Malachi

The first part/chapter of my book. If you review mine I will review yours, wherever it may be

Chapter 1- Champion of Morath

ONE
Evrya always loved to watch the rain cascade down over the ruins, barely more then tall rocks, coming from high up the mountain and funneled almost perfectly in the water worn stone. The mix of wild nature and deep history had inspired him in his younger days,

He would dance in the clear waterfalls, and think on the past of his people, as well as his own future. Always he bypassed the small wooden room, built in the side of a steep ridge just below the ruined temple, the whole shack pinned down with crude stakes.

His anxiety had prevented him from noticing the way the ground went up hill ever so slightly under the thin wooden floor. It was nothing he could have prevented, this was of course his unavoidable destiny. Still he still felt foolish for not thinking about it before now.

Outside he could hear rain beating down, and feel water seeping through the already moldy wood below him. The wetness creeping between his legs was almost a welcome sensation in the pitch black room, but the mold played horrid tricks on his mind and stomach.

Of course it repulsed him, at first . Then as the days passed his stomach became dangerously hollow. It had smell and texture, even color. It would make him sick, to be sure, but maybe not kill him. It could even keep him alive a breath or two longer.

In the end he decided not too eat, more from pride then common sense, but neither kept him from gulping rising water almost as quickly as it slid down the mountainside.

Dimly Evrya thought he might even be thankful for the uneven land, at least it afforded him some relief. As he gulped he imagined he was a few feet to his right, or left, he wasn’t fully sure, and under those glorious waterfalls he had loved so much as a child. He imagined the wild rush of coolness down his sandy throat, and without the strong taste of mold and black splinters of murdered tree.

He shook his head and spat the water, the taste of rot finally overpowering his thirst. Though he retched with all his might it dribbled out of his mouth weakly.
He focused.

It had come once already, giving him so much hope, but far too little strength. The Forfin; ancient flame. It’s summoning was his birthright, and proved his blood, even if it only shone for a moment. But that had been many days past.

Now he was growing weaker then ever. He had been at least a month without food, save the meager nourishment the Forfin offered. Evrya began to mutter prayers to the temple above, invisible except to his mind’s eye. For some reason he knew they weren’t right, and instead random and jumbled word spilling forth from his mouth, dribbling like the dead water. It was all he could offer.

In desperation, he reached out his hands fumbling to where the two walls met. It wasn’t hard to find the corner, in a room so small, yet it took a dangerous amount of effort to move his body to face it and sent his stomach quivering. His throat burned with the taste of rot.

Words fluttered like a shower of molted feathers through his mind, sometimes coming to focus and passing his tongue, others times drifting away to blow past again. He felt himself belch, a bit of the thick water filling his mouth. The taste, a familiar dank, burned his tongue and drifted through his mind.

Evrya spoke louder, now matching his tone in rhyme, though the inane words did not follow. Inching into the corner, he hoped his movement somehow brought him closer to the old temple.

He pictured himself finally outside the wooden tomb, looking out from it’s perch on the mountainside. It was bright, brighter then Evrya had ever seen it, brighter then even the oldest men boasted it had been in their youth. Yet the Morosia remained, now lit and even more sinister, a thick blanket of black that covered the sky.

He could see for miles, farther then anyone had seen from outside the wooden room for centuries. All of Sentra lay before him, and his people were happy.

Suddenly it faded, and the wooden wall was there instead, meeting before his nose in a sharp corner. It too, he could now see.

“How can I see…the Morosia” He didn’t know if the words came from his mouth or remained in the torrent of his confused thoughts, but it was something.

The light didn’t shine over the land, but here in the room. The Forfin had returned, flaring like a beacon, reflecting green water which pooled on a slant under him. It flooded him with relief.

His body sank, soaking the power of his ancestors, giving himself the strength to rest. He fell back with a splash, the water settling in a puddle just shallow enough to allow him to breath. He raised his hands, the blue flames lighting the room, and exposing his wrists and arms, now horridly wasted away in hunger.

The messenger would come again tomorrow, asking if he had succeeded. So many times he had told them no, and heard their voices, usually young boys , try to sound hopeful and assure him it would be alright.

It always enraged him, that such young children had to help the man who was to be their king, like he was in fact the child.

Now he realized that it was the nature of a kingdom, and of leadership. All must stand as one, and lean on one another, or all shall fall. Never was that more true then now; with him and with the Sentra.

Evrya started drifting into a deep sleep, total exhaustion setting in. He hoped it would stop raining. If not, his fate was to drown in his sleep, weak and alone, or at the least be awoken to lungs full of the rising water.

Evrya would make it one more day, he had to. Tomorrow the messenger would come again, praying his king was not dead, praying that he had succeeded.

Finally, the answer would be “Yes”

His arms fell to the water with a sizzle, bringing light smoke and darkness.

Two
First he saw the lighted view. All of Sentra, all of his land, as far as he could see. He knew it was false, it was impossible to see this far, the Morosia forever stealing the sun. To Evrya is symbolized his profound wish for the future of his people; that he could somehow bring light back.

He knew is was possible, though a selfish and dangerous path, yet Evrya craved the revenge it would bring.

He heard footsteps approaching, and then the hop down the ridge from the temple followed by a soft grunt. Quickly he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Hello?” the voice said cautiously. “Evrya, are you there?”

“Yes, I am here,” came his dry voice. It felt strange to speak more then the single “No“. The boy waited in silence, and Evrya could picture his head bowed and waiting .

“I am here, though by nightfall you may no longer call me by my given name, I am afraid. Tonight I shall receive a new title.” His lips cracked into a smile.

“Really?” came cautious wonder. “You are sure? Please don’t rush it…”

“I am sure.” Evrya said softly, understanding the boys worry. “Now go, I will come tonight.”

The lock clicked open, and the door opened a crack. He couldn’t leave yet, but it would end tonight.

He heard the boy run off, back up through the temple and through the network of caves and paths that would lead him safely down the mountain side. Evrya would not be allowed to take that path.

Even in the brightest part of day, when light leaked through from the west and far south, reflecting from the shiny earth and granting what the Sentra’s call day, the sky offered only a dusky glow grimly ridged in black crust.

Yet somehow Evrya could feel the night, the absolute darkness born from the dusk of day, when the world seemed to blend and join with the Morosia. Pitch black. It was then he opened the wooden door, which faced down the cliff side steeply.

There stood his people, the proud Sentra. Each and every person able to stand held a torch, and stood in a half circle like a thousand flickering fire-lit rubies, all waiting for him far below. The breeze moved the dancing flames up and down, left and right. Evrya was lost in their trance.

Clearing his mind in the fresh air for a moment, he finally shook his daze and began to look keenly at the rocky passage that would bring him to his people. It looked much steeper now then it had the way up. He turned to face the cliff, his arms and legs spread wide. Evrya felt a slight stirring in his belly, but pushed it aside as he unceremoniously began his decent.

He uttered a final silent prayer to the temple before his head finally slipped from it’s view. My people, whom I shall not fail. We will crawl from this existence, this desperate cling on survival. If there is any chance, any way, I will find it.
Evrya made that vow. He would not relent until the air was gone from his lungs. Looking down, he took a desperately deep breath.

The travel of the steep mountainside was treacherous. It was known, depending on who you talked to, as either Kingsmount or Kingslayer. It was tradition that every Sentra King should scale the cliff side and lock himself up in fast to receive the gift of his bloodline, and then journey down again.
Tradition also denied that any of the Sentra should speak as they waited their kings descent, torches held in silent vigil. Often, when so weakened and drained from his trials, the climb would prove deadly, and the Sentra would watch in silence as their future king fell to his death.

Each step was a gamble. If the rock held, then Evrya could cautiously continue to the next. If it proved weak it was a scramble back up to more solid ground. He watched many of these rocks tumble violently down, spinning madly. They angrily drifted back in to crash loudly on the cliff side. He pictured his own body following that murderous pattern.

Evrya began, if only for a moment, to resent tradition.

"They finally built a path, so more then one in three of the young messengers sent would actually survive, and yet the man they lay their hopes on must scale up and down this monstrous hunk of earth like a mountain goat," he muttered to himself.

The thought at least brought a smile, one of the few he had enjoyed in the past ten years.

Father. Red Murderers. The might of the Sentra is your fate.

And the smile faded. Evrya shook his thoughts, focused on his path downward. The temperature was comfortable, even a bit chilly at this altitude, yet Evrya felt his armpits and palms growing damp with sweat. His muscles, still weak and shrunken from his fast, shook furiously as he squeezed the rocks even tighter in his wet grasp.

The climb up barely took his breath, yet he was not even halfway to the ground and already he felt his arms and legs burning almost unbearably.

I should have stayed in the room longer, and let the Forfin strengthen me. I have made a grave mistake, realized much too late. Visions of his own doom played through his mind. The kings who had fell before were laughing that he too had been a fool.

Evyra’s wet palm gripped a rock that felt strange. In that eternal second, he saw many things. First the strange rock in his right hand; it was not the usual sort found on the mountain side. Rather it made up most of the lower earth that the Sentra, and in fact all of Morath lived upon. It was know as Shine-Rock for it’s reflective qualities, and most of the time it was gratefully absent on the higher grounds.

The rock was smooth, and offered no ridges to grip.


Under his feet another rock that had appeared solid broke to dust like a sack of grain. His right hand squeezed and slipped, all his weight suddenly shifted to the left . His muscles tensed, and he held with all his might. For an instant he thought he had enough strength left.

Then with a jerking rip he was free, sharp pain stabbing his left hand as his fingers gave out. His stomach shot through his throat, as the rocks and wind rushed past. His thin clothes whipped painfully against his inner thighs and stomach. Panic gripped Evrya, and he heard a gasp of worry, or a moan of pain, from the crowd assembled below.

In an instant time froze, the gasp playing slowly in the back of his mind like a death rattle. In that sound he heard the assurance of his death, and the desperation and doom of his people. They had broken Sentra law, by uttering even the semblance of a word during the vigil, and yet it filled him with joy, even in the face of death, that his people loved him enough to push custom to the wayside.

He only regretted he wouldn't be alive long enough to reprimand them.

He felt his body drifting back towards the rocks, towards crushing death. He ordered his eyes shut, and it seemed an eternity passing before they complied. A thousands thoughts rushed through his head in that long moment.

Failure. Death. Father. Murder. Sentra. Extinct. Blackness. Consuming.

He kept his eyes tightly shut, the darkness his final view.

Suddenly the wind stopped, and all was still. He was sure that death had come.

Never.

Then, at first only dimly, he became aware of feeling, of breath. He felt a strain on his right arm, and his legs swinging below. From somewhere in the distance a sound replaced the moaning gasp.

It was hard to discern it's meaning, especially in the jumbled heap of thoughts, questions, and feelings that inhabited Evrya mind in that pensive moment, but he was sure of one thing; it was a relieved sound.

He finally swallowed and took a deep breath, before daring to open his eyes. At first just peeking, unsure of just what he would see, and then fully opening his eyes. The rocky cliff side still filled his vision, a particularly jagged edge a scant inch from his face.

Am I floating?

Evyra’s eyes traced up. His right arm was stretched towards the sky, and on his hand burned the Forfin. It nourished the Sentra through the mysteries of the ancients, and offered them heat or light in desperate times. That was all the Forfin had ever been used for.

What he saw now, in the blue flame at his fists, was a miracle and wholly unheard of. It burned painlessly on his hand, extending up and changing. Forming into what looked to be a hand, large and thick, it now clung tightly to the cliff side. It had stopped his fall and saved his life.

That ominously sharp rock swung just before his eyes, and Evrya knew that had he fallen even the slightest moment longer his death would have been certain .

Finally freeing the breath in his throat , he took a glance down. He had fallen almost all the way, the ground only a few hundred feet below. With a quick, yet vigorous, prayer to his ancestors he continued down to his people, hoping whatever force of destiny that saw fit to save his life once would hold out just a bit longer.

Malachi

Three

His legs shook violently under him when his feet finally reached solid ground. He struggled to gain his composure as his ragged breath and burning body finally rested.

A sea of still faces stood like a stone wall crowned in flame. He had almost failed them, nearly dying the way he vowed he never would. The hope or fear they might feel did not show in their eyes, nor did any sign of doubt. Only resolve, and a strange sad courage. They would do their part as Sentra, even if it meant killing Evrya that night, should he be found lacking.

There was a great compassion in his people, but compassion hadn't kept them alive for the ten years since his father had died.

The blue eyes unique to his family were forward and piercing as he walked past the two long rows of stoic faces. Evyra’s back was straight, though his clothes hung like rags, and in the torch light his gaunt frame was even more shocking. Still he was to become a king tonight, and nothing could change that. He would be damned not to carry himself as such.

Until my air is gone. I won’t forget.

He felt a slight stir as the people he passed fell in behind him, one by one. It was now, in front of everyone he had ever known, that he would take the weight of every Sentra's life on his shoulders.

Since he was ten he had been waiting for this day, sometimes with dread and sometimes with impatient vengeance. As a normal man, he would have only been accepted as an adult a few years past, then being able to speak freely to other men. Instead people had been hanging on his words since before he would lift an axe, and always with the same confidence and pride.

Tonight was different. The time had come, there was nothing left to plan or imagine. They need to see it. All that matters is success.

The sea of faces began to blur, as Evrya quickened his step. The large tent that lay at the south end of Sentra finally came into view. Both sides of the curved crowd came together at that tent, with the two men that had became his consul. Though he trusted his teachers and would always heed their advice, they were now advisors rather then mentors. Every decision, large or small, was his to make.

On the small dais that had been built near the tent's entry, stood the men who had for so long been his guides. It would be hard to look upon them now with anything less then veneration, but of course they had taught him better then that.

Sakrin had been his father's best friend and constant companion. He was a man of the utmost honor, always caring for Evrya as if he were his own child. Instead of trying to gain control of the Sentra for his own wishes, he was the one chiefly responsible to holding them together. Without Evrya, last of the Sentrain blood line, the Sentra would be lost. Still there are stories told of those in the past who did try to steal power from his family. It was a foolish attempt, for without Sentrain blood the power of the ancients could not be harnessed, and the people knew this well. For Sakrin is was a decision of integrity and honor rather then lack of ambition.

He was surely a man of great strength, that Evrya never doubted. He still remembered the long journey from the bright and horrid place to the south, a place seemingly untouched by the Morosia.

It was there his father had died.

With tears and sorrow still fresh in his eyes it was Sakrin's voice and strength that had carried him all those miles back north, back to Sentra. Everyone leaned on Sakrin then, and for many years to follow, yet he never held even the smallest of his own interests above the people. He ruled for the Sentra, and not for himself.

And what of me? Came a quick thought, which Evrya pushed aside just as quick. Remember the horror of that place.

Next to him, looking deceptively small and gnarled, stood Kreg, master of the shadowy Darkfin. An expert of their cunning ways, and the only person with full acces to the Dafinark; an ancient text rich in the deadly technique and lore of the Darkfin.

Although those chosen to become Darkfin learned how to kill as they learn to walk, their true mission is to serve the Oracle, whom they believe to be the Sentra's strongest and closest link to the ancients. Still almost every military victory that remained in the memory of the Sentra came with great contribution from the Darkfin. Evrya had yet to meet a man or women in all of Morath that knew more of poison and killing then the Darkfin, and of them Kreg was the most adept.

When he was still very young he would sometimes catch tales of Kreg's youth, and his competitions with the other clans of Morath. It was said the Morath was once a mighty nation broken by the Morosia. The seven groups that remained scrambled to hold their histories close, and as variances arose they argued strongly about them.

Kreg carries a fierce and almost blind pride for the Sentra, so he was sure that only the Darkfin followed the ancient practices correctly. As the stories went, many men came to challenge Kreg's claims, and many died as he upheld them viciously. Those who spoke of him were always very old, yet the stories came with the same childlike wonder they had almost surely felt witnessing those legendary battles so many years prior. Old men, but still younger then Kreg, that had long since been buried. Yet Kreg stubbornly remained .

Now they both stood waiting for Evrya. Their faces were both dark. For Kreg it was almost normal, his face seemed stuck in a permanent scowl, but Sakrin usually had a warm smile. Kindness and guidance had ended, now turned to cold expectation.

Evrya stopped his stride short of them, putting thin arms at his sides and waiting. He stared into the eyes of both men, his brow drawn.

It was Sakrin who finally stepped forward. His loose tan robes swirled at his sides, and the dark hair he kept long followed suit in the light breeze. His eyes, a much lighter brown then most Sentra, seemed a piercing green in the bright glow of torches.

The words came cold.

"Evryafin Sentrain , son of Raygefin Sentrain, last of the Royal line, your place among our people is different than any king of our past.”

“With your failure comes our final end, but you are also a bright hope. In the past receiving a king was a strict ceremony, as some remember with your father. This ceremony is not just for the new king, but may be the preamble to the eradication of the Sentra.”

Sakrin glanced around, eyes deadly calm. “This is a new age for us, and I speak to the heart of our people today, instead of in ancient times."

The crowd seem to press in even more tightly around Evrya at the words.

"This day will signify much more then the crowning, or the death, of a king." For just a moment pain crept into Sakrin's voice, but it quickly quelled. "The future of every Sentra is decided today, for without a king of the royal line, one who can call on the aid and power the ancients, without that strength, we are nothing."

Evrya wished Sakrin would stop, the weight on his shoulders seeming to thicken, but he knew this to be necessary.

"Some of us may wander searching the aid of other clans, but you must remember that no matter your skill or trade, you are nothing more then another mouth to feed. Sure some may find shelter, but many will die in this dark dry land. Swallowed up by the Morosia, like so many of our brethren, swallowed up and left to starve.”

Then he looked into Evyra’s eyes. “Yet I know in my heart that our king has not failed, or he wouldn’t be standing here before us. He is the pride of our people, in looks and spirit, and I certainly have faith enough in his character to be sure he would not relent so easy.”

Evrya began to let his lips curl into a smile, but stopped them short when he saw the fire in Sakrin’s eyes.

“Still,” his voice rose even louder, “Even with Evrya leading, and the strength he will lend our people, the Sentra are a breath from extinction. Our farms have dried, and more then a year past every store of food ran clean. The other clans look at us hungrily, sensing our end.

"I say this not to dishearten, but rather let us all know that our fate as Sentra, and as individuals, is at grave risk. For these ten long years I have never lied, but it was hard for me to readily come forth with grim news. Yet this day is truly the judgment of our people. As one we must come together, in full awareness of the final consequences.

“We can no longer shield ourselves from the death that stares down on us now, dark and thick in the sky. We have clung here between emptiness and flame, and yet it has given our people strength."

Anger burned in the back of Evyra’s mind, realizing the truth of Sakrin’s words. We are stuck between emptiness and flame, but I shall make them pay.

“Your father was a great man, more courageous and vicious then the Red Demons themselves. His death was not in vain, but instead his dream for the future; the salvation of the Sentra. The years since then, we have all tried to shape you into the man he was, and yet you always surprised us with who you already were.

Sakrin closed his eyes gently. "For years our people have honored the new king with tales of all he may accomplish in his years of reign. We must now make our hopes a bit more humble. You are the best of us Evrya. Yes you are young, far to young to be asked this, but you are my king, and I will follow you till it ends.
“I step down now from my stewardship of the Sentra,” whispered Sakrin, his closed eyelids fluttering slightly.

"And I, also step down in my role to the people." Kreg intoned from behind Sakrin in a solemn voice.

"And we are naked, Evrya," Sakrin said, voice thick, eyes suddenly open and wide. "We beg you now, a people lost, save us."

There was a great silence, and then; "Summon the Forfin. Show us the worth of your blood."

The ceremony was over. It seemed all to quick. Every eye was upon him watching and waiting.

Evrya raised his hands and released the Forfin with a great cry, carrying both sorrow and strength.

Ungood

Sorry.. too much to read in one shot... but I did get half way into the second post which is saying quite a bit...

anyway...

I like it... it pulls you in... makes you think.. the info dumps are well placed and explain things when things need to be explained... all in all... I would say now is when the grammar people should be ripping you apart.

Somethings seem a bit... unlikely... but... you explained them... so it works...

Ungood.

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Malachi

Somethings seem a bit... unlikely... but... you explained them... so it works...

Do you mind elaborating on that?

Ungood

I would like to start of by saying you have a good piece here... and I only look at Mechanicals... I don't play with Grammar too much...

for the most part... a lot of mechanicals can be overlooked for the sake of "Story" and "Scene Setting".... with that in mind... let us continue...

To start off... that a wooden rotted shack in a temple would be this holy-holy spot. Some level of upkeep would be done or perhaps the 'shed' might be made of stone

Stone or other non-biodegradable compound sounds the most likely as Holy Buildings are not commonly built out of things that rot unless they are maintained constantly and they only rot once abandoned in your story... neither of these are presented.

At first there was no way I would have guessed that this was a vision trip to obtain holy power of some form. The rotted out room suggested some kind of refuge or hideaway, not "Holy sacred Temple room"

I find it a bit odd (if not downright off) that provisions would not be supplied to the MC unless the "Kings" were highly prolific and could afford to loose several children during this process, but if that was the case then it would seem unlikely that it would take this long.

The "Cliff" walk down got me a bit... but you explained that... but again... this would depend on very prolific Kings, as such the MC would have like several siblings lined up for the throne in case he failed... making his "Success" not all that noteworthy.

More like "Yah this one lived" type of deal... as opposed to any type if true amazement.

The time with out food got me as well.... but you explained that he was "fed' with this magical energy stuff, so that works... still might be issues of system shock from the fat loss... but.. meh... it's magic so we can overlook that... (And I am not even going to get into the dangers of moldy back wood and drinking water that came from it.... again... magic can overcome...)

That was just in the first page... and the major points that I picked out... not to say changing anything would make your story better or worse... in your case you are using them to build your scene and this is allowed... "artistic license" not everything has to be tight wad realistic...and I realize that is what I am being... but these were just some things that stood up to me...

Ungood.

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Malachi

Thanks for clearing that up, I may have to do the same with some area's of my MS

Basically the temple where this rite was originally held is a ruin, and the wooden shack was all the Sentra could manage, since they are hanging on to survival as it is. It is a good point though, and somthing i may have to rework

And it is tradition that the king fast to receive his birthright, in times past there would of have to been siblings (thank you for that), but these are desperate times, and Evrya the last hope.

Once again thanks, your input was very helpful, though I must say I hope my potential readers aren't as keen as you lol.

Ungood

ARRRGGHHHHHHHHHH !

This is the "IT" this is the "GO TIME" of the entire story..

You need to describe this! Let me "See" what is happening here! He is callign down the Sacred Holy Power of the Kings (I am guessing a blue fire of some kind - that was what you described in the temple)

You need to let the readers see this display... like a firework celebration of the new King...

"Evrya raised his hands over his head letting his mind fill with the images as his arms burst into magnificent pillars of bight blue flame danced high into the night."

Or something like that... I need to SEE this is living color... describe it to me...! ARRRGGGHHHHHHH !

Ungood

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Malachi

Ha ha. Your frustration makes me so happy, it means your at least somewhat into it even if only for reviewing purposes

Don't worry, this chapter/part isn't over yet. I will explain exactly what it looks like, and the shocking events that follow.

dun dun dun.

On the other hand maybe this section would end better with those shocking events...hmm... must ponder.

BTW you rock dude, thanks for all the feedback.

Ungood

Ok you have "released it" right here... this is when the reader needs to see it... right now as it is "Blasting Out" for the entire population to see...

Thanks! Glad to be of Help.. remember me when you become famous and I am still writing self help books on how to procrastinate more in your life...

Ungood

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Malachi

I will remember, and likewise remember me when my fanatasy novel shakes the world


Evrya raised his hands and released with a great cry, carrying both sorrow and strength.

The flames sprung forth with a shocking intensity. Great pillars of burning blue, one from each hand, shot towards the sky with brilliant light. The faces of his people shone with wonder and joy, as their eyes traced up.

Evrya followed their gaze, and in surprise saw even the darkness of the Morosia was lit above. His enemy, if only he had the power to strike it down.

A roar arose from the crowd as Evrya finally released himself from his communion with the ancient. He blinked his eyes, focusing in lesser light. Praise rang out for the size and fury of his Forfin. Pushing in around him, the crowd patted his back and hugged him vigorously, proclaiming their pride. His people had turned from grim to jubilant, and spoke now as though assured of the future.

A scream cut short the celebration. Dark shapes suddenly plummeted from the sky all around Evrya. The man next to him, who a moment before had been crying his joy in Evyra’s ear, fell to the ground under the weight of the mysterious black menace. His skull exploded in a splash mid-fall, and bloody debris rained down upon the Sentra, joining the falling black death.

Suddenly Evrya felt himself being forced to the ground, covered by his people for protection.

“Assassination!” someone screamed in anger.

Next to him the dead man lay, along with the responsible implement. He saw what had killed the man. It was no assassin. As chaos reigned around him he cursed himself for the that blood lay on his hands.

Ungood

This really finishes the effect of the story... ends it good and now you want to read more!

Yes... much better to put in this last bit...

Ungood.

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Malachi

Ungood...you are very un-ungood IMO screw my wife, if this get's published it's dedicated to you

Ungood

I think I snorted soda out my nose reading this!

Ungood

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Malachi

Ungood