Chapter XXIII
*This post has been revised from the original*
Wren
My birds still circled above, but they hadn’t attempted an attack since Iolani’s dive at Hawthorne’s head. Below them, chaos swelled through the crowd and ranks. When Hawthorne drew his sword, his troops reacted. The sounds of metal blades scraping from sheathes deafened. Orac’s force didn’t hesitate to follow. Within moments Svhen, myself and our eleven companions were standing between two forces intent on battle. Only the lack of a signal held their fervor at bay.
“Back to back,” Svhen ordered.
The mock prisoners dropped their chains and gripped their swords.
I drew my borrowed weapon and paired up with Jadet, my closest match height wise. Glancing around, I tried to assess the situation.
I faced a wall of men, sunlight glinting across breastplates, shields, and swords. Suddenly feeling woefully unprepared in my leather and cloth, I struggled to swallow and adjusted my grip on the steel in my hand, testing the weight with a few swings. I drew one of my knives with my left hand for backup.
I might be seeing you, Deus, sooner than I planned. Have mercy on my soul, my Lord and God. Please allow me to fight with honor and bravery for Your glory, my King. If it be Your will, spare Tourth. He has so much left to do.
The tension snapped. I didn’t see or hear the signal, but Hawthorne’s waiting army did. Cries echoed up and down the ranks. The first wave of men rushed forward, swords drawn, yelling a battle cry I couldn’t make out. The answering yells of Orac’s mounted warriors at my back drowned all other sound.
My stomach knotted itself into a rock and my lungs refused to take in air. Plowing through the panic growing in my chest, I forced air into my lungs. I am ready to die, I reminded myself. My God-given faith rose to the challenge, peace flooding in its wake. I was here for a purpose. I intended to fulfill His destiny by His strength and grace.
A throaty bellow brought my full concentration to the heavily bearded young warrior bearing down on me. His eyes intent on mine, sword raised to take a swipe at my head and shield guarding his middle. His technique left no weak point for a knife. Despite the fact he weighed almost two of me, I saw no option but to engage him. Instinct and memory from matches with my brothers brought up my arm. I would defend myself as best I knew how and pray for mercy.
My sword barely deflected his swing at my head. I attempted to puncture his leather jerkin with my knife as he rounded for another attempt. The point encountered the mail beneath. Not a surprise. Still my heart burned in defeat.
We sprang apart. I planted my feet and waited for his next attack. He turned leisurely as though certain in his superior might and armor. I could use that against him.
His next charge was easy to sidestep with a brief touch of metal and fancy footwork. Despite the glancing blow, I felt the force of his swing travel up my arm with enough force to cause discomfort. I would lose my sword with the first encounter might to might. He would come to the same conclusion soon. I needed an alternative, now.
His slow turn gave me an instant to think. That was when I saw my hope. One more exchange and I would have him.
I glanced at his face. Cold hatred and purpose met me in his eyes. He knew. My chest constricted. Lord, please make it quick.
He lunged.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tourth
Hawthorne was not a warrior, despite his pretense. My response to his first assault lost him his horse. It galloped off.
I dismounted as required to continue the confrontation. He attacked before my last foot left the stirrup, gaining him the first blood, a small gash on my left arm. Its lack of depth indicated his lack of strength.
I retaliated. Within three swipes I knocked his sword from his hands.
He produced a knife. His handling of the smaller weapon revealed experience with it, but I still easily disarmed him with a bone-crushing blow to the back of his hand with the flat of my sword. The knife joined the sword in the mud, only a few feet away, but well out of reach.
He fell to his knees cradling broken fingers. One point in his favor, small though it was, he didn’t cower. Instead he attacked with his words. First he used profanity that should have burned his lips. Finally he gave up on the foul language and attempted a more personal assault.
“You look just like your father, standing there all self-righteous and pompous. He refused to strike an unarmed man too. Idiot! You realize I will probably never hold a sword again!” He spat at me.
How could he know? When had he met up with my father? Anger followed on the heels of my momentary confusion as I remembered he was possibly the man who had killed my parents.
“I have a feeling that being able to wield a sword again is going to be the least of your worries.”
“He was a coward you know.”
I didn’t need to ask who he spoke of. My anger blazed into hatred. “Why do you say that?”
“He begged for your mother’s life. Fool even offered his life in her place. Little did he know she died a breath after him.” A manic laugh broke forth from his garishly twisted mouth ending in a ragged cough.
Fighting the instinct to cut him down where he crouched. My fingers flexed on the hilt of my sword. It would be so simple. The madness rose, urging me to raise my arm. One simple stroke and it would be over. He couldn’t hurt another person and my parent’s death would be avenged. Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.
The verse doused my rage like a bucket of ice water leaving only grief in its wake. It was not for me to take this man’s life. A lump of unshed tears blocked my throat. If only…
Someone moved at my side, just out of sight.
“So, you are confessing to the murder? That makes things so much easier.” Philon’s voice cut through my concentration.
What was he doing here?
Philon laid his hand on my shoulder. Probably to restraint any foolish inclinations I might have. Little could he know Deus already doused that fire.
“Would you be willing to confess to treason as well?” Lord Portan approached from the left. Behind him, King Orac watched in silence behind an impressive looking honor guard. “You appear so eager to die. I believe the attempted assassination of your king is a hanging offense.”
“King, ha!” Hawthorne spat in the mud at Portan’s feet. His eyes glittered strangely. “He is nothing but a pretender to a false crown. Everyone knows the valley nobles hold the real power.”
Portan ignored Hawthorne. “My Lord Eyrant.” He inclined his head respectfully. “You wish to bring a charge against this man?”
“If my Lord King pleases, I wish to call for a battlefield tribunal to try this man right here. I have little patience in regards to bring this...”
“Traitor?” Iscarus offered as he stepped to his brother’s side.
Warrick approached and offered another alternative which earned him both of his brothers’ glares.
“…traitor to justice.” Philon finished.
Lord Portan turned to King Orac. “My Liege?”
“It pleases me, Portan. Summon a scribe.”
One of the armed honor guards turned, claimed a horse and trotted back toward the king’s caravan already making camp along the edge of the last field.
Only then did I realize the battle was already over. Except for a small skirmish playing out down the way, the field was filled with men in Philon’s colors or the king’s herding groups of Hawthorne’s men away from a growing pile of weapons.
My first thought was Wren. I scanned the crowds of burly men for her dark head and slender form. I had to warn her about Keilvey.
A screech pierced the air. The small brown body of a falcon plummeted from the sky swooping above the only remaining fray and scattering men in its wake.
“Wren!” I whistled for Trader. The horse pulled away from the man holding the mounts of the king and his party. I swung up into the saddle while he was still in motion and urged him into a gallop.
As I approached the heaving mass of men, I spotted Svhen’s blond head in the midst. Wren wasn’t visible. Fear reared its head. Please, Lord, protect her. I jumped to the ground running, unsheathing my sword mid sprint.
A second falcon, this one the white female, dove and attacked, carrying away a leather helmet and effectively clearing men from the central battle. I spotted Wren’s dark head for the first time.
She went down on one knee, clutching her side.
Her opponent lifted his sword.
I pushed my leaden legs to press forward as I shoved men out of the way. I had to reach her. The need pressed against my chest wall, crushing my lungs.
The sword descended.
A man lunged across my path momentarily blocking my view as a dark object hurled through the air over our heads.
A male scream tore at my ears as I struggled to shove aside the buffoon in my path. I barely restrained the instinct to simply attack him instead. Finally free, I stumbled through the suddenly subdued mob and out into the open space cleared by the bird only to encounter Svhen arriving from the opposite direction.
Wren lay on the ground at my feet, remains of her braid twisted about her body and stray hair obscuring her face. The growing puddle of blood beneath her ripped my heart down the center.
Svhen grunted. “You check her. I will deal with him.”
I dropped to the ground next to her. “Get a healer,” I ordered the closest man. I vaguely recognized him as one of Hiller’s men.
“Already on the way,” he replied.
“We need to stop the bleeding. Anyone have clean cloth.” It was a ludicrous thing to request on the battlefield, but I wasn’t thinking about that.
I brushed her hair away from her face and worked at finding a pulse.
“Here.” A wad of brown cloth was shoved in my face.
I took it and began looking for the wound. When I found it, I breathed more easily. A gash in her hip, clean, but deep, it cut through muscle, but nothing vital. Cauterization and stitches and she would heal. Easing her clothing away from the wound, I pulled the skin together and applied pressure. She groaned and tried to move away.
“Easy,” I whispered.
“How is she?” Svhen hunkered down on her other side, blocking out the fading light.
“You are blocking the light.”
“Sorry.” He moved around to my right shoulder. “How is she?”
“If this is the worst of it, she will live.”
“Good. She deserves it after that fight.”
“The bastard that attacked her?” I asked.
“She hamstringed him before her birds got to his face. One of the other men put him out of his misery after that brown falcon took him down. You don’t want to look.”
“I will trust you on that.”
Wren’s face contorted in pain, her hand moving toward her hip. The touch of her fingertips on the back of my hand made my gut tighten. Thank you for sparing her, Lord. She opened her eyes and looked up at me.
“What were you thinking taking on a man twice your size?” I asked.
She grimaced. “He didn’t give me a choice.”
“Hmm…” I adjusted the pressure. Suddenly remembering Keilvey, I looked up at Svhen. “Hawthorne ordered Keilvey to kill Wren. We need to make sure he doesn’t get a chance to finish what this guy started.”
“Understood.” He rose and immediately started rounding up the curious onlookers and organizing a search.
“Hawthorne?”
I looked down to find Wren studying my face, worry clouding her brown eyes. I was looking forward to observing all the colors her eyes were capable of. So far I had noticed a golden hue when she wasn’t particularly emotive, the worried brown, and the amused amber. I wondered what color they would change if I kissed her.
“Tourth, what happened with Hawthorne?”
“In custody.” I mentally shook myself. These were not appropriate thoughts for the battlefield. However, I had every intention in following them up, thoroughly. “Lord Eyrant petitioned King Orac for a battlefield tribunal and it was granted. The scribe should be arriving just about now.”
As though summoned by my words, a soldier in Orac’s colors arrived with an agitated young healer in tow. Upon seeing Wren, the healer’s face flushed bright red. “I have never treated a woman before,” he haltingly admitted.
“It they aren’t that much different than us,” I reassured him as I relinquished the now bloodied cloth. “I will be right here if you need me, Wren.”
Her eyes laughed when she seriously described her injuries to the young man. The soldier pulled me aside.
“King Orac wishes you to attend the tribunal.”
I nodded. “I will come once I can move her.”
“But…”
“The tribunal and Hawthorne’s fate is just as much her business as mine. Please request that they delay for a half hour.”
“By then it will be dark.”
I shrugged. “I think the king will be inclined to grant my request for her sake. Just be sure to mention that it is for Lady Romany’s comfort.”
The soldier obeyed, but made no effort to disguise his skepticism.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
© 2011 Rachel Rossano
It would help me a great deal if you could answer these feedback questions:
1) How do you feel about Wren's battle?
2) What did you think of Tourth's reactions during and after his exchange with Hawthorne and especially his reaction to Wren?
Plus any additional comments or reflections are welcome. One more chapter to go, I think. :)
Wren
My birds still circled above, but they hadn’t attempted an attack since Iolani’s dive at Hawthorne’s head. Below them, chaos swelled through the crowd and ranks. When Hawthorne drew his sword, his troops reacted. The sounds of metal blades scraping from sheathes deafened. Orac’s force didn’t hesitate to follow. Within moments Svhen, myself and our eleven companions were standing between two forces intent on battle. Only the lack of a signal held their fervor at bay.
“Back to back,” Svhen ordered.
The mock prisoners dropped their chains and gripped their swords.
I drew my borrowed weapon and paired up with Jadet, my closest match height wise. Glancing around, I tried to assess the situation.
I faced a wall of men, sunlight glinting across breastplates, shields, and swords. Suddenly feeling woefully unprepared in my leather and cloth, I struggled to swallow and adjusted my grip on the steel in my hand, testing the weight with a few swings. I drew one of my knives with my left hand for backup.
I might be seeing you, Deus, sooner than I planned. Have mercy on my soul, my Lord and God. Please allow me to fight with honor and bravery for Your glory, my King. If it be Your will, spare Tourth. He has so much left to do.
The tension snapped. I didn’t see or hear the signal, but Hawthorne’s waiting army did. Cries echoed up and down the ranks. The first wave of men rushed forward, swords drawn, yelling a battle cry I couldn’t make out. The answering yells of Orac’s mounted warriors at my back drowned all other sound.
My stomach knotted itself into a rock and my lungs refused to take in air. Plowing through the panic growing in my chest, I forced air into my lungs. I am ready to die, I reminded myself. My God-given faith rose to the challenge, peace flooding in its wake. I was here for a purpose. I intended to fulfill His destiny by His strength and grace.
A throaty bellow brought my full concentration to the heavily bearded young warrior bearing down on me. His eyes intent on mine, sword raised to take a swipe at my head and shield guarding his middle. His technique left no weak point for a knife. Despite the fact he weighed almost two of me, I saw no option but to engage him. Instinct and memory from matches with my brothers brought up my arm. I would defend myself as best I knew how and pray for mercy.
My sword barely deflected his swing at my head. I attempted to puncture his leather jerkin with my knife as he rounded for another attempt. The point encountered the mail beneath. Not a surprise. Still my heart burned in defeat.
We sprang apart. I planted my feet and waited for his next attack. He turned leisurely as though certain in his superior might and armor. I could use that against him.
His next charge was easy to sidestep with a brief touch of metal and fancy footwork. Despite the glancing blow, I felt the force of his swing travel up my arm with enough force to cause discomfort. I would lose my sword with the first encounter might to might. He would come to the same conclusion soon. I needed an alternative, now.
His slow turn gave me an instant to think. That was when I saw my hope. One more exchange and I would have him.
I glanced at his face. Cold hatred and purpose met me in his eyes. He knew. My chest constricted. Lord, please make it quick.
He lunged.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tourth
Hawthorne was not a warrior, despite his pretense. My response to his first assault lost him his horse. It galloped off.
I dismounted as required to continue the confrontation. He attacked before my last foot left the stirrup, gaining him the first blood, a small gash on my left arm. Its lack of depth indicated his lack of strength.
I retaliated. Within three swipes I knocked his sword from his hands.
He produced a knife. His handling of the smaller weapon revealed experience with it, but I still easily disarmed him with a bone-crushing blow to the back of his hand with the flat of my sword. The knife joined the sword in the mud, only a few feet away, but well out of reach.
He fell to his knees cradling broken fingers. One point in his favor, small though it was, he didn’t cower. Instead he attacked with his words. First he used profanity that should have burned his lips. Finally he gave up on the foul language and attempted a more personal assault.
“You look just like your father, standing there all self-righteous and pompous. He refused to strike an unarmed man too. Idiot! You realize I will probably never hold a sword again!” He spat at me.
How could he know? When had he met up with my father? Anger followed on the heels of my momentary confusion as I remembered he was possibly the man who had killed my parents.
“I have a feeling that being able to wield a sword again is going to be the least of your worries.”
“He was a coward you know.”
I didn’t need to ask who he spoke of. My anger blazed into hatred. “Why do you say that?”
“He begged for your mother’s life. Fool even offered his life in her place. Little did he know she died a breath after him.” A manic laugh broke forth from his garishly twisted mouth ending in a ragged cough.
Fighting the instinct to cut him down where he crouched. My fingers flexed on the hilt of my sword. It would be so simple. The madness rose, urging me to raise my arm. One simple stroke and it would be over. He couldn’t hurt another person and my parent’s death would be avenged. Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.
The verse doused my rage like a bucket of ice water leaving only grief in its wake. It was not for me to take this man’s life. A lump of unshed tears blocked my throat. If only…
Someone moved at my side, just out of sight.
“So, you are confessing to the murder? That makes things so much easier.” Philon’s voice cut through my concentration.
What was he doing here?
Philon laid his hand on my shoulder. Probably to restraint any foolish inclinations I might have. Little could he know Deus already doused that fire.
“Would you be willing to confess to treason as well?” Lord Portan approached from the left. Behind him, King Orac watched in silence behind an impressive looking honor guard. “You appear so eager to die. I believe the attempted assassination of your king is a hanging offense.”
“King, ha!” Hawthorne spat in the mud at Portan’s feet. His eyes glittered strangely. “He is nothing but a pretender to a false crown. Everyone knows the valley nobles hold the real power.”
Portan ignored Hawthorne. “My Lord Eyrant.” He inclined his head respectfully. “You wish to bring a charge against this man?”
“If my Lord King pleases, I wish to call for a battlefield tribunal to try this man right here. I have little patience in regards to bring this...”
“Traitor?” Iscarus offered as he stepped to his brother’s side.
Warrick approached and offered another alternative which earned him both of his brothers’ glares.
“…traitor to justice.” Philon finished.
Lord Portan turned to King Orac. “My Liege?”
“It pleases me, Portan. Summon a scribe.”
One of the armed honor guards turned, claimed a horse and trotted back toward the king’s caravan already making camp along the edge of the last field.
Only then did I realize the battle was already over. Except for a small skirmish playing out down the way, the field was filled with men in Philon’s colors or the king’s herding groups of Hawthorne’s men away from a growing pile of weapons.
My first thought was Wren. I scanned the crowds of burly men for her dark head and slender form. I had to warn her about Keilvey.
A screech pierced the air. The small brown body of a falcon plummeted from the sky swooping above the only remaining fray and scattering men in its wake.
“Wren!” I whistled for Trader. The horse pulled away from the man holding the mounts of the king and his party. I swung up into the saddle while he was still in motion and urged him into a gallop.
As I approached the heaving mass of men, I spotted Svhen’s blond head in the midst. Wren wasn’t visible. Fear reared its head. Please, Lord, protect her. I jumped to the ground running, unsheathing my sword mid sprint.
A second falcon, this one the white female, dove and attacked, carrying away a leather helmet and effectively clearing men from the central battle. I spotted Wren’s dark head for the first time.
She went down on one knee, clutching her side.
Her opponent lifted his sword.
I pushed my leaden legs to press forward as I shoved men out of the way. I had to reach her. The need pressed against my chest wall, crushing my lungs.
The sword descended.
A man lunged across my path momentarily blocking my view as a dark object hurled through the air over our heads.
A male scream tore at my ears as I struggled to shove aside the buffoon in my path. I barely restrained the instinct to simply attack him instead. Finally free, I stumbled through the suddenly subdued mob and out into the open space cleared by the bird only to encounter Svhen arriving from the opposite direction.
Wren lay on the ground at my feet, remains of her braid twisted about her body and stray hair obscuring her face. The growing puddle of blood beneath her ripped my heart down the center.
Svhen grunted. “You check her. I will deal with him.”
I dropped to the ground next to her. “Get a healer,” I ordered the closest man. I vaguely recognized him as one of Hiller’s men.
“Already on the way,” he replied.
“We need to stop the bleeding. Anyone have clean cloth.” It was a ludicrous thing to request on the battlefield, but I wasn’t thinking about that.
I brushed her hair away from her face and worked at finding a pulse.
“Here.” A wad of brown cloth was shoved in my face.
I took it and began looking for the wound. When I found it, I breathed more easily. A gash in her hip, clean, but deep, it cut through muscle, but nothing vital. Cauterization and stitches and she would heal. Easing her clothing away from the wound, I pulled the skin together and applied pressure. She groaned and tried to move away.
“Easy,” I whispered.
“How is she?” Svhen hunkered down on her other side, blocking out the fading light.
“You are blocking the light.”
“Sorry.” He moved around to my right shoulder. “How is she?”
“If this is the worst of it, she will live.”
“Good. She deserves it after that fight.”
“The bastard that attacked her?” I asked.
“She hamstringed him before her birds got to his face. One of the other men put him out of his misery after that brown falcon took him down. You don’t want to look.”
“I will trust you on that.”
Wren’s face contorted in pain, her hand moving toward her hip. The touch of her fingertips on the back of my hand made my gut tighten. Thank you for sparing her, Lord. She opened her eyes and looked up at me.
“What were you thinking taking on a man twice your size?” I asked.
She grimaced. “He didn’t give me a choice.”
“Hmm…” I adjusted the pressure. Suddenly remembering Keilvey, I looked up at Svhen. “Hawthorne ordered Keilvey to kill Wren. We need to make sure he doesn’t get a chance to finish what this guy started.”
“Understood.” He rose and immediately started rounding up the curious onlookers and organizing a search.
“Hawthorne?”
I looked down to find Wren studying my face, worry clouding her brown eyes. I was looking forward to observing all the colors her eyes were capable of. So far I had noticed a golden hue when she wasn’t particularly emotive, the worried brown, and the amused amber. I wondered what color they would change if I kissed her.
“Tourth, what happened with Hawthorne?”
“In custody.” I mentally shook myself. These were not appropriate thoughts for the battlefield. However, I had every intention in following them up, thoroughly. “Lord Eyrant petitioned King Orac for a battlefield tribunal and it was granted. The scribe should be arriving just about now.”
As though summoned by my words, a soldier in Orac’s colors arrived with an agitated young healer in tow. Upon seeing Wren, the healer’s face flushed bright red. “I have never treated a woman before,” he haltingly admitted.
“It they aren’t that much different than us,” I reassured him as I relinquished the now bloodied cloth. “I will be right here if you need me, Wren.”
Her eyes laughed when she seriously described her injuries to the young man. The soldier pulled me aside.
“King Orac wishes you to attend the tribunal.”
I nodded. “I will come once I can move her.”
“But…”
“The tribunal and Hawthorne’s fate is just as much her business as mine. Please request that they delay for a half hour.”
“By then it will be dark.”
I shrugged. “I think the king will be inclined to grant my request for her sake. Just be sure to mention that it is for Lady Romany’s comfort.”
The soldier obeyed, but made no effort to disguise his skepticism.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
© 2011 Rachel Rossano
It would help me a great deal if you could answer these feedback questions:
1) How do you feel about Wren's battle?
2) What did you think of Tourth's reactions during and after his exchange with Hawthorne and especially his reaction to Wren?
Plus any additional comments or reflections are welcome. One more chapter to go, I think. :)
posted by Rachel Rossano at 4:16 PM
12 Comments:
Okay, I loved Wren's battle! Her fright and peace were so real and vivid! Great job!
About Tourth...I admired his courtesy in dismounting to engage an enemy on foot. But his fight didn't seem to be much of a climax. He begins fighting a horrible enemy, and after a few blows and words, the enemy is arrested. And to me, Tourth didn't seem to have a huge reaction to Hawthorne's words. However, it's nothing a good revision can't fix!
If my feedback seems seems depressing, just know that you're not the only writer who struggles with story depression. I've been worried lately that my fantasy story won't hold a reader's attention, that it won't have the deepness I want, that I need to add more action and ideas to make it more interesting....but I remind myself that my ideas ARE good; that I DO like my plots and characters, and that I can fix the flaws LATER. :-)
Tourth's reaction to Wren? That was great! I smiled when he thought about kissing her! But will she let him kiss her later...?
Congratulations on nearly finishing your story! I'm looking forward to the day when the Romany Epistles will be published, and I can add them to my shelf!!
Blessings~
Literaturelady
Literaturelady, thank you for your feedback. It is encouraging to hear that Wren's battle came across well. Her part was the easiest to write.
Your observation about Tourth's confrontation is right on. It was a bit underwhelming. I am still brainstorming on how to pep it up, increase the tension or risk. I can delve deeper into Tourth's reactions to his words or change Hawthorne's words to get a reaction, both would help. The physical tension, though, I am not sure how I can manage that. :( Something to think about. If you have any suggestions I would love to hear them. :)
I am relieved Tourth's reaction came across well. I have been worrying that I might over do or under do it, especially considering how difficult his fight scene was to write.
Thank you for the encouragement. I too am looking forward to the day I can add the Romany Epistles to my bookshelf. :)
- Rachel Rossano
I hate writing fight scenes... and find myself trying to summarize them instead of show them way to much. :P Knowing how hard it is, therefore, I think you did a good job here, but as a reader, I have to slightly agree with LiteratureLady. Tourth's battle just felt short for a climactic battle with the villain. I really did like when Philon and Portan stepped in, though. :)
And I thought Wren's was great; I really liked it. Tourth trying to get to Wren was very good too, especially his wanting to just cut his way through. Very him. :) And when Svhen gets in the light... those little details just make it so real. :D And Tourth's thoughts on Wren's eyes made me laugh. XD Looking forward to the next chapter!
Thank you, Katherine Sophia. Your feedback helps tons. The scene has been bothering me since LiteratureLady brought up that problem. So, I have been unpicking and rewriting the problem section. I think I have found a solution that I am content with, for now. I am curious what you two think. :)
Thanks,
Rachel Rossano
Can I just say that I love Wren's birds? I totally want one!
I like Wren's fight. Her fear felt real. And I admire her immediate thoughts to the Lord in the middle of that battle.
Tourth's battle I felt was a little short lived. I feel like Hawthorne could have said more in depth things about his parents to get Tourth riled up. Like the conversation could have been longer. That being said I thought Tourth's reaction was awesome. And seeing him finally overcome his anger was great.
I love how Tourth wanted to kiss Wren. If it wasn't for Wren's character personalities I would have made them kiss right there!
All in all great chapter Rachel! I look forward to reading more!
I like it! :D That just seems to wrap it up and it feels more "finished" now. :)
*reads it again* Yep, I like it a lot! :D
The revision is GREAT!!! Tourth's battle with Hawthorne and surrender to God felt so much more real and vivid! Hawthorne's insults in this version were more biting, and I almost winced when I read them. Wonderful job!
Blessings~
Literaturelady
Sarah -
I also would love to have one of Wren's birds as a pet. However, their breed only exists in fantasy fiction. :(
I hate to admit it, but Wren's fear was directly connected to my own as I slowly realized the gavity of the situation I had gotten her into and the slim chances of her getting out it alive.
Tourth's battle (actual action part) was briefer than I wanted too. However, Tourth given his character, experience, and skill could have killed Hawthorne in a matter of minutes. Also, (at risk of sounding crazy) Tourth refused to stretch the confrontation out. The same applies to the verbal confrontation. I am going to try to up the tension again in the next draft, but this is enough for it to read reasonably well.
Katherine Sophia -
Thanks. That was exactly what I was hoping for. Lord willing, I will improve it even more the next draft.
LiteratureLady -
Thank you. In this context wincing is good. ;)
Really liked all the exchanges in Wren's battle, what she was thinking, how she looked to Deus, the unfolding attack and the suspense at the end!
I was however momentarily confused. She has always seemed so competent and cool headed. Why was she scared in this battle? But then I figured that she usually fights differently, from the shadows perhaps, using more landscape and so on to her advantage. But fighting on a battlefield must be totally different, with nothing to do but fight the one in front of you. If I properly deduced the reason why she's more shaky this time, it might help to make these reasons more obvious to the reader.
I like Tourth's exchange with Hawethorne. I've only read the revised version it looks like, but I like the words and how more and more people step in against him toward the end. I also like how Hawethorne is a poor fighter. He's like someone you fear forever but then realize he's not all that strong once he's alone. I also like the way that the words of Deus check Tourth's actions, even though he's just learned that Hawthorne claims to have killed his parents. That's just how it happens in real life.
Really enjoyed, thanks for another chapter
@Kim - Thank you for your observation about this battle being different than the others before. I guess I am going to have to revisit that section. The reasons this battle is different is because her opponent has armor. Usually when she comes up against a man (or woman) they are not geared up for a battle with breastplate, chain mail, shield, thick leather jerkin. Also, she is at a disadvantage because she is not geared up. She is wearing the same clothing she wears everyday, comfortable and practical in a random confrontation, but not on the battlefield. Your observations about her reasons for feeling insecure are also right on. However, you are also correct that I need to revisit the section and perhaps make these aspects of the situation more clear. :)
I especially like your impression of Hawthorne's exchange with Tourth. I hadn't thought about the fact he wasn't as scary as he had presented himself. However, it is very true. :) Thanks.
Rachel, now that mention about the armor, I do recall that you wrote those elements into this story. I just didn't make the connection that this is why this battle is different for her.
Love everything here so much! Wren's battle and emotions are amazing. You had me in fear and trembling for her safety. I was hoping and praying that Tourth got there on time and that she was alright.
It really seems perfect.
Post a Comment
<< Home