Please respect other members. Please do not post links or information about hacking/warez/cheats.
Read the rules of these forums as we rarely warn before banning. Lost or need RSS check the forum map.
Hey! New member here, and a new story, novel-ish in length. I hope to update it once a week, though this may be a little ambitious. All comments welcomed.
The Chaos Lexicon: Corruption
Prologue
Blue fire erupted from granite floor stones, fire as cold as the winds about mighty Arreat, the Roof of the World. The ghostly flames raged silently as they rose to the height of a man; when they vanished like a candle blown out, the wizard remained. He stood trembling for a time, breathing spasmodically, clutching at his robes. The Spell of Portal was a rigorous exercise, its effects unpleasant. The experience was that of passing though a storm of shattered glass. For good reason, the wizard had not uttered the incantation in a score of years. Still, he allowed himself a thin smile of satisfaction as he recovered, for he had not erred in his calculations. Straight and true had his spell delivered him to his goal.
The room in which the wizard stood was long and large, shrouded in darkness that was dispelled only here and there by ensconced flames along walls and pillars. His ragged breath lingered before him like a wraith. There was a damp and cloying odor of earth and decay. The wizard knew this scent well, for he had visited many such catacombs and deep places in his time. The drip of water came to him from a far corner, seeping through some crack in the walls. It was well into the late season of rain that accompanied the turning of leaves. The wizard sensed that it was raining even now, far above him.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, the wizard spied a structure at the far end of the room. A great sepulcher, made of dark stone and adorned with cryptic symbols and sigils. Two mighty columns, each of which bore an unlit torch, flanked the vault; the sepulcher thus sat hidden in a pool of darkness, as if by design. The wizard turned toward the vault in haste – or as much haste as his aged limbs would allow – and let slip a cloth sack from his hands. The bag struck the stone floor with a hard crack that betrayed glass within. The sound echoed throughout the room.
“Siliera!” the wizard hissed; he flung out his left hand in a sweeping gesture. The air rippled away from him in that moment, carrying the force of the whispered enchantment to the far corners of the room. Now, for a time, no sound within this room could be heard from without. The wizard cursed himself for failing to establish the Spell of Silence immediately upon his arrival. An unforgivable error even for a novice, he thought, let alone a mage of his seasoning. He raised his left hand before his face; it trembled. He clenched that hand into a bony fist.
“Purpose,” he muttered, nodding to himself, reminding himself. Purpose and time – twin forces which bound all the world. Forces though which a man might govern that world, if only he held true. He exhaled sharply and bent to pick up the fallen sack.
“Intruder, hold!” cried a voice behind him. “Turn and face me!”
The wizard gasped – he had heard no footfall, no approach. He turned to see a young woman behind him, surely less than a score of summers old. She held aloft a short sword that glinted in the flickering torchlight. The woman – obviously a guard – wore a jerkin, trousers, and boots all of leather. Her face, shadowed from behind, bore an expression caught between anger and fear.
“Who are you, old man?” The voice held the high, uncertain pitch of youth, but was edged with menace. She brandished the sword. “How did you enter this place? Speak quickly!”
The wizard’s left hand clutched at his cloak, then at the front of his robe beneath; he took a halting step forward. “Please,” he said, coughing. “Please help – ” He collapsed then, falling forward with a grunt and rolling onto his side.
The guard hesitated; the wizard’s body lay still before her. There was no sound of breathing save her own.
“Old man,” the guard said uncertainly. She stepped closer, lowering her sword as she moved.
The wizard’s hand thrust outward without warning, hurling a glass vial onto the floor at the guard’s feet. The vial shattered, releasing a plume of black mist that enveloped the woman. She screamed once, and then began to gasp and wheeze as though her breath had been stolen away. She fell to her knees, and then slumped to the floor. The wizard sat up, grimacing with the effort. He glared at the dark mist that still hovered about the guard’s form and dispelled it with a curt command.
The woman had stopped gasping, had indeed stopped moving at all. Now she was the one who lay upon her side on the cold stone. The wizard dragged himself near the guard’s body and turned it roughly by the shoulder. The woman lay on her back, eyes open and staring blindly. Her face, youthful and unlined, had become a perfect death mask; only the wizard’s occult senses assured him that she still lived.
“I do apologize for this ill-treatment, my dear,” the wizard murmured, his voice brittle as old parchment. “I did expect you, or someone much like you…though perhaps not so soon. I trust that you can hear me, though you are of course unable to respond. Such is the effect of the Dust of Bedevilment. I fear that I have pressing business and must leave you as you are for the moment, but do not despair! I shall return to bestow upon you my full attention.”
The wizard drew his fallen cloth sack to him; he reached inside and produced first one large glass jar, then another, then three more. He held each jar up for inspection, pausing to closely examine one with a crack at its base. “Clumsy,” he said, chiding himself. Still, it was not broken, and so would do.
He set the jars in a line near the guard’s body, and then withdrew a thin and glittering blade from within the folds of his cloak. He set this also near the woman’s paralyzed form. “I shall not be long,” he said to her. He paused a moment, cocking his head in mockery, as though awaiting a reply that could not come.
The wizard then struggled to his feet, the now-empty sack clutched in his right hand. He turned his back upon his young victim, turned once more toward the waiting sepulcher at the end of the room. His side ached from where he had struck the floor when he fell, but his hands no longer trembled.
“Purpose,” the wizard said again, smiling in the terrible darkness.
Well written and interesting. It read smoothly and I didn't notice any errors. There hasn't been much on wizards in this forum so this is a welcome addition. I look forward to reading more.
This looks like a pretty good start. Your story leaves just enough unknown to hold my attention, while conjuring up good mental images as I read. Anyway, here’re some specific comments; feel free to tell me if you think I’m being too evil with the editing stick.
Quote:
Originally Posted by coldwave
The ghostly flames raged silently as they rose to the height of a man; when they vanished like a candle blown out, the wizard remained.
While you do a good job of mixing descriptive bits on the wizard into the story, I felt as if there was something missing, namely, a general picture of him. Certain elements, such as the facial features, appearance, clothes, etc. of a character, are largely responsible for the image of the story in the reader’s mind, and without many of them here, I found myself defaulting to some cross between Deckard Cain and Ian McKellen. Maybe that’s the image you wanted, but I’m guessing that you’re trying to make a character that isn’t another generic old wizard.
Quote:
Originally Posted by coldwave
The experience was that of passing though a storm of shattered glass.
Grammatically, this sentence says that using the “Spell of Portal” literally involves passing through a storm of shattered glass. I think you meant this as a comparison; if that is the case, then it should read, in my opinion, something like “...was like that of...”
Quote:
Originally Posted by coldwave
The room in which the wizard stood was long and large, shrouded in darkness that was dispelled only here and there by ensconced flames along walls and pillars...There was a damp and cloying odor of earth and decay...The drip of water came to him from a far corner, seeping through some crack in the walls. It was well into the late season of rain that accompanied the turning of leaves. The wizard sensed that it was raining even now, far above him.
Nice. This is what I meant about your writing bringing up good mental images.
Quote:
Originally Posted by coldwave
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, the wizard spied a structure at the far end of the room. A great sepulcher, made of dark stone and adorned with cryptic symbols and sigils.
I’d see if you can’t combine these two sentences together; the connection between “structure” and “sepulcher” seems weaker with the ideas broken up.
Quote:
Originally Posted by coldwave
Forces though which a man might govern that world, if only he held true.
I think you mean “through.”
Quote:
Originally Posted by coldwave
“Such is the effect of the Dust of Bedevilment.”
I’d be careful with using “proper names” of spells and magical items, as they take away from the believability of the story with enough use; while your employment of them isn’t as bad as it could be, if I read a Diablo piece that had the sentence, “With the Hellslayer in hand, the Barbarian used his Whirlwind to cut through the ranks of the Oblivion Knights in seconds,” I’d take a few moments to stare before continuing on with the story.
I look forward to any further material, and thanks for posting!
My thanks to you both - and special thanks for the specific comments, RevenantsKnight. All of them were useful and I'll incorporate the suggestions as soon as may be.
The point about "brand name" spells and attributes and such is a good one. The subject's been on my mind, as the potential for abuse will be pretty high in this story. I'm keeping it in mind...
I have no corrections or suggestions, but a question: By the title of the peice, I'm guessing that you're going to plumb exactly what it is to be 'corrupted' in the world of diablo. The game designers really breeze over this area of their fiction. How could a man trust a demon enough to be corrupted by him? Is it just a matter of waving a wand to turn someone evil? Thoughtful and more dramatic interpretations of the diablo universe are needed, and ones I enjoy examining.
Nice writing! Only one point I'd like to make. When the guard caught the wizard and he started his act, I kinda got the feeling that the silence spell wasn't in effect. You didn't say the guard heard the wizard speak, but I read it like that. Might be just me, though.
Nice writing! Only one point I'd like to make. When the guard caught the wizard and he started his act, I kinda got the feeling that the silence spell wasn't in effect. You didn't say the guard heard the wizard speak, but I read it like that. Might be just me, though.
Anyway, I'd like to read more, thank you!!
I also puzzled over that part for a bit. The impression I had was the any noice cannot exit the room. Therefore, no sound will reach the ears of someone outside of the area of effect.
Well, it's only been close to a year since I posted the beginning of this story. Sorry. Time, uh, got away from me. But the story has never been far from my thoughts, and I'm now able and eager to get back to it.
I'd like to thank those folks - 0xDEADCAFE, Relapse_ , LD50, Hunt3r_kill4, and especially RevenantsKnight - for their long-ago comments on the opening piece. All advice was and is welcome.
I rashly stated last year that I expected to update the story once a week. Vain and foolish hope! :o Once a month, perhaps, is more reasonable. But I am looking forward working on the story, and hope you enjoy it.
As I've incorporated some of the advice I received earlier, I am here reposting the prologue (which is now simply Chapter 1). This will be immediately followed by the succeeding chapter, which I have in hand. Then, well, back to work!
____________________
The Chaos Lexicon: Corruption
Chapter 1
Blue fire erupted from the granite floor, fire as cold as the winds about mighty Arreat, Roof of the World. The azure flames raged silently as they rose to the height of a man; when they vanished like a candle blown out, the wizard remained. He stood trembling for a time, breathing in fits and gasps, clutching at his robes. The portal spell was a rigorous exercise, its effects unpleasant. The sensation was that of passing though a storm of shattered glass; little wonder, then, that the wizard had not uttered the incantation in a score of years. Still, he allowed himself a thin smile as he recovered, for he had not erred in his calculations. Straight and true had the spell delivered him to his destination.
The room in which the wizard stood was long and large, shrouded in darkness relieved only here and there by ensconced flames along walls and pillars. His ragged breath lingered before him like a wraith. The damp air felt heavy and cloying against his face, his neck, his bald pate, pressing with the weight of countless tons of unseen stone above. The odor of earth and decay filled his nostrils. The wizard knew this scent well, for he had visited many such catacombs and deep places in his time. A sound came to him, the drip of water in a far corner, seeping through some crack in the walls. It was well into the late season of rain that accompanied the turning of leaves. The wizard sensed that it was raining even now, far above him.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, the wizard spied his goal at the far end of the room: a mighty sepulcher of dark stone, adorned with cryptic sigils. He noted with approval that the vault was flanked by two great columns of basalt, each of them six-sided, each of them bearing an unlit torch. The sepulcher sat hidden, as if by design, in a pool of darkness. The wizard turned toward the vault in haste – or as much haste as his aged limbs would allow – and let slip a cloth sack from his hands. The bag struck the stone floor with a hard crack that betrayed glass within. The sound echoed throughout the room.
"Siliera!" the wizard hissed; he flung out his left hand in a sweeping gesture. The air rippled away from him in that moment, carrying the force of the whispered enchantment to the far corners of the room. Now, for a time, no sound within this vault could be heard from without. The wizard cursed himself for failing to establish silence immediately upon his arrival. An unforgivable error even for a novice, he thought, let alone a mage of his seasoning. He raised his left hand before his face; it trembled. He clenched that hand into a bony fist.
"Purpose," he muttered, nodding to himself, reminding himself. Purpose and time – twin cords which bound all the world. Forces though which a man might govern that world. He exhaled sharply and bent to pick up the fallen sack.
"Intruder, hold!" cried a voice behind him. "Turn and face me!"
The wizard gasped; he had heard no footfall, no approach. He turned to see a young woman behind him, surely less than a score of summers old. She bore a short sword that glinted in the flickering torchlight. The woman – obviously a guard – wore a jerkin, trousers, and boots all of leather. Her face, shadowed from behind, bore an expression caught between anger and fear.
"Who are you, old man?" The voice held the high, uncertain pitch of youth, but was edged with menace. She brandished the sword. "How did you enter this place? Speak quickly!"
The wizard's left hand clutched at the hem of his cloak, and then at his chest; he took a halting step forward. "Please," he said, coughing. "Please help – " He collapsed then, falling forward with a grunt and rolling onto his side.
The guard hesitated; the wizard's body lay still before her. There was no sound save her own breath.
"Old man," the guard said uncertainly. She stepped closer, lowering her sword as she moved.
The wizard's hand thrust outward without warning, hurling a glass vial onto the floor at the guard's feet. The vial shattered, releasing a plume of black mist that enveloped the woman. She screamed once, and then began to gasp and wheeze as though her breath had been stolen away. She fell to her knees, and then slumped to the floor. The wizard sat up, grimacing with the effort. He glared at the dark mist that still hovered about the guard's form.
"Dispaira," he said curtly. The mist spiraled upon itself and vanished.
The woman had stopped gasping, had indeed stopped moving at all. Now she was the one who lay upon her side on the cold stone. The wizard dragged himself near the guard's body and turned it roughly by the shoulder. The woman lay on her back, eyes open and staring blindly. Her face, youthful and unlined, had become a perfect death mask; only the wizard's occult senses assured him that she still lived.
"I apologize for this ill-treatment, my dear," the wizard rasped, his voice like parchment. "I did indeed expect you, or someone much like you – though nearly not so soon. I trust that you can hear my words, though you are of course unable to respond. Such is the effect of bedevilment." He shifted his weight with some difficulty and reached out to smooth away a lock of hair from the woman's brow; his touch was almost tender. "I have pressing business and must leave you as you are for the moment, but do not fear! I shall return to bestow upon you my full attention."
The wizard drew his fallen cloth sack to him; he reached inside and produced first one large glass jar, and then another, and then three more. He held each jar up for inspection, pausing to closely examine one with a crack at its base. "Clumsy," he said, chiding himself. Still, it was not broken, and so would do.
He set the jars in a line near the guard's body, and then withdrew a thin and glittering blade from within the folds of his cloak. He set this also near the woman's paralyzed form. "I shall not be long," he said to her. He paused a moment, cocking his head in mockery, as though awaiting a reply that could not come.
The wizard then struggled to his feet, the now-empty sack clutched in his right hand. He turned his back upon his young victim, turned once more toward the waiting sepulcher at the end of the room. His side ached from where he had struck the floor when he fell, but his hands no longer trembled.
"Purpose," the wizard said again, smiling in the terrible darkness.
The wood fire burned low with the lateness of the hour, its red and orange flames struggling against the gloom of the tavern. Two men huddled over ales at a low table near the back where a passageway led to the kitchen and the adjoining inn. The proprietor idled with his patrons, apron stretched tight across his belly, a soiled rag limp in his left hand. Ever and again the men paused in their talk at the rattle of the storm, the lash of rain against the windows.
As the force of the gale reached new heights, winds howling like souls in Abaddon, the front door of the tavern burst open. The three men looked up to see a cowled figure on the threshold. The stranger looked slowly about as though taking measure of the place, then stepped inside and shut the door. The men watched in uncertain silence as the newcomer approached a table near the fire and dropped a packroll that thudded upon the plank floor. Rainwater quickly pooled about the stranger's muddy boots. The newcomer stripped away wet gloves and tossed them onto the table; bare hands pulled back the dripping cowl, uncovering cropped brown hair matted above a high brow and hooded eyes. A woman's face it was: edged at the cheekbones, stern of jaw. She unpinned her sodden cloak, revealing a stout build outfitted in the rude fashion of a journeyman. The woman slung the cloak across an empty chair and fixed her gaze upon the innkeeper. "Broth," she said.
"What's that?" the proprietor asked, as though startled out of sleep.
"I said 'broth', innkeep," the woman repeated. "Stock, soup, stew, whatever you may have left in your crock so long as it's hot. And bread to go with it." She then turned her back on the knot of men and sat heavily before the fire.
The innkeeper approached his new patron with halting steps. "Well, that's fine and good – milady," he began. "We've a room available if that's your pleasure, that is, if you're meaning to stay the night. Perhaps you'd prefer to take your supper in privacy and – "
"Perhaps I should, were I staying the night. I am not." The woman did not look up at the innkeeper. "I'll take my meal where I sit, if you'll be good enough to bring it." She reached into a pocket of her tunic and withdrew a dull gold coin that she set upon the table. "And another log on this fire, if you would."
The innkeeper eyed the coin for a moment and then bowed as gracefully as his girth would permit. "As you say, milady," he said, moving with alacrity to set a fresh log in the hearth and to prod the embers to new life with a poker. He paused a moment, awaiting some word of thanks or of dismissal, or even a curt nod. As he received only silence, he turned to fulfill his charge.
The proprietor bustled past his earlier patrons on his way to the kitchen. One of the men – a thin and sallow fellow – gave a derisive chuckle. "'If you'll be good enough to bring it'," he echoed with a sneer. "'Another log, if you would.' I guess that skirt made you jump high enough, Selwyn."
"Unless you plan to wield this rag, better you tend your own business instead of mine," Selwyn huffed. "Her gold's as good as anyone's – and more forthcoming than some, I've noticed." The innkeeper vanished into the recesses of the inn.
The stouter man at the table snorted and slapped his thigh. "Selwyn named you right enough, Cally," he said. "More likely we'd see snow in midsummer than you pay for a flagon."
"Shut your mouth," said Cally. He scratched at his cheek as he stared toward the front of the tavern. "We've fresh company for a pleasant change. There's a good solid handful, eh? I'd pay a coin or two for a look in those wet wrappings."
"I'd want more than a look for my money," his companion murmured behind his ale. His name was Brogan and he, too, eyed the woman. "What do you suppose? A farm girl from over the ridge, maybe? Some herder's daughter?"
"She's from no farm hereabouts, I'm sure of that. Looks to have come a long way."
"In hell's own weather, no less. And no companions with her, the poor dear."
"Until now, good son." Cally licked his dry lips. "Stay close, Brogan, and you may be in luck if she's generous. Strapping girl like that should be enough for two."
"Generous, perhaps, but what of that fair face?" Brogan chortled. "I remember you as more particular in past days."
"You know the old saw, mate: in the dark, all cats turn to gray." Cally winked as he lurched to his feet. "Worse comes to it, I've a feedbag to fit that horse."
Floorboards creaked as Cally wove an unsteady path toward the front of the tavern; the stolid Brogan made his own slower progress. The woman did not turn at their approach, nor did she seem to take note as they assumed stations on either side of her. Brogan settled into a chair to her right, while Cally set his foot upon a chair to her left. He leered at her by way of greeting and gestured with his flagon toward the hearth. Ale spattered onto the table. "Cheerful fire on a night like this," he said.
The woman remained slouched and unmoving in her chair. She might have been asleep – or made of stone – but for her bright gaze that mirrored the firelight. Her face seemed youthful enough, though her skin was brown and creased as if from sun and wind; fine wrinkles gathered at the corners of her eyes. Water trickled down the left side of her face and dripped from her chin.
"We saw that you're in need of company, being new to our fair hamlet as you seem," Cally began again. "It's our way to be open to strangers."
"You might call us the welcoming committee for stray lasses," Brogan offered.
"You might, at that." Cally smiled. "You've surely traveled far and not in the best of weather. What brings you here, if I might be so bold?"
"I stopped for food," the woman said finally, her voice low and sullen. "And quiet."
Cally laughed. "How very lucky for us, then." He took a pull of his ale and then bent closer. "And just where have you come from, dear?" The words billowed forth on stale, boozy breath. "Had a row with your father, maybe? Or you're perhaps on an errand?"
"Did you leave any fair sisters at home, perchance?" Brogan laughed as he spoke.
The woman ignored Brogan, but turned to look Cally full in the face; her eyes were obsidian now, averted from the firelight. "I come from distant Tal Amon, where such rain as you have here is an unanswered prayer," she said. "I have ridden through drought and darkness to reach this hovel, through lightning and torrents to endure your odious speech. The 'fair sisters' I abandoned in the desert were the vermin of the sands – the scarab, the viper, and the carrion bird – but they made for better company than I have found here."
Brogan grunted sharply, but kept silent as his companion raised a quick hand. Cally's face twisted as if he had bitten into sour fruit. "Harsh words, milady, and unbecoming," he said softly, the sloppy banter of a moment past now replaced by something edged and dangerous. "It's not our way to bear grudges...but we expect greater courtesy from a lone girl so far from home."
"So it's courtesy you're after, is it?" The woman's upper lip curled. "Is that what they call it here in your fair hamlet – courtesy?"
"Enough of your sass," rumbled Brogan as he bolted from his chair. He seized the woman's arm in a meaty grasp. "I've a better use for that mouth of –"
Whatever suggestion Brogan might have offered was lost, replaced by an inarticulate moan as the woman broke his grip and drove her elbow deep into his gut. In the same moment she lashed out with her left foot, catching Cally squarely in the chest and propelling him across the room.
"Now, then," the woman announced as she stood. "This herder's daughter will teach you the proper place for wayward hands."
"Treacherous witch," Cally hissed as he scrambled to his feet. He fumbled at his belt and withdrew a short curved dagger. "We'll be teaching the lessons here tonight! Come, Brogan!" He gestured with his blade. "Let's give this wench the welcome she deserves."
Cally's exhortation was met with another soul-sick groan, accompanied by the thick splash of liquid. The woman turned to see the large man bent upon his knees, convulsing, surrendering all that he had so lustily imbibed that night. What was once golden ale became a viscous pool, slowly spreading across the floorboards.
"I'd say the welcome has run all out of your companion," observed the woman.
"Brogan!" shouted Cally. "You'll let this sneering she-devil laugh at us, will you? Laggard! Shift your worthless hide!"
Cally's second attempt to rouse his ally seemed more effective, for after a moment Brogan did indeed grab hold of the table in an effort to regain his feet. Chairs toppled and scattered as he pulled himself more or less erect. Cally's look of triumph was swiftly replaced by consternation, however, as Brogan staggered across the room with one hand holding his outraged belly. The big man wrenched open the door and hurled his bulk into the tempest. The splashing steps of his retreat were soon lost within the rain and wind.
Cally stared at the open door, mouth agape, and then whirled to look back at the woman. She stood with her arms at her sides, her stance disturbingly relaxed. Only her eyes betrayed vitality, her glance leaping across the space between them.
"A thrice-damned coward he is," Cally said as if to himself. He fidgeted with the knife. "A coward, I say! You think I need him? Don't flatter yourself, wench." He barked a defiant laugh that caught in his throat. "I can settle our business just fine."
The woman studied him a moment longer, and Cally felt a chill as he saw – he thought he saw – the slightest smile play across her cracked lips.
"Are you quite sure of yourself there, Cally?" the woman asked.
Cally blinked. To his surprise and profound distress, he actually considered the question. Cally was surprised because he knew the answer to the woman's question and – worse still – he knew that she did too. Such was the realization that caused him to drop his knife and to stumble blindly out of the tavern as if pursued by demons.
The woman gazed after Cally for a time, and then stepped forward to pick up the knife. Her right hand closed into a fist about the weapon, snapping the short blade from its haft. She crossed over to the threshold and tossed the fragments into the mud outside. Her left hand moved in midair, a desultory gesture, the crux ordinaria – the same symbol that scarred the back of that hand.
"May the Light show you forgiveness, my 'brothers,'" the woman murmured into the uncaring storm, "such as you deserve."
She then closed the door and turned to regard the innkeeper Selwyn, who stood in the middle of the room bearing a plate of bread, a steaming bowl of soup, and the very face of fear. "Milady?" he asked in a small voice.
•
A scant hour later saw the woman many leagues distant, charging hard against the tempest, spurring the great horse she rode along a mountain pass. Rain slashed against mount and rider, and fierce winds assailed them; lightning exploded just over their heads, deafening them, fitfully illuminating the jagged path. The woman rode on. The pass narrowed and curved without warning, and the footing became treacherous. Storm water coursed from darkly looming precipices, flooding the pathway. The woman rode on, urging her horse to greater speeds. Onward they climbed into the storm's raging heart, ascending as it seemed to forbidden heights where elemental forces held sway and brooked no human presence. The woman rode on, driven by need, drawn by a fatal vision that burned in her eyes with every lightning stroke – a vision of blood and bone, of corruption and death, and of anguish.
Well, better late than never, I always say. The story certainly hasn't suffered from age. I thought this was well written and enjoyable throughout. First, I was hooked on what the Wizard was up to, now I am equally interested in what the "herder's daughter" is doing. I wouldn't mind seeing a chapter a week at all, though I agree that's an ambitious goal unless you are a writing machine that was somehow just out of gas for a while.
To highlight one aspect, I thought the dialog in chapter 2 was very clever and believable. It really seemed like different people were speaking. My favorite line was probably where Selwyn puts Cally in his place:
Quote:
"Unless you plan to wield this rag, better you tend your own business instead of mine," Selwyn huffed. "Her gold's as good as anyone's – and more forthcoming than some, I've noticed."
That just seems so much like what an Innkeeper might say.
The girl's speech was equally witty and sharp, especially:
Quote:
"So it's courtesy you're after, is it?" The woman's upper lip curled. "Is that what they call it here in your fair hamlet – courtesy?"
One area that was a little unclear (maybe intentionally so): you present the girl as big and rough and tough, yet, you also suggest some magic in her. For example, I assume she has the power to invoke fear, somehow. I can understand why Cally would decide against attacking her at the end, but dropping his knife and running off seemed a bit much, unless he was bedeviled in some way. You also seem to suggest that she has some power to lay curses on them:
Quote:
Her left hand moved in midair, a desultory gesture, the crux ordinaria – the same symbol that scarred the back of that hand.
"May the Light show you forgiveness, my 'brothers,'" the woman murmured into the uncaring storm, "such as you deserve."
She's a very interesting character indeed. As is the wizard, although he felt a bit flat at first. Until:
Quote:
"I shall not be long," he said to her. He paused a moment, cocking his head in mockery, as though awaiting a reply that could not come.
A great bit of characterization, there.
The very last paragraph might be the weakest part. It paints a dramatic image, but compared to the rest of your writing it seems a bit rushed and maybe a tad florid. Not to overemphasize this criticism -- it's not bad at all -- but if what you're going for is a chapter-ending teaser, I feel you could do it with a lot less, maybe just one or two sentences. On the other hand if you really want to paint the full picture you present, it might be better to take a bit more time with it.
I hate to end on a down note when so much of this was so good. Good stuff! I look forward to more.
Nice. 
RevenantsKnight
Linear Mode
