novel- chapter 1 rough draft...thoughts and ideas before i continue onward

[Forlorn Radiance]

(yes i realize the tabs for paragraphs do not work in the forums, so please bare with the crappy formatting.)

Chapter I
A Master and His Dog




He sat tranquilly in solitude, embraced by the chilly, pitch black void of the shadows. His vision was construed by the abrupt change of light. There was an odious stench that slothfully shrouded around his nostrils forcing him to strain from vomiting. This stench that permeated the darkness was undeniably that of pestilence, death, and decay. Subtlety he began to recollect his vision, as the seemingly void backdrop receded, giving way to an even more hostile environment. The citadel prison walls appeared to have been primitively chiseled by hand, no doubt by his predecessors, who's only remaining existence was the manifestation of an anguished consciousness that perpetrated through the apprehension of every captive. The only audible sound was the trickle from a small collection of water congregated at the center of the undersized holding cell from the solid granite walls and ceiling as they perspired.


His attention suddenly changed course to the wire-thin elderly man that sat hunched up in a fettle position against the outlying wall. The elderly inmate's head was buried deep in between the cell walls and his arm, shrouding his face in obscurity. The man's tattered rags that he attempted to pass off as clothing hung off his body. He presumed the man's rags had, at one point, been a robe that hung down to the knees, but now the frayed ends stopped at varying points below his groin. It was left up to his imagination to figure out what color the tattered attire had originally been, because it was evident, even in the half-light, that the color had faded due to years of dust and residue which had tarnished it to a muddy brown. The prisoner's hair, which now more closely resembled a thinning crown, apparently hadn't faired any better. The top of the old man's head, as well as his full beard, which hung down to his chest, was now a tangled disarray of grayish white strands of hair matted down with years of dirt, grime, and other residues which he didn't care to fathom. The old, decrepit man slowly lifted his head, revealing a weathered face; covered in scars and wrinkles, the most noticeable scar being a large deep gash going down the right side of his face, from the forehead to the chin, barely bypassing his eye by a few inches. The mangy inmate had deep blue eyes that immediately shot wide open, twitching in fear, upon seeing his cell mate.


With only one swift glimpse of his new companion, the old man knew without even the slightest fraction of doubt the man's infamous identity. He was a young man, around the age of twenty-four, without a single blemish on his face. He had long, lush black hair which tapered off around his shoulder blades and his bangs hung down low partly veiling his cold, silvery, wolf-like eyes. He donned a long flowing black cloak with the hood hung back, tucked out of view underneath his hair, and a pair of black boots. The young prisoner had the stature of a weathered, war-hardened veteran, but ironically didn't seem to have a single scar on his entire body, which would have made him appear wet behind the ears to the casual bystander. The dark haired captive had a swagger about him and emanated with cool, collected resolve. It wasn't hard for the feeble inmate to recognize this man, no matter how senile he became in age, as the infamous Brant Drake, former second commander of the Crusaders.


Brant smiled a half-smirk as he mused over what his new cell mate must be thinking behind those wide, twitching, fearful eyes. He could taste the man's trepidation from across the room and he reveled in it. He was like a wolf poised to strike; methodically hunting down his prey, waiting patiently for that one moment of inevitable vulnerability. And like a wolf, he was in no rush to make the kill. He would observe until he had a near-omniscient perspective of his alien environment. He measured up his prey, giving him as much of an once-over as possible in the twilight-like half-light. No matter how much time he spent examining the old man for any subtle sign, he couldn't fathom the concept that this man had, or ever had, ever possessed any amount of strength or power.


Something seemed off to him. They were deep in the bowels of the execution block, reserved for the most sadistic, vicious, and cruel members of Nevia society. This man, he judged, with the years of dirt and grim, had been in the citadel for an unusually long stay. Nevia was never so unorthodox. Brant's instincts told him not to trust the elderly inmate.


With a low solemn tone of voice, Brant asked, "Who are you?"


The convict lowered his head, avoiding eye contact with the ex-crusader. His voice seemed to squeak in terror as if he was forcing the words out of his mouth, "Gerard Helms….just an old prisoner who has been here for far too long…" His voice trailed off.


"Hmm…" the young man smiled, as Gerard confirmed his suspicion. "I can see that. But why is that a man, who has been in these dungeons long enough to have his hair matted with months, if not years, of dirt and grim has not been executed? What did you do?"


Gerard didn't know how to respond. He went to speak, but the words didn't seem
to want to emerge from his mouth. His body began to tremble slightly as he muttered, "I'd…I'd rather not talk about my past. There are…too many painful memories."


Brant's tone instantly switched with his cell mate. He was no longer cool, calm, and calculating. He was now fiery, bold, and forceful. His voice boomed. "You'll tell me. Or you'll die."


Gerard felt his heart sink low into the pit of his stomach. He desperately wished he would have been told who the man entering his cell was. If he knew this from the beginning, then maybe he could have avoided this entire arduous ordeal. The guards had told him that he would be dealing with a "military official", but he figured it would have been someone with less of a reputation, someone older. Never in his wildest dreams did he believe he would be coming face to face with one of the most feared men alive. In an irritated voice he responded to the harsh demand. "I was involved in a murder. Now can we please drop this?" He hoped that this more bold tone would work Brant over better than the timid voice earlier would.


"No, not yet, I'm rather enjoying this conversation. And you'll soon learn, I'm really a people person. I would love to hear all about my new cell mate." Brant smiled. "You said you were involved in a murder. I take it that you didn't have the stones to do the dirty deed yourself?"


"No, I didn't," the prisoner stated matter-of-factly. "I hired an orc, what a hideous, brutish race they are. He was supposed to kill my business partner so that I could take over the business. You can see how well that turned out. Orcs are natural killing machines; unfortunately they don't have much in the brains department."


"You're stalling!" Brant hissed. "They don't store backstabbing entrepreneurs in the execution block!"


Gerard quivered in terror as he stole a quick glance over at the ex-crusader. He sensed Brant's agitation peaking. "But they do!" he assured Brant. "You see, it wasn't that I had my business partner murdered. The important thing is what the business was. We were running a Nixium mining operation, supplying to Nevia troops…to the crusaders. I'm sure you are fully aware of what that implies."


The ex-crusader's expression suddenly switched to that of bewilderment. Could this man really have been so ignorant? "You mean to tell me that you were connected to the murder of a man with strong ties to the church and military? Not only that, but this man was a Nixium business man, a man supplying the grace of Nevia to its holy troops. Then it's very easy to understand why you were sent to the execution block. You were a fool for trusting someone else to do your dirty work, Gerard. And you should have been fully aware of the consequences if you were caught. Nixium is the prized possession of the church. They claim that it is holy. You defiled not only their business, but the grace of their god. In their eyes you hurt production." Brant sneered.


He continued, relishing in the man's grief, "You're an ignorant man, Gerard. I assumed they tossed you in this pit to rot, and then seized control of your assets, and business." Brant paused a second. "You answered my first question, but that still makes me wonder. You didn't just order an ordinary hit, nor are you guilty of a normal murder. My guess is you were also charged with blasphemy…and we both know the penalty for blasphemy…" his voice trailed off.


Gerard appeared shocked at Brant's rationalization, and was lost for words with how to reply. "What do you want me to say?" Gerard asked. "I got lucky that they don't care what happens to an old guy like me. I'm not a threat to them."


"What I want from you is the truth, Gerard! You are guilty of blasphemy! Why aren't you dead?" Brant snarled. He glared at the old man; his eyes seemed on fire. "I swear my hand to Nevia that I will kill you now if you don't tell me what I want to know."


Gerard began to panic, because Brant now turned his hostility to an open threat. He knew Brant Drake's reputation far too well. He was the second commander of the Crusaders, a merciless combatant who worked his way up to that rank at the tender age of twenty, only two years after enlisting in the Crusaders. He was a man who slaughtered legions with his scythe. Gerard needed to come up with a lie; a good one, and fast, or he wouldn't need to worry about it at all.


"You're hesitating." Brant stated. "How much more obvious can you be? The time for deceit is over. Tell me what I want to know, or I'll play executioner myself." Gerard didn't know what to say. If he told a lie, Brant would surely see through it and slay him without giving it a second thought. If he told the truth, he had no doubt that he would enrage the ex-crusader and he would unquestionably die anyway. It was an unbelievable paradox. Maybe he should give in. Maybe Brant would show mercy if he was submissive. Perhaps the most intelligent thing was to play to Brant's brashness. Gerard opened his mouth to speak.


"Yes?" Brant asked.


No, Gerard told himself, Brant wasn't the type of man to have mercy. But without any other options he said, "I was sent here…" Brant cut him off mid-sentence.


"Yes you were," Brant stated coldly. You were sent here by the guards. They wanted you to get information out of me, didn't they?" Brant grinned as he saw Gerard crawling backwards away from Brant. "More precisely, they want to know where I stashed the last supply of processed Nixium. Didn't they?"


Gerard couldn't speak. Brant had already known. In the past few moments, I had figured out everything. Gerard was in a full panic. He knew he had to retort with Brant, but all his head seemed capable of doing, was to solemnly nod back in forth, like a pendulum, in agreement.


The ex-crusader's steely wolf-like eyes suddenly became even more menacing as they gradually became narrower. Brant peered through his prey's soul. Softly, Brant spoke, "But you know what, Gerard? You did the right thing. You told me the truth…" his voice trailed off.


"I did?" the elderly inmate asked, not sure if the ex-crusader was feeling okay. His voice, with a high pitch squeal, muttered, "But how did…" He was cut off.


"How did I know?" Brant sneered. "Well it wasn't really that hard to figure out, Gerard. You see, me and Nevia aren't on great terms at the moment. Nevia would like nothing better than to send me a hasty trip to hell, but the catch is, they still need me. And you know why they still need me. It's because I still have a full load of processed Nixium stashed away somewhere, and they want it back. I saw it all coming. At the last minute before they decided to take me captive, I saw the church as the treacherous serpent it was, and decided, if they didn't value my service. Why should they reap the rewards? That's understandable, right?" Gerard went back to his slow head bobbing routine. He had a stupefied look on his face as his eyes seemed glazed over. How could the fearsome, brutish, Brant Drake be so quick witted at the same time?


The ex-crusader continued on with his rational explanation, "What gave it away, Gerard, is that you are still alive. That means that Nevia needs you as well, or you would have already met with your executioner. My guess is that, since you seem to lack any real skills, that you have been playing errand boy for the last several years, spilling your guts to Nevia on everyone they stick in a cell with you in order to extend your stay in this world just a bit longer. I mean, who better to spy for them, than a man traitorous enough to kill his own business partner? There is only one problem with this though, Gerard. Do you know what that is?"


The prisoner didn't like the sound of that. What problem was Brant talking about. A new wave of terror flooded his body, temporarily overriding all of his senses. He was like a caged animal in a panic, ready to thrash about to escape confinement. "What's that" he choked.


"The problem is that makes you a snitch; and nobody likes a snitch. Eventually snitches end up dead," Brant stood up slowly. He took large confident strides toward his prey. He saw Gerard's eyes twitching in terror; wide open and bloodshot. He mused over his prey's thoughts; of what it must feel like to know you are going to die. "I don't like people like you. You're no better than a dog, commanded to obey its master. And now it's time to put you down, just like any other mangy mutt should be."


Gerard thrashed instinctively to his feet. He had no idea where to go, but knew he wanted to stay as far away as possible from the brash murderer that was closing in on him. "Just calm down, Gerard, we're in a cell, remember? There is no where to run to. Don't worry though. I was going to kill you slowly, inflicting just a little bit of injury to you for each person you betrayed over the years, to save your own pathetic life. But then you told me the truth. You did the right thing, and I haven't forgotten it." The predator told him.


Gerard had now backed himself in front of the large cast iron door which sealed them in their crypt-like cell. He futilely clawed at it, as if he could dig through its thick exterior. "You…you haven't?" he cried, knowing that it was hopeless for him.


"No, you've earned a reward. I was going to kill you nice and slow, but now I've had a change of heart." Brant assured his prey.


"You have?"


"Yes. You've earned the right to a hasty transition to hell, so those poor bastards can slowly torture you themselves!" Brant laughed.


Gerard let out a high pitched scream as a feeble attempt to catch the attention of a guard. He had to get out of this cell; away from this mad-man. He didn't deserve to die. This was his new job, he wasn't doing anything wrong. "Please, don't kill me!" he pleaded.


Brant became more disgusted with the man every passing second as he watched him flail about the cell. "You lived your life preying on the life of others, to save your own. You are a maggot without a single ounce of either honor nor grace. Shut up and at least die with a little dignity. It's my parting gift to you and it's far more than you're worth!"


Gerard's back slid down the iron door. A stream of tears flowed down from each eye as he sobbed uncontrollably, pleading for his pathetic, miserable excuse of an existence. As he became more engulfed in his sea of despair, he began to feel a growing amount of hatred for Brant. He was being driven insane by the man's brash arrogance. What made him so much better? How come his heinous acts of violence were all so noble, while everything he had done was low and dishonorable? Finally, he uttered, "Don't talk your bull**** to me!"


"What did you say to me?" Brant roared. He now loomed menacingly over his prey. "Explain yourself now! Or this is going to hurt far more!"


Gerard couldn't stand it any longer. He knew he should be running to buy as much time as possible for a guard to step in, but his own rage had swelled to such proportions that he wasn't able to back away. "You heard me! How many lives did it take Brant? You have a full ten pounds of Nixium stashed away somewhere. How many lives did you have to take for that? Two hundred, three hundred….and what did you do it for? Personal greed is a fickle thing, Brant. We pass judgment on others so quickly, yet we deny our own faults to the very end.”


"Shut up!" Brant roared. He grabbed the feeble old man by the neck with his right hand, and delivered a punishing left hook to the man's check. He still had hold of the aged inmate as he continued, "On the battlefield, they called me Nevia's Champion of Death. I slew all my foes without mercy nor remorse, and I did so for my kingdom and my god!"


"It's a very touching story, Brant, really." He said with courage, in hopes of eating away at Brant's conscious.


Brant threw a left elbow to the crown of his head. With a wrathful fury, he caught Gerard in the gut with his knee, and sent the old geezer sailing downward. But before Gerard's frail frame could slam and shudder against the granite floor, Brant grabbed his shoulders. "The thing is, I've lost my way with Nevia. I'm no longer a champion, but a demon!" The ex-crusader slung the frail man to the ground with a loud thud. Brant was fairly sure he had heard Gerard's right arm crack on impact, but didn't particularly care. "And unlike you, I will repent for the lives I have taken, by killing every one of those dirty Nevia-loving bastards! I will be heralded as the Conqueror of Nevia!"


Gerard scurried away from Brant on the floor with his good arm. "What you mean to say is, you wronged all those people, and now that things didn't play out as you expected you are simply going to continue with your blood lust on your new enemy!"


"You know what? You can rationalize it all you like, but the fact of the matter is, I'm not like you! I still have my pride!" Brant snarled, his eyes seemed almost satisfied, "But as much as I have enjoyed our chat, Gerard, I think your time for stalling as come to a halt."


Gerard shrieked as Brant pulled him back off the granite ground by palming his face. The crunching of Gerard's skull was muffled by Brant's hand. As he applied pressure, he could feel the old man's skull shift around under his hand. The old inmate couldn't scream as his mouth was covered by Brant's palm. All he could do was simply hang a few inches off the ground as the strength of the ex-crusader was showcased. The blood began to flow from Gerard's eyes and nose. Brant, deciding to finish the job off, put his left hand on his prey's neck, and with a quick, almost-instant, jerk, the old man's neck was severed as Brant pulled his arms apart. Gerard's corpse fell limp in Brant's hand, and he simply tossed it aside like garbage.


His gaze kept falling back to the cadaver. He marveled over his work, relishing over the adrenaline rush he had as he went in for the kill. He remembered the pinnacle of exhilaration he felt as he peered into Gerard's eyes as he realized that he was going to die. He gradually grinned as he decided that the body deserved a better resting place. He grabbed the wrists of his deceased cell mate, and drug him to the front of the cell, right in front of the iron door. "Gerard Helms will be the perfect greeting mat for the guards. They will come, and when they do, I will be ready." He told himself.


He leisurely strolled back to the corner of the cell he had rose from when he had decided to attack Gerard. He sat at ease in the cover of the darkness, enveloped by the shadows. The shadowy void seemed to be the only place that he could belong, without corrupt church officials or the need of others. He had learned that the only rule of this world was that survival is obtained by any measure needed, and that people were only there to interfere with your personal goals. The guards would eventually come for him, and when they did, he would be ready.

[Gun92]

Ill read it if you start posting scores for my tourney :P

[Forlorn Radiance]

Originally Posted by Gun92

Ill read it if you start posting scores for my tourney :P

youll have a score by the end of the hour lol

[Gun92]

More like scores...you missed about 5 rounds...I think we are on 6 right now

[Forlorn Radiance]

Originally Posted by Gun92

More like scores...you missed about 5 rounds...I think we are on 6 right now

sigh ill do what i can.

[Gun92]

Haha gl

[drakethelegend]

i read it.
don't focus so much on the details. i found myself reading it and then by the end of the paragraph my mind was on a completely different subject. i understand that you want to write detailed, which is good, but not when it makes the reader lose focus on what's important. and you have a verrrrry good vocabulary, by the way.

[Forlorn Radiance]

Thanks for the feeback Drake, my only fear as far as the vocabulary goes is that its offset by the dialouge, which I tried to type it as they would say it. I'm afraid it doesn't mesh well with the rest of the story.

[GamerShadow]

Adding to what drake said, it's best to use more detail on important parts of the story. An example is the climax. You should be using quite a bit of detail in general in that area, because it is one of, if not the most important part of the story.

Also, the first paragraph contains a few adverbs that I do not believe exist, such as subtlely. Try to reword those sentences so that you can avoid using these words, as the first thing I thought upon reading that was "awkward sentence."