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[RoseHeart]

Story Prompt:


Here, he's here. Watching me... I smell him...feel him under my skin. Inside me.

[TD1]

There is a darkness inside us all.

Thramar drew his sword, blade held upwards. Let the light play its fingers across the cold, cold metal. Then he drove it point-down into the frozen ground before him. In the distance, trees cracked under their loads of snow. A wolf howled. The eyes of owls pricked his skin.

The sword stood still and resolute. Only a small tremble, barely visible, betrayed the emotion of its wielder. Sweat beaded his brow, and condensation trickled down the length of metal. Too long, now. Too long. He had run, but now he would stand. He would stand. Resolute. The blood of his fathers demanded it be so.

Silence.

Dark, brooding silence.

The wolves had perhaps gone elsewhere, the owls flown from their perches and ceased their noise. But the woods themselves? The creaking, the breathing of a mighty mass of wood? Silenced between one heartbeat and the next? It heralded only one thing. Doom had come for Thramar.

First, came the tendrils of darkness. Against the whiteness of the snow they were deep and profound, wrapping between the distant boles of trees, spreading, wind-like, along the frozen plains. Catching hold of the hill on which he crouched, tense. Caressing it like a lost love, then climbing, slower now. Individual tendrils met and fused into one whole, one terrible pool of black, and him on an island of white in the middle.

Then, the smell. Tar. Flame and death and destruction and the folly of youth, all wrapped into one bundle that smelled of war. A profound stench which he knew well; his hand spasmed around the sword's hilt, gouging the steel deeper into the bare earth. A smell he knew too well.

Third, and final, the memories. A woman's face. A sweet face, turned towards him, a glint of intelligence deep within the hazel depths. Not a beautiful face; too hard for that, sculpted by Northern winds and the trials of life. No, not a comely one was she, but she was his, and he loved her dearly. She smiled in his mind's eye, then turned. From the side, he could see the rot. Through her breast, a sword. A sword familiar and heavy in his hand, the wildness of battle, a mistimed stroke... and then the pain. Running. Running. Knowing that his disgrace drew the Fathers' fury, that he was no longer Kith nor Kin.

The Blood Fathers know well the trials of war, but they could never condone one who became wild in battle, who lost morality. One such as him.

The darkness converged.

He was in the centre.

It was in him.

In his mind's eye, a woman's smile.

A sob broke from his mouth, and he fell to the unforgiving earth. The sword spun away from his clenched fists, and he beat the ground. Inside and out both became one. All was darkness, and all was lost.

Helenah.

[TD1]

Really, no one else will write something?

Well alright, then.

I'll just leave my post there.

_{All alone.}

[Arx]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Get it out. Get it out. Get it out get it out.
Get it out get it out getitout getitoutgetitout-

Vic wakes with a scream, scrabbling at the bedside table. A grabbing hand finds the lightswitch and comforting light splashes over the room.

Over the writhing black tendrils spidering across that hand's wrist.

Vic screams again. Claws desperately at the tendrils. Fingernails sharp, terror strengthening the blows to the point they break the skin. Black oozes down Vic's arm and-

The stench oh God the stench get it out get it out get it out-

Vic flies from the room, thrashing free of the bedclothes. To the kitchen. To the knives. Frantically slashes and stabs at the bloody morass of squirming maggoty flesh.

Blood and unholy ichor flows. Vic sticks the arm under the tap, cleansing water washing away the monster and the blood and eyes failing as Vic topples backwards-

Vic wakes in a cold sweat, grabs the wrist. Feels smooth. Reaches for the light. Flips the switch.

Oh God get it out getitoutgetitout

Happy?

[TD1]

Ye gods, man. I think you got the horror of the situation much better than me, anyway.

[Sanctume]

Spoiler: original (click to show/hide)

There is a darkness inside us all.

Thramar drew his sword, blade held upwards. Let the light play its fingers across the cold, cold metal. Then he drove it point-down into the frozen ground before him. In the distance, trees cracked under their loads of snow. A wolf howled. The eyes of owls pricked his skin.

The sword stood still and resolute. Only a small tremble, barely visible, betrayed the emotion of its wielder. Sweat beaded his brow, and condensation trickled down the length of metal. Too long, now. Too long. He had run, but now he would stand. He would stand. Resolute. The blood of his fathers demanded it be so.

Silence.

Dark, brooding silence.

The wolves had perhaps gone elsewhere, the owls flown from their perches and ceased their noise. But the woods themselves? The creaking, the breathing of a mighty mass of wood? Silenced between one heartbeat and the next? It heralded only one thing. Doom had come for Thramar.

First, came the tendrils of darkness. Against the whiteness of the snow they were deep and profound, wrapping between the distant boles of trees, spreading, wind-like, along the frozen plains. Catching hold of the hill on which he crouched, tense. Caressing it like a lost love, then climbing, slower now. Individual tendrils met and fused into one whole, one terrible pool of black, and him on an island of white in the middle.

Then, the smell. Tar. Flame and death and destruction and the folly of youth, all wrapped into one bundle that smelled of war. A profound stench which he knew well; his hand spasmed around the sword's hilt, gouging the steel deeper into the bare earth. A smell he knew too well.

Third, and final, the memories. A woman's face. A sweet face, turned towards him, a glint of intelligence deep within the hazel depths. Not a beautiful face; too hard for that, sculpted by Northern winds and the trials of life. No, not a comely one was she, but she was his, and he loved her dearly. She smiled in his mind's eye, then turned. From the side, he could see the rot. Through her breast, a sword. A sword familiar and heavy in his hand, the wildness of battle, a mistimed stroke... and then the pain. Running. Running. Knowing that his disgrace drew the Fathers' fury, that he was no longer Kith nor Kin.

The Blood Fathers know well the trials of war, but they could never condone one who became wild in battle, who lost morality. One such as him.

The darkness converged.

He was in the centre.

It was in him.

In his mind's eye, a woman's smile.

A sob broke from his mouth, and he fell to the unforgiving earth. The sword spun away from his clenched fists, and he beat the ground. Inside and out both became one. All was darkness, and all was lost.

Helenah.

I felt like writing, so I hope you don't mind my re-write exercise.

Spoiler: re-write exercise (click to show/hide)

Darkness stirs within Thramar as the sword is drawn, blade held high letting light's fingers carress the cold metal.  He drove the sword's sharp point into the frozen ground with such ferocity that distant trees begin cracking under heavy snow.  Wolves howls their lament, and his skin prickles from unseen staring owls.

The sword stood still and resolute unlike the wielder's slight trembling from caged emotions.  Sweat beaded upon his brown and trickles down to freeze upon the length of the metal.  Far too long to run and evade confrontation.  But the present requires to stand and fight, to be resolute for the blood of his father demands it.

Silence, dark and brooding, fills the time. The wolves and owls may hae gone on their quiet hunts.  But the stillness of the forest persisted in between heartbeats.  It only means the herald of doom for Thramar. 

First, the tendrils of darkness comes, stark against the whiteness of snow compounds their deep and profound meaning.  It wraps between distant boles of trees, spreads wide along the frozen plains like a formless wind phantom. 
He crouched low among the rocky outcrop of the hill, tense in anticipation.  Then he carresses the earth like a lost love, stands up and finds himself on this hill, an island of white snow surrounded by pooling black tentrils.

The smell follows; of tar which ignites the memory of youthful folly, the smell of war.  Flame, death and destruction is what the profound stench brings.   
His hand spasms around the sword's hilt, gouging the steel deeper into the bare earth.  A smell he knows too well.

Finally, memories of a woman's sweet face assaults him.  It turns its hazel eyes that glints of intellignce.  The face is not of beauty but of hardness that is sculpted by the Northern winds and trials of life. 

She was his, and he loved her dearly.  She smiles in his mind's eye, then turns to the side, revealing rot, and through her breast, a sword.  The familiar sword that is now heavy in his hand.  The wildness of battle, an unfortunate strike, and then the pain preludes his flight and running.  The knowledge of his disgrace draws the Father's fury, the he is no longe Kith or Kin.

The Blood Fathers know well the trials of war, but they could never condone one who became wild in battle, who lost morality.  One such as him.  The darkness converges and he is in the center.  It is in him.  In his mind's eye, a woman smiles.

Sobs broke from his mouth, and he falls to the unforgiving earth. The sword spins away from his clenched fists, and he beat the ground.  Inside and out both became one.  All is darkness, and all is lost.

Helenah.

[Urist McScoopbeard]

Careful about mixing that passive and active voice my good sir!

[Ehndras]

Halp? Trying something new. Paint Criticize me like one of your French women.

Spoiler: Mattan Blood Fields - Microstory (click to show/hide)

"Lukur ina etuti asbu..."

Eighty-eight silhouettes lay silent beneath a dim Winter sun as Masalu's desperate charge breaks upon enemy flank. As the sounds of steel upon flesh and the final cries of dying men subside, the howling gale shrieks deep in all its horrid glory. Raging bonfires cast remnant shadows across a vast sea of Mattan grain, as the odor of sun-baked gore carries across its glimmering bronze stained crimson-black. With the acrid smoke of charred flesh welling unwelcome tears in the eyes of its survivors, the blood of monsters and D'harani commingle as the scarred plains drink every blasted drop. 

Across the jagged Mattan coast lay quaint fishing villages whose strange peasants pray the mourning vigil in the blasphemous name of even stranger Gods... Accursed congregations toiling in those bloodied fields upon which greater men are sacrificed time and again. Trapped in a waking nightmare from which there can be no escape, their lives sustained by the profane ritual of convenient massacre come every blasted winter. The faint scent of mind-numbing Spice lingers upon one's miserable breath, a welcome diversion to ease the stark reality of this hell they call home. Though suffered years may come and go as conquering nations rise and fall, the sacrifice must always be paid - for the Old Gods' thirst is unquenchable. For the respite of those quiet villages and their peculiar denizens, the gift of life bears an unspeakable price: one whose blood-price unwitting nations have paid since time immemorial. As the pyres cast ash unto the maelstrom, and the flames die down to mere cinders, empty prayers are whispered by the foolish spawn of those who dare claim the daemon bounty of Mattan grain.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn... "

From the oft-clawed-upon shores of Sallowtown and Port Raviel, to the deathly undulations of Mattan and the Desert of Silhouettes, unwitting noblemen march without sense or reason. Opulent palaces and towering citadels abandoned to wise stewards whose craven pacifism guarantees another day may die with body and soul intact - for those who delve too far behold horrors Man was not designed to see. A distant dream by whose battered fists our soldiers cannot grasp; shattered hopes left to rot like so many bodies in a burning pyre; the collapse of proud, decadent empires whose blasphemous curiosities malign the yawning gulfs of time. Slumbering fools, dead before a drop has spilled, frayed nerves like the cords of heedless ambition grown slack as the noose by which all inevitably die.

Battered helms slip over unseeing eyes. Rust-worn blades are whet in futile gestures. A mass grave takes form... And in the dying light of bleak afternoon, those greedy plains await their unholy tribute once more.

[TD1]

Halp? Trying something new. Paint Criticize me like one of your French women.

Spoiler: Mattan Blood Fields - Microstory (click to show/hide)

"Lukur ina etuti asbu..."

Eighty-eight silhouettes lay silent beneath a dim Winter sun as Masalu's desperate charge breaks broke upon the enemy flank. As the sounds of steel upon flesh and the final cries of dying men subside subsided, the howling gale shrieks shrieked deep in all its horrid glory. Raging bonfires cast remnant shadows across a vast sea of Mattan grain, as the odor of sun-baked gore carries across its glimmering bronze stained crimson-black. With the acrid smoke of charred flesh welling unwelcome tears in the eyes of its survivors, the blood of monsters and D'harani commingle as the scarred plains drink every blasted drop.

Across the jagged Mattan coast lay quaint fishing villages whose strange peasants pray the mourning vigil in the blasphemous name of even stranger Gods... Accursed congregations toiling in those bloodied fields upon which greater men are sacrificed time and again. Trapped in a waking nightmare from which there can be no escape, their lives sustained by the profane ritual of convenient massacre come every blasted winter. The faint scent of mind-numbing Spice lingers upon one's miserable breath, a welcome diversion to ease the stark reality of this hell they call home. Though suffered years may come and go as conquering nations rise and fall, the sacrifice must always be paid - for the Old Gods' thirst is unquenchable. For the respite of those quiet villages and their peculiar denizens, the gift of life bears an unspeakable price: one whose blood-price unwitting nations have paid since time immemorial. As the pyres cast ash unto the maelstrom, and the flames die down to mere cinders, empty prayers are whispered by the foolish spawn of those who dare claim the daemon bounty of Mattan grain.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn... "

From the oft-clawed-upon shores of Sallowtown and Port Raviel, to the deathly undulations of Mattan and the Desert of Silhouettes, unwitting noblemen march without sense or reason. Opulent palaces and towering citadels abandoned to wise stewards whose craven pacifism guarantees another day may die with body and soul intact - for those who delve too far behold horrors Man was not designed to see. A distant dream by whose battered fists our soldiers cannot grasp; shattered hopes left to rot like so many bodies in a burning pyre; the collapse of proud, decadent empires whose blasphemous curiosities malign the yawning gulfs of time. Slumbering fools, dead before a drop has spilled, frayed nerves like the cords of heedless ambition grown slack as the noose by which all inevitably die.

Battered helms slip over unseeing eyes. Rust-worn blades are whet in futile gestures. A mass grave takes form... And in the dying light of bleak afternoon, those greedy plains await their unholy tribute once more.

Hmmm, actually, I started altering before realising I was probably going against the grain. Which tense were you going for?

[TD1]

In lands of green-swathed rivers lost
To time that stretches blinding long
We march the way to Isengard
With sorrow for a song.
The birchen leaves are silver hued
Becalmed the many clouds of storm.
Deep come our voices now, and loud –
The pear tree weeps as does the thorn.

Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
The forge’s flame is flickering.
Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
Of death and greed entwined we sing.

Long past we sheltered from the rains
‘Neath vast and varied branches spread
Above the leafy canopy
Which formed our sylvan head.
I can recall… so long the thoughts are like
Groundwater in a drought ….
Appleblossom and elderberry sweet
As lithe as limbs could ever be
Upon this land across the Sundering Sea.
Sun-ripened Corn, Gooseberry coy
Strawberry sweet as summer wine.
Each one I loved, each one I miss
Across that gulf of time.

Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
The forge’s flame is flickering.
Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
Of death and greed entwined we sing.

To Isengard which hacks and hews.
To Wizard Tower in the vale.
Through sun and rain and winter gusts.
Through sorc'rous snow and hail.
Da dum. We go. We go. One more
March ‘ere our story ends.
The oak tree weeps its verdant blood -
Why ought we fight but for our friends
Who grew in peace, prosperity
To fall at last despite their years
To fuel the wizard’s fruitless industry!

DA dum. DA dum. Long have we lived,
My fellow leafy friends
Since Elves first sang so that we heard
The tune which grows, the song that mends.
Aye, ages pass and altered generations walk
So that I can no longer quite recall
The words.
How did our mighty race to warring fall!

I know not, though you ask me Aspen young,
Beseech me ancient Oak.
That song is lost. But this remains. For brethren slain.

Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
The forge’s flame is flickering.
Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
Of death and greed entwined we sing.

[Cryxis, Prince of Doom]

I stumbled across a 13 page story that I never finished in high school and was reading through making little edits here and there to possibly pick it up again. Would this be an appropriate place to post it for some critique and see if it's worth finishing or just dropping and starting a different story?

[Cryxis, Prince of Doom]

The intro to the story, tried to clean it up some...

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Prelude: Destination Unknown

His ears rang as his rifle fired into the distance, dark figures chasing him in the night. A loud thud came from behind him as one of the beasts took the bullet. The pavement was slick from the rain that fell lightly all around. His boots slid as he sped around the street corners. His tears were indecipherable from the rain colliding with his face as he rushed for the only solid building he saw. An old three or four story hotel loomed just down the road.

He had slung the rifle over his shoulder by the time he made it to the entrance of the building. The sound of broken safety glass under his boots ground against the sharp clicking of claws from the beasts chasing him. As they rushed through the stairways and halls of the building the monsters drug their claws through the rotting carpet and damp drywall. Finally just as he had run out of breath an open room. Leaping into the room he slammed the door shut and pushed his body against it to hold back the beasts.

Taking several gasps for air he came to his senses once more, looking around the room he saw moonlight filtered through the shudders. The light shown on a bar and set of locks on the door. He swiftly lifted himself off the door to turn the locks and set the bar across the door. The beasts pounded on the solid wood but the bar did not budge.

He let out a sigh of relief as he set his bag and rifle down on a half rotted table. The wood cracked and bent from the weight but surprisingly did not collapse. Letting himself relax for the night, he fell onto the old, mildewed bed behind him. The thudding on the door only kept him awake for a few moments before he slipped into blissful sleep.

The shutters shook and clattered as the cold breeze blew through  the broken window. Carter's fingertips, exposed to the open air, felt cold and numb. His eyes opened as flecks of light shown through the partially opened shutters and onto his face. Taking a deep breath of mold and mildew filled air he rose from the bed. His arms stretched over his head as a muffled yawn left his mouth. He grabbed his leather bag off the barely standing table in front of him and picked up the bolt action hunting rifle. Taking hold of the cold bolt he worked the action, and chambered a fresh round as a spent shell fell to the floor.

   The rifle slung over his shoulder, Carter headed towards the locked and barred door. Pulling the chain out of its place and unbolting the lock he prepared to head out. The wooden board clattered to the floor as he turned the knob. The door opened slowly with a low creak. The hall presented to him was dim and in more disrepair than the room he was leaving.

   His hand fell to his sidearm at his hip, there could be unforeseen danger or nothing at all. That was the dilemma of this world, uncertainty. As he made his way through the dim lit halls and dank stairwells he thought of what brought him here and kept him from where he once knew.

--------------
Here would be a snippet of a memory, but this chunk has not been fleshed out very well at all so I will not include it.
-----------------------

   As Carter came back from his memories he noticed he had made it to the lobby of the hotel that he had been making his way through. The morning sun shone through the lobby entrance. Rays of light sparkled off the shards of glass from the broken sliding doors. The carpet was rotting away and the stone front desk looked pristine and beautiful in the scene of decay.

   Carter's hand tightened its grip against the handle of his sidearm, as a clatter came from a hall behind him. His head turned to peer over his shoulder, his eyes gazed down the dark hall. Carter's nerves became calm when he noticed the large elk standing where the noise had came from. By the looks of it the animal had gone through a broken doorway kicking around rotting pieces of wood. The elk's eyes met his for a moment then the beast bolted down the hall.

   Moments passed as he listened to the clicking of the animal's hooves as it ran away. He thought to himself,”Not everyday do you get to see that.” Taking a deep breath and letting his hand go from his hip, he went back to to the task at hand. He began to shake as he walked closer to the lobby exit, knowing there would be many arduous days ahead.

[Arx]

Speaking of activity...

Double Edge: The Rekilling

A rather silly title for a rather unsilly story. Elevator pitch for the universe:

Magic is highly accessible, but at absurd cost to yourself. The only way to offset this is to subjugate others and pump the backlash into them every time you use it. Enter Double Edge, an extra-legal hit squad comprised of the only magicians crazy enough to take the price on the chin. Their mission: hunt down and destroy other magicians.

If anyone has any thoughts, I'm interested. I'm almost happy with this just because I managed to write a story longer than the briefest of flash fiction without waffling.

[Aylokat]

If anyone has any thoughts, I'm interested. I'm almost happy with this just because I managed to write a story longer than the briefest of flash fiction without waffling.

I like the idea of crazy wizards hunting amoral wizards in a sort of shadowy game of cat and mouse. Instant high stakes and unpredictable situations. Good. Lots of potential.

Unfortunately, there is an immediate problem with the premise when it starts with the characters being decidedly not crazy and concerned about the risks of their jobs, and ends with Sarah lamenting the very idea of magic because she suffered the seemingly most basic cost of magic (the elevator pitch cannot be inferred from the story at all).

I understand the feeling of finally finishing a scene in its entirety, and in that vein I recognize the associated flaws. The major ones being that it is written to be read with a full understanding of the work that only the author has and that it lacks details that were in the mind of the author but not in the text, making it confusing and abrupt for the ignorant reader.

If your characters interact with the environment you should first establish the environment; set the scene. You should also establish what the characters are wearing if that is a plot point. There is no reason for the reader to assume that they are not wearing inconspicuous clothes. As a rule, you want to ease the reader into the mindset of your work. You introduce him gradually or else he won't understand the tone.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Pointers about words:
No one is not hyphenated, like no person.
All right is a statement that everything is well, so avoid alright, as that contrasted with other al- words implies a separate meaning. Similar forms have such different meanings. Ex. already: now / previously, and all ready: entirely prepared.
Of course consists of two words, no need to hyphenate for an interjection.
There is no need to write out Mhmm and then describe it. One or the other suffices.

There is lack of decisive narration, leading to the reader having to make baseless assumptions. When Travis was carried to success, literally, was he physically carried by zombies? Why wouldn't he be? There is no evidence against it. The narration in the directly following paragraphs is written as if it were one of the characters telling a coworker in a bar, as it is strangely familiar with the subject matter without explaining the circumstances. It skips over gathering evidence. It mentions graves that are too fresh, admits a coincidental string of missing persons, a vague statement, and ends on the note that Travis does not go the company office often. On these grounds they schedule an assassination. Of course, there is no reason why they would not kill someone based on rumors and happenstance. They probably are short on personnel and need to cut corner somewhere. That would add to a sense of desperation that necessitated an extralegal magic force.

In addition, from my own experience, I perceive the characters to have been made as it went along, but there were no character-establishing moments and thus their dialog is out of place and lifeless.

Reading it went well until I got utterly bewildered why they were leaving before eliminating their target, only to go back and inconclusively resolve that his death was implied. Then it only got worse with the spray painting. I thought Sarah was meant to paint the back of the house.

I thought they were locked in a room after a mission went horribly wrong. The characters do not sound like they are doing something dangerous. They sound like they are limping away from unimpressive failure. Timor was unconcerned about crippled at the start of breaching a necromancer's house. When Sarah says "What? Stub your toe?" it does not seem like she thinks there is any real danger, despite the zombie that broke Timor's arm. But two paragraphs later the muted sound of keys struck fear of a zombie horde into their hearts.

The individual sentences are very confusing. Because "Sarah affected a gravelly voice." has a full stop it comes across as either a random piece of information about her preferences or that the pain was starting to influence her vocal cords. But the opposite problem is also present. Too many sentences are two or more unrelated clauses. I only now realized that the "She didn't look much better" sentence did not mean that she was in a poor state after sitting in the cold but rather that she was scarred too.

I have many unanswered questions after reading this twice such as:
Why did the medic like no other not bring painkillers? Or administer beforehand? They talk about routine work, so she must have been through the pain enough to prepare accordingly.
If Travis was trying to hide his nature, why did he put a zombie in his backyard or imprison people in his bedroom rather than a basement?
If Double Edge is extralegal, why do they sneak around? If they want to remain secret, why do they spray paint their insignia on the front door?
What does it mean when a person is a "total twist"? I assume it means that a person is twisted, but I can't find a source on that, only that in that context it refers to a young woman.

There are quite a few things I would say about each line, but this post is dragging on, so I'll do one.
For example: "He rose to his feet and stretched, [this implies that standing up contributed to the popping and creaking] joints popping and muscles creaking. Long minutes of fiddling with the padlocked door in the night’s chill [this sentence detrimentally combines the lockpicking with his scars and also his current state] had done his scarred body no favours [imprecise. It is obviously meant to say that it hurt him, but literally it says that it just didn't heal him. Unless the narration is meant to be imprecise this is a problem], and a dozen aches reminded him of their existence [the overuse of "as" and "while" aid the growth of this conglomerate. Additionally, the pronoun "their" doesn't have nouns to refer to other than "aches"] as he picked up the lock again [this implies he is lifting the padlock up to him rather than taking it into his hand. Once again, "lock" doesn't refer to the padlock, unless there is no other lock on the door]."

Quick fix example: "He rose to his feet and stretched; His joints popped and his muscles creaked. Long minutes of fiddling with the padlocked door in the cold night chilled his scarred body, and a dozen aches reminded him of those scars. He grasped the lock again."
(A few paragraphs later Timor grabbed the lock again even though he didn't let it go.)

Confused as I was, I enjoyed it all the same. I would be glad to see you grow accustomed to writing these larger pieces, Arx, as I would like to read more. I hope this was of some use to you.

[Arx]

Hey! Thanks for the feedback (and welcome to Bay12). It's incomplete, yes, which is something of an issue. In an ideal universe, I would have written several follow-up stories to this by now, but I do not have that sort of time right now. >_>

That's part of what causes things like Sarah seeming too sane for the elevator pitch and the characterisation feeling thin. I should really work on that.

Most of your points are valid! I just want to touch on a few issues of language and grammar quickly.

No one is not hyphenated, like no person.

I write in British English (specifically South African English, but since I avoid slang except in dialogue you probably can't tell). British English hyphenates many words American English does not.


All right is a statement that everything is well, so avoid alright, as that contrasted with other al- words implies a separate meaning. Similar forms have such different meanings. Ex. already: now / previously, and all ready: entirely prepared.
[/quote]

Written as intended. By "alright", she means that she's clear and Timur can move. "All right" would be a bit of a weird construction in context.

Of course consists of two words, no need to hyphenate for an interjection.

I agree in principle, but it feels smoother in practice. I'll have to think about this a bit.

There is no need to write out Mhmm and then describe it. One or the other suffices.

There are about a thousand ways you can intone a wordless murmur. I wanted to make it clear which.

There is lack of decisive narration, leading to the reader having to make baseless assumptions. When Travis was carried to success, literally, was he physically carried by zombies? Why wouldn't he be?

...because that makes no sense at all? It's a turn of phrase I went back and forth on for a while. On the whole, I think it would be better suited as something else, but not because I think there's a risk of the average reader thinking that zombies physically carried Travis, in person, to some physical location denoting success.

The narration in the directly following paragraphs is written as if it were one of the characters telling a coworker in a bar, as it is strangely familiar with the subject matter without explaining the circumstances. It skips over gathering evidence. It mentions graves that are too fresh, admits a coincidental string of missing persons, a vague statement, and ends on the note that Travis does not go the company office often. On these grounds they schedule an assassination.

Hmm. It was meant to be quite a broad-strokes picture, glossing over details, but I guess I went too far in that direction. I detest exposition crammed in unnaturally, which sometimes leads to e jumping through weird hoops to try to avoid it.

Reading it went well until I got utterly bewildered why they were leaving before eliminating their target, only to go back and inconclusively resolve that his death was implied. Then it only got worse with the spray painting. I thought Sarah was meant to paint the back of the house.

I can see how you got there, yeah. I thought it was clearer at the time, thank you.

I thought they were locked in a room after a mission went horribly wrong.

Any chance you could elaborate on this? It's mentioned pretty early on that they're outside a mansion.

The characters do not sound like they are doing something dangerous. They sound like they are limping away from unimpressive failure. Timor was unconcerned about crippled at the start of breaching a necromancer's house. When Sarah says "What? Stub your toe?" it does not seem like she thinks there is any real danger, despite the zombie that broke Timor's arm. But two paragraphs later the muted sound of keys struck fear of a zombie horde into their hearts.

Good point. I flubbed the chronology there, thanks.

The individual sentences are very confusing. Because "Sarah affected a gravelly voice." has a full stop it comes across as either a random piece of information about her preferences or that the pain was starting to influence her vocal cords.

I did not realise that could be taken that way! Thank you.

But the opposite problem is also present. Too many sentences are two or more unrelated clauses. I only now realized that the "She didn't look much better" sentence did not mean that she was in a poor state after sitting in the cold but rather that she was scarred too.

Interesting. I would never have taken the meaning you did from that paragraph. I'll have to think about that.

I have many unanswered questions after reading this twice such as:
Why did the medic like no other not bring painkillers? Or administer beforehand? They talk about routine work, so she must have been through the pain enough to prepare accordingly.

Any painkiller strong enough to stop a broken arm making you crotchety would also put you out like a light, as far as I know. I personally avoid opioids before breaking and entering.

If Travis was trying to hide his nature, why did he put a zombie in his backyard or imprison people in his bedroom rather than a basement?

He uses them on construction sites. His back yard and bedroom are hardly more conspicuous.

If Double Edge is extralegal, why do they sneak around? If they want to remain secret, why do they spray paint their insignia on the front door?

I'm using "extralegal" in the sense of "not sanctioned by law". I would have thought it was fairly clear why they work quietly and only mark what they've done afterwards - easier not to attract attention until it's too late for anyone to interfere.

What does it mean when a person is a "total twist"? I assume it means that a person is twisted, but I can't find a source on that, only that in that context it refers to a young woman.

Idiomatic language. A twist is slang for a sadist or psychopath.

There are quite a few things I would say about each line, but this post is dragging on, so I'll do one.

I'll explain my thinking here.

this implies that standing up contributed to the popping and creaking]

That would be because it does.

this sentence detrimentally combines the lockpicking with his scars and also his current state

The intention was to indicate that the cause was the cold.

imprecise. It is obviously meant to say that it hurt him, but literally it says that it just didn't heal him. Unless the narration is meant to be imprecise this is a problem

If the meaning is obvious, there is no problem here. I would go so far as to say the "implication" is so strong as to be nearly explicit. It's a common idiom.

the overuse of "as" and "while" aid the growth of this conglomerate. Additionally, the pronoun "their" doesn't have nouns to refer to other than "aches"

I'm a little confused what you're getting at here. I probably do overuse "as" and "while", but certainly not in that paragraph; and yes, "their" refers to the aches. That's also a common idiomatic construction.

this implies he is lifting the padlock up to him rather than taking it into his hand. Once again, "lock" doesn't refer to the padlock, unless there is no other lock on the door

I wouldn't say it necessarily implies that. And it's pretty explicit that it refers to the padlock, unless you're in the habit of ripping the locks out of doors to pick them up...? There's really no other lock he could be picking up, here, particularly since it's been explicitly labeled as "the padlock" in the previous sentence.

Confused as I was, I enjoyed it all the same. I would be glad to see you grow accustomed to writing these larger pieces, Arx, as I would like to read more. I hope this was of some use to you.

I'll be writing more when I have the time. I'll see about being more clear.

Thank you for the feedback! I know I've disagreed with a lot of it, but if you could elaborate on the parts I've disagreed with that would be a big help. I may well just not understand what you were driving at.