Medi Varnl, Book One: Feloinain (Fantasy) - Writers Forum

terion · 04-21-2008, 10:23 PM

Section One

Horac swung his fist at Tristol, knuckles connecting solidly with the younger boy’s cheek. The slightly taller fifteen-year-old was slung to the ground by the fierce blow and landed face down in the trampled grass and dirt beneath their feet. As he fell the cap he’d been wearing flew off, letting loose a curtain of shoulder length dark hair and a pair of furry ears that were far from human.

When he pushed himself up onto his knees, trying to regain his feet, Horac’s booted foot slammed ruthlessly into his stomach. The blow knocked the air out of him and Tristol collapsed back into the dirt with a pained gasp, body curling up instinctively into a ball to shield against further blows.

“Bastard,” he spat when he regained the ability to breathe, blood and spit dripping from his bruised mouth as he managed to push himself upright. Intense, sweltering rage welled up within him but he fought it down, sweeping aside the image of the bully sliced up as neat as a pig on the butcher’s block. “Kicking a man when he’s down – ”

“Man?” sneered the burly seventeen-year-old with close-cropped blond hair plastered against his forehead by sweat and hate glinting in his blue eyes. “What man? All I see is some no good half-breed scum!” He kicked out at Tristol again, this time aiming at the other boy’s head. The youth saw it coming out of the corner of his left eye and rolled away from the blow. Horac’s foot breezed by his nose and he silently thanked the gods that the kick hadn’t connected. He would have likely been left unconscious or delirious if the blow had and then…well, he’d rather not think of what the bully might have done to him then. At least when he could think clearly, he could try and figure out some way to get away.

“Who’s worse?” Tristol asked as he managed to gain his feet, keeping an eye out for more blows. His inhuman ears were laid flat against his skull, nearly hidden by his hair because of the dark fur covering them. “Me, who was born cursed, or you, who gets his kicks from beating up those weaker than you?”

Horac’s face turned purple in rage and he growled, “You’ll pay for that, half-breed.”

Tristol shook his head slowly, having caught a familiar scent on the wind, as he came to his feet again. It was one he knew well and it sent a sly grin creeping across his face.

“I don’t think so.”

A frown twitched onto the bully’s face and he managed a confused, “Huh?”

“The Constal’s coming,” purred the other youth in explanation. “And you know he won’t be too happy about finding us like this after the last time.”

Horac paled at those words and took a nervous step back, vainly brushing at the blood on his knuckles. He was always ready to pick a fight with anyone weaker than him but once someone stronger came along he immediately tucked his tail between his legs and ran. And the last time the bully had come after the young boy, there had been threats of him being thrown in the Lock at the back of the smithy from the Constal the next time he was caught.

Said Constal just so happened to live in Ruah: Horac’s birthplace and Tristol’s home since he was seven years old. Warrek Baxlell was his name and he could put the fear of the gods into those that crossed him but was a fair, just man to those that deserved such.

Constal Baxlell was also the older brother of the late Maeva Baxlell, Tristol’s mother.

“Horac Ahnall!”

Horac froze like a deer caught in the gaze of a prowling wolf and turned to stare in terror as the Constal stalked towards them from the direction of the township.

With several scars crossing his face and arms, his shoulder-length mane of dark red hair, and piercing black eyes, Warrek Baxlell was a menacing sight to anyone he was bearing down upon even at his fifty-six years. His heavily scarred left hand rested on the hilt of the short sword that hung at his hip as he came to a stop before the two youths, casting his sharp gaze from one to the other. Then his eyes fell on Horac after seeing the visible bruises on his nephew and he growled in a gravely voice tinged with the accent of the lower provinces of Beldàketh, “What did I tell ye about troublin’ my nephew, boy?”

“N-not t-to, s-sir,” stammered out Horac in response.

“And yet yer here troublin’ him,” said Warrek, tapping his index finger against his sword’s cross guard. “Are ye a fool, boy?”

“N-no, sir!”

Warrek frowned and asked, “Then what’s yer excuse, eh? I’d like ter hear what it may be.”

Horac shifted uneasily and Tristol caught the scent of the older boy’s fear. It smelt of sweat and ruined honey and he let out a puff of air through his nose and moved a few steps back to get away from it. Bending to pick up his cap as he stepped on it, he thumped it back down onto his head, hiding his ears from sight again.
“I’m waitin’, boy!”

The bully jumped at the sharp voice and stared at the Constal in fear when he regained his balance. He opened his mouth to stammer out something but Warrek cut him off with a sharp sweep of his hand and a glower.

“Nevermind, boy,” he growled. “Just get back home…I’ll be around later to ‘ave a talk with yer folks. And don’t ye try to skip out on it, ye hear? Or by the gods, I’ll hunt ye down and let ye taste the flat o’ Aaerguul’s blade. Understood?”

“Y-yes, s-sir!” Horac stumbled over his own feet in an effort to get away from the Constal as swiftly as he could. Tristol had a hard time keeping back his laughter at the sight of the bully fleeing in terror back towards the township.

Warrek watched him run for a moment then turned critical eyes on his nephew. He skimmed over the slowly darkening bruises that he could see and settled his gaze on a gash that slashed through Tristol’s right eyebrow and was dripping blood into his eye. Digging into one of the pouches on his wide belt, the Constal pulled out a scrap of cloth and extended it to the youth with a nod towards the wound. Tristol took it in silence and gingerly pressed it against the gash, wincing as he did so.

They stood in silence for a few moments then Warrek asked, “Ye alright, lad?”

An amber eye met the Constal’s black ones for a brief moment then darted away as the youth nodded. Tristol gritted his teeth behind his lips, elongated canines digging into his flesh, and lied, “I’m fine, Uncle.”

Warrek frowned at him and he insisted, “I’m fine!”

“Fine is’n what ye are when ye’ve just gotten the gods grace beaten out of ye.”

“I’m fine,” repeated Tristol a third time, this time with a bit of a growl in his voice.

The Constal sighed and closed his eyes, lifting his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose to rid an oncoming headache. When he lowered his hand a few moments later, he gazed levelly at his nephew and said, “Ye’ve got to stan’ up for yerself, Tris-lad. Elsewise ones like Horac’ll run over ye yer whole life.”

“I know, Uncle,” said Tristol softly. “I know.”

“I don’t think ye do.” Warrek laid a large, scarred hand on his nephew’s rake-thin shoulder and continued, “Yer mother would not want ye to let whelps like tha one do t’ings like that to ye. Why do ye allow him to walk all over ye like that? I’ve taught ye hand-to-hand an’ how to handle a sword so ye’ve all ye need to defend yerself.”

The youth didn’t answer his uncle, keeping his eyes focused on the dusty ground beneath his boots. He didn’t want to tell the man standing beside him, the man that had cared for him since his mother’s death, that he feared he might kill someone if he fought back. It wasn’t that his uncle wouldn’t understand killing since he’d been a man of the King’s Guard and, at one point in time, an assassin in the elite Veértul - he knew he would understand that if no one else would.

It was the fact that his uncle, nor anyone else, had any idea of the beastial rage that Tristol kept padlocked behind the doors of his soul. And he didn’t want anyone – not even the uncle who would understand beyond words – to see that side of him.

He’d let it loose once on Horac four years ago, just as he was changing from being a simple child and into the youth he was now. The details weren’t all clear but he remembered being struck and then everything had gone red. After that all he recalled was someone pulling him off of the bully and his uncle dragging him home, where he’d huddled under his bed for two days and wept after he’d been told he’d nearly killed the older boy. Then had come the horrifying realization that he could so easily lose all sense of things and have it return to find he had hurt someone or worse.

Ever since that day, he had done everything he could to keep the rage he’d discovered then under control. And, so be it, if he had to let Horac bully him and earn bruises and scars, he would. He would not be a monster if it could help it!

Tristol sometimes wanted desperately to just let himself go and let that rage win out over all, allow it to rule and do as it willed. When those around him – normal people, people without cursed blood like him – threw verbal jibes at him, he wanted to loose it upon them.

That was the part of him he wanted no one else to find out about. It was a part he was ashamed of and one that if people knew of, they might kill him for, saying he was dangerous to all around him. People didn’t dare try to kill him as things were with his uncle to protect him.

The heart of this rage came from his father, who had been of the Feloinains - the cat-men who built their home in the Dritilyn Range to the north. To the rest of the world they were beasts in half-human guise – devils most said. No one (so folk said) had had a run-in with such creatures and survived. They tore apart those who came upon their lairs and used the bodies as they could, which was why such was never found.

There were so many days he wished he could be rid of that rage and his Feloinain blood.

Yet…how could he get rid of something so essential to his being, which was half of what he was? And he know all those legends about them couldn’t be truth.

If they were his mother couldn’t have loved his father.

He wouldn’t exist.

“Tristol? Answer me, lad.”

His uncle’s voice jarred him from his thoughts and he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said softly, “but I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry.”

Warrek’s scarred face clouded briefly with anger then it cleared as he heaved a sigh and squeezed his nephew’s shoulder gently. He then slid his arm about the thin form next to him and pulled the youth into a brief bear hug.

“Its alright, Tris-lad,” he said in his gravelly voice. “Ye can tell me in yer own time.”

“Yes, Uncle,” said Tristol into the older man’s chest, knowing that he would never be able to tell the man his reasons for not fighting back.

His uncle, however, had no need to know that. Not now, not ever so far as Tristol was concerned.

Warrek looked down at his nephew, not knowing of the thoughts in his head, and said, “Le’s get on home. I’m as hungry as a dragon an’ its certain that Am’s got supper waiting for us.”

Tristol nodded and let his uncle steer him away from the graveyard and down the dusty streets of Ruah towards their home, not a very far walk from the spot where the boys scuffle had been. The township lay in a circular sprawl around the temple to the gods with three main roads: one running to the north towards the border of the neighboring province, the south towards the township of Iven, and to the east towards the hidden graveyard. And all to the east of the township lay the edge of the Artelièn Forest, an expansive place filled mostly with surly cutthroats and wild animals.

Towards the north edge of town they walked, which was where the Baxlell home lay, and Tristol reveled in the warmth of the man's arm around his shoulders the whole way. But his fears still pecked at him from the inside and he made a silent prayer to the gods that they would never come to fruition.

Tiamat10 · 04-22-2008, 11:17 PM

Well, it's pretty clear that you've got the craft of writing down pat. I didn't see a single problem with structure, grammar, or punctuation. That alone is an impressive feat.

I was quite interested in the beginning. I thought it was a great introduction. Unfortunately, right around this point here:

Quote:

Horac paled at those words and took a nervous step back, vainly brushing at the blood on his knuckles. He was always ready to pick a fight with anyone weaker than him but once someone stronger came along he immediately tucked his tail between his legs and ran. And the last time the bully had come after the young boy, there had been threats of him being thrown in the Lock – the nickname for the small building at the back of the smithy where drunks were thrown in to cool their heads – from the Constal the next time he was caught.

I lost all interest after this. Firstly because you present background information for the next several paragraphs that's not really all that important. At least not yet. And then when you finish with extraneous info, I just stopped caring all together, but that's only because I've decided that I don't like your MC so far. He comes across as weak and whiny, and that doesn't make me want to read a story about him.

I'm not saying that you can't have a character who starts out like that, but you've got to give him a few endearing traits as well. Otherwise, the reader will stop rooting for him.

Sorry if this is harsh, it's just my opinion. Keep writing.

HippoHead · 04-23-2008, 02:35 AM

i don't like the main character either.
he's a li'l faggot!

anod how can anyone possibly get angry about 'you pick on people weaker than you (me)' instead of laughing?

dialogue's a little bit gross.

i stopped reading after hearing the accent of the guy's uncle =p

terion · 04-23-2008, 06:48 PM

Yeah, the first few sections of this story have been giving me trouble since I first wrote them. I only skim edited them last time and have been meaning to go back to do more once I got some opinions from people on how it was. And I don't mind harshness - anything helps!

I did have a LOT more background in this than what is currently here and have been meaning to crop some more. Also, his uncle at one point had much more of an accent.

And thanks, Tiamat, for your first comment. Its good to know that I've managed that. ^^ Also that the beginning is good.

HippoHead: I'm pretty certain people get angry about being bullied. I try to point out that Tristol is NOT weak - he has training to fight in hand-to-hand and swordplay. He's just afraid of losing control of himself and killing someone. Also how is the dialogue gross? I'm not quite sure what you're saying is wrong with it.

terion · 04-24-2008, 10:52 PM

Night came swifter than usual and with it walked memories of good and bad for Tristol as he slept – and dreamed. He dreamed of a time when he had had nothing to fear and nothing to worry about.

A time when his mother had been all there was in his world.

“Mama! Mama, lookit what I foun’!”

A tall, willowy woman with long, dark hair and brown eyes standing in a wind-blown field of grass lifted her head and smiled as a small body abruptly slammed against her legs. Touching the head pillowed against her belly, she stroked the fur along the cat-like ears atop her child’s dark head and laughed merrily.

Her laughter sounded like the soft tinkling of bells.

“And what have you found, sweetling?” she asked with a smile.

“Lookit!” exclaimed the child, holding up his clasped hands. He opened them and a tiny, dragon-like sprite with black and amber markings on its fragile, crystalline wings fluttered up out of his grasp. “Aw…”

“Beautiful,” said the woman, her eyes following the winged beast’s flight. Then she turned her eyes onto her child and asked, “Do you know what that was, little one?”

“A Dwagyte!”

The woman smiled and picked up the little boy, cuddling him close to her. His head fit perfectly underneath her chin and she rested that between his furry ears, each tickling her cheek on either side.

“Exactly, sweetling,” she said. “Beautiful, wasn’t it?”

“Yeth,” said the child. He then tilted his head back and asked, “Mama, am I beautiful?”

The woman’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears as her only child, the one thing her life and entire being revolved around, asked that question. She hugged him closer to her breast and breathed, “You blind me with your beauty, Tris. Don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise. Ever.”

“Yeth, Mama.” He then frowned as her expression changed and he smelt her sudden and abrupt fear, the scent causing him to panic as well. “Mama? Mama, what’s wrong?”

“Run, Tris,” bid the woman, settling her six-year-old son on the ground again. Her eyes were focused on something coming up from behind him and their dark depths were filled with terror for him. “Run!”

“But, Mama!” cried the boy, throwing his arms about her neck, “I doan wanna leave you!”

“Run,” repeated the woman, shoving him gently away from her and towards a small copse of trees that loomed up nearby. She glanced fearfully over her shoulder at the mob of approaching shadows that gripped torches in vicious clawed hands and had murder in their crimson eyes. The grass of the meadow shifted with their approach, changing into a seething darkness that hissed like fire. “Run, sweetling! Run and hide!” He did turn and run but stopped at the edge of trees, turning to cast a frantic look back, his tiny ears laid back and the tuft of a tail showing from underneath his tunic with all its dark fur puffed up.

“Mama! Mama, no!”

The woman was suddenly gone, swept away by the mob of shadows in a whirl of fiery eyes. All that remained of her beauty and grace was a charred corpse tied roughly to a husk of a tree, all its leaves burned away.

“MAMA!”

“Tris-lad!”

Tristol jerked upright suddenly, his breath coming in sharp gasps that did nothing to fill his straining lungs. He felt large hands on his shoulders then and scrambled away, curling his tall body up into as small a ball as he was able, whimpering all the while. To his mind he was six years old again and trapped in the wreckage of what had been his home in the distant township of Kayàerden. And hands that weren’t his mother’s gentle ones could only be those of the mob of townsfolk that had killed her before his young eyes nine years ago.

Hands that had tried to kill him, too. Yet had failed because one kind soul, a man who had known his mother since their childhood, had found him and kept him safe.

“Calm down, lad,” whispered a rough but gentle voice – a voice that had comforted him since his mother’s death. His uncle’s clear and true voice, not that of one of the mob from long ago.

“Its alrigh’. Its just me.”

“U-uncle?” whispered Tristol, daring to lift his head slightly. His eyes adjusted to the darkness in his room and he saw his uncle’s familiar silhouette against the blackness.

“Aye,” replied Warrek, easing himself down onto the other end of the youth’s bed. He sat there in silence for a moment before he sighed, asking, “Ye dreamt about ‘er again, didn’t ye?”

Tristol just nodded in response, his throat too tight to allow him to speak. It wasn’t the first nightmare involving his mother – nor the first his uncle had awoken him from.

“Righ’.”

His uncle nodded to himself and they sat there in silence, Warrek’s scarred fingers plucking at the quilt his wife had made. Tristol shuddered where he sat, terror tremors from old fears rushing up and down all his limbs even as he unfolded them.

“Ye’ve got to get over i’, lad,” said Warrek after a moment. “Its been eatin’ ye up from the inside for too many years.”

“I can’t,” choked Tristol. “I can’t forget…”

“Ye must, lad.”

“No!” hissed Tristol. His fists pounded down into the bedding beneath him and he was careful not to shred it with claws he just scarcely realized he had released. His temper flared up, fueled by old anger and the fact that a good memory of his mother – one of the few he had the power to recall, in fact - had been tainted by the nightmare of what had happened to her. But he fought that rage down, fearing again what might happen if he allowed himself to loose it.

He fixed a harsh amber gaze on his uncle and growled, “You weren’t there. You didn’t seem them advance on her, didn’t see them grab her and lash her to that tree.” His fingers spasmed and he folded them, his unsheathed claws seeming to burn against his palms. “She didn’t scream your name as she died.”

“Tris…”

“Where were you?” snarled Tristol, losing control of his rage for a moment. He fought it back down; clenching his teeth together so hard his canines drew blood from his lower lip. Then he looked back up at his uncle and hissed, “Where were you when they took her from me, Uncle?”

Warrek blinked then said sadly, “I didn’t know, Tris-lad. Ye can’na blame me for tha.” He ducked his head and continued, “I’m sorry I was’n there. If I had been…ye wouldn’t have seen tha. It wouldn’t have happened.”

“And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?” sneered Tristol. “You weren’t there and so it did happen. And I’m sort of glad you weren’t there. I wouldn’t know the bounds humans will go to and pass when they hate something if you had been there.” He found he regretted those heated words in the next instant but they were already spoken. They could not be taken back now.

Warrek gave his nephew a sad look for a long moment at those impulsively spoken words. He then reached out a hand to touch the youth’s shoulder, but Tristol jerked away from it like it was a scalding brand. The rattling hiss he uttered as he did so rang in the Constal’s ears for a long while afterwards, reminding him sharply of that other half of his nephew’s heritage that he could – and did - ignore at most times.

“Alrigh’, lad,” he said wearily then. “Alrigh’. Just remember, it’s not me ye need to be mad at. Its them monsters that burned yer mother.”

“I can be mad at whoever I choose to be mad at!” spat Tristol stubbornly. “Whether it’s you, them, Horac Ahnall, or the whole damn world!”

“Aye, ye can. But just remember who i’ really is yer s’posed to be mad at. ‘Cause when ye forget tha, ye’ve got no real reason ter be mad anymore.”

The youth just glowered at the older man in response to that, his eyes two amber jewels in the dark. After a moment or two, Warrek sighed and rose to his feet, standing by the bed for a moment before he approached the door. He stopped as he reached it and said softly, “Ge’ some more sleep, lad. An’ remember what I said.”

He opened the door and Tristol saw his aunt Amely standing there, his uncle’s cloak pulled tight around her thin frame and her blonde hair wild about her face. She looked confused and he knew his uncle coming to pull him from his nightmare had probably awoken her. He was not glad of having drawn her from a sound sleep, as she had only ever been kind to him, and the guilt that he’d woken her smoldered out some of his rage. But not all of it – never all of it.

Then the door eased shut and he was left in silence and the dark. Tristol’s eyes gleamed in the darkness and a cat-like hiss filled the room after a moment.

“I’ll remember, Uncle,” he hissed, his voice only just loud enough to be heard by himself. “But I can never forget what they did. Never.”

DeVorn · 04-25-2008, 09:18 AM

State-ordered critique follows. Please excuse if I'm a bit of a hard-ass.

There's quite a few grammar issues and general language issues but those are mostly things that would be covered in another draft; you're competent at your craft, although I think you could improve on handling the rudder of a story as you steer the audience through the character introductions. "Kid gets bullied for heritage" is probably the oldest story-starter in the book, and you aren't doing anything new or interesting with it; then you proceed to pile on ye olde 'the law is on MY side' trope, which pretty much destroys any of the sympathy we'd have for the main character (he might be enough of a martyr to make Jesus Christ look like Hugh Hefner, but when his uncle is a doting constable the immediate perception of the reader is that he doesn't have it bad at all--and if he complains about it, he's a whiny little twit).

Also, please-oh-please-God don't do the 'kids are so kyooote! They replace Rs with Ws!' thing. Reading that sort of thing is like having a blender filled with salt-water shoved up my nose and set to 'frappe'. And I'd stay away from the old 'golden times! yay!' trope with the mother scene in general; you could indicate to us that they had a very positive and good relationship through much more subtle means then an 'aww'-ish scene involving his mother telling us just how beautiful he is. As well as the grim spectacle of her death (actually, I'd recommend leaving her death up in the air as far as the means; it's far more nefarious to never explain how she died, just that it was in an incredibly nasty way).

Finally, I advise against making cat-ears a metaphor for racism.

terion · 04-25-2008, 05:21 PM

All is so noted. But on the cat-ears, in this world, it IS racism. People don't like and frequently try to kill Feloinains (the only reason Tristol isn't dead is his uncle and a few others, just to note).

Ungood · 04-25-2008, 05:56 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by terion

Section One

Horac swung his fist at Tristol, knuckles connecting solidly with the younger boy’s cheek. The slightly taller fifteen-year-old was slung to the ground by the fierce blow and landed face down in the trampled grass and dirt beneath their feet. As he fell the cap he’d been wearing flew off, letting loose a curtain of shoulder length dark hair and a pair of furry ears that were far from human.

When he pushed himself up onto his knees, trying to regain his feet, Horac’s booted foot slammed ruthlessly into his stomach. The blow knocked the air out of him and Tristol collapsed back into the dirt with a pained gasp, body curling up instinctively into a ball to shield against further blows.

“Bastard,” he spat when he regained the ability to breathe, blood and spit dripping from his bruised mouth as he managed to push himself upright. Intense, sweltering rage welled up within him but he fought it down, sweeping aside the image of the bully sliced up as neat as a pig on the butcher’s block. “Kicking a man when he’s down – ”

“Man?” sneered the burly seventeen-year-old with close-cropped blond hair plastered against his forehead by sweat and hate glinting in his blue eyes. “What man? All I see is some no good half-breed scum!” He kicked out at Tristol again, this time aiming at the other boy’s head. The youth saw it coming out of the corner of his left eye and rolled away from the blow. Horac’s foot breezed by his nose and he silently thanked the gods that the kick hadn’t connected. He would have likely been left unconscious or delirious if the blow had and then…well, he’d rather not think of what the bully might have done to him then. At least when he could think clearly, he could try and figure out some way to get away.

“Who’s worse?” Tristol asked as he managed to gain his feet, keeping an eye out for more blows. His inhuman ears were laid flat against his skull, nearly hidden by his hair because of the dark fur covering them. “Me, who was born cursed, or you, who gets his kicks from beating up those weaker than you?”

Horac’s face turned purple in rage and he growled, “You’ll pay for that, half-breed.”

Ok I stopped here.

As cute as this sounds and has this little "Let me explain this to you" type of situation, in reality this never happens.

No one "talks" once the fight starts, not in high school, at most there is cheering and yelling and all manner of crap, but there is no "Exchange" the exchange happens later in the "Hall" not in the fight field.

This fact alone made this feel unbelievable beyond words.

Which leave me feeling that you are trying to write about something you know nothing about, or more to the point, have clung to stereotypes about, and that makes this feel faker then a porn stars silicon implants passing themselves off as breasts. (Yes... that was a Stereotype, and the pun was intended)

With that said, I have no idea what the other people are talking about, as I have not read that far.

Anyway I would focus on making what you do have jive with what people can recognize as reality.

Ungood.

terion · 04-25-2008, 06:28 PM

Well you're the first person to mention that. And technically at that point the fight is over.

Ungood · 04-25-2008, 07:10 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by terion

Well you're the first person to mention that.

I am not surprised.

Quote:

and technically at that point the fight is over.

If the bully is still kicking him, the fight ain't over... FYI...

Ungood.

terion · 04-26-2008, 09:58 PM

*sigh* Horac's been bullying Tristol for a long time. Through that I figure they have a sort of relationship, even if its a bad one, and some conversation thrown into the fight seems like something (with that) that would work. At least to me.

Ungood · 04-26-2008, 10:30 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by terion

*sigh* Horac's been bullying Tristol for a long time. Through that I figure they have a sort of relationship, even if its a bad one, and some conversation thrown into the fight seems like something (with that) that would work. At least to me.

Most people would not think twice about it, if that is what you are wondering.

Ungood.

terion · 04-26-2008, 10:58 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Ungood

Most people would not think twice about it, if that is what you are wondering.

Ungood.

Good to know. So far as the beginning chapters go, I feel that point sets up just what their relationship is and how Horac feels about Tristol. And that's the only place it can be. Even if its not real enough like you say, its just the only way that conversation and scene seem to fit.

Ungood · 04-27-2008, 08:52 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by terion

Good to know. So far as the beginning chapters go, I feel that point sets up just what their relationship is and how Horac feels about Tristol. And that's the only place it can be. Even if its not real enough like you say, its just the only way that conversation and scene seem to fit.

It is not realistic, but, it is "accepted", part of the Artistic License and "Hollywood" effect.

Ungood.

Vee · 04-28-2008, 06:41 AM

Change "burly seventeen year old" to "burly teenager" and you wont throw me off so much and send me down the path of dislike.

Other than that I don't mind what I read, unlike most new fantasy authors (on this site) you have not picked crap fantasy names.