Muwhahaha

Alright, Roose, If you don't mind, how's this? He jerked awake to loud bangs like gunfire. Confused, he hopped to a crouch and scanned the horizon. The sun was beginning to peek in the east casting a dim light on an otherwise dark scene. He looked about unsure whether his dreams were firing guns or something outside of dreamland was attacking. He ran to the rail and again looked about and again got nothing. No backlit outlines or dark objects were visible. He ran to the lift, flipped the express switch and shot into the air as the pulley yanked him to the flydeck. He hopped off and before he’d taken two steps, the gunfire sounded again. This time he could place it. Hells, he could see it. Across the deck he saw Beisa and the Dieso kids standing, each holding a rifle. Their speech was muffled by distance but he could now see what they were doing. As he watched, Beisa set and released a skeet shot, sending the clay disk spinning like a frisbee. All three kids had their rifles up in a blink and in a breath, their shots rang out like morning laughter. This is a first draft. I know it needs some work but I'd like to see what you think and where you think it needs it.

Fucking spot on. He's thesaurus crazy, that's for sure.

I think we should look at some more of your brilliance: From A Host of Ills: Chapter Six - The Flesh Dragore The conically emanating lacht from the upstairs hallway torch ended, and after a couple of secunds of intermediate darkness it was immediately replaced by that from the two torches in the first square stone chamber in the cellar below. It wouldn’t have mattered either way, to be true; this was because, also much like a felis, Lanuche found that she could see quite well in the dark with only the slightest modicum of difficulty. When she had passed through the narrow entryway to the smith’s cellar forge, which was no more than a broken gap in the wall, she found him sitting in a sort of humayne heap on top of a closed black travel chest which was situated under the westmost cellar window and covered in dust. She stopped about two teythes away, then began to address him. Her thin, blonde hair was sticking up in odd ways due to some latent static electricity on her person. “I don’t mean to intrude here, dath … I can see it’s your special place. It’s just … I’m a little bit confused by all of this … what’s been happening tonacht … “ She stopped then, trailing off into a whisper. After several secunds had passed and he still hadn’t answered her at all, or even started moving for that matter, she walked over to him and held out her dainty right hand as if to touch him on his bulky left shoulder. Before she could reach him, however, he started anxiously; his eyes went wide, he jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, and he danced effortlessly right out of her grasp. Once he found himself clear, he began circling around her in jerky clockwise motions over towards the entryway, pointing ineffectually and spluttering. What little hair he still had on his shining cranium was sticking up in several directions as well. Yeah, we're all fucking delusional for questioning your genius. You're obviously a wordsmith and a scholar.

You can follow the link in his sig to see his stuff for free. It's worth it. It made me feel like William fucking Shakespeare. His writing makes Robert Stanek look like Mark Twain.

What do you think of these lines? Too much? He stopped his singing, noticing he was at the bottom of the lift, the walk a blur. Everyone else was either asleep, their minds mix, matching, and rehashing their lives or they were awake, regretting choices or fretting decisions.

This is from Rychard Wrythen's A Host of Ills - Chapter Four: The Offending Foot. Then, he staggered about drunkenly, trampling over the sparse grass, his bare feet randomly sinking into the still-wet raith. Far overhead, the full lunus continued to hang tenaciously in the sky, its lacht mixing with that from a plethora of blazingly bright siriettes, each of which was fixed in a constellation; the entire nacht was a black canvas upon which was painted any number of ethereal images. Gramrus shadowed his footsteps for a few casual teythes, then stopped in the doorway, his rock-like face set hard and his dark red eyes narrowed. Good God, it's Gold!!

Don't listen to anybody Dyck, your writing is awesomely good. Keep it up. Sky's the limit.

I have a feeling that when you're a bit older (like 15), you're going to look back at this and realize how childish you sound.

That would be Mike Miller's Yeti.....Awesome new author.....fans of George R.R. Martin...on fire with hate.....yeah, that was my little doozy about a year or so ago. Sometimes you people are too easy. Edit: And just to clear up why I did that: I joined goodreads and started two lists. A week later, Mike Miller has his books listed, ranked #1, and nothing else even voted for. I looked into his profile and saw that he 5 starred all his own stuff and #1'd it on every list it was remotely associated with. He is what I hate about goodreads. And so I had a little fun at his expense.

Sarantine Mosaic - easy choice.