The Chair of Wind and Darkness: Draft One [1-3]: Closed

[Closed and Obselete.]


. . .


[To be disregarded due to numerous plot developments and a painfully poor grasp on the writing and characters - in my defense, this was a very early draft.. ^_~ Current draft in progress.]

--


Okay. I know some of you have already read the first draft of "The Chair of Wind and Darkness". This is a rewrite with the prologue and second part included, which compounds to make the first scene. I would be hugely grateful if anyone would comment on this for me (tell me if I'm getting a little too Dostoyevsky-ish, Imp). I'm not so sure about this, but what else are critique groups for, but critiques?
Note: 'Hurraas' has been changed to 'Strazhas' in this draft.



The very first Chair of Wind and Darkness was not so very different than the
one you might be sitting in now. It was very simple, white wood and wicker,
and it stood on four elegantly swooping legs before a desk so that it could spend
its quiet days overlooking the prim green lawn, the stone courtyard and the stately
trees outside.

It sat, in all its years, in a little airy room beside a small white desk
while the sheer, gauzy, white curtains blew in from the window and swept,
billowing, against it.

It was such a chair that, looking at it, you could easily imagine yourself
sitting in it, could easily imagine that the book on the desk was yours as it
ruffled from page to page, blown creamy and white into a chaotic flurry by the
breeze. You could easily imagine that all those neat, black-inked, handwritten
pages were yours, paragraphs and words that compounded to build personal
secrets, dreams, hopes; all the good things in life and all the bad, unhappy things
you only lived through by screaming your outrage at the sky - the things you’ve
endured and looked back on and understood. And forgiven.

You could easily imagine that, to see the chair. What you could not
imagine would be that this plain, serviceable, simple chair reigning before an
evenly plain desk and a single, beautiful book could be the Chair of Wind and
Darkness, something that you’ve doubtless known about your entire life. Though
I’m sure never by that name.




In the dream it was raining. Raining was not ordinarily a bad state for the
weather to be in, but in the downtown sector of the city Barduev, it was an
inconvenience which made the Agra-Wazir District particularly challenging to get
through, what with all the sunken sidewalks and the muddy, flooding gardens that
were a level below the street. Shan Tefur’s boots and the bottom of his long
black jacket were completely soaked as he stood beneath the looming columns of
the Provincial Development Building, the only government building on this street
and therefore the only one with a raised porch.

He ran thin fingers through his dripping hair and looked left
down the avenue towards the Kier District and the general direction of his
apartment. He then looked right towards his destination and leaned forwards a bit
to glance up a the stinging misty curtain that wasn’t allowing him to see either.
He stepped back a pace on the porch and paced angrily for a moment in the
pre-moonlight shadows, drying his hands uselessly on the soaking edge of his
coat.

As he turned once he caught a quick glimpse of the guards who had been
following him since the Academy. They were huddled under a porch roof of some
dark house, miserable in water that was up to their ankles in the depressed
stonework. Shan counted five... no, six of them, right there across the street,
soaking wet and probably having a good deal of a harder time than he was. Still,
their presence irritated him, and he sighed, rubbed a hand across the back of his
neck and took a step out from under the overhang.

“Strazhas!” he shouted across the street, cupping his hands around his
mouth so that the noise carried through the rain. Well, they had no choice now
that he had seen them. They slipped around the corner of their building and
disappeared into the alleyway as if they were just a handful of old friends out for
a walk in the rain. They were still going to follow him, of course, they were just
going to do it a little more discreetly.

He swore and looked right and left again quickly, up and down the street
through the downpour. He pushed his hair back and ran a hand down his dripping
face, moving a bit and craning his neck to see down the now empty alley. He
went to the opposite side of the porch, turned and ran for the edge, with the
mind to jump far enough so as to get to the area of semi-dryness under the next
porch, sunken though it was. He tripped pushing off the edge and landed on his
hands and knees in the wide, soaking street in between, bruising his palms and
getting himself thoroughly drenched. He pulled himself up with his long, once
fastidious coat tangled around his leg and shin-deep in water, and he kicked the
rain-water in an arch of spray towards the main street. Shan saw the movement
beyond the rain as the inexpertly trained Strazhas dispersed and spread out,
waiting for him farther up the avenue, drier than he and, for the moment, under a
porch roof. He wished he had caught himself when he had fallen. He hated to
fall.

Bright glare from the window came across the pillow and into his eyes,
unwelcome sunlight that had come too early. He turned away from it but the
light followed him, illuminated the white wall and made it reflect light back to
him. Morning - after all, there was no getting around it.

He sighed and kicked off the sheet, which was tangled around his leg.
Stupid sheets. He pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, running his
hands through his hair and studying the long, slim military coat that lay in a
mess on the floor, a black puddle of heavy fabric. The three silver stars on the
high collar were just barely from under a carelessly thrown fold, identical points of
light in a night sky. Beautiful? Yes, it was. But it also stood for something in
which he no longer believed. He began to wonder if through all the innumerable
things he had done he had ever once believed it. The last time he had worn it;
when was that? Well, he had worn it last night, but seriously went out and worn
it as a uniform, worn it to show everyone who he was, what he stood for?
Wearing something because it happened to be available and wearing something
because you believed in what it stood for were two different things completely.
He shook himself and chose not to think about it; of course he had believed it,
so does everyone when they first start something. It’s not a condition of whether
or not you go on believing it, you begin something and you get used to it. You
never sit around debating about it. For crying out loud, there were better ways to
spend his time than to sit here and debate about his life.

Like it would matter.

Shan got down and picked the jacket up, irritated with himself for being
careless enough to let it lie there the whole night. He laid it over the back of a
nearby chair, picking a bit of whitish lint off of the back with his finger nail,
and the thick feel of the cloth brought back the memory of the dream.

Where had he been going? He tried, and could not remember. It was the
first coherent dream he had had in a long time, and now he couldn’t remember
it. It had been raining, he recalled. Raining in Barduev. God, he wished it would
rain. He wished the water would just pour down out of the clouds, wash away
the dust on the street, in the gardens, in the air. They said that this was the
worst drought since the Academy was built, and in his dream it poured. What
was the sense in that? No reason, no sense.

The rain, that brought him back to his coat, which had gotten soaked. The
coat... ah the coat. Why couldn’t he forget about it? Shan Tefur fingered the silver
stars on the collar and sat back down on the bed. Stars. Three silver stars, the
rank of a Kasimov. Three ranks down from a general, at the age of twenty-six.
Not like it mattered - no more days of glory and war for him, just commendation
from the government, you did well but the military has a better use for officers
that aren’t from old money. Sit around and do something interesting. And because
you’re a war hero, you get to keep the coat.

He had fought so many battles in heavy, long black. So many men had
saluted him that day they had taken Peremid. And now here he was, waking up
too late in an apartment that was too small, dreaming about rain in Barduev and
wasting his life away. Three identical starts in the night sky indeed. And here he
was sitting down again, right back in a circle.

Disgusted, he got up and turned to go wash up in the cramped bathroom.
As he washed his face over the sink, he thought about the falling in the street.
He hated so much to fall. He hated more to fall in the street. Everyone could see
you in the street. Of course, everyone would be right there, ready to offer help
and to get you up and on your way. Ready to embarrass you. Private falls did not
hurt so much. When you fell alone, in your apartment, in a deserted alley, your
pride did not fall as hard. You didn’t have to get right up, dust yourself off and
pretend it didn’t hurt. You could take your time. You could stay where you were,
right where you were, until you could get your shocked muscles to stop hurting.
First it would be the knees. Then it would be the arms. Then the legs. And you
could put your trust in the ground until you could stand up again.

I like it even more, now that it's becoming more clear who this fellow is, and perhaps why he is... But, yes - I enjoy the narrative very much; a good story-teller's flow to it.

But you still have the persistent tendency to drag sentences on and on. #_#'' Again, it's not the length - but the consistency of it. You're not breaking it up much with shorter.

Shan saw the movement
beyond the rain as the inexpertly trained Strazhas dispersed and spread out,
waiting for him farther up the avenue, drier than he and, for the moment, under a
porch roof. He wished he had caught himself when he had fallen. He hated to
fall.

Here - this is an example of where you did break it up. I almost think it might be more forceful (the last sentence) dropped to a new parapraph. But perhaps not. It's up to you.

He turned away from it but the
light followed him, illuminated the white wall and made it reflect light back to
him. Morning - after all, there was no getting around it.

I like the morning sentence. A short one - and it gives a glimpse into your character's sensibility. The reflect bit, maybe, rather repeating him ('followed him; back to him') you could switch the end around.

He turned away from it but the light followed him, illuminated the white wall and reflected back into his eyes.

But that's a very light suggestion. It is fine as it is.

Once out of the dream, I can tell you have a strong impression of your character. And you've conveyed excellently in your intertwining description of coat, room - dream and thoughts. I'm only more curious about this fellow. You do have story-teller's instinct, I think - your writing's involving. ^_^

Remember to vary your sentences though. With the thoughts, incompletes you interject - it helps. In fact, it's a good pace. But you're still wandering into the long sentences that follow more long sentences... Reading over it, I'm sure you can pick it out. And if you want anymore comments, thoughts, feel free to PM me.

^_^

*grins* Long sentences do seem to be my call sign, don't they?

It's like piano, you know you shouldn't play the song fast and you know you'll likely mess it up if you play it fast, but you still can't help yourself. Same thing here with long sentences. They add nothing - somethines they probably detract - but that's what comes out. How weird. I shall have to work on my stupid mile-long sentences.

Glad you got a good impression of my protagonist, that's sort of the point of this scene. ^_~

Does the dream scene still seem a little long to you? Just wondering, but I think it sort of seems too long when shoved together with the rest of the scene.

In case you're wondering, the falling bit is important for later.

Thank you, Imp. I think I'll take you up on that invitation to PM. ^_^

(Nah, don't get excited, people. This is just a re-post from TSR so I have it here to work with... Part IV'll be forth-coming as soon as I get some of this re-written - lol, it's heading in the wrong direction and moving too slowly, so I need to work on this... Till then I just wanted to get tthe original Part III posted.)

Part III of the Chair. Finally. The cause of major writers block and countless pieces of crumbled paper, trying to get across the MC's slow realization that things in the Kasimov Ideal are not so glorious as he seems to remember...


Part III: The Chair of Wind and Darkness

The speaker’s voice boomed out over the civilians heads in the dark auditorium,
loud, harsh and graced by hollow distortion as it echoed over the hundreds of the
packed-in working class and thundered up to a vaulted ceiling. It seemed even
louder over the left side, over the leagues and leagues of deserted chairs, empty
but for the dozen or so Kasimovs perched high up in the consecutive middles of
the far-back rows, lounging. Some of them had a boot hooked up on the back of
the chair before him, as if to demonstrate to whoever cared to look that he was
thoroughly hot and bored; which of course he was perfectly entitled to be, being
a Kasimov. The people were perhaps too respectful, too intimidated to sit near
them. Of course they had stared before the lights had gone down, little children
who looked wide-eyed at the military dress sabers and the long coats, the medals
that glimmered in the dark heat. They had doubtless been told not to talk to
Kasimovs, not to approach them - those, on a higher plane of soldiery. High and
strong like glossed granite, more polished around the edges.

The speaker , distant down there in a pool of artificial light, wore the
brown uniform of the meth-maratime, a long defunct navy that somehow still
thought itself old and glorious. It was not. The Kasimovs... cared not. They were
only here out of military obligation, not because they wanted to be.

Shan Azov Tefur sighed and put his head down, feeling the beginnings of
a headache pounding back behind his eyes. He pushed his fingers through his
soaking hair and leaned back in a single motion, wished furtively for rain to
wash away this atrocious heat. The fact that he was all decked out in full
Kasimov regalia didn’t help at all: the stars on his cuffs now as well as his
collar and shoulders; the silver award medal he had gotten when they had taken
Peremid, small and old and more ornate than they made them now, military
sabers crossed in high relief over the state cross; the silver-blue braiding that
looped about his shoulder; and all the medals on his chest that he’d won coming
up through the ranks.

He had buttoned the numerous tiny catches of his rounded collar high and
tight this morning, as it was meant to be done - but heat can undo even the most
rigorous military training, and it had long ago been unbuttoned and loosened up.
He was perversely pleased to see that he wasn’t the only one succumbing to the
heat; even the Kasimovs who were still enlisted had their jackets half unbuttoned
and their collars turned down.

Only one of the solitary meth-maratime captains was present, alone, a row
down from the dramatic, dominant, Kasimov black. He was a lean, middle-aged
man with just as many medals as the Kasimovs, but he didn’t seem affected in
the slightest by the heat. He kept himself still and straight, kept his red collar
with it’s five golden bars up and tight, as if to make some sort of statement. The
Kasimovs all outranked him, on every account. If keeping up an unmoveable face
was making a statement, they felt it was a statement they did not need to make,
secure in their rank. Well, they were; Shan wasn’t in the least. He didn’t like the
meth-maratime for the same reason he didn’t like Strazhas, for the same reason
that a hawk, having been transformed into a blue bird, is afraid of the other
hawks. Here he was no longer in a position to give orders, to say who Strazhas
stalked and guarded and who they didn’t. Here he was a civilian with a long
coat. The paradox terrified him.

That’s not a long coat, his friends had laughed at him when he had come
back to the officers tent with silver stars and a coat that screamed promotion!
before any of them had even been considered as candidates. Hell, long is an
understatement, it’s down past the tops of your boots. They had made fun of him
incessantly that first night, partially because he was their friend and it seemed
natural. Partially because he was a Kasimov and they weren’t and a very small
part in every one of them hated him for it. So they had gotten drunk and had
slapped him on the back and had laughed at the hate to chase it away. And years
later, here they all were, Kasimovs in the throes of glory and honor and high
society, enlisted men with reputations as soldiers. And here he was beside them,
cast off and relieved of command, first to rise and first to fall. Ironic indeed.

Not much had changed overall, Shan thought, leaning back in his chair as
he listened to the speaker drone on about taxes and government. They were all
plenty older now, a few more weapons scars here and there, a few more medals.
But nothing had truly changed. The enlisted Kasimovs of fine militaristic power
leaned back in their chairs and exchanged discrete looks and made subtle fun of
the meth-maratime captain a row below them. Despite his self-discipline, the
captain’s fair hair dripped sweat and stained the back of his slowly wilting,
crimson collar. A handful of the Kasimovs above and behind the man silently
delighted in this - no officer, conscripted or free, ever missed the opportunity to
prove to the meth-maratime that they were not so terribly impressive as they
seemed to think. Kasimovs were, as a rule, arrogant. But then, the meth-maratime
were arrogant, too. Probably even more so, and it made them fair game.

Shan took another deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. He
went to unbutton his cuffs and then put his arm down again, sighing noisily.
What he needed was this damn heavy coat off...

“You all right?” A Kasimov next to him nudged his boot with a foot and
leaned back in his seat. Shan looked over at the unfamiliar face - the officer was
much younger than the rest of them, probably just promoted. Unfortunately for
him, he had happened to be in Barduev when the meth-maratime held it’s
monthly lecture, and all the military personnel in the city was of course required
to attend. It suddenly occurred to Shan that fifteen Kasimovs, the entire number
present, was a staggeringly huge portion of officers to be in one city and one
time. Kasimovs were normally rarer than... he thought for a moment, slow and
hazy in the overwhelming heat... rarer than decent air conditioning... “I ask,” the
young Kasimov said to him, “because you look like you’re about ready to
dissolve.”

Shan looked over at him and almost smiled, but the youth’s eyes went
immediately down to the cross of state at his throat and then down across the
myriad of medals.

“Look, kid, the day I pass out from the heat while someone’s watching is
the day I commit suicide the old-fashioned way.”

“Spoken like a true Kasimov.”

“Thank you,” Shan smiled with exaggerated gratefulness, nodded and faced
forward again. “Spoken... like a kid who just got promoted to the Kasimovs.”

The young officer grinned at him, a spot of light-heartedness in the midst
of grim Kasimov Ideal. Shan figured it would last for about three more weeks at
the most. “I’ve just never seen a cross of state before,” the kid told him finally,
eyes flickering up to Shan’s face and then almost adoringly down to the medals
again. The speaker was still going on and on about military ideals and the navy
captain turned his head a bit to hear what they were saying. The two Kasimovs a
seat over from him were playing cards very discretely. They were both cheating,
also very discretely.

“Well, it won’t be the last one you see, I’m sure. You’ve been in the
Kasimovs what, a week? I got his three years in - give it some time.”

The young Kasimov remained expressionlessly fixed on the medals. When
he glanced up and realized that Shan was looking at him, he smiled quickly and
apologetically and made himself busy looking at the meth-maratime at the podium.
His thin hands flitted nervously over the edges of the coat that lay in his lap.
The plainness of the coat was what drew Shan’s attention, plain black with only
the three silver stars of a Kasimov on the collar. As Shan’s had been at the
beginning, as it had been at the end, before the myriad of medals that he no
longer wore when he went out to walk in a city he no longer loved. Because he
no longer believed in them, long since disillusioned. And for what reason had he
been relieved, told that the future lay with the young Kasimovs, the Kasimovs to
whom ideology meant something and to those who still had the ambition,
imagination and the drive to command? (They said this to the man who had just
single-handedly master-minded the victory at Aeiso, who had long ago taken back
Peremid).

Shan remembered pointing this out to the political officers who had come
to relieve him of his command.

The government, the war effort is forever in your debt, they said in
attempt to appease him.

Thanks so much, said Shan, refusing to be appeased. You’re all heart and
it’s been a real pleasure, but I’m a Kasimov and I intend to stay one.

You have nothing to offer anymore.

Really.

Kasimovs go on in life, they said as if they could possibly know. Some
Kasimovs lose rank. Sometimes they go back to living as civilians and realize in
the final result that they already gave everything they had to offer to the State.
That they’re better off elsewhere.

What the hell is this? Shan said furiously. We just crushed the Aeiso
rebellion into the ground for God’s sake. Or are you perhaps referring to financial
offering?

They did not like that. You had no orders to march on Aeiso, the political
officers threw in his face, dredging for something, anything, to throw him off.

The military had orders to put down the revolt. Mine was the closest
legion.

Really? All that action... just couldn’t wait for another medal?

What the hell...

Kasimov Livny could have handled it, the officers said, smiling
humorlessly.

Livny? He wanted to scream it at them but in the end just stood there
with his thumbs hooked in his belt. Livny was unholy hammered on the entire
Aeiso campaign. He was seven days away with an army that wasn’t ready to
move.

He could have handled it, Kasimov, they said, getting defensive.

This doesn’t have anything to do with Aeiso, he told them in quiet outrage
that was threatening to become a whole lot louder.

No answer to that. They cleared their throats, as if it was not a topic open
for discussion. You’re relieved of command, Kasimov Tefur, one said. We’ll have
your papers now... Now, Tefur.

He... hit one of them. And about two seconds later, fine, billowing,
Kasimov black went down in a swarm of gray jackets. Shan pulled his saber out
from under himself as he fell and took the sudden barrage of punches and kicks,
finally managed to twist it out of its sheath. The political officers struggled up
and back in a hurry. Shan rolled on one knee and with effort pulled himself up
against the opposite wall, rumpled and breathing hard, as distracted as it was
possible for a Kasimov to be. A thin streak of blood ran down his cheek where
one of the officer’s wedding rings had caught him. They were all staring at the
saber clenched in his slowly trembling fist, wide-eyed as people caught in a cage
with a wild animal. The job of a political officer was to talk; the job of a
Kasimov was to kill and they were afraid of him with a weapon.

You want my papers, dammit? Shan rasped, gasping for air. Fine. See
this? He let go of the wall with effort and pulled his rumpled certification out of
his jacket. He threw it at them but it landed on the floor at their feet, pages
flying. Fine, take it. Take all of it. He threw his sheath at them and they parted
quickly, shoving each other back. Let me the hell out of here.

He fell on the steps outside. A handful of soldiers threw away their
cigarettes and came over at once to help him, but he still had his saber and
when he looked at them they pretended they had been going elsewhere. The
political officers that lingered in the doorway didn’t touch him. They all knew he
had fallen from more than just the steps.

He struggled to his feet while his body ached and advised against this. He
walked down through the camp, bloody and disheveled with a saber clenched in
his fist and everyone affected not to notice. At the entry post they took his
medals, which they promised would be sent ahead to him. Only about half of
them actually got delivered (the rest “lost in transit”).

Shan did not like political officers, either.
And he lived, breathed and bled Kasimov. So too would this kid - and
someday, somewhere, he might live long enough to lose it.

Shan only realized he was drowsing with his head on his fist when the
meth-maratime/Kasimov pissing game reached its conclusion and woke him up.
The kid had lit a cigarette though the auditorium was non-smoking. The Kasimovs
hadn’t corrected him; the good captain a row down had gotten up and
reprimanded him. The Kasimovs, ever defensive of their own, despite the
circumstantial right or wrong, had pulled rank. By the time Shan had become as
alert as he possibly could with the horrendous heat and that pounding headache,
the kid had dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it down with the heel
of his boot, obviously trying to brush aside some of the imminent trouble. The
older Kasimovs - his protectors, tormentors, idols - got up, a few of them. Some
words were exchanged, some grabbing and shoving occurred before the
meth-maratime pulled back his arm to hit Livny across the face.

...Livny? Damn, Shan thought as he recognized the fair hair, the tall figure,
long jacket hanging unimpressively opened and crooked. I took Aeiso for you.

Livny had his fist clenched in the captain’s collar, but the kid had a grip
on Livny’s wrist. Shan sighed, jerked at the tight cloth at his throat and pushed
himself out of his chair. He pulled the kid off-balance and down back into his
seat and shoved Livny back, breaking the Kasimov’s grip on the captain’s collar
before the meth-maratime could land a blow that would have broken Livny’s
nose. Livny struck Shan’s arm away and rounded on him, just to recognize
belatedly the calm darkness of his expression, the cross of state and the highly
polished Kasimov’s stars. It seemed that there was nothing he could think of to
say, so finally Livny just nodded.

Shan nodded minimally back at him - unholy hammered on the entire Aeiso
campaign - and looked beyond Livny to the captain.

“Sit down,” he commanded in the stark, dead silence.

The captain ran a hand over his immaculately combed hair and smoothed
out his crinkled collar. “Is that an order?” He sounded out of breath.

“Just sit.”

“The Kasimov almost shoved me over the row. It’s easy to fall here.”

“I know that,” Shan said, gripping the side of Livny’s jacket in his fist.
“That’s why I want you to sit down.”

The meth-maratime sat, pristine and righteous in all that old, naval,
pseudo-glory.

“Thank you,” Shan said hoarsely and, running his fingers through his
drenched hair, sat down himself, pulling Livny down into the chair next to him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Shan whispered furiously and
evenly in Livny’s ear as Livny fell back and completed the motion. Livny shoved
his hand away but Shan grabbed the shoulder of his jacket and rammed him back
again. “You know what happens if they catch you in a fist-fight with a maratime
officer?”

“Don’t talk to me in that damn supercilious tone...”

“You’re irrational, think for crying out loud, or maybe you look forward to
loosing rank...”

“You mean like you?” Livny said poisonously, prying his fingers off and
fixing him with that cold, pale-eyed stare. He jerked his jacket straight and got
up again, going back to recover his original seat a row up.

The kid managed to overhear that last part.
“You lost rank?” the young officer said, now really interested. Shan threw
a look at him and pushed his hair back again, totally irritated in this pounding,
pounding, POUNDING heat... The meth-maratime captain turned around in his
chair.

“Thought you meth-maratime actually paid attention to your own lectures,”
Shan said to him, agitated. The captain ignored him and instead answered by
producing a cigarette and finding a lighter for it. The young Kasimov glowered
incredulously, nudged the officer next to him with his knee and looked pointedly
at him to make sure he noticed. The captain leaned back and sighed, letting the
smoke leak out in tendrils from his lips and nostrils; it curled upwards, thick and
white, overpowering in the heat.

Shan tried with great effort to ignore it - the enlisted Kasimovs would have
said something, but at exactly that point the speaker introduced someone else and
all the civilians far over on the right stood up. The Kasimovs griped under a
collective breath and pulled themselves up straight, once more out of militaristic
obligation, sabers rattling and clinking dully against black belts. The captain
looked irritated, tossed his head in agitation and threw away his cigarette, ground
its ashen ruin into the floor. As a result he was about five seconds later on his
feet than the Kasimovs. They perhaps felt... somehow gratified because of it, but
the meth-maratime pulled his jacket straight and adjusted the gun in his belt,
making a much nobler picture than the Kasimovs, who stood hot and exhausted
in disarray, medals crooked and black jackets hanging long and unbuttoned in the
stagnant heat.

The new speaker was also meth-maratime. He thanked his predecessor and
started in on something long and arduous about the State ideal. Shan sat down
again in the dark, collapsing back into his seat and wiping palmfuls of sweat
from his hair. A half a moment later the new speaker mentioned the name of the
Lord Sovereign and the black wave of Kasimovs sighed up again in the heat,
silhouettes that rose against the dingy windows far up behind them. The wave
sank down again, but Shan stayed perched on the edge of his seat, fingers of his
left hand curled around the back of the chair before him, ready to pull himself
up again. The speaker was obviously the type that enjoyed keeping his audience
attentive.

His voice, loud and discontent, echoed out over the auditorium: “Over the
years the meth-maratime has bidden its time, waiting for its own chance to be
recognized, to once more prove its immeasurable worth. It was in the final days
of the siege on Aeiso that it finally got it’s chance...”

“...to run and hide on the ocean while the Kasimovs blew the damn doors
down...” Livny interjected under his breath, fumbling with his lighter and a
forbidden cigarette.

The meth-maratime captain turned around partially in his chair. “Shut up.”

Livny, a row up, leaned back nonchalantly, letting his lighter click shut
and breathing white smoke. “Nah, it’s just a fact, we drove in there with about a
million men and took the city and you... well, what did you do?”

The captain turned back around again and leaned back, putting his boot up.
“A little something called naval gun fire.”

“Oh sure, naval gun fire...”

“Shut up both of you,” Shan said to them without looking over. He took
his fingers away to run them through his hair and they left greasy marks where
they had been clenched on the wooden seat back.

Livny looked over and blew a jet of smoke up and down at his face.
“What, you don’t like talking about Aeiso?”

“Dammit, I took that city for you...”

“Aw, thanks for that...”

“Yeah, they kicked me out for it, thanks.’

The kid, a row up, leaned forward. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, no kidding, he broke a political officer’s jaw when they came to
relieve him, too...”

“Wow.”

The captain whistled lowly between his teeth, shaking a cigarette out lazily
between his fingers.

“Oh shut the hell up all of you.” This was just to much, this heat, up
here in front on windows that didn’t even open anymore...

The Lord Sovereign’s name was mentioned and they all heaved themselves
up again, put their legs down in boredom, lazy and hot irritation, pulled
themselves to their feet for the required 15 seconds before collapsing back again.




(continued, next page...)

(continued...)

“The meth-maratime struck with precision, with speed,” the speaker went on while
Shan fiercely willed Livny to keep his mouth shut. “... a major victory for the
naval powers...”

As they sat back down Shan was quickly made aware of how little effect
his mental powers had on real life, because Livny swept his coat out of the way
and said “Ah come on, I’ve known some women that hit harder than
meth-maratime.”

Some Kasimovs laughed quietly in a collective voice. The meth-maratime
captain spun around, white-knuckling that back of his seat. “What the hell is your
problem?”

“You are my problem.” Livny went on without even hesitating, putting his
cigarette to his lips again, still talking slowly and totally absent-mindedly, as if he
really didn’t care at all. “You and the rest of that idiotic group you march for,
pretending to be officers of the state when you’re really just a bunch of
undisciplined sailors...”

Shan shook his head in disgust. “God.”

He pulled himself up again and so did Livny, swinging his legs down in
annoyance. The captain got up, too, but still half-turned around and still clenching
the wooden back of the seat, quietly and rapidly criticizing Livny on his views,
his obvious lack of experience in real war... As they sat yet again, Livny made
an incredulous face at the captain and gestured to him with his cigarette to calm
himself.

“Can’t you just shut up and sit down?” the captain hissed, falling back
into his chair.

“’Scuse me?” Livny asked in incredulous offense. “Shut up and sit down?
This idiot at the podium’s making hash out of the Kasimov Ideal.”

Shan sighed loudly, solidly gesturing with his hands to emphasize every
word. “They didn’t even mention the Kasimovs...”

“Well, yeah, that’s why I take offense.”

The captain changed position heavily in the seat in front of them, shaking
his head and commenting idly to the darkness before him, “This is unbelievable.”

Livny apparently couldn’t let it alone; Shan could feel himself getting ready
to crack. “Unbelievable for you, maybe,” said Livny, gesturing as he talked. “You
don’t have any sort of honorable... glorious image to uphold...”

That did it. “If anyone in the world’s responsible for a breakdown in the
honor and power of the Kasimov Ideal,” Shan broke in quietly and furious, “it’s
guys like you who can’t resist pulling rank on officers you’ve never even met
before...”

He got up, gathered his overcoat and ran his fingers through his hair,
pulled his jacket straight. Livny laughed uncomfortably. “Shan,” he said, nudging
his leg with a boot. “Hey. Shan. They’re meth-maratime for crying out loud,
trying to pretend this lecture actually has a point to it...”

Shan rounded on him. “Yeah?” he whispered, enraged at himself, at Livny,
at the Kasimov Ideal in general. “Yeah, well maybe it does have a point to it
after all and I just haven’t heard it yet because I’m sitting up here high and
mighty... with the damn... Kasimovs...”

He jerked his coat angrily, flung his cigarette on the floor and edged past
the other Kasimovs, who tucked their knees up and back for him to get through.
Livny let out an incredulous breath and shook his head, lit another cigarette.

The Lord Sovereign’s name: they all stood up again, a wave of dramatic
black again the filthy windows, metals glittering, sabers rattling. Just as they
always had. Always blindly had. He saw them all up there as he took the steps
down the side two at a time in his haste to get away from them, Kasimovs up
there alone in high up darkness, the black silhouettes of angels of death, and all
mortal men.

Shan rammed open the door at the bottom with his shoulder, the loud
chunk echoing up thorough the auditorium, a small and temporary spot of light in
the darkness before it sighed shut behind him. He found himself in a tiny stone
side alley, one end opening out onto the main street of the district, one end
closed off, a mess of old bricks and crates, ancient decomposing vegetables. He
turned around a few times in the heat, his eyes hurting against the bright noon
light; and finally reached up to undo the silver award medal at his throat. The
longer it took the more furious he became; the more furious he became the more
his fingers trembled and couldn’t undo the ties. Finally he just ripped it off,
tearing the ties and flung the silver cross away across the alley. He turned away,
breathing hard, ran his fingers through his hair and swore, went a few paces
towards the main street. He stopped and finally went back for it, swearing quietly
as he bent down and picked it gingerly up out of the filth. And slid it into his
pocket, where he wouldn’t even have to acknowledge its presence... but the cloth
was stained and torn now, and he felt immediately guilty for it.

Shan pulled on his overcoat too, even though it was way too hot in even
just the Kasimov jacket, and ran a shaking hand down his face. And went out of
the alley and walked in a city he didn’t love, long coat over a jacket that no one
saw, paid attention to, glorified. He didn’t show that he was a Kasimov and in
doing so... made hash out of the Kasimov Ideal. He walked to chase the sick fear
and guilt away. And like the hate - it didn’t up and leave, just sat there on the
dark and looked at him, took the shape of fifteen fine Kasimovs before it
assumed an invisible face and melted back into darkness. And he went on
walking as fast as he could to outrun it, a dying man in a dying city. A city
which slept through a drought and perhaps, somewhere between the periods of
rain and drought had dropped a word, a thought, a memory, and had since ceased
to know that it had been, and had ceased to care. It left its Kasimovs out there
in a lecture they didn’t believe in to stand up, black wave in the darkness and
sink down again, hot and bored with their coats and medals and stars. Arrogant
Kasimovs, of which he was one... they ceased to hear the words. And they ceased
to care.

Quick COmments:

Overall I really, really like the voice of the piece and how you talk to the audiance.

The Plot seems to be good and well thought out and you appear to take your time one your work which yields a positve outcome.

However you don't seem to use alot of present participles such as:

Throwing, Running, Begging, Looking.

"Throwing his scarf over his neck, John glided outside the building."


Overall good piece and well done. Due to the length of this piece I may have to spend a few hours to properly critique. You may see it within the next few days.

I look forward to that, Phorcys, thanks! ^_^

Hmmm... you do have a point about the lack of present participles... but do you really think they're necessary?

Lol, sorry about the length... it sort of got away from me there at the end, and I look forward to the crit. Thanks for the tips and the encouragement! ^_^

Myself, I don't think present participles are necessary. Funny I should say that as I use them a lot, but.. I think that's one of my downfalls.

Present participles are good every so often, but you don't need them. Put too many in and you might even take away from the story..

I'll be posting your critique in parts, as there's a lot here already and it won't take me so long to do lots of smaller critiques rather than one huge long one.

First section - description of the chair.

The very first Chair of Wind and Darkness was not so very different than the
one you might be sitting in now.

I love the way you start it off - you're involving the reader straight off by addressing them.

You say 'very first'.. I assume that means there'll be more, and that there were different chairs before this one.

Interesting how there are capitals on the name as well.. it seems like a title to me.

It was very simple, white wood and wicker,
and it stood on four elegantly swooping legs before a desk so that it could spend
its quiet days overlooking the prim green lawn, the stone courtyard and the stately
trees outside.

I'm not sure what you mean by white wood.. It's painted - is that it?

This sentence is rather long. That's not a bad thing, but you seem to work well with short sentences, and it's easy enough to shorten this one.

It sat, in all its years, in a little airy room beside a small white desk
while the sheer, gauzy, white curtains blew in from the window and swept,
billowing, against it.

You've already mentioned the desk - I'm not sure it's necessary to make reference to it again, especially in so short a time.

I like the image of the 'gauzy, white curtains' a lot. Sort of description that I can picture in my mind.

It was such a chair that, looking at it, you could easily imagine yourself
sitting in it, could easily imagine that the book on the desk was yours as it
ruffled from page to page, blown creamy and white into a chaotic flurry by the
breeze.

Poetic, but a little clustered.

Some things could be changed here, such as 'looking at it', changing to 'while looking at it'. Only small things though - and remember I said 'could', and not 'have to'..

You could easily imagine that all those neat, black-inked, handwritten
pages were yours, paragraphs and words that compounded to build personal
secrets, dreams, hopes; all the good things in life and all the bad, unhappy things
you only lived through by screaming your outrage at the sky - the things you’ve
endured and looked back on and understood. And forgiven.

Again, perhaps a little clustered, but I love the images in this part - the inked handwriting most of all.

I like how you have a seperate sentence for the last two words as well. I know you're not supposed to start a sentence with 'and', but it works well here. It makes those two words stand out a lot more.

You could easily imagine that, to see the chair. What you could not
imagine would be that this plain, serviceable, simple chair reigning before an
evenly plain desk and a single, beautiful book could be the Chair of Wind and
Darkness, something that you’ve doubtless known about your entire life. Though
I’m sure never by that name.

Hehe, I'm intrigued.. Do I know about this chair..?

*ponders*

Well, I don't think I do, but then it is in the fantasy section.

I guess we find out what this chair is later on..

Like this first part, Dreamy.

I'll start the rest tomorrow, as I am tired and lacking sleep..

G'night,

--Kay

Thanks Kay! ^_~ And lol, no, you don't know about the Chair, but I threw that in there in an Ursula-LeGuinn-ish frame of mind... I should probably change it, but this is just the first and very rough first draft, so I've still got time... ^_~ Thanks Kay... I look forward to the rest of the critique.

I'm a horrible person. And I got sidetracked on my way from our pm's to this story, so if I don't read it tonight, I will tomorrow. You have my word. I have to go though.

-MH

p.s. I read the beginning though, a little bit, and it looks good.

Lol, that's allright. I often get side-tracked. No pressure, lol, do it whenever you feel like it, my friend. Heh, but don't wait too long, I'm deleting it in a few days to replace it with the second draft and continuation...

*hugs*

Well then I'll just look at the new version. Doesn't that make more sense?

It really does. ^_~ Lol, I'm gonna be gone over the weekend, but I'm going to bring my notebooks for this along, and hopefully I'll be able to get it running this week.

Thanks, MH. ^_^

PM me when it's revised and posted.

-MH

No problem.