NationStates Jolt Archive

Version 1.0

K-stan’s Handy Dandy Disclaimer: This is simply a helpful thread for those who wish to partake. It, and I, are in no way associated with the Administration or Moderation of this forum, and all actions here within are complicit to the NS and Jolt Terms of Service. (See Article Four, Section 5.43.6.pi)

Welcome to K-stan’s Handy Dandy Writing Emporium! This is a little OOC thread I’m making, for the purpose of discussing, writing, sharing, and RP-tweaking. As I’m sure many of you know, I’m a huge fan of the “better writing makes better RPing” school of thought, so this is a logical extension of that. I’ll “break it down”, so to speak:

Purposes:
-Establish a community pool to improve RP quality.
-Allow for constructive criticism of player to player writings.
-Be a fun exercise.

Methods:
-Any player may submit writing they wish to have critiqued.
-Any player may offer critiques of a submitted work.
--------Critiques should not be of the “You’re a fucking retard.” variety.
-Since we all have strengths and weaknesses, any player could ask another for help in writing a certain “type” of scene. (IE: I’m very good with explosive scenes and snippy dialogue, but I couldn’t emote my way out of a cardboard box, and romantic scenes make me gag when I write them.)
-Group “test” RPs might be launched, in which players could run short session to expand their writing experience in non-traditional roles. These might or might not be canon.

Forbidden Actions in the Writing Emporium (hereafter referred to as “WE):
-Anything in breach of ToS.
-Stealing another’s submission.
-Carrying grudges from another RP.

Requirements:
-If you submit a piece, you should also try to critique another’s work. No one likes a mooch.

Remember, be constructive in your feedback. Tell someone if you like their work, but remember, “Good work” is just as not-helpful as “Did you type this with your ass?”

Launch Notes
Well, it’s good to see that there are enough people interested in this to really take off! I think we can start the first phase: submissions of individual work. Just go ahead, break out those writing caps, work out a good short story, or rip a standout post from a thread, and post it up in this one. Here are my guidelines/tips on submissions:

1.) Try to keep it reasonable. If the muse is in you, go wild, but please, I don’t want to try to peer review War and Peace. By the same token, warn us if the post is going to be obscenely graphic, so that people with a taste for other material will be forewarned.
“Oh, look, Little Johnny, the man in the story is eating that woman’s brain! Isn’t that amazing detail?”

2.) Remember, this is a constructively critical review. If you’re looking for a back slap and a handshake, you’re in the wrong place. Be open to suggestions, don’t take them as a personal affront. For example, I might really like a work, but I’ll still pick it apart to try to make it better.
A suggestion to “erase your post and shoot yourself so that you could never write something that dumb ever again” should probably be ignored.

3.) By the same token, don’t take every change suggestion as biblical. To quote the founder of this site, Max Barry, “Some people are insane. They tell you to change all the good parts of your book, and set it in space. Since you have no perspective, it’s difficult to tell these people are insane; you can think they’re really insightful.” However, with multiple points of feedback, the psychopaths are weeded out, and if an issue occurs with multiple readers, you know that you might have a weak point.
Either that, or the psychos are having a convention in this thread.

4.) When offering critiques, make sure that you point out what works as well as what doesn’t work. Remember to cover mechanics, but don’t forget about continuity problems as well. Ask questions about characters and actions, give overall impression. Remember to read as a reader and respond as such, not as a writer, because the post was probably written for readers.
People responding with, “It was good. I liked that part, in that one place, with that one character. Yeah.” will be shot as discussed above.

5.) Try to give as much feedback as possible. Your fellow posters need multiple points of view to really know how their work resonates with others. As a final note, for now, try not to put up multiple stories in a row. Let the other people have a chance to get their works reviewed before you showcase your next example.
In other words, don’t be an attention whore.

6.) Anyone can add a submission. Doesn't matter how old, young, or what forum you favor. Go ahead, join in!

That should about cover it. Obviously issues I haven’t thought of will crop up. We’ve got a really good crowd in this thread, so let’s see the submissions fly!
Anyone seen these little Easter Eggs yet? You get a cookie. A nice one. Nothing too expensive, though.

lol. Nicely written. Sign me up!

Definitely a good idea, Im sure lots of people will find it useful. You could even do feature RPs, which you can make an example of. Anyway, count me in.

Count me in as well. I could still use some RP help (and give some too).

Although I know I write pretty good myself, my strengths being in character development of the mind, I know I could always use some help for my writing. Sign me up, and count me as an advisor as well.

Although I can't say I need help with my RP's...I'm more than willing to listen to critiques of them. You can check out the three links in my sig, although "Wasteland" just started. In addition, I'd be happy to critique others.

All right, good to see some interest among varied degrees of experience on these boards! I'm going to let this kick back to the top for the evening crowd, and see who else is up for it.

Most of the writing samples I would like to see should be small sections or posts, so that they are easy to review. We can work up to longer works, but I worry that big chunks would turn off peer-reviewers who are just looking to get in.

I'm definitely in too. I've got some RPs that I set up in my region that I would love to get critiqued.

Most of the writing samples I would like to see should be small sections or posts, so that they are easy to review. We can work up to longer works, but I worry that big chunks would turn off peer-reviewers who are just looking to get in.

I don't know. At least for me, it's rare to have one excellent, stand-alone post. It's not that I can't, by any means, but that I chose not to. A post should be a section of the story, with references and meanings only completely realized along with the other posts around it. While reviewing one of my posts may show you my general style or sense of whatever the post is about, ultimately the review would be quite shallow, for the reviewer could not completely grasp the post's value.

I don't know. At least for me, it's rare to have one excellent, stand-alone post. It's not that I can't, by any means, but that I chose not to. A post should be a section of the story, with references and meanings only completely realized along with the other posts around it. While reviewing one of my posts may show you my general style or sense of whatever the post is about, ultimately the review would be quite shallow, for the reviewer could not completely grasp the post's value.
True, but on counterpoint, most people aren't going to want to critique a seven page thread, which might equate to seventy typed pages of writing. Short story-length threads would be fair game, but the epic storylines (while the most fun to read/write) are pretty tough cookies for casual/friendly peer review.

I would like to get to the point where we can do that, but I think establishing a small community of sharing writers should be the primo goal, and that shorter works ease the entry pains and commitment worries. (I'm not saying you can't submit an uber-thread, but that it might not get as much TLC as a short, accessible one.)

I, myself, have a bit of a problem with over-arching storylines, with every RP interlocking into a "big picture" setting up the next generation of RPs, culminating in a massive story, and so on, but I would have a devil of a time dropping the hundreds of pages on some poor SOB and saying, "Feedback, please!" :)

I, myself, have a bit of a problem with over-arching storylines, with every RP interlocking into a "big picture" setting up the next generation of RPs, culminating in a massive story, and so on, but I would have a devil of a time dropping the hundreds of pages on some poor SOB and saying, "Feedback, please!" :)

Imagine what professional editors have to do on a daily basis. :D

As a newbie, I would appreciate being critiqued.

True, but on counterpoint, most people aren't going to want to critique a seven page thread, which might equate to seventy typed pages of writing. Short story-length threads would be fair game, but the epic storylines (while the most fun to read/write) are pretty tough cookies for casual/friendly peer review.

I would like to get to the point where we can do that, but I think establishing a small community of sharing writers should be the primo goal, and that shorter works ease the entry pains and commitment worries. (I'm not saying you can't submit an uber-thread, but that it might not get as much TLC as a short, accessible one.)

Eh...fair enough...although I think starting small might keep you there...

Sign me and my various puppets (TAO, NewbishDelight) up.

I'm going to go ahead and post a little something from another thread, but I feel this is a very important fact that some people tend to overlook.


OOC: Can I join in?
I don't have experience in online written rpg, but I have experience at:
online rpg:Wow, Ragnarok Online,.....
Paper rpg: ODM, D&D

And can I use/import a character I have in one off those?

My fav. character is a lvl 33 human/demon Warlock named "Armageddon" (family name is:"Zaelochiaos" but he prefers being called "Arma")
He uses summoning and fire/arcane/shadow/poison/earth/demon magic.
He's alignment is neutral despite his heritage.
He doesn't know who his father is.(personal quest who can change his behaviour and I don't want him to find out yet)
He's personal favorite summoning and pet is a succubus named 'Lili'

Can I use him or do I better use some other low lvl or a less filled history kind of character.

And here is my response that I gave to him/her.


First of all, this is NationStates, not D&D, Ragnarok, or whatever. Here on Nationstates, it is usually customary to start with a low strength character that would (through roleplaying) get stronger as time passes. Jumping into this game with a level 33 supertrooper or whatever the hell you have (when most of us probably don't have any idea how to equate the strength anyway) is not a wise idea.

Now if you wanted to create a character based off another one from another game, go ahead, but it's kinda frowned upon to duplicate exactly. This is Nationstates. Everyone starts at square one. You can't come in with an 'OMG I IZ TH' SHIZNIT!' kinda character. You'll get ignored before you even finish saying that.

Take my character for example, Tokram Firescales. He's a Draman (draconic man) with fire capabilities. He started out as a normal guy who had draconic blood in him. A series of quests over time helped him slowly unlock his strength (he's now searching for the last relic of six in total). I created this character about a year ago, and still am working him through. By now, he's decently strong, by by no means indestructible.

Realism is a favored thing here on Nationstates. Good luck, and may your muse carry you far.

Anything else I may have missed, please share.

Please sign me up! Although I personally believe myself to be a relatively good writer, I can always use some help, as can all of us. I agree with you, Talarchia. You really can't just start with someone really powerful. Also, Nationstates is a bit more abstract than D&D or whatever, you don't really have a "lvl 33 warlock" You have a "Potent mage with specialization in Fire Magic, who has been honing his abilities for 30 years."

Well, it’s good to see that there are enough people interested in this to really take off! I think we can start the first phase: submissions of individual work. Just go ahead, break out those writing caps, work out a good short story, or rip a standout post from a thread, and post it up in this one. Here are my guidelines/tips on submissions:

1.) Try to keep it reasonable. If the muse is in you, go wild, but please, I don’t want to try to peer review War and Peace. By the same token, warn us if the post is going to be obscenely graphic, so that people with a taste for other material will be forewarned.
“Oh, look, Little Johnny, the man in the story is eating that woman’s brain! Isn’t that amazing detail?”

2.) Remember, this is a constructively critical review. If you’re looking for a back slap and a handshake, you’re in the wrong place. Be open to suggestions, don’t take them as a personal affront. For example, I might really like a work, but I’ll still pick it apart to try to make it better.
A suggestion to “erase your post and shoot yourself so that you could never write something that dumb ever again” should probably be ignored.

3.) By the same token, don’t take every change suggestion as biblical. To quote the founder of this site, Max Barry, “Some people are insane. They tell you to change all the good parts of your book, and set it in space. Since you have no perspective, it’s difficult to tell these people are insane; you can think they’re really insightful.” However, with multiple points of feedback, the psychopaths are weeded out, and if an issue occurs with multiple readers, you know that you might have a weak point.
Either that, or the psychos are having a convention in this thread.

4.) When offering critiques, make sure that you point out what works as well as what doesn’t work. Remember to cover mechanics, but don’t forget about continuity problems as well. Ask questions about characters and actions, give overall impression. Remember to read as a reader and respond as such, not as a writer, because the post was probably written for readers.
People responding with, “It was good. I liked that part, in that one place, with that one character. Yeah.” will be shot as discussed above.

5.) Try to give as much feedback as possible. Your fellow posters need multiple points of view to really know how their work resonates with others. As a final note, for now, try not to put up multiple stories in a row. Let the other people have a chance to get their works reviewed before you showcase your next example.
In other words, don’t be an attention whore.

That should about cover it. Obviously issues I haven’t thought of will crop up. We’ve got a really good crowd in this thread, so let’s see the submissions fly! (If no one feels like stepping onto the gallows, I’ll drop one of mine in much later, but lets see which poor sap… er… gallant volunteer, wishes to step forward.)
Anyone seen these little Easter Eggs yet? You get a cookie. A nice one. Nothing too expensive, though.

Well K-stan, I'd say it's a good show of faith for the host to offer his own neck first. ;)

Alright, then, I'll step forward first... This post is from an older RP, and deals with a seizure of power (that's the name of the thread, too).

Background:
Chancellor Fenris has recently sidelined the Internal Security Agency (ISA) and its longtime Director, Anderas Kerrik. The Chancellor was jealous of the un-democratic power that Kerrik weilded, and took steps to marginalize Kerrik and all who supported him. Kerrik stood by at first, letting this pass for the good of the nation. However, the Chancellor's madness grew, and the nation teers on the brink of a pointless war, and Kerrik feels he must act drastically to stop this, no matter the cost... enter Darius Jensen, one of the ISA's elite wetworks agents:

Art
Wingtips on marble floor were a very distinctive sound, Darius realized. His shined shoes clicked from the stone of the museum floor with registered precision. Each little clap of the shoe on the stone sent a striking echo through the pillars and columns. Clack, clack, clack, the rhythm of my path.. Each minor thunderclap bounced back from the walls, striking his ears with martial accuracy and crystal resonance. His step never wavered, never varied. The sound clicked at forty second intervals, and his long stride covered two tiles per step. With each snap on the floor, people tensed and glanced furtively. The ISA is here.

Darius could hear that statement, never spoken, always thought, shouted out in the silence between his measured steps. Men stepped back, women shied. Children stared at him as he passed between the pillars, his black suit cast on the white marble. A small boy held a sucker mere inches from his face, but would not lick it, for his eyes were locked onto the piece of silver beneath Darius's foot, and his wide eyes blinked with the report of it striking down. Darius offered neither smile nor frown, his attention was fixed. The rhythm continued, his coat swished over the Beretta under his arm, the cap pulled onto his head.

The sunglasses perched onto his nose as the light filtered from the skylights above, casting into the museum, and he moved through these shafts of light and bursts of darkness with equal countenance. His dark brown hair, almost black, emerged from beneath his hawk-billed cap, and he could feel the weight of the small metal ISA symbol emblazoned on the front. Director Kerrik is waiting. Darius turned another corner, entered the History Museum from the Art Museum. He passed between the displays, and the throngs parted for him and his warning step, set in mark time. He moved as the breeze, his appearance washed away beneath the presence of the uniform. He left a room, and his presence was only remembered as ISA, not as Darius. Such was his creed, his profession. All was washed away beneath the Agency, and only the Agency remained. A ghost, he left the room with the fading taps, and the people resumed their lives.

But Darius pursued his goal in his own inevitable fashion. Clack, clack, clack, and the Director waits for me. Darius pressed open the door to the mural room, and the great oak swung to reveal a large rotunda. At his entering, another faceless agent was waiting. The waiting agent touched his earpiece, and stepped past Darius with a nod. Darius stepped forward, three more clicks into the room, and the door closed behind him. He did not look, but he knew he was now alone with the Director.

Light streamed from the oculus on the ceiling, cast through the bent lens to fill the room with natural glow. Starting by the door opposite him, there was a mural that wrapped around the walls, circling one third of the room before abruptly terminating. The other two-thirds of the room were still pure white, interrupted only by the oaken doors. The mural began with the paintings of Michael Geraldi, the great painter in the year 1264. On that wall, he had painted a representation of daily life in Kaukolastan at the time, with an Imperial Court, Lords, Knights, and Servants. This met with fields full of peasants working under a golden sun, and the great markets of Corsis. His painting, wrapping five feet of wall, was a grand depiction of the nation in his day. His painting blended with the next five foot section, completed in 1314, which likewise was a depiction of that time's life. For the remaining wall, various painters had taken the brush, filling in their sections at the five foot intervals and fifty year periods. The last section was completed only two years ago, and showed the glittering skyscrapers and the bustling ports, while aircraft flew overhead and a Dominator cut the sea before it....

"This is the history of our nation, cast in oils and stone." A voice broke Darius's thoughts. In the center of the room, bathed in the pure light of the oculus on one side and cast in shadow on the other, Director Kerrik stood, studying the mural before him. His back was turned to Darius, but his voice was clear. Darius did not close with the great man, but hung to his side of the room. Kerrik did not turn, either, but continued to ponder the wall. Dust descended slightly from the ceiling, swirling around the Director in the white light and inky blackness. Kerrik's hair remained jet black, combed back with precision, and it shined in the glow. His shoulders were square, his stature perfect. He wore no glasses, and his earplug was removed.

Darius bowed his head slightly, addressing the head of his organization. "I have arrived, Director." Darius stated in a low tone, as not to disturb Kerrik's thoughts too greatly.

Kerrik still did not move, but motion to the mural before them with his right hand. "Do you see this mural, Darius? Do you understand it?" The Director's voice resonated through the room, hitting Darius with controlled speech from all sides. It was as if the room was talking to him, echoing from the paintings, descending from the skylight.

"It's our history, sir. Every fifty years, a new artist is contracted to paint another segment. This is our history, from the eleventh century to today." Darius answered, his voice bouncing from the walls and ceiling in hollow tones.

"It is more than that, Darius. It is us. This mural, this history, is the soul of our nation. You give me a person from these pictures, and I can give you a name. You point to a location, and there is a story. This is life, frozen into a mantle of art. We are all bound to this painting, did you know that? Our every action can be related to this work in some fashion."

"Sir?" Darius tipped his head, glancing at the images, which looked back at him in turn.

"Take, for example, the military. They are the security guards in this museum. They protect this painting from exterior harm. They keep the vandals away, and hold the robbers at a safe distance. They protect this painting, and they protect the life that it is. Now, look to the civilian government. They are the groundskeepers, the maintenance workers. They keep the building strong, to support this mural, to foster it. They keep the ceiling secure from rain, and the light from going out on this work. The people are the visitors. They observe this mural, they watch it, they mimic it, and in time they become it. In this way, the cycle is returned. Look at this mural, Darius, and tell me what you do not see embodied. I can show you the people, the military, the government. There are great works of Church and State and neither... but what is missing here? What is deliberately not seen?" The question rounded the room, echoing itself and then focusing in on Darius.

Darius pondered for a moment, but dared not move, to disturb the sacred silence of this room. "Sir, we are not in this image." Surely the Director is not implying that we are finished! Despite the Chancellor's recent moves, I never thought-

Kerrik halted Darius's thoughts with one declaration. "Stop." Kerrik glanced up, to the light streaming from above. "You are correct, we are not in this image. But we are very much a part of this mirror cycle. Everyone has a role. Some must protect the mural, others guard it, others view it... and that leaves one role to us, yet." The silence hung heavy as Kerrik waited for the revelation to burst in his Agent's brain. "We are the artists, Darius. We mold this society to a prosperous end, we protect it from failure. It is our duty to protect the order which our nation needs; it is our job to craft the meticulous image of civility our people demand. And in turn, we must protect them from themselves. When this mural decays, we must retouch it. When it is cracked, we must repaint it. When neglect threatens to destroy it, we must stop that neglect, and restore this great art."

There was a rush in the chamber, the fading sounds of Kerrik's words mingling with a breeze from above. Rain was striking the oculus from the heavens, and the streaks were cast onto the floor. Darius watched the dark streaks move from his chest to his shoes, and he glanced at the raindrop casting the shadow. Above, water was pooling on the lens, making the room waver. From a slight crack in the ceiling, a single drop fell. This drop moved gracefully through the room like a tear, a small mirrored bulb, reflecting the two men and the mural. It struck the ground, exploding into a smaller shower of droplets. Kerrik's hand flashed out, shielding the wall from even the slightest drop. He spoke again. "Darius, can you see it? The ceiling is cracked. There are those that neglect their duty to this mural, who do not fulfill their obligations. This rain will wash our mural away, and destroy a millennium of work and grandeur. But, we cannot be lax in our task. We must protect this mural from this neglect, and restore the damage dealt by the negligent ..."

Darius stepped forward now, under the oculus, moving to catch the next drop. "I understand, sir." He clenched his hand on the traitorous drop. "It must be done."

Kerrik nodded slowly, gratefully. "You understand our burden. The people demand a masterpiece, a perfect work. You bear this burden now, Darius. Carry it well. Make this mural perfect again."

Darius nodded curtly. "Yes, sir. After all, I am an artist." He turned, and with one last glance at the mural, he headed for the door. Darius opened it, and as he passed into the museum again, he glanced back once more. Kerrik stood in the center of the chamber, beneath the lens. The Director remained still, simply studying the work before him. Darius gave this great man a silent nod of admiration and closed the door. He turned, and began to walk, his steps as measured as always. However, the clicks snapped even louder, even bolder on the surroundings. The cap was heavy as always, but Darius hardly noticed. His pace quickened into double time, and with supreme dedication the artist went to fetch his tools. The clicks of his steps echoed to the rotunda, circling Kerrik and the mural, ascending to the wavering light, and the Director smiled.

I'll be the first to bite here...anything I think about I'll put in green lettering in your post.

Alright, then, I'll step forward first... This post is from an older RP, and deals with a seizure of power (that's the name of the thread, too).

Background:
Chancellor Fenris has recently sidelined the Internal Security Agency (ISA) and its longtime Director, Anderas Kerrik. The Chancellor was jealous of the un-democratic power that Kerrik weilded, and took steps to marginalize Kerrik and all who supported him. Kerrik stood by at first, letting this pass for the good of the nation. However, the Chancellor's madness grew, and the nation teers on the brink of a pointless war, and Kerrik feels he must act drastically to stop this, no matter the cost... enter Darius Jensen, one of the ISA's elite wetworks agents:
Good, this background idea is a good idea for those of us critiquing your work.

Art[/SIZE]
Wingtips on marble floor were a very distinctive sound, Darius realized. His shined shoes clicked from the stone of the museum floor with registered precision. Each little clap of the shoe on the stone sent a striking echo through the pillars and columns. Clack, clack, clack, the rhythm of my path.. Each minor thunderclap bounced back from the walls, striking his ears with martial accuracy and crystal resonance. His step never wavered, never varied. The sound clicked at forty second intervals, and his long stride covered two tiles per step. With each snap on the floor, people tensed and glanced furtively. The ISA is here.

Darius could hear that statement, never spoken, always thought, shouted out in the silence between his measured steps. Men stepped back, women shied. Children stared at him as he passed between the pillars, his black suit cast on the white marble. A small boy held a sucker mere inches from his face, but would not lick it, for his eyes were locked onto the piece of silver beneath Darius's foot, and his wide eyes blinked with each report of it striking down. Darius offered neither smile nor frown, his attention (deleted "was") fixed elsewhere. The rhythm continued, his coat swished over the Beretta under his arm, the cap pulled onto his head.

The sunglasses perched onto his nose as the light filtered from the skylights above, casting into the museum, and he moved through these shafts of light and bursts of darkness with equal countenance. His dark brown hair, almost black, emerged from beneath his hawk-billed cap, and he could feel the weight of the small metal ISA symbol emblazoned on the front. Director Kerrik is waiting. Darius turned another corner, entered the History Museum from the Art Museum. He passed between the displays, and the throngs parted for him and his warning step, set in mark time. He moved as the breeze, his appearance washed away beneath the presence of the uniform. He left a room, and his presence was only remembered as ISA, not as Darius. Such was his creed, his profession. All was washed away beneath the Agency, and only the Agency remained. He was a ghost, departing the room with the fading taps.The people resumed their lives.

But Darius pursued his goal in his own inevitable fashion. Clack, clack, clack, and the Director waits for me.(Might want to revise the previous thought, just strikes a bad chord in my mind.) Darius pressed open the door to the mural room, and the great oak swung to reveal a large rotunda. At his entering, another faceless agent was waiting. The waiting agent touched his earpiece, and stepped past Darius with a nod. Darius stepped forward, three more clicks into the room, and the door closed behind him. He did not look, but he knew he was now alone with the Director.

Light streamed from the oculus on the ceiling, cast through the bent lens to fill the room with natural glow. Starting by the door opposite him, there was a mural that wrapped around the walls, circling one third of the room before abruptly terminating. The other two-thirds of the room were still pure white, interrupted only by the oaken doors. The mural began with the paintings of Michael Geraldi, the great painter in the year 1264. On that wall, he had painted a representation of daily life in Kaukolastan at the time, with an (The following court figures do not need to be capitalized, as there is no direct identification. Imperial Court is correct however.) Imperial Court, Lords, Knights, and Servants. This was met with fields full of peasants working under a golden sun, and the great markets of Corsis. His painting, wrapping five feet of wall, was a grand depiction of the nation in his day. His painting blended with the next five foot section, completed in 1314, which likewise was a depiction of that time's life. For the remaining wall, various painters had taken the brush, filling in their sections at the five foot intervals and fifty year periods. The last section was completed only two years ago, and showed the glittering skyscrapers and the bustling ports, while aircraft flew overhead and a Dominator cut the sea before it.... (The pause at the end here is unnecessary)

"This is the history of our nation, cast in oils and stone." A voice broke Darius's thoughts. In the center of the room, bathed in the pure light of the oculus on one side and cast in shadow on the other, Director Kerrik stood, studying the mural before him. His back was turned to Darius, but his voice was clear. Darius did not close the distance with the great man, but hung to his side of the room. Kerrik did not turn, either, but continued to ponder the wall. Dust descended slightly from the ceiling, swirling around the Director in the white light and inky blackness. Kerrik's hair remained jet black, combed back with precision, and it shined (shone) in the glow. His shoulders were square, his stature perfect. He wore no glasses, and his earplug was removed.

Darius bowed his head slightly, addressing the head of his organization. "I have arrived, Director." Darius stated in a low tone, as not to disturb Kerrik's thoughts too greatly.

Kerrik still did not move, but motion to the mural before them with his right hand. "Do you see this mural, Darius? Do you understand it?" The Director's voice resonated through the room, hitting Darius with controlled speech from all sides. It was as if the room was talking to him, echoing from the paintings, descending from the skylight.

"It's our history, sir. Every fifty years, a new artist is contracted to paint another segment. This is our history, from the eleventh century to today." Darius answered, his voice bouncing from the walls and ceiling in hollow tones.

"It is more than that, Darius. It is us. This mural, this history, is the soul of our nation. You give me a person from these pictures, and I can give you a name. You point to a location, and there is a story. This is life, frozen into a mantle of art. We are all bound to this painting, did you know that? Our every action can be related to this work in some fashion."

"Sir?" Darius tipped his head, glancing at the images, which looked back at him in turn.

"Take, for example, the military. They are the security guards in this museum. They protect this painting from exterior harm. They keep the vandals away, and hold the robbers at a safe distance. They protect this painting, and they protect the life that it is. Now, look to the civilian government. They are the groundskeepers, the maintenance workers. They keep the building strong, to support this mural, to foster it. They keep the ceiling secure from rain, and the light from going out on this work. The people are the visitors. They observe this mural, they watch it, they mimic it, and in time they become it. In this way, the cycle is returned. Look at this mural, Darius, and tell me what you do not see embodied. I can show you the people, the military, the government. There are great works of Church and State and neither... but what is missing here? What is deliberately not seen?" The question rounded the room, echoing itself and then focusing in on Darius.

Darius pondered for a moment, but dared not move, to disturb the sacred silence of this room. "Sir, we are not in this image." Surely the Director is not implying that we are finished! Despite the Chancellor's recent moves, I never thought-

Kerrik halted Darius's thoughts with one declaration. "Stop." Kerrik glanced up, to the light streaming from above. "You are correct, we are not in this image. But we are very much a part of this mirror cycle. Everyone has a role. Some must protect the mural, others guard it, others view it... and that leaves one role to us, yet." The silence hung heavy as Kerrik waited for the revelation to burst in his Agent's brain. "We are the artists, Darius. We mold this society to a prosperous end, we protect it from failure. It is our duty to protect the order which our nation needs; it is our job to craft the meticulous image of civility our people demand. And in turn, we must protect them from themselves. When this mural decays, we must retouch it. When it is cracked, we must repaint it. When neglect threatens to destroy it, we must stop that neglect, and restore this great art."

There was a rush in the chamber, the fading sounds of Kerrik's words mingling with a breeze from above. Rain was striking the oculus from the heavens, and the streaks were cast onto the floor. Darius watched the dark streaks move from his chest to his shoes, and he glanced at the raindrop casting the shadow. Above, water was pooling on the lens, making the room waver. From a slight crack in the ceiling, a single drop fell. This drop moved gracefully through the room like a tear, a small mirrored bulb, reflecting the two men and the mural. It struck the ground, exploding into a smaller shower of droplets. Kerrik's hand flashed out, shielding the wall from even the slightest drop. He spoke again. "Darius, can you see it? The ceiling is cracked. There are those that neglect their duty to this mural, who do not fulfill their obligations. This rain will wash our mural away, and destroy a millennium of work and grandeur. But, we cannot be lax in our task. We must protect this mural from this neglect, and restore the damage dealt by the negligent ..." (Once again, the pause at the end is unnecessary)

Darius stepped forward now, under the oculus, moving to catch the next drop. "I understand, sir." He clenched his hand on the traitorous drop. "It must be done."

Kerrik nodded slowly, gratefully. "You understand our burden. The people demand a masterpiece, a perfect work. You bear this burden now, Darius. Carry it well. Make this mural perfect again."

Darius nodded curtly. "Yes, sir. After all, I am an artist." He turned, and with one last glance at the mural, he headed for the door. Darius opened it, and as he passed into the museum again, he glanced back once more. Kerrik stood in the center of the chamber, beneath the lens. The Director remained still, simply studying the work before him. Darius gave this great man a silent nod of admiration and closed the door. He turned, and began to walk, his steps as measured as always. However, the clicks snapped even louder, even bolder on the surroundings. The cap was heavy as always, but Darius hardly noticed. His pace quickened into double time, and with supreme dedication the artist went to fetch his tools. The clicks of his steps echoed to the rotunda, circling Kerrik and the mural, ascending to the wavering light, and the Director smiled.

Looks good. One thing I noticed constantly was that you separate your sentences with an extra space. Granted, this is only a small thing, but I happened to notice it. You only need one space from the end of one sentence to the beginning of another.

Other than that and the few things I noticed in your submission, it looks very good. Keep it up. :)

The Shark vs. the Piranha: The AMF-Sarzonia War

[OOC: This does NOT happen in the NS RP world. This is solely a submission for Treznor's writing challenge. It’s not intended to be used IC at all.]

President Mike Sarzo had seen enough. Lord Damien Dreadfire of Automagfreek was on a rampage and had already decimated several countries that were foolish enough to stand in his way. The feared Sentinels destroyed everything in their path in smaller countries throughout the world. It seemed that no one was going to step up to try to stop him from total world domination.

Sarzo huddled in the situation room in the Gray House with his Cabinet.

“All right, I want war plans,” Sarzo said. “I need you to come up with a battle plan for a war against Automagfreek.”

All the military officers in the room let out a collective gasp.

“Mike, are you crazy? They’ll eat us alive,” Vice President for Defense John Newman said. “We don’t have a chance against those Sentinels.”

“If we can prevent them from landing those Sentinels, we might have a chance to do something,” Navy Chief Kathy Bunhall said. “We built a navy to be large enough to win wars on several fronts. Surely we can use it to win a war on one front, no matter how large.”

“That’s a very big if,” Newman said. “Mike, it’s suicide. Don’t do it.”

“John, we don’t have a choice,” Sarzo said. “They’ve now threatened Isselmere. If we’re not moved to act for our closest allies, then what will it take? One million Sentinels beating down your doorstep? If we don’t stop them now, who will?

“I need battle plans and I need them now,” Sarzo snapped, pounding the table with his right fist. “What have you got?”

“Blockade for starters,” Bunhall said. “We’re going to have to engage their navy at some point and I think we have an advantage there.”

“What about those Sentinels,” Newman asked.

“What about them,” Sarzo retorted. “They may be genetically bred, but they’re not so superhuman that they can’t be beaten. If they can even get to our shores, that is.”

“That’s going to have to be the Navy’s job,” Army Chief Hal Luxton said. “If the Air Force can win the air battles, we may be able to disrupt their supply lines to make the Sentinels a non-issue.”

“Hal’s right,” Air Force Chief Bill Lighton said. “Our best chance to win this war lies in preventing those Sentinels from even landing in Sarzonia. We’ve got the navy to do it. Our pilots are some fierce mofos. The only question is the Army.”

“That’s General Santius’s department,” Luxton said. “This will be where he earns his paycheck.”

Santius gulped. He was aware of the Sentinels’ reputation but never expected to have to plan for a war against them.

“We’re going to have to evacuate the cities and towns of civilians. They go after everybody,” he said. “I think we should also set a trap for them wherever we can. Set some explosives to go off when a certain number of biosigns enters a building. Get our army and militia to conduct guerilla warfare tactics. Give them as few targets as humanly possible. That’s assuming they get any Sentinels on Sarzonian shores.”

“And if we can somehow prevent that,” Sarzo asked. “We’re going to need a battle plan for an offensive attack if we can prevent their Sentinels from landing and that blockade starts to work.”

“Are you suggesting – an invasion,” Newman asked.

“You could say that,” Sarzo said.

“We’re going to have to take out any AA defenses they may have,” Newman said finally. “Have the navy bombard their coastal cities with air strikes and our large guns. But actually land our army? It’s very inexperienced.”

“We’re going to have to do the best we can, won’t we,” Santius said. “I think I can plan something but I’m going to need a lot of special ops forces to do it.”

“And that would be,” Newman asked, now intrigued.

“Take out their power lines and their supplies. Launch raids on their weapons stores. We can disrupt the living crap out of them and really wreak some havoc.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sarzo said.

Within a matter of hours, massive binders were distributed to Cabinet officials, department heads, and members of Parliament with a detailed justification for the war and an analysis of the battle plans for Sarzonia.

“My fellow Sarzonians, I am about to ask Parliament to do something that it pains me to do anytime, but especially with the odds we are facing. Today, I am asking Parliament to declare a state of war between Sarzonia and Automagfreek.

“In the course of our world’s history, we have reached several roads that prove to be defining moments of an era. This will be one such defining moment. We can not allow an aggressive people to continue their warmongering ways. We can not allow our world to live in constant fear for their lives and their freedoms. We can not allow this spawn of the Devil himself, Lord Damien Dreadfire, to continue his campaign of fear and intimidation unchecked. It is Sarzonia who must stand up and say, ‘no more. Enough is enough.’”

Within hours, the Senate voted 29-23 to declare war. The House of Delegates followed suit by a vote of 418-215 fully 24 hours after Sarzo’s speech. Sarzonia was now at war with perhaps its most fearsome foe yet.

(in reply to "Art")

Greetings,

I'm quite new to this game/forum, so I apologize if I'm overstepping my boundaries, but I think this thread is a very good idea, so I decided to throw my two cents into the mix anyway.
I should also note that I'm not exactly an experienced role-player, so I’m approaching this from a more general writing point of view.
But, alright, enough disclaimer-stuff.

In general:
I like it.
The "artist"-metaphor is a great way to set your main character (which I'm assuming is Darius) off on the right foot. It defines him: he's not just a compliant ISA agent who'll be blindly following his evil Director's orders to stage a coup - he's an agent whose Director is genuinly committed to do what's best for his nation, whatever it takes, and he shares that ideology.
Whether this ideology is justified or not remains open - which is a good thing - but either way, giving your characters a clear, and believable, outset from the start is not the easiest thing to do, but it's important, and I think you did that quite well.

One of my main "problems" with role-playing is wordiness. I'm not very fond of long, descriptive lumps of text. I'm pretty sure my personal treshold in that regard is a bit lower than most people here though (perhaps my screenwriting background has something to do with that).
I think your piece suffers a bit from wordiness, but not as much as some other pieces I've read here. Still, I'd tighten it up a bit (the first three paragraphs, for instance – not by much, but some). A few more line breaks might help as well – again, I’ve seen a lot worse, but I like white space.

Few more detailed comments:


His step never wavered, never varied. The sound clicked at forty second intervals, and his long stride covered two tiles per step. With each snap on the floor, people tensed and glanced furtively.
That confused me. I’m not sure which sound? Not his footsteps, I imagine?


Light streamed from the oculus on the ceiling, cast through the bent lens to fill the room with natural glow. Starting by the door opposite him, there was a mural that wrapped around the walls,
(snip)
The last section was completed only two years ago, and showed the glittering skyscrapers and the bustling ports, while aircraft flew overhead and a Dominator cut the sea before it....
Slight case of wordiness in this paragraph, but that’s not the main problem I had with this section.
Basically, this came too early for me. Darius has been on his way to see the Director for several paragraphs, so when he enters the room, that’s where the focus should be.
When reading this the first time, it felt very much like the classical “enter room – give long description of room before getting to the point” ailment. Obviously, when reading on, it becomes clear that it’s not as irrelevant as it first seemed.
So, I feel the description of the mural would be better split up and interspersed with the conversation that follows, making it much more relevant that way.


"This is the history of our nation, cast in oils and stone."

As the opening line of dialogue for a character, I’ve heard better. It’s a bit too “on the nose” for my taste. Meaning: it’s a bit too literal. The Director and Darius obviously know perfectly well what the mural depicts, which makes the line come across as purely intended for the reader. Making some sort of sarcastic/sad/insightful/whatever remark about it to start off the convo would seem more natural.
(This is a very common problem though, writing great dialogue is damn hard, and many writers suffer in that area – me included.)


Darius bowed his head slightly, addressing the head of his organization. "I have arrived, Director." Darius stated in a low tone, as not to disturb Kerrik's thoughts too greatly.

Similar as above. Seems a bit redundant – the Director is aware that Darius arrived, or he wouldn’t have spoken, right? It’s a detail, I guess, but personally I’d have opted for something like: letting him overcome his momentary doubt whether or not to disturb Kerrik, and then forcefully snapping his heels together with a “Darius Jensen, reporting for duty, Sir!”
Or something else, depending on the type of person Darius is, and his relationship with his Director.
It’s a subtle thing, but the first lines of dialogue between two characters can paint a clear picture of how they stand towards one another. With the dialogue that follows, it’s not bad, but I think there’s some room for improvement. At the moment, it’s a pretty straightforward boss/subordinate relationship, but it’s not quite clear how Darius feels about his boss (apart from a Darius gave this great man a silent nod of admiration at the end. With some subtle changes, that line wouldn’t be necessary.
There’s an infinite amount of options, of course. One would be to let Kerrik start by saying something about how inconsequential it seems that the complete history of their great nation can be summarized on fifty square feet of stone – to which Darius could reply that there’s plenty of white space left on the wall. Which, depending on the nuances, could portray several things (Darius not being afraid to speak frankly to his Director/being equally committed – maybe even more so – to his nation’s future than him/…)
Anyway, you catch my drift, I’m sure.

There’s a few more lines of dialogue that I’d change, but I think I made my point about that, by now. I’d tighten up the Director’s speeches somewhat, but that’s debatable.
One more line I do want to quote, because that one especially stood out to me, is this one:


Darius nodded curtly. "Yes, sir. After all, I am an artist." He turned, and with one last glance at the mural, he headed for the door.

Seems very artificial to me, and redundant, since a specific reference to him as an artist is done – in a much better way – a few lines down:

His pace quickened into double time, and with supreme dedication the artist went to fetch his tools.

Anyway, that should be enough criticism for now. ;)
Again though – despite what the length of the criticism might suggest – I do like it. It’s a good set-up, which does leave me interested enough to want to read on – and that’s one of the most important aspects of writing.
And, of course, this is just one person’s opinion, and like I said above, I favor a more concise, to-the-point style of writing, while most role-players (I think) don’t mind highly descriptive writing at all. So take that into consideration when cursing at my critiques. :)


Oh, one more thing:

One thing I noticed constantly was that you separate your sentences with an extra space. Granted, this is only a small thing, but I happened to notice it. You only need one space from the end of one sentence to the beginning of another.

That’s one of those eternal debates. There are probably just as many people who swear by double-spacing as by single-spacing. Unless you’re dealing with official submission guidelines for publication somewhere, it doesn’t matter much.

Cheers.

[OOC: As was Sarzonia's post, this was originally written for Treznor's Writing Competition. Cursing starts from the first line. You've been warned.]


No doubt about it, I hate this fucking city.

We’ve been here for three days. I know this neighbourhood like the back of the corporal’s helmet. At least until his head was blown off yesterday in that mortar attack.

The senior corporal managed to secure us a lovely bombed out bedsit on the east end of our patrol area, a good four blocks from the remnants of our IFV. We lost that on our first day here. Some daft prick of an Arty numpty decided it would be great fun to shoot rockets loaded with submunitions into the old local market. At the time, the platoon sergeant was picking out some little shits who’d been firing RPGs at us, one of which had damaged the IFV’s optics. So there he was, crouching in the command hatch, taking the occasional potshot with the pintel-mounted GPMG directing the gunner’s fire when one of the submunitions falls into the fucking hatch. Now, the Badger is a fine vehicle: it’s sturdy, has great mobility, and is fairly quick. Drop a 45-kg submunition down an open hatch, well, bluntly, you’re right fucked. The sergeant was driven back through the hatch where the round touched off the 30mm ammo and a pair of Emu [anti-tank missile] reloads.

I’ve been appointed to the stunning kitchenette, gazing out the window frame for targets of opportunity for our sniper and AT gunner. Lice have made me their permanent home. It takes all my willpower and the numbing fear of the possibility of a new attack not to scratch every hairy place on my body until they bleed. Automatic fire can be heard breaking out everywhere, from the heavy crump, crump of the autocannons, to the high-speed rat-tat-tat of the GPMGs and the whizz of the LMGs. Our own machine gunners are bored senseless, unable to open up unless we encounter a direct assault. How I hate this city.

We’re only supposed to spend a week on the front line, per regulations. None of us is certain any of us will survive seven days, and even if we do, that HQ won’t extend our stay to two weeks.

I see an enemy soldier look quickly out a window about 250 metres away and, without looking away from the window myself, indicate the range and position to the grenadier who relays it to the sniper. Unfortunately for a sniper, Kenny has no sense of direction, so I have to paint the target with a laser, potentially revealing our position. From the grimace on the corporal’s face, I can tell I’m not the only one who suspects Kenny’s on their side. But within seconds of lasing the target area, I receive the signal to stop.

Waiting for the crack of the sniper’s bullet is the worst. Mostly because you can never be certain you’re not the target. Kenny’s a good two feet from the window frame so the threats of dust disturbed from firing or reflections from his scope revealing our position are minimal. Still, it’s all very unnerving.

Finally, I see a head pop out the window just before it’s forced backward and the body stumbles. A month ago, I would have thrown up at the sight, but now... now, there’s nothing.

Fuck, I hate this city.

President Mike Sarzo had seen enough. Lord Damien Dreadfire of Automagfreek was on a rampage and had already decimated several countries that were foolish enough to stand in his way. The feared Sentinels destroyed everything in their path in smaller countries throughout the world. It seemed that no one was going to step up to try to stop him from total world domination.

Sarzo huddled in the situation room in the Gray House with his Cabinet.

You’re setting the stage, so some exposition is necessary, but I’d try to hold true to the maxim: “Show, not tell.” In this case, perhaps a video feed intro would be a good hook. IE:

The behemoth rose up in the rubble, standing amid the ashes and ruin, towering over the last of the survivors. The man was begging, crawling backwards, hauling his broken body on tattered limbs. But the armored destroyer stepped forward, planting a boot through the man’s chest, filling the air with a sickening crunch. The beast looked down, into the man’s tearing eyes, and it raised its rifle. The weapon descended as a club, and the video feed stopped, pausing mid frame.

“I’ve seen enough…” et cetera.

From here, you could have a “briefing” or a summary of the video. Obviously, there’s no need for a general to state, “Sir, as you know, AMF is pwning the world.” The Prez would already know this. However, there is room for enough comments to let the reader fill in the gaps and paint the picture.

All the military officers in the room let out a collective gasp.
Personally, I can’t imagine a bunch of thirty-year-plus veterans of the armed forces letting out a little gossipy “oh no he didn’t” gasp. Perhaps a more professional ominous silence would fit better?

“Our pilots are some fierce mofos.”
Again, would a professional military officer say this to the President? If he would, perhaps some clue to his past would be necessary. They’re all on a first name basis, which says that their close, or that the Prez is pretty informal, but this is a little “over the top” for me, without some clue as to why he can speak like this before his Commander in Chief.

Within a matter of hours, massive binders were distributed to Cabinet officials, department heads, and members of Parliament with a detailed justification for the war and an analysis of the battle plans for Sarzonia.
I’d give this more space. Show them wrapping plans, folding binders, and leaving the room, or something. Otherwise, we get a “warp” effect, with posts accelerating and decelerating inside their context, with detail here and “gloss” over here. Basically, I’d make something “move” in the text to show time passing. (Maybe track the progress of one binder until it opens again, or something.)

Within hours, the Senate voted 29-23 to declare war. The House of Delegates followed suit by a vote of 418-215 fully 24 hours after Sarzo’s speech. Sarzonia was now at war with perhaps its most fearsome foe yet.
This is the same as above, but even more important. This is the end of your post, and the time for one last punch before you close out. Make your last line a complete knockout blow. If nothing else, try for an excellent hook to start, and a “bang” to end. In this situation, I’d recommend that you actually re-write his speech.

Show the room, who’s there, talk about the cameras, the aides fidgeting in the corner, the nervous glances, the military man touching his cap in deference. Talk about the “loyal opposition” who’re watching the Prez, talk about his allies in the chamber. Give their reactions to the speech, show the vote. I’d try to end with something like:

“… the Senate stands at twenty-nine in favor, twenty-three opposed. The House stands at four-eighteen in favor, two-fifteen opposed. As of one o’clock today, Sarzonia has entered a state of war.”

Sarzo nodded slowly, his eyes closing. “Thank you, Jim.” He turned away to face the window, watching the autumn leaves sway in the breeze, drifting to the ground in melancholy spirals of orange and red. He watched one of those leaves fall into the fountain, resting in its dying ripples, and he spoke quietly, “Now cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.”

Oh, one final note. I liked the feeling of the meeting, the dialogue. (Although, when he said, "We don't stand a chance against those sentinels", all I could think of was "We don't stand a chance against those Star Destroyers". Damn you, Star Wars Episode Three.) My one concern is that it was a one sided meeting. The entire group proposed one solution, and they all agreed. Generally, I would expect multiple options, redundant plans, and perhaps even inter-branch infighting over whose plan is used, as well as groupthink and other little conference dynamics.

I can fully understand why you wouldn't take the space to post all the "drudge" of a meeting in this thread, but if you're shooting for a "realistic" Situation Room meeting, I'd recommend a more involved discussion. If you're shooting for a "war movie" feel, the style you're using is better. (Realism vs Attention-Span, pretty much.)

Summary: Nice work, really sets the stage for an "against all odds conflict". Perhaps some more detail would liven it up a little more, and give it more momentum off the bat. I look forward to seeing more.

Isselmere, I'll have a review for you up soon.

We’ve been here for three days. I know this neighbourhood like the back of the corporal’s helmet. At least until his head was blown off yesterday in that mortar attack.
Absolutely brilliant line! In that one sentence fragment, the war instantly became a WWI/II urban clusterfuck in my mind.

I can’t find any real segments that pop out as rewrites to me, but there are some overall comments. I really like the technical nature of the post, you can tell that this is a soldier talking, not a civilian with a gun, especially when he says things like, “a 45kg submunition”. However, at some points, you risk stumbling into jargon-land. While you, myself, and some readers will know terms like IFV, AT, GPMG, LZ, DZ, WP, BOHICA, and what not, many will be confused by the acronyms. I would highly recommend that you try to work in some method of explaining what these are to the reader, without breaking the “flow”.

Since parentheses are the death of flow, and the literary equivalent of a speedbump, simply writing “GPMG (General Purpose Machine Gun)” would be a bad stylistic move, especially in sequence. I would recommend describing the objects, so that even readers who don’t know what the acronym means could put together what it was.

IE:
The senior corporal managed to secure us a lovely bombed out bedsit on the east end of our patrol area, a good four blocks from the remnants of our IFV. We lost that on our first day here. Some daft…

…becomes…

The senior corporal managed to secure us a lovely bombed out bedsit [sic] on the east end of our patrol area, a good four blocks from the remnants of our IFV. Well, it’s a good block from the chassis. The wheels and guns were bounced all over the courtyard, and we found a piece of the antennae wedged in a steeple a few blocks down. Anyway, despite some butter-bars trying to make us collect all the pieces of the damned fighting vehicle, we left most of it behind on the first day, since some daft…

Waiting for the crack of the sniper’s bullet is the worst. Mostly because you can never be certain you’re not the target.
I’d talk about this more. Since the “tone” set is a weary soldier explaining to the audience, perhaps a small anecdote about someone getting blasted while pissing or some other horrible sniper-death would be appropriate.

Finally, I see a head pop out the window just before it’s forced backward and the body stumbles.
Personally, I’d give more detail on this. Talk about the way the head snaps back, and the eyes flash forward stupidly as the back of the skull erupts, and such. Give the ending more “kick” on why the soldier should be feeling “sick”. Maybe even have some fellow soldier make a callous comment about the shot, like, “First rule of combat, keep you head on straight.” Something horribly desensitized like that.

I really like the opening and closing with “Fuck, I hate this city.” It lends a poetic lilt to the post. However, halfway through, he says, “How I hate this city.” That seems a bit “high-class” for the character painted. Perhaps a repeat of the f-bomb might work, or another choice phrase, instead of the eloquent rhetoric “how”.

Summary: An excellent “welcome to hell” type post, showing a soldier’s life. With a little tweaking, you could broaden your audience to the general public, who doesn’t know Cordex from CQB. Perhaps a few more images might spice things up in the middle and end, but I think, after Sarz’s and your posts, I’m going to half to read this “war”.

The British-isms threw me at first. Words like “neighbourhood” and such made my Word Processor throw a twin-fit. :p

Oh, and to the people who reviewed my stuff:

ARE YOU BLIND? MY WORK IS PERFECT! PERFECT, I TELL YOU!

Oh, God, it's bleeding, my God! My precious, sweet baby is bleeding! *sob* CURSE THE REAPING BLADE OF PEER REVIEW! CURSE YOU!

Erm...

Thanks for the feedback, I really appreciated it. Let's keep up the community, here!

*sob* I shall avenge, my love. *sob*

This is the intro post for Realm of the Risen II: Angel's Holocaust. A link is in my sig. Be warned that this is a rated R thread, so I cannot assure that the content will be appropriate.

"Mr. Cubeta..."

Footsteps echoed through the halls of the grand hotel. The man, gravely frightened, quickly scurried across the floor. Behind him, a ghost stalked his path, cold and silent in its pursuit.

"Mr. Cubeta we both know why I'm here..." the ghost called once more, recieving no response from the man he followed.

Peter Cubeta was the vice president of Keccer Incorporated, a defense corporation that had fallen out of favor with the government over the past few years, replaced by the much more able and powerful Bivens Inc. For what the battles of the civil war did to help Keccer Inc., the conclusion of the war all but killed the company. Dave Bivens, President and CEO of Bivens Inc. was now the young Emperor of the New Orion Empire, and although he was a great young man in every sense of the world, he was a business man first and foremost.

"Get the hell away from me, Michael!" Peter yelled back as he ran, his voice exausted and his breaths loud. "Leave me alone!"

Michael Xavier, known to most as Gabriel Graves, was as special as agents come. Born into a noble family, one heavily involved in the diamond industry, Michael had instead fallen into the military path after his parents were brutally murdered and his family disgraced by corruption. Now redeemed, they were the only ones who still called him by his birth name, aside from the Emperor, the man who Gabriel now worked for.

In fact his true identity was somewhat of a secret. Had it been made public, he would have been named the default owner of Xavier Diamonds. Gabriel's family hardly wanted him dead, although they sure didn't want "Michael Xavier" to be alive. They wanted the vast fortune, and as far as Gabriel was concerned, they could keep it.

Now, as Peter called him by his true name, Gabriel was sure the man knew too much. Not that he needed the assurance, he was to and would follow Bivens' orders either way, but now the job was personal. A detriment to some, Gabriel enjoyed the emotional edge, thriving off it...

The footsteps stopped as Agent Graves entered the final door, calmly walking towards the man who had nowhere left to run. Peter Cubeta clutched a tool from the fireplace in his hands, giving out the usual commands of "stay back" and the like. Always predictable to Gabriel, the hunted always acted the same, especially those who were wealthy. Soon, Graves thought to himself, the vice president would start making offers, trying to buy his freedom, his life. Still, Gabriel chuckled, if he had wanted money he would be playing with diamonds, not guns.

"Please..." Peter began, just as Gabriel had predicted. "I'll give you anything...anything beyond your wildest dreams..."

"Of all people," Gabriel replied, referencing to the fact that Peter knew his true identity. "You should know you couldn't give me anything that I couldn't already have if I so desired."

"I..." Peter paniced, his knuckles turning white from gripping the tool so hard. "I can keep a secret. I-I won't tell anyone!"

"This isn't a personal vendetta, Mr. Cubeta," Agent Graves responded. "That aspect's just a bonus to me now."

"What?" Peter stammered, backing up until he touched the wall. "W-what did I do?"

"You stole secrets and money from Bivens Inc.," Gabriel explained, going above and beyond the call of duty. He wasn't required to say anything to his target. His mission was simply to finish the job. "Normally that'd be a punishable crime, but now, your crimes are treason."

"Bullshit!" Peter exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as he followed Agent Graves' train of thought. "That...that was years ago! It was still a..."

"Well now it's much more than that," Gabriel continued, his pistol still focused on the face he talked to. "You stole company secrets, meaning that you stole Imperial secrets. You stole company money, meaning that you stole money from the Empire. You betrayed the President of Bivens Inc., Mr. Cubeta...that means you betrayed the Emperor."

"Don't I get a lawyer?" Peter asked frantically. "Don't I get a fair trial?"

"No," Graves responded, his expression identical to his last name. "You get a quick death."

"Dra yhkamc crymm pnehk oui du niehc," Peter commanded in the ancient tounge which so few understood anymore, much less spoke.

"Fuck off," Agent Graves replied calmly as his silenced bullet tore through the skull of the vice president as the man's body collapsed on the floor. Quickly Gabriel stripped himself of his black battle outfit, tossing it into the fireplace along with the body. In its place, he put on a suit and casually strolled down to the casino.

The casino, as it was liberally called, was a whore house for the rich, a brothel for the high class, and a good place to lose your money, your clothes, and your virginity at the same time. As AIDS was vanquished, so were the restrictions on sex, and prostitution jumped by leaps and bounds. A legal business, the taxes were still outrageously high enough to keep all but the best from performing in any way. Those girls, as the sex industry in the empire was made up almost entirely of females, mostly gathered here.

The orgasmic moans were barely covered by the thin sheets that gave the "gamblers" privacy in their brakes from the games. Still, anything short of sex was still allowed on the game floor, and any business-concious prostitute rubbed or sucked whatever was put in front of her, be it dice or dicks.

Gabriel, a returning client from previous business similar to what he just had accomplished, was greeted by three beautiful women who instantly fawned all over him, bringing both drinks and sex appeal. Respectable or not, the casino treated its patrons well, and Gabriel wasn't above recieving gifts from others...even those he killed.

Wasting time on the card tables, Agent Graves was an avid poker player and he always seemed to play better with other people's money. Bivens had given him an allowance to spend as if needed, and like normal he had got the job done with minimal effort needed and had much left over. Perhaps he was more careless with other people things, money...women...lives...

The girls clapped and laughed each time he won, and Gabriel took a few seconds here and there to try and see if they were honestly exciting or simply playing the part. Each one was a professional, and he was given the very best. He wondered if they grew tired of being whores, objects, but he shook the thought off. Either they wanted to be here, or they needed the money. There was nothing keeping them here other than the paycheck, and for some, the easy sex.

Gabriel was never one to have to pay for sex, but he figured that as it was there in front of him, and on someone else's tab, it was near pointless to refuse. The girls stripped in front of him as he pulled the sheet across the edge of the bed in the nook in the wall. Their hands traced over the curves of his etched body, stroking his tight muscles as they worked their way downwards.

He grabbed one, their passionate kisses evolving towards other things as he thrusted himself into her. She squeeled with delight as Gabriel continued, the other two pleasing themselves on the other end of the bed. Gabriel moaned as the bells and whistles rang on the other side of the sheet, signaling that someone had won the jackpot and struck it rich. Slowly the other two girls made their way to Agent Graves as the first remained on her back, estatic and exausted from the ordeal she had been given.

Checking his watch, Gabriel realized that he was short of time, his stamina getting the better of his watch, and quickly dressed. Kissing the girls goodbye and promising them that he'd pay full price even though he left early, he exited the casino just as six or seven armed security guards ran past him. Vice President Peter Cubeta was missing, and although Gabriel knew quite well that he would never be found, he was not about to stand in the way of the investigation.

Here's another post from the same thread. Granted the effect will be lost, since the reviewers won't grasp the context of the post itself, I can happily say that it won exceptional praise from the RPers involved when it was originally posted.

"What?" The voice questioned, stepping from the shadows. "Did you think you were alone?"

"Y-you're dead," Gabriel stammered, slowly reaching for his pistol as he grabbed the chip that he downloaded the list onto.

"Did you see me die?" The voice asked. Jaden stepped into view. "Do I look dead to you?"

"Jaden!" Tess shouted, running up and embracing him. She gave him a playful slap. "Don't do that to me! I was so worried!"

"How'd you get in?" Gabriel asked, squinting his eyes. "The door's right there."

"Procul is an old mining town," Jaden replied. "There are plenty of passages underground."

"And all mining towns have passages leading to a secret underground lab..."

"With evil doctors, and henchmen, and world domination plans too..." Jaden laughed sarcastically.

"From the looks of it you're not far off," Gabriel spat. Jaden rolled his eyes.

"Oh get over yourself, asshole," Jaden shot. "The gig's up...the charade's over." Gabriel raised his pistol. "Oh put it away Michael. It's insulting to think that I hadn't planned out your every move."

"Michael?" Tess asked, giving Gabriel a strange look. "Jaden what's going on?"

"You live the life of a traitor...you die a traitor's death..." Jaden continued, glaring at the agent on the opposite side of the lab.

"You're the one with the knack for betrayal, Steven," Gabriel shot back. "To your kind, to the team...to yourself..."

"Steven?" Tess stammered. "Jaden what's happening? Why are Gabriel and I on this list?"

"Ask him," Jaden said, pointing to Gabriel. "Ask him why your names are on the list."

"I have no clue," Gabriel replied. "I don't know what you're implying..."

"Bullshit!"

"What are you trying to drag me into?"

"You know exactly what you're doing!"

"Arms above your head!" Gabriel demanded. "You are under arrest in the name of the Emperor, Dave..."

"He's on my side," Jaden shot back. "He's with me."

"Are you planning to betray him as well?"

"I'm planning to stop you!"

"ENOUGH!" Tess shouted, putting her hands over her ears and kneeling to the ground. "You two are driving me mad! Jaden...stop scaring me. Tell me the truth..."

"This man," Jaden accused, pointing towards Gabriel. "Is a monster."

"If she'd only look in your heart she'd see who the real monster..."

"PLEASE!" Tess begged, staring at Gabriel. Tears flowed freely from her eyes.

"This is his plan," Jaden continued. Gabriel shook with rage. "This is his lab...his virus...or at least he wants it to be."

"He's crazed," Gabriel countered. "Why do you think the Empire lost contact with him? Why do you think he ran here and not the safehouse after his presumed death? Those bastard fiends probably carried him here, him, their king."

"And yet I'm the one dealing with insanity?"

"I'm the one with the gun!"

"BOTH OF YOU!" Tess screamed, her head in her hands. "Stop it! Stop it! You're both wicked! Stop it!"

"Tess please..." Jaden pleaded. "This man has done nothing but hurt you. I'm here for you sweetheart."

"I've done nothing of the sort!" Gabriel shouted.

"And her father?"

"What of him?" Tess asked.

"You killed him!" Jaden accused.

"Fuck you!" Gabriel shouted.

"Tell me you don't forget!" Jaden said, his eyes ablaze. "Tell me he wasn't just another target for you to drain your clip into! Better yet! Tell her!"

"Fuck you, Steven!" Gabriel screamed, shooting Jaden in the chest twice. Jaden dropped to the floor, still alive.

"No Gabriel..." Tess cried, pulling out a pistol. Her hand shaking, her aim shifted back and fourth between the two of them.

"He's a fucking liar," Gabriel replied. "You know it...I know you do..."

"He doesn't care about you Tess!" Jaden continued from the floor. "This man...all he knows is death. He's here to sell us all to hell! He's at fault! He's the reason!"

"Don't throw your life away!" Gabriel screamed, pleading with the woman before him. "Don't listen."

"Did you kill my father?" Tess demanded at gunpoint. "Tell me now. Did you or did you not?"

"Tess, your father was a..." Gabriel began.

"NOOO!" Tess shrieked, letting loose a volley of lead into Gabriel's chest. The bullets tore through his lungs, blowing his body backwards as he collapsed onto the ground. "HOW COULD YOU?" She screamed, emptying her clip into the pitiful heap on the floor of the lab until his broken body laid silent on the cold metal, his blood spilled across the room.

Shaking visibly, Tess fell to her knees before Jaden, cradling his head in her hands. Ripping his clothes, she pressed the cloth against the bullet wounds, her tears running down her face and onto his.

"Tess," Jaden began. His voice was weak, rough.

"No honey, don't talk," Tess said through her sobs. "Save your strength."

"Your father," Jaden continued anyhow. His tone was growing in strength. Slowly, he sat up unassisted. "Your father was a bastard."

"W...what?" Tess whispered as her eyes grew. Quickly she crawled away from him, grabbing her gun once more.

"All this...this is your father's fault," Jaden explained, rising to his feet.

"What the hell are you?" Tess cried, raising her weapon. She pulled the trigger, but it was empty.

"Tess I came to save you from that asshole," Jaden said, pointing to Gabriel's corpse. "He was far too interested in what your father was doing..."

"Then save me!" Tess demanded. "Get me out of here!"

"It's too late for that, Tess," Jaden continued, shaking his head in misery. "You know the truth..."

"No I don't!" Tess screamed. "I don't know anything!"

"Tess you saw the list...I stood here watching you!" Jaden explained.

"NO!"

"You're not making this any easier..." Jaden said, raising his rifle.

"I won't tell anyone...I swear!" Tess pleaded, now on her knees.

"People like him...they have other ways of getting the information..." Jaden replied. "They don't need you to talk." Rifle raised, Jaden shot the mainframe of the lab's computer, destroying the information inside. "I can't let that information get out, hun. The world can't see..."

"No..." Tess whispered, sitting down. She knew what was coming.

"Besides," Jaden continued. "I saw how you looked at him. I can only guess what you did..."

Tess stared at the barrel before her, no longer crying, no longer scared. "You can go fuck yourself, Jaden!"

"Honey I wish you wouldn't..."

"Don't call me that!" Tess screamed.

"So be it..." Jaden replied. "This lab will go down with the both of you. It won't be recovered."

"I hope they fucking kill you Jaden!" Tess shouted. "I hope they tear you to pieces!"

"Didn't you hear?" Jaden responded. "They already did."

The bullet tore through Tess's heart, taking her breath, and her life, away.

One of the original comments...lol:

Holy shit, SB.. that was awesome.

bump....

Scheisse!

I actually didn't notice the new posts!

Um, I'll get cracking, but someone else should give a different POV response, too.

ETA On Edit: Tomorrow Morning.

ETA On Edit: Tomorrow Morning.

heh...right

comments would be nice...hence what this thread is for...

final bump...

too bad this thing seems to have died...'twas a good idea

It's more the time of year.