Post by Froststar on Jan 27, 2010 21:59:05 GMT -5
I know I've posted this story here before, but I've revised it (again) and I really need some harsh feedback. I really want you to be brutally honest with me. Tell me what needs fixing, what doesn't sound quite right. I'm ready.
Traitors
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the beating of an anxious heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
Frozen shards were lifted by the wind, dancing, twirling, volleyed into the face of the lone figure scaling the near-vertical slope. She winced, but her fiery green eyes still probed the icy expanse.
Earlier, those same eyes had been spectators of an execution.
Seath, being the eldest surviving child, had long-ago inherited the coveted title of pack leader after the death of his father as was tradition. The wise wolf had been a just ruler. The full loyalty and respect of every member of the Thlaylis pack had been maintained without comp0romise until eternal sleep had claimed his silvered body just three days before. According to the ancient practice, Ulric was next in line. Tala had other ideas.
She hungered for power, just as she had forever thirsted for blood. Leadership surged through her veins. The longing would not be silenced.
Thus she devised a plan.
A mercenary was hired from a distant land in secret: Conan, unafraid to splinter bone or rip veins from their fleshy cradles for pleasure. All were his enemies yet none were his enemies. Infamy rendered him unchallenged.
Age-old customs dictated that on the third night following a former ruler’s passing, the next recipient of the divine right of a pack-leader must journey to the peak of the sacred mountain, Narok. Myth told of the chosen becoming one with the mountain as the gods recognized the new leader’s power.
Ulric’s time was tonight.
Tala had waited gleefully on an overhang as her brother traveled steadily upward, climbing sheer cliffs and slick rises. Conan waited hidden as planned. She could barely contain her joyful anticipation.
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the oppressive beating of an excited heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
The following events had passed swiftly though they now replayed slowly through her mind: the large muscular wolf’s sinews uncoiling as he flew from behind the rocky outcrop; the surprised yelp of the victim quickly replaced by a shriek of anguish; her struggling brother being overtaken as he and his attacker disappeared from view behind a protruding boulder; the telltale smear of blood rapidly being masked by falling snow; the satisfying silence.
A grin was etched deeply into Tala’s face as she now neared the zenith of Narok. The beloved Ulric had been overcome; she was victorious. Her ears resounded with legends to come of the great Tala who reigned in the tragic death of her brother whose life had been sadly extinguished by an unfortunate fall. Her features radiated her ecstasy as she thought of all the mourning pack-mates who would gladly accept her as a savior in a dark time. None would oppose but a corpse now concealed in an ivory crypt befitting his inherited crown.
The pinnacle was now in sight. Each step took a hundred years as she drew closer to destiny.
She arrived.
Tala’s eyelids closed as she let forth a triumphant howl announcing her enemy’s downfall and her glorious triumph. When she blissfully reopened them, a dark shape was materializing out of the cacophonous symphony of death, lunging at her throat.
Tala choked out one last word as drops of her own blood spattered her vision, dribbling from Ulric’s drenched maw: “How?”
“Everything you have done against me was to my advantage in the unraveling of your dissension. Conan enlisted under my command before yours; he was key in the invention of my redemptive plan. Your futile schemes were nothing but fragments of a fantasy undone before it was imagined. It is your defeat which marks this day. Whenever elders and seers recount the tale of the traitorous Tala, all will recall the final words Ulric the Great spoke after he smote his adversary upon the mountain.”
He gazed deeper into the clouding eyes of his sister, then finished. “The end.”
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and dwindling beating of a dying heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
“The end.”
Traitors
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the beating of an anxious heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
Frozen shards were lifted by the wind, dancing, twirling, volleyed into the face of the lone figure scaling the near-vertical slope. She winced, but her fiery green eyes still probed the icy expanse.
Earlier, those same eyes had been spectators of an execution.
Seath, being the eldest surviving child, had long-ago inherited the coveted title of pack leader after the death of his father as was tradition. The wise wolf had been a just ruler. The full loyalty and respect of every member of the Thlaylis pack had been maintained without comp0romise until eternal sleep had claimed his silvered body just three days before. According to the ancient practice, Ulric was next in line. Tala had other ideas.
She hungered for power, just as she had forever thirsted for blood. Leadership surged through her veins. The longing would not be silenced.
Thus she devised a plan.
A mercenary was hired from a distant land in secret: Conan, unafraid to splinter bone or rip veins from their fleshy cradles for pleasure. All were his enemies yet none were his enemies. Infamy rendered him unchallenged.
Age-old customs dictated that on the third night following a former ruler’s passing, the next recipient of the divine right of a pack-leader must journey to the peak of the sacred mountain, Narok. Myth told of the chosen becoming one with the mountain as the gods recognized the new leader’s power.
Ulric’s time was tonight.
Tala had waited gleefully on an overhang as her brother traveled steadily upward, climbing sheer cliffs and slick rises. Conan waited hidden as planned. She could barely contain her joyful anticipation.
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the oppressive beating of an excited heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
The following events had passed swiftly though they now replayed slowly through her mind: the large muscular wolf’s sinews uncoiling as he flew from behind the rocky outcrop; the surprised yelp of the victim quickly replaced by a shriek of anguish; her struggling brother being overtaken as he and his attacker disappeared from view behind a protruding boulder; the telltale smear of blood rapidly being masked by falling snow; the satisfying silence.
A grin was etched deeply into Tala’s face as she now neared the zenith of Narok. The beloved Ulric had been overcome; she was victorious. Her ears resounded with legends to come of the great Tala who reigned in the tragic death of her brother whose life had been sadly extinguished by an unfortunate fall. Her features radiated her ecstasy as she thought of all the mourning pack-mates who would gladly accept her as a savior in a dark time. None would oppose but a corpse now concealed in an ivory crypt befitting his inherited crown.
The pinnacle was now in sight. Each step took a hundred years as she drew closer to destiny.
She arrived.
Tala’s eyelids closed as she let forth a triumphant howl announcing her enemy’s downfall and her glorious triumph. When she blissfully reopened them, a dark shape was materializing out of the cacophonous symphony of death, lunging at her throat.
Tala choked out one last word as drops of her own blood spattered her vision, dribbling from Ulric’s drenched maw: “How?”
“Everything you have done against me was to my advantage in the unraveling of your dissension. Conan enlisted under my command before yours; he was key in the invention of my redemptive plan. Your futile schemes were nothing but fragments of a fantasy undone before it was imagined. It is your defeat which marks this day. Whenever elders and seers recount the tale of the traitorous Tala, all will recall the final words Ulric the Great spoke after he smote his adversary upon the mountain.”
He gazed deeper into the clouding eyes of his sister, then finished. “The end.”
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and dwindling beating of a dying heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
“The end.”
