In Thrall

I love you Gyr. ^_^ More specifically, I love how you write, but a simple 'I love you' works, too. To give you something to gauge it off of, this blows Gypsie's Eyes off the wall, Gyr, and Gypsie's Eyes was excellent.

It is, as Luna says, the small details that make the story. Not only are we invited to delve deeper into Moncreif's character, we are permitted to see Danteel in a much clearer light as well. The beginning sets the chapter up perfectly, the classic master-slave routine: Set the table and do it properly. The fact that you apply this simple technique (an action that would be common to any servant serving on Earth) to space and more specifically this universe is wonderful.

One thing, though, about the beginning:

Gyrfalcon wrote:Danteel set out the platters of food on the table as Moncreif watched him, reclining against one wall with his arms crossed. The burn from having the ends of the collar welded together still hurt at the back of his neck, but he ignored it. “No,” Moncreif corrected as Danteel placed the silverware carelessly, “fork on the right.”

You describe Moncreif's posture and his position - then immediately you go on about the burn. Halfway through the next sentence you know it's Danteel you're talking about (he's had the collar welded on, after all) but initially the stucture is confusing - the reader is still thinking in terms of Moncreif.

The way you describe the Nagai's inner reactions to Moncreif's so-called 'gall' is exemplary - the reader can see how hard it is for Danteel to take being treated like this. We can see how he strains against it, and yet has no choice but to obey. Their interactions - Moncreif correcting Danteel, Danteel internally hating Moncreif; later on, Moncreif with his whip, Danteel bracing himself to take the pain - ring so true to each character and are so well-drawn, Gyr. You have every reason to be proud of this. ^_^

The fact that there was a bet running between Moncreif and his guest was not predicted and so you manage to create something of an "Oh wow" moment when the reader realises what has been going on. ^_~ There's also an "Oh crap" moment a second later when the reader realises that Danteel isn't going to get out of this without some sort of punishment - a hard punishment at that.

Gyrfalcon wrote:The room went perfectly silent. It was as if the table had spoken. Since no one answered and no one tried to stop him—yet—Danteel craned his neck around to stare at his master out of one large black eye. “I don’t scream for twenty lashes, and we do this in private from now on. I can’t stop you beating me but I won’t be an amusement for your lackeys.”

*glee*

If the reader is not glued to the page by this point and utterly in love with poor Danteel, I think they lack a heart. ^_~ His calm, even in the face of extreme pain, his collected air and most of all his pride - it's striking. It feels as if the victory here is Danteel's after all, though he is beaten. The reader can see that Danteel is a superior being, mentally. (Ah, but can Moncreif see it, is the question? That would arguably not be good for poor Danteel. ^_^)

That, Gyr, was my favorite paragraph. It is so simple, and yet what is implied is so raw and painful. Danteel knows he will never be free; he knows he will never escape the beatings. He knows he will lose every time. And yet he maintains his dignity.

The character that he posses so completely contrasts Moncreif's sadism - it makes for a wonderulf chapter. I had to stop reading in the middle of it to go eat dinner and all through dinner I was thinking about getting away from the table to read the rest.

You will get this published, Gyr. And I get the first signed copy. ^_^

The best way for me to respond is to give you more. Be warned, you might want to have something...punchable on hand for this one.

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“I’ve been wanting to meet you all week, but not like this.”

Danteel blinked slowly and opened his eyes. With returning consciousness, the pain in his back flooded him once more. He groaned and tried to lever himself up from his stomach. “Shhh, don’t push yourself,” the soft voice above him said, and cool but gentle hands pushed him down again.

He shifted his head to look up at the source of the voice—and found himself staring into the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Her skin was dark bronze and luminous; her black hair fell long and unbound down her back. She had a delicate nose and a mild, smiling mouth. And her eyes were large and golden, as luminous as her skin.

She smiled. “Hello, you must be Danteel.”

His mouth dropped open. “Who are you?”

The girl licked her lips, dropped her eyes. “I serve the master, as you do,” she said. The golden glint at her throat should have told him that long ago.

“Moncreif!” Danteel erupted upright at the word, his back and shoulders on fire as he moved. “Why haven’t I seen you before?” he asked the girl.

She wrapped her slender arms around herself and the Nagai saw that they were covered in long, graceful scars. “The master…” she faltered. “He rescued me. There was a civil war on my world, I would have died. He…saved me.” For a long time, she was silent, perfectly still. As if it wasn’t Danteel she was seeing. “He is kind."

He noticed, for the first time, how spare her outfit was. “Stars no,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes and seemed to shrink into herself.

The door opened and Moncreif stood in the doorway, regarding the scene dispassionately. Danteel snarled and tried to lunge at him, but the pain in his back gripped him and made him drop to his knees, groaning. “So violent,” said the captain off-handedly as he strode past the prone Nagai. Danteel saw him stop, put his fingers under the young woman’s chin, and lift her from where she had knelt next to him. “Who told you that you could leave your room, Mattira?” he said, as if he were genuinely interested in the answer.

Her gaze was fixed on Moncreif’s face as if welded there, and Danteel could see she was trembling. “I’m sorry, master,” she whispered. “I only wanted to meet him.”

“You treated him as well,” said Moncreif, and Danteel could feel that his back had been carefully cleaned and the wounds closed with med-patches. “Who gave you permission to do that?” His voice was soft, almost gentle.

“I’m sorry, master,” Mattira breathed, tears forming in her closed eyes. “Please.”

“Leave her alone, Moncreif,” Danteel growled in Nagian.

The captain ignored him. He wiped Mattira’s eyes tenderly with one thin fingertip. “Go back to your rooms,” he said. “I’ll deal with you later.”

For a moment, Mattira hesitated. She glanced at Danteel, seemed about to say something. “I will deal with you later,” said her master again, harder. She left.

Moncreif turned his attention to Danteel, who worked his way steadily, painfully to his feet. “You bastard,” he bit out. The captain took one step forward and shoved Danteel back against the wall. His fresh injuries hit the bulkhead and he cried out.

“You slave,” Moncreif said calmly. He stepped towards Danteel, his nearness keeping the Nagai’s injured back pressed to the wall. “Do you imagine that this is a game?” said Moncreif, still icy cool. “Do you imagine that you are still free to do whatever you please without reaping the consequences? Do you imagine that you are free at all?”

Danteel surged forward, his hands going for the captain's throat. Almost casually Moncreif sidestepped the attack, giving his slave the barest of pushes to throw him off-balance and onto the metal floor.

The Nagai hit the deck hard and stayed, the pain of his flogging preempting any motion that might add to that pain.

The captain smiled. “It seems you are capable of learning something in a day,” he said.

Danteel didn’t even try to rebuff him; pain coursed through every nerve. Moncreif crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet, his hands resting lightly on his bent knees. “I am not a monster, Danteel,” he said, regarding the prone Nagai. “I am a reasonable man, far more than most. I desire things to be a certain way, and it is within my power to make them that way. As long as you do not interfere, Danteel, as long as you can learn to adapt, I think you will do very well here. You are intelligent, I grant that, and surely you can see how foolish this struggle is. How unnecessary.” Without another word, he rose and strode out of the small room the Nagai had been dumped in, and Danteel heard him turn the key in the lock.

Gyrfalcon wrote: The best way for me to respond is to give you more. Be warned, you might want to have something...punchable on hand for this one.

Heh, you give yourself too little credit. This one did not quite flow as well as the previous one, it's true, but it's not bad by any means. While the previous part went along like a final draft, a passage out of novel, this one was a little more rough around the edges - just needs to be polished up a bit. ^_^

The most awkward part was the dynamic with the girl - it didn't really ring true. She sounded - how to say it? - wooden almost, like she was an actress fufilling a role, that was all. There was not much emotion, not much passion or drive. Certainly a female prisoner (a female prisoner of her... ah, duties, as she puts it - and I'm sure Moncreif beats her, too) would act differently; she would be quiet, nervous, introverted. She would be in pain - as much, if not more, on the inside than on the outside. One has to think that she would be broken down, spiritless - especially with the ever-so-sadistic Moncreif as her master. You might want to add some depth to her as a character.

Though Imp made a very good point on this: perhaps the aim with this was "not downtrodden, but long-suffering and still good". Which works, in this context - I would just work on adding a little extra to her, to make her a bit more believable and grounded in reality. ^_~

Another note is on Danteel: he's just been flogged. Though the sight and presence of Mattira might momentarily distract him, it seems unlikely that he'll just forget about it.

And on Danteel again - the beating in this chapter overdoes it a bit. When you dole out action like that, pain being inflicted, it's a good idea to do it in small doses so it's more striking. The previous chapter was that, and it was, indeed, striking. The fact that Moncreif beats Danteel yet again in this part seems a bit superfluous, like you're putting too much of it in. The suffering of the Nagai at the hands of his captor would, I think, make much more of an impression if inferred, in places. ^_~

Good job, though, with the general draft. I look forward to more, Gyr, best of luck on it. ^_^



(Critted for the CCF)

Hello Gyr!...

No line by line from the Imp at present for various reasons - though highest on the list would be time constraint. ^_^

Rather, I'm going to go through impressions and character. It will be blunt; but with a foundation in writing and style, all there is to pull apart is relationship and character.

As some of the previous comments have enumerated, you've well-balanced and consistent style. It's neither too flowery nor minimalist. (It reminds me somewhat of Timothy Zahn - read his, yes? Though he had his devices that stuck out more apparently than anything I've seen in this.)

You set your scene. You hit the reader hard with conflict, conflict that weaves character in neatly enough that one's sympathies are yanked in, despite reason.

At the first thought, this is good, of course. In the second: Its pitfall is a tendency to manipulate the reader rather involve him.

No one wants a sympathetic, confident and/or 'strong' character subjugated to a sadistic megalomaniac. One is obviously the villain. The other - is he the protagonist and hero, or the victim?

Further in (past the first installment) I began to feel Danteel was going to tortured to Hell's end and I was along against my will - if willingly pitying the poor fellow - until the end of time. Naturally, death would likely come first for one of us. ^_^''

Is there going to be hope of Danteel's release and 'healing'? Or is it a story with only escape as an end, only death to hope for and will Danteel, then as follows, hope for suicide before natural (perhaps not so natural under Moncreif) death?

Some stories will end and tend that way. Others have a propensity to the tenacious human (or not human for Danteel) aptitude to live no matter. And there are stories that get caught in the pain, confusion, dread of their inner workings and can't see out.

I don't think this is the third. But I'd watch it rather carefully for wandering that way. ^_~

Then, there's Lark. Pleasant fellow, rather naive, perhaps?

All right then - why is he good? Why does he treat Danteel as he does? (One might, in this world, say it was his inclination - religious, Christian - but is there anything like it in Danteel's world?)

Though I was immediately fond of him, something felt inexplicable in his care. He's willing to call Moncreif a 'bastard' to his face after Danteel has told him of the man's tradition of allowing his slave to kill newcomers on whim?

Lark doesn't seem the sort to react well to fear. He wouldn't care for Danteel because he thought he would be killed otherwise; he wouldn't do it, even, for 'owing' him if he didn't think the owing were for the right reasons.

So perhaps, if Lark were fleshed out even slightly. The good are angry as well. But a man who has always been around the relatively good-hearted, and is so himself, who may be somewhat shy or timid (is he?) would be unlikely to burst out.

That leaves Moncreif in my thoughts.

He is, apparently and in one word, a sadist. He takes pleasure in other's pain, and in control. This, I assume, is how he got to his position? A good manipulator.

I thought I found shades of Thrawn in him, if you've read Zahn. Thrawn twisted and devoid of any sense of honour; perhaps little sense of strategy - he's too self-involved. I think that some allusion (background eventually - not immediately perhaps) will make him a more solid personality.


All right - out of time, Gyr. ^_^ I enjoyed 'In Thrall' as it is. Its weakness may only be a stutter on depth at points, a slight rush - ask questions constantly. I'll try to go through a bit more thoroughly (even by line) later on.


IMP


[ critted for the Cabassi ]

Imp, Dreamy, thanks SO much for all your help. You're both very right about this last instalment--it's very recent, especially compared to the others, and I appreciate the comments. Thank you both very much for your crits on the story over all, as well (I never really intended this stuff to be read, so I didn't look at it that way). I look foward to taking your comments back to my draft and seeing what happens!

Much better on the rewrite, Gyr. It has a much more polished feel now. ^_^ I got a better glimpse of both Mattira and Danteel in this scene.

Though there are still a few places where the flow seems to stutter - I shall try to point them out for you:


Description of Mattira:

Gyrfalcon wrote: He shifted his head to look up at the source of the voice—and found himself staring into the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Her skin was dark bronze and gleamed like metal; her long, silky hair was jet black. She had a delicate nose and a mild, smiling mouth. And her eyes were large and solid gold with dark, milky pupils watching him kindly.

The description here is a bit hard to get through - some of it's awkward. Her skin gleamed like metal; the phrase gives her something of a machinistic, emotionless feel, which might work well for symbolism but for the purposes off description it feels off. Skin might be luminous, certainly - it might have a glow to it. But will it really gleam like metal?

Also, too many adjectives on the hair; I think just one would serve you better, two if you absolutely need them. But you describe not only the length, but also the texture, the color, and then the type of color. It's a little too much all at once.

Milky pupils doesn't work very well either, it trips the reader up. Your description of the eyes is fine - large and solid gold - but here again, we've seen pupils. They're dark, and this is information we already have so here it seems like to much again.

Though, keep in mind, Gyr, that these are just suggestions - and I had to look long and hard through the piece to find much to advise you on. You've definitely got a natural talent for this, I think. ^_^

Here:


Mattira's Character:

Gyrfalcon wrote: She wrapped her slender arms around herself and the Nagai saw that they were covered in long, graceful scars. “The master…” she faltered. Her beautiful golden eyes were turned inwards, seeing horrors he couldn’t even imagine. “I have…certain duties.”

Mattira again. Much much better on the dialogue between her and Danteel and on her general air. The only thing that catches here is the third line: Her beautiful golden eyes turned inwards, seeing horrors he couldn't even imagine. It doesn't sound right. I think I understand the dynamic you're trying to create here, but perhaps there's some other way of writing it. I'd like to quote, if I may, Schindler's List - the Commandant and his maid do not have quite the same relationship as Moncreif and Mattira, but watch how Keneally does it:

"'Herr Schindler," murmered the girl. She put her head down and wept neatly, economically for a few seconds. "Herr Schindler, he likes to beat me in front of those women. On my first day here, he beat me because I threw out the bones from dinner. He came down the the basement at midnight and asked me where they were. For his dogs, you understand. That was the first beating. I said to him... I don't know why I said it; I'd never say it now... Why are you beating me? He said, The reason I'm beating you now is you asked me why I'm beating you."

She shook her head and shrugged, as if reproving herself for talking so much. She didn't want to say any more; she couldn't convey the history of her punishments, her repeated experience of the Hauptsturmfuhrer's fists.

There's drama and you feel pity - unspeakable amounts of pity - for the girl: and her duties don't even include Mattira's. I would still try to work on her a bit, but you're much closer now, to what you're trying to accomplish with her. ^_^


A Quick Note:

Gyrfalcon wrote:“Leave her alone, Moncreif,” Danteel growled.

... I wouldn't do the whole line in italics. ^_~


... And so on.

This is so much better, Gyr, than the first draft. Mattira's deeper, Danteel's deeper and so is Moncreif. Their dynamic is clearer and the ending reads much cleaner. ^_^ Great job, Gyr, this is a big improvement.

*bows* thank you very much, darling! I can totally see what you mean about Mattira, both character-wise and description-wise (I do have a bad thing for dumping too much descritption on people) As always, your crits make me excited about correcting them! The next installment should be coming soon, possibly even tonight. Be warned, it's also un-polished, like this scene, but I hope it works!

oh, and a note to Imp: I can't guarantee an exactly happy ending, but it won't end in despair, I promise

Better on this edit, Gyr, by far - it's come along nicely and there's not much more I can suggest you look at. It reads at a nice pace and the characterization, I think, fits well.

Hope I helped a bit, with all this. As for now, I just look forward to another chapter. ^_^

Well done, Gyr.

Danteel stood under the warm, soothing spray of the shower, the compressed water relaxing the tense muscles in his scarred back as nothing else could have. Steam clogged each breath, but he reveled in the moisture-thick air. He braced his thin arms on either side of the small, tiled chamber and hung his head, letting the scalding spray hit his neck and shoulders. To be truly clean for the first time in over a month—heaven.

He breathed deep and pulled his hair off his neck, his fingers brushing the gold collar. He shifted his body slightly so that the pressurized water beat against every square centimeter of skin.

“This is not a spa resort,” came Moncreif’s angry voice from the other side of the opaque shower door.

“You said you wanted me clean and not reeking of Nagai, blood, and sweat,” Danteel retorted, lathering on another layer of soap, scraping his white skin with the rough scrubber. “After weeks of nothing but those cold, five-minute stints, what can you expect?” It gave him a glowing sort of pleasure to be able to talk back this way, if only for the moment—the shower door was a more effective barrier between he and his master than a stone wall.

Moncreif had been agitated since yesterday afternoon, when he had announced that the Avarice would host an esteemed guest in three days’ time. He had declined to explain further, but after the evening meal he had declared that Danteel should have a proper shower, haircut, and new clothes before the guest arrived.

Now the Nagai fingered his long black hair as it dripped with water. What had, only a few weeks ago, been mere hints of silver were developing into solid silver side locks. Not that he cared much. The accumulating scars on his back were of much more immediate importance.

Finally deciding that he had pushed his shower time as far as he could, he turned the water off and opened the door a crack to grab a towel. After drying himself and wrapping the towel—the softest thing he had touched in a month—around his waist, he stepped out into his master’s refresher station. Moncreif grabbed his hair and threw him out of the small room, scowling. Danteel landed on his knees, grabbing the back of a chair so as not to fall, his scalp on fire. “What was that for?” he hissed.

Moncreif strode over to him and Danteel flinched as he saw his master’s booted feet approach, expecting a kick. “Get up,” Moncreif snapped, “get dressed. There are fresh clothes in your room.”

Slowly, Danteel rose. After his first, public, beating, Moncreif had been careful not to touch him when others were watching. Perhaps the man had a sense of honor after all. Of course, that didn’t stop him from hurting the Nagai when they were alone. Danteel made his way carefully around Moncreif’s imposing form and into his own, tiny cell. Silently he dressed, enjoying the feel of the fresh linen against his clean skin. Instinctively his fingers brushed the golden collar at his throat. The familiar shiver of hatred and fear went down his spine.

He began to emerge, then froze, still in the doorway to his room. His eyes were fixed on Mattira. She stood next to their master, her head down and her scarred arms wrapped around herself. Instead of the spare costume he had first seen her in, she now wore an outfit much like his—brown slacks and a white linen shirt. Her long black hair hung wet down her back; apparently she had just finished a shower as well.

Danteel’s gaze shifted from her to Moncreif. The Nagai took one, deliberate step towards the human. Moncreif’s thin lips twitched in a brief smile. “She needs a haircut as well.”

The Nagai forced himself into stillness, but his rage sent tremors throughout his entire body. Mattira glanced up at him, giving him a brave little smile that somehow made it worse.

“Come,” Moncreif ordered, and his slaves followed him out of the captain’s quarters, into the turbolift, and down so many levels that the Nagai lost count. Danteel tried to catch Mattira’s eye again, but her expression had gone static, her beautiful golden eyes blank, internalizing every sensation. With every heartbeat Danteel swore he would kill the man who had done this to her.

As they descended, Danteel turned his gaze to the captain. The Nagai had never seen his master suppressing so much anger, and Danteel wondered what had caused it. Of course he didn’t ask; even after three weeks and five more beatings, he hadn’t gotten used to the sting of the whip.

They emerged out of the turbolift into a long corridor, dimly lit by comparison to the rest of the ship. Moncreif grabbed Mattira’s arm in his long fingers, and she didn’t resist as he pulled her into the hallway.

Moncreif entered the first door on the right-hand side and Danteel followed him—right into a wall of heat that nearly knocked him over. After the low light in the hallway, the lighting here exploded into his eyes like novas, the deafening noise crushed in on him like a physical force. Mattira let out a soft cry and threw up her free arm to ward off the light.

They were in the kitchens. The clamor didn’t stop when they entered, but it lessened, the shifty eyes of the cooks evaluating them. A small, formidable blond woman strode up to them, wiping her hands on a stained apron. Her neutral blue eyes scanned them warily. “Captain,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know you’re busy, Gassil, but I need your services. These two require haircuts.”

For the first time, Gassil’s eyes focused on Mattira. Her hard expression softened. “Hello, there,” she said to the girl, not unkindly. For the first time, Danteel saw Mattira give a full, genuine smile. The cook returned it.

Then Gassil caught sight of Danteel, and her guard went up once more. To Moncreif, she said, “When?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“Your equipment is in your quarters, yes? Take them there; you know what to do.” She nodded. Moncreif turned to go, but glanced at Danteel before he left, his eyes flashing. “I trust you will find your way back.”

The Nagai found that—in the glare of those eyes and their promise of pain—he could now remember exactly how many levels they had descended. He nodded. “Good,” said Moncreif, and strode out.

Gassil stood there, looking at the two of them for a moment. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms warmly around Mattira. The girl flinched slightly, but not from fear, and clumsily returned the embrace. “I was starting to worry about you,” said Gassil, releasing her. “Come on, we can talk in my quarters.” She and Mattira swept past Danteel and, left with little choice, he followed.

Gassil’s quarters were on the same level, only a few corridors away from the enormous kitchens. They were larger than Danteel had expected, and while the furnishings certainly weren’t luxurious, they were higher quality than the wages of a ship’s cook might allow for. Mattira seemed to relax once they were inside; she went straight to a framed painting of some Locus Nova landscape and said, “Is this one new? It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, I bought that on my last trip to the homeworld,” said Gassil, opening a drawer in a storage cupboard and bringing out her equipment. Danteel, though no expert in the latest human hair-cutting technology, saw that it all looked relatively new and advanced. The razor was blade-less, probably employing laser technology, and though the nature of scissors would, he was sure, never really change, hers looked professional-grade.

“Do you function as ship’s barber as well?” he asked. “Is that how you can afford all this.” The words were, perhaps, spoken with more harshness than the woman’s behavior had merited.

She looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. “Who’s this, Mattira?” she asked the girl, while keeping her eyes on Danteel.

Mattira’s expression regained some of its blankness. “His name is Danteel,” she said. “He’s new.”

“Is he now?” said Gassil.

Danteel had the feeling of being evaluated by cool blue eyes. He tried to remember where he had felt that before. “Do you know a man called Daxon?” he asked abruptly, keeping his face impassive.

The name elicited an immediate reaction. “What?” Gassil hissed. “How do you know him?”

The association was obviously not a pleasant one for her. Nor was it for Danteel. “He bet Moncreif that I would scream after my first ten lashes,” he said, calmly. “I lasted till twenty. How do you know him?”

Gassil sank down into a chair, still holding the razor and scissors. “He’s my brother,” she whispered.

“I gather that you two are not on speaking terms?” said Danteel icily. The memory of those arrogant blue eyes, of that voice edging Moncreif on, could never fully leave him.

“Leave her alone!” The command, quite unexpected, came from Mattira. She stood next to the landscape, trembling slightly, piercing Danteel with her golden gaze.

The Nagai stood there for a moment, stunned by the outburst. Then, swallowing his pride, he turned to Gassil. “I apologize,” he said, stiffly but sincerely. “It was not my business.”

“You’re right, it wasn’t,” she said, but there was no venom in the words. She had that look of infinite weariness that he had so often felt, and he began to feel some real regret creep into his sentiment. She stood wearily, and gestured him to the seat she had just occupied. “Go ahead, sit down. This will only take a few minutes.”

Danteel sat. There was a moment or two’s busy bustling behind him, and then the gentle aura of heat on the back of his neck—probably the razor. He jerked violently, and the mild laser just brushed his neck. The welder! It was as if the instrument used to weld the collar—that owning, wretched, despised thing—onto his neck was once again performing its enslaving task.

Only with a supreme effort of will did he calm himself. For a moment, Gassil was silent, and he wondered if she would ask. She didn’t.

In ten minutes, she had finished. She handed him a mirror, the gesture apparently being nothing but reflex for her. But he grabbed at the reflective surface, hungry, after weeks with only glimpses into steel bulkheads and armor, for a look at himself.

His face was, if possible, thinner than ever before, the cheekbones jutting out and the eye hollows sunken, so that his already-haunting eyes were now positively wraith-like. The black hair that he had allowed to grow long had been drastically trimmed. It no longer brushed his neck, but was now close-cut, molded around his head. His back-sweeping, pointed ears were clearly visible, white as pearl against the inkiness of his hair.
It was an alien face that stared at him.

Worst of all: the golden glint around his slender throat. This was not the face of Danteel, noble son of Nagi. This was the face of a slave. He snarled at himself, letting the silver blaze of anger rise in his eyes. There, that was better.

Repressing the instinct to throw the mirror across the room, he handed it civilly back to Gassil. “Thank you,” he said, his voice oily.

She had seen the silver blaze, and now viewed him with a degree of caution, being careful to accept the mirror back gently. “You’ll have to wait while I do Mattira,” she said, her voice uncertain now.

“Fine,” he said pleasantly, and sat down to wait.

Gassil began the same process on Mattira, but only trimming her sable locks a few centimeters. She tried to chat with the girl, but the slave had withdrawn, once more, into herself. Danteel sat and watched, feeling the cold fury grow within him, and enjoying the sensation.

For being, as you say, a relatively un-polished piece, this one reads much better than its predecessor on the first run through. This one won't need near as much attention and revision as the last one did (which turned out very nicely, by the way). ^_^

The first paragraph is great, absolutely. In fact, that whole stretch of paragraphs with Danteel in the shower moves along quite nicely and presents a very clear picture. Moncreif's reaction - indignant, irritated - only makes it better.

Gyrfalcon wrote: “You said you wanted me clean and not reeking of Nagai, blood, and sweat,” Danteel retorted, lathering on another layer of soap, scraping his white skin with the rough scrubber. “After weeks of nothing but those cold, five-minute stints, what can you expect?” It gave him a glowing sort of pleasure to be able to talk back this way.

... why is he able to talk back like this, though? o0 You go on to say that Moncreif has been agitated lately - but knowing him like the reader knows him at this point, I would find it doubtful that this agitation would distract him from Danteel. If anything it would heap more punishment and uncalled for pain upon the poor Nagai.

In the part where Danteel is getting dressed, you write: "Silently he dressed, enjoying the clean white linen against his clean white skin." I'm not sure that repetition should be your aim here - it makes the line sound simplistic with double on the 'clean' and 'white'. I would consider rewriting it, but it's a small, thing, Gyr; whichever you decide. ^_^

Gyrfalcon wrote:They emerged out of the turbolift into a long corridor, dimly lit by comparison to the rest of the ship. Moncreif grabbed Mattira’s arm in his long fingers, and she didn’t resist as he pulled her into the hallway. Danteel forced himself to not rip the man’s throat out.

"Danteel forced himself to not rip the man's throat out" - it is not needed. It drags on the end of the paragraph; I think it would be better left to inference. Like Danteel's beatings - they lose their potency if used to much. Same here. Danteel's been thinking death threats at Moncreif since his captivity, you don't want to overdue it, especially where Mattira is concerned. Only two paragraphs up, you say virtually the same thing.


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(to be continued...)

(continued from previous...)


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Their entrance into the kitchens and their meeting with the cook is well-written, good job there. ^_^

Gyrfalcon wrote: The Nagai found that he could now remember exactly how many levels they had descended. He nodded. “Good,” said Moncreif, and strode out.

... but Danteel only just realized that he knew the distance? Or he only just discerned the distance? The way you've written that line is a bit confusing, I would advice changing it a bit.

Gassil and Mattira's relationship, the hug Gassil gives the slave is touching and unexpected. The reader figures the two know each other, but distantly - the fact that Gassil now partially fufills the role of protector/friend adds a knew dimension to it - good job on that. ^_~ Mattira's exploration of the cook's quarters and her inquiry about the painting only add. ^_^ The fact that Mattira - quiet, timid Mattira actually scolds Danteel for his mention of Daxon to Gassil is wonderful. There's so much character development in this chapter.

Gyrfalcon wrote:Worst of all: the golden glint around his slender throat. This was not the face of Danteel, noble son of Nagi. This was the face of a slave. He snarled at himself, letting the silver blaze of anger rise in his eyes. There, that was better.

Perfect. ^_^

(Though I believe 'Nagi', above, is supposed to be 'Nagai'.)

Excellent, Gyr, far more polished and far deeper than you gave it credit for. I look forward to the next installment, and I'd like to commend you on your work with Mattira especially - she's turning into a great character. ^_^

Hello again, Gyr. ^_^

(over the re-draft)

DD has hit the most points on Mattira, even in the redraft. But to reiterate from a different perspective - it looks ten times better. She still has the good, but by circumstances, she's obviously broken. And you set that out with the small things; detail in dialogue; reactions.

You've managed similarly with Lark. His actions - especially with the interjection of his medical profession - seem more fluid now, less posed.

All that said, it's the small things that differentiate people, and that can define a character. Danteel is most developed of any of the cast. His culture and his backgound give him more depth; you've contrasted his understanding of things with the world around him.

...Speaking of Detail: For all its consistency in style and tone, for all its pacing (carried well, I've said ^_^) - it still needs definition. Being derived from Star Wars is as good a way to start as any.

What is this place/galaxy/world really?

Moncreif had been agitated since yesterday afternoon, when he had announced that the Avarice would host an esteemed guest in three days’ time. He had declined to explain further, but after the evening meal he had declared that Danteel should have a proper shower, haircut, and new clothes before the guest arrived.

This caught my eye as being a segue towards or into that. Perhaps this guest, perhaps the visit explains sidewise more of the poltical structure? more of the customs?...

Again, 'tis the small things that make a whole. And this needn't necassarily all be dragged through or brought out in the first draft, or even in the second.

The Nagai, and the glimpses we get of both the moral and intellectual tendencies there, are very telling. Moncreif's first encounter with Danteel is an excellent example.

But about the rest? The entire world?

Questions -

What are the different languages like? 'Basic' and which others? Language forms the way people think.

What is the political structure of the government? If there's any conflict, would it tie-in at all to Danteel's struggle?


...That's only to begin it. You'll have to pardon me driving into the world-building side of things. But when you have such neatness already in narrative (overwhelmingly) it begins to be the depth and conception of the place and characters that can be worked on.

At the moment, I still run in to passages and dialogue that drop me sharply back into Star Wars 'nostalgia'. ^_~ By the end of this, I know you can have a setting that's yours, entirely Gyr.

(end comments on redraft and world)

Imp, Dreamy, as ever you two are invaluable!!! Imp, you bring up fantastic points about the world-building side of things. In fact, the world-building seems to have taken care of itself--I hope you'll learn more in the next section (good guess about the guest bringing more info). As always, thank you very, very much!

note to Dreamy: Danteel's homeworld is, in fact, called "Nagi," thus the inhabitants of Nagi are "Nagai"

At first, when the urgent shaking awoke Danteel, he didn’t know where he was. For a moment, he thought it was Krieve pulling him from sleep, but then gray eyes became green ones before his vision and he erupted out of bed. “Moncreif!”

“Shut up!” the human growled, shoving him back to a sitting position. “I don’t have time for this now, Danteel, we need to hurry. He’s here, stars damn him, he’s here almost two days early.”

“Who’s here?” the Nagai snarled, suppressing the desire to shout. This man ruled all his waking moments, must he now invade Danteel’s sleep as well?

“Our guest, you idiot, the one I told you about last night. His shuttle’s docking as we speak, now get up and get dressed.”

Danteel had never seen his master so agitated. True, Moncreif was angry almost all the time, but it was a cold, controlled kind of anger. The kind of anger that led a man to make small-talk while he skillfully turned your back into a flayed slab of meat. Someone powerful enough to make this man break a sweat was someone Danteel had to see, if only for his own sense of battered but functioning curiosity.

He stood and pulled on one of his sleeveless white tunics, tucking it into the brown slacks he slept in. Then, slipping his feet into a pair of boots, he said, “Well, let’s go then.”

* * *

The shuttle was a beautiful thing, small, sleek, and supple, like a silver fish gliding gently out of the blackness of space. There was only the very barest thump when it set down, and the hiss as the docking ramp lowered.

Danteel stood just behind the captain’s left shoulder, along with the dozen or so soldiers who had been on night duty, and had been hastily commanded into dress armor. Moncreif also had put on his best dress uniform, all sable and black leather and silver rank cylinders. He stood as perfectly still as if he had been frozen by his own barely suppressed anger.

And then the guest emerged.

Danteel had to admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that it was an anticlimax. A small, balding, and vaguely round man descended the ramp, with a well-dressed young woman at his side. He wasn’t even in a military uniform, but was attired in expensive and, in Danteel’s opinion, tasteless civilian clothes.

As the Nagai watched the man approach the welcoming party, however, he noticed something. The guest’s walk betrayed him—no matter how hard he tried to hide it with his outfit or appearance, this man had seen battle. It was there in the steady, deliberate swinging of the legs, never using too much energy but moving with a confidence that said they’d outrun death more than once.

The man and his companion stopped a few feet away from Moncreif, and the captain bowed. Danteel could see how hard the gesture was for him, could see the stiff muscles resisting this necessary bit of ceremony. The Nagai smiled, just barely, and made his own bow a fraction higher than Moncreif’s. “Welcome, Governor,” said the captain. “I…apologize that there is not a full honor guard here to meet you, but you did take us slightly by surprise. We had not looked for you until the end of the week.”

The guest laughed and slapped Moncreif heartily on the back. Danteel winced, imagining what such a gesture would do to his own back.

“Sorry for the early arrival, captain, but you know how things go.” Even the voice was full of the lie: Danteel would have sworn the man had learned that tone of oblivious joviality.

“Yes indeed, sir,” Moncreif said, the word grating on him. “But I’m afraid your quarters are not yet ready, and,” here he turned to the man’s companion and his attitude changed slightly, “we were not expecting you to bring…another.”

“This is Alita, my latest apprentice,” the Governor explained. “Say hello to the captain, ‘Lita.”

She bowed, her long brown hair spilling off her shoulders as she did so. “It is an honor to meet you, sir,” she said softly.

Danteel stiffened. He had heard that tone before, that quiet not of subservient fear. In Mattira’s voice. But perhaps here it was different, the man had called her his apprentice, hadn’t he, and maybe humans showed respect differently in that situation.

Moncreif inclined his head slightly. “Thank you,” he said. “So you’re Jonahn’s apprentice, are you? I thought he gave that business up after they gave him Shinjara.”

The Nagai started. He had heard that word before, it was one of the five provinces of Locus Nova, the new human homeworld. Governor…if this man ruled Shinjara, then he was one of the most powerful and wealthy humans alive.

The man, Jonahn, laughed again, his fake mirth starting to crack. “Can’t let all my secrets die with me, eh?” he said. “As to my quarters, I believe you promised me an office adjacent to my chamber? She can stay there, just pull out a sleeping pad and she should be all right.”

“Yes,” said Moncreif through his teeth, “but in fact your quarters themselves are not fully prepared yet. My slave had only just begun the process this evening.”

Jonahn seemed to notice Danteel for the first time. For once, his reaction seemed genuine. “By Sol, Moncreif, you have a Nagai!”

Danteel could see the tight little shiver of pleasure this exclamation gave his master, and he scowled. “Yes,” said Moncreif coolly, “got him about a month ago. Next to impossible to tame, of course, but I’m making progress.” He flashed the Nagai a brief look. “We have…an understanding.”

The guest regained his mask of stupidity quickly. “Very rare, yes? I hear you can even speak their language. Do a few words for me, won’t you?”

“Don’t let him fool you,” said Moncreif in Nagian, looking at Jonahn but speaking to Danteel. “There’s more to him than you think.”

“I know,” replied Danteel evenly. “I’m not a fool either.”

Jonahn’s smile wavered. “It is an, um, interesting tongue, isn’t it” he said uncertainly. Danteel remembered that humans often found his language vaguely disturbing, like a beautiful but unknown serpent, one they couldn’t be sure wasn’t poisonous. The Governor shook his head, as if dismissing the alien words. “Anyway, anyway,” he said, “all I need for now is a soft bed with clean sheets—surely it shouldn’t take too long to set that up?”

Moncreif’s shoulders lost a little of their stiffness. “I suppose not,” he conceded. Then, to Danteel, “Take care of them. If you do this well and report what they say to me, I might give you the time to regain this lost sleep. Do you understand me?”

Danteel nodded, silently.

The captain gestured at the Nagai. “He will show you to your quarters and make you as comfortable as possible.”

“He does understand Basic?” asked Jonahn doubtfully.

“Enough to take orders,” said Moncreif, shooting Danteel a warning look that the Nagai ignored.

“And I suppose…” the faltering words came from Alita, standing just behind the Governor. “I suppose,” she said, “he is safe?”

“Safe enough,” replied Moncreif. “And certainly nothing a Weaver need fear.”

Alita inclined her head slightly, as if the word were a compliment. Danteel had never heard it before. But now the Governor and his apprentice were moving off, and he had to rush to get ahead of them. Once there, he gestured towards the nearest turbolift and waited as they entered first.

Despite himself, and Moncreif’s subtle commands and expectations, the Nagai was genuinely curious. But Jonahn did not drop character once the lift started moving, nor in the long corridor that led to his quarters, nor when Danteel opened the door to those quarters and showed them inside.

Only once the main door was closed and he had dropped wearily into one of the chairs in the small sitting room did the human say, “Oh, stars, how I hate that man.” His voice had lost its round jocularity and now Danteel could hear the natural roughness he had been hiding.

The Nagai was careful not to react to the words. He entered the bedroom, stripped the sheets from the bed, and fed them into the laundry chute, then procured new ones from the cupboard in the sitting room. He moved with that careful, unobtrusive grace he had learned as a noble, bounty hunter, and slave. He needn’t have bothered. As always with the humans, it was as if he wasn’t there.

“Then why did we come here, sir?” asked Alita as Danteel applied the new sheets.

Jonahn snorted. “For precisely that reason. I don’t like him, and it totally ruins his mood whenever I’m around. Eh, slave,” he said, and Danteel appeared at the doorway from the bedroom. “Anything to drink around here?” the human demanded. Danteel inclined his head and went to the small drinks cupboard he had placed in the office only that afternoon, as part of his first preparations for their arrival.

Somehow, the order didn’t grate against him as Moncreif’s did. Perhaps it was the deliciousness of being underestimated, practically invisible. If nothing else, the captain knew exactly what he was capable off.

Fool, thought Danteel of Jonahn as he poured the man’s drink. There’s more to him than expected, yes, but he has yet to learn that that’s true of me as well.

He brought the drink out on a tray in time to hear, “…and it’s always bothered him that I’m a Word Weaver, always will, I expect. Ah, the drinks,” he said, though there was only one. He took the glass in his hand, swirled it, then downed the amber-colored liquid in one draft. He made a satisfied noise and replaced the glass. “Another.”

“Do you think that’s really—” Alita began, but Jonahn cut her off.

“Whatever else you can say of the man, he provides a fine brandy.” He noticed Danteel still standing there and shooed him away. “Another, another,” he said, “don’t you understand? More drinks.” He gestured at the empty glass and repeated, “More.”

Danteel again inclined his head—not quite a bow—and went to pour the man another. Once in the next room he strained his ears and could just make out their conversation. “”How long do you plan to stay here?” Alita was asking.

“As long as I need to, perhaps a month even.”

“Surely there must be safer—”

“No. Moncreif’s blasted difficult, it’s true, but he doesn’t balk at it when he knows he owes someone.” There was the sound of the Governor shifting in his chair. “And he runs one of the tightest ships in the Realm.”

Danteel moved the bottle, tray, and glass closer to the half-open door to hear better. “Forgive the impertinence, sir,” said Alita softly, “But what did you do for him?”

Jonahn was silent for a long time. When he did speak, he said, “Slave! Where are those drinks?”

The Nagai jerked into motion, bringing out the half-full bottle as well and leaving it next to the glass on the tray. Just as he was about to go on with his work, Jonahn said, “Wait. Come here.”

Danteel came and inclined his head slightly towards the man, as if to hear him better. Moving fast, Jonahn hooked two muscular fingers through Danteel’s collar and pulled, jerking the Nagai off balance. He fell half onto the table, knocking the bottle over with the tinkling sound of breaking glass and spilling the brandy. Before he could react, Jonahn was up, dragging Danteel up with him and slamming him against the wall. The fingers released his collar and Danteel clawed at it, gasping for the air that had been denied him.

“That’s the way one deals with aliens,” said Jonahn, very self-satisfied.

The cold, burning anger rose within Danteel with each sucking breath.

“Now, Moncreif’s got a bit of a weakness for alien women. Even tried to marry one once.”

The silver blaze grew in his eyes, the inner screams for vengeance clouding out all else.

“Let’s just say that I—”

“Behind you!” Alita cried, throwing herself on Jonahn and just knocking him out of the way as Danteel attacked. He had the broken neck of the bottle in one hand, its edges still dripping fine brandy. He had cut his hand on the sharp glass and now the alcohol made it sting, but he ignored the pain.

Kill, came the beating of his heart, and with every thump kill, kill, kill the sheczkall.

But a sound cut through the pounding rage. Someone was singing. Alita stood before him, unarmed and unafraid, blocking the way to his purpose. She was singing, steadily, confidently, in a language he did not know. He felt the song as an almost physical force, trying to calm him. Danteel snarled, shut the voice out of his head, and lunged.

He hadn’t seen Jonahn dart out from behind Alita while she sang, and sneak up behind him.

All he felt was the man’s fist as it connected with his skull.

This moved right along, Gyr and it brought out new aspects of both Moncreif and Danteel - then ending was cruelly devised, there should be a law against leaving readers hanging like that. ^_~

The first line is a bit awkwardly constructed:

Gyrfalcon wrote:Danteel hardly ever dreamed, and so it was strange that, when the urgent shaking awoke him, for a moment he didn't know where he was.

I wouldn't start out with stating that Danteel dreamed unless you plan to mention the dream again at some point later in the sentence or paragraph - but as it is, you only tell us that he didn't know where he was. ... Though he wouldn't need to have dreamed for that to happen, would he? I would cut the part about the dream (and ergo how strange 'it was'); it divides the readers' attention. ^_~

Gyrfalcon wrote:As the Nagai watched the man approach the welcoming party, however, he noticed something. The guest’s walk betrayed him—no matter how hard he tried to hide it with his outfit or appearance, this man had seen battle. It was there in the steady, deliberate swinging of the legs, never using too much energy but moving with a confidence that said they’d outrun death more than once.

Perhaps it's the "steady, deliberate swinging of the legs" that throws it off. But something seems wrong with that description. It makes the reader think of the man's legs and not the man as a person. Maybe there's some other way of describing his walk? ... Something to the effect of "The guest's walk betrayed him - no matter how hard he tried to hide it with his outfit ['and appearance' is a bit redundant], the way he held himself made it obvious that he had seen battle. The way he moved - never using too much energy, but with confidence - suggested that he could outrun death if he had to; that he had before."


The best part about this chapter was how totally the majority of the characters (but for Mattira, who was absent) changed places with each other. The Governor becomes the main antagonist by the end and Moncreif almost appears to ally with Danteel against a common enemy. (Of course, we'll see how that works out when he finds out that Danteel attacked his guest ^_~). The two of them speaking Nagai in front of Jonahn - more specifically, Moncreif warning Danteel in Nagai in front of Jonahn was excellent. We being to see Moncreif acting in a situation that doesn't involve cruelty to Danteel - here Moncreif is the one dreading someone else, and it's a nice juxtaposition.

Gyrfalcon wrote:Moncreif’s shoulders lost a little of their stiffness. “I suppose not,” he conceded. Then, to Danteel, “Take care of them. If you do this well and report what they say to me, I might give you the time to regain this lost sleep. Do you understand me?”

Even better - Danteel is Moncreif's agent behind enemy lines, so to speak. ^_~ And for once, Moncreif is not taking his fury out causelessly on Danteel, he's giving him a job to do. This doesn't endear Moncreif to the reader, of course, but it offers a new side to this character. It makes the reader aware that he is disconcerted by this man, and that fear is a weakness of his. I'm hoping Danteel picks up on this at some point and uses it to his advantage. ^_~

The Governor's dialogue with Alita seemed very natural, while Danteel was serving the drinks. Jonahn's unprovoked attack was shocking, unpredicted. The singing was a bit confusing, but I take it that will be explained in more depth later on.

Very good on this chapter, Gyr; I look forward to more.


EDIT: Something I just thought of, on the entire reread - throughout, Danteel does a lot of hissing and snarling. ^_~ Which is fine, but if you wanted to get rid of therepetition, you might want to find different verbs. ^_^