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Member
Join Date: Nov 2007
Location: St. Amant, LA
Gender: Male
Posts: 7
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Untitled work (fantasy)
Hello, everyone. This is the first two pages of a story I've been dabbling with, and it is the first piece that I've posted to be critiqued. As such, I'd like it if everyone could please offer their honest opinion on the work and be as impassive as possible. Thank you.
With a careful hand I let fall one cube of sugar and then a second into my tea. It was the last of what I called my childhood habits. As I stirred the solution I could see a small crowd outside the window of my room. The window itself I would find more interesting than the sight beyond it, as common place as it was. The man at the center of this mob was Effis Indaril, the current heir to the Indaril estate. Flanked on either side by young women and old senators, it was an obnoxious display. At first glance, one would think that the young man was merely as popular with the ladies for his charm as he was with the senate for his innovative thoughts on politics. However, this was far from the truth. Effis was neither charming nor innovative. He was not particularly handsome or particularly intelligent either. No, these throngs were caused by the singular purpose of greed. The Indarils have always been a prestigious family; throughout the history of Remiet they can be found near, if not in, the forefront of most major, historic events in the nation, be them political, militaristic, artistic, or magical. More importantly though, they were rich and ludicrously so.
When the crowd finally departed from my line of vision it reminded me of my own agenda for the day. I was supposed to be meeting my father at the docks in Oddem. I had already packed my belongings for the trip ahead but had failed to acquire a transport to the town. From White Oak it was a five hour ride, and it was difficult finding a horse and carriage to rent on such short notice. After much trouble, pounds of coin from my purse, and several signings of the name Adair Borde, I was off to Oddem. The ride itself was long and wearisome. There was little to see between the city and the docks other than the occasional small patch of wild flowers growing in the field. I managed to keep myself occupied by thinking about the contents of the letter that my father had sent me almost two weeks before, regarding our trip. The nature of the trip was political and had to do with international relations, a realm that I had become familiar and bored with over the years as a diplomat’s son, but the message did provide two pieces of interest for me mull over.
The first of these interests was the cruise’s destination, Rie Seila or Wind Island in Simple. The island was the closest of a small cluster that made up what most humans called the “Elven Isles.” This was exciting to me because I had never been to any of the islands before or even seen much in the way of any of the various elf races, and Rie Seila was supposed to be a great hearth of culture. There was art everywhere, from the architecture to the food, or so I was told. The other, and more curious, piece of information was that my father had said an old friend of mine would be waiting for us in Oddem.
It was not unusual to meet my father’s friends and associates when I traveled with him, but this was the first time I would be greeted by a friend of my own. I spent the vast majority of the ride trying to predict who it would be. I had not seen Fredrick Conten or Hassin Gallows for over two years, both friends I made while I was studying magic at the celebrated Academy of White Oak. It was unlikely though; last I had heard from Frederick was a brief letter about a long stay in Midland to study theatre, and news around home said that Hassin had found a job as an engineer for a weapon smith in Loteros that specialized in siege equipment. By the end of the trip I still could not think of any of my friends that would have reason to leave from Oddem, though several hours of thought were lost on an uncomforting nap.
When I arrived at the port, it was approaching dusk, and I could barely see my father standing near the loading ramp of the ship when I exited the carriage. I tipped the driver graciously for the ride then found myself trapped between a pair of stubby arms. I embraced my father, a warm, yet rare, greeting shared before the inevitable pleasantries and small talk that formed from long periods of separation arose.
“Adair, my son, it has been too long,” he said with a jovial smile. “My boy has turned into a man and I wasn’t there to see it!” he laughed heartily, causing his protruding stomach to bounce. My father was a short, portly man, with a bald crown and little hair upon the sides of his scalp, but he was always smiling. I hadn’t seen him once without that same proud, almost curious, smile. It was as if he knew that I was there, and that I had grown into a respectable man, but could not believe that I was his own son. “Come,” he said as he put an arm around me and led me up the ramp to the ship. “We have much to catch up on.”
We exchanged small details from the past year and a half that we had missed between our correspondences, most from within the last month. Apparently life for my father had been much the same as it always had, going from city to city talking to diplomats and ambassadors from around the Confederacy, making sure that dissention was not in the hearts or minds of any of Remiet’s sister states. When asked about my own going-ons I found nothing of interest to tell my father. My life was boring and uneventful. I woke every morning to the same routine of work and study. I ran my business through middlemen and never saw my employees directly. I was not often sociable with the other members of the community, I found them pompous. So, my days were filled with books and long walks around the city. I found excitement in only the occasional debate, but they rarely lasted long and were often over such trivial things that I later wonder why I argued them to begin with. All this I told him, and yet, he still wore that smile upon his face.
After several minutes of idle chatter I finally asked my father about this mystery friend who was supposed to join us on our trip. “So, who is it?” I questioned. My curiosity had made me anxious to identify my long lost companion. “Who is this old friend you spoke of in your letter?”
“Ah yes, I do seem to remember mentioning something about that.” My father smiled playfully and waited for me to press him again.
“Well?” I asked impatiently.
After a brief glance he pointed towards a staircase at the bow of the ship that led to the passenger’s quarters. “That should be her now.”
A young woman was ascending the stairs to the deck, and I found myself unable to recognize this so-called old friend. She was a tall woman, beating me in height by at least one full inch, her blonde hair was kept in a long braid that ran to the middle of her back, and her figure was muscularly thin and well-toned. Her clothing included an elegant, crimson dress made of velvet with gold trimmings, a pair of golden bracelets, and a small locket made of sliver. She approached us with a precise, deliberate gait that reminisced of a military career, and as she made her way closer I could see the cold neutrality of her face brighten into an enthused smile. Her pace quickened ever so slightly to close the gap between us then stopped abruptly just foot away. It was then that I noticed the blood-red color of her eyes, the mark of a pureblooded Stasian, and remembered who she was.
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