"Guess-the-Author" Analysis and Critiques

stnylan said:

Rensslaer I admit I am curious - what made you think it was not me? I have to say in some sense you are wrong in another area as well, in that the letter was written, and then re-editing to fit the new format, and then basically left alone. The ending scene, especially with the uncle, was a real headache and if anything over-edited.

But yes, the sense of a captain of the guard is along the lines, though not quite, what I had in mind for their former relationship. The adherence to oaths is a major thing however, and there you are spot on.

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You are right.... In re-reading it, I find it does definitely match your style. So it is something else. I remember I was rushed, and wanted to come back to it. I fear that may be part of it.

My experience of your writing is from In Memory of France, and from the beginning few scenes of your All Alone In the Night (yes? -- your vampire one). I.e. not altogether alot.

But at least from In Memory, I do not recall your switching places within one scene. I think I found that somewhat jarring... He's reading the letter, he's in the present, he's remembering the past. I think it disrupted my understanding of the story line in a way that I find distinctly "un-Stnylan"! I view your writing from In Memory of France more as "sit down in the easy chair with a cozy, warm drink, and absorb the art."

I would suppose that, perhaps, the medium forced you to throw all these elements into one scene, when you would normally have taken 3-4 scenes to bring us to this point.

I think it still worked, just not in the way I'm accustomed to your writing working!

Rensslaer

That would be a fair estimation actually. If this had been part of the longer story then neither the letter, or the recounting of the past, would be necessary. And you're right, in In Memory of France I do try to keep the individual scenes relatively straigtforward, rather than mix and match.

Well folks, it's the 1st of the month. And this is no April Fool's - time for another Guess the Author round.

As Director suggested before, a great topic would be - Taxes.

What you chose to write about such is entirely up to you as long as it finds a way to tie into one of the games, somehow. Tax Collectors, the season, the gathering of...it's all fair game. Feel free to be creative.

I'll be taking the first four that PM me with interest. If accepted, you will have until April 8th to submit your piece to me via email (I'll give you particulars in a PM'd response.)

I will then post all four submissions very soon after and allow for a goodly amount of time for critiques before revealing our authors. And recall our recent conversation here. The number of comments for our writers will dictate how interested we are to keep this moving. If not enough, we may need to take a break for a while. As Director also suggested - let's put our ducats where are mouth is. Certainly these brave souls deserve nothing less.

So who's in?

EDIT as of 12am on April 2nd - To this point, we still only have two writers desiring to submit work. Anyone else?

EDIT 2 as of 11am on April 2nd - Stil looking for one more brave author. Bueller? Bueller?

Still in need of one more author for the next session. Anyone else interested?

EDIT - And now we have our 4th. Thanks to all those that PM'd with interest. Look for the submissions sometime soon after the 8th of the month.

I was hoping to get these posted today, but I am still waiting on two more submissions. Authors - please send me your scenes ASAP. I have some other things to do this evening so if I don't get them soon, I will have to wait and post them on another day. Trying to get all authors in this round so if those that suggested interest in writing for this round want to be included, I need to receive your work.

coz1 said:

I was hoping to get these posted today, but I am still waiting on two more submissions.

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Did they file for an extension???

Renss

:rofl: :rofl: :rofl:
Nice, Renns!

Rensslaer said:

Did they file for an extension???

Renss

Click to expand...

:rofl:

Very nice.

Very good, Renss.

I don't know if I will have time to post these tonight. I try to make the deadlines over the weekend when I know I will have spare time. Hopefully I will be able to post these in the early part of the week, and that's if I got all of them. I have not checked my home e-mail since late last night and still had not received two of the ones I was waiting on (though one was a case of wrong email address.) We'll see. When I get the chance, I will post those I have.

How do you make submissions to "Guess-the-Author?"

I put out the call at the first of the month and the first four people that PM me with interest are accepted. Once accepted, I detail how to send me a submission in a return PM.

EDIT - OK folks - I was able to get our submissions up today. I'll allow some time for feedback before posting the names.

Recall the topic - Taxes.

Author #1

In spite of these unbearable screams, the short thick man maintains his big knife in his victim’s neck. The tip of his tongue relentlessly moistens his lips as he stares ecstatically at the fountain of blood flowing in a wooden bucket. Red stains splash his strong hairy arms and not so white apron. Almost all villagers are gathered around in the fresh autumnal breeze, grim expressions painted on their gaunt faces. A baby is crying. No one tries to comfort him.

The agony seems to drag on forever but probably doesn’t take more than five minutes. Comfortably sitting on his horse, Lord Volheart watches the scene absent-mindedly. He had bitten his lower lip yesterday and keeps licking the small protuberance resulting from the sore. He chides himself mentally for the thousandth time and resolves once more to leave that alone. The last death rattle finally dies away, some more blood falls in the bucket and Lord Volheart orders the dead pig to be untied and loaded on his cart. He lets the five soldiers of his escort direct the manoeuvre and reports his attention to the peasantry.

He deliberately ignores Jedediah, the old toothless beggar who happens to be the elder of this village. His eyes have been attracted elsewhere. Who is this newcomer in an hardened leather outfit leaning on the well’s brink? Not a peasant for sure. Sir Volheart does not let Jedediah begin an all too predictable sweet talk about how difficult the times are. He directly hails the stranger.

“You!”

The man makes a surprised expression and stands.

“Me, m’lord?”

“Yes, you. Come.”

A good-natured smile blooms on the round stranger’s face, who gladly obeys. He isn’t very tall, but robust and moving swiftly.

“I know you, don’t I?”

“You do m’lord.”

Sir Volheart digs in his memory. This funny scarecrow face topped with a messy bush of greasy brown hair…

“Strafe! Pug Strafe. You left, what, almost a dozen years ago? Became a mercenary of some sort…”

“That’s it m’lord.”

“I did not imagine you would survive.”

“I’ve learnt toughness m’lord.”

“How do you come to be back?”

“To make a long story short, my company was disbanded after the war and some of us became highwaymen. I quickly realised it was not a suitable career if I wanted to live a little older and decided to come back.”

“Fair enough. But keep quiet around here. I deal harshly with outlaws on my lands.”

An impish expression passes in Pug’s eyes.

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen those two rotting corpses at the bridge. Been told they were unfortunate stragglers from the band that thoroughly plundered the village a few weeks ago.”

Is it irony in the tone? Lord Volheart clenches his fists.

“You better show me respect Strafe! I won’t hesitate to correct you, free man or not. And since you’re back just in time, do not forget to pay your taxes.”

“No problem m’lord. I know how useful they could be. My employers paid us and didn’t allow plundering. Kinda lived on taxes for a few years, sort of.”

“Fine.”

The lord turns to old Jedediah who’s been waiting patiently.

“Now what?”

Jedediah opens his mouth, but his granddaughter quickly takes a step forward and falls on her knees.

“My lord?”

She is a sixteen-year-old sweetheart. Her tousled auburn hair is somewhat dirty and her hands hardened with calluses, but she has a nice regular, albeit lean, face and gorgeous shape. All the more since a lucky angle of view is offering Sir Volheart a plunging view through her slightly loose collar. A warming bump down his lower abdomen forces him to fidget in his saddle and sit further from the pommel. Never mind this uncomfortable position. It is straighter and certainly looks more imposing.

“Yes? What is it you want?”

“I just wish to beg your forgiveness for my suitor Geremy…”

That would be an idea actually. The man is a poacher and well deserves his time in the dungeon. But on the other hand, the quicker the girl gets married, the quicker Lord Volheart can have an opportunity for a good time with her. A little voice in the back of his head wonders whether or not her posture has been intentional to butter him up.

“I’ll think about it.”

Indeed, he will. He even has to force his eyes away from her and chooses to wave a hand in dismissal.

“What about you, Jedediah? I suppose you have loads of difficulties, don’t you?”

“Indeed my Lord. This year has been very rude for us and…”

“Come on, Jedediah, every year is rude for you. When it’s not drought, it’s flood, or diseases. You should be used to this by now, shouldn’t you?”

“But those brigands have stolen or killed many of our animals and devastated the fields. They stole our meagre possessions. Frankly, we may not survive the upcoming winter.”

Lord Volheart shakes his head.

“No way, old man. You owe me a pig each year, plus some fowl and five bags of grain.”

“My Lord, we can’t afford more than three bags. We’ve lost everything else!”

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re quite capable of hiding your stuff from looters.”

He bends over the trembling elder.

“And from me as well. Would be better for you if we don’t find some hidden goods.”

Lord Volheart sends four soldiers to search through the houses. A wave of nervousness diffuses across the sparse crowd as a confirmation of his suspicions. The first man to enter a hut stops at once in the doorway, emits a gurgling and starts dangling in spasmodic gestures, literally suspended to the iron spike running through his neck. His colleagues jolt and reach out their weapons. Bolts fired from other houses pin them down in short order. Lord Volheart hears a struggle behind him. As he turns to check it, Strafe the mercenary wildly jumps toward him with a big studded club and hits him on the side of the head. The impact reverberates through the skull, as if his brain was bouncing inside like a baked custard. He does not feel pain immediately but looses understanding of his environment as he sways and slips from his saddle. His chin and nose meet the ground with a muffled crunch. He is stunned and panic swiftly sizes him. In his desperate attempt at crawling away, he realises that his left foot remains stuck in a stirrup.

He weakly shakes his leg to free it, sits and tries to gather his senses. The world is blurring and whirling. A hot sticky liquid is running down his neck. He has to grab this sword… His right hand clumsily reaches the hilt. He’s trying to draw the blade when four rude hands catch his arms and untie his waist belt. He’s heaved on his feet and hustled forward a few steps.

The shape in front of him doesn’t focus in easily. It turns out to be Strafe, so close that he can even smell his rotten breath.

“Aye m’Lord. I’ll tell you sumthin’ I’ve learnt in those big cities out there. People need to get actual services back for what they give. No, m’lord, deflowering their brides isn’t enough, I’m afraid. Neither are birthrights, nor even God’s grace anymore. Nah, they need things like security, good ruling and that sort o’ thing, see? All in all, you’re a bit outdated, m’lord, with due respect.”

Lord Volheart spits. A trickle of blood drops from his hurting mouth.

“Bastard! I will… I will…”

“Don’t worry with that m’lord. My mates and I thought we might help actually. Perhaps the serfs have not paid completely in vain after all. There’s still a little something to be salvaged.”

The lord tries to make sense out of all this rigmarole. But his ideas have a mushy consistence, only stirred by the big spoon of a growing ache. All he can achieve is an interrogative babble:

“W… What?”

Pug Strafe gently pats his cheek.

“Why m’lord, they fed you well, of course.”

Sir Volheart catches a glimpse of a few yellow stumps in the evil smile that widens on the round pimply face before being brutally brought down by a kick behind his knees. His genitals hit a wooden beam. Pain radiates through his belly but he has no time to yell. A hand grasps his hair and violently smashes his face on the beam. His hands and feet are both twisted and firmly tied in crude ropes. He struggles and successfully turns his head to the right. A dirty apron is standing there, and a big hairy hand, with a sharp bloody knife in it.

Author #2

“Divide lines 32 A from 17 C, only if the sum total of lines 43 A and 21 G equal out to the be more then the sum total of line 2.” Alexis hated doing his taxes; everyone hated doing their taxes. At least every non-Aryan hated doing his or her taxes.

He had three tax forms (as required by Amendment 4 subsection 3-213-4400), and close to nine number three pencils the only pencil that could be used when filing (as required by The National Income tax regulations page 21, paragraph 7, line 36), laid out over his cramped little table. Alexis moved his finger along the next section of paperwork reading it carefully. The jumble of words and numbers buzzed through his mind, eventually he began to look around his small apartment. Pictures of him as a child before “liberation,” and even his school certificate when he was Alexis Mazanov or Mosanov, which was years before the German ban on Russian surnames.

With a shake of his head he looked back down at the forms needing to get them done before May 1st, the day all Slavic peoples had to file their taxes.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sum total of all wages, tips, and donations from the Reich 221.33
Other wages 0_
District tax 20.30

State tax 47.62

Utilities tax (electricity, water, maintenance , food ,police, medical services) 16.55

Farm equipment tax 40.89
Damaged Equipment replacement 250.66
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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With a sigh Alexis tallied everything up and with a grin saw how much his refund that year would be. “Now taking all deductions, and subtractions from the initial income recorded minus the final total from the original income and split in half to total the income tax refund of this year.”

Alexis wrote down the numbers on another sheet of paper he sighed, “ I owe 154.69 marks.” Alexis quickly copied everything down on the two remaining tax forms, word for word. He checked and rechecked, until he was satisfied with the results.

He got up and slid each form into a separate manila envelope (as required by The Greater German Reich postal order of 1958 code 121-008-3321 subsection Q). Then Alexis got another form the top titled in bold black letter Funds owed.

“ If expenses total more then income, please file accordingly.” Alexis looked down at the four boxes, over 1 mark, over 50 marks, over 100 marks, over 200 marks. With a smile Alexis checked the third box, “ I did better this year.”
Underneath the four boxes was the list of ways to repay, all of which involved working the field, but Alexis smiled this year he would get a twelve-hour workday, as the thought ran through his mind the loud alarm ran through the camp. Alexis put his tax papers away in the manila envelope and then a thick brown folder ( as required by Slavic District 4 military field offices paragraph 45, line 2, subsection b), and walked out of his apartment into the common area of collective farm 209.

“Get your taxes done?” Sergi, a fellow farmer like Alexis. Both of them lined up to collect farm tools for the day.

“Just finished them now.” Sergi smiled putting his work gloves on.

“Ahh death and taxes, is there anything more inevitable?” Sergi asked to himself. Alexis held a hoe over his shoulder and walked into the warm sunlight of the Russian steppes.

“A tax refund?” Alexis said with a smile, Sergi laughed walking beside his friend shovel in hand.

Author #3

Alba’s taxes.

Brussels, 4th of June 1568.

As one of the leaders of the Dutch rebellion against Spain, Lamoral, Count of Egmont has been arrested and imprisoned by the governor of the Spanish Netherlands, the Duke of Alba. Egmont is found guilty of treason and condemned to death by beheading. The sentence will be executed the next day, on the “Grand place” of Brussels. He is expecting his secretary, who must deliver his last letter to his wife Sabina.


One of the soldiers guarding his cell opened the door with a creaky sound. “You have a visitor Monsieur...” he announced. ”He is allowed to take your letters with him…”
The guard withdrew and a man appeared in his place. He seemed vaguely familiar to Egmont, but it was certainly not the man he had been expecting. Egmont felt immediately annoyed. The man had a certain way about him, something one picked up in the blink of an eye... Proud, even arrogant...

Egmont shot the man an angry look. “Who are you?” he demanded. “I expected my secretary, Daendels... Not you... I have a letter to give him...”
The stranger stepped forward and waited until the guard had closed the door behind him. He appeared unrufled... “Yes I know monsieur... Monsieur Daendels was unable to come her in person, I’m afraid. I will deliver the letter in his place. He offers his apologies... But allow me to introduce myself... I’m...”
Egmont interupted him. “Where’s Daendels?” he complained... “I don’t care why you are here! You come barging in here and expect me to hand over my last letter to my wife...” He clenched his fist and gritted his teeth... “How can I trust you?”
“Ah... I see...“ said the stranger, plucking an imagined particle of dirt from his cloak...
“Trust you say...Trust... a commodity that is sorely lacking these days... Very unfortunate... May I sit?”
Without waiting for an answer he sat himself on one of the crude wooden stools that had been placed in Egmonts cell.
“Trust...” he repeated, almost savoring the word... “I’m afraid you don’t have much choice my dear count... And besides, now you’ve raised the subject... I believe you have put yours in Philip, your king... and look where it got you...”

Egmont sat himself on the bed... He felt weak and tired. My king will have me beheaded on the market square... As a criminal and a traitor... He sighed... “What did you say your name was?” he asked...

The man on the stool smiled. “Yes, my name... I’m Doornick. I’m one of Oranges solicitors...”
“William of Orange!” exclaimed Egmont. “Has he sent you to gloat?” Egmont sounded bitter... “After all, he was smart enough to leave Brussels in time...”
Doornick shook his head... “The prince feels most sorry for your decision to come to Brussels and talk to Alba .. You should have stayed away...”
“I was loyal to my king...” Egmont retorted.
“I know... You thought to reason with him, right? But are you loyal to Alba too? He’s far less reasonable. We recognize his hand in these matters...”
“What do you mean?” Egmont looked puzzled.
“We think that Alva wants to crush the rebellion with immediate force... crushing force...” He wants to obliterate as much resistance as possible before he introduces his tax reforms next year...”
“Tax?” Egmont blurted... “I’d thought he would rather increase the inquisition...”
Doornick laughed... “It’s not about religion anymore, it’s about money... No money, no soldiers. If Philip wants to keep his empire, he needs to crush this rebellion soon and make us pay for the cost too. He’s got to battle the Turks too..All frighteningly expensive”
Egmont rested his head in his hands. God... What went wrong? All we wanted was a slight amount of autonomy... Just to rule the provinces more justly... and all in name of the king.

Doornick seemed to sense Egmonts despondency... “It’s all new to you isn’t it?” He shook his head in disbelief “How could you have missed it? Alva is ruthless. More ruthless than Philip. He had hoped to get rid of Orange, Hoorne and you... Well... He missed Orange, but he got Hoorne and you. He believes that by getting the leaders of the rebellion out of the way, the Northern provinces won’t put up much resistance to his tax reforms...”
Egmont just listened, all strength draining from him.
Doornick continued... “But me, if you ask me, personally, I think they will resist even harder when you’re executed...You’ll be martyr...”
Egmont let his words sink in.... What is he saying? I’m a martyr? “Doornick, tell me, do you think the rebellion will profit from my... death?” He raised his hands. “No wait... don’t answer yet...” What am I missing? Did he know..? Suddenly his stomach churned... That’s it...that’s it...

He got up from the bed and stepped towards Doornick, pointing at him... almost touching him... “Tell me now Doornick... Tell me honestly... Did you know? Did you know Alba would have me arrested? And you keep saying we... Are there more of you?”
If Doornick felt menaced or even impressed by Egmonts outbust, he did not show it... “We are... a group of protestants, my lord, our numbers are growing...”
Egmont rubbed his eyes... “Oranges clique for sure... He’s turning with every wind... as long as he profits from it.”
“As long as the rebellion profits from it...” Doornick added... “Your death, the new taxes... it will all foment the rebellion to new heights...”
Egmont had heared enough... Judas... the Judas... “Leave me...” he commanded. “I want to be alone”.
Doornick seemed to understand... “The letter, monsieur?”

Egmont stood a while in thought. He realised he had little choice... “Whatever you think of me Doornick, deliver this letter or my soul will come back to haunt you.”
“I will monsieur,” Doornick answered... “I never intended otherwise...”

Doornick left and Egmont walked towards the single window and stared through the bars... They’ve sold me... Damn them... They’ve sold me...
He had never felt so lonely in al his life. I’m sorry Sabine...I’m sorry... I’ve let you down...

Outside, the city rumored... To Egmont it’s murmuring seemed like echoes of his life... Somehow the colors were much brighter now and the sky much clearer... Had it always been like this? He truly didn’t know...

Author #4

Greyfall Pass was the only break for a hundred miles in the Coeurvian Mountains, and so the only way into The Kingdom. Half a mile wide, the pass wove its way from the Drakur Wastes where nothing lived. No man anyway - rumors abound of fell beasts that could turn men into stone with their gaze, or fire poisoned spikes from a hundred yards.

Despite its importance, the Fort St. Devon guarding the pass tended to be rather dull. Beasts there might be in the Wastes, but they seemed content to leave the men and elves of The Kingdom alone. Even should they have ventured an attack, anyone on the ramparts must see them coming from five miles away. Plenty of time to rouse a sleeping garrison or recall the off-duty soldiers from their 'duties' at the nearby village. Because of this, only three or four men manned the walls at any given time, and these were usually being punished for some minor infraction.

One of these was Denis, whose crime, according to the knight-master who commanded St. Devon, was 'inattention because of some damned woman.' Denis had been part of the escort party for the Count of Greyfall and failed to notice when the Lady Alyssa was about to step in a mud puddle. She knew enough magic to clean her dress and shoe, but the embarassed knight-master received a terse lesson on basic manners. Which meant Denis received an even more terse lesson on manners and wound up on the wall.

It wasn't a pretty girl who made Denis inattentive though, but a new game called 'Crusader Kings' that ran in his friend's crystal ball. He liked playing some fantastic place with the nonsense name of Apulia, because one could expand easily from there. No wizards joined his court, however. His was an illegal copy, for Denis was poor, and he hadn't yet unlocked the magic option.

"Denis!" Lady Kalynda stormed up to him. She had to be thirty or thirty-five, but still beautiful despite a scar that ran from left eye to chin. Her plate armor always shone in the morning sunlight, and Denis thought she had a pretty smile when she bothered.

Kalynda wasn't smiling. "Were you daydreaming again?"

"Eh? No! No ma'am."

She folded her arms under her breasts. "And all is quiet?"

"Yes ma'am. Of course." Denis smiled tentatively. "Nothing ever happens up here."

"Then be so good as to explain to me what those winged creatures are!" She jabbed an accusing finger over his shoulder. Denis whirled and gaped.

-----------------------------------

Lord Valerian Montcalm, Knight-Master and Commander of St. Devon, knelt in the altar with his arms folded, each hand on the other shoulder in the ancient manner. The modern Imperial Orthodox faith didn't like it, but Montcalm had long since stopped caring what they thought. They and their whispers of a final battle with the beasts of Drakur. If they were so worried, why didn't they come up here and help defend the pass?

St. Devon frowned down on his charge, a stone statue that dominated the altar. It depicted a man in full armor brandishing a two-handed greatsword. It was Devon who secured The Kingdom from its enemies, who defeated a nine-headed giant in single combat and repelled an attack on the capital by ten thousand lawyers with artillery over a paternity suit.

Valerian had spent his life trying to mirror him, a life in constant warfare. None could call him a coward, but today he was worried. He could smell danger the way another man could smell apple pie, and the letter sent by carrier pigeon from the capital was direct:

"Expect attack. Moving to defend your position. Hold."

The knight-master's first thought, unworthy though it might be, was "Oh gods, what has he done now!?" George III, forty-second ruler of The Kingdom, had an appaling lack of..well, common sense. Why would the creatures of the Drakur Wastes attack? Why now? And how would the capital know? Surely they did not have spies out there - mortal men could not survive.

Bells from around the fort began ringing, and seconds later Kalynda paced in and bowed. "Trouble."

------------------------------------

At full strength St. Devon numbered about five hundred men and women. They were here now, glaring over the walls at the intruders. Desperation and need were wonderful counters to fear, which was good as the Drakur horde numbered several thousand. Giant balls of fur and teeth over the army, tiny bat-wings flapping. Creatures like half-giants, twelve feet tall with trees for clubs, shuffled along one flank. Giant worms spitting poison. Tiny goblins with poisoned spears that didn't kill: They liked their food alive. Beasts with the heads of lions and the tails of scorpions. Women with snakes for hair and death in their eyes. Telemarketers. And a lone man in a nice suit, waving a white flag.

"What the abyss does he want?" Valerian asked aloud. He nodded to Kalynda and they walked from the wall, gaze occasionally straying to the twin flags over his citadel: The black eagle of The Kingdom, and the crossed swords of St. Devon. Would they fall today? Not while he drew breath! He nodded to two guards who slowly, cautiously opened the door leading to the killing field outside his fort.

The nicely dressed man stepped forward. He looked to be about the commander's age, though he had cut his hair short and restricted himself to a tiny steel-grey goatee. "Valerian. It is good to see you."

"Henri?" Valerian stared. Henri Richer-Block had been a classmate in knight school. "How come you here?"

Henri smiled sadly and warded off the customary embrace with a wave of his hand. "Isn't it obvious, my friend?" He indicated the Drakur horde.

"But that is impossible. No mortal man can survive the Wastes."

"I'm not a mortal man, Valerian." Henri's smile faded. "I'm a tax collector."

"A tax...!?" Valerian stepped back, making a complicated hand gesture to ward off evil. After demons seperated from the angels, some were considered foul even by demonic standards. These archdemons sometimes recruited dark 'priests' to spread pain and death. And collect taxes.

"Relax, my friend. I am not come after you. That is why I parley with you now: Open your gate, let us pass and we will leave."

"Then who are you after?"

"George. He didn't pay his taxes."

"The fool!" Valerian exploded, making Kalynda wince. Everyone knew you couldn't escape the tax collectors! "When did this happen?"

"I'm honestly not sure," Henri confessed. "He filed for several extensions, but in the last he didn't cross his 't's so I denied it. Then the extensions stopped coming. I've only come for what is mine. Oh, and his soul."

"You can have his soul," Valerian growled. He glanced back at Devon's flag and imagined his disapproving glare. You couldn't go against your king, even if he was a fool. "I cannot let you pass."

"Valerian, be reasonable. I offer you this out of our past friendsh..."

"And what of the friendship? Henri, you live...lived here! Are you willing to destroy The Kingdom just for some taxes!?"

"Yes."

"I cannot let you pass."

Henri sighed. "Valerian..." He shook his head. "Then go back to your castle and pray. I will be there shortly."

"How much does he owe?" Kalynda interrupted.

"Eh?" Both men stared at her.

"I said, how much does he owe?"

Henri frowned. "It is highly irregular to say, but it'll do no harm. His initial tax was two silver lions."

Valerian's eyebrows rose. "I have that in my change jar. I'll pay it."

"Then there's the interest..."

"Of course."

The tax collector pulled out an abacus and began working the beads. "The total bill is....carry the eight....Fourteen million, seven hundred nineteen thousand, eighty-six gold bars."

Kalynda sputtered. "But?...but there isn't that much in the entire Kingdom! Maybe the world!"

"I know," Henri agreed simply.

"But that's not fair!" Kalynda would have said more, but Valerian touched her arm.

"He's not required to be fair."

"Correct," Henri nodded. "Now I ask for the last time. Will you let me pass?"

Valerian shook his head. "Never."

"Then I will give you a good burial, my friend."

"I think not!" Valerian drew his sword in a flash and backed up.

"Initial cost: Nineteen eagles. About ten years old....did you know you could have claimed four eagles in depreciation during the first five years? You do use the sword for work, right?"

"I can do that?"

"Could." Henri indicated his horde.

"Right." Valerian withdrew slowly. Henri folded his arms and watched his friend leave.
---------------------

Within two hours, St. Devon was a smoking ruin.

Three weeks later, so was the capital.

So remember, children. Pay your taxes or a Drakur horde might come knocking.

Author 1
Very classical topic, but always interesting to see variations about it. Present tense, eh? No, this wouldn’t be Stnylan again, would this? I don’t think so. With all due respect to the writer, this doesn’t flow as naturally as Stnylan’s stories (I’ll be soooo stupid if it happens to be from him, but that’s the game… ). I like the style but the sentences linking is sometimes rigid and makes the story difficult to read here and there. I loved the punchline though: twisted, tasty…

Regarding the story, I guess Volheart is a small noble, or he would not bother doing the tax collector’s job. He seems to know the peasants as well, and their relations don’t look too friendly, even out of taxes context.



Author 2
I've been a little puzzled by this piece. It was readable, at least as much as intended (I mean that some passages were not that easy to read for me, but that fits in the story very well). These taxes sheet remind me of the ones my parents had to fill in a few years ago... Now, the procedure has been vastly simplified here. OTOH, it's exactly in line with what I imagine about third Reich bureaucracy. The story might not be crystal clear to me, but here is what I understood: third Reich eventually won the war and now occupies Russia, which has been "freed" from communism. Alexis and Sergi are workers in a nazi style "kolkoz" (spelling?) and are charged more taxes than what they could possibly pay so that the state can ask them to work halftime (that is 12 hours out of 24, of course) in compensation for the difference. Interesting idea and a twisted way of organizing forced labor…



Author 3
Very well written, very pleasant to read. I still did not found it very immersive though. The reason was probably that I've been waiting for something that never came. It's all down to the fact that I don't understand why Doornick came, except if he or his master wanted to torment Egmont.

A last bit of nitpicking. I think the atmosphere would have benefited from a deeper description of the cell, even just a single sentence. That would have increased the contrast with Doornick's stylishness and fleshed out the whole scene accordingly. (I never think about such things when I write a text myself either! )

“Trust you say...Trust... a commodity that is sorely lacking these days... Very unfortunate... May I sit?”
Without waiting for an answer he sat himself on one of the crude wooden stools that had been placed in Egmonts cell.
“Trust...” he repeated, almost savoring the word... “I’m afraid you don’t have much choice my dear count... And besides, now you’ve raised the subject... I believe you have put yours in Philip, your king... and look where it got you...”

Click to expand...

This piece reads like Storey's style, and specifically his monumental character: Higgins. The general tone of the text doesn't seem to fit him though.



Author 4
One word to summarize: excellent. I've been surprised at the beginning, which was obviously intended. I can't find anything to say about the writing itself, save it is all good, as far as I'm able to tell. The story is pleasant and original as well. The mixing of fantasy with “modern RL” stuff was hilarious, and completely replaced in context with the last sentence. The whole thing was perhaps a little too long, but not enough for it to be annoying. OTOH, I would probably not have noticed that in my mother language. All in all, a great submission!
I would like to put something more constructive, but I don't see what ATM. Maybe in a later post after my co-readers will have opened new tracks to follow and explore?
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Author 1
This was a good piece. Present tense always jars me, at first, but once I got used to it it flowed pretty well. The characters were believable. I loved the twist, especially the last sentence. I couldn't begin to guess who the author is though, in this one or any of the others.

Author 2
I thought this captured a sense of a postwar German bureaucracy very well--lots of numbers and legalese, that sounded very convincingly like a tax form. It confused me, though, because it sounds like he's getting a good refund, but then he keeps sighing, and says he owes money. Maybe I just don't know anything about filing taxes yet The only other thing is that it seemed really short. It ended abruptly and left me thinking "Is that it?" Overall a pretty good piece, though.

Author 3
A couple of nitpicks... Like the first one, the present tense at the start, and more so the switch back over to past tense, really threw me off. The extreme use of ... was unconventional, but you made it work fairly well. There were a couple of errors that a spellchecking would have picked up, and some that it wouldn't have (changing from Alba to Alva halfway through). Last, I never felt that the subject of "Taxes" was particularly central to the piece. I liked the concept, though. All in all a decent work.

Author 4
My favorite of the submissions. It started out kinda serious-sounding, but quickly changed. I loved the contrast between the serious aspects and the more light-heartedness (Beasts with the heads of lions and the tails of scorpions. Women with snakes for hair and death in their eyes. Telemarketers. And a lone man in a nice suit, waving a white flag.) At first I didn't know where taxes would come in, but when they did, I laughed out loud. The absurdity, and what's more the seriousness with which a lot of the absurdity was presented, was hilarious. Great stuff.

Author #1: Nice little bit of circling from the death of the pig to the death of the pig... I mean the death of the man. There were a few spots where the writing felt less than smooth, but all in all it was good.

Author #2: Is this Nazi Germany or merely a Kaiserreich on a conquest spree? I couldn't really be sure. (When looking at the other posters, I see they think Nazi, but I could imagine a camp as described under the Kaiser.) Other than that, good. Bureaucracy is always fun to mock.

Author #3: Always keep the tense constant within the piece. You changed from present to past, which was a bit jarring. Is this based in a historical incident (I know about William of orange, et cetera, but not enough of the details to know the answer to my question.) Historical or not, it was a good scene.

Author #4: Good tale, sir. I was wondering where you were going with the fantasy at the beginning, but that cleared up quickly.

#1
A good tale which made me curious to know more though I will confess the present tense threw me off. Not that it’s bad for use in fiction, just that I’m so geared to reading past tense. It’s sometimes hard to read a scene and feel drawn to the characters, mainly because you enter mid-scene and you don’t know all of the background. Nice job, and the Lord unfortunately gets his desserts.

#2
This was fun, a cute little story about an alternate history and I thought it was witty and had spirit. Not much background needed since German control of Russia is a popular what-if. All in all, a nice story.

#3
Having recently written about the Dutch in the 1558 RPG, I was particularly drawn to this story, and I enjoyed reading the byplay between Egmont and Doornick, trying to reason out where this encounter would be in the historical scheme of things. I wasn’t sure what was going on until towards the end, where I believe Egmont is either convenient as a martyr or is set up to be. He mentions Judas towards the end and I was wondering if Egmont believes he is a Judas of sorts, or that Doornick is. Makes me want to dig up my copy of Motley and check.

#4
I enjoyed this tale, more so as we reached the confrontation at the end. It was clear enough from the outset that this was a fantasy tale, though I was thrown at the mention of ‘Crusader Kings’ and kept waiting for more references. The transition from Denis’ perspective in the beginning to the final bit between Valerian and Henri confused me a little, and I wonder how relevant Denis is to the main storyline. All in all, a jovial lark in a fantasy land.

I haven't been commenting lately, but its time to correct that. Good pieces all around!

#1
Great story, and although I usally am put off by present tense, in this story it was so expertly used that I didn't mind at all. In fact, given the charcter of the piece I think it was a good choice. Other than that, I really liked the start, which makes you think that there's some kind of horrible torture going on which turns out to be only the slaughtering of a pig, and the end which makes what you thought was happening in the beginning really happen this time. Nice, if gruesome, twist!

#2
I'll comment later.

#3
Interesting alt-hist piece, if a bit on the short side. Well written, although I have objections against the plausibility of the story. The slavic population in a German-occupied Russia would've had no income or possessions, and certainly not paid taxes. They would just have been forced to work endless hour for no pay. In fact, I don't think they were supposed to be allowed to learn to read and write! The general intention was to reduce the inhabitants to a level pretty much akin to 19th century slavery in America, rather than Middle Age serfs, who after all had some rights.

#4
I loved this one! The Generic Fantasy Setting, so seriously realised... and then the wackiness... Crusader Kings indeed! Well written, well thought out and funny as hell. I'll award this piece Ten :rofl: Points!