Post by †Arisen† on Feb 17, 2009 18:27:14 GMT -5
I'm so exctied. i got an editor a few months ago.
I sent him one of the RP intros I used with CAlling. I'll repost it here, then his edit of it. Tell me what you think. ^^
Arsen walked quietly through the crumbling ruins of the city. It had been given the name of Guardian. The people here were probably the last who remembered what had passed nearly 200 years ago. These were the people who rose the next generations in silence, trying to keep themselves alive from the shadows.
Arsen came to the city edge. There it was. The vampire capital.
"Soon," He murmured "Soon."
He turned away from the glowing capital and back toward the ruins. He felt responsible for the change of hands, the change of cards.
He was once one of the vampire generals, leaving most weary of him, of his actions. Arsen didn't blame them. He couldn't.
Now, he led the rebels, trying to balance out the power, forcing the vampires back into the shadows where they belonged. Where they should've stayed.
He snarled and headed back through the ruins, ignoring the elder humans who shied away from him as well as the younger ones who flocked him. To the young, he was a hero. To the old... well, they hadn't forgotten.
And he had to bear the guilt.
Though, there were a few humans that were his friends. And a girl he was particularly fond of.
And she happened to have to be watching the orphan children while Arsen did his rounds of checking the city, Guardian.
Arsen smiled and moved through the groups of kids. The sick ones, the healthy ones, the dying ones, sane, the insane, the scared, the liars, the weak, the lost, the depressed.
He lifted up a little girl who had a vampire bite deep in her shoulder. She cried out and buried her face in Arsen's shoulder.
He started humming deep in his chest-a lullaby with certain charms to induce sleep. He watched as one by one the kids crawled to their beds or fell asleep where they sat.
"I've done all I can to give them a dreamless sleep," Arsen murmured to himself, pulling the blankets over the girl. He pushed his black almost-blue hair away from his face. The scar from his banishment was still on his face, over his left eye a scratched by the bridge of his nose. His eyes were dark blue almost black his hair. He wore a long black cloak, matching his black shirt, jeans and boots.
It was going to snow soon, he could tell by the chill. And, thankfully, it was a cloudless night.
Not that it mattered much to the old vampire. He could see at any given time.
But, now, it was time to find Jaenelle.
Ever since his and Jaenelle’s child had been killed, she’d gone into denial. He was amazed she was still human—in a sense. Their son, Larial, had been only four when he was murdered. And none other than Arsen’s only grandson, from a past Arsen longed to forget, had sent out the orders.
My editor, Thomas Quinn's, version:
Arsen walked quietly through the crumbling ruins of the city. The people here – do they still remember its name? Before their 200 years of misery, hiding in the shadows, rearing their offspring in the shadows of the ghost town that was once Guardian. Only the few who survived his hellish deeds might recollect the stories of their elders by the cold fires of a lost people.
He came to the city edge, the sound of his steps changing as he walked on the leaves of the dead tree in front of him.
There it was. The vampire capital. His eyes gazed impassively, flitting from one dark spire to another. Was it always so cold before they came?
“Soon,” he murmured. “Soon.”
His eyes returned to the ruins. As a vampire general so long ago he killed this city as surely as the Qoltars who defended it to the last. Then, his greatest pleasure was the flame-lit evenings, listening to the bragging of the others, self important in their officer’s uniforms, gorged on the blood of those put to the sword. Their eyes leered and their feet darted about, dancing spastically to the sound of the dying below.
It was his weapon that fed their mouths with the succulent flavors of those who died in mortal fear, the same as it was for 23 generations before them. It was his cold ruthless hand that broke the necks and spines and guts of all that writhed in agony at his feet.
And now he must give back what he once so casually took. The bargain was made with the Old One. It will be three nestars before the moon radiation burns the plains and the vampires must dream the sleep of Thesus. If he can do as he promised before the Jade Throne, he can up dwell to Dimension Nine and be done with this. I don’t have to be deadundead, I can be alive. Just one life. Just one love. Just one wife. And a son he never touched with breathe within him.
Will he be brave on these last days? Can he be strong enough even as the sword is losing its blood power? Will Jaenelle remember his face when he makes the journey? The cost of Larial’s soul return was simple: the destruction of Kardur and the vampires it held closely within three nestars.
Etc etc, etc… You plot it as you wish. Remember, almost every story follows one of a handful of plots. I’m writing here about redemption at the cost of one’s soul.
Kardur--Arsen's grandson
Qoltars--the people who once lived in Gaurdian
The Old One, Dimesnion Nine and Jade Throne are words that I have no idea what the mean in this context. xP
I sent him one of the RP intros I used with CAlling. I'll repost it here, then his edit of it. Tell me what you think. ^^
Arsen walked quietly through the crumbling ruins of the city. It had been given the name of Guardian. The people here were probably the last who remembered what had passed nearly 200 years ago. These were the people who rose the next generations in silence, trying to keep themselves alive from the shadows.
Arsen came to the city edge. There it was. The vampire capital.
"Soon," He murmured "Soon."
He turned away from the glowing capital and back toward the ruins. He felt responsible for the change of hands, the change of cards.
He was once one of the vampire generals, leaving most weary of him, of his actions. Arsen didn't blame them. He couldn't.
Now, he led the rebels, trying to balance out the power, forcing the vampires back into the shadows where they belonged. Where they should've stayed.
He snarled and headed back through the ruins, ignoring the elder humans who shied away from him as well as the younger ones who flocked him. To the young, he was a hero. To the old... well, they hadn't forgotten.
And he had to bear the guilt.
Though, there were a few humans that were his friends. And a girl he was particularly fond of.
And she happened to have to be watching the orphan children while Arsen did his rounds of checking the city, Guardian.
Arsen smiled and moved through the groups of kids. The sick ones, the healthy ones, the dying ones, sane, the insane, the scared, the liars, the weak, the lost, the depressed.
He lifted up a little girl who had a vampire bite deep in her shoulder. She cried out and buried her face in Arsen's shoulder.
He started humming deep in his chest-a lullaby with certain charms to induce sleep. He watched as one by one the kids crawled to their beds or fell asleep where they sat.
"I've done all I can to give them a dreamless sleep," Arsen murmured to himself, pulling the blankets over the girl. He pushed his black almost-blue hair away from his face. The scar from his banishment was still on his face, over his left eye a scratched by the bridge of his nose. His eyes were dark blue almost black his hair. He wore a long black cloak, matching his black shirt, jeans and boots.
It was going to snow soon, he could tell by the chill. And, thankfully, it was a cloudless night.
Not that it mattered much to the old vampire. He could see at any given time.
But, now, it was time to find Jaenelle.
Ever since his and Jaenelle’s child had been killed, she’d gone into denial. He was amazed she was still human—in a sense. Their son, Larial, had been only four when he was murdered. And none other than Arsen’s only grandson, from a past Arsen longed to forget, had sent out the orders.
My editor, Thomas Quinn's, version:
Arsen walked quietly through the crumbling ruins of the city. The people here – do they still remember its name? Before their 200 years of misery, hiding in the shadows, rearing their offspring in the shadows of the ghost town that was once Guardian. Only the few who survived his hellish deeds might recollect the stories of their elders by the cold fires of a lost people.
He came to the city edge, the sound of his steps changing as he walked on the leaves of the dead tree in front of him.
There it was. The vampire capital. His eyes gazed impassively, flitting from one dark spire to another. Was it always so cold before they came?
“Soon,” he murmured. “Soon.”
His eyes returned to the ruins. As a vampire general so long ago he killed this city as surely as the Qoltars who defended it to the last. Then, his greatest pleasure was the flame-lit evenings, listening to the bragging of the others, self important in their officer’s uniforms, gorged on the blood of those put to the sword. Their eyes leered and their feet darted about, dancing spastically to the sound of the dying below.
It was his weapon that fed their mouths with the succulent flavors of those who died in mortal fear, the same as it was for 23 generations before them. It was his cold ruthless hand that broke the necks and spines and guts of all that writhed in agony at his feet.
And now he must give back what he once so casually took. The bargain was made with the Old One. It will be three nestars before the moon radiation burns the plains and the vampires must dream the sleep of Thesus. If he can do as he promised before the Jade Throne, he can up dwell to Dimension Nine and be done with this. I don’t have to be deadundead, I can be alive. Just one life. Just one love. Just one wife. And a son he never touched with breathe within him.
Will he be brave on these last days? Can he be strong enough even as the sword is losing its blood power? Will Jaenelle remember his face when he makes the journey? The cost of Larial’s soul return was simple: the destruction of Kardur and the vampires it held closely within three nestars.
Etc etc, etc… You plot it as you wish. Remember, almost every story follows one of a handful of plots. I’m writing here about redemption at the cost of one’s soul.
Kardur--Arsen's grandson
Qoltars--the people who once lived in Gaurdian
The Old One, Dimesnion Nine and Jade Throne are words that I have no idea what the mean in this context. xP