Been Working On A Few Things...

RopeDrink

Been working on a collection of new projects lately, seeing as I can't get my original novel off the ground. One of these projects was a sort of comdey type collection of sheer pointlessness which I can't be bothered to finish, but I was sitting down on a boring night being my boring self and decided to write something. I was hoping you guys could give it a little read and see if it's something that you'd want to read more of. If you're a fan of Terry Pratchett, and wouldn't mind reading something along those lines (Although not even a margin as good, and very unfunny) then read on and give me some insight.

I have three chunks written, and here's one of them.
I hope you like it.

---

RopeDrink

Within the head office of the city barracks, there was a force brewing - a dire brutal force known to have the capability of melting the brain of anything in it's wake - a force everyone respected, feared and despised - a force that numbed your mind, should you run out of things to keep that mind occupied, and it was a force that frequently visited the barracks on many many many occasions.
Sitting directly in the center of this force, in the only chair supplied within the head office, was Lieutenant Commander K. D. Farthy. It wasn't so much a sit as it was a placid slump, and this slump was being carried out by someone who, judging by the facial features, ran the risk of dying from an overdose of complete and utter boredom.

The force in question was boredom itself.
Boredom was something that you simply could not get rid of.
Boredom was a little green demon that would build a little shack within the barren wastelands of your mind and patiently wait until there was a lack of interest in whatever you were currently doing, with which it would throw on a tuxedo, leave it's little shack, walk through the diminishing gardens of your imagination towards the mountain of your thoughts, scale the side of your brain until it reached the top of your head and then proceed to jump up and down, jig a little and have a merry little sing song about how awful life in general really is. Boredom was... Well, apart from boring, it was damn well aggravating.
Even if one was to find something of limitless interest, this wouldn't be enough to kill boredom - It would simply result in the little demon being scooped up, carried back to it's little shack and locked in it's basement along with the key needed to open it again.

Not only was Farthy attempting to battle against this little green demon, in the attempt of preseving his brain from shutting down completely, the barracks staff were too, along with the small ammount of prisoners the barracks maintained which, funnily enough, turned out to be one of the positive sides to boredom. It wasn't the rotten food, the claustrophobia inducing prison walls, or the fishy tasting drinking water that struck fear into the souls of potential prisoners. It was that bloody little green demon that haunted you in the middle of the night after you discovered the painful fact that watching paint peeling off the ceiling wasn't enough to keep your brain active. Anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves within the city prison for more than a minute usually ended up flushing their own head down the toilet out of sheer boredom. This was one of many reasons why those who were considering a life of criminal activity would generally think twice, and then a third and forth time, before carrying out anything illegal.
Boredom had also enhanced the effectiveness of the multi raced law enforcers that lived in the city. You either sat at your desk and slowly converted from your usual self into a dribbling, bored, small minded idiot, or you picked up the reports you forgot to read last week and studied them over, and over, and over again, until eventually noticing the one or two tiny details you missed the first time around and the next thing you know, you've just cracked the most complex case known to the world out of boredom!
Boredom had, over the years, became a friend to the barracks regardless of how unwelcome it actually was, yet if Farthy didn't do something soon he knew, deep down inside, that he'd more than likely grab that annoying little demon off the top of his head and tell it where it could stick it's tuxedo.

After straightening himself up, Farthy studied his desk. It was a rather basic, wooden, seven legged desk that had been created for Farthy by someone with the intention of giving him something to think about on those long, drawn out nights of policing. On top of the desk, Farthy noticed, was a packet of Rug-Thread Cigars that stared invitingly back at him. They would have seemed far more inviting if he actually had a match to light one with. Keeping the future in mind, the Lieutenant Commander nabbed the cigar box off his desk and thrust it into the breast pocket of his red uniform, before heading towards the slightly ajar office door and kicked it open. Looking out into the main hall, Farthy found himself being greeted by stares from his second in command, Sergeant Willem Pompodous - the happy-go-lucky Elvish Weapons Specialist and part time cleaning fanatic, and his second in command Urblad, the Demolition Man (Or Ogre, as would be the case) who was frantically trying to piece together a jig-saw puzzle he created, after his immense height (and multidimentional skull) disagreed with the low hanging ceiling of the main hall. A very Ogre'ish looking crater gaped down at the two Sergeants in the hallway, who were doing their best to clean up the mess that was strewn all over the room. After a very apologetic looking salute from the two officers they returned to their business, looking quite glad seeing as they weren't being shouted at yet, and even gladder now that they actually had something to do. You had to forgive and forget about the majority of pot holes around here though, especially when one discovers that the pot-hole-makers were usually twice the size of you, three times as broad, and four times as unintelligent.

Urblad was a special case, though. He was a very liked, respected and effective member of the force. His size alone meant that if he had not only made a simple hole in the ceiling, but completely demolished it, he'd replace the entire thing with the barracks floor in one go, if you asked him to. Another detail about him, that touched the hearts of his co-officers, was his personality. If Urblad was anything, he was totally predictable. Everyone knew exactly when Urblad was going to say something - what he was about to say - how he was going to say it - and why he was going to say it, simply by reading the wrinkles of effort that always fought for space along the surface of his massive forehead when he was attempting to engage in something as complicated as, to an Ogre at least, simple conversation. Urblad was like a legible, mechanical sponge. It takes Urblad, on average, an entire week to fully process recieved information, and while his brain is attempting to compress this information into something he can understand, you can be damn sure it'd show up somewhere along that forehead of his, where you could read it like a novel written in wrinkle format. You could tell what he had eaten in the canteen a few hours ago, what object of bathroom furniture he used to clean his teeth with yesterday, and the identity, shoe size, hair colour and exact weight of the person he mashed and crippled in the pub brawl last Sunday. Right now, judging by his forehead, Urblad wasn't actually sorry that he had just given the barracks a new method of ventilation, he was dissapointed at the ceiling for getting in his way.

Willem, who was cleaning up after the bewildered Ogre, was another special case. If he was not policing he'd be somewhere within the barracks, probably brandishing a broom, briskly cleansing the place of all things unclean. How he ended up as a weapons specialist was something noone knew, and wouldn't dare try to find out out of fear of being lectured to death. On many occasions Farthy had found various letters of complaint and concern on his desk from Willem - The majority of them were painful stories on why certain weapons, such as crossbows and catapults, should not be utilised by the force due to the mess they tend to leave behind after being utilised against certain things - for example, a human being. Farthy could remember what was written at the very end of his latest complaint - It was something along the lines of:

"...Like that time when the barracks was under attack by zombie protesters last year, and you ordered Urblad to throw one of those Highly Explosive Killer Turtles you bought from Carthim City at them. It took me an entire month to get all of those limbs out of our lovely garden and Im quite sure I spotted a half rotten liver in the Apple Tree yesterday..."

It was hard not to like him, though, for it was a rare thing to find a person patient enough to continuously wash a meter thick wall of granite until the point where it had been cleaned down to nothing but a shiny fist sized pebble. Willem could probably clean coal into a white colour if he was given enough time to do so. He took cleaning very seriously indeed, and those who criticised him for this usually found themselves being violently assaulted with a multi-coloured feather duster.

Farthy couldn't help remembering back to the good old days when everyone who worked here was either Human, or something not far off that mark. These days, anyone who came into the city was generally looking for some form of work. Now that the glorious city of Khertz was more of a tourist attraction as it was a city, it had drawn all sorts of people to it who would pay a visit to each and every excurtion the city could offer, take a few pictures or write stuff about them, turn to you and say "My, that was interesting," and then take your job. This meant that a circulation was formed in Khertz, and also the barracks itself which, over time, had converted from a small collection of flawed humans into a large, colourful, disfunctional family. Farthy was like a big brother, whilst his officers were his little siblings - and judging by the ammount of different races that the barracks now housed, they were all born through very different mothers!

RopeDrink

Once Farthy had finished day dreaming, he sighed into the open air.
"Any reports lately?" he asked, as he watched Urblad discover, the hard way that is, that lumps of ceiling didn't just stick back when you placed them where you thought they belonged. After gingerly wiping the dust from his face, and prodding the small lump that now protruded from his head, Urblad struggled to speak. "Dere be'n no," - a pause - "Crim-I-Nalle ac-tiv-i-ty lately, but dere be lots of people comin' into de city. All sorts uv people."
After taking a breath, the Ogre tried to continue, whilst at the same time trying not to get too frustrated at the ceiling for not holding it's original contents. "A-parent-le, dere be'n people commin' da'n from Himoa an'all!"
Farthy had already read the entire statement before Urblad had finished, but was in too much shock to cut him off.
"Himoa? They're coming down from Himoa? Where was the last Himoan sighted?"
"Mfph Mfph," Urblad replied, trying to talk through the duster that Willem had thrust into his face, after noticing the ceiling dirt that was caked into it.
"A very reliable source of ours says that the most recent refugee is in the 'Plank and Nail' right now sir," came an Elvish voice to finish what Urblad had started, "The person in question is apparantly having a quiet drink!"
Farthy was still wide eyed. The people of Himoa were never known to be very adept travellers.
To meet a Himoan anywhere else but within Himoa was just as rare as coming across a seven foot tall pink leprochaun with rampant constipation.
"He's in the 'Plank and Nail'?"
"Having a quiet drink, sir!"
"Better take a look then," exclaimed Farthy as he made way for the main door. Not only did he want to witness this priceless situation, but he could do with a stiff drink!
Once the Lieutenant had left, Willem turned to Urblad and continued to brush him off.
"Looks like it's just you and me old buddy!"
"Mfph," came the reply.
"And take it easy with that roof - We don't want to run out of things to do around here now, do we?"
"Mfph!"

Somewhere, deep within the barracks, a little green tuxedo wearing demon began to sniggér.

RopeDrink

---

And that'd be one chunk of three.
I have, after a painful ammount of thought, mustered up it's story line (The above having nothing to do with it as of yet) and will be working on it all raceweek.

The word snígger got censored, hence the é í etc etc

Anyway, if you have the time give it a gander and see what you think... Oh, and it is under copyright...

BEAT

rope...
I dont want to discourage you at all...I want you to do something with this, i suggest you put this project on the backburner for , say, 3 months. In the meantime work on something else totally unrelated. I am saying this because I know you have the talent to be an excellent writer, it's just your choice of story line and the way you are writing it that need work...I suggest starting something more familiar to you, something more personal, I think you know what I mean. I am not saying this is bad, I am just saying you need to step away from it, try a different style of writing and come back to it ...I think you'll find that you can do much better. I approached you before about your story in PI forum, It was so well written, it flowed. It made the reader want to keep reading...perhaps you should trying something along those lines, even if it isnt your lifestory, take on the role...you understand? get back to me, we can talk. I am working on a couple of books right now myself.

RopeDrink

I've hopped from the first project I started four years ago (My novel) to that of a collection of short-stories (Mostly unfinished), to the another project which was worked on for two days and dropped like a pebble into a pile of ****, two poems which I used in Sec. School for a competition (And won, mind) to another written novel type project (Dropped) and have settled nicely into this one.

I do not want to step back, because I know that If i do (Like I have done for the umpteenth time) I will lose interest in writing and stick to other less constructive activities such as Sleeping, Eating and ****ting.

I adore Terry Pratchett, and he was my first step towards wanting to read (and write, after reading a rake of his books).
Also, I like the fantasy style. My first project was a horror thriller, which was rotated around the mix of realism and science, and after 4 years of that (With no success) I want something different.

I have no intention of writing anything remotely like my life story (.ie PI Thread Post) until a later stage in life, and I could do with some practice seeing as I've only just gotten back into writing after a year of neglect.

I want to do this. Saying it's good means Im doing ok. Saying it's ****e (Which I will be expecting) will simply make me want to alter it, smack it around and work on it until I get it right.
I really don't want to step back, but thanks for that assessment.

BEAT

I see your point, believe me, I 've done similar things in the past with my projects.
If your intenet on sticking with this story, may I suggest a total re-write? It's not reader friendly...I could break it down for you, which would take a little time, if you'd like me to. Or you could go ahead and do a re-write from word one to the last and re-post it here...I am happy to give any pointers if that's what you were looking for, I dont want to offend you by saying that, Some writers dont appreciate this type of criticism...
I still say that your best to write something of a more personal nature though, its seems to be your stronghold.
Enjoying fantasy by others and trying to write it yourself dont always go hand in hand...dont get me wrong...I do think you have definite potential, its all in finding your "nitch"

RopeDrink

A total re-write!?
What would I re-write and why?
You haven't actually given any specific reasons other than you feel I'd be more suited to writing something more Personal.

Before I continue I have a few things to say.
Despite trying my hand at writing for many years now, I am in no way any good. Sure, I can string a few words together and use a little brain power but that does not, on the whole, make a writer.

I am trying to enhance my imagination (Which I admit, due to reassurance from people who know what Im like in real life, is actually a decent one) yet putting it into words is hard for me.
In regards to the PI thread, I simply sat down and threw it all together in the space of half an hour without thinking. All I did was rewrite how my life was over those few years of my past. I cannot rely on that to allow me to write something more personal in a good way, even though I have experienced quite a lot of emotional turmoil and admit that having that experience can help in writing in that style.

BEAT, I posted this thread (Reluctantly) to see if anyone liked it. As a rule I never like my own work, because thoughts like that make me want to improve them more, yet it also means I never expect it to get any praise (Just slated and called ****e).
Despite all that I do (Really) appreciate what you're saying to me, and it's got me thinking. If you wish to pin-point and display my flaws (Which I know are many) then please do so, and we'll have a little chat.

Also, I have another piece here I could post up if you want. I'd hate to have my work criticised on an assessment of one piece.
Anyway, thanks for your time and effort.

BEAT

np. yes, please post...or pm it to me, all in how you feel about it. I am interested to see your other piece. I will make some notes on the piece you've posted already, it will take me a little while, give me the weekend to work on it as I am very busy here at work.
Just some helpful hints is all.
And yes, I do think you have the potential. we'll talk more on the subject later.
Have you checked out bard's poems ? they are excellent...He definitley has a knack for the poetry writing...what sort of poetry have you written if any? my style is very different from that of my novel writing...they are more an an emotional escape for me than anything. Take a gander

RopeDrink

My poems are generally depressing, broody and dark as opposed to my novel writing which is either based around gore infested science fiction / horror / triller, or all out pointless fantasy crap.

Anyhow, I have two more pieces here but before I post them I have to say that each one was the result of sitting down for half an hour / an hour and just writing stuff that I thought up, and have not been re-written or edited. This is probably why you would feel enclined to point out some of the flaws, because I haven't really pieced all the work together or checked them for substantial problems... But anyway...

RopeDrink

Somewhere within the darkness of the city, a door was opened to the faint sound of knocking.
A sliver of brightness cut across the street outside, as light forced its way through the tiny gap supplied by the door, which slightly illuminated the face of the knocker within the blackness.
"Yes?" asked the owner of a pair of eyes that drearily peered through the gap.
"Good evening, sir," came a dryish voice from somewhere in the darkness, "I was ju-"
The voice was abruptly cut off by a tired, agitated interruption.
"It's 4am," bellowed the eyes, with a tint of hostility, "I hardly class that as evening time!"
"Nevertheless, I was hoping to show you some of my wares!"
"At 4am in the 'evening'? I don't think so."
The door, which had only been opened a fraction, made a surprisingly big *slam* despite the small amount of shutting space it had.
A moment silently passed before being knocked on the head (Or in this case, the door) by the same set of knuckles.
Once again the door was opened, a little more than it had been previously, allowing light to illuminate the figure in the street a little further.
"Yes?" spoke the owner of the eyes, now able to see more of the knocker, who seemed to be a smiling, oldish, scrawny little man with a continuously altering outline.
"They are good wares," exclaimed the voice, persistently.
"I'm sure they are," came a hot response, "Yet there's a problem. A little imp called 'Sleep' is in my house somewhere, probably in my bed, and I intend to catch him."
There was a thoughtful pause, followed by a new approach.
"I do sincerely apologise for the lateness of my visit, yet I must again stress that these wares are something of an important nature that you would do well to consider buying! One item in particular, I wager, will intrigue you!"
"Is it a bed?" replied the eyes, half-yawning, half-annoyed and fully tired.
"Maybe."
"Is it comfortable?"
"Could be."
"Is it covered with clean silky sheets and has big plump pillows?"
"Possibly."
"Is it in my room right now, waiting for me?"
Another pause ensued, shortly followed by a "No."
"Then I'm not interested."
The street was filled by another loud and exhausted *slam* that was hastily stalked by another collection of knocks.
The door was flung wide open this time, allowing light to spill out and slice the darkness in half. Both people were fully visible now. The set of eyes now seemed to be stuck into the head of a large, half naked man who, having been swamped by the overpowering combination of tiredness and rude-awakenings at the hands of an early morning visitor, angrily gripped a meat cleaver. It was safe to assume they were the eyes of a Butcher. Glowering down at the knocker, the Butcher noticed that he was clad in black robes, a set of intelligent looking spectacles, a bushy white moustache, a lack of hair anywhere else but above his top lip, the sort of skin that you would find on an ancient prune, and seemed to be lacking any inventory bar the above. The knocker, unintimidated by the large, sharp, gleaming object contained in the Butchers left hand, directed his vision towards the Butchers half closed eyes, before briskly fingering his moustache.
"YES?" bellowed the Butcher, shaking. Anger had a funny way of pushing its way to the front of the queue when sleep became too preoccupied to notice. Something then decided to shove its way through the old mans moustache - Something that looked more threatening than the cleaver that the Butcher was waving around. It was a snide smile.
Before tiredness could step aside to let awareness take the seat, a movement took place.
It was a movement that could have been faster than the eye could see if the eye in question wasn't that of a worn out sleepless Butcher who was incapable of making such a calculation in his present state. After finally concluding that something 'had' happened he looked down, noticed a slight stream of blood trickling from a fresh puncture wound near the area where his heart probably was, and flashed his vision back towards the man before him. He may have been drugged by drowsiness, but he was certain that the old man hadn't moved; not even slightly, yet there was a hole in his chest with no indication as to how it got there. Looking from the wound to the old man, the Butcher was lost for words. He simply rocked slightly on his feet, lost the energy to hold the weight of the cleaver which, eventually, fell to the ground, followed by the Butcher himself who went from vertical to horizontal in a slow moving arc and a tired thud. As the Butcher lay sprawled on the candle lit floor of his house, one last thought managed to pass through his mind. He had desperately wanted sleep, and now that he was going to get it in infinite quantity, he didn't find it that appealing. After taking one last look at the motionless old man in the doorway at a lopsided angle, he began to think of the clean sheets and plump pillows which were awaiting his presence upstairs, trying to contrast the painful reality of uncomfortable, hard, wooden floor boards before he finally sighed his last.
With that the old man entered the building, calmly closed the door and stepped over the corpse of the Butcher towards a seat next to a fireplace. Sitting down, the old man extracted a cigar from somewhere within his robes and lit it on the sole candle on the table before him, that was congesting the room in flickering, disturbed brightness. Then, after extinguishing the candle with licked fingers, he sat back into the fresh supply of darkness, took a satisfying drag from the cigar and rested his old head on his withered hand, staring at the corpse on the floor.
Now that it had accepted its fate, it seemed to be smiling.

Sleep and Death were like twins - The only noticeable difference was that sleep was a kinder, watered down version of it's brother that was generous enough to allow the person enduring it to have the pleasure of waking up again. The Butcher was technically sleeping, yet it was the type of sleep that, having been amplified by the effects of a fatal wound, had converted into the more effective counter part. The corpse was probably smiling because it had, unwillingly, been gifted with what it wanted at some stage when it had a little more life in it.

The occupant of the room’s only chair, who then directed his vision to the darkness surrounding him, blew a ring of smoke in the dead butchers general direction.
'You've got what you wanted' said the old man mentally, 'and now it's time to negotiate a price...'

sceptre

Originally posted by RopeDrink
Despite trying my hand at writing for many years now, I am in no way any good. Sure, I can string a few words together and use a little brain power but that does not, on the whole, make a writer.

Plenty of good writers are in the same boat - for some writers, their editor is their god.

BEAT

Originally posted by RopeDrink
Sleep and Death were like twins - The only noticeable difference was that sleep was a kinder, watered down version of it's brother that was generous enough to allow the person enduring it to have the pleasure of waking up again. The Butcher was technically sleeping, yet it was the type of sleep that, having been amplified by the effects of a fatal wound, had converted into the more effective counter part. The corpse was probably smiling because it had, unwillingly, been gifted with what it wanted at some stage when it had a little more life in it.

ROPE!!!
This is excellent work!! I think I would leave out the part I included above and maybe a few words here and there, but this is what you should be writing...this is publishable work! I am very impressed rope....and may I say that it seems to be the work that you just sat down and wrote in a short amount of time, as you noted yourself, that you seem to do best...not trying to hard, not over describing things, just letting the story flow...
this is great! show me some more if you'd like...I'd love to read it.

RopeDrink

Plenty of good writers are in the same boat - for some writers, their editor is their god.

I wouldn't know anything about that. Im just a petty writer who sits down and just... Well, just writes - usually when boredom settles in late at night and I need something to get the mindstream rolling.

I never set my sights on writing something and have it published. My first ever story ws as Influenced by Resident Evil when I first played it, and the story turned out to be quite long, and had myself and all my friends as main characters, and our estate (At the time) as the main area, yet the imaginative side kicked in a created the creatures. From them on that little idea of the creatures grew out of that little story into the novel I was first working on, which sadly has been placed in the ice box for the time being until I can straighten my mind out a little.

The novel was started 4 years ago or around that time, and it has never left my head. I have a collection of little chapters from it which I wrote yonks ago stored on my PC at home. If you like, I can show you those two. It's such a contrast to my sad attempts at fantasy.

RopeDrink

Oops, sorry Beat - You posted just before me.
Thanks a million for that - You picked my spirits up a little.

Thats the problem with me, you see. When Im writing I tend to drall, yet little sparks shine through but they have the misfortune of being drowned out by the continuous wave apon wave of boring sentances.

This is exactly why Im trying to get it right, because I know in my heart and soul that If I got the knack, I would be so much more determined to write a full book (Which is something I have been failing to do for years)

Again, thank you Beat
I have another extremely large piece (Those two above are from the same project, as is the next one which was the first to be written out of the lot).

I know you wont like it but it gives you something to base criticism on. I'll go fetch it...

RopeDrink

The 'Plank and Nail' was filled with the sound of barely audible conversation, as it's regulars patiently nursed their drinks. It was a smallish pub, made of nothing but wood, the odd door knob, a barman and the regulars themselves who, having been in the place for most of their lives, could officially be regarded as pieces of pub furniture by now.
Every single face was a familiar one. The hardcore drinkers wore the same expressions every day mainly because, in their owners eyes, the sole purpose in life was to occupy a bar stool and line someone elses pocket by drowning sorrows they never had, or could have nullified with a little brain power - It would be a fruitless waste of time to advertise any emotion or feeling in this place, with the exception of all out drunkedness.
These were the types of people that had only one real friend, and this friend could be found at the bottom of a pint glass. To them, the ways of the world seemed that little bit clearer when semi-intoxicated, and all of life's hardships dissipated, momentarily at least, after a few soothing mouthfuls of liquor - Yet something in the bar was eating away at them, something that defied their hazy imaginations, something they had clearly never witnessed before.

Sitting at the front of the bar was Olan Hrunts, from Himoa.
He would have felt far more comfortable if his presence hadn't attracted the attention of almost everyone within the establishment. The regulars seemed to be having a hard time trying to accept the fact that there was a nine foot tall gargantuan Yeti amongst them. The 'Plank and Nail' was known to attract strange sorts - Vampires, Sloth's, Wraiths and Pixies to name but a few, yet not a single race that had visited the bar had such an... unorthadox hairstyle?
It would seem that the Yeti's only form of clothing were poorly groomed masses of long discoloured hair that bristled from various portions of it's obese body.
For the first time in years something actually managed to distract the professional drinkers away from their beverages and memories of lifes hardships for more than two minutes, which created a slightly off-putting atmosphere that, thankfully, discontinued once the fear of becoming sober crept back into mind.

Yeti's were known to lead long, simple, and content lives - This was due to the habitat they lived in. The snow-lands of Himoa offered it's miniscule population with everything it needed, so there was no need for material gain, for it had been outweighed by the fact that a simple food chain was enough to keep everyone happy. The Himoan Snow Goats grazed on the ice covered grass plains, before becoming prey to the Himoan War Tiger, that eventually got hunted down and consumed by the Yeti's. It was a rather effective, yet extremely basic, one way food chain that prospered over the years. The Himoan Yeti's had high metabolisms, giving the Tigers and Goats plenty of time to reproduce like mad to ensure that there was always a decent supply of nourishment when hunger eventually became an issue. Accomodation, too, was a simple affair. The fact that 89% of Himoa was comprised of dense mountain clusters meant that digging a horizontal hole through a mass of rock offered a place to sleep and space to store food. There were no greedy landlords, no taxes to pay, nothing except eternal winter. This was one reason why Olan had momentarily been the center of attention. Why would a Himoan Yeti move from it's prefered habitat to that of the warmish city of Khertz?

Olan's grey muzzle flickered over the oversized mug of Jorn-Gnot beer that had been placed before him, as he sniffed the contents with the look of one who had never seen or heard of alcohol before.
The barman, a squinty eyed Orc named Gornash, grasped a random glass from behind the bar and began to buff it up with his apron. To him, money was money, and it mattered not who he took it from.
His vision remained solely on the glass, uninterested at the estranged sight before him.
"Not from 'round 'ere are ye?" he spoke, trying to cut the silence with some basic conversation.
His attempt failed due to the immense pointlessness of the question. He may as well have said "Hello there good citizen, would you be so good as to let me repeatedly bash your toes in with this sledghammer?"
The Yeti, still fascinated by the green liquid circulating the end of his mug, continued his motionless staring. Taking into account the ammount of rampant hair emitting from the creatures body, it was hard to determine wether the thing actually had any facial features. The only noticable detail about the beast, apart from it's 'clothing', were those immensely deep, saddened glowing eyes that flicked this way and that, attempting to soak in as much detail about their current surroundings as possible without actually looking in anyones general direction.
After a thoughtful pause, the Yeti raised the mug to where one would assume it's mouth would be, before a long grinding sound ensued. The mug was never seen again.
An Orcish sigh hit the air.
"U'll be charged fer dat!" Gornash exclaimed, as he carefully placed another mug on the bar before the stranger. Having noticed the Yeti's strange drinking method, he made sure that this particular mug was a great deal less expensive than it's predecessor.

Olan, after mustering enough energy to bother looking up, noticed that Gornash was a rather unique individual for a few very distinct reasons - One reason being the fact that the average Orc seemed slightly greener in comparison to Gornash who, having spent the majority of his life managing the pub, had aquired a second skin supplied by many years of over exposure to cigar smoke that constantly loomed around the place. It was quite obvious that the barman, who was not well versed in the ways of hygiene, seemed to be proud of his brownish skin tone and, to the disgust of nearby nostrils, his even browner stench. Also, if you were a stranger to the city of Khertz you would usually regard the sight of an Orc working in a pub a rather funny spectacle, until you later found yourself at knife point in the middle of a dark alley, kindly getting asked to " 'and over all yer moneys' " by an Orcish voice, before being gutted by a blade and forced to spend the remaining few seconds of your life searching for your scattered entrails, whilst finally realising the fact that an Orc who worked for a living was far more respectable than one, or in most cases several, who got their money by mugging you in the street.
Anyone who managed to survive in the city of Khertz for more than a week knew who Gornash was, and this was because they didn't know who he was. He'd be in his little pub all day and night, serving the odd drink or cleaning glasses, while you can be damn sure the rest of his kind were out in the city center, or in the local jail, trying to think up methods of stripping their next victim of their cash, and probably their skin, whilst getting away with it.

RopeDrink

Olan reverted his vision to the mug berfore him. It stared back in the boring soundless way that only a mug could do and, before the Yeti had the time to raise it to his mouth, a refreshing waft of air cut across the pub as it's main door was thrown open with great force, in a fashion that would indicate that the opener in question really wanted it's presence felt. The opener turned out to be a rather burly and, judging by the obscenities being muttered, extremely disgruntled troll. The door was shut with equal ammount of force used to open it, causing the entire building to shake slightly. The sound of conversation within the pub died, and people suddenly became very interested in their drinks. Olan turned slightly to catch sight of the visitor. Due to the extreme broadness of the troll, Olan didn't have to turn much, and what he saw was enough. The bulk of the troll was made up of mass ammounts of tanned muscle - and what wasn't muscle was all out fatness. A collection of thuds ensued, as the troll lumbered towards the bar to where Olan was sitting and before long the Yeti found himself being tapped on the shoulder by a boulder sized hand. "Dat be me seat 'ur sit'n in, hairy!" came the troll's deep, rumbling voice followed by the stench of alcohol lined breath. The Yeti, after taking an unintimidated glance to see wether there were any names scrawled on his stool that would indicate it was under ownership, found none, and continued to ignore the lump of muscle behind him. Olan raised the mug, loudly chomped it, and plonked what remained of it's handle down on the bar, chewing contently.

Trolls were known to speak their mind.
Having the brain capacity of a new born turkey, and a rather limited vocabulary mostly made of words that could only comprise insulting sentances, or comments related to violence, meant that they had no alternative choice. Before the troll could channel his energies into creating a colourful threatening statement, Gornash brought a hefty mug down on top of the bar - The mug went 'Blonk', and struggled to contain the liquid that tried to escape it. "On der house," muttered the Orc, having learned over the years that very few people would argue with a pint - and so the troll decided to take up residence on the stool next to Olan, rather than run the risk of having to actually pay for the drink should he continue his ranting. The stool wained under the immense pressure being supplied by the oversized and smelly rear end of the troll, but decided to take the strain rather than give in and allow the troll to crash through the pub floor. What happened next was quite a sight. It was clear that the troll was an adept alcohol consuming mechanism, and it emphasised this by flinging the mug somehwere near his face with great velocity, swallowing the big sloppy ball of mess that flew up from the container, and brought it back down to the bar in less than a split second. After wiping it's mouth, it's placed an elbow onto the bar top, where it spun around to look at his new drinking neighbour. The troll's face was brimming with expression changes, as his mind tried to figure out what the hell this ball of hair was. It could have been that bit of lint he took from his pocket and gave to that beggar he came across last Wednsday when, fortunately for the beggar, he was too tired to pick him up and lob him into the Khertz river. The troll soon gave up once it's limited imagination hit it's peak, and decided to take a new approach. He thrust his hand forward and smiled.

"De names Tinyus," he rumbled slowly, wondering wether the Yeti was accustomed to handshakes, "Sum folks round 'ere calls me Tiny. 'Magine dat! I fink peoples round 'ere needs dere eyes re'justed."
What came out of the trolls mouth after could only be laughter - If it was anything else then Tiny probably had malfunctioning vocal chords.
Olan stared at the hand, then at Tiny's smiling face before finally concluding that, being new to Khertz, it would be wise to start off by making a friend, rather than making an enemy out of a mountain of trollish muscle. Extending his own arm, Olan gripped Tiny's hand and gave it a shake. A little handshake between two titans had to be well co-ordinated, lest you wanted half of your surroundings obliterated in a hail of swinging arms and hands, yet it passed with minimal damage to the relief of Gornash who took the time to duck out of it's path.
There was a united collection of relaxed sighs from various people within the pub now that there were no more signs of any hostility taking place, and the sound of conversation grew once more.
"What brings you 'ere, Tiny?" quested Gornash, as he carefully returned the glass he was cleaning back behind the bar. If it was cleaned any more, it would gleam, and the last thing a barman wanted was complaints from angry customers who had the misfortune of having their eyes melted out of their skulls after simply looking at their pint during daylight.
"Well I was in der Museum uv-" a pause ensued whilst Tiny rummaged through his brain in search of a suitable word and had to settle with, "Arkitek-choor ta see if dey wanted any memburs or sumfin when da foreman kept tellin' me ta get da 'ell out uv dere, and 'e was fretening ta bash me wiv a sack'a door knobs..."
Gornash could half guess what happened next, but decided to ask anyway.
"So wat did yez do den?"
"Well da foreman kept swinging dis sack at me," - Tiny suddenly took the time to smile, "so I 'it im on der head wiv de front door."
There was a sudden high pitched 'garble' as someone at the rear of the room choked on his pint.
One of the most noticable things about the Museum of Architecture was infact it's lavish, beautifully carved, pointy, giant sized, sharp, knobbly, Gold front door. If someone was to accidentally walk face first into it, at the slowest possible speed, that person would at the very least suffer fatal lacerations - but to be hit on the head with it...
Gornash sucked on his tainted teeth.
"I fink dat deserves anuder drink!"
Tiny gratefully accepted the mug of beer placed infront of him, before once again turning to the Yeti.
"So wat duz yer sort be doin' ere den?"
Olan paused. It had become clear over the last few minutes that he was being disallowed the luxury of keeping to himself. With a little effort he turned on his stool and strained.
Both Tiny and Gornash watched in shock as mountains of hair along the Yeti's face began to flap around violently, attempting to allow sound through. Eventually the room was filled with a hollow, booming wail. It sounded something like - "I Am Looking For Work!"
After the windows had stopped shaking, and after Gornash had readjusted his face (having been caught in the ravenous waves of the Yeti's voice) Tiny blinked, stared at the Yeti, who seemed slightly embarrased at having almost blown Gornash through the pub wall, turned on his stool and shrugged.
"You an me both, mate!"
Olan turned and apologetically nodded to the drinkers in the room. The majority of them were scooping themselves off the pub floor or stumbling around trying to find some unbroken seats.
"I fink," Gornash wheezed, picking himself up, "I know where yez can start lookin'!"

RopeDrink

---

Well I will take the time to say that I have half started a more atmospheric approach to the novel and will be working on it when I get home. It is, without a doubt, true that the above chunk of story is rather dire, but this is the extremely early developing stages. I've only just got back into writing so give me time and I'll be back into it with full focus.

Beat, I will bring you a poem or two, or even a chunk of my old novel if you so wish, along with any other work of mine you'd like to assess. Again, thanks for taking the time to give me some constructive thoughts and support! Im sure I'll get to return the appreciation somehow. Take care guys. Gotta run, I'm bsolutely starving!

BEAT

sounds good...I am reading your new posts now, please do bring your other work along. I'll post my comments on this work for you to read later.
thanks...have a good night/weekend:p

RopeDrink

Cheers Beat.
Might get to check the thread out tommorow. Unfortunately I can only check Boards from college or a Net Cafe these days. My net conn was taken many years ago and I can't seem to get it back.

Anyhow I'll be tattering around with Notepad and I'll see what I can come up with. I'll bring a piece I gave to my English Teacher in secondary school (Chunk of my novel). She liked it, so there's a very slight chance you might like it also.

Take care guys!

po0k

Can I get the hardback leatherbound edition deliverd to my door?

BEAT

having a busy weekend rope, I printed out your story to read when I have the time, I'll get to it and some notes on the other as soon as I have the time.

RopeDrink

Looks like I wont be able to post anything else, now that I've had the luxury of watching my PC being lifted up and smashed down on the floor seven times...

Explained in the PI Thread of mine.