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Kalanna Rai
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 Posted: Sun Mar 02, 2008 11:25 pm Post subject: ILS: PeaceTaker Discussion Thread |
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Alright well I suppose you've all been over and seen the story right? If you havn't you can find it HERE.
Well this one is a first for me, a western with some fantasy elements thrown in. Mostly western though, not even steampunk. There's a little magic flying around, but for the most part folks rely on good ol' fashioned weapons to get the job done. The name of the story is even a twist on one of the more famous western guns, the Colt Peacemaker. But it suits it I hope.
Enough of my ramblings. Any niggles to post? Any comments at all? I'm rather anxious so spare me nothing, tell me everything...
P.S. Currently working on chapter four...your comments will directly influence it.
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"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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| Posted: Mon Mar 03, 2008 11:04 pm Post subject: |
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Ok, so by the sounds of it he's surrounded by many people with guns. So far my impression of the gunman is that he's bad news. Just plain cold blooded. Although that women that died did just try to kill him, he may actually have just reasons for popping these people off. Now im contradicting myself.
There is obviously something special about his wyrid. Another thing, is he collecting peoples wyrids? Here are my suggestions.
Logical: Try to explain that the women tried to poison him.
Likely: Weigh, measure and find... find... something. 
Insane: Shoots himself.
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| Posted: Mon Mar 03, 2008 11:56 pm Post subject: |
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Alright, here's what I've got for chapter four. Please give me feedback and tell me what your suggestions for the rest of the chappy are. Any little thing helps!
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Chapter Four: Dust and Shadows
They had stood, to a man, frozen stock still at the single utterance of the gunman. He had walked through their immobile ranks like a man through a field of crosses, slowly raising a hand to his lips and letting forth a piercing whistle. It had been answered by a stallion's bugle, single clarinet call echoing over the shifting sands as a dark shape burst over the tops of some not so far off dunes. The black horse came to a prancing halt, nudging it's master in the manner of a beast eager to be off. The desert sunlight poured off it's hide as it would have poured off oil, dripping as thickly as honey.
The gunman slowly swung into the saddle, the wings of his jacket flowing back over the horse's rump as the toes of his boots found the stirrups. The stock of a rifle sat in easy reach of his right hand although all who stood in the ranks of this caravan had seen his accuracy with a simple handgun. None wanted to contemplate just how far the bullet of that rifle would go and what damage it would do upon reaching it's destination. The horse reared even though the gunman put no spurs to it's sides, indeed he wore no spurs at all. Then, with a scream of joyous fury, it charged off into the shifting sands, desert wind turning it's mane and tail into streaming banners of ebony silk.
They waited until the gunman had long faded over the horizon before they shuffled forward to survey the damage done. Gustav and Ingrane were reluctantly allowed to pass as the crowd of curious parted for them unwillingly. The pair turned sorrowing eyes upon the remains of their fellow healer, yet they sorrowed only for the loss of another set of skilled hands, not the woman herself. Somewhere, in the hearts of every man, woman, and child in that caravan, they were certain the woman had gotten what was coming to her.
The gunman, meanwhile, had not a spare thought for those of the caravan behind him. He sat easily upon his horse, moving in time with the creatures rolling rhythm. His hair sparkled in what sunlight reached it, his hat pulled low to shade his eyes. A twinge of pain flickered from the wound on his side occasionally but, as this could hardly be called hard riding, he was not in danger of ripping open the stitches a second time.
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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Scheherazade
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| Posted: Tue Mar 04, 2008 12:02 am Post subject: |
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| would he be coming to a town/ end of desert soon? maybe not end of desert, if this is western-ish. but there's probably a lot of people that will be found wanting in towns, and if he only kills some we could find some of his motivations. Also, he could go visit (one of) his god(s) to rest/heal/receive instructions, or just a priest maybe.
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| Posted: Tue Mar 04, 2008 2:54 pm Post subject: |
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If he ain't rushing in the middle of the desert with a healing wound then he obviously knows theres something nearby, maybe an oasis. Maybe even a chaple over the oasis to house stranded souls lost in the desert. Or does he and his horse have super natural powers?
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| Posted: Tue Mar 04, 2008 11:24 pm Post subject: |
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Okay, here's a rough version for four. Is there anything you'd like to see edited and changed? Anything you'd like to see added?
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Chapter Four: Dust and Shadows
They had stood, to a man, frozen stock still at the single utterance of the gunman. He had walked through their immobile ranks like a man through a field of crosses, slowly raising a hand to his lips and letting forth a piercing whistle. It had been answered by a stallion's bugle, the single clariant call echoing over the shifting sands as a dark shape burst over the tops of some not so far off dunes. The black horse came to a prancing halt, nudging it's master in the manner of a beast eager to be off. The desert sunlight poured off it's hide as it would have poured off oil, dripping as thickly as honey.
The gunman slowly swung into the saddle, the wings of his jacket flowing back over the horse's rump as the toes of his boots found the stirrups. The stock of a rifle sat in easy reach of his right hand although all who stood in the ranks of this caravan had seen his accuracy with a simple handgun. None wanted to contemplate just how far the bullet of that rifle would go and what damage it would do upon reaching it's destination. The horse reared even though the gunman put no spurs to it's sides, indeed he wore no spurs at all. Then, with a scream of joyous fury, it charged off into the shifting sands, desert wind turning it's mane and tail into streaming banners of ebony silk.
They waited until the gunman had long faded over the horizon before they shuffled forward to survey the damage done. Gustav and Ingrane were reluctantly allowed to pass as the crowd of curious parted for them unwillingly. The pair turned sorrowing eyes upon the remains of their fellow healer, yet they sorrowed only for the loss of another set of skilled hands, not the woman herself. Somewhere, in the hearts of every man, woman, and child in that caravan, they were certain the woman had gotten what was coming to her.
The gunman, meanwhile, had not a spare thought for those of the caravan behind him. He sat easily upon his horse, moving in time with the creatures rolling rhythm. His hair sparkled in what sunlight reached it, his hat pulled low to shade his eyes. A twinge of pain flickered from the wound on his side occasionally but, as this could hardly be called hard riding, he was not in danger of ripping open the stitches a second time. The sands shifted under the hooves of his horse, the playful winds that followed them erasing the tracks mere moments later. The gunman drowsed, secure in the knowledge that no danger stalked him, no threat had him in it's sights, and let the horse go where it would.
The sun rose and set upon the pair three times, the horse walking tirelessly and the gunman with bowed head, thoughts unknown rambling through his mind. It was the change in terrain, the sound of the horses hooves echoing on rock and shale, that brought the gunman's head up. His eyes flicked across the horizon even as he gently tugged the reigns and brought his mount to a stop. Before him, spreading out like the ill-sewn patches of a child's first quilt, lay the scrub land at the edge of the desert. The horse snorted and twitched beneath him, nosing in the direction from which the wind came. The smell of water was strong, causing the gunman to lick his dry lips and urge the steed forward.
Loose rocks skittered and clacked under the horse's sure footed stride, the worst of the cracks in the ground neatly avoided. Midday found them working their way through a canyon alongside the river that flowed at the bottom, red rock walls rising like a pen to keep them contained. With a nicker, the horse came to a halt and the gunman gazed upwards to where a path was hewn from the rock. "So this is the place." It wasn't an inquiry although he hadn't known this was where he was supposed to be until his horse had stopped. With a snort and a bob of it's head, the stallion began up the sloping path until it came to a cleared ledge before an opening in the rock.
Here the gunman dismounted and quickly set to work removing the tack from the black steed, loosening the girth and lifting the saddle clear in one jerk. He grunted as pain shot through his side, the saddle like lead in his hands as he bent and set it on the ground before pulling off the bridal as well. He quickly stripped the blanket off the stallion's back as well as the gunman's own gear. Rifle in hand, bedroll under arm, saddle and saddle bags over his shoulders, he strode into the darkness of the rock dwelling. With a shrill cry, the stallion turned back down the path with an almost dancing stride before racing off into the scrub without so much as a plume of dust to mark that it had ever passed that way.
The light seemed to dwindle and fade away to nothing not far from the opening, as if unwilling or unable to pierce the darkness of the rock dwelling. The gunman dropped the saddle and bags, leaning his rifle against the wall. With a few neat motions he removed the string securing the bedroll and spread it out on the floor of the cavern. Inside the folds of the heavy blankets were several shirts, some socks, and an extra pair of pants. Removing his hat and coat he hung them on jutting pieces of rock that seemed created for that sole purpose. Knowing his intentions here, who's to say that wasn't the truth.
He chose a shirt at random, they were all the same after all, and took a moment to gaze at the stitches on his side before pulling it over his head. Kicking off his boots and stripping off his socks, the last thing to go was the gun belt around his waist. That too hung next to hat and coat, the faintest whispers of light glinting from the casings on the cartridges. Fishing in his pockets, he removed several objects before striding barefoot into the heavy darkness of the deeper cave. Only the sound of his breathing echoed in this still place, the sound of his own heartbeat eclipsing any other.
Then, suddenly, light. A single beam of it shining down upon a pool of water from a circular crack in the ceiling of the cavern. Kneeling next to the pool, he spread the objects out on the ground before his knees. Seven wyrids of various spirits gleamed in the light, the last one on the left the Spider wyrid the healer who would have poisoned him had worn. Taking a deep breath, he reached forward and cupped some water in his hands, the liquid dribbling down his chin and throat when he drank. A shudder raced through his body, the world before his eyes seeming to bend and dance dangerously. Bowing his head, fists lightly clenched, he felt the first of the tremors rack his muscles. "Thy will be done."
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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| Posted: Thu Mar 06, 2008 2:07 am Post subject: |
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All I want is the next damn chapter.  Its all good Kalanna. Except from the fact you have left me wanting... I made a funny. 
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| Posted: Thu Mar 06, 2008 10:46 pm Post subject: |
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only one thing:
"Seven wyrids of various spirits gleamed in the light, the last one on the left the Spider wyrid the healer who would have poisoned him had worn."
I'd leave out the phrase "who would have poisoned him," but that's probably personal preference; it does work either way.
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Kalanna Rai
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| Posted: Sun Mar 16, 2008 11:05 pm Post subject: |
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Here's a rough of the next chappy, I know I know...long time coming. So, what do you guys think, what can I add to make this better or what suggestions do you have for the next chappy?
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Chapter Five: In High Company
It happened swiftly, it always did, the sudden separation of his spirit from it's fleshly housing. For a brief, brilliant instant, he was free. His wings churned the evanescent airs of the world between worlds, seven wyrids clutched in his raking talons as he let loose a scream of pure...hatred. The chains hit him suddenly, smashing him back to the ground with their weight. His feathers scattered as his wings snapped, his talons becoming the bloodied hands of a man again. Slowly he got to his feet, wyrids wrapped tightly around his wrists as he numbly walked forward, his own wyrid an anchor around his neck.
He left bloody footprints behind him, blood dripping from his eternally stained hands to fall in silent drops along his path. Slowly he climbed the steps into the presence of the Good Spirits, never once looking up at them as they came into view. They sat on high above him, a semi-circle of judgement from which seven sets of animalistic eyes watched him, daring him to lock gazes with them. He merely walked to the small raised pedestal that sat in the middle of their semi-circle and spread the seven wyrids out before them. Then, and only then, did he look up at them, blue eyes deceptively placid.
There was silence for a long while as the spirits took in the meager fruits of the gunman's labor. Cougar broke the silence with a displeased yowl. "Seven? What a pathetic number of wyrids to bring before us. What have you been doing with your time, I wonder, because you are surely not stalking your prey."
"Hasty words Cougar." Raven softly cawed. "These times have not been easy for him, can you not see the wounds he bears even now?" The soft words of the ebony feathered bird only enraged the sandy pelted cat more and it was only Elk's bellow that stopped more angry words from being exchanged.
"Hush you two! He has brought us seven still. That is seven less wyrided for our foes, seven less wreaking havoc upon the World. Some small gratitude we should extend him, some small praise."
"I don't want your pity Elk." The voice of the gunman caused seven heads to turn and regard him once more, harsh scrutiny indeed. But the gunman bore it as he had so many times before, hands resting easily by his sides. "If you think I have out-lived my usefulness why not simply breed me and be done with it? Force some other mother's son to carry on this curse and carry out your dirty work?"
Various enraged animal noises greeted him and he found the wyrid on his neck glowing fiercely, becoming like a stone. The intense weight upon his neck forced him first to bend low, then to kneel on one, then both knees. Finally it caused him to genuflect fully, placing his forehead on the ground. His hands still rested easily by his sides, his breathing still came in even inhales and exhales, his expression was still carefully blank. Above him Bear's gruff voice rumbled. "Upstart! You forget all we do for you! Without us, you would be nothing! You would have died long ago and would now rot in some nameless grave somewhere!"
"Better to rot in hell than be a slave in heaven." He said quietly, listening with satisfaction the silence that followed. "You think I am grateful and once I was. But we have continued this dance far too long for gratitude to remain. I'm no longer the awestruck youth that first agreed to do your bidding, answer your call, give up my life in service to you. I see now the exact terms of my service. All you give me you do not give to aid me...you give it so that I might do better the tasks you set before me. You seek a perfect weapon...you will not find it in me."
It was Hawk, normally silent and watchful Hawk, that spoke next. "You would break our contract then? You would sire an heir instead, to carry out the duties you no longer have heart for?"
"It isn't just my duties I no longer have heart for, I feel the pulse of the blood through my veins, but there is only a hollow feeling in my chest most days. Once I winced when I killed a man, all of you received my prayers for the departed on more than one occasion. Now..." as his words faded he gave a small laugh. Slowly the weight in his wyrid faded and he stood once more, mild gaze empty of any trace of thought.
The spirits conversed amongst themselves, words exchanged for grunts, yowls, whistles, clicks, and various other animal sounds. Sounds the gunman had no wish to decipher for himself. Then, with her clear and piercing gaze, Hawk turned to face him. "You say you feel hollow, we know how to remedy this. Return again to your form and your steed shall take you to the answer. You claim to be hollow...this is untrue. Bring no more false claims before us again. Should you do so, the contract will be broken most unpleasantly and you shall pay the remainder. Are we clear?"
"Crystal." He said, turning and walking back into the mists of the world between worlds before his wyrid ripped him downward, slamming him painfully back into his body. He was curled on the floor next to the pool like a babe new from the womb, his muscles tender and aching from being too long tensed. He was parched and barely managed to force his body to crawl to the edge of the pool, lowering his head like a common animal to swill the water noisily. At last, lifting his head like the feral beasts, he felt something close to his usual vigor return. Gently probing the wound on his side for pain, swelling, and tenderness, he got to his feet again and padded back to where his gear lay. He pulled on socks and boots, donned his coat and guns, and took his hat in one hand.
Settling back against his saddle, he set his hat at an angle over his eyes. Slowly, as if he had not a care in the world, the gunman dozed off to await the arrival of his errant black steed.
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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| Posted: Sun Mar 23, 2008 11:06 pm Post subject: |
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Alrighty readers...this one feels like it's lacking something to me. Can you tell me what it is?
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Chapter Six: Waiting Game
The town had once been a pristine beauty, gleaming and bold, hugging her precarious perch on an island in the middle of a mighty river. She'd quickly out-grown her modest beginnings, putting forth bridges as she spread to the banks on both sides. Like a well bred lady smoothing her wide, ruffled skirts, she'd been a bastion of settlement in the unforgiving wilds. But, like any great lady, she'd aged and it hadn't been graceful.
Unsavory types had moved in, following the scent of money, raising hell of all kinds and driving out the sane population. Buildings had fallen in to disrepair, neglect ran rampant among the structures. Now the town was ramshackle and rundown, the once grand lady now a rotting husk of her former self. Masonry was crumbled where it hadn't been willfully destroyed, buildings gutted by fire or plagued with wood rot leaned like sway-back nags against each other for warmth. The outskirts had been abandoned almost entirely save where wary eyes watched from broken windows.
Many of the bridges had crumbled or become so rotted as to be unusable by those inclined to remain living. Only one remained in good repair, a stone expanse that connected the main street, with it's loose and missing cobbles, to either bank. It was on this stone expanse that the prancing steps of a black horse echoed, sparks flying from it's iron-shod hooves as they struck against the flinty surface. The eyes that watched did so from well within the shadows, whispers running rampant on the wind. The gunman had come to The Isle and his grim countenance threw a heavy shadow over the already shadowy town.
In the best saloon in town, a woman with beautiful blue eyes and golden ringlets piled high on her head fanned herself and smiled slyly at the gentlemen gambling and drinking. As warm whisky slid down throats rough with stubble, she and others like her fought silently to catch the eyes of the men with money in their pockets. She wasn't sure what had brought her to the Isle, perhaps it was the still cooling body of the last man she'd robbed? The femme fatal gave a private smile and fanned herself a little slower, realizing that none of the men in the room was interested in more than a shot of cheap liquor and a quick game of poker.
With all the elegance of a queen she stood and swept out of the dingy room, opening a delicate parasol before stepping out from under the saloon's awning and into the hot sunlight of the street. Taking care not to muss her dress, she headed for the general store to see if that new ribbon for her hair had arrived yet. Her timing could not have been more coincidental. No sooner had she left the street than the gunman's black steed swung onto it, casting a long dark shadow that chilled hearts more than it did flesh. The stallion's long, easy stride brought it to the door of the saloon where it stopped, craning it's head around to nudge it's rider.
Tipping back the brim of his hat, the gunman's gaze seared the structure, taking in ever slight detail. The cracked boards with their peeling paint, the sign too faded to be legible any longer to those lucky few of it's clientele that could read. The steps were cracked, the railing broken, and the windows no longer covered in too expensive glass. Why bother when the next fight would only see somebody flying through the recently replaced panes? "This place? Surely they do not expect whisky, women, and a winning hand to make me feel again."
The stallion tossed it's head, hooves firmly planted, snorting in the manner of a beast unlikely to budge. Slowly the gunman swung out of the saddle and walked up the sagging steps, boards creaking and cracking alarmingly under his weight. He opened the door casually and it was a testament to the self involvement of all within that it took several minutes for silence to envelope the room. Drinkers drank, ladies flirted, and cheaters cheated until someone looked up and gasped. Like dominoes, eyes flicked to the form in the doorway and froze, hearts speeding up and prayers hastily said to spirits half-believed in by men who'd never prayed a day in their lives.
The gunman's gaze raked the room, waiting for that something to tell him that he'd found what he had been sent to find. But there was nothing. He felt the ill deeds done by all in the room, felt the murders committed, the beatings administered, the robberies and con jobs, the broken hearts and emptied pockets. He felt the good deeds, done by men too rough to ever admit that they'd happened, the only things keeping them from being the next target on the other end of his gun.
He realized he'd have to wait, striding over to a chair in the corner, sinking into it and putting his feet up on the table before him. From his vantage he could easily see the door and anyone coming through it. It was a prime spot, hastily vacated by a group of thugs when they saw him coming. They stood, perplexed and nervous, for a moment before shoving some bandits out of their spot. And so it went, down the pecking order, until everyone was rearranged. The gunman tipped his hat forward over his eyes, hiding them and their purposeful stare from the room. The tension mounted to the breaking point and past, weighing down on everyone but that solitary figure in black.
Then, suddenly, someone reached their breaking point. "Hey Mister! What are you doing here?"
It took a moment for the gunman to reply in a quiet voice. "Waiting."
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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