Chrono Compendium

Bend of Time - Inactive Projects => Darkness Beyond Time - Dead Project Discussion => Project ZEAL => Topic started by: Leebot on October 06, 2004, 04:53:14 pm

Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 06, 2004, 04:53:14 pm
I thought I'd start this thread up as a place for commentary and constructive criticism on the writing styles, grammar, and spelling used in the story threads, primarily so we don't clutter up said threads with this stuff. Hopefully, with the community working together, we can create something that not only comprises a variety of writing styles, but we can keep it error-free.

I'll just start out here. Overall, what we have so far looks very good. The only minor problem I've noticed is ZeaLitY's use of the word "our"--a first-person pronoun in a story written in a third-person perspective.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: ZeaLitY on October 09, 2004, 03:32:39 am
Fixed. Those slip in time to time.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: 1stoftheLast on October 14, 2004, 04:34:47 am
Anyone want to throw some critizism at me before I post this in the story thread. Thanks in advance.

In the fields- it was about 30 degrees and snowing, a warm day for spring.  A young man walked briskly out of his igloo with his hunting panoply.  He approached a group of a dozen or so like dressed men.

“Jack” they all chorused in disunion.  Jack acknowledged them all with a slight bow of the head before looking around him and asking who was left.

“Only Jayhawk.”  Said the man with red scars across his face.

They all continued to wait for the man they called Jayhawk, and when he arrived the group set out south of the village.  They didn’t know it was south; in fact they had no word for any directions because north, south, east and west all led to the same place: away from the village.

Hunting was light, but no one seemed too concerned.  The real work in the spring, or as the villagers knew it, as the first through fourth cycles, was in fortifying the village after the winter storms and to prepare for the next.  In general the making and gathering of the less perishable items was done first while the major hunting was tackled during the fall.  After the fall their came a two-cycle period where the village entered a sort of hibernation, and nothing could be done in the way of gathering tools or working outdoors.    

While trekking the hunters placed a brushy limb at every approximate quarter mile so that they would be able to find their way back.  After they returned to the village they broke into smaller groups and began to clean their kills, trade, make tools, repair their homes, and go about their daily routines, which had remained unbroken since before their were cycles to count.  

Life in the village was more a cycle then it was a flow, there was no progress, only a monotony that went unrecognized by the people because of its singular familiarity.  In this village it seemed, there was always a village and always people to live in it.  Just as there was always the man with the red scars across his face, who was unlucky to be disfigured but luckier then the man who fell to that beast.  

No one questioned this way of life.  The villagers all played their parts as if they had rehearsed.  And they had, as it seemed that every villager had lived and died a thousand times, replaced by themselves to pick up again in some random part of the circle.

The only thing different in this village, at this place, and during this year; was the man that Jack Nova was going to become.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 14, 2004, 01:42:25 pm
Alright, I've gone through and proofread it for grammar, spelling, and puctuation. Here's my edited version (my edits are in bold, with the exceptions of hyphens and dashes, which I preceded with an exclamation point! When I removed something, I replaced it with ø):

In the fields, it was about 30 degrees and snowing!--a warm day for spring. A young man walked briskly out of his igloo with his hunting panoply. He approached a group of a dozen or so like!-dressed men.

“Jack,” they all chorused in disunion. Jack acknowledged them all with a slight bow of the head before looking around him and asking who was left.

“Only Jayhawk,said the man with red scars across his face.

They all continued to wait for the man they called Jayhawk, and when he arrived the group set out south of the village. They didn’t know it was south; in fact, they had no word for any directions because north, south, east, and west all led to the same place: away from the village.

Hunting was light, but no one seemed too concerned. The real work in the spring, or as the villagers knew it, øthe first through fourth cycles, was in fortifying the village after the winter storms and to prepare for the next. In general, the making and gathering of the less perishable items was done first while the major hunting was tackled during the fall. After the fall, there came a two-cycle period where the village entered a sort of hibernation, and nothing could be done in the way of gathering tools or working outdoors.

While trekking, the hunters placed a brushy limb at approximately every øquarter mile so that they would be able to find their way back. After they returned to the village, they broke into smaller groups and began to clean their kills, trade, make tools, repair their homes, and go about their daily routines, which had remained unbroken since before there were cycles to count.

Life in the village was more a cycle than it was a flow; there was no progress, only a monotony that went unrecognized by the people because of its singular familiarity. In this village, it seemedø there was always a village and always people to live in it. Just as there was always the man with the red scars across his face, who was unlucky to be disfigured but luckier then the man who fell to that beast.

No one questioned this way of life. The villagers all played their parts as if they had rehearsed. And they had, as it seemed that every villager had lived and died a thousand times, replaced by themselves to pick up again in some random part of the circle.

The only thing different in this village, at this placeø and during this year, was the man that Jack Nova was going to become.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: 1stoftheLast on October 14, 2004, 08:14:05 pm
Thanks I made the corrections and will now post it up!
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 14, 2004, 08:45:11 pm
Tch! Scene
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: 1stoftheLast on October 14, 2004, 11:42:23 pm
hmm?
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: ZeaLitY on October 14, 2004, 11:44:06 pm
I changed it from Scence to scene to save you trouble.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 19, 2004, 12:28:56 pm
Alright, I think I've worked out the last bugs from Linguo. Here's what he's got on V_Translanka's post:

Quote from: Linguo
Changed:
Spelling errors
Punctuation errors
Hyphens replaced by dashes

Not Changed:
Grammatical errors in dialogue and thoughts
Artistic grammatical flaws

Edited Version:

Scene 10: Zeal Prison: Brain Wind & Black Bubbles

   Blackness and flashes of some places and some faces...Mute sound and snippets of some voices and some very difficult choices...There was a slight sizzling hum in the air and the lingering smell of food; perhaps it was chicken.

   It went on. It got better. It got worse again, much worse; there were terrible screams. Spilled blood coated everything from the walls and floor to the tips of fingers and the curves of the moon. It seemed as though everyone was dying again, so unstoppable, a rampage, a pure juggernaut force. The mind reeled in terror, but thankfully time and memory began to overcome...
What? Brain bubbles...?


   There is trouble, right here and now...It was some voice from the recent past; some haunting, gruff, recognizable voice. That voice was a sliver from a farther past burrowing its way to his brain in through his ear.

   What do you mean, ‘trouble’? There is always trouble, so what makes you think I should care this time? This one was his voice, although just then, in his memory, it sounded like everything else, drowned in water and a galaxy away. But even as he had said it, he knew something was wrong. There was some queer ring to the old man’s voice that he found unsettling.

   This time, everyone is involved. I believe—

   You can’t possibly mean everyone.

   Everyone you’ve ever known and...


   Must we stay here, Gil? The green-haired one had asked him. He remembered a man, no older than a boy really at the time, much like him, but that boy had been a coward without his sword. The man who knew him as Gil had an undying courage that lay just beneath the surface, waiting to break out at any moment, for just the right cause. He had said he defeated a version of Gil (Magus...maou) atop Denadoro years ago and Gil had no doubt that that man very well could have defeated him. Surley I could help against these mysterious fiends.

   Yes, you must stay. Gil had replied. This was not intended for us all. It may be that it is not intended for me, but I must take this chance. I do not plan on confronting them, not if I can help it...

   
   Are you worried about...about us?  It was the voice of the girl he had met first upon his new journey—really just the continuing of the journey, the next chapter, the final chapter?—through space & time; the younger of the two special girls who he shared company in those strange days of Magic & madness and darkness & hope after he had left Zeal again-although it was no longer Zeal really. Just thirteen and so hardened from her search, her own desperate quest, and yet she still held on to that last shred of her purity like a life-preserver. Gil would have expected tears from a younger girl—even one her age—at such a departure, but there was nothing but the stone-faced quality of one used to taking the harder, longer road in those eyes of Marcy’s, and he expected no less. Was he proud of her? If asked, he could not have said either way. He was not ashamed of her he probably would have said.

   I worry of many things Marcy, but I have no doubt that if you went with me, you would die fighting...to the last. This was true in his mind and it would have been true if she had accompanied him. That was who she was; he had seen it before in Fiona’s Cathedral against the Wolves and again in the lost forest with that horrid creature, NioFio. There was no denying the pure, uninhibited rage he had seen there in those big, blue innocent’s eyes; he was far too personally familiar with it to mistake it for anything else. It was a kind of self-determined survival instinct that they shared. And it was so strange—heartbreaking—to see that sharp, concentrated look change into utter despair. He saw it in his mind’s eye. If she went with him, he would see that look, that change of looks, at the very last.

   I’d give my sword and my life to find the answers I seek, to unlock the hidden door in my dreams. That was the other girl, the one who looked so like Lucca and yet was so unlike her. In many ways she was exactly the Lucca he had first met, alongside her friend Crono. She was human, Fire Magic surged within her, and she was sharp as a stick. In many other ways though, she was nothing like the Lucca Ashtear he knew. She was a lonesome pessimist, was hateful of science, her hair was mostly dyed black and she was an artist and a dreamer. She was as haunted by her dreams—fiery red things where various objects glowed under the light of a thousand dying suns and one man loomed over it, universe of suns and all, and he was known as maou—as Gil was haunted by the Wind. We will come with you, Gil.

   I would have you find the key to your hidden door, Elle. He had spoken to her. But you know, well as I, that this is not a part of that. Have you dreamed of any of this?

   No, but...She stopped. She could not think of an excuse. No part of her dreams told her any of this would happen, not a hint, nothing. It was an uncontrolled deviation that was unforeseen, unplanned for, and unexpected.

   If I am right, this may lead me to my own door. I cannot give up this chance any more than you can by giving up the ability to find yours by coming with me. He saw her fall as well, she was as stubborn as Marcy, and she would die as she had lived: angry and forlorn. It had been hard to push those thought images away because they strengthened his resolve to go it without them. Part of him knew it was wrong, he was supposed to be with these girls, he knew that from the start, but the prize proved too tempting. I will see...


   I’m going with you. The would-be magician’s voice rang, although only the one he used to know was would-be really; the woman he found recently was a sorceress true, a real female conjurer, temptress and seductress, the mage equivalent of a succubus.

   Flea, you cannot. Gil had told her. He knew what it would possibly mean to himself if he decided to go, but to bring one of the others? It would be your end.

   You cannot know that. Flea had said, she studied his face, and Gil had thought he very well could know it. These people were dangerous, in a realm of classification far beyond dangerous. Their blatant disregard for the life which they were interrupting and manipulating was just one of the glaring red lights that lit up in Gil’s mind. The main light, the light which all the others dwindled around enveloped like little yellow suns circling the axis of a great red giant, was the worried, concerned note he heard in the old man’s voice, that slight falter that indicated fear. If he took one of the others, it would surely mean their death. It was as clear as the sharpness in the Wind. And the Wind does not matter to me. I stand with my back to the Wind. I will not allow you to...


   Conversations were cut off mid-sentence and emotions rebounded as they danced atop the layer of froth in his mind. The scatterbrain recollection of leaving his troupe went away in the pop of the last brain bubble. Memory resurfaced and thought kicked into overdrive. Gil awakened, but—as he had trained himself for many years—did not open his eyes. The rest of the sensory information flooded him in an instant. He was sprawled on a cold smooth surface of floor, his face planted directly into a wall that seemed to crackle with energy, and his right leg was completely numb. In some vast background, he could hear the faint murmurings of people.

   He opened his eyes unto a familiar, and yet ultimately discouraging, sight. The wall of energy was just that, a wall of energy (he had seen such things before, in the future of Vita, for instance), and there were thankfully no shackles. There was also no way for him to get out.

   He got up, dusted himself of unseen dirt and got the lay of the land. He was in a single dull, cobalt-colored cell box and the only light came from a square panel in the ceiling that glowed more than it shined, giving an eerie, iridescent characteristic to everything inside. There was a toilet—or at least something that resembled a toilet—in one corner and a bunk bolted to the side of the wall opposite. No window to show the outside world—whatever it may be. He noted that he had everything he had come in with: sickles, potions, talismans, etc. Even his clothes were the same: tanned leather armor, the blue wrap of cloth around his midsection, his plum-colored pants, and his worn-in boots and gloves.

   Underestimating me? He thought, but it didn’t seem quite right. Surely he had had enemies underestimate him in the past: Ozzie, Cyrus & the stupid frog, the robots of Vita, the android Grobyc & his sister the good Doctor Luccia. But this was different on a very fundamental level; they had beaten him utterly and completely. It had been only one spell—that horrible Brain Bubble—that knocked them both unconscious. His Amulet could not protect against it. They are overestimating themselves. He thought, but put it aside almost immediately. They were not overestimating anything, they simply knew. Gil posed no real threat to them, weapons or no. These people have power I could not begin to fathom. And he hated them for it.

   There was a cell directly across from his, but it was empty. To the left of this he could see his companion, slumped out similarly to how he was, in another dingy cell. He sprang forward and pounded the field of light, “Flea...Flea...!” He tried calling her name for a while to try and get her attention, but it seemed as though the spell was working its wonders on her as well. He saw her arm twitch minutely and he could just faintly see the quick movement going on under her eyelids. The pins & needles receded from his leg and he looked down and found the source of the chicken-smell mashed under one of his boots.

   He felt over the wall of energy and found a singular point about two feet wide and maybe two inches thick that offered no resistance. It was where the guards or sentries or officials or whoever the hell was in charge of the prisoners well being, handed (or in this case, dropped) them food on worn metal or plastic trays.

   Gil studied the empty cell across from him, knowing that it was a mirror of his own squalid surroundings. There were no buttons, no switches or locks, and no control panel or numeric pad either. Was there some central control area or were the walls magically created? He knew none of the answers.


   Strange thoughts entered Flea’s head as well: the dark man she had fallen in love with, the long years of torturous study, that terrible war, her man’s unfortunate death, and his pseudo-return in the form of Gil. But aside from these thoughts, encircling them, covering them, suffocating them, was something her man gave her, something she learned from him, that followed her from him and Gil—flowed from both of the men. The Black Wind blotted out her thoughts and memories.

   Then some other sound began to work its way through as the last brain bubble in her head popped. It was an odd sound, perhaps a word, that seemed like it should be familiar, but all she could think of was bees and trees and knees. The Wind subsided, though did not fade completely.

   “Flea...!” She heard a voice shout to her. That was her name, she realized. That voice was familiar too, but it wasn’t her voice. It wasn’t even the voice of the person she thought it was, although it was an easy mistake to make. A few seconds seemed to stretch out into the infinity as a conscience awareness of time came back to her. Flea’s memory and thought patterns reset themselves in a dismal, sluggish manner. Had she taken the brunt of the Magical assault? It had felt like it to her, but the actual sequence of events was mostly a gray haze that dashed in and out of focus quick and unsteadily like a home movie or bad steady-cam photography.

   She awoke in a cobalt little cubical identical to Gil’s. Her arms lay up above her head and her legs were spread behind her. She propped herself on one hand, testing her coordination and balance at the same time. Everything seemed in proper working order. She also noted that none of her possessions were taken; she had all of her potions, charms, powders, etc. What kind of prison is this? She thought.

   Then her eyes looked up to the wall which served to separate her from any true hope of escape. A wall of eerie light that could not be penetrated, save for a small slot just big enough to pass a tray of food through. She put a gloved hand to the wall and found no give whatsoever. She did note, however, that she too had mashed her ration of chicken scrap underneath her boot.


   Gil finally gave in and sat cross-legged before the energy wall, eyes closed in a state of meditation and hands hooked together. His brow constricted as he thought deeply about their current situation and the events leading up to the capture. It was ridiculous and dangerous and reckless. It was, in essence, exactly what the old man and the others—excepting the girls of course, they seemed to understand his reasoning most—had told him it would be when they had left the End of Time: stupid.

   They had shadowed the stealthy men
   (Nanashi)
   who had been carrying a girl from Giant’s Claw. They carried sheathed knives and were dressed in jet black—more accurately, they were consumed in it. Before they had time to consider the possibilities, the dark men, plus one, came to a dead end and they entered the portal that opened there. Gil and Flea had scrambled after them and had made it into the portal themselves mere seconds before it winked out of existence.

   Upon entrance into the new world, they were seized on both sides and spell-struck by Brain Bubble. They had been ready for them. Perhaps their shadowing of the men hadn’t gone unseen or maybe their manipulation of temporal transports was so advanced that they had ample time to set up a defense before they had arrived. Or maybe...Gil thought. Maybe they were just considerably well-prepared.

   Then he opened his eyes and saw that Flea was awake, with a questioning, somber look on her face. He nodded in agreement with the tone of her expression.

   Opportunity for escape was not given. Escape had not been planned. The two of them would not escape their imprisonment in that strange and threatening—and yet to Gil, somehow familiar—dungeon. So they were forced to sit and wait and reflect on what brought them there and what would eventually happen to them. Part of Flea saw escape; it was some deep part, her mind’s eye. But she did not know what the cost would be. She could not, for the Wind obstructed such precise observations. The Black Wind was fundamental to all matters of freedom and control, fate and choice...life and death.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on October 19, 2004, 04:10:44 pm
Well...I kinda wish you could have bolded the things you changed on mine...I often get semicolons and dashes and commas mixed up...So that I could change it to my main copy w/o doing so much...But whatever, I could always just go through the two things...

One note though: I used the word Wolfs as a kind of colloqial word used to differenciate wolves from werewolves (which is what they are in this case). That's the only change I'd argue.

Quote from: claado
Several villages lied at the bases of the mountains, and he recognized a familiar sight from his delusions


Sorry if I butchered your SN, but I noticed this...Should be lay.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 19, 2004, 06:07:23 pm
On the "Wolfs," I'll leave it to you, but as a general rule, words that end in "f" change it to "ves" when they become plural; it's not unique to certain words.

There were two reasons I didn't embolden the changes:

1) Dashes (and hyphens) don't look any different in bold, and most of the changes were hyphens->dashes.

2) I wanted to make it easier for you to transfer it back. This way, you can select "quote," and then copy it directly to the edit window without losing the other formatting tags (italics), or having to go back and remove all the bold tags.

The general grammatical rules for hyphens and dashes:

Use hyphens in compound words that require them (numericals (sixty-three) and some common slang terms (dot-com)) and multiple word adjectives or adverbs (no-fly zone). Also use hyphens to indicate only a portion of a word is present (such as when pointing out a prefix like "re-").

Dashes work like parentheses, except they're acceptable in formal writing. Use them to separate ideas that don't directly apply to the sentence. Generally, a dash can be represented by two hyphens (--), but there is a dash symbol, —. MS Word automatically replaces a double hyphen with it, and I believe its code is Alt+0151 (You need to do this on the number pad, which I don't have).

On a somewhat related grammatical point, when someone is interrupted or stops in the middle of a sentence, there are two ways to show it:

1) If they're interrupted in the middle of a word, use a hyphen.
2) If they're interrupted between words, use ellipses (…). Three periods (...) is an acceptable substitute. I believe its code is Alt+0133.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Radical_Dreamer on October 19, 2004, 06:47:06 pm
Chapter 11: Patience and Reward

   Patience.

   I must have patience.

   Argus Dorian slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. As long as he
kept them moving, it was harder for him to focus on their new feautres. Etched into the back of each of his hands was a golden Mammon insignia, much like the one he knew sealed the door to his cell.

   Patience.

   Argus did not have to wonder what the purpose of the seals on his hands was. He had seen them on all the most dangerous criminals in Zeal. They restricted the magical power of the person bearing them.

   But how much?

   His hands stopped their fluctuation for a moment, before clenching tightly. Lightning arced between the two seals, and leapt to the bars of the cell before dispersing. A ball of flame apeared at Argus' left hand, a ball of ice at his right. The two then slammed into each other, exploding in steam and water. For a breif moment, the room grew darker.

   Basic spells don't seem to be a problem. How about something more challenging?

   The room again grew dark. Argus held out his hands in front of him, and the darkness drew in to the space between his hands. As it did so, tweleve blue lights began to glow on the backs of his hands. As the darkness began to form a sphere, the blue lights intensefied. It was become painful for Argus to continue manipulating this much magical energy, but he had to know how much he could handle.
   The moment that all the darkness was condensed in a sphere, it flew from Argus to the door of his cell, where the Mammon seal on the other side caused it to disperse harmlessly. Blood was trickling from where the blue lights in Argus' hands had been moments before.

   Enough for now. There will be plenty of time to experiment more later.

   As he was preparing to sit down, Argus heard the sounds of panic from outside his cell. Much to his surprise, the door slid open, and two guards entered.

   "What the hell was that noise?"   one of the guards demanded. He was attempting to be as authorative as possible, but Argus could detect his fear. Argus was perhaps the most powerful traitor to the School of Temporal Magic in Zealian history.

   "I dropped my cup." Argus indicated to the small water cup in his cell. As he did so, his hands emitted a faint blue glow. The guards did not notice, however, as they were trying to figure out what Argus was playing at by pointing at the cup: It was upright, still full of water. The distraction was all the Argus needed. Lightning leapt from his fingers to the guards, knocking them unconscious. A quick check of the bodies indicated what Argus feared; the guards did not posses any of the Red Rock. They had used another sort of charm to open the  door.
   Knowing he had to act quickly, Argus attempted a spell. He suspected it was too powerful to escape the seal's grip, but he had to try. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Almost instantly, they began to emit blue light. In his mind, Argus could see the events from the jail hallway walking backward through time. There seemed to be few events
of interest, and the further back he stretched, the harder it became to maintain the spell.

   Patience.

   Argus could see new prisoners being led to their cells. One seemed very familiar,  as though Argus had seen a picture of him in a book somewhere. Argus was about to look past the man, but he saw a glimmer of light coming from him. Could it be? Blood trickled from Argus'
hands as he followed the vision of the man to his cell. Two over. Perfect. This mysterious man had what Argus needed. The Red Rock.
   Snapping back to the present, Argus rushed for the door and nearly colapsed. He looked down and could see that he had lost more blood than he had expect searching through time.

   I will soon silence the hatred of the seals.

   Argus quickly walked two cells down. He could see the man from the past look up quickly.

   "We do not have much time, but if you lend me your necklace, I can help us both escape."
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 19, 2004, 07:13:19 pm
Note: For ease of transfer, I haven't emboldened changes. If you wish for me to do this, let me know.

Quote from: Linguo
Chapter 11: Patience and Reward

   Patience.

   I must have patience.

   Argus Dorian slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. As long as he kept them moving, it was harder for him to focus on their new features. Etched into the back of each of his hands was a golden Mammon insignia, much like the one he knew sealed the door to his cell.

   Patience.

   Argus did not have to wonder what the purpose of the seals on his hands was. He had seen them on all the most dangerous criminals in Zeal. They restricted the magical power of the person bearing them.

   But how much?

   His hands stopped their fluctuation for a moment, before clenching tightly. Lightning arced between the two seals, and leapt to the bars of the cell before dispersing. A ball of flame apeared at Argus' left hand, a ball of ice at his right. The two then slammed into each other, exploding in steam and water. For a brief moment, the room grew darker.

   Basic spells don't seem to be a problem. How about something more challenging?

   The room again grew dark. Argus held out his hands in front of him, and the darkness drew in to the space between his hands. As it did so, twelve blue lights began to glow on the backs of his hands. As the darkness began to form a sphere, the blue lights intensified. It was becoming painful for Argus to continue manipulating this much magical energy, but he had to know how much he could handle.

   The moment that all of the darkness was condensed in a sphere, it flew from Argus to the door of his cell, where the Mammon seal on the other side caused it to disperse harmlessly. Blood was trickling from where the blue lights in Argus' hands had been moments before.

   Enough for now. There will be plenty of time to experiment more later.

   As he was preparing to sit down, Argus heard the sounds of panic from outside his cell. Much to his surprise, the door slid open, and two guards entered.

   "What the hell was that noise?" one of the guards demanded. He was attempting to be as authoritative as possible, but Argus could detect his fear. Argus was perhaps the most powerful traitor to the School of Temporal Magic in Zealian history.

   "I dropped my cup." Argus indicated to the small water cup in his cell. As he did so, his hands emitted a faint blue glow. The guards did not notice, however, as they were trying to figure out what Argus was playing at by pointing at the cup; it was upright, still full of water. The distraction was all the Argus needed. Lightning leapt from his fingers to the guards, knocking them unconscious. A quick check of the bodies indicated what Argus feared; the guards did not posses any of the Red Rock. They had used another sort of charm to open the  door.

   Knowing he had to act quickly, Argus attempted a spell. He suspected it was too powerful to escape the seal's grip, but he had to try. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Almost instantly, they began to emit blue light. In his mind, Argus could see the events from the jail hallway walking backward through time. There seemed to be few events
of interest, and the further back he stretched, the harder it became to maintain the spell.

   Patience.

   Argus could see new prisoners being led to their cells. One seemed very familiar,  as though Argus had seen a picture of him in a book somewhere. Argus was about to look past the man, but he saw a glimmer of light coming from him. Could it be? Blood trickled from Argus'
hands as he followed the vision of the man to his cell. Two over. Perfect. This mysterious man had what Argus needed. The Red Rock.

   Snapping back to the present, Argus rushed for the door and nearly collapsed. He looked down and could see that he had lost more blood than he had expected searching through time.

   I will soon silence the hatred of the seals.

   Argus quickly walked two cells down. He could see the man from the past look up quickly.

   "We do not have much time, but if you lend me your necklace, I can help us both escape."
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Symmetry on October 19, 2004, 11:43:21 pm
Quote from: Translanka
He had said he defeated a version of Gil (Magus...maou) atop Denadoro years ago and Gil had no doubt that that man very well could have defeated him. Surley I could help against these mysterious fiends.


If you're still looking for typos, I think you meant to say Surely here.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Claado Shou on October 20, 2004, 12:09:40 pm
Quote from: V_Translanka
Quote from: claado
Several villages lied at the bases of the mountains, and he recognized a familiar sight from his delusions


Sorry if I butchered your SN, but I noticed this...Should be lay.


Actually, we're both wrong.  Lay is present tense, while lied is just plain wrong.  It should be were laid out.

Taanku.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Symmetry on October 20, 2004, 12:37:07 pm
Er, were laid out can be present or past tense depending on the context, correct? If it were present, that would make it passive.

I think.

Still, this looks like an instance were all verbs don't need to be in the same tense to me - the description is split up to allow for it.

Or maybe I'm allowing Italian to bleed into my English. English allows for multiple tenses in a sentence in some circumstances, right?

Not that it matters. I'm just curious now.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on October 21, 2004, 05:59:19 am
Uh, I just freakin' learned about the differences of lay & lie in class buck-o (English 100/Business English REPRESENT!)... :lol:

lay IS present tense for 'to lay something down'. This type of lay always takes an object.

Lay-->Laid-->Laid-->Laying

An easy way to realize if the word your looking for is 'laid' is when you can replace it with the word 'place'.

BUT lay is ALSO past tense of lie, as it 'that is where he lies down during the day'. This word, lie, means to be doing nothing.

Lie-->Lay-->Lain-->Lying

Laid is the present perfect tense of lay (in conjunction with the word have or has), so it does not work in the sense of that sentence. 'Were laid' is not the proper combination of words...'were lain' is, but not 'were laid'. Were laid implies that someone placed the mountains there...The sentence merely states that the villages are sitting there, doing nothing...Thusly, they lay at the bases of the mountains...

Hey, now that I look at it...shouldn't it be the 'base' of the mountains?
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 24, 2004, 10:51:04 am
One little thing in Symmetry's post:

Another member with a deep voice piped up in an obviously mocking tone.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 31, 2004, 09:57:16 am
Just a little typo in Aitrus' post:

Quote from: Linguo
Her having that knowledge would be a risk he wouldn't take.


PS. Yes, I know I'm being anal; that's the point of this thread.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Radical_Dreamer on October 31, 2004, 06:59:55 pm
[[OOC: The much awaited continuation of the jail break. V_T, let me know any changes you want to make.]]

Chapter 21: Jailbreak!

The blue haired stranger regarded Argus carefully.

"If I let you use this, you must also free my companion."

"Consider it done. But we must hurry."

The stranger took his amulet, and passed it through the food opening of his cell. Argus took it, and a moment later, the stranger's cell was open. The stranger narrowed his gaze.

"Time is of the essence. Take me to your friend's cell."

The stranger walked out of his cell, and started walking quickly down the hall. As they passed cells, they opened, and the prisoners within rushed out. Argus and the stranger finally came to a cell with a young woman in it. She looked up sadly, and when her eyes focused on the stranger, they lit up.

"Gil!" she exlaimed as she rushed toward him. "How did you get out?"

"This man helped me," the man now identified as Gil said, as he indicated to Argus.

"The guards will be coming soon," Argus said as he opened the woman's cell. "The other prisoners will provide us some cover, but if they are out of their cells too long, the Nanashi will be called in."

"The who?" the woman asked, but Argus had already started walking down the hall quite quickly. She hurried to catch up with Argus. "Who are you, anyway?" she asked.

"My name is Argus. If you come with me, you can make it out of this prison." Before either Gil or the woman could question him, Argus had disapeared down a flight of stairs. They dashed to catch up with him.

Argus looked down the hall of the next floor. Another row of cells, but at the end, there were some guards. They seemed to surrounding someone, but Argus couldn't tell who. He was josteled out of his thoughts by a ball of dark energy flying at the guards. He turned around quickly to see Gil standing behind him, eyes focused.

He knows Shadow magic?

The guards scattered as the ball of magic exploded out at their feet. Argus had seen that spell used before, but he had never seen what happened next. The spell started to expand in a half sphere from where it landed, but as it aproached the figure the guards were surrounding, it left a bubble of unnaffected space around her. Argus didn't have much time to ponder this turn of events, as the guards soon got back up.

"A shadow mage? Call for the Nanashi!" one of the guards shouted. Another guard ran off through the stairs on the end of the hall opposite where Argus, Gil, and Gil's friend stood.

"Your magic is impressive, but it won't stop Nanashi." Gil looked at Argus and snorted. He then turned and fired another blast of dark magic at the guards, who fell, and this time, did not get back up. In their midst was a young girl, battered and weak, sitting on her hands and knees. Argus rushed up to her.

"Don't worry, miss, we're not here to hurt you, we're going to get you out of here."

"Letting pity decide who you help?" Gil asked from over Argus' shoulder.

"There is something special about this girl. I've never seen Shadow magic  leave anyone alone like that. I doubt that was your doing."

The girl looked up at Argus. "Help me." Argus pulled her arm around his shoulder, and helped her to her feet. "Let's go, before the Nanshi get here."

"Too late!" Gil's companion shouted. Argus looked at the far staircase, where three fearsome Nanshi were standing. Gil's face contorted with anger, and dark energy lashed at the Nanshi. When the smoke had cleared, the Nanshi had not moved. Gil's eyes went wide.

Argus gripped the Dreamstone, and his hands started to glow. He pulled his free arm up, and slashed it down.  A wave of energy flared across the center of the room, partitioning it. Blood dripped from his hands. "That will only slow them down." Before he had even turned around, the Nanashi were casting spells on the partition, making it fade.

[[OOC: V_T, feel free to rewrite any and all of this, it's just place holder dialogue for you to replace]]

"I'll hold them off." Gil and Argus snapped their attention to Gil's comanion.

"Flea..." Gil started.

"No, Gil, Argus is right. That girl is special. She just may save you later."

Argus started for the staircase, stumbling slightly. The wall spell had been cast too haistily, even with the Dreamstone weaking his bonds. Gil rushed up to him, and bruskly threw the girl's other arm across his shoulder.

"Come on," he barked at Argus, and the three of them started off down the hall, as quickly as they could.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on October 31, 2004, 07:25:31 pm
A few little misspellings/typos:

-After the first time, you switch from "Nanashi" to "Nanshi"
-It should be "hastily" not "haistily"
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: chronotriggerfreak on October 31, 2004, 07:40:43 pm
A few more: exlaimed=exclaimed, seemed to surrounding=seemed to be surrounding, josteled=jostled, bruskly=briskly.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Claado Shou on October 31, 2004, 08:39:50 pm
Quote from: Radical_Dreamer
Chapter 21: Jailbreak!

The blue haired stranger regarded Argus carefully.

"If I let you use this, you must also free my companion."

"Consider it done. But we must hurry."

The stranger took his amulet, and passed it through the food opening of his cell. Argus took it, and a moment later, the stranger's cage was opened. The stranger narrowed his gaze.

"Time is of the essence. Take me to your friend."

The stranger walked out of his imprisonment, and started walking quickly down the hall. As they passed cells, they opened, and the prisoners within rushed out. Argus and the stranger finally came to a young woman behind thick metal bars. She looked up sadly, and when her eyes focused on the stranger, they lit up.

"Gil!" she exclaimed as she rushed toward him. "How did you get out?"

"This man helped me," the man now identified as Gil said, as he indicated to Argus.

"The guards will be coming soon," Argus said as he opened the heavy door. "The other prisoners will provide us some cover, but if they are out of their cells too long, the Nanashi will be called in."

"The who?" the woman asked, but Argus had already started walking down the hall quite quickly. She hurried to catch up with Argus. "Who are you, anyway?" she asked.

"My name is Argus. If you come with me, you can make it out of this prison." Before either Gil or the woman could question him, Argus had disappeared down a flight of stairs. They dashed to catch up with him.

Argus looked down the hall of the next floor. Another row of cells, but at the end, there were some guards. They seemed to be surrounding someone, but Argus couldn't tell who. He was jostled out of his thoughts by a ball of dark energy flying at the guards. He turned around quickly to see Gil standing behind him, eyes focused.

He knows Shadow magic?

The guards scattered as the ball of magic exploded out at their feet. Argus had seen that spell used before, but he had never seen what happened next. The spell started to expand in a half-sphere from where it landed, but as it approached the figure the guards were surrounding, it left a bubble of unaffected space around her. Argus didn't have much time to ponder this turn of events, as the guards soon got back up.

"A shadow mage? Call for the Nanashi!" one of the guards shouted. Another guard ran off through the stairs on the end of the hall opposite where Argus, Gil, and Gil's friend stood.

"Your magic is impressive, but it won't stop Nanashi." Gil looked at Argus and snorted. He then turned and fired another blast of dark magic at the guards, who fell, and this time, did not get back up. In their midst was a young girl, battered and weak, sitting on her hands and knees. Argus rushed up to her.

"Don't worry, miss: we're not here to hurt you, we're going to get you out of here."

"Letting pity decide who you help?" Gil asked from over Argus' shoulder.

"There is something special about this girl. I've never seen Shadow magic leave anyone alone like that. I doubt that was your doing."

The girl looked up at Argus. "Help me." Argus pulled her arm around his shoulder, and helped her to her feet. "Let's go, before the Nanashi get here."

"Too late!" Gil's companion shouted. Argus looked at the far staircase, where three fearsome Nanashi were standing. Gil's face contorted with anger, and dark energy lashed at the enemy. When the smoke had cleared, the warriors had not moved. Gil's eyes went wide.

Argus gripped the Dreamstone, and his hands started to glow. He pulled his free arm up, and slashed it down. A wave of energy flared across the center of the room, partitioning it. Blood dripped from his hands. "That will only slow them down." Before he had even turned around, the Nanashi were casting spells on the partition, making it fade.

"I'll hold them off." Gil and Argus snapped their attention to Gil's companion.

"Flea..." Gil started.

"No, Gil; Argus is right. That girl is special. She just may save you later."

Argus started for the staircase, stumbling slightly. The wall spell had been cast too hastily, even with the Dreamstone weaking his bonds. Gil rushed up to him, and briskly threw the girl's other arm across his shoulder.

"Come on," he barked at Argus, and the three of them started off down the hall, as quickly as they could.


1) You used the word "cell" 8 times, one paragraph containing three of them.  Very distracting.
2) "disapeared" needed to be "disappeared"
3) "aproached" needed to be "approached"
4) You said "Nanashi" a bunch of times as well.
5) Various other indiscrepancies.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on November 01, 2004, 12:52:45 am
Hope you don't mind my wanting to change any of this stuff...Nothing major, mainly dialogue-related stuff, really...Doesn't effect anything Argus says...

One thing besides that though, Flea is supposed to be right next to the cell opposite Gil's...

I'd change Gil saying this: "If I let you use this, you must also free my companion."
TO
Gil: "You may use it, but if you can free me, you must free her as well" The man pointed to a woman in an opposing cell.

Also, I would avoid calling the Pendant Gil's amulet as to avoid confusion with the Amulet Gil has that was given to him by Schala...

I'd change "she rushed toward him" to went toward or something similar...'rushed toward', to me at least, brings to mind some kind of embrace or at least an image of them being far too close for comfort (for Gil's sake anyways).

I'd change Gil saying:"This man helped me"
TO JUST
"This man..."

You should probably make it 'Gil and the woman hurried to catch up with Argus'

'Gil looked at Argus, snorted, and cocked a brow upward.'

Change Gil saying:"Letting pity decide who you help?" (I little more Magus than my Gil is currently)
TO
"Why are you stopping?" or "What are you doing?"

'Gil's face contorted with anger...'--->'Gil's brow lowered in tense concentration as he saw the familiar form of the stealthy, nameless characters before him, and then dark energy lashed at the Nanashi'

"Flea...?" Gil started.

"No Gil, you have to follow this man. I forsaw this even before we came here...perhaps before that..." Flea, the woman, said to him. He looked at her momentarilly, seeing that all-too-familiar expression of unrelenting passion and devotion; destiny and a kind of sad fate; death. The Wind was forever with them both, "GO!" Gil nodded and turned to Argus and the girl.

Argus started for the staircase, stumbling slightly. The wall spell had been cast too haistily, even with the Dreamstone weaking his bonds. Gil rushed up to him, and bruskly threw the girl's other arm across his shoulder.

"Come on," he barked at Argus, and the three of them started off down the hall, as quickly as they could. Gil only looked back over his shoulder once and saw an eerie pink light begin to pulse from Flea, lighting the corridor faintly then he returned his concentration to helping Argus carry the girl.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Radical_Dreamer on November 01, 2004, 03:43:47 am
[[OOC: Noticed that someone else wrote Chapter 21. Sorry this is taking so long. And V_T, I wanted the portrayal of your characters to remain true to how you write them.  That's why I asked. ]]

Chapter 22: Jailbreak!

The blue haired stranger regarded Argus carefully.

"You may use it, but if you can free me, you must free her as well" The man pointed to a woman in an opposing cell.

"Consider it done. But we must hurry."

The stranger took his pendant, and passed it through the food opening of his cell. Argus took it, and a moment later, the stranger's cage was opened. The stranger narrowed his gaze.

"Time is of the essence."

The stranger walked out of his imprisonment, and walked quickly to the opposing cell.  Argus and the stranger stood before a young woman. She looked up sadly, and when her eyes focused on the stranger, they lit up.

"Gil!" she exclaimed as she came toward him. "How did you get out?"

"This man..." the man now identified as Gil said, as he indicated to Argus.

"The guards will be coming soon," Argus said as he freed not just the woman, but all the prisoners in the hall.  "The other prisoners will provide us some cover, but if they are out of their cells for too long, the Nanashi will be called in."

"The who?" the woman asked, but Argus had already started walking down the hall quite quickly. Gil and the woman hurried to catch up with Argus. "Who are you, anyway?" she asked.

"My name is Argus. If you come with me, you can make it out of this prison." Before either Gil or the woman could question him, Argus had disappeared down a flight of stairs. They dashed to catch up with him.

Argus looked down the hall of the next floor. Another row of cells, but at the end, there were some guards. They seemed to be surrounding someone, but Argus couldn't tell who. He was jostled out of his thoughts by a ball of dark energy flying at the guards. He turned around quickly to see Gil standing behind him, eyes focused.

He knows Shadow magic?

The guards scattered as the ball of magic exploded out at their feet. Argus had seen that spell used before, but he had never seen what happened next. The spell started to expand in a half-sphere from where it landed, but as it approached the figure the guards were surrounding, it left a bubble of unaffected space around her. Argus didn't have much time to ponder this turn of events, as the guards soon got back up.

"A shadow mage? Call for the Nanashi!" one of the guards shouted. Another guard ran off through the stairs on the end of the hall opposite where Argus, Gil, and Gil's friend stood.

"Your magic is impressive, but it won't stop the Nanashi assassins." Gil looked at Argus, snorted, and cocked a brow upward. He then turned and fired another blast of dark magic at the guards, who fell, and this time, did not get back up. In their midst was a young girl, battered and weak, sitting on her hands and knees. Argus rushed up to her.

"Don't worry, miss: we're not here to hurt you, we're going to get you out of here."

"Why are you stopping??" Gil asked from over Argus' shoulder.

"There is something special about this girl. I've never seen Shadow magic leave anyone alone like that. I doubt that was your doing."

The girl looked up at Argus. "Help me." Argus pulled her arm around his shoulder, and helped her to her feet. "Let's go, before the assassins arrive."

"Too late!" Gil's companion shouted. Argus looked at the far staircase, where three fearsome Nanashi were standing. Gil's brow lowered in tense concentration as he saw the familiar form of the stealthy, nameless characters before him, and then dark energy lashed at the assassins. When the smoke had cleared, the warriors had not moved. Gil's eyes went wide.

Argus gripped the Dreamstone, and his hands started to glow. He pulled his free arm up, and slashed it down. A wave of energy flared across the center of the room, partitioning it. Blood dripped from his hands. "That will only slow them down." Before he had even turned around, the Nanashi were casting spells on the partition, making it fade.

"I'll hold them off." Gil and Argus snapped their attention to Gil's companion.

"Flea...?" Gil started.

"No Gil, you have to follow this man. I forsaw this even before we came here...perhaps before that..." Flea, the woman, said to him. He looked at her momentarilly, seeing that all-too-familiar expression of unrelenting passion and devotion; destiny and a kind of sad fate; death. The Wind was forever with them both, "GO!" Gil nodded and turned to Argus and the girl.

Argus started for the staircase, stumbling slightly. The wall spell had been cast too hastily, even with the Dreamstone weaking his bonds. Gil rushed up to him, and briskly threw the girl's other arm across his shoulder.

"Come on," he barked at Argus, and the three of them started off down the hall, as quickly as they could. Gil only looked back over his shoulder once and saw an eerie pink light begin to pulse from Flea, lighting the corridor faintly then he returned his concentration to helping Argus carry the girl.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on November 01, 2004, 06:16:09 am
Sounds good to me...As for the changes and stuff...I just get nervous when telling someone to change something they've written...

"This man..." the man now identified as Gil said, as he indicated to Argus.

Something about that part bugs me...Like something should or shouldn't be there...But I can't for the life of me figure it out myself...

Aside from that, it should probably be "'weakening' his bonds" in the second to last paragraph...

Everything else seems great to me.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on November 01, 2004, 08:45:58 am
A little point on style: Start a new paragraph every time the speaker changes.

Quote
The girl looked up at Argus. "Help me."

Argus pulled her arm around his shoulder, and helped her to her feet. "Let's go, before the assassins arrive."

...

"No Gil, you have to follow this man. I forsaw this even before we came here...perhaps before that..." Flea, the woman, said to him. He looked at her momentarilly, seeing that all-too-familiar expression of unrelenting passion and devotion; destiny and a kind of sad fate; death. The Wind was forever with them both.

"GO!" Gil nodded and turned to Argus and the girl.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Radical_Dreamer on November 01, 2004, 06:12:09 pm
[[OOC: V_T, that's understandable. But I just wrote that as placeholder dialogue for you to replace anyway, so I wouldn't worry about it]]

Chapter 22: Jailbreak!

The blue haired stranger regarded Argus carefully.

"You may use it, but if you can free me, you must free her as well" The man pointed to a woman in an opposing cell.

"Consider it done. But we must hurry."

The stranger took his pendant, and passed it through the food opening of his cell. Argus took it, and a moment later, the stranger's cage was opened. The stranger narrowed his gaze.

"Time is of the essence."

The stranger walked out of his imprisonment, and walked quickly to the opposing cell. Argus and the stranger stood before a young woman. She looked up sadly, and when her eyes focused on the stranger, they lit up.

"Gil!" she exclaimed as she came toward him. "How did you get out?"

"This man..." the man now identified as Gil said, as he gestured at Argus.

"The guards will be coming soon," Argus said as he freed not just the woman, but all the prisoners in the hall. "The other prisoners will provide us some cover, but if they are out of their cells for too long, the Nanashi will be called in."

"The who?" the woman asked, but Argus had already started walking down the hall quite quickly. Gil and the woman hurried to catch up with Argus. "Who are you, anyway?" she asked.

"My name is Argus. If you come with me, you can make it out of this prison." Before either Gil or the woman could question him, Argus had disappeared down a flight of stairs. They dashed to catch up with him.

Argus looked down the hall of the next floor. Another row of cells, but at the end, there were some guards. They seemed to be surrounding someone, but Argus couldn't tell who. He was jostled out of his thoughts by a ball of dark energy flying at the guards. He turned around quickly to see Gil standing behind him, eyes focused.

He knows Shadow magic?

The guards scattered as the ball of magic exploded out at their feet. Argus had seen that spell used before, but he had never seen what happened next. The spell started to expand in a half-sphere from where it landed, but as it approached the figure the guards were surrounding, it left a bubble of unaffected space around her. Argus didn't have much time to ponder this turn of events, as the guards soon got back up.

"A shadow mage? Call for the Nanashi!" one of the guards shouted. Another guard ran off through the stairs on the end of the hall opposite where Argus, Gil, and Gil's friend stood.

"Your magic is impressive, but it won't stop the Nanashi assassins." Gil looked at Argus, snorted, and cocked a brow upward. He then turned and fired another blast of dark magic at the guards, who fell, and this time, did not get back up. In their midst was a young girl, battered and weak, sitting on her hands and knees. Argus rushed up to her.

"Don't worry, miss: we're not here to hurt you, we're going to get you out of here."

"Why are you stopping??" Gil asked from over Argus' shoulder.

"There is something special about this girl. I've never seen Shadow magic leave anyone alone like that. I doubt that was your doing."

The girl looked up at Argus. "Help me."

Argus pulled her arm around his shoulder, and helped her to her feet. "Let's go, before the assassins arrive."

"Too late!" Gil's companion shouted. Argus looked at the far staircase, where three fearsome Nanashi were standing. Gil's brow lowered in tense concentration as he saw the familiar form of the stealthy, nameless characters before him, and then dark energy lashed at the assassins. When the smoke had cleared, the warriors had not moved. Gil's eyes went wide.

Argus gripped the Dreamstone, and his hands started to glow. He pulled his free arm up, and slashed it down. A wave of energy flared across the center of the room, partitioning it. Blood dripped from his hands. "That will only slow them down." Before he had even turned around, the Nanashi were casting spells on the partition, making it fade.

"I'll hold them off." Gil and Argus snapped their attention to Gil's companion.

"Flea...?" Gil started.

"No Gil, you have to follow this man. I forsaw this even before we came here...perhaps before that..." Flea, the woman, said to him. He looked at her momentarilly, seeing that all-too-familiar expression of unrelenting passion and devotion; destiny and a kind of sad fate; death. The Wind was forever with them both.

"GO!" Gil nodded and turned to Argus and the girl.

Argus started for the staircase, stumbling slightly. The wall spell had been cast too hastily, even with the Dreamstone weakening his bonds. Gil rushed up to him, and briskly threw the girl's other arm across his shoulder.

"Come on," he barked at Argus, and the three of them started off down the hall, as quickly as they could. Gil only looked back over his shoulder once and saw an eerie pink light begin to pulse from Flea, lighting the corridor faintly then he returned his concentration to helping Argus carry the girl.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on November 01, 2004, 06:40:21 pm
One last bit of minutia: there should be a comma at the end of the first quote.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on November 01, 2004, 07:04:48 pm
Actually, I had intended that "GO!" to NOT be another person...It's supposed to still be Flea...If you want to maybe clear that up more, make it "...GO!" As her last bit of dialogue ended in '...'
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: chronotriggerfreak on November 01, 2004, 07:52:33 pm
If you end the paragraph at "Go!" it becomes much clearer without having to over-use ellipses.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on November 02, 2004, 09:29:37 am
I liked how it picks up on her former ellipses (makes more sense that way too). I thought that it was apparant, seeing how it was the same paragraph, who was speaking. Also, you'd have to end the paragraph at "GO!", not put it at the end, because Gil nods after, not before. So then you kick "Gil nodded..." or whatever to the start of the next paragraph (or to a completely seperate paragraph depending on what you want).
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: chronotriggerfreak on November 02, 2004, 11:59:53 am
Quote from: V_Translanka
Also, you'd have to end the paragraph at "GO!", not put it at the end, because Gil nods after, not before. So then you kick "Gil nodded..." or whatever to the start of the next paragraph (or to a completely seperate paragraph depending on what you want).


Um, yeah man, that's exactly what I said. I never said to re-arrange anything, just end the paragraph at "Go!"
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on November 02, 2004, 10:04:21 pm
Meh, I stand by my previous assumption that it could have been the way I thought you were saying it...Be clearer!

:lol:

Eye-Row-Nee?
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: chronotriggerfreak on November 02, 2004, 10:32:48 pm
I was extremely clear... if I had said "with" instead of "at" I could understand, but you're obviously just dumb.

...

Just kidding. :lol:
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Radical_Dreamer on November 03, 2004, 05:29:25 pm
Unless there are any objections, I'm gonna post the chapter in the main story thread. Oh, and how do I get the font size for the title set?
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: chronotriggerfreak on November 03, 2004, 05:33:35 pm
Use the handy-dandy "Font size:" selector directly about the middle of your text entry area.

(I.e., click on the font size menu, yo.)
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Radical_Dreamer on November 03, 2004, 05:42:49 pm
Cool. Size 18 I presume?
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: chronotriggerfreak on November 03, 2004, 06:23:00 pm
Looks like it. But don't forget the bold!
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on November 03, 2004, 06:34:03 pm
Is there a set size? I'm fairly sure I've seen one or two variations...
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: chronotriggerfreak on November 03, 2004, 06:48:54 pm
The bold is not set, as it seems to depend on whether you're a Symmetrist or a Zealitian ( :lol: ), but of the 20 or so posts already made, only 2 have used a different size than 18 (large).
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Symmetry on November 03, 2004, 07:33:53 pm
Wow, must have taken some pretty painstaking research to dig up those statistics.

Be sure to keep us informed as more data becomes availible!
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on November 03, 2004, 11:04:27 pm
For Claado:
Quote from: Linguo
His name was Serian. He was a skilled hunter, 6'2", with a mostly human appearance. From a distance, even, it was hard to tell the difference between him and anybody else. But when you started to see the details, the separations - physical and otherwise - were very apparent.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on November 04, 2004, 10:27:15 am
Symmetry:
Quote from: Linguo
And she has the nerve to lecture me about social grace! What’s with mother acting all cheery all of sudden, anyway? Was it too much to ask for her to be pleasant to me, too? Gah! The young lady continued to fume, her angst running wild in her mind until she could take no more – she couldn’t take being in her mother’s presence a second longer. “Um, you two will have to excuse me, I need to step outside for a moment.”
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Claado Shou on November 04, 2004, 10:50:18 am
Quote from: Leebot
For Claado:
Quote from: Linguo
His name was Serian. He was a skilled hunter, 6'2", with a mostly human appearance. From a distance, even, it was hard to tell the difference between him and anybody else. But when you started to see the details, the separations - physical and otherwise - were very apparent.


Well...I'm not too sure on this one, so I'll just change it for readers' sake.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on November 04, 2004, 12:35:18 pm
Trust me on this one. You're using "he/him" as an object in this case, and the object form is "him." The fact that it's a compound object is irrelevent.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: V_Translanka on November 04, 2004, 07:45:25 pm
Yeah, I'm pretty sure Leebot is right...Getting rid of the muck inbetween, you'd say "it's hard to tell him" not he...or wait, was 'he' the original pronoun? Or was something else used? I agree with 'him'...whatever....
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on November 09, 2004, 10:42:32 am
V_Translanka:

Fixed punctuation errors
Fixed tense errors (try to avoid present tense)
Miscellaneous fixes

Quote from: Linguo
Chapter 26: The Stink of the Particulars

“Get yer ass in gear, Deschain!” The large, bloated man bellowed. The man wore a pair of ripped, brown coveralls--pale, blubbery gut exposed--and a matching cap with a strange logo on it: a gorilla carrying a wooden box. A mist of sweat glistened on the thick, hairy arms protruding from his rolled-up sleeves even though the fat man had yet to lift more than his voice. “Those damn crates aren’t gunna move themselves!”

   The crates in question were four-foot squares, standing just above the fat man’s chest. No luck in the world could help him carry any of the damn crates on his own. Hunter Deschain was working on hauling the crates from the side of a wagon to the inside of the large storeroom, where they would be opened, counted, and stocked either later in the day or some time during the following day. That part of it wasn’t his concern. He didn’t even care what was in the damn crates. A couple of solidly built humans were working alongside him at half the pace; it took both of them to move a single box, where he could move one box easily. But, perhaps as to not cause friction between the humans and himself, he decided to slow his pace down a bit.

This resulted in the yelling by the boss-man, Gastro Hagen, a small, fat man and all-around hard ass. Hunter quickened his step again, sickened with himself for taking a job under Gastro “The Gasser” Hagen. The nickname was, unfortunately, not one of those ironic ones that means the exact opposite (as Hunter once knew this guy with a repulsive, hairy mole and a mountain range of puss-caked volcano zits everyone called “Ladies’ Man”); Gastro was simply a disgusting, fat bastard who would let one off, loud and proud, and with putrid fragrance, even in a church.

Hunter felt along the lines of wishing he were dead. As if the work weren’t degrading enough, he had to put up with Mister-Bullshit-Stank-Ass-Hagen. His last four jobs had to do with lifting, hauling, proletariat manual-labor. He could take it, sure, no problem there, but it’s not what he was meant for. He was a trained ass-kicking, monster-killing, treasure-hunting, alcohol-drinking, woman-fucking machine for Guardia’s sake! He should be out there assassinating something, or tracking something down, or finding someone’s lost something-or-other. Those things he was really good at, and he had fun doing those things.

But he had hope! Yes! He remembered that he had taken down a flyer and stuffed it into his back pocket. It said:

"$$ Need Help For Hyre $$$
Some One to Fynd a Theef!
Cum to Winston Street at the Straubs’
For Particulars"

Yes, he had found it quite hilarious at first seeing the scrawled letters of the message. How did they manage ‘particulars’? he'd thought and stuffed it into his back pocket. If it had been later in the day, and his drink was on, he probably would have laughed, quite a bit more sophomorically, at their spelling ‘cum’.

Hunter Deschain was a demi-human by birth (there were few other kinds really); luckily for him, he had been born in an age of gathering acceptance for Mystics & those crazy in-between demi-humans. No one went out of their way to welcome him into their homes or anything, but it really wasn’t that kind of world even for humans. So, he understood that going into a mainly human town or neighborhood, he’d likely get some stares (probably not much name-calling, but he’d heard a fair share in his time, especially being the proficient barfly that he is). He was a tall, furry man with claws and fangs, he got that, he can be intimidating pretty easily (hell, even without trying sometimes), and he got that too. Part of him was still just a kid sometimes, trying to have as much fun as possible and letting go of (if not breaking through) as many barriers (racial or otherwise) in his way as he can.

Even with his mostly positive outlook on life, hard times had hit. More than others...? Possibly, but it’s not like he’d been counting, nor did he really wish to think back on any of those times in his life when living wasn’t so easy. Things had gotten better and that’s what mattered to him. It wasn’t an easy ride, and it certainly wasn't over, but he was definitely flying high right then and there, even under that gaseous ball of slime yelling orders.

The one good thing about the hauling job for Gorilla Grunt-Work (The Gasser’s absurd delivery & hauling company) was that it provided its workers with a shower afterwards if they wanted. Having a light coating of fur (brown stripes on yellow) covering most of his body, Hunter leapt at the opportunity to wash off the filth of the morning’s work. It had been a cool, overcast morning, but if one combined that with the exertion--and monotony--of dragging boxes back and forth under the rays of the sun, Hunter became a mess of disarrayed hair and stinky, grimy crooks and crannies.

He soon found out the bad thing; not only was the shower room a hodgepodge combination plastic drape and what looked to be a garden hose, there was no hot water either. In fact, all the water there was seemed to be sub-zero, as if the rest of the hose (it circled off unseen somewhere into the warehouse) was submerged in a bucket of ice. His hair and fur all pricked up on end and his tail spiked out as quickly as greased lightning.

After working past the ordeal of his bone-chilling clean-up, he began to get dressed and ready to leave that hell-hole which he dubbed Gorilla Hagen’s Fart-Work Factory. He put on his heavy-duty worker’s pants, his open-chest padded vest (both inlaid with mesh), and his open-fingered black gloves. He picked up his hatchet and stuck the handle’s wooden grip through the belt-loop on the left-hand side of his pants. The knife--which resembled a hand-made (and well crafted) buck knife--was waiting sheathed and tied around the opposing belt-loop. Then he squeezed out a few remaining drops of wetness from his long, wild blonde hair, combed his claws through it straight back a few times, and tied his tightly folded black bandanna around his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes. Finally, he stomped his ankle-high boots on and brushed off a little of the caked-on grit from their well-worn sides.

After collecting his pay (a mediocre handful of Gold), Hunter was off to find the Straubs’, on Winston Street.


Truffles...!” The man shouted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Uh…Truffles...?” Hunter asked.

“Yeah, y’know, they’re, like, mushrooms.” The man settled back onto his wooden cane and eyed Hunter suspiciously. The old man didn’t care that he was a demi-human very much, but what bugged him was how gorshdarn young the whippersnapper looked. In truth, Hunter was just shy over twenty-four, but he could easily pass for eighteen or nineteen. Either way was possibly young enough for the man to think him green on many subjects, and now especially that of truffles.

“Yeah, I know what truffles are...”

“Shore yuh do. Then get to it demi-human!” The man said, “A thousand gold to ya if you find the rotten thief who stold my truffles!”

Whoa, a thousand gold? Hunter thought, but said only, “No problem Mr. Straub, I’ll get your thief.”

“Goodaya to do so...” The man-Mister Straub-said with his brow cranked down, “The remaining truffles are in the thicket of the forest to the east.”

On that note, Hunter Deschain left the smelly little-but well furnished-shack of a house that Mr. Straub, himself an old man at the ripe age of sixty-seven, shared with his decaying elderly mother, whose wandering glass eye gave Hunter the ever-loving-goddamn-fucking creeps.
 

Still shaking off the remaining vestige of old Madam Straub and her one, dull, milky, fixed eye and her other, wandering, reflective, glass eye, Hunter entered the drab forest he found that stretched east from one side of Straub’s field. It was a very peculiar forest; the air about it was nearer that of a swamp. It smelled of wet decay. Best place for mushrooms, I guess. Hunter thought. It seemed as though it was his day for bad smells. First ‘The Gasser’ and now this place, which smells about as bad as I imagine Gastro’s mattress does.

“Naw, I’m giving him way too much credit. This place is much more pleasant-smelling than anything Gastro’s touched with his ass.” Hunter said to himself. But damn if I wish I could shower after this job too! He thought.

“Are you talking to yourself again, Hunter?” A woman’s voice suddenly came from out of the-literal-woodwork followed by a brisk, forcibly feminine laugh.

Before he could see the voice’s owner he responded, “Oh no, no way in hell…You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Out stepped a vision of lustliness with an arm wrapped languidly around a spear. She stood atop the mossy trunk of a fallen tree.

“Long time no see, lover-boy.” The woman said to him.

“What are you talking about, Millster?” Hunter asked, knowing that that nickname was one of the only things he had that could irritate her, “I just saw you yesterday.”

The woman’s pleasant face turned to the littlest of scowls at the nickname (she was actually getting used to it, like it was his pet-name for her) before returning to that sly smile she had, “Oh, but every moment we spend apart is an eternity of agony!”

If it were anyone else, Hunter probably would have told them to quit playing around, but since it wasn’t just someone joking (as he so desperately wished) and he knew that it was only part of her kidding, rather than just part of her being dead-on serious to the core, he said, “You’re nuts.”

   The woman stuck her wet, cherry-colored tongue out at him in an oddly charming, childish way.

   “And how did you even find me, Amy?” He asked as he crossed his arms over his chest.

   “Easy, I saw you nab that want ad earlier this morn.” She said, “So I came out ahead of you; I personally can’t stand that nasty Gasser-Man, don’t know how you do it, and waited for a while.”

   “You’ve been waiting here this whole time? And you weren’t just out to get the thousand gold yourself?” Hunter asked with his bushy eyebrow raised.

   “A thousand gold...?” Amy almost dropped her spear and toppled over the side of the tree, which was over half her height. She saved herself at the last moment by jabbing the spike blade of the spear into the sodden earth for balance, and then she stepped down completely from the trunk of the tree, “That cully old...he told me it was six-fifty.”

   Hunter suppressed a hankering outburst of laughter; irritating her by calling her Millster (or sometimes even Millster the Molester behind her back on really vicious drunkard days), rather than Millian, her last name, was a far separate matter from outright laughing in her face. The girl was deadly accurate with most throwing weapons, from chakras and boomerangs to various ninja stars and darts. Hunter really feared that one day he would push her over the edge and she would excel from just throwing the random stick or one of her ball-bearings (she had a cannon for an arm and those little spheres of metal hurt like hell) to one of her knives.

   “Oh, when will the sexist elite finally fall?” She said aloud to no one.

   “Okay, you’ve been here longer than I have, so where are the damn things?”

   “The truffles...? I dunno...I’ve just been waiting for you, sweetie-pie.” She said; a set of modest dimples that had never faded through her teens shown on her face.

   “Oh, what the hell...?” He asked and then began to tromp through the muggy forest.


   The two of them had been going though the humid forest for twenty minutes, trying to find Straub’s priceless truffles to no avail. They'd come across two plants and had a quick argument about whether they were truffles or just some random plant. After one of the things opened its bulbous mouth and tried to take a bite out of them, they decided that it wasn’t a truffle at all. Amy hacked away at its stem by throwing a few stars at it, but afterward decided she didn’t want to risk retrieving them. The plant-thing was somehow more hideous when it was dead; it seemed to wheeze and some lime-green, sticky-looking fluid spewed from its mouth. Its companion made soft, mewing noises and lowered its bulb-like lips to the end of the stem in an oddly human-like expression of affection. They both left the scene quietly, wishing they hadn’t killed the thing after all.

   Amy Millian was the type of person who was always loaded for bore. She normally wore low-cut V neck crimson shirts, with dark red matching pants that tucked into her knee-high black leather boots. On top of all that was a near inexhaustible amount of weaponry. Two rings of throwing knives circled both of her upper legs with more tucked into the top of her boots. One boomerang was set at the side of each of her hips. An assortment of ninja stars adorned the forearm of her left elbow-length glove and her right held darts and smaller throwing blades. Her three special chakras were stacked behind her left shoulder, just under where her pack of goodies normally rested. Said pack typically held more of the same (extra knives, stars, darts and one or two boomerangs & chakras), smelting tools (used on various metals to help create her vast horde of disposable weaponry), various trinkets and prizes she had won via trade, as pay, accuracy contests (she won nearly every title there was for it), and, of course, through theft.

   It was a sad fact that Amy was forced into thievery. It was sadder that she normally did so in the dark of night, right under the noses of casual, one-night lovers. This, of course, ended up tainting an already dotty reputation; tales of her promiscuity with not only men, but various women, and her apparent demi-human fetish traveled the countryside with her (in some cases ahead of her!). She was a thief because she was a harlot and she was a harlot because she was a thief.

It was that odd catch-22 that prevented her from acquiring any steady kind of work, and that’s how she liked it for the most part. She was free from such locative restrictions in her profession. She was part of a select, dying group of individuals who fancied themselves “Adventurers”. Hunter, had he a bigger head--or perhaps simply a few swigs of whatever hometown moonshine was handy--would even go so far as to call himself an “Adventurer” without hesitation. In essence it was what they were on a regular basis, but Hunter was no fool--even when he wasn’t sober. He knew the rules of society, the etiquette, and the sheer propensity of all the norms; he just didn’t like them very much.

They were both very free-spirited; other words might be undisciplined, unruly and just plain wild. Even Amy had been called much worse things in her life, regardless of the fact that she was a full-blood human, not a demi-human, like Hunter. But none of these things bothered either of them. When the going got rough, the freaks got going. Such was their crazy carnival life. Take the ticket, ride the ride. That was a common credo among the passing “Adventurers”, the scallywags and swashbucklers, the gonzo freaks of nature doing the best they could to stay alive and to enjoy it at the same time; people who tested the waters by diving in headfirst and who crossed the line until it was no more than another invisible mark on the horizon. Another important doctrine: There are worse things in the world than dying.

That wasn’t to say that an “Adventurer” went haphazardly into the throngs of death, but that one proceeded, prepared for death, knowing that the world held oddities of heart and mind and body and soul that would pierce one so much more than the simplicity of that ever perplexing, complexity of death. For what was death but an end, whether to a new beginning or not? Life was a prolonged wait to that end and with it, suffering and pain, unless one was to actually live. That was the main philosophy of the “Adventurer”.


How the hell did I ever wind up here, of all places, doing this, of all things? Hunter thought as they continued. There he was, on some kind of mercenary mission, which very well may turn out to be no more than a fetch quest--he had experienced his own fair share of those--in a murky little forest on a dull little island in the middle of nowhere. The sun was more or less blotted out by the sweeping canopy of trees and billowing clouds in the west looked like future rain. And they continued, on and on as it were, “I don’t think we’ll ever find the damn things...”

“Hold it.” Amy replied, “I’ve been noticing some strange tracks.”

“Tracks...? I haven’t seen any...” And then Hunter saw them, sparse and in long, irregular intervals. He would have noticed them sooner had they been as pronounced as they were as he saw them then, but they weren’t, they were very faint to begin with, closer to the edge of the damp forest, “What the...what do you think they are?”

“Looks big...demi-human big...” She said, bending down to more carefully examine one of the prints in the mucky ground, “You see this space here at the front?” She pointed to a little V gap, “Looks like hooves. I figure there’s two of the bastards, some kind of pig demi-humans.”

“Two? Why two?” Hunter asked.

“Well, for one, there’s two distinct sets of tracks, one slightly ahead of the other. They’re big mothers too, bigger than you even.”

“Doesn’t that just beat all?” Hunter said his familiar line. He had long forgotten where he had heard it, only that it was another demi-human and he decided the saying applied to much of his own life as a demi-human.

“Live like pigs, die like pigs.” Amy said. Such little quips were about as poetic as she got, “We’ll make short work of ‘em.”

They began to work their way into the dankness of the trees and shrub. They never found out, until much later, when their attention would be focused elsewhere, that the truffles were far behind them; somewhere near the place Hunter had entered the forest.

Then they heard the first roar; it was like a cross between a dying man’s death-moan and a tyrannosaurus’ scream. It was close and as more of them came, they realized it was getting closer. It was coming from the direction the tracks led. They continued on, awkward, cautious, scared, at either edge of the path, with weapons drawn; Hunter had his hatchet in his left and his big knife in his right; Amy struck her spear into the earth and drew a fan of small throwing knives between her left fingers and another of stars betwixt her left. Hunter reversed his grip on his knife as another bellowing cry emerged from the forest, so close they could hear it coming more from the center of their heads than from their ears. Amy readied herself by crossing her arms in preparation for a throw.

“What...” Hunter started. He saw a single emerald leaf of one of the trees ahead of him drift down to the ground below. Trees trembled and shook and a great pounding vibration filled the forest. Shimmering blue and green birds squawked and flew outward, away from the approaching force. Mice swarmed around Hunter and Amy’s feet along with a few other small mammals: squirrels, rats, and even one startled fox. The pounding became a thunderous roar that was only outmatched by the frequent bursts of that dinosaur shriek. Hunter tightened and loosened his grip on his weapons, which were looking and feeling more and more obsolete by the minute. Amy’s fan of weapons shuddered, the blades making an uneasy twanging sound that made Hunter’s stomach tense and sickly.

A crash came from directly in front of them and a tree smashed down three feet to Hunter’s left. Then the monster finally entered their field of vision. It wasn’t, of course, two demi-humans, wasn’t any kind of demi-human. It rolled up like a locomotive, just as big and puffing some kind of gray smoke from the nostrils of its pig-snout. A deep, guttural sound could be heard coming from deep within and the giant boar’s breath came out in a great blow that threatened to blow Hunter off his feet. But that was far from the worst of it; that aspect was saved for the stench of it. The exhale, the odor of it, was as if it were decaying from the inside out. Its elephant-size tusks stuck out of the front of its face like spears. The boar’s bulging bloodshot eyes were each as big as Hunter’s head and they swirled and caught sight of him and the hulking thing turned towards Hunter.

“Ames?” Hunter said, his voice wavering slightly, “Little backup here maybe?” He looked over and saw Amy’s spear, still struck in the earth and now slightly wobbling as if she had bumped against it, but she was nowhere to be seen, “Well doesn’t that beat-”

Sparks of light came from out of the thicket of trees and hit the mutant boar. Amy’s small throwing knives did very little against the thick hide of the pig-thing. Three of the knives actually rebounded off of it and the two that managed to punch through its skin only managed an inch or two in and eventually popped out, leaving little, mocking beads of deep crimson blood at the puncture points. The boar barely noticed, didn’t even turn to the direction the knives came from. Instead, the boar bore down a steady, hateful gaze upon the thunderstruck Hunter, still standing there with his little toothpick blade held up and reverse-gripped. Then it stamped its front feet and scratched one of its rear legs back a few times in preparation for the charge.

More sparkling flashes of metal sprang forth from the forest. The ninja stars had better luck; they buzzed into the skin of the pig-thing’s rear leg, and it let out a wince of pain. More followed; digging and disappearing into the side and the softer underbelly, and one or two scraped and bounced off its skull. One of the head-shots sawed off most of the boar’s eyebrow, leaving a big flap hanging down into its bloodied red eye. It roared in outrage more than pain and turned to the side of the forest where the tiny pieces of metal were being thrown from. Hunter could just make Amy out on the larger branches of a nearby tree. She was getting more stars from her arm, regretting leaving behind not only her spear, Hunter saw, but also her reserve pack.

“Alright kiddo, it’s time to send you off to the meat-packing factory.” Hunter said, just under his breath, “This is my axe, Ex, and my blade, Calibur. Welcome to the killing zone.” Of course, such absurd outward banter was far more dramatic when he practiced in a drunken fog, but he still managed a few of these even at times when completely sober, to his own regret. He just couldn’t help himself; being an “Adventurer” means also being part kid in a way, “Here we go!”

Red light flared into his hatchet and the light trailed around the side of his body as well, making his outer edge seem to glow. The giant, mutie, boar, piggy-thingy was busy trying--and coming very close--to knocking down the tree Amy was in. The entire tree shook; Amy grabbed hold of the trunk and screamed in pain as the stars cut up her hand in several places. She threw those still in her hand down to the boar and quickly hopped to another tree.

“Get ready for...” Hunter paused for a second with the glowing hatchet cocked back in his left hand. Why am I telling it to get ready? It’s not like I actually want it to be ready for my attack...Then he shook his thoughts away and concentrated on his special technique, “Eat this you pig fuck!” Amazingly, the boar turned its head in his direction. Hunter stood there, legs planted, right hand, still clutching his knife, thrust in the thing’s direction, the fore and pinky fingers of the hand pointed at the monstrosity in the form of the evil eye, “Turbo Red Death Ex!”

The light coming from not only the axe’s blade, not even just the entirety of the axe itself, but actually appearing to surge from Hunter’s hand, emblazoned the small section of forest in a brilliant, red fury. No flames were visible, but waves of heat, undulating like the sea, enveloped the area of Hunter’s arm and his hatchet, making it difficult to look at without an overpowering flood of queasiness taking over your stomach. Then he threw the axe and it spun through the air like an electric saw, cutting through the stuffiness of the jungle-like forest; burning through it, singing it and creating a mixed taste to the entire area like stomach acid and melting plastic. It pierced the eye of the massive semi-truck of a freak pig and bucketfuls of milky white fluid ran down its face. The hilt stuck out of the wound like a mock kabob.

The boar reared up on its hind legs and its hooves came down on the earth in a shattering crash, accented by the hurt and angry screech of the mammoth animal. It shook the ground and the trees, making Hunter stumble. Amy rained down the few remaining stars along with numerous curses about her cut hand. One of them--the stars, not the curses--ricocheted off of another that was lodged into the boar’s skull, causing it to sink deeper, piercing the bone and sending an alarming shock through the monster via its brain. It squealed out a vicious noise unlike either of them had ever heard from any sort of animal, turned and dashed off the way it had come, occasionally bashing into a tree blocking its way, but always maintaining its path.


After a brief moment, Amy slid down the trunk of a tree, holding her injured hand close and cursing a bit more.

“How is it?” Hunter asked in a rare show of concern, indicating her hand.

“It’s okay, I guess.” Amy said, obviously suppressing some stored-up rage as she sifted through her pack and procured a lengthy swathe of black cloth that she wrapped tightly around her hand like a layer of boxer’s tape. She bit off the end and jammed the remaining piece back into her bag. It had been her right, dominant, hand and she cursed the pig again for the trouble it caused her as she plucked the spear from the ground and hunted for any stray blades or stars she could find.

“What are you doing? We’ve gotta go after that thing.” Hunter said.

“Oh, c’mon Hunter...” She said in a lecturing voice, “With the way that thing was stumbling and bleeding out of here? It’d be a miracle if we couldn’t find its trail five hours from now. Plus, these things don’t just grow on trees, ya know?” Amy said as she picked up on of her small throwing knives and shook it in Hunter’s direction.

After five minutes of waiting on her, Hunter made to go on without her. In truth he wouldn’t have for several reasons: he didn’t think he could handle the beast alone, especially now down to just his knife; her weapons seemed to do pretty well against it; and because he just didn’t want to leave here out there alone. Finally Amy decided she’d never get them all and rushed to catch up with him.

“Oh yeah, before I forget...” She started after they had walked through the path of the boar for a couple minutes. Hunter turned his head to her, giving his best ‘what now?’ expression, “What was with that technique? Turbo Death Ex, was it? Is that the newest incarnation?”

“Turbo Red Death Ex...” Hunter corrected, sullen with the pretentious quality his voice took on, “And yes, it is...I just haven’t figured out the right name for the damn thing.”

“How many names have you gone through now? Easily a dozen, right?”

“Oh please, don’t be so dramatic Amy.” He quickly tacked them all off on his fingers as they went on, “There was the first, Raging Fury Strike, which I later found was the name of someone else’s technique. Then I changed it to Fiery Death Launch. After that I named it The Flaming Axe, which actually turned out to be some obscure pub over somewhere in Zenan. Then it was Flame Toss, Hell’s Fury, and Fire Zone which turned out to be techniques of a girl, a miniature little monster-thing, and some little known triple technique respectively. Then it went through Red Death, Turbo Red Ex, and Fire Axe Destruct-O. Yeah, there, you see, including the new one, Turbo Red Death Ex, that’s only ten.”

“Oh yes, how completely insulting my suggestion of a dozen was...I apologize.” Amy said, nodding her head in teasing agreement of her statement. Hunter gave her a disdainful look.

They came into a thicker section of forest and the ground became rockier, the air somewhat more pleasant, crisper, “What’s that over there?” Hunter asked, pointing to a large piling of rocky terrain. As they got closer, they noticed it was a large hole leading downward into the earth.

“Looks big enough to fit our little piggy,” Amy said and they slid down the curved slope that led down into the depths. Hunter raised his knife and focused until it glowed red and provided a little light on the walls of the cavern. It was an odd place, like an ancient, buried hall. A blood-streak trailed off into the darkness. The damp, dankness of the place was very different from the topside; it was like a grimy old basement. ...Or a coffin. Amy thought with a shudder.

“My god, it smells like piss-shit-ass-fart in here.” Hunter said, holding onto his nose, “I mean, holy-hell, does it just come here to take tremendous craps or something?”

“That’s probably one way to put it.” Amy pointed to a rather large lump of dark matter off to a corner, “But now it’s come here to die...and that probably will make it smell even worse.”

“Yeah, really...” Hunter started, looking around: left and right and up and down, “Whoa...Wh-what’s this?”

Hunter was looking at an odd arrangement of symbols on a large slab of wall off to their right. The strangeness of them was startling. One couldn’t see the whole thing in one glance and when one's eyes went back to a place one had just been looking at, it seemed somehow different. It had a scatterbrain effect.

“Weird...” Amy said after turning away and shaking off a dizzy-spell, “What do you think it means?”

“I-I don’t know.” Hunter said truthfully, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

It was a warning.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on November 17, 2004, 12:00:11 am
Symmetry:

Mostly minor grammatical points, here.

Quote from: Linguo
Scene 30 - Another Unexpected Meeting.[/b]


Sessimine enjoyed making life difficult for her students. The way she saw it, an enchantress had to be as mentally resilient to stress as possible; to successfully control the minds of others, one first had to be in control of her own mind. Of course, there was a nasty paradox to be found in this philosophy, one the instructor was quite aware of. As an enchantress became increasingly proficient with her charms, she would eventually reach a point where she began to lose control over them. It was a well-kept secret within the higher echelons of the field that incredibly talented students of the art actually had to work harder at charm suppression than they did at manipulation; only a select few – a group of enchantresses with greater power than Sessimine’s – ever regained full control over themselves.

At the moment, the instructor was amusing herself by closely observing a student who still had a considerable amount of an exam to complete with only a few minutes left on the clock. Without making physical contact with the student, there was little Sessimine could have done to be more obnoxious; at the moment, she was lying on the table where the student was working, one hand pressed firmly against her cheek, the other rapidly tapping the desk. Her gaze was fixated not on the student’s exam, but rather on the learner’s eyes; ever so often, their eyes would meet, but Sessimine won the stare-down every time. Needless to say, the student was somewhat relieved when the bell marking the end of the period finally rang.

“What a shame! Looks as if you didn’t manage to complete the exam on time.” Reaching for the paper on which the young woman was still writing, Sessimine plucked it from the student and began grading it on the spot. “Oh no! This is not good at all! Why, you barely managed to complete half the test!”

The student turned around to see how many others shared her fate; two other young men sitting toward the back remained in the classroom, both still staring mindlessly at the Provostia - completely enamoured - neither realizing that the bell had rung moments earlier.

“Let’s see… Well, you got the question about shading right; unfortunately you missed virtually all of the questions relating to Kobayashi’s Principle. Of course, given that you barely answered half of the material, there’s no way you can earn a passing mark, is there?”

“Apparently not.” The student looked back at the two men once more. “Are you planning on letting those two go?”

Sessimine continued to look over the test. “Not really. Unless they’re particularly handsome – no, unless they’re beautiful, I don’t care for men attending my school. They’re almost always subpar students, so I have little regret in speeding along their acquisition of failing marks; besides, the school of summoning has long practiced similar discriminatory methods of weeding out women from their ranks. I might keep them around for demonstration purposes, but don’t expect to see either of them make anything of themselves – except fools.”

The student snickered, attracting the instructor’s scrutiny once more.

“Well, any last requests for mercy? Rumour has it that I’m more than willing to let students perform chores and maid service for awhile in exchange for a passing grade. You never know… You just might end up passing this exam after all – in exchange for a day’s worth of servitude, of course!”

“I’ll fail and save my dignity, thank you very much.”

Sessimine grinned from ear to ear. “Excellent! Excellent, excellent, excellent! I was hoping you’d hold out! Never let anyone rob you of your pride! No respectable enchantress would ever demean herself by groveling for the mercy of another – save royalty, of course.”

The student was somewhat taken back by the Provostia’s outburst. “I was being tested this whole time, wasn’t I?”

“I was clouding your thoughts from the very moment you walked in the room two hours ago! You seemed unwaveringly confident; I couldn’t let such heart go unchecked. I must admit however, for awhile I thought you weren’t going to pull through! Now hurry along and enjoy your weekend. I must attend to my daily routine of holding office hours.” Giving her star student a quick hug as she exited, Sessimine collected her things and was about to turn off the classroom lights when she realized the two young men were still staring fixatedly at her. With a smirk on her face, the instructor tossed the pile of books she was holding into the air and clapped her hands twice, dimming the lights and employing the students’ aid in a single motion.

I knew there was a reason I chose this field all those years ago! Tickled with herself, the enchantress walked out of the room and closed the door behind her, leaving the two students to collect her belongings in the dark.

~~~***~~~

My oh my, am I tired! I hope no one’s waiting outside my door for tutoring. Hopefully they’ll be busy enjoying their weekend already. Surely no one from my introductory class will be there due to the test, but that obnoxious child from Theory of Illusion always shows up when I least want to see her… I swear, if she does, I’m find something for her to clean! Today is not the day to stress Sessimine any further! The enchantress held her breath as she turned the final corner leading to her office; thankfully, the usual cluster of students waiting outside was pleasantly absent.

Fabulous! If I’m lucky, I just might be able to catch up on my sleep… This is going to be such a busy weekend; the ball tomorrow evening complicated my rather uneventful schedule quite nicely. They really should announce these sort of things further in advance! Why, I was looking forward to sleeping this weekend away in my bed at Enhasa… Sessimine continued to play the role of a drama queen as she entered her office and shut the door behind her, failing to realize the presence of the visitor waiting behind her desk even as she sat in his lap.

…And honestly! I didn’t even have the time to purchase a new dress! How terrible! I’m sure I could find something I haven’t worn before in my wardrobe, but still… Had I known ahead of time about this little social event, I could have had something new woven for me! Why, I could have been the talk of the town given ample time to prepare myself! Of course, that’s why they never tell me until the last minute… It’s that no-good Chihari’s doing! She always wants to be the star of the show and she’s the one who arranges… Her train of thought suddenly coming to a halt, Sessimine picked up one of the books lying on her desk. Strange… I don’t remember leaving my diary out like this for all to see; in fact, I specifically remember placing in back in my desk when I finished writing in it just before class… And dear me, this chair is incredibly uncomfortable! I don’t ever remember it being so… well, unaccommodating! Before the enchantress had the chance to turn around and discover the source of her confusion, the visitor finally made his presence known by means of a reserved cough. Startled, Sessimine jumped out of her seat and onto her desk.

“Prince Aias! Oh my! I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t even realize you were here!”

The prince rubbed his temples. “No, no. I was so busy reading through some of your books here that I didn’t notice you enter. The clicking of your heels caught my attention just as you approached the desk, but before I could say something I suddenly felt a strange aura come over me. My thoughts scattered and my mind went completely blank… I’m assuming you had something to do with this, but what exactly happened, I’m not quite sure.”

Sessimine took a few more deep breaths, her hand resting over her heart. “Okay. I think I can pull myself together now. Forgive me, Prince Aias, I seem to have let my mind wander. I’m becoming a regular Madame Idane!”

Aias arched a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we enchantresses manipulate the minds of others with our own, right?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“Yes, well, this becomes so second-nature to us that we often fail to realize that we’re doing anything out of the ordinary. Occasionally, an enchantress will start daydreaming or get lost in her own thoughts and start imposing her feelings upon those around her. There was a famous enchantress ages ago by the name of Masumi Idane who was notoriously bad for her absent-mindedness. She was a brilliant woman and made a number of notable contributions to the field, but her daydreaming became so frequent that she had to resign her position as Provostia of the school of enchantment. Anyway, I must have transposed my own state of mind onto you without realizing it.” Sessimine giggled to herself and stood up momentarily to adjust her dress before sitting back down upon her desk. “You’ll have to forgive me for saying this, but you make for a terrible cushion! Now what exactly where you doing in my office, anyway?”

Aias grinned. “Waiting for you to come back?”

“A charming response.” The enchantress glanced down at the diary on her desk. “I see you were also making good use of your time by reading through my personal thoughts. Even though I suppose they’re yours to read through as you please, being the prince and all, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from such invasions of my privacy.”

“My apologies. If it provides any consolation, rest assured that I would never violate your privacy without good reason.”

“Oh really? And might I ask what your good reason is?”

The prince stood to his feet and began pacing about the room; for the first time, Sessimine realized exactly why Aias had been talked badly about behind his back. The heir to the throne, besides lacking arcane talent, was not a physically imposing man, either; in fact, with her clogs on, the enchantress was nearly as tall as he was. At face value, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about the man, save his royal birth. Still, there was something about Aias – something she couldn’t put her finger on – that just wasn’t right; being the woman of curiosity she was, Sessimine had to find out just what this was.

“Well? Have you nothing to say?”

Aias stopped in front of a life-sized statue of Montlasalle. “Do you really think you’ll be reborn a goddess when you die?”

“Of course I will! My dearest told me so. Its not that hard to believe, is it? I won’t be the only one, either – I just happen to be Montlasalle’s favourite. Now are you going to answer my question or not?”

“Very well. If I’m going to be sharing my dreams with someone, I want to make sure she’s trustworthy. My visions are very personal and I do not desire them to be public knowledge.”

Sessimine extended her hand and examined her nails, her back still facing the prince. “Fair enough. So, have I earned your confidence?”
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Claado Shou on November 17, 2004, 10:57:54 am
This isn't a grammatical or spelling issue, but in Aitrus' last post, Prince Aias says that Sessimine is out of the public view and won't be suspected.  Yet...he asks her to the ball.  Wouldn't that sort of put her into the public view, thus making her suspicious?  Maybe it's just me, but it doesn't seem to fit, that's all...
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Leebot on November 17, 2004, 11:58:36 am
Claado:

In your second-to-last paragraph, "faield" -> "failed."
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Symmetry on November 17, 2004, 11:17:40 pm
Quote from: Claado Shou
This isn't a grammatical or spelling issue, but in Aitrus' last post, Prince Aias says that Sessimine is out of the public view and won't be suspected.  Yet...he asks her to the ball.  Wouldn't that sort of put her into the public view, thus making her suspicious?  Maybe it's just me, but it doesn't seem to fit, that's all...


As a head of a arcane university, she certainly would be "in public view". I think what Aitrus was trying to say was that she wasn't a royal. Next time I see him on AIM, I'll run this by him.
Title: Writing Critique
Post by: Aitrus on November 17, 2004, 11:26:28 pm
Honestly, I've forgotten what I was trying to do with that.  It made sense at the time  :oops: .  Anyway, I've edited it to give a slightly different reason to trust her.