Are ideas expressed in non-psuedo-academic prose unworthy of comment?
Are literary forms originating in this millienium distasteful?
Is the maximum comprehensible post (MCP) less than a page?
Does my writing suck?
***********************************
Clearly, the altar was active, and powerful. Perhaps this was why no household guardians had haunted his hiding place during the day. The garret was probably just above the chapel to the right, and strong spirits were sometimes very territorial. Tinglet was largley ignorant of human, and particularly of the Lunar Emipire religous practices, but this seemed like enormous wealth and power for a space that could hold only a few hands of worshipers. What was its purpose? He dare not take time to investigate. So far it didn t percieve him to be an enemy, or was powerless to reach him. Thoughtfully, Tinglet slid his harness back on. Better not get any closer. Spell casting might not be safe here either. He pinched his ear to stop the bleeding while he scanned for a way out. That smoke hole might do. He was sizing it and licking blood off his thumb when a door opened behind and below him. Two humans dressed in the manner of the city nobility entered the chapel. The shorter one pushed into the room first shouting, and gesticulating angrily.
"Void take Gracus! Always his little intrigues, his little feuds, his
family honor. Now he gets himself cut down just when for once in this lifetime
a truly significant contribution stands at the threshold. We must recover his
bat-addled head and.."
"Hold",the taller one cut him off, "the altar is disturbed... something
has happened."
The shorter human nearly exploded. "Something has happened! Our host and sponsor, the source of the money and approval that brought the altar into being, and the spirit's foremost initiate, lies shortened in the courtyard. That "something" has happened!"
After a miniscule pause the taller continued. "No, some discordant spirit or charm has touched the altar. I fear this is more than a simple assasination. What wouldn't the Storm Barbarians risk to thwart our work? We must proceed carefully, We must investigate every unusual occurance."
"Ha! Yes of course. Look under every rock. Question each wandering,
rainsoaked vagabond. Cast all the auguries. That is how the barbarians
succeed. Not through knowledge and power, but by our indecision and delay.
That's the Red Moon witch way, remember? That's the failure that forced us
into working with this damn Gracus in the first place. That's what holds the
glowline back. That's what delays our victory. Its time to act!"
Another man entered, interrupting: "My Lords, the Satrap required your presense immediately." Seeing the expression on the short man's face he ducked and withdrew.
The short man stood, fists balled, a few heartbeats, the alter flame's light playing malignantly across his face. Not looking away from the altar he spoke. "Pray, proceed me while I compose myself."
The tall one touched his forehead in a gesture of agreement, "But of course."
The short man took a few steps toward the altar as the other slipped out. His face was contorted. The puny human mouth pressed closed, corners down, his brow creased above and between his eyes. Tinglet usually found human facial expressions unscrutable. This specimen however, seemed to be lost in angry thought. A good time to bag him. Tinglet gathered himself silently to spring. But wait. The rules of Dart contest included a strict prohibition: Registered victims only. Enlo! Tinglet had to smile. Damn human, saved by his own twisted rules. Tinglet returned his attention to the smoke hole as the quarry wheeled and strode out.
End of Chapter 1
Powered by hypermail