_-TJ-_

Hello all, first time posting something of my own. Hope I did most everything right.
feedback MUCH appreciated.



****************

Dim was the music which flowed through the night's air, out from the Cathedral of The Damned--The Hall of Sorrow. Perverse symphonies and sadistic orchestras echoed off black walls, the requiem's playing for one cause, one master. He sat upon his brimstone throne, every part of him grey, black and dead; every thought in him of sorrow and grief--he was damned, and thought only to embrace his feelings with music.
The cathedral looked like carved obsidian stones, every room was full of sedated ill whisperings, and the main hall was immersed with a tell-tale glare of blue emitting from a dark figure. The Cathedral was abandoned, released from all whom did not respect the music which drove feelings to the edge and killed from the inside. The music was like slow painful death enveloped in the most ecstatic feelings of the human soul - To step into the sorrow which consumed the black cathedral, was to walk willingly to a grave embrace. There was but one living thing inside the beautiful prison; a black skinned elf, with snow-white hair. And it was this eve which she would prepare herself to court again the master she had served but knew hardly nothing of.
"Claret," A dark voice echoed through the foundations of the Cathedral. It was the shadowed lord calling with his sad but commanding tones. Slipping on a pair of crimson moccasins and pulling a red and white patterned veil over her smiling face, Claret smoothed out the velvety curves of her clothes, and combed again her youthful white hair. He was calling for his maidservant, calling for more blood wine. This time perhaps he will let me stay, Claret thought as she tip-toed next to the open doors of the hall, alive with shadows and the remnance of music. "We are both very thirsty. . . ." Claret grinned from beneath her veil, her smile glistening with eagerness. ". . . I know."

Her presence brought something to the room, to the Cathedral. It was her litheness, her every action and reaction; the scent of where she was and had been, the small glisten of red in her eyes: bloody, beautiful, and dangerous. At times even she knew that she intoxicated him, she could feel his heart; it was as if the room itself pulsed with every beat. Every feeling that was his was the rooms as well: The cathedral was a part of him in music and in itself.
She walked in as she had every other time for the past five hundred years--head down, white hair flowing, deep dark skin showing out from folds of red and purple clothing, and a crimson light glowing softly from her eyes. She crossed the large room, passing various stringed instruments, a pitcher of wine gently held in her ebon hands. She hardly made a single sound but, when Claret had entered the room, the master knew well: She was the only living thing in the Castle, the Keep, The Cathedral of the Damned.
Her existence in the Cathedral was always felt: her presence was yet another beautiful thorn, once again threatening change to the eternity which the dark one lived. "My Lord, I have come," Claret said softly kneeling beside the left side of a great brimstone throne.

Claret could hear him inhaling, something she had come accustomed to and loved much too dearly. She believed he was smelling the perfume she used: Purple Dragon.
". . .Thank you," a low, vibrant, kindly voice half whispered. Claret's eyes gazed up to the man daringly as she began pouring in his goblet the dark red wine. The lord of Shadows they called him, and of Murder. She often wondered what fair face lurked unseen behind the shadows of the dark black hood which he wore. He must be a handsome man to have such beautiful eyes, They glowed; such beautiful sapphire's were not known in the world. The dark one's eyes shone out from the darkness but revealed nothing . . . there was blue light that stirred in the winding path of his soul, echoing his vast power.

Claret always served the master from the left side of his throne, though the goblet was on the right side. It was her mistake at first, but she dared not displease him. After a few times doing this she began to like it. Her white hair disturbing and destroying the black which was his form, she believed she could shed light on him, but if the dark one groaned it was dangerous. Claret had been the first to feel hatred from him.
Of all the others he had killed, when he vanquished all that lived in the Cathedral, he was never angry. It was as if Murder were his occupation, something he did naturally. No hatred, no rage, just a snap of the neck and they were set to sleep, to dream and decay.
Claret had come close to the man's hood, her white hair draping down onto his black form seated lazily in the throne. She poured the wine but at the same time she could hear him, feel his heart beating. Suddenly she felt him shudder amiss a groan, and then pain . . . and fright! The black gloved hand which had layed to death so many came up and caught her hand.
It was hate, wasn't it? Why else would he stop her advances. Fifty years ago it occurred . . . was it because of her race, was she not pleasing to him? She had served him willingly for five hundred years and each and every day served him willingly. When would she be let in, she wanted to know who he was, and why . . . why his name meant "Judgment."

Most would call him Death if they wanted to believe it, In truth Death never killed so many, so randomly. This man might have been innocent if he were possessed . . . but in those blue, radiant eyes there lurked intelligence . . . amiss a desert of sorrow.

******************

Red liquid gently dripped slowly from pitcher to goblet, slowly like water dripping after rainfall. The master's black gloved hand slid back, making Claret uneasy. Usually all he did was stay still, and even in that she could feel his breaths--and his heart.
"Why do you serve me . . . Claret?" the dark one's voice whispered close to Claret, who suddenly felt terrified, but remained pouring the wine.* "What have I done for you all these years you have served me?" blue eyes rose to Clarets ebon skin and white flowing hair. "Why does one so fair as thee . . . serve me at my left side. Always draping herself over me, intoxicating me, tempting me. . . . "
Claret felt the walls pulsing with the dark ones heart, never had they shook so wildly, almost violently. Claret's eyes filled with fear, wondering when the hand would come to her. She pulled back and dropped the pitcher of wine, and there was a thud as the clay pitcher fell cracking on the hard black floor. Claret took a step backwards, covering her mouth with both of her hands.
"Worry not . . . I shall not harm thee." The dark one's voice echoed out from his hood.
"I only wish to know thee, Lord," Claret stammered, "and . . . stay with you."
"To know me is to fear me, and mourn me."
"What of love?" Claret's voice rang through the heart pounding walls of the Cathedral. There was a silence; the beating walls fading and calming. Claret shed a tear from the episode that had just occurred. She bowed her head and began to leave.
"To love me . . . is to die." A sad voice echoed through the Hall of Sorrow.
Claret left with a trail of silent tears.

A day passed and Claret was not called, she had begun worrying about him until she heard a solitary instrument playing. It was the violin, and after hours of listening to its sorrowful notes came the Cello. He called down the stars to him with it and turned time at his will, truly there never was a more talented musician than her Lord. It was painful, hearing his music . . . it turned her to tears, it brought her closer to death each day.
"Claret," the masters voice rang.

Perhaps today . . . he will let me stay, she thought to herself, and wiped away her tears.

Approaching the room she stopped and turned her back against the wall--she was crying again. Why couldn't he let her be with him; what evil had she done? . . . She didn't mean to earn contempt. Was she not pleasing to him . . . did he not desire her? If she could not be trusted with his heart, then she did not want to be alive. She loved the master she knew nothing of, and today she would find out if his words were true.
Claret walked into the room, hands clasped in front of her as she stared to the ground. She then walked up to the front of the throne and stood there, face lost in the shadows of white hair.

"Claret. .?" The Shadowed One's voice softly whispered. Claret's face turned from side to side contorted in sadness . . . and she quickly walked up to the throne and climbed in, clasping onto the dark one's left shoulder. She embraced him, afraid but with love for him; the one who spared her, the one who's veil of secrecy rivaled all others.
"Who are you?" Claret muffled, her face pressed against the dark ones shoulder. At first there was nothing but the beating of his heart and random twitches from toned muscles, but then she felt the masters right hand become disturbed and restless. When she thought death would take her instead she turned her face and saw his--he had pulled off his hood.
"I am Mace. . . . A slave to this world, and a weary heart that has had many affairs ending in agony . . . and sorrow. Claret . . ." Mace turned his head and blue glowing eyes looked forward to the large window facing out to a forest. ". . . I have told my story to many, and those who knew me . . ." Mace's tone became grim in its pity, and sadness. ". . . have perished . . . by me or those who wished to kill me."
His face was beautiful, but not as Claret had thought. She stared at his beauty openly and could not describe the love she had for him now; how could a mere face turn one's emotions so easy, so completely. He was more fair and fowl than any creature she had encountered, more charming, and dangerous; exciting, and serious. No fair elven face could turn her from his grey beauty, not even of her kind were there such elegant faces. Why did he hide behind such dark veils; black, black, a dismal dreary wardrobe which never grew old, and only made more potent his authority and secrecy.
"Please . . . let me stay with you." Claret almost coo-ed in her dire plead. A black gloved hand rose and drifted onto Claret's head, and Mace began to pet her gently, lovingly.
"You tempt me so . . . Claret." Mace uttered amid the sound of his thudding heartbeat. Claret turned and rose up on her knees still in the lap of the dark lord, and kissed his grey lips.

Claret was one who took risks, and today she had risked her all so that she might know that her service was not all for nothing. She stayed with him for one hundred years, and died in the arms of her lover, and father of her children. His name was Mace Ghersidi, Lord of The Hall of Sorrow, and Master of the great Cathedral. Some would call him Death . . . but with him she had brought life into the world with her fifteen children, all of which she gave away with tears. She loved them as she loved him, but would not let her children suffer the fate of the Cathedral . . . to be locked away in sorrow,--only she could understand, only she could bear his painful song. She was the only living thing within the black walls of the fortress . . . Claret of the Cathedral.


~Kill them all!~ a foul sinister voice echoed off the walls of the Cathedral. Mace's dark form drifted from one side of the room to the next, lifting up various stringed instruments and putting them in his cloak. Finally the dark one stopped and looked out the window to the forest awaiting him. ~Kill them all!~ the voice bade from within, and restless shadows came alive all about the Cathedral, finding and slowly beginning to orbit The Shadowed One.
"Farewell, . . ." Mace uttered out from his black hood, a great scythe appearing in his hands as he turned to his throne.
Blue electricity spun up and down Mace's arms as he gripped the Scythe tightly and brought it up with both hands.
"Death Spike!" the dull, commanding words echoed and bounced off the insides of the Hall of Sorrow. The Scythe struck the ground, slipping in as if the black obsidian floor were soft, calm water. A ripple of air flew out from the spot where the great scythe struck, and from the far side of the hall the brimstone throne exploded into a thousand pieces, a scythe blade protruding from the ground beneath it.
As quickly as the scythe had come it disappeared--Mace had stayed in the Cathedral for little over six hundred years, a short while but it was enough he thought. It was time again for his feet to carry him to the next place which offered him a release from the immortal life his mortal soul was forced to live. Onward to the next deadly embrace, and with every breath he did not take he wasted them on words for those he hated, and those he loved.

A dismal cloaked wanderer could be seen from the window, walking over the bridge and down a dusty overgrown road. In the air a sad music played from a stringed instrument, it pulled and pushed the air as it pulled and pushed the powerful soul of the musician.
Never had an instrument been able to generate such emotional power when wielded by him. It was fate that the power of music be given an opposite; an evil to its good, a yang to its ying, a sorrow to its joy.
A blue glow barely seeped out from Mace's black hood, eyes were half shut from the ecstatic musical embrace as he wielded the stringed instrument; pulling and pushing, tossing and turning the world within the wake of its sorrowful chords. What pleasure that resided within those chords Mace did not know. He knew only that it moved him onward, to the next kill, to the next love . . . and to his death which loomed over him from the heavens blind.
The dark one stopped momentarily, holding a veil up to his face and taking in the scent of a rare perfume. . . . His black hand then placed the veil deep inside his cloak where lurked things of its sentimental nature.
Claret had died and the words which Mace had uttered to her before had been correct. Claret had died, and Mace watched her die. She decayed in his arms under the blue gaze of his eternal eyes: Eyes that looked for a soul where only a corpse did lie. She was but one of hundreds of lovers all beautiful, all fair . . . all precious to him . . . and they all died. With every one he had ever loved it was death which separated them . . . how ironic, when it was death which the dark one wielded. Mace walked down a dismal path he could not change, and this time it was riddled with visions of a dark elf woman in crimson garments with the most beautiful airs about her. Mace would have stayed in the Cathedral for many more years but now memories of Claret haunted him. Claret was dead . . . but her memory would haunt Mace for times to come, as all the rest had done.

[end set]

Solaris

Too much darkness makes my stomach heart. It's an endless allusion to the pain and suffering the narrator has.

All things should have a purpose, including evil. That purpose is what makes even evil, look beautiful. And I feel that when darkness is portrayed in reference to life, those who live in darkness, there should be some light to show that they can truly exist. That light being some form of hope.

Penelope

I have to say that morbid ranks highly with 'creative' writers. It's a small market with tons scrabbling to claw their way in. I liked the Purple dragon but I'm biased. Your descriptive talents could be put to better use and possibly find their niche in a less busy genre. 'decayed in his arms' .. now that is excellent .. liked that image a lot. I'm not a fan of horror or supernatural or fantasy or whatever you call this but I can see a flair for writing.

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Poetry Editor @ Sacred Twilight

Solaris

It is a clever piece. But it should flow like a wave with highs and lows, grasping at moments of hope.

"Most would call him Death if they wanted to believe it, In truth Death never killed so many, so randomly."

I would change that to..

"Most would call him Death if they wanted to believe in truth, yet Death never killed so many...so randomly".

or

"Most would call him Death if they wanted to believe, yet Death never killed so many...so randomly".

I would change a few other things to make the evil look necessary.

Aevin

Tooterfish popkins aside, this is a very good story. Throughout, your use of imagery was so powerful that a focused reader could not help trying to quote something every couple lines. The problem is, most readers ARE NOT going to focus enough to pick up on all of this. The plot of the story is good, but not THAT good; imagery and tone are the high points. In fact, your dark, depressing tone is so successful it may scare some readers off. Generally, your punctuation and grammar could be improved, (I know you worked on this, but improvements can always be made). Also, you should try to make all your sentences flow more easily--be a friend to the reader; the easier it is to read, the more people will read it.

This is an excellent introductory paragraph, one that immediately sets the dark tone of the remainder of the story with such density that there is no doubt what type of story this is. I especially enjoyed the "perverse symphonies and sadistic orchestras," as if the music were filled with pain that matches the underlying pain of the characters, (which your second paragraph expands on). However, the first sentence needs a little reworking, I think. I understand your desire to start with the word "Dim" for purposes of tone, but having the adjective come before the verb makes you sound like Yoda, or something. I'd suggest something like, "Dim music flowed through the night's air . . ." Also, be generally more careful with punctuation and grammar.

Cool. Contrary to the black skin described above, Claret seems bright and youthful against the ancient darkness you've described so far, yet she is very dark herself. The contrast works beautifully.

Wow . . . . I don't remember that one. That's . . . rich. Good stuff.

Excellent buildup of this dark character. I take it you mean "amid a desert of sorrow." I would suggest that you be a little more selective with your ellipses. The less you use them, the more meaningful and interesting they will be when you DO use them. Currently, they seem to be all over the place in the story, and I tend to gloss over them. Sometimes, commas are best. Sometimes, commas will supply the pause you need.

There is so much excellent imagery in this story, that my desire to be brief is turning out to be futile. Well, here beginning with "red liquid" is great--it immediately makes the reader think of blood, not wine.

I think this would be more powerful if you DIDN'T describe the man's voice here. Make the dialog stand on its own, abrupt, shocking. Let the reader assume what the Lord's voice sounds like--you've supplied enough characterization for any reader to make that judgment. There is no need to describe EVERYTHING--it can get in the way of the action and dialog. Give your reader a little credit; let him remember what you've described before, and use it in the later scenes.

This is drastic overkill on the ellipses. People simply don't talk like this. You could describe Mace's voice as being slow, thoughtful and broken, though even that seems unnecessary due to what we've seen of his character so far. Injecting descriptions between pieces of dialog is successful elsewhere, but here seems forced--you are rudely interrupting your own character!

Don't care much for this, I'm afraid. It sounds too cliche, too typical somehow. It's as if your intensely evil character, wrapped in power, suddenly shouts "I choose you, Pikachu!" (Extreme exaggeration).

You might make the ending, where you switch to Mace's point of view, a little more consise. After focusing on your delightful metaphors, similes and other imagery up to this point, I found myself wanting to skim once Claret was gone. You might omit the "death spike" section entirely, incorporating the good parts into the final section. The story is about Claret, and the action of that paragraph doesn't seem to fit the overall plot of the story.

Again, you've written an excellently morbid story here--one that is so successful in terms of its depressing tone that I wonder how many people will actually want to read it.

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Nazareth

[The cathedral "looked like"? Be possitive- explain exactly what it was- Readers need you to be sure of what you're writing about. You're the master- if you're not sure, neither will the reader be and as a result be less inclined to beleive your writing later on in story]

I will go over more later- too dang tired right now- got another storm comming on grrrr.

_-TJ-_

Actually I was trying something that was told to me. I described the cathedral in such a way that it has its own image, but the person thinking about what it looks like can make it up in their heads. Its much more reader friendly that way. Thanks for your help nontheless, I would love to have more feedback from you or anyone else!

I've changed my story quite a bit, and I love the improvements, if theres anything else you guys see, please send a note to me whatever it is!
thanks a ton everyone!

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Nazareth

Meh- that's fine- just convveying what a well known author and writing teachers suggest- You do want readers to use their imagination- but you need to give them solid basis to form those imaginations otherwise the writing falls apart for the reasons I stated- Now, one little area wont do that- but it can't hurt to be more specific consistantly.

Something like "Like an obsidian cavern, the granite walls glistened in the dim candlelight." Here your telling the reader the granite is black- dark and shiny" The way you got it makes the reader search their mind too hard for a picture & doesn't tell us what the walls are actually made of- we just see that the walls are "something like obsidian"