Lord Tezzy
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- Posted: Mon, 08 Mar 2010 01:57:34 +0000
For all those who have mourned Cid's death, he is thankful. But we started the celebrations (fireworks) so no need to mourn anymore.
Also, no idea about the drugs. Not a druggie at all.
And here's the next crit. Who wrote this? I can't member. It was good though.
Title: Perfect does not cry.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
Prompt: Emotional pain. Leading to vengeance.
Length: 4,213 words
Content:
Blank faces and noose-wrapped bodies watched her through the window. She knelt beside the bed, holding on to the last bit of her own soul. They cheered and applauded when she finally let go.
The gallows dropped and the nooses tightened. The cacophony of death shattered her. She couldn't move, she just watched and listened. Her daughter died again, in an agony of disease. Her husband and son called to her from their hanging graves. The night came upon her in an instant and made silence. She was alone again in a familiar cage.
She was on her marriage bed, lying next to a corpse. The corpse told her lies of loneliness and love. She begged it to stop, but it didn't. Ghosts came from it, swirling and twirling like a whirlpool of pain. A child, a girl, whispered cold words. The room began to cave in around her. She watched the stones crumble... ((Interesting beginning. That’s a good thing.))
The nightmare jolted her from sleep, leaving her in a dazed panic. She panted, lost and scared in the dim light of morning. She looked down at the bed to see her husband's place empty, void of any sign of him or his ghost. She took a breath and sat up. The room stopped spinning and she finally found some peace.
Footsteps echoed outside her bedroom door, announcing a jailer or ex-servant come to bring her morning rations. The door opened and guard, a man who had sworn to protect her family, barged in. He chuckled at her as she attempted to hide her body, still loosely covered in a nightgown. He threw bread at her and placed a glass on the dresser, leaving her to tend to herself.
She had once been a duchess, a woman of power, beauty and perfection. Her husband had been a knight who earned a duchy from the king. They married and had two children and she was happy. She was the perfect wife and mother, but most importantly she was the perfect duchess. Before the revolt she, her family and even every citizen in the duchy was happy, but now the duchy was a miserable excuse for squalor.
They claimed to murder in the name of the king and then in the name of God, but she knew what it really was; they wanted her and her family to suffer. They were greedy and selfish, they were monsters.
But even now, locked inside her bedroom, forced to become a trophy of the murderous revolt that took away everything, she was strong. She had never shed a tear for any them, she knew how to conduct herself as a real lady, a real duchess. She was still perfection. ((How interesting. You’ve left a million questions, which is both good and bad. It’s good because I want to continue. It has the potential to be devastating, because if you don’t answer some of them soon, I won’t want to keep reading. Make sense? We’ll see.))
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She sat silently in the afternoon light that enveloped the room. She glanced around admiring the furniture and trinkets she had convinced the revolting citizens to let her keep. Several of her husband's books were piled on an armchair and beautiful clothing lay strewn across tables and statuettes. The room was filled with valuables, but nothing was more important than the memories.
She picked up and book and held it against her chest, cradling it. She felt its binding, the rough edges formed by overuse prominently displayed themselves. The tears built up, but she held them in. She wouldn't let herself unravel.
She placed the book back on the pile, letting it slowly slip through her fingers. She admired what was left of her family, her husband's books, her daughter's toys, her son's trinkets. All of it was piled in a corner in her bedroom turned prison, waiting to be used or sold or thrown away. This had become who she was, a hoarder of items and memories. She was happy to dwell in the past, because that is where her joy lived. ((This is morbidly sad. And I have more questions now than ever.))
She made her way to her husband's wooden closet and opened it. His clothing had hung there silently since his death, waiting. ((I think a separate sentence would be more powerful, or at least create the break you want.)) She had never wanted to open it before that instant, but something about it now called to her. She placed her hand on a jacket adorned with medals and marks of honor, honor earned by protecting the people that murdered him.
She placed a hand under one of the medals and ripped it from the jacket. She admired it for a moment, then dropped it. She pulled the jacket from closet and threw it to the floor. She ripped all of the clothing out until only she and the wooden closet still stood. The tears began to tug at her, but she fought them off again.
The clothing had scattered, leaving the entire floor decorated in a palette of clothe. She took a deep breath and sat on the bed. Day after day she had grown even farther from the perfection she had sustained for so long. She found it harder to maintain the composure that had come to her so easily before. ((It sounds to me like before she was cold. Almost deserving of her fate. I’m not sure because you’ve explained little.))
She took another breath and focused on the wooden closet. She examined it, looking over every inch of it. She noticed a small hole in the bottom and studied it. Her finger slipped in and pulled, the false floor of the wooden closet easily coming loose.
She pulled a sword from the hidden space and placed the piece of wood back. She carried it back to the bed and admired it. The leather scabbard had worn down entirely in certain places and its glittering, golden hilt flashed in the sunlight. She admired the intricate detail of the hilt, twisting and turning it in the light.
The sword thundered as she drew it from its sheath, awakening in an instant. It sat tightly in her hand and pulsed. It shimmered again, this time under its own light. It felt alive.
Whispers began to find their way inside her mind. They built upon each other and grew until she could finally understand. Pretty thing... Show them.
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The men watched her. She had always noticed it. The men did not hide their want well. She had become nothing more than a temptation, locked away to be forced under control.
Even with just that amount of power, she knew she could command them. The sword had helped her to see the darkness in them and pull on it. Once they had fully fallen, they would be obedient. They were slated to become beasts of burden or corpses.
That is why she began to lure the guard in more. The sword whispered things to make her understand. She had to attract him, pull him into the web.
He arrived again, opening the door in a huff and placing her bread ration on the dresser. She was pulling her dress on, slowly covering herself. The man watched with a smile. The sword commanded. Bring him, pretty thing. Call to him. Show him.
“Can you help me button my dress?” She obeyed.
The man's smile widened and he nodded. He came close and placed a hand on the dress. She could feel him behind her, pressing himself against her. She swallowed and lifted her hair. His voice were rough. “You look lovely today.”
“Thank you.” She feigned a smile. The sword sat silently under the blankets on the bed in front of her. It held her in place, coddling her and goading her. Its whispers echoed in her.
She felt his breath on her neck and his body press harder against her own. The sword shimmered and her breathing grew heavy. She wanted to kill this man, this fool who attempted to fondle a once perfect duchess. The sword called again. Pretty thing. Angry thing. Show him.
She slowly reached down and drew the blade from its hilt. It sparkled as the man tried to grind against her. ((grind is a bad word to use, if you ask me. It doesn’t fit with the mood. Also, you’re using the word ‘sword’ a hell of a lot)) She felt the disgust rise and the whispers quicken. When his hand reached into her dress, she gripped the sword tightly and drove it behind her. It slipped silently beside her waist, gleefully finding a new home inside the man's stomach. Its shimmer grew when it tasted blood.
His breath beat erratically on her neck. He gurgled an awkward sound and fell limp against her back, sliding further onto the blade. She almost collapsed under his weight. The sword retreated as easily as it had entered. He fell.
She stepped over the corpse and quickly shut the door. The sword dulled and quieted inside her and she sheathed it. The anger in her changed to fear when she finally grasped what had happened. She would no longer be the captured duchess, she would be the hunted witch.
She covered the body with her husband's clothing and sat on the bed. Her thoughts raced as the sword let go. The dead man told her things she had never experienced. There was joy hidden in that body, a joy she could only remove by extinguishing its life. The sword had taken it in, but she could still feel it running through her.
She knew that the man had helped her realize who she had become. She could no longer remain the subtle duchess, she had to be this beast, craving the kill. The sword had told her, but the sword was wrong as well. ((You’re not making a lot of sense. I get the feeling the sword absorbed his mind/soul, but I’m not sure. And I get the feeling she is intimately connected with this sword. I also get the feeling it’s manipulating her, which begs the question, why is she keeping it there in the first place?))
She walked over the to door and placed a hand on it. She didn't want to be the beast the sword was trying to summon. She wanted to be the perfect duchess, watching her children play with her husband. The woman who had felt so safe and warm. She loved that and missed it.
She glanced back at the pile of clothes covering the body. She wasn't sure if she could go back. She had been so torn from who she was that she couldn't remember what she needed to do. The sword had taken her from herself.
She pulled on the door handle, still wrestling with the thoughts inside her head. There were too many choices, choices that she had never been faced with. She took a step into the hall, the sword and its sheathe in her hand, and took her first step. Even through the confusion and doubt, she knew she wouldn't find her way locked inside the bedroom that had become her prison.
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The hallways closed in around as she marched through them. She journeyed through the labyrinth that was once her home, keeping to the walls she knew. Shouting echoed behind her as she realized that someone must have found the body.
She hurried, her footsteps firm and fast. She found her way to a massive staircase. The meeting room lay below, silent. Her thoughts began to surge again, fighting the numbness of perfection. Her legs quivered and she grasped the railing.
The sword woke again, its hungry voice calling. They took them, pretty thing. They hurt them. Show them. ((I like the sword, I must say.))
She regained composure and took her first step down the staircase. Her hand placed itself on the hilt of the sword and she continued. Each footstep had become a forced attempt to control herself. They echoed through the giant hall.
She neared the bottom and spotted several men sitting around the fireplace. Her footsteps summoned their attention and they turned. One smiled and stood. She carried herself to them.
“What are you doing with that thing?” The man chuckled and pointed to the sword.
“Where is the man in charge?” Her cold voice spoke without her interference. The sword began to glow.
“I asked you first.” The man's smile faded.
“Where is the man in charge?” Her voice was more forceful as the sword took more control.
The man raised his hand, readying it to strike her. The sword flashed out of sheathe and into his chin. His shocked expression froze and his arms went limp. The sword withdrew. He fell.
“Where is the man in charge?” The words slithered out of her mouth like an ugly beast searching for its prey. She turned to the other men.
They stood and drew their weapons. She faced them without fear. She lost herself again in the sword and the kill. The rain began to pour down on the castle, tapping on the roof and stained-glass windows. The images in the windows danced in the moonlight as it struggled through the raindrops. The sound became almost deafening to her.
One of the men said something but she couldn't hear it. Her vision flashed and she charged at him, sword in hand. The man prepared his blade in return, but before he could move the sword had already squeezed its way in between his arm and chest. She pulled up and his arm fell limp. He cried in pain. He fell.
Another man lunged forward and she danced around his strike. The sword shimmered and laughed as it struck the back of his leg. He fell. The other men glanced at each other in fear and rushed to the doors.
With great effort, the doors swung open and the wind came in, carrying tiny drops of rain. She watched them flee to a small farm house at the bottom of the hill. The sword called again. There, pretty thing. That is where we will find the man who murdered your family. That is where we will find revenge. ((show them???))
She broke free of its control and whispered under the thunder, “I...I can't.”
((Two complaints. Actually, it’s one complaint with two solutions. Too. Fast. I know she is upset about her family, but you’ve shown it poorly. I really felt her pain in the first section, prior to the sword. You should expand on that. Show her with her husband laughing as she cries over his jacket (maybe puts it on and remains in his smell). Show her pick up her daughters hair brush and start combing her hair. Show her sit on her sons wooden pony and rock back and forth. This way, we see her pain and her connection to all three. We learn how much she cared for them, more than just assume it. Second solution is to slow down this sword. I liked the fight scene, clean, crisp, etc. But I want more of the fall. She was ‘her’ and now she is ‘it.’ Show this slide a little more. More of its whispers. Longer time watching her lose the memories of her son, daughter, and husband and getting this itch for revenge. That voice compelling her and controlling her growing a little slower.))
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She sat on the floor, holding back the tears. She fought the urges that the sword summoned. The darkness around her had opened to the moonlight, but she hadn't yet chased the shadows away. They still haunted her mind, carrying themselves inside her. The images made out of nothing were there.
Lightning and thunder shook the castle. Her eyes had begun to burn. The rain grew harder. Everything flowed into her. She fought the sword and its urges as hard as she could, but it burrowed farther into her.
She closed her eyes and pictured her life before. The perfection that had become so hard to hold on to had been so easy then. She just turned to her husband, her son, or her daughter. They held her stable.
The thunder crashed harder and her eyes opened. The area in front of her began to glow, as if her eyes had become candles. The light didn't flicker, but it did follow her eyes. Something had changed in her. She was becoming someone new.
I give you my eyes, pretty thing. I give you my sight. The sword etched the words inside her mind.
“What is happening?” Her voice wavered.
I give you gifts for revenge. I give you opportunity, pretty thing. Take it. The sword shimmered again, still in her hand.
Another surge of emotion flooded her and she stood. She stepped out of her shoes and on to the cold stone floor. The sword beaconed and she followed. She entered the torrent of rain.
Her feet marched again. They had purpose other than her own. She made her way down the hill in seconds. She pushed the door open and peered inside. Everyone had vanished.
She entered and saw a second door. It was left opened to a forest just beyond a meadow. The sword spoke again. There. They must have gone into the forest. Follow them, pretty thing. ((I really like the sword’s diction.))
She obeyed and exited the house. The small meadow grass squished under her bare feet, wet and cold. The forest stared at her, but she stared back with light. The trees spoke to her in the night air, begging for her mercy. The rain and wind shook them so hard.
Lightning streaked and the world slowed around her. She choked out her breath under the heavy rain and weight of the sword. The sword shimmered and repeated. Follow them, pretty thing.
She took a step. The light from her eyes lit the meadow in front of her, but she didn't see anything besides grass and trees. She took another step. The wind rushed by and her hair jumped out of the tight bun. Her eyes watered as her memories welled. She took another step.
The rain beat harder, trying to break her, but she didn't know what parts were her. The perfection and anger and pain and numbness and fear had all melted together. She had become a strange combination, something new. The changes had come so quickly that she couldn't understand them.
The sword pulled her again and she entered the trees. The brush by her feet was thick and thorny. Her face was swarmed with webs and leaves. Her light shined through the thick mass and she slashed at immovable plants until she had found a way into a clearing.
Two men stood guard at the entrance to a cave, but they hadn't seen her yet. She ducked back into the brush and took a deep breath. The sword tugged and hissed. Show them, pretty thing. Show them.
She closed her eyes again and saw the shadows her family had become. Their faces contorted in darkness and their mouths agape. The thud of the gallows and the cheers of the crowd haunted her. The bloodied, dying men had followed them, standing beyond their darkness. They cried out in pain, limping and crawling to her. They held out cold hands and consumed the shadows.
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Her hungry eyes shined. The sword shimmered a response. She took another breath and jumped from her hiding place. She rushed to the men. The sword had struck the first before he could draw his weapon. He fell. The second attacked but she easily parried.
Her heartbeat increased and the forest slowed again. Lightning arched across the sky. She managed to stagger the man with the parry and the sword slipped between his ribs. His eyes filled with tears as she watched him die. He fell.
She dodged the rest of the rain and made it into the cave. The torch light ahead of her set the cave ablaze with an orange flickering glow. She stopped and listened.
“Why did I have to run?” A deep voice echoed from the cave.
“Sir, The duchess has gone mad.” Another voice followed.
“I don't believe that. She's not exactly an impressive woman, by any standards. She's barely a woman at all. She's just a girl.” The deep voice replied.
“I saw it with my own eyes. She murdered three men.” The second voice spoke softly.
She took a step forward and kicked a pebble. Its echo shook the cave.
“What was that?” The deep voice questioned.
“Maybe the guards? Or do you think she followed us?” The other voice asked.
“That little woman? Just go check.” The deep voice gurgled out a laugh.
Her thoughts rushed again as she squeezed her body against the wall inside a shadow. She closed her eyes and listened. She saw the corpses crawling and limping again, they had finished with the shadows of her family and came for her. They drew closer, calling for her. She began to sweat and when their footsteps drew close and they reached out she opened her eyes. The sword reached out and hit one of the men in throat. He fell.
Another man stood shocked. He called out in fear, “It's her!”
Footsteps flooded the cave and the sword called for blood. She stepped away from the wall and raised the sword. It came down on his head, splitting it. He fell.
The shadows called from behind her sending wispy fingers of darkness to touch her hair. The wind rushed into the cave and she shivered. The sword grew heavy in her hands as the footsteps still swirled around her. The men clamored out of sight.
She lowered her head and closed her eyes. She fought the sword but its call was too sweet. Find them, pretty thing. Show them.
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She finally gave in, allowing the sword to command her body once again. She was numbed to the feeling. She stepped farther into the cave and followed the sound of the men. The glow of the torches grew brighter the farther she went and the rushed shouting of the men echoed around her.
The darkness joined her down the cave, breathing behind her. The cave opened in front of her and she entered a large hall. The men were rushing in front of her, forming a blockade around a side passage.
They raised shields, maces and swords. The sword pointed at the men and shimmered in hunger. She felt its desire burn into her hand. Her body fell into place, obeying the sword's command. Her eyes lit up brighter and she moved forward.
The men pulled their shields high and tight as they braced for her. She lunged forward. The sword crashed down, shattering a shield and cutting deep into flesh. A man screamed and she pulled the sword away. He grasped his limp arm and whimpered. He fell.
Another man reached for her with his weapon, but she easily outmaneuvered him. The sword stabbed into the man's neck. He fell. A mace crashed behind her, but the sword had quickly met it in a parry. The mace fell and the sword shimmered through the blood. The man's face was agony and fear spotlighted under her vision. She watched the sword pull from his chest. He fell.
She was left with a single man. His face was cold and his eyes empty. She felt her stomach churn as the man watched her. He stared her down, his shield pulled in close and his blade ready. Something about him, while frightening, felt warm and real.
The sword shimmered brightly, its commands were harsher. Do it. Show them.
Her arm moved forward but the rest of her body hesitated. The man lunged and she moved. She slipped out of most of the strike, but it still connected. The man's sword entered her shoulder. She screamed and the sword struck back, meeting the man's shoulder in return. She felt his bone fracture with the impact. He fell.
She sheathed the sword and gripped her shoulder. She leaned against the cave wall and winced. The pain radiated around her body, but the sword pulled her from it. There, pretty thing. There. Show them.
She turned to the short side passage. A man was hunched over in the corner, watching her in fear. He shivered when their eyes met. She knew that this was the man who had ordered the death of her family. This was the man who took everything and broke her. This was the man who deserved to die.
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She finally faced the man who had hurt her. She felt the anger and pain boil inside her. His frightened face drove her deeper into the changes. She could feel her grasp on what little perfection she had left slip away.
Show them, pretty thing. Show him. The sword still goaded from its sheathe.
She stepped forward and the man winced. She took another step and he curled up tighter. Her hand moved to the sword's hilt and gripped. She stared at him, huddled in the corner, and into his eyes. She saw the dead men there, crawling and reaching.
They were in his eyes, inside him. Their moans and cries sent her into shivers. She watched them claw at her from his glare. His frightened eyes had caged the shadows and ghosts behind her.
“P-Please, don't hurt me.” The man whimpered, his once booming voice now a squeak.
“You killed my family,” her voice was still her own, but the sword flashed to life, trying to take control.
“I wasn't th-the executioner. I didn't kill them.” He began to sob.
“But you ordered it,” The sword was winning. She pulled it from its sheathe and held it to the man's throat.
“I'm s-sorry.” His stutter grew with his tears.
“I can't.” She fought to pull the sword back, but she didn't have enough strength.
“C-can't?” His eyes were a mix of fear and confusion.
Her mind slipped and the sword took over, “Can't let you live.”
She lifted the sword behind her head, but it stopped. The man who was crying, whimpering, sobbing in front of her wasn't the source of her revenge. Those ghosts, the demons of shadow that followed her deserved the revenge. The demons dressed as her family deserved it. They had died and been replaced with images of the men she had murdered. They had families. They had lives.
Tears gathered in her eyes as she watched the man in front of her. The sword fought to bring the sword crashing down, but she fought back. She held back the tears as she struggled for control.
Show them! The voice hissed and shouted inside her head.
She watched the shadows draw closer in his eyes. The sword came down, but she didn't move. She felt the pain but watched as the scared man's look grew to confusion. The demons flashed inside his eyes. Her vision cleared. The blurry shimmer of the past fell.
She looked down to see the sword in her own stomach and she cried. The man stood, still pressed against the wall, and stared in horror. The sword shimmered, its hunger satiated. She gasped as her perfection, sanguine and warm, ran from the wound. The thud of the gallows echoed through the cave as she searched for another breath. She fell.
((I’m… not… sure. I felt a lot in this. I could feel the swords compulsion, its force. I honestly could. Which is powerful. And amazing. So for that, I think you’ve done extremely extremely extremely well. I do, though, think you’d have something EVEN more powerful if you spent more time in the beginning showing us who she was prior to the events. I like the lack of names, makes it impersonal and almost ‘this could happen to anyone.’ At the same time, I think that you have to change the ending if you want that theme to stick, namely the sword killing her instead of her killing herself. Almost like she stops resisting and then the sword is bored with her or something like that. It would drive the theme of revenge home. Again, though, you need to focus more on the beginning. And I would like to know some of the surrounding information, but I almost feel like it is entirely unnecessary. You’ve got something VERY good, and with a little work and a couple thousand more words, it’d be GREAT. You accomplished the prompt well, even though I’m not sure what emotions I felt. It was a mix of a lot of things, and you could do a lot to make those things more pronounced (like I said.) Anyway, this is very good and I think you should be proud of it. I am seriously pleased to have read it, even if I was skeptical in the beginning. I should note, though, that the idea of these shadows needs to be explained a little more. I’m not sure what you were going for with them. Anyway, good work. Great work. It was a pleasure to read.))
Also, no idea about the drugs. Not a druggie at all.
And here's the next crit. Who wrote this? I can't member. It was good though.
Title: Perfect does not cry.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
Prompt: Emotional pain. Leading to vengeance.
Length: 4,213 words
Content:
Blank faces and noose-wrapped bodies watched her through the window. She knelt beside the bed, holding on to the last bit of her own soul. They cheered and applauded when she finally let go.
The gallows dropped and the nooses tightened. The cacophony of death shattered her. She couldn't move, she just watched and listened. Her daughter died again, in an agony of disease. Her husband and son called to her from their hanging graves. The night came upon her in an instant and made silence. She was alone again in a familiar cage.
She was on her marriage bed, lying next to a corpse. The corpse told her lies of loneliness and love. She begged it to stop, but it didn't. Ghosts came from it, swirling and twirling like a whirlpool of pain. A child, a girl, whispered cold words. The room began to cave in around her. She watched the stones crumble... ((Interesting beginning. That’s a good thing.))
The nightmare jolted her from sleep, leaving her in a dazed panic. She panted, lost and scared in the dim light of morning. She looked down at the bed to see her husband's place empty, void of any sign of him or his ghost. She took a breath and sat up. The room stopped spinning and she finally found some peace.
Footsteps echoed outside her bedroom door, announcing a jailer or ex-servant come to bring her morning rations. The door opened and guard, a man who had sworn to protect her family, barged in. He chuckled at her as she attempted to hide her body, still loosely covered in a nightgown. He threw bread at her and placed a glass on the dresser, leaving her to tend to herself.
She had once been a duchess, a woman of power, beauty and perfection. Her husband had been a knight who earned a duchy from the king. They married and had two children and she was happy. She was the perfect wife and mother, but most importantly she was the perfect duchess. Before the revolt she, her family and even every citizen in the duchy was happy, but now the duchy was a miserable excuse for squalor.
They claimed to murder in the name of the king and then in the name of God, but she knew what it really was; they wanted her and her family to suffer. They were greedy and selfish, they were monsters.
But even now, locked inside her bedroom, forced to become a trophy of the murderous revolt that took away everything, she was strong. She had never shed a tear for any them, she knew how to conduct herself as a real lady, a real duchess. She was still perfection. ((How interesting. You’ve left a million questions, which is both good and bad. It’s good because I want to continue. It has the potential to be devastating, because if you don’t answer some of them soon, I won’t want to keep reading. Make sense? We’ll see.))
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She sat silently in the afternoon light that enveloped the room. She glanced around admiring the furniture and trinkets she had convinced the revolting citizens to let her keep. Several of her husband's books were piled on an armchair and beautiful clothing lay strewn across tables and statuettes. The room was filled with valuables, but nothing was more important than the memories.
She picked up and book and held it against her chest, cradling it. She felt its binding, the rough edges formed by overuse prominently displayed themselves. The tears built up, but she held them in. She wouldn't let herself unravel.
She placed the book back on the pile, letting it slowly slip through her fingers. She admired what was left of her family, her husband's books, her daughter's toys, her son's trinkets. All of it was piled in a corner in her bedroom turned prison, waiting to be used or sold or thrown away. This had become who she was, a hoarder of items and memories. She was happy to dwell in the past, because that is where her joy lived. ((This is morbidly sad. And I have more questions now than ever.))
She made her way to her husband's wooden closet and opened it. His clothing had hung there silently since his death, waiting. ((I think a separate sentence would be more powerful, or at least create the break you want.)) She had never wanted to open it before that instant, but something about it now called to her. She placed her hand on a jacket adorned with medals and marks of honor, honor earned by protecting the people that murdered him.
She placed a hand under one of the medals and ripped it from the jacket. She admired it for a moment, then dropped it. She pulled the jacket from closet and threw it to the floor. She ripped all of the clothing out until only she and the wooden closet still stood. The tears began to tug at her, but she fought them off again.
The clothing had scattered, leaving the entire floor decorated in a palette of clothe. She took a deep breath and sat on the bed. Day after day she had grown even farther from the perfection she had sustained for so long. She found it harder to maintain the composure that had come to her so easily before. ((It sounds to me like before she was cold. Almost deserving of her fate. I’m not sure because you’ve explained little.))
She took another breath and focused on the wooden closet. She examined it, looking over every inch of it. She noticed a small hole in the bottom and studied it. Her finger slipped in and pulled, the false floor of the wooden closet easily coming loose.
She pulled a sword from the hidden space and placed the piece of wood back. She carried it back to the bed and admired it. The leather scabbard had worn down entirely in certain places and its glittering, golden hilt flashed in the sunlight. She admired the intricate detail of the hilt, twisting and turning it in the light.
The sword thundered as she drew it from its sheath, awakening in an instant. It sat tightly in her hand and pulsed. It shimmered again, this time under its own light. It felt alive.
Whispers began to find their way inside her mind. They built upon each other and grew until she could finally understand. Pretty thing... Show them.
----------
The men watched her. She had always noticed it. The men did not hide their want well. She had become nothing more than a temptation, locked away to be forced under control.
Even with just that amount of power, she knew she could command them. The sword had helped her to see the darkness in them and pull on it. Once they had fully fallen, they would be obedient. They were slated to become beasts of burden or corpses.
That is why she began to lure the guard in more. The sword whispered things to make her understand. She had to attract him, pull him into the web.
He arrived again, opening the door in a huff and placing her bread ration on the dresser. She was pulling her dress on, slowly covering herself. The man watched with a smile. The sword commanded. Bring him, pretty thing. Call to him. Show him.
“Can you help me button my dress?” She obeyed.
The man's smile widened and he nodded. He came close and placed a hand on the dress. She could feel him behind her, pressing himself against her. She swallowed and lifted her hair. His voice were rough. “You look lovely today.”
“Thank you.” She feigned a smile. The sword sat silently under the blankets on the bed in front of her. It held her in place, coddling her and goading her. Its whispers echoed in her.
She felt his breath on her neck and his body press harder against her own. The sword shimmered and her breathing grew heavy. She wanted to kill this man, this fool who attempted to fondle a once perfect duchess. The sword called again. Pretty thing. Angry thing. Show him.
She slowly reached down and drew the blade from its hilt. It sparkled as the man tried to grind against her. ((grind is a bad word to use, if you ask me. It doesn’t fit with the mood. Also, you’re using the word ‘sword’ a hell of a lot)) She felt the disgust rise and the whispers quicken. When his hand reached into her dress, she gripped the sword tightly and drove it behind her. It slipped silently beside her waist, gleefully finding a new home inside the man's stomach. Its shimmer grew when it tasted blood.
His breath beat erratically on her neck. He gurgled an awkward sound and fell limp against her back, sliding further onto the blade. She almost collapsed under his weight. The sword retreated as easily as it had entered. He fell.
She stepped over the corpse and quickly shut the door. The sword dulled and quieted inside her and she sheathed it. The anger in her changed to fear when she finally grasped what had happened. She would no longer be the captured duchess, she would be the hunted witch.
She covered the body with her husband's clothing and sat on the bed. Her thoughts raced as the sword let go. The dead man told her things she had never experienced. There was joy hidden in that body, a joy she could only remove by extinguishing its life. The sword had taken it in, but she could still feel it running through her.
She knew that the man had helped her realize who she had become. She could no longer remain the subtle duchess, she had to be this beast, craving the kill. The sword had told her, but the sword was wrong as well. ((You’re not making a lot of sense. I get the feeling the sword absorbed his mind/soul, but I’m not sure. And I get the feeling she is intimately connected with this sword. I also get the feeling it’s manipulating her, which begs the question, why is she keeping it there in the first place?))
She walked over the to door and placed a hand on it. She didn't want to be the beast the sword was trying to summon. She wanted to be the perfect duchess, watching her children play with her husband. The woman who had felt so safe and warm. She loved that and missed it.
She glanced back at the pile of clothes covering the body. She wasn't sure if she could go back. She had been so torn from who she was that she couldn't remember what she needed to do. The sword had taken her from herself.
She pulled on the door handle, still wrestling with the thoughts inside her head. There were too many choices, choices that she had never been faced with. She took a step into the hall, the sword and its sheathe in her hand, and took her first step. Even through the confusion and doubt, she knew she wouldn't find her way locked inside the bedroom that had become her prison.
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The hallways closed in around as she marched through them. She journeyed through the labyrinth that was once her home, keeping to the walls she knew. Shouting echoed behind her as she realized that someone must have found the body.
She hurried, her footsteps firm and fast. She found her way to a massive staircase. The meeting room lay below, silent. Her thoughts began to surge again, fighting the numbness of perfection. Her legs quivered and she grasped the railing.
The sword woke again, its hungry voice calling. They took them, pretty thing. They hurt them. Show them. ((I like the sword, I must say.))
She regained composure and took her first step down the staircase. Her hand placed itself on the hilt of the sword and she continued. Each footstep had become a forced attempt to control herself. They echoed through the giant hall.
She neared the bottom and spotted several men sitting around the fireplace. Her footsteps summoned their attention and they turned. One smiled and stood. She carried herself to them.
“What are you doing with that thing?” The man chuckled and pointed to the sword.
“Where is the man in charge?” Her cold voice spoke without her interference. The sword began to glow.
“I asked you first.” The man's smile faded.
“Where is the man in charge?” Her voice was more forceful as the sword took more control.
The man raised his hand, readying it to strike her. The sword flashed out of sheathe and into his chin. His shocked expression froze and his arms went limp. The sword withdrew. He fell.
“Where is the man in charge?” The words slithered out of her mouth like an ugly beast searching for its prey. She turned to the other men.
They stood and drew their weapons. She faced them without fear. She lost herself again in the sword and the kill. The rain began to pour down on the castle, tapping on the roof and stained-glass windows. The images in the windows danced in the moonlight as it struggled through the raindrops. The sound became almost deafening to her.
One of the men said something but she couldn't hear it. Her vision flashed and she charged at him, sword in hand. The man prepared his blade in return, but before he could move the sword had already squeezed its way in between his arm and chest. She pulled up and his arm fell limp. He cried in pain. He fell.
Another man lunged forward and she danced around his strike. The sword shimmered and laughed as it struck the back of his leg. He fell. The other men glanced at each other in fear and rushed to the doors.
With great effort, the doors swung open and the wind came in, carrying tiny drops of rain. She watched them flee to a small farm house at the bottom of the hill. The sword called again. There, pretty thing. That is where we will find the man who murdered your family. That is where we will find revenge. ((show them???))
She broke free of its control and whispered under the thunder, “I...I can't.”
((Two complaints. Actually, it’s one complaint with two solutions. Too. Fast. I know she is upset about her family, but you’ve shown it poorly. I really felt her pain in the first section, prior to the sword. You should expand on that. Show her with her husband laughing as she cries over his jacket (maybe puts it on and remains in his smell). Show her pick up her daughters hair brush and start combing her hair. Show her sit on her sons wooden pony and rock back and forth. This way, we see her pain and her connection to all three. We learn how much she cared for them, more than just assume it. Second solution is to slow down this sword. I liked the fight scene, clean, crisp, etc. But I want more of the fall. She was ‘her’ and now she is ‘it.’ Show this slide a little more. More of its whispers. Longer time watching her lose the memories of her son, daughter, and husband and getting this itch for revenge. That voice compelling her and controlling her growing a little slower.))
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She sat on the floor, holding back the tears. She fought the urges that the sword summoned. The darkness around her had opened to the moonlight, but she hadn't yet chased the shadows away. They still haunted her mind, carrying themselves inside her. The images made out of nothing were there.
Lightning and thunder shook the castle. Her eyes had begun to burn. The rain grew harder. Everything flowed into her. She fought the sword and its urges as hard as she could, but it burrowed farther into her.
She closed her eyes and pictured her life before. The perfection that had become so hard to hold on to had been so easy then. She just turned to her husband, her son, or her daughter. They held her stable.
The thunder crashed harder and her eyes opened. The area in front of her began to glow, as if her eyes had become candles. The light didn't flicker, but it did follow her eyes. Something had changed in her. She was becoming someone new.
I give you my eyes, pretty thing. I give you my sight. The sword etched the words inside her mind.
“What is happening?” Her voice wavered.
I give you gifts for revenge. I give you opportunity, pretty thing. Take it. The sword shimmered again, still in her hand.
Another surge of emotion flooded her and she stood. She stepped out of her shoes and on to the cold stone floor. The sword beaconed and she followed. She entered the torrent of rain.
Her feet marched again. They had purpose other than her own. She made her way down the hill in seconds. She pushed the door open and peered inside. Everyone had vanished.
She entered and saw a second door. It was left opened to a forest just beyond a meadow. The sword spoke again. There. They must have gone into the forest. Follow them, pretty thing. ((I really like the sword’s diction.))
She obeyed and exited the house. The small meadow grass squished under her bare feet, wet and cold. The forest stared at her, but she stared back with light. The trees spoke to her in the night air, begging for her mercy. The rain and wind shook them so hard.
Lightning streaked and the world slowed around her. She choked out her breath under the heavy rain and weight of the sword. The sword shimmered and repeated. Follow them, pretty thing.
She took a step. The light from her eyes lit the meadow in front of her, but she didn't see anything besides grass and trees. She took another step. The wind rushed by and her hair jumped out of the tight bun. Her eyes watered as her memories welled. She took another step.
The rain beat harder, trying to break her, but she didn't know what parts were her. The perfection and anger and pain and numbness and fear had all melted together. She had become a strange combination, something new. The changes had come so quickly that she couldn't understand them.
The sword pulled her again and she entered the trees. The brush by her feet was thick and thorny. Her face was swarmed with webs and leaves. Her light shined through the thick mass and she slashed at immovable plants until she had found a way into a clearing.
Two men stood guard at the entrance to a cave, but they hadn't seen her yet. She ducked back into the brush and took a deep breath. The sword tugged and hissed. Show them, pretty thing. Show them.
She closed her eyes again and saw the shadows her family had become. Their faces contorted in darkness and their mouths agape. The thud of the gallows and the cheers of the crowd haunted her. The bloodied, dying men had followed them, standing beyond their darkness. They cried out in pain, limping and crawling to her. They held out cold hands and consumed the shadows.
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Her hungry eyes shined. The sword shimmered a response. She took another breath and jumped from her hiding place. She rushed to the men. The sword had struck the first before he could draw his weapon. He fell. The second attacked but she easily parried.
Her heartbeat increased and the forest slowed again. Lightning arched across the sky. She managed to stagger the man with the parry and the sword slipped between his ribs. His eyes filled with tears as she watched him die. He fell.
She dodged the rest of the rain and made it into the cave. The torch light ahead of her set the cave ablaze with an orange flickering glow. She stopped and listened.
“Why did I have to run?” A deep voice echoed from the cave.
“Sir, The duchess has gone mad.” Another voice followed.
“I don't believe that. She's not exactly an impressive woman, by any standards. She's barely a woman at all. She's just a girl.” The deep voice replied.
“I saw it with my own eyes. She murdered three men.” The second voice spoke softly.
She took a step forward and kicked a pebble. Its echo shook the cave.
“What was that?” The deep voice questioned.
“Maybe the guards? Or do you think she followed us?” The other voice asked.
“That little woman? Just go check.” The deep voice gurgled out a laugh.
Her thoughts rushed again as she squeezed her body against the wall inside a shadow. She closed her eyes and listened. She saw the corpses crawling and limping again, they had finished with the shadows of her family and came for her. They drew closer, calling for her. She began to sweat and when their footsteps drew close and they reached out she opened her eyes. The sword reached out and hit one of the men in throat. He fell.
Another man stood shocked. He called out in fear, “It's her!”
Footsteps flooded the cave and the sword called for blood. She stepped away from the wall and raised the sword. It came down on his head, splitting it. He fell.
The shadows called from behind her sending wispy fingers of darkness to touch her hair. The wind rushed into the cave and she shivered. The sword grew heavy in her hands as the footsteps still swirled around her. The men clamored out of sight.
She lowered her head and closed her eyes. She fought the sword but its call was too sweet. Find them, pretty thing. Show them.
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She finally gave in, allowing the sword to command her body once again. She was numbed to the feeling. She stepped farther into the cave and followed the sound of the men. The glow of the torches grew brighter the farther she went and the rushed shouting of the men echoed around her.
The darkness joined her down the cave, breathing behind her. The cave opened in front of her and she entered a large hall. The men were rushing in front of her, forming a blockade around a side passage.
They raised shields, maces and swords. The sword pointed at the men and shimmered in hunger. She felt its desire burn into her hand. Her body fell into place, obeying the sword's command. Her eyes lit up brighter and she moved forward.
The men pulled their shields high and tight as they braced for her. She lunged forward. The sword crashed down, shattering a shield and cutting deep into flesh. A man screamed and she pulled the sword away. He grasped his limp arm and whimpered. He fell.
Another man reached for her with his weapon, but she easily outmaneuvered him. The sword stabbed into the man's neck. He fell. A mace crashed behind her, but the sword had quickly met it in a parry. The mace fell and the sword shimmered through the blood. The man's face was agony and fear spotlighted under her vision. She watched the sword pull from his chest. He fell.
She was left with a single man. His face was cold and his eyes empty. She felt her stomach churn as the man watched her. He stared her down, his shield pulled in close and his blade ready. Something about him, while frightening, felt warm and real.
The sword shimmered brightly, its commands were harsher. Do it. Show them.
Her arm moved forward but the rest of her body hesitated. The man lunged and she moved. She slipped out of most of the strike, but it still connected. The man's sword entered her shoulder. She screamed and the sword struck back, meeting the man's shoulder in return. She felt his bone fracture with the impact. He fell.
She sheathed the sword and gripped her shoulder. She leaned against the cave wall and winced. The pain radiated around her body, but the sword pulled her from it. There, pretty thing. There. Show them.
She turned to the short side passage. A man was hunched over in the corner, watching her in fear. He shivered when their eyes met. She knew that this was the man who had ordered the death of her family. This was the man who took everything and broke her. This was the man who deserved to die.
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She finally faced the man who had hurt her. She felt the anger and pain boil inside her. His frightened face drove her deeper into the changes. She could feel her grasp on what little perfection she had left slip away.
Show them, pretty thing. Show him. The sword still goaded from its sheathe.
She stepped forward and the man winced. She took another step and he curled up tighter. Her hand moved to the sword's hilt and gripped. She stared at him, huddled in the corner, and into his eyes. She saw the dead men there, crawling and reaching.
They were in his eyes, inside him. Their moans and cries sent her into shivers. She watched them claw at her from his glare. His frightened eyes had caged the shadows and ghosts behind her.
“P-Please, don't hurt me.” The man whimpered, his once booming voice now a squeak.
“You killed my family,” her voice was still her own, but the sword flashed to life, trying to take control.
“I wasn't th-the executioner. I didn't kill them.” He began to sob.
“But you ordered it,” The sword was winning. She pulled it from its sheathe and held it to the man's throat.
“I'm s-sorry.” His stutter grew with his tears.
“I can't.” She fought to pull the sword back, but she didn't have enough strength.
“C-can't?” His eyes were a mix of fear and confusion.
Her mind slipped and the sword took over, “Can't let you live.”
She lifted the sword behind her head, but it stopped. The man who was crying, whimpering, sobbing in front of her wasn't the source of her revenge. Those ghosts, the demons of shadow that followed her deserved the revenge. The demons dressed as her family deserved it. They had died and been replaced with images of the men she had murdered. They had families. They had lives.
Tears gathered in her eyes as she watched the man in front of her. The sword fought to bring the sword crashing down, but she fought back. She held back the tears as she struggled for control.
Show them! The voice hissed and shouted inside her head.
She watched the shadows draw closer in his eyes. The sword came down, but she didn't move. She felt the pain but watched as the scared man's look grew to confusion. The demons flashed inside his eyes. Her vision cleared. The blurry shimmer of the past fell.
She looked down to see the sword in her own stomach and she cried. The man stood, still pressed against the wall, and stared in horror. The sword shimmered, its hunger satiated. She gasped as her perfection, sanguine and warm, ran from the wound. The thud of the gallows echoed through the cave as she searched for another breath. She fell.
((I’m… not… sure. I felt a lot in this. I could feel the swords compulsion, its force. I honestly could. Which is powerful. And amazing. So for that, I think you’ve done extremely extremely extremely well. I do, though, think you’d have something EVEN more powerful if you spent more time in the beginning showing us who she was prior to the events. I like the lack of names, makes it impersonal and almost ‘this could happen to anyone.’ At the same time, I think that you have to change the ending if you want that theme to stick, namely the sword killing her instead of her killing herself. Almost like she stops resisting and then the sword is bored with her or something like that. It would drive the theme of revenge home. Again, though, you need to focus more on the beginning. And I would like to know some of the surrounding information, but I almost feel like it is entirely unnecessary. You’ve got something VERY good, and with a little work and a couple thousand more words, it’d be GREAT. You accomplished the prompt well, even though I’m not sure what emotions I felt. It was a mix of a lot of things, and you could do a lot to make those things more pronounced (like I said.) Anyway, this is very good and I think you should be proud of it. I am seriously pleased to have read it, even if I was skeptical in the beginning. I should note, though, that the idea of these shadows needs to be explained a little more. I’m not sure what you were going for with them. Anyway, good work. Great work. It was a pleasure to read.))
