Young Writers Society

Twit, your catches are wonderful--thanks much! As to your question...

How many children does Moncreif have? Has he had any by his alien mistresses, or is he using a kind of space birth control?

Yay, you put more up!

Well, as this is in two halves... The second was very very very good. On the one hand I'm not surprised that Moncreif has nightmares, and yet it's very humanizing, if that's the right word. It shows his more vulnerable side at the same as you describe his eyes as "demon-green", which is very cool. And Chaya kisses him afterwards, apparently because she wants to? Oy vey. o_0

The first half was not as good. Some of your sentences don't run quite right.

Lark dreamt that he was having tea with Lataar, but her teacup was full of the anti-infective cream, which had gone bright yellow—the color of only the most virulent infections.

Lataar seemed to enjoy it, however, and kept drinking and drinking even as Lark tried to tell her to stop, that wasn’t a good idea.

Finally he sprang out of his seat and grabbed her arm, and at the touch she shattered like glass, the fragments passing right through him.

He flung up his hands to protect his head nevertheless, and when he lowered them, he discovered that he was standing in utter darkness.

*waves white flag*

By popular demand (please don't kill me, I know it's short):




Lark dreamt that he was having tea with Lataar, but her teacup was full of the anti-infective cream, which had gone bright yellow—the color of only the most virulent infections. Lataar seemed to enjoy it, however, and kept drinking and drinking even as Lark tried to tell her to stop, that wasn’t a good idea. Finally he sprang out of his seat and grabbed her arm, and at the touch she shattered like glass, the fragments passing right through him. He flung up his hands to protect his head nevertheless, and when he lowered them, he discovered that he was standing in utter darkness.

It was then that he realized that he was asleep, and had been dreaming. He did not wake up, but he was certain, absolutely certain, that he was dreaming no longer. At least, was not dreaming his own dreams. There was the fluttering of wings, the rushing sound of something speeding through the air, and suddenly his world exploded back into color and movement.

He was flying, his vision was sharper than it ever had been and tinged in shades he never knew existed. His body felt intensely fragile, like a leaf on the wind, but the exhilaration, the pure joy of flight overrode that nervousness and he called to the sky in joy. Then his body moved of its own volition, tucking in his wings and diving directly downwards, the wind whistling through his hair and over his feathers, the ground getting closer and closer until—

Again, darkness. Lark stood on nothing, surrounded by nothing. His body was the old, familiar, heavy one, and wingless. He gulped, but the sound was swallowed by the eternal nothingness. Even his heartbeat, hammering in his ears, was a muted, distant thing. He considered calling out, and finally worked up the courage to say, “Hello?”

A pair of eyes, each twice as long as his body, opened just a few feet away. They were Moncreif’s eyes.

He awoke in the middle of a scream.

* * *

Chaya awoke because she felt the long fingers around her throat, trying to strangle her. Moncreif was having nightmares. Again. She leaned in, trying to ignore the black dots that swam at the edge of her vision as her master’s dream-driven grip sought to extinguish the breath from whoever it was he thought lay beside him. Chaya kissed him, pressed her lips to his as hard as she could and felt his hands loosen, fall away. With a soft moan he fell back, demon-green eyes still closed. She couldn’t fight back the coughs that came with her restored breath.

He came awake at the sound, but groggily, and it seemed to take him awhile to realize where he was. He half sat-up in bed and put a hand over his eyes without touching his face. Chaya lay as still as she could, not quite pretending to sleep, but hoping that he might lose interest in her if she didn’t move. This happened most times when he had nightmares. Occasionally, however, the dream would still have a grip on him, a grip so strong that his mercilessness reached new peaks and the pain he exerted made her realize how much he otherwise held back.

But this time he looked down at her, his eyes blank, his face slack and almost child-like. He opened his mouth and exhaled, moving his lips as if intending to speak, but no sound emerged. Then he collapsed, his head landing on her shoulder, his arm across her body. His steady breathing and relaxed muscles told her that if he no longer dreamt of strangling anyone.

She settled back down to sleep beside him and, just before drifting off, planted a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Oh wow - All the best for Gypsies Eyes, I've been following In Thrall more than I have "Eyes." Hope to see it on Amazon within the next year

*wails* I'm trying to get Gypsie Eyes published, I'm afraid Danteel's been on the backburner a bit...and glaring at me from the backburner.

*Thrash*

Get another installment out.

I thought you had reached a point in "In Thrall" where the story would not progress (as we discussed). However you just proved me wrong. We have reached yet another segment of your story and you are allowing us only to suckle at it, tempting us to read more and more. I have said this before: In Thrall really isn't a sci-fi story but a character study encased through the medium of science fiction. And its a really interesting relationship. Moncrief is not a cut out but a real person with motives and agenda's that develop as the story continues. As the reader, I want to uncover and dig up more and more about Moncrief. It seems like he is collecting slaves. What is that man planning?

God, if you want me to ever write a full length review for this when it is published (and it will be once its been polished) I will happily do so on amazon etc...

-----


“What do you mean?”

Later. When I molt. She glanced at him and then extended a wing towards him, the pinions almost brushing his shoulder. A feather in thanks. When I molt.

“A S’kytri feather,” he breathed. He knew little enough of her culture, but everyone knew how valuable a S’kytri feather was—the avian species guarded their molted plumage jealously, apparently believing that anyone who owned one of their feathers would have power of the S’kytri himself. “Thank you.”

She smiled for a second time.

-----

Watch this though, a little confusing - is your punctuation in the right place? Also you have kind of ignited an atomic bomb inside the eye of a needle. That is - you are telling us something in a confined space. Don't be afraid to meander at this point because it is tremendously interesting stuff. You already have the reader firmly addicted to In THrall, who is to say you can't dump slots of *relevant* information in now and again?

Superb story. Superb characters.

Regards, Adam.

keep it coming I'm a fan!

Dinner was a quiet affair. Moncreif and Danteel sat at opposite ends of the low table, the five women arranged on either side. All reclined on cushions, as was the Nagian custom, though far more stiffly than was usually required. Chaya was seated to Moncreif’s right, Yellesha—the feathered girl—to Danteel’s. Ret had laid the table and then withdrawn, presumably to enjoy his own meal elsewhere. The only sounds were the clink of cutlery on dishes, the subtle shifting of weight, and the occasional, whispered request to pass something.

It all reminded Danteel, yet again, of the home he had left behind, the peaceful mealtimes shared between his father, mother, sister, and himself. But those gathered here were not Nagian, not raised to the solemn observance of a silent repast, and such observance was all too clearly a thing forced on them.

Moncreif rose first, his plate clean, and touched Chaya lightly on one shoulder. Though she had no finished, she rose without a word and followed him. The other four women watched those two hawkishly, and Danteel could almost hear them mentally counting down the seconds until their master was out of earshot. Each of them seemed to have the same countdown, for at the same moment they all relazed, breathing out in a collective sigh.

Yellesha turned to Danteel, her blue-gold crest feathers rustling. “So, you are the Nagai,” she said, her voice surprisingly cat-like for so avian a creature.

Danteel regarded her coolly—he had not forgotten her earlier fawning over Moncreif. “Obviously.”

She giggled, and Danteel winced at the sound. “I do not mean to pry,” she said, her curious eyes giving the lie to her words. “But we so rarely get visitors here. In fact, never that I can remember.”

The woman with midnight-blue skin—Tilkim if Danteel remembered her name right—snorted. “Your memory of this place counts for little, as it extends back only a few months.” Tilkim turned to the Nagai. “Please excuse our little ‘sister’ sir. She is as ignorant as she is rude.”

Danteel nodded deeply to her, then glanced at Yellesha, who had returned haughtily to her food. “There must always be a youngest,” he said.

Tilkim and the other two nodded. “I once held that…honor,” said a woman with pale brown skin and smooth features. Danteel could not quite place her name, and she half-turned as if speaking to Yellesha as well. “Such a thing often fades quickly, to be replaced by a more…realistic outlook.”

Yellesha’s feathers rippled. “It is not I who am denying reality, Shentiri. You all act as if we were in the netherworld already, with a demon for our jailer. There are far worse masters than him to be had.”

Tilkim’s dark eyes flashed. “Spoken as one born to this life,” she spat, and Danteel got the sense that this was an old quarrel.

He said quietly. “Netherworld or not, we all have the same jailer.”

The women all seemed to relax slightly at his words, and he could see Yellesha’s feathers settling. It was Tilkim who spoke: “True words, sir. And all too quickly forgotten.”

They ate in silence for awhile. When Danteel was done, Ret appeared and carried off both his dishes and Moncreif’s and Chaya’s. Slowly the others finished, but none showed any signs of wanting to leave. Ignorant or not, Yellesha had probably been right when she’d lamented their lack of visitors.

Danteel leaned back on his cushion, one hand on the table. “I am curious,” he said at length, “how Moncreif affords such an estate.”

There was a small wave of surprised gasps. “You speak his name?” Shentiri asked in wonder.

And Danteel remembered. In Nagian lore, the use of a person’s name had always been one of the pivots on which a tale could turn. To know a person’s name was fine, and to use the name of one socially below you was not only accepted but—among the upper classes—encouraged. The use of names between equals was a sign of that equality, almost of friendship. But to call by name one above you, one who, in most cases, had some power over you? Pure folly, for to do so was to call on that person, to summon their interest even if they were a thousand miles away.

How could he have forgotten so easily? Or perhaps he hadn’t, and calling his master by name had been his unconscious way of defying him. But Moncreif had allowed it. Moncreif, who by all Danteel had seen so far aspired to nothing so much as to be Nagian, had allowed a slave to call him by name.

The women were still staring. Danteel shrugged as if dismissing the entire affair. “If he has taught you anything about my people, you must know that we do not submit easily. As to my question?”

Tilkim shook her head. “None of us knows how he came by such wealth. We have learned not to ask questions.”

“Wise,” Danteel conceded. “Will you think me any less wise if I ask them?”

There was a short round of chuckling. “Not at all, sir,” said Yellesha coyly.

He frowned. “Why do you not call me by my name? If we are not equals, then you have a very strange idea of equality.”

They shifted uncomfortably. The brown one, Shentiri, said, “It is not our idea of equality that we follow, sir. The captain has made it very clear—without actually saying it outright—that you are the highest of his slaves. Higher than Ret, or even Chaya.”

Danteel felt a chill go down his spine, and shuddered. “I want no such distinction,” he breathed, almost snarling.

“He said you were born nobility,” Shentiri continued as if she hadn’t heard him. Perhaps she hadn’t. “All but a prince on your homeworld, and that even a Nagian beggar was greater than the king of any other alien race.”

Danteel’s fist slammed onto the table, silencing Shentiri and rattling the dishes. “He seeks to deny me even your friendship!” he roared, eyes blazing. “As if what I was should be a barrier between us, as if he cared. As if he didn’t choose me for my birth, only to watch me fall farther than another would, only to have more pride to break, only to—” Rage closed his throat and he choked on his own anger. Sheczkall! he screamed within his mind. An enslaver far more skilled than I ever gave him credit for.

He forced himself to calm down, to take deep breaths. Even with all his will bent to the task, it took some time until he felt the silver fade from his eyes, until he could breathe normally again. All four women were watching him, their faces masks of fear such as Mattira had often given Moncreif. That though, that world-shattering realization, went twisting through his heart like a blade, turning his skin cold and killing his breath. He only realized that he had been standing when he crashed to his knees, muscles limp as water, shame as hard as ice forming around his heart.

Well played, Moncreif, he thought, as the others slipped silently away, only Tilkim pausing at the doorway to throw him a wary look.

Very well played.

Did I mention how much I like these two?

Oh gaw, there isn't going to be a Lark/Lataar pairing somewhere along the lines here is there??

The word was made of equal parts anger, fear, and shame, the combination of which crashed over him like and emotional typhoon.

To heal you must touch, she thought, not looking at him.

Lark had discovered his secret weapon—food. His mother, not trusting the campus-provided cuisine, had insisted that he learn to cook before going off to the university, and while he was no gourmet, neither was he incapable.

Lataar was hungry. As she began her second stack of sweet-grain cakes, liberally spread with butter and gobs of cream, Lark began to wonder if her frailty were due to more than hollow bones. Moncreif, he thought bitterly, would certainly have an easier time controlling his slaves if he kept them half starved.

Yes, came the reply, but Lark had learned not to jump at the girl’s voice in his head. He would have liked it better if Danteel had warned him of this, but he’d encountered stranger things. She’d finished the carb-rich meal by now and the hopeful thought came, More?

“You’ve already had seven of those cakes, three standard meat rations drenched in spices, and a bowl of soup. If you’re as malnourished as I think, we can’t risk giving your stomach too much to deal with all at once. You’ll get sick.”

She seemed to consider this for a moment, gazing down at her sticky plate. Tea then?

Lark smiled. He’d have preferred to have his own tea things on hand, and it would have been simple enough to retrieve them from his quarters. But he had a definite aversion to leaving Lataar alone. “We’re almost out,” Lark said, “but I think I can conjure one more pot.”

She smiled at him for the first time ever, and he felt his cheeks flush. You are kind, she told him.

Lark smiled back at her, and decided to take a chance. “I’d like to take a look at your scars,” he said quietly.

She stiffened, and he had a feeling as of a cold wind blowing over warm, wet skin, and the corresponding goosebumps rose on his arms and the back of his neck. Why? The word was made of equal parts anger, fear, and shame, the combination of which crashed over him like and emotional typhoon.

He swallowed, tried to keep his balance. “I think one of them may be infected,” he said, pointing to the one he meant. It was difficult to tell, as he had only the barest working knowledge of her species, but that particular scar was deeper and more ragged, and he thought he could see a tint of red along its edges.

Lataar withdrew the arm in question, her wings coming around to shroud her as they had before. To heal you must touch, she thought, not looking at him.

Lark bit his lip for a moment, thinking how best to respond. “As little as I possibly can manage,” he said.

For a long time she sat there, a motionless ball of white feathers with a head sticking out of the top. At last, still not looking at him, she slid out her arm. Lark had brought a basic medical kit with him, and now placed it on the table. “This,” he told her, holding up a little tube, “is a basic anti-infective cream. It kills most known forms of infection, and will change color as its doing it so I know what kind of infection it is. I’ll need you to rub a little bit all along the scar, making sure to cover the places where it’s red.”

He held out the tube and she took it, unscrewed the top, and followed his instructions. She winced slightly as the pale cream touched her wound, but within a few seconds it was done and she placed the tube back on the table. The two of them watched the cream for awhile, and after about thirty seconds Lark noticed a faint blue tint. He let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good,” he told her. “I won’t bore you with details, but blue’s good, means it’s one we know about and that the cream can treat.” He nudged the tube towards her. “I want you to keep this, and apply it whenever you need to. If the cream ever turns green, let me know when you can, and if it turns yellow, come and see me at once. Blue and purple are all right, though.”

She nodded and picked up the tube. He sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do or say next. Lataar ran her fingers down the inside of her wing as if exploring it, and Lark imagined how soft the feathers must be, how warm. Nothing now, she said. But later.

“What do you mean?”

Later. When I molt. She glanced at him and then extended a wing towards him, the pinions almost brushing his shoulder. A feather in thanks. When I molt.

“A S’kytri feather,” he breathed. He knew little enough of her culture, but everyone knew how valuable a S’kytri feather was—the avian species guarded their molted plumage jealously, apparently believing that anyone who owned one of their feathers would have power of the S’kytri himself. “Thank you.”

She smiled for a second time.

I love you Twit. And I love your nonsensicality. Nonsensicalness? You, anyway. Thanks a mil--will get to Scavenger's latest chapter asahp.

Chapter-that-is-the-most-recent-one-and-which-Blackadder-has-nothing-whatsoever-to-do-with:

Danteel walked out of the shuttle, and into something out of his history books.

The courtyard itself was easily fifty-five meters square, probably more, and a tall fountain flowed gracefully in the exact center.

And for a single, perfect instant, Danteel’s world was a place of peace and beauty.

And then a door opened at the far end of the courtyard, behind one of the ranks of columns.

He was younger than Danteel, and as he came to a halt before his master, he bowed at the waist, and the angle of that bow seemed very definite.

When he straightened, the Nagai saw that his eyes were dark red with white pupils.

The feathered woman stepped forward. She was dressed in a gown of plumage similar to her own, and so it was difficult to tell where the garment ended and she began. She bowed much lower than the man, and said in soft, purring tones, “Moncreif. It has been far too long.”

Chaya again fell silent, and it was the silence of someone considering their next words very carefully. “I have had the chance.”

He could feel his eyes begin to blaze and fought to keep control.

She slapped him.

Sorry it's taken so long. Doing this as -- wait, I missed another chapter? Coolummy, sorry.

Er, chapter-before-the-most-recent-one...

“He is with me,” replied Moncreif before the ensign could say anything. “My slave, you see?” He gestured to the collar.

“My madman, you see?” echoed Danteel in Nagian, mimicking the captain’s careless gesture.

But every time the captain spoke in his language, every time Danteel answered, every single time he moved even a few steps they faltered, lost the initiative.

“Uhuh.” They were in the shuttle by now, the pilot beginning the preflight sequence. “So,” he asked while they strapped themselves in, “what is going to happen to Lark now?”

Her wings were still wrapped around her where she sat on the floor, shrouding everything beneath her neck in soft white.

Danteel walked out of the shuttle, and into something out of his history books. It wasn’t a house. The closest word he could find, at least in Basic, was estate. The craft had landed in the middle of an expansive courtyard, full of lush grass, small but stately trees, and stepping-stone paths. The four enclosing sides were formed by smooth, red marble columns, and the walls and entrances to the building proper were a good three meters beyond them. The courtyard itself was easily fifty-five meters square, probably more, and a tall fountain flowed gracefully in the exact center. Taken all for all, it was almost an exact replica of the main quadrangle in the original Nagian palace, or at least a replica of what descriptions had survived.

He turned to Moncreif, who was just disembarking, and could not keep the awe from his face. “This,” he said, “this is incredible.”

The captain grinned, took in a deep breath, and for the first time since he’d met the man, Danteel saw him do something like relax. And for a single, perfect instant, Danteel’s world was a place of peace and beauty.

And then a door opened at the far end of the courtyard, behind one of the ranks of columns. It didn’t do so automatically, Danteel saw; it was the traditional form of sliding door, made of thick paper or fabric stretched across a wood frame and set in guide rails. The kind his race had invented so many centuries ago. The man who had opened it stepped through, and as the gentle sun glinted off his golden collar Danteel’s contentment vanished. At a distance, the slave looked fairly human, but as he approached Danteel saw the subtle pattern of visible veins beneath his skin, most prominent at his temples and throat. He was younger than Danteel, and as he came to a halt before his master he bowed at the waist, and the angle of that bow seemed very definite. When he straightened, the Nagai saw that his eyes were dark red with white pupils.

“Master,” he said, his voice unexpectedly deep and harsh. “We were beginning to worry about you.” As he spoke, five more figures emerged from the doorway he had left open, and somehow Danteel had expected them: five very beautiful women, each a different species from the others, each collared. He had known, in a way. Mattira hadn’t been the first, and her nearly endless stream of replacements had come from somewhere. From here. He wasn’t sure why the rage didn’t swell in him at the sight of them. Perhaps it was their silent beauty in this place of mythos; perhaps it was that he had finally grown numb to it.

One of them, obviously the newest with green, gold, and blue feathers rather than bare skin, smiled at Moncreif, and finally Danteel’s heart did twist. It was a genuine smile; she was truly glad to see him. Quickly, almost desperately he searched the remaining four faces. One, smooth like midnight blue marble, was impassive, but in the other three he saw the combination of restrained fear he was so familiar with. For some strange reason, this comforted him.

The feathered woman stepped forward. She was dressed in a gown of plumage similar to her own, and so it was difficult to tell where the garment ended and she began. She bowed much lower than the man, and said in soft, purring tones, “Moncreif. It has been far too long.”

“Yellesha,” he returned, and Danteel was surprised to hear how cold his tone was. Then he turned to the smallest of the women, probably the oldest, though through her short, cream-colored fur it was difficult to tell, and his smile seemed to tell the world that here was his favorite. “Chaya,” he said, the word part greeting, part command.

She stepped forward, only barely inclining her head as if she knew her status and was secure in it. “Master,” she replied, her face—what Danteel could read of it—expressionless.

Moncreif called the rest of them by name, and each gave a bow of different depth, reflecting their current position. Just, thought Danteel, as they once did in the royal Nagian court. He watched this simple ceremony with a strange feeling of detachment, as if he were an invisible observer. But once it was done, Moncreif turned to the young man who had first met them and said, “This is Danteel. Take him to quarters and let him refresh himself, we’ve had a long flight. He will dine with us this evening.”

The other slave nodded an almost-bow to Danteel, gestured in the direction he had come from, and began to lead the way. “What is your name?” the Nagai asked as he followed his guide through the door and into the softly-lit interior of the house.

“The master calls me Ret. It is the first letter in my people’s alphabet, and I am first in this place when he is not here.” It was clear that the man’s original language had not been Basic, and from the difficult way he spoke, Danteel suspected his species’ vocal cords were not designed for such a tongue.

“How long have you been here?” The house was larger even than it had looked from the air, but as he saw no staircases Danteel assumed it must be only a single story, again in the old Nagian style. He wondered if there was a roof garden.

“Many cycles,” said Ret.

It was on the tip of Danteel’s tongue to ask how long a cycle was, but Ret did not seem inclined to indulge him just now, and at that moment they arrived at their destination. A black door slid open to reveal a simple but comfortable room. The walls were of the same pale, sturdy wood as the rest of the house and there was a well-padded futon in one corner. Danteel couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept on anything besides an uncomfortable bunk. There was also a low desk with a cushion to kneel upon and a small but full bookcase next to it. Full, he realized, of true pages-and-binding books. Danteel went over and examined them, running his fingers over the paper. They were all in his language, and contained the basic histories of his people. Every cover was plain; no title or author was given for any of them and Danteel wondered if they were Moncreif’s own observations and summaries.

He looked up to thank Ret, and found the man gone, the door still open. He stood, strode over, and closed it. There was trunk in the corner opposite his bed, and in this he found several changes of clothes—all white—and a pair of simple indoor sandals. The wall opposite the door held a shallow sink, designed to look like an old-fashioned porcelain basin, set just below a high window. This looked out, not into the courtyard, but over an uncultivated lawn with a pine forest beyond it. He knew, from his observations during the shuttle’s decent, that there were no other habitations for kilometers around Moncreif’s estate, and wondered how an officer of the Realm, even a captain as famous as his master was supposed to be, could afford all this.

There was no proper bathroom connected to his quarters, and so he assumed there would be a communal one somewhere nearby. Without knowing its location, though, he had to make do with washing his face and hands in the sink and running a comb—yet another of the trunk’s contents—through his hair. It hadn’t been cut in some time and now hung down almost to his shoulders. Once or twice he’d considered asking Moncreif if Gassil might give him a trim, but his loathing to ask his master for anything had overridden the slight inconvenience that came with long hair.

There was a light tapping at his door and Danteel turned as he said, “Come in.”

The furred woman, Chaya, opened the door. Her face was every bit as expressionless now as it had been in the courtyard, but her dark eyes were bright and missed nothing. “May I enter?”

“Of course.” Danteel gestured towards the lid of the trunk. “Please, sit down.”

Chaya did so, looking him up and down. “A Nagai,” she said. “We’d heard, of course. I never thought he’d manage to find one of you.”

Danteel shrugged. There were no chairs in the room, so he stood next to the sink, his hair still slightly wet. “He’s a very determined man.”

She looked at him silently for a long time. Then, “He is. Are you?”

“I have to be.”

She nodded. “You will kill him then?”

Her bluntness took Danteel off guard—had Moncreif sent her? But the captain already knew that Danteel wanted to kill him. What did he have to gain by such a charade? Still, best to be cautious. “Wouldn’t you if you had the chance?”

Chaya again fell silent, and it was the silence of someone considering their next words very carefully. “I have had the chance.”

“And since both of you are still alive, I’m assuming you didn’t take it.” That might explain why she was Moncreif’s favorite, at any rate. Before Chaya could respond, Danteel crossed his arms and said, “What is it you want, my lady? I do not mean to be rude, and while I enjoy such verbal dancing, I do not enjoy being unsure of my opponent’s motives.”

Again, she nodded. “We have something in common.”

Her meaning left him—only momentarily—speechless. “You suspect me? You think that I’m in league with him! You think I’d spy on his own slaves for him, that I’m his creature?” He could feel his eyes begin to blaze and fought to keep control. “I serve that man only so long and so far as honor demands. As soon as I find an honorable way to free myself from his hold on me, his life ends. He knows that, and if you think to curry favor with your master by giving him information he already has, then you are a fool.”

She slapped him.

Danteel stood there, dazed, for a moment. She was standing now, almost as tall as he was, and now finally she had an expression—a scowl. He touched his stinging cheek, and smiled. “I think we understand each other.”

Chaya crossed her arms. “I should hope so. I would hate to have to slap you again. Did you know that your eyes do something strange when you’re angry?”

He nodded. “Why didn’t you take it?”

“Take what?”

“You said you had the chance to kill him once.”

Chaya looked away from him, her mouth set in a line. “I did. That is what I have come to tell you about.”

Danteel held out his hands. “Well?”

She shook her head. “Supper will be served soon, and my next few nights are his. I will come to you when it is safe; do not seek me out.”

“I understand.”

She straightened her shoulders and turned to leave.

“Chaya,” he said. She glanced back at him. “I’m glad that we’re on the same side.”

With a nod, she left.

Hi gyr.

The first scene - It is very well written as always but if it was to be removed would it really matter? It doesn't seem to add anything which we don't already know. Apart from maybe Moncreif's status on Locus Nova.... I don't know, maybe its just me but it didn't seem majorly relevant.

“No, of course not. I’m not wasting any more of my leave than I already have.”

No need for the "thank I already have."

Scene 2 - Wonderful, great ending - leaves us wanting reading more. You are developing a fresh relationship with fresh characters which adds to the overall momentum of the story, keeping it fresh and neat.

I don't understand why more people aren't reviewing this...

Danteel looked through the shuttle viewport as the mottled blues, greens, and whites of Locus Nova grew steadily closer and clearer. He glanced across the small cabin to Moncreif, who sat ramrod straight, eyes closed, fingers laced loosely together. The Nagai still had no real idea why the captain had chosen to take him down to the surface with him; from past experience he knew he would not be welcome on this human-infested rock. But at least Lataar wasn’t alone. Lark had promised to check up on her as often as he could, and the two seemed to get along well. The Avarice was stationed in orbit over the world; they were here for their twice-yearly maintenance and three-week leave before the next tour. Moncreif always spent those full three weeks away from the great ship, leaving his crew and slaves to their own devices, which made the time Danteel’s vacation as well. Until now.

He sat as the shuttle began to shudder with reentry, and glared across at his master. If Moncreif thought he could have his holiday and Danteel at the same time, he was going to be sorely disappointed. “Where are we going?” he asked for perhaps the twentieth time. And for the twentieth time, as the shuttle bumped gently with the landing impact, Moncreif merely smiled a thin little smile and did not answer.

It was only as Danteel strode down the ramp behind Moncreif that he realized where they were. “Naval Command?” he demanded as Moncreif stepped into the turbolift at the far end of the landing pad. Danteel hurried to catch up. “You have brought me,” he hissed as the doors slid closed and the lift began to move, “to Naval Command. Moncreif, if they see a Nagai walking around here without ten kinds of chains wrapping me up, you’ll be down one slave.”

“Not if you’re with me,” the captain replied calmly.

“What, you’ve invented an energy shield that can stop laser blasts?”

The slap snapped his head around and sent him slamming into the metal wall of the lift. Moncreif’s voice was as level as ever. “When will you learn to stop doubting me, Danteel?”

The door slid open and the captain stepped out. Danteel followed. The corridors might have been the template for Avarice’s own; they were slightly larger, but gleamed with the same polished steel and were every bit as windowless. Busy-looking men in uniforms and work-a-day suits filled every available space, rushing back and forth and, at first, flowing around captain and Nagai like water around two standing stones. But it didn’t take long for people to notice the non-human in their midst, and before Moncreif had taken them five paces a large hand fastened around Danteel’s arm, pulling him to a halt. “What are you doing here?” demanded the muscled officer on the other end of the grip.

Danteel wrenched his arm away in a quick movement that the man clearly had not expected. His whole face frowned and he pulled a small sidearm from its holster. “Is there a problem, ensign?” asked Moncreif, stepping up next to his slave.

The man glanced from the captain’s rank cylinders to the golden collar around Danteel’s neck, and relaxed. “You must be Captain Moncreif,” he said.

Danteel’s master nodded.

Then, to the Nagai’s complete surprise, the ensign stuck out a massive hand and grinned like a schoolboy. “Honor to meet you, sir,” he said. “The others’ll never believe I’ve really done this, but it would be a great privilege if you would shake my hand.”

Smiling thinly, Moncreif did so. “Now, ensign,” he said, “the Command council is expecting me.”

“Of course, sir,” said the ensign, all-but-glowing with pride. For a moment his eyes flicked to Danteel in a quick frown, but without another word he turned and began to escort them along.

“What did I tell you,” said Moncreif, obviously pleased with himself.

Danteel said nothing. Moncreif had sworn not to beat him in public, but the Nagai did not wish to test that promise in front of the captain’s fellow officers. And anything he said now would warrant the whip. The Command council must have been located at the farthest side of the building, for it took many long hallways and lift rides before they arrived. The ensign led them through a sliding door identical to every other and into a modest waiting room. He went to the desk, where a dark-skinned young man in plainclothes sat operating a computer. “Captain Moncreif, to see the council,” said the ensign.

The secretary glanced at the captain, then to Danteel, and his eyes narrowed. “What about that thing?”

“He is with me,” replied Moncreif before the ensign could say anything. “My slave, you see?” He gestured to the collar.

“My madman, you see?” echoed Danteel in Nagian, mimicking the captain’s careless gesture.

Moncreif’s smile went abruptly tight, and Danteel could see his hand move to the place where his whip was customarily fastened. But not today. Now it was a distinguished officer’s sabre there, and it was obvious neither man had understood the Nagai. “You will pay for that,” whispered Moncreif as the secretary spoke to someone over a private comm.

“It can’t be much worse than this,” Danteel replied as the secretary looked up.

“You can go in now,” he said, studiously not looking at Danteel.

The captain’s smile returned; he motioned towards the inner sliding door. “After you.
”
“You must be joking; I’ll be dead before I can take a second step.”

“Then at least you’ll be free,” said Moncreif in Basic, and shoved him towards the door which, true to its function, slid open to admit him.

Danteel stumbled into a rather smaller room than he had expected, but the expressions of surprise, fear, disgust, and outrage that filled the seven faces which had watched his ungainly entrance were exactly what he had imagined. He ground his teeth, regained his balance, and straightened, not moving a fraction as Moncreif entered behind him and forcing the captain to navigate around him. “That was a cheap trick,” he said as Moncreif confidently took his seat before the still-stunned council. “The effect won’t last.”

“How many times must I educate you in the failings of humanity? Gentlemen,” this last word was in Basic and to the seven much higher ranking men arrayed before him. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

Uncertainly, they sat, one after the other, each flicking unsure or irate glances at the Nagai. “The Hero of Tildalan is always welcome here, captain,” said one of them, an older man. Five of them wore admiral rank cylinders on their left shoulders, and two were very well-dressed in civilian suits.

One of the non-military men sneered with disgust as he glared at Danteel. “This is highly unusual, Moncreif; why did you bring this curiosity with you?”

Moncreif shrugged fluidly. “You seem to think you can send anyone you like into my domain; I’m simply returning the favor. And,” he added, lapsing into Nagian, “his presence makes you more nervous than if I’d brought a legion of the Avarice’s soldiers.”

It shouldn’t have worked. After the first few times Moncreif used Danteel to throw the council off, they should have gotten used to it and learned to ignore the Nagai altogether. But every time the captain spoke in his language, every time Danteel answered, every single time he moved even a few steps they faltered, lost the initiative. Moncreif commanded the conversation as skillfully as he did his ship, but his simple tactics should not have worked against some of the most powerful men in the Realm.

Finally, as the conversation began to wind down and the council became full of “of course” and “we shall look into it,” Danteel understood. To get where they were now, these seven men had to be not only the most skilled members of their profession, but also those most dedicated to the official Realm worldview. They saw Danteel—as they had been trained to see any alien—as barely sentient, beneath them, a mindless tool fit only for use as a servant of humanity. And here Moncreif—their ‘hero’—was conversing with one in his own language and allowing him, what seemed to them, incredible liberties. “You may hate me, Danteel, but at least I can see what you really are,” Moncreif had said. It both surprised and frightened Danteel exactly how true that was. This man did not keep alien slaves because he thought humans superior. He kept slaves because he knew exactly how intelligent they were, because he was superior, not his race but he alone.

And now he was using Danteel to get rid of Lark. They were just in the middle of the closing pleasantries when the Nagai said, unbidden, “You’ve made your point to them. Now what do I have to do to make sure Lark stays?”

Moncreif smiled and laughed softly as if Danteel had made a joke: obviously what he wanted the council to think. “You’ve already spared his life against my wishes,” he said, standing. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I’m sure I can count on you.”

Danteel followed him out of the conference room and back into the turbolift. “What happens to him now?” he demanded as soon as the doors shut.

Moncreif slid two fingers under the Nagai’s collar, effectively denying him all but the smallest quantity of air. Danteel did not struggle; he stood very still, his eyes fixed firmly on his master’s face, and tried to take very, very shallow breaths. “I am wondering what give you the presumption to think you can question my decisions like this,” Moncreif said conversationally, digging his knuckles into Danteel’s throat.

There were any number of things the Nagai wanted to say in reply, but his breaths were audibly raspy now, and little black dots began to dance at the edge of his vision. Moncreif’s harsh eyes bore into him as Danteel kept his body motionless and fought not to black out. “You don’t struggle,” the captain said as the lift came to a smooth halt, the doors sliding open to reveal yet another throng of hurrying men. Moncreif seemed not to notice. “A few years ago you would be trying to claw my eyes out by now.”

Perhaps it’s the imminent unconsciousness, Danteel wanted to say. There was practically no air getting through now, and the black dots had become thick black clouds welling up in the corners of his eyes and flitting across his sight.

Abruptly the pressure on his throat was gone. He prided himself that he neither fell nor stumbled back against the wall, but only took a few steadying steps to regain his balance. This done, he realized that Moncreif was already out of the turbolift and striding down the corridor towards the…door they’d come in by.

Danteel caught up as gracefully as he could. “What’s this!” he said, choosing for the moment to not bring up the near-strangulation. “It took forever for that ensign to take us this far.”

“He wanted to show me off,” said Moncreif as they stepped out onto the landing pad. “So he took the long way around.”

Danteel thought for a moment. “So I take it his military career is effectively over?”

“No, I think it’s just going to freeze. I have a delightful vision of promotion boards laughing at him.”

“Uhuh.” They were in the shuttle by now, the pilot beginning the preflight sequence. “So,” he asked while they strapped themselves in, “what is going to happen to Lark now?”

Moncreif did not answer at first, but gazed out of the viewport above Danteel’s head as the shuttle lifted off. “You practically left Lataar with him,” he said at last.

Danteel nodded silently.

“We’ll have to see how that turns out when we return,” the captain said after another long pause.

It was only then that Danteel realized they weren’t heading for space and the Avarice. “We’re not going back now?”

“No, of course not. I’m not wasting any more of my leave than I already have.”

Danteel glanced out the viewport. They were gliding along well above the clouds, and he could see the gentle curve of Locus Nova if not its continents. “Where are we going, then?”

Moncreif leaned back and closed his eyes, a look of beatific anticipation smoothing the lines around his eyes and mouth. “Home.”

* * *

Danteel never told me how I gained his trust. Not that I didn’t ask him and often, but he would only ever give that enigmatic smile of his and say, if he said anything, “Because you were different.” It was different with Lataar. I’m sure that without Danteel’s vote of confidence, my attempts would have been useless from the start, but for the first several hours of our acquaintance she wouldn’t even look at me. Of course, that didn’t stop me from talking her ears off. Mostly—for I am a man—I spoke of myself.

“Of course, it was mostly my father’s name that got me into the university—he’d practically saved the admiral’s life after all—but I don’t think it would be bragging to say I acquitted myself rather well.” Lark made tea as he spoke, finding everything exactly where Danteel had told him. He still wasn’t entirely sure that the captain was all right with the doctor’s presence here in his private quarters, but Danteel had assured him that Moncreif wouldn’t mind. And then he had said something under his breath in Nagian, in such a way that Lark was sure Moncreif’s ignorance of the fact was the only thing keeping it ‘all right.’

As the doctor turned around, a standard-issue teacup in each hand, he found Lataar looking at him. Lark froze, uncertain how to respond to this new development. She blinked once, very slowly. Her wings were still wrapped around her where she sat on the floor, shrouding everything beneath her neck in soft white. She had been in that position when Danteel had left, and had not, as far as Lark knew, moved from it since.

“Hello,” he said. Abruptly, he remembered the tea in his hands, and wondered if he should risk trying to give her one of the cups. The one thing guaranteed to elicit a reaction from her was to step within a meter and a half of her position. He still wasn’t entirely sure how she reacted, but when she did he would find himself on the other side of the room with a deep desire to go away.

She did not reply, but neither did she break eye contact. He took a single cautious step forward, holding the steaming cup before him as both peace offering and shield. There was a sound like the fluttering of moth wings next to his ear, or at least…the idea of such a sound. Tea. The single word whispered through his mind, and though faint it was more command than request. He proffered the cup, still very gingerly. One wing rustled aside and a slim, pale green arm emerged, reaching out towards him. An arm patterned with long scars that stretched from her wrist back into the wing-covered darkness. Her fingers slid under the bottom of the cup, being careful not to touch his, and he released his grip with equal care.

In the same instant that she took it from him, she saw him looking at her scars.

He abruptly discovered that he was facing the far wall and devoid of tea. “Um,” he said. The burning desire to leave suddenly subsided, and he slowly turned. Lataar was curled up on one of the chairs, her wings resting loosely on her back, sipping the tea. It wasn’t so much that she was small as that she seemed built to a different scale. Her limbs were thin and looked very frail, especially in contrasted to the size of her white wings. She glanced up at him, and Lark would have sworn he heard the word hello in his mind.


. . .


I did promise something longer. And Phorcys, you are wonderful--your crit is already integrated!

Hi Gyrfalcon, I too am suffering from a lack of critiques and It demoralises me because I start to doubt my work. Anyway.

Yes, another fine instalment yet so many things happened in one of your shorter sections. But I think the pace of the piece was fine considering you have established more than enough of the Danteel/Moncreif relationship.

The return of Erabon is interesting, I was wondering when he would pop-up again. It will be very good to see how the plot pans out from here.

Moncreif's chuckle - this seemed out of place with his character and borderline "evil villain stereotype" (which thus far you have fruitfully avoided). I think it may be more interesting to simply remove this and leave his actions up to the audience to work out. Or, include a gesture that shows your authorial intent that isn't involving the almost-cliché of laughter.

The last two lines annoy me:

Had every right to take as many human lives as it took before he repaid his debt to that race.

“Fine,” Moncreif bit out. “We shall see how righteous he is.”

...um, I realize bumping one's threads is bad form, but is no one going to take a look? I'd feel a total dork posting the next bit before this has accumulated some comment(s).

“You let him live.”

Danteel hadn’t even heard Moncreif enter the suite, but his master’s voice came from directly behind him. He did not rise from where he was kneeling, painstakingly scrubbing the shower floor and trying not to let the disinfectant solution touch his raw wrists. “I did,” he replied. Moncreif’s crew were loyal and quick, Danteel would give them that. He had only just left the new doctor at his quarters.

Moncreif stepped closer, so near that Danteel wouldn’t be able to rise without pushing him aside. “I told you to take care of him.”

The Nagai clenched his teeth. “Your exact words were ‘The usual arrangement.’ You left the choice to me.”

The whip sliced suddenly across his back, through his shirt, biting deep into his skin. He cried out in shock and fell forward, his flailing hands catching the bucket of cleanser and sending it splashing all over him. He ground his teeth against a scream as the evil liquid woke fire in his back and wrists, drenching his wounds and making their pain fresh once more. He flinched instinctively as he heard the whish of the whip above him. Danteel risked a glance; his master had coiled the weapon in one smooth movement and re-attached it to his belt. Now he crouched, bringing himself down to Danteel’s level as he often did after a flogging, to speak quietly and reasonably and explain things to him. The Nagai bared his teeth in a feral snarl but stayed motionless.

“Haven’t you learned by now,” said Moncreif conversationally, “what we humans are? I would have thought Kima was the last piece of that little puzzle for you; apparently not.” His hand flashed out, long, strong fingers gripping Danteel’s hair and pulling, forcing the Nagai’s head up to look him straight in the eye. Danteel did not cry out. He met the captain’s gaze squarely, ignoring the pain in his scalp, in his back, in his pride.

“Lark Erabon is no threat to you,” Danteel said evenly.

“That doesn’t matter. The Avarice is my ship: I choose who sails aboard her and no one else. I have handpicked every member of this crew, right down to you, Danteel, and now Command thinks they can just lumber me with any half-trained nezlek they like?”

“And so you thought sending them a corpse was the right message?”

Moncreif released him with a snort of disgust. Danteel was ready for it; he braced himself against the tiles and managed to avoid another dunking. The captain paced to the bathroom door and back, and looked down at Danteel with his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The left one right next to his whip. “So you think this one’s different? That you’ve finally found a righteous man?”

Danteel did not reply. Lark Erabon had been the first human in many years who’d looked at him with anything but disgust, fear, or superiority. Oh, he’d been afraid, there in the conference room, but he’d met Danteel’s gaze. And he had asked “why” when his life was spared. As if he knew Danteel had every right to take it if he wished.

“Fine,” Moncreif snarled. “We shall see how righteous he is.”



- - - - - - - - - - - - -

I promise a longer one next time!

Gyr! Yay, something to review by you! And it’s quite the long one, so my critique shall be just as long.

The meeting was already underway, of course, and as he took his seat, the captain regarded him coolly.

If you are to be my new medical officer. [comma instead] I expect you to have better sense than to waste my time.”

“Since you are so fascinated with my slave, perhaps you would like him to help you [s]to[/s] move your luggage into your quarters.”

His hard eyes evaluated the human with all the warmth of an [s]artic[/s] arctic winter.

There were sidelocks of silver in the black hair, but beyond that, hardly any signs of age.

Only for the insane members of my kind[/] Lark thought. He started to protest, to defend the several decent humans he knew, but stopped. He swallowed. “Why didn’t you kill me? I’m sure you could have.”

Deep from the infinite depths of Danteel’s eyes blazed [s]a mad[/s], silver light.

With some difficulty, Lark [s]again[/s] found his voice again.

“I do owe you, but--.”

Good.” With that, he turned and left Lark alone in his room.

The light was better here, but just barely. But what Lark saw in the dim light almost made him throw up.

.” The hand holding the whip flexed again, and for a moment--just a moment--Lark allowed himself to imagine the pain of just a single blow from such a weapon in the hand of one who knew how to use it.

. “I’m a doctor,” he could have said, “I don’t need an excuse to help people.”

His eyes were the stuff of nightmares.

as Nagai culture dictates that one [s]who’s[/s] whose life has been saved must serve the one who saved it.”

“Therefore, you do me no service by saving it.”

“’I, who hold your life in hand…

“’You, who hold my life in hand, who still allow my breath to flow, who still allow my heart to beat—‘” [s]he[/s] He clamped his mouth around the words, and would not let them leave his lips.

. The soldiers’ gloved hands were tight on his thin arms, and he knew there would be bruises.

A man looked up as they entered, an old man, [no comma] bent with age, and beset by so many wrinkles that it was hard to determine his species.

The captain [s]seemed to be[/s] was getting impatient. “Yes, yes, bring it out. Now’s as good a time as ever.”

And then there was a hot, searing pain at the back of his neck and he screamed as much from surprise as anything.

“Hold him still,” said Moncreif as Danteel began to thrash again, [period instead] “[s]give[/s] Give it a moment to cool.”

To Danteel, that moment took only a few seconds…

His hands wrenched at the collar and he nearly strangled himself, and the heat from the welded place still burned the back of his neck

When his wrists slammed, his head slammed, [no comma] too, and it took Danteel a moment to realize that it was Moncreif who was holding him.

There was a horrible, weak instinct to cry, to weep, but he didn’t.

The Nagai could still feel the burn from having the ends of the collar welded together, but he ignored it. [comma instead] As he was learning to ignore so many things these days.

And again, everything within him roared at the word, screaming Kill, kill, kill the sheczkall, the enslaver.

Honor-bound, he told them, [period instead] I am honor-bound.

*blinkblink* I missed this part? I didn't read it?

The pain had subsided to a dull, manageable throb, and he knelt very still, not moving so much as a muscle as the new wounds closed.

Surely Moncreif had not remembered some other offense that couldn’t wait until morning?

“And he’s covered in blood and sweat; he smells like a corpse that’s just run a marathon.”

“Please, captain,” said Kima in a ‘let’s be reasonable’ voice.

Note to the world: I'm back on this story! I've been going through and editing some of my older posts, so if old fans (or new ones) would like to take a look I'd be delighted. Also, I plan on having a new "episode" before long. In Thrall is coming back, ladies and gentlemen!

It had only been six quick lashes. Danteel, on his knees and leaning against the wall, couldn’t even remember what they had been for this time. The pain had subsided to a dull, manageable throb, and he knelt very still, not moving so much as a muscle as the new wounds closed. When he could stir without sending lances of fire across his back, he would clean up first the little room, then himself, then try to salvage what vestiges of sleep this night could afford. Lataar was asleep; Danteel had been very careful to shut her out during his beating, and as she dared not touch Moncreif’s mind she had gone to bed none the wiser. Which was good. If she’d known, she would be up right now and here, worrying and losing sleep in her attempts to heal him, which only ever half-worked under the best of circumstances.

Danteel tried very hard not to flinch when the door slid open behind him. Surely Moncreif had not remembered some other offense that couldn’t wait until morning? But it was a woman’s voice he heard, a sharp intake of breath and the words, “By the homeworld, captain, what is this?”

“Danteel, my Nagai slave,” came the captain’s bored voice. “I should like you to treat him.”

“This is not a part of my job description,” the woman hissed. “And he’s covered in blood and sweat; he smells like a corpse that’s just run a marathon.”

“Your position as my latest ship’s doctor is to care for the medical needs of the Avarice’s crew, yes?”

“You’re telling me this piece of bone-white flesh is a part of your crew?” she demanded.

He laughed, oh so softly. “Only in the broadest possible definition of the word, Lieutenant Kima. Nevertheless, you will treat him.”

The lieutenant snorted. “I begin to see how you’ve had so much trouble keeping a doctor these past few months. Do you subject them all to this unprofessional aftertime?”

Danteel swallowed. This woman was, in fact, the first of her profession Moncreif had ever brought into this little room. The captain’s stream of excuses for dismissing the doctors Realm Command sent him must have started to get thin, if he was using this as a way to drive them out. “I thought we had a deal,” he whispered in Nagian. “Regarding certain things that were to be done in private.”

Lieutenant Kima noise halfway between surprise and disgust. “Is that what passes for a language with it?”

“The flogging is done, Danteel. I merely brought the good doctor around to make sure she knows who she’s dealing with.”

“Does it not even understand Basic?” sneered Kima. “It’s degrading that a decent human being should have to stoop so low as to converse in another tongue with an alien.”

Danteel chuckled, then stopped when it aggravated the pain. “Somehow, I think she missed the point, Moncreif.”

“Please, captain,” said Kima in a ‘let’s be reasonable’ voice. “Tell me this is a joke. You can hardly expect me to work under these conditions. If you insist on having it treated, at least let it be brought to my med bay.”

“He does not bite,” said Moncreif, as if he hadn’t heard her. “And even if he did, he would not be inclined to do so in this situation. I request this as a personal favor, lieutenant, I would prefer not to make it an order.”

For a moment Kima was silent. Then, “Fine. But I swear if this gets out I’ll be the laughingstock of the field.”

She approached him slowly, her heeled shoes clicking on the bare floor. Finally she crouched down to his right, and he got his first look at the captain’s newest doctor. She had apparently been working late: her black hair was pulled into a severe bun that she probably wouldn’t have redone if summoned after letting it out, and her almond-shaped eyes had the bloodshot look of one who knew more late nights than early ones. She set her case down between them, as if it were a shield, and opened it while eyeing him warily.

“Hello,” he whispered gently.

She litterally jumped at the word, startling backwards so that she lost her balance and landed rather comically on her backside. Moncreif snorted a laugh, “A fierce one, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry he’s gotten you involved in this,” said Danteel, ignoring his master.

Kima struggled to her feet, shaking. “What is this, captain, some kind of sick joke?” she demanded. “Did you train him like a parrot, just for a few laughs at my expense?”

Danteel blinked. “I didn’t mean to frighten—”

She kicked him. One black, high-heeled shoe lashed out and caught him on the temple. He fell, more from shock than anything else. Moncreif was laughing now, deep, horrible laughs as Kima screeched and fled the room as if demon-pursued. “When will you learn, Danteel?” he asked once she was gone. “You thought just because she was a woman that she’d treat you like anything other than an animal? You may hate me, Danteel, but at least I can see what you really are. Something even you aren’t all that good at, I might add.”

As Danteel tried to lever himself back to a sitting position, as he felt the blood begin to trickle from the lashes once more and knew the bruise was forming next to his eye, the captain left, still laughing.

Ah! I didn't even think of that. The problem is, my darling twit, that I wrote this scene ages before I wrote the others, before Danteel's no-screaming policy had been established. Your insights and comments have been a huge help, I shall implement them forthwith! *gives hot cocoa and Christmas cookie*


Edit: Integrated!

Short.

But sweet. ^_^

The lieutenant roared in rage and slashed out, the tip of his blade cutting across the Nagai’s face and biting deep into his flesh. Danteel cried out in pain and grabbed at his mouth to staunch the flow of blood. The lieutenant’s blade caught him again, this time on the back. Danteel screamed, spattering blood across the floor. The weapon had cut across dozens of existing wounds, opening up already sore and tender flesh. He went down, landing hard on his knees but still holding his weapon.

He felt the tip of the lieutenant’s rapier rest gently on the nape of his neck. “Your people killed my parents, you animal! We lived in peace near your homeworld for decades, until you suddenly decided to make our home yet another extension of your ancient battleground.”

It was a simple fold of metal, nothing fancy or even especially well-worked.

He was being dressed in simple padded armor, and as he caught the other’s glance, he gave a smile he clearly thought was superior.

But he didn’t know Moncreif’s rule concerning his slaves. And he had not yet learned not to demand things from him.

The virtue of a rapier was its speed and ability to cause internal bleeding.

Pivoting, he slashed at the other’s nearby legs.

The Nagai looked back down at his former opponent. “Neither of us deserved our fate,” he said. “But now you, at least, are free.”

I should be flogged, I truly should, for not posting this sooner. My appologies!!!

* * * * *

The rapier felt good in his hand, solid and familiar. Even under these circumstances, he enjoyed the chance to use one again. It was a simple weapon, nothing fancy or even especially well-worked. But it was still sharp, still fully capable of killing someone.

He glanced across the large, circular room at his opponent: a youngish human man with unruly blonde hair. He was being dressed in simple padded armor, and as he caught the other’s glance, he attempted a superior smile. Danteel, of course, was wearing no armor. The young man was the captain’s newest lieutenant, a bright boy who had bragged of his skill with a blade. He had seen Danteel when he had met Moncreif and, recognizing a Nagai, had demanded to be allowed to face him in combat. Danteel’s master had agreed. Danteel was not sure which of them the Captain hoped to teach a lesson to. Perhaps both. The rule was no killing blows. The boy probably thought that was only in place to protect his own human life, and didn’t apply to the Nagai. Of course, he didn’t yet know Moncreif’s rule concerning his slaves. And he had not yet learned not to demand things from him.

The lieutenant was armored now. Silently, the two began to circle each other, neither moving in to attack. Danteel knew he could win from the moment the boy began to move; he had received some training, true, but had nothing like the innate talent necessary to compliment that.

Suddenly the lieutenant attacked. Danteel parried his blows easily, barely moving his body. The lieutenant came at him from a different angle, and again Danteel blocked him. The boy sneered and said, “You’re past your time, old man.”

For a moment, Danteel was too shocked to respond and his opponent was able to land a glancing blow on his arm. The Nagai hissed and backed off. “How is it you know my language, dog?”

The other’s rapier slashed out, a flurry of angry movement. He may not have talent, but he did know how to channel his fury. “I have studied the ancient techniques of your race, slave. I was able to master your barbaric language in the process.”

The blades clashed and separated. “Then you know the danger you face in me, boy,” said Danteel haughtily. “Why forfeit your life for this foolish duel?”

The lieutenant roared in rage and slashed out, the tip of his blade cutting across the Nagai’s face and biting deep into his flesh. Danteel stumbled back and grabbed at his mouth to staunch the flow of blood. The lieutenant’s blade caught him again, this time on the back. Danteel gritted his teeth against a scream. The weapon had cut across dozens of existing wounds, opening up already sore and tender flesh. He went down, landing hard on his knees but still holding his weapon. He felt the tip of the lieutenant’s rapier rest gently on the nape of his neck and the young man's vicious voice from above, “Your people killed my parents, you animal! We lived in peace near your homeworld for decades, until you suddenly decided to make our home yet another extension of your ancient battleground.”

The tip rose from Danteel’s neck and he knew that the other man was hefting his blade high to bring it down in a killing blow. Stupid. He should know that a rapier never had nor ever would behead someone. It wasn’t meant for it. The virtue of a rapier was its speed and ability to cause internal bleeding. Time to teach this whelp that.

Letting himself fall to one side, away from the weapon’s trajectory, he sliced out at his opponent’s legs. The lieutenant howled and faltered, his “killing blow” falling harmlessly to one side. Up came Danteel, like an avenging demon, his rapier moving faster than the other’s eye could follow. He pierced his opponent in a hundred different places, always hitting the soft spots of the armor. The officer didn’t stop screaming until Danteel managed to shove his rapier through the padding and into his heart. “You know nothing of pain,” he whispered to the dying man. And then the human fell, a lifeless, bloody heap on the ground.

Danteel turned to his master. “Will someone be killing me, now?”

Moncreif shrugged. “You’ve weeded out a weak link, nothing more. Perhaps I will let you do so again sometime. Go take care of Lataar; she’s had a rough night.” With that the captain stood and left.

The Nagai looked back down at his former opponent. “Neither of us deserved our fate,” he said. “But now you, at least, are free.”

No problem! I'm glad I can help out.

I didn't know it was a story you were using to vent through. I actually believe it is more intriguing than Gypsie Eyes, but I'm not a big fantasy person.

Keep up the great work, Gyr!

-aero

Aero, you are like my inner concious when it comes to this story--if it ever gets published, you are so very in the acknowledgements page! *lots of cookies* Your insights have prodded me to take a more serious view on In Thrall, rather than treating it (as was it's original purpose) as a way to vent, and for this, I humbly thank you. While I can't manage to integrate your wonderful suggestions for a bit, don't let me forget all the work you've put into this and attempt to be worthy of it.

I'm critting the section after Danteel meets Matirra and he's in the shower.

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

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

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

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

Critting the section after the torture section.

She had a delicate nose and a mild, smiling mouth. And her eyes were large and golden, as luminous as her skin.

“The master…” she faltered. “He rescued me. There was a civil war on my world, I would have died. He…saved me.” For a long time, she was silent, perfectly still. As if it wasn’t Danteel she was seeing. “I have…certain duties.”

“Stars no,”

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

“You slave,” Moncreif said calmly.

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

I'm critting the section after the collar was put on Danteel.

I love how they're gambling on the torture.

“May the subject of the wager place a bet?”

Again and again and again the whip came down, and somehow Danteel did not cry out. With every lash he felt the freezing hate inside him grow, not the fire-red rage towards Moncreif, but a far harder, far more enduring vendetta. Vengeance.

I'm critting the part after The Beginning

They walked between the ranks of gleaming armor.

These were not soldiers. They were slaves as much as he was

He struggled instinctively, but they were clearly stronger than he was. Speaking in Nagian, Danteel demanded

And then he released him and Danteel fell, landing hard on his knees. His hand began to move once more towards the collar but one of the soldiers raised his rifle and Danteel’s hand stopped mid-motion. “You’ll get used to it,” said Moncreif, wiping his hands on his trousers as if he had touched something vile. “At least, you’d better.”

This critique is for - The Beginning

Danteel fed the white rat a few crumbs from the remnants of his very bad dinner. The creature’s pink eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, and its wicked little yellow teeth just missed the Nagai’s thin white fingers. It took an especially large crumb in its two front paws and nibbled at it, allowing Danteel to stroke it lightly as it did. The animal was perched on his knee, and he could feel the little claws scratching at him through the cloth of his pants.

A door opened at the far end of the room, spilling light into Danteel’s cell and scaring the rat away. Two silhouettes came out of the light and strode towards the barred door that supposedly kept the rest of the galaxy safe from him.

A door opened at the far end of the room, spilling light into Danteel’s cell and scaring the rat away. Two silhouettes came out of the light and strode towards the barred door that supposedly kept the rest of the galaxy safe from him. One of them was the squat figure of the jailer, carrying his stun rod. The other was tall, very tall, and walked as if his height set him apart from the filthy, reeking mess of the dungeon around him. They stopped in front of his door and the jailer unlocked it, but only the tall figure came in. As he stepped into the wan light from the single glow-lantern, Danteel felt an uncharacteristic shiver crawl across his flesh.

The man wore the uniform of an Imperial Naval Captain, and there was a sheathed saber at his side. His face was hard and seemed to be cut of steel. His body was lean and long-limbed, his spotless uniform carrying the rank cylinders of a Naval Captain.

You're such a sweetheart!!! *hugs* And, quite frankly, you're generally right about the logic, and I shall fix such things as I can, but one thing you need to remember, aero, the one really big thing is: MONCRIEF IS CRAZY. Like, psychopath nuts. His logic is...Moncrief's logic. I shall do what I can, but in the end *shrug* he's just a nutter. Thanks so much for all your help!!!!!! *gives cookies!*

All right, I'm starting from where I left off. Right after Danteel revealed to Lark Erabon that he needed him to 'owe him'

The light was better here, but just barely. But what Lark saw in the dim light almost made him throw up.

wondered how he could have red blood and white skin.

“Why all this…for me?”

Lark didn’t answer for a long time. “I’m a doctor,” he could have said, “I don’t need an excuse to help people.” What came out was, “I owed you.”

If you're going by modern day military standards, then, yes, as aero said, change the Mr. But if you're going for the "officer and gentleman" type soldier, then you can keep the Mr.

Hey, Gyr!

Avarice

He cleared his throat. “Ahem. So, what’s your name?”

The Nagai didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t speak Basic. That would be in keeping with his luck.

Lark placed a hand on his chest and said, very slowly, “My-name-is-Lark.”

No answer.

“Lark Air-ah-bon,” he said, annunciating carefully.

Lark sighed. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you? Well, I’m sorry that I don’t speak your language but between Moncreif wanting to fry me and your staring at me like death itself and the whole big, blasted ship having so many blasted corridors that a man can’t get his blasted luggage—”

"You knew Basic the whole time?”

“I’ve known it longer than you have.”

Lark peered at him. There were no wrinkles in the sharp face, but of course one needed spare skin to have wrinkles. There were sidelocks of silver in the black hair, but beyond that hardly any signs of age. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“When...the Captain sends me out alone with one of his men,” said the Nagai slowly, “it is one of those rare occasions where I have free choice. If I choose to kill him, I am not punished. And if we fight and he wins, the incident is carefully forgotten.”

Lark stared. “Why?”

The Nagai shrugged. “Isn’t that the way of your kind? A member is inconvenient, now he his dead, problem solved.”

Lark started to protest, to defend the several decent humans he knew, but stopped. He swallowed. “Why didn’t you kill me? I’m sure you could have.”

The Nagai’s eyes narrowed. “Because I am not human.” He turned and continued to walk towards the shuttle bays.

“Then why—“

Danteel whirled on him. “You are not my master,” he hissed. “It is not for you to question what I do and why I do it.”

As it turned out, the Nagai was much stronger than he looked, hefting Lark’s two biggest suitcases without trouble. Lark himself took the rest, and they both deposited their loads in the new doctor’s spartan quarters.

Before Danteel could leave, Lark said, “Why did you spare my life?”

Danteel regarded him. “You are a doctor, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Someday, I’m going to need your abilities. Me, personally, not Moncreif. I’m going to need you to treat someone I care about. I needed you to owe me one.”

“I do owe you, but--.”

“Good.” With that he turned and left Lark alone in his room.

I really appreciated all this, aero, you're invaluable!!! Mostly, I've just been sloppy with my military accuracy--I know most of the stuff you told me, I just didn't take the time or effort to apply what I knew. *head/desk* Part of my desire, though, is to have Lark apear as hopelessly un-military as he can without being a total idiot--obviously I passed the line into idiot somewhere and shall have to reel him back a bit.

Also, your observations about Moncrief are totally correct--he is just captain of the one ship, and while it's an important ship, there are lots and lots of them. I wanted his...I guess you could say his arrogance to stand out, so I'm glad it worked! *hug*

Hey, Gyr!

How are ya?!

I’ve only read the first section up to the part where the slave and Erabon leave the meeting, but the focus of my critique will be advice on military etiquette and how a brand new officer would act and appear.

Lark Erabon stumbled late into the conference room, running his fingers through his recently cropped black hair, straightening the new uniform that didn’t quite fit despite his average build. The meeting was already underway, of course, and as he took his seat the captain regarded him coolly. “So good of you to join us, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice oily.

Lark swallowed. “Sorry I’m late, sir. I couldn’t find my room at first, and then there was no one there to help me with my things, so—”

After a few seconds of palpable tension, Captain Moncreif motioned smoothly and a burly, brown haired man, doubtless the first officer, stood.

Mr. Erabon!

Silently, the slave began to walk out of the room. Moncreif inclined his head to indicate that Lark should follow. Scrambling out of his chair, Lark followed.

... I'm further behind than I thought, haha. But no matter - that just means more chapters to read, which is always a treat. I think you've come quite a long way with your writing even since the first few chapters of In Thrall; you've generally been keeping up an each-chapter-tops-the-last trend. This will be a crit of the first chapter posted on page five of the thread. Hope it helps you out a bit, and thanks for waiting for me to get my easily side-tracked self over here. ^~'


... Small Nitpicks on the Narrative

"I would just like to ask you some questions," replied Jonahn without answering.

Jonahn's face went nova red. "And yet we rose to a position of power high enough that we can now take even Nagai for slaves."

For the barest second he blacked out, but when he came to, he realied how fast the human could move.

Ah, poor Lataar. And now what's gonna happen, I wonder?

Trying to find things to pick out...

gyr wrote:For perhaps the hundredth time he went through the events on the planet in his mind.

In mourning, there is silence, she managed at last. For this mourning, ever silent.

Danteel could feel her entire, frail body—hollow-boned for flight—trembling.

... but she must have heart them regardless.

*munchs cookie*

Thankee, Shadowsun! *gives cookie*

This is really good. I'm looking forward to more of it. I looked through it and could find only this one little tiny thing.

gyrfalcon wrote: Danteel hesitated, and tried as hard as he could to make Lataar understand that he would stay if she wanted him to. Much as he wanted to, he could not think back to her—his thoughts remained as much in his skull as ever, but she must have heart them regardless. Go, came the silent command.

Danteel watched her sleep, his eyes fixed on the golden collar encompassing her slim throat. He had forced himself to stay with her as the collar was fastened. Even though she had been unconscious during the process, as she was now, he had felt it his duty to see her through it. After all, it was his fault she was here.

For perhaps the hundredth time he went through the events on the planet in his mind. No matter how often he reviewed his actions he couldn’t find anything he would have done differently. For all that Danteel himself would rather die than live a slave, he knew that most sentients didn’t feel the same way. And the only way he could have prevented her slavery would have been to leave her there, where she would surely have died. And yet, that golden glint tortured him, made him feel as much a sheczkall as Moncreif.

His stomach grumbled at him; he hadn’t eaten since arriving back at the Avarice. Neither, he reminded himself, stubbornly refusing his body’s demand, had she. When she awoke, he would do his best to comfort her, to tell her where she was and why. Then, only when he had faced the accusation, pain, and fear that he knew he would encounter, would he ask if he could get her anything.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. The dusky, feathery scent of her wings filled the room, reminding him vaguely of something long ago and far away, something before chains and humans and blood. But he couldn’t place it.

When he opened his eyes, she was awake, and staring at him.

“Hello,” he said, slowly and clearly, in Basic. “My name is Danteel.”

She didn’t move except for the slight rising and falling of her chest with each inhale and exhale. Her deep-set eyes were focused on him with a quietly powerful intensity. He felt something nudging at the corners of his mind, similar to what he had felt when Alita Sang at him. But this time he did not push the sensation away. He tried to remain calm, to leave his mind open to whatever it was the girl was doing.

Hello, came the barest whisper of a voice in his thoughts. I am…Lataar.

“Can you speak audibly?” he asked.

Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes and she took a deep, shuddering breath. This is hard, she said—no, thought—to him. My world is dead. My home, family, they are gone, yes?

He nodded, and his heart, such a calloused and scarred thing, still managed to break for her.

I must… she seemed to struggle with the effort of communicating mind-to-mind. Danteel tried to clear his thoughts, tried to make it easier for her without knowing what would help. In mourning, there is silence, she managed at last. For this mourning, ever silent.

“You won’t speak again?” he asked.

She shook her head and at last her self-control broke, tears streaming down her pale green cheeks, sobs coming as half-breathed, quiet gasps. Without fully knowing what he was doing or why, he put his arms around her, drawing her close, and she wept, drenching him with her silent sorrow. Her wings stirred, beat the air once before folding in tight against her back and shoulder blades. Danteel could feel her entire, frail body—hollow-boned for flight—trembling.

Then he heard the door open behind him, and Moncreif’s unmistakable step entering through it. “Do not reach out with your mind to this man,” Danteel whispered fiercely into Lataar’s ear as he held her. “He is evil.”

“How touching,” came the captain’s voice, cynical and aloof.

Gently Danteel released the girl, then turned and stood to face his master. “Her name is Lataar,” he said. “And she will not speak to you.”

“Will she not? That is no loss to me, unless she has a nice singing voice.”

“You destroyed her world,” Danteel continued, and then a thought struck him, a lie that he couldn’t help but attempt. “Humans killed her family, and thus she cannot ever speak to one of you again. She can converse with me, but only in private.”

Moncreif shrugged. “What do I care for what goes on in the heart of a slave?” he said carelessly.

“Just thought you should know,” Danteel replied, and he couldn’t keep a scowl of disgust off his face.

The captain laughed. “Danteel, you have been with me long enough to know it is not her mind, voice, or heart I have an interest in.”

The Nagai was silent, glaring. He stood deliberately between Moncreif and Lataar, and though he knew his position would do her no real good, he hoped that she realized what it meant—that he would protect her as much as it was within his power to do. I know, she thought to him.

“Now go,” said Moncreif, waving a hand dismissively. “Get yourself some food from the kitchens.”

“What about her?”

“Get her some as well, if you must.”

Danteel hesitated, and tried as hard as he could to make Lataar understand that he would stay if she wanted him to. Much as he wanted to, he could not think back to her—his thoughts remained as much in his skull as ever, but she must have heart them regardless. Go, came the silent command.

And so, still despising himself, he went.

But J. does! Do you mean he should earlier? Wait a minute, does he? *checks*

Edit: *gasp!* He doesn't!!! For some reason, I always imagined he did--THANK YOU IMP!!!!!!

gyrfalcon wrote:A million thanks, my Imp! *gives whole box of cookies* I've always been a little unsatisfied with this scene and I think you targeted the problem that I couldn't see. I shall edit this as soon as I can snatch time, and post the next bit (with which I am much more pleased) shortly.

Edit: I've integrated both your suggestions, and Imp you were so right about making J. flip about his actions to Mattira--perfect. I also agree with you on the idea of interuptions, but I'm having trouble finding the right spot, any ideas?

You're fantastic, darling, as are your suggestions. While I like it that people enjoy In Thrall, it's kinda annoying when no one actaully takes the time to find out what's wrong. Thank you!

As I've been away from this for a while, I'll take it from where I left off - Page 4's second post. Sorry again and so forth for taking so long with this, Gyr. These last few chapters were the best so far, I think. You're really painting Danteel as a full character, and it's a pleasure to watch his persona grow and expand on the page. He is one of the most inherently likeable protagonist-victims that I've found in sci-fi, because even though he suffers quite cruelly, his reaction to it is neither overtly arrogant nor cowardly, and I think the balance really does the story credit.



Some Small Nitpicking

When Danteel awoke, his highly accurate internal clock told him that it was nearly midday.

The quarters were quiet. Not a sound from Moncreif’s master suite, nor [...] the tiny cell next to Danteel which Mattira occupied. Mattira.

She was wearing her outfit of the night before, the fabric now creased and crumpled.

“My master or yours?” asked Alita, only half-sarcastically.

Danteel darted out of Mattira’s cell fast as thought, Alita following him.

Surprisingly, his disgust seemed not to be directed at Danteel, but the Nagai, never one to argue when handed good fortune, declined to ask at whom the disgust was aimed.

Phorcys, do you want my head to pop with all the swelling you've given it? Honestly, it's fantastic to hear from people who love my stuff so much--it's people like you who keep me writing! *hugs*

ShadowTwit, what would I do without you and your eagle-eyes for typos? I shall certainly go back and integrate your wonderful tips when I'm not rushing madly to work.

Thank you, both of you. *sets out pie*

Oh, I like this new race you've introduced. Sk'iri. Nice, I like wings.

FIRST BIT

gyr wrote:After she had her child, Jonahn gave both mother and baby (a little girl) to Alita as a short of graduation present, celebrating the young Song Weaver’s end to her studies with him.

gyr wrote:From all accounts, Alita used the money she earned from the use of her talents to buy a very nice house for herself, Mattira, and the child.

gyr wrote:He had seen his share of battlefields, had worn his share of blood, but this was a massacre, preformed by a man who would not even deign to leave orbit and look upon the faces of those he had been ordered to slay.

gyr wrote:The carnage around him seemed to laugh at this thought, and he heard his master’s voice in his hear: Run to where?

gyr wrote:They walked in a kind of wedge, Danteel at point with two blank-faced soldiers on either side of him and the officer tucked safely in the middle.

gyr wrote:Beneath it lay a young Sk’iri girl, probably not much older than fifteen, clutching at the corpse of a woman who had apparently been her mother.

gyr wrote:The doctor’d used bloody stun cuffs.

I have just taken the last hour and a half to read through the entirety of In Thrall. In Thrall to writing can be compared with everest to mountains. It was absolutely fantastic.

I was hooked after the first part. Danteel is an interesting character, he is different and has the presence of the Nagai culture all about him which adds intrigue to how he views the Avarice and humans in general. However, Moncreif has to be my favourite character, I loved it how he became the protagonist for a while when they sort of teamed up against Jonahn.

Still this isn't any ordinary conflict. This is gyr conflict wear you add yet another element of intrigue with the Weavers. this was a master stroke - combining elements of fantasy with what is a typically science fiction story.

I was kind of annoyed that Mattira was discarded from the plot but then I realised that the story is about Danteel and Moncreif and I'm guessing there will be sections to the story. Its kind of Stephen Kingesk of how you do this. So the annoyance soon vanished because I was hooked on another episodic plot line.

It felt like I'd just picked a novel up from a book store. It really did. It had a very publishable, polished feel to it. I enjoyed the characters, the plot was original and the pacing was just right.

Good luck and I can't wait to see what the evil Captain Moncrief does to our new guest aboard the Avarice. This hasn't been much of a critique but more of a review from a very happy reader.

The stench of scorched flesh and the brooding smell of burnt thatch filled Danteel’s nostrils. He looked around the razed village, the smoke from the ruins clogging the clear blue sky. The nozzle of a blaster rifle struck his always-sore back and he took a jerking step forward. Snarling, he shot an icy glance back at the stern-faced commander who wielded the offending weapon. The other narrowed his eyes in silent warning. Danteel, ignoring him, returned his attention to the smoldering town.

Armored soldiers stalked among the half-blasted homes and hundreds of sprawled winged bodies. So much death, and for what? Danteel fought against his urge to throw up. He had seen his share of battlefields, had worn his share of blood, but this was a massacre, preformed by a man who would not even deign to leave orbit and look upon the faces of those he had been ordered to slay. The Nagai turned his face to the smog-smeared sky and glanced at the distant gray glimmer of the Avarice. The commander stepped forward, pressing the business end of his rifle gently against Danteel’s back. He took another few unwilling steps forward.

They progressed in this fashion for several meters, soldiers and scouts occasionally coming up to the commander to give reports. Danteel ignored them. He was not bound. But for the rifle at his back, he could have run. The carnage around him seemed to laugh at this thought, and he heard his master’s voice in his hear: Run to where? Moncreif had not done all this to teach Danteel a lesson in submission; that was simply an added bonus. As if the hundreds of whip-scars covering his back were not lesson enough.

And then a wail split the gloomy, death-like silence. By the stars, thought Danteel, there’s a survivor.

The rifle came up to rest its muzzle between the Nagai’s shoulder blades and he heard the commander say, “Time to earn your pay, scum.”

If I were being paid for this, I could have bought my freedom several times over by now, thought Danteel bitterly.

They walked in a kind of wedge, Danteel at point with two blank-faced soldiers on either side of him and the officer tucked safely in the middle. Soon they came to a collapsed wall that had apparently trapped the source of the cry. Danteel glanced a question back and got an impatiently raised eyebrow in response. Crouching, he gripped the edge of the wall and lifted. It groaned and shuddered as he hefted it up and to one side.

Beneath it lay a young Sk’iri girl, probably not much older than fifteen, clutching at the corpse of a woman who had apparently been her mother. Her pitiful wails and sobs rang out, wrenching a compassion that Danteel thought he had long ago lost. She didn’t seem to notice that the wall trapping her was gone and she totally ignored the six beings looking down on her.

The stormtroopers shifted, looking from the girl to the commander and back again as if unsure what to do. Before anyone could move, Danteel stepped forward and knelt next to the girl. Without being totally aware of what he was doing, he put an arm around her and drew her protectively towards him. She started, flailing out with her huge white wings and hitting him with them several times. But he did not let go. Eventually she went limp in his arms and he lifted her thin, wiry form from the soot-and-blood ground, her wings hanging down like dirty white rags from her shoulder blades.

Sobs, silent and powerful, still wracked her body, and Danteel drew her to himself, allowing her to cry rivers on his narrow chest. A hard, thick hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and the Nagai turned to face the scowling commander. He felt the girl stiffen and try to hide herself by pressing back against him.

“And what,” the commander growled, “do you think you’re doing.”

Anger swelled in Danteel, but he suppressed it through habit. “What does it look like?” he said, glacially calm. “I’m rescuing.”

The commander snorted, an order at the tip of his tongue. But then, for the first time, he really looked at the girl. His eyes narrowed and his crag of a mouth split in a terrible grin. Danteel took and instinctive step back, and felt the girl wrap her arms around his neck and hang on for all she was worth.

“Give her here, Nagai,” said the commander softly, holding out his arms. He had never addressed Danteel with anything more than absolute scorn, and the use of even his race’s name set off warning klaxons in Danteel’s head.

“Why?” he demanded, taking another step back.

“I’m not going to hurt her, slave, just hand her over.” The commander had the slow, gentle attitude of a child cornering an escaped pet.

“Why?” demanded the Nagai again.

The commander stopped his steady progress forward and scowled. “Fine,” he grated, all gentleness gone. “You carry her, then.” With that he turned to go back the way they had gone. The soldiers formed up around them, surrounding Danteel. He had no choice but to march forward with them, still carrying the girl.

“What do you want with her?” asked Danteel. A small, horrible idea was taking root in his mind, an idea he all but refused to believe.

The commander glanced back at him, sneering. “Let’s just say you won’t be the only one earning your pay today.”

Danteel stopped. The stormtroopers surrounding him also came to a reluctant halt. “No,” he said.

The officer raised his rifle threateningly. “What did you say?”

“No. There’s no way. Forget it. I-will-not-let-you.” He annunciated the last few words carefully, in case the commander was still having trouble understanding him.

The officer looked gamely around the circle of armed soldiers. “It doesn’t seem you have much of a choice, slave.”

The girl’s arms tightened around Danteel’s neck and he doubled his grip on her. Her wings stirred, one coming up to cover her body and the other wrapping around his back to envelope his shoulders. He felt as if he was enfolded in soft white shields of light. “Very well,” said Danteel. “Be my guest. Shoot us. I’m sure Moncreif would be delighted to have our corpses dumped on his ship rather than live, useful slaves.”

“He gave me permission to kill you if you made trouble.”

Danteel shrugged. “Then go ahead.”

A wind blew into the silence, kicking up ash and soot and flinging it everywhere. The Nagai’s white skin was smeared gray and black, and the soldiers’ once pristine armor no longer gleamed.

Then the commander set his weapon to stun and shot both of them with one pull of the trigger.

* * *

Danteel awoke in the med bay with a pounding headache and the taste of, of all things, salt in his mouth. He spat. Stun blasts had never been kind to him, and he wondered if they were simply bad for his species or for him personally. He looked at the next bed over and saw the Sk’iri girl lying there, her wings limp and her eyes closed, with the fat ship’s doctor standing over her. Danteel let out a curse as he moved to get off the bed he was lying on. Pain shot up his right arm and spread to engulf his body. He gasped and lay down again, looking for the first time at his wrists. Stun cuffs. The doctor’d used bloody stun cuffs. He knew it was the doctor who’d fastened him to the bed with them; Moncreif was a lot more…traditional.

And now here the doctor came, his generous stomach wobbling. “Lie still, please,” he said primly, as if the “please” was a stretch for him. “You don’t respond well to stun blasts.”

“No kidding,” Danteel snarled. He moved his left wrist gingerly; the cuff was tied to the bed by several strands of power cord. “You couldn’t simply strap me down?”

The doctor’s little pig eyes flashed. He leaned in over the Nagai and Danteel was smothered in the smell of sweat and rubber gloves. “You will not address me so, slave.”

“Not your slave,” hissed Danteel. “Release me.”

Even tied down, he managed to avoid the slap. “You defied Commander Manston’s orders,” the doctor said, his face red with anger. “I am keeping you still and docile until the Captain chooses to deal with you.”

“Then you should have stun-cuffed my legs.” The kick bowled the doctor over like a rubber ball, but because he couldn’t move his arms or upper body it had little power behind it. He had braced himself by the time the doctor rose and activated the stun cuffs. The pain of electricity coursed through his body and he could smell his own hair singing; this was worse than a thousand lashes, this was the definition of pain. But he didn’t scream. He refused to scream.

“Enough!” The command rang out, cutting through Danteel’s near-unconsciousness. The pain stopped abruptly and the Nagai groaned. He could see Moncreif standing in the door to the medbay with a face like thunder. Danteel rarely saw him this angry; the Captain’s rage was cool and sharp and terrible, the kind where he could smile and make small talk while he whipped your back into ribbons.

The doctor scuttled over to him. “Sir,” he began, “I—“

“Were you or were you not,” Moncreif said in the low, piercing voice of his most potent anger, “made aware of the rule that no one punishes my slaves but me?”

Danteel knew the rule. He had counted on it.

But the doctor seemed taken aback. “Of course, sir, but I thought—“

“Then you will kindly refrain from thinking any farther,” Moncreif interrupted again. “You will go to your quarters and log an official request to transfer off of the Avarice. If you are not off this ship in ten hours, I will let Danteel decide how to deal with you.”

The doctor looked fearfully back at his “patient.” Danteel gave him the most menacing smile he could manage, half-fried. The doctor fled. Now the room was empty but for the captain, the girl, and himself. Moncreif went first to the girl and looked down at her dispassionately. “Commander Manston tells me she is a gift,” he said to the room in general, “to do with…as I please.”

“Sir,” the word came out roughly, and not just because the pain still echoed in him. “Sir, please, you can’t—“

“I can’t?” Moncreif’s harsh, motley green eyes pierced Danteel like a rapier. But his mouth was smiling. “Do tell me, Danteel, what I cannot do.”

Danteel swallowed. “Sir, please,” he tried again, hating the words as he said them. But now was no time for pride; he hadn’t been able to save Mattira, maybe he could save this child. “I, I beg of you, please leave the girl alone. I have nothing to offer you that you haven’t already beat out of me, but I swear—“ he cut off and swallowed again. “I swear, if you let her go I’ll give you no more trouble. Ever.”

Moncreif smiled. “So noble of you,” he said thoughtfully. “Why would you give up on our little game for this?” He gestured at the unconscious form of the Sk’iri.

The Nagai closed his eyes. Because I know how you treat your slaves, he thought. Because I’ll do anything I can to stop you doing to her what you did to Mattira, to Ellir, to all of them. Because I don’t want her back to look like mine. Aloud he said, “Because she has no one else to speak for her.”

The Captain smiled again and gently brushed a lock of the girl’s hair off her forehead. Danteel again tried not to throw up. “She is a very pretty thing, and I don’t have a Sk’iri,” said Moncreif off-handedly. “We shall see.”

Danteel never told me precisely what happened to Mattira after this, but by way of ship’s gossip and some riffling through old records, I eventually learned that she had indeed been sold to Jonahn, just before the governor left the Avarice to return to Locus Nova. After she had her child, Jonahn gave both mother and baby (a little girl) to Alita as a short of graduation present, celebrating the young Song Weaver’s end to her studies with him.

From all accounts, Alita used the money she earned from the use of her talents to buy a very nice house for herself, Mattira, and the child. I do not know whether Danteel ever got back in touch with Mattira, but I do know that after the incident with Jonahn, Moncreif never kept any single slave girl on the Avarice for more than a year or so.

Until Lataar.

A million thanks, my Imp! *gives whole box of cookies* I've always been a little unsatisfied with this scene and I think you targeted the problem that I couldn't see. I shall edit this as soon as I can snatch time, and post the next bit (with which I am much more pleased) shortly.

Edit: I've integrated both your suggestions, and Imp you were so right about making J. flip about his actions to Mattira--perfect. I also agree with you on the idea of interuptions, but I'm having trouble finding the right spot, any ideas?

Hullo Gyr. ^_^


...I've fallen behind in reading Thrall - rather behind in critiques. to be tangential. But I wanted to hit this last installment, if possible.

Brief thoughts, da?


DIALOGUE --

You keep an inescapably involving tension in the exchange, if not flawlessly, very near it. I would keep an eye on adverbs, for where they add and where they detract. Though only once did a polysyllabic nonchalantly feel like a skip in the flow. On a similar point, to tighten things somewhat, you might try having one or the other character interrupt whoever is speaking, every now and then.

In this case, both J. and Danteel seem uncommonly less likely to be breaking in and summarising each other. Still, when it comes to Danteel's snapping, it would fit neatly.


PLOT FACETS, PERHAPS? (related to character)--

So, mad fellow of a weaver rapes an alien girl...to get her pregnant. In itself, easily slid into a plot.

But it felt awkwardly phrased in Johan's words - as if he weren't sure of what he'd done until he started saying it. Intentional? If so, it's an interesting facet of his character. If not, you might want to consider it at more length so that you have a clear sense of what it is and how to put it.

Yes, rather a bizarre thing in itself. But I picture J. being more than cool about explaining such things; in fact, he seems the sort to put bloody tragedy into sterile euphemism.

That brief knot aside, the characters are deftly portrayed in their speech. Honestly, 'tis a good read for their interaction. ^_^










IMP


[ courtesy of the CCF ]

Bless you, love.

Oh my oh lawks oh MAN!! Wasn't expecting that bombshell, very nicely dropped on my unsuspecting toes.

Gyr wrote:Nor had he expected the man to have an open bottle of brandy before him with two untouched tumblers.

Gyr wrote:Alita was no where nearby...

Danteel had not expected Jonahn to be waiting for him. Nor had he expected the man to have an open bottle of brandy before him with two untouched tumblers. But most of all, he had not expected him to smile at his entrance. The sensation that smile gave him was eerie, as if something alien was trying to worm its way through his eyes into his soul.

He blinked, and the sensation vanished. “Won’t you have a seat?” Jonahn said, gesturing expansively to the chair across from him. His voice had that same false joviality as when Danteel had first heard it. He hesitated.

“Is this an invitation,” he said, his voice perfectly expressionless, “or a command?”

“I would just like to ask you some questions,” replied Jonahn without answering.

Danteel sat, but didn’t touch the brandy. He knew that Moncreif had not sent him to merely “check up” on the Governor, and even without his master’s subtle commands he would have been curious. He intended to say, “What is it you want?” Instead, the words that came from his in a hiss were, “What did you do to Mattira?”

The barest flicker passed across the man’s face. Anyone less skilled in observing human expressions would have missed it. “You heard the arrangements,” said Jonahn, and while he had not dropped his façade, there was definitely more strain on it now than there had been before. Danteel glanced about the room. Alita was nowhere nearby, and through the open door to the office, the Nagai could see that she was not in the quarters at all. No one to protect Jonahn now. No one to see.

He clenched his teeth, regained control. “I will ask you once more,” he said softly, “and you can lose your little act: what did you do to Mattira?”

He could see the man hesitate for only a moment, then decide. “It wasn’t rape,” he said in his natural, more husky voice.

“What would you call it then?” snarled Danteel.

“I put her to sleep the moment she arrived: no memories, no scars, no rape.”

“No choice.”

Jonahn rolled his eyes as if bored. “It is not she I wish to talk to you about.”

Something chimed in the back of Danteel’s brain. Several times he had provoked Jonahn, had given him every reason to throw him our or, at the very least, lose his temper. Yet the human hadn’t risen to the Nagai’s barbs. Which meant Danteel had something Jonahn wanted, something he could only receive if Danteel wanted him to receive it.

He leaned back in his chair, unclenched his fists, and made his face go smooth and impassive. “What is it you want then?”

Jonahn smiled, apparently glad to finally be getting to the point. “How much do you know of human history?” he asked.

“As much as any nonhuman, I suppose,” Danteel lied coolly. “I know that you blew up your own homeworld with bickering between nations. What an embarrassment that must have been, trying to decide between the –what was it then?—the three or four other world you held which would be your ‘new homeworld.’ Trying to make the governments who had destroyed the old decide on the new.”

Jonahn’s face went nova red. “And yet we rose to a position of power high enough that we can now take even the Nagai for slaves.”

That particular dart struck home, but Danteel gave no sign of it. “Took you long enough to get there,” he said, very nearly drawling. “Two civil wars after you settled Locus Nova, not to mention the countless coups and political upsets that never quite got called wars. So sloppy.”

“As sloppy as a race who spent so much time fighting their ancient enemy that they never bothered to learn enough about the new one,” said Jonahn off-handedly.

“My people were building skyscrapers before your race discovered ladders,” said Danteel, with as much scorn as he could use while still sounding calm and collected. It would not do to explode at the man, not now.

He was pleased to see Jonahn struggle to control his rage, pleased to watch the fat man’s round face grow even redder, pleased to see the meaty fists tremble as they gripped the arms of his chair. This was power, and he had not tasted it in far too long. “Are you saying that you don’t want to hear my proposal, then?” he asked, his voice surprisingly cool.

Danteel gestured, a slow, imperious sweep of the hand his father had often used when half-listening to the babbling of underlings. “As you will.”

“When you attacked me,” said Jonahn slowly, as if weighing every word before he spoke it, “my apprentice attempted to defend me. Do you remember what she did?”

He thought back. “She saw me coming at you with the broken bottle,” he said. “She threw herself on you to get out of the way. Then she stood between us, blocking my way to you.”

Jonahn leaned forward, almost eagerly. “Yes, and then?”

“And then…” Danteel blinked, remembering the words Alita herself had used to describe her actions. “She…’sang’ at me.”

The governor released a long, pleased breath. “And what did her Song do to you?”

Danteel’s nostrils flared. He was tired of being the only one answering questions. “Why is this so important to you?”

The human rolled his eyes. “Time enough for that later.”

“The time for that is now,” declared Danteel. “Or the time for my answers is never.”

Jonahn’s face pulled into a scowl. “You forget,” he said, “which of us holds the power.”

“Depends on how you define power,” replied the Nagai, almost nonchalantly. “If you mean the power to cause pain or death then yes, you have it. If you mean the power to be the only sentient in the galaxy able to answer these questions, then it is you who has forgotten.”

For a long moment Jonahn was silent, not moving so much as a centimeter. That deliberate, controlled inaction told Danteel, even more than Jonahn’s walk or voice had, that this man had seen battle and been trained for it. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder how old the human was—certainly he did not seem much above middle age, but it was hard to imagine a man going from trained warrior to governor of Shinjara in a lifetime less than forty or fifty years. Finally, Jonahn spoke. “What will it take for you to answer my questions?”

“Tell me what you have done to Mattira,” he replied without hesitation. “If you planned to knock her out as soon as she arrived than why call for her at all?”

“I wanted to teach Moncreif a lesson,” said Jonahn. “He has always had a soft spot for alien women, and he has yet to learn how dangerous that is.”

Danteel leaned forward, his eyes intent on the governor. “What did you do to her?” he demanded, each word emerging like the measured toll of a bell.

Jonahn took a deep breath, pursed his lips. “I used what knowledge and power I have,” he said in a bored tone, “to make her pregnant with my child.”

Time seemed to congeal around them. Danteel could feel every pulse of blood in his veins, could hear every movement of breath in his lungs. The world of the Avarice seemed as far away as his home planet, all that remained in this frozen place were his breath, his heartbeat, and his horror. Then everything returned in a terrified, terrifying rush and he shot to his feet, screaming, “What have you done!”

Jonahn erupted from his chair at the same time, yelling over Danteel’s cry, “I have saved her from him!”

The Nagai lunged at the man, feeling the silver blaze in his eyes. But Jonahn saw the attack coming this time: he grabbed Danteel’s arm and pivoted, spinning and dragging his assailant with him. Danteel lost his balance and began to fall—until Jonahn slammed him into the bulkhead. For the barest second he blacked out, but when he came to he realized how fast the human could move. Jonahn had Danteel pinned to the floor, one knee pressed to the center of his chest, the other managing to trap both his legs, the man’s hands holding his writs in an unbreakable grip. Danteel’s back, pressed to the thinly-carpeted floor by the full weight of this not daintily-built man, seemed to scream pain throughout the Nagai’s entire body. “Get off,” he commanded, his voice low.

“You have to listen to me,” said Jonahn, his face serious. “Swear not to attack me again and I’ll let you up.”

“I will rip your throat out,” said Danteel in Nagian. “I will tear your teeth from your mouth one by one. I will--.”

“In Basic,” growled Jonahn, oblivious to the threats. “Swear.”

“You are safe from me for the remainder of our discussion,” the Nagai said coolly, ignoring the agony in his back. “But after our conversation is over I suggest you show me out as quickly as possible.”

“Fine,” Jonahn snarled, and was off the Nagai in an instant.

Danteel levered himself up slowly, gingerly pulling his now-sweaty tunic away from his tender scars. “Answer my questions,” he said, “and I will answer yours.”

“It is not my habit to bargain with slaves,” Jonahn said, but the words had no bite and Danteel ignored them.

“Tell me,” he demanded, “what you have done to Mattira and why.”

“What has Moncreif told you about Weavers?”

“That you are would-be wizards with little power, surviving on the legends of your predecessors.”

Jonahn snorted. “He would, wouldn’t he? Well, for once he’s not far off. Most modern Weavers are exactly what you describe: poor, pathetic shadows of what our profession once was.”

“But not you,” said Danteel, more than a little sarcasm in his voice.

The human waved his hand in a little gesture that might or might not have been self-deprecating. “I fancy that I have some little skill with Weaving by written word, and indeed the government has often found my talents…useful. As to last night, sleeping drought in the drink I gave her was all required to knock her out. And then I simply used the power of my words to make her eggs ready to receive human fertilization, and her womb ready to carry a half-human child to term.”

“Why?” snarled Danteel.

“What better way to get at Moncreif?" Jonahn was grinning widely. "You must know how possessive he is of his slaves, how jealous. Can you imagine how much he hates knowing that a woman who has never had any man but him has now shared the bed of his enemy? How much more will it torture his mind to know she is carrying another man’s baby?”

“He’d rather kill her than live with that knowledge,” said Danteel flatly, wondering just how much he could shorten the definition of ‘conversation’ while still keeping his promise. “Was that a part of your perfect plan?”

“While what you say is true,” said Jonahn, waving a hand as if Mattira’s life was of no consequence, “I believe I can convince him to spare her and his own shame by selling her to me. Alita seems to have made friends with her anyway, and I can always sell her if she or her child prove too much trouble.”

“Sheczkall,” hissed Danteel. “The inhumanity of the human race never ceases to astound me.”

Jonahn rolled his eyes. “I have answered all your questions, slave, now you have promised to answer mine.”

Danteel crossed his arms. “Ask.”

“What did you feel when Alita Sang at you?”

The Nagai considered for a moment. “I felt as if the song itself were a physical force, like a drug coursing through my system, trying to calm me.”

“But it didn’t work,” mumbled Jonahn, as much to himself as Danteel. “Why didn’t it work? How did you resist it?”

He shrugged. “I shook it off as I would pain, ignoring it as something unnecessary to feel at the moment.”

“But how?” demanded Jonahn, nearly yelling. “How did you shake it off so easily? Alita is one of the most talented girls I’ve trained.”

“I have told you all I know,” said Danteel icily. “And our conversation is now over. I suggest you dismiss me immediately.”

“Yes, get out,” said Jonahn, suddenly vicious. “This has been time wasted.”

Slowly, reminding himself of his promise with every step, Danteel left Jonahn’s quarters.

your work is really the best thing i`ve read so far on this site But still i`d advise you to ride it a few more times i`m sure that it could get it to be better than it is now

Hello, Dreamy! *pounces* No pressure, love.

O.O

I need to crit this. *hides*

lol, I'm glad you like my story, Pol, but you need to read it a bit more carefully--I go into great detail about the collar, as well as the pain (both physical and mental, mostly mental).

Okay, now I've read the third part. It was good, like the rest. I think you should explain the shuttle bit a bit more. He could have tried to escape or something. Or at least planned it.

The Moncrieff smile thing creeped me out, a lot. Anyway, I thought the necklace thing was good. I would describe the pain way more. Everything else in this bit is really detialed so you should describe the pain on his neck n'stuff...

I would describe the necklace too. I imagine like a bid plain old thing with a fat red detonater on it. Sorry but... Uh, I found it pretty unlikly that only two guards could hold this dude. If he was as detirminded as I thought he was he wouldn't give up that easily. Okay, thats it!

~Pol

Okay, this is after reading the second part. Again very good. Is it a flash back or are you gonna keep the story here? Only everyone else who's read it. Nevertheless. Um, one thing I completely hated. "His eyes were the stuff of nightmares."

EEEWWWWWWWW!!!! Sorry, but the wording was terrible. My edit would probably be something like, These eyes seemed to be made of nightmares. That was it. Its so unfair. You shouldn't be allowed to be this good of a writer. *Sniffles* Pass the Kleenex.

~Pol

Okay, now I feel bad for not reading it before. I'm gonna try and crit but there wasn't really anything. First, shouldn't it be in fnafiction? Just a thought, anyway...

Lark is really cool but I don't think you described him. For other readers I only read the first page. He was kinda a mystery to me. First of all I think Moncrief is a b------. Uh...

I love danteel and feel really sorry for him. Unfortunatly thants it. Bye sis!

~Pol

Ooop, just saw this in the first chapter:

gyr wrote:The Nagai shrugged. “Isn’t that the way of your kind? A member is inconvenient, now he his dead, problem solved.”

Yeep!

Great; Gyr strikes back!

Just one thing that I really noticed:

gyr wrote: The Nagai reluctantly keyed for the door to open, only half looking in should she be indecent.

gyr wrote:“Come,” said Moncreif, “help dress me. What’s the time?”

Danteel told him.

The captain shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

Umm.....thank you. I'm glad you liked it!

Thats BRILLIANT!!!

~ Shadowsun

>>>right now, darling!<<<

When Danteel awoke, his highly accurate internal clock told him that it was nearly midday. He jolted upright, grabbing at the chrono that sat beside his bed. 1150 hours. Danteel cursed in his native language and dressed hurriedly. Then, fingers brushing his collar, he emerged silently from his cell.

The quarters were quiet. Not a sound from Moncreif’s master suite, nor the tiny cell next to Danteel which Mattira occupied. Mattira.

It was as if a knife twisted in Danteel’s heart. He went to her door and knocked gently, whispering her name. He could hear the rustling of blankets and a sleepy murmur, then nothing. The Nagai reluctantly keyed for the door to open, only half looking in should she be indecent. It was hard to tell whether she were or not, for all he could see of her under the mass of tangled sheet and blanket was her silky black hair, all awry.

As he stepped towards her, he felt his booted foot hit something that moaned. Startled, he stepped back, looking down. It was Alita. The young human woman had made up a thin mattress for herself out of cushions from the main room, assembling this makeshift bed in the small space between Mattira’s cot and the door.

With a groan, she rolled onto her back and blinked her eyes owlishly at him. “Whata ya doing here?” she demanded groggily, throwing an arm over her eyes to block the light that spilled in through the open door.

“I might ask you the same,” he replied.

“Couldn’t leave her alone,” Alita explained, her voice becoming clearer as she came fully awake. She was wearing her outfit of the night before, the fabric now creased and crumpled. Slowly, uncertainly, she levered herself to her feet, trying to straighten herself out as she did so. “Couldn’t leave her alone,” she repeated, “and you couldn’t stay with her.”

“Obviously,” he said. Then, in more somber tones, “How is she?”

Alita shrugged and gestured to the still-sleeping figure. “As you see.”

Danteel tenderly brushed a lock of Mattira’s hair back from her face. “What has he done?” he whispered.

“My master or yours?” asked Alita, only half sarcastically.

“Mine. Yours is no master in comparison.”

Alita shrugged, conceding at least that point. “Still, if a ‘he’ has done something to her recently, it would be Jonahn.”

“It was Moncreif who handed her over,” said Danteel. “Because of me,” he added softly.

Tentatively, Alita placed a hand on his arm. Much to her surprise, he didn’t shrug her off. For a long moment they stood that way, looking down on the sleeping Mattira like worried parents standing vigil over an ill child.

“Sheak verash alimonere,” murmured Danteel, and from the way he said it, Alita couldn’t be sure if he were blessing the sleeping slave or cursing her master.

She was about to say something when the sound of a door slamming echoed through the suite. Only two pairs of doors on the ship were on hinges, the door in from the anteroom, and the door to Moncreif’s chambers. Danteel darted out of Mattira’s cell fast as thought, Alita following him. It had been the door to Moncreif’s chambers that had been slammed, by none other than Moncreif himself.

The captain, always so elegantly self-composed, now stood in the middle of his quarters like a man only half sane. His uniform had obviously been slept in, his short dark hair was mussed, and his expression wavered between confusion and rage. “Danteel,” he snapped. “Is Mattira here?”

The Nagai gestured to the room he had just vacated.

Moncreif took a step towards it, and Danteel’s muscles tensed. But the captain stopped suddenly, and seemed to notice Alita for the first time. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, sounding a little more like himself.

“Nothing, sir, I was just leaving.” All of Alita’s resolve to stay and help melted in the glare of those eyes, and she hurried out of the room with only the briefest backward glance at Danteel.

Master and slave stood, regarding each other for a moment. “Jonahn,” said Moncreif at last, letting the word drip from his mouth like venom.

“Jonahn,” Danteel agreed. “She is still asleep. And unless you would like to start your day out flogging me, I suggest you not attempt to disturb her.”

“’Suggest,’” said the captain, half laughing the word. “You suggest.”

“I do.”

“At least you have learned not to demand.”

“At least.”

Moncreif’s sharpness returned suddenly. “You needn’t bother protecting her—she’s safe from me for the next few days.” Surprisingly, his disgust seemed not to be directed at Danteel, but the Nagai, never one to argue when handed good fortune, declined to ask at whom the disgust was aimed. “Come,” said Moncreif, “help dress me. What’s the time?”

Danteel told him.

The captain shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Come,” he said again.

Only after Moncreif was washed, shaved, and dressed did he enter Mattira’s room, standing over her much as Danteel had done. The Nagai stood in the doorway, again tense and ready. But the captain just looked for a moment, then swept out of the cell and towards the door out of his quarters. “Just go check on our guests would you,” he said before he left, the sentence phrased like a question but spoken like an order.

“Yes sir,” said Danteel.

As he opened the carved wooden doors that led to his anteroom, Moncreif glanced back over his shoulder. “We have a common enemy now,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do not expect that my behavior towards you shall change because of it.”

“Of course not.”

Moncreif nodded curtly. “Good,” he said, then swept out.

*gulps*

Why didn't I read this before? You don't make enough of Danteel in the Dialogue Game, Gyr. This is brilliant - as good as Gypsie Eyes, and possibly better! WUNNERFUL. No crit, cos I can see nix to correct.

Danteel isn't too pitiful, not too "look at me, I'm the brave and heroic slave", and with potential for serious bad-guy.

Fantastic.

Super-duper in a candy cane.

Fantasmagorical.

When's the next bit coming?

Only two chapters behind on this? Ah, that's a relief - I thought I'd be about five pages back and buried in the dust of the first posts. ^_^ But as there's not too much here that I've missed, I'll print out these two last chapters and get to work on them for you. It wouldn't do any good to leave the crazy bird hanging.

*hugs*

>>You've waited long, you've waited hard, now at last, here it is!!!!<<


Danteel paced. Moncreif, in a rare act of leniency, had allowed him access to the entire suite tonight, and now the Nagai strode back and forth through the main room. The captain himself sat behind his desk, immobile, staring through his long fingers as if staring into eternity. Neither would get any sleep tonight.

“Damn it, Danteel, can’t you be still?” said Moncreif after a long silence. But there was more weariness than threat in the words.

The Nagai answered simply, “No.”

The long silence resumed. The faint and far-away noise of the great engines and the soft footfalls of Danteel’s boots on the carpet seemed, after a time, like the loudest sounds in the universe. Danteel had never had an especially active imagination, but now he fought against it as hard as he had ever fought a mortal enemy. Images of Mattira with Jonahn were crushed as soon as they began to form, but for every one Danteel destroyed there was another waiting to take its place.

Finally, speech became the only way to escape the monotonous imprisonment of his own mind. “What’s a Weaver?” he said.

Moncreif, who had been sitting perfectly motionless with his eyes closed, opened them slowly. “Why?”

“I asked.”

The terrifying green eyes started at nothing for a moment. “Weavers are holdovers from the days when humans believed in wizards and dragons and heroes and powers,” he said. “I know your people have some similar mythologies.”

“But do they truly wield any power?”

“Of a sort.”

“How?”

Those eyes swiveled to skewer Danteel in their angry gaze. “Why are you asking?” And why should I answer?” The Nagai had seen that expression before. But the Captain wouldn’t beat him tonight. Not after bargaining away Mattira to save his life.

He shrugged.

Moncreif scowled. “Most of their power resides simply in their legends.”

“But not all.” It wasn’t a question.

“I won’t deny that there have been Weavers who had…unusual abilities. But Jonahn and his kind—no. They may know a trick or two about manipulating the human psyche, but that’s all they are—tricks.”

Danteel knew his next question could get him in real trouble. He asked it anyway. “So why is he hiding from his own government?”

He had been hoping for a bigger reaction than Moncreif gave. The captain shrugged. “People talk,” he said.

“And what is it they talk about?”

But Moncreif had returned to his intense study of the middle distance. “Fairy tales,” he said, and closed his eyes.

* * *

At 0307 hours, there came a knock at the wooden doors. Moncreif’s eyes snapped open and Danteel moved stiffly to open the doors, half terrified of what he would see.

It was Alita. She was dressed in slacks and a plain black blouse, but her hair was tousled and there were bags of sleeplessness beneath her eyes. She smiled wanly at the Nagai. “I didn’t think you’d be able to sleep, either.” She glanced past him. “Good evening, captain.”

“Good morning,” he returned.

“May I come in?”

“If you must.”

She entered, Danteel closing the doors behind her. Alita looked around the room for a chair and sank gratefully into the one she found. The Nagai stood before her, hands clenching and unclenching with the force of what he couldn’t ask.

She looked up at him sadly. “I don’t know. He took her into his room and locked the door. I didn’t hear anything, but the walls are thick. I’m sorry.”

For a long time Danteel just stood there, staring down at his boots, his face impossible to read. The silver pulsed in his eyes for a few seconds, then died. “Thank you,” he said, and returned to pacing.

* * *

Alita was asleep by 0500 hours, curled in the chair she had claimed. Danteel had covered her with the thin blanket from his own bed while Moncreif watched.

Two hours later, the expected knock came. The Nagai opened the doors to see a large, armored ship’s soldier standing with Mattira in his arms. She was asleep, deeply so, and as Danteel took her he felt her thin body trembling. She was dressed in a thick bed robe, of a style Danteel didn’t recognize, so it must have been Jonahn’s. Alita woke as the door slammed shut and stood, the blanket falling unheeded to the floor. She came forward and took Mattira from Danteel, gently but firmly, and the Nagai didn’t resist.

Moncreif and Danteel watched her take the girl into Mattira’s tiny cell and close the door. They looked, briefly, at each other. Then, without a word, each went into his own quarters, shut their doors, and collapsed onto their beds, each asleep before they hit the blankets.

The prologue kind-of-thing

Quote:
If you are to be my new medical officer. I expect you to have better sense than to waste my time.”
Comma instead of the first period? If not, then I suggest you take out the ;if’.

Quote:
After a few seconds of palpable tension, Captain Moncreif motioned smoothly and a burly, brown haired man, doubtless the first officer, stood.
Moncreif motioned and the guy stood? Only when Moncreif motioned? You have ‘smooth’ up there - a bit down there is ‘smoothly’. I know I’m picky here, but wouldn’t a synonym be better? -Just a suggestion, though. Also, the ‘he’ in the next sentence: it is not entirely clear who you are talking about, Moncreif or the officer.

Quote:
Even if this had not been the policy for the interstellar Navy, Lark had heard that Moncreif had an intense disdain for both aliens and women.
This sentence is bugging me… I don’t like the first part before the comma merged with the second on after it into one. Can’t say why, so you might just ignore me here, lol.

Quote:
Belatedly, he realized the captain had been trying to get his attention for the past several minutes.
Several minutes? Somehow I feel that that is much too long for Moncreif to stop at only ‘trying’

Quote:
Then he spoke in a language Lark did not know. The words were soft and almost slippery. It took Lark a moment to realize he was speaking to the Nagai.
These are terribly short sentences. I found few of them in the text as a whole, and this just kind of surprised me.

Quote:
Well, I’m sorry that I don’t speak your language but between Moncreif wanting to fry me (…)
Comma before the ‘but’?

Quote:
And then he left the room, leaving Lark alone with the Nagai.
I really don’t like sentences staring with ‘and’. I just don’t. Up there it’s not really necessary. -But that’s just a suggestion.



Okay, that’s my rather useless critique, seeing as everything has already been corrected. Loved the whole thing, by the ways!

-elein

... And again I read through everything that gyrfalcon wrote... Too fast, too fast!

-elein

......

WOW.....

I can't think of anything else to say

Green = Comment/Correction
Blue = Suggestion
Black = Review

*

As he started to walk to wards the turbolift at the end of the corridor, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

She wore a white satin dress of simple cut that looked pale red in the low light of the corridor.

“Last night, when you attacked the Governor, I Sang at you, don’t you remember? How did you block it?”

“Give me back those trays, child, I’m in no mood for games.” He took a threatening step forward. She took two steps back. “Not until you tell me.”

“Have a seat, Alita,” came Jonahn’s voice from the next room. Danteel heard the apprentice move to comply. He un-stacked and uncovered the trays, inhaling the fragrant steam that rose from the warmer ones. “Now,” said the Governor once the scraping of chairs had died down, “Moncreif.”

“Yes?” said the captain, making no attempt to hide his irritation. Danteel located the first course, a crisp green salad scattered with exotic vegetables, and slowly arranged the three bowls on the tray, straining to hear.

“The slave must be punished, you have to see that. Assault on a human, never mind a government official, would mean death for any alien on Locus Nova.”

“And we are not on Locus Nova,” said Moncreif smoothly. “In fact, we left orbit about three hours ago.”

Jonahn seemed startled. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Because I assumed you were capable of looking out a viewport,” returned the captain.

“No,” said Moncreif, the word stopping Danteel in his tracks. “This is your fate being decided, you should say.”

His entire being vibrated with the effort, and he could feel his anger blazing out as a silver glow in his eyes.

Gassil was less than pleased to see him. “Yeah, I have the order,” she all but snapped as he stood waiting in the kitchens. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get fresh fruit these days? I was planning on saving these, but no, we must have the pastries just so, mustn’t we?”

“I’m not the one who ordered them,” said Danteel, as civilly as he could.

The cook finished stacking the covered trays. “So, what has he done to you?”

“What?”

“The Governor. Don’t be like that, the whole ship knows.”

The Nagai shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing yet,” Gassil corrected. “Moncreif or no Moncreif, Jonahn will have his slice of revenge. Probably out of your back.”

“Thank you for that.”

Gassil shrugged. “Just thought you should be warned.”

“Indeed.” Carefully, Danteel lifted the heavy silver trays in his thin arms. The heat of the bottom one was so intense it nearly burned him, but he had learned to ignore pain.

Gassil’s eyes, as blue and sharp as her brother’s, evaluated him with something like respect. “You’re stronger than you look,” she said.

And frailer, thought Danteel as he strained under the weight of his load. What my people make up for in strength we loose in endurance. I’ll wager Moncreif can’t wait to see how many lashes it takes to kill a Nagai. Aloud, he said, “Thank you,” and left the kitchens.

As he started to walk to wards the turbolift at the end of the corridor, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, assuming it was Gassil, and nearly dropped the trays when he saw Alita standing before him. She wore a white satin dress of simple cut that looked pale red in the low light of the corridor. Her brown hair was pulled back into a flowing ponytail. For a moment, Danteel just stared. He had never imagined that a human woman could be so beautiful.

“Those look heavy,” the apprentice said, stepping forward. “Let me help you.” Before the Nagai could protest, she had lifted the top two trays and began heading for the turbolift.

He hurried after her. “No,” he said, when he caught up. “You shouldn’t be here, what are you doing?”

Alita smiled. “Am I not free to walk where I wish?”

Danteel had little patience for being toyed with. He stepped out in front of her, blocking her path. “You may be,” he said, “but I’m not. If you want to help, give me back those trays and never tell Jonahn of this.”

Her smile faded. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

Alita shifted her weight, wouldn’t look at him.

“I said, ‘why?’” Danteel repeated, his voice gone cold. “Never met a slave before? Wanted to ask what it feels like to know you don’t so much as own the blood in your veins? Is that what you’re here for—research?”

The girl looked up at him, her face hard. “Yes, but not the kind you mean. I need to know how you resisted my Song.”

“Your what?”

“Last night, when you attacked the Governor, I Sang at you, don’t you remember? How did you block it?”

“Give me back those trays, child, I’m in no mood for games.” He took a threatening step forward. She took two steps back. “Not until you tell me.”

“I would love to,” he snarled, “if I had any idea what it is you’re talking about.”

“I’m a Song Weaver!” she shouted. “My voice has the power to manipulate better men than you, and not just men but objects, even water and fire. Tell me how you blocked my Song!”

“I didn’t know that humans still believed in magic, little girl.”

“It’s not magic,” she said, gritting her teeth. “It’s based on principles you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Then how can you expect me to explain?”

Alita’s face softened. For the first time, she seemed uncertain. “You really don’t know?”

“I’ve been saying that, haven’t I?” Danteel more tired than angry from the encounter. “Now, will you please give me back those trays. I’d like to avoid a flogging, if that’s still possible.”

Alita shook her head. “It’s my fault you’re late, I might as well help carry them now that I have them.”

The Nagai shrugged. “Fine, come along then.”

She followed, almost meekly. “Would he…” her voice faltered, and she was once again the nervous girl he had first seen in the docking bay. “That is, Moncreif…would he really…really beat you, just for being late?”

Danteel thought about it. “Depends on how late I am, what for, my excuse, and most of all, my attitude when I do arrive. Failing any one of those…yes.”

Alita shivered as the turbolift doors closed and they began to rise. “That’s horrible,” she whispered.

The Nagai turned to face her. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“Not many would.”

“Why not?”

“I thought you said you didn’t come for that kind of research,” he said, a little harsher than he had mean to.

She flinched. “I’m sorry.” For a moment, the turbolift rose in silence. “You were wrong back there,” she said quietly, “you’re not the first slave I’ve met. A lot of the courtiers and politicians back on LN own an alien or two. It’s just they always seem to treat them so well, almost like…”

“Like pets,” Danteel finished for her. “Yes, I’ve seen. Almost makes me prefer Moncreif’s way.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Can’t I?” The turbolift doors opened onto the level of Moncreif’s apartments. Danteel stepped out, Alita followed.

“Wouldn’t you rather be well-treated and well-fed?” Wouldn’t you rather not be flogged?”

“You think those men don’t beat their slaves?” Danteel demanded as they walked.

“Well, I guess so,” she admitted. “But if—”

They had reached the outer doors of Moncreif’s suite, and the hiss as they slid open cut Alita off. “Now is not the time for this,” Danteel said as they moved towards the carved doors at the end of the anteroom. “Perhaps later we may talk, but for now—” this time it was Danteel who was cut off by the opening doors. Moncreif stood on the other side, smiling that small, terrible smile the Nagai knew and despised.

“I thought I heard you,” he said as he stepped aside to allow Danteel entrance. The Nagai took one step into his master’s quarters, and froze as he caught sight of Jonahn, reclining easily at the table that had been set up in the middle of the room.

“So good to see you again, slave,” said the Governor, his false voice straining under the weight of his hatred. “And Alita with you, this is a surprise, my girl.”

Alita, standing just behind Danteel, seemed even more shocked by the man’s presence. “Sir,” she stammered, “I didn’t…I mean, I thought…”

“And helping him with his load as well, how very…generous of you,” said Jonahn, his small eyes flashing.

“Danteel.” Moncreif’s voice shifted the Nagai’s attention back to the captain. “Take the trays—all the trays—into the back and get them ready to serve. Do it now.” There seemed more warning than threat in the words, and so Danteel obeyed without comment. He took the trays gently from Alita’s grasp and slipped back into the tiny kitchenette.

“Have a seat, Alita,” came Jonahn’s voice from the next room. Danteel heard the apprentice move to comply. He un-stacked and uncovered the trays, inhaling the fragrant steam that rose from the warmer ones. “Now,” said the Governor once the scraping of chairs had died down, “Moncreif.”

“Yes?” said the captain, making no attempt to hide his irritation. Danteel located the first course, a crisp green salad scattered with exotic vegetables, and slowly arranged the three bowls on the tray, straining to hear.

“The slave must be punished, you have to see that. Assault on a human, never mind a government official, would mean death for any alien on Locus Nova.”

“And we are not on Locus Nova,” said Moncreif smoothly. “In fact, we left orbit about three hours ago.”

Jonahn seemed startled. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Because I assumed you were capable of looking out a viewport,” returned the captain. “Danteel, the first course.”

The Nagai jerked into action, lifting the tray and pushing against the swing-door with a shoulder. The three of them were seated around a circular table that took up most of the room. Danteel set out the salads and made as if to retire back to the kitchenette. “No,” said Moncreif, the word stopping Danteel in his tracks. “This is your fate being decided, you should say.”

Jonahn was aghast. “Moncreif, how do you dare!”

“He is my property, sir,” said the captain calmly. “What I do with my property is my choice.”

Jonahn just barely managed to keep control of his façade. “Well, of course,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“You were saying,” prompted Moncreif.

“Yes, yes,” said the Governor. “You have to see the scum must be punished, and human court would give him the death sentence. But…” A smile more terrible than even the captain’s spread across his face. “I propose a trade. I will drop all charges against your slave, if, in return, you give me your mistress, Mattira, for the night.”

The captain rose faster than an explosive going off. “Never!” he roared, his sudden action scattering his salad across the table.

“It’s a generous proposal,” said the governor, sounding rather miffed. Danteel was using every ounce of willpower he had to hold back his body from committing murder. His entire being vibrated with the effort, and he could feel his anger blazing out as a silver glow in his eyes.

“Think about it,” the Governor said, “it’s not like I want to keep her forever. Just one night, and she’s yours again. And there will be no trouble over your Nagai, no reports, no charges, no worries. It is a very generous offer.”

“Why?” demanded Moncreif. “Why this?”

The Governor shrugged. “That is not your concern. I promise to return her in the morning no worse for wear. But I want her tonight, Moncreif.”

“Why?” the captain hissed again.

Again, Jonahn shrugged.

“No.” All eyes turned to Danteel, standing just in front of the swing door. “No. Leave her alone. Take whatever vengeance you like on me, whatever torture you can devise, I will endure it. But leave her alone.”

Jonahn laughed. “You’re very eloquent, for a slave,” he said, chuckling. “Why risk your life to save the honor of a woman who’s a whore already?”

Danteel lunged at him, his muscles acting before his mind could intervene. Before he had taken a second step, however, his way was blocked by Moncreif. The captain grabbed Danteel’s wrists and twisted, rubbing against skin already made raw by chains. The Nagai hissed in pain and tried to pull back, but his master had him in a grip stronger than iron. “You will not interfere.” He spoke in Nagian, but the promise of pain was as solid as his grip. “All you’re doing is making it worse.”

“Don’t let him,” Danteel was pleading, but he didn’t care. “Don’t let him.

“I have no choice.”

Danteel gave a grim smile. “I thought that was my job.”

“Swear to me you won’t attack him again.”

The Nagai was silent.

Moncreif twisted harder. “Swear to me.”

Again, Danteel’s breath came in a sharp hiss. “I will not attack him again…tonight.”

The captain released him. “Good enough.” He turned to Jonahn. “I accept.”

Things make a lot more sense when Myth's brain overloads. I look forward to reading more.

Ahhhhhhhhhh, makes much more sense now, thank you darling. I shall do what I can to make everything more clear. Yes, when he's angry, Danteel's black eyes start to show a pinprik of silver light in the center, and then the silver grows until it's something like a blaze-shaped pupil in the center of his eye. I'll do my best to put it in more understandable terms.

Green = Comment/Correction
Blue = Suggestion
Black = Review

*

He had written the name large enough to take up the whole center of the sheet and Mattira was right, it did look more like and abstract painting than anything.

The combined effect of those eyes was to force Danteel to stand against his will.

His blood pounded, and he felt his eyes start to blaze silver.

But he took a deep breath, dropped his gaze, and corrected the silverware.

*bows* thanks again, my lady. I shall integrate this into the main draft, along with Myth's comments, and will try to have everything finished by tonight

I gave you the running commentary of this in the chat, but I'll put the more salient points down here. ^_^ Overall, this was a great chapter (of course, why do I even bother to say it anymore?).

A few minor points to make with the wording:

Gyrfalcon wrote: Danteel’s brain felt heavy, as if stuffed with unprocessed cotton. “What…?” he faltered. “What happened?”

Mattira hid her dazzling smile behind a delicate hand. “Moncreif is furious.”

The girl brushed a hand lightly over the word, and she lifted the paper as gently as if it would crumble. “Thank you,” she breathed.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re welcome.

When Danteel woke up, he was lying on his side, and there was something dabbing at the back of his head. For a moment he couldn’t remember, and then the throbbing pain in his skull caught up with him, and he jerked upright. Dazzling lights exploded before his eyes and the pain elevated from a throb to an agony. He lay down again, very carefully.

He was in his cell, his face towards the bulkhead. Cautiously, without turning around, he identified his attendant, “Mattira?”

A light touch on his shoulder and he shifted, bringing her face into view. She was smiling, the expression bright as a nova and twice as warm. “Hello there,” she said.

Danteel’s brain felt heavy, unable to function. “What…?” he faltered. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

Enough of the Nagai’s ragged thoughts came together to form a complete sentence. “I was…in the quarters with Jonahn and that girl. She was…singing, and then, I think he came around behind and hit me.”

Mattira covered her smiling mouth with a hand. “Moncreif is furious.”

Danteel blinked. “But my back doesn’t hurt.” He paused, considered. “At least, no more than usual.”

At this Mattira laughed out loud. The sound stunned Danteel; it carried none of the emptiness he had seen in her, none of the pain her life now held. “Not at you!” she said, still smiling. “At the Governor.”

For a moment, her fading giggles were the only sounds to be heard. Then, as if probing the edge of a quicksand pit, he said, “Why?”

“It’s his biggest rule,” she explained. “No one so much as touches his slaves without his express permission. No matter what.”

Danteel processed this in silence for a moment. “What did he do, then?”

“Oh, I wasn’t there,” Mattira clarified quickly. “I just know he’s angry because, well, I saw his face when he brought you in.”

“He brought me back?” the Nagai demanded, stunned. “Personally?”

Mattira nodded. “He carried you in his arms; you looked so lifeless that for a moment I was afraid you were dead.”

Danteel felt a shiver crawl across his flesh, and he wasn’t sure if it was revulsion or gratitude. “Where is his now?”

“On duty,” she said.

“And we…”

“He didn’t leave any instructions. Oh, except that you’re to go fetch dinner tonight from Gassil, she’s supposed to have it ready. Apparently he’s dining with the guests tonight.”

“When?”

“He said at 1900 hours.”

Slowly, mindful of his aching head, he rose. “What time is it?” he asked.

“About 1705,” she said. “You slept for a long time.”

Why was she singing? One of the few things he remembered clearly was Alita, standing between him and Jonahn, singing, as if her voice alone could stop him. “Do you know what ‘Weavers’ might mean to humans?” he asked Mattira.

She shrugged. “I’ve heard it a few times. Word Weaver, Song Weaver, Mind Weaver, things like that. I don’t really know what they mean.”

Mind Weavers. Jonahn had called himself a “Word Weaver,” and if Alita was any kind at all, it was Song. But Mind Weavers… “What are we to do until dinner, then?” he asked.

Again, Mattira shrugged, “Just don’t leave.” Danteel had never seen her without either Moncreif or the threat of him nearby. And it crashed on him, suddenly, that she couldn’t be much older than sixteen.

And he found, much to his disgust and horror, that he wasn’t sure what to do with himself until 1900.

He strode out of his cell, into the main space of Moncreif’s quarters—the office that connected to the anteroom one came in by. He glanced around the spartan room—Moncreif had not so much as a picture or memento of home on any of the shelves—and sat, deliberately, in his master’s leather desk chair. Mattira, who had followed him, puzzled, gasped. “What are you doing?” she demanded, horrified.

Danteel kicked the exquisite wood desk with his booted feet, sending the chair spinning. “Being impertinent,” he said. He pressed his always-sore back against the well-made leather, the pain flowing almost sweetly over him. Abruptly he stopped his spin, and opened the top drawer of the desk. “Paper,” he said, surprised. “I didn’t know the Realm used it anymore.”

“Most don’t,” said Mattira, practically vibrating with tension as she closed the door to Danteel’s cell and came towards him. “Now, please, close the drawer and get up. If he sees you…” Her voice faded. She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

For a moment, Danteel focused his entire attention on the girl. “I will not have him, or fear of him, rule my every moment, Mattira. Nor should you.”

She dropped her eyes, didn’t answer.

Danteel sighed. He leaned forward and placed one hand gently over her scarred arm. She didn’t flinch, so he said softly, “You can’t let him win.”

“Too late,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Never,” he hissed, his hand tightening on her arm. She winced and pulled back. He let her go. “I’m sorry.”

Mattira didn’t respond.

Danteel drew out a clean white sheet of paper and rummaged around until he found an old-fashioned pen. It was beautiful, made of flawless steel shaped like an ancient feather quill. “Shall I write your name in Nagian?” he asked kindly.

She shifted closer. “I suppose so.”

Danteel molded his thin fingers around the pen meant for a larger hand. How long had it been since he had written this way, ink to paper, thought to form? Mentally, he translated the letters of Mattira’s name into the characters of his language, and wrote. She leaned over his shoulder. “It looks more like a painting than a word,” she said.

“I’m writing in the old language,” he said. “None but the nobility learns or uses it anymore; it never was very practical. There.” He lifted the pen and set it carefully aside. He had written the name large enough to take up the whole center of the sheet and Mattira was right, it did look more like and abstract painting than anything.

“Your name is lucky,” he told her as she studied the drying ink with fascination.

“It is?”

“Yes. See, where these two characters touch to form the ‘ra’ sound?” He pointed. “That shape is shorthand for ‘favorable beauty,’ ‘resst akharam’ in Nagian, you see?”

She touched the characters he indicated, almost as if she were afraid the marks would vanish. “May I keep it?”

He smiled for the first time in weeks. “Of course.”

She smiled as well, and again the expression was full of light. “What about your name? Would you write it for me?”

Danteel’s smile turned bitter. “You can see it right here,” he said, and touched the ruby-ringed disc in the center of his collar. There his name was spelled in perfect Old Nagian, the lines depicted in flawless jet.

Mattira’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry.”

He managed to force his smile out of bitterness. “Nothing to apologize for,” he told her.

The girl brushed a hand lightly over the word, and she lifted the paper as gently as if it would crumble. “Thank you,” she breathed.

Myth: *bows, bows bows* Again, imensely helpful, darling!!! Not sure what else to say besides that--thank you so much! I will do my best to work these in over the weekend, I hope on Monday you will find the whole thing quite improved. One question, though (Imp mentioned this to) how do I do "page breaks"?

Green = Comment/Correction
Blue = Suggestion
Black = Review

*

Mattira let out a soft cry and threw up her free arm to ward of the light.

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

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

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

Danteel had never seen his master to agitated.

Danteel came and inclined his head slightly towards the man, as if to hear him better.

You're always welcome and here is more.

*

Green = Comment/Correction
Blue = Suggestion
Black = Review

*

Eventually they came to a pair of perfectly ordinary sliding doors which led into an anything-but-ordinary ante room.

He felt blood beneath his nails, his own blood, but he was oblivious to all but the cold, solid metal of the collar.

And then he released him and Danteel fell, landing hard on his knees. His hand began to move once more towards the collar but one of the soldiers raised his rifle and Danteel’s hand stopped mid-motion. “You’ll get used to it,” said Moncreif, wiping his hands on his trousers as if he had touched something vile. “At least, you’d better.”

[Here is where your scene changes]

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

The trouble with this was the lack of a page break, I copied the whole thing off and I was reading about Danteel receiving his collar and suddenly he is somewhere else and it was a bit of a shock, only because I had thought the two scenes were one. So use page breaks. By the way this is much better than the previous entry I managed to see from DD’s critique

His blood pounded, and he felt his eyes start to blaze silver.

But he took a deep breath, dropped his gaze, and corrected the silverware.

And again everything within him roared at the word, screaming Kill, kill, kill the sheczkall, the enslaver.

He watched them, officers in the Navy of the Realm all, tucking into the food and clenched his hands into fists.

Before he could get the curse out, however, he was grabbed roughly by the two guards that had been standing at either side of the door.

Or you can always spite Word by finding a much better sentence

Danteel folded in, groaning slightly. “Turn him around, keep him down,” commanded Moncreif as he carefully rolled up his sleeves. He tossed a few coins to the blonde man. “Less than five minutes, Daxon, you win this bet.”

The man, Daxon, scooped up the coins as the guards forced Danteel’s back to Moncreif and shoved him to his knees. “May a man make a second wager on the same subject?” asked Daxon calmly.

“What did you have in mind?” asked Moncreif as he cracked his whip experimentally.

“This is his first flogging, yes? I say he screams after ten lashes.”

Moncreif snorted. “Twelve, at least. This one’s stubborn.”

“They’re all stubborn at the beginning,” said one of the others, the comment eliciting chuckles from around the room. “I say only five; he’s thin as a skeleton and twice as frail.”

Most of the rest of the room placed bets on how long Danteel would hold out, the highest wager going to fifteen lashes from someone with a voice he didn’t recognize.

As the soldiers calmly ripped his thin white shirt away, leaving his thin white back exposed, he said coolly, “May the subject of the wager place a bet?”

Usually I’d be telling you not to be repetitious but here it seems to work, however, if you feel like changing it that’s up to you. This is the first time I haven’t ranted about repetition. I think

He felt the blood from his tongue spray out with the expulsion of air, but—thanks the stars—no sound.

“Get it out of here,” he commanded, and the stone-like hands [s]again[/s] grabbed him again and lifted him up(?).

Danteel surged forward, his hands going for his master’s throat.

Swish crack! Fourteen. Nearly there, he was nearly there.

“All I can say for sure is that I know you and I are bound to each other, our fates tied together until death.”

Then let me be that death! screamed Danteel in his mind. False friend, traitor, Krieve!

Again and again and again the whip came down, and somehow Danteel did not cry out. With every lash he felt the freezing hate inside him grow, not the fire-red rage towards Moncreif, but a far harder, far more enduring vendetta. Vengeance.

Swish crack! Twenty. The arms released him and he dropped, making no effort to stop his fall and hitting the metal floor hard. He could hear Moncreif’s labored breathing above him, and could imagine his master, forehead shiny with sweat, glaring at him.

*bows* Myth, darling, you have the sharpest eyes I know--thank you for deinging to turn them on me! Your catches have been saved to a very safe place, and shall be mulled over and integrated soon. *bows again*

Green = Comment/Correction
Blue = Suggestion
Black = Review

*

Danteel had been Moncreif’s slave over seven years before I came to the Avarice. I was very young then, especially for an officer and a doctor; I think he was thirty-three, but he naturally looked much older. I’m not a storyteller and, to be honest, this really isn’t my story, it’s his. But someone needs to tell it, and for one reason or another, he considered me a friend. I think I have the honor to be the only human he addressed as such. You will enter events when and where I did, that first day of duty under Captain Moncreif, master of the Avarice and much else besides.

Lark Erabon stumbled late into the conference room, running his fingers through his recently cropped black hair, straightening the new uniform that didn’t quite fit despite his average build.

The other officers in the room looked at him with expressions ranging from pity to scorn. They’re glad it’s not them being fried, Lark thought. They’re glad he’s got a new target.

Lark’s head swiveled to face the captain, who was looking at him as if Lark were and insect he would like very much to squash.

Moncreif inclined his head to indicate that Lark should follow. Scrambling out of his chair, Lark followed.

He cleared his throat. “[s]Ahem. [/s]So, what’s your name?”

Per haps he didn’t speak Basic.

^^^ ‘Per haps’ shouldn’t have a space between it

Lark came.

His disgust translated easily in to anger, and he turned to his captain. “You bastard.”

He pressed dozens of med-patches against his back to stoop the bleeding, and succeeded at last.

When he was finally done, he was also(?) covered in blood, but Danteel was breathing normally.

Danteel lay on his stomach, his black eyes watching as Lark emerged from the ‘fresher, clean of blood and wearing a dressing gown.

The creature’s pink eyes glowed red in the darkness, and its wicked little yellow teeth just missed the Nagai’s thin white fingers.

The combined effect of those eyes was to force Danteel to stand against his will.

He still had to look up slightly to look the man in the face.

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

The first line is a bit awkwardly constructed:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

And then the guest emerged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Danteel nodded, silently.

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

“He does understand Basic?” asked Jonahn doubtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surely there must be safer—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s just say that I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello again, Gyr. ^_^

(over the re-draft)

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

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

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

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

What is this place/galaxy/world really?

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

(continued from previous...)


--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now.”

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he now?” said Gassil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well done, Gyr.

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

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

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

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


Description of Mattira:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello Gyr!...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That leaves Moncreif in my thoughts.

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

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


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


IMP


[ critted for the Cabassi ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

His mouth dropped open. “Who are you?”

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

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

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

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

She closed her eyes and seemed to shrink into herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One thing, though, about the beginning:

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

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

Luna: okay, how do I put this delicately? NO! <answer to suggestion about Lark and Danteel
Glad you liked it, though, but really, truly, NO

Such description of Danteel's torture! I like the small details you put into this, like how English is known as Basic.

And being the wierdo I am, I totally see an opening for Danteel and Lark to be together. Hooray for gay couples! Okay, you can ignore me now.

LUNA