this. Your writing style flows quite well and your descriptions are vivid and immersive. This is important however, as there isn't much to this story besides straight-up description. I understand that's kind of the point, but I'd nonetheless be interested to see your attempts at something a bit more dynamic with some actual character interaction, dialogue and a more developed plot. I don't mean this as a negative, it's not. You can set a scene very well, I'd just like to see you move on to try doing more things with them.

There are a few flaws though. There are a couple of spelling mistakes, and your last sentence seems to be missing a word. You are also suffering from the common problem of comma overload. You don't need to use as many commas as you do. In a few places you're using them instead of a semicolon and in quite often you insert a comma where it simply isn't needed. Unless you're making a paranthesised aside you don't need to include a comma after a 'connecting word' such as 'and' or 'but'. You should also consider how many such asides you should be making. If you're breaking up one such aside in order to include another such aside, or if you're using several in quick succsession, you might be better served splitting the sentence up a bit. Your second sentence is in a failry obvious example of this and looks a bit untidy as a result.
There is another grammitical problem you've fallen into in the second sentence of paragraph two. Words the the suffix '-ing' are essentially present tense and so will denote something that applies to the entire sentence. As general rule of thumb it's therefore not a good idea to include one unless it can apply to the whole sentence and still make sence. In your case it can't as it's simply not possibly to watch something while you're turning to face the opposite direction.

Overall though, it's a still a solid piece of writing. Description is obviously something you do well so it would be a good idea to try branching out a bit and try your hand at some other areas of writing.

Thanks alot! Keep in mind that English is not my first language (although, as you can see, I consider myself rather devoted to it) so some spelling and grammar mistakes are almost unavoidable, but it is of course important to minimize them. The comma thing might stem from German, my first language, where commas are (or can be) added in many cases you mentioned.


The story itself is born out of a spontaneous longing to read something dreamy and subtle, but instead deciding to write something up myself, so, as you mentioned, description and atmosphere are what it's all about. Sadly, I can hardly manage the focus to write something longer than a few pages, or only at the expense of quality, and so I tend to write short stories that try to capture a single event or a certain atmosphere, instead of a "proper", longer story. But maybe I will try something, after all, character interaction can be had in short stories.

EDIT: A somewhat embarassing question, but "aside" means a sub-sentence to a main sentence, a sentence that relies on the main sentence, yes? I actually never heard that word, but I thought I could figure it out. <- Aside?

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Originally Posted by GolemsVoice

EDIT: A somewhat embarassing question, but "aside" means a sub-sentence to a main sentence, a sentence that relies on the main sentence, yes? I actually never heard that word, but I thought I could figure it out. <- Aside?

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It's a message that departs from the main subject. I personally tend to use it as a 'catch-all' term for the kind of writing you'd place in brackets (or between dashes or commas) or in a footnote rather than taking as part of the main sentence. I'm not that versed in the formal jargon of english though so it may not be the entirely correct term.

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Keep in mind that English is not my first language

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I would not have guessed that from your writing.

Alright, so it looks like Vatsy and Bruno is a go. For the sake of convenience, why don't I just link to the whole thing:

http://www.chocolatehammer.org/?page_id=551

If you want to stop reading at a certain point, feel free to--just let me know what that point is.

To get this out of the way--I know my use of Oxford Commas is inconsistent, and I'm pretty damn sure I spent waaay too much time telling you about my characters instead of just trusting the story to characterize them. So, besides those things.

Also: I really need to get around to reviewing some of y'all above me's stuff. They're quite good.

Critique of Rutskarn's Vatsy and Bruno

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First, let me tell you, wonderful! An intriguing, exciting story with an undercurrent of somewhat black humor, that still manages not to drift off into silliness too much. Actually, your work reminds me very much of that of Sir Terry Pratchett, you don't happen to be a fan of him?

The characterization is done very well, you manage to show both protagonists quirks and behaviour by relying on describing their actions, not telling us what they are like, and it works, in the limited scope of your story. Another thing I appreciated is that despite all the absurditiy and randomness that happens, nothing feels out of place. Two talking animals hunting down a mad scientist's apprentice and a hard-boiled P.I.-cliche through a city where you can hire thugs for a minute of being beaten seems absurd and unconnected, but you integrate it seamlessly into the flow of your story, and make it feel natural. Here is the point that reminds me most of Pratchett, and even if you should have copied him, you did so fantastically.

Another thing I like is how the story is funny, but the humor is never showed into your face. (laugh here!) Take, for example, the conversation between the thugs and Vatsy. Of course, the whole idea is totally absurd, but the conversation is still subtly funny, without giving way to the inherent silliness of the situation.

I fear I'm not really good at commenting at length, so let me just conclude that I really liked your story, and the way you manage to blend absurd humor, slapstick, clicheed characters and talking animal into one hell of a ride!

Ha! Now you are HONOR BOUND to give me a favorable review as well! ;-)

Critique: "The Dream-Singer" by GolemsVoice

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I think this is an unfinished work; as Mr. Silver mentioned it lacks conflict and tension so it isn't a story. It does have a bit of good imagery, when you write about the moldering mansion, so I'm seeing it as more of a poem than a story right now. But as a poem, it's a bit long for my taste.

So in summary, I think you need to decide whether this is a story, part of a story, a poem or whatnot. One definite suggestion I have is to be more specific about what Thomas sees in his dreams. Describing them as "vivid dream lands" and whatnot doesn't create imagery; so I suggest adding short descriptions of two or three of his dreams. [And removing most of the second-hand descriptions of his dreams.]

I think the best part of The Dream-Singer is the mention of the moth eggs in Thomas' skull; maybe it's just because insects tend to gross me out, but that's creepy!

Since there hasn't been 8 stories yet, and that's how many stories you wanted to start the thread off with, here's my story.


Worlds Without Number Chapter 1:

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“Earth. Our planet. The blue jewel of the solar system. The wondrous marble of dirt and water. God's greatest creation, and the random collection of a hundred billion dust motes. The combination of every element, and a tortured sphere, the mother of the screaming mobs of humanity. Whatever you may call it, it is Gaia, Terra Firma, it is Earth, our domain and home.”

The grey-bearded man tapped a finger against his chin, frowning. Then, his glasses gleamed as he suddenly gripped the podium he stood at, his knuckles stark white with the pressure he exerted.

“So why is it that we are all so eager to leave it? Why do we feel the need to strip our planet of it's last resources, it's final dignity, to simply leave it? Because we need space, of course. Living space and resources. Earth, even with it's immense riches and room, cannot hold all of us, cannot sustain our teeming masses. Humanity, relatively speaking, needs to make an addition to the side of the house. But can any of you imagine living anywhere else but Earth? Can any of you even begin to comprehend living on the Moon, Mars, or Mercury?

No, because, at the very least, all who live there would be changed, their lives and mindsets so far away from our Earth lives, that they would basically be a new species! They would be altered, unrecognizable as humans, eventually! Thus, we MUST remain on Earth. But how, when we must survive, must expand?”

The old man straightened his labcoat, and smiled, his grin reflected uncertainly on the people in front of him.

“Going back to my house analogy, would you please picture a house, an impossibly massive mansion, stretching for miles on end, with doors as far as the eye can see? Good. Now imagine that each of these doors have a slightly different lock. Now, open the doors. Each leads to a fantastic new room, with wonders unimaginable, but somehow familiar. You see, our Earth, our magnificent blue jewel in space, is one of these rooms. Each door leads to a different world, a glorious copy of our own. The house, you see, is all of reality, and my new invention, the Trans-Dimensional Warp Gauntlet, or TDWG, is the master key to all of these rooms.”

The audience, silent in awe and wonder, erupted into noise at the end of the old man's speech, a caphony of bewilderment, wonder, mockery, and disbelief.

A lone voice shouted above the crowd with a sarcastic air. It's owner, a man with a feel, a visible aura of business, one used to mergers and layoffs and stock trading of all kinds, was well-dressed in a suit bearing a nametag denoting his status as CEO of AllTech Enterprises.

“So, Doctor Harold Longsworth, we're supposed to believe that the universe is one big house, and we're roommates with a billion different worlds? That's foolishness, and uneconomical. How do we compete with that amount of people? Furthermore, how are we supposed to believe that this 'Trans-Warp Gauntlet' of yours works? You haven't showed us any tests or proof! We haven't even SEEN your gauntlet.”

And that is where I came in to the scene.

“My good man, I hoped, nay, predicted that you would ask that! Allow me to introduce my assistant, the intern, a Mr. Will Rowe.”

I'm sure a few, later on, would say, with the benefit of hindsight, that when they saw me, they knew what I would become, what horrors and wonders I would unleash upon reality, but at that moment, at that minute in time, I'm sure I wasn't an inspiring sight, what with my pale skin, crooked nose, stooped figure, overlarge labcoat, and bony limbs.

I've been told that then, I looked remarkably like an “Igor” from the old mad scientist movies. The only thing remarkable about me was my peculiar grey eyes, and the glove that was to be the beginning of all my adventures.

It was a strange glove, to tell you the truth, a sleek silver metal sleeve that looked just like a human hand and arm, but with hundreds of tiny wires protruding out of it like a kraken's tentacles. A thousand different tiny glowing buttons were affixed to it, along with a small computer screen on the palm, signifying its almost science fiction nature.

I say this with the benefit of hindsight, like those who say they knew who I would be, but I feel that even then, the glove was attuned to me, ready for the adventures and travels I would undertake, fitting to me like a second skin.

It's funny, really, that I, a young, foolish intern from Seattle who just discovered string theory a year ago, would soon go on travels across entire universes.

But that is a tale for later, and for now, we are focused on the beginnings of my travels.

I smiled uncertainly at the crowd, who stood stock-still, and silent as a tree that falls in the forest with no one around.

Then, the noise started again. The audience was an explosion of voices once more. I cringed, I had never liked being the center of attention...

“Attention! ATTENTION, my friends. And reporters. ATTENTION! Do not dismiss this young man simply because of his appearance! I'm sure he'll both impress all of us by bringing back something from another world, and satisfy your desire for a test at the same time. After all, he's quite a bright boy, aren't you, Mr. Rowe?”

Oh, how I hated the old man at the moment. But he could not imagine the horrors that awaited me, nor did I, then. Then, I mostly hated the old man because I thought he forced me to choose. I thought that it was not truly my will, that I could either kiss my career, reputation, and enjoyment of goodbye, or face the unknown, and a possible death at whatever lurked directly beyond this dimension. The possibilities were endless.

We had never done dimensional tests on a living thing before (despite the fact that the Professor had made the Trans-Dimensional Warp technology into a gauntlet), and, while possessing a vague idea for coordinates to punch in to travel through realities, had no idea what awaited us.

I must admit, though, that Professor Longsworth had a talent for oratory, we joked a few times, working on the Gauntlet, that he should've been a politician. He laughed it off, saying that he'd be a terrible politician, one that would resign, and leave his post to a nobody off the street, to be able to go to the science conventions and back to his tinkering. It's funny, because in the end, he was right. But enough of that. In any case, I was genuinely curious. What was beyond this reality, exactly? What wonders were there, waiting for a dimensional Leif Ericson, a celestial Marco Polo to discover them, and spread them to his own world.

So I did it. I threw my dignity, my low opinion of myself, my stage fright away, all of it; to the winds! I took the first step into glory! The beginning of an incredible journey, a new dawn.

My fingers danced like spiders along the buttons of the Gauntlet, as I typed in a random coordinate that the Professor and I had calculated would be dimensionally close to our world, I gave a highly dramatic flourish of my labcoat giving an extremely fake smile (I've been told later that it looked genuine), and then, I disappeared, in a piercing green light, wondering too late of a question that had been in the back of my head for a while.

I was an intern. Why, exactly was I allowed to help the Professor with incredibly difficult quantum physics problems, like the capabilities of the TDWG? I only knew a bit of that kind of science, or so I thought.

Oh well, I thought in that last split-second. I'm already gone.

Roster updated, and I added a note at the top to indicate up to which post # it's current.

Moving along nicely. :smallsmile:

There are 3 "free" slots left for 3 different people to post a work before providing critiques first. Mr.Silver has already earned a story post, so he won't count against that if he posts.

Critique of Worlds Without Number by Rational Goblin

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Nicely done, you got me hooked. Though, and I don't mean that as an insult, it is not, your writing doesn't excel (but it is not bad, really!) you set the stage for further adventures, and by hinting at things that will happen but have not, you grab the reader's attention as to what exactly will happen. And that's one of the strong points of your story. It appears to be set slightly in the future, but you never tell us exactly how far advanced humanity is, thuscreating a mystery that doesn't let us predict what exactly will happen. You also never mention what type of horrors await young Rowe, because the trip into another world can mean all manner of things, from a sci-fi adventure to some sort of cosmic evil a la Lovecraft. Keep on writing, I'm sure to keep readng and find out what mystery you have in store for Rowe and the reader.

Critique of Worlds Without Number by Rational Goblin

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There's something rather Lovecraftian about this, more in the way of suggesting the existence of dimensional horrors just beyond the vale than the general atmosphere of the piece. It's solid work, and you writing style is a little rough around the edges whilst showing sparks of your very real talent. I immediately feel sympathetic towards the intern, the narrator of the story as he is, which I fell is a good thing from what he's going to experience later on. The beginning of your prose, with the business-like man and the slightly nutty professor kind of reminds me of Jasper Fforde's work, again a very good thing. As a first chapter of a book, this would have me interested.

A few criticisms though. There are too many comma's around that work, and a few misplaced examples do break up the admirable flow of your narrative. The dialogue, or monologue as it has been by necessity so far, is okay but possibly a little unreal. I can't really see anyone talking like the businessman does, it just doesn't seem realistic, but maybe I'm just missing the point. Your description, at times, could use a little polish. These kind of things come with practice though, so they're no big thing.

All in all a well crafted beginning to a potentially very interesting story that's just a little rough around the edges.

I will post some form of prose here at some point, if it kills me...the way my writing's been going recently it probably will. :smalleek:

I don't have time right now to interact much, but I just want to say that this is a beautiful thread filled with beautiful people that I will be interacting with and that this is now subscribed to.

Once I come up with the idea for a shortish story, I'll post somethin'. For now later, I'll just critique.


Critique of Onami's Greeting:

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Well, I did like it, I must admit. However, there was one stumbling block for me - the alternating lines were somewhat confusing, enough so that I had to read it several times to get what you were trying to say.

But I agree that it is exceptionally done, especially the ending. It gives off a strong vibe of being from another culture entirely.

Neko Tales:

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The major criticism I have here is that after reading the first four pages, I don't really know the main character. Yes, she's a catgirl. Yes, she has very cat-like instincts and wants to be free. Aaaaand... that's about all I know about her and her personality. Also, some of the dialog seems stilted, especially in the third chapter, and it seems to be moving at a rather rushed pace.

And I dislike the way you used the flashbacks to give her backstory, especially the second one, as it didn't even have the redeeming little flashes into how she thinks and acts the first one possessed. It's a pretty obvious infodump, and it might be better to, instead of flashbacking, seed her history through the story. Have her tell Marcone a little bit about her life - have her remember small things, not everything the reader needs to know at once.

But, I'll echo the sentiments of previous critiques - the story has some potential, and the villain is very well done. Keep writing it!

And I'll read Vasty and Bruno after writin' some of m' own stuff up.

I'm currently working on several ideas for a fantasy novel. This is a story set in the past of one of those novel ideas, and I'll do my best to explain what's necessary. And yes, I know I posted twice, but I don't like having both writing and critique in the same post.

So, without further ado, The Last Trade.

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Baren stood very, very still, hands held out in a gesture of peace, the reins for his horse held loosely in his left hand. He gave the four Surac a nervous grin, one that he hoped conveyed the message 'Please don't shoot me.' He grasped at the bits and pieces of their language that he knew. "Uh... hrrash kahl s'Baren?" There was a long, tense moment before the foremost Surac lowered his bow and let loose a sharp yowl. Two of them loped off into the high brush on either side of the trail, quickly lost to sight in the early morning mist. The one that Baren guessed was their leader gestured for him and rattled off a quick command for him to follow. He tugged the small pack horse carrying his goods forward, and followed the Surac down the trail. As he passed the sentry still there, she looked down at him with what he hoped was a grin, her lips pulled back from long fangs. Up close, he noticed the green and red warpaint contrasting with her tawny fur, running down one side of her body like a river of grass and blood.

He'd traveled down this road many times before, every year or two. The Hathar Tribe usually been overjoyed to see ol' Baren, with his sturdy clay pots and bowls, and cunningly-made copper tools, and pretty bits of amber. Gray-furred kits would clamber on top of him and filch small trinkets as a game, while those too old to hunt and harvest would trade some of the game, some of the surplus crops for Baren's goods - food that sold well up north, for those brave pioneers still pushing northwest. But they'd never greeted him with drawn bows and ready spears. Something was wrong here, he knew it. The village, nestled in a tiny depression in the earth that looked from above like the site of a god's hammer blow, was half-deserted. Small fires smoldered in the rude grass-woven huts, and all he saw of the usually ubiquitous cubs were small frightened eyes glancing out quickly from the doors.

His escort placed a heavy paw on his shoulder and pressed down, telling him without words to stop and wait. The Surac moved forward to the chieftain's hut, kneeling and bowing in respect on the threshold before moving aside the flap and poking his head in, speaking to the chieftain within in a subdued tone. Baren fiddled with the pack-straps, ready to make a trade if he wasn't chased out - and from the looks of things, that was a distinct possibility. Sometimes you heard stories about traders offending the Surac - or worse, breaking a sacred taboo - and never being seen again. Baren hadn't believed the tales, but there was something about the oppressive mist and stillness that made him shiver.

The Surac stepped back quickly as the flap was pushed aside and a familiar friend stepped out. "Baren?" Baren laughed in relief as Speaker For Stars, the shaman of the Hathar, stepped forward, before he noticed the look of concern on the feline's face. "Not good for you here, Baren. Human not welcome here now."

"What's happened, Speaker?" Baren gestured around the morose village. "I'll head on out, but can you tell me what's wrong?" Speaker hesitated, and for a moment Baren thought he'd be chased out after all, but finally Speaker sighed and turned away, heading towards his hut. "Follow, friend of Hathar, and trade stories as is right." Baren handed out the reins to the one who had escorted him, and he accepted the reins gingerly.

As he ducked inside the tall hut, Speaker was already lighting a small fire in the small pit at the hut's center. Baren wasn't struck by differences in size anymore, though he had when he was younger. Now, he simply accepted the fact that Speaker loomed over him even while sitting. The lanky feline shook out several leaves from a leather bag, placing them in a clay bowl that he'd bought from Baren years back and filling the bowl with water from a hide-bound waterskin. He placed it over the fire gingerly, then sat back as the water began to boil the leaves. "Words come to us from over river east, where Isalki dwelled in shaped earth. They did not keep peace with humans, but they only stole from humans." He sighed, a long drawn-out exhalation. Baren knew enough about the Surac to know that his old friend was upset deeply. "But humans have new chieftain... Duke Herson." Speaker was ill at ease with the words, slowly sounding them out.
"I've heard of Duke Herson. Claims that he'll unite the kingdoms under his banner, just like every other fool with a dream of grandeur."
"Herson commands Isalki to leave his land. His!" Speaker spat out several curses in his language, baring his fangs. "We danced on grass before humans came from mountains, Baren. Land of Isalki, not land of Duke Herson. They tell him this." He leaned down and sniffed the bowl of leaves, before sighing morosely again. "This Duke Herson, he raid them in night. When hunters are out on plains, running quick to catch deer, he catch eld and cub. Some escape, a hunter who escaped net or a cub who hid... but few. Very few. Two, they come and tell us, ask for food and bow. They move south, down where grass meets rock and sand."

There was silence in the tent for a time, Baren's face downcast and Speaker's eyes watching the fire. It was Speaker who broke the silence again, his rough voice seeming to ring in Baren's ears. "So we fear humans, because we know they come. Isalki are not only Surac dead: who remembers wild Anar-kath by sea-sand? Some whisper that Anar-kath made war, and were driven into sea. No. Dengarth and Hilal, their land lies empty as they run southwards, run from Human." He picked the bowl up and sipped from it, purring in pleasure at the taste of the water. "Hathar will not run, when Human comes."

Baren shook his head. "Maybe they won't. You're a peaceful tribe, you've lived in peace with the settlements to the north for years. Maybe... they'll leave you alone?"
"No. This Duke Harson, he is land-loving. He will come. If not him, then his cub, or another who cares not for us. They will take land from us, and we will not run into barren desert. Maybe Human will chase us still, and drive us to end of earth, where birds of metal live in forests of fire. Or so say shamans dead now. But we will fight for our land, and Torchbearer will take our souls and scatter them in sky. Maybe our land will remember us when humans are only remembered by shamans."
"You're going to fight." Baren looked up into Speaker's pale eyes, inhuman and yet all too human. "Well... I brought some bronze-headed arrows for you to hunt with. Are..." His voice broke slightly, but he continued. "Are you going to need them?"

Speaker solemnly nodded as Baren rose, making the slightest hint of a purr. "Yes. We will hunt well with strong arrows." As Baren turned to pull back the flap and exit the tent, Speaker spoke again. "Why, human Baren?" Baren stopped, but didn't turn to face his friend. "...Because you don't deserve this. And because I'm not going to be Herson." And he pushed back the flap and walked out to where the Surac waited patiently with his horse, head held high.

Hmm, bit of a backlog here.

Critique: 'The Last Trade' by Raz_fox

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Solid work here. The story seems to have a certain western feel to it which can be interesting if done well (if not, you get The Soldier Son which I really don't want to talk about). Your description style is reasonably well balanced and Speaker's monologue manages to avoid excessive infodumping although his method of speech can be a little hard to follow.
The story reads very much like a prologue and is an effective one. If this isn't a prologue of some kind then you immediately have a problem because you've written something that seems incomplete, but I digress. Assuming it is a prologue then there a few pitfalls you might fall into: Duke Herson as set-up seems a bit of a stock character although that might not matter if he isn't going to be a major antagonist. Still something to watch out for though.

Grammar wise there are a couple of errors, an unecessary elipsis or two and the fact you've occaisionally forgotten to start a new line when someone is speaking but overall there are few complaints on this, and it could be fixed with a couple of proof reads.

One thing, maybe not related to the story, is something I noticed on your userpage (I was curious about your age and nationality). There you describe yourself as a 'christian fantasist' and I'm kind of curious what you mean by that. Are you a christian who also does fantasy writing or do you write fantasy with a deliberate christian subtext, message or other thematic element? My worry here is that the latter is skating into the dark, murky waters of ideological fiction which is a problematic area of writing. I may do a post on the issues with ideological fiction in general later under writing tips.

Regardless, as it stands this is a good prologue where there isn't much room for improvement. If your intent was to get the reader interested in the main story, then you've succeeded.

Critique: 'Worlds Without Numbers' by Rational Goblin

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Again, a good prologue although it is seriously weighed-down by the excessive amount of punctuation. One thing I would suggest is to make it apparent from the very first paragraph that this story is told from a first-person perspective. As it is now, it opens looking much more like a third person perspective novel and the reader only becomes aware that it isn't when Rowe appears. This isn't how a first-person novel story works, the reader needs to be aware of the main character right from the very start and ideally should be getting a feel for him from then on. The fact that you don't do this detracts a little from the overall style and denies you the oportunity to space out Rowe's observations and opinions rather the throwing them all into the second half.

Very minor point: while more dramatic, no good scientist would carry-out the very first live test as part of a presentation. Far too uncontrolled an enivronment plus it would make him/her look a complete idiot if it backfired :smalltongue:

Critique - 'The Last Trade' by Raz_fox

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Another solid prologue. Sets up an interesting story of a human trader working against his own people to support the Surac, who seem like the rightful owners of their lands. The similarities to some of the developed worlds recent histories are apparent. As a story it has plenty of potential for adventure and conflict, and the investigation of what drives different people to do the things they do, which is good. But it's a story that's been told before in many different guises, so you'll have to work hard to avoid cliche. This isn't neccesarily a problem, it's just that you'll really have to have something unique to set your story apart from the others.

As fpr your writing style, I see no major problems. Speaker's dialogue is rather stilted, but that's intentional and to be expected. There's a little infodumping in there, but only enough to get the initial thrust of the story across. I'd need to see something more akin to conversation to really know how good your dialogue is, but I see no issues right now. There are the occasional bits of rough description, such as the bit about Baren's reins, and what Speaker does before he tells his story. Most of this can be sorted out with editting, so again, no big issues. You seem to have a good grasp of punctuation and grammar, which helps your work to flow quite well.

Essentially, a good start. There's nothing in the initial story that really stands out for me, but I think that's more my own personal taste in narrative than anything else. The good side is there's nothing that stands out as poor either, which says a lot about your writing style. Good stuff, I look forward to seeing more of your work.

Time for my first prose contribution, now I've actually written something I don't wince at too badly when I read it back. :smalltongue: It's a two chapter Prologue to a full length novel I have in mind, in which the main character doesn't even make an appearance:

Inner Demons
Modern Fantasy/Horror
Word Count - 1650(ish)

Prologue Chapter 1

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The crypt was deathly cold, despite the summer warmth outside. It had been a blistering July day, and it was still humid even with the sun half dipped behind the horizon, but the suns rays had done nothing to thaw this particular place. A crypt like this would never thaw, not whilst the gate remained open far below. It was a bit of a mystery really, how the gates made places so cold when they opened up onto what they did. The man in the cream suit stretched out a pale hand and placed it on one of the large grey slabs that lined the walls. The stone was almost freezing, it chilled and numbed his hand in the few seconds between him touching it and pulling away.

“Frigid today, aren’t we?” Sebastian Pewter smiled to himself and strolled over to the three stone coffins that sat against the far wall, each engraved with the names and epitaph’s of the supposed interred. He read the inscription on the tarnished brass plate of the middle coffin, just as he had so many times before. Edward Arch, for him the Gate is Always Open. It was strange as far as epitaphs went, and no lifespan, no clue as to how old the coffin or the crypt around it actually was. The dull grey stones of the crypt were ageless and gave away nothing. The cemetery itself was supposedly at least three hundred years old, but local records were notoriously sketchy. True or not, the gate had always been here, and that was what mattered. The other coffins were apparently home to Alice and Victor Arch, also without age, and apparently not important enough even for a tagline. But it wasn’t them Sebastian was interested in, it was the middle Arch that he had come to see.

“Hi again Eddie, care to share some hospitality?” He moved to the head of the coffin and gave the lid a light tap. Immediately the heavy stone slid towards the foot of the casket, as if on a cushion of air, revealing a cold and sterile interior. Sebastian doubted the stone casket had ever been occupied, and he was pretty sure Edward Arch had never existed either. Even if he had, he’d never taken up the option of this particular bit of eternal real estate. Alice and Victor on the other hand, they might well be around, though he’d never opened up the other coffins to find out. The dead had earned their rest after all, and Sebastian wasn’t about to disturb them without good reason. There were too many troubles in the living world to mess around with what might come afterwards.

The lid stopped silently almost halfway down the coffin, about where the resident’s waist would have been. Sebastian stepped in and sat down, sliding his legs down into the darkness. When he was comfortable he lay back and closed his eyes as the coffin lid slipped soundlessly back over him, cutting him off from the world outside. That was alright though, it wasn’t anyone in this world that he wanted to talk to.

Prologue Chapter 2

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It was all a matter of concentration really, just one little thought and you were there. You just had to know what you were doing. Before he even opened his eyes he knew from the dramatic change in temperature that he was there. Dry heat stroked tenderly at his exposed skin and he immediately started to sweat in his suit. Sebastian stood up and dusted himself down as best he could, though the parched red earth seemed to stick like glue despite the arid conditions.

He was standing on a small patch of ground surrounded by a crowd of jagged black rocks that towered over him on all sides. The rocks bathed the tiny area in deep shadow and blocked out most of the watery grey light of the place, making it feel like night. A narrow trail picked a path through the rocks to the east, where the ground started to fall away sharply towards a dried up riverbed far below. He’d been down there a few times before, but there was no need today. The reason for his trip was much closer to home.

“Come on out my little friend, I know you’re here.” Something shifted behind one of the smaller rocks off to the left, but kept itself hidden. Sebastian smiled. “If you’re going to hide you at least need to make sure you stay quiet.”

He slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his shirt and bought out a battered yellow and red badge, its pin bent and broken. There was a rough face printed on it, the yellow half smiling, the red half scowling with rage. Both halves were marred by spots of dried blood. He held the badge between thumb and forefinger, then flicked it onto the ground several yards away from him. He waited.

“Y-you...bought an offering?” The voice that came from behind the rock was high and cracked, like a young girls singing voice made hoarse by too many forced performances. It was weak and needy, every syllable seeming to reach out and grasp for attention, for reassurance. Sebastian said nothing, just waited patiently, a knowing smile playing across his features.

After a few moments a dark shape detached itself from the shielding bulk of the rock and scuttled cautiously over to where the badge lay on the ground. It was a small creature, about the size of a Labrador, bipedal but hunched over so that its arms dragged across the floor. More than anything it looked like a cross between a hedgehog and a chimpanzee, all bony spines and long wiry limbs. Its pock-marked skin was midnight blue, except for the places where red sores and lesions opened like wounds, dripping with yellow puss. Its face was surprisingly human in a bestial kind of way; two beady little red eyes peered out from underneath a protruding forehead studded with horns and sores. It snuffled around the badge then looked up at Sebastian, its eyes glowing like fiery embers. Sebastian’s smile faltered, but he held his ground. As grotesque as the creature looked, he’d met with it enough times to know it was utterly spineless. It snatched up the badge in one long fingered hand and retreated a few yards.

“What do you want White Suit Man? I’ve been good, very good I have! Stayed away from crypt, just like you said! Longing stay on this side, not cause more trouble I swear!”

Sebastian laughed a little, he couldn’t help it. The demon was afraid of him, it was actually quite perverse when you compared the threat posed by an unarmed man to that of a three foot tall humanoid porcupine. “It’s cream actually. I’m not here about that anyway, I know you’ve been a good boy. I’ve got far more important things on my mind.” The creature rubbed its hands together nervously and stared up at him, seemingly unconvinced. “What’s going on down here, someone pour boiling water down the anthill?”

The creature shifted on its splayed bird-like feet and looked down at the ground. “The masters are restless. Disturbed. The demons all on edge, smaller one’s been forced out, consumed even! Longing scared...something been happened.”

At least that explained why his workload had gone up so much recently. There was one obvious question to ask, so Sebastian asked it. “What’s happened then Longing? It’s bleeding through into our world, in the last few weeks there’s been more of your kind coming through the gates than there have for years. It’s only a matter of time one slips through the net, and some poor drunkard sees something. There’s only so many sightings of the Stanbrook Cemetary Cougar that people can take before they start asking questions. More importantly, I’m starting to run out of bullets.”The threat wasn’t lost on Longing, The little beast began to gibber and quail, and held its spidery hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“I not know! Longing not know! I nothing, masters not even notice me...Please, I good! Tell White Suit Man all I know!”

Sebastian sighed and shook his head. Longing wasn’t lying. The poor wretch didn’t have it in him, there wasn’t a malicious bone in his twisted little body. The demon had the higher level intelligence that most of his kind lacked, but none of the physical strength or predatory and murderous instinct. He was also an awful liar and a hopeless coward. All in all, Sebastian had been very lucky to come across a demon weak and spineless enough to be threatened into being an informant, and bright enough to actually articulate what he’d seen. “Have you got nothing for me little guy? Think for a minute, work the grey matter a little.”

The demon nodded, eager to at least seem helpful. Sebastian waited patiently while Longing doodled on the ground with a ragged claw and muttered to himself. Just as he was about to give up Longing squealed in triumph, his beady red eyes glowing. “Longing remember! Something pass through city two lights ago. Not demon but not man, went towards other gate. Longing scared, but followed anyway, think he might have offerings. Not Man had big demons with him, said something to one and Longing hear as well!” The demon pointed at himself proudly, almost like a dog that’s just performed a trick.

“What did the Not Man say, his exact words?”
The demon thought for a moment, then his horned brow furrowing as he spoke proper English for probably the first and only time. “You will find and hunt the key...and the gates will be blown open.”
“Two lights ago you said?”
Longing nodded. “Two lights, one dark.”
Seb stalked away without another word. He might already be too late.

I'll hardly be at my PC next week, so I won't get to do any criticism, sorry. Bur I'm going to read them all and comment on them, don't worry.

i must say, this is my favorite thread now... (please forgive me iron poet) ive never been able to find a place to get good solid constant critisizm... i decided (since i have nothing to post yet) ill just stockpile my comments, and coment on everything at once so i can post stories whenever i want, so without further ado:

Critique: Onami's Greeting by Tequila Sunrise

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skimming through (at my 100 pages an hour rate i use for school) i get the initial image of a sort of ritual/tradition of a squad going to battle. Captain shouts, men respond.

second time through i find things out of place. the "narrator" doesnt go with the feeling i think. The begining intro fits, but with the squad ritual feel to it i dont get the last "first and last words" part. Maybe a little more flow is needed here to get the full feel of the situation?

critique: the last trade by Raz Fox

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just going by paragraph, first one is confusing... it seems to be a solid world with unique races, at least one of which is featured here without much description. i found myself reading over it multiple times trying to find what i missed cause i had no clue what just happened. Perhaps if you vary sentence beginnings and create a bit more flow and imagery it will be easier to understand

finally, some backstory and set up... interesting picture with the trader, i had to glance at the first section when you mentioned the village... again seems to be a little backstory or information that elaboration would clear up. flow again is an issue

this one flows welll enough... might wanna watch where you place those hyphons, they can confuse adjective noun posessive stuff

nothing to critique here

ummm, last sentence, the last "he" is unclear... on reading again, it is understandable, but might wanna edit that sentence

not much to say here, still needs some flow work

the rest has nothing major, just some flow issues

overall, i escpecially like the way you wrote the elder's speach, i like the broken english... it really rounds it out

critique: inner demons by banjo1985

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ok, love the title, just saying. i saw the title and was like, im gonna critique this one

chapter one: youre gonna make this hard on me arent you? i hate giving endless praise for a piece, but thats all i can think to give for this. great imagery, forshadowing, you get the reader interested quick

dang you and your imagery!!! fine, can i just put same as above for chapter 2? please!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by thurge namor

i must say, this is my favorite thread now... (please forgive me iron poet) ive never been able to find a place to get good solid constant critisizm... i decided (since i have nothing to post yet) ill just stockpile my comments, and coment on everything at once so i can post stories whenever i want, so without further ado:

---

Awesome, stockpiling is always welcome! :smallbiggrin:

Roster updated, and there are now 2 more open slots for posting a story before having to do critiques. As everybody can see already, with a good variety of stories getting posted, it's quite easy to just jump in and do 3 critiques just before adding your own story to the mix.

I also updated the resources message (#3) with a couple of links that lead to articles and information about writing and workshopping.

Ah, what the heck.

I've been lurking in this thread since its creation, but I haven't felt inspired to write anything lately, so I'll post one of the few stories of mine that survived my computer crash. It probably won't make much sense as written, since it was written for a few of my friends and therefore with the assumption of some prior knowledge, but I'll write a new draft later. :smallsigh:And, of course, the forum can't display all my beautiful formatting.

Mask Masque by Kallisti (This should be treated as a rough draft...)

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Mask Masque
By Kallisti

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
--Paul Laurence Dunbar, We Wear the Mask

We all have our ugly secrets and our skeletons in the closet. So we choose a mask, and we don it, and we hope that, by pretending to become the mask, we can become the mask. Everyone does it. You. I. Robert. But Robert, now…there’s something of a special case. He wears a mask, of course. Everyone does…but which? Who is Robert? Let’s have a look, shall we?

Pulcinello, the bully?
They were all staring at him, and it was really beginning to get on his nerves. Goddamnit, I’ve been stared at enough in the past few days. And he glared around at them all. “Can I help you?” But no one was frightened. Everyone laughed. “Sure can, kid. How much for a blowjob?” A vein began to throb in Robert’s forehead. He was getting very sick of that kind of crap. But he just kept walking…right into the chest of a huge bald man with his cronies behind him. “Kid, I don’t think you realize just how much trouble you’re in.” But Robert had had a rough few days…and he had an ace up his sleeve. “Are you going to get out of my way before I hurt you?” That’s when he noticed the bald man had a knife. It was in Robert’s gut. It hurt. A lot.

Il Dottore?
That crunching sounded…really bad. Hadn’t Crusader said the zipline was safe and he did it all the time? Jeeze. What a wannabe. Still, he’d better go check it out. “Hey! You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” came the Crusader’s reply as Caleb reeled him in. He let go of the line and slumped against a wall. He was obviously not fine. At all.
“You know what? Here. Your ribs are broken, I can tell. Here, I’ll get it.” OK, creepy voices in my head, don’t fail me now. He laid a hand on the Crusader’s chest, and there was a sickening snap. “Owwwww….OWWWW! Don’t DO that!” And he slumped against the wall. Whoops! ****. “Sorry, but your ribs were broken and I just…OK, OK. I won’t do it again…”

Pierrot, the jilted lover?
Robert,
It’s over. I just can’t be with you anymore. I’m sorry.
He stared in disbelief at the screen of his phone. It’s over. She’s gone…
He never once cried. He just died a little inside. That was the day he stopped caring. The next day he blew up at his boss and lost his job. Again. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care anymore…

Pedrolino, the Dreamer?
Dude, this sucks. Last time I had an acid flashback, I saw glowing green chipmunks doing the wave in my shower. Being in some random dude’s house running form the police because we all have weird superpowers? Lame. I just wish these people would shut up and let me wait out the dream Jeeze. I only took the stuff the one time at Bridget’s party, and it gets me stuck here two years later? This so sucks. This whole world so sucks. Man, this is taking too long… There were people there, he was not alone. But they were just dreams. He knew it. And he was right. But that doesn’t mean they’re not real, does it? Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—life is but a dream…

Scaramuccia, the Warrior?
Robert leapt nimbly to the side as Firearm charged him. Dude, not okay! We come to see Hank, and we get jumped by freaks? And that…thing…the one with the black…No, no, don’t even think about it…The knife clattered to the ground, and so did Firearm. Yeah! Nice one, Spud! Oh. Crap. He’s just getting back up. It didn’t hurt him at all. Crap… Robert ran over and kicked the fallen Firearm as he tried to rise. It didn’t accomplish much, but it felt good. Yeah! Take that! Crap, it didn’t work. Some fighter I turn out to be…
Brighello, the sly?
“Spud, if that thing takes you over there's not much I can do. All of their souls are still intact, there's no one collective soul. I wouldn't be able to do anything to it. But if I go first, I might be able to step out of my body if it tries to take me over, because it's not affecting souls.”
“So you wouldn’t think that if you pulled my soul out I would no longer have a consciousness he could control?”
“If it takes you, it'll just attack me as soon as I try anything. If it takes me, I can escape while you run.”
“Actually I guess if he does go crazy with me he could just turn off you powers...or shoot you.”
“He can do that? Oh. Right. He'd have your powers. Then maybe I should go first. I have a decent chance of getting away on my own, and you could run.”
“Yeah, but he could also kill me with your powers…it’s a gamble either way, but I could turn you off before hand.”
“That’d probably work. So it’s a plan. Turn off my powers and let’s go…”
“Ok, but just before he does it. I’m not sure how long it lasts…”
“All right, let's go. I don't think he'll mind that we're...taking precautions. After all, so's he...”
“Ok. Let’s do this…”
And Spud heaved in a nervous breath, and followed Robert back towards the rail car.
And there they were. All of them. The revulsion and fear was written clearly in Spud’s face.
“Eric, that is really creepy…can’t you just do this with one person?”
“Can’t you do this with just one organ? Really, you only need your brain…”
“…Umm, ok. My point is, creepy with all the people.”
Robert took a deep breath. Spud was judging Eric because his powers were creepy while wandering around with Robert the Ghost Whisperer? Hypocritical, much?
“All right. All right. We’ve decided to accept your offer. I'll let you...read me...but Spud needs to do something first.”
“…do what?”
The voices suddenly cut off in mid-word, leaving only blissful silence.
“Ok. All set.”
Hell yes. I almost want him to try and trick us, just so he can see just how ready we are for him. We’ve totally got him now…

He’s looked at them all now, and not really liked what he’s seen. He’d lived a flawed life, all right. He was lucky to be alive to be making this choice. But he’d tried them all…well, except for two. But those masks, those masks were trouble. Still, he had to pick something…

Arlecchino, the merry trickster, the savior, the good?
“No, no! Please no!” The cry of terror rent the cold night air.
The moonlight shining of the skylights on the rooftop cast an eldritch glow on the woman tied to the chair, and the man in black standing over her. Her face was contorted with terror, but the man didn’t care. He’d seen it all before. It was part of the job description. “Sorry, little lady, but Mr. Brainy said you’d made him angry. When Mr. Brainy gets angry, people die. Slowly. I don’t have a lot of time, so you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna shoot you in the gut with my little friend here. It’ll hurt like hell. I’d say at least it won’t last long, but…well…it will. It’ll take about an hour for you to die. Sucks to be you, I guess.” He raised his gun, and fired, the bullet a sliver of silver hanging in the moonlight.
Yes. Hanging. Completely motionless.
“What the hell?”
The man with the gun wondered, but not for too long.
A man dressed in ghostly white landed softly before him. His skin was the honey-brown of someone who spends much time in the sun, and his brown eyes…shone somehow. They were illuminated with the light of wisdom, of compassion and caring, but they were hard, too. The eyes of someone who’d been through a lot, and seen even more.
They were the most frightening thing the man in the black had ever seen.
The taste of the fear was in his mouth, coppery and unfamiliar.
“Wh-who the hell are you? What did you do?”
The man in white spoke, and his voice was soft and warm, the voice of a kind man. “You haven’t heard of me? That’s strange. Mr. Brainy and I go back quite a ways. Next time you see him, ask him how the old head’s doing for me, won’t you?”
“Who are you?!”
“Oh, yes. I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. How very rude of me. I’m called Seraphim. I have other names, but you don’t need any of those. And you, sir? You are in a lot of trouble…”
“Ya think so, Mr. Sera-whatever? ‘Cause the way I see it, I still have a gun and you still don’t. So you stopped the one bullet. Huzzah! Good for you! Now let’s see how well you do with ten.”
“You don’t want to shoot at me.”
“Oh, is that so? Well, I guess I’ll just have to make do, then. We can’t always get what we want.”
The man in white shook his head, and made a slight gesture, and the man in black relaxed as the ghost nearest him slipped inside, filling the dark crevasses and little holes that infest every soul. He put away the gun, and sat down quietly. He's right, I don't want to shoot him...What? That wasn't my thought...No, it was mine. Now, SIT.
He sauntered over to the woman in the chair, undid the bonds, and gave her a little wink. “Not bad, huh? Well, you’re free. Some free advice to go with the free rescue, though—steer clear of Brainy in the future. He’s bad news unless you’re as badass and ruggedly handsome as me. Trust me on this.”

There is a church in the bad part of Freeport, with a graveyard in the back. It’s a beautiful church, if small. In the church, there is a painting of Lazarus rising from the grave. The painting has a box of votive candles beneath it, but none of the churchgoers ever light a candle in the bottom row of the box. Those candles are not theirs. They’re his. When the Father comes back in the morning, to give the morning service, he sees three little flames in that part of the box. Three candles lit. Three lives saved that night. Three deeds done that night. And he offers up a little prayer: God protect and keep Seraphim, so that he may continue his good work…

That one, right there. That one was cool. That guy is pretty damn awesome, he’d make a good Robert. Or Robert would make a good him. Whichever. But there’s one more…

Il Macabre, the grotesque, the slayer, the malevolent?
“No, no! Please no!” The cry of terror rent the cold night air.
The moonlight shining of the skylights on the rooftop cast an eldritch glow on the woman tied to the chair, and the man in black standing over her. Her face was contorted with terror, but the man didn’t care. He’d seen it all before. It was part of the job description. “Tell me what I need to know and I won’t have to. Mrs. Kenta, you know where your son is hiding. You will tell me willingly, or you will tell me unwillingly. It’s that simple.”
“No, no! You won’t kill me, you need me alive! You’ll never know if you kill me. Dead men tell no tales and all that.” Her words were brave, but the shaking in her voice betrayed her fear.
“You’re a fool, Miriam Kenta. Of course dead men tell tales. I’ll show you, if you’re not careful…”
He raised his gun, menacingly, then turned it suddenly, yelling, the bullet that was speeding towards him a sliver of silver hanging in the moonlight.
Yes. Hanging. Completely motionless.
The man with the gun wondered, but not for too long.
The man dressed in tattered black turned to face him him. His skin was the honey-brown of someone who spends much time in the sun, and his brown eyes…shone somehow. They were dark and dead and cold, illuminated by the sharp, actinic gleam of grim determination and sheer hate, and they were hard, too. The eyes of someone who’d been through a lot, and seen even more.
They were the most frightening thing the man in the black had ever seen.
The taste of the fear was in his mouth, coppery and unfamiliar.
“Wh-who the hell are you? What did you do?”
The man in black spoke, and his voice was soft but sharp and cold, the voice of a cruel, dangerous man. “You haven’t heard of me? That’s strange. The Kenta family and I go back a quite a ways. The next time you see dear Richard, ask him how his leg is healing up for me, won’t you?”
“Who are you?!”
“Oh, yes. I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. How very rude of me. I’m called Asmodean. I have other names, but you don’t need any of those. And you, sir? You are in a lot of trouble…”
“Ya think so, Mr. Asmodean? ‘Cause the way I see it, I still have a gun and you still don’t. So you stopped the one bullet. Huzzah! Good for you! Now let’s see how well you do with ten.”
“You don’t want to shoot at me.”
“Oh, is that so? Well, I guess I’ll just have to make do, then. We can’t always get what we want.”
He raised the gun. The man in the black shifted a finger of his upraised hand, ever so slightly, and the man crumpled. “I told you so. I’ll put you back, or at least try…sometime soon…once I finish with Kenta, maybe. It all depends on what I feel like doing. It’s a good thing you didn’t make me really angry, though. The consequences of that would be...painful.”
“Now, Mrs. Kenta. You will tell me what you know, or I will drag it from your soul…”

There is a church in the bad part of Freeport, with a graveyard in the back. It’s a beautiful church, if small. In the church, there is a painting of Lazarus rising from the grave. The painting has a box of votive candles beneath it, but none of the churchgoers ever light a candle three. Those candles are not theirs. They’re his. When the Father comes back in the morning, to give the morning service, he sees three little flames in that part of the box. Three candles lit. Three lives saved that night. Three deeds done tonight. And he offers up a little prayer: God save us all, and have mercy on his soul…and those of his victims.

And now Robert has a mask. Just like you. Just like me. Just like all of us. But which mask? Only time will tell.

We all wear masks, you see. Which one is yours?

I'll probably fix the formatting later when I'm less busy.

Alright, I've finally got a story to post, so I guess I'll take the 8th slot.

I'm going to ask for something a bit interesting here. This story is based off the *setting* I used for a poem I was forced to write for English class. So I wrote the story kind of randomly, just using whatever came to mind. As such, I don't have many ideas about the plot or characters. So I'm mostly looking for critiquing on my style and whatnot, but I'm also interested in your first impressions of the plot and characters. I don't have many ideas for them, beyond what is implied in the story, but I'd actually like to expand the story, maybe for NaNoWriMo*. So if you have any ideas, or if you think you see the beginnings of a plot in there, please tell me!

The story, by the way, is just a rough draft, so I might repost it later after I edit it a few times.

The Empty Ruins

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An icy wind whistled through the ruins of the keep, skimming the tops of fallen walls and howling through gaps in once-solid stone. A few lone, shredded banners still flapped forlornly, the only noise in this sparkling world.

The snow lay thick across the ground, its blinding brilliance marred only occasionally by broken stones, and by one set of footprints across the ruined courtyard.

A voice rang out behind Derek, unnaturally loud in the still air.

“This used to be one of the greatest castles in the world, you know. Used to guard the passes through the mountains. Hard to believe now, isn’t it?”

“Alec”, Derek replied coolly. He did not turn around.

Alec stepped out from behind a pillar in front of Derek.

“You never fall for that,” he said, disappointed.”I’d hoped that the echoes here might confuse you. Maybe next time, then.”

“Are you truly insane now?” Derek asked bitterly. “Did you forget that you’re a traitor?”

Alec grew serious. “But I’m really not,” he said earnestly. He stepped forward, footsteps muffled by the snow. “We were wrong, we were doing everything wrong the whole time. All I did was switch to the right side. You can too, you know, it’s not too late.”

“Some people can’t switch allegiances like others switch clothes, Alec.”

Alec sighed. “You’re still being stubborn,” he said accusingly. “You just refuse to see it. Just switch over, they have the right of it over here. Come on, it’ll be before I switched. We’ll be on the same team again. It’s stupid to hate each other after all we’ve been through.”

The most astonishing thing was that he was dead serious, Derek reflected. He’d really be willing to forget it all, and he really believed that if Derek switched sides, they would simply accept the leader of their opposition.

He shook his head. “Alec Krisor,” he said formally.

“Oh gods,” muttered Alec.

“You have undeniably betrayed your order and broken your vows,” Derek recited. “As of this reading, you are no longer a member of the Order. You are free to go where you will, but all men shall know you as forsworn, and no member shall extend hospitality wherever you go.”

Alec sighed again. “Really, Derek? Even at the end, you do cling to your formality.”

The wind was blowing even harder now, and a light snowfall had begun. Alec was protected by the pillar he was leaning against, but Derek wished he had more protection.

“Is it an end then?” He asked unconcernedly.

“Come on, Derek. I don’t want to fight you.”

“Then don’t. I only came to formally deliver the message. I’m leaving now.”

“Ah, well see, I can’t actually let you leave. Frankly, I was supposed to kill or capture you when I first saw you ten minutes ago.”

“I know that,” Derek said. “Everyone in your new alliance has those orders.”

“And you still came personally? I’m rather impressed. I didn’t think that delivering such an obvious message to a single traitor was worth dying for.”

“Well, like you said. It’d be a shame to forget all our history together. Of course, you could always not fight me. You know, make it easy on yourself,” Derek said. “

“I can’t,” said Alec angrily. “I have my orders.”

“So disobey them.”

Alec shook his head, flakes of snow falling from his cloak. “I can’t,” he said, putting his hand to his sword. “Please, Derek, don’t make me fight you . . .”

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” Derek said. “Don’t worry, I realize that your unquestioning loyalty to a fanatical order of lunatics sometimes clouds your judgment.”

Alec frowned. “Sarcasm? From you? I must have made you angry.” He finally drew his sword, a light one-handed sword.

Derek sighed and drew his own two-handed longsword.

“It’s not too late,” Alec said. “You can still give in.”

Derek waited impatiently. Alec would give up asking soon enough.

“Fine,” said Alec, lunging forward, and as quickly as that the fight started.

Derek found himself hard-pressed to defend himself. Alec was quick with a blade, and Derek hadn’t used one in a real fight in quite a while. His blows seemed softer, his defense slower, and at least three times he missed perfect openings in Alec’s guard. Alec, on the other hand, hadn’t seemed to miss an opening yet, and before long Derek was bleeding from several superficial scratches.

The initial fight lasted only a few minutes, until Alec suddenly drew back, breathing hard. Derek made no move to pursue him. The snow in between them was broken and bloody now.

“You’re losing,” Alec warned him.

Derek did not reply. Sweat was running into his eyes, making it difficult to see clearly, but he didn’t dare release his sword to wipe it away.

“I’ve given you all the chances I can,” Alec said. “This is your last one. Switch sides, or at least submit to capture rather than death.” Derek made no reply, and Alec frowned. “I can’t disobey my orders, Derek. What would you do if one of your underlings refused to carry out an order?”

“My orders have never included slaughtering innocents, Alec,” Derek said, watching closely.

“Well, that –“ There. The slightest, flickering hesitation.

Derek brought his sword crashing down. Alec only just managed to block the sudden blow, and the clash echoed throughout the ruins.

Derek pressed on, harder, not giving himself time to think. He let his instincts and training take over entirely. Now Alec was being driven back, stumbling through knee-high snow drifts, fighting to block Derek’s blows. Derek tried to stop seeing Alec as Alec, and just see him as another enemy to be killed . . .

The end came suddenly. Alec took one more step backwards, and stumbled over a fallen stone, half-hidden in the snow. In an instant, Derek’s sword swung down, and Alec was sprawled on the ground, the crisp white snow rapidly turning red.

Alec glared up at Derek, but his gaze lacked any real enmity. “I – I guess you were better after all,” he said, ruefully. “I –“ He stopped suddenly, and Derek guessed that the pain was coming through now.

Derek stepped around Alec, leaving him in the snow as he hunted for his campsite. It was possible that Alec might be carrying important information . . .

“Not – not talking?” Alec asked from behind him. “That’s ha – hardly fair, now.”

Derek paused a moment, then replied as levelly as he could.

“What would you have me say?”

“I don’t know,” Alec said. “Just . . . don’t leave me to – to die alone.” The words were jerky, each one only produced through sheer effort of will.

One thing no one could say about Alec was that he wasn’t determined, Derek thought angrily. He didn’t want Alec to be talking like they were old friends again. He wanted Alec to hate him, like he should. He wanted to be able to hate Alec. Instead, he turned around and went back over to Alec, sitting on a stone a few feet away.

“Wasn’t sure you’d do it,” Alec said quietly. “I know – you hate me now. But – understand – you’re still wrong.”

“And you accused me of being stubborn,” Derek muttered.

“There’s . . . still a lot to – to say,” Alec began.

“Not really.”

Silence. And then, “Maybe you’re right. I – I don’t have much time to talk in, anyway.”

A few more minutes passed in silence. “Thank you, though. I didn’t – didn’t want to die alone.”

“Well . . . we do have a history,” Derek said.

A few more minutes passed. Then, Derek carefully stood up. He walked over to Alec’s camp, and returned with a blanket. He wrapped the body in it, and then looked around. He couldn’t find anyplace better than a simple hollow in between two ruined walls, but it was better than nothing. After a moment of consideration, he moved the stone that Alec had tripped over, placing it as a sort of headstone over the makeshift grave. It was the sort of irony that Alec would have found amusing, no doubt.

Derek left shortly thereafter. It was a long journey home, and he would have plenty of time to think on the way back. Behind him, a thin layer of snow was settling over the broken snow and blood.

Twelve hours later, the wind still blew through the empty ruins, and a smooth, sparkling blanket was marred only by the occasional broken stone.

*More talk of NaNo will come tomorrow, when it's not well past midnight and when I don't have to be up in 6 hours. Oops.

Critique: Mask Masque by Kallisti

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I couldn’t pass up the chance to critique a complete piece on here.

I find this…intriguing, is probably the best word for it. It’s quite a jarring and confusing read, but a pretty effective one. As a reader I was left feeling rather dislocated and strange, so as a piece to stir feeling within the reader it’s very effective. The concept of the masks and not knowing your own true face, let alone anyone else’s is interesting, and lends itself to a short reflective piece such as this. It’s quite a unique piece of work, and a style that I’m really not used to reading, so kudos for writing something that’s stuck in my mind.

Now for a few criticisms I guess. Some of the ‘masks’ get more of a scene, a story, than the others, and while the paragraphs for each mask become longer as the piece goes on, it makes the pacing seem a little off to me. The scene with the boy getting a knife between his ribs just doesn’t sit well with the rest of the paragraph, though it’s written quite well. I’m not sure where the names for the masks come from, but they’re quite grandiose, I’d be interested to learn more about that.

I’m really struggling to properly critique this piece, I think because it is so strange and disconcerting. It seems to be an introspective piece to make the reader think, and as that it works very well. Personally I’d like to see some of your longer more prose-y (new word!) work, to see how your writing style ports over to that medium, because I think it could make for some pleasantly uncomfortable storytelling. That’s a good thing, by the way :smallbiggrin:

I’m planning to critique Vatsy and Bruno when I have a reasonable amount of time to devote to it, and I want to take a look at Death Dragon’s work too. As an aside, anyone have any opinions on my prologue, other than essentially "It's awesome, MOAR!"? :smallconfused: While I appreciate a nice ego boost as much as the next person, criques are good too!

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Originally Posted by banjo1985

Critique: Mask Masque by Kallisti

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I couldn’t pass up the chance to critique a complete piece on here.

I find this…intriguing, is probably the best word for it. It’s quite a jarring and confusing read, but a pretty effective one. As a reader I was left feeling rather dislocated and strange, so as a piece to stir feeling within the reader it’s very effective. The concept of the masks and not knowing your own true face, let alone anyone else’s is interesting, and lends itself to a short reflective piece such as this. It’s quite a unique piece of work, and a style that I’m really not used to reading, so kudos for writing something that’s stuck in my mind.

Now for a few criticisms I guess. Some of the ‘masks’ get more of a scene, a story, than the others, and while the paragraphs for each mask become longer as the piece goes on, it makes the pacing seem a little off to me. The scene with the boy getting a knife between his ribs just doesn’t sit well with the rest of the paragraph, though it’s written quite well. I’m not sure where the names for the masks come from, but they’re quite grandiose, I’d be interested to learn more about that.

I’m really struggling to properly critique this piece, I think because it is so strange and disconcerting. It seems to be an introspective piece to make the reader think, and as that it works very well. Personally I’d like to see some of your longer more prose-y (new word!) work, to see how your writing style ports over to that medium, because I think it could make for some pleasantly uncomfortable storytelling. That’s a good thing, by the way :smallbiggrin:

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Thanks.

Yeah, the order of the masks was one thing I was planing to revise, but I saw all the free slots vanishing and I don't have enough time right now to read and properly appreciate pretty much any piece, so I put something in while I could.

The masks are from the Commedia dell'Arte, the Italian stock characters. I wanted to have another take on a lot of them--anyone as shut-in and obsessive as I would have thought my treatments of many of the masks a great irony. One which I suppose will go unappreciated, since all of seventeen people on this continent would get it. :smallsigh:Such is the curse of obsession with the esoteric and irrelevant.:smallwink:

Thank you, about the writing style. I usually write horror, then dispose of it because it's hard to write good horror. One thing I really want to avoid is the 'blood-and-guts show' kind of horror. If all I've got going for my writing is how well I can describe grisly bits of meat flying from the chainsaw blade, I'm not an artist. It's nice to hear that my story makes people think. That's what I wanted it to do...

...Critiques of other people's pieces are coming, I swear! I just have so much to do, and so little time:smalleek:...

EDIT: You know what? i have some time right now, I might as well get started. Here goes...

Critique: "Onami's Greeting" by Tequila Sunrise

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I like it. It does a very good job capturing the tribal feel. It's like a call-and-response ritual. Very nice...the transition between Onami and the hands and his warriors (or that's how I read it) talking about the gods feels kind of awkward, though. I'm not sure I see the connection, and it's a little jarring. Also, why did you name it Onami's Greeting? I don't quite get that, although that may be me just being clueless.

Still, a good poem. If you don't mind, I'll steal it for one of my games. There's a tribe of barbarians on the frozen northern isle, and the poem would give a nice feeling of a detailed mythology. Is there more on Onami? Is he a character you've created and fleshed out? Or is the poem meant to stand alone?

Ok, i can't hold back any longer, im going to post something!!! Now i just have to decide what to post... hmmmm... monologue? poetic prose? poem? monologue maybe... i want something good, something that will stick with you emotionally... ill work on it for a while and post it when i finish

I'm back, and I come bearing critiques! I kind of let them build up, I see . . .

Critique: "The Dream-Singer, a classic weird tale" by GolemsVoice

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As someone who absolutely hates moths to begin with (they're just so fluttery and in the way . . .) this had a pretty nice effect on me. :smalltongue:

Anyway, I like the style of the story, it matches the theme very well. As the story goes on, the style becomes more and more vague as Thomas slips into the dream world more and more.

My only major criticism would be that it's a bit longer and more verbose than it needs to be in some parts. There's no real conflict in the story, so it might help to shorten up some parts to keep your reader's interest.

Also, watch out for run-on sentences, and sentences that just don't flow well. Especially in the first couple of paragraphs, there are some sentences that are either too long or are simply a little jarring.

Overall, though it was a nice story, and I think you really nailed the tone you were looking for in it - a kind of creepy, surreal sort of sense.

Critique of Rutskarn's Vatsy and Bruno

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First of all, I love this story. It's just so insanely ridiculous, but it's treated quite seriously - that is to say, the sheer absurdity isn't drawn out and used for laughs in and of itself. Overall the writing style was good and the humor was pretty much always spot-on (for me, anyway). It is indeed reminiscent of Terry Pratchett.

The opening and the ending are both very good, and I liked them a lot - the rejection letter does a nice job of setting up the story and informing the reader exactly what type of story this is going to be. The ending, well . . . the ending was simply a perfect way to wrap things up in keeping with the rest of the story, and it was hilarious.

The way that the bounty hunter was portrayed throughout the story was absolutely fantastic. :smallbiggrin:

The only thing I might suggest is cutting down a bit on the description in the beginning, but as the narrative is in itself quite amusing and really does do a good job of setting up the scene, it's not really a huge problem. As well, some parts may need to be polished up - nothing in particular, just cleaning up your style a bit, smoothing out some of the rougher parts. The only way to do that is to write more. Write lots more, and then post it all here, because this story was absolutely amazing. :smalltongue:

I have read some more of the stories here, but their critiques will come later. And I'm going for the entire "Go to bed *before* midnight" approach tonight, so hopefully this post was a bit clearer than my last one . . .

Critique: The Empty Ruins by Death Dragon

Although I don't get much out of this tidbit of a story, it does make me want to know what dogmas Derek and Alec are debating, and what organizations they represent. I don't get much characterization from this tidbit; Derek is the straight man and Alec is the 'cool guy' and they both insist that they're right. And I want to make a judgment about them somehow, but I can't without a bit of history history or a few details or more characterization. Or a bit of everything. My suggestion is to either: a) Add in a bit more dialogue (doesn't have to be a lot) to give Derek and Alec some history and to explain their conflict, or b) write the episode/s leading up to this story.

I think you missed a word here:

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Alec sighed. “You’re still being stubborn,” he said accusingly. “You just refuse to see it. Just switch over, they have the right of it over here. Come on, it’ll be like before I switched. We’ll be on the same team again. It’s stupid to hate each other after all we’ve been through.”

The thing I like best about your story is the imagery: I can't really see what the characters look like, but I can clearly see the castle, the fallen snow and the snow swirling in the wind.

Critique: Worlds Without Number by RationalGoblin
Overall, I like this story intro, and I want to know where this kid finds himself. That said, there's a couple of things that stick out to me as problems. The first is just a grammatical nitpick:

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Originally Posted by RationalGoblin

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“So, Doctor Harold Longsworth, we're supposed to believe that the universe is one big house, and we're roommates with a billion different worlds? That's foolishness, and uneconomical. How do we compete with that amount of people? Furthermore, how are we supposed to believe that this 'Trans-Warp Gauntlet' of yours works? You haven't shown us any tests or proof! We haven't even SEEN your gauntlet.”

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I don't like reading the words 'science fiction' in a science fiction story. In most cases, as is the case with yours, it screams YOU'RE READING A SCIENCE FICTION STORY! which immediately jars me out of suspension of disbelief. I think that 'high tech' or 'bizarre' or 'revolutionary' would be better adjectives here.

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Originally Posted by RationalGoblin

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It was a strange glove, to tell you the truth, a sleek silver metal sleeve that looked just like a human hand and arm, but with hundreds of tiny wires protruding out of it like a kraken's tentacles. A thousand different tiny glowing buttons were affixed to it, along with a small computer screen on the palm, signifying its almost science fiction nature.

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Overall, a good start!

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Originally Posted by Raz_Fox

I don't have time right now to interact much, but I just want to say that this is a beautiful thread filled with beautiful people that I will be interacting with and that this is now subscribed to.

Once I come up with the idea for a shortish story, I'll post somethin'. For now later, I'll just critique.


Critique of Onami's Greeting:

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Well, I did like it, I must admit. However, there was one stumbling block for me - the alternating lines were somewhat confusing, enough so that I had to read it several times to get what you were trying to say.

But I agree that it is exceptionally done, especially the ending. It gives off a strong vibe of being from another culture entirely.

Neko Tales:

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The major criticism I have here is that after reading the first four pages, I don't really know the main character. Yes, she's a catgirl. Yes, she has very cat-like instincts and wants to be free. Aaaaand... that's about all I know about her and her personality. Also, some of the dialog seems stilted, especially in the third chapter, and it seems to be moving at a rather rushed pace.

And I dislike the way you used the flashbacks to give her backstory, especially the second one, as it didn't even have the redeeming little flashes into how she thinks and acts the first one possessed. It's a pretty obvious infodump, and it might be better to, instead of flashbacking, seed her history through the story. Have her tell Marcone a little bit about her life - have her remember small things, not everything the reader needs to know at once.

But, I'll echo the sentiments of previous critiques - the story has some potential, and the villain is very well done. Keep writing it!

And I'll read Vasty and Bruno after writin' some of m' own stuff up.

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Thank you for your input, I really appreciate it. I am sorry for taking so long to say that, btw.

I wrote really good critiques for the last three stories. Then my IE messed up and lost them. Here's hoping I can remember the gist of it.

Critique of Empty Ruins by DeathDragon

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You set up the scene nicely. Your dialogue is very good and the swordfight is great. But you need to not shy away from explaining things. I'd care more about the characters if I understood what they were fighting for, why Alec switched sides, and why they are both so loyal to their causes they had to fight to the death. Don't tell us who's right or wrong, but at least tell us what the argument is about. Also, it would be nice to have some idea what they look like and about what time period this is taking place in. I give it a B+

Critique of Mask Masque by Kallisti

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Your use of imagery is very good, but that's about the only redeeming quality here. I know being all mysterious seems like a good idea, but all you're really doing is alienating readers. I don't know enough about what is going on or who Robert is to really care enough to read through this. It felt like a chore, which is never a good thing. I have no problem with a non-linear story, but you need some context for each scene, like when it takes place or why it's important. If these are memories (even that much isn't clear) you could get a bit more into Robert's head and follow his thought process as he goes from one scene or the next. Leave out the Italian stock characters; it just makes the whole thing seem pretentious. Also, the whole mask thing could be done more subtly, more as an underlying theme and less as a plot device to show these disconnected scenes. It would actually be more powerful that way. C-

Critique of Inner Demons by banjo1984

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This is my favorite out of these three. You strike the right mix of exposition and mystery. The story is compelling enough to make me want to read on. There are some punctuation errors, but those are really nitpicks. I'd like a bit of a better idea of what Sebastian looks like. His suit is a nice detail, but try to subtly work in a couple more. Also, try to make Longing's speech a little more consistent. My advice is to figure out how a toddler talks and make Longing talk the same way. For example, toddlers always use I when referring to themselves, but don't use pronouns when referring to others. A-

My story is coming up.

Warning: Violent Imagery

Child of the Dragon

Prologue: The Stranger

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In the end, Greyvale turned out to be a city of contradictions; for a town that was regarded as a place where nothing ever happened, the way in which it was destroyed was extraordinary.

It all started with the stranger. The two men who were assigned to guard the gate were engaged in idle chit-chat, and didn't notice him approach. If either of them had been alive later to ask, they would have said that it seemed as though he materialized out of thin air.

"Halt, who goes there?" asked the elder, who was taller and had a beard that was just starting to go gray. The figure was hooded and cloaked and wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He said nothing, but he put up his hand.

"What--" said the younger, but before he could finish, he was thrown up in the air by some unseen force. The remaining guard drew his sword, but before he could swing it, it flew from his hand, turned around and skewered him. He flew backward and was impaled to the wooden doors of the gate. The stranger put up his second hand and seemed to part the air before him. The doors flew open. At the same moment, the younger guard landed on the ground behind him, dead.

The stranger seemed almost to float as he entered the city, and the city seemed strangely deserted. When he reached the town square, which featured an ostentatious statue of a rather unimpressive man, he suddenly started rising up in the air, as if he was being pulled up by strings.

The stars and moon became veiled as dark clouds gather over the strange man and the town. The stranger put his arms over his head, and magical energy gathered between his fingers. He threw his arms down and the energy was released in the form of a fireball that struck a nearby building. In minutes the fire was raging. The panicked occupants fled, and watched in horror as the stranger sent more and more fireballs into the rest of the buildings.

The town watch, which was not equipped to deal with a threat of this level, was nevertheless out in minutes. They began shooting arrows at the stranger, but they only seemed to faze him momentarily, and he began directing his magic at them. No matter how many arrows they shot, he didn’t stop his attack on the town.

Finally, he descended to street level, and he grabbed the first person he could find as he ran by.

“Where can I find is a man named Josephus?” he asked in a disturbingly monotone voice for his surroundings.

“I—I don’t know a Josephus!” cried the man. “Please don’t kill me!” The stranger threw him like he weighed no more than his clothes, and he hit a burning building on the other side of the square before slumping to the ground.

The next man he grabbed was more forthcoming, but his fate was no less lethal.

The stranger went to the bar the man had indicated and saw the man he was looking for standing outside, staring drunkenly at the burning bar with a small crowd, where he no doubt had spent most of his time that day. The stranger approached, and the entire crowd dispersed except for Josephus, who, although obviously scared, seemed rooted to the ground. The stranger lifted his hands, and Josephus rose in the air, in a similar manner as the stranger himself had done. The stranger looked up at the man floating before him; fear in his eyes and hands on his neck as if some invisible hands were choking him.

"Where is the girl?" asked the stranger.

“What girl?”

“The child of the dragon,” said the stranger.

"Hewe Island," said the man. "We put her on Hewe Island...gave her to the Red Bandit. Please! Let me go!"

The stranger closed his fist, and the man's blood rained down on him.

Chapter 1: The Murder of Craven

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Alexia's last day as a Guard of Avenlo started with the nightmares, like many others before it.

In the dreams, she was still 14. He was still alive. She still felt the pain and the fear; he was still brutalizing her. All that had happened in the past 5 years meant nothing; all that she had done was an illusion. She was still just a scared child, still his victim.

Then she awoke and the dream ended, and of course she knew he was dead, knew better than anyone just how dead that bastard was. But the pain, the shame, the fear; they seem to have just happened yesterday, and try as she might, they would not fade as the rest of the dream had.

Maybe that was what always compelled her to put on her uniform, that noble sky-blue coat with the gold buttons and epaulets that generations of protectors and crime-fighters had put on before her, like it was some kind of armor that could ward off evil spirits. Maybe that was why she left her home she shared with her father in the early morning hours before even the sun was awake to go stand on the High Street Bridge that spanned over the Sheen River, which cut through the center of the city like a blue ribbon on a birthday present. Maybe that's why she considered just stepping off the bridge and letting the river sweep her away.

She probably would have jumped ages ago, but there was something in her that made her stop. Some indefinable core of iron that said staying alive was better than dying, some vague idea that her troubles could be overcome. She was always bewildered at this; she didn't know where it came from. Certainly she could not think of any means of escape other than the one she considered. Perhaps leaving the city might help, but the Outer Lands were dangerous, and her father would never approve. She almost laughed at the notion that she still cared what her father thought.

On this particular day, the sun broke up her dire thoughts. It was early spring, and for the past week it had been quite rainy. When the sun had come up the last few days before, the light had slowly and steadily increased like someone lighting a series of torches in a large room. Today, however, the stalwart sun burst over the horizon like a child too eager to play to let his mother sleep an instant longer. To Alexia, the light seemed harsh and cruel, illuminating her dark musings that she would rather keep hidden. She looked over at the sun, raising her hand to shield her eyes. That was why on this day, she saw Tristan before she heard him.

He was standing on the eastern end of the bridge, smiling his unimpeachable smile. He was dressed as Alexia was. The only real difference was the medallion he wore around his neck, a sun disc, similar to the one that adorned the Temple of Dycatar that he happened to be standing in front of. The effect of that, together with the sun being very nearly behind him, made him seem like some divine messenger or holy warrior sent to save her soul. Or take it. Then the sun went behind a cloud and he became Tristan again.

His hair was blond, like Alexia's own hair and his eyes the same shade of blue. They had been friends all their lives and often mistaken for siblings, when in fact they were merely cousins. They had joined the City Guard together, and Tristan had been overjoyed when they had become partners. Alexia had liked it, too.

"So are you going to jump today?" he joked, not realizing, as he never did, how close she came to doing just that. His presence, however, had immediately dispelled her dark mood, as it often did.

"I thought about it, and then I realized you'd be lost without me," she retorted, stepping away from the edge and walking over to him.

"Then I suppose I should be thanking Dycatar you didn't,” he said. "It would have meant a lot of paperwork for me." Alexia gave him a playful jab in the arm. The day had started; she would endure living at least until the next one.


By the time the sun was standing triumphantly at the zenith of its daily journey, the marketplace on the outer edge of the city was so busy that there were three pairs of Guards patrolling it. The venders were selling everything from bread to swords, and there were many people buying. Some were locals just doing their daily shopping; others were tourists looking for souvenirs. As with any crowd, the danger of something bad happening was ever present.

Among the guards present were Alexia and Tristan, and although to untrained eyes it might have appeared they were engaged in idle chatter, in reality they were constantly scanning the crowd, not letting up even though they both knew there were four other pairs of watchful eyes around.

When Alexia saw Craven, it was out of the corner of her eye, and when she turned to look fully, the man to whom he had been talking was already walking away. She saw the glint of gold, however, as he slipped the money the man had just given him in his pocket. She nodded to Tristan, and then walked over to the alleyway that Craven was standing in. Craven saw them coming. He seemed to have a momentary instinct to flee, and then decided against it.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite pair of Guards," said Craven. His eyes not-too-subtly glanced down at the swords on their hips before looking back at them. "Beautiful day, isn't it?" He was wearing clothes with conflicting color patterns that he doubtless thought were flashy but Alexia thought were just loud. They did not manage to distract from his head, which was mostly bald with a rim of black hair, nor his missing teeth or very dirty fingernails.

"Who was your friend, Craven?" asked Tristan. Suddenly all trace of humor had gone from his voice.

"That guy?" asked Craven, pointing in the direction the man had gone. "He's just some tourist. He was some country bumpkin out of Sorence. He was asking for directions. I pointed him the right way."

"I'll bet you did," said Alexia. She reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold coin.

"Hey! That's illegal search and seizure! I know my rights!"

"We have probable cause, don't we Tristan?" asked Alexia. Tristan agreed that they did. "100 Sovereign piece. That's a pretty big tip for directions, especially if he was just some country bumpkin."

"He was very generous," explained Craven. "And you can't prove otherwise, or I'd be on my way to a dungeon right now, wouldn't I?"

"That may be," said Alexia, "but we're going to keep a close eye on you, just in case you slip up."

"Gee, if my daddy was Captain of the Guard, maybe I'd be all tough like that too," Craven sneered. Alexia pushed him into the wall as soon as the last word was out of his mouth.

"Alexia!" shouted Tristan. "He's not worth it." Alexia let him go.

Suddenly there was a commotion. A woman yelling about a thief, and a man ran by. Without thinking, Tristan ran after him. Alexia stayed behind.

"You had me worried for a minute, Princess," said Craven.

"Shut up," said Alexia. She handed him back his gold piece, and added another one to it. "Give me the usual." Craven produced a little brown bag and handed it to her.

"I really thought you were going to kill me there."

"Never talk about my father again," Alexia responded with cold fury. She put the bag under her coat and left to find Tristan.


From across the street, Loki of the House of Torwin was watching the scene. He looked as though he could care less. His eyes were taking in everything, but he showed no apparent emotional reaction at what he was seeing. He was a member of the Royal Guard, a smaller and more secretive organization than the City Guard. He took his job very seriously.

Loki brushed his straight black hair out of his purple eyes and watched as Tristan ran after a thief. Let the brutes run after petty thieves, thought Loki. He was busier looking for the real criminals, those who would betray his King, his country, their own station. Weeding out liars and traitors was why the Royal Guard existed.

He watched as Alexia bought something from the distasteful fellow they had been speaking with. Loki took a small book out of his pocket of his blood-red coat and wrote something in it, and then walked away.


The sun continued unerringly on its course, finally tiring after a long day of beaming arrogantly and sinking sleepily beneath the horizon. Alexia was at home. She was starting to feel the effects of the herb she had eaten as soon as she gone off duty. Her father was in the marketplace, standing over Craven's dead body.

It was obvious he had been killed with a sword. His head was severed; it must have been a very good sword to do it so cleanly. He had slashes on his body; obviously the severing of his head had been the final wounding. Alexia's father, the imposing Lord Corinth of the House of Priam, thought he had never seen anything quite so gruesome in all his years on the Guard.

There were Guards standing all around, keeping shoppers in the marketplace from having to go home with visions of a sliced up criminal in their heads. It was getting easier; the marketplace was clearing out. Corinth was thankful the body hadn't been found when the market was busy.

"Get this body out of here," said Corinth, speaking to his Lieutenant, a nervous fellow. "Try to find out if he had any next of kin. He was apparently a fixture around here. Someone's got to know if he had any family. Someone managed to kill him in an area with three sets of Guards patrolling with not a single person noticing. This is an embarrassment. I'm investigating it personally."

"That might give you a conflict of interest," said a voice, sounding mildly bored. Corinth turned to see who it was. A Royal Guard with black hair was standing behind him. Corinth recognized him as Loki of the House of Torwin. He was a high-ranking Lieutenant in the Royal Guard, despite his young age.

"The City Guard has jurisdiction here, Loki," said Corinth. "No crimes against the King being committed here, just crimes against sanity."

"I think this is connected to another crime," said Loki, sounding somewhat displeased to be revealing something he didn't want to talk about. "I saw a City Guard buying something from this fellow earlier. I believe that the Royal Guard is allowed to investigate criminal activities in the City Guard, am I correct?"

Corinth hesitated. Something like that would indeed be in the Royal Guard's mandate, but he could not conceive of someone in the City Guard killing in this manner, with no apparent provocation.

"Who was it?" he asked. Loki took out his little book and started reading.

"At noon, Alexia of the House of Priam, a decorated officer in the City Guard, bought a small brown bag from one Craven of no noble house for a 100 Sovereign piece. The secrecy of this act and the amount involved leads me to believe that the substance in the bag was illegal.”

Corinth looked dumbfounded at first, but then his face grew very angry. He pounced on Loki.

"You had better be mistaken," he said.

"I never am," said Loki, sounding miserable at the prospect of always being right.


Several hours later, the high had worn off, and Alexia was starting to feel shaky. She was sitting at a wooden table in a dark, concrete room. The only light was coming from a small window with four steel bars separating her from the night air. The sun had finally gone to bed and Alexia could see the rather aloof full moon through the window. She liked it because it didn’t seem to be judging her; it seemed to just be coldly observing the affairs of the mortals it beamed over.

The guards had come to collect her when she was still high, and she was quite sure she laughed at their accusations. Now she wished she hadn’t; it certainly wouldn’t help her case. She was wondering just who would have killed Craven (he may have been a criminal, but he was harmless) and why they thought it was her. It just didn’t make sense…but that might have just been because of her headache.

The door finally opened and Alexia groaned, not just because her stomach was upset, but because the man who walked through the door was her father. A guard followed him in and lit a torch in a sconce on the wall. Then he left and closed the door behind him.

“Father, I don’t know what evidence you have against me but—“

“Where is your sword?” asked Corinth. Her head swam at the unexpected question. Through the fog of her headache, she tried to recall where it was.

“I think I left it in my closet,” she said lamely.

“Was there any way anyone could have used your sword without your knowledge?” he asked.

“No,” said Alexia. “What is this about? What does my sword have to do with anything?”

He lifted his hands and for the first time Alexia noticed the wrapped object in them. He set it on the table and then he removed the cloth wrappings. Alexia recognized her sword; even though it was similar to any number of other guard swords, the name Priam was written on the hilt. It was covered in dried blood.

“I…I didn’t…where did that blood…oh, god, I’m going to be sick.” She put her hand on her mouth but managed to avoid throwing up. “Listen, I know what it looks like, but I’ve never done anything illegal in my life!”

“Then what is this?” he asked, as he took a small bag out of his pocket. He threw that on the table as well, and Alexia recognized the bag she’d purchased from Craven earlier that day. Alexia was dumbstruck.

“I can’t trust anything you say,” said Corinth, and with that, he gathered the evidence and left.


Alexia languished in a cell for days as her fate was being decided. Worse, she was feeling the effects of quitter’s sickness, as it was known. Even though she knew eventually it would get better, right now, it seemed only to be getting worse.

When she wasn’t wishing she could take her drug, she was thinking about Craven and his murder. She still didn’t understand any of it. How had the killer gotten her sword? She was high, but she would have noticed someone walking into her closet and taking her sword. Why had they framed her? She didn’t know. Why was Craven killed in the first place? Was it just to frame her? But then, what purpose would that achieve? All she had were questions and questions and not a single answer.

Finally, a guard came to the door and told her she had a visitor. The guard ordered her to stick her hands out through the little hole her food came through. She complied. The guard shackled her hands and then opened the door. Then the guard grabbed her arm and began leading her down the corridor. She was just another prisoner now.

She entered the same room where her father had disowned her and was told to sit in the same seat. So she sat, the guard left, and she waited. A few minutes later Loki entered.

“Good afternoon, Alexia,” he said, as he sat across from her.

“What do you want?” she said. She’d never liked Loki; he pretended to dislike the awful things he did in the name of the king, but Alexia had never bought it.

“Now, now,” said Loki. “Is that anyway to greet an old friend?”

“We’re not friends,” said Alexia. “It was you or one of your Royal Guard friends who told my father I was using, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” said Loki. “But it’s only our jobs, Alexia. It’s our duty. You remember duty, don’t you?”

“Just tell me why you came here,” said Alexia.

“To offer you hope,” said Loki. “I’m here to offer you one final chance for salvation. His Majesty, the King has reviewed the evidence of this case and he does not believe you are guilty.”

Alexia sat straight up. This was hopeful…but she knew Loki well enough to know there was a catch.

“Really, now?” she said.

“Oh, certainly,” said Loki. “Unfortunately, his hands in this matter are tied. You are to be tried by the Council of Nobles. The King must defer to their judgment. Still, he does possess the right to pardon you if he so wishes. However…”

Alexia knew what was coming next. Loki looked her right in the eyes as he said the next line.

“However, he will not do so without getting something back in return. The King believes you would make good Royal Guard material. If he pardons you, he wants you to join us.”

Alexia looked Loki square in the eyes. “I would rather burn in hell for all eternity than join your band of spies.”

Loki rubbed his temples like a long-suffering teacher exasperated with a recalcitrant student.

“Join us or die,” said Loki. “If your pride would rather lead you to the noose, I care not.”

With that, he stood up and left.

“Bastard,” said Alexia, to no one but herself.


The next day was the day of Alexia’s trial. Almost every seat in the Noble Council Hall was filled, something which had not happened since before the war. Most of the people there were in the audience section, wanting to see the Murderous Guard (as she was known by rumor) and what sentence she would receive; her guilt, at least in the minds of the public, was a foregone conclusion.

The seats up front were occupied by the Noble Council. This was the only section that seemed bare; there were only 17 Ruling Houses left and each one was represented. There once was twice as many, but the war had ended some noble lines forever and others had fallen in disgrace. Those that remained jealously guarded their power, especially from the king, who openly despised the nobility and refused to replenish their numbers by making new nobles.

A fair number of the people in the audience section were gone before the first day was over, and some of those remaining were asleep. It seemed to Alexia that the relative banality of the trial (which consisted mostly on the first day of reviewing evidence) wasn’t entertaining enough for the scandal-hungry mob.

As the Noble Council had other matters to attend to besides deciding Alexia’s fate, the trial only lasted a few hours. It continued in this manner for a week before the Council decided they were ready to make a decision. Even then, Alexia still had to wait another day before they actually delivered the sentence. As she sat in her cell, she reflected that even death would be a welcome release from all this waiting.

Finally, the day came, with only a few die-hards left in the audience. None of which were her fellow guards; she hadn’t seen a single one of them in the courtroom since the trial started. It seemed they had decided on her guilt, as well.

“Will the accused please stand?” said Lord Percival, the High Chancellor of the Noble Council. He was also the oldest; what little hair he had left was white and he leaned over in his seat in the manner of most men his age. He was Tristan’s grandfather, and yet the two of them could not be more different. Tristan was always smiling; Lord Percival looked as if he had never smiled in his life. Alexia realized she was never going to see Tristan smile again. She pretended not to have thought that and stood up, looking somewhat detached from the proceedings. It was the only way she could keep from crying.

“For the crime of murder, we find the accused guilty,” said Lord Percival gravely. “For the crime of possessing and using the forbidden substance known to scholars as Morphea Lakuri and to the layman as Morpheus Leaf, we find the accused guilty.”

Alexia tried to maintain her detached look but some tears leaked out of her eyes anyway. All she could picture was a noose.

“The penalty for these crimes can be severe, especially for a Guard of Avenlo, who has sworn to uphold the law. However, it is the opinion of this council that the less severe crime may have contributed to the more severe crime. You may have been under the influence of the Morpheus Leaf when you killed Craven; therefore, you cannot reasonably be expected to be accountable for your actions. As such, instead of sentencing you to death, you are sentenced to exile from the city of Avenlo and attainder. Your sentence is to be carried out at dawn tomorrow, where you will be escorted to the gates and shut out for the rest of your natural life, unless you should be pardoned by the king or this council.”

Alexia followed this announcement with dull surprise. She wasn’t sure if this was a better sentence than death or a worse one.


The following morning, just before dawn, Alexia was awakened rudely by two guards. One of them had a bundle of clothes which, while very poor in quality, were much better for traveling than her prison uniform. They left and she changed. The morning sun was beaming through the bars of her little window when another guard approached her cell. Alexia was shocked to see Tristan. He had an uncharacteristically somber expression on his face. He bound her hands and escorted her from her cell.

They left the prison. Fortunately, the streets were mostly empty as they made their way to the gate. About halfway there Tristan spoke.

“I just wanted you to know,” he said, almost whispering. “I wanted you to know that I still don’t believe you’re guilty. I’ve defended you several times, but everyone’s made up their minds. I don’t know what your father thinks, but I think he doesn’t think you’re guilty either. My grandfather told me he pretty much bullied the entire council to keep you from the noose. I don’t suppose this is much better. I don’t know how long you’ll last out there, with no weapon and only these cheap clothes, but you’ll have a chance.”

Alexia remained quiet while he talked, but part of her was glad that there was someone in this world who still believed she wasn’t capable of unprovoked murder. After he finished talking, they walked in silence until they got to the gate. There were a few people milling about at the gates, which Alexia recognized as members of the audience who had stuck around for the full trial. They were mostly staring as the Gate Guards opened the gate for Tristan, but Alexia heard a few choice insults as they walked out. When the gate closed, Tristan untied Alexia’s arms.

“One thing I know,” said Tristan, “it’s that if anyone can survive this, it’s you.” He smiled weakly, while discreetly handing her a flint and steel.

“Smile for me, Tristan,” said Alexia. “Smile that big goofy grin of yours and I think I will.”

Tristan tried to force a smile, and Alexia actually smiled back, something she couldn’t recall having done for awhile. Seeing that made Tristan smile earnestly, and Alexia drank in the sight of it like a man dying of thirst drinks water. She gave Tristan a hug, and he hugged her back. Then he signaled the Gate Guards to open the gate again, and once they were opened, he walked through. He waved to Alexia as the door closed.

Alexia was now alone outside the city she had lived in all her life, and was free to go anywhere she wanted. After staring at the walls for awhile, she began walking the main road away from Avenlo, into the east, towards her destiny, whatever that might be.

Critique: 'The Empty Ruins' by Death Dragon

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It's not bad, but there are a few problems. Firstly, you tell more than you show. Almost every other line of dialogue your characters utter is done so 'angrilly' or 'formally' or 'unconcernedly' etc. Alec 'grows serious' instead of his expression or posture changing. This trend is most problematic in the main duel itself, not least because it serves as the climax of the story. In fact, I think it's probably the weakest part of the story which is without doubt the biggest problem.

Your duel simply doesn't work. First point, if a fight is lasting 'a few minutes' it is most emphatically not a short fight when both combatants are using lethal weapons. Furthermore drawing blood is understandably a very big deal, yet none of Alec's strikes are described at all and Derek's only get focus on his 'comeback' (which represents well under 10% of the actual fight in pure time, btw). You obviously can make at least a competent attempts at writing it, but you just chose not to. The first paragraph should contain much more detail. How does Alec take advantage of Derek's weakness? Does he parry or dodge? Does he let his armour take some hits? Are either of them even wearing armour? Are they driving each other back and forth? Circling? Where are these superficial cuts Alec lands? Why are they only superficial? Does Derek pay much attention to them and, if so, how does he react to them?

In a pivotal fight (which this is) most, if not all, of the above should be answered and you've not said anything about any of them. You obviously aren't incapable of describing strikes and blows so you really need to start doing it.

Beyond that, there aren't many other errors. Your dialogue is decent, although in places it seems a little unweildy. One minor complaint is when you describe the walls as being 'once-solid' as, unless they're now composed of magma, they are technically still solid. Consider words like 'sheltering', 'impenetrable', 'unbroken' and the like. Grammatically you're pretty good, although again you're a little heavy on the comma in places. If you fix anything though, re-write the fight.