Love at First Fight

[0xDEADCAFE]

I interrupted my sequelling activities to write this bit of romantic silliness. This warped idea came to me yesterday morning while starting a new Amazon character and then pretty much wrote itself. It marks the first time I've tried to write from the point of view of a woman.

Apologies to the offended.

[0xDEADCAFE]

“C’mon ye little fekker, ge-e-et up!”

As if on command, several pieces of a Fallen One reassembled themselves, climbed to their feet and raised their spiked club.

(Left! Right!)

“H’graaaa!” they tried to say, but only got to about “H’gra…” by the time they were lying once again in a heap at the feet of the insane woman.

“Ge-e-et up! On yer feet ye nasty little man-thing.”

Like a marionette, the severed torso and limbs jerked upward into a fighting stance.

“H’g…”

(Low! High!)

“Again!”

Again the bloody stumps and broken bones became whole, and again they attacked.

(Groin! Neck!)

The huge, sweating, panting warrior dropped her two-handed great sword and bent over, hands to knees, catching her breath. While she rested so did the severed remains of the much smaller demon. After about a minute she picked up her sword, looked toward the Fallen Shaman standing several yards away and shouted, “Again!”

The Fallen Shaman nodded and waved his staff. Instantly a faint and strangely glowing mist began to rise from the corpse, and then the dead Fallen One at the woman’s feet arose once again. The shaman watched as the woman swung her great sword first through its groin and then, on the back swing, through the neck; both swings decapitating a portion of her target’s anatomy. And, by her will, and the shaman’s necromantic magic, the scene repeated again and again.

Even the demon witch doctor was shocked.

This woman had attacked without warning and in a just few minutes succeeded in slaughtering his whole tribe. And the way she did it: mutilating and cursing each one as they fell. When he was the only one left standing and fearing that his turn would be next, she hesitated. Then she stepped up to a nearby corpse and looked at him, like she was waiting for him to bring it back from the dead, which he did, which he was glad to do, at first. But that had been just the start of the series of brutal slayings that he was now witnessing.

Again and again she struck down the same undying Fallen One, with the same mechanical strokes, first from right-to-left, low and through the groin, then back left-to-right, high and through the neck. Each time the same perfect, powerful, cruel, killing strokes; each time the crazed look in her eyes as she commanded him to raise up the victim again; each time the shaman obeying with trembling hands and weakening knees in spite of his great and ever-growing feeling of nausea.

Except for this woman the shaman had never seen a human act this way, and few demons either. If it can be said of demons that they have even the tiniest shred of decency, even the faintest notion of a code of honor, then he found this human woman’s behavior starkly appalling. To the Fallen Shaman, she was, plainly and simply, a monster.

He had no idea of what a truly exceptional woman this was, or of her fame and reputation among humans. If he had, he would have known that it was a reputation not normally associated with madness and slaughter.

She was very nearly a giant of a woman, taller by a full head than any man in her village. Strength and quickness she had in equal parts, both matching her formidable size, and her fighting skills were matchless. She was, single-handedly, the warrior elite of her village and surrounding lands.

She was honored and known by all. She was welcome in any home for any meal. Parents encouraged their children, though mostly the boys, to be just like her. Men respected her and vied for the honor of fighting at her side in battle, although once the fighting was over, they were not so eager for her company.

To the people in her village she was a superstar, a living legend. But like all truly exceptional individuals, she was also viewed as a bit of a freak. Some of the women called her an Amazon behind her back, and others even less flattering things. But what she hated the most was when the men called her ‘sir.’

She knew it was not to ridicule her. For most it was simply a title of honor and respect which she had richly earned. But to her the word made a sound like a door closing, closing on a dark and lonely room containing her womanhood.

In her own way she felt like a normal woman. Yes she was an unusually large and powerful woman, but she felt that that was only on the outside. She could remember being a young girl bouncing on her father’s knee. She could remember having crushes on her drill instructors. And she could remember liking the men in the village and wanting to get to know some of them better. But she never did.

Sir.

What man wants to marry a Sir? Or hold hands? None of the bastards had ever even asked her to dance.

Like a normal woman, she had her girlish dreams of epic romance and passionate nights, knights in shining armor, but she also knew sensibly what was really important to her. What she really wanted was a partner, a mate, someone with whom to spend tender mornings and intimate walks, a friend who was more than friend. She wanted a man who would to talk lovingly to her, to coo over her, to call her, and only her, his “Dumpling.”

“Dumpling.” That had been her parent’s pet name for each other. She wanted what she had witnessed pass between her parents. Love, respect, affection, and a physical closeness that was at once both gentle and firm, like a bond between them, like they were two people with a single, shared heart.

Sometimes she felt she was still the small, supple girl that once bounced on her father’s knee, who could be carried sleepily up to bed, or tossed easily in the air, who had somehow become trapped in the tall, strapping body of a champion warrior.

Yet these were private thoughts that she did not share with others. And she was not completely unhappy. For most of her life she had been honored and praised. She was the girl who had graduated from the Rogue Academy at 13, five years ahead of most girls. At 17 she had beaten the best warriors in the village, and soon after, those in all the surrounding villages. She’d been a champion ever since.

Now, in her late twenties, she was a respected leader and warrior, and had many friends, if not one special friend. She lived with her mother, now widowed, and was fairly content with her life. But she felt her life was incomplete. She had been raised to be a good girl, a proud warrior, and a wise leader, and most of the time that’s just what she was. But there were other times that showed the deep cracks in her happiness, times when she became a maniacal killing machine.

What led to this most recent bout of madness was her recent trip to the barbarian city of the North.. After years of training and questing she had finally reached the level of accomplishment that granted access to the waypoints of the northern highlands, an honor attained by very few.

Having given up on the local men, she had turned to dreaming of the men of the great barbarian hordes, legendary for their size and strength as well as their courage and valor. She had imaged herself in the city: among crowds in the thronging markets, in the cheering arenas, the rowdy public rooms. She knew she would feel at home there. And among the many skilled and handsome warriors there would be one, her one, her one and only, the man of her dreams.

He would be beautiful. He would stand at least a half-head taller than her, though probably more. She would know him long before he ever noticed her. She would see him about the city and in all his deeds he would be perfect: friendly in his manner, honest in his dealings, a ready wit and joke always at hand, kind and gentle with women, the elderly and especially with children.

And he would have large hands, hands that could hold hers, firmly, gently and safely. And he would have large knees that she could sit on, and broad shoulders to lean against, while draping her arms around his massive neck, against which they would look long, slender and feminine.

On the day when he finally noticed her, the sun would be shining bright and the air crisp and sweet. He would drop whatever he was doing and come straight toward her. And smile. And she would nearly faint at that smile. And they would talk easily and long, and laugh often, and the day always ended the same way, her in his arms, being carried into a glorious sunset.

Such things are daydreams made of. She was not a silly girl to completely believe in her dream, but like a warm fur it was a comfortable blanket to curl up within, which she did quite regularly. And in earnest she waited for the day when the waypoints would open to her and she could make the voyage for real.

She had taken that voyage just one week ago today.

At first it was just as she had imagined. The new town and its new places were exciting. Among he men were many fine specimens. She entered some of the warrior contests and was already becoming well-known about town. But for several days she had not found him, and was feeling a little discouraged. She felt that these men of the north were her last hope. What if he wasn’t here?

And then one day there he was.

She had stopped by the stable of the local guard. She was fond of horses and there were some fine ones here. Rows of low tents served as the barracks. She saw him emerge from the flap of the nearest tent and walk over to his horse. He was magnificent: taller than her and much broader with a face to be carved in stone. He had dark chestnut hair like his stallion’s mane. Beautiful. But what was he like?

She hid herself behind a fencepost and watched him. For a few minutes he busied himself tending to his horse and arranging some items in a pack slung over its back. He treated his animal gently but firmly, and went about his work with clam confidence. Good, very good.

Then another man emerged from the tent and called out. He too was large man, strongly built with shining blonde hair. Her man turned his head back and smiled. The blonde man walked up to him and took him by the shoulder. Then he whispered something into the other man’s ear and they both laughed. Her knees went weak at the sight of his beaming smile. He had a good sense of humor and he was a good friend. She knew it! She smiled broadly believing that he must be the one.

She was till smiling when the blonde man leaned in and kissed her man full on the lips. Still grinning as he dropped his hand to her man’s buttocks and gave them a squeeze. By the time she had watched the blonde man take her man by the hand, lead him back into the tent, and tie the flap closed there was no hint of any expression on her face whatsoever.

But slowly that changed.

She began to feel like she had been kicked in the stomach by a horse. She looked around at the other men in the camp. Suddenly they all seemed different, strange, not for her at all but beyond her reach, beyond her wildest dream. She felt ridiculous for being here, ridiculous for setting her hopes on unknown men in a foreign land. And it burned.

And it still burned.

It burned as she stood panting on this field, on this day, among the torn and twisted remains of a small tribe of Fallen Ones. And at this very moment she was trying to remember where she was and what she doing.

Then she realized that something had interrupted her. It was the Fallen Shaman, the witch-doctor of the decimated tribe, who had stopped the endless parade of victims, who was standing there, watching her.

And still it burned.

“Again,” she called, but the shaman just stood there trembling.

“Again,” she screamed, desperate for another object for her fury, but the shaman just slowly shook his head.

“I’m warning ye. Raise-up this little shyte again or I’ll have ye’re hide,” she bellowed, changing her grip on her sword and holding it over her head in one hand like a javelin.

“Now!” she cried. But the shaman did nothing more than bow his head and wait for the inevitable.

The inevitable came as the point of the woman’s sword entering his body at a vital spot. The shaman fell in pain, praying for death.

Death came at the heel of the woman’s boot, planted firmly atop the demon’s windpipe, and then driven downward with brutal finality.

She then moved her foot from the dead shaman’s throat to the stomach, just above the point at which her sword had struck. Thus she pinned down the demon’s body while pulling out her sword, sunk to its hilt in the gaping wound. With a yank, she pulled it free, and, bending over the demised demon, wiped it clean of the demon’s blood on its own clothes.

As she stood back up and straightened her back she felt her fatigue for the first time. How long had she been engaged in that mad rant? She had no idea. But she felt a little better, less burning anger, more human. Surveying the carnage surrounding her she noticed that the sun was starting to set. The silent calm of the countryside and the soft twilight of the fading day seemed peaceful. She could feel herself start to rest.

She stood gazing toward the sunset for a good while; until she felt that it was time go. She was just about to start back when she saw it.

A small figure moved in the distance. It was far away and, under the large orange disc in the sky, difficult to see clearly. But there was something intriguing about it. At first it seemed to be barely moving but after a few minutes she could see that it was actually coming toward her. The figure grew as it approached and before long she could see it clearly enough to realize what had drawn her interest.

It appeared to have the general shape of a man, although not quite of the right proportions. Too broad at the shoulders and not nearly enough head. It was covered in hair and its long arms, ending in huge hands, seemed to hang down well past its wide, knobby knees. It was unlike any creature she had ever seen. It was clearly a monster of some sort, but also man-like: a kind of half-man, half-monster.

As it came closer it saw the woman and changed its course to head directly for her. It moved quickly, covering the ground with long loping steps, its arms swaying slightly from side to side. As it closed on her, the woman crouched and gripped her sword firmly.

“D’guhp,” it seemed to say is it approached. Its voice was deep and breathy; loud, but what could have been a whisper for such a great beast

When it came within arm’s length of her, its arms length, which was roughly twice that of hers, it reached out with one arm and, almost casually, clubbed her with the back of his arm and hand, swatting her with a motion that seemed effortless.

But despite appearances the force of the blow lifted the woman bodily off the ground and sent her and her sword airborne for a good ten feet. With practiced reflex she managed to land safely, but the impact of the creature’s blow stunned her, and although she regained her feet quickly, it was upon her again before she could pick up her sword.

The creature swung its arm easily across its body in an outward motion the same as before. She felt almost insulted. Did it think it could catch her with the same move twice? Easily ducking the easy swing, and noticing that the creature was male, she decided on a hard kick to its softest spot, which the monster did not even try to avoid.

“D’glup!” it bellowed and quickly clutched its privates. She was still quite close to the creature and saw clearly the change in the expression on its face. It seemed somehow less a monster as it, as he, winced in pain. She had hurt him badly, she could see that, and more, she could see something in the eyes that seemed almost human.

But she had no time for sympathy at that moment. Despite its ridiculously out-of-proportion, man-sized head, the creature was easily twice her size, and quite angry after her last attack. She gathered her sword and took her fighting stance, waiting for the monster to recover and charge.

It came at her much faster than before, with both of its huge hands outstretched. She side-stepped it and swung her sword over her head and downward towards the creature’s neck. This time it reacted to her attack and fended off the blade with its forearm. Its thick fur was able to stop the sword’s cutting edge, but the force of the blow still hurt and it retreated, cradling the one arm in the other.

“D’plplgh,” it mumbled as it circled the woman.

“What’s he doing,” she thought. Every demon or monster she had ever fought had had but one single tactic: charge. No matter their numbers, their size, or how close to death they seemed, none of them had ever had more sense than to come at her head-on. This fellow was obviously different.

“Yer a smart fella, aintcha,” she called.

At the sound of her voice it stopped and looked at her. Again she thought she saw something human in the face. Like it was surprised to hear her speak.

“D’fllh.” It said. It sounded almost like ‘da-fella’ to her.

“I wonder…” she started to think, but in the same instant the creature charged again, catching her off-guard. All she could manage was an awkward back-step and a weak defensive swing. The creature caught the blade in its hands and grabbed hold.

She tugged on the blade, twisting it slightly, and she felt it move an inch. The creature screamed in pain as the sharp edges of the blade sliced both its hands, but it did not release the blade. Again she saw the pain on its face, and something more.

She had expected it pull its hands away the instant it felt the cut of the blade, but it did not. Instead it held-on in spite of the pain, as if it understood that the sword was her one advantage over him, that his survival might depend on getting it away from her. She watched n fascination as she began to see something else it its eyes.

Intelligence.

That was the look in the creatures face then, and as they strove over the blade, she at the hilt, he at the point, gripping the blade ever tighter as it cut ever deeper into his hands, his face changed again.

Determination.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the face, the now so-human face, which showed pain and intelligence and even courage. Their eyes locked while the struggle continued. But it was clear now who would win this contest. The creature’s massive strength was just too much for the human woman. With one last heave he tore the weapon from her hands, and in one continuous motion cast it over his head, sending it high in the air far from the scene of the battle.

The woman was thrown forward to the ground as she lost her grip, and before she could fully regain her feet, she was swept in the air by another of the creature’s back-hand blows. She fell hard this time, twisting her ankle, and, weaponless, began to feel a certain desperation in her circumstances.

The creature, meanwhile, was tending to his wounded hands. He had found a certain weed and was rubbing it roughly between his palms. When he approached the woman again he recognized that she could barely stand on her injured leg. He pulled back one arm as if to strike her again but then dropped it after seeing her reaction to it. She had flinched. Then he did it again, and again she flinched.

“D’pfpft,” he said, and it sounded to the woman like chuckling.

The woman could scarcely believe her ears. Did that thing just mock her? Did he think she was defeated? Did it have mistaken impression it could tease her? She? Her people’s champion? The woman warrior that all human men feared and respected?

“If ye think I’m done ye’ve got another thing coming ya big oaf!” she yelled. She could feel the burning begin anew. And then it did something that sent her blood back to a boil. It turned its back on her.

“D’pfpft’pfpft. D’ppffft!”

“I’ll show ya to point yer arse at me,” she said. Ignoring the pain in her ankle she ran toward the creature and jumped on its back, throwing her arms around its neck and grappling with all her might to pull that tiny laughing head right off the huge shoulders.

“D’gluug,” the creature bellowed, in a tone that was definitely not laughter in any language.

The woman had him good. He flailed his long arms over his shoulders and around his back, but he could not get a hold of her. He tried grabbing one of her legs but she wrapped them around his waist and held fast. Choking and gasping for breathe he stumbled around, desperate to get the crazed woman off his back.

In his panic he did not notice how near he was to the embankment of a somewhat steep hill. Not until he fell down it, that is. And the woman went with him. Over and over they tumbled. At first the woman held firm to the creature’s neck, but as they were bounced and buffeted by the hillside her grip slipped and she found herself just grabbing any convenient fur and hanging-on for dear life.

About midway down the hill her grip slipped again and just when she thought she would be crushed under the weight of the creature on the next bounce, she found herself in the grip of both its arms. For the rest of the fall it held her close to its chest, curving his body around her to keep his weight off her and protected from the impact.

At the bottom they came to rest flat on their backs, each lying upon one of the other’s outstretched arms. Stunned and weak from the fall all they could do at first was tug feebly on their respective arms, each not realizing that they were pinned by the weight of the other. Simultaneously they looked toward their unresponsive arms, saw each other, and caught one another’s gaze.

“D’ppft, d’ppft” the creature chuckled.

All she could think to do was to use her free arm to slap him across the face as hard as she could. Which she did.

“D’mplg!” he cried and instinctively raised his free arm to strike her back. But when he brought it down toward her face, he paused, and held it there as if unsure what to do with it.

“What?” she said. “What did ye say, ye great beast?”

“D’mplg.” he said.

It sounded remotely like ‘dumpling’ and even though she knew it was just an odd coincidence of the creature’s guttural language she couldn’t help grinning.

“Did ye just say dumpling?” she said, and then she repeated the word slowly, “du-um-pling.”

“D’mplng,” he said trying to mimic the woman’s strange words.

“Well ain’t ye the charmer. I suppose a wee thing like me would be no more’n a dumpling to a great brute like ye’re.”

And she looked at the mannish eyes of the hairy beast and found them even more human than before. Then she looked at the giant hand above her face and saw the cruel gash that ran across the full width of it. She reached up and touched it softly with her fingertips. The creature flinched at her touch and gently pulled back, but she held his hand firmly.

“There, there dumpling,” she cooed, and gently pulled the huge hand down to her lips and kissed it.

The creature was puzzled by this gesture. At first he thought she might bite him, but something deep within told him it was different. It reminded him of something he had felt long ago, something that his tiny mind had forgotten completely, except for the feeling.

He had forgotten a mother who kept him fed and warm and safe for the first years of his life. Forgotten brothers and sisters with whom he had nestled for warmth on cold nights. The memories were gone completely, but not the feelings, which he felt again now.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“D’ssrgr,” he said.

A minute later they had managed to disentangle themselves and get to their feet. Apparently the fight was over and now both of them had a long climb ahead of them. The woman found that she could walk in spite of her injury and with determination began limping slowly toward the hillside. But before she could reach it, the creature stepped into her path.

He turned towards her and extended one of his long arms. When she did nothing he nodded toward his arm and then knelt down on one knee to bring his arm down closer to her level.

“What’s this,” she asked.

Then it dawned on her. He was offering to help her up the hill. This big, hairy, stinking, pea-brained, wild half-man was showing her more gallantry than any human man she had ever known in her life. And she liked it.

And she saw him then in a different way. She saw the small man-sized head on the shoulders of an enormous beast and imagined that the head belonged to the body of a normal-sized man that had somehow become trapped in the body of a monster.

“Well, ye’re certainly hairier and smellier and dirtier than any man I ever met, and I dare say a dern site uglier than any man I ever meant to take home to meet mama, but maybe you’ll do brute. Yes. Somehow, I think you’ll do.”

And with that she stepped forward and leaned on his arm for support, but before she knew it she was swept up into both his arms and being carried gently up the hill. She rested her arms on its furry shoulders and arms, and found the ride warm and comfortable.

He carried her up and over the top of the hill, but didn’t stop there. He carried her over to the spot where her sword had landed and collected it. And still he walked on with her in his arms.

And their path just happened to be in the direction of the sunset.

[jagermeister]

nicely done...the *** barbarians were hysterical.

[Gdog4evr]

I've never been a woman, not even briefly, so I don't know if what you wrote would be offensive, but I doubt it. I like it!

[BlueNinja]

Truly, beauty and the beast?

Amazon and the Wendigo?

It's a very funny story. Cute ending, too.

[Relapse_]

Nice story. It is what I seek to find in all stories I read here: Something different.

I've found the only way you can go wrong in characterizing a member of the opposite sex is trying to make them 'like a woman'. Or man depending on the writer. All women are different. All men are different. You can't go wrong making Duke like ballet or making Jessica brutish. If you try and make Jane 'like a woman', you make her less like Jane and more like a stereotype. It really comes across when someone is making a concious effort to portray a sex rather than an individual.

You did a really good job, though. It's easier than you think.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I've written a rather grim epilogue to this unlikely romance. I'll upload it in short chapters as I put the finishing touches on it. Part I starts in the next post.

Feedback welcomed. :xgrin:

[0xDEADCAFE]

Behind her, a burning teardrop falls from a blood-red sky. Before her, bloated and stinking, fly-covered and maggot-ridden, the semi-flayed body of a great, hairy, half-human, half-monster lies abandoned on muddy ground.

Its corpse has been skinned from neck to waist on both front and back sides. Both the hands and feet have been hacked-off and carried away. There are enough arrows in its neck to have choked it to death.

She cannot gaze upon this death in which there is no dignity. Staring above rather than at the gruesome remains of her beloved husband she sees him obliquely, seeming strangely small. The stubbiness of the arms and legs, the skinless chest, deprived of its protective hide, his luxurious furry hide, diminish him, as too her feelings seem strangely diminished.

It is a gut-wrenching spectacle, or should be, for the woman who had seen the seasons change twelve times by the side of this man-brute. For the woman who had taken this wild beast as her mate, a beast whom she had first fought against and then fought with, lived with, had children with, made a home with, loved, and beside whom she had hoped to die.

To see him now, dead and butchered, abandoned to rot between the hungry earth and the uncaring sky, should make her sick with rage and send her into convulsions of anguish. But her gut is strangely numb. As is her heart, which does not pump, her blood, which does not flow and her lungs, which do not fill with air. Her mind, searching for feeling, is lost in an unfamiliar and featureless landscape.

Perhaps it is because she had expected this. For three days she and her sons had searched for him in ever-widening circles. After the first day she began to worry in earnest and as their searching brought them closer to the human outposts her worry turned to dread.

Perhaps it was because this was the end, or because she had not prepared herself for the brutal certainty, the inescapable finality of the end. The end. The end of the life she began when she left her human home to live with a beast in a savage wilderness where death and killing was as commonplace as eating and sleeping. A savage world they had faced side by side. That was her true home, not a forest or a cave: at his side, where she lived and where she would die. It mattered not, life or death: home was at his side.

She had learned to accept death as a fact of life and lived each day as if it were a new lifetime, each night a sleep like death, each morning a re-birth. One day she would die; it mattered not: at his side, live or dead. Only one thing about her death was important, that they were side-by-side, fighting for each other, each giving their life for the other, dying in faith and honor and in love.

And now she would never have that death. Now the humans had stolen it from her as they had stolen a young girl’s happiness with their cowardice and weakness as that girl grew into a strong and brave woman. Her talent should have brought her greatness and a happy adult life, but their envy and their pride turned it into a burden, and with every new success came another weight around her neck. She hated them. As they stole her life, they now stole her death.

Three boys squat to her right, close to the ground and close together, their heads almost touching, like peas in a pod.

Now she starts off at a trot, away from the sunset, adjusting the great sword on her back. She runs quickly, but steadily. They have miles to cover but there is ample time. It is still light and it will be better to attack at night, while the enemy is sleeping. She knows without looking that her boys are following, but looks anyway, with a mother’s eyes.

The three boys are eleven years old though they look older, like young men. They are broad at the shoulders with thick necks and chests. Though they appear heavy-laden with muscle they run easily. While their mother runs at a speed that most humans could not match they keep pace effortlessly, even changing their gait from time to time as if out of boredom: sometime skipping, sometime leaping; at times even reaching down with their long arms to canter on all fours.

She has taken them hunting many times before, countless times since their birth, a strange one for a human woman, no doubt due to her husband’s inhuman seed. Eight babes, none more than a pound or two, yet all strong enough to survive and feed. But as they grew she could not supply enough milk and in time survival became a matter of fratricide; it was these three that survived.

From birth they grew up in a harsh world, but they were true survivors, and they instinctively understood the value of their brotherhood. On the hunt or in a fight they thought and acted as one. More than once a demon or large animal had surprised them in search of an easy meal; more than once it was the attacker who was surprised by the strength, speed and ferocity of their combined onslaught. As a rule their mother didn’t worry about them much.

And now, after checking on them briefly, her thoughts return to their quarry. It would be hours before they reached the nearest human outpost where they would likely find the killers. It would be pitch dark before they arrived but she would find the path. Even after twelve years away she knew the hills and forests of her childhood by heart.

She is going home. On she runs, barely aware of breathing or thinking, searching the darkening sky for she knows not what. Midnight is coming and with it her wrath. Her fallen husband’s family is coming for a visit and those who receive them shall not live to see the morning.

[Raith]

a very clever story. power in women, those novels are always good.

[RevenantsKnight]

I have to say, you never fail to come up with stories well off the beaten path. Your imagination and creativity are impressive, at least from the perspective of someone who can't write anything but contemplative, serious pieces that just barely dance around Diablo's plot. Anyway, I'd say this piece is a good read so far, with memorably original characters, excellent writing mechanics and an interesting line of thought running through the work.

A general comment: is there a reason why you use the present tense for the present the part of the story with the protagonist? It works; it's just...unusual.

Some more specific thoughts:

Before her, bloated and stinking, fly-covered and maggot-ridden, the semi-flayed body of a great, hairy, half-human, half-monster lies abandoned on muddy ground.

This feels like adjectival overload to me. Yes, it's vivid, but I'm not sure if it crosses into overly wordy. If it doesn't, it's probably flirting with it.

But her gut is strangely numb. As is her heart, which does not pump, her blood, which does not flow and her lungs, which do not fill with air.

Her blood felt numb? Interesting stylistic choice, but I think it doesn't work as well as the part with her heart and her lungs, since the comparison's not quite parallel given the lack of nerves in blood. Maybe if that was "still"...

Overall, interesting indeed, though it might be best prefaced with a stronger warning concerning the content (I expected much less in terms of grimness, but maybe that's just me.) Regardless, good job!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Thanks for very much for the kind words about my creativity. I guess I can admit to having a wild imagination. You also raise some very good points.

On present tense: this story has become almost a present-tense crucible for me. Initially I did the whole thing that way and was told summarily by someone who tried to read the first draft that it was basically unreadable. On my first full re-read I had to agree, but I think a lot of it was due to some really sloppy tense-shifting and lazy sentence construction; I definitely rushed the first draft. I am now in the process of revising it from top-to-bottom, deciding what to keep and what to rewrite in standard past tense. I am very glad to hear that you think it is working because some of this just screams out (to me) to be written in present tense. I think it is because I want the reader to identify really closely with the main character.

On the two quotes:

Before her, bloated and stinking, fly-covered and maggot-ridden, the semi-flayed body of a great, hairy, half-human, half-monster lies abandoned on muddy ground. My sense is that this one does work, although maybe just barely. "Semi-flayed" was a late addition that I probably could have omitted. I'm doing much more revision on this story than I normally do so I may be losing some of the original flow and feel. Some of it seems definitely over-revised to me.

But her gut is strangely numb. As is her heart, which does not pump, her blood, which does not flow and her lungs, which do not fill with air. I agree totally with you on this one; this really does not work. The original paragraph was even worse and I settled for making it more terse, but really it should end up in the scrapper. I am trying to set up a metaphor that I will return to later, but it's a mess. I probably should pick one part of the body for my metaphor and stick to it.

On grimness: this story only gets grimmer. Murder, gruesome murder, and even more gruesome murder are on the menu. You have been warned.

[0xDEADCAFE]

After hours of running they approach the human outpost, a small, square campground surrounded by a stockade fence consisting of stout upright posts sunk deep into the ground and spaced so closely as to form a continuous wall of wood. This wall was unbroken on three sides, but in the fourth there is a wide opening with no gate: the only entry or exit.

It is completely dark now and she leaves her boys in silence to scout the area. The stockade walls are tall but scalable. She quietly drops inside along one of the closed edges and crouches behind a cart piled with a workman’s tools. This outpost is much like one she once commanded. Two sentries patrol the entryway at the open end of the camp and two more rest on stools set in the nearby corners, ready to spell the walking guards on a predetermined schedule.

At the closed end of the camp are three tents. Two, long and wide enough to house as many as eight soldiers each, flank a smaller, square one positioned near the center of the wall. Three torches light that end of the camp; two on either side of the square tent, each about midway between the tent and the corners of the stockade, and one directly in front of the square tent, illuminating a guard resting on a stool just next to the tent flap. No other guards appear to be on duty.

The outpost commander would be asleep in the center tent. Together the long tents could hold up to sixteen soldiers, but there are probably fewer. She remembers that the standard contingent was one captain and fifteen soldiers; with five on guard duty that would leave ten, or about five in each tent. Having seen enough she slips back over the wall and finds her boys waiting just where she had left them.

“Watch Mama,” is all she says before turning back toward the camp and creeping quietly toward the entrance. Reaching the wall on the near side of the entrance, she presses her body close against it, listening. She hears the guard’s steps, counting them, marking the sound they make when they stop and turn. For several minutes she stands immobile, just listening. She will not act until she knows their movements exactly and can predict the optimum moment to strike.

The minutes pass. The boys wait with unconscious patience, instinctive alertness. Suddenly their mother darts across the opening and again presses her body flat against the wall, now on the other side of the entrance. The boys continue to watch from a safe distance. A minute more and she waves. They move quietly, hugging the ground, and quickly reach the spot on the wall from which their mother had just crossed.

She and her boys are in position now. They pass another minute in silence, immersed in the revealing noise of their prey’s movements. She wants both guards close to the opening but far enough apart so they will not be able to aid each other. The steps on her side get louder. They pause. She hears the shuffle of the feet of the guard as he turns. Now.

This time she makes no signal toward her boys, but darts suddenly inside the opening and seizes the guard’s head: one large hand across the mouth and the other on the wind pipe. She breaks the delicate tube between her fingers and tackles the guard. There is a quiet thud as the two bodies hit the ground. Then quiet. In the darkness a noiseless cloud of dust and dirt rises around them.

The guard dozing on the nearby stool stirs and looks up. Seeing his movement she freezes, her large body pinning the suffocating guard to the ground, her powerful hands muffing his dying gasps. From her vantage on the darkly shadowed ground she looks back toward the other side of the entrance and sees nothing. No guard. No boys. Only shadows. The guard near her comes off the stool, groggy, stumbling. “Hey, mate?” he calls, not loud, not concerned, not wanting to raise any alarm, just cautious and maybe a little curious, thinking the guard has perhaps gone outside to relieve himself.

Unaware of her presence he walks toward the spot where she lay invisible with her still-warm victim, who has by now gone quiet for good. She withdraws her long dagger from the underside of dead guard’s jaw and rolls slowly onto her back, staying in darkness, still on the hunt, intently watching the approach of the second guard. “Hey, mate!” he calls again coming closer until he is within a boot-length of her feet. Now.

Curling up like a snake, she rolls to her feet and lunges straight up at the unprepared guard. Her dagger enters his head beneath the chin and drives straight upward until it impales the hard inner side of the top his cranium. Again she tackles her prey, driving him down hard on the ground. She covers his mouth with her hands, smothering him, stealing his last breath, denying him his last gasp, killing him in silence and killing him alone. All alone, he dies in silence, unheard, unheeded, unnoticed.

After a minute, after an eternity, she again looks back across the entryway for the sight of her boys. This time she sees them, barely visible, huddled together in the opposite corner. There is no sign of the guard on that side or his slumbering backup. Good boys, she thinks. Four guards dead and no alarm sounded to disturb the sleep of their next victims.

[RevenantsKnight]

Overall, I thought this was strong, though not quite as good as your other pieces. There are some wording bits and passages that I thought didn't work as well as they could, and in a piece this short, anything that slows me down is particularly noticable. But in general, I'd still say this looks good. Some comments on Part 2:

This wall was unbroken on three sides, but in the fourth there is a wide opening with no gate: the only entry or exit.

If you're sticking to the present tense for narration, shouldn't that "was" after "wall" be "is?"

The stockade walls are tall but scalable. She quietly drops inside along one of the closed edges and crouches behind a cart piled with a workman’s tools.

While it is implied here that she climbs up the wall, I had to read it twice to be sure that's what happened. Maybe it's just me and my sloppy reading, but if other people mention this, you might want to clarify a bit.

At the closed end of the camp are three tents...Having seen enough she slips back over the wall and finds her boys waiting just where she had left them.

Parts of these paragraphs seem extraneous. While it is important, from her perspective, to get an accurate count of the enemy, I don't know if it needs to go to the lengths it does. For example, the sentence "Together the long tents could hold up to sixteen soldiers, but there are probably fewer" is unneeded since you say previously that each tent could hold eight men. Another note: the word "tent" gets used a lot in the above two paragraphs; if you can figure out a way to avoid this repetition (you could call them "structures," "shelters," "canvas [insert noun here]," etc.,) then I think it would flow a bit better.

She hears the guard’s steps, counting them, marking the sound they make when they stop and turn.

Minor note: since she first hears the steps and then counts them, I'd rewrite the sentence to read "She hears the guard's steps and counts them" since the use of "counting" implies that it's simultaneous with her hearing the steps. Also, I don't know if this was intentional, but the last clause reads as though the steps themselves are stopping and turning, since you use "they."

She will not act until she knows their movements exactly and can predict the optimum moment to strike.

"Optimum" doesn't strike me as a word someone narrating a story would say. It sounds too technical to me, though that might just be personal preference.

They pass another minute in silence, immersed in the revealing noise of their prey’s movements.

Heh...this reminded me of "Jaws," for some reason. Anyway, it's a nice bit of phrasing.

This time she makes no signal toward her boys, but darts suddenly inside the opening and seizes the guard’s head: one large hand across the mouth and the other on the wind pipe. She breaks the delicate tube between her fingers and tackles the guard.

Two things: I've usually seen "windpipe" as one word when referring to the trachea, and the trachea is actually rather hard to crush, because of its cartilaginous bands. Bruising the larynx is an easier way to eliminate someone's air supply (or so I'm told. I have no experience in the field of silent assassination.)

Seeing his movement she freezes, her large body pinning the suffocating guard to the ground, her powerful hands muffing his dying gasps.

Did you mean "muffling" there?

Unaware of her presence he walks toward the spot where she lay invisible with her still-warm victim, who has by now gone quiet for good.

Again, a minor inconsistency: the tense of "lay" seems off, and I'd change it to "lies."

She withdraws her long dagger from the underside of dead guard’s jaw and rolls slowly onto her back, staying in darkness, still on the hunt, intently watching the approach of the second guard.

Wait...when'd she stab him?

Anyway, I look forward to your next part. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Thanks for the edit. Some comments below.

If you're sticking to the present tense for narration, shouldn't that "was" after "wall" be "is?" Yes. I frequently find myself slipping into past tense during these extended present-tense passages, probably out of habit. Good catch.

While it is implied here that she climbs up the wall, I had to read it twice to be sure that's what happened. Maybe it's just me and my sloppy reading, but if other people mention this, you might want to clarify a bit.
I remember thinking that the description of the walls as "scalable" would imply that she would scale, or climb over, them. But I can easily add a few words to clarify this.

Parts of these paragraphs seem extraneous. While it is important, from her perspective, to get an accurate count of the enemy, I don't know if it needs to go to the lengths it does. For example, the sentence "Together the long tents could hold up to sixteen soldiers, but there are probably fewer" is unneeded since you say previously that each tent could hold eight men. I too thought it was redundant but left it in because I am trying to paint a clear picture of her expectations, which she uses to form her strategy, and which turn out to be fatally wrong. But I should find another way to do this.

Another note: the word "tent" gets used a lot in the above two paragraphs; if you can figure out a way to avoid this repetition (you could call them "structures," "shelters," "canvas [insert noun here]," etc.,) then I think it would flow a bit better. I'll see what I can do.

Minor note: since she first hears the steps and then counts them, I'd rewrite the sentence to read "She hears the guard's steps and counts them" since the use of "counting" implies that it's simultaneous with her hearing the steps. Also, I don't know if this was intentional, but the last clause reads as though the steps themselves are stopping and turning, since you use "they."
Actually, simultaneity is exactly what I was going for. The idea is that she is listening over a period of time and counting. I think a better correction here would be to replace the word "hears", which may imply a single instance, with something like "listens to."

"Optimum" doesn't strike me as a word someone narrating a story would say. It sounds too technical to me, though that might just be personal preference. I thought the same thing when I wrote it, but left it in. Perhaps "perfect" would be better.


Heh...this reminded me of "Jaws," for some reason. Anyway, it's a nice bit of phrasing. Thanks. I am trying to give the impression of an animal on the hunt. I guess Jaws would be an aexample of that.

... the trachea is actually rather hard to crush, because of its cartilaginous bands. Bruising the larynx is an easier way to eliminate someone's air supply (or so I'm told. I have no experience in the field of silent assassination.) Although I will concede the point (due to my ignorance of anatomy as well as silent assassination), do you think it really matters? It just does not seem like something that would most readers would even notice, nor does it seem important to the plot to distinguish exactly which anatomical feature of the neck she attacked.

Did you mean "muffling" there? Indeed yes. I shudder to think what the implications of her "muffing" the guard might be. (Where's the 'embarassed' smiley when you need it?)

Again, a minor inconsistency: the tense of "lay" seems off, and I'd change it to "lies." You're probably right. I knew I was guessing when I typed it. Time to review the old Lay/Lie tome of proper usage again.

Wait...when'd she stab him? Well, obviously at some point before she withdrew the dagger! (Sigh.) My bad. I thought it would be implied by my statement that she had withdrawn it. Thinking about it again I can see how it might jolt a reader into thinking they might have missed something. (This writing thing can be a real pain in the ...) Will fix.

Anyway, I look forward to your next part. Thanks for posting! Thanks for editing.

[0xDEADCAFE]

(This is re-posted with edits.)

After hours of running they approach the human outpost, a small, square campground surrounded by a stockade fence consisting of stout upright posts sunk deep into the ground and spaced so closely as to form a continuous wall of wood. This wall is unbroken on three sides, but in the fourth there is a wide opening with no gate: the only entry or exit.

It is completely dark now and she leaves her boys in silence to scout the area. The stockade walls are tall but scalable. She climbs the wall and drops quietly inside along one of the closed edges and crouches behind a cart piled with a workman’s tools. This outpost is much like one she once commanded. Two sentries patrol the entryway at the open end of the camp and two more rest on stools set in the nearby corners, ready to spell the walking guards on a predetermined schedule.

At the closed end of the camp are three tents. Two, long and wide enough to house several soldiers each, flank a smaller, square, one positioned near the center of the wall. Three torches light that end of the camp; two on either side of the square tent, located about half-way toward each of the stockade corners, and one directly in front of it, illuminating a guard resting on a stool just next to the tent flap. No other guards appear to be on duty.

The outpost commander would be asleep in the center tent. Together the long tents could hold up to sixteen soldiers, but there are probably fewer. She remembers that the standard contingent was one captain and fifteen soldiers; with five on guard duty that would leave ten, or about five in each tent. Having seen enough she slips back over the wall and finds her boys waiting just where she had left them.

“Watch Mama,” is all she says before turning back toward the camp and creeping quietly toward the entrance. Reaching the wall on the near side of the entrance, she presses her body close against it, stretching her sense of hearing through it, penetrating the enclosed darkness. She listens to sounds of the guard’s pacing, counting the steps, noting the way the sounds change when they stop and turn. For several minutes she stands immobile, just listening. She will not act until she knows their movements exactly and can predict the exact moment to strike.

The minutes pass. The boys wait with unconscious patience, instinctive alertness. Suddenly their mother darts across the opening and again presses her body flat against the wall, now on the other side of the entrance. The boys continue to watch from a safe distance. A minute more and she waves. They move quietly, hugging the ground, and quickly reach the spot on the wall from which their mother had just crossed.

She and her boys are in position now. They pass another minute in silence, immersed in the revealing noise of their prey’s movements. She wants both guards close to the opening but far enough apart so they will not be able to aid each other. The steps on her side get louder. They pause. She hears the shuffle of the feet of the guard as he turns. Now.

This time she makes no signal toward her boys, but darts suddenly inside the opening and seizes the guard’s head: one large hand across the mouth and the other on the wind pipe. She breaks the delicate tube between her fingers and tackles the guard. There is a quiet thud as the two bodies hit the ground. Then quiet. In the darkness a noiseless cloud of dust and dirt rises around them as she hastens his demise with a long and slender dagger.

The guard dozing on the nearby stool stirs and looks up. Seeing his movement she freezes, her large body pinning the suffocating guard to the ground, her large and powerful hands muffling his dying gasps. From her vantage on the darkly shadowed ground she looks back toward the other side of the entrance and sees nothing. No guard. No boys. Only shadows. The guard near her comes off the stool, groggy, stumbling. “Hey, mate?” he calls, not loud, not concerned, not wanting to raise any alarm, just cautious and maybe a little curious, thinking the guard has perhaps gone outside to relieve himself.

Unaware of her presence he walks toward the spot where she lies invisible with her still-warm victim, who has by now gone quiet for good. She withdraws her dagger from the underside of dead guard’s jaw and rolls slowly onto her back, staying in darkness, still on the hunt, intently watching the approach of the second guard. “Hey, mate!” he calls again coming closer until he is within a boot-length of her feet. Now.

Curling up like a snake, she rolls to her feet and lunges straight up at the unprepared guard. Her dagger enters his head beneath the chin and drives straight upward until it impales the hard inner side of the top his cranium. Again she tackles her prey, driving him down hard on the ground. She covers his mouth with her hands, smothering him, stealing his last breath, denying him his last gasp, killing him in silence and killing him alone. All alone, he dies in silence, unheard, unheeded, unnoticed.

After a minute, after an eternity, she again looks back across the entryway for the sight of her boys. This time she sees them, barely visible, huddled together in the opposite corner. There is no sign of the guard on that side or his slumbering backup. Good boys, she thinks. Four guards dead and no alarm sounded to disturb the sleep of their next victims.

[0xDEADCAFE]

The next assault requires a different strategy. There is only one remaining guard but the real problem is the soldiers bivouacked in the two long tents. There are too many to fight openly and she can’t surprise both groups at once. Her best chance is to take one group by surprise, to kill them quickly, and then to battle the rest without the advantage of surprise, which all depends on killing the guard before he can raise the alarm.

She makes her way along the wall of the stockade toward the closed, lit end with the tents and the guard, taking care to stay in the shadows. The torches illuminate the area all around the captain’s tent but the long tents shadow the outer walls and much of the camp from their light.

Midway down the side wall she stops and surveys the campground. She can see the guard clearly now, sitting on a stool to the right of the captain’s tent-flap, hunched, still, probably half-asleep. But she knows soldiers: they never sleep without one eye open, one ear to the ground. She needs to find a way to approach him without the possibility of being seen. The long tents are too far away from him to provide her with enough of an advantage. She could never reach him from the last bit of canvas-cast shadow before he called out.

She continues to scan the camp: what other way? Her eyes spy a dark silhouette a short distance from the guard, centered between the side walls of the camp. It appears at first like a tall and broad scarecrow, but it is too rectangular, and headless. Studying its dark outline against the torchlight she can see that the dark shape, whatever it is, is supported by a tall pole and a crossbeam set at about the height of a man. The ends of the crossbeam appear to be unusually thick and lumpy, as does the very bottom of the pole, just visible beneath the featureless, dark shape.

This might provide the cover she needs. It is positioned close enough to the guard and large enough to obscure her approach; at most only her feet might be visible as she crept towards it. If she could reach it without being seen she would be able to jump the guard before he could react.

She decides this is her best option and heads back along the wall in the direction of the entrance, seeking the darker end of the camp and an opportunity to cross from the wall to a position directly opposite the guard in the shadow of the headless scarecrow. Reaching a sufficient spot she crosses swiftly to the middle of camp and starts creeping toward the guard, carefully aligning her path to narrow area of his blindness. She moves in silence, listening for any sound of movement from the guard, hearing only the burning torches and the barely perceptible scuffle of her stealthy feet on the soft, moist ground.

She traverses the campground in moments and squats near the base of the pole to look for her children. She sees them to her right crouching low against the wall opposite the one she had traveled. They had followed her movements through the camp, creeping along the wall on their side to stay exactly even with her, always ready to launch a supporting attack, and keeping well out of sight. They are all but hidden in shadow. Only their eyes, lit by the torchlight, betray their presence: six beads of glass suspended on an invisible wire, seemingly hanging in the air, watching and waiting.

Finding her boys in position she readies herself for the attack on the guard. Inching around the side of the barrier to get a look at the guard, her armored shoulder touches the hanging material. It moves without resistance and she notices the gentle sway of its movement, noticing too, for the first time, a familiar smell.

She looks up at the featureless black curtain and places her hand against it. It’s soft and furry like the skin of an animal. She grabs it between her fingers, feels its thickness, looks up to where this large hide drapes around, rather than over, the top of the pole, noticing the hole through which the pole extends. It is a wide hole about the thickness of a wide neck.

She looks directly up at the end of the crossbeam above her head and sees a large furry hand impaled upon the tip; there is another like it on the other end. She looks down at the base of the pole and sees two large hairy feet, circled in thick rope. Forgetting the guard she stands up and takes the fur in both arms, hugging it to her face, sinking her nose in the thick, welcoming hair and breathing deeply. It’s him.

She smells him, breathing through the lifeless hide, and she feels him. No human sense stirs the memory like smell: breathing him into her lifeless body, it’s him: deeply, intimately, instinctively, it’s him. She is at his side again. At his side, as she had been for countless lifetimes, as she had slept in death every night: his chest her mattress, his shoulder her pillow, his arms her blankets. His side: her home, her life, her death.

She breathes deeply through the fur and for the first time since finding his lifeless body she feels the breath in her lungs once again. For the first time her heart beats again, her blood courses through her veins, and the rivers of unshed tears well-up and flood over her, washing away the cold blooded killer, revealing her hot, burning rage, unleashing the wounded lioness, the vengeful lover.

Her world has now shrunk to a single incendiary point: Him. Not heeding the sounds of the stirring guard, she lifts the entire skin off the pole and stands revealed in the bright torchlight.

“Who goes there?” shouts the guard, rising to his feet.

She raises the skin over her, puts her head through the neck hole, and wraps it full around her. She slashes the rope from the crossbeam and ties the tide of draping skin around her.

“Halt! Name yourself!” again the startled guard.

Once more wrapped in his skin, rapt in unquenchable desire for his presence, in the hopeless, vain longing for an end to his unbearable absence, she is wracked by physical agony, her body’s homage to the suffering in her mind. Pent-up anguish gushes through eyes locked against this pain, tearing the strands of her coagulated grief, flushing away the hardened sands of her desperate denial. Hugging the luxurious fur against her poor, empty body, she cries, an enraged babe, an enfant terrible newly born, shouting her most painful, awful truth to a dispassionate and disinterested world.

To the terrified guard her deafening, violent sobs sound like wild screams. He sees her, framed against the midnight horizon in the orange, flickering torchlight, hide-covered, her head bowed low against her chest, her untied crimson hair hanging over her face as a fiery cowl, like a great beast. And as the unnerving sound of her feral crying continues, a feint ripple of panic slithers up his spine, throttling the voice from his throat, and whispering his mind onto even darker landscapes: a demon? Could it be a great, hideous demon, choking on its own consuming hatred for all mankind that stands before him, coughing in fury, with only murder in its black heart?”

“To arms! TO ARMS!”

Home again, Mama raises her head and, with tear-cleansed eyes fixed on the screaming guard, prepares her daggers.

[RevenantsKnight]

Another interesting chapter. If this is indicative of your ability to weave character development into action scenes, then I’ll be reading ‘til the end. Anyway, a comment on Chapter 2 before I get started on this one:

Although I will concede the point (due to my ignorance of anatomy as well as silent assassination), do you think it really matters?

I think it does make a difference, as I have personally never seen “windpipe” used in any other context than accidentally inhaling food. This is why I thought you were referring to the trachea, and since the trachea starts just above the collarbone, and your description made me think that her fingers were ripping through his skin to dig it out of his throat. The larynx is more around the Adam’s apple, which is what I think you meant.

And now, on to the newest chapter!

The next assault requires a different strategy.

Maybe it’s just me, but this doesn’t seem like a natural first sentence after a chapter break, since it references things that happened in the last chapter. I’d suggest a sentence before this that eases the reader from Chapter 2 into this new block.

Her eyes spy a dark silhouette a short distance from the guard, centered between the side walls of the camp...The ends of the crossbeam appear to be unusually thick and lumpy, as does the very bottom of the pole, just visible beneath the featureless, dark shape.

You use the adjective “dark” repeatedly in this paragraph, and it feels a little repetitive after a while, since it’s used to describe one particular object. Perhaps you could replace some of those uses with words such as “black,” “shadowy,” “ebon,” “vague,” etc., depending on which instance you’re changing.

Reaching a sufficient spot she crosses swiftly to the middle of camp and starts creeping toward the guard, carefully aligning her path to narrow area of his blindness.

Minor note: “sufficient” seems off here, since it implies that the particular spot works for her purposes, but is imperfect in some way. I’d change this to “suitable.”

She sees them to her right crouching low against the wall opposite the one she had traveled.

I think there should be a comma after “right,” since “crouching...” is a clause that modifies “them.”

It is a wide hole about the thickness of a wide neck.

I get what you’re saying here, but this sounds grammatically like the “wide hole” is surrounding “the thickness of a wide neck.”

No human sense stirs the memory like smell: breathing him into her lifeless body, it’s him: deeply, intimately, instinctively, it’s him.

This sentence, in my opinion, needs another revision; after the first clause, the writing’s clarity breaks down. I also don’t think the second colon works, since colons usually follow independent clauses, and the second clause isn’t complete.

At his side, as she had been for countless lifetimes, as she had slept in death every night: his chest her mattress, his shoulder her pillow, his arms her blankets.

Erm...I don’t get what you mean by “she had slept in death every night.”

For the first time her heart beats again, her blood courses through her veins, and the rivers of unshed tears well-up and flood over her, washing away the cold blooded killer, revealing her hot, burning rage, unleashing the wounded lioness, the vengeful lover.

In my opinion, you’re overemphasizing the idea at the end of the sentence; I got what you meant after “rage,” and the second image was nice, but the third seemed unnecessary given what you had before. Personally, I’d delete the “rage” part and just stick with the last two images, since they seem strongest to me. Also, I don’t think “well-up” is hyphenated; I’m aware that we had this conversation already on another thread, and yes, there is some ambiguity in the example you pointed out, but in general there is no hyphenation between a verb and the following preposition. As for the ambiguity...well, I’m inclined to say that it’s just an imperfection of modern English, and has to be accepted for the moment.

Her world has now shrunk to a single incendiary point: Him.

Maybe it’s just me, but I think that changing the verb tense to “Her world shrinks to...” would fit better with the rest of the story, given the general use of the present tense.

Once more wrapped in his skin, rapt in unquenchable desire for his presence, in the hopeless, vain longing for an end to his unbearable absence, she is wracked by physical agony, her body’s homage to the suffering in her mind.

Nice image.

And as the unnerving sound of her feral crying continues, a feint ripple of panic slithers up his spine, throttling the voice from his throat, and whispering his mind onto even darker landscapes: a demon?

I think you mean “faint,” not “feint.” Also, I don’t think “ripple” and “slithers” work together due to the differing images they suggest, and “whispering” seems too indirect and gentle for what you’re trying to say, since I get the image that these thoughts are rocketing through his mind like lightning. After all, this whole bit doesn’t take much more than a second, or if it does, it doesn’t seem like it.

Could it be a great, hideous demon, choking on its own consuming hatred for all mankind that stands before him, coughing in fury, with only murder in its black heart?”

I’d remove the “coughing in fury” bit, since you’ve more than enough here to get the image across, and it just seems extraneous; additionally, I have a hard time thinking of something “coughing” in fury, as it’s just too...weak a verb for that sort of thing in my mind. Also, why are there quotation marks closing off the end of this sentence?

Anyway, this is still looking good, and you've got me hooked. What's next on the menu? (Don't tell me...more murder?) :D

[0xDEADCAFE]

I think it does make a difference, as I have personally never seen “windpipe” used in any other context than accidentally inhaling food. Now that you mention it, that is a very familiar reference. I'm sure I can rework it.


Maybe it’s just me, but this doesn’t seem like a natural first sentence after a chapter break, since it references things that happened in the last chapter. I’d suggest a sentence before this that eases the reader from Chapter 2 into this new block. I'll have to think about that but I agree it is a weak first sentence.


You use the adjective “dark” repeatedly in this paragraph, What, you think using the same word FOUR TIMES in the same paragraph is too much? (Blech!) This something that you KNOW just doesn't happen on the first draft. So what's the solution for too many revisions? More revisions?


Minor note: “sufficient” seems off here, since it implies that the particular spot works for her purposes, but is imperfect in some way. I’d change this to “suitable.” Yup. This feels like it came from the same place as "optimum" in the last chapter.


I think there should be a comma after “right,” since “crouching...” is a clause that modifies “them.” Yup.


I get what you’re saying here, but this sounds grammatically like the “wide hole” is surrounding “the thickness of a wide neck.” Nice catch. I'll fix.


This sentence, in my opinion, needs another revision; after the first clause, the writing’s clarity breaks down. I also don’t think the second colon works, since colons usually follow independent clauses, and the second clause isn’t complete. Double colonage! Again, not something I. No doubt the result of more lazy revising.


Erm...I don’t get what you mean by “she had slept in death every night.” It depends heavily on the reader remembering a passage from the first chapter: "She had learned to accept death as a fact of life and lived each day as if it were a new lifetime, each night a sleep like death, each morning a re-birth." Admittedly it's a stretch and probably not essential to the story. I may just lose this.


In my opinion, you’re overemphasizing the idea at the end of the sentence; I got what you meant after “rage,” and the second image was nice, but the third seemed unnecessary given what you had before. Ah but nothing exceeds like excess, eh? Can you tell I'm not paying by the adjective?


Also, I don’t think “well-up” is hyphenated; I’m aware that we had this conversation already on another thread, and yes, there is some ambiguity in the example you pointed out, but in general there is no hyphenation between a verb and the following preposition. As for the ambiguity...well, I’m inclined to say that it’s just an imperfection of modern English, and has to be accepted for the moment. I'll have to give this some thought.


Maybe it’s just me, but I think that changing the verb tense to “Her world shrinks to...” would fit better with the rest of the story, given the general use of the present tense. Maybe. I wanted to imply that it had happened over the last few moments, but it might have more immediate impact in the simple present, which after all is my whole point. Hmmm...


Nice image. Gracias.


I think you mean “faint,” not “feint.” Yes. (This is one of my habitual.)


Also, I don’t think “ripple” and “slithers” work together due to the differing images they suggest, and “whispering” seems too indirect and gentle for what you’re trying to say, since I get the image that these thoughts are rocketing through his mind like lightning. After all, this whole bit doesn’t take much more than a second, or if it does, it doesn’t seem like it. The image I had in mind was a snake. I almost used "hissing" instead of "whispering". I am trying to suggest the subtle effect of fear on the human imagination. I'm nt so concerned about the speed of it. It may well be happening very quickly in real time, but internally it could be an eternal moment. And I've had moments like this. I remember the feeling as more of a ripple than a lightening bolt, but that's just me. Maybe this is a point on which an author can't call on a universal concept.


Could it be a great, hideous demon, choking on its own consuming hatred for all mankind that stands before him, coughing in fury, with only murder in its black heart?” Throat lozenge anyone? I guess I was looking for a reasonable analog to someone crying: really violent sobbing could sound like a cough I suppose. But you're right, "coughing" has got to go.


Anyway, this is still looking good, and you've got me hooked. What's next on the menu? (Don't tell me...more murder?) ...with a side of gore.

[0xDEADCAFE]

(This is a re-post with, hopefully, improvements. A grateful tip of the cap to Knight for his comments.)

Pausing in the silence of the midnight air, she scans the campground and considers the next step in her campaign against this human outpost. She can see only one remaining guard but the real problem is the two platoons bivouacked in the long tents. No, the assault on the remaining soldiers requires a different strategy than the one that subdued the entrance guards so easily.

There are too many soldiers to fight openly and she can’t surprise both groups at once. Her best chance is to take one group by surprise, kill them quickly, and then attempt to battle an entire platoon without the advantage of surprise. But achieving even these uneven odds depends on killing the guard before he can raise the entire camp in alarm.

She makes her way along the wall of the stockade toward the far end of the camp. The torches illuminate the area around the captain’s tent and between the long tents, but the side walls of the stockade are mostly in shadow, which allows her to approach in darkness.

Midway down the wall she stops and surveys the campground again. She can see the guard clearly now, sitting on a stool to the right of the captain’s tent-flap, hunched, motionless, probably half-asleep, but she knows soldiers: they never sleep without one eye open, one ear to the ground. She needs to find a way to approach him without the possibility of being seen. The long tents are too far away from him to provide her with enough of an advantage. She could never reach him from the last bit of canvas-cast shadow before he called out.

She continues to scan the camp searching for a way to approach the guard. Her eyes spy a dark silhouette a short distance from the guard, centered between the side walls of the camp. It appears at first like a tall and broad scarecrow, but it is too rectangular, and headless.

Studying its outline against the torchlight she can see that it consists of a tall pole with a crossbeam set at about the height of a man, from which something seems to hang. The ends of the crossbeam appear thick and lumpy, as does the very bottom of the pole, which is just visible beneath the hanging shape, featureless in the darkness.

This might provide the cover she needs. It is positioned close enough to the guard and large enough to obscure her approach; at most only her feet might be visible as she crept towards it. If she could reach it without being seen she would be able to jump the guard before he could react.

She decides this is her best option and heads back along the wall in the direction of the entrance, seeking the darker end of the camp and an opportunity to cross from the wall to a position directly opposite the guard in the shadow of the headless scarecrow. Reaching a spot just past a row of conveniently placed archery targets she crosses swiftly to the middle of camp and starts creeping toward the guard, carefully aligning her path to the narrow area of his blindness. She moves in silence, listening for any sound of movement from the guard, hearing only the burning torches and the barely perceptible scuffle of her stealthy feet on the soft, moist ground.

She traverses the campground in moments and squats near the base of the pole to look for her children. She sees them to her right, crouching low against the wall opposite the one she had traveled. They had followed her movements through the camp, creeping along the wall on their side to stay exactly even with her, always ready to launch a supporting attack, and keeping well out of sight. They are all but hidden in shadow. Only their eyes, lit by the torchlight, betray their presence: six beads of glass suspended on an invisible wire, seemingly hanging in the air, watching and waiting.

Finding her boys in position she readies herself for the attack on the guard. Inching around the side of the barrier to get a look at the guard, her armored shoulder touches the hanging material. It moves without resistance and she notices the gentle sway of its movement, noticing too, for the first time, a familiar smell.

She looks up at the featureless black curtain and places her hand against it. It’s soft and furry like the skin of an animal. She grabs it between her fingers, feels its thickness, looks up to where this large hide drapes around, rather than over, the top of the pole, noticing the hole through which the pole extends. It is a hole that might just fit the thickness of a wide and muscular neck.

She looks directly up at the end of the crossbeam above her head and sees a large furry hand impaled upon the tip; there is another like it on the other end. She looks down at the base of the pole and sees two large hairy feet, circled in thick rope. Forgetting the guard she stands up and takes the fur in both arms, hugging it to her face, sinking her nose in the thick, welcoming hair and breathing deeply. It’s him.

She smells him, breathing through the lifeless hide, and she feels him. No human sense stirs the memory like smell: breathing him into her lifeless body, it’s him, deeply, intimately, instinctively, it’s him. She is at his side again. At his side, where she had been for countless days, where she had nightly lain in sleep as deep as peaceful death: his chest her mattress, his shoulder her pillow, his arms her blankets. His side: her home, her life, her death.

She breathes deeply through the fur and for the first time since finding his lifeless body she feels the breath in her lungs once again. For the first time her heart beats again, her blood courses through her veins, and the rivers of unshed tears well up and flood over her, washing away the cold blooded killer, unleashing the wounded lioness, the vengeful lover.

In the burning glow of this stark revelation, this unexpected, irresistible homecoming, her world now shrinks to a single incendiary point: Him. Not heeding the sounds of the rousing guard, she lifts the entire skin off the pole and stands revealed in the dancing torchlight.

“Who goes there?” shouts the guard, rising to his feet.

She raises the skin over her, puts her head through the neck hole, and wraps it full around her. She slashes the rope from the crossbeam and ties the tide of draping skin around her.

“Halt! Name yourself!” again the startled guard.

Once more wrapped in his skin, rapt in unquenchable desire for his presence, in the hopeless, vain longing for an end to his unbearable absence, she is wracked by physical agony, her body’s homage to the suffering in her mind. Pent-up anguish gushes through eyes locked against this pain, tearing the strands of her coagulated grief, flushing away the hardened sands of her desperate denial. Hugging the luxurious fur against her poor, empty body, she cries, an enraged babe, an enfant terrible newly born, shouting her most painful, awful truth to a dispassionate and disinterested world.

To the terrified guard her deafening, violent sobs sound like angry shouting. He sees her, framed against the midnight horizon in the orange, flickering torchlight, hide-covered, her head bowed low against her chest, her untied crimson hair hanging over her face as a fiery cowl, like a great beast. And as the unnerving sound of her feral crying continues, a faint rippling, as of the first tendrils of panic, coils up his spine, throttling the voice from his throat, and whispering his mind onto even darker landscapes: a demon? Could it be a great, hideous demon that stands before him, murder in its black heart, choking on its own all-consuming hatred for mankind?”

“To arms! TO ARMS!”

Home again, Mama raises her head and, with tear-cleansed eyes fixed on the screaming guard, prepares her daggers.

[0xDEADCAFE]

“TO ARMS! TO A-“

The guard’s entreating cry fades abruptly as the point of her thrown dagger enters his mouth and impales the back of his throat. He grabs his neck and stumbles backwards into and onto the captain’s tent, collapsing the staked fabric around the wakening commander.

She stands now screaming their death cry, hers and her fallen husband’s. Drawing her sword in both hands she turns to her right and charges toward the long tent between her and her boys. Screaming, she swings the blade sideways through the tent skin, shearing a supporting pole, and wades in under the sagging canopy, searching for the sleeping soldiers.

There are only two; the entire guard contingent for this night had come from this tent. Her sword finds them quickly. She skewers the first one, still lying on his bedroll, then, seeing the next guard starting to rise, lunges in a mad fury, swinging her heavy sword in a wide, unbalanced arc directly from one killing wound to another, decapitating him before he can fully get to his feet.

The wild attack leaves her off-balance and as she lurches from the momentum of her swing, the headless body too seems to hang momentarily in the air, as if trying to regain its balance, as if questioning the reality of this new awakening, as if thinking: am I dreaming? But this is neither dream nor nightmare as, with the cruel certainty of steel, the sword flashes again, severing an arm and throwing the disbelieving flesh roughly to the ground.

As the still-warm corpse settles to its fate, she continues to her attack unabated, swinging again and again, hacking limbs and torso to bits, splashing spurting geysers of blood on and about her, delivering insult more than injury: not just killing him, but bathing in his very dying.

From an uncharted domain within her mind, from a place where thought has no guide, and logic no translator, comes the vague but overwhelming feeling that this is her baptism in murder. With this murder, she cleanses herself of any obligation to the sanctity of human life. With this inhuman act, she purifies herself of all human law and reason. Her desire is now all-consuming. She has become wrath; every thought and action surrendered to one supreme and ultimate goal: vengeance.

The first soldier, fatally wounded but yet living, moves feebly in unconscious and futile obedience to his animal instinct of flight. She jumps on him. She presses one heavy boot down on his bleeding chest and watches his face writhe in pain. The man opens his eyes and gazes upwards, meeting her gaze with a look replete with human suffering. It is a look that moves her against her will. It is as if the voiceless guard is appealing to her as brother to sister, as if he is claiming her in the name of humanity, entreating her: “Why? You are one of us. You owe me more than this.”

It is a look she will not accept. Staring down, her face a mask of stone, she slowly raises her sword in both hands, point down, above his eyes. She wants an end to these human eyes, full of their humanity and suffering, but she cannot move. He pins her with his human gaze so intent on salvation, imploring her mercy. She feels him in spite of her hatred, his animal fear of death, his righteous demand for life, but fights on, in an in inner battle against her growing pity, and outwardly, battling this hopelessly wounded man in a deadly embrace of their eyes.

She feels herself losing. In a moment, perhaps, she loses. In a moment, perhaps…

But, in human weakness, he falters. Before the moment of salvation comes, he blinks. His eyes flit to the fateful sword hanging directly over his head and watch as it falls.

Renewed, as if in celebration, she plunges the sword down into his right eye socket, driving it through the bony rim and into the back of the skull. Twisting and turning the blade, she carves it into a gaping, bloody, eyeless hole, all the while watching the left eye, which now stares obliquely: empty, lifeless, and quiet.

But still she hears the echoes of the voiceless questions, haunting her, pursuing her. She repeats the action on the left eye, makes a similar attack on his neck, almost removing his head in the process. But still it is not enough. She raises her blade again and brings it straight down on his forehead, cleaving the skull in two, slicing it open from the top of the head down almost to the chin.

It is not enough, but it is all that there is. She needs more. She slices up what remains of the tent ceiling and throws the tatters to the ground, revealing the campground, the torches, the ebon night sky. She looks toward the center of the camp and sees the other platoon of soldiers hastily exiting the other long tent, a full eight strong, lining up, readying their bows. The captain, half-dressed, has emerged through the flap of his collapsed tent and stands nervously, sword in hand, waiting for his ranks of archers, yelling, “Form up! Form up!”

She sees him and he her. He is not ready for her yet. “Who are you? Show yourself!” He yells. “What do you want?” he demands, trying to stall for time.

She hears the question, more human questioning, more human deceit. In answer, she drops her sword and, placing again her heavy boot on the corpse of the almost-pitied man, bends down, takes a handful of his hair in each hand, screams, and screaming, tears the skull completely in two and away from the torso.

She turns again toward the shocked and disbelieving captain and stands tall, holding the skull-halves high in the torchlight, letting the bloody humor drip freely on her face and chest, and screams again: spitting her defiance, announcing her grim intent.

Panicking, the captain yells more loudly, “Form-up!”, and then watches in horror as she brings each dripping skull-half down to her face and scoops out the brains with her mouth, smearing her entire face in blood. She chews slowly, spits mouthfuls of brain on the ground, and then hurls each skull-half in a high arc at the feet of the shaken and shaking caption.

“Ready, sir!” shouts the corporal of the archers.

The captain braces himself, grips his sword too tightly, calls out, in a voice too high, “Ready!”

She wipes her greased and slippery hands on the thick fur of her battle gown.

“Aim!” calls the caption.

She crouches, picks up her sword.

Now, in one moment, hear her scream, hear the captain yell “Fire!” amidst the din of her rising battle cry.

Seven arrows fly fast and deadly as she charges the back-peddling captain. All seven hit their mark, but four glance off, turned by her husband’s thick hide. One finds her neck, another a thigh, and one her chest, penetrating her rib cage and piercing a lung. But it does not stop her.

“Reload!”

She comes at a dead run until she is within striking distance of the captain. Swinging her sword overhead she aims a killing blow at his head. He manages to get his sword up into parry position, but the force of her swing knocks his sword from his hand and strikes him a glancing blow to the arm. Though not cut deeply, his arm is now open and bleeding.

“Ready, sir!”

He is unarmed now, in pain and panic. She raises her sword for another blow, but more slowly than before, as if the sword is suddenly heavier. Her breath comes now only in painful gasps.

“Fire!”

A second volley of arrows takes her before she can finish her swing and throws her off-stride. Two more penetrate her legs and another enters her chest. Both lungs are now pinned and the gossamer fabric tears as her heaving chest struggles for air. Sucking hot glass for another breath she lunges unsteadily toward the retreating captain.

The captain backs blindly into the stockade wall. His searching hands find a discarded woodsman’s axe. Frantically, he takes it in both hands and swings wildly at her neck. She brings her sword up sideways, perpendicular to the path of the axe, parries, but too late; the axe head strikes a glancing blow to her shoulder. Once again the thick hide stops the cutting edge but the heavy axe breaks her collar bone and her left arm falls limply to her side.

Still clutching the sword in her right hand she catches the axe handle between the base of the blade and the guard and yanks it free of the captain’s grip, throwing it to the side. She almost falls but catches herself on her sword, plunging the tip into the ground, leaning against the hilt like a crutch.

“Reload!”

Her sword for a cane, her husband’s tanned and sheltering hide her shawl, she drags herself forward like an old woman, like all womankind avenging a fallen lover, like all humankind fulfilling an ancient tradition, feeding a hatred as old as the hungry earth itself.

[RevenantsKnight]

A few thoughts on the new Chapter 3:

Pausing in the silence of the midnight air, she scans the campground and considers the next step in her campaign against this human outpost. She can see only one remaining guard but the real problem is the two platoons bivouacked in the long tents.

This is definitely a smoother opening :thumbsup:. However, a platoon in modern terms is 40(!) soldiers, so my military knowledge brain cell gave me a good hard kick when I read that. It's also not a word that came into use until after guns were invented, as it had something to do with firing rifle volleys originally. "Squad" is 12(ish) and the smallest official unit in the US Army, so I'd use that instead, or just keep off the military unit designations altogether. Or you could just dismiss this as ranting on a rather archaic subject, 'cause it is, kinda.

She raises the skin over her, puts her head through the neck hole, and wraps it full around her. She slashes the rope from the crossbeam and ties the tide of draping skin around her.

I'd change one of the uses of "skin" to "hide," "pelt," or something else, especially since there's another one two lines down.

And now, Chapter 4: quite the gore-fest you've got going there, though I suppose it should've been expected. It's a powerful chapter, no doubt, but the violence might have gone a little over the top...I have some comments below. Anyway, the chapter was good on the whole and the end makes me wonder how you're going to continue this...should be interesting.

The guard’s entreating cry fades abruptly as the point of her thrown dagger enters his mouth and impales the back of his throat. He grabs his neck and stumbles backwards into and onto the captain’s tent, collapsing the staked fabric around the wakening commander.

Two quick notes: "fades" works, but it suggests that he quiets entirely after he gets knifed, and it's a bit of a weird image to have a guy staggering around in silence while bleeding from the neck and gagging. Also, I'd change "wakening" to "waking," since the former sounds off to me; I can't say exactly why, though, or tell you that "waking" is right straight up.

Drawing her sword in both hands she turns to her right and charges toward the long tent between her and her boys.

This is probably another one of those "assumed" things; while you mention the sword in the first chapter, it doesn't come up again until now, which made me wonder why you didn't note it in the last two chapters. I'd suggest adding one or two reminders here and there that she has it; there should be a moment where you can say something like "despite the sword on her back, she moved noiselessly through the camp."

As the still-warm corpse settles to its fate, she continues to her attack unabated, swinging again and again, hacking limbs and torso to bits, splashing spurting geysers of blood on and about her, delivering insult more than injury: not just killing him, but bathing in his very dying.

Ow. That's got to suck for him...anyway, this is very vivid. Well done, since there's a coherent reason for this much gore.

Her desire is now all-consuming. She has become wrath; every thought and action surrendered to one supreme and ultimate goal: vengeance.

I'm guilty of this myself from time to time, but this sounds a mite too grandiose. I think that if you eased off the "supreme and ultimate" type of description and worked a bit closer to what she actually felt, it would seem just as powerful and less of an invoke-the-gods sort of thing.

But still she hears the echoes of the voiceless questions, haunting her, pursuing her.

This is a great image.

She repeats the action on the left eye, makes a similar attack on his neck, almost removing his head in the process. But still it is not enough. She raises her blade again and brings it straight down on his forehead, cleaving the skull in two, slicing it open from the top of the head down almost to the chin.

While you've certainly got a strong reason for this kind of thing, this sounded a little like a writer indulging in excess violence just for the hell of it. Now, I admit to having a relatively limiting idea of what is not excess violence, but this chapter on the whole did push that limit some. This was not because of the volume of it (things like the original Star Wars trilogy are rightly rated PG even though thousands of people die,) but because it was very graphic. What you have here works, especially since the descriptions are powerful and well written, but if you threw in much more, I'd have to start wondering whether or not I should think of this piece as a well-done summer flick type of work.

She looks toward the center of the camp and sees the other platoon of soldiers hastily exiting the other long tent, a full eight strong, lining up, readying their bows.

Not to beat on a dead horse, but "platoon" doesn't work for me here.

She hears the question, more human questioning, more human deceit...She turns again toward the shocked and disbelieving captain and stands tall, holding the skull-halves high in the torchlight, letting the bloody humor drip freely on her face and chest, and screams again: spitting her defiance, announcing her grim intent.

This is a prime example of violence that seems a little unnecessary; the "skull-halves" clause doesn't really do anything for me, and you've already introduced the "baptism by blood" idea, so the following clause feels like overkill.

Panicking, the captain yells more loudly, “Form-up!”, and then watches in horror as she brings each dripping skull-half down to her face and scoops out the brains with her mouth, smearing her entire face in blood. She chews slowly, spits mouthfuls of brain on the ground, and then hurls each skull-half in a high arc at the feet of the shaken and shaking caption.

“Aim!” calls the caption.

Why is "form up" hyphenated here, since it appears twice previously unhyphenated? Also, I think you mean "captain," not "caption."

Now, in one moment, hear her scream, hear the captain yell “Fire!” amidst the din of her rising battle cry.

This is a good idea, but the execution doesn't work for me, since this sentence appears as if the narrator speaks directly to the reader. I'd change it to something like "In that moment, the forests echo with her scream, with the captain's call of "Fire!" amidst..." Also, the command for archers to attack was usually "Shoot!" or "Release arrows!" as opposed to "Fire!" which came into use only with the invention of guns.

Seven arrows fly fast and deadly as she charges the back-peddling captain.

I think you mean "backpedaling" (with or without a hyphen) since he's not "peddling" anything.

Sucking hot glass for another breath she lunges unsteadily toward the retreating captain.

There should be a comma after "breath."

Once again the thick hide stops the cutting edge but the heavy axe breaks her collar bone and her left arm falls limply to her side.

"Collarbone" is one word.

Well, you've certainly got me reading 'til the end. Thanks for posting!

[neoplatonic]

Interesting. Well-written. I'm sure I don't enjoy the concept of "epiphany through violence," and much of the gore does seem extreme. To tell the truth, I'm only reading this because it's by 0xDEADCAFE. If not for that I would have stopped quite a while ago.

One part does gives me pause:

Seven arrows fly fast and deadly as she charges the back-peddling captain. All seven hit their mark, but four glance off, turned by her husband’s thick hide. One finds her neck, another a thigh, and one her chest, penetrating her rib cage and piercing a lung. But it does not stop her.

Yes, I think it would have stopped her. The hide armor is thick enough to turn four of the arrows. Those that do pierce her produce severe wounds, and the one in her chest would have had to hit her with a great deal of force. All more than enough to knock over a little old human. "Adrenaline! Rage!" Nah. Sorry. This is where I stopped believing.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Thanks for your comments. I must admit that the violence and gore in this story seems excessive to me as well. So, why is it in there?

- well first, from the original story, "Love at First Fight", she is a very violent gal, with a strong feeling that her fellow humans had betrayed her, in a way, denying her her humanity, or at very least her womanhood

- the love of her life has been killed, in a gruesome, insulting way, treated more or less like an animal, by the same people who had denied her love and family in the first place

- the violent, destructive nature of her killing becomes a way for her to distance herself from humanity, to kill any shreds of human feeling in herself, perhaps a way to kill part of herself

But the bottom line is that it is in there because it feels right to me. As trite and over-done as these concepts are, yes, it is all about rage. At the risk of losing your belief once again I will say that there is no intent on my part to do violence for violence's sake. This has been the most emotionally painful and difficult piece I have done so far.

And of course the other bottom line is that each reader will decide for themselves whether the violence is acceptable or not, no matter what justification I think there is. As a preview, there are only two more chapters, but, while the brain-scooping is probably the worst of it, the gore continues.

Now onto some details:

However, a platoon in modern terms is 40(!) soldiers, so my military knowledge brain cell gave me a good hard kick when I read that. It's also not a word that came into use until after guns were invented, as it had something to do with firing rifle volleys originally
Actually my whole treatment of the archer "platoon" bothered me a bit: form up, aim, fire, sound like a firing squad to me. Did they do anything like that in the days of archery? So your comments on military authenticity are well taken. I inserted platoon on revision because "group" seemed weak, but I may just change it back.


This is probably another one of those "assumed" things; while you mention the sword in the first chapter, it doesn't come up again until now, which made me wonder why you didn't note it in the last two chapters. I'd suggest adding one or two reminders here and there that she has it; there should be a moment where you can say something like "despite the sword on her back, she moved noiselessly through the camp." Yeah I guess I do feel this would be assumed, but what you suggest is not a bad idea, especially since I have her using her dagger so much.


I'm guilty of this myself from time to time, but this sounds a mite too grandiose. I think that if you eased off the "supreme and ultimate" type of description and worked a bit closer to what she actually felt, it would seem just as powerful and less of an invoke-the-gods sort of thing. I think you are saying that less might be more here (now where have I heard that before), and given the over-the-topness of most of this I think you might be right. Good comment.


I'd have to start wondering whether or not I should think of this piece as a well-done summer flick type of work. Gee I never thought of that, a kind of Barbarian Babes Gone Wild thing, yeah, I can see it now, Hollywood here I come... :lol:


Why is "form up" hyphenated here, since it appears twice previously unhyphenated? Also, I think you mean "captain," not "caption." Because I have hyphenationitis as I think you have noticed before. As for caption, if I had a dime for every time I misspelled captain that way...


This is a good idea, but the execution doesn't work for me, since this sentence appears as if the narrator speaks directly to the reader. I'd change it to something like "In that moment, the forests echo with her scream, with the captain's call of "Fire!" amidst..." Also, the command for archers to attack was usually "Shoot!" or "Release arrows!" as opposed to "Fire!" which came into use only with the invention of guns. Yes there is a definite shift in the narrator's voice, maybe I could lose that. As for the commands, "Release" sounds pretty good to me, also, there's an ironic quality to it don't you think?


I think you mean "backpedaling" (with or without a hyphen) since he's not "peddling" anything. Good catch.

BTW in most cases if I don't reply to one of your comments it because I figure it's just something I should fix. Thanks very much for your edits and the kind words.




Interesting. Well-written. I'm sure I don't enjoy the concept of "epiphany through violence," and much of the gore does seem extreme. To tell the truth, I'm only reading this because it's by 0xDEADCAFE. If not for that I would have stopped quite a while ago. Thanks, sort of; I will admit this is a departure from my usual subject matter. I guess I would think of this as "violence through epiphany" rather than the reverse, since the gorefest comes after she makes her revelatory discovery of her husband, but I do understand that each reader will have their own threshhold for this type of thing. And I do takes this seriously. I plan to put some type of a warning on this when I post it on my web page.


Yes, I think it would have stopped her. The hide armor is thick enough to turn four of the arrows. Those that do pierce her produce severe wounds, and the one in her chest would have had to hit her with a great deal of force. All more than enough to knock over a little old human. "Adrenaline! Rage!" Nah. Sorry. This is where I stopped believing.
I had hoped to avoid a comic book, superheroish quality here, although she is an extraordinarily large and powerful woman. In my mind, everything after the first volley of arrows (including the events of the next chapter) takes place in at most a few minutes, possibly even one or two. So what would actually stop her? Bleeding to death would take much longer than a few minutes unless a vital artery was hit. A shot to the brain or heart might kill her instantly but that does not happen. Suffocation could kill pretty quickly but would an arrow in the lung immediately suffocate you? So, given her physique, and the fact that these are just arrows after all, I think the most likely thing that would stop her instantly would be pain, and I think that rage and adrenaline could easily negate that. But then I'm not a doctor, maybe I am asking for too much from the reader.

Thanks for your comments.

[neoplatonic]

As I said, I do enjoy your writing. This is quite the departure for you, as you admit. I have nothing against violence per se, but, the violence combined with the entire "attitude" of the piece is somewhat offsetting. And by "attitude," I mean to say drama. Or, rather, melodrama. For the most part, the language is effective, but there are passages that just have me rolling my eyes (sorry!). The bit that RK pointed out ("supreme and ultimate") is an example of that. I have a very difficult time believing that the main character could contemplate, let alone articulate, most of the concepts and ideas that you're conveying in this piece. We can understand that she's enragedespondentraumatized, but what I visualized as her does not line up with what I'm reading from you.

Is this a mistake? No. I think this would be much more authentic and powerful if it were her voice I were reading. And, um, yeah, that's about all I can say about that.

I had hoped to avoid a comic book, superheroish quality here, although she is an extraordinarily large and powerful woman. In my mind, everything after the first volley of arrows (including the events of the next chapter) takes place in at most a few minutes, possibly even one or two. So what would actually stop her? Bleeding to death would take much longer than a few minutes unless a vital artery was hit. A shot to the brain or heart might kill her instantly but that does not happen. Suffocation could kill pretty quickly but would an arrow in the lung immediately suffocate you? So, given her physique, and the fact that these are just arrows after all, I think the most likely thing that would stop her instantly would be pain, and I think that rage and adrenaline could easily negate that. But then I'm not a doctor, maybe I am asking for too much from the reader.

I think you are asking too much. I'm no doctor either, but I do know that an arrow traveling at upwards of 50 m/s goes just as quickly and easily through a extraordinarily large and powerful woman as well as through a flaccid deskjockey (like me).

"Just arrows after all"? Countless people have died throughout history because of arrows. Today, good bowhunters take down bears, deer, boars with one shot. You need to describe what type of bow is being used. A tiny shortbow? With small arrows? Okay, then what you're writing might work, but I have a very hard time believing that professional soldiers would be carrying these to use against rampaging hellbeasts. A longbow? An arrow from one of these could pierce medieval armor and knock you on your ***. They are rather large and cumbersome, but archers placed behind a wall of sword and shields were the bane of footsoldiers and knights. Some type of medium-sized composite bow? A recurve bow? Arrows deliver force. I've always thought it strange how such wounds are so easily dismissed!

A neck isn't that large of a target, and it's soft tissue, packed with stuff you need to live. Imagine an arrow piercing through the esophagus to the trachea. You'll drown quickly from blood pouring into your lungs. What if one of the cartorid arteries on either side of the neck is cut? What if the arrow goes through to strike the spine? The thigh contains the femoral artery and numerous nerves. Imagine if the arrow strikes the bone. A chest wound, yes, won't kill you immediately, but a deep wound to the lung has a very good chance of causing immediate shock.

Again, your story, your choice. I'm not trying to be overly negative or critical, but that section just won't work for me.

PS: There isn't one competent swordsman in this group? Or was he, unfortunately, standing guard? :xsmile4:

[neoplatonic]

I meant "carotid," not cartorid. You know, the arteries that pass up from the chest to the head on either side of the neck.

[0xDEADCAFE]

And by "attitude," I mean to say drama. Or, rather, melodrama. For the most part, the language is effective, but there are passages that just have me rolling my eyes (sorry!). The bit that RK pointed out ("supreme and ultimate") is an example of that. I have a very difficult time believing that the main character could contemplate, let alone articulate, most of the concepts and ideas that you're conveying in this piece. We can understand that she's enragedespondentraumatized, but what I visualized as her does not line up with what I'm reading from you. ... No. I think this would be much more authentic and powerful if it were her voice I were reading.
Well first let me say that I believe the customer is always right. What you experience as a reader is not opinion, but fact. Subjective fact perhaps, but undeniably, irrefutably what you experienced when you were reading. So I don't want to debate your points, but I do have some comments.

I'm going for a lot here, in terms of emotional impact, so I'm taking risks. I agree that "supreme and ultimate" is too much, but there's so much language like that in the story that it's difficult to sort out sometimes. I don't have a sense for what is too much and what isn't yet, my throttle is stuck wide-open, but comments like yours and RK's are helpful.

I don't see how I could write this from her perspective. Early in the story that might have worked, in fact the I think my use of the present-tense might have been partly an attempt to give it a first-person feel, but since she had her epiphany of rage inside her husband's skin, I don't think she's had a single rational thought. No, she is definitely not thinking the things I am writing. She is 100% emotion and I am her psychoanalyst trying to make you understand where its coming from and feel the tragedy within the massacre. Not an easy task perhaps. Maybe this is my own baptism in this kind of writing. If so, its seems I have left the water running.

I think you are asking too much. I'm no doctor either, but I do know that an arrow traveling at upwards of 50 m/s goes just as quickly and easily through a extraordinarily large and powerful woman as well as through a flaccid deskjockey (like me).

"Just arrows after all"? Countless people have died throughout history because of arrows. Today, good bowhunters take down bears, deer, boars with one shot. You need to describe what type of bow is being used. A tiny shortbow? With small arrows? Okay, then what you're writing might work, but I have a very hard time believing that professional soldiers would be carrying these to use against rampaging hellbeasts. A longbow? An arrow from one of these could pierce medieval armor and knock you on your ***. They are rather large and cumbersome, but archers placed behind a wall of sword and shields were the bane of footsoldiers and knights. Some type of medium-sized composite bow? A recurve bow? Arrows deliver force. I've always thought it strange how such wounds are so easily dismissed!

A neck isn't that large of a target, and it's soft tissue, packed with stuff you need to live. Imagine an arrow piercing through the esophagus to the trachea. You'll drown quickly from blood pouring into your lungs. What if one of the cartorid arteries on either side of the neck is cut? What if the arrow goes through to strike the spine? The thigh contains the femoral artery and numerous nerves. Imagine if the arrow strikes the bone. A chest wound, yes, won't kill you immediately, but a deep wound to the lung has a very good chance of causing immediate shock. From one flaccid desk jockey to another, I don't know much about bow hunting or archery, but I do know a bit about physics. The arrow can't hit with more force than the bow delivers. Can you imagine being knocked over by a bowstring? Arrows aren't that heavy. Penetrate yes, knock-over, I can't imagine. I must also confess to being a little skeptical about taking down a bear with one arrow. Maybe an incredibly perfect shot. I am reminded of the Ken Burns documentary on Lewis and Clark in which he relates their astonishment at the number of rifle blasts it took to bring down a grizzly. And keep in mind that so far I have only kept her alive for about a minute after the first volley of arrows.

Again, your story, your choice. Yes. The guards probably have decent bows, though I would doubt long bows. They probably have swords too, but they are not wielding them because they have been ordered to line up and shoot. (In melee combat she would make mince-meat out of them anyway.) Any one of them could have killed her with a single shot if they had perfect aim or got lucky, but they didn't. I did NOT write "nevermind dear it's only a flesh wound" but this is Diablo II after all. Haven't you ever taken a few arrows and kept on fighting? Give me a little credit for NOT writing "taking a small vial from her belt she quickly quaffs the magical red fluid and feels a surge of revitalization coursing through her..." :lol:


BTW I may have been a little short in expressing my appreciation in my last reply. Your comment about reading this only because it was by 0xDEADCAFE was a very nice compliment. Thanks.

[RevenantsKnight]

Actually my whole treatment of the archer "platoon" bothered me a bit: form up, aim, fire, sound like a firing squad to me. Did they do anything like that in the days of archery?

I can't cite specific examples of small-unit actions, obviously, but I believe it was common practice in large engagements to have archers fire all at once (I've heard that such tactics can actually create shade over parts of a battlefield, if there's an army worth of archers volleying.)

I think you are saying that less might be more here (now where have I heard that before), and given the over-the-topness of most of this I think you might be right.

Erm...not quite. What I was saying is that if you write a description of how the desire to kill and achieve revenge instead, and let the reader come to the "supreme and ultimate" conclusion if that's what your writing suggests to him/her, it would sound more believable and less like you invoking concepts.

The arrow can't hit with more force than the bow delivers. Can you imagine being knocked over by a bowstring? Arrows aren't that heavy. Penetrate yes, knock-over, I can't imagine.

The force imparted to an arrow from a bow does not come from the bowstring; it's from the shaft of the bow snapping back into shape. And that turns out to be a huge load of force; medieval English longbows had draws of 100+ lbs. (that's to say, it took at least 100 lbs. of force to draw back the bowstring.) Now, 100+ lbs. of force concentrated over the arrowhead's point of contact...ouch. That'll definitely put someone on his/her butt. Of course, the archers in your story could be using shortbows better suited to mobile vanguard troops, so I don't think she should go down just because she took an arrow necessarily.

[neoplatonic]

I can't cite specific examples of small-unit actions, obviously, but I believe it was common practice in large engagements to have archers fire all at once (I've heard that such tactics can actually create shade over parts of a battlefield, if there's an army worth of archers volleying.)

This is true.

Erm...not quite. What I was saying is that if you write a description of how the desire to kill and achieve revenge instead, and let the reader come to the "supreme and ultimate" conclusion if that's what your writing suggests to him/her, it would sound more believable and less like you invoking concepts.

One thing that we can do to help out in our discussion is think about how other writers have handled this type of "situation." If I can think of any today I'll get back you you...

The force imparted to an arrow from a bow does not come from the bowstring; it's from the shaft of the bow snapping back into shape. And that turns out to be a huge load of force; medieval English longbows had draws of 100+ lbs. (that's to say, it took at least 100 lbs. of force to draw back the bowstring.) Now, 100+ lbs. of force concentrated over the arrowhead's point of contact...ouch. That'll definitely put someone on his/her butt. Of course, the archers in your story could be using shortbows better suited to mobile vanguard troops, so I don't think she should go down just because she took an arrow necessarily.

Exactly what I was going to write, and some types of composite bows (which were medium-sized) could pack even more of a punch. But this is my last harangue on the topic, I swear. You were certainly right to bring up artistic license above ("...this is Diablo II after all...").

That's it.

[0xDEADCAFE]

The next post is a revision of chapter 4. Thanks to Rev and Neo for their feedback. (You guys may notice that I made the "supreme and utimate" sacrifice.)


Neoplatonic: in the middle of revising chapter 4 I realized that I had written that one of the arrows got her in the neck. I had intended to delete the neck shot before posting because it seemed too lethal to allow her to survive, and was fully convinced that I had done that when responding to your comments. I stand corrected. You were right to disbelieve.

[0xDEADCAFE]

“TO ARMS! TO A-“

The guard’s entreating cry fades to a shrill gurgle as the point of her thrown dagger enters his mouth and impales the back of his throat. He grabs his neck and stumbles backwards into and onto the captain’s tent, collapsing the staked fabric around the awakened commander.

She stands now screaming their death cry, hers and her fallen husband’s. Reaching back to her sword slung across her back, and drawing it in both hands, she turns to her right and charges toward the long tent between her and her boys. Screaming, she swings the blade sideways through the tent skin, shearing a supporting pole, and wades in under the sagging canopy, searching for the sleeping soldiers.

There are only two; the entire guard contingent for this night had come from this tent. Her sword finds them quickly. She skewers the first one, still lying on his bedroll, then, seeing the next guard starting to rise, lunges in a mad fury, swinging her heavy sword in a wide, unbalanced arc directly from one killing wound to another, decapitating him before he can fully get to his feet.

The wild attack leaves her off-balance and as she lurches from the momentum of her swing, the headless body too seems to hang momentarily in the air, as if trying to regain its balance, as if questioning the reality of this new awakening, as if thinking: am I dreaming? But this is neither dream nor nightmare as, with the cruel certainty of steel, the sword flashes again, severing an arm and throwing the disbelieving flesh roughly to the ground.

As the still-warm corpse settles to its fate, she continues her attack unabated, swinging again and again, hacking limbs and torso to bits, splashing spurting geysers of blood on and about her, delivering insult more than injury: not just killing him, but bathing in his very dying.

From an uncharted domain within her mind, from a place where thought has no guide, and logic no translator, comes the vague but overwhelming feeling that this is her baptism in murder. With this murder, she cleanses herself of any obligation to the sanctity of human life. With this inhuman act, she purifies herself of all human law and reason. Her desire is now all-consuming. She has become wrath; every thought and action surrendered to a single goal: vengeance.

The first soldier, fatally wounded but yet living, moves feebly in unconscious and futile obedience to his animal instinct of flight. She jumps on him. She presses one heavy boot down on his bleeding chest and watches his face writhe in pain. The man opens his eyes and gazes upwards, meeting her gaze with a look replete with human suffering. It is a look that moves her against her will. It is as if the voiceless guard is appealing to her as brother to sister, as if he is claiming her in the name of humanity, entreating her: “Why? You are one of us. You owe me more than this.”

It is a look she will not accept. Staring down, her face a mask of stone, she slowly raises her sword in both hands, point down, above his eyes. She wants an end to these human eyes, full of their humanity and suffering, but she cannot move. He pins her with his human gaze so intent on salvation, imploring her mercy. She feels him in spite of her hatred, his animal fear of death, his righteous demand for life, but fights on, inwardly, against her growing pity, and outwardly, battling this hopelessly wounded man in a deadly embrace of their eyes.

She feels herself losing. In a moment, perhaps, she loses. In a moment, perhaps…

But, in human weakness, he falters. Before the moment of salvation comes, he blinks. His eyes flit to the fateful sword hanging directly over his head. And then watch as it falls.

As if released, as if in celebration, she plunges the sword down into his right eye socket, driving it through the bony rim and into the back of his skull. Twisting and turning the blade, she carves the eye socket into a gaping, bloody, eyeless hole, all the while watching the left eye, which now stares obliquely: empty, lifeless, and quiet.

But still she hears the echoes of the voiceless questions, haunting her, pursuing her. She repeats the action on the left eye, makes a similar attack on his neck, almost removing his head in the process. But still it is not enough. She raises her blade again and brings it straight down on his forehead, cleaving the skull in two, slicing it open from the top of the head down almost to the chin.

It is not enough, but it is all that there is. She needs more. She slices up what remains of the tent ceiling and throws the tatters to the ground, revealing the campground, the torches, the ebon night sky. She looks toward the center of the camp and sees the other soldiers hastily exiting the other long tent, eight strong, lining up, readying their bows. The captain, half-dressed, has emerged through the flap of his collapsed tent and stands nervously, sword in hand, waiting for his ranks of archers, yelling, “Form up! Form up!”

She sees him and he her. He is not ready for her yet. “Who are you? Show yourself!” he yells. “What do you want?” he demands, trying to stall for time.

She hears him: more human questioning, more human deceit. This human needs an answer. She drops her sword, places again her heavy boot on the corpse of the almost-pitied man, bends down and takes a handful of his hair in each hand. Then, looking directly at the captain she screams, and screaming, tears the skull completely in two and away from the torso.

She faces the captain, holding the skull-halves high in the torchlight. She sees his shocked face and feels his growing fear. It energizes her. With no rational thought, she tilts her head back, letting the bloody humor drip freely on her face and chest, and howls her defiance; this is his answer: an animal cry, simple and honest in its grim intent.

Panicking, the captain yells more loudly, “Form up!”, and then watches in horror as she brings each dripping skull-half down to her face and scoops out the brains with her mouth, smearing her entire face in blood. Watching him, consuming him with her eyes, she chews slowly, spits bloody mouthfuls of brain on the ground, and then, feeding on his each shocked look, on each quiver of terror, hurls first one and then the other in high arcs at his feet.

“Ready, sir!” shouts the corporal of the archers.

The captain braces himself, grips his sword too tightly, calls out, in a voice too high, “Ready!”

Slowly, almost casually, she wipes her greased and slippery hands on the thick fur of her battle gown.

“Aim!” calls the captain.

She crouches, picks up her sword, and begins a low, but growing howl. The captain yells “Release!” in almost the same moment, drawing out the word and raising his voice to be heard amidst the din of her rising battle cry.

Seven arrows fly fast and deadly as she charges the backpedaling captain. All seven hit their mark, but five glance off, turned by her husband’s thick hide. One skewers the thick muscle of her thigh and another hits her chest, penetrating the rib cage and piercing a lung. But it does not stop her.

“Nock arrows!”

She comes at a dead run until she is within striking distance of the captain. Swinging her sword overhead she aims a killing blow at his head. He manages to get his sword up into parry position, but the force of her swing knocks his sword from his hand and strikes him a glancing blow to the arm. Though not cut deeply, his arm is now open and bleeding.

“Ready, sir!”

He is unarmed now, in pain and panic. She raises her sword for another blow, but more slowly than before, as if the sword is suddenly heavier. Her breath comes now only in painful gasps.

“Release!”

A second volley of arrows takes her before she can finish her swing and throws her off-stride. Two more penetrate her legs and another enters her chest. Both lungs are now pinned and the gossamer fabric tears as her heaving chest struggles for air. Sucking hot glass for another breath, she lunges unsteadily toward the retreating captain.

The captain backs blindly into the stockade wall. His searching hands find a discarded woodsman’s axe. Frantically, he takes it in both hands and swings wildly at her neck. She brings her sword up sideways, perpendicular to the path of the axe, parries, but too late; the axe head strikes a glancing blow to her shoulder. Once again the thick hide stops the cutting edge but the heavy axe breaks her collarbone and her left arm falls limply to her side.

Still clutching the sword in her right hand she catches the axe handle between the base of the blade and the guard and yanks it free of the captain’s grip, throwing it to the side. She almost falls but catches herself on her sword, plunging the tip into the ground, leaning against the hilt like a crutch.

“Nock arrows!”

Her sword for a cane, her husband’s tanned and sheltering hide for her shawl, she drags herself forward like an old woman, and like all womankind avenging a fallen lover, fulfills the ancient tradition, feeding a hatred as old as the hungry earth itself.

[0xDEADCAFE]

“Release!” calls the captain for the third time, but this time in vain; no arrows answer his call, and when he tears his gaze from hers to look for his archers he can see none standing. In their place: three pairs of unfamiliar eyes glint in the torchlight, six glass beads on a line, floating in the darkness.

Mama’s boys had been busy. During their mother’s careful approach toward the guard, when she found their father’s hide, when she openly assaulted the camp, they had waited, not knowing why, not wondering why. Unmoved by their mother’s peril or their father’s demise, they had waited, instinctively, until the moment when they would simply know it was time to act. That moment came as their mother dropped the dripping skull-halves, picked up her sword, and, screaming her battle cry, charged the captain.

With the captain’s first cry of “Release!” they sprang from their crouched positions and ran for the opposite wall. Keeping themselves beyond the reaches of the torchlight, they circled the center of the camp in a wide arc, low to the ground, and hidden in shadow. With lightening speed they crossed unseen, and reaching a flanking position, approached the group of archers from the rear, ready to leap as soon as they were within range.

As the captain yelled “Release!” for the second time, they leapt, targeting the rear-most archer to remain out of sight of the rest of the group. The archer fell under their combined weight and, in mere moments, was torn limb from limb, his dismembered body scattered on the ground in pieces.

As they fell upon each archer, using their sense of touch more than sight, the three seized upon whatever came within the grasp of their large, strong hands, whether arm or leg, and just yanked. With an uncanny precision, they pulled in unison against each other’s powerful leverage, drawing ball from socket and muscle from bone. They used jerking, twisting motions and, spinning from the momentum of their own inhumanly strong exertions, flung the bloody stumps away en route to the next handhold.

As they finished off one victim they threw themselves immediately onto the next. So fierce in their intent, so quick in their motions that they did not even stop to regain their balance, but spun themselves, like acrobats, with a dancer’s balance and control, almost pirouetting into the next archer, long arms outstretched, whirling, grasping whatever part of the body they struck: crushing, splintering bone, bursting flesh in their iron grips, rending the bodies into bloody, gushing pieces, and continuing on.

The men toppled like sapling trees before their onslaught. They roared through the line of archers like three unstoppable buzz saws, leaving nothing but stumps, and by the time the captain yelled “Release” for the third time, there was no one to answer his call.

“Release!” the captain repeats. “Release, damn you! Release!”

Their mother did not see the decimation of the archers, but she could see the captain’s face, and she watched in cruel delight as his expression changed. As the captain’s military discipline melted in the bright glare of his hopeless situation, her resolve increased. Once again she drew hope from the captain’s despair, and from it forged a last ember of determination as the captain withered before her, struck dumb in awe and fear.

Squinting in the torchlight, visually sifting form from shadow the captain slowly comprehends the scene of unimaginable carnage: not a single archer remained; only the three boys stared back at him, seeming to him like animals, bent over on all fours, their skin dark with blood, pressed shoulder to shoulder like a three-headed wolf. They stare back at him, before the pile of limbs and torsos, with unblinking eyes, licking the blood from their shoulders.

“Great mother!” the captain cries, but it is only a whisper.

His command defeated, his last source of support destroyed with horrifying quickness, the captain now presses himself back against the stockade wall, arms-wide, grasping the rough-hewn logs. He looks back in her eyes and sees the dark face of his doom.

She stands panting, barely supporting her weight on her ruined legs, leaning heavily on her sword turned point-down, turned into a crutch for her crippled body, staring at the loathsome human, her lowered face shadowed from the raging torches. It is almost over now. She needs a few more breaths to finish this, so she rests patiently, almost at peace, collecting air in her arrow-pierced lungs, coughing on blood, wincing from the pain of each breath.

After a moment she is ready for her final effort. Drawing her sword from its earthly sheath, she raises it in her right arm, the left hanging useless, and lunges toward the cowering officer. When she raises her head the torchlight captures her face and the captain recognizes her for the first time: his people’s foremost champion, his former commander.

“You! Oof-“

“Silent!” she hisses as she careens toward the captain uncontrollably. Wielding her sword one-handed, and leaning her hip against the hilt, she lays the blade into the captain’s chest and drives it through his body, the point stopped only by the rough bark of a post in the stockade wall. The captain hangs for a moment, seemingly pinned against the wall, but then slumps, and slides jerkily down the rough hewn post, falling to the ground on his back, the great shaft of metal still sunk in his chest, protruding upwards like a thin, cruel monument to his defeat.

“Aye’ll not hear ye! No one, no one’ll hear ye! Ye’ll die silent…,” her voice cracks, “… and alone… as ye murdered…” She cannot continue. She breaks into sobs, squeezes tightly shut her bloodied eyes as burning tears burst forth anew, and falls to her knees beside the fallen captain, clinging again to the hilt of her sword for support, her weight driving the blade even further through his chest and into the loose soil beneath.

In the near-silence that follows, her livid tears for another spatter the face of her former comrade-in-arms, as he lay dying on the bitter grounds of his last command.

[RevenantsKnight]

Still going strong after a break for Diablo Con Carne, I see. I’m not sure how you’re going to finish this story, but I can tell it’ll be interesting no matter how you do it. Here’re some comments on Chapter 5:

That moment came as their mother dropped the dripping skull-halves, picked up her sword, and, screaming her battle cry, charged the captain.

This seems like a bit much in terms of recap detail. I’d think most people would know what you meant if you left it at “...picked up her sword and charged the captain.”

With lightening speed they crossed unseen, and reaching a flanking position, approached the group of archers from the rear, ready to leap as soon as they were within range.

“Lightning” doesn’t have an “e” in it. Also, “within range” sounds more like a modern phrasing to me; in fact, I’d leave out that entire clause, since you describe their attack in the next sentence.

As they fell upon each archer, using their sense of touch more than sight, the three seized upon whatever came within the grasp of their large, strong hands, whether arm or leg, and just yanked.

Minor note: “just yanked” sounds a bit like you’re trying to emphasize the fact that they yanked, but didn’t bite or claw. “Simply yanked” sounds, to me, more as if what they did was almost effortless, which is what I think you wanted.

They used jerking, twisting motions and, spinning from the momentum of their own inhumanly strong exertions, flung the bloody stumps away en route to the next handhold.

“They used jerking, twisting motions” sounds a bit too matter-of-fact, especially when compared to the rest of the story. I’d suggest another look at this sentence.

So fierce in their intent, so quick in their motions that they did not even stop to regain their balance, but spun themselves, like acrobats, with a dancer’s balance and control, almost pirouetting into the next archer, long arms outstretched, whirling, grasping whatever part of the body they struck: crushing, splintering bone, bursting flesh in their iron grips, rending the bodies into bloody, gushing pieces, and continuing on.

The “that” in the opening part of your sentence is unnecessary, and the colon could be replaced by a comma.

They roared through the line of archers like three unstoppable buzz saws, leaving nothing but stumps, and by the time the captain yelled “Release” for the third time, there was no one to answer his call.

Nice image, but “buzz saws” doesn’t fit with any of the other images/general tone of this piece. Maybe you could find the medieval equivalent and use that instead.

Their mother did not see the decimation of the archers, but she could see the captain’s face, and she watched in cruel delight as his expression changed. As the captain’s military discipline melted in the bright glare of his hopeless situation, her resolve increased. Once again she drew hope from the captain’s despair, and from it forged a last ember of determination as the captain withered before her, struck dumb in awe and fear.

Squinting in the torchlight, visually sifting form from shadow the captain slowly comprehends the scene of unimaginable carnage: not a single archer remained; only the three boys stared back at him, seeming to him like animals, bent over on all fours, their skin dark with blood, pressed shoulder to shoulder like a three-headed wolf. They stare back at him, before the pile of limbs and torsos, with unblinking eyes, licking the blood from their shoulders.

Most of the verbs in this passage, such as “watched” and “increased,” are in the past tense. Given your stated intent to use the present tense, this stuck out when I read this; was this intentional?

His command defeated, his last source of support destroyed with horrifying quickness, the captain now presses himself back against the stockade wall, arms-wide, grasping the rough-hewn logs...She stands panting, barely supporting her weight on her ruined legs, leaning heavily on her sword turned point-down, turned into a crutch for her crippled body, staring at the loathsome human, her lowered face shadowed from the raging torches.

“Arms wide” and “point down” aren’t usually hyphenated, I don’t think.

The captain hangs for a moment, seemingly pinned against the wall, but then slumps, and slides jerkily down the rough hewn post, falling to the ground on his back, the great shaft of metal still sunk in his chest, protruding upwards like a thin, cruel monument to his defeat.

“Rough-hewn” isn’t hyphenated here, while it is above (and in general use, I believe.)

In the near-silence that follows, her livid tears for another spatter the face of her former comrade-in-arms, as he lay dying on the bitter grounds of his last command.

“Lay” should be “lies.”

Great job with this story so far. Right then...if I remember correctly, there’s one more chapter to go. That should be a read worth remembering, and I await its arrival.

Oh, and regarding the "...better snag it before it runs off and chugs all your bleach" comment in the Diablo Con Carne thread: that was just me being insane. Where's it written that I have to make sense all the time? :lol:

[0xDEADCAFE]

My supreme and ultimate thanks, Mr. Kiniggit.


This seems like a bit much in terms of recap detail. I’d think most people would know what you meant if you left it at “...picked up her sword and charged the captain.” Agreed. I was worriied about readers not getting the exact time reference for the flashback. It's probably a bit much.


Also, “within range” sounds more like a modern phrasing to me; in fact, I’d leave out that entire clause, since you describe their attack in the next sentence.I might just do that.


Minor note: “just yanked” sounds a bit like you’re trying to emphasize the fact that they yanked, but didn’t bite or claw. “Simply yanked” sounds, to me, more as if what they did was almost effortless, which is what I think you wanted. Hmmm. Good point. My usage is more of a colloquialism I suppose.


“They used jerking, twisting motions” sounds a bit too matter-of-fact, especially when compared to the rest of the story. I’d suggest another look at this sentence./QUOTE] I don't quite get that. Would "jerky" better.


[QUOTE=RevenantsKnight]Nice image, but “buzz saws” doesn’t fit with any of the other images/general tone of this piece. Maybe you could find the medieval equivalent and use that instead. Valid point. Let's see now, what's the medieval equivalent of buzz saw? Ye old buzz saw perhaps? No wait, it's right on the tip of my tongue, along with the medieval equivalents of jet flight and oral hygiene.


Most of the verbs in this passage, such as “watched” and “increased,” are in the past tense. Given your stated intent to use the present tense, this stuck out when I read this; was this intentional? No. Seems like a hangover fro mthe flashback. The preceding paragraph, “Release!” the captain repeats." was supposed to be the transition back into the present tense. I should pay more attention to my own mechaisms.


“Arms wide” and “point down” aren’t usually hyphenated, I don’t think. Fear not my hyphenationitis it getting better. My doctor says a few more chugs of medicinal bleach and I should be completely over it


“Rough-hewn” isn’t hyphenated here, while it is above (and in general use, I believe.) (Vomits copious quantities of bleach.) Too much! Too much!



“Lay” should be “lies.” I flay myself with noodles. Or should that be "flies"?


That should be a read worth remembering, and I await its arrival. You inhuman monster! How could summon the foul demon of high expectations before me? I'll never post again! Aaaaaagh....

[0xDEADCAFE]

(Re-post of chapter 5. Thanks, Rev.)

“Release!” calls the captain for the third time, but this time in vain; no arrows answer his call, and when he tears his gaze from hers to look for his archers he can see none standing. In their place: three pairs of unfamiliar eyes glint in the torchlight, six glass beads on a line, floating in the darkness.

Mama’s boys had been busy. During their mother’s careful approach toward the guard, when she found their father’s hide, when she openly assaulted the camp, they had waited, not knowing why, not wondering why. Unmoved by their mother’s peril or their father’s demise, they had waited, instinctively, until the moment when they would simply know it was time to act. That moment came when their mother picked up her sword and charged the captain.

With the captain’s first cry of “Release!” they sprang from their crouched positions and ran for the opposite wall. Keeping themselves beyond the reaches of the torchlight, they circled the center of the camp in a wide arc, low to the ground, and hidden in shadow. With lightning speed they crossed unseen, and reaching a flanking position, approached the group of archers from the rear.

As the captain yelled “Release!” for the second time, they leapt, targeting the rear-most archer to remain out of sight of the rest of the group. The archer fell under their combined weight and, in mere moments, was torn limb from limb, his dismembered body scattered on the ground in pieces.

As they fell upon each archer, using their sense of touch more than sight, the three seized upon whatever came within the grasp of their large, strong hands, whether arm or leg, and yanked with all their might. With uncanny precision, they pulled in unison against each other’s powerful leverage, drawing ball from socket and muscle from bone. Jerking and twisting, they spun from the momentum of their own inhumanly strong exertions, flinging the bloody stumps away en route to the next handhold.

As they finished off one victim they threw themselves immediately onto the next. So fierce in their intent, so quick in their motions that they did not even stop to regain their balance, but spun themselves, like acrobats, with a dancer’s balance and control, almost pirouetting into the next archer, long arms outstretched, whirling, grasping whatever part of the body they struck: crushing, splintering bone, bursting flesh in their iron grips, rending the bodies into bloody, gushing pieces, and continuing on.

The men toppled like sapling trees before their onslaught. They shredded the line of archers like three unstoppable axes wielded by the hands of titans. By the time the captain yelled “Release” for the third time, there was no one to answer his call.

“Release!” the captain repeats. “Release, damn you! Release!”

Squinting in the torchlight, visually sifting form from shadow the captain slowly comprehends the scene of unimaginable carnage: not a single archer remains; only the three boys stare back at him, seeming to him like animals, bent over on all fours, their skin dark with blood, pressed shoulder to shoulder like a three-headed wolf. They stare back at him, before the pile of limbs and torsos, with unblinking eyes, licking the blood from their shoulders.

Their mother cannot see the decimation of the archers, but she sees the captain’s face, and watches in cruel delight as his expression changes. As the captain’s military discipline melts in the bright glare of his hopeless situation, her resolve increases. Once again she draws hope from the captain’s despair, and from it forges a last ember of determination as the captain withers before her, struck dumb in awe and fear.

“Great mother!” the captain cries, but it is only a whisper.

His command defeated, his last source of support destroyed with horrifying quickness, the captain now presses himself back against the stockade wall, arms wide, grasping the rough-hewn logs. He looks back in her eyes and sees the dark face of his doom.

She stands panting, barely supporting her weight on her ruined legs, leaning heavily on her sword turned point down, turned into a crutch for her crippled body, staring at the loathsome human, her lowered face shadowed from the raging torches. It is almost over now. She needs a few more breaths to finish this, so she rests patiently, almost at peace, collecting air in her arrow-pierced lungs, coughing on blood, wincing from the pain of each breath.

After a moment she is ready for her final effort. Drawing her sword from its earthly sheath, she raises it in her right arm, the left hanging useless, and lunges toward the cowering officer. When she raises her head the torchlight captures her face and the captain recognizes her for the first time: his people’s foremost champion, his former commander.

“You! Oof-“

“Silent!” she hisses as she careens toward the captain uncontrollably. Wielding her sword one-handed, and leaning her hip against the hilt, she lays the blade into the captain’s chest and drives it through his body, the point stopped only by the rough bark of a post in the stockade wall. The captain hangs for a moment, seemingly pinned against the wall, but then slumps, and slides jerkily down the rough-hewn post, falling to the ground on his back, the great shaft of metal still sunk in his chest, protruding upwards like a thin, cruel monument to his defeat.

“Aye’ll not hear ye! No one, no one’ll hear ye! Ye’ll die silent…,” her voice cracks, “… and alone… as ye murdered…” She cannot continue. She breaks into sobs, squeezes tightly shut her bloodied eyes as burning tears burst forth anew, and falls to her knees beside the fallen captain, leaning heavily on hilt of her sword for support, her weight driving the blade even further through his chest and into the loose soil beneath.

In the near-silence that follows, her livid tears for another spatter the face of her former comrade-in-arms, as he lies dying on the bitter grounds of his last command.

[0xDEADCAFE]

After the silence, through which the only sounds are the distant crackle of burning torches and the faint watery crashes of her tears on the captain’s glistening, fire-lit face, he wakes and speaks again, in barely a whisper, choking.

“You… were one of us…”

“Aaaagh!” she screams. Blindly clinging to the hilt of her sword, she twists her shoulders with a sudden violence, giving the sword a quarter turn that spreads the captain’s ribcage with a loud crack and opens a gaping hole in it.

“Aye was ne’er one of YOU! Ye weak, wicked poltroons! Aye’s ne’er one of ye! Ne’er! Ne’er! Ne’er…” And with each repetition of eternal denial she jerks and twists the hilt of the sword in spasms of rage and regret, each turn of the blade mercilessly carving the hole in the captain’s chest wider and deeper until it is a bowl of blood and bile, until the last of her strength is spent and he is as still and lifeless as the midnight sky.

Collapsing now, she falls from the hilt and slumps onto the ground, just managing to prop her head against the upright wooden posts. Her eyelids press down; her body, feeling the tug of the worldwide graveyard, longs for the soil, but her eyes, her mother’s eyes, press back against the urge for sleep, for one last vision of her living offspring.

They come to her then, instinctively, without emotion or reason, just knowing, accepting the sight of their mother’s bleeding and spent body without judgment, as they had their father’s, understanding the certainty of her death without remorse. Theirs is a wisdom beyond human rationality, untainted by human sentiment, unguided by human logic. Now is the season of her death; now they go to her side.

She watches them approach as if from a distant ship, through the shrinking portals of her half-closed, life-weary eyelids, over a horizon fogged with memories. She sees them, covered now in mud and blood, leaning together, their heads so close as to be almost touching, their bodies pressed together as if one body, and sees them too at their birth, together in her arms, warm and steaming from her womb, covered in her blood, huddling together.

Their eyes meet and the silence descends around them, revealing the crackle of the torches and the coarse and watery sound of her shallow breathing. “Me boys,” she says. Her voice is barely audible, but in whispers bestows upon them a tenderness and love as it had never done before. “Me boys.”

“Here,” she says, reaching inside her tunic with much effort, and pulling out a small talisman, her waypoint key. “Take it… ye must go far away me sons… there is nothing here for ye now.” She gives it to them and slumps again. Every word brings pain and exhaustion. Her eyes close.

The boys wait, but not for long. Somehow knowing that it is not quite her time yet, they lay their strong hands upon her and, with utmost tenderness, gently shake her until she awakens.

She looks at them, their faces, and smiles. She knows what they understand. Their mother is dying and in their faces she sees no pity, no emotion, only purpose, and she knows what that purpose is: survival.

She is almost asleep now. She speaks to them slowly and evenly, like she is reading from a book, dreamily, like she is reciting from a distant memory.

“Up North beyond the weaver’s spell,
The men of olden courage dwell.
Astride the holy mountain side,
No threat do they unmet abide.
To live under the icy sky,
A life for which they gladly die.”

And with a fierce look, she adds, “Remember ye’re father. Promise me.”

The three boys nod a single nod, heads bobbing in unison, eyes steadily on hers.

She exhales her last breath. She smiles and her eyes command them voicelessly: “Go now.” They turn and leave. She watches them go until they leave the glow of the torchlight and thinks, “That’s right me sons, ne’er look back.”

And now, finally, she can abandon herself to her body’s earthy desire for rest. She rolls into closer contact with the ground and sinks her face into the thick, loving fur, imagining her husband beside her, both of them saying the goodbye to their children that they always knew would come.

“Farewell Talic, Korlic and Madawc.”


Fin

[RevenantsKnight]

And the “foul demon of high expectations” has been overcome; I do declare victory for 0xDEADCAFE. :) In all seriousness, this was an enjoyable finish to your story; except for a few comments at the end there, it was more or less what I expected in terms of quality. Now, about those comments...

Her eyelids press down; her body, feeling the tug of the worldwide graveyard, longs for the soil, but her eyes, her mother’s eyes, press back against the urge for sleep, for one last vision of her living offspring.

“Worldwide” seems too modern for the story; I don’t think I’ve seen it in anything that isn’t relatively contemporary. I’m not really sure what to suggest in lieu of “worldwide,” though; “endless,” “infinite,” etc. might work, but they seem to suggest something slightly different to me.

“Here,” she says, reaching inside her tunic with much effort, and pulling out a small talisman, her waypoint key. “Take it… ye must go far away me sons… there is nothing here for ye now.”

This worked, except for the “waypoint key.” I’d advise avoiding game elements as much as possible, and since they wouldn’t need the waypoints to travel, this seems like an unnecessary reminder that this is a fanfic. I’d delete the reference entirely.

“Up North beyond the weaver’s spell,
The men of olden courage dwell.
Astride the holy mountain side,
No threat do they unmet abide.
To live under the icy sky,
A life for which they gladly die.”

This was well done, in my opinion. Congrats. However, it does seem a little out of place where it is, since there’s nothing indicating its importance prior to its appearance; it’s just there. Maybe you can work a few hints into the previous parts concerning the ending, so it’s not as much of a “What the...?” feeling.

And with a fierce look, she adds, “Remember ye’re father. Promise me.”

I think that should be “yer,” if you mean “your.”

“Farewell Talic, Korlic and Madawc.”

Again, where’d this come from? It’s not a bad idea at all to tie this in with the game (in my opinion, anyway...others may disagree) but there was no hint of this at all, so I felt a little blindsided by this.

Well, that was certainly a well done and enjoyable epilogue. Congrats, and thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

In all seriousness, this was an enjoyable finish to your story; except for a few comments at the end there, it was more or less what I expected in terms of quality. Now, about those comments... As usual you make some good points, but I'll probably leave most of this as-is, with the exception of yer for ye're - good catch. "Worldwide" does have a contemporary feel to it, but it's exactly what I want to say and I can't think of a suitable replacement. (Pangaean? Nah!)

Both the bit about the waypoint and the "Up North.." verse are foreshadowed way back in the pre-epilogue story, which talks about her dreaming of travelling up north and then finally obtaining access to the waypoint, which is implied to be an honor bestowed on only a few. In general, a fair amount of the epilogue does depend on the reader having read the original story. Hopefully the references would not be that obscure for someone reading both parts in sequence.

There is also, I feel, an irony to her recalling a verse of mythical idealism. I have a theory that those who end up being the most bitter are the ones who start out with the purest, most naive beliefs. Does it open a window to the soul of the ecstatic and starry-eyed girl that became a twisted and hateful woman? There must certainly be irony in her, minutes after renouncing all ties to her humanity, drifting off into poetic bliss, the absolute essence of humanity. It also serves as a message to her boys; a gift of hope from the hopeless to the hopeful, as the endless cycle of life goes on.

I also prefer the notion of the boys being suddenly plunged into a busy, clamorous town center to the idea of them making a long cross-country trip. The culture shock and ensuing conflict/adjustment might make a good tale of its own.

As far as the Talic, Korlic and Madawc thing. I agree it easily could and probably should come out, but it won't. The idea struck me very early in the story and colored everything I wrote about the boys, at least; it was always there asserting its influence and for that reason it is too intimately tied to the story in my own mind for me to remove it. (As I write this I can hear Stephen King's wise advice: "Murder your darlings", but am too much the fool to accept it.)


I do declare victory for 0xDEADCAFE. :) And I declare a holiday in honor of the great RevenantsKnight. (Go ahead and take off any day you already get off, courtesy of 0xDEADCAFE.) This was the first time I've spent many more hours revising a story than writing the first draft. It was a new and growthful experience for me, inspired largely by, and at times I would even say driven by, your feedback. Thanks bunches for the encouragement and your many constructive comments.