Into the Ink (solo)

[Scarovese]

OOC: This is my backstory post and so you should see SOME things from my registration fleshed out. More will come in the next quest! Thanks!!

The twenty miles back from the open house that evening seemed to take longer than I remembered. I was happy the Batzels had such a good turnout while trying to sell their home, but the evening had dragged on longer than anticipated. Every traffic light seemed to predict my arrival and cycle through its colors just to spite me. Construction cropped up where it hadn’t been that morning, and none of my usual shortcuts gave me any relief. Sighing in frustration, my mind turned to other matters. I ran my hand through my thick chestnut hair and flashed a half-smile in the rear view mirror. I had spent a few extra minutes on it that morning and the extra gel was certainly paying off. It was no wonder every woman had been so friendly tonight! With a scoff I turned the rear view mirror back to its original position and shook my head; my attitude would never match the conceited coworkers from my firm. I just couldn’t think so highly of myself… what was their secret?

Red flashed to green and the cars around me roared to life. Jolted from my introspection, I pressed the gas and eagerly continued on my commute. I flexed my hands against the steering wheel and shifted in my seat; as comfortable as my suit was, sitting for this long wasn’t pleasant. Mercifully, the traffic thinned slightly and the rest of the drive to the shopping center took only a few more minutes. I should have used the weekend to run these errands, but I had put it off like I did with all work on weekends. The weekend is certainly not a time for working, no matter how menial the task.

I hopped out of the driver seat and straightened my suit as I walked into Reitzel and Son, the used book store. The bell chimed by arrival as I pushed through the door. “Hey Charlie,” I mumbled as the elderly owner waved from his place among the bookshelves. I was enough of a regular that he knew he didn’t need to give me special treatment.

“Good evening, Mr. Matthews,” Charlie said. He didn’t need to dote on me, I would find a book to my liking, buy it, and continue on my way. This was the same scenario that had played out every week for the past six months; I loved my little routines like this. I rounded the stacks of popular fiction and wormed my way to the back of the store where Charlie kept the antiques. The dust was a bit thick on these covers; I felt that few besides myself had ever even given them a look. “Riven, Glasgow: A Traveling, History of the Scarlet Glade,” I muttered the titles to each volume as I craned my neck sideways to read their spines. A particularly thick leatherbound caught my eye and I shifted it from its place to check out the cover, “Tales of Ettermire”. My brow furrowed as I flicked through a few pages. It was filled with descriptions of steam engines, dirigibles, and bustling cities. “I’ll give it a read,” I shrugged as I shut the book and headed back toward the counter.

[Scarovese]

“Find something for this week, Scott?” Charlie questioned as I passed him. I smiled and nodded as I reached for my moneyclip. “That’ll be $42.50, sport.” I counted out the cost and added a little bit extra for Charlie. Being the sole proprietor of a used book store in this neighborhood could not be very easy and the man did a good job. The large majority of the store was well organized, clean, and engaging. He made sure to order the latest in pop fiction for the youngest crowd. I chuckled under my breath as I remembered his Harry Potter and Twilight release parties. Needless to say, I had given the store a wide berth on those days.

“Have a great day, Charlie,” I stated as I headed for the exit. “See you next week!” Instead of returning to my car, I headed across the parking lot to the liquor and tobacco store. Along with a good tale to read at night, I enjoyed the occasional smoke and drink. My beverage of choice? Scotch. It was a rare delicacy for my father while I was growing up. I knew that something grand had happened when I saw him open that bottle. The act of enjoying a glass after work was another ritual of mine; gladly one that I enjoyed much more often than my working-class father. I certainly didn’t begrudge him for working so hard and yet getting nowhere, in fact, it had spurred me to improve my own station in life. I frequently wondered if I could have done this well for myself if he hadn’t worked at the same dead-end job for his entire life. Smiling as I selected a beautiful case full of a dozen expensive cigars, I mentally saluted my father. Perhaps the man had given me more than I thought. I paid for my scotch and cigars and made a beeline for my car; this meant my drive was almost over, traffic permitting.

My tires squealed as I turned sharply into the short driveway beside my house. My neighborhood was quiet and comprised mostly of older couples whose children had long since left the house. I waved to my neighbor, Suzy, as she cooed with her overweight cat on her lap and walked up the cobblestone to my simple front door. The outside porch had no plants, the door had no decorations. Simple and efficient; that was how I liked my house. I let myself in, the simplicity of the outside echoed on the inside. The walls were still builder’s white and the furniture was vaguely reminiscent of a catalogue page. Indeed, I had simply paid the woman at Ikea to pick out a set for each room. I was never the man who liked accessorizing or designing. At least it was clean; everything had its place and I made an effort to keep it that way. My keys clanked into the basket just inside the front door as I shrugged off my jacket. Tossing it to its place on the hook on the wall, I set down my scotch and cigars while sliding the book out of the bag Charlie had given me.

I ran my fingers across the delicate leatherwork on the cover as I reached into the cupboard for a glass. Still admiring the book, I took my drink and my cigars with me into the study and turned on a light. Though it was only six in the evening, the sun had already set on the day. “I can’t wait until spring,” I thought aloud as I set everything on the side table next to my easy chair. The bulb in my reading light hummed as I flicked the switch, its glow only a low orange as it warmed up. The house had a chill to it so I took the time to light a fire before collapsing into my chair. The day’s stresses melted from me as I sighed and settled in. Dealing in real estate meant working with many different people on any given day and charming my way through it all; some days it wore on me.

I took a deep swig of my scotch and exhaled as the flavors washed over my tongue. The troubles of my business faded away as I turned my attention once again to the leatherbound book now sitting on the side table. Tales of Ettermire; perhaps a collection of short stories? The details I had seen earlier about great flying machines and a blossoming technological city brought the image of a steampunk story to mind. I shrugged; there was nothing wrong with the genre, even if the characters were sometimes a little predictable. I lit a cigar and inhaled, letting the smoky notes mingle with the lingering taste of the scotch. Closing my eyes, I allowed my head to drift back and settle on the headrest of my favorite chair. This was why I worked so hard, to afford myself these little luxuries. I smiled contently, although some events in my life had seemingly conspired to ruin my happiness, here I was; a successful realtor in a happening town with a beautiful house and a few choice pleasures. I allowed that feeling to well up within me as I opened the book and laid it across my lap.

[Scarovese]

The words consumed me as I read about the Great Battle of L’Renar Harlilen where masses of dark elves were slain by their dwarven brethren until Valsharess took the throne. I delved into the lives of Vazerith and Vordutin, two of the greatest generals in the history of Alerar. The stories of young inventors and bloodthirsty warriors sharing a drink at The Bottomless Pit made me chuckle even as the yarns of lost loves to the disputes between elven kingdoms made me weep. The clock grimly displayed that early morning had arrived when I stumbled across an out of place page. Upon this page there was printed only one word: Drizaghar. “Driz Ag Har? Dry Zag Air?” Confused at the disparity between the beautiful stories I had read and this single word, I tried in vain to sound it out. “Driz Ay Gar? Dri Zay Gar?” With that last syllable, the word faded.

“Strange,” I puzzled, flipping back and forth between the pages around it. I shut the book and slid it from my lap, glancing around as if expecting to see the strange word on the cushion of the chair. I placed the book on the table and went to reach for my scotch when I realized I couldn’t let go. It was as if my hand were glued to the cover. Confusion turned to curiosity as I lifted the book with my other hand and brought it closer for examination. And then I saw it; ink pouring from the pages I had just read, sliding over the cover like a wicked snake stalking me as its prey. Curiosity quickly fled and in its place I was filled with a cold dread. This was not natural, not right. Words do not attack people like this, not in my world at least. But even so, the writing inched its way ever closer until at last it reached my skin. Like a hot iron, the ancient ink seared my flesh as the words crept their way up my arm. Leaping from my chair in pain, I knocked my scotch to the floor. I waved my arm around like a lunatic swatting at bees, but the book remained adhered. Despite my attempts to prevent it, the words etched themselves along my arms, my shoulders, and finally my neck. Now the writings became whisperings and repeated only one word: Drizaghar. I remember screaming as the ink flowed into my ear like molten lead, but I don’t remember anything after that. Until I woke up here.

When I came to, I was lying on a wooden floor with a barrel as a pillow and a canvas bag as a blanket. I threw out my arms, scrubbing them to remove the burning words, but there was no trace of the sinister ink. Still on edge, I rose to my feet and peered through the flickering light to get a grasp on my surroundings. My chair stood in the center of the room, my glass of scotch on the floor where it had fallen. The side table was right next to it, complete with my case of cigars and the remaining scotch. However, that was where the familiarity ended. Everything else appeared to be a long forgotten wine cellar, the likes of which I had never seen before in my life.

It’s amazing how quickly the mind can rationalize actions and events. Despite seeing this blatant anachronism with my own eyes, my thoughts immediately turned to Jimmy; a known joker from my firm. “What did that bastard do to me!?” I grimaced as I dusted myself off. “And who did he bring in on this?” I couldn’t stand at my full height due to the low ceiling, so I shuffled my way toward the source of the light as a hunchback. “Jimmy!” I shouted into the shadows collecting in the corners of the room, “This isn’t funny!” Though my arm was burning in pain, I plodded forward.

My shin slammed into an overturned barrel and I let out a barrage of curses as I went down, clutching my leg as I did. Gritting my teeth in pain, I swore at Jimmy up, down, and sideways. “Seriously!” I shouted at him, letting my pain show through my words. “Too far, Jimmy…” My voice trailed off as I heard a dull thud from some ways off followed by slow footsteps. The hair on the back of my neck raised in primal fear and all thoughts of Jimmy’s shenanigans momentarily faded from my mind. I groped about in the relative darkness, feeling for something to defend myself with from this unknown threat. My fingers closed on a full bottle of wine and I grimaced as I raised it in front of me. What was I going to do with this, I wondered aimlessly as the footsteps grew nearer.

As the dull light grew in intensity, I could see the outline of the cellar door behind a stack of wooden pallets and a few more canvas bags. The stranger on the other side grunted as his progress into the room was halted, but he pushed even harder to clear the way. More light forced its way around the silhouette of the stranger, determined to invade the cellar from the hallway outside. “Well, don’t just stand there,” a voice boomed. “Grab that vintage she wanted and let’s go! How’d you get in here anyway, Luke?”

[Scarovese]

My heart kept palpitating and my mouth went dry. Speaking seemed like a wise choice, but my lips wouldn’t form anything resembling words. I stuttered out a few sounds and then stopped, backing up against the racks on the wall as I brandished the bottle at the stranger. “Luke,” he chastised, “you know we’re not supposed to sample to selections! You’re lucky it’s me who came down to check on you and not her!!” Stomping into the room, he pushed aside the pallets and moved several barrels before closing the distance between us. “Luke?” he questioned as he slowed his approach, holding out an extremely large hand. “It’s alright, you won’t be in trouble. I’ll see to that!” His voice rose again into a laugh and despite my best intentions I found myself mildly at ease. Stepping forward, I felt a shaft of light illuminate my features. The large man started, I knew he was expecting Luke and I only hoped that he’d be as jovial knowing I wasn’t him.

It felt like we stood there for ages before his face settled into a frown and my fingers tightened around the wine bottle. Then, chuckling, he stepped forward and into the same shaft of light. I finally saw that his full face was framed in a great beard and that he wasn’t stooped over like me. In fact, the height of the cellar didn’t seem to faze him at all; he stood at his full height, outfitted in leathers and colorful cloth that were in stark contrast to the dusty basement. “Luke, you’ve changed since fifteen minutes ago,” he joked, breaking the awkward silence between us. And although his tone was light, his face didn’t reflect that. “What happened here?”

I couldn’t help myself; the way his voice struck a chord within me, I felt at ease with this short man. In a jumble of words and gestures, I found my voice and spilled the entire story. Though I spoke with my own voice, for some reason the words felt different in my mouth. I brushed it off as an aftereffect of the fear and stress, continuing my tale. The stranger kept quiet and calm during the whole tale, not chiming in even when I got to the part about Jimmy playing a trick on me with an old book. “And so,” I finished, “I need to find the bastard and pay him back!” I shook my fist as if to illustrate the fate awaiting Jimmy and leaned back to wait for a response. To my surprise, the man grunted and peered off into the shadows.

“This is no place to discuss such things, lad,” he stated in a shockingly serious tone. “Grab that book and let’s find someplace to hide you for now.” He was turning away even as he finished those words and he was at the door again before they had truly hit me. “I’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” he grumbled as he stepped out into the hall. Setting down the bottle of wine that I had clung to so desperately, I fumbled in the dark for the leatherbound book and hastily followed the stranger. Why did he have explaining to do? Had Jimmy put him up to this too?

“Seriously, did Jimmy put you up to this?” I inquired as I turned down the hall. “Because the man’s a giant tool. I really wouldn’t put it past him to arrange this whole thing! He was kind of jealous of my numbers last quarter and this has got to be his way of getting back at me! Right!?” I babbled at the back of the stranger’s head as he led me away from the cellar. When I finally stopped for a breath, he turned to face me.

“There is no Jimmy.”

I paused too, my brow creasing. “What do you mean? Did something happen to him? I saw him take off really quick in his Hummer this afternoon, but-“

The man turned and held out a hand signaling me to stop. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice growing more and more dour by the minute. All traces of his initially cheerful nature had gone. “Hummers and Jimmy and real tours and scotch…” The man shook his head as he got a distant look in his eyes. “I’ve heard tales of things like this happening,” he mumbled, more to himself than to me. “I need to consult Bhakti’mat.” With that, he spun on his heel and marched off down the hall once again. I had no choice but to follow.

[Scarovese]

“So, seriously,” I pried, not willing to admit defeat so easily, “where am I!? And what’s your name?”

“Duck,” the stranger said tersely as he strode through the door at the end of the hall.

“What a weird na-“ The words were knocked from my lips as a giant metal fist glanced off the side of my skull. Regardless, I stumbled to the side, tripped, and landed unceremoniously amongst a pile of sandbags in the corner of the room. My ears rung, my head ached, and the stranger was stifling a laugh as a giant metal man plodded toward me. Disoriented and dazed, I couldn’t even think about escaping. I merely braced myself for the end to come; why had the stranger led me to this monster!?

“Apologies, friend,” the tinman lamented, bowing before me. “My training sometimes takes me away from this place, I lost myself in the movement.” One steel-encased hand reached for the other and grasped it in an awkward manner. Then, the brute ripped of its own hand! I scooted back as best I could, was this some sort of robot? I was more confused than ever until I saw the meaty, dark-skinned hand underneath all the metal. Just as I made that realization, the rest of the metal retreated into the gauntlet and only the man beneath remained. This didn’t put me much at ease since the man beneath the armor was every bit as intimidating as the robot.

“What the-“ my words trailed off as I realized the hulking brute before me was just a man holding a gauntlet. “But how did you-?” I couldn’t even find the words, my ears still ringing from the earlier blow.

“The Gaunlet of the Saighdiur,” he stated, as if that was all the explanation I would need. Never mind the fact that he had just been steel from head to toe; this name more than made up for it. I winced; even being sarcastic was making my head throb more. I closed my eyes to clear my thoughts and realized they still hadn’t really told me anything.

“Where. The Hell. Am I!?” I demanded, looking back and forth from the giant to the midget. The brute’s face tightened in worry and he shared a look of worry with my original contact. “Hello!? Answer me!”

Finally, the smaller of the two stepped forward. “This is going to be hard to hear,” he began. “But your world is gone. You’ve found yourself in El'inssring in the city of Ettermire in the region of Alerar in the land of Althanas.” As he said each word, I felt myself losing more and more control. I had read about these locations. In a book. In my home. On Earth.

[Scarovese]

My knees gave out at this point and I slumped back on the sandbags. My mind stopped flooding me with excuses and rationalizations. I starkly remembered the words crawling across my skin and the falling feeling right before I blacked out. Was it possible that I had somehow… fallen into the book? The thought itself was too much for me to process. I listened as the bearded man and the black beast began their explanation.

“First of all,” the stranger began, “The name’s Germeroth and this is Bhakti’mat. What shall we call you?”

“Scott Matthews,” I replied, instinctively taking a half step forward and holding out my hand. When no one stepped forward to shake it, I awkwardly let it drop by my side.

“Scott,” Germeroth mused. “That’s hardly a proper name. Well, on any count, you may have noticed that I am a dwarf. Bhakti’mat here is a retired guard from Fallien.” But I barely heard anything he said.

Dwarf. The word lodged in my head like a thorn. Fantasy games had dwarves. Books had dwarves. Tales of Ettermire had dwarves. “Does the name Valsharess mean anything to you?” I asked nervously.

Germeroth bowed his head and Bhakti’mat scowled. “Yes,” the dwarf answered after some time. “But that is neither here nor there. We have a problem to attend to.” He stepped forward and grabbed my arm. “And the problem is you.” He led me over to a table in the corner as Bhakti’mat began cleaning up his training space. Though my head was reeling, I listened closely as Germeroth explained where I was. Most of the things he mentioned were familiar enough; they had also explained them in the book. Slowly, I was coming to terms with the concept that somehow, the book’s world had become real. I just needed to know my place in it.

“So what now?” I asked, resigning myself to my current fate. “What do I do next?” The dwarf shook his head and sighed gruffly. As another shot of pain seared my arm, I rolled up the sleeve to my dress shirt. There, etched into the flesh like a brand, was the word: Drizaghar. My jaw dropped and I looked furtively at my hosts. Here Germeroth visibly paled. “What is this!?” I exclaimed.

“Scott,” he responded, “I honestly do not know. Clearly you’ve been marked.”

Bhakti’mat actually chuckled and pointed to my arm. “Scar. Much better name for you.”

Scar Matthews. I let the name make an impression on me. Scott was a successful businessman and scotch enthusiast. What future did Scar have in front of him? “What next?” I questioned, beginning to feel the hope return in the face of this situation.

“As I told you, I have only heard tales of this sort of thing,” Germeroth said dismissively as he rose from the table and paced away. Bhakti’mat came over and took his place.

“Scar, the Mother once had a visitor like you,” he began, his large finger tracing the grain of the table as he did. “We wondered what would become of him as well. In the end, we could not return him to his world. However, he rose in station here and became a legend.” The brute’s voice lowered as he leaned in closer. “You are destined to do the same.”

[Scarovese]

I immediately felt a glimmer of hope at his words. Here was a simple anecdote about a man who had ‘become a legend’; simple yet powerful. My thoughts turned back to our meeting; getting clocked in the face. I knew from reading a bit of the book that this world was much more primal, much more about surviving than creature comforts. While I hadn’t done much in the way of exercising since boxing in college, this world might give me the chance to get back into fighting shape. “This world,” I muttered. Lord; I was in another realm entirely. What use would my knowledge of building code and real estate jargon be here!? Everything I had worked toward in my adult life amounted to nothing in the blink of an eye. It was humbling. On the other hand, I had a chance to alter the path I had chosen. I dove into the world of academics and business as soon as I had a chance. It was the furthest thing from what my father did as a steel worker from a poor, blue collar town. He had dropped out of high school to help his father work in the factory. He had hoped I would one day do the same. But instead I had tried to distance myself as far as I could from him. Where book learning and school had failed him, they helped me flourish. Was this my chance to see what would lie down the other path?

“Scar,” I stated. Not a question, not wondering who I was. There had been enough tragedy and hardship for Scott. Scar Matthews had a future in this magical land of elves, dwarves, and… whatever Bhakti’mat was. My attitude had always been to put the past behind me and look to the future. It was why my memories didn’t crush me. I turned to look at Bhakti’mat, matching his resolute stare with my own. Nodding his approval, the massive man abruptly turned and left the room. I heard his strong footsteps far down the corridor before they began to fade away. Germeroth walked over, the cheerful look somewhat returning to his face.

“Scar,” he affirmed, reaching out a hand to rest it on my arm, just above where the word was branded into my skin. “We will help you. Bhakti’mat was right; you may yet become the stuff of legend. Come.” With those words, he too turned to walk out of the room. I watched him before rolling up my sleeve on the arm with the word emblazoned across it. Drizaghar. What did it mean? I needed to discover what lay ahead for me. Scott may have wanted to return home, but Scar would wait things out a bit before making that decision. I smiled, exhausted at the day’s events. Only Germeroth’s voice from down the hall was enough to jolt me back to the present.

Covering my arm once more and tucking the book under my arm, I ran out the door to catch up with my only ally in this world, this Alerar. Tomorrow would begin a new life.

[Mordelain]

Thread Title: Into the Ink
Judgement Type: Full Rubric
Participants: Scarovese

Plot ~ 14/30

Story ~ 5/10 – you had form, function, and fervour to your awakening tale. Alas, with such a short piece, you had no time to develop the character, the scenes that bring him to Althanas, and the reactions he had to each new surprise from Tales of Ettermire. You accomplished a literary standard suitable for telling it right, but consider giving your excellently balanced ideas more time to develop in the future. Of course, don’t develop them too much, as then we end up at the opposite end of the scale – a George Martin scale drones about nothing more than a walk through the park.

Setting ~ 4/10 – of all the categories, many excellent, setting was Into the Ink’s black sheep. Throughout, you describe things blossoming, things moving, ‘delicate’ leatherwork, and ‘bloodthirsty’ warriors; it is all skin deep (much like a scar), however. To develop a setting, you need to, naturally, touch upon the five senses, and perhaps the sixth – how characters feel spiritually or what lingers in the beyond, the unexplained (though that would likely be unsuitable for this tale). We need to see colour, sights, features of these components – are the bloodthirsty warriors haggard, northern, clad in armour like dragon scale? Is the leather bound book antique, antique, or engraved on the metal spine with a cryptic message? Purple prose will always be a risk when over burdening your work with the details of our surroundings, but more development needs to be present to reach a benchmark. It is, by no means least, poor – it is simply a weak link in a polished thread. I would happily discuss this further and provide noted examples if required.

Pacing ~ 5/10 – scene transition was suitable, but a scene per post requires more clarity and connection between each setting to pull off something wonderful. The thread started strong as far as pacing was concerned, showing a slow, ambling end to a slow, ambling day fall into routine and possible excitement – you trailed off in the final three, taking us too quickly to a well-poised closing line. I personally try and pace each post to a set word limit, with a variance for new paragraphs and dialogue heavy vs. description heavy (since one or the other comes out a different visual length). Forum writing requires a little more adjustment to conform to the standards, and it sounds odd, but getting your post length right can work wonders not just for pacing, but clarity, wildcard, and story too.

Character ~ 20/30

Communication ~ 7/10 – it’s difficult to express character and setting through dialogue, but you use colloquialisms and quirky speech patterns to good effect. The exchanges felt genuine, believable, and heartfelt. To improve upon a solid foundation, consider breaking up the shorter exchanges and building on the banter a shop keeper and his client would have. You mention previous book signings in the passive narration, why not have them jibe about it? Intermingle the way you communicate between characters, as well as between reader and the words on the page – dynamic text is a sure-fire way to keep people coming back for more.

Action ~ 6/10 – action is, as you rightly display, not all about sword and sorcery. It’s also about the little movements in a scene, the screech of a tire, the turning of a mirror, and the tipping of a much deserve dram at the end of a hard working day. The highlight of the thread was the Duck incident, and the awakening on Althanas was nicely balanced between said, done, and narrative. My only concern, and the reason for the above average, but not as high as other category score, is that you quickly fell into the trap of speaking about the same thing over and over. The screen of the tire, and the rear mirror in particular got focus without means – mix it up, again, keep an already fiery story dynamic!

Persona ~ 7/10 – oozing with yuppie charm, Scar, or rather, Scott, was everything I expected him to be, and I guess, everything you set out for him to be. There’s a hard working ethic to the man, which you clearly portray in his apathetic comments about friends, family, and his work. I also like the subtle, non-heavy nods to his past – the way his father used to celebrate with a bottle, and how he has a connection with acquaintances he values as much as we might best of friends. Take this to heart when I say, you did not achieve higher within the rubric because of the introductory nature of the thread, as well its relative short length. With time, working with the new wonders Scott has to deal with as the day to day, I am sure persona will quickly become your foray.

Prose ~ 22/30

Mechanics ~ 9/10 – I found It immensely difficult to find flaw in your body of work at all; literally, I had to strain and re-read to find even the slightest off putting structural anomaly. Your grasp of erratic, non-conformist fiction gives you much credit, and it does not detract from the grammatical strength of the insightful world of Scar Mathews. Be careful not to over pepper your work with colon and semi-colon alike, however – brevity is one thing, but knowing when to strike a reader with something unusual can often be more effective than falling back on it all the time.

Clarity~ 6/10 – overuse of comma, semi-colon, and time jumping hampered a truly clarifying read, though the structure itself was not necessarily incorrect. Try to avoid changing scene after dialogue, as with post 2’s ‘Instead of returning to my car’. It might sound woefully elementary, but a new paragraph will always be a safe, sure, and readable bet as far as dialogue is concerned. There were a few instances of break in tense, too, in the exchange between Scar and his new ‘companions’ in the tavern that hampered an improved score.

Technique ~ 7/10 – I am pleased to see you bring your talent together by being consistent. Inflections in speech, turns of phrase, and use of shortened speech (reflecting his Earth heritage, and the likely more common tongue and less rigid approach he uses to speaking) all polish a good grasp of literary technique; you use the much forgotten Oxford Comma, and tripling, and I daresay I enjoyed your light smattering of wit. A good, strong, grounded effort – well done.

Wildcard: 7/10 – I am seldom quite as surprised by short threads as I was by this. I am seldom surprised quite so much by introductory threads, at that. You, as a writer, and your character as a character have made a lasting impression, and I very much look forward to another encounter with the entrepreneur.

I would be happy to develop on the points above, or provide more in depth examples based on those notes if requested. cydneyoliver@gmail.com, or my Mordelain inbox are both appropriate avenues to do.

If you have any concerns, doubts, and worries, and don’t wish to speak to me directly for whatever reason, then I am sure another member of staff will resolve the matter on your behalf. I am perfectly amenable and open to feedback, as the judge has to develop, as much as the writer put under the scrutiny of the rubric!

Total ~ 63/100


Scarovese receives 519 experience, and 100 gold coins.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.