Searching For A Mythical Paradise

[Philomel]

OOC: Decided to change this into a solo, cause hey, why not. Basic story - Phi's mother was raped by the warrior who taught Phi how to kill. Phi killed the guy. Now her mother, Lacey, wants to go to this place called "Carapree" she's heard about in a song.

Edit 25th March: This basically tells the story of Phi between the death of her pimp, Mort, and her getting to Eiskalt for the Clan War. Takes a few liberations with how she gets there and why but makes sense for the character.

"Charm charm charm the lady
Sing her a tune and then maybe
She'll fall for your heart
Your soul and your face
And then roll away to Carapree"

Carapree, Carapree, where the fuck was Carapree?

In an almost violent manner Philomel searched through the seemingly endless pages of the large tome before her. It was heavy, had thick brass fittings and must have a whole calf's back worth in the amount of leather used to bind it. Whatever unfortunate beast had ended up becoming the base of such an indepth book was long since dead and beyond worrying about.

But it was what her mother wanted. The only thing Lacey van den Aart had asked of her daughter since the time that she had been conceived. Everything else had just been assumed - that Philomel would go into the "family" business, that she would become the secondary faun whore in Mort's brothel, that she would grow to somehow be able to transfer her learnt self defence skills (every prostitute learnt them) into an ability to not only fight her way out of particularly nasty bedroom situations but also become something that was entirely unusual; a most dramatic woman of two professions, a whore-assassin.

Until now. Now all of this had been put aside after Philomel had discovered the same man who had taught her to fight and kill and slay raping her mother, Lacey. The one person she perhaps had some sort of notion of love towards.

Now the man was dead, and her mother...

"I can't do it, Phi, love. I just can't. He wants me to... To continue in a way I cannot ever do again. Its over. I am done." Tears so many tears, drip drip on the floorboards. "Philomel, listen to me. Mort wants... But I can't. That foul man ruined me, he ruined me!"

And you didn't ruin me when you brought me here as a child? Philomel's inner demoness screamed. You didn't ruin my life by having affairs in front of my eyes with my father?

But in all things fair, Enna was, is, a bastard...

Carapree. Back to Carapree.

Lacey had heard the song in the brothel sung by one of the new girls from Salvar, and now was determined to go there. She had sent the only one she could bribe now - all loving ability went from her after the rape - that being Phi, to the library on an already ill-fated quest to try to find this place. Carapree, where Lacey imagined because of the song and the idea of love it suggested, there was paradise. Philomel was of the much more realistic mind that there was no such thing as paradise, there was only squalor and fucking shite all day, but for now she would amuse her mother. At least attempt to find the damn place.

Hence why she was very out of place in the Great Radasanth Library, currently leafing through a huge book of old place names in the disturbingly large mythical geography section.

"It's as if I don't believe it exists," Philomel muttered to herself sarcastically as she leaned half-heartedly over the desk. She looked very out of place here among the scholars and staff with her dreadlocked hair, horns and visible cleavage. But that did not bother her.

What did was that there seemed to be no mention of Carapree anywhere.

Phi let out a huge groan of disheartened grumpiness and leaned over, face down into the book. This was dull and she was getting nowhere. There was absolutely no point in it anymore anyway.

[Philomel]

A few days later...

Standing. By herself. Normal and dull and foolish.

Maybe foolish. But there was nothing else really to do. Mort her pimp was gone. Her mother was almost gone.

Philomel stood on the harbour, her hands by her side, watching the boat drift into the horizon. Finally, finally, after all that searching she had found it. A mention of Carapree in the small print of an old Rasadanth newspaper, which reported the fabled island as a myth, but based on fact, as all myth is. It had been a honeymoon paradise back in the ancient glory days of Corone and was now known as Moonlit Island.

It had taken her hours - gods it felt like days in that vast library, ripping through books, gnashing her teeth together, pulling her dreadlocked hairs from her head as she searched and searched and searched and fucking looked. It seemed like she had wasted part of her life, but in a way it was all for the best. With it, Philomel could pack her mother off to the Moonlit Island with an old farting ex-whore who was trembling with the thought of no longer having Mort to support her. The truth of Philomel's involvement with the murder had of course not been mentioned at all - the body had been found and Philomel had acted all along as shocked as the rest of them. All it needed was a good bit of acting and that she was excellent at, considering her lovemaking experience.

Moonlit Island.

"Should be more like the Dead and Gone island," Philomel muttered under her breath. Her eyes blinked, once, then the ship had gone beyond the horizon, out of sight, taking her mother with it to the Moonlit Island. Well good luck to her.

The faun-whore flicked her fishwife's braid of hair over her shoulder and twisted around. Hand on the hilt of her kris dagger at her waist she began to saunter gracefully back into the city. To go back to her temporary accommodation in the inn, collect her belongings and then start out. Now with no overbearing pimp and needy mother she was free as a bird. At least a crow. Or a nightingale, to do as she wont. Which in itself far more appealing than anything she had felt in a number of enduring years.

Farewell mother, she thought, Goodbye Lacey.

Humming quietly she began to ascend one of the main roads, which curved like a snake up a gentle slope, aiming towards the City Centre. It passed a number of taverns and small copses, complete with holy tree sites and shit pits, turned by one of the old castles and a town hall or two. One of the largest and most expensive brothels, the Wine Maiden, was on this street also and Philomel was almost tempted to go inside and see if they were hiring... But her pride stopped her.

A new day, a new start. There was no guarantee that the Wine Maiden would support her other profession at all, the one Mort had been delighted in having her trained in. "Mutli-skilled," he had liked to say, "My multi-skilled bitch killer slut."

Philomel strode past the brothel and turned right into the Candlemaker's Place and went to the inn she and her mother had been staying in. Throwing a coin to the barboy she took to the stairs, and was down again in three minutes with all her worldly belongings stuffed into a leather pair of saddlebags. For a while she stood there, in the hallway, looking as blank as paper, still as a statue, empty as a troll's head.

It took the barboy to walk up to her.

"Eh, Miss?"

Philomel blinked.

"Eh... Miss... D'ya need some'at?"

Some at? Phi blinked again. Some at... Oh something.

The barboy seemed to read her mind. "Aye somefing. D'ya need? Wha' d'ya need Miss?"

A new life, the faun assassin-whore growled in her mind, A new fucking job.

"Mistah Draak ova in nex' street is hirin' Miss." He bobbed his head. "You wanna try dere."

Philomel clicked her tongue, then turned suddenly to stare at the young boy, who looked human but yet something... More.

"Half-impish Miss," he explained, "Read thoughts, I do." He reached up and tapped his skull.

"I could have guessed that," she replied quickly, harshly. Ah, it seemed he did read her mind.

The half-imp grinned a sharp-toothed grin. "Yep, Miss murderessness, Miss."

Philomel muttered, "The word is assassin-whore, the only one of my kind."

The boy nodded a deal more. "Yes Miss. Mistah Draak 'e lives o'er dere."

He pointed in a seemingly random direction, yet Phi understood.

Dere. There. Yes.

She paused, then stared hard at the boy, leaning down to get to his level. She gazed directly into his eyes.

"I don't care for people to know my secrets, kid."

The barboy paused, then popped his head to the side. "Wha' abou' da troof?"

The truth! the faun thought, enraged The truth!

Then she paused. Completely unsubtly. Huh.

The truth.

[Philomel]

The half-imp positively bounced as Philomel neared him, her eyes narrowing. He seemed excited, despite the oncoming threat of the larger-than-life female faun approaching him, fingers playing an arrant tune upon the hilt of her sword. A couple of times she clicked her tongue, thinking thoughts of murder and rage inside her skull, then paused before drawing any blood or committing to any death blow. A half-imp? She had never seen the like before.

"How does an imp mate with a human?" she hissed, quietly.

The barboy grinned almost wickedly - the demon side of him suddenly coming out - then leapt up onto the counter. He clambered with the small muscles in his legs straining against the wood, then twisted and sat there on his plump little behind, swinging his legs.

"Jus' like any utha bein' might fuck-aroo."

Fuck. Fuck-aroo. Well that was a new one.

Her fingers stopped dancing. Instead they tensed, slightly, feeling a quiet moment of distrust for this boy. She considered for a while, breathing short and slow breaths.

"You shouldn' kill me," the barboy beamed. His smile was child-like, but cheeky. Like he was trying to seem innocent but there was a adorable sort of mischieviousness to his actions, his personality and his thinkings. "'Cause I can be handy. Yup!"

"You think I am just going to adopt you, and trust you like that?" Philomel growled, her voice suddenly sharp and brutal. "There's nothing I need from you, twerp!"

The barboy bumped his heels against the bar. "I gave ya Mistah Draak's name, Miss."

"And that is supposed to mean something...?" she tailed off, not quietly, waiting for an answer or some form of response at least.

She was in no way expecting the response she got. The small boy paused for a moment, clapped his hands twice then leapt off the bar. He landed in a sprawling position, breaking out into a fit of giggles as he did, then rolled to his feet. Pattering them and brushing himself briefly down he lunged for Philomel's hand. Fearing an assault she began to draw her kastane, and it rang with a light joy and was released ... before his true motives were noticed.

He let out a light shriek, and scuttled sideways like a crab, where he collided with a stool. Eyes wide open with a strange fear he twisted his face away and tried to raise his elbows to shield himself as he cried out.

"Don' hurt me pleases, Miss!"

"Don't fucking try to approach me," she said in a low harsh voice, "Never try to touch me again."

The little boy nodded. "Y-yes Miss," he mumbled, every part of him quivering, even his soul, "Yes Miss, never again."

Never, never again.

[Philomel]

Impressive. Rememerable. Awe-inspiring.

Concentrated essence of troll filled the realm of the Silent Hall, overpowering all other senses but smell. Philomel's sensitive nose was unfortunate in this state - she could not, in any way, ignore it, unless she pinched her nose hard enough to break it, and that would perhaps be a step too far.

Or perhaps not. The smell of the troll was remarkable to say the least. It was the first thing that struck a person as they met Mister Draak of Silent Hall, the second was his massive size that required the Hall itself to be so large. The Silent Hall was tucked away down an allyway, behind an old brewery and built to the side of a Cathedral, so was overlooked for the most part. To the outside world it was simply a place where monks were seen to disappear into, past a line of unkept trees and an over-grown vegetable patch. It smelt of bad cooking and looked a disaster area, yet it was home to one of the most significant trolls within the whole of Rasadanth.

Philomel was shown the way by the now un-shaking but no longer bouncing half-imp boy. He was nibbling his lip as he led Philomel around the side of the table that dominated the centre of the room, upon which the troll himself was grinding a bunch of herbs in a large mortar. He had goggles on his face, strapped around his head, not unlike the ones of the forward-thinking engineers of tomorrow, and had a tongue lolling out in concentration.

The barboy paused, then reached up to tug on the troll's flabby skin that hung off his elbow as the whore assassin-whore stood uncomfortably watching to the side.

"Mistah Draak, sir, I gots you a worker, I did."

A bright smile appeared across the adorable face. The troll did not look at the kid, just kept grinding. He nodded however, slowly, demourely, not breaking concentration, then flicked a coin over to the half-imp. The barboy grinned, squealed with delight, then turned and suddenly ran off, much to the ire of Philomel. She lifted her eyes, glaring at him as he went, suddenly struck with the fear that he held her life in his hands.

"So," came a slow, monotone voice, bot one filled with what seemed years of experience and utter pure wisdom. "So, you have come seeking work have you? Felix read your mind did he?"

Philomel blinked, simply, once. Then she sharply replied, folding her arms across her chest in a defensive stance.

"I came here expecting nothing."

"Then the truth is obvious." The troll paused. His tongue snaked out, washed over his large fat lips, then parted. Solemnly he sighed, then raised a hand with sausages for fingers and tilted up his head. Grasping the bottom of the goggles he lifted them off his face, so Philomel could properly see into his eyes. His tw small, close-set eyes that were as black as night yet as deep as a bottomless well.

"You are here to start your life over."

There was a pause, then the faun-whore shook her head, looking away, a croak coming into her voice. "Is the boy that good?"

The troll, Mister Draak, took a moment, then shook his head. His expression was something soft, and longingly folorn.

"No dear, that is just me. Just me. But I know I can help thee."

[Philomel]

The days had passed in increments, like leaves falling off an autumnal tree. One turned into two, turned into five, and those, as a collective, soon developed into a week. Time has been called a villain, stealing away the minutes and hours of a life, however Philomel longed for these to go. She spent a full morning snoozing upon the mattress in the small room beside the pantry Mister Draak had given her for a very small matter of ten gold per week, and woke up to the smells of freshly baked bread. When she walked into the large hall she was met by a couple of tense stares from two monks who stood by a bench with Mister Draak, sleeves drawn up and pounding with knives at herbs. But for the most, she ignored them. The years had told her to ignore those that disapproved of her. After all, they did not know who she was, she did. She was the only one. She - and her mother. The woman she had now sent away.

"Going private" was not the freedom she had initially visualised. Being free from Mort - that was a comfort, however there was little else to be glad of. The young boy called Felix visited almost every day; he seemed to have a strange master-protoge relationship with the troll monk. Philomel had quietly complained to Master Draak about the boy, but it had done very little. Apparently the boy held in his head a thousand secrets, ones that could topple empires - yet he had not yet revealed one.

She sat on the edge of a tall stool, leaning on the bench before her, as she watched the flabby flappy arms work on hacking at large pieces of meat. With great thwacks he removed the skin and guts and inedible pieces from the mountain goat, splattering the loose-fitting robes he wore with droplets of deep red blood. Of all the men she had come across he seemed the least enthralled by her form, and so, tonight, after her evening round of the local bars, she had returned and stripped, and now sat completely in her birthday suit.

"You don't need the loincloth," he grunted, as he speared an eye from its socket.

The faun-whore blinked, shrugged very slightly. As she did so, her breasts, unhinged, swung like a pair of chandeliers in an earthquake.

Mister Draak's eyes remained dark and focused. "You are hairy enough."

"Any other woman would be offended," Philomel said quietly, watching as a rivulet of red life juice poured from a cut in the shoulder towards her, tilting a way through the small cracks in the wood. It formed a puddle around the eye pattern within the wood-grain itself, swirled, then continued on its path as a fresh wound cause more blood to pour out.

"Aye," Mister Draak nodded, "And any other woman isn't a faun, or a whore."

"Thanks," Phi said, almost thickly.

The troll grinned slightly, then fell quiet. She watched as he got to the heart, selected a trowel-like tool with a sharp edge and literally scooped it out. Taking a clear jar he placed the heart inside, then shoved it towards her with an elbow.

"Put that on the shelf over my the window will you?" he asked.

Philomel raised an eyebrow, but did as she was bidden. Returning, she noticed her stool had been taken up by one of the horns of the ram, curved and still with guts and fat as remnants from the wound it had literally been torn from. Raising an eyebrow she looked up at the sour old troll, who was wiping his sodden forehead with the back of his hemp sleeve and waited until he spoke.

"Its for your collection," he said. "Take it, carve it, do whatever you want with it. But you're going to need it."

She looked at him. "Am I going anywhere?" she asked.

"Concordia," he said, a tweak at the corner of his mouth, "To Underwood. To a tavern in the east quarter, and a pub."

Philomel folded her arms, looked at the troll monk unamused, "For you?"

He nodded, once. "Aye, for me, horny one. For two weeks. I need you to find a man, and deal with him."

The faun-whore blinked. Once, twice. Astounded. "Deal with him... how?"

The troll smiled slightly. His dark eyes behind the lenses of his goggles rose slowly to focus on her.

"As you want to. I just need information from him. I trust you can do that."

She raised her chin slightly as she sat up. Her bare breasts flopped sadly, as if deflating with depression from not having amused him in any way, sexually or ironically.

"I can get anything," she said, almost too quickly. "Its my art. My greatest art."

Mister Draak stopped in his chopping, turning his head fully into her direction now. She saw the tiny flecks of blood obscuring his view upon the goggles.

"I am sure it is, my dear," he said, "I am sure it is, my dear."

[Philomel]

OOC: I originally messed up and reposted the wrong thing, so here is a series of posts, in order how they should have come. This post does link to Phi's brief interraction with Lye in Underwood, but I have only mentioned it so to cause no bunnying etc.

Underwood, Underwood, take me to Underwood.

Should be a fucking poem, the faun-whore thought, walking through the streets. Not a song.

Verse or lyric, she found herself enthralled by Underwood. The trees circulated the town like a natural squadron of patrol guards, dedicated to the erstwhile task of protecting her inhabitants. Rangers strode to and from these copses, in groups or alone, looking as brutal as their myths allowed them to appear. Woodcutters and Woodsmen also were in abundance, and the very occasional orc or troll just minding his way along the road.

With a faint smile upon her lips she waited until night had fallen, and made her way to the public house with the most liberated drunkards. It had some name closely related to Lumber, and was unsurprisingly full of easy pickings. Men here seemed to be familiar with fauns, as she did not receive the usual gasps of astonishment. They did seem surprised by her voluptuous bosom, and the stark lack of clothing she wore. Which made it so simple to achieve a full pay in one night.

Enough to pay for the stupidly expensive wine.

For the next few days she returned to the inn, each time gaining more and trust from the bastards. A particularly intriguing man paid her even more than she needed in some exotic gold for a brief amount of information regarding a beast or other. He had not been under the influence, not in the slightest - in fact he had been quite the opposite - yet he had sent her into a wave of curiosity.

Information, after all, had always been a method of gaining power. Words could hold an entire host of conceptions and connotations. A simple phrase such as “it was cold” could reveal the area where the event took place, what season it took place in, how the person would have been reacting and/or wearing, the creatures present in that situation, and so forth. Power was key for all, indeed. It seemed to be what wars were fought over, why individuals slaughtered millions to gain, how all the sentient races had slowly deteriorated in morality.

Curling a violet dreadlock behind her ear she leaned forwards to view herself in the mirror. It was placed in the hall outside of her room, framed in ornate brass vines. Calmly she brushed rouge across her cheeks, and pouted to paint her lips with crimson make-up created from crushed elderberries. Taking a comb she spent a good few minutes making her legs presentable - something entirely unnerving for a non-faun to look at, but something entirely necessary. Tidying away her plait she checked last minute if everything was perfect, then turned to descend to find her clients for the night.

Except - small hurried footsteps. A yell and something small threw itself at her and buckled its arms around her waist. For a single moment she was relatively turned on, thinking this was some form of halfling sexual assault; then abruptly she realised her mistake.

“Felix!” she sharply breathed in.

The half-imp beamed up at her, his lips pulled back to show those demon teeth.

“Hullo, Miss,” he garbled, “Please tae see yeh ‘gain!”

Philomel rolled her eyes and firmly placed a hand on either of his shoulders. Pushing him away she removed him from her waist, and looked at him sternly.

“Felix, what are you doing here? I am working!”

The little boy’s head enthusiastically bobbed. “Yup! Fer Mistah Draak, and I am here tae tell you da man’s a-gone.”

The faun-whore stared, her teeth grating slightly, “What man is gone Felix? What man?”

“Da man you were’em lookin’ fer.”

[Philomel]

Faun, the letter stated.

Her eyes stared at the singular, insensitive word for a considerable time, before moving on.

Faun,

As by now Felix will have given you this letter. I hope you have not spent all your gold on amusing your clients.

Of course, what you earn is your own right. However, I still require some form of payment for firstly finding you this murderous opportunity. Pay me one half of what you find on the target and we shall be at equal.

However, I must provide you with information regarding this individual. As times flow, things change, and thus a war has begun. If you begin to complain, keep your complaints to yourself and in your head. I do not have the want to deal with them. The man in question I need dead has taken up arms in this war, to defend an island named "Eiskalt," off the coast of Salvar. Take a boat north to the frozen country and afterwards join an invading ship. I am sure you can come up with a creative plan to get on it.

In most lucky of cases he will die pointlessly defending this place, but you must travel now to go thusly and ensure he dies.

I will not tell you why I need him dead. Just take it as your usual job, and deal with it. Since you are fairly new to working for me I will allow some deviation to this plan, but afterwards I expect no complaints. I am a busy troll, as you should know, and so just do as I say and we will both be happy.

Yours

Mister Draak

[Philomel]

OOC EDIT 25th March: Realised I posted the wrong bit first, so am rearranging this. Will make sense, time-wise as from today when I repost this after the whatsit... you'll see.
But this was first posted on the 11th March, then reposted on the 25th March.


I am on a ship.

She blinked, with copious amounts if incredulity.

I am on a ... ship.

The gentle rise and fall of the ground was slightly uneasy to her body.

I am on a fucking ship.

The gulls hovered high about the white sails, calling to each other in search of food.

Drys above, I am on a bloody fucking SHIP!

She was on a ship, heading for Salvar. Something she had never quite expected to happen. Indeed, when Mister Draak had first mentioned his idea Philomel had been entirely confused. They had barely been in contact for a week, and yet he was trusting her with such a mission. Their relationship was something, so far, at least, of a landlord and a tenant. It seemed sudden, as only one could react; one moment they were talking of how much he would charge her to stay in the pantry, the next he was sending her away to murder someone.

Of course, the troll claimed that it was because of the boy, Felix. After all, the child mind-reader had brought one to the other, knowing that the monk and the prostitute would, in some way, benefit each other. And Mister Draak had said nothing of her profession, only asked that she pay her rent. That, Philomel had done, and in fact she had brought more. Her week had been difficult, but fairly lucky. Going private was not as difficult as she had presumed. Men were also starving in lone taverns as they were in brothels and drug dens.

So strange, yet so fortunate. One letter and a change in destiny, it seemed, leading her here, to be splattered with water as the boat wobbled in the sea, straining against the tide. All of a sudden she felt a surge in her stomach, a pitfall as the ship slumped and her organs were smashed against each other. The liquid that sloshed around in there, with the little food she had eaten decided to burn her insides, then rise to her throat. A sharp acidic taste flickered into being before forcing her to up-end herself and sprawl on the decking as she retched.

She was like a cat, spewing up a hairball. A mocking laugh came to her ear as someone walking stopped nearby.

"Not used to the sea, eh?"

Philomel's eyes rolled closed as she gasped for breath. Sticking her mouth out to the side she swallowed, before coldly replying.

"A burst in the systems, that is all."

"Hmm. I'd like to burst your system."

Ridiculous. So ridiculously common and predictable. Almost every time she was in the presence of a man (Mister Draak was an extreme exception) especially in manipulatable circumstances, commentary would be made. In this provoking stance also, it gave him a view of her bottom and, if he tilted his head, her bosom. So the words slipped out, as if he could not hold his tongue and his thoughts had to become, else they might cause his brain to explode.

It might even look pretty. Braincells and blood on the deck. Red and guts on wood, so next year. Fashionable darling, fabulous.

The faun-whore sat sharply up, wiping her wrist over her plump lips. Her eyes lingered on the man's bulging ball-sack before moving to greet his face.

"How long until we get to Salvar?" she said.

The man's expression immediately crumbled. "But - but I ..." he tailed off, looking suddenly more miserable than she supposed he had been since his favourite toy was stolen as a child, "But..."

"But what?" Philomel flickered her tongue out and stared down at it with cross eyes. Gods it tasted bitter.

"I want ... you."

She raised an eyebrow but did not remove her attention from trying to smooth her tongue over. "All men want me sweetheart," she said, "Now how far until Salvar?"

"Not as far as I can fuck you?" he suggested in a feeble voice.

She considered the thought, and the context. He seemed strong, indeed. Worthy - perhaps, despite the fact that he had mocked her. She could make him pay, that was known, pay for any ill he had committed against her, punish him for his wrongs. And by the size of his bulge he had a package that could be perused, and seemed easy to manipulate, to make happy.

Philomel smiled, her eyes shone as she saw the benefit in this reversal of circumstances. No more was she the one in a pathetic stance, susceptible. Instead he was the weakened one, the one to be moulded. Slowly, she gained to her feet, staring at him.

"You are easily happy, are you not?" she asked.

The man gazed back, and then went pale.

"Uh, sure. How - how much do you charge?"

The faun-whore laughed; a bitter, satirical laugh.

"Just take me as far as Salvar," she said, coming forwards towards him as a grim smile spread across her features.

Salvar ... and then, War.

[Philomel]

The blood was an ocean,
The moon hung as an orb,
The bodies were decaying,
The world, as they knew it, was gone.

The warrior was calling,
The noose hung alone, empty,
The little child was crying,
The world, as they knew it, was gone.

Eiskalt was freezing,
Her fate hung in balance,
Her people were weeping,
The world, as she knew it, was gone.

The faun-whore was smiling,
The body she had hung high,
The wounds were so deep
The world, as he knew it, was gone.

The snow was gently falling,
The cold breath in air hung still,
The dark clouds were creeping,
The world, as they knew it, was gone.

Blood was slowly seeping,
Icicles hung from spires,
Everything seemed to be broken,
The world, Eiskalt, as we know it, is gone.

[Tobias Stalt]

Story: 7 The story of an assassin whore (or is it assassin/whore?) seeking a new life is certainly an uncommon story. She uses her skills masterfully and you can even see a hint of her emotion in everything she does. There's a rare blend of duty and desire in the story that makes it something exciting and interesting. That she goes from being a brothel wench to a hired hand is not a far jump, but as it is written, it is a fitting one.

Setting: 7 The transition from Radasanth to the ship is clear, though quickly done. In the places where you employed descriptors, there was vivid imagery. The troll's hall seemed real, and what the reader knows of trolls (if anything) tells them that Philomel is experiencing a whole new kind of stench.

Pacing: 8 Each post moved the plot well enough, but it seemed a bit abrupt in several places. Her reason for wanting to leave her old life was sound, and she was quick to jump at the opportunity. It could have been drawn out a bit more to give the character a bit more depth, but she was well showcased in what you did give.

Communication: 8 The communication in this thread ultimately moved it. From her interactions with Felix showing how she has been ruined for affections, to how the sailor exemplified how sex had become no more than a tool to her.

Action: 9 Not much to say, here. Clearly, Action is the strong suit in your narrative.

Persona: 10 Phi is a complex, complex character riddled with issues. Most people don't like to do the things you've done to her character, but the ones who do almost always know how to do them well. Your writing profits from the fact that you're not afraid to press the envelope. We gain access into the life and thoughts of Philomel, and we see a driven woman who is not as broken as most women would be in her situation. It's a short thread, but it really shows you who she is.

Technique: 6 There was an obvious penchant for short, quick sentences in some places, and interaction between characters sometimes broke chains of paragraphs. It's a difficult thing to balance. Several places felt rushed.

Mechanics: 7 Grammar was fine, but there were a few instances where the writing could have been stronger. The stabbing sentences that punctuated her desire to kill the man at the end were strong, but their dialogue was a little flat. (That's why I didn't score communication higher, by the by. I felt it was more prudent to dock here, instead, because the communication was still fairly strong.)

Clarity: 7 by the end, everything had culminated to where you wanted it. Some places left the reader thinking, "well, why did she do this? She could have done that, instead?" For instance, when she's just sitting there listening to Draak and Felix, rather than exerting her authority. Phi likes control, from what we glean in the thread. Why is she just going with the flow? She was trying to get away from that when she left the brothel. Also, you could have fleshed out the interaction with Felix. We know she doesn't like being touched... but why threaten a kid? Just a thought.

Wildcard: 10 I'm a sucker for Poetry. What can I say?

Final Score: 79

Philomel gains
1,100 Exp and
200 Gold

Congratulations!

***Extra gold given at my discretion, because of the score and because she did a really good job.

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!