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Sounds like these fledgling (or reborn!) efforts are taking root and beginning to grow!
Great to see the attention improving. This thread is certainly worth it!
Rensslaer
Great to see the attention improving. This thread is certainly worth it!
Rensslaer
Whoops, I completely missed this last time around. 
o
I look forward to reading the new submissions.
o I look forward to reading the new submissions.
And the day is upon us. Time to read some submissions, and very strong ones at that! As usual, I will post all four in a row in anonymous fashion. Once I am done, the floor is open for your review and critique. After a goodly period allowing for feedback, I will post who the authors were and the remainder of the month can be spent discussing what worked and what did not.
Please remember that the primary goal is to give helpful critique to each author. But as a secondary bit of fun, you are welcome to venture a guess as to who the author is if you are able to.
And do give each a good and careful read as well as an honest assessment of the work, remembering that rudeness will not be allowed. Our writers worked hard on these submissions and each deserve your time and effort. I would love to see the comment count rise from last month. Let's try to make that happen.
Edit - Oh, and as a reminder, the topic was: Returning home from war
Please remember that the primary goal is to give helpful critique to each author. But as a secondary bit of fun, you are welcome to venture a guess as to who the author is if you are able to.
And do give each a good and careful read as well as an honest assessment of the work, remembering that rudeness will not be allowed. Our writers worked hard on these submissions and each deserve your time and effort. I would love to see the comment count rise from last month. Let's try to make that happen.
Edit - Oh, and as a reminder, the topic was: Returning home from war
Author #1
"A great storm is coming, I know it, general," the mariner leaning against the bow of the old ship said.
Dark clouds were approaching, gradually dimming the ambience of the place, until it became a ship of dark corners and a thousand shades of gray and black. I was on deck with the captain of this bucket, as the rain began. At first it was the wispy sort that feels like humidity more than anything else, but then god began dropping his gallon buckets of rain and we quickly became drenched.
"I'm going below deck for a moment," I said to the mariner, but I don't know whether he heard me, for the cacophony of the rain muffled all other sounds.
I went below deck to see if the water was dripping through, and it was where the cracks were in the rickety structure of the ship. Prince William was injured, and had been barely conscious during the long trek to the coast of Cadiz.
He was wrapped up in a rough knit blanket, sleeping on one of the few bunks down below. Raindrops were hitting him in the face like the ticking of a clock. The waves began to shake the ship from side to side more than usual, amplified by the rain and wind. I grunted and hefted up the prince, moving him to another bunk that was out of the dripping water for the moment.
Water was pouring from the deck down into the cabin below as I climbed up again to confer with the mariner. The King was out there, drenched and shivering, and I wished he would come out of the rain.
"The ship is starting to flood, water is pooling in the cabin," I said.
"Not much can be done now, general, we'll either make it or we won't, it's all up to Lady Luck. But if what the King says is true, I've brought a lot of unlucky people on my ship and it may be our downfall."
"Mariners and their mysticism," Joseph said dismissively. "Listen to a seaman for long and you'll hear more stories about luck, storms and giant fish than you can imagine. Its all pointless prattling, just a way for you men to waste the hours away."
"Ya think so, general, do ya? You army men with your maps and regimental plans and organized maneuvers, you live on land where things are orderly, and you know nothing about the sea as a result. I tell you this, the lady of the sea don't let anyone cross that she doesn't want to.
"Obviously you haven't seen the battles I have, seaman. Let me spell it out for you, the orderly way the battle of Sevilla was supposed to happen, was for us to defeat the weaker Sevillans in battle because of our superior archery, footmen and knights. Unfortunately, the land is just as chaotic as the sea, for the Tunisians decided at just that time to cross from Africa and cause us so many headaches.
If order ruled the lands, England would rule the world, surely. Instead we flee home, weary, and hold back our seething anger at the Muslims for another day. Don't tell me the sea is the only unpredictable thing."
"You fail to notice in your account what actually caused your trouble. As you said the land, if it was orderly, would have ensured your victory. But you forgot something, the Tunisians crossed by sea to defeat you in Sevilla. Hah, it's not worth talking with you landlubbers anyway -- pardon milords, I didn't mean it that way."
We were off the coast of France having traveled north after leaving port at Cadiz. It was raining buckets and I felt the ship was surely going to flood and sink. Not only that, but the war against Sevilla had been lost and would have to be settled, and the King's son was grievously wounded in the abdomen and trying to heal up while the ship was rocking from side to side violently.
"You should go below deck my lord, we all should. The wind is picking up some more."
"More! How can you tell?" I said. The wind was whipping about enough it was hard to tell its intensity. The King and I scrambled down into the cabin and the mariner followed us, closing the hatch that led down to the cabin. This lessened the water running down a bit.
We crowded around the prince, and I took off the drenched blanket and his shirt to check his wound. The makeshift bandage had soaked through and he continued bleeding, albeit slower than at first. The mariner found a large piece of white cloth of some kind, which looked like sail to me. He tried to wrap it around the wound.
The prince's hands were cold. I tried to warm him up, while the mariner finished up his bandaging. There was about an inch of water on the ground in the cabin as we struggled to keep the prince going.
We had dozed off for just a few hours when I woke up with a start. We had talked into the late hours of the night and into the early morning, checking on the prince every hour or so. The mariner had a lot of interesting stories to tell, most of them undoubtedly lies, but they were interesting ones.
I went up to the deck, and the mariner was standing at the bow gazing at the sun that had risen and chased away the clouds.
I approached him and he said, "The luck has turned for all of us, the sea has spared us and the rest of the trip shall be safe. Perhaps the luck may still turn for England."
"Not for this war at least. We must wait for the future, but I hope for victory then."
The sail was hoisted and we began moving again and I asked the mariner, "What cloth did you use for the prince's bandage?"
"Always keep extras, and also always keep what you need to patch up the sails."
Mariners and their elusive answers, I muttered to myself. I went down below again, to see the King kneeling beside the prince. I approached, uncertain if he was sleeping or dead.
"He's cold, my brave son fighting gloriously, slaying the infidel. Why does he have to die and not the Muslims."
"My lord, there will be another time to get your revenge, we did everything we could. The wound was too deep, too much blood lost, and then to add the cold and the wet – tragedies follow one after another."
It was some days before we closed in on England. We were off the coast of Cornwall when we caught sight of the land. We wrapped the prince in the blanket and carried him off onto dry land, to be given a proper funeral.
When the courtiers and the King's family learned we had landed at Cornwall, and so soon by their thinking, they came. Most of them first asked where the soldiers were. We could only tell them of the devastating loss to combined Tunisian and Sevillan Muslim forces. Then they asked what happened to the prince, and for that the King answered, "He died fighting gallantly against the infidels."
He said nothing of our voyage by sea or the storms off the coast of France. I followed suit, and the mariner was not seen again, nor was his ship, by anyone. In time the terms of peace with Sevilla were sent. Large amounts of money were asked for and given by the King, for peace. England settled down for a long nap, but I never forgot about what the mariner said about the sea.
"A great storm is coming, I know it, general," the mariner leaning against the bow of the old ship said.
Dark clouds were approaching, gradually dimming the ambience of the place, until it became a ship of dark corners and a thousand shades of gray and black. I was on deck with the captain of this bucket, as the rain began. At first it was the wispy sort that feels like humidity more than anything else, but then god began dropping his gallon buckets of rain and we quickly became drenched.
"I'm going below deck for a moment," I said to the mariner, but I don't know whether he heard me, for the cacophony of the rain muffled all other sounds.
I went below deck to see if the water was dripping through, and it was where the cracks were in the rickety structure of the ship. Prince William was injured, and had been barely conscious during the long trek to the coast of Cadiz.
He was wrapped up in a rough knit blanket, sleeping on one of the few bunks down below. Raindrops were hitting him in the face like the ticking of a clock. The waves began to shake the ship from side to side more than usual, amplified by the rain and wind. I grunted and hefted up the prince, moving him to another bunk that was out of the dripping water for the moment.
Water was pouring from the deck down into the cabin below as I climbed up again to confer with the mariner. The King was out there, drenched and shivering, and I wished he would come out of the rain.
"The ship is starting to flood, water is pooling in the cabin," I said.
"Not much can be done now, general, we'll either make it or we won't, it's all up to Lady Luck. But if what the King says is true, I've brought a lot of unlucky people on my ship and it may be our downfall."
"Mariners and their mysticism," Joseph said dismissively. "Listen to a seaman for long and you'll hear more stories about luck, storms and giant fish than you can imagine. Its all pointless prattling, just a way for you men to waste the hours away."
"Ya think so, general, do ya? You army men with your maps and regimental plans and organized maneuvers, you live on land where things are orderly, and you know nothing about the sea as a result. I tell you this, the lady of the sea don't let anyone cross that she doesn't want to.
"Obviously you haven't seen the battles I have, seaman. Let me spell it out for you, the orderly way the battle of Sevilla was supposed to happen, was for us to defeat the weaker Sevillans in battle because of our superior archery, footmen and knights. Unfortunately, the land is just as chaotic as the sea, for the Tunisians decided at just that time to cross from Africa and cause us so many headaches.
If order ruled the lands, England would rule the world, surely. Instead we flee home, weary, and hold back our seething anger at the Muslims for another day. Don't tell me the sea is the only unpredictable thing."
"You fail to notice in your account what actually caused your trouble. As you said the land, if it was orderly, would have ensured your victory. But you forgot something, the Tunisians crossed by sea to defeat you in Sevilla. Hah, it's not worth talking with you landlubbers anyway -- pardon milords, I didn't mean it that way."
We were off the coast of France having traveled north after leaving port at Cadiz. It was raining buckets and I felt the ship was surely going to flood and sink. Not only that, but the war against Sevilla had been lost and would have to be settled, and the King's son was grievously wounded in the abdomen and trying to heal up while the ship was rocking from side to side violently.
"You should go below deck my lord, we all should. The wind is picking up some more."
"More! How can you tell?" I said. The wind was whipping about enough it was hard to tell its intensity. The King and I scrambled down into the cabin and the mariner followed us, closing the hatch that led down to the cabin. This lessened the water running down a bit.
We crowded around the prince, and I took off the drenched blanket and his shirt to check his wound. The makeshift bandage had soaked through and he continued bleeding, albeit slower than at first. The mariner found a large piece of white cloth of some kind, which looked like sail to me. He tried to wrap it around the wound.
The prince's hands were cold. I tried to warm him up, while the mariner finished up his bandaging. There was about an inch of water on the ground in the cabin as we struggled to keep the prince going.
We had dozed off for just a few hours when I woke up with a start. We had talked into the late hours of the night and into the early morning, checking on the prince every hour or so. The mariner had a lot of interesting stories to tell, most of them undoubtedly lies, but they were interesting ones.
I went up to the deck, and the mariner was standing at the bow gazing at the sun that had risen and chased away the clouds.
I approached him and he said, "The luck has turned for all of us, the sea has spared us and the rest of the trip shall be safe. Perhaps the luck may still turn for England."
"Not for this war at least. We must wait for the future, but I hope for victory then."
The sail was hoisted and we began moving again and I asked the mariner, "What cloth did you use for the prince's bandage?"
"Always keep extras, and also always keep what you need to patch up the sails."
Mariners and their elusive answers, I muttered to myself. I went down below again, to see the King kneeling beside the prince. I approached, uncertain if he was sleeping or dead.
"He's cold, my brave son fighting gloriously, slaying the infidel. Why does he have to die and not the Muslims."
"My lord, there will be another time to get your revenge, we did everything we could. The wound was too deep, too much blood lost, and then to add the cold and the wet – tragedies follow one after another."
It was some days before we closed in on England. We were off the coast of Cornwall when we caught sight of the land. We wrapped the prince in the blanket and carried him off onto dry land, to be given a proper funeral.
When the courtiers and the King's family learned we had landed at Cornwall, and so soon by their thinking, they came. Most of them first asked where the soldiers were. We could only tell them of the devastating loss to combined Tunisian and Sevillan Muslim forces. Then they asked what happened to the prince, and for that the King answered, "He died fighting gallantly against the infidels."
He said nothing of our voyage by sea or the storms off the coast of France. I followed suit, and the mariner was not seen again, nor was his ship, by anyone. In time the terms of peace with Sevilla were sent. Large amounts of money were asked for and given by the King, for peace. England settled down for a long nap, but I never forgot about what the mariner said about the sea.
Author #2
"Marco! I thought for sure those Calabrian bastards sent you straight to God!"
I turned in mid-step and was nearly run down by Zani, the man behind me, as we walked in something resembling a formation on the long walk home. Zani was from my village, a sullen, goat faced man who complained every night of our two year campaign and won himself no friends. He shoved me off the road with a grunt and kept marching. I thought of retaliating, God's compassion and humility be damned, but Tancrede called again.
"Marco!" Tancrede and I were both spearmen, dressed in sackcloth and what scraps of boiled leather armor we could scavenge from friend and foe alike. A crack ran along the shaft of my weapon, though I still had my dagger tucked in my belt. Tancrede held his spear like a knight's pennant. Before the war we'd both worked the rough, unforgiving ground northeast of Salerno, land controlled by stewards in the name of our king. We lived in separate villages. After today we'd probably never see each other again.
"It was the devil's own luck," I laughed, earning me a few stares from passing soldiers. Superstitious fools. "The Calabrians ran most of us into the ground. They didn't stop to make sure I was dead, thank God."
"You don't look the worse for wear," Tancrede replied dryly. God had seen fit to fill this peasant's body with a crusader's soul, for he always seemed eager for blood and hard knocks and of course any glory that followed.
"I hit my head."
"Oh." He let it drop, which was just as well. I wasn't about to debate morality with him. My village had paid for our sins with blood, thank you. God didn't need mine as well to make the point. "We were on the far left, near the Count of Apulia's personal guard. We held the line while his knights turned the flank!"
"I'm sure the count was very grateful." I'm sure the count doesn't know any of your names.
Tancrede snorted. "Come, walk with me. I am anxious to get home." We rejoined the long line of soldiers winding their way up the coast from Consenza, where the final battle between the rebel duke and our king took place. It was one of those hard fought, bloody victories where you knew it wasn't numbers or valor that won the day, but sheer luck and God's whim. The duke died, his headless body dragged up and down the exhausted and battered line of our army until the rope broke. In a show of mercy, our king allowed his son to remain Count of Bari, wherever that was. What was left of his army fled north, no doubt to hide in the mountains until Judgment Day.
"What will you do when you get home?" I asked.
"Sleep for a week," Tancrede joked. He frowned then, and didn't speak again for a long time. He tended to brood and needed help coming out of these bouts of melancholy.
"You'll see Carlotta?"
Tancrede half smiled. "Yes, I just hope she hasn't tired of waiting for me."
"It's only been two years."
"Two years is a very long time."
I snorted. "She'll jump in your arms. After she gets through with you, then you'll sleep for a week!"
He laughed shortly. They stepped out of the road as a small group of horsemen flying the king's banner trotted past, proud men in leather and steel, their chain shirts and bells on their horse's bridles jingling. "And you? You'll go home to your wife and son? Sounds boring."
"Sounds like paradise. I swear I'm never leaving home again, except perhaps for a market."
"How old is Primo now?" Tancrede asked. Whoever christened him lacked an imagination.
"Should be just over one. Tessa was pregnant when I left. I'd heard she came through her confinement fine, and apparently the priest had promised to keep an eye on her."
"So long as it's only his eye."
I didn't smile. Oh, I knew he was joking, but I hadn't enjoyed leaving her alone all this time. If he'd touched her, let's say God's grace wouldn't help him then.
"I see our journey is coming to an end." Tancrede pointed ahead. The winding road, steadily climbing as it wove its way inland past red and orange leaved trees and scrubby brown grass, branched in two directions. Most of the army steadfastly headed left, but I would go the other way.
"It is." I stepped out of the road again. Good bye. How could I say good bye to this man who'd shared my every sorrow, my every triumph through the scariest and yet most exciting time of my life? "I...God be with you."
"And with you, Marco." Tancrede gripped me by the shoulders and smiled. "We'll meet again soon."
"Yes," I agreed, knowing it wasn't true. I returned the grip, forcing back a wellspring of emotion. Later. When I see Tessa maybe, when I hold her and meet little Primo. Maybe then.
Tancrede followed the army as it snaked its way out of the foothills back towards Salerno, and out of my life.
The next hour, the last leg of my journey went quickly. Soon I began recognizing landmarks again. The tall rock I fell from as a boy, Father had been furious! The creek where Mother made us wash when the insect bites turned red and where I spent many summer afternoons when there's little for a farmer to do but pray the sun's not too hot or a sudden storm doesn't destroy your crop. Hard years. Good years. I could smell smoke. Yes, the harvest would be coming in about now. It was always a race to get your crops in before scavenging animals could rob you or the frost came. Mother would preserve anything she could against the long winter. My stomach rumbled as the scent grew stronger. It seemed early for anyone to be cooking, but I wasn't complaining. They don't exactly feed you well while on campaign, not unless you find a farm to...
Zani stood in the middle of the road ahead. He'd dropped his pack and weapon and simply stood, arms limp, slack jawed. What, had God finally taken his wits for being an ungrateful lout? Who said He wasn't just? I quickened my pace. He turned, saw me, held up his hand. "Stop!"
"What?"
"You don't want to go in there." He moved to intercept me.
My turn to shove him. "God's Death, get out of my way!"
"Marco!" It was too late of course. I could see our village, and the smoke I foolishly thought promised a meal came from the church, the only stone structure in town.
"Who?" I whispered, but could there be any doubt? Who else in this purgatory could have cause? Who else might be hungry enough to raid for food? "No...." Sons of bitches. I dropped my pack and spear, ran for where my home should be. Down the main road, past the village proper and the closer farms. Another hill, another copse of trees.
The blackened husk of our house.
"Tessa," I whispered. No response. "Tessa!" Still no response. I burst through what was left of our door, it exploded and the entire house spewed char and ash. I coughed and covered my mouth. No sign of wife or son, but a distinct aroma. I'd only smelled it once before in my life, on the bloody field outside of Consenza. Burnt flesh.
"Tessa?" My knees buckled, damaged spear falling from numb hands. I lowered my head to the ash and now the tears came, hot, burning, choking. She was gone. Primo... the son I'd never known. "Why?" Had I angered God that much? I began to pray, at least I think I did. No one teaches a peasant Latin, and that's the only language our priests ever used.
"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sancti-... WHY??"
Why was I hallowing His name? God only helps when He wants something of you anyway, or if He thinks He hasn't done enough to make your life a suitable version of hell. Well, damn Him too. Him and all the apostles and Jesus Christ who may well have died for my sins but apparently was too stupid to get rid of all the devils on Earth first!
I hear...something, a loud noise and at first I think it's a trumpeting angel come to punish me for thinking blasphemy then I realize I'm screaming. Over and over. Damn them. Damn the Calabrians. Damn their fool games that started this affair. Damn them all! "I should have been here! I should have been here!"
No doubt this is how pacts with the Enemy are made, in a moment of carelessness, for their was Zani. I wasn't in the mood for his attitude. I lurched to my feet, reached for my knife, a red haze descending over my ruined house and ruined life. Then he said the five words that seal my damnation.
"I know where Bari is."
Bari. The duke's son. Yes. His army did this. That would answer nicely.
"Fine." We walked back to the burnt village to pillage what we would before traveling on. I wouldn't ask Tancrede to help. He very well might, given his attitude, but he deserved a chance at happiness. Even now they would be celebrating the war being over.
My war, of course, was just beginning.
"Marco! I thought for sure those Calabrian bastards sent you straight to God!"
I turned in mid-step and was nearly run down by Zani, the man behind me, as we walked in something resembling a formation on the long walk home. Zani was from my village, a sullen, goat faced man who complained every night of our two year campaign and won himself no friends. He shoved me off the road with a grunt and kept marching. I thought of retaliating, God's compassion and humility be damned, but Tancrede called again.
"Marco!" Tancrede and I were both spearmen, dressed in sackcloth and what scraps of boiled leather armor we could scavenge from friend and foe alike. A crack ran along the shaft of my weapon, though I still had my dagger tucked in my belt. Tancrede held his spear like a knight's pennant. Before the war we'd both worked the rough, unforgiving ground northeast of Salerno, land controlled by stewards in the name of our king. We lived in separate villages. After today we'd probably never see each other again.
"It was the devil's own luck," I laughed, earning me a few stares from passing soldiers. Superstitious fools. "The Calabrians ran most of us into the ground. They didn't stop to make sure I was dead, thank God."
"You don't look the worse for wear," Tancrede replied dryly. God had seen fit to fill this peasant's body with a crusader's soul, for he always seemed eager for blood and hard knocks and of course any glory that followed.
"I hit my head."
"Oh." He let it drop, which was just as well. I wasn't about to debate morality with him. My village had paid for our sins with blood, thank you. God didn't need mine as well to make the point. "We were on the far left, near the Count of Apulia's personal guard. We held the line while his knights turned the flank!"
"I'm sure the count was very grateful." I'm sure the count doesn't know any of your names.
Tancrede snorted. "Come, walk with me. I am anxious to get home." We rejoined the long line of soldiers winding their way up the coast from Consenza, where the final battle between the rebel duke and our king took place. It was one of those hard fought, bloody victories where you knew it wasn't numbers or valor that won the day, but sheer luck and God's whim. The duke died, his headless body dragged up and down the exhausted and battered line of our army until the rope broke. In a show of mercy, our king allowed his son to remain Count of Bari, wherever that was. What was left of his army fled north, no doubt to hide in the mountains until Judgment Day.
"What will you do when you get home?" I asked.
"Sleep for a week," Tancrede joked. He frowned then, and didn't speak again for a long time. He tended to brood and needed help coming out of these bouts of melancholy.
"You'll see Carlotta?"
Tancrede half smiled. "Yes, I just hope she hasn't tired of waiting for me."
"It's only been two years."
"Two years is a very long time."
I snorted. "She'll jump in your arms. After she gets through with you, then you'll sleep for a week!"
He laughed shortly. They stepped out of the road as a small group of horsemen flying the king's banner trotted past, proud men in leather and steel, their chain shirts and bells on their horse's bridles jingling. "And you? You'll go home to your wife and son? Sounds boring."
"Sounds like paradise. I swear I'm never leaving home again, except perhaps for a market."
"How old is Primo now?" Tancrede asked. Whoever christened him lacked an imagination.
"Should be just over one. Tessa was pregnant when I left. I'd heard she came through her confinement fine, and apparently the priest had promised to keep an eye on her."
"So long as it's only his eye."
I didn't smile. Oh, I knew he was joking, but I hadn't enjoyed leaving her alone all this time. If he'd touched her, let's say God's grace wouldn't help him then.
"I see our journey is coming to an end." Tancrede pointed ahead. The winding road, steadily climbing as it wove its way inland past red and orange leaved trees and scrubby brown grass, branched in two directions. Most of the army steadfastly headed left, but I would go the other way.
"It is." I stepped out of the road again. Good bye. How could I say good bye to this man who'd shared my every sorrow, my every triumph through the scariest and yet most exciting time of my life? "I...God be with you."
"And with you, Marco." Tancrede gripped me by the shoulders and smiled. "We'll meet again soon."
"Yes," I agreed, knowing it wasn't true. I returned the grip, forcing back a wellspring of emotion. Later. When I see Tessa maybe, when I hold her and meet little Primo. Maybe then.
Tancrede followed the army as it snaked its way out of the foothills back towards Salerno, and out of my life.
The next hour, the last leg of my journey went quickly. Soon I began recognizing landmarks again. The tall rock I fell from as a boy, Father had been furious! The creek where Mother made us wash when the insect bites turned red and where I spent many summer afternoons when there's little for a farmer to do but pray the sun's not too hot or a sudden storm doesn't destroy your crop. Hard years. Good years. I could smell smoke. Yes, the harvest would be coming in about now. It was always a race to get your crops in before scavenging animals could rob you or the frost came. Mother would preserve anything she could against the long winter. My stomach rumbled as the scent grew stronger. It seemed early for anyone to be cooking, but I wasn't complaining. They don't exactly feed you well while on campaign, not unless you find a farm to...
Zani stood in the middle of the road ahead. He'd dropped his pack and weapon and simply stood, arms limp, slack jawed. What, had God finally taken his wits for being an ungrateful lout? Who said He wasn't just? I quickened my pace. He turned, saw me, held up his hand. "Stop!"
"What?"
"You don't want to go in there." He moved to intercept me.
My turn to shove him. "God's Death, get out of my way!"
"Marco!" It was too late of course. I could see our village, and the smoke I foolishly thought promised a meal came from the church, the only stone structure in town.
"Who?" I whispered, but could there be any doubt? Who else in this purgatory could have cause? Who else might be hungry enough to raid for food? "No...." Sons of bitches. I dropped my pack and spear, ran for where my home should be. Down the main road, past the village proper and the closer farms. Another hill, another copse of trees.
The blackened husk of our house.
"Tessa," I whispered. No response. "Tessa!" Still no response. I burst through what was left of our door, it exploded and the entire house spewed char and ash. I coughed and covered my mouth. No sign of wife or son, but a distinct aroma. I'd only smelled it once before in my life, on the bloody field outside of Consenza. Burnt flesh.
"Tessa?" My knees buckled, damaged spear falling from numb hands. I lowered my head to the ash and now the tears came, hot, burning, choking. She was gone. Primo... the son I'd never known. "Why?" Had I angered God that much? I began to pray, at least I think I did. No one teaches a peasant Latin, and that's the only language our priests ever used.
"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sancti-... WHY??"
Why was I hallowing His name? God only helps when He wants something of you anyway, or if He thinks He hasn't done enough to make your life a suitable version of hell. Well, damn Him too. Him and all the apostles and Jesus Christ who may well have died for my sins but apparently was too stupid to get rid of all the devils on Earth first!
I hear...something, a loud noise and at first I think it's a trumpeting angel come to punish me for thinking blasphemy then I realize I'm screaming. Over and over. Damn them. Damn the Calabrians. Damn their fool games that started this affair. Damn them all! "I should have been here! I should have been here!"
No doubt this is how pacts with the Enemy are made, in a moment of carelessness, for their was Zani. I wasn't in the mood for his attitude. I lurched to my feet, reached for my knife, a red haze descending over my ruined house and ruined life. Then he said the five words that seal my damnation.
"I know where Bari is."
Bari. The duke's son. Yes. His army did this. That would answer nicely.
"Fine." We walked back to the burnt village to pillage what we would before traveling on. I wouldn't ask Tancrede to help. He very well might, given his attitude, but he deserved a chance at happiness. Even now they would be celebrating the war being over.
My war, of course, was just beginning.
Author #3
The admiral looked south and saw grey. There was only water and a stormy sky, nothing else in the world but 26 ships floating on the ocean, specks in the landscape manifesting the shame of a nation.
He stood on one of these ships, the H.M.S. Neptune, which had three months ago reached the coast of India, where the Portuguese were so courteous as to lighten her load.
The admiral stuck his head further out his cabin window and smelled the air. Why is the aroma of a storm so sweet? In his bedroom in London, the whistling of the same wind that struck fear into the sailors had often lulled him to sleep. But the admiral had no interest in surveying the subtleties of such irony. He simply pulled his head in from the window and shut it, his only precaution against the coming storm. The sudden quiet gave him a great deal of confidence. He could hear no storm, there was just the vivid voice in his mind. He could only hear Ambition.
My current concern is keeping my job, not keeping the deck dry. If we can keep this pace we may carry out a raid on some African Portuguese colonies by dawn and I will not return to England without honour.
He smiled as he walked to his bed. He put out the lamp, and then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
What is this? Suddenly my fleet is attacked, but I can see no ships. My enemy is moving in a dark shadow. Our guns are useless against them. My men are in panic. I am hit, and I fall to the ground. My ship has turned into a giant duck and the sky is checkered black and orange. Oh, it is a dream. Thank God. I awake, and the air around me is as cold as ice.
Giant waves crashed against the hull. It was two o'clock in the morning, but to the admiral's dismay, men were out yelling at the top of their voices.
I begin to think the sky doesn't look so bad checkered black and orange.
The admiral again closed his eyes. He wished the sailors would not make so much noise. He knew the men would be excited by the storm, and this is why it annoyed him so much when they did. The admiral despised redundancy. Little is more painful to a genius than unnecessary actions of ignorant men. The world would be much improved if everyone thought as I did.
He gave a few moments for the yelling to cease, without any real hope that it would, and then climbed out of his bed. He switched from his yellow pajamas into his uniform, and walked out amongst the crew. It was chaos, and three months ago the admiral would have found it rightly so, but now nothing mattered but time and sacrifice in the name of honour. Waves poured on to the ship from all directions. Boxes filled with vital supplies and ammunition were scattered across the deck and torn open. He turned to see a man swept by a great wave into the ocean, and there was no saying how many had shared that fate while the admiral wasn't looking: one could hear nothing but thunder and wind.
The admiral turned his head and saw a short, muttonchopped officer walking quickly toward him. Unlike most men at the scene he appeared very level-headed. The admiral nodded briefly in approval. But on second thought, he has some audacity trying to appear authoritative when I am standing right before him!
The officer looked to the ground as he approached the admiral and tapped his feet in an odd fashion, "Your Most Martial Lordship," he began (Good, good, he is adhering to the etiquette...) "I have instructed the men to keel to a portward tack to avoid the harder winds. If we head directly due east we should be able to escape the worst of the storm. Does this satisfy your requirements for report, Your Lordship?"
"Does this SATISFY my requirements? We shall continue sailing directly to the coast of Africa, no storm is too great for me to endure."
"Your Lordship, I have heard orders to return to England. What's this about heading toward the coast?"
"It's none of your business, that's what it is! I believe it is the captain's job to manoeuvre this ship through the storm, not to pester the admiral!"
"But Your Lordship has requested my reports..."
"Enough!"
The captain hurried away. The admiral stood still, and waited to see that the ship continued to sail straight forward. It did, and as a dark smile formed across his face, a chain of despair travelled from ship to ship in the fleet. The flagship was sailing straight into the storm...
Men shout louder now, and the waves are higher. All around lightning strikes the open sea. I am sure if the sky was not so dark we would be in sight of land. We have taken expected losses, and with the sails in their current condition it has become harder to manoeuvre the ship, but it is all in justified cause. But the storm is taking a heavy toll, it is as if this storm is trying to mimic true warfare.
The admiral was splashed sharply with water, as if nature defied his thoughts. Suddenly, there was the most tremendous burst of light and sound one can fathom. Flame now encircled him, and thunder screamed as plain as day who was mimicking whom. It seemed that the roar of the thunder wouldn't stop, but it reality it was merely replaced with the splintering of wood.
The admiral rushed to the gundeck. Curse this storm! It's trying to fight like men do! I will show it men are masters of the sea! The admiral found himself in a terrible frenzy. He hoisted cannonballs and fired them uselessly into the waves, one after another, while men screamed behind him of the sinking of the ship. He did this until he was too tired to continue, and then he was standing in a pool of water up to his knees.
He looked to the sky, and dropped to those knees. He was now up to his chest in water. Dear God, You are cruel to me, but I've learned! If I survive this day, I will never look at the sky again without revering it in the way I have made them all revere me... Though of course You lack th-the pride that men have!
But in response, the wind brought the flagship's mast down upon the admiral's head, knocking him into the ocean where he drowned. The admiral had it wrong. Nature has its fair share of pride. What it lacks is pity.
The admiral looked south and saw grey. There was only water and a stormy sky, nothing else in the world but 26 ships floating on the ocean, specks in the landscape manifesting the shame of a nation.
He stood on one of these ships, the H.M.S. Neptune, which had three months ago reached the coast of India, where the Portuguese were so courteous as to lighten her load.
The admiral stuck his head further out his cabin window and smelled the air. Why is the aroma of a storm so sweet? In his bedroom in London, the whistling of the same wind that struck fear into the sailors had often lulled him to sleep. But the admiral had no interest in surveying the subtleties of such irony. He simply pulled his head in from the window and shut it, his only precaution against the coming storm. The sudden quiet gave him a great deal of confidence. He could hear no storm, there was just the vivid voice in his mind. He could only hear Ambition.
My current concern is keeping my job, not keeping the deck dry. If we can keep this pace we may carry out a raid on some African Portuguese colonies by dawn and I will not return to England without honour.
He smiled as he walked to his bed. He put out the lamp, and then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
What is this? Suddenly my fleet is attacked, but I can see no ships. My enemy is moving in a dark shadow. Our guns are useless against them. My men are in panic. I am hit, and I fall to the ground. My ship has turned into a giant duck and the sky is checkered black and orange. Oh, it is a dream. Thank God. I awake, and the air around me is as cold as ice.
Giant waves crashed against the hull. It was two o'clock in the morning, but to the admiral's dismay, men were out yelling at the top of their voices.
I begin to think the sky doesn't look so bad checkered black and orange.
The admiral again closed his eyes. He wished the sailors would not make so much noise. He knew the men would be excited by the storm, and this is why it annoyed him so much when they did. The admiral despised redundancy. Little is more painful to a genius than unnecessary actions of ignorant men. The world would be much improved if everyone thought as I did.
He gave a few moments for the yelling to cease, without any real hope that it would, and then climbed out of his bed. He switched from his yellow pajamas into his uniform, and walked out amongst the crew. It was chaos, and three months ago the admiral would have found it rightly so, but now nothing mattered but time and sacrifice in the name of honour. Waves poured on to the ship from all directions. Boxes filled with vital supplies and ammunition were scattered across the deck and torn open. He turned to see a man swept by a great wave into the ocean, and there was no saying how many had shared that fate while the admiral wasn't looking: one could hear nothing but thunder and wind.
The admiral turned his head and saw a short, muttonchopped officer walking quickly toward him. Unlike most men at the scene he appeared very level-headed. The admiral nodded briefly in approval. But on second thought, he has some audacity trying to appear authoritative when I am standing right before him!
The officer looked to the ground as he approached the admiral and tapped his feet in an odd fashion, "Your Most Martial Lordship," he began (Good, good, he is adhering to the etiquette...) "I have instructed the men to keel to a portward tack to avoid the harder winds. If we head directly due east we should be able to escape the worst of the storm. Does this satisfy your requirements for report, Your Lordship?"
"Does this SATISFY my requirements? We shall continue sailing directly to the coast of Africa, no storm is too great for me to endure."
"Your Lordship, I have heard orders to return to England. What's this about heading toward the coast?"
"It's none of your business, that's what it is! I believe it is the captain's job to manoeuvre this ship through the storm, not to pester the admiral!"
"But Your Lordship has requested my reports..."
"Enough!"
The captain hurried away. The admiral stood still, and waited to see that the ship continued to sail straight forward. It did, and as a dark smile formed across his face, a chain of despair travelled from ship to ship in the fleet. The flagship was sailing straight into the storm...
Men shout louder now, and the waves are higher. All around lightning strikes the open sea. I am sure if the sky was not so dark we would be in sight of land. We have taken expected losses, and with the sails in their current condition it has become harder to manoeuvre the ship, but it is all in justified cause. But the storm is taking a heavy toll, it is as if this storm is trying to mimic true warfare.
The admiral was splashed sharply with water, as if nature defied his thoughts. Suddenly, there was the most tremendous burst of light and sound one can fathom. Flame now encircled him, and thunder screamed as plain as day who was mimicking whom. It seemed that the roar of the thunder wouldn't stop, but it reality it was merely replaced with the splintering of wood.
The admiral rushed to the gundeck. Curse this storm! It's trying to fight like men do! I will show it men are masters of the sea! The admiral found himself in a terrible frenzy. He hoisted cannonballs and fired them uselessly into the waves, one after another, while men screamed behind him of the sinking of the ship. He did this until he was too tired to continue, and then he was standing in a pool of water up to his knees.
He looked to the sky, and dropped to those knees. He was now up to his chest in water. Dear God, You are cruel to me, but I've learned! If I survive this day, I will never look at the sky again without revering it in the way I have made them all revere me... Though of course You lack th-the pride that men have!
But in response, the wind brought the flagship's mast down upon the admiral's head, knocking him into the ocean where he drowned. The admiral had it wrong. Nature has its fair share of pride. What it lacks is pity.
Author #4
The soft patter of cold rain falling from the oppressively leaden clouds caused the man traveling in the back of the cart to shiver. The horse pulling the cart whickered forlornly, clouds of its breath steaming in the cold air. Air that was getting ever colder as time wore onward. The horse plodded sedately down the track toward the city. The man had been traveling a long way. All the way from the coast of Wales.
He shifted his body carefully so as not to damage the turnips he was among. The carter clucked at the horse, eliciting an ear flick from the beast. But the cart wheels did turn a hair faster. The tree were starting to thin out, becoming fallow fields with the ghostly outlines from the stubble left from wheat stalks barely visible.
The rain began to turn to icy sleet. A particularly nasty jounce as the cart wheels hit a deep hole caused the man in back to cry out in pain as the stump of his left leg jabbed into the side of the cart.
"Ye ain't bleedin' on me turnips, are ye?" the carter turned back in some concern.
Levering himself up with his left hand," No."
"Guid," the carter turned back.
Rubbing the patch over his eye," How much longer?"
"Ye can see the walls from here, if ye squint, Tom," the carter replied.
Tom nodded to himself. He'd be home soon. He shifted again, ever so carefully. The stump of his leg was still very tender, even after the two months since it had been amputated. Within the hour the cart stopped at Cripplegate so the guards could inspect the cargo. Tom lowered himself to the wet and slippery cobbles slowly, getting his crutch under his arm. That stick had been with him since he first picked it up after his discharge from the field hospital.
The guards recoiled at the sight of him. Not only was Tom's left leg gone below the knee he was missing hisright arm from the shoulder and sported a wicked scar that started at his hairline through his left eye and ended near the corner of his lips. His dark hair was plastered to his head and face, giving him a rather sinister look.
"May I enter?" Tom sighed.
"D'ye live here?" one guard asked.
"Before the war," Tom stumped closer," My sister and parents still do."
The guards stepped back half a pace. Tom, even crippled as he was, loomed over them, his gaunt frame bespoke former strength and dignity.
"'Twill be hard to find work in your condition," the second guard opined.
"Let me worry about that," Tom replied softly," Well?"
"Go ahead," the first guard shrugged," Good luck."
Tom nodded and stumped through Cripplegate. Few people had wanted to brave the elements so the market was nearly deserted. No beggars thronged the gate environs either. It had been some years since Tom had been in London. It took him a few moments to orient himself. With a shiver he set off down the street until he came to Idol Lane, which was more of an alley than a street. Narrow, it still had cobbled streets. The spire of St. Paul's could barely be seen in the lowering twilight as the sleet started coming down even harder than before. Tom's crutch slipped on the icy pavement causing him to tumble to the ground. Hard.
"Damn it all to hell," Tom groused loudly, rubbing his stump gingerly.
"Here now," a voice said behind him.
Tom turned his head and frowned," Ah. A priest. How fortunate for me."
"Indeed," the priest helped him to his foot," Back from Ireland, eh?"
Tom scowled," Obvious, is it?"
"Most men with your infirmities would be already dead. God has looked down upon you."
"Infirmities," Tom spat," Wounds taken to suppress the Irish, more like. God had naught to do with it."
"The Protector has strengthened England," the priest said slowly," God looked after you to help you survive your injuries."
"Adventured himself to advantage more like," Tom snarled," God didn't look out for me, or I wouldn't have been crippled like this."
The priest looked about quickly," I'd be leery of speaking so freely were I you. Cromwell's spies are everywhere. God has a plan for you."
Tom hawked and spat on the cobbles," Oliver bloody Cromwell knows how I feel."
Eyebrows raised in shock," Does he now?"
"Aye. I told him so to his face in Derry," Tom growled," Him and Monck. And the bloody priest who told me God had a plan for me."
The priest crossed himself and grimaced," Well so be it. May I help you to your destination, then?"
"I got to London on my own," Tom hobbled away," I hardly need help now."
"My name is Father Timothy. Come by St. Paul's if you wish to talk," the priest called after him.
"Don't hold yer breath," Tom muttered as he stumped away.
A tavern with the name of the Cock and Bull was nearby. It was his destination. He pushed open the door. The familiar blackened timbers of the ceiling. The fireplace to the right roaring cheerily. The tallow candles sputtering on each table. Rushes on the dirt floor. Tom shouldered the door closed. He felt the room full of people eying him speculatively.
A serving wench stared at Tom for a moment and crumpled to the ground. Tom stumped over to her as quickly as he could manage. The girl roused and looked up at him with tear streaked cheeks.
"Aye," Tome grimaced," I've come home, lass. Just as I said I would."
"Ye've been butchered," she wept.
"But I still live, Angel," Tom glared at the man sitting next to him," The priests say God has a plan for me."
The man blanched at Tom's scarred face and scrambled out of the chair. Tom dropped into it and looked upon his younger sister. Her brown hair was tied up at the back of her next, leaving her expressive blue eyes free of its shadow. Her worn and mended bodice and skirt were cheap but still serviceable. Still reasonably clean as well. She sniffled and threw herself at her brother.
"I.I thought you were dead," she sobbed.
Tom patted her on the back awkwardly," So did a priest in Ireland. Where are mother and father?"
Angel gulped," Dead of the plague. The summer after you left."
Tom's face fell," I..see. Who owns the place now?"
"Cousin James," she shuddered, tears streaming down her face," He allows me to work here for him."
"What's this?" a booming voice called from the kitchen doorway.
It belonged to a heavyset man with thinning blond hair and beetled brows. He made his way toward them with a scowl on his face.
"Get up," he snapped, "and get back to work."
Angel snuffled," Tom's back, James."
James peered closely at his returned cousin," Well part of him has returned at any rate."
"James," Tom's voice held a hint of warning.
"I own this place," James stepped closer.
"For now," Tom sneered.
"For always," James snarled," All nice and legal like."
"Perhaps," Tom cocked his head to the side," Of course I'm not dead, either."
James grabbed Angel by the hair and dragged her away from Tom, only to toss her aside with contempt. Tom tried to surge to his feet, but having a crutch made it a slow and careful attempt. Angel lay on the floor sobbing.
"Yer a cripple, Tom," James jeered," I'll be keeping this place. Now get out!"
"You've not right!" Angel cried," He's my brother!"
James backhanded her," I've every right. This is my place. I don't have time or money for charity. I already let you work here as it is!"
Tom hobbled forward, blood in his eye," You'll.."
James roared in wordless fury. He kicked Tom's crutch aside and punched him in the stomach. Tom folded and hit the ground with a thump. James started kicking him in a rage. Taking the crutch he started to beat Tom as well. Angel received another slap when she attempted to help her brother. She sobbed on the floor, unable to do anything. None of the patrons seemed willing or interested in helping either.
James dragged Tom to the doorway and tossed him out onto the cobbled lane. Tom slid along the cobbles until he hit the building across the way. His crutch clattered beside him. James stepped out for a moment.
"No more warnings," he hissed," Stay away. Or your sister will not only be looking for a new job, but a new home as well."
James slammed the door on his way back into the tavern. Tom huddled on the freezing cobbles for what seemed like hours. Finally he dragged his bruised and broken body to a covered portico of the building and glared balefully at the tavern across the street. He watched for hours, the sleet turning to snow as people entered and left the place. The customers weren't the same kind of crowd that had frequented the place when his parents had owned it. Now it was a rougher crowd.
All who went by averted their faces from him as the passed. The tavern closed down, people leaving in a thick stream down both directions of Idol Lane. The snow continued to fall as Tom watched the lights inside fade away to nothingness. A few hours later, shivering uncontrollably Tom clambered to his foot, using his crutch only to hear a sickening crack as the thing snapped in half. He tumbled to the ground and half screamed as his ribs grated together.
He cursed silently as he realized the snow had stopped falling. He looked around him. In the near distance was the spire of St. Paul's.
"It will be a bit warmer there," Tom muttered darkly, gasping in pain.
Tom started to slowly wriggle his way toward the church. Hardly a crawl, what with both an arm and a leg missing. A strangely snake like trail formed behind the struggling man as he inch by inch made his way up the deserted street. Nary a light from any window gleamed, for the hour was very late. He truly realized how badly injured he was as he moaned and gasped his way along. He'd rest a few moments then move forward, only to have to stop and rest again.
His progress became slower as time wore on. He found himself at the bottom steps leading up to St. Paul's without first realizing it. He closed his eye to rest for a moment, his energy nearly spent. With a jerk and a groan he started to slither up the frozen, snowy steps. He collapsed bonelessly half way up them, his face turned toward the silent and closed doors of the church.
"I'll just rest a bit," Tom whispered, closing his eye.
James opened at the crack of dawn in anticipation of casks of beer he had ordered earlier that week. People were wandering around St. Paul's. The delivery cart was in front of the tavern, the driver hurrying
from St. Paul's himself.
"What goes?" James inquired mildly.
"See that odd track in the snow?" the driver inquired, pointing to it in the snow on the street. Few footprints crossed it.
"Yes?" James' face showed his irritation.
"A cripple crawled half way up the steps to St. Paul's," he explained," That's his trail. Froze to death they say."
"You don't say?" James hid a smile," Well let's get those casks in the tavern. I have work to do, after all."
The driver shrugged and began to help muscle the casks into the tavern.
Homecoming
The soft patter of cold rain falling from the oppressively leaden clouds caused the man traveling in the back of the cart to shiver. The horse pulling the cart whickered forlornly, clouds of its breath steaming in the cold air. Air that was getting ever colder as time wore onward. The horse plodded sedately down the track toward the city. The man had been traveling a long way. All the way from the coast of Wales.
He shifted his body carefully so as not to damage the turnips he was among. The carter clucked at the horse, eliciting an ear flick from the beast. But the cart wheels did turn a hair faster. The tree were starting to thin out, becoming fallow fields with the ghostly outlines from the stubble left from wheat stalks barely visible.
The rain began to turn to icy sleet. A particularly nasty jounce as the cart wheels hit a deep hole caused the man in back to cry out in pain as the stump of his left leg jabbed into the side of the cart.
"Ye ain't bleedin' on me turnips, are ye?" the carter turned back in some concern.
Levering himself up with his left hand," No."
"Guid," the carter turned back.
Rubbing the patch over his eye," How much longer?"
"Ye can see the walls from here, if ye squint, Tom," the carter replied.
Tom nodded to himself. He'd be home soon. He shifted again, ever so carefully. The stump of his leg was still very tender, even after the two months since it had been amputated. Within the hour the cart stopped at Cripplegate so the guards could inspect the cargo. Tom lowered himself to the wet and slippery cobbles slowly, getting his crutch under his arm. That stick had been with him since he first picked it up after his discharge from the field hospital.
The guards recoiled at the sight of him. Not only was Tom's left leg gone below the knee he was missing hisright arm from the shoulder and sported a wicked scar that started at his hairline through his left eye and ended near the corner of his lips. His dark hair was plastered to his head and face, giving him a rather sinister look.
"May I enter?" Tom sighed.
"D'ye live here?" one guard asked.
"Before the war," Tom stumped closer," My sister and parents still do."
The guards stepped back half a pace. Tom, even crippled as he was, loomed over them, his gaunt frame bespoke former strength and dignity.
"'Twill be hard to find work in your condition," the second guard opined.
"Let me worry about that," Tom replied softly," Well?"
"Go ahead," the first guard shrugged," Good luck."
Tom nodded and stumped through Cripplegate. Few people had wanted to brave the elements so the market was nearly deserted. No beggars thronged the gate environs either. It had been some years since Tom had been in London. It took him a few moments to orient himself. With a shiver he set off down the street until he came to Idol Lane, which was more of an alley than a street. Narrow, it still had cobbled streets. The spire of St. Paul's could barely be seen in the lowering twilight as the sleet started coming down even harder than before. Tom's crutch slipped on the icy pavement causing him to tumble to the ground. Hard.
"Damn it all to hell," Tom groused loudly, rubbing his stump gingerly.
"Here now," a voice said behind him.
Tom turned his head and frowned," Ah. A priest. How fortunate for me."
"Indeed," the priest helped him to his foot," Back from Ireland, eh?"
Tom scowled," Obvious, is it?"
"Most men with your infirmities would be already dead. God has looked down upon you."
"Infirmities," Tom spat," Wounds taken to suppress the Irish, more like. God had naught to do with it."
"The Protector has strengthened England," the priest said slowly," God looked after you to help you survive your injuries."
"Adventured himself to advantage more like," Tom snarled," God didn't look out for me, or I wouldn't have been crippled like this."
The priest looked about quickly," I'd be leery of speaking so freely were I you. Cromwell's spies are everywhere. God has a plan for you."
Tom hawked and spat on the cobbles," Oliver bloody Cromwell knows how I feel."
Eyebrows raised in shock," Does he now?"
"Aye. I told him so to his face in Derry," Tom growled," Him and Monck. And the bloody priest who told me God had a plan for me."
The priest crossed himself and grimaced," Well so be it. May I help you to your destination, then?"
"I got to London on my own," Tom hobbled away," I hardly need help now."
"My name is Father Timothy. Come by St. Paul's if you wish to talk," the priest called after him.
"Don't hold yer breath," Tom muttered as he stumped away.
A tavern with the name of the Cock and Bull was nearby. It was his destination. He pushed open the door. The familiar blackened timbers of the ceiling. The fireplace to the right roaring cheerily. The tallow candles sputtering on each table. Rushes on the dirt floor. Tom shouldered the door closed. He felt the room full of people eying him speculatively.
A serving wench stared at Tom for a moment and crumpled to the ground. Tom stumped over to her as quickly as he could manage. The girl roused and looked up at him with tear streaked cheeks.
"Aye," Tome grimaced," I've come home, lass. Just as I said I would."
"Ye've been butchered," she wept.
"But I still live, Angel," Tom glared at the man sitting next to him," The priests say God has a plan for me."
The man blanched at Tom's scarred face and scrambled out of the chair. Tom dropped into it and looked upon his younger sister. Her brown hair was tied up at the back of her next, leaving her expressive blue eyes free of its shadow. Her worn and mended bodice and skirt were cheap but still serviceable. Still reasonably clean as well. She sniffled and threw herself at her brother.
"I.I thought you were dead," she sobbed.
Tom patted her on the back awkwardly," So did a priest in Ireland. Where are mother and father?"
Angel gulped," Dead of the plague. The summer after you left."
Tom's face fell," I..see. Who owns the place now?"
"Cousin James," she shuddered, tears streaming down her face," He allows me to work here for him."
"What's this?" a booming voice called from the kitchen doorway.
It belonged to a heavyset man with thinning blond hair and beetled brows. He made his way toward them with a scowl on his face.
"Get up," he snapped, "and get back to work."
Angel snuffled," Tom's back, James."
James peered closely at his returned cousin," Well part of him has returned at any rate."
"James," Tom's voice held a hint of warning.
"I own this place," James stepped closer.
"For now," Tom sneered.
"For always," James snarled," All nice and legal like."
"Perhaps," Tom cocked his head to the side," Of course I'm not dead, either."
James grabbed Angel by the hair and dragged her away from Tom, only to toss her aside with contempt. Tom tried to surge to his feet, but having a crutch made it a slow and careful attempt. Angel lay on the floor sobbing.
"Yer a cripple, Tom," James jeered," I'll be keeping this place. Now get out!"
"You've not right!" Angel cried," He's my brother!"
James backhanded her," I've every right. This is my place. I don't have time or money for charity. I already let you work here as it is!"
Tom hobbled forward, blood in his eye," You'll.."
James roared in wordless fury. He kicked Tom's crutch aside and punched him in the stomach. Tom folded and hit the ground with a thump. James started kicking him in a rage. Taking the crutch he started to beat Tom as well. Angel received another slap when she attempted to help her brother. She sobbed on the floor, unable to do anything. None of the patrons seemed willing or interested in helping either.
James dragged Tom to the doorway and tossed him out onto the cobbled lane. Tom slid along the cobbles until he hit the building across the way. His crutch clattered beside him. James stepped out for a moment.
"No more warnings," he hissed," Stay away. Or your sister will not only be looking for a new job, but a new home as well."
James slammed the door on his way back into the tavern. Tom huddled on the freezing cobbles for what seemed like hours. Finally he dragged his bruised and broken body to a covered portico of the building and glared balefully at the tavern across the street. He watched for hours, the sleet turning to snow as people entered and left the place. The customers weren't the same kind of crowd that had frequented the place when his parents had owned it. Now it was a rougher crowd.
All who went by averted their faces from him as the passed. The tavern closed down, people leaving in a thick stream down both directions of Idol Lane. The snow continued to fall as Tom watched the lights inside fade away to nothingness. A few hours later, shivering uncontrollably Tom clambered to his foot, using his crutch only to hear a sickening crack as the thing snapped in half. He tumbled to the ground and half screamed as his ribs grated together.
He cursed silently as he realized the snow had stopped falling. He looked around him. In the near distance was the spire of St. Paul's.
"It will be a bit warmer there," Tom muttered darkly, gasping in pain.
Tom started to slowly wriggle his way toward the church. Hardly a crawl, what with both an arm and a leg missing. A strangely snake like trail formed behind the struggling man as he inch by inch made his way up the deserted street. Nary a light from any window gleamed, for the hour was very late. He truly realized how badly injured he was as he moaned and gasped his way along. He'd rest a few moments then move forward, only to have to stop and rest again.
His progress became slower as time wore on. He found himself at the bottom steps leading up to St. Paul's without first realizing it. He closed his eye to rest for a moment, his energy nearly spent. With a jerk and a groan he started to slither up the frozen, snowy steps. He collapsed bonelessly half way up them, his face turned toward the silent and closed doors of the church.
"I'll just rest a bit," Tom whispered, closing his eye.
James opened at the crack of dawn in anticipation of casks of beer he had ordered earlier that week. People were wandering around St. Paul's. The delivery cart was in front of the tavern, the driver hurrying
from St. Paul's himself.
"What goes?" James inquired mildly.
"See that odd track in the snow?" the driver inquired, pointing to it in the snow on the street. Few footprints crossed it.
"Yes?" James' face showed his irritation.
"A cripple crawled half way up the steps to St. Paul's," he explained," That's his trail. Froze to death they say."
"You don't say?" James hid a smile," Well let's get those casks in the tavern. I have work to do, after all."
The driver shrugged and began to help muscle the casks into the tavern.
Author 1: Excellent, I like the conflicting ideas of the sailors and the landlubbers. The whole piece has quite a sad feel to it, what with the defeat and the death of the Prince, which i think worked quite well. As for the author, I'll say, um, CatKnight!
Author 2: This is a nice (and tragic) illustration of a province getting looted in CK, and is masterfully written. The first half of the piece is fairly jovial, although Marco's thoughts betray a certain level of cynicism. The sudden realisation that his family is dead and the fact that his war is just beginning amkes me want to read more. I have no idea whatsoever who the author is.
Author 3: I found this piece very interesting. The Admiral wants honour but the war is over, and so tries to manuevre his fleet to the African Coast. Ultimately, he is defeated by nature. This kind of reminds me of a Greek tragedy, with the Admiral as a tragic hero, and if that was the author's intent then it has worked marvellously. Author me not know.
Author 4: I like how this one shows how things can alter so much when you are away at war, what with his parents death, James and Toms loss of his limbs. I was rather sad to see Tom perish in the end, and was not at all surprised by James' callous response. I think that the author is Amric.
Author 2: This is a nice (and tragic) illustration of a province getting looted in CK, and is masterfully written. The first half of the piece is fairly jovial, although Marco's thoughts betray a certain level of cynicism. The sudden realisation that his family is dead and the fact that his war is just beginning amkes me want to read more. I have no idea whatsoever who the author is.
Author 3: I found this piece very interesting. The Admiral wants honour but the war is over, and so tries to manuevre his fleet to the African Coast. Ultimately, he is defeated by nature. This kind of reminds me of a Greek tragedy, with the Admiral as a tragic hero, and if that was the author's intent then it has worked marvellously. Author me not know.
Author 4: I like how this one shows how things can alter so much when you are away at war, what with his parents death, James and Toms loss of his limbs. I was rather sad to see Tom perish in the end, and was not at all surprised by James' callous response. I think that the author is Amric.
1:
Good descriptions! I especially liked how you handled the rough seas as they struggled to get back. The exchange between the general and the mariner was very amusing and I agree, seamen were (and probably ARE!) highly superstitious.
Unfortunately anything could've done the Prince in. Not just the cold and wet, but also simply the rocking of the boat, or just the worsening of his wound. I felt a little bad for him.
I see you chose the first person. I wonder if it would've been stronger to use the king (or even the prince!) as the main character, only for the emotional content of what was about to occur. Hmm. That's really all I can think of though, I enjoyed it!
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2:
Another first person and wow, I feel bad for Marco. I think you're implying the army he helped beat was the one who destroyed his village, which is a bit of bitter irony. I liked the friendship with Tancrede. It's too bad he wasn't there at the end instead of Zani!
If I have any nits, I guess it's that you had Marco invoke God so much - which is fine for a medieval scene - but also implied quite a bit that Marco was skeptical about religion if not outright heretical at the end. It's hard to be sure where he stands.
Well done though, an emotional piece to be sure.
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3:
I have to say your admiral's just not very good at what he does. Then again, given your having him focus on ambition and etiquette I take it that's intentional.
Your admiral's more of an anti-hero and clearly uninterested in his men's or fleet's welfare. I like how in a few short paragraphs you took us from the general curiousity we feel for any character to outright contempt. I wasn't sorry to see him go. If anything, I'd have taken out his last minute 'revelation.' It was far too late to make him a sympathetic character.
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4:
Wow...none of these stories ended happy. I think the object lesson here is never to return home from war. Wow.
I liked Tom. He proved very dismissive of God, as we saw in his chat with Father Timothy, and one could argue his pride led to his downfall. He was certainly stubborn and had immense willpower as we see in his final attempt to reach the church.
James deserves what he gets, though I doubt that'll happen now. On the other hand, other than perhaps rescue his sister I'm not sure what Tom hoped to accomplish. In his condition I don't see him running a tavern.
In this one I suppose my sympathies go with the sister, who's had it bad for the past year...and now it's going to get worse. If James even bothers telling her, which I doubt.
Good descriptions! I especially liked how you handled the rough seas as they struggled to get back. The exchange between the general and the mariner was very amusing and I agree, seamen were (and probably ARE!) highly superstitious.
Unfortunately anything could've done the Prince in. Not just the cold and wet, but also simply the rocking of the boat, or just the worsening of his wound. I felt a little bad for him.
I see you chose the first person. I wonder if it would've been stronger to use the king (or even the prince!) as the main character, only for the emotional content of what was about to occur. Hmm. That's really all I can think of though, I enjoyed it!
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2:
Another first person and wow, I feel bad for Marco. I think you're implying the army he helped beat was the one who destroyed his village, which is a bit of bitter irony. I liked the friendship with Tancrede. It's too bad he wasn't there at the end instead of Zani!
If I have any nits, I guess it's that you had Marco invoke God so much - which is fine for a medieval scene - but also implied quite a bit that Marco was skeptical about religion if not outright heretical at the end. It's hard to be sure where he stands.
Well done though, an emotional piece to be sure.
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3:
I have to say your admiral's just not very good at what he does. Then again, given your having him focus on ambition and etiquette I take it that's intentional.
Your admiral's more of an anti-hero and clearly uninterested in his men's or fleet's welfare. I like how in a few short paragraphs you took us from the general curiousity we feel for any character to outright contempt. I wasn't sorry to see him go. If anything, I'd have taken out his last minute 'revelation.' It was far too late to make him a sympathetic character.
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4:
Wow...none of these stories ended happy. I think the object lesson here is never to return home from war. Wow.
I liked Tom. He proved very dismissive of God, as we saw in his chat with Father Timothy, and one could argue his pride led to his downfall. He was certainly stubborn and had immense willpower as we see in his final attempt to reach the church.
James deserves what he gets, though I doubt that'll happen now. On the other hand, other than perhaps rescue his sister I'm not sure what Tom hoped to accomplish. In his condition I don't see him running a tavern.
In this one I suppose my sympathies go with the sister, who's had it bad for the past year...and now it's going to get worse. If James even bothers telling her, which I doubt.
I'm going to offer thoughts on the first two first... and then I'm going to bed!
#1
Fiddling while Rome burned... I swear! A dissing match while the the ship fills with water. Men!
That first sentence is a VERY intriguing lead-in to a story about "returning home" -- kind of throws the reader off, in a worthwhile way.
I like the general feel of this one -- the tension of trying to get the folks home (what's left of them) and salvage something at least from what is already a tragedy.
It captures the rivalry between services really well! And the lost feeling of someone who's not used to the sea while one is at its mercy.
Minor pet peeve alert: The word "up" needs to be removed. About 3 times! Three times I sensed that the flow of your story had been disrupted, and each time it was "up" that did it. Don't "warm him up" -- just "warm him." Unnecessary and distracting.
At one point I also got confused between the pronoun "I" and "the General" -- one and the same?
Not sure on the author. It's not Catknight, though, because he's a Patrick O'Brien fan, and he would have used alot closer to the real naval lingo.
#2
For this one I'm guessing Alhazen. Simply because I see the "Tancrede", a name in common with his Apulian adventure. This name sticks out for me because my Congressman's name is Tancredo. Perhaps they're related?
Then again, I was of the impression Alhazen was going to be missing this round. Fast response? Or perhaps this is someone borrowing Alhazen's character and story elements as a disguise!!! I shall have to wonder.
I really like this one! I do! Even if I find it rather depressing. Very well written, and the mood comes across beautifully! The change of moods from one to another to a third and fourth is handled masterfully, too. Cameraderie is great between the soldiers, then the sadness of parting, the happiness of almost being home, then the shock and sadness and anger. Very nicely done!
I think it's good to have that small chance of revenge at the end, to "lighten" the unlightenable tragedy.
More later on #3 and #4! Great job, everybody!
Rensslaer
#1
Fiddling while Rome burned... I swear! A dissing match while the the ship fills with water. Men!
That first sentence is a VERY intriguing lead-in to a story about "returning home" -- kind of throws the reader off, in a worthwhile way.
I like the general feel of this one -- the tension of trying to get the folks home (what's left of them) and salvage something at least from what is already a tragedy.
It captures the rivalry between services really well! And the lost feeling of someone who's not used to the sea while one is at its mercy.
Minor pet peeve alert: The word "up" needs to be removed. About 3 times!
Three times I sensed that the flow of your story had been disrupted, and each time it was "up" that did it. Don't "warm him up" -- just "warm him." Unnecessary and distracting.At one point I also got confused between the pronoun "I" and "the General" -- one and the same?
Not sure on the author. It's not Catknight, though, because he's a Patrick O'Brien fan, and he would have used alot closer to the real naval lingo.
#2
For this one I'm guessing Alhazen. Simply because I see the "Tancrede", a name in common with his Apulian adventure. This name sticks out for me because my Congressman's name is Tancredo. Perhaps they're related?
Then again, I was of the impression Alhazen was going to be missing this round. Fast response? Or perhaps this is someone borrowing Alhazen's character and story elements as a disguise!!!
I shall have to wonder.I really like this one! I do! Even if I find it rather depressing. Very well written, and the mood comes across beautifully! The change of moods from one to another to a third and fourth is handled masterfully, too. Cameraderie is great between the soldiers, then the sadness of parting, the happiness of almost being home, then the shock and sadness and anger. Very nicely done!
I think it's good to have that small chance of revenge at the end, to "lighten" the unlightenable tragedy.
More later on #3 and #4! Great job, everybody!
Rensslaer
Fist of all, all the pieces are very well written and I like them all. All the authors should feel proud of their work. Having said that, I can concentrate in my commentary on what I don’t like, or like especially much, without coming off as grouchy nitpicker.
#1
The identities in this piece are really confused.
First the first person, “I” is speaking, and is answered as “General”. Then a “Joseph” comments, and is answered in the same way. Either Joseph is another General, or there is a break in the continuity of the choice of perspective (first person to third person). Either way, this put me off considerably.
There is also some confusion regarding the identities of the mariner and the captain, it took me some reading into the story to realize they were one and the same. Maybe the captain and the mariner being the same person should have been established in the first exchange, for example like this:
Other than that, I liked the bleak sadness that permeated this piece. Yes, returning from a lost war would feel something like this, I guess.
#2
This piece is great. I love the way the writer creates a happy mood, making us feel the relief and happiness of men that made it through war more or less unscathed and are now looking forward to coming home and see their wifes and families. And then this happy, expectant mood is shattered with accomplished cruelty. As a father of two young sons, the fate of Marco and his family brought tears too my eyes. I could so easily identify with his grief, the kind that would drive a sane man to homicidal madness. Fantastic job… Lord Durham?
#3
This story is well written, the only gripe I have with it is that I at least don’t get to care about the foolish, snobbish admiral and think him welcome to his well-deserved fate. Because of this the story left me cold. Good writing nonetheless.
#4
Another magnificently written tragedy that should make Heaven rage against the cruelty of men! Tom has suffered so much, and he endures his grim fate with so much courage and determination, he really deserves a break – but no. He’s spared nothing – no comfort of home to return to, learning of the death of his parents in the plague, the indignity of having to see his sister abused, their inn taken over by a stranger… all he gets is a cruel beating and a frozen death. And his murderer just gets to shrug and get on with his life!
I couldn’t even begin to say what I liked the most about this piece. It felt written by a professional. Maybe… Prufrock 451?
#1
The identities in this piece are really confused.
First the first person, “I” is speaking, and is answered as “General”. Then a “Joseph” comments, and is answered in the same way. Either Joseph is another General, or there is a break in the continuity of the choice of perspective (first person to third person). Either way, this put me off considerably.
There is also some confusion regarding the identities of the mariner and the captain, it took me some reading into the story to realize they were one and the same. Maybe the captain and the mariner being the same person should have been established in the first exchange, for example like this:
Other than that, I liked the bleak sadness that permeated this piece. Yes, returning from a lost war would feel something like this, I guess.
#2
This piece is great. I love the way the writer creates a happy mood, making us feel the relief and happiness of men that made it through war more or less unscathed and are now looking forward to coming home and see their wifes and families. And then this happy, expectant mood is shattered with accomplished cruelty. As a father of two young sons, the fate of Marco and his family brought tears too my eyes. I could so easily identify with his grief, the kind that would drive a sane man to homicidal madness. Fantastic job… Lord Durham?
#3
This story is well written, the only gripe I have with it is that I at least don’t get to care about the foolish, snobbish admiral and think him welcome to his well-deserved fate. Because of this the story left me cold. Good writing nonetheless.
#4
Another magnificently written tragedy that should make Heaven rage against the cruelty of men!
Tom has suffered so much, and he endures his grim fate with so much courage and determination, he really deserves a break – but no. He’s spared nothing – no comfort of home to return to, learning of the death of his parents in the plague, the indignity of having to see his sister abused, their inn taken over by a stranger… all he gets is a cruel beating and a frozen death. And his murderer just gets to shrug and get on with his life! I couldn’t even begin to say what I liked the most about this piece. It felt written by a professional. Maybe… Prufrock 451?
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#1 - some problems here with pacing. You have paragraphs that change topic in the middle:
"I went below deck to see if the water was dripping through, and it was where the cracks were in the rickety structure of the ship. Prince William was injured, and had been barely conscious during the long trek to the coast of Cadiz."
which makes it seem that the Prince has just now been injured and then contradicts itself.
'God' and 'General' are typically capitalized when the word refers to a particular God or General rather than just any old god or general.
"There was about an inch of water on the ground in the cabin" - I think perhaps you mean an inch of water on the deck.
The author did a good job of conveying the grief and depression that the characters must feel. I enjoyed the explanation of the difference between war on land and sea; very true!
#2 - very nice descriptive phrases. I think, however, that our narrative character cannot be a simple farm-holder; he owns his own weapons, for one thing. For another, no 'simple farmer' would declare personal vengeance on a noble. Perhaps I misread this, or perhaps the narrator is of a higher station than a simple farmer.
In any case, I'd like to read more about this man's life - and that is the payoff for the author.
#3 For an admiral he seems to know very little of ships or the sea. To buy into this story I'd have to have more background on why a fleet was entrusted to someone with no experience. Also I find it interesting that the Capitain has no name. In the small world of most navies all the officers would be well known to each other.
CS Forrester and Patrick O'Brian may have their deficiencies but reading a little of their work or others is a good place to start if you want to get a 'feel' for the sea.
#4 - Wow. My personal favorite of the four, dark and depressing as it is. This poor man suffers like Job!
I'd look forward to reading more of this except the supposed 'main character' is dead. Perhaps a group of friends, present in the pub when the beating took place, could work a revenge on the brutish and hateful owner?
This one could make an excellent ghost story. Especially if the priest paid someone to tell the pub-owner that the cripple was dead, when in fact...
You have given me 'furiously to think', but unlike Poirot I have no moustaches!
"I went below deck to see if the water was dripping through, and it was where the cracks were in the rickety structure of the ship. Prince William was injured, and had been barely conscious during the long trek to the coast of Cadiz."
which makes it seem that the Prince has just now been injured and then contradicts itself.
'God' and 'General' are typically capitalized when the word refers to a particular God or General rather than just any old god or general.
"There was about an inch of water on the ground in the cabin" - I think perhaps you mean an inch of water on the deck.
The author did a good job of conveying the grief and depression that the characters must feel. I enjoyed the explanation of the difference between war on land and sea; very true!
#2 - very nice descriptive phrases. I think, however, that our narrative character cannot be a simple farm-holder; he owns his own weapons, for one thing. For another, no 'simple farmer' would declare personal vengeance on a noble. Perhaps I misread this, or perhaps the narrator is of a higher station than a simple farmer.
In any case, I'd like to read more about this man's life - and that is the payoff for the author.
#3 For an admiral he seems to know very little of ships or the sea. To buy into this story I'd have to have more background on why a fleet was entrusted to someone with no experience. Also I find it interesting that the Capitain has no name. In the small world of most navies all the officers would be well known to each other.
CS Forrester and Patrick O'Brian may have their deficiencies but reading a little of their work or others is a good place to start if you want to get a 'feel' for the sea.
#4 - Wow. My personal favorite of the four, dark and depressing as it is. This poor man suffers like Job!
I'd look forward to reading more of this except the supposed 'main character' is dead. Perhaps a group of friends, present in the pub when the beating took place, could work a revenge on the brutish and hateful owner?
This one could make an excellent ghost story. Especially if the priest paid someone to tell the pub-owner that the cripple was dead, when in fact...
You have given me 'furiously to think', but unlike Poirot I have no moustaches!
Author #1: Good story all in all. I liked the captain and his reasoning on order. The injuries of the prince, however, did not seem to give the sense I suspect the author was aiming at. As Director said, it was mentioned in a mildly jarring fashion, jumping from the water to the wounded man. But all in all good, as I said.
Author #2: This was also a very good story, except that these peasants seem to be of higher class than that, and probably wouldn't have cursed God in that manner. But good story, the king sends the villain far far away just in time so that our protagonist has to suffer more long journeying.
Author #3: I get the impression that this author is not entirely familiar with the ways of the sea, but he seems to have been able to get a grasp well enough to deliver this otherwise good tale. It would be interesting to know what allowed him to get this command, but you have succeeded in making us dislike him.
Author #4: If this author is not Amric I will be incredibly suprised. It is up to your usual standards, and I rather like how Tom rejects and then returns to the priest and the cathedral. My only criticism is on your use of quotation marks. You kept misplacing one of them so that it would turn out "I use quotes," said Tom," when I am talking." rather than "I use quotes," said Tom, "when I am talking."
Good round of stories, I liked them all. But if these were the only evidence, I would have to assume returning home from war is an awful traumatic experience!
Author #2: This was also a very good story, except that these peasants seem to be of higher class than that, and probably wouldn't have cursed God in that manner. But good story, the king sends the villain far far away just in time so that our protagonist has to suffer more long journeying.
Author #3: I get the impression that this author is not entirely familiar with the ways of the sea, but he seems to have been able to get a grasp well enough to deliver this otherwise good tale. It would be interesting to know what allowed him to get this command, but you have succeeded in making us dislike him.
Author #4: If this author is not Amric I will be incredibly suprised. It is up to your usual standards, and I rather like how Tom rejects and then returns to the priest and the cathedral. My only criticism is on your use of quotation marks. You kept misplacing one of them so that it would turn out "I use quotes," said Tom," when I am talking." rather than "I use quotes," said Tom, "when I am talking."
Good round of stories, I liked them all. But if these were the only evidence, I would have to assume returning home from war is an awful traumatic experience!
Oh, I like this line!Author #3 said:
I found the very end melodramatic and abrupt. But that is really my only criticism. This is a very well done story! I really liked #2, and I think I'd have to say #2 is my favorite, but many of the elements of #3 made it a contender for favorite.
I liked the transposition of dreams and reality -- it adds a flavor and counterpoint that I think works well.
I'm going to disagree with Director and Passpartout on whether the Admiral "fits" -- I think the way the author describes him and his thoughts is fairly reflective of how Patrick O'Brien and many history texts describe the period admirals and top brass -- out of touch, careless, arrogant, concerned more for legacy than for actual success... The navies and armies of the time were often staffed more according to bloodline, rather than by quality and expertise.
I think the Admiral's detachment and inability to deal with his failure is classic, realistic hubris of a type that I gather was very common among admirals and generals (and kings...) of the day.
The people we read about in popular stories are often heroic, sympathetic characters. It's nice that, if for only a scene, we now get to see the anti-hero from his own perspective. Very interesting!
#4
A very well written tale! It has the feel of a book Patrick O'Brien (is this a theme?!) wrote before his Aubrey books. The Golden Ocean, I think it was called -- set about 100 years before Aubrey, about some Irish sailors on an expedition around the world. Very atmospheric, and you've captured that kind of mood well.
It's depressing, naturally...
Par for the course, this time around! It's probably realistic for the period, for a cripple returning to his home with the many tragedies that could befall soldier/sailor and family alike.Naturally, I don't like that the bad guy wins, in the end. But very impressive altogether!
Good job to all four authors!
Rensslaer
My notes: General impression. I found the majority of the stories to be a bit bleak. When you write a short piece I think you should strive to either write a very beautiful piece or try to add a point, a twist or at least some spice.
Author 1
Very descriptive story, nice use of words but it did not catch my full attention. May be because of a lasting hangover? The writing was very good but I was waiting for a twist, a point or something unexpected.
Author 2
Nice little story that ran along smoothly. Nothing fancy that moved you but a good day at work. Much like it was transported here from the Free Company in both good and bad sense. The story was perhaps not really catchy and the dialogues went a bit on routine. Nevertheless good writing. Could be LD but I doubt he would stick out his neck here to get a review No more like one of his FC disciples is my guess.
Author 3
Almost the same impression as for Author 2. Nice writing but not enough interesting to catch any real interest. The story needed some spice or some deeper description IMHO. Still a good story that I enjoyed reading.
Author 4
My God, this kind of theme could almost have been written by myself (not the text though because this is a very skilled writer), darkness triumphant with a smile on it´s lips! A disease in AAR land is that writers generally allow the good guys to win which make many stories too predictable and boring (a bit like a boy book hero story, “hey ho here we go style”). Here we were led to believe that the poor Tom would win in the end (God has a plan for me...) , but suddenly Tom gets a good beating and faces a terrible death in the snow. The bad James ends up smiling, wow, I am surprised he did not crack a joke on poor Tom´s expense too So evil and creepy, cool. Some say it is Amric. I have read a lot of Amric and I doubt this is Amric, not his style of story really. Perhaps Craig Ashley?
I really liked this contribution. Good, vivid descriptions, nice dialogues, an unpredictable end and very dark. Top notch all the way sir.
Edit: read the stories again back home and I wonder if I have read a better contribution here ever when going through no 4, ouch
Author 1
Very descriptive story, nice use of words but it did not catch my full attention. May be because of a lasting hangover? The writing was very good but I was waiting for a twist, a point or something unexpected.
Author 2
Nice little story that ran along smoothly. Nothing fancy that moved you but a good day at work. Much like it was transported here from the Free Company in both good and bad sense. The story was perhaps not really catchy and the dialogues went a bit on routine. Nevertheless good writing. Could be LD but I doubt he would stick out his neck here to get a review
No more like one of his FC disciples is my guess.Author 3
Almost the same impression as for Author 2. Nice writing but not enough interesting to catch any real interest. The story needed some spice or some deeper description IMHO. Still a good story that I enjoyed reading.
Author 4
My God, this kind of theme could almost have been written by myself (not the text though because this is a very skilled writer), darkness triumphant with a smile on it´s lips! A disease in AAR land is that writers generally allow the good guys to win which make many stories too predictable and boring (a bit like a boy book hero story, “hey ho here we go style”). Here we were led to believe that the poor Tom would win in the end (God has a plan for me...) , but suddenly Tom gets a good beating and faces a terrible death in the snow. The bad James ends up smiling, wow, I am surprised he did not crack a joke on poor Tom´s expense too
So evil and creepy, cool. Some say it is Amric. I have read a lot of Amric and I doubt this is Amric, not his style of story really. Perhaps Craig Ashley?I really liked this contribution. Good, vivid descriptions, nice dialogues, an unpredictable end and very dark. Top notch all the way sir.
Edit: read the stories again back home and I wonder if I have read a better contribution here ever when going through no 4, ouch
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General Impression: They might have been bleak, but i liked all four of them for different reasons. Some more than others, but all stories were very well written and of a very good level.
Author 1:
The ideas behind the story and the background were well thought of and explained. It was easy to read the story and amused me at times.
For me however some dialogues seemed a bit forced and to full. They werent convincing enough i think and that made the conversations from the general and the mariner a bit strange to read, why would they be talking about this all the time. At times i thought, what a bunch of old women talking on deck .
Author 2:
The beginning was filled with a lot of introducing and explanation, which i liked. It brought me into the setting, not unimportant for short stories. For the rest of the story i was amazed by how well this person can make a dialogue and express feelings of the characters. I really felt for Marco and his family, altought the ending was quite rough and fast. Overall this writer really brought me into the setting of the time, and this happy and sad mood, for me that is why this one was great.
Author 3:
The writing is very good and some very nice ironic remarks. However i have problems with the believability of the admiral. His thoughts in Italic dont add that much for me, i would rather see a more subtile way of showing his feelings. Also when you choose to only show one persons actions you can be dragged into his actions alone. It bored me a bit too read what he was doing. But very nicely written and i enjoyed that he died in the end.
Auhtor 4:
Very nice story to read and very well written. I liked the way Tom's hardships were described, the dialogue was great, and overall just very great writing from the entering through the gates to the murder itself. Very good writer in describing action. Cant say anything else than great!
Author 1:
The ideas behind the story and the background were well thought of and explained. It was easy to read the story and amused me at times.
For me however some dialogues seemed a bit forced and to full. They werent convincing enough i think and that made the conversations from the general and the mariner a bit strange to read, why would they be talking about this all the time. At times i thought, what a bunch of old women talking on deck
.Author 2:
The beginning was filled with a lot of introducing and explanation, which i liked. It brought me into the setting, not unimportant for short stories. For the rest of the story i was amazed by how well this person can make a dialogue and express feelings of the characters. I really felt for Marco and his family, altought the ending was quite rough and fast. Overall this writer really brought me into the setting of the time, and this happy and sad mood, for me that is why this one was great.
Author 3:
The writing is very good and some very nice ironic remarks. However i have problems with the believability of the admiral. His thoughts in Italic dont add that much for me, i would rather see a more subtile way of showing his feelings. Also when you choose to only show one persons actions you can be dragged into his actions alone. It bored me a bit too read what he was doing. But very nicely written and i enjoyed that he died in the end.
Auhtor 4:
Very nice story to read and very well written. I liked the way Tom's hardships were described, the dialogue was great, and overall just very great writing from the entering through the gates to the murder itself. Very good writer in describing action. Cant say anything else than great!
Wow! Talk about going from dark to darker, to more dark, to darkest and bleakest tale telling! If I didn't know better, I'd almost think Coz1 asked all the authors to write something dark. But I doubt it, probably just a coincidence?
Author 1:
I have to agree with some others that sometimes this piece seemed a little disjointed. Even with that it was still a dark piece and I enjoyed reading it.
Author 2:
Had some very nice descriptions, and I would like to believe this might be the work of LordLeto. Although I do have to agree the ending was a bit....forced, in my own opinion. Overall, it was still a very nice piece.
Author 3:
Others have said much of what I would say about this piece. I'd be interested in knowing if the Admiral got his place because of political favors or some such. Perhaps he is related to a powerful lord or he bought his commission. At one point in the British navy you did indeed buy commissions. I am curious as to whether that is the case here.
Author 4:
Darkest piece here. Very descriptive with very nice use of weather and places within London. The author did some research to know of Cripplegate as well as Idol Lane, the Pretendership, and so forth. James seems rather typical of some types of men in that period of time. The sister is doomed, in my opinion. I wouldn't be surprised if James isn't or wouldn't soon be using her in a sexual manner. Tom's death seemed almost preordained. He managed to escape it in Ireland, but in the end the Reaper finished him off.
Author 1:
I have to agree with some others that sometimes this piece seemed a little disjointed. Even with that it was still a dark piece and I enjoyed reading it.
Author 2:
Had some very nice descriptions, and I would like to believe this might be the work of LordLeto. Although I do have to agree the ending was a bit....forced, in my own opinion. Overall, it was still a very nice piece.
Author 3:
Others have said much of what I would say about this piece. I'd be interested in knowing if the Admiral got his place because of political favors or some such. Perhaps he is related to a powerful lord or he bought his commission. At one point in the British navy you did indeed buy commissions. I am curious as to whether that is the case here.
Author 4:
Darkest piece here. Very descriptive with very nice use of weather and places within London. The author did some research to know of Cripplegate as well as Idol Lane, the Pretendership, and so forth. James seems rather typical of some types of men in that period of time. The sister is doomed, in my opinion. I wouldn't be surprised if James isn't or wouldn't soon be using her in a sexual manner. Tom's death seemed almost preordained. He managed to escape it in Ireland, but in the end the Reaper finished him off.
Amric said:
Hey Amric, was it you after all? Those lines of yours sound like you know a little bit too much to not be the author...