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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
 Posted - 21 May 2004 : 08:28:34
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Chapter One
(part 1)
Death.
Death, and blood.
And gold.
The three things in any mercenary's life. Is it any wonder that most never reach old age? And that they are usually in two states: Drunk, and wishing they were?
It is true for me as well. I have seen many battles. Fought in several wars. Seen good men cut down like wheat, and killed men that were basically doing the same as me: Trying to survive.
As a mercenary it is easy to become callous, to not care how many people you kill just to keep your bowl full and a wineskin close at hand. Some eventually enjoy their work after a while. They relish the feel of their blade chopping into a man, and spilling his blood upon the cold ground.
Not I, though. Though I have been taking gold for ending other's lives for close to ten summers, I still feel the pang of remorse for each life my handiwork cuts short. I still think at night, wondering if the man I saw spitted on my sword like a carcass for roasting had children, and a wife.
Some might call that weakness, and they might be right at times. But on the field of battle, when split seconds are the difference between being victim and victor, you have to do what you must to survive. But when the melee has ended, then you can feel the guilt. The sadness. The morbid curiosity that makes you wonder if there is a special place in the abyss for men like me, or if there is some seat of honor in the halls of Tempus. I hope for the latter, but would not be surprised by the former
After a campaign, when you get the sack of coins for your service, and return whatever arms your employer provided, and sell whatever trophies, and booty, and salvage you have, you are left with a well filled purse. Many think of settling down some where. Staking down a piece of land, finding a wife, and raising some young ones.
Some actually do. Though their dreams might still be as unpleasant: filled with nightmares, and sudden awakenings drenched in cold sweat as they are in camps by the battlefield. But their life is more pleasant by far.
Most, however, never make it much farther than an inn to winter at. They find their respite from the dreams in a drunken coma at night, and at the bottom of an ale barrel by day, Like me.
Cheap wine, and cheaper women, for a while they take your mind off what you have seen and done. But only for a while. Eventually the coin runs out. And then the ale stops pouring, and your belly growls like a savage beast with hunger, and you have to go out and do the process all over again.
I have heard it said that there is a fish that swims against the current, and up waterfalls to reach the places they were spawned, to repeat the process and die. We are much like that. I was spawned on the field of battle. My mother was the wife of simple farmer. When war came to the land, her husband was one of the first in line to be sworn in as militia, and he was one of the first to die. Wearing no armor, and carrying a halberd he had barely been instructed how to clean, he marched towards the foe and was slaughtered. So were many others.
The army kept marching, barely slowed by the feeble resistance of farmers, and shepherds, and those too young to know what they were doing, and too old to do it right. My mother was one of the pretty ones, I was told. She was lucky. She was seized as spoils by an officer, not by a common soldier. Her lot was kind compared to the others. But when her captor was killed in a battle, this time against real troops, not green grocers, what little safety she had fled. Running into the night she left a memento of her favor in the camp by setting several tents, including the barracks, ablaze.
However, the officer left her a memento as well: Me. When finally she made it to a place far enough from the army she felt safe, she set about looking for a temple, or work, or help of some kind.
She was taken in by the clergy of Tempus, who feel it is their duty to make amends for the rapine of war. Her spirit was proud, she refused charity, and instead worked for the temple, cooking, sewing banners and tabards, repairing padded armor, and tending to the small garden and dovecotes of the abbey fortress. However her time eventually came, and I was born. However, the birth was difficult, and while I survived, she did not.
I was raised by the monks, and priests, as is their way, and taught many things. They taught me reading and writing, basic mathematics, old tales and prayers, and battle hymns. They instructed me in tactics of battle, and in swordplay, and horsemanship. They told me what it meant to be a man, and a warrior. And they taught me that while killing may be necessary, cruelty is not.
Ethics from a god of war is surprising to you, is it not? Well, there is no honor to be gained by torturing downed men, or staying your hand from delivering the killing blow to leave a man to die upon the field in the slow and agonizingly painful way of being gut wounded.
There is no honor in slaying innocents, and noncombatants. Such is the way of cowards. There is no honor in mindless destruction, the burning of homes and fields just to see it burn. And there is no honor in rape.
At the age of 13 I was strong as some grown men. I had martial skills surpassing some of their charges almost 5 summers my senior. By the age of 20 summers, I felt I had no further need of the lessons that were still being taught to me. I left the temple one day. Arrayed in shining mail, with an excellent sword, a shield emblazoned in the symbol of Tempus, and riding a fine horse, given to me as gifts by the priests who had been as parents are to most children. They were proud to see their chosen pupil ride out to do their god's work, and were prouder still of the man they had raised me to be.
And much like that fish I have heard about, I returned to the place I was
spawned: The battlefield. It is easy to find those willing to spend coin to have an extra sword at their disposal. And within a tenday I was in the employ of some petty duke that wished to expand his demesne. I had distinguished myself after the first battle. We faced troops of the neighboring Baron whose lands our noble benefactor wished to seize.
I still remember that day. The blood pounding in my ears, the power of Tempus surging through my body making me stronger and faster, and the thrill of victory when a retreat was sounded.
That day I knew no fear, I was invincible. How wrong I was.
Over the next three years, and twice as many campaigns, I gained in experience, and skill, and eventually led my own sword, then squad, then platoon, and finally company. This day I have a hundred men under my command.
Sometimes when I see some starry eyed youth wanting hire, I am tempted to tell them the brutal, horrible facts of what they are wanting to do. But I don't. They would never believe me. The best I can do is try to give them the skills and knowledge they will need to survive. And with the scarcity of new faces in my ranks, I feel that I am successful.
I have thought of retiring before. I have had the gold to buy whatever I needed to take up any kind of civilian life I wanted, but then I backed out and bought my men better arms and armor, and stayed where I was. Some day I will eventually either die on the field, or be too old to lift my sword, then perhaps I will leave this bloody business.
However, there are now rumors of war brewing in the east. Like crows to the aftermath of a battle, our eyes turn there. There is much profit when large nations fight one another. No matter which side wins this war, or any war for that matter, the true victors are the soldiers paid to wage it, and the losers the common folk that have to try to survive it.
But such is life. We must play the hand we are dealt, had things been different I Would have never been born, or perhaps been born to the life of a farmer.
However, camp is almost finished breaking down, the wagons are nearly loaded, and on the morrow we set out to the east, whether our pay will come from the vaults of Thay, or the coffers of the state cults of Mulhorand, only the gods know, and Tempus isn't talking.
From the Journal of Captain Devin Trueblade
13th of Ches, Year of Rogue Dragons, 1373 DR
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Edited by - Capn Charlie on 24 Jul 2004 16:53:54
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 21 May 2004 : 08:35:27
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Well, here we go. This is my first pice of fiction that I have written that took place in the Realms, and while it might be a little rough, I hope I did well. It has been a while, a long while, since I have written anything besides stuff for my game, and as I am sure you all know there is a big difference between the "boxed text" and improvisational roleplaying needed for dnd, and the type of writing required for less interactive works.
This is the prologue, an excerpt from a mercenary captain, in a region I have not yet decided on(though I know it is west from Thay and Mulhorand ).
I will begin on the rest fairly soon. Let me know what you think. |
Edited by - Capn Charlie on 21 May 2004 20:24:00 |
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Bookwyrm
Great Reader
USA
4740 Posts |
Posted - 21 May 2004 : 11:51:43
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| It's very good. You need to edit it a bit, but mostly just for typing mistakes. You've got a very good sense of flow. I'll be interested in reading more. |
Hell hath no fury like all of Candlekeep rising in defense of one of its own.
Download the brickfilm masterpiece by Leftfield Studios! See this page for more. |
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Sarelle
Senior Scribe
United Kingdom
508 Posts |
Posted - 21 May 2004 : 13:33:42
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This is really good! His speculations and metaphors are very nicely implemented and the writing style has a good flow. As Bookwyrm said, it does need a bit of editing for those spelling and grammer mistakes, but all-in-all this is very nice. I hope to read more soon!  |
Chair of the The Rightful Return of Monster Deities to FR Society (RRMDFRS)
My character, drawn by Liodain: Sarelle / Sarelle (smaller) |
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Reefy
Senior Scribe
United Kingdom
892 Posts |
Posted - 21 May 2004 : 17:56:12
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| I enjoyed that very much, the style is smooth and the character seems possessed of a deeper nature than most mercenaries. Or perhaps, it just makes a change to hear things from the point of view of the mercenary. Either way, there is enough there to make me hope that he manages to break the cycle of drunkenness because he obviously has more to him than simple desire for wealth. And that is the key to any good character, making the reader care about them. I look forward to reading more. |
Life is either daring adventure or nothing. |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 21 May 2004 : 21:11:31
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Wow, Thank you. I am glad you all enjoyed it.
I believe I knocked out all the errors. Thing is, though, I wrote this late last night(very, very late!) and was stumbling over the keys even more than usual. I picked up some bad habits from my days on yahoo, and have yet to eradicate them. Mostly they just amount to trying to get everything out of my heasd as fast as I am able, and as such typos and spelling errors are legion. But I am getting used to the more, shall we say, relaxed, atmosphere that message boards provide.
Currently I am unsure of how to write the next part. Personally I do not enjoy reading journals, so I am unlikely to do this all in journal form. Likely I will just use the journal entries as the narration.
IT is hard for me to decide exactly how to deal with the next part. Either I will just encompass his journey eastward in another journal entry, or I will "play it out". It all depends on how the muse strikes me.
Oh, I was hoping someone would comment on the reference to the "the power of Tempus surging through my body making me stronger and faster" line. IT refers to a beliefe held by the clergy of tempus, but I believe it is best explained by this passage from a scripture held by the clergy of tempus:
And the Lord of War in his eagerness to aid those who follow his path gave unto all who need of it a boon. WHen battle rages, and men may fight and die,the blessing of the Father of Battle enters them. A fierceness, a strength, a ferocity. The heart thuds within your chest, your muscles strain and bulge with new strength, and your reflexes and coordination are greatly expanded.
Such is not dependant on any dweomer, or any prayer, but is the gift of Tempus, frely given, to all who have need of it. Whenever any being is faced with battle, they have two choices: To flee like cowards, or stand and fight like warriors. And our Lord Tempus gives this gift that aids either. Foir if you are willing to stand and fight, he does so at your side. And if you wish to flee, then he wishes you to be gone as swiftly as possible. For it is an insult to good steel to dirty itself in the blood of a coward, and he does not wish to look upon you in your shame.
Excerpt from the Scrolls of War, 3rd scroll
Oh, and I believe that now is a good time to explain my username here. IT doesn't imply some fascination with pirates(any more than the normal, healthy amount that all people should have) or with either the military, or star trek. It is more in reference to the metaphor of how I look at life:
I see life like the sea. Here, you can be captain of your own ship, or crew on another's. Though sometimes mine seems more like a dinghy than a yacht, at least it's mine. |
Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 22 May 2004 : 15:14:44
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Chapter one
(Part Two)
The tent is quite spacious, moderately clean, and only vaguely looks like the store of a mad home furnishings merchant, with several of the pieces of once fine furniture matching and in a fair state of repair. It also holds a single bunk, a large and spacious bed carved from some rare southern wood, though it is now covered with a thin layer of grime.
It was also not filled with thick smoke at eye level. Thus it was vastly superior to all the other lodgings within the camp, marking it as the seat of command for the soldiers. Scattered outward in concentric rings other tents are pitched, in various states of repair, at the edges of the camp, the perimeter was only lightly patrolled, a single man for every fifty feet, allowed to sit at his post rather than forced to stand.
To the causal observer it might appear all normal, but to any knowledgeable about such things, it all indicated a force at both peace, and at rest.
The moblie forges are cold, not even banked coals, easily stoked for fast repairs. This was a camp at rest. An unusual sight for this land, and this time of year.
From within the large command tent, voices are heard.
In a gruff voice, his tone challenging someone to disagree, a man says "I say we turn around and head back, the pay was good, the work was easy, and we don't have to worry about earning the wrath of some godspawn, or getting turned into beasts by dark sorcery".
Though barely reaching five feet and a half he speaks with the confidence of one who knows both his size, and his business. His darkly tanned skin and black hair in a long horsetail favored by the Nars, almost blend in with darkened brown leather of the cuirass over his chainmail.
Speaking casually, then suddenly finishing quickly, he says, "Besides, how good is honest cavalry against those fell beast riding trollops of the reds, and the two wheeled contraptions of the Mulhish... not that my men aren't up to it, they would bury their foes, but take some losses. And this far south in these wastelands you know that riders are easier to find than decent steeds."
From the other side of the table, a lean, small framed woman speaks, her dulcet tone seeming to fill the tent. "Your concern for your troops is touching, Grigor. Remind me to confer with you on matters of morale."
Flushing slightly, he blurts out, then recovers quickly. "You know what I mean. These lowland weaklings wouldn't know a decent piece of horseflesh if it slipped into the furs of his tent one night".
She arches one eyebrow sagely, "Oh, I reckon then you would have them beat sword in sheath identifying a fine horse in your bedchamber, then."
"Damn you woman!" he splutters, red tinting his flesh, "I will-"
Speaking in a low, gravelly voice, a man on the other side of the table speaks, rising ot his feet. He is stocky, but posessed of an almost courlty grace, making almost no sound, even in his ornate plate armor, with a squarely cut beard of dark black.
"Enough! As amusing as I find your jests at our good friend's expense,"
"OH, you do-" sputters Grigor, "Well perhaps I can-"
"They are getting us nowhere," he sternly finishes. "In fact, they might actually be setting us back. We are no closer now than we were two days ago in deciding the direction we go. The troops, as much as they are enjoying an unexpected quest to find the bottom of the local ale keg, are going to begin wondering soon, if it was a good idea to come as far as we have."
Taking his seat once more, with barely a sound, he continues. "Now, please contain yourselves while we listen to what our loyal skald has to say on the matter, Bran, please go on."
A lithe young man, bedecked in shining chain, silken tunic and leggings an almost lurid green slowly stands, and lays down a lute he was carefully tuning, Speakng in a voice that belies how oft it is used, starting hoarsely, then gaining a more steady quality. HE begins speaking, cutting off mid sentence, then continuing wit ha wide smile towards the fuming, dark man.
"Thank you Valero, as I was saying before I was so ru- ...Grigor interjected, we are indeed faced with a quandary. To turn north we join with a side that is currently the underdogs, even with Thayan gold and backing. IF we turn south then we are likely to find little work besides the more mundane tasks of scouts, skirmishers, and irregular troops. If we turn and go back, the men," he interjects, as he tips his imaginary hat towards the woman, "and women, Jayla, will begin to doubt the legitimacy of our command, thinking us indecisive."
Tapping his chin, he coninues thoughtfully. "A lose lose situation all around, it seems. Perhaps the best choice is to err on the side of greatness, and side with the Untherites, imagine the songs! Our names would be legendary, made immortal to last for the ages! In short, I say north, everyone cheers for the less evenly matched you know."
"Where I am from the weak are cast out in the snow, with fools and thieves," Grigor says, eying Bran.
"Ah, would that be why you are so far south, my good friend?" Bran cheerfully retorts, meeting Grigor's glare full on.
"Do not goad me skald, my patience does have limits," growls Grigor as he eases back into his chair.
Valero speaks agan, rising once more, "As do I, Bran, please join Jayla in not prodding the bear, at least until we have reached a solution. There is a saying in my my homeland, 'In a race you bet on the fastest horse, and in conflict, you side with the gods'. It seems that Unther's deities have forsaken them, see how easily the forces of Mulhorand slice through their lands? I believe the eventual victors will be the Mulhorandi, by virtue of their superior numbers, and divine support.
Beginning to pace back and forth, his steps measured to not interrupt his words with the unnavoidable sound made by his armor, he takes his seat jsut as he finishes, the final clank acting as end to his thought. "While I am the first to admit the power of the Art is great, but the abilities of the priests lend a less flashy, but far more useful support. Healing spells, and potions, blessings upon the troops, and even the summoning of servants of their gods. I say we cast our lot in with the obvious victors. Now Jayla, please, what is your take on our current situation?"
She says with a lilting coquettish drawl, fluttering her eyelashes a bit at first, eying Grigor, then Bran as she finishes her statement."What? Oh is it time for the little woman to get to chime in to your little blade measuring contest? Needing some help telling the difference between a dagger and a broadsword, perhaps?"
Grigor looks as if he is ready to rise to his feet, but Valero calmly and slowly says, "Do let him alone Jayla. There is serious business at hand, and we can't be slowed down by having to find a healer in the middle of the night again, please get on with your assessment."
"Oh very well," she pouts, "You never let me have any fun," and with a sudden shift in voice and flickered movement she launches a dagger from seemingly nowhere onto the table, landing point in a brown patch, with a line of blue running through it, a map on thin vellum of the region.
"Rifthome", she begins in a firm, business like tone, with nary a trace of her former manner apparent, "is a prime supplier of most kinds of arms and armor in the region. However, the way this goes we can be assured dwarven trade will not be halted by so petty a thing as human strife. In fact I am sure they will choose to side with Unther in the conflict and supply them magic and weapons.Currently Mulhorand has need of little such aid, but the Untherites, have more need of arms, foreign gold, and desperation than a dwarf can refuse."
"And how will all that help us Jayla?" Grigor reluctantly asks.
"I was getting to that," she continues, seemingly barely interrupted at all by him. "The dwarves will have to lead their caravans by land, along here," she draws her finger along the line, "Going north from the rift through the Shaar, past Hardcastle, and here," She points at speckled outcrop, "at the plains of black ash they will go west, off the beaten track. Why you ask?" she queries, "Because the nice wide road from here on in is controlled by Mulhorand, and I doubt they would be very understanding about free trade."
"So they will cut west, cross country, through orc infested hill lands, past bandit riddled woods, and across the southern bounds of Chessenta, to the the Smoking Mountains where it is rumored to be an outpost of their kind. Resupplied they will take a course north, skirting the Methwood, and the troll ridden Rider Mountains, before coming into the civilized lands of Threskel, and finally making it's way to Messemprar. A nice long out of their way track, and once they exchange their metalwork for iron ingots, and goods to trade for other wares all along the way back to Rifthome far to the south, to begin it all over again,"
Turning towards the head ofthe table as she finishes, "Yes, I think that on this long, dangerous journey, that our nice friendly dwarves might need some extra protection. A few scouts knowledgeable of the area, and of human ways, oh and of course cavalry escorts and footmen to defend against attack. I believe we could find this venture very profitable. What do you think captain"?
His baritone voice cutting through the silence from thehead of the table, the man speaks, "Clean picked bones behind us, the wrath of the gods to the north, and the fury of the red wizards to the south. It does seem that I am facing a hard decision, Lieutenants."
Looking each briefly in the eye, he continues, "Because it is my decision after all, no matter how highly I esteem my officers, and advisors,"
He stands to his full height of well over six feet, a stiff shock of dark brown hair rising another, his steel breastplate, emblazoned with the symbol of Tempus encompassing a stout barrel chest, and mail and plate bedecked arms that though limber enough to fence, were still muscled enough to deal a telling blow crossed.
"Of course sir," says Valero, with a brief nod, the metal caps at the ends of his beard tinging on his breastplate.
"I couldn't think of a better way myself, sir," pipes in Bran.
"I follow your lead sir," says a reticent Grigor.
"Could it ever be any other way," says Jayla.
"Good," he continues, walking to the end of the table nearest the others, "However I do wish you to know that I do value all your opinions highly. So highly in fact, that I am going to do as you all advise." He says, seeming pleased with himself.
His emerald eyes flashing , a broad smile on, he goes around the table patting each on the shoulder as he passes, before coming to rest before the map, "Yes, I believe you all have valid concerns. So, we are going to stand midstream. Stay right here, run caravan escort, and see how things turn out. Depending on how the next few moons go we might just end up in the employ of Unther, or Mulhorand, or even return the way we came with life, limb and soul intact. But for the time being, we will stay close enough to the action to act, depending on how things turn out."
"There are important times coming, and perhaps, dear Bran, we might just end up in the epics after all. That is as long as we are careful picking our horse." |
Edited by - Capn Charlie on 17 Sep 2004 11:46:45 |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 22 May 2004 : 15:18:46
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The actual prologue is done.
Wherein you get to learn a little more about Devin, by virtue of those whom he trusts, and chooses to associate with.
The hotblooded Nar horseman Grigor, and moonshaevian Skald Bran, turmian fighter, and half elven scout all are lieuutenants of Devin, and in forthcoming chapters you will learn a little more about them, and their origins.
Man, it has been a long time since I have written anything like this. The quotation marks were driving me nuts. Not to mention the italics brackets. |
Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
Edited by - Capn Charlie on 23 May 2004 04:23:29 |
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Winterfox
Senior Scribe
895 Posts |
Posted - 25 May 2004 : 13:00:09
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I really like the first part. It captures my interest, it flows, and it conveys the character's emotions very well without falling into the trap of purple prose/excessive angst that many authors jump in headfirst when writing monologue of this kind. (Read: Anne Rice, Drizzt, various teen-aimed wangst-bunnies, etc. Uuuugh.) There's no slip of anachronism (something that makes me want to scream and beg the Nine Muses of Apollo to smite the offender. Hard), and it gives a good look into the character. Some minor errors here and there, though, but nothing distracting.
Then I read the next segment.
The first thing that came to mind was, "Where have all the punctuation and grammar gone?" The next thing was, "What's up with the weird italics?" It doesn't bother me so much, but I'm just curious as to why the dialogue is in italics. You also have a tendency of linking dialogue to verbs that have no relation with speech whatsover. It's a common mistake, but it is still a mistake. Example:
quote:
She arches one eyebrow sagely, "Oh, I reckon then you would have them beat sword in sheath identifying a fine horse in your bedchamber, then".
Arching an eyebrow has nothing to do with uttering a sentence. This should be:
quote:
She arches one eyebrow sagely. "Oh, I reckon then you would have them beat sword in sheath identifying a fine horse in your bedchamber, then."
Then there are some bizarrely structured sentences that, like a drunk alchemist, mix narrative and dialogue into a jumbled mess:
quote:
Flushing slightly "You know what I mean" then recovers quickly "these lowland weaklings wouldn't know a decent piece of horseflesh if it slipped into the furs of his tent one night".
Such mangled sentences are sprinkled throughout the thing. It's extremely distracting and off-putting. I think you can tell right away what's wrong with this. But if not, here's an edited version:
quote:
He flushes slightly, but quickly recovers. "You know what I mean; these lowland weaklings wouldn't know a decent piece of horseflesh if it slipped into the furs of his tent one night."
Or:
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"Clean picked bones behind us," rumbles the form at the head of the table, "and the wrath of the gods to the north, and the fury of the red wizards to the south. It does seem thatI am facing a hard decision, Lieutenants," he continues, looking each in the eye as he continues, "Because it is my decision after all, no matter how highly I esteem my officers, and advisors,"
As an aside, here's a word of advice: there is nothing wrong with the verb "say"! Why am I saying this? Because I'm seeing "state" used as a synonym. I'm guessing that you are trying to avoid using "say" too much, but sometimes the substitutes aren't much better. (When I was a neophyte writer, I abused the thesaurus, too, and ferociously dug out synonyms of "said.") It might be a better idea to use descriptions that aren't related to speech to denote the speaker rather than using "the dwarf says" or "the woman states." Things like arching eyebrows.
There are also a few more grammatical/spelling errors; a proofreading would do the piece a world of good. The most glaring thing is the... butchered punctuation, and I'll admit that the sheer abundance of dialogue made me skim through without actually absorbing anything. It seems that you're writing from an omniscient third-person point of view. Just a thought, though, and I'm not suggesting that you change the whole style to cater to my whims: I find that this point of view is somewhat harder to pull off (and pull off well) than the limited third-person narrative. I find it easier to empathize/identity with a more personal way of storytelling; omniscient third-person sometimes end up with the reader not getting to know any of the characters very well. His/her attention is, rather, divided to keep track of all the members of the cast, and the end result is that none of them really stands out.
Again, it's only a matter of personal preference. |
Edited by - Winterfox on 25 May 2004 13:11:00 |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 25 May 2004 : 23:26:03
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I thought of a lot of ways to reply to your post, Winterfox. I went back and forth in my head on the tone to reply with. This is essentially the first time I have ever had anything I have written be criticized. I had almost decided on a humorous tone, going with either "now tell me what you really think" or "Ouch, it only hurts when I cry".
But, you're right. I butchered it. I butchered it badly. It has been close to 4 years since I got out of high school, and in that time the most writing I have done is campaign notes, discussion in message boards, and a brief stint as a counselor in chat rooms(don't ask). I'll be damned if I can honestly remember that much at all about proper grammar that I was supposed to do learn in school. What I still do remember is just the basics of it that a small child should know. I ceased being a writer and started being a speaker a long while ago. I am much better at it., but what makes me a great DM makes me a horrible author. I am not used to having to do all the work.
I could portray any character in the last segment I wrote much better than I wrote them. I have grown used to being able to do that. Affecting mannerisms, and methods of speaking, facial expressions, and a horde of other tricks that let me do my job as DM quite well. I also have grown used to not having anything written down. Aside from a few canned responses, and perhaps a monologue or two I keep it all in my head, as voice, and have almost completely forgotten how to write it out.
Perhaps with time, and help from people who know what the hell they're doing, I might be able to get into the swing of things enough to write properly. That and finally getting around to taking some writing courses.
In the meantime, though, I will just try to catch as catch can and move ahead in as best a manner as I can.
But enough defense.
quote:
The first thing that came to mind was, "Where have all the punctuation and grammar gone?" The next thing was, "What's up with the weird italics?" It doesn't bother me so much, but I'm just curious as to why the dialogue is in italics.
Ironically enough, the italicized speech is a direct result of the bad grammar, and my looking for an easy fix. The first time I read it, after I had typed it, the paragraphs seemed to just be a mass of unreadable text, from all the "bizarrely constructed" sentences, as you put it. I attacked the symptom, not the cause, and thought it might make it a little easier to read if I italicized the quotes. For future reference I will try to get to the root of any perceived problems.
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s an aside, here's a word of advice: there is nothing wrong with the verb "say"! Why am I saying this? Because I'm seeing "state" used as a synonym. I'm guessing that you are trying to avoid using "say" too much, but sometimes the substitutes aren't much better. (When I was a neophyte writer, I abused the thesaurus, too, and ferociously dug out synonyms of "said.") It might be a better idea to use descriptions that aren't related to speech to denote the speaker rather than using "the dwarf says" or "the woman states." Things like arching eyebrows.
Yes, I see your point, I have been doing bad things with the thesaurus. I will try to be more judicious in the future about such things.
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Just a thought, though, and I'm not suggesting that you change the whole style to cater to my whims: I find that this point of view is somewhat harder to pull off (and pull off well) than the limited third-person narrative. I find it easier to empathize/identity with a more personal way of storytelling; omniscient third-person sometimes end up with the reader not getting to know any of the characters very well. His/her attention is, rather, divided to keep track of all the members of the cast, and the end result is that none of them really stands out.
I agree with you about the view I was using: Good for a movie, possibly detrimental to a story. The next installment was going to be from a different view, I was just trying to get the main players "in play" early on.
I will take a stab at cleaning it up, and when it looks good to me move on to the next part. This might take a while, but hopefully I will get it done before too long. |
Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
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Winterfox
Senior Scribe
895 Posts |
Posted - 27 May 2004 : 05:45:41
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| Don't take it too badly. Believe me, I really liked the first part; I didn't put that in just to pat you on the back as a prelude to the slap in the face. *winks* When I review, I go for brutal, brutal honesty -- and if it helps, what I posted for you is gentler than what I would throw at truly putrid stuff. Some of it is, as I said, just opinions. Best of all, you didn't react by throwing a hissy fit. (Something I run into all too often, alongside hate-mails in all-caps: "OMG U R SO MEAN1!!!! u hAve No life u female dog!1!!") |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 27 May 2004 : 07:26:06
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Yeah, I got that you were being kind. In fact before I wrote a reply I actually read all your reviews I could find in that place you linked to in your signature.
Believe me, I completely get that you were being gentle, and that if you had any, and I do mean any real problems with my work you would have let me know.
Debate is a, well, I guess you could call it a passion/hobby of mine. One of the primary tenets of a good debater is acknowleging when you're wrong, and changing the way you think and/or believe when such is proven.
quote:
In science it often happens that scientists say, 'You know that's a really good argument; my position is mistaken,' and then they actually change their minds and you never hear that old view from them again. They really do it. It doesn't happen as often as it should, because scientists are human and change is sometimes painful. But it happens every day. I cannot recall the last time something like that happened in politics or religion. [Carl Sagan, 1987 CSICOP keynote address]
That, and as much as I dish it out I couldn't handle the self loathing that I would feel if I were such a hypocrite to not be able to take it, as well.
Oh, and all that self serving blather aside, you really were right, I can hardly read the second part myself, and I am going to clean it up a bit as soon as I get time. I am also reviewing some writing to get a better feel for expressing myself on paper, err, pixels. Whatever.
I really do appreciate brutal honesty. Perhaps if more people wer honest we wouldn't have quite so many problems as we do today. Or, the world could be burnt to ashes around us: Either way I wouldn't have Grisham novels burning my eyes, and movies like Fear.COm searing my brain, so it's good either way. |
Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
Edited by - Capn Charlie on 27 May 2004 07:30:04 |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jun 2004 : 00:20:55
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Betrayal. A displeasing word. One that conjures forth images of daggers driven into the back; of gates opened in the night to the enemy; and to broken trust. Perhaps it is the broken trust that hurts the most. To turn to one you thought of as friend, with the dagger in their hand weeping your blood upon the ground like the tears that now pour from your eyes.
Yes, that broken trust is perhaps what hurts the most. Whether your fists ball up in rage, or you are left dumbstruck at the pain you feel, the source is still the same: One whom you have entrusted, respected, perhaps even loved has harmed you.
It is a pain that you feel deep in the pit of your stomach, as your bowels knot up and grow cold. It is an ache you feel in your soul. But above all, it is a pain you will forever bear the phantom scars of, and seek never to feel again. The methods of avoiding this agony again vary.
Some forget about it, or at least try to. They push it away from their mind, lock it up in some deep corner of their psyche and pretend it never happened. Sometimes they succeed in lying to themselves so well that they convince others. They walk about their daily lives, just like you or me. A scab of lies covers their emotional wounds, and locked away from the light the wound festers, and rots.
Some seek vengeance against their betrayer, they think that with sword or fist or word they can make the hurting stop. Maybe they succeed. In blood, or reciprocal pain they find their solace, and drink deeply from the bitter stream of retribution. These too go on with their lives as best they can, but the wound in being seared closed and clean leaves a mass of emotional scars that will forever be visible upon their souls. A mark that all who look in their eyes can see.
Some, some accept it. They try to rationalize the actions of their betrayer. They may even sympathize, seeing the person who betrayed them as more of a victim than they themselves were. They find some amount of peace this way. Though whether they were the true victims is a question as easily answered as it is tragic.
Some lose themselves. They, forget about the person that was hurt, and find relief from the pain by hiding behind a mask or masks. For surely, they were not wronged, it was that person, the one they had been not the one they are today. They go about the rest of their days being who they are not, whether it be meek and tractable, or grim and cold.
Then there are some who do none of those things, and perhaps all of them. Like me. Some might call me a cynic, and they might be right. I have known the sting of dagger in back, as well as I have felt the burns of lash upon flesh. I have gaped mutely at the horror of gates thrown open before the enemy as surely as I have been cast out from them.
At the tender age of thirteen summers I was sold into slavery by my loving parents.
I remember that brisk autumn day, with the leaves of the trees a riot of color, and the sky an azure dome above all. A beautiful day, by any standards. But just as autumn is the signal of the end of the life of summer, so was it the end of my life. Oh, I was not put to death, and left a wandering specter to pen this account for you, but I did die that day. At least a part of me did. It's surprising how seeing weeping parents the urn to look away from you as shackles of iron are closed about your wrists can make a girl grow up. Oh they were weeping, so was I, in fact. And as I was herded with the others onto the carts bound northward, my parents left southward with their burden of gold.
Oh, they were not just motivated by greed to sell their only child, and beloved daughter. No, times were hard, the constant wars and squabbles that ravaged the land were here in full force this season, and after the crops failed to some blight, and mercenaries roamed the land intent on plunder roamed like hungry wolves, my family was hard beset to fill the pot at night. But bright one morning, I was told to dress, what few belongings that we owned that hadn't been sold were packed upon the old cart that my was pulled by the plow horse, and we set out.
It was along the way I was told where we were going. My mother told me through tears she tried to suppress that they were selling me. Oh, they told me that a lass so small and beautiful as I would be some rich woman's servant, to wear pretty gowns, and the hardest work I would do being to help the lady dress. They would flee south, to wait out the war and return, and with the next harvest find me to buy my freedom. They told me that that was safest. I believed them totally. Looking back on it I think they might have even believed a little of it too.
Fools.
Do I sound bitter? I don't mean to. At least not that much. Whether or not they ever actually came looking for me or not, I will never know. For all I know and care their bones might right now be lying in the same ditch where their bodies were tossed after their tainted gold was taken from them by force. Then again they might be looking for me to this day, lamenting the loss of their beloved flower. But somehow I doubt it.
I am sounding bitter again, aren't I? I guess I am, a little. They should have known what awaited me. Likely they did, but were as successful at lying to themselves as they were to me.
Oh, and if you thought that the life of a freeman with elvish blood was unpleasant in the lands of Chessenta, I assure you the life of a slave of such dubious parentage is significantly more unpleasant. Elves aren't exactly cared for in the lands of Chessenta. They are tolerated perhaps, but there is no love for them. I don't blame them. Most I have met are either some contemptuous, arrogant fool with his nose so high in the air his pointed ears point at the ground; or some doe eyed lack wit with such great pity for me as though I had some incurable wasting disease. In their eyes, perhaps I do.
Oh, I heard all the jokes, and the names, and the hate spewed forth from minds so small that they seemingly had no room left in it for so many words. Half breed I was called growing up. Never mind the fact that I was only 1/4 elven or so, it didn't matter. My gold flecked green eyes, delicately pointed ears, and slender frame said it all: Different from you!
IT didn't bother me too much, but then again I was from an isolated farming community with no neighbors for over a mile, and seeing more than a dozen people in a place at one time was an unusual occurrence.
So here I was with four black marks against me from the beginning, I was an elf (which was only half true at worst), an ignorant and unwashed peasant (which was, again, only half true), a woman (never mind I was scarcely 13, and still only developed as human girls a season my junior), and of course, a slave.
Some may try to to make slavery sound pretty, or at least bearable. They claim that the life of a slave in some lands is no worse than a free man in others. But freemen aren't rounded up, branded, and sold like cattle.
My first day of life a a slave was not so bad, all things considered. I eventually cried all the tears I could, and quieted, with only the occasional sob to break the monotony. I was able to ride, and not forced to walk as all the slaves of age had to. When we stopped at mid day I got a hunk of cheese, a crust of bread, and a bit of what I believe was boot leather (much better fare than I had become accustomed to recently, I assure you!), and I wasn't beaten. At the time I didn't know that the last was anything special, but then again I would learn. In time I would learn many things.
The second day I learned how one relieves herself in the bushes while chained to four other girls. I learned how one aches after many hours of jarring travel and not being allowed to stretch. I also learned that slaves are not always the supportive group for one another many might think. When you're able to be in the back of a wagon, in what amounts to a cage, literally chained to other people, and still feel alone, you truly learn the meaning of the word. Apparently the other girls found a way to not feel like they were the lowest things in existence. Quite clever it was too: They rendered me that being.
Oh, it wasn't so bad at first, mind you. We were all huddled together for comfort, and then warmth the first day. But by the time we made our way to to the slave markets of Cimbar, almost half a tenday hence, I was some fey monster that wanted to use faerie magics to steal their crust of bread. Fools.
There I go sounding bitter again, don't I? I am, a bit. Now I know that it was a mixture of ignorance and survival mechanism, but then it hurt. I thought I was alone in the entire world. I was, in a way.
I remember the arrival in Cimbar. The sky had parted, and sun shone on the domes, and spires and columns of the city. The statues of long dead heroes lined the avenues. And for a brief time, we became that same huddled together mass of girls that we were the first day, this time in awe over how anything could be this... big. IT was huge. Massive. I saw more people browse a market stall while our procession waited at a intersection than I had seen in my entire life.
When we reached the paddocks, the great pens where the slaves are kept until put on the block, I was stunned. Close to fifty score souls languished in that corral.
Men, women, children. Dwarves, halflings, brutish creatures that could only be half orcs, and even the odd elf or half elf. All gathered together for one purpose: To be sold. My lot, as I heard it called, was part of the merchandise of an enterprising slave trader whose name I neither know, or care to know, who was profiteering from the war.
I was asked how old I was, prodded, made to muscle an arm, and then on my right forearm had a series of characters penned on in some thick ink. The characters denoted my gender (as if that was not apparent), age (Again, as if that could not be deduced), one showing my general health and quality to be prime, and a series of letters showing my lot and owner.
The wrist shackles were removed, much to my relief, as the skin was chafed raw. And i was ushered into the pen that my fellow riders had been sent into. There were perhaps 80 of us in that pen, from the age of 6 to 60. I would another even harsher lesson in the days to come.
We spent the next three days here, huddled about in heaps under the cooling sky, with far too few blankets to go around, and not quite so much food and water as we would have liked, and absolutely no privacy. Occasionally we would be called as a group, such as all females from the age of ten to twenty to line up in front of one of the gates, to turn in place, to show our teeth, as prospective bidders made rounds of the merchandise.
On the fourth day, our lot was called, and I was sent to the block. Of course we were cleaned first. At least we were told to clean ourselves from the horse trough outside our paddock, and let dry with rags, and then had our appearance shined up a bit by some fierce eyed matron intent on seeing us at least as clean as pigs from a pen.
Then as we were led to the block we were told what was expected of us, not to speak, to do as we were told, to smile, to not cry, or else we would be whipped. Then we arrived at the block: A platform some six feet above the ground, where a large man shouted out the wonderful qualities of the slaves, and took bids on them. I remember this acutely. We girls had top billing, at the time I wondered at this, thinking that the stronger male laborers would be the most preferred. Oh, how little I knew.
I was paraded forth, and in his deep voice he told the men, for it was mostly men at this auction, to look at my fine features, my healthy build, perfect teeth. He said to look at my exotic eyes, and ears, that I was the lost princess of some elven kingdom I had never even heard of. Of course the bidders were savvy in their knowledge of how such affairs work, and I was quickly bid ten coins of gold for, he begged them to look at my delicate hands, and the bid jumped to fifteen, then twenty.
He entreated them to see my long raven tresses, how fine they were. The bid climbed to thirty. He told of how I would retain my beauty for far longer than a normal lass, and that I was young enough to be properly trained in whatever arts the buyer deemed appropriate. He quickly assured a man that I was indeed virginal (which while true, he completely guessed), and the bid rose higher to thirty-five, then forty, then to fifty and sixty. I was awestruck at the sums of money talked about. I had never seen more than three coins of gold together at one time in my entire life, and here I was having three score offered for me.
The final bid was seventy-five, from a woman, one of the few in the crowd. She came close, and asked if I could work, and pinched my arm to feel the muscle, then satisfied confirmed her bid, and it was done. She grasped me in an almost painful grip by my shoulder, and led me to a table behind which a clerk wrote things upon a piece of parchment, including the characters upon my arm, and the n an additional character was written there: The symbol of my new owner.
That night I slept on the floor of a rough room of an inn, at the foot of Mistress Delia's bed, told that if I even thought of running the marks would make me for a runaway slave, and I would be beaten more severely than anything I could imagine. In the morning, at least I assume it was morning, as no sun was yet up, I was taken into a room, and made to strip, and was scrubbed top to bottom, and given a new clean dress to wear, and told I was to be a servant and maid to her "girls", which at the time I assumed to be her daughters. I was fed, and then rushed away to loaded buckboard wagon at the inn and told to pile in the back upon several bags and bales of goods. Three hours later I was approaching an encampment east of the town, and got my first glimpse at what my life would be.
Mistress Delia was the quartermaster of a company of mercenaries, perhaps numbering in the range of two hundred. The paradigm of pseudo military efficiency she also was the coordinator of camp followers, including cooks, porters, armorers, and, most numerous of all: Her girls.
At the time I perceived them as the finest of ladies, seeing as they were so delicate and lacking the calluses of labor, all bedecked in silks and satin, and jewelry. In hindsight, they were a bunch of paste and tin wearing, two copper doxxies that a man not fresh from a battlefield would think twice before approaching.
For the next year and more I did the cooking, and serving, and bathing, and washing and general caring for these women. The first night when I asked three of them (whom I was told to fetch tea for) why they traveled with all these rough men for, and if it was protection from bandits seeking to ravish them, they erupted in raucous laughter, and blushing heavily I began to become a little more worldly. After they explained a bit what it was they did (and composed themselves when I asked if they were married to any of their callers) I began to catch the drift of things.
Always I was kept back by Mistress Delia, whenever the oft drunken always violent men came a calling, and more than once I had to flee with the rest of the followers as the tide of battle turned against us. I learned a bit about the war business, and saw how things worked.
It was one spring, over a year after I was sold, that my world turned upside down again. Camp was set, and the cooks expecting the men to return weary, and injured, and ready for drink were setting up the tables, when three men approached camp. One was the captain, leader of their men, supported bodily by two of his officers, and his news was dire. It was a rout, ambush, the men were either dead, or fled the field of battle. The enemy was approaching this way, and we were to flee. I heard from the supply tent where I was retrieving bundles of bandages and salves to treat the captain's wounds.
Camp was broken as best as we could, everyone was loaded quickly onto the wagons, and the teams hitched, leaving most everything behind. We would escape with our lives, said the remaining officers, but alas it was not to be.
We were overtaken several hours out by light horse cavalry. The male followers were no new hands to battle, but the professionals cut them down. The girls were seized, and I believe that night Mistress Delia was spit through with a bolt as she beat a man to death with a club. Personally, I ran. I ran into the coming darkness, my eyesight helping me along. For the first time grateful for my elven blood I ran in the dusk until I came to a stream. Falling down in a panting heap, the panic worn out of my muscles I slept where I lay.
Next thing I knew it was rough hands shaking me, waking me up, and though I struggled I was quickly held still. The man was perhaps thirty summers in age, with a face of scars, and broken teeth, and fetid breath. He crowed about finding a "fine little morsel" as he put it, and then set about to take the one thing I had left, after freedom, pride, and dignity were gone. Unfortunately for him, though, while slim, I was actually quite strong, at least as far as he was expecting. A year of carrying pails of boiling water for bathing, and packing camp paid off.
I kicked twice: Once to the groin, and once to the head. My hobnailed boots serving me in such a way as no fine slipper ever could. He fell upon the ground in a moaning heap, but quickly began to recover, reaching for a knife at his belt. I never gave him the chance. Seizing up a stone from beside the stream I brought it down upon his head. Blood Flowed, and I heard bone crunch. I might have retched up what little my stomach held, but I was still alive, and I had killed for the first, but certainly not last time.
First Chapter of the Memoirs of Jayla the Scout
"Whispers of War: Eyes of the Shadows"
Collected by Candlekeep 1384 DR
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Edited by - Capn Charlie on 24 Jul 2004 16:56:54 |
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Prince Indirian
Acolyte
Sweden
14 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jun 2004 : 23:37:55
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| Exellent, really entertaining. You seem to be able to imagine how the life of mercenaries was , which could be really hard since this is a fantasy setting that is quite far from our own world. Me liky. Have you ever been a soldier ? Do you belivie in reincarnation ? Seriously keep up the good work. I am really looking forward to part two...It's to late for me to come with any critisism and frankly said I didn't find any. But on the other hand I didn't read it with the intention of critisize. |
Edited by - Prince Indirian on 03 Jun 2004 23:42:45 |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jun 2004 : 23:39:15
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Part II
The sun rises over the rolling hills . It sheds a soft yellow glow upon what is for most appearances a beautiful spring day. A stream babbles merrily despite the gore drenched rock, and rust stained grass at it's banks. A figure stands at the edge of that stream, watching as the last bubbles of a now hidden body flutter to the surface then pop like the lost dreams of the girl she once was.
She is no stranger to pain, or to the many cruelties of life. However up until this point she had never taken a life. She is a slave, or at least was, a slave, and now she is a killer.
As she sets about to the grim task of cutting the dead man's clothes to better fit her she begins to work out a plan of what to do next.
"It is obvious that a girl will not be safe to travel alone," she thinks. "I'm shaped right to pass for a boy, Tymora knows the whores let me know that often enough." Cutting the legs of the trousers to be the right length she continues. "If I get rid of this dress, cut my hair short..." she quails, as her long hair had always been a thing she was proud of, going to the great lengths of keeping it brushed and free of tangles when it would be far easier to just cut it off.
"No helping it, though. I can alter these to fit me, and then the tunic as well. Luckily he..." here she pauses again, the enormity of her situation hits her again. She has killed a man. She is a murderer. "No!" she says aloud. "He attacked me! He would have, have..." she pauses, facing the reality of what would have happened if she didn't act, then she continues aloud.
"He would have likely slit my throat and dropped me in the river as not, after he was done," she continues, though whether trying to convince herself, or some lingering spirit, or listening jury of gods, not even she knows. "I did what had to be done. I was defending myself. Same as the soldiers on the field do. They aren't murderers, they're heroes for doing what they do. So so am I," she defiantly states, as though daring anyone to say otherwise.
The stream continues to flow merrily along, it's lilting music seeming to agree with her, as it continues unfazed by her speech. A little more at peace with herself, she begins to shudder a bit when she sees the crimson stain on the front of the tunic. She examines the seams with an expert eye, after having done much sewing and altering in her tenure as attendant to the soldier's prostitutes.
"No way to alter this without a needle and thread, but that's fine." she reasons, "A boy would likely be wearing baggy clothing, pass-me-downs and such. Lucky thing my less than noble benefactor was a small man, or else I would look quite the fool. It might work to hide my figure, such as it is, even. "
Standing, she begins to don the clothing of so recently occupied by her assailant. Though 14, her form is still slender, with barely a hint of the curves of a woman, due to her elvish blood. She stands slightly less than 5 feet and two inches in height, her lithe body weighing in at perhaps 100 pounds.
"These boots I have are good enough, his are too big anyway," she says to no one in particular. "Now, about this hair, no self respecting lad would traipse about with a mane halfway to his waist."
She walks upstream a bit to a horse staked out where she left it after having found it set to wander by it's former rider. Still wearing it's saddle, it whinnies at her approach.
"Easy fella, sorry I don't have anything for you, but you have something for me," she says as she pats the horse on the neck.
Opening a saddlebag she rummages for a moment before finding a square steel mirror about a hand's length wide, and half again as long. Squatting a few yards away from the horse she sets mirror on the ground and begins to gather her hair into a handful, measures it by eye, and begins to saw through it with her knife, wincing as nicks in the blade yank instead of cut at times. After she finishes, she examines herself in the mirror.
"Not bad," she says. "Just long enough to hide the tips of my ears, but not so long as to rouse suspicion," turning to the horse, she continues. "What do you think, horse?"
The horse promptly replies by continuing to crop the grass at the end of his tether.
"Thought so," she says, seeming satisfied.
"Now to get rid of all this," she says, gesturing with the shock of black hair in her grasp.
She walks over to the pile of discarded clothing and armor, then begins to ball it up around the now rust tinted stone, at the last minute deciding to keep the armor out. "I might find a use for this" she says.
An hour later after a brief meal of dried meat, hard tack, and a few raisins she sets out, riding her newly acquired mount in a north easterly heading. The armor she has rolled up behind her in the saddle, as a back rest, with the bow slung before her as she often saw scouts carry it, with quiver slung as to be ready at hand. She hadn't fired a bow since she played with cousins at a festival when she was ten, but everyone else didn't know that.
Coming Soon: Jayla Part III |
Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
Edited by - Capn Charlie on 08 Jun 2004 04:30:18 |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jun 2004 : 23:51:27
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quote:
Originally posted by Prince Indirian
Exellent, really entertaining. You seem to be able to imagine how the life of mercenaries was , which could be really hard since this is a fantasy setting that is quite far from our own world. Me liky. Have you ever been a soldier ? Do you belivie in reincarnation ? Seriously keep up the good work. I am really looking forward to part two...It's to late for me to come with any critisism and frankly said I didn't find any. But on the other hand I didn't read it with the intention of critisize.
Reincarnation? Well, to not get involved in a theological discussion (and thus bring down the wrath of Alaundo upon us all!), I will say that it is one of the most sensical of theories I have seen, and have been described by almost every person I meet that thinks along those lines as an "old soul".
Nope, never been a soldier. I do watch the history channel whenever I get the chance, and pride myself on being able to puzzle out the details, and build outward from the nuggets of historical information. That same skill also helps me when trying to connect all the dots of sketchy campaign setting info. |
Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
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Yoshimo
Seeker
88 Posts |
Posted - 04 Jun 2004 : 22:18:57
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I can say that I am verily impressed. Excellent. You have inspired me to sing a song.
Yo ho, yo ho a pirate's life for me.
We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot,
Drink up me 'earties, yo ho.
Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.
We extort, we pilfer, we filch, and sack,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
Maraud and embezzle, and even highjack,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.
We kindle and char, inflame and ignite,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
We burn up the city, we're really a fright,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
We're rascals, scoundrels, villains, and knaves,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
We're devils and black sheep, really bad eggs,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.
We're beggars and blighters, never-do-well cads,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
Aye, but we're loved by our mommies and dads,
Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.
 
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May the light of Selune light your path and Olidammara guide your footsteps ~Shadow Thief Motto |
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Winterfox
Senior Scribe
895 Posts |
Posted - 05 Jun 2004 : 08:47:18
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Jayla's inner monologue: I think your strength truly lies in getting into a character's head and expressing his/her thoughts in an intimate way that makes the character very real. In other words, I liked it very much; Jayla's personality shines through, and she is really there. However, it might be a better idea to spell out numbers (1/4, 10, 20). They're rather jarring (break flow, and momentarily made me think I was reading a mathematic equation), and conventions dictate that any number equal to or less than ninety-nine should be spelled out. I also noticed a repetition of "Fools" and "I sound bitter" (or variation thereof). If it's intentional and supposed to emphasize a point, okay, but I felt like being beaten over the head.
For the actual narrative -- I'm happy to see that you're taking care with punctuation and formatting. Hope you won't mind some more corrections, though:
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A stream babbles merrily despite the gore drenched rock, and rust stained grass at it's banks.
Is it really "babble" or did you mean "bubble"? Also, "its", not "it's." Gods know, one of my English teachers actually made this mistake, but the difference is there. "Its" signifies ownership; "it's" is a contraction for "it has" or "it is." Incidentally, I like the imagery here -- the contrast between an idyllic spring day and a dead man is quite lovely.
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"I'm shaped right to pass for a boy, [God] knows the whores let me know that often enough."
Why is "God" in square brackets? It, like numbers, is slightly jarring. If you don't want to offend anyone, you could substitute it with the actual name of a fictional god.
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She is a Murderer.
No capital in "murderer."
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"I did what had to be done. I was defending myself. Same as the soldiers on the field do. They aren't murderers, they're heroes for doing what they do. So so am I." She defiantly states, as though daring anyone to say otherwise.
Okay, a small reminder when writing dialogue. Here's the correct formatting:
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"I did what had to be done. I was defending myself. Same as the soldiers on the field do. They aren't murderers, they're heroes for doing what they do. So am I," she defiantly states, as though daring anyone to say otherwise.
Notice the comma and the de-capitalized "she." |
Edited by - Winterfox on 05 Jun 2004 08:49:38 |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 08 Jun 2004 : 06:17:32
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I have reworked everything except Devin part two, as I am listing it now in my revisions. I am getting the hang of writing again, slow and steady, and with my dear friend Winterfox's help, I might just make it readable and enjoyable yet.
First off, to address a few of your points:
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Jayla's inner monologue: I think your strength truly lies in getting into a character's head and expressing his/her thoughts in an intimate way that makes the character very real. In other words, I liked it very much; Jayla's personality shines through, and she is really there.
Well, she is there. I hate to sound like a madman, but it is almost like I channel my characters. I am fairly certain it is like a stew pot of characteristics of people I know, or have read about that bubbles over just right at times, but still, I am not completely sure. Maybe it is some repressed multiple personalities, or ancestor spirits, or past life regressions tinged with the fantastic by my subconscious. Or maybe I am just blessed with an active imagination.
Whichever way it goes, I am just going to go with the flow.
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However, it might be a better idea to spell out numbers (1/4, 10, 20). They're rather jarring (break flow, and momentarily made me think I was reading a mathematic equation), and conventions dictate that any number equal to or less than ninety-nine should be spelled out.
Done, and done. I just wrote them that way because I was in a great hurry to get it out as the scene progressed at breakneck speed. More on this in a moment though.
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I also noticed a repetition of "Fools" and "I sound bitter" (or variation thereof). If it's intentional and supposed to emphasize a point, okay, but I felt like being beaten over the head.
It was intentional. She has a few sore spots, and those are a couple of them. Perhaps I should avoid the needlessly repetitive method of my hinting at this, though. I will see what I can think of.
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For the actual narrative -- I'm happy to see that you're taking care with punctuation and formatting. Hope you won't mind some more corrections, though:
Feel free. In fact, I encourage you, my grammar is mostly instinctual at this point, and while I can generally speak in an understandable manner, I am often at odds with how to put this on paper. I haven't had red pen touch my writings in many years, so just make it look like a archbishop of Ilmatar at a holy festival of Loviatar, if need be.
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Is it really "babble" or did you mean "bubble"?
No, babble was what I meant. If you could be near the stream, and see and hear it, you would understand. This is the trouble, I see all this play out, I see it like I am watching a movie screening on my retinas. I hear her voice, smell the iron tang of blood in the air, and see the stream.
It is perhaps twelve to fifteen feet wide, and maybe two thirds that deep in the center. IT winds through the gentle hills, rippling gently across tiny falls. It is a clear water, you can easily see the bottom, on a still day. However bits of debris make their way down, as do the occasional cloud of mud disturbed a quarter mile upstream by a doe struggling across.
It has a faint music about it almost, and the chirrup of insects near it is a low hum, broken occasionally by the splash as a wary trout snags one who lingered too long on the waters surface. The rippling of it as it goes over the soft falls, dropping maybe a foot over 5 of flow sounds almost like hushed voices, sharing some secret that man will never truly know.
If I could only sketch, or paint, or sculpt, or something to get this across. It drags down things too much I think.
Whenever there is dialog, I would be better off writing a script, complete wit hall the directions actors would need to portray the events I see. I have to leave out so much. Every dialog is a shadow of how I see it, a pale shadow.
For me rewriting this all is like writing the novelized adaptation of a movie only I can see.
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Also, "its", not "it's." Gods know, one of my English teachers actually made this mistake, but the difference is there. "Its" signifies ownership; "it's" is a contraction for "it has" or "it is."
Yeah, I would never have caught that in a million years. In fact, I am totally taking your word for it, as you seem generally knowledgeable on that of which you speak. I will try to keep an eye out for this in the future.
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Incidentally, I like the imagery here -- the contrast between an idyllic spring day and a dead man is quite lovely.
Yes, somehow I thought you might appreciate that.
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Why is "God" in square brackets? It, like numbers, is slightly jarring. If you don't want to offend anyone, you could substitute it with the actual name of a fictional god.
Well, that was supposed to be a kind of "insert deity her" that I never got around to filling in. I have fixed that.
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No capital in "murderer."
Well, I wanted to somehow emphasize the word. Something akin to he sneering of one's lip as they say a distasteful word. It is a stigma, a title that is quite vile, I wanted it to register as such, not be immediately looked over by the reader who knows the whole of the events, and would in all likelihood automatically glance over the fact. Jayla wouldn't, and I wanted to get across the angst of her situation. However I feel I might have been too heavy handed in doing so.
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Okay, a small reminder when writing dialog. Here's the correct formatting:
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I will try to keep this in mind, I really will. As I said, dialog is hard for me properly articulate.
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Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
Edited by - Capn Charlie on 08 Jun 2004 11:13:02 |
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Ranin
Seeker
88 Posts |
Posted - 08 Jun 2004 : 06:52:17
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 truly impressive. It seems i might have to look for you in the fantasy section in the future. I myself have sometimes prefered the path of the mercenary, but my true calling is to serve the forests and the balance.
Speaking of which i also have my own story which, not nearly as long, should prove intriguing should anyone like to read it after this one.
Sorry to interrupt you have my attention, continue the tale
on with the show |
Listen to the silence of the wilds, in there lies the wisdom of ages. |
Edited by - Ranin on 08 Jun 2004 07:11:48 |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
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Yoshimo
Seeker
88 Posts |
Posted - 08 Jun 2004 : 13:01:25
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I have also been enjoying it. Very well done, mate.
*WHISPER* I also have a few stories as well, one that I have just posted on Dragons Galore within this Adventuring forum. Tis about a knight fighting a horde of undead and... Dragons. I can learn to be a better writer if I read your stories. Continue, friend.*WHISPER* |
May the light of Selune light your path and Olidammara guide your footsteps ~Shadow Thief Motto |
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Winterfox
Senior Scribe
895 Posts |
Posted - 08 Jun 2004 : 14:05:04
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quote:
Originally posted by Capn Charlie
Well, she is there. I hate to sound like a madman, but it is almost like I channel my characters. I am fairly certain it is like a stew pot of characteristics of people I know, or have read about that bubbles over just right at times, but still, I am not completely sure. Maybe it is some repressed multiple personalities, or ancestor spirits, or past life regressions tinged with the fantastic by my subconscious. Or maybe I am just blessed with an active imagination.
Whichever way it goes, I am just going to go with the flow.
Not madman at all, I assure you. IMO, when you have things flowing like this, all's well. I sometimes have characters that write themselves -- they'd come up with lines and actions that I never quite intended for them. My solution is letting them do whatever they want -- or they'll go on strike -- and the result is usually the better for it. (I'm taking the "story equals character" to an extreme here, maybe, but it's fun. Writing some stories for me surprises me as much as it surprises my readers. Plot threads and scenes that I never really planned pop up on their own. Bad for a professionally published author, I imagine, but hey, there's an upside to being an amateur. ;))
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Incidentally, I like the imagery here -- the contrast between an idyllic spring day and a dead man is quite lovely.
Yes, somehow I thought you might appreciate that.
*L* Am I so predictable? |
Edited by - Winterfox on 08 Jun 2004 14:06:41 |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 24 Jul 2004 : 17:07:36
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I finally managed to divert enough of what has become a far too finite these days, my precious creative juices, to fix up the editing on the pieces, and get them better organized, and maybe, just maybe, a good setup to part two of chapter one. I hope so, I really hope so. Jayla part three will soon be up, and after that I will see where I am drawn next.
My normallly lackluster typing skills have become downright abhorrent these days, due to unforseen biological complications, so bear with me, anything I type could likely be up for several edits before it looks anywhere near suitable. |
Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
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Talwyn
Learned Scribe
Australia
222 Posts |
Posted - 25 Jul 2004 : 05:18:16
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I'm looking forward to seeing more of this capn!
I do hope your biological difficulties do not impede the creative process too much for you to continue in this worthy epic.
Be well
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Over the centuries, mankind has tried many ways of combating the forces of evil...prayer, fasting, good works and so on.
Up until Doom, no one seemed to have thought about the double-barrel shotgun.
EAT LEADEN DEATH DEMON!
Terry Pratchett
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brjr2001
Learned Scribe
106 Posts |
Posted - 25 Jul 2004 : 07:46:46
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Its ok Capn Charlie Just when ever you mess up use the words ARRR
or even a good avast or two |
on second thought lets not go to candlekeep it is a silly place |
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 02 Sep 2004 : 12:00:11
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Finally, By popular demand(and because noone told me not to!) Jayla part III
The smell of woodsmoke floats upon the breeze, carrying with it the sounds of merriment. Songs are being sung, wine is being drank, and petty squabbles are breaking out. It is good fortune that greets those now sitting around their fires, eating well and drinking loudly. They have lived this day, and in so doing have earned the rewards they now enjoy. For a brief time the horrors of war are forgotten as a good time is had by all.
By all the victors, that is. Despite how pleasant the scene is in this camp, the same cannot be said on the other side of a small and muddied stream. It's once pristine waters are now choked with blood, and gore and churned mud. Where once the scuttlings of a crayfish could disrupt the crystal waters for several yards, a horse fording it would likely change it little.
"Here, is the aftermath of war!" says the water clearly with it's reddish tint. The life's blood of many now mingle freely therein, achieving a unity they never could in life. In the camp of the healers, which directly abutted the stream, things were not even as pleasant as the pathetic camps of the losing armies on the run.
The screams of the dead and dying, men having wounds seared closed, limbs being amputated, all a rather hellish tableau. For not even the vaunted clergies of no less than six gods could muster enough magical might to undo what several hours of pitched meleé can wreak upon troops.
She (or rather he, to the casual observer) had arrived an hour before sundown, riding a rather bedraggled and half starved horse up the river. The rider was little better off. Where, once, elven slimness had been present, now the gaunt spectre of hunger existed, her bones now peaked out a bit from the flesh, silent testimony to the lack of food she had experienced during her travels.
Guiding her horse carefully amongst the fires, several men look up from whatever diversion they were currently indulging in, before going back to their merry making.
Moving towards the largest tent in the encampment, which surely meant the billet of the commander, she was teased by the smells coming from the fires. Before long she stood before the tent, her horse tethered, watching the last few men leave the tent, pay in hand. Well, mostly in hand for these stragglers were among the wounded able to walk, one was handless from the mid forearm down, the stump wrapped in fresh linens. The other sported a new wound stretching from his brow down past his cheeekbone, sewn together, eye now gone from the socket.
But this is a hazard of the war business. Bodily harm is expected, if not enjoyed, by the mercenary, and in a business of death, no bonus is payed for those unlucky on the field. Waiting to be sure that was the last of the payees, she enters, and is greeted by the man sitting at a table, the inkwell and lamp marking him as paymaster, likely the only literate man in camp shy of the odd officer.
"Pay's done boy. I already did the books, all the numbers are in, and if you were slow or stupid enough to let another take your place in the line and get your coppers, too bad. I don't wanna hear it."
A broadly smiling man approaches, slapping the scribe on the shoulder. Looking about apparently in a good mood, he speaks first to the sitting man, then to Jayla.
"Come now, Jervis, no way to be acting. What's the matter lad, you drafted for duty with the leeches, and just now getting in?"
Speaking in a voice carefuly practiced and deep, Jayla responds. "No sir, I am not from this company, nor am I a messenger, if that's what you're thinking."
The older man looks puzzled, and glances down to the scribe, seeing as confused a look as his, he turns to Jayla, and speaks.
"And then, what is it you want?"
Standing defiantly, She she pulls forth the short horseman's bow she had salvaged from the rider's gear, and holds it before her.
"I want to be a soldier. I have a horse, and bow."
"And just what is your name, lad?"
"Jay," she replies
"Can you shoot that thing, boy?" asks the commander.
"No sir, but I can learn," Jayla replies.
"How about riding?"
"Oh, yes sir! I've been riding since I could walk"
"Too bad," "We only accept those that have been riding since before they could walk."
"What! I-"
"I'm joking, son."
"Oh." The youth laughs nervously. "Good one sir."
The commander grins broadly. "I think I am beginning to like you already, son. How about this, You go with one of the squads, keep your head down and your ears open. Pick up what you can, pitch in with whatever they need, and we'll see to it that you get a few meals in your belly and a couple of coins come payday. After 'while, when your sergeant thinks you're ready, then we'll see about putting you on the rolls as a full member with the pay and benefits that warrants. Sound good, son?"
"Oh yes sir! I'll do whatever he says, long as I can learn to fight," the boy eagerly replies.
Standing up, and walking around the table the commander claps the slim youth on the shoulder, nearly jarring the arm from it's joint. "You listen, and learn, and one of these days you might be an officer in this outfit. I like the spirit you have, boy. In this business that's often all we have when the battle is joined, and your life is a sword thrust away from being lost.
Moving back to his seat, the commander motions towards the entrance. "Get out there, look for the camp of Gerrant. It is on the north side of camp. Tell him what I told you. He's not a particularly kind man, but he knows the trade, and he can make out of you whatever that will be."
Nodding eagerly, Jayla, or rather Jay, as she was now to be known, leaves the tent, scrambling onto her horsee, and sets a course for the north side of the encampment. A wide smile is upon her lips, as she urges her horse into a trot, riding into the deepening dusk.
Coming Soon, Jayla Part IV
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Capn Charlie
Senior Scribe
USA
418 Posts |
Posted - 02 Sep 2004 : 12:03:09
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AS a bnus(because I know all you care so very, very much about my writings) I have included a brief interlude thattakes part directly after the last piece, but which does not directly involve Jayla, and as such I did not include it therein.
Meanwhile...
Meeanwhile, back in the tent, A young man steps out of the shadow of the tent, a bemused smile upon his face.
"An unusual act of kindness sir, and one that may not have been too well advised. It is rather obvious that the horse and kit was stolen, probably from a fallen man, likely her owner. Could be that she is just sizing us up for more robbery, and will abscond with the first thing directed to deliver."
The commander looking up at the younger man frowns slightly before replying. "That the items were not given to him is obvious, but it is far more likely it was scavenged, not stolen. In fact, I would not be too surprised if the lad took the kit of his former owner, a man of our now defeated enemies, after the heat of battle, and now seeks to join the winning side. And I need not remind you, Lieutenant, that in this business who you fight against today, you may fight beside tomorrow."
"Besides, I find it a sign of good will, a sacrifice to the god of war in thanks of our victory, if you will. I ran off from home when I was about his age, full on tales of victory and valor, wanting to learn to fight. And we can always have the little bastard put on the gibbet if he makes any false moves."
The younger man smiles again, lightly shaking his head. "Ever the kind heart, sir. I am jsut glad you put her under Gerrant, he is probably too old to try to take of the situation."
The commander cocks an eye at him, "I believe it is you who might be wanting to take advantage of something. What is this 'she' business about? I believe you have been on the field too long, and are starting to see women whereever you do not see beards, the horses might not be safe around you. I suggest you find yourself a woman in the south camps before I find you asking me to dance."
At this, the scribe nearly chokes in laughter, almost spilling his inkwell upon the book in which he was writing, and the younger man guffaws openly.
"I guess you're right sir, it has been a while since I had any recreation. I must just be seeing things."
Walking out to the entrance to the tent, he turns, before the table of the scribe who had nearly composed himself, and bows deeply.
"I must bid you farewell milady, as I hear a flagon calling my name, and msut answer it's call to liberate from it's liquid opressor."
He exits the tent, loud laughter of the scribe and commander echoing outward, he turns toward the north. The smile is gone from his face, replaced by a stern stare.
"I know gerrant would be fooled no more than I by her disguise," he thinks to himself, "Not for a moment, I hope the lass doesn't get carried off in the night. On the morrow I will take a ride by Gerrant's camp for inspection, and have a word with him."
However, true to his word, he sets off towards the south, where the loudest sounds of revelry come. |
Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
My first stab at realms fiction, here at candlekeep. Stop on by and tell me what you think. |
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Shadows of War: Tales of a Mercenary
