Young Writers Society

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm here to leave a quick review!!

Anyway let's get right to it,

Coming soon (gimme an hour) to the Young Writers Society, the prequel to Hunter's much loved ( ) and much delayed ( ) Novel, Chronicles of the Dhampir: Emergence. This novella while a story in itelf, will give you background information on many of the characters in the Dhampir novels. It takes place sometime in the early 1400s, the time of Vlad the Impaler--the original vampire. Packed full of action, adventure, bloog and guts, conflict and tragedy, and lots of really cool sword fights, read on to learn who Dracula REALLY was.

Ho! ho! ho!

Have I EVER posted a story in full? The answer is no. This is still in progress, there is much to be done!

Is that the end, or is there more? It could easily go either way, but you have me so enthralled that I want to read more of the story. I think Mesh got all the things I noticed, so yeah. Just proofread a bit to fix typos and such.

nice.

ok, then! I don't remember much about the Ottomans.. but did they let women fight? or is this an exception?

Damon’s keep, on the border of the Ottoman Empire, what would become Turkey, was Vlad’s next target.
ack. history lesson. either omit the part about Turkey, or put it as a footnote (or something similar).


"full of sleep"? isn't it easier to say sleepy?

“Damon, that is insanity—we can’t stop this…this Prince of Darkness!” Dhalla said angrily.
angry? worried, convinced his insane.. annoyed, thinks he's stupid.. probably not angry.. at least not that much. pissed I could understand, though.

ok, if his father's sword is so special, describe it more!

Belting on his father’s sword, he wondered if this would be his final battle.
confusing. so he took his father's sword, not his own?

also it helps to finish the last word of a segment, and to puncuate the said end. "rally the troop" hehe, Dono.

oh, before i forget, the dialogue doesn't sound quite right to me. again, I'm not an expret on this time period in that part of the world, so.. I'll check when I have some time, if you wish.

ok, that wasn't so bad, was it?

Enjoy!

ORIGINS OF THE DHAMPIR


“He comes,” Lord Damon Belhaven stood at the railing of his balcony, looking out over his land. At the horizon, fires burned and trails of smoke billowed from a nearby village. Ever since Prince Valdislov Dracula had emerged as the sole leader and warlord of Wallachia, Damon had foreseen this day. The Son of the Dragon had dominated every village in the way of Damon’s fortress, razing cities and poisoning wells along the way, making retaliation next to impossible. Damon’s keep, on the border of the Ottoman Empire, what would become Turkey, was Vlad’s next target.

Damon’s piercing brown eyes narrowed as he looked into the distance. He could barely make out a score of forms moving toward the keep. As they neared his castle, he could see that they were innocents, villagers fleeing their blazing homes. Many were injured, helped along by family or friends.

Lord Belhaven immediately stormed from his balcony and threw open the door to his chambers.

“Dhalla! Gather the soldiers!” He cried out into the hallway. Seconds later, the door across from his own flew open, and a woman stepped out. Wearing only a slight nightgown, Damon scowled at her immodest appearance.

“What is it, brother?” she asked, her voice full of sleep.

“Dracula has come.” At the mere mention of the Warlord’s name, His twin’s face paled considerably. “Gather the men—we will meet this beast head on, and give our people a chance to live.”

“Damon, that is insanity—we can’t stop this…this Prince of Darkness!” Dhalla said angrily.

“We can slow him enough for the peasants to escape. It is our duty as nobles of this land.” Damon moved back into his room and pushed the door closed behind him.

“Curse you brother!” Damon’s twin sister pushed her way into his chambers, only to have a gleaming breastplate shoved into her hands.

“Hold this. We do not have time for argument, dear sister.” Damon slipped his chain mail tunic over his head. Putting his arms through the sleeves, Dhalla shoved her brother’s chest plate into placed and immediately began buckling it on with great care and precision. Damon pulled on his gauntlets, flexing his fingers in the leather gloves, then adjusting the iron plates covering his forearms. He felt Dhalla move behind him to strap on his paldrons, but she never put them on. He spun around to find his sister staring intently at him.

“Please, Dhalla—if we do not act now, these innocent people will be slaughtered mercilessly by an enemy that will show no compassion, feel no remorse.” The woman glared at him, and, as countless times before, Damon could not help but notice how much Dhalla was like their mother; beautiful and headstrong. “If you wish not to fight alongside me, then you can lead the peasants to safety.” Damon grinned inwardly, knowing his sister would never run from a fight.

“I hate you, Damon.” She threw the paldrons playfully at Damon’s head, then stormed from his room and slammed the door with exaggerated fury.

“I love you too, dear sister,” Damon called, knowing his twin would hear him despite the door between them. As he finished strapping on his armor, his eyes darted past his father’s sword, mounted above the fireplace, the matching shield behind it. Making sure all the buckles were set perfectly in place, Damon strode to the mantle and unsheathed the blade with great care. The moment the shining steel of the fine longsword felt the touch of the air, it began to shine with a bright blue aura. The sword was perfect in every way, forged by Damon’s father shortly before he was killed in battle against the Hungarians. The blade was a symbol of the purest good, blessing even the darkest of moments with its shining presence.

“I will make you proud, Father—much blood will be spilt this night…not all of it will be Turkish. That Wallachian Demon, as well as his Pagan Northerners shall feel the bite of your steel tonight; I swear it upon your grave. The Ottoman Noble turned to regard himself in the mirror, plucking the emblazoned shield from its mount and strapping it upon his back. His gleaming mail was both lightweight and resilient, forged by the Ottoman Empire’s finest blacksmiths. It allowed freedom of movement without sacrificing protection, a feature insisted upon by the Belhaven twins. Emblazoned with the Coat of Arms of the Belhaven family, his armor was a sign of his nobility and his skill as a warrior. Beside his sister, he had fought countless battles, and never failed to emerge victorious, even from the clutches of defeat. Belting on his father’s sword, he wondered if this would be his final battle.

A grin came to his face as he realized that even if it was, he had lived as well as any—he would be dying for an honorable cause. Self-sacrifice was always smiled upon by God. He pulled on his blue, fur lined cloak, then strode from his chambers to rally the troops.

*mutters about balckmail/hatemail.

it's only been 23 minutes. do you enjoy taunting me? yes.. yes, I think you do.

I'll just be waiting here. Impatiently.

(and with an editing pen if ya keep it up )

much loved and highly delayed (we're still waiting) Chronicles of the Dhamphir.

..still hasn't been an hour. darn.