Armageddon

We always knew this day would come. Sometimes, yes, the doubt was there – perpetual days and nights spent winding out the same clockwise days, never thinking twice of executing the monotonous tasks of your life – no, surely not then did it occur to us that this was inevitable. But as the human life is plagued by a certain thirst for tragedy, it was unavoidable to not at least once picture it. After all, did it not thrill? Did it not satisfy? Here, now, that the day has come, you feel like saying it, yes: “I knew it would.” Of course you did, and all congratulations to you for that intellectual honor. But I fear that you weren’t the only to behold this day in such high esteem. We all did. It is human. We are all average in our vanity, and there is no escaping that.

Today, for example, cannot be escaped. We see it in our stranger’s eyes, in our friend’s eyes, in our own eyes: whatever image was framed in the label that suits today. Perhaps babies are splintered along a wooden stake, drowned in a heavy, bloodstained silence. Maybe bodies lie in masses, a writhing force of snakes all with arms and legs outstretched upward, groping in complete desperation, cries that shake and shatter the walls of human sanity. In duller minds, there are merely flashes of blazing fires and dismantled body parts, all adorned in gore. But in the eyes of nightmare dwellers, you could catch the rattling eyes as brother faced brother, killing each other, clamping on to each other before falling to a sooty ground, a dull thud the only beating noise – no bangs, to music, no trombones and fanfare.

Even the more morbid could abide themselves with what they would do under the circumstances. Could you possibly plan against the raging flood waters that were sure to riptide straight into you chest, sweeping you off into unreality? You captured those surreal, snapshot moments all along your life, collecting them for a time when perhaps you would need them. Perhaps you could be prepared for what would unfold here. But, no, I think you see now: you are not prepared. Trigger fingers twitch and acid rain splatters down on upturned faces, and as pen scratches on dismal paper, you hear the unsettled silence. Like a skittering heart, you know you are still alive, but you lean in closer and closer, listening to when it will end. Knowing it is so close, now, two forces debate – will it slip on like fabric or rain down like bricks? Will you screech, or perhaps stay silent and dumb as the day you were born? With haunting questions and looming answers, the entire landscape is vague. But this is today. It is inescapable. After all,

We always knew this day would come.


AFTER THE THIRTEENTH REIGN OF MYSTIC

Clockworking Eternity

The editor flipped through various papers all strewn about her desk. She sighed as her fingers pressed and flittered, almost dancing, through the masses of penned papyrus. All about her glass-walled office people fluttered similarly, ducking in and out of offices, sprinting from printer to printer in a mindless frenzy. The site was familiar to her eyes, which were weary and ice cold. Around them, skin was crinkled in deep crevices and unfading lines. Both inside and outside, the editor, Sylvia Critten, was old.

She had been the editor for well over fifty years, as read the plaque nailed above her red oak desk. It was golden, plated and engraved with words of commemoration. But long before she was an editor, she had been a reporter. Her first report had been the first day of frenzy in all of Mystic for thousands of years, and the hectic air had not ceased since. Always there was news, and the print of the paper got smaller and smaller, as the reams of pages still bulged and multiplied.

There was no lack of headlines.

But today, she was actually wondering how large she should print it.

And what the hell would it say?

Thousands of ideas had been thrown at her as Sylvia sipped her coffee that morning. She had grabbed a bagel from the business cafeteria. The masses had practically jumped her, shouting, some even bold enough to stand on the wobbly chairs and wave their hands to catch her attention. Of course, nothing sparked her creatively.

On top of the headlines, people had sat up all last night writing, typing, painting – all trying to get down their version of the main report. Now they all sat on Sylvia’s desk, which creaked in protest. Some people had written more than one article; in fact, one employee had exceeded a dozen, all sending the exact same message. Swiveling eyes critical and analytical, long and shriveled fingers snapped papers into quick balls as she flung them into her wastebasket, which had already overflowed twice over.

Sylvia leaned back in her leather chair, webbing her hands behind her, below a bun that was tight, strict, and perched right atop her head. Red nails clicked impatiently as she surveyed the entire lack of organization, a sick feeling at the edges of her stomach.

“This is hopeless,” she whispered.

What caught her eye at that moment was no answer, but faded letters that were printed across the wall opposite her. They read “Clockworking Eternity”, which happened to be the newspaper’s motto. For millions of years, they had kept the news, being the only official distributor in all of Mystic. Little stations reported the common news, while here they penned the national words of truth. And as time kept rolling in the lush lands of prosperity, the paper did, as well.

Ice blue eyes scanned downward to the desk. All the papers were crisply white, rectangular and perfect – some smelt of ink, others of granite and others, still, of perfume. A touch of color, though, brushed the red oak. It was sticking out of her left drawer, which was always locked with the editor’s key. It hadn’t been opened in the fifty years she had been here.

Curious, Sylvia took out her sham leather bag and rummaged through it, retrieving a keychain. She flicked through the silver and gold bits of metal, biting her tongue in her mouth. Finally finding the right one, which was short and steel gray, she hastily jammed it in the lock and twisted.

Grabbing the yellowed paper by the corner, Sylvia took it out, delicately slipping it atop all of the other papers on her desk. It was not typed, but written with a blotted quill. The script was odd, the tongue old and almost unrecognizable. Almost everybody spoke English nowadays, but with trained squinting eyes, she deciphered the ancient letters of Mystic in quick surety.

“Vixe’ lansing ye Shanight,” she read. “Burnt cities on the Reckoning.” The words felt heavy and archaic on her tongue. They almost wilted with the paper. Her eyes engorged the text, lips mouthing the syllables with their utmost power. It seemed almost like spell, how it flowed.

Finally done, her eyes brushed the signature and date at the bottom.

Slyth. MII.

Sylvia would have fainted right then and there had she not already been sitting down. Heart drenched in drama, face drained of blood, the old woman bit her lower lip, which was red and flaky. A nail reached across and she pressed a tiny red button, her fingers shaking as they still held the paper in her hand with a death grip. The yellowed edges of the paper flickered golden, as if treasure, the black ink deep and ebony paint.

A young man, short haired with sharp-rimmed glasses, ducked his head inside the glass-walled room. “Yes?”

“This,” Sylvia said, still as sharp and articulate as ever. Her hands steadied. “This is the headliner. Print exactly as it is written.”

The man glanced at the paper. “Siré, our computers don’t have Mystican symbols –”

“Then use a typewriter, for God’s sake – just print it!”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded out of the room, muttering underneath his breath, the precious paper crumpling in his hand.

Sylvia smiled in satisfaction. With idle contentment, she grabbed a small silver ball and released it. It clashed into another, and the energy bounced at the other end of the row. Watching the energy rebound, Sylvia steepled her fingers below her lips. Her crinkled eyes rested close, and the frenetic world whizzing about her faded away. It was the day after the end of the world, and Mystic Times still had something to write.

Swashbuckling half-blind

Aloisio folded the papers in a flash, revealing his face from behind the ebony desk. Gold latches jangled as he jumped to his black-booted feet. Men dressed in rags were dispersed about his office, all shifting and swaying in no relation to the sea. They eyed the captain nervously, who first flicked black hair from his face before addressing them.

“This –” he said, pushing a callused finger into the bundle of paper on the desk, “– is the Mystic Times for today? They printed this?”

The man in the forefront bobbed his head. “Picked it up at Delito Port, I did, right off the press.”

Tight-lipped, Aloisio shoved a hand around his heavily adorned belt and swaggered from the room. His crew followed him as his brown leather coat whipped about the corner, sure to keep a certain distance. They stepped into the sunlight of the ship. It was constructed of the roughest wood with sails that were dark in color and billowing in the uncertain wind. At the bow, a maiden was carved dashing about the corner, hair streaking behind her. About the deck, pirates labored on hands and knees, spitting teeth into the deep blue water that splashed at the sides of the ship.

“Where to, sir?” a crewman on deck slurred, leaning against a mast.

Aloisio threw him a malicious glance, and the lesser pirate ducked out of sight. The Captain was a formidable man, standing at six feet in height with skin tanned almost to match the floorboards. He was unshaved and lacked hygiene – his hair greasy, long, and covering one bloodshot and disabled eye. Though weathered, he still looked young as he stood steady on the rocking schooner.

“I want us to port at Eternidad.”

The crew exchanged looks, and one man nudged the first mate.
“Sir…we could never…. That’s right near the capital. Why, last time we landed there was when – well you know, Captain.”

“Yes, I know. It’s about time.”

Pivoting on one foot, Aloisio faced his men. They all stood dumbfounded, idle and unsure. A handful of them leaned toward the rigging but didn’t even take a step. His first mate held The Mystic Times loosely in his right hand, and one of the middle pages fell out and was whisked away into the wind.

“Eyes in the deck, men!” he barked. “Get to work, scallywags!”

Tumbling over each other, they spread about, screaming directions to amongst themselves and struggling to catch the wind. Satisfied, Aloisio scooped The Mystic Times from his crewman’s hands and slipped into his office, disgruntled and muttering to himself.

The first page article was not in English. Archaic Mystican characters covered the page, clear and perfect under the Captain’s trained eye. He was the only person aboard that could read, let alone in Mystican, and was, therefore, the only person who understood the severity of the statement Sylvia Critten was making. It was controversial – astoundingly so. Slyth had captured the moment perfectly, but his signature at the bottom would trigger a public outrage, and Aloisio was assured that the gates of the castle would be swarming with mobs by nightfall.

An opportunity for pillaging?

The idea was pristine, but did not settle all Aloisio’s conflicts. His crewmen could properly fulfill their pirate duties by ravaging all of Eternidad Port, but he, himself, had business in the inner sections of the city. Perhaps he could drop in on Sylvia Critten, but his main target lived in more regal accommodations and had a stronger hand in politics.

A sharp knock rapped on his wooden doors.

“Come in Chane,” he said.

The first mate shifted into the room. His white top was unbuttoned and tucked into his ratty trousers, which were ripped at the knee. A bandana tied back his matted and uncut hair, binding it right above the nape of his neck. “I know why you’re doing this, Aloisio.”

The Captain looked up from the paper, at which he had been staring intently. “Humor me.”

“You want to provoke him. You know – him.”

Aloisio flicked his hair from his bloodshot eye again. “No, I don’t know who, Chane,” he said, drumming his fingers on his desk. He knew exactly who the quartermaster was referring to.

“The Emperor, for God’s sake! I don’t know why, but that man has irked you since he was crowned at eighteen, and you have never stopped searching for ways to grievance his life.”

He cocked his head at the man and shrugged. Fair enough.

Chane leaned over the desk and glared at his master over his stained, filthy boots. “He’s a good man, Aloisio. He’s her son. You shouldn’t do this to her son.”

The sides of Aloisio’s lips twisted upward. “Who’s son?” he asked innocently.

“You know very well that I can’t say her name at sea!”

“Say it,” Aloisio growled. He jumped forward and faced his man, teeth bared and eyes wide. His lame one twitched from side to side uncontrollably, a black pupil rolling about in a mess of red lines. A guttural sound grumbled in the deep reaches of his throat.

Chane threw his hands in the air and stumbled away from the desk. “You’re a madman.”

The wooden chair creaked as Aloisio settled himself back into it. “True,” he agreed. He popped one drawer open on his desk and took out a pack of cigarettes, setting one alight. As he breathed in the fumes he sighed in relaxation.

“Thought you quit em,” Chane grumbled.

Aloisio just laughed. After a few seconds, he looked back up and, as if noticing his first mate was still in the room, rose to his feet. He sauntered around the desk and faced the man, eye-to-eye.

“Just say her name for me – there’s a good lad.”

“I’m not a lad anymore. It’s been a long time since you picked me up at shore!”

Aloisio looked at the grown man, his chest bulging with the muscles that life on the Sangre Fria had give him. Just eleven years ago, he has been but ten on the shores of the Mystican coast, lost in a war zone long abandoned. He had been strong, and the notorious pirate needed another hand on his ship; and so he stood here, grown, as Aloisio had seen so many men become.

Still, he persisted. “Say the name, and I swear the seas won’t curse you.”

More shifting. “Why should I say her name otherwise, mate? You’re not making any sense.”

“To taste it,” Aloisio mused. “To be brave. To face the challenge.”

Chane leaned in close to Aloisio’s ear, his lips chapped and hungry, and opened and closed his mouth a handful of times, as if preparing himself. Aloisio listened intently, licking his own lips, waiting to hear the words. He was desperate for it, now, and nudged his shipmate impatiently.

“Magestic,” Chane whispered, softly and quickly.

Aloisio took a step back. He placed his hands on his hips, considering the sweaty man that swayed before him, wringing his wrists. There was the option of asking him to say it again, louder, this time – but he suppressed the urge to request.

“There’s a good man,” Aloisio said. “Now get to work. I want to be in Eternidad by morning.”

Chane bobbed his head and exited, completely forgetting why he went in there in the first place.

Aloisio squeezed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He could smell the spritz of applejack and jasmine: the thing he smelt last time he landed at Eternidad Port. He had been hanging from the rigging, facing the city as it unfolded before him, squinting into the sunlight as he tried to discern the figure on the planks. Toppling down from Sangre Fria, he hastened to her, lifting her in his arms and spinning her in a wide circle. The world behind her flashed visions of the open waters of Cascada Ocean to the ivory towers of Eternidad. She did not smile at him, but pushed him aside and issued one reverberating order.

He slammed his eyes open, taking in the darkened cabin about him. The world was different, now – duller, dimmer and with far more shadows. Shaking himself to rid the scent of perfume, he reached inside his coat pocket and retrieved a tightly bound roll of papyrus. He unfurled the scroll on the desk, the heavy paper weighting itself so that it lay flat.

His map was legendary. In all of Mystic, no map has so much of the corners filled in. Since his birth in the sixth reign, Aloisio had done nothing but explore both the lands and seas of Mystic, pushing the land wider than ever before. The main of the population remained huddled around the castle, and understandably so, for the land was untamed and vast. But the true magic of the infamous Captain’s map was what it revealed by a touch of a finger.

Anything in Mystic he so desired to find.

This charm kept him immortal, undefeated, and unafraid of boundaries. Now, in his cabin, he sat and traced the lines of the land: from Eternidad to City Red, from the Diamond Spires to the Mounts of the Hunjagi. So many unoccupied places, where Slyth had hid for generations. The thought that, now, the only thing that lay there was shadows and shadows alone – it was beyond belief.

Aloisio left the map, unsettled by the propositions it proposed, and curled up in his hammock. Now that the war to truly end all wars was over, petty crime would soon be making headlines. After a good night’s sleep, he figured he would be well prepared to have his face plastered all over Mystic, just like before the war.

Aloisio fell asleep quickly enough, despite the sickening rocking of the boat. Chane waltzed in the room after his Captain had fallen into slumber. He rolled the map up and tucked it into the man’s coat, and then sat beside him and listened to what the enigma mumbled in his sleep:

“This afterlife…where’s she…the dead?”

The quartermaster gave his Captain a solemn nod. The philosophies of the world were completely morphed, but they were men of sea, and there was a ship to be steered. He left his commander to unravel the threads of destination, leaving the cabin with just a compass and the hope that the afterlife would be a heaven, not a hell.

* * *

“Cap’n.”

Aloisio’s shoulder shook vigorously. His eyes fluttered open. Only inches from his face he could see the blurry tip of a nose. Beyond that, a filthy and tired crewman looked down on him, a concern in his eyes that was almost immediately snuffed out.

“What?”

“Cap’n, we’re here. Eternidad.”

Aloisio knocked the pirate aside as he stood. “And the public? Their response?”

“Aye, they know the Sangre Fria. But th’ only governmental man would be that Alexander. He’s in a mighty uproar. Gone a bit mad, I reckon. Tossed some fruit as us.”

Brow furrowed, Aloisio brushed past the crewman and flung open the doors, striding out onto the deck. The sunlight hit his face with the force of the cannon, and he blinked it back until he could see around him. The ivory towers of Eternidad loomed beyond the docks, strewn in ivy and flowers, carrying the hefty scent of pollen. The white buildings, though, appeared gray even in the dusky sunrise – warfare had stained their immaculate walls. His entire crew was leaning over the edge of the ship, watching some sort of spectacle unfolding below.

He joined them, leaning over the starboard railing.

The next thing he saw was a red blur, and then a tomato hit him squarely in the face.

A certain silence was kept by his crew as they watched him wipe the juices from his face, brushing the seeds from his hair. Aloisio looked down at the dock, and saw an Italian face glance back up at him, thick eyebrows and black curly hair brushing his face. He had dropped the cabbage in his hand and was biting his lower lip.

“Captain!” he shouted, opening his arms in welcome. “Haven’t seen you in years!”

Aloisio looked at him blankly, drew his pistol, and fired.

The bullet had missed, but the docks under Alexander’s feet had been blow apart, and so the young man fell into the water. He splashed and vainly tried to get back on deck, while the crew laughed boisterously and patted their Captain on the back.

“C’mon,” he said stiffly. “The merchants are doing their business, and so must we.”

With roaring cheers, the pirates worked to dismount the boat – workers on the dock had already secured it, and the crew helped the wary men with the gangplank. Weapons still sheathed, they charged down it, grins bearing their gold and silver teeth.

Aloisio swaggered down after them, unconcerned, idle. He swayed on the dock, as if unused to steady land, and walked to the broken planks. Sticking his callused and scarred hand into the hole, a wet arm reached out and grappled at his slippery wrist. With one huge heave, he pulled Alexander from the water and flung him to the side.

Alexander spluttered and spat, shaking his head and body like a dog. Aloisio watched, hand in his belt again, pelvis thrust forward. Eventually, the land-bound man rolled over and flashed a stupid smile up at the ill-reputed man that towered above him.

“Nailed you, eh?” he slurred. Aloisio kicked him.

“Never liked you guys. Advisors to the Emperor – that’s what you do, right? And they called you Jewels. Like it was some freaking honor to stand by that usurper.”

Alexander fought his way to his feet. He placed a hand on Aloisio’s shoulder, swaying slightly. Aloisio ripped his shoulder away, and Alexander stumbled and almost fell.

“I have a business proposition for you, Captain,” he whispered.

Aloisio scowled. His face was darkened under the brim of his hat. “Listening.”

“I take you where you want to go: right up the Emperor. We’ll go there with Viaggia Travel System – the one I invented – and all have a little chat. I think he owes us that much. Perhaps Mystic needs one. I think that’s what Sylvia Critten was trying to imply. We all have pieces of the story and the war. Now that we’re here, we have all the time we could ever use. There’s no clock ticking us down anymore. We’ll chat.

“And if I take you there, and you have your little chat with him, then you owe me a trip. The only pirate who’ll do it, I’m guessing, is you. Take me to the Litan. A female friend of mine and me. That’s all I ask. Just drop us off on their Isle.”

Aloisio resisted the urge to snort in laughter. “What female friend?” he asked.

Alexander bit his lip. “Those are my terms, sir. Take it or leave it. I guarantee the only other way you’ll see the Emperor is on TV.” He paused. “If you recall, I invented that.”

“Yeah, shut up. What female friend?”

The man was silent. Rolling his eyes, the pirate drew his sword and held it fast to Alexander’s neck. He looked down at the cutlass’s blade, but did not wince at the cold steel.

“I’m afraid we’re in the afterlife, Captain Aloisio Ethar. That’ll do little good.”

Aloisio pressed the blade into the man’s neck. A droplet of blood dripped down. “How’d you know my full name?”

Alexander’s eyes deepened. “We all do.” He cocked his head as a sly grin spread across his face. “I’m presuming you only read the first page of the Mystic Times, didn’t you, Captain?”

The blade pressed into the man’s bare throat again. This time, he winced.

“Take me to the Emperor,” he snarled. “Let Viaggia or whatever whisk us away there. Then we can meet your little female friend, as women are hardly allowed on a pirate ship, and decide from there. Simple as that.”

The sly grin was still plastered on Alexander’s face. Aloisio gaped at him. “Au contraire, Capitaine,” he said self-assuredly. “I think you will change your mind when you see the maiden. Pourquoi, you may ask? Because you are her share a special type of relationship. And frankly, sir –” he looked at him with bare sympathy “– it makes you appear far past your prime.”

Aloisio took out his pistol and butted Alexander over the head. The man passed out where he stood. Exasperated, he scooped the man’s hands up and dragged him up the gangplank, mumbling about foul selection that society had made on elected officials and spitting out the tomato still on his face. In only minutes, he could be settling a family feud long since wanting.

I'll print this out and get back to you.

Not sure how well this gonna work but hopefully the transfer will be okay. This is the first part and i'll get to the second as soon as i can.

We always knew this day would come. Sometimes, yes, the doubt was there – perpetual days and nights spent winding out the same clockwise days, never thinking twice of executing the monotonous tasks of your life – no, surely not then did it occur to us that this was inevitable. But as the human life is plagued by a certain thirst for tragedy, it was unavoidable to not at least once picture it. After all, did it not thrill? Did it not satisfy? Here, now, that the day has come, you feel like saying it, yes: “I knew it would.” Of course you did, and all congratulations to you for that intellectual honor. But I fear that you weren’t the only to behold this day in such high esteem. We all did. It is human. We are all average in our vanity, and there is no escaping that.

Today, for example, cannot be escaped. We see it in our stranger’s eyes, in our friend’s eyes, in our own eyes: whatever image was framed in the label that suits today. Perhaps babies are splintered along a wooden stake, drowned in a heavy, bloodstained silence. Maybe bodies lie in masses, a writhing force of snakes all with arms and legs outstretched upward, groping in complete desperation, cries that shake and shatter the walls of human sanity. In duller minds, there are merely flashes of blazing fires and dismantled body parts, all adorned in gore. But in the eyes of nightmare dwellers, you could catch the rattling eyes as brother faced brother, killing each other, clamping on to each other before falling to a sooty ground, a dull thud the only beating noise – no bangs, to music, no trombones and fanfare.

Even the more morbid could abide themselves with what they would do under the circumstances. Could you possibly plan against the raging flood waters that were sure to riptide straight into you chest, sweeping you off into unreality? You captured those surreal, snapshot moments all along your life, collecting them for a time when perhaps you would need them. Perhaps you could be prepared for what would unfold here. But, no, I think you see now: you are not prepared. Trigger fingers twitch and acid rain splatters down on upturned faces, and as pen scratches on dismal paper, you hear the unsettled silence. Like a skittering heart, you know you are still alive, but you lean in closer and closer, listening to when it will end. Knowing it is so close, now, two forces debate – will it slip on like fabric or rain down like bricks? Will you screech, or perhaps stay silent and dumb as the day you were born? With haunting questions and looming answers, the entire landscape is vague. But this is today. It is inescapable. After all,

We always knew this day would come.

This was a nice prolouge. I enjoyed it very much and sets up a ominous kinda feel for the rest of the story.


Clockworking Eternity

The editor flipped through various papers all strewn about her desk. She sighed, though inwardly, as her fingers pressed and flittered, almost dancing, through the masses of penned papyrus. All about her glass-walled office people fluttered similarly, ducking in and out of offices, sprinting from printer to printer in a mindless frenzy. The site was familiar to her eyes, which were weary and ice cold. Around them, skin was crinkled in deep crevices and unfading lines. Both inside and outside, the editor, Sylvia Critten, was old.

The sighing inwardly was kinda odd. You use a lot of commas in my opinion. I think you could restructure some sentences with out them. I like the desription of the people running around the office. Very accurate. I don't think you need to out the editor before you introduce sylvia's name.

She had been the editor for well over fifty years, as read the plaque nailed above her red oak desk. It was golden, plated and engraved with words of commemoration. But long before she was an editor, she had been a reporter. Her first report had been the first day of frenzy in all of Mystic for thousands of years, and the hectic air had not ceased since. Always there was news, and the print of the paper got smaller and smaller, as the reams of pages still bulged and multiplied.

The part in red confused me a great deal. I don't understand what it means. Again i think you use to many commas. and this is an info dump. You can spread all of this throughout the story.

There was no lack of headlines.

But today, she was actually wondering how large she should print it.

And what the hell would it say?

Thousands of ideas had been thrown at her as Sylvia sipped her coffee this morning. She had grabbed a bagel from the business cafeteria, and the masses had practically jumped her, shouting, some even bold enough to stand on the wobbly chairs and wave their hands to catch her attention. Of course, nothing sparked her creatively.

I think you changed tenses. I believe this should be that. The purple section should be broken into two sentences in my opinion. Change the comma after cafeteria to a period and capitilize The while getting rid of and. This painted a nice picture. made me laugh. I thought of the papparzzi.

On top of the headlines, people had sat up all last night writing, typing, painting – all trying to get down their version of the main report. Now they all sat on Sylvia’s desk, which creaked in protest. Some people had written more than one article; in fact, one employee had exceeded a dozen, all sending the exact same message. Swiveling eyes critical and analytical, long and shriveled fingers snapped papers into quick balls as she flung them into her wastebasket, which had already overflowed twice over.

I liked this paragraph very much. It portrays the real word of writing very very well. nicely done. I think you could change sat to stayed.

Sylvia leaned back in her leather chair, webbing her hands behind her, below a bun that was tight, strict, and perched right atop her head. Red nails clicked impatiently as she surveyed the entire lack of organization, a sick feeling at the edges of her stomach.

nice. A great showing. very good.

“This is hopeless,” she whispered.

What caught her eye at that moment was no answer, but faded letters that were printed across the wall opposite her. They read “Clockworking Eternity”, which happened to be the newspaper’s motto. For millions of years, they had kept the news, being the only official distributor in all of Mystic. Little stations reported the common news, while here they penned the national words of truth. And as time kept rolling in the lush lands of prosperity, the paper did, as well.

Now the statement from earlier makes more sense. i take it Mystic is the world they live in. You don't need a comma after did.

Ice blue eyes scanned downward to the desk. All the papers were crisply white, rectangular and perfect – some smelt of ink, others of granite and others, still, of perfume. A touch of color, though, brushed the red oak. It was sticking out of her left drawer, which was always locked with the editor’s key. It hadn’t been opened in the fifty years she had been here.

intrigueing

Curious, Sylvia took out her sham leather bag and rummaged through it, retrieving a keychain. She flicked through the silver and gold bits of metal, biting her tongue in her mouth. Finally finding the right one, which was short and steel gray, she hastily jammed it in the lock and twisted.

Grabbing the yellowed paper by the corner, Sylvia took it out, delicately slipping it atop all of the other papers on her desk. It was not typed, but written with a blotted quill. The script was odd, the tongue old and almost unrecognizable. Almost everybody spoke English nowadays, but with trained squinting eyes, she deciphered the ancient letters of Mystic in quick surety.

“Vixe’ lansing ye Shanight,” she read. “Burnt cities on the Reckoning.” The words felt heavy and archaic on her tongue. They almost wilted with the paper. Her eyes engorged the text, lips mouthing the syllables with their utmost power. It seemed almost like spell, how it flowed.

Finally done, her eyes brushed the signature and date at the bottom.

Slyth. MII.

Sylvia would have fainted right then and there had she not already been sitting down. Heart drenched in drama, face drained of blood, the old woman bit her lower lip, which was red and flaky. A nail reached across and she pressed a tiny red button, her fingers shaking as they still held the paper in her hand with a death grip. The yellowed edges flickered as if treasure, the black ink deep and ebony.

Didn't quite understand this sentence. All of that was great. You did well in the writing to make me feel the fear and anxiety while she read it. very good descriptions.

A young man, short haired with sharp-rimmed glasses, ducked his head inside the glass-walled room. “Yes?”

“This,” Sylvia said, still as sharp and articulate as ever. Her hands steadied. “This is the headliner. Print exactly as it is written.”

The man glanced at the paper. “Siré, our computers don’t have Mystican symbols –”

“Then use a typewriter, for God’s sake – just print it!”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded out of the room, muttering underneath his breath, the precious paper crumpling in his hand.

Sylvia smiled in satisfaction. With idle contentment, she grabbed a small silver ball and released it. It clashed into another, and the energy bounced at the other end of the row. Watching the energy rebound, Sylvia steepled her fingers below her lips. Her crinkled eyes rested close, and the frenetic world whizzing about her faded away. It was the day after the end of the world, and Mystic Times still had something to write.

The ending was great. Very very good. Over all the story started a little shakey but it got better and better as i read it. Your descriptions are good. Try to avoid info duping them though. The prolouge section was very good. I say bravo. a nice story you have. I hope my suggestions help you.

All IMVHO
Adam

I might completely delete this. We'll see.

Margaritaville

The room was dense, heavy with the smoke of lust and heated, like a sinful calm. Two crimson high-heels were crossed one over the other atop a wooden desk that was coated with plastic. It was hardly visible, though, as cigarette butts and empty wineglasses littered the gritty surface. A hand with unnaturally long, scarlet nails scooped a dark wine bottle from the desk and brought it to flaking lips. After a long draw, they ripped away with a sick smacking sound.

“I thought you only drank margaritas, Rosalina,” said a dark voice from the other end of the room. The woman behind the desk looked up and came into the yellowed light.

“I drink,” Rosalina slurred, “only in excess.”

“It seems that you’ve accomplished that, then.”

Rosalina gulped some more wine, bobbing her head. “Want a swig?” She held out the wine, sloshing some over the edges. A delicate hand slipped into the light and snatched the bottle.

“Never liked red wine,” the enigma snapped, thrusting the bottle back to the secretary, who rolled her eyes and downed the last of it.

“I’m guessing you want to see him.”

There was the sound of a chair scraping across the tiled floor. The visitor sat down in it, barely outside the ring of light. All that was visible was her sleek legs and the tip of her impish nose. “No, Rosalina, I came to talk to you.”

The drunk raised an eyebrow. “Hm?” she said, leaning forward. Garbed in a red dress, her breasts practically toppled out, only concealed by a velvety black brassiere.

“Well, we never really had the chance to chat, you and I.”

Rosalina snorted. She pulled a blender out from under the desk and started to busy herself with mixing a margarita for herself. “Well,” she started, scanning the desk for a glass that was empty and relatively clean. “You were the daughter of the Emperor, Diamond of Mystic – that appoints you warlord, as you know.” Finally finding a glass, she began to scoop the finished mixture in. Taking a sip, she said, “With an apocalypse going on and all, I’m sure you had your fair share of people to chat with.”

In the darkness, the woman’s full lips twisted into a wry smile. “That I did. And a numerous amount were far more intoxicated then you are, my dear servant.”

A scoff sounded from below the desk, where Rosalina was returning her blender. “Servant my ass. I figure afterlife, means new life. Which means that I’m not going to be taking your shit anymore.”

“Oh, come now,” the woman said. Her voice was so clipped and silky in the sultry room that it sounded like a fume in itself. “We let you drink on the job, do we not?”

“I have to,” Rosalina sniffed. “With that temper of your father…. In any case, working under Magestic was far fairer. She was no saint, that woman, but she was sure as hell good to me. Vacations and everything. Mind you, I still had to tolerate that skeptical character, there – that Vinny.”

“Vinny is vital.”

“Vinny’s an ass.”

The silence that followed after unsettled Rosalina. “Cigarette?” She offered and entire pack, shuffling through her things for matches.

“I only smoke for social reasons.”

Rosalina looked up. “Me and you talking?” she smiled. “We’re being social, aren’t we? Good old conversation.” She returned to the search for matches, found one, and set it alight.

“I would hardly call talking to you a conversation,” the other woman retorted, decidedly mordant.

Face constricted, fuming, Rosalina cursed and flung the match at the woman. The spinning flame stopped when spidery fingers snatched it from the air. She blew it out, lips the color of oxblood. “Don’t entice my sadistic whims, Rosalina. I’m armed.”

“I’m drunk,” Rosalina declared.

For the first time, the woman laughed. It was a wicked, musical sound – but melodic in the way of melancholy funeral chimes, empty and low. Ended quickly, as if she had bitten it back, she filled the space to stand and slip into the light. She squinted, unused to it.

Sleek black hair illuminated, her heart-shaped face gave a sharp glance at the desk and then her dark eyes settled on Rosalina. The secretary felt the familiar feelings while in the woman’s presence. It was volatile, unnerving, and bitter. It came with the feel of bleeding butterflies and the unmistakable scent of blood and roses.

“I’ll beep your father in.”

“He’s not taking any calls.”

Rosalina brought her legs off the desk, her chair creaking in protest. Her brow was sweaty and her lips trembling. “Empri Ethere…”

Empri’s hand swooped down and clouted Rosalina. The secretary looked up at her, hair slipping down her cheek, eyes glittering black as they blinked back tears of pain. Though it was obvious that she was provoked, she stayed plastered to the chair. Empri towered above her, flexing her fingers and leering down at the ugly scene.

“Vinny is vital,” she whispered. “He is the one who brought us here.”

Despite the fact that Rosalina was shaking so much that her margarita glass had fallen from the desk and shattered on the floor, she forced herself to speak – “Vinny is no God. We came here on our own, Empri. You, out of all people, should know what it’s like to be alone.”

Both of the women glanced down at Empri’s left hand, from which glimmered three rings, one piled atop of the other. They were all identical: silver, sleek and bearing a singular diamond. Empri’s eyes burned, and she closed her hand into a fist.

“I’m going to kill you, Rosalina. I’m going to k –”

A loud beep resounded through the room. The women both looked at the door, Empri lowering her fist and Rosalina leaning forward in her chair. The tense hostility in the room evaporated as the doorbell blared out again.

Empri sunk into the chair, took a margarita glass and filled it. Sipping it delicately, she whispered, “Get the door, Rosalina. We were just chatting.”

Rosalina nodded curtly and pressed a blue button on her desk, which was somewhat obscured by glass shards. The door flung open, and a man waltzed in, hardly visible in the dim, yellow light. Behind him, a darker figure was tugged, dragging along the tiles.

The figured approached the desk, paying no attention to Empri in the corner.

“Miss Rosalina,” he sneered, hand in his belt.

“Mhm?” Rosalina asked, seemingly casual. A drop of sweat dripped from her brow. She glanced up at the man, whipped out a pen and began to scribble on a notepad. “So that’s Captain Aloisio Ethar and….”

Aloisio tugged the unconscious man into the light.

“…And Alexander Buioluco.” Her eyes narrowed, snakelike. “Who appears to be DOA?”

“No, no,” Aloisio said, dropping Alexander’s hand. He fell to the floor with a dull thud. Rolling over, it was made obvious that he had a sanguinary brow, his right temple caked in blood. “He’s just unconscious,” the pirate explained hastily.

“Ah.” Unnoticed, Empri slipped from the darkness and kneeled beside Alexander, tending to his wound. There was no worry in her actions, but only a quick assertiveness. His heavy head on her lap, she tore her clothes and began to wipe free the dried gore.

“Well, Captain?” Rosalina asked. “What is your business here?”

The ratty man grimaced down at her. For the second time, Rosalina caught the scent of blood and roses. She hastily crossed her arms across her chest, which suddenly felt like a large and exposed target. Empri, slinking by the man’s side, looked up at him with bare curiosity. Her skin was not as darkly tanned as his, but he had the same impish nose and his lips curled with her seductive smile.

“I want to see my son,” he declared. His callused fingers slipped past Rosalina and pressed the red button on the desk. Holding it there a second, Aloisio appeared smug with his accomplishment.

With two sharp clicks, Empri stood beside the man. She was of the same height, perhaps half an inch shorter, and countered his dominant demeanor. “It seems,” she hissed, “That there is an explanation in store.”

Aloisio was not daunted. He stood steady, his pelvis slightly thrust forward. “Aye,” said he. “That there is, little miss.”

Rosalina sat at her desk, her fingers pressed into her temples. “Go on in.” A nauseous feeling sailed around her stomach, which one of her arms was wrapped around tightly as she curled forward. Both Aloisio and Empri opened the door at the other end of the room and slipped inside.

The doorbell reverberated throughout the office. Eyes slammed shut, Rosalina pulled her blender out from under the desk. Lips razor-thin, she began to mix herself a margarita. The smoke in the room was settling in, and through her muddled thoughts, the secretary pressed the blue button.

Throat rasping and dry, she forced her eyes upward.

“Come on in.”

OMG. I just read the second part and i am like in love with it. I don't have time to do a good crit but i will tomorrow hopefully. It is so freakin cool. I am starting to understand things and it is like so cool. Is this like novel? I hope so cause you could totally get this published i think. It rocks like majorly. I cant wait to read the third part.

This kind of reads like a wall made out of mis matched legos. This one is green, this one is red, this one is blue, this one is white. You didn't give much room for us to see the scene, rather told us exactly what it was. Its a tad choppy. Instead of: " The room was dense, heavy with the smoke of lust and heated, like a sinful calm. Two crimson high-heels were crossed one over the other atop a wooden desk that was coated with plastic. ..."
Something more along the lines of - "Her crimson stolletos were barely visible atop the desk amidst the smoke and ash in the air. We get a lot of images, all at once, with no un-needed clutter of extra sentences where one will do.

Ethers


“Fuck.”

He was under his desk. The room vibrated again, dust shaking all around him landing in his mane of black hair. It was slicked back, but as somebody pounded on the door again, one singular clump of it shook down and landed on his wrinkled brow.

Looking up nervously, he spotted a wad of dried gum, which was neon blue and stuck on the underside of the mammoth desktop. Curious, he began to scrape it off. But as the room jolted again, he slammed his head into the row of drawers opposite him and cursed again.

Just open the door; you know she’ll find a way in.

With that thought, the Emperor brushed off his sleeves, shrugged his long dress-jacket back on his shoulders and huddled farther into his sturdy structure. Already he could hear the door creaking in its frames, the lock tumblers jangling in resentment and protest.

“Father!” Empri said shrilly. His left eye twitched.

“Stand aside, little miss,” said another voice. The Emperor’s hands twitched with familiarity inside his folds of black cotton. The accent was odd – coastal, but with a brush of Eternaland City’s finery, and perhaps the slightest underlying notes of the melodious Litan, who lived across the distant horizon. It didn’t match up.

A gunshot rung out in the office, and pieces of wood tumbled across the desk and landed all around the Emperor’s feet. A large amount of salvia sunk down his throat, leaving his mouth parched and dry. Ducking his head, he crawled out into the wreckage of his grand swinging doors and looked across the room at his visitors.

The first was his daughter, undoubtedly. She was still wearing her Mystican uniform, hair raven black and sweaty. Eyeliner smeared all about her narrowed henna-tinted eyes.

Standing behind her, hand still glued to his belt, swayed an infamous figure. It was Captain Aloisio. Famous on the common grounds of piracy, he nearly had an Empire of influence all over the ports of every Mystican and Litan shore. They had met before, but he was the first person he had seen face-to-face in the afterlife, and so his lips went dumb.

Everybody looked ageless.

“Morning, Joshua.”

“Morning, Captain, Empri. What, pray tell, brings you here on this fine….”

The Emperor dwindled off awkwardly. He was unsure if he could address the day as a day, as he had still not clarified anything about the new world after its ending. Job done, he figured – time to wipe his hands clean and spend days drinking margaritas with his promiscuous secretary. But Sylvia Critten sprouted trouble with every word she printed.

Aloisio understood the question. “What brings me here is this lovely article –” he slammed the bundle of papers on the desk, which were now so dirtied they were illegible “– and just to have that little chat we never had the opportunity to have.”

Grimacing, the Emperor slapped the papers from his desk. “That’s none of my business. It’s Sylvia Critten’s paper. And if you want to chat, I’d like to inform you that I make a wonderful pen pal. You can write me anytime – you know the address.”

“Joshua,” Aloisio said, clicking his tongue. “You obviously read only the front page.”

Brow furrowed, he bent over the papers and flipped through them as the pirate continued talking, slipping his pistol into his holster. “I know you know who your mother is. Wonderful woman, that Magestic. Feisty. It was the beginning of the end the day that she died – appointing you, her only surviving son, Emperor of Mystic. Course, took you a bit to come to grips with that…”

The Emperor waved an impatient hand, only halfway through the bundle of headliners.

“Do you know who your father is?”

Looking up, the man of Mystic stuck his hand in his belt, thrust his pelvis forward and shrugged honestly. “Humor me.”

“Page twenty seven.”

As the Emperor flipped through the pages, Empri pushed past the swashbuckler and confronted her father. “I can’t believe your cowardice.”

“Yeah, it’s extraordinary,” he spat in return.

Throwing her hands up in the air, the woman stomped away in her high heels. Only seconds later, she pirouetted, livid. A radiation seemed to seep from her pores – one of fire and ice. The Emperor appeared nonchalant, although his left eye twitched irrepressibly.

“Did you take your medication?” he asked her, not looking up.

“No.” Empri’s voice shook. “I did not because every shop in all of Mystic is shut down, everything is lost…we’ve been dumped here in a jumble, father, a jumble.”

“It would appear.” Landing eyes on his daughter for only a second, a spasm seemed to shoot across the man’s nerves and his left eye continued its convulsions with a revitalized fervor. Finally, the folds of paper peeled away and flat on his desk glared two extraordinary oil paintings plastered with ink to the thin page. The title underneath was penned with unmistakable clarity.

“Pirating the throne – the uncovered mystery of the Emperor’s heritage and the true identity of Magestic’s only husband.” The Emperor scowled. “Pleasant. I’m looking forward to snapping Sylvia Critten’s osteoporosis spine.” With a curt nod, he walked around the desk and pushed a chair into Aloisio’s knees. The pirate clanged as he collapsed in the chair. The other paced impatiently, making sure to keep distance from Empri.

“So, is this true?”

“Unless Magestic cheated on me.”

A laugh almost trickled into the Emperor’s eye. “With the rest of the country about to pronounce her saint, I think not.”

Full laughter broke from the depths of Aloisio’s belt buckles. The entire room seemed to shake with it. “Magestic was sure as hell no saint, I guarantee that. I’m more a saint than she. But dishonest was not her way.”

With another curt nod, the Emperor glided to a phone on his desk. Lifting it to his ear in one sharp, fluid motion, his clipped voice demanded – “Rosa!”

“The phone’s broken, sir,” came her voice from the other room.

Grumbling deep in his throat, the man stuck his head out of the destroyed doorframe. “Send in the guests, Rosalina. I know they’re right outside.”

A clamor exploded, and Rosalina shouted over the people – “All of them?” Her voice was slurred.

“Yes, you whore, all of them.”

Empri waved her hand, a bouquet of black razors, and said, “Drag in Alexander, too.”

The secretary harrumphed. “All right, then. Everybody in, you heard em – get!”

A footstep crunched on the wreckage. A stranger boot kicked aside a piece of wood, followed soon after by a bare foot, then a slipper, then a shoe polished to perfection. The people shuffled in: more than a dozen had arrived, all buzzing with curiosity. And at the very edge of them a mop of silver hair entered – a woman with red nails clicking over a sheet of papers cradled in her arms.

“Nice to see you again,” the Emperor greeted her personally. Sylvia sunk into a chestnut chair in the far corner of the room, smirking. Already her ink pen had scraped once or twice across the thickened parchment.

“There’s still time for redemption, my old friend.” She crossed one leg over the other. “Let Mystic finally know the truth.” She paused, glanced around the stately office. “In the meantime, I’d like a cappuccino.”

Every person settled down into a seat, and Alexander was flopped across a couch in the corner. The man seated next to him only raised one eyebrow before immersing himself in the cleansing of his ammunition and gun barrel. His brown leather and gaudy appearance marred the perfect painted fabrics that his soiled thighs rubbed against.

The din rebounding in the office soon became a hum, and then completely disappeared as the Emperor raised his hand. A golden ring glimmered on his finger. “I’m glad that you all have come to see me properly about your concerns. I’m sure you’ve read the article in this morning’s paper –” Sylvia Critten did not wither under the glares she received “– and as I can tell, you have aided me every moment in this war. Puzzle pieces are scattered all about Mystic and now it is time to place them together, recreate the picture of what we really are. And only then can we improve that pict –”

A click echoed in his right ear. Cold steel pressed against his temple.

“Don’t move.”

Quick, shaky voice. Female.

“I’m gonna run this show.”

Spanish undertones.

“I know you’re mortal as anything…”

“Rosalina, no!”

“…so this is how I’m gonna do this.”

The Emperor lowered his hand slowly. The cold steel pressed harder, but Rosalina did not fire. Her red nails clicked on the barrel. Her sleek legs shook below the red hem of her dress. “If you want a raise, Rosalina…”

“The door is locked,” she said through gritted teeth. “Everything is locked. I know how to close this place down. Now I want you to tell them the truth of Mystic and stop bullshitting. Start at the beginning. It’ll be our little eulogy.”

The Emperor examined the situation. The people in the room could easily shoot Rosalina down, pin her to the floor and beat the life from her cheap lace and drunken curls. But instead they sat, fixated on the unfolding scene. Even Empri stood stock still, arms crossed and cherub lips pursed. Behind her, on the wall, was a portrait. Mocha colored hair cascaded halfway down a tanned back, the glaring head on top bearing a heart-shaped face and lips the color of wine. Lashes thick, her gaze was resolute, her stance imperial. And just near the golden frame, an apple was cupped in her hand – an apple blood red that had been torn apart by her pearly, unmerciful teeth.

“My mother made a deal long ago,” the Emperor said into the quiet room. Everybody held their breath. Something stirred in the unlit corner of the room.

“Everything for an apple.” The speaker emerged from the shadows, face black and hair a mop of dreadlocks, wild snakes around tamed orbs of the darkest eyes. “Plesah zi ever-bidden.”

“Yes, Vinny,” the Emperor responded. “An apple is everything.”

xanthan gum wrote:I might completely delete this. We'll see.

Margaritaville

The room was dense, heavy with the smoke of lust and heated, like a sinful calm. Two crimson high-heels were crossed one over the other atop a wooden desk that was coated with plastic. It was hardly visible, though, as cigarette butts and empty wineglasses littered the gritty surface. A hand with unnaturally long, scarlet nails scooped a dark wine bottle from the desk and brought it to flaking lips. After a long draw, they ripped away with a sick smacking sound.

i love this paragraph. very descriptive and gives me a very cool image in my head

“I thought you only drank margaritas, Rosalina,” said a dark voice from the other end of the room. The woman behind the desk looked up and came into the yellowed light.

“I drink,” Rosalina slurred, “only in excess.”

“It seems that you’ve accomplished that, then.”

Rosalina gulped some more wine, bobbing her head. “Want a swig?” She held out the wine, sloshing some over the edges. A delicate hand slipped into the light and snatched the bottle.

“Never liked red wine,” the enigma snapped, thrusting the bottle back to the secretary, who rolled her eyes and downed the last of it.

“I’m guessing you want to see him.”

There was the sound of a chair scraping across the tiled floor. The visitor sat down in it, barely outside the ring of light. All that was visible was her sleek legs and the tip of her impish nose. “No, Rosalina, I came to talk to you.”

The drunk raised an eyebrow. “Hm?” she said, leaning forward. Garbed in a red dress, her breasts practically toppled out, only concealed by a velvety black brassiere.

“Well, we never really had the chance to chat, you and I.”

Rosalina snorted. She pulled a blender out from under the desk and started to busy herself with mixing a margarita for herself. “Well,” she started, scanning the desk for a glass that was empty and relatively clean. “You were the daughter of the Emperor, Diamond of Mystic – that appoints you warlord, as you know.” Finally finding a glass, she began to scoop the finished mixture in. Taking a sip, she said, “With an apocalypse going on and all, I’m sure you had your fair share of people to chat with.”

very interesting. I'm kind of criting as i read so i don't forget things i see. You have very well done descriptions.

In the darkness, the woman’s full lips twisted into a wry smile. “That I did. And a numerous amount were far more intoxicated then you are, my dear servant.”

A scoff sounded from below the desk, where Rosalina was returning her blender. “Servant my ass. I figure afterlife, means new life. Which means that I’m not going to be taking your shit anymore.”

“Oh, come now,” the woman said. Her voice was so clipped and silky in the sultry room that it sounded like a fume in itself. “We let you drink on the job, do we not?”

“I have to,” Rosalina sniffed. “With that temper of your father…. In any case, working under Magestic was far fairer. She was no saint, that woman, but she was sure as hell good to me. Vacations and everything. Mind you, I still had to tolerate that skeptical character, there – that Vinny.”

“Vinny is vital.”

“Vinny’s an ass.”

I love this character. Rosalina. Well defined as are most of your characters

The silence that followed after unsettled Rosalina. “Cigarette?” She offered and entire pack, shuffling through her things for matches.

“I only smoke for social reasons.”

Rosalina looked up. “Me and you talking?” she smiled. “We’re being social, aren’t we? Good old conversation.” She returned to the search for matches, found one, and set it alight.

“I would hardly call talking to you a conversation,” the other woman retorted, decidedly mordant.

Face constricted, fuming, Rosalina cursed and flung the match at the woman. The spinning flame stopped when spidery fingers snatched it from the air. She blew it out, lips the color of oxblood. “Don’t entice my sadistic whims, Rosalina. I’m armed.”

“I’m drunk,” Rosalina declared.

For the first time, the woman laughed. It was a wicked, musical sound – but melodic in the way of melancholy funeral chimes, empty and low. Ended quickly, as if she had bitten it back, she filled the space to stand and slip into the light. She squinted, unused to it.

Sleek black hair illuminated, her heart-shaped face gave a sharp glance at the desk and then her dark eyes settled on Rosalina. The secretary felt the familiar feelings while in the woman’s presence. It was volatile, unnerving, and bitter. It came with the feel of bleeding butterflies and the unmistakable scent of blood and roses.

“I’ll beep your father in.”

“He’s not taking any calls.”

Rosalina brought her legs off the desk, her chair creaking in protest. Her brow was sweaty and her lips trembling. “Empri Ethere…”

Empri’s hand swooped down and clouted Rosalina. The secretary looked up at her, hair slipping down her cheek, eyes glittering black as they blinked back tears of pain. Though it was obvious that she was provoked, she stayed plastered to the chair. Empri towered above her, flexing her fingers and leering down at the ugly scene.

“Vinny is vital,” she whispered. “He is the one who brought us here.”

Despite the fact that Rosalina was shaking so much that her margarita glass had fallen from the desk and shattered on the floor, she forced herself to speak – “Vinny is no God. We came here on our own, Empri. You, out of all people, should know what it’s like to be alone.”

Both of the women glanced down at Empri’s left hand, from which glimmered three rings, one piled atop of the other. They were all identical: silver, sleek and bearing a singular diamond. Empri’s eyes burned, and she closed her hand into a fist.

“I’m going to kill you, Rosalina. I’m going to k –”

A loud beep resounded through the room. The women both looked at the door, Empri lowering her fist and Rosalina leaning forward in her chair. The tense hostility in the room evaporated as the doorbell blared out again.

Empri sunk into the chair, took a margarita glass and filled it. Sipping it delicately, she whispered, “Get the door, Rosalina. We were just chatting.”

Rosalina nodded curtly and pressed a blue button on her desk, which was somewhat obscured by glass shards. The door flung open, and a man waltzed in, hardly visible in the dim, yellow light. Behind him, a darker figure was tugged, dragging along the tiles.

The figured approached the desk, paying no attention to Empri in the corner.

“Miss Rosalina,” he sneered, hand in his belt.

“Mhm?” Rosalina asked, seemingly casual. A drop of sweat dripped from her brow. She glanced up at the man, whipped out a pen and began to scribble on a notepad. “So that’s Captain Aloisio Ethar and….”

Aloisio tugged the unconscious man into the light.

“…And Alexander Buioluco.” Her eyes narrowed, snakelike. “Who appears to be DOA?”

“No, no,” Aloisio said, dropping Alexander’s hand. He fell to the floor with a dull thud. Rolling over, it was made obvious that he had a sanguinary brow, his right temple caked in blood. “He’s just unconscious,” the pirate explained hastily.

“Ah.” Unnoticed, Empri slipped from the darkness and kneeled beside Alexander, tending to his wound. There was no worry in her actions, but only a quick assertiveness. His heavy head on her lap, she tore her clothes and began to wipe free the dried gore.

“Well, Captain?” Rosalina asked. “What is your business here?”

The ratty man grimaced down at her. For the second time, Rosalina caught the scent of blood and roses. She hastily crossed her arms across her chest, which suddenly felt like a large and exposed target. Empri, slinking by the man’s side, looked up at him with bare curiosity. Her skin was not as darkly tanned as his, but he had the same impish nose and his lips curled with her seductive smile.

“I want to see my son,” he declared. His callused fingers slipped past Rosalina and pressed the red button on the desk. Holding it there a second, Aloisio appeared smug with his accomplishment.

the first typo i've seen since i started. Forgot to put the on in there.

With two sharp clicks, Empri stood beside the man. She was of the same height, perhaps half an inch shorter, and countered his dominant demeanor. “It seems,” she hissed, “That there is an explanation in store.”

Aloisio was not daunted. He stood steady, his pelvis slightly thrust forward. “Aye,” said he. “That there is, little miss.”

Rosalina sat at her desk, her fingers pressed into her temples. “Go on in.” A nauseous feeling sailed around her stomach, which one of her arms was wrapped around tightly as she curled forward. Both Aloisio and Empri opened the door at the other end of the room and slipped inside.

The doorbell reverberated throughout the office. Eyes slammed shut, Rosalina pulled her blender out from under the desk. Lips razor-thin, she began to mix herself a margarita. The smoke in the room was settling in, and through her muddled thoughts, the secretary pressed the blue button.

Throat rasping and dry, she forced her eyes upward.

“Come on in.”

This is good. Your descriptions are great chracters are well defined and you've started to pull all of your pieces together. I only found the one typo. I must say this is very very interesting. like a mystery. I'm going to read the next part right now. Keep up the good work.

Let's see what we have here.

xanthan gum wrote:Ethers


“Fuck.”

He was under his desk. The room vibrated again, dust shaking all around him landing in his mane of black hair. It was slicked back, but as somebody pounded on the door again, one singular clump of it shook down and landed on his wrinkled brow.

Looking up nervously, he spotted a wad of dried gum, which was neon blue and stuck on the underside of the mammoth desktop. Curious, he began to scrape it off. But as the room jolted again, he slammed his head into the row of drawers opposite him and cursed again.

Just open the door; you know she’ll find a way in.

With that thought, the Emperor brushed off his sleeves, shrugged his long dress-jacket back on his shoulders and huddled farther into his sturdy structure. Already he could hear the door creaking in its frames, the lock tumblers jangling in resentment and protest.

“Father!” Empri said shrilly. His left eye twitched.

“Stand aside, little miss,” said another voice. The Emperor’s hands twitched with familiarity inside his folds of black cotton. The accent was odd – coastal, but with a brush of Eternaland City’s finery, and perhaps the slightest underlying notes of the melodious Litan, who lived across the distant horizon. It didn’t match up.

A gunshot rung out in the office, and pieces of wood tumbled across the desk and landed all around the Emperor’s feet. A large amount of salvia sunk down his throat, leaving his mouth parched and dry. Ducking his head, he crawled out into the wreckage of his grand swinging doors and looked across the room at his visitors.

The first was his daughter, undoubtedly. She was still wearing her Mystican uniform, hair raven black and sweaty. Eyeliner smeared all about her narrowed henna-tinted eyes.

Standing behind her, hand still glued to his belt, swayed an infamous figure. It was Captain Aloisio. Famous on the common grounds of piracy, he nearly had an Empire of influence all over the ports of every Mystican and Litan shore. They had met before, but he was the first person he had seen face-to-face in the afterlife, and so his lips went dumb.

Everybody looked ageless.

“Morning, Joshua.”

“Morning, Captain, Empri. What, pray tell, brings you here on this fine….”

The Emperor dwindled off awkwardly. He was unsure if he could address the day as a day, as he had still not clarified anything about the new world after its ending. Job done, he figured – time to wipe his hands clean and spend days drinking margaritas with his promiscuous secretary. But Sylvia Critten sprouted trouble with every word she printed.

Aloisio understood the question. “What brings me here is this lovely article –” he slammed the bundle of papers on the desk, which were now so dirtied they were illegible “– and just to have that little chat we never had the opportunity to have.”

Grimacing, the Emperor slapped the papers from his desk. “That’s none of my business. It’s Sylvia Critten’s paper. And if you want to chat, I’d like to inform you that I make a wonderful pen pal. You can write me anytime – you know the address.”

“Joshua,” Aloisio said, clicking his tongue. “You obviously read only the front page.”

Brow furrowed, he bent over the papers and flipped through them as the pirate continued talking, slipping his pistol into his holster. “I know you know who your mother is. Wonderful woman, that Magestic. Feisty. It was the beginning of the end the day that she died – appointing you, her only surviving son, Emperor of Mystic. Course, took you a bit to come to grips with that…”

The Emperor waved an impatient hand, only halfway through the bundle of headliners.

“Do you know who your father is?”

Looking up, the man of Mystic stuck his hand in his belt, thrust his pelvis forward and shrugged honestly. “Humor me.”

this section confused me a little. I believe Aloisio is asking if the emperor knows who his father is and the emperor is responding but i'm not 100%. I would just add a dialouge tag.

“Page twenty seven.”

As the Emperor flipped through the pages, Empri pushed past the swashbuckler and confronted her father. “I can’t believe your cowardice.”

“Yeah, it’s extraordinary,” he spat in return.

Throwing her hands up in the air, the woman stomped away in her high heels. Only seconds later, she pirouetted, livid. A radiation seemed to seep from her pores – one of fire and ice. The Emperor appeared nonchalant, although his left eye twitched irrepressibly.

“Did you take your medication?” he asked her, not looking up.

“No.” Empri’s voice shook. “I did not because every shop in all of Mystic is shut down, everything is lost…we’ve been dumped here in a jumble, father, a jumble.”

“It would appear.” Landing eyes on his daughter for only a second, a spasm seemed to shoot across the man’s nerves and his left eye continued its convulsions with a revitalized fervor. Finally, the folds of paper peeled away and flat on his desk glared two extraordinary oil paintings plastered with ink to the thin page. The title underneath was penned with unmistakable clarity.

“Pirating the throne – the uncovered mystery of the Emperor’s heritage and the true identity of Magestic’s only husband.” The Emperor scowled. “Pleasant. I’m looking forward to snapping Sylvia Critten’s osteoporosis spine.” With a curt nod, he walked around the desk and pushed a chair into Aloisio’s knees. The pirate clanged as he collapsed in the chair. The other paced impatiently, making sure to keep distance from Empri.

“So, is this true?”

“Unless Magestic cheated on me.”

A laugh almost trickled into the Emperor’s eye. “With the rest of the country about to pronounce her saint, I think not.”

Full laughter broke from the depths of Aloisio’s belt buckles. The entire room seemed to shake with it. “Magestic was sure as hell no saint, I guarantee that. I’m more a saint than she. But dishonest was not her way.”

With another curt nod, the Emperor glided to a phone on his desk. Lifting it to his ear in one sharp, fluid motion, his clipped voice demanded – “Rosa!”

“The phone’s broken, sir,” came her voice from the other room.

Grumbling deep in his throat, the man stuck his head out of the destroyed doorframe. “Send in the guests, Rosalina. I know they’re right outside.”

A clamor exploded, and Rosalina shouted over the people – “All of them?” Her voice was slurred.

“Yes, you whore, all of them.”

humorous moment. I loved it. And the Emperor is a very interesting character. He seems a bit cowardly to be in his position yet he also seems to know what he is doing. and you pulled this off nicely i must say.

Empri waved her hand, a bouquet of black razors, and said, “Drag in Alexander, too.”

The secretary harrumphed. “All right, then. Everybody in, you heard em – get!”

A footstep crunched on the wreckage. A stranger boot kicked aside a piece of wood, followed soon after by a bare foot, then a slipper, then a shoe polished to perfection. The people shuffled in: more than a dozen had arrived, all buzzing with curiosity. And at the very edge of them a mop of silver hair entered – a woman with red nails clicking over a sheet of papers cradled in her arms.

“Nice to see you again,” the Emperor greeted her personally. Sylvia sunk into a chestnut chair in the far corner of the room, smirking. Already her ink pen had scraped once or twice across the thickened parchment.

“There’s still time for redemption, my old friend.” She crossed one leg over the other. “Let Mystic finally know the truth.” She paused, glanced around the stately office. “In the meantime, I’d like a cappuccino.”

Every person settled down into a seat, and Alexander was flopped across a couch in the corner. The man seated next to him only raised one eyebrow before immersing himself in the cleansing of his ammunition and gun barrel. His brown leather and gaudy appearance marred the perfect painted fabrics that his soiled thighs rubbed against.

The din rebounding in the office soon became a hum, and then completely disappeared as the Emperor raised his hand. A golden ring glimmered on his finger. “I’m glad that you all have come to see me properly about your concerns. I’m sure you’ve read the article in this morning’s paper –” Sylvia Critten did not wither under the glares she received “– and as I can tell, you have aided me every moment in this war. Puzzles pieces are scattered all about Mystic and now it is time to place them together, recreate the picture of what we really are. And only then can we improve that pict –”

Typo! I dont think you need an S after puzzle.

A click echoed in his right ear. Cold steel pressed against his temple.

“Don’t move.”

Quick, shaky voice. Female.

“I’m gonna run this show.”

Spanish undertones.

“I know you’re mortal as anything…”

“Rosalina, no!”

“…so this is how I’m gonna do this.”

The Emperor lowered his hand slowly. The cold steel pressed harder, but Rosalina did not fire. Her red nails clicked on the barrel. Her sleek legs shook below the red hem of her dress. “If you want a raise, Rosalina…”

“The door is locked,” she said through gritted teeth. “Everything is locked. I know how to close this place down. Now I want you to tell them the truth of Mystic and stop bullshitting. Start at the beginning. It’ll be our little eulogy.”

The Emperor examined the situation. The people in the room could easily shoot Rosalina down, pin her to the floor and beat the life from her cheap lace and drunken curls. But instead they sat, fixated on the unfolding scene. Even Empri stood stock still, arms crossed and cherub lips pursed. Behind her, on the wall, was a portrait. Mocha colored hair cascaded halfway down a tanned back, the glaring head on top bearing a heart-shaped face and lips the color of wine. Lashes thick, her gaze was resolute, her stance imperial. And just near the golden frame, an apple was cupped in her hand – an apple blood red that had been torn apart by her pearly, unmerciful teeth.

“My mother made a deal long ago,” the Emperor said into the quiet room. Everybody held their breath. Something stirred in the unlit corner of the room.

“Everything for an apple.” The speaker emerged from the shadows, face black and hair a mop of dreadlocks, wild snakes around tamed orbs of the darkest eyes. “Plesah zi ever-bidden.”

“Yes, Vinny,” the Emperor responded. “An apple is everything.”

I never expected Rosalina to do such a thing. Great turn around. It really shows how messed up the world is. Characters do unchracteristic actions when things are desperete. This is so cool. i am patiantly waiting for the next part.

I appreciate your critiques, but I think Rosalina's actions are more than explainable. First of all, she is drunk. Secondly, she has born years of abuse from the Emperor and Empri and has finally cracked.

When you said I got the Emperor right, I literally screamed "SCORE!" and scared everybody around me.

THE SIXTH REIGN OF MYSTIC

Empress

The beer was warm.

Aloisio wrinkled his nose and set the mug down on the counter. Two perfect eyes lay low, his head perfectly enrapt within the tendrils of smoke and sickly sweet smell of drinks and drugs.

“What’s wrong, sir?”

“The beer’s warm.” Aloisio pushed his cup to the bartender. The man folded his great arms from behind the counter.

“Well, that’s how it’s supposed to be,” he snapped. “The beer here is warm.”

“Well, it tastes like piss.”

The bartender tossed his rag down and pivoted on his heels, turning to the next person to serve. The rag was stained brown, yellow, and a suspicious red color – underneath which an odd puddle began to form. Aloisio edged away on his wobbly barstool, almost risking falling. It clopped across the wooden planks, and the entire room threw him a glance before returning to the glass.

“One more drink,” the grizzled customer next to Aloisio begged. “Tis a solemn day throughout all Eternaland, is it not? Can’t ye spare just one last drink?”

“Last one,” the bartender barked.

“Aye, aye. Last one.”

The warm beer drizzled from the keg and as soon as it was in arm’s length, the stranger snatched the drink from the tender’s bearish grip. He thrust a half-clothed, hairy leg atop the counter and stomped another on the edge of Aloisio’s barstool.

“To Hall!” he declared.

The crowd tipped their glasses half a foot from their mouths.

“To Magestic!”

Aloisio tipped his own glass, then continued to tip it until its contents spilled across the floor.

“To our Emperor!”

The mugs raised one last time, along with a handful of “here, here” murmurs.

Dissatisfied, the stranger fell back into his seat, rubbed his bum for a few seconds and took a long swig from a pint of warm, mysterious beer. Wagging his head, Aloisio came face to face with the stranger.

“Didn’t you hear the news?”

Aloisio shrugged a set of skinny shoulders. “Yeah. I’m here for the funeral.”

“I guess you were born when Hall was still around. You look pretty young, boyo. I guess you never knew what times were like. They weren’t bad – no. Magestic was the greatest ruler Mystic could ever have. But Hall…. He made her more. He gave her something to live for. He kept her out of Slyth’s bed and on the throne, and likewise kept them lot from Mystic. Hasn’t been a war since the marriage.”

He leaned low to Aloisio’s ear. “To tell you the truth, I think it’s the lil bitch that starts them to begin with. Just for lust, yeah. Infatuation, they call it. Obsession of the sort.”

Aloisio looked down at the patch of wet on the floor, distantly wishing that he had kept the drink around for the sake of the drink.

“Where you from, boyo?”

“Been hopping ships ever since my mother died.”

“So you’re a shipmate? A handyman?”

Aloisio nodded.

“You’re what? Nineteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“I’m seven hundred and twenty seven,” grumbled the bushy man. He emphasized this by running two thick fingers through a Viking-styled beard. “Long years – I’ve sailed, traveled on land, sat in business positions, sat on the side of the street.” He raised his hairy digits and closed them in a fist. “Not once did I ever foul a man, hit a man, steal a watch or coin.”

Aloisio coughed a bit. “Right.”

“So I don’t see why – why, in the name of all that’s good in Mystic – that Slyth has to charge in here and steal every watch and coin we have, strip us naked and foul every square foot of land we have left. Why, when the storm came through, that was a different story. That’s in nature’s hands. But Slyth’s hands are just as heavy and powerful, and swing about just as much. Not like me, no, not at all.”

Aloisio rolled his eyes. He edged closer to the man, swayed on his barstool, completely poised.

“…and when I heard on the radio that the army had advanced on City Red, why I just…”

A slight of the hand, a flurry of motion, and Aloisio’s bench toppled him over into the Viking-man. They both wound up floored, the stranger harrumphing, beer dribbling down the wires of his beard as if it were a plumbing system. The man squeezed it out and stumbled to his feet – all around him, the customers barely turned their heads a notch. Accidents were contagious.

Aloisio fit his hand smartly in the odd pocket of his jacket and flashed the man a wry smile. “Dreadfully sorry, really. I’d love to stay longer, but I doubt you want me toppling any more of that piss all over you.” He placed a firm hand on man’s shoulder. “Go with God, friend.”

Face taut with his straining muscles, he made a quick exist, head down and jacket clasped tight around him, despite the warm and humid air coming off the sea. Slipping in a world lit by tiny bleach spots of gold, firefly lampposts and the shimmer between window panes, he merely wrinkled his nose. It all looked like treasure. There was a particular somber and flaxen feel to Eternidad at night, which clashed at twilight and dawn with the bustle and merchants of the daylight. This also came along with the disparity of hung-over days and drunken nights, which were more oft then not the average riddle for the citizens of this town. Many of them were not all in dissimilarity to Aloisio himself, who now was taking refuge in the darkness sandwiches between two streetlights, hand tucked in his jacket as if it were stuck there indefinitely.

Leather rubbed against his fingers.

He smiled.

Easy steal.

“Well, young man. Easy steal, eh?”

Twenty golden coins toppled to the cobblestones of the Eternidad street, and Aloisio’s boot made a scuff mark as they tore down the nearest alleyway. Behind him, he could hear the harsh breath that caught in the soldier’s throat as he thundered behind him. Allowing himself one quick glance, he saw the distorted shadow draw darts from the last belt loop, and then the lampposts turned to golden butterflies, which flittered for a moment, and then died.

* * *

“Well I should be expecting nopholomph when he mumberatesle…” Head hurt, pounding, something in mouth. Should try to spit. “Swala lomkaslomph when they break shore.” Aloisio spit. Cold. He shivered. No – something was shaking him. A hand.

“Moo ova.”

Aloisio opened his eyes, but it appeared as though somebody had swiped their hands across the pastels, making it blurry and indiscernible. He blinked a collection of times, but it didn’t seem to get any better.

“Move ova.” The voice was more insistent this time.

“Move over, will you!”

“Oh.” Aloisio brought his legs in and pushed himself into a sitting position with shaking, weak arms. A draft of chill was running only an inch in front of his nose, and he had set the end of his pants leg in something wet. The fabric flapped around his ankle, wet and uncomfortable.

“As I was saying,” said the gruff voice near him, “I’m sure the Litan will pay their respects when they finally get here. Last time I heard, they had anchored and were just floating off the shore. But they were a big fan of Hall, I’m sure they’ll be back.”

Aloisio tried to listen at first, but a buzzing sound seemed to dominant over every incoming sense. After rubbing his eyes for five or so minutes, the figures began to deeper, sharpen and lighten. This didn’t say much as to his situation – the room was nearly pitch black, the figures snuffed by layers of clothing, and they were mumbling and rambling to begin with.

Head soon in his hands, his fingers pressed deep into his temples to hold himself together. He squeezed his eyes shut until crows feet burst from every angle. His cellmates took no notice of this, though, and continued to sniff and curse, making the air denser than it already was. Aloisio dug the flat of his fingers deep into his sockets, as if to dam the upcoming stream, and sucked cold air through the whistling-dry nasal passage he possessed.

Tears practically stanched, Aloisio looked up again as the cell door thundered open, clanking and banging crescendo. He winced, but only temporarily, for light filtered in the pitted place, illuminating gnarled faces and fingers that could not be shrouded by coats, scarves and gloves.

“Up and at em!”

The lamp-bearer swung the light.

“Come on. Time to chain you up and get you sorted. Can’t hang out too long in the brigs.”

Grumbling, the men either got up or were pulled to their feet. Aloisio clung to the wall, dragging himself up, brick by brick. His cellmates were being handcuffed together in pairs. Willingly, Aloisio bared his wrists when the soldiers reached him.

“Odd number!” the one soldier called to the lamp-bearer.

“Ight, strap him up to the first one from the next block.”

“Aye.”

The soldier clapped handcuffs around Aloisio wrists, which were serrated on the inside and dug grooves into his skin as they clambered up and down his arms, indecisive if they were to ever go to rest. Biting a heavy and bloated lower lip, Aloisio grimaced and gnashed his teeth. Friction seemed to drag out indefinitely, as his boots scuffed the floor and his toes stung red, cold and raw beneath the leather and folds of linen.

The next cell teemed through the bars with chatter and shrieking laughter. When the lamp-bearer raised the flame over the faces, Aloisio thought at first that it was a collection of harpies. But, by eyeing their clothing, he made them out to be a mesh of prostitutes and addicts. The one closest to the door suffered spasms so often and violently that she has bashed herself unconscious on the bars and the wall.

“Get em up, ladies!”

They rose, clicking in stilettos, to their feet. Sweaty, bony legs stuck out from dank and patchy skirts. The first soldier ripped the cell doors open and snatched a random woman. He ripped at her. “Come on, lucky lass, today’s your day to be strapped to a man. Nothing new, I’m sure…”

There was a blur of a hand, and then the sound of a palm slapping skin. The woman, now restrained by the other soldiers, gave a burning glare in her composure. “Unhand me.”

It was an order.

The soldier scoffed and slung the handcuffs over her wrists, snapping them shut.

“C’mon, c’mon. Move it.”

The woman and Aloisio scuffled forward. Swaying his head to the side and shaking hair from his face, he surveyed the woman next to him. Her head was held high, bosom bared and decorated with a simple necklace, although the charm it bore had been tucked inside her shirt. About her chiseled face was luxurious hair, brown, tousled and rich.

She brushed it aside and turned to her companion. “Yes?”

“I didn’t say a word,” Aloisio stumbled on this sentence, and averted his eyes from her breasts.

“Their swell is quite impressive, I agree. This new brassiere, too, gives me such royal cleavage – it’s impractical for me request your eyes go anywhere otherwise. Even I could not help but admire them at odd occasions all throughout the day.”

Aloisio smirked. “Oh, if only all women were aware of their fortune.”

“Not all women are as fortunate as me.”

“Is that a touch of arrogance?”

The woman snorted, rather unladylike, and then spit at the lamp-bearer’s boots in front of them. “It’s deserved. And true.” There was a long pause, in which she began to hum the tune of a hollow song, tapping her nails on the side of his cuffs. Closely watching this, Aloisio noted that her nails were not plastic, but genuinely long and narrow, a layer-cake of whites and clears.

She started tapping harder.

It had a rhythm.

Aloisio squinted at the woman. She widened her eyes at him, and stared directly at her fingers, nodding firmly and resolutely. A smile stretched from one side of the shipmate’s mouth to the other side, bearing a collection of thirty-two perfectly squared teeth. He recognized the tapping code that merchant ships would use to relay information when they were in the heart of a storm, to viberate over the zephyrs that would steal their words away.

I am Empress Magestic.

The charm on the women’s bosom fell free. It was the imperial symbol, silver and diamondiferous, and it bounced and shimmered in the oil lamp’s light. Aloisio watched her fingers for a second longer, as they rapped on the metal, distinct and concrete.

Get me out of here.

I am ever so happy to see this. I was just thinking about it eh other day too.

Aloisio wrinkled his nose and set the mug down on the counter. Two perfect eyes lay low, his head perfectly enrapt within the tendrils of smoke and sickly sweet smell of drinks and drugs.

“What’s wrong, sir?”

“The beer’s warm.” Aloisio pushed his cup to the bartender. The man folded his great arms from behind the counter.

“Well, that’s how it’s supposed to be,” he snapped. “The beer here is warm.”

“Well, it tastes like piss.”

Funny and made me laugh

Dissatisfied, the stranger fell back into his seat, rubbed his bum for a few seconds and took a long swig from a pint of warm, mysterious beer. Wagging his head, Aloisio and him came face to face

This is awkward. very awkward. I think Aloisio and the stranger came face to face flows much nicer.

“Well, young man. Easy steal, eh?”

Twenty golden coins toppled to the cobblestones of the Eternidad street, and Aloisio’s boot made a scuff mark as they tore down the nearest alleyway. Behind him, he could hear the harsh breath that caught in the soldier’s throat as he thundered behind him. Allowing himself one quick glance, he saw the distorted shadow draw darts from the last belt loop, and then the lampposts turned to golden butterflies, which flittered for a moment, and then died.

This papragraph confused me. I'm not sure what is happening at all. I know Aloisio stole from the stranger but i don't understand what this is. Needs a little clarification

“Their swell is quite impressive, I agree. This new brassiere, too, gives me such royal cleavage – it’s impractical for me request your eyes go anywhere otherwise. Even I could not help but admire them at odd occasions all throughout the day.”

I can't stop laughing. This is great. Wonderful. Pure genius.


That was great. And an unexpected twist. Magestic is alive. I didn't see it coming. I'm glad you added more. I noticed she said "Royal Cleavage" which i grewat foreshadowing since she is the empress.

My favorite thing about these stories is I can't guess what will happen. Keep it up.

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