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Author Topic: New story - A Game of Destiny (Updated 18/6)  (Read 4632 times)
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Dala Valannia
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« on: 19 February 2002, 05:05:00 »

The latest installment of my new story is here!! See? If you guys nag at me long enough, I'll get something done eventually *L* I thought of the title today when I walking back to the library from a nice lunch of noodles and drinking a cooling cup of green apple bubble tea.

The continuation is attached to where the first installment left off :) If anyone's looking for an incredibly violent story and inordinate amounts of corpses and obscene number of decapitations...well, this isn't that type of story *apologetic look* Will do one of those next time, probably in the last chaper of Katya lol

P.S Koldar, I hope you don't mind me using your gaming idea and hope even harder that I got the basic geist of it right....

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

A Game of Destiny

Upon retrospect, it was pure stupidity on his part. Absolute idiocy that he thought he had been incapable of.

Obviously he thought wrong.

I’m never going to fall in love again, he thought with sour bitterness. Not if it’s going to make me do half-witted things like this, sneaking into temples in the middle of the night like a lovesick calf.

Then he remembered that was exactly what he was, struck with helpless adoration over the daughter of the butcher on the street where he lived. And he too recalled, with an internal sigh, Lylyian’s eyes, the exact same shade of dewy violets, gazing at him pleadingly with the hint of tears at the corners, making the deep lavender shade of those irises even more remarkable. The pale oval of her face with its delicate features and her perfect mouth with its full lips, curved sweetly in a pout as she begged Fitch to bring her her heart’s desire.

“I just want one. Oh please Fitch!” The lovely maiden pleaded prettily. “It really is my heart’s desire, truly!”

Grabbing one of Fitch’s hands, she pressed the open palm against her heart fluttering under a sincerely heaving bosom to let him know how she wanted such a small thing, a blue rose which would grow only in one single place out of the entire city of Voldar  – the temple gardens of the Goddess Seyella.

Dazed and overwhelmed by Lylyian’s earnestness, he agreed to her request and all the while his hand still pressed against that soft, lily-white bosom.

Which would explained why he was currently crouched up on the branch of an extremely tall tree and feeling none too secure as his perch had a tendency to creak alarmingly under his weight. He wasn’t heavy or fat, just of normal height and mass for a young man his age but even that was too much for the rotting tree limb to bear with equanimity.

Trying not to make any sudden movements, not wanting to break a limb, or most likely all of his limbs if he fell, Fitch peered cautiously over the top of the wall of which the tree branch was obligingly extended over and into the dark garden lit only by silvery pale moon and starlight.

He craned his neck for a better look, which turned out to be an error in judgment for the branch gave a monstrous screech of protest as he did.

The sound of imminent collapse only served to increase Fitch’s panic, for while he was afraid of breaking his neck if the tree branch collapsed, he was also mortally fearful of the temple guards finding him within the sacred grounds and breaking his neck for him, if he hadn’t done so during his fall.

Torn between wanting to climb down to safety and sanity and the thought of his love’s bountiful gratitude when he presented her with a blue rose, Fitch could only clutch his perch tightly with conflicted desires of an intact body and Lylyian’s body warring inside his mind and his loins.

Luckily, the choice was made for him when the bough, which finally had enough of its unwelcome burden, emitted a series of drawn out groans and Fitch suddenly found himself tilting dangerously forward and before he could react, he was hurtling through empty air, limbs flailing about helplessly, to fall in what seemed to be a long time…

…and his plummet ended as abruptly as it began when he landed in the middle of a bush. A bush, studded with inch long thorns.

Clenching his teeth tight together to prevent any gasps of pain, Fitch tried to extricate himself from his predicament without success. The more he thrashed around, the more the thorns hooked ruthlessly onto his clothing and into his flesh.

Reduced to frantic desperation, he started yelling for help, not caring anymore that the temple guards would hear him. At least they would get him out of this sadistic bush before they beat him to a bloody pulp.

“Help! I’m stuck! Help!” he shouted, humiliated and utterly mortified.

A flash of pale color drifted into his sight and he stopped yelling, half expecting the figure coming towards him swiftly to be that of a guard. But it wasn’t.

“Oh do be quiet, you’re shouting fit enough to wake the dead.” The girl hissed at him angrily when she was standing before him. “Stop it or else the guards will come and believe me, they will not be pleased to see you. At. All.” She emphasized her last few words with a particular disapproving exhalation of breath.

Chastened, Fitch looked up at her and asked humbly instead, “Could you help me out, please?” Although she sounded furious, she didn’t seem murderous and Fitch would rather take his chances with a temple maid, he thought that was probably who she was, than the guards.

He tried to make out her features but she was towering over him in his present position and he couldn’t see her face clearly, it was shrouded in shadows, but her robes, though simple, were weaved from expensive fabric. She wasn’t as full-figured as Lylyian but built more on the slender side, bordering on undernourished.

Putting her hands upon her hips, she appeared to consider awhile. Then she flung the hands up into the air in a ‘why not’ gesture and muttered something low under her breath, a word composing of three syllables but not in a language that Fitch recognized.

As she did, the thorns, which were clinging with persistence to Fitch’s shirt and trousers, retracted their prickly teeth and to his disbelief, the vines uncoiled from his body of their own volition even though neither he nor the girl laid a finger on them. He was free.

He jumped up hurriedly, wincing slightly in pain as the numerous wounds and scratches on his body, caused by the sharp edge of the thorns, started bleeding minutely.

“I supposed you would want me to help heal you now.” His unknown savior heaved a sigh resentfully.

No, I just want to get out of here, Fitch wanted to say. He would rather endure his injuries than stay another minute within temple grounds.

“Oh come along then.” The girl said before he could speak, her tone making it clear that she was doing all of this under extreme reluctance and turned to walk back where she came from, obviously expecting Fitch to follow her. Which he did, for he didn’t know the way out, and using the wall as a route of escape was out of the question now.

She walked surprisingly fast, weaving out of labyrinthine garden paths and curving passages with ease while Fitch tried to keep up, and led him to a clearing where a large house, made of alabaster and stone, with cunningly carved columns, a marble trellis and windows which had gauzy draped curtains, giving the entire place an ethereally insubstantial feel. Like a house from a fairy tale.

Over the sloping roof, a short distance away, Fitch could see the main temple of Seyella, looming up in the darkness, lighted at night with torches between the huge twin colonnades that supported the structure. The massive statue of the Goddess of Destiny was, as usual, standing motionless in front of the temple entrance, arrayed in her gray robes with her eyes covered by a blindfold, an owl perched on her shoulder, while the rest of her features were carved into an expression of severe impartiality.

He could also see the myriad shadowy figures of the temple guards and priestesses moving within the temple, going about their duties for worshippers arrived regardless of day or night, and a fresh new worry descended.

Turning his head around quickly, he didn’t see anyone in that house or around. It was strangely deserted.

The girl was entering the door of the house with confidence, her steps brisk and purposeful, and Fitch followed, though with less assurance.

The inside of the house was no less beautiful than its exterior, decorated in colors of bronze green and glowing gold, and magnificent tapestries hung on the walls while lush carpets were laid on the floor. But there was an undeniable coldness surrounding the splendor, a feeling of depressing flawlessness within its perfection.

“Where is this place?” Fitch asked softly, not daring to speak loudly.

The girl, her back still to him, was now over at a cupboard, cleverly built into a wall. She was busy rummaging around a number of small pots kept on a shelf and did not answer him at first. Her hands ran over several of the jars, lingering over the different shapes and sizes, and sometimes picking one up to sniff at the contents before putting it back again.

“Sit down and do not speak until I tell you to.” she ordered him imperiously, not bothering to turn around to look at him, one finger pointing to a bench at one side of the room.

Fitch crept over to the bench and obediently sat down.

The girl caught hold of one yellow jar and smelled it cautiously.

“Aha! Found it!” she exclaimed, holding the jar up in her hand like some ancient warrior maiden, lifting a sword above in triumph.

Then she turned around and Fitch got his first proper look at his rescuer at last and he could not speak for a long while, shock dancing down his spine as he saw.

“Seyella!” he whispered finally when he remembered his ability for speech.

The girl frowned at him, her forehead puckered in a furrow, above the strip of thick silk she wore, bound around her eyes, hiding them from sight.

“I am not Seyella.” she told him with disdainful contempt. “I am the Goddess’s Voice.”

Seyella’s avatar! Fitch nearly bolted out of the room when he realized with gradual horror who it was that had brought him here to this place. And he would have run, if only he wasn’t still gaping at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, and reeling from the revelation.

When he recovered enough of his wits to think coherently, the Voice had walked to where he was, and thrust the yellow jar in front of his face. Although the silk blindfold must have been thick enough to completely obscure her sight, she walked with unerring accuracy as she had done in the gardens to the bench and nimbly avoiding a chair and desk that was placed in her path.

“Here, it’s a salve. Rub it on your wounds.”

Taking the pot instinctively, Fitch couldn’t help but sense a growing spark of exasperation, overriding his feelings of awe and fear, at being talked to like he was a child.

But he did what she told him to, scooping out the salve with his fingers, and dabbing gingerly on the more serious of his bleeding scratches. The effect was immediate and gratifying, a numbing coolness spreading and dulling the worst of his hurts.

As he spread more of the cream onto his abrasions, he took the chance to sneak surreptitious glances at the girl who was now sitting in a chair near his, her face seemingly gazing upon him steadily but with her eyes covered by the blindfold, giving her an uncanny and uneasy aspect somehow, he could not be sure.

She didn’t seem very pretty, what features of her countenance that could be discerned, not in the earthy, sensual way that Lylyian was. But she had glorious rich copper tinted hair, piled high above her head in curls and her neck, like Seyella’s, was exquisitely shaped, long and delicate. Her posture was restless as her hands clenched and unclenched upon her lap.

He could remember seeing her before, now. Not here, person to person, of course. But sitting, far away from the general masses, on an immense, heavy iron throne set on a raised pedestal as he and some friends had gone to the temple during the appointed festival day of Seyella’s in the month of the Turning Star. They had went, not from a sentiment of religious fervor but because they had been bored.

From his vantage point in the crowd, the Voice, wearing her austere gray ceremonial dress, had the quality of a doll, fixed and rigid, as she sat on her throne, surrounded by her priestesses. Her face, eyes always hidden by the ever-present blindfold, looked out vacantly across the expanse of worshippers kneeling reverently before her as they awaited her blessings in a hushed, expectant silence.

The air grew stale and warm and Fitch had fidgeted, impatient and hungry, and he was about to suggest to his friends that they leave, when the sound of a bell being struck three times rang out, clear and ominous, and the Voice parted her mouth to speak and Fitch forgot everything as he listened.

The sound of the Goddess’s voice was unbearably beautiful and it was not calm like her visage, but wild and powerful as a burning sky. And there was heartrending desolation in it too though what could possibly make a Goddess so sad, Fitch did not know.

Like a song it was, what She said, the song of all joyous beginnings and inevitable ends to come. And each of Her words seared Fitch’s heart with light until he thought he would fracture into a thousand pieces and each piece would know that once he had heard the pure, faultless inflections of a Goddess.

When it was over, as the priestesses escorted the Voice away and the worshippers filed out in a sea of humanity, Fitch had been left shaken, feeling like he had been ripped apart and put back together again. Peculiarly enough, later, he had not been able to remember what She had said, only that Her voice had been mesmerizing and hypnotic and traveled to all corners of the vast hall with ease.

And now, the vessel in which Seyella poured Her divine nature into was sitting a short distance away from him, her knees drawn up against her chest in a child-like gesture, one untidy curl escaping from her tight mass of hair, and she was asking him something.

“What were you doing here in the temple gardens anyway?” she was saying with abruptness, and her words were ordinary and the tones unfriendly though it contained a smudge of unwilling curiosity. A normal voice, not unpleasant but had none of the rounded goldenness, which had made it compelling on that hot festival day.

The swell of embarrassment and discomfiture came over him again when she asked. He couldn’t tell Seyella’s Voice that he had been sneaking into the temple gardens because he wanted to steal a blue rose for the butcher’s daughter.

Flushing, he tried to think of an excuse but none, nothing plausible anyway, came to mind.

“You’re not an assassin, are you? Because I’ll have to call for the guards to come kill you if you are one.”

Blanching ashen now, Fitch assured her, somewhat disjointedly, that he had no intentions of assassinating anyone or anything.

“Well, alright. I suppose I believe you. No assassin could be as stupid as to get himself caught in such a simple warding spell.”

“Spell…?”

“The thorn bushes.” She heaved another one of her impatient sighs. “They’ve been spelled to catch hold of any intruders. And they would never have let you go if I haven’t come along and saved you. You would have been caught there until the morning patrols came by to get you. Or the dogs.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” she said automatically and not with any real sincerity. “If you are not an assassin, then what were you doing here? If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll scream and the guards will come.” she threatened.

“No! Please don’t do that,” Fitch hurriedly replied. “I, er, wanted a…rose.”

“A what?”

“The blue rose of Seyella. I wanted one.” He clarified, his face still blushing deeply though she could not possibly have seen his shame reflected there.

“You did all this for a blue rose?” The Voice said sharply and incredulously.

“Lylyian wanted it…” Fitch was starting to feel even stupider, explaining to Seyella’s avatar his reason for petty thievery.

“I think you are an idiot.” After distinctly telling Fitch what she thought of him, the Voice stood up quickly. “Aren’t you done yet? You have to leave now.”

Without waiting for his answer, she walked out of the room in that self-assured manner of hers, bypassing obstacles easily, as if she could see.

Fitch, feeling like a well-trained dog and resenting it, followed her once more.

Through the garden maze they walked through again and this time, she led him to another section of the immeasurably long, high wall, which ran around the boundaries of the temple and before a modest narrow doorway with iron railings.

Producing a key, she fitted the curved contours into a small knothole and turned it. With a small creak, the gate swung opened to lead out to a small passageway.

“The kitchen cooks uses this gate for deliveries to the temple.” The Voice told him. Then she grinned an unexpected mischievous smile of gleeful delight, like a child who had did something naughty and was proud of the fact that the deed had been undiscovered by the adults. “I stole it.”

“That’s good.” Fitch could only congratulate her half-heartedly. He was too intoxicated with the lure of sweet freedom so near to say anything more.

He was about to make a dash through the gate when the Voice grabbed his sleeve with fingers that dug into his flesh like claws and held on tight.

There was a slight hesitation, and then she asked hurriedly, “Is this Lylyian of yours…is she very beautiful?”

“She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” Fitch, taken aback by her question, but nevertheless, stuttered out. Then he recalled an image of Lylyian and warmed to his description with heartfelt passion,  “She has hair the color of gold and lilac eyes that’s like bluebells in summer.”

“She sounds like a silly doll for a baby.” The Voice gave a very unladylike snort of derision.

“She does not!” Fitch replied, stung.

The Voice shrugged. Then she said, “I want you to come back.”

“I, I don’t understand.”

Brusquely, she pushed him through the gate so that he found himself standing on the other side, looking in at a dark-skinned girl with a blindfold and a murky, seething mass of bushes and foliage silhouetted ominously behind her back.

“Come back seven nights later. Exactly seven nights from this night. At this hour and meet me at this place again. You must come back!” The girl told him, her face with its enforced blindness turned to him with impatient edginess

“But why?” Baffled, Fitch asked.

“You want a blue rose, don’t you? Come back in seven nights hence. You must promise to come back. Promise!”

Hardly daring to believe his ears, Fitch thought he heard her say that she would give him the rose. Then she repeated herself and he knew his ears hadn’t deceived him. But he, try as he might, could not fathom why she was telling him this. It was obvious she didn’t like him very much and yet, here she was, informing him that she would help him gain Lylyian’s favor.  

Fearing that to linger any longer would mean certain discovery by the guards, he promised her, stammering his agreement to meet her again seven days hence.

As he promised her, she nodded curtly once and then slammed and locked the iron gate in his face. Without saying anything more, she hurried away and Fitch stared at her retreating back, becoming smaller and less distinct as she melded effortlessly with the shadows, until she was long disappeared from sight

(End of first part)

^^^^^^

For the second time in a very short period of time, Fitch Sorailder who lived in a modest little house, apprenticed to old Joure the transcriber, in a small street on the eastern section of Voldar, was thinking with unhappy disgruntlement that he had gone officially insane.

“What am I doing here? I should not be here, I should be at home, asleep in my nice hard little bed, after a warm supper of roast chicken and turnip soup!” He was starting to say in a low enough voice but which unexpectedly rose higher and higher until the word ‘soup’ was shouted out to the night-sky with deep aggrieved annoyance.

A sky that was darted with bright silver threads as rain fell with persistence, piercing through Fitch’s cloak with competency until he was thoroughly wet, shivering and miserable.  

“Exactly seven days, she said. Same time and place, she said.” Fitch muttered angrily under his breath. He kept his end of the bargain, but she obviously had not.

He contemplated leaving, walking until he was so far away that the lunacy might leave him like a bad dream and he did, almost, do that. He marched a few steps away from the gate, then stopped, hesitated, sighed and proceeded to walk back again, pressing his face between the iron bars for the hundredth time. And it was no different from the ninety-ninth time previously, what little of the garden he could see from his position, seemed totally devoid of anyone, including a rude and ill-mannered brat of an avatar for the Goddess of Destiny.

During the past seven days, he had thought long and hard over whether to return to the temple. He contemplated his options while studying the scrolls that Joure had passed him, weighed the advantages and disadvantages while eating. It was even starting to invade his dreams as well, images of blue roses, darkly baleful, filling them until he would wake up, unable to breathe for a moment.

Much as he wanted to see the happiness reflected from Lylyian’s perfect countenance, happiness that he was the cause of, his suspicions and skepticism had nearly overwhelmed the former desire.

And in his more honest moments, he admitted to himself that cowardice played a part in his reluctance to return to the temple as well.

Then, yesterday, he had seen Eiae, son of the richest spice trader in the eastern sector of the city, hanging around the butcher shop and standing next to him, giggling and resplendent in a green low-cut cheap cotton dress, was Lylyian.

To be so ingloriously supplanted by Eiae of the piggy eyes, pockmarked face and sly grin! The utter ignominy of this rivalry was too much to bear.

His pride injured grievously and resolve strengthened, Fitch vowed he was going to get that blue rose for Lylyian or die trying.

Earlier in the evening, he had sneak out of the house after Joure had retired for the night, and feeling horribly guilty as he did so, betraying the old scribe’s trust in him because of Lylyian. Joure who had been like a father to him since he had never known his own and his mother died when he was still a baby and who left him no clues to whom his father might have been.

Sighing, Fitch swore to himself he’d make it up to Joure by studying those Brownies scrolls they’ve gotten recently from Milkengrad. Joure had paid a fortune for them, using a hefty chunk of his life-savings but the old scribe announced with some satisfaction that it was worth it.

The rain fell harder and he leaned back against the gate, irrationally thinking that perhaps by doing so, he wouldn’t possibly get any wetter.

Something grabbed him by his shoulder from behind.

Fitch was ashamed to admit it later, he insisted it was an exceedingly masculine yell of surprise, but he screamed.  

“How many times must I tell you to be quiet?” The Voice sounded like her usual self, irritated and aggrieved. “And has anyone told you yet that you shriek like a half-witted girl who saw her husband naked for the first time on their wedding night?”

^^^^^^

“You lied!”

“I did not! How dare you call Seyella's Voice a liar!”

“You told me that you would give me a rose if I came back seven nights later.”

“No I didn’t. I asked whether you wanted a blue rose and told you to come back seven nights later. I didn’t say I would give you one.”

“That is a technicality and you know it. You implied to me that you would give me a blue rose!”

“And I will. If you win.”

Fitch grounded his teeth together until his molars protested.

He settled for glaring at her unless he realized how stupid it was. The blindfold that covered her eyes stared smugly back him, impervious to angry glowers from an apprentice scribe.

“You lied to me.” he insisted mulishly, crossing his arms on his chest, knowing he sounded like a child deprived of a candy treat but not able to stop himself.

“Armeros’s teeth.” she retorted rudely to him. “It’s not my fault if you can’t listen properly. In any case, I didn’t lie. You wanted a rose and you will get one…”

With an expansive gesture, she upturned the contents of the box she was holding onto the table. The dices clattered onto the surface with a pleasant heavy clacking sound. The first dice was red, and the second was blue while the last was a curious mixture of green at one side and yellow on the other.

“As long as you can win a game from me.” The Voice concluded her sentence and this time, she did smile smugly.

The colors of the dice immediately alerted Fitch on what game she intended they play. Disbelievingly he stared at them and exclaimed, “You are not serious about this, are you?”

Her silence was answer enough.

The impulse to walk out of the alabaster house was so strong that he almost coiled himself out of the chair he was sitting to leave. The slight movement was enough to jar the edge of the table and the Voice felt the tremor. For a brief moment, her body seemed to slump a little, as if she knew he was going, before straightening stiffly again.

An insight flashed across Fitch’s mind quickly, she’s disappointed that I’m not going to play...

It was a funny, odd little thought. Incredible, almost impossible to contemplate seriously that this proud girl before him, arrogant and secure in her knowledge as a Goddess’s avatar, would actually be distressed for the simple reason that a common transcriber’s apprentice wouldn’t play an even commoner dicing game, popular with foot soldiers in barracks, with her.

Not entirely sure what he was doing and after a surreptitious glance at the waning moon, aware that he would have to sneak back home in a few hours’ time before Joure wakes up, he said with a resigned air, “We have nothing to bet with. I did not bring any coins with me.” His half-hearted final protest sounded feeble, even to him.

The Voice, if anything, straightened her spine even more until it looked as though she was going to snap in halves. The fine brows above her blindfold knitted together shortly before smoothing out once more.

“A temple maid left some dried peas here.” she said, gesturing her hand towards a beautifully painted bowl. “We can bet on peas.”

“Peas?”

“I like them, they’re crunchy.” she justified defensively.

“And if I win a game, just one game, you would allow me to pluck a blue rose for my love.”

“Yes.”

I’m going to regret this, Fitch thought as he picked up the red dice. “I hold you to your promise. I take the red.”

“Pass me the blue dice.”

Doing as he was told, dropping the small little ivory square, dyed a brilliant blue, onto her palm that was smooth with well-shaped nails. It was a hand that had never toiled or labored a day in its life but still looked strong despite.

“You know the rules of this game?”

“Yes, it’s Saki, isn’t it? The dices represent Troll and Paladin and if the Troll rolls higher than the Paladin or vice versa, he wins the round.” Fitch said. “The two-colored dice represents Seyella and when both players rolls the same number, Seyella will be used to determine the deadlock.”

“Good, you are not as stupid as you sound. Twenty peas for every round we play until all are gone. The one who holds the highest number at the end wins.”

“Fine.” Fitch just wanted to get this over with. If he was lucky, he might even win the first game and be on his way home, in time for a few hours’ of sleep, and a delicate rose, the colour of a sea during a thunderstorm, beside his pillow.

“One more thing, I’m not going to be a nasty old Troll. I want to be the Paladin. You be the Troll.”

“Whatever.”

The smug grin on her face intensified until it became a veritable smirk. “Then, let us begin. You may have the first throw since you are my guest.”

“Thank you. Your graciousness is kind indeed.” Fitch muttered sarcastically and flung the red dice upon the table, holding his breath when it skimmed and skipped over the tabletop rapidly before slowing and finally stopping to a halt near the edge.

“Five!” he cried out the number on the topside of the dice with triumph.

In a flash, her hand reached out and with the tip of her finger, she stroked the top of the red dice, ascertaining for herself through feeling for the numbers of grooved circles etched there.

“Not bad for a first throw.” The Voice acceded expressionlessly.

Ha, let’s see her top that! Fitch crowed mentally.

Swirling her own dice within the loosely clenched fist, she hesitated a moment, and then with a practiced and economical flip of her wrist, threw the dice out.

The blue dice didn’t dance erratically across the table as Fitch’s had. Instead it balanced upon one point and spun dizzyingly round and round until the black circles etched on each side became a blur.

But gravity prevailed and eventually its trajectory grew sluggish and the numbers became more distinct.

When it finally stopped and settled, Fitch could only stare incredulously.

As she had done before, the Voice reached out and felt the result of her throw with her fingertip. The grin resurfaced as she did.

“Six.” she said serenely. “I win the first round. Twenty peas please.”

By the time the first ray of light appeared over the horizon, leavening the murky black-violet of a dawning night to a heavenly white-blue, Fitch was making his bleary way through the arch of a small side garden-gate.

And he had not won a single game out of the thirty-three rounds they played.

To be continued (bwahahahaha!!)

Edited by: Dala Valannia at: 6/19/02 3:47:25 am
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Bard Judith
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« Reply #1 on: 19 February 2002, 08:00:00 »

So far?  SO far?

Well, hurry up and write some more!

I'm intrigued by the characters, convinced by the description, believing in the background detail (well-integrated btw), and hungry for more plot.

Never mind having supper or taking a shower....who cares about real life?  WRITE MORE!




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"Give me a land of boughs in leaf /  a land of trees that stand; / where trees are fallen there is grief; /  I love no leafless land."   --A.E. Housman
 
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« Reply #2 on: 19 February 2002, 08:47:00 »

I need more story to write a critque. I'm a little suspicious as to the Seyella-girl's motives, so I'm going to need some resolutions. Too many unanswered questions you see. How can you comment when you're trying to infer the characters.

But on the plus side, some of the things I like about it are the simple realistic motivations of Fitch, and the aura of mystery that is presented when he's caught by the girl. You chose an appropriate spot to leave us hanging as well.

Bard: What if you don't have a real life to begin with? That's the story of me, who's now furiously trying to think of ideas to detail a certain character's trek through the woods...Building a robot really cuts into your writing time...*sigh*

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« Reply #3 on: 19 February 2002, 09:12:00 »

aaahhhh!
a perfect Valentine's day story, with what looks like unrequited love going in two directions in a love triangle.....
Really enjoyed it, and looking forward to finding out what exactly happens when he goes back for the blue rose...


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« Reply #4 on: 19 February 2002, 11:18:00 »

Like I have said a million times before, Dala you have a talent that is unparalled.  I wish I was a publisher, I would publish you faster than one of Silfers lightning bolts.  I too want more.  And I can see some interesting plot twists that could grow out of this.

Capher, Tribes and Races Supervisor Moderator.Wisdom is given to those whom it knows.

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I live to but to serve my Goddess Seyella and Talon Hawke; son, heir and Wizard of the White Tower-defender of the lands and peoples of Caelereth!
Dala Valannia
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« Reply #5 on: 19 February 2002, 20:06:00 »

Okay, wow, hm * blush :o  * Thanks for all the encouragments and approval :smokin  Eskon, you're right, I should have phrased my request as what do you think of my story so far because it is a hard to judge a story on all its merits and faults when there's only part of it! But I'm very glad (and relieved!) that Bard Judith, Capher and Greybark liked it so far!

Bard Judith, please, BATHE! :lol  I promise to try and finish the story by the end of this week if you promise to take a shower, hehe. I have to work on my paper first though (on Pride and Prejudice, isn't Mr Darcy so nice and dreamy at the end??) so might have to wait awhile to see what happens to Fitch.....

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« Reply #6 on: 19 February 2002, 22:01:00 »

Please do not misinterpret, I thought it was done very nicely. I did enjoy reading it. You have a wonderful talent, Dala; the workings of a master author. I'm just saying that a truly educated opinion about plot can't be developed at this phase. So again, don't think that I don't like it.  

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Dala Valannia
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« Reply #7 on: 19 February 2002, 22:41:00 »

Hi Eskon, don't worry, I didn't misunderstand you, I was totally agreeing with you about not being able to give a proper review when only part 1 of a story is given :lol  Sorry, I think I've been writing ambigously muddled replies! Which is why I'm glad to know that you and rest who replied likes what there is of my tale so far :)  :)  

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Ta`lia of the Seven Jewels
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« Reply #8 on: 28 February 2002, 10:05:00 »

More, more ,more, last post at the 19.2.02, shouldn't there be another by now?? And I had my shower today already!

Als Gott den Mann schuf übte sie nur.

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"For me there is only the traveling on paths that have heart, on any path  that may have heart. There I travel, and the only worthwhile challenge is to traverse its full length. And there I travel looking,  breathlessly. ~Don Juan"
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« Reply #9 on: 28 February 2002, 11:48:00 »

Dala is known for her tardiness when it comes to writing Talia. You just have to wait until the muse hits her again.:lol

Dala you know it is the truth, so don't go sicking your demon ducks on me.  Look how long it took you to write six chapters of Katya.:lol

Actually I appreciate someone who is willing to work at their craft and make it as good as possible no matter how long it takes. *Looks over chapter nine of his story, thinking how long muse before this one is finished?*

Capher, Tribes and Races Supervisor Moderator.Wisdom is given to those whom it knows.

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I live to but to serve my Goddess Seyella and Talon Hawke; son, heir and Wizard of the White Tower-defender of the lands and peoples of Caelereth!
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« Reply #10 on: 28 February 2002, 14:13:00 »

Better finish your Chapter soon, Capher, I'm rereading your story right now and god help you when I'm finished with Chapter eight and have nothing new to read! :lol  

Koldar Mondrakken, Knight of the Moonlight
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« Reply #11 on: 28 February 2002, 16:29:00 »

ahh.. I see Arti's photo has been your muse.. :lol  
now, before I read it - can you tell me how soon you can finish it? Because I really hate those "to be continued" stories ;)  


       
     
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« Reply #12 on: 28 February 2002, 16:58:00 »

ah.. I couldnt wait - I read it. I was grinning all the time, in fact I still am! Hihihi, Dala - you hopeless romantic :lol
I'm so honored.. It's the Goddess Voice, the girl with a rose, right? The story is superb, I love it!! PLEASE, take a notebook and a pen EVERYWHERE you go from now on, even in bath - so you can write ;)
We're waiting impatiently as always..


       
     
  Only         when you awake, will you know you fell asleep..          
   

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« Reply #13 on: 01 March 2002, 15:50:00 »

I always avoided stories in newspapers where you could only read two pages, and where am I now? Not only one, no two...how many??? OH dear.

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"For me there is only the traveling on paths that have heart, on any path  that may have heart. There I travel, and the only worthwhile challenge is to traverse its full length. And there I travel looking,  breathlessly. ~Don Juan"
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Dala Valannia
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« Reply #14 on: 19 June 2002, 03:29:00 »

New installment of story above! Read all about it!

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