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Nicholas Eames Chapter Five posted 14 Dec 2004, 02:12 by Gable, Candidate

Hey there. Chapter 5 of my book. And feedback would be greatly appreciated. I put chapter 6 on here as well, so read away please. Some great feedback already has mentioned the opening segment a bit 'wordy' and I'll be sure to do what I can to remedy that. Please, bear with me though, and read on. And if anyone has any suggestions to make that first line more palatable, fire away. Thanks Hmm..actually, I just changed will be a bit more manageable now, hopefully. Five A Soldier’s Daughter IT WAS WITH considerable poise and a substantial amount of self-possessed equanimity that Demune Cartada composed for herself an expression of detached austerity in the face of the woman with whom her husband had shared a bed the night before. What bothered the young Empress the most about the Countess Dinantes of Halluel was not her enchanting alien beauty, nor her maddeningly fierce intelligence, nor even that she was purportedly an exceedingly skilful lover (though she did find this facet particularily irksome), but that this raven-haired harlot, at twenty-nine winters, was eight years older than Demune herself. Who ever heard of a mistress being older than a wife? She thought, exasperated, still finding difficulty in coming to terms with the revelation that, after only just two years of marriage, the sanctity of their bed was being openly invaded by this dark-eyed she-wolf. She had been irate at first, appalled and aghast not only at Karmedron’s infidelity but at the matter-of-fact indifference the subject seemed to inspire in others. Her handmaid Eloise had been taken aback at Demune’s initial outrage and had tried desperately to placate her anger, beseeching her to seek wiser counsel before confronting the Emperor himself. And so she had gone straight away to the Imperial Mother, expecting Phydia to justify her indignation, but instead was met with a futile and denigrating attempt at consolation. “We all have our station in this world,” her mother-in-law had said, in a tone she often used that seemed to suggest that Demune was supremely lucky to have been granted her present status. “You are an Empress, my dear. A ruler. And through your husband you wield a tremendous power. This girl, Dinantes, she is as nothing to you. Insubstantial. And to Karmedron she is merely a trinket. A fleeting fascination that will outlive it’s worth before very long. Her duty is a trifling one—to slake the desires of a lustful monarch—while yours…is divine.” The Imperial Mother, in fashion with many of the upper-caste nobles in Endelas, was addicted to suima, a heavy narcotic out of Ruangoth made from a rare, powdered stone that emitted an intoxicating vapour when heated. There was a brazier beside her, a golden bowl of suima dust above the flame. One hand keeping her silver diadem in place, Phydia lowered her head and inhaled the fumes through a netted filter. She straightened when she was finished, her eyelids fluttering briefly before she continued. “Where was I?” Phydia asked, dazed. Spouting inane, patronizing drivel, you conceited bitch. “Divine,” she answered, politely. “Ah. Yes, of course. Divinity.” She seemed to savour the word for a long moment and Demune had fought to suppress the sudden urge to throttle her—to strangle the Imperial Mother until her face turned black. She had been a soldier’s daughter once. “It is your duty to guide my son,” Phydia was saying. "To protect him as only a woman can. You have had your time as lovers and now your responsibility in the bedroom is merely one of proving fertile. You must bear him sons so that our noble lineage may be sustained.” The Empress had listened with feigned interest as the older woman detailed her own experiences with such matters. “I even went as far as to have the first one killed,” she confessed. “Though it served nothing, merely prolonged the inevitable. The poor thing—low-born, like yourself.” Phydia watched her for a moment and Demune knew the Imperial Mother to be lost once more in a faraway reverie. “Poison,” Phydia had whispered then, quietly. So it was wherever she sought out solace. Karmedron was a righteous monarch, some asserted, though in some ways as fallible as any man. He was an Emperor, others declared, and so his appetites were more voracious than a single woman could satiate. He was still a young man, it was added, and this licentious hunger of his would surely dwindle with time. It was simply the way of things, she must understand. The world was what it was, and the will of Emperors was subject to no one’s scrutiny. But then there was the Lord-Marshal Teirkon, Karmedron’s uncle. He had ever been nothing but kind to her and had been genuinely aghast when she informed him that the Emperor had taken a mistress. “Simply awful,” he had avowed as he stood before a tall oak cabinet, pouring her a second glass of un-watered white wine. Teirkon had been preparing to leave the following day on a diplomatic mission to Pharon, to negotiate an everlasting peace with the new queen of that realm. They were in his private quarters, safely away from the prying eyes of the palace servants. He handed her the delicate crystal glass and she drank of it, feeling her disquiet ebb farther from her mind’s surface. “My nephew admires a paltry star…when the glory of the moon lies brilliant before his very eyes.” It took her a moment to recognize the compliment—the wine having already made its tingling course to her head—and when she did she smiled, demurely. “You are too kind.” “Nonsense, my dear.” He took a seat near to her on the sofa and she could smell the scented oil in his hair. “You have every right to be angry. This business of taking a mistress after one has sworn an oath of marriage before the Ancients is utterly ridiculous. It’s an outrage—an affront to the very notion of love, and to your own considerable magnificence.” He smiled. He really was rather a handsome man, even at twice her age. “Perhaps that is why I myself have never entered into such a union. I am all too aware…of how precious each and every woman can be. You are a very precious woman, Demune.” She barked a laugh, was about to comment that she wished her husband could see her that way, drained her wine instead. Teirkon had been quick to refill it, and they had talked for some time—about the intricacies of human relation and Karmedron’s stupidity and the nature of love and of lust. She was quite sure that he had kissed her first, and that only then had she reciprocated with a need and a ferocity that had surprised even Demune herself. He had deftly and capably removed her clothes while she had frantically torn at his, then had allowed herself to be carried into his bedchamber and to be set down upon sheets of pale silk and ultimately ravished, which she, in truth, had enjoyed immensely. There had been the compulsory pangs of guilt, of course, along with the momentary fear of being exposed in her infidelity, before conscience and consciousness were swept away by a desire she had not really wished to stand against. Only later, after all vestiges of lustful need had fallen away like a shroud, had the feelings returned, a surging of dreadful shame and self-loathing that blossomed in her gut like a sword-wound. What have I done, her thoughts had shrieked at her as she had fumbled her way back into her clothes. Oh Karm, what have you made me become? Teirkon, sensing her apprehension, had risen and begun helping her with the more intricate parts of her dress with practiced ease, all the while extolling as to what an honour she had bestowed upon him and assuring her of his discretion regarding their tryst, even managing to convey with flawless subtlety that he would be more than happy to be of service to her upon his return from Pharon, should she find herself in need of further consolation. He had confessed to her then that he feared the new queen in Astepha may yet reject Karmedron’s proposed peace, seeking retribution for her father’s death, and that war with the desert kingdom might ensue once again. In which case, he was careful to add, her husband would once again cross the Jade Sea and she would be left alone. In the aftermath of spent desire, however, his blatant guile served only to gall her and the touch of his hands made her skin crawl and her stomach boil in revulsion—of Teirkon and of herself. The ambassador-general had departed the city the following day, making it easier for Demune to bury all thoughts of him and of what she had done in the depths of her mind. A month had passed and her situation continued to worsen. The Emperor’s unremitting fascination with the harlot from Halluel continued to grow, while the intangible gulf she created between Demune and Karmedron seemed to the Empress to be as wide as ever. Even now, as a mistress emerging from the bedchamber of the Emperor at daybreak into the presence of the Empress herself, Dinantes carried herself with an infuriating dignity. She wore a diaphanous satin dressing gown the colour of dying violets and her unbound hair fell over her shoulders like a shawl of black silk. She was followed closely by her handmaiden, Samelle, whose expression upon beholding the Empress conveyed all of the panic and guilt that the Countess’ did not. She quickly regained herself, however, and fixed an icy glare at Eloise, standing a few feet behind the Empress in the wide hallway. The two of them were also steeped in animosity and had come near to blows over the priority of their mistresses in the laundries. Dinantes approached her—head high, patrician nose and piercing emerald eyes reminiscent to Demune of some voracious bird of prey. “Empress,” she intoned, her rich voice thickly accented, and bowed slightly. “Good morning to you. I came by to see if the Emperor’s health had improved during the night.” Indeed. “And has it?” The confounded woman had moved close enough so that Demune was forced to look up to meet her gaze directly. The Countess’ expression was an affected pout. “Sadly not. He is still very pale, and always wracked with those terrible fits of coughing, though His Imminence seems untroubled by it. I think he means to ignore his illness entirely until it goes away.” Demune found herself unconsciously studying the Countess as she spoke; inevitably comparing Dinantes to herself and wondering what is was about the other woman that so captivated her husband. Larger breasts, for a start, although Karmedron had professed hers for perfection on many occasions. Fuller lips, perhaps. An air of absolute confidence born from a life of luxuriant nobility. Enough to destroy a marriage, these things? What was Karmedron thinking? It didn’t make any sense to her and she had come to resent her husband for that—and herself, for being unable to confront him. Resent, however, was not nearly a strong enough word for what she felt for the Countess Dinantes, this malevolent enchantress from Halluel. Disgust. Loathing. Hatred, hatred, hatred. Everything had been so perfect. “You look tired, my dear Empress.” Dinantes reach out with delicate, olive-toned fingers to stroke the side of her face and Demune’s hands clenched into fists as she fought to hide her abhorrence at the woman’s touch. The soldier’s daughter in her yearned to break every tiny bone in those fingers. “Perhaps, in the Emperor’s company, you have become ill yourself?” Demune forced a smile. “If his illness were contagious, Countess, then I’m sure I would not be the only one afflicted.” The slightest hint of astonishment flickered over Dinantes’ features. “Of course,” she said, then the haughty smirk. “Nonetheless. Now that I have seen to him I think you will find the Emperor…in good spirits, despite his infirmity.” A small sound escaped Eloise, aghast at the Countess’ veiled audacity, and Samelle wore a mildly triumphant grin. Demune’s jaw clenched briefly and the soldier’s daughter screamed to be aloud to throttle this foreign swine. The Empress did her best to match the feral grin with one of her own. “Well then, I shall endeavour with my visit to relieve him of his illness once and for all,” she replied, then said, dismissively, “You may go, Dinantes.” While her maid seemed ready to burst, the Countess of Halluel merely nodded, the smirk still in place. “Thank you, your Highness, and good luck.” Bowing again, Dinantes gathered her robe about her and continued down the hall, Samelle in tow. Demune, unclenching her balled fists, was surprised to find that her hands were trembling. This is ridiculous! She told herself. I am an Empress and she is a whore and yet I am terrified of her! She is a noblewoman, born and bred, some deeper part of her chimed in, and you are a commoner. A soldier’s whelp. Your looks and your luck gave you everything you have and she would see it taken away from you. She turned to Eloise. “I will see the Emperor alone,” she said. Her handmaiden smiled wryly and was about to say something before Demune cut her off. “I won’t be long. Go to the stables, please. Tell them I wish to go riding this afternoon, then wait for me in my rooms.” The maid’s smile vanished and Eloise nodded, hurrying off briskly. It was commonly observed throughout the entourage of Demune’s servants and among the stable-hands and groomsmen of the Imperial stables that their beloved Empress went riding only when her disposition was either particularily good or exceptionally bad. Demune had been riding a lot of late, it had also been noted, though she had nothing at all to be happy about. The apartments of the emperor were not a network of antechambers and various rooms as was customary elsewhere in the Imperial Palace, but instead comprised only of a single vast chamber divided into three tiered levels by steps that stretched the width of the room. Bronze sconces were set into the walls, along with a great fireplace on each side of every level. Chain pulleys flanking the entrance connected to a number of iron-worked candelabras that were suspended at various heights throughout the chamber and could be lowered by the palace servants to be lit. Denied access as of yet to the Emperor’s room that morning, the servants had not yet stoked the fires, and so as Demune swung closed the heavy door behind her the only light to see by was that emanating from the giant, colonnaded windows that spanned the entire length of the distant wall on the top-most tier. Before one such window, his silhouette eclipsing the pale, white glow of morning light, stood her husband. He was turned away from her, Demune could tell, gazing westward across the sea. In the half-light before her squatted a large cedarwood table upon which lay an enormous expanse of weathered cloth. Drawing closer, Demune could barely discern that etched upon its surface was a map. Small wooden blocks carved and painted to represent armies and fleets and fortresses overlaid what Demune recognized as the Jade Sea and it’s surrounding realms and nations. Prior to her life in the palace she had never seen a map. Names of cities and countries—like Teregad, Cirgos, and Adire—had held no genuine manifestation for her. They had only been…somewhere else, faraway places spoken of by soldiers and sailors, by her father when he returned home after months of absence. Father. Her hand strayed idly down to the map, touched it’s surface at Endelas. Then moved west and south, over the isle of Ancha, where she had been married two autumns past, then traced across the breadth of the sea, past a host of makeshift flotillas, and into Saurisia… To the city of Corazahn. Where you died. A wooden figure. Green, crudely rendered into the shape of a soldier, signifying a ground force present in that city. She picked it up and held it before her, not really seeing it under a suddenly vivid rush of memories. So rarely in her life now—that of an empress—was there time for reflection on her past. She had not ventured into Low Tide, the theatre of her childhood, for more than a year now. Thought of her father most often during moments she wished she could have shared with him—moments that were less frequent now than ever, things being as they were. For the first time since her father’s death, some deeper part of Demune was glad that Gerin Cartada was not present to see what had become of his only daughter, and the thought sickened her. With a shudder she returned the piece to its place on the map. Her gaze shifted, lighting for a moment upon another city at the centre of the map, at the mouth of a great river that ran east into the sea. Astepha. Another name, another faraway place, though she knew it to be a place of utmost importance to so many. The very heart of the world for more than a million souls. Adjusted now to the muted light of the chamber, her eyes left the map and she made her way towards the upper landing. As she passed the massive, silk-curtained bed that dominated centre of the second level she noted with acute displeasure the excessive disarray of the emperor’s bed-sheets and had to once again wrest her thoughts away from the merciless butchery of a certain impudent countess. It crossed her mind to arrange with the head of her husband’s servants to have those sheets burned instead of laundered, that she herself might never sleep in them again. It also crossed her mind to burn the entire bed with Dinantes in it. A fresh morning breeze wafted in from the open windows, bearing with it the remote cries of seabirds and the familiar tang of salt that intermingled with the cloying trace of her husband’s morning offering to his Patron Emperor, Eurumex. A small statue of the long-dead Eurumex made of white ivory and inlaid with gold stood on a raised dais, a Chatrian carpet and a golden basin of still-smouldering incense at it’s feet. Demune stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, her head swimming in a clash of emotions for the man that stood before her. What to say, or not to say. What should have been said and what she simply could not. Karmedron had not yet moved. “If you’re waiting to witness the glory of the sunrise, I have some bad news for you,” she said, finally. A digression. “Your window faces west, and you’ve missed it entirely.” The emperor laughed as he turned around, and subsequently succumbed to a fit of coughing. He smiled broadly after regaining himself and stepped forward to embrace her. “Demune, I didn’t hear you come in.” His hands on her shoulders, he drew back to regard her face. His smile, she noted, almost reached his eyes. “What were you thinking about just now?” she asked him. And the smile died. Karmedron’s look became pensive. His eyes drifted away for a moment before finding hers again. “Come sit outside with me? Have you eaten anything yet?” She shook her head, no. “Great then, I’m ravenous.” He strode over to where a length of rope disappeared into the shadowed recesses of the ceiling and pulled once upon it. Within moments a host of servants had bustled into the emperor’s chamber and set about their well-rehearsed duties. The candelabras were lowered and their tapers lit, the sheets and cushions of the bed were removed and replaced, and the curtains drawn back and fixed to it’s carved, cedar posts. A serene-looking man with sparse, white hair approached the emperor and his wife. He was clad in the red-trimmed, white livery of a palace attendant and bore the emblem of the Imperial House—the crossed blade and moon—over his left breast. “Good morning, Lord Emperor. Lady Empress,” he intoned, his low bow taking in both of them, “it is a pleasure to see you.” “And you, Calemus,” Demune replied. “You look well. How is your son doing?” The old man smiled, “Exceedingly well, Empress. Thank you for asking. Balefor is a Captain, now, of the Imperial Army. He does his father proud and serves his noble Emperor well.” Karmedron laughed. “And if his ethic is at all like that of his father, he will doubtless be a general before long.” Calemus chuckled as well. “It is as the Emperor says.” They made their way outside onto the shadowed portico and gilded pillows were fetched and set upon the stone benches there. Screens of dyed linen were positioned to shelter them from the gusting wind as food and drink were brought at the Emperor’s request. They talked as they ate, of trivial things. There was to be a festival in a few days time to herald the newly dawned spring in the name of Heronia’s Bliss. On the first day of the celebrations the acolytes of the Idol Heronia went about the city, bequeathing at random matched sets of flowers from the gardens of their temple grounds. One such flower was bestowed to a man, while its twin went to a woman elsewhere in the city. The recipients of the floral gifts were then tasked—in the name of frivolous gaiety and the incongruous prospect of finding true love—to seek out the one who possessed the bloom similar to their own. Karmedron had, jokingly, asked if Demune had ever been given such a flower in the time before he had known her. She told him that she had not, and was surprised to discover how guilty such a seemingly innocent lie made her feel. It had, after all, been so long ago. A few years, anyway. Another lifetime and a different her. They spoke of the new stock of geldings that had recently arrived in the palace stables. Given first pick, even before the groomsmen of the cavalry commanders, Demune had chosen for herself a grey seventeen-hander, whom she had named Seafoam, but had yet to ride. When they were finished eating and their plates had been cleared, the emperor dismissed the servants and asked Calemus to inform the senators that he would be calling them to assembly later that afternoon. The aged servant bowed to the empress and expressed fervent wishes to see her again soon. Karmedron moved to seat himself on the bench beside her and was quiet for a long time. A grey-flecked gull swept onto the terrace, hoping perhaps to chance upon any scraps of the meal just past. After a meticulous, yet futile, scouring of the area he bounded up onto the marble railing, fixing them both with a sidelong glance before alighting once more into the swelling currents of the sky. Demune hadn’t felt Karmedron take her hand in his. He opened his mouth to say something but was seized by a spasm and coughed for a moment, his head turned away from her. “You are still sick,” she observed, with some feeling. Her husband shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just a cold,’ he said, recovering after a few subsequent coughs. “Not even a cold. Why is it people always get sick in the springtime?” “Perhaps because they insist on breaking their fast on windy balconies wearing nothing but a night-robe?” Karmedron laughed, shrugged as he regarded his attire, then grinned wryly. “Emperors don’t have time for colds.” Demune laughed along with him, despite herself. Some stray gust of wind slipped past the screens then, sweeping over them both and whipping tendrils of golden hair across her face. Karmedron reached out to brush the strands aside as the bluster died away and his eyes, blue as the distant sea, held hers fast. She could feel his touch, warm and delicate on the skin of her cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he said. Then why!? she wanted to ask. Why Dinantes? Why has she shared your bed these past weeks and not I? But she could not, she knew. Oh, she might have found the strength to ask the questions, but to bear the weight of the answers… Demune looked away, for fear her face would betray the warring tumult of emotions within, and hoped she managed a sincerely demure smile. Her husband said nothing else, and after a moment she felt his hand slacken in hers. When she looked back, his gaze was once again riveted to the western horizon. “I have something to tell you, Demune.” No… “It’s something I should have told you long before now, because it concerns you as well…” No. Stop! “…and I need to know how you feel about it.” Please. Quite suddenly, every part of her that had wanted to confront her husband, to question his infidelity and demand it’s explanation, was quashed—overshadowed by the avid desire to have things remain as they were. At least until he confessed it himself, Demune could pretend. She could sustain her threadbare pride under some semblance of normality and desperately hope, as Phydia had alleged, that all this would someday pass—that the allure of the Countess of Halluel would shortly fade, and in time things would be as they were before. She had to stop him, make him understand that she knew, but that…that what? That it was fine? She was okay with it? That she understood why it had to be this way? The very thought of uttering such things filled her with loathing, but what else was left to her, if not pride? “Karmedron—“ “We are going to war.” Shock. Bewilderment. Relief. “What?” she asked. She was still struggling to sort it out in her head, forcing herself to suppress the profound sense of respite swelling inside her while simultaneously attempting to digest the all-encompassing implications of what her husband had just told her. Some small part of her mind still sought to comprehend how Dinantes figured into this. Karmedron cleared his throat, a precautionary measure, it seemed, to be certain what he said next went uninterrupted by a hoarseness of the voice or a wracking cough, the trappings of illness. When he spoke, his voice was crisp and clear, bolstered by passion and solemn conviction. “A war is coming,” he said, “in which our nation, perhaps every nation, will be swept up. Consumed. I know this—I can feel it. And Kaladar…our Empire…is on the brink of something, Demune. A revelation.” As she listened, Demune thought of the map she had seen earlier. A scrap of weathered cloth, interlaced with erratic lines of dark ink. Countries. Borders. Scripted words, describing cities and their multitudes. Wooden figures representing murderous hosts of sons and fathers. A world made simple for the conquering eye. “And who emerges from this conflict,” her husband continued, “who stands when all others have fallen, will have a world to remake—to rebuild and reforge—into something better. A single, unified empire!” In her minds eye she could see the map burning, from its heart outward. Dry linen curling and blackening in the spreading flame, disintegrating into grey ash. Countries erased, names obliterated in the blaze. Dyed figurines smouldering, crumbling into cinders. What could be rebuilt of cinders? What reborn from ashes? Karmedron was watching her, visibly dismayed by the distress evident on her face. “You will see, Demune. I will show you. Don’t—“ he broke off, coughing, and glanced away. The shadows of the balcony had waned as the morning passed. The sun, climbing in the east behind the bulk of the Imperial palace, now bathed the city below in dazzling light and crept across the warming stone of the terrace, almost at their feet now. “The reason I tell you of this,” he said, his tone now drained of its former zeal, “why I asked to see you this morning…is because I would ask something of you.” She could see him searching for words, watched his jaw set. “War is a capricious thing, Demune. Much is risked and sometimes lost.” Where was this going? Her mind seemed sluggish, always one step behind what he was saying to her. “We both have suffered. Your father was a brave soldier, and was stolen from you. My father was Emperor, and taken from me. War cares nothing for station, or whether you are young or old. On the battlefield, the lives of kings and common men are all as candles in the rain.” Demune was seized with a chilling sensation of foreboding, like she was swimming, knowing that something lurked below the surface of the water. Like expecting a horse to fall on you from the night sky. “When a soldier falls on the field, Demune, another comes forward to fill his place in the line, to continue his fight. But when their leader falls…when an Emperor dies…” What was this? “There must be another Emperor. And what I need to ask of you, Demune,” said her husband, as the sweeping partition of sunlight finally overcame them, enveloping the Emperor and Empress of Kaladar in its drenching warmth, “is that you give me that Emperor…an heir to my throne. That you give me a son.” Shock again. Bewilderment. But nothing even close to relief. view post

posted 14 Dec 2004, 18:12 by Andrew, Peralogue

Very good! I have to say, it caught my interest. The only critique - your first 2 sentences. The first sentence is exceedingly verbose. After reading that first sentence, I nearly stopped reading entirely. But i'm glad i didn't! Second sentence also, i would suggest, is a bit too long. But maybe I only thought that given how long the first sentence was. Besides all that, i have to say the chapter was a heck of a lot better reading than I expected! Oh, one other thing - Obviously i don't know how the story starts, but for a 5th chapter, this felt an awful lot like a first or second chapter... view post

posted 14 Dec 2004, 21:12 by Erthaelion, Candidate

Not bad. Remember that all criticism is critical of the writing, not your ability to write. Which you certainly seem to have to a degree. The first sentence is long and impossible to understand the first time. You can mention lineage anytime. Mentioning names and places in the verbose way you begin with is unworkable. I found you have similar promblems elsewhere. The ability to know big words and use them properly isnt the ability to write intelligently. Anyone can use a thesaurus. Try using simple words that flow. Your prose is at time hard to read simply because your sentences are long winded. Using a simpler word would work better in alot of places. Try reading what you wrote aloud. Not the sentence, but an entire chapter. Wherever the flow doesnt work, simplify. Mieville, Marco, Erikson and our gracious host and reason we are on this form are all exceptionally gifted at this. Another good excercise is listening to books on audio. Lots. You'll get a really good feel for what great writers' rythems are. This is moderately heretical, is proven. Overall the story looks unreal. Basically, if you are a smart writer, you dont need to pound it into peoples heads with long, well crafted sentences. Pace and flow. This said, you certainly have talent. view post

posted 15 Dec 2004, 00:12 by Gable, Candidate

Hey! Glad you could read it. Thanks for the input. Yeah, I realize that first sentence in a bit lengthy. I AM a fan of those sometimes, at the beginnings of chapters, but I see what you mean. Some of the exposition regarding Demune's father could be moved to later in the chapter. The reason it may sound like a first chapter is because it is the first to deviate from the main centre of events, and the first time we are introduced to any of these characters, save Teirkon. The 'wordiness' is a good point. Very good. And I'll be sure to mull through, simplifying words when I can and keeping over-explanation to a minimum. Any other opinions would be fantastic. And as for the next chapter, it came a bit easier than this, and hopefully will flow beter for you. It, also, is a chapter that introduces a character for the first time. Anyway, thanks again. view post

posted 15 Dec 2004, 02:12 by Erthaelion, Candidate

I'm glad you see what I'm saying. It got alot better as it went though. The first few paragraphs....unless you have some explanation of these people earlier on, explaining their ranks(if its of any importance anyways) within the first few sentences really bogs this down. Slowly with the info drops! I have the same problem... Its so easy to say "My world rocks! Bow to it!" and want to explain every damn thing about it in three paragraphs. Reading the next chapter tonight, hopefully. If not tomorrow. AND, I post before Christmas, if finals' studying goes ok. We'll have competitions for who has the coolest Emperor... :roll: view post

posted 15 Dec 2004, 05:12 by Gable, Candidate It's on then. I'd better start fleshing out some Emperor chapters! Again, thanks for the read. I hope you'll enjoy chapter 6 as well. Oh, and I checked out that online writers workshop--very cool. I'll be joining after christmas. After some 'friends' and family have a go at it, I'll workshop every chapter before I start sending it off. My plan is, of course, to write the full book before I seriously try and sell it, but hey--it can't hurt to have it out there. Especially if I can get it to a very polished point. And yeah, when you post your stuff--I'm there for ya. Later. Oh yeah, I was talking with my bro--who's reading the same 2 chapters, and I think I'll take the part about her being 'Karmedron's wife' out of the whole first line. I mean.....I think we understand that later on, no? haha There. Thanks to this nifty edit function, I changed it. Sound better at all? view post


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