Naryaló S dú
Lord of Science
- Joined
- Jul 27, 2007
- Messages
- 85
I've posted my entire story up to chapter 4 (about 40 pages of 8.5 by 11 paper) on here twice over a couple months to get some different critique, but I don't have the energy and I doubt you do so I'd like to know what you think of my Intro, and my Intro only 
The sun reached the height of the rostrum. Wealthy men in robes and women in peignoirs stood around the podium listening intently. Whenever the deceitful rat would pause from his speech, everyone would clap and cheer. They were all the same, dressed the same, looked the same, all pawns to the anarchy which enslaved them…all fearing for their lives. There was only one man who differed from the mass in the city square. He wore a brown cloak, covering his entire body and shadowing his face. He strode quickly from the beggars and peasants in the back of the crowd, gently pushing through as he headed to the anterior. He paced like a murky shadow; it seemed that no one in the tightly-packed mass of people noticed this dark figure. Reaching the middle of the wealthy supporters of the dictator, he suddenly stopped moving. An obviously affluent man approached him. He wore a florid red cloak and brown pants with lacings on the sides. He had brown hair with a slight balding spot in the middle, and wore a kind and jubilant face with an air of solemnity about it. He had on a brass belt with mysterious engravings all along it. To the cloaked man this apparel set him aside from all of the others.
As they met eyes the cloaked man whispered, “Aryius, are our brothers in place?”
“Yes my lord, you have only to strike and your escape is almost guaranteed.”
“Almost?”
“There is always a margin of risk on duties such as this.”
“I understand. All must ready on my signal, we have lost too many already. We must not let one man fall on this mission.”
“Yes, sir.”
The cloaked man broke eye contact with his information officer and started to pace through the crowd towards the podium. As he approached the front of the crowd he observed his surroundings. The white-marble dais on which the governor stood was circular, about ten meters across. It had nine obelisk pylons around it, holding up a massive angled rooftop. The dais itself sat in the middle of the central plaza, inside the great market. On all sides of the uprise there stood guards, ten in total; one between each pillar. The cloaked man recognized three of them at once: the two closest to the governor and the one farthest, his brothers. In front of him was a series of stairs leading up to the podium where the corrupt ruler spoke his atrocious lies, feeding off the cheers of his followers. The wealthy man wore a long taffeta robe studded with gold buttons and laces, polished leather espadrilles, and various additions in niches to escalate the mans look as a noble. His face was wide and fat, with a certain satisfaction seemingly at his own accomplishments. This particular man was a lead member of the Emperor’s council and overseer of the Magodalus, the sector of the city encompassing the Great Market and many wealthy districts. As he raised his hand the crowd hushed, and he began to speak:
“If our great nation is to succeed in its new trials, we must first take action! There are many who advocate the destruction of our rich culture, passed down over forty-six generations! These men and women wish the destruction of all of Sargon and its people! We must not let this happen…these mindless animals; these warmongering supporters of the enemy must be stopped!”
As the governor took a short pause the crowd cheered. The creature raised his arm and ushered a silence. “They are no longer citizens of this country, and are fit for death in any state! Has there been one single day in the last forty-seven years that every citizen of this nation hasn’t feared for his life? To be captured, tortured, and mutilated by the malicious cultists of the north? If ever we are too feel secure and safe again, we must first destroy the internal threat. This nation can provide you with defense and security from the outside, as we have for half a century; but with all of our dynamism and care of our people – we can not fully demolish the enemy on the inside. If we are to strike down the damned occultists of this city, bring back its full beauty and purpose…we must first rise up!”
A great ovation came from the crowd, even with no pause in the warlord’s utterance. The governor raised his fist into the air yelling, “Rise up! March through the streets and find all of those who threaten our being. This can first be done in a subtle and untroublesome manner. If you know even one sympathizer to the cult, even one man who thinks this beautiful nation unfree; report him to your local militia. Soon, the dirtied districts in this city will be washed in a mighty shower of truth! Once the great quarters are cleansed, we can go on to the damned outskirts of this once great city, where mobs mass in the reek, where…”
The cloaked man could listen no longer. Under his breath he whispered, “Filth!”
He turned and carefully studied the crowd; the moment should arrive soon. The mob nearest him screamed in delight at this dark preaching, but in the distance he could glimpse the poorer residents of the city; they all knew what would come from these ideals. Chaos. The man turned back to the dais. According to the speech copy that his aides had collected, it was almost time.
The governor moved his hand across the sky as he spoke, “Look at our fair city! Look across the skies to the tower of Adrunial, which our fathers built as a beacon of hope in…”
The warlord looked as if he was going to burst into tears. The cloaked man recognized the polished look as a tactic to inspire emotion. As he continued speaking of the cities many allures, he pointed out towards each milestone. The crowd turned to join their master, looking back to the heart of the city. The moment had struck.
The cloaked man suddenly thrusted himself towards the stairs. Those in the crowd who still looked forward suddenly gasped as he lunged his body up many steps at a time. In a flash like lightning he was in front of the podium. Time seemed to stand still as he met eyes with Governor Boralis. It is only at a time when you meet eyes with your victim that you suddenly know whether he deserves his fate. In the blink of an eye, the cloaked figure realized…He must die.
Golden leaves fell from the plaza’s decorative Sai trees. The cloaked man’s senses of awareness soared. He could hear the bronzed leaves brushing against the white plaza floor as the wind gently put them to rest. He could hear the people’s cloaks and robes brushing against each other as they suddenly turned from the distance to see what ensued. He could hear every individual cry from the crowd, not cries of concern, but of shock; “Assassin!” In front of him four guards of red cloaks pulled blades from sheathes, while two shifted their spears into offensive positions. Three guards knew the moment had come, grabbing the handles of their weapons. Time suddenly shifted to a normal pace.
Introduction
The sun reached the height of the rostrum. Wealthy men in robes and women in peignoirs stood around the podium listening intently. Whenever the deceitful rat would pause from his speech, everyone would clap and cheer. They were all the same, dressed the same, looked the same, all pawns to the anarchy which enslaved them…all fearing for their lives. There was only one man who differed from the mass in the city square. He wore a brown cloak, covering his entire body and shadowing his face. He strode quickly from the beggars and peasants in the back of the crowd, gently pushing through as he headed to the anterior. He paced like a murky shadow; it seemed that no one in the tightly-packed mass of people noticed this dark figure. Reaching the middle of the wealthy supporters of the dictator, he suddenly stopped moving. An obviously affluent man approached him. He wore a florid red cloak and brown pants with lacings on the sides. He had brown hair with a slight balding spot in the middle, and wore a kind and jubilant face with an air of solemnity about it. He had on a brass belt with mysterious engravings all along it. To the cloaked man this apparel set him aside from all of the others.
As they met eyes the cloaked man whispered, “Aryius, are our brothers in place?”
“Yes my lord, you have only to strike and your escape is almost guaranteed.”
“Almost?”
“There is always a margin of risk on duties such as this.”
“I understand. All must ready on my signal, we have lost too many already. We must not let one man fall on this mission.”
“Yes, sir.”
The cloaked man broke eye contact with his information officer and started to pace through the crowd towards the podium. As he approached the front of the crowd he observed his surroundings. The white-marble dais on which the governor stood was circular, about ten meters across. It had nine obelisk pylons around it, holding up a massive angled rooftop. The dais itself sat in the middle of the central plaza, inside the great market. On all sides of the uprise there stood guards, ten in total; one between each pillar. The cloaked man recognized three of them at once: the two closest to the governor and the one farthest, his brothers. In front of him was a series of stairs leading up to the podium where the corrupt ruler spoke his atrocious lies, feeding off the cheers of his followers. The wealthy man wore a long taffeta robe studded with gold buttons and laces, polished leather espadrilles, and various additions in niches to escalate the mans look as a noble. His face was wide and fat, with a certain satisfaction seemingly at his own accomplishments. This particular man was a lead member of the Emperor’s council and overseer of the Magodalus, the sector of the city encompassing the Great Market and many wealthy districts. As he raised his hand the crowd hushed, and he began to speak:
“If our great nation is to succeed in its new trials, we must first take action! There are many who advocate the destruction of our rich culture, passed down over forty-six generations! These men and women wish the destruction of all of Sargon and its people! We must not let this happen…these mindless animals; these warmongering supporters of the enemy must be stopped!”
As the governor took a short pause the crowd cheered. The creature raised his arm and ushered a silence. “They are no longer citizens of this country, and are fit for death in any state! Has there been one single day in the last forty-seven years that every citizen of this nation hasn’t feared for his life? To be captured, tortured, and mutilated by the malicious cultists of the north? If ever we are too feel secure and safe again, we must first destroy the internal threat. This nation can provide you with defense and security from the outside, as we have for half a century; but with all of our dynamism and care of our people – we can not fully demolish the enemy on the inside. If we are to strike down the damned occultists of this city, bring back its full beauty and purpose…we must first rise up!”
A great ovation came from the crowd, even with no pause in the warlord’s utterance. The governor raised his fist into the air yelling, “Rise up! March through the streets and find all of those who threaten our being. This can first be done in a subtle and untroublesome manner. If you know even one sympathizer to the cult, even one man who thinks this beautiful nation unfree; report him to your local militia. Soon, the dirtied districts in this city will be washed in a mighty shower of truth! Once the great quarters are cleansed, we can go on to the damned outskirts of this once great city, where mobs mass in the reek, where…”
The cloaked man could listen no longer. Under his breath he whispered, “Filth!”
He turned and carefully studied the crowd; the moment should arrive soon. The mob nearest him screamed in delight at this dark preaching, but in the distance he could glimpse the poorer residents of the city; they all knew what would come from these ideals. Chaos. The man turned back to the dais. According to the speech copy that his aides had collected, it was almost time.
The governor moved his hand across the sky as he spoke, “Look at our fair city! Look across the skies to the tower of Adrunial, which our fathers built as a beacon of hope in…”
The warlord looked as if he was going to burst into tears. The cloaked man recognized the polished look as a tactic to inspire emotion. As he continued speaking of the cities many allures, he pointed out towards each milestone. The crowd turned to join their master, looking back to the heart of the city. The moment had struck.
The cloaked man suddenly thrusted himself towards the stairs. Those in the crowd who still looked forward suddenly gasped as he lunged his body up many steps at a time. In a flash like lightning he was in front of the podium. Time seemed to stand still as he met eyes with Governor Boralis. It is only at a time when you meet eyes with your victim that you suddenly know whether he deserves his fate. In the blink of an eye, the cloaked figure realized…He must die.
Golden leaves fell from the plaza’s decorative Sai trees. The cloaked man’s senses of awareness soared. He could hear the bronzed leaves brushing against the white plaza floor as the wind gently put them to rest. He could hear the people’s cloaks and robes brushing against each other as they suddenly turned from the distance to see what ensued. He could hear every individual cry from the crowd, not cries of concern, but of shock; “Assassin!” In front of him four guards of red cloaks pulled blades from sheathes, while two shifted their spears into offensive positions. Three guards knew the moment had come, grabbing the handles of their weapons. Time suddenly shifted to a normal pace.
